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Presented  to  the 

LIBRARY  of  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 

by 


KNOX  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


KBNEST  MALTKAVEES. 


THE    WORKS 


OF 


Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 


(LORD     LYTTON) 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 

ALICE;     OR,    THE     MYSTERIES. 

PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

LUCRETIA;   OR,    THE    CHILDREN   OF  NIGHT. 


VOLUME     VI. 


new    YORK: 

P.   F.   COLLIER  PUBLISHER. 


CO 
CSl 


V  C 


S^CONTENTS.^g 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


A  Word  to  the  Reader 7 

BOOK  FIRST. 

Chapter  1 9 

II 13 

III 15 

IV 16 

V     18 

VI 22 

VII 24 

VIII ■ 25 

IX 27 

X 27 

XI  30 

XII 31 

xni  33 

XIV 35 

XV 36 

XVI 38 

XVII 39 

BOOK  SECOND. 

Chapter  1 41 

II 45 

111 47 

IV 50 

V 53 

BOOK   THIRD. 

Chapter  I 56 

II 61 

III 65 

IV 68 

BOOK    FOURTH. 

Chapter  1 72 

II 74 

III 75 

IV 78 

V 79 

VI 84 

VII 86 

VIII 89 

IX 91 

BOOK   FIFTH. 

Chapter  I 06 

11 97 


Chapter  111 08 

IV 99 

V loi 

VI 103 

VII 105 

VIII 106 

IX 107 

X 108 

XI Ill 

XII 112 

Xlll 114 

BOOK    SIXTH. 

Chapter  I 116 

II 118 

111 122 

IV 12.; 

V lag 

VI 13' 

BOOK   SEVENTH. 

Chapter  I 134 

11 i3» 

III 142 

\y M3 

V 148 

BOOK   EIGHTH. 

Chapter  I 152 

II 154 

Hi 158 

IV 185 

V 168 

VI 170 

VII 172 

VI" -73 

IX 175 

BOOK  NINTH. 

Chapter  I 178 

II 179 

III 181 

IV 183 

V 185 

VI ; 187 

VII 190 

Vlll 194 


ALICE;    OR   THE    MYSTERIES. 


Note 199 

BOOK    FIRST. 

Chapter  I  200 

II 202 

III 203 

IV 206 

V 207 

VI 208 

VII 210 

VIII 211 

IX 212 

X .• 214 


Chapter  XI 219 

XH 219 

XIII 221 

BOOK    SECOND. 

Chapter  1 224 

II 225 

III 227 

IV 233 

V 235 

VI 217 

VII 240 

(3) 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK   THIRD. 

CHAI'I  KR  I 243 

n 247 

HI 24» 

IV 250 

V 252 

VI : 254 

VII 256 

VIII 260 

IX 263 

BOOK    FOURTH. 

Chafter  I 265 

11 267 

III 269 

IV 271 

V 273 

VI 274 

VII 277 

VIll 278 

IX 279 

X 28i 

BOOK    FIFTH. 

Chapter  I 287 

II 289 

III 293 

IV 298 

V 300 

VI 302 

VII 303 

via 304 

IX 306 

BOOK    SIXTH. 

Chapter  I 308 

II 313 

HI 3>6 

IV 3>« 

V 323 

VI 329 


BOOK   SEVENTH. 
Chapter  I 331 

\\} 334 

^^ 336 

vi::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;^ 

BOOK   EIGHTH. 

Chaitkr  I 343 

IV 350 

VI 1S4 

VH gi 

BOOK  NINTH. 

Chapter  I 359 

H 361 

III 364 

y •. 3«< 

V ,^ 

BOOK    TENTH. 

Chaptkr  I 371 

III 375 

y 376 

V #.7, 

VI #4 

VII 087 

BOOK    ELEVENTH. 

Chaiter  1 39t 

II 392 

III 39.S 

'V 397 

V 401 

VI 403 

VH 4^5 

the  last 406 


PAUSANIAB,   THE  SPARTAN. 

Dedication 409 

BOOK   FIRST. 

ChapterI 416 

II 323 

HI 427 

IV 429 

V 435 

BOOK   SECOND. 

Chaiter  1 44° 

H 444 

HI 449 

IV 45> 

V 454 

VI 457 


BOOK  THIRD. 

Chapter  I 461 


II 

HI  . 

IV.. 

V... 

VI.. 

VH. 


467 
46S 
470 
475 
477 
478 


BOOK    FOURTH. 


Chapter  I 483 

485 

487 

489 

492 

492 

496 


II. 
Ill  . 

IV.. 
V... 
VI.. 
VH. 


LUCRETIA;   OU,  THE  CHILDREN  OF  NIGHT. 


Preface  to  the  Present  Edition 500 

Preface "Vo  the  First  Edition 501 

PART  THE    FIRST. 
Prologue  to  Part  the  First 503 

CHAP. 

I.— A  Family  Group 505 

"I.— Lucretia 521 

I n.— Conferences 534 


CHAP. 

IV.— Guy's  Oak 54> 

V. — Household  Treason 546 

VI.— The  Will 550 

VII.— The  Engagement 553 

VIll. — The  Discovery ^^ 

IX.— A  Soul  without  Hope 366 

X.— The  Reconciliation  between  Father  and  Son  570 
Epilogue  to  Part  the  First 574 


CONTENTS. 


PART    THE    SECOND. 

Prologue  to  I'art  the  Second 


CHAP. 

I.- 

II.- 

ill.- 

IV.- 

V.- 

VI.- 

VII.- 

VIII.- 

IX.- 

X.- 

XI.- 

XII.- 

Xlll.- 


-The  Coronation 

-Love  at  first  sight 

-Early  Training  for  an  Upright  Gentleman. 

Jolin  Ardworth 

The  Weavers  and  the  Woof 

The  Lawyer  and  the  Bociy-snatcher 

The  Rape  of  the  Mattress 

Percival  visits  Liicretia 

■The  Rose  Beneath  the  Upas 

The  Battle  of  the  Snake 

Love  and  Innocence 

Sudden  Celebrity  and  Patient  Hope 

The  Loss  of  the  Crossing 


596 


602 
609 

615 
618 
627 
629 

6.^ 
638 
641 
6<)6 
649 
651 
656 


CHAP. 

XIV. — News  from  Grabman 658 

XV. — Varieties 691 

XVI. — The  Invitation  to  Laughton 666 

XVII.— The  Waking  of  the  Serpent 669 

XVIII.— Retrospect 671 

XIX. — Mr.  Grabman's  Adventures 682 

XX.— More  of  Mrs.  Joplin 685 

XXL— Beck's  Discovery 687 

XXII. — The  Tapestry  Chamber 69! 

XXIII.— The  Shades  on  the  Dial 692 

XXIV. — Murder,  towards  his  Design,  moves  like 

a  Ghost 698 

XXV. — The  Messenger  speeds 699 

XXVI.— The  Spy  flies 701 

XXVII. — Lucretia  Regains  her  Son 704 

XXVIII. — The  Lots  vanish  within  the  Urn 706 

Epilogue  to  Part  the  Second 708 


A  WORD   TO   THE   PUBLIC 


7'3 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


TO 

THE    GREAT    GERMAN    PEOPLE, 

A   RACE  OF  THINKERS  AND   OF  CRITICS; 

A  Foreign  but  Familiar  Audience,  Profound  in  Judgment,  Candid  in  Reproof, 
Geiurous  in  Appreciation, 

THIS   WORK    IS    DEDICATED, 

BY    AN    ENGLISH    AUTHOR. 


A    WORD  TO  THE  READER. 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF   1837. 

Thou  must  not,  my  old  and  partial  friend, 
look  into  this  work  for  that  species  of  interest 
which  is  drawn  from  stirring  adventures  and 
a  perpetual  variety  of  incident.  To  a  Novel 
of  the  present  day  are  necessarily  forl)idden 
the  animation,  the  excitement,  the  bustle,  the 
pomp,  and  the  stage-effect  which  History 
affords  to  Romance.  Whatever  merits,  in  thy 
gentle  eyes,  "  Rienzi,"  or  "  The  Last  Days  of 
Pompeii,"  may  have  possessed,  this  Tale,  if  it 
please  thee  at  all,  must  owe  that  happy  fortune 
to  qualities  widely  different  from  those  which 
won  thy  favor  to  pictures  of  the  Past.  Thou 
must  sober  down  thine  imagination,  and  pre- 
pare thyself  for  a  story  not  dedicated  to  the 
narrative  of  extraordinary  events  —  nor  the 
elucidation  of  the  characters  of  great  men. 
Though  there  is  scarcely  a  page  in  this  work 
episodical  to  the  main  design,  there  may  be 
much  that  may  seem  to  thee   wearisome  and 


prolix,  if  thou  wilt  not  lend  thyself,  in  a  kindly 
spirit,  and  with  a  generous  trust,  to  the  guid- 
ance of  the  Author.     In  the  hero  of  this  tale 
I  thou  wilt  find  neither  a  majestic  demigod,  nor 
;  a  fascinating  cemon.     He   is   a  man  with  the 
[  weaknesses  derived    from   humanity,  with  the 
.strength  that  we  inherit    from    the    soul;  not 
often  obstinate  in  error,  more  often  irresolute 
in  virtue;  sometimes   too  asjiiring.  sometimes 
■too  despondent:   influenced  by  the  circumstan- 
:  ces  to  which  he  yet  struggless  to  be  superior, 
and  changing  in  character  with  the  changes  of 
time  and   fate;  but  never   wantonly  rejecting 
'those  great  principles  by  which   alone  we  can 
;  work  out  the  Science  of  Life — a  desire  for  the 
i  Good,  a   passion   for  the    Honest,  a  yearning 
!  after  the    True.     From    such   principles,  Ex- 
'  perience,    that   severe    Mentor,  teaches  us  at 
length  the  safe  and  practical  philosophy  which 
consists  of  Fortitude  to  bear,  Serenity  to  en- 
joy, and  Faith  to  look  beyond  ! 

It  would  have  led,  perhaps,  to  more  striking 

(7) 


8 


B  UL  WER  'S     WORKS. 


incidents,  and  have  furnished  an  interest  more 
intense,  if  I  had  cast  Maltravers,  the  Man  of 
(lenius,  amidst  those  fierce  but  ennobling 
struggles  with  poverty  and  want  to  which 
genius  is  so  often  condemned.  But  wealth 
and  lassitude  have  their  temptations  as  well  as 
Iienury  and  toil.  And  for  the  rest — I  have 
taken  much  of  my  tale  and  many  of  my  char- 
acters from  real  life,  and  would  not  unneces- 
sarily seek  other  fountains  when  the  Well  of 
Truth  was  in  my  reach. 

The   author   has   said  his  say,  he  retreats 


once  more  into  silence  and  into  shade,  he 
leaves  you  alone  with  the  creations  he  has 
called  to  life — the  representatives  of  his  emo- 
tions and  his  thoughts — the  intermediators 
between  the  individual  and  the  crowd: — Chil- 
dren not  of  the  clay,  but  of  the  sinrit,  may 
they  be  faithful  to  their  origin  ! — so  should 
they  be  monitors,  not  loud  but  deep,  of  the 
world  into  which  they  are  cast,  struggling 
against  the  obstacles  that  will  beset  them,  for 
the  heritage  of  their  parent — the  right  to  sur- 
vive the  grave  ! 

London,  August  12, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


BOOK    FIRST. 


Tit  yap  I'fd^ov  iy  Toto'ur&e  p6<TK€Tai 
Xupoioif  avTovp'  Ka'i  viv  ov  daAffoc  0*!ov 
Oi>5'  o^i^pof,  ou£«  TTVLVftaToiv  ovSev  K^ove 
*AAA'  rjSoyai-;  a/jLOxdov  i$aipei  /Stor. 

Soph.  Trachiin.  144. 

Youth  pastures  in  a  valley  of  its  own: 

The  glare  of  noon — the  rains  and  winds  of  heaven. 

Mar  not  the  calm  yet  virgin  of  all  care. 

But  ever  with  sweet  joys  it  buildeth  up 

The  airy  halls  of  life." 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  My  meaning  in  't,  I  protest,  was  very  honest  in  the 
behalf  of  the  main  *  *  *  yes,  who  would  have  sus- 
pected an  ambush  where  I  was  taken  ?  " 

—A/rs  Wi-UtAat  Ends  Well,  Act.  iv.  Sc.3. 

SoNfE  four  miles  distant  from  one  of  our 
northern  manufacturing  towns,  in  the  year  18  — 
was  a  wide  and  desolate  common:  a  more 
dreary  spot  it  is  impossible  to  conceive— the 
herbage  grew  up  in  sickly  patches  from  the 
midst  of  a  black  and  stony  soil.  Not  a  tree 
was  to  be  seen  in  the  whole  of  the  comfortless 
expanse.  Nature  herself  had  seemed  to  desert 
the  solitude,  as  if  scared  by  the  ceaseless  din 
of  the  neighboring  forges;  and  even  Art,  which 
presses  all  things  into  service,  had  disdained 
to  cull  use  or  beauty  from  these  unpromising 
demesnes.  There  was  something  weird  and 
primeval  in  the  aspect  of  the  place;  especially 
when  in  the  long  nights  of  winter  you  beheld 
the  distant  fires  and  lights,  which  give  to  the 
vicinity  of  certain  manufactories  so  preter- 
natural an  appearance,  streaming  red  and  wild 
over  the  waste.  So  abandoned  by  man  ap- 
peared the  spot,  that  you  found  it  difficult  to 
imagine  th;it  it  was  only  from  human  fires 
that  its  bleak  and  barren  desolatiou  was  il- 
lumed. For  miles  along  the  moor  you  de- 
tected no  vestige  of  any  habitation;  but  as  you 
approached  the  verge  nearest  to  the  town,  you 
could  just  perceive  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  main  road,  by  which  the  common   was  in- 


tersected, a  small,  solitary,  and  miserable 
hovel. 

Within  this  lonely  abode,  at  the  time  in 
which  my  story  opens,  were  seated  two  per- 
sons. The  one  was  a  man  of  about  fifty  years 
of  age,  and  in  a  squalid  and  wretched  garb, 
which  was  yet  relieved  by  an  affectation  of  ill- 
assorted  finery.  A  silk  handkerchief,  which 
boasted  the  ornament  of  a  large  brooch  of 
false  stones,  was  twisted  jauntily  round  a  mus- 
cular but  meagre  throat;  his  tattered  breeches 
was  also  decorated  by  buckles,  one  of  jiinch- 
beck,  and  one  of  steel.  His  frame  was  lean, 
but  broad  and  sinewy,  indicative  of  consider- 
able strength.  His  countenance  was  prema- 
turely marked  by  deep  furrows,  and  his  griz- 
zled hair  waved  over  a  low,  rugged,  and  forbid- 
ding brow,  on  which  there  hung  an  everlasting 
frown  that  no  smile  from  the  lips  (and  the  man 
smiled  often)  could  chase  away.  It  was  a 
face  that  spoke  of  long-continued  and  hard- 
ened vice — it  was  one  in  which  the  Past  had 
written  the  indelible  characters.  The  brand 
of  the  hangman  could  not  have  stamped  it 
more  plainly,  nor  have  more  unequivocally 
warned  the  suspicion  of  honest  or  timid  men. 

He  was  employed  in  counting  some  few  and 
paltry  coins,  which,  though  an  easy  matter  to 
ascertain  their  value,  he  told  and  retold,  as  if 
the  act  could  increase  the  amount.  "  There 
must  be  some  mistake  here,  Alice,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  and  muttered  tone:  "we  can't  be 
so  low— you  know  I  had  two  pounds  in  the 


lO 


B  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


drawer  out   Monday,  and  now Alice,  you 

must  have  stolen  some  of  the  money — curse 
you." 

The  person  thus  addressed  sate  at  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  smouldering  and  sullen  fire; 
she  now  looked  quietly  up, — and  her  face 
singularly  contrasted  that  of  the  man. 

She  seemed  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  and 
her  complexion  was  remarkably  pure  and  deli- 
cate, even  despite  the  sunburnt  tinge  which 
her  habits  of  toil  had  brought  it.  Her  auburn 
hair  hung  in  loose  and  natural  curls  over  her 
forehead,  and  its  luxuriance  was  remarkable 
even  in  one  so  young.  Her  countenance  was 
beautiful,  nay,  even  faultless,  in  its  small  and 
child-like  features,  but  the  expression  pained 
you — it  was  so  vacant.  In  repose  it  was  al- 
most the  expression  of  an  idiot — but  when  she 
spoke,  or  smiled,  or  even  moved  a  muscle,  the 
eyes,  color,  lips,  kindled  into  a  life  which 
proved  that  the  intellect  was  still  there,  though 
but  imperfectly  awakened 

"  I  did  not  steal  any,  father,"  she  said,  in  a 
quiet  voice;  "  but  I  should  like  to  have  taken 
some,  only  I    knew  you  would  beat  me  if  I  did." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  money  for?  " 

"To  get  food  when  I'm  hungered." 

"  Nothing  else  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

The  girl  paused. — "Why  don't  you  let  me," 
she  saitl  after  a  while,  "  why  don't  you  let  me 
go  and  work  with  the  other  girls  at  the  fac- 
tory ?  I  should  make  money  there  for  you 
and  me  both." 

The  man  smiled — such  a  smile — it  seemed 
to  bring  into  sudden  play  all  the  revolting  char- 
acteristics of  his  countenance.  "Child,"  he 
said,  "you  are  just  fifteen,  and  a  sad  fool  you 
are:  perhaps  if  you  went  to  the  factory,  you 
would  get  away  from  me;  and  what  should  I 
do  without  you  ?  No,  I  think,  as  you  are 
so  pretty,  you  might  get  more  money  another 
way." 

The  girl  did  not  seem  to  understand  this 
allusion;  but  repeated,  vacantly,  "  I  should 
like  to  go  to  the  factory." 

"  Stuff !  "  said    the    man,    angrily,  "  I   have 

three  minds  to " 

Herehe  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  knock  at 
the  door  of  the  hovel. 

The  man  grew  pale.  "  What  can  that  be  ?  " 
he  muttered.  "  The  hour  is  late — near  eleven. 
Again — again  !     Ask  who  knocks,  Alice." 


The  girl  stood  for  a  moment  or  so  at  the 
door;  and  as  she  stood,  her  form,  rounded  yet 
slight,  her  earnest  look,  her  varying  color,  her 
tender  youth,  and  a  singular  grace  of  attitude 
and  gesture,  would  have  inspired  an  artist  with 
the  very  ideal  of  rustic  beauty. 

After  a  pause  she  placed  her  lips  to  a  chink 
in  the  door,  and  repeated  her  father's  ques- 
tion. 

"  Pray  pardon  me,"  said  a  clear,  loud,  yet 
courteous  voice,  "  but  seeing  a  light  at  your 
window,  I  have  ventured  to  ask  if  any  one 
within  will  conduct  me  to  *  *  *  *;  I  will  pay 
the  service  handsomely." 

"Open  the  door.  Alley,"  said  the  owner  of 
the  hut. 

The  girl  drew  a  large  wooden  bolt  from  the 
door;  and  a  tall  figure  crossed  the  thres- 
hold. 

The  new-comer  was  in  the  first  bloom  of 
youth,  perhaps  about  eighteen  years  of  age, 
and  his  air  and  appearance  surprised  both  sire 
and  daughter.  Alone,  on  foot,  at  such  an  hour, 
it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  mistake  him 
for  other  than  a  gentleman;  yet  his  dress  was 
plain,  and  somewhat  soiled  by  dust,  and  he  car- 
ried a  small  knapsack  on  his  shoulder.  As  he 
entered,  he  lifted  his  hat  with  somewhat  of 
foreign  urbanity,  and  a  profusion  of  fair  brown 
hair  fell  partially  over  a  high  and  commanding 
forehead.  His  features  were  handsome,  with- 
out being  eminently  so,  and  his  aspect  was  at 
once  bold  and  prepossessing. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  by  your  civility,"  he 
said,  advancing  carelessly,  and  addressing  the 
man,  who  surveyed  him  with  a  scrutinizing 
eye;  "and  trust,  my  good  fellow,  that  you  will 
increase  the  obligation  by  accompanying  me 
[Q  «  *  *  *  '• 

"  You  can't  miss  well  your  way,  said  the 
man  surlily;  "the  lights  will  direct  you." 

"  They  have  rather  misled  me,  for  they  seem 
to  surround  the  whole  common,  and  there  is 
no  path  across  it  that  I  can  see;  however,  if 
you  will  put  me  in  the  right  road,  I  will  not 
trouble  you  further." 

"It  is  very  late,"  replied  the  churlish  land- 
lord, equivocally. 

"  The  better  reason  why  I  should  be  at 
*  *  *  *.  Come,  my  good  friend,  put  on  your 
hat,  and  I'll  give  you  half-a-guinea  for  your 
trouble." 

The  man  advanced;  then  halted;  again  sur- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


II 


veyed  his  guest,  and  said,  "  Are  you  quite 
alone,  sir  ? " 

"Quite." 

"  Probably  you  are  known  at  *  *  *  *  ?  " 

"  Not  I.  But  what  matters  that  to  you  ? 
I  am  a  stranger  in  these  parts." 

"  It  is  full  four  miles." 

"  So  far,  and  I  am  fearfully  tired  already  !  " 
exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  impatience. 
As  he  spoke,  he  drew  out  his  watch.  "  Past 
eleven,  too  !  " 

The  watch  caught  the  eye  of  the  cottager; 
that  evil  eye  sparkled.  He  passed  his  hand 
over  his  brow.  "  I  am  thinking,  sir,"  he  said, 
in  a  more  civil  tone  than  he  had  yet  assumed, 
"that  as  you  are  so  tired,  and  the  hour  is  so 
late,  you  might  almost  as  well " 

"  What  ?  "  exclaimed  the  stranger,  stamping 
somewhat  petulantly. 

"  I  don't  like  to  mention  it;  but  my  poor 
roof  is  at  your  service,  and  I  would  go 
with  you  to  *  *  *  *  at  day-break  to-i'nor- 
row." 

The  stranger  stared  at  the  cottager,  and 
then  at  the  dingy  walls  of  the  hut.  He  was 
about,  very  abruptly,  to  reject  the  hospitable 
proposal,  when  his  eye  rested  suddenly  on  the 
form  of  Alice,  who  stood,  eager-eyed,  and 
open-mouthed,  gazing  on  the  handsome  in- 
truder. As  she  caught  his  eye,  she  blushed 
deeply,  and  turned  aside.  The  view  seemed 
to  change  the  intentions  of  the  stranger.  He 
hesitated  a  moment;  then  muttered  between 
his  teeth:  and  sinking  his  knapsack  on  the 
ground,  he  cast  himself  into  a  chair  beside  the 
fire,  stretched  his  limbs,  and  cried  gaily.  "  So 
be  it,  my  host:  shut  up  your  house  again. 
Bring  me  a  cup  of  beer,  and  a  crust  of  bread, 
and  so  much  for  supper  !  As  for  bed,  this 
chair  will  do  vastly  well." 

"  Perhaps  we  can  manage  better  for  you 
than  that  chair,"  answered  the  host.  "  P!ut 
our  best  accommodation  must  seem  bad 
enough  to  a  gentleman:  we  are  very  poor  peo- 
ple— hard  working,  but  very  poor." 

Never  mind  me,"  answered  the  stranger, 
busying  himself  in  stirring  the  fire;  "  I  am 
tolerably  well  accustomed  to  greater  hardships 
than  sleeping  on  a  chair,  in  an  honest  man's 
house;  and  though  you  are  poor,  I  will  take  it 
for  granted  you  are  honest." 

The  man  grinned;  and  turning  to  Alice, 
bade  her  spread  what  their  larder  would  afford. 


Some  crusts  of  bread,  some  cold  potatoes,  and 
some  tolerably  strong  beer,  composed  all  the 
fare  set  before  the  traveller. 

Despite  his  prevous  boasts,  the  young  man 
made  a  wry  face  at  these  Socratic  jjreparations, 
while  he  drew  his  chair  to  the  board.  But  his 
look  grew  more  gay  as  he  caught  Alice's  eye; 
and  as  she  lingered  by  the  table,  and  faltered 
out  some  hesitating  words  of  apology,  he  seized 
her  hand  and  pressed  it  tenderly — "  Prettiest 
of  lasses,"  said  he — and  while  he  spoke  he 
gazed  on  her  with  undisguised  admiration — 
"  a  man  who  has  travelled  on  foot  all  day, 
through  the  ugliest  country  within  the  three 
seas,  is  sufficiently  refreshed  at  night  by  the 
sight  of  so  fair  a  face." 

Alice  hastily  withdrew  her  hand,  and  went 
and  seated  herself  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
whence  she  continued  to  look  at  the  stranger 
with  her  usual  vacant  gaze,  but  with  a  half 
smile  upon  her  rosy  lips. 

Alice's  father  looked  hard  first  at  one,  then 
at  the  other. 

"  Eat,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  chuckle, 
"and  no  fine  words;  poor  Alice  is  honest,  as 
you  said  just  now." 

"To  be  sure,"  answered  the  traveller,  em- 
ploying with  a  great  zeal  a  set  of  strong,  even, 
and  dazzling  teeth  at  the  tough  crusts;  "to  be 
sure  she  is.  I  do  not  mean  to  offend  you;  but 
the  fact  is,  that  I  am  half  a  foreigner,  and 
abroad,  you  know,  one  may  say  a  civil  thing 
to  a  pretty  girl,  without  hurting  her  feelings, 
or  her  father's  either." 

"  Half  a  foreigner  !  why  you  talk  English 
as  well  as  I  do;  "  said  the  host,  whose  intona- 
tion and  words  were,  on  the  whole,  a  little 
above  his  station. 

The  stranger  smiled.  "Thank  you  for  the 
compliment,"  said  he.  "  What  I  meant  was, 
that  I  have  been  a  great  deal  abroad;  in  fact, 
I  have  just  returned  from  Germany.  But  I 
am  English-born." 

"  And  going  home  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Far  from  hence  ?  " 

"  About  thirty  miles,  I  believe.' 

"  You  are  young,  sir,  to  be  alone. 

The  traveller  made  no  answer,  but  finished 
his  uninviting  repast,  and  drew  his  chair  again 
to  the  fire.  He  then  thought  he  had  sufficiently 
ministered  to  his  host's  curiosity  to  be  entitled 
to  the  gratification  of  his  own. 


13 


B  UL  U'EK'S     WORKS. 


"  You  work  at  the   factories,   I   suppose  ? 
said  he. 

"  I  do,  sir.     Bad  times." 

"  And  your  pretty  daughter?  " 

"  Minds  the  house." 

"  Have  you  no  other  children  ?" 

"  No;  one  mouth  besides  my  own  is  as  much 
as  I  can  feed,  and  that  scarcely.  But  you 
would  like  to  rest  now:  you  can  have  my  bed, 
sir — I  can  sleep  here." 

"By  no  means,"  said  the  stranger,  quickly; 
"just  put  a  few  more  coals  on  the  fire,  and 
leave  me  to  make  myself  comfortable." 

The  man  rose,  and  did  not  press  his  offer, 
but  left  the  room  for  a  supply  of  fuel.  Alice 
remained  in  her  corner. 

"  Sweetheart,"  said  the  traveller,  looking 
round,  and  satisfying  himself  that  they  were 
alone;  "  I  should  sleep  well  if  I  could  get  one 
kiss  from  those  coral  lips." 

Alice  hid  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Do  I  vex  you  ?  " 

"  O  no,  sir." 

At  this  assurance  the  traveller  rose,  and  ap- 
proached Alice  softly.  He  drew  away  her 
hands  from  her  face,  when  she  said  gently, 
"  Have  you  much  money  about  you  ?  " 

"O  the  mercenary  baggage  !  "  said  the  travel- 
ler to  himself;  and  then  replied,  aloud,  "  Why, 
pretty  one  ? — Do  you  sell  your  kisses  so  high 
then  ?  " 

Alice  frowned,  and  tossed  the  hair  from  her 
brow.  "  If  you  have  money,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  "  don't  say  so  to  father.  Don't  sleep 
if  you  can  help  it.  I'm  afraid — hush — he 
comes  !  " 

The  young  man  returned  to  his  seat  with 
an  altered  manner.  And  as  his  host  entered, 
he  for  the  first  time  surveyed  him  closely. 
The  imperfect  glimmer  of  the  half-dying  and 
single  candle  threw  into  strong  lights  and 
shades  the  marked,  rugged,  and  ferocious 
features  of  the  cottager;  and  the  eye  of  the 
traveller,  glancing  from  the  face  to  the  limbs 
and  frame,  saw  that  whatever  of  violence  the 
mind  might  design,  the  body  might  well  exe- 
cute. 

The  traveller  sank  into  a  gloomy  reverie. 
The  wind  howled — the  rain  beat — through  the 
casement  shone  no  solitary  star — all  was  dark 
and  sombre; — should  he  i)roceed  alone — might 
he  not  suffer  a  greater  danger  upon  that  wide 
and  desert  moor — might  not  the  host  follow — 


assault  him  in  the  dark  ?  He  had  no  weapon, 
save  a  stick.  But  within,  he  had  at  least  a 
rude  resource  in  the  large  kitchen  poker  that 
was  beside  him.  At  all  events,  it  would  be 
better  to  wait  for  the  present.  He  might  at 
any  time,  when  alone,  withdraw  the  bolt  from 
the  door,  and  slip  out  unobserved. 

Such  was  the  fruit  of  his  meditations  while 
his  host  plied  the  fire. 

"  You  will  sleep  sound  to-night,"  said  his 
entertainer,  smiling. 

"  Humph  !  Why  I  am  mier-fatigued;  I  dare 
say  it  will  be  an  hour  or  two  before  I  fall 
asleep;  but  when  I  once  am  asleep,  I  sleep 
like  a  rock  !  " 

"  Come,  Alice,"  said  her  father,  "  let  us 
leave  the  gentleman.     Good  night,  sir." 

"  Good  night— good  night,  returned  the 
traveller,  yawning. 

The  father  and  daughter  disappeared  through 
a  door  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  The  guest 
heard  them  ascend  the  creaking  stairs^all  was 
still. 

"  Fool  that  I  am,"  said  the  traveller  to  him- 
self, "will  nothing  teach  me  that  I  am  no 
longer  a  student  at  Gottingen,  or  cure  me  of 
these  pedestrian  adventures  ?  Had  it  not 
been  for  that  girl's  big  blue  eyes,  I  should  be 
safe  at  *  *  *  *  by  this  time;  if,  indeed,  the 
grim  father  had  not  murdered  me  by  the  road. 
However,  we'll  balk  him  yet;  another  half- 
hour,  and  I  am  on  the  moor:  we  must  give 
him  time.  And  in  the  meanwhile  here  is  the 
poker.  At  the  worst  it  is  but  one  to  one;  but 
the  churl  is  strongly  built." 

Although  the  traveller  thus  endeavored  to 
cheer  his  courage,  his  heart  beat  more  loudly 
than  its  wont.  He  kept  his  eyes  stationed  on 
the  door  by  which  the  cottagers  had  vanished, 
and  his  hand  on  the  massive  poker. 

While  the  stranger  was  thus  employed  be- 
low, Alice,  instead  of  turning  to  her  own  nar- 
row cell,  went  into  her  father's  room. 

The  cottager  was  seated  at  the  foot  of  his 
bed,  muttering  to  himself,  and  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground. 

The  girl  stood  before  him,  gazing  on  his 
face,  and  with  her  arms  lightly  crossed  above 
her  bosom. 

"  It  must  be  worth  twenty  guineas,"  said 
the  host,  abruptly  to  himself. 

"  What  is  it  to  you,  father,  what  the  gentle- 
man's watch  is  worth?" 


ERNEST    MAL  TRA  J  ERS. 


•3 


The  man  started. 

"  You  mean,"  continued  Alice,  quietly, 
"you  mean  to  do  some  injury  to  that  young 
man;  but  you  shall  not." 

The  cottager's  face  grew  black  as  night. 
"  How,"  he  began  in  a  loud  voice,  but  suddenly 
dropjied  the  tone  into  a  deep  growl — "  how 
dare  you  talk  to  me  so  ? — go  to  bed — go  to 
bed." 

"  No,  father." 

"  No  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  stir  from  this  room  until  day- 
break." 

"We  will  soon  see  that,"  said  the  man,  with 
an  oath. 

"  Touch  me,  and  I  will  alarm  the  gentle- 
man, and  tell  him  that " 

"  What  ? " 

The  girl  approached  her  father,  placed  her 
lips  to  his  ear,  and  whispered,  "  that  you  in- 
tend to  murder  hinT." 

The  cottager's  frame  trembled  from  head  to 
foot;  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  gasped  painfully 
for  breath.  "  Alice,"  said  he,  gently,  after  a 
pause — ''Alice,  we  are  often  nearly  starving." 

"  /am — you  never  !  " 

"  Wretch,  yes  !  if  I  do  drink  too  much-one 
day,  I  pinch  for  it  the  next.  But  go  to  bed,  I 
say — I  mean  no  harm  to  the  young  man. 
Think  you  I  would  twist  myself  a  rope? — no, 
no; — go  along,  go  along." 

Alice's  face,  which  had  before  been  earnest 
and  almost  intelligent,  now  relapsed  into  its 
wonted  vacant  stare. 

"To  be  sure,  father,  they  would  hang  you 
if  you  cut  his  throat.  Don't  forget  that; — 
good  night;" — and  so  saying,  she  walked  to 
her  own  opposite  chamber. 

Left  alone,  the  host  pressed  his  hand  tightly 
to  his  forehead,  and  remained  motionless  for 
nearly  half-an-hour. 

"  If  that  cursed  girl  would  but  sleep,"  he 
muttered  at  last,  turning  round,  "  it  might  be 
done  at  once.  And  there's  the  ])ond  behind, 
as  deep  as  a  well;  and  I  might  say  at  day- 
break that  the  boy  had  bolted.  He  seems 
quite  a  stranger  here — nobody  '11  miss  him. 
He  must  have  plenty  of  blunt  to  give  half-a- 
guinea  to  a  guide  across  a  common  !  I  want 
money,  and  I  won't  work — if  I  can  help  it,  at 
least." 

While  he  thus  soliloquized,  the  air  seemed 
to  oppress   him;  he   opened  the  window,    he 


leant  out— the  rain  beet  upon  him.  He  closed 
the  window  with  an  oath;  took  off  his  shoes, 
stole  to  the  threshold,  and,  by  the  candle 
which  he  shaded  with  his  hand,  surveyed  the 
opposite  door.  It  was  closeil.  He  then  bent 
anxiously  forward  and  listened. 

"  All's  quiet,"  thought  he,  "  perhaps  he 
sleeps  already.  I  will  steal  down.  If  Jack 
Walters  would  but  come  to-night,  the  job 
would  be  done  charmingly." 

With  that  he  crept  gently  down  the  stairs. 
In  a  corner,  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  lay 
sundry  matters,  a  few  faggots,  and  a  cleaver. 
He  caught  up  the  last.  "Aha,"  he  muttered; 
"  and  there's  the  sledge-hammer  somewhere 
for  Walters."  Leaning  himself  against  the 
door,  he  then  applied  his  eye  to  a  chink  which 
admitted  a  dim  view  of  the  room  within,  lighted 
fitfully  by  the  fire. 


CHAPTER    II. 

What  have  we  here  ? 

A  carrion  death  ! " 

— Men  Aa III  of  Venice,  Act.  ii.  Sc.  7. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  stranger 
deemed  it  advisable  to  commence  his  retreat. 
The  slight  and  suppressed  sound  of  voices, 
which  at  first  he  had  heard  above  in  the  con- 
versation of  the  father  and  child,  had  died 
away.  The  stillness  at  once  encouraged  and 
warned  him.  He  stole  to  the  front  door,  softly 
undid  the  bolt,  and  found  the  door  locked, 
and  the  key  missing.  He  had  not  observed 
that  during  his  repast,  and  ere  his  suspicions 
had  been  arousetl,  his  host,  in  replacing  the 
bar,  and  relocking  the  entrance,  had  ab- 
stracted the  key.  His  fears  were  now  con- 
firmed. His  next  thought  was  the  window — 
the  shutter  only  protected  it  halfway,  and  was 
easily  removed;  but  the  aperture  of  the  lat- 
tice, which  only  opened  in  part,  like  most  cot- 
tage casements,  was  far  too  small  to  admit 
his  person.  His  only  means  of  escape  was  iu 
breaking  the  whole  window;  a  matter  not  to 
be  effected  without  noise,  and  consequent 
risk. 

He  paused  in  despair.  He  was  naturally  of 
a  strong-nerved  and  gallant  temperament,  nor 
unaccustomed  to  those  perils  of  life  and  limb 
which  German  students  delight  to  brave;  but 


^4 


BU LIVER'S     iVORKS. 


his  heart  well-nigh  failed  him  at  that  moment. 
The  silence  became  distinct  and  burdensome 
to  him,  and  a  chill  moisture  gathered  to  his 
brow.  While  he  stood  irresolute  and  in  sus- 
pense, striving  to  collect  his  thoughts,  his  ear, 
preternaturally  sharpened  by  fear,  caught  the 
faint  muffled  sound  of  creeping  footsteps — he 
heard  the  stairs  creak.  The  sound  broke 
the  spell.  The  previous  vague  apprehension 
gave  way,  when  the  danger  became  actually 
at  hand.  His  presence  of  mind  returned  at 
once.  He  went  back  quickly  to  the  fire-place, 
seized  the  poker,  and  began  stirring  the  fire, 
and  coughing  loud,  and  indicating  as  vigor- 
ously as  possible  that  he  was  wide  awake. 

He  felt  that  he  was  watched — he  felt  that 
he  was  in  momentary  peril.  He  felt  that  the 
appearance  of  slumber  would  be  the  signal  for 
a  mortal  conflict.  Time  passed,  all  remained 
silent:  nearly  half-an-hour  had  elapsed  since 
he  had  heard  the  steps  upon  the  stairs.  His 
situation  began  to  prey  upon  his  nerves,  it  ir- 
ritated them — it  became  intolerable.  It  was 
not,  now,  fear  that  he  experienced,  it  was  the 
overwrought  sense  of  mortal  enmity — the  con- 
sciousness that  a  man  may  feel  who  knows 
that  the  eye  of  a  tiger  is  on  him,  and  who, 
while  in  suspense  he  has  regained  his  courage, 
foresees  that  sooner  or  later  the  spring  must 
come; — the  suspense  itself  becomes  an  agony, 
and  he  desires  to  expedite  the  deadly  struggle 
he  cannot  shun. 

Utterly  incapable  any  longer  to  bear  his 
own  sensations,  the  traveller  rose  at  last,  fixed 
his  eyes  njwn  the  fatal  door,  and  was  about  to 
cry  aloud  to  the  listener  to  enter,  when  he 
heard  a  slight  tap  at  the  window;  it  was  twice 
repeated;  and  at  third  time  a  low  voice  pro- 
nounced the  name  of  Darvil.  It  was  clear, 
then,  that  accomplices  had  arrived;  it  was  no 
longer  against  one  man  that  he  should  have  to 
contend.  He  drew  his  breath  hard,  and  list- 
ened with  throbbing  ears.  He  heard  steps 
without  upon  the  plashing  soil;  they  retired- 
all  was  still. 

He  paused  a  few  minutes,  and  walked  de- 
liberately and  firmly  to  the  inner  door  at  which 
he  fancied  his  host  stationed;  with  a  steady 
hand  he  attempted  to  open  the  door;  it  was 
fastened  on  the  opposite  side.  "  So  !  "  said  he, 
bitterly,  and  grinding  his  teeth;  "I  must  die 
like  a  rat  in  a  cage.     Well,  I'll  die  biting." 

He  returned  to  his  former  post,  drew  him- 


self up  to  his  full  height,  and  stood  grasping 
his  homely  weapon,  prepared  for  the  worst, 
and  not  altogether  undated  with  a  proud  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  natural  advantages  of 
activity,  stature,  strength,  and  daring.  Minutes 
rolled  on  !  the  silence  was  broken  by  some  one 
at  the  inner  door;  he  heard  the  bolt  gently 
withdrawn.  He  raised  his  weapon  with  both 
hands;  and  started  to  find  the  intruder  was 
only  Alice.  She  came  in  with  bare  feet,  and 
pale  as  marble,  her  finger  on  her  lips. 

She  approached — she  touched  him. 

"They  are  in  the  shed  behind,"  she  whisp- 
ered, "  looking  for  the  sledge-hammer — they 
mean  to  murder  you;  get  you  gone — quick." 

"  How  ? — the  door  is  locked." 

"  Stay.  I  have  taken  the  key  from  his 
room." 

She  gained  the  door,  applied  the  key — the 
door  yielded.  The  traveller  threw  his  knap- 
sack once  more  over  his  shoulder  and  made 
but  one  stride  to  the  threshold.  The  girl 
stopped  him.  "  Don't  say  anything  about  it; 
he  is  my  father,  they  would  hang  him." 

"  No,  na  But  you  ?— -are  safe,  I  trust  ? — 
depend  on  my  gratitude. — I  shall  be  at  *  *  *  * 
to-morrow — the  best  inn — seek  me  if  you  can  ! 
Which  way  now  ?  " 

"Keep  to  the  left." 

The  stranger  was  already  several  paces  dis- 
tant; through  the  darkness,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  rain,  he  fled  on  with  the  speed  of  youth. 
The  girl  lingered  an  instant,  sighed,  then 
laughed  aloud;  closed  and  re-barred  the  door, 
and  was  creeping  back,  when  from  the  inner 
entrance  advanced  the  grim  father,  and  another 
man,  of  broad,  short,  sinewy  frame,  his  arms 
bare,  and  wielding  a  large  hammer. 

"  How  ?  "  asked  the  host;  "  Alice  here,  and 
—  hell  and  the  devil  !  have  you  let  him  go  ?" 

"  I  told  you  that  you  should  not  harm  him." 

With  a  violent  oath,  the  ruffian  struck  his 
daughter  to  the  ground,  sprang  over  her  body, 
unbarred  the  door,  and  accompanied  by  his 
comrade,  set  off  in  vague  pursuit  of  his  in- 
tended victim. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


'S 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  You  knew— none  so  well,  of  my  daughter's  flight." 
—Merc/miU  of  VinUe,  Act.  iii.  Sc.  i. 

The  day  dawned;  it  was  a  mild,  damp,  hazy 
morning;  the  sod  sank  deep  beneath  the  foot, 
the  roads  were  heavy  with  mire,  and  the  rain 
of  the  past  night  lay  here  and  there  in  broad 
shallow  pools.  Towards  the  town,  wagons, 
carts,  pedestrian  groups  were  already  moving; 
and,  now  and  then,  you  caught  the  sharp  horn 
of  some  early  coach,  wheeling  its  be-cloaked 
outside,  and  be-nightcapped  inside  passengers 
along  the  northern  thoroughfare. 

A  young  man  bounded  over  a  style  into  the 
road  just  opposite  to  the  mile  stone,  that  de- 
clared him  to  be  one  mile  from  *  *  *  *. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  he  said,  almost  aloud. 
"  After  spending  the  night  wandering  about 
morasses  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  I  approach  a 
town  at  last.  Thank  Heaven  again,  and  for 
all  its  mercies  this  night  !     1   breathe   freely. 

1  AM  SAFE." 

He  walked  on  somewhat  rapidly;  he  passed 
a  slow  wagon — he  passed  a  group  of  mechanics 
— he  passed  a  drove  of  sheep,  and  now  he  saw 
walking  leisurely  before  him  a  single  figure. 
It  was  a  girl,  in  a  worn  and  humble  dress; 
who  seemed  to  seek  her  weary  way  with  pain 
and  languor.  He  was  about  also  to  pass  her, 
when  he  heard  a  low  cry.  He  turned,  and  be- 
held in  the  wayfarer  his  preserver  of  the  pre- 
vious night. 

"  Heavens  !  is  it  indeed  you  ?  Can  I  be- 
lieve my  eyes  ?  " 

"  I  was  coming- to  seek  you,  sir,"  said  the 
girl,  faintly.  "1  too  have  escaped;  I  shall 
never  go  back  to  father,  I  have  no  roof  to  cover 
my  head  now." 

"  Poor  child  !  but  how  is  this  ?  Did  they 
ill-use  you  for  releasing  me?" 

"  Father  knocked  me  down,  and  beat  me 
again  when  he  came  back;  but  that  is  not  all," 
she  added  in  a  very  low  tone. 

"  What  else  ?  " 

The  girl  grew  red  and  white  by  turns.  She 
set  her  teeth  rigidly,  stopped  short,  and  then 
walking  on  quicker  than  before,  replied, — "It 
don't  matter;  I  will  never  go  back — I'm  alone 
now.  What,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  and  she  wrung 
her  hands. 

The    traveller's    pity   was    deeply    moved. 


"  My  good  girl,"  said  he,  earnestly,  "  you  have 
saved  my  life,  and  I  am  not  ungrateful.  Here  " 
(and  he  placed  some  gold  in  her  hand),  "  get 
yourself  a  lodging,  food,  and  rest;  you  look  as 
if  you  wanted  them;  and  see  me  again  this 
evening  when  it  is  dark,  and  we  can  talk  un- 
observed." 

The  girl  took  the  money  passively,  and 
looked  up  in  his  face  while  he  spoke;  the  look 
was  so  unsuspecting,  and  the  whole  counte- 
nance was  so  beautifully  modest  and  virgin- 
like, that  had  any  evil  passion  prompted  the 
traveller's  last  words,  it  must  have  fled  scared 
and  abashed  as  he  met  the  gaze. 

"  My  poor  girl,"  said  he,  embarrassed,  and 
after  a  short  pause;—"  you  are  very  young,  and 
very,  very  pretty.  In  this  town  you  will  be  ex- 
posed to  many  temptations:  take  care  where 
you  lodge;  you  have,  no  doubt,  friends 
here  ?  " 

"  Friends  ? — what  are  friends  ?  "  answered 
Alice. 

"  Have  you  no  relations;  no  mother  s  kin  i  " 
"  None." 

"  Dj  yon  know  where  to  ask  shelter  ?  " 
"  No  sir;  for  I  can't  go  where   father  goes, 
lest  he  should  find  me  out." 

"  Well,  then  seek  some  quiet  inn,  and  meet 
me  this  evening,  just  here,  half-a  mile  from 
the  town,  at  seven.  1  will  try  and  think  of 
something  for  you  in  the  meanwhile.  But  you 
seem  tired,  you  walk  with  pain;  perhajjs  it 
will  fatigue  you  to  come — I  mean,  you  had 
rather  perhaps  rest  another  day." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no  I  it  will  do  me  good  to  see 
you  again,  sir." 

The  young  man's  eyes  met  hers,  and  hers 
were  not  withdrawn;  their  soft  blue  was  suf- 
fused with  tears — thay  penetrated  his  soul. 

He  turned  away  hastily,  and  saw  that  they 
were  alreaily  the  subject  of  curious  observation 
to  the  various  passengers  that  overtook  them. 
"  Don't  forget  I  "  he  whispered,  and  strode  on 
with  a  pace  that  soon  brought  him  to  the  town. 
He  inquired  for  the  principal  hotel — entered 
it  with  an  air  that  bespoke  that  nameless  con- 
sciousness of  superiority,  which  belongs  to 
those  accustomed  to  purchase  welcome,  wher- 
ever welcome  is  bought  and  sold — and  before 
a  blazing  fire  and  no  unsubstantial  breakfast, 
forgot  all  the  terrors  of  the  past  night,  or 
rather  felt  rejoiced  to  think  he  had  added  a 
a  new  and  strange  hazard  to  the  catalogue  of 


i6 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


adventures   already    experienced    by    Ernest 
Maltravers. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  Con  una  Dama  tenia 
Un  gaian  conversation."* 
— Moratin:  El  'J'eatro  Espanol.—  'Hum.  15. 

Maltravers  was  first  at  the  appointed  place. 
His  character  was  in  mcjst  respects  singularly 
energetic,  decided,  and  premature  in  its  de- 
velopment; but  not  so  in  regard  to  women: 
with  them  he  was  the  creature  of  the  moment; 
and,  driven  to  and  fro  by  whatever  impulse, 
or  whatever  passion,  caught  the  caprice  of  a 
wild,  roving,  and  all-poetical  imagination,  Mal- 
travers was,  half  unconsciously,  a  poet — a  poet 
of  action,  and  woman  w;is  his  muse. 

He  had  formed  no  plan  of  conduct  towards 
the  poor  girl  he  was  too  meet.  He  meant  no 
harm  to  her.  If  she  had  been  less  handsome, 
he  would  have  been  equally  grateful;  and 
her  dress,  and  youth,  and  condition,  would 
equally  have  compelled  him  to  select  the  hour 
of  dusk  for  an  interview. 

He  arrived  at  the  spot.  The  winter  night 
had  already  descended;  but  a  sharp  frost  had 
set  in:  the  air  was  clear,  the  stars  were  bright, 
and  the  long  shadows  slept,  still  and  calm, 
along  the  broad  road,  and  the  whitened  fields 
beyond. 

He  walked  briskly  to  .'ind  fro,  without  much 
thought  of  the  interview,  or  its  object,  half 
ch?nting  old  verses,  German  and  English,  to 
himself,  and  stopping  to  gaze  every  moment 
at  the  silent  stars. 

At  length  he  saw  Alice  approach:  she  came 
up  to  him  timidly  and  gently.  His  heart  beat 
more  quickly;  he  felt  that  he  was  young,  and 
alone  with  beauty.  "  Sweet  girl,"  he  said, 
with  involuntary  and  mechanical  compliment, 
"  how  well  this  light  becomes  you  !  How 
shall  I  thank  you  for  not  forgetting  me  ?  " 

Alice  surrendered  her  hand  to  his  without  a 
struggle. 

"  What  is  your  name.'  "  said  he,  bending  his 
face  down  to  hers. 

"  Alice  Darvil." 

"And  your  terrible  father,— /V  he,  in  truth, 
your  father  ?  " 

"  Indeed  he  is  my  father  and  mother  too  ?  " 

"  What  made  you   suspect   his  intention  to 


murder  me?     Has  he  ever  attempted  the  like 
crime  ? " 

"  No;  but  lately  he  has  often  talked  of  rob- 
bery. He  is  very  poor,  sir.  And  when  I  saw 
his  eye,  and  when  afterwards,  while  your  back 
was  turned,  he  took  the  key  from  the  door, 
I  felt  that — that  you  were  in  danger." 

"Good  girl— go  on." 

"  I  told  him  so  when  we  went  up  stairs.  I 
did  not  know  what  to  believe,  when  he  said  he 
would  not  hurt  you;  but  I  stole  the  key  of  the 
front  door,  which  he  had  thrown  on  the  table, 
and  went  to  my  room.  I  listened  at  my  door; 
I  heard  him  go  down  the  stairs;  he  stopped 
there  for  some  time;  and  I  watched  him  from 
above.  The  place  where  he  was,  opened  to 
the  field  by  the  backway.  After  some  time, 
I  heard  a  voice  whisper  him:  I  knew  the 
voice,  and  then  they  both  went  out  by  the 
backway;  so  I  stole  down;  and  went  out  and 
listened;  and  I  knew  the  other  man  was  John 
Walters.  I'm  afraid  of  him,  sir.  And  then 
Walters  said,  says  he,  '  I  will  get  the  hammer, 
and,  sleeper  wake,  we'll  do  it.'  And  father 
said,  '  It's  in  the  shed.'  So  I  saw  there  was 
no  time  to  be  lost,  sir,  and — and — but  yjiu 
know  all  the  rest."  ■. 

"  But  how  did  you  escape  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  father,  after  talking  to  Walters, 
came  to  my  room,  and  beat  and— and  fright- 
ened me;  and  when  he  was  gone  to  bed,  I  put 
on  iny  clothes  and  stole  out;  it  was  just  light; 
and  I  walked  on  till  I  met  j-ou." 

"  Poor  child,  in  what  a  den  of  vice  you  have 
been  brought  up  !  " 

"  Allan,  sir." 

"  She  don't  understand  me.  Have  you  been 
taught  to  read  and  write  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  But  I  suj^pose  you  have  been  taught,  at 
least,  to  say  your  catechism — and  you  pray 
sometimes  ?  " 

"  I  have  prayed  to  father  not  to   beat  me." 

"  But  to  God  ?  " 

"  God,  sir  ! — what  is  that  ?  "  * 

Maltravers    drew    back,    shocked    and    ap- 


•  Wilh  a  dame  he  held  a  gallant  conversation. 


*  This  ignorance— indeed  the  whole  sketch  of  Alice 
— is  from  the  life;  nor  is  such  ignorance,  accompanied 
by  what  almost  seems  an  instinctive  or  intuitive  no- 
tion of  right  or  wrong,  very  uncommon,  as  our  police 
reports  can  testify.  In  the  Examiner  for,  1  think,  the 
year  1835,  will  be  found  the  case  of  a  young  girl  ill- 
treated  by  her  father,  whose  answers  to  the  interro- 
gatories of  the  magistrate  are  very  similar  to  those  of 
Alice  to  the  questions  of  Maltravers. 


ERNES  T    MAL  TRA  VERS. 


17 


palled.  Premature  philosopher  as  he  was, 
this  depth  of  ignorance  perplexed  his  wisdom. 
He  had  read  all  the  disputes  of  schoolmen, 
whether  or  not  the  notion  of  a  Supreme  Being 
is  innate;  but  he  had  never  before  been  brought 
face  to  face  with  a  living  creature,  who  was 
unconscious  of  a  God. 

After  a  pause,  he  said — "  My  poor  girl,  we 
misunderstand  each  other.  You  know  that 
there  is  a  God  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Did  no  one  ever  tell  you  who  made  the 
stars  you  now  survey — the  earth  on  which  you 
tread  ?  " 

"No." 

"  And  have  you  never  thought  about  it 
3'-ourself  ? " 

"  AVhy  should  I  ?  What  has  that  to  do  with 
being  cold  and  hungry  ?" 

Maltravers  looked  incredulous. — "You  see 
that  great  building,  with  the  spire  rising  in  the 
starlight  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  sure." 

"What  is  it  called  ?" 

"  Why,  a  church." 

"  Did  you  ever  go  into  it  ?  " 

"No." 

"  What  do  people  do  there  ?  " 

"  Father  says  one  man  talks  nonsense,  and 
the  other  folk  listen  to  him." 

"Your   father     is no    matter.       Good 

heavens  !  what  shall  I  do  with  this  unhappy 
child?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am  very  unhappy,"  said  Alice, 
catching  at  the  last  words;  and  the  tears 
rolled  silently  down  her  cheeks. 

Maltravers  never  was  more  touched  in  his 
life.  Whatever  thoughts  of  gallantry  might 
have  entered  his  young  head,  had  he  found 
Alice  such  as  he  might  reasonably  have  ex- 
pected, he  now  felt  there  was  a  kind  of  sanc- 
tity in  her  ignorance;  and  his  gratitude  and 
kindly  sentiment  towards  her  took  almost  a 
brotherly  aspect. — "  You  know,  at  least,  what 
school  is  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  have  talked  with  girls  who  go  to 
school." 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  there,  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir — pray  not  !  " 

"  What  should  you  like  to  do  then  ? —  Speak 
out,  child.  I  owe  you  so  much,  that  I  should 
be  too  happy  to  make  you  comfortable  and 
contented  in  your  own  way." 

6—3 


"  I  should  like  to  live  with  you,  sir."  Mal- 
travers started,  and  half  smiled,  and  colored. 
But  looking  on  her  eyes,  which  were  fixed 
earnestly  on  his,  there  was  so  much  artlessness 
in  their  soft,  unconscious  gaze,  that  he  saw 
she  was  wholly  ignorant  of  the  interpretation 
that  might  be  put  upon  so  candid  a  confession. 

I  hnve  said  that  Maltravers  was  a  wild,  en- 
thusiastic, odd  being — he  was  in  fact,  full  of 
strange  German  romance  and  metaphysical 
speculations.  He  had  once  shut  himself  up  for 
months  to  study  astrology — and  been  even 
suspected  of  a  serious  hunt  after  the  philoso- 
pher's stone;  another  time  he  had  narrowly  es- 
caped with  life  and  liberty  from  a  frantic  con- 
spiracy of  the  young  republicans  of  his  uni- 
versity, in  which,  being  bolder  and  madder 
than  most  of  them,  he  had  been  an  active  ring- 
leader; it  was,  indeed,  some  such  folly  that 
had  compelled  him  to  quit  Germany  sooner 
than  himself  or  his  parents  desired.  He  had 
nothing  of  the  sober  Englishman  about  him. 
Whatever  was  strange  and  eccentric  had  an  ir- 
resistible charm  for  Ernest  Maltravers.  And 
agreeably  to  this  disposition,  he  now  resolved 
an  idea  that  enchanted  his  mobile  and  fantas- 
tic philosophy.  He  himself  would  educate 
this  charming  girl — he  would  write  fair  and 
heavenly  characters  upon  this  blank  page — 
he  would  act  the  Saint  Preux  to  this  Julie  of 
Nature.  Alas,  he  did  not  think  of  the  result 
which  the  parallel  should  have  suggested  ! 
At  that  age,  Ernest  Maltravers  never  damped 
the  ardor  of  an  experiment  by  the  anticipation 
of  consequences. 

"  So,"  he  said,  after  a  short  reverie,  "  so  you 
would  like  to  live  with  me  ?  But,  Alice,  we 
must  not  fall  in  love  with  each  other." 

"I  don't  understand,  sir." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Maltravers,  a  little  dis- 
concerted. 

"  I  always  wished  to  go  into  service." 

"  Ha  !  " 

"  And  you  would  be  a  kind  master." 

Maltravers  was  half  disenchanted. 

"  No  very  flattering  preference,"  thought  he: 
"  so  much  the  safer  for  us.  Well,  Alice,  it 
shall  be  as  you  wish.  Are  you  comfortable 
where  you  are,  in  your  new  lodging  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Why,  they  do  not  insult  you  ?  " 

"No;  but  they  make  a  noise,  and  I  like  to 
be  quiet  to  think  of  you." 


i8 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


The  young  philosopher  was  reconcilietl 
again  to  his  scheme. 

"VVeil,  Alice — go  back — I  will  take  a  cot- 
tage to-morrow,  and  you  shall  be  my  servant, 
and  I  will  teach  you  to  read  and  write,  and 
say  your  prayers,  and  know  that  you  have  a 
Father  above  who  loves  you  better  than  he 
below.  Meet  me  again  at  the  same  hour  to- 
morrow. Why  do  you  cry,  Alice  ?  why  do  you 
cry  ?  " 

"  Because — because,"  sobbed  the  girl,  "  I 
am  so  happy,  and  I  shall  live  with  you  and 
see  you." 

"  Go,  child — go,  child,"  said  Maltravers 
hastily;  and  he  walked  away  with  a  quicker 
pulse  than  became  his  new  character  of  mas- 
ter and  preceptor. 

He  looked  back,  and  saw  the  girl  gazing  at 
him;  he  waved  his  hand,  and  she  moved  on 
and  followed  him  slowly  back  to  the  town. 

Maltravers,  though  not  an  elder  son,  was  the 
heir  of  affluent  fortunes;  he  enjoyed  a  muni- 
ficent allowance  that  sufficed  for  the  whims  of 
a  youth  who  had  learned  in  Germany  none  of 
the  extravagant  notions  common  to  young- 
Englishmen  of  similar  birth  and  prospects. 
He  was  a  spoiled  child,  with  no  law  but  his 
own  fancy, — his  return  home  was  not  expected, 
— there  was  nothing  to  prevent  the  indulgence 
of  his  new  caprice.  'I'he  next  day  he  hired  a 
cottage  in  the  neighborhood,  which  was  one  of 
those  pretty  thatched  edifices,  with  verandahs 
and  monthly  roses,  a  conservatory  and  a  lawn, 
which  justify  the  English  proverb  about  a  cot- 
tage and  love.  It  had  been  built  by  a  mercan- 
tile bachelor  for  some  fair  Rosamond,  and  did 
credit  to  his  taste.  An  old  woman,  let  with 
the  house,  was  to  cook  and  do  the  work.  Alice 
was  but  a  nominal  servant.  Neither  the  old 
woman  nor  the  landlord  comprehended  the 
Platonic  intentions  of  the  young  stranger.  But 
he  paid  his  rent  in  advance,  and  they  were  not 
particular.  He,  however,  thought  it  prudent 
to  conceal  his  name.  It  was  one  sure  to  be 
known  in  a  town  not  very  distant  from  the 
residence  of  his  father,  a  wealthy  and  long- 
descended  country  gentleman.  He  adopted, 
therefore,  the  common  name  of  Butler;  which, 
indeed,  belonged  to  one  of  his  maternal  con- 
nections, and  by  that  name  alone  was  he  known 
both  in  the  neighborhood  and  to  Alice.  From 
her  he  would  not  have  sought  concealment, — 
but  somehow  or  other  no  occasion  ever   pre- 


sented ittelf  to  induce  him  to  talk  much  to  her 
of  his  parentage  or  birth. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise." — Gray. 

Maltravers  found  Alice  as  docile  a  pupil 
as  any  reasonable  preceptor  might  have  de- 
sired. But  still,  reading  and  writing — they 
are  very  uninteresting  elements  !  Had  the 
groundwork  been  laid,  it  might  have  been  de- 
lightful to  raise  the  fairy  palace  of  knowledge; 
but  the  digging  the  foundations  and  construc- 
tmg  the  cellars  is  weary  labor.  Perhaps  he 
felt  it  so, — for  in  a  few  days  Alice  was  handed 
over  to  the  very  oldest  and  ugliest  writing- 
msster  that  the  neighboring  town  could  afford. 
The  poor  girl  at  first  wept  much  at  the  ex- 
change; but  the  grave  remonstrances  and 
solemn  exhortations  of  Maltravers  reconciled 
her  at  last,  and  she  promised  to  work  hard  and 
pay  every  attention  to  her  lessons.  I  am  not 
sure,  however,  that  it  was  the  tedium  of  the 
work  that  deteired  the  idealist — perhaps  he 
felt  its  dansjer — and  at  the  bottom  of  his 
sparkling  dreams  and  brilliant  follies  lay  a 
sound,  generous,  and  noble  heart. 

He  was  fond  of  pleasure,  and  had  been 
already  the  darling  of  the  sentimental  German 
ladies.  But  he  was  too  young,  and  too  vivid, 
and  too  romantic  to  be  what  is  called  a  sen- 
sualist. He  could  not  look  upon  a  fair  face, 
and  a  guileless  smile,  and  all  the  ineffable 
symmetry  of  a  woman's  shaf>e,  with  the  eye 
of  a  man  buying  cattle  for  base  uses.  He 
very  easily  fell  in  love,  or  fancied  he  did,  it  is 
true, — but  then  he  could  not  separate  desire 
from  fancy,  or  calculate  the  game  of  passion 
without  bringing  the  heart  or  the  imagination 
into  the  matter.  And  though  Alice  was  very 
pretty  and  very  engaging,  he  was  not  yet  in 
love  with  her,  and  he  had  no  intention  of  be- 
coming so. 

He  felt  the  evening  somewhat  long,  when 
for  the  first  tiine  Alice  discontinued  her  usual 
lesson:  but  Maltravers  had  abundant  resources 
in  himself.  He  placed  Shakspeare  and  Schil- 
ler on  his  table,  and  lighted  his  German  meer- 
schaum—he read  till  he  became  inspired,  and 
then  he  wrote — and  when  he  had  composed  a 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


19 


few  stanzas  he  was  not  contented  till  he  had 
set  them  to  music,  and  tried  their  melody  with 
his  voice.  For  he  had  all  the  passion  of  a 
German  for  song  and  music — that  wild  Mal- 
travers  ! — and  his  voice  was  sweet,  his  taste 
consummate,  his  science  profoimd.  As  the 
sun  puts  out  a  star,  so  the  full  blaze  of  his 
imagination,  fairly  kindled,  extinguished  for 
the  time  his  fairy  fancy  for  his  beautiful  pupil. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Maltravers  went 
to  bed— and  as  he  passed  through  the  narrow 
corritlor  that  led  to  his  chamber,  he  heard  a 
light  step  flying  before  him,  and  caught  the 
glimpse  of  a  female  figure  escaping  through  a 
ilistanl  door.  "The  silly  child  I  "  thought  he, 
at  once  divining  the  cause;  "she  has  been 
listening  to  my  singing.  I  shall  scold  her." 
But  he  forgot  that  resolution. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  many  days 
passed,  and  Maltravers  saw  but  little  of  the 
pupil  for  whose  sake  he  had  shut  himself  up 
in  a  country  cottage,  in  the  depth  of  winter. 
Still  he  did  not  repent  his  purpose,  nor  was  he 
in  the  least  tired  of  his  seclusion — he  would  not 
inspect  Alice's  progress,  for  he  was  certain  he 
should  be  dissatisfied  with  its  slowness — and 
people,  however  handsome,  cannot  learn  to 
read  and  write  in  a  day.  But  he  amused  him- 
self, notwithstanding.  He  was  glad  of  an  op- 
portunity to  be  alone  with  his  own  thoughts, 
for  he  was  at  one  of  those  periodical  epochs 
of  life  when  we  like  to  pause  and  breathe 
awhile,  in  brief  respite,  from  that  methodical 
race  in  which  we  run  to  the  grave.  He  wished 
to  re-collect  the  stores  of  his  past  experience, 
and  repose  on  his  own  mind,  before  he  started 
afresh  upon  the  active  world. 

The  weather  was  cold  and  inclement;  but 
Ernest  Maltravers  was  a  hardy  lover  of  nature, 
and  neither  snow  nor  frost  could  detain  him 
from  his  daily  rambles.  So  about  noon,  he 
regularly  threw  aside  books  and  papers,  took 
his  hat  and  staff,  and  whistling  or  humming 
his  favorite  airs  through  the  dreary  streets,  or 
along  the  bleak  waters,  or  amidst  the  leafless 
woods,  just  as  the  humor  seized  him;  for  he 
was  not  an  Edwin  or  Harold,  who  reserved 
speculation  only  for  lonely  brooks  and  pastoral 
hills.  Maltravers  delighted  to  contemplate 
nature  in  men  as  well  as  in  sheep  or  trees. 
The  humblest  alley  in  a  crowded  town  had 
something  poetical  for  him;  he  was  ever  ready 
to  mix  in  a  crowd,  if   it    were   only   gathered 


round  a  barrel-organ  or  a  dog-fight,  and  listen, 
to  all  that  was  said,  and  notice  all  that  was 
done.  And  this  I  take  to  be  the  true  poetical 
temperament  essential  to  every  artist  who  as- 
pires to  be  something  more  than  a  scene- 
painter.  But,  above  all  things,  he  was  most 
interested  in  any  displa)'  of  human  passions 
or  affections;  he  loved  to  see  the  true  colors 
of  the  heart,  where  they  are  most  transparent 
— in  the  uneducated  and  poor — for  he  was 
something  of  an  optimist,  and  had  a  hearty^ 
faith  in  the  loveliness  of  our  nature. 

Perhaps,  indeed  he  owed  much  of  the  insight 
into  and  mastery  over  character  that  he  was 
afterwards  considered  to  display,  to  his  disbe- 
lief that  there  is  any  wickedness  so  dark  as  not 
to  be  susceptible  or  the  light  in  some  place  or 
another.  But  Maltravers  had  his  fits  of  unso- 
ciability, and  then  nothing  but  the  most  sol- 
itary scenes  delighted  him.  Winter  or  sum- 
mer. l)arren  waste  or  prodigal  verdure,  all  had 
beauty  in  his  eyes;  for  their  beauty  lay  in  his- 
own  soul,  through  which  he  beheld  them. 
From  these  walks  he  would  return  home  at 
dusk  take  his  simple  meal,  rhyme  or  read 
away  the  long  evenings  with  such  alternation 
as  music  or  the  dreamy  thoughts  of  a  young 
man  with  gay  life  before  him  could  afford. 
Happy  Maltravers  ! — youth  and  genius  have 
luxuries  all  the  Rothschilds  cannot  purchase  ! 
And  yet,  Maltravers,  you  are  ambitious  ! — life 
moves  too  slowly  for  you  ! — you  would  push 
on  the  wheels  of  the  clock  ! — Fool — brilliant 
fool  ! — you  are  eighteen  and  a  poet  ! — What 
more  can  you  desire?— Bid  Time  stop  for 
ever  I 

One  morning  Ernest  rose  earlier  than- his 
wont,  and  sauntered  carelessly  through  the 
conservatory  which  adjoined  his  sitting-room; 
observing  the  plants  with  placid  curiosity  (for 
besides  being  a  little  of  a  botanist,  he  had  odd 
visionary  notions  about  the  life  of  plants,  and 
he  saw  in  them  a  hundred  mysteries  which  the 
herbalists  do  not  teach  us),  when  he  heard  a- 
low  and  very  musical  voice  singing  at  a  little 
distance.  He  listened  and  recognized  with  sur- 
prise words  of  his  own,  which  he  had  lately 
set  to  music,  and  was  sufficiently  pleased  with 
to  sing  nightly. 

When    the   song    ended,    Maltravers    stole' 
softly   through    the   conservatory,    and  as  he 
opened  the  door  which  led  into  the  garden,  he> 
saw  at  the  open  window  of  a'little  room  which 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


was  apportioned  to  Alice,  and  jutted  out  from 
the  building  in  the  fanciful  irregularity  com- 
mon to  ornamental  cottages,  the  form  of  his 
discarded  pupil.  She  did  not  observe  him; 
and  it  was  not  till  he  twice  called  her  by  name 
that  she  started  from  her  thoughtful  and  mel- 
ancholy posture. 

"Alice,"  said  he  gently,  "  put  on  your  bon- 
net, and  walk  with  me  in  the  garden;  you 
k)ok  pale,  child;  the  fresh  air  will  do  you 
good." 

Alice  colored  and  smiled,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments was  by  his  side.  Maltravers,  mean- 
while, had  gone  in  and  lighted  his  meerschaum, 
for  it  was  his  great  inspirer  whenever  his 
thoughts  were  perjilexed,  or  he  felt  his  usual 
fluency  likely  to  fail  him,  and  such  was  the 
case  now.  With  this  faithful  ally  he  awaited 
Alice  in  the  little  walk  that  circled  the  lawn, 
amidst  the  shrubs  and  evergreens. 

"Alice,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  but  he 
stopped  short. 

Alice  looked  up  at  him  with  grave  respect. 

"Tush!"  said  Maltravers;  "perhaps  the 
smoke  is  unpleasant  to  you.  It  is  a  bad  habit 
of  mine." 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Alice;  and  she  seemed 
disappointed.  Maltravers  paused  and  picked 
up  a  snowdrop. 

"It  is  pretty,"  he  said;  "do  you  love 
flowers  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dearly,"  answered  Alice,  with  some 
enthusiasm;  "  I  never  saw  many  till  I  came 
here." 

"  Now  then,  I  can  go  on,"  thought  Mal- 
travers; why,  I  cannot  say,  for  I  do  not  see 
the  "sequitur;  but  on  he  went  ///  medias  res. 
"  Alice,  you  sing  charmingly." 

"Ah!  sir,  you — you — "  she  stopped  ab- 
ruptly, and  trembled  visibly. 

"  Yes,  I  overheard  you,  Alice." 

"  And  you  are  angry  ?  " 

"I? — Heaven  forbid!  It  is  a  talent,  but 
you  don't  know  what  that  is;  I  mean  it  is  an 
excellent  thing  to  have  an  ear,  and  a  voice,  and 
a  heart  for  music;  and  you  have  all  three." 

He  paused,  for  he  felt  his  hand  touched; 
Alice  suddenly  clasped  and  kissed  it.  Mal- 
travers thrilled  through  his  whole  frame;  but 
there  was  something  in  the  girl's  look  that 
showed  she  was  wholly  unaware  that  she  had 
committed  an  unmaidenly  or  forward  action. 

"  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  be  angry,"  she 


said,  wiping  her  eyes  as  she  dropped  his  hand; 
"  and  now  I  supix>se  you  know  all." 

"All  !" 

"Yes;  how  I  listened  to  you  every  evening, 
and  lay  awake  the  whole  night  with  the  music 
ringing  in  my  ears,  till  I  tried  to  go  over  it  my- 
self; and  so  at  last  I  ventured  to  sing  aloud.  I 
like  that  much  better  than  learning  to  read." 

All  this  was  delightful  to  Maltravers:  the 
girl  had  touched  upon  one  of  his  weak  [wints: 
however,  he  remained  silent.  Alice  con- 
tinued. 

"  And  now,  sir,  I  hope  you  will  let  me  come 
and  sit  outside  the  door  every  evening  and 
hear  you;  I  will  make  no  noise — I  will  be  so 
quiet." 

"  What,  in  that  cold  corridor,  these  bitter 
nights?" 

"I  am  used  to  cold,  sir.  Father  would  not 
let  me  have  a  fire  when  he  was  not  at  home." 

"No,  Alice,  but  you  shall  come  into  the 
room  while  I  play,  and  I  will  give  you  a  le.sson 
or  two.  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  an  ear; 
it  may  be  a  means  of  your  earning  your  own 
honest  livelihood  when  you  leave  me." 

"  When  I but   I    never  intend  to  leave 

you,  sir  !  "  said  Alice,  beginning  fearfully  and 
ending  calmly. 

Maltravers  had  recourse  to  the  meerschaum. 

Luckily,  perhaps,  at  this  time,  they  were 
joined  by  Mr.  Simcox,  the  old  writing-master. 
Alice  went  in  to  prepare  her  books;  but  Mal- 
travers laid  his  hand  upon  the  preceptor's 
shoulder. 

"  You  have  a  quick  pupil,  I  hope  sir," 
said  he. 

"  O  very,  very,  Mr.  Butler.  She  comes  on 
famously.  She  practises  a  great  deal  when  I 
am  away,  and  I  do  my  best." 

"  And,"  asked  Maltravers,  in  a  grave  tone, 
"have  you  succeeded  in  instilling  into  the 
poor  child's  mind  some  of  those  more  sacred 
notions  of  which  I  spoke  to  you  in  our  first 
meeting  ?  " 

"Why,  sir,  she  was  indeed  quite  a  heathen 
— quite  a  Mahometan,  I  may  say:  but  she  is 
a  little  better  now." 

"  What  have  you  taught  her  ?  " 

"That  God  made  her." 

"  That  is  a  great  step." 

"And  that  he  loves  good  girls,  and  will 
watch  over  them." 

"  Bravo  !     You  beat  Plato." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVEKS. 


"  No,  sir,  I  never  beat  any  one,  except  little 
Jack  Turner;  but  he  is  a  dimce." 
*    "  Bah  !     What  else  do  you  teach  her  ?  " 

"  That  the  devil  runs  away  with  bad  girls, 
and " 

"  Stop  there,  Mr.  Sinicox.  Never  mind  the 
devil  yet  awhile.  Let  her  first  learn  to  do 
good,  that  God  may  love  her;  the  rest  will 
follow.  I  would  rather  make  people  religious 
through  their  best  feelings  than  their  worst, — 
through  their  gratitude  and  affections,  rather 
than  their  fears  and  calculations  of  risk  and 
punishment." 

"  Mr.  Simcox  stared. 

''  Does  she  say  her  prayers  ?  " 

"  I  have  taught  her  a  short  one." 

"  Did  she  learn  it  readily  ? " 

"  Lord  love  her,  yes  !  When  I  told  her  she 
ought  to  pray  to  God  to  bless  her  benefactor, 
she  would  not  rest  till  I  had  repeated  a  prayer 
out  of  our  Sunday-school  book,  and  she  got  it 
by  heart  at  once." 

"Enough,  Mr.  Simcox.  I  will  not  detain 
you  longer." 

Forgetful  of  his  untasted  breakfast,  Mal- 
travers  continued  his  meerschaum  and  his 
reflections;  he  did  not  cease,  till  he  had  con- 
vinced himself  that  he  was  but  doing  his  duty 
to  Alice,  by  teaching  her  to  cultivate  the 
charming  talent  she  evidently  possessed,  and 
through  which  she  might  secure  her  own  in- 
dependence. He  fancied  that  he  should  thus 
relieve  himself  of  a  charge  and  responsibility, 
which  often  perplexed  him.  Alice  would  leave 
him,  enabled  to  walk  the  world  in  an  honest 
professional  path.  It  was  an  excellent  idea. 
"  But  there  is  danger,"  whispered  Conscience. 
"  Ay,"  answered  Philosophy  and  Pride,  those 
wise  dupes  that  are  always  so  solemn,  and  al- 
ways so  taken  in;  "  but  what  is  virtue  without 
trial  ?  " 

And  now  every  evening,  when  the  windows 
were  closed,  and  the  hearth  burnt  clear,  while 
the  winds  stormed,  and  the  rain  beat  without, 
a  lithe  and  lovely  shape  hovered  about  the 
student's  chamber;  and  his  wild  songs  were 
sung  by  a  voice,  which  Nature  had  made  even 
sweeter  than  his  own. 

"  Alice's  talent  for  music  was  indeed  sur- 
prising; enthusiastic  and  quick,  as  he  himself 
was  in  all  he  undertook,  Maltravers  was 
amazed  ai  her  rapid  progress.  He  soon  taught 
her   to    play    by   ear;    and    Maltravers  could 


not  but  notice  that  her  hand,  always  deli- 
cate in  shape,  had  lost  the  rude  color  and 
roughness  of  labor.  He  thought  of  that  pretty 
hand  more  often  than  he  ought  to  have  done, 
and  guided  it  over  the  keys,  when  it  could 
have  found  its  way  very  well  without  hint. 

On  coming  to  the  cottage,  he  had  directed 
the  old  servant  to  provide  suitable  and  proper 
clothes  for  Alice;  but  now  that  she  was  ad- 
mitted, "to  sit  with  the  gentleman,"  the  crone 
had  the  sense,  without  waiting  for  new  orders, 
to  buy  the  "  pretty  young  woman  "  garments, 
still  indeed  simple,  but  of  better  materials, 
and  less  rustic  fashion;  and  Alice's  redundant 
tresses  were  now  carefully  arranged  into  or- 
derly and  glossy  curls,  and  even  the  texture 
was  no  longer  the  same;  and  happiness  and 
health  bloomed  on  her  downy  cheeks,  and 
smiled  from  the  dewy  lips,  which  never  quite 
closed  over  the  fresh  white  teeth,  except  when 
she  was  sad; — but  that  seemed  never,  now  she 
was  not  banished  from  Maltravers. 

To  say  nothing  of  the  unusual  grace  and 
delicacy  of  Alice's  form  and  features,  there  is 
nearly  always  something  of  Nature's  own  gen- 
tility in  very  young  women  (except,  indeed, 
when  they  get  together  and  fall  a-giggling); 
it  shames  us  men  to  see  how  much  sooner 
they  are  polished  into  conventional  shape,  than 
our  rough,  masculine  angles.  A  vulgar  boy 
requires.  Heaven  knows  what  assiduity,  to 
move  three  steps — I  do  not  s.iy  like  a  gentle- 
man, but  like  a  body  that  has  a  soul  in  it;  but 
give  the  least  advantage  of  society  or  tuition 
to  a  peasant  girl,  and  a  hundred  to  one  but 
she  will  glide  into  refinement  before  the  boy 
can  make  a  bow  without  upsetting  the  table. 
There  is  sentiment  in  all  women,  and  senti- 
ment gives  delicncy  to  thought,  and  tact  to 
manner.  But  sentiment  with  men  is  generally 
acquired,  an  offspring  of  the  intellectual  quali- 
ty, not,  as  with  the  other  sex,  of  the  moral. 

In  the  course  of  his  musical  and  vocal  les- 
sons, Maltravers  gently  took  the  occasion  to 
correct  poor  Alice's  frequent  offences  against 
grammar  and  accent;  and  her  memory  was 
l)rodigiously  quick  and  retentive.  The  very 
tones  of  her  voice  seemed  altered  in  the  ear  of 
Maltravers;  and,  somehow  or  other,  the  time 
came  when  he  was  no  longer  sensible  of  the 
difference  in  their  rank. 

The  old  woman-servant,  when  she  had  seen 
how  it  would  be  from  the  first,  and-take;^  a  pride 


i2 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


in  her  own  prophecy,  as  she  ordered  Alice's 
new  dressess,  was  a  much  better  philosopher 
than  Maltravers;  though  he  was  already  up  to 
his  ears  in  the  moon-lit  al)yss  of  Plato;  and 
had  filled  a  dozen  common-place  books  with 
criticisms  on  Kant. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  Young  man,  I  fear  thy  blood  is  rosy  red. 
Thy  heart  is  soft." 

— D'AGUiLAR's/iVivo,  Act.  iii,  Sc.  i. 

As  education  does  not  consist  in  reading 
and  writing  only,  so  Alice,  while  still  very 
backward  in  those  elementary  arts,  forestalled 
some  of  their  maturest  results  in  her  inter- 
course with  Maltravers.  Before  the  inocula- 
tion took  effect,  she  caught  knowledge  in  the 
natural  way.  For  the  refinement  of  a  graceful 
mind  and  a  happy  manner  is  very  cotagious. 
And  Maltravers  was  encouraged  by  her  quick- 
ness in  music  to  attempt  such  instruction  in 
other  studies  as  conversation  could  alTord.  It 
is  a  better  school  than  parents  and  masters 
think  for:  there  was  a  time  when  all  informa- 
tion was  given  orally;  and  probably  the 
Athenians  learned  more  from  hearing  Aris- 
totle, than  we  do  from  reading  him.  It  was  a 
delicious  revilal  of  Academe — in  the  walks,  or 
beneath  the  rustic  porticoes  of  that  little  cot- 
tage,— the  romantic  philosopher  and  the  beau- 
tiful disciple  !  And  his  talk  was  much  like 
that  of  a  sage  of  the  early  world,  with  some 
wistful  and  earnest  savage  for  a  listener:  —of 
the  stars  and  their  courses — of  beasts,  and 
birds,  and  fishes,  and  plants  and  flowers — the 
wide  Family  of  Nature — of  the  beneficence 
and  power  of  Cod — of  the  mystic  and  spiritual 
history  of  Man. 

Charmed  by  her  attention  and  docility,  Mal- 
travers at  length  diverged  from  lore  into 
•poetry;  he  would  repeat  to  her  the  simplest 
and  most  natural  passages  he  could  remember 
in  his  favorite  poets;  he  would  himself  com- 
pose verses  elaborately  adapted  to  her  under- 
standing; she  liked  the  last  the  best,  and 
learned  them  the  easiest.  Never  had  young 
poet  a  more  gracious  inspiration,  and  never 
did  this  inharmonious  world  tnore  compla- 
cently resolve  itself  into  soft  dreams,  as  if  to 
humor  the  novitiate  of  the  victims    it   must 


speedily  take  into  its  joyless  priesthood.  And 
Alice  had  now  quietly  and  insensiljly  carved 
out  her  own  avocations — the  tenor  of  her  ser-* 
vice.  The  plants  in  the  conservatory  had 
passed  under  her  care,  and  no  one  else  was 
privileged  to  touch  Maltravers'  books,  or  ar- 
range the  sacred  litter  of  a  student's  apart- 
ment. When  he  came  down  in  the  morning, 
or  returned  from  his  walks,  every  thing  was  in 
order,  yet  by  a  kind  of  magic,  just  as  he 
wished  it;  the  flowers  he  loved  best,  bloomed, 
fresh  gathered,  on  his  table;  the  very  position 
of  the  large  chair,  just  in  that  corner  by  the 
fire-place,  whence  on  entering  the  room,  its 
hospitable  arms  opened  with  the  most  cordial 
air  of  welcome,  bespoke  the  presiding  genius 
of  a  woman;  and  then,  precisely  as  the  clock 
struck  eight,  Alice  entered,  so  pretty  and 
smiling,  and  happy  looking,  that  it  was  no 
wonder  the  single  hour  at  first  allotted  to  her 
extended  into  three. 

Was  Alice  in  love  with  Maltravers  ?— She 
certainly  did  not  exhibit  the  symptoms  in  the 
ordinary  way — she  did  not  grow  more  reserved, 
and  agitated,  and  timid — there  was  no  worm 
in  the  bud  of  her  damask  cheek;  nay,  though 
from  the  first  she  had  been  tolerably  bold,  she 
was  more  free  and  confidential,  more  at  her 
ease  every  day;  in  fact,  she  never  for  a  mo- 
ment suspected  that  she  ought  to  be  otherwise; 
she  had  not  the  conventional  and  sensitive 
delicacy  of  girls,  who,  whatever  their  rank 
of  life,  have  been  taught  that  there  is  a  mys- 
tery and  a  peril  in  love;  she  had  a  vague  idea 
aiiout  girls  going  wrong,  but  she  did  not  know 
that  love  had  anything  to  do  with  it;  on  the 
contrary,  according  to  her  father,  it  had 
connection  with  money,  not  love;  all  that 
she  felt  was  so  natural,  and  so  very  sinless. 
Could  she  help  being  so  delighted  to  listen 
to  him,  and  so  grieved  to  depart  ?  What 
thus  she  felt  she  expressed,  no  less  simply 
and  no  less  guilelessly:  and  the  candor 
sometimes  completely  blinded  and  misled 
him.  No,  she  could  not  he  in  love,  or  she 
could  not  so  frankly  own  that  she  loved  him 
— it  was  a  sisterly  and  grateful  sentiment. 

"The  dear  girl — I  am  rejoiced  to  think  so," 
said  Maltravers  to  hitnself  !  "  I  knew  there 
would  be  no  danger." 

Was  he  not  in  love  himself  > — the  reader 
must  decide. 

"Alice,"  said  Maltravers,  one  evening,  after 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS 


23 


a  long  pause  of  thought  and  abstraction  on  his 
side  while  she  was  unconsciously  practising 
her  last  lesson  on  the  piano — "  Alice, — no, 
don't  turn  round — sit  where  )'ou  are,  but  listen 
to  me.     We  cannot  live  always  in  this  way." 

Alice  was  instantly  disobedient — she  did 
turn  round,  and  those  great  blue  eyes  were 
fixed  on  his  own  with  such  anxiety  and  alarm, 
that  he  had  no  resource  but  to  get  up  and  look 
round  for  the  meerschaum.  But  Alice,  who 
divined  by  an  instinct  his  lightest  wish,  brought 
it  to  him,  while  he  was  yet  hunting,  amidst  the 
further  corners  of  the  room,  in  places  where  it 
was  certain  not  to  be.  There  it  was,  already 
filled  with  the  fragrant  Salonica,  glittering  with 
the  gilt  pastile,  which,  not  too  healthfully, 
adulterates  the  seductive  weed,  with  odors  that 
pacify  the  repugnant  censure  of  the  fastidious 
— for  Maltravers  was  an  epicurean  even  in  his 
worst  habits; — there  it  was,  I  say,  in  that  pretty 
hand  which  he  had  to  touch  as  he  took  it;  and 
while  he  lit  the  weed,  he  had  again  to  blush 
and  shrink  beneath  those  great  blue  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Alice,"  he  said:  "thank  you. 
Do  sit  down — there — out  of  the  draught.  I 
am  going  to  open  the  window,  the  night  is  so 
lovely." 

He  opened  the  casement,  overgrown  with 
creepers,  and  the  moonlight  lay  fair  and 
breathless  upon  the  smooth  lawn.  The  calm 
and  holiness  of  the  night  soothed  and  elevated 
his  thoughts,  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  the 
eyes  of  Alice,  and  he  proceeded  with  a  firm, 
though  gentle  voice: — 

"  My  dear  Alice,  we  cannot  always  live  to- 
gether in  this  way;  you  are  now  wise  enough  to 
understand  me,  so  listen  patiently.  A  young 
woman  never  wants  a  fortune  so  long  as  she 
has  a  good  character;  she  is  always  poor  and 
despised  without  one.  Now,  a  good  character  in 
this  world  is  lost  as  much  by  imprudence  as 
guilt;  and  if  you  were  to  live  with  me  much 
longer,  it  would  be  imprudent,  and  your  char- 
acter would  suffer  so  much  that  you  would  not 
be  able  to  make  your  own  way  in  the  world: 
far,  then,  from  doing  you  a  service,  I  should 
have  done  you  a  deadly  injury,  which  I  could 
^ot  atone  for:  besides.  Heaven  knows  what 
may  happen  worse  than  imprudence;  for,  I 
am  very  sorry  to  say,"  added  Maltravers, 
with  great  gravity,  "  that  you  are  much  too 
pretty  and  engaging  to — to — in  short,  it  won't 
do.     I  must  go  home;  my  friends  will  have  a 


right  to  complain  of  me,  if  I  remain  thus  lost 
to  them  many  weeks  longer.  And  you,  my 
dear  Alice,  are  now  sufficiently  advanced  to 
receive  better  instruction  than  I  or  Mr.  Sim- 
cox  can  give  you.  I  therefore  propose  to 
place  you  in  some  respectable  family,  where 
you  will  have  more  comfort,  and  a  higher 
station  than  you  have  here.  You  can  finish 
your  education,  and  instead  of  being  taught, 
you  will  be  thus  enabled  to  become  a  teacher 
to  others.  With  your  beauty,  Alice,"  (and 
Maltravers  sighed),  "and  nattu'al  talents,  and 
amiable  temper,  you  have  only  to  act  well  and 
prudently,  to  secure  at  last  a  worthy  husband 
and  a  happy  home.  Have  you  heard  me, 
Alice?  Such  is  the  plan  I  have  formed  for 
you." 

The  young  man  thought  as  he  spoke,  with 
honest  kindness  and  upright  honor;  it  was  a 
bitterer  sacrifice  than  perhaps  the  reader  thinks 
for.  But  Maltravers,  if  he  had  an  impassioned, 
had  not  a  selfish,  heart;  and  he  felt,  to  use  his 
own  expression,  more  emphatic  than  eloquent, 
that  "  it  would  not  do,"  to  live  any  longer 
alone  with  this  beautiful  girl,  like  the  two 
children,  whom  the  good  fairy  kept  safe  from 
sm  and  the  world  in  the  Pavilion  of  Roses. 

But  Alice  comprehended  neither  the  danger 
to  herself,  nor  the  temptations  that  Maltravers, 
if  he  could  not  resist,  desired  to  shun.  She 
rose,  pale  and  trembling — approached  Mal- 
travers, and  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"  I  will  go  away,  when  and  where  you  wish 
— the  sooner  the  better — to-morrow — yes,  to- 
morrow; you  are  ashamed  of  poor  Alice;  and 
it  has  been  very  silly  in  me  to  be  so  happy." 
(She  struggled  with  her  emotion  for  a  moment, 
and  went  on).  "  You  know  Heaven  can  hear 
me,  even  when  I  am  away  from  you,  and  when 
I  know  more  I  can  pray  better;  and  Heaven 
will  bless  you,  sir,  and  make  you  happy,  for  I 
never  can  pray  for  anything  else." 

With  these  words  she  turned  away,  and 
walked  proudly  towards  the  door.  But  when 
she  reached  the  threshold,  she  stopped  and 
looked  around,  as  if  to  take  a  last  farewell.  All 
the  associations  and  memories  of  that  beloved 
spot  rushed  upon  her — she  gasped  for  breath, 
— tottered, — and  fell  to  the  ground  insensible. 

Maltravers  was  already  by  her  side;  he  lifted 
her  light  weight  in  his  arms;  he  uttered  wild 
and  impassioned  exclamations — "  Alice,  be- 
loved Alice — forgive  me;  we  will  never  part !  " 


24 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


He  chafed  her  hands  in  his  own,  while  her  head 
lay  on  his  bosom,  and  he  kissed  again  and 
again  those  beautiful  eye  lids,  till  they  opened 
slowly  upon  him,  and  the  tender  arms  tight- 
ened round  him  involuntarily, 

"Alice,"  he  whisjjered — "Alice,  dear  Alice, 
I  love  thee."  Alas,  it  was  true:  he  loved — and 
forgot  all  but  that  love.     He  was  eighteen. 


CHAPl'ER   Vn. 

"  How  like  a  younker  or  a  prodigal, 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  from  her  native  bay  !  ' 

— Merchant  of  Venice. 

We  are  apt  to  connect  the  voice  of  Con- 
science with  the  stillness  of  mid-night.  But  I 
think  we  wrong  that  innocent  hour.  It  is  that 
terrible  "  next  morning,"  when  reason  is  wide 
awake,  upon  which  remorse  fastens  its  fangs. 
Has  a  man  gambled  away  his  all,  or  shot  his 
friend  in  a  duel — has  he  committed  a  crime, 
or  incurred  a  laugh — it  is  the  next  morning, 
when  the  irretrievable  Past  rises  before  him 
like  a  spectre;  then  doth  the  church-yard  of 
memory  yield  up  its  griezly  dead — then  is 
the  witching  hour  when  the  foul  fiend  within 
US  can  least  tempt  perhaps,  but  most  torment. 
At  night  we  have  one  thing  to  hope  for,  one 
refuge  to  fly  to — oblivion  and  sleep  !  But  at 
morning,  sleep  is  over,  and  we  are  called  upon 
coldly  to  review,  and  re-act,  and  live  again 
the  waking  bitterness  of  self-reproach.  Mal- 
travers  rose  a  penitent  and  unhappy  man — re- 
morse was  new  to  him,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
committed  a  treacherous  and  fraudulent  as 
well  as  guilty  deed. 

This  poor  girl,  she  was  so  innocent,  so  con- 
fiding, so  unprotected,  even  by  her  own  sense 
of  right.  He  went  down  stairs  listless  and 
dispirited.  He  longed  yet  dreaded  to  encoun- 
ter Alice.  He  heard  her  step  in  the  conserva- 
tory— paused,  irresolute,  and  at  length  joined 
her.  For  the  first  time  she  blushed  and  trem- 
bled, and  her  eyes  shunned  his.  But  when 
he  kissed  her  hand  in  silence,  she  whispered, 
"  And  am  I  now  to  leave  you  ?  "  And  Mai- 
travers  answered  fervently,  "  Never  !  "  and 
then  her  face  grew  so  radiant  with  joy,  that 
Maltravers  was  comforted  despite  himself. 
Alice  knew  no  remorse,  though  she  felt  agi- 
tated and  ashamed;  as  shj  had  not  compre- 


hended the  danger,  neither  was  she  aware  ol 
the  fall.  In  fact,  she  never  thought  of  her- 
self. Her  whole  soul  was  with  him;  she  gave 
him  back  in  love  the  spirit  she  had  caught 
from  him  in  knowledge. 

And  they  strolled  together  through  the  gar- 
deu  all  that  day,  and  Maltravers  grew  recon- 
ciled to  himself.  He  had  done  wrong,  it  is 
true;  but  then  perhaps  Alice  had  already  suf- 
fered as  much  as  she  could  in  the  world's 
opinion,  by  living  with  him  alone,  though  in- 
nocent, so  long.  And  now  she  had  an  ever- 
lasting claim  to  his  protection — she  should 
never  know  shame  or  want.  And  the  love  that 
had  led  to  the  wrong,  should,  by  fidelity  and 
devotion,  take  from  it  the  character  of  sin. 

Natural  and  commonplace  sophistries ! 
L homme  se pique  .'  as  old  Montaigne  said;  Man 
is  his  own  sharper  !  The  conscience  is  the 
most  elastic  material  in  the  world.  To-day 
you  cannot  stretch  it  over  a  mole-hill,  to-mor- 
row it  hides  a  mountain. 

O  how  happy  they  were  now — that  young 
pair  !  How  the  days  flew  like  dreams  !  Time 
went  on,  winter  passed  away,  and  the  early 
spring,  with  its  flowers  and  sunshine,  was  like  a 
mirror  to  their  own  youth.  Alice  never  accom- 
panied Maltravers  in  his  walks  abroad,  partly 
because  she  feared  to  meet  her  father,  and  part- 
ly because  Maltravers  himself  was  fastidiously 
averse  to  all  publicity.  But  then  they  had  all 
that  little  world  of  three  acres — lawn  and 
fountain,  shrubbery  and  terrace,  to  themselves, 
and  Alice  never  asked  if  there  was  any  other 
world  without.  She  was  now  quite  a  scholar, 
as  Mr.  Simcox  himself  averred.  She  could 
read  aloud  and  fluently  to  Maltravers,  and 
copied  out  his  poetry  in  a  small,  fluctuating 
hand,  and  he  had  no  longer  to  chase  through- 
out his  vocabulary  for  short  Saxon  monosyl- 
lables to  make  the  bridge  of  intercourse  be- 
tween their  ideas.  Eros  and  Psyche  are  ever 
united,  and  Love  opens  all  the  petals  of  the 
soul.  On  one  subject  alone,  Maltravers  was 
less  eloquent  than  of  yore.  He  had  not  suc- 
ceeded as  a  moralist,  and  he  thought  it  hypo- 
critical to  preach  what  he  did  not  practice. 
But  Alice  was  gentler  and  purer,  and  as  far  as 
she  knew,  sweet  fool  !  better  than  ever — she 
had  invented  a  new  prayer  for  herself;  and 
she  prayed  as  regularly  and  as  fervently  as  if 
she  were  doing  nothing  amiss.     But  the  code 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


25 


of  heaven  is  gentler  than  that  of  earth,  and 
does  not  declare  that  ignorance  exciiseth  not 
the  crime. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"'  Some  clouds  sweep  on  as  vultures  for  their  prey. 
»  »  *  «  * 

No  azure  more  shall  robe  the  firmament, 
Nor  spangled  stars  be  glorious." 

— Byron,  Heaven  and  Earth. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  April,  the  weath- 
er was  unusually  mild  and  serene  for  that 
time  of  the  year,  in  the  northern  districts  of 
our  isle,  and  the  bright  drops  of  a  recent 
shower  sparkled  upon  the  buds  of  the  lilac  and 
laburnum  that  clustered  round  the  cottage  of 
Mahravers.  The  tittle  fountain  that  played  in 
the  centre  of  a  circular  basin,  on  whose  clear 
surface  the  broad-leaved  water-lily  cast  its 
fairy  shadow,  added  to  the  fresh  green  of  the 
lawn; — 

"  And  softe  as  velvet  the  vonge  grass," 

on  which  the  rare  and  early  flowers  were  clos- 
ing their  heavy  lids.  That  twilight  shower  had 
given  a  racy  and  vigorous  sweetness  to  the 
air  which  stole  over  many  a  bank  of  violets, 
and  slightly  stirred  the  golden  ringlets  of  Alice 
as  she  sat  by  the  side  of  her  entranced  and 
silent  lover. — They  were  seated  on  a  rustic 
bench  just  without  the  cottage,  and  the  open 
windows  behind  them  admitted  the  view  of  that 
happy  room — with  its  litter  of  books  and  mus- 
ical instruments — eloquent  of  the  Poktry  of 
Home. 

Maltravers  was  silent,  for  his  flexile  and  ex- 
citable fancy  was  conjuring  up  a  thousand 
shapes  along  that  transparent  air,  or  upon 
those  shadowy  violet  banks.  He  was  not 
thinking,  he  was  imagining.  His  genius  re- 
posed dreamily  upon  the  calm,  but  exquisite 
sense  of  his  happiness.  Alice  was  not  abso- 
lutely in  his  thoughts,  but  unconsciously  she 
colored  them  all — if  she  had  left  his  side,  the 
whole  charm  would  have  been  broken.  But 
Alice,  who  was  not  a  poet  or  a  genius,  was 
thinking,  and  thinking  only  of  Maltravers.  .  .  . 
His  image  was  "the  broken  mirror"  multi- 
|ilied  in  a  thousand  faithful  fragments,  over 
every  thing  fair  and  soft  in  that  lovely  micro- 
cosm before  hei.     But  they  were,  both  alike  in 


o\).i  thing — they  were  not  with  the  Future, 
they  were  sensible  of  the  Present — the  sense  ot 
the  actual  life,  the  enjoyment  of  the  breathing 
time,  was  strong  within  them.  Such  is  the  priv- 
ilege of  the  extremes  of  our  existence — Youth 
and  Age.  Middle  life  is  never  with  to-day, 
its  home  is  in  to-morrow  ....  anxious  and 
scheming,  and  desiring,  and  wishing  this  plot 
ripened  and  that  hope  fulfilled,  while  every 
wave  of  the  forgotten  Time  brings  it  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  end  of  all  things.  Half  our 
life  is  consumed  in  longing  to  be  nearer 
death. 

"  Alice,"    said    Maltravers,    waking   at  last 
from  his  reverie,  and  drawing  that  light,  child- 
like form  nearer  to  him,  "  you  enjoy  this  hour 
as  much  as  I  do." 
"  Oh,  much  more  !  " 
"  More  !  and  why  so .'  " 
"  Because  I  am  thinking  of  you,  and  perhaps 
you  are  thmking  of  yourself." 

Maltravers  smiled  and  stroked  those  beauti- 
ful ringlets,  and  kissed  that  smooth,  Innocent 
forehead,  and  Alice  nestled  herself  in  his 
breast.  "  How  young  you  look  by  this  light, 
Alice  !  "  said  he,  tenderly  looking  down. 

"  Would  you  love  me  less  if  I  were  old  ?  " 
asked  Alice. 

"  I  suppose  I  should  never  have  loved  you 
in  the  same  way,  if  you  had  been  old  when  I 
first  saw  you." 

"  Yet  I  am  sure  I  should  have  felt  the  same 

for  you  if  you  had  been— oh  !  ever  so  old  !  " 

"  What,  with  wrinkled    cheeks,  and  palsied 

head,  and  a  brown  wig,  and  no  teeth,  like  Mr. 

Simcox  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  you  could  never  be  like  that  ! 
You  would  always  look  young — your  heart 
would  be  always  in  your  face.  That  dear 
sinile — ah,  you  would  look  beautiful  to  the 
last  : " 

"  But  Simcox,  though  not  very  lovely  now, 
has  been,  I  dare  say,  handsomer  than  I  am, 
Alice;  and  I  shall  be  contented  to  look  as  well 
when  I  am  as  old." 

"  I  should  never  know  you  were  old,  because 
I  can  see  you  just  as  I  please.  Sometimes, 
when  you  are  thoughtful,  your  brows  meet, 
and  you  look  so  stern  that  I  tremble;  but 
then  I  think  of  you  when  you  last  smiled,  and 
look  up  again,  and  though  you  are  frowning 
still,  3'ou  seem  to  smile.  I  am  sure  you  are 
different  to  other  eyes  than  to  mine.  . .  .  and 


20 


£U LIVER'S     WORKS. 


time  must  kill  me  before,  in  my  sight,  it  could 
alter  j'(?«." 

"Sweet  Alice,  you  talk  eloquently,  for  you 
talk  love." 

"My  heart  talks  to  you.  Ah!  I  wish  it 
could  say  all  it  felt.  I  wish  it  could  make 
poetry  like  you,  or  that  words  were  music — I 
would  never  speak  to  you  in  anything  else. 
I  was  so  delighted  to  learn  music,  because 
when  I  played  I  seemed  to  be  talking  to  you. 
I  am  sure  that  whoever  invented  music  did  it 
because  he  loved  dearly  and  wanted  to  say  so. 
I  said  'he,'  but  I  think  it  was  a  woman.  Was 
it?" 

"  The  Greeks  I  told  you  of,  and  whose  life 
was  music,  thought  it  was  a  god." 

"  Ah,  but  you  say  the  Greeks  made  Love  a 
god.     Were  they  wicked  for  it  ? " 

"Our  own  God  above  is  Love,"  said  Ernest, 
seriously,  "  as  our  own  poets  have  said  and 
simg.  But  it  is  a  love  of  another  nature — di- 
vine, not  human.  Come,  we  will  go  within, 
the  air  grows  cold  for  you." 

They  entered,  his  arm  round  her  waist.  The 
room  smiled  upon  them  its  quiet  welcome; 
and  Alice,  whose  heart  had  not  half  vented  its 
fulness,  sat  down  to  the  instrument  still  to 
'■  talk  love  "  in  her  own  way. 

But  it  was  Saturday  evening.  Now  every 
Saturday,  Maltravers  received  from  the  neigh- 
boring town  the  provincial  newspaper — it  was 
his  only  medium  of  communication  with  the 
great  world.  But  it  was  not  for  that  communi- 
cation that  he  always  seized  it  with  avidity, 
and  fed  on  it  with  interest.  The  county  in 
which  his  father  resided  bordered  on  the  shire 
in  which  Ernest  sojourned,  and  the  paper  in- 
cluded the  news  of  that  familiar  district  in  its 
comprehensive  columns.  It  therefore  satisfied 
Ernest's  conscience  and  soothed  his  filial  anx- 
ieties to  read,  from  time  to  time,  that  "  Mr. 
Maltravers  was  entertaining  a  distinguished 
party  of  friends  at  his  noble  mansion  of  Lisle 
Court;"  or  that  "  Mr.  Maltravers'  fox-hounds 
had  met  on  such  a  day  at  something  copse;  " 
or  that  "  Mr.  Maltravers,  with  his  usual  munifi- 
cence, had  subscribed  twenty  guineas  to  the 
new  county  jail."  .  .  .  And  as  now  Maltravers 
saw  the  expected  paper  laid  beside  the  hissing 
urn,  he  seized  it  eagerly,  tore  the  envelope, 
and  hastened  to  the  well-known  corner  appro- 
priated to  the  paternal  district.  The  very  first 
words  that  struck  his  eyes  were  these: — 


"ALARMING    ILLNESS  OF   MR.    MALTR.WERS 

"We  regret  to  state  that  this  exemplary  and 
distinguished  gentleman  was  suddenly  seized 
on  Wednesday  night  with  a  severe   spasmodic 

affection.     Dr. was  immediately   sent  for, 

who  pronounced  it  to  be  gout  in  the  stomach 
— the  first  medical  assistance  from  London 
has  been  summoned. 

"  Postscript.—  We  have  just  learned,  in  an- 
swer to  our  inquiries  at  Lisle  Court,  that  the 
respected  owner  is  considerably  worse;  but 
slight  hopes  are  entertained  of  his  recoverv. 
Captain  Maltravers,  his  eldest  son  and  heir,  is 
at  Lisle  Court.  An  express  has  been  des- 
patched in  search  of  Mr.  Ernest  Maltravers, 
who,  iuTOlved  by  his  high  English  spirit  in 
some  dispute  with  the  authorities  of  a  despotic 
government,  had  suddenly  disappeared  from 
Gottingen,  where  his  extraordinary  talents  had 
highly  distinguished  him.  He  is  supposed  to 
be  staying  at  Paris." 

The  paper  dropped  on  the  floor.  Ernest 
threw  himself  back  on  the  chair,  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

Alice  was  beside  him  in  a  moment.  He 
looked  up,  and  caught  her  wistful  and  terrified 
gaze.  "  Oh,  Alice  !  "  he  cried,  bitterly,  and 
almost  pushing  her  away,  "  if  you  could  but 
guess  my  remorse  !  "  Then  springing  on  his 
feet,  he  hurried  from  the  room. 

Presently  the  whole  house  was  in  commo- 
tion. The  gardner,  who  was  always  in  the 
house  about  supper-time,  flew  to  the  town  for 
post-horses.  The  old  woman  was  in  despair 
about  the  laundress,  for  her  first  and  only 
thought'  was  for  "master's  shirts."  Ernest 
locked  himself  in  his  room.  Alice !  poor 
Alice  I 

In  little  more  than  twenty  minutes,  the 
chaise  was  at  the  door;  and  Ernest,  pale  as 
death,  came  into  th^  room  where  he  had  left 
Alice. 

She  was  seated  on  the  floor,  and  the  fatal 
paper  was  on  her  lap.  She  had  been  endeavor- 
ing, in  vain,  to  learn  what  had  so  sensibly  af- 
fected Maltravers,  for,  as  I  said  before,  she 
was  unacquainted  with  his  real  name,  and 
therefore  the  ominous  paragraph  did  not  even 
arrest  her  eye. 

He  took  the  paper  from  her,  for  he  wanted 
again  and  again  to  read  it;  some  little  word  of 
hope   or   encouragement   must  have  escaped 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


27 


him.  And  then  Alice  flung  herself  on  his 
breast.  "  Do  not  weep,"  said  he;  "  Heaven 
knows  I  have  sorrow  enough  of  my  own  !  My 
father  is  dying  !  So  kind,  so  generous,  so  in- 
dulgent !  O  God,  forgive  me !  Compose 
yourself,  Alice.  You  will  hear  from  me  in  a 
day  or  two. 

He  kissed  her;  but  the  kiss  was  cold  and 
forced.  He  hurried  away.  She  heard  the 
wheels  grate  on  the  pebbles.  She  rushed  to 
the  window;  but  that  beloved  face  was  not  vis- 
ible. Maltravers  had  drawn  the  blinds,  and 
thrown  himself  back  to  indulge  his  grief.  A 
moment  more,  and  even  the  vehicle  that  bore 
him  away  was  gone.  And  before  her  were  the 
flowers,  and  the  star-lit  lawn,  and  the  playful 
fountain,  and  the  bench  where  they  had  sat  in 
such  heartfelt  and  serene  delight.  He  was 
gone;  and  often, — ^oh,  how  often,  did  Alice  re- 
member that  his  last  words  had  been  uttered 
in  estranged  tones — that  his  last  embrace  had 
been  without  love  ! 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"  Thy  due  from  me 
Is  tears;  and  heavy  sorrows  of  the  blood. 
Which  nature,  love,  and  filial  tenderness, 
Shall,  O  dear  father,  pay  thee  plenteously  !" 
—Second  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  Act  iv.,  Sc.  4. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  chaise  that 
bore  Maltravers  stopped  at  the  gates  of  a  park 
lodge.  It  seeined  an  age  before  the  peasant 
within  was  aroused  from  the  deep  sleep  of 
labor-loving  health.  "  My  father,"  he  cried, 
while  the  gate  creaked  on  its  hinges;  "  my 
father — is  he  better  ?     Is  he  alive  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bless  your  heart,  Master  Ernest,  the 
'squire  was  a  little  better  this  evening." 

"Thank  heaven  !     On  — on  !  " 

The  horses  smoked  and  galloped'  along  a 
road  that  wound  through  venerable  and  ancient 
groves.  The  moonlight  slept  soft  upon  the 
sward,  and  the  cattle,  disturbed  from  their 
sleep,  roze  lasily  up,  and  gazed  u])on  the  un- 
seasonable intruder. 

It  is  a  wild  and  weird  scene,  one  of  those 
noble  English  parks  at  midnight,  with  its 
rough  forest-ground  broken  into  dell  and  val- 
ley, its  never-innovated  and  mossy  grass,  over- 
run with  fern,  and  its  immemorial  trees,  that 


!  have  looked  upon  the  birth,  and  look  yet  upon 
the  graves,  of  a  hundred  generations.  Such 
spots  are  the  last  proud  and  melancholy  trace 
of  Norman  knighthood  and  old  romance,  left 
to  the  laughing  landscapes  of  cultivated  Eng- 
land. They  always  throw  something  of  shadow 
and  solemn  gloom  upon  minds  that  feel  their 
associations,  like  that  which  belongs  to  some 
ancient  and  holy  edifice.  They  are  the  cathe- 
dral aisles  of  Nature,  with  their  darkened 
vistas,  and  columed  trunks,  and  arches  of 
rnighty  foliage.  But  in  ordinary  times  the 
gloom  is  pleasing,  and  more  delightful  than  all 
the  cheerful  lawns  and  sunn)'  slopes  of  the 
modern  taste.  Nmv  to  Maltravers  it  was  omi- 
nous and  oppressive:  the  darkness  of  death 
seetned  brooding  in  every  shadow,  and  its 
warning  voice  moaning  in  every  breeze. 

The  wheels  stopped  again.  Lights  flitted 
across  the  basement  story;  and  one  above, 
more  dim  than  the  rest,  shone  palely  from  the 
room  in  which  the  sick  man  slept.  The  bell 
rang  shrilly  out  from  amidst  the  dark  ivy  that 
clung  around  the  porch.  The  heavy  door 
swung  back — Maltravers  was  on  the  threshold. 
His  father  lived — was  better  —  was  awake. 
The  son  was  in  the  father's  arms. 


CHAPTER   X. 

"  The  guardian  oak 
Mourn'd  o'er  the  roof  it  shelter'd:  the  thick  air 
Labour'd  with  doleful  sounds." — Elliott  of  Sheffield. 

Many  days  had  passed,  and  Alice  was  still 
alone;  but  she  had  heard  twice  from  Mal- 
travers. The  letters  were  short  and  hurried. 
One  time  his  father  was  better,  and  there  were 
hopes;  another  time,  and  it  was  not  expected 
that  he  could  survive  the  week.  They  were 
the  first  letters  Alice  had  ever  received  from 
him.  Those  first  letters  are  an  event  in  a 
girl's  life — in  Alice's  life  they  were  a  very 
melancholy  one.  Ernest  did  not  ask  her  to 
write  to  him;  in  fact,  he  felt,  at  such  an  hour, 
a  repugnance  to  disclose  his  real  name,  and 
receive  the  letters  of  clandestine  love  in  the 
house  in  which  a  father  lay  in  death.  He 
might  have  given  the  feigned  address  he  had 
previously  assumed,  at  some  distant  post- 
town,  where  his  person  was  not  known.  But, 
then,  to  obtain  such  letters  he  must  quit  his 


28 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


father's  side  for  hours.  The  thing  was  im- 
possible. These  difificulties  Maltravers  did 
not  explain  to  Alice. 

She  thought  it  singular  he  did  not  wish  to 
hear  from  her;  but  Alice  was  humble.  What 
could  she  say  worth  troubling  him  with,  and 
at  such  an  hour?  But  how  kind  in  him  to 
write  !  how  precious  those  letters  I  and  yet 
they  disappointed  her,  and  cost  her  floods  of 
tears:  they  were  so  short— so  full  of  sorrow — 
there  was  so  little  love  in  them;  and  "dear," 
or  even  "  dearest  Alice,"  that,  uttered  by  the 
voice,  was  so  tender,  looked  cold  upon  the 
lifeless  paper.  If  she  but  knew  the  exact  spot 
where  he  was,  it  would  be  some  comfort;  but 
she  only  knew  that  he  was  away,  and  in  grief; 
and  though  he  was  little  more  than  thirty  miles 
distant,  she  felt  as  if  immeasurable  space 
divided  them.  However,  she  consoled  herself 
as  she  could;  and  strove  to  shorten  the  long 
miserable  day  by  playing  over  all  the  airs  he 
liked,  and  reading  all  the  passages  he  had 
commended.  She  should  l)e  so  improved  when 
he  returned;  and  how  lovely  the  garden  would 
look  !  for  every  day  its  trees  and  bosquets 
caught  a  new  smile  from  the  deepening  spring. 
Oh,  they  would  be  so  happy  once  more  !  Alice 
iimu  learned  the  life  that  lies  in  the  future; 
and  her  young  heart  had  not,  as  yet,  been 
taught  that  of  that  future  there  is  any  prophet 
but  Hope  ! 

Maltravers,  on  quitting  the  cottage,  had  for- 
gotten that  Alice  was  without  money;  and  now 
that  he  found  his  stay  would  be  indefinitely 
prolonged,  he  sent  a  remittance.  Several  bills 
were  unpaid — some  portion  of  the  rent  was 
due;  and  Alice,  as  she  was  desired,  intrusted 
the  old  servant  with  a  bank  note,  with  which 
she  was  to  discharge  these  petty  debts.  One 
evening,  as  she  brought  Alice  the  surplus,  the 
good  dame  seemed  greatly  discomposed.  She 
was  pale  and  agitated;  or,  as  she  expressed  it, 
"had  a  terrible  fit  of  the  shakes." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Jones  ?  you  have 
no  news  of  him — of — of  my — of  your  master  ?" 

"  Dear  heart,  miss — no,"  answered  Mrs. 
Jones;  "how  should  I  ?  But  I'm  sure  I  don't 
wish  to  frighten  you,  there  has  been  two  sitch 
robberies  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

"O,  thank  Heaven  that's  all  !"  exclaimed 
Alice. 

"  O,  don't  go  for  to  thank  Heaven  for  that, 
miss;  it's  a  shocking  thina:  for  two  lone  females 


like  us,  and  them  ere  windows  all  open  to  the 
ground  !  You  sees,  as  I  was  taking  the  note 
to  be  changed  at  Mr.  Harris's,  the  great 
grocer's  shop,  where  all  the  poor  folk  was  a 
buying  agin  to-morrow  "  (for  it  was  Saturday 
night,  the  second  Saturday  after  Ernest's  de- 
parture; from  that  hegira  Alice  dated  all  her 
chronology),  "  and  every  body  was  a-ta!king 
about  the  robi)eries  last  night.  La,  miss,  they 
bound  old  Betty — you  know  Betty — a  most  re- 
spectable woman,  who  has  known  sorrows,  and 
drinks  tea  with  me  once  a  week.  Well,  miss, 
they  (only  think  !)  bound  Betty  to  the  bed- 
post, with  nothing  on  her  but  her  shift — poor 
old  soul  !  And  as  Mr.  Harris  gave  me  the 
change,  (please  to  see,  miss,  it's  all  right),  and 
I  asked  for  half  gould,  miss,  it's  more  conven- 
ient, sitch  ill-looking  fellow  was  by  me,  a  buy- 
ing o'  baccy,  and  he  did  so  stare  at  the  money, 
that  I  vows  I  thought  he'd  have  rin  away  with 
it  from  the  counter;  so  I  grabbed  it  up  and 
went  away.  But,  would  you  believe,  miss,  just 
as  I  got  into  the  lane,  afore  you  turns  through 
the  gate,  I  chanced  to  look  back,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  was  that  ugly  fellow  close  behind, 
a  running  like  mad.  O,  I  set  up  such  a 
skreetch;  and  young  Dobbins  was  taking  his 
cow  out  of  the  field,  and  he  perked  up  over  the 
hedge  when  he  heard  me;  and  the  cow,  too 
with  her  horns,  Lord  bless  her  !  So  the  fellow 
stopped,  and  I  bustled  through  the  gate,  and 
got  home.  But  la,  miss,  if  we  are  all  robbed 
and  murdered  ? " 

Alice  had  not  heard  much  of  this  ha- 
rangue; but  what  she  did  hear,  very  slightly 
affected  her  strong,  peasant-born  nerves;  not 
half  so  much,  indeed,  as  the  noi.se  Mrs.  Jones 
made  in  double-locking  all  the  doors,  and  bar- 
ring, as  well  as  a  peg  and  a  rusty  inch  of  chain 
would  allow,  all  the  windows, — which  opera- 
tion occupied  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half. 

All  at  last  was  still.  Mrs.  Jones  had  gone 
to  bed — in  the  arms  of  sleep  she  had  forgot- 
ten her  terrors — and  .Vlice  had  crept  up  stairs, 
and  undressed,  and  said  her  prayers,  and  wept 
a  little;  and,  with  the  tears  yet  moist  upon 
her  dark  eyelashes,  had  glided  into  dreams  of 
Ernest.  Midnight  was  past — the  stroke  of 
One  sounded  unheard  from  the  clock  at  the 
foot  of  their  stairs.  The  moon  was  gone — a 
slow,  drizzling  rain  was  falling  upon  the 
flowers,  and  cloud  and  darkness  gathered  fast 
and  thick  around  the  sky. 


ERNEST    MA LTR AVERS. 


2^ 


About  this  time,  a  low,  regular,  grating 
sound  commenced  at  the  thin  shutters  of  the 
sitting-room  below,  proceeded  by  a  very  faint 
noise,  like  the  tinkling  of  small  fragments  of 
glass  on  the  gravel  without.  At  length  it 
ceased,  and  the  cautious  and  partial  gleam  of 
a  lanthorn  fell  along  the  floor,  another  moment, 
and  two  men  stood  in  the  room. 

"Hush,  Jack!"  whispered  one;  ''hang 
out  the  glim,  and  let's  look  about  us." 

The  dark  lanthorn,  now  fairly  unmuffled, 
presented  to  the  gaze  of  the  robbers  nothing 
that  could  gratify  their  cupidity.  Books  and 
music,  chairs,  tables,  carpet,  and  fire-irons, 
though  valuable  enough  in  a  house-agent's  in- 
ventory, are  worthless  to  the  eyes  of  a  house- 
breaker.    They  muttered  a  mutual  curse. 

"Jack,"  said  the  former  speaker,  "we  must 
make  a  dash  at  the  spoons  and  forks,  and  then 
hey  for  the  money.  The  old  girl  has  thirty 
shiners,  besides  flimsies." 

The  accomplice  nodded  consent;  the  lan- 
thorn was  again  partially  shaded,  and  with 
noiseless  and  stealthy  steps  the  \x\tn  quitted 
the  apartment.  Several  minutes  elapsed,  when 
Alice  was  awakened  from  her  slumber  by  a 
loud  scream:  she  started,  all  was  again  silent: 
she  must  have  dreamt  it:  her  little  heart  beat 
violently  at  first,  but  gradually  regained  its 
tenor.  She  rose,  however,  and  the  kindness 
of  her  nature  being  more  susceptible  than  her 
fear — she  imagined  Mrs.  Jones  might  be  ill — 
she  would  go  to  her.  With  this  idea  she  be- 
gan partially  dressing  herself,  when  she  dis- 
tinctly heard  heavy  footsteps  and  a  strange 
voice  in  the  room  beyond.  She  was  now 
thoroughly  alarmed— her  first  impulse  was  to 
escape  from  the  house — her  next  to  bolt  the 
door,  and  call  aloud  for  assistance.  But  who 
would  hear  her  cries  ?  Between  the  two  pur- 
poses she  halted  irresolute  ....  and  remained, 
pale  and  trembling,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  when  a  broad  light  streamed  through  the 
chinks  of  the  door — an  instant  more,  and  a 
rude  hand  seized  her. 

"Come,  mem;  don't  be  fritted,  we  won't 
harm  you;  but  where's  the  gold-dust — where's 
the  money  ? — the  old  girl  says  you've  got  it. 
Fork  it  over." 

"  O  mercy,  mercy  !  John  Walters,  is  that 
you  ? " 

"  Damnation  !  "  muttered  the  man  stagger- 
ing back,  "so  you  knows  me,  then;  but   you 


shan't  peach;  you  shan't  scrag  me,  b — ^t 
you." 

While  he  spoke  he  again  seized  Alice,  held 
her  forcibly  down  with  one  hand,  while  with 
the  other  he  deliberately  drew  from  a  side 
pouch  along  case-knife.  In  that  moment  of 
deadly  peril,  the  second  ruffian,  who  had  been 
hitherto  delayed  in  securing  the  servant,  rushed 
forward.  He  had  heard  the  exclamation  of 
Alice,  he  heard  the  threat  of  his  comrade;  he 
darted  to  the  bedside,  cast  a  hurried  gaze  upon 
Alice,  and  hurled  the  intended  murderer  to 
the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"  What,  man,  art  mad  ?  "  he  growled  be- 
tween his  teeth.  "  Don't  you  know  her  ?  It  is 
Alice; — it  is  my  daughter." 

Alice  had  sprung  up  when  released  from 
the  murderer's  knife,  and  now,  with  eyes 
strained  and  starting  with  horror,  gazed  upon 
the  dark  and  evil  face  of  her  deliverer. 

"O  God,  it  is — it  is  my  father  !  "  she  mut- 
tered, and  fell  senseless. 

"  Daughter  or  no  daughter,"  said  John  Wal- 
ters, "I 'shall  not  put  my  scrag  in  her  power; 
recollect  how  she  fritted  us  before,  when  she 
run  away." 

Darvil  stood  thoughtful  and  perplexed — and 
his  associate  approached  doggedly  with  a  look 
of  such  settled  ferocity  as  it  was  impossible 
for  even  Darvil  to  contemplate  without  a 
shudder. 

"You  say  right,"  muttered  the  father,  after 
a  pause;  but  fixing  his  strong  grip  on  his  com- 
rade's shoulder — "  the  girl  must  not  be  left  here 
— the  cart  has  a  covering.  We  are  leaving 
the  country;  I  have  a  right  to  my  daughter — 
she  shall  go  with  us.  There,  man,  grab  the 
money — it's  on  the  table;  ....  you've  got  the 
spoons.  Now  then — "  as  Dai-vil  spoke  he 
seized  his  daughter  in  his  arms;  threw  over 
her  a  shawl  and  a  cloak  that  lay  at  hand,  and 
was  already  on  the  threshold. 

"I  don't  half  like  it,"  said  Walters,  grum- 
blingly — "  it  been't  safe." 

'•  At  least  it  is  as  safe  as  murder  !  "  an- 
swered, turning  round,  with  a  ghastly  grin. 
"  Make  haste." 

When  Alice  recovered  her  senses,  the  dawn 
was  breaking  slowly  along  desolate  and  sullen 
hills.  She  was  lying  upon  rough  straw — •  the 
cart  was  jolting  over  the  ruts  of  a  precipitous, 
lonely  road,^ — and  by  her  side  scowled  the 
face  of  that  dreadful  father. 


30 


B  UL  WERS     WORKS. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

"  Yet  he  beholils  her  with  the  eyes  of  mind — 
He  sees  the  form  which  he  no  more  shall  meet — 
She  like  a  passionate  thought  is  come  and  gone, 
While  at  his  feet  the  bright  rill  bubbles  on." 

—Elliott  of  Sheffield. 

It  was  a  little  more  than  three  weeks  after 
that  night,  when  the  chaise  of  Maltravers 
stopped  at  the  cottage  door — the  windows  were 
shut  up;  no  one  answered  the  repeated  sum- 
mons of  the  post-boy.  Maltravers  himself, 
alarmed  and  amazed,  descended  from  the  ve- 
hicle: he  was  in  deep  mourning.  He  went 
impatiently  to  the  hack  entrance;  that  also 
was  locked;  round  to  the  French  windows  of 
the  drawing-room,  always  hitherto  half-opened, 
even  in  the  frosty  days  of  winter, — they  were 
now  closed  like  the  rest.  He  shouted  in 
terror,  "Alice!  Alice!"  —  no  sweet  voice 
answered  in  breathless  joy,  no  fairy  step 
bounded  forward  in  welcome.  At  this  moment, 
however,  appeared  the  form  of  the  gardener, 
coming  across  the  lawn.  The  tale  \fas  soon 
told;  the  house  had  been  robbed — the  old 
woman  at  morning  found  gagged  and  fastened 
to  her  bed-post — Alice  flown.  A  magistrate 
had  been  applied  to, — suspicion  fell  upon  the 
fugitive.  None  knew  anything  of  her  origin 
or  name,  not  even  the  old  woman.  Maltravers 
had  naturally  and  sedulously  ordained  Alice 
to  preserve  that  secret,  and  she  was  too  much 
in  fear  of  being  detected  and  claimed  by  her 
father,  not  to  obey  the  injunction  with  scrup- 
ulous caution.  But  it  was  known,  at  least, 
that  she  had  entered  the  house  a  jioor  peasant 
girl;  and  what  more  common  than  for  latlies  of 
a  certain  description  to  run  away  from  their 
lover,  and  take  some  of  his  prof)erty  by  mistake? 

And  a  poor  girl  like  Alice — -what  else  could 
be  expected  ?  The  magistrate  smiled,  and 
the  constables  laughed.  After  all,  it  was  a 
good  joke  at  the  young  gentleman's  expense  ! 
Perhaps,  as  they  had  no  orders  from  Mal- 
travers, and  they  did  not  know  where  to  find 
him,  and  thought  he  would  be  little  inclined 
to  prosecute,  the  search  was  not  very  rigorous. 
But  two  houses  had  been  robbed  the  night  be- 
fore. Their  owners  were  more  on  the  alert. 
Suspicion  fell  upon  a  man  of  infamous  char- 
acter, John  Walters;  he  had  disappeared  from 
the  place.  He  had  been  last  seen  with  an 
idle,  drunken    fellow,   who   was   said  to  have 


known  better  days,  and  who  at  one  time  had 
been  a  skilful  and  well- paid  mechanic,  till  his 
habits  of  theft  and  drunkenness  threw  him 
out  of  employ;  and  he  had  been  since  accused 
of  connection  with  a  gang  of  coiners — tried — 
and  escaped  from  want  of  sufificient  evidence 
against  him.  That  man  was  Luke  Darvil. 
His  cottage  was  searched;  but  he  also  had 
fled.  The  trace  of  cart-wheels  by  the  gate  of 
Maltravers  gave  a  faint  clue  to  pursuit;  and 
after  an  active  search  of  some  days,  persons 
answering  to  the  description  of  the  suspected 
burglars— with  a  young  female  in  their  com- 
pany— were  tracked  to  a  small  inn,  notorious 
as  a  resort  for  smugglers,  by  the  sea-coast. 
But  there  every  vestige  of  their  supjxised 
whereabout  disappeared. 

And  all  this  was  told  to  the  stunned  Mal- 
travers; the  garrulity  of  the  gardener  pre- 
cluded the  necessity  of  his  own  inquiries,  and 
the  name  of  Darvil  explained  to  him  all  that 
was  dark  to  others.  And  Alice  was  suspected 
of  the  basest  and  the  blackest  guilt !  Ob- 
scure, beloved,  protected  as  she  had  been,  she 
could  not  escape  the  calumny  from  which  he 
had  hoped  everlastingly  to  shield  her.  But 
did  he  share  thai  hateful  thought  ?  Maltravers 
was  too  generous  and  too  enlightened. 

"  Dog  !  "  said  he,  grinding  his  teeth,  2nd 
clenching  his  hands,  at  the  startled  menial, 
"dare  to  utter  a  syllable  of  suspicion  against 
her,  and  I  will  trample  the  breath  out  of  your 
body  !  " 

The  old  woman,  who  had  vowed  that  for  the 
varsal  world  she  would  not  stay  in  the  house 
after  such  a  "  night  of  shakes,"  had  now 
learned  the  news  of  her  master's  return, — 
and  came  hobbling  up  to  him.  She  arrivetl 
in  time  to  hear  his  menace  to  her  fellow-ser- 
vant. 

"  Ah,  that's  right ;  give  it  to  him,  your  honor, 
bless  your  good  heart — that's  what  I  says. 
Miss  rob  the  house  !  says  I — miss  run  away  ! 
O  no — depend  on  it  they  have  murdered  her, 
and  buried  the  body. 

Maltravers  gasped  for  breath,  but  without 
uttering  another  word  he  re-entered  the  chaise 
and  drove  to  the  house  of  the  magistrate.  He 
found  that  functionary  a  worthy  and  intelli- 
gent man  of  the  world.  To  him  he  confided 
the  secret  of  .\lice's  birth  and  his  own.  The 
magistrate  concurred  with  him  in  believing 
that  .\lice  had  been    discovered  and  removed 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


31 


by  her  father.  New  search  was  made — gold 
was  lavished.  Maltravers  himself  headed  the 
search  in  person.  But  all  came  to  the  same 
result  as  before,  save  that  by  the  descriptions 
he  heard  of  the  person — the  dress — the  tears, 
of  the  young  female  who  had  accompanied  the 
men  supposed  to  be  Darvil  and  Walters,  he  was 
satisfied  that  Alice  yet  lived;  he  hoped  she 
might  yet  escape  and  return.  In  that  hope  he 
lingered  for  weeks — for  months,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood; but  time  passed,  and  no  tidings 

He  was  forced  at  length  to  quit  a  neighbor- 
hood at  once  so  saddened  and  endeared.  But 
he  secured  a  friend  in  the  magistrate,  who 
promised  to  communicate  with  him  if  Alice  re- 
turned, or  her  father  was  discovered.  He  en- 
riched Mrs.  Jones  for  life,  in  gratitude  for  her 
vindication  of  his  lost  and  early  love:  he  prom- 
ised the  amjjlest  rewards  for  the  smallest  clue. 
And  with  a  crushed  and  desponding  spirit,  he 
obeyed  at  last  the  repeated  and  anxious  sum- 
mons of  the  guardian  to  whose  care  until  his 
majority  was  attained,  the  young  orphan  was 
now  intrusted. 


CHAPTER   Xn. 

"  Sure  there  are  poets  that  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus." — De.nham. 

"  Walk  sober  off,  before  a  sprightlier  age 
Come  tittering  on,  and  shove  you  from  the  stage." 

—Pope. 

"  Hence  to  repose  your  trust  in  me  was  wise." 

— Dryden's  Absalom  and  Achilopliel. 

Mr.  Frederick  Cleveland,  a  younger  son 
of  the  Earl  of  Byrneham,  and  therefore  en- 
titled to  the  style  and  distinction  of  '  Honora- 
ble,' was  the  guardian  of  Ernest  Maltravers. 
He  was  now  about  the  age  of  forty-three;  a 
man  of  letters  and  a  man  of  fashion,  if  the 
last  half-obsolete  expression  be  permitted  to 
us,  as  being  at  least  more  classical  and  definite 
than  any  other  which  modern  euphuism  has 
invented  to  convey  the  same  meaning.  Highly 
educated,  and  with  natural  abilities  considera- 
bly above  mediocrity,  Mr.  Cleveland  early  in 
life  had  glowed  with  the  ambition  of  an  author. 
...  He  had  written  well  and  gracefully — 
but  his  success,  though  respectable,  did  not 
satisfy  his    aspirations.     The    fact    is,  that   a 


new  school  of  literature  ruled  the  public  de- 
spite the  critics — a  school  very  different  from 
that  in  which  Mr.  Cleveland  had  formed  his 
ummpassioned  and  polished  periods.  And  as 
that  old  Earl,  who  in  the  time  of  Charles  the 
First  was  the  reigning  wit  of  the  court,  in  the 
time  of  Charles  the  Second  was  considered 
too  dull  even  for  a  butt,  so  every  age  has  its 
own  literary  stamp  and  coinage,  and  consigns 
the  old  circulation  to  its  shelves  and  cabinets, 
as  neglected  curiosities.  Cleveland  could  not 
become  the  fashion  with  the  public  as  an 
author,  though  the  coteries  cried  him  up  and 
the  reviewers  adored  him — and  the  ladies  of 
quality  and  the  amateur  tlilettanti  bought  and 
botmd  his  volumes  of  careful  poetry  and  ca- 
denced  prose. 

But  Cleveland  had  high  birth  and  a  hand- 
some competence — his  manners  were  delight- 
ful, his  conversation  fluent — and  his  disposi- 
tion was  as  amiable  as  his  mind  was  cultered. 
He  became,  therefore,  a  man  greatly  sought 
after  in  society — both  respected  and  beloved. 
If  he  had  not  genius,  he  had  great  good  sense; 
— he  did  not  vex  his  urljane  temper  and  kindly 
heart  with  walking  after  a  vain  shadow,  and 
disquieting  himself  in  vain.  Satisfied  with  an 
honorable  and  unenvied  reputation,  he  gave  up 
the  dream  of  that  higher  fame  which  he  clearly 
saw  was  denied  to  his  aspirations — and  main- 
tained his  good-humor  with  the  world,  though 
in  his  secret  soul  he  thought  it  was  very  wrong 
in  its  literary  caprices.  Cleveland  never  mar- 
ried; he  lived  partly  in  town,  but  principally  at 
Temple  Grove,  a  villa  not  far  from  Richmond. 
Here,  was  an  excellent  library,  beautiful 
grounds,  and  a  circle  of  attached  and  admir- 
ing friends,  which  comprised  all  the  more  re- 
fined and  intellectual  members  of  what  is 
termed  by  emphasis,  Good  Society — this  ac- 
complished and  elegant  person  passed  a  life, 
perhaps,  much  happier  than  he  would  have 
known  had  his  young  visions  been  fulfilled, 
and  it  had  become  his  stormy  fate  to  lead  the 
rebellious  and  fierce  Democracy  of  Letters. 

Cleveland  was  indeed,  if  not  a  man  of  high 
and  original  genius,  at  least,  very  superor  to 
the  generality  of  patrician  authors.  In  retir- 
ing, himself,  from  frequent  exercise,  in  the 
arena,  he  gave  up  his  mind  with  renewed  zest 
to  the  the  thoughts  and  masterpieces  of  others. 
From  a  well-read  man,  he  became  a  deeply- 
instructed  one.       Metaphysics,   and  some    of 


3* 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


the  material  sciences,  added  new  treasures  to 
information  more  lijjhi;  and  miscellaneous,  and 
contributed  to  impart  weight  and  dignity  to  a 
mind  that  might  otherwise  have  become  some- 
what effeminate  and  frivolus.  His  social  hab- 
its, his  clear  sense,  and  benevolence  of  judg- 
ment, made  him  also  an  exquisite  judge  of  all 
those  indefinable  nothings  or  little  things,  that, 
formed  into  a  total,  become  knowledge  of  the 
Great  World.  I  say  the  Great  World — for  of 
the  world  without  the  circle  of  the  great, 
Cleveland  naturally  knew  but  little.  But  of  all 
that  related  to  that  subtle  orbit  in  which  gen- 
tlemen and  ladies  move  in  elevated  and  ethe- 
real order,  Cleveland  was  a  profound  philoso- 
pher. It  was  the  mode  with  many  of  his  ad- 
mirers to  style  him  the  Horace  Walpoleofthe 
day.  But  though  in  some  of  the  more  external 
and  superficial  points  of  character  they  were 
alike,  Cleveland  had  considerably  less  clever- 
ness and  infinitely  more  heart. 

The  late  Mr.  Maltravers,  a  man  not  indeed 
of  literary  habits,  but  an  admirer  of  those 
who  were — an  elegant,  high-bred,  hospitable 
scigfieur  de  province — -had  been  one  of  the 
earliest  of  Cleveland's  friends — Cleveland  had 
been  his  fag  at  Eton — and  he  found  Hal  Mal- 
travers— (Handsome  Hal  !)  had  become  the 
darhng  of  the  clubs,  when  he  made  his  own 
dSut  in  society.  They  were  inseparable  for  a 
season  or  two — and  when  Mr.  Maltravers  mar- 
ried, and  enamoured  or  country  pursuits, 
proud  of  his  old  hall,  and  sensibly  enough 
conceiving  that  he  was  a  greater  man  in  his 
own  broad  lands  than  in  the  republican  aris- 
tocracy of  London,  settled  peaceably  at  Lisle 
Court,  Cleveland  corresponded  with  him  regu- 
larly, and  visited  him  twice  a-year. — Mrs.  Mal- 
travers died  in  giving  birth  to  Ernest,  her  sec- 
ond son.  Her  husband  loved  her  tenderly, 
and  was  long  inconsolable  for  her  loss.  He 
could  not  bear  the  sight  of  the  child  that  had 
cost  him  so  dear  a  sacrifice.  Cleveland  and 
his  sister.  Lady  Ju'ia  Danvers,  were  residing 
with  him  at  the  time  of  this  melancholy  event; 
and  with  judicious  and  delicate  kindness. 
Lady  Julia  proposed  to  place  the  unconscious 
offender  amongst  her  own  children  for  some 
months.  The  proposition  was  accepted,  and 
it  was  two  yenrs  before  the  infant  Ernest  was 
restored  to  the  paternal  mansion.  During  the 
greater  part  of  that  time,  he  had  gone  through 
all  the  events  and  revolutions  of  baby  life, 


under  the  bachelor  roof  of  Frederick  Cleve- 
land. The  result  of  this  was,  that  the  latter 
loved  the  child  like  a  father.  Ernest's  first 
intelligible  word  hailed  Cleveland  as  "papa;" 
and  when  the  urchin  was  at  length  deposited 
at  Lisle  Court,  Cleveland  talked  all  the  nurses 
out  of  breath  with  admonitions,  and  cautions, 
and  injunctions,  and  promises,  and  threats, 
which  might  have  put  many  a  careful  mother 
to  the  blush.  This  circumstance  formed 
a  new  tie  between  Cleveland  and  his  friend. 
Cleveland's  visits  were  now  three  times  a-year, 
instead  of  twice.  Nothing  was  done  for  Ernest 
without  Cleveland's  advice.  He  was  not  even 
breeched  till  Cleveland  gave  his  grave  consent. 
Cleveland  chose  his  school,  and  took  him  to  it, 
— and  he  sjient  a  week  of  every  vacation  in 
Cleveland's  house.  They  boy  never  got  into  a 
scrape,  or  won  a  prize,  or  wanted  a  tip,  or  cov- 
eted a  book,  but  what  Cleveland  was  the  first 
to  know  of  it.  Fortunately,  too.  Ernest  mani- 
fested by  times  tastes  which  the  graceful 
author  thought  similar  to  his  own.  He  early 
developed  very  remarkable  talents,  and  a  love 
for  learning — though  these  were  accompanied 
with  a  vigor  of  life  and  soul — an  energy — a 
daring — which  gave  Cleveland  some  uneasi- 
ness, and  which  did  not  appear  to  him  at  all 
congenial  with  the  moody  shyness  of  an  embryo 
genius,  or  the  regular  placidity  of  a  precocious 
scholar.  Meanwhile  the  relation  between  father 
and  son  was  rather  a  singular  one.  Mr.  Mal- 
travers had  overcome  his  first,  not  unnatural, 
repugnance  to  th;  innocent  cause  of  his  irre- 
mediable loss.  He  was  now  fond  and  proud 
of  his  boy — as  he  was  of  all  things  that  be- 
longed to  him.  He  spoiled  and  petted  him 
even  more  than  Cleveland  did.  But  he  inter- 
fered very  little  with  his  education  or  pursuits. 
His  eldest  son,  Cuthbert,  did  not  engross  all 
his  heart,  but  occupied  all  his  care.  With 
Cuthbert  he  connected  the  heritage  of  his 
ancient  name,  and  the  succession  of  his  ances- 
tral estates.  Cuthbert  was  not  a  genius,  nor 
intended  to  be  one;  he  was  to  be  an  accom- 
plished gentleman,  and  a  great  proprietor. 
The  father  understood  Cuthbert,  and  could 
see  clearly  both  his  character  and  career. 
He  had  no  scruple  in  managing  his  education, 
and  forming  his  growing  mind.  But  Ernest 
puzzled  him.  Mr.  Maltravers  was  even  a  little 
embarrassed  in  the  boy's  society;  he  never 
quite   overcame   that   feeling  of   strangeness 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


33 


towards  him  which  be  had  experienced  when 
he  first  received  him  back  from  Cleveland, 
and  took  Cleveland's  directions  about  his 
health  and  so  forth.  It  always  seemed  to 
him  as  if  his  friend  shared  his  right  to  the 
child;  and  he  thought  it  a  sort  of  presumption 
to  scold  Ernest,  though  he  very  often  swore 
at  Cuthbert.  As  the  younger  son  grew  up,  it 
certainly  was  evident  that  Cleveland  did  un- 
derstand him  better  than  his  own  father  did; 
and  so,  as  I  have  before  said,  on  Cleveland  the 
father  was  not  displeased  passively  to  shift 
the  responsibility  of  the  rearing. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Maltravers  might  not  have  been 
so  indifferent,  had  Ernest's  prospects  been 
those  of  a  younger  son  in  general.  If  a  pro- 
fession had  been  necessary  for  him,  Mr.  Mal- 
travers would  have  been  naturally  anxious  to 
see  him  duly  fitted  for  it.  But  from  a  maternal 
relation,  Ernest  inherited  an  estate  of  about 
four  thousand  pounds  a-year;  and  he  was  thus 
made  independent  of  his  father.  This  loos- 
ened another  tie  between  them;  and  so  by 
degrees  Mr.  Maltravers  learned  to  consider 
Ernest  less  as  his  own  son,  to  be  advised  or 
rebuked,  praised  or  controlled,  than  as  a  very 
affectionate,  promising,  engaging  boy,  who, 
somehow  or  other,  without  any  trouble  on  his 
part,  was  very  likely  to  do  great  credit  to  his 
family,  and  indulge  his  eccentricities  upon 
four  thousand  pounds  a-year.  The  first  time 
that  Mr.  Maltravers  was  seriously  perplexed 
about  him  was  when  the  boy,  at  the  age  of 
sixteen,  having  taught  himself  German,  and 
intoxicated  his  wild  fancies  with  "  Werter," 
and  "  The  Robbers,"  announced  his  desire, 
which  sounded  very  like  a  demand,  of  going 
to  Gottingen,  instead  of  to  Oxford.  Never 
were  Mr.  Maltravers'  notions  of  a  proper  and 
gentlemanlike  finish  to  education  more  com- 
pletely and  rudely  assaulted.  He  stammered 
out  a  negative,  and  hurried  to  his  study  to 
write  a  long  letter  to  Cleveland,  who,  himself 
an  Oxford  prize-man,  would,  he  was  persuaded, 
see  the  matter  in  the  same  light.  Cleveland 
answered  the  letter  in  person:  listened  in 
silence  to  all  the  father  had  to  say,  and  then 
strolled  through  the  park  with  the  young  man. 
The  result  of  the  latter  conference  was,  that 
Cleveland  declared  in  favor  of  Ernest. 

"  But,  my  dear  Frederick,"  said  the  aston- 
ished father,  "  I  thought  the  boy  was  to  carry 
off  all  the  prizes  at  Oxford  ?" 

6—3 


"  I  carried  off  some,  Maltravers;  but  I  don't 
see  what  good  they  did  me." 

"  O  Cleveland  ! " 

"  I  am  serious." 

"  But  it  is  such  a  very  odd  fancy." 

"Your  son  is  a  very  odd  young  man." 

"  I  fear  he  is  so — I  fear  he  is,  poor  fellow  ! 
But  what  will  he  learn  at  Gottingen  ?  " 

"  Languages  and  Independence,"  said  Cleve- 
land. 

"  And  the  classics — the  classics — you  are 
such  an  excellent  Grecian  !  " 

"There  are  great  Grecians  in  Germany," 
answered  Cleveland;  "and  Ernest  cannot  well 
unlearn  what  he  knows  already.  My  dear 
Maltravers,  the  boy  is  not  like  most  elcver 
young  men.  He  must  either  go  through  action, 
and  adventure,  and  excitement,  in  his  own 
way,  or  he  will  be  an  idle  dreamer,  or  an 
impracticable  enthusiast  all  his  life.  Let  him 
alone. — So  Cuthbert  is  gone  into  the  Guards  ?" 

"  But  he  went  first  to  Oxford." 

"  Humph  !  What  a  fine  young  man  he  is  !  " 

"  Not  so  tall  as  Ernest,  but " 

"  A  handsomer  face,"  satd  Cleveland.  "  He 
is  a  son  to  be  proud  of  in  one  way,  as  I  hope 
Ernest  will  be  in  another.  Will  you  show  me 
your  new  hunter? " 


It  was  to  the  house  of  this  gentleman,  so 
judiciously  made  his  guardian,  that  the  student 
of  Gottingen  now  took  his  melancholy  way. 


CHAPTER  XIII, 

"  But  if  a  little  exercise  you  choose, 

Some  zest  for  ease,  'tis  not  forbidden  here; 
Amid  the  groves  you  may  indulge  the  Muse, 
Or  tend  the  blooms  and  deck  the  vernal  year." 
— Castle  of  Indolence. 

The  house  of  Mr.  Cleveland  was  an  Italian 
villa  adapted  to  an  English  climate.  Through 
an  Ionic  arch  you  entered  a  domain  of  some 
eighty  or  a  hundred  acres  in  extent,  but  so 
well  planted  and  so  artfully  disposed,  that  you 
could  not  have  supposed  the  unseen  bounda- 
ries enclosed  no  ampler  a  space.  The  road 
wound  through  the  greenest  sward,  in  which 
trees  of  venerable  growth  were  relieved  by  a 
profusion  of  shrubs,  and  flowers  gathered   into 


.34 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


baskets  interwined  with  creepers,  or  l)looining 
from  classic  vases,  placed  with  a  tasteful  care 
in  such  spots  as  required  the  filling  up,  and 
harmonized  well  with  the  object  chosen.  Not 
an  old  ivy-grown  pollard,  not  a  modest  and 
bending  willow,  but  was  brought  out,  as  it 
were,  into  a  peculiar  feature  by  the  art  of  the 
owner.  Without  being  overloaded,  or  too 
minutely  elaborate  (the  common  fault  of  the 
rich  man's  villa),  the  whole  place  seemed 
one  diversified  and  cultivated  garden;  even 
the  air  almost  took  a  different  odor  from  differ- 
ent vegetation,  with  each  winding  of  the  road; 
and  the  colors  of  the  flowers  and  foliage  varied 
with  every  view. 

At  length,  when,  on  a  lawn  sloping  tow- 
ards a  glassy  like  overhung  by  limes  and  chest- 
nuts, and  backed  by  a  hanging  wood,  the 
house  itself  came  in  sight,  the  whole  prospect 
seemed  suddenly  to  receive  its  finishing  and 
crowning  feature.  The  house  was  long  and 
low.  A  deep  peristyle  that  supported  the  roof 
extended  the  whole  length,  and  being  raised 
above  the  basement,  had  the  appearance  of 
a  covered  terrace;  broad  flights  of  steps,  with 
massive  balustrades,  supporting  vases  of  aloes 
and  orange-trees,  led  to  the  lawn;  and  under 
the  peristyle  were  ranged  statues,  Roman  an- 
tiquities, and  rare  exotics.  On  this  side  the 
lake  another  terrace,  very  broad,  and  adorned 
at  long  intervals,  with  urns  and  sculpture,  con- 
trasted the  shadowy  and  sloping  bank  beyond; 
and  commanded,  through  unexpected  openings 
in  the  trees,  extensive  views  of  the  distant 
landscape,  with  the  stately  Thames  winding 
through  the  midst. 

The  interior  of  (he  house  corresponded  with 
the  taste  without.  All  the  principal  rooms, 
even  those  appropriated  to  sleep,  were  on  the 
same  floor.  A  small  but  lofty  and  octagonal 
hall,  conducted  to  a  suite  of  four  rooms.  At 
one  extremity  was  a  moderately  sized  dining- 
room,  with  a  ceiling  copied  from  the  rich  and 
gay  colors  of  Guido's  "Hours;"  and  land- 
scapes painted  by  Cleveland  himself,  with  no 
despicable  skill,  were  let  into  the  walls.  A 
single  piece  of  sculpture,  copied  from  the  Pip- 
ing Faun,  and  tinged  with  a  fleshlike  glow  by 
purple  and  orange  draperies  behind  it,  relieved, 
without  darkening  the  broad  and  arched  win- 
dow which  formed  its  niche.  This  communi- 
cated with  a  small  picture-room,  not  indeed 
rich   with    those    immortal    gems   for   which 


princes  are  candidates:  for  Cleveland's  for- 
tune was  but  that  of  a  private  gentleman, 
though,  managed  with  a  discreet  if  liberal 
economy,  it  sufficed  for  all  his  elegant  desires. 
But  the  pictures  had  an  interest  beyond  that 
of  art,  and  their  subjects  were  within  the  reach 
of  a  collector  of  ordinary  opulence.  They 
made  a  series  of  portraits — some  originals, 
some  copies  (and  the  copies  were  often  the 
best)  of  Cleveland's  favorite  authors.  And  it 
was  characteristic  of  the  man,  that  Pope's 
worn  and  thoughtful  countenance  looked  down 
from  the  central  place  of  honor.  Appropri- 
ately enough  this  room  led  into  the  library, 
the  largest  room  in  the  house,  the  only  one 
indeed  that  was  noticeable  from  its  size,  as 
well  as  its  embellishments.  It  was  nearly 
sixty  feet  in  length.  The  bookcases  were 
crowned  with  bronzed  busts,  while  at  inter- 
vals, statues,  placed  in  open  arches,  backed 
with  mirrors,  gave  the  appearance  of  galleries 
opening  from  the  book-lined  walls,  and  intro- 
duced an  inconceivable  air  of  classic  lightness 
and  repose  into  the  apartment;  with  these 
arches  the  windows  harmonized  so  well,  open- 
ing on  the  peristyle,  and  bringing  into  delight- 
ful view  the  sculpture,  the  flowers,  the  ter- 
races, and  the  lake  without,  that  the  actual 
prospects  half  seduced  you  into  the  belief  that 
they  were  designs  by  some  master-hand  of  the 
poetical  gardens  that  yet  crown  the  hills  of 
Rome. 

Even  the  coloring  of  the  prospects  on  a 
sunny  day  favored  the  delusion,  owing  to  the 
deep,  rich  hues  of  the  simple  draperies,  and 
the  stained  glass  of  which  the  upper  panes  of 
the  windows  were  composed.  Cleveland  was 
especially  fond  of  sculpture;  he  was  sensible, 
too,  of  the  mighty  impulse  which  that  art  has 
received  in  Europe  within  the  last  half  century. 
He  was  even  capable  of  asserting  the  doctrine, 
not  yet  sufficiently  acknowledged  in  this  coun- 
try, that  Flaxman  surpassed  Canova.  He 
loved  sculpture,  too,  not  only  for  its  own 
beauty,  but  for  the  beautifying  and  intellect- 
ual effect  that  it  produces  wherever  it  js  ad- 
mitted. It  is  a  great  mistake,  he  was  wont  to 
say,  in  collectors  of  statues,  to  arrange  them 
pele-m/le  in  one  long  monotonous  gallery. 
The  single  relief,  or  statue,  or  bust,  or  simple 
urn,  introduced  appropriately  in  the  smallest 
apartment  we  inhabit,  charms  us  infinitely 
more  than  those  gigantic  museums,  crowded 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


35 


into  rooms  never  entered  but  for  show,  and 
without  a  chill,  uncomfortable  shiver.  Be- 
sides, this  practice  of  galleries,  which  the  herd 
consider  orthodox,  places  sculpture  out  of  the 
patronage  of  the  public.  There  are  not  a 
dozen  people  who  can  afford  galleries.  But 
every  moderately  affluent  gentleman  can  af- 
ford a  statue  or  a  bust.  The  influence,  too, 
upon  a  man's  mind  and  taste,  created  by  the 
constant  and  habitual  view  of  monuments  of 
the  only  imperishable  art  which  resorts  to 
physical  materials,  is  unspeakable.  Looking 
upon  the  Greek  marble,  we  become  acquainted, 
almost  insensibly,  with  the  character  of  the 
Greek  life  and  literature.  That  Aristides, 
that  Genius  of  Death,  that  fragment  of  the 
unrivalled  Psyche,  are  worth  a  thousand 
Scaligers  ! 

"  Do  you  ever  look  at  the  Latin  translation 
when  you  read  ^schylus  ?  "  said  a  schoolboy 
once  to  Cleveland. 

•'  That  is  my  Latin  translation,"  said  Cleve- 
land, pointing  to  the  Laocoon. 

The  library  opened,  at  the  extreme  end,  to 
a  small  cabinet  for  curiosities  and  medals, 
which,  still  in  a  straight  line,  conducted  to  a 
long  belvidere,  terminating  in  a  little  circular 
summerhouse,  that  by  a  sudden  wind  of  the 
lake  below,  hung  perpendicularly  over  its 
transparent  tide,  and,  seen  from  the  distance, 
appeared  almost  suspended  on  air,  so  light 
were  its  slender  columns  and  arching  dome. 
Another  door  from  the  library  opened  upon  a 
corridor,  which  conducted  to  the  principal 
sleeping  chambers;  the  nearest  door  was  that 
of  Cleveland's  private  study,  communicating 
with  his  bed-room  and  dressing-closet.  The 
other  rooms  were  appropriated  to,  and  named 
after,  his  several  friends. 

Mr.  Cleveland  had  been  advised  by  a  hasty 
line  of  the  movements  of  his  ward,  and  he  re- 
ceived the  young  man  with  a  smile  of  wel- 
come, though  his  eyes  were  moist  and  his 
lips  trembled — for  the  boy  was  like  his  father  ! 
— a  new  generation  had  commenced  for  Cleve- 
land ! 

"Welcome,  my  dear  Ernest,"  said  he;  "I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you,  that  I  will  not  scold 
you  for  your  mysterious  absence.  This  is 
your  room,  you  see  your  name  over  the  door; 
it  is  a  larger  one  than  you  used  to  have,  for 
you  are  a  man  now;  and  there  is  your  German 
sanctum  adjoining — for  Schiller  and  the  meer- 


schaum !— a  bad  habit,  that,  the  meerschaum  ! 
but  not  worse  than  the  Schiller  perhaps  !  You 
see  you  are  in  the  peristyle  immediately.  The 
meerschaum  is  good  for  flowers,  I  fancy,  so 
have  no  scruple.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  how 
pale  you  are  !  Be  cheered — be  cheered.  Well, 
I  must  go  myself,  or  you  will  infect  me." 

Cleveland  hurried  away;  he  thought  of  his 
lost  friend.  Ernest  sank  upon  the  first  chair, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Cleveland's 
valet  entered,  and  bustled  about  and  unpacked 
the  portmanteau,  and  arranged  the  evening 
dress.  But  Ernest  did  not  look  up  nor 
speak;  the  first  bell  sounded;  the  second 
tolled  unheard  upon  his  ear.  He  was  thor- 
oughly overcome  by  his~  emotions.  The  first 
notes  of  Cleveland's  kind  voice  had  touched 
upon  a  soft  chord,  that  months  of  anxiety  and 
excitement  had  strained  to  anguish,  but  had 
never  woke  to  tears.  His  nerves  were  shattered 
— those  strong  young  nerves  !  He  thought  of 
his  dead  father  when  he  first  saw  Cleveland; 
but  when  he  glanced  round  the  room  prepared 
for  him,  and  observed  the  care  for  his  com- 
fort, and  the  tender  recollection  of  his  most 
trifling  peculiarities  everywhere  visible,  Alice, 
the  watchful,  the  humble,  the  loving,  the  lost 
Alice,  rose  before  him.  Surprised  at  his  ward's 
delay,  Cleveland  entered  the  room;  there 
sate  Ernest  still,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
Cleveland  drew  them  gently  away,  and  Mal- 
travers  sobbed  like  an  infant.  It  was  an  easy 
matter  to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  that  young 
man:  a  generous  or  a  tender  thought,  an  old 
song,  the  simplest  air  of  music,  sufficed  for 
that  touch  of  the  mother's  nature.  But  the 
vehement  and  awful  passion  which  belongs 
to  manhood  when  thoroughlj'  unmanned — 
this  was  the  first  time  in  which  the  relief 
of  that  stormy  bitterness  was  known  to  him  ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Musing  full  sadly  in  his  sullen  mind." — Spenser. 

"  There  forth  issued  from  under  the  altar-smoke 
A  dreadful  fiend." — liiil.  on  Superstition. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten  it  is  over  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs  that  we  pass  the  narrow  gulf  from 
Youth  to  Manhood.  That  interval  is  usually 
occupied  by  an  ill-placed  or  disappointed  affec- 
tion.    We  recover,   and   we  find  ourselves  a 


36 


BULlVEIi'S     WORKS. 


new  being.  The  intellect  has  become  hard- 
ened by  the  fire  through  which  it  has  passed. 
The  mind  profits  by  the  wrecks  of  every  pas- 
sion, and  we  may  measure  our  road  to  wisdom 
by  the  sorrows  we  have  undergone.  But  Mal- 
travers  was  yet  on  the  bridge,  and,  for  a  time, 
both  mind  and  body  uere  prostrate  and  en- 
feebled. Cleveland  had  the  sagacity  to  dis- 
cover that  the  affections  had  their  share  in  the 
change  that  he  grieved  to  witness,  but  he  had 
also  the  delicacy  not  to  force  himself  into  the 
young  man's  confidence.  But  by  little  and 
little  his  kindness  so  completely  penetrated  the 
heart  of  his  ward,  that  Ernest  one  evening 
told  him  his  whole  tale.  As  a  man  of  the 
world,  Cleveland  perhaps  rejoiced  that  it  was 
no  worse,  for  he  had  feared  some  existing  en- 
tanglement, perhaps,  with  a  married  woman. 
But  as  a  man  who  was  better  than  the  world  in 
general,  he  sympathized  wit'h  the  unfortunate 
girl  whom  Ernest  pictured  to  him  in  faithful 
and  unflattered  colors,  and  he  long  forebore 
consolations  which  he  foresaw  would  be  un- 
availing. He  felt,  indeed,  that  Ernest  was 
not  a  man  "  to  betray  the  noon  of  manhood 
to  a  myrtle-shade;" — that  with  so  sanguine, 
buoyant,  and  hardy  a  temperament,  he  would 
at  length  recover  from  a  depression  which,  if 
it  could  bequeath  a  warning,  might  as  well  not 
be  wholly  divested  of  remorse. 

And  he  also  knew  that  lew  become  either 
great  authors  or  great  men  (and  he  fancied 
Ernest  was  born  to  be  one  or  the  other),  with- 
out the  fierce  emotions  and  passionate  strug- 
gles, through  which  the  Wilhelm  Meister  of 
Real  Life  must  work  out  his  apprenticeship, 
and  attain  the  Master-Rank.  But  at  last  he 
had  serious  misgivings  about  the  health  of  his 
ward.  A  constant  and  spectral  gloom  seemed 
bearing  the  young  man  to  the  grave.  It  was 
in  vain  that  Cleveland,  who  secretly  desired 
him  to  thirst  for  a  public  career,  endeavored 
to  arouse  his  ambition — the  boy's  spirit  seemed 
quite  broken — and  the  visit  of  a  political 
character,  the  mention  of  a  political  work, 
drove  him  at  once  into  his  solitary  chamber. 
At  length  his  mental  disease  took  a  new  turn. 
He  became,  of  a  sudden,  most  morbidly,  and 
fanatically — I  was  about  to  say,  religious:  but 
that  is  not  the  word;  let  me  call  it  pseudo  re- 
ligious. His  strong  sense  and  cultivated  taste 
did  not  allow  him  to  delight  in  the  raving  tracts 
of  illiterate  fanatics — and  yet  out  of  the  benign 


and  simple  elements  of  the  Scripture,  he  con- 
jured up  for  himself  a  fanaticism  quite  as 
gloomy  and  intense.  He  lost  sight  of  God 
the  Father,  and  night  and  day  dreamed  only 
of  God  the  Avenger.  His  vivid  imagination 
was  perverted  to  raise  out  of  its  own  abyss 
phantoms  of  collossal  terror.  He  shuddered 
aghast  at  his  own  creations,  and  earth  and 
heaven  alike  seemed  black  with  the  everlast- 
ing wrath.  These  symptoms  completely  baf- 
fled and  perplexed  Cleveland.  He  knew  not 
what  remedy  to  administer — and  to  his  un- 
speakable grief  and  surprise  he  found  that 
Ernest,  in  the  true  spirit  of  his  strange  bigotry, 
began  to  regard  Cleveland — the  amiable,  the 
benevolent  Cleveland — as  one  no  less  out  of 
the  pale  of  grace  than  himself.  His  elegant 
pursuits,  his  cheerful  studies,  were  considered 
by  the  young  but  stern  enthusiast,  as  the  mis- 
erable recreations  of  Mammon  and  the  world. 
There  seemed  every  probability  that  Ernest 
Maltravers  would  die  in  a  madhouse,  or  at 
best,  succeed  to  the  delusions,  without  the 
cheerful  intervals,  of  Cowper. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"  Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit, 
Restless— unfixed  in  principles  and  place." 

— Dryden. 

"  Whoever  acquires  a  very  great  number  of  ideas 
interesting  to  the  society  in  which  he  lives,  will  be  re- 
garded in  that  society  as  a  man  of  abilities." 

— Helvetius. 

It  was  just  when  Ernest  Maltravers  was  so 
bad,  that  he  could  not  be  worse,  that  a  young 
man  visited  Temple  Grove.  The  name  of 
this  young  man  was  Lumley  Ferrers,  his  age 
about  twenty-six,  his  fortune  about  eight  hun- 
dred a-year — he  followed  no  profession.  Lum- 
ley Ferrers  had  not  what  is  usually  called 
genius;  that  is,  he  had  no  enthusiasm;  and  if 
the  word  talent  be  properly  interpreted  as 
meaning  the  talent  of  doing  something  better 
than  others,  Ferrers  had  not  much  to  boast  of 
on  that  score.  He  had  no  talent  for  writing, 
nor  for  music,  nor  painting,  nor  the  ordinary 
round  of  accomplishments;  neither  at  present 
had  he  displayed  much  of  the  hard  and  useful 
talent  for  action  and  business.  But  Ferrers 
had  what  is  often  better  than  either  genius  or 


ERN£ST    MAL  TEA  VERS, 


37 


talent;  he  had  a  powerful  and  most  acute  mind. 
He  had,  moreover,  great  animation  of  man- 
ner, high  physical  spirits,  a  witty,  odd  racy 
vein  of  conversation,  determined  assurance, 
and  profound  confidence  in  his  own  resources. 
He  was  fond  of  schemes,  stratagems  and 
plots — they  amused  and  excited  him — his 
power  of  sarcasm,  and  of  argument,  too,  was 
great,  and  he  usually  obtained  an  astonish- 
ing influence  over  those  with  whom  he  was 
brought  in  contact.  His  high  spirits  and 
a  most  happy  frankness  of  bearing  carried 
off  and  disguised  his  leading  vices  of  char- 
acter whieh  were  callousness  to  whatever 
was  affectionate,  and  insensibility  to  what- 
ever was  moral.  Though  less  learned  than 
Maltravers,  he  was  on  the  whole  a  very 
instructed  man.  He  mastered  the  surface  of 
many  sciences,  became  satisfied  of  their  gen- 
eral principles,  and'  threw  the  study  aside 
never  to  be  forgotten  (for  his  memory  was 
like  a  vice),  but  never  to  be  prosecuted  any 
further.  To  this  he  added  a  general  acquaint- 
ance with  whatever  is  most  generally  acknowl- 
edged as  standard  in  antient  or  modern  liter- 
ature. What  is  admired  only  by  a  few, 
Lumley  never  took  the  trouble  to  read.  Living 
amongst  trifles,  he  made  them  interesting  and 
novel  by  his  mode  of  viewing  and  treating 
them.  And  here  indeed  was  a  talent — it  was 
the  talent  of  social  life — the  talent  of  enjoy- 
ment to  the  utmost  with  the  least  degree  of 
trouble  to  himself.  Lumley  Ferrers  was  thus 
exactly  one  of  those  men  whom  everybody 
calls  exceedingly  clever,  and  yet  it  would  puz- 
zle one  to  say  in  what  he  was  so  clever.  It 
was,  indeed,  that  nameless  power  which  be- 
longs to  ability,  and  which  makes  one  man 
superior,  on  the  whole,  to  another,  though  in 
many  details  by  no  means  remarkable.  I 
think  it  is  Goethe  who  says  somewhere,  that, 
in  reading  the  life  of  the  greatest  genius,  we 
always  find  that  he  was  acquainted  with  some 
men  superior  to  himself,  who  yet  never  at- 
tained to  general  distinction.  To  the  class  of 
these  mystical  superior  men,  Lumley  Ferrers 
might  have  belonged;  for  though  an  ordinary 
journalist  would  have  beaten  him  in  the  arts 
of  composition,  few  men  of  genius,  however 
eminent,  could  have  felt  themselves  above 
Ferrers  in  the  ready  grasp  and  plastic  vigor  of 
natural  intellect.  It  only  remains  to  be  said 
of  this  singular  young  man,  whose  character 


as  yet  was  but  half  developed,  that  he  had  seen 
a  great  deal  of  the  world,  and  could  live  at 
ease  and  in  content  with  all  tempers  and  ranks; 
fox-hunters  or  scholars,  lawyers,  or  poets,  pa- 
tricians ox  parvenus,  it  was  all  one  to  Lumley 
Ferrers. 

Ernest  was,  as  usual,  in  his  own  room,  when 
he  heard,  along  the  corridor  without,  all  that 
indefinable  bustling  noise  which  announces 
an  arrival.  Next  came  a  most  ringing  laugh, 
and  then  a  sharp,  clear,  vigorous  voice,  that 
ran  through  his  ears  like  a  dagger.  Ernest 
was  immediately  aroused  to  all  the  majesty  of 
indignant  sullenness.  He  walked  out  on  the 
terrace  of  the  portico,  to  avoid  the  repetition 
of  the  disturbance;  and  once  more  settled  back 
into  his  broken  and  hypochondriacal  reveries: 
— Pacing  to  and  fro  that  part  of  the  peristyle 
which  occupied  the  more  retired  wing  of  the 
house,  with  his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  down- 
cast, his  brows  knit,  and  all  the  angel  darkened 
on  that  countenance,  which  formerly  looked  as 
if,  like  truth,  it  could  shame  the  devil  and 
defy  the  world,  Ernest  followed  the  evil 
thought  that  mastered  him,  through  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow.  Suddenly  he  was  aware  of 
something — some  obstacle  which  he  had  not 
previously  encountered.  He  started,  and  saw 
before  him  a  young  man,  of  plain  dress,  gen- 
tlemanlike appearance,  and  striking  counte- 
nance. 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  think,"  said  the  stranger, 
and  Ernest  recognized  the  voice  that  had  so 
disturbed  him;  "  this  is  lucky;  we  can  now  in- 
troduce ourselves,  for  I  find  Cleveland  means 
us  to  be  intimate.  Mr.  Lumley  Ferrers,  Mr. 
Ernest  Maltravers.  There  now,  I  am  the 
elder,  so  I  first  offer  my  hand,  and  grin  prop- 
erly. People  always  grin  when  they  make  a 
new  acquaintance  !  Well,  that's  settled, 
Which  way  are  you  walking  !  " 

Maltravers  could,  when  he  chose  it,  be  as 
stately  as  if  he  had  never  been  out  of  England. 
He  now  drew  himself  up  in  displeased  aston- 
ishment; extricated  his  hand  from  his  gripe  of 
Ferrers,  and,  saying,  very  coldly,  "Excuse 
me,  sir,  I  am  busy,"  stalked  back  to  his  cham- 
ber. He  threw  himself  into  his  chair,  and 
was  presently  forgetful  of  his  late  annoyance, 
when,  to  his  inexpressible  amazement  and 
wrath,  he  heard  again  the  sharp,  clear  voice 
close  at  his  elbow. 

Ferrers    had    followed     him    through    the 


3« 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


French  casements  into  the  room.  "  You  are 
busy,  you  say,  my  dear  fellow.  I  want  to 
write  some  letters:  we  sha'n't  interrupt  each 
other — don't  disturb  yourself:  "  and  Ferrers 
seated  himself  at  the  writing-table,  dipped  a 
pen  into  the  ink,  arranged  blotting-book  and 
paper  before  him  in  due  order,  and  was  soon 
employed  in  covering  page  after  page  with  the 
most  rapid  and  hieroglyphical  scrawl  that  ever 
engrossed  a  mistress,  or  perplexed  a  dun. 

"The  presuming  puppy!"  growled  Mal- 
travers,  half  audibly,  but  effectually  roused 
from  himself;  and,  examining  with  some  curi- 
osity so  cool  an  intruder,  he  was  forced  to 
own  that  the  countenance  of  Ferrers  was  not 
that  of  a  puppy. 

A  forehead  compact  and  solid  as  a  block  of 
granite,  overhung  small,  bright,  intelligent 
eyes  of  a  light  hazel;  the  features  was  hand- 
some, yet  rather  too  sharp  and  fox-like;  the 
complexion,  though  not  highly  colored,  was  of 
that  hardy,  healthy  hue  which  generally  be- 
tokens a  robust  constitution  and  high  animal 
spirits;  the  jaw  was  massive,  and,  to  a  physi- 
ognomist, betokened  firmness  and  strength  of 
character;  but  the  lips,  full  and  large,  were 
those  of  a  sensualist,  and  their  restless  play 
and  habitual  half-smile  spoke  of  gaiety  and 
humor,  though  when  in  repose  there  was  in 
them  something  furtive  and  sinister. 

Maltravers  looked  at  him  in  grave  silence; 
but  when  Ferrers,  concluding  his  fourth  letter 
before  another  man  would  have  got  through 
his  first  page,  threw  down  the  pen,  and  looked 
full  at  Maltravers,  with  a  good-humored  but 
penetrating  stare,  there  was  something  so 
whimsical  in  the  intruder's  expression  of  face, 
and  indeed  in  the  whole  scene,  that  Maltravers 
bit  his  lip  to  restrain  a  smile,  the  first  he  had 
known  for  weeks. 

"  I  see  you  read,  Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers, 
carelessly  turning  over  the  volumes  on  the 
table.  "All  very  right:  we  should  begin  life 
with  books;  they  multiply  the  sources  of  em- 
ployment; so  does  capital; — but  capital  is  of 
no  use,  unless  we  live  on  the  interest, — books 
are  waste-paper,  unless  we  spend  in  action  the 
wisdom  we  get  from  thought.  Action,  Mal- 
travers, action;  that  is  the  life  for  us.  At  our 
age  we  have  passion,  fancy,  sentiment;  we 
can't  read  them  away,  nor  scribble  them  away; 
— we  must  live  upon  them  generously,  but 
economically." 


Maltravers  was  struck;  the  intruder  was  not 
the  empty  bore  he  had  chosen  to  fancy  him. 
He  roused  himself  languidly  to  reply.  "  I,ife, 
Mr.  Ferrers " 

"Stop,  mon  cher,  stop;  don't  call  me  Mister; 
we  are  to  be  friends;  I  hate  delaying  that 
which  must  be,  even  by  a  superfluous  dis- 
syllable; you  are  Maltravers,  I  am  Ferrers. 
But  you  were  going  to  talk  about  life.  Sup- 
pose we  live  a  little  while,  instead  of  talking 
about  it.  It  wants  an  hour  to  dinner;  let  us 
stroll  into  the  grounds;  I  want  to  get  an 
appetite; — besides,  I  like  nature,  when  there 
are  no  Swiss  mountains  to  climbl^efore  one 
can  arrive  at  a  prospect.     Allons  !  " 

"  Excuse,"  again  began  Maltravers,  half  in- 
terested, half  annoyed. 

"  I'll  be  shot  if  I  do.     Come." 

Ferrers  gave  Maltravers  his  hat,  wound  his 
arms  into  that  of  his  new  acquaintance,  and 
they  were  on  the  broad  terrace  by  the  lake  be- 
fore Ernest  was  aware  of  it. 

How  animated,  how  eccentric,  how  easy,  was 
Ferrers'  talk  (for  talk  it  was,  rather  than  con- 
versation, since  he  had  the  ball  to  himself); 
books,  and  men,  and  things;  he  tossed  them 
about,  and  played  with  them  like  shuttlecocks; 
and  then  his  egotistical  narrative  of  half  a 
hundred  adventures,  in  which  he  had  been  the 
hero,  told  so,  that  you  laughed  a/  him  and 
laughed  with  him. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"  Now  the  bright  morning  star,  <iay's  harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east." — Milton. 

Hitherto  Ernest  had  never  met  with  any 
mind  that  had  exercised  a  strong  influence 
over  his  own.  At  home,  at  school,  at  Gottin- 
gen,  everywhere,  he  had  been  the  brilliant  and 
wayward  leader  of  others,  persuading  or  com- 
manding wiser  and  older  heads  than  his  own  : 
even  Cleveland  always  yielded  to  him,  though 
not  aware  of  it.  In  fact,  it  seldom  happens  that 
we  are  very  strongly  influenced  by  those  mu^k 
older  than  ourselves.  It  is  the  Senior,  of  from 
two  to  ten  years,  that  most  seduces  and 
enthrals  us.  He  has  the  same  pursuits- 
views,  objects,  pleasures,  but  more  art  and  ex- 
perience in  them  all.  He  goes  with  us  in  the 
path   we   are   ordained    to   thread,    but   from 


ERNEST    MALTR AVERS. 


39 


which  the  elder  generation  desires  to  warn  us 
off.  There  is  very  little  influence  where  there 
is  not  great  sympathy.  It  was  now  an  epoch 
in  the  intellectual  life  of  Maltravers.  He  met 
for  the  first  time  with  a  mind  that  controlled 
his  own.  Perhaps  the  physical  state  of  his 
nerves  made  him  less  able  to  cope  with  the 
half-bullying,  but  thoroughly  good-humored 
imperiousness  of  Ferrers.  Every  day  this 
stranger  became  more  and  more  potential 
with  Maltravers.  Ferrers,  who  was  an  utter 
egotist,  never  asked  his  new  friend  to  give  him 
his  confidence  ;  he  never  cared  three  straws 
about  other  people's  secrets,  unless  useful  to 
some  purpose  of  his  own.  But  he  talked 
with  so  much  zest  about  himself — about 
women  and  pleasure,  and  the  gay,  stirring  life 
of  cities, — that  the  young  spirit  of  Maltravers 
was  roused  from  its  dark  lethargy  without  an 
effort  of  its  own.  The  gloomy  phantoms  van- 
ished gradually — his  sense  broke  from  its 
cloud — he  felt  once  more  that  God  had  given 
the  sun  to  light  the  day,  and  even  in  the  midst 
of  darkness  had  called  up  the  host  of  stars. 

Perhaps  no  other  person  could  have  suc- 
ceeded so  speedily  in  curing  Maltravers  of  his 
diseased  enthusiasm:  a  crude  or  sarcastic  un- 
believer he  would  not  have  listened  to;  a  mod- 
erate and  enlightened  divine  he  would  have 
disregarded,  as  a  worldly  and  cunning  adjuster 
of  laws  celestial  with  customs  earthly.  But 
Lumley  Ferrers,  who,  when  he  argued,  never 
admitted  a  sentiment  or  a  simile  in  reply,  who 
wielded  his  plain  iron  logic  like  a  hammer, 
which,  though  its  metal  seemed  dull,  kindled 
the  ethereal  spark  with  every  stroke — Lumley 
Ferrers  was  just  the  man  to  resist  the  imagina- 
tion, and  convince  the  reason,  of  Maltravers; 
and  the  moment  the  matter  came  to  argument 
the  cure  was  soon  completed;  for,  however  we 
may  darken  and  puzzle  ourselves  with  fancies 
and  visions,  and  the  ingenuities  of  fanatical 
mysticism,  no  man  can  mathematically  or  syl- 
logistically  contend  that  the  world  which  a 
God  made,  and  a  Saviour  visited,  was  designed 
to  be  damned  ! 

And  Ernest  Maltravers  one  night  softly 
stole  to  his  room  and  opened  the  New  Tes- 
tament, and  read  its  heavenly  moralities  with 
purged  eyes;  and  when  he  had  done,  he  fell 
upon  his  knees,  and  prayed  the  Almighty 
to  pardon  the  ungrateful  heart  that,  worse  than 
the  Atheist's,  had  confessed  His  existence,  but 


denied  His  goodness.  His  sleep  was  sweet 
and  his  dreams  were  cheerful.  Did  he  rise  to 
find  that  the  penitence  which  had  shaken  his 
reason  would  henceforth  suffice  to  save  his  life 
from  all  error?  Alas!  remorse  overstrained 
has  too  often  re-actions  as  dangerous;  and 
homely  Luther  says  well,  that  "  the  Mind,  like 
the  drunken  peasant  on  horseback,  when 
propped  on  the  one  side,  nods  and  falls  on  the 
other." — All  that  can  be  said  is,  that  there  are 
certain  crises  in  life  which  leave  us  long 
weaker;  from  which  the  system  recovers  with 
frequent  revulsion  and  weary  relapse, — but 
from  which,  looking  back,  after  years  have 
passed  on,  we  date  the  foundation  of  strength 
or  the  cure  of  disease. — It  is  not  to  mean  souls 
that  creation  is  darkened  by  a  fear  of  the  anger 
of  Heaven. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

"  There  are  times  when  we  are  diverted  out  of  er- 
rors, but  could  not  be  preached  out  of  them. — There 
are  practitioners  who  can  cure  us  of  one  disorder, 
though,  in  ordinary  cases,  they  be  but  poor  physicians 
— nay,  dangerous  quacks." — Stephen  Montague. 

Lumley  Ferrers  had  one  rule  in  life;  and 
it  was  this — to  make  all  things,  and  all  per- 
sons, subservient  to  himself.  And  Ferrers 
now  intended  to  go  abroad  for  some  years. 
He  wanted  a  companion,  for  he  disliked  soli- 
tude: besides,  a  companion  shared  the  ex- 
penses; and  a  man  of  eight  hundred  a  year, 
who  desires  all  the  luxuries  of  life,  does  not 
despise  a  partrier  in  the  taxes  to  be  paid  for 
them.  Ferrers,  at  this  period,  rather  liked 
Ernest  than  not:  it  was  convenient  to  choose 
friends  from  those  richer  than  himself,  and  he 
resolved,  when  he  first  came  to  Temple  Grove,- 
that  Ernest  should  be  his  travelling  companion. 
This  resolution  formed  it  was  very  easy  to 
execute  it. 

Maltravers  was  now  warmly  attached  to  his 
new  friend,  and  eager  for  change.  Cleveland 
was  sorry  to  part  with  him;  but  he  dreaded  a 
relapse,  if  the  young  man  were  again  left  upon 
his  hands.  Accordingly  the  guardian's  con- 
sent was  obtained;  a  travelling-carriage  was 
bought,  and  fitted  up  with  every  imaginable 
imperial  and  tnalle.  A  Swiss  (half  valet  and 
half  courier)  was  engaged;  one  thousand  a 
year   was    allowed    to    Maltravers; — and   one 


40 


B  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


soft  and  lovely  morning,  towards  the  close  of 
October,  Ferrers  and  Maltravers  found  them- 
selves midway  on  the  road  to  Dover. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  get  out  of  England," 
said  Ferrers:  "  it  is  a  famous  country  for  the 
rich;  but  here  eight  hundred  a-year,  without  a 
profession,  save  that  of  pleasure,  goes  upon 
pepper  and  salt:  it  is  a  luxurious  competence 
abroad." 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  Cleveland  say  that 
you  will  be  rich  some  day  or  other." 

"Oyes;  I  have  what  are  called  expecta- 
tions !  You  must  know  that  I  have  a  kind  of 
settlement  on  two  stools,  the  Well-born  and 
the  Wealthy:  but  between  two  stools — you 
recollect  the  proverb  !  The  present  Lord  Sax- 
ingham,  once  plain  Frank  Lascelles,  and  my 
father,  Mr.  Ferrers,  were  first  cousins.  Two 
or  three  relations  good-naturedly  died,  and 
Frank  Lascelles  became  an  earl;  the  lands 
did  not  go  with  the  coronet;  he  was  poor,  and 
married  an  heiress.  The  lady  died;  her  es- 
state  was  settled  on  her  only  child,  the  hand- 
somest little  girl  you  ever  saw.  Pretty  Flor- 
rence,  I  often  wish  I  could  look  up  to  you  ! 
Her  fortune  will  be  nearly  all  at  her  own  dis- 
posal too  when  she  comes  of  age:  now  she's 
in  the  nursery,  '  eating  bread  and  honey.'  My 
father,  less  lucky  and  less  wise  than  his  cousin, 
thought  fit  to  marry  a  Miss  Templeton — a 
nobody.  The  Saxingham  branch  of  the  family 
politely  dropped  the  acquaintance.  Now  my 
mother  had  a  brother,  a  clever,  plodding  fel- 
low, in  what  is  called  '  business; '  he  became 
rich  and  richer;  but  my  father  and  mother 
died,  and  were  never  the  better  for  it.     And  I 


came  of  age,  and  worth  (I  like  that  expres- 
sion) not  a  farthing  more  or  less  than  this 
often-quoted  eight  hundred  pounds  a-year. 
My  rich  uncle  is  married,  but  has  no  children. 
I  am,  therefore,  heir-presumptive, — but  he  is  a 
saint,  and  close,  though  ostentatious.  The 
quarrel  between  uncle  Templeton  and  the 
Saxinghams  still  continues. 

Templeton  is  angry  if  I  see  the  Saxinghams 
— and  the  Saxinghams — my  Lord,  at  least — is 
by  no  means  so  sure  that  I  shall  be  Temple- 
ton's  heir  as  not  to  feel  a  doubt  less  I  should 
some  day  or  other  sponge  upon  his  lordship 
for  a  place.  Lord  Saxingham  is  in  the  ad- 
ministration, you  know.  Somehow  or  other,  I 
have  an  equivocal  amphibious  kind  of  place  in 
London  society,  which  I  don't  like:  on  one 
side  I  am  a  partrician  connection,  whom  the 
parvenu  branches  always  incline  lovingly  to — 
and  on  the  other  side  I  am  a  half-dependent 
cadet,  whom  the  noble  relations  look  civilly 
shy  at.  Some  day,  when  I  grow  tired  of 
travel  and  idleness,  I  shall  come  back  and 
wrestle  with  these  little  difficulties,  conciliate 
my  methodistical  uncle,  and  grapple  with  my 
noble  cousin.  But  now  I  am  fit  for  something 
better  than  getting  on  in  the  world.  Dry 
chips,  not  green  wood,  are  the  things  for  mak- 
ing a  blaze  !  How  slow  this  fellow  drives  ! 
Holla,  you  sir  !  get  on  !  mind,  twelve  miles  to 
the  hour  !  you  shall  have  sixpence  a  mile  ! 
Give  me  your  purse,  Maltravers;  I  may  as 
well  be  cashier,  being  the  elder  and  the  wiser 
man;  we  can  settle  accounts  at  the  end  of  the 
journey.     By  Jove,  what  a  pretty  girl  ! " 


EJiNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


♦1 


BOOK    SECOND. 


Kov<^ov  €\uv  Ovfibv,  irdAA'  af e'AetrTa  foii. 

SiMONiDES,  tn  Vit.  HvU. 

'  He,  of  wide-blooraing  youth's  fair  flower  possest, 
Owns  the  vain  thoughts— the  heart  that  cannot  rest  ! " 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  II  y  eut  certainment  quelque  chose  de  singulier 
dans  mes  sentimens  pour  cette  charmante  femme."  * 

— Rousseau. 

It  was  a  brilliant  ball  at  the  Palazzo  of  the 
Austrian  embassy  at  Naples:  and  a  crowd  of 
those  loungers,  whether  young  or  old,  who 
attach  themselves  to  the  reigning  beauty,  was 
gathered  round  Madame  de  Ventadour.  Gene- 
rally speaking,  there  is  more  caprice  than  taste 
in  the  election  of  a  beauty  to  the  Idalian 
throne.  Nothing  disappoints  a  stranger  more 
than  to  see  for  the  first  time  the  woman  to 
whom  the  world  has  given  the  golden  apple. 
Yet  he  usually  falls  at  last  into  the  popular 
idolatry,  and  passes  with  inconceivable  rapidity 
from  indignant  scepticism  into  superstitious 
veneration.  In  fact,  a  thousand  things  be- 
sides mere  symmetry  of  feature  go  to  make 
up  the  Cytherea  of  the  hour  .  .  .  tact  in  society 
— the  charm  of  manner — a  nameless  and 
piquant  brilliancy.  Where  the  world  find  the 
Graces  they  proclaim  the  Venus.  Few  per- 
sons attain  pre-eminent  celebrity  for  anything, 
without  some  adventitious  and  extraneous 
circumstances  which  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  thing  celebrated.  Some  qualities  or  some 
circumstances  throw  a  mysterious  or  personal 

charm  about    them. "  Is     Mr.  So-and-So 

really  such  a  genius  ? " — "  Is  Mrs.  Such-a-One 
really  such  a  beauty  ?  "  you  ask  incredulously. 
"  Oh,  yes,"  is  the  answer.  "  Do  you  know  all 
adout  him  or  her  ?  Such  a  thing  is  said,  or 
such  a  thing  has  happened."     The  idol  is  in- 


•  There  certainly  was  something  singular  in  my  sen- 
timents for  this  charming  woman. 


teresting  in   itself,   and   therefore  its  leading 
and  popular  attribute  is  worshipped. 

Now  Madame  de  Ventadour  was  at  this 
time  the  beauty  of  Naples;  and  though  fifty 
women  in  the  room  were  handsomer,  no  one 
would  have  dared  to  say  so.  Even  the  women 
confessed  her  pre-eminence — for  she  was  the 
most  perfect  dresser  that  even  France  could 
exhibit.  And  to  no  pretentions  do  ladies 
ever  concede  with  so  little  demur,  as  those 
which  depend  upon  that  feminine  art  which  all 
study,  and  in  which  few  excel.  Women  never 
allow  beauty  in  a  face  that  has  an  odd-looking 
bonnet  above  it,  nor  will  they  readily  allow 
any  one  to  be  ugly  whose  caps  are  unexcep- 
tionable. Madame  de  Ventadour  had  also  the 
magic  that  results  from  intuitive  high  breed- 
ing, polished  by  habit  to  the  utmost.  She 
looked  and  moved  the  graiide  dame,  as  if 
Nature  had  been  employed  by  Rank  to  make 
her  so.  She  was  descended  from  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  houses  of  France;  had  married  at 
sixteen  a  man  of  equal  birth,  but  old,  dull,  and 
pompous — a  caricature  rather  than  a  portrait  of 
that  great  French  noblesse,  now  almost  if  not 
wholly  extinct.  But  her  virtue  was  without  a 
blemish — some  said  from  pride,  some  said 
from  coldness.  Her  wit  was  keen  and  court- 
like— lively,  yet  subdued;  for  her  French  high 
breeding  was  very  different  from  the  lethargic 
and  taciturn  impertubability  of  the  English. 
All  silent  people  can  seem  conventionally 
elegant.  A  groom  married  a  rich  lady;  he 
dreaded  the  ridicule  of  the  guests  whom  his 
new  rank  assembled  at  his  table — an  Oxford 
clergyman  gave  him  this  piece  of  advice, 
"Wear  a  black  coat  and  hold  your  tongue  !  " 


42 


£ UL  WER  'S     IVOJiKS. 


The  groom  took  the  hint,  and  is  always  con- 
sidered one  of  the  most  gentlemanlike  fellows 
in  the  county.  Conversation  is  the  touch- 
stone of  the  true  delicacy  and  subtle  grace 
which  make  the  ideal  of  the  moral  mannerism 
of  a  court. 

And  there  sate  Madame  de  Ventadour,  a 
little  apart  from  the  dancers,  with  the  silent 
English  dandy  Lord  Taunton,  exquisitely 
dressed  and  superbly  tall,  bolt  upright  behind 
her  chair;  and  the  sentimental  German  Baron 
Von  Schomberg,  covered  with  orders,  whisk- 
ered and  wigged  to  the  last  hair  of  perfection, 
sighing  at  her  left  hand:  and  the  French  min- 
ister, shrewd,  bland,  and  eloquent,  in  the  chair 
at  her  right;  and  round  on  all  sides  pressed, 
and  bowed,  and  complimented,  a  crowd  of 
diplomatic  secretaries  and  Italian  princes 
v/hose  bank  is  at  the  gaming-table,  whose  es- 
tates are  in  their  galleries,  and  who  sell  a  pic- 
ture, as  English  gentlemen  cut  down  a  wood, 
whenever  the  cards  grow  gloomy.  The  charm- 
ing de  Ventadour  !  she  had  attraction  for  them 
all  !  smiles  for  the  silent,  badinage  for  the  gay, 
politics  for  the  Frenchman,  poetry  for  the 
German — the  eloquence  of  loveliness  for  all  ! 
She  was  looking  her  best — the  slightest  possi- 
ble tinge  of  rouge  gave  a  glow  to  her  transpar- 
ent complexion,  and  lighted  up  those  large 
dark  sparkling  eyes,  (with  a  latent  softness  be- 
neath the  sparkle),  seldom  seen  but  in  the 
French— and  widely  distinct  from  the  unintel- 
lectual  languish  of  the  Spaniard,  or  the  full 
and  majestic  fierceness  of  the  Italian  gaze. 
Her  dress  of  black  velvet,  and  graceful  hat 
with  its  princely  plume,  contrasted  the  ala- 
baster whiteness  of  her  arms  and  neck.  And 
what  with  the  eyes,  the  skin,  the  rich  coloring 
of  the  complexion,  the  rosy  lips,  and  the  small 
ivory  teeth,  no  one  would  have  had  the  cold 
hypecrriticism  too  bserve  that  the  chin  was  too 
pointed,  the  mouth  too  wide,  and  the  nose,  so 
beautiful  in  the  front  face,  was  far  from  per- 
fect in  the  ])rofiIe. 

"Pray  was  Madame  in  theStrada  Nuova to- 
day ? "  asked  the  German,  with  as  much  sweet- 
ness in  his  voice  as  if  he  had  been  vowing 
eternal  love. 

"  What  else  have  we  to  do  with  our  mornings, 
we  women  ?  "  replied  Madame  de  Ventadour. 

"Our  life  is  a  lounge  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave;  and  our  afternoons  are  but  the 
type  of  our  career.  A  promenade  and  a  crowd, 


— voila  tout !  We  never  see  the  world  except 
in  an  open  carriage." 

"  It  is  the  pleasantest  way  of  seeing  it," 
said  the  F'renchman,  drily. 

"  I  doubt  it;  the  worst  fatigue  is  that  which 
comes  without  exercise." 

"  Will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  waltz  ! "  said 
the  tall  English  lord,  who  had  a  vague  idea 
that  Madame  de  Ventadour  meant  she  would 
rather  dance  than  sit  still.  The  Frenchman 
smiled. 

"Lord  Taunton  enforces  your  own  philos- 
ophy," said  the  minister. 

Lord  Taunton  smiled  because  every  one 
else  smiled;  and,  besides,  he  had  beautiful 
teeth;  but  he  looked  anxious  for  an  answer. 

"  Not  to-night, — I  seldom  dance.  Who  is 
that  very  pretty  woman  ? — What  lovely  com- 
plexions the  English  have  !  And  who,"  con- 
tinued Madame  Ventadour,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer  to  the  first  question,  "  who  is 
that  gentleman, — the  young  one  I  mean, — 
leaning  against  the  door  ?  " 

"  What,  with  the  dark  moustache  ? "  said 
Lord  Taunton, — "  he  is  a  cousin  of  mine."    , 

"Oh  no;  not  Colonel  Bellfield;  I  know  him 
—how  amusing  he  is  I — no;  the  gentleman  I 
mean  wears  no  moustache." 

"Oh,  the  tall  Englishman  with  bright  eyes 
and  high  forehead."  said  the  French  minister. 
"  He  is  just  arrived— from  the  East,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  It  is  a  striking  countenance,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour;  "  there  is  something 
chivalrous  in  the  turn  of  the  head.  Without 
doubt,  Lord  Taunton,  he  is  '  noble.'  " 

"  He  is  what  you  call  '  nod/e,'  "  replied  Lord 
Taunton — "that  is,  what  we  call  a  '  gentle- 
man,'— his  name  is  Maltravers — Mr.  Maltrav- 
ers.  He  lately  came  of  age;  and  has,  I  be- 
lieve, rather  a  good  property." 

"Monsieur  Maltravers;  only  Monsieur!" 
repeated  Madame  de  Ventadour. 

"Why,"  said  the  French  minister,  "you 
understand  that  the  English  gentilhomme  does 
not  require  a  De  or  a  title  to  distinguish  him 
from  the  Roturier." 

"  I  know  that;  but  he  has  an  air  above  a 
simple  gentlilhomnu.  There  is  something 
great  \n  his  look;  but  it  is  not,  I  must  own, 
the  conventional  greatness  of  rank:  perhaps 
he  would  have  looked  the  same  had  he  been 
born  a  peasant." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


43 


"You  don't  think  him  handsome!"  said 
Lord  Taunton,  almost  angrily,  (for  he  was  one 
of  the  Beauty-men,  and  Beauty-men  are  some- 
times jealous). 

"  Handsome  !  I  did  not  say  that,"  replied 
Madame  de  Ventadour,  smiling;  "  it  is  rather 
a  fine  head  than  a  handsome  face.  Is  he 
clever,  I  wonder  ? — but  all  you  English,  milord, 
are  well  educated." 

"Yes,  profound — profound;  we  are  pro- 
found, not  superficial,"  replied  Lord  Taunton, 
drawing  down  his  wristbands. 

Will  Madame  de  Ventadour  allow  me  to 
present  to  her  one  of  my  countrymen  ?"  said 
the  English  minister,  approaching — "  Mr.  Mal- 
travers." 

Madame  de  Vertandour  half  smiled  and 
half  blushed,  as  she  looked  up,  and  saw  bent 
admiringly  upon  her  the  proud  and  earnest 
countenance  she  had  remarked. 

The  introduction  was  made — a  few  mono- 
syllables exchanged.  The  French  diplomatist 
rose  and  walked  away  with  the  English  one. 
Maltravers  succeeded  to  the  vacant  chair. 

"  Have  you  been  long  abroad  ?  "  asked 
Madame  de  Ventadour. 

"  Only  four  years;  yet  long  enough  to  ask 
whether  I  should  not  be  most  abroad  in  Eng- 
land." 

"  You  have  been  in  the  East — I  envy  you. 
And  Greece,  and  Egypt, — all  the  associations  ! 
You  have  travelled  back  into  the  Past;  you 
have  esc^ed,  as  Madame  D'Epinay  wished, 
out  of  civilization  and  into  romance." 

"  Yet  Madame  D'Epinay  passed  her  own 
life  in  making  pretty  romances  out  of  a  very 
agreeable  civilization,"  said  Maltravers,  smil- 
ing. 

"  You  know  her  memoirs,  then,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour,  slightly  coloring.  "  In 
the  current  of  a  more  exciting  literature,  few 
have  had  time  for  the  second-rate  writings  of 
a  past  ceutury." 

"  Are  not  those  second-rate  performances 
often  the  most  charming."  said  Maltravers, 
"  when  the  mediocrity  of  the  intellect  seems 
almost  as  if  it  were  the  effect  of  a  touching, 
though  too  feeble,  delicacy  of  sentiment  ? 
Madame  D'Epinay's  memoirs  are  of  this  char- 
acter. She  was  not  a  virtuous  woman — but 
she  felt  virtue  and  loved  it;  she  was  not  a 
woman  of  genius — but  she  was  tremblingly 
alive  to  all   the  influences  of  genius.     Some 


people  seem  born  with  the  temperament  and 
the  tastes  of  genius,  without  its  creative 
power;  they  have  its  nervous  system,  but 
something  is  wanting  in  the  intellectual.  They 
feel  acutely,  yet  express  tamely.  These  per- 
sons always  have  in  their  character  an  un- 
speakable kind  of  pathos — a  court  civilization 
produces  many  of  them—  and  the  French 
memoirs  of  the  last  century  are  particularly 
fraught  with  such  examples.  This  is  interest- 
ing— the  struggle  of  sensitive  minds  against 
the  lethargy  of  a  society,  dull  yet  brilliant, 
that  glares  them,  as  it  were,  to  sleep.  It 
comes  home  to  us  !  for,"  added  Maltravers, 
with  a  slight  change  of  voice,  "  how  many 
of  us  fancy  we  see  our  own  image  in  the 
mirror  !  " 

And  where  was  the  German  Baron  ? — flirt- 
ing at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  And  the 
English  lord  ? — dropping  monosyllables  to 
dandies  by  the  door-way.  And  the  minor 
satelites? — dancing,  whispering,  making  love, 
or  sipping  lemonade.  And  Madame  de  Venta- 
dour was  alone  with  the  young  stranger  in  a 
crowd  of  eight  hundred  persons;  and  their 
lips  spoke  of  sentiment,  and  their  eyes  invol- 
untarily applied  it ! 

While  they  were  thus  conversing,  Maltravers 
was  suddenly  startled  by  hearing  close  behind 
him,  a  sharp,  significant  voice,  saying  in 
French,  "  Hein,  hein  !  I've  my  suspicions — 
I've  my  suspicions." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  looked  round  with 
a  smile.  "  It  is  only  my  husband,"  said  she, 
quietly;  "  let  me  introduce  him  to  you." 

Maltravers  rose  and  bowed  to  a  little  thin 
man,  most  elabonitely  dressed,  with  an  im- 
mense pair  of  spectacles  upon  a  long  sharp 
nose. 

"  Charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
sir  !  "  said  Monsieur  de  Ventadour.  "  Have 
you  been  long  in  Naples  ?  .  .  .  .  Beautiful 
weather — won't  last  long — hein,  hein,  I've  my 
suspicions  !  No  news  as  to  your  parliament 
— be  dissolved  soon  !  Bad  opera  in  London 
this  year; — hein,  hein — I've  my  suspicions." 

This  rapid  monologue  was  delivered  with 
appropriate  gesture.  Each  new  sentence  Mons. 
de  Ventadour  began  with  a  sort  of  bow,  and 
when  it  dropped  in  the  almost  invariable  con- 
clusion affirmative  of  his  shrewdness  and  in- 
credulity, he  made  a  mystical  sign  with  his 
forefinger  by  passing  it  upward  in  a  parallel 


44 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


line  with  his  nose,  which  at  the  same  time  per- 
formed its  own  part  in  the  ceremony  by  three 
convulsive  twitches,  that  seemed  to  shake  the 
bridge  to  its  base. 

Maltravers  looked  with  mute  surprise  upon 
the  connubial  partner  of  the  graceful  creature 
by  his  side,  and  Mons.  de  Ventadour,  who  had 
said  as  much  as  he  thought  necessary,  wound 
up  his  eloquence  by  expressing  the  rapture  it 
would  give  him  to  see  Mons.  Maltravers  at  his 
hotel.  Then,  turning  to  his  wife,  he  began  as- 
suring her  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  the 
expediency  of  departure.  Maltravers  glided 
away,  and  as  he  regained  the  door  was  seized 
by  our  old  friend,  Lumley  Ferrers.  "  Come, 
my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  latter;  "  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you  this  half  hour.  Allans.  But, 
perhaps,  as  I  am  dying  to  go  to  bed,  you  have 
made  your  mind  to  stay  supper.  Some  people 
have  no  regard  for  other  people's  feelings." 

"No,  Ferrers,  I'm  at  your  service;"  and 
the  young  men  descended  the  stairs  and 
passed  along  the  Chiaja  towards  their  hotel. 
As  they  gained  the  broad  and  open  space  on 
which  it  stood,  with  the  lovely  sea  before  them, 
sleeping  in  the  arms  of  the  curving  shore,  Mal- 
travers, who  had  hitherto  listened  in  silence  to 
ths  volubility  of  his  companion,  paused  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  Look  at  that  sea,  Ferrers What  a 

scene  !— what  delicious  air !  How  soft  this 
moonlight  !  Can  you  not  fancy  the  old  Greek 
adventurers,  when  they  first  colonized  this 
divine  Parthenope — the  darling  of  the  ocean — 
gazing  along  those  waves,  and  pinning  no  more 
for  Greece  ? " 

"I  cannot  fancy  anything  of  the  sort,"  said 

Ferrers "  And,   depend    upon    it,   the 

said  gentlemen,  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  un- 
less they  were  on  some  piratical  excursion — 
for  they  were  cursed  rufifians,  those  old  Greek 
colonists — were  fast  asleep  in  their  beds." 

"  Did  you  ever  write  poetry,  Ferrers  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure;  all  clever  men  have  written 
poetry  once  in  their  lives— small-pox  and 
poetry — they  are  our  two  juvenile  diseases." 

"And  did  you  e.we.r  feel  poetry  .'  " 

"  Feel  it  !  " 

"Yes;  if  you  put  the  moon  into  your  verses, 
did  you  first  feel  it  shining  into  your  heart  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Maltravers,  if  I  put  the  moon 
into  my  verses,  in  all  probability  it  was  to 
rhyme  to  noon.     '  The  night  was  at  her  noon  ' 


— is  a  capital  ending  for  the  first  hexameter— 
and  the  moon  is  booked  for  the  next  stage. 
Come  in." 

"  No,  I  shall  stay  out." 

"  Don't  be  nonsensical." 

"By  moonlight  there  is  no  nonsense  like 
common  sense." 

"What  we,  who  have  climbed  the  Pyramids, 
and  sailed  up  the  Nile,  and  seen  magic  at 
Cairo,  and  been  nearly  murdered,  bagged,  and 
Bosphorized  at  Constantinople,  is  it  for  us, 
who  have  gone  through  so  many  adventures, 
looked  on  so  many  scenes,  and  crowded  into 
four  years  events  that  would  have  satisfied  the 
appetite  of  a  cormorant  in  romance,  if  it  had 
lived  to  the  age  of  a  phoenix; — is  it  for  us  to 
be  doing  the  pretty  and  sighing  to  the  moon, 
like  a  black-haired  appentice  without  a  neck- 
cloth, on  board  of  the  Margate  hoy  ?  Non- 
sense, I  say— we  have  lived  too  much  not  to 
have  lived  away  our  green  sickness  of  senti- 
ment." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  Ferrers,"  said  Mal- 
travers, smiling.  "  But  I  can  still  enjoy  a 
beautiful  night." 

"  Oh,  if  you  like  files  in  your  soup,  as  the 
man  said  to  his  guest,  when  he  carefully  re- 
placed those  entomological  blackamoors  in 
the  tureen,  after  helping  himself — If  you  like 
flies  in  your  soup,  well  and  good — buona  twtte." 

Ferrers  certainly  was  right  in  his  theory, 
that  when  we  have  known  real  adventures  we 
grow  less  morbidly  sentimental.  ^Life  is  a 
sleep  in  which  we  dream  most  at  the  com- 
mencement and  the  close — the  middle  part 
absorbs  us  too  much  for  dreams.  But  still, 
as  Maltravers  said,  we  can  enjoy  a  fine  night, 
especially  on  the  shores  of  Naples. 

Maltravers  paced  musingly  to  and  fro  for 
some  time.  His  heart  was  softened — old 
rhymes  rang  in  his  ear — old  memories  passed 
through  his  brain.  But  the  sweet  dark  eyes 
of  Madame  de  Ventadour  shone  forth  through 
every  shadow  of  the  past.  Delicious  intoxi- 
cation— the  draught  of  the  rose-colored  phial 
— which  is  fancy,  but  seems  love  ! 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


45 


CHAPTER    11. 

"  Then  'gan  the  Palmer  thus—'  Most  wretched  man 
That  to  affections  dost  the  bridle  lend: 
In  their  beginning  they  are  weak  and  wan, 
But  soon,  through  suffrance,  growe  to  fearfuU  end; 
While  they  are  weak,  betimes  with  them  contend.'  " 

— Spenser. 

Maltravers  went  frequently  to  the  house 
of  Madame  de  Ventadour— it  was  open  twice 
a-week  to  the  world,  and  thrice  a-week  to 
friends.  Maltravers  was  soon  of  the  latter 
class.  Madame  de  Ventadour  had  been  in 
England  in  her  childhood,  for  her  parents  had 
been  ^migris.  She  spoke  English  well  and 
fluently,  and  this  pleased  Maltravers;  for 
though  the  French  language  was  sufficiently 
familiar  to  him,  he  was  like  most  who  are 
more  vain  of  the  mind  than  the  person,  and 
proudly  averse  to  hazarding  his  best  thoughts 
in  the  domino  of  a  foreign  language.  We 
don't  care  how  faulty  the  accent,  or  how  in- 
correct the  idiom,  in  which  we  talk  nothings; 
but  if  we  utter  any  of  the  poetry  within  us, 
we  shudder  at  the  risk  of  the  most  trifling 
solecism.  • 

This  was  especially  the  case  with  Maltravers; 
for  besides  being  now  somewhat  ripened  from 
his  careless  boyhood  into  a  proud  and  fastidious 
man,  he  had  a  natural  love  for  the  Becoming. 
This  love  was  unconsciously  visible  in  trifles; 
it  is  the  natural  parent  of  Good  Taste.  And 
it  was  indeed  an  inborn  good  taste  which  re- 
deemed Ernest's  natural  carelessness  in  those 
personal  matters,  in  which  young  men  usually 
take  a  pride.  An  habitual  and  soldier-like 
neatness,  and  a  love  of  order  and  symmetry, 
stood  with  him  in  the  stead  of  elaborate  atten- 
tion to  equipage  and  dress. 

Maltravers  had  not  thought  twice  in  his  life 
whether  he  was  handsome  or  not;  and,  like 
most  men  who  have  a  knowledge  of  the  gentler 
sex,  he  knew  that  beauty  had  little  to  do  with 
engaging  the  love  of  women.  The  air,  the 
manner,  the  tone,  the  conversation,  the  some- 
thing that  interests  and  the  something  to 
be  proud  of,  these  are  the  attributes  of  the 
man  to  be  loved.  And  the  Beauty-man  is, 
nine  times  out  of  ten,  little  more  than  the 
oracle  of  his  aunts,  and  the  '■'■  sitch  a  love"  of 
the  housemaids  ! 

To  return  from  this  digression,  Maltravers 
was  glad  that  he  could  talk  in  his  own  lan- 
guage  to    Madame   de    Ventadour;   and   the 


conversation  between  them  generally  began  in 
French,  and  glided  away  into  English.  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour  was  eloquent,  and  so  was 
Maltravers;  yet  a  more  complete  contrast  in 
their  mental  views  and  conversational  pecu- 
liarities can  scarcely  be  conceived.  Madame 
de  Ventadour  viewed  everything  as  a  woman 
of  the  world  ;  she  was  brilliant  thoughtful,  and 
not  without  delicacy  and  tenderness  of  senti- 
ment; still  all  was  cast  in  a  worldly  mould. 
She  had  been  formed  by  the  influences  of 
society,  and  her  mind  betrayed  its  education. 
At  once  witty  and  melancholy,  (no  uncom- 
mon union),  she  was  a  disciple  of  the  sad  but 
caustic  philosophy  produced  by  Satiety.  In  the 
life  she  led,  neither  her  heart  nor  her  head 
was  engaged;  the  faculties  of  both  were  irri- 
tated, not  satisfied  or  employed.  She  felt 
somewhat  too  sensitively  the  hoUowness  of  the 
great  world,  and  had  a  low  opinion  of  Human 
Nature.  In  fact,  she  was  a  woman  of  the 
French  Memoirs, — one  of  those  charming  and 
spirituelles  Aspasias  of  the  Boudoir  who  inter- 
est us  by  their  subtlety,  tact,  and  grace,  their 
exquisite  tone  of  refinement,  and  are  redeemed 
from  the  superficial  and  frivolous,  partly  by  a 
consummate  knowledge  of  the  social  system  in 
which  they  move,  and  partly  by  a  half-con- 
cealed and  touching  discontent  of  the  trifles 
on  which  their  talents  and  affections  are 
wasted.  These  are  the  women  who,  after  a 
youth  of  false  pleasure,  often  end  by  an  old 
age  of  false  devotion.  They  are  a  class  pecu- 
liar to  those  ranks  and  countries  in  which  shines 
and  saddens  that  gay  and  unhappy  thing — a 
woman  without  a  home  ! 

Now  this  was  a  specimen  of  life — this  Val- 
erie de  Ventadour — that  Maltravers  had  never 
yet  contemplated,  and  Maltravers  was  perhaps 
equally  new  to  the  Frenchwoman.  They  were 
delighted  with-  each  other's  society,  although 
it  so  happened  that  they  never  agreed. 

Madame  de  Ventadour  rode  on  horseback, 
and  Maltravers  was  one  of  her  usual  compan- 
ions. And  oh,  the  beautiful  landscapes  through 
which  their  daily  excursions  lay  ! 

Maltravers  was  an  admirable  scholar.  The 
stores  of  the  immortal  dead  were  as  familiar 
to  him  as  his  own  language.  The  poetry,  the 
philosophy,  the  manner  of  thought  and  habits 
of  life — of  the  graceful  Greek  and  the  luxuri- 
ous Roman — were  a  part  of  knowledge  that 
constituted  a  common  and   household  portion 


46 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


of  his  own  associations  and  peculiarities  of 
thought.  He  had  saturated  his  intellect  with 
the  Pactolus  of  old — and  the  grains  of  gold 
came  down  from  the  classic  Tmolus  with  every 
tide.  This  knowledge  of  the  dead,  often  so 
useless,  has  an  unexpressible  charm  when  it  is 
applied  to  the  places  where  the  Dead  lived. 
We  care  nothing  about  the  ancients  on  High- 
gate  Hill — but  at  Baiae,  Pompeii,  by  the  Vir- 
gilian  Hades,  the  ancients  are  society  with 
which  we  thirst  to  be  familiar.  To  the  ani- 
mated and  curious  Frenchwoman  what  a 
cicerone  was  Ernest  Maltravers  !  How  eagerly 
she  listened  to  accounts  of  a  life  more  elegant 
than  that  of  Paris  ! — of  a  civilization  which  the 
world  never  can  know  again  !  So  much  the 
better; — for  it  was  rotten  at  the  core,  though 
most  brilliant  in  the  complexion.  Those  cold 
names  and  unsubstantial  shadows  which  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour  had  been  accustomed  to 
yawn  over  in  skeleton  histories,  took  from  the 
eloquence  of  Maltravers  the  breath  of  life — 
they  glowed  and  moved — they  feasted  and 
made  love — were  wise  and  foolish,  merry  and 
sad,  like  living  things.  On  the  other  hand, 
Maltravers  learned  a  thousand  new  secrets  of 
the  existing  and  actual  world  from  the  lips  of 
the  accomplished  and  observant  Valerie. 
What  a  new  step  in  the  philosophy  of  life  does 
a  young  man  of  genius  make,  when  he  first 
compares  his  theories  and  experience  with  the 
intellect  of  a  clever  woman  of  the  world  ! 
Perhaps  it  does  not  elevate  him,  but  how  it  en- 
lightens and  refines  ! — what  numberless  minute 
yet  impoi'tant  mysteries  in  human  character 
and  practical  wisdom  does  he  drink  uncon- 
sciously from  the  sparkling  persiflage  of  such 
a  companion  !  Our  education  is  hardly  ever 
complete  without  it. 

"  And  so  you  think  these  stately  Romans 
were  not,  after  all,  so  dissimilar  to  ourselves  ?  " 
said  Valerie,  one  day,  as  they  looked  over  the 
same  earth  and  ocean  along  which  had  roved  the 
eyes  of  the  voluptuous  but  august  Lucullus. 

"  In  the  last  days  of  their  Republic,  a  coup- 
tToeil  of  their  social  date  might  convey  to  us  a 
general  notion  of  our  own.  Their  system, 
like  ours — a  vast  aristocracy  heaved  and  agi- 
tated, but  kept  ambitious  and  intellectual, 
by  the  great  democratic  ocean  which  roared 
below  and  around  it.  An  immense  distinction 
between  rich  and  poor — a  nobility  sumptuous, 
wealthy,  cultivated,  yet  scarcely  elegant  or  re- 


fined;— a  people  with  mighty  aspirations  for 
more  perfect  liberty,  but  always  liable,  in  a 
crisis,  to  be  influenced  and  subdued  by  a  deep- 
rooted  veneration  for  the  very  aristocracy 
against  which  they  struggled; — a  ready  open- 
ing through  all  the  walls  of  custom  and  privi- 
lege, for  every  description  of  talent  and  ambi- 
tion; but  so  strong  and  universal  a  respect  for 
wealth,  that  the  finest  spirit  grew  avaricious, 
griping,  and  corrupt,  almost  unconsciously; 
and  the  man  who  rose  from  the  people  did  not 
scruple  to  enrich  himself  out  of  the  abuses  he 
affected  to  lament;  and  the  man  who  would 
have  died  for  his  country  could  not  help 
thrusting  his  hands  into  her  pockets. 

Cassius,  the  stubborn  and  thoughtful  patriot, 
with  his  heart  of  iron,  had,  you  remember,  an 
itching  palm.  Yet,  what  a  blow  to  all  the 
hopes  and  dreams  of  a  world  was  the  over- 
throw of  the  free  party  after  the  death  of 
Caesar  !  What  generations  of  freemen  fell  at 
Philippi  !  In  England,  perhaps,  we  may  have 
ultimately  the  same  struggle;  in  France,  too, 
(perhaps  a  larger  stage,  with  far  more  inflam- 
mable actors),  we  alreiidy  perceive  the  same 
war  of  elements  which  shook  Rome  to  her 
centre,  which  finally  replaced  the  generous 
Julius  with  the  hypocritical  Augustus,  which 
destroyed  the  colossal  patricians  to  make  way 
for  the  glittering  dwarfs  of  a  court,  and  cheated 
a  people  out  of  the  substance  with  the  shadow 
of  liberty.  How  it  may  end  in  the  modern 
world,  who  shall  say  ?  But  while  a  nation  has 
already  a  fair  degree  of  constitutional  freedom, 
I  believe  no  struggle  so  perilous  and  awful  as 
that  between  the  aristocratic  and  the  demo- 
cratic  principle.  A  people  against  a  despot — 
that  contest  requires  no  prophet;  but  the 
change  from  an  aristocratic  to  a  democratic 
commonwealth  is  indeed  the  wide,  unbounded 
prospect  upon  which  rest  shadows,  clouds,  and 
darkness.  If  it  fail — for  centuries  is  the  dial 
hand  of  Time  put  back;  if  it  succeed " 

Maltravers  paused. 

"  And  if  it  succeed  ?  "  said  Valerie. 

"  Why,  then,  man  will  have  colonized  Uto- 
pia !  "  replied  Maltravers. 

"  But  at  least,  in  modern  Europe,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  there  will  be  fair  room  for  the  ex- 
periment. For  we  have  not  that  curse  of 
slavery  which,  more  than  all  else,  vitiated 
every  system  of  the  ancients,  and  kept  the 
rich  and  the  poor  alternately  at  war;  and  we 


ERNESl-    MAL  TRA  VERS. 


47 


have  a  press,  which  is  not  only  the  safety- 
valve  of  the  passions  of  every  party,  l)ut  the 
great  note-book  of  the  experiments  of  every 
hour — the  homely,  the  invaluable  ledger  of 
losses  and  of  gains.  No;  the  people  who 
keep  that  tablet  well  never  can  be  bankrupt. 
And  the  society  of  those  old  Romans:  their 
daily  passions — occupations — humors  ! — why, 
the  satire  of  Horace  is  the  glass  of  our  own 
follies  !  We  may  fancy  his  easy  pages  writ- 
ten in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  or  May-fair;  but 
there  was  one  thing  that  will  ever  keep  the 
ancient  world  dissimilar  from  the  modern." 

"  And  what  is  that?  " 

"  The  ancients  knew  not  that  delicacy  in 
the  affections  which  characterizes  the  descend- 
ants of  the  Goths,"  said  Maltravers,  and  his 
voice  slightly  trembled;  "  they  gave  up  to  the 
monopoly  of  the  senses  what  ought  to  have 
had  an  equal  share  in  the  reason  and  the  im- 
agination. Their  love  was  a  beautiful  and 
wanton  butterfly;  but  not  the  butterfly  which 
is  the  emblem  of  the  soul." 

Valerie  sighed.  She  looked  timidly  into 
the  face  of  the  young  philosopher,  but  his  eyes 
were  averted. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
"  we  pass  our  lives  more  happily  without  love 
than  with  it.  And  in  our  modern  social  sys- 
tem," (she  continued,  thoughtfully,  and  with 
profound  truth,  though  it  is  scarcely  the  con- 
clusion to  which  a  woman  often  arrives),  "  I 
think  we  have  pampered  Love  to  too  great  a 
preponderance  over  the  other  excitements  of 
life.  As  children  we  are  taught  to  dream  of 
it;  in  youth,  our  books,  our  conversation,  our 
plays,  are  filled  with  it.  We  are  trained  to 
consider  it  the  essential  of  life;  and  yet,  the 
moment  we  come  to  actual  experience,  the  mo- 
ment we  indulge  this  inculcated  and  stim- 
ulated craving,  nine  times  out  of  ten  we  find 
ourselves  wretched  and  undone.  Ah,  believe 
me,  Mr.  Maltravers,  this  is  not  a  world  in  which 
we  should  preach  up,  too  far,  the  philosophy 
of  Love !  " 

"And  does  Madame  de  Ventadour  speak 
from  experience  ?  "  asked  Maltravers,  gazing 
earnestly  upon  the  changing  countenance  of 
his  companion. 

"  No;  and  I  trust  that  I  never  may  !  "  said 
Valerie,  with  great  energy. 

Ernest's  lip  curled  slightly,  for  his  pride  was 
touched. 


"  I  could  give  up  many  dreams  of  the  fut- 
ure," said  he,  "  to  hear  Madame  de  Ventadoui 
revoke  that  sentiment." 

"  We  have  outridden  our  companions,  Mr. 
Maltravers,"  said  Valerie,  coldly,  and  she 
reined  in  her  horse.  '■  Ah,  Mr.  Ferrers,"  she 
continued,  as  Lunriey  and  the  handsome  Ger- 
man Baron  now  joined  her,  "you  are  too  gal- 
lant; I  see  you  imply  a  delicate  compliment 
to  my  horsemanship,  when  you  wish  me  to  be- 
lieve you  cannot  keep  up  with  me:  Mr.  Mal- 
travers is  not  so  polite." 

"  Nay,"  returned  Ferrers,  who  rarely  threw 
away  a  compliment  without  a  satisfactory  re- 
turn, "  Nay,  you  and  Maltravers  appeared  lost 
among  the  old  Romans:  and  our  friend  the 
Baron  took  that  opportunity  to  tell  me  of  all 
the  ladies  who  adored  him." 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Ferrare,  que  vous  ites  malin  !  " 
said  Schomberg,  looking  very  much  confused. 

" Ma/iu  !  no;  I  spoke  from  no  envy:  /  never 
was  adored,  thank  Heaven  !  What  a  bore  it 
must  be  !  " 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  the  sympathy  be- 
tween yourself  and  Ferrers,"  whispered  Mal- 
travers to  Valerie. 

Valerie  laughed;  but  during  the  rest  of  the 
excursion  she  remained  thoughtful  and  absent, 
and  for  some  days  their  rides  were  discon- 
tinued.    Madame  de  Ventadour  was  not  well. 


CHAPTER  HL 

"  O  Love,  forsake  me  not ; 
Mine  were  a  lone  dark  lot 
Bere'ft  of  thee." 
— Hemans,  Genius  singing  to  Love. 

I  FEAR  that  as  yet  Ernest  Maltravers  had 
gained  little  from  Experience,  except  a  few 
current  coins  of  worldly  wisdom  (and  not  very 
valuable  those!)  while  he  had  lost  much  of  that 
nobler  wealth  with  which  youthful  enthusiasm 
sets  out  on  the  journey  of  life.  Experience  is 
an  open  giver,  but  a  stealthy  thief.  There  is, 
however,  this  to  be  said  in  her  favor,  that  we 
retain  her  gifts;  and  if  we  ever  demand 
restitution  in  earnest,  'tis  ten  to  one  but  what 
we  recover  her  thefts.  Maltravers  had  lived 
in  lands  where  public  opinion  is  neither  strong 
in  its  influence,  nor  rigid  in  its  canons;  and 
that  does  not  make  a  man  better.     Moreover, 


»8 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


thrown  headlong  amidst  the  temptations  that 
make  the  first  ordeal  of  youth,  with  ardent 
passions  and  intellectual  superiority,  he  had 
been  led  by  the  one  into  many  errors,  from 
the  consequences  of  which  the  other  had  de- 
livered him;  the  necessity  of  roughing  it 
through  the  world — of  resisting  fraud  to-day, 
and  violence  to-morrow, — had  hardened  over 
the  surface  of  his  heart,  though  at  bottom  the 
springs  were  still  fresh  and  living  He  had 
lost  much  of  his  chivalrous  veneration  for 
women,  for  he  had  seen  them  less  often  de- 
ceived than  deceiving.  Again,  too,  the  last 
few  years  had  been  spent  without  any  high 
aims  or  fixed  pursuits.  Maltravers  had  been 
living  on  the  capital  of  his  faculties  and  affec- 
tions in  a  wasteful  speculating  spirit.  It  is  a 
bad  thing  for  a  clever  and  ardent  man  not  to 
have  from  the  onset  some  paramount  object  of 
life. 

All  this  considered,  we  can  scarcely  wonder 
that  Maltravers  should  have  fallen  into  an 
involuntary  system  of  pursuing  his  own  amuse- 
ments and  pursuits,  without  much  forethought 
of  the  harm  or  the  good  they  were  to  do  to 
others  or  himself.  The  moment  we  lose  fore- 
thought, we  lose  sight  of  duty;  and  though  it 
seems  like  a  paradox,  we  can  seldom  be  care- 
less without  being  selfish. 

In  seeking  the  society  of  Madame  de  Venta- 
dour,  Maltravers  obeyed  but  the  mechanical 
impulse  that  leads  the  idler  towards  the  com- 
panionship which  most  pleases  his  leisure. 
He  was  interested  and  excited;  and  Valerie's 
manners,  which  to-day  flattered,  and  to-morrow 
piqued  him,  enlisted  his  vanity  and  pride  on 
the  side  of  his  fancy.  But  arlthough  Monsieur 
de  Ventadour,  a  frivolous  and  profligate 
Frenchman,  seemed  utterly  indifferent  as  to 
what  his  wife  chose  to  do;  and  in  the  society 
in  which  Valerie  lived,  almost  every  lady  had 
her  cavalier;  yet  Maltravers  would  have 
started  with  incredulity  or  dismay  had  any 
one  accused  him  of  a  systematic  design  on 
her  affections.  But  he  was  living  with  the 
world,  and  the  world  affected  him  as  it  almost 
always  does  every  one  else.  Still  he  had,  at 
times,  in  his  heart,  the  feeling  that  he  was  not 
fulfilling  his  proper  destiny  and  duties;  and 
when  he  stole  from  the  brilliant  resorts  of  an 
unworthy  and  heartless  pleasure,  he  was  ever 
and  anon  haunted  by  his  old  familiar  aspira- 
tions for  the   Beautiful,  the  Virtuous,  and  the 


Great.  However,  hell  is  paved  with  good  in- 
tentions; and  so,  in  the  meanwhile,  Ernest 
Maltravers  surrendered  himself  to  the  deli- 
cious presence  of  Valerie  de  Ventadour. 

One  evening,  Maltravers,  Ferrers,  the  French 
minister,  a  pretty  Italian,  and  the  Princess  di 
,  made  the  whole  party  collected  at  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour's.  The  conversation  fell 
upon  one  of  the  tales  of  scandal  relative  to 
English  persons,  so  common  on  the  continent. 

"  Is  it  true.  Monsieur,"  said  the  French 
minister,  gravely,  to  Lumley,  "  that  your  coun- 
trymen are  much  more  immoral  than  other 
people  ?  It  is  very  strange,  but  in  every  town 
I  enter,  there  is  always  some  story  in  which 
les  Anglais  are  the  heroes.  I  hear  nothing  of 
French  scandal — nothing  of  Italian — toujours 
les  Anglais." 

"  Because  we  are  shocked  at  these  things, 
and  make  a  noise  about  them,  while  you  take 
them  quietly.  Vice  is  our  episode — your 
epic." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  said  the  Frenchman, 
with  affected  seriousness.  "  If  we  cheat  at 
play,  or  flirt  with  a  fair  lady,  we  do  it  with  de- 
corum, and  our  neighbors  think  it  no  business 
of  theirs.  But  you  treat  every  frailty  you 
find  in  your  countrymen  as  a  public  concern, 
to  be  discussed  and  talked  over,  and  exclaimed 
against;  and  told  to  all  the  world." 

"I  like  the  system  of  scandal,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour,  abruptly,  "  say  what  you 
will;  the  policy  of  fear  keeps  many  of  us  vir- 
tuous. Sin  might  not  be  odious,  if  we  did  not 
tremble  at  the  consequence  even  of  appear- 
ances." 

"  Hein,  hein,"  grunted  Monsieur  de  Venta- 
dour, shuffling  into  the  room.  "  How  are  you  ! 
— how  are  you  !  Charmed  to  see  you.  Dull 
night — I  suspect  we  shall  have  rain.  Hein, 
hein.  Aha,  Monsieur  Ferrers,  comment  (a  va- 
t-il?  will  you  give  me  my  revenge  at  icartSi 
I  have  my  suspicions  that  I  am  in  luck  to- 
night.    Hein,  hein." 

"  Ecart^.'—weW,  with  pleasure,"  said  Fer- 
rers. 

Ferrers  played  well  ! 

The  conversation  ended  in  a  moment.  The 
little  party  gathered  round  the  table — all,  ex- 
cept Valerie  and  Maltravers.  The  chairs  that 
were  vacated  left  a  kind  of  breach  between 
them;  but  still  they  were  next  to  each  other, 
and  they  felt  embarrassed,  for  they  felt  alone. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


49 


"  Do  you  never  play  ? "  asked  Madame  de 
Ventadour,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  have  played,"  said  Maltravers,  "  and  I 
know  the  temptation.  I  dare  not  play  now. 
I  love  the  excitement,  but  I  have  been  humbled 
at  the  debasement:  it  is  a  moral  drunkenness 
that  is  worse  than  the  physical." 

"You  speak  vvarmly." 

"  Because  I  feel  keenly.  I  once  won  of  a 
man  I  respected,  who  was  poor.  His  agony 
was  a  dreadful  lesson  to  me.  I  went  home, 
and  was  terrified  to  think  I  had  felt  so  much 
pleasure  in  the  pain  of  another.  I  have  never 
played  since  that  night." 

"  So  young  and  so  resolute  !  "  said  Valerie, 
with  admiration  in  her  voice  and  eyes;  "you 
are  a  strange  person.  Others  would  have  been 
cured  by  losing,  you  were  cured  by  winning. 
It  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  principle  at  your  age, 
Mr.  Maltravers." 

"  I  fear  it  was  rather  pride  than  principle," 
said  Maltravers.  "Error  is  sometimes  sweet; 
but  there  is  no  anguish  like  an  error  of  which 
we  feel  ashamed.  I  cannot  submit  to  blush 
for  myself." 

"  Ah  !  "  muttered  Valerie;  "  this  is  the  echo 
of  my  own  heart  !  "  She  rose  and  went  to  the 
window.  Maltravers  paused  a  moment,  and 
followed  her.  Perhaps  he  half  thought  there 
was  an  invitation  in  the  movement. 

There  lay  before  them  the  still  street,  with 
its  feeble  and  unfrequent  lights;  beyond,  a 
few  stairs,  struggling  through  an  atmosphere 
unusually  clouded,  brought  the  murmuring 
ocean  partially  into  sight.  Valerie  leaned 
against  the  wall,  and  the  draperies  of  the 
window  veiled  her  from  all  the  guests,  save 
Maltravers;  and  between  her  and  himself  was 
a  large  marble  vase  filled  with  flowers;  and  by 
that  uncertain  light  Valerie's  brilliant  cheek 
looked  pale,  and  soft,  and  thoughtful.  Mal- 
travers never  before  felt  so  much  in  love  with 
the  beautiful  Frenchwoman. 

"Ah,  madam  !"  said  he,  softly;  "there  is 
one  error,  if  it  be  so,  that  never  can  cost  me 
shame." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Valerie,  with  an  unaffected 
start,  for  she  was  not  aware  he  was  so  near  her. 
As  she  spoke  she  began  plucking  (it  is  a  com- 
mon woman's  trick)  the  flowers  from  the  vase 
between  her  and  Ernest.  That  small,  delicate, 
almost  transparent  hand  ! — Maltravers  gazed 
upon  the  hand,  then  on  the  countenance,  then 

6.-4 


on  the  hand  again.  The  scene  swam  before 
him,  and,  involuntarily  and  as  by  an  irresis- 
tible impulse,  the  next  moment  the  hand  was 
in  his  own. 

"  Pardon  me — pardon  me,"  said  he,  falter- 
ingly;  "but  that  error  is  in  the  feelings  that  I 
know  for  you." 

Valerie  lifted  on  him  her  large  and  radiant 
eyes,  and  made  no  answer. 

Maltravers  went  on.  "  Chide  me,  scorn  me, 
hate  me  if  you  will.     Valerie,  I  love  you  !  " 

"  Valerie  drew  away  her  hand,  and  still  re 
mained  silent. 

"  Speak  to  me,"  said  Ernest,  leaning  forward; 
"  one  word,  I  implore  you — speak  to  me  !  " 

He  paused, — still  no  reply;  he  listened 
breathlessly — he  heard  her  sob.  Yes;  that 
proud,  that  wise,  that  lofty  woman  of  the 
world,  in  that  moment,  was  as  weak  as  the 
simplest  girl  that  ever  listened  to  a  lover. 
But  how  different  the  feelings  that  made  her 
weak  ? — what  soft  and  what  stern  emotions 
were  blent  together  ! 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,"  she  said,  recovering  her 
voice,  though  it  sounded  hollow,  yet  almost 
unnaturally  firm  and  clear — "  the  die  is  cast, 
and  I  have  lost  for  ever  the  friend  for  whose 
happiness  I  cannot  live,  but  for  whose  welfare 
I  would  have  died;  I  should  have  forseen  this, 
but  I  was  blind.  No  more — no  more;  see  me 
to-morrow,  and  leave  me  now  !  " 

"  But,  Valerie " 

"  Ernest  Maltravers,"  said   she,   laying  her , 
hand  lightly  on  his  own;  ^^  there  is  no  anguish 
like  an  error  of  which  we  feel  ashamed!  " 

Before  he  could  reply  to  this  citation  from 
his  own  aphorism,  Valerie  had  glided  away; 
and  was  already  seated  at  the  card-table,  by 
the  side  of  the  Italian  princess. 

Maltravers  also  joined  the  group.  He  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Madame  de  Ventadour,  but  her 
face  was  calm, — not  a  trace  of  emotion  was 
discernible.  Her  voice,  her  smile,  her  charm- 
ing and  courtly  manner,  all  were  as  when  he 
first  beheld  her. 

"  These  women — what  hypocrites  they  are  !  " 
muttered  Maltravers  to  himself;  and  his  lip 
writhed  into  a  sneer,  which  had  of  late  often 
forced  away  the  serene  and  gracious  expres- 
sion of  his  earlier  years,  ere  he  knew  what  it 
was  to  despise.  But  Maltravers  mistook  the 
woman  he  dared  to  scorn. 

He    soon  withdrew   from  the  palazzo,  and 


5° 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


sought  his  hotel.  There,  while  yet  musing  in  his 
dressing  room,  he  was  joined  by  Ferrers.  The 
time  had  passed  when  Ferrers  had  exercised 
an  influence  over  Maltravers;  the  boy  had 
grown  up  to  be  the  equal  of  the  man,  in  the 
exercise  of  that  two-edged  sword — the  reason. 
And  Maltravers  now  felt,  unalloyed,  the  calm 
consciousness  of  his  superior  genius.  He 
could  not  confide  to  Ferrers  what  had  passed 
between  him  and  Valerie.  Lumley  was  too 
hard  for  a  confidant  in  matters  where  the  heart 
was  at  all  concerned.  In  fact,  in  high  spirits, 
and  in  the  midst  of  frivolous  adventures,  Fer- 
rers was  charming.  But  in  sadness,  or  in  the 
moments  of  deep  feeling,  Ferrers  was  one 
whom  you  would  wish  out  of  the  way. 

"You  are  sullen  to  night, ;«(?«  cher,"  said 
Lumley,  yawning;  "  I  suppose  you  want  to  go 
to  bed — some  persons  are  so  ill-bred,  so  sel- 
fish, they  never  think  of  their  friends.  No- 
body asks  me  what  I  won  at  e'cart/.  Don't  be 
late  to-morrow — I  hate  breakfasting  alone,  and 
/  am  never  later  than  a  quarter  before  nine — 
I  hate  egotistical,  ill-mannered  people.  Good 
night. 

With  this,  Ferrers  sought  his  own  room; 
there,  as  he  slowly  undressed,  he  thus  solilo- 
quized:— "I  think  I  have  put  this  man  to  all 
the  use  I  can  make  of  him.  We  don't  pull 
well  together  any  longer;  perhaps  I  myself  am 
a  little  tired  of  this  sort  of  life.  That  is  not 
right.  I  shall  grow  ambitious  by  and  by;  but 
I  think  it  a  bad  calculation  not  to  make  the 
most  of  youth.  At  four  or  five-and-thirty  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  consider  what  one 
ought  to  be  at  fifty. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

»    *    »    «    "  Most  dangerous 
Is  that  temptation  that  does  goad  us  on 
To  sin,  in  loving  virtue." — Measure  for  Measure. 

See  her  to-morrow  ! — that  morrow  "  is 
come  !  "  thought  Maltravers,  as  he  rose  the 
next  day  from  a  sleepless  couch.  Ere  yet  he 
had  obeyed  the  impatient  summons  of  Ferrers, 
who  had  thrice  sent  to  say  that  "  he  never 
kept  people  waiting,"  his  servant  entered  with 
a  packet  from  England,  that  had  just  arrived 
by  one  of  those  rare  couriers  who  sometimes 
honor  that  Naples,  which  might  be  so  lucrative 


a  mart  to  English  commerce,  if  Neapolitan 
kings  cared  for  trade,  or  English  senators  for 
"foreign  politics."  Letters  from  stewards 
and  bankers  were  soon  got  through;  and  Mal- 
travers reserved  for  the  last  an  epistle  from 
Cleveland.  There  was  much  in  it  that  touched 
him  home.  After  some  dry  details  about  the 
property  to  which  Maltravers  had  now  suc- 
ceeded, and  some  trifling  comments  upon 
trifling  remarks  in  Ernest's  former  letters, 
Cleveland  went  on  thus: — 

"  I  confess,  my  dear  Ernest,  that  I  long  to  welcome 
you  back  to  England.  You  have  been  abroad  long 
enough  to  see  other  countries;  do  not  stay  long  enough 
to  prefer  them  to  your  own.  You  are  at  Naples,  too — 
I  tremble  for  you.  I  know  well  that  delicious,  dream- 
ing, holiday-life  of  Italy,  so  sweet  to  men  of  learning 
and  imagination — so  sweet  too  to  youth — so  sweet  to 
pleasure!  But,  Ernest,  do  you  not  feel  already  how  it 
enervates? — how  the  luxurious /</>•  niente  unfits  us  for 
grave  exertion  ?  Men  may  become  too  refined  and 
too  fastidious  for  useful  purposes;  and  nowhere  can 
they  become  so  more  rapidly  than  in  Italy.  My  dear 
Ernest,  I  know  you  well;  you  are  not  made  to  sink 
down  into  a  virtuoso,  with  a  cabinet  full  of  cameos  and 
a  head  full  of  pictures;  still  less  are  you  made  to  be  an 
indolent  cicesbeo  to  some  fair  Italian,  with  one  pas- 
sion and  two  ideas:  and  I  have  known  men  as  clever 
as  you,  whom  that  bewitching  Italy  has  sunk  into  one 
or  other  of  these  insignificant  beings.  Don't  run 
away  with  the  notion  that  you  have  plenty  of  time  be- 
fore you.  You  have  no  such  thing.  At  your  age,  and 
with  your  fortune,  (I  wish  you  were  notsorichl)  the 
holiday  of  one  year  becomes  the  custom  of  the  next. 
In  England,  to  be  a  useful  or  a  distinguished  man,  you 
must  labor.  Now,  labor  itself  is  sweet,  if  we  take  to 
it  early.  We  are  a  hard  race,  but  we  are  a  manly  one; 
and  our  stage  is  the  most  exciting  in  Europe  for  an 
able  and  an  honest  ambition.  Perhaps  you  will  tell 
me  you  are  not  ambitious  now;  very  possibly — but 
ambitious  you  will  be;  and,  believe  me,  th^re  is  no 
unhappier  wretch  than  a  man  who  is  ambilious  but 
disappointed, — who  has  the  desire  for  fame,  but  has 
lost  the  power  to  achieve  it, — who  longs  for  the  goal, 
but  will  not,  and  cannot,  put  away  his  slippers  to  walk 
to  it.  What  I  most  fear  for  you  is  one  of  these  two 
evils — an  early  marriage  or  a  fatal  liaison  with  some 
married  woman.  The  first  evil  is  certainly  the  least, 
but  for  you  it  would  still  be  a  great  one.  With  your 
sensitive  romance',  with  your  morbid  cravings  for  the 
Ideal,  domestic  happiness  would  soon  grow  trite  and 
dull.  You  would  demand  new  excitement,  and  be- 
come a  restless  and  disgusted  man.  It  is  necessary  for 
you  to  get  rid  of  all  the  false  fever  of  life,  before  you 
settle  down  to  everlasting  ties.  You  do  not  yet  know 
your  own  mind;  you  would  choose  your  partner  from 
some  visionary  caprice,  or  momentar}'  impulse,  and 
not  from  the  deep  and  accurate  knowledge  of  those 
qualities  which  would  most  harmonize  with  your  own 
character.  People,  to  live  happily  with  each  other, 
must^;  !«,  as  it  were— the  proud  be  mated  with  the 
meek,  the  irritable  with  the  gentle,  and  so  forth.  No,  my 
dear  Maltravers,  do  not  think  of  marriage  yet  awhile; 
and  if  there  is  any  danger  of  it,  come  over  to  me  im- 
mediatelv.     But  if  I   warn  you  against  a   lawful  tie, 


ERNES  T    MAL  TRA  VERS. 


51 


how  much  more  against  an  illicit  one?  You  are  pre- 
cisely of  the  age,  and  of  the  disposition,  which  render 
the  temptation  so  strong  and  so  deadly.  With  you  it 
might  not  be  the  sin  of  an  hour,  but  the  bondage  of  a 
life.  I  know  your  chivalric  honor— your  tender  heart; 
I  know  how  faithful  you  would  be  to  one  who  had 
sacrificed  for  you.  But  that  fidelity,  Maltravers,  to 
what  a  life  of  wasted  talent  and  energies  would  it  not 
compel  you  !  Putting  aside  for  the  moment  (for  that 
needs  no  comment)  the  question  of  the  grand  im- 
morality—what so  fatal  to  a  bold  and  proud  temper, 
as  to  be  at  war  with  society  at  the  first  entrance  into 
life?  What  so  withering  to  manly  aims  and  purposes, 
as  the  giving  into  the  keeping  of  a  woman,  who  has 
interest  in  your  love,  and  interest  against  your  career 
which  might  part  you  at  once  from  her  side— the  con- 
trol of  your  future  destinies  ?  I  could  say  more,  but  I 
trust  what  I  have  said  is  superfluous;  if  so,  pray  assure 
me  of  it.  Depend  upon  this,  Ernest  Maltravers,  that 
if  you  do  not  fulfil  what  nature  intended  for  your  fate, 
you  will  be  a  morbid  misanthrope,  or  an  indolent 
voluptuary — wretched  and  listless  in  manhood — repin- 
ing and  joyless  in  old  age.  But  if  you  do  fulfil  your 
fate,  you  must  enter  soon  into  your  apprenticeship. 
Let  me  see  you  labor  and  aspire — no  matter  what  in 
— what  to.    Work,  work — that  is  all  1  ask  of  you  ! 

"I  wish  you  could  see  your  old  country-house;  it 
has  a  venerable   and    picturesque,   look,   and  during 
your  minority  they  have  let  the  ivy  cover  three  sides 
of  it.     Montaigne  might  have  lived  there. 
"  Adieu,  dearest  Ernest, 
"  Your  anxious  and  affectionate  Guardian, 

"  Frederick  Cleveland." 

•'  P.S.— I  am  writing  a  book — it  shall  last  me  ten 
years— it  occupies  me,  but  does  not  fatigue.  Write  a 
book  yourself." 

Maltravers  had  just  finished  this  letter  when 
Ferrers  entered  impatiently.  "  Will  you  ride 
out  ? "  said  he.  "  I  have  sent  the  breakfast 
away;  I  saw  that  breakfast  was  a  vain  hope 
to-day — indeed,  my  appetite  is  gone." 

"  Pshaw  I  "  said  Maltravers. 

"  Pshaw  I  humph  !  for  my  part  I  like  well- 
bred  people." 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Cleveland." 

"  And  what  the  deuce  has  that  got  to  do 
with  the  chocolate  ?  " 

"Oh,  Lumley,  you  are  insufferable;  you 
think  of  nothing  but  yourself,  and  self  with 
you  means  nothing  that  is  not  animal." 

"Why,  yes;  I  believe  I  have  some  sense," 
replied  Ferrers,  coinplacently.  "  I  know  the 
philosophy  of  life.  All  unfledged  bipeds  are 
animals,  I  suppose.  If  Providence  had  made 
me  graminivirous,  I  should  have  eaten  grass; 
if  ruminating,  I  should  have  chewed  the  cud; 
but  as  it  has  made  me  a  carnivorous,  culinary, 
and  cachinnatory  animal,  I  eat  a  cutlet,  scold 
about  the  sauce,  and  laugh  at  you;  and  tbis  is 
\s\iz.'i you  call  being  selfish  !" 


It  was  late  at  noon  when  Maltravers  found 
himself  at  the  palazzo  of  Madame  de  Venta- 
dour.  He  was  surprised,  but  agreeably  so, 
that  he  was  admitted,  for  the  first  time,  into 
that  private  sanctum  which  bears  the  hack- 
neyed title  of  boudoir.  But  there  was  little 
enough  of  the  fine  lady's  boudoir  in  the  sim- 
ple morning  room  of  Madame  de  Ventadour. 
It  was  a  lofty  apartment,  stored  with  books, 
and  furnished,  not  without  claim  to  grace,  but 
with  very  small  attention  to  luxury. 

Valerie  was  not  there;  and  Maltravers,  left 
alone,  after  a  hasty  glance  around  the  cham- 
ber, leaned  abstractedly  against  the  wall,  and 
forgot,  alas  !  all  the  admonitions  of  Cleveland. 
In  a  few  moments  the  door  opened  and  Va- 
lerie entered.  She  was  unusually  pale,  and 
Maltravers  thought  her  eyelids  betrayed  the 
traces  of  tears.  He  was  touched  and  his 
heart  smote  him. 

"  I  have  kept  you  waiting,  I  fear,"  said 
Valerie,  motioning  him  to  a  seat  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  that  on  which  she  placed  herself; 
"  but  you  will  forgive  me,"  she  added,  with  a 
slight  smile.  Then,  observing  he  was  about 
to  speak,  she  went  on  rapidly.  "  Hear  me, 
Mr.  Maltravers — before  you  speak,  hear  me  ! 
You  uttered  words  last  night  that  ought  never 
to  have  been  addressed  to  me.  You  professed 
to — love  me." 

"  Professed  !  " 

"  Answer  me,"  said  Valerie,  with  abrupt 
energy,  "  not  as  man  to  woman,  but  as  one 
human  creature  to  another.  From  the  bottom 
of  your  heart,  froin  the  core  of  your  con- 
science, I  call  on  you  to  speak  the  honest  and 
the  simple  truth.  Do  you  love  me  as  your 
heart,  your  genius,  must  be  capable  of  lov- 
ing?" 

"  I  love  you  truly — passionately  !  "  said  Mal- 
travers, surprised  and  confused,  but  still  with 
enthusiasm  in  his  musical  voice  and  earnest 
eyes.  Valerie  gazed  upon  him  as  if  she 
.sought  to  penetrate  into  his  soul.  Maltravers 
went  on.  "  Yes,  Valerie,  when  we  first  met, 
you  aroused  a  long  dormant  and  delicious 
sentiment.  But,  since  then,  what  deep  emo- 
tions has  that  sentiment  called  forth.  Your 
graceful  intellect — your  lovely  thoughts,  wise 
yet  womanly — have  completed  the  conquest 
your  face  and  voice  began.  Valerie,  I  love 
you.  And  you — you  Valerie — ah  I  I  do  not 
deceive  myself — you  also " 


52 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"  Love  !  "  interrupted  Valerie,  deeply  blush- 
ing, but  in  a  calm  voice.  "  Ernest  Maltravers, 
I  do  not  deny  it;  honestly  and  frankly  I  con- 
fess the  fault.  I  have  examined  my  heart  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  the  last  sleepless  night,  and  I 
confess  that  I  love  you.  Now,  then,  under- 
stand me;  we  meet  no  more." 

"What!"  said  Maltravers,  falling  involun- 
tarily at  her  feet,  and  seeking  to  detain  her 
hand,  which  he  seized.  "  What !  now,  when 
you  have  given  life  a  new  charm,  will  you  as 
suddenly  blast  it?  No,  Valerie;  no,  I  will 
not  listen  to  you." 

Madame  de  Ventadour  rose  and  said,  with  a 
cold  dignity,  "  Hear  me  calmly,  or  I  quit  the 
room:  and  all  I  would  now  say  rest  for  ever 
unspoken." 

Maltravers  rose  also,  folded  his  arms  haught- 
ily, bit  his  lip,  and  stood  erect,  and  confronting 
Valerie,  rather  in  the  attitude  of  an  accuser 
than  a  suppliant. 

"Madame,"  said  he  gravely,  "  I  will  offend 
no  more;  I  will  trust  to  your  manner,  since  I 
may  not  believe  your  words." 

"You  are  cruel,"  said  Valerie,  smiling 
mournfully;  "  but  so  are  all  men.  Now  let  me 
make  myself  understood.  I  was  betrothed  to 
Monsieur  de  Vantadour  in  my  childhood.  I 
did  not  see  him  till  a  month  before  we  married. 
I  had  no  choice.  French  girls  have  none  ! 
We  were  wed.  I  had  formed  no  other  attach- 
ment. I  was  proud  and  vain;  wealth,  ambition, 
and  social  rank  for  a  time  satisfied  my  facul- 
ties and  my  heart.  At  length  I  grew  restless 
and  unhappy.  I  felt  that  the  something  of  life 
was  wanting.  Monsieur  de  Ventadour's  sister 
was  the  first  to  recommend  to  me  the  common 
resource  of  our  sex — at  least  in  France —  a  lover. 
I  was  shocked  and  startled,  for  I  belong  to  a 
family  in  which  women  are  chaste  and  men 
brave.  I  began,  however,  to  look  around  me, 
and  examine  the  truth  of  the  philosophy  of 
vice.  I  found  that  no  woman  who  loved  honestly 
and  deeply  an  illicit  lover,  was  happy.  I  found, 
too,  the  hideous  profundity  of  Rochefoucauld's 
maxim,  that  a  woman — I  speak  of  French 
women — may  live  without  a  lover;  but,  a  lover 
once  admitted,  she  never  goes  through  life  with 
only  on^.  She  is  deserted;  she  cannot  bear 
the  anguish  and  the  solitude;  she  fills  up  the 
void  with  a  second  idol.  For  her  there  is  no 
longer  a  fall  from  virtue;  it  is  a  gliduig 
and  involuntary   descent  from  sin  to   sin,  till 


old  age  comes  on  and  leaves  her  without  love 
and  without  respect.  I  reasoned  calmly,  for 
my  passions  did  not  blind  my  reason.  I  could 
not  love  the  egotists  around  me.  I  resolved 
upon  my  career;  and  now,  in  temptation,  I 
will  adhere  to  it.  Virtue  is  my  lover,  my  pride, 
my  comfort,  my  life  of  life.  Do  you  love  me, 
and  will  you  rob  me  of  this  treasure?  I  saw 
you,  and  for  the  first  time  I  felt  a  vague  and 
intoxicating  interest  in  another;  but  I  did  not 
dream  of  danger.  As  our  acquaintance  ad- 
vanced I  formed  to  myself  a  romantic  and  de- 
lightful vision.  I  would  be  your  firmest,  your 
truest  friend;  your  confidant,  your  adviser — 
perhaps,  in  some  epochs  of  life,  your  inspira- 
tion and  your  guide. 

"  I  repeat  that  I  foresaw  no  danger  in  your 
society.  I  felt  myself  a  nobler  and  a  better 
being.  I  felt  more  benevolent,  more  tolerant^ 
more  exalted.  I  saw  life  through  the  medium 
of  purifying  admiration  for  a  gifted  nature,  and 
a  profound  and  generous  soul.  I  fancied  we 
might  be  ever  thus  —  each  to  each;  one 
strengthened,  assured,  supported  by  the  other. 
Nay,  I  even  contemplated  with  pleasure  the 
prospect  of  your  future  marriage  with  another 
— of  loving  your  wife — of  contributing  with 
her  to  your  happiness — my  imagination  made 
me  forget  that  we  are  made  of  clay.  Sud- 
denly all  these  visions  were  dispelled — the 
fairy  palace,  was  overthrown,  and  I  found  my- 
self awake,  and  on  the  brink  of  the  abyss — 
you  loved  me,  and  in  the  moment  of  that  fatal 
confession,  the  mask  dropped  from  my  soul, 
and  I  felt  that  you  had  become  too  dear  to 
me.  Be  silent  still,  I  implore  you.  I  do  not 
tell  you  of  the  emotions,  of  the  struggles, 
through  which  I  have  passed  the  last  few 
hours — the  crisis  of  a  life.  I  tell  you  only  of 
the  resolution  I  formed.  I  thought  it  due  to 
you,  nor  unworthy  of  myself,  to  speak  the 
truth.  Perhaps  it  might  be  more  womanly  to 
conceal  it;  but  my  heart  has  something  mas- 
culine in  its  nature.  I  have  a  great  faith  in 
your  nobleness.  I  believe  you  can  sympathize 
with  whatever  is  best  in  human  weakness.  I 
tell  you  that  I  love  you — I  throw  myself  upon 
your  generosity;  I  beseech  you  to  assist  my 
own  sense  of  right — to  think  well  of  me,  to 
honor  me— and  to  leave  me  !  " 

During  the  last  part  of  this  strange  and 
frank  avowal,  Valerie's  voice  had  grown  in- 
expressibly touching:    her  tenderness  forced 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


53 


itself  into  her  manner:  and  when  she  ceased, 
her  lip  quivered;  her  tears,  repressed  by  a 
violent  effort,  trembled  in  her  eyes — her  hands 
were  clasped — her  attitude  was  that  of  humility, 
not  pride. 

Maltravers  stood  perfectly  spell-bound.  At 
length  he  advanced;  dropped  on  one  knee, 
kissed  her  hand  with  an  aspect  and  air  of  rev- 
erential homage,  and  turned  to  quit  the  room 
in  silence;  for  he  would  not  dare  to  trust  him- 
self to  speak. 

Valerie  gazed  at  him  in  anxious  alarm. 
"Oh  no,  no  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "do  not  leave 
me  yet;  this  is  our  last  meeting — our  last. 
Tell  me,  at  least,  that  you  understand  me; 
that  you  see,  if  I  am  no  weak  fool,  I  am  also 
no  heartless  coquette;  tell  me  that  you  see  I 
am  not  as  hard  as  I  have  seemed;  that  I  have 
not  knowingly  trifled  with  your  happiness; 
that  even  now  I  am  not  selfish.  Your  love, — 
I  ask  it  no  more  !  But  your  esteem — your 
good  opinion.  Oh,  speak — speak,  I  implore 
you  !  " 

"Valerie,"  said  Maltravers,  "  if  I  was  silent, 
it  was  because  my  heart  was  too  full  for  words. 
You  have  raised  all  womanhood  in  my  eyes. 
I  did  love  you — I  now  venerate  and  adore. 
Your  noble  frankness,  so  unlike  the  irresolute 
frailty,  the  miserable  wiles  of  your  sex,  has 
touched  a  chord  in  my  heart  that  has  been 
mute  for  years.  I  leave  you,  to  think  better  of 
human  nature.  Oh  !  "  he  continued,  "  hasten 
to  forget  all  of  me  that  can  cost  you  a  pang. 
Let  me  still,  in  absence  and  in  sadness,  think 
that  I  retain  in  your  friendship — let  it  be 
friendship  only — the  inspiration,  the  guide  of 
which  you  spoke;  and  if,  hereafter,  men  shall 
name  me  with  praise  and  honor,  feel,  Valerie, 
feel  that  I  have  comforted  myself  for  the  loss 
of  your  love  by  becoming  worthy  of  your  con- 
fidence—your esteem.  Oh,  that  we  had  met 
earlier,  when  no  barrier  was  between  us  !  " 

"  Go,  go,  nmu,"  faltered  Valerie,  almost 
choked  with  her  emotions;  "  may  Heaven  bless 
you  !     Go  !  " 

Maltravers  muttered  a  few  inaudible  and  in- 
coherent words,  aud  quitted  the  apartment. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  The  men  of  sense,  those  idols  of  the  shallow,  are 
very  inferior  to  the  men  of  Passions.  It  is  the  strong 
passions  which,  rescuing  us  from  sloth,  can  alone  im- 
part to  us  that  continuous  and  earnest  attention  neces- 
sary to  great  intellectual  efforts." — Helvetius. 

When  Ferrers  returned  that  day  from  his 
customary  ride,  he  was  surprised  to  see  the 
lobbies  and  hall  of  the  apartment  which  he 
occupied  in  common  with  Maltravers  littered 
with  bags  and  malles,  boxes  and  books,  and 
Ernest's  Swiss  valet  directing  porters  and 
waiters  in  a  mosaic  of  French,  English  and 
Italian. 

"Well!  "said  Lumley;  "and  what  is  all 
this?" 

"  II  signore  va  partir,  sare,  ah  !  mon  Dieu  ! 
— tout  oi  a  sudden." 

"  O — h  !  and  where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  In  his  room,  sare." 

Over  the  chaos  strode  Ferrers,  and  opening 
the  door  of  his  friend's  dressing-room  without 
ceremony,  he  saw  Maltravers  buried  in  a  fau- 
teuil,  with  his  hands  drooping  on  his  knees,  his 
head  bent  over  his  breast,  and  his  whole  at- 
titude expressive  of  dejection  and  exhaus- 
tion. 

"What  is  tha  matter,  my  dear  Ernest? 
You  have  not  killed  a  man  in  a  duel  ?" 

"  No  ! " 

"  What  then  ? — Why  are  you  going  away, 
and  whither  ?  " 

"  No  matter;  leave  me  in  peace." 

"  Friendly  !  "  said  Ferrers;  "  very  friendly  ! 
And  what  is  to  become  of  me — what  compan- 
ion am  I  to  have  in  this  cursed  resort  of  an- 
tiquarians and  Lazzaroni  ?  You  have  no  feel- 
ing, Mr.  Maltravers  !  " 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  then  ? "  said 
Maltravers,  in  vain  endeavoring  to  rouse  him- 
self. 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Anywhere;  to  Paris — to  London." 

"No;  I  have  arranged  my  plans  for  the 
summer.  I  am  not  so  rich  as  some  people.  I 
hate  change:  it  is  so  expensive." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow " 

"  Is  this  fair  dealing  with  me  ?  "  continued 
Lumley,  who,  for  once  in  his  life,  was  really 
angry.  "  If  I  were  an  old  coat  you  had  worn 
for  five  years,  you  could  not  throw  me  off  with 
more  nonchalance." 


54 


BULWER'S     WOJiKS. 


"  Ferrers,  forgive  me.  My  honor  is  con- 
cerned. I  must  leave  this  place.  I  trust  you 
will  remain  my  guest  here,  though  in  the  ab- 
sence of  your  host.  You  know  that  I  have 
engaged  the  apartments  for  the  next  three 
months." 

"Humph!"  said  Ferrers;  "as  that  is  the 
case,  I  may  as  well  stay  here.  But  why  so 
secret  ?  Have  you  seduced  Madame  de 
Ventadour,  or  has  her  wise  husband  his  sus- 
picions ?     Hein,  hein  !  " 

Maltravers  smothered  his  disgust  at  this 
coarseness;  and,  perhaps,  there  is  no  greater 
trial  of  temper  than  in  a  he  friend's  gross  re- 
marks upon  the  connections  of  the  heart. 

"  Ferrers,"  said  he,  "  if  you  care  for  me, 
breathe  not  a  word  disrespectful  to  Madame 
de  Ventadour:  she -is  an  angel  !  " 

"  But  why  leave  Naples  ?  " 

"  Trouble  me  no  more." 

"Good  day,  sir,"  said  Ferrers,  highly  of- 
fended, and  he  stalked  out  of  the  chamber; 
nor  did  Ernest  see  him  again  before  his  de- 
parture. 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Maltravers 
found  himself  alone  in  his  carriage,  pursuing 
by  starlight  the  ancient  and  melancholy  road 
to  Mola  di  Gaeta. 

His  solitude  was  a  luxury  to  Maltravers;  he 
felt  an  inexpressible  sense  "of  release  to  be 
freed  from  Ferrers.  The  hard  sense,  the  un- 
pliant,  though  humorous  imperiousness,  the 
animal  sensuality,  of  his  companion,  would 
have  been  a  torture  to  him  in  his  present  state 
of  mind. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  rose,  the  orange 
blossoms  of  Mola  di  Gaeta  were  sweet  beneath 
the  window  of  the  inn  where  he  rested.  It  was 
now  the  early  spring,  and  the  freshness  of  the 
odor,  the  breathing  health  of  earth  and  air,  it 
is  impossible  to  describe.  Italy  itself  boasts 
few  spots  more  lovely  than  that  same  Mola  di 
Gaeta — nor  does  that  halcyon  sea  wear,  even 
at  Naples  or  Sorrento,  a  more  bland  and  en- 
chanting smile. 

So,  after  a  hasty  and  scarcely-tasted  break- 
fast, Maltravers  strolled  through  the  orange 
groves,  and  gained  the  beach;  and  there, 
stretched  at  idle  length  by  the  murmuring 
waves,  he  resigned  himself  to  thought,  and  en- 
deavored, for  the  first  time  since  his  parting 
with  Valerie,  to  collect  and  examine  the  state  of 
his  mind  and  feelings.     Maltravers,  to  his  own 


surprise,  did  not  find  himself  so  unhappy  as  he 
had  expected.  On  the  contrary,  a  soft  and 
and  almost  delicious  sentiment,  which  he  • 
could  not  well  define,  floated  over  ail  his 
memories  of  the  beautiful  Frenchwoman. 
Perhaps  the  secret  was,  that  while  his  pride 
was  not  mortified,  his  conscience  was  not 
galled — perhaps,  also,  he  had  not  loved  Valerie 
so  deeply  as  he  had  imagined.  The  confession 
and  the  separation  had  happily  come  before 
her  presence  had  grown — the  want  of  a  life. 
As  it  was,  he  felt,  as  if,  by  some  holy  and 
mystic  sacrifice,  he  had  been  made  reconciled 
to  himself  and  mankind.  He  woke  to  a  juster 
and  higher  appreciation  of  human  nature,  and 
of  woman's  nature  in  especial.  He  had  found 
honesty  and  truth,  where  he  might  least  have 
expected  it — in  a  woman  of  a  court — in  a 
woman  surrounded  by  vicious  and  frivolous  cir- 
cles— in  a  woman  who  had  nothing  in  the  opin- 
ion of  her  friends,  her  country,  her  own  husband, 
the  social  system,  in  which  she  moved,  to  keep 
her  from  the  concessions  of  frailty — in  a  woman 
of  the  world — a  woman  of  Paris  ! — yes,  it  was 
his  very  disappointment  that  drove  away  the 
fogs  and  vapors  that,  arising  from  the  marshes 
of  the  great  world,  had  gradually  settled 
round  his  soul.  Valerie  de  Ventadour  had 
taught  him  not  to  despise  her  sex,  not  to  judge 
by  appearances,  not  to  sicken  of  a  low  and  a 
hypocritical  world.  He  looked  in  his  heart 
for  the  love  of  Valerie,  and  he  found  there  the 
love  of  Virtue. 

Thus,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  inward,  did  he 
gradually  awaken  to  a  sense  of  the  true  im- 
pressions engraved  there.  And  he  felt  the 
bitterest  drop  of  the  deep  fountains  was  not 
sorrow  for  himself,  but  for  her.  What  pangs 
must  that  high  spirit  have  endured  ere  it 
could  have  submitted  to  the  avowal  it  had 
made  !  Yet,  even  in  this  affliction,  he  found 
at  last  a  solace.  A  mind  so  strong  could  sup- 
port and  heal  the  weakness  of  the  heart.  He 
felt  that  Valerie  de  Ventadour  was  not  a 
woman  to  pine  away  in  the  unresisted  in- 
dulgence of  morbid  and  unholy  emotions. 
He  could  not  flatter  himself  that  she  would 
not  seek  to  eradicate  a  love  she  repented;  and 
he  sighed  with  a  natural  selfishness,  when  he 
owned  also  that  sooner  or  later  she  would 
succeed.  "  But  be  it  so,"  said  he,  half  aloud 
— "  I  will  prepare  my  heart  to  rejoice  when  I 
learn  that  she  remembers  me  only  as  a  friend. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


55 


Next  to  the  bliss  of  her  love  is  the  pride  of 
her  esteem." 

Such  was  the  sentiment  with  which  his 
reveries  closed — and  with  every  league  that 
bore  him  further  from  the  south,  the  senti- 
ment grew  strengthened  and  confirmed. 

Ernest  Maltravers  felt  that  there  is  in  the 
Affections  themselves  so  much  to  purify  and 
exalt,  that  even  an  erring  love,  conceived  with- 
out a  cold   design,  and   (when  its  nature  is 


fairly  understood)  wrestled  against  with  a 
noble  spirit,  leaves  the  heart  more  tolerant 
and  tender,  and  the  mind  more  settled  and 
enlarged.  The  philosophy  limited  to  the 
reason  puts  into  motion  the  automata  of  the 
closet — but  to  those  whe  have  the  world  for  a 
stage,  and  who  find  their  hearts  are  the  great 
actors,  experience  and  wisdom  must  be  wrought 
from  the  Philosophy  of  the  Passions. 


56 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


BOOK    THIRD, 


Y'  'wdAAwi'  ou  wavrl  ^acifCTat,     *        »        * 

Callim.    Ex  Hymno  in  ^fcKinon. 

Not  to  all  men  Apollo  shows  himself — 
Who  sees  him — ie  is  great!" 


CHAPTER   I. 

"  Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears— soft  stillness  and  the  night 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony." 

—Shakespeare. 

BOAT  SONG  ON  THE  LAKE  OF  COMO. 


The  Beautiful  Clime!— the  Clime  of  -ove! 

Thou  beautiful  Italy! 
Lilce  a  mother's  eyes,  the  earnest  skies 

Ever  have  smiles  for  thee! 
Not  a  flower  that  blows,  not  a  beam  that  glows, 

But  what  is  in  love  with  thee! 


The  beautiful  lake,  the  Larian  lake!  * 

Soft  lake  like  a  silver  sea. 
The  Huntress  Queen,  with  her  nymphs  of  sheen. 

Never  had  bath  like  thee. 
See,  the  Lady  of  Night  and  her  maids  of  light, 

Even  now  are  mid-deep  in  thee. 

3- 
Beautiful  child  of  the  lonely  hills, 

Ever  blest  may  thy  slumbers  be! 
No  mourner  should  tread  by  thy  dreamy  bed. 

No  life  bring  a  care  to  thee — 
Nay,  soft  to  thy  bed,  let  the  mourner  tread — 

And  life  be  a  dream  like  thee! 

Such,  though  uttered  in  the  soft  Italian 
tongue,  and  now  imperfectly  translated — such 
were  the  notes  that  floated  one  lovely  evening 
in  summer  along  the  lake  of  Como.  The 
boat,  from  which  came  the  song,  drifted  gently 
down  the  sparkling  waters,  towards  the  mossy 
banks  of  a  lawn,  whence  on  a  little  eminence 
gleamed  the  white  walls  of  a  villa,  backed  by 
vineyards.     On  that  lawn  stood  a  young  and 


*  The  ancient  name  for  Como. 


handsome  woman,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her 
husband,  and  listening  to  the  song.  But  her  de- 
light was  soon  deepened  into  one  of  more  per- 
sonal interest,  as  the  boatmen,  nearing  the 
banks,  changed  their  measure,  and  she  felt 
that  the  minstrelsy  was  in  honor  of  herself. 

SERENADE  TO  THE  SONGSTRESS. 


CHORUS. 

Softly — oh,  soft!  let  us  rest  on  the  oar, 
And  vex  not  a  billow  that  sighs  to  the  shore: — 
For  sacred  the  spot  where  the  starry  waves  meet 
With  the  beach,  where  the  breath  of  the  citron  is  sweet; 
There's  a  spell  on  the  waves  that  now  waft  us  along 
To  the  last  of  our  Muses,  the  Spirit  of  Song. 

RECITATIVE. 

The  Eagle  of  old  renown. 
And  the  Lombard's  iron  crown, 

And  Milan's  mighty  name  are  ours  no  more; 
But  by  this  glassy  water, 
Harmonia's  youngest  daughter, 

Still  from  the  lightning  saves  one  laurel  to  our  shore. 


They  heard  thee,  Teresa,  the  Teuton,  the  Gaul, 

Who  have  raised  the  rude  thrones  of  the  North  on  our 

fall; 
They  heard  thee,  and  bow'd  to  the  might  of  thy  song, 
Like  love  went  thy  steps  o'ei  the  hearts  of  the  strong. 
As  the  moon  to  the  air,  as  the  soul  to  the  clay, 
To  the  void  of  this  earth  was  the  breath  of  thy  lay. 

RECITATIVE, 

Honor  for  aye  to  her 

The  bright  interpreter 
Of  Art's  great  mysteries  to  the  enchanted  throng; 

While  tyrants  heard  thy  strains, 

Sad  Rome  forgot  her  chains; 
The  world  the  sword  had  lost  was  conquer'd  back  by 
song! 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


57 


"  Thou  repentest,  my  Teresa,  that  thou  hast 
renounced  thy  dazzling  career  for  a  dull  home, 
and  a  husband  old  enough  to  be  thy  father," 
said  the  husband  to  the  wife,  with  a  smile  that 
spoke  confidence  in  the  answer. 

"  Ah,  no  !  even  this  homage  would  have  no 
music  to  me  if  thou  didst  not  hear  it." 

She  was  a  celebrated  personage  in  Italy — 
the  Signora  Cesarini,  now  Madame  de  Mon- 
taigne !  Her  earlier  youth  had  been  spent 
upon  the  stage,  and  her  promise  of  vocal  excel- 
ence  had  been  most  brilliant.  But  after  a 
brief  though  splendid  career,  she  married  a 
French  gentleman  of  good  birth  and  fortune, 
retired  from  the  stage,  and  spent  her  life  al- 
ternately in  the  gay  saloons  of  Paris,  and  upon 
the  banks  of  the  dreamy  Como,  on  which  her 
husband  had  purchased  a  small  but  beautiful 
villa.  She  still,  however,  exercised  in  private 
her  fascinating  art;  to  which — for  she  was  a 
woman  of  singular  accomplishment  and  talent 
—she  added  the  gift  of  the  improvvisatrice. 
She  had  just  returned  for  the  summer  to  this 
lovely  retreat,  and  a  party  of  enthusiastic 
youths  from  Milan  had  sought  the  lake  of 
Como  to  welcome  her  arrival  with  the  suitable 
homage  of  song  and  music.  It  is  a  charming 
relic,  that  custom  of  the  brighter  days  of  Italy; 
and  I  myself  have  listened,  on  the  still  waters 
of  the  same  lake,  to  a  similar  greeting  to  a 
greater  genius — -the  queenlike  and  unrivalled 
Pasta — and  Semiramis  of  Song  !  And  while 
my  boat  paused,  and  I  caught  something  of 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  serenaders,  the  boatman 
touched  me,  and,  pointing  to  a  part  of  the 
lake  on  which  the  setting  sun  shed  its  rosiest 
smile,  he  said,  "  There,  Signer,  was  drowned 
one  of  your  countrymen — '  bellissimo  uomo  ! 
chefu  bello  !'  " — yes,  there,  in  the  pride  of  his 
promising  youth,  of  his  noble  and  almost  god- 
like beauty,  before  the  very  windows — the 
very  eyes — of  his  bride — the  waves  without  a 
frown  had  swept  over  the  idol  of  many  hearts 
— the   graceful    and    gallant    Locke.*      And 

*  Captain  William  Locke  of  the  Life  Guards  (the  only 
son  of  the  accomplished  Mr.  Locke  of  Norbury  Park), 
distinguished  by  a  character  the  most  amiable,  and  by 
a  personal  beauty  that  certainly  equalled,  perhaps  sur- 
passed, the  highest  masterpiece  of  Grecian  Sculpture. 
He  was  returning,  in  a  boat,  from  the  town  of  Como, 
to  his  villa  on  the  banks  of  the  lake,  when  the  boat  was 
upset  by  one  of  the  mysterious  under-currents  to  which 
the  lake  is  dangerously  subjected,  and  he  was  drowned 
in  sight  of  his  bride,  who  was  watching  his  return  from 
the  terrace  or  balcony  of  their  home. 


above  his  grave  was  the  voluptuous  sky,  and 
over  it  floated  the  triumphant  music.  It  was 
as  the  moral  of  the  Roman  poets — calling  the 
living  to  a  holyday  over  the  oblivion  of  the 
dead. 

As  the  boat  now  touched  the  bank,  Madame 
de  Montaigne  accosted  the  musicians,  thanked 
them  with  a  sweet  and  unaffected  earnest- 
ness for  the  compliment  so  delicately  offered, 
and  invited  them  ashore.  The  Milanese, 
who  were  six  in  number,  accepted  the  invi- 
tation, and  moored  their  boat  into  the  jut- 
ting shore.  It  was  then  that  Monsieur  de 
Montaigne  pointed  out  to  the  notice  of  his 
wife  a  boat,  that  had  lingered  under  the  shadow 
of  a  bank,  tenanted  by  a  young  man,  who  had 
seemed  to  listen  with  rapt  attention  to  the 
music,  and  who  had  once  joined  in  the  chorus 
(as  it  was  twice  repeated)  with  a  voice  so  ex- 
quisitely attuned,  and  so  rich,  in  its  deep 
power,  that  it  had  awakened  the  admiration 
even  of  the  serenaders  themselves. 

"  Does  not  that  gentleman  belong  to  your 
party  ?  "  De  Montaigne  asked  of  the  Milanese. 

"  No,  Signer,  we  know  him  not,"  was  the 
answer;  "his  boat  came  unaware  upon  us  as 
we  were  singing." 

While  this  question  and  answer  were  going 
on,  the  young  man  had  quitted  his  station, 
and  his  oars  cut  the  glassy  surface  of  the  lake, 
just  before  the  place  where  De  Montaigne 
stood.  With  the  courtesy  of  his  country,  the 
Frenchman  lifted  his  hat;  and  by  his  gesture, 
arrested  the  eye  and  oar  of  the  solitary  rower. 
"Will  you  honor  us,"  he  said,  "  by  joining  our 
little  party  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  I  covet  too  much  to  re- 
fuse," replied  the  boatman,  with  a  slight  foreign 
accent,  and  in  another  moment  he  was  on 
shore.  He  was  one  of  remarkable  appearance. 
His  long  hair  floated  with  a  careless  grace 
over  a  brow  more  calm  and  thoughtful  than 
became  his  years;  his  manner  was  unusually 
quiet  and  self-collected,  and  not  without  a 
certain  stateliness,  rendered  more  striking  by 
the  height  of  his  stature,  a  lordly  contour  of 
feature,  and  a  serene  but  settled  expression 
of  melancholy  in  his  eyes  and  smile.  "You 
will  easily  believe,"  said  he,  "  that,  cold  as 
my  countrymen  are  esteemed,  (for  you  must 
have  discovered,  already,  that  I  am  an  English- 
man), I  could  not  but  share  in  the  enthusiasm 
of   those   about   me,  when  loitering  near  the 


58 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


very  ground  sacred  to  the  inspiration.  For 
the  rest,  I  am  residing  for  the  present  in  yonder 
villa,  opposite  to  your  own;  my  name  is  Mal- 
travers,  and  I  am  enchanted  to  think  that  I 
am  no  longer  a  personal  stranger  to  one  whose 
fame  has  already  reached  me." 

Madame  de  Montaigne  was  flattered  by 
something  in  the  manner  and  tone  of  the 
Englishman,  which  said  a  great  deal  more  than 
his  words;  and  in  a  few  minutes,  beneath  the 
mfluence  of  the  happy  continental  ease,  the 
whole  party  seemed  as  if  they  had  known  each 
other  for  years.  Wines,  and  fruits,  and  other 
simple  and  unpretending  refreshments,  were 
brought  out  and  arranged  on  a  rude  table  upon 
the  grass,  round  which  the  guests  seated  them- 
selves with  their  host  and  hostess,  and  the 
clear  moon  shone  over  them,  and  the  lake  slept 
below  in  silver.  It  was  a  scene  for  a  Boccaccio 
or  a  Claude. 

The  conversation  naturally  fell  upon  music: 
it  is  almost  the  only  thing  which  Italians  in 
general  can  be  said  to  know — and  even  that 
knowledge  comes  to  them,  like  Dogberry's 
reading  and  writing,  by  nature — for  of  music, 
as  an  art,  the  unprofessional  amateurs  know 
but  little.  As  vain  and  arrogant  of  the  last 
wreck  of  their  national  genius  as  the  Romans 
of  old  were  of  the  empire  of  all  arts  and  arms, 
they  look  upon  the  harmonies  of  other  lands 
as  barbarous;  nor  can  they  appreciate  or 
understand  appreciation  of  the  mighty  Ger- 
man music,  which  is  the  proper  minstrelsy  of  a 
nation  of  rnen—a  music  of  philosophy,  of 
heroism,  of  the  intellect  and  the  imagination; 
beside  which,  the  strains  of  modern  Italy  are 
indeed  effeminate,  fantastic,  and  artificially 
feeble.  Rossini  is  the  Canova  of  music,  with 
much  of  the  pretty,  with  nothing  of  the  grand  I 

The  little  party  talked,  however,  of  music, 
with  an  animation  and  gusto  that  charmed  the 
melancholy  Maltravers,  who  for  weeks  had 
known  no  companion  save  his  own  thoughts, 
and  with  whom,  at  all  times,  enthusiasm  for 
any  art  found  a  ready  sympathy.  He  listened 
attentively,  but  said  little;  and  from  time  to 
time,  whenever  the  conversation  flagged, 
amused  himself  by  examining  his  companions. 
These  six  Milanese  had  nothing  remarkable  in 
their  countenances  or  in  their  talk;  they  pos- 
sessed the  characteristic  energy  and  volubility 
of  their  countrymen,  with  something  of  the 
masculine    dignity    which    distinguishes    the 


Lombard  from  the  Southern,  and  a  little  of 
the  French  polish,  which  the  inhabitants  of 
Milan  seldom  fail  to  contract. 

Their  rank  was  evidently  that  of  the  middle 
class;  for  Milan  has  a  middle  class,  and  one 
which  promises  great  results  hereafter.  But 
they  were  noways  distinguished  from  a  thou- 
sand other  Milanese  whom  Maltravers  had  met 
in  the  walks  and  cafes  of  their  noble  city. 
The  host  was  somewhat  more  interesting.  He 
was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  of  about  eight-and- 
forty,  with  a  high  forehead,  and  features 
strongly  impressed  with  the  sober  character  of 
thought.  He  had  but  little  of  the  French 
vivacity  in  his  manner;  and  without  looking 
at  his  countenance,  you  would  still  have  felt 
insensibly  that  he  was  the  oldest  of  the  party. 
His  wife  was  at  least  twenty  years  younger 
than  himself,  mirthful  and  playful  as  a  child, 
but  with  a  certain  feminine  and  fascinating 
softness  in  her  unrestrained  gestures  and 
sparkling  gaiety,  which  seemed  to  subdue  her 
natural  joyouness  into  the  form  and  method 
of  conventional  elegance.  Dark  hair  care- 
lessly arranged,  an  open  forehead,  large  black 
laughing  eyes,  a  small  straight  nose,  a  com- 
plexion just  relieved  from  the  olive  by  an  evan- 
escent yet  perpetually  recurring  blush;  a  round 
dimpled  cheek,  an  exquisitely-shaped  mouth 
with  small  pearly  teeth,  and  a  light  and  del- 
icate figure  a  little  below  the  ordinary  stand- 
ard, completed  the  picture  of  Madame  de 
Montaigne. 

"  Well,"  said  Signor  Tirabaloschi,  the  most 
loquacious  and  sentimental  of  the  guests,  fill- 
ing his  glass;  "  these  are  hours  to  think  of  for 
the  rest  of  life.  But  we  cannot  hope  the  Sig- 
nora  will  long  remember  that  we  never  can 
forget.  Paris,  says  the  French  proverb,  est  le 
paradis  des  femmes  ;  and  in  paradise,  I  take  it 
for  granted,  we  recollect  very  little  of  what 
happened  on  earth." 

"  Oh,"  said  Madame  de  Montaigne,  with  a 
pretty  musical  laugh;  "  in  Paris  it  is  the  rage 
to  despise  the  frivolous  life  of  cities,  and  to 
affect  des  sentimens  romanesques.  This  is  pre- 
cisely the  scene  which  our  fine  ladies  and  fine 
writers  would  die  to  talk  of  and  to  describe. 
Is  it  not  so,  mon  ami  ?  "  and  she  turned  affec- 
tionately to  De  Montaigne. 

"  True,  replied  he;  "but  you  are  not  worthy 
of  such  a  scene— you  laugh  at  sentiment  and 
romance." 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


59 


"Only  at  French  sentiment  and  the  romance 
of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin.  You  English,"  she 
continued,  shaking  her  head  at  Maltravers, 
"have  spoiled  and  corrupted  us;  we  are  not 
content  to  imitate  you,  we  must  excel  you; 
we  out-horror  horror,  and  rush  from  the  ex- 
travagant into  the  frantic  !  " 

"  The  ferment  of  the  new  school  is,  perhaps, 
better  than  the  stagnation  of  the  old,"  said 
Maltravers.  "  Yet  even  you,"  addressing  him- 
self to  the  Italians,  "  who  first  in  Petrarch,  in 
Tasso,  and  in  Ariosto,  set  to  Europe  the 
example  of  the  Sentimental  and  the  Romantic; 
who  built  among  the  very  ruins  of  the  classic 
school — amidst  its  Corinthian  columns  and' 
sweeping  arches,  the  spires  and  battlements  of 
the  Gothic — even  you  are  deserting  your  old 
models,  and  guiding  literature  into  newer  and 
wilder  paths.  'Tis  the  way  of  the  world — 
eternal  progress  is  eternal  change." 

"Very  possibly,"  said  Signor  Tirabaloschi, 
who  understood  nothing  of  what  was  said. 
"Nay,  it  is  extremely  profound;  on  reflection, 
it  is  beautiful — superb:  you  English  are  so — 
so — in  short,  it  is  admirable.  Ugo  Foscolo  is 
a  great  genius — -so  is  Monti;  and  as  for  Ros- 
sini,— you  know  his  last  opera — cosa  stupenda!" 

Madame  de  Montaigne  glanced  at  Mal- 
travers, clapped  her  little  hands,  and  laughed 
outright.  Maltravers  caught  the  contagion, 
and  laughed  also.  But  he  hastened  to  repair 
the  pedantic  error  he  had  committed  of  talk- 
ing over  the  heads  of  the  company.  He  took 
up  the  guitar,  which,  among  their  musical  in- 
struments, the  serenaders  had  brought,  and 
after  touching  its  chords  for  a  few  moments, 
said;  "  After  all,  Madame,  in  your  society,  and 
with  this  moonlit  lake  before  us,  we  feel  as  if 
music  were  our  best  medium  of  conversation. 
Let  us  prevail  upon  these  gentlemen  to  delight 
us  once  more." 

"  You  forestall  what  I  was  going  to  ask," 
said  the  ex-singer;  and  Maltravers  offered  the 
guitar  to  Tirabaloschi,  who  was  in  fact  dying 
to  exhibit  his  powers  again.  He  took  the  in- 
strument with  a  slight  grimace  of  modesty, 
and  then  saying  to  Madame  de  Montaigne, 
"  There  is  a  song  composed  by  a  young  friend 
of  mine,  which  is  much  admired  by  the  ladies; 
though,  to  me,  it  seems  a  little  too  senti- 
mental," sang  the  following  stanzas  (as  good 
singers  are  wont  to  do)  with  as  much  feeling 
as  if  he  could  understand  them  ! — 


NIGHT  AxMD  LOVE. 

When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee; 
Bend  on  me,  then,  thy  tender  eyes, 

And  stars  look  on  the  sea! 

For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide  by  night, 

Are  stillest  where  they  shine; 
Mine  earthly  love  lies  hushed  in  light, 

Beneath  the  heaven  of  thine. 

There  is  an  hour  when  angels  keep 

Familiar  watch  on  men ; 
When  coarser  souls  are  wrapt  in  sleep, — 

Sweet  spirit,  meet  me  then. 

There  is  an  hour  when  holy  dreams, 

Through  slumber,  fairest  glide; 
And  in  that  mystic  hour,  it  seems 

Thou  shouldst  be  by  my  side. 

The  thoughts  of  thee  too  sacred  are 

For  daylight's  common  beam; — 
I  can  but  know  thee  as  my  star, 

My  angel,  and  my  dream! 

And  now,  the  example  set,  and  the  praises  of 
the  fair  hostess  exciting  general  emulation,  the 
guitar  circled  from  hand  to  hand,  and  each  of 
the  Italians  perforrned  his  part: — you  might 
have  fancied  yourself  at  one  of  the  old  Greek 
feasts,  with  the  lyre  and  the  myrtle-branch 
going  the  round. 

But  both  the  Italians  and  the  Englishman 
felt  the  entertainment  would  be  incomplete, 
without  hearing  the  celebrated  vocalist  and  im- 
provvisatrice,  who  presided  over  the  little  ban- 
quet; and  Madame  de  Montaigne  with  a 
woman's  tact,  divined  the  general  wish,  and 
anticipated  the  request  that  was  sure  to  be 
made.  So  she  took  the  guitar  from  the  last 
singer,  and  turning  to  Maltravers,  said,  "  You 
have  heard,  of  course,  some  of  our  more  emi- 
nent improvvisatori,  and  therefore  if  I  ask  you 
for  a  subject  it  will  only  be  to  prove  to  you 
that  the  talent  is  not  general  amongst  the 
Italians." 

"Ah,"  said  Maltravers,  "I  have  heard,  in- 
deed, some  ugly  old  gentlemen  with  immense 
whiskers,  and  gestures  of  the  most  alarming 
ferocity,  pour  out  their  vehement  impromptus; 
but  I  have  never  yet  listened  to  a  young  and  a 
handsome  lady.  I  shall  only  believe  the  in- 
spiration when  I  hear  it  direct  from  the  Muse." 

"  Well,  I  will  do  my  best  to  deserve  your 
compliments — you   must  give  me  the  theme." 

Maltravers  paused  a  moment,  and  suggested 
the  Influence  of  Praise  on  Genius. 


6o 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


The  improvvisatrice  nodded  assent,  and 
after  a  short  prelude  broke  forth  into  a  wild 
and  varied  strain  of  verse,  in  a  voice  so  ex- 
quisitely sweet,  with  a  taste  so  accurate,  and  a 
feeling  so  deep,  that  the  poetry  sounded  to 
the  enchanted  listeners  like  the  language  that 
Armida  might  have  uttered.  Yet  the  verses 
themselves,  like  all  extemporaneous  effusions, 
were  of  a  nature  both  to  pass  from  the  memory 
and  to  defy  transcription. 

When  Madame  de  Montaigne's  song  ceased, 
no  rapturous  plaudits  followed — the  Italians 
were  too  affected  by  the  science,  Maltravers 
by  the  feeling,  for  the  coarseness  of  ready 
praise; — and  ere  that  delighted  silence  which 
made  the  first  impulse  was  broken,  a  new- 
comer, descending  from  the  groves  that  clothed 
the  ascent  behind  the  house,  was  in  the  midst 
of  the  party. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  brother,"  cried  Madame  de 
Montainge,  starting  up,  and  hanging  fondly  on 
the  arm  of  the  stranger,  "  why  have  you  lin- 
gered so  long  in  the  wood  ?  You,  so  delicate  ! 
And  how  are  you  ?     How  pale  you  seem  !  " 

"  It  is  but  the  reflection  of  the  moonlight, 
Teresa,"  said  the  intruder.  "  I  feel  well."  So 
saying,  he  scowled  on  the  merry  party,  and 
turned  as  if  to  slink  away. 

"No,  no,"  whispered  Teresa,  "you  must 
stay  a  moment  and  be  presented  to  my  guests: 
there  is  an  Englishman  here  whom  you  will 
like — who  will  interest  yo\x." 

With  that  she  almost  dragged  him  forward, 
and  introduced  him  to  her  guests.  Signor 
Cesarini  returned  their  salutations  with  a  mix- 
ture of  bashfulness  and  hauteur,  half-awkward 
and  half-graceful,  and  muttering  some  inaudi- 
ble greeting,  sank  into  a  seat  and  appeared 
instantly  lost  in  revery.  Maltravers  gazed  upon 
him,  and  was  pleased  with  his  aspect — which, 
if  not  handsome,  was  strange  and  peculiar. 
He  was  extremely  slight  and  thin — his  cheeks 
hollow  and  colorless,  with  a  profusion  of  black 
silken  ringlets  that  almost  descended  to  his 
shoulders.  His  eyes,  deeply  sunk  into  his 
head,  were  large  and  intensely  brilliant,  and  a 
thin  moustache,  curling  downward,  gave  an 
additional  austerity  to  his  mouth,  which  was 
closed  with  gloomy  and  half-sarcastic  firmness. 
He  was  not  dressed  as  people  dress  in  general; 
but  wore  a  frock  of  dark  camlet,  with  a  large 
shirt-collar  turned  down,  and  a  narrow  slip  of 
black  silk  twisted   rather  than  tied  round   his 


throat — his  nether  garment  fitted  tight  to  his 
limbs,  and  a  pair  of  half-hessians  completed 
his  costume.  It  was  evident  that  the  young 
man  (and  he  was  very  young — perhaps  about 
nineteen  or  twenty)  indulged  that  coxcombry 
of  the  Picturesque  which  is  the  sign  of  a  vainer 
mind  than  is  the  commoner  coxcombry  of  the 
Mode. 

It  is  astonishing  how  frequently  it  happens, 
that  the  introduction  of  a  single  intruder  upon 
a  social  party  is  sufficient  to  destroy  all  the 
familiar  harmony  that  existed  there  before. 
We  see  it  even  when  the  intruder  is  agreeable 
and  communicative — but  in  the  present  in- 
stance, a  ghost  could  scarcely  have  been  a 
more  unwelcoming  or  unwelcome  visitor.  The 
presence  of  this  shy,  speechless,  supercilious- 
looking  man,  threw  a  damp  over  the  whole 
group.  The  gay  Tirabaloschi  immediately 
discovered  that  it  was  time  to  depart, — it  had 
not  struck  any  one  before,  but  it  certainly 
was  late.  The  Italians  began  to  bustle  about, 
to  collect  their  music,  to  make  fine  speeches 
and  fine  professions — to  bow  and  to  smile — to 
scramble  into  their  boat,  and  to  push  off  tow- 
ards the  inn  at  Como,  where  they  had  engaged 
their  quarters  for  the  night.  As  the  boat 
glided  away,  and  while  two  of  them  were  em- 
ployed at  the  oar,  the  remaining  four  took  up 
their  instruments  and  sang  a  parting  glee.  It 
was  quite  midnight — the  hush  of  all  things 
around  had  grown  more  intense  and  profound 
— there  was  a  wonderful  might  of  silence  in 
the  shining  air  and  amidst  the  shadows  thrown 
by  the  near  banks  and  the  distant  hills  over 
the  water.  So  that  as  the  music  chiming  in 
with  the  oars  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  it  is  im- 
possible to  describe  the  thrilling  and  magical 
effect  it  produced. 

The  party  ashore  did  not  speak;  there  was 
a  moisture,  a  grateful  one,  in  the  bright  eyes 
of  Teresa,  as  she  leant  upon  the  manly  form 
of  De  Montaigne,  for  whom  her  attachment 
was,  perhaps,  yet  more  deep  and  pure  for  the 
difference  of  their  ages.  A  girl  who  once 
loves  a  man,  not  indeed  old,  but  much  older 
than  herself,  loves  him  with  such  a  looking  up 
and  venerating  love  !  Maltravers  stood  a  little 
apart  from  the  couple,  on  the  edge  of  the 
shelving  bank,  with  folded  arms  and  thought- 
ful countenance.  "  How  is  it,"  said  he,  un- 
conscious that  he  was  speaking  half  aloud, 
"  that   the   commonest   beings   of    the   world 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


61 


should  be  able  to  give  us  a  pleasure  so  un- 
worldly ?  What  a  contrast  between  those 
musicians  and  this  music  ?  At  this  distance, 
their  forms  so  dimly  seen,  one  might  almost 
fancy  the  creators  of  those  sweet  sounds  to  be 
of  another  mould  from  us.  Perhaps  even  thus 
the  poetry  of  the  Past  rings  on  our  ears — the 
deeper  and  the  diviner,  because  removed  from 
the  clay  which  made  the  poets.  O  Art,  Art ! 
how  dost  thou  beautify  and  exalt  us  !  what  is 
Nature  without  thee  !  " 

"  You  are  a  poet,  Signor,"  said  a  soft  clear 
voice  beside  the  soliloquist;  and  Maltravers 
started  to  find  that  he  had  had  unknowingly,  a 
listener  in  the  young  Cesarini. 

"  No,"  said  Maltravers,  "  I  cull  the  flowers, 
I  do  not  cultivate  the  soil." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Cesarini,  with  abrupt 
energy;  "you  are  an  Englishman — you  have  a 
public — you  have  a  country — -you  have  a  liv- 
ing stage,  a  breathing  audience;  we,  Italians, 
have  nothing  but  the  Dead." 

As  he  looked  on  the  young  man,  Maltravers 
was  surprised  to  see  the  sudden  animation 
which  glowed  upon  his  pale  features. 

"  You  asked  me  a  question  I  would  fain  put 
to  you,"  said  the  Englishman,  after  a  pause. 
"  You,  methinks,  are  a  poet?" 

"  I  have  fancied  that  I  might  be  one.  But 
poetry  with  us  is  a  bird  in  the  wilderness — it 
sings  from  an  impulse — the  song  dies  without 
a  listener.  Oh  that  I  belonged  to  a  living 
country,  France,  England,  Germany,  America, 
— and  not  to  the  corruption  of  a  dead  giantess 
— for  such  is  now  the  land  of  the  ancient  lyre." 

"  Let  us  meet  again,  and  soon,"  said  Mal- 
travers, holding  out  his  hand. 

Cesarini  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  ac- 
cepted and  returned  the  proffered  salutation. 
Reserved  as  he  was,  something  in  Maltravers 
attracted  him;  and,  indeed,  there  was  that 
in  Ernest  which  fascinated  most  of  those  un- 
happy eccentrics  who  do  not  move  in  the  com- 
mon orbit  of  the  world. 

In  a  few  moments  more  the  Englishman  had 
said  farewell  to  the  owners  of  the  villa,  and  his 
light  boat  skimmed  rapidly  over  the  tide. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Inglese  ?  "  said 
Madame  de  Montaigne  to  her  husband,  as  they 
turned  towards  the  house.  (They  said  not  a 
word  about  the  Milanese). 

"  He  has  a  noble  bearing  for  one  so  young," 
said   the   Frenchman,  "  and    seems    to    have 


seen  the  world,  and  both  to  have  profited  and 
to  have  suffered  by  it." 

"  He  will  prove  an  acquisition  to  our  so- 
ciety here,"  returned  Teresa;  "  he  interests  me; 
and  you,  Castruccio  ?  "  turning  to  seek  for  her 
brother;  but  Cesarini  had  already,  with  his 
usual  noiseless  step,  disappeared  within  the 
house. 

"Alas,  my  poor  brother  !  "  she  replied,  "  I 
cannot  comprehend  him.  What  does  he 
desire  ? " 

"  Fame  !  "  replied  De  Montaigne,  calmly. 
"  It  is  a  vain  shadow;  no  wonder  that  he  dis- 
quiets himself  in  vain." 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Alas!  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse; 
Were  it  not  better  done  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  ?  " 

— Milton's  Lycidas. 

There  is  nothing  more  salutary  to  active 
men  than  occasional  intervals  of  repose, — when 
we  look  within,  instead  of  without,  and  exam- 
ine almost  insensibly — (for  I  hold  strict  and 
conscious  self-scrutiny  a  thing  much  rarer 
than  we  suspect) — what  we  have  done— what 
we  are  capable  of  doing.  It  is  settling,  as  it 
were,  a  debtor  and  creditor  account  with  the 
Past,  before  we  plunge  into  new  speculations. 
Such  an  interval  of  repose  did  Maltravers  now 
enjoy.  In  utter  solitude,  so  far  as  familiar 
companionship  is  concerned,  he  had  for  sev- 
eral weeks  been  making  himself  acquainted 
with  his  own  character  and  mind.  He  read 
and  thought  much,  but  without  any  exact  or 
defined  object.  I  think  it  is  Montaigne  who 
says  somewhere — "  People  talk  about  thinking 
— but  for  my  part  I  never  think,  except  when 
I  sit  down  to  write."  I  believe  this  is  not  a 
very  common  case,  for  people  who  don't  write 
think  as  well  as  people  who  do;  but  connected, 
severe,  well-developed  thought,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  vague  meditation,  must  be  con- 
nected with  some  tangible  plan  or  object;  and 
therefore  we  must  be  either  writing  men  or 
acting  men,  if  we  desire  to  test  the  logic,  and 
unfold  into  symmetrical  design  the  fused 
colors  of  our  reasoning   faculty.     Maltravers 


62 


£  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


did  not  yet  feel  this,  but  he  was  sensible  of 
some  intellectual  want.  His  ideas,  his  memo- 
ries, his  dreams,  crowded  thick  and  confused 
upon  him;  he  wished  to  arrange  them  in  order, 
and  he  could  not.  He  was  overpowered  by  the 
unorganized  affluence  of  his  own  imagination 
and  intellect.  He  had  often,  even  as  a  child, 
fancied  that  he  was  formed  to  do  something 
in  the  world,  but  he  had  never  steadily  con- 
sidered what  it  was  to  be,  whether  he  was  to 
become  a  man  of  books  or  a  man  of  deeds.  He 
had  written  poetry  when  it  poured  irresistibly 
from  the  fount  of  emotion  within,  but  looked 
at  his  effusions  with  a  cold  and  neglectful  eye 
when  the  enthusiasm  had  passed  away. 

Maltravers  was  not  much  gnawed  by  the  de- 
sire of  fame — perhaps  few  men  of  real  genius 
are  until  artificially  worked  up  to  it.  There  is 
in  a  sound  and  correct  intellect,  with  all  its 
gifts  fairly  balanced,  a  calm  consciousness  of 
power,  a  certainty  that  when  its  strength  is 
fairly  put  out,  it  must  be  to  realize  the  usual 
result  of  strength.  Men  of  second-rate  facul- 
ties, on  the  contrary,  are  fretful  and  nervous, 
fidgeting  after  a  celebrity  which  they  do  not 
estimate  by  their  own  talents,  but  by  the 
talents  of  some  one  else.  They  see  a  tower, 
but  are  occupied  only  with  measuring  its 
shadow,  and  think  their  own  height  (which 
they  never  calculate)  it  is  to  cast  as  broad  a 
one  over  the  earth.  It  is  the  short  man  who 
is  always  throwing  up  his  chin,  and  is  as  erect 
as  a  dart.  The  tall  man  stoops,  and  the 
strong  man  is  not  always  using  the  dumb- 
bells. 

Maltravers  had  not  yet,  then,  the  keen  and 
sharp  yearning  for  reputation;  he  had  not,  as 
yet,  tasted  its  sweets  and  bitters  —  fatal 
draught,  which  once  tasted,  begets  too  often  an 
insatiable  thirst !  neither  had  he  enemies  and 
decriers  whom  he  was  desirious  of  abashing  by 
merit.  And  that  is  a  very  ordinary  cause  for 
exertion  in  proud  minds.  He  was,  it  is  true, 
generally  reputed  clever,  and  fools  were  afraid 
of  him:  but  as  he  actively  interfered  with  no 
man's  pretensions,  so  no  man  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  call  him  a  blockhead.  At  present, 
therefore,  it  was  quietly  and  naturally  that  his 
mind  was  working  its  legitimate  way  to  its  des- 
tiny of  exertion. 

He  began  idly  and  carelessly  to  note  down 
his  thoughts  and  impressions;  what  was  once 
put  on  the  paper,  begot  new  matter;  his  ideas 


became  more  lucid  to  himself;  and  the  page 
grew  a  looking-glass,  which  presented  the 
likeness  of  his  own  features.  He  began  by 
writing  with  rapidity  and  without  method.  He 
had  no  object  but  to  please  himself,  and  to 
find  a  vent  for  an  over-charged  spirit;  and, 
like  most  writings  of  the  young,  the  matter  was 
egotistical.  We  commence  with  the  small 
nucleus  of  passion  and  experience,  to  widen  the 
circle  afterwards;  and,  perhaps,  the  most  ex- 
tensive and  universal  masters  of  life  and  char- 
acter have  begun  by  being  egotists.  For 
there  is  in  a  man  that  has  much  in  him,  a  won- 
derfully acute  and  sensitive  perception  of  his 
own  existence.  An  imaginative  and  suscepti- 
ble person  has,  indeed,  ten  times  as  much  life 
as  a  dull  fellow,  "an'  he  be  Hercules."  He 
multiplies  himself  in  a  thousand  objects,  associ- 
ates each  with  his  own  identity,  lives  m  each, 
and  almost  looks  upon  the  world  with  its  in- 
finite objects  as  a  part  of  his  individual  being. 
Afterwards,  as  he  tames  down,  he  withdraws 
his  forces  into  the  citadel,  but  he  still  has  a 
knowledge  of,  and  an  interest  in,  the  land  they 
once  covered.  He  understands  other  people, 
for  he  has  lived  in  other  people — the  dead  and 
the  living; — ^fancied  himself  now  Brutus  and 
now  Caesar,  and  thought  how  he  should  act  in 
almost  every  imaginable  circumstance  of  life. 

Thus,  when  he  begins  to  paint  human  char- 
acters, esentially  different  from  his  own,  his 
knowledge  comes  to  him  almost  intuitively. 
It  is  as  if  he  were  describing  the  mansions  in 
which  he  himself  has  formerly  lodged,  though 
for  a  short  time.  Hence,  in  great  writers  of 
History — of  Romance — of  the  Drama — the 
^/«/o  with  which  they  paint  their  personages; 
their  creations  are  flesh  and  blood,  not  shadows 
or  machines. 

Maltravers  was  at  first,  then,  an  egotist  in 
the  matter  of  his  rude  and  desultory  sketches 
— in  the  manner,  as  I  said  before,  he  was  care- 
less and  negligent,  as  men  will  be  who  have 
not  yet  found  that  expression  is  an  art.  Still 
those  wild  and  valueless  essays — those  rapt 
and  secret  confessions  of  his  own  heart — were 
a  delight  to  him.  He  began  to  taste  the 
transport,  the  intoxication  of  an  author.  And 
oh  what  a  luxury  is  there  in  that  first  love  of 
the  Muse  !  that  process  by  which  we  give  a 
palpable  form  to  the  long-intangible  visions 
which  have  flitted  across  us; — the  beautiful 
ghost  of  the  ideal  within  us,  which  we  invoke 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


63 


in  the  Gadara  of  our  still  closets,  with  the 
wand  of  the  simple  pen  ! 

It  was  early  noon,  the  day  after  he  had 
formed  his  acquaintance  with  the  De  Mon- 
taignes,  that  Maltravers  sate  in  his  favorite 
room; — the  one  he  had  selected  for  his  study, 
from  the  many  chambers  of  his  large  and  soli- 
tary habitation.  He  sate  in  a  recess  by  the  open 
window,  which  looked  on  the  lake;  and  books 
were  scattered  on  his  table,  and  Maltravers 
was  jotting  down  his  criticisms  on  what  he 
read,  mingled  with  his  impressions  on  what  he 
saw.  It  is  the  pleasantesfkind  of  composition 
— the  note-book  of  a  man  who  studies  in  retire- 
ment, who  observes  in  society,  who  in  all 
things  can  admire  and  feel.  He  was  yet  en- 
gaged in  this  easy  task,  when  Cesarini  was 
announced  and  the  younger  brother  of  the  fair 
Teresa  entered  his  apartment. 

"  I  have  availed  myself  soon  of  your  invita- 
tion," said  the  Italian. 

"  I  acknowledge  the  compliment,"  replied 
Maltravers,  pressing  the  hand  shyly  held  out 
to  him. 

"  I  see  you  have  been  writing — I  thought 
you  were  attached  to  literature.  I  read  it  in 
your  countenance,  I  heard  it  in  your  voice," 
said  Cesarini,  seating  himself. 

"I  have  been  idly  beguiling  a  very  idle  lei- 
sure, it  is  true,"  said  Maltravers. 

"  But  you  do  not  write  for  yourself  alone — 
you  have  an  eye  to  the  great  tribunals — Time 
and  the  Public." 

"  Not  so,  I  assure  you  honestly,"  said  Mal- 
travers, smiling.  "If  you  look  at  the  books 
on  my  table,  you  will  see  that  they  are  the 
great  masterpieces  of  apcient  and  modern  lore 
— these  are  studies  that  discourage  tyros — " 

"  But  inspire  them." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  Models  may  form  our 
taste  as  critics,  but  do  not  excite  us  to  be 
authors.  I  fancy  that  our  own  emotions,  our 
own  sense  of  our  destiny,  make  the  great  lever 
of  the  inert  matter  we  accumulate.  '  Look  in 
thy  heart  and  write,'  said  an  old  English 
writer,*  who  did  not,  however,  practice  what 
he  preached.     And  you,  Signer " 

"Am  nothing,  and  would  be  something," 
said  the  young  man,  shortly  and  bitterly. 

"  And  how  does  that  wish  not  realize  its  ob- 
ject ? " 


Sir  Philip  Sidney 


"  Merely  because  I  am  Italian,"  said  Cesa- 
rini. "  With  us  there  is  no  literary  public — no 
vast  reading  class — we  have  dilettanti  and  lit- 
erati, and  students,  and  even  authors;  but 
these  make  only  a  coterie,  not  a  public.  I 
have  written,  I  have  published;  but  no  one 
listened  to  me.  I  am  an  author  without  read- 
ers." 

"  It  is  no  uncommon  case  in  England,"  said 
Maltravers. 

The  Italian  continued — "  I  thought  to  live 
in  the  mouths  of  men — to  stir  up  thoughts 
long  dumb— to  awaken  the  strings  of  the  old 
lyre  !  In  vain.  Like  the  nightingale,  I  sing 
only  to  break  my  heart  with  a  false  and  melan- 
choly emulation  of  other  notes." 

"  There  are  epochs  in  all  countries,"  said 
Maltravers,  gently,  "when  peculiar  veins  of 
literature  are  out  of  vogue,  and  when  no  genius 
can  bring  them  into  public  notice.  But  you 
wisely  said  there  were  two  tribunals — the  Pub- 
lic and  Time.  You  have  still  the  last  to  ap- 
peal to.  Your  great  Italian  historians  wrote 
for  the  unborn — their  works  not  even  published 
till  their  death.  That  indifference  to  living 
reputation  has  in  it,  to  me,  something  of  the 
sublime." 

"  I  cannot  imitate  them — and  they  were  not 
poets,"  said  Cesarini,  sharply.  "  To  poets, 
praise  is  a  necessary  aliment;  neglect  is 
death." 

"  My  dear  Signor  Cesarini,"  said  the  Eng- 
lishman, feelingly,  "  do  not  give  way  to  these 
thoughts.  There  ought  to  be  in  a  healthful 
ambition  the  stubborn  stuff  of  persevering 
longevity;  it  must  live  on,  and  hope  for  the 
day  which  comes  slow  or  fast,  to  all  whose 
labors  deserve  the  goal." 

"  But  perhaps  mine  do  not.  I  sometimes 
fear  so — it  is  a  horrid  thought." 

"You  are  very  young  yet,"  said  Maltravers; 
"  how  few  at  your  age  ever  sicken  for  fame  ! 
That  first  step  is,  perhaps,  the  half  way  to  the 
prize." 

I  am  not  sure  that  Ernest  thought  exactly 
as  he  spoke;  but  it  was  the  most  delicate  con- 
solation to  offer  to  a  man  whose  abrupt  frank- 
ness embarrassed  and  distressed  him.  The 
young  man  shook  his  head  despondingly. 
Maltravers  tried  to  change  the  subject — he 
rose  and  moved  to  the  balcony,  which  over- 
hung the  lake — he  talked  of  the  weather — he 
dwelt  on  the  exquiste  scenery — he  pointed  to 


64 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


the  minute  and  more  latent  beauties  around, 
with  the  eye  and  taste  of  one  who  had  looked 
at  Nature  in  her  details.  The  poet  grew  more 
animated  and  cheerful;  he  became  even  elo- 
quent; he  quoted  poetry  and  he  talked  it. 
Maltravers  was  more  and  more  interested  in 
him.  He  felt  a  curiosity  to  know  if  his  talents 
equalled  his  aspirations:  he  hinted  to  Cesarini 
his  wish  to  see  his  compositions — it  was  just 
what  the  young  man  desired.  Poor  Cesarini  ! 
It  was  much  to  him  to  get  a  new  listener,  and 
he  fondly  imagined  every  honest  listener  must 
be  a  warm  admirer.  But  with  the  coyness  of 
his  caste,  he  affected  reluctance  and  hesitation; 
he  dallied  with  his  own  impatient  yearnings. 
And  Maltravers  to  smooth  his  way,  proposed 
an  excursion  on  the  lake. 

."  One  of  my  men  shall  row,"  said  he;  "  you 
shall  recite  to  me,  and  I  will  be  to  you  what 
the  old  housekeeper  was  to  Moliere." 

Maltravers  had  deep  good-nature  where  he 
was  touched,  though  he  had  not  a  superfluity 
of  what  is  called  good-humor,  which  floats  on 
the  surface  and  smiles  on  all  alike.  He  had 
much  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  but  little 
of  its  oil. 

The  poet  assented,  and  they  were  soon  upon 
the  lake.  It  was  a  sultry  day,  and  it  was 
noon;  so  the  boat  crept  slowly  along  by  the 
shadow  of  the  shore,  and  Cesarini  drew  from 
his  breast-pocket  some  manuscripts  of  small 
and  beautiful  writing.  Who  does  not  know 
the  pains  a  young  poet  takes  to  bestow  a  fair 
dress  on  his  darling  rhymes  ! 

Cesarini  read  well  and  feelingly.  Every- 
thing was  in  favor  of  the  reader.  His  own 
poetical  countenance — his  voice,  his  enthusi- 
asm, half-suppressed — the  pre-engaged  in- 
terest of  the  auditor — the  dreamy  loveliness 
of  the  hour  and  scene — (for  there  is  a  great 
deal  as  to  time  in  these  things  !)  Maltravers 
listened  intently.  It  is  very  difficult  to  judge 
of  the  exact  merit  of  poetry  in  another  lan- 
guage, even  when  we  know  that  language  well 
— so  much  is  there  in  the  untranslatable  magic 
of  expression,  the  little  subtleties  of  style. 
But  Maltravers,  fresh,  as  he  himself  had  said, 
from  the  study  of  great  and  original  writers, 
could  not  but  feel  that  he  was  listening  to 
feeble  though  melodious  mediocrity.  It  was 
the  poetry  of  words,  not  things.  He  thought 
it  cruel,  however,  to  be  hypercritical,  and  he 
uttered  all  the  commonplaces  of  eulogium  that 


occurred  to  him.  The  young  man  was  en- 
chanted: "  And  yet,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh,  "  I 
have  no  Public.  In  England  they  would  ap- 
preciate me."  Alas  !  in  England,  at  that 
moment,  there  were  five  hundred  poets  as 
young,  as  ardent,  and  yet  more  gifted,  whose 
hearts  beat  with  the  same  desire — whose  nerves 
were  broken  by  the  same  disappointments. 

Maltravers  found  that  his  young  friend 
would  not  listen  to  any  judgment  not  purely 
favorable.  The  archbishop  in  Gil  Bias  was 
not  more  touchy  upon  any  criticism  that  was 
not  panegyric.  Maltravers  thought  it  a  bad 
sign,  but  he  recollected  Gil  Bias,  and  prudently 
refrained  from  bringing  on  himself  the  benevo- 
lent wish  of  "  beaucoup  de  bonheur  et  un  peu 
plus  de  bon  golit."  When  Cesarini  had  fin- 
ished his  MS.,  he  was  anxious  to  conclude  the 
excursion — he  longed  to  be  at  home,  and  think 
over  the  admiration  he  had  excited.  But  he 
left  his  poems  with  Maltravers,  and  getting  on 
shore  by  the  remains  of  Pliny's  villa,  was  soon 
out  of  sight. 

Maltravers  that  evening  read  the  poems  with 
attention.  His  first  opinion  was  confirmed. 
The  young  man  wrote  without  knowledge.  He' 
had  never  felt  the  passions  he  painted,  never 
been  in  the  situations  he  described.  There 
was  no  originality  in  him,  for  there  was  no  ex- 
perience: it  was  exquisite  mechanism,  his 
verse, — nothing  more  !  It  might  well  deceive 
him,  for  it  could  not  but  flatter  his  ear — and 
Tasso's  silver  march  rang  not  more  musically 
than  did  the  chiming  stanzas  of  Castruccio 
Cesarini. 

The  perusal  of  this  poetry  and  his  conversa- 
tion with  the  poet,  threw  Maltravers  into  a  fit 
of  deep  musing.  "This  poor  Cesarini  may 
warn  me  against  myself  !  "  thought  he.  "Bet- 
ter hew  wood  and  draw  water,  than  attach  our- 
selves devotedly  to  an  art  in  which  we  have 
not  the  capacity  to  excel.  ...  It  is  to  throw 
away  the  healthful  objects  of  life  for  a  dis- 
eased dream, — worse  than  the  Rosicrucians,  it 
is  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  all  human  beauty  for 
the  smile  of  a  sylphid,  that  never  visits  us  but 
in  visions."  Maltravers  looked  over  his  own 
compositions,  and  thrust  them  into  the  fire. 
He  slept  ill  that  night.  His  pride  was  a  little 
dejected.  He  was  like  a  beauty  who  has  seen 
a  caricature  of  herself. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


65 


CHAPTER   III. 

Still  follow  Sense,  of  every  art  the  Soul." 

— Pope:  Moral  Essays — Essay  iv. 

Ernest    Maltravers   spent   much   of    his 
time  with  the  family  of  De  Montaigne.     There 
is  no  period  of  life  in  which  we  are  more  ac- 
cessible to  the  sentiment  of  friendship,  than  in 
the  intervals  of  moral   exhaustion  which  suc- 
ceed to  the  disappointments  of  the   passions. 
There   is,   then,   something,  inviting  in  those 
gentler  feelings  which  keep  alive,   but  do  not 
fever,  the  circulation  of  the  affections.     Mal- 
travers   looked    with   the   benevolence   of    a 
brother  upon  the  brilliant,  versatile,   and   rest- 
less Teresa.     She  was  the  last  person  in  the 
world  he  could  have  been  in  love  with^for  his 
nature,    ardent,    excitable,    yet  fastidious,  re- 
quired something  of  repose  in  the  manners  and 
temperament  of  the    woman  whom   he  could 
love,  and  Teresa  scarcely  knew  what  repose 
was.     Whether  playing  with  her  children  (and 
she  had  two  lovely  ones — the  eldest  six  years 
old),  or  teasing  her  calm  and   meditative  hus- 
band,   or   pouring   out   extempore    verses,   or 
rattling  over  airs  which  she  never  finished,   on 
the  guitar  or  piano — or  making  excursions  on 
the  lake — or,  in  short,  in  whatever  occupation 
she  appeared  as  the  Cynthia  of  the  minute,  she 
was  always  gay    and    mobile, — never   out   of 
humor,  never  acknowledging  a  single  care  or 
cross  in  life, — never  susceptible  of  grief,  save 
when  her  brother's  delicate   health  or  morbid 
temper  saddened  her  atmosphere  of  sunshine. 
Even    then,  the    sanguine    elasticity    of    her 
mind  and  constitution  quickly  recovered  from 
the  depression;  and  she  persuaded  herself  that 
Castruccio  would   grow   stronger  every  year, 
and  ripen  into  a  celebrated  and   happy  man. 
Castruccio  himself  lived  what  romantic  poetas- 
ters call  "  the  life  of  a  poet."     He  loved  to  see 
the  sun  rise  over  the  distant  Alps — or  the  mid- 
night moon  sleeping  on  the  lake.     He  spent 
half  the  day,  and  often  half  the  night,  in   soli- 
tary rambles,  weaving  his  airy  rhymes,  or  in- 
dulging his  gloomy  reveries,  and  he  thought 
loneliness  made  the  element  of  a  poet.     Alas  ! 
Dante,    Alfieri,    even    Petrarch,    might    have 
taught  him,  that   a   pwet  must  have  intimate 
knowledge  of  men  as  well  as  mountains,  if  he 
desire  to  become  the  Creator.    When  Shelley, 
in  one  of  his  prefaces,  boasts  of  being  familiar 

6.-5 


with  Alps  and  glaciers,  and  Heaven  knows 
what,  the  critical  artist  cannot  help  wishing 
that  he  had  been  rather  familiar  with  Fleet 
Street  or  the  Strand.  Perhaps,  then,  that  re- 
markable genius  might  have  been  more  capable 
of  realizing  characters  of  flesh  and  blood,  and 
have  composed  corporeal  and  consummate 
wholes,  not  confused  and  glittering  frag- 
ments. 

Though  Ernest  was  attached  to  Teresa  and 
deeply    interested    in   Castruccio,  it   was    De 
Montaigne  for  whom  he  experienced  the  higher 
and  graver  sentiment  of  esteem.     This  French- 
man was  one   acquainted  with  a  much   larger 
world  than  that  of  the  Coteries.    He  had  served 
in  the  army,  been  employed  with  distinction  in 
civil  affairs,  and  was  of  that  robust  and  health- 
ful   moral    constitution    which   can   bear  with 
every  variety  of  social  life,  and  estimate  calmly 
the   balance   of   our   mortal   fortunes.     Trial 
and  experience  had  left  him  that  true  philos- 
opher who   is  too  wise  to  be  an  optimist,  too 
just   to  be  a  misanthrope.     He    enjoyed  life 
with   sober  judgment,  and    pursued  the  path 
most  suited  to  himself,  without  declaring  it  to 
be  the  best  for  others.     He  was  a  little  hard, 
perhaps,  upon  the  errors  that  belong  to  weak- 
ness and  conceit — not  to  those  that  have  their 
source  in  great  natures  or  generous  thoughts. 
Among  his  characteristics  was  a  profound  ad- 
miration   for  England.     His  own  country  he 
half  loved,  yet  half  disdained.     The  impetu- 
osity and  levity  of  his  compatriots  displeased 
his   sober  and   dignified  notions.     He  could 
not   forgive   them    (he  was  wont  to  say)  for 
having  made   the  two   grand  experiments  of 
popular  revolution  and  military  despotism  in 
vain.     He  sympathized  neither  with  the  young 
enthusiasts   who   desired  a  republic,  without 
well  knowing  the   numerous  strata  of  habits 
and    customs   upon  which  that  fabric,  if  de- 
signed for  permanence,  should  be  built — nor 
with  the   uneducated  and   fierce  chivalry  that 
longed  for  a  restoration  of  the  warrior  empire 
— nor  with  the  dull  and  arrogant  bigots  who 
connected  all  ideas  of  order  and  government 
with  the  ill-starred  and  worn-out   dynasty  of 
the  Bourbons.     In  fact,  good  sense  was  with 
him  the  principium  et  fons  of  all   theories  and 
all  practice.     And  it  was  this  quality  that  at- 
tached him  to  the  English.     His  philosophy 
on  this  head  was  rather  curious. 

"  Good  sense,"  said  he  one  day  to  Maltrav- 


66 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


ers,  as  they  were  walking  to  and  fro  at  De 
Montaigne's  villa,  by  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
"  is  not  a  merely  intellectual  attribute.  It  is 
rather  the  result  of  a  just  equilibrium  of^all  our 
faculties,  spiritual  and  moral.  The  dishonest, 
or  the  toys  of  their  own  passions,  may  have 
genius;  but  they  rarely,  if  ever,  have  good 
sense  in  the  conduct  of  life.  They  may  often 
win  large  prizes,  but  it  is  by  a  game  of  chance, 
not  skill.  But  the  man  whom  I  perceive  walk- 
ing an  honorable  and  upright  career — just  to 
ofhers,  and  also  to  himself — (for  we  owe  jus- 
tice to  ourselves — to  the  care  of  our  fortunes, 
our  character — to  the  management  of  our  pas- 
sions)— is  a  more  dignified  representative  of 
his  Maker  than  the  mere  child  of  genius.  Of 
such  a  man,  we  say  he  has  good  sense;  yes, 
but  he  has  also  integrity,  self-respect,  and  self- 
denial.  A  thousand  trials  which  his  sense 
braves  and  conquers,  are  temptations  also  to  his 
probity — his  temper — in  a  word,  to  all  the 
many  sides  of  his  complicated  nature.  Now, 
I  do  not  think  he  will  have  this  good  sense  any 
more  than  a  drunkard  will  have  strong  nerves, 
unless  he  be  in  the  constant  habit  of  keeping 
his  mind  clear  from  the  intoxication  of  envy, 
vanity,  and  the  various  emotions  that  dupe 
and  mislead  us. 

"  Good  sense  is  not,  therefore,  an  abstract 
quality  or  a  solitary  talent;  but  it  is  the  nat- 
ural result  of  the  habit  of  thinking  justly, 
and  therefore  seeing  clearly,  and  is  as  different 
from  the  sagacity  that  belongs  to  a  diploma- 
tist or  attorney,  as  the  philosophy  of  Socrates 
differed  from  the  rhetoric  of  Gorgias.  As  a 
mass  of  individual  excellences  make  up  this 
attribute  in  a  man,  so  a  mass  of  such  men  thus 
characterized  give  a  character  to  a  nation. 
Your  England  is,  therefore,  renowned  for  its 
good  sense;  but  it  is  renowned  also  for  the 
excellences  which  accompany  strong  sense  in 
an  individual,  high  honesty  and  faith  in  its 
dealings,  a  warm  love  of  justice  and  fair  play, 
a  general  freedom  from  the  violent  crimes 
common  on  the  Continent,  and  the  energetic 
perseverance  in  enterprise  once  commenced, 
which  results  from  a  bold  and  healthful  dis- 
position." 

"  Our  Wars — our  Debt  " — began  Maltravers. 

"  Pardon  me,"  interrupted  De  Montaigne, 
•'I  am  speaking  of  your  People,  not  of  your 
Government.  A  government  is  often  a  very  un- 
fair representative  of  a  nation.    But  even  in  the 


wars  you  allude  to,  if  you  examine,  you  will 
generally  find  them  originate  in  the  love  of 
justice  (which  is  the  basis  of  good  sense),  not 
from  any  insane  desire  of  conquest  or  glory. 
A  man,  however  sensible,  must  have  a  heart 
in  his  bosom,  and  a  great  nation  cannot  be  a 
piece  of  selfish  clockwork.  Suppose  you  and 
I  are  sensible,  prudent  men,  and  we  see  in  a 
crowd  one  violent  fellow  unjustly  knocking 
another  on  the  head,  we  should  be  brutes,  not 
men,  if  we  did  not  interfere  with  the  savage ; 
but  if  we  thrust  ourselves  into  a  crowd  with  a 
large  bludgeon,  and  belabor  our  neighbors, 
with  the  hope  that  the  spectators  would  cry, 
'  See  what  a  bold,  strong  fellow  that  is  ! ' — then 
we  should  be  only  playing  the  madman  from 
the  motive  of  the  coxcomb.  I  fear  you  will 
find,  in  the  military  history  of  the  French  and 
English,  the  application  of  my  parable." 

"  Yet  still,  I  confess,  there  is  a  gallantry, 
and  a  nobleman-like  and  Norman  spirit  in  the 
whole  French  nation,  which  make  me  forgive 
many  of  their  excesses,  and  think  they  are 
destined  for  great  purposes,  when  experience 
shall  have  sobered  their  hot  blood.  Some  na- 
tions, as  some  men,  are  slow  in  arriving  at 
maturity;  others  seem  men  in  their  cradle. 
The  English,  thanks  to  their  sturdy  Saxon 
origin,  elevated,  not  depressed,  by  the  Norman 
infusion,  never  were  children.  The  difference 
is  striking,  when  you  regard  the  representatives 
of  both  in  their  great  men — whether  writers  or 
active  citizens." 

"  Yes,"  said  De  Montaigne,  "  in  Milton  and 
Cromwell,  there  is  nothing  of  the  brilliant 
child.  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  Voltaire  or 
Napoleon.  Even  Richelieu,  the  manliest  of 
our  statesmen,  had  so  much  of  the  French 
infant  in  him  as  to  fancy  himself  a  beau  garfon, 
a  gallant,  a  wit,  and  a  poet.  As  for  the  Racine 
school  of  writers,  they  were  not  out  of  the 
leading-strings  of  imitation — cold  copyists  of  a 
pseudo-classic — in  which  they  saw  the  form, 
and  never  caught  the  spirit.  What  so'  little 
Roman,  Greek,  Hebre.w,  as  their  Roman, 
Greek,  and  Hebrew  dramas  !  Your  rude 
Shakespeare's  Julius  Cassar — even  his  Troilus 
and  Cressida— have  the  ancient  spirit,  precisely 
as  they  are  imitations  of  nothing  ancient. 
But  our  Frenchmen  copied  the  giant  images 
of  old,  just  as  a  school-girl  copies  a  drawing, 
by  holding  it  up  to  the  window,  and  tracing  the 
lines  on  silver  paper." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


67 


"  But  your  new  writers — De  Stael — Chateau- 
briand ? "  * 

"  I  find  no  other  fault  with  the  sentimen- 
talists," answered  the  severe  critic,  "  than  that 
of  exceeding  feebleness — they  have  no  bone 
and  muscle  in  their  genius  —  all  is  flaccid 
and  rotund  in  its  feminine  symmetry.  They 
seem  to  think  that  vigor  consists  in  florid 
phrases  and  little  aphorisms,  and  delineate  all 
the  mighty  tempests  of  the  human  heart  with 
the  polished  prettiness  of  a  minature-painter 
on  ivory.  No  ! — ^these  two  are  children  of 
another  kind  —  affected,  tricked-out,  well- 
dressed  children — very  clever,  very  precocious 
— but  children  still.  Their  whinings,  and  their 
sentimentalities,  and  their  egotism,  and  their 
vanity,  cannot  interest  masculine  beings  who 
know  what  life  and  its  stern  objects  are." 

"  Your  brother-in-law,"  said  Maltravers, 
with  a  slight  smile,  "  must  find  in  you  a  dis- 
couraging censor." 

"  My  poor  Castruccio,"  replied  De  Mon- 
taigne, with  a  half-sigh;  "he  is  one  of  those 
victims  whom  I  believe  to  be  more  common 
than  we  dream  of — men  whose  aspirations  are 
above  their  powers.  I  agree  with  a  great 
German  writer,  that  in  the  first  walks  of  Art 
no  man  has  a  right  to  enter,  unless  he  is  con- 
vinced that  he  has  strength  and  speed  for  the 
goal.  Castruccio  might  be  an  amiable  member 
of  society,  nay,  an  able  and  useful  man,  if  he 
would  apply  the  powers  he  possesses  to  the  re- 
wards they  may  obtain.  He  has  talent  enough 
to  win  him  reputation  in  any  profession  but 
that  of  a  poet." 

"  But  authors  who  obtain  immortality  are 
not  always  first-rate." 

"  First-rate  in  their  way,  I  suspect;  even  if 
that  way  be  false  or  trivial.  They  must  be 
connected  with  the  history  of  their  literature; 
you  must  be  able  to  say  of  them,  '  In  this 
school,  be  it  bad  or  good,  they  exerted  such 
and  such  an  influence;  '  in  a  word,  they  must 
form  a  link  in  the  great  chain  of  a  nation's 
authors,  which  may  be  afterwards  forgotten 
by  the  superficial,  but  without  which  the  chain 
would  be  incomplete.  And  thus,  if  not  first- 
rate  for  all  time,  they   have  been   first-rate  in 


*  At  the  time  of  this  conversation,  the  later  school, 
adorned  by  Victor  Hugo,  who,  with  notions  of  Art 
elaborately  wrong,  is  stili  a  man  of  extraordinary 
genius,  had  not  risen  into  its  present  equivocal  repu- 
tation. 


their  own  day.  But  Castruccio  is  only  the 
echo  of  others— he  can  neither  found  a  school 
nor  ruin  one.  Yet  this,"  (again  added  De  Mon- 
taigne after  a  pause) — "  this  melancholy  mal- 
ady in  my  brother-in-law  would  cure  itself, 
perhaps,  if  he  were  not  Italian.  In  your  ani- 
mated and  bustling  country,  after  sufficient 
disappointment  as  a  poet,  he  would  glide  into 
some  other  calling,  and  his  vanity  and  craving 
for  effect  would  find  a  rational  and  manly  out- 
let. But  in  Italy,  what  can  a  clever  man  do, 
if  he  is  not  a  poet  or  a  robber  ?  If  he  love 
his  country,  that  crime  is  enough  to  unfit  him 
for  civil  employment,  and  his  mind  cannot 
stir  a  step  in  the  bold  channels  of  speculation 
without  falling  foul  of  the  Austrian  or  Pope. 
No;  the  best  I  can  hope  for  Castruccio  is,  that 
he  will  end  in  an  antiquary,  and  dispute  about 
ruins  with  the  Romans.  Better  that  than  me- 
diocre poetry." 

Maltravers  was  silent  and  thoughtful. 
Strange  to  say,  De  Montaigne's  views  did  not 
discourage  his  own  new  and  secret  ardor  for 
intellectual  triumphs;  not  because  he  felt  that 
he  was  now  able  to  achieve  them,  but  because 
he  felt  the  iron  of  his  own  nature,  and  knew 
that  a  man  who  has  iron  in  his  nature  must 
ultimately  hit  upon  some  way  of  shaping  the 
metal  into  use. 

The  host  and  guest  were  now  joined  by 
Castruccio  himself — silent  and  gloomy  as  in- 
deed he  usually  was,  especially  in  the  pres- 
ence of  De  Montaigne,  with  whom  he  felt  his 
"self-love"  wounded;  for  though  he  longed 
to  despise  his  hard  brother-in-law,  the  young 
poet  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that  De 
Montaigne  was  not  a  man  to  be  despised. 

Maltravers  dined  with  the  De  Montaignes, 
and  spent  the  evening  with  them.  He  could 
not  but  observe  that  Castruccio,  who  affected 
in  his  verses  the  softest  sentiments — who  was 
indeed,  by  original  nature,  tender  and  gentle 
— had  become  so  completely  warped  by  that 
worst  of  all  mental  vices — the  eternally  pon- 
dering on  his  own  excellencies,  talents,  mortifi- 
cations, and  ill-usage,  that  he  never  contrib- 
uted to  the  gratification  of  those  around  him; 
he  had  none  of  the  little  arts  of  social  benevo- 
lence, none  of  the  playful  youth  of  disposition 
which  usually  belongs  to  the  good-hearted,  and 
for  which  men  of  a  master-genius,  however 
elevated  their  studies,  however  stern  or  re- 
served   to    the    vulgar   world,   are    commonly 


68 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


noticeable  amidst  the  friends  they  love,or  in  the 
home  they  adorn.  Occupied  with  one  dream, 
centered  in  self,  the  young  Italian  was  sullen 
and  morose  to  all  who  did  not  sympathize  with 
his  own  morbid  fancies.  From  the  children — 
the  sister — the  friend — the  whole  living  earth, 
he  fled  to  a  poem  on  Solitude,  or  stanzas  upon 
Fame.  Maltravers  said  to  himself.  "  I  will 
never  be  an  author — I  will  never  sigh  for  re- 
nown— if  I  am  to  purchase  shadows  at  such  a 
price  ! " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  It  cannot  be  too  deeply  impressed  on  the  mind, 
that  application  is  the  price  to  be  paid  for  mental  ac- 
quisitions, and  that  it  is  as  absurd  to  expect  them  with- 
out it,  as  to  hope  for  a  harvest  where  we  have  not 
sown  the  seed." 

"  In  everything  we  do,  we  may  be  possibly  laying  a 
train  of  consequences,  the  operation  of  which  may 
terminate  only  with  our  existence." 

— Bailey:  Essays  on  the  Formation  and 
Publication  of  Opinions, 

Time  passed  and  autumn  was  far  advanced 
towards  winter,  still  Maltravers  lingered  at 
Como.  He  saw  little  of  any  other  family  than 
that  of  the  De  Montaignes,  and  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  was  necessarily  spent  alone. 
His  occupation  continued  to  be  that  of  mak- 
ing experiments  of  his  own  powers,  and  these 
gradually  became  bolder  and  more  compre- 
hensive. He  took  care,  however,  not  to  show 
his  "  Diversions  of  Como  "  to  his  new  friends; 
he  wanted  no  audience — he  dreamt  of  no  Pub- 
lic; he  desired  merely  to  practise  his  own 
mind.  He  became  aware,  of  his  own  accord, 
as  he  proceeded,  that  a  man  can  neither  study 
with  much  depth,  nor  compose  with  much  art, 
unless  he  has  some  definite  object  before  him; 
in  the  first,  some  one  branch  of  knowledge  to 
master;  in  the  last,  some  one  conception  to 
work  out.  Maltravers  fell  back  upon  his  boy- 
ish passion  for  metaphysical  speculation;  but 
with  what  different  results  did  he  now  wrestle 
with  the  subtle  schoolmen, — now  that  he  had 
practically  known  mankind  !  How  insensibly 
new  lights  broke  in  upon  him,  as  he  threaded 
the  labyrinth  of  cause  and  effect,  by  which  we 
seek  to  arrive  at  that  curious  and  biform  mon- 
ster—our own  nature.  His  mind  became  sat- 
urated, as  it  were,  with  these  profound  studies 
and    meditations;    and   when    at    length    he 


paused  from  them,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  not 
been  living  in  solitude,  but  had  gone  through  a 
process  of  action  in  the  busy  world:  so  much 
juster,  so  much  clearer,  had  become  his  knowl- 
edge of  himself  and  others. 

But  though  these  researches  colored,  they 
did  not  limit  his  intellectual  pursuits.  Poetry 
and  the  lighter  letters  became  to  him,  not 
merely  a  relaxation,  but  a  critical  and  thought- 
ful study.  He  delighted  to  [jenetrate  into  the 
causes  that  have  made  the  airy  webs  spun  by 
men's  fancies  so  permament  and  powerful  ii> 
their  influence  over  the  hard,  work-day  world. 
And  what  a  lovely  scene: — what  a  sky — what 
an  air  wherein  to  commence  the  projects  of 
that  ambition  which  seeks  to  establish  an  em- 
pire in  the  hearts  and  memories  of  mankind  ! 
I  believe  it  has  a  great  effect  on  the  future 
labors  of  a  writer,— the  place  where  he  first 
dreams  that  it  is  his  destiny  to  write  ! 

From  these  pursuits,  Ernest  was  aroused  by 
another  letter  from  Cleveland.  His  kind 
friend  had  been  disappointed  and  vexed  that 
Maltravers  did  not  follow  his  advice,  and  re- 
turn to  England.  He  had  shown  his  dis- 
pleasure by  not  answering  Ernest's  letter  of 
excuses;  but  lately  he  had  been  seized  with  a 
dangerous  illness  which  reduced  him  to  the 
brink  of  the  grave;  and  with  a  heart  softened 
by  the  exhaustion  of  the  frame,  he  now  wrote 
in  the  first  moments  of  convalescence  to  Mal- 
travers, informing  him  of  his  attack  and  dan- 
ger, and  once  more  urging  him  to  return.  The 
thought  that  Cleveland — the  dear,  kind,  gentle 
guardian  of  his  youth — had  been  near  unto 
death,  that  he  might  never  more  have  hung 
upon  that  fostering  hand,  nor  replied  to  that 
paternal  voice,  smote  Ernest  with  terror  and 
remorse.  He  resolved  instantly  to  return  to 
England,  and  made  his  preparations  accord- 
ingly. 

He  went  to  take  leave  of  the  De  Montaignes. 
Teresa  was  trying  to  teach  her  first-born  to 
read; — and,  seated  by  the  open  window  of  the 
villa,  in  her  neat,  not  precise,  dishabille — with 
the  little  boy's  delicate,  yet  bold  and  healthy 
countenance  looking  up  fearlessly  at  hers, 
while  she  was  endeavoring  to  initiate  him — 
half  gravely,  half  laughingly — into  the  mys- 
teries of  monosyllables,  the  pretty  boy  and  the 
fair  young  mother  made  a  delightful  picture. 
De  Montaigne  was  reading  the  Essays  of  his 
celebrated  namesake,  in  whom  he  boasted,  I 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


69 


know  not  with  what  justice,  to  claim  an  ances- 
tor. From  time  to  time  he  looked  from  the 
page  to  take  a  glance  at  the  progress  of  his  heir, 
and  keep  up  with  the  march  of  intellect.  But  he 
did  not  interfere  with  the  maternal  lecture;  he 
was  wise  enough  to  know  that  there  is  a  kind  of 
sympathy  between  a  child  and  a  mother,  which 
is  worth  all  the  grave  superiority  of  a  father 
in  making  learning  palatable  to  young  years. 
He  was  far  too  clever  a  man  not  to  despise  all 
the  systems  for  forcing  infants  under  knowl- 
edge-frames, which  are  the  present  fashion. 
He  knew  that  philosophers  never  made  a 
greater  mistake  than  in  insisting  so  much 
upon  beginning  abstract  education  from  the 
cradle.  It  is  quite  enough  to  attend  to  an 
infant's  temper,  and  correct  that  cursed  pre- 
dilection for  telling  fibs  which  falsifies  all  Dr. 
Reid's  absurd  theory  about  innate  propen- 
sities to  truth,  and  makes  the  prevailing  epi- 
demic of  the  nursery.  Above  all,  what  advan- 
tage ever  compensates  for  hurting  a  child's 
health  or  breaking  his  spirit  ?  Never  let  him 
learn,  more  than  you  can  help  it,  the  crushing 
bitterness  of  fear.  A  bold  child  who  looks 
you  in  the  face,  speaks  the  truth  and  shames 
the  devil;  that  is  the  stuff  of  which  to  make 
good  and  brave— ay,  and  wise  men  ! 

Maltravers  entered  unannounced,  into  this 
charming  family  party,  and  stood  unobserved 
for  a  few  moments,  by  the  open  door.  The 
little  pupil  was  the  first  to  perceive  him,  and, 
forgetful  of  monosyllables,  ran  to  greet  him; 
for,  Maltravers,  though  gentle  rather  than  gay, 
was  a  favorite  with  children,  and  his  fair,  calm, 
gracious  countenance  did  more  for  him  with 
them,  than  if,  like  Goldsmith's  Burchell,  his 
pockets  had  been  filled  with  gingerbread  and 
apples.  "  Ah,  fie  on  you,  Mr.  Maltravers  !  " 
cried  Teresa,  rising,  "  you  have  blown  away 
all  the  characters  I  have  been  endeavoring 
this  last  half  hpur  to  imprint  upon  sand." 

"  Not  so,  Signora,"  said  Maltravers,  seating 
himself,  and  placing  the  child  on  his  knee; 
my  young  friend  will  set  to  work  again  with  a 
greater  gusto  after  this  little  break  in  upon  his 
labors." 

"You  will  stay  with  us  all  day,  I  hope?" 
said  De  Montaigne. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Maltravers,  I  am  come  to 
ask  permission  to  do  so,  for  to-morrow  I  de- 
part for  England." 

"  Is  it  possible  ? "  cried  Teresa.     How  sud- 


den !  How  we  shall  miss  you  !  Oh  !  don't 
go.  But  perhaps  you  have  had  bad  news 
from  England." 

"  I  have  news  that  summons  me  hence,"  re- 
plied Maltravers;  "my  guardian  and  second 
father  has  been  dangerously  ill.  I  am  uneasy 
about  him,  and  reproach  myself  for  having  for- 
gotten him  so  long  in  your  seductive  society." 

"  I  am  really  sorry  to  lose  you,"  said  De 
Montaigne,  with  greater  warmth  in  his  tones 
than  in  his  words.  "  I  hope  heartily  we  shall 
meet  again  soon:  you  will  come,  perhaps,  to 
Paris  ? " 

"Probably,"  said  Maltravers;  "and  you, 
perhaps,  to  England  ?  " 

"Ah,  how  I  should  like  it!"  exclaimed 
Teresa. 

"  No,  you  would  not,"  said  her  husband; 
"  you  would  not  like  England  at  all;  you  would 
call  it  triste  beyond  measure.  It  is  one  of 
those  countries  of  which  a  native  should  be 
proud,  but  which  has  no  amusement  for  a 
stranger,  precisely  because  full  of  such  serious 
and  stirring  occupations  to  the  citizens.  The 
pleasantest  countries  for  strangers  are  the 
worst  countries  for  natives,  (witness  Italy), 
and  vice  versd." 

Teresa  shook  her  dark  curls,  and  would  not 
be  convinced. 

"  And  where  is  Castruccio  ? "  asked  Mal- 
travers. 

"  In  his  boat  on  the  lake,"  replied  Teresa. 
He  will  be  inconsolable  at  your  departure:  you 
are  the  only  person  he  can  understand,  or  who 
understands  him;  the  only  person  in  Italy — I 
had  almost  said  in  the  whole  world." 

"  Well,  we  shall  meet  at  dinner,"  said  Ernest; 
"  meanwhile,  let  me  prevail  on  you  to  accom- 
pany me  to  the  Pliniana.  I  wish  to  say  fare- 
well to  that  crystal  spring." 

Teresa,  delighted  at  any  excursion,  readily 
consented. 

"  And  I  too,  mamma,"  cried  the  child;  "  and 
my  little  sister  >  " 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Maltravers,  speaking 
for  the  parents. 

So  the  party  was  soon  ready,  and  they 
pushed  off  in  the  clear,  genial  noon-tide  (for 
November  in  Italy  is  as  early  as  September  in 
the  North),  across  the  sparkling  and  dimpled 
waters.  The  children  prattled,  and  the  grown- 
up people  talked  on  a  thousand  matters.  It 
was   a  pleasant  day,  that  last  day  at  Como  ! 


70 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


For  the  farewells  of  friendship  have  indeed 
something  of  the  melancholy,  but  not  the  an- 
guish, of  those  of  love.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
better  if  we  could  get  rid  of  love  altogether. 
Life  would  go  on  smoother  and  happier  with- 
out it.  Friendship  is  the  wine  of  existence, 
but  love  is  the  dram-drinking. 

When  they  returned,  they  found  Castruccio 
seated  on  the  lawn.  He  did  not  appear  so 
much  dejected  at  the  prospect  of  Ernest's  de- 
parture as  Teresa  had  anticipated;  for  Cas- 
truccio Cesarini  was  a  very  jealous  man,  and 
he  had  lately  been  chagrined  and  discontented 
with  seeing  the  delight  that  the  De  Montaignes 
took  in  Ernest's  society. 

"Why  is  this?"  he  often  asked  himself; 
"  why  are  they  more  pleased  with  this  stranger's 
society  than  mine  ?  My  ideas  are  as  fresh,  as 
original;  I  have  as  much  genius,  yet  even  my 
dry  brother-in-law  allows  his  talents,  and  pre- 
dicts that  he  will  be  an  eminent  man;  while  / 
-^No  ! — one  is  not  a  prophet  in  one's  own 
country  !  " 

Unhappy  young  man  !  his  mind  bore  all 
the  rank  weeds  of  the  morbid  poetical  char- 
acter, and  the  weeds  choked  up  the  flowers 
that  the  soil,  properly  cultivated,  should  alone 
bear.  Yet  that  crisis  in  life  awaited  Cas- 
truccio, in  which  a  sensitive  and  poetical  man 
is  made  or  marred; — the  crisis  in  which  a 
sentiment  is  replaced  by  the  passions  in  which 
love  for  some  real  object  gathers  the  scattered 
rays  of  the  heart  into  a  focus;  out  of  that  or- 
deal he  might  pass  a  purer  and  manlier  being 
— so  Maltravers  often  hoped.  Maltravers 
then  little  thought  how  closely  connected  with 
his  own  fate  was  to  be  that  passage  in  the 
history  of  the  Italian  !  Castruccio  contrived 
to  take  Maltravers  aside,  and  as  he  led  the 
Englishman  through  the  wood  that  backed 
the  mansion,  he  said,  with  some  embarrass- 
ment, "  You  go,  I  suppose,  to  London  ?  " 

"  I  shall  pass  through  it — can  I  execute  any 
commission  for  you  ?  " 

•'Why,  yes;  my  poems! — I  think  of  pub- 
lishing them  in  England:  your  aristocracy 
cultivate  the  Italian  letters;  and,  perhaps,  I 
may  be  read  by  the  fair  and  noble — that  is  the 
proper  audience  of  poets.  For  the  vulgar  herd 
— I  disdain  it  !  " 

"  My  dear  Castruccio,  I  will  undertake  to 
see  your  poems  published  in  London,  if  you 
wish  it;  but  do  not  be  sanguine.     In  England 


we  read  little  poetry,  even  in  our  own  language, 
and  we  are  shamefully  indifferent  to  foreign 
literature." 

"Yes,  foreign  literature  generally,  and  you 
are  right;  but  my  poems  are  of  another  kind. 
They  must  command  attention  in  a  polished 
and  intelligent  circle." 

"Well!  let  the  experiment  be  tried;  you 
can  let  me  have  the  poems  when  we  part." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Castruccio,  in  a  joyous 
tone,  pressing  his  friend's  hand;  and  for  the 
rest  of  that  evening,  he  seemed  an  altered 
being;  he  even  caressed  the  children,  and  did 
not  sneer  at  the  grave  conversation  of  his 
brother-in-law. 

When  Maltravers  rose  to  depart,  Castruccio 
gave  him  the  packet;  and  then,  utterly  en- 
grossed with  his  own  imagined  futurity  of 
fame,  vanished  from  the  room  to  indulge  his 
reveries.  He  cared  no  longer  for  Maltravers 
— he  had  put  him  to  use — he  could  not  be 
sorry  for  his  departure,  for  that  departure  was 
the  Avatar  of  His  appearance  to  a  new  world  ! 

A  small  dull  rain  was  falling,  though,  at  in- 
tervals, the  stars  broke  through  the  unsettled 
clouds,  and  Teresa  did  not  therefore  venture 
from  the  house;  she  presented  her  smooth 
cheek  to  the  young  guest  to  salute,  pressed  him 
by  the  hand,  and  bade  him  adieu  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  "  Ah  !  "  said  she,  "  when  we  meet 
again,  I  hope  you  will  be  married — I  shall  love 
your  wife  dearly.  There  is  no  happiness  like 
marriage  and  home  !  "  and  she  looked  with  in- 
genuous tenderness  at  De  Montaigne. 

Maltravers  sighed — his  thoughts  flew  back 
to  Alice.  Where  now  was  that  lone  and 
friendless  girl,  whose  innocent  love  had  once 
brightened  a  home  for  him  ?  He  answered  by 
a  vague  and  mechanical  commonplace,  and 
quitted  the  room  with  De  Montaigne,  who  in- 
sisted on  seeing  him  depart.  As  they  neared 
the  lake,  De  Montaigne  broke  the  silence. 

"My  dear  Maltravers,"  he  said,  with  a  serious 
and  thoughtful  affection  in  his  voice,  "  we  may 
not  meet  again  for  years.  I  have  a  warm  inter- 
est in  your  happiness  and  career — yes,  career, 
—I  repeat  the  word.  I  do  not  habitually  seek 
to  inspire  young  men  with  ambition.  Enough 
for  most  of  them  to  be  good  and  honorable 
citizens.  But  in  your  case  it  is  different.  I 
see  in  you  the  earnest  and  meditative,  not 
rash  and  overweening  youth,  which  is  usually 
productive  of  a  distinguished  manhood.    Your 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


7» 


mind  is  not  yet  settled,  it  is  true;  but  it  is 
fast  becoming  clear  and  mellow  from  the  first 
ferment  of  boyish  dreams  and  passions.  You 
have  everything  in  your  favor,  competence, 
birth,  connections;  and,  above  all,  you  are  an 
Englishman  !  You  have  a  mighty  stage,  on 
which,  it  is  true,  you  cannot  establish  a  foot- 
ing without  merit  and  without  labor — so  much 
the  better;  in  which  strong  and  resolute  rivals 
will  urge  you  on  to  emulation,  and  then  com- 
petition will  task  your  keenest  powers." 

"  Think  what  a  glorious  fate  it  is,  to  have 
an  influence  on  the  vast,  but  ever-growing 
mind  of  such  a  country, — to  feel,  when  you 
retire  from  the  busy  scene,  that  you  have 
played  an  unforgotten  part— that  you  have 
been  the  medium,  under  God's  great  will,  of 
circulating  new  ideas  throughout  the  world — 
of  upholding  the  glorious  priesthood  of  the 
Honest  and  the  Beautiful.  This  is  the  true 
ambition;  the  desire  of  mere  personal  noto- 
riety is  vanity,  not  ambition.  Do  not  then 
ne  lukewarm  or  supine.  The  trait  I  have  ob- 
served in  you,"  added  the  Frenchman,  with  a 
smile,  "  most  prejudicial  to  your  chances  of 
distinction  is,  that  you  are  too  philosophical, 
too  apt  to  cui  bono  all  the  exertions  that  inter- 
fere with  the  indolence  of  cultivated  leisure. 
And  you  must  not  suppose,  Maltravers,  that 
an  active  career  will  be  a  path  of  roses.  At 
present  you  have  no  enemies;  but  the  mo- 
ment you  attempt  distinction,  you  will  be 
abused,  calumniated,  reviled.  You  will  be 
shocked  at  the  wrath  you  excite,  and  sigh  for 
your  old  obscurity,  and  consider,  as  Franklin 
has  it,  that  '  you  have  paid  too  dear  for  your 
whistle.'  But,  in  return  for  individual  ene- 
mies, what  a  noble  recompense  to  have  made 
the  Public  itself  your  friend;  perhaps  even 
Posterity  your  familiar  !  Besides,"  added  De 
Montaigne,  with  almost  a  religious  solemnity 
in  his  voice,  "  there  is  a  conscience  of  the  head 
as  well  as  of  the  heart,  and  in  old  age  we  feel 
as  much  remorse,  if  we  have  wasted  our 
natural  talents,  as  if  we  have  perverted  our 
natuiai  virtues.  The  profound  and  exultant 
satisfaction  with  which  a  man  who  knows  that 
he  has  not  lived  in  vain — that  he  has  entailed 
on  the  world  an  heir-loom  of   instruction  or 


delight — looks  back  upon  departed  struggles, 
is  one  of  the  happiest  emotions  of  which  the 
conscience  can  be  capable. 

"What,  indeed  are  the  petty  faults  we  commit 
as  individuals,  affecting  but  a  narrow  circle, 
ceasing  with  our  own  lives,  to  the  incalculable 
and  everlasting  good  we  may  produce  as  pub- 
lic men  by  one  book  or  by  one  law  ?  Depend 
upon  it  that  the  Almighty,  who  sums  up  all 
the  good  and  all  the  evil  done  by  his  creatures 
in  a  just  balance,  will  not  judge  the  august 
benefactors  of  the  world  with  the  same  severity 
as  those  drones  of  soeiety,  who  have  no  great 
services  to  show  in  the  eternal  ledger,  as  a 
set-off  to  the  indulgence  of  their  small  vices. 
These  things  rightly  considered,  Maltravers, 
you  will  have  every  inducement  that  can 
tempt  a  lofty  mind  and  a  pure  ambition  to 
awaken  from  the  voluptuous  indolence  of  the 
literary  Sybarite,  and  contend  worthily  in  the 
world's  wide  Altis  for  a  great  prize." 

Maltravers  never  before  felt  so  flattered — 
so  stirred  into  high  resolves.  The  stately 
eloquence,  the  fervid  encouragement  of  this 
man,  usually  so  cold  and  fastidious,  roused 
him  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  He  stopped 
short,  his  breath  heaved  thick,  his  cheek 
flushed.  "  De  Montaigne,"  said  he,  "  your 
words  have  cleared  away  a  thousand  doubts 
and  scruples — they  have  gone  right  to  my 
heart.  For  the  first  time  I  understand  what 
fame  is — what  the  object,  and  what  the  reward 
of  labor  !  Visions,  hopes,  aspirations,  I  may 
have  had  before — for  months  a  new  spirit  has 
been  fluttering  within  me.  I  have  felt  the 
wings  breaking  from  the  shell.  But  all  was 
confused,  dim,  uncertain.  I  doubted  the  wis- 
dom of  effort,  with  life  so  short,  and  the  pleas 
ures  of  youth  so  sweet.  I  now  look  no  longer 
on  life  but  as  a  part  of  the  eternity  to  which  I 
feel -we.  were  born;  and  I  recognize  the  solemn 
truth  that  our  objects,  to  be  worthy  life,  should 
be  worthy  of  creatures  in  whom  the  living 
principle  never  is  extinct.  Farewell  !  come 
joy  or  sorrow,  failure  or  success,  I  will  struggle 
to  deserve  your  friendship." 

Maltravers  sprang  into  his  boat,  and  the 
shades  of  night  soon  snatched  him  from  the 
lingering  gaze  of  De  Montaigne. 


^a 


B  UL  WER  'S     WOUKS. 


BOOK    FOURTH. 


*  *  *  eiri  6«  ^ivta 

Not'cK  X^"*'*'')  ^^^  avavhpvv 
KoiTac  oAc'trtura  A.exTpoi' 
TaAai^'a. 

KUKIP.  Med.  Ul. 

*  Strange  is  the  land  that  holds  thee, — and  thy  couch 
Is  widow'd  of  the  loved  one." — Translation. 


CHAPTER   I. 


"  I,  alas! 
Have  lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad  years; 
And  so  my  lot  was  ordered,  that  a  father 
First  turned  the  moments  of  awakening  life 
To  drops,  each  poisoning  youth's  sweet  hope." 

— Cenci. 


From  accompanying  Maltravers  along  the 
iioiseless  progress  of  mental  education,  we  are 
now  called  awhile  to  cast  our  glances  back  at 
the  ruder  and  harsher  ordeal  which  Alice  Dar- 
vil  was  ordained  to  pass.  Along  her  path 
poetry  shed  no  flowers,  nor  were  her  lonely 
steps  towards  the  distant  shrine  at  which  her 
pilgrimage  found  its  rest  lighted  by  the  mystic 
lamp  of  science,  or  guided  by  the  thousand 
stars  which  are  never  dim  in  the  heavens  for 
those  favored  eyes  from  which  genius  and 
fancy  have  removed  many  of  the  films  of  clay. 
Not  along  the  aerial  and  exalted  ways  that 
wind  far  above  the  homes  and  business  of 
common  men — the  solitary  Alps  of  Spiritual 
Philosophy — wandered  the  desolate  steps  of 
the  child  of  poverty  and  sorrow.  On  the 
beaten  and  rugged  highways  of  common  life, 
with  a  weary  heart,  and  with  bleeding  feet,  she 
went  her  melancholy  course.  But  the  goal 
which  is  the  great  secret  of  life,  the  sumnium 
arcanum  of  all  philosophy,  whether  the  Prac- 
tical or  the  Ideal,  was,  perhaps,  no  less  at- 
tainable for  that  humble  girl  than  for  the 
elastic  step  and  aspiring  heart  of  him  who 
thirsted  after  the  Great,  and  almost  believed 
in  the  Impossible. 


We  return  to  that  dismal  night  in  which 
Alice  was  torn  from  the  roof  of  her  lover. — It 
was  long  before  she  recovered  her  conscious- 
ness of  what  had  passed,  and  gained  a  full 
perception  of  the  fearful  revolution  which  had 
taken  place  in  her  destinies.  It  was  then  a 
gray  and  dreary  morning  twilight;  and  the 
rude  but  covered  vehicle  which  bore  her  was 
rolling  along  the  deeps  ruts  of  an  unfre- 
quented road,  winding  among  the  unenclosed 
and  mountainous  wastes  that,  in  England,  usu- 
ally betoken  the  neighborhood  of  the  sea. 
With  a  shudder  Alice  looked  round:  Walters, 
her  father's  accomplice,  lay  extended  at  her 
feet,  and  his  heavy  breathing  showed  that  he 
was  fast  asleep.  Darvil  himself  was  urging  on 
the  jaded  and  sorry  horse,  and  his  broad  back 
was  turned  towards  Alice;  the  rain,  from  which, 
in  his  position,  he  was  but  ill  protected  by  the 
awning,  dripped  dismally  from  his  slouched 
hat;  and  now,  as  he  turned  around,  and  his 
smister  and  gloomy  gaze  rested  upon  the  face 
of  Alice,  his  bad  countenance,  rendered  more 
haggard  by  the  cold  raw  light  of  the  cheerless 
dawn,  completed  the  hideous  picture  of  un- 
veiled and  ruffianly  wretchedness. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  Alley,  so  you  are  come  to  your 
senses,"  said  he,  with  a  kind  of  joyless  grin. 
"  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  can  have  no  fainting 
fine  ladies  with  me.  You  have  had  a  long 
holiday,  Alley;  you  must  now  learn  once 
more  to  work   for  your  poor  father.     Ah,  you 

have    been  d d   sly;  but  never  mind   the 

past— I  forgive  it.  You  must  not  run  away 
again   without   my   leave; 


if  vou  are   fond  of 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


73 


sweethearts,  I  won't  balk  you — but  your  old 
father  must  go  shares,  Alley." 

Alice  could  hear  no  more:  she  covered  her 
face  with  the  cloak  that  had  been  thrown 
about  her,  and  though  she  did  not  faint,  her 
senses  seemed  to  be  locked  and  paralyzed. 
By  and  by  Walters  woke,  and  the  two  men, 
heedless  of  her  presence,  conversed  upon  their 
plans.  By  degrees  she  recovered  sufficient 
self-possession  to  listen,  in  the  instinctive  hope 
that  some  plan  of  escape  might  be  suggested 
to  her.  But  from  what  she  could  gather  of 
the  incoherent  aad  various  projects  they  dis- 
cussed, one  after  another  —  disputing  upon 
each  with  frightful  oaths  and  scarce  intelligible 
slang,  she  could  only  learn  that  it  was  resolved 
at  all  events  to  leave  the  district  in  which  they 
were— but  whither,  seemed  yet  all  undecided. 
The  cart  halted  at  last  at  a  miserable-Iookuig 
hut,  which  the  sign  post  announced  to  be  an 
inn  that  afforded  good  accomodation  to  travel- 
lers; to  which  announcement  was  annexed  the 
following  epigrammatic  distich: — 

"  Old  Tom,  he  is  the  best  of  gin ; 

Drinic  him  once,  and  you'll  drink  him  agin  !  " 

The  hovel  stood  so  remote  from  all  other 
habitations,  and  the  waste  around  was  so  bare 
of  trees,  and  even  shrubs,  that  Alice  saw  with 
despair  that  all  hope  of  flight  in  such  a  place 
would  be  indeed  a  chimera.  But  to  make  as- 
surance doubly  sure,  Darvil  himself,  lifting 
her  from  the  cart,  conducted  her  up  a  broken 
and  unlighted  staircase,  into  a  sort  of  loft 
rather  than  a  room,  and  pushing  her  rudely  in, 
turned  the  key  upon  her,  and  descended.  The 
weather  was  cold,  the  livid  damps  hung  upon 
the  distained  walls,  and  there  was  neither  fire 
nor  hearth;  but  thinly  clad  as  she  was — her 
cloak  and  shawl  her  principal  covering — she 
did  not  feel  the  cold;  for  her  heart  was  more 
chilly  than  the  airs  of  heaven.  At  noon  an  old 
woman  brought  her  some  food,  which,  consist- 
ing of  fish  and  poached  game,  was  better  than 
might  have  been  expected  in  such  a  place,  and 
what  would  have  been  deemed  a  feast  under 
her  father's  roof.  With  an  inviting  leer,  the 
crone  pointed  to  a  pewter  measure  of  raw 
spirits  that  accompanied  the  viands,  and  as- 
sured her,  in  a  cracked  and  maudlin  voice, 
that  '"Old  Tom '  was  a  kinder  friend  than  any 
of  the  young  fellers  !  "  This  intrusion  ended, 
Alice   was   again   left   alone   till   dusk,   when 


Darvil  entered  with  a  bundle  of  clothes,  such 
as  are  worn  by  the  peasants  of  that  primitive 
district  of  England. 

"  There,  Alley,"  said  he,  "put  on  this  warm 
toggery;  finery  won't  do  now.  We  must  leave 
no  scent  in  the  track;  the  hounds  are  after  us, 
my  little  blowen.  Here's  a  nice  stuff  gown 
for  you,  and  a  red  cloak  that  would  frighten  a 
turkey-cock.  As  to  the  other  cloak  and  shawl, 
don't  be  afraid;  they  shan't  go  to  the  pop- 
shop, but  we'll  take  care  of  them  against  we 
get  to  some  large  town  where  there  are  young 
fellows  with  blunt  in  their  pockets;  for  you 
seem  to  have  already  found  out  that  your  face 
is  your  fortune.  Alley.  Come,  make  haste; 
we  must  be  starting.  I  shall  come  up  for  you 
in  ten  minutes,  Pish  !  don't  be  faint-hearted; 
here,  take  '  Old  Tom ' — take  it,  I  say.  What, 
you  won't  ?  Well,  here's  to  your  health,  and 
a  better  taste  to  you  !  " 

And  now,  as  the  door  once  more  closed  upon 
Darvil,  tears  for  the  first  time  came  to  the  re- 
lief of  Alice.  It  was  a  woman's  weakness  that 
procured  for  her  that  woman's  luxury.  Those 
garments— they  were  Ernest's  gift— Ernest's 
taste;  they  were  like  the  last  relic  of  that 
delicious  life  which  now  seemed  to  have  fled 
for  ever.  All  trace  of  that  life — of  him,  the 
loving,  the  protecting,  the  adored;  all  trace  of 
herself,  as  she  had  been  re-created  by  love, 
was  to  be  lost  to  her  for  ever.  It  was  (as  she 
had  read  somewhere,  in  the  little  elementary 
volumes  that  bounded  her  historic  lore)  like 
that  last  fatal  ceremony  in  which  those  con- 
demned for  life  to  the  mines  of  Siberia  are 
clothed  with  the  slave's  livery,  their  past  name 
and  record  eternally  blotted  out,  and  thrust  into 
the  vast  wastes,  from  which  even  the  mercy  of 
despotism,  should  it  ever  re-awaken,  cannot 
recall  them;  for  all  evidence  of  them — all  in- 
dividuality— all  mark  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  universal  herd,  is  expunged  from  the 
world's  calendar.  She  was  still  sobbing  in 
vehement  and  unrestrained  passion,  when  , 
Darvil  re-entered.  "  What,  not  dressed  yet  ?  " 
he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  impatient  rage; 
"  harkye,  this  won't  do.  If  in  two  minutes 
you  are  not  ready,  I'll  send  up  John  Walters 
to  help  you;  and  he  is  a  rough  hand,  I  can 
tell  you." 

This  threat  recalled  Alice  to   herself.     "  I 
will  do  as  you  wish,"  said  she,  meekly. 

"Well,  then,  be  quick,"  said  Darvil;  "they 


74 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


are  now  putting  the  horse  to.  And  mark  me, 
girl,  your  father  is  running  away  from  the 
gallows,  and  that  thought  does  not  make  a 
man  stand  upon  scruples.  If  you  once  at- 
tempt to  give  me  the  slip,  or  do  or  say  any- 
thing that  can  bring  the  bulkies  upon  us — by 
the  devil  in  hell — if,  indeed,  there  be  hell  or 
devil — my  knife  shall  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  that  throat — so  look  to  it  !  " 

And  this  was  the  father — this  the  condition 
—of  her  whose  ear  had  for  months  drunk  no 
other  sound  than  the  whispers  of  flattering  love 
— the  murmurs  of  Passion  from  the  lips  of 
Poetry. 

They  continued  their  journey  till  midnight; 
they  then  arrived  at  an  inn,  little  different  from 
the  last;  but  here  Alice  was  no  longer  con- 
signed to  solitude.  In  a  long  room,  reeking 
with  smoke,  sate  from  twenty  to  thirty  ruffians 
before  a  table,  on  which  mugs  and  vessels  of 
strong  potations  were  formidably  interspersed 
with  sabres  and  pistols.  They  received  Wal- 
ters and  Darvil  with  a  shouts  of  welcome,  and 
would  have  crowded  somewhat  unceremoni- 
ously round  Alice,  if  her  father,  whose  well- 
known  desperate  and  brutal  ferocity  made  him 
a  man  to  be  respected  in  such  an  assembly, 
had  not  said,  sternly,  "  Hands  off,  messmates, 
and  make  way  by  the  fire  for  my  little  girl — 
she  is  meat  for  your  masters." 

So  saying,  he  pushed  Alice  down  into  a 
huge  chair  in  the  chimney  nook,  and,  seating 
himself  near  her,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  has- 
tened to  turn  the  conversation. 

"  Well,  captain,"  said  he  addressing  a  small 
thin  man  at  the  head  of  the  table,  "  I  and 
Walters  have  fairly  cut  and  run — the  land  has 
a  bad  air  for  us,  and  we  now  want  the  sea- 
breeze  to  cure  the  rope  fever.  So,  knowing 
this  was  your  night,  we  have  crowded  sail,  and 
here  we  are.  You  must  give  the  girl  there  a 
lift,  though  I  know  you  don't  like  such  lum- 
ber, and  we'll  run  ashore  as  soon  as  we  can." 
•  "She   seems   a   quiet  little  body,"  replied 

the  captain;  "and  we  would  do  more  than 
that  to  oblige  an  old  friend  like  you.  In  half- 
an-hour  Oliver*  put  on  his  night-cap,  and  we 
must  then  be  off." 

"  The  sooner  the  better." 

The  men  now  appeared  to  forget  the  pres- 
ence of  Alice,  who  sat  faint  with   fatigue  and 


*  The  moon, 


exhaustion,  for  she  had  been  too  sick  at  heart 
to  touch  the  food  brought  to  her  at  their  pre- 
vious halting-place,  gazing  abstractedly  at  the 
fire.  Her  father,  before  their  departure,  made 
her  swallow  some  morsels  of  sea-biscuit, 
though  each  seemed  to  choke  her;  and  then 
wrapped  in  a  thick  boat-cloak,  she  was  placed 
in  a  small  well-built  cutter,  and  as  the  sea 
winds  whistled  round  her,  the  present  cold  and 
the  past  fatigues  lulled  her  miserable  heart 
into  the  arms  of  the  charitable  Sleep. 


CHAPTER    II. 

"You  are  once  more  a  free  woman ; 
Here  1  discharge  your  bonds." 

—  The  Custom  of  the  Country. 

And  many  were  thy  trials,  poor  child ;  many 
that,  were  this  book  to  germinate  into  volumes, 
more  numerous  than  monk  ever  composed 
upon  the  lives  of  saint  or  martyr,  (though  a 
hundred  volumes  contained  the  record  of  two 
years  only  in  the  life  of  St.  Anthony),  it  would 
be  impossible  to  describe  !  We  may  talk  of 
the  fidelity  of  books,  but  no  man  ever  wrote 
even  his  own  biography,  without  being  com- 
pelled to  omit  at  least  nine  tenths  of  the  most 
important  materials.  What  are  three — what 
six  volumes  ?  We  live  six  volumes  in  a  day  ! 
Thought,  emotion,  joy,  sorrow,  hope,  fear,  how 
prolix  would  they  be,  if  they  might  each  tell 
their  hourly  tale  !  But  man's  life  itself  is  a 
brief  epitome  of  that  which  is  infinite  and  ever- 
lasting; and  his  most  accurate  confessions 
are  a  miserable  abridgment  of  a  hurried  and 
confused  compendium  ! 

It  was  about  three  months,  or  more,  from 
the  night  in  which  Alice  wept  herself  to  sleep 
amongst  those  wild  companions,  when  she  con- 
trived to  escape  from  her  father's  vigilant  eye. 
They  were  then  on  the  coast  of  Ireland.  Dar- 
vil had  separated  himself  from  Walters — 
from  his  seafaring  companions;  he  had  run 
through  the  greaterpart  of  the  money  his  crimes 
had  got  together;  he  began  seriously  to  at- 
tempt putting  into  excution  his  horrible  design 
of  depending  for  support  upon  the  sale  of  his 
daughter.  Now  Alice  might  have  been 
moulded  into  sinful  purposes,  before  she  knew 
Maltravers;  but  from  that  hour  her  very  error 
made   her   virtuous — she  had  comprehended. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


75 


the  moment  she  loved,  what  was  meant  by  fe- 
male honor;  and,  by  a  sudden  revelation,  she 
had  purchased  modesty,  delicacy  of  thought 
and  soul,  in  the  sacrifice  of  herself.  Much  of 
our  morality,  (prudent  and  right  npon  system), 
with  respect  to  the  first  false  step  of  women, 
leads  us,  as  we  all  know  into  barbarous  errors, 
as  to  individual  exceptions.  Where,  from  pure 
and  confiding  love,  that  first  false  step  has 
been  taken,  many  a  woman  has  been  saved, 
in  after-life,  from  a  thousand  temptations. 
The  poor  unfortunates,  who  crowd  our  streets 
and  theatres,  have  rarely,  in  the  first  instance, 
been  corrupted  by  love;  but  by  poverty,  and 
the  contagion  of  circumstance  and  example. 
It  is  a  miserable  cant  phrase  to  call  them  the 
victims  of  seduction;  they  have  been  the  vic- 
tims of  hunger,  of  vanity,  of  curiosity,  of 
evil  fetnale  counsels;  but  the  seduction  of 
love  hardly  ever  conducts  to  a  life  of  vice. 
If  a  woman  has  once  really  loved,  the  be- 
loved object  makes  an  impenetrable  barrier 
between  her  and  the  other  men;  their  ad- 
vances terrify  and  revolt — she  would  rather 
die  than  be  unfaithful  even  to  a  memory. 
Though  man  loves  the  sex,  woman  loves  only 
the  individual;  and  the  more  she  loves  him, 
the  more  cold  is  she  to  the  species.  For  the 
passion  of  woman  is  in  the  sentiment- — the 
fancy— the  heart.  It  rarely  has  much  to  do 
with  the  coarse  images  with  which  boys  and 
old  men — the  inexperienced  and  the  worn  out 
— connect  it. 

But  Alice,  though  her  blood  ran  cold  at  her 
terrible  father's  language,  saw  in  his  very 
design  the  prospect  of  escape.  In  an  hour  of 
drunkenness  he  thrust  her  from  the  house,  and 
stationed  himself  to  watch  her — it  was  in  the 
city  of  Cork.  She  formed  her  resolution  in- 
stantly— turned  up  a  narrow  street,  and  fled  at 
full  speed.  Darvil  endeavored  in  vain  to  keep 
pace  with  her — his  eyes  dizzy,  his  steps  reeling 
with  intoxication.  She  heard  his  last  curse 
dying  from  a  distance  on  the  air,  and  her  fear 
winged  her  steps;  she  paused  at  last,  and 
found  herself  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town: — 
She  paused,  overcome,  and  deadly  faint;  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  she  felt  that  a  strange 
and  new  life  was  stirring  within  her  own.  She 
had  long  since  known  that  she  bore  in  her 
womb  the  unborn  offspring  of  Maltravers,  and 
that  knowledge  still  made  her  struggle  and 
live  on.     But  now,  the  embryo  had  quickened 


into  being — it  moved — it  appealed  to  her — a 
thing  unseen,  unknown;  but  still  it  was  a  liv- 
ing creature  appealing  to  a  mother  !  Oh,  the 
thrill,  half  of  ineffable  tenderness,  half  of 
mysterious  terror,  at  that  moment !  What  a 
new  chapter  in  the  life  of  woman  did  it  not 
announce  ! — Now,  then,  she  must  be  watchful 
over  herself — must  guard  against  fatigue — must 
wrestle  with  despair.  Solemn  was  the  trust 
committed  to  her — the  life  of  another — the 
child  of  the  Adored.  It  was  a  summer  night 
— she  sate  on  a  rude  stone,  the  city  on  one 
side,  with  its  lights  and  lamps; — the  whitened 
fields  beyond,  with  the  moon  and  the  stars 
above:  and  above  she  raised  her  streaming 
eyes,  and  she  thought  that  God,  the  Protector, 
smiled  upon  her  from  the  face  of  the  sweet 
skies.  So,  after  a  pause  and  a  silent  prayer 
she  rose  and  resumed  her  way.  When  she 
was  wearied  she  crept  into  a  shed  in  a  farm- 
yard, and  slept,  for  the  first  time  for  weeks, 
the  calm  sleep  of  security  and  hope. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  How  like  a  prodigal  doth  she  return 
With  over-weathered  ribs  and  ragged  sails." 
— Merchant  of  Venice. 
"  Mer.    What  are  these  ? 
Uncle,    The  tenants." 
— Beaumont  and  Fletcher. —  Wit  without  Money. 

It  was  just  two  years  from  the  night  in 
which  Alice  had  been  torn  from  the  cottage; 
and,  at  that  time,  Maltravers  was  wandering 
amongst  the  ruins  of  ancient  Egypt,  when, 
upon  the  very  lawn  where  Alice  and  her  lover 
had  so  often  loitered  hand  in  hand,  a  gay 
party  of  children  and  young  people  were  as- 
sembled. The  cottage  had  been  purchased 
by  an  opulent  and  retired  manufacturer.  He 
had  raised  the  low  thatched  roof  another  story 
high — and  blue  slate  had  replaced  the  thatch 
—and  the  pretty  verandahs  overgrown  with 
creepers  had  been  taken  down,  because  Mrs. 
Hobbs  thought  they  gave  the  rooms  a  dull 
look;  and  the  little  rustic  doorway  had  been 
replaced  by  four  Ionic  pillars  in  Stucco;  and 
a  new  dining-room, twenty-two  feet  by  eighteen, 
had  been  built  out  at  one  wing,  and  a  new 
drawing-room  had  been  built  over  the  new 
dining-room.  And  the  poor  little  cottage 
looked  quite  grand  and  villa-like. 


76 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


The  fountain  had  been  taken  away,  because 
it  made  the  house  damp;  and  there  was  such 
a  broad  carriage-drive  from  the  gate  to  the 
house  !  The  gate  was  no  longer  the  modest 
green  wooden  gate,  ever  ajar  with  its  easy 
latch;  but  a  tall,  cast-iron,  well-locked  gate, 
between  two  pillars  to  match  the  porch.  And 
on  one  of  the  gates  was  a  brass-plate,  on  which 
was  graven,  "  Hobbs'  Lodge — Ring  the  bell." 
The  lesser  Hobbses,  and  the  bigger  Hobbses 
were  all  on  the  lawn — many  of  them  fresh 
from  school — for  it  was  the  half-holyday  of  a 
Saturday  afternoon.  There  was  mirth,  and 
noise,  and  shouting,  and  whooping,  and  the  re- 
spectable old  couple  looked  calmly  on.  Hobbs 
the  father,  smoking  his  pipe;  (alas,  it  was  not 
the  dear  meerschaum  !)  Hobbs  the  mother, 
talking  to  her  eldest  daughter,  (a  fine  young 
woman,  three  months  married,  for  love,  to  a 
poor  man),  upon  the  proper  number  of  days 
that  a  leg  of  mutton  (weight  ten  pounds) 
should  be  made  to  last.  "  Always,  my  dear, 
have  large  joints,  they  are  much  the  most  sav- 
ing. Let  me  see — what  a  noise  the  boys  do 
make  !     No,  my  love,  the  ball's  not  here." 

"  Mamma,  it  is  under  your  petticoats." 

"  La,  child,  how  naughty  you  are  !  " 

"  Holla,  you  sir  !  it's  my  turn  to  go  in  now. 
Biddy,  wait, — girls  have  no  innings — girls  only 
fag  out." 

"  Bob,  you  cheat." 

"  Pa,  Ned  says  I  cheat." 

"  Very  likely,  my  dear,  you  are  to  be  a 
lawyer." 

"Where  was  I,  my  dear?"'  resumed  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  resettling  herself,  and  readjusting  the 
invaded  petticoats.  "  Oh,  about  the  leg  of 
mutton  ! — yes,  large  joints  are  the  best — the 
second  day  a  nice  hash,  with  dumplings;  the 
third,  broil  the  bone — your  husband  is  sure  to 
like  broiled  bones  ! — and  then  keep  the  scraps 
for  Saturday's  pie: — you  know,  my  dear,  your 
father  and  I  were  worse  off  than  you  when  we 
began.  But  now  we  have  everything  that  is 
handsome  about  us — nothing  like  manage- 
ment. Saturday  pies  are  very  nice  things,  and 
then  you  start  clear  with  your  joint  on  Sun- 
day A  good  wife  like  you  should  never 
neglect  the  Saturday's  pie  ! " 

"Yes,"  said  the  bride,  mournfully;  "but 
Mr.  Tiddy  does  not  like  pies." 

"  Not  like  pies  !  that's  very  odd — Mr.  Hobbs 
likes  pies — perhaps  you  don't  have  the  crust 


made  thick  eno'.  Howsomever,  you  can  make 
it  up  to  him  with  a  pudding.  A  wife  should 
always  study  her  husband's  tastes — what  is  a 
man's  home  without  love  ?  Still  a  husband 
ought  not  to  be  aggravating,  and  dislike  pie 
on  a  Saturday  1" 

"  Holloa  !  I  say  ma;  do  you  see  that  'ere 
gipsy  ?     I  shall  go  and  have  my  fortune  told." 

"  And  I— and  I  !  " 

"  Lor,  if  there  ben't  a  tramper  ?  "  cried  Mr. 
Hobbs,  rising  indignantly;  "what  can  the 
parish  be  about  ?  " 

The  object  of  these  latter  remarks,  filial  and 
paternal,  was  a  young  woman  in  a  worn, 
thread-bare  cloak,  with  her  face  pressed  to  the 
open-work  of  the  gate,  and  looking  wistfully 
— oh,  how  wistfully  ! — within.  The  children 
eagerly  ran  up  to  her,  but  they  involuntarily 
slackened  their  steps  when  they  drew  near,  for 
she  was  evidently  not  what  they  had  taken  her 
for.  No  gipsy  hues  darkened  the  pale,  thin, 
delicate  cheek — no  gipsy  leer  lurked  in  those 
large  blue  and  streaming  eyes — no  gipsy  ef- 
frontery bronzed  that  candid  and  childish 
brow.  As  she  thus  pressed  her  countenance 
with  convulsive  eagerness  against  the  cold 
bars,  the  young  people  caught  the  contagion 
of  inexpressible  and  half-fearful  sadness — they 
approached  almost  respectfully — "  Do  you 
want  anything  here  ? "  said  the  eldest  and 
boldest  of  the  boys. 

"  I — I — surely  this  is  Dale  Cottage  ?  " 

"  It  was  Dale  Cottage,  it  is  Hobbs'  Lodge 
now;  can't  you  read  ?  "  said  the  pride  of  the 
Hobbs's  honors,  losing,  in  contempt  at  the 
girls  ignorance,  his  first  impression  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"And — and — Mr.  Butler,  is  he  gon&too'i" 

Poor  child  !  she  spoke  as  if  the  cottage  was 
gone,  not  improved;  the  Ionic  portico  had  no 
charm  for  her ! 

"  Butler  ! — no  such  person  lives  here.  Pa, 
do  you  know  where  Mr.  Butler  lives  ?  " 

Pa  was  now  moving  up  to  the  place  of  con- 
ference the  slow  artillery  of  his  fair  round 
belly  and  portly  calves.  "  Butler,  no — I  know 
nothing  of  such  a  name — no  Mr.  Butler  lives 
here.  Go  along  with  you — ain't  you  ashamed 
to  beg  ? " 

"  No  Mr.  Butler  !  "  said  the  girl,  gasping 
for  breath,  and  clinging  to  the  gate  for  support 
"  Are  you  sure,  sir  ?  " 

"  Sure,  yes  ! — what  do  you  want  with  him  ?  " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


77 


"  Oh,  papa,  she  looks  faint  !  "  said  one  of 
the  girls,  deprecatingly — "  do  let  her  have 
something  to  eat,  I'lp  sure  she's  hungry." 

Mr.  Hobbs  looked  angry;  he  had  often  been 
taken  in,  and  no  rich  man  likes  beggars. 
Generally  speaking,  the  rich  man  is  in  the  right. 
But  then  Mr.  Hobbs  turned  to  the  suspected 
tramper's  sorrowful  face  and  then  to  his  fair 
pretty  child — and  his  good  angel  whispered 
something  to  Mr.  Hobb's  heart — and  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  "  Heaven  forbid  that  we  should 
not  feel  for  a  poor  fellow-creature  not  so  well 
to  do  as  ourselves  !  Come  in,  my  lass,  and 
have  a  morsel  to  eat." 

The  girl  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  and  he 
repeated  the  invitation,  approaching  to  unlock 
the  gate. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  she,  then;  "  no,  I  thank  you. 
I  could  not  come  in  now.  I  could  not  eat 
here.  But  tell  me,  sir,  I  implore  you,  can  you 
not  even  guess  where  I  may  find  Mr.  Butler?  " 

"  Butler  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hobbs,  whom  curios- 
ity had  drawn  to  the  spot.  "  I  remember  that 
was  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  hired  the 
place,  and  was  robbed." 

"  Robbed  !  "  said  Mr.  Hobbs,  falling  back 
and  relocking  the  gate — "  and  the  new  tea-pot 
just    come    home,"    he    muttered    inly, 


Come,  be  off,  child — -be  off;  we  know  noth- 
ing of  your  Mr.  Butlers." 

The  young  woman  looked  wildly  in  his  face, 
cast  a  hurried  glance  over  the  altered  spot, 
and  then,  with  a  kind  of  shiver,  as  if  the  wind 
had  smitten  her  delicate  form  too  rudely,  she 
drew  her  cloak  more  closely  round  her 
shoulders,  and  without  saying  another  word, 
moved  away.  The  party  looked  after  her  as, 
with  trembling  steps,  she  passed  down  the 
road,  and  all  felt  that  pang  of  shame  which  is 
common  to  the  human  heart,  at  the  sight  of  a 
distress  it  has  not  sought  to  soothe.  But  this 
feeHng  vanished  at  once  from  the  breast  of 
Mrs.  and  Mr.  Hobbs,  when  they  saw  the  girl 
stop  where  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  the  gate 
before  her  eyes;  and  for  the  first  time  they 
perceived,  what  the  worn  cloak  had  hitherto 
concealed,  that  the  poor  young  thing  bore  an 
infant  in  her  arms.  She  halted,  she  gazed 
fondly  back.  Even  at  that  distance  the  de- 
spair of  her  eyes  was  visible;  and  then,  as  she 
pressed  her  lips  to  the  infant's  brow,  they  heard 
a  convulsive  sob — they  saw  her  turn  away,  and 
she  was  gone  ! 


"  Well,  I  declare  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"News  for  the  parish,"  said  Mr.  Hobbs; 
"  and  she  so  young  too  !— what  a  shame  !  " 

"  The  girls  about  here  are  very  bad  now-a- 
days,  Jenny,"  said  the  mother  to  the  bride. 

"  I  see  now  why  she  wanted  Mr.  Butler," 
quoth  Hobbs,  with  a  knowing  wink — "  the  slut 
has  come  to  swear  !  " 

And  it  was  for  this  that  Alice  had  supported 
her  strength — her  courage — during  the  sharp 
pangs  of  child-birth;  during  a  severe  and 
crushing  illness,  which  for  months  after  her 
confinement  had  stretched  her  upon  a  peas- 
ant's bed,  (the  object  of  the  rude  but  kindly 
charity  of  an  Irish  shealing), — for  this,  day 
after  day,  she  had  whispered  to  herself,  "  Tshall 
get  well,  and  I  will  beg  my  way  to  the  cottage, 
and  find  him  there  still,  and  put  my  little  one 
into  his  arms,  and  all  will  be  bright  again;" — 
for  this,  as  soon  as  she  could  walk  without  aid, 
had  she  set  out  on  foot  from  the  distant  land; 
—for  this,  almost  with  a  dog's  instinct — (for 
she  knew  not  what  way  to  turn — what  county 
the  cottage  was  placed  in;  she  only  knew  the 
name  of  the  neighboring  town;  and  that,  pop- 
ulous as  it  was,  sounded  strange  to  the  ears  of 
those  she  asked;  and  she  had  often  and  often 
been  directed  wrong;) — for  this,  I  say,  almost 
with  a  dog's  faithful  instinct,  had  she,  in  cold 
and  heat,  in  hunger  and  in  thirst,  tracked  to 
her  old  master's  home  her  desolate  and  lonely 
way  ! 

And  thrice  had  she  over-fatigued  herself — 
and  thrice  again  been  indebted  to  humble 
pity  for  a  bed  whereon  to  lay  a  feverish  and 
broken  frame.  And  once,  too,  her  baby — her 
darling,  her  life  of  life,  had  been  ill — had  been 
near  unto  death,  and  she  could  not  stir  till  the 
infant  (it  was  a  girl)  was  well  again,  and  could 
smile  in  her  face  and  crow.  And  thus  many, 
many  months  had  elapsed,  since  the  day  she 
set  out  on  her  pilgrimage,  to  that  on  which  she 
found  its  goal.  But  never,  save  when  the 
child  was  ill,  had  she  desponded  or  abated 
heart  and  hope.  She  should  see  him  again, 
and  he  would  kiss  her  child.  And  now — no — 
I  cannot  paint  the  might  of  that  stunning 
blow  !  She  knew  not,  she  dreamed  not,  of 
the  kind  precautions  Maltravers  had  taken; 
and  he  had  not  sufficiently  calculated  on  her 
thorough  ignorance  of  the  world.  How  could 
she  divine  that  the  magistrate,  not  a  mile  dis- 
tant  from   her,  could  have   told   her  all    she 


78 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


sought  to  know  ?  Could  she  but  have  met  the 
gardener — or  the  old  woman-servant — all  would 
have  been  well  !  These  last,  indeed,  she  had 
the  forethought  to  ask  for.  But  the  woman 
was  dead,  and  the  gardener  had  takert  a  strange 
service  in  some  distant  county.  And  so  died 
her  last  gleam  of  hope.  If  one  person  who  re- 
membered the  search  of  Maltravers  had  but 
met  and  recognized  her  !  But  she  had  been 
seen  by  so  few — and  now  the  bright,  fresh  girl 
was  so  sadly  altered  !  Her  race  was  not  yet 
run,  and  many  a  sharp  wind  upon  the  mourn- 
ful seas  had  the  bark  to  brave,  before  its 
haven  was  found  at  last. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  Patience  and  sorrow  strove 
Which  should  express  her  goodliest."— Shakespeare. 
"  Je  la  plains,  je  la  blame,  et  je  suis  son  appui.  *  " 

— Voltaire. 

And  now  Alice  felt  that  she  was  on  the 
wide  world  alone,  with  her  child — no  longer  to 
be  protected,  but  to  protect;  and,  after  the 
first  few  days  of  agony,  a  new  spirit,  not  in- 
deed of  hope,  but  of  endurance  passed  within 
her.  Her  solitary  wanderings,  with  God  her 
only  guide,  had  tended  greatly  to  elevate  and 
confirm  her  character.  She  felt  a  strong  reli- 
ance on  his  mysterious  mercy — she  felt,  too, 
the  responsibility  of  a  mother.  Thrown  for 
so  many  months  upon  her  own  resources,  even 
for  the  bread  of  life,  her  intellect  was  uncon- 
sciously sharpened,  and  a  habit  of  patient 
fortitude  had  strengthened  a  nature  originally 
clinging  and  femininely  soft.  She  resolved  to 
pass  into  some  other  county,  for  she  could 
neither  bear  the  thoughts  that  haunted  the 
neighborhood  around,  nor  think,  without  a 
loathing  horror,  of  the  possibility  of  her 
father's  return.  Accordingly,  one  day,  she 
renewed  her  wanderings — and  after  a  week's 
travel,  arrived  at  a  small  village.  Charity  is 
so  common  in  England,  it  so  spontaneously 
springs  up  everywhere,  like  the  good  seed  by 
the  road-side,  that  she  had  rarely  wanted  the 
bare  necessaries  of  existence.  And  her  hum- 
ble manner,  and  sweet,  well-tuned  voice,  so 
free  from  the  professional  whine  of  mendi- 
cancy, had  usually  its  charm  for  the  sternest. 
So  she  generally  obtained  enough  to  buy 
bread  and  a  night's  lodging,  and  if  sometimes 

*  I  pity  her,  I  blame  her,  and  am  her  support. 


she  failed — she  could  bear  hunger,  and  was 
not  afraid  of  creeping  into  some  shed,  or, 
when  by  the  sea-shore,  even  into  some  shelter- 
ing cavern.  Her  child  throve  too — for  God 
tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  Iamb  !  But 
now,  so  far  as  physical  privation  went,  the 
worst  was  over. 

It  so  happened  that  as  Alice  was  drawing 
herself  wearily  along  to  the  entrance  of  the 
village  which  was  to  bound  her  day's  journey, 
she  was  met  by  a  lady  past  middle  age,  in 
whose  countenance  compassion  was  so  visible, 
that  Alice  would  not  beg,  for  she  had  a  strange 
delicacy  or  pride,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called, 
and  rather  begged  of  the  stern  than  of  those 
who  looked  kindly  at  her — she  did  not  like  to 
lower  herself  in  the  eyes  of  the  last. 

The  lady  stopped. 

"  My  poor  girl,  where  are  your  going  ?  " 

"  Where  God   pleases,  madam,"  said  Alice. 

"  Humph  !  and  is  that  your  own  child  ? — 
you  are  almost  a  child  yourself  !  " 

"  It  is  mine,  madam,"  said  Alice,  gazing 
fondly  at  the  infant; — "  it  is  my  all  !  " 

"  The  lady's  voice  faltered.  "  Are  you 
married  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Married  ! — Oh  no,  madanie  !  "  replied 
Alice,  innocently,  yet  without  blushing,  for  she 
never  knew  that  she  had  done  wrong  in  loving 
Maltravers. 

The  lady  drew  gently  back,  but  not  in  hor- 
ror— no,  in  still  deeper  compassion;  for  that 
lady  had  true  virtue,  and  she  knew  that  the 
faults  of  her  sex  are  sufficiently  punished  to 
permit  Virtue  to  pity  them  without  a  sin. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  she  said,  however,  with 
greater  gravity.  "  Are  you  travelling  to  seek 
the  father  ? " 

"  Ah,  madam !  I  shall  never  see  him 
again  !  "     And  Alice  wept. 

"  What ! — he  has  abandoned  you — so  young, 
so  beautiful  !  "  added  the  lady  to  herself. 

"  Abandoned  me  ! — no  madam;  but  it  is  a 
long  tale.  Good  evening — I  thank  you  kindly 
for  your  pity." 

The  lady's  eyes  ran  over. 

"Stay,"  said  she,  "tell  me  frankly  where 
you  are  going,  and  what  is  your  object." 

"  Alas  !  madam,  I  am  going  anywhere,  for  I 
have  no  home;  but  I  wish  to  live  and  work  for 
my  living,  in  order  that  my  child  may  not 
want  for  anything.  I  wish  I  could  maintain 
myself — he  used  to  say  I  could." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


79 


"  He  ! — your  language  and  manner  are  not 
those  of  a  peasant.  What  can  you  do  ? — What 
do  you  know  ? " 

"  Music,  and  work,  and — and " 

"  Music  ! — this  is  strange  !  What  were  your 
parents  ?  " 

Alice  shuddered,  and  hid  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

The  lady's  interest  was  now  fairly  warmed 
in  her  behalf. 

"  She  has  sinned,"  said  she  to  herself;  "  but 
at  that  age,  how  can  one  be  harsh? — She 
must  not  be  thrown  upon  the  world  to  make 
sin  a  habit.  Follow  me,"  she  said,  after  a 
little  pause;  "  and  think  you  have  found  a 
friend." 

The  lady  then  turned  from  the  highroad 
down  a  green  lane  which  led  to  a  park  lodge. 
This  lodge  she  entered;  and,  after  a  short  con- 
versation with  the  inmate,  beckoned  to  Alice 
to  join  her. 

"Janet,"  said  Alice's  new  protector  to  a 
comely  and  pleasant-eyed  woman,  "  this  is  the 
young  person — you  will  show  her  and  the  in- 
fant every  attention.  I  shall  send  down  proper 
clothing  for  her  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  then 
have  thought  what  will  be  best  for  her  future 
welfare." 

With  that,  the  lady  smiled  benignly  upon 
Alice,  whose  heart  was  too  full  to  speak;  and 
the  door  of  the  cottage  closed  upon  her,  and 
Alice  thought  the  day  had  grown  darker. 


CHAPTER  V. 

'  Believe  me,  she  has  won  me  much  to  pity  her, 
Alas!  her  gentle  nature  was  not  made 
To  buffet  with  adversity." — RoWE. 

'  Sober  he  was,  and  grave  from  early  youth, 
Mindful  of  forms,  but  more  intent  on  truth; 
In  a  light  drab  he  uniformly  dress'd, 
And  look  serene  th'  unruffled  mind  express'd. 

*  »  *  *  » 

*  «  *  «  * 

Yet  might  observers  in  his  sparkling  eye 

Some  observation,  some  acuteness  spy ; 

The  friendly  thought  it  keen,  the  treacherous  deem'd 

it  sly; 
Yet  not  a  crime  could  foe  or  friend  detect, 
H  is  actions  all  were  like  his  speech  correct — 
Chaste,  sober,  solemn,  and  devout  they  named 
Him  who  was  this,  and  not  of  this  ashamed. 

— Crabbe. 
'  I'll  on  and  sound  the  secret." 

—Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Mrs.    Leslie,  the    lady  introduced    to   the 


reader  in  the  last  chapter,  was  a  woman  of  the 
firmest  intellect  combined  (no  unusual  com- 
bination) with  the  softest  heart.  She  learned 
Alice's  history  with  admiration  and  pity.  The 
natural  innocence  and  honesty  of  the  young 
mother  spoke  so  eloquently  in  her  words  and 
looks,  that  Mrs.  Leslie,  on  hearing  her  tale, 
found  much  less  to  forgive  than  she  had  an- 
ticipated. Still  she  deemed  it  necessary  to 
enlighten  Alice  as  to  the  criminality  of  the 
connection  she  had  formed.  But  here  Alice 
was  singularly  dull — she  listened  in  meek 
patience  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  lecture;  but  it  evi- 
dently made  but  slight  impression  on  her. 
She  had  not  yet  seen  enough  of  the  Social 
state,  to  correct  the  first  impressions  of  the 
Natural:  and  all  she  could  say  in  answer  to 
Mrs.  Leslie  was, — "  It  may  be  all  very  true, 
madam,  but  I  have  been  so  much  better  since 
I  knew  him  !  " 

But  though  Alice  took  humbly  any  censure 
upon  herself,  she  would  not  hear  a  syllable  in- 
sinuated against  Maltravers.  When,  in  a  very 
natural  indignation,  Mrs.  Leslie  denounced 
him  as  a  destroyer  of  innocence — for  Mrs. 
Leslie  could  not  learn  all  that  extenuated  his 
offence — Alice  started  up  with  flashing  eyes 
and  heaving  heart,  and  would  have  hurried 
from  the  only  shelter  she  had  in  the  wide 
world — she  would  sooner  have  died — she  would 
sooner  even  had  seen  her  child  die,  than  done 
that  idol  of  her  soul,  who,  in  her  eyes,  stood 
alone  on  sotne  pinnacle  between  earth  and 
heaven,  the  wrong  of  hearing  him  reviled. 
With  difficulty  Mrs.  Leslie  could  restrain,  with 
still  more  difficulty  could  she  pacify  and 
soothe,  her;  and,  for  the  girl's  petulance,  which 
others  might  have  deemed  insolent  or  un- 
grateful, the  woman  heart  of  Mrs.  Leslie  loved 
her  all  the  better.  The  more  she  saw  of  Alice, 
and  the  more  she  comprehended  her  story, 
and  her  character,  the  more  was  she  lost  in 
wonder  at  the  romance  of  which  this  beautiful 
child  had  been  the  heroine,  and  the  more  per- 
plexed she  was  as  to  Alice's  future  prospects. 

At  length,  however,  when  she  became  ac- 
quainted with  Alice's  musical  acquirements, 
which  were,  indeed,  of  no  common  order,  a 
light  broke  in  upon  her.  Here  was  the  source 
of  her  future  independence.  Maltravers,  it 
will  be  remembered,  was  a  musician  of  con- 
summate skill  as  well  as  taste,  and  Alice's  nat- 
ural talent  for  the  art  had  advanced  her,  in 


8o 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


the  space  of  months,  to  a  degree  of  perfection, 
which  it  cost  others — which  it  had  cost  even 
the  quick  Maltravers — years  to  obtain.  But 
we  learn  so  rapidly  when  our  teachers  are 
those  we  love  !  and  it  may  be  observed  that 
the  less  our  knowledge,  the  less,  perhaps,  our 
genius  in  other  things,  the  more  facile  are  our 
attainments  in  music,  which  is  a  very  jealous 
mistress  of  the  mind.  Mrs.  Leslie  resolved  to 
have  her  perfected  in  this  art,  and  so  enable 
her  to  become  a  teacher  to  others.  In  the 
town  of  C  *  *  *  *  *,  about  thirty  miles  from 
Mrs.  Leslie's  house,  though  in  the  same  county, 
there  was  no  inconsiderable  circle  of  wealthy 
and  intelligent  persons;  for  it  was  a  cathedral 
town,  and  the  resident  clergy  drew  around 
them  a  kind  of  provincial  aristocracy.  Here, 
as  in  most  rural  towns  in  England,  music  was 
much  cultivated,  both  among  the  higher  and 
middle  classes.  There  were  amateur  concerts, 
and  glee-clubs,  and  subscriptions  for  sacred 
music;  and  once  every  five  years,  there  was  the 
great  C*  *  *  *  *  Festival.  In  this  town,  Mrs. 
Leslie  established  Alice;  she  placed  her  under 
the  roof  of  a  ci-devant  music-master,  who, 
having  retired  from  his  profession,  was  no 
longer  jealous  of  rivals,  but  who,  by  handsome 
terms,  was  induced  to  complete  the  education 
of  Alice.  It  was  an  eligible  and  comfortable 
abode,  and  the  music-master  and  his  wife 
were  a  good-natured,  easy  old  couple. 

Three  months  of  resolute  and  unceasing 
perseverance,  combined  with  the  singular  duc- 
tility and  native  gifts  of  Alice,  sufficed  to 
render  her  the  most  promising  pupil  the  good 
musician  had  ever  accomplished;  and  in  three 
months  more,  introduced  by  Mrs.  Leslie  to 
many  of  the  families  in  the  place,  Alice  was 
established  in  a  home  of  her  own;  and  what 
with  regular  lessons,  and  occassional  assist- 
ance at  musical  parties,  she  was  fairly  earning 
what  her  tutor  reasonably  pronounced  to  be 
"  a  very  genteel  independence." 

Now,  in  these  arrangements  (for  we  must 
here  go  back  a  little),  there  had  been  one 
gigantic  difficulty  of  conscience  in  one  party, 
of  feeling  in  another,  to  surmount.  Mrs.  Les- 
lie saw  at  once,  that  unless  Alice's  misfortune 
was  concealed,  all  the  virtues  and  all  the 
talents  in  the  world  could  not  enable  her  to 
retrace  the  one  false  step.  Mrs.  Leslie  was  a 
woman  of  habitual  truth  and  strict  rectitude, 
and  she  was  sorely  perplexed  between  the  pro- 


priety of  candor  and  its  cruelty.  She  fell 
unequal  to  take  the  responsibility  of  action  on 
herself;  and,  after  much  meditation,  she  re- 
solved to  confide  her  scruples  to  one,  who,  of 
all  whom  she  knew,  possessed  the  highest 
character  for  moral  worth  and  religious  sanc- 
tity. 

This  gentleman,  lately  a  widower,  lived  at 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  selected  for  Alice's 
future  residence,  and  at  that  time  happened  to 
be  on  a  visit  in  Mrs.  Leslie's  neighborhood. 
He  was  an  opulent  man,  a  banker;  he  had 
once  represented  the  town  in  parliament,  and, 
retiring,  from  disinclination  to  the  late  hours 
and  onerous  fatigues  even  of  an  unreformed 
House  of  Commons,  he  still  possessed  an  in- 
fluence to  return  one,  if  not  both  of  the  mem- 
bers for  the  city  of  C*****.  And  that  influence 
was  always  exerted  so  as  best  to  secure  his 
own  interest  with  the  powers  that  be,  and  ad- 
vance certain  objects  of  ambition  (for  he  was 
both  an  ostentatious  and  ambitious  man  in  his 
own  way)  which  he  felt  he  might  more  easily 
obtain  by  proxy  than  by  his  own  votes  and  voice 
in  parliament — an  atmosphere  in  which  his 
light  did  not  shine.  And  it  was  with  a  won- 
derful address  that  the  banker  contrived  at 
once  to  support  the  government,  and  yet,  by 
the  frequent  expression  of  liberal  opinions,  to 
conciliate  the  Whigs  and  the  Dissenters  of  his 
neighborhood.  Parties,  political  and  sectarian, 
were  not  then  so  irreconcileable  as  they  are 
now.  In  the  whole  county  there  was  no  one 
so  respected  as  this  eminent  person,  and  yet 
he  possessed  no  shining  talents,  though  a  la- 
borious and  energetic  man  of  business. 

It  was  solely  and  wholly  the  force  of  moral 
character  which  gave  him  his  position  in 
society.  He  felt  this;  he  yas  sensitively 
proud  of  it;  he  was  painfully  anxious  not  to 
lose  an  atom  of  a  distinction  that  required  to 
be  vigilantly  secured.  He  was  a  very  re- 
markable, yet  not  (perhaps  could  we  penetrate 
all  hearts)  a  very  uncommon  character — this 
banker  !  He  had  risen  from,  comparatively 
speaking,  a  low  origin  and  humble  fortunes, 
and  entirely  by  the  scrupulous  and  sedate  pro- 
priety of  his  outward  conduct.  With  such  a 
propriety  he,  therefore,  inseparably  connected 
every  notion  of  wordly  prosperity  and  honor. 
Thus,  though  far  from  a  bad  man,  he  was 
forced  into  being  something  of  a  hypocrite. 
Every  year  he  had  grown  more   starch   and 


EJRNES T    MAL IRA  VERS. 


more  saintly.  He  was  conscience-keeper  to 
the  whole  town;  and  it  is  astonishing  how 
many  persons  hardly  dared  to  make  a  will 
or  subscribe  to  a  charity  without  his  advice. 
As  he  was  a  shrewd  man  of  this  world,  as  well 
as  an  accredited  guide  to  the  next,  his  advice 
was  precisely  of  a  nature  to  reconcile  the 
Conscience  and  the  Interest;  and  he  was  a 
kind  of  negotiator  in  the  reciprocal  diplomacy 
of  earth  and  heaven.  But  our  banker  was 
really  a  charitable  man,  and  a  benevolent 
man,  and  a  sincere  believer.  How,  then,  was 
he  a  hypocrite  ?  Simply,  because  he  pro- 
fessed to  be  far  more  charitable,- ;;w;-^  benevo- 
lent, and  more  pious,  than  he  really  was.  His 
reputation  had  now  arrived  to  that  degree  of 
immaculate  polish,  that  the  smallest  breath, 
which  would  not  have  tarnished  the  character 
of  another  man,  would  have  fixed  an  indelible 
stain  upon  his. 

As  he  affected  to  be  more  strict  than  the 
churchman,  and  was  a  great  oracle  with  all 
who  regarded  churchmen  as  lukewarm,  so  his 
conduct  was  narrowly  watched  by  all  the  clergy 
of  the  orthodox  cathedral,  good  men,  doubt- 
less, but  not  affecting  to  be  saints,  who  were 
jealous  at  being  so  luminously  out-shone  by  a 
layman  and  an  authority  of  the  sectarians.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  intense  homage,  and 
almost  worship,  he  received  from  his  followers, 
kept  his  goodness  upon  a  stretch,  if  not  be- 
yond all  human  power,  certainly  beyond  his 
own.  For  "  admiration "  (as  it  is  well  said 
somewhere)  is  a  kind  of  superstition  which 
expects  miracles."  From  nature,  this  gentle- 
man had  received  an  inordinate  share  of  ani- 
mal propensities;  he  had  strong  passions,  he 
was  by  temperament  a  sensualist.  He  loved 
good-eating  and  good  wine — he  loved  women. 
The  two  formal  blessings  of  the  carnal  life,  are 
not  incompatible  with  canonization;  but  St. 
Anthony  has  shown  that  women,  however  an- 
gelic, are  not  precisely  that  order  of  angels, 
that  saints  may  safely  commune  with.  If, 
therefore,  he  ever  yielded  to  temptations  of  a 
sexual  nature,  it  was  with  profound  secrecy 
and  caution;  nor  did  his  right  hand  know  what 
his  left  hand  did. 

This  gentleman  had  married  a  woman  much 
older  than  himself,  but  her  fortune  had  been 
one  of  the  necessary  stepping-stones  in  his 
career.  His  exemplary  conduct  towards  this 
lady,  ugly  as  well  as  o'd,  had  done  much  tow- 

6.-6 


ards  increasing  the  odor  of  his  sanctity.  She 
died  of  an  ague,  and  the  widower  did  not 
shock  probabilities  by  affecting  too  severe  a 
grief. 

"The  Lord's  will  be  done  !  "  said  he;  "  she 
was  a  good  woman,  but  we  should  not  set  our 
affections  too  much  upon  His  perishable  crea 
tures  ! " 

This  was  all  he  was  ever  heard  to  say  on 
the  matter.  He  took  an  elderly  gentlewoman 
distantly  related  to  him,  to  manage  his  house 
and  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table;  and  it  was 
thought  not  impossible,  though  the  widower 
was  past  fifty,  that  he  might  marry  again. 

Such  was  the  gentleman  called  by  Mrs.  Les- 
lie, who,  of  the  same  religious  opinions,  had 
long  known  aud  revered  him,  to  decide  the 
affairs  of  Alice  and  of  Conscience. 

As  this  man  exercised  no  slight  or  fugitive 
influence  over  Alice  Darvil's  destinies,  his 
counsels  on  the  point  in  discussion  ought  to  be 
fairly  related. 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  concluding 
the  history,  "  you  will  perceive,  my  dear  sir, 
that  this  poor  young  creature  has  been  less 
culpable  than  she  appears.  From  the  extraor- 
dinary proficiency  she  has  made  in  music,  in  a 
time,  that,  by  her  own  account,  seems  incredi- 
bly short,  I  should  suspect  her  unprincipled 
betrayer  must  have  been  an  artist — a  profes- 
sional man.  It  is  just  possible  that  they  may 
meet  again,  and  (as  the  ranks  between  them 
cannot  be  so  very  disproportionate)  that  he 
may  marry  her.  I  am  sure  that  he  could  not 
do  a  better  or  a  wiser  thing,  for  she  loves  him 
too  fondly,  despite  her  wrongs.  Under  these 
circumstances,  would  it  be  a — a — a  culpable 
disguise  of  truth  to  represent  her  as  a  married 
woman  separated  from  her  husband — and  give 
her  the  name  of  her  seducer  ?  Without  such 
a  precaution  you  will  see,  sir,  that  all  hope  of 
settling  her  reputably  in  life — all  chance  of 
procuring  her  any  creditable  independence,  is 
out  of  the  question.  Such  is  my  dilemma. 
What  is  your  advice  ? — palatable  or  not,  I 
shall  abide  by  it." 

The  banker's  grave  and  saturnine  co'.mte- 
nance  exhibited  a  slight  degree  of  embarrass- 
ment at  the  case  submitted  to  him.  He  began 
brushing  away,  with  the  cuff  of  his  black  coat, 
some  atoms  of  dust  that  had  settled  on  his 
drab  small-clothes;  and,  after  a  slight  pause, 
he   replied,  "Why,    really,  dear    madam,   the 


82 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


question  is  one  of  much  delicacy — I  doubt  if 
men  could  be  good  judges  upon  it;  your  sex's 
tact  and  instinct  on  these  matters  are  better 
— much  better  than  our  sagacity.  There  is 
much  in  the  dictates  of  your  own  heart;  for  to 
those  who  are  in  the  grace  of  the  Lord,  He 
vouchsafes,  to  communicate  his  pleasure,  by 
spiritual  hints  and  inward  suggestions  !  " 

"  If  so,  my  dear  sir,  the  matter  is  decided; 
for  my  heart  whispers  me,  that  this  sight  devi- 
ation, from  truth  would  be  a  less  culpable 
offence  than  turning  so  young  and,  I  had  almost 
said,  so  innocent  a  creature  adrift  upon  the 
world.  I  may  take  your  opinion  as  my  sanc- 
tion." 

"Why,  really,  I  can  scarcely  say  so  much 
as  that,"  said  the  banker,  with  a  slight  smile. 
"  A  deviation,  from  truth  cannot  be  incurred 
without  some  forfeiture  of  strict  duty." 

"  Not  in  any  case.  Alas,  I  was  afraid  so  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Leslie,  despondingly. 

"  In  any  case  !  Oh,  there  may  be  cases  ! 
But  had  I  not  better  see  the  young  woman, 
and  ascertain  that  your  benevolent  heart  has 
not  deceived  you  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  she 
is  now  in  the  house.     I  will  ring  for  her." 

"  Should  we  not  be  alone  ? " 

"Certainly;  I  will  leave  you  together." 

Alice  was  sent  for,  and  appeared. 

"  This  pious  gentleman,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie, 
"  will  confer  with  you  for  a  few  moments,  my 
child.  Do  not  be  afraid;  he  is  the  best  of 
men."  With  these  words  of  encouragement 
the  good  lady  vanished,  and  Alice  saw  before 
her  a  tall,  dark  man,  with  a  head  bald  in  front, 
yet  larger  behind  than  before,  with  spectacles 
upon  a  pair  of  shrewd,  penetrating  eyes,  and 
an  outline  of  countenance  that  showed  he  must 
have  been  handsome  in  earlier  manhood. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  the  banker,  seat- 
ing himself,  after  a  deliberate  survey  of  the 
fair  countenance  that  blushed  beneath  his 
gaze,  "  Mrs.  Leslie  and  myself  have  been  con- 
ferring upon  your  temporal  welfare.  You 
have  been  unfortunate,  my  child  ?  " 

"Ah— yes." 

"Well,  well,  you  are  very  young;  we  must 
not  be  too  severe  upon  youth.  You  will  never 
do  so  again  ? " 

"  Do  what,  please  you,  sir  ? " 

"  What  !  Humph  !  I  mean  that  you  will 
be  more  rigid,    more  circumspect.     Men  are 


deceitful;  you  must  be  on  your  guard  against 
them.  You  are  handsome,  child,  very  hand- 
some— more's  the  pity."  And  the  banker  took 
Alice's  hand  and  pressed  it  with  great  unction. 
Alice  looked  at  him  gravely,  and  drew  the 
hand  away  instinctively. 

The  banker  lowered  his  spectacles,  and 
gazed  at  her  without  their  aid;  his  eyes  were 
still  fine  and  expressive.  "What  is  your 
name  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Alice — Alice  Darvil,  sir." 

"Well,  Alice,  we  have  been  considering 
what  is  best  for  you.  You  wish  to  earn  your 
own  livelihood,  and  perhaps  marry  some  hon- 
est man  hereafter  ? " 

"  Marry,  sir — never  !  "  said  Alice,  with  great 
earnestness,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  And  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  shall  never  see  him  on  earth, 
and  they  do  not  marry  in  heaven,  sir." 

The  banker  was  moved,  for  he  was  not  worse 
than  his  neighbors,  though  trying  to  make 
them  believe  he  was  so  much  better. 

"Well,  time  enough  to  talk  of  that;  but  in 
the  meanwhile  you  would  support  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  His  child  ought  to  be  a  burthen 
to  none — nor  I  either.  I  once  wished  to  die, 
but  then  who  would  love  my  little  one?  Ncnv 
I  wish  to  live." 

"But  what  mode  of  livelihood  would  you 
prefer  ?  Would  you  go  into  a  family,  in  some 
capacity  ? — not  that  of  a  servant — you  are  too 
delicate  for  that." 

"  Oh,  no — no  !  " 

"  But,  again,  why  ? "  asked  the  banker 
soothingly,  yet  surprised. 

"  Because,"  said  Alice,  almost  solemnly, 
"  there  are  some  hours  when  I  feel  I  must  be 
alone.  I  sometimes  think  I  am  not  all  right 
here"  and  she  touched  her  forehead.  " They 
called  me  an  idiot  before  I  knew  him  ! — No,  I 
could  not  live  with  others,  for  I  can  only  cry 
when  nobody  but  my  child  is  with  me." 

This  was  said  with  such  unconscious,  and 
therefore  with  such  pathetic  simplicity,  that 
the  banker  was  sensibly  affected.  He  rose, 
stirred  the  fire,  resettled  himself,  and  after  a 
pause,  said  emphatically — "  Alice,  I  will  be 
your  friend.  Let  me  believe  you  will  de- 
serve it." 

Alice  bent  her  graceful  head,  and  seeing 
that  he  had  sunk  into  an  abstracted  silence, 
\  she  thought  it  time  for  her  to  withdraw. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


83 


'"  She  is,  indeed,  beautiful,"  said  the  banker, 
almost  aloud,  when  he  was  alone;  "  and  the 
olci   lady  is  right — she  is  as  innocent  as  if  she 

had    not  fallen.       I    wonder "       Here  he 

stopped  short,  and  walked  to  the  glass  over 
the  mantel-piece,  where  he  was  still  gazing  on 
his  own  features,  when  Mrs.  Leslie  returned. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  she,  a  little  surprised  at 
this  seeming  vanity  in  so  pious  a  man. 

The  banker  started.  "  Madam,  I  honor 
your  penetration  as  much  as  your  charity;  I 
think  that  there  is  so  much  to  be  feared  in 
letting  all  the  world  know  this  young  female's 
past  error,  that,  though  I  dare  not  advise,  I 
cannot  blame,  your  concealment  of  it." 

"  But  sir,  yonr  words  have  sunk  deep  into 
my  thoughts;  you  said  every  deviation  from 
truth  was  a  forfeiture  of  duty." 

"Certainly;  but  there  are  some  exceptions. 
The  world  is  a  bad  world,  we  are  born  in  sin, 
and  the  children  of  wrath.  We  do  not  tell  in- 
fants all  the  truth,  when  they  ask  us  questions, 
the  proper  answers  of  which  would  mislead, 
not  enlighten,  them.  In  some  things  the 
whole  world  are  infants.  The  very  science  of 
government  is  the  science  of  concealing  truth 
—  so  is  the  system  of  trade.  We  could  not 
blame  the  tradesman  for  not  telling  the  pub- 
lic, that  if  all  his  debts  were  called  in  he  would 
be  a  bankrupt." 

"  And  he  may  marry  her,  after  all — this  Mr. 
Butler." 

"  Heaven  forbid — the  villain  ! — Well,  mad- 
am, I  will  see  to  this  poor  young  thing — she 
shall  not  want  a  guide." 

"  Heaven  reward  you.  How  wicked  some 
people  are  to  call  you  severe  !  " 

"  I  can  bear  that  blame  with  a  meek  tem- 
per, madam.     Good  day." 

"  Good  day.  You  will  remember  how 
strictly  confidential  has  been  our  conversa- 
tioujl' 

"Not  a  breath  shall  transpire.  I  will  send 
you  some  tracts  to-morrow — so  comforting. 
Heaven  bless  you  !  " 

This  difficulty  smoothed,  Mrs.  Leslie,  to  her 
astonishment,  found  that  she  had  another  to 
contend  with  in  Alice  herself.  For,  first,  Alice 
conceived  that  to  change  her  name  and  keep 
her  secret,  was  to  confess  that  she  ought  to  be 
ashamed,  rather  than  proud,  of  her  love  to 
Ernest,  and  she  thought  that  so  ungrateful  to 
him  ! — and,  secondly,  to  take  his  name,  to  pass 


for  his  wife — what  presumption — he  would  cer- 
tainly have  a  right  to  be  offended  !  At  these 
scruples,  Mrs.  Leslie  well-nigh  lost  all  patience; 
and  the  banker,  to  his  own  surprise,  was  again 
called  in.  We  have  said  that  he  was  an  ex- 
perienced and  skilful  adviser,  which  implies 
the  faculty  of  persuasion.  He  soon  saw  the 
handle  by  which  Alice's  obstinacy  might 
always  be  moved — her  little  girl's  welfare.  He 
put  this  so  forcibly  before  her  eyes;  he  repre- 
sented the  child's  future  fate  as  resting  so 
much,  not  only  on  her  own  good  conduct,  but 
on  her  outward  respectability,  that  he  pre- 
vailed upon  her  at  last;  and,  perhaps,  one  argu- 
ment that  he  incidentally  used,  had  as  much 
effect  on  her  as  the  rest. 

"This  Mr.  Butler,  if  yet  in  England,  may 
pass  through  our  town — may  visit  amongst  us 
— may  hear  you  spoken  of,  by  a  name  similar 
to  his  own,  and  curiosity  would  thus  induce 
him  to  seek  you.  Take  his  name,  and  you 
will  always  bear  an  honorable  index  to  your 
mutual  discovery  and  recognition.  Besides 
when  you  are  respectable,  honored,  and  earn- 
ing an  independence,  he  may  not  be  too  proud 
to  marry  you.  But  take  your  own  name, 
avow  your  own  history,  and  not  only  will  your 
child  be  an  outcast,  yourself  a  beggar,  or,  at 
best,  a  menial  dependant,  but  you  lose  every 
hope  of  recovering  the  object  of  your  too- 
devoted  attachment." 

Thus  Alice  was  convinced.  From  that  time 
she  became  close  and  reserved  in  her  com- 
munications. Mrs.  Leslie  had  wisely  selected 
a  town  sufficiently  remote  from  her  own  abode 
to  preclude  any  revelations  of  her  domestics; 
and,  as  Mrs.  Butler,  Alice  attracted  universal 
sympathy  and  respect  from  the  exercise  of  her 
talents,  the  modest  sweetness  of  her  manners, 
the  unblemished  propriety  of  her  conduct. 
Somehow  or  other,  no  sooner  did  she  learn  the 
philosophy  of  concealment,  than  she  made  a 
great  leap  in  knowledge  of  the  world.  And, 
though  flattered  and  courted  by  the  young 
loungers  of  C  *  *  *  *  *,  she  steered  her  course 
with  so  much  address,  that  she  was  never 
persecuted.  For  there  are  few  men  in  the 
world  who  make  advances  where  there  is  no 
encouragement. 

The  Banker  observed  her  conduct  with 
silent  vigilance.  He  met  her  often,  he  vis- 
ited her  often.  He  was  intimate  at  houses 
where  she  attended  to  teach  or  perform.     He 


84 


BULlVEJi'S     WORKS. 


lent  her  good  books — he  advised  her — he 
preached  to  her.  Alice  began  to  look  up  to 
him — to  like  him— to  consider  him,  as  a  vil- 
lage girl  in  Catholic  countries  may  consider  a 
benevolent  and  kindly  priest.  And  he — what 
was  his  object  ? — at  that  time  it  is  impossible 
to  guess: — he  became  thoughtful  and  ab- 
stracted. 

One  day  an  old  maid  and  an  old  clergyman 
met  in  the  High  Street  of  C  *  *  *  *  *. 

"  And  how  do  you  do,  ma'am  ? "  said  the 
clergyman;  "how  is  the  rheumatism  ?" 

"  Better,  thank  you,  sir.     Any  news  ?  " 

The  clergyman  smiled,  and  something 
hovered  on  his  lips  which  he  suppressed. 

"Were  you,"  the  old  maid  resumed,  "at 
Mrs.  Macnab's  last  night  ?   Charming  music  ?  " 

"  Charming  !  How  pretty  that  Mrs.  Butler 
is  !  and  how  humble  !  Knows  her  station — so 
unlike  professional  people." 

"  Yes,  indeed  ! — What  attention  a  certain 
banker  paid  her  !  " 

"He  !  he  !  he  !  yes;  he  is  very  fatherly — 
very  ! " 

"Perhaps  he  will  marry  again;  he  is  always 
talking  of  the  holy  state  of  matrimony — a  holy 
state  it  may  be— but  Heaven  knows,  his  wife, 
poor  woman,  did  not  make  it  a  pleasant  one." 

"  There  may  be  more  causes  for  that  than 
we  guess  of,"  said  the  clergyman,  mysteri- 
ously.  "  I  would  not  be  uncharitable,  but " 

"  But  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  when  he  was  young,  our  great  man 
was  not  so  correct,  I  fancy,  as  he  is  now." 

"So  I  have  heard  it  whispered;  but  nothing 
against  him  was  ever  known." 

"  Hem — it  is  very  odd  !  " 

"  What's  very  odd  ?  " 

"  Why,  but  it's  a  secret — I  dare  say  it's  all 
very  right." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  say  a  word.  Are  you  going 
to  the  cathedral  ? — don't  let  me  keep  you 
standing.     Now,  pray  proceed  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  yesterday  I  was  doing  duty  in 
a  village  more  than  twenty  miles  hence,  and  I 
loitered  in  the  village  to  take  an  early  dinner; 
and,  afterwards,  while  my  horse  was  feeding, 
I  strolled  down  the  green." 

"Well— well?" 

"And  I  saw  a  gentleman  muffled  carefully 
up,  with  his  hat  slouched  over  his  face,  at  the 
door  of  a  cottage,  with  a  little  child  in  his 
arms,  and  he  kissed  it  more  fondly  than,  be  we 


ever  so  good,  we  generally  kiss  other  people's 
children;  and  then  he  gave  it  to  a  peasant 
woman  standing  near  him,  and  mounted  "his- 
horse,  which  was  tied  to  the  gate,  and  trotted 
past  me:  and  who  do  you  think  this  was  ?" 

"  Patience  me — I  can't  guess  !  " 

"  Why,  our  saintly  banker.  I  bowed  to  him, 
and  I  assure  you  he  turned  as  red,  ma'am,  as- 
your  waistband." 

"  My  !" 

"  I  just  turned  into  the  cottage  when  he  was 
out  of  sight,  for  I  was  thirsty,  and  asked  for  a 
glass  of  water,  and  I  saw  the  child.  I  declare, 
I  would  not  be  uncharitable,  but  I  thought  it 
monstrous  like — you  know  whom  !  " 

"  Gracious  !  you  don't  sa)' " 

"  I  asked  the  woman  '  if  it  was  hers  ? '  and 
she  said  '  No,'  but  was  very  short." 

"  Dear  me,  I  must  find  this  out  ! — What  is- 
the  name  of  the  village  ?  " 

"  Covedale." 

"Oh,  I  know — I  know." 

."Not  a  word  of  this;  I  dare  say  there's 
nothing  in  it.  But  I  am  not  much  in  favor  of 
your  new  lights." 

"  Nor  I  neither.  What  better  than  the  good 
old  Church  of  England  ? " 

"  Madam,  your  sentiments  do  you  honor; 
you'll  be  sure  not  to  say  anything  of  our  little 
mystery." 

"  Not  a  syllable." 

Two  days  after  this,  three  old  maids  made 
an  excursion  to  the  village  of  Covedale,  and 
lo  !  the  cottage  in  question  was  shut  up — the 
woman  and  the  child  were  gone.  The  people 
in  the  village  knew  nothing  about  them — had 
seen  nothing  particular  in  the  woman  or  child 
— had  always  supposed  them  mother  and 
daughter;  and  the  gentleman  identified  by  the 
clerical  inquisitor  with  the  banker,  had  never 
but  once  been  obser\'ed  in  the  place. 

"  The  vile  old  parson,"  said  the  eldest  of  the 
old  maids,  "  to  take  away  so  good  a  man's 

character  ! and  the  fly  will  cost  one  pound 

two,  with  the  baiting  !  " 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  In  this  disposition  was  I,  when  looking  out  of  my 
window  one  day  to  take  the  air,  I  perceived  a  kind  of 
peasant  who  looked  at  me  very  attentively." 

—Gil.  Blas. 

A    summer's   evening  in  a  retired   country 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


85 


town  has  something  melancholy  in  it.  You 
have  the  streets  of  a  metropolis  without  their 
animated  bustle — you  have  the  stillness  of  the 
country  without  its  birds  and  flowers.  The 
reader  will  please  to  bring  before  him  a  quiet 
street,  in  the  quiet  country  town  of  C  *  *  *  *  *, 
in  a  quiet  evening  in  quiet  June:  the  picture 
is  not  mirthful — two  young  dogs  are  playing 
in  the  street,  one  old  dog  is  watching  by  a 
newly-painted  door.  A  few  ladies  of  middle 
age  move  noiselessly  along  the  pavement,  re- 
turning home  to  tea:  they  wear  white  muslin 
dresses,  green  spencers  a  little  faded,  straw 
poke  bonnets,  with  green  or  coffee-colored 
gauze  veils.  By  twos  and  threes  they  have 
disappeared  within  the  thresholds  of  small, 
neat  houses,  with  little  railings,  enclosing  little 
green  plots.  Threshold,  house,  railing,  and 
plot,  each  as  like  to  the  other  as  are  those 
small  commodities  called  "  nest  tables,"  which, 
"  even  as  a  broken  mirror  muitiplies,"  summon 
to  the  bewildered  eye  countless  iterations  of 
one  four-legged  individual.  Paradise  Place 
was  a  set  of  nest  houses. 

A  cow  had  passed  through  the  streets  with 
a  milkwoman  behind;  two  young  and  gay 
shopmen,  "  looking  after  the  gals,"  had  recon- 
noitred the  street,  and  vanished  in  despair. 
The  twilight  advanced — but  gently;  and 
though  a  star  or  two  were  up,  the  air  was  still 
clear.  At  the  open  window  of  one  of  the  tene- 
ments in  this  street  sate  Alice  Darvil.  She 
had  been  working  (that  pretty  excuse  to 
women  for  thinking),  and  as  the  thoughts 
grew  upon  her,  and  the  evening  waned,  the 
work  had  fallen  upon  her  knee,  and  her  hands 
dropped  mebhanically  on  her  lap.  Her  profile 
was  turned  towards  the  street;  but  without 
moving  her  head  or  changing  her  attitude,  her 
eyes  glanced  from  time  to  time  to  her  little 
girl,  who  nestled  on  the  ground  beside  her, 
tired  with  play;  and,  wondering,  perhaps,  why 
she  was  not  already  in  bed,  seemed  as  tranquil 
as  the  young  mother  herself.  And  sometimes 
Alice's  eyes  filled  with  tears — and  then  she 
sighed,  as  if  to  sigh  the  tears  away.  But,  poor 
Alice,  if  she  grieved,  hers  was  now  a  silent  and 
a  patient  grief  ! 

The  street  was  deserted  of  all  other  passen- 
gers, when  a  man  passed  along  the  pavement 
on  the  side  opposite  to  Alice's  house.  His 
garb  was  rude  and  homely,  between  that  of  a 
laborer  and  a  farmer  ;  but  still  there  was  an 


affectation  of  tawdry  show  about  the  bright 
scarlet  silk  handkerchief,  tied  in  a  sailor  or 
smuggler  fashion  round  the  sinewy  throat;  the 
hat  was  set  jauntily  on  one  side,  and,  dangling 
many  an  inch  from  the  gaily-striped  waist- 
coat, glittered  a  watch-chain  and  seals,  which 
appeared  suspiciously  out  of  character  with  the 
rest  of  the  attire.  The  passenger  was  cov- 
ered with  dust;  and  as  the  street  was  in  a  suburb 
communicating  with  the  high  road,  and  formed 
ofie  of  the  entrances  into  the  town,  he  had 
probably  after  a  long  day's  journey,  reached 
his  evening's  destination.  The  looks  of  this 
stranger  were  anxious,  restless,  and  perturbed. 
In  his  gait  and  swagger  there  was  the  reckless- 
ness of  the  professional  blackguard;  but  in 
his  vigilant,  prying,  suspicious  eyes,  there  was  a 
hand-dog  expression  of  apprehension  and  fear. 
He  seemed  a  man  upon  whom  Crime  had  set 
its  significant  mark— and  who  saw  a  purse 
with  one  eye  and  a  gibbet  with  the  other.  Alice 
did  not  note  the  stranger,  until  she  herself 
had   attracted   and  centered   all  his  attention. 

He  halted  abruptly  as  he  caught  a  view  of 
her  face — shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  as  if 
to  gaze  more  intently — and  at  length  burst  in- 
to an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 
At  that  instant  Alice  turned,  and  her  gaze  met 
that  of  the  str.anger.  The  fascination  of  the 
basilisk  can  scarcely  more  stun  and  paralyze 
its  victim  than  the  look  of  this  stranger 
charmed,  with  the  appalling  glamoury  of  hor- 
ror, the  eye  and  soul  of  Alice  Darvil.  Her 
face  became  suddenly  locked  and  rigid,  her 
lips  as  white  as  marble,  her  eyes  almost  started 
from  their  sockets — she  pressed  her  hands 
convulsively  together,  and  shuddered — but 
still  she  did  not  move.  The  man  nodded  and 
grinned,  and  then,  deliberately  crossing  the 
street,  gained  the  door,  and  knocked  loudly. 
Still  Alice  did  not  stir — her  senses  seemed  to 
have  forsaken  her — presently  the  stranger's 
loud,  rough  voice  was  heard  below,  in  answer 
to  the  accents  of  the  solitary  woman-servant 
whom  Alice  kept  in  her  employ;  and  his 
strong,  heavy  tread  made  the  slight  staircase 
creak  and  tremble.  Then  Alice  rose  as  by  an 
instinct,  caught  her  child  in  her  arms,  and 
stood  erect  and  motionless,  facing  the  door. 
It  opened — and  the  father  and  daughter 
were  once  more  face  to  face  within  the  same 
walls. 

"Well,  Alley,  how  are  you,  my  blowen  ?-— 


86 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


glad  to  see  your  old  dad  again,  I'll  be  sworn. 
No  ceremony,  sit  down.  Ha,  ha  !  snug  here 
— very  snug — we  shall  live  together  charm- 
ingly. Trade  on  your  own  account — eh  ?  sly; 
— well  can't  desert  your  poor  old  father.  Let's 
have  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

So  saying,  Darvil  thjew  himself  at  length 
upon  the  neat,  prim,  little  chintz  sofa,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  resolved  to  make  himself  per- 
fectly at  home. 

Alice  gazed,  and  trembled  violently,  but 
still  said  nothing — the  power  of  voice  had  in- 
deed left  her. 

"  Come,  why  don't  you  stir  your  stumps  ?  I 
suppose  I  must  wait  on  myself — fine  manners  I 
— But,  ho,  ho — a  bell,  by  gosh — mighty  grand 
— never  mind — I  am  used  to  call  for  my  own 
wants." 

A  hearty  tug  at  the  frail  bell-rope  sent  a 
shrill  alarum  half  way  through  the  long  lath- 
and-plaster  row  of  Paradise  Place,  and  left  the 
instrument  of  the  sound  in  the  hand  of  its 
creator. 

Up  came  the  maid-servant,  a  formal  old 
woman,  most  respectable. 

'' Harkye,  old  girl!"  said  Darvil;  "bring 
up  the  best  you  have  to  eat — not  particular — 
let  there  be  plenty.  And  I  say — a  bottle  of 
brandy.  Come,  don't  stand  there  staring  like 
a  stuck  pig.  Budge  !  Hell  and  furies  !  don't 
you  hear  me  ?  " 

The  servant  retreated,  as  if  a  pistol  hnd  been 
put  to  her  head,  and  Darvil,  laughing  loud, 
threw  himself  again  upon  the  sofa.  Alice 
looked  at  him,  and,  still  without  saying  a  word, 
glided  from  the  room — her  child  in  her  arms. 
She  hurried  down  stairs,  and  in  the  hall  met 
her  servant.  The  latter,  who  was  much  at- 
tached to  her  mistress,  was  alarmed  to  see  her 
about  to  leave  the  house. 

"Why,  marm,  where  be  you  going?  Dear 
heart,  you  have  no  bonnet  on  !  What  is  the 
matter  ?     Who  is  this  ?  " 

"Oh  !"  cried  Alice,  in  agony;  "what  shall 
I  do? — where  shall  I  fly?"  The  door  above 
opened.  Alice  heard,  started,  and  the  next 
moment  was  in  the  street.  She  ran  on  breath- 
lessly, and  like  one  insane.  Her  mind  was,  in- 
deed, for  the  time,  gone,  and  had  a  river 
flowed  before  her  way,  she  would  have  plunged 
into  an  escape  from  a  world  that  seemed  too 
narrow  to  hold  a  father  and  his  child. 

But  just  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  a  street 


that  led  into  the  more  public  thoroughfare^ 
she  felt  her  arm  grasped,  and  a  voice  called 
out  her  name  in  surprised  and  startled  ac- 
cents. 

"  Heavens,  Mrs.  Butler  !  Alice  !  What  do 
I  see  ?    What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  save  me  ! — you  are  a  good  man — 
a  great  man — save  me — he  is  returned  !  " 

"  He  !  who  ? — Mr.  Butler .' "  said  the  banker, 
(for  that  gentleman  it  was),  in  a  changed  and 
trembling  voice. 

"  No,  no — ah,  not  he  !— I  did  not  say  he — I 
said  my  father^-my,  my— ah — look  behind  — 
look  behind — is  he  coming  ?  " 

"Calm  yourself,  my  dear  young  friend — no 
one  is  near.  I  will  go  and  reason  with  your 
father.  No  one  shall  harm_you — I  will  protect 
you.  Go  back — go  back,  I  will  follow — we 
must  not  be  seen  together."  And  the  tall 
banker  seemed  trying  to  shrink  into  a  nutshell. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Alice,  growing  yet  paler,  "  I 
cannot  go  back." 

"  Well,  then,  just  follow  me  to  the  door — 
your  servant  shall  get  you  your  bonnet,  and  ac- 
company you  to  my  house,  where  you  can  wait 
till  I  return.  Meanwhile  I  will  see  your  father, 
and  rid  you,  I  trust,  of  his  presence." 

The  banker,  who  spoke  in  a  very  hurried 
and  even  impatient  voice,  waited  for  no  reply, 
but  took  his  way  to  Alice's  house.  Alice  her- 
self did  not  follow,  but  remained  in  the  very 
place  where  she  was  left,  till  joined  by  her  ser- 
vant, who  then  conducted  her  to  the  rich  man's 

residence But   Alice's    mind    had    not 

recovered  its  shock,  and  her  thoughts  wan- 
dered alarmingly. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

"  Miramont. — Do  they  chafe  roundly  ? 

Andrew. — As  they  were  rubbed  with  soap,  sir. 
And  now  they  swear  aloud,  now  calm  again 
Like  a  ring  of  bells,  whose  sound  the  wind  still  utters, 
And  then  they  sit  in  council  what  to  do, 
And  then  they  jar  again  what  shall  be  done  ?" 

— Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Oh  !  what  a  picture  of  human  nature  it  was 
when  the  banker  and  the  vagabond  sate  to- 
gether in  that  little  drawing-room,  facing  each 
other, — one  in  the  arm-chair,  one  on  the  sofa! 
Darvil  was  still  employed  on  some  cold  meat, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


87 


and  was  making  wry  faces  at  the  very  indif- 
ferent brandy  which  he  had  frightened  the 
formal  old  servant  into  buying  at  the  nearest 
public-house;  and  opposite  sate  the  respect- 
able— highly  respectable,  man  of  forms  and 
ceremonies,  of  decencies  and  quackeries,  gaz- 
ing gravely  upon  this  low,  dare-devil  ruffian: — 
the  well-to-do  hypocrite — the  penniless  villain; 
— the  man  who  had  everything  to  lose — the 
man  who  had  nothing  in  the  wide  world  but  his 
own  mischievous,  rascally  life,  a  gold  watch, 
chain  and  seals,  which  he  had  stolen  the  day 
before,  and  thirteen  shillings  and  threepence 
halfpenny  in  his  left  breeches-pocket  ! 

•  The  man  of  wealth  was  by  no  means  well 
acquainted  with  the  nature  of  the  beast  before 
him.  He  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Leslie  (as  we 
remember)  the  outline  of  Alice's  history,  and 
ascertained  that  their  joint  protege's  father 
was  a  great  blackguard;  but  he  expected  to 
find  Mr.  Darvil  a  mere  dull,  brutish  villain,  a 
peasant-ruffian — a  blunt  serf,  without  brains, 
or  their  substitue,  effrontery.  But  Luke  Dar- 
vil was  a  clever,  half-educated  fellow;  he  did 
not  sin  from  ignorance,  but  had  wit  enough  to 
have  bad  principles,  and  he  was  as  impudent 
as  if  he  had  lived  all  his  life  in  the  best  society. 
He  was  not  frightened  at  the  banker's  drab 
breeches  and  imposing  air — not  he  !  The 
Duke  of  Wellington  would  not  have  frightened 
Luke  Darvil,  unless  his  Grace  had  had  the 
constables  for  his  aides-de-camp. 

The  banker,  to  use  a  homely  phrase,  was 
"  taken  aback." 

"  Look  you  here,  Mr.  What's  your  name  ?  " 
said  Darvil,  swallowing  a  glass  of  the  raw 
alcohol  as  if  it  had  been  water — "  look  you  now 
— you  can't  humbug  me.  What  the  devil  do 
you  care  about  my  daughter's  respectability 
or  comfort,  or  anything  else,  grave  old  dog  as 
you  are  ! — It  is  my  daughter  herself  you  are 
licking  your  brown  old  chaps  at  ! — and  'faith 
my  Alley  is  a  very  pretty  girl — very — but 
queer  as  moonshine.  You'll  drive  a  much 
better  bargain  with  me  than  with  her." 

The  banker  colored  scarlet — he  bit  his  lips, 
and  measured  his  companion  from  head  to 
foot,  (while  the  latter  lolled  on  the  sofa),  as  if 
he  were  meditating  the  possibility  of  kicking 
him  down  stairs.  But  Luke  Darvil  would 
have  thrashed  the  banker,  and  all  his  clerks 
into  the  bargain.  His  frame  was  like  a  trunk 
of  thews  and  muscles,  packed  up  by  that  care- 


ful dame.  Nature,  as  tightly  as  possible,  and  a 
prize-fighter  would  have  thought  twice  before 
he  had  entered  the  ring  against  so  awkward  a 
customer.  The  banker  was  a  man  prudent  to 
a  fault,  and  he  pushed  his  chair  six  inches 
back,  as  he  concluded  his  survey. 

"  Sir,"  then  said  he,  very  quietly,  "  do  not 
let  us  misunderstand  each  other.  Your 
daughter  is  safe  from  your  control — if  you 
molest  her,  the  law  will  protect " 

"She  is  not  of  age,"  said  Darvil.  "Your 
health,  old  boy." 

"  Whether  she  is  of  age  or  not,"  returned 
the  banker,  unheeding  the  courtesy  conveyed 
in  the  last  sentence,  "  I  do  not  care  three 
straws — I  know  enough  of  the  law  to  know, 
that  if  she  have  rich  friends  in  this  town,  and 
you  have  none,  she  will  be  protected,  and  you 
will  go  to  the  treadmill." 

"That  is  spoken  like  a  sensible  man,"  said 
Darvil,  for  the  first  time  with  a  show  of  respect 
in  his  manner;  "  you  now  take  a  practical  view 
of  matters,  as  we  used  to  say  at  the  spouting- 
club." 

"  If  I  were  in  your  situation,  Mr.  Darvil,  I 
tell  you  what  I  would  do.  I  would  leave  my 
daughter  and  this  town  to-morrow  morning, 
and  I  would  promise  never  to  return,  and 
never  to  molest  her,  on  condition  she  allowed 
me  a  certain  sum  from  her  earnings,  paid 
quarterly." 

"  And  if  I  preferred  living  with  her  ?  " 

"  In  that  case,  I,  as  a  magistrate  of  this 
town,  would  have  you  sent  away  as  a  vagrant, 
or  apprehended " 

"Ha!" 

"  Apprehended  on  suspicion  of  stealing  that 
gold  chain  and  seals  which  you  wear  so  osten- 
tatiously. 

"  By  goles,  but  you're  a  clever  fellow," 
said  Darvil,  involuntarily;  "you  know  human 
nature." 

The  banker  smiled:  strange  to  say,  he  was 
pleased  with  the  compliment. 

"  But,"  resumed  Darvil,  helping  himself  to 
another  slice  of  beef,  "  you  are  in  the  wrong 
box — planted  in  Queer   Street,  as  nve  say  in 

London,  for  if  you  care  a  d n  about  my 

daughter's  respectability,  you  will  never  muz- 
zle her  father  on  suspicion  of  theft — and  so 
there's  tit  for  tat,  my  old  gentleman  !  " 

"  I  shall  deny  that  you  are  her  father,  Mr. 
Darvil;  and  I  think  you  v/ill  find  it  hard  to 


88 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


prove  the  fact  in  any  town  where  I  am  a 
magistrate." 

"  By  goles,  what  a  good  prig  you  would 
have  made  !  You  are  as  sharp  as  a  gimlet. 
Surely  you  were  brought  up  at  the  Old 
Bailey  !  " 

"  Mr.  Darvil  be  ruled.  You  seem  a  man 
not  deaf  to  reason,  and  I  ask  you  whether,  in 
any  town  in  this  country,  a  poor  man  in  sus- 
picious circumstances  can  do  anything  against 
a  rich  man  whose  character  is  established  ? 
Perhaps,  you  are  right  in  the  main:  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  that.  But  I  tell  you  that 
you  shall  quit  this  house  in  half-an-hour— that 
you  shall  never  enter  it  againbut  at  your  peril; 
and  if  you  do — within  ten  minutes  from  that 
time  you  shall  be  in  the  town  jail.  It  is  no 
longer  a  contest  between  you  and  your 
defenceless  daughter;  it  is  a  contest  be- 
tween  " 

"  A  tramper  in  fustian  and  a  gemman  as 
drives  a  coach,"  interrupted  Darvil,  laughing 
bitterly,  yet  heartily,  "  Good— good  !  " 

The  banker  rose.  "  I  think  you  have  made 
a  very  clever  definition,"  said  he.  "  Half-an- 
hour — you  recollect — ^good  evening." 

"  Stay,"  said  Darvil;  "  you  are  the  first  man 
I  have  seen  for  many  a  year  that  I  can  take 
a  fancy  to.  Sit  down — sit  down  I  say,  and 
talk  a  bit,  and  we  shall  come  to  terms  soon,  I 
dare  say: — that's  right.  Lord  !  how  I  should 
like  to  have  you  on  the  road-side  instead  of 
within  these  four  gimcrack  walls.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
the  argufying  would  be  all  in  my  favor  then." 

The  Banker  was  not  a  brave  man,  and  his 
color  changed  slightly  at  the  intimation  of 
this  obliging  wish.  Darvil  eyed  him  grimly 
and  chuckingly. 

The  rich  man  resumed:  "  That  may  or  may 
not  be,  Mr.  Darvil,  according  as  I  might  hap- 
pen or  not  to  have  pistols  about  me.  But  to 
the  point.-  Quit  this  house  without  further 
debate,  without  noise,  without  mentioning  to 
any  one  else  your  claim  upon  its  owner " 

"  Well,  and  the  return  ?  " 

"  Ten  guineas  now,  and  the  same  sum  quar- 
terly, as  long  as  the  young  lady  lives  in  this 
town,  and  you  never  persecute  her  by  word 
or  letter." 

"That  is  forty  guineas  a  year.  I  can't  live 
upon  it." 

"  You  win  cost  less  in  the  House  of  Cor- 
rection, Mr.  Darvil." 


"Come,  make  it  a  hundred:  Alley  is  cheap 
at  that." 

"  Not  a  farthing  more,"  said  the  banker,  but- 
toning up  his  breeches-pockets  with  a  deter- 
mined air. 

"  Well,  out  with  the  shiners." 

"  Do  you  promise  or  not  ? " 

"  I  promise." 

"  There  are  your  ten  guineas.  If  in  half-an- 
hour  you  are  not  gone — why  then " 

"Then?" 

"  Why  then  you  have  robbed  me  of  ten 
guineas,  and  must  take  the  usual  consequences 
of  robbery. 

Darvil  started  to  his  feet — his  eyes  glared — 
he  grasped  the  carving-knife  before  him. 

"  You  are  a  bold  fellow,"  said  the  banker, 
quietly;  "but  it  won't  do.  It  is  not  worth 
your  while  to  murder  me;  and  I  am  a  man 
sure  to  be  missed." 

Darvil  sunk  down,  sullen  and  foiled.  The 
respectable  man  was  more  than  a  match  for 
the  villain. 

"  Had  you  been  as  poor  as  I, — Gad  !  what  a 
rogue  you  would  have  been  !  " 

"I  think  not,"  said  the  banker;  "I  believe 
roguery  to  be  a  very  bad  policy.  Perhaps 
once  I  was  almost  as  poor  as  you  are,  but  I 
never  turned  rogue." 

"You  never  were  in  my  circumstances," 
returned  Darvil,  gloomily.  "  I  was  a  gentle- 
man's son.  Come,  you  shall  hear  ray  story. 
My  father  was  well-born,  but  married  a  maid- 
servant when  he  was  at  college;  his  family 
disowned  him,  and  left  him  to  starve.  He 
died  in  the  struggle  against  a  poverty  he  was 
not  brought  up  to,  and  my  dam  went  into  ser- 
vice again;  became  housekeeper  to  an  old 
bachelor — sent  me  to  school — but  mother  had 
a  family  by  the  old  bachelor,  and  I  was  taken 
from  school  and  put  to  trade.  All  hated  me 
— for  I  was  ugly;  damn  them  !  Mother  cut 
me — I  wanted  money — robbed  the  old  bache- 
lor— was  sent  to  jail,  and  learned  there  a  les- 
son or  two  how  to  rob  better  in  future.  Mother 
died, — I  was  adrift  on  the  world.  The  world 
was  my  foe — could  not  make  it  up  with  the 
world,  so  we  went  to  war; — you  understand, 
old  boy?  Married  a  poor  woman  and  pretty; 
— wife  made  me  jealous — had  learned  to  sus- 
pect every  one.  Alice  born — did  not  believe 
her  mine:  not  like  me — perhaps  a  gentleman's 
child.      I    hate — I    loathe    gentlemen.      Got 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


89 


drunk  one  night— kicked  my  wife  in  the  stom- 
ach three  weeks  after  her  confinement.  Wife 
died — tried  for  my  life — got  off.  Went  to 
another  county — having  had  a  sort  of  educa- 
tion, and  being  sharp  eno',  got  work  as  a  me- 
chanic. Hated  work  just  as  I  hated  gentle- 
men— for  was  I  not  by  blood  a  gentleman  ? 
There  was  th£  curse.  Alice  grew  up;  never 
looked  on  her  as  my  flesh  and    blood.     Her 

mother  was  a  w !     Why  should  not  she  be 

one?  There,  that's  enough.  Plenty  of  ex- 
cuse, I  think,  for  all  I  have  ever  done.  Curse 
the  world — curse  the  rich — curse  the  hand- 
some— curse — curse  all  !  " 

"You  have  been  a  very  foolish  man,"  said 
the  banker;  "  and  seem  to  me  to  have  had  very 
good  cards,  if  you  had  known  how  to  play  them. 
However,  that  is  your  look  out.  It  is  not  yet 
too  late  to  repent; — age  is  creeping  on  you. — 
Man,  there  is  another  world." 

The  banker  said  the  last  words  with  a  tone 
of  solemn  and  even  dignified  adjuration. 

"You  think  so — do  you  ?  "  said  Darvil,  star- 
ing at  him. 

"  From  my  soul  I  do." 

"  Then  you  are  not  the  sensible  man  I  took 
you  for,"  replied  Darvil,  drily;  "and  I  should 
like  to  talk  to  you  on  that  subject." 

But  our  Dives,  however  sincere  a  believer, 
was  by  no  means  one 

"  At  whose  control 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul." 

He  had  words  of  comfort  for  the  pious,  but  he 
had  none  for  the  sceptic — he  could  soothe,  but 
he  could  not  convert.  It  was  not  in  his  way; 
besides,  he  saw  no  credit  in  making  a  convert 
of  Luke  Darvil.  Accordingly,  he  again  rose 
with  some  quickness,  and  said — 

"No,  sir;  that  is  useless,  I  fear,  and  I  have 
no  time  to  spare;  and  so  once  more,  good  night 
to  you." 

"  But  you  have  not  arranged  where  my  al- 
lowance is  to  be  sent." 

"Ah!  true;  1  will  guarantee  it.  You  will 
find  my  name  sufficient  security." 

"  At  least,  it  is  the  best  I  can  get,"  returned 
Darvil,  carelessly,  "  and,  after  all,  it  is  not  a 
bad  chance-day's  work.  •  But  I'm  sure  I  can't 
say  where  the  money  shall  be  sent.  I  don't 
know  a  man  who  would  not  grab  it." 

"  Very  well,  then — the  best  thing  (I  speak 
as  a  man  of  business)  will   be  to  draw  on  me 


for  ten  guineas,  quarterly.  Wherever  you  are 
staying,  any  banker  can  effect  this  for  you. 
But  mind,  if  ever  you  overdraw,  the  account 
stops." 

"I  understand,"  said  Darvil;  "and  when  I 
have  finished  the  bottle  I  shall  be  off." 

"You  had  better,"  replied  the  banker,  as  he 
opened  the  door. 

The  rich  man  returned  home  hurriedly. 
"  So  Alice,  after  all,  has  some  gentle  blood  in 
her  veins,"  thought  he.  "  But  that  father, — 
no,  it  will  never  do.  I  wish  he  were  hanged 
and  nobody  the  wiser.  I  should  very  much 
like  to  arrange  the  matter  without  marrying; 
but  then — scandal — scandal — scandal.  After 
all,  I  had  better  give  up  all  thoughts  of  her. 
She  is  monstrous  handsome,  and  so — humph  ! 
— I  shall  never  grow  an  old  man." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"  Began  to  bend  down  his  admiring  eyes 
On  all  her  touching  looks  and  qualities, 
Turning  their  shapely  sweetness  every  way 
'Till  'twas  his  food  and  habit  day  by  day." 

— Leigh  Hunt. 

There  must  have  been  a  secret  something 
about  Alice  Darvil  singularly  captivating,  that 
(associated  as  she  was  with  images  of  the 
most  sordid  and  the  vilest  crime)  left  her 
still_^pure  and  lovely  alike  in  the  eyes  of  a  man 
as  fastidious  as  Ernest  Maltravers,  and  of  a 
man  as  influenced  by  all  the  thoughts  and 
theories  of  the  world,  as  the  shrewd  banker  of 
C  *  *  *  *  *.  Amidst  things  foul  and  hateful 
had  sprung  up  this  beautiful  flower,  as  if  to 
preserve  the  inherent  heavenliness  and  grace 
of  human  nature,  and  proclaim  the  handiwork 
of  God  in  scenes  where  human  nature  had  been 
most  debased  by  the  abuses  of  social  art;  and 
where  the  light  of  God  himself  was  most  dark- 
ened and  obscured.  That  such  contrasts, 
though  rarely  and  as  by  chance,  are  found, 
every  one  who  has  carefully  examined  the 
wastes  and  deserts  of  life  must  own.  I  have 
drawn  Alice  Darvil  scrupulously  from  life;  and 
I  can  declare  that  I  have  not  exaggerated  hue 
or  lineament  in  the  portrait.  I  do  not  suppose, 
with  our  good  banker,  that  she  owed  anything, 
unless  it  might  be  a  greater  delicacy  of  form 
and   feature,  to  whatever   mixture   of  gentle 


9° 


B  UL  WER  'S     WORKS. 


blood  was  in  her  veins.  But,  somehow  or 
other,  in  her  original  conformation  there  was 
the  happy  bias  of  the  plants  towards  the  Pure 
and  the  Bright.  For,  despite  Helvetius,  a 
common  experience  teaches  us  that  though  ed- 
ucation and  circumstances  may  mould  the 
mass,  Nature  herself  sometimes  forms  the  in- 
dividual, and  throws  into  the  clay,  or  its  spirit, 
so  much  of  beauty  or  deformity,  that  nothing 
can  utterly  subdue  the  original  elements  of 
character. 

From  sweets  one  draws  poison — from  poi- 
sons another  extracts  but  sweets.  But  I, 
often  deeply  pondering  over  the  psychological 
history  of  Alice  Darvil,  think  that  one  princi- 
pal cause  why  she  escaped  the  early  con- 
taminations around  her,  was  in  the  slow  and 
protracted  development  of  her  intellectual 
faculties.  Whether  or  not  the  brutal  violence 
of  her  father  had  in  childhood  acted  through 
the  nerves  upon  the  brain,  certain  it  is  that  un- 
til she  knew  Maltravers — until  she  loved — till 
she  was  cherished — her  mind  had  seemed 
torpid  and  locked  up.  True,  Darvil  had 
taught  her  nothing;  nor  permitted  her  to  be 
taught  anything;  but  that  mere  ignorance 
would  have  been  no  preservation  to  a  quick, 
observant  mind.  It  was  the  bluntness  of  the 
senses  themselves  that  operated  like  an  armor 
between  her  mind  and  the  vile  things  around 
her.  It  was  the  rough,  dull  covering  of  the 
chrysalis,  framed  to  bear  rude  contact  and 
biting  weather,  that  the  butterfly  might  break 
forth,  winged  and  glorious,  in  due  season. 
Had  Alice  been  a  quick  child,  Alice  would 
have  probably  grown  up  a  depraved  and  dis- 
solute woman;  but  she  comprehended,  she 
understood  little  or  nothing,  till  she  found  an 
inspirer  in  that  affection  which  inspires  both 
beast  and  man;  which  makes  the  dog  (in 
his  natural  state  one  of  the  meanest  of  the 
savage  race)  a  companion,  a  guardian,  a  pro- 
tector, and  raises  Instinct  half-way  to  the 
height  of  Reason. 

The  banker  had  a  strong  regard  for  Alice; 
and  when  he  reached  home,  he  heard  with 
great  pain  that  she  was  in  a  high  state  of  fever. 
She  remained  beneath  his  roof  that  night,  and 
the  elderly  gentlewoman,  his  relation  and 
gouvernante,  attended  her.  The  banker  slept 
but  little;  and  the  next  morning  his  counte- 
nance was  unusually  pale. 

Towards  daybreak  Alice  had  fallen  into  a 


sound  and  refreshing  sleep;  and  when  on  wak- 
ing, she  found,  by  a  note  from  her  host,  that 
her  father  had  left  her  house,  and  she  might 
return  in  safety  and  without  fear,  a  violent 
flood  of  tears,  followed  by  long  and  grateful 
prayer,  contributed  to  the  restoration  of  her 
mind  and  nerveS.  Imperfect  as  this  young 
woman's  notions  of  abstract  right  and  wrong 
still  were,  she  was  yet  sensible  to  the  claims  of 
a  father  (no  matter  how  criminal)  upon  his 
child:  for  feelings  with  her  were  so  good  and 
true,  that  they  supplied  in  a  great  measure  the 
place  of  principles.  She  knew  that  she  could 
not  have  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  her 
dreadful  parent;  but  she  still  felt  an  uneasy 
remorse  at  thinking  he  had  been  driven  from 
that  roof  in  destitution  and  want. 

"  She  hastened  to  dress  herself  and  seek  an 
audience  with  her  protector;  and  the  latter 
found  with  admiration  and  pleasure  that  he 
had  anticipated  her  own  instantaneous  and 
involuntary  design  in  the  settlement  made 
upon  Darvil.  He  then  communicated  to  Alice 
the  compact  he  had  already  formed  with  her 
father,  and  she  wept  and  kissed  his  hand  when 
she  heard,  and  secretly  resolved  that  she 
would  work  hard  to  be  enabled  to  increase  the 
sum  allowed.  Oh,  if  her  labors  could  serve 
to  retrieve  a  parent  from  the  necessity  of 
darker  resources  for  support !  Alas  !  when 
crime  has  become  a  custom,  it  is  like  gaming 
or  drinking — the  excitement  is  wanting;  and 
had  Luke  Darvil  been  suddenly  made  inheritor 
of  the  wealth  of  a  Rothschild,  he  would  either 
still  have  been  a  villain  in  one  way  or  the 
other;  or  ennui  would  have  awakened  con- 
science, and  he  would  have  died  of  the  change 
of  habit. 

Our  banker  always  seemed  more  struck  by 
Alice's  moral  feelings  than  even  by  her  physical 
beauty.  Her  love  for  her  child,  for  instance, 
impressed  him  powerfully,  and  he  always 
gazed  upon  her  with  softer  eyes  when  he  saw 
her  caressing  or  nursing  the  little  fatherless 
creature,  whose  health  was  now  delicate  and 
precarious.  It  is  diflScult  to  say  whether  he 
was  absolutely  in  love  with  Alice;  the  phrase 
is  too  strong,  perhaps,  to  be  applied  to  a  man 
past  fifty,  who  had  gene  through  emotions  and 
trials  enough  to  wear  away  freshness  from  his 
heart.  His  feelings  altogether  for  Alice,  the 
designs  he  entertained  towards  her,  were  of  a 
very  complicated  nature;  and  it  will  be  long. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


91 


perhaps,  before  the  reader  can  thoroughly 
comprehend  them.  He  conducted  Alice  home 
that  day;  but  he  said  little  by  the  way,  per- 
haps because  his  female  relation,  for  appear- 
ance' sake,  accompanied  them  also.  He, 
however,  briefly  cautioned  Alice  on  no  account 
to  communicate  to  any  one  that  it  was  her 
father  who  had  been  her  visitor;  and  she  still 
shuddered  too  much  at  the  reminiscence  to 
appear  likely  to  converse  on  it.  The  banker 
also  judged  it  advisable  to  be  so  far  confiden- 
tial with  Alice's  servant  as  to  take  her  aside, 
and  tell  her  that  the  inauspicious  stranger  of 
the  previous  evening  had  been  a  very  distant 
relation  of  Mrs.  Butler,  who,  from  a  habit  of 
drunkenness,  had  fallen  into  evil  and  dis- 
orderly courses. 

The  banker  added  with  a  sanctified  air  that 
he  trusted  by  a  little  serious  conversation,  he 
had  led  the  poor  man  to  better  notions,  and 
that  he  had  gone  home  with  an  altered  mind 
to  his  family.  "  But,  my  good  Hannah,"  he 
concluded,  "  You  know  you  are  a  superior 
person,  and  above  the  vulgar  sin  of  indiscrim- 
inate gossip;  therefore,  mention  what  has  oc- 
curred to  no  one;  it  can  do  no  good  to  Mrs. 
Butler — it  may  hurt  the  man  himself,  who  is 
well  to  do — better  off  than  he  seems;  and  who, 
I  hope,  with  grace,  may  be  a  sincere  penitent, 
and  it  will  also— but  that  is  nothing — very 
seriously  displease  me.  By  the  by,  Hannah, 
I  shall  be  able  to  get  your  grandson  into  the 
Free  School.  The  banker  was  shrewd  enough 
to  perceive  that  he  had  carried  his  point;  and 
he  was  walking  home,  satisfied,  on  the  whole, 
with  the  way  matters  had  been  arranged,  when 
he  was  met  by  a  brother  magistrate. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  latter,  "  and  how  are  you, 
my  good  sir  ?  Do  you  know  that  we  have  had 
the  Bow  Street  officers  here,  in  search  of  a 
notorious  villain  who  has  broken  from  prison  ? 
He  is  one  of  the  most  determined  and  dex- 
terous burglars  in  all  England,  and  the  run- 
ners have  hunted  him  into  our  town.  His 
very  robberies  have  tracked  him  by  the  way. 
He  robbed  a  gentleman  the  day  before  yester- 
day of  his  watch,  and  left  him  for  dead  on  the 
road — this  was  not  thirty  miles  hence." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  said  the  banker,  with  emotion; 
"  and  what  is  the  wretch's  name  >.  " 

"  Why,  he  has  as  many  aliases  as  a  Spanish 
grandee;  but  I  believe  the  last  name  he  has 
assumed  is  Peter  Watts." 


"  Oh  !  "  said  our  friend,  relieved, — "  well, 
have  the  runners  found  him  ?  " 

"  No,  but  they  are  on  his  scent.  A  fellow- 
answering  to  his  description  was  seen  by  the 
man  at  the  toll-bar,  at  daybreak  this  morning, 
on  the  way  to  F***:  the  officers  are  after 
him." 

"  I  hope  he  may  meet  with  his  deserts — 
and  crime  is  never  unpunished,  even  in  this 
world.  My  best  compliments  to  your  lady: 
—and  how  is  little  Jack  ?— Well  !  glad  to  hear 
it — fine  boy,  little  Jack  ! — good  day." 

"  Good  day,  my  dear  sir.  Worthy  man, 
that  !  " 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"  But  who  is  this  ?  thought  he,  a  demon  vile. 
With  wicked  meaning  and  a  vulgar  style; 
Hammond  they  call  him — they  can  give  the  name 

Of  man  to  devils; Why  am  I  so  tame  ? 

Why  crush  I  not  the  viper?    Fear  replied, 
Watch  him  awhile  and  let  his  strength  be  tried." 

— Crabbe. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  the 
banker  took  his  horse — a  crop-eared,  fast-trot- 
ting hackney — and  merely  leaving  word  that 
he  was  going  upon  business  into  the  country, 
and  should  not  return  to  dinner,  turned  his 
back  on  the  spires  of  C  *  *  *  *  *. 

He  rode  slowly,  for  the  day  was  hot.  The 
face  of  the  country,  which  was  fair  and  smil- 
ing, might  have  tempted  others  to  linger  by 
the  way:  but  our  hard  and  practical  man  of 
the  world  was  more  influenced  by  the  weather 
than  the  loveliness  of  the  scenery.  He  did 
not  look  upon  Nature  with  the  eye  of  imagina- 
tion; perhaps  a  railroad,  had  it  then  and  there 
existed,  would  have  pleased  him  better  than 
the  hanging  woods,  the  shadowy  valleys,  and 
the  changeful  river  that  from  time  to  time 
beautified  the  landscape  on  either  side  the 
road.  But,  after  all,  there  is  a  vast  deal  of 
hypocrisy  in  the  affected  admiration  for  Na- 
ture;— and  I  don't  think  one  person  in  a 
hundred  cares  for  what  lies  by  the  side  of  a 
road,  so  long  as  the  road  itself  is  good,  hills 
levelled,  and  turnpikes  cheap. 

It  was  midnoon,  and  many  miles  had  been 
passed,  when  the  banker  turned  down  a  green 
lane  and  quickend  his  pace.  At  the  end  of 
about  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  he  arrived 
at  a  little  solitary  inn,  called  "The  Angler," — 


92 


BULWER-S     WORKS. 


put  up  his  horse,  ordered  his  dinner  at  six 
o'clock — begged  to  borrow  a  basket  to  hold 
his  fish — and  it  was  then  apparent  that  a  long- 
ish  cane  he  had  carried  with  him  was  capable 
of  being  extended  into  a  fishing-rod.  He 
fitted  in  the  various  joints  with  care,  as  if  to 
be  sure  no  accident  had  happened  to  the  im- 
plement by  the  journey — pried  anxiously  into 
the  contents  of  a  black  case  of  lines  and  flies 
slung  the  basket  behind  his  back,  and  while 
his  horse  was  putting  down  its  nose  and 
whisking  about  its  tail,  in  the  course  of  those 
nameless  coquetries  that  horses  carry  on  with 
hostlers — our  worthy  brother  of  the  rod  strode 
rapidly  through  some  green  fields,  gained  the 
river  side,  and  began  fishing  with  much  sem- 
blance of  earnest  interest  in  the  sport.  He 
had  caught  one  trout,  seemingly  by  accident 
— for  the  astonished  fish  was  hooked  up  on 
the  outside  of  its  jaw — probably  while  in  the 
act,  not  of  biting,  but  gazing  at,  the  bait,  when 
he  grew  discontented  with  the  spot  he  had  se- 
lected; and,  after  looking  round  as  if  to  con- 
vince himself  that  he  was  not  liable  to  be  dis- 
turbed or  observed  (a  thought  hateful  to  the 
fishing  fraternity),  he  stole  quickly  along  the 
margin,  and  finally  quitting  the  river  side  alto- 
gether, struck  into  a  path  that,  after  a  sharp, 
walk  of  nearly  an  hour,  brought  him  to  the 
door  of  a  cottage. 

He  knocked  twice,  and  then  entered  of  his 
own  accord — nor  was  it  till  the  summer  sun 
was  near  its  decline  that  the  banker  regained 
his  inn.  His  simple  dinner,  which  they  had 
delayed  in  wonder  at  the  protracted  absence 
of  the  angler,  and  in  expectation  of  the  fishes 
he  was  to  bring  back  to  be  fried,  was  soon 
despatched;  his  horse  was  ordered  to  the  door, 
and  the  red  clouds  in  the  west  already  be- 
tokened the  lapse  of  another  day,  as  he 
spurred  from  the  spot  on  the  fast-trotting 
hackney,  fourteen  miles  an  hour. 

"  That  ere  gemman  has  a  nice  bit  of  blood," 
said  the  hostler,  scratching  his  ear. 

'•  Oiy, — who  be  he  ?  "  said  a  hanger-on  of 
the  stables. 

''  I  dooant  know.  He  has  been  here  twice 
afoar,  and  he  never  cautches  anything  to  sin- 
nify — he  be  mighty  fond  of  fishing,  sure/y." 

Meanwhile,  away  sped  the  banker — milestone 
on  milestone  glided  by— and  still,  scarce  turn- 
ing a  hair,  trotted  gallantly  out  the  good  hack- 
ney. But  the  evening  grew  darker,  and  it  began 


to  rain;  a  drizzling,  perseverving  rain,  that  wets 
a  man  through  ere  he  is  aware  of  it.  After 
his  fiftieth  year,  a  gentleman,  who  has  a  tender 
regard  for  himself,  does  not  like  to  get  wet; 
and  the  rain  mspired  the  banker,  who  was  sub- 
ject to  rheumatism,  with  the  resolution  to  take 
a  short  cut  along  the  fields.  There  were  one 
or  two  low  hedges  by  this  short  way,  but  the 
banker  had  been  there  in  the  spring,  and  knew 
every  inch  of  the  ground.  The  hackney 
leaped  easily — and  the  rider  had  a  tolerably 
practised  seat — and  two  miles  saved  might 
just  prevent  the  menaced  rheumatism;  accord- 
ingly, our  friend  opened  a  white  gate,  and 
scoured  along  the  fields  without  any  misgiving 
as  to  the  prudence  of  his  choice.  He  arrived 
at  his  first  leap — there  was  the  hedge,  its  sum- 
mit just  discernible  in  the  dim  light.  On  the 
other  side,  to  the  right  was  a  haystack,  and 
close  by  this  haystack  seemed  the  most  eligi- 
ble place  for  clearing  the  obstacle.  Now  since 
the  banker  had  visited  this  place,  a  deep  ditch, 
that  served  as  a  drain,  had  been  dug  at  the  op- 
posite base  of  the  hedge,  of  which  neither 
horse  nor  man  was  aware,  so  that  the  leap  was 
far  more  perilous  than  was  anticipated. 

Unconscious  of  this  additional  obstacle,  the 
rider  set  off  in  a  canter.  The  banker  was  high 
in  air,  his  loins  bent  back,  his  rein  slackened, 
his  right  hand  raised  knowingly— when  the 
horse  took  fright  at  an  object  crouched  by  the 
haystack — swerved,  plunged  midway  into  the 
ditch,  and  pitched  its  rider  two  or  three  yards 
over  its  head.  The  banker  recovered  himself 
sooner  than  might  have  been  expected;  and, 
finding  himself,  though  bruised  and  shaken, 
still  whole  and  sound,  hastened  to  his  horse. 
But  the  poor  animal  had  not  fared  so  well  as 
its  master,  and  its  off-shoulder  was  either  put 
out  or  dreadfully  sprained.  It  had  scrambled 
its  way  out  of  the  ditch,  and  there  it  stood  dis- 
consolate by  the  hedge  as  lame  as  one  of  the 
trees  that,  at  irregular  intervals,  broke  the 
symmetry  of  the  barrier.  On  ascertaining 
the  extent  of  his  misfortune,  the  banker  be- 
came seriously  uneasy:  the  rain  increased — he 
was  several  miles  yet  from  home — he  was  in 
the  midst  of  houseless  fields,  with  another  leap 
before  him — the  leap  he  had  just  passed  behind 
— and  no  other  egress  that  he  knew  of  into  the 
main  road.  While  these  thoughts  passed 
through  his  brain,  he  became  suddenly  aware 
that  he  was  not  alone.     The  dark  object  that 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


93 


had  frightened  his  horse  rose  slowly  from  the 
snug  corner  it  had  occupied  by  the  haystack, 
and  a  gruff  voice  that  made  the  banke-r  thrill 
to  the  marrow  of  his  bones,  cried,  "  Holla  ! 
who  the  devil  are  you  ? " 

Lame  as  his  horse  was,  the  banker  instantly 
put  his  foot  into  the  stirrup;  but  before  he 
could  mount,  a  heavy  gripe  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder — and  turning  round  with  as  much 
fierceness  as  he  could  assume,  he  saw — what 
the  tone  of  the  voice  had  already  led  him  to 
forebode — the  ill-omened  and  cut-throat  feat- 
ures of  Luke  Darvil. 

"  Ha !  ha !  my  old  annuitant,  my  clever 
feelosofer — jolly  old  boy — how  are  you  ? — 
give  us  a  fist.  Who  would  have  thought  to 
meet  you  on  a  rainy  night,  by  a  lone  haystack, 
with  a  deep  ditch  on  one  side,  and  no  chim- 
ney-pot within  sight  ?  Why,  old  fellow,  I, 
Luke  Darvil — I,  the  vagabond — I,  whom  you 
would  have  sent  to  the  treadmill  for  being 
poor,  and  calling  on  my  own  daughter — I  am 
as  rich  as  you  are,  here — and  as  great,  and  as 
strong,  and  as  powerful  ! " 

And  while  he  spoke,  Darvil,  who  was  really 
an  undersized  man,  seemed  to  swell  and  dilate, 
till  he  appeared  half  a  head  taller  than  the 
shrinking  banker,  who  was  five  feet  eleven 
inches  without  his  shoes. 

"  E — hem  !  "  said  the  rich  man,  clearing 
his  throat,  which  seemed  to  him  uncommonly 
husky;  "I  do  not  know  whether  I  insulted 
your  poverty,  my  dear  Mr.  Darvil — I  hope 
not;  but  this  is  hardly  a  time  for  talking — pray 
let  me  mount,  and " 

"  Not  a  time  for  talking  !  "  interrupted  Dar- 
vil, angrily;  "  it's  just  the  time,  to  my  mind: 
let  me  consider, — ay,  I  told  you,  that  when- 
ever we  met  by  the  roadside,  it  would  be  my 
turn  to  have  the  best  of  the  argufying." 

"  I  dare  say — I  dare  sa^,  my  good  fellow." 

"  Fellow  not  me  ! — I  won't  be  fellowed  now. 
I  say  I  have  the  best  of  it  here— man  to  man 
— I  am  your  match." 

"  But  why  quarrel  with  me  ? "  said  the 
banker,  coaxingly;  "  I  never  meant  you  harm, 
and  I  am  sure  you  cannot  mean  me  harrh." 

"  No  ! — and  why  ?"  asked  Darvil,  coolly; — 
"  why  do  you  think  I  can  meai>you  no  harm  ?  " 

"Because  your  annuity  depends  on  me." 

"  Shrewdly  put — we'll  argufy  that  point. 
My  life  is  a  bad  one,  not  worth  more  than  a 
year's  purchase;  now,  suppose  you  have  more 


than  forty  pounds  about  you — it  may  be  better 
worth  my  while  to  draw  my  knife  across  your 
gullet  than  to  wait  for  the  quarter-day's  ten 
pounds  a-time.  You  see  it's  all  a  matter  of 
calculation,  my  dear  Mr.  What's  your 
name  ? " 

"But,"  replied  the  banker,  and  his  teeth  be- 
gan to  chatter,  "  I  have  not  forty  pounds 
about  me." 

"  How  do  I  know  that  ? — you  say  so.  Well, 
in  the  town  yonder,  your  word  goes  for  more 
than  mine;  I  never  gainsayed  you  when  you 
put  that  to  me,  did  I  ?  But  here,  by  the  hay- 
stack, my  word  is  better  than  yours;  and  if  I 
say  you  must  and  shall  have  forty  pounds 
about  you,  let's  see  whether  you  dare  contra- 
dict me  !  " 

"  Look  you,  Darvil,"  said  the  banker,  sum- 
moning up  all  his  energy  and  intellect,  for  his 
moral  powers  began  now  to  back  his  physical 
cowardice,  and  he  spoke  calmly,  and  even 
bravely,  through  his  heart  throbbed  aloud 
against  his  breast,  and  you  might  have  knocked 
him  down  with  a  feather, — "  the  London  run- 
ners are  even  now  hot  after  you." 

"  Ha  !— you  lie  !  " 

"  Upon  my  honor  I  speak  the  truth ;  I  heard 
the  news  last  evening.  They  tracked  you  to 
Q  *  *  *  *  * — (-j^gy  tracked  you  out  of  the 
town;  a  word  from  me  would  have  given  you 
into  their  hands.  I  said  nothing — you  are 
safe — you  may  yet  escape.  I  will  even  help 
you  to  fly  the  country,  and  live  out  your  nat- 
ural date  of  years,  secure  and  in  peace." 

"  You  did  not  say  that  the  other  day  in  the 
snug  drawing-room;  you  see  I  have  the  best 
of  it  now — own  that." 

"I  do,"  said  the  banker. 

Darvil  chuckled,  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

The  man  of  wealth  once  more  felt  his  im- 
portance, and  went  on.  "  This  is  one  side  of 
the  question.  On  the  other,  suppose  you  rob 
and  murder  me;  do  you  think  my  death  will 
lessen  the  heat  of  the  pursuit  against  you  ? 
The  whole  country  will  be  in  arms,  and  before 
forty-eight  hours  are  over,  you  will  he  hunted 
down  like  a  mad  dog." 

Darvil  was  silent,  as  if  in  thought;  and, 
after  a  pause,  replied — -"Well,  you  are  a  'cute 
one,  after  all.  What  have  you  got  about  you  ? 
you  know  you  drove  a  hard  bargain  the  other 
day — now  it's  my  market — fustian  has  riz — 
kersey  has  fell." 


94 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  All  I  have  about  me  shall  be  yours,"  said 
the  banker,  eagerly. 

"  Give  it  me,  then." 

"  There  I "  said  the  banker,  placing  his 
purse  and  pocket-book  into  Darvil's  hands. 

"  And  the  watch  ?  " 

"  The  watch  ?— well,  there  !  " 

"What's  that?" 

The  banker's  senses  were  sharpened  by  fear, 
but  they  were  not  so  sharp  as  those  of  Darvil; 
he  heard  nothing  but  the  rain  pattering  on  the 
leaves,  and  the  rush  of  water  in  the  ditch  at 
hand.  Darvil  stooped  and  listened — till,  rais- 
ing himself  again  with  a  deep-drawn  breath, 
he  said,  "  I  think  there  are  rats  in  the  hay- 
stack; they  will  be  running  over  me  in  my 
sleep;  but  they  are  playful  creturs,  and  I  like 
'em.  And  now,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  afraid  I 
must  put  an  end  to  you  !  " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  what  do  you  mean  ! 
How  !  " 

"  Man,  there  is  another  world  !  "  quoth  the 
ruffiain,  mimicking  the  banker's  solemn  tone 
in  their  former  interview.  "  So  much  the 
better  for  you  !  In  that  world  they  don't  tell 
tales." 

"  I  swear  I  will  never  betray  you." 

"  You  do^swear  it  then." 

"  By  all  my  hopes  of  earth  and  heaven  !  " 

"  What  a  d — d  coward  you  be  !  "  said  Dar- 
vil, laughing  scornfully.  "  Go— you  are  safe. 
I  am  in  good  humor  with  myself  again.  I 
crow  over  you,  for  no  man  can  make  me  trem- 
ble. And  villain  as  you  think  me,  while  you 
fear  me  you  cannot  despise — you  respect  me. 
Go,  I  say — go." 

The  banker  was  about  to  obey,  when,  sud- 
denly, from  the  haystack,  a  broad,  red  light 
streamed  upon  the  pair,  and  the  next  moment 
Darvil  was  seized  from  behind,  and  struggling 
in  the  gripe  of  a  man  nearly  as  powerful  as 
himself.  The  light  which  came  from  a  dark- 
lanthorn  placed  on  the  ground,  revealed  the 
forms  of  a  peasant  in  a  smock-frock,  and  two 
stout-built,  stalwart  men,  armed  with  pistols — 
besides  the  one  engaged  with  Darvil. 

The  whole  of  this  scene  was  brought  as  by 
the  trick  of  the  stage — as  by  a  flash  of  light- 
ning— as  by  the  change  of  a  showman's  phan- 
tasmagoria— before  the  astonished  eyes  of  the 
banker.  He  stood  arrested  and  spellbound, 
his  hand  on  his  bridle,  his  foot  on  his  stirrup. 
A  moment  more  and  Darvil   had    dashed  his 


antagonist  on  the  ground;  he  stood  at  a  little 
distance,  his  face  reddened  by  the  glare  of  the 
lanthorn,  and  fronting  his  assailants — that 
fiercest  of  all  beasts,  a  desperate  man  at  bay  ! 
He  had  already  succeeded  in  drawing  forth  his 
pistols,  and  he  held  one  in  each  hand — his  eyes 
flashing  from  beneath  his  bent  brows,  and 
turning  quickly  from  foe  to  foe  !  At  last  those 
terrible  eyes  rested  on  the  late  reluctant  com- 
panion of  his  solitude. 

"  So  _)w«  then  betrayed  me,"  he  said,  very 
slowly,  and  directed  his  pistol  to  the  head  of 
the  dismounted  horseman. 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  one  of  the  oflBcers,  for 
such  were  Darvil's  assailants;  "  fire  away  in 
this  direction,  my  hearty — we're  paid  for  it. 
The  gentlemen  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"  Nothing,  by  G !  "  cried  the  banker, 

startled  out  of  his  sanctity. 

"  Then  I  shall  keep  my  shot,"  cried  Darvil; 
"  and  mind,  the  first  who  approaches  me  is  a 
dead  man." 

It  so  happened,  that  the  robber  and  the 
officers  were  beyond  the  distance  which  allows 
sure  mark  for  a  pistol-shot,  and  each  party 
felt  the  necessity  of  caution. 

"Your  time  is  up,  my  swell  cove  !  "  cried 
the  head  of  the  detachment;  "you  have  had 
your  swing,  and  a  long  one  it  seems  to  have 
been — you  must  now  give  in.  Throw  down 
your  barkers,  or  we  must  make  mutton  of  you, 
and  rob  the  gallows." 

Darvil  did  not  reply,  and  the  officers,  ac- 
customed to  hold  life  cheap,  moved  on  towards 
him — their  pistols  cocked  and  levelled. 

Darvil  fired — one  of  the  men  staggered  and 
fell.  With  a  kind  of  instinct,  Darvil  had 
singled  out  the  one  with  whom  he  had  be- 
fore wrestled  for  life.  The  ruffian  waited  not 
for  the  others — he  turned  and  fled  along  the 
fields. 

"  Zounds,  he  is  off !  "  cried  the  other  two, 
and  they  rushed  after  him  in  pursuit.  A  pause 
— a  shot — another — an  oath — a  groan — and 
all  was  still. 

"  It's  all  up  with  him  now  !  said  one  of  the 
runners,  in  the  distance;  "  he  dies  game." 

At  these  words,  the  peasant,  who  had  before 
skulked  behind-  the  haystack,  seized  the  lan- 
thorn from  the  ground,  and  ran  to  the  spot. 
The  banker  involuntarily  followed. 

There  lay  Luke  Darvil  on  the  grass — still 
living,  but  a  horrible  and  ghastly  spectacle. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


95 


One  ball  had  pierced  his  breast,  another  had 
shot  away  his  jaw.  His  eyes  rolled  fearfully, 
and  he  tore  up  the  grass  with  his  hands. 

The  officers  looked  coldly  on.  "  He  was  a 
clever  fellow  !  "  said  one. 

"  And  has  given  us  much  trouble,  said  the 
other;  "let  us  see  to  Will." 

"  But  he  is  not  dead  yet,"  said  the  banker, 
shuddering. 

"  Sir,  he  cannot  live  a  minute." 

Darvil  raised  himself  bolt  upright — shook 
his  clenched  fist  at  his  conquerors,  and  a  fear- 
ful gurgling  howl,  which  the  nature  of  his 
wound  did  not  allow  him  to  syllable  into  a 
curse,  came  from  his  breast — with  that  he  fell 
flat  on  his  back — a  corpse. 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,"  said  the  elder  officer, 
turning  away,  "  you  had  a  narrow  escape — but 
how  came  you  here  ?  " 

"  Rather,  how  came  jw/  here  ?" 

"  Honest  Hodge  there,  with  the  lanthorn, 
had  marked  the  fellow  skulk  behind  the  hay- 


stack, when  he  himself  was  going  out  to  snare 
rabbits.  He  had  seen  our  advertisement  of 
Watt's  person,  and  knew  that  we  were  then  at 
a  public-house  some  miles  off.  He  came  to 
us — conducted  us  to  the  spot — we  heard  voices 
— showed  up  the  glim — and  saw  our  man. 
Hodge,  you  are  a  good  subject,  and  love  jus- 
tice." 

"  Yees,  but  I  shall  have  the  rewourd,"  said 
Hodge,  showing  his  teeth. 

"  Talk  o'  that  by  and  by,"  said  the  officer. 
"  Will,  how  are  you,  man  ? " 

"  Bad,"  groaned  the  poor  runner,  and  a 
rush  of  blood  from  the  lips  followed  the  groan. 

It  was  many  days  before  the  ex-member  for 
C  *  *  *  *  *  sufficiently  recovered  the  tone  of 
his  mind  to  think  further  of  Alice;  when  he 
did,  it  was  with  great  satisfaction  that  he  re- 
flected that  Darvil  was  no  more,  and  that 
the  deceased  ruffian  was  only  known  to  the 
neighborhood  by  the  name  of  Peter  Watts. 


96 


B  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


BOOK    FIFTH. 


'O  >jiou<Tiroi6t  ivQaZ'  Inn'tivai  KeiTOi. 

Ec  5'  e(T(Ti  Kpjjyuo?  T«  Kai  napa  j^piitrTOiv 
^apaiiitv  KaOi^iv'  k^v  9«Aj7s  ano^pi^or. 

Theoc.  Epiy  in  Hippon. 

PARODY. 

My  hero,  turned  author,  lies  mute  in  this  section. 

You  may  pass  by  the  place  if  you're  bored  by  reflection: 

But  if  honest  enough  to  be  fond  of  the  Muse, 

Stay,  and  read  where  you're  able,  and  sleep  where  you  choose. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*  *  »       "  My  genius  spreads  her  wing. 

And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring. 

***** 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by, 
Intent  on  high  designs." — Goldsmith. 

I  HAVE  no  respect  for  the  Englishman  who 
re-enters  London  after  long  residence  abroad, 
without  a  pulse  that  beats  quick,  and  a  heart 
that  heaves  high.  The  public  buildings  are 
few,  and,  for  the  most  part,  mean;  the  monu- 
ments of  antiquity,  not  comparable  to  those 
which  the  pettiest  town  in  Italy  can  boast  of; 
the  palaces  are  sad  rubbish;  the  houses  of  our 
peers  and  princes  are  shabby  and  shapeless 
heaps  of  brick.  But  what  of  all  this  ?  the 
spirit  of  London  is  in  her  thoroughfares — her 
population  !  What  wealth — what  cleanliness 
— what  order — what  animation  !  How  ma- 
jestic, and  yet  how  vivid,  is  the  life  that  runs 
through  her  myriad  veins  !  How,  as  the 
lamps  blaze  upon  you  at  night,  and  street  after 
street  glides  by  your  wheels,  each  so  regular 
in  its  symmetry,  so  equal  in  its  civilization — 
how  all  speak  of  the  City  of  Freemen  ! 

Yes,  Maltravers  felt  his  heart  swell  within 
him,  as  the  post-horses  whirled  on  his  dingy 
carriage — over  Westminster  Bridge — along 
Whitehall — through  Regent  Street — towards 
one  of  the  quiet  and  private-houselike  hotels, 
that  are  scattered  round  the  neighborhood  of 
Grosvenor  Square. 


Ernest's  arrival  had  been  expected.  He 
had  writen  from  Paris  to  Cleveland  to  announce 
it;  and  Cleveland  had,  in  reply,  informed  him 
that  he  had  engaged  apartments  for  him  at 
Mivart's.  The  smiling  waiters  ushered  him 
into  a  spacious  and  well-aired  room — the  arm- 
chair was  already  wheeled  by  the  fire — a  score 
or  so  of  letters  strewed  the  table,  together 
with  two  of  the  Evening  Papers.  And  how 
eloquently  of  busy  England  do  those  evening 
papers  speak  !  A  stranger  might  have  felt 
that  he  wanted  no  friend  to  welcome  him — 
the  whole  room  smiled  on  him  a  welcome. 

Maltravers  ordered  his  dinner  and  opened 
his  letters:  they  were  of  no  importance;  one 
from  his  steward,  one  from  his  banker,  another 
about  the  County  Races,  a  fourth  from  a  man 
he  had  never  heard  of,  requesting  the  vote 
and  powerful    interest  of   Mr.  Maltravers  for 

the  county  of   B ,  should  the  rumor  of  a 

dissolution  be  verified;  the  unknown  candidate 
referred  Mr.  Maltravers  to  his  "  well-known 
public  character."  From  these  epistles  Ernest 
turned  impatiently,  and  perceived  a  little  three- 
cornered  note  which  had  hitherto  escaped  his 
attention.  It  was  from  Cleveland,  intimating 
that  he  was  in  town;  that  his  health  still  pre- 
cluded his  going  out,  but  that  he  trusted  to 
see  his  dear  Ernest  as  soon  as  he  arrived. 

Maltravers  was  delighted  at  the  [)rospect  of 
passing  his  evening  so  agreeably;  he  soon  de- 
spatched his  dinner  and  his  newspapers,  and 
walked    in  the  brilliant   lamplight  of  a  clear 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


97 


frosty  evening  of  early  December  in  London, 
to  his  friend's  house  in  Curzon  Street:  a  small 
house,  bachelor-like,  and  unpretending;  for 
Cleveland  spent  his  moderate,  though  easy 
fortune,  almost  entirely  at  his  country  villa. 
The  familiar  face  of  the  old  valet  greeted  Ern- 
est at  the  door,  and  he  only  paused  to  hear 
that  his  guardian  was  nearly  recovered  to  his 
usual  health,  ere  he  was  in  the  cheerful  draw- 
ing-room, and — since  Englishmen  do  not  em- 
brace— returning  the  cordial  gripe  of  the  kindly 
Cleveland. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Ernest,"  said  Cleveland, 
after  they  had  gone  through  the  preliminary 
round  of  questions  and  answers,  "  here  you  are 
at  last:  Heaven  be  praised;  and  how  wellyou 
are  looking — how  much  you  are  improved  !  It 
is  an  excellent  period  of  the  year  for  your  d^but 
in  London.  I  shall  have  time  to  make  you 
intimate  with  people,  before  the  whirl  of  '  the 
season'  commences." 

"  Why,"  I  thought  of  going  to  Burleigh,  my 
country-place.  I  have  not  seen  it  since  I  was 
a  child." 

"  No,  no  !  you  have  had  solitude  enough  at 
Como,  if  I  may  trust  to  your  letter;  you  must 
now  mi.x  with  the  great  London  world;  and 
you  will  enjoy  Burleigh  the  more  in  the  sum- 
mer." 

"  I  fancy  this  great  London  world  will  give 
me  very  little  pleasure;  it  may  be  pleasant 
enough  to  young  men  just  let  loose  from  col- 
lege, but  your  crowded  ball-rooms  and  monot- 
onous clubs  will  be  wearisome  to  one  who  has 
grown  fastidious  before  his  time.  J' at  ve'cu 
heaucoup  dans  pen  d' armies.  I  have  drawn  in 
youth  too  much  upon  the  capital  of  existence, 
to  be  highly  delighted  with  the  ostentatious 
parsimony  with  which  our  great  men  econo- 
mize pleasure." 

"  Don't  judge  before  you  have  gone  through 
the  trial,"  said  Cleveland:  "there  is  something 
in  the  opulent  splendor,  the  thoroughly  sus- 
tained magnificence  with  which  the  leaders  of 
English  fashion  conduct  even  the  most  in- 
sipid amusements,  that  is  above  contempt. 
Besides,  you  need  not  necessarily  live  with 
the  butterflies.  There  are  plenty  of  bees,  that 
will  be  very  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
Add  to  this,  my  dear  Ernest,  the  pleasure  of 
being  made  of — of  being  of  importance  in 
your  own  country.  For  you  are  young,  well- 
born, and  suflficiently  handsome  to  be  an  ob- 


ject of  interest  to  mothers  and  to  daughters; 
while  your  name  and  property,  and  interest, 
will  make  you  courted  by  — len  who  want  to 
borrow  your  money  and  obtain  your  influence 
in  your  county.  No,  Maltravers,  stay  in  Lon- 
don— amuse  yourself  your  first  year,  and  de- 
cide on  your  occupation  and  career  the  next; 
but  reconnoitre  before  you  give  battle." 

Maltravers  was  not  ill  pleased  to  follow  his 
friend's  advice,  since  by  so  doing  he  obtained 
his  friend's  guidance  and  society.  Moreover, 
he  deemed  it  wise  and  rational  to  see,  face  to 
face,  the  eminent  men  in  England  with  whom, 
if  he  fulfilled  his  promise  to  De  Montaigne, 
he  was  to  run  the  race  of  honorable  rivalry. 
Accordingly,  he  consented  to  Cleveland's 
propositions. 

"  And  have  you,"  said  he,  hesitating,  as  he 
loitered  by  the  door  after  the  stroke  of  twelve 
had  warned  him  to  take  his  leave — "  have  you 
never  heard  anything  of  my — my — the  unfor- 
tunate Alice  Darvil  ?" 

"Who? — Oh,  that  poor  young  woman;  I  re- 
member ? — not  a  syllable." 

Maltravers  sighed  deeply,  and  departed. 


CHAPTER  n. 

"  Je  trouve  que  c'est  une  folic  de  vouloir  eludier  le 
monde  en  simple  spectateur.  *  *  Dans  I'ecole 
du  monde,  comme  dans  cette  de  I'amour,  il  faut  com- 
mencer  par  pratiquer  ce  qu'on  veut  apprendre." 

—Rousseau.* 

Ernest  Maltravers  was  now  fairly  launched 
upon  the  wide  ocean  of  London.  Amongst  his 
other  property  was  a  house  in  Seamore  Place 
— that  quiet,  yet  central  street,  which  enjoys 
the  air,  without  the  dust,  of  the  Park.  It 
had  been  hitherto  let,  and  the  tenant  now 
quitting  very  opportunely,  Maltravers  was 
delighted  to  secure  so  pleasant  a  residence,  for 
he  was  still  romantic  enough  to  desire  to  look 
out  upon  trees  and  verdure  rather  than  brick 
houses.  He  indulged  only  in  two  other  lux- 
uries: his  love  of  music  tempted  him  to  an 
opera-box,  and  he  had  that  English  feeling 
which  prides  itself  in  the  possession  of  beauti- 


*  I  find  that  it  is  a  folly  to  wish  to  study  the  world 
like  a  simple  spectator.  •  *  «  In  the  school 
of  the  world,  as  in  that  of  love,  it  is  necessary  to  begin 
by  practising  what  we  wish  to  learn. 


<^8 


BULWER'S     WORKS 


ful  horses, — a  feeling  that  enticed  him  into  an 
extravagance  on  this  head  that  baffled  the  com- 
petition and  excited  the  envy  of  much  richer 
men.  But  four  thousand  a-year  goes  a  great 
way  with  a  single  man  who  does  not  gamble, 
and  is  too  philosophical  to  make  superfluities 
wants. 

The  world  doubled  his  income,  magnified  his 
old  country-seat  into  a  supurb  chateau,  and  dis- 
covered that  his  elder  brother,  who  was  only 
three  or  four  years  older  than  himself,  had  no 
children.  The  world  was  very  courteous  to 
Ernest  Maltravers. 

It  was,  as  Cleveland  said,  just  at  that  time  of 
year  when  people  are  at  leisure  to  make  new 
acquaintances.  A  few  only  of  the  difficult 
houses  in  town  were  open;  and  their  doors 
were  cheerfully  expanded  to  the  accomplished 
ward  of  the  popular  Cleveland.  Authors,  and 
statesmen,  and  orators,  and  philosophers— to 
all  he  was  presented; — all  seemed  pleased 
with  him,  and  Ernest  became  the  fashion  be- 
fore he  was  conscious  of  the  distinction.  But 
he  had  rightly  foreboded.  He  had  com- 
menced life  too  soon;  he  was  disappointed;  he 
found  some  persons  he  could  admire,  some 
whom  he  could  like,  but  none  with  whom  he 
could  grow  intimate,  or  for  whom  he  could  feel 
an  interest.  Neither  his  heart  nor  his  imagina- 
tion was  touched;  all  appeared  to  him  like 
artificial  machines;  he  was  discontented  with 
things  like  life,  but  in  which  something  or 
other  was  wanting.  He  more  than  ever  recalled 
the  brilliant  graces  of  Valerie  de  Vantadour, 
which  had  thrown  a  charm  over  the  most  friv- 
olous circles;  he  even  missed  the  perverse  and 
fantastic  vanity  of  Castruccio.  The  mediocre 
poet  seemed  to  him  at  least  less  mediocre 
than  the  worldings  about  him.  Nay,  even  the 
selfish  good  spirits  and  dry  shrewdness  of 
Lumley  Ferrers  would  have  been  acceptable 
change  to  the  dull  polish  and  unrelieved  ego- 
tism of  jealous  wits  and  party  politicians.  "  If 
these  are  the  fiowers  of  the  parterre,  what 
must  be  the  weeds  ?  "  said  Maltravers  to  him- 
self, returning  from  a  party  at  which  he  had 
met  half  a  score  of  themost  orthodox  lions. 

He  began  to  feel  the  aching  pain  of  satiety. 

But  the  winter  glided  away:  the  season 
commenced,  and  Maltravers  was  whirled  on 
with  the  rest  into  the  bubbling  vortex. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  And  crowds  commencing  mere  vexation, 
Retirement  sent  its  invitation."— Shenstone. 

The  tench,  no  doubt,  considers  the  pond  in 
which  he  lives  as  the  Great  World.  There  is 
no  place,  however  stagnant,  which  is  not  the 
great  world  to  the  creatures  that  move  about 
in  it.  People  who  have  lived  all  their  lives  in 
a  village  still  talk  of  the  world  as  if  they  had 
ever  seen  it  !  An  old  woman  in  a  hovel  does 
not  put  her  nose  out  of  her  door  on  a  Sunday 
without  thinking  she  is  going  amongst  the 
pomps  and  vanities  of  the  great  world.  Ergo, 
the  great  world  is  to  all  of  us  the  little  circle 
in  which  we  live.  But  as  fine  people  set  the 
fashion,  so  the  circle  of  fine  people  is  called 
the  Great  World,  par  excellence.  Now  this 
great  world  is  not  a  bad  thing  when  we  thor- 
oughly understand  it;  and  the  London  great 
world  is  at  least  as  good  as  any  other.  But, 
then,  we  scarcely  do  understand  that  or  any- 
thing else  in  our  beaux  jours, — which,  if  they 
are  sometimes  the  most  exquisite,  are  also 
often  the  most  melancholy  and  the  most 
wasted  portion  of  our  life.  Maltravers  had 
not  yet  found  out  either  the  set  that  pleased 
him  or  the  species  of  amusement  that  really 
amused.  Therefore  he  drifted  on  and  about 
the  vast  whirlpool,  making  plenty  of  friends, 
— going  to  balls  and  dinners — and  bored 
with  both,  as  men  are  who  have  no  object  in 
society. 

Now  the  way  society  is  enjoyed  is  to  have  a 
pursuit,  a  metier  of  some  kind,  and  then  to  go 
into  the  world,  either  to  make  the  individual 
object  a  social  pleasure,  or  to  obtain  a  reprieve 
from  some  toilsome  avocation.  Thus  if  you 
are  a  politician — politics  at  once  make  an  ob- 
ject in  your  closet,  and  a  social  tie  between 
others  and  yourself  when  you  are  in  the  world. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  literature,  though  in 
a  less  degree;  and  though,  as  fewer  persons 
care  about  literature  than  politics,  your  com- 
panions must  be  more  select.  If  you  are  very 
young,  you  are  fond  of  dancing;  if  you  are 
very  profligate,  perhaps  you  are  fond  of  flirta- 
tions with  your  friend's  wife.  These  last  are 
objects  in  their  way:  but  they  don't  last  long, 
and,  even  with  the  most  frivolous,  are  not  oc- 
cupations that'  satisfy  the  whole  mind  and 
heart,  in  which  there  is  generally  an  aspiration 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS 


99 


after  something  useful.  It  is  not  vanity  alone 
that  makes  a  man  of  the  mode  invent  a  new  bit, 
or  give  his  name  to  a  new  kind  of  carriage;  it 
is  the  influence  of  that  mystic  yearning  after 
utility,  which  is  one  of  the  master-ties  between 
the  individual  and  the  species. 

Maltravers  was  not  happy — that  is  a  lot 
common  enough;  but  he  was  not  amused — 
and  that  is  a  sentence  more  insupportable. 
He  lost  a  great  part  of  his  sympathy  with 
Cleveland,  for,  when  a  man  is  not  amused,  he 
feels  an  involuntary  contempt  for  those  who 
are.  He  fancies  they  are  pleased  with  trifles 
which  his  superior  wisdom  is  compelled  to  dis- 
dain. Cleveland  was  of  that  age  when  we 
generally  grow  social — for  by  being  rubbed 
long  and  often  against  the  great  loadstone  of 
society,  we  obtain,  in  a  thousand  little  minute 
points,  an  attraction  in  common  with  our  fel- 
lows. Their  petty  sorrows  and  small  joys— 
their  objects  of  interest  or  employment,  at 
some  time  or  other  have  been  ours.  We 
gather  up  a  vast  collection  of  moral  and  men- 
tal farthings  of  exchange;  and  we  scarcely 
find  any  intellect  too  poor,  but  what  we  can 
deal  with  it  in  some  way.  But  in  youth,  we 
are  egotists  and  sentamentalists,  and  Maltrav- 
ers belonged  to  the  fraternity  who  employ 

"  The  heart  in  passion  and  the  head  in  rhymes." 

At  length — just  when  London  begins  to 
grow  most  pleasant — when  flirtations  become 
tender,  and  water  parties  numerous — when 
birds  sing  in  the  groves  of  Richmond,  and 
white-bait  refresh  the  statesman  by  the  shores 
of  Greenwich, — Maltravers  abruptly  fled  from 
the  gay  metropolis,  and  arrived  one  lovely 
evening  in  July,  at  his  own  ivy-grown  porch  of 

"Burleigh. 

What  a  soft,  fresh,  delicious  evening  it  was  ? 
He  had  quitted  his  carriage  at  the  lodge,  and 
followed  it  across  the  small  but  picturesque 
park  alone  and  on  foot.     He  had  not  seen  the 

•place  since  childhood — he  had  quite  forgotten 
Its  aspect.  He  now  wondered  how  he  could 
have  lived  anywhere  else.  The  trees  did  not 
stand  in  stately  avenues,  nor  did  the  antlers  of 
the  deer  wave  above  the  sombre  fern;  it  was 
not  the  domain  of  a  grand  seigneur,  but  of  an 
old,  long-descended  English  squire.  Antiquity 
spoke  in  the  moss-grown  palings,  in  the 
shadowy  groves,  in  the  sharp  gable-ends  and 
heavy  mullionsof  the  house,  as  it  now  came  in 


view,  at  the  base  of  a  hill  covered  with  wood 
and  partially  veiled  by  the  shrubs  of  the  neg- 
lected pleasure-ground,  separated  from  the 
park  by  the  invisible  ha-ha.  There,  gleamed 
in  the  twilight  the  watery  face  of  the  oblong 
fish-pool,  with  its  old-fashioned  willows  at 
each  corner — there,  grey,  and  quaint,  was  the 
monastic  dial — and  there  was  the  long  terrace- 
walk,  with  discolored  and  broken  vases,  now 
filled  with  the  orange  or  the  aloe,  which,  in 
honor  of  his  master's  arrival,  the  gardener  had 
extracted  from  the  dilapidated  green-house. 
The  very  evidence  of  neglect  around,  the 
very  weeds  and  grass  on  the  half-obliterated 
road,  touched  Maltravers  with  a  sort  of  pity- 
ing and  remorseful  affection  for  his  calm  and 
sequestered  residence.  And  it  was  not  with 
his  usual  proud  step  and  erect  crest  that  he 
passed  from  the  porch  to  the  solitary  library, 
through  a  line  of  his  servants: — the  two  or 
three  old  retainers  belonging  to  the  place 
were  utterly  unfamiliar  to  him,  and  they  had 
no  smile  for  their  stranger  lord. 


CHAPTER.  IV. 

"  Liician.  He  that  is  born  to  be  a  man,  neither 
should  nor  can  be  anything  nobler,  greater,  and  better 
than  a  man. 

"  Peregrine,  But,  good  Lucian,  for  the  very  reason 
that  he  may  not  become  less  than  a  man,  he  should 
be  always  striving  to  be  more." 

— Wiei.and's  Peregrinus  Proteus. 

It  was  two  years  from  the  date  of  the  last 
chapter  before  Maltravers  again  appeared  in 
general  society.  These  two  years  had  sufficed 
to  produce  a  revolution  in  his  fate.  Ernest 
Maltravers  had  lost  the  happy  rights  of  the 
private  individual;  he  had  given  himself  to 
the  Public;  he  had  surrendered  his  name  to 
men's  tongues,  and  was  a  thing  that  all  had  a 
right  to  praise,  to  blame,  to  scrutinize,  to  spy. 
Ernest  Maltravers  had  become  an  author. 

Let  no  man  tempt  Gods  and  Columns,  with- 
out weighing  well  the  consequences  of  his 
experiment.  He  who  publishes  a  book,  at- 
tended with  a  moderate  success,  passes  a 
mighty  barrier.  He  will  often  look  back  with 
a  sigh  of  regret  at  the  land  he  has  left  for 
ever.  The  beautiful  and  decent  obscurity  of 
hearth  and  home  is  gone.  He  can  no  longer 
feel  the  just  indignation  of  manly  pride  when 


lOO 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


he  finds  himself  ridiculed  or  reviled.  He  has 
parted  with  the  shadow  of  his  life.  His  mo- 
tives may  be  misrepresented,  his  character 
belied;  his  manners,  his  person,  his  dress,  the 
"  very  trick  of  his  walk,"  are  all  fair  food  for 
the  cavil  and  the  caricature. 

He  can  never  go  back,  he  cannot  even  pause; 
he  has  chosen  his  path,  and  all  the  natural 
feelings  that  make  the  nerve  and  muscle  of 
the  active  being,  urge  him  to  proceed.  To 
stop  short  is  to  fail.  He  has  told  the  world 
that  he  will  make  a  name;  and  he  must  be  set 
down  as  a  pretender,  or  toil  on  till  the  boast 
be  fulfilled.  Yet  Maltravers  thought  nothing 
of  all  this  when,  intoxicated  with  his  own 
dreams  and  aspirations,  he  desired  to  make  a 
world  his  confidant;  when  from  the  living 
Nature,  and  the  lore  of  books,  and  the  mingled 
resnlt  of  inward  study  and  external  observa- 
tion, he  sought  to  draw  forth  something  that 
might  interweave  his  name  with  the  pleasur- 
able associations  of  his  kind.  His  easy  fort- 
une and  lonely  state  gave  him  up  his  own 
thoughts  and  contemplations;  they  suffused 
his  mind,  till  it  ran  over  upon  the  page  which 
makes  the  channel  that  connects  the  soltiary 
Fountain  with  the  vast  Ocean  of  Human 
Kfiowledge.  The  temperament  of  Maltravers 
was,  as  we  have  seen,  neither  irritable  nor 
fearful.  He  formed  himself,  as  a  sculptor 
forms,  with  a  model  before  his  eyes,  and  an 
ideal  in  his  heart.  He  endeavored,  with  labor 
and  patience,  to  approach  nearer  and  nearer 
with  every  effort  to  the  standard  of  such  ex- 
cellence as  he  thought  might  ultimately  be  at- 
tained by  a  reasonable  ambition;  and  when, 
at  last,  his  judgment  was  satisfied,  he  surren- 
dered the  product  with  a  tranquil  confidence 
to  a  more  impartial  tribunal. 

His  first  work  was  successful;  perhaps  from 
this  reason — that  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the 
Honest  and  the  Real.  He  did  not  sit  down 
to  report  of  what  he  had  never  seen,  to  dilate 
on  what  he  had  never  felt.  A  quiet  and  thought- 
ful observer  of  life,  his  descriptions  were  the 
more  vivid,  because  his  own  first  impressions 
were  not  yet  worn  away.  His  experience  had 
sunk  deep;  not  on  the  arid  surface  of  matured 
age,  but  in  the  fresh  soil  of  youthful  emotions. 
Another  reason,  perhaps,  that  obtained  success 
for  his  essay  was,  that  he  had  more  varied  and 
more  elaborate  knowledge  than  young  authors 
think  it  necessary  to  possess.     He   did  not, 


like  Cesarini,  attempt  to  make  a  show  of  words 
upon  a  slender  capital  of  ideas.  Whether  his 
style  was  eloquent  or  homely,  it  was  still  in 
him  a  faithful  transcript  of  considered  and 
digested  thought.  A  third  reason — and  I 
dwell  on  these  points  not  more  to  elucidate 
the  career  of  Maltravers,  than  as  hints  which 
may  be  useful  to  others — a  third  reason  why 
Maltravers  obtained  a  prompt  and  favorable 
reception  from  the  public  was,  that  he  had  not 
hackneyed  his  peculiarities  of  diction  and 
thought  in  that  worst  of  all  schools  for  the 
literary  novice — the  columns  of  a  magazine. 
Periodicals  form  an  excellent  mode  of  com- 
munication between  the  public  and  an  author 
already  established,  w^o  has  lost  the  charm  of 
novelty,  but  gained  the  weight  of  acknowl- 
edged reputation;  and  who,  either  upon  poli- 
tics or  criticism,  seeks  for  frequent  ancj  contin- 
uous occasions  to  enforce  his  peculiar  theses 
and  doctrines.  But,  upon  the  young  writer, 
this  mode  of  communication,  if  too  long  con- 
tinued, operates  most  injuriously  both  as  to  his 
future  prospects  and  his  own  present  taste 
and  style.  With  respect  to  the  first,  it  famili- 
arizes the  public  to  his  mannerism  (and  all 
writers  worth  reading  have  mannerism)  in  a 
form  to  which  the  said  public  are  not  inclined 
to  attach  much  weight.  He  forestalls  in  a  few 
months  what  ought  to  be  the  effect  of  years  .- 
namely,  the  wearying  a  world  soon  nauseated 
with  the  toujours  perdrix.  With  respect  to  the 
last,  it  induces  a  man  to  write  for  momentary 
effects;  to  study  a  false  smartness  of  style  and 
reasoning;  to  bound  his  ambition  of  durability 
to  the  last  day  of  the  month;  to  expect  im- 
mediate returns  for  labor:  to  recoil  at  the 
"  hope  deferred  "  of  serious  works  on  which 
judgment  is  slowly  formed.  The  man  of* 
talent  who  begins  young  at  periodicals,  and 
goes  on  long,  has  generally  something  crude 
and  stunted  about  both  his  compositions  and 
his  celebrity.  He  grows  the  oracle  of  small 
coteries;  and  we  can  rarely  get  out  of  the 
impression  that  he  is  cockneyfied  and  con- 
ventional. Periodicals  sadly  mortgaged  the 
claims  that  Hazlitt,  and  many  others  of  his 
contemporaries,  had  upon  a  vast  reversionary 
estate  of  Fame.  But  I  here  speak  too  politi- 
cally; to  some,  the  res  augustce  domi  leave  no 
option.  And,  as  Aristotle  and  the  Greek 
proverb  have  it,  we  cannot  carve  out  all  things 
with  the  knife  of  the  Delphic  cutler. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


lOI 


The  second  work  that  Maltravers  put  forth, 
at  an  interval  of  eighteen  months  from  the 
first,  was  one  of  a  graver  and  higher  nature: 
it  served  to  confirm  his  reputation;  and  that  is 
success  enough  for  a  second  work,  which  is 
usually  an  author's  ''pons  asinorum."  He  who, 
after  a  triumphant  first  book,  does  not  dis- 
satisfy the  public  with  a  second,  has  a  fair 
chance  of  gaining  a  fixed  station  in  literature. 
But  now  commenced  the  pains  and  perils  of 
the  after-birth.  By  a  maiden  effort  an  author 
rarely  makes  enemies.  His  fellow-writers  are 
not  yet  prepared  to  consider  him  as  a  rival;  if 
he  be  tolerably  rich,  they  unconsciously  trust 
that  he  will  not  become  a  regular,  or,  as  they 
term  it,  "  a  professional  "  author:  he  did  some- 
thing just  to  be  talked  of;  he  may  write  no 
more,  or  his  second  book  may  fail.  But  when 
the  second  book  comes  out,  and  does  not  fail 
they  begin  to  look  about  them;  envy  wakens, 
malice  begins.  And  all  the  old  school— gen- 
tlemen who  have  retired  on  their  pensions  of 
renown — regard  him  as  an  intruder:  then  the 
sneer,  then  the  frown,  the  caustic  irony,  the 
biting  review,  the  depreciating  praise.  The 
novice  begins  to  think  that  he  is  further  from 
the  goal  than  before  he  set  out  upon  the  race. 

Maltravers  had,  upon  the  whole,  a  tolerably 
happy  temperament;  but  he  was  a  very  proud 
man,  and  he  had  the  nice  soul  of  a  coura- 
geous, honoroble,  punctilious  gentleman.  He 
thought  it  singular  that  society  should  call 
upon  him,  as  a  gentleman,  to  shoot  his  best 
friend,  if  that  friend  affronted  him  with  a  rude 
word;  and  yet  that,  as  an  author,  every  fool 
and  liar  might,  with  perfect  impunity,  cover 
reams  of  paper  with  the  most  virulent  personal 
abose  of  him. 

It  was  one  evening  in  the  early  summer 
that,  revolving  anxious  and  doubtfnl  thoughts, 
Ernest  sauntered  gloomily  along  his  terrace, 

•'  And  watched  with  wistful  eyes  the  setting  sun," 

when  he  perceived  a  dusty  travelling  carriage 
whirled  along  the  road  by  the  ha-ha,  and  a 
hand  waved  in  recognition  from  the  open  win- 
dow. His  guests  had  been  so  rare,  and  his 
friends  were  so  few,  that  Maltravers  could  not 
conjecture  who  was  his  intended  visitant. 
His  brother,  he  knew  was  in  London.  Cleve- 
land, from  whom  he  had  that  day  heard,  was 
at  his  villa.  Ferrers  was  enjoying  himself  in 
Vienna.     Who  could  it  be  ?     We  may  say  of 


solitude  what  we  please;  but,  after  two  years 
of  solitude,  a  visitor  is  a  pleasurable  excite- 
ment. Maltravers  retraced  his  steps,  entered 
his  house,  and  was  just  in  time  to  find  himself 
almost  in  the  arms  of  De  Montaigne. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  »       *       Quid  tarn  dextro  pede  concipis  ut  te, 
Conatus  non  poeniteat,  votique  peracti  ?  "  *— Juv. 

"  Yes,"  said  De  Montaigne,  "  in  my  way  / 
also  am  fulfilling  my  destiny.  I  am  a  member 
of  the  Chambre  de  Diput^s,  and  on  a  visit  to 
England  upon  some  commercial  affairs.  I 
found  myself  in  your  neighborhood,  and,  of 
course,  could  not  resist  the  temptation:  so  you 
must  receive  me  as  your  guest  for  some  days." 

"  I  congratulate  you  cordially  on  your  sena- 
torial honors.  I  have  already  heard  of  your 
rising  name." 

"  I  return  the  congratulations  with  equal 
warmth.  You  are  bringing  my  prophecies  to 
pass.  I  have  read  your  works  with  increased 
pride  at  our  friendship." 

Maltravers  sighed  slightly,  and  half  turned 
away. 

"The  desire  of  distinction,"  said  he,  after  a 
pause,  "  grows  upon  us  till  excitement  be- 
comes disease.  The  child  who  is  born  with 
the  Mariner's  instinct  laughs  with  glee  when 
his  paper  bark  skims  the  wave  of  a  pool.  By- 
and-by,  nothing  will  content  him  but  the  ship 
and  the  ocean. — Like  the  child  is  the  author." 

"  I  am  pleased  with  your  simile,"  said  De 
Montaigne,  smiling.  "Do  not  spoil  it,  but  go 
on  with  your  argument." 

Maltravers  continued — "  Scarcely  do  we  win 
the  applause  of  a  moment  ere  we  summon  the 
past  and  conjecture  the  future.  Our  contem- 
poraries no  longer  suffice  for  competitors,  our 
age  for  the  Court  to  pronounce  on  our  claims: 
we  call  up  the  Dead  as  our  only  true  rivals — 
we  appeal  to  Posterity  as  our  sole  just  tribunal. 
Is  this  vain  in  us  ?  Possibly.  Yet  such  vanity 
humbles.  'Tis  then  only  we  learn  all  the  dif- 
ference between  Reputation  and  Fame — be- 
tween To-Day  and  Immortality  !  " 

"  Do   you   think,"   replied    De    Montaigne, 

*  What  under  such  happy  auspices  do  you  conceive, 
that  you  may  not  repent  of  your  endeavor  and  ac 
complished  wish  ? 


ro2 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  that  the  dead  did  not  feel  the  same,  when 
they  first  trod  the  path  that  leads  to  the  life 
beyond  life  ?  Continue  to  cultivate  the  mind, 
to  sharpen  by  exercise  the  genius,  to  attempt 
to  delight  or  to  instruct  your  race;  and  even 
supposing  you  fall  short  of  every  model  you 
set  before  you — supposing  your  name  moulder 
with  your  dust,  still  you  will  have  passed  life 
more  nobly  than  the  unlaborious  herd.  Grant 
that  you  win  not  that  glorious  accident,  'a 
name  below,'  how  can  you  tell  but  what  you 
may  have  fitted  yourself  for  high  destiny  and 
employ  in  the  world  not  of  men,  but  of  spirits  ? 
The  powers  of  the  mind  are  things  that  cannot 
be  less  immortal  than  the  mere  sense  of 
identity;  their  acquisitions  accompany  us 
through  the  Eternal  Progress;  and  we  may 
obtain  a  lower  or  a  higher  grade  hereafter,  in 
proportion  as  we  are  more  or  less  fitted  by  the 
exercise  of  our  intellect  to  comprehend  and 
execute  the  solemn  agencies  of  God.  The 
wise  man  is  nearer  to  the  angels  than  the  fool 
is.  This  may  be  an  apocryphal  dogma,  but 
it  is  not  an  impossible  theory." 

"  But  we  may  waste  the  sound  enjoyments 
of  actual  life  in  chasing  the  hope  you  justly 
allow  to  be  '  apocryphal; '  and  our  knowledge 
may  go  for  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  the  Omnis- 
cient." 

"  Very  well,"  said  De  Montaigne,  smiling; 
"  but  answer  me  honestly.  By  the  pursuits  of 
intellectual  ambition,  do  you  waste  the  sound 
enjoyments  of  life  ?  If  so,  you  do  not  pursue 
the  system  rightly.  Those  pursuits  ought  only 
to  quicken  your  sense  for  such  pleasures  as  are 
the  true  relaxations  of  life.  And  this,  with 
your  peculiarly,  since  you  are  fortunate  enough 
not  to  depend  for  subsistence  upon  literature; 
did  you  do  so,  I  might  rather  advise  you  to  be 
a  trunkmaker  than  an  author.  A  man  ought 
not  to  attempt  any  of  the  highest  walks  of 
Mind  and  Art,  as  the  mere  provision  of  daily 
bread;  not  literature  alone,  but  everything  else 
of  the  same  degree.  He  ought  not  to  be  a 
statesman,  or  an  orator,  or  an  philosopher,  as 
a  thing  of  pence  and  shillings;  and  usually  all 
men,  save  the  poor  poet,  feel  this  truth  insen- 
sibly." 

"  This  may  be  fine  preaching,"  said  Mal- 
travers;  "  but  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  the 
pursuit  of  literature  is  a  pursuit  apart  from 
the  ordinary  objects  of  life,  and  you  cannot 
command  the  enjoyments  of  both." 


"  I  think  otherwise,"  said  Montaigne;  "but 
it  is  not  in  a  country-house  eighty  miles  from 
the  capital,  without  wife,  guests,  or  friends, 
that  the  experiment  can  be  fairly  made.  Come, 
Maltravers,  I  see  before  you  a  brave  career, 
and  I  cannot  permit  you  to  halt  at  the  onset." 

"You  do  not  see  all  the  calumnies  that  are 
already  put  forth  against  me,  to  say  nothing  of 
all  the  assurances  (and  many  by  clever  men) 
that  there  is  nothing  in  me  !  " 

"  Dennis  was  a  clever  man,  and  said  the 
same  thing  of  your  Pope.  Madame  de  Sevig- 
ne  was  a  clever  woman,  but  she  thought  Racine 
would  never  be  very  famous. — Milton  saw 
nothing  in  the  first  efforts  of  Dryden  that 
made  him  consider  Dryden  better  than  a 
rhymester.  Aristophanes  was  a  good  judge  of 
poetry,  yet  how  ill  he  judged  of  Euripides  ! 
But  all  this  is  commonplace,  and  yet  you  bring 
arguments  that  a  commonplace  answers  in 
evidence  against  yourself." 

•'  But  it  is  unpleasant  not  to  answer  at- 
tacks— not  to  retaliate  on  enemies." 

"  Then  answer  attacks,  and  retaliate  on  ene- 
mies." 

"  But  would  that  be  wise  ?  " 

"  If  it  give  you  pleasure— it  would  not 
please  me." 

"  Come,  De  Montaigne,  you  are  reasoning 
Socratically.  I  will  ask  you  plainly  and  bluntly, 
would  you  advise  an  author  to  wage  war  on  his 
literary  assailants,  or  to  despise  them  ?  " 

"Both;  let  him  attack  but  few  and  those 
rarely.  But  it  is  his  policy  to  show  that  he  is 
one  whom  it  is  better  not  to  provoke  too  far. 
The  author  always  has  the  world  on  his  side 
against  the  critics,  if  he  choose  his  oppor- 
tunity. And  he  must  always  recollect  that  he 
is  '  A  STATE  '  in  himself,  which  must  sometimes 
go  to  war  in  order  to  procure  peace.  The  time 
for  war  or  for  peace  must  be  left  to  the  State's 
own  diplomacy  and  wisdom." 

"You  would  make  us  political  machines." 

"I  would  make  every  man's  conduct  more 
or  less  mechanical;  for  system  is  the  triumph 
of  mind  over  matter;  the  just  equilibrium  of 
all  the  powers  and  passions  may  seem  like 
machinery.  Be  it  so.  Nature  meant  the 
world- — the  creation — man  himself,  for  ma- 
chines." 

"And  one  must  even  be  in  a  passion  me- 
chanically, according  to  your  theories." 

"A  man  is  a  poor  creature  who  is  not  in  a 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


103 


passion  sometimes;  but  a  very  unjust,  or  a 
very  foolish  one,  if  he  be  in  a  passion  with  the 
wrong  person,  and  in  the  wrong  place  and  time. 
But  enough  of  this,  it  is  growing  late." 

"  And  when  will  Madame  visit  England  ?  " 

"Oh,  not  yet,  I  fear.  But  you  will  meet 
Cesarini  in  London  this  year  or  next.  He  is 
persuaded  that  you  did  not  see  justice  done  to 
his  poems,  and  is  coming  here,  as  soon  as  his 
indolence  will  let  him,  to  proclaim  your 
treachery  in  a  biting  preface  to  some  toothless 
satire." 

"  Satire  !  " 

"Yes;  more  than  one  of  your  poets  made 
their  way  by  a  satire,  and  Cesarini  is  per- 
suaded he  shall  do  the  same.  Castruccio  is 
not  as  far  sighted  as  his  namesake,  the  Prince 
of  Lucca.     Good  night  my  dear  Ernest." 


CHAPTER  VL 

"  When  with  much  pains  this  boasted  learning  's  got, 
' Tis  an  affront  to  those  who  have  it  not." 

—Churchill:  The  Author. 

There  was  something  in  De  Montaigne's 
conversation,  which,  without  actual  flattery, 
reconciled  Maltraversto  himself  and  his  career. 
It  served  less,  perhaps,  to  excite  than  to  sober 
and  brace  his  mind.  De  Montaigne  could 
have  made  no  man  rash,  but  he  could  have 
made  many  men  energetic  and  perservering. 
The  two  friends  had  some  points  in  common; 
but  Maltravers  had  far  more  prodigality  of 
nature  and  passion  about  him-^had  more  of 
flesh  and  blood,  with  the  faults  and  excellencies 
of  flesh  and  blood.  De  Montaigne  held  so  much 
to  his  favorite  doctrine  of  moral  epuilibrium, 
that  he  had  really  reduced  himself,  in  much, 
to  a  species  of  clock-work.  As  impulses  are 
formed  from  habits,  so  the  regularity  of  De 
Montaigne's  habits  made  his  impulses  virtu- 
ous and  just,  and  he  yielded  to  them  as  often 
as  a  hasty  character  might  have  done;  but 
then  those  impulses  never  urged  to  anything 
speculative  or  daring.  De  Montaigne  could 
not  go  beyond  a  certain  defined  circle  of 
action.  He  had  no  sympathy  for  any  reason- 
ings based  purely  on  the  hypotheses  of  the 
imagination:  he  could  not  endure  Plato,  and 
he  was  dumb  to  the  eloquent  whispers  of  what- 
ever was  refining  in  poetry  or  mystical  in  wis- 
dom. 


Maltravers,  on  the  contrary,  not  disdaining 
Reason,  ever  sought  to  assist  her  by  the  Im- 
aginative Faculty,  and  held  all  philosophy  in- 
complete and  unsatisfactory  that  bounded  its 
inquiries  to  the  limits  of  the  Known  and  Cer- 
tain. He  loved  the  inductive  process;  but  he 
carried  it  out  to  Conjecture  as  well  as  Fact. 
He  maintained  that,  by  a  similar  hardihood, 
all  the  triumphs  of  science,  as  well  as  art,  had 
been  accomplished — that  Newton,  that  Coper- 
nicus, would  have  done  nothing  if  they  had 
not  imagined  as  well  as  reasoned,  guessed  as 
well  as  ascertained.  Nay,  it  was  an  aphorism 
with  him  that  the  very  soul  of  philosophy  is 
conjecture.  He  had  the  most  implicit  confi- 
dence in  the  operations  of  the  mind  and  the 
heart  properly  formed,  and  deemed  that  the 
very  excesses  of  emotion  and  thought,  in  men 
well  trained  by  experience  and  study,  are  con- 
ducive to  useful  and  great  ends.  But  the 
more  advanced  years,  and  the  singularly  prac- 
tical character  of  De  Montaigne's  view,s  gave 
him  a  superiority  in  argument  over  Maltravers, 
which  the  last  submitted  to  unwillingly. 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  De  Montaigne  se- 
cretly felt  that  his  young  friend  reasoned 
from  a  broader  base,  and  took  in  a  much  wider 
circumference;  and  that  he  was,  at  once,  more 
liable  to  failure  and  error,  and  more  capable 
of  new  discovery  and  of  intellectual  achieve- 
ment. 

But  their  ways  in  life  being  different,  they 
did  not  clash;  and  De  Montaigne,  who  was 
sincerely  interested  in  Ernest's  fate,  was  con- 
tented to  harden  his  friend's  mind  against  the 
obstacles  in  his  way,  and  leave  the  rest  to  ex- 
periment and  to  Providence.  They  went  up 
to  London  together:  and  De  Montaigne  re- 
turned to  Paris.  Maltravers  appeared  once 
more  in  the  haunts  of  the  gay  and  great.  He 
felt  that  his  new  character  had  greatly  altered 
his  position.  He  was  no  longer  courted  and 
caressed  for  the  same  vulgar  and  adventitious 
circumstances  of  fortune,  birth,  and  con- 
nections, as  before — yet  for  circumstances  that 
to  him  seemed  equally  unflattering.  He  was 
not  sought  for  his  merit,  his  intellect,  his 
talents;  but  for  his  momentary  celebrity.  He 
was  an  author  in  fashion,  and  run  after  as  any- 
thing else  in  fashion  might  have  been.  He 
was  invited,  less  to  be  talked  to  than  to  be 
stared  at.  He  was  far  too  proud  in  his  tem- 
per, and  too  pure  in  his  ambition,  to   feel  his 


.04 


BULWERS     WORKS. 


vanity  elated  by  sharing  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
circles  with  a  German  prince  or  an  industrious 
flea.  Accordingly  he  soon  repelled  the  ad- 
vances made  to  him,  was  reserved  and  super- 
cilious to  fine  ladies,  refused  to  be  the  fashion, 
and  became  very  unpopular  with  the  literary 
exclusives. 

They  even  began  to  run  down  the  works, 
because  they  were  dissatisfied  with  the  author. 
But  Maltravers  had  based  his  experiments 
upon  the  vast  masses  of  the  general  Public. 
He  had  called  the  people  of  his  own  and  other 
countries  to  be  his  audience  and  his  judges; 
and  all  the  coteries  in  the  world  could  not 
have  injured  him.  He  was  like  the  member 
for  an  immense  constituency,  who  may  offend 
individuals,  so  long  as  he  keep  his  footing  with 
the  body  at  large.  But  while  he  withdrew 
himself  from  the  insipid  and  the  idle,  he  took 
care  not  to  become  separated  from  the  world. 
He  formed  his  own  society  according  to  his 
tastes;  took  pleasure  in  the  manly  and  excit- 
ing topics  of  the  day;  and  sharpened  his  ob- 
servation and  widened  his  sphere  as  an  author, 
by  mixing  freely  and  boldly  with  all  classes  as 
a  citizen.  But  literature  became  to  him  as  art 
to  the  artist — as  his  mistress  to  the  lover — an 
engrossing  and  passionate  delight.  He  made 
it  his  glorious  and  divine  profession — he  loved 
it  as  a  profession — he  devoted  to  its  pursuits 
and  honors  his  youth,  cares,  dreams — his  mind, 
and  his  heart,  and  his  soul.  He  was  a  silent 
but  intense  enthusiast  in  the  priesthood  he  had 
entered.  From  literature  he  imagined  had 
come  all  that  makes  nations  enlightened  and 
men  humane.  And  he  loved  Literature  the 
more,  because  her  distinctions  were  not  those 
of  the  world— because  she  had  neither  ribands, 
nor  stars,  nor  high  places  at  her  command. 

A  name  in  the  deep  gratitude  and  hereditary 
delight  of  men — this  was  the  title  she  bestowed. 
Hers  was  the  Great  Primitive  Church  of  the 
world,  without  Popes  or  Muftis — sinecures, 
pluralities,  and  hierachies.  Her  servants  spoke 
to  the  earth  as  the  prophets  of  old,  anxious 
only  to  be  heard  and  believed.  Full  of  this 
fanaticism,  Ernest  Maltravers  pursued  his  way 
in  the  great  procession  of  the  myrtle  bearers 
to  the  sacred  shrine.  He  carried  the  thyrsus, 
and  he  believed  in  the  god.  By  degrees  his 
fanaticism  worked  in  him  the  philosophy  which 
De  Montaigne  would  have  derived  from  sober 
calculation;  it    made    him    indifferent    to    the 


thorns  in  the  path,  to  the  storms  in  the  sky. 
He  learned  to  despise  the  enmity  he  provoked, 
the  calumnies  that  assailed  him.  Sometimes 
he  was  silent,  but  sometimes  he  retorted. 
Like  a  .soldier  who  serves  a  cause,  he  believed 
that  when  the  cause  was  injured  in  his  person, 
the  weapons  confided  to  his  hands  might  be 
wielded  without  fear  and  without  reproach. 
Gradually  he  became  feared  as  well  as  known. 
And  while  many  abused  him,  none  could  con- 
temn. 

It  would  not  suit  the  design  of  this  work  to 
follow  Maltravers  step  by  step  in  his  course. 
I  am  only  describing  the  principal  events,  not 
the  minute  details,  of  his  intellectual  life.  Of 
the  character  of  his  works  it  will  be  enough  to 
say,  that  whatever  their  faults,  they  were  orig- 
inal— they  were  his  own.  He  did  not  write 
according  to  copy,  nor  compile  from  common- 
place-books. He  was  an  artist,  it  is  true, — 
for  what  is  genias  itself  but  art?  but  he  took 
laws,  and  harmony,  and  order,  from  the  great 
code  of  Truth  and  Nature;  a  code  that  de- 
mands intense  and  unrelaxing  study — though 
its  first  principles  are  few  and  simple:  that 
study  Maltravers  did  not  shrink  from.  It 
was  a  deep  love  of  truth  that  made  him  a  sub- 
tle and  searching  analyst,  even  in  what  the 
dull  world  considers  trifles;  for  he  knew  that 
nothing  in  literature  is  in  itself  trifling — that  it 
is  often  but  a  hair's  breadth  that  divides  a 
truism  from  a  discovery. 

He  was  the  more  original  because  he  sought 
rather  after  the  True  than  the  New.  No  two 
minds  are  ever  the  same;  and  therefore  any 
man  who  will  give  us  fairly  and  frankly  the 
results  of  his  own  impressions,  uninfluenced 
hy  the  servilities  of  imitation,  will  be  original. 
But  it  was  not  from  originality,  which  really 
made  his  predominant  merit,  that  Maltravers 
derived  his  reputation,  for  his  originality  was 
not  of  that  species  which  generally  dazzles  the 
vulgar — it  was  not  extravagant  nor  bizarre — he 
affected  no  system  and  no  school.  Many 
authors  of  this  day  seemed  more  novel  and 
unique  to  the  superficial.  Profound  and  dur- 
able invention  proceeds  by  subtle  and  fine  gra- 
dations— it  has  nothing  to  do  with  those  jerks 
and  starts,  those  convulsions  and  distortions, 
which  belong  not  to  the  vigor  and  health,  but 
to  the  epilepsy  and  disease,  of  Literature. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


I  OS 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Being  got  out  of  town,  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to 
give  my  mule  her  head." — Gil  Bias. 

Although  the  character  of  Maitravers  was 
;j;ra(iiially  becoming  more  hard  and  severe, — 
although  as  his  reason  grew  more  muscular, 
his  imagination  lost  something  of  its  early 
bloom,  and  he  was  already  very  different  from 
the  wild  boy  who  had  set  the  German  youths 
in  a  blaze,  and  had  changed  into  a  Castle 
of  Indolence  the  little  cottage,  tenanted 
with  Poetry  and  Alice, — he  still  preserved 
many  of  his  old  habits;  he  loved,  at  frequent 
intervals,  to  disappear  from  the  great  world — 
to  get  rid  of  books  and  friends,  and  luxury 
and  wealth,  and  make  solitary  excursions, 
sometimes  on  foot,  sometimes  on  horseback, 
through  this  fair  garden  of  England. 

It  was  one  soft  May-day  that  he  found  him- 
self   on    such    an    expedition,    slowly    riding 

through  one   of  the   green  lanes  of shire. 

His  cloak  and  his  saddle-bags  comprised  all 
his  baggage,  and  the  world  was  before  him 
"  where  to  choose  his  place  of  rest."  The 
lane  wound  at  length  into  the  main  road,  and 
just  as  he  came  upon  it,  he  fell  in  with  a  gay 
party  of  equestrians. 

Foremost  of  this  cavalcade  rode  a  lady  in  a 
dark  green  habit,  mounted  on  a  thorough-bred 
Englsh  horse,  which  she  managed  with  so  easy 
a  grace  that  Maitravers  halted  in  involuntary 
admiration.  He  himself  was  a  consummate 
horseman,  and  he  had  the  quick  eye  of  sym- 
pathy for  those  who  shared  the  accomplish- 
ment. He  thought,  as  he  gazed,  that  he  had 
never  seen  but  one  woman,  whose  air  and 
mien  on  horseback  was  so  full  of  that  name- 
less elegance  which  skill  and  courage  in  any 
art  naturally  bestow — that  woman  was  Valerie 
de  Ventadour.  Presently,  to  his  great  sur- 
prise, the  lady  advanced  from  her  companions, 
neared  Maitravers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  which 
he  did  not  at  first  distinctly  recognize — "  Is  it 
possible  ! — do  I  see  Mr.   Maitravers  ?  " 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  threw  aside 
her  veil,  and  Ernest  beheld — Madame  de  Ven- 
tadour !  By  this  time  a  tall,  thin  gentleman 
had  joined  the  Frenchwoman. 

"  Has  madame  met  with  an  acquaintance  ?  " 
said  he;  "  and  if  so,  will  she  permit  me  to  par- 
take her  pleasure  ?" 


The  interruption  seemed  a  relief  to,  Valerie; 
she  smiled  and  colored. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Maitravers. 
Mr.  Maitravers,  this  is  my  host.  Lord  Doning- 
dale." 

The  two  gentlemen  bowed,  the  rest  of  the 
cavalcade  surrounded  the  trio,  and  Lord  Don- 
ingdale,  with  a  stately  yet  frank  courtesy,  in- 
vited Maitravers  to  return  with  the  party  to 
his  house,  which  was  about  four  Jmiles  dis- 
tant. As  may  be  supposed,  Ernest  readily 
accepted  the  invitation.  The  cavalcade  pro- 
ceeded, and  Maitravers  hastened  to  seek  an 
explanation  from  Valerie.  It  was  soon  given. 
Madame  de  Ventadour  had  a  young  sister, 
who  had  lately  marrried  a  son  of  Lord  Don- 
ingdale.  The  marriage  had  been  solemnized 
in  Paris,  and  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Ven- 
tadour had  been  in  England  a  week  on  a  visit 
to  the  English  peer. 

The  rencontre  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected, 
that  neither  recovered  sufficient  self-posses- 
sion for  fluent  conversation.  The  explanation 
given,  Valerie  sank  into  a  thoughtful  silence, 
and  Maitravers  rode  by  her  side  equally  tacti- 
turn,  pondering  on  the  strange  chance  which, 
after  the  lapse  of  years,  had  thrown  them 
again  together. 

Lord  Doningdale,  who  at  first  lingered  with 
his  other  visitors,  now  joined  them,  and  Mai- 
travers was  struck  with  his  highbred  manner, 
and  a  singular  and  somewhat  elaborate  polish 
in  his  emphasis  and  expression.  They  soon 
entered  a  noble  park,  which  attested  far  more 
care  and  attention  than  are  usually  bestowed 
upon  those  demesnes,  so  peculiarly  English. 
Young  plantations  everywhere  contrasted  the 
venerable  groves — new  cottages  of  picturesque 
design  adorned  the  outskirts — and  obelisks 
and  columns,  copied  from  the  antique,  and 
evidently  of  recent  workmanship,  gleamed 
upon  them  as  they  neared  the  house — a  large 
pile,  in  which  the  fashion  of  Queen  Anne's  day 
had  been  altered  in  the  French  roofs  and 
windows  of  the  architecture  of  the  Tuileries. 
"You  reside  much  in  the  country,  I  am  sure, 
my  lord,"  and  Maitravers. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lord  Doningdale,  with  a 
pensive  air,  "  this  place  is  greatly  endeared  to 
me.  Here  his  Majesty  Louis  XVIII.,  when 
in  England,  honored  me  with  an  annual  visit. 
In  compliment  to  him^,  I  sought  to  model  my 
poor  mansion  into  an  humble   likeness  of  his 


to6 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


own  palace,  so  that  he  might,  as  little  as  possi- 
ble, miss  the  rights  he  had  lost.  His  own 
rooms  were  furnished  exactly  like  those  he 
had  occupied  at  the  Tuileries.  Yes,  the  place 
IS  endeared  to  me— I  think  of  the  old  times 
with  pride.  It  is  something  to  have  sheltered 
a  Bourbon  in  his  misfortunes." 

"  It  cost  milord  a  vast  sum  to  make  these 
alterations,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour, 
glancing  archly  at  Maltravers. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  old  lord;  and  his  face, 
lately  elated,  became  overcast — "  nearly  three 
hundred  thousand  pounds:  but  what  then? — 
'  Les  souvenirs,  madame,  sont  sans  prix  !  " 

"  Have  you  visited  Paris  since  the  Restora- 
tion, Lord  Doningdale?"  asked  Maltravers. 

His  lordship  looked  at  him  sharply,  and 
then  turned  his  eye  to  Madame  de  Ventadour. 

"  Nay,"  said  Valerie,  laughing,  "  I  did  not 
dictate  the  question." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Doningdale,  "  I  have  been 
at  Paris." 

"  His  Majesty  must  have  been  delighted  to 
return  your  lordship's  hospitality." 

Lord  Doningdale  looked  a  little  embar- 
rassed, and  made  no  reply,  but  put  his  horse 
into  a  canter. 

"You  have  galled  our  host,"  said  Valerie, 
smiling.  "  Louis  XVIII.  and  his  friends  lived 
here  as  long  as  they  pleased  and  as  sumptu- 
ously as  they  could;  their  visits  half  ruined  the 
owner,  who  is  the  model  of  a  gentilhomme  and 
preux  chevalier.  He  went  to  Paris  to  witness 
their  triumph;  he  expected,  I  fancy,  the  order 
of  the  St.  Esprit.  Lord  Doningdale  has  royal 
blood  in  his  veins.  His  Majesty  asked  him 
once  to  dinner,  and  when  he  took  leave,  said 
to  him,  '  We  are  happy,  Lord  Doningdale,  to 
have  thus  requited  our  obligations  to  your 
lordship.'  Lord  Doningdale  went  back  in 
dudgeon,  yet  he  still  l^oasts  of  his  souvenirs^ 
poor  man  !  " 

"  Princes  are  not  grateful,  neither  are  re- 
publics," said  Maltravers. 

"  Ah  !  who  is  grateful,"  rejoined  Valerie, 
"  except  a  dog  and  a  woman  ?  " 

Maltravers  found  himself  ushered  into  a  vast 
dressing-room,  and  was  informed  by  a  French 
valet,  that,  in  the  country.  Lord  Doningdale 
dined  at  six — the  first  bell  would  ring  in  a 
few  minutes.  While  the  valet  was  speaking. 
Lord  Doningdale  himself  entered  the  room. 
His  lordship  had   learned,  in  the  meanwhile, 


that  Maltravers  was  of  the  great  and  ancient 
commoners'  house,  whose  honors  were  centered 
in  his  brother;  and  yet  more,  that  he  was  the 
Mr.  Maltravers  whose  writings  every  one  talked 
of,  whether  for  praise  or  abuse.  Lord  Don- 
ingdale had  the  two  characteristics  of  a  high- 
bred gentleman  of  the  old  school— respect  for 
birth  and  respect  for  talent;  he  was,  therefore, 
more  than  ordinarily  courteous  to  Ernest,  and 
pressed  him  to  stay  some  days  with  so  much 
cordiality,  that  Maltravers  could  not  but  as- 
sent. His  travelling  toilet  was  scanty;  but 
Maltravers  thought  little  of  dress. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


"  It  is  the  soul  that  sees.  The  outward  eyes 
Present  the  object,  but  the  mind  descries: 
And  thence  delight,  disgust,  or  cold  indifference  rise." 

— Crabbe. 


When  Maltravers  entered  the  enormous 
saloon,  hung  with  damask,  and  decorated  with 
the  ponderous  enrichments  and  furniture  of  the 
time  of  Louis  XIV.  (that  most  showy  and 
barbarous  of  all  tastes,  which  has  nothing  in  it 
of  the  graceful,  nothing  of  the  picturesque, 
and  which,  now-a-days,  people  who  should 
know  better  imitate  with  a  ludicrous  ser- 
vility),— he  found  sixteen  persons  assembled. 
His  host  stepped  up  from  a  circle  which  sur- 
rounded him,  and  formally  presented  his 
new  visitor  to  the  rest.  He  was  struck  with 
the  likeness  which  the  sister  of  Valerie  bore 
to  Valerie  herself;  but  it  was  a  sobered  and 
chastened  likeness— less  handsome,  less  im- 
pressive. Mrs.  George  Herbert — such  was  the 
name  she  now  owned,  was  a  pretty,  shrinking, 
timid  girl,  fond  of  her  husband,  and  mightily 
awed  by  her  father-in-law.  Maltravers  sate  by 
her,  and  drew  her  into  conversation.  He  could 
not  help  pitying  the  poor  lady,  when  he  found 
she  was  to  live  altogether  at  Doningdale  Park — 
remote  from  all  her  friends  and  habits  of  her 
childhood — alone,  so  far  as  the  affections  were 
concerned,  with  a  young  husband,  who  was 
passionately  fond  of  field  sports,  and  who, 
from  the  few  words  Ernest  exchanged  with 
him,  seemed  to  have  only  three  ideas — his 
dogs,  his  horses,  and  his  wife. 

Alas  !  the  last  would  soon  be  the  least  in 
importance.     It  is  a  sad  position — that  of  a 


ERNEST    MALT  RAVERS. 


107 


lively  young  Frenchwoman,  entombed  in  an 
English  country-house  !  Marriages  with  for- 
eigners are  seldom  fortunate  experiments  ! 
But  Ernest's  attention  was  soon  diverted  from 
the  sister  by  the  entrance  of  Valerie  herself, 
leaning  on  her  husband's  arm.  Hitherto  he 
had  not  very  minutely  observed  what  change 
time  had  effected  in  her — perhaps  he  was  half 
afraid.  He  now  gazed  at  her  with  curious  in- 
terest. Valerie  was  still  extremely  handsome, 
but  her  face  had  grown  sharper,  her  form 
thinner  and  more  angular;  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  eye  and  lip,  discontented,  rest- 
less, almost  querulous: — such  is  the  too  com- 
mon expression  in  the  face  of  those  born  to 
love,  and  condemned  to  be  indifferent.  The 
little  sister  was  more  to  be  envied  of  the  two 
— come  what  may,  she  loved  her  husband, 
such  as  he  was,  and  her  heart  might  ache,  but 
it  was  not  with  a  void. 

Monsieur  de  Ventadour  soon  shuffled  up  to 
Maltravers — his  nose  longer  than  ever. 

"  Hein — hein — how  d'ye  do — how  d'ye  do  ? 
— charmed  to  see  you — saw  madame  before 
me — hein — hein — I  suspect — I  suspect " 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  will  you  give  Madame  de 
Ventadour  your  arm  ? "  said  Lord  Domingdale, 
as  he  stalked  on  to  the  dining-room  with  a 
duchess  on  his  own. 

"  And  you  have  left  Naples,"  said  Maltrav- 
ers: "  left  it  for  good  ?  " 

"We  do  not  think  of  returning." 

"  It  was  a  charming  place — how  I  loved  it ! 
• — how  well  I  remember  it !  "  Ernest  spoke 
calmly, — it  was  but  a  general  remark. 

Valerie  sighed  gently. 

During  dinner  the  conversation  between 
Maltravers  and  Madame  de  Ventadour  was 
vague  and  embarrassed.  Ernest  was  no  longer 
in  love  with  her — he  had  outgrown  that  youth- 
ful fancy.  She  had  exercised  influence  over 
him — the  new  influences  that  he  had  created, 
had  chased  away  her  image.  Such  is  life. 
Long  absences  extinguish  all  the  false  lights, 
though  not  the  true  ones.  The  lamps  are  dead 
in  the  banquet-room  of  yesterday;  but  a  thous- 
and years  hence  and  the  stars  we  look  on  to- 
night will  burn  as  brightly.  Maltravers  was  no 
longer  in  love  with  Valerie.  But  Valerie^  Ah, 
perhaps  hers  had  been  true  love  ! 

Maltravers  was  surprised  when  he  came  to 
examine  the  state  of  his  own  feelings — he  was 
surprised  to  find  that  his  pulse  did  not  beat 


quicker  at  the  touch  of  one  whose  very  glance 
had  once  thrilled  him  to  the  soul — he  was  sur- 
prised, but  rejoiced.  He  was  no  longer  anx- 
ious to  seek  but  to  shun  excitement,  and  he 
was  a  better  and  a  higher  being  than  he  had 
been  on  the  shores  of  Naples. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"  Whence  that  low  voice,  a  whisper  (rem  the  heart, 
That  told  of  days  long  past  ?" — Wordsworth. 

Ernest  stayed  several  days  at  Lord  Don- 
ingdale's,  and  every  day  he  rode  out  with 
Valerie,  but  it  was  with  a  large  party;  and 
every  evening  he  conversed  with  her,  but  the 
whole  world  might  have  overheard  what  they 
said.  In  fact,  the  sympathy  that  had  once  ex- 
isted between  the  young  dreamer  and  the 
proud,  discontented  woman,  had  in  much 
passed  away.  Awakened  to  vast  and  grand 
objects,  Maltravers  was  a  dreamer  namore. 
Inured  to  the  life  of  trifles  she  had  once 
loathed,  Valerie  had  settled  down  into  the 
usages  and  thoughts  of  the  common  world — 
she  had  no  longer  the  superiority  of  earthly 
wisdom  over  Maltravers,  and  his  romance  was 
sobered  in  its  eloquence,  and  her  ear  dulled 
to  its  done.  Still  Ernest  felt  a  deep  interest 
in  her,  and  still  she  seemed  to  feel  a  sensitive 
pride  in  his  career. 

One  evening  Maltravers  had  joined  a  circle 
in  which  Madame  de  Ventadour,  with  more 
than  her  usual  animation,  presided — and  to 
which,  in  her  pretty,  womanly,  and  thoroughly 
French  way,  she  was  lightly  laying  down  the 
law  on  a  hundred  subjects  —  Philosophy, 
Poetry,  Sevres  china  and  the  Balance  of  Power 
in  Europe.  Ernest  listened  to  her,  delighted, 
but  not  enchanted.  Yet  Valerie  was  not  natural 
that  night — she  was  speaking  from  forced 
spirits. 

"Well,"  said  Madame  de  Ventadour  at  last, 
tired,  perhaps,  of  the  part  she  had  been  play- 
ing, and  bringing  to  a  sudden  close  an  ani- 
mated description  of  the  then  French  court — 
"  well,  see  now  if  we  ought  not  to  be  ashamed 
of  ourselves — our  talk  has  positively  inter- 
rupted the  music.  Did  you  see  Lord  Doning- 
dale  stop  it  with  a  bow  to  me,  as  much  as  to 
say,  with   his   courtly  reproof, — '  It    shall  not 


io8 


£  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


disturb  you,  madam?'  I  will  no  longer  be 
accessary  to  your  crime  of  bad  taste  !  " 

With  this  the  Frenchwoman  rose  and  gliding 
through  the  circle,  retired  to  the  further  end 
of  the  room.  Ernest  followed  her  with  his 
eyes.  Suddenly  she  beckoned  to  him,  and  he 
approached  and  seated  himself  by  her  side. 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  Valerie,  then,  with 
great  sweetness  in  her  voice, — ■"  I  have  not 
yet  expressed  to  you  the  delight  I  have  felt 
from  your  genius.  In  absence  you  have  suf- 
fered me  to  converse  with  you — your  books 
have  been  to  me  dear  friends;  as  we  shall 
soon  part  again,  let  me  now  tell  you  of  this, 
frankly  and  without  compliment." 

This  paved  the  way  to  a  conversation  that 
approached  more  on  the  precincts  of  the  past, 
than  any  they  had  yet  known.  But  Ernest 
was  guarded,  and  Valerie  watched  his  words  and 
looks  with  an  interest  she  could  not  conceal — 
an  interest  that  partook  of  disappointment. 

"It  is  an  excitement,"  said  Valerie,  "to 
climb  a  mountain,  though  it  fatigue;  and 
though  the  clouds  may  even  deny  us  a  pros- 
pect from  its  summit, — it  is  an  excitement 
that  gives  a  very  universal  pleasure,  and  that 
seems  almost  as  if  it  were  the  result  of  a  com- 
mon human  instinct,  which  makes  us  desire  to 
rise — to  get  above  the  ordinary  thoroughfares 
and  level  of  life.  Some  such  pleasure  you 
must  have  in  intellectual  ambition,  in  which 
the  mind  is  the  upward  traveller." 

"  It  is  not  the  ambition  that  pleases,"  replied 
Maltravers;  "  it  is  the  following  a  path  con- 
genial to  our  tastes,  and  made  dear  to  us  in  a 
short  time  by  habit.  The  moments  in  which 
we  look  beyond  our  work,  and  fancy  ourselves 
seated  beneath  the  Everlasting  Laurel,  are  few. 
It  is  the  work  itself,  whether  of  action  or  lit- 
erature, that  interests  and  excites  us.  And  at 
length  the  dryness  of  toil  takes  the  familiar 
sweetness  of  custom.  But  in  intellectual  la- 
bor there  is  another  charm — we  become  more 
intimate  with  our  own  nature.  The  heart  and 
the  soul  grow  friends,  as  it  were,  and  the  affec- 
tions and  aspirations  unite.  Thus,  we  are 
never  without  society — we  are  never  alone;  all 
that  we  have  read,  learned  and  discovered,  is 
company  to  us.  This  is  pleasant,"  added 
Maltravers,  "  to  those  who  have  no  dear  con- 
nections in  the  world  without." 

"  And  is  that  your  case?"  asked  Valerie, 
with  a  timi'l  «  '!■'•. 


"  Alas,  yes  !  and  since  I  conquered  one  af 
fection,  Madame  de  Ventadour,  I  almost  think 
I  have  outlived  the  capacity  of  loving.  I  be- 
lieve that  when  we  cultivate  very  largely  the 
reason  or  the  imagination,  we  blunt  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  our  young  susceptibilities  to  the 
fair  impressions  of  real  life.  From  '  idleness,' 
says  the  old  Roman  poet,  '  Love  feeds  his 
torch." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  talk  thus." 

"I  speak  as  I  feel." 

Valerie  said  no  more. 

Shortly  afterwards  Lord  Doningdale  ap- 
proached them,  and  proposed  that  they  should 
make  an  excursion  the  next  day  to  see  the 
ruins  of  an  old  abbey,  some  few  miles  distant. 


CHAPTER   X. 

"  If  I  should  meet  thee 
After  long  years, 
How  shall  I  greet  thee?"— Byron. 

It  was  a  smaller  party  than  usual  the  next 
day,  consisting  only  of  Lord  Doningdale,  his 
son  George  Herbert,  Valerie  and  Ernest. 
They  were  returning  from  the  ruins,  and  the 
sun,  now  gradually  approaching  the  west, 
threw  its  slant  rays  over  the  gardens  and 
houses  of  a  small,  picturesque  town,  or,  per- 
haps, rather  village,  on  the  high  North  Road. 
It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  places  in  England, 
that  town  or  village,  and  boasts  an  excellent 
old-fashioned  inn,  with  a  large  and  quaint 
pleasure-garden.  It  was  through  the  long 
and  straggling  street  that  our  little  party 
slowly  rode,  when  the  sky  became  suddenly 
overcast,  and  a  few  large  hailstones  falling, 
gave  notice  of  an  approaching  storm. 

"  I  told  you  we  should  not  get  safely  through 
the  day,"  said  George  Herbert.  "  Now  we 
are  in  for  it." 

"  George  that  is  a  vulgar  expression,"  said 
Lord  Doningdale,  buttoning  up  his  coat. 
While  he  spoke  a  vivid  flash  of  lightening 
darted  across  their  very  path,  and  the  sky 
grew  darker  and  darker. 

"We  may  as  well  rest  at  the  inn,"  said  Mal- 
travers; "the  storm  is  coming  on  apace,  and 
Madame  de  Ventadour " 

"You  are  right,"  interrupted  Lord  Doning- 
dale; and  he  put  his  horse  into  a  canter. 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


109 


They  were  soon  at  the  door  of  the  old  hotel. 
Bells  rang— dogs  barked — hostlers  ran.  A 
])lain,  dark,  travelling  post-chariot  was  before 
the  inn-door;  and,  roused  perhaps  by  the 
noise  below,  a  lady  in  the  first  floor  front, 
No.  2,"  came  to  the  window.  This  lady 
owned  the  travelling  carriage,  and  was  at  this 
time  alone  in  that  apartment.  As  she  looked 
carelessly  at  the  party,  her  eyes  rested  on  one 
form — she  turned  pale,  uttered  a  faint  cry, 
and  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 

Meanwhile,  Lord  Doningdale  and  his  guests 
were  shown  fnto  the  room  next  to  that  ten- 
anted by  the  lady.  Properly  speaking,  both 
the  rooms  made  one  long  apartment  for  balls 
and  county  meetings,  and  the  division  was 
formed  by  a  thin  partition,  removable  at  pleas- 
ure. The  hail  now  came  on  fast  and  heavy, 
the  trees  groaned,  the  thunder  roared;  and  in 
the  large,  dreary  room  there  was  a  palpable  and 
oppressive  sense  of  coldness  and  discomfort. 
Valerie  shivered — a  fire  was  lighted — and  the 
French-woman  drew  near  to  it. 

"  You  are  wet,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Lord 
Doningdale.  "  You  should  take  off  that  close 
habit,  and  have  it  dried." 

"Oh,  no;  what  matters  it?"  said  Valerie, 
bitterly,  and  almost  rudely. 

"It  matters  everything,  said  Ernest;  "pray 
be  ruled." 

"And  do  you  care  for  me?"  murmured 
Valerie. 

"  Can  you  ask  that  question  ?  "  replied 
Ernest,  in  the  same  tone,  and  with  affectionate 
and  friendly  warmth. 

"  Meanwhile,  the  good  old  lord  had  sum- 
moned the  chambermaid,  and,  with  the  kindly 
imperiousness  of  a  father,  made  Valerie  quit 
the  room.  The  three  gentlemen,  left  together, 
talked  of  the  storm,  wondered  how  long  it 
would  last,  and  debated  the  propriety  of  send- 
ing to  Doningdale  for  the  carriage.  While 
they  spoke,  the  hail  suddenly  ceased,  though 
clouds  *in  the  distant  horizon  were  bearing 
heavily  up  to  renew  the  charge.  George 
Herbert,  who  was  the  most  impatient  of  mor- 
tals, especially  of  rainy  weather  in  a  strange 
place,  seized  the  occasion,  and  insisted  on 
riding  to  Doningdale,  and  sending  back  the 
carriage. 

"  Surely  a  groom  would  do  as  well,  George," 
said  the  father. 

"  My   dear   father,    no;  I    should   envy  the 


rogue  too  much.  I  am  bored  to  death  here. 
Marie  will  be  frightened  about  us.  Brown 
Bess  will  take  me  back  in  twenty  minutes.  I 
am  a  hardy  fellow,  you  know.     Good-bye." 

Away  darted  the  young  sportsman,  and  in 
two  minutes  they  saw  him  spur  gaily  from  the 
inn-door. 

"  It  is  very  odd  that  /  should  have  such  a 
son,"  said  Lord  Doningdale,  musingly — "  a 
son  who  cannot  amuse  himself  in-doors  for 
two  minutes  together.  I  took  great  pains  with 
his  education,  too.  Strange  that  people  should 
weary  so  much  of  themselves  that  they  can- 
not brave  the  prospect  of  a  few  minutes  passed 
in  reflection — that  a  shower  and  the  resources 
of  their  own  thoughts  are  evils  so  galling — 
very  strange,  indeed.  But  it  is  a  confounded 
climat;e  this,  certainly.  I  wonder  when  it  will 
clear  up." 

Thus  muttering,  Lord  Doningdale  walked, 
or  rather  marched,  to  and  fro  the  room,  with 
his  hands  in  his  coat  pockets,  and  his  whip 
sticking  perpendicularly  out  of  the  right  one. 
Just  at  this  moment  the  waiter  came  to  an- 
nounce that  his  lordship's  groom  was  without, 
and  desired  much  to  see  him.  Lord  Doning- 
dale had  then  the  pleasure  of  learning  that  his 
favorite  grey  hackney  which  he  had  ridden, 
winter  and  summer,  for  fifteen  years,  was 
taken  with  shivers,  and,  as  the  groom  ex- 
pressed it,  seemed  to  have  "  the  collar 
[cholera  ?]  in  its  bowels  !  " 

Lord  Doningdale  turned  pale,  and  hurried 
to  the  stables  without  saying  a  word. 

Maltravers,  who,  plunged  in  thought,  had 
not  overheard  the  low  and  brief  conference  be- 
tween master  and  groom,  remained  alone, 
seated  by  the  fire,  his  head  buried  in  his 
bosom,  and  his  arms  folded. 

Meanwhile,  the  lady  ,who  occupied  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber,  had  recovered  slowly  from  her 
swoon.  She  put  both  hands  to  her  temples,  as 
if  trying  to  re-collect  her  thoughts.  Hers  was 
a  fair,  innocent,  almost  childish  face;  and  now, 
as  a  smile  shot  across  it,  there  was  some- 
thing so  sweet  and  touching  in  the  gladness  it 
shed  over  that  countenance,  that  you  could  not 
have  seen  it  without  strong  and  almost  painful 
interest.  For  it  was  the  gladness  of  a  person 
who  has  known  sorrow  !  Suddenly  she  started 
up,  and  said — "  No — then  !  I  do  not  dream^ 
He  is  come  back — he  is  here — all  will  be  well 
again  !     Ha  !  it  is  his  voice.     Oh,  bless  him, 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


it  is  his  voice.!  "  She  paused,  her  finger  on  her 
lip,  her  face  bent  clown.  A  low  and  indistinct 
sound  of  voices  reached  her  straining  ear 
through  the  thin  door  that  divided  her  from 
Maltravers.  She  listened  intently,  but  she 
could  not  overhear  the  import.  Her  heart 
beat  violently.  "  He  is  not  alone  !  "  she 
murmured,  mournfully.  "  I  will  wait  till  the 
sound  ceases,  and  then  I  will  venture  in  !  " 

And  what  was  the  conversation  carried  on  in 
that  chamber?  We  must  return  to  Ernest. 
He  was  sitting  in  the  same  thoughtful  posture 
when  Madame  de  Ventadour  returned.  The 
Frenchwoman  colored  when  she  found  herself 
alone  with  Ernest,  and  Ernest  himself  was  not 
at  his  ease. 

"  Herbert  has  gone  home  to  order  the  car- 
riage, and  Lord  Doningdale  has  disappeared, 
I  scarce  know  whither.  You  do  not,  I  trust, 
feel  the  worse  for  the  rain  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Valerie. 

"  Shall  you  have  any  commands  in  Lon- 
don ? "  asked  Maltravers;  "I  return  to  town 
to-morrow." 

"So  soon!"  and  Valerie  sighed.  "Ah!" 
she  added,  after  a  pause,  "  we  shall  not  meet 
again  for  years,  perhaps.  Monsieur  de  Ven- 
tadour is  to  be  appointed  ambassador  to  the 

Court — and  so — and  so Well,  it 

is  no  matter.  What  has  become  of  the  friend- 
ship we  once  swore  to  each  other  ? " 

"  It  is  here,"  said  Maltravers,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  heart.  "  Here,  at  least,  lies  the 
half  of  that  friendship  which  was  my  charge; 
and  more  than  friendship,  Valerie  de  Venta- 
dour— respect — admiration — gratitude.  At  a 
time  of  life,  when  passion  and  fancy,  most 
strong,  might  have  left  me  an  idle  and  worth- 
less voluptuary,  you  convinced  me  that  the 
world  has  virtue,  and  that  woman  is  too  noble 
to  be  our  toy — the  idol  of  to-day,  the  victim  of 
to-morrow.  Your  influence,  Valerie,  left  me  a 
more  thoughtful  man — I  hope  a  better  one." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Madame  de  Ventadour,  strongly 
affected;  "  I  bless  you  for  what  you  tell  me: 
you  cannot  know — you  cannot  guess  how 
sweet  it  is  to  me.  Now  I  recognize  you  once 
more.  What — what  did  my  resolution  cost 
me  ?     Now  I  am  repaid  !  " 

Ernest  was  moved  by  her  emotion,  and  by 
his  own  remembrances;  he  took  her  hand, 
and  pressing  it  with  frank  and  respectful  ten- 
derness— "I   did  not  not  think,  Valerie,"  said 


he,  "  when  I  reviewed  the  past,  I  did  not  think 
that  you  loved  me — I  was  not  vain  enough  for 
that;  but,  if  so,  how  much  is  your  character 
raised  in  my  eyes — how  provident,  how  wise 
your  virtue  !  Happier  and  better  for  both, 
our  present  feelings,  each  to  each,  than  if  we 
had  indulged  a  brief  and  guilty  dream  of  pas- 
sion at  war  with  all  that  leaves  passion  without 
remorse,  and  bliss   without  alloy.     Now " 

"  Now  !  "  interrupted  Valerie,  quickly,  and 
fixing  on  him  her  dark  eyes — "  now  you  love 
me  no  longer  !  Yes,  it  is  better  so.  Well,  I 
will  go  back  to  my  cold  and  cheerless  state  of 
life,  and  forget  oiice  more  that  Heaven  en- 
dowed me  with  a  heart  !  " 

"  Ah,  Valerie  !  esteemed,  revered,  still  be- 
loved, not  indeed  with  the  fires  of  old,  but 
with  a  deep,  undying,  and  holy  tenderness, 
speak  not  thus  to  me.  Let  me  not  believe 
you  unhappy;  let  me  think  that,  wise,  saga- 
cious, brilliant  as  you  are,  you  have  employed 
your  gifts,  to  reconcile  yourself  to  a  common 
lot.  Still  let  me  look  up  to  you  when  I  would 
despise  the  circles  in  which  you  live,  and  say, 
— '  On  that  pedestal  an  altar  is  yet  placed,  to 
which  the  heart  may  bring  the  offerings  of  the 
soul.'  " 

"  It  is  in  vain — in  vain  that  I  struggle," 
said  Valerie,  half-choked  with  emotion,  and 
clasping  her  hands  passionately.  "  Ernest,  I 
love  you  still — I  am  wretched  to  think  you 
love  me  no  more;  I  would  give  you  nothing- 
yet  I  exact  all;  my  youth  is  going — my  beauty 
dimmed — my  very  intellect  is  dulled  by  the 
life  I  lead;  and  yet  I  ask  from  you  that  which 
your  young  heart  once  felt  for  me.  Despise 
me,  Maltravers,  I  am  not  what  I  seemed — I 
am  a  hypocrite — despise  me." 

"  No,"  said  Ernest,  again  possessing  himself 
of  her  hand,  and  falling  on  his  knee  by  her 
side.  "  No,  never  to  be  forgotten,  ever  to  be 
honored  Valerie,  hear  me."  As  he  spoke,  he 
kissed  the  hand  he  held;  with  the  other, 
Valerie  covered  her  face  and  wept  bitterly,  but 
in  silence.  Ernest  paused  till  the  burst  of 
her  feelings  had  subsided,  her  hand  still  in  his 
— still  warmed  by  his  kisses — kisses  as  pure 
as  cavalier  ever  impressed  on  the  hand  of  his 
queen. 

At  that  time,  the  door  communicating  with 
the  next  room  gently  opened.  A  fair  form- — 
a  form  fairer  and  younger  than  that  of  Valerie 
de   Ventadour,    entered    the    apartment;    the 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


silence  had  deceived  her — she  believed  that 
MaLtravers  was  alone.  She  had  entered  with 
her  heart  upon  her  lips;  love,  sanguine,  hope- 
ful love,  in  every  vein,  in  every  thought — she 
had  entered,  dreaming  that  across  that  thres- 
hold life  would  dawn  upon  her  afresh — that 
all  would  be  once  more  as  it  had  been,  when 
the  common  air  was  rapture.  Thus  she 
entered;  and  now  she  stood  spellbound,  terror- 
stricken,  pale  as  death — life  turned  to  stone — 
youth — hope — bliss  were  for  ever  over  to  her  ! 
Ernest  kneeling  to  another  was  all  she  saw  ! 
— For  this  had  she  been  faithful  and  true, 
amidst  storm  and  desolation;  for  this  had  she 
hoped — dreamed — lived.  They  did  not  note 
her;  she  was  unseen — unheard.  And  Ernest, 
who  would  have  gone  bare-foot  to  the  end  of 
the  earth  to  find  her,  was  in  the  very  room 
with  her,  and  knew  it  not  ! 

"  Call  me  again  beloved !  "  said  Valerie,  very 
softly. 

"  Beloved  Valerie,  hear  me  ! 

These  words  were  enough  for  the  listener; 
she  turned  noiselessly  away:  humble  as  that 
heart  was,  it  was  proud.  The  door  closed  on 
her — she  had  obtained  the  wish  of  her  whole 
being — Heaven  had  heard  her  prayer — she 
had  once  more  seen  the  lover  of  her  youth; 
and  thenceforth  all  was  night  and  darkness  to 
her.  What  matter  what  became  of  her  ?  One 
moment,  what  an  affect  it  produces  upon  years  ! 
— ONE  MOMENT  ! — virtue,  crime,  glory,  shame, 
woe,  rapture,  rest  upon  moments  !  Death 
itself  is  but  a  moment,  yet  Eternity  is  its 
successor  ! 

'■  Hear  me  !  "  continued  Ernest,  unconscious 
of  what  had  passed — "  hear  me;  let  us  be  what 
human  nature  and  worldly  forms  seldom  allow 
those  of  opposite  sexes  to  be — friends  to  each 
other,  and  to  virtue  also — friends  through  time 
and  absence — friends  through  all  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  life — friends  on  whose  affection 
shame  and  remorse  never  cast  a  shade — friends 
who  are  to  meet  hereafter  !  Oh  !  there  is  no 
attachment  so  true,  no  tie  so  holy,  as  that 
which  is  founded  on  the  old  chivalry  of  loyalty 
and  honor;  and  which  is  what  love  would  be, 
if  the  heart  and  the  soul  were  unadulterated  by 
clay." 

There  was  in  Ernest's  countenance  an  ex- 
pression so  noble,  in  his  voice  a  tone  so  thrill- 
ing, that  Valerie  was  brought  back  at  once  to 
the  nature  which  a  momentary  weakness  had 


subdued.  She  looked  at  him  with  an  admiring 
and  grateful  gaze,  and  then  said,  in  a  calm 
but  low  voice,  "  Ernest,  I  understand  you; 
yes,  your  friendship  is  dearer  to  me  than  love." 
At  this  time  they  heard  the  voice  of  Lord 
Doningdale  on  the  stairs.  Valerie  turned 
away.  Maltravers,  as  he  rose,  extended  his 
hand;  she  pressed  it  warmly,  and  the  spell 
was  broken,  the  temptation  conquered,  the 
ordeal  passed.  While  Lord  Doningdale  en- 
tered the  room,  the  carriage,  with  Herbert  in 
it,  drove  to  the  door.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
little  party  were  within  the  vehicle.  As  they 
drove  away,  the  hostlers  were  harnessing  the 
horses  to  the  dark  green  travelling  carriage. 
From  the  window,  a  sad  and  straining  eye 
gazed  upon  the  gayer  equipage  of  the  peer — 
that  eye  which  Maltravers  would  have  given 
his  whole  fortune  to  meet  again.  But  he  did 
not  look  up;  and  Alice  Darvil  turned  away, 
and  her  fate  was  fixed  ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

"  Strange  fits  of  passion  I  have  known, 

And  I  will  dare  to  tell." — Wordsworth. 

"         *        *        *        The  food  of  hope 
Is  meditated  action." — Wordsworth 

Maltravers  left  Doningdale  the  next  day. 
He  had  no  further  conversation  with  Valerie; 
but  when  he  took  leave  of  her,  she  placed  in 
his  hand  a  letter,  which  he  read  as  he  rode 
slowly  through  the  beech  avenues  of  the  park. 
Translated,  it  ran  thus: — 

"  Others  would  despise  me  for  the  weakness  I 
showed — but  you  will  not  !  It  is  the  sole  weakness  of 
a  life.  None  can  know  what  I  have  passed  through — 
what  hours  of  dejection  and  gloom — I,  whom  so  many 
envy!  Better  to  have  been  a  peasant  girl,  with  love, 
than  a  queen  whose  life  is  but  a  dull  mechanism.  You, 
Maltravers,  I  never  forgot  in  absence;  and  your  image 
made  yet  more  wearisome  and  trite  the  things  around 
me.  Years  passed,  and  your  name  was  suddenly  in 
men's  lips.  I  heard  of  you  wherever  I  went — I  could 
not  shut  you  from  me.  Your  fame  was  as  if  you  were 
conversing  by  my  side.  We  met  at  last,  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly.  I  saw  that  you  loved  me  no  more,  and 
that  thought  conquered  all  my  resolves:  anguish  sub- 
dues the  nerves  of  the  mind  as  sickness  those  of  the 
body.  And  thus  I  forgot,  and  humbled,  and  might 
have  undone  myself.  Juster  and  better  thoughts  are 
once  more  awakened  within  me,  and  when  we  meet 
again  I  shall  be  worthy  of  your  respect.  I  see  how 
dangerous  are  that  luxury  of  thought,  that  sin  of  dis- 
content which  I  indulged.     I  go  back  to  life  resolved 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


to  vanquish  all  that  can  interfere  with  its  claims  and 
duties.  Heaven  guide  and  preserve  you,  Ernest  I 
Think  of  me  as  one  whom  you  will  not  blush  to  have 
loved — whom  you  will  not  blush  hereafter  to  present 
to  your  wife.  With  so  much  that  is  soft,  as  well  as 
great  within  you,  you  were  not  formed  like  me — to  be 
alone. 

"  Farewell  !  " 

Maltravers  read,  and  re-read  this  letter;  and 
when  he  reached  his  home,  he  placed  it  care- 
fully amongst  the  things  he  most  valued.  A 
lock  of  Alice's  hair  lay  beside  it — he  did  not 
think  that  either  was  dishonored  by  the  con- 
tact. 

With  an  effort,  he  turned  himself  once  more 
to  those  stern,  yet  high  connections  which 
literature  makes  with  real  life,  Perhaps  there 
was  a  certain  restlessness  in  his  heart  which 
induced  him  ever  to  occupy  his  mind.  That 
was  one  of  the  busiest  years  of  his  life — the 
one  in  which  he  did  most  to  sharpen  jealousy 
and  confirm  fame. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"  In  effect  he  entered  my  apartment." — Gil  Bias. 

"  1  am  surprised,  said  he,  at  the  caprice  of  fortune, 
who  sometimes  delights  in  loading  an  execrable  author 
with  favors,  whilst  she  leaves  good  writers  to  perish 
for  want." — Gil  Bias. 

It  was  just  twelve  months  after  his  last  in- 
terview with  Valerie,  and  Madame  de  Venta- 
dour  had  long  since  quitted  England,  when  one 
morning,  as  Maltravers  sat  alone  in  his  study, 
Castruccio  Cesarini  was  announced. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Castruccio,  how  are  you?" 
cried  Maltravers,  eagerly,  as  the  opening  door 
presented  the  form  of  the  Italian. 

"  Sir,"  said  Castruccio,  with  great  stiffness, 
and  speaking  in  French,  which  was  his  wont 
when  he  meant  to  be  distant — "  sir,  I  do  not 
come  to  renew  our  former  acquaintance — you 
are  a  great  man  [here  a  bitter  sneer],  I  an 
obscure  one — [here  Castruccio  drew  himself 
up] — I  only  come  to  discharge  a  debt  to  you 
which  I  find  I  have  incurred." 

"What  tone  is  this,  Castruccio;  and  what 
debt  do  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"  On  my  arrival  in  town  yesterday,"  said  the 
poet,  solemnly,  "  I  went  to  the  man  who  you 
deputed  some  years  since  to  publish  my  little 
volume,  to  demand  an  account  of  its  success; 
and  I  found  that  it  had  cost  one  hundred  and 


twenty  pounds,  deducting  the  sale  of  forty- 
nine  copies  which  had  been  sold.  Your  books 
sell  some  thousands,  I  am  told.  It  is  well 
contrived — mine  fell  still-born,  no  pains  were 
taken  with  it — no  matter —  [a  wave  of  the  hand] . 
You  discharged  this  debt,  I  repay  you;  there 
is  a  check  for  the  money.  Sir,  I  have  done  I 
I  wish  you  a  good  day,  and  health  to  enjoy 
yaur  reputation." 

"  Why,  Cesarini,  this  is  folly." 

"  Sir " 

"Yes,  it  is  folly;  for  there  is  no  folly  equal 
to  that  of  throwing  away  friendship  in  a  world 
where  friendship  is  so  rare.  You  insinuate 
that  I  am  to  blame  for  any  neglect  which  your 
work  experienced.  Your  publisher  can  tell 
you  that  I  was  more  anxious  about  your  book 
than  I  have  ever  been  about  my  own." 

"  And  the  proof  is,  that  forty-nine  copies 
were  sold  ! " 

"Sit  down,  Castruccio;  sit  down  and  listen 
to  reason;  "  and  Maltravers  proceeded  to  ex- 
plain, and  soothe,  and  console.  He  reminded 
the  poor  poet  that  his  verses  were  written  in  a 
foreign  tongue, — that  even  English  poets  of 
great  fame  enjoyed  but  a  limited  sale  for  their 
works — that  it  was  impossible  to  make  the 
avaricious  public  purchase  what  the  stupid 
public  would  not  take  an  interest  in — in  short, 
he  used  all  those  arguments  which  naturally 
suggested  themselves  as  best  calculated  to 
convince  and  soften  Castruccio:  and  he  did 
this  with  so  much  evident  sympathy  and  kind- 
ness, that  at  length  the  Italian  could  could  no 
longer  justify  his  own  resentment.  A  recon- 
ciliation took  place,  sincere  on  the  part  of 
Maltravers,  hollow  on  the  part  of  Cesarini;  for 
the  disappointed  author  could  not  forgive  the 
successful  one. 

"  And  how  long  shall  you  stay  in  London  ?  " 

"  Some  months." 

"  Send  for  your  luggage,  and  be  my  guest." 

"No;  I  have  taken  lodgings  that  suit  me. 
I  am  formed  for  solitude." 

"  While  you  stay  here,  you  will,  however,  go 
into  the  world." 

"  Yes,  I  have  some  letters  of  introduction, 
and  I  hear  that  the  English  can  honor  merit, 
even  in  an  Italian." 

"  You  hear  the  truth,  and  it  will  amuse  you 
at  least  to  see  our  eminent  men.  They  will 
receive  you  most  hospitably.  Let  me  assist 
you  as  a  cicerone." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


"3 


■  Oh,  your  valuable  time  \" 

"Is  at  your  disposal;  but  where  are  you 
going?" 

"  It  is  Sunday,  and  I  have  had  my  curiosity 
excited   to   hear   a  celebrated    preacher,  Mr. 

,  who,  they  tell  me,  is  now  more  talked  of 

than  any  author  in  London." 

"  They  tell  you  truly — I  will  go  with  you 
— I  myself  have  not  yet  heard  him;  but  pro- 
posed to  do  so  this  very  day." 

"  Are  you  not  jealous  of  a  man  so  much 
spoken  of  ? " 

"  Jealous  !— why  I  never  set  up  for  a  popular 
preacher  1 — ce  n  est  pas  mon  metier." 

"  If  I  were  a  successful  author,  I  should  be 
jealous  if  the  dancing-dogs  were  talked  of." 

"  No,  my  dear  Cesarini,  I  am  sure  you 
ivould  not.  You  are  a  little  iritated  at  present 
by  natural  disappointment !  but  the  man  who 
has  as  much  success  as  he  deserves,  is  never 
morbidly  jealous,  even  of  a  rival  in  his  own 
line:  want  of  success  sours  us;  but  a  little 
sunshine  smiles  away  the  vapors.  Come,  we 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

Maltravers  took  his  hat,  and  the  two  young 
men  bent  their  way  to chapel.  Cesa- 
rini still  retained  the  singular  fashion  of  his 
dress,  though  it  was  now  made  of  handsomer 
materials,  and  worn  with  more  coxcombry 
and  pretension.  He  had  much  improved  in 
person — had  been  admired  in  Paris,  and  told 
that  he  looked  like  a  man  of  genius — and  with 
his  black  ringlets  flowing  over  his  shoulders, 
his  long  moustache,  his  broad  Spanish-shaped 
hat,  and  eccentric  garb,  he  certainly  did  not 
look  like  other  people.  He  smiled  with  con- 
tempt at  the  plain  dress  of  his  companion. 
"  I  see,"  said  he,  "  that  you  follow  the  fashion, 
and  look  as  if  you  pased  your  life  with  dSgans 
instead  of  students.  I  wonder  you  condescend 
to  such  trifles  as  fashionably-shaped  hats  and 
coats." 

"  It  would  be  worse  trifling  to  set  up  for  orig- 
inality in  hats  and  coats,  at  least  in  sober  Eng- 
land. I  was  born  a  gentleman,  and  I  dress 
my  outward  frame  like  others  of  my  order. 
Because  I  am  a  writer,  why  should  I  affect  to 
be  different  from  other  men  ?  " 

"  I  see  that  you  are  not  above  the  weakness 
of  your  countryman,  Congreve,"  said  Ces- 
arini, "  who  deemed  it  finer  to  be  a  gentleman 
than  an  author." 

"  I  always  thought  that   anecdote   miscon- 

G.  — 7 


strued.  Cougreve  had  a  proper  and  manly 
pride,  to  my  judgment,  when  he  expressed  a 
dislike  to  be  visited  merely  as  a  raree-show." 

"  But  is  it  policy  to  let  the  world  see  that  an 
author  is  like  other  people  ?  Would  he  not 
create  a  deeper  personal  interest  if  he  showed 
that  even  in  person  alone  he  was  unlike  the 
herd  ?  He  ought  to  be  seen  seldom — not  to 
stale  his  presence — and  to  resort  to  the  arts 
that  belong  to  the  royalty  of  intellect  as  well 
as  the  royalty  of  birth." 

"  I  dare  say  an  author,  by  a  little  charatan- 
ism  of  that  nature,  might  be  more  talked  of — 
might  be  more  adored  in  the  boarding-schools, 
and  make  a  better  picture  in  the  exhibition. 
But  I  think,  if  his  mind  be  manly,  he  would 
lose  in  self-respect  at  every  quackery  of  the 
sort.  And  my  philosophy  is,  that  to  respect 
one's  self  is  worth  all  the  fame  in  the  world." 

Cesarini  sneered  and  shrugged  his  shoulders; 
it  was  quite  evident  that  the  two  authors  had 
no  sympathy  with  each  other. 

They  arrived  at  last  at  the  chapel,  and  with 
some  difficulty  procured   seats. 

Presently  the  service  began.  The  preacher 
was  a  man  of  unquestionable  talent  and  fervid 
eloquence;  but  his  theatrical  arts,  his  affected 
dress,  his  artificial  tones  and  gestures,  and, 
above  all,  the  fanatical  mummeries  which  he 
introduced  into  the  House  of  God,  di-sgusted 
Maltravers,  while  they  charmed,  entranced, 
and  awed  Cesarini.  The  one  saw  a  mounte- 
bank and  impostor — the  other  recognized  a 
profound  artist  and  an  inspired  prophet. 

But  while  the  discourse  was  drawing  towards 
a  close,  while  the  preacher  was  in  one  of  his 
most  eloquent  bursts — the  ohs  !  and  ahs  !  of 
which  were  the  grand  prelude  to  the  pathetic 
peroration — the  dim  outline  of  a  female  form, 
in  the  distance,  riveted  the  eyes  and  absorbed 
the  thoughts  of  Maltravers.  The  chapel  was 
darkened,  though  it  was  broad  daylight;  and 
the  face  of  the  person  that  attracted  Ernest's 
attention  was  concealed  by  her  head-dress  and 
veil.  But  that  bend  of  the  neck,  so  simply 
graceful,  so  humbly  modest,  recalled  to  his 
heart  but  one  image.  Every  one  has,  perhaps, 
observed  that  there  is  a  physiognomy  (if  the 
bull  may  be  pardoned)  oi  form  as  well  as  face, 
which  it  rarely  happens  that  two  persons  pos- 
sess in  common.  And  this,  with  most,  is  pe- 
culiarly marked  in  the  turn  of  the  head,  the 
outline   of   the    shoulders,  and    the    ineffable 


114 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


something  that  characterizes  the  postures  of 
each  individual  in  repose. 

The  more  intently  he  gazed,  the  more  firmly 
Ernest  was  persuaded  that  he  saw  before  him 
the  long-lost,  the  never-to-be-forgotten  mis- 
tress of  his  boyish  days,  and  his  first  love. 
On  one  side  of  the  lady  in  question  sate  an 
elderly  gentleman,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  preacher;  on  the  other,  a  beautiful  little 
girl,  with  long  fair  ringlets,  and  that  cast  of 
features  which,  from  its  exquisite  delicacy 
and  expressive  mildness,  painters  and  poets 
call  the  "  angelic."  These  persons  appeared 
to  belong  to  the  same  party.  Maltravers  lit- 
erally trembled,  so  great  were  his  impatience 
and  agitation.  Yet  still,  the  dress  of  the  sup- 
posed likeness  of  Alice,  the  appearance  of  her 
companions,  were  so  evidently  above  the  or- 
dinary rank,  that  Earnest  scarcely  ventured  to 
yield  to  the  suggestions  of  his  own  heart. 
Was  it  possible  that  the  daughter  of  Luke 
Darvil,  thrown  upon  the  wide  world,  could 
have  risen  so  far  beyond  her  circumsttances 
and  station  ?  At  length,  the  moment  came 
when  he  might  resolve  his  doubts — the  dis- 
course was  concluded — the  extemporaneous 
prayer  was  at  an  end — the  congregation  broke 
up,  and  Maltravers  pushed  his  way,  as  well  as 
he  could,  through  the  dense  and  serried  crowd. 
But  every  moment  some  vexatious  obstruc- 
tion, in  the  shape  of  a  fat  gentleman  or  three 
close-wedged  ladies,  intercepted  his  progress. 
He  lost  sight  of  the  party  in  question  amidst 
the  profusion  of  tall  bonnets  and  waving 
plumes.  He  arrived  at  last,  breathless,  and 
pale  as  death,  (so  great  was  the  struggle  within 
him),  at  the  door  of  the  chapel.  He  arrived 
in  time  to  see  a  plain  carriage  with  servants  in 
grey  undress  liveries,  driving  from  the  porch 
— and  caught  a  glimpse,  within  the  vehicle,  of 
the  golden  ringlets  of  a  child.  He  darted 
forward,  he  threw  himself  almost  before  the 
horses.  The  coachman  drew  in,  and  with  an 
angry  exclamation,  very  much  like  an  oath, 
whipped  his  horses  aside  and  went  off.  But 
that  momentary  pause  sufficed. — "  It  is  she — 
it  is  I  O  heaven,  it  is  Alice  !  "  murmured 
Maltravers.  The  whole  place  reeled  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  clung,  overpowered  and  un- 
conconscious  to  a  neighboring  lamp-post  for 
support.  But  he  recovered  himself  with  an 
agonizing  effort,  as  the  thought  struck  upon 
his  heart,  that  he   was  about  to  lose  sight  of 


her  again  for  ever.  And  he  rushed  forward, 
like  one  frantic,  in  pursuit  of  the  carriage. 
But  there  was  a  vast  crowd  of  other  carriages, 
besides  stream  upon  stream  of  foot-pas- 
sengers,— for  the  great  and  the  gay  resorted 
to  that  place  of  worship,  as  a  fashionable  ex- 
citement in  a  dull  day.  And  after  a  weary 
and  a  dangerous  chase,  in  which  he  had  been 
nearly  run  over  three  times,  Maltavers  halted 
at  last,  exhausted  and  in  despair.  Every  suc- 
ceeding Sunday,  for  months,  he  went  to  the 
same  chapel,  but  in  vain;  in  vain,  too,  he  re- 
sorted to  every  public  haunt  of  dissipation  and 
amusement.     Alice  Darvil  he  beheld  no  more  ! 


CHAPTER   Xni. 

"  Tell  me,  sir, 
Have  you  cast  up  your  state,  rated  your  land. 
And  find  it  able  to  endure  the  charge  ?" 

—  The  Noble  Gentleman. 

By  degrees,  as  Maltravers  sobered  down 
from  the  first  shock  of  that  unexpected  meet- 
ing, and  from  the  prolonged  disappointrnent 
that  followed  it,  he  became  sensible  of  a 
strange  kind  of  happiness  or  contentment. 
Alice  was  not  in  poverty,  she  was  not  eating 
the  unhallowed  bread  of  vice,  or  earning  the 
bitter  wages  of  laborious  penury.  He  saw 
her  in  reputable,  nay  opulent  circumstances. 
A  dark  nightmare,  that  had  often,  amidst  the 
pleasures  of  youth,  or  the  triumphs  of  litera- 
ture, weighed  upon  his  breast,  was  removed. 
He  breathed  more  freely — he  could  sleep  in 
peace.  His  conscience  could  no  longer  say 
to  him,  "She  who  slept  upon  thy  bosom  is  a 
wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the  earth — -exposed 
to  every  temptation,  perishing  perhaps  for 
want."  That  single  sight  of  Alice  had  been 
like  the  apparition  of  the  injured  Dead  con- 
jured up  at  Heraclea — whose  sight  could  pac- 
ify the  aggressor  and  exorcise  the  spectres 
of  remorse.  He  was  reconciled  with  himself, 
and  walked  on  to  the  Future  with  a  bolder 
step  and  a  statelier  crest.  Was  she  married 
to  that  staid  and  sober-looking  personage 
whom  he  had  beheld  with  her  ?  was  that  child 
the  offspring  of  their  union  ?  He  almost 
hoped  so — it  was  better  to  lose  than  to  destroy 
her.  Poor  Alice  !  could  she  have  dreamed, 
when  she  sat  at  his   feet  gazing    up   into  his 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS- 


"'i 


eyes,  that  a  time  would  come  when  Maltravers 
would  thank  Heaven  for  the  belief  that  she 
was  happy  with  another  ? 

Ernest  Maltravers  now  felt  a  new  man;  the 
relief  of  conscience  operated  on  the  efforts  of 
his  genius.  A  more  buoyant  and  elastic 
spirit  entered  into  them — they  seemed  to 
breathe  as  with  a  second  youth. 

Meanwhile  Cesarini  threw  himself  into  the 
fashionable  world,  and  to  his  own  surprise  was 
flted  and  caressed.  In  fact,  Castruccio  was 
exactly  the  sort  of  person  to  be  made  a  lion  of. 
The  letters  of  introduction  that  he  had  brought 
from  Paris  were  addressed  to  those  great  per- 
sonages in  England,  between  whom  and  per- 
sonages equally  great  in  France  politics 
makes  a  bridge  of  connection.  Cesarini  ap- 
peared to  them  as  an  accomplished  young 
man,  brother-in-law  to  a  distinguished  mem- 
ber of  the  French  Chamber.  Maltravers,  on 
the  other  hand,  introduced  him  to  the  literary 
dilettanti,  who  admire  all  authors  that  are  not 
rivals.  The  singular  costume  of  Cesarini, 
which  would  have  revolted  persons  in  an  Eng- 
lishman, enchanted  them  in  an  Italian.  He 
looked,  they  said,  like  a  poet.  Ladies  like  to 
have  verses  written  to  them, — and  Cesarini,  who 
talked  very  little,  made  up  for  it  by  scribbling 
eternally.  The  young  man's  head  soon  grew 
filled  with  comparisons  between  himself  in  Lon- 
don and  Petrarch  at  Avignon.  As  he  had  always 
thought  that  fame  was  in  the  gift  of  lords 
and  ladies,  and  had  no  idea  of   the  multitude 


he  fancied  himself  already  famous.  And  since 
one  of  his  strongest  feelings  was  his  jealousy 
of  Maltravers,  he  was  delighted  at  being  told 
he  was  a  much  more  interesting  creature  than 
that  haughty  personage,  who  wore  his  neck- 
cloth like  othcL  people,  and  had  not  even  those 
indipensable  attributes  of  genius — black  curls 
and  a  sneer.  Fine  society  which,  as  Madame 
de  Stael  well  says,  depraves  the  frivolous  mind 
and  braces  the  strong  one,  completed  the  ruin 
of  all  that  was  manly  in  Cesarini's  intellect. 
He  soon  learned  to  limit  his  desire  of  effect  or 
distinction  to  gilded  saloons;  and  his  vanity 
contented  itself  upon  the  scraps  and  morsels 
from  which  the  lion  heart  of  true  ambition 
turns  in  disdain.  But  this  was  not  all.  Ces- 
arini was  envious  of  the  greater  affluence  of 
Maltravers.  His  own  fortune  was  in  a  small 
capital  of  eight  or  nin^  thousand  pounds;  but, 
thrown  in  the  midst  of  the  wealthiest  society 
in  Europe,  he  could  not  bear  to  sacrifice  a 
single  claim  upon  its  esteem.  He  began  to 
talk  of  the  satiety  of  wealth,  and  young  ladies 
listened  to  him  with  remarkable  interest  when 
he  did  so — he  obtained  the  reputation  of  riches 
— he  was  too  vain  not  to  be  charmed  with  it. 
He  endeavored  to  maintain  the  claim  by  adopt- 
ing the  extravagant  excesses  of  the  day.  He 
bought  horses — he  gave  away  jewels — he  made 
love  to  a  marchioness  of  forty-two  who  was 
very  kind  to  him  and  very  fond  of  /<rar//— he 
gambled — he  was  in  the  high  road  to  destruc- 
tion. 


ii6 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


BOOK    SIXTH. 


IIAovTciK  T«  TtpiTKie.— EUBIP.  /oH.,  line  641. 

Perchance  you  say  that  gold's  the  arch-exceller, 
And  to  be  rich  is  sweet  ? 

*        *        *        xeZi'o  V  oiiK  ^vatrxttov 

EiKen'  65ou  ;^aAuifTa  TOis  *ca*cioi(ni'. —  Ibid.,  line  643. 

*        *        *        'Tis  not  to  be  endured, 
To  yield  our  trodden  path  and  turn  aside. 
Giving  our  place  to  knaves. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  L'adresse  et  I'artifice  ont  passe  dans  mon  coeur, 
Qu'on  a  sous  cet  habit  et  d'esprit  et  de  ruse."  * 

— Regnaru. 

It  was  a  fine  morning  in  July,  when  a  gen- 
tleman who  had  arrived  in  town  the  night  be- 
fore— after  an  absence  from  England  of  sev- 
eral years — walked  slowly  and  musingly  up 
that  superb  thoroughfare  which  connects  the 
Regent's  Park  with  St.  James's. 

He  was  a  man  who,  with  great  powers  of 
mind,  has  wasted  his  youth  in  a  wandering 
vagabond  kind  of  life,  but  who  had  worn  away 
the  love  of  pleasure,  and  begun  to  awaken  to 
a  sense  of  ambition. 

"It  is  astonishing  how  this  city  is  im- 
proved," said  he  to  himself.  "  Everything  gets 
on  in  this  world  with  a  little  energy  and  bustle 
— and  everybody  as  well  as  everything.  My  old 
cronies,  fellows  not  half  so  clever  as  I  am,  are 
all  doing  well.  There's  Tom  Stevens,  my  very 
fag  at  Eton — snivelling  little  dog  he  was  too  ! 
— just  made  under-secretary  of  state.  Pear- 
son, whose  longs  and  shorts  I  always  wrote,  is 
now  head-master  to  the  human  longs  and 
shorts  of  a  public  school— editing  Greek  plays, 
and  booked  for  a  bishopric.  Collier,  I  see,  by 
the  papers,  is  leading  his  circuit — and  Ernest 
Maltravers    (but  Ae   had    some   talent  !)    has 


•  Subtlety  and  craft  have  taken  possession  of  my 
heart,  but  under  this  habit  one  exhibits  both  shrewd- 
ness and  wit. 


made  a  name  in  the  world.  Here  am  I,  worth 
them  all  put  together,  who  have  done  nothing 
but  spend  half  my  little  fortune  in  spite  of  all 
my  economy.  Egad,  this  must  have  an  end.  I 
must  look  to  the  main  chance;  and  yet,  just 
when  I  want  his  help  the  most,  my  worthy 
uncle  thinks  fit  to  marry  again.  Humph — I'm 
too  good  for  this  world." 

While  thus  musing,  the  soliloquist  came  in 
direct  personal  contact  with  a  tall  gentleman, 
who  carried  his  head  very  high  in  the  air,  and 
did  not  appear  to  see  that  he  had  nearly  thrown 
our  abstracted  philosopher  off  his  legs. 

"  Zounds,  sir,  what  do  you  mean  !  "  cried 
the  latter. 

"  I    beg   your   par "    began   the   other, 

meekly,  when  his  arm  was  seized,  and  the  in- 
jured man  exclaimed,  "  Bless  me,  sir,  is  it 
indeed  you  whom  I  see  ? " 

"  Ha  !— Lumley  ?  " 

"The  same;  and  how  fares  it,  my  dear 
uncle  ?  I  did  not  know  you  were  in  London. 
I  only  arrived  last  night.  How  well  you  are 
looking  ! " 

"  Why,  yes,  Heaven  be  praised,  I  am  pretty 
well." 

" And  happy  in  your  new  ties?  You  must 
present  me  to  Mrs.  Templeton." 

"  Ehem,"  said  Mr.  Templeton,  clearing  his 
throat,  and  with  a  slight  but  embarassed  smile, 
"  I  never  thought  I  should  marry  again." 

^^  L'homme  propose  et  Dieu  dispose,"  observed 
Lumley  Ferrers;  for  it  was  he. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


"«7 


"  Gently,  my  dear  nephew,"  replied  Mr. 
Templeton,  gravely;  "  those  phrases  are  some- 
what sacrilegious;  I  am  an  old-fashioned  per- 
son, you  know." 

"Ten  thousand  apologies." 

•'  One  apology  will  suffice;  these  hyperboles 
of  phrase  are  almost  sinful." 

"Confounded  old  prig  !  "  thought  Ferrers; 
but  he  bowed  sanctimoniously. 

"  My  dear  uncle,  I  have  been  a  wild  fellow 
in  my  day;  but  with  years  comes  reflection; 
and,  under  your  guidance,  if  I  may  hope  for 
it,  I  trust  to  grow  a  wiser  and  a  better  man." 

"  It  is  well,  Lumley,"  returned  the  uncle; 
"  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  returned  to 
your  own  country.  Will  you  dine  with  me  to- 
morrow ?  I  am  living  near  Fulham.  You  had 
better  bring  your  carpet-bag,  and  stay  with  me 
some  days;  you  will  be  heartily  welcome,  es- 
pecially if  you  can  shift  without  a  foreign  ser- 
vant. I  have  a  great  compassion  for  papists, 
but " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  do  not  fear;  I  am  not 
rich  enough  to  have  a  foreign  servant,  and 
have  not  travelled  over  three  quarters  of  the 
globe  without  learning  that  it  is  ]x>ssible  to 
dispense  with  a  valet." 

"  As  to  being  rich  enough,"  observed  Mr. 
Templeton,  with  a  calculating  air,  "seven 
hundred  and  ninty-five  pounds  ten  shillings  a 
year  will  allow  a  man  to  keep  two  servants,  if 
he  pleases;  but  I  am  glad  to  find  you  econom- 
ical, at  all  events.  We  meet  to-morrow,  then, 
at  six  o'clock." 

"Ah  revolt — I  mean,  God  bless  you." 

"  Tiresome  old  gentleman  that,"  muttered 
Ferrers,  "  and  not  so  cordial  as  formerly;  per- 
haps his  wife  is  enceinte,  and  he  is  going  to  do 
me  the  injustice  of  having  another  heir.  I 
must  look  to  this;  for  without  riches  I  had 
better  go  back  and  live  au  cinquiime  at  Paris." 

With  this  conclusion  Lumley  quickened  his 
pace,  and  soon  arrived  in  Seamore  Place.  In 
a  few  moments  more  he  was  in  the  library  well 
stored  with  books,  and  decorated  with  marble 
busts  and  images  from  the  studios  of  Canova 
and  Thorwaldsen. 

"  My  master,  sir,  will  be  down  immediately," 
said  the  servant  who  admitted  him;  and  Fer- 
rers threw  himself  on  a  sofa,  and  contemplated 
the  apartment  with  an  air  half-envious  and 
half  cynical. 

Presently  the  door  opened,  and  "  My  dear 


Ferrers  !  "  "  Well,  vion  cher,  how  are  you  ?  " 
were  the  salutations  hastily  exchanged. 

After  the  first  sentences  of  inquiry,  gratula 
tion,  and  welcome,  had  cleared  the  way  for 
more  general  conversation,  "  Well,  Maitravers," 
said  Ferrers,  "  so  here  we  are  together  again, 
and  after  a  lapse  of  so  many  years  !  both 
older,  certainly;  and  you,  I  suppose.  Wiser. 
At  all  events,  people  think  you  so;  and  that's 
all  that's  important  in  the  question.  Why, 
man,  you  are  looking  as  young  as  ever, 
only  a  little  paler  and  thinner:  but  look  at  me; 
I  am  not  very  much  past  thirty,  and  I  am  al  ■ 
most  an  old  man;  bald  at  the  temples,  crows' 
feet,  too,  eh  !     Idleness  ages  one  damnably." 

"  Pooh,  Lumley,  I  never  saw  you  look 
better.  And  are  you  really  come  to  settle  in 
England  ? " 

"Yes,  if  I  can  afford  it.  But  at  my  age,  and 
after  having  seen  so  much,  the  life  of  an  idle, 
obscure  gar  (on,  does  not  content  me.  I  feel 
that  the  world's  opinion,  which  I  used  to  de- 
spise, is  growing  necessary  to  me.  I  want  to 
be  something.  What  can  I  be  ?  Don't  look 
alarmed,  I  won't  rival  you.  I  dare  say  literary 
reputation  is  a  fine  thing,  but  I  desire  some 
distinction,  more  substantial  and  worldly.  You 
know  your  own  country;  give  me  a  map  of  the 
roads  to  Power." 

"  To  power  !  Oh,  nothing  but  law,  politics, 
and  riches." 

"  For  law  I  am  too  old ;  politics,  perhaps, 
might  suit  me;  but  riches,  my  dear  Ernest — 
ah,  how  I  long  for  a  good  account  with  my 
banker !  " 

"  Well,  patience  and  hope.  Are  you  not  a 
rich  uncle's  heir? " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ferrers,  very  dolor- 
ously; "the  old  gentleman  has  married  again, 
and  may  have  a  family." 

"  Married  ! — to  whom  ?  " 

"A  widow,  I  hear;  I  know  nothing  more, 
except  that  she  has  a  child  already.  So  you 
see  she  has  got  into  a  cursed  way  of  having 
children.  And,  perhaps,  by  the  time  I'm  forty, 
I  shall  see  a  whole  covey  of  cherubs  flying 
away  with  the  great  Templeton  property  !  " 

"  Ha,  ha  !  your  despair  sharpens  your  wit, 
Lumley;  but  why  not  take  a  leaf  out  of  your 
uncle's  book,  and  marry  yourself?" 

"  So  I  will  when  I  can  find  an  heiress.  If 
that  is  what  you  meant  to  say — it  is  a  more 
sensible  suggestion  than  any  I  could  have  sup' 


ii8 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


posed  to  come  from  a  man  who  writes  books, 
especially  poetry;  and  your  advice  is  not  to  be 
despised.  For  rich  I  will  be;  and  as  the  fathers 
(I  don't  mean  of  the  Church,  but  in  Horace) 
told  the  rising  generation  the  first  thing  is  to 
resolve  to  be  rich,  it  is  only  the  second  thing 
to  consider  how." 

"  Meanwhile,  Ferrers,  you  will  be  my  guest." 
"  I'll  dine  with  you  to-day;  but  to-morrow  I 
am  off  to  Fulham,  to  be  introduced  to  my 
aunt.  Can't  you  fancy  her  ?  " — grey  gros  de 
Naples  gown;  gold  chain  with  an  eyeglass; 
rather  fat;  two  pugs  and  a  parrot !  '  Start 
not,  this  is  fancy's  sketch  !  "  I  have  not  yet 
seen  the  respectable  relative  with  my  physical 
optics.  What  shall  we  have  for  dinner  ?  Let 
me  choose,  you  were  always  a  bad  caterer." 

As  Ferrers  thus  rattled  on,  Maltravers  felt 
himself  growing  younger;  old  times  and  old 
adventures  crowded  fast  upon  him;  and  the  two 
friends  spent  a  most  agreeable  day  together. 
It  was  only  the  next  morning  that  Maltravers, 
in  thinking  over  the  various  conversations  that 
had  passed  between  them,  was  forced  reluc- 
tantly to  acknowledge  that  the  inert  selfishness 
of  Lumley  Ferrers  seemed  now  to  have  hard- 
ened into  a  resolute  and  systematic  want  of 
principle,  which  might,  perhaps,  make  him  a 
dangerous  and  designing  man,  if  urged  by 
circumstances  into  action. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  Daiiph.    Sir,  I   must  speak  to  you.     1  have  been 
long  your  despised  kinsman. 
"Morose.    O,  what  thou  wilt,  nephew."— Epicene. 

"  Her  silence  is  dowry  eno' — exceedingly  soft  spoken 
thrifty  of  her  speech,  that  spends  but  six  words  a-day." 

,  —Ibid. 

The  coach  dropped  Mr.  Ferrers  at  the  gate 
of  a  villa  about  three  miles  from  town.  The 
lodge-keeper  charged  himself  with  the  carpet- 
bag, and  Ferrers  strolled,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  (it  was  his  favorite  mode  of  disposing 
of  them),  through  the  beautiful  and  elaborate 
pleasure-grounds. 

"A  very  nice,  snug,  little  box,  (jointure- 
house,  I  suppose)  !  I  would  not  grudge  that, 
I'm  sure,  if  I  had  but  the  rest.  But  here,  I 
suspect,  comes  madam's  first  specimen  of  the 
art  of  having  a  family."  This  last  thought 
was  extracted  from  Mr.  Ferrer's  contemplative 


brain  by  a  lovely  little  girl,  who  came  running 
up  to  him,  fearless  and  spoilt  as  she  was;  and, 
after  indulging  a  tolerable  stare,  exclaimed 
"  Are  you  come  to  see  papa,  sir  ? " 

"Papa! — the  deuce!"  thought  Lumley; 
"  and  who  is  papa,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Why,  tnamma's  husband.  He  is  not  my 
papa  by  rights." 

"Certainly  not,  my  love;  not  by  rights — I 
comprehend." 

"  Eh  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  your  papa  by  wrongs 
— Mr.  Templeton." 

"Oh,  this  way,  then." 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  Mr.  Templeton,  my 
little  angel." 

"  To  be  sure  I  am.  You  have  not  seen  the 
rocking-horse  he  is  going  to  give  me." 

"  Not  yet  sweet  child  !  And  how  is  mam- 
ma?" 

"  Oh,  poor,  dear  mamma,"  said  the  child, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  voice,  and  tears  in 
her  eyes.     "  Ah,  she  is  not  well  !  " 

"  In  the  family  way,  to  a  dead  certainty  !  " 
muttered  Ferrers,  with  a  groan;  "but  here  is 
my  uncle.  Horrid  name  !  Uncles  were 
always  wicked  fellows.  Richard  the  Third, 
and  the  man  who  did  something  or  other  to 
the  babes  in  the  wood,  were  a  joke  to  my 
hard-hearted  old  relation,  who  has   robbed  me 

with  a  widow  !     The  lustful,  liquorish  old 

My  dear  sir,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  !  " 

Mr.  Templeton,  who  was  a  man  very  cold 
in  his  manners,  and  always  either  looked  over 
people's  heads  or  down  upon  the  ground,  just 
touched  his  nephew's  outstretched  hand,  and 
telling  him  he  was  welcome,  observed  that  it 
was  a  very  fine  afternoon. 

"Very,  indeed:  sweet  place  this;  j'ou  see, 
by  the  way,  that  I  have  already  made  acquaint- 
ance with  my  fair  cousin-in-law.  She  is  very 
pretty." 

"  I  really  think  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Templeton, 
with  some  warmth,  and  gazing  fondly  at  the 
child,  who  was  now  throwing  buttercups  up  in 
the  air,  and  trying  to  catch  them. — Mr.  Ferrers 
wished  in  his  heart  that  they  had  been  brick- 
bats ! 

"  Is  she  like  her  mother  ?  "  asked  the  nephew. 

"Like  whom,  sir  ?". 

"Her  mother — Mrs.  Templeton." 

"No,  not  very;  there  is  an  air,  perhaps,  but 
the  I'keness  is  not  remarkably  strong      Would 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


119 


you  not  like  to  go  to  your  room  before  din- 
ner? " 

"  Thank  you.  Can  I  not  first  be  presented 
to  Mrs.  Tern " 

"  Slie  is  at  her  devotions,  Mr.  Lumley,"  in- 
terrupted Mr.  Templeton,  grimly. 

"  The  she-hypocrite  !  "  thought  Ferrers. 
"  Oh,  I  am  delighted  that  your  pious  heart 
has  found  so  congenial  a  help-mate  !  " 

"  It  is  a  great  blessing,  and  I  am  grateful 
for  it.     This  is  the  way  to  the  house." 

Lumley,  now  formally  installed  in  a  grave 
bed-room,  with  dimity  curtains,  and  dark- 
brown  paper  with  light-brown  stars  on  it, 
threw  himself  into  a  large  chair,  and  yawned 
and  stretched  with  as  much  fervor  as  if  he 
could  have  yawned  and  stretched  himself  into 
his  uncle's  property.  He  then  slowly  ex- 
changed his  morning  dress  for  a  quiet  suit  of 
black,  and  thanked  his  stars  that,  amidst  all 
his  sins,  he  had  never  been  a  dandy,  and  had 
never  rejoiced  in  a  fine  waistcoat — a  criminal 
possession  that  he  well  knew  would  have  entire- 
ly hardened  his  uncle's  conscience  against  him. 
He  tarried  in  his  room  till  the  second  bell 
summoned  him  to  descend;  and  then,  entering 
the  drawing-room,  which  had  a  cold  look  even 
in  July,  found  his  uncle  standing  by  the  man- 
tel-piece, and  a  young,  slight,  handsome 
woman,  half-buried  in  a  huge  but  not  comfort- 
able _/«///«///. 

■'Your  aunt,  Mrs.  Templeton;  madam,  my 
nephew,  Mt.  Lumley  Ferrers,"  said  Temple- 
ton, with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  "  John, — din- 
ner !  " 

■'  I  hope  I  am  not  late  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Templeton,  gently,  for  he  had 
always  liked  his  nephew,  and  began  now  to 
thaw  towards  him  a  little  on  seeing  that  Lum- 
ley put  a  good  face  upon  the  new  state  of 
affairs. 

"No,  my  dear  boy — no;  but  I  think  order 
and  punctuality  cardinal  virtues  in  a  well-regu- 
lated family." 

"  Dinner,  sir,"  said  the  butler,  opening  the 
folding-doors  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  Lumely,  offering  his  arm 
to  the  aunt.  "  What  a  lovely  place  this 
is  !" 

Mrs.  Templeton  said  something  in  reply,  but 
what  it  was,  Ferrers  could  not  discover,  so  low 
and  choaked  was  the  voice. 

"  Shy,"  thought  he:  "odd   for  a  widow! — 


but  that's  the  way  those  husband-buriers  take 
us  in  ! " 

Plain  as  was  the  general  furniture  of  the 
apartment,  the  natural  ostentation  of  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton broke  out  in  the  massive  value  of  the 
plate,  and  the  number  of  the  attendants.  He 
was  a  rich  man,  and  he  was  proud  of  his  riches: 
he  knew  it  was  respectable  to  be  rich,  and  he 
thought  it  was  moral  to  be  respectable.  As 
for  the  dinner,  Lumely  knew  enough  of  his 
uncle's  tastes  to  be  prepared  for  viands  and 
wines  that  even  he  (fastidious  gormand  as  he 
was)  did  not  despise. 

Between  the  intervals  of  the  eating,  Mr. 
Ferrers  endeavored  to  draw  his  aunt  into  con- 
versation, but  he  found  all  his  ingenuity  fail 
him.  There  was,  in  the  features  of  Mrs. 
Templeton,  an  expression  of  deep  but  calm 
melancholy,  that  would  have  saddened  most 
persons  to  look  upon  especially  in  one  so  young 
and  lovely.  It  was  evidently  something  be- 
yond shyness  or  reserve  that  made  her  so 
silent  and  subdued,  and  even  in  her  silence 
there  was  so  much  natural  sweetness,  that 
Ferrers  could  not  ascribe  her  manner  to 
haughtiness,  or  the  desire  to  repel.  He  was 
rather  puzzled;  "for  though,"  thought  he, 
sensibly  enough,  "  my  uncle  is  not  a  youth,  he 
is  a  very  rich  fellow;  and  how  any  widow,  who 
is  married  again  to  a  rich  old  fellow,  can  lie 
melancholy,  passes  my  understanding  !  " 

Templeton,  as  if  to  draw  attention  from  his 
wife's  taciturnity,  talked  more  than  usual. 
He  entered  largely  into  politics,  and  regretted 
that  in  times  so  critical  he  was  not  in  parlia- 
ment. 

"  Did  I  possess  your  youth  and  your  health, 
Lumley,  I  would  not  neglect  my  country — 
Popery  is  abroad." 

"  I  myself  should  like  very  much  to  be  in 
parliament,"  said  Lumly,  boldly. 

"  I  dare  say  you  would,"  returned  the  uncle, 
drily.  "  Parliament  is  very  expensive — only 
fit  for  those  who  have  a  large  stake  in  the 
country.     Champagne  to  Mr.  Ferrers." 

Lumley  bit  his  lip,  and  spoke  little  durmg 
the  rest  of  the  dinner.  Mr.  Templeton,  how- 
ever, waxed  gracious,  by  the  time  the  dessert 
was  on  the  table;  and  began  cutting  up  a  pine- 
apple, with  many  assurances  to  Lumley  that 
gardens  were  nothing  without  pineries.  "  When- 
ever you  settle  in  the  country,  nephew,  be  sure 
you  have  a  pinery." 


B  UL  n  Eli '  S     ll^ORKS. 


"Oh,  yes,"  said  Lumley,  almost  bitterly, 
"and  a  pack  of  hounds,  and  a  French  cook; 
they  will  all  suit  my  fortune  very  well." 

"You  are  more  thoughtful  on  pecuniary 
matters  than  you  used  to  be,"  said  the 
uncle. 

"Sir,"  replied  Ferrers,  solemnly,  "in  a  very 
short  time  I  shall  be  what  is  called  a  middle- 
aged  man." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  host. 

There  was  another  silence  Lumley  was  a 
man,  as  we  have  said,  or  implied  before,  of 
great  knowledge  of  human  nature,  at  least  the 
ordinary  sort  of  it,  anil  he  now  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  various  courses  it  might  be  wise  to 
pursue  towards  his  rich  relation.  He  saw  that, 
in  delicate  fencing,  his  uncle  had  over  him  the 
same  advantage  that  a  tall  man  has  over  a 
short  one  with  the  physical  sword-play; — by 
holding  his  weapon  in  a  proper  position,  he 
kept  the  other  at  arm's  length.  There  was  a 
grand  reserve  and  dignity  about  the  man  who 
had  something  to  give  away,  of  which  Ferrers, 
however  actively  he  might  shift  his  ground 
and  flourish  his  rapier,  cou'.d  not  break  the 
defence.  He  determined,  therefore,  upon  a 
new  game,  for  which  his  frankness  of  manner 
admirably  adapted  him.  Just  as  he  formed 
this  resolution,  Mrs.  Templeton  rose,  and  with 
a  gentle  bow,  and  soft,  though  landguid  smile, 
glided  from  the  room.  The  two  gentlemen, 
resettled  themselves,  and  Templeton  pushed 
the  bottle  to  Ferrers. 

"  Help  yourself,  Lumley;  your  travels  seems 
to  have  deprived  you  of  your  high  spirits — 
you  are  pensive." 

"  Sir,"  said  F'errers,  abruptly,  "  I  wish  to  con- 
sult you." 

"  Oh,  young  man  !  you  have  been  guilty 
of  some  excess  —  you  have  gambled  —  you 
have " 

"  I  have  done  nothing,  sir,  that  should  make 
me  less  worthy  your  esteem.  I  repeat,  I  wish 
to  consult  you;  I  have  outlived  the  hot 
days  of  my  youth^I  am  now  alive  to  the 
claims  of  the  world.  I  have  talents,  I  believe; 
and  I  have  application,  I  know.  I  wish  to  fill 
a  position  in  the  world  that  may  redeem  my 
past  indolence,  and  do  credit  to  my  family. 
Sir,  I  set  your  example  before  me,  and  I  now 
ask  your  counsel,  with  the  determination  to 
follow  it." 

Templeton  was  startled;  he  half  shaded  his 


face  with  his  hand,  and  gazed  searchingly  upoi. 
the  high  forehead  and  bold  eyes  of  his  nephew. 
"  I  believe  you  are  sincere,"  said  he  after  a 
pause. 

"  You  may  well  believe  so,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  will  think  of  this.  I  had  an  hon- 
orable ambition — not  so  extravagant  a  one, 
— that  is  sinful;  but  a  respectable  station  in 
the  world  is  a  proper  object  of  desire,  and 
wealth  is  a  blessing;  because,"  added  the 
rich  man,  taking  another  slice  of  the  pine- 
apple,— "  it  enables  us  to  be  of  use  to  our  fel- 
low-creatures !  " 

"  Sir,  then,"  said  Ferrers,  with  daring  ani- 
mation— "  then  I  avow  my  that  my  ambition 
is  precisely  of  the  kind  you  speak  of.  I  am 
obscure,  I  desire  to  be  reputably  known;  my 
fortune  is  mediocre,  I  desire  it  to  be  great. 
I  &ik  you  for  nothing — I  know  your  generous 
heart;  but  I  wish  independently  to  work  out 
my  own  career  I  " 

"  Lumley,"  said  Templeton,  "  I  never  es- 
teemed you  so  much  as  I  do  now.  Listen  to 
me — I  will  confide  in  you;  I  think  the  gov- 
ernment are  under  obligations  to  me." 

"  I  know  it,"  exclaimed  Ferrers,  whose  eyes 
sparkled  at  the  thought  of  a  sinecure — for 
sinecures  then  existed  ! 

"  And,"  pursued  the  uncle,  "  I  intend  to  ask 
them  a  favor  in  return." 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"Yes;  I  think — mark  me — with  manage- 
ment and  address,  I  may " 

"Well,  my  dear  sir  !  " 

"  Obtain  a  barony  for  myself  and  heirs;  1 
trust  I  shall  soon  have  a  family  !  " 

Had  somebody  given  Lumley  Ferrers  a 
hearty  cuff  on  the  ear,  he  would  have  thought 
less  of  it  than  of  this  wmd-up  of  his  uncle's 
ambitious  projects.  His  jaws  fell,  his  eyes 
grew  an  inch  larger,  and  he  remained  per- 
fectly speechless. 

"  Ay,"  pursued  Mr.  Templeton,  "  I  have 
long  dreamed  of  this;  my  character  is  spot- 
less, my  fortune  great.  I  have  ever  exerted 
my  parliamentary  influence  in  favor  of  min- 
isters; and,  in  this  commercial  country,  no  man 
has  higher  claims  than  Richard  Templeton 
to  the  honors  of  a  virtuous,  loyal,  and  re- 
ligious state.  Yes,  my  boy,  I  like  your  ambi- 
tion—you see  I  have  some  of  it  myself;  and 
since  you  are  sincere  in  your  wish  to  tread  in 
my  footsteps,  I  think  I  can  obtain  you  a  junior 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


121 


partnership  in  a  highly  respectable  estab- 
lishment. Let  me  see;  your  capital  now 
is " 

"  Pardon  me  sir,"  interrupted  Lumley,  col- 
oring with  indignation  despite  himself,  "  I 
honor  commerce  much,  but  my  paternal  rela- 
tions are  not  such  as  would  allow  me  to  enter 
into  trade.  And  permit  me  to  add,"  con- 
tinued he,  seizing  with  instant  adriotness  the 
new  weakness  presented  to  him—"  permit  me 
to  add  that  those  relations  who  have  been  ever 
kind  to  me,  would,  properly  managed,  be 
highly  efficient  in  promoting  your  own  views 
of  advancement;  for  your  sake  I  would  not 
break  with  them.  Lord  Sa.xingham  is  still  a 
minister — nay,  he  is  in  the  cabinet." 

"  Hem — Lumley — hem  !  "  said  Templeton, 
thoughtfully;  "  we  will  consider — we  will  con- 
sider.    Any  more  wine  ?  " 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  sir." 

"  Then  I'll  just  take  my  evening  stroll,  and 
think  over  matters.  You  can  rejoin  Mrs. 
Templeton.  And  I  say,  Lumley, — I  read 
prayers  at  nine  o'clock. — Never  forget  your 
Maker,  and  He  will  not  forget  you.  The  bar- 
ony will  be  an  excellent  thing — eh  ? — an  Eng- 
lish'peerage — yes — an  English  peerage!  very 
different  from  your  beggarly  countships 
abroad  !" 

So  saying,  Mr.  Templeton  rang  for  his  hat 
and  cane,  and  stepped  into  the  lawn  from  the 
window  of  the  dining-room. 

"  '  The  world's  mine  oyster,  which  I  with 
sword  will  open,' "  muttered  Ferrers;  "  I 
would  mould  this  selfish  old  man  to  my  pur- 
pose; for,  since  I  have  neither  genius  to  write, 
nor  eloquence  to  declaim,  I  will  at  least  see 
whether  I  have  not  cunning  to  plot,  and  courage 
to  act.  Conduct — conduct — conduct — there 
lies  my  talent;  and  what  is  conduct  but  a  steady 
walk  from  a  design  to  its  execution  !  " 

With  these  thoughts  Ferrers  sought  Mrs. 
Templeton.  He  opened  the  folding-doors  very 
gently,  for  all  his  habitual  movements  were 
quick  and  noiseless,  and  perceived  that  Mrs. 
Templeton  sate  by  the  window,  and  that  she 
seemed  engrossed  with  a  book  which  lay  open 
on  a  little  work-table  before  her. 

"Fordyce's  Advice  to  Young  Married 
Women,  I  suppose.  Sly  jade  !  However,  I 
must  not  have  her  agamst  me." 

He  approached;  still  Mrs.  Templeton  did 
not  note  him;  nor  was  it  till  he  stood  facing 


her  that  he  himself  observed  that  her  tears 
were  falling  fast  over  the  page. 

He  was  a  little  embarrassed,  and  turning 
towards  the  window,  affected  to  cough,  and 
then  said,  without  looking  at  Mrs.  Templeton, 
"  I  fear  I  have  disturbed  you." 

"  No,"  answered  the  same  low,  stifled  voice 
that  had  before  replied  to  Lumley's  vain  at- 
tempt to  provoke  conversation;  "it  was  a 
melancholy  employment,  and  perhaps  it  is  not 
right  to  indulge  in  it." 

"  May  I  inquire  what  author  so  affected 
you?" 

"  It  is  but  a  volume  of  poems,  and  I  am  no 
judge   of   poetry;   but    it    contains    thoughts 

which — which "    Mrs.    Templeton    paused 

abruptly,  and  Lumley  quietly  took  up  the 
book. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  turning  to  the  title-page — 
"my  friend  ought  to  be  much  flattered." 

"Your  friend  ? " 

"Yes;  this,  I  see,  is  by  Ernest  Maltravers, 
a  very  intimate  ally  of  mine." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  cried  Mrs. 
Templeton,  almost  with  animation — "  I  read 
but  little;  it  was  by  chance  that  I  met  with 
one  of  his  books,  and  they  are  as  if  I  heard  a 
dear  friend  speaking  to  me.  Ah  !  I  should 
like  to  see  him  !  " 

"  I'm  sure,  madam,"  said  the  voice  of  a 
third  person,  in  an  austere  and  rebuking  ac- 
cent, "  I  do  not  see  what  good  it  would  do 
your  immortal  soul  to  see  a  man  who  writes 
idle  verses,  which  appear  to  me,  indeed,  highly 
immoral.  I  just  looked  into  that  volume  this 
morning,  and  found  nothing  but  trash — love- 
sonnets  and  such  stuff." 

Mrs.  Templeton  made  no  reply,  and  Lumley, 
in  order  to  change  the  conversation  which 
seemed  a  little  too  matrimonial  for  his  taste, 
said,  rather  awkwardly,  "  You  are  returned 
very  soon,  sir." 

"  Yes,  I  don't  like  walking  in  the  rain  !  " 

"  Bless  me,  it  rains,  so  it  does — I  had  not 
observed " 

"  Are  you  wet,  sir  ?  had  you  not  better " 

began  the  wife  timidly. 

"  No,  ma'am,  I'm  not  wet,  I  thank  you. 
By  the  by,  nephew,  this  new  author  is  a  friend 
of  yours.  I  wonder  a  man  of  his  family 
should  condescend  to  turn  author.  He  can 
come  to  no  good.  I  hope  you  will  drop  his 
acquaintance — authors  are   very    unprofitable 


122 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


associates,  I'm  sure.  I  trust  I  shall  see  no 
more  of  Mr.  Maltravers'  books  in  my  house." 

"  Nevertheless,  he  is  well  thought  of,  sir, 
and  makes  no  mean  figure  in  the  world,"  said 
Lumley,  stoutly;  for  he  was  by  no  means  dis- 
posed to  give  up  a  friend,  who  might  be  as 
useful  to  him  as  Mr.  Templeton  himself. 

"  Figure,  or  no  figure — I  have  not  had  many 
dealings  with  authors  in  my  day;  and  when  I 
had,  I  always  repented  it.  Not  sound,  sir,  not 
sound — all  cracked  somewhere.  Mrs.  Tem- 
pleton, have  the  kindness  to  get  the  Prayer- 
book — my  hassock  must  be  fresh  stuffed,  it 
gives  me  quite  a  pain  in  my  knee.  Lumley, 
will  you  ring  the  bell  ?  Your  aunt  is  very 
melancholy.  True  religion  is  not  gloomy;  we 
will  read  a  sermon  on  Cheerfulness." 

"  So,  so,"  said  Mr.  Ferrers  to  himself,  as  he 
undressed  that  night — "  I  see  that  my  uncle  is 
a  little  displeased  with  my  aunt's  pensive  face 
— a  little  jealous  of  her  thinking  of  anything 
but  himself:  tant  mietix.  I  must  work  upon  this 
discovery;^ it  will  not  do  for  them  to  live  too 
happily  with  each  other.  And  what  with  that 
lever,  and  what  with  his  ambitious  projects,  I 
think  I  see  a  way  to  push  the  good  things  of 
this  world  a  few  inches  nearer  to  Lumley  Fer- 
rers." 


CHAPTER   IIL 

"  The  pride  too  of  her  step,  as  light 

Along  the  unconscious  earth  she  went, 
Seemed  that  of  one,  born  with  a  right 
To  walk  some  heavenlier  element." 

— Loves  of  the  Angels, 

*  •        *        "  Can  it  be 

That  these  fine  impulses,  these  lofty  thoughts 
Burning  with  their  own  beauty,  are  but  given 
To  make  me  the  low  slave  of  vanity  ?  " — Erinna, 

*  *       *       "Is  she  not  too  fair 
Even  to  think  of  maiden's  sweetest  care  ? 
The  mouth  and  brow  are  contrasts." — Ibid. 

It  was  two  or  three  evenings  after  the  date 
of  the  last  chapter,  and  there  was  what  the 
newspapers  call  'a  select  party  '  in  one  of  the 
noblest  mansions  in  London.  A  young  lady, 
on  whom  all  eyes  were  bent,  and  whose  beauty 
might  have  served  the  painter  for  a  model  of  a 
Semiramis  or  Zenobia,  more  majestic  than  be- 
came her  years,  and  so  classically  fultless  as  to 
have    something   cold   and    statue-like    in  its 


haughty  lineaments,  was  moving  through  the 
crowd  that  murmured  applauses  as  she  past. 
This  lady  was  Florence  Lascelles,  the  daugh- 
ter of  lyumley's  great  relation,  the  Earl  of 
Saxingham,  and  supposed  to  be  the  richest 
heiress  in  England.  Lord  Saxingham  himself 
drew  aside  his  daughter  as  she  swept  along. 

"  Florence,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper,  "  the 
Duke  of  *  *  *  *  is  greatly  struck  with  you— 
be  civil  to  him — I  am  about  to  present  him." 

So  saying,  the  Earl  turned  to  a  small,  dark, 
stiff-looking  man,  of  about  twenty-eight  years 
of  age,  at  his  left,  and  introduced  the  Duke  of 
*  *  *  *  to  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  The 
duke  was  unmarried;  it  was  an  introduction 
between  the  greatest  match  aud  the  wealthiest 
heiress  in  the  peerage. 

"Lady  Florence,"  said  Lord  Saxingham, 
"  is  as  fond  of  horses  as  yourself,  Duke, 
though  not  quite  so  good  a  judge." 

"  I  confess  I  do  like  horses,"  said  the  Duke, 
with  a  ingenuous  air. 

Lord  Saxingham  moved  away. 

Lady  Florence  stood  mute — one  glance  of 
bright  contempt  shot  from  her  large  eyes;  her 
lip  slightly  curled,  and  she  then  half  turned 
aside,  and  seemed  to  forget  that  her  new  ac- 
quaintance was  in  existence. 

His  grace,  like  most  great  personages,  was 
not  apt  to  take  offence;  nor  could  he,  indeed, 
ever  suppose  that  any  slight  towards  the  Duke 
of  *  *  *  *  could  be  intended;  still  he  thought 
it  would  be  proper  in  I^ady  Florence  to  begin 
the  conversation;  for  he  himself,  though  not 
shy,  was  habitually  silent,  and  accustomed 
to  be  saved  the  fatigue  of  defraying  the 
small  charges  of  society.  After  a  pause,  see- 
ing, however,  that  Lady  Florence  remained 
speechless,  he  began: 

"  You  ride  sometimes  in  the  Park,  Lady 
Florence  ? " 

"  Very  seldom." 

"  It  is,  indeed,  too  warm  for  riding  at  pres- 
ent." 

"  I  did  not  say  so." 

"  Hem — I  thought  you  did." 

Another  pause. 

"  Did  you  speak.  Lady  Florence  ? " 

"No." 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  pardon— Lord  Saxingham  is 
looking  very  well." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"  Your   picture    in   the  exhibition   scarcely 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


123 


does  you  justice,  Lady  Florence;  yet  Law- 
rence is  usually  happy." 

"  You  are  very  flattering,"  said  Lady  Flo- 
rence, with  a  lively  and  perceptible  impatience 
in  her  tone  and  manner.  The  young  beauty 
was  thorughly  spoilt — and  now  all  the  scorn 
of  a  scornful  nature  was  drawn  forth,  by  ob- 
serving the  envious  eyes  of  the  crowd  were 
bent  upon  one  whom  the  Duke  of  *  *  *  *  was 
actually  talking  to.  Brilliant  as  were  her  own 
powers  of  conversation,  she  would  not  deign 
to  exert  them — she  was  an  aristocrat  of  intel- 
lect rather  than  birth,  and  she  took  it  into  her 
head  that  the  Duke  was  an  idiot.  She  was 
very  much  mistaken.  If  she  had  but  broken 
up  the  ice,  she  would  have  found  that  the 
water  below  was  not  shallow.  The  Duke,  in 
fact,  like  many  other  Englishmen,  though  he 
did  not  like  the  trouble  of  showing  forth,  and 
had  an  ungainly  manner,  was  a  man  who  had 
read  a  good  deal,  possessed  a  sound  head  and 
an  honorable  mind,  though  he  did  not  know 
what  it  was  to  love  anybody,  to  care  much  for 
anything,  and  was  at  once  perfectly  sated  and 
yet  perfectly  contented;  for  apathy  is  the  com- 
bination of  satiety  and  content. 

Still  Florence  judged  of  him  as  lively  per- 
sons are  apt  to  judge  of  the  sedate:  besides, 
she  wanted  to  proclaim  to  him  and  to  every- 
body else,  how  little  she  cared  for  dukes  and 
great  matches;  she,  therefore,  with  a  slight  in- 
clination of  her  head,  turned  away,  and  ex- 
tended her  hand  to  a  dark  young  man,  who 
was  gazing  on  her  with  that  respectful  but  un- 
mistakable admiration  which  proud  women  are 
never  proud  enough  to  despise. 

"  Ah,  signor,"  said  she  in  Italian,  "  I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you;  it  is  a  relief,  indeed,  to  find 
genius  in  a  crowd  of  nothings." 

So  saying,  the  heiress  seated  herself  on  one 
of  those  convenient  couches  which  hold  but 
two,  and  beckoned  the  Italian  to  her  side. 
Oh,  how  the  vain  heart  of  Castruccio  Cesarini 
beat !— what  visions  of  love,  rank,  wealth, 
already  flitted  before  him  ! 

"  I  almost  fancy,"  said  Castruccio,  "  that 
the  old  days  of  romance  are  returned,  when  a 
queen  could  turn  from  princes  and  warriors  to 
listen  to  a  troubadour." 

"  Troubadours  are  now  more  rare  than  war- 
riors and  princes,"  replied  Florence,  with  gay 
animation,  which  contrasted  strongly  with  the 
coldness  she  had  manifested  to  the   Duke  of 


****,"  and  therefore  it  would  not  now  be  a 
very  great  merit  in  a  queen  to  fly  from  dull- 
ness and  insipidity  to  poetry  and  wit." 

"  Ah,  say  not  wit,"  said  Cesarini;  '•  wit  is  in- 
compatible with  the  grave  character  of  deep 
feelings; — incompatible  with  enthusiasm,  with 
worship; — incompatible  with  the  thoughts  that 
wait  upon  Lady  Florence  Lascelles." 

Florence  colored  and  slightly  frowned;  but 
the  immense  distinction  between  her  position 
and  that  of  the  young  foreigner,  with  her  own 
inexperience,  both  of  real  life  and  the  pre- 
sumption of  vain  hearts,  made  her  presently 
forget  the  flattery  that  would  have  offended 
her  in  another.  She  turned  the  conversation, 
however,  into  general  channels,  and  she  talked 
of  Italian  poetry  with  a  warmth  and  eloquence 
worthy  of  the  theme.  While  they  thus  con- 
versed, a  new  guest  had  arrived,  who,  from 
the  spot  where  he  stood,  engaged  with  Lord 
Saxingham,  fixed  a  steady  and  scrutinizing 
gaze  upon  the  pair. 

"  Lady  Florence  has  indeed  improved,"  said 
this  new  guest.  "  I  could  not  have  conceived 
that  England  boasted  any  one  half  so  beauti- 
ful." 

"  She  certainly  is  handsome,  my  dear  Lum- 
ley, — the  Lascelles  cast  of  countenance,"  re- 
plied Lord  Saxingham, — "  and  so  gifted  ! 
She  is  positively  learned — quite  a  bas  bleu. 
I  tremble  to  think  of  the  crowd  of  poets  and 
painters  who  will  make  a  fortune  out  of  her 
enthusiasm.  Entre  nous,  Lumley,  I  could  wish 
her  married  to  a  man  of  sober  sense,  like  the 
Duke  of  ****;  for  sober  sense  is  exactly 
what  she  wants.  Do  observe,  she  has  been 
just  half  an  hour  flirting  with  that  odd-looking 
adventurer,  Signor  Cesarini,  merely  because 
he  writes  sonnets,  and  wears  a  dress  like  a 
stage-player  !  " 

"  It  is  the  weakness  of  the  sex,  my  dear 
lord,"  said  Lumley;  "they  like  to  patronize, 
and  they  dote  upon  all  oddities,  from  Chifia 
monsters  to  cracked  poets.  But  I  fancy,  by  a 
restless  glance  cast  every  now  and  then  around 
the  room,  that  my  beautiful  cousin  has  in  her 
something  of  the  coquette." 

"There  you  are  quiet  right  Lumley,"  re- 
turned Lord  Saxingham,  laughing;  "  but  I  will 
not  quarrel  with  her  for  breaking  hearts  and 
refusing  hands,  if  she  do  but  grow  steady  at 
last,  and  settle  into  the  Duchess  of  *  *  *  *." 

"  Duchess  of  *  *  *  *  !  "  repeated   Lumley, 


124 


BULWERS     WORKS. 


absently;  "well,  I  will  go  and  present  myself. 
I  see  she  is  growing  tired  of  the  signor.  I  will 
sound  her  as  to  the  ducal  impressions,  my  dear 

lOEd." 

"  Do,  /dare  not,"  replied  the  father;  "  she 
is  an  excellent  girl,  but  heiresses  are  always 
contradictory.  It  was  very  foolish  to  deprive 
me  of  all  control  over  her  fortune.  Come  and 
see  me  again  soon,  Lumley.  I  suppose  you 
are  going  abroad  ?  " 

"No,  I  shall  settle  in  England;  but  of  my 
prospects  and  plans  more  hereafter." 

With  this,  Lumley  quietly  glided  away  to 
Florence.  There  was  something  in  Ferrers 
that  was  remarkable  from  its  very  simplicity. 
His  clear,  sharp  features,  with  the  short  hair 
and  high  brow — the  absolute  plainness  of  his 
dress,  and  the  noiseless,  easy,  self-collected 
calm  of  all  his  motions,  made  a  strong  con- 
trast to  the  showy  Italian,  by  whose  side  he 
now  stood.  Florence  looked  up  at  him  with 
some  little  surprise  at  his  intrusion. 

"  Ah,  you  don't  recollect  me  !  "  said  Lum- 
ley, with  his  pleasant  laugh.  "  Faithless 
Imogen,  after  all  your  vows  of  constancy  ! 
Behold  your  Alonzo  ! 

'  The  worms  they  crept  in  and  the  worms  they  crept 
out." 

Don't  you  remember  how  you  trembled  when 
1  told  you  that  true  story  as  we 

'  Conversed  as  we  sate  on  the  green  ? '  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Florence,  "  it  is  indeed  you, 
my  dear  cousin — my  dear  Lumley  !  What  an 
age  since  we  parted  !  " 

"  Don't  talk  of  age — it  is  an  ugly  word  to  a 
man  of  my  years.  Pardon,  signor,  if  I  disturb 
you." 

And  here  Lumley,  with  a  low  bow,  slid 
coolly  into  the  place  which  Cesarini,  who 
had  shyly  risen,  left  vacant  for  him.  Castruc- 
cio  looked  disconcerted;  but  Florence  had 
forgotten  him  in  her  delight  at  seeing  Lumley, 
and  Cesarini  moved  discontentedly  away,  and 
seated  himself  at  a  distance. 

"  And    I    come    back,"  continued    Lumley, 
"  to  find  you  a  confirmed   beauty  and  a  pro- 
fessional coquette. — Don't  blush  !  " 
■    "  Do  they,  indeed,  call  me  a  coquette  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes, — for  once  the  world  is  just." 

»'  Perhaps  I  do  deserve  the   reproach.     Oh, 


Lumley,  how  I  despise  all  that  I  see  and 
hear ! " 

"What !  even  the  Duke  of  *  *  *  *  '  " 

"Yes,  I  fear  even  the  Duke  of  *  *  *  *  is  no 
exception  !  " 

"  Your  father  will  go  mad  if  he  hear  you." 

"  My  father  ? — my  poor  father  ! — yes,  he 
thinks  the  utmost  that  I,  Florence  Lascelles, 
am  made  for,  is  to  wear  a  ducal  coronet  and 
give  the  best  balls  in  London." 

"  And  pray  what  was  Florence  Lascelles 
made  for  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  I  cannot  answer  the  question.  I  fear 
for  Discontent  and  Disdain." 

"You  are  an  enigma — but  I  will  take  pains, 
and  not  rest  till  I  solve  you." 

"  I  defy  you." 

"  Thanks — better  defy  than  despise." 

"Oh,  you  must  be  strangely  altered,  if  I 
can  despise  _>■<?«." 

"  Indeed  !  what  do  you  remember  of  me  ?  " 

"  That  you  were  frank,  bold,  and  therefore, 
I  suppose,  true  ! — that  you  shocked  my  aunts 
and  my  father  by  your  contempt  for  the  vulgar 
hypocrisies  of  our  conventional  life.  Oh,  no  1 
I  cannot  despise  you." 

Lumley  raised  his  eyes  to  those  of  Florence 
— he  gazed  on  her  long  and  earnestly — am- 
bitious hopes  rose  high  within  him. 

"  My  fair  cousin,"  said  he,  in  an  altered  and 
serious  tone,  "  I  see  something  in  your  spirit 
kindred  to  mine;  and  I  am  glad  that  yours  is 
one  of  the  earliest  voices  which  confirm  my 
new  resolves  on  my  return  to  busy  England  .' " 

"  And  those  resolves  ? " 

"  Are  an  Englishman's — energetic  and  am- 
bitious." 

"  Alas,  ambition  !  How  many  false  por- 
traits are  there  of  the  great  original  !  " 

Lumley  thought  he  had  found  a  clue  to  the 
heart  of  his  cousin,  and  he  began  to  expatiate, 
with  unusual  eloquence,  on  the  nobleness  of 
that  daring  sin  which  "lost  angels  heaven." 
Florence  listened  to  him  with  attention,  but 
not  with  sympathy.  Lumley  was  deceived. 
His  was  not  an  ambition  that  could  attract  the 
fastidious  but  high-souled  Idealist.  The  self- 
ishness of  his  nature  broke  out  in  all  the  sen- 
timents that  he  fancied  would  seem  to  her 
most  elevated.  Place  —  power  —  titles  —  ail 
these  objects  were  low  and  vulgar  to  one  who 
saw  them  daily  at  her  feet. 

At  a  distance,  the  Duke  of  *  *  *  *  continued 


JiKNESr    MALTRAVERS 


irom  time  to  time  to  direct  his  cold  gaze  at 
Florence.  He  did  not  like  her  the  less  for 
not  seeming  to  court  him.  He  had  something 
generous  within  him,  and  could  understand 
her.  He  went  away  at  last,  and  thought 
seriously  of  Florence  as  a  wife.  Not  a  wife 
for  companionship,  for  friendship,  for  love; 
but  a  wife  who  could  take  the  trouble  of  rank 
off  his  hands — do  him  honor,  and  raise  him  an 
heir,  whom  he  might  flatter  himself  would  be 
his  own. 

From  his  corner  also,  with  dreams  yet  more 
vain  and  daring,  Castruccio  Cesarini  cast  his 
eyes  upon  the  queen-like  brow  of  the  great 
heiress.  Oh,  yes,  she  had  a  soul — she  could 
disdain  rank  and  revere  genius  !  What  a  tri- 
umph over  De  Montaigne — Maltravers — all 
the  world,  if  he,  the  neglected  poet,  could  win 
the  hand  for  which  the  magnates  of  the  earth 
sighed  in  vain  !  Pure  and  lofty  as  he  thought 
himself,  it  was  her  birth  and  her  wealth  which 
Cesarini  adored  in  Florence.  And  Lumley, 
nearer  perhaps  to  the  prize  than  either — yet 
still  far  off — -went  on  conversing,  with  eloquent 
lips  and  sparkling  eyes,  while  his  whole  heart 
was  planning  every  word,  dictating  every 
glance,  and  laying  out  (for  the  most  worldly 
are  often  the  most  visionary)  the  chart  for  a 
royal  road  to  fortune.  And  Florence  Lascel- 
les,  when  the  crowd  had  dispersed  and  she 
sought  her  chamber,  forgot  all  three;  and  with 
that  morbid  romance  often  peculiar  to  those 
for  whom  Fate  smiles  the  most,  mused  over  the 
ideal  image  of  the  one  she  could  love — "in 
maiden  meditation  not  fancy-free  !  " 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  In  mea  vesanas  habui  dispendia  vires, 
Et  Valui  poenas  fortis  in  ipse  meas."  * — Ovid. 

"  Then  might  my  breast  be  read  within, 
A  thousand  volumes  would  be  written  there." 
—Earl  of  Stirling. 

Ernest  Maltravers  was  at  the  height  of 
his  reputation;  the  work  which  he  had  deemed 
the  crisis  that  was  to  make  or  mar  him  was 
the  most  brilliantly  successful  of  all  he  had  yet 
committed  to  the  public.  Certainly,  chance 
did  as  much  for  it,  as  merit,  as  is  usually  the 


*  I  had  the  strength  of  a  madman  to  my  own  cost, 
and  employed  that  strength  in  my  own  punishment. 


case  with  works  that  become  instantaneously 
popular.  We  may  hammer  away  at  the  casket 
with  strong  arm  and  good  purpose,  and  all  iii 
vain; — when  some  morning  a  careful  stroke 
hits  the  right  nail  on  the  head,  and  we  secure 
the  treasure. 

It  was  j(t  this  time,  when  in  the  prime  of 
youth — rich,  courted,  respected,  run  after — 
that  Ernest  Maltravers,  fell  seriously  ill.  It 
was  no  active  or  visible  disease,  but  a  general 
irritability  of  the  nerves,  and  a  languid  sinking 
of  the  whole  frame.  His  labors  began,  per- 
haps, to  tell  against  him.  In  earlier  life  he 
had  been  as  active  as  a  hunter  of  the  chamois, 
and  the  hardy  exercise  of  his  frame  counter- 
acted the  effects  of  a  restless  and  ardent  mind. 
The  change  from  an  athletic  to  a  sedentary 
habit  of  life — the  wear  and  tear  of  the  brain — 
the  absorbing  passion  for  knowledge  which  day 
and  night  kept  all  his  faculties  in  a  stretch, 
made  strange  havoc  in  a  constitution  naturally 
strong. 

The  poor  author  !  how  few  persons  under- 
stand, and  forbear  with,  and  pity  him  !  He 
sells  his  health  and  youth  to  a  rugged  task- 
master. And,  O  blind  and  selfish  world,  you 
expect  him  to  be  as  free  of  manner,  and  as 
pleasant  of  cheer,  and  as  equal  of  mood,  as  if 
he  were  passing  the  most  agreeable  and 
healthful  existence  that  pleasure  couid  afford 
to  smooth  the  wrinkles  of  the  mind,  or  medi- 
cine invent  to  regulate  the  nerves  of  the  body  ! 
But  there  was,  besides  all  this,  another  cause 
that  operated  against  the  successful  man  ! — 
His  heart  was  too  solitary.  He  lived  without 
the  sweet  household  ties — the  connections  and 
amities  he  formed  excited  for  a  moment,  but 
possessed  no  charm  to  comfort  or  to  soothe. 
Cleveland  resided  so  much  in  the  country,  and 
was  of  so  much  calmer  a  temperament,  and  so 
much  more  advanced  in  age,  that  with  all  the 
friendship  that  subsisted  between  them,  there 
was  none  of  that  daily  and  familiar  interchange 
of  confidence  which  affectionate  natures  de- 
mand as  the  very  food  of  life.  Of  his  brother 
(as  the  reader  will  conjecture  from  never 
having  been  formally  presented  to  him)  Ernest 
saw  but  little.  Colonel  Maltravers,  one  of  the 
gayest  and  handsomest  men  of  his  time,  mar- 
ried to  a  fine  lady,  lived  principally  at  Paris, 
except  when,  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  shooting 
season,  he  filled  his  country  house  with  com- 
panions who    had    nothing    in    common    with 


l2(5 


B  UL  WER  'S     WORKS. 


Ernest:  the  brothers  corresponded  regularly 
every  quarter,  and  saw  each  other  once  a  year 
— this  was  all  their  intercourse.  Ernest  Mal- 
travers  stood  in  the.  world  alone,  with  that 
cold  but  anxious  spectre — Reputation. 

It  was  late  at  night.  Before  a  table  covered 
with  the  monuments  of  erudition  at*!  thought 
sate  a  young  man  with  a  pale  and  worn  coun- 
tenance. The  clock  in  the  room  told  with  a 
fretting  distinctness  every  moment  that  less- 
ened the  journey  to  the  grave.  There  was  an 
anxious  and  expectant  expression  on  the  face 
of  the  student,  and  from  time  to  time  he 
glanced  to  the  clock,  and  muttered  to  himself. 
Was  it  a  letter  from  some  adored  mistress — 
the  soothing  flattery  from  some  mighty  arbiter 
of  arts  and  letters — that  the  young  man  eagerly 
awaited  ?  No;  the  aspirer  was  forgotten  in  the 
valetudinarian.  Ernest  Maltravers  was  waiting 
the  visit  of  his  physician,  whom  at  that  late 
hour  a  sudden  thought  had  induced  him  to 
summon  from  his  rest.  At  length  the  well- 
known  knock  was  heard,  and  in  a  few  moments 
the  physician  entered.  He  was  one  well  versed 
in  the  peculiar  pathology  of  book  men,  and 
kindly  as  well  as  skilful. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Maltravers,  what  is  this  ? 
How  are  we  ? — not  seriously  ill,  I  hope — no 
relapse — pulse  low  and  irregular,  I  see,  but  no 
fever.     You  are  nervous." 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  student,  "  I  did  not  send 
for  you  at  this  time  of  night  from  the  idle  fear 
or  fretful  caprice  of  an  invalid.  But  when  I 
saw  you  this  morning,  you  dropped  some 
hints  which  have  haunted  me  ever  since. 
Much  that  it  befits  the  conscience  and  the  soul 
to  attend  to  without  loss  of  time,  depends  upon 
my-  full  knowledge  of  my  real  state.  If  I  un- 
derstand you  rightly,  I  may  have  but  a  short 
time  to  live — is  it  so?" 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  doctor,  turning  away 
his  face;  "  you  have  exaggerated  my  mean- 
ing. I  did  not  say  that  you  were  in  what  we 
technically  call  danger." 

"  Am  I  then  likely  to  be  a  long-XwtA  man  ?" 

"  The  doctor  coughed. —  "  That  is  uncertain, 
my  dear  young  friend,"  said  he,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Be  plain  with  me.  The  plans  of  life  must 
be  based  upon  such  calculations  as  we  can  rea- 
sonably form  of  its  probable  duration.  Do 
not  fancy  that  I  am  weak  enough  or  coward 
enough  to  shrink  from  my  abyss  which  I  have 


approached  unconsciously;  I  desire — I  adjure 
— nay,  I  command  you  to  be  explicit." 

There  was  an  earnest  and  solemn  dignity  in 
his  patient's  voice  and  manner  which  deeply 
touched  and  impressed  the  good  physician. 

"  I  will  answer  you  frankly,"  said  he:  "you 
over- work  the  nerves  and  the  brain;  if  you  do 
not  relax,  you  will  subject  yourself  to  con- 
firmed disease  and  premature  death.  For 
several  months — perhaps  for  years  to  come — 
you  should  wholly  cease  from  literary  labor. 
Is  this  a  hard  sentence  ?  You  are  rich  and 
young— enjoy  yourself  while  you  can." 

Maltravers  appeared  satisfied — changed  the 
conversation — talked  easily  on  other  matters 
for  a  few  miuutes:  nor  was  it  till  he  had  dis- 
missed his  physician  that  he  broke  forth  with 
the  thoughts  that  were  burning  in  him. 

"Oh!"  cried  he  aloud,  as  he  rose  and 
paced  the  room  with  rapid  strides;  "  now,  when 
I  see  before  me  the  broad  and  luminous  path, 
am  I  to  be  condemned  to  halt  and  turn  aside  ? 
A  vast  empire  rises  on  my  view,  greater  than 
that  of  Caesars  and  conquerors — an  empire 
durable  and  universal  in  the  souls  of  men, 
that  time  itself  cannot  overthrow;  and  Death 
marches  with  me,  side  by  side,  and  the  skeleton 
hand  waves  me  back  to  the  nothingness  of 
common  men." 

He  paused  at  the  casement— he  threw  it 
open,  and  leant  forth  and  gasped  for  air. 
Heaven  was  serene  and  still,  as  morning  came 
coldly  forth  amongst  the  wanning  stars; — and 
the  haunts  of  men,  in  their  thoroughfare  of 
idleness  and  of  pleasure,  were  desolate  and 
void.     Nothing,  save  Nature,  was  awake. 

"  And  if,  O  stars  !  "  murmured  Maltravers, 
from  the  depth  of  his  excited  heart,  "  if  I  had 
been  insensible  to  your  solemn  beauty — if  the 
Heaven  and  the  Earth  had  been  to  me  but 
as  air  and  clay — if  I  were  one  of  a  dull  and 
dim-eyed  herd — I  might  live  on,  and  drop  into 
the  grave  from  the  ripeness  of  unprofitable 
years.  It  is  because  I  yearn  for  the  great 
objects  of  an  immortal  being,  that  life  shrink" 
and  shrivels  up  like  a  scroll.  Away  !  I  wll. 
not  listen  to  these  human  and  material  moni- 
tors, and  consider  life  as  a  thing  greater  than 
the  things  that  I  would  live  for.  My  choice  is 
made,  glory  is  more  persuasive  than  thegrave." 

He  turned  impatiently  from  the  casement 
— his  eyes  flashed — his  chest  heaved — he 
trod  the  chamber  with  a  monarch's  air.     All 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


127 


the  calculations  of  prudence,  all  the  tame 
and  methodical  reasonings  with  which,  from 
time  to  time,  he  had  sought  to  sober  down 
the  impetuous  man  into  the  calm  machine, 
faded  away  before  the  burst  of  awful  and  com- 
manding passions  that  swept  over  his  soul- 
Tell  a  man,  in  the  full  tide  of  his  triumphs, 
that  he  bears  death  within  him;  and  what 
crisis  of  thought  can  be  more  startling  and 
more  terrible. 

Maltravers  had,  as  we  have  seen,  cared  little 
for  fame,  till  fame  had  been  brought  within 
his  reach;  then,  with  every  step  he  took,  new 
Alps  had  arisen.  Each  new  conjecture  brought 
to  light  a  new  truth  that  demanded  enforce- 
ment or  defence.  Rivalry  and  competition 
chafed  his  blood,  and  kept  his  faculties  at 
their  full  speed.  He  had  the  generous  race- 
horse spirit  of  emulation. — Ever  in  action, 
ever  in  progress,  cheered  on  by  the  sarcasms 
of  foes,  even  more  by  the  applause  of  friends, 
the  desire  of  glory  had  become  the  habit  of 
existence.  When  we  have  commenced  a 
career,  what  stop  is  there  till  the  grave  ? — 
where  is  the  definite  barrier  of  that  ambition 
which,  like  the  eastern  bird,  seems  on  the 
wing,  and  never  rests  upon  the  earth  ? 

Our  names  are  not  settled  till  our  death;  the 
ghosts  of  what  we  have  done  are  made  our 
haunting  monitors — our  scourging  avengers — 
if  ever  we  cease  to  do,  or  fall  short  of  the 
younger  past.  Repose  is  oblivion;  to  pause  is 
to  unravel  all  the  web  that  we  have  woven — 
until  the  tomb  closes  over  us,  and  men,  just 
when  it  is  too  late,  strike  the  fair  balance  be- 
tween ourselves  and  our  rivals;  and  we  are 
measured,  not  by  the  least,  but  by  the  greatest, 
triumphs  we  have  achieved.  Oh,  what  a 
crushing  sense  of  impotence  comes  over  us, 
when  we  feel  that  our  frame  cannot  support 
our  mind — when  the  hand  can  no  longer  exe- 
cute what  the  soul,  actively  as  ever,  conceives 
and  desires  ! — the  quick  life  tied  to  the  dead 
form — the  ideas  fresh  as  immortality,  gushing 
forth  rich  and  golden,  and  the  broken  nerves, 
and  the  aching  frame,  and  the  weary  eyes  ! — 
the  spirit  athirst  for  liberty  and  heaven — and 
the  damning,  choking  consciousness,  that  we 
are  walled  up  and  prisoned  in  a  dungeon  that 
must  be  our  burial-place  !  Talk  not  of  free- 
dom— there  is  no  such  thing  as  freedom  to  a 
man  whose  body  is  the  jail,  whose  infirmities 
are  the  racks,  of  his  genius  ' 


Maltravers  paused  at  last,  and  threw  him- 
self on  his  sofa,  wearied  and  exhausted.  In- 
voluntarily, and  as  a  half-unconscious  means 
of  escaping  from  his  conflicting  and  profitless 
emotions,  he  turned  to  several  letters,  which 
had  for  hours  lain  unopened  on  his  table. 
Every  one  the  seal  of  which  he  broke,  seemed 
to  mock  his  state — every  one  seemed  to  attest 
the  fecility  of  his  fortunes.  Some  bespoke 
the  admiring  sympathy  of  the  highest  and  the 
wisest — one  offered  him  a  brilliant  opening 
into  public  life — another  (it  was  from  Cleve- 
land) was  fraught  with  all  the  proud  and  raptur- 
ous approbation  of  a  prophet  whose  auguries 
are  at  last  fulfilled.  At  that  letter  Maltravers 
sighed  deeply,  and  paused  before  he  turned  to 
the  others.  The  last  he  opened  was  in  an  un- 
known hand,  nor  was  any  name  affixed  to  it. 
Like  all  writers  of  some  note,  Maltravers  was 
in  the  habit  of  receiving  anonymous  letters  of 
praise,  censure,  wanting,  and  exhortation — 
especially  from  young  ladies  at  boarding- 
schools,  and  old  ladies  in  the  country;  but 
there  was  that  in  the  first  sentences  of  the 
letter,  which  he  now  opened  with  a  careless 
hand,  that  riveted  his  attention.  It  was  a  small 
and  beautiful  hand-writing,  yet  the  letters 
were  more  clear  and  bold  than  they  usuallj 
are  in  feminine  caligraphy. 

"  Ernest  Maltravers,"  began  this  singular  effusion, 
"  have  you  weighed  yourself  ? — Are  you  aware  of  your 
capacities? — Do  you  feel  that  for  you  there  may  be  a 
more  dazzling  .reputation  than  that  which  appears  to 
content  you  ?  You,  who  seem  to  penetrate  into  the 
subtlest  windings  of  the  human  heart,  and  to  have 
examined  nature  as  through  a  glass — you,  whose 
thoughts  stand  forth  like  armies  marshalled  in  defence 
of  Truth,  bold  and  dauntless,  and  without  a  stain 
upon  their  glittering  armor; — are  you,  at  your  ag^, 
and  with  your  advantages,  to  bury  yourself  amidst 
books  and  scrolls  1  Do  you  forget  that  action  is  the 
grand  career  for  men  who  think  as  you  do  ?  Will  this 
word-weighing  and  picture-writing— the  cold  eulogies 
of  pedants — the  listless  praises  of  literary  idlers,  con- 
tent all  the  yearnings  of  your  ambition  ?  You  were 
not  made  solely  for  the  closet;  'The  Dreams  of  Hin- 
dus, and  the  Aonian  Maids,'  cannot  endure  through 
the  noon  of  manhood.  You  are  too  practical  for  the 
mere  poet,  and  too  poetical  to  sink  into  the  dull  tenor 
of  a  learned  life.  I  have  never  seen  you,  yet  I  know 
you— I  read  your  spirit  in  your  page;  that  aspiration 
for  something  better  and  greater  than  the  Great  and 
the  Good,  which  colors  all  your  passionate  revelations 
of  yourself  and  others — cannot  be  satisfied  merely  by 
ideal  images.  You  cannot  be  contented,  as  poets  and 
historians  mostly  are,  by  becoming  great  only  from 
delineating  great  men,  or  imagining  great  events,  or 
describing  a  great  era.  Is  it  not  worthier  of  you  to  be 
what  you  fancy  or  relate  ?    Awake,  Maltravers,  awake'. 


128 


£  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


Look  into  your  heart,  and  feel  your  proper  destinies. 
And  who  am  1  that  thus  address  you  ?— a  woman 
whose  soul  is  filled  with  you! — a  woman  in  whom  your 
eloquence  has  awakened,  amidst  frivolous  and  vain 
circles,  the  sense  of  a  new  existence — a  woman  who 
would  make  you,  yourself,  the  embodied  ideal  of  your 
own  thoughts  and  dreams,  and  who  would  ask  from 
earth  no  other  lot  than  that  of  following  you  on  the 
road  of  fame  with  the  eyes  of  her  heart.  Mistake  me 
not;  I  repeat  that  I  have  never  seen  you,  nor  do  1  wish 
it;  you  might  be  other  than  I  imagine,  and  I  should 
lose  on  idol,  and  be  left  without  a  worship.  I  am  a 
kind  of  visionary  Rosicrucian:  it  is  a  spirit  that  I 
adore,  and  not  a  being  like  myself.  You  imagine,  per- 
haps, that  I  have  some  purpose  to  serve  in  this — I  have 
no  object  in  administering  to  your  vanity;  and  if  I 
judge  you  rightly,  this  letter  is  one  that  might  make 
you  vain  without  a  blush.  Oh,  the  admiration  that 
does  not  spring  from  holy  and  profound  sources  of 
emotion— how  it  saddens  us  or  disgusts!  I  have  had 
my  share  of  vulgar  homage,  and  it  only  makes  me  feel 
doubly  alone.  1  am  richer  than  you  are— I  have  youth 
—I  have  what  they  call  beauty.  And  neither  riches 
youth,  nor  beauty,  ever  gave  me  the  silent  and  deep 
happiness  1  experience  when  I  think  of  you.  This  is 
a  worship  that  might,  I  rep|at,  well  make  even  you 
vain,  Think  of  these  words,  1  implore  you.  Be 
worfhy,  not  of  my  thoughts,  but  of  the  shape  in  which 
they  represent  you;  and  every  ray  of  glory  that  sur- 
rounds you  will  brighten  my  own  way,  and  inspire  me 
with  a  kindred  emulation.  Farewell.— I  may  write  to 
you  again,  but  you  will  never  discover  me;  and  in  life 
I  pray  that  we  may  never  meet!" 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  Our  list  of  nobles  next  let  Amri  grace." 

— Absalom  and  AchitopJifl. 

"  Sine  me  vacivum  tempus  ne  quod  dem  mihi 
Laboris."  * — Ter. 

"  I  can't  think,"  said  one  of  a  group  of 
young  men,  loitering  by  the  steps  of  a  club- 
house in  St.  James's  Street— "I  can't  think 
what  has  chanced  to  Maltravers.  Do  you  ob- 
serve (as  he  walks — there — the  other  side  of 
the  way)  how  much  he  is  altered  ?  He  stoops 
like  an  old  man,  and  hardly  ever  lifts  his  eyes 
from  the  ground.  He  certainly  seems  sick 
and  sad  ! " 

"  Writing  books,  I  suppose." 

"Or  privately  married." 

"  Or  growing  too  rich — rich  men  are  always 
unhappy  beings." 

"  Ha,  Ferrers,  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  So— so  !  What's  the  news?"  replied 
Lumley. 


*  Suffer  me  to  employ  my  spare  time  in  some  kind 


of  labor. 


"  Rattler  pays  forfeit." 

"  Oh  !   but  in  politics  ?  " 

"  Hang  politics  ! — are  you  turned  politi- 
cian ? " 

"  x\.t  my  age,  what  else  is  there  left  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  thought  so  by  your  hat;  all  politicians 
sport  odd-looking  hats;  it  is  very  remark- 
ble,  but  that  is  the  great  symptom  of  the 
disease." 

"  My  hat  '. — is  it  odd  ?  "  said  Ferrers,  taking 
off  the  commodity  in  question,  and  seriously 
regarding  it. 

"  Why,  who  ever  saw  such  a  brim  ? " 

"  Glad  you  think  so." 

"  Why,  Ferrers  ? " 

"Because  it  is  a  prudent  policy  m  this 
country  to  surrender  something  trifling  up  to 
ridicule.  If  people  can  abuse  your  hat  or 
your  carriage,  or  the  shape  of  your  nose,  or  a 
wart  on  your  chin,  they  let  slip  a  thousand 
more  important  matters.  'Tis  the  wisdom  of 
the  camel-driver,  who  gives  up  his  gown  for 
the  camel  to  trample  on,  that  he  may  escape 
himself." 

'•  How  droll  you  are,  Ferrers  !  Well,  I  shall 
turn  in  and  read  the  papers;  and  you " 

"  Shall  pay  my  visits  and  rejoice  in  my  hat." 

"  Good  day  to  you;— by  the  by,  your  friend, 
Maltravers,  has  just  past,  looking  thoughtful, 
and  talking  to  himself  ! — What's  the  matter 
with  him  ? " 

"  Lamenting,  perhaps,  that  he  too  does  not 
wear  an  odd  hat,  for  gentlemen  like  you  to 
laugh  at,  and  leave  the  rest  of  him  in  peace. 
Good  day." 

On  went  Ferrers  and  soon  found  himself  in 
the  Mall  of  the  Park.  Here  he  was  joined  by 
Mr.  Templeton. 

"Well,  Lumley,"  said  the  latter — (and  it 
may  be  here  remarked,  that  Mr.  Templeton 
now  exhibited  towards  his  nephew  a  greater 
respect  of  manner  and  tone  than  he  had 
thought  it  necessary  to  obsea'e  before) — 
"well,  Lumley,  have  you  seen  Lord  Saxing- 
ham  ? " 

'•  I  have,  sir;  and  I  regret  to  say " 

"  I  thought  so — I  thought  it,"  interrupted 
Templeton;  "  no  gratitude  in  public  men— no 
wish,  in  high  places,  to  honor  virtue  !  " 

"  Pardon  me;  Lord  Saxingham  declares  that 
he  should  be  delighted  to  forward  your  views 
— that  no  man  more  deserves  a  peerage;  but 
that 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


129 


'  Oh,  yes;  always  'buts  .>'  " 

"  Bufrthat  there  are  so  many  claimants  at 
present  whom  it  is  impossible  to  satisfy;  and— 
and— but  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  go  on." 

"  Proceed,  sir,  I  beg." 

"  Why,  then,  Lord  Saxingham  is  (I  must  be 
frank)  a  man  who  has  a  great  regard  for  his 
own  family.  Your  marriage  (a  source,  my 
dear  uncle,  of  the  greatest  gratification  to  me) 
cuts  off  the  probable  chance  of  your  fortune 
and  title,  if  you  acquire  the  latter,  descending 
to " 

"  Yourself  ! "  put  in  Templeton,  drily. 
"  Your  relation  seems,  for  the  first  time,  to 
have  discovered  how  dear  your  interests  are 
to  him." 

"  For  me  individually,  sir,  my  relation  does 
not  care  a  rush — but  he  cares  a  great  deal  for 
any  member  of  his  house  being  rich  and  in 
high  station.  It  increases  the  range  and  credit 
of  his  connections;  and  Lord  Saxingham  is  a 
man  whom  connections  help  to  keep  great. 
To  be  plain  with  you,  he  will  not  stir  in  this 
business,  because  he  does  not  see  how  his 
kinsman  is  to  be  benefited,  or  his  house 
strengthened." 

"  Public  virtue  !  "  exclaimed  Templeton. 

"Virtue,  my  dear  uncle,  is  a  female:  as 
long  as  she  is  private  property,  she  is  excel- 
lent; but  Public  Virtue,  like  any  other  public 
lady,  is  a  common  prostitute." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  grunted  Templeton,  who  was 
too  much  out  of  humor  to  read  his  nephew  the 
lecture  he  might  otherwise  have  done  upon 
the  impropriety  of  his  simile;  for  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton was  one  of  those  men  who  hold  it 
vicious  to  talk  of  vice  as  existing  in  the  world; 
he  was  very  much  shocked  to  hear  anything 
called  by  its  proper  name. 

"  Has  not  Mrs.  Templeton  some  connections 
that  may  be  useful  to  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir  !  "  cried  the  imcle,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

"Sorry  to  hear  it — but  we  cannot  expect  all 
things:  you  have  married  for  love — you  have 
a  happy  home,  a  charming  wife — this  is  better 
than  a  title  and  a  fine  lady." 

"  Mr.  Lumely  Ferrers,  you  may  spare  me 
your  consolations.     My  wife " 

"  Loves  you  dearly,  I  dare  say,"  said  the 
imperturable  nephew.  "  She  has  so  much  sen- 
timent— is  so  fond  of  poetry.  Oh,  yes,  she 
must  love  one  who  has  done  so  much  for  her." 

6—9 


"  Done  so  much  !— what  do  you  mean  ?  " 
"  Why,  with  your  fortune — your  station — 
your  just  ambition — you,  who  might  have  mar- 
ried any  one;  nay,  by  remaining  unmarried, 
have  conciliated  all  my  interested,  selfish  rela- 
tions, hang  them  ! — you  have  married  a  lady 
without  connections — and  what  more  could 
you  do  for  her  ?  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh, — you  don't  know  all." 
Here  Templeton  stopped  short,  as  if  about 
to  say  too  much,  and  frowned— then,  after  a 
pause,  he  resumed — "  Lumely,  I  have  married, 
it  is  true.  You  may  not  be  my  heir,  but  I  will 
make  it  up  to  you— that  is,  if  you  deserve  my 
affection." 

"  My  dear  unc " 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  I  have  projects  for 
you.  Let  our  interests  be  the  same.  The 
title  may  yet  descend  te  you.  I  may  have 
no  male  offspring — meanwhile,  draw  on  me  to 
any  reasonable  amount — young  men  have  ex- 
penses— but  be  prudent,  and  if  you  want  to 
get  on  in  the  world,  never  let  the  world  detect 
you  in  a  scrape.  There,  leave  me  now." 
"  My  best,  my  heartfelt  thanks  !  " 
"Hush — sound  Lord  Saxingham  again;  I 
must  and  will  have  this  bauble — I  have  set 
my  heart  on  it."  So  saying,  Templeton  waved 
away  his  nephew,  and  musingly  pursued  his 
path  towards  Hyde  Park  Corner,  where  his 
carriage  awaited  him.  As  soon  as  he  entered 
his  demesnes,  he  saw  his  wife's  daughter  run- 
ning across  the  lawn  to  greet  him.  His  heart 
softened;  he  checked  the  carriage  and  de- 
scended: he  caressed  her,  he  played  with  her, 
he  laughed  as  she  laughed.  No  parent  could 
be  more  fond. 

"  Lumley  Ferrers  has  talent  to  do  me  honor;" 
said  he,  anxiously,  "  but  his  principles  seem 
unstable.  However,  surely  that  open  manner 
is  the  sign  of  a  good  heart  ! " 

Meanwhile,  Ferrers,  in  high  spirits,  took  his 
way  to  Ernest's  house.  His  friend  was  not 
at  home,  but  Ferrers  never  wanted  a  host's 
presence  in  order  to  be  at  home  himself. 
Books  were  round  him  in  abundance,  but 
Ferrers  was  not  one  of  those  who  read  for 
amusement.  He  threw  himself  into  an  easy 
chair,  and  began  weaving  new  meshes  of  am- 
bition and  intrigue.  At  length  the  door  opened, 
and  Maltravers  entered. 

"  Why,  Ernest,  how  ill  you  are  looking  ! " 
"  I  have  not  been  well,  but  I  am  now  recov- 


fJO 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


ing.  As  physicians  recommend  change  of  air 
to  ordinary  patients — so  I  am  about  to  try 
change  of  habit.  Active  I  must  be — action 
is  the  condition  of  my  being;  but  I  must  have 
done  with  books  for  the  present.  You  see  me 
in  a  new  character." 

"How?" 

"  That  of  a  public  man— I  have  entered 
parliament." 

"  You  astonish  me  ! — 1  have  read  the  papers 
this  morning.  I  see  not  even  a  vacancy,  much 
less  an  election." 

"  It  is  all  managed  by  the  lawyer  and  the 
banker.  In  other  words,  my  seat  is  a  close 
borough." 

"No  bore  of  constituents.  I  congratulate 
you,  and  envy.  I  wish  I  were  in  parliament 
myself." 

"  You  !  I  never  fancied  you  bitten  by  the 
political  mania." 

"  Political  ! — no.  But  it  is  the  most  re- 
pectable  way,  with  luck,  of  living  on  the  pub- 
lic.    Better  than  swindling." 

"  A  candid  way  of  viewing  the  question. 
But  I  thought  at  one  time  you  were  half  a 
Benthamite,  and  that  your  motto  was,  '  The 
greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number.'  " 

"The  greatest  number  to  me  is  number  one. 
I  agree  with_  the  Pythagoreans — unity  is  the 
perfect  principle  of  creation  !  Seriously,  how 
can  you  mistake  the  principles  of  opinion  for 
the  principles  of  conduct  ?  I  am  a  Benthamite, 
a  benevolist,  as  a  logician — but  the  moment  I 
leave  the  closet  for  the  world,  I  lay  aside 
speculation  for  others,  and  act  for  myself." 

"  You  are  at  least  more  frank  than  prudent 
in  these  confessions." 

"  There  you  are  wrong.  It  is  by  affecting 
to  be  worse  than  we  are  that  we  become  popu- 
lar— and  we  get  credit  for  being  both  honest 
and  practical  fellows.  My  uncle's  mistake  is 
to  be  a  hypocrite  in  words:  it  rarely  answers. 
Be  frank  in  words,  and  nobody  will  suspect 
hypocrisy  in  your  designs." 

Maltravers  gazed  hard  at  Ferrers — some- 
thing revolted  and  displeased  his  high-wrought 
Platonism  in  the  easy  wisdom  of  his  old  friend. 
But  he  felt  almost  for  the  first  time,  that 
Ferrers  was  a  man  to  get  on  in  the  world — and 
he  sighed:— I  hope  it  was  for  the  world's 
sake  ! 

After  a  short  conversation  on  indifferent 
matters.  Cleveland  was  announced;  and    Fer- 


rers, who  could  make  nothing  out  of  Cleve 
land,  soon  withdrew.  Ferrers  was  nowMjecom- 
ing  an  economist  in  his  time. 

"  My  dear  Maltravers,"  said  Cleveland  when 
thay  were  alone.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you ; 
for,  in  the  first  place,  I  rejoice  to  find  you  arc- 
extending  your  career  of  usefulness." 

•'  Usefulness— ah,  let  me  think  so  I  Life  is 
so  uncertain  and  so  short,  that  we  cannot  too 
soon  bring  the  little  it  can  yield  into  the  greai 
commonwealth  of  the  Beautiful  or  the  Hon- 
est; and  both  belong  to  and  make  up  the  Use- 
ful. But  in  politics,  and  in  a  highly  artificial 
state,  what  doubts  beset  us  I  what  darkness 
surrounds  !  If  we  connive  at  abuses,  we  jug- 
gle with  our  own  reason  and  integrity — if  we 
attack  them,  how  much,  how  fatally  we  may 
derange  that  solemn  and  conventional  order 
which  is  the  mainspring  of  the  vast  machine  ! 
How  little,  too,  can  one  man,  whose  talents 
may  not  be  in  that  coarse  road — in  that  mephi- 
tic  atmosphere,  he  enabled  to  effect  I  " 

"  He  may  effect  a  vast  deal  even  without 
eloquence  or  labor; — he  may  effect  a  vast  deal, 
if  he  can  set  one  example,  amidst  a  crowd  of 
selfish  aspirants  and  heated  fanatics,  of  an 
honest  and  dispassionate  man.  He  may  effect 
more,  if  he  may  serve  among  the  representa- 
tives of  that  hitherto  unrepresented  thing — 
Literature;  if  he  redeem,  by  an  ambition 
above  place  and  emolument,  the  character  for 
subservience  that  court-poets  have  obtained  for 
letters — if  he  may  prove  that  speculative 
knowledge  is  not  disjoined  from  the  practical 
world,  and  maintain  the  dignity  of  disinter- 
estedness that  should  belong  to  learning.  But 
the  end  of  a  scientific  morality  is  not  to  serve 
others  onl)%  but  also  to  perfect  and  accom- 
plish our  individual  selves;  our  own  souls  are  a 
solemn  trust  to  our  own  lives.  You  are  about 
to  add  to  your  experience  of  human  motives 
and  active  men;  and"whetever  additional  wis- 
dom you  acquire,  will  become  equally  evident 
and  equally  useful,  no  matter  whether  it  be 
communicated  through  action  or  in  books. 
Enough  of  this,  my  dear  Ernest.  I  have 
come  to  dine  with  you.  and  make  j'ou  accom- 
pany me  to-night  to  a  house  where  you  will 
be  welcome,  and  I  think  interested.  Nay,  no 
excuses.  I  have  promised  Lord  Latimer  that 
he  shall  make  your  acquaintance,  and  he  is 
one  of  the  most  eminent  men  with  whom 
political  life  will  connect  you." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


131 


And  to  this  change  of  habits,  from  the  closet 
to  the  senate,  had  Maltravers  been  induced  by 
a  state  of  health,  which,  with  most  men,  would 
have  been  an  excuse  for  indolence.  Indolent 
he  could  not  be:  he  had  truly  said  to  Ferrers, 
that  "  action  was  the  condition  of  his  being." 
If  THOUGHT,  with  its  fevcr  and  aching  tension, 
had  been  too  severe  a  task-master  on  the 
nerves  and  brain,  the  coarse  and  homely  pur- 
suit of  practical  politics  would  leave  the  imag- 
ination and  intellect  in  repose,  while  it  would 
excite  the  hardier  qualities  and  gifts,  which 
animate  without  exhausting.  So,  at  least, 
hoped  Maltravers.  He  remembered  the  pro- 
found saying  in  one  of  his  favorite  German 
authors,  "that  to  keep  the  mind  and  body  in 
perfect  health,  it  is  necessary  to  mix  habitually 
and  betimes  in  the  common  affairs  of  men." 
And  the  anonymous  correspondent  ?  Had  her 
exhortations  any  influence  on  his  decision  ? 
I  know  not.  But  when  Cleveland  left  him, 
Maltravers  unlocked  his  desk,  and  re-perused 
the  last  letter  he  had  received  from  the  Un- 
known. The  last  letter  ! — yes,  those  epistles 
had  now  become  frequent. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

*  *  *  *  "  Le  brillant  de  votre  esprit  donne 
un  si  grand  eclat  k  votre  toint  et  h.  vos  yeux,  que 
quoiqu'il  semble  que  I'esprit  ne  doit  toucher  que  les 
oreilles,  il  est  pourtant  certain  que  la  votre  eblouit  les 
yeux." — Lcttres  de  Madame  de  Sevigne.* 

At  Lord  Latimer's  house  were  assembled 
some  hundreds  of  those  persons  who  are  rarely 
found  together  in  London  society:  for  business, 
politics,  and  literature,  draught  off  the  most 
eminent  men  and  usually  leave  to  houses  that 
receive  the  world  little  better  than  indolent 
rank  or  ostentatious  wealth.  Even  the  young 
men  of  pleasure  turn  up  their  noses  at  parties 
now-a-days,  and  find  society  a  bore.  But  there 
are  some  dozen  or  two  of  houses,  the  owners 
of  which  are  both  apart  from  and  above  the 
fashion,  in  which  a  foreigner  may  see,  col- 
lected under  the  same  roof,  many  of  the  most 
remarkable  men  of  busy,  thoughtful,  majestic 


*  The  brilliancy  of  your  wit  gives  so  great  a  lustre 
to  your  complexion  and  your  eyes,  that  though  it 
seems  that  wit  should  only  reach  the  ears,  it  is  alto- 
gether certain  that  yours  dazzles  the  eyes. 


England.  Lord  Latimer  himself  had  been 
a  cabinet  minister.  He  retired  from  public 
life  on  pretence  of  ill-health;  but,  in  reality, 
because  its  anxious  bustle  was  not  congenial  to 
a  gentle  and  accomplished,  but  somewhat 
feeble,  mind.  With  a  high  reputuation  and 
an  excellent  cook  he  enjoyed  a  great  popular 
ity,  both  with  his  own  party  and  the  world  in 
general;  and  he  was  the  centre  of  a  small  but 
distinguished  circle  of  acquaintances  who 
drank  Latimer's  wine,  and  quoted  Latimer's 
sayings,  and  liked  Latimer  much  better,  be- 
cause, not  being  author  or  minister,  he  was  not 
in  their  way. 

Lord  Latimer  received  Maltravers  with 
marked  courtesy,  and  even  deference,  and  in- 
vited him  to  join  his  own  whist-table,  which 
was  one  of  the  highest  compliments  his  lord- 
ship could  pay  to  his  intellect.  But  when  his 
guest  refused  the  proffered  honor,  the  Earl 
turned  him  over  to  the  Countess,  as  having  be- 
come the  property  of  the  womankind;  and  was 
soon  immersed  in  his  aspirations  for  the  odd 
trick. 

While  Maltravers  was  conversing  with  Lady 
Latimer,  he  happened  to  raise  his  eyes,  and 
saw  opposite  to  him  a  young  lady  of  such  re- 
markable beauty,  that  he  could  scarcely  re- 
frain fromj  an  admiring  exclamation, — "  And 
who,"  he  asked,  recovering  himself,  "  is  that 
lady  ?  It  is  strange  that  even  I,  who  go  so 
little  into  the  world,  should  be  compelled  to  in- 
quire the  name  of  one  whose  beauty  must 
already  have  made  her  celebrated." 

"Oh,  Lady  Florence  Lascelles — she  came 
out  last  year.  She  is,  indeed,  most  brilliant, 
yet  more  so  in  mind  and  accomplishments  than 
face.     I  must  be  allowed  to  introduce  you." 

At  this  offer,  a  strange  shyness,  and  as  it 
were  reluctant  distrust,  seized  Maltravers — a 
kind  presentiment  of  danger  and  evil.  He 
drew  back,  and  would  have  made  some  excuse, 
but  Lady  Latimer  did  not  heed  his  embarrass- 
ment, and  was  already  by  the  side  of  Lady 
Florence  Lascelles.  A  moment  more,  and 
beckoning  to  Maltravers,  the  Countess  pre- 
sented him  to  the  lady.  As  he  bowed  and 
seated  himself  beside  his  new  acquaintance,  he 
could  not  but  observe  that  her  cheeks  were 
suffused  with  the  most  lively  blushes,  and  that 
she  received  him  with  a  confusion  not  com- 
mon even  in  ladies  just  brought  out  and  jus\ 
introduced  to  "  a  lion."     He  was  rather  puz- 


132 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS. 


zled  than  flattered  by  these  tokens  of  embar- 
rassment, somewhat  akin  to  his  own;  and  the 
first  few  sentences  of  their  conversation  passed 
ofif  with  a  certain  awkwardness  and  reserve. 
At  this  moment,  to  the  surprise,  perhaps  to  the 
relief,  of  Ernest,  they  were  joined  by  Lumely 
Ferrers. 

"Ah,  Lady  Florence,  I  kiss  your  hands — 1 
am  charmed  to  find  you  acquainted  with  my 
friend  Maltravers." 

"  And  Mr.  Ferrers,  what  makes  him  so 
late  to-night !  "  asked  the  fair  Florence,  with  a 
sudden  ease  which  rather  startled  Maltravers. 

"  A  dull  dinner,  voila  tout  J — I  have  no  other 
excuse."  And  Ferrers,  sliding  into  a  vacant 
chair  on  the  other  side  of  Lady  Florence,  con- 
versed volubly  and  unceasingly,  as  if  seeking 
to  monopolize  her  attention. 

Ernest  had  not  been  so  much  captivated 
with  the  manner  of  Florence  as  he  had  been 
struck  with  her  beauty,  and  now,  seeing  her 
apparently  engaged  with  another,  he  rose  and 
quietly  moved  away.  He  was  soon  one  of  a 
knot  of  men  who  were  conversing  on  the  ab- 
sorbing topics  of  the  day;  and  as  by  degrees 
the  exciting  subject  brought  out  his  natural 
eloquence  and  masculine  sense,  the  talkers 
became  listeners,  the  knot  widened  into  a  cir- 
cle, and  he  himself  was  unconsciously  the  ob- 
ject of  general  attention  and  respect 

"  And  what  think  you  of  Mr.  Maltravers  ?  " 
asked  Ferrers,  carelessly;  "does  he  keep  up 
your  expectations  ? " 

Lady  Florence  had  sunk  into  a  reverie,  and 
Ferrers  repeated  his  question. 

"  He  is  younger  than  I  imagined  him, — and 
• — and—" 

"  Handsomer,  I  suppose  you  mean." 

"No  !  calmer  and  less  animated." 

"  He  seems  animated  enough  now,"  said 
Ferrers;  "but  your  ladylike  conversation 
failed  in  striking  the  Promethean  spark.  '  Lay 
that  fluttering  unction  to  your  soul.'  " 

"Ah,  you  are  right — he  must  have  thought 
me  vory " 

"Beautiful,  no  doubt." 

"  Beautiful  ? — I  hate  the  word,  Lumley.  I 
wish  I  were  not  handsome— I  might  then 
get  some  credit  for  my  intellect." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Ferrers,  significantly. 

"Oh,  you  don't  think  so,  sceptic,"  said  Flo- 
rence, shaking  her  head  with  a  slight  laugh, 
and  altered  manner. 


"  Does  it  matter  what  /think  said  Ferrers, 
with  an  attempted  touch  at  the  sentimental, 
when  Lord  This,  and  Lord  That,  and  Mr.  So- 
and-So,  and  Count  what-d'ye-call-him,  are  all      J 
making  their  way  to  you,  to  dispossess  me  of     I 
envied  monopoly  ?  "  I 

While  Ferrers  spoke,  several  of  the  scattered 
loungers  grouped  around  Florence,  and  the 
conversation,  of  which  she  was  the  cynosure, 
became  animated  and  gay.  Oh,  how  brilliant  j 
she  was,  that  peerless  Florence  ! — with  what  \ 
petulant  and  sparkling  grace  came  wit  and 
wisdom,  and  even  genius,  from  those  ruby 
lips  !  Even  the  assured  Ferrers  felt  his  subtle 
intellect  as  dull  and  coarse  to  hers,  and  shrank 
with  a  reluctant  apprehension  from  the  arrows 
of  her  careless  and  prodigal  repartees.  For 
there  was  a  scorn  in  the  nature  of  Florence 
Lascelles  which  made  her  wit  pain  more  fre- 
quently thafi  it  pleased.  Educated  even  to 
learning — courageous  even  to  a  want  of  fem- 
inacy — she  delighted  to  sport  with  ignorance 
and  pretension,  even  in  the  highest  places; 
and  the  laugh  that  she  excited  was  like  light- 
ning,— no  one  could  divine  where  next  it  might 
fall. 

But  Florence,  though  dreaded  and  unloved, 
was  yet  courted,  flattered,  and  the  rage.  For 
this  there  were  two  reasons;  first,  she  was  a 
coquette,  and  secondly,  she  was  an  heiress. 

Thus  the  talkers  in  the  room  were  divided 
into  two  principal  groups,  over  one  of  which 
Maltravers  may  be  said  to  have  presided; 
over  the  other,  Florence.  As  the  former  broke 
up,  Ernest  was  joined  by  Cleveland. 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  said  Florence,  suddenly, 
and  in  a  whisper,  as  she  turned  to  Lumley, 
"  your  friend  is  speaking  of  me — I  see  it.  Go, 
I  implore  you,  and  let  me  know  what  he 
says  !  " 

"  The  commission  is  not  flattering,"  said 
Ferrers,  almost  sullenly. 

"  Nay,  a  commission  to  gratify  a  woman's 
curiosity  is  ever  one  of  the  most  flattering 
embassies  with  which  we  can  invest  an  able 
negotiator." 

"  Well,  I  must  do  your  bidding,  though  I 
disown  the  favor."  Ferrers  moved  away,  and 
joined  Cleveland  and  Maltravers. 

"She  is,  indeed,  beautiful:  so  perfect  a  con- 
tour I  never  beheld;  she  is  the  only  woman  1 
ever  saw  in  whom  the  aquiline  features  seem 
more  classical  than  even  the  Greek." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVEIiS. 


133 


"  So,  that  is  your  opinion  of  my  fair 
cousin  !  "  cried  Ferrers;  "you  are  caught." 

"  I  wish  he  were,"  said  Cleveland.  "  Ernest 
is  now  old  enough  to  settle,  and  there  is  not  a 
more  dazzling  prize  in  England — rich,  high- 
born, lovely,  and  accomplished." 

"And  what  say  you?"  asked  Lumley, 
almost  impatiently,  to  Maltravers. 

"  That  I  never  saw  one  whom  I  admire 
more  or  could  love  less,"  replied  Ernest,  as  he 
quitted  the  rooms. 

Ferrers  looked  after  him,  and  muttered  to 
himself;  he  then  rejoined  Florence,  who  pres- 
ently rose  to  depart,  and  taking  Lumley'sarm, 
said,  "  Well,  I  see  my  father  is  looking  round 
for  me — and  so  for  once  I  will  forestall  him. 
Come,  Lumley,  let  me  join  him:  I  know  he 
wants  to  see  you." 

"Well,  said  Florence;  blushing  deeply,  and 
almost  breathless,  as  they  crossed  the  now 
half-empty  apartments. 

"  Well,  my  cousin  ?  " 

"You  provoke  me — well,  then,  what  said 
your  friend  ? " 

"  That  you  deserved  your  reputation  of 
beauty,  but  that  you  were  not  his  style.  Mai-- 
travers  is  in  love,  you  know?  " 

"  In  love  ? " 

"Yes,  a  pretty  Frenchwoman:  quite  roman- 


tic— an  attachment  of  some  years'  stand- 
ing." 

Florence  turned  away  her  face,  and  said  no 
more. 

"That's  a  good  fellow,  Lumley,"  said  Lord 
Saxingham;  "Florence  is  never  more  welcome 
to  my  eyes  than  at  half-past  one  o'clock,  a.  m., 
when  I  associate  her  with  thoughts  of  my  nat- 
ural rest,  and  my  unfortunate  carriage  horses. 
By  the  by,  I  wish  you  would  dine  with  me 
next  Saturday." 

"  Saturday:  unfortunately,  I  am  engaged  to 
my  uncle." 

"  Oh  !  he  has  behaved  handsomely  to  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Mrs.  Tempteton  pretty  well  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  so." 

"  As  ladies  wish  to  be,  etc.?  "  whispered  his 
lordship. 

"  No,  thank  Heaven  !  " 

"Well,  if  the  old  man  could  but  make  you 
his  heir,  we  might  think  twice  about  the  title." 

"  My  dear  lord,  stop  !  one  favor — write  me 
a  line  to  hint  that  delicately." 

"No — no  letters;  letters  always  get  into 
the  papers." 

"  But  cautiously  worded — no  danger  of  pub- 
lication, on  my  honor." 

"  I'll  think  of  it.     Good  night." 


'34 


BULWEKS     WORKS. 


BOOK    SEVENTH. 


yipfi  u>c  apttrrov  p-iv  vvtov  ircipacrdai,  yivi<rOatf  firi  n&voy  it  avTov  votiiitiy  ap^OTOv  fiuFaadai  ytytoOttj  &C. 

— Plotin.  Em.  11.  lib.  ii.  c.  a 
Every  man  should  strive  to  be  as  good  as  possible,  but  not  suppose  himself  to  be  the  only  thing  that  is  good. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Deceit  is  the  strong  but  subtile  chain  which  runs 
through  all  the  members  of  a  society  and  links  them 
together;  trick  or  be  tricked,  is  the  alternative;  'tis  the 
way  of  the  world,  and  without  it  intercourse  would 
drop." — Anonymous  IViiter  of  1722. 

"  A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene. 
And  motions  which  o'er  things  indifferent  shed 
The  grace  and  gentleness  from  whence  they  came." 
— Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

"  His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old." 

—Shakespeare. 

"  He  after  honor  hunts,  I  after  \ove."—IbiJ. 

LuMLEV   Ferrers  was  one  of  the  few  men 

in  the  world  who  act  upon  a  profound,  delib- 
erate, and  organized  system— he  had  done  so 
even  from  a  boy.  When  he  was  twenty-one, 
he  had  said  to  himself,  "Youth  is  the  season 
for  enjoyment:  the  triumphs  of  manhood,  the 
wealth  of  age,  do  not  compensate  for  a  youth 
spent  in  unpleasurable  toils'."  Agreeably  to 
this  maxim,  he  had  resolved  not  to  adopt  any 
profession;  and  being  fond  of  travel,  and  of  a 
restless  temper,  he  had  indulged  abroad  in  all 
the  gratifications  that  his  moderate  income 
could  afford  him:  that  income  went  farther  on 
the  Continent  than  at  home,  which  was  another 
reason  for  the  prolongation  of  his  travels. 
Now,  when  the  whims  and  passions  of  youth 
were  sated;  and,  ripened  by  a  consummate 
and  various  knowledge  of  mankind,  his  harder 
capacities  of  mind  became  developed  and  cen- 
tered into  such  ambition  as  it  was  his  nature 
to  conceive,  he  acted  no  less  upon  a  regular 
and  methodical  plan  of  conduct,  which  he 
carried  into  details.  He  had  little  or  nothing 
within  himself  to  cross  his  cold  theories  by 
contradictory  practice;  for  he  was  curbed  by 


no  principles,  and  regulated  but  by  few  tastes: 
and  our  tastes  are  often  checks  as  powerful  as 
our  principles.  Looking  round  the  English 
world,  Ferrers  saw,  that  at  his  age  and  with  an 
equivocal  position,  and  no  chances  to  throw 
away,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  cast  off 
all  attributes  of  the  character  of  the  wanderer 
and  the  garfon.' 

"There  is  nothing  respectable  in  lodgings 
and  a  cab,"  said  Ferrers  to  himself — that 
".f^^"was  his  grand  confidant!  "nothing 
stationary.  Such  are  the  appliances  of  a 
here-to-day  gone-to-morrow  kind  of  life.  One 
never  looks  substantial  till  one  pays  rates  and 
taxes,  and  has  a  bill  with  one's  butcher  ! " 

Accordingly,  without  saying  a  word  to  any- 
body, Ferrers  took  a  long  lease  of  a  large 
house,  in  one  of  those  quiet  streets  that  pro- 
claim the  owners  do  not  wish  to  be  made  by 
fashional)le  situations — streets  in  which,  if  you 
have  a  large  house,  it  is  supposed  to  be  be 
cause  you  can  afford  one.  He  was  very  par- 
ticular in  its  being  a  respectable  street — Great 
George  Street,  Westminster,  was  the  one  he 
selected. 

No  frippery  or  baubles,  common  to  the 
mansions  of  young  bachelors — no  buhl,  and 
marquetrie,  and  Sevres  china,  and  cabinet  pic- 
ture, distinguished  the  large  dingy  drawing- 
aooms  of  Lumley  Ferrers.  He  bought  all  the 
old  furniture  a  bargain  of  the  late  tenant — 
tea-colored  chintz  curtains,  and  chairs  and 
sofas  that  were  venerable  and  solemn  with 
the  accumulated  dust  of  twenty-five  years. 
The  only  things  about  which  he  was  particu- 
lar were  a  very  long  dining-table  that  would 
hold  four-and-twenty,  and  a  new  mahogany 
sideboard.      Somebody    asked    him    why    he 


ERNEST    MALTRA  VERS. 


135 


cared  about  such  articles.  "  I  don't  know," 
said  he,  "  but  I  observe  all  respectable  family- 
men  do — there  must  be  something  in  it — I 
shall  discover  the  secret  by  and  by." 

In  this  house  did  Mr.  Ferrers  ensconce 
kimself  with  two  middle-aged  maid-servants, 
and  a  man  out  of  livery,  whom  he  chose  from 
a  multitude  of  candidates,  because  the  man 
looked  especially  well  fed. 

Having  thus  settled  himself,  and  told  every 
one  that  the  lease  of  his  house  was  for  sixty- 
three  years,  Lumley  Ferrers  made  a  little  cal- 
culation of  his  probable  expenditure,  which  he 
found,  with  good  management,  might  amount 
to  about  one-fourth  more  than  his  income. 

"I  shall  take  the  surplus  out  of  my  capital," 
said  he,  "  and  try  the  experiment  for  five 
years;  if  it  don't  do,  and  pay  me  profitably, 
why  then  either  men  are  not  to  be  lived  upon, 
or  Lumley  Ferrers  is  a  much  duller  dog  than 
he  thinks  himself !  " 

Mr.  Ferrers  had  deeply  studied  the  character 
of  his  uncle,  as  a  prudent  speculator  studies 
the  qualities  of  a  mine  in  which  he  means  to 
nivest  his  capital,  and  much  of  his  present  pro- 
ceedings was  intended  to  act  upon  the  uncle 
as  well  as  upon  the  world.  He  saw  that  the 
more  he  could  obtain  for  himself,  not  a  noisy, 
social,  fashionable  reputation,  but  a  good,  sober, 
substantial  one,  the  more  highly,  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton  would  consider  him,  and  the  more 
likely  he  was  to  be  made  his  uncle's  heir, — 
that  is,  provided  Mrs.  Templeton  did  not 
supepsede  the  nepotal  parasite  by  indigenous 
olive  branches.  This  last  apprehension  died 
away  as  time  passed,  and  no  signs  of  fertility 
appeared.  And,  accordingly,  F'errers  thought 
he  might  prudently  hazard  more  upon  the 
game  on  which  he  now  ventured  to  rely. 
There  was  one  thing,  however,  that  greatly 
disturbed  his  peace;  Mr.  Templeton,  though 
harsh  and  austere  in  his  manner  to  his  wife, 
was  evidently  attached  to  her;  and,  above 
all,  he  cherished  the  fondest  affection  for  his 
daughter-in-law.  He  was  as  anxious  for  her 
health,  her  education,  her  little  childish  enjoy- 
ments, as  if  he  had  been  not  only  her  parent 
but  a  very  doting  one  He  could  not  bear 
her  to  be  crossed  or  thwarted.  Mr.  Temple- 
ton, who  had  never  spoiled  anything  before, 
not  even  an  old  pen,  (so  careful  and  calculat- 
ing, and  methodical  was  he),  did  his  best  to 
spoil  this  beautiful  child,  whom  he  could  not 


even  have  the  vain  luxury  of  thinking  he  had 
produced  to  the  admiring  world. 

Softly,  exquisitely  lovely  was  that  little  girl; 
and  every  day  she  "increased  in  the  charm  of 
her  person,  and  in  the  caressing  fascination  of 
her  childish  ways.  Her  temper  was  so  sweet 
and  docile,  that  fondness  and  petting,  however 
injudiciously  exhibited,  only  seemed  yet  more 
to  bring  out  the  colors  of  a  grateful  and  tender 
nature.  Perhaps  the  measured  kindness  of 
more  reserved  affection  might  have  been  the 
true  way  of  spoiling  one  whose  instincts  were 
all  for  exacting  and  returning  love.  She  was 
a  plant  that  suns  less  warm,  might  have  nipped 
and  chilled.  But  beneath  an  uncapricious  and 
unclouded  sunshine  she  sprang  up  in  a  luxuri- 
ous bloom  of  heart  and  sweetness  of  disposi- 
tion. 

Every  one,  even  those  who  did  not  generally 
like  children,  delighted  in  this  charming  creat- 
ure, excepting  only  Mr.  Lumley  Ferrers.  But 
that  gentleman,  less  mild  than  Pope's  Nar- 
cissa, — 

"  To  make  a  wash  had  gladly  stewed  the  child  ! " 

He  had  seen  how  very  common  it  is  for  a 
rich  man,  married  late  in  life,  to  leave  every- 
thing to  a  young  widow  and  her  children  by 
her  former  marriage,  when  once  attached  to 
the  latter;  and  he  sensibly  felt  that  he  himself 
had  but  a  slight  hold  over  Templeton  by  the 
chain  of  the  affections.  He  resolved,  there- 
fore, as  much  as  possible,  to  alienate  his  uncle 
from  his  j'oung  wife;  trusting,  that  as  the  in-, 
fluence  of  the  wife  was  weakened,  that  of  the 
child  would  be  lessened  also;  and  to  raise  in 
Templeton's  vanity  and  ambition  an  ally  that 
might  supply  to  himself  the  want  of  love.  He 
pursued  his  twofold  scheme  with  masterly  art 
and  address.  He  first  sought  to  secure  the 
confidence  and  regard  of  the  melancholy  and 
gentle  mother;  and  in  this, — for  she  was  pe- 
culiarly unsuspicious  and  inexperienced,  he 
obtained  signal  and  complete  success.  His 
frankness  of  manner,  his  deferential  attention, 
the  art  with  which  he  warded  off  from  her  the 
spleen  or  ill-humor  of  Mr.  Templeton,  the 
cheerfulness  that  his  easy  gaiety  threw  over  a 
very  gloomy  house,  made  the  poor  lady  hail 
his  visits  and  trust  in  his  friendship.  Perhaps 
she  was  glad  of  any  interruption  to  tite-a-tites 
with  a  severe  and  ungenial  husband,  who  had 
no  sympathy  for  the  sorrows,  of  whatever  nat- 
ure they  might  be,  which  preyed  upon  her, "and 


136 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


who  made  it  a  point  of  morality  to  fiiul  fault 
wherever  he  could. 

The  next  step  in  Lumley's  policy  was 
to  arm  Templeton's  vanity  against  his  wife, 
by  constantly  refreshing  his  conciousness 
of  the  sacrifices  he  had  made  by  marriage, 
and  the  certainty  that  he  would  have  attained 
all  his  wishes  had  he  chosen  more  prudently. 
By  perpetually,  but  most  judiciously,  rubbing 
this  sore  point,  he,  as  it  were,  fixed  the  irrita- 
bility into  Templeton's  constitution,  and  it  re- 
acted on  all  his  thoughts,  aspiring  or  domestic. 
Still,  however,  to  Lumley's  great  surprise  and 
resentment,  while  Templeton  cooled  to  his 
wife,  he  only  warmed  to  her  child.  Lumley  had 
not  calculated  enough  upon  the  thirst  and  crav- 
ing for  affection  in  most  human  hearts;  and 
Templeton,  though  not  exactly  an  amiable 
man,  had  some  excellent  qualities;  if  he  had 
less  sensitively  regarded  the  opinion  of  the 
world,  he  would  neither  have  contracted  the 
vocabulary  of  cant,  nor  sickened  for  a  peerage 
— both  his  affectation  of  saintship,  and  his 
gnawing  desire  of  rank,  arose  from  extraordi- 
nary and  morbid  defference  to  opinion,  and  a 
wish  for  worldly  honors  and  respect,  which  he 
felt  that  his  mere  talents  could  not  secure  to 
him. 

But  he  was,  at  bottom,  a  kindly  man — char- 
itable to  the  poor,  considerate  to  his  servants, 
and  had  within  him  the  want  to  love  and  be 
loved,  which  is  one  of  the  desires  wherewith 
the  atoms  of  the  universe  are  cemented  and 
harmonized.  Had  Mrs.  Templeton  evinced 
love  10  him,  he  might  have  defied  all  Lumley's 
diplomacy,  been  consoled  for  worldly  disad- 
vantages, and  been  a  good  and  even  uxo- 
rious husband.  But  she  evidently  did  not 
love  him,  though  an  admirable,  patient,  prov- 
ident wife;  and  her  daughter  did  love  him  — 
love  him  as  well  even  as  she  loved  her  mother; 
and  the  hard  worldling  would  not  have  ac- 
cepted a  kingdom  as  the  price  of  that  little 
fountain  of  pure  and  ever-refreshing  tender- 
ness. Wise  and  penetrating  as  Lumley  was, 
he  never  could  thoroughly  understand  this 
weakness,  as  he  called  it;  for  we  never  know 
men  entirely,  unless  we  have  complete  sympa- 
thies with  men  in  all  their  natural  emotions; 
and  Nature  had  left  the  workmanship  of  Lum- 
ley Ferrers  unfinished  and  incomplete,  by 
denying  him  the  possibility  of  caring  for  any- 
thing but  himself. 


His  plan  for  winning  Templeton's  esteem 
and  deference  was,  however,  completely  tri- 
umphant. He  took  care  that  nothing  in  hi 
in/nage  should  appear  "  extravagant;"  all  was 
sober,  quiet,  and  well-regulated.  He  declared 
that  he  had  so  managed  as  to  live  within  his 
income;  and  Templeton,  receiving  no  hint  for 
money,  nor  aware  that  Ferrers  had  on  the  con- 
tinent consumed  a  considerable  jwrtion  of 
his  means,  believed  him.  Ferrers  gave  a  great 
many  dinners,  but  he  did  not  go  on  that  fool- 
ish plan  which  has  been  laid  down  by  persons 
who  pretend  to  know  life,  as  a  means  of  popu- 
larity— he  did  not  profess  to  give  dinners  bet- 
ter than  other  people.  He  knew  that,  unless 
you  are  a  very  rich  or  a  very  great  man,  no 
folly  is  equal  to  that  of  thinking  that  you 
soften  the  hearts  of  your  friends,  by  soups  i  ^ 
la  bisque,  and  Johannisberg  at  a  guinea  a  bot- 
tle !     They  all  go  away,  saying,  "  What  right 

has  that  d d  fellow  to  give  a  better  dinner    j 

than    we   do  ?      What   horrid    taste  ?      What 
ridiculous  presumption  ! " 

No;    though    Ferrers  himself   was   a   most    , 
scientific  epicure,  and  held  the  luxury  of  the     '■ 
palate  at  the  highest  possible  price,  he  dieted    \ 
his  friends   on   what   he  termed    "  respectable 
fare." 

His  cook  put  plenty  of  flour  into  the  oyster- 
sauce;  cods'-head  and  shoulders  made  his 
invariabl  fish;  and  four  ^///r«'«,  without  flavor 
or  pretence,  were  duly  supplied  by  the  pastry- 
cook, and  carefully  eschewed  by  the  host. 
Neither  did  Mr.  Ferrers  affect  to  bring  about 
him  gay  wits  and  brilliant  talkers.  He  con-  j 
fined  himself  to  men  of  substantial  considera-  ■ 
tion,  and  generally  took  care  to  be  himself  the  ' 
cleverest  person  present;  while  he  turned  the 
conversation  on  serious  matters  crammed  for 
the  occasion — politics,  stocks,  commerce,  and 
the  criminal  code.  Pruning  his  gaiety,  thotigli 
he  retained  his  frankness,  he  sought  to  be 
known  as  a  highly-informed,  pains-taking  man, 
who  would  be  sure  to  rise.  His  connections, 
and  a  certain  nameless  charm  about  him,  con- 
sisting chiefly  in  a  pleasant  countenance,  a 
bold  yet  winning  candor,  and  the  absence  of 
all  hauteur  or  pretence,  enabled  him  to  assem- 
ble round  this  plain  table,  which,  if  it  gratified 
no  taste,  wounded  no  self-love,  a  sufficient 
number  of  public  men  of  rank,  and  eminent 
men  of  business,  to  answer  his  purpose. 

The  situation  he  had  chosen,  so  near  the 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


137 


Houses  of  Parliament,  was  convenient  to  poli- 
ticians, and  by  degrees,  the  large  dingy  draw- 
ing-rooms became  a  frequent  resort  for  public 
men  to  talk  over  those  thousand  underplots  by 
which  a  party  is  served  or  attacked.  Thus, 
though  not  in  parliament  himself  Ferrers  be- 
came insensibly  associated  with  parliamentary 
men  and  things;  and  the  ministerial  party, 
whose  politics  he  espoused,  praised  him 
highly,  made  use  of  him,  and  meant  some  day 
or  other,  to  do  something  for  him.  While  the 
career  of  this  able  and  unprincipled  man  thus 
opened — and  of  course  the  opening  was  not 
made  in  a  day — Ernest  Maltravers  was  ascend- 
ing, by  a  rough,  thorny,  and  encumbered  path, 
to  that  eminence  on  which  the  monuments  of 
men  are  built.  His  success  in  public  life  was 
not  brilliant  nor  sudden.  For,  though  he  had 
eloquence  and  knowledge,  he  disdained  all 
oratorical  devices;  and  though  he  had  passion 
and  energy,  he  could  scarcely  be  called  a  warm 
partisan. 

He  met  with  much  envy,  and  many  obsta- 
cles; and  the  gracious  and  buoyant  socialty 
of  temper  and  manners,  that  had,  in  early 
youth,  made  him  the  idol  of  his  contempora- 
ries at  school  or  college,  had  long  since  faded 
away  into  a  cold,  settled,  and  lofty,  though 
gentle  reserve,  which  did  not  attract  towards 
him  the  animal  spirits  of  the  herd.  But 
though  he  spoke  seldom,  and  heard  many, 
with  half  his  powers,  more  enthusiastically 
cheered,  he  did  not  fail  of  commanding  atten- 
tion and  respect;  and  though  no  darling  of 
cliques  and  parties,  yet  in  that  great  body  of 
the  people  who  were  ever  the  audience  and 
tribunal  to  which,  in  letters  or  in  politics,  Mal- 
travers appealed,  there  was  silently  growing 
up,  and  spreading  wide,  a  belief  in  his  upright 
intentions,  his  unpurchasable  honor,  and  his 
■correct  and  well-considered  views.  He  felt 
that  his  name  was  safely  invested,  though  the 
return  for  the  capital  was  slow  and  moderate. 
He  was  contented  to  abide  his  time. 

Every  day  he  grew  more  attached  to  that 
only  true  philosophy  which  makes  a  man,  as 
far  as  the  world  will  permit,  a  world  to  himself; 
and  from  the  height  of  a  tranquil  and  serene 
self-esteem,  he  felt  the  sun  shine  above  him, 
when  malignant  clouds  spread  sullen  and  un- 
genial  below.  He  did  not  despise  or  wilfully 
shock  opinion,  neither  did  he  fawn  upon  and 
flatter  it.     Where  he  thought  the  world  should 


be  humored,  he  humored — where  contemned, 
he  contemned  it.  There  are  many  cases  in 
which  an  honest,  well-educated,  high-hearted 
individual  is  a  much  better  judge  than  the 
multitude  of  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong; 
and  in  these  matters  he  is  not  worth  three 
straws  if  he  suffer  the  multitude  to  bully  or 
coax  him  out  of  his  judgment.  The  Public, 
if  you  indulge  it,  is  a  most  damnable  gossip, 
thrusting  its  nose  into  people's  concerns,  where 
it  has  no  right  to  make  or  meddle;  and  in 
those  things,  where  the  Public  is  impertinent, 
Maltravers  scorned  and  resisted  its  interference 
as  haughtily  as  he  would  the  interference  of 
any  insolent  member  of  the  insolent  whole. 
It  was  this  mixture  of  deep  love  and  profound 
respect  for  the  eternal  people,  and  of  calm, 
passionless  disdain  for  that  capricious  charla- 
tan, the  momentary  public,  which  made  Ernest 
Maltravers  an  original  and  solitary  thinker; 
and  an  actor,  in  reality  modest  and  benevolent, 
in  appearance  arrogant  and  unsocial.  "  Pau- 
perism, in  contradistinction  to  poverty,"  he 
was  wont  to  say,  "  is  the  dependence  upon 
other  people  for  existence,  not  on  our  own 
exertions;  there  is  a  moral  pauperism  in  the 
man  who  is  dependent  on  others  for  that  sup- 
port of  moral  life — self-respect." 

Wrapped  in  this  philosophy,  he  pursued  his 
haughty  and  lonesome  way,  and  felt  that  in  the 
deep  heart  of  mankind,  when  prejudices  and 
envies  should  die  off,  there  would  be  a  sym- 
pathy with  his  motives  and  his  career.  So 
far  as  his  own  health  was  concerned,  the  ex- 
periment had  answered.  No  mere  drudgery 
of  business — late  hours  and  dull  speeches — 
can  produce  the  dread  exhaustion  which  fol- 
lows the  efforts  of  the  soul  to  mount  into  the 
higher  air  of  severe  thought  or  intense  im- 
agination. Those  faculties  which  had  been 
overstrained  now  lay  fallow — and  the  frame 
rapidly  regained  its  tone.  Of  private  comfort 
and  inspiration  Ernest  knew  but  little.  He 
gradually  grew  estranged  from  his  old  friend 
Ferrers,  as  their  habits  became  opposed. 
Cleveland  lived  more  and  more  in  the  country, 
and  was  too  well  satisfied  with  his  quondam 
pupil's  course  of  life  and  progressive  reputa- 
tion to  trouble  him  with  exhortation  or  advice. 
Cesarini  had  grown  a  literary  lion,  whose  gen- 
ius was  vehemently  lauded  by  all  the  reviews — 
on  the  same  principle  as  that  which  induces  us 
to  praise  foreign  singers   or  dead   men; — we 


138 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


must  praise  something,  and  we  don't  like  to 
praise  those  who  jostle  ourselves.  Cesarini 
had  therefore  grown  prodigiously  conceited — 
swore  that  England  was  the  only  country  for 
true  merit,  and  no  longer  concealed  his  jeal- 
ous anger  at  the  wider  celebrity  of  Maltravers. 
Ernest  saw  him  squandering  away  his  sub- 
stance, and  prostituting  his  talents  to  drawing- 
room  trifles,  with  a  compassionate  sigh.  He 
sought  to  warn  him,  but  Cesarini  listened  to 
him  with  such  impatience  that  he  resigned  the 
office  of  monitor.  He  wrote  to  I)e  Montaigne, 
who  succeeded  no  better.  Cesarini  was  bent 
on  playing  his  own  game.  And  to  one  game, 
without  a  metaphor,  he  had  at  last  come.  His 
craving  for  excitement  vented  itself  at  Hazard, 
and  his  remaining  guineas  melted  daily  away. 
But  De  Montaigne's  letters  to  Maltravers 
consoled  him  for  the  loss  of  less  congenial 
friends.  The  Frenchman  was  now  an  eminent 
and  celebrated  man;  and  his  appreciation  of 
Maltravers  was  sweeter  to  the  latter  than 
would  have  been  the  huzzas  of  crowds.  But, 
all  this  while,  his  vanity  was  pleased  and  his 
curiosity  roused  by  the  continued  correspond- 
ence of  his  unseen  Egeria.  That  correspond- 
ence (if  so  it  may  be  called,  being  all  on  one 
side)  had  now  gone  on  for  a  considerable 
time,  and  he  was  still  wholly  unable  to  dis- 
cover the  author:  its  tone  had  of  late  altered 
— it  had  become  more  sad  and  subdued — it 
spoke  of  the  hoUowness  as  well  as  the  rewards 
of  fame;  and,  with  a  touch  of  true  womanly 
sentiment,  often  hinted  more  at  the  rapture  of 
soothing  dejection,  than  of  sharing  triumph. 
In  all  these  letters,  there  was  the  undeniable 
evidence  of  high  intellect  and  deep  feeling; 
they  e.xcited  a  strong  and  keen  interest  in 
Maltravers,  yet  the  interest  was  not  that  which 
made  him  wish  to  discover,  in  order  that  he 
might  love,  the  writer.  They  were  for  the 
most  part  too  full  of  the  irony  and  bitterness 
of  a  man's  spirit,  to  fascinate  one  who  con- 
sidered that  gentleness  was  the  essence  of  a 
woman's  strength.  Temper  spoke  in  them,  no 
less  than  mind  and  heart,  and  it  was  not  the 
sort  of  temper  which  a  man  who  loves 
women  to  be  womanly  could  admire. 

"  I  hear  you  often  spoken  of,"  (ran  one  of  these 
strange  epistles,)  "  and  I  am  almost  equally  angry 
whether  fools  presume  to  praise  or  to  blame  you. 
This  miserable  world  we  live  in,  how  I  loathe  and  dis- 
dain it! — yet  I  desire  you  to  serve  and  to  master  it  ! 
Weak  contradiction,  effeminate  paradox!    Oh!  rather 


a  thousand  times  that  you  would  fly  from  its  mean 
temptations  and  poor  jewards!— If  the  desert  were 
your  dwelling-place  and  you  wished  one  minister,  I 
could  renounce  all— wealth,  flattery,  repute,  woman- 
hood, to  serve  you. 


"  I  once  admired  you  for  your  genius.  My  disease 
has  fastened  on  me,  and  I  now  almost  worship  you  for 
yourself.  1  have  seen  you,  Ernest  Maltravers,— seen 
you  often,— and  when  you  never  suspected  that  these 
eyes  were  on  you.  Now  that  I  have  seen,  I  under- 
stand you  better.  We  cannot  judge  men  by  their 
books  and  deeds.  Posterity  can  know  nothing  of  the 
beings  of  the  past.  A  thousand  books  never  written — 
a  thousand  deeds  never  done — are  in  the  eyes  and  lips 
of  the  few  greater  than  the  herd.  In  that  cold,  ab- 
stracted gaze,  that  pale  and  haughty  brow,  I  read  the 
disdain  of  obstacles,  which  is  worthy  of  one  who  is- 
confident  of  the  goal.  But  my  eyes  fill  with  tears 
when  I  survey  you!— you  are  sad,  you  are  alone!  If 
failures  do  not  mortify  you,  success  does  not  elevate. 
Oh,  Maltravers,  1,  woman  as  I  am,  and  living  in  a  nar- 
row circle,  I,  even  I,  know  at  last,  that  to  have  desires- 
nobler,  and  ends  more  august,  than  others,  is  but  ta 
surrender  waking  life  to  morbid  and  melancholy 
dreams. 


"  Go  more  into  the  world,  Maltravers — go  more  into- 
the  world,  or  quit  it  altogether.  Your  enemies  must 
be  met;  they  accumulate,  they  grow  strong — you  are 
too  tranquil,  too  .slow  in  your  steps  towards  the  prize: 
which  should  be  yours,  to  satisfy  my  impatience,  to 
satisfy  your  friends,  Be  less  refined  in  your  am- 
bition, that  you  may  be  more  immediately  useful. 
The  feet  of  clay,  after  all,  are  the  swiftest  in  the  race. 
Even  Lumley  Ferrers  will  outstrip  you  if  you  do  not 
take  heed. 

•  »  «  *  * 

"  Why  do  I  run  on  thus  ?— you — you  love  another,, 
yet  you  are  not  less  the  ideal  that  I  could  love — if  I 
ever  loved  any  one.  You  love — and  yet — well — no- 
matter." 


CHAPTER   n. 

"  Well,  but  this  is  being  only  an  official  nobleman. 
No  matter,  'tis  still  being  a  nobleman,  and  that's  his 
aim." — Anonymous  Writer  of  1772. 

"  La  inusique  est  le  seul  des  talens  qui  jouissent  de 
lui-merae;  tous  les  autres  veulent  des  temoins."  * 

— Marmontel. 

"  Thus  the  slow  ox  would  gaudy  trappings  claim." 

— Horace. 

Mr.  Templeton  had  not  obtained  his  peer- 
age, and,  though  he  had   met  with  no  direct 
refusal,  nor  made  even  a  direct  application  to 
head-quarters,   he   was   growing    sullen.     He    ' 
had  great  parliamentary  influence,  not  close 


*  Music  is  the  sole  talent  which  gives  pleasure  o< 
itself;  all  the  others  require  witnesses. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


•39 


borough,  illegitimate  influence,  but  very  proper 
orthodox  influence  of  character,  wealth,  and 
so  forth.  He  could  return  one  member  at 
least  for  a  city — he  could  almost  return  one 
member  for  a  county,  and  in  three  boroughs, 
any  activity  on  his  part  could  turn  the  scale 
in  a  close  contest.  The  ministers  were  strong, 
but  still  they  could  not  afiford  to  lose  sup- 
porters hitherto  zealous — the  example  of  de- 
sertion is  contagious.  In  the  town  which 
Templeton  had  formerly  represented,  and 
which  he  now  almost  commanded,  a  vacancy 
suddenly  occurred — a  candidate  started  on  the 
opposition  side  and  commenced  a  canvass;  to 
the  astonishment  and  panic  of  the  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury,"  Templeton  put  forward  no 
one,  and  his  interest  remained  dormant.  Lord 
Saxingham  hurried  to  Lumley. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  what  is  this  ? — what  can 
your  uncle  be  about  ?  We  shall  lose  this 
place — one  of  our  strongholds.  Bets  run  even." 

"  Why,  you  see,  you  have  all  behaved  very 
ill  to  my  uncle — I  am  really  sorry  for  it,  but  I 
can  do  nothing." 

"  What,  this  confounded  peerage  !  Will 
that  content  him,  and  nothing  short  of  it?" 

"Nothing." 

"  He  must  have  it,  by  Jove  !  " 

"And  even  that  may  come  too  late." 

"  Ha  !  do  you  think  so  ? " 

"  Will  you  leave  the  matter  to  me?" 

"  Certainly — you  are  a  monstrous  clevjr  fel- 
low, and  we  all  esteem  you." 

"Sit  down  and  write  as  I  dictate,  my  dear 
lord." 

"Well,"  said  Lord  Saxingham,  seating  him- 
self at  Lumley's  enormous  writing-table — 
"well,  go  on." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Templeton " 

"Too  familiar,"  said  Lord  Saxingham. 

"Not  a  bit;  go  on." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Templeton ; 

"  We  are  anxious  to  secure  your  parliamen- 
tary influetue  in  C****  *  to  the  proper  quar- 
ter, namely  to  your  own  family,  as  the  best  de- 
fenders of  the  administration,  which  you  hoiwr 
by  your  support.  Wc  wish  signally,  at  the  same 
time,  to  express  our  confidencein your  principles, 
and  our  gratitude  for  your  countenance." 

"D — d  sour  countenance  !  "  muttered  Lord 
Saxingham. 

"Accordingly;'  continued  Ferrers,  ''as  one 
whose  connection  with  you  permits  the  liberty. 


allmv  me  to  request  that  you  will  suffer  our  joint 
relation,  Mr.  Ferrers,  to  be  put  into  immediate 
nomination." 

Lord  Saxingham  threw  down  the  pen  and 
laughed  for  two  minutes  without  ceasing. 
"  Capital,  Lumley,  capital  ! — Very  odd  I  did 
not  think  of  it  before." 

'"Each  man  for  himself,  and  God  for  us 
all,"  returned  Lumley,  gravely;  "pray  go  on, 
my  dear  lord." 

"  We  are  sure  you  could  not  have  a  represen- 
tative that  would  more  faithfully  reflect  your 
oittn  opinions  and  our  interests.  One  word  more. 
A  creation  of  peers  will  probably  take  place  in 
the  spring,  among  which  I  am  sure  your  name 
would  be  to  his  Majesty  a  gratifying  addition; 
the  title  will  of  course  be  secured  to  your  sons — 
and  failing  the  latter,  to  your  nephew. 
"  With  great  regard  and  respect, 

"  Truly  yours, 

"  Saxingham." 

"  There,  inscribe  that,  '  Private  and  confi- 
dential,' and  send  it  express  to  my  uncle's 
villa." 

"It  shall  be  done,  my  dear  Lumley — and 
this  contents  me  as  much  as  it  does  you.  You 
are  really  a  man  to  do  us  credit.  You  think 
it  will  be  arranged  ?" 

"  No  doubt  of  it." 

"  Well,  good  day.  Lumley,  come  to  me 
when  it  is  all  settled:  Florence  is  always  glad 
to  see  you;  she  says  no  one  amuses  her  more. 
And  I  am  sure  that  is  rare  praise,  for  she  is  a 
strange  girl,— quite  a  Timon  in  petticoats." 

Away  went  Lord  Saxingham. 

"  Florence  glad  to  see  me  !  "  said  Lumley, 
throwing  his  arms  behind  him,  and  striding  to 
and  fro  the  room — "  Scheme  the  Second  be- 
gins to  smile  upon  me  behind  the  advancing 
shadow  of  Scheme  One.  If  I  can  but  succeed 
in  keeping  away  other  suitors  from  my  fair 
cousin  until  I  am  in  a  condition"  to  propose 
myself,  why  I  may  carry  off  the  greatest  match 
in  the  three  kingdoms.  Courage,  mon  brave 
Ferrers,  courage  !  " 

It  was  late  that  evening  when  Ferrers  ar- 
rived at  his  uncle's  villa.  He  found  Mrs. 
Templeton  in  the  drawing-room  seated  at  the 
piano.  He  entered  gently;  she  did  not  hear 
him,  and  continued  at  the  instrument.  Her 
voice  was  so  sweet  and  rich,  her  taste  so  pure, 
that  Ferrens,  who  was  a  good  judge  of  music. 


I40 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


stood  in  delighted  surprise.  Often  as  he  had 
now  been  a  visitor,  even  an  inmate,  at  the 
house,  he  had  never  before  heard  Mrs.  Temple- 
ton  play  any  but  sacred  airs,  and  this  was  one 
of  the  popular  songs  of  sentiment.  He  per- 
ceived that  her  feeling  at  last  overpowered  her 
voice,  and  she  paused  abruptly,  and  turning 
round,  her  face  was  so  eloquent  of  emotion, 
that  Ferrers  was  forcibly  struck  by  its  expres- 
sion. He  was  not  a  man  apt  to  feel  curiosity 
for  anything  not  immediately  concerning  him- 
self; but  he  did  feel  curious  about  this  melan- 
choly and  beautiful  woman.  There  was  in  her 
usual  aspect  that  inexpressible  look  of  pro- 
found resignation  which  betokens  a  lasting 
remembrance  of  a  bitter  past:  a  prematurely 
•blighted  heart  spoke  in  her  eyes,  her  smile,  her 
languid  and  joyless  step.  But  she  performed 
the  routine  of  her  quiet  duties  with  a  calm  and 
■conscientious  regularity  which  showed  that 
^rief  rather  depressed  than  disturbed  her 
thoughts.  If  her  burden  were  heavy,  custom 
seemed  to  have  reconciled  her  to  bear  it  with- 
out repining;  and  the  emotion  which  Ferrers 
now  traced  in  her  soft  and  harmonious 
features  was  of  a  nature  he  had  only  once 
witnessed  before — viz.,  on  the  first  night  he 
had  seen  her,  when  poetry  which  is  the  key  of 
memory,  had  evidently  opened  a  chamber 
haunted  by  mournful  and  troubled  ghosts. 

"  Ah  !  dear  madam,"  said  Ferrers,  advanc- 
ing, as  he  found  himself  discovered.  "  I  trust 
I  do  not  disturb  you.  My  visit  is  unseason- 
able; but  my  uncle— where  is  he?" 

"  He  has  been  in  town  all  the  morning;  he 
said  he  should  dine  out,  and  I  now  expect  him 
every  minute." 

"  You  hav^e  been  endeavoring  to  charm  away 
the  sense  of  his  absence.  Dare  I  ask  you  to 
■continue  to  play  ?  It  is  seldom  that  I  hear  a 
-voice  so  sweet,  and  skill  so  consummate.  You 
must  have  been  instructed  by  the  best  Italian 
masters." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton,  with  a  very 
slight  color  in  her  deliciite  cheek — "  I  learned 
young,  and  of  one  who  loved  music  and  felt  it; 
but  who  was  not  a  foreigner." 

"Will  you  sing  me  that  song  again? — you 
give  the  words  a  beauty  I  never  discovered  in 
them;  yet.  they  (as  well  as  the  music  itself) 
are  but  my  poor  friend  whom  Mr.  Templeton 
does  not  like — Maltravers." 

"Are  they  his  also?"  said  Mrs.  Templeton, 


with  emotion;  "  it  is  strange  I  did  not  know  it. 
I  heard  the  air  in  the  streets,  and  it  struck  me 
much.  I  inquired  the  name  of  the  song  and 
bought  it — it  is  very  strange  !  " 

"What  is  strange  ?  " 

"  That  there  is  a  kind  of  language  in  your 
friend's  music  and  poetry  which  comes  home 
to  me,  like  words  I  have  heard  years  ago  !  Is 
he  young,  this  Mr.  Maltravers?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  still  young." 

"  And,  and " 

Here  Mrs.  Templeton  was  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  her  husband.  He  held  the 
letter  from  Lord  Saxingham — it  was  yet  un- 
opened. He  seemed  moody;  but  that  was 
common  with  him.  He  coolly  shook  hands 
with  Lumley,  nodded  to  his  wife,  found  fault 
with  the  fire,  and  throwing  himself  into  his 
easy-chair,  said,  "  So,  Lumley,  I  think  I  was  a 
fool  for  taking  your  advice — and  hanging  back 
about  this  new  election,  I  see  by  the  evening 
papers  that  there  is  shortly  to  be  a  creation  of 
peers.  If  I  had  shown  activity  on  behalf  of 
the  government,  I  might  have  shamed  them 
into  gratitude.'" 

"I  think  1  was  right,  sir,"  replied  Lumley; 
"  public  men  are  often  alarmed  into  gratitude, 
seldom  shamed  into  it.  Firm  votes,  like  old 
friends,  are  most  valued  when  we  think  we 
are  about  to  lose  them;  but  what  is  that  letter 
in  your  hand  ?  " 

"Oh,  some  begging  petition,  I  supiwse." 

"  Pardon  me — it  has  an  official  look." 

Templeton  put  on  his  spectacles,  raised  the 
letter,  examined  the  address  and  seal,  hastily 
opened  it,  and  broke  into  an  exclamation  very 
like  an  oath:  when  he  had  concluded — "Give 
me  your  hand,  nephew — the  thing  is  settled — 
I  am  to  have  the  peerage.  You  were  right — 
ha,  ha  ! — my  dear  wife,  you  will  be  my  lady, 
think  of  that — arn't  you  glad  ? — why  don't 
your  ladyship  smile  ?  Where's  the  child — 
where  is  she,  I  say  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  bed  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton," 
half  frightened. 

"  Gone  to  bed  !  I  must  go  and  kiss  her. 
Gone  to  bed,  has  she  ?  Light  that  candle, 
Lumley."  [Here  Mr.  Templeton  rang  the 
bell.]  "  John,"  said  he,  as  the  servant  en- 
tered,— "  John,  tell  James  to  go  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning  to  Baxter's,  and  tell  him  not 
to  paint  my  chariot  till  he  hears  from  me.  I 
must  go  kiss  the  child — I  must,  really." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


I4» 


D- 


the  child,"  muttered  Luniley,  as 
after  giving  the  candle  to  his  uncle,  he  turned 
to  the  fire;  "  what  the  deuce  has  she  got  to  do 
with  the  matter  ?  Charming  little  girl— yours, 
madam  !  how  I  love  her  !  My  uncle  dotes  on 
her — no  wonder !  " 

"  He  is,  indeed,  very,  very  fond  of  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Templeton,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  depth  of  her  heart. 

"  Did  he  take  a  fancy  to  her  before  you 
were  married  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe — oh  yes,  certainly." 

"  Her  own  father  could  not  be  more  fond 
of  her." 

Mrs.  Templeton  made  no  answer  but  lighted 
her  candle,  and  wishing  Lumley  good  night, 
glided  from  the  room. 

"  I  wonder  if  my  grave  aunt  and  my  grave 
uncle  took  a  bite  at  the  apple  before  they 
bought  the  right  of  the  tree.  It  looks  sus- 
picious; yet  no,  it  can't  be;  there  is  nothing 
of  the  seducer  or  the  seductive  about  the  old 
fellow.     It  is  not  likely — here  he  comes." 

In  came  Templeton,  and  his  eyes  were 
moist,  and  his  brow  relaxed. 

"  And  how  is  the  little  angel,  sir  ?  "  asked 
Ferrers. 

"  She  kissed  me,  though  I  woke  her  up; 
children  are  usually  cross  when  awakened." 

"  Are  they  ? — little  dears  !  Well,  sir,  so  I 
was  right,  then;  may  I  see  the  letter  .' " 

"  There  it  is." 

Ferrers  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  and  read 
his  own  production  with  all  the  satisfaction  of 
an  anonymous  author. 

"  How  kind  ! — how  considerate  ! — how  deli- 
cately put  ? — a  double  favor  !  But  perhaps, 
after  all,  it  does  not  express  your  wishes." 

"  In  what  way  ?  ' 

"Why — why — about  myself." 

"You  > — is  there  anything  ahout  you  in  it  ? — 
I  did  not  observe  that^tX.  me  see." 

"  Uncles  never  selfish  ! — mem.  for  common 
place-book  !  '  thought  F"errers. 

The  uncle  knit  his  brow  as  he  reperused  the 
letter.  "This  won't  do,  Lumley,"  said  he, 
very  shortly,  when  he  had  done. 

"  A  seat  in  parliament  is  too  much  honor  for 
a  poor  nephew,  then,  sir  !  "  said  Lumley,  very 
bitterly,  though  he  did  not  feel  at  all  bitter; 
but  it  was  the  proper  tone — "  I  have  done  all 
in  my  power  to  advance  your  ambition,  and 
you  will  not  even  lend  a  hand  to  forward  me 


one  step  in  my  career.  But,  forgive  me,  sir, 
I  have  no  right  to  expect  it." 

"  Lumley  ! "  replied  Templeton,  kindly, 
"  you  mistake  me.  I  think  much  more  highly 
of  you  than  I  did — much:  there  is  a  steadi- 
ness, a  sobriety  about  you  most  praiseworthy, 
and  you  shall  go  into  parliament  if  you  wish  it; 
but  not  for  C  *  *  *  *  *.  I  will  give  my  interest 
there  to  some  other  friend  of  the  government, 
and  in  return  they  can  give  you  a  treasury 
borough  !     That  is  the  same  thing  to  you." 

Lumley  was  agreeably  surprised — he  pressed 
his  uncle's  hand  warmly,  and  thanked  him 
cordially.  Mr.  Templeton  proceeded  to  ex- 
plain to  him  that  it  was  inconvenient  and 
expensive,  sitting  for  places  where  one's  family 
was  known,  and  Lumley  fully  subscribed  to 
all. 

"  As  for  the  settlement  of  the  peerage,  that 
is  all  right,"  said  Templeton;  and  then  he 
sunk  into  a  reverie,  from  which  he  broke  joy- 
ously— "  yes,  that  is  all  right.  I  have  projects, 
objects — this  may  unite  them  all — nothing  can 
be  better — you  will  be  the  next  lord — what — I 
say  what  title  shall  we  have  ?  " 

"  Oh,  take  a  sounding  one — you  have  very 
little  landed  property,  I  think?" 

"Two  thousand  a-year  in shire,  bought 

a  bargain." 

"  What's  the  name  of  the  place  }  " 

"  Grubley." 

"  Lord  Grubley  ! — Baron  Grubley  of  Grub- 
ley — oh,  atrocious  !  Who  had  the  place  before 
you  .' " 

"  Bought  it  of  Mr.  Sheepshanks — very  old 
family." 

"  But  surely  some  old  Norman  once  had 
the  place  ? " 

"  Norman,  yes  !  Henry  the  Second  gave  it 
to  his  barber — Bertram  Courval." 

•'That's  it ! — that's  it  !— Lordde  Courval  — 
singular  concidence  ! — descent  from  the  old 
line.  Herald's  college  soon  settle  all  that. 
Lord  de  Courval  ! — nothing  can  sound  better. 
There  must  be  a  village  or  hamlet  still  called 
Courval  about  the  property." 

"  I'm  afraid  not.     There  is  Coddle  End  ! " 

"  Coddle  End  !  "— Goddle  End  '.—the  very 
thing,  sir— the  very  thing — clear  corruption  ! 
from  Courval  ! — Lord  de  Courval  of  Courval  ! 
Superb  !     Ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  Templeton,  and  he 
had  hardly  laughed  before  since  he  was  thirty. 


£^2 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


The  relations  sate  long  and  conversed 
familiarly.  Ferrers  slept  at  the  villa,  and  his 
sleep  was  sound,  for  he  thought  little  of  plans 
once  formed  and  half-executed;  it  was  the 
hunt  that  kept  him  awake,  and  he  slept  like  a 
hound  when  the  prey  was  down.  Not  so  Tem- 
pleton,  who  did  not  close  his  eyes  all  night. — 
"  Yes,  yes,"  thought  he,  "  I  must  get  the  for- 
tune and  the  title  in  one  line,  by  a  prudent  man- 
agement. Ferrers  deserves  what  I  mean  to  do 
for  him.  Steady,  good-natured,  frank,  and  will 
get  on — yes,  yes,  I  see  it  all.  Meanwhile  I 
did  well  to  prevent  his  standing  for  C*  *  *  *  *; 
might  pick  up  gossip  about  Mrs.  T.,  and  other 
things  that  might  be  unpleasant.  Ah,  I'm  a 
shrewd  fellow  ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Laitzun. — There,  Marquis,  there,  I've  done  it. 
Monicspan. — Done  it!  yes!    Nice  doings!  " 

—  The  Duchess  de  la  Valliere. 

Lu-MLEY  hastened  to  strike  while  the  iron 
was  hot.  The  next  morning  he  went  straight 
to  the  Treasury — saw  the  managing  secretary, 
a  clever,  sharp  man,  who,  like  Ferrers,  carried 
off  intrigue  and  manoeuvre  by  a  blunt,  careless, 
bluff  manner. 

Ferrers  announced  that  he  was  to  stand  for 
the  free,  respectable,  open  city  of  C  *  *  *  *  *, 
with  an  electoral  population  of  2500 — a  very 
showy  place  it  was  for  a  member  in  the  old 
ante-reform  times,  and  was  considered  a 
thoroughly  independent  borough.  The  secre- 
tary congratulated  and  complimented  him. 

"  We  have  had  losses  lately  in  our  elections 
among  the  larger  constituencies,"  said  Lum- 
ley. 

"We  hMve  indeed — three  towns  lost  in  the 
last  six  months.  Members  do  die  so  very  un- 
seasonably !  " 

"Is  Lord  Staunch  yet  provided  for?"  asked 
Lumley.  Now  Lord  Staunch  was  one  of  the 
popular  show-fight  great  guns  of  the  adminis- 
tration— not  in  office,  but  that  most  useful 
person  to  all  governments,  an  out-and-out  sup- 
porter upon  the  most  independent  principles — 
who  was  known  to  have  refused  place,  and  to 
value  himself  on  independence — a  man  who 
helped  the  government  over  the  stile  when  it 
was  seized  with  a  temporary  lameness,  and  who 


carried  "  great  weight  with  him  in  the  country." 
Lord  Staunch  had  foolishly  thrown  up  a  close 
borough  in  order  to  contest  a  large  city,  and 
had  failed  in  the  attempt.  His  failure  was 
everywhere  cited  as  a  proof  of  the  growing  un- 
popularity of  ministers. 

"  Is  Lord  Staunch  yet  provided  for  ?  "  asked 
Lumley. 

"  Why,  he  must  have  his  old  seat — Three- 
Oaks.  Three-Oaks  is  a  nice,  quiet  little  place; 
most  respectable  constituency — all  Staunch's 
own  family." 

"Just  the  thing  for  him;  yet,  'tis  a  pity  that 
he  did  not  wait  to  stand  for  c  *****;  my 
uncle's  interest  would  have  secured  him." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so  the  moment  C  *  *  *  *  * 
was  vacant.     However,  it  is  too  late  now." 

"  It  would  be  a  great  triumph  if  Lord 
Staunch  could  show  that  a  large  constituency 
volunteered  to  elect  him  without  expense." 

"  Without  expense  !— Ah,  yes,  indeed  I — It 
would  prove  that  purity  of  election  still  exists 
— that  British  institutions  are  still  upheld." 

"  It  might  be  done,  Mr. " 

"  Why,  I  thought  that  you " 

"  Were  to  stand — that  is  true — and  it  will 
be  difficult  to  manage  my  uncle;  but  he  loves 
me  much — you  know  I  am  his  heir — I  believe 
I  could  do  it;  that  is,  if  you  think  it  would  be 
a  very  great  advantage  to  the  party,  and  a  very 
great  service  to  the  government." 

"Why,  Mr.  Ferrers,  it  would  indeed  be 
both." 

"  And  in  that  case  I  could  have  Three- 
Oaks." 

"I  see — exactly  so;  but  to  give  up  so  re- 
spectable a  seat — really  it  is  a  sacrifice." 

"  Say  no  more,  it  shall  be  done.  A  dep- 
utation shall  wait  on  Lord  Staunch  directly.  I 
will  see  my  uncle,  and  a  despatch  shall  be  sent 
down  to  C  *  *  *  *  *  to-night;  at  least  I  hope 
so.  I  must  not  be  too  confident.  My  uncle 
is  and  old  man,  nobody  but  myself  can  man- 
age him;  I'll  go  this  instant." 

"You  may  be  sure  your  kindness  will  be 
duly  appreciated." 

Lumley  shook  hands  cordially  with  the  secre- 
tary and  retired.  The  secretary  was  not "  hum- 
bugged," nor  did  Lumley  expect  he  should  be. 
But  the  secretary  noted  this  of  Lumley  Fer- 
rers, (and  that  gentleman's  object  was  gained), 
that  Lumley  Ferrers  was  a  man  who  looked 
out    for  office,  and  if  he  did  tolerably  well  in 


1 


ERNES  T    MAL  TRA  VERS. 


143 


parliament,  that  Lumley  Ferrers  was  a  man 
who  ought  to  he  pushed. 

Very  shortly  afterwards,  the  Gazette  an- 
nounced the  election  of  Lord  Staunch  for 
C  *  *  *  *  *,  after  a  sharp  but  decisive  contest. 
The  ministerial  journals  rang  with  exulting 
pasans;  the  opposition  ones  called  the  electors 
of  C  *****  all  manner  of  hard  names,  and 
declared  that  Mr.  Stout,  Lord  Staunch's  op- 
ponest,  would  petition,  which  he  never  did. 
In  the  midst  of  the  hubbub,  Mr.  Lumley  Fer- 
rers quietly  and  unobservedly  crept  into  the 
representation  of  Three-Oaks. 

On  the  night  of  his  election  he  went  to 
Lord  Saxingham's;  but  what  there  happened 
deserves  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Je  connois  des  princes  du  sang,  des  princes  etran- 
gers,  des  grands  seigneurs,  des  ministres  d'elat,  des 
magistrats,  et  des  philosophes  qui  fileroient  pour 
I'amour  de  vous.  En  pouvez-vous  demander  d'avan- 
tage  ? "  * — Lettres  de  Madame  de  Sevigne. 

"  Lindore.     I 1  believe  it  will  choke  me.     I'm  in 

love.        *        *        *  , 

Now  hold  your  tongue.     Hold  your  tongue,  I  say. 
"  Dalner.    You  in  love!     Ha!  ha! 
"  Lind.    There,  he  laughs. 
"  Dal.     No;  I  am  really  sorry  for  you." 

— German  Play  {False  Delicacy). 

*       *       *       "  What  is  here  ? 

Gold." 
— Shakespeare. 

It  happened  that  that  evening  Maltravers 
had,  for  the  hrst  time  accepted  one  of  many 
invitations  with  which  Lord  Saxingham  had 
honored  him.  His  lordship  and  Maltravers 
were  of  different  political  parties,  nor  were  they 
in  other  respects  adapted  to  each  other.  Lord 
Saxingham  was  a  clever  man  in  his  way,  but 
^^'orldly  evento  a  proverb  among  worldly  people. 
That  "  man  was  born  to  walk  erect  and  look 
upon  the  stars,"  is  an  eloquent  fallacy  that 
Lord  Saxingham  might  suffice  to  disprove. 
He  seemed  born  to  walk  with  a  stoop;  and  if 
he  ever  looked  upon  any  stars,  they  were  those 
which  go  with  a  garter.  Though  of  celebrated 
and  historical  ancestry,  great  rank,  and  some 
personal  reputation,  he  had  all  the  ambition  of 

*  I  know  princes  of  the  blood,  foreign  princes,  great 
lords,  ministers  of  state,  magistrates,  and  philosophers 
who  would  even  spin  for  love  of  you. 

What  can  you  ask  more  ? 


a  pan'enii.  He  had  a  strong  regard  for  office, 
not  so  much  from  the  sublime  affection  for 
that  sublime  thing, — power  over  the  destinies 
of  a  glorious  nation,  as  because  it  added  to 
that  vulgar  thing — importance  in  his  own  set. 

He  looked  on  his  cabinet  uniform  as  a  bea- 
dle looks  on  his  gold  lace.  He  also  liked 
patronage,  secured  good  things  to  distant  con- 
nections, got  on  his  family  to  the  remotest 
degree  of  relationship;  in  short,  he  was  of  the 
earth,  earthy.  He  did  not  comprehend  Mal- 
travers; and  Maltravers,  who  every  day  grew 
prouder  and  prouder,  despised  him.  Still 
Lord  Saxingham  was  told  that  Maltravers  was 
a  rising  man,  and  he  thought  it  well  to  be 
civil  to  rising  men,  of  whatever  party;  besides, 
his  vanity  was  flattered  by  having  men  who 
are  talked  of  in  his  train.  He  was  too  busy 
and  too  great  a  personage  to  think  Maltravers 
could  be  other  than  sincere,  when  he  declared 
himself,  in  his  notes,  "very  sorry,"  or  "much 
concerned,"  to  forego  the  honor  of  dining  with 
Lord  Saxingham  on  the,  etc.,  etc.;  and  there- 
fore continued  his  invitations,  till  Maltravers, 
from  that  fatality  which  undoubtedly  regulates 
and  controls  us,  at  last  accepted  the  proffered 
distinction. 

He  arrived  late — most  of  the  guests  were  as- 
sembled; and,  after  exchanging  a  few  words 
with  his  host.  Ernest  fell  back  in  the  general 
grouj),  and  found  himself  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  This 
lady  had  never  much  pleased  Maltravers,  for 
he  was  not  fond  of  masculine  or  coquettish 
heroines,  and  Lady  Florence  seemed  to  him  to 
merit  both  epithets;  therefore,  though  he  had 
met  her  often  since  the  first  day  he  had  been 
introduced  to  her,  he  had  usually  contented 
himself  with  a  distant  bow  or  a  passing  salu- 
tation. But  now,  as  iie  turned  round  and  saw 
her — she  was,  for  a  miracle,  sitting  alone — and 
in  her  most  dazzling  and  noble  countenance 
there  was  so  evident  an  appearance  of  ill- 
health,  that  he  was  struck  and  touched  by  it. 
In  fact,  beautiful  as  she  was,  both  in  face  and 
form,  there  was  sojnething  in  the  eye  and 
the  bloom  of  Lady  Florence,  which  a  skilful 
physician  would  have  seen  with  prophetic  pain. 
And,  whenever  occasional  illness  paled  the 
roses  of  the  cheek,  and  sobered  the  play  of 
the  lips,  even  an  ordinary  observer  would  have 
thought  of  the  old  commonplace  proverb — 
"  that  the  brightest   beauty  has  the    briefest 


J  44 


B  UL  WEK'S     WORKS. 


life."  It  was  some  sentiment  of  tliis  kind,  per- 
haps, that  now  awakened  the  sympathy  of 
Maltravers.  He  addressed  her  with  more 
marked  courtesy  than  usual,  and  took  a  seat 
by  her  side. 

"You  have  been  to  the  House,  I  suppose, 
Mr.  Maltravers  ?  "  said  Lady  Florence. 

"  Yes,  for  a  short  time;  it  is  not  one  of  our 
field-nights — no  division  was  expected;  and 
by  this  time,  I  dare  say,  the  House  has  been 
counted  out." 

"  Do  you  like  the  life  ?  " 

"  It  has  excitement,"  said  Maltravers,  eva- 
sively. 

"  And  the  excitement  is  of  a  noble  charac- 
ter ?  " 

"  Scarcely  so,  I  fear — it  is  so  made  up  of 
mean  and  malignant  motives, — there  is  in  it  so 
much  jealousy  of  our  friends,  so  much  unfair- 
ness to  our  enemies; — such  readiness  to  attri- 
bute to  others  the  basest  objects, — such  will- 
ingness to  avail  ourselves  of  the  poorest 
stratagems  ! — The  ends  may  be  great,  but  the 
means  are  very  ambiguous." 

"I  knew  you  would  feel  this,"  exclaimed 
Lady  Florence,  with  a  heightened  color." 

"Did  you?"  said  Maltravers,  rather  in- 
terested as  well  as  surprised.  "  I  scarcely 
imagined  it  possible  that  you  would  deign  to 
divine  secrets  so  insignificant." 

"You  did  not  do  /«i? justice  then,"  returned 
I^ady  Florence,  with  an  arch  yet  half-painful 
smile;  "for — but  I  was  about  to  be  imperti- 
nent." 

"  Nay,  say  on." 

"  For — then — I  do  not  imagine  you  to  be 
one  apt  to  do  injustice  to  yourself." 

"  Oh  !  you  consider  me  presumptuous  and 
arrogant;  but  that  is  common  report,  and  you 
do  right  perhaps  to  belike  it." 

"  Was  there  ever  any  one  unconscious  of  his 
own  merit?"  asked  Lady  Florence,  proudly. 
"  They  who  distrust  themselves  have  good 
reason  for  it." 

"  You  seek  to  cure  the  wound  you  inflicted," 
returned  Maltravers,  smi4ing. 

"No;  what  I  said  was  an  apology  for  my- 
self, as  well  as  for  you.  You  need  no  words 
to  vindicate  you;  you  are  a  man,  and  can  bear 
out  all  arrogance  with  the  royal  motto — Dieu 
et  mon  droit.  With  you,  deeds  can  support 
pretension ;  but  I  am  a  woman — it  was  a  mis- 
take of  Nature  ! " 


"  But  what  triumphs  that  man  can  achieve 
bring  so  immediate,  so  palpable  a  reward  as 
those  won  by  a  woman,  beautiful  and  admired 
— who  finds  every  room  an  empire,  and  every 
class  her  subjects  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  despicable  realm." 

"  What — to  command — to  win — to  bow  to 
your  worship— the  greatest,  and  the  highest, 
and  the  sternest;  to  own  slaves  in  those  whom 
men  recognize  as  their  lords  !  Is  such  power 
despicable  ?  If  so,  what  power  is  to  be  en- 
vied ? " 

Lady  Florence  turned  quickly  round  to  Mal- 
travers, and  fixed  on  him  her  large  dark  eyes, 
as  if  she  would  read  into  his  very  heart.  She 
turned  away  with  a  blush  and  a  slight  frown — 
"  There  is  mockery  on  your  lip,"  said  she. 

Before  Maltravers  could  answer,  dinner  was 
announced,  and  a  foreign  ambassador  claimed 
the  hand  of  Lady  Florence.  Maltravers  saw 
a  young  lady,  with  gold  oats  in  her  very  light 
hair,  fall  to  his  lot,  and  descended  to  the  din- 
ing-room, thinking  more  of  Lady  Florence 
Lascelles  than  he  had  ever  done  before. 

He  happened  to  sit  nearly  opposite  to  the 
young  mistressof  the  house,  (Lord  Saxingham, 
as  the  reader  knows,  was  a  widower,  and  Lady 
Florence  an  only  chiid;)  and  Maltravers  was 
that  day  in  one  of  those  felicitous  moods  in 
which  our  animal  spirits  search,  and  carry  up, 
as  it  were,  to  the  surface,  our  intellectual  gifts, 
and  acquisitions.  He  conversed  generally  and 
happily;  but  once,  when  he  turned  his  eyes  to 
appeal  to  Lady  Florence  for  her  opinion  on 
some  point  in  discussion,  he  caught  her  gaze 
fixed  ui)on  him  with  an  expression  that  checked 
the  current  of  his  gaiety,  and  cast  him  into 
curious  and  bewildered  reverie.  In  that  gaze 
there  was  earnest  and  cordial  admiration;  but 
it  was  mixed  with  so  much  mournfulness,  that 
the  admiration  lost  its  eloquence,  and  he  who 
noticed  it  was  rather  saddened  than  flattered. 

After  dinner,  when  Maltravers  sought  the 
drawing-rooms,  he  found  them  filled  with  the 
customary  mob  of  good  society.  In  one  corner 
he  discovered  Castruccio  Cesarini,  playing  on 
a  guitar,  slung  across  his  breast  with  a  blue 
riband.  The  Italian  sang  well:  many  young 
ladies  were  grouped  round  him,  amongst 
others,  Florence  Lascelles.  Maltravers,  fond 
as  he  was  of  music,  looked  upon  Castruccio's 
performance  as  a  disagreeable  exhibition. 
He   had   a  Quixotic  idea   of   the  dignity  of 


ERNIiS  T    MAL  TRA  VERS. 


145 


talent;  and  though  himself  of  a  musical 
science,  and  a  melody  of  voice  that  would 
have  thrown  the  room  into  ecstacies,  he  would 
as  soon  have  turned  juggler  or  tumbler  for 
polite  amusement,  as  contended  for  the  bravos 
of  a  drawing-room.  It  was  because  he  was 
one  of  the  proudest  men  in  the  world,  that 
Maltravers  was  one  of  the  least  vain.  He  did 
not  care  a  rush  for  applause  in  small  things. 
But  Cesarini  would  have  summoned  the  whole 
world  to  see  him  play  at  push-pin,  if  he  thought 
he  played  it  well. 

"  Beautiful  !  divine  !  charming  !  "  —  cried 
the  young  ladies,  as  Cesarini  ceased;  and 
Maltravers  observed  that  Florence  praised 
more  earnestly  than  the  rest,  and  that  Cesar- 
ini's  dark  eyes  sparkled,  and  his  pale  cheek 
flushed  with  unwonted  brilliancy.  Florence 
turned  to  Maltravers,  and  the  Italian,  follow- 
ing her  eyes,  frowned  darkly. 

."You  know  the  Signor  Cesarini,"  said 
Florence,  joining  Maltravers.  "  He  is  an  in- 
teresting and  gifted  person." 

'  Unquestionably,  I  grieve  to  see  him 
wasting  his  talents  upon  a  soil  that  may  yield 
a  few  short-lived  flowers,  without  one  useful 
plant,  or  productive  fruit." 

'•  He  enjoys  the  passing  hour,  Mr.  Maltrav- 
ers; and  sometimes  when  I  see  the  mortifica- 
tions that  await  .sterner  labor,  I  think  he  is 
right." 

"Hush  !"  said  Maltravers;  "his  eyes  are 
on  us — he  is  listening  breathlessly  for  every 
ivord  you  utter.  I  fear  that  you  have  made  an 
unconscious  conquest  of  a  poet's  heart;  and  if 
30,  he  purchases  the  enjoyment  of  the  passing 
hour  at  a  fearful  price." 

"Nay,"  said  Lady  P'lorence,  indifferently, 
"  he  is  one  of  those  to  whom  the  fancy  sup- 
plies the  place  of  the  heart.  And  if  I  give  him 
m  inspiration,  it  will  be  an  equal  luxury  to 
bim  whether  his  lyre  be  strung  to  hope  or 
ilisappointment.  The  sweetness  of  his  verses 
ivill  compensate  to  him  for  any  bitterness 
n  actual  life." 

"  There  are  two  kinds  of  Love,"  answered 
Maltravers, — "  love  and  self-love;  the  wounds 
>f  the  last  are  often  most  incurable  in  those 
vho  appear  least  vulnerable  to  the  first.  Ah, 
Lady  Florence  were  I  privileged  to  play  the 
nonitor,  I  would  venture  on  one  warning, 
lowever  much  it  might  offend  you." 

"And  that  is " 

6.— 10 


"  'I'o  forbear  coquetry." 

Maltravers  smiled  as  he  spoke,  but  it  was 
gravely — and  at  the  same  time  he  moved  gently 
away.  But  Lady  Florence  laid  her  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  she,  very  softly,  and 
with  a  kind  of  faltering  in  her  tone,  "  am  I 
wrong  to  say  that  I  am  anxious  for  your  good 
opinion  ?  Do  not  judge  me  harshly.  I  am 
soured,  discontented,  unhappy.  I  have  no 
sympathy  with  the  world.  These  men  whom 
I  see  around  me — what  are  they  ?  The  mass 
of  them  unfeeling  and  silken  egotists — ill- 
judging,  ill-educated,  well-dressed;  the  few 
who  are  called  distinguished — how  selfish  in 
their  ambition,  how  passionless  in  their  pur- 
suits !  Am  I  to  be  blamed  if  I  sometimes  ex- 
ert a  power  over  such  as  these,  which  rather 
proves  my  scorn  of  them  than  my  own  vanity  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  right  to  argue  with  you." 

"  Yes,  argue  with  me,  convince  me,  guide 
me  —  Heaven  knows  that  impetuous  and 
haughty  as  I  am,  I  need  a  guide," — and  Lady 
Florence's  eyes  swam  with  tears.  Ernest's 
prejudices  against  her  were  greatly  shaken:  he 
was  even  somewhat  dazzled  by  her  beauty,  and 
touched,  by  her  unexpected  gentleness;  but 
still,  his  heart  was  not  assailed,  and  he  replied 
almost  coldly,  after  a  short  pause, — 

"  Dear  Lady  Florence,  look  round  the  world 
— who  so  much  to  be  envied  as  yourself  ? 
What  sources  of  happiness  and  pride  are  open 
to  you  !  Why,  then,  make  to  yourself  causes 
of  discontent  ?— why  be  scornful  of  those  who 
cross  not  your  path  ?  Why  not  look  with 
charity  upon  (iod's  less  endowed  children,  be- 
neath you  as  they  may  seem  ?  What  consola- 
tion have  you  in  hurting  the  hearts  or  the  vani- 
ties of  others  ?  Do  you  raise  yourself  even  in 
your  own  estimation  ?  You  affect  to  be  above 
your  sex — ^yet  what  character  do  you  despise 
more  in  women  than  that  which  you  assume  ? 
Semiramis  should  not  be  a  coquette  !  There 
now,  I  have  offended  you — I  confess  I  am  very 
rude." 

"  I  am  not  offended,"  said  Florence,  almost 
struggling  with  her  tears;  and  she  added  inly, 
"  Ah,  I  am  too  happy  !  " — There  are  some  lips 
from  which  even  the  proudest  women  love  to 
hear  the  censure  which  appears  to  disprove  in- 
difference. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Lumley  Ferrers, 
flushed  with  the  success  of  his   schemes  and 


146 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


projects,  entered  the  room;  and  his  quick  eye 
fell  upon  that  corner,  in  which  he  detected 
what  apjieared  to  him  a  very  alarming  flirta- 
tion between  his  rich  cousin  and  Ernest  Mai- 
travers.  He  advanced  to  the  spot,  and  with 
his  customary  frankness,  extended  a  hand  to 
each. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  and  fair  cousin,  give  me  your 
congratulations,  and  ask  me  for  my  first  frank, 
to  be  bound  up  in  a  collection  of  autographs 
by  distinguished  senators — it  will  sell  high 
one  of  these  days.  Your  most  obedient,  Mr. 
Maltravers; — how  we  shall  laugh  in  our  sleeves 
at  the  humbug  of  politics,  when  you  and  I,  the 
best  friends  in  the  world,  sitvis-a-vis  on  oppo- 
site benches.  But  why.  Lady  Florence,  have 
you  never  introduced  me  to  your  pet  Italian? 
Allans  !  I  am  his  match  in  Alfieri,  whom  of 
course,  he  swears  by,  and  whose  verses,  by  the 
way,  seem  cut  out  of  bo.x-wood — the  hardest 
material  for  turning  off  that  sort  of  machinery 
that  invention  ever  hit  on." 

Thus  saying,  Ferrers  contrived,  as  he 
thought,  very  cleverly,  to  divide  a  pair  that  he 
much  feared  were  justly  formed  to  meet  by 
nature— and,  to  his  great  joy,  Maltravers 
shortly  afterwards  withdrew.  . 

Ferrers,  with  the  happy  ease  that  belonged 
to  his  complacent,  though  plotting  character, 
soon  made  Cesarini  at  home  with  him;  and 
two  or  three  slighting  expressions  which  the 
former  dropped  with  respect  to  Maltravers, 
coupled  with  some  outrageous  compliments  to 
the  Italian,  completely  won  the  heart  of  the 
poet.  The  brilliant  Florence  was  more  silent 
and  subdued  than  usual;  and  her  voice  was 
softer,  though  graver  when  she  replied  to 
Castruccio's  eloquent  appeals.  Castruccio 
was  one  of  those  men  who  talk  fitu.  By  de- 
grees, Lumley  lapsed  into  silence,  and  listened 
to  what  took  place  between  Lady  Florence 
and  the  Italian,  while  appearing  to  be  deep  in 
"  The  Views  of  the  Rhine,"  which  lay  on  the 
table. 

"Ah,"  said  the  latter,  in  his  soft  native 
tongue,  "could  you  know  how  I  watch  every 
shade  of  that  countenance  which  makes  my 
heaven  !  Is  it  clouded  !  night  is  with  me  ! — is 
it  radiant,  I  am  the  Persian  gazing  on  the 
siin  ! " 

"  Why  do  you  speak  thus  to  me  ?  were  you 
not  a  poet,  I  might  be  angry." 

"  You    were    not  angry  when   the   English 


poet,  that  cold  Maltravers,  spoke  to  you  per- 
haps as  boldly." 

Lady  Florence  drew  up  her  haughty  head. 
"  Signor,"  said  she,  checking,  however,  her 
first  impulse,  and  with  mildness,  "Mr.  Mal- 
travers neither  flatters  nor " 

"  Presumes,  you  were  about  to  say,"  said 
Cesarini,  grinding  his  teeth.  "  But  it  is  well 
— once  you  were  less  chilling  to  the  utterance 
of  my  deep  devotion.'' 

"  Never,  Signor  CeSarini,  never — but  when  I 
thought  it  was  but  the  common  gallantry  of 
your  nation:  let  me  think  so  still." 

"  No,  proud  woman,"  said  Cesarini,  fiercely. 
"  no— hear  the  truth." 

Lady  Florence  rose  indignantly. 

"  Hear  me,"  he  continued.  "  I — I  the  poor 
foreigner,  the  despised  minstrel,  dare  lift  up 
my  eyes  to  you  !     I  love  you  !  " 

Never  had  Florence  Lascelles  been  so 
humiliated  and  confounded.  However  she 
might  have  amused  herself  with  the  vanity  of 
Cesarini,  she  had  not  given  him,  as  she 
thought,  the  warrant  to  address  her — the  great 
Lady  Florence,  the  prize  of  dukes -and  princes 
— in  this  hardy  manner;  she  almost  fancied 
him  insane.  But  the  next  moment  she  re- 
called the  warning  of  Maltravers,  and  felt  a> 
if  her  punishment  had  commenced. 

"You  will  think  and  speak  more  calmly, 
sir,  when  we  meet  again,"  and  so  saying  she 
swept  away. 

Cesarini  remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  with 
his  dark  countenance  expressing  such  passions 
as  are  rarely  seen  in  the  aspect  of  civilized 
men. 

"  Where  do  you  lodge,  Signor  Cesarini  ? " 
asked  the  bland,  familiar  voice  of  Ferrers. 
"  Let  us  walk  part  of  the  way  together — that 
is,  when  you  are  tired  of  these  hot  rooms." 

Cesarini  groaned.     "  You  are  ill,"  continued 
Ferrers;  "the   air   will    revive   you  —  come.' 
He   glided    from    the  room,  and   the  Italian' 
mechanically  followed  him.     They  walked  to- 
gether for  some  moments   in   silence,  side  byij 
side,  in  a  clear,  lovely,  moonlight  night.     At 
length    Ferrers    said,    "Pardon  me,  my   de 
Signor,  but  you    may    already  have  observe 
that  I  am  a  very  frank,  odd  sort  of  fellow, 
see  you  are  caught  by  the  charms  of  my  cr 
cousin.     Can  I  serve  you  in  any  way  ? " 

A  man  at  all  acquainted  with  the  world 
which  we  live  would  have  been  suspicious 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


147 


sucli  cordiality  in  the  cousin  of  an  heiress, 
towards  a  very  unsuitable  aspirant.  But  Cesa- 
rini,  like  many  indifferent  poets,  (but  like  few 
good  ones),  had  no  common  sense.  He 
thought  it  quite  natural  that  a  man  who  ad- 
mired his  poetry  so  much  as  Lumley  had  de- 
clared he  did,  should  take  a  lively  interest  in 
his  welfare;  and  he  therefore  replied  warmly, 
■"Oh,  sir,  this  is  indeed  a  crushing  blow:  I 
dreamed  she  loved  me.  She  was  ever  flatter- 
ing and  gentle  when  she  spoke  to  me,  and  in 
verse  already  I  had  told  her  of  my  love,  and 
met  with  no  rebuke." 

"Did  your  verses  really  and  plainly  declare 
love,  and  in  your  own  person?  " 

"  Why,  the  sentiment  was  veiled  perhaps- — 
put  into  the  mouth  of  a  fictitious  character,  or 
conveyed  in  an  allegory." 

"  Oh  !  "  ejaculated  Ferrers,  thinking  it  very 
likely  that  the  gorgeous  Florence,  hymned  by 
a  thousand  bards,  had  done  little  more  than 
cast  a  glance  over  the  lines  that  had  cost  poor 
Cesarini  such  anxious  toil,  and  inspired  him 
with  such  daring  hope.  "  Oh  ! — and  to-night 
she  was  more  severe  ! — she  is  a  terrible  co- 
quette, la  bella  Florence!  But  perhaps  you 
have  a  rival." 

"  I  feel  it— I  saw  it— I  know  it." 

"  Whom  do  you  suspect  ?  " 

"  That  accursed  Maltravers  !  He  crosses 
me  in  every  path — my  spirit  quails  beneath 
his  whenever  we  encounter.    I  read  my  doom." 

"  If  it  be  Maltravers,"  said  Ferrers,  gravely, 
"  the  danger  cannot  be  great.  Florence  has 
seen  but  little  of  him,  and  he  does  not  admire 
her  much;  but  she  is  a  great  match,  and  he  is 
ambitious.  We  must  guard  against  this  be- 
times, Cesarini — for  know  that  I  dislike  Mal- 
travers as  much  as  you  do,  and  will  cheerfully 
aid  you  in  any  plan  to  blight  his  hopes  in 
that  quarter." 

"  Generous,  noble  friend  ! — yet  he  is  richer, 
better-born  than  I." 

"  That  may  be;  butto  one  in  Lady  Florence's 
position,  all  minor  grades  of  rank  in  her  as- 
pirants seem  pretty  well  levelled.  Come,  I 
don't  tell  you  that  I  would  not  sooner  she 
married  a  countryman  and  an  equal — but  I 
have  taken  a  liking  to  you,  and  I  detest  Mal- 
travers. She  is  very  romantic — fond  of  poetry 
to  a  passion— writes  it  herself,  I  fancy.  Oh, 
you'll  just  suit  her;  but,  alas  !  how  will  you 
.see  her  ? " 


"  See  her  !     What  mean  you  ? " 

"  Why,  have  you  declared  love  to-night  ?  I 
thought  I  overheard  you.  Can  you  for  a  mo- 
ment fancy  that,  after  such  an  avowal,  Lady 
Florence  will  again  receive  you — that  is,  if  she 
mean  to  reject  your  suit  ?  " 

"  Fool  that  I  was  !  But  no — she  must,  she 
shall." 

"Be  persuaded; — in  this  country  violence 
will  not  do.  Take  my  advice,  write  an  humble 
apology,  confess  your  fault,  invoke  her  pity; 
and,  declaring  that  you  renounce  for  ever  the 
character  of  a  lover,  implore  still  to  be  ac- 
knowledged as  a  friend.  Be  quiet  now, — hear 
me  out;  I  am  older  than  you;  I  know  my 
cousin;  this  will  pique  her;  your  modesty  will 
soothe,  while  your  coldness  will  arouse,  her 
vanity.  Meanwhile  you  will  watch  the  pro- 
gress of  Maltravers — I  will  be  by  your  elbow; 
and  between  us,  to  use  a  homely  phrase, — we 
will  do  for  him.  Then  you  may  have  your 
opportunity — clear  stage  and  fair  play." 

Cesarini  was  at  first  rebellious;  but  at  length 
even  he  saw  the  policy  of  the  advice.  But 
Lumley  would  not  leave  him  till  the  advice 
was  adopted.  He  made  Castruccio  accompany 
him  to  a  club,  dictated  the  letter  to  Florence, 
and  undertook  its  charge.  This  was  not 
all. 

"  It  is  also  necessary,"  said  Lumley,  after  a 
short  but  thoughtful  silence,  "that you  should 
write  to  Maltravers." 

"  And  for  what  ? " 

"  I  have  ray  reasons.  Ask  him,  in  a  frank 
and  friendly  spirit,  his  opinion  of  Lady  Flor- 
ence; state  your  belief  that  she  loves  you, 
and  inquire  ingenously  what  he  thinks  your 
chances  of  happiness  in  such  a  union." 

"  By  why  this  ?  " 

"  His  answer  may  be  useful,"  returned 
Lumley,  musingly.  "Stay,  I  will  dictate  the 
letter." 

Cesarini  wondered  and  hesitated,  but  there 
was  that  about  Lumley  Ferrers  which  had 
already  obtained  command  over  the  weak 
and  passionate  poet.  He  wrote,  therefore,  as 
Lumley  dictated,  beginning  with  some  com- 
mon-place doubts  as  to  the  happiness  of  mar- 
riage in  general,  excusing  himself  for  his  recent 
coldness  towards  Maltravers,  and  asking  him 
his  confidential  opinion  both  as  to  Lady  Flor- 
ence's character  and  his  own  chances  of  suc- 
cess. 


148 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


This  letter,  like  the  former  one,  Lumley 
sealed  and  despatched. 

"You  perceive,"  he  then  said  briefly  to 
Cesarini,  "that  it  is  the  object  of  this  letter 
to  entrap  Maitravers  into  some  plain  and 
honest  avowal  of  his  dislike  to  Lady  Florence 
— we  may  make  good  use  of  such  expressions 
hereafter,  if  he  should  ever  prove  a  rival.  And 
now  go  home  to  rest — you  look  exhausted. 
Adieu,  my  new  friend." 

"  I  have  long  had  a  presentiment,"  said 
Lumley  to  his  councillor  self,  as  he  walked 
to  Great  George  Street,  "  that  that  wild  girl  has 
conceived  a  romantic  fancy  for  Maitravers.  But 
I  can  easily  prevent  such  an  accident  rijjening 
into  misfortune.  Meanwhile,  I  have  secured  a 
tool,  if  I  want  one.  By  Jove,  what  an  ass  that 
poet  is  !  But  so  was  Cassio;  yet  lago  made 
use  of  him.  If  lago  had  been  born  now,  and 
dropped  that  foolish  fancy  for  revenge,  what  a 
glorious  fellow  he  would  have  been  !  Prime 
minister  at  least  !  " 

Pale,  haggard,  exhausted,  Castruccio  Ces- 
arini traversing  a  length  of  way,  arrived  at 
last  at  a  miserable  lodging  in  the  suberb  of 
Chelsea.  His  fortune  was  now  gone — gone 
in  supplying  the  poorest  food  to  a  craving 
and  imbecile  vanity;  gone,  that  its  owner 
might  seem  what  Nature  never  meant  him 
for — the  elegant  Lothario — the  graceful  man 
of  pleasure — the  troubadour  of  modern  life  ! 
— gone  in  horses  and  jewels,  and  fine  clothes, 
and  gaming,  and  printing  unsaleable  poems 
on  gilt-edged  vellum;— gone,  that  he  might 
be  not  a  greater  but  a  more  fashionable  man 
than  Ernest  Maitravers  !  Such  is  the  common 
destiny  of  those  poor  adventurers  who  confine 
fame  to  boudoirs  and  saloons.  No  matter, 
whether  they  be  poets  or  dandies,  wealthy 
panienus  or  aristocratic  cadets,  all  equally 
prove  the  adage  that  the  wrong  paths  to  repu- 
tation are  strewed  with  the  wrecks  of  peace, 
fortune,  happiness,  and  too  often  honor ! 
And  yet  this  poor  young  man  had  dared  to 
hope  for  the  hand  of  Florence  Lascelles  !  He 
had  the  common  notion  of  foreigners,  that 
English  girls  marry  for  love,  are  very  roman- 
tic; that,  within  the  three  seas,  heiresses  are 
as  plentiful  as  black-berries;  and  for  the  rest, 
his  vanity  had  been  so  pampered,  that  it  now 
insinuated  itself  into  every  fibre  of  his  intel- 
lectual and  moral  system. 

Cesarini  looked  cautiously  round,  as  he  ar- 


1  rived  at  his  door:  for  he  fancied  that,  even 
I  in  that  obscure  i)lace,  persons  might  be  anx- 
I  ious  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  celebrated  poet; 
and  he  concealed  his  residence  from  all;  dined 
on  a  roll  when  he  did  not  dine  out,  and  left  his 
address  at  "  The  Travellers'."  He  looked 
round,  I  say,  and  he  did  observe  a  tall  figure, 
wrapped  in  a  cloak,  that  had,  indeed,  followed 
him  from  a  distant  and  more  populous  part  of 
the  town.  But  the  figure  turned  round,  and 
vanished  instantly.  Cesarini  mounted  to  his 
second  floor.  And  about  the  middle  of  the 
next  day,  a  messenger  left  a  letter  at  his  door, 
containing  one  hundred  pounds  in  a  blank  en- 
velope. Cesarini  knew  not  the  writing  of  the 
address;  his  pride  was  deeply  wounded; 
amidst  all  his  penury,  he  had  not  even  applied 
to  bis  own  sister.  Could  it  come  from  her — 
from  De  Montaigne  ?  He  was  lost  in  conjec- 
ture. He  put  the  remittance  aside  for  a  few 
days,  for  he  had  something  fine  in  him,  the 
poor  poet  ! — but  bills  grew  pressing,  and  neces- 
sity hath  no  law. 

Two  days  afterwards,  Cesarini  brought  to 
Ferrers  the  answer  he  had  received  from  Mai 
travers.  Lumley  had  rightly  foreseen  that  the 
high  spirit  of  Ernest  would  conceive  some  in- 
dignation at  the  coquetry  of  Florence  in  be- 
guiling the  Italian  into  hopes  never  to  be 
realized — that  he  would  express  himself  openly 
and  warmly.  He  did  so,  however,  with  more 
gentleness  than  Lumley  had  anticipated. 

"  This  is  not  exactly  the  thing,"  said  Ferrers, 
after  twice  reading  the  letter;  "  still  it  may 
hereafter  be  a  strong  card  in  our  hands — we 
will  keep  it." 

"  So  saying,  he  locked  up  the  letter  in  his 
desk,  and  Cesarini  soon  forgot  its  existence. 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  She  was  a  phantom  of  delight, 
When  first  .she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  apparition  sent, 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament." — Wordswortk, 

Maltravers  did  not  see  Lady  Florence 
again  for  some  weeks;  meanwhile,  Lumley 
Ferrers  made  his  debut  in  parliament.  Rigidly 
adhering  to  his  plan  of  acting  on  a  deliberate 
system;  and  not  prone  to  overrate  himself,  Mr. 
Ferrers  did  not,  like  most  promising  new  mem- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


149 


bers,  try  the  hazardous  ordeal  of  a  great  first 
speech.  Though  bold,  fluent  and  ready,  he 
was  not  eloquent;  and  he  knew  that  on  great 
occasions,  when  great  speeches  are  wanted, 
great  guns  like  to  have  the  fire  to  themselves. 
Neither  did  he  split  upon  the  opposite  rock  of 
"promising  young  men,"  who  stick  to  "the 
business  of  the  house  "  like  leeches,  and  quib- 
ble on  details;  in  return  for  which  labor,  they 
are  generally  voted  bores,  who  can  never  do 
anything  remarkable.  But  he  spoke  fre- 
quently, shortly,  courageously,  and  with  a 
strong  dash  of  good-humored  personality. 
He  was  the  man  whom  a  minister  could  get  to 
say  something  which  other  people  did  not 
like  to  say;  and  he  did  so  with  a  frank  fear- 
lessness that  carried  off  any  seeming  violation 
of  good  taste.  He  soon  became  a  very  pop- 
ular speaker  in  the  parliamentary  clique;  es- 
pecially with  the  gentlemen  who  crowd  the 
bar,  and  never  want  to  hear  the  argument  of 
the  debate. 

Between  him  and  Maltravers  a  visible  cold- 
ness now  existed;  for  the  latter  looked  upon 
his  old  friend  (whose  principles  of  logic  led 
him  even  to  republicanism,  and  who  had  been 
accustomed  to  accuse  Ernest  of  temporizing 
with  plain  truths,  if  he  demurred  to  their  ap- 
plication to  artificial  states  of  society)  as  a 
cold-blooded  and  hypocritical  adventurer; 
while  Ferrers,  seeing  that  Ernest  could  now 
be  of  no  further  use  to  him,  was  willing  enough 
to  drop  a  profitless  intimacy.  Nay,  he  thought 
it  would  be  wise  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him,  if 
possible,  as  the  best  means  of  banishing  a 
supposed  rival  from  the  house  of  his  noble  re- 
lation. Lord  Saxingham.  But  no  opportunity 
for  that  step  presented  itself;  so  Lumiey  kept 
a  fit  of  convenient  rudeness,  or  an  impromptu 
sarcasm  in  reserve,  if  ever  it  should  be  wanted. 

The  season  and  the  session  were  alike  draw- 
ing to  a  close,  when  Maltravers  received  a 
pressing  invitation  from  Cleveland  to  spend  a 
week  at  his  villa,  which  he  assured  Ernest 
would  be  full  of  agreeable  people;  and  as  all 
business  productive  of  debate  or  division  was 
over,  Maltravers  was  glad  to  obtain  fresh  air, 
and  a  change  of  scene.  Accordingly,  he  sent 
down  his  luggage  and  favorite  books,  and,  one 
afternoon  in  early  August,  rode  alone  towards 
Temple  Grove.  He  was  much  dissatisfied, 
perhaps  disappointed,  with  his  experience  of 
public    life;  and    with    his    high-wrought  and 


over-refining  views  of  the  deficiences  of  others 
more  prominent,  he  was  in  a  humor  to  mingle 
also  censure  of  himself,  for  having  yielded  too 
much  to  the  doubts  and  scruples  that  often  in 
the  early  part  of  their  career  beset  the  honest 
and  sincere,  in  the  turbulent  whirl  of  politics, 
and  ever  tend  to  make  the  robust  hues  that 
should  belong  to  action 

"Sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

His  mind  was  working  its  way  slowly  towards 
those  conclusions,  which  sometimes  ripen  the 
best  practical  men  out  of  the  most  exalted 
theorists,  and  perhaps  he  saw  before  him  the 
pleasing  prospect  flattering  exhibited  to  an- 
other, when  he  complained  of  being  too  honest 
for  party,  viz.,  "  of  becoming  a  very  pretty 
rascal  in  time  !  " 

For  several  weeks  he  had  not  heard  from 
his  unknown  correspondent,  and  the  time  was 
come  when  he  missed  those  letters,  now  con- 
tinued for  more  than  two  years;  and  which,  in 
their  eloquent  mixture  of  complaint,  exhorta- 
tion, despondent  gloom,  and  declamatory  en- 
thusiasm; had  often  soothed  him  in  dejection, 
and  made  him  more  sensible  of  triumph. 
While  revolving  in  his  mind  thoughts  con- 
nected with  these  subjects— and,  somehow  or 
other,  with  his  more  ambitious  reveries  were 
always  mingled  musings  of  curiosity  respecting 
his  correspondent — he  was  struck  by  the  beauty 
of  a  little  girl,  of  about  eleven  years  old,  who 
was  walking  with  a  female  attendant  on  the 
footpath  that  skirted  the  road.  I  said  that  he 
was  struck  by  her  beauty,  but  that  is  a  wrong 
expression;  it  was  rather  the  charm  of  her 
countenance  than  the  perfection  of  her  fea- 
tures which  arrested  the  gaze  of  Maltravers — 
a  charm  that  might  not  have  existed  for  others, 
but  was  inexpressively  attractive  to  him,  and 
was  so  much  apart  from  the  vulgar  fascination 
of  mere  beauty,  that  it  would  have  equally 
touched  a  chord  at  his  heart,  if  coupled  with 
homely  features  or  a  bloomless  cheek.  This 
charm  was  in  a  wonderful  innocence  and  dove- 
like softness  of  expression. 

We  all  form  to  ourselves  some  beau  id/al  of 
the  "  fair  spirit "  we  desire  as  our  earthly 
"  minister,"  and  somewhat  capriciously  gauge 
and  proportion  our  admiration  of  living  shapes 
according  as  the  beau  id^al  is  more  or  less 
embodied  or  approached.  Beauty,  of  a  stamp 
that  is  not  familiar  to  the  dreams  of  our  fancy, 


»So 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


may  win  the  cold  homage  of  our  judgment, 
while  a  look,  a  feature,  a  something  that  real- 
izes and  calls  up  a  boyish  vision,  and  assimi- 
lates even  distinctly  to  the  picture  we  wear 
within  us,  has  a  loveliness  peculiar  to  our  eyes, 
and  kindles  an  emotion  that  almost  seems  to 
belong  to  memory.  It  is  this  which  the  Plato- 
nists  felt  when  they  wildly  supposed  that  souls 
attracted  to  each  other  on  earth  had  been 
united  in  an  earlier  being  and  a  diviner  sphere; 
and  there  was  is  the  young  face  on  which 
Ernest  gazed  precisely  this  ineffable  harmony 
with  his  preconceived  notions  of  the  Beautiful. 
Many  a  nightly  and  noonday  revery  was 
realized  in  those  mild  yet  smiling  eyes  of  the 
darkest  blue;  in  that  ingenuous  breadth  of 
brow,  with  its  slightly  jiencilled  arches,  and 
the  nose,  not  cut  in  that  sharp  and  clear  sym- 
metry which  looks  as  lovely  in  marble,  but 
usually  gives  to  flesh  and  blood  a  decided  and 
hard  character,  that  better  becomes  the  sterner 
than  the  gentler  sex — no;  not  moulded  in  the 
pure  Grecian,  nor  in  the  pure  Roman  cast;  but 
small,  delicate,  with  the  least  possible  inclina- 
tion to  turn  upward,  that  was  only  to  be  de- 
tected in  one  position  of  the  head,  and  served 
to  give  a  prettier  archness  to  the  sweet,  flexile, 
lips,  which,  from  the  gentleness  of  their  repose, 
seemed  to  smile  unconsciously,  but  rather 
from  a  happy  constitutional  serenity  than  from 
the  giddiness  of  mirth.  Such  was  the  char- 
acter of  this  fair  child's  countenance,  on  which 
Maltravers  turned  and  gazed  involuntarily  and 
reverently,  with  something  of  the  admiring  de- 
light with  which  we  look  upon  the  Virgin  of  a 
Raffaelle,  or  the  sunset  Inndscape  of  a  Claude. 
The  girl  did  not  appear  to  feel  any  premature 
coquetry  at  the  evident,  though  respectful,  ad- 
miration she  excited.  She  met  the  eyes  bent 
upon  her,  brilliant  and  eloquent  as  they  were, 
with  a  fearless  and  unsuspecting  gaze,  and 
pointed  out  to  her  companion,  with  all  a  child's 
quick  and  unrestrained  impulse,  the  shining 
and  raven  gloss,  the  arched  and  haughty  neck, 
of  Ernest's  beautiful  Arabian. 

Now  there  happened  between  Maltravers 
and  the  young  object  of  his  admiration  a  little 
adventure,  which  served,  perhaps,  to  fix  in  her 
recollection  this  short  encounter  with  a  stranger; 
for  certain  it  is,  that,  years  after,  she  did  re- 
member both  the  circumstances  of  the  adven- 
ture and  the  features  of  Maltravers.  She  wore 
one  of  those  large   straw-hats  which  look  so 


pretty  upon  children,  and  the  warmth  of  the 
day  made  her  untie  the  strings  which  confined 
it.  A  gentle  breeze  arose,  as  by  a  turn  in  the 
road  the  country  became  more  open,  and  sud- 
denly wafted  the  hat  from  its  proper  post — al- 
most to  the  hoofs  of  Ernest's  horse.  The 
child  naturally  made  a  spring  forward  to  arrest 
the  deserter,  and  her  foot  slipped  down  the 
bank,  which  was  rather  steeply  raised  above 
the  road;  she  uttered  a  low  cry  of  pain.  To 
dismount — to  regain  the  prize — and  to  restore 
it  to  its  owner,  was,  with  Ernest,  the  work  of  a 
moment;  the  poor  girl  had  twisted  her  ankle, 
and  was  leaning  upon  her  servant  for  support. 
But  when  she  saw  the  anxiety,  and  almost  the 
alarm,  upon  the  stranger's  face  (and  her  ex- 
clamation of  pain  had  literally  thrilled  his 
heart — so  rnuch  and  so  unaccountably  had  she 
excited  his  interest),  she  made  an  effort  at 
self-control,  not  common  at  her  years,  and, 
with  a  forced  smile,  assured  him  she  was  not 
much  hurt — that  it  was  nothing — that  she  was 
just  at  home. 

"  Oh,  miss  !  "  said  the  servant,  "  I  am  sure 
you  are  very  bad.  Dear  heart,  how  angry 
master  will  be  !  It  was  not  my  fault;  was  it, 
sir?" 

"  Oh,  no,  it  was  not  your  fault,  Margaret; 
don't  be  frightened — papa  shan't  blame  you. 
But  I'm  much  better  now."  So  saying,  she 
tried  to  walk;  but  the  effort  was  vain — she 
turned  yet  more  pale,  and  though  she  strug- 
gled to  prevent  a  shriek,  the  tears  rolled  down 
he  cheeks. 

It  was  very  odd,  but  Maltravers  had  never 
felt  more  touched — the  tears  stood  in  his  own 
eyes;  he  longed  to  carry  her  in  his  arms,  but, 
child,  as  she  was,  a  strange  kind  of  nervous 
timidity  forbade  him.  Margaret,  perhaps, 
expected  it  of  him,  for  she  looked  hard  in  his 
face,  before  she  attempted  a  burthen;  to  which 
being  a  small,  slight  person,  she  was  by  no 
means  equal.  However,  after  a  pause,  she 
took  up  her  charge,  who,  ashamed  of  her  tears, 
and  almost  overcome  with  pain,  nestled  her 
head  in  the  woman's  bosom,  and  Maltravers 
walked  by  her  side,  while  his  docile  and  well- 
trained  horse  followed  at  a  distance,  every 
now  and  then  putting  its  fore-legs  on  the  bank, 
and  cropping  away  a  mouthful  of  leaves  from 
the  hedge-row. 

"  Oh,  Margaret ! "  said  the  little  sufferer, 
"  I  cannot  bear  it — indeed  I  cannot." 


EJiNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


»5» 


And  Maltravers  observed  that  Margaret  had 
permitted  the  lame  foot  to  hang  down  unsup- 
jMrted,  so  that  the  pain  must  indeed  have 
been  scarcely  bearable.  He  could  restrain 
himself  no  longer.* 

"  You  are  not  strong  enough  to  carry  her," 
said  he,  sharply,  to  the  servant;  and  the  next 
moment  the  child  was  ia  his  arms.  Oh,  with 
nhat  anxious  tenderness  he  bore  her !  and 
he  was  so  happy  when  she  turned  her  face  to 
him  and  smiled,  and  told  him  she  now  scarcely 
felt  the  pain.  If  it  were  possible  to  be  in  love 
with  a  child  of  eleven  years  old,  Maltravers 
was  almost  in  love.  His  pulses  trembled  as 
he  felt  her  pure  breath  on  his  cheek,  and  her 
rich,  beautiful  hair  was  waved  by  the  breeze 
across  his  lips.  He  hushed  his  voice  to  a 
whisper  as  he  poured  forth  all  the  soothing  and 
comforting  expressions,  which  give  a  natural 
eloquence  to  persons  fond  of  children — and 
Ernest  Maltravers  was  the  ideal  of  children; — 
he  understood  and  sympathized  with  them; 
he  had  a  great  deal  of  the  child  himself,  be- 
neath the  rough  and  cold  husk  of  his  proud 
reserve.  At  length  they  came  to  a  lodge,  and 
Margaret,  eagerly  inquiring  "  whether  master 
and  missus  were  at  home,"  seemed  delighted  to 
hear  they  were  not. 

Ernest,  however,  insisted  on  bearing  his 
charge  across  the  lawn  to  the  house,  which, 
like  most  suburban  villas,  was  but  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  lodge;  and,  receiving  the  most 
positive  promise  that  surgical  advice  should  be 
immediately  sent  for,  he  was  forced  to  content 
himself  with  laying  the  sufferer  on  a  sofa  in 
the  drawing-room;  and  she  thanked  him  so 
prettily,  and  assured  him  she  was  so  much 
easier,  that  he  would  have  given  the  world  to 
kiss  her.     The  child  had  completed   her  con- 


quest over  him,  by  being  above  the  child's 
ordinary  littleness  of  making  the  worst  of 
things,  in  order  to  obtain  the  consequence  and 
dignity  of  being  pitied — she  was  evidently  un- 
selfish and  considerate  for  others.  He  did  kiss 
her,  but  it  was  the  hand  that  he  kissed, 
and  no  cavalier  ever  kissed  his  lady's  hand 
with  more  respect;  and  then,  for  the  first  time, 
the  child  blushed— then,  for  the  first  time, 
she  felt  as  if  the  day  would  come  when  she 
should  be  a  child  no  longer  !  Why  was  this  ? 
— perhaps  because  it  is  an  era  in  life — the  first 
sign  of  a  tenderness  that  inspires  respect,  not 
familiarly  ! 

"If  ever  again  I  could  be  in  love,"  said 
Maltravers,  as  he  spurred  on  his  road,  "  I 
really  think  it  would  be  with  that  exquisite 
child.  My  feeling  is  more  like  that  of  love 
at  first  sight,  than  any  emotion  which  beauty 
ever  caused  in  me.  Alice — Valerie — no;  the 
first  sight  of  them  did  not: — but  what  folly  is 
this  ! — a  child  of  eleven — and  I  verging  upon 
thirty  ! " 

Still,  however,  folly  as  it  might  be,  the  image 
of  that  young  girl  haunted  Maltravers  for  many 
days;  till  change  of  scene,  the  distractions  of 
society,  the  grave  thoughts  of  manhood,  and, 
above  all,  a  series  of  exciting  circumstances 
about  to  be  narrated,  gradually  obliterated  a 
a  strange  and  most  delightful  impression.  He 
had  learned,  however,  that  Mr.  Templeton  was 
the  proprietor  of  the  villa,  which  was  the  child's 
home.  He  wrote  to  Ferrers,  to  narrate  the 
incident,  and  to  inquire  after  the  sufferer.  In 
due  time  he  heard  from  that  gentleman  that 
the  child  was  recovered,  and  gone  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Templeton  to  Brighton,  for  change 
of  air  and  sea-bathing. 


153 


£  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


BOOK    EIGHTH. 


Ei/0a HoAAaf  IfioAc  icat 

A^Ai^pu.    Kvirptt.— KtJBLP.  Tph<(/.  in  A\A.  1. 135. 

Whither  come  Wisdom's  queen 
And  the  snare-weaving  Love. 


CHAPTER   I. 
"  Notidiam  primosque  gradus  vicinia  fecit.*  " — Ovid. 

Cleveland's  villa  ivas  full,  and  of  persons 
usually  called  agreeable.  Amongst  the  rest 
was  Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  The  wise  old 
man  had  ever  counselled  Maltravers  not  to 
marry  too  young;  but  neither  did  he  wish  him 
to  put  off  that  momentous  epoch  of  life  till  all 
the  bloom  of  heart  and  emotion  was  past  away. 
He  thought,  with  the  old  lawgivers,  that  thirty 
was  the  happy  age  for  forming  a  connection, 
in  the  choice  of  which  the  reason  of  manhood, 
ought,  perhaps,  to  be  blended  the  passion  of 
of  youth.  And  he  saw  that  few  men  were 
more  capable  than  Maltravers  of  the  true  en- 
joyments of  domestic  life.  He  had  long 
thought,  also,  that  none  were  more  calculated 
to  sympathize  with  Ernest's  views,  and  appre- 
ciate his  peculiar  character,  than  the  gifted  and 
brilliant  Florence  Lascelles.  Cleveland  looked 
with  toleration  on  her  many  eccentricities  of 
thought  and  conduct, — eccentricities  which  he 
imagined  would  rapidly  melt  away  beneath  the 
influence  of  that  attachment  which  usually  op- 
erates so  great  a  change  in  women;  and, 
where  it  is  strongly  and  intensely  felt,  moulds 
even  those  of  the  most  obstinate  character 
into  compliance  or  similitude  with  the  senti- 
ments or  habits  of  its  object. 

The  stately  self-control  of  Maltravers  was, 
he  conceived,  precisely  that  quality  that  gives 
to  men  an  unconscious  command  over  the 
very  thoughts  of  the  woman  whose  affection 
they  win:  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  hoped 
that  the  fancy  and  enthusiasm  of  Florence 
would  tend  to  render  sharper  and  more  practi- 


cal an  ambition,  which  seemed  to  the  sober 
man  of  the  world  too  apt  to  refine  upon  the 
means,  and  to  cui  bom  the  objects,  of  worldly 
distinction.  Besides,  Cleveland  was  one  who 
thoroughly  appreciated  the  advantages  of 
wealth  and  station;  and  the  rank  and  the 
dower  of  Florence  were  such  as  would  force 
Maltravers  into  a  position  in  social  life,  which 
could  not  fail  to  make  new  exactions  upon 
talents  which  Cleveland  fancied  were  precisely 
those  adapted  rather  to  command  than  to 
serve.  In  Ferrers  he  recognized  a  man  to  get 
into  power — in  Maltravers  one  by  whom 
power,  if  ever  attained,  would  be  wielded  with 
dignity,  and  exerted  for  great  uses.  Some- 
thing, therefore  higher  than  mere  covetousness 
for  the  vulgar  interests  of  Maltravers,  made 
Cleveland  desire  to  secure  to  him  the  heart 
and  hand  of  the  great  heiress;  and  he  fancied 
that,  whatever  might  be  the  obstacle,  it  would 
not  be  in  the  will  of  Lady  Florence  herself. 
He  prudently  resolved,  however,  to  leave  mat- 
ters to  their  natural  course.  He  hinted  noth- 
ing to  one  party  or  the  other.  No  place  for 
falling  in  love  like  a  large  country-house,  and 
no  time  for  it,  amongst  the  indolent  well-born, 
like  the  close  of  a  London  season,  when,  jaded 
by  small  cares,  and  sickened  of  hollow  intima- 
cies, even  the  coldest  may  well  yearn  for  the 
tones  of  affection— the  excitement  of  an  honest 
emotion. 

I      Somehow  or  other  it  happened  that  F'lorence 

I  and    Ernest,  after  the  first  day  or  two,  were 

I  constantly   thrown    together.       She    rode    on 

horseback  and  Maltravers  was   by  her   side — 

they  made  excursions  on  the  river,  and  they 

sat  on  the  same  bench  in  the  gliding  pleasure- 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


153 


boat.  In  the  evenings  the  younger  guests,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  neighboring  families, 
often  got  up  a  dance,  in  a  temporary  pavilion 
built  out  of  the  dining-room.  Ernest  never 
danced.  Florence  did  at  first.  But  once,  as 
she  was  conversing  with  Maltravers,  when  a 
gay  guardsman  came  to  claim  her  promised 
hand  in  the  waltz,  she  seemed  struck  by  a 
grave  change  in  Ernest's  face. 

"  Do  you  never  waltz  ?  "  she  asked,  while 
the  guardsman  was  searching  for  a  corner 
wherein  safely  to  deposit  his  hat. 

"No,"  said  he;  "yet  there  is  no  impro- 
priety in  my  waltzing." 

"And  you  mean  that  there  is  in  mine  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me — I  did  not  say  so." 

"  But  you  think  it." 

"  Nay,  on  consideration,  I  am  glad,  perhaps, 
that  you  do  waltz." 

"  You  are  mysterious." 

"  Well  then,  I  mean,  that  you  are  precisely 
the  woman  I  would  never  fall  in  love  with. 
And  I  feel  the  danger  is  lessened,  when  I  see 
you  destroy  any  one  of  my  illu.sions,  or  I 
ought  to  say,  attack  any  one  of  my  prejudices." 

Lady  Florence  colored;  but  the  guardsman 
and  the  music  left  her  no  time  for  reply. 
However,  after  that  night  she  waltzed  no  more. 
She  was  unwell — she  declared  she  was  ordered 
not  to  dance,  and  so  quadrilles  were  relin- 
quished as  well  as  the  waltz. 

Maltravers  could  not  but  be  touched  and 
flattered  by  this  regard  for  his  opinion;  but 
Florence  contrived  to  testif}'  it  so  as  to  forbid 
acknowledgment,  since  another  motive  had 
been  found  for  it.  The  second  evening  after 
that  commemorated  by  Ernest's  candid  rude- 
ness, they  chanced  to  meet  in  the  conserva- 
tory, which  was  connected  with  the  ball-room; 
and  Ernest,  pausing  to  inquire  after  her 
health,  was  struck  by  the  listless  and  dejected 
sadness  which  spoke  in  her  tone  and  counte- 
nance as  she  replied  to  him. 

"  Dear  Lady  Florence,"  said  he,  "  I  fear 
you  are  worse  than  you  will  confess.  You 
should  shun  these  draughts.  You  owe  it  to 
your  friends  to  be  more  careful  of  yourself." 

"  Friends  !  "  said  Lady  Florence,  bitterly — 
"  I  have  no  friends  ! — even  my  poor  father 
would  not  absent  himself  from  a  cabinet  din- 
ner a  week  after  I  was  dead.  But  that  is  the 
condition  of  public  life — its  hot  and  searing 
blaze   puts   out   the   lights  of    all   lesser   but 


not  unholier  affections. — Friends  !  Fate,  that 
made  Florence  Lascelles  the  envied  heiress, 
denied  her  brothers,  sisters;  and  the  hour  of 
her  birth  lost  her  even  the  love  of  a  mother  ! 
Friends  !  where  shall  I  find  them  .'  " 

As  she  ceased,  she  turned  to  the  open  case- 
ment, and  stepped  out  into  the  verandah,  and 
by  the  trembling  of  her  voice  Ernest  felt  that 
she  had  done  so  to  hide  or  to  suppress  her  tears. 

"Yet,"  said  he,  following  her,  "there  is  one 
class  of  more  distant  friends,  whose  interest 
I,ady  Florence  Lascelles  cannot  fail  to  secure, 
however  she  may  disdain  it.  Among  the 
humblest  of  that  class,  suffer  me  to  rank  my- 
self. Come,  I  assume  the  the  privilege  of 
advice — the  night  air  is  a  luxury  you  must 
not  indulge." 

"  No,  no,  it  refreshes  me — it  soothes  You 
misunderstand  me,  I  have  no  illness  that  still 
skies  and  sleeping  flowers  can  increase." 

Maltravers,  as  is  evident,  was  not  in  love 
with  Florence,  but  he  could  not  fail,  brought, 
as  he  had  lately  been,  under  the  direct  influ- 
ence of  her  rare  and  prodigal  gifts,  mental  and 
personal,  to  feel  for  her  a  strong  and  even  af- 
fectionate interest — the  very  frankness  with 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  speak  to  her,  and 
the  many  links  of  cummunion  there  neces- 
sarily were  between  himself  and  a  mind  so  nat- 
urally powerful  and  so  richly  cultivated,  had 
already  established  their  acquaintance  upon  an 
intimate  footing. 

"  I  cannot  restrain  you.  Lady  Florence," 
said  he,  half  smiling,  "  but  my  conscience  will 
not  let  me  be  an  accomplice.  I  will  turn  king's 
evidence,  and  hunt  out  Lord  Saxingham  to 
send  him  to  you." 

Lady  Florenee,  whose  face  was  averted  from 
his,  did  not  appear  to  hear  him. 

"  And  you,  Mr.  Maltravers."  turning  quickly 
round — "  you— have  you  friends  ? — Do  you 
feel  that  there  are,  I  do  not  say  public,  but 
private  affections  and  duties,  for  which  life  is 
made  less  a  possession  than  a  trust  ?  " 

"  Lady  Florence — no  ! — I  have  friends,  it  is 
true,  and  Cleveland  is  of  the  nearest;  but  the 
life  within  life — the  second  self,  in  whom  we 
vest  the  right  and  mastery  over  our  own  being 
— I  know  it  not.  But  is  it,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause,  "  a  rare  privation  ?  Perhaps  it  is  a 
happy  one.  I  have  learned  to  lean  on  my  own 
soul,  and  not  look  elsewhere  for  the  reeds  that 
a  wind  can  break." 


'54 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  Ah,  it  is  a  cold  philosophy — you  may 
reconcile  yourself  to  its  wisdom  in  the  world, 
in  the  hum  and  shock  on  men:  but  in  solitude, 
with  Nature — ah,  no  !  While  the  mind  alone 
is  occupied,  you  may  be  contented  with  the 
pride  of  stoicism;  but  there  are  moments  when 
the  heart  wakens  as  from  a  sleep — wakens  like 
a  frightened  child — to  feel  itself  alone  and  in 
the  dark." 

Ernest  was  silent,  and  Florence  continued, 
in  an  altered  voice;  "  This  is  a  strange  con- 
versation— and  you  must  think  me  indeed  a 
wild,  romance-reading  person,  as  the  world  is 
apt  to  call  me.  But  if  I  live — I — pshaw  ! — 
life  denies  ambition  to  women." 

"  If  a  woman  like  you,  Lady  Florence, 
should  ever  love,  it  will  be  one  in  whose  career 
you  may  perhaps  find  that  noblest  of  all  ambi- 
tions—the ambition  women  only  feel — the  am- 
bition for  another  !  " 

'  Ah  !  but  I  shall  never  love,"  said  Lady 
Florence,  and  her  cheek  grew  pale  as  the  star- 
light shone  on  it,  "  still,  perhaps,"  she  added 
quickly,  "  I  may  at  least  know  the  blessing  of 
friendship.  Why  now,"  and  here,  approach- 
ing Maltravers,  she  laid  her  hand  with  a  win- 
ing frankness  on  his  arm — "  why  now,  should 
not  we  be  to  each  other  as  if  love,  as  you  call 
it,  were  not  a  thing  for  earth — and  friendship 
supplied  its  place  ! — there  is  no  danger  of  our 
falling  in  love  with  each  other.  You  are  not 
vain  enough  to  e.xpect  it  in  me,  and  I  you 
know,  am  a  coquette;  let  us  be  friends,  con- 
fidants— at  least  till  you  marry,  or  I  give 
another  the  right  to  control  my  friendships 
and  monopolize  my  secrets." 

Maltravers  was  startled  —  the  sentiment 
Florence  addressed  to  him,  he,  in  words  not 
dissimilar,  had  once  addressed  to  Valerie. 

"  The  world,"  said  he,  kissing  the  hand  that 
yet  lay  on  his  arm,  "the  world  will " 

"  Oh,  you  men  ! — the  world,  the  world  ! — 
Everything,  gentle,  everything  pure,  every- 
thing noble,  high  wrought  and  holy— is  to  be 
squared,  and  cribbed,  and  mained  to  the  rule 
and  measure  of  the  world  !  The  world — are 
you  too  its  slave?  Do  you  not  despise  its 
hollow  cant — its  methodical  hypocrisy  ?  " 

"  Heartily,"  said  Ernest  Maltravers,  almost 
with  fierceness — "  no  man  ever  so  scorned  its 
false  gods,  and  its  miserable  creeds — its  war 
upon  the  weak — its  fawning  upon  the  great — 
its  ingratitude  to  benefactors — its  sordid  league 


with  mediocrity  against  excellence.  Yes,  in 
proportion  as  I  love  mankind,  I  despise  and 
detest  that  worse  than  Venetian  obligarchy 
which  mankind  set  over  them  and  call   'the 

WORLD.'  " 

And  then  it  was,  warmed  by  the  excitement  of 

released  feelings,  long  and  carefully  shrouded, 
that  this  man,  ordinarily  so  calm  and  self- 
possessed,  (Xjured  burningly  and  passionately 
forth  all  those  tumultuous  and  almost  tremen- 
dous thoughts,  which,  however  much  we  reg- 
ulate, control,  or  disguise  them,  lurk  deep 
within  the  souls  of  all  of  us,  the  seeds  of  the 
eternal  war  between  the  natural  mar  and  the 
artificial,  between  our  wilder  genius  and  our 
social  conventionalities; — thoughts  that  from 
time  to  time  break  forth  into  the  harbingers  of 
vain  and  fruitless  revolutions,  impotent  strug- 
gles against  destiny;— thoughts  that  good  and 
wise  men  would  be  slow  to  promulge  and 
propogate,  for  they  are  of  a  fire  which  burns 
as  well  as  brightens,  and  which  spreads  from 
heart  to  heart  as  a  spark  spreads  amidst  fiax; 
— thoughts  which  are  rifest  where  natures 
are  most  high,  but  belong  to  truths  that  Vir- 
tue dare  not  tell  aloud.  And  as  Maltravers 
spoke,  with  eyes  flashing  almost  intolerable 
light — his  breast  heaving — his  form  dilated, 
never  to  the  eyes  of  Florence  Lascelles  did  he 
seem  so  great:  the  chains  that  bound  the 
strong  limbs  of  his  spirit  seemed  snapped 
asunder,  and  all  his  soul  was  visible  and 
towering,  as  a  thing  that  has  escaped  slavery, 
and  lifts  its  crest  to  heaven,  and  feels  that  it  is 
free. 

That  evening  saw  a  new  bond  of  alliance 
between  these  two  persons; — young,  hand- 
some, and  of  opposite  sexes,  they  agreed  to 
be  friends,  and  nothing  more  !     Fools  ! 


CHAPTER   IL 

"  Idem  velle,  et  idem  nolle,  ea  demum  firma  amicitia 
est.  *  "— Sai.lust. 

"  Carlos.    That  letter. 
Princess  EboH.  Oh,  I  shall  die.    Return  it  instantly." 
— Schiller:  Don  Carlos. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  compact  Maltravers  and 
Lady  Florence  had  entered  into  removed  what- 


•  To  will  the  same  thing  and  not  to  will  the  same 
thing,  that  at  length  is  firm  friendship. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


155 


ever  embarrassment  and  reserve  had  previously 
existed.  They  now  conversed  with  an  ease  and 
freedom,  not  common  in  persons  of  different 
sexes  before  they  have  passed  their  grand 
climacteric.  Ernest,  in  ordinary  life,  like  most 
men  of  warm  emotions  and  strong  imagination, 
if  not  taciturn,  was  at  least  guarded.  It  was 
as  if  a  weight  were  taken  from  his  breast,  when 
he  found  one  person  who  could  understand  him 
best  when  he  was  most  candid.  His  eloquence 
— his  poetry; — his  intense  and  concentrated 
enthusiasm  found  a  voice.  He  could  talk  to 
an  individual  as  he  would  have  written  to  the 
public — a  rare  happiness  to  the  men  of  books. 

Florence  seemed  to  recover  her  health  and 
spirits  as  by  a  miracle;  yet  was  she  more 
gentle,  more  subdued,  than  of  old — there  was 
less  effort  to  shine,  less  indifference  whether 
she  shocked.  Persons  who  had  not  met 
her  before,  wondered  why  she  was  dreaded  in 
society.  But  at  times  a  great  natural  irrita- 
Ijility  of  temper — a  quick  suspicion  of  the 
motives  of  those  around  her — an  imperious 
and  obstinate  vehemence  of  will,  were  visible 
to  Maltravers,  and  served,  perhaps,  to  keep 
him  heartwhole.  He  regarded  her  through 
the  eyes  of  the  intellect,  not  those  of  the  pas- 
sions— he  thought  of  her  not  as  a  woman — 
her  very  talents,  her  very  grandeur  of  idea 
and  power  of  purpose,  while  they  delighted 
him  in  conversation,  diverted  his  imagination 
from  dwelling  on  her  beauty.  He  looked  on 
her  as  something  apart  from  her  sex — a  glori- 
ous creature  spoilt  by  being  a  woman.  He 
once  told  her  so,  laughingly,  and  Florence 
considered  it  a  compliment.  Poor  Florence, 
her  scorn  of  her  sex  avenged  her  sex,  and 
robbed  her  of  her  proper  destiny  ! 

Cleveland  silently  observed  their  intimacy, 
and  listened  with  a  quiet  smile  to  the  gossips 
who  pointed  out  tete-a-t^tes  by  the  terrace, 
and  loiterings  by  the  lawn,  and  predicted  what 
would  come  of  it  all.  Lord  Saxingham  was 
blind.  But  his  daughter  was  of  age,  in  pos- 
session of  her  princely  fortune,  and  had 
long  made  him  sensible  of  her  independence 
of  temper.  His  lordship,  however,  thoroughly 
misunderstood  the  character  of  her  pride,  and 
felt  fully  convinced  she  would  marry  no  one 
less  than  a  duke;  as  for  flirtations,  he  thought 
them  natural  and  innocent  amusements.  Be- 
sides, he  was  very  little  at  Temple  Grove.  He 
went  to  London   every  morning  after  break- 


fasting in  his  own  room — came  back  to  dine, 
play  at  whist,  and  talk  good-humored  nonsense 
to  Florence  in  his  dressing-room,  for  the  three 
minutes  that  took  place  between  his  sipping 
his  wine-and-water  and  the  appearance  of  his 
valet.  As  for  the  other  guests,  it  was  not 
their  business  to  do  more  than  gossip  with 
each  other;  and  so  Florence  and  Maltravers 
went  on  their  way  unmolested  though  not  un- 
observed. Maltravers  not  being  himself  in 
love,  never  fancied  that  Lady  Florence  loved 
him,  or  that  she  would  be  in  any  danger  of 
doing  so: — this  is  a  mistake  a  man  often  com- 
mits— a  woman  "never.  A  woman  always 
knows  when  she  is  loved,  though  she  often 
imagines  she  is  loved  when  she  is  not.  Flor- 
ence was  not  happy,  fot  happiness  is  a  calm 
feeling.  But  she  was  excited  with  a  vague, 
wild,  intoxicating  emotion. 

She  had  learned  from  Maltravers  that  she 
had  been  misinformed  by  Ferrers,  and  that  no 
other  claimed  empire  over  his  heart;  and 
whether  or  not  he  loved  her,  still  for  the  pres- 
ent they  seemed  all  in  all  to  each  other;  she 
lived  but  for  the  present  day,  she  would  not 
think  of  the  morrow.     , 

Since  that  severe  illness  which  had  tended 
so  much  to  alter  Ernest's  mode  of  life,  he  had 
not  come  before  the  public  as  an  author. 
Latterly,  however,  the  old  habit  had  broken 
out  again.  With  the  comparative  idleness  of 
recent  years,  the  ideas  and  feelings  which 
crowd  so  fast  on  the  poetical  temperament, 
once  indulged,  had  accumulated  within  him  to 
an  excess  that  demanded  vent.  For  with  some, 
to  write  is  not  a  vague  desire,  but  an  imperious 
destiny.  The  fire  is  kindled  and  must  break 
forth;  the  wings  are  fledged  and  the  birds 
must  leave  their  nest.  The  communication  of 
thought  to  man  is  implanted  as  an  instinct  in 
those  breasts  to  which  heaven  has  intrusted 
the  solemn  agencies  of  genius.  In  the  work 
which  Maltravers  now  composed,  he  consulted 
Florence:  his  confidence  delighted  her — it  was 
a  compliment  she  could  appreciate. 

Wild,  fervid,  impassioned,  was  that  work — a 
brief  and  holiday  creation — the  youngest  and 
most  beloved  of  the  children  of  his  brain. 
And  as  day  by  day  the  bright  design  grew 
into  shape,  and  thought  and  imagination  found 
themselves  "  local  habitations,"  Florence  felt 
as  if  she  were  admitted  into  the  palace  of  the 
genii,  and  made  acquainted  with  the  mechan- 


'56 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


ism  of  those  spells  aud  charms  with  which  the 
preternatural  powers  of  mind  design  the  witch- 
ery of  the  world.  Ah,  how  different  in  depth 
and  majesty  were  those  inter-communications 
of  idea  between  Ernest  Maltravers  and  a 
woman  scarcely  inferior  to  himself  in  capacity 
and  acquirement,  from  that  bridge  of  shadowy 
and  dim  sympathies  which  the  enthusiastic' 
boy  had  once  built  up  between  his  own  poetry 
of  knowledge  and  Alice's  poetry  of  love  ! 

It  was  one  late  afternoon  in  September, 
when  the  sun  was  slowly  going  down  its  western 
way,  that  Lady  Florence,  who  had  been  all 
that  morning  in  her  own  robm,  paying  off,  as 
she  said,  the  dull  arrears  of  correspondence, 
rather  on  Lord  Saxingham's  account  than  her 
own;  for  he  punctiliously  exacted  from  her 
the  most  scrupulous  attention  to  cousins  fifty 
times  removed,  provided  they  were  rich, 
clever,  well  off,  or  in  any  way  of  coasequetice: 
— it  was  one  afternoon  that,  relieved  from  these 
avocations.  Lady  Florence  strolled  through 
the  grounds  with  Cleveland.  The  gentlemen 
were  still  in  the  stubble-fields,  the  ladies  were 
out  in  barouches  and  pony  phaetons,  and 
Cleveland  and  Lady  Florence  were  alone. 

Apropos  of  Florence's  epistolary  employ- 
ment, their  conversation  fell  upon  that  most 
charming  species  of  literature,  which  joins  with 
the  interest  of  a  novel  the  truth  of  a  history — 
the  French  memoir  and  letter-writers.  It  was 
a  part  of  literature  in  which  Cleveland  was 
thoroughly  at  home. 

"  Those  agreeable  and  polished  gossips," 
said  he,  "  how  well  they  contrived  to  intro- 
duce Nature  into  Art  !  Everything  artificial 
seemed  so  natural  to  them.  They  even  feel 
by  a  kind  of  clockwork,  which  seems  to  go 
better  than  the  heart  itself.  Those  pretty 
sentiments,  those  delicate  gallantries  of  Ma- 
dame de  Sevign^  to  her  daughter,  how  ami- 
able they  are;  but  somehow  or  other  I  can 
never  fancy  them  the  least  motherly.  What 
an  ending  for  a  maternal  epistle  is  that  elegant 
compliment— '  Songez  que  de  tous  les  cceurs 
oil  vous  regnez,  il  n'y  en  a  ancun  oti  votre 
empire  soit  si  bien  ^tabli  que  dans  le  mien.' 
I  can  scarcely  fancy  Lord  Saxingham  writing 
so  to  you,  Lady  Florence."  * 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Lady  Florence,  smil- 

•  Think  that  of  all  the  hearts  over  which  you  reign, 
there  is  not  one  in  which  your  empire  can  be  so  well 
established  as  in  mine. 


ing.  "  Neither  papas  nor  mammas  in  England 
are  much  addicted  to  compliment,  but  I  con- 
fess I  like  preserving  a  sort  of  gallantry  even 
in  our  most  familiar  connections — why  should 
we  not  carry  the  imagination  into  all  the  affec- 
tions ? " 

"  I  can  scarce  answer  the  why,"  returned 
Cleveland;  "  but  I  think  it  would  destroy  the 
reality.  I  am  rather  of  the  old  school.  If  I 
had  a  daughter,  and  asked  her  to  get  my 
slippers,  I  am  afraid  I  should  think  it  a  little 
wearisome  if  I  had,  in  receiving  them,  to  make 
des  belles  phrases  in  return." 

While  they  were  thus  talking,  and  Lady 
Florence  continued  to  press  her  side  of  the 
question,  they  passed  through  a  little  grove 
that  conducted  to  an  arm  of  the  stream  which 
ornamented  the  grounds,  and  by  its  quiet  and 
shadowy  gloom  was  meant  to  give  a  contrast 
to  the  livelier  features  of  the  domain.  Here 
they  came  suddenly  upon  Maltravers.  He  was 
walking  by  the  side  of  the  brook,  and  evidently 
absorbed  in  thought. 

It  was  the  trembling  of  Lady  Florence's 
hand  as  it  lay  on  Cleveland's  arm,  that  in- 
duced him  to  stop  short  in  an  animated  com- 
mentary on  Rochefoucauld's  character  of  Car- 
dinal de  Retz,  and  look  round. 

"  Ha,  most  meditative  Jacques!"  said  he: 
"  and  what  new  moral  hast  thou  been  conning 
in  our  Forest  of  Ardennes  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you — I  wished  to 
consult  you,  Cleveland.  But  first.  Lady  Flo- 
rence, to  convince  you  and  our  host  that  my 
rambles  have  not  been  wholly  fruitless,  and 
that  I  could  not  walk  from  Dan  to  Beersheba 
and  find  all  barren,  accept  my  offerings — a 
wild  rose  that  I  discovered  in  the  thickest 
part  of  the  wood.  It  is  not  a  civilized  rose. 
Now,  Cleveland,  a  word  with  you." 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  am  de  trap" 
said  Lady  Florence. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  have  no  secrets  from  you  in 
this  matter — or  rather  these  matters — for 
there  are  two  to  be  discussed.  In  the  first 
place  Lady  Florence,  that  poor  Cesarini, — you 
know  and  like  him — nay,  no  blushes." 

"  Did  I  blush  ? — then  it  was  in  recollection 
of  an  old  reproach  of  yours." 

"  At  its  justice  ! — well,  no  matter.  He  is 
one  for  whom  I  always  felt  a  lively  interest. 
His  very  morbidity  of  temperament  only  in- 
creases   my  anxiety    for   his    future   fate.     I 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


m 


have  received  a  letter  from  De  Montaigne,  his 
brother-in-law,  who  seems  seriously  uneasy 
about  Castruccio.  He  wishes  him  to  leave 
England  at  once,  as  the  sole  means  of  restor- 
mg  his  broken  fortunes.  De  Montaigne  has 
the  opportunity  of  procuring  him  a  diplomatic 
situation,  which  may  not  again  occur — and — 
but  you  know  the  man  ! — what  shall  we  do  ?  I 
am  sure  he  will  not  listen  to  me;  he  looks  on 
me  as  an  interested  rival  for  fame." 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  any  subtler  elo- 
quence ? "  said  Cleveland.  "  No,  I  am  an 
author,  too.  Come,  I  think  your  ladyship 
must  be  the  arch-negotiator." 

"  He  has  genius — he  has"  merit,"  said  Mal- 
travers,  pleadingly:  "he  wants  nothing  but 
time  and  experience  to  wean  him  from  his 
foibles.  Will  you  try  to  save  him.  Lady 
Florence  ? " 

"Why!  nay,  I  must  not  be  obdurate— I 
will  see  him  when  I  go  to  town.  It  is  like 
you,  Mr.  Maltravers,  to   feel  this  interest  in 

one " 

"  Who  does  not  like  me,  you  would  say — 
but  he  will  some  day  or  other.  Besides,  I  owe 
him  deep  gratitude.  In  his  weaker  qualities 
I  have  seen  many  which  all  literary  men  might 
mcur,  without  strict  watch  over  themselves; 
and  let  me  add,  also,  that  his  family  have 
great  claims  on  me." 

"  You  believe  in  the  soundness  of  his  heart, 
and  in  the  integrity  of  his  honor?"  said 
Cleveland,  inquiringly. 

"Indeed  I  do;  these  are — these  must  be, 
the  redeeming  qualities  of  poets." 

Maltravers  spoke  warmly;  and  such  at  that 
time  was  his  influence  over  Florence,  that  his 
words  formed — alas,  too  fatally  ! — her  esti- 
mate of  Castruccio's  character,  which  had  at 
first  been  high,  but  which  his  own  presumption 
had  latterly  shaken.  She  had  seen  him  three 
or  four  times  in  the  interval  between  the  re- 
ceipt of  his  apologetic  letter  and  her  visit  to 
Cleveland,  and  he  had  seemed  to  her  father 
sullen  than  humbled.  But  she  felt  for  the 
vanity  she  herself  had  wounded. 

"And  now,"  continued  Maltravers,  "for  my 
second  subject  of  consultation.  But  that  is 
political — will  it  weary  Lady  Florence  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no;  to  politics  I  am  never  indifferent: 
they  always  inspire  me  with  contempt  or  admi- 
ration; according  to  the  motives  of  those  who 
bring  the  science  into  action.     Pray  say  on." 


"  Well,"  said  Cleveland,  "  one  confidant  at 
a  time;  you  will  forgive  me,  for  I  see  my 
guests  coming  across  the  lawn,  and  I  may  as 
well  make  a  diversion  in  your  favor.  Ernest 
can  consult  me  at  any  time." 

Cleveland  walked  away,  but  the  intimacy 
between  Maltravers  and  Florence  was  of  so 
frank  a  nature,  that  there  was  nothing  embar- 
rassing in  the  thought  of  a  tete-h-tete. 

"  Lady  Florence,"  said  Ernest,  "  there  is. 
no  one  in  the  world  with  whom  I  can  confer 
so  cheerfully  as  with  you.  I  am  almost  glad 
of  Cleveland's  absence,  for,  with  all  his  amiable 
and  fine  qualities,  '  the  world  is  too  much 
with  him,'  and  we  do  not  argue  from  the 
same  data.  Pardon  my  prelude — now  to  my 
position.     I  have  received   a  letter  from  Mr. 

.     That  statesman,  whom  none  but  those 

acquainted  with  the  chivalrous  beauty  of  his. 
nature  can  understand  or  appreciate,  sees  be- 
fore him  the  most  brilliant  career  that  ever 
opened  in  this  country  to  a  public  man  not 
born  an  aristocrat.  He  has  asked  me  to  form 
one  of  the  new  administration  that  he  is  about 
to  create:  the  place  offered  to  me  is  above  my 
merits,  nor  suited  to  what  I  have  yet  done, 
though,  perhaps,  it  be  suited  to  what  I  may 
yet  do.  I  make  that  qualification,  for  you 
know,"  added,  Ernest  with  a  proud  smile, 
"  that  I  am  sanguine  and  self-confidant." 
"  You  accept  the  proposal  ?  " 
"Nay— should  I  not  reject  it  ?  Our  politics 
are  the  same  only  for  the  moment,  our  ulti- 
mate objects  are  widely  different.  To  serve 
with  Mr. ,  I  must  make  an  unequal  com- 
promise— abandon  nine  opinions  to  promote 
one.  Is  not  this  a  capitulation  of  that  great 
citadel,  one's  own  conscience?  No  man  will 
call  me  inconsistent,  for,  in  public  life,  to. 
agree  with  another  on  a  party  question  is  all 
that  is  required;  the  thousand  questions  not 
yet  ripened,  and  lying  dark  and  concealed  ia 
the  future,  are  not  inquired  into  and  divined:: 
but  I  own  I  shall  deem  myself  worse  than  in- 
consistent. For  this  is  my  dilemma, — if  I 
use  this  noble  spirit  merely  to  advance  one 
object,  and  then  desert  him  where  he  halts,  I 
am  treacherous  to  him — if  I  halt  with  him,  but 
one  of  my  objects  effected,  I  am  treacherous 
to  myself.  Such  are  my  views.  It  is  with 
pain  I  arrive  at  them,  for,  at  first,  my  heart 
beat  with  a  selfish  ambition." 

"  You  are  rights  you  are  right,"  exclaimed 


.58 


£  UL  WER'S    WORKS. 


Florence,  with  glowing  cheeks,  "  how  could  I 
doubt  you?  I  comprehend  the  sacrifice  you 
make;  for  a  proud  thing  is  it  to  soar  above  the 
predictions  of  foes  in  that  palpable  road  to 
honor  which  the  world's  hard  eyes  can  see, 
and  the  world's  cold  heart  can  measure;  but 
prouder  is  it  to  feel  that  you  have  never  ad- 
vanced one  step  to  the  goal,  which  remem- 
brance would  retract.  No,  my  friend,  wait 
your  time,  confident  that  it  must  come,  when 
conscience  and  ambition  can  go  hand-in-hand 
— when  the  broad  objects  of  a  luminous  and 
enlarged  jwlicy  lie  before  you  like  a  chart, 
and  you  can  calculate  every  step  of  the  way 
without  peril  of  being  lost.  Ah,  let  them  still 
call  loftiness  of  purpose  and  whiteness  of  soul 
the  dreams  of  a  theorist, — even  if  they  be  so, 
the  Ideal  in  this  case  is  better  than  the  Prac- 
tical. Meanwhile  your  position  is  not  one  to 
forfeit  lightly.  Before  you  is  that  throne  in 
literature  which  it  requires  no  doubtful  step 
to  win,  if  you  have,  as  I  believe,  tke  mental 
power  to  attain  it.  An  ambition  that  may 
indeed  be  relinquished,  if  a  more  troubled  ca- 
reer can  better  achieve  those  public  purposes 
at  which  both  letters  and  policy  should  aim, 
but  which  is  not  to  be  surrendered  for  the  re- 
wards of  a  placeman,  or  the  advancement  of 
courtier." 

It  was  while  uttering  these  noble  and  inspir- 
ing sentiments,  that  Florence  Lascelles  sud- 
denly acquired  in  Ernest's  eye  a  loveliness 
with  which  they  had  not  before  invested  her. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  as  with  a  sudden  impulse, 
he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips,  "  blessed  be  the 
hour  in  which  you  gave  me  your  friendship  ! 
These  are  the  thoughts  I  have  longed  to  hear 
from  living  lips,  when  I  have  been  tempted  to 
believe  patriotism  a  delusion,  and  virtue  but  a 
name." 

Lady  Florence  heard,  and  her  whole  form 
seemed  changed, — she  was  no  longer  the 
majestic  sibyl,  but  the  attached,  timorous, 
delighted  woman. 

It  so  happened  that  in  her  confusion  she 
dropped  from  her  hand  the  flower  Maltravers 
had  given  her,  and  involuntarily  glad  of  a  pre- 
text to  conceal  her  countenance,  she  stooped  to 
take  it  from  the  ground.  In  so  doing,  a  letter 
fell  from  her  bosom— and  Maltravers,  as  he 
bent  forwards  to  forestall  her  own  movement, 
saw  that  the  direction  was  to  himself,  and  in 
the  handwriting  of  his  unknown  correspondent. 


He  seized  the  letter,  and  gazed  in  flattered 
and  entranced  astonishment,  first  on  the  writ- 
ing, next  on  the  detected  writer.  Florence 
grew  deadly  pale,  and  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands  burst  into  tears. 

"  O  fool  that  I  was,"  cried  Ernest,  in  the 
passion  of  the  moment,  "  not  to  know — not  to 
have  felt  that  there  were  not  two  Florences  in 
the  world  !  But  if  the  thought  had  crossed 
me,  I  would  not  have  dared  to  harbor  it." 

"Go,  go,"  sobbed  Florence;  "leave  me,  in 
mercy  leave  me  !  " 

"  Not  till  you  bid  me  rise,"  said  Ernest,  in 
emotion  scarcely  less  deep  than  hers,  as  he 
sank  on  his  knee  at  her  feet. 

Need  I  go  on  ?— When  they  left  that  spot,  a 
soft  confession  had  been  made — deep  vows  in- 
terchanged, and  Ernest  Maltravers  was  the 
accepted  suitor  of  Florence  Lascelles. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  A  hundred  fathers  would  in  my  situation  tell  you 
that,  as  you  are  of  noble  extraction,  you  should  marrj' 
a  nobleman.  But  I  do  not  say  so.  I 'will  not  sacrifice 
my  child  to  any  prejudice." — Kotzebl'e:  Lover' sVows. 

"  Take  heed,  ray  lord;  the  welfare  of  us  all 
Hangs  on  the  cutting  short  that  fraudful  man." 
—Shakespeare:  Henry  VI. 

"  Oh  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 
Th'  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 
And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away!  " 
— Shakespeare:   7  ww  GitUUmen  of  Verona, 

When  Maltravers  was  once  more  in  his 
solitary  apartment,  he  felt  as  in  a  dream. 
He  had  obeyed  an  impulse,  irresistible,  per- 
haps, but  one  with  which  the  conscience  of  his 
luart  was  not  satisfied.  A  voice  whispered 
to  him,  "  Thou  hast  deceived  her  and  thyself 
— thou  dost  not  love  her  !  "  In  vain  he  re- 
called her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  genius — her 
singular  and  enthusiastic  passion  for  himself 
— the  voice  still  replied,  "  Thou  dost  not  love. 
Bid  farewell  for  ever  to  thy  fond  dreams  of  a 
life  more  blessed  than  that  of  mortals.  From 
the  stormy  sea  of  the  future  are  blotted  out 
eternally  for  thee — Calypso  and  her  Golden 
Isle.  Thou  canst  no  more  paint  on  the  dim 
canvas  of  thy  desires  the  form  of  her  with 
whom  thou  couldst  dwell  for  ever.     Th<»"  hast 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS, 


159 


been  unfaithful  to  thine  own  ideal — thou  hast 
given  thyself  for  ever  and  for  ever  to  another 
— thou  hast  renounced  hope — thou  must  live 
as  in  a  prison,  with  a  being  with  whom  thou 
hast  not  the  harmony  of  love." 

"No  matter,"  said  Maltravers,  almost 
alarmed,  and  starting  from  these  thoughts,  "  I 
am  betrothed  to  one  who  loves  me — it  is  folly 
and  dishonor  to  repent  and  to  repine.  I  have 
gone  through  the  best  years  of  youth  without 
finding  the  Egeria  with  whom  the  cavern 
would  be  sweeter  than  a  throne.  Why  live 
to  the  grave  a  vain  and  visionary  Nympholept  ? 
Out  of  the  real  world  could  I  have  made  a 
nobler  choice  ? " 

While  Maltravers  thus  communed  with  him- 
self. Lady  Florence  passed  into  her  father's 
dressing- roonj,  and  there  awaited  his  return 
from  London.  She  knew  his  worldly  views — 
she  knew  also  the  pride  of  her  affianced,  and 
she  felt  that  she  alone  could  mediate  between 
the  two. 

Lord  Saxingham  at  last  returned;  busy, 
bustling,  important,  and  good-humored  as 
usual.  "  Well,  Flory,  well  ? — glad  to  see  you 
— quite  blooming,  I  declare, — never  saw  you 
with  such  a  color — monstrous  like  me,  cer- 
tainly. We  always  had  fine  complexions  and 
fine  eyes  in  our  family.  But  I'm  rather  late — 
first  bell  rung — we  ci-devant  jeunes  hommes 
are  rather  long  dressing,  and  you  are  not 
dressed  yet,  I  see." 

"  My  dearest  father,  I  wished  to  speak  with 
you  on  a  matter  of  much  importance." 

"  Do  you  ! — what,  immediately  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well — what  is  it  ? — your  Slingsby  prop- 
erty, I  suppose." 

"  No,  my  dear  father — pray  sit  down  and 
hear  me  patiently." 

Lord  Saxingham  began  to  be  both  alarmed 
and  curious — he  seated  himself  in  silence,  and 
looked  anxiously  in  the  face  of  his  daughter. 

"You  have  always  been  very  indulgent  to 
me,"  commenced  Florence,  with  a  half  smile, 
"  and  I  have  had  my  own  way  more  than  most 
young  ladies.  Believe  me,  my  dear  father,  I 
am  most  grateful,  not  only  for  your  affection, 
but  your  esteem.  I  have  been  a  strange  wild 
girl,  but  I  am  now  about  to  reform;  and  as  the 
first  step,  I  ask  your  consent  to  give  myself  a 
preceptor  and  a  guide — " 

"  A  what  !  "   cried  Lord  Saxingham. 


"  Li  other  words,  I  am  about  to — to — well, 
the  truth  must  out — to  marry." 

"  Has.  the  Duke  of  *  *  *  *  been  here  to- 
day ? " 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  But  it  is  no  duke  to 
whom  I  have  promised  my  hand — it  is  a  nobler 
and  rarer  dignity  that  has  caught  my  ambition. 
Mr.  Maltravers  has " 

'"  Mr.  Maltravers  ! — Mr.  Devil  ! — the  girl's 
mad  ! — don't  talk  to  me,  child,  I  won't  con- 
sent to  any  such  nonsense.  A  country  gen- 
tleman— very  respectable,  very  clever,  and  all 
that,  but  it's  no  use  talking — my  mind's  made 
up.     With  your  fortune,  too." 

"  My  dear  father,  I  will  not  marry  without 
your  consent,  though  my  fortune  is  settled  on 
me,  and  I  am  of  age." 

"  There's  a  good  child — and  now  let  me 
dress — we  shall  be  late." 

"  No,  not  yet,"  said  Lady  Florence,  throw- 
ing her  arm  carelessly  around  her  father's  neck 
— "  I  shall  marry  Mr.  Maltravers,  but  it  will 
be  with  your  approval.  Just  consider;  If  I 
married  the  Duke  of  *  *  *  *,  he  would  expect 
all  my  fortune,  such  as  it  is.  Ten  thousand 
a-year  is  at  my  disposal,  if  I  marry  Mr.  Mal- 
travers, it  will  be  settled  on  you — I  always 
meant  it — it  is  a  poor  return  for  your  kind- 
ness, your  indulgence — but  it  will  show  that 
your  own  Flory  is  not  ungrateful." 

"  I  won't  hear." 

"  Stop — listen  to  reason.  You  are  not  rich 
— you  are  entitled  but  to  a  small  pension  if 
you  ever  resign  office;  and  your  official  salary, 
I  have  often  heard  you  say,  does  not  prevent 
you  from  being  embarrassed.  To  whom  should 
a  daughter  give  from  her  superfluities,  but  to 
a  parent  ? — from  whom  should  a  parent  re- 
ceive, but  from  a  child,  who  can  never  repay 
his  love  ? — Ah,  this  is  nothing;  but  you — you 
who  have  never  crossed  her  lightest  whim — do 
not  you  destroy  all  the  hopes  of  happiness  your 
Florence  can  ever  form." 

Florence  wept,  and  Lord  Saxingham,  who 
was  greatly  moved,  let  fall  a  few  tears  also. 
Perhaps  it  is  too  much  to  say  that  the  pecuniary 
part  of  the  proffered  arrangement  entirely  won 
him  over;  but  still  the  way  it  was  introduced 
softened  his  heart.  He  possibly  thought  that 
it  was  better  to  have  a  good  and  grateful 
daughter  in  a  country  gentleman's  wife,  than 
a  sullen  and  thankless  one  in  a  duchess.  How- 
ever that  mav  be  certain  it  is,  that  before  Lord 


i6o 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


Saxingham  began  his  toilet,  he  promised  to 
make  no  obstacle  to  the  marriage,  and  all  he 
asked  in  return  was,  that  at  least  three  months 
(but  that  indeed  the  lawyers  would  require) 
should  elapse  before  it  took  place;  and  on  this 
imderstanding  Florence  left  him,  radiant  and 
joyous  as  Flora  herself,  when  the  sun  of  spring 
makes  the  world  a  garden.  Never  had  she 
thought  so  little  of  her  beauty,  and  never  had 
it  seemed  so  glorious,  as  that  happy  evening. 
But  Maltravers  was  pale  and  thoughtful,  and 
Florence  in  vain  sought  his  eyes  during  the 
dinner,  which  seemed  to  her  insufferably  long. 
Afterwards,  however,  they  met,  and  conversed 
apart  the  rest  of  the  evening;  and  the  beauty 
of  Florence  began  to  produce  upon  Ernest's 
heart  its  natural  effect;  and  that  evening — ah, 
how  Florence  treasured  the  remembrance  of 
every  hour,  every  minute  of  its  annals  ! 

It  would  have  been  amusing  to  witness  the 
short  conversation  between  Lord  Saxingham 
and  Maltravers,  when  the  latter  sought  the 
Earl  at  night  in  his  lordship's  room.  To  Lord 
Saxingham's  surprise,  not  a  word  did  Maltra- 
vers utter  of  his  own  subordinate  pretensions 
to  Lady  Florence's  hand.  Coldly,  drily,  and 
almost  haughtily,  did  he  make  the  formal  pro- 
posals, "  as  if  (as  Lord  Saxingham  afterwards 
said  to  Ferrers)  the  man  were  doing  me  the 
highest  possible  honor  in  taking  my  daughter, 
the  beauty  of  London,  with  fifty  thousand  a- 
year,  off  my  hands."  But  this  was  quite  Mal- 
travers ! — if  he  had  been  proposing  to  the 
daughter  of  a  country  curate,  without  a  six- 
pence, he  would  have  been  the  humblest  of 
the  humble.  The  Earl  was  embarrassed  and 
discomposed — he  was  almost  awed  by  the 
Siddons  like  countenance,  and  Coriolanus-like 
air  of  his  son-in-law — he  even  hinted  nothing 
of  the  compromise  as  to  time  which  he  had 
made  with  his  daughter.  He  thought  it  bet- 
ter to  leave  it  to  Lady  Florence  to  arrange 
that  matter.  They  shook  hands  frigidly,  and 
parted. 

Maltravers  went  next  into  Cleveland's 
room,  and  communicated  all  to  the  delighted 
old  man,  whose  congratulations  were  so  fervid 
that  Maltravers  felt  it  would  be  a  sin  not  to 
fancy  himself  the  happiest  man  in  the  world. 
That  night  he  wrote  his  refusal  of  the  apf)oint- 
ment  offered  him. 

The  next  day  Lord  Saxingham  went  to  his 
office  in  Downing  Street  as   usual,  and  Lady 


Florence  and  Ernest  found  an  opportunity  to 
ramble  through  the  grounds  alone. 

There  it  was  that  occurred  those  confessions, 
sweet  alike  to  utter  and  to  hear.     Then  did 
Florence   speak   of   her   early   years — of  her 
self-formed  and  solitary  mind — of  her  youth- 
ful dreams  and  reveries.     Nothing  around  her 
to  excite  interest  or  admiration,  or  the  more 
romantic,  the  higher,  or  the  softer  qualities  of 
her  nature,  she  turned   to  contemplation  and 
to  books.     It  is  the  combination  of  the  facul- 
ties  with   the  affections,  exiled   from  action, 
and   finding  no  wordly  vent,  which   produces 
Poetry,  the  child   of  passion  and  of  thought. 
Hence,  before  the  real  cares  of  existence  claim 
them,  the   young,  who   are  abler  yet  lonelier ' 
than   their   fellows,  are  nearly  always   poets: 
and  Florence  was  a  poetess.     Ip    minds  like 
this,    the    first   book   that    seems   to  embody 
and  represent  their  own  most  cherished  and 
beloved   trains   of  sentiment  and  ideas,  ever 
creates   a   reverential    and    deep   enthusiasm. 
The  lonely,  and   proud,  and   melancholy  soul 
of  Maltravers,  which  made  itself  visible  in  all 
his  creations,  became  to  Florence  like  a  re- 
vealer  of  the  secrets  of  her  own   nature.     She 
conceived  an  intense  and   mysterious  interest 
in  the  man  whose  mind  exercised  so  pervading 
a  power  over  her  own.     She  made  herself  ac- 
quainted   with    his    pursuits,   his  career — she 
fancied  she  found  a  symmetry  and  harmony 
between  the  actual    being  and  the  breathing 
genius — she    imagined    she    understood  what 
seemed    dark    and    obscure   to   others.      He 
whom  she  had  never  seen,  grew  to  her  a  never- 
absent  friend.     His  ambition,   his  reputation, 
were  to  her  like  a  possession  of  her  own.     So 
at  length,  in  the  folly  of  her  young  romance, 
she  wrote  to  him,  and  dreaming  of  no  discov- 
ery, anticipating  no  result,  the  habit  once  in- 
dulged became  to  her  that  luxury  which  writ- 
ing for  the  eye  of  the  world   is  to  an  author 
oppressed    with    the    burthen     of     his     own 
thoughts.     At  length  she  saw  him,  and  he  did 
not  destroy  her  illusion.     She  might  have  re- 
covered from  the  spell  if  she   had  found  him 
ready  at  once  to  worship  at  her   shrine.     The 
mixture  of  reserve  and   frankness — frankness 
of   language,   reserve  of    manner — which  be- 
longed to  Maltravers,  piqued  her.     Her  vanity 
became  the  auxiliary  to  her  imagination. 

At  length  they  met  at  Cleveland's  house; 
their  intercourse  became  more  unrestrained — 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


i6i 


their  friendship  was  established,  and  she  dis- 
covered that  she  had  wilfully  implicted  her 
happiness  in  indulging  her  dreams;  yet  even 
then  she  believed  that  Maltravers  loved  her 
despite  his  silence  upon  the  subject  of  love. 
His  manner,  his  words  bespoke  his  interest  in 
her,  and  his  voice  was  very  soft  when  he  spoke 
to  women;  for  he  had  much  of  the  old  chival- 
ric  respect  aud  tenderness  for  the  sex.  What 
was  general  it  was  natural  that  she  should  ap- 
ply individually — she  who  had  walked  the 
world  but  to  fascinate  and  to  conquer.  It  was 
probable  that  her  great  wealth  and  social  po- 
sition imposed  a  check  on  the  delicate  pride  of 
Maltravers — she  hoped  so — she  believed  it — 
yet  she  felt  her  danger,  and  her  own  pride  at 
last  took  alarm.  In  such  a  moment  she  had 
resumed  the  character  of  the  unknown  corre- 
spondent— she  had  written  to  Maltravers — 
addressed  her  letter  to  his  own  house,  and 
meant  the  next  day  to  have  gone  to  London, 
and  posted  it  there. 

In  this  letter  she  had  spoken  of  his  visit  to 
Cleveland,  of  his  position  with  herself.  She 
exhorted  him,  if  he  loved  her,  to  confess,  and 
if  not,  to  fly.  She  had  written  artfully  and  elo- 
quently; she  was  desirous  of  expediting  her 
own  fate;  and  then,  with  that  letter  in  her 
bosom,  she  had  met  Maltravers,  and  the 
reader  has  learned  the  rest.  Something  of  all 
this  the  blushing  and  happy  Florence  now  re- 
vealed: and  when  she  ended  with  uttering  the 
^Moman's  soft  fear  that  she  had  been  too  bold, 
is  it  wonderful  that  Maltravers,  clasping  her 
to  his  bosom,  felt  the  gratitude,  and  the  de- 
lighted vanity,  which  seemed  even  to  himself 
like  love  !  And  into  love  those  feelings 
rapidly  and  deliciously  will  merge,  if  fate  and 
accident  permit  ! 

And  now  they  were  by  the  side  of  the  water; 
and  the  sun  was  gently  setting  as  on  the  eve 
before.  It  was  about  the  same  hour,  the 
fairest  of  an  autumn  day;  none  were  near — 
the  slope  of  the  hill  hid  the  house  from  their 
view.  Had  they  been  in  the  desert  they  could 
not  have  been  more  alone.  It  was  not  silence 
that  breathed  around  them,  as  they  sat  on 
that  bench  with  the  broad  beech  spreading 
over  them  its  trembling  canopy  of  leaves; — 
but  those  murmurs  of  living  nature  which  are 
sweeter  than  silence  itself — the  songs  of  birds 
— the  tinkling  bell  of  the  sheep  on  the  opposite 
bank — the  wind  sighing  through  the  trees,  and 

6— il 


the  gentle  heaving  of  the  glittering  waves  that 
washed  the  odorous  reed  and  water-lily  at  their 
feet.  They  had  both  been  for  some  moments 
silent;  and  Florence  now  broke  the  pause,  but 
in  tones  more  low  than  usual. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  she,  turning  towards  him, 
"these  hours  are  happier  than  we  can  find  in 
that  crowded  world  whither  your  destiny  must 
call  us.  For  me,  ambition  seems  for  ever  at 
an  end.  I  have  found  all;  I  am  no  longer 
haunted  with  the  desire  of  gaining  a  vague 
something — a  shadowy  empire,  that  we  call 
fame  or  power.  The  sole  thought  that  dis- 
turbs the  calm  current  of  my  soul,  is  the  fear 
to  lose  a  particle  of  the  rich  possession  I  have 
gained." 

"  May  your  fears  ever  be  as  idle  !  " 

"  And  you  really  love  me  !  I  repeat  to  my- 
self ever  and  ever  that  one  phrase.  I  could 
once  have  borne  to  lose  you, — now,  it  would 
be  my  death.  I  despaired  of  ever  being  loved 
for  myself;  my  wealth  was  a  fatal  dower;  I 
suspected  avarice  in  every  vow,  and  saw  the 
base  world  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  every  heart 
that  offered  itself  at  my  shrine.  But  you, 
Ernest — you,  I  feel,  never  could  weigh  gold  in 
the  balance — and  you — if  you  love — love  me 
for  myself." 

"  And  I  shall  love  thee  more  with  every 
hour." 

"  I  know  not  that:  I  dread  that  you  will  love 
me  less  when  you  know  me  more.  I  fear  I 
shall  seem  to  you  exacting — I  am  jealous  al- 
ready.    I  was  jealous  even  of   Lady  T , 

when  I  saw  you  by  her  side  this  morning.  I 
would  have  your  every  look — monopolize  your 
every  word." 

This  confession  did  not  please  Maltravers, 
as  it  might  have  done  if  he  had  been  more 
deeply  in  love.  Jealousy,  in  a  woman  of  so 
vehement  and  imperious  a  nature,  was  indeed 
a  passion  to  be  dreaded. 

"  Do  not  say  so,  dear  Florence,"  said  he, 
with  a  very  grave  smile;  "  for  love  should  have 
implicit  confidence  as  its  bond  and  nature — 
and  jealousy  is  doubt,  and  doubt  is  the  death 
of  love." 

A  shade  passed  over  Florence's  too  expres- 
sive face,  and  she  sighed  heavily. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Maltravers,  raising 
his  eyes,  saw  the  form  of  Lumley  Ferrers  ap- 
proaching towards  them  from  the  opposite  end 
of   the   terrace:  at  the  same  instant,  a  dark 


102 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


cloud  crept  over  the  sky,  the  waters  seemed 
overcast,  and  the  breeze  fell:  a  chill  and 
strange  presentiment  of  evil  shot  across  Ern- 
est's heart,  and,  like  many  imaginative  persons, 
he  was  unconsciously  superstitious  as  to  pre- 
sentiments. 

"  We  are  no  longer  alone,"  said  he,  rising; 
"  your  cousin  has  doubtless  learned  our  en- 
gagement, and  comes  to  congratulate  your 
suitor." 

"  Tell  me,"  he  continued,  musingly,  as  they 
walked  on  to  meet  Ferrers,  "  are  you  very  par- 
tial to  Lumley  ?  what  think  you  of  his  char- 
acter ? — it  is  one  that  perplexes  me;  sometimes 
I  think  that  it  has  changed  since  we  parted  in 
Italy — sometimes  I  think  that  it  has  not 
changed,  but  ripened." 

"  Lumley  I  have  known  from  a  child,"  re- 
plied Florence,  "  and  see  much  to  admire  and 
like  in  him;  I  admire  his  boldness  and  candor; 
his  scorn  of  the  world's  littleness  and  false- 
hood; I  like  his  good  nature — his  gaiety — 
and  fancy  his  heart  better  than  it  may  seem  to 
the  superficial  observer." 

"Yet  he  appears  to  me  selfish  and  un- 
principled." 

"  It  is  from  a  fine  contempt  for  the  vices  and 
follies  of  men  that  he  has  contracted  the  habit 
of  consulting  his  own  resolute  will — and,  be- 
lieving everything  done  in  this  noisy  stage  of 
action  a  cheat,  he  has  accommodated  his  am- 
bition to  the  fashion.  Though  without  what 
is  termed  genius,  he  will  obtai;i  a  distinction 
and  power  that  few  men  of  genius  arrive  at." 

"  Because  genius  is  essentially  honest,"  said 
Maltravers.  "  However,  you  teach  me  to  look 
on  him  more  indulgently.  I  suspect  the  real 
frankness  of  men  whom  I  know  to  be  hypo- 
crites in  public  life — but,  perhaps,  I  judge  by 
too  harsh  a  standard." 

"Third  persons,"  said  Ferrers,  as  he  now 
joined  them,  "  are  seldom  unwelcome  in  the 
country;  and  I  flatter  myself  that  I  am  the 
exact  thing  wanting  to  complete  the  charm  of 
this  beautiful  landscape." 

"  You  are  ever  modest,  my  cousin." 

"It  is  my  weak  side,  I  know;  but  I  shall 
improve  with  years  and  wisdom.  What  say 
you,  Maltravers  ? "  and  Ferrers  passed  his 
arm  affectionately  through  Ernest's. 

"  By  the  by,  I  am  too  familiar — I  am  sunk 
in  the  world.  I  am  a  thing  to  be  sneered  at 
by  you  old  family  people.     I  am  next  heir  to 


a  bran-new  Brummagem  peerage.  Gad,  I  fee', 
brassy  already  ! " 

"  What,  is  Mr.  Templeton ?  " 

"Mr.  Templeton  no  more;  he  is  defunct, 
extinguished  —  out  of  the  ashes  rises  the 
phoenix  Lord  Vargrave.  We  had  thought  of  a 
more  sounding  title;  De  Courval  has  a  nobler 
sound, — but  my  good  uncle  has  nothing  of  the 
Norman  about  him;  so  we  dropped  the  De  as 
ridiculous — Vargrave  is  euphonious  and  ap- 
propriate. My  uncle  has  a  manor  of  that 
name — Baron  Vargrave  of  Vargrave." 

"  Ah — I  congratulate  you." 

"  Thank  you.  Lady  Vargrave  may  destroy 
all  my  hopes  yet.  But  nothing  venture,  noth- 
ing have.  My  uncle  will  be  gazetted  to-day. 
Poor  man,  he  will  be  delighted;  and  as  he 
certainly  owes  it  much  to  me,  he  will,  I  sup- 
pose, be  very  grateful — or  hate  me  ever  after- 
wards— that  is  a  toss  up.  A  benefit  conferred 
is  a  complete  hazard  between  the  thumb  of 
pride  and  the  fore-finger  of  affection.  Heads 
gratitude,  tails  hatred  !  There,  that's  a  simile 
in  the  fashion  of  the  old  writers;  'Well  of 
English  undefiled  ! '  humph  I  " 

"  So  that  beautiful  child  is  Mrs.  Temple- 
ton's,  or  rather  Lady  Vargrave's,  daughter  by 
a  former  marriage  ?  "  said  Maltravers,  abstract- 
edly. 

"  Yes,  it  is  astonishing  how  fond  he  is  of 
her.  Pretty  little  creature — confoundedly  art- 
ful, though.  By  the  waj^,  Maltravers,  we  had 
an  unexpectedly  stormy  night  the  last  of  the 
session  —  strong  division  —  ministers  hard 
pressed.  I  made  quite  a  good  speech  for 
them.  I  suppose,  however,  there  will  be  some 
change — the  moderates  will  be  taken  in.  Per- 
haps by  next  session  I  may  congratulate  you." 

Ferrers  looked  hard  at  Maltravers  while  he 
spoke.  But  Ernest  replied  coldly,  and  evasi- 
ively,  and  they  were  now  joined  by  a  party  of 
idlers,  lounging  along  the  lawn  in  expectation 
of  the  first  dinner  bell.  Cleveland  was  in  high 
consultation  about  the  proper  spot  for  a  new 
fountain;  and  he  summoned  Maltravers  to  give 
his  opinion  whether  it  should  spring  from  the 
centre  of  a  flower-bed  or  beneath  the  drooping 
shade  of  a  large  willow.  While  this  interesting 
discussion  was  going  on,  Ferrers  drew  aside 
his  cousin,  and  pressing  her  hand  affection- 
ately, said,  in  a  soft  and  tender  voice, 

"  My  dear  Florence — for  in  such  a  time 
permit  me  to  be  familiar — I  understand  froivi 


ERNEST    MALTR AVERS. 


163 


Lord  Saxingham,  whom  I  met  in  London,  that 
you  are  engaged  to  Maltravers.  Busy  as  I 
was,  I  could  not  rest  without  coming  hither  to 
offer  my  best  and  most  earnest  wish  for  your 
liappineas.  I  may  seem  a  careless,  I  am  con- 
sidered a  selfish,  person;  but  my  heart  is  warm 
to  those  who  really  interest  it.  And  never  did 
brother  offer  up  for  the  welfare  of  a  beloved 
sister  prayers  more  anxious  and  fond,  than 
those  that  poor  Lumley  Ferrers  breathes  for 
Florence  Lascelles." 

Florence  was  startled  and  melted — the  whole 
tone  and  manner  of  Lumley  were  so  different 
from  those  he  usually  assumed.  She  warmly 
returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked 
him  briefly,  but  with  emotion. 

"  No  one  is  great  and  good  enough  for  you, 
Florence,"  continued  Ferrers — "  no  one.  But 
I  admire  your  disinterested  and  generous 
choice.  Maltravers  and  I  have  not  been 
friends  lately;  but  I  respect  him,  as  all  must. 
He  has  noble  qualities,  and  he  has  great  am- 
bition. In  addition  to  the  deep  and  ardent 
love  that  you  cannot  fail  to  to  inspire,  he  will 
owe  you  eternal  gratitude.  In  this  aristocratic 
country,  your  hand  secures  to  him  the  most 
brilliant  fortunes,  the  most  proud  career.  His 
talents  will  now  be  measured  by  a  very  differ- 
ent standard.  His  merits  will  not  pass  through 
any  subordinate  grades,  but  leap  at  once  into 
the  highest  posts:  and,  as  he  is  even  more 
proud  than  ambitious,  how  he  must  bless  one 
who  raises  him,  without  effort,  into  positions 
of  eminent  command  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  does  not  think  of  such  wordly  ad- 
vantages— he,  the  too  pure,  the  too  refined  !  " 
said  Florence,  with  trembling  eagerness.  "He 
has  no  avarice,  nothing  mercenary  in  his 
nature  ! " 

"No:  there  you  indeed  do  him  justice, — 
there  is  not  a  particle  of  baseness  in  his  mind 
— I  did  not  say  there  was.  The  very  great- 
ness of  his  aspirations,  his  indignant  and 
scornful  pride,  lift  him  above  the  thought  of 
your  wealth,  your  rank, — except  as  means  to 
an  end." 

"  You  mistake  still,"  said  Florence,  faintly 
smiling,  but  turning  pale. 

"No,"  resumed  Ferrers,  not  appearing  to 
hear  her,  and  as  if  pursuing  his  own  thoughts. 
"I  always  predicted  that  Maltravers  would  make 
a  distinguished  connection  in  marriage.  He 
would  not  permit  himself  to  love  the  low-born 


or  the  poor.  His  affections  are  in  his  pride 
as  much  as  in  his  heart.  He  is  a  great  creat- 
ure— you  have  judged  wisely— and  may 
Heaven  bless  you  !  " 

With  these  words,  Ferrers  left  her,  and  Flor- 
ence, when  she  descended  to  dinner,  wore  a 
moody  and  clouded  brow.  Ferrers  stayed 
three  days  at  the  house.  He  was  peculiarly 
cordial  to  Maltravers,  and  spoke  little  to  Flor- 
ence. But  that  litte  never  failed  to  leave  upon 
her  mind  a  jealous  and  anxious  irritability,  to 
which  she  yielded  with  morbid  facility.  In 
order  to  perfectly  understand  Florence  Las- 
celles, it  must  be  remembered  that,  with  all  her 
dazzling  qualities,  she  was  not  what  is  called  a 
loveable  person.  A  certain  hardness  in  her 
disposition,  even  as  a  child,  had  prevented  her 
winding  into  the  hearts  of  those  around  her. 
Deprived  of  her  mother's  care — having  little 
or  no  intercourse  with  children  of  her  own 
age — brought  up  with  a  starched  governess, 
or  female  relations,  poor  and  proud, —  she 
never  had  contracted  the  softness  of  manner 
which  the  reciprocation  of  household  affections 
usually  produces.  With  a  haughty  conscious- 
ness of  her  powers,  her  birth,  her  position, 
advantages  always  dinned  into  her  ear,  she 
grew  up  solitary,  unsocial,  and  imperious. 
Her  father  was  rather  proud  than  fond  of  her 
— her  servants  did  not  love  her — she  had  too 
little  consideration  for  others,  too  little  bland- 
ness  and  suavity  to  be  loved  by  inferiors — she 
was  too  learned  and  too  stern  to  find  pleasure 
in  the  conversation  and  society  of  young  ladies 
of  her  own  ,age: — she  had  no  friends.  Now^ 
having  really  strong  affections,  she  felt  all 
this,  but  rather  with  resentment  than  grief — 
she  longed  to  be  loved,  but  did  not  seek  to  be 
so — she  felt  as  it  was  her  fate  not  to  be  loved 
— she  blamed  fate,  not  herself. 

When,  with  all  the  proud,  pure,  and  gener- 
ous candor  of  her  nature,  she  avowed  to  Ernest 
her  love  for  him,  she  naturally  expected  the 
most  ardent  and  passionate  return;  nothing 
less  could  content  her.  But  the  habit  and  ex- 
perience of  all  the  past  made  her  eternally 
suspicious  that  she  was  not  loved;  it  was  worm- 
wood and  poison  to  her  to  fancy  that  Maltrav- 
ers had  ever  considered  her  advantages  of 
fortune,  except  as  a  bar  to  his  pretensions  and 
a  check  on  his  passion.  It  was  the  same  thing 
to  her,  whether  it  was  the  pettiest  avarice  or 
the  loftiest  aspirations  that  actuated  her  lover, 


i64 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


if  he  had  been  actuated  in  his  heart  by  any 
sentiment  but  love;  and  Ferrers,  to  whose  eye 
her  foibles  were  familiar,  knew  well  how  to 
make  his  praises  of  Ernest  arouse  against 
Ernest  all  her  exacting  jealousies  and  irritable 
doubts. 

*'  It  is  strange,"  said  he,  one  evening,  as  he 
was  conversing  with  Florence,  "  how  complete 
and  triumphant  a  conquest  you  have  effected 
over  Ernest !  Will  you  believe  it  ? — he  con- 
ceived a  prejudice  against  you  when  he  first 
saw  you — he  even  said  that  you  were  made  to 
be  admired,  not  to  be  loved." 

"  Ha  !  did  he  so  ? — true,  true — he  has  al- 
most said  the  same  thing  to  me." 

"  But  now  how  he  must  love  you  !  Surely 
he  has  all  the  signs." 

"  And  what  are  the  signs,  most  learned 
Lumley  ?  "  said  Florence,  forcing  a  smile. 

"Why,  in  the  first  place,  you  will  doubtless 
observe  that  he  never  takes  his  eyes  from  you 
— with  whomsoever  he  converses,  whatever  his 
occupation,  those  eyes,  restless  and  pining, 
wander  around  for  one  glance  from  you." 

Florence  sighed,  and  looked  up — at  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  her  lover  was  convers- 
ing with  Cleveland,  and  his  eyes  never  wan- 
dered in  search  of  her. 

Ferrers  did  not  seem  to  notice  this  practical 
contradiction  of  his  theory,  but  went  on. 

"  Then  surely  his  whole  character  is  changed 
— that  brow  has  lost  its  calm  majesty,  that 
deep  voice  its  assured  and  tranquil  tone.  Has 
he  not  become  humble,  and  embarrassed,  and 
fretful,  living  only  on  your  smile,  reproachful 
if  you  look  upon  another — sorrowful  if  your 
Hp  be  less  smiling — a  thing  of  doubt,  and 
dread,  and  trembling  agitatiou — slave  to  a 
shadow — no  longer  lord  of  the  creation  ? — 
Such  is  love,  such  is  the  love  you  should  in- 
spire— such  is  the  love  Maltravers  is  capable 
of — for  I  have  seen  him  testify  it  to  another. 
But,"  added  Lumley,  quickly,  and  as  if  afraid 
he  had  said  too  much,  "  Lord  Saxingham  is 
looking  out  for  me  to  make  up  his  whist-table. 
I  go  to-morrow — when  shall  you  be  in  town  ?  " 

"  In  the  course  of  the  week,"  said  poor 
Florence  mechanically;  and  Lumley  walked 
away. 

In  another  moment,  Maltravers,  who  had 
been  more  observant  than  he  seemed,  joined 
her  where  she  sat. 

"  Dear  Florence,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "  you 


look  pale — I  fear  you  are  not  so  well  this  even 
mg. 

"No  affectation  of  an  interest  you  do  not 
feel,  pray,"  said  Florence,  with  a  scornful  lip 
but  swimming  eyes. 

"  Do  not  feel,  Florence  I  " 

"  It  is  the  first  time,  at  least,  that  you  have 
observed  whether  I  am  well  or  ill.  But  it  is 
no  matter." 

"  My  dear  Florence,— why  this  tone  ? — how 
have  I  offended  you  ?     Has  Lumley  said " 

"  Nothing  but  in  your  praise.  Oh,  be  not 
afraid,  you  are  one  of  those  of  whom  all  speak 
highly.  But  do  not  let  me  detain  you  here  ! 
let  us  join  our  host— you  have  left  him  alone." 

Lady  Florence  waited  for  no  reply,  nor  did 
Maltravers  attempt  to  detain  her.  He  looked 
pained,  and  when  she  turned  round  to  catch  a 
glance,  that  she  hoped  would  be  reproachful, 
he  was  gone.  Lady  Florence  became  nervous 
and  uneasy,  talked  she  knew,  not  what,  and 
laughed  hysterically.  She,  however,  deceived 
Cleveland  into  the  notion  that  she  was  in  the 
best  possible  spirits. 

By  and  by  she  rose,  and  passed  through  the 
suite  of  rooms:  her  heart  was  with  Maltravers — 
still  he  was  not  visible.  At  length  she  entered 
the  consen'atory,  and  there  she  observed  him, 
through  the  open  casements,  walking  slowly, 
and  with  folded  arms,  upon  the  moonlit  lawn. 
There  was  a  short  struggle  in  her  breast  be- 
tween woman's  pride  and  woman's  love;  the 
last  conquered,  and  she  joined  him. 

"  Forgive  me,  Ernest,"  she  said,  extending 
her  hand,  "  I  was  to  blame." 

Ernest  kissed  the  fair  hand,  and  answered 
touchingly, 

"Florence,  you  have  the  power  to  wound 
nie,  be  forbearing  in  its  exercise.  Heaven 
knows  that  I  would  not,  from  the  vain  desire 
of  showing  command  over  you,  inflict  upon 
you  a  single  pang.  Ah  !  do  not  fancy  that  in 
lovers'  quarrels  there  is  any  sweetness  that 
compensates  the  sting." 

"  I  told  you  I  was  too  exacting,  Ernest.  I 
told  you,  you  would  not  love  me  so  well,  when 
you  knew  me  better." 

"  And  were  a  false  prophetess.     Florence,     j 
every  day,  every  hour  I  love  you  more — better 
than  I  once  thought  I  could." 

"Then,  cried  the  wayward  girl,  anxious  to     ; 
pain  herself,  "  then  once  you  did  not  love  me  ? "     \ 

"  Florence,  I  will  be  candid — I  did  not.   You 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


165 


are  now  rapidly  obtaining  an  empire  over  me, 
greater  than  my  reason  should  allow.  But, 
beware:  if  my  love  be  really  a  possession  you 
desire, — beware  how  you  arm  my  reason 
against  you.  Florence,  I  am  a  proud  man. 
My  very  consciousness  of  the  more  splendid 
alliances  you  could  form  renders  me  less  hum- 
ble a  lover  than  you  might  find  in  others.  I 
were  not  worthy  of  you  if  I  were  not  tenacious 
of  my  self-respect." 

"  Ah,"  said  Florence,  to  whose  heart  these 
words  went  home,  "  forgive  me  but  this  once. 
I  shall  not  forgive  myself  so  soon." 

And  Ernest  drew  her  to  his  heart,  and  felt 
that  with  all  her  faults,  a  woman  whom  he 
feared  he  could  not  render  as  happy  as  her 
sacrifices  to  him  deserved,  was  becoming  very 
dear  to  him.  In  his  heart  he  knew  that  she  was 
not  formed  to  render /«>«  happy;  but  that  was 
not  his  thought,  his  fear.  Her  love  had  rooted 
■out  all  thought  of  self  from  that  generous 
breast.     His  only  anxiety  was  to  requite  her. 

They  walked  along  the  sward,  silent,  thought- 
ful and  Florence  melancholy,  yet  blessed. 

"That  serene  heaven,  those  lovely  stars," 
said  Maltravers  at  last,  "  do  they  not  preach 
to  us  the  Philosophy  of  Peace  ?  Do  they  not 
tell  us  how  much  of  calm  belongs  to  the 
dignity  of  man,  and  the  sublime  essence  of 
the  soul  ?  Petty  distractions  and  self-wrought 
cares  are  not  congenial  to  our  real  nature; 
their  very  disturbance  is  a  proof  that  they  are 
at  war  with  our  natures.  Ah,  sweet  Florence, 
let  us  learn  from  yon  skies,  over  which,  in  the 
faith  of  the  Poets  of  old,  brooded  the  wings 
•of  primaeval  and  serenest  Love,  what  earthly 
love  should  be, — a  thing  pure  as  light,  and 
peaceful  as  immortality,  watching  over  the 
stormy  world,  that  it  shall  survive,  and  high 
above  the  clouds  and  vapors  that  roll  below. 
Let  little  minds  introduce  into  the  holiest  of 
affections  all  the  bitterness  and  tumult  of 
common  life  !  Let  us  love  as  beings  who  will 
■one  day  be  inhabitants  of  the  stars  !  " 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  A  slippery  and  subtle  knave:  a  finder  out  of  occa- 
sions; that  has  an  eye  can  stamp  and  counterfeit  ad- 
vautages."— 0//if/'/c7. 

"  Knavery's  plain  face  is  never  seen  till  used." — Ibid. 

"You   see,  my   dear   Lumley,"    said  Lord 


Saxingham,  as  the  next  day  the  two  kinsmen 
were  on  their  way  to  London  in  the  Earl's 
chariot,  "  you  see,  that,  at  the  best,  this  mar- 
riage of  Flory's  is  a  cursed  bore." 

"  Why,  indeed,  it  has  its  disadvantages. 
Maltravers  is  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  genius; 
but  gentlemen  are  plentiful,  and  his  genius 
only  tells  against  us,  since  he  is  not  even  of 
our  politics." 

"  Exactly,  my  own  son-in-law  voting  against 
me!" 

"  \  practical,  reasonable  man  would  change: 
not  so  Maltravers, — and  all  the  estates,  and 
all  the  parliamentary  influence,  and  all  the 
wealth  that  ought  to  go  with  the  family  and 
with  the  party,  go  out  of  family  and  against 
the  party.  You  are  quite  right,  my  dear  lord 
— it  is  a  cursed  bore." 

"  And  she  might  have  had  the  Duke  of 
*  *  *  *,  a  man  with  a  rental  of  100,000/.  a-year. 
It  is  too  ridiculous. — This  Maltravers, — d — d 
disagreeable  fellow,  too,  eh  ?" 

"Stiff  and  stately — much  changed  for  the 
worse  of  late  years — grown  conceited  and  set 
up." 

"  Do  you  know,  Lumley,  I  would  rather,  of 
the  two,  have  had  you  for  my  son-in-law." 

Lumley  half  started.  "  Are  you  serious, 
my  lord  ?  I  have  not  Ernest's  fortune — I  can- 
not make  such  settlements:  my  lineage  too, 
at  least  on  my  mother's  side,  is  less  ancient." 
"  Oh,  as  to  settlements,  Flory's  fortune 
ought  to  be  settled  on  herself, — and  as  com- 
pared with  that  fortune,  what  could  Mr.  Mal- 
travers pretend  to  settle  ? — Neither  she  nor 
any  children  she  may  have  could  want  his 
4000/.  a-year  if  he  settled  it  all.  As  for  fam- 
ily, connections  tell  more  now-a-days  than 
Norman  decent, — and  for  the  rest,  you  are 
likely  to  be  old  Templeton's  heir,  to  have  a 
peerage — (a  large  sum  of  ready  money  is  always 
useful) — are  rising  in  the  house — one  of  our 
own  set — will  soon  be  in  office — and,  flattery 
apart,  a  devilish  good  fellow  into  the  bargain. 
Oh,  I  would  sooner  a  thousand  times  that 
Flory  had  taken  a  fancy  to  you  !  " 

Lumley  Ferrers  bowed  his  head  but  said 
nothing.  He  fell  into  a  revery,  and  Lord 
Saxingham  took  up  his  official  red  box,  became 
deep  in  its  contents,  and  forgot  all  about  the 
marriage  of  his  daughter. 

Lumley  pulled  the  cheek-string  as  the  car- 
ringe  entered  Pall   Mall,  and  desired  to  be  set 


i66 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


down  at  the  "Travellers."  While  Lord  Sax- 
ingham  was  borne  on  to  settle  the  affairs  of 
the  nation,  not  being  able  to  settle  those  of  his 
own  household,  Ferrers,  was  inquiring  the  ad- 
dress of  Castruccio  Cesarini.  The  porter 
was  unable  to  give  it  to  him.  The  Signor 
generally  called  every  day  for  his  notes,  but 
no  one  at  the  club  knew  where  he  lodged. 
Ferrers  wrote,  and  left  with  the  porter,  a  line 
requesting  Cesarini  to  call  on  him  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  bent  his  way  to  his  house  in 
Great  George  Street.  He  went  straight  into 
his  library,  unlocked  his  escritoire,  and  took 
out  that  letter  which,  the  reader  will  remem- 
ber, Maltravers  had  written  to  Cesarini,  and 
which  Lumley  had  secured;  carefully  did  he 
twice  read  over  this  effusion,  and  the  second 
time  his  face  brightened  and  his  eyes  sparkled. 
It  is  now  time  to  lay  this  letter  before  the 
reader;  it  ran  thus; 

"  Private  and  confidential." 
"My  deak  Cesarini, 

"  The  assurance  of  your  friendly  feelings  is  most 
welcome  to  me.  In  much  of  what  you  say  of  marriage, 
1  am  inclined,  though  with  reluctance,  to  agree.  As  to 
Lady  Florence  herself,  few  persons  are  more  calcu- 
lated to  dazzle,  perhaps  to  fascinate.  But  is  she  a 
person  to  make  a  home  happy — to  sympathize  where 
she  has  been  accustomed  to  command — to  compre- 
hend, and  to  yield  to  the  waywardness  and  irritability 
common  to  our  fanciful  and  morbid  race — to  content 
herself  with  the  homage  of  a  single  heart  ?  I  do  not 
know  her  enough  to  decide  the  question;  but  I  know 
her  enough  to  feel  deep  solicitude  and  anxiety  for  your 
happiness,  if  centered  in  a  nature  so  imperious  and  so 
vain.  But  you  will  remind  me  of  her  fortune,  her 
station.  Yau  will  say  that  such  are  the  sources  from 
which,  to  am  ambitious  mind,  happiness  may  well  be 
drawn.  Alas!  I  fear  that  the  man  who  marries  Lady 
Florence  must  indeed  confine  his  dreams  of  felicity  to 
those  harsh  and  disappointing  realities.  But,  Cesarini, 
these  are  not  the  words  which,  were  we  more  intimate, 
I  would  address  to  you.  I  doubt  the  reality  of  those 
affections  which  you  ascribe  to  her,  and  suppose  de- 
voted to  yourself.  She  is  evidently  fond  of  conquest. 
She  sports  with  the  victims  she  makes.  Her  vanity 
dupes  others,— perhaps  to  be  duped  itself  at  last.  I 
will  not  say  more  to  you,        "  Yours, 

"  E.  Mai.traveks." 

"  Hurrah  !  "  cried  Ferrers,  as  he  threw  down 
the  letter,  and  rubbed  his  hands  with  delight, 
"  I  little  thought,  when  I  schemed  for  this 
letter,  that  chance  would  make  it  inestimably 
serviceable.  There  is  less  to  alter  than  I 
thought  for — the  clumsiest  botcher  in  the 
world  could  manage  it.  Let  me  look  again. — 
Hem,  hem — the  first  phrase  to  alter  is  this: — 
'  I  know  her  enough  to  fell  deep  solicitude  and 


anxiety  for  your  happiness,  il  centered  in  a 
nature  so  imperious  and  vain  ' — scratch  out 
'  your,'  and  put  '  my.'  All  the  rest  good, 
good — till  we  come  to  '  affections  which  you 
ascribe  to  her,  and  suppose  devoted  to  your- 
self— for  'j'^arself '  write  '  ;//j'self ' — the  rest 
will  do.  Now,  then,  the  date — we  must  change 
it  to  the  present  month,  and  the  work  is  done. 
I  wish  that  Italian  blockhead  would  come. 
If  I  can  but  once  make  an  irreparable  breach 
between  her  and  Maltravers,  I  think  that  I 
cannot  fail  securing  his  place;  her  pique,  her 
resentment  will  hurry  her  into  taking  the  first 
who  offers,  by  way  of  revenge.  And,  by 
Jupiter,  even  if  I  fail,  (which  I  am  sure  I  shall 
not),  it  will  be  something  to  keep  Flory  as 
lady  paramount  for  a  duke  of  our  own  party. 
I  shall  gain  immensely  by  such  a  connection; 
but  I  lose  everything,  and  gain  nothing  by  her 
marrying  Maltravers — of  opposite  politics  too 
— whom  I  begin  to  hate  like  poison,  But  no 
duke  shall  have  her — Florence  Ferrers,  the 
only  alliteration  I  ever  liked — yet  it  would 
sound  rough  in  poetry. 

Lumley  then  deliberately  drew  towards  him 
his  inkstand — "  No  pen-knife  !— Ah,  true,  I 
never  mend  pens — sad  waste — must  send  out 
for  one."  He  rang  the  bell,  ordered  a  pen- 
knife to  be  purchased,  and  the  servant  was 
still  out  when  a  knock  at  the  door  was  heard, 
and  in  a  minute  more  Cesarini  entered. 

'•  Ah,"  said  Lumley,  assuming  a  melancholy 
air,  "  1  am  glad  that  you  are  arrived;  you  will 
excuse  my  having  written  to  you  so  uncere- 
moniously. You  received  my  note— sit  down, 
pray — and  how  are  you  ? — you  look  delicate 
— can  I  offer  you  anything  ?  " 

"  Wine,"  said  Cesarini,  laconically,  "wine; 
your  climate  requires  wine." 

Here  the  servant  entered  with  the  penknife, 
and  was  ordered  to  bring  wine  and  sandwiches. 
Lumley  then  conversed  lightly  on  different 
matters  till  the  wine  appeared;  he  was  rather 
surprised  to  observe  Cesarini  pour  out  and 
drink  off  glass  upon  glass,  with  an  evident 
craving  for  the  excitement.  When  he  had 
satisfied  himself,  he  turned  his  dark  e3'es  to 
Ferrers,  and  said,  "  You  have  news  to  com- 
municate, I  see  it  in  your  brow.  I  am  now 
ready  to  hear  all." 

"  Well,  then,  listen  to  me;  you  were  right  in 
your  suspicions;  jealousy  is  ever  a  true  divi- 
ner.    I  make  no  doubt  Othello  was  quite  right. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVEliS. 


\ifj 


;uid  Desdemona  was  no  better  than  she  should 
be.  Maltravers  has  proposed  to  my  cousin, 
and  been  accepted." 

Cesarini's  complexion  grew  perfectly  ghastly; 
his  whole  frame  shook  like  a  leaf — for  a  mo- 
ment he  seemed  paralyzed. 

"Curse  him  !  "  said  he,  at  last,  drawing  a 
deep  breath,  and  betwixt  his  grinded  teeth — 
•'  curse  him,  from  the  depths  of  the  heart  he 
has  broken  ? " 

"And  after  such  a  letter  to  you  ! — do  you 
remember  it  ? — here  it  is.  He  warns  you 
against  Lady  Florence,  and  then  secures  her 
to  himself — is  this  treachery?" 

"  Treachery,  black  as  hell  !  I  am  an  Italian," 
cried  Cesarini,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  with  all 
the  passions  of  his  climate  in  his  face,  "  and  I 
will  be  avenged  !  Bankrupt  in  fortune,  ruined 
in  hopes,  blasted  in  heart — I  have  still  the 
godlike  consolation  of  the  desperate — I  have 
revenge."  '  > 

"  Will  you  call  him  out  ?  "  asked  Luniley, 
musingly  and  calmly.  "  Are  you  a  dead  shot  ? 
If  so,  it  is  worth  thinking  about;  if  not,  it  is  a 
mockery — your  shot  misses,  his  goes  in  the 
air,  seconds  interpose,  and  you  both  walk 
away  devilish  glad  to  get  off  so  well.  Duels 
are  humbug." 

"  Mr.  Ferrers,"  said  Cesarini,  fiercely,  "  this 
is  not  a  matter  of  jest." 

"  I  do  not  make  it  a  jest;  and  what  is  more, 
Cesarini,"  said  Ferrers,  with  a  concentrated  , 
energy  far  more  commanding  than  the  Italian's  ! 
fury,  "  what  is  more,  I  so  detest  Maltravers,  j 
I  am  so  stung  by  his  cold  superiority,  so  wroth 
with  his  success,  so  loathe  the  thought  of  his } 
alliance,  that  I  would  cut  off  this  hand  to  frus- , 
trate  that  marriage  !  I  do  not  jest,  man;  butj 
I  have  method  and  sense  in  my  hatred — it  is  \ 
our  English  way." 

Cesarini  stared  at  the  speaker  gloomily, 
clenched  his  hand,  muttered  and  strode  rapidly 
to  and  fro  the  room. 

"You  would  be  avenged,  so  would  I.  Now 
what  shall  be  the  means  ? "  said  Ferrers. 

"I  will  stab  him  to  the  heart — I  will — " 

"  Cease  these  tragic  flights.  Nay  frown  and 
stamp  not;  but  sit  down  and  be  reasonable,  or 
leave  me  and  act  for  yourself." 

"  Sir,"  said  Cesarini,  with  an  eye  that  might 
have  alarmed  a  man  less  resolute  than  Fer- 
rers, "  have  a  care  how  you  presume  on  my 
distress." 


"You  are  in  distress,  and  you  refuse  relief; 
you  are  bankrupt  in  fortune,  and  you  rave 
like  a  poet,  when  you  should  be  devising  and 
plotting  for  the  attainment  of  boundless 
wealth.  Revenge  and  ambition  may  both  be 
yours;  but  they  are  prizes  never  won  but  by  a 
cautious  foot  as  well  as  a  bold  hand." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  and  what 
but  his  life  would  content  me  !  " 

"  Take  his  life  if  you  can — I  have  no  objec- 
tion— go  and  take  it;  only  just  observe  this, 
that  if  you  miss  your  aim,  or  he,  being  the 
stronger  man,  strike  you  down,  you  will  be 
locked  up  in  a  madhouse  for  the  next  year  or 
two,  at  least;  and  that  is  not  the  place  in 
which  1  should  like  to  pass  the  winter — but  as 
you  will." 

"  You  ! — you  ! — But  what  are  you  to  me  ? 
I  will  go.     Good  day,  sir." 

"  Stay  a  moment,"  said  Ferrers,  when  he 
saw  Cesarini  about  to  leave  the  room;  "stay, 
take  this  chair,  and  listen  to  me — you  had 
better " 

Cesarini  hesitated,  and  then,  as  it  were, 
mechanically  obeyed. 

"  Read  that  letter  which  Maltravers  wrote 
to  you.  You  have  finished — well — now  ob- 
serve— if  Florence  sees  that  letter,  she  will  not, 
and  cannot  marry  the  man  who  wrote  it — you 
must  show  it  to  her." 

"  Ah,  my  guardian  angel,  I  see  it  all  !  Yes, 
there  are  words  in  this  letter  no  woman  so 
proud  could  ever  pardon.  Give  it  me  again,  I 
will  go  at  once." 

"  Pshaw  !  You  are  too  quick;  you  have  not 
remarked  that  this  letter  was  written  five 
months  ago,  before  Maltravers  knew  much  of 
Lady  Florence.  He  himself  has  confessed  to 
her  that  he  did  not  then  love  her— so  much 
the  more  would  she  value  the  conquest  she 
has  now  achieved.  Florence  would  smile  at 
this  letter  and  say,  '  Ah,  he  judges  me  dif- 
ferently now.'  " 

"  Are  you  seeking  to  madden  me  ?  What 
do  you  mean  ?  Did  you  not  just  now  say 
that,  did  she  see  that  letter,  she  would  never 
marry  the  writer  ?" 

"Ye.s,  yes,  but  the  letter  must  be  altered. 
We  must  erase  the  date,  we  must  date  it  from 
to-day; — to-day — Maltravers  returns  to-day. 
We  must  suppose  it  written,  not  in  answer  to 
a  letter  from  you,  demanding  his  advice  and 
opinion  as  X.o  ymr  marriage  with   Lady  Flor- 


1 68 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


ence,  but  in  answer  to  a  letter  of  yours  in  which 
you  congratulate  him  on  his  approaching  mar- 
riage to  her.  By  the  substitution  of  one  pro- 
noun for  another,  in  two  places,  the  letter  will 
read  as  well  one  way  as  another.  Read  it 
again,  and  see;  or  stop,  I  will  be  the  lec- 
turer." 

Here  Ferrers  read  over  the  letter,  which  by 
the  trifling  substitutions  he  proposed,  might 
indeed  hear  the  character  he  wished  to  give 
it." 

"  Does  the  light  break  in  upon  you  now  ?  " 
said  Ferrers.  "  Are  you  prepared  to  go 
through  a  part  that  requires  subtlety,  delicacy, 
address,  and,  above  all,  self-control  ? — quali- 
ties that  are  the  common  attributes  of  your 
countrymen." 

"  I  will  do  all,  fear  me  not.  It  may  be  vil- 
lanous,  it  may  be  base;  but  I  care  not;  Mal- 
travers  shall  not  rival,  master,  eclipse  me  in 
all  things." 

"  Where  are  you  lodging  ? " 

"Where  ? — out  of  a  town  a  little  way." 

"  Take  up  your  home  with  me  for  a  few 
days.  I  cannot  trust  you  out  of  my  sight. 
Send  for  your  luggage;  I  have  a  room  at  your 
service." 

Cesarini  at  first  refused;  but  a  man  who  re- 
solves on  a  crime,  feels  the  awe  of  solitude, 
and  the  necessity  of  a  companion.  He  went 
himself  to  bring  his  effects,  and  promised  to 
return  to  dinner. 

"I  must  own,"  said  Lumley,  resettling  him- 
self at  his  desk,  "  this  is  the  dirtiest  trick  that 
ever  I  played;  but  the  glorious  end  sanctifies 
the  paltry  means.  After  all,  it  is  the  mere 
prejudice  of  gentlemanlike  education." 

A  very  few  seconds,  and  with  the  aid  of  the 
knife  to  erase,  and  the  pen  to  re- write,  Ferrers 
completed  his  task,  with  the  exception  of  the 
change  of  date,  which,  on  second  thoughts,  he 
reserved  as  a  matter  to  be  regulated  by  cir- 
cumstances. 

"  I  think  I  have  hit  off  his  nis  and  y's 
tolerably,"  said  he,  "considering  I  was  not 
brought  up  to  this  sort  of  thing.  But  the 
alteration  would  be  visible  on  close  inspection. 
Cesarini  must  read  the  letter  to  her,  then  if 
she  glances  over  it  herself  it  will  be  with  be- 
wildered eyes  and  a  dizzy  brain.  Above  all, 
he  must  not  leave  it  with  her,  and  must  bind 
her  to  the  closest  secrecy.  She  is  honorable, 
and  will  keep  her  word;  and  so  now  that  mat- 


ter is  settled.  I  have  just  time  before  dinner 
to  canter  down  to  my  uncle's  and  wish  the  old 
fellow  joy." 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  And  then  my  Lord  has  much  that  he  would  state 
All  good  to  you."— Crabbe:   Tales  of  the  Heart. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  sitting  alone  in  his 
library,  with  his  account-books  before  him. 
Carefully  did  he  cast  up  the  various  sums, 
which,  invested  in  various  speculations,  swelled 
his  income.  The  result  seemed  satisfactory 
— and  the  rich  man  threw  down  his  pen  with 
an  air  of  triumph.  "I  will  invest  120,000/.  in 
land — only  120,000/.  I  will  not  be  tempted  to 
sink  more.  I  will  have  a  fine  house — a  house 
fitting  for  a  nobleman — a  fine  old  Elizabethan 
house — a  house  of  historical  interest.  I  must 
have  woods  and  lakes — and  a  deer-park,  above 
all.  Deer  are  very  gentlemanlike  things — 
very.  DeClifford's  place  is  to  be  sold  I  know; 
they  ask  too  much  for  it,  but  ready  money  is 
tempting.  I  can  bargain — bargain,  I  am  a 
good  hand  at  a  bargain.  Should  I  be  now 
Lord  Baron  Vargrave,  if  I  had  always  given 
people  what  they  asked  ?  I  will  double  my 
subscriptions  to  the  Bible  society,  and  the  Phil- 
anthropic, and  the  building  of  new  churches. 
The  world  shall   not   say  Richard  Templeton 

does  not  deserve  his  greatness.     I  will 

Come  in.     Who  's  there — come  in." 

The  door  gently  opened — the  meek  face  of 
the  new  peeress  appeared.  "  I  disturb  you — 
I  beg  your  pardon — I " 

"  Come  in,  my  dear,  come  in — I  want  to 
talk  to  you — I  want  to  talk  to  your  ladyship — 
sit  down,  pray." 

Lady  Vargrave  obeyed. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  peer,  crossing  his  legs 
and  caressing  his  left  foot  with  both  hands, 
while  he  see-sawed  his  stately  person  to  and 
fro  in  his  choir — "  you  see  that  the  honor  con- 
ferred upon  me  will   make  a  great  change  in 

our  mode  of  life,  Mrs.  Temple ,  I  mean 

Lady  Vargrave.  This  villa  is  all  very  well — 
my  country-house  is  not  amiss  for  a  country- 
gentleman — but  now,  we  must  support  our 
rank.  The  landed  estate  I  already  possess 
will  go  with  the  title — go  to  Lumley — I  shall 
buy  another  at  my  own  disposal,  one  that  I 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


169 


can  feel  thoroughly  mine — it  shall  be  a  splendid 
place,  Lady  Vargave." 

"  This  place  is  splendid  to  me,"  said  Lady 
Vargrave,  timidly. 

"  This  place  !  nonsense — you  must  learn 
loftier  ideas,  Lady  Vargrave;  you  are  young, 
you  can  easily  contract  new  habits,  more  easily 
perhaps  than  myself — you  are  naturally  lady- 
like, though  I  say  it— you  have  good  taste, 
you  don't  talk  much,  you  don't  show  your 
ignorance — quite  right.  You  must  be  pre- 
sented at  court.  Lady  Vargrave — we  must 
give  great  dinners.  Lady  Vargrave.  Balls  are 
sinful,  so  is  the  opera,  at  least  I  fear  so — yet 
an  opera-box  would  be  a  proper  appendage  to 
your  rank.  Lady  Vargrave." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Templeton " 

"Lord  Vargrave,  if  your  ladyship  pleases." 

"  I  beg  pardon.  May  you  live  long  to  en- 
joy your  honors;  but  I,  my  dear  Lord — I  am 
not  fit  to  share  them:  it  is  only  in  our  quiet 
life  that  I  can  forget  what — what  I  was.  You 
terrify  me,  when  you  talk  of  court — of " 

"  Stuff,  Lady  Vargrave  1  stuff;  we  accustom 
ourselves  to  these  things.  Do  I  look  like  a 
man  who  has  stood  behind  a  counter? — rank 
is  a  glove  that  stretches  to  the  hand  that  wears 
it.  And  the  child,  dear  child, — dear  Evelyn, 
she  shall  be  the  admiration  of  London,  the 
beauty,  the  heiress,  the — oh,  she  will  do  me 
honor  !  " 

"  She  will,  she  will!"  said  Lady  Vargrave, 
and  the  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  softened. 

"  No  mother  ever  deserved  more  from  a 
child  than  you  from  Evelyn." 

"  I  would  hope  I  have  done  my  duty,"  said 
Lady  Vargrave,  drying  her  tears. 

"  Papa,  papa  ! "  cried  an  impatient  voice, 
tapping  at  the  window,  "  come  and  play,  papa 
— come  and  play  at  ball,  papa  I  " 

And  there  by  the  window  stood  that  beauti- 
ful child,  glowing  with  health  and  mirth — her 
light  hair  tossed  from  her  forehead,  her  sweet 
mouth  dimpled  with  smiles. 

"  My  darling,  go  on  the  lawn, — don't  over- 
exert yourself — you  have  not  quite  recovered 
that  horrid  sprain— I  will  join  you  immediately 
— bless  you  !  " 

"  Don't  be  long,  papa — nobody  plays  so 
nicely  as  you  do;  "  and,  nodding  and  laughing 
from  very  glee,  away  scampered  the  young 
fairy. 


Lord  Vargrave  turned  to  his  wife. 

"  What  think  you  of  my  nephew — of  Lum- 
ley  ?  "  said  he,  abruptly. 

"  He  seems  all  that  is  amiable,  frank,  and 
kind." 

Lord  Vargrave' s  brow  became  thoughtful. 
"  I  think  so  too,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause; 
"  and  I  hope  you  will  approve  of  what  I  mean 
to  do.  You  see,  Lumley  was  brought  up  to 
regard  himself  as  my  heir — I  owe  something 
to  him,  beyond  the  poor  estate  which  goes 
with,  but  never  can  adequately  support,  my 
title.  Family  honors,  hereditary  rank,  must 
be  properly  regarded.  But  that  dear  girl — I 
shall  leave  her  the  bulk  of  my  fortune.  Could 
we  not  unite  the  fortune  and  the  title  ?  It 
would  secure  the  rank  to  her,  it  would  incor- 
porate all  my  desires — all  my  duties." 

"  But,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  with  evident 
surprise,  "  if  I  understand  you  rightly  the  dis- 
parity of  years " 

"  And  what  then,  what  then.  Lady  Vargrave  ? 
Is  there  no  disparity  of  years  between  us — a 
greater  disparity  than  between  Lumley  and 
that  tall  girl  ?  Lumley  is  a  mere  youth,  a 
youth  still,  five-and-thirty — he  will  be  little 
more  than  forty  when  they  marry;  I  was  be- 
tween fifty  and  sixty  when  I  married  you,  I,ady 
Vargrave.  I  don't  like  boy  and  girl  marriages: 
a  man  should  be  older  than  his  wife.  But  you 
are  so  romantic,  Lady  Vargrave.  Besides, 
Lumley  is  so  gay  and  good-looking,  and  wears 
so  well.  He  has  been  very  nearly  forming 
another  attachment;  but  that,  I  trust,  is  out 
of  his  head  now.  They  must  like  each  other. 
You  will  not  gainsay  me,  Lady  Vargrave,  and 
if  anything  happens  to  me — life  is  uncertain." 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  so — my  friend,  my  bene- 
factor !  " 

"  Why,  indeed,"  resumed  his  lordship, 
mildly,  "thank  Heaven,  I  am  very  well — 
feel  younger  than  ever  I  did — but  still,  life 
is  uncertain — and  if  you  survive  me,  you  will 
not  throw  obstacles  in  the  way  of  my  grand 
scheme." 

"  I — no,  no — of  course  you  have  the  right 
in  all  things  over  her  destiny;  but  so  young — 
so  soft-hearted,  if  she  should  love  one  of  her 
own  years " 

"  Love  ! — pooh  !  love  does  not  come  into 
girls'  heads  unless  it  is  put  there. — We  will 
bring  her  up  to  love  Lumley.  I  have  another 
reason — a  cogent  one — our  secret ! — to  him  it 


/70 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


can  be  confided — it  should  not  go  out  of  our 
family.  Even  in  my  grave  1  could  not  rest  if 
a  slur  were  cast  on  my  respectability — my 
name." 

Lord  Vargrave  spoke  solemnly  and  warmly; 
then  muttering  to  himself,  "Yes,  it  is  for  the 
best,"  he  took  up  his  hat  and  quitted  the  room. 
He  joined  his  stepchild  on  the  lawn.  He 
romped  with  her — he  played  with  her — that 
stiff,  stately  man  !— he  laughed  louder  th;in 
she  did,  and  ran  almost  as  fast.  And  when 
she  was  fatigued  and  breathless,  he  made  her 
sit  down  beside  him,  in  a  little  summerhouse, 
and,  fondly  stroking  down  her  disordered 
tresses,  said,  "You  tire  me  out,  child;  I  am 
growing  too  old  to  play  with  you.  Lumley 
must  supply  my  place.      You  love  Lumley?" 

"  Oh,  dearly,  he  is  so  good-humored,  so 
kind;  he  has  given  me  such  a  beautiful  doll, 
with  such  eyes  !  " 

"You  shall  be  his  little  wife — you  would 
like  to  be  his  little  wife  ? " 

"  Wife  !  why,  poor  mamma  is  a  wife,  and 
she  is  not  so  happy  as  I  am." 

"  Your  mamma  has  bad  health,  my  dear," 
said  Vargrave,  a  little  discomposed.  "  But  it 
is  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  wife  and  have  a  carriage 
of  your  own,  and  a  fine  house,  and  jewels,  and 
plenty  of  money,  and  be  your  own  mistress; 
and  Lumley  will  love  you  dearly." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  should  like  all  that." 

"And  you  will  have  a  protector,  child,  when 
I  am  no  more  !  " 

The  tone,  rather  than  the  words,  of  her  step- 
father struck  a  damp  into  that  childish  heart. 
Evelyn  lifted  her  eyes,  gazed  at  him  earnestly, 
and  then,  throwing  her  arms  around  him,  burst 
into  tears. 

Lord  Vargrave  wiped  his  own  eyes  and 
covered  her  with  kisses. 

"  Yes,  you  shall  be  Lumley's  wife,  his 
honored  wife,  heiress  to  my  rank  as  to  my 
fortunes." 

"I  will  do  all  that  papa  wishes." 

"  You  will  be  Lady  Vargrave  then,  and 
Lumley  will  be  your  husband,"  said  the  step- 
father, impressively.  "  Think  over  what  I 
have  said.  Now  let  us  join  mamma.  But,  as 
I  live,  here  is  Lumley  himself.  However,  it  is 
not  yet  the  time  to  sound  him:— I  hope  that 
he  has  no  chance  with  that  Lady  Florence." 


CHAPTER   VL 

•         *         *         •■  Kair  encounter 
Of  two  most  rare  affections." — Tempest. 

Meanwhile  the  Betrothed  were  on  their 
road  to  London.  The  balmy  and  serene 
beauty  of  the  day  had  induced  them  to  per- 
form the  short  journey  on  horseback.  It  is 
somewhere  said,  that  lovers  are  never  so  hand- 
some as  in  each  other's  company,  and  neither 
Florence  nor  Ernest  ever  looked  so  well  as  on 
horseback.  There  was  something  in  the  state- 
liness  and  the  grace  of  both,  something  even 
in  the  aquiline  outline  of  their  features,  and 
the  haughty  bend  of  the  neck,  that  made  a 
sort  of  likeness  between  these  young  persons, 
although  there  was  no  comparison  as  to  their 
relative  degrees  of  personal  advantage:  the 
beauty  of  Florence  defied  all  comparison. 
And  as  they  rode  from  Cleveland's  porch, 
where  the  other  guests  yet  lingering  were  as- 
sembled to  give  the  farewell-greeting,  there 
was  a  general  conviction  of  the  happiness  de- 
stined to  the  afifianced  ones, — a  general  im- 
pression that  both  in  mind  and  person  they 
were  eminently  suited  to  each  other.  Their 
position  was  that  which  is  ever  interesting, 
even  in  more  ordinary  people,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment they  were  absolutely  popular  with  all 
who  gazed  on  them;  and  when  the  good  old 
Cleveland  turned  away  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and  murmured  "Bless  them  !"  there  was  not 
one  of  the  party  who  would  have  hesitated  to 
join  in  the  prayer. 

Florence  felt  a  nameless  dejection  as  she 
quitted  a  spot  so  consecrated  by  grateful  rec- 
ollections. 

"When  shall  we  be  again  so  happy?"  said 
she,  softly,  as  she  turned  back  to  gaze  upon 
the  landscape,  which,  gay  with  flowers  and 
shrubs,  and  the  bright  English  verdure,  smiled 
behind  them  like  a  garden. 

"  We  will  try  and  make  my  old  hall,  and  its 
gloomy  shades,  remind  us  of  these  fairer 
scenes,  my  Florence." 

"  Ah  !  describe  to  me  the  character  of  your 
place.  We  shall  live  there  principally,  shall 
we  not  ?  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it  much  better 
than  Marsden  Court,  which  is  the  name  of 
that  huge  pile  of  arches  and  columns  in  Van- 
brugh's  heaviest  taste,  which  will  soon  be 
yours." 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


>7i 


"  I  tear  we  shall  never  dispose  of  all  your 
mighty  retinue,  grooms  of  the  chamber,  and 
Patagonian  footmen,  and  Heaven  knows 
who  besides,  in  the  holes  and  corners  of  Bur- 
leigh," said  Ernest,  smiling.  And  then  he 
went  on  to  describe  the  old  place  with  some- 
thing of  a  well-born  country  gentleman's  not 
displeasing  pride;  and  Florence  listened,  and 
they  planned,  and  altered,  and  added,  and  im- 
proved, and  laid  out  a  map  for  the  future. 
From  that  topic  they  turned  to  another, 
equally  interesting  to  Florence.  The  work  in 
which  Maltravers  had  been  engaged  was  com- 
pleted, was  in  the  hands  of  the  printer,  and 
Florence  amused  herself  with  conjectures  as 
to  the  criticisms  it  would  provoke.  She  was 
certain  that  all  that  had  most  pleased  her 
would  be  caviare  to  the  multitude.  She  never 
would  believe  that  any  one  could  understand 
Maltravers  but  herself.  Thus  time  flew  on 
till  they  passed  that  part  of  the  road  in  which 
had  occurred  Ernest's  adventure  with  Mrs. 
Templeton's  daughter.  Maltravers  paused 
abruptly  in  the  midst  of  his  glowing  periods, 
as  the  spot  awakened  its  associations  and  re- 
miniscences, and  looked  round  anxiously  and 
inquiringly.  But  the  fair  apparition  was  not 
again  visible;  and  whatever  impression  the 
place  produced,  it  gradually  died  away  as  they 
entered  the  suburbs  of  the  great  metropolis. 
Two  other  gentleman  and  a  young  lady  of 
thirty-three  (I  had  almost  forgotten  them) 
were  of  the  party,  but  they  had  the  tact  to 
linger  a  little  behind  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  road,  and  the  young  lady,  who  was  a  wit 
and  a  flirt,  found  gossip  and  sentiment  for 
both  the  cavaliers. 

'•  Will  you  come  to  us  this  evening?  "  asked 
Florence,  timidly. 

"  I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able.  I  have  several 
matters  to  arrange  before  I  leave  town  for 
Burleigh,  which  I  must  do  next  week.  Three 
months,  dearest  Florence,  will  scarcely  suffice 
to  make  Burleigh  put  on  its  best  looks  to 
greet  its  new  mistress;  and  I  have  already 
appointed  the  great  modern  magicians  of  drap- 
eries and  or-molu  to  consult  how  we  may  make 
Aladdin's  palace  fit  for  the  reception  of  the 
new  princess.  Lawyers,  too!— in  short,  I  ex- 
pect to  be  fully  occupied.  But  to-morrow,  at 
three  I  shall  be  with  you,  and  we  can  ride  out, 
if  the  day  be  fine." 

"  Surely,"  said    Florence,  "  yonder  is  Signor 


Cesarini — how   haggard    and   altered    he   ap- 
pears ! " 

Maltravers,  turning  his  eyes  towards  the 
spot  to  which  Florence  pointed,  saw  Cesarini 
emerging  from  a  lane,  with  a  porter  behind 
him  carrying  some  books  and  a  trunk.  The 
Italian,  who  was  talking  and  gesticulating  as 
to  himself,  did  not  perceive  them. 

"  Poor  Castruccio  !  he  seems  leaving  his 
lodging,"  thought  Maltravers.  "  By  this  time 
I  fear  he  will  have  spent  the  last  sum  I  con- 
veyed to  him — I  must  remember  to  find  him 
out  and  replenish  his  stores. — Do  not  forget," 
said  he  aloud,  "  to  see  Cesarini,  and  urge  him 
to  accept  the  appointment  we  spoke  of." 

"  I  will  not  forget  it — I  will  see  him  to-mor- 
row before  we  meet.  Yet  it  is  a  painful  task, 
Ernest." 

"  I  allow  it.  Alas  !  Florence,  you  owe  him 
some  reparation.  He  undoubtedly  once  con- 
ceived himself  entitled  to  form  hopes,  the 
vanity  of  which  his  ignorance  of  our  English 
world  and  his  foreign  birth  prevented  him  from 
suspecting." 

"  Believe  me,  I  did  not  give  him  the  right 
to  form  such  expectations." 

"  But  you  did  not  sufficiently  discourage 
them.  Ah,  Florence,  never  underrate  the 
pangs  of  hope  crushed,  of  love  contemned." 

"  Dreadful  !  "  said  Florence,  almost  shud- 
dering. "  It  is  strange,  but  my  conscience 
never  so  smote  me  before.  It  is  since  I  love, 
that  I  feel,  for  the  first  time,  how  guilty  a 
creature  is " 

"  k.  coquette  ! "  interrupted  Maltravers. 
"Well,  let  us  think  of  the  past  no  more;  but 
if  we  can  restore  a  gifted  man,  whose  youth 
promised  much,  to  an  honorable  independence 
and  a  healthful  mind,  let  us  do  so.  Me,  Cesa 
rini  never  can  forgive;  he  will  think  I  have 
robbed  him  of  you.  But  we  men — the  woman 
we  have  once  loved,  even  after  she  rejects  us, 
ever  has  some  power  over  us,  and  your  elo- 
quence, which  has  so  often  aroused  me.  can- 
not fail  to  impress  a  nature  yet  more  excitable." 

Maltravers,  on  quitting  Florence  at  her  own 
door,  went  home,  summoned  his  favorite  ser- 
vant, gave  him  Cesarini's  address  at  Chelsea, 
bade  him  find  out  where  he  was,  if  he  had  left 
his  lodgings;  and  leave  at  his  present  home, 
(or  failing  its  discovery)  at  the  "  Travellers," 
a  cover,  which  he  made  his  servant  address, 
enclosing   a   bank-note   of  some  amount.     If 


t^2 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


the  reader  wonder  why  Maltravers  thus  con- 
stituted himself  the  unknown  benefactor  of  the 
Itahan,  I  must  tell  him  that  he  does  not  un- 
derstand Maltravers.  Cesarini  was  not  the 
only  man  of  letters  whose  faults  he  pitied, 
whose  wants  he  relieved.  Though  his  name 
seldom  shone  in  the  pompous  list  of  public  sub- 
scriptions— though  he  disdained  to  affect  the 
MKcenas  and  the  patron,  he  felt  the  brother- 
hood of  mankind,  and  a  kind  of  gratitude  for 
those  who  aspired  to  raise  or  to  delight  their 
species.  An  author  himself,  he  could  appre- 
ciate the  vast  debt  which  the  world  owes  to 
authors,  and  pays  but  by  calumny  in  life  and 
barren  laurels  after  death.  He  whose  pro- 
fession is  the  Beautiful  succeeds  only  through 
the  sympathies.  Charity  and  Compassion  are 
virtues  taught  with  difficulty  to  ordinary  men; 
to  true  Genius  they  are  but  the  instincts  which 
direct  it  to  the  Destiny  it  is  born  to  fulfil, — 
viz.,  the  discovery  and  redemption  of  new 
tracts  in  our  common  nature.  Genius — the 
Sublime  Missionary  —  goes  forth  from  the 
serene  Intellect  of  the  Author  to  live  in  the 
wants,  the  griefs,  the  infirmities  of  others,  in 
order  that  it  may  learn  their  language;  and  as 
its  highest  achievement  is  Pathos,  so  its  most 
absolute  requisite  is  Pity  ! 


CHAPTER   Vn. 


'  Don  John.    How  canst  thou  cross  this  marriage  ? 
Borachio.     Not  honestly,  ray  lord;  but  so  covertly, 
that  no  dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me,  my  lord." 
— Muck  Ado  about  Nothing, 


Ferrers  and  Cesarini  were  sitting  over  their 
wine,  and  both  had  sunk  into  silence,  for  they 
had  only  only  one  subject  in  common,  when  a 
note  was  brought  to  Lumley  from  Lady  Flo- 
rence.— "  This  is  lucky  enough  !  "  said  he,  as 
ho  read  it.  "  Lady  Florence  wishes  to  see 
you,  and  encloses  me  a  note  for  you,  which 
she  asks  me  to  address  and  forward  to  you. 
There  it  is." 


Cesarini  took  the  note  with  trembling  hands: 
it  was  very  short,  and  merely  expressed  a 
desire  to  see  him  the  next  day  at  two  o'clock. 

"What  can  it  be?"  he  exclaimed;  'can 
she  want  to  apologize,  to  explain  ?" 

"No,  no,  no!  Florence  will  not  do  that; 
but,  from  certain  words  she  dropped  in  talk- 
ing with  me,  I  guess  that  she  has  some  offer 
to  your  worldly  advantage  to  propose  to  you. 
Ha  !  by  the  way,  a  thought  strikes  me." 

Lumley  eagerly  rang  the  bell.  "  Is  Lady 
Florence's  servant  waiting  for  an  answer  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well — detain  him." 

"  New,  Cesarini,  assurance  is  made  doubly 
sure.  Come  into  the  next  room.  There,  sit 
down  at  my  desk,  and  write,  as  I  shall  dic- 
tate, to  Maltravers." 

"  I  !  " 

"  Yes,  now  do  put  yourself  in  my  hands — 
write,  write.  When  you  have  finished,  I  will 
explain." 

Cesarini  obeyed,  and  the  letter  was  as 
follows:— 


"  Dear  Maltravers, 

"  I  have  learned  your  approaching  marriage  with 
Lady  Florence  Lascelles.  Permit  me  to  congratulate 
you.  For  myself,  I  have  overcome  a  vain  and  foolish 
passion;  and  can  contemplate  your  happiness  without 
a  sigh. 

"  I  have  reviewed  all  my  old  prejudices  against  mar- 
riage, and  believe  it  to  be  a  state  which  nothing  but 
the  most  perfect  congeniality  of  temper,  pursuits,  and 
minds;  can  render  bearable. — How  rare  is  such  con- 
geniality! in  your  case  it  may  exist.  The  affections 
of  that  beautiful  being  are  doubtless  ardent — and  they 
are  yours! 

"  Write  me  a  line  by  the  bearer  to  assure  me  of  your 
belief  in  my  sincerity.  "Yours._ 

"  C.  Cesarim." 


"  Copy  out  this  letter,  I  want  its  ditto — 
quick.  Now  seal  and  direct  the  duplicate," 
continued  Ferrers;  "  that's  right — go  into  the 
hall,  give  it  yourself  to  Lady  Florence's  ser- 
vant, and  beg  him  to  take  it  to  Seamore  Place, 
wait  for  an  answer,  and  bring  it  here;  by  which 
time  yon  will  have  a  note  ready  for  Lady 
Florence.  Say  I  will  mention  this  to  her 
ladyship, — and  give  the  man  half-a-crown. 
There — begone." 

"  I  do  not  understand  a  word  of  this,"  said 
Cesarini,  when  he  returned;  "  will  you  ex- 
plain ?  " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


'73 


"Certainly;  the  copy  of  the  note  you  have 
dispatched  to  Maltravers  I  shall  show  to  Lady 
Florence  this  evening, — as  a  proof  of  your 
sobered  and  generous  feelings;  observe,  it  is 
so  written,  that  the  old  letter  of  your  rival  may 
seem  an  exact  reply  to  it.  To-morrow,  a 
reference  to  this  note  of  yours  will  bring  out 
our  scheme  more  easily;  and  if  you  follow  my 
instructions,  you  will  not  seem  to  volunteer 
showing  our  handiwork,  as  we  at  first  intended; 
but  rather  to  yield  it  to  her  eyes  from  a  gen- 
erous impulse,  from  an  irresistible  desire  to 
save  her  from  an  unworthy  husband  and  a 
wretched  fate.  Fortune  has  been  dealing  our 
cards  for  us,  and  has  turned  up  the  ace.  Three 
to  one  now  on  the  odd  trick.  Maltravers,  too, 
is  at  home.  I  called  at  his  house  on  return- 
ing from  my  uncle's,  and  learned  that  he  would 
not  stir  out  all  the  evening." 

In  due  time  came  the  answer  from  Ernest: 
it  was  short  and  hurried;  l)ut  full  of  all  the 
manly  kindness  of  his  nature;  it  expressed  ad- 
miration and  delight  at  the  tone  of  Cesarini's 
letter;  it  revoked  all  former  expressions  derog- 
atory to  Lady  Florence;  it  owned  the  harsh- 
ness and  error  of  his  first  impression;  it  used 
every  delicate  argument  that  could  soothe  and 
reconcile  Cesarini;  and  concluded  by  senti- 
ments of  friendship  and  desire  of  service,  so 
cordial,  so  honest,  so  free  from  the  affectation  of 
patronage— that  even  Cesarini  himself,  half 
insane  as  he  was  with  passion,  was  almost 
softened.  Lumley  saw  the  change  in  his 
countenance — snatched  the  letter  from  his 
hand — read  it — threw  it  into  the  fire — and  say- 
ing, "  We  must  guard  against  accidents," 
clapped  the  Italian  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder,  and  added,  "  Now  you  can  have  no 
remorse, — for  a  more  Jesuitical  piece  of  in- 
sulting, hypocritical  cant  I  never  read.  Where's 
your  note  to  Lady  Florence  ?  Your  compli- 
ments, you  will  be  with  her  at  two.  There — 
now  the  rehearsal's  over,  the  scenes  arranged, 
and  I'll  dress,  and  open  the  play  for  you  with 
a  prologue." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

*        *        *        "  ./Estaut  ingens 

Imo  in  corde  pudor,  mixtoque  insania  luctu, 

Et  furiis  agitatus  amor,  et  conscia  virtus."  * 

—Virgil, 

The  next  day,  punctual  to  his  appointment, 
Cesarini  repaired  to  his  critical  interview  with 
Lady  Florence.  Her  countenance,  which,  like 
that  of  most  persons  whose  temper  is  not 
under  their  command,  ever  too  faithfully  ex- 
pressed what  was  within,  was  unusually  flushed. 
Lumley  had  dropped  words  and  hints  which 
had  driven  sleep  from  her  pillow,  and  repose 
from  her  mind. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  with  nervous  agita- 
tion as  Cesarini  entered,  and  made  his  grave 
salutation.  After  a  short  and  embarrassed 
pause,  she  recovered,  however,  her  self-posses- 
sion, and  with  all  a  woman's  delicate  and  dex- 
terous tact,  urged  upon  the  Italian  the  exped- 
iency of  accepting  the  offer  of  honorable 
independence  now  extended  to  him. 

"  You  have  abilities,"  she  said,  in  conclusion 
— "you  have  friends — you  have  youth — take 
advantage  of  those  gifts  of  nature  and  fortune; 
— and  fulfil  such  a  career  as,"  added  Lady 
Florence  with  a  smile,  "  Dante  did  not  con- 
sider incompatible  with  poetry." 

"  I  cannot  object  to  any  career,"  said  Ces- 
arini, with  an  effort,  "  that  may  serve  to  re- 
move me  from  a  country  that  has  no  longer 
any  charms  for  me.  I  thank  you  for  your 
kindness — I  will  obey  you.  May  you  be 
happy— and  yet— no,  ah  !  no— happy  you 
must  be  !  Even  he,  sooner  or  later,  must  see 
you  with  my  eyes." 

"  I  know,"  replied  Florence,  falteringly, 
"that  you  have  wisely  and  generously  mas- 
tered a  past  illusion.     Mr.  Ferrers  allowed  me 

to  see  the  letter  your  wrote  to  Er to  Mr. 

Maltravers;  it  was  worthy  of  you — it  touched 
me  deeply;  but  I  trust  you  will  outlive  your 
prejudices  against " 

"Stay,"  interrupted  Cesarini;  "did  Ferrers 
communicate  to  you  the  answer  to  that  let- 
ter?" 

"  No,  indeed." 

"  I  am  ijlad  of  it." 


*  Deep  in  her  inmost  heart  is  stirred  the  immense 
shame,  and  madness  with  commingled  grief,  and  love 
agitated  by  rage,  and  conscious  virtue. 


>74 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  matter.  Heaven  bless  you — fare- 
well." 

"  No — I  implore  you  do  not  go  yet — what 
was  there  in  that  letter  that  it  could  pain  me 
to  see  ?  Lumley  hinted  darkly,  but  would  not 
speak  out — be  more  frank." 

"  I  cannot — it  would  be  treachery  to  Mal- 
travers — cruelty  to  you — yet,  would  it  be 
cruel  ? " 

"No,  it  would  not— it  would  be  kindness 
and  mercy;  show  me  the  letter — you  have  it 
with  you." 

"You  could  not  bear  it;  you  would  hate  me 
for  the  pain  it  would  give  you.  Let  me  de- 
part." 

"  Man,  you  wrong  Maltravers.  I  see  it  now. 
You  would  darkly  slander  him  whom  you  can- 
not openly  defame.  Go — I  was  wrong  to 
listen  to  you — go  !  " 

"  Lady  Florence,  beware  how  you  taunt  me 
into  undeceiving  you.  Here  is  the  letter,  it  is 
his  handwriting— will  you  read  it?  I  warn 
you  not. 

"  I  will  believe  nothing  but  the  evidence  of 
my  own  eyes — give  it  me." 

"Stay,  then;  on  two  conditions.  First,  that 
you  promise  me  sacredly  that  you  will  not 
disclose  to  Maltravers,  without  my  consent, 
that  you  have  seen  this  letter.  Think  not  I 
fear  his  anger.  No  !  but  in  the  mortal  en- 
counter that  must  ensue,  if  you  thus  betray  me 
— your  character  would  be  lowered  in  the 
world's  eyes,  and  even  I  (my  excuse  unknown) 
might  not  appear  to  have  acted  with  honor  in 
obeying  your  desire,  and  warning  you,  while 
there  is  yet  time,  of  bartering  love  for  avarice. 
Promise  me." 

"  I  do — I  do  most  solemnly." 

"Secondly,  assure  me  that  you  will  not  ask 
to  keep  the  letter,  but  will  immediately  restore 
it  to  me." 

"I  promise  it.     Now  then." 

"  Take  the  letter." 

Florence  seized,  and  rapidly  read  the  fatal 
and  garbled  document:  her  brain  was  dizzy — 
her  eyes  clouded — her  ears  rang  as  if  with  the 
sound  of  water — she  was  sick  and  giddy  with 
emotion,  but  she  read  enough.  This  letter 
was  written,  then,  in  answer  to  Castruccio's 
of  last  night,— it  avowed  dislike  of  her  char- 
acter,— it  denied  the  sincerity  of  her  love, — it 
more  than  hinted  the  mercenary  nature  of  his 


own  feelings.  Yes,  even  there,  where  she  had 
garnered  up  her  heart,  she  was  not  Florence, 
the  lovely  and  beloved  woman;  but  Florence, 
the  wealthy  and  high-born  heiress.  The 
world  which  she  had  built  upon  the  faith  and 
heart  of  Maltravers,  crumbled  away  at  her 
feet.  The  letter  dropped  from  her  hands^ 
her  whole  form  seemed  to  shrink  and  shrivel 
up;  her  teeth  were  set,  and  her  cheek  was  as 
white  as  marble. 

"  O  God  !  "  cried  Cesarini,  stung  with  re- 
morse. "  Speak  to  me,  speak  to  me,  Flor- 
ence !  I  did  wrong— forget  that  hateful 
letter  !     I  have  been  false— false  !  " 

"  Ah,  false— say  so  again  ! — no,  no,  I  re- 
member /le  told  me — he,  so  wise,  so  deep  a 
judge  of  human  character,  that  he  would  be 
sponsor  for  your  faith — that  your  honor  and 
heart  were  incorruptible.  It  is  true— I  thank 
you — you  have  saved  me  from  a  terrible  fate." 

"O  Lady  Florence,  dear — too  dear — yet 
would  that— alas  !  she  does  not  listen  to  me," 
muttered  Castruccio,  as  Florence,  pressing  her 
hands  to  her  temples,  walked  wildly  to  and 
fro  the  room;  at  length,  she  paused  opposite 
to  Cesarini,  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  re- 
turned him  the  letter  without  a  word,  and 
pointed  to  the  door. 

"  No,  no,  do  not  bid  me  leave  you  yet,"  said 
Cesarini.  trembling  with  repentant  emotion — 
yet  half  beside  himself  with  jealous  rage  at  her 
love  for  his  rival. 

"  My  friend,  go,"  said  Florence,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  singularly  subdued  and  soft.  "  Do 
not  fear  me — I  have  more  pride  in  me  than 
even  affection;  but  there  are  certain  struggles 
in  a  woman's  breast  which  she  could  never 
betray  to  any  one — any  one  but  a  mother. 
God  help  me,  I  have  none  ! — go— when  next 
we  meet,  I  shall  be  calm." 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  the 
Italian  dropped  on  his  knee,  kissed  it  convul- 
sively, and,  fearful  of  trusting  himself  further, 
vanished  from  the  room. 

He  had  not  been  long  gone  before  Mal- 
travers was  seen  riding  through  the  street. 
As  he  threw  himself  from  his  horse,  he  looked 
up  at  the  window,  and  kissed  his  hand  at  Lady 
Florence,  who  stood  there,  watching  his  arrival, 
with  feelings  iiuleed  far  different  from  those 
he  anticipated.  He  entered  the  room  lightly 
and  gaily. 

Florence  stirred   not  to  welcome  him.     He 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


'75 


approached  and  took  her  hand;  she  withdrew 
it  with  a  shudder. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  Florence  ?  " 

"  I  am  well,  for  I  have  recovered." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? — why  do  yuu  turn 
from  me  ? " 

Lady  Florence  fi.'ced  her  eyes  on  him,  eyes 
that  literally  blazed — her  lip  quivered  with 
scorn. 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  at  length  I  know  you.  I 
understand  the  feelings  with  which  you  have 
sought  a  union  between  us.  O  God  !  why,  why 
was  I  thus  cursed  with  riches— why  made  a 
thing  of  barter  and  merchandise,  and  avarice, 
and  low  ambition  ?  Take  my  wealth — take  it, 
Mr.  Maltravers,  since  that  is  what  you  prize. 
Heaven  knows  I  can  cast  it  willingly  away; 
but  leave  the  wretch  whom  you  long  deceived, 
and  who  now,  wretch  though  she  be,  renounces 
and  despises  you  !  " 

"  Lady  Florence,  do  I  hear  aright  ?  Who 
has  accused  me  to  you  ? " 

"  None,  sir,  none — I  would  have  believed 
none.  Let  it  suffice,  that  I  am  convinced  that 
our  union  can  be  happy  to  neither;  question 
me  no  further — all  intercourse  between  us  is 
for  ever  over  !  " 

"  Pause,"  said  Maltravers,  with  cold  and 
grave  solemnity — "  another  word,  and  the  gulf 
will  become  impassable.     Pause." 

"  Do  not,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  lady, 
stung  by  what  she  considered  the  assurance 
of  a  hardened  hypocrisy — "do  not  affect  this 
haughty  superiority,  it  dupes  me  no  longer. 
I  was  your  slave  while  I  loved  you— the  tie 
is  broken.  I  am  free,  and  I  hate  and  scorn 
you  !  Mercenary  and  sordid  as  you  are,  your 
baseness  of  spirit  revives  the  differences  of  our 
rank.  Henceforth,  Mr.  Maltravers,  I  am  Lady 
Florence  Lascelles,  and  by  that  title  alone  will 
you  know  me.     Begone,  sir  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  with  passion  distorting  every 
feature  of  her  face,  all  her  beauty  vanished 
away  from  the  eyes  of  the  proud  Maltravers, 
as  if  by  witchcraft — the  angel  seemed  trans- 
formed into  the  fury;  and  cold,  bitter,  and 
withering  was  the  eye  which  he  fixed  upon  that 
altered  countenance. 

"  Mark  me.  Lady  Florence  Lascelles,"  said 
he,  very  calmly,  "you  have  now  said  what  you 
can  never  recall.  Neither  in  man  nor  in 
woman  did  Ernest  Maltravers  ever  forget  or 
forgive  a  sentence  which  accused  him  of  dis- 


honor. I  bid  you  farewell  for  ever;  and  with 
my  last  words  I  condemn  you  to  the  darkest 
of  all  dooms — the  remorse  that  comes  too 
late  !  " 

Slowly  he  moved  away — and  as  the  door 
closed  upon  that  towering  and  haughty  form, 
Florence  already  felt  that  his  curse  was  work- 
to  its  fulfilment.  She  rushed  to  the  window — 
she  caught  one  last  glimpse  of  him  as  his  horse 
bore  him  rapidly  away.  Ah  !  when  shall  they 
meet  again  ? 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"  And  now  I  live — O  wherefore  do  I  live  ? 
And  with  that  pang  I  prayed  to  be  no  more." 
—Wordsworth. 

\y  was  about  nine  o'clock  that  evening,  and 
Maltravers  was  alone  in  his  room.  His  car- 
riage was  at  the  door — his  servants  were  ar- 
ranging the  luggage — he  was  going  that  night 
to  Burleigh.  London — society — the  world- 
were  grown  hateful  to  him.  His  galled  and 
indignant  spirit  demanded  solitude.  At  this 
time,  Lumiey  Ferrers  abruptly  entered. 

"You  will  pardon  my  intrusion,"  said  the 
latter,  with  his  usual  frankness — "  but " 

"  But  what,  sir — I  am  engaged." 

"  I  shall  be  very  brief.  Maltravers,  you  are 
my  old  friend.  I  retain  regard  and  affection 
for  you,  though  our  different  habits  have  of 
late  estranged  us.  I  come  to  you  from  my 
cousin — from  Florence — there  has  been  some 
misunderstanding  between  you.  I  called  on 
her  to-day  after  you  left  the  house.  Her  grief 
affected  me.  I  have  only  just  quitted  her. 
She  has  been  told  by  some  gossip  or  other, 
some  stoi-y  or  other — women  are  credulous, 
foolish  creatures; — undeceive  her,  and,  I  dare 
say,  all  may  be  settled." 

"  Ferrers,  if  a  man  had  spoken  to  me  as 
Lady  Florence  did,  his  blood  or  mine  must 
have  flowed.  And  do  you  think  that  words 
that  might  have  plunged  me  into  the  guilt  of 
homicide  if  uttered  by  a  man— -I  could  ever 
pardon  in  one  whom  I  had  dreamed  of  for  a 
wife  ?     Never  !  " 

"  Pooh,    pooh — women's   words    are    wind. 


ij6 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


Don't  throw  away  so  splendid  a  match  for 
such  a  trifle." 

"  Do  you  too,  sir,  mean  to  impute  mercenary 
motives  to  me  ? " 

"  Heaven  forbid !  You  know  I  am  no 
coward,  but  I  really  don't  want  to  fight  you. 
Come,  be  reasonable." 

"  I  dare  say  you  mean  well,  but  the  breach 
is  final — all    recurrence    to   it  is  painful  and 
superfluous.     I  must  wish  you  good  evening." 
"  You  have  positively  decided  ?  " 
" I  have  " 

"  Even  if  Lady  Florence  made  the  amende 
honorable  !" 

"Nothing  on  the  part  of  Lady  Florence 
could  alter  my  resolution.  The  woman  whom 
an  honorable  man — an  English  gentleman — 
makes  the  partner  of  his  life,  ought  never  to 
listen  to  a  syllable  against  his  fair  name:  his 
honor  is  hers,  and  if  her  lips,  that  should 
breathe  comfort  in  calumny,  only  serve  to 
retail  the  lie — she  may  be  beautiful,  gifted, 
wealthy,  and  high-born,  but  he  takes  a  curse 
to  his  arms.  That  curse  I  have  escaped." 
"  And  this  I  am  to  say  to  my  cousin  ?  " 
"As  you  will.  And  now  stay,  Lumley 
Ferrers,  and  hear  me.  I  neither  accuse  nor 
suspect  you,  I  desire  not  to  pierce  your  heart, 
and  in  this  case  I  cannot  fathom  your  motives; 
but  if  it  should  so  have  happened  that  you 
have,  in  any  way,  ministered  to  Lady  Florence 
Lascelles'  injurious  opinions  of  my  faith  and 
honor,  you  will  have  much  to  answer  for,  and 
sooner  or  later  there  will  come  a  day  of  reckon- 
ing between  you  and  me." 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,  there  can  be  no  quarrel 
between  us,  with  my  cousin's  fair  name  at 
stake,  or  else  we  should  not  now  part  without 
preparations  for  a  more  hostile  meeting.  I 
can  bear  your  language.  /,  too,  though  no 
philosopher,  can  forgive.  Come,  man,  you  are 
heated— it  is  very  natural ; — let  us  part  friends 
— your  hand." 

"  If  you  can  take  my  hand,  Lumley,  you 
are  innocent,  and  I  have  wronged  you." 

Lumley  smiled,  and  cordially  pressed  the 
hand  of  his  old  friend. 

As  he  descended  the  stairs,  Maltravers  fol- 
lowed, and  just  as  Lumley  turned  into  Curzon 
Street,  the  carriage  whirled  rapidly  past  him, 
and  by  the  lamps  he  saw  the  pale  and  stern 
face  of  Maltravers. 
It  was  a  slow,  drizzling  rain,— one  of  those 


unwholesome  nights  frequent  in  London  tow- 
ards the  end  of  autumn.  Ferrers,  however, 
insensible  to  the  weather,  walked  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  towards  his  cousin's  house.  He 
was  playing  for  a  mighty  stake,  and  hitherto 
the  cast  was  in  his  favor,  yet  he  was  uneasy 
and  perturbed.  His  conscience  was  tolerably 
proof  to  all  compunction,  as  much  from  the 
levity  as  from  the  strength  of  his  nature;  and 
(Maltravers  removed),  he  trusted  in  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  human  heart,  and  the  smooth  spe- 
ciousness  of  his  manner,  to  win,  at  last,  in  the 
hand  of  Lady  Florence,  the  object  of  his  am- 
bition. It  was  not  on  her  affection,  it  was  on 
her  pique,  her  resentment,  that  he  relied. 
"  When  a  woman  fancies  herself  slighted  by 
the  man  she  loves,  the  first  person  who  pro- 
poses must  be  a  clumsy  wooer  indeed,  if  he 
does  not  carry  her  away."  So  reasoned  Ferrers, 
but  yet  he  was  ruffled  and  disquieted;  the 
truth  must  be  spoken, — able,  bold,  sanguine, 
and  scornful  as  he  was,  his  spirit  quailed 
before  that  of  Maltravers;  he  feared  the  lion 
of  that  nature  when  fairly  aroused:  his  own 
character  had  in  it  something  of  a  woman's — 
an  unprincipled,  gifted,  aspiring,  and  subtle 
woman's,  and  in  Maltravers — stern,  simple,, 
and  masculine — he  recognized  the  superior 
dignity  of  the  "  lords  of  the  creation; "  he  was 
overawed  by  the  anticipation  of  a  wrath  and 
revenge  which  he  felt  he  merited,  and  which 
he  feared  might  be  deadly. 

While  gradually,  however,  his  spirit  recov- 
ered its  usual  elasticity,  he  came  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  Lord  Saxingham's  house,  and  suddenly, 
by  a  corner  of  the  street,  his  arm  was  seized: 
to  his  inexpressible  astonishment  he  recog- 
nized, in  the  muffled  figure  that  accosted  him, 
the  form  of  Florence  Lascelles. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  cried,  "  is  it  possible  ? 
— You,  alone  in  the  streets,  at  this  hour,  in 
such  a  night,  too  !  How  very  wrong — how 
very  imprudent  !  " 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me — I  am  almost  mad  as  it 
is:  I  could  not  rest — I  could  not  brave  quiet, 
solitude, — still  less,  the  face  of  my  father— I 
could  not ! — but  quick,  what  says  he  ? — what 
excuse  has  he  ?  Tell  me  everything — I  will 
cling  to  a  straw." 

"  And  is  this  the  proud  Florence  Las- 
celles? " 

"No, — it  is  the  humbled  Florence  Lascelles. 
I  have  done  with  pride — speak  to  me  ! " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


^11 


"  Ah,  what  a  treasure  is  such  a  heart  !  How 
can  he  throw  it  away  !  " 

"  Does  he  deny  ?  " 

"  He  denies  nothing,— he  expresses  himself 
rejoiced  to  have  escaped — such  was  his  ex- 
pression— a  marriage  in  which  his  heart  never 
was  engaged.  He  is  unworthy  of  you — forget 
him." 

Florence  shivered,  and  as  Ferrers  draw  her 
arm  in  his  own,  her  ungloved  hand  touched 
his,  and  the  touch  was  like  that  of  ice. 

"  What  will  the  servants  think  ? — what  ex- 
cuse can  we  make  ? "  said  Ferrers,  when  they 
stood  beneath  the  porch. 

6—12 


Florence  did  not  reply;  but  as  the  door 
opened,  she  said  softly, — 

"  I  am  ill — ill,"  and  clung  to  Ferrers  with 
that  unnerved  and  heavy  weight  which  betokens 
faintness. 

The  light  glared  on  her — the  faces  of  the 
lacqueys  betokened  their  undisguised  astonish- 
ment. With  a  violent  effort,  Florence  recov- 
ered herself,  for  she  had  not  yet  done  with 
pride,  swept  through  the  hall  with  her  usual 
stately  step,  slowly  ascended  the  broad  stair- 
case, and  gained  the  solitude  of  her  own  room 
to  fall  senseless  on  the  floor. 


178 


£  UL  WER'S    WORKS,. 


BOOK    NINTH, 


tkxipopn  vvii4>tviru.—S0PH..  Antig.  64. 
I  go,  the  bride  of  Acheron. 

Me^Aoi^a  TaDra. —  76.  1333. 

These  things  are  in  the  Future. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*  •       •       "  There  the  action  lies 
In  its  true  nature       »       •       »       » 

*  *       »       What  then  ?    What  rests  ? 
Try  what  repentance  can !  " — Hamlet. 

"I  doubt  he  will  be  dead  or  ere  I  come." — King  John. 

It  was  a  fine  afternoon  in  December,  when 
Lumley  Ferrers  turned  from  Lord  Saxing- 
ham's  door.  The  knockers  were  muffled— the 
windows  on  the  third  story  were  partially 
closed.     There  was  sickness  in  that  house. 

Lumley's  face  was  unusually  grave;  it  was 
even  sad.  "So  young — so  beautiful,"  he  mut- 
tered. "  If  ever  I  loved  woman,  I  do  believe 
I  loved  her: — that  love  rriust  be  my  excuse. 
....  I  repent  of  what  I  have  done — but  I 
could  not  foresee  that  a  mere  lover's  stratagem 
was  to  end  in  such  effects — the  metaphysician 
was  very  right  when  he  said,  '  We  only  sympa- 
thize with  feelings  we  know  ourselves.'  A  lit- 
tle disappointment  in  love  could  not  have  hurt 
me  much — it  is  d — d  odd  it  should  hurt  her  so. 
I  am  altogether  out  of  luck:  odd  Temple- 
ton — I  beg  his  pardon,  Lord  Vargrave— (by 
the  by,  he  gets  heartier  every  day — what  a 
constitution  he  has  !)  seems  cross  with  me. 
He  did  not  like  the  idea  that  I  should  marry 
Lady  Florence — and  when  I  thought  that 
vision  might  have  been  realized,  hinted  that  I 
was  disappointing  some  expectations  he  had 
formed;  I  can't  make  out  what  he  means. 
Then,  too,  the  government  have  offered  that 
place  to  Maltravers  instead  of  me.  In  fact, 
my  star  is  not  in  the  ascendant.  Poor  Flor- 
ence though, — I  would  really  give  a  great  deal 


to  Tcnovv  her  restored  to  health  ! — I  have  done 
a  villainous  thing,  but  I  thought  it  only  a 
clever  one.  However,  regret  is  a  fools  pas- 
sion. By  Jupiter  ! — talking  of  fools,  here 
comes  Cesarini." 

Wan,  haggard,  almost  spectral,  his  hat  over 
his  brows,  his  dress  neglected,  his  air  reckless 
and  fierce,  Cesarini  crossed  the  way,  and  thus 
accosted  Lumley: — 

"We  have  murdered  her,  Ferrers;  and  her 
ghost  will  haunt  us  to  our  dying  day  !  " 

"Talk  prose;  you  know  I  am  no  poet. 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"She  is  worse  to-day,"  groaned  Cesarini, 
in  a  hollow  voice.  "  I  wander  like  a  lost 
spirit  round  the  house;  I  question  all  who 
come  from  it.  Tell  me — oh,  tell  me,  is  there 
hope  ? " 

"  I  do,  indeed,  trust  so,"  replied  Ferrers, 
fervently.  "  The  illness  has  only  of  late  as- 
sumed an  alarming  appearance.  At  first  it 
was  merely  a  severe  cold,  caught  by  impru- 
dent exposure  one  rainy  night.  Now  they  fear 
it  has  settled  on  the  lungs;  but  if  we  could  get 
her  abroad,  all  might  be  well." 

"  You  think  so,  honestly  ?  " 

"I  do.  Courage,  my  friend;  do  not  re- 
proach yourself;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  us. 
She  was  taken  ill  of  a  cold,  not  of  a  letter, 
man  !  " 

"No,  no;  I  judge  her  heart  by  my  own. 
Oh,  that  I  could  recall  the  past !  Look  at  me; 
I  am  the  wreck  of  what  I  was;  day  and  night 
the  recollection  of  my  falsehood  haunts  me 
with  remorse." 

"  Pshaw ! — we  will   go    to   Italy  together, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


179 


and  in  your  beautiful  land,  love  will  replace 
love." 

"  I  am  half  resolved,  Ferrers." 

"  Ha  !— to  do  what  ?  " 

"  To  write — to  reveal  all  to  her." 

The  hardy  complexion  of  Ferrers  grew  livid ; 
his  brow  became  dark  with  a  terrible  expression. 

"  Do  so,  and  fall  the  next  day  by  my  hand; 
my  aim,  in  slighter  quarrel,  never  erred." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  threaten  me  ? " 

"  Do  you  dare  to  betray  me  ?  Betray  one, 
who,  if  he  sinned,  sinned  on  your  account — in 
3'our  cause;  who  would  have  secured  to  you 
the  loveliest  bride,  and  the  most  princely 
dower  in  England;  and  whose  only  offence 
against  you  is  that  he  cannot  command  life 
and  health?" 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  the  Italian,  with  great 
emotion, — forgive  me,  and  do  not  misunder- 
stand; I  would  not  have  betrayed  j(7«, — there 
is  honor  among  villains.  I  would  have  con- 
fessed only  my  own  crime;  I  would  never 
have  revealed  yours — why  should  I  ? — it  is 
unnecessary." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ? — are  you  sincere  ?  " 

"  By  my  soul  !  " 

"  Then,  indeed,  you  are  worthy  of  my  friend- 
ship. You  will  assume  the  whole  forgery — 
an  ugly  word,  but  it  avoids  circumlocution — to 
be  your  own  ? " 

"I  will." 

"  Ferrers  paused  a  moment  and  then 
stopped  suddenly  short. 

"  You  will  swear  this  !  " 

"  By  all  that  is  holy." 

"Then,  mark  me  Cesarini;  if  to-morrow 
Lady  Florence  be  worse,  I  will  throw  no  ob- 
stacle'in  the  way  of  your  confession,  should 
you  resolve  to  make  it;  I  will  even  use  that 
influence  which  you  leave  me  to  palliate  your 
offence,  to  win  your  pardon.  And  yet  to  re- 
sign your  hopes — to  surrender  one  so  loved  to 
the  arms  of  one  so  hated — it  is  magnanimous 
— it  is  noble — it  is  above  my  standard  !  Do 
as  you  will." 

Cesarini  was  about  to  reply,  when  a  servant 
on  horseback  abruptly  turned  the  corner, 
almost  at  full  speed.  He  pulled  in — his  eye 
fell  upon  Lumley  he  dismounted. 

"Oh,  Mr  Ferrers,"  said  the  man,  breath- 
lessly, "  I  have  been  to  your  house;  they  told 
me  I  might  find  you  at  Lord  Saxingham's — I 
was  just  going  there " 


"  Weil,  well,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  My   poor   master,    sir — my  lord,  I   mean 


"What  of  him?" 

"  Had  a  fit,  sir — the  doctors  are  with  him — 
my  mistress — for  my  lord  can't  speak — sent 
me  express  for  you." 

"  Lend  me  your  horse — there,  just  lengthen 
the  stirrups." 

While  the  groom  was  engaged  at  the  saddle, 
Ferrers  turned  to  Cesarini.  "  Do  nothing 
rashly,"  said  he;  "I  would  say,  if  I  might, 
nothing  at  all,  without  consulting  me;  but, 
mind,  I  rely,  at  all  events,  on  your  promise — 
your  oath." 

"  You  may,"  said  Cesarini,  gloomily. 

"  Farewell,  then,"  said  Lumley,  as  he 
mounted;  and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  out 
of  sight. 


CHAPTER   n. 

"  O  world,  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart, 

***** 

Dost  thou  here  lie  V ^Julius  Qesar. 

As  Lumley  leapt  from  his  horse  at  his  uncle's 
door,  the  disorder  and  bustle  of  those  dem- 
esnes, in  which  the  severe  eye  of  the  master 
usually  preserved  a  repose  and  silence  as  com- 
plete as  if  the  affairs  of  life  were  carried  on  by 
clockwork,  struck  upon  him  sensibly.  Upon 
the  trim  lawn,  the  old  women  employed  in 
cleaning  and  weeding  the  walks  were  all  as- 
sembled in  a  cluster,  shaking  their  heads 
ominously  in  concert,  and  carrying  on  their 
comments  in  a  confused  whisper.  In  the  hall, 
the  housemaid  (and  it  was  the  first  housemaid 
whom  Lumley  had  ever  seen  in  that  house,  so 
invisibly  were  the  wheels  of  the  domestic  ma- 
chine carried  on)  was  leaning  on  her  broom, 
"swallowing  with  open  mouth  a  footman's 
news,"  It  was  as  if,  with  the  first  slackening 
of  the  rigid  rein,  human  nature  broke  loose 
from  the  conventual  stillness  in  which  it  had 
ever  paced  its  peace  path  in  that  formal  man- 
sion. 

"  How  is  he  ? " 

"My  lord  is  better,  sir;  he  has  spoken  I 
believe." 

At  this  moment  a  young  face,  swollen  and 


/8o 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


red  with  weeping,  looked  down  from  the  stairs; 
and  presently  Evelyn  rushed  breathlessly  into 
the  hall. 

"Oh,  come  up — come  up,  cousin  Lumley; 
he  cannot,  cannot  die  in  your  prerence;  you 
always  seem  so  full  of  life  !  He  cannot  die; 
you  do  not  think  he  will  die.  Oh,  take  me 
with  you,  they  won't  let  me  go  to  him  !  " 

"  Hush,  my  dear  little  girl,  hush;  follow  me 
lightly — that  is  right." 

Lumley  reached  the  door,  tapped  gently — 
entered;  and  the  child  also  stole  in  unob- 
served, or  at  least  unprevented.  Lumley  drew 
aside  the  curtains;  the  new  lord  was  lying  on 
his  bed,  with  his  head  propped  by  pillows,  his 
eyes  wide  open,  with  a  glassy  but  not  insen- 
sible stare,  and  his  countenance  fearfully 
changed.  Dady  Vargrave  was  kneeling  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bed,  one  hand  clasped  in 
her  husband's,  the  other  bathing  his  temples, 
and  her  tears  falling,  without  sob  or  sound, 
fast  and  copiously  down  her  pale  fair  cheeks. 

Two  doctors  were  conferring  in  the  recess 
of  the  window;  an  apothecary  was  mixing 
drugs  at  a  table;  and  two  of  the  oldest  female 
servants  of  the  house  were  standing  near  the 
physicians,  trying  to  overhear  what  was  said. 

"  My  deax,  dear  uncle,  how  are  you  ? "  asked 
Lumley. 

"  Ah,  you  are  come  then,"  said  the  dying 
man,  in  a  feeble  yet  distinct  voice;  "that  is 
well — I  have  much  to  say  to  you." 

"  But  not  now — not  now — you  are  not  strong 
enough,"  said  the  wife,  imploringly. 

The  doctors  moved  to  the  bedside.  Lord 
Vargrave  waved  his  hand,  and  raised  his 
head. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  I  feel  as  if  death 
were  hastening  upon  me;  I  have  much  need, 
while  my  senses  remain,  to  confer  with  my 
nephew.  Is  the  present  a  fitting  time  ? — if  I 
delay,  are  you  sure  that  I  shall  have  an- 
other ? " 

The  doctors  looked  at  each  other. 

"My  lord,"  said  one;  "  it  may  perhaps  settle 
and  relieve  your  mind  to  converse  with  your 
nephew;  afterwards  you  may  more  easily 
compose  yourself  to  sleep." 

"  Take  this  cordial,  then,"  said  the  other 
doctor. 

The  sick  man  obeyed.  One  of  the  physi- 
cians approached  Lumley,  and  beckoned  him 
aside. 


"  Shall  we  send  for  his  lordship's  lawyer,' 
whispered  the  leech, 

"  I  am  his  heir-at-law,"  thought  Lumley. 
"  Why  no,  my  dear  sir — no,  I  think  not,  unless 
he  expresses  a  desire  to  see  him;  doubtless,  my 
poor  uncle  has  already  settled  his  worldly  af- 
fairs.    What  is  his  state  ?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  I  will  speak 
to  you,  sir,  after  you  have  left  his  lordship." 

"What  is  the  matter  there  ?"  cried  the  pa- 
tient, sharply  and  querulously.  Clear  the 
room — I  would  be  alone  with  my  nephew." 

The  doctors  disappeared;  the  old  woman 
reluctantly  followed;  when,  suddenly,  the  little 
Evelyn  sprang  forward  and  threw  herself  on 
the  breast  of  the  dying  man,  sobbing  as  if  her 
heart  would  break. 

"  My  poor  child  ! — my  sweet  child  ! — my 
own,  own  darling  !  "  gasped  out  Lord  Var- 
grave, folding  his  weak  arms  round  her;  "  bless 
you — bless  you  !  and  God  will  bless  you.  My 
wife,"  he  added,  with  a  voice  far  more  tender 
than  Lumley  had  ever  before  heard  him  ad- 
dress to  Lady  Vargrave,  '•  if  these  be  the  last 
words  I  utter  to  you,  let  them  express  all  the 
gratitude  I  feel  for  you,  for  duties  never  more 
piously  discharged:  you  did  not  love  me,  it  is 
true;  and  in  health  and  pride  that  knowledge 
often  made  me  unjust  to  you.  I  have  been 
severe — you  have  had  much  to  bear — forgive 
me." 

"Oh!  do  not  talk  thus;  you  have  been 
nobler,  kinder  than  my  deserts.  How  much 
I  owe  you  ! — how  little  I  have  done  in  re- 
turn ! " 

"I  cannot  bear  this;  leave  me,  my  dear, — 
leave  me.  I  may  live  yet — I  hope  I  may — I 
do  not  want  to  die.  The  cup  may  pass  from 
me.     Go — go — and  you,  my  child." 

"Ah,  let  me  stay." 

Lord  Vargrave  kissed  the  little  creature,  as 
she  clung  to  his  neck,  with  jsassionate  affec- 
tion, and  then,  placing  her  in  her  mother's 
arms,  fell  back  exhausted  on  his  pillow.  Lum- 
ley, with  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  opened  the 
door  to  Lady  Vargrave,  who  sobbed  bitterly, 
and  carefully  closing  it,  resumed  his  station  by 
his  uncle. 

When  Lumley  Ferrers  left  the  room,  his 
countanance  was  gloomy  and  excited  rather 
than  sad.  He  hurried  to  the  room  which  he 
usually  occupied,  and  remained  there  for  some 
hours  while  his  uncle  slept — a  long  and  sound 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


i8i 


sleep.  But  the  mother  and  the  step-child  (now 
restored  to  the  sick  room)  did  not  desert  their 
watch. 

It  wanted  about  an  hour  to  midnight  when 
the  senior  physician  sought  the  nephew. 

"Your  uncle  aslcs  for  you,  Mr.  Ferrers; 
and  I  think  it  right  to  say  that  his  last  mo- 
ments approach.  We  have  done  all  that  can 
be  done." 

"Is  he  fully  aware  of  his  danger?" 

"  He  is;  and  has  spent  the  last  two  hours  in 
prayer — it  is  a  Christian's  death-bed,  sir." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Ferrers,  as  he  followed  the 
physician. 

The  room  was  darkened— a  single  lamp, 
carefully  shaded,  burned  on  a  table,  on  which 
lay  the  Book  of  Life  in  Death;  and  with  awe, 
and  grief  on  their  faces,  the  mother  and  the 
child  were  kneeling  beside  the  bed. 

"  Come  here,  Lumley,"  faltered  forth  the 
fast-dying  man.  "  There  are  none  here,  but 
you  three — nearest  and  dearest  to  me  ? — that 
is  well.  Lumley,  then,  you  know  all — my 
wife,  he  knows  all.  My  child,  give  your  hand 
to  your  cousin — so  you  are  now  plighted.  When 
you  grow  up,  Evelyn,  you  will  know  that  it  is 
my  last  wish  and  prayer  that  you  should  be 
the  wife  of  Lumley  Ferrers.  In  giving  you 
this  angel,  Lumley,  I  atone  to  you  for  all 
seeming  injustice.  And  to  you,  my  child,  I 
secure  the  rank  and  honors  to  which  I  have 
painfully  climbed,  and  which  I  am  forbidden 
to  enjoy.  Be  kind  to  her,  Lumley — you  have 
a  good  and  frank  heart — let  it  be  her  shelter 
— she  has  never  known  a  harsh  word.  God 
bless  you  all,  and  God  forgive  me — pray  for 
me.  Lumley,  to-morrow  you  will  be  Lord 
Vargrave,  and  by  and  by  "  (here  a  ghastly  but 
exultant  smile  flitted  over  the  speaker's  coun- 
tenance) "  you  will  be  my  Lady — -Lady  Var- 
grave.    Lady — so — so — Lady  Var " 

The  words  died  on  his  trembling  lips;  he 
turned  round,  and  though  he  continued  to 
breathe  for  more  than  an  hour,  Lord  Vargrave 
never  uttered  another  syllable." 


CHAPTER  III. 

*       *       *       "  Hopes  and  fears 

Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 

Look  down — on  what  ? — a  fathomless  abyss.' 

— Young. 

"  Contempt,  farewell,  and  maiden  pride,  adieu!" 
— Muck  Ado  about  Nothing. 

The  wound  which  Maltravers  had  received 
was  peculiarly  severe  and  rankling.  It  is  true 
that  he  had  never  been  what  is  called  violently 
in  love  with  Florence  Lascelles;  but  from 
the  moment  in  which  he  had  been  charmed 
and  surprised  into  the  character  of  a  declared 
suitor,  it  was  consonant  with  his  scrupulous 
and  loyal  nature  to  view  only  the  bright  side 
of  Florence's  gifts  and  qualities,  and  to  seek 
to  enamour  his  grateful  fancy  with  her  beauty, 
her  genius,  and  her  tenderness  for  himself. 
He  had  thus  forced  and  formed  his  thoughts 
and  hopes  to  centre  all  in  one  object;  and 
Florence  and  the  Future  had  grown  words 
which  conveyed  the  same  meaning  to  his  mind. 
Perhaps,  he  felt  more  bitterly  her  sudden  and 
stunning  accusations,  couched  as  they  were  in 
language  so  unqualified,  because  they  fell 
upon  his  pride  rather  than  his  affection,  and 
were  not  softened  away  by  the  thousand  ex- 
cuses and  remembrances  which  a  passionate 
love  would  have  invented  and  recalled.  It  was 
a  deep,  concentrated  sense  of  injury  and  in- 
sult, that  hardened  and  soured  his  whole  nature 
— wounded  vanity,  wounded  pride,  and 
wounded  honor.  And  the  blow,  too,  came 
upon  him  at  a  time  when  he  was  most  dissatis 
fied  with  all  other  prospects.  He  was  disgusted 
with  the  littleness  of  the  agents  and  springs  of 
political  life — he  had  formed  a  weary  contempt 
of  the  barrenness  of  literary  reputation.  At 
thirty  years  of  age  he  had  necessarily  outlived 
the  sanguine  elasticity  of  early  youth,  and  he 
had  already  broken  up  many  of  those  later 
toys  in  business  and  ambition  which  afford  the 
rattle  and  the  hobby-horse  to  our  maturer 
manhood.  Always  asking  for  something  too 
refined  and  too  exalted  for  human  life,  every 
new  proof  of  unworthiness  in  men  and  things 
saddened  or  revolted  a  mind  still  too  fastidious 
for  that  quiet  contentment  with  the  world  as 
it  is,  which  we  must  all  learn  before  we  can 
make  our  philosophy  practical,  and  our  genius 
as  fertile  of  the  harvest,  as  it  may  be  prodigal 
of  the  blossom.     Haughty,   solitary,  and  un- 


l82 


B  UL  WER'  S    WORKS. 


social,  the  ordinary  resources  of  mortified  and 
disappointed  men  were  not  for  Ernest  Mal- 
travers. 

Rigidly  secluded  in  his  country  retirement, 
he  consumed  the  days  in  moody  wanderings; 
and  in  the  evenings  he  turned  to  books  with  a 
spirit  disdainful  and  fatigued.  So  much  had 
he  already  learned,  that  books  taught  him 
little  that  he  did  not  already  know.  And  the 
biographies  of  Authors,  those  ghost-like  beings 
who  seem  to  have  had  no  life  but  in  the 
shadow  of  their  own  haunting  and  imperish- 
able thoughts,  dimned  the  inspiration  he 
might  have  caught  from  their  pages.  Those 
Slaves  of  the  Lamp,  those  Silkworms  of  the 
of  the  Closet,  how  little  had  they  enjoyed, 
how  little  had  they  lived  !  Condemned  to  a 
mysterious  fate  by  the  wholesale  destinies  of 
the  world,  they  seemed  born  but  to  toil  and 
to  spin  thoughts  for  the  common  crowd — and, 
their  task  performed  in  drudgery  and  in  dark- 
ness, to  die  when  no  further  service  could  be 
wrung  from  their  exhaustion.  Names  had 
they  been  in  life,  and  as  names  they  lived  for 
ever,  in  life  as  in  death,  airy  and  unsubstantial 
phantoms.  It  pleased  Maltravers  at  this  time 
to  turn  a  curious  eye  towards  the  obscure  and 
half-extinct  philosophies  of  the  ancient  world. 
He  compared  the  Stoics  with  the  Epicureans 
—those  Epicureans  who  had  given  their  own 
version  to  the  simple  and  abstemious  utilitari- 
anism of  their  master.  He  asked  which  was 
the  wiser,  to  sharpen  pain  or  to  deaden  pleas- 
ure— to  bear  all  or  to  enjoy  all — and,  by  a 
natural  reaction  which  often  happens  to  us  in 
life,  this  man,  hitherto  so  earnest,  active- 
spirited,  and  resolved  on  great  things,  began  to 
yearn  for  the  drowsy  pleasures  of  indolence. 

The  Garden  grew  more  tempting  than  the 
Porch.  He  seriously  revived  the  old  alterna- 
tive of  the  Grecian  demi-god — might  it  not  be 
wiser  to  abondon  the  grave  pursuits  to  which 
he  had  been  addicted,  to  dethrone  the  august 
but  severe  Ideal  in  his  heart— to  cultivate  the 
light  loves  and  voluptuous  trifles  of  the  herd 
— and  to  plant  the  brief  space  of  youth  yet 
left  to  him  with  the  myrtle  and  the  rose  ?  As 
water  flows  over  water,  so  new  schemes  rolled 
upon  new — sweeping  away  every  momentary 
impression,  and  leaving  the  surface  facile 
equally  to  receive  and  to  forget.  Such  is  a 
common  state  with  men  of  imagination  in 
those  crises  of  life,  when  some  great  revolution 


of  designs  and  hopes  unsettles  elements  too 
susceptible  of  every  changing  wind.  And 
thus  the  weak  are  destroyed,  while  the  strong 
relapse,  after  terrible  but  unknown  convulsions, 
into  that  solemn  harmony  and  order  from 
which  Destiny  and  God  draw  their  uses  to 
mankind. 

•It  was  from  this  irresolute  contest  between 
antagonist  principles  that  Maltravers  was 
aroused  by  the  following  letter  from  Florence 
Lascellcs: 

"  For  three  days  and  three  sleepless  nights  I  have 
debated  with  myself  whether  or  not  I  ought  to  address 
you.  Oh,  Ernest,  were  I  what  X  was,  in  health,  in 
pride,  I  might  fear,  that,  generous  as  you  are,  you 
would  misconstrue  my  appeal:  but  that  is  now  impos- 
sible. Our  union  never  can  take  place,  and  my  hopes 
bound  themselves  to  one  sweet  and  melancholy  hope 
—that  you  will  remove  from  my  last  hours  the  cold 
and  dark  shadow  of  your  resentment.  We  have  both 
been  cruelly  deceived  and  betrayed.  Three  days  ago 
I  discovered  the  perfidy  that  had  been  practised 
against  us.  And  then— ah,  then,  with  all  the  weak 
human  anguish  of  discovering  it  too  late  (your  curse  is 
fulfilled,  Ernest!)  I  had  at  least  one  moment  of  proud, 
of  exquisite  rapture.  Earnest  Maltravers,  the  hero 
of  my  dreams,  stood  pure  and  lofty  as  of  old — a 
thing  it  was  not  unworthy  to  love,  to  mourn,  to  die 
for.  A  letter  in  your  hand-writing  had  been  shown 
me,  garbled  and  altered,  as  it  seems— but  I  detected 
not  the  imposture— it  was  yourself,  yourself  alone, 
brought  in  false  and  horrible  witness  against  yourself! 
And  could  you  think  that  any  other  evidence,  the 
words,  the  oaths  of  others,  would  have  convicted  you 
in  my  eyes?  There  you  wronged  me.  But  I  deserved 
it— I  had  bound  myself  to  secrecy— the  seal  is  taken 
from  my  lips  in  order  to  be  set  upon  my  tomb. 
Ernest,  beloved  Ernest — beloved  till  the  last  breath  is 
extinct— till  the  last  throb  of  this  heart  is  stilled!— 
write  me  one  word  of  comfort  and  of  pardon.  You 
will  believe  what  I  have  imperfectly  written,  for  you 
ever  trusted  my  faith,  if  you  have  blamed  my  faults. 
I  am  now  comparatively  happy— a  word  from  you  will 
make  me  blest.  And  Fate  has,  perhaps,  been  more 
merciful  to  both,  than  in  our  short-sighted  and  queru- 
lous human  vision,  we  might,  perhaps,  believe;  for 
now  that  the  frame  is  brought  low— and  in  the  solitude 
of  my  chamber  I  can  duly  and  humbly  commune  with 
mine  own  heart,  I  see  the  aspect  of  those  faults  which 
I  once  mistook  for  virtues — and  feel,  that  had  we  been 
united,  1,  loving  you  ever,  might  not  have  constituted 
your  happiness,  and  so,  have  known  the  misery  of 
losing  your  affection.  May  He  who  formed  you 
for  glorious  and  yet  all-unaccomplished  purposes, 
strengthen  you,  when  these  eyes  can  no  longer  sparkle 
at  your  triumphs,  nor  weep  at  your  lightest  sorrow. 
You  will  go  on  in  your  broad  and  luminous  career: — A 
few  years,  and  my  remembrance  will  have  left  but  the 
vestige  of  a  dream  behind. — But,  but — I  can  write  no 
more.    God  bless  you ! " 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


183 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Oh,  stop  this  headlong  current  of  your  goodness; 
It  comes  too  fast  upon  a  feeble  soul." 

■ — Dryden;  Sebastian  and  Doras. 

The  smooth  physician  had  paid  his  evening 
visit;  Lord  Saxingham  had  gone  to  a  cabinet 
dinner,  for  Life  must  ever  walk  side  by  side 
with  Death:  and  Lady  Florence  Lascelles  was 
alone.  It  was  a  room  adjoining  her  sleeping 
apartment — a  room  in  which,  in  the  palmy 
days  of  the  brilliant  and  wayward  heiress,  she 
had  loved  to  display  her  fanciful  and  peculiar 
taste.  There  had  she  been  accustomed  to 
muse,  to  write,  to  study — there  had  she  first 
been  dazzled  by  the  novel  glow  of  Ernest's  un- 
diurnal  and  stately  thoughts — there  had  she 
first  conceived  the  romance  of  girlhood,  which 
had  led  her  to  confer  with  him,  unknown — 
there  had  she  first  confessed  to  herself  that 
fancy  had  begotten  love — there  had  she  gone 
through  love's  short  and  exhausting  progress 
of  lone  emotion; — the  doubt,  the  hope,  the  ec- 
stasy; the  reverse,  the  terror;  the  inanimate 
despondency,  the  agonized  despair  !  And 
there,  now,  sadly  and  patiently,  she  awaited 
the  gradual  march  of  inevitable  decay.  And 
books  and  pictures,  and  musical  instruments, 
and  marble  busts,  half  shadowed  by  classic 
draperies — and  all  the  delicate  elegancies  of 
womanly  refinement — still  invested  the  cham- 
ber with  a  grace  as  cheerful  as  if  youth  and 
beauty  were  to  be  the  occupants  for  ever — and 
the  dark  and  noisome  vault  were  not  the  only 
lasting  residence  for  the  things  of  clay  ! 

Florence  Lascelles  was  dying;  but  not  in- 
deed wholly  of  that  common,  if  mystic  mal- 
ady— a  broken  heart.  Her  health,  always 
delicate,  because  always  preyed  upon  by  a 
nervous,  irritable,  and  feverish  spirit,  had  been 
gradually  and  invisibly  undermined,  even  be- 
fore Ernest  confessed  his  love.  In  the  singu- 
lar lustre  of  those  large-pupilled  eyes — in  the 
luxuriant  transparency  of  that  glorious  bloom, 
— the  experienced  might  long  since  have  traced 
the  seeds  which  cradle  death.  In  the  night, 
when  her  restless  and  maddened  heart  so  im- 
prudently drove  her  forth  to  forestall  the 
communication  of  Lumley  (when  she  had  sent 
to  Maltravers,  she  scarce  knew  for  what  ob- 
ject, or  with  what  hope) — in  that  night  she 
was  already  in  a  high  state  of  fever.  The  rain 
and  the  chill  struck  the  growing  disease  within 


— her  excitement  gave  it  food  and  fire — de- 
lirium succeeded, — and  in  that  most  fearful 
and  fatal  of  all  medical  errors,  which  robs  the 
frame,  when  it  most  needs  strength,  of  the  very 
principle  of  life,  they  had  bled  her  into  a  tem- 
porary calm,  and  into  permanent  and  incurable 
weakness.  Consumption  seized  its  victim. 
The  physicians  who  attended  her  were  the 
most  renowned  in  London,  and  Lord  Saxing- 
ham was  firmly  persuaded  that  there  was  no 
danger.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  think  that 
death  would  take  so  great  a  liberty  with  Lady 
Florence  Lascelles,  when  there  were  so  many 
poor  people  in  the  world  whom  there  would 
be  no  impropriety  in  removing  from  it.  But 
Florence  knew  her  danger,  and  her  high  spirit 
did  not  quail  before  it. 

Yet,  when  Cesarini,  stung  beyond  endur- 
ance by  the  horrors  of  his  remorse,  wrote  and 
confessed  all  his  own  share  of  the  fatal  trea- 
son, though,  faithful  to  his  promise,  he  con- 
cealed that  of  his  accomplice, — then,  ah,  then, 
she  did  indeed  repine  at  her  doom,  and  long 
to  look  once  more  with  the  eyes  of  love  and 
joy  upon  the  face  of  the  beautiful  world.  But 
the  illness  of  the  body  usually  brings  out  a 
latent  power  and  philosophy  of  the  soul,  which 
health  never  knows;  and  God  has  mercifully 
ordained  it  as  the  customary  lot  of  nature, 
that  in  proportion  as  we  decline  into  the  grave, 
the  sloping  path  is  made  smooth  and  easy  to 
our  feet;  and  every  day,  as  the  films  of  clay 
are  removed  from  our  eyes.  Death  loses  the 
false  aspect  of  the  spectre,  and  we  fall  at  last 
into  its  arms  as  a  weared  child  upon  the 
bosom  of  its  mother. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  Lady  Flor- 
ence listened  to  the  monotonous  clicking  of 
the  clock  that  announced  the  departure  of 
moments  few,  yet  not  precious,  still  spared  to 
her.  Her  face  buriedin  her  hands,  she  bent 
over  the  small  table  beside  her  sofa,  and  in- 
dulged her  melancholy  thoughts.  Bowed  was 
the  haughty  crest,  unnerved  the  elastic  shape 
that  had  once  seemed  born  for  majesty  aud 
command — no  friends  were  near,  for  Florence 
had  never  made  friends.  Solitary  had  been 
her  youth,  and  solitary  were  her  dying  hours. 

As  she  thus  sat  and  mused,  a  sound  of  car- 
riage  wheels  in  the  street  below  slightly  shook 
the  room — it  ceased — the  carriage  stopped  at 
the  door.  Florence  looked  up.  "  No,  no,  it 
cannot  be,"  she  muttered;  yet,  while  she  spoke, 


/84 


BULWERS     WORKS. 


a  faint  flush  passed  over  her  sunken  and  faded 
cheek,  and  the  bosom  heaved  beneath  the 
robe,  "  a  world  too  wide  for  its  shrunk  "  pro- 
portions. There  was  a  silence,  which  to  her 
seemed  interminable,  and  she  turned  away 
with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  chill  sinking  of  the 
heart. 

At  this  time  her  woman  entered  with  a 
meaning  and  flurried  look. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady — but " 

"But  what?" 

"  Mr.  Maltravers  has  called,  and  asked  for 
your  ladyship — so,  my  lady,  Mr.  Burton  sent 
for  me,  and  I  said,  my  lady  is  too  unwell  to  see 
any  one;  but  Mr.  Maltravers  would  not  be 
denied,  and  he  is  waiting  in  my  lord's  library, 
and  insisted  on  my  coming  up  and  'nouncing 
him,  my  lady." 

Now  Mrs.  Shinfield's  words  were  not  eupho- 
nistic,  nor  her  voice  mellifluous;  but  never 
had  eloquence  seemed  to  Florence  so  effec- 
tive. Youth,  love,  beauty,  all  rushed  back 
upon  her  at  once,  brightening  her  eyes,  her 
cheek,  and  filling  up  ruin  with  sudden  and  de- 
ceitful light. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  let  Mr. 
Maltravers  come  up." 

"  Come  up,  my  lady  ?  Bless  me  ! — let  me 
just  'range  your  hair — your  ladyship  is  really 
in  such  dish-a-bill." 

"  Best  as  it  is,  Shinfield — he  will  excuse 
all— Go." 

Mrs.  Shinfield  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
departed.  A  few  moments  more — a  step  on 
stairs,  the  creaking  of  the  door, — and  Maltra- 
vers and  Florence  were  again  alone.  He  stood 
motionless  on  the  threshold.  She  had  invol- 
untarily risen,  and  so  they  stood  opposite  to 
each  other,  and  the  lamp  fell  full  upon  her 
face.  Oh,  heaven  !  when  did  that  sight  cease 
to  haunt  the  heart  of  Maltravers  !  When  shall 
that  altered  aspect  not  pass  as  a  ghost  before 
his  eyes  !— there  it  is,  faithful  and  reproachful, 
alike  in  solitude  and  in  crowds — it  is  seen  in 
the  glare  of  noon — it  passes  dim  and  wan  at 
night,  beneath  the  stars  and  the  earth — it 
looked  into  his  heart,  and  left  its  likeness  there 
for  ever  and  for  ever  !  Those  cheeks,  once  so 
beautifully  rounded,  now  sunken  into  lines 
and  hollows — the  livid  darkness  beneath  the 
eyes — the  whitened  lip — the  sharp,  anxious, 
worn  expression,  which  had  replaced  that 
glorious  and  beaming  regard,   from  which  all 


the  life  of  genius,  all  the  sweet  pride  of 
womanhood  had  glowed  forth,  and  in  which  not 
only  the  intelligence,  but  the  eternity  of  the 
soul,  seemed  visibly  wrought ! 

There  he  stood  aghast  and  appalled.  At 
length  a  low  grown  broke  from  his  lips — he 
rushed  forward,  sank  on  his  knees  beside  her, 
and  clasping  both  her  hands,  sobbed  aloud 
as  he  covered  them  with  kisses.  All  the  iron 
of  his  strong  nature  was  broken  down,  and  his 
emotions,  long  silenced,  and  now  uncontrol- 
lable and  resistless,  were  something  terrible  to 
behold  ! 

"  Do  not — do  not  weep  so,"  murmured  Lady 
Florence,  frightened  by  his  vehemence;  "I 
am  sadly  changed,  but  the  fault  is  mine — 
Ernest,  it  is  mine;  best,  kindest,  gentlest,  how 
could  I  have  been  so  mad  ! — and  you  forgive 
me  ?  I  am  yours  again — a  little  while  yours. 
Ah,  do  not  grieve  while  I  am  so  blessed  !  " 

As  she  spoke,  her  tears — tears  from  a 
source  how  different  from  that  whence  broke 
the  scorching  and  intolerable  agony  of  his 
own,  fell  soft  upon  his  bended  head,  and  the 
hands  that  still  convulsively  strained  hers. 
Maltravers  looked  wildly  up  into  her  counte- 
nance and  shuddered  as  he  saw  her  attempt  to 
smile.  He  rose  abruptly,  threw  himself  into 
a  chair  and  covered  his  face.  He  was  seeking, 
by  a  violent  effort,  to  master  himself,  and  it 
was  only  by  the  heaving  of  his  chest,  and  now 
and  then  a  gasp  as  for  breath,  that  he  be- 
trayed the  stormy  struggle  within. 

Florence  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  bitter, 
in  almost  selfish  penitence.  "  And  this  was 
the  man  who  seemed  to  me  so  callous  to  the 
softer  sympathies — this  was  the  heart  I  tram- 
pled upon — this  the  nature  I  disturbed  ! '' 

She  came  near  him,  trembling  and  with 
feeble  steps — she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  the  fondness  of  love  came  over 
her,  and  she  wound  her  arms  around  him. 

"  It  is  our  fate — it  is  my  fate,"  said  Maltra- 
vers at  last,  awakening  as  from  a  hideous 
dream,  and  in  a  hollow  but  calm  voice — "  we 
are  the  things  of  destiny,  and  the  wheel  has 
crushed  us.  It  is  an  awful  state  of  being  this 
human  life  ! — What  is  wisdom — virtue — faith 
to  men — piety  to  heaven — all  the  nurture  we 
bestow  on  ourselves — all  our  desire  to  win  a 
loftier  sphere,  when  we  are  thus  the  tools  of 
the  merest  chance — the  victims  of  the  pettiest 
villany;    and   our   very   existence — our   very 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS. 


i8s 


senses  almost,  at  the  mercy  of  every  traitor 
and  every  fool  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  Ernest's  voice,  as 
well  as  in  his  reflections,  which  appeared  so 
unnaturally  calm  and  deep  that  it  startled 
Florence  with  a  fear  more  acute  than  his  pre- 
vious violence  had  done.  He  rose,  and  .mut- 
tering to  himself,  walked  to  and  fro,  as  if  in- 
sensible of  her  presence — in  fact  he  was  so. 
At  length  he  stopped  short,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  Lady  Florence,  said,  in  a  whispered 
and  thrilling  tone, — 

"  Now,  then,  the  name  of  our  undoer  ?  " 
"  No,  Ernest,  no — never,  unless  you  promise 
me  to  forego  the  purpose  which  I  read  in  your 
eyes.     He  has  confessed — he  is  penitent — I 
have  forgiven  him — you  will  do  so  too  !  " 

"  His  name  !  "  repeated  Maltravers,  and  his 
face,  before  very  flushed,  was  unnaturally  pale. 
"  Forgive  him — promise  me." 
"  His  name,  I  say,— his  name  ?" 
"  Is  this   kind  ? — you  terrify  me — you  will 
kill  me  !  "  faltered  out  Florence,  and  she  sank 
on  the  sofa  exhausted;  her   nerves,    now  so 
weakened,    were    perfectly    unstrung    by    his 
vehemence,   and    she    wrung   her   hands  and 
wept  piteously. 

"You  will  not  tell  me  his  name?"  said 
Maltravers  softly.  "  Be  it  so.  I  will  ask  no 
more.  I  can  discover  it  myself.  Fate  the 
Avenger  will  reveal  it." 

At  that  thought  he  grew  more  composed; 
and  as  Florence  wept  on,  the  unnatural  con- 
centration and  fierceness  of  his  mind  again 
gave  way,  and,  seating  himself  beside  her,  he 
uttered  all  that  could  soothe,  and  comfort,  and 
console.  And  Florence  was  soon  soothed  ! 
And  there,  while  over  their  heads  the  grim 
skeleton  was  holding  the  funeral  pall,  they 
again  exchanged  their  vows,  and  again,  with 
feelings  fonder  than  of  old,  spoke  of  love. 


CHAPTER    V. 

*        *        *        "  Erichtho,  then, 

Breathes  her  dire  murmurs  which  enforce  him  bear 

Her  baneful  secrets  to  the  spirits  of  horror." 

— Mari.ow. 

With  a  heavy  step  Maltravers  ascended  the 
stairs  of  his  lonely  house  that  night,  and 
heavily,  with  a  suppressed  groan,  did  he  sink 
upon  the  first  chair  that  proffered  rest 


It  was  intensely  cold.  During  his  long  in- 
terview with  Lady  Florence,  his  servant  had 
taken  the  precaution  to  go  to  Seamore  Place, 
and  make  some  hasty  preparations  for  the 
owner's  return.  But  the  bed-room  looked 
comfortless  and  bare,  the  curtains  were  taken 
down,  the  carpets  were  taken  up,  (a  single 
man's  housekeeper  is  wonderfully  provident  in 
these  matters:  the  moment  his  back  is  turned, 
she  bustles,  she  displaces,  she  exults;  "things 
can  be  put  a  little  to  rights  !  ")  Even  the  fire 
would  not  burn  clear,  but  gleamed  sullen  and 
fitful  from  the  smothering  fuel.  It  was  a  large 
chamber,  and  the  lights  imperfectly  filled  it. 
On  the  table  lay  parliamentary  papers,  and 
pamphlets,  and  bills,  and  presentation-books 
from  younger  authors, — evidences  of  the  teem- 
ing business  of  that  restless  machine  the  world. 
But  of  all  this  Maltravers  was  not  sensible: 
the  winter  frost  numbed  not  his  feverish  veins. 
His  servant,  who  loved  him,  as  all  who  saw 
much  of  Maltravers  did,  fidgeted  anxiously 
about  the  room  and  plied  the  sullen  fire,  and 
laid  out  the  comfortable  dressing-robe,  and 
placed  wine  on  the  table,  and  asked  questions 
which  were  not  answered,  and  pressed  service 
which  was  not  heeded. 

The  little  wheels  of  life  go  on,  even  when 
the  great  wheel  is  paralyzed  or  broken.  Mal- 
travers was,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  in  a  kind 
of  mental  trance.  His  emotions  had  left  him 
thoroughly  exhausted.  He  felt  that  torpor 
which  succeeds,  and  is  again  the  precursor 
of,  great  woe.  At  length  he  was  alone,  and 
the  solitude  half  unconsciously  restored  him 
to  the  sense  of  his  heavy  misery.  For  it 
may  be  observed,  that  when  misfortune  has 
stricken  us  home,  the  presence  of  any  one 
seems  to  interfere  between  the  memory  and 
the  heart.  Withdraw  the  intruder,  and  the 
lifted  hammer  falls  at  once  upon  the  anvil  I 
He  rose  as  the  door  closed  on  his  attendant — 
rose  with  a  start,  and  pushed  the  hat  from  his 
gathered  brows.  He  walked  for  some  mo- 
ments to  and  fro,  and  the  air  of  the  room, 
freezing  as  it  was,  oppressed  him. 

There  are  times  when  the  arrow  quivers 
within  us — in  which  all  space  seems  too  con- 
fined. Like  the  wounded  hart  we  could  fly  on 
for  ever;  there  is  a  vague  desire  of  escape — a 
yearning,  almost  insane,  to  get  out  from  our 
own  selves:  the  soul  struggles  to  flee  away 
and  take  the  wings  of  the  morning. 


1 86 


£  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


Impatiently,  at  last,  did  Maltravers  throw 
open  his  window  ;  it  communicated  upon  a 
balcony,  built  out  to  command  the  wide  view 
which  from  a  certain  height,  that  part  of  the 
park  affords.  He  stept  into  the  balcoay  and 
bared  his  breast  to  the  keen  air.  The  uncom- 
fortable and  icy  heavens  looked  down  upon 
the  hoar-rime  that  gathered  over  the  grass,  and 
the  ghostly  boughs  of  the  death-like  trees- 
All  things  in  the  world  without,  brought  the 
thought  of  the  grave,  and  the  pause  of  being, 
and  the  withering  up  of  beauty,  closer  and 
closer  to  his  soul.  In  the  palpable  and  grip- 
ing winter,  death  itself  seemed  to  wind  around 
him  its  skeleton  and  joyless  arms.  And  as 
thus  he  stood,  and,  wearied  with  contending 
against,  passively  yielded  to,  the  bitter  pas- 
sions that  wrung  and  gnawed  his  heart, — he 
heard  not  a  sound  at  the  door  below — nor  the 
footsteps  on  the  stairs — nor  knew  he  that  a 
visitor  was  in  his  room — till  he  felt  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  turning  round,  he  be- 
held the  white  and  livid  countenance  of  Cas- 
truccio  Cesarini. 

"  It  is  a  dreary  night  and  a  solemn  hour, 
Maltravers,"  said  the  Italian,  with  a  distorted 
smile,  "  a  flitting  night  and  time  for  my  inter- 
view with  you." 

"  Away  !  "  said  Maltravers,  in  an  impatient 
tone.  "  I  am  not  at  leisure  for  these  mock 
heroics." 

"  Ay,  but  you  shall  hear  me  to  the  end.  I 
have  watched  your  arrival— I  have  counted 
the  hours  in  which  you  remained  with  her — I 
have  followed  you  home.  If  you  have  human 
passions,  humanity  itself  must  be  dried  up 
within  you,  and  the  wild  beast  in  his  cavern  is 
not  more  fearful  to  encounter.  Thus,  then,  I 
seek  and  brave  you.  Be  still.  Has  Florence 
revealed  to  you  the  name  of  him  who  belied 
you,  and  who  betrayed  herself  to  the  death  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Maltravers,  growing  very  pale, 
and  fixing  his  eyes  on  Cesarini,  "  you  are  not 
the  man — my   suspicions  lighted  elsewhere." 

"  1  am  the  man.     Do  thy  worst." 

Scarce  were  the  words  uttered,  when,  with 
a  fierce  cry,  Maltravers  threw  himself  on  the 
Italian; — he  tore  him  from  his  footing — he 
grasped  him  in  his  arms  as  a  child — he  liter- 
ally whirled  him  around  and  on  high;  and  in 
that  maddening  paroxysm,  it  was,  perhaps, 
but  the  balance  of  a  feather,  in  the  conflicting 
elements  of  revenge  and   reason,  which  with 


held  Maltravers  from  hurling  the  criminal 
from  the  fearful  height  on  which  they  stood. 
The  temptation  passed — Cesarini  leaned,  safe, 
unharmed,  but  half  senseless  with  mingled 
rage  and  fear,  against  the  wall. 

He  was  alone — Maltravers  had  left  him — 
had  fled  from  himself — fled  into  the  chamber 
— fled  for  refuge  from  human  passions — to 
the  wing  of  the  All-Seeing  and  All-Present. 
"  Father,"  he  groaned,  sinking  on  his  knees, 
"support  me,  save  me:  without  Thee  I  am 
lost !  " 

Slowly  Cesarini  recovered  himself  and  re- 
entered the  apartment.  A  string  in  his  brain 
was  already  loosened,  and,  sullen  and  feroc- 
ious, he  returned  again  to  goad  the  lion  that 
had  spared  him.  Maltravers  had  already  risen 
from  his  brief  prayer.  With  locked  and  rigid 
countenance,  with  arms  folded  on  his  breast — 
he  stood  confronting  the  Italian,  who  advanced 
towards  him  with  a  menacing  brow  and  arm, 
but  halted  involuntarily  at  the  sight  of  that 
commanding  aspect. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Maltravers  at  last,  with 
a  tone  preternaturally  calm  and  low,  "  you 
then  are  the  man.  Speak  on — what  arts  did 
you  employ  ? " 

"  Your  own  letter  !  When,  many  months 
ago,  I  wrote  to  tell  you  of  the  hopes  it  was 
mine  to  conceive,  and  to  ask  your  opinion  of 
her  I  loved,  how  did  you  answer  me  ?  With 
doubts,  with  depreciation,  with  covert  and 
polished  scorn,  of  the  very  woman,  whom  with 
a  deliberate  treachery,  you  afterwards  wrested 
from  my  worshipping  and  adoring  love.  That 
letter  I  garbled — I  made  the  doubts  you  ex- 
pressed of  my  happiness  seem  doubts  of  your 
own.  I  changed  the  dates — I  made  the  letter 
itself  appear  written,  not  on  your  first  acquaint- 
ance with  her,  but  subsequent  to  your 
plighted  and  accepted  vows.  Your  own  hand- 
writing convicted  you  of  mean  suspicion  and 
of  sordid  motives.     These  were  my  arts." 

"  They  were  most  noble.  Do  you  abide  by 
them — or  repent  !  " 

"  For  what  I  have  done  to  thee  I  have  no 
repentance.  Nay,  I  regard  thee  still  as  the 
aggressor.  Thou  hast  robbed  me  of  her  who 
was  all  the  world  to  me— and  be  thine  excuses 
what  they  may,  I  hate  thee  with  a  hate  that 
cannot  slumber — that  abjures  the  abject  name 
of  remorse  !  I  exult  in  the  very  agonies  thou 
endurest.      But  for  her  —  the  stricken  —  the 


ERNEST    MALTHA  VERS-. 


i8j 


dying!      O    God,    O   God!     The   blow  falls 
upon  mine  own  head  ! " 

"  Dying  ! "  said  Maltravers,  slowly  and  with 
a  shudder.  "  No,  no— not  dying — or  what  art 
thou  ?  Her  murderer  !  And  what  must  I  be  ? 
Her  avenger  ! " 

Overpowered  with  his  own  passions,  Cesarini 
sank  down,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
clasped  hands.  Maltravers  stalked  gloomily 
to  and  fro  the  apartment.  There  was  silence 
for  some  moments. 

At  length  Maltravtrs  paused  opposite  Cesa- 
rini, and  thus  addressed  him: 

"  You  have  come  hither,  not  so  much  to 
confess  the  basest  crime  of  which  man  can  be 
guilty,  as  to  gloat  over  my  anguish,  and  to 
brave  me  to  revenge  my  wrongs.  Go,  man, 
go^for  the  present  you  are  safe.  While  she 
lives,  my  life  is  not  mine  to  hazard — if  she 
recover,  I  can  pity  you  and  forgive.  To  me 
your  offence,  foul  though  it  be,  sinks  below 
contempt  itself.  It  is  the  consequences  of 
that  crime  as  they  relate  to — to — that  noble 
and  suffering  woman,  which  can  alone  raise 
the  despicable  into  the  tragic,  and  make  your 
life  a  worthy  and  a  necessary  offering — not  to 
revenge,  but  justice: — life  for  life — victim  for 
victim  !    'Tis  the  old  law — 'tis  a  righteous  one." 

"  You  shall  not,  with  your  accursed  coldness, 
thus  dispose  of  me  as  you  will,  and  arrogate 
the  option  to  smite  or  save  !  No,"  continued 
Cesarini,  stamping  his  foot — "  no;  far  from 
seeking  forebearance  at  your  hands — I  dare 
and  defy  you  !  You  think  I  have  injured  you 
— I,  on  the  other  hand,  consider  that  the 
wrong  has  come  from  yourself.  But  for  you, 
she  might  have  loved  me— have  been  mine. 
Let  that  pass.  But  for  you,  at  least,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  I  should  neither  have  sullied  my  soul 
with  a  vile  sin,  nor  brought  the  brightest  of 
human  beings  to  the  grave.  If  she  dies,  the 
murder  may  be  mine,  but  you  were  the  cause 
— the  devil  that  tempted  to  the  offence.  I 
defy  and  spit  upon  you — I  have  no  softness 
left  in  me — my  veins  are  fire — my  heart  thirsts 
for  blood.  You — you — have  still  the  privilege 
to  see — to  bless — to  tend  her:  and  I — I,  who 
loved  her  so — who  could  have  kissed  the  earth 
she  trod  on — I — well,  well,  no  matter — I  hate 
you — I  insult  you — I  call  you  villain  and 
dastard — I  throw  myself  on  the  laws  of  honor, 
and  I  demand  that  conflict  you  defer  or 
deny  !  " 


"  Home,  doter — home — fall  on  thy  knees, 
and  pray  to  Heaven  for  pardon — make  up  thy 
dread  account — repine  not  at  the  days  yet 
thine  to  wash  the  black  spot  from  thy  soul. 
For,  while  I  speak,  I  foresee  too  well  that  her 
daj's  are  numbered,  and  with  her  thread  of 
life  is  entwined  thine  own.  Within  twelve 
hours  from  her  last  moment,  we  shall  meet 
again:  but  now  I  am  as  ice  and  stone, — thou 
canst  not  move  me.  Her  closing  life  shall 
not  be  darkened  by  the  aspect  of  blood — by 
the  thought  of  the  sacrifice  it  demands.  Be- 
gone, or  menials  shall  cast  thee  from  my  door: 
those  lips  are  too  base  to  breathe  the  same 
air  as  honest  men.     Begone,  I  say,  begone." 

Though  scarce  a  muscle  moved  in  the  lofty 
countenance  of  Maltravers — though  no  frown 
darkened  the  majestic  brow — though  no  fire 
broke  from  the  steadfast  and  scornful  eye — 
there  was  a  kingly  authority  in  the  aspect,  in 
the  extended  arm,  the  stately  crest,  and  a 
power  in  the  swell  of  the  stern  voice,  which 
awed  and  quelled  the  unhappy  being  whose 
own  passions  exhausted  and  unmanned  him. 
He  strove  to  fling  back  scorn  to  scorn,  but  his 
lips  trembled  and  his  voice  died  in  hollow 
murmurs  within  his  breast.  Maltravers  re- 
garded him  with  a  crushing  and  intense  disdain. 
The  Italian  with  shame  and  wrath  wrestled 
against  himself,  but  in  vain:  the  cold  eye 
that  was  fixed  upon  him  was  as  a  spell,  which 
the  fiend  within  him  could  not  rebel  against 
or  resist.  Mechanically  he  moved  to  the  door, 
then  turning  round,  he  shook  his  clenched 
hand  at  Maltravers,  and  with  a  wild  maniacal 
laugh,  rushed  from  the  apartment. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


'  On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies." 

— Gray. 


Not  a  day  passed  in  which  Maltravers  was 
absent  from  the  side  of  Florence.  He  came 
early,  he  went  late.  He  subsided  into  his 
former  character  of  an  accepted  suitor,  without 
a  word  of  explanation  with  Lord  Saxingham. 
That  task  was  left  to  Florence.  She  doubt- 
less performed  it  well,  for  his  lordship  seemed 
satisfied  though  grave,  and,  almost  forthe  first 
time  in   his  life,  sad.     Maltravers   never  re- 


i88 


B  UL  WERS     WORKS. 


verted  to  the  cause  of  their  unhappy  dissen- 
sion. Nor  from  that  night  did  he  once  give 
way  to  whatever  might  be  his  more  agonized 
and  fierce  emotions — he  never  affected  to  re- 
proach himself— he  never  bewailed  with  a  vain 
despair  their  approaching  separation.  What- 
ever it  cost  him,  he  stood  collected  and  stoical 
in  the  intense  power  of  his  self-control.  He 
had  but  one  object — one  desire — one  hope — 
to  save  the  last  hours  of  Florence  Lascelles 
from  every  pang — to  brighten  and  smoothe 
the  passage  across  the  Solemn  Bridge.  His 
forethought,  his  presence  of  mind,  his  care, 
his  tenderness,  never  forsook  him  for  an  in- 
stant; they  went  beyond  the  attributes  of  men, 
they  went  into  all  the  fine,  the  indescribable 
minutias  by  which  woman  makes  herself  "  in 
pain  and  anguish "  the  "  ministering  angel." 
It  was  as  if  he  had  nerved  and  braced  his 
whole  nature  to  one  duty — as  if  that  duty  were 
more  felt  than  affection  itself — as  if  he  were 
resolved  that  Florence  should  not  remember 
that  site  had  no  mother  ! 

And  oh,  then,  how  Florence  loved  him  ! 
how  far  more  luxurious  in  its  grateful  and 
clinging  fondness,  was  that  love,  than  the  wild 
and  jealous  fire  of  their  earlier  connection  ! 
Her  own  character,  as  is  often  the  case  in 
Ungering  illness,  became  incalculably  more 
gentle  and  softened  down,  as  the  shadows 
closed  around  it.  She  loved  to  make  him 
read  and  talk  to  her — and  her  ancient  poetry 
of  thought  now  grew  mellowed,  as  it  were,  into 
religion,  which  is  indeed  poetry  with  a  stronger 

wing There  was  a  world  beyond  the 

grave — there  was  life  out  of  the  chrysalis 
sleep  of  death— they  would  yet  be  united. 
And  Maltravers,  who  was  a  solemn  and  in- 
tense believer  in  the  Great  Hope,  did  not 
neglect  the  purest  and  highest  of  all  the  foun- 
tains of  solace. 

Often  in  that  quiet  room,  in  that  gorgeous 
mansion  which  had  been  the  scene  of  all  vain 
or  worldly  schemes — of  flirtations  and  feast- 
ings,  and  political  meetings  and  cabinet  din- 
ners, and  all  the  bubbles  of  the  passing  wave 
— often  there  did  these  persons,  whose  position 
to  each  other  had  been  so  suddenly  and  so 
strangely  changed — converse  on  those  matters 
— daring  and  divine — which  "  make  the  bridal 
of  the  earth  and  sky." 

"  How  fortunate  am  I,"  said  Florence,  one 
day,  "  that  my  choice  fell   on  one  who  thinks 


as  you  do  !  How  your  words  elevate  and  ex- 
alt me  ! — yet  once  I  never  dreamt  of  asking 
your  creed  on  these  questions.  It  is  in  sorrow 
or  sickness  that  we  learn  why  Faith  was  given 
as  a  soother  to  man — Faith,  which  is  Hope 
with  a  holier  name — hope  that  knows  neither 
deceit  nor  death.  Ah,  how  wisely  do  you 
speak  of  the  philosophy  of  belief  !  It  is,  in- 
deed, the  telescope  through  which  the  stars 
grow  large  upon  our  gaze.  And  to  you,  Er- 
nest, my  beloved — comprehended  and  known 
at  last — to  you  I  leave,  when  I  am  gone,  that 
monitor — that  friend; — you  will  know  yourself 
what  you  teach  to  me.  And  when  you  look 
not  on  the  heavens  alone  but  in  all  space — on 
all  the  illimitable  creation,  you  will  know  that 
I  am  there  !  For  the  home  of  a  spirit  is  where- 
ever  spreads  the  Universal  Presence  of  God. 
And  to  what  numerous  stages  of  being,  what 
paths,  what  duties,  what  active  and  glorious 
tasks  in  other  worlds  may  we  not  be  reserved 
—perhaps  to  know  and  share  them  together, 
and  mount  age  after  age  higher  in  the  scale 
of  being.  For  surely  in  heaven  there  is  no 
pause  or  torpor — we  do  not  lie  down  in  calm 
and  unimprovable  repose.  Movement  and 
progress  will  remain  the  law  and  condition  of 
existence.  And  there  will  be  efforts  and  duties 
for  us  above  as  there  have  been  below." 

It  was  in  this  theory,  which  Maltravers 
shared,  that  the  character  of  Florence,  her 
overflowing  life  and  activity  of  thought — her 
aspirations,  her  ambition  were  still  displayed. 
It  was  not  so  much  to  the  calm  and  rest  of 
the  grave  that  she  extended  her  unreluctant 
gaze,  as  to  the  light  and  glory  of  a  renewed 
and  progressive  existence. 

It  was  while  thus  they  sat,  the  low  voice  of 
Ernest,  tranquil  yet  half  trembling  with  the 
emotions  he  sought  to  restrain — sometimes 
sobering,  sometimes  yet  more  elevating,  the 
thoughts  of  Florence,  that  Lord  Vargrave  was 
announced,  and  Lumley  Ferrers,  who  had  now 
succeeded  to  that  title,  entered  the  room.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  Florence  had  seen  him 
since  the  death  of  his  uncle — the  first  time 
Maltravers  had  seen  him  since  the  evening  so 
fatal  to  Florence.  Both  started — Maltravers 
rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  Lord  Var- 
grave took  the  hand  of  his  cousin  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips  in  silence,  while  his  looks  be- 
tokened feelings  that  for  once  were  genuine. 

"You    see,  Lumley,  I   am   resigned,"    said 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


189 


Florence,  with  a  sweet  smile.    "  I  am  resigned 
and  happy." 

Lumley  glanced  at  Maltravers,  and  met  a 
cold,  scrutinizing,  piercing  eye,  from  which 
he  shrank  with  some  confusion.  He  recov- 
ered himself  in  an  instant. 

"  I  am  rejoiced,  my  cousin,  I  am  rejoiced," 
said  he,  very  earnestly,  "  to  see  Maltravers 
here  again.     Let  us  now  hope  for  the  best." 

Maltravers  walked  deliberately  up  to  Lum- 
ley, "  Will  you  take  my  hand  nmv,  too  ?  "  said 
ne,  with  deep  meaning  in  his  tone. 

"  More  willingly  than  ever,"  said  Lumley; 
and  he  did  not  shrink  as  he  said  it. 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  replied  Maltravers,  after  a 
pause,  and  in  a  voice  that  expressed  more  than 
his  words. 

There  is  in  some  natures  so  great  a  hoard  of 
generosity,  that  it  often  dulls  their  acuteness. 
Maltravers  could  not  believe  that  frankness 
could  be  wholly  a  mask — it  was  an  hypocrisy 
he  knew  not  of.  He  himself  was  not  incap- 
able, had  circumstances  so  urged  him,  of  great 
crimes;  nay,  the  design  of  one  crime  layatthat 
moment  deadly  and  dark  within  his  heart,  for 
he  had  some  passions  which  is  so  resolute  a 
character  could  produce,  should  the  wind 
waken  them  into  storm,  dire  and  terrible  effects. 
Even  at  the  age  of  thirty,  it  was  yet  uncertain 
whether  Ernest  Maltravers  might  become  an 
exemplary  or  an  evil  man.  But  he  could 
sooner  have  strangled  a  foe  than  taken  the 
hand  of  a  man  whom  he  had  once  betrayed. 

"  I  love  to  think  you  friends,"  said  Flor- 
ence, gazing  at  them  affectionately,  "  and  to 
you,  at  least,  Lumley,  such  friendshij)  should 
be  a  blessing.  I  always  loved  you  much  and 
dearly,  Lumley — loved  you  as  a  brother, 
though  our  characters  often  jarred." 

Lumley  winced.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,"  he 
cried,  "  do  not  speak  thus  tenderly  to  me — I 

cannot  bear  it,  and  look  on  you  and  think " 

"That  I  am  dying.  Kind  words  become 
us  best,  when  our  words  are  approaching  to 
the  last.  But  enough  of  this — I  grieved  for 
your  loss." 

"  My  poor  uncle  !  "  said  Lumley,  eagerly 
changing  the  conversation — "  the  shock  was 
sudden;  and  melancholy  duties  have  absorbed 
me  so  till  this  day  that  I  could  not  come  even 
to  you.  It  soothed  me,  however,  to  learn,  in 
answer  to  my  daily  inquiries,  that  Ernest  was 
here.     For    my   part,"  he   added  with  a  faint 


smile,  "  I  have  had  duties  as  well  as  honors 
devolved  upon  me.  I  am  left  guardian  to  an 
heiress,  and  bethrothed  to  a  child." 
"  How  do  you  mean  ? " 
"  Why,  my  poor  uncle  was  so  fondly  at- 
attached  to  his  wife's  daughter,  that  he  has 
left  her  the  bulk  of  his  property;  a  very  small 
estate — not  2000/.  a  year — goes  with  the  title 
— (a  new  title,  too,  which  requires  twice  as 
much  to  carry  it  off  and  make  its  pinchbeck 
pass  for  gold).  In  order,  however,  to  serve  a 
double  purpose,  secure  to  his  protegee  his  own 
beloved  peerage  and  atone  to  his  nephew  for 
the  loss  of  wealth — he  has  left  it  a  last  re- 
quest, that  I  should  marry  the  young  lady 
over  whom  I  am  appointed  guardian,  when  she 
is  eighteen — alas  !  I  shall  then  be  at  the 
other  side  of  forty  !  If  she  does  not  take  to 
so  mature  a  bridegroom,  she  loses  thirty — only 
thirty,  of  the  200,000/.  settled  upon  her,  which 
goes  to  me  as  a  sugar-plum  after  the  nauseous 
draught  of  the  young  lady's  'No.'  Now,  you 
know  all.  His  widow,  really  an  exemplary 
young  woman,  has  a  jointure  of  1500/.  a-year,, 
and  the  villa.  It  is  not  much,  but  she  is  con- 
tented." 

The  lightness  of  the  new  peer's  tone  re- 
volted Maltravers,  and  he  turned  impatiently 
away.  But  Lord  Vargrave,  resolving  not  to 
suffer  the  conversation  to  glide  back  to  sorrow- 
ful subjects  which  he  always  hated,  turned 
round  to  Ernest,  and  said,  "  Well,  my  dear 
Ernest,  I  see  by  the  papers  that  you   are  to 

have  N 's  late  appointment — it  is  a  very 

rising  office.     I  congratulate  you." 

"  I  have  refused,"  said  Maltravers,  drily. 
"  Bless  me  ! — indeed  ! — why  ?  " 
Ernest   bit   his   lip,  and   frowned;  but   his 
glance   wandering   unconsciously  at  Florence, 
Lumley  thought  he  detected  the  true  reply  tO' 
his  question,  and  became  mute. 

The  conversation  was  afterwards  embar- 
rassed and  broken  up;  Lnmley  went  away  as. 
soon  as  he  could,  and  Lady  Florence  that  night 
had  a  severe  fit,  and  could  not  leave  her  bed 
the  next  day.  That  confinement  she  had 
struggled  against  to  the  last;  and  now  day  by- 
day,  it  grew  more  frequent  and  inevitable. 
The  steps  of  Death  became  accelerated.  And 
Lord  Saxingham,  wakened  at  last  to  the  mourn- 
ful truth,  took  his  place  by  his  daughter's 
side,  and  forgot  that  he  was  a  cabinet  minister 


tgo 


BULWERS     WORKS. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  Away,  my  friends,  why  take  such  pains  to  know, 
What  some  brave  marble  soon  in  church  shall  show  ?  " 

— Crabbe. 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  Maltravers  had 
never  loved  Lady  Florence  as  he  did  now. 
Was  it  the  perversity  of  human  nature  that 
makes  the  things  of  mortality  dearer  to  us  in 
proportion  as  they  fade  from  our  hopes,  like 
birds  whose  hues  are  only  unfolded  when  they 
take  wing  and  vanish  amidst  the  skies;  or  was 
it  that  he  had  ever  doted  more  on  loveli- 
ness of  mind  than  that  of  form,  and  the  first 
bloomed  out  the  more,  the  more  the  last  de- 
cayed ?  A  thing  to  protect,  to  soothe,  to 
shelter — oh,  how  dear  it  is  to  the  pride  of 
man  !  The  haughty  woman  who  can  stand 
alone  and  requires  no  leaning  place  in  our 
heart,  loses  the  spell  of  her  sex. 

I  pass  over  those  stages  of  decline  gratui- 
tously painful  to  record;  and  which,  in  this 
case,  mine  cannot  be  the  cold  and  technical 
hand  to  trace.  At  length  came  that  time  when 
physicians  could  define  within  a  few  days  the 
final  hour  of  release.  And  latterly  the  mock- 
ing pruderies  of  rank  had  been  laid  aside, 
and  Maltravers  had,  for  some  hours  at  least 
in  the  day,  taken  his  watch  beside  the  couch 
to  which  the  admired  and  brilliant  Florence 
Lascelles  was  now  almost  constantly  reduced. 
But  her  high  and  heroic  spirit  was  with  her  to 
the  last.  To  the  last  she  could  endure,  love, 
and  hope.  One  day  when  Maltravers  left  his 
post,  she  besought  him,  with  more  solemnity 
than  usual,  to  return  that  evening.  She  fixed 
the  precise  hour,  and  she  sighed  heavily  when 
he  departed.  Maltravers  paused  in  the  hall  to 
speak  to  the  physician,  who  was  just  quitting 
Lord  Saxingham's  library.  Ernest  spoke  to 
him  for  some  moments  calmly,  and  when  he 
heard  the  fiat,  he  betrayed  no  other  emotion 
than  a  slight  quiver  of  the  lip  !  "  I  must  not 
weep  for  her  yet,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned 
from  the  door.  He  went  thence  to  the  house 
of  a  gentleman  of  his  own  age,  with  whom  he 
had  formed  that  kind  of  acquaintance  which 
never  amounts  to  familiar  friendship,  but  rests 
upon  mutual  respect,  and  is  often  more  ready 
than  professed  friendship  itself  to  confer 
mutual  service.  Colonel  Danvers  was  a  man 
who  usually  sat  next  to  Maltravers  in  parlia- 
ment; they  voted  together,  and  thought  alike 


on  principles  both  of  politics  and  honor:  thc-r 
would  have  lent  thousands  to  each  other  witn- 
out  bond  or  memorandum;  and  neither  ever 
wanted  a  warm  and  indignant  advocate  when 
he  was  abused  behind  his  back  in  presence  of 
the  other. 

Yet  their  tastes  and  ordinary  habits  were 
not  congenial;  and  when  they  met  in  the 
streets,  they  never  said,  as  they  would  to  com- 
panions they  esteemed  less,  "Let  us  spend 
the  day  together  !  "  Such  forms  of  acquaint- 
ance are  not  uncommon  among  honorable  men 
who  have  already  formed  habits  and  pursuits 
of  their  own,  which  they  cannot  surrender 
even  to  friendship.  Colonel  Danvers  was  not 
at  home — they  believed  he  was  at  his  club,  of 
which  Ernest  also  was  a  member.  Thither 
Maltravers  bent  his  way.  On  arriving,  he 
found  that  Danvers  had  been  at  the  club  an 
hour  ago,  and  left  word  that  he  should  shortly 
return.  Maltravers  entered  and  quietly  sate 
down.  The  room  was  full  of  its  daily  loungers; 
but  he  did  not  shrink  from,  he  did  not  even 
heed,  the  crowd.  He  felt  not  the  desire  of 
solitude — fliere  was  solitude  enough  within 
him.  Several  distinguished  public  men  were 
there,  grouped  around  the  fire,  and  many  of 
the  hangers-on  and  satellites  of  political  life; 
they  were  talking  with  eagerness  and  anima- 
tion, for  it  was  a  season  of  great  party-conflict. 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  though  Maltravers 
was  then  scarcely  sensible  of  their  conversa- 
tion, it  all  came  back  vividly  and  faithfully  on 
him  afterwards,  in  the  first  hours  of  reflection 
on  his  own  future  plans,  and  ser\-ed  to  deepen 
and  consolidate  his  disgust  of  the  world. 
They  were  discussing  the  character  of  a  great 
statesman  whom,  warmed  but  by  the  loftiest 
and  purest  motives,  they  were  unable  to  under- 
stand. Their  gross  suspicions,  their  coarse 
jealousies,  their  calculations  of  patriotism  by 
place,  all  tlitit  strips  the  varnish  from  the  face 
of  that  fair  harlot — Political  Ambition — sank 
like  caustic  into  his  spirit.  A  gentleman,  see- 
ing him  sit  silent,  with  his  hat  over  his  moody 
brows,  civilly  extended  to  him  the  paper  he 
was  reading. 

"It  is  the  second  edition;  you  will  find  the 
last  French  express." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Maltravers;  and  the 
civil  man  started  as  he  heard  the  brief  answer; 
there  was  something  so  inexpressibly  prostrate 
and  broken-spirited  in  the  voice  that  uttered  it. 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


191 


Maltravers'  eyes  fell  mechanically  on  the 
columns,  and  caught  his  own  name.  That 
work  which,  in  the  fair  retirement  of  Temple 
Grove  it  had  so  pleased  him  to  compose — in 
every  page  and  every  thought  of  which  Flor- 
ence had  been  consulted — which  was  so  in- 
separably associated  with  her  image,  and 
glorified  by  the  light  of  her  kindred  genius — 
was  just  published.  It  had  been  completed 
long  since;  but  the  publisher  had,  for  some 
excellent  reason  of  the  craft,  hitherto  delayed 
its  appearance.  Maltravers  knew  nothing  of 
its  publication;  he  had  meant,  after  his  return 
to  town,  to  have  sent  to  forbid  its  appearance; 
but  his  thoughts  of  late  had  crushed  every- 
thing else  out  of  his  memory — he  had  forgot- 
ten its  existence.  And  now,  in  all  the  pomp 
and  parade  of  authorship,  it  was  sent  into  the 
world  !  N(rw,  nmv,  when  it  was  like  an  inde- 
cent mockery  of  the  Bed  of  Death — a  sacrilege, 
an  impiety  !  There  is  a  terrible  disconnection 
between  the  author  and  the  man — the  author's 
life  and  the  man's  life — the  eras  of  visible 
triumph  may  be  those  of  the  most  intolerable, 
though  unrevealed  and  unconjectured  anguish. 
The  book  that  delighted  us  to  compose  may 
first  appear  in  the  hour  when  all  things  under 
the  sun  are  joyless.  This  had  been  Ernest 
Maltravers'  most  favored  work.  It  had  been 
conceived  in  a  happy  hour  of  great  ambition — 
it  had  been  executed  with  that  desire  of  truth 
which,  in  the  mind  of  genius,  becomes  Art. 
How  little  in  the  solitary  hours  stolen  from 
sleep,  had  he  thought  of  self,  and  that  labor- 
er's hire  called  "  fame  !  "  how  had  he  dreamed 
that  he  was  promulgating  secrets  to  make  his 
kind  better,  and  wiser,  and  truer  to  the  great 
aims  of  life  ! 

How  had  Florence,  and  Florence  alone,  un- 
derstood the  beatings  of  his  heart  in  every 
page  !  And  nmu  .'—it  so  chanced  that  the 
work  was  reviewed  in  the  paper  he  read — it 
was  not  only  hostile  criticism,  it  was  a  person- 
ally abusive  diatribe,  a  virulent  invective.  All 
the  motives  that  can  darken  or  defile  were  as- 
cribed to  him.  All  the  mean  spite  of  some 
mean  mind  was  sputtered  forth.  Had  the 
writer  known  the  awful  blow  that  awaited  Mal- 
travers at  that  time,  it  is  not  in  man's  nature 
but  that  he  would  have  shrunk  from  this  petty 
gall  upon  the  wrung  withers;  but,  as  I  have 
said,  there  is  a  terrible  disconnection  between 
the  author  and  the  man.     The  first   is  always 


at  our  mercy — of  the  last  we  know  nothing. 
At  such  an  hour  Maltravers  could  feel  none  of 
the  contempt  that  proud — none  of  the  wrath 
that  vain — minds  fell  at  these  stings.  He  could 
feel  nothing  but  an  undefined  abhorrence  of 
the  world,  and  of  the  aims  and  objects  he  had 
pursued  so  long.  Yet  that  even  he  did  not 
then  feel.  He  was  in  a  dream;  but  as  men 
remember  dreams,  so  when  he  awoke  did  he 
loathe  his  own  former  aspirations,  and  sicken 
at  their  base  rewards.  It  was  the  first  time 
since  his  first  year  of  inexperienced  author- 
ship, that  abuse  had  had  the  power  even  to 
vex  him  for  a  moment.  But  here,  when  the 
cup  was  already  full,  was  the  drop  that  over- 
flowed. The  great  column  of  his  past  world 
was  gone,  and  all  else  seemed  crumbling 
away. 

At  length  Colonel  Danvers  entered.  Mal- 
tral'ers  drew  him  aside,  and  they  left  the  club. 

"  Danvers,"  said  the  latter,  "  the  time  in 
which  I  told  you  I  should  need  your  services 
is  near  at  hand;  let  me  see  you,  if  possible  to- 
night." 

"Certainly — I  shall  be  at  the  House  till 
eleven.  After  that  hour  you  will  find  me  at 
home." 

"  I  thank  you." 

"  Cannot  this  matter  be  arranged  amicably  ? " 

"  No,  it  is  a  quarrel  of  life  and  death." 

"  Yet  the  world  is  really  growing  too  en- 
lightened for  these  old  mimicries  of  single 
combat." 

"  There  are  some  cases  in  which  human 
nature  and  its  deep  wrongs,  will  be  ever 
stronger  than  the  world  and  its  philosophy. 
Duels  and  wars  belong  to  the  same  principle; 
both  are  sinful  on  light  grounds  and  poor 
pretexts.  But  it  is  not  sinful  for  a  soldier  to 
defend  his  country  from  invasion,  nor  for  man 
with  a  man's  heart,  to  vindicate  truth  and 
honor  with  his  life.  The  robber  that  asks  me 
for  money  I  am  allowed  to  shoot.  Is  the 
robber  that  tears  from  me  treasures  never  to 
be  replaced,  to  go  free  ?  These  are  the  incon- 
sistencies of  a  pseudo-ethics,  which,  as  long  as 
we  are  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  we  can  never 
subscribe  to." 

"  Yet  the  ancients,"  said  Danvers,  with  a 
smile,  "were  as  passionate  as  ourselves  and 
they  dispensed  with  duels." 

"Yes,  because  they  resorted  to  assassina- 
tion ? "  answered   Maltravers,  with  a  gloomy 


ig2 


BULVVER'S     WORKS. 


frown.  "  As  in  revolutions  all  law  is  suspended, 
so  are  there  stormy  events  and  mighty  injuries 
in  life,  which  are  as  revolutions  to  individuals. 
Enough  of  this — it  is  no  time  to  argue  like 
the  schoolmen.  When  we  meet  you  shall 
know  all,  and  you  will  judge  like  me.  Good 
day !  " 

"  What,  are  you  going  already  ?  Maltrav- 
ers,  you  look  ill,  your  hand  is  feverish — you 
should  take  advice." 

Maltravers  smiled — but  the  smile  was  not 
like  his  own — shook  his  head,  and  strode 
rapidly  away. 

Three  of  the  London  clocks,  one  after  the 
other,  had  told  the  hour  of  nine,  as  a  tall  and 
commanding  figure  passed  up  the  street  tow- 
ards Saxingham  House.  Five  doors  before 
you  reach  that  mansion  there  is  a  crossing, 
and  at  this  spot  stood  a  young  man,  in  whose 
face  youth  itself  looked  sapless  and  blasted. 
It  was  then  March; — the  third  of  March;  the 
weather  was  unusually  severe  and  biting,  even 
for  that  angry  month.  There  had  been  snow 
in  the  morning,  and  it  lay  white  and  dreary  in 
various  ridges  along  the  street.  But  the  wind 
was  not  still  in  the  keen  but  quiet  sharpness 
of  frost;  on  the  contrary,  it  howled  almost  like 
a  hurricane  through  the  desolate  thorough- 
fares, and  the  lamps  flickered  unsteadily  in  the 
turbulent  gusts.  Perhaps  it  was  these  blasts 
which  increased  the  haggardness  of  aspect  in 
the  young  man  I  have  mentioned.  His  hair, 
which  was  much  longer  than  is  commonly 
worn,  was  tossed  wildly  from  cheeks  preter- 
naturally  shrunken,  hollow,  and  lived:  and  the 
frail,  thin  form  seemed  scarcely  able  to  sup- 
port itself  against  the  rush  of  the  winds. 

As  the  tall  figure,  which,  in  its  masculine 
stature  and  proportions,  and  a  peculiar  and 
nameless  grandeur  of  bearing,  strongly  con- 
trasted that  of  the  younger  man, — now  came 
to  the  spot  where  the  streets  met,  it  paused 
abruptly. 

"You  are  here  once  more,  Castruccio 
Cesarini — it  is  well  ! "  said  the  low  but  ringing 
voice  of  Ernest  Maltravers.  "  This,  I  believe, 
will  not  be  our  last  interview  to-night." 

"  I  ask  you,  sir,"  said  Cesarini,  in  a  tone  in 
which  pride  struggled  with  emotion— "I  ask 
you  to  tell  me  how  she  is — whether  you  know 
— I  cannot  speak " 

"Your  work  is  nearly  done,"  answered  Mal- 
travers.    "  A  few  hours  more,  and  your  victim, 


for  she  is  yours,  will  bear  her  tale  to  the  Great 
Judgment-Seat.  Murderer  as  you  are,  tremble, 
for  your  own  hour  approaches  !  " 

"  She  dies,  and  I  cannot  see  her  !  and  you 
are  permitted  that  last  glimpse  of  human  per- 
fectness— jw/  who  never  loved  her  as  I  did — 
you  ! — hated  and  detested  ! — you " 

Cesarini  paused,  and  his  voice  died  away, 
choked  in  his  own  convulsive  gaspings  for 
breath. 

Maltravers  looked  at  him  from  the  height 
of  his  erect  and  lofty  form,  with  a  merciless 
eye;  for  in  this  one  quarter  Maltravers  had 
shut  out  pity  from  his  soul. 

"  Weak  criminal  !  "  said  he,  "  hear  me. 
You  received  at  my  hands  forbearance,  friend- 
ship, fostering  and  anxious  care.  When  your 
own  follies  plunged  you  into  penury,  mine 
was  the  unseen  hand  that  plucked  you  from 
famine,  or  the  prison.  I  strove  to  redeem,  and 
save,  and  raise  you,  and  endow  your  miserable 
spirit  with  the  thirst  and  the  power  of  honor 
and  independence.  The  agent  of  that  wish 
was  Florence  Lascelles — you  repaid  us  well  ! 
— a  base  and  fraudulent  forgery,  attaching 
meanness  to  me,  fraught  with  agony  and  death 
to  her.  Your  conscience  at  last  smote  you — 
you  revealed  to  her  your  crime — one  spark  of 
manhood  made  yon  reveal  it  also  to  myself. 
Fresh  as  I  was  in  that  moment,  from  the  con- 
templation of  the  ruin  you  had  made,  I  curbed 
the  impulse  that  would  have  crushed  the  life 
from  your  bosom.  I  told  you  to  live  on  while 
life  was  left  to  her.  If  she  recovered  I  could 
forgive,  if  she  died  I  must  avenge,  We  en- 
tered into  that  solemn  compact,  and  in  a  few 
hours  the  bond  will  need  the  seal— it  is  the 
blood  of  one  of  us.  Castruccia  Cesarini,  there 
is  justice  in  heaven.  Deceive  yourself  not— 
you  will  fall  by  my  hand.  When  the  hour 
comes,  you  will  hear  from  me.  Let  me  pass 
— I  have  no  more  now  to  say." 

Every  syllable  of  this  speech  was  uttered 
with  that  thrilling  distinctness  which  seems  as 
if  the  depth  of  the  heart  spoke  in  the  voice. 
But  Cesarini  did  not  appear  to  understand  its 
import.  He  seized  Maltravers  by  the  arm, 
and  looked  in  his  face  with  a  wild  and  men- 
acing glare. 

"  Did  you  tell  me  she  was  dying?  "  he  said 
"  I  ask  you  that  question,  why  do  you  not 
answer  me  ?  Oh,  by  the  way.  you  threaten  me 
with  your  vengence.     Know  you   not   that  I 


ERNES T    MAL  IRA  VERS. 


193 


lOng  to  meet  you  front  to  front  and  to  the 
death  ?  Did  1  not  tell  you  so — did  I  not  try 
to  move  your  slow  blood — to  insult  you  into  a 
conflict  in  which  I  should  have  gloried  ?  Yet 
then  you  were  marble." 

"  Because  7ny  wrong  I  could  forgive,  and 
hen — there  was  a  hope  that  hers  might  not 
need  the  atonement.     Away  !  " 

Maltravers  shook  the  hold  of  the  Italian 
from  his  arm,  and  passed  on.  A  wild,  sharp 
yell  of  despair  rang  after  him,  and  echoed  in 
his  ear  as  he  strode  the  long,  dim,  solitary 
stairs  that  led  to  the  death-bed  of  Florence 
Lascelles. 

Maltravers  entered  the  room  adjoining  that 
which  contained  the  sufferer, — the  same  room, 
still  gay,  and  cheerful,  in  which  had  been  his 
first  interview  with  Florence  since  their  recon- 
ciliation. 

Here  he  found  the  physician  dozing  in  a 
fauteuil.  Lady  Florence  had  fallen  asleep 
during  the  last  two  or  three  hours.  Lord 
Saxingham  was  in  his  own  apartment,  deeply 
and  noisily  affected,  for  it  was  not  thought 
that  Florence  could  survive  the  night. 

Maltravers  sate  himself  quietly  down.  Be- 
fore him,  on  a  table,  lay  several  manuscript 
books  gaily  and  gorgeously  bound;  he  me- 
chanically opened  them.  Florence's  fair, 
noble,  Italian  characters  met  his  eye  in  every 
page.  Her  rich  and  active  mind — her  love  for 
poetry — her  thirst  for  knowledge — her  indul- 
gence of  deep  thought — spoke  from  those  pages 
like  the  ghosts  of  herself.  Often,  underscored 
with  the  marks  of  her  approbation,  he  chanced 
upon  e-xtracts  from  his  own  works,  sometimes 
upon  reflections  by  the  writer  herself,  not 
inferior  in  truth  and  depth  to  his  own; — 
snatches  of  wild  verse  never  completed,  but 
of  a  power  and  energy  beyond  the  delicate 
grace  of  lady-poets;  brief,  vigorous  criticisms 
on  books  above  the  common  holiday  studies 
of  the  sex; — indignant  and  sarcastic  aphorisms 
on  the  real  world,  with  high  and  sad  bursts  of 
feeling  upon  the  ideal  one;  all,  chequering 
and  enriching  the  varied  volumes,  told  of  the 
rare  gifts  with  which  this  singular  girl  was  en- 
dowed— a  herbal,  as  it  were,  of  withered  blos- 
soms that  might  have  borne  Hesperian  fruits. 
And  sometimes  in  these  outpourings  of  the 
full  mind  and  laden  heart  were  allusions  to 
himself,  so  tender  and  so  touching — the  pen- 
cilled outline  of  his  features  traced   by  mem- 

6.-1:5 


ory  in  a  thousand  aspects — the  reference  to 
former  interviews  and  conversations — the  dates 
and  hours  marked  with  a  woman's  minute  and 
treasuring  care  ! — all  these  tokens  of  genius 
and  of  love  spoke  to  him  with  a  voice  that 
said,  "  And  this  creature  is  lost  to  you  for 
ever;  you  never  appreciated  her  till  the  time 
for  her  departure  was  irrevocably  fixed  !  " 

Maltravers  uttered  a  deep  groan;  all  the 
past  rushed  over  him.  Her  romantic  passion 
for  one  yet  unknown — her  interest  in  his  glory 
— her  zeal  for  his  life  of  life,  his  spotless  and 
haughty  name.  It  was  as  if  with  her,  Fame 
and  Ambition  were  dying  also,  and  henceforth 
nothing  but  common  clay  and  sordid  motives 
were  to  be  left  on  earth. 

How  sudden — how  awfully  sudden  had  been 
the  blow  !  True,  there  had  been  an  absence 
of  some  months  in  which  the  change  had 
operated.  But  absence  is  a  blank — a  nonentity. 
He  had  left  her  in  apparent  health — in  the 
tide  of  prosperity  and  pride.  He  saw  her 
again — stricken  down  in  body  and  temper — 
chastened — humbled — dying.  And  this  being, 
so  bright  and  lofty,  how  had  she  loved  him  ! 
Never  had  he  been  so  loved,  except  in  that 
morning  dream  haunted  by  the  vision  of  the 
lost  and  dim  remembered  Alice.  Never  on 
earth  could  he  be  so  loved  again.  The  air  and 
aspect  of  the  whole  chamber  grew  to  him  pain- 
ful and  oppresive.  It  was  full  of  her — the 
owner !  There  the  harp,  which  so  well  be- 
came her  muselike  form  that  it  was  associated 
with  her  like  a  part  of  herself  !  There  the 
pictures,  fresh  and  glowing  from  her  hand,— 
the  grace  —  the  harmony  —  the  classic  and 
simple  taste  everywhere  displayed  ! 

Rousseau  has  left  to  us  an  immortal  portrait 
of  the  lover  waiting  for  the  first  embraces  of 
his  mistress.  But  to  wait  with  a  pulse  as 
feverish,  a  brain  as  dizzy,  for  her  last  look — to 
await  the  moment  of  despair,  not  rapture — 
to  feel  the  slow  and  dull  time  as  palpable  a 
load  upon  the  heart,  yet  to  shrink  from  your 
own  impatience,  and  wish  that  the  agony  of 
suspense  might  endure  for  ever — this,  oh,  this 
is  a  picture  of  intense  passion — of  flesh  and 
blood  reality — of  the  rare  and  solemn  epochs 
of  our  mysterious  life — which  had  been 
worthier  the  genius  of  that  "  Apostle  of  Afflic- 
tion !  " 

At  length  the  door  opened;  the  favorite  at- 
tendant  of  Florence  looked  in. 


194 


B  UL  IVEJi'S     WORKS. 


"  Is  Mr.  Maltravers  there  ?  O,  sir,  my  lady 
is  awake  and  would  see  you." 

Maltravers  rose,  but  his  feet  were  glued  to 
the  ground,  his  sinking  heart  stood  still — it 
was  a  mortal  terror  that  possessed  him.  With 
a  deep  sigh  he  shook  off  the  numbing  spell, 
and  passed  to  the  bedside  of  Florence. 

She  sate  up,  propped  by  pillows,  and  as  he 
sank  beside  her,  and  clasped  her  wan,  trans- 
parent hand,  she  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  of 
pitying  lo^e. 

"  You  have  been  very,  very  kind  to  me," 
she  said,  after  a  pause,  and  with  a  voice  which 
had  altered  even  since  the  last  time  he  heard 
it.  "  You  have  made  that  part  of  life  from 
which  human  nature  shrinks  with  dread,  the 
happiest  and  the  brightest  of  all  my  short  and 
vain  existence.  My  own  dear  Ernest— Heaven 
reward  you  ! " 

A  few  grateful  tears  dropped  from  her  eyes, 
and  they  fell  on  the  hand  which  she  bent  her 
lips  to  kiss. 

"  It  was  not  here — not  amidst  streets  and 
the  noisy  abodes  of  anxious,  worldly  men — 
nor  was  it  in  this  harsh  and  dreary  season  of 
the  year,  that  I  could  have  wished  to  look  my 
last  on  earth.  Could  I  have  seen  the  face  of 
Nature — could  I  have  watched  once  more  with 
the  summer  sun  amidst  those  gentle  scenes  we 
loved  so  well.  Death  would  have  had  no  differ- 
ence from  sleep.  But  what  matters  it  ?  With 
you  there  are  summer  and  Nature  every- 
where ? " 

Maltravers  raised  his  face,  and  their  eyes 
met  in  silence — it  was  a  long,  fixed  gaze  which 
spoke  more  than  all  words  could.  Her  head 
dropped  on  his  shoulder,  and  there  it  lay,  pas- 
sive and  motionless,  for  some  moments.  A 
soft  step  glided  into  the  room — it  was  the  un- 
happy father's.  He  came  to  the  other  side  of 
his  daughter,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 

She  then  raised  herself,  and  even  in  the 
shades  of  death,  a  faint  blush  passed  over  her 
cheek. 

"  My  good,  dear  father,  what  comfort  will  it 
give  you  hereafter  to  think  how  fondly  you 
spoiled  your  Florence  !  " 

Lord  Saxingham  could  not  answer:  he 
clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  wept  over  her 
Then  he  broke  away— looked  on  her  with  a 
shudder — 

"  O  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  she  is  dead — she  is 
dead  !  "  ' 


Maltravers  started.  The  physician  kindly 
approached,  and  taking  lord  Saxingham's 
hand,  led  him  from  the  room — he  went  mute 
and  obedient  like  a  child. 

But  the  struggle  was  not  yet  past.  Florence 
once  more  opened  her  eyes,  and  Maltravers 
uttered  a  cry  of  joy.  But  along  those  eyes 
the  film  was  darkening  rapidly,  as  still  through 
the  mist  and  shadow,  they  sought  the  beloved 
countenance  which  hung  over  her,  as  if  to 
breathe  life  into  waning  life.  Twice  her  lips 
moved,  but  her  voice  failed  her,  she  shook  her 
head  sadly. 

Maltravers  hastily  held  to  her  mouth  a  cor- 
dial which  lay  ready  on  the  table  near  her,  but 
scarce  had  it  moistened  her  lips,  when  her 
whole  frame  grew  heavier  and  heavier,  in  his 
clasp.  Her  head  once  more  sank  upon  his 
bosom — she  thrice  gasped  wildly  for  breath — 
and  at  length  raising  her  hand  on  high,  life 
struggled  into  its  expiring  ray. 

"  T/iere  —  above  !  —  Ernest  —  that  name — 
Ernest  !  " 

Yes,  that  name  was  the  last  she  uttered; 
she  was  evidently  conscious  of  that  thought, 
for  a  smile,  as  her  voice  again  faltered — a 
smile  sweet  and  serene — that  smile  never  seen 
but  on  the  faces  of  the  dying  and  the  dead- 
borrowed  from  a  light  that  is  not  of  this  world 
— settled  slowly  on  her  brow,  her  lips,  hei 
whole  countenance:  still  she  breathed,  but 
the  breath  grew  fainter;  at  length,  without 
murmur,  sound,  or  struggle,  it  passed  away— 
the  head  dropped  from  his  bosom— the  form 
fell  from  his  arras— all  was  over  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

•        »        •        "Is  this  the  promised  end  .' " — Lrin: 

It  was  two  hours  after  that  scene  before 
Maltravers  left  the  house.  It  was  then  just 
on  the  stroke  of  the  first  hour  of  morning. 
To  him,  while  he  walked  through  the  streets, 
and  the  sharp  winds  howled  on  his  path,  it 
was  as  if  a  strange  and  wizard  life,  had  passed 
into   and    supported    hiin— a    sort  of  drowsy, 


ERNEST    MALTRAVERS. 


195 


dull  existence.  He  was  like  a  sleep-walker, 
unconscious  of  all  around  him;  yet  his  steps 
went  safe  and  free;  and  the  one  thought  that 
posssssed  his  being — into  which  all  intellect 
seemed  shrunk — the  thought,  not  fiery  nor 
vehement,  but  calm,  stern,  and  solemn — the 
thought  of  revenge — seemed,  as  it  were,  grown 
his  soul  itself.  He  arrived  at  the  door  of 
Colonel  Danvers,  mounted  the  stairs,  and  as 
his  friend  advanced  to  meet  him,  said  calmly, 
"  Now,  then,  the  hour  has  arrived." 

"  But  what  would  you  do  now  ?  " 

"  Come  with  me,  and  you  shall  learn." 

"  Very  well,  my  carriage  is  below.  Will 
you  direct  the  servants  ?  " 

Maltravcrs  nodded,  gave  his  orders  to  the 
careless  footman,  and  the  two  friends  were 
soon  driving  through  the  less  known  and 
courtly  regions  of  the  giant  city.  It  was  then 
that  Maltravers  concisely  stated  to  Danvers 
the  fraud  that  had  been  practised  by  Cesarini. 

"  You  will  go  with  me  now,"  concluded 
Maltravers,  "  to  his  house.  To  do  him  justice, 
he  is  no  coward;  he  has  not  shrunk  from  giv- 
ing me  his  address,  nor  will  he  shrink  from  the 
atonement  I  demand.  I  shall  wait  below 
while  you  arrange  our  meeting — at  daybreak 
for  to-morrow." 

Danvers  was  astonished  and  even  appalled 
by  the  discovery  made  to  him.  There  was 
something  so  unusual  and  strange  in  the  whole 
affair.  But  neither  his  experience,  nor  his 
principles  of  honor,  could  suggest  any  alter- 
native to  the  plan  proposed.  For  though  not 
regarding  the  cause  of  quarrel  in  the  same 
light  as  Maltravers,  and  putting  aside  all  ques- 
tion as  to  the  right  of  the  latter  to  constitute 
himself  the  champion  of  the  betrothed,  or  the 
avenger  of  the  dead,  it  seemed  clear  to  the 
soldier  that  a  man,  whose  confidential  letter 
had  been  garbled  by  another  for  the  purpose 
of  slandering  his  truth  and  calumniating  his 
name,  had  no  option  but  contempt,  or  the  sole 
retribution  (wretched  though  it  be)  which 
the  customs  of  the  higher  class  permit  to 
those  who  live  within  its  pale.  But  contempt 
for  a  wrong  that  a  sorrow  so  tragic  had  followed 
— was  that  option  in  human  philosophy? 

The  carriage  stopped  at  a  door  in  a  narrow 
lane  in  an  obscure  surburb.  Yet,  dark  as  all 
the  houses  around  were,  lights  were  seen  in 
the  upper  windows  of  Cesarini's  residence, 
passing  to  and  fro;  and  scarce  had  the  ser- 


vant's loud  knock  echoed  through  the  dim 
thoroughfare,  ere  the  door  was  opened.  Dan- 
vers descended,  and  entered  the  passage — 
"  Oh,  sir,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  !  "  said 
an  old  woman,  pale  and  trembling;  "  he  do 
take  on  so  !  " 

"  There  is  no  mistake,"  asked  Danvers  halt- 
ing; "an  Italian  gentleman  named  Cesarini 
lodges  here  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  poor  cretur — I  sent  for  you  to 
come  to  him — for  says  I  to  my  boy,  says  I " 

"  Whom  do  you  take  me  for  ? " 

"  Why,  la,  sir,  you  he's  the  doctor,  ben't 
you  ? " 

Danvers  made  no  reply;  he  had  a  mean 
opinion  of  the  courage  of  one  who  could  act 
dishonorably;  he  thought  there  was  some  de- 
sign to  cheat  his  friend  out  of  his  revenge; 
accordingly  he  ascended  the  stairs,  motioning 
the  woman  to  precede  him. 

He  came  back  to  the  door  of  the  carriage 
in  a  few  minutes.  "  Let  us  go  home,  Mal- 
travers," said  he,  "this  man  is  not  in  a  state 
to  meet  you." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Maltravers,  frowning  darkly, 
and  all  his  long-smothered  indignation  rushing 
like  fire  through  every  vein  of  his  body; 
"would  he  shrink  from  the  atonement?"  he 
pushed  Danvers  impatiently  aside,  leapt  from 
the  carriage,  and  rushed  up  stairs. 

Danvers  followed. 

Heated,  wrought  up,  furious,  Ernest  Mal- 
travers burst  into  a  small  and  squalid  cham- 
ber; from  the  closed  doors  of  which,  through 
many  chinks,  had  gleamed  the  light  that  told 
him  Cesarini  was  within.  And  Cesarini's  eyes, 
blazing  with  horrible  fire,  were  the  first  object 
that  met  his  gaze,  Maltravers  stood  still,  as  if 
frozen  into  stone. 

"Ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  a  shrill  and  shrieking 
voice,  which  contrasted  dreadly  with  the  ac- 
cents of  the  soft  Tuscan,  in  which  the  wild 
words  were  strung — "  who  comes  here  with 
garments  dyed  in  blood  ?  You  cannot  accuse 
me — for  my  blow  drew  no  blood,  it  went 
straight  to  the  heart — it  tore  no  flesh  by  the 
way;  we  Italians  poison  our  victims  !  Where 
art  thou — where  art  thou,  Maltravers  ?  I  am 
ready.  Coward,  you  do  not  come  !  Oh,  yes, 
yes,  here  you  are; — the  pistols — I  will  not 
fight  so.  I  am  a  wild  beast.  Let  us  rend 
each  other  with  our  teeth  and  talons  !  " 

Huddled   up  like  a  heap  of  confused  and 


196 


£U LIVER'S     WORKS. 


jointless  limbs  in  the  furthest  corner  of  the 
room,  lay  the  wretch,  a  raving  maniac; — two 
men  keeping  their  firm  gripe  on  him,  which, 
ever  and  anon,  with  the  mighty  strength  of 
madness,  he  shook  off,  to  fall  back  senseless 
and  exhausted;  his  strained  and  bloodshot 
eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  the  slaver 
gathering  round  his  lips,  his  raven  hair  stand- 
ing on  end,  his  delicate  and  symmetrical  feat- 
ures distorted  into  a  hideous  and  Gorgon 
aspect.  It  was,  indeed,  an  appalling  and  sub- 
lime spectacle,  full  of  an  awful  moral,  the 
meeting  of  the  foes  !  Here  stood  Maltravers, 
stroiig  beyond  the  common  strength  of  men, 
in  health,  power,  conscious  superiority,  pre- 
meditated vengeance — wise,  gifted;  all  his 
faculties  ripe,  developed,  at  his  command; — 
the  complete  and  all-armed  man,  prepared  for 
defence  and  offence  against  every  foe — a  man 
who  once  roused  in  a  righteous  quarrel  would 
not  have  quailed  before  an  army;  and  there 
and  thus  was  his  dark  and  fierce  purpose 
dashed  from  his  soul,  shivered  into  atoms  at 
his  feet.  He  felt  the  nothingness  of  man,  and 
man's  wrath — in  the  presence  of  the  madman 
on  whose  head  the  thunderbolt  of  a  greater 
curse  than  human  anger  ever  breathes,  had 
fallen.  In  his  horrible  affliction  the  Criminal 
triumphed  over  the  Avenger  ! 

"Yes!  yes!"  shouted  Cesarini  again; 
"they  tell  me  she  is  dying:  but  he  is  by  her 
side; — pluck  him  thence — he  shall  not  touch 
her  hand — she  shall  not  bless  him — she  is 
mine — if  I  killed  her,  I  have  saved  her  from 
him — she  is  mine  in  death.  Let  me  in,  I  say, 
— I  will  come  in, — I  will,  I  will  see  her,  and 
strangle  him  at  her  feet."  With  that,  by  a 
tremendous  effort,  he  tore  himself  from  the 
clutch  of  his  holders,  and  with  a  sudden  and 
exultant  bound  sprang  across  the  room,  and 
stood  face  to  face  to  Maltravers.  The  proud 
brave  man  turned  pale  and  recoiled  a  step — 
"  It  is  he  !  it  is  he  !  "  shrieked  the  maniac,  and 
he  leaped  like  a  tiger  at  the  throat  of  his  rival. 
Maltravers  quickly  seized  his  arm,  and 
whirled  him  round.  Ce.sarini  fell  heavily  on 
the  floor,  mute,  senseless,  and  in  strong  convul- 
sions. 

"  Mysterious  Providence  !  "  murmured  Mal- 
travers, "  thou  hast  justly  rebuked  the  mortal 
for  dreaming  he  might  arrogate  to  himself  thy 
privilege  of  vengeance.  Forgive  the  sinner, 
O  God,  as  I  do — as  thou  teachest  this  stubborn 


heart  to  forgive — as  she  forgave  who  is  now 
with  thee,  a  blessed  saint  in  heaven  ! " 

When,  some  minutes  afterwards,  the  doctor, 
who  had  been  sent  for,  arrived,  the  head  of 
the  stricken  patient  lay  on  the  lap  of  his  foe, 
and  it  was  the  hand  of  Maltravers  that  wiped 
the  froth  from  the  white  lips,  and  the  voice  of 
Maltravers  that  strove  to  soothe,  and  the  tears 
of  Maltravers  that  were  falling  on  that  fiery 
brow. 

"  Tend  him,  sir  tend  him  as  my  brother," 
said  Maltravers,  hiding  his  face  as  he  resigned 
the  charge.  "  Let  him  have  all  that  can  al- 
leviate and  cure — remove  him  hence  to  some 
fitter  abode — send  for  the  best  advice.  Re- 
store him,  and — and "     He  could  say  no 

more,  but  left  the  room  abruptly. 

It  was  afterwards  ascertained  that  Cesarini 
had  remained  in  the  streets  after  his  short  in- 
terview with  Ernest;  that  at  length  he  had 
kncjcked  at  Lord  Saxingham's  door,  just  ir> 
the  very  hour  when  death  had  claimed  its 
victim.  He  heard  the  announcement — he 
sought  to  force  his  way  up-stairs — they  thrust 
him  from  the  house  and  nothing  more  of  him 
was  known  till  he  arrived  at  his  own  door;  an 
hour  before  Danvers  and  Maltravers  came,  in 
raging  frenzy.  Perhaps  by  one  of  the  dim 
erratic  gleams  of  light  which  always  chequer 
the  darkness  of  insanity,  he  retained  some 
faint  remembrance  of  his  compact  and  as- 
signation with  Maltravers,  which  had  happily 
guided  his  steps  back  to  his  abode. 


* 
* 

* 
* 
* 


Is 


It  was  two  months  after  this  scene,  a  lovely 
Sabbath  morning,  in  the  earliest  May,  as  Lum- 
ley.  Lord  Vargrave,  sat  alone  by  the  window 
in  his  late  uncle's  villa,  in  his  late  uncle's 
easy  chair — his  eyes  were  resting  musingly  on 
the  green  lawn  on  which  the  windows  opened, 
or  rather  on  two  forms  that  were  seated  upon 
a  rustic  bench  in  the  middle  of  the  sward. 
One  was  the  widow  in  her  weeds,  the  other 
was  that  fair  and  lovely  chikl  destined  to  be 


EUNJESr    MAL  TRA  VERS. 


iy7 


(lie  l>ride  of  the  new  lord.  The  hands  of  the 
mother  and  daughter  were  clasped  each  in 
each.  There  was  sadness  in  the  (aces  of  both 
— deeper  if  more  resigned  on  that  of  the  elder, 
for  the  child  sought  to  console  her  parent,  and 
grief  in  childhood  comes  with  a  butterfly's 
wing. 

Lumley  gazed  on  them  both,  and  on  the 
child  more  earnestly. 

"She  is  very  lovely,"  he  said;  "she  will  be 
very  rich.  After  all,  I  am  not  to  be  pitied. 
I  am  a  peer,  and  I  have  enough  to  live  upon 
at  present.  I  am  a  rising  man — our  party 
want  peers;  and  though  I  could  not  have  had 
more  than  a  subaltern's  seat  at  the  Treasury 
Board  si.\  months  ago,  when  1  was  an  active, 
zealous,  able  commoner,  now  that  I  am  a  lord, 
with  what  they  call  a  stake  in  the  country,  I 
may  open  my  mouth  and — bless  me  !  I  know 
not  how  many  windfalls  may  drop  in  !  My 
uncle  was  wiser  than  I  thought  in  wrestling  for 
the  peerage,  which  he  won  and  1  wear  ! — Then, 
by  and  by,  just  at  the  age  when  I  want  to 
marry  and  have  an  heir  (and  a  pretty  wife 
saves  one  avast  deal  of  trouble),  200,000/.  and 
a  young  beauty  !  Come,  come,  I  have  strong 
cards  in  my  hands  if  I  play  them  tolerably.  I 
must  take  care  that  she  falls  desperately  in 
love  with  me.  Leave  me  alone  for  that — I 
know  the  sex,  and  have  never  failed  except  in 

ah,  that  poor  Florence  !     Well,  it  is  no  use 

regretting  !  Like  thrifty  artists,  we  must  paint 
out  the  unmarketable  picture,  and  call  luckier 
creations  to  fill  up  the  saine  canvas  !  " 

Here  the  servant  interrupted  l,ord  Var- 
grave's  meditation  by  bringing  in  the  letters 
aud  the  newspapers  which  had  just  been  for- 
warded from  his  town  house.  Lord  Vargrave 
had  spoken  in  the  Lords  on  the  previous 
Friday,  and  he  wished  to  see  what  the  Sunday 
newspapers  said  of  his  speech.  So  he  took  up 
one  of  the  leading  papers  before  he  opened  the 
letters.  His  eyes  rested  upon  two  paragraphs 
in  close  neighborhood  with  each  other;  the 
first  ran  thus- 

"The  celebrated  Mr.  Maltravers  has  ab- 
ruptly resigned  his  seat  for  the of , 

and  left  town  yesterday  on  an  extended  tour 
on  the  Continent.  Speculation  is  busy  on  the 
causes  of  the  singular  and  unexpected  self- 
exile  of  a  gentleman  so  distinguished  in  the 
f  very  zenith  of  his  career." 


"  So,  he  has  given  up  the  game  ! '  muttered 
Lord  Vargrave;  "  he  was  never  a  practical  man 
—I  am  glad  he  is  out  of  the  way.  But  what's 
this  about  myself  ?  " 

"  AVe  hear  that  important  changes  are  to  take 
place  in  the  government — it  is  said  that  minis- 
ters are  at  last  alive  to  the  necessity  of 
strengthening  themselves  with  new  talent. 
Among  other  appointments  confidently  spoken 
of  in  the  best-informed  circles,  we  learn  that 
Lord  Vargrave  is  to  have  the  place  of  *****  * 
It  will  be  a  popular  appointment.  Lord  Var- 
grave is  not  a  holiday  orator,  a  mere  declama- 
tory rhetorician — but  a  man  of  clear  business- 
like views,  and  was  highly  thought  of  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  He  has  also  the  art  of 
attaching  his  friends,  and  his  frank,  manly 
character  cannot  fail  to  have  its  due  effect 
with  the  English  public.  In  another  column 
of  our  journal  our  readers  will  see  a  full  report 
of  his  excellent  maiden  speech  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  on  Friday  last:  the  sentiments  there 
expressed  do  the  highest  honor  to  his  lord- 
ship's patriotism  and  sagacity." 

"  Very  well,  very  well  indeed  !  "  said  Lum- 
ley, rubbing  his  hands;  and,  turning  to  his 
letters,  his  attention  was  drawn  to  one  with  an 
enormous  seal,  marked  "  Private  and  confiden- 
tial." He  knew  before  he  opened  it  that  it 
contained  the  offer  of  the  appointment  alluded 
to  in  the  newspajDer.  He  read,  and  rose  ex- 
ultantly; passing  through  the  French  windows, 
he  joined  Lady  Vargrave  and  Evelyn  on  the 
lawn,  and  as  he  smiled  on  the  mother  and 
carressed  the  child,  the  scene  and  the  group 
made  a  pleasant  picture  of  English  domestic 
ha]ipiness. 

Here  ends  the  First  Portion  of  this  work:  it 
ends  in  the  view  that  bounds  us  when  we  look 
on  the  practical  world  with  the  outward  un- 
.spiritual  eye— and  see  life  that  dissatisfies 
justice,— for  life  is  so  seen  but  in  fragments. 
The  influence  of  fate  seems  so  small  on  the 
man  who,  in  erring,  but  ens  as  the  egoist,  and 
shapes  out  of  ill  some  use  that  can  profit  him- 
self. But  Fate  hangs  a  shadow  so  vast  on  the 
heart  that  errs  but  in  venturing  abroad,  and 
knows  only  in  others  the  sources  of  sorrow 
and  joy. 

Co  alone,  O  Maltravers,  unfriended,  remote 


198 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS. 


— tl/y  present  a  waste,  and  thy.past  life  a  ruin, 
go  forth  to  tlie  Future  ! — Go,  Ferrers,  light 
cynic — with  che  crowd  take  thy  way, — com- 
placent, elated, — no  cloud  upon  conscience, 
foi'  thou  seest  but  sunshine  on  fortune. — Go 
forth  to  the  Future  ! 

Human  life  is  compared  to  the  circle — Is 


the  simile  just  ?  All  lines  that  are  drawn  frorr^ 
the  centre  to  touch  the  circumference,  by  the 
law  of  the  circle,  are  equal.  But  the  lines  thai 
are  drawn  from  the  heart  of  the  man  to  the 
verge  of  his  destiny— do  they  equal  each 
other  ? — Alas  !  some  seem  so  brief,  and  some 
lengthen  on  as  for  ever. 


ALICE. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


199 


ALICE;  OR,  THE  MYSTERIES. 


NOTE. 

Although  it  has  been  judged  desirable  to  designate  this  Second  Part  of  "  Ernest 
Maltravers  "  l)y  its  original  title  of  "  Alice,"  yet,  as  it  has  been  elsewhere  stated,  the  two 
Parts  are  united  by  the  same  plot,  and  form  but  one  entire  whole.  The  more  ingenious  and 
attentive  will  perhaps  perceive  that  under  the  'outward  story,  which  knits  together  the 
destinies  of  Alice  and  Maltravers,  there  is  an  interior  philosophical  design  which  explains 
the  author's  application  of  the  word  "  Eleusinia,"  or  "  Mysteries,"  appended  to  the  title. 
Thus  regarded,  Ernest  Maltravers  will  appear  to  the  reader  as  the  type  of  Genius,  or  Intel- 
lectual Ambition,  which,  at  the  onset  of  its  career,  devotes  itself  with  extravagant  and  often 
erring  passion  to  Nature  alone  (typified  by  Alice).  Maltravers  is  separated  by  action  and  the 
current  of  worldly  life,  from  the  simple  and  earlier  form  of  Nature, — new  objects  successively 
attract,  and  for  a  short  time  absorb  his  devotion,  but  he  has  always  a  secret  yearning  to  the 
first  idol,  and  a  repentant  regret  for  his  loss.  Completing,  however,  his  mental  education  in 
the  actual  world,  and,  though  often  led  astray  from  the  path,  still  earnestly  fixing  his  eye 
upon  the  goal, — he  is  ultimately  re-united  to  the  one  who  had  first  smiled  upon  his  youth,  and 
ever  (yet,  unconsciously),  influenced  his  after  manhood.  But  this  attachment  is  no  longer 
erring,  and  the  object  of  it  has  attained  to  a  purer  and  higher  state  of  being; — that  is.  Genius, 
if  duly  following  its  vocation,  re-unites  itself  to  the  Nature  from  which  life  and  art  had  for  a 
while  distracted  it;  but  to  Nature  in  a  higher  and  more  spiritual  form  than  that  under  which 
youth  beholds  it, — Nature  elevated  and  idealized. 

In  tracing'  the  progress  and  denouement  of  this  conception  the  reader  will  be  better 
enabled  to  judge  both  of  the  ethical  intention  of  the  author,  and  of  the  degree  of  success  with 
which,  as  an  artist,  he  has  connected  the  inward  story  with  the  outer,  and  while  faithful  to  his 
main  typical  purpose,  left  to  the  characters  that 'illustrate  it,  the  attributes  of  reality — the 
freedom  and  movement  of  living  beings.  So  far  as  an  author  may  presume  to  judge  of  his 
own  writings — no  narrative  fiction  by  the  same  hand  (with  the  exception  of  the  poem  of  "  King 
Arthur  "),  deserves  to  be  classed  before  this  work  in  such  merit  as  may  be  thought  to  belong 
to  harmony  between  a  premeditated  conception  and  the  various  incidents  and  agencies 
employed  in  the  development  of  plot. 

Knebworh,  Dec.  14,  1851. 


too 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


BOOK    FIRST. 


2c  TO*-  iva.\]\i.Q\.<;  Vffb  6ei'5po«6^ioi? 

»  *  •  i»'a3oa(rii<.— KUKIP.  Hcl.  171 

Thee,  hid  the  bowering  vales#amidst,  I  call. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Who  art  thou,  fair  one,  who  usurp'st  the  place 
Of  Blanch,  the  lady  of  the  matchless  grace?" 

—Lamb. 

It  was  towards  the  evening  of  a  day  in 
early  April,  that  two  ladies  were  seated  by  the 
open  windows  of  a  cottage  in  Devonshire. 
The  lawn  before  them  way  gay  with  ever- 
greens, relieved  by  the  first  few  flowers  and 
fresh  turf  of  the  reviving  spring;  and  at  a 
distance,  through  an  opening  amongst  the  trees, 
the  sea,  blue  and  tranquil,  bounded  the  view, 
and  contrasted  the  more  confined  and  home- 
like features  of  the  scene.  It  was  a  spot,  re- 
mote, sequestered,  shut  out  from  the  business 
and  pleasures  of  the  world; — as  such  it  suited 
the  tastes  and  character  of  the  owner. 

That  owner  was  the  younger  of  the  ladies 
seated  by  the  window.  You  would  scarcely 
have  guessed,  from  her  appearance,  that  she 
was  more  than  seven  or  eight-and-tweuty, 
though  she  exceeded  by  four  or  five  years  that 
critical  boundary  in  the  life  of  beauty.  Her 
form  was  slight  and  delicate  in  its  proportions, 
nor  was  her  countenance  the  less  lovely,  be- 
cause, from  its  gentleness  and  repose,  (not  un- 
mi.xed  with  a  certain  sadness),  the  coarse  and 
the  gay  might  have  thought  it  wanting  in  ex- 
pression. For  there  is  a  stillness  in  the  aspect 
of  those  who  have  felt  deeply,  which  deceives 
the  common  eye — as  rivers  are  often  alike 
tranquil  and  profound,  in  proportion  as  they 
are  remote  from  the  springs  which  agitated 
and  swelled  the  commencement  of  their  course, 
and  by  which  their  waters  are  still,  though  in- 
visibly, supplied. 


The  elder  lady,  the  guest  of  her  companion 
was  past  seventy;  her  grey  hair  was  drawn 
back  from  the  forehead,  and  gathered  under  a 
stiff  cap  of  quaker-like  simplicity;  while  her 
dress,  rich  but  plain,  and  of  no  very  modern 
fashion,  served  to  increase  the  venerable  ap- 
pearance of  one  who  seemed  not  ashamed  of 
years. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Leslie,"  said  the  lady  of  the 
house,  after  a  thoughtful  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation that  had  been  carried  on  for  the  last 
hour;  "it  is  very  true;  perhaps  I  was  to  blame 
in  coming  to  this  place;  I  ought  not  to  have 
been  so  selfish." 

"  No,  my  dear  friend,"  returned  Mrs.  Leslie, 
gently;  "selfish  is  a  w'ord  that  can  never  be 
applied  to  you;  you  acted  as  became  you — 
agreeably  to  your  own  instinctive  sense  of 
what  is  best,  when  at  your  age, — independent 
in  fortune  and  rank,  and  still  so  lovely; — you 
resigned  all  that  would  have  attracted  others, 
and  devoted  yourself,  in  retirement,  to  a  life 
of  quiet  and  unknown  benevolence.  You  are 
in  your  sphere  in  this  village — humble  though 
it  be  —  consoling,  relieving,  healing  the 
wretched,  the  destitute,  the  infirm;  and  teach- 
ing your  Evelyn  insensibly  to  imitate  your 
modest  and  Christian  virtues."  The  good  old 
lady  spoke  warmly,  and  with  tears  in  her 
eyes;  her  companion  placed  her  hand  in  Mrs 
Leslie's. 

"  You  cannot  make  me  vain,"  said  she,  with 
a  sweet  and  melancholy  smile.  "  I  remember 
what  I  was  when  you  first  gave  shelter  to  the 
poor,  desolate  wanderer  and  her  fatherless 
child;  and  I,  who  was  then  so  poor  and  des- 
titute, what  should  I  be,  if  I  was  deaf  to  the 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


povert}'  and  sorrows  of  others— others,  too, 
who  are  better  than  I  am  ?  But  now  Evelyn, 
as  you  say,  is  growhig  up;  the  time  ap- 
proaches when  she  must  decide  on  acceptin<i- 
or  rejecting  Lord  Vagrave;— and  yet  in  this 
village  how  can  she  compare  him  with  others? 
— how  can  she  form  a  choice  ?  What  you 
say  is  very  true;  and  yet  I  did  not  think  of  it 
sufficiently.  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  am  only 
anxious,  dear  girl,  to  act  so  as  may  be  best 
for  her  own  happiness." 

"Of  that  I  am  sure,"  returned  Mrs.  Le.slie; 
"  and  yet  you  know  not  how  to  advise.      On 


have  deserved  his  affection  !  and— but  regret 
is  useless  now  !  " 

"  I  wish  you  could  really  feel  so,"  said  Mrs. 
Leslie;  "for  regret  of  another  kind  still  seems 
to  haunt  you;  and  1  do  not  think  you  have  yet 
forgotten  your  early  sorrows." 

"  Ah  !  how  can  I  ? "  said  Lady  Vargrave, 
with  a  quivering  lip. 

At  that  instant,  a  light  shadow  darkened  the 
sunny  lawn  in  front  of  the  casements,  and  a 
sweet,  gay,  young  voice  was  heard  singing  at 
a  little  distance: — a  moment  more,  and  a  beau- 
tiful girl,  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  bounded 


one   hand,  so  much    is  due  to  the  wishes  of  j  lightly  along  the  grass,  and  halted  opposite  the 

friends. 

It  was  a  remarkable  contrast — the  repose 
and  quiet  of  the  two  persons  we  have  described 
—the  age  and  grey  heirs  of  one — the  resigned 
and  melancholy  gentleness  written  on  the 
features  of  the  other — with  the  springing  step, 
and  laughing  eyes,  and  radiant  bloom  of  the 
new-comer  !  As  she  stood  with  the  setting 
sun  glowing  full  upon  her  rich  fair  hair,  her 
happy  countenance  and  elastic  form — it  was  a 
vision  almost  too  bright  for  this  weary  earth 
— a  thing  of  light  and  bliss— that  the  joyous 
Greek  might  have  placed  among  the  forms  of 
Heaven,  and  worshipped  as  an  Aurora  or  a 
Hebe. 

"Oh  !  how  can  you  stayin-doors  this  beau- 
tiful evening?  Come,  dearest  Mrs.  Leslie; 
come,  mother,  dear  mother,  you  know  you 
promised  you  would — you  said  I  was  to  call 
you — see,  it  will  rain  no  more,  and  the  shower 
has  left  the  myrtles  and  the  violet-bank  so 
fresh." 

"  My  dear  Evelyn,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  with 
a  smile,  "  I  am  not  so  young  as  you." 

"  No;  but  you  are  just  as  gay  when  you  are 
in  good  spirits — and  who  can  be  out  of  spirits 
in  such  weather  ?  Let  me  call  for  your  chair; 
let  me  wheel  you — I  am  sure  I  can. — Down, 
Sultan;  so  you  have  found  me  out,  have  you, 
sir?     Be  quiet,  sir — down  !  " 

This  last  exhortation  was  addressed  to  a 
splendid  dog  of  the  Newfoundland  breed,  who 
now  contrived  wholly  to  occupy  Evelyn's  at- 
tention. 

The  two  friends  looked  at  this  beautiful 
girl,  as  with  all  the  grace  of  youth  she  shared 
while  she  rebuked  the  exuberant  hilarity  of 
her  huge  playmate;  and  the  elder  of  the  two 
seemed  the  most  to  sympathize  with  her  mirth. 


your  late  husband,  in  every  point  of  view, 
that  if  Lord  Vagrave  be  worthy  of  Evelyn's 
esteem  and  affection,  it  would  be  most  desir- 
able that  she  should  prefer  him  to  all  others. 
But  if  he  be  what  I  hear  he  is  considered  in 
the  world, — an  artful,  scheming,  almost  heart- 
less man,  of  ambitious  and  hard  pursuits, — 
I  tremble  to  think  how  completely  the  hap- 
piness of  Evelyn's  whole  life  may  be  thrown 
away.  She  certainly  is  not  in  love  with  him, 
and  yet  I  fear  she  is  one  whose  nature,  is  but 
too  susceptible  of  affection.  She  ought  now 
to  see  others, — to  know  her  own  mind,  and 
not  to  be  hurried,  blindfolded  and  inexperi- 
enced, into  a  step  that  decides  existence. 
This  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  her — nay,  even  to  the 
late  Lord  Vargrave,  anxious  as  he  was  for  the 
marriage.  His  aim  was  surely  her  happiness, 
and  he  would  not  have  insisted  upon  means 
that  time  and  circumstances  might  show  to  be 
contrary  to  the  end  he  had  in  view." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Lady  Vargrave; 
"  when  my  poor  husband  lay  on  his  bed  of 
death,  just  before  he  summoned  his  nephew  to 
receive  his  last  blessing,  he  said  to  me,  '  Prov- 
idence can  counteract  all  our  schemes.  If 
ever  it  should  be  for  Evelyn's  real  happiness 
that  my  wish  for  her  marriage  with  Lumley 
Ferrers  should  not  be  fulfilled,  to  you  I  must 
leave  the  right  to  decide  on  what  I  cannot 
foresee.  All  I  ask  is,  that  no  obstacle  shall 
be  thrown  in  the  way  of  my  wish;  and  that  the 
child  shall  be  trained  up  to  consider  Lumley 
as  her  future  husband.'  Among  his  papers 
was  a  letter  addressed  to  me  to  the  same 
effect;  and,  indeed,  in  other  respects,  that 
letter  left  more  to  my  judgment  than  I  had 
any  right  to  expect.  Oh,  I  am  often  unhappy 
to  think  that  he  did  not  marry  one  who  would 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


Both  gazed  with  fond  affection  upon  an  object 
dear  to  both.  But  some  memory  or  associa- 
tion touched  Lady  Vargrave,  and  she  sighed 
as  she  gazed. 


CHAPTER   II. 


'  Is  stormy  life  preferred  to  this  serene?" 

— Young's  Satires. 


And  the  windows  were  closed  in,  and  light 
had  succeeded  to  evening,  and  the  little  party 
at  the  cottage  were  grouped  together.  Mrs. 
Leslie  was  quietly  seated  at  her  tambour- frame; 
— Lady  Vargrave,  leaning  her  cheek  on  her 
hand,  seemed  absorbed  in  a  volume  before  her, 
but  her  eyes  were  not  on  the  page;— Evelyn 
was  busily  employed  in  turning  over  the  con- 
tents of  a  parcel  of  books  and  music,  which 
had  just  been  brought  from  the  lodge,  where 
the  London  coach  had  deposited  it. 

"  Oh,  dear  mamma  !  "  cried  Evelyn,  "  I  am 
so  glad;  there  is  something  you  will  like- 
some  of  the  poetry  that  touched  you  so  much, 
set  to  music." 

Evelyn  brought  the  songs  to  her  mother, 
who  roused  herself  from  herrevery,  and  looked 
at  them  with  interest. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  she,  "  that  I  should 
be  so  affected  by  all  that  is  written  by  this 
person:  I,  too,"  (she  added,  tenderly  stroking 
down  Evelyn's  luxuriant  tresses)  "  who  am 
not  so  fond  of  reading  as  you  are  !  " 

"  You  are  reading  one  of  his  books  now," 
said  Evelyn,  glancing  over  the  open  page  on 
the  table.  "  Ah,  that  beautiful  passage  upon 
'Our  First  Impressions.'  Yet  I  do  not  like 
you,  dear  mother,  to  read  his  books;  they 
always  seem  to  make  you  sad." 

"  There  is  a  charm  to  me  in  their  thoughts, 
their  manner  of  expression,"  said  Lady  Var- 
grave, "  which  sets  me  thinking,  which  reminds 
me  of — of  an  early  friend,  whom  I  could  fancy 
I  hear  talking  while  I  read.  It  was  so  from 
the  first  time  I  opened  by  accident  a  book  of 
his,  years  ago." 

"  Who  is  this  author  that  pleases  you  so 
much  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  some  surprise, 
for  Lady  Vargrave  had  usually  little  pleasure 
in  reading  even  the  greatest  and  most  popular 
masterpieces  of  modern  genius. 


"  Maltravers,"  answered  Evelyn;  "and  1 
think  I  almost  share  my  mother's  enthusiasm." 

"  Maltravers  !  "  repeated  .Mrs.  Leslie.  "  He 
is,  perha])s,  a  dangerous  writer  for  one  so 
young.  At  your  age,  dear  girl,  you  have 
naturally  romance  and  feeling  enough  of  youi 
own,  without  seeking  them  in  books." 

"  But,  dear  madam,"  said  Evelyn,  standing 
up  for  her  favorite,  "  his  writings  do  not  con- 
sist of  romance  and  feeling  only;  they  are 
not  exaggerated,  they  are  so  sim[)le  —  so 
truthful." 

"  Did  you  ever  meet  him  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Vargrave. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  once,  when 
he  was  a  gay,  fair-haired  boy.  His  father  re- 
sided in  the  next  county,  and  we  met  at  a 
country-house.     Mr.  Maltravers    himself   ha.s. 

an  estate  near  my  daughter  in  B shire,  but 

he  does  not  live  on  it;  he  has  been  some  years 
abroad — a  strange  character  !  " 

"  Why  does  he  write  no  more  ? "  said 
Evelyn;  "  I  have  read  his  works  so  often,  and 
know  his  poetry  so  well  by  heart,  that  I  should 
look  forward  to  something  new  from  him  as 
an  event." 

"  I  have  heard,  my  dear,  that  he  has  with- 
drawn much  from  the  world  and  its  objects — 
that  he  has  lived  greatly  in  the  East.  The 
death  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  was  to  have  been 
married  is  said  to  have  unsettled  and  changed 
his  character.  Since  that  event  he  has  not  re- 
turned to  England.  Lord  Vargrave  can  tell 
you  more  of  him  than  I." 

"  Lord  Vargrave  thinks  of  nothing  that  is- 
not  always  before  the  world,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  I  am  sure  you  wrong  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Leslie,  looking  up,  and  fixing  her  eyes  on 
Evelyn's  countenance;  "  for  _)w^  are  not  be- 
fore the  world." 

Evelyn  slightly— very  slightly— pouted  her 
pretty  lip,  but  made  no  answer.  She  took  up 
the  music,  and,  seating  herself  at  the  piano, 
practised  the  airs.  Lady  Vargrave  listened 
with  emotion;  and  as  Evelyn,  in  a  voice  ex- 
quisitely sweet,  though  not  powerful,  sang  the 
words,  her  mother  turned  away  her  face,  and, 
half  unconsciously,  a  few  tears  stole  silently 
down  her  cheek. 

When  Evelyn  ceased — herself  affected,  for 
the  lines  were  impressed  with  a  wild  and  mel- 
ancholy depth  of  feeling— she  came  again  to 
her  mother's   side,  and,   seeing  her   emotion. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


203 


kissed  away  the  tears  from  the  pensive  eyes. 
Her  own  gaiety  left  her — she  drew  a  stool  to 
her  mother's  feet,  and,  nestling  to  her,  and 
clasping  her  hand,  did  not  leave  that  place  till 
they  retired  to  rest. 

And  the  Lady  blessed  Evelyn,  and  felt  that, 
if  bereaved,  she  was  not  alone  ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

'  But  come,  thou  Goddess,  fair  and  free. 

In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne! 

»  *  *  *  * 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night." 

— //  Allegro. 

"  But  come,  thou  Goddess,  sage  and  holy, 
Come,  divinest  Melancholy! 
***** 

There  held  in  holy  passions  still. 
Forget  thyself  to  marble." — //  Penseroso. 

The  early  morning  of  early  Sj^ring — what 
associations  of  freshness  and  hope  in  that  single 
sentence  !  And  there — a  little  after  sunrise — • 
there  was  Evelyn,  fresh  and  hopeful  as  the 
morning  itself,  boimding  with  the  light  step 
of  a  light  heart  over  the  lawn.  Alone — alone  ! 
no  governess,  with  a  pinched  nose  and  a  sharp 
voice,  to  curb  her  graceful  movements,  and 
tell  her  how  young  ladies  ought  to  walk.  How 
silently  Morning  stole  over  the  Earth  !  It  was 
as  if  Youth  had  the  day  and  the  world  to  itself. 
The  shutters  of  the  cottage  were  still  closed, 
and  Evelyn  cast  a  glance  upward,  to  assure 
herself  that  her  mother,  who  also  rose  betimes, 
was  not  yet  stirring.  So  she  tripped  along, 
singing  from  very  glee,  to  secure  a  companion, 
and  let  out  Sultan;  and,  a  few  moments  after- 
wards, they  were  scouring  over  the  grass,  and 
descending  the  rude  steps  that  wound  down 
the  cliff  to  the  smooth  sea-sands.  Evelyn  was 
still  a  child  at  heart,  yet  somewhat  more  than 
a  child  in  mind.     In  the  majesty  of 

"  That  hollow,  sounding,  and  mysterious  main — " 

in  the  silence  broken  but  by  the  murinur  of 
the  billows — in  the  solitude  relieved  but  by  the 
boats  of  the  early  fishermen — she  felt  those 
deep  and  tranquilizing  influences  which  belong 
to  the  Religion  of  Nature.  Unconsciously  to 
herself,  her  sweet  face  grew  more  thoughtful, 
and    her   step   more    slow.     What  a  complex 


thing  is  education  !  How  many  circum- 
stances, that  have  no  connection  with  books 
and  tutors,  contribute  to  the  rearing  of  the 
human  mind  ! — -the  earth,  and  the  sky,  and  the 
ocean,  were  among  the  teachers  of  Evelyn 
Cameron;  and  beneath  her  simplicity  of 
thought  was  daily  filled,  from  the  urns  of  in- 
visible spirits,  the  fountain  of  the  poetry  of 
feeling. 

This  was  the  hour  when  Evelyn  most  sensi- 
bly felt  how  little  our  real  life  is  chronicled  by 
external  events — how  much  we  live  a  second 
and  a  higher  life  in  our  meditations  and  dreams. 
Brought  up  not  more  by  precept  than  example, 
in  the  faith  which  unites  creature  and  Creator, 
this  was  the  hour  in  which  thought  itself  had 
something  of  the  holiness  of  prayer;  and  if 
(turning  from  dreams  divine  to  earthlier 
visions)  this  also  was  the  hour  in  which  the 
heart  painted  and  peopled  its  own  fairy  land 
below — of  the  two  ideal  worlds  that  stretch  be- 
3'ond  the  inch  of  time  on  which  we  stand,  Im- 
agination is  perhaps  holier  than  Memory. 

So  now,  as  the  day  crept  on,  Evelyn  re- 
turned in  a  more  sober  mood,  and  then  she 
joined  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Leslie  at  break- 
fast; and  then  the  household  cares — such  as 
they  were — devolved  upon  her,  heiress  though 
she  was;  and,  that  duty  done,  once  more  the 
straw  hat  and  Sultan  were  in  requisition;  and, 
opening  a  little  gate  at  the  back  of  the  cottage, 
she  took  the  path  along  the  village  churchyard 
that  led  to  the  house  of  the  old  curate.  The 
burial-ground  itself  was  surrounded  and  shut 
in  with  a  belt  of  trees.  Save  the  small,  time- 
discolored  church,  and  the  roofs  of  the  cottage 
and  the  minister's  house,  no  building — not 
even  a  cotter's  hut — was  visible  there.  Be- 
neath a  dark  and  single  yew-tree,  in  the  centre 
of  the  ground,  was  placed  a  rude  seat;  opposite 
to  this  seat  was  a  grave,  distinguished  from  the 
rest  by  a  slight  palisade.  As  the  young  Eve- 
lyn passed  slowly  by  this  spot,  a  glove  on  the 
long  damp  grass  beside  the  yew-tree  caught 
her  eye.  She  took  it  up  and  sighed — it  was 
her  mother's.  She  sighed — for  she  thought  of 
the  soft  melancholy  on  that  mother's  face 
which  her  caresses  and  her  mirth  never  could 
wholly  chase  away.  She  wondered  why  that 
melancholy  was  so  fixed  a  habit— for  the 
young  ever  wonder  why  the  experienced  should 
be  sad. 

And  now  Evelyn  had  passed  the  churchyard, 


204 


BULWER-S     WORKS. 


and  was  on  the  green  turf  before  the  minister's 
quaint,  old-fashioned  house. 

The  old  man  himself  was  at  work  in  his 
garden;  but  he  threw  down  his  hoe  as  he  saw 
Evelyn,  and  came  cheerfully  up  to  greet  her. 

It  was  easy  to  see  how  dear  she  was  to  him. 

"  So  you  are  come  for  your  daily  lesson,  my 
young  pupil  ?" 

"  Yes;  but  Tasso  can  wait  if  the " 

<'  ir  the  tutor  wants  to  play  truant  no,  my 
child; — and,  indeed,  the  lesson  must  be  longer 
than  usual  to-day,  for  I  fear  I  shall  have  to 
•leave  you  to-morrow  for  some  days." 

"Leave  us!  why? — leave  Brook-Green — 
impossible  ! " 

"  Not  at  all  impossible;  for  we  have  now  a 
new  vicar,  and  I  must  turn  courtier  in  my  old 
age,  and  ask  him  to  leave  me  with  my  flock. 
He  is  at  Weymouth,  and  has  written  to  me  to 
visit  him  there.  So,  Miss  Evelyn,  I  must  give 
you  a  holiday  task  to  learn  while  I  am  away." 

Evelyn  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  — 
for  when  the  heart  is  full  of  affection,  the  eyes 
easily  run  over — and  clung  mournfully  to  the 
old  man,  as  she  gave  utterance  to  all  her  half- 
childish,  half-womanly  grief  at  the  thought  of 
parting  so  soon  with  him.  And  what,  too, 
could  her  mother  do  without  him;  and  why 
could  he  not  write  to  the  vicar,  instead  of 
going  to  him  ? 

The  curate,  who  was  childless  and  a  bache- 
lor, was  not  insensible  to  the  fondness  of  his 
beautiful  pupil,  and  perhaps  he  himself  was  a 
ilittle  more  distrait  than  usual  that  morning,  or 
else  Evelyn  was  peculiarly  inattentive;  for 
certain  it  is,  that  she  reaped  very  little  benefit 
from  the  lesson. 

Yet  he  was  an  admirable  teacher,  that  old 
man  !  Aware  of  Evelyn's  quick,  susceptible, 
and  rather  fanciful  character  of  mind,  he  had 
sought  less  to  curb,  than  to  refine  and  elevate 
her  imagination.  Himself  of  no  ordinary  abili- 
ties, which  leisure  had  allowed  him  to  culti- 
vate, his  piety  was  too  large  and  cheerful  to 
exclude  literature — Heaven's  best  gift — from 
the  pale  of  religion.  And  under  his  care 
Evelyn's  mind  had  been  duly  stored  with  the 
treasures  of  modern  genius,  and  her  judgment 
strengthened  by  the  criticisms  of  a  graceful 
and  generous  taste. 

In  that  sequestered  hamlet,  the  young  heiress 
had  l)een  trained  to  adorn  her  future  station; 
to  appreciate  the  arts  and  elegancies  that  dis- 


I  tinguished  (no  matter  what  the  rank)  the  re- 
fined from  the  low,  better  than  if  she  had  been 
brought  up  under  the  hundred-handed  Bria- 
reus  of  fashionable  education.  Lady  Vargrave, 
indeed,  like  most  i)ersons  of  modest  i)reten- 
sions  and  imperfect  cultivation,  was  rather 
inclined  to  overrate  the  advantages  to  be  de- 
rived from  book-knowledge,  and  she  was  never 
better  pleased  than  when  she  saw  Evelyn 
opening  the  monthly  parcel  from  London,  and 
delightedly  jwring  over  volumes  which  Lady 
Vargrave  innocently  believed  to  be  reservoirs 
of  inexhaustible  wisdom. 

But  this  day  Evelyn  would  not  read,  and 
the  golden  verses  of  Tasso  lost  their  music  to 
her  ear.  So  the  curate  gave  up  the  lecture, 
and  placed  a  little  programme  of  studies  to  be 
conned  during  his  absence,  in  her  reluctant 
hand;  and  Sultan,  who  had  been  wistfully 
licking  his  paws  for  the  last  half-hour,  sprung 
up  and  caracoled  once  more  into  the  garden 
—and  the  old  priest  and  the  young  woman 
left  the  works  of  man  for  those  of  Nature. 

"  Do  not  fear;  I  will  take  such  care  of  your 
garden  while  you  are  away,"  said  Evelyn; 
"and  you  must  write  and  let  us  know  what 
day  you  are  to  come  back." 

"  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  are  born  to  spoil 
every  one — from  Sultan  to  Aubrey." 

"  And  to  be  spoiled  too,  don't  forget  that;  " 
cried  Evelyn,  laughingly  shaking  back  her 
ringlets.  "  And  now,  before  you  go,  will  you 
tell  me,  as  you  are  so  wise,  what  I  can  do  to 
make — to  make— my  mother  love  me  ?  " 

Evelyn's  voice  faltered  as  she  spoke  the 
last  words,  and  Aubrey  looked  surprised  and 
moved. 

"  Your  mother  love  you,  my  dear  Evelyn  I 
What  do  you  mean — does  she  not  love  you  ?  " 

"Ah,  not  as  I  love  her;— she  is  kind  and 
gentle,  I  know,  for  she  is  so  to  all;  but  she 
does  not  confide  in  me — she  does  not  trust 
me;  she  has  some  sorrow  at  heart  which  I  am 
never  allowed  to  learn  and  soothe.  Why  does 
she  avoid  all  mention  of  her  early  days  ?  she 
never  talks  to  me  as  if  she,  too,  had  once  a 
mother.  Why  am  I  never  to  speak  of  her 
first  marriage — of  my  father?  Why  does  she 
look  reproachfully  at  me,  and  shun  me— yes, 
shun  me,  for  days  together— if — if  I  attempt 
to  draw  her  to  the  past  ?  Is  there  a  secret  ? 
—if  so,  am  I  not  old  enough  to  know  it  ?  " 

Evelyn   spoke  quickly  and   nervously,  and 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


203 


with  quivering  lips.  Aubrey  took  her  hand, 
and  pressing  it,  said,  after  a  little  pause. 

"  Evelyn,  this  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever 
thus  spoken  to  nie.  Has  anything  chanced  to 
arouse  your — shall  I  call  it  curiosity,  or  shall 
I  call  it  the  mortified  pride  of  affection  ?  " 

"  And  you,  too,  are  harsh;  you  blame  me  ! 
No,  it  is  true  that  I  have  not  thus  spoken  to 
you  before;  but  I  have  long,  long  thought 
with  grief  that  I  was  insufficient  to  mj' 
mother's  happiness — I  who  love  her  so  dearly. 
And  now,  since  Mrs.  Leslie  has  been  here,  I 
find  her  conversing  with  this  comparative 
stranger,  so  much  more  confidentially  than 
with  me; — when  I  come  in  unexpectedly,  they 
cease  their  conference,  as  if  I  were  not  worthy 
to  share  it;  and — and  oh,  if  I  could  but  make 
you  understand  that  all  I  desire  is  that  my 
mother  should  love  me,  and  know  me,  and 
trust  me." 

"  Evelyn,"  said  the  curate,  coldly,  "  you 
love  your  mother,  and  justly;  a  kinder  and  a 
gentler  heart  than  hers  does  not  beat  in  a 
human  breast.  Her  first  wish  in  life  is  for 
your  happiness  and  welfare.  You  ask  for  con- 
fidence, but  why  not  confide  in  her;  why  not 
believe  her  actuated  by  the  best  and  the  ten- 
(lerest  motives;  why  not  leave  it  to  her  discre- 
tion to  reveal  to  you  any  secret  grief,  if  such 
there  be,  that  preys  upon  her;  why  add  to  that 
grief  by  any  selfish  indulgence  of  over-sus- 
ceptibility in  yourself?  My  dear  pupil,  you 
are  yet  almost  a  child;  and  they  who  have 
sorrowed  may  well  be  reluctant  to  sadden  with 
a  melancholy  confidence  those  to  whom  sorrow 
is  yet  unknown.  This  much,  at  least,  I  may 
tell  you — for  this  much  she  does  not  seek  to 
conceal — that  Lady  Vargrave  was  early  inured 
to  trials  from  which  you,  more  happy,  have 
been  saved  She  speaks  not  to  you  of  her 
relations,  for  she  has  none  left  on  earth.  And 
after  her  marriage  with  your  benefactor, 
Evelyn,  perhaps  it  seemed  to  her  a  njatter  of 
principle  to  banish  all  vain  regret,  all  remem- 
brance, if  possible,  of  an  earlier  tie." 

"  My  poor,  poor  mother  !  Oh,  yes,  you  are 
right;  forgive  me.  She  yet  mourns,  perhaps, 
my  father,  whom  I  never  saw,  whom  I  feel,  as 
it  were,  tacitly  forbid  to  name, — you  did  not 
know  him  ?" 

"  Him  ! — whom  ?  " 

"  My  father,  my  mother's  first  husband  ?  " 

"No." 


"  But  I  am  sure  I  could  not  have  loved  him 
so  well  as  my  benefactor,  my  real  and  second 
father,  who  is  now  dead  and  gone.  Oh,  how 
well  I  remember  ///;// — how  fondly  !  "  Here 
Evelyn  stopped  and  burst  into  tears. 

"You  do  right  to  remember  him  thus;  to 
love  and  revere  his  memory — a  father  indeed 
he  was  to  you.  But  now,  Evelyn,  my  ovvn 
dear  child,  hear  me.  Respect  the  silent  heart 
of  your  mother:  let  her  not  think  that  her 
misfortunes,  whatever  they  may  be,  can  cast  a 
shadow  over  you— you,  her  last  hope  and 
blessing.  Rather  than  seek  to  open  the  old 
wounds,  suffer  them  to  heal,  as  they  must,  be- 
neath the  influences  of  religion  and  time;  and 
wait  the  hour  when  without,  perhaps,  too  keen 
a  grief,  your  mother  can  go  back  with  you  into 
the  past." 

"  I  will, — I  will.  Oh,  how  wicked, — how 
ungracious  I  have  been  !  it  was  but  an  excess 
of  love,  believe  it,  dear  Mr.  Aubrey,  believe 
it." 

"I  do  believe  it,  my  poor  Evelyn;  and  now 
I  know  that  I  may  trust  in  you.  Come,  dry 
those  bright  eyes,  or  they  will  think  I  have 
been  a  hard  task-master,  and  let  us  go  to  the 
cottage." 

They  walked  slowly  and  silently  across  the 
humble  garden  into  the  churchyard,  and  there, 
by  the  old  yew-tree,  they  saw  Lady  Vargrave. 
Evelyn,  fearful  that  the  traces  of  her  tears. 
were  yet  visible,  drew  back;  and  Aubrey^ 
aware  of  what  passed  within  her,  said,— 

"Shall  I  join  your  mother,  and  tell  her  of 
my  approaching  departure?  and  perhaps,  in 
the  meanwhile,  yon  will  call  at  our  poor  pen- 
sioner's in  the  village— Dame  Newman  is  so 
anxious  to  see  you— we  will  join  you  there 
soon." 

Evelyn  smiled  her  thanks,  and  kissing  her 
hand  to  her  mother  with  seeming  gaiety, 
turned  back  and  passed  through  the  glebe 
into  the  little  village.  Aubrey  joined  Lady 
Vargrave,  and  drew  her  arm  in  his. 

Meanwhile  Evelyn  thoughtfully  pursued  her 
way.  Her  heart  was  full,  and  of  self-reproach. 
Her  mother  had,  then,  known  cause  for  sor- 
row; and,  perhaps,  her  reserve  was  but  occa- 
sioned by  her  reluctance  to  pain  her  child. 
Oh,  how  doubly  anxious  would  Evelyn  be 
hereafter  to  soothe,  to  comfort,  to  wean  that 
dear  mother  from  the  past  !  Though  in  this 
girl's  character   there  was   something  of  the 


2o6 


£UL  WER  'S     IVOIiJ^S. 


impetuosity  and  thoughtlessness  of  her  years, 
it  was  noble  as  well  as  soft;  and  now  the 
woman's  trustfulness  conquered  all  the  woman's 
curiosity. 

She  entered  the  cottage  of  the  old  bed- 
ridden crone  whome  Aubrey  had  referred  to. 
It  was  as  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  that  sweet  com- 
forting face;  and  here,  seated  by  the  old 
woman's  side,  with  the  Book  of  the  Poor  upon 
her  lap,  Evelyn  was  found  by  Lady  Vargrave. 
It  was  curious  to  observe  the  different  impres- 
sions upon  the  cottagers  made  by  the  mother 
and  daughter.  Both  were  beloved  with  almost 
equal  enthusiasm;  but  with  the  first  the  poor 
felt  more  at  home.  They  could  talk  to  her 
more  at  ease:  she  understood  them  so  much 
more  quickly;  they  had  no  need  to  beat  about 
the  bush  to  tell  the  little  peevish  complaints 
that  they  were  half-ashamed  to  utter  to  Eve- 
lyn. What  seemed  so  light  to  the  young, 
cheerful  beauty,  the  mother  listened  to  with 
so  grave  and  sweet  a  patience.  When  all  went 
right,  they  rejoiced  to  see  Evelyn;  but  in  their 
little  difificulties  and  sorrows,  nobody  was  like 
"  my  good  Lady  !  " 

So  Dame  Newman,  the  moment  she  saw  the 
pale  countenance  and  graceful  shape  of  Lady 
Vargrave  at  the  threshold,  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  delight.  Now  she  could  let  out  all  that 
she  did  not  like  to  trouble  the  young  lady 
with;  now  she  could  complain  of  east  winds, 
and  rheumatiz,  and  the  parish  officers,  and  the 
bad  tea  they  sold  poor  people  at  Mr.  Hart's 
shop,  and  the  ungrateful  grandson  who  was  so 
well  to  do,  and  who  forgot  he  had  a  grand- 
mother alive  !    ■ 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  Towards  the  end  of  tlie  week  we  received  a  card 
from  the  town  ladies."—  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

The  curate  was  gone,  and  the  lessons  sus- 
pended; otherwise — as  like  each  to  each  as 
sunshine  or  cloud  permitted — day  followed 
day  in  the  calm  retreat  of  Brook-Green;  when, 
one  morning,  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  a  letter  in  her 
hand,  sought  Lady  Vargrave,  who  was  busied 
in  tending  the  flowers  of  a  small  conservatory 
which  she  had  added  to  the  cottage,  when, 
from  various  motives,  and  one  in  especial 
powerful  and  mysterious,  she  exchanged  for  so 


sequestered  a  home  the  luxurious  villa  be- 
queathed to  her  by  her  husband. 

To  flowers — those  charming  children  of 
Nature,  in  which  our  age  can  take  the  same 
tranquil  pleasure  as  our  youth — Lady  Var- 
grave devoted  much  of  her  monotonous  and 
unchequered  time.  She  seemed  to  love  them 
almost  as  living  things;  and  her  memory  as- 
sociated them  with  hours  as  bright  and  as 
fleeting  as  themselves. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Lesiie,  "1 
have  news  for  you.  My  daughter  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton,  who  has  been  in  Cornwall  on  a  visit  to 
her  husband's  mother,  writes  me  word  that 
she  will  visit  us  on  her  road  home  to  the  Rec- 
tory in  B shire.    She  will  not  put  you  much 

out  of  the  way,"  added  Mrs.  Leslie,  smiling, 
"  for  Mr.  Merton  will  not  accompany  her;  she 
only  brings  her  daughter  Caroline,  a  lively, 
handsome,  intelligent  girl,  who  will  be  en- 
chanted with  Evelyn.  All  you  will  regret  is, 
that  she  comes  to  terminate  my  visit,  and  take 
me  away  with  her.  If  you  can  forgive  that  of- 
fence, you  will  have  nothing  else  to  pardon." 

Lady  Vargrave  replied  with  her  usual  simple 
kindness,  but  she  was  evidently  nervous  at  the 
visit  of  a  stranger  (for  she  had  never  yet  seen 
Mrs.  Merton),  and  still  more  distressed  at 
the  thought  of  losing  Mrs.  Leslie  a  week  or 
two  sooner  than  had  been  anticipated.  How- 
ever, Mrs.  Leslie  hastened  to  reassure  her. 
Mrs.  Merton  was  so  quiet  and  good-natured, 
the  wife  of  a  country  clergyman  with  simple 
tastes;  and,  after  all,  Mrs.  Leslie's  visit  might 
last  as  long,  if  Lady  Vargrave  would  be  con- 
tented to  extend  her  hospitality  to  Mrs.  Merton 
and  Caroline. 

When  the  visit  was  announced  to  Evelyn, 
her  young  heart  was  susceptible  only  of  pleas- 
ure and  curiosity.  She  had  no  friend  of  her 
own  age;  she  was  sure  she  should  like  the 
grandchild  of  her  dear  Mrs.  Leslie. 

Evelyn,  who  had  learned  betimes,  from  the 
affectionate  solicitude  of  her  nature,  to  relieve 
her  mother  of  such  few  domestic  cares  as  a 
home  so  quiet,  with  an  establishment  so  regu- 
lar, could  afford,  gaily  busied  herself  in  a 
thousand  little  preparations.  She  filled  the 
rooms  of  the  visitors  with  flowers  (not  dream- 
ing that  any  one  could  fancy  them  unwhole- 
some), and  spread  the  tables  with  her  own 
favorite  books,  and  had  the  little  cottage  piano 
in  her  own  dressing-room  removed  into  Caro- 


ALICES     OR,     'J  HE    MYSTERIES. 


20J 


line's — Caroline  must  be  fond  of  music:  she 
had  some  doubts  of  transferring  a  cage  with  two 
canaries  into  Caroline's  room  also,  but  when  she 
approached  the  cage  with  that  intention,  the 
birds  chirped  so  merrily,  and  seemed  so  glad 
to  see  her,  and  so  expectant  of  sugar,  that  her 
heart  smote  her  for  her  meditated  desertion 
and  ingratitude.  No,  she  could  not  give  up  the 
canaries;  but  the  glass  bowl  with  the  gold  fish 
— oh,  that  would  look  so  pretty  on  its  stand 
just  by  the  casement;  and  the  fish  —  dull 
things  ! — would  not  miss  her. 

The  morning — the  noon — the  probable  hour 
■of  the  important  arrival  came  at  last;  and  after 
having  three  times  within  the  last  half  hour 
visited  the  rooms,  and  settled,  and  unsettled, 
and  settled  again  everything  before  arranged, 
Evelyn  retired  to  her  own  room  to  consult  her 
wardrobe,  and  Margaret — once  her  nurse,  now 
her  Abigail.  Alas  !  the  wardrobe  of  the  des- 
tined Lady  Vargrave — the  betrothed  of  a  ris- 
ing statesman,  a  new  and  now  an  ostentatious 
peer — the  heiress  of  the  wealthy  Templeton — 
was  one  that  many  a  tradesman's  daughter 
would  have  disdained.  Evelyn  visited  so  little; 
the  clergyman  of  the  place,  and  two  old  maids 
who  lived  most  respectably  on  a  hundred  and 
eighty  pounds  a  year,  in  a  cottage,  with  one 
maidservant,  two  cats,  and  a  footboy,  bounded 
the  circle  of  her  acquaintance.  Her  mother 
was  so  indifferent  to  dress;  she  herself  had 
found  so  many  other  ways  of  spending  money  ! 
— but  Evelyn  was  not  now  more  philosophical 
than  others  of  her  age.  She  turned  from  mus- 
'in  to  muslin — from  the  colored  to  the  white, 
irom  the  white  to  the  colored— with  pretty 
anxiety  and  sorrowful  suspense.  At  last  she 
decided  on  the  newest,  and  when  it  was  on, 
and  the  single  rose  sat  in  the  lustrous  and 
beautiful  hair,  Carson  herself  could  not  have 
added  a  charm.  Happy  age  !  Who  wants 
the  arts  of  the  milliner  at  seventeen  ? 

"  And  here,  miss:  here's  the  fine  necklace 
T,ord  Vargrave  brought  down  when  my  Lord 
came  last;  it  will  look  so  grand  !  " 

The  emeralds  glittered  in  their  case  — 
Evelyn  looked  at  them  irresolutely;  then,  as 
she  looked,  a  shade  came  over  her  forehead, 
and  she  sighed,  and  closed  the  lid. 

"No,  Margaret,  I  do  not  want  it;  take  it 
away." 

"  O  dear,  miss  !  what  would  my  Lord  say  if 
he  were  down  ?     And  they  are   so  beautiful  ! 


they  will  look  so  fine  !  Deary  me,  how  they 
sparkle  I  But  you  will  wear  much  finer  when 
you  are  my  Lady." 

"I  hear  mamma's  bell;  go,  Margaret,  she 
wants  you." 

Left  alone,  the  young  beauty  sank  down 
abstractedly,  and  though  the  looking-glass 
was  opposite,  it  did  not  arrest  her  eye;  she 
forgot  her  ward-robe,  her  muslin  dress,  her 
fears,  and  her  guests. 

"Ah,"  she  thought,  "what  a  weight  of  dread 
I  feel  here  when  I  think  of  Lord  Vargrave 
and  this  fatal  engagement;  and  every  day  I 
feel  it  more  and  more.  To  leave  my  dear, 
dear  mother— the  dear  cottage — oh  !  I  never 
can.  I  used  to  like  him  when  I  was  a  child; 
now  I  shudder  at  his  name.  Why  is  this? 
He  is  kind — he  condescends  to  seek  to  please. 
It  was  the  wish  of  my  poor  father — for  father 
he  really  was  to  me;  and  yet — oh,  that  he  had 
left  me  poor  and  free  !  " 

At  this  part  of  Evelyn's  meditation  the  un- 
usual sound  of  wheels  was  heard  on  the  gravel; 
she  started  up — wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes 
— and  hurried  down  to  welcome  the  expected 
guests. 


.CHAPTER   V. 

"  Tell  me,  Sophy,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  our 
new  visitors?" — Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Mrs.  Merton  and  her  daughter  were  already 
in  the  middle  drawing-room,  seated  on  either 
side  of  Mrs.  Leslie.  The  former  a  woman  of 
quiet  and  pleasing  exterior;  her  face  still 
handsome,  and  if  not  intelligent,  at  least  ex- 
pressive of  sober  good  nature  and  habitual  con- 
tent. The  latter  a  fine,  dark-eyed  girl,  of  de- 
cided countenance,  and  what  is  termed  a 
showy  style  of  beauty, — tall,  self-possessed, 
and  dressed  plainly  indeed,  but  after  the  ap- 
proved fashion.  The  rich  bonnet  of  the  large 
shape  then  worn;  the  ChantiUy  veil;  the  gay 
French  Cachemire ;  the  full  sleeves,  at  that 
time  the  unnatural  rage;  the  expensive,  yet 
unassuming  robe  de  soie;  the  perfect  chaussure; 
the  air  of  society;  the  easy  manner;  the  tran- 
quil but  scrutinizing  gaze — -all  startled,  dis- 
composed, and  half  frightened  Evelyn. 

Miss  Merton  herself,  if  more  at  her  ease, 
was  equally  surprised   by  the   beauty  and  un- 


208 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS 


conscious  grace  of  the  young  fairy  before  her, 
and  rose  to  greet  her  with  a  vvell-ljred  cor- 
diality, which  at  once  made  a  conquest  of 
Evelyn's  heart. 

Mrs.  Merton  kissed  her  cheek  and  smiled 
kindly  on  her,  but  said  little.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  she  was  a  less  conversable  and  more 
homely  person  than  Caroline. 

When  Evelyn  conducted  them  to  their 
rooms,  the  mother  and  daughter  detected  at  a 
glance  the  care  that  had  provided  for  their 
comforts;  and  something  eager  and  expectant 
in  Evelyn's  eyes  taught  the  good-nature  of 
the  one  and  the  good  breeding  of  the  other  to 
reward  their  young  hostess  by  various  little 
exclamations  of  pleasure  and  satisfaction. 

"  Dear,  how  nice  ! — What  a  pretty  writing- 
desk  ! "  said  one. — "  And  the  pretty  gold 
fish  !  "  said  the  other. — "  And  the  piano,  too, 
so  well  placed;" — and  Caroline's  fair  fingers 
ran  rapidly  over  the  keys.  Evelyn  retired, 
covered  with  smiles  and  blushes.  And  then 
Mrs.  Merton  permitted  herself  to  say  to  the 
well-dressed  Abigail: — 

"  Do  take  away  those  flowers,  they  make 
me  quite  faint." 

"  And  how  low  the  room  is — so  confined  !  " 
— said  Caroline; — when  the  lady's  lady  with- 
drew with  the  condemned  flowers.  "  And  I 
see  no  Psyche — however,  the  poor  people  have 
done  their  best." 

"  Sweet  person.  Lady  Vargrave  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Merton — "  so  interesting  ! — so  beautiful — and 
how  youthful  in  appearance  !  " 

"  No  tounmre — not  much  the  manner  of  the 
world,"  said  Caroline. 

"No;  but  something  better." 

"  Hem  !  "  said  Caroline.  "  The  girl  is  very 
pretty,  though  too  small." 

"  Such  a  smile — such  eyes — she  is  irresisti- 
ble ! — and  what  a  fortune  ! — she  will  be  a 
charming  friend  for  you,  Caroline." 

"Yes,  she  may  be  useful,  if  she  marry 
Lord  Vargrave;  or,  indeed,  if  she  make  any 
brilliant  match.  What  sort  of  a  man  is  Lord 
Vargrave  ?  " 

"I  never  saw  him;  they  sa)',  most  fas- 
cinating." 

"Well,  she  is  very  happy,"  said  Caroline, 
with  a  siijh. 


CHAPTER   VL 

"  Two  lovely  datnse.s  cheer  my  lonely  walk." 

—Lamb's  Album  Verses. 

Aeter  dinner — there  was  still  light  enoqgh 
for  the  young  geople  to  stroll  through  the 
garden.  Mrs.  Merton,  who  was  afraid  of  the 
damp,  preferred  staying  within;  and  she  was 
so  quiet,  and  made  herself  so  much  at  home, 
that  Lady  Vargrave,  to  use  Mrs.  Leslie's 
phrase,  was  not  the  least  "  put  out "  by  her: 
besides,  she  talked  of  Evelyn,  and  that  was  a 
theme  very  dear  to  Lady  Vargrave,  who  was^ 
both  fond  and  proud  of  Evelyn. 

"  This  is  very  pretty,  indeed  ! — the  view  of 
the  sea  quite  lovely  !  "  said  Caroline.  "  You 
draw  ?  " 

"Yes,  a  little." 

"  From  Nature  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes  !" 

"What,  in  Lidian  ink?" 

"Yes;  and  water-colors." 

"  Oh  ! — why,  who  could  have  taught  you  in 
this  little  village;  or,  indeed,  in  this  most  primi- 
tive county  ? " 

"  We  did  not  come  to  Brook-Green  till  I  wa& 
nearly  fifteen.  My  dear  mother,  though  very 
anxious  to  leave  our  villa  at  Fulham,  would 
not  do  so  on  my  account,  while  masters  could 
be  of  service  to  me;  and  as  I  knew  she  had 
set  her  heart  on  this  place,  I  worked  doubly 
hard." 

"  Then  she  knew  this  place  before  ?  " 

"Yes;  she  had  been  here  many  years  ago, 
and  took  the  place  after  my  poor  father's 
death — (I  always  call  the  late  Lord  Vargrave 
my  father).  She  used  to  come  here  regularly 
once  a-year  without  me;  and  when  she  re- 
turned, I  thought  her  even  more  melancholy^ 
than  before." 

"  What  makes  the  charm  of  the  place  to 
Lady  Vargrave?  "  asked'  Caroline,  with  some 
interest. 

"I  don't  know;  unless  it  be  its  extreme 
quiet,  or  some  early  association." 

"  And  who  is  your  nearest  neighbor?" 

"  Mr.  Aubrey,  the  curate.  It  i.:  so  unlucky, 
he  is  gone  from  home  for  a  short  time.  You 
can't  think  how  kind  and  pleasant  he  is — the 
most  amiable  old  man  in  the  world — just  such 
a  man  as  Bernard  in  St.  Pierre  would  have 
loved  to  describe." 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


209 


"  Agreeable,  no  doubt,  but  dull — good  cu- 
rates generally  are." 

"  Dull — not  the  least;  cheerful,  even  to 
playfulness,  and  full  of  information.  He  has 
been  so  good  to  me  about  books;  indeed,  I 
have  learned  a  good  deal  from  him." 

"  I  dare  say  he  is  an  admirable  judge  of 
sermons." 

"  But  Mr.  Aubrey  is  not  severe,"  persisted 
Evelyn,  earnestly;  "  he  is  very  fond  of  Italian 
literature,  for  instance  we  are  reading  Tasso 
together." 

"  Oh  !  pity  he  is  old — I  think  you  said  he 
is  old.  Perhaps  there  is  a  son,  the  image  of 
the  sire  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  said  Evelyn,  laughing  innocently; 
"  Mr.  Aubrey  never  married." 

"  And  where  does  the  old  gentleman  live  ?" 

"  Cornea  little  this  way — there,  you  can  just 
see  the  roof  of  his  house,  close  by  the  church." 

"  I  see;  it  is  tant  soil peu  triste  to  have  the 
church  so  near  you." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  Ah  !  but  you  have  not 
seen  it:  it  is  the  prettiest  church  in  the  county; 
and  the  little  burial-ground — so  quiet — -so  shut 
in;  I  feel  better  every  time  I  pass  it.  Some 
places  breathe  of  religion." 

"  You  are  poetical,  my  dear  little  friend." 

Evelyn,  who  /<a^  poetry  in  her  nature — and 
therefore  sometimes  it  broke  out  in  her  sim- 
ple language — colored,  and  felt  half  ashamed. 

"  It  is  a  favorite  walk  with  my  mother," 
snid  she,  apologetically;  "  she  often  spends 
hours  there  alone;  and  so,  perhaps,  I  think  it 
a  prettier  spot  than  others  may.  It  does  not 
seem  to  me  to  have  anything  of  gloom  in  it; 
when  I  die,  I  should  like  to  be  buried  there." 

Caroline  laughed  slightly.  "That  is  a 
strange  wish;  but  perhaps  you  have  been 
crossed  in  love  ?" 

"  I  ! — oh,  you  are  laughing  at  me  I  " 

"You  do  not  remember  Mr.  Cameron,  your 
real  father,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No;  I  believe  he  died  before  I  was  born." 

"Cameron  is  a  Scotch  name:  to  what  tribe 
of  Cam^rons  do  you  belong  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Evelyn,  rather  en:- 
barassed;  "indeed,  I  know  nothing  of  my 
father's  or  mother's  family.  It  is  very  odd, 
but  I  don't  think  we  have  any  relations.  You 
know,  when  I  am  of  age,  that  I  am  to  take  the 
name  of  Templeton." 

"Ah!  the  name  goes  with  the  fortune;    I 

6— U 


understand.     Dear  Evelyn,  how  rich  you  will 
be  !     I  do  so  wish  I  were  rich  !  " 

"  And  I  that  I  were  poor,"  said  Evelyn,  with 
an  altered  tone  and  expression  of  countenance. 

"  Strange  girl  !  what  can  you  mean  .'  " 

Evelyn  said  nothing,  and  Caroline  examined 
her  curiously. 

"These  notions  come  from  living  so  much 
out  of  the  world,  my  dear  Evelyn.  How  you 
must  long  to  see  more  of  life  !  " 

"  I  !  — not  in  the  least.  I  should  never  like 
to  leave  this  place — I  could  live  and  die  here." 

"You  will  think  otherwise  when  you  are 
Lady  Vargrave. — Why  (\q  you  look  so  grave  ? 
Do  you  not  love  Lord  Vargrave  ?  " 

"  What  a  question  !  "  said  Evelyn,  turning 
awry  her  head,  and  forcing  a  laugh. 

"It  is  no  matter  whether  you  do  or  not:  it 
is  a  brilliant  position.  He  has  rank — reputa- 
tion— high  office:  all  he  wants  is  money,  and 
that  you  will  give  him.  Alas  !  I  have  no 
prospects  so  bright,  I  have  no  fortune,  and  I 
fear  my  face  will  never  buy  a  title,  an  opera- 
box,  and  a  house  in  Grosvenor  Square.  I  wish 
I  were  the  future  Lady  Vargrave." 

"  I  am  sure  I  wish  you  were,"  said  Evelyn, 
with  great  naivet^;  you  would  suit  Lord  Var- 
grave better  than  I  should." 

Caroline  laughed. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Oh,  his  way  of  thinking  is  like  yours;  he 
never  says  any  thing  I  can  sympathize  with." 

"A  pretty  compliment  to  me!  Depend 
upon  it,  my  dear,  you  will  sympathize  with  me 
when  you  have  seen  as  much  of  the  world. 
But  Lord  Vargrave — is  he  too  old  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  of  his  age,  and  indeed 
he  looks  younger  than  he  is." 

"  Is  he  handsome  ">.  " 

"  He  is  what  may  be  called  handsome — you 
would  think  so." 

"Well,  if  he  comes  here,  I  will  do  my  best 
to  win  him  from  you;  so  look  to  yourself." 

"Oh,  I  should  be  so  grateful;  I  should 
like  him  so  much  if  he  would  fall  in  love  with 
you  !  " 

"  I  fear  there  is  no  chance  of  that." 

"But  how,"  said  Evelyn,  hesitatingly,  after 
a  pause;  "how  is  it  that  you  have  seen  so 
much  more  of  the  world  than  I  have  ?  1 
thought  Mr.  Merton  lived  a  great  deal  in  the 
country." 

"Yes,  but  my  uncle.  Sir  John   Merton,  is 


310 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


member  for  the  county:  my  grandmother  on 
my  father's  side — Lady  Elizatieth,  who  has 
Tregony  Castle  (which  we  have  just  left)  for 
her  jointure-house — goes  to  town  ahiiost  every 
season,  and  I  have  spent  three  seasons  with 
her.  She  is  a  charming  old  woman — quite  the 
grande  dame.  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  remains 
in  Cornwall  this  year;  she  has  not  been  very 
well;  the  physicians  forbid  late  hours  and 
London:  but  even  in  the  country  we  are  very 
gay.  My  uncle  lives  near  us,  and,  though  a 
widower,  has  his  house  full  when  down  at  Mer- 
ton  Park;  and  papa,  too,  is  rich — very  hos- 
pitable and  popular — and  will,  I  hope,  be  a 
bishop  one  of  these  days — not  at  all  like  a 
mere  country  parson;  and  so,  somehow  or 
other,  I  have  learned  to  be  ambitious — we  are 
an  ambitious  family  on  papa's  side.  But,  alas  ! 
I  have  not  your  cards  to  play.  Young,  beau- 
tiful, and  an  heiress  !  Ah,  what  prospects  ! 
You  should  make  your  mamma  take  you  to 
town." 

"  To  town  !  she  would  be  wretched  at  the 
very  idea.     Oh,  you  don't  know  us." 

"  I  can't  help  fancying,  Miss  Evelyn,"  said 
Caroline,  archly,  "  that  you  are  not  so  blind  to 
Lord  Vargrave's  perfections,  and  so  indifferent 
to  London,  only  from  the  pretty  innocent  way 
of  thinking,  that  so  prettily  and  innocently  you 
express.  I  dare  say,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
there  is  some  handsome  young  rector,  besides 
the  old  curate,  who  plays  the  fiute,  and  preaches 
sentimental  sermons  in  white  kid  gloves." 

Evelyn  laughed  merrily — so  merrily  that 
Caroline's  suspicions  vanished.  They  con- 
tinued to  walk  and  talk  thus,  till  the  night 
came  on,  and  then  they  went  in;  and  Evelyn 
showed  Carline  her  drawings,  which  astonished 
that  young  lady,  who  was  a  good  judge  of  ac- 
complishments. Evelyn's  performance  on  the 
piano  astonished  her  yet  more;  but  Caroline 
consoled  herself  on  this  point,  for  her  voice 
was  more  powerful,  and  she  sang  French  songs 
with  much  more  spirit.  Caroline  showed 
talent  in  all  she  undertook,  but  Evelyn,  despite 
her  simplicity,  had  genius,  though  a^  yet 
scarcely  developed;  for  she  had  quickness, 
emotion,  susceptibility,  imagination.  And 
the  difference  between  talent  and  genius  lies 
rather  in  the  heart  than  the  head. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

"  Dost  ihou  feel 
The  solemn  whispering  influence  of  the  scene 
Oppressing  thy  young  heart,  that  thou  dost  draw 
More  closely  to  my  side  ?" 

— F.  Hemans:   Wood  Walk  and  Hymn. 

Caroline  and  Evelyn,  as  was  natural,  be 
came  great  friends.  They  were  not  kindred 
to  each  other  in  disposition,  but  they  were 
thrown  together;  and  friendship  thus  forced 
upon  both.  Unsuspecting  and  sanguine,  it 
was  natural  to  Evelyn  to  admire;  and  Caroline 
was,  to  her  inexperience,  a  brilliant  and  impos- 
ing novelty.  Sometimes  Miss  Merton's  world- 
liness  of  thought  shocked  Evelyn;  but  then 
Caroline  had  a  way  with  her,  as  if  she  were 
not  in  earnest — as  if  she  were  merely  indulg- 
ing an  inclination  towards  irony;  nor  was  she 
without  a  certain  vein  of  sentiment  that  per- 
sons a  little  hackneyed  in  the  world,  and  young 
ladies  a  little  disappointed  that  they  are  not 
wives  instead  of  maids,  easily  acquire.  Trite 
as  this  vein  of  sentiment  was,  poor  Evelyn 
thought  it  beautiful  and  most  feeling.  Then, 
Caroline  was  clever,  entertaining,  cordial,  with 
all  that  superficial  superiority  that  a  girl  of 
twenty-three  who  knows  London  readily  ex- 
ercises over  a  country  girl  of  seventeen.  On 
the  other  hand,  Caroline  was  kind  and  affec- 
tionate towards  her.  The  clergyman's  daugh- 
ter felt  that  she  could  not  be  always  superior, 
even  in  fashion  to  the  wealthy  heiress. 

One  evening,  as  Mrs.  Leslie  and  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton  sat  under  the  verandah  of  the  cottage, 
without  their  hostess,  who  had  gone  alone 
into  the  village — and  the  young  ladies  were 
confidentially  conversing  on  the  lawn,  Mrs. 
Leslie  said  rather  abruptly,  "  Is  not  Evelyn  a 
delightful  creature  ?  How  unconscious  of  her 
beauty;  how  simple,  and  yet  so  naturally 
gifted  !  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  one  who  interested  me 
more,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  settling  \\iix  pelerine; 
"  she  is  extremely  pretty." 

"I  am  so  anxious  about  her,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Leslie,  thoughtfully.  "  You  know  the  wish  of 
the  late  Lord  Vargrave  that  she  should  marry 
his  nei)hew,  the  present  lord,  when  she  reaches 
the  age  of  eighteen.  She  only  wants  nine  or 
ten  months  of  that  time;  she  has  seen  nothing 
of  the  world;  she  is  not  fit  to  decide  for  her- 
self; and  Lady  Vargrave,  the  best  of  human 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


211 


creatures,  is  still  herself  almost  too  inexperi- 
enced in  the  world  to  be  a  guide  for  one  so 
young,  placed  in  such  peculiar  circumstances, 
and  of  prospects  so  brilliant.  I.ady  Vargrave, 
at  heart,  is  a  child  still,  and  will  be  so,  even 
when  as  old  as  I  am." 

"  It  is  very  true,"  said  Mrs.  Merton.  "  Don't 
you  fear  that  the  girls  will  catch  cold  ?  the 
dew  is  falling,  and  the  grass  must  be  wet." 

"  I  have  thought,"  continued  Mrs.  Leslie, 
without  heeding  the  latter  part  of  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton's  speech,  "that  it  would  be  a  kind  thing  to 
invite  Evelyn  to  stay  with  you  a  few  months 
at  the  Rectory.  To  be  sure,  it  is  not  like 
London;  but  you  see  a  great  deal  of  the 
world:  the  society  at  your  house  is  well 
selected,  and  at  times  even  brilliant; — she  will 
meet  young  people  of  her  own  age,  and  young 
people  fashion  and  form  each  other." 

"  I  was  thinking,  myself,  that  I  should  like 
to  invite  hei',"  said  Mrs.  Merton;  "  I  will  con- 
sult Caroline." 

"Caroline,  I  am  sure,  would  be  delighted; 
the  difficulty  lies  rather  in  Evelyn  herself." 

"  You  surprise  me  !  she  must  be  moped  to 
death  here." 

"  But  will  she  leave  her  mother  ? " 
"Why,  Caroline  often  leaves  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Merton. 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  silent,  and  Evelyn  and  her 
new  friend  now  joined  the  mother  and 
daughter. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  persuade  Evelyn  to 
pay  us  a  little  visit,"  said  Caroline;  "she 
could  accompany  us  so  nicely:  and  if  she  is 
still  strange  with  us — dear  grandmamma  goes 
too: — I  am  sure  we  can  make  her  at  home." 

"  How  odd  !  "  said  Mrs.  Merton;  "we  were 

just  saying  the   same   thing.     My  dear  Miss 

Cameron,  we  should  be  so  happy  to  have  you." 

"  And  I  should  be  so  happy  to  go,  if  mamma 

would  but  go  too." 

As  she  spoke,  the  moon,  just  risen,  showed 
the  form  of  Lady  Vargrave  slowly  approaching 
the  house.  By  the  light,  her  features  seemed 
more  pale  than  usual;  and  her  slight  and 
delicate  form,  with  its  gliding  motion  and 
noiseless  step,  had  in  it  something  almost 
ethereal  and  unearthly. 

Evelyn  turned  and  saw  her,  and  her  heart 
smote  her.  Her  mother — so  wedded  to  the 
dear  cottage  —  and  had  this  gay  stranger 
rendered    that  dear  cottage  less  attractive — 


she  who  had  said  she  could  live  and  die  in  its 
humble  precincts  ?  Abruptly  she  left  her  new 
friend,  hastened  to  her  mother,  and  threw  her 
arms  fondly  round  her. 

"You  are  pale,  you  have  over-fatigued 
yourself: — where  have  you  been? — why  did 
you  not  take  me  with  you  ?  " 

"  Lady  Vargrave  pressed  Evelyn's  hand 
affectionately. 

"  You  care  for  me  too  much,"  said  she.     "  I 
am  but   a  dull  companion   for  you;  I  was  so 
glad  to  see  you   happy  with  one  better  suited  ■ 
to  your  gay  spirits.     What  can   we  do  when 
she  leaves  us  ? " 

"  Ah,  I  want  no  companion  but  my  own — 
own  mother. — And  have  I  not  Sultan,  too?" 
added  Evelyn,  smiling  away  the  tear  that  had 
started  t()  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

'  Friend  after  friend  departs, 
Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 
That  finds  not  here  an  end." 

—J.  Montgomery. 

That  night,  Mrs.  Leslie  sought  Lady  Var- 
grave in  her  own  room.  As  she  entered 
gently  she  observed  that,  late  as  the  hour  was, 
Lady  Vargrave  was  stationed  by  the  open 
window,  and  seemed  intently  gazing  on  the 
scene  below.  Mrs.  Leslie  reached  her  side 
unperceived.  The  moonlight  was  exceedingly 
bright,  and  just  beyond  the  garden,  from  which 
it  was  separated  but  by  a  slight  fence,  lay  the 
solitary  churchyard  of  the  hamlet,  with  the 
slender  spire  of  the  holy  edifice  rising  high 
and  tapering  into  the  shining  air.  It  was  a 
calm  and  tranquillizing  scene;  and  so  intent 
was  Lady  Vargrave's  abstracted  gaze,  that 
Mrs.  Leslie  was  unwillmg  to  disturb  her 
re  very. 

At  length  Lady  Vargrave  turned;  and  there 
was  that  patient  and  pathetic  resignation 
written  in  her  countenance  which  belongs  to 
those  whom  the  world  can  deceive  no  more, 
and  who  have  fixed  their  hearts  in  the  life 
beyond. 

"  Mrs.  Leslie,  whatever  she  thought  or  felt, 
said  nothing,  except  in  kindly  remonstrance 
on   the  indiscretion  of  braving  the  night  air. 


£  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


The  window  was  closed:  they  sat  down  to 
confer. 

Mrs.  Leslie  repeated  the  invitation  given  to 
Evelyn,  and  urged  the  advisability  of  accept- 
ing it.  "  It  is  cruel  to  separate  you,"  said 
she;  "  I  feel  it  acutely.  Why  not,  then,  come 
with  Evelyn  ?  You  shake  your  head — why 
always  avoid  society  ? — So  young  yet,  you 
give  yourself  too  much  to  the  past  !  " 

Lady  Vargrave,  rose,  and  walked  to  a  cabinet 
at  the  end  of  the  room;  she  unlocked  it,  and 
beckoned  to  Mrs.  Leslie  to  approach.  In  a 
drawer  lay  carefully  folded  articles  of  female 
dress—rude,  homely,  ragged — the  dress  of  a 
peasant  girl. 

"  Do  these  remind  you  of  your  first  charity 
tome?"  she  said  touchingly:  "  they  tell  me 
that  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  world  in 
which  you  and  yours,  and  Evelyn  herself, 
should  move." 

"  Too  tender  conscience  ! — your  errors  were 
but  those  of  circumstance — of  youth; — how 
have  they  been  redeemed  ! — none  even  suspect 
them.  Your  past  history  is  known  but  to  the 
good  old  Aubrey  and  myself.  No  breath  even 
of  rumor  tarnishes  the  name  of  Lady  Var- 
grave." 

"  Mrs.  Leslie,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  reclos- 
ing  the  cabinet,  and  again  seating  herself, 
"my  world  lies  around  me — I  cannot  quit  it. 
If  I  were  of  use  to  Evelyn,  then,  indeed,  I 
would  sacrifice — -brave  all; — but  I  only  cloud 
her  spirits:  I  have  no  advice  to  give  her — no 
instruction  to  bestow.  When  she  was  a  child, 
I  could  watch  over  her;  when  she  was  sick,  I 
could  nurse  her;  but  now  she  requires  an  ad- 
viser— a  guide:  and  I  feel  too  sensibly  that 
this  task  is  beyond  my  powers.  I,  a  guide  to 
youth  and  innocence  ! — /.'  No,  I  have  noth- 
ing to  offer  her — dear  child  I — but  my  love  and 
my  prayers.  Let  your  daughter  take  her, 
then — watch  over  her,  guide,  advise  her.  For 
me — unkind,  ungrateful  as  it  may  seem — were 
she  but  happy,  I  could  well  bear  to  be  alone  !  " 

"But  she — how  will  she,  who  loves  you  so, 
submit  to  this  separation  ?  " 

"  It  will  not  be  long,  and,"  added  Lady 
Vargrave,  with  a  serious,  yet  sweet  smile, 
"  she  had  better  be  prepared  for  that  separation 
which  must  come  at  last.  As  year  by  year  I 
outlive  my  last  hope,  that  of  once  more  be- 
holding him — I  feel  that  life  becomes  feebler 
and  feebler,  and    I   look   more  on   that    quiet 


churchyard  as  a  home  to  which  I  am  soon  re- 
turning. At  all  events,  Evelyn  will  be  called 
upon  to  form  new  ties,  that  must  estrange  her 
from  me;  let  her  wean  herself  from  one  so 
useless  to  her,  to  all  the  world, — now,  and  by 
degrees." 

"  Speak  not  thus,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  strongly 
affected;  "  you  have  many  years  of  happiness 
yet  in  store  for  you; — the  more  you  recede 
from  youth,  the  fairer  life  will  become  to 
you." 

"  God  is  good  to  me,"  said  the  lady  raising 
her  meek  eyes;  "  and  I  have  already  found  it 
so — I  am  contented." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  The  greater  part  of  them  seemed  to  be  charmed 
with  his  presence." 

— Mackenzie:   The  Man  of  the  World. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  Eve- 
lyn could  at  last,  be  persuaded  to  consent  to 
the  separation  from  her  mother:  she  wept  bit- 
terly at  the  thought.  But  Lady  Vargrave, 
though  touched,  was  firm,  and  her  firmness  was 
of  that  soft,  imploring  character,  which  Evelyn 
never  could  resist.  The  visit  was  to  last  some 
months,  it  is  true;  but  she  would  return  to 
the  cottage;  she  would  escape  too — and  this, 
perhaps,  unconsciously  reconciled  her  more 
than  aught  else — the  periodical  visit  of  Lord 
Vargrave.  At  the  end  of  July,  when  the  par- 
liamentary session,  at  that  unreformed  era, 
usually  expired,  he  always  came  to  Brook- 
Green  for  a  month.  His  last  visits  had  been 
most  unwelcome  to  Evelyn,  and  this  next  visit 
she  dreaded  more  than  she  had  any  of  the 
former  ones.  It  is  strange,  the  repugnance 
with  which  she  regarded  the  suit  of  her  affi- 
anced ! — she  whose  heart  was  yet  virgin — 
who  had  never  seen  any  one  who,  in  form, 
manner,  and  powers  to  please,  could  be  com- 
pared to  the  gay  Lord  Vargrave.  And  yet  a 
sense  of  honor — of  what  was  due  to  her  dead 
benefactor,  her  more  than  father — all  com- 
bated that  repugnance,  and  left  her  uncertain 
what  course  to  pursue,  uncalculating  as  to  the 
future.  In  the  happy  elasticity  of  her  spirits, 
and  with  a  carelessness  almost  approaching  to 
levity,  which,  to  say  truth,  was  natural  to  her, 
she  did   not  often   recall  the  solemn  engage- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


813 


ment  that  must  soon  be  ratified  or  annulled; 
but  when  that  thought  did  occur,  it  saddened 
her  for  hours,  and  left  her  listless  and  de- 
spondent. The  visit  to  Mrs.  Merton  was, 
then,  finally  arranged — the  day  of  departure 
fixed — when,  one  morning,  came  the  following 
letter  from  Lord  Vargrave  himself: — 

"  To  the  Lady  Vargrave,  etc.  etc. 
"  My  dear  Friend, 

"  I  find  that  we  have  a  week's  holiday  in  our  do- 
nothing  Chamber,  and  the  weather  is  so  delightful, 
that  I  long  to  share  its  enjoyment  wiih  those  I  love 
best.  You  will,  therefore,  see  me  almost  as  soon  as 
you  receive  this;  that  is,  I  shall  be  with  you  at  dinner 
on  the  same  day.  What  can  I  say  to  Evelyn?  Will 
you,  dearest  Lady  Vargrave,  make  her  accept  all  the 
homage  which,  when  uttered  by  me,  she  seems  half 
inclined  to  reject? 

"In  haste,  most  affectionately  yours, 

"  Vargrave!" 
"  Hamillon  Place,  April  Tpth,  18 — ." 

This  letter  was  by  no  means  welcome,  either 
to  Mrs.  Leslie  or  to  Evelyn.  The  former 
feared  that  Lord  Vargrave  would  disapprove 
of  a  visit,  the  real  objects  of  which  could 
scarcely  be  owned  to  him.  The  latter  was  re- 
minded of  all  she  desired  to  forget.  But 
Lady  Vargrave  herself  rather  rejoiced  at  the 
thought  of  Lumley's  arrival.  Hitherto,  in  the 
spirit  of  her  passive  and  gentle  character,  she 
had  taken  the  engagement  between  Evelyn  and 
Lord  Vargrave  almost  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  will  and  wish  of  her  late  husband  oper- 
ated most  powerfully  on  her  mind;  and  while 
Evelyn  was  yet  in  childhood,  Lumley's  visits 
had  ever  been  acceptable,  and  the  playful  girl 
liked  the  gay,  good-humored  Lord, — who 
brought  her  all  sorts  of  presents,  and  appeared 
as  fond  of  dogs  as  herself.  But  Evelyn's  re- 
cent change  of  manner,  her  frequent  fits  of 
dejection  and  thought — once  pointed  out  to 
Lady  Vargrave  by  Mrs.  Leslie — aroused  all 
the  affectionate  and  maternal  anxiety  of  the 
former.  She  was  resolved  to  watch,  to  exam- 
ine, to  scrutinize — not  only  Evelyn's  recep- 
tion of  Vargrave,  but,  as  far  as  she  could,  the 
manner  and  disposition  of  Vargrave  himself. 
She  felt  how  solemn  a  trust  was  the  happi- 
ness of  a  whole  life;  and  she  had  that  ro- 
mance of  heart,  learned  from  Nature,  not  in 
books,  which  made  her  believe  that  there  could 
be  no  happiness  in  a  marriage  without  love. 

The  whole  family  party  were  on  the  lawn, 
when,  an  hour  earlier  than   he  was  expected, 


the  travelling  carriage  of  Lord  Vargrave  was 
whirled  along  the  narrow  sweep  that  conductea 
from  the  lodge  to  the  house.  Vargrave,  as  he 
saw  the  party,  kissed  his  hand  from  the  win- 
dow; and,  leaping  from  the  carriage,  when  it 
stopped  at  the  porch,  hastened  to  meet  his 
hostess. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Vargrave,  I  am  so  glad  to 
see  you.  You  are  looking  charmingly;  and 
Evelyn?— -oh,  there  she  is;  the  dear  coquette, 
how  lovely  she  is  !— how  she  has  improved  ! 
But  who  (sinking  his  voice),  who  are  those 
ladies  ?  " 

"Guests  of  ours — Mrs.  Leslie,  whom  you 
have  often  heard  us   speak  of,  but  never  met 


"  Yes — and  the  others  ?" 
"  Her  daughter  and  grandchild." 
"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  know  them." 
A    more  popular   manner  than  Lord  Var- 
grave's  it  is  impossible  to  conceive.     Frank 
and  prepossessing,  even  when  the  poor  and 
reckless   Mr.    Ferrers,  without  rank   or  repu- 
tation— his  smile — the  tone  of  his  voice — his 
familiar    courtesy — apparently    so    inartificial 
and  approaching  almost  to  a  boyish  bluntness 
of  good-humor — were  irresistible  in  the  rising 
statesman  and  favored  courtier. 

Mrs.  Merton  was  enchanted  with  him;  Caro- 
line thought  him  at  the  first  glance,  the  most 
fascinating  person  she  had  ever  seen;  even 
Mrs.  Leslie,  more  grave,  cautious,  and  pene- 
trating, was  almost  equally  pleased  with  the 
first  impression:  and  it  was  not  till,  in  his 
occasional  silence,  his  features  settled  into 
their  natural  expression,  that  she  fancied  she 
detected,  in  the  quick  suspicious  eye,  and 
the  close  compression  of  the  lips,  the  tokens 
of  that  wily,  astute,  and  worldly  character, 
which,  in  proportion  as  he  had  risen  in  his 
career,  even  his  own  party  reluctantly  and 
mysteriously  assigned  to  one  of  their  most 
prominent  leaders. 

When  Vargrave  took  Evelyn's  hand,  and 
raised  it  with  meaning  gallantry  to  his  lips. 
the  girl  first  blushed  deeply,  and  then  turned 
pale  as  death:  nor  did  the  color  thus  chased 
away  soon  return  to  the  transparent  cheek. 
Not  noticing  signs  which  might  bear  a  twofold 
interpretation,  Lumley,  who  seemed  in  high 
spirits,  rattletl  away  on  a  thousand  matters — 
praising  the  view,  the  weather,  the  journey — 
throwing  out  a  joke  here,  and  a  compliment 


214 


B  UL  IVEli'S     WORKS. 


there,  and  completing  his  conquest  over  Mrs. 
Merton  and  Caroline. 

"You  have  left  London  in  the  very  height 
of  its  gaiety,  Lord  Vargrave,"  said  Caroline, 
as  they  sat  conversing  after  dinner. 

"True,  Miss  Merton;  but  the  country  is  in 
the  height  of  its  gaiety  too." 

"  Are  you  so  fond  of  the  country,  then  ?  " 

"  By  fits  and  starts  —  my  passion  for  it 
comes  in  with  the  early  strawberries,  and 
goes  out  with  the  haut-boys — I  lead  so  artifi- 
cial a  life;  but  then  I  hope  it  is  an  useful  one. 
I  want  nothing  but  a  home  to  make  it  a  happy 
one." 

"  What  is  the  latest  news  ? — dear  London  ! 
I  am  so  sorry — grandmamma,  Lady  Elizabeth, 
is  not  going  there  this  year;  so  I  am  com- 
pelled  to  rusticate.     Is  Lady  Jane  D to 

be  married  at  last?" 

"  Commend  me  to  a  young  lady's  idea  of 
news — always  marriage  !     Lady  Jane  D ! 


yes,  she  is  to  be  married,  as  you  say — at  last ! 
While  she  vvas  a  beauty,  our  cold  sex  were  shy 
of  her;  but  she  has  now  faded  into  plainness 
— the  proper  color  for  a  wife." 

"  Complimentary  !  " 

"  Indeed  it  is — for  you  beautiful  women  we 
love  too  much  for  our  own  happiness — heigho  ! 
— and  a  prudent  marriage  means  friendly  in- 
difference, not  rapture  and  despair.  But  give 
me  beauty  and  love;  I  never  was  prudent;  it 
is  not  my  weakness. 

Though  Caroline  was  his  sole  supporter  in 
this  dialogue,  Lord  Vargrave's  eyes  attempted 
to  converse  with  Evelyn,  who  was  unusually 
silent  and  abstracted.  Suddenly  Lord  Var- 
grave seemed  aware  that  he  was  scarcely 
general  enough  in  his  talk  for  his  hearers. 
He  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Leslie,  and 
glided  back  as  it  were,  into  a  former  genera- 
tion. He  spoke  of  persons  gone  and  things 
forgotten;  he  made  the  subject  interesting 
even  to  the  young,  by  a  succession  of  various 
and  sparkling  anecdotes.  No  one  could  be 
more  agreeable;  even  Evelyn  now  listened  to 
him  with  pleasure;  for  to  all  women  wit  and 
intellect  have  their  charm.  But  still  there  was 
a  cold  and  sharp  levity  in  the  tone  of  the  man 
of  the  world  that  prevented  the  charm  sinking 
below  the  surface.  To  Mrs.  Leslie  he  seemed 
unconsciously  to  betray  a  laxity  of  principle; 
to  Evelyn,  a  want  of  sentiment  and  heart. 
Lady   Vargrave,  who   did    not    understand  a 


character  of  this  description,  listened  atten- 
tively, and  said  to  herself,  "  Evelyn  may  ad- 
mire, but  I  fear  she  cannot  love  him."  Still, 
time  passed  quickly  in  Lumley's  presence, 
and  Caroline  thought  she  had  never  spent  so 
pleasant  an  evening. 

When  Lord  Vargrave  retired  to  his  room, 
he  threw  himself  in  his  chair,  and  yawned  with 
exceeding  ferver.  His  sevant  arranged  his 
dressing-robe,  and  placed  his  port-folios  and 
letter-boxes  on  the  table. 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ?  "  said  Lumley. 

"  Very  early,  my  lord;  only  eleven." 

"  The  devil  ! — the  country  air  is  wonder- 
fully exhausting.     I  am  very  sleepy;  you  may 

go." 

"  This  little  girl,"  said  Lumley,  stretching 
himself,  "is  preternaturally  shy — I  must 
neglect  her  no  longer- — yet  it  is  surely  all  safe. 
She  has  grown  monstrous  pretty;  but  the  other 
girl  is  more  amusing,  more  to  my  taste,  and  a 
much  easier  conquest,  I  fancy.  Her  great 
dark  eyes  seemed  full  of  admiration  for  my 
lordship — sensible  young  woman  !— she  may 
be  useful  in  piquing  Evelyn." 


Julio. 


CHAPTER    X. 

Wilt  thou  have  him  ?" 

—  The  Maid  in  the  Mill. 


Lord  Vargrave  heard  the  next  morning, 
with  secret  distaste  and  displeasure,  of  Eve- 
lyn's intended  visit  to  the  Mertons.  He  could 
scarcely  make  any  open  objection  to  it;  but 
he  did  not  refrain  from  many  insinuations  as 
to  its  impropriety. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  he  to  Lady  Vargrave, 
"  it  is  scarcely  right  in  you  (pardon  me  for 
saying  it)  to  commit  Evelyn  to  the  care  of 
comparative  strangers.  Mrs.  Leslie,  indeed, 
you  know;  but  Mrs.  Merton,  you  allow,  you 
have  now  seen  for  the  first  time— a  most  re- 
spectable person,  doubtless;  but  still,  recollect 
how  young  Evelyn  is — how  rich — what  a  prize 
to  any  younger  sons  in  the  Merton  family  (if 
such  there  be).  Miss  Merton  herself  is  a 
shrewd,  worldly  girl;  and  if  she  were  of  our 
sex,  would  make  a  capital  fortune-hunter. 
Don't  think  my  fear  is  selfish;  I  do  not  s]ieak 
for   myself.      If   I    were  Evelyn's  brother,   I 


ALICE;     OR,      J  HE    MYSTERIES. 


2'5 


stiould  be  yet  more  earnest  in  my  remon- 
strance." 

"  But,  Lord  Vargrave,  poor  Evelyn  is  dull 
here;  my  spirits  infect  hers.  She  ought  to 
mix  more  with  those  of  her  own  age,  to  see 
more  of  the  world  before-  -before " 

"  Before  her  marriage  with  me.  Forgive 
me,  but  is  not  that  my  affair  ?  If  I  am  con- 
tented, nay,  charmed  with  her  innocence — if 
I  prefer  it  to  all  the  arts  which  society  could 
teach  her,— surely  you  would  be  acquitted  for 
leaving  her  in  the  beautiful  simplicity  that 
makes  her  chief  fascination  ?  She  will  see 
enough  of  the  world  as  Lady  Vargrave." 

"  But  if  she  should  resolve  never  to  be  Lady 
Vargrave ?  " 

Lumley  started,  bit  his  lip,  and  frowned. 
Lady  Vargrave  had  never  before  seen  on  his 
countenance  the  dark  expression  it  now  wore. 
He  recollected  and  recovered  himself,  as  he 
observed  her  eye  fixed  upon  him,  and  said, 
with  a  constrained  smile— 

"  Can  you  anticipate  an  event  so  fatal  to 
my  happiness,  so  unforeseen,  so  opposed  to 
all  my  poor  uncle's  wishes,  as  Evelyn's  rejec- 
tion of  a  suit  pursued  for  years,  and  so  sol- 
emnly sanctioned  in  her  very  childhood  ?  " 

"She  must  decide  for  herself,"  said  Lady 
Vargrave.  "  Your  uncle  carefully  distinguished 
between  a  wish  and  a  command.  Her  heart 
is  as  yet  untouched.  If  she  can  love  you, 
may  you  deserve  her  affection." 

"  It  shall  be  my  study  to  do  so.  But  why 
this  departure  from  your  roof,  just  when  we 
ou^ht  to  see  most  of  each  other  ?  It  cannot 
be  that  you  would  separate  us  ?  " 

"  I  fear.  Lord  Vargrave,  that  if  Evelyn  were 
to  remain  here,  she  would  decide  against  you. 
I  fear  if  you  press  her  now,  such  now  may  be 
her  premature  decision.  Perhaps  this  arises 
from  too  fond  an  attachment  for  her  home: 
perhaps  even  a  short  absence  from  her  home 
— from  me — may  more  reconcile  her  to  a 
permanent  separation." 

Vargrave  could  say  no  more;  for  here  they 
were  joined  by  Caroline  and  Mrs.  Merton. 
But  his  manner  was  changed,  nor  could  he  re- 
cover the  gaiety  of  the  previous  night. 

When,  however,  he  found  time  for  medita- 
tion, he  contrived  to  reconcile  himself  to  the 
intended  visit.  He  felt  that  it  was  easy  to 
secure  the  friendship  of  the  whole  of  the  Mer- 
ton family;  and  that  friendship  might  be  more 


useful  to  him  than  the  neutral  part  adopted  by 
Lady  Vargrave.  He  should  of  course,  be  in- 
vited  to  the  Rectory;  it  was  much  nearer 
London  than  Lady  Vargravc's  cottage- -he 
could  more  often  escape  from  public  cares  to 
superintend  his  private  interests.  A  country 
neighborhood,  particularly  at  that  season  of 
the  year,  wa:>  not  likely  to  abound  in  very 
dangerous  rivals.  Evelyn  would,  he  saw,  be 
surrounded  hy  z^vorldly  family,  and  he  thought 
that  an  advantage;  it  might  serve  to  dissipate 
Evelyn's  romantic  tendencies,  and  make  her 
sensible  of  the  pleasures  of  the  London  life, 
the  official  rank,  the  gay  society  that  her  union 
with  him  would  offer  as  an  equivalent  for  her 
fortune.  In  short,  as  was  his  wont,  he  strove 
to  make  the  best  of  the  new  turn  affairs  had 
taken.  Though  guardian  to  Miss  Cameron, 
and  one  of  the  trustees  for  the  fortune  she  was 
to  receive  on  attaining  her  majority,  he  had 
not  the  right  to  dictate  as  to  her  residence. 

The  late  lord's  will  had  expressly  and  point- 
edly corroborated  the  natural  and  lawful  au- 
thority of  Lady  Vargrave  in  all  matters  con- 
nected with  Evelyn's  education  and  home. 
It  may  be  as  well,  in  this  place,  to  add,  that 
to  Vargrave  and  the  co-trustee,  Mr.  Gustavus 
Douce,  a  banker  of  repute  and  eminence,  the 
testator  left  large  discretionary  powers  as  to 
the  investment  of  the  fortune  He  had  stated 
it  as  his  wish  that  from  one  hundred  and 
twenty  to  one  hundred  and  thirty  thousand 
pounds  should  be  invested  in  the  purchase  of 
a  landed  estate;  but  he  had  left  it  to  the  dis- 
cretion of  the  trustees  to  increase  that  sum, 
even  to  the  amount  of  the  whole  capital,  should 
an  estate  of  adequate  importance  be  in  the 
market;  while  the  selection  of  time  and  pur- 
chase was  unreservedly  confined  to  the  trus- 
tees. Vargrave  had  hitherto  objected  to  every 
purchase  in  the  market;  not  that  he  was  in- 
sensible to  the  importance  and  consideration 
of  landed  property,  but  because,  till  he  him- 
self became  the  legal  receiver  of  the  income, 
he  thought  it  less  trouble  to  suffer  the  money 
to  lie  in  the  funds,  than  to  be  pestered  with  all 
the  onerous  details  in  the  management  of  an 
estate  that  might  never  be  his.  He,  however, 
with  no  less  ardor  than  his  deceased  relative, 
looked  forward  to  the  time  when  the  title  of 
Vargrave  should  be  based  upon  the  venerable 
foundation  of  feudal  manors  and  seignorial 
acres. 


Jit) 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  Lord  Vargrave 
was  so  charming  ?  "  said  Caroline  to  Evelyn, 
as  the  two  girls  were  sauntering,  in  familiar 
Uic-a-tStc,  along  the  garilens.  "  You  will  be 
Very  happy  with  such  a  companion." 

Evelyn  made  no  answer  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then,  turning  abruptly  round  to  Caroline, 
and  stopping  short,  she  said,  with  a  kind  of 
tearful  eagerness,  "  Dear  Caroline,  you  are 
%o  wise,  so  kind  too— advice  me — tell  me  what 
>s  best.     I  am  very  unhappy." 

Miss  Merton  was  moved  and  surprised  by 
Evelyn's  earnestness. 

"  But  what  is  it,  my  poor  Evelyn,"  said  she; 
"why  are  you  unhappy? — you  whose  fate 
seems  to  me  so  enviable." 

"I  cannot  love  Lord  Vargrave;  I  recoil 
from  the  idea  of  marrying  him.  Ought  I  not 
fairly  to  tell  him  so  ?  Ought  I  not  to  say, 
that  I  cannot  fulfil  the  wish  that — oh,  there's 
the  thought  which  leaves  me  so  irresolute  ! — 
his  uncle  bequeated  to  me — me  who  have  no 
claim  of  relationship — the  fortune  that  should 
have  been  Lord  Vargrave's  in  the  belief  that 
my  hand  would  restore  it  to  him.  It  is  almost 
a  fraud  to  refuse  him.    Am  I  not  to  be  pitied  ?  " 

"  But  why  can  you  not  love  Lord  Vargrave  ? 
If  past  the  premiere  Jeuiicsse,  he  is  still  hand- 
some: he  is  more  than  handsome:  he  has  the 
air  of  rank — an  eye  that  fascinates — a  smile 
that  wins — the  manners  that  please — the  abil- 
ities that  command — the  world  !  Handsome 
— clever — admired — distinguished — what  can 
woman  desire  more  in  her  lover — her  husband  ? 
Have  you  ever  formed  some  fancy,  some  ideal 
of  the  one  you  could  love,  and  how  does  Lord 
Vargrave  fall  short  of  the  vision  ?  " 

"  Have  I  ever  formed  an  ideal  ? — oh,  yes  !  " 
said  Evelyn,  with  a  beautiful  enthusiasm  that 
lighted  up  her  eyes,  blushed  in  her  cheek,  and 
heaved  her  bosom  beneath  its  robe;  "  some- 
thing that  in  loving  I  could  also  revere:  a 
mind  that  would  elevate  my  own;  a  heart  that 
could  sympathize  with  my  weakness,  my  follies. 
my  romance,  if  you  will;  and  in  which  I  could 
treasure  my  whole  soul." 

"You  paint  a  schoolmaster,  not  a  lover  !  " 
said  Caroline.  "  You  do  not  care,  then, 
whether  this  hero  be  handsome  or  young  .'  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  should  be  both,"  said  Evelyn, 
Innocently;  "and  yet,"  she  added,  after  a 
pause,  and  with  an  infantine  playfulness  of 
manner   and  countenance,  "  I   know  you  will 


laugh  at  me;  but  I  think  I  could  be  in  love 
with  more  than  one  at  the  same  time  !  " 

"  A  common  case,  but  a  rare  confession  ! " 

"  Yes;  for  if  I  might  ask  for  the  youth  and 
outward  advantages  that  please  the  eye,  I 
could  also  love  with  a  yet  deeper  loVe  that 
which  would  speak  to  my  imagination — Intel- 
lect, Genius,  Fame  !  Ah,  these  have  an  im- 
mortal youth  and  imperishable  beauty  of  their 
own  ! " 

"  You  are  a  very  strange  girl." 

"  But  we  are  on  a  very  strange  subject — it 
is  all  an  enigma  !  "  said  Evelyn,  shaking  her 
wise  little  head  with  a  pretty  gravity — half 
mock,  half  real.  "Ah,  if  Lord  Vargrave 
should  love  you — and  you — oh,  you  would 
love  him,  and  then  I  should  be  free,  and  so 
happy  !  " 

They  were  then  on  the  lawn  in  sight  of  the 
cottage  windows,  and  Lumley,  lifting  his  eyes 
from  the  newspaper,  which  had  just  arrived 
and  been  seized  with  all  a  politician's  avidity, 
saw  them  in  the  distance.  He  threw  down  the 
paper,  mused  a  moment  or  two,  then  took  up 
his  hat  and  joined  them;  but  before  he  did  so, 
he  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass.  "  I  think  I 
look  young  enough,  still,"  thought  he. 

"Two  cherries  on  one  stalk,"  said  Lumley, 
gaily:  "by  the  by,  it  is  not  a  complimentary  sim- 
ile. What  young  lady  would  be  like  a  cherry  ? 
—  such  an  uninteresting,  common,  charity- 
boy-sort  of  fruit.  For  my  part,  I  always  asso- 
ciate cherries  with  the  image  of  a  young  gen- 
tleman in  corduroys  and  a  skeleton  jacket, 
with  one  pocket  full  of  marbles,  and  the  other 
full  of  worms  for  fishing,  with  three-half-pence 
in  the  left  paw,  and  two  cherries  on  one  stalk 
(Helena  and  Hermia)  in  the  right." 

"  How  droll  you  are  !  "  said  Caroline,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  and  don't  envy 
your  discrimination — '  melancholy  marks  me 
for  its  own.'  You  ladies — ah,  yours  is  the 
life  for  gay  spirits  and  light  hearts;  to  us  are 
left  business  and  politics — law,  physic,  and 
murder,  by  way  of  professions — abuse — nick- 
named fame; — and  the  privilege  of  seeing  how 
universal  a  thing — among  the  great  and  the 
wealthy— is  that  pleasant  vice,  beggary;  which 
privilege  is  proudly  entitled,  '  patronage  and 
power.'  Are  we  the  things  to  be  gay — '  droll,' 
as  you  say  ? — Oh,  no,  all  our  spirits  are  forced, 
believe    me.      Miss   Cameron,    did    you  evei 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


217 


«now  that  wretched  species  of  hysterical  af- 
fection called  '  forced  spirits  ?  '■ — Never,  I  am 
sure;  your  ingenuous  smile,  your  laughing 
eyes,  are  the  index  to  a  happy  and  a  sanguine 
heart." 

"  And,  what  of  me  ? "  asked  Caroline, 
quickly,  and  with  a  slight  blush. 

"  You,  Miss  Merton  ? — ah,  I  have  not  yet 
read  your  character — a  fair  page,  but  an  un- 
known letter.  You  however,  have  seen  the 
world,  and  know  that  we  must  occasionally 
wear  a  mask."  Lord  Vargrave  sighed  as  he 
spoke,  and  relapsed  into  sudden  silence;  then, 
looking  up,  his  eyes  encountered  Caroline's, 
which  were  fixed  upon  him; — their  gaze  flat- 
tered him;  Caroline  turned  away,  and  busied 
herself  with  a  rose-bush.  Lumley  gathered 
one  of  the  flowers,  and  presented  it  to  her. 
Evelyn  was  a  few  steps  in  advance. 

"There  is  no  thorn  in  this  rose,"  said  he: 
"  may  the  offering  be  an  omen— you  are  now 
Evelyn's  friend — oh,  be  mine;  she  is  to  be 
your  guest     Do  not  scorn  to  plead  for  me." 

"  Can  _)'«/ want  a  pleader?"  said  Caroline, 
with  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"Charming  Miss  Merton,  love  is  diffident 
and  fearful;  but  it  must  now  find  a  voice,  to 
which  may  Evel)'n  benignly  listen.  What  I 
leave  unsaid — would  that  my  new  friend's  elo- 
quence could  supply." 

He  bowed  slightly,  and  joined  Evelyn. 
Caroline  understood  the  hint,  and  returned 
alone  and  thoughtfully  to  the  house. 

"Miss  Cameron — Evelyn — ah,  still  let  me 
call  you  so — as  in  the  happy  and  more  familiar 
days  of  your  childhood — I  wish  you  could  read 
my  heart  at  this  moment:  you  are  about  to 
leave  your  home — new  scenes  will  surround — 
new  faces  smile  on  you; — dare  I  hope  that 
I  may  still  be  remembered  ?  " 

He  attempted  to  take  her  hand  as  he  spoke; 
Evelyn  withdrew  it  gently. 

"  Ah,  my  lord,"  said  she,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"  if  remembrance  were  all  that  you  asked  of 
me " 

'•  It  is  all — favorable  remembrance — remem- 
brance of  the  love  of  the  past — remembrance 
of  the  bond  to  come." 

Evelyn  shivered.  "  It  is  better  to  speak 
openly,"  said  she:  "let  me  throw  myself  on 
your  generosity.  I  am  not  insensible  to  your 
brilliant  qualities — to  the  honor  of  your  at- 
tachment— but — but — as  the  time  approaches 


in  which  you  will  call  for  my  decision^let  me 
now  say,  that  I  cannot  feel  for  you — those — 
those  sentiments,  without  which  you  could  not 
desire  our  union— without  which  it  were  but  a 
wrong  to  both  of  us  to  form  it.  Nay,  listen  to 
me — I  grieve  bitterly  at  the  tenor  of  your 
too-generous  uncle's  will — can  I  not  atone  to 
you?  Willingly  would  I  sacrifice  the  fortune 
that,  indeed,  ought  to  be  yours — accept  it,  and 
remain  my  friend." 

"Cruel  Evelyn  !  and  can  you  suppose  that 
it  is  your  fortune  I  seek? — it  is  yourself. 
Heaven  is  my  witness,  that,  had  you  no  dowry 
but  your  hand  and  heart,  it  were  treasure 
enough  to  me.  You  think  you  cannot  love 
me.  Evelyn,  you  do  not  )'et  know  yourself. 
Alas  !  your  retirement  in  this  distant  village — 
my  own  unceasing  avocations,  which  chain  me, 
like  a  slave,  to  the  galley-oar  of  politics  and 
power — have  kept  us  separate.  You  do  not 
know  me.  I  am  willing  to  hazard  the  experi- 
ment of  that  knowledge.  To  devote  my  life 
to  you — to  make  you  partaker  of  my  ambition, 
my  career— to  raise  you  to  the  highest  emi- 
nence in  the  Matron  age  of  England — to  trans- 
fer pride  from  myself  to  you — to  love,  and  to 
honor,  anil  to  prize  you — all  this  will  be  my 
boast;  and  all  this  will  win  love  for  me  at  last. 
Fear  not,  Evelyn,— fear  not  for  your  happiness; 
with  me  you  shall  know  no  sorrow.  Affection 
at  home — splendor  abroad — await  you.  I 
have  passed  the  rough  and  arduous  part  of  my 
career — sunshine  lies  on  the  summit  to  which 
I  climb.  No  station  in  England  is  too  high 
for  me  to  aspire  to, — prospects,  how  bright 
with  you  !  how  dark  without  you  !  Ah, 
Evelyn  !  be  this  hand  mine — the  heart  shall 
follow  !  " 

Vargrave's  words  were  artful  and  eloquent; 
the  words  were  calculated  to  win  their  way — 
but  the  manner,  the  tone  of  voice,  wanted 
earnestness  and  truth.  This  was  his  defect — 
this  characterized  all  his  attempts  to  seduce 
or  to  lead  others,  in  public  or  in  private  life. 
He  had  no  heart,  no  deep  passion  in  what  he 
undertook.  He  could  impress  you  with  the 
conviction  of  his  ability,  and  leave  the  con- 
viction imperfect,  because  he  could  not  con- 
vince you  that  he  was  sincere.  That  best  gift 
of  mental  power — earnestncsa — was  wanting  to 
him;  and  Lord  Vargrave's  deficiency  of  heart 
was  the  true  cause  why  he  was  not  a  great 
man.     Still,  Evelyn  was  affected  by  his  words; 


2l8 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


she  suffered  the  hand  he  now  once  more  took 
to  remain  passively  in  his,  and  said,  timidly — 

"  Why,  with  sentiments  so  generous  and 
confiding — why  do  you  love  me,  who  cannot 
return  your  affection  worthily  ?  No,  Lord 
Vargrave;  there  are  many  who  must  see  you 
with  juster  eyes  than  mine — many  fairer,  and 
even  wealthier.  Indeed — indeed,  it  cannot  be. 
Do  not  be  offended,  but  think  that  the  fortune 
left  to  me  was  on  one  condition  I  cannot,  ought 
not  to  fulfil  Failing  that  condition,  in  equity 
and  honor  it  reverts  to  you." 

"Talk  not  thus,  I  implore  you,  Evelyn: 
do  not  imagine  me  the  worldly  calculator 
that  my  enemies  deem  me.  But,  to  remove 
at  once  from  your  mind  the  possibility  of 
such  a  compromise  between  your  honor  and 
repugnance — (repugnance  !  have  I  lived  to  say 
that  word  ?)— know  that  your  fortune  is  not  at 
your  own  disposal.  Save  the  small  forfeit 
that  awaits  your  non-compliance  with  my 
uncle's  dying  prayer,  the  whole  is  settled  pre- 
emptorily  on  yourself  and  your  children;  it  is 
entailed — you  cannot  alienate  it.  Thus,  then, 
your  generosity  can  never  be  evinced,  but  to 
him  on  whom  you  bestow  your  hand.  Ah  ! 
let  me  recall  that  melancholy  scene.  Your 
benefactor  on  his  death-bed — your  mother 
kneeling  by  his  side — your  hands  clasped  in 
mine — and  those  lips,  with  their  latest  breath, 
uttering  at  once  a  blessing  and  a  command  !  " 

"  Ah,  cease — cease  my  lord  !  "  said  Evelyn, 
sobbing. 

"  No;  bid  me  not  cease  before  you  tell  me 
you  will  be  mine.  Beloved  Evelyn  !  I  may 
hope — you  will  not  resolve  against  me." 

"  No,"  said  Evelyn,  raising  her  eyes  and 
struggling  for  composure;  "  I  feel  too  well 
what  should  be  my  duty;  I  will  endeavor  to 
perform  it.  Ask  me  no  more  now:  I  will 
struggle  to  answer  you  as  you  wish  hereafter." 

Lord  Vargrave,  resolved  to  push  to  the 
utmost  the  advantage  he  had  gained,  was  about 
to  reply— when  he  heard  a  step  behind  him; 
and  turning  round,  quickly  and  discomposed, 
beheld  a  venerable  form  approaching  them. 
The  occasion  was  lost:  Evelyn  also  turned; 
and  seeing  who  was  she  intruder,  sprang 
towards  him  almost  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

The  new-comer  was  a  man  who  had  passed 
his  seventieth  year;  but  his  old  age  was  green, 
his  step  light,  and  on  his  healthful  and  benig- 
nant countenance  time  had  left  but  few  fur- 


rows. He  was  clothed  in  black;  and  his. 
locks,  which  were  white  as  snow,  escaped 
from  the  broad  hat,  and  almost  touched  his 
shoulders. 

The  old  man  smiled  upon  Evelyn,  and  kissed 
her  forehead  fondly.  He  then  turned  to  Lord 
Vargrave,  who,  recovering  his  customary  self- 
possesion,  advanced  to  meet  him  with  extend»"d 
hand. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Aubrey,  this  is  a  welcome 
surprise.  I  heard  you  were  not  at  the  vicar- 
age, or  I  would  have  called  on  you." 

"  Your  lordship  honors  me,"  replied  the 
curate.  "  For  the  first  time  for  thirty  years  I 
have  been  thus  long  absent  from  my  cure;  but 
I  am  now  returned,  I  hope,  to  end  my  days- 
among  my  flock." 

"And  what,"  asked  Vargrave — "what — if 
the  question  be  not  presumptuous — occasioned 
your  unwilling  absence  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  replied  the  old  man,  with  a  gen- 
tle smile,  "  a  new  vicar  has  been  apix)inted. 
I  went  to  him,  to  proffer  an  humble  prayer 
that  I  may  remain  amongst  those  whom  I  re- 
garded as  my  children.  I  have  buried  one 
generation — I  have  married  another — I  have 
baptized  a  third." 

"  You  should  have  had  the  vicarage  itself — 
you  should  be  better  provided  for,  my  dear 
Mr.  Aubrey;  I  will  speak  to  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor." 

Five  times  before  had  Lord  Vargrave  uttered 
the  same  promise, — and  the  curate  smiled  to 
hear  the  familiar  words. 

"  The  vicarage,  my  lord,  is  a  family  living, 
and  is  now  vested  in  a  young  man  who  re- 
quires wealth  more  than  I  do.  He  has  been 
kind  to  me,  and  re-established  me  among  my 
flock:  I  would  not  leave  them  for  a  bishopric. 
My  child,"  continued  the  curate,  addressing 
Evelyn  with  great  affection,  "  you  are  surely 
unwell — you  are  paler  than  when  I  left  you." 

Evelyn  clung  fondly  to  his  arm,  and  smiled 
her  old  gay  smile — as  she  replied  to  him. 
They  took  the  way  towards  the  house. 

The  curate  remained  with  them  for  an  hour. 
There  was  a  mingled  sweetness  and  dignity  in 
his  manner  which  had  in  it  something  of  the 
primitive  character  we  poetically  ascribe  to 
the  pastors  of  the  church.  Lady  Vargrave 
seemed  to  vie  with  Evelyn  which  should  love 
him  the  most.  When  he  retired  to  his  home, 
which  was  not  many  yards  distant   from  the 


ALICE  i     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


219 


cottage,  Evelyn,  pleading  a  headache,  sought 
her  chamber,  and  Liimley,  to  soothe  his  mor- 
tification, turned  to  Caroline,  who  had  seated 
herself  by  his  side.  Her  conversation  amused 
him,  and  her  evident  admiration  flattered. 
While  Lady  Vargrave  absented  herself,  in 
motherly  anxiety,  to  attend  on  Evelyn — while 
Mrs.  Leslie  was  occupied  at  her  frame — and 
Mrs.  Merton  looked  on,  and  talked  indolently 
to  the  old  lady  of  rheumatism  and  sermons,  of 
children's  complaints  and  servants'  misde- 
meanors— the  conversation  between  Lord  Var- 
grave and  Caroline,  at  first  gay  and  animated, 
grew  gradually  more  sentimental  and  subdued: 
their  voices  took  a  lower  tone,  and  Caroline 
sometimes  turned  away  her  head  and  blushed. 


CHAPTER    XL 

•'There  stands  the  Messenger  of  Truth— there  stands 
The  Legate  of  the  skies."— CowPER. 

From  that  night,  Lumley  found  no  oppor- 
tunity for  private  conversation  with  Evelyn; 
she  evidently  shunned  to  meet  with  him  alone; 
she  was  ever  with  her  mother,  or  Mrs.  Leslie, 
or  the  good  curate,  who  spent  much  of  his 
time  at  the  cottage;  for  the  old  man  had 
neither  wife  or  children — he  was  alone  at  home 
— he  had  learned  to  make  his  home  with  the 
widow  and  her  daughter.  With  them  he  was 
an  object  of  the  tenderest  affection — of  the 
deepest  veneration.  Their  love  delighted  him, 
and  he  returned  it  with  the  fondness  of  a  par- 
ent and  the  benevolence  of  a  pastor.  He  was 
a  rare  character,  that  village  priest  I 

Born  of  hnmhle  parentage,  Edward  Aubrey 
had  early  displayed  abilities  which  attracted 
the  notice  of  a  wealthy  proprietor,  who  was 
not  displeased  to  affect  the  patron.  Young 
Aubrey  was  sent  to  school,  and  thence  to  col- 
lege as  a  sizar:  he  obtained  several  prizes,  and 
took  a  high  degree.  Aubrey  was  not  without 
the  ambition  and  the  passions  of  youth:  he 
went  into  the  world,  ardent,  inexperienced,  and 
without  a  guide.  He  drew  back  before  errors 
grew  into  crimes,  or  folly  became  a  habit.  It 
was  nature  and  affection  that  reclaimed  and 
saved  him  from  either  alternative — fame  or 
ruin.  His  widowed  mother  was  suddenly 
stricken  with  disease.  Blind  and  bedridden, 
her  whole  dependence  was  on   her  only  son. 


The  affliction  called  forth  a  new  character  in 
Edward  Aubrey.  This  mother  had  strijiped 
herself  of  so  many  comforts  to  provide  for  him 
— he  devoted  his  youth  to  her  in  return.  She 
was  now  old  and  imbecile. 

With  the  mingled  selfishness  and  sentiment 
of  age,  she  would  not  come  to  London — she 
would  not  move  from  the  village  where  her 
husband  lay  buried — where  her  youth  had 
been  spent.  In  this  village  the  able  and  am- 
bitious young  man  buried  his  hopes  and  his 
talents;  by  degrees,  the  quiet  and  tranquillity 
of  the  country  life  became  dear  to  him.  As 
steps  in  a  ladder,  so  piety  leads  to  piety,  and 
religion  grew  to  him  a  habit.  He  took  orders, 
and  entered  the  church.  A  disappointment 
in  love  ensued — it  left  on  his  mind  and  heart 
a  sober  and  resigned  melancholy,  which  at 
length  mellowed  into  content.  His  profession, 
and  its  sweet  duties,  became  more  and  more 
dear  to  him;  in  the  hopes  of  the  next  world 
he  forgot  the  ambition  of  the  present.  He 
did  not  seek  to  shine — 

"  More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise." 

His  own  birth  made  the  poor  his  brothers, 
and  their  dispositions  and  wants  familiar  to 
him.  His  own  early  errors  made  him  tolerant 
to  the  faults  of  others;  few  men  are  charitable 
who  remember  not  that  they  have  sinned.  In 
our  faults  lie  the  germs  of  virtues.  Thus 
gradually  and  serenely  had  worn  away  his  life 
— obscure,  but  useful — calm,  but  active — a 
man  whom  "  the  great  prizes  "  of  the  church 
might  have  rendered  an  amb  tious  schemer — 
to  whom  a  modest  confidence  gave  the  true 
pastoral  power — to  conquer  the  world  within 
himself,  and  to  sympathize  with  the  wants  of 
others.  Yes,  he  was  a  rare  character,  that 
village  priest ! 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"  Tout  notre  raisonnement  se  reduit  Ji  cedcr  au  senti- 
ment. *  "—Pascal. 

Lord  Vargrave,  who  had  no  desire  to  re- 
main alone  with  the  widow  when  the  guests 
were   gone,    arranged   his   departure   for  the 

*  All  our  reasoning  reduces  itself  to  yielding  to  sen- 
timent. 


BULli'l'JCS     nUKKS. 


same  day  as  that  fixed  for  Mrs.  Merton's;  and 
as  their  road  lay  together  for  several  miles,  it 
was  settled  that  they  should  all  dine  at  *  *  * 
whence  Lord  Vargrave  would  proceed  to  Lon- 
don. Failing  to  procure  a  second  chance 
interview  with  Evelyn,  and  afraid  to  demand  a 
formal  one — for  he  felt  the  insecurity  ot  the 
ground  he  stood  on — Lord  Vargrave,  irritated 
and  somewhat  mortified,  sought,  as  was  his 
habit,  whatever  amusement  was  in  his  reach. 
In  the  conversation  of  Caroline  Merton — 
shrewd,  worldly,  and  ambitious — he  found  the 
sort  of  plaything  that  he  desired.  They  were 
thrown  much  together;  but  to  Vargrave,  at 
least,  there  appeared  no  danger  in  the  inter- 
course; and,  perhaps,  his  chief  object  was  to 
pique  Evelyn,  as  well  as  to  gratify  his  own 
spleen. 

It  was  the  evening  before  Evelyn's  depart- 
ure; the  little  party  had  been  for  the  last 
hour  dispersed;  Mrs.  Merton  was  in  her  own 
room,  making  to  herself  gratuitous  and  un- 
necessary occupation  in  seeing  her  woman 
pack  up.  It  was  just  the  kind  of  task  that  de- 
lighted her.  To  sit  in  a  large  chair,  and  see 
somebody  else  at  work — to  say,  languidly, 
"  Don't  crumple  that  scarf,  Jane — and  where 
shall  we  put  Miss  Caroline's  blue  bonnet  ?  " — 
gave  her  a  very  comfortable  notion  of  her 
own  importance  and  habits  of  business — a 
sort  of  title  to  be  the  superintendent  of  a 
family  and  the  wife  of  a  rector.  Caroline 
had  ilisappeared — so  had  Lord  Vargrave;  but 
the  first  was  supposed  to  be  witli  Evelyn;  the 
second,  employed  in  writing  letters;  at  least, 
it  was  so  when  they  had  been  last  observed. 
Mrs.  Leslie  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  absorbed  in  anxious  and  benevolent 
thoughts  on  the  critical  situation  of  her  young 
favorite,  about  to  enter  an  age  and  a  world, 
the  ]5erils  of  which  Mrs.  Leslie  had  not  for- 
gotten. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Evelyn,  forgetful  of 
Lord  Vargrave  and  his  suit — of  every  one — 
of  every  thing — ijut  the  grief  of  the  approach- 
ing departure — found  herself  alone  in  a 
little  arbor,  that  had  been  built  upon  the 
cliff  to  command  the  view  of  the  sea  below. 
That  day  she  had  been  restless,  perturbed; 
she  had  visited  every  spot  consecrated  by 
youthful  recollections;  she  had  clung  with 
fond  regret  to  every  place  in  which  she  had 
held  sweet  converse  with  her  mother.     Of  a 


disposition  singularly  warm  and  affectionate, 
she  had  often,  in  her  secret  heart,  pined  for  a 
more  yearning  and  enthusiastic  love  than  it 
seemed  in  the  subdued  nature  of  Lady  Var- 
grave to  bestow.  In  the  affection  of  the  lat- 
ter, gentle  and  never  fluctuating  as  it  was, 
there  seemed  to  her  a  something  wanting, 
which  she  could  not  define.  She  had  watched 
that  beloved  face  all  the  morning.  She  had 
hoped  to  see  the  tender  eyes  fixed  upon  her, 
and  hear  the  meek  voice  exclaim.  "I  cannot 
part  with  my  child?"  All  the  gay  pictures 
which  the  light-hearted  Caroline  drew  of  the 
scenes  she  was  to  enter,  had  vanished  away — 
now  that  the  hour  approached,  when  her 
mother  was  to  be  left  alone.  Why  was  she  to 
go?     It  seemed  to  her  an  unnecessary  cruelty. 

As  she  thus  sate,  she  did  not  observe  that 
Mr.  Aubrey,  who  had  seen  her  at  a  distance, 
was  now  bending  his  way  to  her;  and  not  till 
he  had  entered  the  arbor,  and  taken  her 
hand,  did  she  waken  from  those  reveries  in 
which  youth,  the  Dreamer,  and  the  Desirer,  so 
morbidly  indulges. 

"  Tears,  my  child  !  "  said  the  Curate.  "  Nay, 
be  not  ashamed  of  them;  they  become  you  in 
this  hour.  How  we  shall  miss  you  ! — and 
you,  too,  will  not  forget  us  !  " 

"Forget  you!  Ah  no,  indeed.  But  why 
should  I  leave  you  ?  Why  will  you  not  speak 
to  my  inother — implore  her  to  let  me  remain  ? 
We  were  so  happ)^  till  these  strangers  came. 
We  did  not  think  there  was  any  other  world — 
here  there  is  world  enough  for  me  !  " 

"  My  poor  Evelyn,"  said  Mr.  Aubrey,  gently, 
"  I  have  spoken  to  your  mother,  and  to  Mrs. 
Leslie;  they  have  confided  to  me  all  the  rea- 
sons for  your  departure,  and  I  cannot  l)ut 
subscribe  to  their  justice.  You  do  not  want 
many  montHs  of  the  age  when  you  will  be 
called  upon  to  decide  whether  Lord  Vargrave 
shall  be  your  husband.  Your  mother  shrinks 
from  the  responsibility  of  influencing  your 
decision;  and  here,  my  child,  inexperienced, 
and  having  seen  so  little  of  others,  how  can 
you  know  your  own  heart  ?  " 

"But,  oh,  Mr.  Aubrey,"  said  Evelyn,  with 
an  earnestness  that  overcame  embarrassment, 
"have  I  a  choice  left  to  me?  Can  I  be  un- 
grateful— disobedient  to  him  who  was  a  father 
to  me?  Ought  I  not  to  sacrifice  my  own 
happiness?  And  how  willingly  would  I  do  sc>. 
if  my  mother  would  smile  on  me  approvingly  !  " 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


2Z\ 


"My  child,"  said  the  curate,  gravely,  "an 
old  man  is  a  bad  judge  of  the  affairs  of  youth; 
yet,  in  this  matter,  I  think  your  duty  plain. 
Do  not  resolutely  set  yourself  against  Lord 
Vargrave's  claim — do  not  persuade  yourself 
that  you  must  be  unhappy  in  a  union  with 
him.  Compose  your  mind^think  seriously 
upon  the  choice  before  you — refuse  all  deci- 
sion at  the  present  moment — wait  until  the  ap- 
pointed time  arrives,  or  at  least  more  nearly 
approaches.  Meanwhile,  I  understand  that 
Lord  Vargrave  is  to  be  a  frequent  visitor  at 
Mrs.  Merton's — there  you  will  see  him  with 
others — his  character  will  show  itself — study 
his  principles  —  his  disposition  —  examine 
whether  he  is  one  who  you  can  esteem  and 
render  happy; — there  may  be  a  love  without 
enthusiasm — and  yet  sufficient  for  domestic 
felicity,  and  for  the  employment  of  the  affec- 
tions. You  will  insensibly,  too,  learn  from 
others  parts  of  his  character  which  he  does  not 
exhibit  to  us.  If  the  result  of  time  and  ex- 
amination be,  that  you  can  cheerfully  obey  the 
late  lord's  dying  wish— unquestionably  it  will 
be  the  happier  decision.  If  not — if  you  still 
shrink  from  vows  at  which  your  heart  now 
rebels — as  unquestionably  you  may,  with  an 
acquitted  conscience,  become  free.  The  best 
of  us  are  imperfect  judges  of  the  happiness  of 
others.  In  the  woe  or  weal  of  a  whole  life,  we 
must  decide  for  ourselves.  Your  benefactor 
could  not  mean  you  to  be  wretched;  and  if  he 
now,  with  eyes  purified  from  all  worldly  mists, 
look  down  upon  you,  his  spirit  will  approve 
your  choice.  For  when  we  quit  the  world,  all 
worldly  ambition  dies  with  us.  What  now  to 
the  immortal  soul  can  be  the  title  and  the 
rank  which  on  earth,  with  the  desires  of  earth, 
your  benefactor  hoped  to  secure  to  his  adopted 
child  >.  This  is  my  advice.  Look  on  the 
bright  side  of  things,  and  wait  calmly  for  the 
hour  when  Lord  Vargrave  can  demand  your 
decision." 

The  words  of  the  priest,  which  well  defined  her 
duty,  inexpressibly  soothed  and  comforted  Eve- 
lyh;  and  the  advice  upon  other  and  higher  mat- 
ters, which  the  good  man  pressed  upon  a  mind, 
so  softened  at  that  hour  to  receive  religious 
impressions,  was  received  with  gratitude  and 
respect.  Subsequently  their  conversation 
fell  upon  Lady  Vargrave — a  theme  dear  to 
both  of  them.  The  old  man  was  greatly 
touched  by  the  poor  girl's  unselfish  anxiety  for 


her  mother's  comfort — by  her  fears  that  she 
might  be  missed,  in  tiiose  little  attentions 
which  filial  love  alone  can  render;  he  was 
almost  yet  more  touched  when,  with  a  less  dis- 
interested feeling,  Evelyn  added,  mournfully. 

"  Yet  why,  after  all,  should  I  fancy  she  will 
so  miss  me  ?  Ah,  though  I  will  not  dare  com- 
plain of  it,  I  feel  still  that  she  does  not  love 
me  as  I  love  her." 

"  Evelyn,"  said  the  curate,  with  mild  re- 
proach, "  have  I  not  said  that  your  mother  has 
known  sorrow  ?  and  though  sorrow  does  not 
annihiliate  affection,  it  subdues  its  expression, 
and  moderates  its  outward  signs." 

Evelyn  sighed,  and  said  no  more. 

As  the  good  man  and  his  young  friend  re- 
turned to  the  cottage.  Lord  Vargrave  and 
Caroline  approached  them,  emerging  from  an 
opposite  part  of  the  grounds.  The  former 
hastened  to  Evelyn  with  his  usual  gaiety  and 
frank  address:  and  there  was  so  much  charm 
in  the  manner  of  a  man,  whom  apparently  the 
world  and  its  cares  had  never  rendered  artifi- 
cial or  reserved,  that  the  curate  himself  was 
impressed  by  it.  He  thought  that  Evelyn 
might  be  happy  with  one  amiable  enough  for 
a  companion,  and  wise  enough  for  a  guide. 
But,  old  as  he  was,  he  had  loved,  and  he  knew 
that  there  are  instincts  in  the  heart  which  defy 
all  our  calculations. 

While  Lumley  was  conversing,  the  little 
gate  that  made  the  communication  between 
the  gardens  and  the  neighboring  churchyard, 
through  which  was  the  nearest  access  to  the 
village,  creaked  on  its  hinges,  and  the  quiet 
and  solitary  figure  of  Lady  Vargrave  threw  its 
shadow  over  the  grass. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

"  And  I  can  listen  lo  thee  yet, 
Can  lie  upon  tiie  plain — 
And  listen  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again." 

— Wordsworth. 

Ii  was  past  midnight — hostess  and  guests 
had  retired  to  repose— when  Lady  Vargrave's 
door  opened  gently.  The  lady  herself  was 
kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bed:  the  moon- 
light came  through  the  half-drawn  curtains  of 
the  casement;  and  by  its  ray  her  pale,  calm 
features  looked  paler,  and  yet  more  hushed. 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


Evelyn,  for  she  was  the  intruder,  paused  at 
the  threshold,  till  her  mother  rose  from  her 
devotions,  and  then  she  threw  herself  on  Lady 
Vargrave's  breast,  sobbing,  as  if  her  heart 
would  break — hers  were  the  wild,  generous, 
irresistible  emotions  of  youth.  Lady  Var- 
grave,  perhaps,  had  known  them  once;  at  least, 
she  could  sympathize  with  them  now. 

She  strained  her  child  to  her  bosom — she 
stroked  back  her  hair,  and  kissed  her  fondly, 
and  spoke  to  her  soothingly. 

"  Mother,"  sobbed  Evelyn,  "  I  could  not 
sleep — I  could  not  rest.  Bless  nie  again — 
kiss  me  again; — tell  me  that  you  love  me — 
you  cannot  love  me  as  I  do  you; — but  tell  me 
that  I  am  dear  to  you — tell  me  you  will  regret 

me — but  not  too   much — tell   me "     Here 

Evelyn  paused  and  could  say  no  more. 

"  My  best,  my  kindest  Evelyn,"  said  Lady 
Vargrave,  "there  is  nothing  on  earth  I  love 
like  you.     Do  not  fancy  I  am  ungrateful." 

"Why  do  you  say  ungrateful  ?— your  own 
child — your  only  child  !  "—and  Evelyn  cov- 
ered her  mother's  face  and  hands  with  pas- 
sonate  tears  and  kisses. 

At  that  moment  certain  it  is  that  Lady 
Vargrave's  heart  reproached  her  with  not  hav- 
ing, indeed,  loved  this  sweet  girl  as  she  deserved. 
True,  no  mother  was  more  mild,  more  atten- 
tive, more  fostering,  more  anxious  for  a 
daughter's  welfare; — but  Evelyn  was  right  I — 
the  gushing  fondness,  the  mysterious  en- 
tering into  every  subtle  thought  and  feeling, 
which  should  have  characterized  the  love 
of  such  a  mother  to  such  a  child,  had  been, 
to  outward  appearance,  wanting.  Even  in 
this  present  parting,  there  had  been  a  pru- 
dence, an  exercise  of  reasoning,  that  savored 
more  of  duty  than  love.  Lady  Vargrave  felt 
all  this  with  remorse— she  gave  way  to  emo- 
tions new  to  her— at  least  to  exhibit — she 
wept  with  Evelyn,  and  returned  her  caresses 
with  almost  equal  fervor.  Perhaps,  too,  she 
thought  at  that  moment  of  what  love  that 
warm  nature  was  susceptible;  and  she  trem- 
bled for  her  future  fate.  It  was  as  a  full  rec- 
onciliation— that  mournful  hour — between 
feelings  on  either  side,  which  something  mys- 
terious seemed  to  have  checked  before: — and 
that  last  night  the  mother  and  the  child  did 
not  separate — the  same  couch  contained 
them;  and,  when  worn  out  with  some  emo- 
tions which   she  could   not  reveal.  Lady  Var- 


grave fell  into  the  sleep  of  exhaustion, 
Evelyn's  arm  was  round  her,  and  Evelyn's 
eyes  watched  her  with  pious  and  anxious  love 
as  the  gray  morning  dawned. 

She  left  her  mother,  still  sleeping,  when  the 
sun  rose,  and  went  silently  down  into  the  dear 
room  below,  and  again  busied  herself  in  a 
thousand  little  provident  cares,  which  she 
wondered  she  had  forgot  before. 

The  carriages  were  at  the  door  before  the 
party  had  assembled  at  the  melancholy  break- 
fast-table. Lord  Vargrave  was  the  last  to 
appear. 

"I  have  been  like  all  cowards,"  said  he, 
seating  himself; — "  anxious  to  defer  an  evil  as 
long  as  possible,  a  bad  policy,  for  it  increases 
the  worst  of  all  pains — that  of  suspense." 

Mrs.  Merton  had  undertaken  the  duties  that 
appertain  to  the  "  hissing  urn."  "  You  pre- 
fer coffee,  Lord  Vargrave  ? — Caroline,  my 
dear " 

Caroline  passed  the  cup  to  Lord  Vargrave, 
who  looked  at  her  hand  as  he  took  it — there 
was  a  ring  on  one  of  those  slender  fingers 
never  observed  there  before.  Their  eyes  met, 
and  Caroline  colored.  Lord  Vargrave  turned 
to  Evelyn,  who,  pale  as  death,  but  tearless  and 
speechless,  sate  beside  her  mother;  he  at- 
tempted in  vain  to  draw  her  into  conversation. 
Evelyn,  who  desired  to  restrain  her  feelings, 
would  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

Mrs.  Merton,  ever  undisturbed  and  placid, 
continued  to  talk  on:  to  offer  congratulations 
on  the  weather — it  was  such  a  lovely  day — 
and  they  should  be  off  so  early — it  would  be 
so  well  arranged — they  should  be  in  such  good 
time  to  dine  at  *  *  *,  and  then  go  three  stages 
after  dinner — the  moon  would  be  up. 

"  But,"  said  Lord  Vargrave,  "as  I  am  to  go 
with  you  as  far  as  *  *  *  where  our  roads 
separate,  I  hope  I  am  not  condemned  to  go 
alone,  with  my  red  box,  two  old  newspapers, 
and  the  blue  devils.     Have  pity  on  me." 

"Perhaps  you  will  take  grandmamma, 
then?"  whispered  Caroline,  archly. 

Lumley  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied 
in  the  same  tone,  "Yes — provided  you  keep 
to  the  jiroverb,  '  Les  extremes  se  tpuchent,'  and 
the  lovely  grandchild  accompany  the  venera- 
ble grandmamma." 

"  What  would  Evelyn  say  ? "  retorted  Caro- 
line. 

Lumley  sighed,  and  made  no  answer. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


323 


Mrs.  Merton,  who  had  hung  fire  while  her 
daughter  was  carrying  on  this  "  aside,"  now 
put  in.- 

"  Suppose  I  and  Caroline  take  your  britzka, 
and  you  go  in  our  old  coach  with  Evelyn  and 
Mrs.  Leslie  ?  " 

Lumley  looked  delightedly  at  the  speaker, 
and  then  glanced  at  Evelyn;  but  Mrs.  Leslie 
said  very  gravely,  "  No,  ive  shall  feel  too  much 
in  leaving  this  dear  place,  to  be  gay  compan- 
ions for  Lord  Vargrave.  We  shall  all  meet  at 
dinner; — or"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "if 
this  be  uncourteous  to  Lord  Vargrave,  sup- 
pose Evelyn  and  myself  take  his  carriage,  and 
he  accompanies  3'ou  ?  " 

"  Agreed,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  quietly;  "  and 
now,  I  will  just  go  and  see  about  the  straw- 
berry plants  and  slips — it  was  so  kind  in  you, 
■dear  Lady  Vargrave,  to  think  of  them." 

An  hour  had  elapsed — and  Evelyn  was 
gone  !     She  had   left  her  maiden  home — she 


had  wept  her  last  farewell  on  her  mother's 
bosom — the  sound  of  the  carriage-wheels  had 
died  away;  but  still  Lady  Vargrave  lingered  on 
the  threshold — still  she  gazed  on  the  spot 
where  the  last  glimpse  of  Evelyn  had  been 
caught.  A  sense  of  dreariness  and  solitude 
passed  into  her  soul: — the  very  sunlight^the 
spring — the  songs  of  the  birds — made  loneli- 
ness more  desolate. 

Mechanically,  at  last,  she  moved  away,  and 
with  slow  steps  and  down-cast  eyes  passed 
through  the  favorite  walk  that  led  into  the 
quiet  burial-ground.  The  gate  closed  upon 
her — and  now  the  lawn — the  gardens— the 
haunts  of  Evelyn— were  solitary  as  the  desert 
itself; — but  the  daisy  opened  to  the  sun,  and 
the  bee  murmured  along  the  blossoms — not 
the  less  blithely  for  the  absence  of  all  human 
life.  \\\  the  bosom  of  Natuit  there  beats  no 
heart  for  man  ! 


224 


£  UL  WEK'  S     WORKS. 


BOOK    SECOND 


— eT09  Ty^e,  irepijrAo/xeVwc  ivioMTbiv 
T^  oi  eireKA'jiaaTo  ffeot,  oi'co»'5e  I'e«c70ai, 
Eis  *\&aKy\Vy  0V&'  iyOa  jr€^uy^eVo«  Vf  ai6\tAiv. 

IlOM.  07.,  lib.,  i.  1.  16. 

The  hour  arrived — years  having  rolled  away — 
When  his  return  the  Gods  no  more  delay. 
Lo!  Ithaca  the  Fates  awrard;  and  there 
Nevf  trials  meet  the  Wanderer. 


CHAPTER   I. 

"  There  is  continual  spring  and  harvest  here- 
Continual,  both  meeting  at  one  time: 
For  both  the  boughs  do  laughing  blossoms  bear, 
And  with  fresh  colors  deck  the  wanton  prime; 
And  eke  at  once  the  heavy  trees  they  climb, 
Which  seem  to  labor  under  their  fruits'  load." 

— Spenser:   T/u-  Garden  of  Adonis. 

•    »    »    "  Vis  boni 

In  ipsa  inesset  forma."  * — Tere.nt. 

Beauty,  thou  art  twice  blessed;  thou  bless- 
est  the  gazer  and  the  possessor;  often,  at 
once  the  effect  and  the  cause  of  goodness  ! 
A  s^veet  disposition — a  lovely  soul — an  affec- 
tionate nature — will  speak  in  the  eyes — the 
lips — the  brow  —  and  become  the  cause  of 
beauty.  On  the  other  hand,  they  who  have  a 
gift  that  commands  love,  a  key  that  opens  all 
hearts,  are  ordinarily  inclined  to  look  with 
happy  eyes  upon  the  world — to  be  cheerful 
and  serene — to  hope  and  to  confide.  There 
is  more  wisdom  than  the  vulgar  dream  of  in 
our  admiration  of  a  fair  face. 

Evelyn  Cameron  was  beautiful: — a  beauty 
that  came  from  the  heart,  and  went  to  the 
heart — a  beauty,  the  very  spirit  of  which  was 
love  !  Love  smiled  on  her  dimpled  lips — it 
reposed  on  her  open  brow — it  played  in  the 
profuse  and  careless  ringlets  of  darkest  yet 
sunniest  auburn,  which  a  breeze  could  lift 
from  her  delicate  and  virgin  cheek.  Love,  in 
all  its  tenderness, — in  all  its  kindness,  its  un- 
suspecting truth,  Love  colored  every  thought; 

•  Even  in  beauty,  there  exists  the  power  of  virtue. 


murmured  in  her  low  melodious  voice; — in  all 
its  symmetry  and  glorious  womanhood.  Love 
swelled  the  swan-like  neck,  and  moulded  the 
rounded  limb. 

She  was  just  the  kind  of  person  that  takes 
the  judgment  by  storm:  whether  gay  or 
grave,  there  was  so  charming  and  irresistible 
a  grace  about  her.  She  seemed  born,  not 
only  to  captivate  the  giddy  but  to  turn  the 
heads  of  the  sage.  Ro.xalana  was  nothing  to 
her.  How,  in  the  obscure  hamlet  of  Brook 
Green,  she  had  learned  all  the  arts  of  pleasing 
it  is  impossible  to  say.  In  her  arch  smile,  the 
pretty  toss  of  her  head,  the  half  shyness,  half 
freedom  of  her  winning  ways,  it  was  as  if 
Nature  had  made  her  to  delight  one  heart, 
and  torment  all  others. 

Without  being  learned,  the  mind  of  Evelyn 
was  cultivated  and  well  informed.  Her  heart, 
perhaps,  helped  to  instruct  her  understanding; 
for  by  a  kind  of  intuition  she  could  appreciate 
all  that  was  beautiful  and  elevated.  Her  un- 
vitiated  and  guileless  taste  had  a  logic  of  its 
own:  no  schoolman  had  ever  a  quicker  pene- 
tration into  truth — no  critic  ever  more  readily 
detected  the  meretricious  and  the  false.  The 
book  that  Evelyn  could  admire  was  sure  to  be 
stamped  with  the  impress  of  the  noble,  the 
lovely,  or  the  true  ! 

But  Evelyn  had  faults— the  faults  of  her 
age;  or,  rather,  she  had  tendencies  that  might 
conduce  to  error.  She  was  of  so  generous  a 
nature,  that  the  very  thought  of  sacrificing  her- 
self for  another  had  a  charm.     She  ever  acted 


ALICE;     OR,      THE     AJ  ySJE/</ES. 


225 


from  impulse — impulses  pure  and  good,  but 
often  rash  and  imprudent.  She  was  yielding 
to  weakness,  persuaded  into  any  thing — so  sen- 
sitive, that  even  a  cold  look  from  one  moder- 
ately liked  cut  her  to  the  heart;  and  by  the 
sympathy  that  accompanies  sensitiveness,  no 
pain  to  her  was  so  great  as  the  thought  of 
giving  pain  to  another.  Hence  is  was  that 
Vargrave  might  form  reasonable  hopes  of  his 
ultimate  success.  It  was  a  dangerous  consti- 
tution for  happiness  !  How  many  chances 
must  combine  to  preserve  to  the  mid-day  of 
characters  like  this,  the  sunshine  of  their  dawn  ! 
The  butterfly,  that  seems  the  child  of  the  sum- 
mer and  the  flowers,  what  wind  will  not  chill 
its  mirth — what  touch  will  not  brush  away  its 
hues  ? 


CHAPTER    n. 

"  These,  on  a  general  survey,  are  the  modes 
Of  pulpit  oratory,  which  agree 
With  no  unletter'd  amlience." — Folwhele. 

Mrs.  Lkslie  had  returned  from  her  visit  to 
the  Rectory  to  her  own  home,  and  Evelyn  had 
•now  been  some  weeks  at  Mrs.  Merton's.  As 
was  natural,  she  had  grown  in  some  measure 
reconciled  and  resigned  to  her  change  of  abode. 
In  fact,  no  sooner  did  she  pass  Mrs.  Merton's 
threshold,  than,  for  the  first  time,  she  was 
made  aware  of  her  consequence  in  life. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Merton  was  a  man  of  the  nicest 
preception  in  all  things  appertaining  to  worldly 
consideration:  the  second  son  of  a  very  wealthy 
l)aronet  (who  was  the  first  commoner  of  his 
county),  and  of  the  daughter  of  a  rich  and 
highly-descended  peer,  Mr.  Merton  had 
been  brought  near  enough  to  rank  and 
power  to  appreciate  all  their  advantages.  In 
early  life  he  had  been  something  of  a  "tuft- 
hunter;"  but  as  his  understanding  was  good, 
and  his  passions  not  very  strong,  he  had  soon 
perceived  that  that  vessel  of  clay,  a  young 
man  with  a  moderate  fortune,  cannot  long  sail 
tlown  the  same  stream  with  the  metal  vessels  of 
rich  earls  and  extravagant  dandies.  Besides,  he 
was  destined  for  the  church, — because  there 
was  one  of  the  finest  livings  in  England  in  the 
family.  He,  therefore,  took  orders  at  six-and- 
twenty;  married  Mrs.  Leslie's  daughter,  who 
had  thirty  thousand  pounds;  and  settled  at  the 
Rectory  of  Merton,  within  a  mile  of  the  family 

6—15 


seat.  He  became  a  very  respectable  and  ex- 
treinely  popular  man.  He  was  singularly 
hospitable,  and  built  a  new  wing — containing 
a  large  dining-room,  and  six  capital  bed  rooms 
— to  the  rectory,  which  had  now  much  more 
the  appearance  of  a  country  villa  than  a  coun- 
try parsonage.  His  brother  succeeding  to 
the  estates,  and  residing  chiefly  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, became,  like  his  father  before  him, 
member  for  the  county,  and  was  one  of  the 
country  gentlemen  most  looked  up  to  in  the 
House  of  Commons. 

A  sensible  and  frequent,  though  uncom- 
monly prosy  speaker,  singularly  independent 
(for  he  had  a  clear  fourteen  thousand  pounds 
a-year,  and  did  not  desire  office),  and  valuing 
himself  on  not  being  a  party  man,  so  that  his 
vole  on  critical  questions  was  often  a  matter 
of  great  doubt,  and,  therefore,  of  great  mo- 
ment— Sir  John  Merton  gave  considerable 
importance  to  the  Reverend  Charles  Merton. 
The  latter  kept  up  all  the  more  select  of  his 
old  London  acquaintances;  and  few  country 
houses,  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  were 
filled  more  aristocratically  than  the  pleasant 
rectory-house.  Mr.  Merton,  indeed,  con- 
trived to  make  the  Hall  a  reservoir  for  the 
Parsonage,  and  periodically  drafted  off  the 
<'life  of  the  visitors  at  the  former,  to  spend  a 
few  days  at  the  latter.  This  was  the  more 
easily  done,  as  his  brother  was  a  widower,  and 
his  conversation  was  all  of  one  sort — the  state 
of  the  nation,  and  the  agricultural  interest. 
Mr.  Merton  was  upon  very  friendly  terms  with 
his  brother — looked  after  the  property  in  the 
absence  of  Sir  John — kept  up  the  family  in- 
terest— was  an  excellent  electioneerer — a  good 
speaker,  at  a  pinch — an  able  magistrate — a 
man,  in  short,  most  useful  in  the  county: — on 
the  whole,  he  was  more  popular  than  his 
brother,  and  almost  as  much  looked  up  to — 
perhaps,  because  he  was  much  less  ostenta- 
tious. He  had  very  good  taste,  had  the  Rev- 
erend Charles  Merton  ! — his  table  plentiful, 
but  plain — his  manners  affable  to  the  low, 
though  agreeably  sycophantic  to  the  high; 
and  there  was  nothing  about  him  that  ever 
wounded  self-love. 

To  add  to  the  attractions  of  his  house,  his 
wife,  simple  and  good  tempered,  could  talk 
with  any  body,  take  off  the  bores,  and  leave 
people  to  be  comfortable  in  their  own  way; 
while  he  had  a  large  familv  of  fine  children  of 


226 


B  UL  WKR  S     WORKS. 


all  ages,  that  had  long  given  easy  and  constant 
excuse,  under  the  name  of  "  little  children's 
parties,"  for  getting  up  an  impromptu  dance, 
or  a  gipsy  dinner — enlivening  the  neighbor- 
hood, in  short.  Caroline  was  the  eldest;  then 
came  a  son,  attached  to  a  foreign  ministry, 
and  another,  who,  though  only  nineteen,  was  a 
private  secretary  to  one  of  our  Indian  satraps. 
The  acquaintance  of  these  young  gentlemen, 
thus  engaged,  it  was  therefore  Evelyn's  mis- 
fortune to  lose  the  advantage  of  cultivating — 
a  loss  which  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mertorf  as- 
sured her  was  very  much  to  be  regretted. 
But  to  make  up  to  her  for  such  a  privation, 
there  were  two  lovely  little  girls;  one  ten,  and 
the  other  seven  years  old,  who  fell  in  love  with 
Evelyn  at  first  sight.  Caroline  was  one  of  the 
beauties  of  the  county, — clever  and  conversible 
— "  drew  young  men,"  and  set  the  fashion  to 
young  ladies,  especially  when  she  returned 
from  spending  the  season  with  Lady  Elizabeth. 

It  was  a  delightful  family  ! 

In  person,  Mr.  Merton  was  of  the  middle 
height;  fair,  and  inclined  to  stoutness,  with 
small  features,  beautiful  teeth,  and  great 
suavity  of  address.  Mindful  still  of  the  time 
when  he  had  been  "  about  town,"  he  was  very 
particular  in  his  dress:  his  black  coat,  neatly 
relieved  in  the  evening  by  a  white  underwaist- 
coat,  and  a  shirt-front  admirably  plaited,  with 
plain  studs  of  dark  enamel — his  well-cut 
trowsers,  and  elaborately-polished  shoes — (he 
was  good-humoredly  vain  of  his  feet  and 
hands) — won  for  him  the  common  praise  of 
the  dandies,  (who  occasionally  honored  him 
with  a  visit  to  shoot  his  game,  and  flirt  with 
his  daughter),  "  that  old   Merton  was  a  most 

gentlemanlike  fellow — so    d d  neat  for  a 

parson  ! " 

Such,  mentally,  morally,  and  physically,  was 
the  Reverend  Charles  Merton,  rector  of  Mer- 
ton, brother  of  Sir  John,  and  possessor  of  an 
income,  that,  what  with  his  rich  living,  his 
wife's  fortune,  and  his  own,  which  was  not  in- 
considerable, amounted  to  between  four  and 
five  thousand  pounds  a-year — which  income, 
managed  with  judgment,  as  well  as  liberality, 
could  not  fail  to  secure  to  him  all  the  good 
things  of  this  world — the  respect  of  his  friends 
amongst  the  rest.  Caroline  was  right  when 
she  told  Evelyn  that  her  papa  was  very  dif- 
ferent from  a  mere  country  parson. 

Now  this  gentleman  could  not  fail  to  see  all 


the  claims  that  E^velyii  might  fairly  advatxe 
upon  the  esteem,  nay,  the  veneration,  of  himself 
and  family:  a  young  beauty,  with  a  fortune  of 
about  a  quarter  of  a  million,  was  a  phenome- 
non that  might  fairly  be  called  ceTcstial.  Her 
pretensions  were  enhanced  by  her  engagement 
to  Lord  Vargrave — an  engagement  which 
might  be  broken;  so  that,  as  he  interpreted 
it,  the  wont  that  could  happen  to  the  young 
lady  was  to  marry  an  able  and  rising  Minister 
of  State — a  peer  of  the  realm;  but  she  was 
perfectly  free  to  marry  a  still  greater  man,  if 
she  could  find  him;  and  who  knows  but  what 
perhaps  the  attach^,  if  he  could  get   leave  of 

absence  ? -Mr.  Merton  was  too  sensible  to 

pursue  that  thought  further  for  the  present. 

The  good  man  was  greatly  shocked  at  the 
too-familiar  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Merton 
spoke  to  this  high-fated  heiress — at  Evelyn's 
travelling  so  far  without  her  own  maid — at 
her  very  primitive  wardrobe — poor,  ill-used 
child !  Mr.  Merton  was  a  connoisseur  in 
ladies'  dress.  It  was  quite  painful  to  see  that 
the  unfortunate  girl  had  been  so  neglected. 
Lady  Vargrave  must  be  a  very  strange  person. 
He  inquired  compassionately,  whether  she 
was  allowed  any  pocket  money  ?  and  finding,- 
to  his  relief,  that  in  that  respect  Miss  Cameron 
was  munificently  supplied,  he  suggested  that 
a  proper  Abigail  should  be  immediately  en- 
gaged; that  proper  orders  to  Madame  Day 
should  be  immediately  transmitted  to  London, 
with  one  of  Evelyn's  dresses,  as  a  pattern  for 
nothing  but  length  and  breadth.  He  almost 
stamped  with  vexation,  when  he  heard  that 
Evelyn  had  been  placed  in  one  of  the  neat 
little  rooms  generally  appropriated  to  young 
lady  visitors. 

"  She  is  quite  contented,  my  dear  Mr.  Mer- 
ton; she  is  so  simple;  she  has  not  been  brought 
up  in  the  style  you  think  for." 

"  Mrs.  iMerton,"  said  the  rector,  with  great 
solemnity,  "  Miss  Cameron  may  know  no  bet- 
ter now;  but  what  will  she  think  of  us  here- 
after ?  It  is  my  maxim  to  recollect  what  peo- 
ple will  be,  and  show  them  that  respect  which 
may  leave  pleasing  impressions  when  they 
have  it  in  their  power  to  show  us  civility  in 
return." 

With  many  apologies,  which  quite  over- 
whelmed poor  Evelyn,  she  was  transferred 
from  the  little  chamber,  with  its  French  bed 
and    bamboo-colored    washhand-stand,    to  an 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


227 


I 


apartment  \vith  a  buhl  wardrolie  and  a  four- 
post  bed  with  green  silk  curtains,  usually  ap- 
propriated to  the  regular  Christmas  visitant, 
the  Dowager  Countess  of  Chipperton:  a  pretty 
morning-room  communicated  with  the  sleeping 
apartment,  and  thence  a  private  staircase  con- 
ducted into  the  gardens.  The  whole  family 
were  duly  impressed  and  re-impressed  with 
her  importance.  No  queen  could  be  more 
made  of.  Evelyn  mistook  it  all  for  pure  kind- 
ness, and  returned  the  hospitality  with  an 
affection  that  extended  to  the  whole  family, 
but  particularly  to  the  two  little  girls,  and  a 
beautiful  black  spaniel.  Her  dresses  came 
down  from  London— her  Abigail  arrived — the 
buhl  wardrobe  was  duly  filled — and  Evelyn  at 
last  learned  that  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  rich. 
An  account  of  all  these  proceedings  was  for- 
warded to  Lady  Vargrave,  in  a  long  and  most 
complacent  letter,  by  the  rector  himself.  The 
answer  was  short,  but  it  contented  the  excel- 
lent clergyman;  for  it  approved  of  all  he  had 
done,  and  begged  that  Miss  Cameron  might 
have  everything  that  seemed  proper  to  her 
station. 

By  the  same  post  came  two  letters  to  Eve- 
lyn herself — one  from  Lady  Vargrave,  one 
from  the  curate.  They  transported  her  from 
the  fine  room  and  the  buhl  wardrobe,  to  the 
cottage  and  the  lawn; — and  the  fine  Abigail, 
when  she  came  to  dress  her  young  lady's  hair, 
found  her  weeping. 

It  was  a  matter  of  great  regret  to  the  rector 
that  it  was  that  time  of  year  when — precisely 
because  the  country  is  most  beautiful — every 
one  worth  knowing  is  in  town.  Still,  however, 
some  stray  guests  found  their  w^ay  to  the  rec- 
tory for  a  day  or  two,  and  still  there  were 
some  aristocratic  old  families  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, who  never  went  up  to  London:  so  that 
two  days  in  the  week  the  rector's  wine  flowed, 
the  whist-tables  were  set  out,  and  the  piano 
called  into  requisition. 

Evelyn — the  object  of  universal  attention 
and  admiration — was  put  at  her  ease  by  her 
station  itself;  for  good  manners  come  like  an 
instinct  to  those  on  whom  the  world  smiles. 
Insensibly  she  acquired  self-possession  and 
the  smoothness  of  society;  and  if  her  childlike 
playfulness  broke  out  from  all  conventional 
restraint,  it  only  made  more  charming  and 
brilliant  the  great  heiress,  whose  delicate  and 
fairy  cast  of  beauty  so  well  became  her  grace- 


ful abandon  of  manner,  antl  who  looked  so  un- 
equivocally ladylike  to  the  eyes  that  rested  on 
Madame  Devy's  blondes  and  satins. 

Caroline  was  not  so  gay  as  she  had  been  at 
the  cottage.  Something  seemed  to  weigh  upon 
her  spirits:  she  was  often  moody  and  thought- 
ful. She  was  the  only  one  in  the  family  not 
good-tempered;  and  her  peevish  replies  to  her 
parents,  when  no  visitor  imposed  a  check  on 
the  family  circle,  inconceivably  pained  Evelyn, 
and  greatly  contrasted  the  flow  of  spirits  which 
distinguished  her  when  she  found  somebody 
worth  listening  to.  Still  Evelyn — who,  where 
she  once  liked,  found  it  difificult  to  withdraw 
ragard — sought  to  overlook  Caroline's  blem- 
ishes, and  to  persuade  herself  of  a  thousand 
good  qualities  below  the  surface;  and  her 
generous  nature  found  constant  opportunity  of 
ventinj;  itself,  in  costly  gifts,  selected  from  the 
London  parcels,  with  which  the  officious  Mr. 
Merton  relieved  the  Monotony  of  the  rectory. 
These  gifts  Caroline  could  not  refuse,  without 
paining  her  young  friend.  She  took  them  re- 
luctantly, for  to  do  her  justice,  Caroline, 
though  ambitious,  was  not  mean. 

Thus  time  passed  in  the  rectory,  in  gay 
variety  and  constant  entertainment;  and  all 
things  combined  to  spoil  the  heiress,  if,  in- 
deed, goodness  ever  is  spoiled  by  kindness  and 
prosperity.  Is  it  to  the  frost  or  to  the  sun- 
shine that  the  flower  opens  its  petals,  or  the 
fruit  ripens  from  the  blossom  ? 


CHAP'LER  III. 

"  Rod.     How  sweet  these  suHtary  places  are 

*  *  *  *  * 

Feci.    What  strange  musick       ' 

Was  that  we  heard  afar  off  ? 
Curio.  We've  told  you  what  he  is— what  time  we've 
sought  him — 

Hi.s  nature  and  his  name." 

—Beaumont  and  Fletcher:  The  Pilgrim. 

One  day,  as  the  ladies  were  seated  in  Mrs. 
Merton's  morning  room,  Evelyn,  who  had 
been  stationed  by  the  window  hearing  the 
little  Cecilia  go  through  the  French  verbs, 
and  had  just  finished  that  agreeable  task,  ex- 
claimed, 

"  Do  tell  me  to  whom  that  old  house  belongs 
— with  the  picturesque  gable-end,  and  (iothic 
turrets— there,  just  peeping  through  the  trees 
— I  have  always  forgot  to  ask  you." 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"Oh,  my  clear  Miss  Cameron,"  said  Mrs. 
Merton,  "that  is  liurleigh — have  you  not  been 
there  ?  How  stupid  in  Caroline  not  to  show 
it  to  you.  It  is  one  of  the  lions  of  the  place. 
It  belongs  to  a  man  you  have  often  heard  of 
—  Mr.  Maltravers." 

"Indeed!"  cried  Evelyn;  and  she  gazed 
with  new  interest  on  the  grey  melancholy  pile, 
as  the  sunshine  brought  it  into  strong  contrast 
with  the  dark  pines  around  it.  "And  Mr. 
Maltravers  himself ?  " 

■'Is  still  abroad,  I  believe;  though  I  did 
hear,  the  other  day,  that  he  was  shortly  ex- 
pected at  Burleigh.  It  is  a  curious  old  place, 
though  much  neglected,  i  believe,  indeed,  it 
has  not  been  furnished  since  the  time  of 
Charles  the  First. — (Cissy,  my  love,  don't 
stoop  so). — Very  gloomy,  in  my  opinion;  and 
not  any  fine  room  in  the  house,  except  the 
library,  which  was  once  a  chapel.  However, 
people  come  miles  to  see  it." 

"Will  you  go  there  to-day  ?"  said  Caroline, 
languidly;  "  it  is  a  very  pleasant  walk  through 
the  glebe-land  and  the  wood — not  above  half- 
a-mile  by  the  foot-path." 

"I  should  like  it  so  much." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  "  and  you  had 
better  go  before  he  returns — ^he  is  so  strange. 
He  does  not  allow  it  to  be  seen  when  he  is 
down.  But,  indeed,  he  has  only  been  once  at 
the  old  place  since  he  was  of  age. — (Sophy, 
you  will  tear  Miss  Cameron's  scarf  to  pieces; 
,  do  be  quiet,  child). — That  was  before  he  was 
a  great  man — he  was  then  very  odd — saw  no 
society — only  dined  once  with  us — though  Mr. 
Merton  paid  him  every  attention.  They  show 
the  room  in  which  he  wrote  his  books." 

"  I  remember  him  very  well,  though  I  was 
then  but  a  chiia,"  said  Caroline, — "  a  hand- 
some, thoughtful  face." 

"  Did  you  think  so,  my  dear  ?  fine  eyes  and 
teeth,  certainly,  and  a  commanding  figure — 
but  nothing  more." 

"  Well,"  said  Caroline,  "if  you  like  to  go, 
Evelyn,  I  am  at  your  service." 

"  And — I — Evy,  dear — I — may  go,"  said 
Cecilia,  clinging  to  Evelyn. 

"  And  me,  too,"  lisped  Sophia — the  young- 
est hope — "  there's  such  a  pretty  peacock." 

"  Oh,  yes — they  may  go,  Mrs.  Merton,  we'll 
take  such  care  of  them." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear— Miss  Cameron  quite 
spoils  you." 


Evelyn  tripped  away  to  put  on  her  bonnet — 
and  the  children  ran  after  her,  clapping  their 
hands,  they  could  not  bear  to  lose  sight  of  her 
for  a  moment." 

"  Caroline,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  affection- 
ately, "  are  you  not  well } — you  have  seemed 
pale  lately,  and  not  in  your  usual  spirits." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  well  enough,"  answered  Caro- 
line, rather  peevishly;  "but  this  place  is  so 
dull  now — very  provoking  that  Lady  Elizabeth 
does  not  go  to  London  this  year." 

"  My  dear,  it  will  be  gayer,  I  hope,  in  July, 
when  the  races  at  Knaresdean  begin;  and 
Lord  Vargrave  has  promised  to  come." 

"  Has  Lord  Vargrave  written  to  you  lately  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear." 

"  Very  odd." 

"  Does  Evelyn  ever  talk  of  him  ?  " 

"  Not  much,"  said  Caroline,  rising  aud  quil- 
ting the  room. 

It  was  a  most  cheerful,  e.xhilaratingday;  the 
close  of  sweet  Mny;  the  hedges  were  white 
with  blossoms,  alight  breeze  rustled  the  young 
leaves,  the  butterflies  had  ventured  forth,  and 
the  children  chased  them  over  the  grass,  a- 
Evelyn  and  Caroline,  who  walked  much  toL 
slow  for  her  companion  (Evelyn  longed  to  run), 
followed  them  soberly  towards  Burleigh. 

They  passed  the  glebe-fields;  and  a  little 
bridge,  thrown  over  a  brawling  rivulet,  con- 
ducted them  into  a  wood. 

"  This  stream,"  said  Caroline,  "  forms  the 
boundary  between  my  uncle's  estates  and 
those  of  Mr.  Maltravers.  It  must  be  very  un- 
pleasant to  so  proud  a  man  as  Mr.  Maltravers 
is  said  to  be,  to  have  the  land  of  another  pro- 
prietor so  near  his  house.  He  could  hear  my 
uncle's  giin  from  his  very  drawing-room. 
However,  Sir  John  takes  care  not  to  molest 
him.  On  the  other  side,  the  Burleigh  estates 
extend  for  some  miles;  indeed,  Mr.  Maltravers 
is  the  next  great  proprietor  to  my  uncle  in  this 
part  of  the  county.  Very  strange  that  he  does 
not  marry  !  There,  now  you  can  see  the 
house." 

The  mansion  lay  somewhat  low,  with  hang- 
ing woods  in  the  rear;  and  the  old-fashioned 
fish-ponds  gleaming  in  the  sunshine,  and  over 
shadowed  by  gigantic  trees,  increased  th' 
venerable  stillness  of  its  aspect.  Ivy  and 
innumerable  creepers  covered  one  side  of  the 
house;  and  long  weeds  cumbered  the  deserted 
road. 


ALICE;     OR,     JJfE    MYSTERIES. 


"  It  was  sadly  neglected,"  said  Caroline; 
"  and  was  so,  even  in  the  last  owner's  life. 
Mr.  Maltravers  ijiherits  the  place  from  his 
mother's  uncle.  We  may  as  well  enter  the 
house  by  the  private  way.  The  front  entrance 
is  kept  locked  up." 

Winding  by  a  path  that  conducted  into  a 
flower-garden,  divided  from  the  park  by  a  ha- 
ha,  over  which  a  plank  and  a  small  gate,  rust- 
ing off  its  hinges,  were  placed,  Caroline  led 
the  way  towards  the  building.  At  this  point  of 
view,  it  presented  a  large  bay-window,  that  by 
a  flight  of  four  steps,  led  into  the  garden.  On 
one  side  rose  a  square,  narrow  turret,  siu'- 
mounted  by  a  gilt  dome  and  quaint  weather- 
cock, below  the  architrave  of  which  was  a  sun- 
dial, set  in  the  stone  work;  and  another  dial 
stood  in  the  garden,  with  the  common  and 
beautiful  motto — 

"  Non  tiumero  horas,  nisi  Serenas  !  "  * 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bay-window,  a  huge 
buttress  cast  its  mass  of  shadow.  There  was 
something  in  the  appearance  of  the  whole 
place  that  invited  to  contemplation  and 
repose — something  almost  monastic.  The 
gaiety  of  the  teeming  spring-time  could  not 
divest  the  spot  of  a  certain  sadness,  not  dis- 
])leasing,  however,  whether  to  the  young,  to 
whom  there  is  a  luxury  in  the  vague  sentiment 
of  melancholy,  or  to  those  who,  having  known 
real  griefs,  seek  for  an  anodyne  in  meditation 
and  memory.  The  low  lead-colored  door, 
set  deep  in  the  turret,  was  locked,  and  the 
bell  beside  it  broken.  Caroline  turned  im- 
patiently away.  "  We  must  go  round  to  the 
other  side,"  said  she,  ■'  and  try  to  make  the 
deaf  old  man  hear  us." 

"Oh,  Carry.!"  cried  Cecilia,  "the  great 
window  is  open;  "  and  she  ran  up  the  steps. 

"That  is  lucky,"  said  Caroline;  and  the 
rest  followed  Cecilia. 

Evelyn  now  stood  within  the  library  of 
which  Mrs.  Merton  had  spoken.  It  was  a 
large  room,  about  fifty  feet  in  length,  and 
proportionably  wide;  somewhat  dark,  for  the 
light  came  only  from  the  one  large  window 
through  which  they  entered;  and  though  the 
window  rose  to  the  cornice  of  the  ceiling,  and 
took  up  one  side  of  the  apart,  the  daylight  was 
subdued  by  the  heaviness  of  the  stonework  in 

*  I  number  not  the  hours  unless  sunny. 


which  the  narrow  panes  were  set,  and  by  the 
glass  stained  with  armorial  bearings  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  casement.  The  bookcases, 
too,  were  of  the  dark  oak  which  so  much  ab- 
sorbs the  light;  and  the  gilding,  formerly 
meant  to  relieve  them,  was  discolored  by 
time. 

The  room  was  almost  disproportionably 
lofty;  the  ceiling,  elaborately  coved,  and 
richly  carved  with  grotesque  masks,  presented 
the  Gothic  character  of  the  age  in  which  it 
had  been  devoted  to  a  religious  purpose.  Two 
fireplaces,  with  high  chimney-pieces  of  oak, 
in  which  were  inserted  two  portraits,  broke 
the  symmetrj'  of  the  tall  bookcases.  In  one 
of  these  fireplaces  were  half-burnt  logs;  and 
a  huge  arm-chair,  with  a  small  reading-desk 
beside  it,  seemed  to  bespeak  the  recent  occu- 
pation of  the  room.  On  the  fourth  side,  op- 
posite the  window,  the  wall  was  covered  with 
faded  tapestry,  representing  the  meeting  of 
Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba;  the  arras 
was  nailed  over  doors,  on  either  hand;  the 
chinks  between  the  door  and  the  wall  serving, 
in  one  instance,  to  cut  off  in  the  middle  his 
wise  majesty,  who  was  making  a  low  bow; 
while  in  the  other  it  took  the  ground  from 
under  the  wanton  queen,  just  as  she  was  de- 
scending from  her  chariot. 

Near  the  window  stood  a  grand  piano,  the 
only  modern  article  in  the  room,  save  one  of 
the  portraits,  presently  to  be  described.  On 
all  this  Evelyn  gazed  silently  and  devoutly: 
she  had  naturally  that  reverence  for  genius 
which  is  common  to  the  enthusiastic  and 
young;  and  there  is,  even  to  the  dullest,  a 
certain  interest  in  the  homes  of  those  who 
have  implanted  within  us  a  new  thought.  But 
here  there  was,  she  imagined,  a  rare  and  singu- 
lar harmony  between  the  place  and  the  men- 
tal characteristics  of  the  owner.  She  fancied 
she  now  better  understood  the  shadowy  and 
metaphysical  repose  of  thought  that  had  dis- 
tinguished the  earlier  writings  of  Maltravers 
— the  writings  composed  or  planned  in  this 
still  retreat. 

But  what  particularly  caught  her  attention 
was  one  of  the  two  portraits  that  adorned  the 
manteli)ieces.  The  further  one  was  attired  in 
the  rich  and  fanciful  armor  of  the  time  of  ' 
Elizabeth;  the  head  bare,  the  helmet  on  a 
table  on  which  the  hand  rested.  It  was  a 
handsome  and  striking  countenance;  and  an 


'3° 


B  UL 1 1  EK  S     II  OK  AS. 


inscription  announced  it  to  be  a  Digby,  an  an- 
cestor of  Maltravers. 

But  the  other  was  a  beautiful  girl  of  about 
eighteen,  in  the  now  almost  antiquated  dress 
of  forty  years  ago.  The  features  were  deli- 
cate, but  the  colors  somewhat  faded,  and  there 
was  something  mournful  in  the  expression. 
A  silk  curtain  drawn  on  one  side,  seemed  to 
denote  how  carefully  it  was  prized  by  the  pos- 
sessor. 

Evelyn  turned  for  explanation  to  her  cicer- 
one. 

"  This  is  the  second  time  I  have  seen  that 
picture,"  said  Caroline;  "for  it  is  only  by 
great  entreaty,  and  as  a  mysterious  favor,  that 
the  old  housekeeper  draws  aside  the  veil. 
Some  touch  of  sentiment  in  Maltravers  makes 
him  regard  it  as  sacred.  It  is  the  picture  of 
his  mother  before  she  married;  she  died  in 
giving  him  birth." 

Evelyn  sighed;  how  well  she  understood  the 
sentiment  which  seemed  to  Caroline  so  eccen- 
tric !  The  countenance  fascinated  her;  the 
eye  seemed  to  follow  her  as  she  turned. 

"As  a  proper  pendant  to  this  picture,"  said 
Caroline,  "he  ought  to  have  dismissed  the 
effigies  of  yon  warlike  gentleman,  and  replaced 
■t  by  one  of  poor  Lady  Florence  Lascelies, 
for  whose  loss  he  is  said  to  have  quitted  his 
country;  but,  perhaps,  it  was  the  loss  of  her 
fortune." 

"  How  can  you  say  so? — fie!"  cried  Eve- 
lyn, with  a  burst  of  generous  indignation. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  you  heiresses  have  a  fellow- 
feeling  with  each  other  !  Nevertheless,  clever 
men  are  less  sentimental  than  we  deem  them 
— heigho  !  —  this  quiet  room  gives  me  the 
spleen,  I  fancy." 

"  Dearest  Evy,"  whispered  Cecilia,  "  I  think 
you  have  a  look  of  that  pretty  picture,  only 
you  arfe  much  prettier.  Do  take  off  your 
bonnet;  your  hair  just  falls  down  like  hers." 

Evelyn  shook  her  head  gravely;  but  the 
spoiled  child  hastily  untied  the  ribands,  and 
snatched  away  the  hat,  and  Evelyn's  sunny 
ringlets  fell  down  in  beautiful  disorder.  There 
was  no  resemblance  between  Evelyn  and  the 
portrait,  except  in  the  color  of  the  hair,  and 
the  careless  fashion  it  now  by  chance  assumed. 
'Yet  Evelyn  Avas  pleased  to  think  that  a  like- 
ness did  exist,  though  Caroline  declared  it 
was  a  most  unflattering  compliment. 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  the  latter,  changing 


the  theme,  "I  don't  wonder  Mr.  Maltravers 
lives  so  little  in  this  •  Castle  Dull; '  yet  it  might 
be  much  improved.  French  windows  and 
plate-glass,  for  instance;  and  if  those  lumber- 
ing bookshelves  and  horrid  old  chimneypieces 
were  removed,  and  the  ceiling  painted  white 
and  gold,  like  that  in  my  uncle's  saloon,  and  a 
rich,  lively  paper,  instead  of  the  tapestry,  it 
would  really  make  a  very  fine  ball-room." 

"  Let  us  have  a  dance  here  now,"  cried 
Cecilia.  "Come,  stand  up,  Sophy;"  and  the 
children  began  to  practise  a  waltz  step,  tumb- 
ling over  each  other  and  laughing  in  full  glee. 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Evelyn,  softly.  She 
had  never  before  checked  the  children's  mirth, 
and  she  could  not  tell  why  she  did  so  now. 

"  I  suppose  the  old  butler  has  been  enter- 
taining the  bailiff  here,"  said  Caroline,  point- 
ing to  the  remains  of  the  fire. 

"And  is  this  the  room  he  chiefly  inhabited 
— the  room  that  you  say  they  show  as  his  ?  " 

"No;  that  tapestry  door  to  the  right  leads 
into  a  little  study  where  he  wrote."  So  say- 
ing, Caroline  tried  to  open  the  door,  but  it  was 
locked  from  within.  She  then  opened  the 
other  door,  which  showed  a  long  wainscoted 
passage,  hung  with  rusty  pikes,  and  a  few 
breastplates  of  the  time  of  the  Parliamentary 
Wars.  "  This  leads  to  the  main  body  of  the 
house,"  said  Caroline,  "  from  which  the  room 
we  are  now  in  and  the  little  stud)'  are  com- 
pletely detached,  having,  as  you  know,  been 
the  chapel  in  popish  times.  I  have  heard  that 
Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  an  ancestral  connection  of 
the  present  owner,  first  converted  them  into 
their  present  use;  and,  in  return,  built  the  vil- 
lage church  on  the  other  side  of  the  park." 

Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  the  old  cavalier-philoso- 
pher ! — a  new  name  of  interest  _to  consecrate 
the  place  !  Evelyn  could  have  lingered  all 
day  in  the  room;  and,  perhaps,  as  an  excuse 
for  a  longer  sojourn,  hastened  to  the  piano — 
it  was  open — she  ran  her  fairy  fingers  over 
the  keys,  and  the  sound,  from  the  untuned 
and  neglected  instrument,  thrilled  wild  and 
spiritlike  through  the  melancholy  chamber. 

"Oh!  do  sing  us  something,  Evy,"  cried 
Cecilia,  running  up  to,  and  drawing  a  chair  to. 
the  instrument. 

"  Do,  Evelyn,"  said  Caroline,  languidly, 
"  it  will  serve  to  bring  one  of  the  servants  to 
us,  and  save  us  a  journey  to  the  offices." 

"  It  was  just  what  Evelyn  wished.     Some 


ALICE  i     OK,     THK    MYSTERIES. 


»3» 


verses,  which  her  mother  especially  loved; 
verses  written  by  Maltravers  upon  returning, 
after  absence,  to  his  own  home,  had  rushed 
into  her  mind  as  she  had  touched  the  keys. 
They  were  appropriate  to  the  place,  and  had 
been  beautifully  set  to  music.  So  the  children 
hushed  themselves,  and  nestled  at  her  feet; 
and,  after  a  little  prelude,  keeping  the  accom- 
paniment under,  that  the  spoiled  instrument 
might  not  mar  the  sweet  words,  and  sweeter 
voice,  she  began  the  song. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  adjoining  room,  the  little 
study  which  Caroline  had  spoken  of,  sate  the 
owner  of  the  house  ! — He  had  returned  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  the  previous  night. 
The  old  steward  was  in  attendance  at  the 
moment,  full  of  apologies,  congratulations, 
and  gossip;  and  Maltravers,  grown  a  stern  and 
haughty  man,  was  already  impatiently  turning 
away,  when  he  heard  the  sudden  sound  of  the 
children's  laughter  and  loud  voices  in  the 
room  beyond.     Maltravers  frowned. 

"  What  impertinence  is  this  ?  "  said  he,  in  a 
tone  that,  though  very  calm,  made  the  steward 
quake  in  his  shoes. 

"  I  don't  know,  really,  your  honor;  there  be 
so  many  grand  folks  come  to  see  the  house  in 
the  fine  weather,  they " 

"  And  you  permit  your  master's  house  to 
be  a  raree-show  ? — you  do  well,  sir." 

"  If  your  honor  were  more  amongst  us, 
there  might  be  more  discipline  like,"  said  the 
steward  stoutly;  "but  no  one  in  my  time  has 
cared  so  little  for  the  old  place  as  those  it  be- 
longs to." 

"  Fewer  words  to  me,  sir,"  said  Maltravers, 
haughtily;  "and  now  go  and  inform  those 
people  that  I  am  returned,  and  wish  for  no 
guests  but  those  I  invite  myself." 

"Sir!" 

"  Do  you  not  hear  me  ?  Say,  that  if  it  so 
please  them,  these  old  ruins  are  my  property, 
and  are  not  to  be  jobbed  out  to  the  insolence 
of  public  curiosity.     Go,  sir," 

"  But — I  beg  pardon,  your  honor — if  they 
be  great  folks  ? " 

"  Great  folks  ! — great  !  Ay,  there  it  is. 
Why,  if  they  be  great  folks,  they  have  great 
houses  of  their  own,  Mr.  Justis." 

The  steward  stared.  "  Perhaps  your  honor," 
he  put  in,  deprecatingly,  "  they  be  Mr.  Mer- 
lon's family  they  come  very  often  when  the 
r.ondon  gentlemen  are  with  them." 


"  Merton  !  —  oh,  the  cringing  parson. 
Harkye  !  one  word  more  with  me,  sir,  and 
you  quit  my  service  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Justis  lifted  his  eyes  and  hands  to 
heaven:  but  there  was  something  in  his  mas- 
ter's voice  and  look  which  checked  reply,  and 
he  turned  slowly  to  the  door — when  a  voice  of 
such  heavenly  sweetness,  was  heard  without, 
that  it  arrested  his  own  step,  and  made  the 
stern  Maltravers  start  in  his  seat.  He  held 
up  his  hand  to  the  steward  to  delay  his  errand, 
and  listened,  charmed  and  spell-bound.  His 
own  words  came  on  his  ear— words  long  un- 
familiar to  him,  and  at  first  but  imperfectly 
remembered — words  connected  with  the  early 
and  virgin  years  of  poetry  and  aspiration — 
words  that  were  as  the  ghosts  of  thoughts  now 
far  too  gentle  for  his  altered  soul.  He  bowed 
down  his  head,  and  the  dark  shade  left  his 
brow. 

The  song  ceased,  Maltravers  moved  with 
a  sigh,  and  his  eyes  rested  on  the  form  of  the 
steward  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Shall  I  give  your  honor's  message  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Justis,  gravely. 

"No — take  care  for  the  future:  leave  me 
now." 

Mr.  Justis  made  one  leg,  and  then,  well 
pleased,  took  to  both. 

"Well,"  thought  he,  as  he  departed,  "how 
foreign  parts  do  spoil  a  gentleman  ! — so  mild 
as  he  was  once  !  I  must  botch  up  the  ac- 
counts, I  see — the  squire  has  grown  sharp." 

As  Evelyn  concluded  her  song,  she— whose 
charm  in  singing  was  that  she  sang  from  the 
heart — was  so  touched  by  the  melancholy 
music  of  the  air  and  words,  that  her  voice 
faltered,  and  the  last  line  died  inaudiblyon  her 
lips. 

The  children  sprang  up  and  kissed  her. 

"Oh,"  cried  Cecillia,  "there  is  the  beautiful 
peacock  ! "  And  there,  indeed,  on  the  steps 
without  perhaps  attracted  by  the  music,  stood 
the  picturesque  bird.  The  children  ran  out 
to  greet  their  old  favorite,  who  was  extremely 
tame;  and  presently  Cecillia  returned. 

"  Oh,  Carry  !  do  see  what  beautiful  horses 
are  coming  up  the  park  ! " 

Caroline,  who  was  a  good  rider,  and  fond  of 
horses,  and  whose  curiosity  was  always  aroused 
by  things  connected  with  show  and  station- 
suffered  the  little  girl  to  draw  her  into  the 
garden.     Two   grooms,  each    mounted   on   a 


27,2 


BUUVKR'S     WORKS. 


horse  ul  the  jjure  Arabian  breed,  and  each 
leading  another,  swathed  and  bandaged,  were 
riding  slowly  up  the  road;  and  Caroline  was 
so  attracted  by  the  novel  appearance  of  the 
animals  in  a  place  so  deserted,  that  she  fol- 
lowed the  children  towards  them,  to  learn  who 
could  possibly  be  their  enviable  owner.  Eve- 
lyn, forgotten  for  the  moTnent,  remained  alone. 
She  was  pleased  at  being  so,  and  once  more 
turned  to  the  picture  which  had  so  attracted 
her  before.  The  mild  eyes  fixed  on  her,  with 
an  expression  that  recalled  to  her  mind  her 
own  mother. 

"  And,"  thought  she,  as  she  gazed,  "this 
fair  creature  did  not  live  to  know  the  fame  of 
her  son — to  rejoice  in  his  success — or  to  soothe 
his  grief.  And  he,  that  son — a  disappointed 
and  solitary  exile  in  distant  lands,  while 
strangers  stand  within  his  deserted  hall  !  " 

The  images  she  had  conjured  up  moved  and 
absorbed  her,  and  she  continued  to  stantl  be- 
fore the  picture,  gazing  upward  with  moist- 
ened eyes.  It  was  a  beautiful  vision  as  she 
thus  stood,  with  her  delicate  bloom,  her  lux- 
uriant hair  (for  the  hat  was  not  yet  replaced) 
— her  elastic  form,  so  full  of  youth,  and  health, 
and  hope — the  living  form  beside  the  faded 
canvass  of  the  dead — once  youthful,  tender, 
lovely  as  herself  !  Evelyn  turned  away  with  a 
sigh — the  sigh  was  re-echoed  yet  more  deeply. 
She  started:  the  door  that  led  to  the  study  was 
opened,  and  in  the  aperture  was  the  figure  of  a 
man,  in  the  prime  of  life.  His  hair,  still  lux- 
uriant as  in  his  earliest  youth,  though  dark- 
ened by  the  suns  of  the  East,  curled  over  a 
forehead  of  majestic  expanse.  The  high  and 
proud  features,  that  well  became  a  stature 
above  the  ordinary  standard — the  pale  but 
bronzed  complexion — the  large  eyes  of  deepest 
blue,  shaded  by  dark  brows  and  lashes— and, 
more  than  all,  that  expression  at  once  of  jms- 
sion  and  repose  which  characterizes  the  old 
Italian  portraits,  and  seems  to  denote  the  in- 
scrutable power  that  experience  imparts  to  in- 
tellect— constituted  an  ensemble  which,  if  not 
faultlessly  handsome,  was  eminently  striking, 
and  formed  at  once  to  interest  and  command. 
It  was  a  face,  once  seen,  never  to  be  forgotten; 
it  was  a  face  that  had  long,  half  unconsciously, 
haunted  Evelyn's  young  dreams;  it  was  a 
face  she  had  seen  before,  though  then  younger, 
and  milder,  and  fairer,  it  wore  a  different  as- 
pect. 


Evelyn  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  feeling  her 
self  blush  to  her  very  temples — an  enchanting 
picture    of    bashful    confusion,    and    innocent 
alarm. 

"  Do  not  let  me  regret  my  return,"  said  the 
stranger,  approaching  after  a  short  pause,  and 
with  much  gentleness  in  his  voice  and  smile, 
"  and  think  that  the  owner  is  doomed  to  scare 
away  the  fair  spirits  that  haunted  the  spot  in 
his  absence." 

"  The  owner  !  "  repeated  Evelyn,  almost 
inaudibly,  and  an  increased  embarrassment; 
"  are  you  then  the — the  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  courteously  interrupted  the  stranger, 
seeing  her  confusion;  "  my  name  is  Mal- 
travers;  and  I  am  to  blame  for  not  having  in- 
formed you  of  my  sudden  return,  or  for  now 
trespassing  on  your  presence.  But  you  see 
my  excuse;  "  and  he  pointed  to  the  instru- 
ment. "  Yon  have  the  magic  that  draws  even 
the  serpent  from  his  hole.  But  you  are  not 
alone  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  no,  indeed  !  Miss  Merton  is 
with  me.  I  know  not  where  she  is  gone.  I 
will  seek  her." 

"  Miss  Merton  !  You  are  not  then  one  of 
that  family? " 

"No,  only  a  guest.  I  will  find  her— she 
must  apologize  for  us.  We  were  not  aware 
that  you  were  here^indeed  we  were  not." 

"  That  is  a  cruel  excuse,"  said  Maltravers, 
smiling  at  her  eagerness:  and  the  smile  and 
the  look  reminded  her  yet  more  forcibly  of 
the  time  when  he  had  carried  her  in  his  arms, 
and  soothed  her  suffering,  and  praised  her 
courage,  and  pressed  the  kiss  almost  of  a  lover 
on  her  hand.  At  that  thought  she  blushed 
yet  more  deeply,  and  yet  more  eagerly  turned 
to  escape. 

Maltravers  did  not  seek  to  detain  her,  but 
silently  followed  her  steps.  She  had  scarcely 
gained  the  window,  before  little  Cecilia 
scam])ered  in,  crying — 

"Only  think!  Mr.  Maltravers  has  come 
back  and  brought  such  beautiful  horses  ! " 

Cecilia  stopped  abruptly,  as  she  caught 
sight  of  the  stranger;  and  the  next  moment 
Caroline  herself  appeared.  Her  worldly  ex- 
perience and  quick  sense  saw  immediately 
what  had  chanced:  and  she  hastened  to  apolo- 
gize to  Maltravers,  and  congratulate  him  on 
his  return,  with  an  ease  that  astonished  poor 
Evelyn,  and  by  no  means  seemed  a])prcri;ite(l 


ALICE;     OR,     I'HE    MYSTERIES. 
He  rei^lied  with  brief 


■^11 


hy  Makravers  himself, 
and  haughty  courtesy. 

"  My  father,"  continued  Caroline,  "  will  be 
so  glad  to  hear  you  are  come  back.  He  will 
hasten  to  pay  you  his  respects,  and  apologize 
for  his  truants.  But  I  have  not  formally  intro- 
duced you  to  my  fellow-offender.  My  dear, 
let  me  present  to  you  one  whom  Fame  has 
already  made  known  to  you — Mr.  Maltravers, 
Miss  Cameron,  daughter-in-law,"  she  added,  in 
a  lower  voice,  "  to  the  late  Lord  Vargrave." 

At  the  first  part  of  this  introduction  Mal- 
travers frowned — at  the  last,  he  forgot  all  dis- 
pleasure. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  I  thought  I  had  seen  you 
before,  but  in  a  dream.  Ah  !  then  we  are  not 
quite  strangers  !  " 

Evelyn's  eye  met  his,  and  though  she  col- 
ored and  strove  to  lojk  grave,  a  half  smile 
brought  out  the  dimples  that  played  round  her 
arch  lips. 

'•  But  do  you  not  remember  me  ?  "  added 
Maltravers. 

"Oh,    yes!"    exclaimed     Evelyn,     with   a 
sudden  impulse;  and  then  checked  herself. 
Caroline  came  to  her  friends  relief. 
"  What    is  this  ? — you   surprise    me— where 
did  you  ever  see  Mr.  Maltravers  before?  " 

"  I  can  answer  that  question,  Miss  Merton. 
When  Miss  Cameron  was  but  a  child,  as  high 
as  my  little  friend  here,  an  accident  on  the 
road  procured  me  her  acquaintance;  and  the 
sweetiless  and  fortitude  she  then  displayed 
left  an  impression  on  me  not  worn  out  even  to 
this  day.  And  thus  we  meet  again,"  added 
Maltravers,  in  a  muttered  voice,  as  to  himself. 
"  How  strange  a  thing  life  is  !  " 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Merton,  "we  must  in- 
trude on  you  no  more — you  have  so  much  to 
do.  I  am  so  sorry  Sir  John  is  not  down  to 
welcome  you;  but  1  hope  we  shall  be  good 
neighbors.     Au  revoir !" 

And,  fancying  herself  most  charming,  Caro- 
line bowed,  smiled,  and  walked  off  with  her 
train.  Maltravers  paused  irresolute.  If  Eve- 
lyn had  looked  back,  he  would  have  accom- 
panied them  home;  but  Evelyn  did  not  look 
back, — and  he  stayed. 

Miss  Merton  rallied  her  young  friend  un- 
mercifully, as  they  walked  homeward,  and  she 
extracted  a  very  brief  and  imperfect  history 
of  the  adventure  that  had  formed  the  first  ac- 
quaintance, and  of  the  interview  by  which  it 


had  been  renewed.  But  Evelyn  diil  not  heed 
her;  and  the  moment  they  arrived  at  the  rec- 
tory, she  hastened  to  shut  herself  in  her  room, 
and  write  the  account  of  her  adventure  to  her 
mother.  How  often  in  her  girlish  reveries, 
had  she  thought  of  that  incident  —  that 
stranger  !  And  now,  by  such  a  chance,  and 
after  so  many  years,  to  meet  the  Unknown,  by 
his  own  hearth  !  and  that  Unknown  to  be  Mal- 
travers !  It  was  as  if  a  dream  had  come  true. 
While  she  was  yet  musing-and  the  letter  not 
yet  begun— she  heard  the  sound  of  joy-bells 
in  the  distance — at  once  she  divined  the  cause; 
it  was  the  welcome  of  the  wanderer  to  his 
solitary  home  ! 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  Mais  en  connaissant  votre  comiition  tiaturelle,  usez 
des  moyens  qui  lui  sont  propres,  et  ne  pretendez  pas 
regner  par  une  autre  voie  que  par  delle  qui  vous  fjiit 
roi."  * — Pascal. 

In  the  heart,  as  in  the  ocean,  the  great  tides 
ebb  and  flow.  The  waves  which  had  once 
urged  on  the  spirit  of  Ernest  Maltravers  to 
the  rocks  and  shoals  of  active  life,  had  long 
since  receded  back  npon  the  calm  depths, 
and  left  the  strand  bare.  With  a  melancholy 
and  disappointed  mind,  he  had  quitted  the 
land  of  his  birth;  and  new  scenes,  strange  and 
wild,  had  risen  before  his  wandering  gaze. 
Wearied  with  civilization,  and  sated  with  many 
of  the  triumphs  for  which  civilized  men  drutlge 
and  toil,  and  disquiet  themselves  m  vain,  he 
had  plunged  amongst  hordes,  scarce  redeemed 
from  primaeval  barbarism.  The  adventures 
through  which  he  had  passed,  and  in  which 
life  itself  could  only  be  preserved  by  wary 
vigilance,  and  ready  energies,  had  forced  him, 
for  a  while,  from  the  indulgence  of  morbid 
contemplations.  His  heart,  indeed,  had  been 
left  inactive;  but  his  intellect  and  his  physical 
powers  had  been  kept  in  hourly  e.^tercise.  He 
returned  to  the  world  of  his  equals  with  a 
mind  laden  with  the  treasures  of  a  various  and 
vast  experience,  and  with  much  of  the  same 
gloomy   moral    as    that    which,    on    emerging 


*  But  in  understanding  your  natural  condiiion,  use 
the  means  which  are  proper  to  it;  and  pretend  not  to 
govern  by  any  other  way,  than  by  that  which  consti- 
tutes you  governor. 


■■'34 


B  UL  WERS     WORKS. 


ftom  the  Catacombs,  assured  the  restless 
speculations  of  Rasselas  of  the  vanity  of  human 
life  and  the  folly  of  moral  aspirations. 

Ernest  Maltravers,  never  a  faultless  or  com- 
pleted character,  falling  short  in  practice  of 
his  own  capacities,  moral  and  intellectual, 
from  his  very  desire  to  overpass  the  limits  of 
the  Great  and  Good,  wasseemingly  as  far  as 
heretofore  from  the  grand  secret  of  life.  It 
was  not  so  in  reality — his  mind  had  acquired 
what  before  it  wanted — hardness;  and  we  are 
nearer  to  true  virtue  and  true  happiness  when 
we  demand  too  little  from  men,  than  when  we 
exact  too  much. 

Nevertheless,  partly  from  the  strange  life 
that  had  thrown  him  amongst  men  whom 
safety  itself  made  it  necessary  to  command 
despotically,  partly  from  the  hahit  of  power, 
and  disdain  of  the  world,  his  nature  was  in- 
crusted  with  a  stern  imperiousness  of  manner, 
often  approaching  to  the  harsh  and  morose, 
though  beneath  it  lurked  generosity  and  be- 
nevolence. 

Many  of  his  younger  feelings,  more  amiable 
and  complex,  had  settled  into  one  predomi- 
nant quality,  which  more  or  less  had  always 
characterized  him — Pride  !  Self-esteem  made 
inactive,  and  Ambition  made  discontented, 
usually  engender  haughtiness.  In  Maltravers 
this  quality,  which,  properly  controlled  and 
duly  softened,  is  the  essence  and  life  of  honor, 
was  carried  to  a  vice.  He  was  perfectly  con- 
scious of  its  excess,  but  he  cherished  it  as  a 
virtue.  Pride  had  served  to  console  him  in 
sorrow,  and,  therefore,  it  was  a  friend;  it  had 
supported  him  when  disgusted  with  fraud,  or 
in  resistance  to  violence,  and,  therefore,  it  was 
a  champion  and  a  fortress.  It  was  a  pride  of 
a  peculiar  sort — it  attached  itself  to  no  one 
point  in  especial — not  to  talent,  knowledge, 
mental  gifts — still  less  to  the  vulgar  common- 
places of  birth  and  fortune;  it  rather  resulted 
from  a  supreme  and  wholsale  contempt  of 
all  other  men,  and  all  their  objects — of  ambi- 
tion— of  glory — of  the  hard  business  of  life. 
His  favorite  virtue  was  fortitude;  it  was  on 
this  that  he  now  mainly  valued  himself. 
He  was  proud  of  his  struggles  against  others 
— prouder  still  of  conquests  over  his  own 
passions.  He  looked  upon  fate  as  the  arch 
enemy  against  whose  attacks  we  should  ever 
prepare.  He  fancied  that  against  fate  he  had 
thoroughly    schooled .  himself.     In    the    arro- 


gance of  his  heart  he  said,  "  I  can  defy  the 
future."  He  believed  m  the  boast  of  the  vain 
old  sage — "I  am  a  world  to  myself!"  In 
the  wild  career  through  which  his  later  man- 
hood had  passed,  it  is  true  that  he  had  not 
carried  his  philosophy  into  a  rejection  of  the 
ordinary  world.  The  shock  occasioned  by 
the  death  of  Florence  yieldeti  gradually  to 
time  and  change;  and  he  had  passed  from  the 
deserts  of  Africa  and  the  East  to  the  brilliant 
cities  of  Europe.  But  neither  his  heart  nor 
his  reason  had  ever  again  been  enslaved  by 
his  passions.  Never  again  had  he  known  the 
softness  of  affection.  Had  he  done  so,  the 
ice  had  been  thawed,  and  the  fountain  had 
flowed  once  more  into  the  great  deeps.  He 
had  returned  to  England;  he  scarce  knew 
wherefore,  or  with  what  intent;  certainly  not 
with  any  idea  of  entering  again  upon  the  oc- 
cupations of  active  life; — it  was,  perhaps,  only 
the  weariness  of  foreign  scenes  and  unfamiliar 
tongues,  and  the  vague,  unsettled  desire  of 
change,  that  brought  him  back  to  the  father- 
land. 

But  he  did  not  allow  so  unphilosophica!  a 
cause  to  himself;  and,  what  was  strange,  he 
would  not  allow  one  much  more  amiable,  and 
which  was,  perhaps,  the  truer  cause — the  in- 
creasing age  and  infimities  of  his  old  guardian 
Cleveland,  who  prayed  him  affectionately  to 
return.  Maltravers  did  not  like  to  believe  that 
his  heart  was  still  so  kind.  Singular  form  of 
pride  !  No,  he  rather  sought  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  intended  to  sell  Burleigh,  to 
arrange  his  affairs  finally,  and  then  quit  for 
ever  his  native  land.  To  prove  to  himself  that 
this  was  the  case,  he  had  intended  at  Dover  to 
hurry  at  once  to  Burleigh,  and  merely  write  to 
Cleveland  that  he  was  returned  to  England. 
But  his  heart  would  not  suffer  him  to  enjoy 
this  cruel  luxury  of  self-mortification,  and 
his  horses'  heads  were  turned  to  Richmond,, 
when  within  a  stage  of  London.  He  had  spent 
two  days  with  the  good  old  man,  and  those 
two  days  had  so  warmed  and  softened  his  feel- 
ings, that  he  was  quite  appalled  at  his  own 
dereliction  from  fixed  principles  !  However, 
he  went  before  Cleveland  had  time  to  discover 
that  he  was  changed;  and  the  old  man  had 
promised  to  visit  him  shortly. 

This,  then,  was  the  state  of  Ernest  Maltrav- 
ers, at  the  age  of  thirty-six — an  age  in  which 
frame  and  mind  are  in  their  fullest  perfection. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


^35 


— an  age  in  which  men  begin  most  keenly  to 
feel  that  they  are  citizens.  With  all  his  ener- 
gies braced  and  strenghtened — with  his  mind 
stored  with  profusest  gifts — in  the  vigor  of  a 
constitution  to  which  a  hardy  life  had  imparted 
a  second  and  fresher  youth — so  trained  by 
stern  experience  as  to  redeem,  with  an  easy 
effort,  all  the  deficiencies  and  faults  which  had 
once  resulted  from  too  sensitive  an  imagina- 
tion, and  too  high  a  standard  for  human  actions; 
— formed  to  render  to  his  race  the  most  bril- 
liant and  durable  service,  and  to  secure  to  him- 
self the  happiness  which  results  from  sobered 
fancy — a  generous  heart,  and  an  approving 
conscience;  —  here  was  Ernest  Maltravers, 
backed,  too,  by  the  appliances  and  gifts  of 
birth  and  fortune— perversely  shutting  up 
genius,  life,  and  soul,  in  their  own  thorny 
leaves — and  refusing  to  serve  the  fools  and 
rascals,  who  were  formed  from  the  same  clay, 
and  gifted  by  the  same  God.  Morbid  and 
morose  philosophy,  begot  by  a  proud  spirit  on 
a  lonely  heart ! 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  Let  such  amongst  us  as  are  willing  to  be  chiklren 
again,  if  it  be  only  for  an  hour,  resign  ourselves  to  the 
sweet  enchantment  that  steals  upon  the  spirit  when  it 
indulges  in  the  memory  of  early  and  innocent  enjoy- 
ment."— D.  L.  Richardson. 

At  dinner,  Caroline's  lively  recital  of  their 
adventures  was  received  with  much  interest, 
not  only  by  the  Merton  family,  but  by  some  of 
the  neighboring  gentry  who  shared  the  rector's 
hospitality.  The  sudden  return  of  any  pro- 
prietor to  his  old  hereditary  seat  after  a  pro- 
longed absence  makes  some  sensation  in  a 
provincial  neighborhood.  In  this  case,  where 
the  proprietor  was  still  young,  unmarried,  cel- 
ebrated, and  handsome,  the  sensation  was  of 
course  proportionably  increased.  Caroline 
and  Evelyn  were  beset  by  questions,  to  which 
the  former  alone  gave  any  distinct  reply.  Car- 
oline's account  was,  on  the  whole,  gracious 
and  favorable,  and  seemed  complimentary  to 

,    all  but  Evelyn,  who  thought  that  Caroline  was 

i  a  very  indifferent  portrait-painter. 

It  seldom  happens  that  a  man  is  a  prophet  in 
his  own  neighborhood;  but  Maltravers  had 
been  so  little  in  the  oountv,  and  in  his  former 


visit,  his  life  had  been  so  secluded,  that  he 
was  regarded  as  a  stranger.  He  had  neither 
outshone  the  establishment,  nor  interfered  with 
the  sporting,  of  his  fellow-squires;  and,  on 
the  whole,  they  made  just  allowance  for  his 
habits  of  distant  reserve.  Time,  and  his  re- 
tirement from  the  busy  scene,  long  enough  to 
cause  him  to  be  missed,  not  long  enough  for 
new  favorites  to  supply  his  place,  had  greatly 
served  to  mellow  and  consolidate  his  reputa- 
tion, and  his  country  was  proud  to  claim  him. 
Thus  (though  Maltravers  would  not  have  be- 
lieved it,  had  an  angel  told  him)  he  was  not 
spoken  ill  of  behind  his  back:  a  thousand  lit- 
tle anecdotes  of  his  personal  habits,  of  his 
generosity,  independence  of  spirit,  and  eccen- 
tricity, were  told.  Evelyn  listened  in  rapt 
delight  to  all;  she  had  never  passed  so  pleas- 
ant an  evening;  and  she  smiled  almost  grate- 
fully on  the  rector,  who  was  a  ir.an  that  always 
followed  the  stream,  when  he  said  with  benign 
affability,  "  We  must  really  show  our  dis- 
tinguished neighbor  every  attention — we  must 
be  indulgent  to  his  little  oddities:  his  politics 
are  not  mine,  to  be  sure:  but  a  man  who  has  a 
stake  in  the  country  has  a  right  to  his  own 
opinion — that  was  always  my  maxim: — thank 
Heaven,  I  am  a  very  moderate  man — we  must 
draw  him  amongst  us:  it  will  be  our  own  fault, 
I  am  sure,  if  he  is  not  quite  domesticated  at 
the  rectory." 

"  With  such  attraction — yes,"  said  the  thin 
curate,  timidly  bowing  to  the  ladies. 

"  It  would  be  a  nice  match  for  Miss  Caro- 
line," whispered  an  old  lady;  Caroline  over- 
heard, and  pouted  her  pretty  lip. 

The  whiet-tables  were  now  set  out — the 
music  begun— and  Maltravers  were  left  in 
peace. 

The  ne.ct  day  Mr.  Merton  rode  his  pony 
over  to  Burleigh.  Maltravers  was  not  at 
home.  He  left  his  card,  and  a  note  of 
friendly  respect,  begging  Mr.  Maltravers  to 
waive  ceremony,  and  dine  with  them  the  next 
day.  Somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  the  rector, 
he  found  that  the  active  spirit  of  >raltravers 
was  already  at  work.  The  long  deserted 
grounds  were  filled  with  laborers;  the  carpen- 
ters were  busy  at  the  fences;  the  house  looked 
alive  and  stirring;  the  grooms  were  exercising 
the  horses  in  the  park:  all  betokened  the  re- 
turn of  the  absentee.  This  seemed  to  denote 
that   Maltravers  had  come  to  reside;  and  the 


.-30 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


rector  thought  of  Caroline,  and  was  pleased 
at  the  notion. 

The  next  day  was  Cecilia's  birthday;  and 
birthdays  were  kept  at  Merton  Rectory: — the 
neighboring  children  were  invited.  They  were 
to  dine  on  the  lawn,  in  a  large  marquee,  and 
to  dance  in  the  evening.  The  hothouses 
yielded  their  easly  strawberries,  and  the  cows, 
decorated  with  blue  ribands,  were  to  give 
syllabubs.  The  polite  Caroline  was  not 
greatly  fascinated  by  pleasure  of  this  kind: 
she  graciously  appeared  at  dinner — kissed  the 
prettiest  of  the  children — helped  them  to  soup, 
and  then,  having  done  her  duty,  retired  to  her 
room  to  write  letters.  The  children  were  not 
sorry,  for  they  were  a  little  afraid  of  the 
grand  Caroline;  and  they  laughed  much  more 
loudly,  and  made  much  more  noise,  when  she 
was  gone — and  the  cakes  and  strawberries 
appeared. 

Evelyn  was  in  her  element;  she  had,  as  a 
child,  mixed  so  little  with  children — she  had  so 
often  yearned  for  playmates — she  was  still  so 
childlike: — -besides,  she  was  so  fond  of  Cecilia 
— she  had  looked  forward  with  innocent  de- 
light to  the  day:  and  a  week  before  had  taken 
the  carriage  to  the  neighboring  town,  to  return 
with  a  carefully  concealed  basket  of  toys — 
dolls,  sashes,  and  picture-books.  But  some- 
how or  other,  she  did  not  feel  so  childlike  as 
usual  that  morning;  her  heart  was  away  from 
the  pleasure  before  her;  and  her  smile  was  at 
first  languid.  But  in  children's  mirth  there  is 
something  so  contagious  to  those  who  love 
children; — and  now,  as  the  party  scattered 
.  themselves  on  the  grass,  and  Evelyn  opened 
the  basket  and  bade  them  with  much  gravity 
keep  quiet,  and  be  good  children,  she  was  the 
happiest  of  the  whole  group.  But  she  knew 
how  to  give  pleasure;  and  the  basket  was  pre- 
sented to  Cecilia,  that  the  little  queen  of  the 
day  might  enjoy  the  luxury  of  being  gen- 
erous; and  to  prevent  jealous)',  the  notable  ex- 
pedient of  a  lottery  was  suggested. 

"  Then  Evy  shall  be  Fortune  I  "  cried  Ce- 
cilia; "  nobody  will  be  sorry  to  get  any  thing 
from  Evy— and  if  any  one  is  discontented, 
Evy  sha'n't  kiss  her." 

Mrs.  Merton,  whose  motherly  heart  was 
completely  won  by  Evelyn's  kindness  to  the 
children,  forgot  all  her  husband's  lectures,  and 
willingly  ticketted  the  prizes,  and  wrote  the 
numbers  of  the  lots  on  slips  of  paper  carefully 


folded.  A  large  old  Indian  jar  was  dragged 
from  the  drawing-room  and  constituted  th' 
fated  urn — the  tickets  were  deposited  therein, 
and  Cecdia  was  tying  the  handkerchief  round 
Evelyn's  eyes — while  Fortune  struggled  archly 
not  to  be  as  blind  as  she  ought  to  be— and  the 
children,  seated  in  a  circle,  were  in  full  joy 
and  expectation,  when — there  was  a  suddeu 
pause — the  laughter  stopped — so  did  Cissy's 
little  hands. — What  could  it  be  ?  Evelyn 
slipped  the  bandage,  and  her  eyes  rested  on 
Maltravers  ! 

"Well,  really,  my  dear  Miss  Cameron,"  saiil 
the  rector,  who  was  by  the  side  of  the  intruder, 
and  who,  indeed,  had  just  brought  him  to  the 
spot,  "  I  don't  knoiv  what  these  little  folks  will 
do  to  you  next." 

"  I  ought  rather  to  be  their  victim,"  said 
Maltravers,  good-humoredly ;  "  the  fairies 
always  punish  us  grown-up  mortals  for  tres- 
passing on  their  revels." 

While  he  spoke,  his  eyes — those  eyes,  the 
most  eloquent  in  the  world — dwelt  on  Evelyn 
(as,  to  cover  her  blushes,  she  took  Cecilia  in 
her  arms,  and  appeared  to  attend  to  nothing 
else),  with  a  look  of  such  admiration  and  de- 
light as  a  mortal  might  well  be  supposed  to 
cast  on  some  beautiful  fairy. 

Sophy,  a  very  bold  child,  ran  up  to  him. 
"  How  do,  sir?"  she  lisped,  putting  up  her 
face  to  be  kissed — "  how's  the  pretty  pea- 
cock ?  " 

This  opportune  audacity  served  at  once  to 
renew  the  charm  that  had  been  brokcTi — to 
unite  the  stranger  with  the  children.  Here 
was  acquaintance  claimed  and  allowed  in  an 
instant.  The  next  moment  Maltravers  was 
one  of  the  circle — on  the  turf  with  the  rest — 
as  gay,  and  almost  as  noisy — that  hard,  proud 
man,  so  disdainful  of  the  trifles  of  the  world  ! 

"  But  the  gentleman  must  have  a  prize,  too," 
said  Sophy,  proud  of  her  tall  new  friend ; 
"  what's  your  other  name  ? — why  do  you  have 
such  a  long,  hard  name  ? " 

"  Call  me  Ernest,"  said  Maltravers. 

"Why  don't  we  begin  ?"  cried  the  children. 

"  Ev)',  come,  be  a  good  child,  miss,"  said 
Soph)',  as  Evelyn,  vexed  and  ashamed,  ami 
half  ready  to  cry,  resisted  the  bandage. 

Mr.  Merton  interposed  his  authority;  but  the 

the  children    clamored,    and    Evelyn    hastily 

yielded.     It  was  Fortune's  duty   to  draw  the 

"tickets  from  the  urn,  and  give  them   to  each 


ALICE  i     Oli,     'J'HE    MYSTERIKS. 


237 


claimant,  whose  name  was  called:  when  it  came 
to  the  turn  of  Maltravers,  the  bandage  did  not 
conceal  the  blush  and  smile  of  the  enchanting 
goddess;  and  the  hand  of  the  aspirant  thrilled 
as  it  touched  hers. 

The  children  burst  into  screams  of  laughter 
when  Cecilia  gravely  awarded  to  Maltravers 
the  worst  prize  in  the  lot — a  blue  riband — 
which  Sophy,  however,  greedily  insisted  on 
having;  but  Maltravers  would  not  yield  it. 

Maltravers  remained  all  day  at  the  rectory, 
and  shared  in  the  ball — yes,  he  danced  with 
Evelyn — he — Maltravers — who  had  never  been 
known  to  dance  since  he  was  twenty-two ! 
The  ice  was  fairly  broken— Maltravers  was  at 
home  with  the  Mertons.  And  when  he  took 
his  solitary  walk  to  his  solitary  house — over 
the  little  bridge,  and  through  the  shadowy 
wood — astonished,  perhaps,  with  himself — 
every  one  of  the  guests,  from  the  oldest  to 
the  youngest,  pronounced  him  delightful. 
Caroline,  perhaps,  might  have  been  piqued 
some  months  ago,  that  he  did  not  dance  with 
her;  but  now,  her  heart — such  as  it  was — felt 
pre-occupied. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  L'esprit  de  rhommc  est  plus  penetrant  que  conse 
quent,  et  embrasse  plus  qu'il  ne  peut  lier."  * 

— Vauvenarrues. 

And  now  Maltravers  was  constantly  with 
the  Merton  family;  there  was  no  need  of  ex- 
cuse for  familiarity  on  his  part.  Mr.  Merton, 
charmed  to  find  his  advances  not  rejected, 
thrust  intimacy  upon  him. 

One  day  they  spent  the  afternoon  at  Bur- 
leigh, and  Evelyn  and  Caroline  finished  their 
survey  of  the  house — tapestry  and  armor,  pic- 
tures, and  all.  This  led  to  a  visit  to  the 
Arabian  horses.  Caroline  observed  that  she 
was  very  fond  of  riding,  and  went  into  ecsta- 
cies  with  one  of  the  animals — the  one,  of 
course,  with  the  longest  tail.  The  ne.xt  day 
the  horse  was  in  the  stables  at  the  rectory, 
and  a  gallant  epistle  apologized  for  the  costly 
gift. 

Mr.  Merton  demurred,  but  Caroline  always 


•  The  spirit  of  man  is  more  penetrating  than  logical, 
anil  f^atlicrs  more  than  it  can  garner. 


had  her  own  way;  and  so  the  horse  remained 
(no  doubt,  in  much  amazement  and  disdain) 
with  the  parson's  pony  and  the  brown  carriage 
horses.  The  gift  naturally  conduced  to  par- 
ties on  horseback — it  was  cruel  entirely  to 
separate  the  Arab  from  his  friends — and,  how 
was  Evelyn  to  be  left  behind  ?  Evelyn,  who 
had  never  yet  ridden  any  thing  more  spirited 
than  an  old  pony?  A  beautiful  little  horse 
belonging  to  an  elderly  lady — now  growing  too 
stout  to  ride,  w.is  to  be  sold  hard  by.  Mal- 
travers discovered  the  treasure,  and  apprised 
Mr.  Merton  of  it — he  was  too  delicate  to 
affect  liberality  to  the  rich  heiress.  The  horse 
was  bought;  nothing  could  go  quieter — Eve- 
lyn was  not  at  all  afraid.  They  made  two  or 
three  little  excursions.  Sometimes  only  Mr. 
Merton  and  Maltravers  accompanied  the 
young  ladies — sometimes  the  party  was  more 
numerous.  Maltravers  appeared  to  pay  equal 
attention  to  Caroline  and  her  friend — still 
Evelyn's  inexperience  in  equestrian  matters 
was  an  excuse  for  his  being  ever  by  her  side. 
They  had  a  thousand  opportunities  to  converse; 
and  Evelyn  now  felt  more  at  home  with  him; 
her  gentle  gaiety,  her  fanciful  yet  chastened 
intellect,  found  a  voice.  Maltravers  was  not 
slow  to  discover  that  beneath  her  simplicity 
there  lurked  sense,  judgment,  and  imagination. 
Insensibly  his  own  conversation  took  a  higher 
flight.  With  the  freedom  which  his  mature 
years  and  reputation  gave  him,  he  mingled 
eloquent  instruction  with  lighter  and  more 
trifling  subjects:  he  directed  her  earnest  and 
docile  mind,  not  only  to  the  new  fields  of  writ- 
ten knowledge,  but  to  many  of  the  secrets  of 
nature— subtle  or  sublime.  He  had  a  wide 
range  of  scientific  as  well  as  literary  lore:— 
the  stars,  the  flowers,  the  phenomena  of  the 
physical  world,  afforded  themes  on  which  he 
descanted  with  the  fervent  love  of  a  poet  and 
the  easy  knowledge  of  a  sage. 

Mr.  Merton,  observing  that  little  or  nothing 
of  sentiment  mingled  with  their  familiar  inter- 
course, felt  perfectly  at  ease;  and  knowing 
that  Maltravers  had  been  intimate  with  Lum- 
ley,  he  naturally  concluded  that  he  was  aware 
of  the  engagement  between  Evelyn  and  his 
friend.  Meanwhile  Maltravers  appeared  nn- 
conscious  that  such  a  being  as  Lord  Vargrave 
existed. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  the  daily 
presence  — the  delicate -flattery    of  attention 


BULWERS     WORKS. 


from  a  man  like  Malti;iveis  —  should  strongly 
impress  the  imagination,  if  not  the  heart,  of 
a  susceptible  girl.  Already  prepossessed  in 
his  favor,  and  wholly  unaccustomed  to  a 
society  which  combined  so  many  attractions, 
Evelyn  regarded  him  with  unspeakable  venera- 
tion; to  the  darker  shades  in  his  character  she 
was  blind — to  her  indeed,  they  did  not  appear. 
True  that,  once  or  twice  in  mixed  society,  his 
disdainful  and  imperious  temper  broke  hastily 
and  harshly  forth,  To  folly — to  pretension — 
to  presumption — he  showed  but  slight  forbear- 
ance. The  impatient  smile,  the  biting  sarcasm, 
the  cold  repulse,  that  might  gall,  yet  could 
scarce  be  openly  resented,  betrayed  that  he 
was  one  who  affected  to  free  himself  from  the 
polished  restraints  of  social  intercourse.  He 
had  once  been  too  scrupulous  in  not  wounding 
vanity;  he  was  now  too  indifferent  to  it. 

But  if  sometimes  this  unamiable  trait  of 
character,  as  displayed  to  others,  chilled  or 
startled  Evelyn,  the  contrast  of  this  manner 
towards  herself  was  a  flattery  too  delicious  not 
to  efface  all  other  recollections.  To  her  ear 
his  voice  always  softened  its  tone — to  her 
capacity  his  mind  ever  bent  as  by  sympathy 
— not-condescension;  to  her — the  young,  the 
timid,  the  half-informed — to  her  alone  he  did 
not  disdain  to  exhibit  all  the  stores  of  his 
knowledge — all  the  best  and  brightest  colors 
of  his  mind.  She  modestl)'  wondered  at  so 
strange  a  preference.  Perhaps  a  sudden  and 
blunt  compliment  which  Maltravers  once  ad- 
dressed to  her  may  explain  it:  one  day,  when 
she  had  conversed  more  freely  and  more 
fully  than  usual,  he  broke  in  upon  her  with 
this  abrupt  exclamation — - 

"  Miss  Cameron,  you  must  have  associated 
from  your  childhood  with  beautiful  minds.  I 
see  already,  that  from  the  world,  vile  as  it  is, 
you  have  nothing  of  contagion  to  fear.  I 
have  heard  you  talk  on  the  most  various  mat- 
ters— on  many  of  w'hich  your  knowledge  is 
imperfect;  but  you  have  never  utteretl  one 
mean  idea,  or  one  false  sentiment.  Truth 
seems  intuitive  to  you." 

It  was,  indeed,  this  singular  purity  of  heart 
which  made  to  the  world-wearied  man  the 
chief  charm  in  Evelyn  Cameron.  From  this 
purity  came,  as  from  the  heart  of  a  poet,  a 
, thousand  new  and  heaven-taught  thoughts, 
which  had  in  them  a  wisdom  of  their  own — 
thoughts  that  often  brought  the   stern  listener 


back  to  youth,  and  reconciled  him  with  life 
The  wise  Maltravers  learned  moie  from  Eve- 
lyn, than  Evelyn  did  from  Maltravers. 

There  was,  however,  another  trait — deeper 
than  that  of  temper — in  Maltravers,  and 
which  was,  unlike  the  latter,  more  manifest  to 
her  than  to  others;  his  contempt  for  all  the 
things  her  young  and  fresh  enthusiasm  had 
been  taught  to  prize — the  fame  that  endeared 
and  hallowed  him  to  her  eyes — the  excite- 
ment of  ambition,  and  its  rewards.  He  spoke 
with  such  bitter  disdain  of  great  names  and 
great  deeds — "Children  of  a  larger  growth 
they  were,"  said  he,  one  day,  in  answer  to  her 
defence  of  the  luminaries  of  their  kind;  ''al- 
lured by  baubles  as  poor  as  the  rattle  and  the 
doll's  house — how  many  have  been  made 
great,  as  the  word  is,  by  their  vices  !  Paltry 
craft  won  command  to  Themistocles.  To 
escape  his  duns,  the  profligate  Caesar  heads 
an  army,  and  achieves  his  laurels.  Brutus, 
the  aristocrat,  stabs  his  patron,  that  patricians 
might  again  trample  on  plebeians,  and  that 
posterity  might  talk  of  }iim.  The  love  of 
posthumous  fame — what  is  it  but  as  puerile  a 
passion  for  notoriety,  as  that  which  made  a 
Frenchman  I  once  knew  lay  out  two  thousand 
pounds  in  sugar-plums  ? — To  be  talked  of — 
how  poor  a  desire  !  Does  it  matter  whether  it 
be  by  the  gossips  of  this  age  or  the  next  ? 
Some  men  are  urged  on  to  fame  by  poverty— 
that  is  an  excuse  for  their  trouble;  but  there 
is  no  more  nobleness  in  the  motive,  than  in 
that  which  makes  yon  poor  ploughman  sweat 
in  the  eye  of  Phoebus.  In  fact,  the  larger  part 
of  eminent  men,  instead  of  being  inspired  by 
any  lofty  desire  to  benefit  their  species,  or  en- 
rich the  human  mind,  have  acted  or  composed, 
without  any  definite  object  beyond  the  satisfy- 
ing a  restless  appetite  for  excitement,  or  in- 
dulging the  dreams  of  a  selfish  glory.  And, 
when  nobler  aspirations  have  fired  them,  it  has 
too  often  been  but  to  wild  fanaticism  and 
sanguinary  crime.  What  dupes  of  glory  ever 
were  animated  by  a  deeper  faith,  a  higher  am- 
bition, than  the  frantic  followers  of  Mahomet  >. 
— taught  to  believe  that  it  was  virtue  to  ravage 
the  earth,  and  that  they  sprang  from  the  battle- 
field into  Paradise.  Religion  and  liberty- 
love  of  country — what  splendid  motives  to  ac- 
tion !  Lo,  the  results,  when  the  motives  are 
keen — the  action  once  commenced  !  Behold 
the    Inquisition;    the    Days    of    Terror;    the 


ALICE;     OR,     THK    MYSTERIES. 


239 


Council  of  Ten  ;  and  the  Dungeons  of 
Venice  !  " 

Evelyn  was  scarcely  fit  to  wrestle  with  these 
melancholy  fallacies;  but  her  instinct  of  truth 
suggested  an  answer. 

"  What  would  society  be,  if  all  men,  thought 
as  you  do,  and  acted  up  to  the  theory  !  No 
literature,  no  art,  no  glory,  no  patriotism,  no 
virtue,  no  civilization  !  You  analyze  men's 
motives — how  can  you  be  sure  you  judge 
rightly  ?  Look  to  the  results — our  benefit, 
our  enlightenment !  If  the  results  be  great. 
Ambition  is  a  virtue,  no  matter  what  motive 
awakened  it.     Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Evelyn  spoke  blushingly  and  timidly.  Mal- 
travers,  despite  his  own  tenets,  was  delighted 
with  her  reply. 

"  You  reason  well,"  said  he,  with  a  smile. 
"  But  how  are  we  sure  that  the  results  are 
such  as  you  depict  them  ?  Civilization — en- 
lightenment— they  are  vague  terms — hollow 
sounds.  Never  fear  that  the  world  will  reason 
as  I  do.  Action  will  never  be  stagnant  while 
there  are  such  things  as  gold  and  power.  The 
vessel  will  move  on — let  the  galley-slaves 
have  it  to  themselves.  What  I  have  seen  of 
life  convinces  me  that  progress  is  not  always 
improvement.  Civilization  has  evils  unknown 
to  the  saveage  state;  and  vice  versd.  Men  in 
all  states  seem  to  have  much  the  same  propor- 
tion of  happiness.  We  judge  others  with  eyes 
accustomed  to  dwell  on  our  own  circumstances. 
I  have  seen  the  slave,  whom  we  commiserate, 
enjoy  his  holiday  with  a  rapture  unknown  to 
the  grave  freeman.  I  have  seen  that  slave 
made  free,  and  enriched  by  the  benevolence 
of  his  master;  and  he  has  been  gay  no  more. 
The  masses  of  men  in  all  countries  are  much 
the  same. 

"  If  there  are  greater  comforts  in  the  hardy 
North,  Providence  bestows  a  fertile  earth  and 
a  glorious  heaven,  and  a  mind  susceptible  to 
enjoyment  as  flowers  to  light,  on  the  voluptu- 
ous indulgence  of  the  Italian,  or  the  contentecf 
apathy  of  the  Hindoo.  In  the  mighty  organi- 
zation of  good  and  evil,  what  can  we  vain  in- 
dividuals effect  ?  They  who  labor  most,  how 
doubtful  is  their  reputation  ! — Who  shall  say 
whether  Voltaire  or  Napoleon,  Cromwell  or 
Caesar,  Walpole  or  Pitt,  has  done  most  good 
or  most  evil.  It  is  a  question  casuists  may 
dispute  on.  Some  of  us  think  that  poets  have 
been    the    delight    and    the   lights    of    men. 


Another  school  of  philosophy  has  treated 
them  as  the  corrupters  of  the  species— pan- 
ders to  the  false  glory  of  war,  to  the  effemina- 
cies of  taste,  to  the  pampering  of  the  passions 
above  the  reason.  Nay,  even  those  who  have 
effected  inventions  that  change  the  face  of 
the  earth — the  printing-press,  gunpowder,  the 
steam-engine, — men  hailed  as  benefactors  by 
the  unthinking  herd,  or  the  would-be  sages — 
have  introduced  ills  unknown  before;  adulter- 
ating and  often  counterbalancing  the  good. 
Each  new  improvement  in  machinery  deprives 
hundreds  of  food.  Civilzation  is  the  eternal 
sacrifice  of  one  generation  to  the  next.  An 
awful  sense  of  the  impotence  of  human  agen- 
cies has  crushed  down  the  sublime  aspirations 
for  mankind  which  I  once  indulged.  For 
myself,  I  float  on  the  great  waters  without 
pilot  or  rudder,  and  trust  passively  to  the 
winds,  that  are  the  breath  of  God." 

This  conversation  left  a  deep  impression 
upon  Evelyn;  it  inspired  her  with  a  new  in- 
terest in  one  in  whom  so  many  noble  qualities 
lay  dulled  and  torpid,  by  the  indulgence  of  a 
self-sophistry,  which,  girl  as  she  was,  she  felt 
wholly  unworthy  of  his  powers.  And  it  was 
this  error  in  Maltravers  that,  levelling  his 
superiority,  brought  him  nearer  to  her  heart. 
Ah  !  if  she  could  restore  him  to  his  race  ! — 
it  was  a  dangerous  desire — but  it  into.xicated 
and  absorbed  her. 

Oh  !  how  sweetly  were  those  fair  evenings 
spent — the  evenings  of  happy  June  !  And 
then,  as  Maltravers  suffered  the  children  to 
tease  him  into  talk  about  the  wonders  he  had 
seen  in  the  regions  far  away,  how  did  the  soft 
and  social  hues  of  his  character  unfold  them- 
selves !  There  is  in  all  real  genius  so  much 
latent  playfulness  of  nature,  it  almost  seems  as 
if  genius  never  could  grow  old.  The  inscrip- 
tion that  youth  writes  upon  the  tablets  of  an 
imaginative  mind  are,  indeed,  never  wholly 
obliterated— they  are  as  an  invisible  writting, 
which  gradually  becomes  clear  in  the  light  and 
warmth.  Bring  genius  familiarly  with  the 
young,  and  it  is  as  young  as  they  are.  Evelyn 
did  not  yet,  therefore,  observe  the  disparity  of 
years  between  herself  and  Maltravers.  But 
the  disparity  of  knowledge  and  power  served 
for  the  present  to  interdict  to  her  that  sweet 
feeling  of  equality  in  commune,  without  which 
love  is  rarely  a  very  intense  affection  in  women. 
It  is  not  so  with  men.     But  by  degrees  she 


240 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


grew  more  and  more  familiar  with  her  stern 
friend;  and  in  that  familiarity  there  was  peril- 
ous fascination  to  Maltravers.  She  could 
laugh  him  at  any  moment  out  of  his  most 
moody  reveries — contradict  with  a  pretty  wil- 
fulness his  most  favorite  dogmas — nay,  even 
scold  him,  with  bewitching  gravity,  if  he  was 
not  always  at  the  command  of  her  wishes — or 
caprice.  At  this  time  it  seemed  certain  that 
Maltravers  would  fall  in  love  with  Evelyn;  but 
it  rested  on  more  doubtful  probabilities  whether 
Evelyn  would  fall  in  love  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

*        *        *        "  Contrahe  vela 

Et  te  littoribus  cymbapropinqua  vehat."  * 

—Seneca. 

"  Has  not  Miss  Cameron  a  beautiful  coun- 
tenance ? "  said  Mr.  Merton  to  Maltravers,  as 
.  Evelyn,  unconscious  of  the  compliment,  sate 
at  a  little  distance,  bending  down  her  eyes  to 
Sophy,  who  was  weaving  daisy-chains  on  a  stool 
at  her  knee,  and  whom  she  was  telling  not  to 
talk  loud — for  Merton  had  been  giving  Mal- 
travers some  useful  information  respecting  the 
management  of  his  estate;  and  Evelyn  was 
already  interested  in  all  that  could  interest  her 
friend.  She  had  one  excellent  thing  in 
woman,  had  Evelyn  Cameron:  despite  her 
sunny  cheerfulness  of  temper  she  was  quiet; 
and  she  had  insensibly  acquired,  under  the 
roof  of  her  musing  and  silent  mother,  the 
habit  of  never  disturbing  others.  What  a 
blessed  secret  is  that  in  the  intercourse  of  do- 
mestic life  ! 

"  Has  not  Miss  Cameron  a  beautiful  coun- 
tenance ? " 

Maltravers  started  at  the  question — it  was 
a  literal  translation  of  his  own  thought  at  that 
moment  —  he  checked  the  enthusiasm  that 
rose  to  his  lip,  and  calmly  re-echoed  the 
word — 

''■  Beautiful,  indeed  !  " 

"  And  so  sweet-tempered  and  unaffected — 
she  has  been  admirably  brought  up.  I  be- 
leive  Lndy  Vargrave  is  a  most  exemplary 
woman.  Miss  Cameron,  will,  indeed,  be  a 
treasure  to  her  betrothed  husband.  He  is  to 
be  envied." 


*  Fur!  yoar  sails,  and  let  the  next  boat  carry  you  to 
Ibe  "ih'jre. 


"Her    betrothetl     husband!"     said     Mai 
travers,  turning  very  pale. 

"  Yes;  Lord  Vargrave.  Did  you  not  know 
that  she  was  engaged  to  him  from  her  child- 
hood ?  It  was  the  wish,  nay,  command,  of  the 
late  lord,  who  bequeathed  her  his  vast  fortune 
if  not  on  that  condition,  at  least,  on  that  un- 
derstanding. Did  you  never  hear  of  this 
before  ? " 

While  Mr.  Merton  spoke,  a  sudden  recollec- 
tion returned  to  Maltravers.  He  had  heard 
Lumley  himself  refer  to  the  engagement,  but 
it  had  been  in  the  sick  chamber  of  Florence — 
little  heeded  at  the  time,  and  swept  from  his 
mind  by  a  thousand  after-thoughts  and  scenes. 
Mr.  Merton  continued — 

"  We  expect  Lord  Vargrave  down  soon. 
He  is  an  ardent  lover,  I  conclude;  but  public 
life  chains  him  so  much  to  London.  He 
made  an  admirable  speech  in  the  Lords  last 
night;  at  least,  our  party  appear  to  think  so. 
They  are  to  be  married  when  Miss  Cameron 
attains  the  age  of  eighteen." 

Accustomed  to  endurance,  and  skilled  in  the 
proud  art  of  concealing  emotion,  Martravers 
betrayed  to  the  eye  of  Mr.  Merton  no  symp- 
tom of  surprise  or  dismay  at  this  intelligence. 
If  the  rector  had  conceived  any  previous  sus- 
picion that  Maltravers  was  touched  beyond 
mere  admiration  for  beauty,  the  suspicion 
would  have  vanished,  as  he  heard  his  guest 
coldly  reply — 

"  I  trust  Lord  Vargrave  may  deserve  his 
happiness.  But,  to  return  to  Mr.  Justis— you 
corroborate  my  own  opinion  of  that  smooth- 
spoken gentleman." 

The  conversation  flowed  back  to  business. 
At  last,  Maltravers  rose  to  depart. 

"  Will  you  not  dine  with  us  to  day  ? "  said 
the  hospitable  rector. 

"  Many  thanks — no;  I  have  much  business 
to  attend  to  at  home  for  some  days  to  come." 

"Kiss  Sophy,  Mr.  Ernest— Sophy  very  good 
girl  to-day.  Let  the  pretty  butterfly  go,  be- 
cause Evy  said  it  was  cruel  to  put  it  in  a  cacd- 
box — Kiss  Sophy." 

Maltravers  took  the  child  (whose  heart  he 
had  completely  won)  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
her  tenderly;  then,  advancing  to  Evelyn,  he 
held  out  his  hand,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  with  an  expression  of  deep  and 
mournful  interest,  which  she'  could  not  under- 
stand. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


241 


"  God  bless  you,  Miss  Cameron  !  "  he  said, 
and  his  lip  quivered. 

Days  passed,  and  they  saw  no  more  of  Mal- 
travers.  He  excused  himself  on  pretence, 
now  of  business — now  of  other  engagements — 
from  all  the  invitations  of  the  rector.  Mr. 
Merton,  unsuspectingly,  accepted  the  excuse; 
for  he  knew  that  Maltravers  was  necessarily 
much  occupied. 

His  arrival  had  now  spread  throughout  the 
country;  and  such  of  his  equals  as  were  sttll 
in  B shire  hastened  to  offer  congratula- 
tions, and  press  hospitality.  Perhapw  it  was 
the  desire  to  make  his  excuses  to  Merton 
valid,  which  prompted  the  master  of  Burleigh, 
to  yield  to  the  other  invitations  that  crowded 
on  him.  But  this  was  not  all — Maltravers 
acquired  in  the  neighborhood  the  reputation 
of  a  man  of  business.  Mr.  Justis  was  abruptly 
dismissed;  with  the  help  of  the  bailiff,  Mal- 
travers became  his  own  steward.  His  parting 
address  to  this  personage  was  characteristic  of 
the  mingled  harshness  and  justice  of  Mal- 
travers. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  as  they  closed  their  accounts, 
•'  I  discharge  you  because  you  are  a  rascal — 
there  can  be  no  dispute  about  that:  you  have 
plundered  your  owner,  yet  you  have  ground 
his  tenants,  and  neglected  the  poor.  My  vil- 
lages are  filled  with  paupers — my  rentroll  is 
reduced  a  fourth — and  yet  while  some  of  my 
tenants  appear  to  pay  nominal  rents  (why,  you 
best  know  !),  others  are  screwed  up  higher  than 
any  man's  in  the  county.  You  are  a  rogue, 
Mr.  Justis — your  own  account-books  show  it: 
and  if  I  send  them  to  a  lawyer,  3'ou  would  have 
to  refund  a  sum  that  I  could  apply  very  ad- 
vantageously to  the  rectification  of  your  blun- 
ders." 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  said  the  steward,  conscience- 
stricken  and  appalled, — •'  I  hope  you  will  not 
ruin  me;  indeed, — indeed,  if  I  was  called  upon 
to  refund,  I  should  go  to  jail." 

"  Make  yourself  easy,  sir.  It  is  just  that  I 
should  suffer  as  well  as  you.  My  neglect  of 
my  own  duties  tempted  you  to  roguery.  You 
were  honest  under  the  vigilant  eye  of  Mr. 
Cleveland.  Retire  with  your  gains:  if  you  are 
quite  hardened,  no  punishment  can  touch  you; 
if  you  are  not,  it  is  punishment  enough  to 
stand  there  gray-haired,  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave,  and  hear  yourself  called  a  rogue,  and 
know  that  you  cannot  defend  yourself — go  !  " 

6.-16 


Maltraves  next  occupied  himself  in  all  the 
affairs  that  a  mismanaged  estate  brought  upon 
him.  He  got  rid  of  some  tenants— he  made 
new  arrangements  with  others — he  called  labor 
into  requisition  by  a  variety  of  improvements 
— he  paid  minute  attention  to  the  poor,  not  in 
the  weakness  of  careless  and  indiscriminate 
charity,  by  which  popularity  is  so  cheaply  pur- 
chased, and  independence  so  easily  degraded; 
no,  his  main  care  was  to  stimulate  industry 
and  raise  hope.  The  ambition  and  emulation 
that  he  so  vainly  denied  in  himself,  he  found 
his  most  useful  levers  in  the  humble  laborers 
whose  characters  he  had  studied,  whose  con 
dition  he  sought  to  make  themselves  desire  to 
elevate.  Unconsciously  his  whole  practice 
began  to  refute  his  theories.  The  abuses  of 
the  old  Poor-Laws  were  rife  in  his  neighbor- 
hood; his  quick  penetration,  and,  perhaps,  his 
imperious  habits  of  decision,  suggested  to  him 
many  of  the  best  provisions  of  the  law  now 
called  into  operation;  but  he  was  too  wise  to 
be  the  Philosopher  Square  of  a  system.  He 
did  not  attempt  too  much;  and  he  recognized 
one  principle,  which,  as  yet,  the  administrators 
of  the  new  Poor-Laws  have  not  sufficiently 
discovered.  One  main  object  of  the  new  code 
was,  by  curbing  public  charity,  to  task  the  ac- 
tivity of  individual  benevolence.  If  the  pro- 
prietor or  the  clergyman  find  under  his  own 
eye  isolated  instances  of  severity,  oppression, 
or  hardship,  in  a  general  and  salutary  law,  in- 
stead of  railing  against  the  law,  he  ought  to 
attend  to  the  individual  instances;  and  private 
benevolence  ought  to  keep  the  balance  of  the 
scales  ?ven,  and  be  the  make-weight  wherever 
there  is  a  just  deficiency  of  national  charity.* 

It  was  this  which,  in  the  modified  and  dis- 
creet regulations  that  he  sought  to  establish 
on  his  estates,  Maltravers  especially  and 
pointedly  attended  to.  Age,  infirmity,  tempo- 
rary distress,  unmerited  destitution,  found 
him  a  steady,  watchful,  indefatigable  friend. 
In  these  labors,  commenced  with  extraordi- 
nary promptitude,  and  the  energy  of  a  single 
purpose  and  stern  mind,  Maltravers  was  nec- 
essarily brought  into  contact  with  the  neigh- 


*  The  object  of  parochial  reform  is  not  that  of  econ- 
omy alone;  not  merely  to  reduce  poor-rates.  The 
rate-payer  aught  to  remember,  that  the  more  he  wrests 
from  the  gripe  of  the  sturdy  mendicant,  the  more  he 
ought  to  bestow  on  undeserved  distress.  Without  the 
mitigations  of  private  virtue,  every  law  that  bencvo- 
lists  could  make  would  be  harsh. 


242 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


Doring  magistrates  and  gentry.  He  was  com- 
bating evils  and  advancing  objects  in  which 
all  were  interested;  and  his  vigorous  sense, 
and  his  past  parliamentary  reputation,  joined 
with  the  respect  which  in  provinces  always  at- 
taches to  ancient  birth,  won  unexpected  and 
general  favor  to  his  views.  At  the  rectory 
they  heard  of  him  constantl)',  not  only  through 
occasional  visitors,  but  through  Mr.  Merton, 
who  was  ever  thrown  in  his  way;  but  he  con- 
tinued to  keep  himself  aloof  from  the  house. 
Every  one  (Mr.  Merton  excepted)  missed 
him;  even  Caroline,  whose  able  though 
worldly  mind  could  appreciate  his  conversa- 
tion; the  children  mourned  for  their  playmate, 
who  was  so  much  more  affable  than  their  own 
stiff-neckclothed  brothers;  and  Evelyn  was  at 
least  more  serious  and  thoughtful  than  she 
had  ever  been  before;  and  the  talk  of  others 
seemed  to  her  wearisome,  trite,  and  dull. 

Was  Maltravers  happy  in  his  new  pursuits? 
He  was  one  of  mind  at  that  time  it  is  not  easy 
to  read.  His  masculine  spirit  and  haughty 
temper  were  wrestling  hard  against  a  feeling 
that  had  been  fast  ripening  into  passion;  but 
at  night,  in  his  solitary  and  cheerless  home,  a 
vision,  too  exquisite  to  indulge,  would  force 
itself  upon  him,  till  he  started  from  the  revery, 
and  said  to  his  rebellious  heart,  "  A  few  more 
years,  and  thou  wilt  be  still.  What  in  this 
brief  life  is  a  pang  more  or  less  ?     Better  to 


have  nothing  to  care  for,  so  wilt  thou  defraua 
Fate,  thy  deceitful  foe  !  Be  contented  that 
thou  art  alone  !  " 

Fortunate  was  it,  then,  for  Maltravers,  that 
he  was  in  his  native  land  !  not  in  climes  where 
excitement  is  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  rather 
than  in  the  exercise  of  duties  !  In  the  hardy 
air  of  the  liberal  England  he  was  already, 
though  unknown  to  himself,  bracing  and  en- 
nobling his  dispositions  and  desires.  It  is 
the  boast  of  this  island,  that  the  slave  whose 
foot  touches  the  soil  is  free.  The  boast  may 
be  enlarged.  Where  so  much  is  left  to  the 
people — where  the  life  of  civilization,  not 
locked  up  in  the  tyranny  of  Central  Depotism, 
spreads,  vivifying,  restless,  ardent,  through 
every  vein  of  the  healthful  body,  the  most  dis- 
tant province,  the  obscurest  village,  has  claims 
on  our  exertions,  our  duties,  and  forces  us  in- 
to energy  and  citizenship.  The  spirit  of  lib- 
erty, that  strikes  the  chain  from  the  slave, 
binds  the  freeman  to  his  brother.  This  is  the 
Religion  of  Freedom.  And  hence  it  is  that 
the  stormy  struggles  of  free  states  have  been 
blessed  with  results  of  Virtue,  of  Wisdom,  and 
of  Genius — by  him  who  bade  us  love  one  an- 
other— not  only  that  love  in  itself  is  excellent, 
but  that  from  love,  which  in  its  widest  sense  is 
but  the  spiritual  term  for  liberty,  whatever  is 
worthiest  of  our  solemn  nature  has  its  birth. 


ALICE;     OK,      THK     MYSTERIES. 


343 


BOOK    THIRD, 


Tfia\fa  \tLa^vftf  Travel  Kopoy. 

Ex.  Solon  Eloo. 
Harsh  things  he  mitigates,  and  pride  subdues. 


CHAPTER  I. 

'•  Vou  still  are  what  you  were,  sir! 

«  «  «  « 

.    .    .     "With  most  quick  agility  could  turn 
And  return;  make  knots  and  undo  them — 
Give  forked  counsel." —  Volpone,  or  the  Fox. 

Before  a  large  table,  covered  with  parlia- 
mentary papers,  sate  Liimley  Lord  Vargrave. 
His  complexion,  though  stiil  healthy,  had 
faded  from  the  freshness  of  hue  which  dis- 
tinguished him  in  youth.  His  features,  always 
sharp,  had  grown  yet  more  angular:  his  brows 
seemed  to  project  more  broodingly  over  his 
eyes,  which,  though  of  undiminished  bright- 
ness, were  sunk  deep  in  their  sockets,  and  had 
lost  much  of  their  quick  restlessness.  The 
character  of  his  mind  had  begun  to  stamp 
itself  on  the  physiognomy,  especially  on  the 
mouth  when  in  repose; — it  was  a  face,  striking 
for  acute  intelligence — for  concentrated  energy 
— but  there  was  a  something  written  in  it, 
which  said — "  Beware  !  "  It  would  have  in- 
spired anyone,  who  had  mixed  much  amongst 
men,  with  a  vague  suspicion  and  distrust. 

Lumley  had  been  always  careful,  though  plain, 
in  dress;  but  there  was  now  a  more  evident 
attention  bestowed  on  his  person  than  he  had 
ever  manifested  in  youth; — while  there  was 
something  of  the  Roman's  celebrated  foppery 
in  the  skill  with  which  his  hair  was  arranged 
on  his  high  forehead,  so  as  either  to  conceal 
or  relieve  a  partial  baldness  at  the  temples. 
Perhaps,  too,  from  the  possession  of  high 
station,  or  the  habit  of  living  only  amongst  the 
great,  there  was  a  certain  dignity  insensibly 
diffused  over  his  whole  person,  that  was  not 


noticeable  in  his  earlier  years— when  a  certain 
tonde  garnison  \f&s  blended  with  his  ease  of 
manners;  yet  even  now,  dignity  was  not  his 
prevalent  characteristic;  and  in  ordinary  oc- 
casions, or  mixed  society,  he  still  found  a 
familiar  frankness,  a  more  useful  species  of 
simulation.  At  the  time  we  now  treat  of. 
Lord  Vargrave  was  leaning  his  cheek  on  one 
hand,  while  the  others  rested  idly  on  the  jiapers 
methodically  arranged  before  him.  He  ap- 
peared to  have  suspended  his  labors,  and  to  be 
occupied  in  thought.  It  was,  in  truth,  a  criti- 
cal period  in  the  career  of  Lord  Vargrave. 

From  the  time  of  his  accession  to  the  peer- 
age, the  rise  of  Lumley  Ferrers  had  been  less 
rapid  and  progressive  than  he  himself  could  have 
forseen.  At  first,  all  was  sunshine  before  him; 
he  had  contrived  to  make  himself  useful  to 
his  party — he  had  also  made  himself  person- 
ally popular.  To  the  ease  and  cordiality  of 
his  happy  address,  he  added  the  seemingly 
careless  candor  so  often  mistaken  for  honesty; 
while,  as  there  was  nothing  showy  or  brilliant 
in  his  abilities  or  oratory — nothing  that  as- 
pired far  above  the  pretensions  of  others,  and 
aroused  envy  by  mortifying  self-love — he 
created  but  little  jealousy  even  amongst  the 
rivals  before  whom  he  obtained  precedence. 
For  some  time,  therefore,  he  went  smoothly 
on,  continuing  to  rise  in  the  estimation  of  his 
party,  and  commanding  a  certain  respect  from 
the  neutral  public,  by  acknowledged  and  em- 
inent talents  in  the  details  of  business;  for 
his  quickness  of  penetration,  and  a  logical 
habit  of  mind,  enabled  him  to  grapple  with 
and  generalize  the  minutiae  of  official  labor, 
or  of   legislative  enactments,  with  a  masterly 


2^4 


£UL  \VEK\S     WORKS. 


success.  But  as  the  road  became  clearer  to 
his  steps,  his  ambition  became  more  evident 
and  daring.  Naturally  dictatorial  and  pre- 
sumptuous, his  early  suppleness  to  superiors 
was  now  exchanged  for  a  self-willed  pertinac- 
ity, which  often  displeased  the  more  haughty 
leaders  of  his  party,  and  often  wounded  the 
more  vain.  His  pretensions  were  scanned  with 
eyes  more  jealous  and  less  tolerant  than  at 
first. 

Proud  aristocrats  began  to  recollect  that  a 
mushroom  peerage  was  supported  but  by  a 
scanty  fortune — the  men  of  more  dazzling 
genius  began  to  sneer  at  the  red-tape  minister 
as  a  mere  official  manager  of  details; — he  lost 
much  of  the  personal  popularity  which  had 
been  one  secret  of  his  power.  But  what  prin- 
cipally injured  him  in  the  eyes  of  his  party 
and  the  public,  were  certain  ambiguous  and 
obscure  circumstances  connected  with  a  short 
l^eriod,  when  himself  and  his  associates  were 
thrown  out  of  office.  At  this  time,  it  was 
noticeable  that  the  journals  of  the  Government 
that  succeeded  were  peculiarly  polite  to  Lord 
Vargrave,  while  they  covered  all  his  coadjutors 
with  obloquy;  and  it  was  more  than  suspected, 
that  secret  negotiations  between  himself  and 
the  new  ministry  were  going  on,  when,  sud- 
denly, the  latter  broke  up,  and  Lord  Vargrave's 
proper  party  were  reinstated.  The  vague 
suspicions  that  attached  to  Vargrave  were 
somewhat  strengthened  in  the  opinion  of  the 
public,  by  the  fact,  that  he  was  at  first  left 
out  of  the  restored  administration;  and  when 
subsequently,  after  a  speech  which  showed 
that  he  could  be  mischievous  if  not  propitiated, 
he  was  readmitted, — it  was  precisely  to  the 
same  office  he  had  held  before  —  an  office 
which  did  not  admit  him  into  the  Cabinet. 
Lumley,  burning  with  resentment,  longed  to 
decline  the  offer:  but,  alas  !  he  was  poor:  and 
what  was  worse,  in  debt; — "  his  poverty,  but 
not  his  will,  consented." 

He  was  reinstated;  but  though  prodigiously 
improved  as  a  debater,  he  felt  that  he  had  not 
advanced  as  a  public  man.  His  ambition  in- 
flamed by  his  discontent,  he  had,  since  his 
return  to  office,  strained  every  nerve  to 
strengthen  his  position.  He  met  the  sar- 
casms on  his  poverty,  by  greatly  increasing 
his  expenditure;  and  by  advertising  every 
where  his  engagement  to  an  heiress  whose 
fortune,  great  as  it  was,  he  easily  contrived  to 


magnify.  As  his  old  house  in  Great  George 
Street — well  fitted  for  the  bustling  commoner 
— was  no  longer  suited  to  the  official  and 
fashionable  peer,  he  had,  on  his  accession  to 
the  title,  exchanged  that  respectable  residence 
for  a  large  mansion  In  Hamilton  Place:  and 
his  sober  dinners  were  succeeded  by  splendid 
banquets.  Naturally,  he  had  no  taste  for 
such  things;  his  mind  was  too  nervous,  and 
his  temper  too  hard,  to  take  pleasure  in  luxury 
or  ostentation.  But  now,  as  ever — he  acted 
upon  a  system.  Living  in  a  country  governed 
by  the  mightiest  and  wealthiest  aristocracy 
in  the  world,  which,  from  the  first  class  al- 
most to  the  lowest,  ostentation  pervades — the 
very  backbone  and  marrow  of  society — he  felt 
that  to  fall  far  short  of  his  rivals  in  display 
was  to  give  them  an  advantage  which  he  could 
not  compensate,  either  by  the  power  of  his 
connections  or  the  surpassing  loftiness  of  his 
character  and  genius.  Playing  for  a  great 
game,  and  with  his  eyes  open  to  all  the  con- 
sequences, he  cared  not  for  involving  his 
private  fortunes  in  a  lottery  in  which  a  great 
prize  might  be  drawn. 

To  do  Vargrave  justice,  money  with  hira 
had  never  been  an  object,  liut  a  means—  he 
was  grasping,  but  not  avaricious.  If  men 
much  richer  than  Lord  Vargrave  find  state 
distinctions  very  expensive,  and  often  ruinous, 
it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  his  salarj',  joined 
to  so  moderate  a  private  fortune,  could  sup- 
port the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His  income 
was  already  deeply  mortgaged,  and  debt  ac- 
cumulated upon  debt.  Nor  had  this  man,  so 
eminent  for  the  management  of  public  business, 
any  of  that  talent  which  springs  from  justice, 
and  makes  its  possessor  a  skilful  manager  of 
his  own  affairs.  Perpetually  absorbed  in  in- 
trigues and  schemes,  he  was  too  much  engaged 
in  cheating  others  on  a  large  scale,  to  have 
time  to  prevent  being  himself  cheated  on  a 
small  one.  He  never  looked  into  biils  till  he 
was  compelled  to  pay  them;  and  he  never  cal- 
culated the  amount  of  an  expense  that  seemed 
the  least  necessary  to  his  purposes.  But  still 
Lord  Vargrave  relied  upon  his  marriage  with 
the  wealthy  Evelyn  to  relieve  him  from  all  his 
embarrassments;  and  if  a  doubt  of  the  reali- 
zation of  that  vision  ever  occurred  to  him,  still 
public  life  had  splendid  prizes.  Nay,  should 
he  fail  with  Miss  Cameron,  he  even  thought 
that,    by    good    management,    he    might  uiti- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


245 


mately  make  it  worth  vvhile  to  his  colleagues 
to  purchase  his  absence  with  a  gorgeous  bribe 
of  the  Governor-Generalship  of  India. 

As  oratory  is  an  art  in  which  practice  and 
the  dignity  of  station  jiroduce  marvellous  im- 
provement, so  Lumley  had  of  late  made  effects 
in  the  House  of  Lords  of  which  he  had  once 
been  judged  incapable.  It  is  true  that  no 
practice  and  no  station  can  give  men  qualities 
in  which  they  are  wholly  deficient;  but  these 
advantages  can  bring  out  in  the  best  light  all 
the  qualities  they  do  possess.  The  glow  of  a 
generous  imagination — the  grasp  of  a  profound 
statesmanship — the  enthusiasm  of  a  noble 
nature — these  no  practice  could  educe  from 
the  eloquence  of  Lumley  Lord  Vargrave,  for 
he  had  them  not: — but  bold  wit — fluent  and 
and  vigorous  sentences — effective  arrangement 
of  parliamentary  logic — readiness  of  retort — 
plausibility  of  manner,  aided  by  a  delivery 
peculiar  for  self-possession  and  ease — a  clear 
and  ringing  voice  (to  the  only  fault  of  which, 
shrillness  without  passion,  the  ear  of  the  audi- 
ence had  grown  accustomed)  and  a  counte- 
nance impressive  from  its  courageous  intelli- 
gence;— all  these  had  raised  the  promising 
speaker  into  the  matured  excellence  of  a 
nervous  and  formidable  debater.  But  pre- 
cisely as  he  rose  in  the  display  of  his  talents, 
did  he  awaken  envies  and  enmities  hitherto 
dormant.  And  it  must  be  added,  that,  with 
all  his  craft  and  coldness.  Lord  Vargrave  was 
often  a  very  dangerous  and  mischievous 
speaker  for  the  interests  of  his  party. 

His  colleagues  had  often  cause  to  tremble 
when  he  rose;  nay,  even  when  the  cheers  of 
his  own  faction  shook  the  old  tapestried  walls. 
A  man  who  has  no  sympathy  with  the  public 
must  commit  many  and  fatal  indiscretions  when 
the  public,  as  well  as  his  audience,  is  to  be  his 
judge.  Lord  Vargrave's  utter  incapacity  to 
comprehend  political  morality — his  contempt 
for  a,ll  the  objects  of  social  benevolence — fre- 
quently led  him  into  the  avowal  of  doctrines, 
which,  if  they  did  not  startle  the  men  of  the 
world  whom  he  addressed  (smoothed  away,  as 
such  doctrines  were,  by  speciousness  of  man- 
ner and  delivery),  created  deep  disgust  in  those, 
even  of  his  own  politics,  who  read  their  naked 
exposition  in  the  daily  papers.  Never  did 
Lord  Vargrave  utter  one  of  those  generous 
sentiments  which,  no  matter  whether  pro- 
pounded by  Radical  or  Tory,  sink  deep  into 


the  heart  of  the  people,  and  do  lasting  sen'ice 
to  the  cause  they  adorn.  But  no  man  de 
fended  an  abuse,  however  glaring,  with  a  more 
vigorous  championship,  or  hurled  defiance 
upon  a  popular  demand  with  a  more  coura- 
geous scorn.  In  some  times,  when  the  anti- 
popular  principle  is  strong,  such  a  leader  may 
be  useful;  but  at  the  moment  of  which  we 
treat,  he  was  a  most  equivocal  au.xiliary, 

A  considerable  proportion  of  the  ministers, 
hea-ded  by  the  Premier  himself,  a  man  of  wise 
views  and  unimpeachable  honor,  had  learned 
to  view  Lord  Vargrave  with  dislike  and  dis- 
trust— they  might  have  sought  to  get  rid  of 
him;  but  he  was  not  one  whom  slight  mortifica- 
tions could  induce  to  retire  of  his  own  accord: 
nor  was  the  sarcastic  and  bold  debater  a  per- 
son whose  resentment  and  opposition  could  be 
despied.  Lord  Vargrave,  moreover,  had  se- 
cured a  party  of  his  own — ^a  party  more  for- 
midable than  himself.  He  went  largely  into 
society — he  was  the  special  favorite  of  the 
female  diplomats,  whose  voices  at  that  time 
were  powerful  suffrages,  and  with  whom,  by  a 
thousand  links  of  gallantry  and  intrigue,  the 
agreeable  and  courteous  minister  formed  a 
clos^  alliance.  All  that  salons  could  do  foi 
him  was  done.  Added  to  this,  he  was  person- 
ally liked  by  his  royal  master;  and  the  Court 
gave  him  their  golden  opinions;  while  the 
poorer,  the  corrupter,  and  the  more  bigoted 
portion  of  the  ministry,  regarded  him  with 
avowed  admiration. 

In  the  House  of  Commons,  too,  and  in  the 
Bureaucracy,  he  had  no  inconsiderable 
strength;  for  Lumley  never  contracted  the 
habits  of  personal  abruptness  and  discourtesy 
common  to  men  in  power,  who  wish  to  keep 
applicants  aloof.  He  was  bland  and  concili- 
ating to  all  men  of  all  ranks:  his  intellect  and 
self-complacency  raised  him  far  above  the 
petty  jealousies  that  great  men  feel  for  rising 
men.  Did  any  tyro  earn  the  smallest  distinc- 
tion in  parliament,  no  man  sought  his  acquaint- 
ance so  eagerly  as  Lord  Vargrave;  no  man 
complimented,  encouraged,  "  brought  on  "  the 
new  aspirants  of  his  party,  with  so  hearty  a 
good-will. 

Such  a  minister  could  not  fail  of  having  de- 
voted followers  among  the  able,  the  ambitious, 
and  the  vain.  It  must  also  be  confessed  that 
Lord  Vargrave  neglected  no  baser  and  less 
justifiable   means   to   cement    his    power,  by 


^4^ 


£U LIVERS     WORKS. 


placing  it  on  the  sure  rock  of  self-interest.  No 
jobbing  was  too  gross  for  him.  He  v/as 
shamefully  corrupt  in  the  disposition  of  his 
patronage;  and  no  rebuffs,  no  taunts  from  his 
official  brethren,  could  restrain  him  from  urg- 
ing the  claims  of  any  of  his  creatures  upon  the 
public  purse.  His  followers  regarded  this 
charitable  selfishness  as  the  stanchness  and 
zeal  of  friendship;  and  the  ambition  of  hun- 
dreds was  wound  up  in  the  ambition  of  the 
unprincipled  minister. 

But  besides  the  notoriety  of  his  public  cor- 
ruption, Lord  Vargrave  was  secretly  suspected 
by  some  of  personal  dishonesty — suspected  of 
selling  his  state  information  to  stock-jobbers — 
of  having  pecuniary  interests  in  some  of  the 
claims  he  urged  with  so  obstinate  a  pertinacity. 
And  though  there  was  not  the  smallest  evidence 
of  such  utter  abandonment  of  honor;  though 
it  was  probably  but  a  calumnious  whisper;  yet 
the  mere  suspicion  of  such  practices  served  to 
sharpen  the  aversion  of  his  enemies,  and  justify 
the  disgust  of  his  rivals. 

In  this  position  now  stood  Lord  Vargrave; 
supported  by  interested,  but  able  and  powerful 
partisans;  hated  in  the  country,  feared  by 
some  of  those  with  whom  he  served,  desQised 
by  others,  looked  up  to  by  the  rest.  It  was  a 
situation  that  less  daunted  than  delighted  him; 
for  it  seemed  to  render  necessary  and  excuse 
the  habits  of  scheming  and  manoeuvre  which 
were  so  genial  to  his  crafty  and  plotting 
temper.  Like  an  ancient  Greek,  his  spirit 
loved  intrigue  for  intrigue's  sake.  Had  it  led 
to  no  end,  it  would  still  have  been  sweet  to 
him  as  a  means.  He  rejoiced  to  surround 
himself  with  the  most  complicated  webs  and 
meshes;  to  sit  in  the  centre  of  a  million  plots. 
He  cared  not  how  rash  and  wild  some  of  them 
were.  He  relied  on  his  own  ingenuity,  promp- 
titude, and  habitual  good  fortune,  to  make 
every  spring  he  handled  conducive  to  the  pur-, 
pose  of  the  machine — self. 

His  last  visit  to  Lady  Vargrave,  and  his 
conversation  with  Evelyn,  had  left  on  his 
mind  much  dissatisfaction  and  fear.  In  the 
earlier  years  of  his  intercourse  with  Evelyn, 
his  good-humor,  gallantry,  and  presents,  had 
not  failed  to  attach  the  child  to  the  agreeable 
and  liberal  visitor  she  had  been  taught  to  re- 
gard as  a  relation.  It  was  only  as  she  grew 
up  to  womanhood,  and  learned  to  comprehend 
the  nature  of  the  tie  between  them,  that  she 


shrunk  from  his  familiarity;  and  then  only 
had  he  learned  to  doubt  of  the  fulfilment  of 
his  uncle's  wish.  The  last  visit  had  increased 
this  doubt  to  a  painful  apprehension;  he  saw 
that  he  was  not  loved;  he  saw  that  it  required 
great  address,  and  the  absence  of  happier 
rivals,  to  secure  to  him  the  hand  of  Evelyn; 
and  he  cursed  the  duties  and  the  schemes 
which  necessarily  kept  him  from  her  side.  He 
had  thought  of  persuading  Lady  Vargrave  to 
let  her  come  to  London,  where  he  could  be 
ever  at  hand;  and  as  the  season  was  now  set 
in,  his  representations  on  this  head  would  ap- 
pear sensible  and  just.  But  then  again,  this 
was  to  incur  greater  dangers  than  those  he 
would  avoid.  London  ! — a  beauty  and  an 
heiress,  in  her  first  debut  in  London  ! — What 
formidable  admirers  would  flock  around  her  ! 
Vargrave  shuddered  to  think  of  the  gay,  hand- 
some, well-dressed,  seductive  young  ^legans, 
who  might  seem,  to  a  girl  of  seventeen,  suitors 
far  more  fascinating  than  the  middle-aged  pol- 
itician. This  was  perilous;  nor  was  this  all: 
Lord  Vargrave  knew  that  in  London — gaudy, 
babbling,  and  remorseless  London — all  that  he 
could  most  wish  to  conceal  from  the  young 
lady  would  be  dragged  to  day. 

He  had  been  the  lover,  not  of  one,  but  of  a 
dozen  women,  for  whom  he  did  not  care  three 
straws;  but  whose  favor  had  served  to 
strengthen  him  in  society;  or  whose  influence 
made  up  for  his  own  want  of  hereditary  po- 
litical connections.  The  manner  in  which  he 
contrived  to  shake  off  these  various  Ariadnes, 
whenever  it  was  advisable,  was  not  the  least 
striking  proof  of  his  diplomatic  abilities.  He 
never  left  them  enemies.  According  to  his 
own  solution  of  the  mystery,  he  took  care 
never  to  play  the  gallant  with  Dulcineas  under 
a  certain  age — "  middle-aged  women,"  he  was 
wont  to  say,  "are  very  little  different  from 
middle-aged  men;  they  see  things  sensibly,  and 
take  things  coolly."  Now  Evelyn  could  not 
be  three  weeks,  perhaps  three  days,  in  London, 
without  learning  of  one  or  the  other  of  these 
liaisons.  What  an  excuse,  if  she  sought  one, 
to  break  with  him  !  Altogether,  Lord  Var- 
grave was  sorely  perplexed,  but  not  despond- 
ent. Evelyn's  fortune  was  more  than  ever 
necessary  to  him,  and  Evelyn  he  was  resolved 
to  obtain,  since  to  that  fortune  she  was  an  in- 
dispensible  appendage. 


ALICE  J 
CHAPTER    II. 


OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


'■  You  shall  be  Horace,  ami  TibuUus  1." — Pope. 

Lord  Vargrave  was  disturbed  from  his 
revery  by  the  entrance  of  the  Earl  of  Saxing- 
ham. 

"You  are  welcome!"  said  Lumley,  "  wel- 
come ! — the  very  man  I  wished  to  see." 

Lord  Saxingham,  who  was  scarcely  altered 
since  we  met  with  him  in  the  last  series  of  this 
work,  except  that  he  had  grown  somewhat 
paler  and  thinner,  and  that  his  hair  had 
changed  from  iron-gray  to  snow-white,  threw 
himself  in  the  arm-chair  beside  Lumley,  and 
replied — 

"  Vargrave,  it  is  really  unpleasant,  our  find- 
ing ourselves  always  thus  controlled  by  our 
own  partisans.  I  do  not  understand  this  new- 
fangled policy — this  squaring  of  measures,  to 
please  the  opposition,  and  throw  sops  to  that 
many-headed  monster  called  Public  Opinion. 
I  am  sure  it  will  end  most  mischievously." 

"  I  am  satisfied  of  it,"  returned  Lord  Var- 
grave. "  All  vigor  and  union  seem  to  have 
left  us;  and  if  they  carry  the  *  *  *  *  question 
against  us,  I  know  not  what  is  to  be  done." 

"  For  my  part  I  shall  resign,"  said  Lord 
Saxingham,  doggedly;  "  it  is  the  only  alternn- 
tive  left  to  men  of  honor." 

"  You  are  wrong — I  know  another  alterna- 
tive." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  Make  a  Cabinet  of  our  own.  Look  ye, 
my  dear  lord;  you  have  been  ill-used — your 
high  character,  your  long  experience,  are 
treated  with  contempt.  It  is  an  affront  to  you 
— the  situation  you  hold.  You  Privy  Seal  ! — 
you  ought  to  be  Premier — ay,  and,  if  you  are 
ruled  by  me.  Premier  you  shall  be  yet." 

Lord  Saxingham  colored,  and  breathed 
hard. 

"  You  have  often  hinted  at  this  before,  Lum- 
ley; but  you  are  so  partial,  so  friendly." 

"  Not  at  all.     You   saw  the  leading  article 

in  the to  day  ? — that  will  be  followed  up 

by  two  evening  papers  within  five  hours  of 
this  time.  We  have  strength  with  the  Press, 
with  the  Commons,  with  the  Court — only  let 
us  hold  fast  together.     This  *  *  *  *  question, 


—and  then,  I  suppose,  /  too  may  be  admitted 
to  the  Cabinet  I  " 

"But  how— how,  Lumley?— You  are  too 
rash,  too  daring." 

"It  has  not  been  my  fault  hitherto— but 
boldness  is  caution  in  our  circumstances.  If 
they  throw  us  out  now,  I  see  the  inevitable 
march  of  events — we  shall  be  out  for  years, 
perhaps  for  life.  The  Cabinet  will  recede 
more  and  more  from  our  principles,  our  party. 
Now  is  the  time  for  a  determined  stand — now 
can  we  make  or  mar  ourselves.  I  will  not  re- 
sign—the King  is  with  us — our  strength  shall 
be  known.  These  haughty  imbeciles  shall 
fall  in  the  trap  they  have  dug  for  us. 

Lumley  spoke  warmly,  and  with  the  con- 
fidence of  a  mind  firmly  assured  of  success. 
Lord  Saxingham  was  moved — bright  visions 
flashed  across  him — the  premiership — a  duke- 
dom. Yet  he  was  old  and  childless,  and  his 
honors  would  die  with  the  last  Lord  of  Sax- 
ingham ? 

" See,"  continued  Lumley,  "I  have  calcu- 
lated our  resources  as  accurately  as  an  elec- 
tioneering agent  would  cast  up  the  list  of 
voters.     In  the  press,  I  have  secured and 


by  which  they  hope  to  get"  rid  of  us,  shall  de- 
stroy them.  You  shall  be  Prime-minister  be- 
fore the  year  is  ever — by   Heaven,  you  shall  lithe   government,  with  which   he   served,  that 


and;  and  in  the  Commons  we  have  the 

subtle ,  and  the  vigor  of ,  and  the  pop- 
ular name  of ,  and  all  the  boroughs  of ; 


in  the  Cabinet  we  have ,  and  at  Court  you 

know  our  strength.  Let  us  choose  our  mo- 
ment— a  sudden  coup — an  interview  with  the 
King — a  statement  of  our  conscientious  scru- 
ples to  this  atrocious  measure.  I  know  the 
vain,  stiff  mind  of  the  Premier;  he  will  lose 
temper — he  will  tender  his  resignation — to  his 
astonishment  it  will  be  accepted.  You  will  be 
sent  for — we  will  dissolve  parliament — we  will 
strain  every  nerve  in  the  elections — we  shall 
succeed,  I  know  we  shall.  But  be  silent  in 
the  meanwhile — be  cautious:  let  not  a  word 
escape  you — let  them  think  us  beaten — lull 
suspicion  asleep — let  us  lament  our  weakness, 
and  hint,  only  hint  at  our  resignation,  but  with 
assurances  of  continued  support.  I  know  how 
to  blind  them,  if  you  leave  it  to  me." 

The  weak  mind  of  the  old  earl  was  as  a 
puppet  in  the  hands  of  his  bold  kinsman. 
He  feared  one  moment,  hoped  another— 
now  his  ambition  was  flattered — now  his 
sense  of  honor  was  alarmed.  There  was 
something   in   Lumley's   intrigue  to  oust  the 


2^6 


BL1A\J:J<-S     WORKS. 


had  an  appearance  of  cunning  and  baseness, 
of  which  Lord  Saxingham,  whose  personal 
character  was  high,  by  no  means  approved. 
But  Vargrave  talked  him  over  with  consum- 
mate address,  and  when  they  parted,  the  earl 
carried  his  head  two  inches  higher — he  was 
preparing  himself  for  his  rise  in  life. 

"  That  is  well — that  is  well  ! "  said  Lumley, 
rubbing  his  hands  when  he  was  left  alone; 
"the  old  driveller  will  be  my  locum  tenens,  till 
years  and  renown  enable  me  to  become  his 
successor.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  be  really  what 
he  will  be  in  name." 

Here  Lord  Vargrave's  well-fed  servant,  now 
advanced  to  the  dignity  of  own  gentleman  and 
house-steward,  entered  the  room  with  a  letter; 
it  had  a  protentious  look — it  was  wafered — the 
paper  was  blue,  the  hand  clerk-like — there 
was  no  envelope— it  bore  its  infernal  origin  on 
the  face  of  it — it  was  a  dun's  ! 

Lumley  opened  the  letter  with  an  impatient 
pshaw  !  The  man,  a  silversmith  (Lumley's 
plate  was  much  admired  !),  had  ap])lied  for 
years  in  vain;  the  amount  was  large — an  ex- 
ecution was  threatened  ! — an  execution  ! — it  is 
a  trifle  to  a  rich  man:  but  no  trifle  to  one  sus- 
pected of  being  poor— one  straining  at  that 
very  moment  at  so  high  an  object — one  to 
whom  public  opinion  was  so  necessary — one 
who  knew  that  nothing  but  his  title,  and 
scarcely  that,  saved  him  from  the  reputation 
of  an  adventurer  !  He  must  again  have  re- 
course to  the  money-lenders — his  small  es- 
tate was  long  since  too  deeply  mortgaged  to 
afford  new  security.  Usury,  usury,  again  ! — 
he  knew  its  price,  and  he  sighed — but  what 
was  to  be  done  ? 

"  It  is  but  for  a  few  months,  a  few  months, 
and  Evelyn  must  be  mine.  Saxingham  has 
already  lent  me  what  he  can;  but  he  is  em- 
barrassed. This  d — d  office,  what  a  tax  it  is  ! 
and  the  rascals  say  we  are  too  well  paid  !  I, 
too,  who  could  live  happy  in  a  garret,  if  this 
purse-proud  English  would  but  allow  one  to 
exist  within  one's  income. — My  fellow-trustee, 
the  banker,  my  uncle's  old  correspondent — ah, 
well  thought  of !  He  knows  the  conditions  of 
the  will — he  knows  that,  af  the  worst,  I  must 
have  thirty  thousand  pounds  if  I  live  a  few 
months  longer.     I  will  go  to  him." 


CHAPTER    HI. 

"  Animum  nunc  hoc  celerem,  nunc  diviclit  illuc."* 

—Virgil. 

The  late  Mr.  Templeton  had  been  a  banker 
in  a  provincial  town,  which  was  the  centre  of 
great  commercial  and  agricultural  activity  and 
enterprise.  He  had  made  the  bulk  of  his  fort- 
une in  the  happy  days  of  paper  currency  and 
war.  Besides  his  country  bank,  he  had  a  con- 
siderable share  in  a  metroiX)litan  one  of  some 
eminence.  At  the  time  of  his  marriage  with 
the  present  Lady  Vargrave  he  retired  altogether 
from  business,  and  never  returned  to  the  place 
in  which  his  wealth  had  been  amassed.  He 
had  still  kept  up  a  familiar  acquaintance  with 
the  principal  and  senior  partner  of  the  metro- 
politan bank  I  have  referred  to;  for  he  was  a 
man  who  always  loved  to  talk  about  money 
matters  with  those  who  understood  them. 
This  gentleman,  Mr.  Gustavus  Douce,  had 
been  named,  with  Lumley,  joint  trustee  to 
Evelyn's  fortune.  They  had  full  powers  to 
invest  it  in  whatever  stock  seemed  most  safe 
or  advantageous.  The  trustees  appeared  well 
chosen;  as  one,  being  destined  to  share  the 
fortune,  would  have  the  deepest  interest  in 
its  security;  and  the  other,  from  his  habits 
and  profession,  would  be  a  most  e.\ceilent 
adviser. 

Of  Mr.  Douce,  Lord  Vargrave  had  seen  but 
little;  they  were  not  thrown  together.  But 
Lord  Vargrave,  who  thought  every  rich  man 
might,  some  time  or  other,  become  a  desirable 
acquaintance,  regularly  asked  him  once  every 
year  to  dinner;  and  twice  in  return  he  had 
dined  with  Mr.  Douce,  in  one  of  the  most 
splendid  villas,  and  off  some  of  the  the  most 
splendid  plate  it  had  ever  been  his  fortune  to 
witness  and  to  envy  ! — so  that  the  little  favor 
he  was  about  to  ask  was  but  a  slight  return 
for  Lord  Vargrave's  condescension. 

He  found  the  banker  in  his  private  sanctum 
— his  carriage  at  the  door — for  it  was  just  four 
o'clock,  an  hour  in  which  Mr.  Douce  regularly 
departed  to  Caserta,  as  his  aforesaid  villa  was 
somewhat  affectedly  styled. 

Mr.  Douce  was  a  small  man,  a  nervous  man 
— he  did  not  seem  quite  master  of  his  own 
limbs:  w^hen  he  bowed,  he  seemed  to  be  mak- 


*  Now  this,  now  that,  distracts  the  active  mind. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


249 


ing  you  a  present  of  his  legs;  when  he  sate 
down,  he  twitched  first  on  one  side,  then  on 
the  other — thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
then  took  them  out,  and  looked  at  them,  as  if 
in  astonishment — then  seized  upon  a  pen,  by 
which  they  were  luckily  provided  with  inces- 
sant occupation.  Meanwhile,  there  was  what 
might  fairly  be  called  a  constant  play  of  coun- 
tenance: first,  he  smiled,  then  looked  grave — 
now  raised  his  eyebrows,  till  they  rose  like 
rainbows,  to  the  horizon  of  his  pale,  straw- 
colored  hair — and  next  darted  them  down, 
like  an  avalanche,  over  the  twinkling,  restless, 
fluttering,  little  blue  eyes,  which  then  became 
almost  invisible.  Mr.  Douce  had,  in  fact,  all 
the  appearance  of  a  painfully-shy  man;  which 
was  the  more  strange,  as  he  had  the  reputation 
of  enterprise,  and  even  audacity,  in  the  busi- 
ness of  his  profession,  and  was  fond  of  the 
society  of  the  great. 

"  I  have  called  on  you,  my  dear  sir,"  said 
Lord  Vargrave,  after  the  preliminary  saluta- 
tions, "  to  ask  a  little  favor,  which,  if  the  least 
inconvenient,  have  no  hesitation  in  refusing. 
You  know  how  I  am  situated  with  regard  to 
my  ward,  Miss  Cameron;  in  a  few  months  I 
hope  she  will  be  Lady  Vargrave." 

Mr.  Douce  showed  three  small  teeth,  which 
were  all  that  in  the  front  of  his  mouth  fate  had 
left  him;  and  then,  as  if  alarmed  at  the  in- 
delicacy of  a  smile  upon  such  a  subject, 
pushed  back  his  chair,  and  twitched  up  his 
blotting-paper  colored  trousers. 

"  Yes,  in  a  few  months  I  hope  she  will  be 
Lady  Vargrave;  and  you  know  then,  Mr. 
Douce,  that  I  shall  be  in  no  want  of  money." 

"  I  hope — that  is  to  say,  I  am  sure — that — 
I  trust  that  never  will  be  the  ca-ca-case  with 
your  lordship,"  put  in  Mr.  Douce,  with  timid 
hesitation.  Mr.  Douce,  in  addition  to  his 
other  good  qualities,  stammered  much  in  the 
delivery  of  his  sentences. 

"  ^ou  are  very  kind,  but  it  is  the  case  just 
at  present;  I  have  great  need  of  a  few  thou- 
sand pounds  upon  my  personal  security.  My 
estate  is  already  a  little  mortgaged,  and  I 
don't  wish  to  encumber  it  more;  besides,  the 
loan  would  be  merely  temporary:  you  know, 
that  if  at  the  age  of  eighteen  Miss  Cameron 
refuse  me — (a  supposition  out  of  the  question, 
but  in  business  we  must  calculate  on  improba- 
bilities)— I  claim  the  forfeit  she  inpurs — thirty 
thousand  pounds — you  remember." 


"Oh,  yes— that  is— upon  my  word— I— I 
don't  exactly— but— your  lord— l-l-l-lord-lord- 
ship  knows  best — I  have  been  so — so  busy — I 
forget  the  exact — hem— hem  !  " 

"If  you  just  turn  to  the  will  you  will  see 
it  is  as  I  say.  Now,  could  you  conveniently 
place  a  few  thousands  to  my  account,  just  for 
a  short  time  ?— But  I  see  you  don't  like  it. 
Never  mind,  I  can  get  it  elsewhere;  only,  as 
you  were  my  poor  uncle's  friend " 

"  Your  lord— 1-1-1-lordship  is  quite  mistaken," 
said  Mr.  Douce,  with  .trembling  agitation; 
"upon  my  word;  yes,  a  few  thou-thou-thou- 
sands — to  be  sure — to  be  sure.  Your  lord- 
ship's banker  is — is " 

"  Drummond — disagreeable  people — by  no 
means  obliging.  I  shall  certainly  change  to 
your  house  when  my  accounts  are  better  worth 
keeping." 

"You  do  me  great — great  honor;  I  will 
just — step — step — step  out,  for  a  moment — 
and— and  speak  to  Mr.  Dobs; — not  but  what 
you  may  depend  on — Excuse  me  !  Morning 
Chron-chron-Chronicle,  my  lord  !  " 

Mr.  Douce  rose,  as  if  by  galvanism,  and  ran 
out  of  the  room,  spinning  round  as  he  ran,  to 
declare,  again  and  again,  that  he  would  not  be 
gone  a  moment. 

"  Good  little  fellow  that — very  like  an  elec- 
trified frog  !  "  murmured  Vargrave,  as  he  took 
upthe  Morning  Chronicle,  so  especially  pointed 
out  to  his  notice;  and,  turning  to  the  leading 
article,  read  a  very  eloquent  attack  on  himself. 
Lumley  was  thick-skinned  on  such  matters — 
he  liked  to  be  attacked — it  showed  that  he  was 
up  in  the  world. 

Presently  Mr.  Douce  returned.  To  Lord 
Vargrave's  amazement  and  delight,  he  was 
informed  that  ten  thousand  pounds  would  be 
immediately  lodged  with  Messrs.  Drummond. 
His  bill  of  promise  to  pay  in  three  months — 
five  per  cent  interest — was  quite  sufficient: 
three  months  was  a  short  date;  but  the  bill 
could  be  renewed  on  the  same  terms,  from 
quarter  to  quarter,  till  quite  convenient  to  his 
lordship  to  pay.  "  Would  Lord  Vargrave  do 
him  the  honor  to  dine  with  him  at  Caserta 
next  Monday  ? " 

Lord  Vargrave  tried  to  affect  apathy  at  his 
sudden  accession  of  ready  money;  but,  really, 
it  almost  turned  his  head:  he  griped  both  Mr. 
Donee's  thin,  little  shivering  hands,  and  was 
speechless  with  gratitude  and  ecstasy.     The 


250 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS. 


sum,  which  doubled  the  utmost  he  expected, 
would  relieve  him  frrtm  all  his  immediate  em- 
barrassments. When  he  recovered  his  voice, 
he  thanked  his  dear  Mr.  Douce  with  a  warmth 
that  seemed  to  make  the  little  man  shrink  into 
a  nutshell;  and  assured  him  that  he  would 
dine  with  him  every  Monday  in  the  year — if 
he  was  asked  !  He  then  longed  to  depart; 
out  he  thought,  justly,  that  to  go  as  soon  as 
he  had  got  what  he  wanted,  would  look  selfish: 
accordingly,  he  reseated  himself,  and  so  did 
Mr.  Douce,  and  the«conversation  turned  upon 
politics  and  news:  but  Mr.  Douce,  who  seemed 
to  regard  all  things  with  a  commercial  eye, 
contrived,  Vargrave  hardly  knew  how,  to  veer 
round  from  the  change  in  the  French  ministry 
to  the  state  of  the  English  money  market. 

"  It  really  is  indeed,  my  lord — I  say  it,  I 
am  sure,  with  concern,  a  very  bad  ti-ti-ti-ti- 
time  for  men  in  business — indeed,  for  all  men 
— such  poor  interest  in  the  English  fu-fun- 
funds — and  yet  speculations  are  so  unsound. 
I  recommended  my  friend  Sir  Giles  Grimsby 
to — to  invest  some  money  in  the  American 
canals;  a  most  rare  res-res-respons-responsi- 
bility,  I  may  say,  for  me;  I  am  cautious  in — 
in  recommending;  but  Sir  Giles  was  an  old 
friend — con-con-connection,  I  may  say;  but 
most  providentially,  all  turned  out — that  is — 
fell  out — as  I  was  sure  it  would — thirty  per 
cent — and  the  value  of  the  sh-sh-sh-shares 
doubled.  But  such  things  are  very  rare — 
quite  god-sends,  I  may  say  !  " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Douce,  whenever  I  have  money 
to  lay  out,  I  must  come  and  consult  you." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  at  all  times  to — to 
advise  your  lordship;  but  it  is  not  a  thing 
I'm  very  fond  of; — there's  Miss  Cameron's 
fortune  quite  1-1-locked  up — three  per  cents 
and  Exchequer  bills;— why  it  might  have  been 
a  mil-mil-million  by  this  ti-ti-time,  if  the  good 
old  gentleman — I  beg  pardon — old — old  noble- 
man, my  poor  dear  friend,  had  been  now 
alive  ! " 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Lumley,  greedily,  and 
pricking  up  his  ears;  "  he  was  a  good  mana- 
ger, my  uncle  !  " 

"  None  better,  none  better.  I  may  say  a 
genius  for  busi — -hem — hem  !  Miss  Cameron 
a  young  woman  of  bus-bus-business,  my 
lord  ?" 

"  Not  much  of  that,  I  fear.  A  million,  did 
you  say  ?  " 


"  At  least  ! — indeed,  at  least— money  so 
scarce — speculation  so  sure  in  America — great 
people  the  Americans — rising  people — gigi- 
giants — giants  !  " 

"  I  am  wasting  your  whole  morning — too 
bad  in  me,"  S3id  Vargrave,  as  the  clock 
struck  five;  "the  Lords  meet  this  evening — 
important  business — once  more  a  thousand 
thanks  to  you — good  day." 

"A  very  good  day  to  you,  my  lord;  don't 
mention  it;  glad  at  any  time  to  ser-ser-serve 
you,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  fidgeting,  curveting, 
and  prancing  round  Lord  Vargrave,  as  the 
latter  walked  through  the  outer  office  to  the 
carriage. 

"Not  a  step  more;  you  will  catch  cold. 
Good-by — on  Monday,  then,  seven  o'clock. 
The  House  of  Lords." 


And  Lumley  threw  himself  back  in  his  car- 
riage in  high  spirits. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  Oublie  de  TuUie,  et  brave  du  Senat."  * 

— Voltaire:  Brutus,  act  ii.,  sc.  i. 

In  the  Lords  that  evening  the  discussion 
was  animated  and  prolonged — it  was  the  last 
party  debate  of  the  session.  The  astute  op- 
position did  not  neglect  to  bring  prominently, 
though  incidentally,  forward,  the  question  on 
which  it  was  whispered  that  there  existed 
some  growing  difference  in  the  Cabinet.  Lord 
Vargrave  rose  late;  his  temper  was  excited  by 
the  good  fortune  of  his  day's  negotiation;  he 
felt  himself  of  more  importance  than  usual,  as  a 
needy  man  is  apt  to  do  when  he  has  got  a  large 
sum  at  his  banker's;  moreover,  he  was  exas- 
perated by  some  personal  allusions  to  himself, 
which  had  been  delivered  by  a  dignified  old 
lord  who  dated  his  family  from  the  ark,  and 
was  as  rich  as  Croesus.  Accordingly,  Var- 
grave spoke  with  more  than  his  usual  vigor. 
His  first  sentences  were  welcomed  with  loud 
cheers — he  warmed— he  grew  vehement — he 
uttered  the  most  positive  and  unalterable  sen- 
timents upon  the  question  alluded  to — ht 
greatly  transgressed  the  discretion  which  the 
heads  of  his  party  were  desirous  to  maintain; 
— instead  of  conciliating  without  compromis- 
ing,   he    irritated,    galled,   and  compromised. 

*  Forgotten  by  TuUy  and  liiillicd  by  the  Senate. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


as  I 


rhe  angry  cheers  of  the  opposite  party  were 
loudly  re-echoed  by  the  cheers  of  the  more 
hot-headed  on  his  own  side.  The  Premier  and 
some  of  his  colleagues  observed,  however,  a 
moody  silence.  The  Premier  once  took  a  note, 
and  then  reseated  himself,  and  drew  his  hut 
more  closely  over  his  brows.  It  was  an  omi- 
nous sign  for  Lumley;  but  he  was  looking  the 
opposition  in  the  face,  and  did  not  observe  it. 
He  sate  down  in  triumph;  he  had  made  a 
most  effective  and  a  most  mischievous  speech 
—  a  combination  extremely  common.  The 
leader  of  the  opposition  replied  to  him  with 
bitter  calmness;  and,  when  citing  some  of  his 
sharp  sentences,  he  turned  to  the  Premier,  and 
asked.  "  Are  these  opinions  those  also  of  the 
noble  Lord  ? — I  call  for  a  reply — I  have  a 
right  to  demand  a  reply."  Lumley  was 
startled  to  hear  the  tone  in  which  his  chief 
uttered  the  comprehensive  and  significant 
■'  Hear,  hear  !  " 

At  midnight  the  Premier  wound  up  the 
debate.  His  speech  was  short,  and  charac- 
terized by  moderation.  He  came  to  the  ques- 
tion put  to  him — the  House  was  hushed — you 
might  have  heard  a  pin  drop — the  Commoners 
behind  the  throne  pressed  forward  with  anx- 
iety and  eagerness  on  their  countenances. 

"  I  am  called  upon,"  said  the  minister,  "  to 
declare  if  those  sentiments,  uttered  by  my 
noble  friend,  are  mine  also,  as  the  chief  ad- 
viser of  the  Crown.  My  Lords,  in  the  heat 
of  debate,  every  word  is  not  to  be  scrupulously 
weighed,  and  rigidly  interpreted."  ("Hear, 
hear,"  ironically  from  the  opposition — approv- 
ingly from  the  Treasury  benches).  "My 
noble  friend  will  doubtless  be  anxious  to  ex- 
plain what  he  intended  to  say.  I  hope,  nay,  I 
doubt  not,  that  his  explanation  will  be  satis- 
factory to  the  noble  lord,  to  the  House,  and 
to  the  Country.  But  since  I  am  called  upon 
for  a  distinct  reply  to  a  distinct  interrogatory, 
I  will  say  at  once,  that  if  those  sentiments  be 
rightly  interpreted  by  the  noble  lord  who  spoke 
last,  those  sentiments  are  not  mine,  and  will 
never  animate  the  conduct  of  any  Cabinet  of 
which  I  am  a  member."  (Long  continued 
cheering  from  the  opposition).  "  At  the  same 
time,  I  am  convinced  that  my  noble  friend's 
meaning  has  not  been  rightly  construed;  and 
till  I  hear  from  himself  to  the  contrary,  I  will 
venture  to  state  what  I  think  he  designed  to 
convey  to  your  Lordships."    Here  the  Premier, 


with  a  tact  that  nobody  could  be  duped  by,  but 
every  one  could  admire,  stripped  Lord  Var- 
grave's  unlucky  sentences  of  every  syllable 
that  could  give  offence  to  any  one;  and  left 
the  pointed  epigrams  and  vehement  denuncia- 
tions a  most  harmless  arrangement  of  com- 
mon-place. 

The  House  was  much  excited;  there  was 
a  call  for  Lord  Vargrave,  and  Lord  Var- 
grave  promptly  rose.  It  was  one  of  those 
dilemmas  out  of  which  Lumley  was  just  the 
man  to  extricate  himself  with  address.  There 
was  so  much  manly  frankness  in  his  manner — 
there  was  so  much  crafty  sulnlety  in  his  mind  ! 
He  complained,  with  proud  and  honest  bitter- 
ness, of  the  construction  that  had  been  forced 
upon  his  words  by  the  opposition.  "  If,"  he 
added  (and  no  man  knew  better  the  rhetorical 
effect  of  the  fu  qitoque  form  of  argument), — 
"  if  every  sentence  uttered  by  the  noble  lord 
opposite  in  his  zeal  for  liberty,  had,  in  days  now 
gone  by,  been  construetl  with  equal  rigor,  or 
perverted  with  equal  ingenuity,  that  noble  lord 
had  long  since  been  prosecuted  as  an  incendiary, 
perhaps  executed  as  a  traitor  !  "  Vehement 
cheers  from  the  ministerial  benches;  cries  of 
"Order!"  from  the  opposition.  A  military 
lord  rose  to  order,  and  appealed  to  the  Wool- 
sack. 

Lumley  sate  down,  as  if  chafed  at  the  inter- 
ruption;— he  had  produced  the  effect  he  had 
desired — he  had  changed  the  public  question 
at  issue  into  a  private  quarrel:  a  new  ex- 
citement was  created — dust  was  thrown  into  the 
eyes  of  the  House.  Several  speakers  rose  to 
accommodate  matters;  and,  after  half-an-hour 
of  public  time  had  been  properly  wasted,  the 
noble  lord  on  one  side  and  the  noble  lord  on 
the  other  duly  explained; — paid  each  other  the 
highest  possible  compliments,  and  Lumley  was 
left  to  conclude  his  vindication,  which  now 
seemed  a  comparatively  flat  matter  after  the 
late  explosion.  He  completed  his  task  so  as 
to  satisfy,  apparently,  all  parties — for  all  par- 
ties were  now  tired  of  the  thing,  and  wanted 
to  go  to  bed.  But  the  next  morning  there  were 
whispers  about  the  town — articles  in  the  dif- 
ferent papers,  evidently  by  authority — rejoic- 
ings among  the  opposition — and  a  general 
feeling,  that,  though  the  Government  might 
keep  together  that  session,  its  dissessions 
would  break  out  before  the  next  meeting  of 
parliament. 


BU LIVER- S     WORKS. 


As  Luinley  was  wrapping  himself  in  his 
cioaic  after  this  stormy  debate,  the  Marquess 
of  Ra1)y-— a  peer  of  large  possessions,  and  one 
who  entirely  agreed  with  Lumley's  views — 
came  up  to  him,  and  proposed  that  they 
should  go  home  together  in  Lord  Raby's  car- 
riage. Vargrave  willingly  consented,  and  dis- 
missed his  own  servants. 

■'  You  did  that  admirably,  my  dear  Var- 
grave ! "  said  Lord  Raby,  when  they  were 
seated  in  the  carriage.  "  I  quite  coincide  in 
all  your  sentiments;  I  declare  my  blood  boiled 
when  I  heard  *  *  *  *  (the  Premier)  appear 
half  inclined  to  throw  you  over.  Your  hit 
upon  *****  was  first-rate  —  he  will  not 
get  over  it  for  a  month;  and  you  extricated 
yourself  well." 

"  I  am  glad  you  approve  my  conduct — it 
comforts  me,"  said  Vargrave,  feelingly;  "at 
the  same  time  I  see  all  the  consequences:  but 
I  can  brave  all  for  the  sake  of  character  and 
conscience." 

"  I  feel  just  as  you  do  !  "  replied  Lord 
Raby,  with  some  warmth;  "  and  if  I  thought 
that  *  *  *  *  meant  to  yield  this  question,  I 
should  certainly  oppose  his  administration." 

Vargrave  shook  his  head,  and  held  his 
tongue,  which  gave  Lord  Raby  a  high  idea  of 
his  discretion. 

After  a  few  more  obsei-vations  on  political 
matters.  Lord  Raby  invited  Lumley  to  pay 
him  a  visit  at  his  country-seat. 

"I  am  going  to  Knaresdean  next  Monday; 
you  know  we  have  races  in  the  park — and 
really  they  are  sometimes  good  sport:  at  all 
events,  it  is  a  very  pretty  sight.  There  will 
be  nothing  in  the  Lords  now — the  recess  is 
just  at  hand;  and  if  you  can  spare  the  time, 
Lady  Raby  and  myself  will  be  delighted  to 
see  you." 

"  You  may  be  sure,  my  dear  Lord,  I  cannot 
refuse  your  invitation;  indeed,  I  intended  to 
visit  your  county  next  week.  You  know,  per- 
haps, a  Mr.  Merton  ? " 

"  Charles  Merton  ? — to  be  sure — most  re- 
spectable man — capital  fellow — the  best  parson 
in  the  county — no  cant,  but  thoroughly  ortho- 
dox;— he  certainly  keeps  in  his  brother,  who, 
though  a  very  active  member,  is  what  I  call  a 
wavercr  on  certain  qnestions.  Have  you 
known  Merton  long  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  him  at  all  as  yet — my  ac- 
quaintance  is   with  his  wife  and  daughter, — a 


very  fine  girl,  by  the  by.  My  ward,  Mi>, 
Cameron,  is  staymg  with  them." 

'•  Miss  Cameron  1 — Cameron  ! — ah  ! — I  un- 
derstand; I  think  I  have  heard  that — but  gos- 
sip does  not  always  tell  the  truth  ! " 

Lumley  smiled  significantly,  and  the  car- 
riage now  stopped  at  his  door. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  take  a  seat  in  our  car- 
riage on  Monday  ?  "  said  Lord  Raby. 

"Monday? — unhappily  I  am  engaged;  but 
on  Tuesday  your  lordship  may  expect  me." 

"  Very  well — the  races  begin  on  Wednes- 
day: we  shall  have  a  full  house — good  night  !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Homunculi  quanti  sunt,  cum  recogito."  • 

— Plautus 

It  is  obvious  that,  for  many  reasons,  we 
must  be  brief  upon  the  political  intrigue  in 
which  the  scheming  spirit  of  Lord  Vargrave 
was  employed.  It  would,  indeed,  be  scarcely 
possible  to  preserve  the  necessary  medium  be- 
tween too  plain  a  revelation,  and  too  complex 
a  disguise.  It  suffices,  therefore,  very  shortly 
to  repeat  what  the  reader  has  already  gathered 
from  what  has  gone  before — namely,  that  the 
question  at  issue  was  one  which  has  happened 
often  enough  in  all  governments — one  on 
which  the  Cabinet  was  divided,  and  in  which 
the  weaker  party  was  endeavoring  to  out-trick 
the  stronger. 

The  malcontents,  forseeing  that  sooner  or 
later  the  head  of  the  gathering  must  break, 
were  again  divided  among  themselves  whether 
to  resign  or  to  stay  in,  and  strive  to  force  a 
resignation  on  their  dissentient  colleagues. 
The  richer  and  the  more  honest  were  for  the 
former  course;  the  poorer  and  the  more  de- 
pendent for  the  latter.  We  have  seen  that  the 
latter  policy  was  that  espoused  and  recom- 
mended by  Vargrave — (who,  though  not  in  the 
Cabinet,  always  contrived  somehow  or  other 
to  worm  out  its  secrets) — at  the  same  time,  he 
by  no  means  rejected  the  other  string  to  his 
bow.  If  it  were  possible  so  to  arrange  and  to 
strengthen  his  faction,  that,  by  the  coup  d'etat 
of  a  sudden  resignation  in  a  formidable  body. 


*  When  I  reflect,  how  great  your  little  men  are  in 
their  own  consideration. 


ALICE;     OR^     THE    MYSTERIES. 


»53 


the  whole  government  might  be  broken  up, 
and  a  new  one  formed  from  among  the  resig- 
nees,  it  would  obviously  be  the  best  plan. 
But  then  Lord  Vargrave  was  doubtful  of  his 
own  strength,  and  fearful  to  play  into  the 
hands  of  his  colleagues,  who  might  be  able  to 
stand  even  better  without  himself  and  his 
allies,  and,  by  conciliating  the  opposition,  take 
a  step  onward  in  political  movement,  which 
might  leave  Vargrave  placeless  and  powerless 
for  years  to  come. 

He  repented  his  own  rashness  in  the  recent 
debate,  which  was,  indeed,  a  premature  bold- 
ness that  had  sprung  out  of  momentary  excite- 
ment— for  the  craftiest  orator  must  be  indis- 
creet sometimes.  He  spent  the  next  few  days 
in  alternately  seeking  to  explain  away  to  one 
party,  and  to  sound,  unite,  and  consolidate 
the  other.  His  attempts  in  the  one  quarter 
were  received  by  the  Premier  with  the  cold 
politeness  of  an  offended  but  careful  states- 
man, who  believed  just  as  much  as  he  chose, 
and  preferred  taking  his  own  opportunity  for 
a  breach  with  a  subordinate,  to  risking  any 
imprudence  by  the  gratification  of  resentment. 
In  the  last  quarter,  the  penetrating  adventurer 
saw  that  his  ground  was  more  insecure  than 
he  had  anticipated.  He  perceived  in  dismay 
and  secret  rage,  that  many  of  those  most  loud 
in  his  favor  while  he  was  with  the  Government 
would  desert  him  the  soonest  if  thrown  out. 
Liked  as  a  subordinate  minister,  he  was 
viewed  with  very  different  eyes  the  moment  it 
was  a  question,  whether,  instead  of  cheering 
his  sentiments,  men  should  trust  themselves 
to  his  guidance.  Some  did  not  wish  to  dis- 
please the  Government;  others  did  not  seek 
to  weaken,  but  to  correct  them.  One  of  his 
stanchest  allies  in  the  Commons  was  a  candi- 
date for  a  peerage — another  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  he  was  second  cousin  to  the  Pre- 
mier;— some  laughed  at  the  idea  of  a  puppet 
premier  in  Lord  Saxingham — others  insin- 
uated to  Vargrave  that  he  himself  was  not 
])reciselyof  that  standing  in  the  country  which 
would  command  respect  to  a  new  party,  of 
which,  if  not  the  head,  he  would  be  the 
mouthpiece; — for  themselves  they  knew,  ad- 
mired, and  trusted  him;  but  those  d — d  coun- 
try gentlemen^and  the  dull  public  ! 

Alarmed,  -  wearied,  and  disgusted,  the 
schemer  saw  himself  reduced  to  submission, 
for  the  present  at  least;  and  more  than  ever 


he  felt  the  necessity  of  Evelyn's  fortune  to  fall 
back  upon,  if  the  chance  of  the  cards  should 
rob  him  of  his  salary.  He  was  glad  to  escape 
for  a  breathing  while  from  the  vexations  and 
harassments  that  beset  him,  and  looked  for- 
ward with  the  eager  interest  of  a  sanguine  and 
elastic  mind — always  escaping  from  one  scheme 
to  another— to  his  excursion  into  B shire. 

At  the  villa  of  Mr.  Douce,  Lord  Vargrave 
met  a  young  nobleman  who  had  just  succeeded 
to  a  property  not  only  large  and  unencumbered, 
but  of  a  nature  to  give  him  importance  in  the 
eyes  of  politicians.  Situated  in  a  very  small 
county,  the  estates  of  Lord  Doltimore  secured 
to  his  nomination  at  least  one  of  the  represen- 
tatives, while  a  little  village  at  the  back  of  his 
pleasure-grounds  constituted  a  borough  and 
returned  two  members  to  parliament.  Lord 
Doltimore,  just  returned  from  the  Continent, 
had  not  even  taken  his  seat  in  the  Lords;  and 
though  his  family  connections,  such  as  they 
were — an^  they  were  not  very  high,  and  by 
no  means  in  the  fashion — were  ministerial, 
his  own  opinions  were  as  yet  unrevealed. 

To  this  young  nobleman  Lord  Vargrave  was 
singularly  attentive;  he  was  well  formed  to  at- 
tract men  younger  than  himself;  and  he  emi- 
nently succeeded  in  his  designs  upon  Lord 
Doltimore's  affection. 

His  lordship  was  a  small  pale  man,  with  a 
very  limited  share  of  understanding,  supercil- 
ious  in  manner,  elaborate  in  dress,  not  ill- 
natured  au  fond,  and  with  much  of  the  English 
gentleman  in  his  disposition; — that  is,  he  was 
honorable  in  his  ideas  and  actions,  whenever 
his  natural  dullness  and  neglected  education 
enabled  him  clearly  to  perceive  (through  the 
midst  of  prejudices,  the  delusions  of  others, 
and  the  false  lights  of  the  dissipated  society 
in  which  he  had  lived),  what  was  right  and 
what  wrong.  But  his  leading  characteristics 
were  vanity  and  conceit.  He  had  lived  much 
with  younger  sons,  cleverer  than  himself,  who 
borrowed  his  money,  sold  him  their  horses,  and 
won  from  him  at  cards.  In  return,  they  gave 
him  all  the  species  of  flattery  which  young 
men  can  give  with  so  hearty  an  appearance  of 
cordial  admiration.  "  You  certainly  have  the 
best  horses  in  Paris. — You  are  really  a  devil- 
ish good  fellow,  Doltimore.  Oh,  do  you  know, 
Doltimore,  what  little  DhM  says  of  you  ! 
You  have  certainly  turned  the  girl's  head." 

This  sort  of  adulation  from  one  sex  was  not 


254 


B  UL  WEliS     n  'ORKS. 


corrected  by  any  great  acerbity  from  the  other. 
Lord  Doltimore,  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  was 
a  very  good  parti;  and,  whatever  his  other 
deficiencies,  he  had  sense  enough  to  perceive 
that  he  received  much  greater  attention — 
whether  from  opera-dancers  in  search  of  a 
friend,  or  virtuous  young  ladies  in  search  of 
a  husband — than  any  of  the  companions,  good- 
looking  though  many  of  them  were,  with  whom 
he  had  habitually  lived. 

"  You  will  not  long  remain  in  town  now  the 
season  is  over  ? "  said  Vargrave,  as  after  din- 
ner he  found  himself,  by  the  departure  of  the 
ladies,  next  to  Lord  Doltimore. 

"No,  indeed;  even  in  the  season,  I  don't 
much  lil:e  London.  Paris  has  rather  spoiled 
me  for  any  other  place." 

"  Paris  is  certainly  very  charming— the  ease 
of  French  life  has  a  fascination  that  our  formal 
ostentation  wants.  Nevertheless,  to  a  man 
like  you,  London  must  have  many  attractions." 

"Why,  I  have  a  good  many  friejids  here; 
but  still,  after  Ascot,  it  rather  bores  me." 

"  Have  you  any  horses  on  the  turf  ? " 

"Not  yet;  but  Legard  (you  know  Legard, 
perhaps — a  very  good  fellow)  is  anxious  that  I 
should  try  my  luck.  I  was  very  fortunate  in 
the  races  at  Paris — you  know  we  have  estab- 
lished racing  there.  The  French  take  to  it 
quite  naturally." 

"  Ah,  indeed  ! — it  is  so  long  since  I  have 
been  in  Paris — most  exciting  amusement  !  A 
p'ropos  of  races — I  am  going  down  to  Lord 
Raby's  tomorrow;  I  think  I  saw  in  one  of  the 
morning  papers,  that  you  had  very  largely 
backed  a  horse  entered  at  Knaresdean." 

"  Yes,  Thunderer — I  think  of  buying  Thun- 
derer. Legard — Colonel  Legard — (he  was  in 
the  Guards,  but  he  sold  out) — is  a  good  judge, 
and  recommends  the  purchase.  How  very 
odd  that  you  too  should  be  going  to  Knares- 
dean !  " 

"Odd,  indeed,  but  most  lucky  ! — we  can  go 
together,  if  you  are  not  better  engaged." 

Lord  Doltimore  colored  and  hesitated.  On 
the  one  hand,  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  being 
alone  with  so  clever  a  man;  on  the  other  hand, 
it  was  an  honor — it  was  something  for  him  to 
talk  of  to  Legard.  Nevertheless,  the  shyness 
got  the  better  of  the  vanity — he  excused  him- 
self—  he  feared  he  was  engaged  to  take  down 
Legard. 

Liimley  smiled,  and  changed  the  conversa- 


tion; and  so  agreeable  did  he  make  himself, 
that  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  Lumley 
had  just  shaken  hands  with  his  host,  Dolti- 
more came  to  him,  and  said  in  a  little  con- 
fusion— 

"  I  think  I  can  put  off  I,egard — if^if 
you  " 

"  That's  delightful  !— What  time  shall  we 
start  ? — need  not  get  down  much  before  dinner 
— one  o'clock  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !— not  too  long  before  dinner — 
one  o'clock  will  be  a  little  too  early." 

"  Two,  then.     Where  are  you  staying  ?  " 

"  At  Fenton's." 

"I  will  call  for  you — good  night  ! — I  long 
to  see  Thunderer  !  " 


CHAPTER   VL 

'  La  sante  de  I'ame  n'est  pas  plus  assuree  que  celle 
du  corps;  el  quoique  I'on  paraiseeeloignedes  passions, 
on  n'est  pas  moms  en  danger  de  s'y  laisser  emporter, 
que  de  tombcr  malade  quand  on  sc  porte  bien."  • 

— La  Rochefoucauld. 

In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  Maltravers  to  shun 
all  occasions  of  meeting  Evelyn,  they  were 
necessarily  sometimes  thrown  together  in  the 
round  of  provincial  hospitalities;  and,  cer- 
tainly, if  either  Mr.  Merton  or  Caroline  (the 
shrewder  observer  of  the  two)  had  ever  formed 
any  suspicion  that  Evelyn  had  made  a  conquest 
of  Maltravers,  his  manner  at  such  times  effect- 
ually removed  it. 

Maltravers  was  a  man  to  feel  deeply;  but 
no  longer  a  boy  to  yield  to  every  tempting 
impulse.  I  have  said  that  fortitude  was  his 
favorite  virtue — but  fortitude  is  the  virtue  of 
great  and  rare  occasions;  there  was  another, 
equally  hard-favored  and  unshowy,  which  he 
took  as  the  staple  of  active  and  every-day 
duties — and  that  virtue  was  justice.  Now. 
in  earlier  life,  he  had  been  enamoured  of  the 
conventional  Florimel  that  we  call  honor — a 
shifting  and  shadowy  phantom,  that  is  but  tli 
reflex  of  the  opinion  of  the  time  and  clinii 
But  justice  has  in  it  something  permament  an  , 
solid;  and  out  of  justice  arises  the  real,  not 
the  false  honor. 

*  The  health  of  the  soul  is  not  more^ure  than  thnr 
of  the  body,  and  although  we  may  appear  free  fro 
passions,  there  is  not  the  less  danger  of  tHeir  attac., 
than  of  falling  sick,  at  the  moment  we  are  well. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


»Si 


"  Honor  !  "  said  Maltravers — "  honor  is  to 
justice  as  the  flower  to  the  plant — its  efflores- 
cence, its  bloom,  its  consummation  !  But 
honor  that  does  not  spring  from  justice  is 
but  a  piece  of  painted  rag,  an  artificial  rose, 
which  the  men-milliners  of  society  would  palm 
upon  us  as  more  natural  than  the  true." 

This  principle  of  justice  Maltravers  sought 
to  carry  out  in  all  things — not,  perhaps,  with 
constant  success;  for  what  practice  can  always 
embody  theory  ? — but  still,  at  least,  his  en- 
deavor at  success  was  constant.  This,  per- 
haps, it  was  which  had  ever  kept  him  from 
the  excesses  to  which  exuberant  and  liberal 
natures  are  prone — from  the  extravagancies 
of  pseudo-genius. 

"  No  man,"  for  instance,  he  was  wont  to 
say,  "can  be  embarrassed  in  his  own  circum- 
stances, and  not  cause  embarrassment  to 
others.  Without  economy,  who  can  be  just  ? 
And  what  are  charity — generosity — but  the 
poetry  and  the  beauty  of  justice  ?" 

No  man  ever  asked  Maltravers  twice  for  a 
just  debt;  and  no  man  ever  once  asked  him 
to  fulfil  a  promise.  You  felt  that,  come  what 
would,  you  might  rely  upon  his  word.  To  him 
might  have  been  applied  the  witty  eulogium 
passed  by  Johnson  upon  a  certain  nobleman: 
— "  If  he  had  promised  you  an  acorn,  and  the 
acorn-season  failed  in  England,  he  would  have 
sent  to  Norway  for  one  !  " 

It  was  not,  therefore,  the  mere  Norman  and 
chivalrous  spirit  of  honor,  which  he  had  wor- 
shipped in  youth  as  a  part  of  the  Beautiful 
and  Becoming,  but  which  in  youth  had  yielded 
to  temptation,  as  a  sentiment  ever  must  yield 
to  a  passion — but  it  was  the  more  hard,  stub- 
born, and  reflective  principle,  which  was  the 
later  growth  of  deeper  and  nobler  wisdom,  that 
regulated  the  conduct  of  Maltravers  in  this 
crisis  of  his  life.  Certain  it  is,  that  he  had 
never  but  once  loved  as  he  loved  Evelyn;  and 
yet  that  he  never  yielded  so  little  to  the  passion. 

"  If  engaged  to  another,"  thought  he,  "  that 
engagement  it  is  not  for  a  third  person  to  at- 
tempt to  dissolve.  I  am  the  last  to  form  a 
right  judgment  of  the  strength  or  weakness  of 
the  bonds  which  unite  her  to  Vargrave — for 
my  emotions  would  prejudice  me  despite  my- 
self. I  may  fancy  that  her  betrothed  is  not 
worthy  of  her — but  that  is  for  her  to  decide. 
While  the  bond  lasts,  who  can  be  justified  in 
tempting  her  to  break  it  ?  " 


Agreeably  to  these  notions,  which  the  world 
may,  perhaps,  consider  over-strained,  when- 
ever Maltravers  met  Evelyn,  he  entrenched 
himself  in  a  rigid  and  almost  a  chilling  for- 
mality. How  difficult  this  was  with  one  so 
simple  and  ingenuous  !  Poor  Evelyn  !  she 
thought  she  had  offended  him— she  longed  to 
ask  him  her  offence — perhaps,  in  her  desire 
to  rouse  his  genius  into  exertion,  she  had 
touched  some  secret  sore,  some  latent  wound 
of  the  memory?  She  recalled  ail  their  con- 
versations again  and  again.  Ah  !  why  could 
they  not  be  renewed  ?  Upon  her  fancy  and 
her  thoughts  Maltravers  had  made  an  impres- 
sion not  to  be  obliterated.  She  wrote  more 
frequently  than  ever  to  Lady  Vargrave,  and 
the  name  of  Maltravers  was  found  in  every 
page  of  her  correspondence. 

One  evening  at  the  house  of  a  neighbor, 
Miss  Cameron  (with  the  Mertons)  entered  the 
room  almost  in  the  same  instant  as  Maltravers. 
The  party  was  small,  and  so  few  had  yet  ar- 
rived, that  it  was  impossible  for  Maltravers, 
without  marked  rudeness,  to  avoid  his  friendfe 
from  the  rectory;  and  Mrs.  Merton,  placing 
herself  next  to  Evelyn,  graciously  motioned 
to  Maltravers  to  occupy  the  third  vacant 
seat  on  the  sofa,  of  which  she  filled  the 
centre. 

"We  grudge  all  your  improvements,  Mr. 
Maltravers,  since  they  cost  us  your  society. 
But  we  know  that  our  dull  circle  must  seem 
tame  to  one  who  has  seen  so  much.  However, 
we  expect  to  offer  you  an  inducement  soon  in 
Lord  Vargrave.  What  a  lively,  agreeable 
person  he  is  !  " 

Maltravers  raised  his  eyes  to  Evelyn,  calmly 
and  penetratingly,  at  the  latter  part  of  this 
speech.  He  observed  that  she  turned  pale, 
and  sighed  involuntarily. 

"  He  had  great  spirits  when  I  knew  him," 
said  he;  "and  he  had  then  less  cause  to  make 
him  happy." 

Mrs.  Merton  smiled,  and  turned  rather 
pointedly  towards  Evelyn. 

Maltravers  continued— "I  never  met  the 
late  lord.  He  had  none  of  the  vivacity  of  his 
nephew,  I  believe." 

"I  have  heard  that  he  was  very  severe," 
said  Mrs.  Merton,  lifting  her  glass  towards  a 
party  that  had  just  entered. 

"  Severe  !  "  exclaimed  Evelyn.  "  Ah,  if  you 
could  have  known  him— the  kindest— the  most 


^56 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


imlulgent — no  one  ever  loved  ine  as  he  did." 
She  paused,  for  she  felt  her  lip  quiver. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Merton,  coolly.  Mrs.  Merton  had  no  idea  of 
the  pain  inflicted  by  treading  upon  a  feeling. 
Maltravers  was  touched,  and  Mrs.  Merton 
went  on.  "  No  wonder  he  was  kind  to  you, 
Evelyn — a  brute  would  be  that;  but  he  was 
generally  considered  a  stern  man." 

"  I  never  saw  a  stern  look — I  never  heard  a 
harsh  word;  nay,  I  do  not  remember  that  he 
ever  even  used  the  word  '  command,' "  said 
Evelyn,  almost  angrily. 

Mrs.  Merton  was  about  to  reply,  when,  sud- 
denly, seeing  a  lady  whose  little  girl  had  been 
ill  of  the  measles,  her  motherly  thoughts 
flowed  into  a  new  channel,  and  she  fluttered 
away  in  that  sympathy  which  unites  all  the 
heads  of  a  growing  family.  Evelyn  and  Mal- 
travers were  left  alone. 

"You  do  not  remember  your  father,  I  be- 
lieve ?  "  said  Maltravers. 

"No  father  but  Lord  Vargrave;  while  he 
lived,  I  never  knew  the  loss  of  one." 

"  Does  your  mother  resemble  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  wish  I  could  think  so;  it  is  the 
sweetest  countenance  !  " 

"  Have  you  no  picture  of  her  ?  " 

"  None — she  would  never  consent  to  sit." 

"  Your  father  was  a  Cameron ;  I  have  known 
some  of  that  name." 

"No  relations  of  ours:  my  mother  says  we 
have  none  living." 

"  And  have  we  no  chance  of  seeing  Lady 
Vargrave  in  B -shire  ?  " 

"  She  never  leaves  home;  but  I  hope  to  re- 
turn soon  to  Brook  Green." 

Maltravers  sighed,  and  the  conversation  took 
a  new  turn. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  the  books  you  so 
kindly  sent — I  ought  to  have  returned  them 
ere  this,"  said  Evelyn. 

"  I  have  no  use  for  them.  Poetry  has  lost 
its  charm  for  me;  especially  that  species  of 
poetry  which  unites  with  the  method  and  sym- 
metry something  of  the  coldness  of  Art.  How 
did  you  like  Alfieri  ?  " 

"  His  language  is  a  kind  of  Spartan  French," 
answered  Evelyn,  in  one  of  those  happy  ex- 
pressions which  every  now  and  then  showed 
the  quickness  of  her  natural  talent. 

"Yes,"  said  Maltravers,  smiling;  "the  criti- 
cism is  acute.     Poor  Alfieri  ! — in  his  wild  life 


and  his  stormy  passions,  he  threw  out  all  the 
redundance  of  his  genius;  and  his  poetry  is 
but  the  representative  of  his  thoughts — not  his 
emotions.  Happier  the  man  of  genius  who 
lives  upon  his  reason,  and  wastes  feeling  only 
on  his  verse  !  " 

"  You  do  not  think  that  we  waste  feeling 
upon  human  beings?"  said  Evelyn,  with  a 
pretty  laugh. 

"  Ask  me  that  question  when  you  have 
reached  my  years,  and  can  look  upon  fields  on 
which  you  have  lavished  your  warmest  hopes 
—your  noblest  aspirations  —  your  tenderest 
affections — and  see  the  soil  all  profitless  and 
barren.  '  Set  not  your  heart  on  the  things  of 
earth,'  saith  the  Preacher." 

Evelyn  was  affected  by  the  tone,  the  words, 
and  the  melancholy  countenance  of  the  speaker. 

"  You,  of  all  men,  ought  not  to  think  thus," 
said  she,  with  a  sweet  eagerness:  "you  have 
done  so  much  to  awaken  and  to  soften  the 
heart  in  others — you — who — "  she  stopped 
short,  and  added,  more  gravely,  "Ah,  Mr. 
Maltravers,  I  cannot  reason  with  .you,  but  I 
can  hope  j'ou  will  refute  j'our  own  philosophy." 

"  Were  your  wish  fulfilled,"  answered  Ma. 
travers,    almost    with    sternness,  and  with  an 
expression    of   great   pain    in  his  compressed 
lips,  "  I  should  have  to  thank  you  for  much 
misery."     He  rose  abruptly,  and  turned  away. 

"  How  have  I  offended  him  ? "  thought 
Evelyn,  sorrowfully;  "1  never  speak  but  to 
wound  him — what  have  I  done  ?  " 

She  could  have  wished,  in  her  simple  kind- 
ness, to  follow  him,  and  make  peace;  but  he 
was  now  in  a  coterie  of  strangers;  and  shortly 
afterwards  he  left  the  room,  and  she  did  not 
see  him  again  for  weeks. 


CHAPTER   Vn. 

"  Nihil  est  aliud  magnum  quam  multa  minuta."  * 

—Vet.  Auct. 

An  anxious  event  disturbed  the  smooth 
current  of  cheerful  life  at  Merton  Rectory 
One  morning  when  Evelyn  came  down  she 
missed  little  Sophy,  who  had  contrived  to  es- 
tablish for  herself  the  undisputed  privilege  of 
a   stool  beside  Miss   Cameron    at    breakfast. 

*  There  is  nothing  so  great,  as  the  collection  of  the 
minute. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


257 


Mrs.  Merton  appeared  with  a  graver  face  than 
usual.  Sophy  was  unwell,  was  feverish;  the 
scarlet  fever  had  been  in  the  neighborhood; 
Mrs.  Merton  was  very  uneasy. 

"  It  is  the  more  unlucky,  Caroline,"  added 
the  mother,  turning  to  Miss  Merton,  "  because 
to-morrow,  you  know,  we  were  to  have  spent 
a  few  days  at  Knaresdean  to  see  the  races.  If 
poor  Sophy  does  not  get  better,  I  fear  you 
and  Miss  Cameron  must  go  without  me.  I 
can  send  to  Mrs.  Hare  to  be  your  chaperon; 
she  would  be  delighted." 

"Poor  Sophy  !  "  said  Caroline;  "  I  am  very 
sorry  to  hear  she  is  unwell;  but  I  think  Taylor 
would  take  great  care  of  her;  you  surely  need 
not  stay,  unless  she  is  much  worse." 

Mrs.  Merton,  who,  tame  as  she  seemed, 
was  a  fond  and  attentive  mother,  shook  her 
head  and  said  nothing:  but  Sophy  was  much 
worse  before  noon.  The  doctor  was  sent  for, 
and  pronounced  it  to  be  the  scarlet  fever. 

It  was  now  necessary  to  guard  against  the 
infection.  Caroline  had  had  the  complaint, 
and  she  willingly  shared  in  her  mother's  watch 
of  love  for  two  or  three  hours.  Mrs.  Merton 
gave  up  the  party.  Mrs.  Hare  (the  wife  of  a 
rich  squire  in  the  neighborhood)  was  written 
to,  and  that  lady  willingly  agreed  to  take 
charge  of  Caroline  and  her  friend. 

Sophy  had  been  left  asleep.  When  Mrs. 
Merton  returned  to  her  bed,  she  found  Evelyn 
quietly  stationed  there.  This  alarmed  her, 
for  Evelyn  had  never  had  the  scarlet  fever, 
and  had  been  forbidden  the  sick  room.  But 
poor  little  Sophy  had  waked  and  querulouslv 
asked  for  her  dear  Evy;  and  Evy,  who  had 
been  hovering  refund  the  room,  heard  the  in- 
quiry from  Lhe  garrulous  nurse,  and  come  in 
she  would,  and  the  child  gazed  at  her  so 
beseechingly,  when  Mrs.  Merton  entered,  and 
said  so  piteous'.y,  "  Don't  take  Evy  away," 
that  Evelyn  stoutly  declared  that  she  was  not 
the  least  afraid  of  infection,  and  stay  she  must. 
Nay,  her  share  in  the  nursing  would  be  the 
more  necessary,  since  Caroline  was  to  go  to 
Knaresdean  the  next  day. 

"  But  you  go,  too  my  dear  Miss  Cam- 
eron ?  " 

"  Ind-eed  I  could  not,  I  don't  care  for  races, 
1  never  wished  to  go;  I  would  much  sooner 
have  stayed;  and  I  am  sure  Sophy  will  not 
get  well  without  me — will  you,  dear  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes — if  I'm  to  keep  you  from  the 

6—17 


nice  races — I  should  be  worse  if  I    thought 
that." 

"  But  I  dont't  like  the  nice  races,  Sophy,  as 
your  sister  Carry  does;  she  must  go;  tijey 
can't  do  without  her; — but  nobody  knows  me, 
so  I  shall  not  be  missed." 

"  I  can't  hear  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Mrs 
Merton,  with  tears  in  her  eyes;  and  Evelyn 
said  no  more  then;— but  the  next  morning 
Sophy  was  still  worse,  and  the  mother  was  too 
anxious  and  too  sad  to  think  more  of  ceremony 
and  politeness,— so  Evelyn  stayed. 

A  momentary  pang  shot  across  Evelyn's 
breast  when  all  settled;  but  she  suppressed  the 
sigh  which  accompanied  the  thought  that  she 
had  lost  the  only  opportunity  she  might  have 
for  weeks  of  seeing  Maltravers;  to  that  chance 
she  had  indeed  looked  forward,  with  interest 
and  timid  pleasure,— the  chance  was  lost — but 
why  should  it  vex  her — what  was  he  to 
her? 

Caroline's  heart  smote  her,  as  she  came 
into  the  room  in  her  lilac  bonnet  and  new 
dress;  and  little  Sophy,  turning  on  her,. eyes 
which,  though  languid,  still  expressed  a  child's 
pleasure  at  the  sight  of  finery,  exclaimed, 
"  How  nice  and  pretty  you  look,  Carry  ! — do 
take  Evy  with  you — Evy  looks  pretty  to  !  " 

Caroline  kissed  the  child  in  silence,  and 
paused  irresolute;  glanced  at  her  dress,  and 
then  at  Evelyn,  who  smiled  on  her  without  a 
thought  of  envy;  and  she  had  half  a  mind  to 
say  too,  when  her  mother  entered  with  a  letter 
from  Lord  Vargrave.  It  was  short:  he  should 
be  at  the  Knaresdean  races— hoped  to  meet 
them  there,  and  accompany  them  home.  This 
information  re-decided  Caroline,  while  it  re- 
warded Evelyn.  In  a  few  minutes  more  Mrs. 
Hare  arrived;  and  Caroline,  glad  to  escape, 
perhaps,  her  own  compunction,  hurried  into 
the  carriage,  with  a  hasty  "  God  bless  you 
all  ! — don't  fret— I'm  sure  she  will  be  well  to- 
morrow— and  mind,  Evelyn,  you  don't  catch 
the  fever  ! " 

Mr.  Merton  looked  grave  anil  sfghed,  as  he 
handed  her  into  the  carriage;  but  when,  seated 
there,  she  turned  round  and  kissed  her  hand 
at  him,  she  looked  so  handsome  and  distin- 
guished, that  a  sentiment  of  paternal  pride 
smoothed  down  his  vexation  at  her  want  of 
feeling.  He  himself  gave  up  the  visit;  but  a 
little  time  after,  when  Sophy  fell  into  a  tranquil 
sleep,  he  thought  he  might  venture  to  canter 


25R 


BULWER'S     WOkKS. 


across  the  country  to  the  race-ground,  and  re- 
turn to  dinner. 

Days — nay,  a  whole  week  passed — the  races 
were  over — but  Caroline  had  not  returned. 
Meanwhile  Sophy's  fever  left  her;  she  could 
quit  her  bed— her  room — she  could  come 
down  stairs  again — and  the  family  was  happy. 
It  is  astonishing  how  the  least  ailment  in  those 
little  things  stops  the  wheels  of  domestic  life  ! 
Evelyn  fortunately  had  not  caught  the  fever: 
she  was  pale,  and  somewhat  reduced  by  fatigue 
and  confinement:  but  she  was  amply  repaid 
by  the  mother's  swimming  look  of  quiet  grati- 
tude— the  father's  pressure  of  the  hand — 
Sophy's  recovery — and  her  own  good  heart. 
They  had  heard  twice  from  Caroline,  putting 
oft  her  return: — Lady  Raby  was  so  kind,  she 
could  not  get  away  till  the  party  broke  up; — 
she  was  so  glad  to  hear  such  an  account  of 
Sophy. 

Lord  Vargrave  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
rectory  to  stay;  but  he  had  twice  ridden  over, 
and  remained  there  some  hours.  He  exerted 
himself  to  the  utmost  to  please  Evelyn;  and 
sne — who,  deceived  by  his  manners,  and  influ- 
enced by  the  recollections  of  long  and  famil- 
iar acquaintance,  was  blinded  to  his  real  char- 
acter— reproached  herself  more  bitterly  than 
ever  for  her  repugnance  to  his  suit  aixl  her 
ungrateful  hesitation  to  obey  the  wishes  of 
her  stepfather. 

To  the  Mertons,  Lumley  spoke  with  good- 
natured  praise  of  Caroline;  she  was  so  much 
admired;  she  was  the  beauty  at  Knaresdean. 
A  certain  young  friend  of  his.  Lord  Dolti- 
more,  was  evidently  smitten.  The  parents 
thought  much  over  the  ideas  conjured  up  by 
that  last  sentence. 

One  morning,  the  garrulous  Mrs.  Hare — the 
gossip  of  the  neighborhood — called  at  the 
rectory;  she  had  returned,  two  days  before, 
from  Knaresdean;  and  she,  too,  had  her  tale 
to  tell  of  Caroline's  conquests. 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merton,  if  we 
had  not  all  known  that  his  heart  was  pre-occu- 
pied,  we  should  have  thought  that  Lord  Var- 
grave was  her  warmest  admirer.  Most  charm- 
ing man,  Lord  Vargrave  ! — but  as  for  Lord 
Doltimore,  it  was  quite  a  flirtation.  E.xcuse 
me — ^no  scandal,  you  know,  ha,  ha  ! — a  fine 
young  man,  but  stiff  and  reserved — not  the 
cascination  of  Lord  Vargrave." 


"  Does  Lord  Raby  return  to  town,  or  is  he 
now  at  Knaresdean  for  the  autumn  ? " 

"  He  goes  on  Friday,  I  believe:  very  few  of 
the  guests  are  left  now.  Lady  A ,  and  Lord 
H.,  and  Lord  Vargrave  and  your  daughter,  and 
Mr.  Legard,  and  Lord  Doltimore,  and  Mrs. 
and  the  Misses  Cipher; — all  the  rest  went  the 
same  day  Ldid." 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  Mr.  Merton,  in  some 
surprise. 

"Ah,  I  read  your  thoughts:  you  wonder 
that  Miss  Caroline  has  not  come  back — is  not 
that  it  ?  But  perhaps  Lord  Doltimore— ha,  ha  ! 
— no  scandal  now— do  excuse  me  !  " 

"Was  Mr.  Maltravers  at  Knaresdean?" 
asked  Mrs.  Merton,  anxious  to  change  the 
subject,  and  unprepared  with  any  other  ques- 
tion. Evelyn  was  cutting  out  a  paper  horse 
for  Sophy,  who — all  her  high  spirits  flown — 
was  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  wistfully  follow- 
ing her  fairy  fingers — "Naughty  Evy,  you 
have  cut  off  the  horse's  head  ! " 

"Mr.  Maltravers — no,  I  think  not;  no,  he 
was  not  there.  Lord  Raby  asked  him  point- 
edly to  come,  and  was,  I  know,  much  disap- 
pointed that  he  did  not.  But  apropos  of  Mr. 
Maltravers:  I  met  him  nor  a  quarter  of  hour 
ago,  this  morning,  as  I  was  coming  to  you. 
You  know  we  have  leave  to  come  through  hi.s 
park,  and  as  I  was  in  the  park  at  the  time,  I 
stopped  the  carriage  to  speak  to  him.  I  told 
him  that  I  was  coming  here,  and  that  you  had 
had  the  scarlet  fever  in  the  house,  which  was 
the  reason  you  had  not  gone  to  the  races;  and 
he  turned  quite  pale,  and  seemed  so  alarmed. 
I  said  we  were  all  afraid  that  Miss  Cameron 
should  catch  it;  and,  excuse  me — ha,  ha  ! — no 
scandal,  I  hope — but " 

"  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  the  butler,  throwing 
open  the  door. 

Maltravers  entered  with  a  quick  and  even  a 
hurried  step;  he  stopped  short  when  he  saw 
Evelyn;  and  his  whole  countenance  was  in- 
stantly lightened  up  by  a  joyous  expression, 
which  as  suddenly  died  away. 

"This  is  kind,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Merton; 
"  it  is  so  long  since  we  have  seen  you." 

"  I  have  been  very  much  occupied,"  mut- 
tered Maltravers,  almost  inaudibly,  and  seated 
himself  next  to  Evelyn.  "I  only  just  heard 
— that — that  you  had  sickness  in  the  house — 
Miss  Cameron,  you  look  pale — you — you  have 
not  suffered,  I  hope  ?  " 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


«S9 


"  No — I  am  quite  well,"  said  Evelyn,  with 
a  smile;  and  she  felt  happy  that  her  friend 
was  kind  to  her  once  more. 

"It's  only  me,  Mr.  Ernest,"  said  Sophy; 
"  you  have  forgot  me  !  " 

Maltravers  hastened  to  vindicate  himself 
from  the  charge,  and  Sophy  and  he  were  soon 
made  excellent  friends  again. 

Mrs.  Hare,  whom  surprise  at  this  sudden 
meeting  had  hitherto  silenced,  and  who  longed 
to  shape  into  elegant  periphrasis  the  common 
adage,  "  Talk  of,  etc.,"  now  once  more  opened 
her  budget.  She  tattled  on:  first  to  one,  then 
to  the  other,  then  to  all;  till  she  had  tattled 
herself  out  of  breath;  and  then  the  orthodox 
half-hour  had  expired,  and  the  bell  was  rung, 
and  the  carriage  ordered,  and  Mrs.  Hare  rose 
to  depart. 

"  Do  just  come  to  the  door,  Mrs.  Merton," 
said  she,  "  and  look  at  my  pony-phaeton,  it  is 
so  pretty— Lady  Raby  admires  it  so  much; 
you  ought  to  have  just  such  another."  As  she 
spoke,  she  favored  Mrs.  Merton  with  a  sig- 
nificant glance,  that  said,  as  plainly  as  glance 
could  say,  "  I  have  something  to  communi- 
cate." Mrs.  Merton  took  the  hint,  and  fol- 
lowed the  good  iady  out  of  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merton," 
said  Mrs.  Hare,  in  a  whisper,  when  they  were 
safe  in  the  billiard-room,  that  interposed  be- 
tween the  apartment  they  had  left  and  the 
hall ;  ''  do  you  know  whether  Lord  Var- 
grave  and  Mr.  Maltravers  are  very  good 
friends .? " 

"No,  indeed:  why  do  you  ask?" 
"  Oh,  because  when  I  was  speaking  to  Lord 
Vargrave  about  him,  he  shook  his  head;  and 
really  I  don't  remember  what  his  lordship  said; 
but  he  seemed  to  speak  as  if  there  was  a  little 
soreness.  And  then  he  inquired  very  anx- 
iously, if  Mr.  Maltravers  was  much  at  the  rec- 
tory I  and  looked  discomposed  when  he  found 
you  were  such  near  neighbors.  You'll  excuse 
iiu,  you  know— ha,  ha  I — but  we're  such  old 
friends  ! — and  if  Lord  Vargrave  is  coming  to 
stay  here,  it  might  be  unpleasant  to  meet — 
you'll  excuse  inc.  I  took  the  liberty  to  tell 
him,  he  need  not  be  jealous  of  Mr.  Maltravers 
■ — ha,  ha  ! — not  a  marrying  man  at  all.  But  I 
did  think  Miss  Carohne  was  the  attraction — 
you'll  excuse  me — no  scandal — ha,  ha  !  But, 
after  all,  Lord  Doltimore  must  be  the  man;— 
well,  good  morning.     I  thought  I'd  just  give 


you  this  hint.  Is  not  the  phaeton  pretty? 
Kind  compiments  to  Mr.  Merton." 
And  the  lady  drove  off. 
During  this  confabulation,  Maltravers  and 
Evelyn  were  left  alone  with  Sophy.  Maltrav- 
ers had  continued  to  lean  over  the  child,  and 
appeared  listening  to  her  prattle;  while  Eve- 
lyn, haviug  risen  to  shake  hands  with  Mrs. 
Hare,  did  not  reseat  herself,  but  went  to  the 
window,  and  busied  herself  with  a  flower-stand 
in  the  recess. 

"Oh,  very  fine,  Mr.  Ernest,"  said  Sophy 
(always  pronouncing  that  proper  name  as  if  it 
ended  in  //;),  "  you  care  very  much  for  us  to 
stay  away  so  long— don't  he,  Evy  ?  I've  a 
great  mind  not  to  speak  to  you,  sir,  that  I 
have  !  " 

"  That  would  be  too  heavy  a  punishment, 
Miss  Sophy— only,  luckily,  it  would  punish 
yourself;  you  could  not  live  without  talking — 
talk— talk— talk  !  " 

"  But  I  might  never  have  talked  more,  Mr. 
Ernest,  if  mamma  and  pretty  Evy  had  not 
been  so  kind  to  me;"  and  the  child  shook  her 
head  mournfully,  as  if  she  had  /////  de  sot- 
mime.  "  But  you  won't  stay  away  so  long 
again,  will  you  ?  Sophy  play  to-morrow — 
come  to-morrow,  and  swing  Soph)' — no  nice 
swinging  since  you've  been  gone." 

While  Sophy  spoke,  Evelyn  turned  half 
round,  as  if  to  hear  Maltravers  answer;  he  hesi- 
tated and  Evelyn  spoke 

"You  must  not  tease  Mr.  Maltravers  so: 
Mr.  Maltravers  has  too  much  to  do  to  come 
to  us." 

Now  this  was  a  ve4y  pettish  speech  in  Eve- 
lyn, and  her  cheek  glowed  while  she  spoke; 
but.  an  arch,  provoking  smile  was  on  her 
lips. 

"  It  can  be  a  privation  only  to  me,  Miss 
Cameron,"  said  Maltravers,  rising,  and  at- 
temptmg  in  vain  to  resist  the  impulse  that 
drew  him  towards  the  window.  The  reproach 
in  her  tone  and  words  at  once  pained  and  de- 
lighted him;  and  then  this  scene — the  suffer- 
mg  child — brought  back  to  him  his  first  inter- 
view with  Evelyn  herself.  He  forgot,  for  the 
moment,  the  lapse  of  time— the  new  ties  she 
had  formed — his  own  resolutions. 

"  That  is  a  bad  compliment  to  us,"  answered 
Evelyn  ingenuously;  "  do  you  think  we  are  so 
little  worthy  your  society  as  not  to  value  it  ? 
But,  perhaps  "  (she  added,  sinking  her  voice) 


20o 


J3  UL  WEKS     WORKS. 


"  perhaps  you  have  been  olTendeti — perhaps 
I — I — said — something  that — that  hurt  you  !  " 

"You!"  repeated  Maltravers,  with  emo- 
tion. 

Sophy,  who  had  been  attentively  listening, 
here  put  in—"  Shake  hands  and  make  it  up 
with  Evy— you've  been  quarrelling,  naughty 
Ernest  !  " 

Evelyn  laughed,  and  tossed  back  her  sunny 
ringlets.  "  I  think  Sophy  is  right,"  said  she 
with  enchanting  simplicity;  "let  us  make  it 
up; "  and  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Mal- 
travers. 

Maltravers  pressed  the  fair  hand  to  his  lips. 
"  Alas  !  "  said  he,  affected  with  various  feel- 
ings which  gave  a  tremor  to  his  deep  voice, 
"your  only  fault  is,  that  your  society  makes 
me  discontented  with  my  solitary  home;  and 
as  solitude  must  be  my  fate  in  life,  I  seek  to 
enure  myself  to  it  betimes." 

Here,  whether  opportunely  or  not,  it  is  for 
the  reader  to  decide — Mrs.  Merton  returned  to 
the  room. 

She  apologized  for  her  absence — talked  of 
Mrs.  Hare,  and  the  little  Master  Hares — fine 
boys,  but  noi«y;  and  then  she  asked  Maltrav- 
ers if  he  had  seen  Lord  Vargrave  since  his 
lordship  had  been  in  the  county. 

Maltravers  replied  with  coldness,  that  he 
had  not  had  that  honor;  that  Vargrave  had 
called  on  him  in  his  way  from  the  rectory  the 
other  day,  but  that  he  was  from  home,  and 
that  he  had  not  seen  him  for  some  years. 

"  He  is  a  person  of  most  prepossessing 
manners,"  said  Mrs.  Merton." 

"  Certainly — most  prepossessing." 

"  And  very  clever." 

"  He  has  great  talents." 

"He  seems  most  amiable." 

Maltravers  bowed,  and  glanced  towards 
Evelyn,  whose  face,  however,  was  turned  from 
him. 

The  turn  the  conversation  had  taken  was 
painful  to  the  visitor,  and  he  rose  to  depart. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Merton,  "you  will 
meet  Lord  Vargrave  at  dinner  to-morrow;  he 
will  stay  with  us  a  few  days — as  long  as  he 
can  be  spared." 

Maltravers  meet  Lord  Vargrave  ! — the  happy 
Vargrave! — the  betrothed  to  Evelyn! — Mal- 
travers witness  the  familiar  rights — the  en- 
chanting privileges  accorded  to  another  ! — 
and  that  other  one  whom  he  could  not  believe 


worthy  of  Evelyn  !  He  writhed  at  the  picture 
the  invitation  conjured  up. 

"You  are  very  kind,  my  dear  Mrs.  Merton, 
but  I  expect  a  visitor  at  Burleigh — an  old 
and  dear  friend,  Mr.  Cleveland." 

"  Mr.  Cleveland  ! — we  shall  be  delighted  to 
see  him  too.  We  knew  him  many  years  ago, 
during  your  minority,  when  he  used  to  visit 
Burleigh  two  or  three  times  a-year." 

"  He  is  changed  since  then;  he  is  often  an 
invalid.  I  fear  I  cannot  answer  for  him;  but 
he  will  call  as  soon  as  he  arrives,  and  apologize 
for  himself." 

Maltravers  then  hastily  took  his  departure. 
He  would  not  trust  himself  to  do  more  than 
bow  distantly  to  Evelyn; — she  looked  at  hirr» 
reproachfully.  So,  then,  it  was  really  premed- 
itated and  resolved  upon — his  absence  from 
the  rectory — and  why? — she  was  grieved — she 
was  offended — but  more  grieved  than  offended 
— perhaps  because  esteem,  interest,  admira- 
tion, are  more  tolerant  and  charitable  than 
Love  ! " 


CHAPTER    VHL 

"  Arethusa.    'Tis   well,   my   lord,   you're   courting  ol 

ladies. 

*  «  *  »  » 

Claremont.    Sure  this  lady  has  a  good  turn  done  her 
against  her  will. — Phii..'\stkr. 

In  the  breakfast-room  at  Knaresdean,  the 
same  day,  and  almost  at  the  same  hour,  ii> 
which  occurred  the  scene  and  conversation  at 
the  rectory  recorded  in  our  last  chapter,  sate 
Lord  Vargrave  and  Caroline  alone.  The  party 
had  dispersed,  as  was  usual,  at  noon.  They 
heard  at  a  distance  the  sounds  of  the  billiard 
balls.  Lord  Doltimore  was  playing  with 
Colonel  Legard,  one  of  the  best  players  in 
Europe,  but  who,  fortunately  for  Doltimore,. 
had,  of  late,  made  it  a  rule  never  to  play  for 
money.  Mrs.  and  the  Misses  Cipher,  and 
most  of  the  guests,  were  in  the  billiard-room- 
looking  on.  Lady  Raby  was  writing  letters, 
and  Lord  Raby  riding  over  his  home  farm. 
Caroline  and  Lumley  had  been  for  some  time 
in  close  and  earnest  conversation.  Miss  Mer- 
ton was  seated  in  a  large  arm-chair,  much 
moved,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Lord  Vargrave  with  his  back  to  the  chimney- 


ALICE;     OR,      THE    MYSTERJLS. 


261 


piece,  was  bending  clown,  and  speaking  in  a 
very  low  voice,  while  his  quick  eye  glanced, 
ever  and  anon,  from  the  lady's  countenance  to 
the  windows — to  the  doors,  to  be  prepared 
against  any  interruption. 

"  No,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he,  "  believe 
me  that  I  am  sincere.  My  feelings  for  you 
are,  indeed,  such  as  no  words  can  paint." 

"  Then  why " 

"Why  wish  you  wedded  to  another — why 
wed  another  myself  ?  Caroline,  I  have  often 
before  explained  to  you  that  we  are  in  this  the 
victims  of  an  inevitable  fate.  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  I  should  wed  Miss  Cameron. 
I  never  deceived  yon  from  the  first.  I  should 
have  loved  her, — my  heart  would  have  accom- 
panied my  hand,  but  for  your  too  -seductive 
beauty, — your  superior  mind  ! — yes,  Caroline, 
your  mind  attracted  me  more  than  your 
beauty.  Your  mind  seemed  kindred  to  my 
own — inspired  with  the  proper  and  wise  am- 
bition which  regards  the  fools  of  the  world  as 
puppets — as  counters — as  chessmen.  For  my- 
self, a  very  angel  from  heaven  could  not  make 
me  give  up  the  great  game  of  life  ! — yield  to 
my  enemies— slip  from  the  ladder — unravel 
the  web  I  have  woven  !  Share  my  heart— my 
friendship — my  schemes  !  this  is  the  true  and 
dignified  affection  that  should  exist  between 
minds  like  ours;  all  the  rest  is  the  prejudice 
of  children." 

"  Vargrave,  I  am  ambitious — worldly:  I  own 
it,  but  I  could  give  up  all  for  you  ! " 

"  You  think  so,  for  you  do  not  know  the 
sacrifice.  You  see  me  now  apparently  rich — 
in  j)ower — courted;  and  this  fate  you  are  wil- 
ling to  share; — and  this  fate  you  j/w«/(/ share, 
Avere  it  the  real  one  I  could  bestow  on  you. 
But  reverse  the  medal.  Deprived  of  office — 
fortune  gone — debts  pressing — destitution  no- 
torious— the  ridicule  of  embarrassments — the 
disrepute  attached  to  poverty  and  defeated 
ambition — an  exile  in  some  foreign  town  on 
the  poor  pension  to  which  alone  I  should  be 
entitled — a  mendicant  on  the  public  purse; 
and  that,  too,  so  eat  into  by  demands  and 
debts,  that  there  is  not  a  grocer  in  the  next 
market-town  who  would  envy  the  income  of 
the  retired  minister  !  Retire,  fallen-^desjiised, 
in  the  prime  of  life — in  the  zenith  of  my 
hopes  !  Suppose  that  I  could  bear  this  for 
myself — could  I  bear  it  for  you  ?  You,  born 
to    be   the    ornament  of   courts  !  and  you, — 


could  you  see  me  thus  ?  life  embittered- 
career  lost— and  feel,  generous  as  you  are, 
that  your  love  had  entailed  on  me— on  us  both 
—on  our  children— this  miserable  lot !  Im- 
possible, Caroline  !  we  are  too  wise  for  such 
romance.  It  is  not  because  we  love  too  little, 
but  because  our  love  is  worthy  of  each  other, 
that  we  disdain  to  make  love  a  curse  !  We 
cannot  wrestle  against  the  world,  but  we  may 
shake  hands  with  it,  and  worm  the  miser  out 
of  its  treasures.  My  heart  must  be  ever  yours 
— my  hand  must  be  Miss  Cameron's.  Money 
I  must  have  ! — ray  whole  career  depends  on 
it.  It  is  literally  with  me  the  highwayman's 
choice — money  or  life." 

Vargrave  paused,  and  took  Caroline's  hand. 
"I  cannot  reason  with  you,"  said  she;  "you 
know  the  strange  empire  you  have  obtained 
over  me,  and,  certainly,  in  spite  of  all  that  has 
passed  (and  Caroline  turned  pale)  I  could  bear 
anything  rather  than  that  you  should  hereafter 
reproach  me  for  selfish  disregard  of  your  in- 
terests— your  just  ambition." 

"  My  noble  friend  I  I  do  not  say  that  I 
shall  not  feel  a  deep  and  sharp  pang  at  seeing 
you  wed  another, — but  I  shall  be  consoled  by 
the  thought  that  I  have  assisted  to  procure  for 
you  a  station  worthier  of  your  merits  than  that 
which  I  can  offer.  Lord  Doltiniore  is  rich — 
you  will  teach  him  to  employ  his  riches  well — 
he  is  weak — your  intellect  will  govern  him;  he 
is  in  love — your  beauty  will  suffice  to  preserve 
his  regard.  Ah,  we  shall  be  dear  friends  to 
the  last  I  " 

More — but  to  the  same  effect — did  this  able 
and  crafty  villain  continue  to  address  Caroline, 
whom  he  alternately  soothed,  irritated,  flat- 
tered, and  revolted.  Love  him  she  certainly 
did,  as  far  as  love  in  her  could  extend;  but 
perhaps  his  rank,  his  reputation,  had  served 
to  win  her  affection;  and,  not  knowing  his 
embarrassments,  she  had  encouraged  a  worldly 
hope,  that  if  Evelyn  should  reject  his  hand  it 
might  be  offered  to  her.  Under  this  impres- 
sion she  had  trifled — she  had  coquetted — she 
had  played  with  the  serpent  till  it  had  coiled 
around  her — and  she  could  not  escape  its  fas-" 
cination  and  its  folds.  She  was  sincere— she 
could  have  resigned  much  for  Lord  Vargrave; 
but  his  picture  startled  and  appalled  her. 
For  difficulties  in  a  palace  she  might  be  pre- 
pared—perhaps even  for  some  privations  in  a 
cottage  orn/e— hut  certainly  not  for  penury  in 


262 


B  UL  I  I'A  K  S     i  I  OAAS. 


a  lodging-house  !  She  listened  by  degrees 
with  more  attention  to  Vargrave's  description 
of  the  power  and  homage  that  would  be  hers 
if  she  could  secure  Lord  Doltimore:  she 
listened,  and  was  in  part  consoled.  But  the 
thought  of  Evelyn  again  crossed  her;  and, 
perhaps,  with  natural  jealousy  was  mingled 
some  compunction  at  the  fate  to  which  Lord 
Vargrave  thus  coldly  appeared  to  condemn 
one  so  lovely  and  so  innocent. 

"  But  do  not,  Vargrave,"  she  said,  "  do  not 
be  too  sanguine;  Evelyn  may  reject  you.  She 
does  not  see  you  with  my  eyes;  it  is  only  a 
sense  of  honor  that,  as  yet,  forbids  her  openly 
to  refuse  the  fulfilment  of  an  engagement 
from  which  I  know  that  she  shrinks;  and  if 
she  does  refuse, — and  you  be  free, — and  I 
another's " 

"  Even  in  that  case,"  interrupted  Vargrave, 
"I  must  turn  to  the  Golden  Idol;  my  rank 
and  name  must  buy  me  an  heiress,  if  noi  so 
endowed  as  Evelyn,  wealthy  enough,  at  least, 
to  take  from  my  wheels  the  drag-chain  of  dis- 
reputable debt.  But  Evelyn — I  will  not  doubt 
of  her  ! — her  heart  is  still  unoccupied  ? 

"  True,  as  yet  her  affections  are  not  en- 
gaged." 

"  And  this  Maltravers — she  is  romantic,  I 
fancy— did  he  seem  captivated  by  her  beauty 
or  her  fortune  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  I  think  not;  he  has  been 
very  little  with  us  of  late.  He  talked  to  her 
more  as  to  a  child— there  is  a  disparity  of 
years." 

"  I  am  many  years  older  than  Maltravers," 
muttered  Vargrave,  moodily. 

"You! — but  your  manner  is  livelier,  and, 
therefore,  younger  !  " 

"  Fair  flatterer  !  Maltravers  does  not  love 
me:  I  fear  his  report  of  my  character " 

"  I  never  heard  him  speak  of  you,  Vargrave; 
and  I  will  do  Evelyn  the  justice  to  say,  that 
precisely  as  she  does  not  love  she  esteems  and 
respects  you." 

"  Esteems — respects — these  are  the  feelings 
for  a  prudent  Hymen,"  said  Vargrave,  with  a 
smile.  "  But,  hark  !  I  don't  hear  the  billiard 
balls;  they  may  find  us  here — we  had  better 
separate." 

Lord  Vargrave  lounged  into  the  billiard- 
room.  The  young  men  had  just  finished  play- 
ing, and  were  about  to  visit  Thunderer,  who 


had  won  the  race,  and  was  now  the  property 
of  Lord  Doltimore. 

Vargrave  accom[janied  them  to  the  stables; 
and,  after  concealing  his  ignorance  of  horse- 
flesh as  well  as  he  could,  beneath  a  profusion 
of  compliments  on  fore-hand,  hind-quarters, 
breeding,  bone,  substance,  and  famous  points, 
he  contrived  to  draw  Doltimore  into  the 
court-yard,  while  Colonel  Legard  remained  in 
converse  high  with  the  head-groom. 

"Doltimore,  I  leave  l.naresdean  to-mor- 
row; you  go  to  London,  I  suppose?  Will  you 
take  a  little  packet  for  me  to  the  Home 
Office?" 

"Certainly,  when  I  go;  but  I  think  of  stay- 
ing a  few  days  with  Legard's  uncle— the  old 
admiral---he  has  a  hunting-box  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  has  asked  us  both  over." 

"  Oh  !  I  can  detect  the  attraction — but  cer- 
tainly it  is  a  fair  one — the  handsomest  girl  in 
the  county;  pity  she  has  no  money." 

"  I  don't  care  for  money,"  said  Lord  Dolti- 
more, coloring  and  settling  his  chin  in  his 
neckcloth;  "but  you  are  mistaken;  I  have  no 
thoughts  that  way.  Miss  Merton  is  a  very 
fine  girl;  but  I  doubt  much  if  she  cares  for 
me.  I  would  never  marry  any  woman  who 
was  not  very  much  in  love  with  me."  And 
Lord  Doltimore  laughed  rather  foolishly. 

"  You  are  more  modest  than  clear-sighted," 
said  Vargrave,  smiling;  "but  mark  my  words 
— I  predict  that  the  beantyof  next  season  will 
be  a  certain  Caroline  Lady  Doltimore  !  " 

The  conversation  dropped. 

"  I  think  that  will  be  settled  well,"  said 
Vargrave  to  himself,  as  he  was  dressing  for 
dinner.  "  Caroline  will  manage  Doltimore, 
and  I  shall  manage  one  vote  in  the  Lords  and 
three  in  the  Commons.  I  have  already  taken 
him  into  proper  politics;  a  trifle  all  this,  to  be 
sure:  but  I  had  nothing  else  to  amuse  me, 
and  one  must  never  lose  an  occasion.  Be- 
sides, Doltimore  is  rich,  and  rich  friends  are 
always  useful.  I  have  Caroline,  too,  half  in 
my  power,  and  she  may  be  of  service  with  re- 
spect to  this  Evelyn,  whom,  instead  of  loving, 
I  half  hate:  she  has  crossed  my  path,  robbed 
me  of  my  wealth;  and  now — if  she  does  re- 
fuse me but  no,  I  will  not  think  of  that  J" 


ALICE; 
CHAPTER    rx. 


OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


263 


Out  of  our  reach  the  gods  have  laid 

Of  time  to  come  the  event; 
And  laugh  to  see  the  fools  afraid 

Of  what  the  knaves  invent." 

— Sedley,/?w«  Lycophron. 

The  next  day  Caroline  returned  to  the  rec- 
tory in  Lady  Raby's  carriage:  and  two  hours 
after  her  arrival  came  Lord  Vargrave.  Mr. 
Merton  had  secured  the  principal  persons  in 
the  neighborhood  to  meet  a  guest  so  distin- 
guished, and  Lord  Vargrave,  bent  on  shining 
in  the  eyes  of  Evelyn,  charmed  all  with  his 
affability  and  wit.  Evelyn  he  thought  seemed 
pale  and  dispirited.  He  pertinaciously  devoted 
himself  to  her  all  the  evening.  Her  ripening 
understanding  was  better  able  than  heretofore 
to  appreciate  his  abilities;  yet,  inwardly,  she 
drew  comparisons  between  his  conversation 
and  that  of  Maltravers,  not  to  the  advantage 
of  the  former.  There  was  much  that  amused, 
but  nothing  that  interested,  in  Lord  Vargrave's 
fluent  ease.  When  he  attempted  sentiment, 
the  vein  was  hard  and  hollow; — he  was  only  at 
home  on  worldly  topics.  Caroline's  spirits 
were,  as  usual  in  society,  high,  but  her  laugh 
seemed  forced,  and  her  eye  absent. 

The  next  day,  after  breakfast.  Lord  Vargrave 
walked  alone  to  Burleigh:  as  he  crossed  the 
copse  that  bordered  the  park,  a  large  Persian 
grayhound  sprang  towards  him,  barking  loudly; 
and,  lifting  his  eyes,  he  perceived  the  form  of 
a  man  walking  slowly  along  one  of  the  paths 
that  intersected  the  wood.  He  recognized 
Maltravers.  They  had  not  till  then  encoun- 
tered since  their  meeting  a  few  weeks  before 
Florence's  death;  and  a  pang  of  conscience 
came  across  the  schemer's  cold  heart.  Years 
rolled  away  from  the  past — he  recalled  the 
young,  generous,  ardent  man,  whom,  ere  the 
character  or  career  of  either  had  been  de- 
veloped, he  had  called  his  friend.  He  remem- 
bered their  wild  adventures  and  gay  follies,  in 
climes  where  they  had  been  all  in  all  to  each 
other; — and  the  beardless  boy,  whose  heart 
and  purse  were  ever  open  to  him,  and  to  whose 
very  errors  of  youth  and  inexperienced  pas- 
sion, he,  the  elder  and  the  wiser,  had  led  and 
tempted,  rose  before  him  in  contrast  to  the 
grave  and  melancholy  air  of  the  baffled  and 
solitary  man,  who  now  slowly  approached  him 
— the  man  whose  proud  career  he  had  served 


to  thwart— whose  heart  his  schemes  had 
prematurely  soured— whose  best  years  had 
been  consumed  in  exile— a  sacrifice  to  the 
grave,  which  a  selfish  and  dishonorable  villainy 
had  prepared  !— Cesarini,  the  inmate  of  a  mad- 
house—Florence in  her  shroud:— such  were 
the  visions  the  sight  of  Maltravers  conjured 
up.  And  to  the  soul  which  the  unwonted  and 
itiomentary  remorse  awakened,  a  boding  voice 
whispered  —  "  And  thinkest  thou  that  tiiy 
schemes  shall  prosper,  and  thy  aspirations 
succeed  ?  "  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  per- 
haps, the  unimaginative  Vargrave  felt  the 
mystery  of  a  presentiment  of  warning  and 
of  evil. 

The  two  men  met;  and  with  an  emotion 
which  seemed  that  of  honest  and  real  feeling, 
Lumley  silently  held  out  his  hand,  and  half 
turned  away  his  head. 

"  Lord  Vargrave  !  "  said  Maltravers,  with 
an  equal  a5,itation,  "  it  is  long  since  we  have 
encountered." 

"Long  —  very  long,"  answered  Lumley, 
striving  hard  to  regain  his  self-possession; 
"years  have  changed  us  both;  but  I  trust  it 
has  still  left  in  you,  as  it  has  in  me,  the  re- 
membrance of  our  old  friendship." 

Maltravers  was  silent,  and  Lord  Vargrave 
continued — 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,  Maltravers:  can 
political  differences,  opposite  pursuits,  or  the 
mere  lapse  of  time,  have  sufficed  to  create  an 
irrevocable  gulf  between  us  ?  Why  may  we 
not  be  friends  again  ? " 

"Friends!"  echoed  Maltravers;  "at  our 
age  that  word  is  not  so  lightly  spoken — that 
tie  is  not  so  unthinkingly  formed — as  when  we 
were  younger  men." 

"  But  may  not  the  old  tie  be  renewed  ?  " 

"  Our  ways  in  life  are  different;  and  were 
I  to  scan  your  motives  and  career  with  the 
scrutinizing  eyes  of  friendship,  it  might  only 
serve  to  separate  us  yet  more.  I  am  sick  of 
the  great  juggle  of  ambition,  and  I  have  no 
sympathy  left  for  those  who  creep  into  the 
pint-bottle,  or  swallow  the  naked  sword. 

"  If  you  despise  the  exhibition,  why,  then, 
let  us  laugh  at  it  together,  for  I  am  as  cynical 
as  yourself." 

"Ah  !"  said  Maltravers  with  a  smile,  half 
mournful,  half  bitter,  "but  are  you  not  one  of 
the  Impostors  ?  " 

"Who  ought  better  to  judge  of  the  Eleusini- 


204 


BULWEK'S     U'UKKS. 


ana  than  one  of  the  Initiated  ?  But,  seriously, 
why  on  earth  should  political  differences  part 
private  friendships  ?  Thank  Heaven  !  such 
has  never  been  my  maxim." 

"  If  the  differences  be  the  result  of  honest 
convictions  on  either  side,  No.  But  are  you 
honest,  Lumley  ? " 

"  Faith,  I  had  got  into  the  habit  of  thinking 
so;  and  habit's  a  second  nature.  However,  I 
dare  say  we  shall  meet  yet  in  the  arena,  so  I 
must  not  betray  my  weak  points.  How  is  it, 
Maltravers,  that  they  see  so  little  of  you  at 
the  rectory  ?  you  are  a  great  favorite  there. 
Have  you  any  living  that  Charley  Merton 
could  hold  with  his  own? — You  shake  your 
head.  And  what  think  you  of  Miss  Cameron, 
my  intended  ? " 

"  You  speak  lightly.     Perhaps  you " 

"  Feel  deeply — you  were  going  to  say.  I 
do.  In  the  hand  of  my  ward,  Evelyn  Cam- 
eron, I  trust  to  obtain  at  once  the  domestic 
happiness  to  which  I  have  as  yet  been  a 
stranger,  and  the  wealth  necessary  in  my  ca- 
reer." 

Lord  Vargrave  continued,  after  a  short 
pause,  "Though  my  avocations  have  separated 
us  so  much,  I  have  no  doubt  of  her  steady 
affection, — and  I  may  add  of  her  sense  of 
honor.  She  alone  can  repair  to  me  what  else 
had  been  injustice  in  my  uncle."  He  then 
proceeded  to  repeat  the  moral  obligations 
which  the  late  lord  had  imposed  on  Evelyn; — 
obligations  that  he  greatly  magnified.  Mal- 
travers listened  attentively,  and  said  little. 


"  And  these  obligations  being  fairly  consid- 
ered," added  Vargrave,  with  a  smile,  "  I  think, 
even  had  I  rivals,  that  they  could  scarcely  in 
honor  attempt  to  break  an  existing  engage- 
ment." 

"  Not  while  the  engagement  lasted,"  an- 
swered Maltravers;  "  not  till  one  or  the  other 
had  declined  to  fulfil  it,  and  therefore  left 
both  free:  but  I  trust  it  will  be  an  alliance  in 
which  all  but  affection  will  be  forgotten — that 
of  honor  alone  would  be  but  a  harsh  tie." 

"  Assuredly,"  said  "Vargrave;  and,  as  if  sat- 
isfied with  what  had  passed,  he  turned  the  con- 
versation— praised  Burleigh — spoke  of  county 
matters — resumed  his  habitual  gaiety,  though 
it  was  somewhat  subdued — and,  promising  to 
call  again  soon,  he  at  last  took  his  leave. 

Maltravers  pursued  his  solitary  rambles: 
and  his  commune  with  himself  was  stern  and 
searching. 

"  And  so,"  thought  he,  this  prize  is  reserved 
for  Vargrave  I  Why  should  I  deem  him  un- 
worthy of  the  treasure  ?  May  he  not  be 
worthier,  at  all  events,  than  this  soured  tem- 
per and  erring  heart  ?  And  he  is  assured  too 
of  her  affection  ?  Why  this  jealous  pang  ? 
Why  can  the  fountain  within  never  be  ex- 
hausted ?  Vi'hy,  through  so  many  scenes  and 
sufferings,  have  I  still  retained  the  vain  mad- 
ness of  my  youth — the  haunting  susceptibility 
to  love .'    This  is  my  latest  folly. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


2<>'> 


BOOK    FOURTH, 


'ElSA^S  ifi.eii'oi'.— SiMONIDES. 

A  virtuous  woman  is  man's  greatest  pride. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Abroad  uneasy,  nor  content  at  home. 

*  ♦  *  »  * 

And  Wisdom  shows  the  ill  without  the  cure." 

Hammond:  Elegies. 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  interview  be- 
tween Lord  Vargrave  and  MaTtravers,  the  soli- 
tude of  Burleigh  was  relieved  by  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Cleveland.  The  good  old  gentleman, 
when  free  from  attacks  of  the  gout;  which 
were  now  somewhat  more  frequent  than  for- 
merly, was  the  same  cheerful  and  intelligent 
person  as  ever.  Amiable,  urbane,  accom- 
plished, and  benevolent — there  was  just  enough 
worldliness  in  Cleveland's  nature  to  make  his 
views  sensible  as  far  as  they  went,  but  to 
bound  their  scope.  Every  thing  he  said  was 
so  rational — and  yet,  to  an  imaginative  per- 
son, his  conversation  was  unsatisfactory,  and 
his  philosophy  somewhat  chilling. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  pleased  and  surprised  I 
am  at  your  care  of  the  fine  old  place,"  said  he 
to  Maltravers,  as,  leaning  on  his  cane  and  his 
ci-devant  pupil's  arm,  he  loitered  observantly 
through  the  grounds — "  I  see  every  where  the 
presence  of  the  Master." 

And  certainly  the  praise  was  deserved  ! — 
the  gardens  were  now  in  order — the  delapidated 
fences  were  repaired — the  weeds  no  longer  en- 
cumbered the  walks — Nature  was  just  assisted 
and  relieved  by  Art,  without  being  oppressed 
by  too  officious  a  service  from  her  handmaid. 
In  the  house  itself,  some  suitable  and  appro- 
priate repairs  and  decorations — with  such 
articles  of  furniture  as  combined  modern  com- 
fort with  the  ancient  and  picturesque  shapes  of 
a  former  fashion — -had  redeemed  the  mansion 
from  all  appearance  of  dreariness  and  neglect. 


while  still  was  left  to  its  quaint  halls  and 
chambers  the  character  which  belonged  to 
their  architecture  and  associations.  It  was 
surprising  how  much  a  little  e.xercise  of  simple 
taste  had  effected. 

"  I  am  glad  you  approve  what  I  have  done," 
said  Maltravers.  "  I  know  not  how  it  was, 
but  the.  desolation  of  the  jilace,  when  I  re- 
turned to  it,  reproached  me.  We  contract 
friendship  with  places  as  with  human  beings, 
and  fancy  they  have  claims  upon  us; — at  least 
that  is  my  weakness." 

"  And  an  amiable  one  it  is,  too — I  share  it. 
As  for  me,  I  look  upon  Temple  Grove  as  a 
fond  husband  upon  a  fair  wife.  I  am  always 
anxious  to  adorn  it,  and  as  proud  of  its  beauty 
as  if  it  could  understand  and  thank  me  for  my 
partial  admiration.  When  I  leave  you,  I  in- 
tend going  to  Paris,  for  the  purpose  of  attend- 
ing a  sale  of  the  pictures  and  effects  of  Mon- 
sieur De .     These  auctions  are  to  me  what 

a  jeweller's  shop  is  to  a  lover;  but  then,  Ernest, 
I  am  an  old  bachelor." 

"And  I,  too,  am  an  Arcadian,"  said  Mal- 
travers, with  a  smile. 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  not  too  old  for  repent- 
ance. Burleigh  now  requires  nothing  but  a 
mistress." 

"  Perhaps  it  may  soon  receive  that  addition. 
I  am  yet  undecided  whether  I  shall  sell  it." 

"  Sell  it  ! — sell  Burleigh  ! — the  last  memorial 
of  your  mother's  ancestry  ! — the  classic  retreat 
of  the  graceful  Digbys  !     Sell  Burleigh  ! " 

"  I  had  almost  resolved  to  do  so  when  I 
came  hither;  then  I  foreswore  the  intention: 
now  again  I  sometimes  sorrowfully  return  to 
the  idea." 

"  And  in  Heaven's  name,  why  ?  " 


266 


B  UI.  WER'  S     I  yOJiKS. 


"  My  old  restlassness  returns.  Busy  myself 
as  I  will  here,  I  find  the  range  of  action  monot- 
onous and  confined.  I  began  too  soon  to 
draw  around  me  the  large  circumference  of 
literature  and  action;  and  the  small  provincial 
sphere  seems, to  me  a  sad  going  back  in  life. 
Perhaps  I  should  not  feel  this,  were  my  home 
less  lonely;  but  as  it  is — no,  the  wanderer's 
ban  is  on  me,  and  I  again  turn  towards  the 
lands  of  excitement  and  adventure." 

"  I  understand  this,  Ernest;  but  why  is 
your  home  so  solitary?  You  are  still  at  the 
age  in  which  wise  and  congenial  unions  are 
the  most  frequently  formed;  your  temper  is 
domestic — your  easy  fortune  and  sobered  am- 
bition allow  you  to  choose  without  reference 
to  worldly  considerations.  Look  round  the 
world,  and  mix  with  the  world  again;  and  give 
Burleigh  the  mistress  it  requires." 

Maltravers  shook  his  head,  and  sighed. 

"  I  do  not  say,"  continued  Cleveland,  wrapt 
in  the  glowing  interest  of  the  theme,  "that 
you  should  marry  a  mere  girl — but  an  amiable 
woman,  who  like  yourself,  has  seen  something 
of  life,  and  knows  how  to  reckon  on  its  cares, 
and  to  be  contented  with  its  enjoyments." 

"  You  have  said  enough,  said  Maltravers, 
impatiently;  "an  experienced  woman  of  the 
world,  whose  freshness  of  hope  and  heart  is 
gone  !  What  a  picture  !  No;  to  me  there  is 
something  inexpressibly  beautiful  in  innocence 
and  youth.  But  you  say  justly — my  years 
are  not  those  that  would  make  an  union  with 
youth  desirable,  or  well  suited." 

"  I  do  tu?i  say  that,"  said  Cleveland,  taking 
a  pinch  of  snuff;  "  but  you  should  avoid  great 
disparity  of  age — not  for  the  sake  of  that  dis- 
parity itself,  because  with  it  is  involved  discord 
of  temper — pursuits.  A  very  young  woman, 
new  to  the  world,  will  not  be  contented  with 
home  alone;  you  are  at  once  too  gentle  to 
curb  her  wishes,  and  a  little  too  stern  and  re- 
served— (pardon  me  for  saying  so) — to  be 
quite  congenial  to  very  early  and  sanguine 
youth." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Maltravers,  with  a  tone  of 
voice  that  showed  he  was  struck  with  the  re- 
mark; "  but  how  have  we  fallen  on  this  subject  ? 
let  us  change  it — I  have  no  idea  of  marriage 
— the  gloomy  reminiscence  of  Florence  Las- 
celles  chains  me  to  the  past." 

"  Poor  Florence  ! — she  might  once  have 
suited    you,    but    now    you    are    older,    and 


would  require  a  calmer  and  more  malleable 
temper." 

"  Peace,  I  implore  you  !  " 

The  conversation  was  changed;  and  at  noon 
Mr.  Merton,  who  had  heard  of  Cleveland's 
arrival,  called  at  Burleigh  to  renew  an  old  ac- 
quaintance. He  invited  them  to  pass  the 
evening  at  the  rectory;  and  Cleveland,  hearing 
that  whist  was  a  regular  amusement,  accepted 
the  invitation  for  his  host  and  himself.  But 
when  the  evening  came,  Maltravers  pleaded 
indisposition,  and  Cleveland  was  obliged  to  go 
alone. 

When  the  old  gentleman  retured,  about 
midnight,  he  found  Maltravers  awaiting  him 
in  the  library;  and  Cleveland,  having  won 
fourteen  points,  was  in  a  very  gay,  conversible 
humor. 

"  You  perverse  hermit  !  "  said  he,  "talk  of 
solitude,  indeed,  with  so  pleasant  a  family  a 
hundred  yards  .distant  !  You  deserve  to  be 
solitary — I  have  no  patience  with  you.  They 
complain  bitterly  of  your  desertion,  and  say 
you  were,  at  first,  the  aifani  de  la  maison." 

"  So  you  like  the  Mertons  ?  The  clergyman 
is  sensible,  but  commonplace." 

"  A  very  agreeable  man,  despite  your  cynical 
definition,  and  plays  a  very  fair  rubber.  But 
Vargrave  is  a  first-rate  player." 

"  Vargrave  is  there  still  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  breakfasts  with  us  to-morrow — he 
invited  himself." 

"  Humph  !  " 

"  He  played  one  rubber;  the  rest  of  the 
evening  he  devoted  himself  to  the  prettiest 
girl  I  ever  saw — Miss  Cameron.  What  a  sweet 
face  ! — so  modest,  yet  so  intelligent !  I  talked 
with  her  a  good  deal  during  the  deals,  in  which 
I  cut  out.     I  almost  lost  my  heart  to  her." 

"  So  Lord  Vargrave  devoted  himself  to  Miss 
Cameron  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure, — you  know  they  are  to'  be 
married  soon.  Merton  told  me  so.  She  is 
very  rich.  He  is  the  luckiest  fellow  imagin- 
able, that  Vargrave  I  But  he  is  much  too  old 
for  her;  she  seems  to  think  so  too.  I  can't 
explain  why  I  think  it;  but  by  her  pretty  re- 
served manner  I  saw  that  she  tried  to  keep 
the  gay  minister  at  a  distance:  but  it  would 
not  do.  Now,  if  you  were  ten  years  younger, 
or  Miss  Cameron  ten  years  older,  you  might 
have  had  some  chance  of  cutting  out  your  old 
friend." 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


267 


"So  you  think  I  also  am  too  old  for  a 
lover  ? " 

"  For  a  lover  of  a  girl  of  seventeen,  cer- 
tainly. You  seem  touchy  on  the  score  of  age, 
Ernest." 

'•  Not  I;  "  and  Maltravers  laughed. 

"  No  !  There  was  a  young  gentleman  pre- 
sent, who,  I  think,  Vargrave  might  really  find 
a  dangerons  rival — a  Colonel  Legard — one  of 
the  handsomest  men  I  ever  saw  in  my  life; 
just  the  style  to  turn  a  romantic  young  lady's 
head;  a  mixture  of  the  wild  and  the  thorough- 
bred; black  curls — superb  eyes — and  the 
softest  manners  in  the  world.  But,  to  be 
sure,  he  has  lived  all  his  life  in  the  best  so- 
ciety. Not  so  his  friend,  Lord  Doltimore, 
who  has  a  little  too  much  of  the  green-room 
lounge  and  French  caf^  manner  for  my  taste." 

"  Doltimore — Legard— -names  new  to  me;  I 
never  met  them  at  the  rectory.  _' 

"  Possibly;  they  are  staying  at  Admiral 
Legard's,  in  the  neighborhood.  Miss  Merton 
made  their  acquaintance  at  Knaresdean.  A 
good  old  lady — the  most  perfect  Mrs.  Grundy 
one  would  wish  to  meet  with — who  owns  the 
monosyllabic  appellation  of  Hare  (and  who, 
being  my  partner,  trumped  my  king  !),  assured 
me  that  Lord  Doltimore  was  desperately  in 
love  with  Caroline  Merton.  By  the  by,  now, 
there  is  a  young  lady  of  a  proper  age  for  you 
— handsome  and  clever,  too." 

"You  talk  of  antidotes  to  matrimony: — and 
so  Miss  Cameron " 

"  Oh,  no  more  of  Miss  Cameron  now,  or  I 
shall  sit  up  all  night;  she  has  half  turned  my 
head.  I  can't  help  pitying  her — married  to 
one  so  careless  and  worldly  as  Lord  Vargrave 
— thrown  so  young  into  the  whirl  of  London. 
Poor  thing  !  she  had  better  have  fallen  in  love 
with  Legard;  which  I  dare  say  she  will  do, 
after  all.     Well,  good  night !  " 


CHAPTER   n. 

'   Passion,  as  frequently  is  seen, 
Subsiding,  settles  into  spleen: 
Hence,  as  tlie  plague  of  happy  life, 
I  ran  away  from  party  strife." 

— Matthew  Green. 

"  Here  nymphs  from  hollow  oaks  relate 
The  dark  decrees  and  will  of  fate." — Ibid. 

According   to    his    engagement   Vargrave 


breakfasted  the  ne.xt  morning  at  Burleigh. 
Maltravers,  at  first,  struggled  to  return  his 
familiar  cordiality  with  equal  graciousness. 
Condemning  himself  for  former  and  un- 
founded suspicions,  he  wrestled  against  feel- 
ings which  he  could  not,  or  would  not,  ana- 
lyze, but  which  made  Lumley  an  unwelcome 
visitor,  and  connected  him  with  painful  asso- 
ciations, whether  of  the  present  or  the  past. 
But  there  were  points  on  which  the  penetra- 
tion of  Maltravers  served  to  justify  his  prepos- 
sessions. 

The  conversation,  chiefly  sustained  fey 
Cleveland  and  Vargrave,  fell  on  public  ques- 
tions; and,  as  one  was  opposed  to  the  other, 
Vargrave's  exposition  of  views  and  motives 
had  in  them  so  much  of  the  self-seeking  of 
the  professional  placeman,  that  they  might 
well  have  offended  any  man  tinged  by  the 
lofty  mania  of  political  Quixotism.  It  was 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  feelings  that  Mal- 
travers listened:  at  one  moment,  he  proudly 
congratulated  himself  on  having  quitted  a 
career  where  such  opinions  seemed  so  well  to 
prosper;  at  another,  his  better  and  juster  sen- 
timents awoke  the  long-dormant  combative 
faculty,  and  he  almost  longed  for  the  turbu- 
lent but  sublime  arena,  in  which  truths  are 
vindicated  and  mankind  advanced. 

The  interview  did  not  serve  for  that  renewal 
of  intimacy  which  Vargrave  appeared  to  seek; 
and  Maltravers  rejoiced  when  the  placeman 
took  his  departure. 

Lumley,  who  was  about  to  pay  a  morning 
visit  to  Lord  Doltimore,  had  borrowed  Mr. 
Merton's  stanhope,  as  being  better  adapted 
than  any  statelier  vehicle  to  get  rapidly  through 
the  cross-roads  which  led  to  Admiral  Legard's 
house;  and  as  he  settled  himself  in  the  seat, 
with  his  servant  by  his  side,  he  said  laugh- 
ingly, "  I  almost  fancy  myself  naughty  Master 
Lumley  again  in  this  young-man-kind-of 
two-wheeled  cockle-boat;  not  dignified,  but 
rapid,  eh  ? " 

And  Lumley's  face  as  he  spoke,  had  in  it 
so  much  of  frank  gaiety,  and  his  manner  was 
so  simple,  that  Maltravers  could  with  difficulty 
fancy  him  the  same  man  who,  five  minutes 
before,  had  been  uttering  sentiments  that 
might  have  become  the  oldest-hearted  in- 
triguer whom  the  hot-bed  of  ambition  ever 
reared. 

As  soon  as  Lumley   was  gone,   Maltravers 


^0» 


B  UL  HER '  S     WORKS. 


left  Cleveland  alone  to  write  letters  (Cleveland 
■was  an  exemplary  and  voluminous  correspond- 
ent), and  strolled  with  his  dogs  into  the  village. 
The  effect  which  the  presence  of  Maltravers 
produced  among  his  peasantry  was  one  that 
seldom  failed  to  refresh  and  soothe  his  more 
bitter  and  disturbed  thoughts.  They  had 
gradually  (for  the  poor  are  quick  sighted)  be- 
come sensible  of  his  justice — a  finer  quality 
than  many  that  seem  more  amiable.  They 
felt  that  his  real  object  was  to  make  them 
better  and  happier;  and  they  had  learned  to 
sse  that  the  means  he  adopted  generally  ad- 
vanced the  end.  Besides,  if  sometimes  stern, 
he  was  never  capricious  or  unreasonable;  and 
then,  too,  he  would  listen  patiently  and  advise 
Icindly.  They  were  a  little  in  awe  of  him,  but 
the  awe  only  served  to  make  them  more  in- 
dustrious and  orderly;  to  stimulate  the  idle 
man — to  reclaim  the  drunkard,  He  was  one 
of  the  favorers  of  the  small-allotment  system; 
not,  indeed  as  a  panacea,  but  as  one  excellent 
■stimulant  to  exertion  and  independence:  and 
his  chosen  rewards  for  good  conduct  were  in 
such  comforts  as  served  to  awaken,  amongst 
those  hitherto  passive,  dogged,  and  hopeless,  a 
desire  to  better  and  improve  their  condition. 
Somehow  or  other,  without  direct  alms,  the 
good-wife  found  that  the  little  savings  in  the 
•cracked  tea-pot,  or  the  old  stocking,  had 
greatly  increased  since  the  squire's  return; 
while  her  husband  came  home  from  his  raod- 
•erate  cups  at  the  ale-house  more  sober  and  in 
better  temper.  Having  already  saved  some- 
thing was  a  great  reason  why  he  should  save 
more.  The  new  school,  too,  was  so  much 
better  conducted  than  the  old  one;  the  chil- 
<lren  actually  liked  going  there;  and  now  and 
then  there  were  little  village  feasts  connected 
with  the  school-room;  play  and  work  were 
joint  associations. 

And  Maltravers  looked  into  his  cottages, 
a'ld  looked  at  the  allotment-ground;  and  it 
was  pleasant  to  him  to  say  to  himself,  "  I  am 
not  altogether  without  use  in  life."  But  as  he 
pursued  his  lonely  walk,  and  the  glow  of  self- 
approval  died  away  with  the  scenes  that  called 
it  forth,  the  cloud  again  settled  on  his  brow; 
and  again  he  felt  that,  in  solitude,  the  passions 
feed  upon  the  heart.  As  he  thus  walked  along 
the  green  lane,  and  the  insect  life  of  summer 
rustled  audibly  among  the  shadowy  hedges, 
and  along  the  thick  grass  that  sprang  up  on 


either  side,  he  came  suddenly  upon  a  little 
group,  that  arrested  all  his  attention. 

It  was  a  woman,  clad  in  rags,  bleeding,  and 
seemingly  insensible,  supported  by  the  over- 
seer of  the  parish  and  a  laborer. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Maltravers. 

"  A  poor  woman  has  been  knocked  down 
run  over  by  a  gentleman  in  a  gig,  your  honor," 
replied  the  overseer.  "He  stopjied,  half  an 
hour  ago,  at  my  house,  to  tell  me  that  she  was 
lying  on  the  road;  and  he  has  given  me  two 
sovereigns  for  her.  But,  poor  cretur  I  she  was 
too  heavy  for  me  to  carry  her,  and  I  was  forced 
to  leave  her  and  call  Tom  to  help  me." 

"  The  gentleman  might  have  stayed  to  see 
what  were  the  consequences  of  his  own  act," 
muttered  Maltravers,  as  he  examined  the 
wound  in  the  temple,  whence  the  blood  flowed 
copiously. 

"He  said  he  was  in  a  great  hurry,  your 
honor,"  said  -the  village  official,  overhearing 
Maltravers.  "  I  think  it  was  one  of  the  grand 
folks  up  at  the  Parsonage;  for  I  know  it  was 
Mr.  Merton's  bay  horse — he  is  a  hot  'un  !  " 

"  Does  the  poor  woman  live  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ? — Do  you  know  her  ?  "  asked  Maltravers, 
turning  from  the  contemplation  of  this  new  in- 
stance of  Vargrave's  selfishness  of  character. 

"No;  the  old  body  seems  quite  a  stranger 
here — a-  tramj>er,  or  beggar,  I  think,  sir.  But 
it  won't  be  a  settlement  if  we  take  her  in;  and 
we  can  carry  her  to  the  Chequers,  up  the  vil- 
lage, your  honor." 

"What  is  the  nearest  house — your  own?" 

"  Yes  ; — but  we  be  so  busy  now  !  " 

"  She  shall  not  go  to  your  house  and  be  neg- 
lected. And  as  for  the  public-house,  it  is  too 
noisy:  we  must  move  her  to  the  Hall." 

"Your  honor!"  ejaculated  the  overseer, 
opening  his  eyes. 

"  It  is  not  very  far;  she  is  severely  hurt. 
Get  a  hurdle — lay  a  mattress  on  it.  Make 
haste,  both  of  you;  I  will  wait  here  till  you 
return." 

The  poor  woman  was  carefully  placed  on 
the  grass  by  the  road-side,  and  M.iltravers 
supported  her  head,  while  the  men  hastened  lo 
obey  his  orders. 


ALICE;     OJi,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


26^ 


CHAPTER  III. 


'  Alas  from  that  forked  hill,  the  boasted  seat 
Of  studious  Peace  and  mild  Philosophy, 
Indignant  murmurs  mote  be  heard  to  threat." 

— West. 


"  Mr.  Cleveland  wanted  to  enrich  one  of 
his  letters  with  a  quotation  from  Ariosto,  which 
he  but  imperfectly  remembered.  He  had 
seen  the  book  he  wished  to  refer  to  in  the 
little  study,  the  day  before;  and  he  quitted 
the  library  to  search  for  it. 

As  he  was  tumbling  over  some  volumes 
that  lay  piled  on  the  writing-table,  he  felt  a 
student's  curiosity  to  discover  what  now  con- 
stituted his  host's  favorite  reading.  He  was 
surprised  to  observe,  that  the  greater  portion 
oC  the  works  that,  by  the  doubled  leaf  and  the 
pencilled  reference,  seemed  most  frequently 
consulted,  were  not  of  a  literary  nature — they 
were  chiefly  scientific;  and  astronomy  seemed 
the  chosen  science.  He  then  remembered 
that  he  had  heard  Maltravers  speaking  to  a 
builder,  employed  on  the  recent  repairs,  on 
the  subject  of  an  observatory.  "  This  is  very 
strange."  thought  Cleveland;  "he  gives  up 
literature,  the  rewards  of  which  are  in  his 
reach,  and  turns  to  science,  at  an  age  too 
late  to  discipline  his  mind  to  its  austere 
training." 

Alas  !  Cleveland  did  not  understand  that 
there  are  times  in  life  when  imaginative  minds 
seek  to  numb  and  to  blunt  imagination.  Still 
less  did  he  feel  that,  when  we  perversely  re- 
fuse to  apply  our  active  faculties  to  the  catholic 
interests  of  the  world,  they  turn  morbidly  into 
channels  of  research,  the  least  akin  to  their 
real  genius.  B}'  the  collision  of  minds  alone 
does  each  mind  discover  what  is  its  proper 
product:  left  to  ourselves,  our  talents  become 
but  intellectual  eccentricities. 

Some  scattered  papers,  in  the  handwriting  of 
Maltravers,  fell  from  one  of  the  volumes.  Of 
these,  a  few  were  but  algebraical  calculations, 
or  short  scientific  suggestions,  the  value  of 
which  Mr.  Cleveland's  studies  did  not  enable 
him  to  ascertain:  but  in  others  they  were  wild 
snatches  of  mournful  and  impassioned  verse, 
which  showed  that  the  old  vein  of  poetry  still 
flowed,  though  no  longer  to  the  daylight. 
These  verses  Cleveland  thought  himself  justi- 
fied in  glancing  over;  they  seemed  to  portray 


a  state  of  mind  which  deeply  interested,  and 
greatly  saddened  him.  They  expressed,  in- 
deed, a  firm  determination  to  bear  up  against 
both  the  memory  and  the  fear  of  ill;  but  mys- 
terious and  hinted  allusions  here  and  there 
served  to  denote  some  recent  and  yet  existent 
struggle,  revealed  by  the  heart  only  to  the: 
genius.  In  these  partial  and  imperfect  self- 
communings  and  confessions,  there  was  the 
evidence  of  the  pining  affections,  the  wasted 
life,  the  desolate  hearth  of  the  lonely  man. 
Yet,  so  calm  was  Maltravers  himself,  even 
to  his  early  friend,  that  Cleveland  knew  not 
what  to  think  of  the  reality  of  the  feelings, 
painted.  Had  that  fervid  and  romantic  spirit 
been  again  awakened  by  a  livnig  object?— if 
so,  where  was  the  object  found  ?  The  dates 
affixed  to  the  verses  were  most  recent.  But 
whom  had  Maltravers  seen  ?  Cleveland's- 
thoughts  turned  to  Caroline  Merton — to  Eve- 
lyn; but,  when  he  had  six)kenof  both,  nothing 
in  the  countenance,  the  manner,  of  Maltravers: 
had  betrayed  emotion.  And  once  the  heart  of 
Maltravers  had  so  readily  betrayed  itself  I 
Cleveland  knew  not  how  pride,  years,  and  suffer- 
ing, school  the  features,and  repress  the  outward 
signs  of  what  pass  within.  While  thus  en- 
gaged, the  door  of  the  study  opened  abruptly, 
and  the  servant  announced  Mr.  Merton. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,"  said  the  courteous; 
rector.  "I  fear  we  disturb  you;  but  Admiral 
Legard  and  Lord  Doltimore,  who  called  on  us. 
this  morning,  were  so  anxious  to  see  Burleigh, 
I  thought  I  might  take  the  liberty.  We  have- 
come  over  quite  in  a  large  party — taken  the 
place  by  storm.  Mr.  Maltravers  is  out,  I 
hear;  but  you  will  let  us  see  the  house.  My 
allies  are  already  in  the  hall,  examining  the- 
armor." 

Cleveland,  ever  sociable  and  urbane,  an- 
swered suitably,  and  went  with  Mr.  Merton  into 
the  hall,  where  Caroline,  her  little  sisters,  Eve- 
lyn, Lord  Doltimore,  Admiral  Legard,  and  his 
nephew,  were  assembled. 

"  Very  proud  to  be  my  host's  representat'.»re 
and  your  guide,"  said  Cleveland.  "Your 
visit.  Lord  Doltimore,  is  indeed  an  agreeable 
surprise.  Lord  Vargrave  left  us  an  hour  of  so 
since,  to  call  on  you  at  Admiral  Legard's: 
we  buy  our  pleasure  with  his  disa])pointment." 

"  It  is  very  unfortunate,"  said  the  admiral, 
a  bluff,  harsh-looking  old  gentleman;  "  but  we 
were  not  aware  till  we  saw  Mr.  Merton,  of  the 


ayo 


B  UL  WEKS     WORKS. 


honor  Lord  Vargrave  has   done  us.     I   can't 
think  how  we  missed  him  on  the  road." 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  said  Colonel  Legard,  in  a 
peculiarly  sweet  and  agreeable  tone  of  voice, 
"you  forget;  we  came  three  miles  round  by 
the  high-road;  and  Mr.  Merton  says  that  Lord 
Vargrave  took  the  short  cut  by  Langley  End. 
My  uncle,  Mr.  Cleveland,  never  feels  in  safety 
upon  land,  unless  the  road  is  as  wide  as  the 
British  Channel,  and  the  horses  go  before  the 
wind  at  the  rapid  pace  of  two  knots  aud  a  half 
an  hour  !  " 

"  I  just  wish  I  had  you  at  sea,  Mr.  Jacka- 
napes," said  the  admiral,  looking  grimly  at 
his  handsome  nephew,  while  he  shook  his  cane 
at  him. 

The  nephew  smiled;  and,  falling  back,  con- 
versed with  Evelyn. 

The  party  were  now  shown  over  the  house; 
and  Lord  Doltimore  was  loud  in  its  praises. 
It  was  like  a  chateau  he  had  once  hired  in 
Normandy — it  had  a  French  character;  those 
old  chairs  were  in  excellent  taste — quite  the 
style  of  Francis  the  First. 

"  I  know  no  man  I  respect  more  than  Mr. 
Maltravers,"  quoth  the  admiral.  "Since  he 
has  been  amongst  us  this  time,  he  has  been  a 
pattern  to  us  country  gentleman.  He  would 
make  an  excellent  colleague  for  Sir  John.  We 
really  must  get  him  to  stand  against  that  young 
puppy,  who  is  memlier  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons only  because  his  father  is  a  peer,  and 
never  votes  more  than  twice  a  session." 

Mr.  Merton  looked  grave. 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  could  persuade  him 
to  stay  among!5t  you,"  said  Cleveland.  "  He 
has  half  taken  it  into  his  head  to  part  with 
Burleigh  !  " 

"  Pact  with  Burleigh  ! "  exclaimed  Evelyn, 
turning  abrubtly  from  the  handsome  colonel, 
in  whose  conversation  she  had  hitherto  seemed 
absorbed. 

"  My  very  ejaculation  when  I  heard  him  say 
so,  my  dear  young  lady." 

"  I  wish  he  would,"  said  Lord  Doltimore, 
hastily,  and  glancing  towards  Caroline.  "I 
should  much  like  to  buy  it.  What  do  you 
think  would  be  the  purchase-money?  " 

"  Don't  talk  so  cold-bloodedly,"  said  the 
admiral,  letting  the  point  of  his  cane  fall  with 
great  emphasis  on  the  floor.  '•  I  can't  l)ear  to 
see  old  families  deserting  their  old  places — 
quite  wicked.     You  buy  Burleigh  !    have  not 


you  got  a  country-seat  of  your  own,  my  lord  I 
Go  and  live  there,  and  take  Mr.  Maltravers  for 
your  model — you  could  not  have  a  better." 

Lord  Doltimore  sneered — colored — settled 
his  neckcloth — and,  turning  round  to  Colonel 
Legard,  whispered,  "  Legard,  your  good  uncle 
is  a  bore." 

Legard  looked  a  little  offended,  and  made 
no  reply. 

"But,"  said  Caroline,  coming  to  the  relief 
of  her  admirer,  "  if  Mr.  Maltravers  will  sell  the 
place,  surely  he  could  not  have  a  better  suc- 
cessor." 

"  He  sha'n't  sell  the  place,  ma'am,  and  that's 
poz  !  "  cried  the  admiral.  "  The  whole  county 
shall  sign  a  round  robin  to  tell  him  it's  a  shame; 
and  if  any  one  dares  to  buy  it,  we'll  send  them 
to  Coventry." 

Miss  Merton  laughed;  but  looked  round  the 
old  wainscot  walls  with  unusual  interest:  she 
thought  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  Lady  of 
Burleigh  ! 

"  And  what  is  that  picture  so  carefully  cov- 
ered up  ?  "  said  the  admiral,  as  they  now  stood 
in  the  lilirary. 

"The  late  Mrs.  Maltravers,  Ernest's 
mother,"  replied  Cleveland,  slowly.  "  He  dis- 
likes it  to  be  shown — to  strangers:  the  other  is 
a  Digby." 

Evelyn  looked  towards  the  veiled  portrait 
and  thought  of  her  first  interview  with  Mal- 
travers; but  the  soft  voice  of  Colonel  Legard 
murmured  in  her  ear,  and  her  revery  was 
broken. 

Cleveland  eyed  the  colonel,  and  muttered 
to  himself,  "  Vargrave  should  keep  a  sharp 
look-out." 

They  had  now  finished  their  round  of  the 
show-ajjartments — which,  indeed,  had  little 
but  their  antiquity  and  old  portraits  to  re- 
commend them — and  were  in  a  lobby  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  communicating  with  a 
court-yard,  two  sides  of  which  were  occupied 
with  the  stables.  The  sight  of  the  stables 
reminded  Caroline  of  the  Arab  horses;  and 
at  the  word  "  horses,"  Lord  Doltimore  seized 
Legard's  arm,  and  carried  him  off  to  inspect 
the  animals;  Caroline,  her  father,  and  the 
admiral,  followed.  Mr.  Cleveland  happened 
not  to  have  on  his  walking  shoes;  and  the 
flag-stones  in  the  court-yard  looked  damp; 
and  Mr.  Cleveland,  like  most  old  bachelors, 
was  prudently  afraid   of  cold:  so  he  excused 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSriiliJES. 


271 


himself  and  stayed  behind.  He  was  talking 
to  Evelyn  about  the  Digbys,  and  full  of  anec- 
dotes about  Sir  Kenelm,  at  the  moment  the 
rest  departed  so  abruptly;  and  Evelyn  was  in- 
terested, so  she  insisted  on  keeping  him  com- 
pany. The  old  gentleman  was  flattered;  he 
thought  it  excellent  breeding  in  Miss  Came- 
ron. The  children  ran  out  to  renew  acquaint- 
ance with  the  peacock,  who  perched  on  an  old 
stirrup-stone,  was  sunning  his  gay  plumage 
in  the  noon-day. 

"  It  is  astonishing,"  said  Cleveland,  "  how 
certain  family  features  are  transmitted  from 
generation  to  generation  !  Maltravers  has 
still  the  forehead  and  eyebrows  of  the  Digbys 
that  peculiar,  brooding,  thoughtful  forehead, 
which  you  observed  in  the  picture  of  Sir  Ken- 
elm.  Once,  too,  he  had  much  the  same  dream- 
ing character  of  mind,  but  he  has  lost  that,  in 
some  measure  at  least.  He  has  fine  qualities, 
Miss  Cameron — I  have  known  him  since  he 
was  born.  I  trust  his  career  is  not  yet 
closed;  could  he  but  form  ties  that  would 
bind  him  to  England,  I  should  indulge  in 
higher  expectations  than  I  did  even  when 
the  wild  boy  turned  half  the  heads  in  Got- 
tingen  ! 

"  But  we  were  talking  of  family  portraits — 
there  is  one  in  the  entrance  hall,  which  per- 
haps you  have  not  observed;  it  is  half  oblit- 
erated by  damp  and  time — yet  it  is  of  a  re- 
markable personage,  connected  with  Mal- 
travers by  ancestral  intermarriages — Lord 
Falkland,  the  Falkland  of  Clarendon.  A  man 
weak  in  character,  but  made  most  interesting 
by  history.  Utterly  unfitted  for  the  severe 
ordeal  of  those  stormy  times;  sighing  for 
peace  when  his  whole  soul  should  have  been 
in  war;  and  repentant  alike  whether  with  the 
Parliament  or  the  King,  but  still  a  personage 
of  elegant  and  endearing  associations;  a  stu- 
dent-soldier, with  a  high  heart  and  a  gallant 
spirit.  Come  and  look  at  his  features — 
homely  and  worn,  but  with  a  characteristic 
air  of  refinement  and  melancholy  thought." 

Thus  running  on,  the  agreeable  old  gentle- 
man drew  Evelyn  into  the  outer  hall.  Upon 
arriving  there,  through  a  small  passage,  which 
opened  upon  the  hall,  they  were  surprised  to 
find  the  old  housek-^per  and  another  female 
servant,  standing  by  a  rude  kind  of  couch,  on 
"which  lay  the  form  of  the  poor  woman  de- 
scribed in  the  last  chapter.     Maltravers   and 


two  other  men  were  also  there.  And  Mal- 
travers himself  was  giving  orders  to  his  ser- 
vants, while  he  leant  over  the  sufferer,  who 
was  now  conscious  both  of  pain  and  the  service 
rendered  to  her.  As  Evelyn  stopped  abruptly 
and  in  surprise,  opposite  and  almost  at  the 
foot  of  the  homely  litter,  the  woman  raised 
herself  up  on  one  arm,  and  gazed  at  her  with 
a  wild  stare;  then,  muttering  some  incoherent 
words,  which  appeared  to  betoken  delirium, 
she  sunk  back,  and  was  again  insensible. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  Hence  oft  to  win  some  stubborn  maid. 
Still  does  the  wanton  god  assume 
The  mortial  air,  the  gay  cockade, 
The  sworu,  the  shoulder-knot,  and  plurae." 

— Marriott. 

The  hall  was  cleared,  the  sufferer  had  been 
removed,  and  Maltravers  was  left  alone  with 
Cleveland  and  Evelyn. 

He  simply  and  shortly  narrated  the  adven- 
ture of  the  morning;  but  he  did  not  mention 
that  Vargrave  had  been  the  cause  of  the  injury 
his  new  guest  had  sustained.  Now  this  event 
had  served  to  make  a  mutual  and  kindred  im- 
pression on  Evelyn  and  Maltravers.  The 
humanity  of  the  latter,  natural  and  common- 
place as  it  was,  was  an  endearing  recollectioi? 
to  Evelyn,  precisely  as  it  showed  that  his  cold 
theory  of  disdain  towards  the  mass  did  not 
affect  his  actual  conduct  towards  individuals. 
On  the  other  hand,  Maltravers  had  perhaps- 
been  yet  more  impressed  with  the  prompt  and 
ingenuous  sympathy  which  Evelyn  had  testi- 
fied towards  the  sufferer;  it  had  so  evidently 
been  her  first  gracious  and  womanly  im- 
pulse to  hasten  to  the  side  of  this  humble 
stranger.  In  that  impulse,  Maltravers  himself 
had  been  almost  forgotten;  and  as  the  poor 
woman  lay  pale  and  lifeless,  and  the  young 
Evelyn  bent  oven  her  in  beautiful  compassion, 
Maltravers  thought  she  had  never  seemed  so 
lovely,  so  irresistible — in  fact,  Pity  in  woman 
is  a  great  beautifier. 

As  Maltravers  finished  his  short  tale,  Eve- 
lyn's eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with  suck  frank, 
and  yet  such  soft  approval,  that  the  look  went 
straight  to  his  heart.  He  quickly  turned  away, 
and  abruptly  changed  the  conversation. 


272 


BULWER'S     WOJiKtl. 


"  But  how  long  have  you  been  here,  Miss 
Cameron, — and  your  companions  ?  " 

"  We  are  again  intruders;  but  this  time  it 
was  not  my  fault." 

"No,"  said  Cleveland,  "for  a  wonder;  it 
was  male,  and  not  lady-like  curiosity  that 
trespassed  on  Bluebeard's  chamber.  But, 
however,  to  soften  your  resentment,  know  that 
Miss  Cameron  has  brought  you  a  purchaser 
for  Burleigh.  Now,  then,  we  can  test  the  sin- 
cerity of  your  wish  to  part  with  it.  I  assure 
you,  meanwhile,  that  Miss  Cameron  was  as 
much  shocked  at  the  idea  as  I  was.  Were 
you  not  ? " 

"  But  you  surely  have  no  intention  of  selling 
Burleigh  ?"  said  Evelyn,  anxiously. 

"  I  fear  I  do  not  know  my  own  mind." 

"Well,"  said  Cleveland,  "  here  comes  your 
tempter.  Lord  Doltimore,  let  me  introduce 
Mr.  Maltravers." 

Lord  Doltimore  bowed. 

"Been  admiring  your  horses,  Mr.  Maltra- 
vers. I  never  saw  anything  so  perfect  as  the 
black  one;  may  I  ask  where  you  bought  him  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  present  to  me,"  answered  Mal- 
travers." 

"  A  present  !  " 

"  Yes,  from  one  who  would  not  have  sold 
that  horse  for  a  king's  ransom: — an  old  Arab 
chief,  with  whom  I  formed  a  kind  of  fiiend- 
ship  in  the  Desert.  A  wound  disabled  him 
from  riding,  and  he  bestowed  the  horse  on 
me,  with  as  much  solemn  tenderness  for  the 
gift  as  if  he  had  given  me  his  daughter  in 
marriage." 

"  I  think  of  travelling  into  the  East,"  said 
Lord  Doltimore,  with  much  gravity:  "  I  sup- 
pose nothing  will  induce  you  to  sell  the  black 
horse  ? " 

"  Lord  Doltimore  !  "  said  Maltravers,  in  a 
tone  of  lofty  surprise." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  the  price,"  continued  the 
young  nobleman,  a  little  disconcerted. 

"No.  I  never  sell  any  horse  that  has  once 
learned  to  know  me.  I  would  as  soon  think 
of  selling  a  friend.  In  the  desert  one's  horse 
is  one's  friend.  I  am  almost  an  Arab  myself 
in  these  matters." 

"But  talking  of  sale  and  barter,  reminds 
me  of  Burleigh,"  said  Cleveland,  maliciously. 
"  Lord  Doltimore  is  an  universal  buyer.  He 
covets  all  your  goods:  he  will  take  the  house, 
if  he  can't  have  the  stables." 


"  I  only  mean,"  said  Lord  Doltimore,  rather 
peevishly,  "that,  if  you  wish  to  part  with  Bur- 
leigh, I  should  like  to  have  the  option  of  pur- 
chase." 

"  I  will  remember  it — if  I  determine  to  sell 
the  place,"  answered  Maltravers,  smiling 
gravely,  "at  present  I  am  undecided." 

He  turned  away  towards  Evelyn  as  he 
spoke,  and  almost  started  to  observe  that  she 
was  joined  by  a  stranger,  whose  approach  he 
had  not  before  noticed;  and  that  stranger 
a  man  of  such  remarkable  personal  advantages, 
that,  had  Maltravers  been  in  Vargrave's  posi- 
tion, he  might  reasonably  have  experienced  a 
pang  of  jealous  apprehension.  Slightly  above 
the  common  height— slender,  yet  strongly 
formed — set  off  by  every  advantage  of  dress> 
of  air,  of  the  nameless  tone  and  pervading  re- 
finement that  sometimes,  though  not  always, 
springs  from  early  and  habitual  intercourse 
with  the  most  polished  female  society  — 
Colonel  Legard,  at  the  age  of  eight-and- 
twenty,  had  acquired  a  reputation  for  beauty 
almost  as  popular  and  as  well  known  as  that 
which  men  usually  acquire  by  mental  qualifi- 
cations. Yet  there  was  nothing  effeminate  in 
his  countenance,  the  symmetrical  features  of 
which  were  made  masculine  and  expressive 
by  the  rich  olive  of  the  complexion,  and 
the  close  jetty  curls  of  the  Antinous-like 
hair. 

They  seemed,  as  they  there  stood — Evelyn 
and  Legard — so  well  suited  to  each  other  in 
personal  advantages — their  different  styles  so 
happily  contrasted;  and  Legard,  at  the  mo- 
ment, was  regarding  her  with  such  respectful 
admiration,  and  whispering  compliment  to  her 
in  so  subdued  a  tone,  that  the  dullest  observer 
might  have  ventured  a  prophecy  by  no  means 
agreeable  to  the  hopes  of  Lumley,  Lord  Var- 
grave. 

But  a  feeling  or  fear  of  this  nature  was  not 
that  which  occurred  to  Maltravers,  or  dictated 
his  startled  exclamation  or  surprise. 

Legard  looked  up  as  he  heard  the  exclama- 
tion, and  saw  Maltravers,  whose  back  had 
hitherto  been  turned  towards  him.  He  too, 
was  evidently  surprised,  and  seemingly  con- 
fused; the  color  mounted  to  his  cheek,  and 
then  left  it  pale. 

"  Colonel  Legard,"  said  Cleveland,  "  a 
thousand  apologies  for  my  neglect:  I  really 
did  not  observe  you   enter — you  came  round 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


273 


by  the  front  door,  I  suppose.  Let  me  make 
you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Maltravers." 

Legard  bowed  low. 

"  We  have  met  before,"  said  he,  in  embar- 
rassed accents:  "at  Venice,  I  think  !" 

Maltravers  inclined  his  head  rather  stiffly  at 
first,  but  then,  as  if  moved  by  a  second  im- 
pulse, held  out  his  hand  cordially. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ernest,  here  j^ou  are!"  cried 
Sophy,  bounding  into  the  hall,  followed  by 
Mr.  Merton,  the  old  admiral,  Caroline,  and 
Cecilia. 

The  interruption  seemed  welcome  and  op- 
])ortune.  The  admiral,  with  blunt  cordiality, 
expressed  his  pleasure  at  being  made  known 
to  Mr.  Maltravers. 

The  conversation  grew  general — refresh- 
ments were  proffered  and  declined — the  visit 
ilrew  to  its  close. 

It  so  happened  that,  as  the  guests  departed, 
Evelyn,  from  whose  side  the  constant  colonel 
had  insensil)ly  melted  away,  lingered  last, — 
save,  indeed,  the  admiral,  who  was  discussing 
with  Cleveland  a  new  specific  for  the  gout. 
And  as  Maltravers  stood  on  the  steps,  Evelyn 
turned  to  him  with  all  her  beautiful  naivc/<f  ol 
mingled  timidity  and  kindness,  and  said, 

"  And  are  we  really  never  to  see  you  again, 
— never  to  hear  again  your  tales  of  Egypt  and 
Arabia — never  to  talk  over  Tasso  and  Dante. 
No  books — no  talk — no  disputes — no  quarrels  ? 
What  have  we  done  ?  I  thought  we  had  made 
it  up — and  yet  you  are  still  unforgiving.  Give 
me  a  good  scold,  and  be  friends  !  " 

"  Friends  !  —  you  have  no  friend  more 
anxious,  more  devoted  than  I  am.  Young, 
rich,  fascinating  as  you  are,  you  will  carve  no 
impression  on  human  hearts  deeper  than  that 
you  have  graven  here  !  " 

Carried  away  by  the  charm  of  her  childlike 
familiarity  and  enchanting  sweetness,  Maltra- 
vers had  said  more  than  he  intended;  yet  his 
eyes,  his  emotion,  said  more  than  his  words. 

Evelyn  colored  deeply,  and  her  whole  man- 
ner changed.  However,  she  turned  away,  and 
saying,  with  a  forced  gaiety,  "Well,  then,  you 
will  not  desert  us — we  shall  see  you  once 
more  ? "  hurried  down  the  steps  to  join  her 
companions. 


CHAPTER    V. 


"  See  how  the  skilful  lover  spreads  his  toils." 

— S•nI.I,ING^•LKE■r. 


The  party  had  not  l«ng  returned  to  the 
rectory,  and  the  admiral's  carriage  was  or- 
dered, when  Lord  Vargrave  made  his  appear- 
ance. He  descanted  with  gay  good  humor 
on  his  long  drive — the  bad  roads — and  his 
disappointmeut  at  the  contre-temps  thaX  awaited 
him;  then,  drawing  aside  Colonel  Legard,  who 
seemed  unusually  silent  and  abstracted,  he 
said  to  him — 

"  My  dear  colonel,  my  visit  this  morning  was 
rather  to  you  than  to  Doltlmore.  I  confess 
that  I  should  like  to  see  your  abilities  enlisted 
on  the  side  of  the  Government;  and  knowing 
that  the  post  of  Storekeeper  to  the  Ordnance 
will  be  vacant  in  a  day  or  two  by  the  promo- 
tion of  Mr. ,  I  wrote  to  secure  the  refusal 

— to-day's  post  brings  me  the  answer.  I  offer 
the  place  to  you;  and  1  trust,  before  long,  to 
procure  you  also  a  seat  in  parliament.  But 
you  must  start  for  London  immediately." 

A  week  ago,  and  Legard's  utmost  ambition 
would  have  been  amply  gratified  by  this  post; 
he  now  hesitated. 

"  My  dear  lord,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  say 
how  grateful  I  feel  for  your  kindness;  but — 
but " 

"Enough:  no  thanks,  my  dear  Legard. 
Can  you  go  to  town  to-morrow." 

"Indeed,"  said  Legard,  "I  fear  not;  I 
must  consult  my  uncle." 

"I  can  answer  for  him;  I  sounded  him  be- 
fore 1  wrote — reflect !  You  are  not  rich,  my 
dear  Legard;  it  is  an  excellent  opening;  a  seat 
in  parliament,  too  !  Why,  what  can  be  your 
reason  for  hesitation  ?  " 

There  was  something  meaning  and  inquisi- 
tive in  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  this  question 
was  put,  that  brought  the  color  to  the  col- 
onel's cheek.  He  knew  not  what  to  reply; 
and  he  began,  too,  to  think  that  he  ought  not 
to  refuse  the  appointment.  Nay,  would  his 
uncle,  on  whom  he  was  dependent,  consent  to 
such  a  refusal  ?  Lord  Vargrave  saw  the  irre- 
solution, and  proceeded.  He  spent  ten  min- 
utes in  combating  every  scruple,  every  ob- 
jection; he  placed  all  the  advantages  of  the 
post,  real  or  imaginary,  in  every  conceivable 
point   of   view   before  the  colonel's  eyes;  he 


-18 


274 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


sought  to  flatter,  to  wheedle,  to  coax,  to  weary 
/lim  into  accepting  it;  and  he  at  length  par- 
tially succeeded.  The  colonel  petitioned  for 
three  days'  consideration  which  Vargrave  re- 
luctantly acceded  to;  and  Legard  then  stepped 
into  his  uncle's  carriage,  with  the  air  rather  of 
a  martyr  than  a  maiden  placeman. 

"  Aha  !  "  said  Vargrave,  chuckling  to  him- 
self as  he  took  a  turn  in  the  grounds,  "  I  have 
got  rid  of  that  handsome  knave;  and  now  I 
shall  have  Evelyn  all  to  myself  ! " 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  I  am  forfeited  to  eternal  disgrace  if  you  do  not  com- 
miserate. 

***** 

Go  to,  tlien,  raise — recover." — Ben  Jonson:  Poetaster. 

The  next  morning  Admiral  Legard  and  his 
nephew  were  conversing  in  the  little  cabin 
consecrated  by  the  name  of  the  admiral's 
"  own  room." 

" "  Yes,"  said  the  Veteran,  "  it  would  be  moon- 
shine and  madness  not  to  accept  Vargrave's 
offer;  though  one  could  see  through  such  a 
millstone  as  that  with  half  an  eye.  His  lord- 
ship is  jealous  of  such  a  fine,  handsome  young 
fellow  as  you  are — and  very  justly.  But  as 
long  as  he  is  under  the  same  roof  with  Miss 
Cameron,  you  will  have  no  opportunity  to  pay 
your  court;  when  he  goes,  you  can  always 
manage  to  be  in  her  neighborhood;  and  then, 
you  know — puppy  that  you  are — her  business 
will  be  very  soon  settled."  And  the  admiral 
eyed  the  handsome  colonel  with  grim  fondness. 

Legard  sighed. 

"  Have  you  any  commands  at ?  "  said 

he;  "  I  am  just  going  to  canter  over  there  be- 
fore Doltimore  is  up." 

"Sad  lazy  dog,  your  friend." 

"I  shall  be  back  by  twelve." 

"  What  are  you  going  to for  ?  " 

"Brookes,  the  farrier,  has  a  little  spaniel — 
King  Charles's  breed.  Miss  Cameron  is  fond 
of  dogs.  I  can  send  it  to  her,  with  my  com- 
pliments— it  will  be  a  sort  of  leave-taking." 

"Sly  rogue;  ha,   ha,  ha  !— d d  sly;   ha, 

ha!"  and  the  admiral  punched  the  slender 
waist  of  his  nephew,  and  laughed  till  the  tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Good-by,  sir." 


"Stop,  George;  I  forgot  to  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion; you  never  told  me  you  knew  Mr.  Mal- 
travers.  Why  don't  you  cultivate  his  acquaint- 
ance ? " 

"We  met  at  Venice  accidentally.  I  did  not 
know  his  name  then;  he  left  just  as  I  arrived. 
As  you  say,  I  ought  to  cultivate  his  acquaint- 
ance." 

"  Fine  character  !  " 

"  Very  !  "  said  Legard,  with  energy,  as  he 
abruptly  quitted  the  room. 

George  Legard  was  an  orphan.  His  father 
— the  admiral's  elder  brother — had  been  a 
spendthrift  man  of  fashion,  with  a  tolerably 
large  unentailed  estate.  He  married  a  duke's 
daughter  without  a  sixpence.  Estates  are 
troublesome — Mr.  Legard's  was  sold.  On  the 
purchase-money  the  hajipy  pair  lived  for  some 
years  in  great  comfort,  when  Mr.  Legard  died 
of  a  brain  fever;  and  his  disconsolate  widow 
found  herself  alone  in  the  world,  with  a  beau- 
tiful little  curly-headed  boy,  and  an  annuity  of 
one  thousand  a-year,  for  which  her  settlement 
had  been  exchanged — all  the  rest  of  the  fort- 
une was  gone;  a  discovery  not  made  till  Mr. 
Legard's  death.  Lady  Louisa  did  not  long 
survive  the  loss  of  her  husband  and  her  station 
in  society;  her  income,  of  course,  died  with 
herself.  Her  only  child  was  brought  up  iii  the 
house  of  his  grandfather,  the  duke,  till  he  was 
of  age  to  hold  theofificeof  king's  page;  thence, 
as  is  customary,  he  was  promoted  to  a  com- 
mission in  the  Guards.  To  the  munilicent 
emoluments  of  his  pay,  the  ducal  family  liber- 
ally added  an  allowance  of  two  hundred  a-year; 
upon  which  income  Cornet  Legard  contrived 
to  get  very  handsomely  in  debt.  The  extra- 
ordinary beauty  of  his  person,  his  connections, 
and  his  manners,  obtained  him  all  the  celel)rity 
that  fashion  can  bestow;  but  jxiverty  is  a  bad 
thing.  Luckily,  at  this  time,  his  uncle,  the 
admiral,  returned  from  sea,  to  settle  for  the 
rest  of  his  life  in  England. 

Hitherto  the  admiral  had  taken  no  notice  of 
George.  He  himself  had  married  a  merchant's 
daughter  with  a  fair  portion;  and  had  been 
blessed  with  two  children,  who  monopolized  all 
of  his  affection.  But  there  seemed  some 
mortality  in  the  Legard  family;  in  one  year 
after  returning  to  England  and  settlmg  in 
B shire,  the  admiral  found  himself  wife- 
less and  childess.  He  then  turned  to  his 
orphan  nephew;  and  soon  became    fonder  of 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


*7S 


him  than  he  had  ever  been  of  his  Oivn  chil- 
dren. The  admiral,  though  in  easy  circum- 
stances, was  not  wealthy;  nevertheless,  he  ad- 
vancetl  the  money  requisite  for  George's  rise 
in  the  army,  and  doubled  the  allowance  be- 
stowed by  the  duke.  His  grace  heard  of  this 
generosity;  and  discovered  that  he  himself 
had  a  very  large  family  growing  up;  that  the 
marquis  was  going  to  be  married,  and  required 
an  increase  of  income;  that  he  had  already  be- 
haved most  handsomely  to  his  nephew:  and  the 
result  of  this  discovery  was,  that  the  duke 
withdrew  the  two  hundred  a-year.  Legard, 
however,  who  looked  on  his  uncle  as  an  ex- 
haustless  mine,  went  on  breaking  hearts  and 
making  debts — till  one  morning  he  woke  in 
the  Bench.  The  admiral  was  hastily  sum- 
moned to  London.  He  arrived;  ]5a3'ed  off  the 
duns — a  kindness  which  seriously  embarrassed 
him — swore,  scolded,  and  cried;  and  finally  in- 
sisted that  Legard  should  give  u])  that  d d 

coxcomb  regiment,  in  which  he  was  now  cap- 
tain, retire  on  half-pay,  and  learn  economy  and 
a  change  of  habits  on  the  Continent. 

The  admiral,  a  rough  but  good-natured  man 
on  the  whole,  had  two  or  three  little  peculiari- 
ties. In  the  first  place,  he  piqued  himself  on 
a  sort  of  John  Bull  independence;  was  a  bit 
of  a  Radical  (a  strange  anomaly  in  an  ad- 
miral)— which  was  owing,  perha])s,  to  two  or 
three  young  lords  having  been  put  over  his 
head  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  career;  and  he 
made  it  a  point  with  his  nephew  (of  whose  af- 
fection he  was  jealous)  to  break  with  those 
fine  grand  connections,  who  plunged  him  into 
a  sea  of  extravagance,  and  then  never  threw 
him  a  rope  to  save  him  from  drowning. 

In  the  second  place,  without  being  stingy, 
the  admiral  had  a  good  deal  of  economy  in  his 
disposition.  He  was  not  a  man  to  allow  his 
nephew  to  ruin  him.  He  had  an  extraordinary- 
old-fashioned  horror  of  gambling — a  polite 
habit  of  George's; — and  he  declared,  posi- 
tively, that  his  nephew  must,  while  a  bachelor, 
learn  to  live  upon  seven  hundred  a-year. 
Thirdly,  the  admiral  could  be  a  very  stern, 
stubborn,  passionate  old  brute;  aud  when  he 
coolly  told  George,  "  Harkye,  you  young 
puppy,  if  you  get  into  debt  again — if  you 
exceed  the  very  handsome  allowance  I  make 
you— I  shall  just  cut  you  off  with  a  shilling," 
George  was  fully  aware  that  his  uncle  was  one 
who  would  rigidly  keep  his  word. 


However,  it  was  something  to  be  out  of  debt, 
and  one  of  the  handsomest  men  of  his  age; 
and  George  Legard,  whose  rank  in  the  Guards 
made  him  a  colonel  in  the  line,  left  England 
tolerably  contented  with  the  state  of  affairs. 

Desjjite  the  foibles  of  his  youth,  George 
Legard  had  many  high  and  generous  qualities. 
Society  had  done  its  best  to  spoil  a  fine  and 
candid  disposition,  with  abilities  far  above 
mediocrity;  but  society  had  only  partially  suc- 
ceeded. Still,  unhappily,  dissipation  had  grown 
a  habit  with  him;  and  all  his  talents  were'  of 
a  nature  that  brought  a  ready  return.  At  his 
age,  it  was  but  natural  that  the  praise  of 
salons  should  retain  all  its  sweetness. 

In  addition  to  those  qualities  which  please 
the  softer  sex,  Legard.was  a  good  whist-player 
— superb  at  billiards — famous  as  a  shot — un- 
rivalled as  a  horseman — in  fact,  an  accom- 
plished man,  "  who  did  ever  thing  so  devilish 
well  !  "  These  accomplishments  did  not  stand 
him  in  much  stead  in  Italy;  and,  though  with 
reluctance  and  remorse,  he  took  again  to 
gambling — he  really  had  x\oV\i\\\g  else  to  do. 

In  Venice,  there  was,  one  year,  established 
a  society,  somewhat  on  the  principle  of  the 
Salon  at  Paris.  Some  rich  Venetians  be- 
longed to  it;  but  it  was  chiefly  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  foreigners — French,  English,  and 
Austrians.  Here  there  was  select  gaming  in 
one  room,  while  another  apartment  served  the 
purposes  of  a  club.  Many  who  never  played 
belonged  to  this  society;  but  still  they  were 
not  the  habitues. 

Legard  played:  he  won  at  first — then  he  lost 
— then  he  won  again;  it  was  a  pleasant  excite- 
ment. One  night,  after  winning  largely  at 
roulette,  he  sat  down  to  play  dearth  with  a 
Frenchman  of  high  rank.  Legard  played  well 
at  this,  as  at  all  scientific  games:  he  thought 
he  should  make  a  fortune  out  of  the  French- 
man. The  game  excited  much  interest;  the 
crowd  gathered  round  the  table;  bets  ran  high; 
the  vanity  of  Legard,  as  well  as  his  interest, 
was  implicated  in  the  conflict.  It  was  soon 
evident  that  the  Frenchman  played  as  well  as 
the  Englishman.  The  stakes,  at  first  tolerably 
high,  were  doubled.  Legard  betted  freely — 
cards  went  against  him:  he  lost  much — lost 
all  that  he  had — lost  more  than  he  had — lost 
several  hundreds,  which  he  promised  to  pay 
the  next  morning.  The  table  was  broken  up 
— the  spectators  separated.     Among  the  latter 


276 


Bb'J.  WJiKS     WORKS. 


had  been  one  Englishman,  introduced  into  the 
club  for  the  first  time  that  night.  He  had 
neither  played  nor  betted:  but  had  observed 
the  game  with  a  quiet  and  watchful  interest. 
This  Englishman  lodged  at  the  same  hotel  as 
Legard.  He  was  at  Venice  only  for  a  day; 
the  promised  sight  of  a  file  of  English  news- 
papers had  drawn  him  to  the  club;  the  general 
excitement  around  had  attracted  him  to  the 
table;  and,  once  there,  the  spectacle  of  human 
emotions  exercised  its  customary  charm. 

On  ascending  the  stairs  that  conducted  to 
his  apartment,  the  Englishman  heard  a  deep 
groan  in  a  room  the  door  of  which  was  a-jar. 
He  paused — the  sound  was  repeated ;  he  gently 
pushed  open  the  door,  and  saw  Legard  sealed 
by  a  table,  while  a  glass  on  the  opposite  wall 
reflected  his  working  and  convulsed  counte- 
nance, with  his  hands  trembling  visibly,  as 
they  took  a  brace  of  pistols  from  the  case. 

The  Englishman  recognized  the  loser  at  the 
club;  and  at  once  divined  the  act  that  his 
madness  or  his  despair  dictated.  Legard  twice 
took  up  one  of  the  pistols,  and  twice  laid  it 
down  irresolute;  the  third  time  he  rose  with 
a  start,  raised  the  weapon  to  his  head,  and 
the  next  moment  it  was  wrenched  from  his 
grasp. 

"  Sit  down,  sir  !  "  said  the  stranger,  in  a 
loud  and  commanding  voice. 

Legard,  astonished  and  abashed,  sunk  once 
more  into  his  seat,  and  stared  sullenly  and 
half  unconsciously  at  his  countryman. 

"  You  have  lost  your  money,"  said  the 
Englishman,  after  calmly  replacing  the  pistols 
in  their  case,  which  he  locked,  putting  the 
key  into  his  pocket;  "and  that  is  misfortune 
enough  for  one  night.  If  you  had  won,  and 
ruined  your  opponent,  you  would  be  exces- 
sively happy,  and  go  to  bed,  thinking  Good 
Luck  (which  is  the  representative  of  Provi- 
dence) watched  over  you.  For  my  part,  I 
think  you  ought  to  be  very  thankful  that  you 
are  not  the  winner." 

"  Sir,"  said  Legard,  recovering  from  his  sur- 
prise, and  beginning  to  feel  resentment;  I  do 
not  understand  this  intrusion  in  my  apart- 
ments. You  have  saved  me,  it  is  true,  from 
death — but  life  is  a  worse  curse." 

"Young  man — no!  moments  in  life  are 
agony,  but  life  itself  is  a  blessing.  Life  is  a 
mystery  that  defies  all  calculation.  You  can 
never  say,  '  To-day  is  wretched,  therefore  to- 


morrow must  be  the  same  ! '  And  for  the 
loss  of  a  little  gold  you,  in  the  full  vigor  of 
youth,  with  all  the  future  before  you,  will  dare 
to  rush  into  the  chances  of  eternity  !  You, 
who  have  never,  perhaps,  thought  what  eter- 
nity is  !  Yet,"  added  the  stranger,  in  a  soft 
and  melancholy  voice,  "  you  are  young  and 
beautiful — perhaps  the  pride  and  hope  of 
others  !  Have  you  no  tie — no  affection — no 
kindred  ?  are  you  lord  of  yourself  ?  " 

Legard  was  moved  by  the  tone  of  the 
stranger,  as  well  as  by  the  words. 

"  It  is  not  the  loss  of  money,"  said  he, 
gloomily,  "  it  is  the  loss  of  honor.  To-mor- 
row I  must  go  forth  a  shunned  and  despised 
man — I,  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier  !  They 
may  insult  me — and  I  have  no  reply  !  " 

The  Englishman  seemed  to  muse,  for  his 
brow  lowered,  and  he  made  no  answer.  Le- 
gard threw  himself  back,  overcome  with  his  own 
excitement,  and  wept  like  a  child.  The 
stranger,  who  imagined  himself  above  the  in- 
dulgence of  emotion  (vain  man  !)  woke  from 
his  revery  at  this  burst  of  passion.  He  gazed 
at  first  (I  grieve  to  write)  with  a  curl  of  the 
haughty  lip  that  had  in  it  contempt:  but  it 
passed  quickly  away;  and  the  hard  man  re- 
membered that  he  too  had  been  young  and 
weak,  and  his  own  errors  greater  perhaps  than 
those  of  the  one  he  had  ventured  to  despise. 
He  walked  to  and  fro  the  room  still  without 
speaking.  At  last  he  approached  the  game- 
ster, and  took  his  hand. 

"  What  is  your  debt  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

"  What  matters  it  ? — more  than  I  can   pay." 

"  If  life  is  a  trust,  so  is  wealth:  ^w/  have 
the  first  in  charge  for  others — /may  have  the 
last.     What  is  the  debt  ?  " 

Legard  started — it  was  a  strong  struggle 
between  shame  and  hope.  "If  I  could  borrow 
it,  I  could  repay  it  hereafter — I  know  I  could 
—I  would  not  think  of  it  othenvise." 

"  Very  well,  so  be  it — I  will  lend  you  the 
money,  on  one  condition.  Solemnly  promise 
me,  on  your  faith  as  a  soldier  and  a  gentle- 
man, that  you  will  not,  for  ten  years  to  come 
— even  if  you  grow  rich,  and  can  ruin  others — 
touch  card  or  dice-box.  Promise  me  that  you 
will  shun  all  gaming  for  gain,  under  whatever 
disguise — whatever  appellation.  I  will  take 
your  word  as  my  bond." 

Legard,  overjoyed,  and  scarcely  trusting  his 
senses,  gave  the  promise. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


2/7 


"  Sleep,  then,  to-night,  in  hope  and  assurance 
of  the  morrow,"  said  the  Englishman:  "let 
this  event  be  an  omen  to  you,  that  while  there 
is  a  future  there  is  no  despair.  One  word 
more — I  do  not  want  your  thanks;  it  is  easy 
to  be  generous  at  the  expense  of  justice.  Per- 
haps I  have  been  so  now.  This  sum,  which  is 
to  save  your  life — a  life  you  so  little  value — 
might  have  blessed  fifty  human  beings — better 
men  than  either  the  giver  or  receiver.  What 
'is  given  to  error,  may  perhaps  be  a  wrong  to 
virtue.  When  you  would  ask  others  to  sup- 
port a  career  of  blind  and  selfish  extravagance, 
pause  and  think  over  the  breadless  lips  this 
wasted  gold  would  have  fed  ! — the  joyless 
hearts  it  would  have  comforted  !  You  talk  of 
repaying  me:  if  the  occasion  offer,  do  so;  if 
not — if  we  never  meet  again,  and  you  have  it 
in  your  power,  pay  it  for  me  to  the  Poor  ! 
And  now,  farewell." 

"  Stay — give  me  the  name  of  my  preserver  ! 
Mine  is  " 

"  Hush  !  what  matter  names  ?  This  is  a 
sacrifice  we  have  both  made  to  honor.  You 
will  sooner  recover  your  self-esteem  (and 
without  self-esteem  there  is  neither  faith  nor 
honor),  when  you  think  that  your  family,  your 
connections,  are  spared  all  association  with 
your  own  error;  that  I  may  hear  them  spoken 
of — that  I  may  mix  with  them  without  fancy- 
ing that  they  owe  me  gratitude." 

"Your  own  name,  then?"  said  Legard, 
deeply  penetrated  with  the  delicate  generosity 
of  his  benefactor. 

"  Tush  !  "  muttered  the  stranger,  inpatiently, 
as  he  closed  the  door. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  woke,  Legard 
saw  upon  the  table  a  small  packet — it  con- 
tained a  sum  that  exceeded  the  debt  named. 
On  the  envelope  was  written,  "  Remember  the 
bond." 

The  stranger  had  already  quitted  Venice. 
He  had  not  travelled  through  the  Italian  cities 
under  his  own  name,  for  he  had  just  returned 
from  the  solitudes  of  the  East,  and  not  yet 
hardened  to  the  publicity  of  the  gossip  which 
in  towns  haunted  by  his  countrymen  attended 
a  well  known  name:  that  given  to  Legard  by 
the  innkeeper,  mutilated  by  Italian  pronuncia- 
tion, the  young  man  had  never  heard  before, 
and  soon  forgot.  He  paid  his  debts,  and  he 
scrupulously  kept  his  word.  The  adventure 
of  that  night  went  far,  indeed,  to  reform   and 


ennoble  the  mind  and  habits  of  George  Legard. 
Time  passed,  and  he  never  met  his  benefactor, 
till  in  the  halls  of  Burleigh  he  recognized  the 
stranger  in  Maltravers. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Why  value,  then,  that  strength  of  mind  they  boast, 
As  often  varying,  and  as  often  lost  ? " 
—Hawkins  Brow.ne  {translated by  Soame  Jenyns). 

Maltravers  was  lying  at  length,  with  his 
dogs  around  him,  under  a  beech- tree  that 
threw  its  arms  over  one  of  the  calm  still 
pieces  of  water  that  relieved  the  groves  of 
Burleigh,  when  Colonel  Legard  spied  him 
from  the  bridle  road,  which  led  through  the 
park  to  the  house.  The  colonel  dismounted, 
threw  the  rein  over  his  arm;  and  at  the  sound 
of  the  hoofs  Maltravers  turned,  saw  the  visitor, 
and  rose;  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Legard,  and 
immediately  began  talking  of  indifferent  mat- 
ters. 

Legard  was  embarrassed,  but  his  nature  was 
not  one  to  profit  by  the  silence  of  a  benefac- 
tor. "  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  he,  with  grace- 
ful emotion,  "  though  you  have  not  yet  allowed 
me  an  opportunity  to  allude  to  it,  do  not  think 
I  am  ungrateful  for  the  service  you  rendered 
me." 

Maltravers  looked  grave,  but  made  no  re- 
ply. Legard  resumed,  with  a  heightened 
color. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  I  regret  that  it  is  not  yet 
in  my  power  to  discharge  my  debt;   but " 

"  When  it  is,  you  will  do  so.  Pray  think  no 
more  of  it.     Are   you  going  to  the  rectory  ?  " 

"  No,    not  this   morning;    in   fact,    I    leave 

B shire  to-morrow.     Pleasant  Family,  the 

Mertcns." 

"  And  Miss  Cameron— » —  ?  " 

"  Is  certainly  beautiful— and  very  rich. 
How  could  she  ever  think  of  marrying  Lord 
Vargrave — so  much  older  ! — she  who  could 
have  so  many  admirers  ?  " 

"  Not,  surely,  while  betrothed  to  another  ?  " 

This  was  a  refinement  which  Legard,  though 
an  honorable  man  as  men  go,  did  not  quite 
understand,  "Oh,"  said  he,  "that  was  by 
some  eccentric  old  relation— her  father-in-law, 
I  think.  Do  you  think  she  is  bound  by  such 
an  engagement  ?  " 


278 


B  UL 1 1  'KR  •  S     I  FORKS. 


Maltravers  made  no  reply,  but  amused  him- 
self by  throwing  a  stick  into  the  water,  and 
sending  one  of  his  dogs  after  it, 

Legard  looked  on,  and  his  affectionate  dis- 
position yearned  to  make  advances  which 
something-  distant  in  the  manner  of  Maltravers 
chilled  and  repelled. 

When  Legard  was  gone,  Maltravers  followed 
him  with  his  eyes.  "  And  this  is  the  man  whom 
Cleveland  thinks  Evelyn  could  love  !  I  could 
forgive  her  marrying  Vargrave.  Indepen- 
dently of  the  conscientious  feeling  that  may 
belong  to  the  engagement,  Vargrave  has  wit, 
talent,  intellect;  and  this  man  has  nothing  but 
the  skin  of  the  panther.  Was  I  wrong  to  save 
him  ?  No.  Every  human  life,  I  suppose,  has 
its  uses.  But  Evelyn — I  could  despise  her,  if 
her  heart  was  the  fool  of  the  eye  !  " 

These  comments  were  most  uujust  to  Le- 
gard; butthey  werejust  of  thatkind  of  injustice 
which  the  man  of  talent  often  commits  against 
the  man  of  external  advantages,  and  which  the 
latter  still  more  often  retaliates  on  the  man  of 
talent.  As  Maltravers  thus  solilquized,  he  was 
accosted  by  Mr.  Cleveland. 

"Come,  Ernest,  you  must  not  cut  these 
unfortunate  Mertons  any  longer.  If  you  con- 
tinue to  do  so,  do  you  know  what  Mrs.  Hare 
and  the  world  will   say  ?" 

"No.— What?" 

"That  you  have  been  refused  by  Miss  Mer- 
ton." 

"  That  7w///(/ be  a  calumny!"  said  Ernest, 
smiling. 

"Or  that  you  are  hopelessly  in  love  with 
Miss  Cameron." 

Maltravers  started — his  proud  heart  swelled 
— he  pulled  his  hat  over  his  brows,  and  said, 
after  a  short  pause — 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Hare  and  the  world  must  not 
have  it  all  their  own  way  ;  and  so,  whenever 
you  go  to  the  rectory,  take  me  with  you." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

*        *       •        "  The  more  he  strove 
To  advance  his  suit,  the  farther  from  her  love." 
— Dryden  :   Thee  Jon  and  Honoria. 

The  line  of  conduct  which  Vargrave  now 
adopted  with  regard  to  Evelyn  was  craftily  con- 
ceived and  carefully  pursued.     He    did    not 


hazard  a  single  syllable  which  might  draw  on 
him  a  rejection  of  his  claims;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  no  lover  could  be  more  constant,  more 
devoted,  in  attentions.  In  the  presence  of 
others  there  was  an  air  of  familiar  intimacy, 
that  seemed  to  arrogate  a  right,  which  to  her 
he  scrupulously  shunned  to  assert.  Nothing 
could  be  more  respectful,  nay,  more  timid, 
than  his  language,  or  more  calmly  confident 
than  his  manner.  Not  having  much  vanity, 
nor  any  very  acute  self-conceit,  he  did  not  de- 
lude himself  into  the  idea  of  winning  Evelyn's 
affections;  he  rather  sought  to  entangle  her 
judgment — to  weave  around  her  web  upon 
web — not  the  less  dangerous  for  being  invisi- 
ble. He  took  the  compact  as  a  matter  of 
course — as  something  not  to  be  broken  by 
any  possible  chance;  her  hand  was  to  be  his  as 
a  right:  it  was  her  heart  that  he  so  anxiously 
sought  to  gain  !  But  this  distinction  was  so 
delicately  drawn,  and  insisted  ufwn  so  little  in 
any  tangible  form,  that,  whatever  Evelyn's 
wishes  for  an  understanding,  a  much  more  ex- 
perienced woman  would  have  been  at  a  loss  to 
ripen  one. 

Evelyn  longed  to  confide  in  Caroline — to 
consult  her.  But  Caroline,  though  still  kind, 
had  grown  distant.  "  I  wish,"  said  Evelyn, 
one  night  as  she  sate  in  Caroline's  dressing- 
room — "  I  wish  that  I  knew  what  tone  to  take 
with  Lord  Vargrave.  I  feel  more  and  more 
convinced  that  an  union  between  us  is  im- 
possible; and  yet,  precisely  because  he  does 
not  press  it,  am  I  unable  to  tell  him  so.  I 
wish  you  could  undertake  that  task;  you  seem 
such  friends  with  him." 

"  I  !  "  said  Caroline,  changing  countenance. 

"Yes,  you  !  Nay,  do  not  blush,  or  shall  I 
think  you  envy  iiie.  Could  you  not  save  us 
both  from  the  pain  that  otherwise  must  come, 
sooner  or  later  ?  " 

"  Lord  Vargrave  would  not  thank  me  for 
such  an  act  of  friendship,  Besides,  Evelyn, 
consider — it  is  scarcely  possible  to  break  off 
this  engagement  iimv." 

"  Nmv .'  "  and  why  now  ?  "  said  Evelyn,  as- 
tonished. 

"The  world  believes  it  so  implicitly — ob- 
serve whoever  sits  next  you  rises  if  Lord  Var- 
grave approaches;  the  neighborhood  talk  of 
nothing  else  but  your  marriage;  and  your  fate, 
Evelyn,  is  not  pitied." 

"  I  will  leave  this  place — I  will  go  back  to 


ALICE;     OR,      THE    MYSTERIES. 


279 


the  cottage — I  cannot  bear  this  !  "   said   Eve- 
lyn, passiionately  wringing  her  hands. 

"You  do  not  love  another,  I  am  sure;  not 
young  Mr.  Hare,  with  his  green  coat,  and 
and  straw-colored  whiskers;  nor  Sir  Henry 
Foxglove,  with  his  how-d'ye-do  like  a  view- 
halloo;  perhaps,  indeed.  Colonel  Legard — he 
is  handsome.  What  !  do  you  blush  at  his 
name  ?  No;  you  say  'not  Legard:  '  who  else 
is  there  ?  " 

"  You  are  cruel — you  trifle  with  me  !  "  said 
Evelyn,  in  tearful  reproach;  and  she  rose  to 
go  to  her  own  room. 

"My  dear  girl  !  "  said  Caroline,  touched  by 
her  evident  pain;  "learn  from  me — if  I  may 
say  so — that  marriages  are«(7/made  in  heaven; 
yours  will  be  as  fortunate  as  earth  can  bestow. 
A  love-match  is  usually  the  least  happy  of  all. 
Our  foolish  sex  demand  so  much  in  love;  and 
love,  after  all,  is  but  one  blessing  among 
many.  Wealth  and  rank  remain  when  love  is 
but  a  heap  of  ashes.  For  my  part,  I  have 
chosen  my  destiny  and  my  husband." 

"  Your  husband  !  " 

"  Yes  !  you  see  him  in  Lord  Doltimore.  I 
dare  say  we  shall  be  as  happy  as  any  amorous 
Corydon  and  Phillis."  But  there  was  irony 
in  Caroline's  voice  as  she  spoke;  and  she 
sighed  heavily.  Evelyn  did  not  believe  her 
serious;  and  the  friends  parted   for  the  night. 

"  Mine  is  a  strange  fate  !  "  said  Caroline  to 
herself;  "  I  am  asked  by  the  man  whom  I 
love,  and  who  professes  to  love  me,  to  bestow 
myself  on  another,  and  lo  plead  for  him  to  a 
younger  and  fairer  bride.  Well,  I  will  obey 
him  in  the  first;  the  last  is  a  bitterer  task, 
and  I  cannot  perform  it  earnestly.  Yet  Var- 
grave  has  a  strange  power  over  me;  and  when 
I  look  round  the  world,  I  see  that  he  is  right. 
In  these  most  commonplace  artifices,  there  is 
yet  a  wild  majesty  that  charms  and  fascinates 
me.  It  is  something  to  rule  the  world;  and 
his  and  mine  are  natures  formed  to  do  so." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"  A  smoke  raised  with  the  fume  of  sighs." 

— Ronuo  and  Juliet. 

It  is  certain  that  Evelyn  experienced  for 
Maltravers  sentiments  which,  if  not  love,  might 
easily  be  mistaken  for  it.     But  whether  it  were 


that  master-passion,  or  merely  its  fanciful  re- 
semblance,— love,  in  early  youth  and  innocent 
natures,  if  of  sudden  growth,  is  long  before  it 
makes  itself  apparent.  Evelyn  had  been  pre- 
pared to  feel  an  interest  in  her  solitary  neigh- 
bor. His  mind,  as  developed  in  his  works, 
had  half  formed  her  own.  Her  childish  ad- 
venture with  the  stranger  had  never  been  for- 
gotten. Her  present  knowledge  of  Maltravers 
was  an  union  of  dangerous  and  often  opposite 
associations — the  Ideal  and  the  Real. 

Love,  in  its  first  dim  and  imperfect  shape, 
is  but  imagination  concentrated  on  one  object. 
It  is  a  genius  of  the  heart  resembling  that 
of  the  intellect;  it  appeals  to,  it  stirs  up,  it 
evokes  the  sentiments  and  sympathies  that  lie 
most  latent  in  our  nature.  Its  sigh  is  the 
spirit  that  moves  over  the  ocean,  and  arouses 
the  Anadyomene  into  life.  Therefore  is  it 
that  MIND  produces  affections  deeper  than 
those  of  external  form;  therefore  it  is  that 
women  are  worshippers  of  glory,  which  is  the 
palpable  and  visible  representative  of  a  genius 
whose  operations  they  cannot  always  compre- 
hend. Genius  has  so  much  in  common  with; 
love — the  imagination  that  animates  one  is  so' 
much  the  property  of  the  other — that  there  is 
not  a  surer  sign  of  the  existence  of  genius  than 
the  love  that  it  creates  and  bequeaths.  It 
penetrates  deeper  than  the  reason — it  binds  a 
nobler  captive  than  the  fancy.  As  the  sun 
upon  the  dial,  it  gives  to  the  human  heart  both 
its  shadow  and  its  light.  Nations  are  its 
worshippers  and  wooers;  and  Posterity  learns 
from  its  oracles  to  dream,  to  aspire,  to  adore  ! 

Had  Maltravers  declared  the  passion  that 
consumed  him,  it  is  probable  that  it  would 
soon  have  kindled  a  return.  But  his  frequent 
absence,  his  sustained  distance  of  manner,  had 
served  to  repress  the  feelings  that  in  a  young 
and  virgin  heart  rarely  flow  with  much  force, 
until  they  are  invited  and  aroused.  Le  bcsoin 
d'aitner  in  girls,  is,  perhaps,  in  itself  powerful; 
but  it  is  fed  by  another  want,  le  besoin  d'itre. 
aim^e !  If,  therefore,  Evelyn,  at  present,  felt 
love  for  Maltravers,  the  love  had  certainly  not 
passed  into  the  core  of  life:  the  tree  had  not 
so  far  struck  its  roots  but  what  it  might  have 
borne  transplanting.  There  was  in  her  enough 
of  the  pride  of  sex  to  have  recoiled  from  the 
thought  of  giving  love  to  one  who  had  not 
asked  the  treasure.  Capable  of  attachment, 
more  trustful,  and  therefore,  if  less  vehement. 


28o 


£  UL  \VER\S     WORKS. 


more  beautiful  and  duralile  than  that  which 
had  animated  the  brief  tragedy  of  Florence 
Lascelies,  she  could  not  have  been  the  un- 
known correspondent,  or  revealed  the  soul, 
because  the  features  wore  a  mask. 

It  must  also  be  alloived  that,  in  some  re- 
spects, Evelyn  was  too  young  and  inexperi- 
enced thoroughly  to  appreciate  all  that  was  most 
truly  loveable  and  attractive  in  Maltravers. 
At  four-and-twenty  she  would,  perhaps,  have 
felt  no  fear  mingled  with  her  respect  for  him; 
but  seventeen  and  six-and-thirty  is  a  wide  in- 
terval !  She  never  felt  that  there  was  that 
difference  in  years  until  she  had  met  Legard, 
and  then  at  once  she  comprehended  it.  With 
Legard  she  had  moved  on  equal  terms;  he 
was  not  too  wise — too  high  for  her  every-day 
thoughts.  He  less  excited  her  imagination — 
less  attracted  her  reverence.  But,  somehow 
or  other,  that  voice  which  proclaimed  her 
power,  those  eyes  which  never  turned  from 
hers,  went  nearer  to  her  heart.  As  Evelyn 
Jiad  once  said  to  Caroline,  "  It  was  a  great 
enigma  !  " — her  own  feelings  were  a  mystery  to 
her;  and  she  reclined  by  the  "  Golden  Water- 
falls "  without  tracing  her  likeness  in  the  glass 
of  the  pool  below. 

Maltravers  appeared  again  at  the  rectory. 
He  joined  their  parties  by  day,  and  his  eve- 
nings were  spent  with  them  as  of  old.  In  this 
I  know  not  precisely  what  were  his  motives^ 
perhaps  he  did  not  know  them  himself.  It 
might  be  that  his  pride  was  roused; — it  might 
be  that  he  could  not  endure  the  notion  that 
Lord  Vargrave  should  guess  his  secret,  by  an 
absence  almost  otherwise  unaccountable;  he 
could  not  patiently  bear  to  give  Vargrave  that 
triumph;^it  might  be  that,  in  the  sternness 
of  his  self-esteem,  he  imagined  he  had  al- 
ready conquered  all  save  affectionate  interest 
in  Evelyn's  fate,  and  trusted  too  vainly  to  his 
own  strength; — and  it  might  be,  also,  that  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  seeing  if 
Evelyn  were  contented  with  her  lot,  and  if 
Vargrave  were  worthy  of  the  blessing  that 
awaited  him.  Whether  one  of  these,  or  all 
united,  made  him  resolve  to  brave  his  danger 
— or  whether,  after  all,  he  yielded  to  a  weak- 
ness, or  consented  to  what — invited  by  Eve- 
lyn herself — was  almost  a  social  necessity,  the 
reader,  and  not  the  narrator,  shall  decide. 

Legard  was  gone;  but  Doltimore  remained 
in  the   neighborhood,  having  hired  a  hunting- 


box  not  far  from  Sir  John  Merton's  manors, 
over  which  he  easily  obtained  permission  to 
sport.  When  he  did  not  dine  elsewhere,  there 
was  always  a  place  for  him  at  the  parson's  hos- 
pitable board — and  that  place  was  generally 
next  to  Caroline.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merton  had 
given  up  all  hope  of  Mr.  Maltravers  for  their 
eldest  daughter;  and,  very  strangely,  this  con- 
viction came  upon  their  minds  in  the  first 
day  they  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  young 
lord. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  rector;  as  he  was  wind- 
ing up  his  watch,  preparatory  to  entering  the 
connubial  couch — "  my  dear,  I  don't  think 
Mr.  Maltravers  is  a  manying  man." 

"  I  was  just  going  to  make  the  same  re- 
mark," said  Mrs.  Merton,  drawing  the  clothes 
over  her.  "  Lord  Doltimore  is  a  very  fine 
young  man — his  estates  unencumbered.  I 
like  him  vastly,  my  love.  He  is  evidently 
smitten  with  Caroline;  so  Lord  Vargrave  and 
Mrs.  Hare  said." 

"Sensible,  shrewd  woman,  Mrs.  Hare.  By 
the  by,  we'll  send  her  a  pine-apple.  Caroline 
was  made  to  be  a  woman  of  rank  !  " 

"  Quite;  so  much  self-possession  !  " 

"  And  if  Mr.  Maltravers  would  sell  or  let 
Burleigh  !  " — 

"  It  would  be  so  pleasant  I  " 

"  Had  you  not  better  give  Caroline  a  hint  ? " 

"  My  love,  she  is  so  sensible,  let  her  go  her 
own  way." 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear  Betsy;  I  shall  al- 
ways say  that  no  one  has  more  common  sense 
than  you;  you  have  brought  up  your  children 
admirably  ! " 

"  Dear  Charles  !  " 

"  It  is  coldish  to-night,  love,"  said  the  rec- 
tor; and  he  put  out  the  candle. 

From  that  time,  it  was  not  the  fault  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Merton  if  Lord  Doltimore  did  not 
find  their  house  the  pleasantest  in  the  county. 

One  evening  the  rectory  party  were  assem- 
bled together  in  the  cheerful  drawing-room. 
Cleveland,  Mr.  Merton,  Sir  John — and  Lord 
Vargrave  reluctantly  compelled  to  make  up 
the  fourth — were  at  the  whist-table;  Evelyn, 
Caroline,  and  Lord  Doltimore,  were  seated 
round  the  fire,  and  Mrs.  Merton  was  working 
a  footstool.  The  fire  burned  clear — the  cur- 
tains were  down — the  children  in  bed:  it  was 
a  family  picture  of  elegant  comfort. 

Mr.  Maltravers  was  announced. 


ALICE;     OR,     7HE    MYSTERIES. 


281 


"  I  am  glad  you  are  come  at  last,"  said 
Caroline,  holding  out  her  fair  hand.  "  Mr. 
•Cleveland  could  not  answer  for  you.  We  are 
all  disputing  as  to  which  mode  of  life  is  the 
happiest." 

"  And  your  opinion  ? "  asked  Maltravers, 
seating  himself  in  the  vacant  chair — it  chanced 
to  be  next  to  Evelyn's. 

"  My  opinion  is  decidedly  in  favor  of  London. 
A  metropolitan  life,  with  its  perpetual  and 
graceful  e.xcitements; — the  best  music — the 
best  companions — the  best  things,  in  short. 
Provincial  life  is  so  dull,  its  pleasures  so  tire- 
some; to  talk  over  the  last  year's  news,  and 
wear  out  one's  last  year's  dresses:  cultivate  a 
conservatory,  and  play  Pope  Joan  with  a  young 
party.     Dreadful  !  " 

"  I  agree  with  Miss  Merton,"  said  Lord 
Doltimore,  solemnly;  "not  but  what  I  like  the 
country  for  three  or  four  months  in  the  year, 
with  good  shooting  and  hunting,  and  a  large 
house  properly  filled — independent  of  one's 
own  neighborhood:  but  if  I  am  condemned  to 
choose  one  place  to  live  in,  give  me  Paris." 

"Ah  !  Paris;  I  never  was  in  Paris,  I  should 
so  like  to  travel  !  "  said  Caroline. 

"  But  the  inns  abroad  are  so  very  bad,"  said 
Lord  Doltimore;  "  how  people  can  rave  about 
Italy,  I  can't  think.  I  never  suffered  so  much 
in  my  life  as  I  did  in  Calabria;  and  at  Venice 
I  was  bit  to  death  by  mosquitoes.  Nothing 
like  Paris,  I  assure  you:  don't  you  think  so, 
Mr.  Maltravers  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to  answer  you 
better  in  a  short  time.  1  think  of  accompany- 
ing Mr.  Cleveland  to  Paris." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Caroline.  "  Well,  I  envy 
you;  but  it  is  a  sudden  resolution  ?  " 

"  Not  very." 

"  Do  you  stay  long ' "  asked  Lord  Dolti- 
more. 

"  My  stay  is  uncertain." 

"And  you  won't  let  Burleigh  in  the  mean- 
while?" 

"Z^/ Burleigh?  No;  if  it  once  pass  from 
my  hands  it  will  be  for  ever  !  " 

Maltravers  spoke  gravely,  and  the  subject 
was  changed.  Lord  Doltimore  challenged 
Caroline  to  chess. 

They  sate  down,  and  Lord  Doltimore  ar- 
ranged the  pieces. 

"Sensible  man,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  the 
young  lord;  "  but  I  don't  hit  it  off  with  him: 


Vargrave  is  more  agreeable.  Don't  you  think 
so  ?" 

"Y— e— s." 

"  Lord  Vargrave  is  very  kind  to  me;  I  never 
remember  any  one  being  more  so; — got  Legard 
that  appointment  solely  because  it  would 
please  tne — very  friendly  fellow  !  I  mean  to 
put  myself  under  his  wing  ne.xt  session  !  " 

"You  could  not  do  better,  I'm  sure,"  said 
Caroline;  "he  is  so  much  looked  up  to — I 
dare  say  he  will  be  prime  minister  one  of 
these  days." 

"  I  take  the  bishop: — do  you  think  so  really  ? 
—  you  are  rather  a  politician  ?" 

"  Oh  no;  not  much  of  that.  But  my  father 
and  my  uncle  are  staunch  politicians;  gentle- 
men know  so  much  more  than  ladies.  We 
should  always  go  by  their  opinions.  I  think 
I  will  take  the  queen's  pawn — your  politics 
are  the  same  as  Lord  Vargrave's  ?" 

"Yes,  I  fancy  so:  at  least  I  shall  leave  my 
proxy  with  him.  Glad  you  don't  like  politics 
—great  bore." 

"Why,    so   young,    so    connected   as    you 

are "  Caroline  stopped  short,  and  made  a 

wrong  move. 

"  I  wish  we  were  going  to  Paris  together,  we 
should  enjoy  it  so;  " — and  Lord  Doltimore's 
knight  checked  the  tower  and  queen. 

Caroline  coughed,  and  stretched  her  hand 
quickly  to  move. 

"  Pardon  me,  you  will  lose  the  game  if  you 
do  so  !  "  and  Doltimore  placed  his  hand  on 
hers — their  eyes  met — Caroline  turned  away, 
and  Lord  Doltimore  settled  his  right  collar. 

"And  is  it  true?  are  you  really  going  to 
leave  us?"  said  Evelyn; — and  she  felt  very 
sad.  But  still  the  sadness  might  not  be  that 
of  love; — she  had  felt  sad  after  Legard  had 
gone. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall  long  stay  away," 
said  Maltravers,  trying  to  speak  indifferently. 
"  Burleigh  has  become  more  dear  to  me  than 
it  was  in  earlier  youth;  perhaps,  because  I 
have  made  myself  duties  there:  and  in  other 
places,  I  am  but  an  isolated  and  useless  unit 
in  the  great  mass." 

"You  ! — every  where,  you  must  have  oc- 
cupations and  resources — every  where,  you 
must  find  yourself  not  alone.  But  you  will 
not  go  yet  ?  " 

"  Not    yet;    no.     (Evelyn's    spirits     rose). 


282 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


Have  you  read  the  book  I  sent  you  ?  "  (it  was 
one  of  De  Stael's). 

"Yes;  l)ut  it  disappoints  me." 
"  And  why  ?  it  is  eloquent  ?  " 
"  But  is  it  true  ?  is  there    so    much    melan- 
choly in  life  ?  are  the  affections  so  full   of  bit- 
terness ?     For  me,  I  am  so  happy  when  with 
those  I  love  !     When  I  am  with   my  mother, 
the  air  seems  more  fragrant— the  skies  more 
blue:  it  is  surely  not  affection,  but  the  absence  | 
of  it  that  makes  us  melancholy  !  " 

"  Perhaps  so;  but  if  we  had  never  known  af- 
fection, we  might  not  miss  it:  and  the  brilliant 
Frenchwoman  speaks  from  memory;  while 
you  speak  from  hope— Memory,  which  is  the 
ghost  of  joy:  yet  surely,  even  in  the  indulgence 
of  affection,  there  is  at  times  a  certain  melan- 
choly— a  certain  fear.  Have  you  never  felt 
it,  even  with— with  your  mother  !  " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  when  she  suffered,  or  when  I  have 
thought  she  loved  me  less  than  I  desired." 

"  That  must  have  been  an  idle  and  vain 
thought.  Your  mother  !  does  she  resemble 
you  ? " 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  Oh,  if  you  knew 
her  !  I  have  longed  so  often  that  you  were 
acquainted  wirh  each  other  !  It  was  she  who 
taught  me  to  sing  your  songs. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Hare,  we  may  as  well  throw 
up  our  cards,"  said  the  keen  clear  voice  of 
Lord  Vargrave:  "you  have  played  most  ad- 
mirably, and  I  know  that  your  last  card  will  be 
the  ace  of  trumps;  still  the  luck  is  against  us." 
"  No,  no;  pray  play  it  out,  my  lord." 
"Quite  useless,  ma'am,"  said  Sir  John  show- 
ing two  honors.  "  We  have  only  the  trick  to 
make." 

"  Quite  useless,"  echoed  Lumley,  tossing 
down  his  sovereigns,  and  rising  with  a  careless 
yawn. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Maltravers  ?  "  . 
Maltravers  rose;  and  Vargrave  turned  to 
Evelyn,  and  addressed  her  in  a  whisper.  The 
proud  Maltravers  walked  away,  and  suppressed 
a  sigh;  a  moment  more,  and  he  saw  Lord  Var- 
grave occupying  the  chair  he  had  left  vacant. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  Cleveland's  shoulder. 
"  The  carriage  is  waiting — are  you  ready  ? " 


CHAPTER    X. 

"  Obscuris  vera  involvens."  *— Virgiu 


A  DAv  or  two  after  the  date  of  the  last  chap- 
ter, Evelyn  and  Caroline  were  riding  out  with 
Lord  Vargrave  and  Mr.  Merton,  and  on  return- 
ing home  they  passed  through  the  village  of 
Burleigh. 

I  "  Maltravers,  I  suppose,  has  an  eye  to  the 
county,  one  of  these  days,"  said  Lord  Var- 
grave, who  honestly  fancied  that  a  man's  eyes 
were  always  directed  towards  something  for 
his  own  interest  or  advancement;  "otherwise 
he  could  not  surely  take  all  this  trouble  about 
workhouses  and  paupers.  Who  could  ever 
have  imagined  my  romantic  friend  would  sink 
into  a  country  squire  ?  " 

"  It  is  astonishing  what  talent  and  energy 
he  throws  into  everything  he  attempts,"  said 
the  parson.  "  One  could  not,  indeed,  have 
supposed  that  a  man  of  genius  could  make  a 
man  of  business."  ♦ 

"  Flattering  to  your  humble  servant— whom 
all  the  world   allow  to  be  the    last,  and  deny 
to  be  the  first.     But  your  remark  shows  what 
a  sad  possession  genius  is;  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  you  fancy  that  it  cannot  be  of  the  least 
possible  use.     If  a  man  is  called  a  genius,  it 
means  that  he  is  to  be   thrust  out  of   all   the 
good  things  in   this    life.     He  is  not  fit  for  any 
thing  but  a  garret  !     Put  a  genius  into  office  I 
—make  a  genius  a  bishop  !  or  a   lord   chan- 
cellor !— the    world    would    be  turned    topsy- 
turvy !    You  see  that  you  are  quite  astonished 
that  a  genius  can  be  even  a  county  magistrate, 
and  know  the  difference  between  a  spade  and 
a  poker  !     In  fact,  a  genius  is  supposed  to  be 
the   most    ignorant,    impracticable,   good-for- 
nothing,   do-nothing,  sort  of  thing  that   ever 
walked  ujwn  two   legs.     Well,  when   I    began 
life,  I  took  excellent  care  tViat  nobody  should 
take  me  for  a  genius;  and  it  is  only  within  the 
last  year  or  two  that  I  have  ventured  to  emerge 
a  little  out  of  my  shell.     I  have  not  been  the 
better  for  it;  I  was  getting  on   faster  while  I 
was  merely  a  plodder.     The  world  is  so  fond 
of  that  droll  fable,  the  hare  and  the  tortoise — 
it  really  believes  because  (I  suppose  the  fable 
to  be  true  !)  a  tortoise  once  beat  a  hare,  that 
all   tortoises   are   much    better  runners    than 
hares  possibly  can   be.     Mediocre    men   have 

•  Wrapping  truth  in  obscurity. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


283 


the  monopoly  of  the  loaves  and  fishes;  and 
even  when  talent  does  rise  in  life,  it  is  a  talent 
which  only  differs  from  mediocrity  by  being 
more  energetic  and  bustling." 

"  You  are  bitter,  Lord  Vargrave,"  said 
Caroline,  laughing;  "  yet  surely  you  have  had 
no  reason  to  complain  of  the  non-appreciation 
of  talent  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  if  I  had  had  a  grain  more  talent 
I  should  have  been  crushed  by  it.  There  is  a 
subtle  allegory  in  the  story  of  the  lean  poet, 
who  put  lead  in  his  pocket  to  prevent  being 
blown  away  !  Mais  a  nos  inoutoiis — to  return 
to  Maltravers.  Let  us  suppose  that  he  was 
merely  clever — had  not  had  a  particle  of  what 
is  called  genius — been  merely  a  hard-working 
able  gentleman,  of  good  character  and  fortune 
— he  might  be  half  way  up  the  hill  by  this  time; 
— whereas  now,  what  is  he  ?  Less  before  the 
public  than  he  was  at  twenty-eight— a  discon- 
tented anchorite,  a  meditative  idler." 

"No,  not  that,"  said  Evelyn,  warmly,  and 
then  checked  herself. 

Lord  Vargrave  looked  at  her  sharply;  but 
his  knowledge  of  life  told  him  that  Legard 
was  a  much  more  dangerous  rival  than  Mal- 
travers. Now  and  then,  it  is  true,  a  suspicion 
to  the  contrary  crossed  him;  but  it  did  not 
take  root  and  become  a  serious  apprehension. 
Still  he  did  not  quite  like  the  tone  of  voice  in 
which  Evelyn  had  put  her  abrupt  negative, 
and  said,  with  a  slight  sneer, 

"  If  not  that,  what  is  he  ?  " 

"One  who  purchased,  by  the  noblest  exer- 
tions, the  right  to  be  idle,"  said  Evelyn,  with 
spirit;  "and  whom  genius  itself  will  not  suffer 
:    to  be  idle  long." 

"  Besides,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  "  he  has  won 
a  high  reputation,  which  he  cannot  lose  merely 
by  not  seeking  to  increase  it." 

"  Reputation  ! — oh  yes  \ — we  give  men  like 
that — men  of  genius — a  large  property  in  the 
S  clouds,  in  order  to  justify  ourselves  in  pushing 
them  out  of  our  way  below.  But  if  they  are 
contented  with  fame,  why  they  deserve  their 
fate.     Hang  fame — give  me  power." 

"And  there  no  power  in  genius?"  said 
Evelyn,  with  deepening  fervor;  "  no  power 
over  the  mind,  and  the  heart,  and  the  thought; 
no  power  over  its  own  time — over  posterity 
— over  nations  yet  uncivilized — races  yet  un- 
born ?  " 

This  burst   from  one   so   simple  and  young 


as  Evelyn  seemed  to  Vargrave  so  surprising, 
that  he  stared  on  her  without  saying  a 
word. 

"You  will  laugh  at  my  championship,"  she 
added,  with  a  blush  and  a  smile;  "but  you 
provoked  the  encounter." 

"  And  you  have  won  the  battle,"  said  Var- 
grave, with  prompt  gallantry.  "  My  charming 
ward,  every  day  developes  in  you  some  new 
gift  of  nature  !  " 

Caroline,  with  a  movement  of  impatience, 
put  her  horse  into  a  canter. 

Just  at  this  time,  from  a  cross-road,  emerged 
a  horseman — it  was  Maltravers.  The  party 
halted — salutations  were  exchanged. 

"I  suppose  you  have  been  enjoying  the 
sweet  business  of  squiredom,"  said  Vargrave, 
gaily:  "  Atticus  and  his  farm — classical  as- 
sociations !  Charming  weather  for  the  agri- 
culturists, eh  !— what  news  about  corn  and 
barley  ?  I  suppose  our  English  habit  of  talk- 
ing on  the  weather  arose  when  we  were  all  a 
squirearchal,  farming,  George  the  Third  kind 
of  people  !  Weather  is  really  a  serious  matter 
to  gentlemen  who  are  interested  in  beans  and 
vetches,  wheat  and  hay.  You  hang  your  hap- 
piness upon  the  changes  of  the  moon  !  " 

"  As  you  upon  the  smiles  of  a  minister. 
The  weather  of  a  court  is  more  capricious  than 
that  of  the  skies;  at  least  we  are  better  hus-< 
bandmen  than  you  who  sow  the  wind  and  reap 
the  whirlwind." 

"Well  retorted;  and  really,  when  I  look 
round,  I  am  half  inclined  to  e^vy  you.  Were 
I  not  Vargrave,  I  would  be  Maltravers." 

It  was,  indeed,  a  scene  that  seemed  quiet 
and  serene  with  the  English  union  of  the 
Feudal  and  the  Pastoral  life:  the  village- 
green,  with  its  trim  scattered  cottages — the 
fields  and  pastures  that  spread  beyond— the 
turf  of  the  park  behind,  broken  by  the  shadows 
of  the  unequal  grounds,  with  its  mounds,  and 
hollows,  and  venerable  groves,  from  which 
rose  the  turrets  of  the  old  hall,  its  mullion 
windows  gleaming  in  the  western  sun; — a 
scene  that  preached  tranquility  and  content, 
and  might  have  been  equally  grateful  to  hum- 
ble philosophy  and  hereditary  pride. 

"  I  never  saw  any  place  so  peculiar  in  its 
character  as  Burleigh,"  said  the  rector;  "the 
old  seats  left  to  us  in  England  are  chiefly 
those  of  our  great  nobles.  It  is  so  rare  to  see 
one  that  does  not  aspire  beyond  the  residence 


:tS4 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


of  a  private  gentleman  preserve  all  the  relics 
of  the  Tudor  age." 

"  I  think,"  said  Vargrave,  turning  to  Evelyn, 
"that  as  by  my  uncle's  will,  your  fortune  is  to 
be  laid  out  in  the  purchase  of  land,  we  could 
not  find  a  better  investment  than  Burleigh. 
So,  whenever  you  are  inclined  to  sell,  Mal- 
travers,  I  think  we  must  outbid  Doltimore. 
What  say  you,  my  fair  ward  ?  " 

'•  Leave  Burleigh  in  peace,  I  beseech  you  !  " 
said  Maltravers,  angrily. 

"  That  is  said  like  a  Digby,"  returned  Var- 
grave. "Allans! — will  you  not  come  home 
with  us  ?  " 

'  I  thank  you — not  to-day." 

"  We  meet  at  Lord  Raby's  next  Thursday. 
It  is  a  ball  given  almost  wholly  in  honor  of 
your  return  to  Burleigh;  we  are  all  going— it 
is  my  young  cousin's  debUt  at  Knaresdean. 
We  have  all  an  interest  in  her  conquests." 

Now,  as  Maltravers  looked  up  to  answer, 
he  caught  Evelyn's  glance,  and  his  voice  fal- 
tered. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  shall  meet  —  once 
again.  Adieu!"  He  wheeled  round  his 
horse,  and  they  separated. 

"  I  can  bear  this  no  more,"  said  Maltravers 
to  himself;  "  I  overrated  my  strength.  To 
see  her  thus  day  after  day,  and  to  know  her 
another's — to  writhe  beneath  his  calm,  uncon- 
scious assertion  of  his  rights.  Happy  Var- 
grave ! — and  yet,  ah  !  will  she  be  happy  ? — 
Oh  !  could  I  think  so  !  " 

Thus  soliloquizing,  he  suffered  the  rein  to 
fall  on  the  neck  of  his  horse,  which  paced 
slowly  home  through  the  village,  till  it  stopped 
— as  if  in  the  mechanism  of  custom — at  the 
door  of  a  cottage,  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
lodge.  At  this  door,  indeed,  for  several  suc- 
cessive days,  had  Maltravers  stopped  regu- 
larly; it  was  now  tenanted  by  the  poor  woman, 
his  introduction  to  whom  has  been  before 
narrated.  She  had  recovered  from  the  imme- 
diate effects  of  the  injury  she  had  sustained; 
but  her  constitution,  greatly  broken  by  pre- 
vious suffering  and  exhaustion,  had  received 
a  mortal  shock.  She  was  hurt  inwardly;  and 
the  surgebn  informed  Maltravers  that  she  had 
not  many  months  to  live.  He  had  placed  her 
under  the  roof  of  one  of  his  favorite  cottagers, 
where  she  received  all  the  assistance  and 
alleviation  that  careful  nursing  and  medical 
advice  could  give  her. 


This  poor  woman,  whose  name  was  Sarah 
Elton,  interested  Maltravers  much;  she  had 
known  better  days:  there  was  a  certain  pro- 
priety in  her  expressions  which  denoted  an 
education  superior  to  her  circumstances;  and 
what  touched  Maltravers  most,  she  seemed 
far  more  to  feel  her  husband's  death  than  her 
own  sufferings;  which,  somehow  or  other,  is 
not  common  with  widows  the  other  side  of 
forty  !  We  say  that  youth  easily  consoles  it- 
self for  the  robberies  of  the  grave — middle 
age  is  a  still  better  self-comforter.  When 
Mrs.  Elton  found  herself  installed  in  the  cot- 
tage, she  looked  round  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  And  William  is  not  here ! "  she  said. 
"  Friends^friends  !  if  we  had  had  but  one 
such  friend  before  he  died  ! " 

Maltravers  was  pleased  that  her  first  thought 
was  rather  that  of  sorrow  for  the  dead,  than 
of  gratitue  for  the  living.  Yet  Mrs.  Elton 
was  grateful — simply,  honestly,  deeply  grate- 
ful; her  manner,  her  voice,  betokened  it.  And 
she  seemed  so  glad  when  her  benefactor  called 
to  speak  kindly,  and  inquire  cordially,  that 
Maltravers  did  so  constantly;  at  first,  from  a 
compassionate,  and  at  last,  from  a  selfish  mo- 
tive— for  who  is  not  pleased  to  give  pleasure  ? 
And  Maltravers  had  so  few  in  the  world  to 
care  for  him,  that  perhaps  he  was  flattered  by 
the  grateful  respect  of  this  humble  stranger. 

When  his  horse  stopped,  the  cottager's 
daughter  opened  the  door  and  curtsied — it 
was  an  invitation  to  enter;  and  he  threw  his 
rein  over  the  paling  and  walked  into  the 
cottage. 

Mrs.  Elton,  who  had  beeti  seated  by  the 
open  casement,  rose  to  receive  him.  But 
Maltravers  made  her  sit  down,  and  soon  put 
her  at  her  ease.  The  woman  and  her  daughter 
who  occupied  the  cottage  retired  into  the  gar- 
den; and  Mrs.  Elton,  watching  them  withdraw, 
then  exclaimed  abruptly — 

"  Oh,  sir  !  I  have  so  longed  to  see  you  this 
morning.  I  so  long  to  make  bold  to  ask  you 
whether,  indeed,  I  dreamed  it — or  did  I,  when 
you  first  took  me  to  your  house — did  I  see 
"     She  stopped  abruptly:  and,  though  she 


strove  to  suppress  her  emotion,  it  was  too 
strong  for  her  efforts — she  sunk  back  on  her 
chair,  pale  as  death,  and  almost  gasped  for 
breath. 

Maltravers  waited   in   surprise    for  her  re- 
covery. 


jiUCE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


285 


"  I  beg  pardon,  sir — I  was  thinking  of  days 
long  past;  and — that  I  wished  to  ask  whether, 
when  I  lay  in  yonr  hall,  ahnost  insensible,  any 
one  besides  yourself  and  your  servants  were 
present  ? — or  was  it  " — added  the  woman  with 
a  shudder — "  was  it  the  dead  ? " 

"  I  remember,"  said  Maltravers,  much  struck 
and  interested  in  her  question  and  manner, 
"  that  a  lady  was  present." 

"  It  is  so — it  is  so  \  "  cried  the  woman,  half- 
rising  and  clasping  her  hands.  "  And  she 
passed  by  this  cottage  a  little  time  ago;  her 
veil  was  thrown  aside  as  she  turned  that  fair 
young  face  towards  the  cottage.  Her  name, 
sir — oh  !  what  is  her  name?  It  was  the  same 
— the  same  face  that  shone  across  me  in  that 
hour  of  pain  !  I  did  not  dream  !  I  was  not 
mad  ! " 

Compose  yourself;  you  could  never;  I  think, 
have  seen  that  lady  before:  her  name  is  Cam- 
eron." 

"  Cameron — Cameron  !  " — the  woman  shook 
her  head  mournfully.  "No;  that  name  is 
strange  to  me:  and  her  mother,  sir — she  is 
dead  ? " 

'•No;  her  mother  lives." 

A  shade  came  over  the  face  of  the  sufferer; 
and  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

My  eyes  deceive  me  then,  sir;  and,  indeed, 
I  feel  that  my  head  is  touched,  and  I  wander 
sometimes.  But  the  likeness  was  so  great; 
yet  that  young  lady  is  even  lovlier  !  " 

"Likenesses  are  very  deceitful,  and  very 
capricious;  and  depend  more  on  fancy  than 
reality.  One  person  discovers  a  likeness  be- 
tween faces  most  dissimilar,  a  likeness  invis- 
ible to  others.  But  who  does  Miss  Cameron 
resemble  ? " 

"One  now  dead,  sir;  dead  many  years  ago. 
But  it  is  a  long  story,  and  one  that  lies  heavy 
on  my  conscience.  Some  day  or  other,  if  you 
will  give  me  leave,  sir,  I  will  unburden  myself 
to  you." 

"If  I  can  assist  you  in  any  way,  command 
me.  Meanwhile,  have  you  no  friends,  no  re- 
lations, no  children,  whom  you  would  wish  to 
see?" 

"Children! — no,  sir;  I  never  had  but  one 
child  of  my  <ni'n"  (she  laid  an  emphasis  on 
the  last  words),  "and  that  died  in  a  foreign 
land!" 

"  And  no  other  relatives  ? " 

"  None,  sir.     My  history  is  very  short  and 


simple.  I  was  well  brought  up — an  only  child. 
My  father  was  a  small  farmer;  he  died  when 
I  was  sixteen,  and  I  went  into  service  with  a 
kind  old  lady  and  her  daughter,  who  treated 
me  more  as  a  companion  than  a  servant.  I 
was  a  vain,  giddy  girl  then,  sir.  A  young  man, 
the  son  of  a  neighboring  farmer,  courted  me, 
and  I  was  much  attached  to  him;  but  neither 
of  us  had  money,  and  his  parents  would  not 
give  their  consent  to  our  marrying.  I  was 
silly  enough  to  think  that,  if  William  loved 
me,  he  should  have  braved  all;  and  his  pru- 
dence mortified  me;  so  I  married  another 
whom  I  did  not  love.  I  was  rightly  punished, 
for  he  ill-used  me,  and  took  to  drinking;  I 
returned  to  my  old  service  to  escape  from  him 
— for  I  was  with  child  and  my  life  was  in 
danger  from  his  violence.  He  died  suddenly, 
and  in  debt.  And  then,  afterwards,  a  gentle- 
man— a  rich  gentleman — to  whom  I  rendered 
a  service  (do  not  misunderstand  me,  sir,  if  I 
say  the  service  was  one  of  which  I  repent), 
gave  me  money,  and  made  me  rich  enough  to- 
marry  my  first  lover;  and  William  and  I  went 
to  America.  We  lived  many  years  in  New 
York  upon  our  little  fortune  comfortably;  and 
I  was  a  long  while  happy,  for  I  had  always 
loved  William  dearly.  My  first  affliction  was 
the  death  of  my  child  by  my  first  husband; 
but  I  was  soon  roused  from  my  grief.  William 
schemed  and  speculated,  as  everybody  does, 
in  America,  and  so  we  lost  all:  and  William 
was  weakly  and  could  not  work.  At  length  he 
got  the  place  of  steward  on  board  a  vessel 
from  New  York  to  Liverpool,  and  I  was  taken 
to  assist  in  the  cabin.  We  wanted  to  come  to. 
London:  I  thought  my  old  benefactor  might 
do  something  for  us,  though  he  had  never 
answered  the  letters  I  had  sent  him.  But  poor 
William  fell  ill  on  board,  and  died  in  sight  of 
land." 

Mrs.  Elton  wept  bitterly,  but  with  the  sub- 
dued grief  of  one  to  whom  tears  have  beea 
familiar;  and  when  she  recovered,  she  soon; 
brought  her  humble  tale  to  an  end.  She  her- 
self, incapacitated  from  all  work  by  sorrow  and 
a  breaking  consitution,  was  left  in  the  streets 
of  Liverpool  without  other  means  of  subsis- 
tence than  the  charitable  contributions  of  the 
passengers  and  sailors  on  board  the  vessel. 
With  this  sum  she  had  gone  to  London,  where 
she  found  her  old  patron  had  been  long  since 
dead,  and  she  had  no   claims  on   his  family.. 


286 


B  UL  WEK'  S     WORKS. 


She  had,  on  quitting  England,  left  one  rehition 
settled  in  a  town  in  the  North;  thither  she  now 
repaired,  to  find  her  last  hope  wrecked;  the 
relation  also  was  dead  and  gone.  Her  money 
was  now  spent,  and  she  had  begged  her  way 
along  the  road,  or  through  the  lanes,  she  scarce 
knew  whither,  till  the  accident,  which  in  short- 
ening her  life,  had  raised  up  a  friend  for  its 
close. 

"And  such,  sir,"  said  she  in  conclusion, 
"  such  has  been  the  story  of  my  life,  except 
one  part  of  it,  which,  if  I  get  stronger,  I  can 
tell  better;  but  you  will  excuse  that  now." 

"  And  are  you  comfortable  and  contented,  my 
poor  friend  ?     These  people  are  kind  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  so  kind  ! — and  every  night  we  all  pray 
for  you,  sir;  you  ought  to  be  happy,  if  the  bless- 
ings of  the  poor  can  avail  the  rich." 

Maltravers  remounted  his  horse  and  sought 
his  home;  and  his  heart  was  lighter  than  before 
he  entered  that  cottage.  But  at  evening 
Cleveland  talked  of  Vargrave  and  Evelyn,  and 
the  good  fortune  of  one,  and  the  charms  of 
the  other;  and  the  wound,  so  well  concealed, 
bled  afresh. 


"  I  heard  from  De  Montaigne  the  other 
day,"  said  Ernest,  just  as  they  were  retiring 
for  the  night,  "  and  his  letter  decides  my  move- 
ments. If  you  will  accept  me,  then,  as  a 
travelling  companion,  I  will  go  with  you  to 
Paris.  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  leave 
Burleigh  on  Saturday  ?  " 

"Yes;  that  gives  us  a  day  to  recover  from 
Lord  Raby's  ball.  I  am  so  delighted  at  your 
offer  ! — we  need  only  stay  a  day  or  so  in  town. 
The  excursion  will  do  you  good— your  spirits, 
my  dear  Ernest,  seem  more  dejected  than 
when  you  first  returned  to  England:  you  live 
too  much  alone  here;  you  will  enjoy  Burleigh 
more  on  your  leturn.  And  perhaps  then  you 
will  open  the  old  house  a  little  more  to  the 
neighborhood,  and  to  your  friends.  They  ex- 
pect it:  you  are  looked  to  for  the  county." 

"  I  have  done  with  politics,  and  sicken  but 
for  peace." 

"  Pick  up  a  wife  in  Paris,  and  you  will  then 
know  that  peace  is  an  impossible  possession," 
said  the  old  bachelor  laughing. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


287 


BOOK    FIFTH. 


N^vioi'  ouS'  iffaffn' 6(r({)  -nkiov  Tjfiitrv  ttoito?. — HeS.  Op.  et  Dies,  4. 

Fools  blind  to  truth  ;  nor  know  their  erring  soul 
How  much  the  half  is  better  than  the  whole. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Do,  as  the  Heavens  have  done;  forget  your  evil; 
With  them,  forgive  yourself." — 7^Af  Winter's  Tale. 

" .    .    .    The  sweet'st  companion,  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of." — Hid. 

The  curate  of  Brook  Green  was  sitting  out- 
side his  door.  Tiie  vicarage  which  he  inhab- 
ited was  a  straggling,  irregular,  but  pictur- 
esque building;  huml)le  enough  to  suit  the 
means  of  the  curate,  yet  large  enough  to 
accommodate  the  vicar.  It  had  been  built  in 
an  age  when  the  indigcntes  et  pauperes  for 
whom  universities  were  founded  supplied,-more 
than  they  do  now,  the  fountains  of  the  Chris- 
tian ministry — when  pastor  and  flock  were 
more  on  an  equality. 

From  under  a  rude  and  arched  porch,  with 
an  oaken  settle  on  either  side  for  the  poor 
visitor,  the  door  opened  at  once  upon  the  old- 
fashioned  parlor  —  a  homely  but  pleasant 
room,  with  one  wide  but  low  cottage  casement, 
beneath  which  stood  the  dark  shining  table, 
that  supported  the  large  Bible  in  its  green 
baize  cover;  the  Concordance,  and  the  last 
Sunday's  sermon,  in  its  jetty  case.  There  by 
the  fire-place  stood  the  bachelor's  round  elbow 
chair,  with  a  needle-work  cushion  at  the  back; 
a  walnut-tree  bureau;  another  table  or  two; 
half  a  dozen  plain  chairs  constituted-  the  rest 
of  the  furniture,  saving  some  two  or  three 
hundred  volumes,  ranged  in  neat  shelves  on 
the  clean  wainscoted  walls.  There  was  another 
room,  to  which  you  ascended  by  two  steps, 
communicating  with  this  parlor,  smaller,  but 
finer,  and  inhabited  only  on  festive  days,  when 
Lady  Vargrave,  or  some  other  quiet  neigh- 
bor, came  to  drink  tea  with  the  good  curate. 


An  old  housekeeper  and  her  grandson — a 
young  fellow  of  about  two-and-twenty,  who 
tended  the  garden,  milked  the  cow,  and  did  in 
fact  what  he  was  wanted  to  do — composed  the 
establishment  of  the  humble  minister. 

We  have  digressed  from  Mr.  Aubrey  him- 
self. 

The  curate  was  seated,  then,  one  fine  sum- 
mer morning,  on  a  bench  at  the  left  of  his 
porch,  screened  from  the  sun  by  the  cool 
boughs  of  a  chestnut-tree,  the  shadow  of  which 
half  covered  the  little  lawn  that  separated  the 
precincts  of  the  house  from  those  of  silent  Death 
and  everlasting  Hope;  above  the  irregular 
and  moss  grown  paling  rose  the  village  church ; 
and,  through  openings  in  the  trees,  beyond  the 
burial-ground,  partially  gleamed  the  white 
walls  of  Lady  Vargrave's  cottage,  and  were 
seen  at  a  distance  the  sails  on  the 

"  Mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 

The  old  man  was  calmly  enjoying  the  beauty 
of  the  morning,  the  freshness  of  the  air,  the 
warmth  of  the  dancing  beam,  and  not  least, 
perhaps,  his  own  peaceful  thoughts,  the  spon- 
taneous children  of  a  contemplative  spirit  and 
a  quiet  conscience.  His  was  the  age  when  we 
most  sensitively  enjoy  the  mere  sense  of  ex- 
istence; when  the  face  of  Nature,  and  a  pas- 
sive conviction  of  the  benevolence  of  our 
Great  Father,  suffice  to  create  a  serene  and 
ineffable  happiness,  which  rarely  visits  ns  till 
we  have  done  with  the  passions;  till  memories, 
if  more  alive  than  heretofore,  are  yet  mellowed 
in  the  hues  ot  time,  and  Faith  softens  into 
harmony  all  their  asperities  and  harshness; 
till  nothing  within  us  remains  to  cast  a  shadow 
over  the  things  without;  and  on   the  verge  of 


288 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


life,  the  Angels  are  nearer  to  us  than  of  yore. 
There  is  an  old  age  which  has  more  youth  of 
heart  than  youth  itself ! 

As  the  old  man  thus  sate,  the  little  gate 
through  which,  on  Sabbath  days,  he  was  wont 
to  pass  from  the  humble  mansion  to  the  house 
of  God,  noiselessly  opened,  and  Lady  Var- 
grave  appeared. 

The  curate  rose  when  he  perceived  her;  and 
the  lady's  fair  features  were  lighted  up  with  a 
gentle  pleasure,  as  she  pressed  his  hand  and 
returned  his  salutation. 

There  was  a  peculiarity  in  Lady  Vargrave's 
countenance  which  I  have  rarely  seen  in  others. 
Her  sniiie,  which  was  singularly  expressive, 
came  less  from  the  lip  than  from  the  eyes;  it 
was  almost  as  if  the  brow  smiled — it  was  as 
the  sudden  and  momentary  vanishing  of  a  light 
but  melanchol)'  cloud  that  usually  rested  upon 
the  features,  placid  as  they  were. 

They  sate  down  on  the  rustic  bench,  and 
the  sea-breeze  wantoned  amongst  the  quiver- 
ing leaves  of  the  chestnut-tree  that  overhung 
their  seat. 

"  I  have  come,  as  usual,  to  consult  my  kind 
friend,"  said  Lady  Vargrave;  "and,  as  usual 
also,  it  is  about  our  absent  Evelyn." 

"  Have  you  heard  again  from  her,  this 
morning  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  her  letter  increases  the  anxiety 
which  your  observation,  so  much  deeper  than 
mine,  first  awakened." 

Does  she  then  write  much  of  Lord  Var- 
grave ?  " 

"  Not  a  great  deal;  but  the  little  she  does 
say,  betrays  how  much  she  shrinks  from  the 
union  my  poor  husband  desired:  more,  indeed, 
than  ever  !  But  this  is  not  all,  nor  the  worst: 
for  you  know,  that  the  late  lord  had  provided 
against  that  probability — (he  loved  her  so  ten- 
derly, his  ambition  for  her  only  came  from 
his  affection);— and  the  letter  he  left  behind 
him  pardons  and  releases  her,  if  she  revolts 
from  the  choice  he  himself  preferred." 

"  Lord  Vargrave  is  perhaps  a  generous,  he 
certainly  seems  a  candid,  man,  and  he  must 
be  sensible  that  his  uncle  has  already  done  all 
that  justice  required." 

"  I  think  so.  But  this,  as  I  said,  is  not  all; 
I  have  brought  the  letter  to  show  3'ou.  It 
seems  to  me  as  you  apprehended.  This  Mr. 
Maltravers  has  wound  himself  about  her 
thoughts  more  than  she  herself  imagines;  you 


see  how  she  dwells  on  all  that  concerns  him, 
and  how,  after  checking  herself,  she  returns 
again  and  again  to  the  same  subject." 

The  curate  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  took 
the  letter.  It  was  a  strange  thing,  that  old 
gray-haired  minister  evincing  such  grave  in- 
terest in  the  secrets  of  that  young  heart !  But 
they  who  would  take  charge  of  the  soul,  must 
never  be  too  wise  to  regard  the  heart ! 

Lady  Vargrave  looked  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  bent  down  to  read,  and  at  times  placed  her 
finger  on  such  passages  as  she  wished  him  to 
note.  The  old  curate  nodded  as  she  did  so; 
but  neither  spoke  till  the  letter  was  concluded. 

The  curate  then  folded  up  the  epistle, 
took  off  his  spectacles,  hemmed,  and  looked 
grave. 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  anxiously, 
"  well  ? " 

"  My  dear  friend,  the  letter  requires  con- 
sideration. \\\  the  first  place,  it  is  clear  to- 
me that,  in  spite  of  Lord  Vargrave's  presence 
at  the  rectory,  his  lordship  so  manages  matters 
that  the  poor  child  is  unable  of  herself  to  bring 
that  matter  to  a  conclusion.  And,  indeed,  to> 
a  mind  so  sensitively  delicate  and  honorable, 
it  is  no  easy  task." 

'•  Shall  I  write  to  Lord  Vargrave  ?" 

"  Let  us  think  of  it.  \\\  the  meanwhile, 
this  Mr.  Maltravers " 

"  Ah,  this  Mr.  Maltravers  !  " 

"  The  child  shows  us  more  of  her  heart  than 
she  thinks  of;  and  yet  I  myself  am  puzzled. 
If  you  observe,  she  has  only  once  or  twice 
spoken  of  the  Colonel  Legard,  whom  she  has 
made  acquaintance  with;  while  she  treats  at 
length  of  Mr.  Maltravers,  and  confesses  the 
effect  he  has  produced  on  her  mind.  Yet,  do 
you  know,  I  more  dread  the  caution  respecting 
the  first,  than  all  the  candor  that  betrays  the 
influence  of  the  last  ?  There  is  a  great  differ- 
ence between  first  fancy  and  first  love." 

"  Is  there  ?  "  said  the  lady,  abstractedly. 

"  Again,  neither  of  us  is  acquainted  with 
this  singular  man — I  mean  Maltravers;  his 
character,  temper,  and  principles— of  all  of 
which  Evelyn  is  too  young,  too  guileless,  to 
judge  for  herself.  One  thing,  however,  in  her 
letter  speaks  in  his  favor." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  He  absents  himself  from  her.  This,  if  he 
has  discovered  her  secret— or  if  he  himself  is 
sensible  of  too  great  a  charm  in  her  presence 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


289 


— would  be  the  natural  course  that  an  honor- 
able and  a  strong  mind  would  pursue." 

"  What  !— If  he  love  her  ?  " 

"  Yes — while  he  believes  her  hand  is  engaged 
to  another." 

"  True  !  What  shall  be  done — if  Evelyn 
should  love,  and  love  in  vain  ?  Ah,  it  is  the 
misery  of  a  whole  existence  I  " 

"  Perhaps  she  had  better  return  to  us,"  said 
Mr.  Aubrey;  "  and  yet,  if  already  it  be  too 
late,  and  her  affections  are  engaged — we  should 
still  remain  in  ignorance  respecting  the  motives 
and  mind  of  the  object  of  her  attachment. 
And  he,  too,  might  not  know  the  true  nature 
of  the  obstacle  connected  with  Lord  Vargrave's 
claims." 

"  Shall  I,  then,  go  to  her  ?  You  know  how 
I  shrink  from  stranger.s — how  I  fear  curiosity, 
doubts,  and  questions — how — (and  Lady  Var- 
grave's voice  faltered) — how  unfitted  I  am  for 

— for "  she  stopped  short,  and  a  faint  blush 

overspread  her  cheeks. 

The  curate  understood  her,  and  was  moved. 

"  Dear  friend."  said  he,  "  will  you  intrust  this 
charge  to  myself?  You  know  how  Evelyn  is 
endeared  to  me  by  certain  recollections  !  Per- 
haps, better  than  you,  I  may  be  enabled 
silently  to  examine  if  this  man  be  worthy  of 
her,  and  one  who  could  secure  her  happiness; 
— perhaps,  better  than  you,  I  may  ascertain 
the  exact  nature  of  her  own  feelings  towards 
him; — perhaps,  too,  better  than  you,  I  may 
effect  an  understanding  with  Lord  Vargrave." 

"  You  are  always  my  kindest  friend,"  said 
the  lady,  with  emotion;  "how  much  I  already 
owe  you  ! — what  hopes  beyond  the  grave  ! 
what " 

"Hush!"  interrupted  the  curate,  gently; 
"  your  own  good  heart  and  pure  intentions 
have  worked  out  your  own  atonement — may  I 
hope  also  your  own  content.  Let  us  return  to 
our  Evelyn:  poor  child  !  how  unlike  this  de- 
spondent letter  to  her  gay  light  sjjirits  when 
with  us  !  We  acted  for  the  best;  yet,  per- 
haps, we  did  wrong  to  yield  her  up  to  stran- 
gers: And  this  Maltravers  ! — with  her  enthusi- 
asm and-quick  susceptibilities  to  genius,  she 
was  half  prepared  to  imagine  him  all  she  de- 
picts him  to  be.  He  must  have  a  spell  in  his 
works  that  I  have  not  discovered — for  at 
times  it  seems  to  operate  even  on  you." 

"Because,"  said  Lady  Vargrave,  "they  re- 
mind   me   of  his  conversation — his  habits  of 

6.— 19 


thought.  If  like  him  in  other  things,  Evelyn 
may  indeed  be  happy  !  " 

"And  if,"  said  the  curate,  curiously— "  if 
now  that  you  are  free,  you  were  ever  to  meet 
with  him  again,  and  his  memory  had  been  as 
faithful  as  yours — and  he  offered  the  sole 
atonement  in  his  power,  for  all  that  his  early 
error  cost  you^if  such  a  chance  should  hap- 
pen in  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  you  would " 

The  curate  stopped  short;  for  he  was  struck 
by  the  exceeding  paleness  of  his  friend's  cheek, 
and  the  tremor  of  her  delicate  frame. 

"  If  that  were  to  happen,"  said  she  in  a  very 
low  voice;  "if  we  were  to  meet  again,  and  if 
he  were — as  you  and  Mrs.  Leslie  seem  to  think 
— poor,  and,  like  myself,  humbly  born — if  my 
fortune  could  assist  him — if  my  love  could  still 
— changed,  altered  as  I  am — ah  !  do  not  talk 
of  it — I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  happiness  I 
And  yet,  if  before  I  die  I  could  but  see  him 
again  !  "  She  clasped  her  hands  fervently  as 
she  spoke,  and  the  blush  that  overspread  her 
face  threw  over  it  so  much  of  bloom  and  fresh- 
ness, that  even  Evelyn,  at  that  moment,  would 
scarcely  have  seemed  more  young.  "  Enough," 
she  added,  after  a  little  while,  as  the  glow  died 
away.  "It  is  but  a  foolish  hope;  all  earthly 
love  is  buried;  and  my  heart  is  there  !  " — she 
pointed  to  the  heavens,  and  both  were  silent. 


CHAPTER  IL 

"  Quibus  otio  vel  magnifice,  vel  molliter  vivere  copai 
erat,  incerta  pro  certis  malebant."  *— Sallust. 

Lord  RABV—one  of  the  wealthiest  and  most 
splendid  noblemen  in  England — was  prouder, 
perhaps,  of  his  provincial  distinctions,  than 
the  eminence  of  his  rank  or  the  fashion  of  his 
wife.  The  magnificent  chateaux  —  the  im- 
mense estates  of  our  English  peers — tend  to 
preserve  to  us,  in  spite  of  the  freedom,  bustle, 
and  commercial  grandeur  of  our  people,  more 
of  the  Norman  attributes  of  aristocracy  than 
can  be  found  in  other  countries.  In  his  coun- 
ty, the  great  noble  is  a  petty  prince — his 
house  is  a  court — his  possessions  and  munifi- 
cence are  a  boast  to  every  proprietor  in  his 
district.     They  are  as   fond  of  talking  of  the 

*  They  who  had  the  means  to  live  at  ease,  either  in 
splendor  or  in  luxury,  preferred  the  uncertainty  oi 
change,  to  their  natural  security. 


290 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


Earl's  or  the  Duke's  movements  and  enter- 
tainments, as  Dangeau  was  of  the  gossip  of 
the  Tuileries  and  Versailles. 

Lord  Raby,  while  affecting,  as  lieutenant  of 
the  county,  to  make  no  political  distinctions 
between  squire  and  squire — hospitable  and 
affable  to  all — still,  by  that  very  absence  of 
exclusiveness,  gave  a  tone  to  the  politics  of 
the  whole  county;  and  converted  many  who 
had  once  thought  differently  on  the  respective 
virtues  of  Whigs  and  Tories.  A  great  man 
never  loses  so  much  as  when  he  exhibits  in- 
tolerance, or  parades  the  right  of  persecu- 
tion. 

"  My  tenants  shall  vote  exactly  as  they 
please,"  said  Lord  Raby;  and  he  was  never 
known  to  have  a  tenant  vote  against  his  wishes  ! 
Keeping  a  vigilant  eye  on  all  the  interests,  and 
conciliating  all  the  proprietors,  in  the  county, 
he  not  only  never  lost  a  friend,  but  he  kept  to- 
gether a  body  of  partisans  that  constantly 
added  to  its  numbers. 

Sir  John  Merton's  colleague,  a  young  Lord 
Nelthorpe,  who  could  not  speak  three  sen- 
tences if  you  took  away  his  hat;  and  who  con- 
stant at  Almack's,  was  not  only  inaudible  but 
invisible  in  parliament,  had  no  chance  of  being 
re-elected.  Lord  Nelthorpe's  father,  the  Earl 
of  Mainwaring,  was  a  new  peer;  and,  next  to 
Lord  Raby,  the  richest  nobleman  in  the  county. 
Now,  though  they  were  of  the  same  politics. 
Lord  Raby  hated  Lord  Mainwaring.  They 
were  too  near  each  other — they  clashed — they 
had  the  jealousy  of  rival  princes  ! 

Lord  Raby  was  delighted  at  the  notion  of 
getting  rid  of  Lord  Nelthorpe — it  would  be  so 
sensible  a  blow  to  the  Mainwaring  interest. 
The  party  had  been  looking  out  for  a  new 
candidate,  and  Maltravers  had  been  much 
talked  of.  It  is  true  that,  when  in  parliament 
some  years  before,  the  politics  of  Maltravers 
had  differed  from  those  of  Lord  Raby  and  his 
set.  But  Maltravers  had  of  late  taken  no  share 
in  politics — had  uttered  no  political  opinions — 
was  intimate  with  the  electioneering  Mertons — 
was  supposed  to  be  a  discontented  man — and 
politicians  believe  in  no  discontent  that  is  not 
political.  Whispers  were  afloat  that  Maltrav- 
ers had  grown  wise,  and  changed  his  views: 
some  remarks  of  his,  more  theoretical  than 
practical,  were  quoted  in  favor  of  this  notion. 
Parties,  too,  had  much  ^changed  since  Mal- 
travers had  appeared  on  the  busy  scene — new 


questions  had  arisen,  and  the  old  ones  had 
died  off. 

Lord  Raby  and  his  party  thought,  that  if 
Maltravers  could  be  secured  to  them,  no  one 
would  better  suit  their  purpose.  Political 
faction  loves  converts  better  even  than  consist- 
ent adherents.  A  man's  rise  in  life  generally 
dates  from  a  well-timed  rat.  His  high  repu- 
tation— his  provincial  rank  as  the  representa- 
tive of  the  oldest  commoner's  family  in  the 
county — his  age,  which  combined  the  energy 
of  one  period  with  the  experience  of  another — 
all  united  to  accord  Maltravers  a  preference 
over  richer  men.  Lord  Raby  had  been 
pointedly  courteous  and  flattering  to  the  mas- 
ter of  Burleigh;  and  he  now  contrived  it  so, 
that  the  brilliant  entertainment  he  was  about 
to  give  might  appear  in  compliment  to  a  dis- 
tinguished neighbor,  returned  to  fix  his  resi- 
dence on  his  patrimonial  property,  while  in 
reality  it  might  serve  an  electioneering  pur- 
pose— serve  to  introduce  Maltravers  to  the 
county,  as  if  under  his  lordship's  own  wing — 
and  minister  to  political  uses  that  went  beyond 
the  mere  representation  of  the  county. 

Lord  Vargrave  had,  during  his  stay  at  Mer- 
ton  Rectory,  paid  several  visits  to  Knaresdean, 
and  held  many  private  conversations  with  the 
marquess:  the  result  of  these  conversations 
was  a  close  union  of  schemes  and  interests  be- 
tween the  two  noblemen.  Dissatisfied  with  the 
political  conduct  of  Government,  Lord  Raby 
was  also  dissatisfied,  that,  from  various  party 
reasons,  a  nobleman  beneath  himself  in  rank, 
and  as  he  thought  in  influence,  had  obtained  a 
preference  in  a  recent  vacancy  among  the 
Knights  of  the  Garter.  And  if  Vargrave  had 
a  talent  in  the  world,  it  was  in  discovering  the 
weak  points  of  men  whom  he  sought  to  gain, 
and  making  the  vanities  of  others  conduce  to 
his  own  ambition. 

The  festivities  of  Knnresdean  gave  occasion 
to  Lord  Raby  to  unite  at  his  house  the  more 
prominent  of  those  who  thought  and  acted  in 
concert  with  Lord  Vargrave;  and  in  this  secret 
senate,  the  operations  for  the  following  session 
were  to  be  seriously  discussed  and  gravely 
determined. 

On  the  day  which  was  to  be  concluded  with 
the  ball  at  Knaresdean,  Lord  Vargrave  went 
before  the  rest  of  the  Merton  party,  for  he 
was  engaged  to  dine  with  the  Marquess. 

On  arriving  at  Knaresdean,  Lumley  found 


ALICE  J     OR,     THR    MYSTERIES. 


291 


Lord  Saxingham  and  some  other  politicians, 
who  had  arrived  the  preceding  day,  closeted 
with  Lord  Raby;  and  Vargrave,  who  shone  to 
yet  greater  advantage  in  the  diplomacy  of 
party  management  than  in  the  arena  of  parlia- 
ment, brought  penetration,  energy,  and  deci- 
sion to  timid  and  fluctuating  councils.  Lord 
Vargrave  lingered  in  the  room  after  the  first 
bell  had  summoned  the  other  guests  to  depart. 
"  My  dear  lord,"  said  he  then,  "  though  no 
one  would  be  more  glad  than  myself  to  secure 
Maltravers  to  our  side,  I  very  much  doubt 
whether  you  will  succeed  in  doing  so.  On 
the  one  hand,  he  appears  altogether  disgusted 
with  politics  and  parliament;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  fancy  that  reports  of  his  change  of 
opinions  are,  if  not  wholly  unfounded,  very 
unduly  colored.  Moreover,  to  do  him  justice, 
I  think  that  he  is  not  one  to  be  blinded  and 
flattered  into  the  pale  of  a  party;  and  your 
bird  will  fly  away,  after  you  have  wasted  a 
bucket-full  of  salt  on  his  tail." 

"  Very  possibly,"  said  Lord  Raby,  laughing; 
"you  know  him  better  than  I  do.  But  there 
are  many  purposes  to  serve  in  this  matter — 
purposes  too  provincial  to  interest  you.  In 
the  first  place,  we  shall  humble  the  Nelthorpe 
interest,  merely  by  showing  that  we  do  think 
of  a  new  member:  secondly,  we  shall  get  up 
a  manifestation  of  feeling  that  would  be  im- 
possible, unless  we  were  provided  with  a  cen- 
tre of  attraction:  thirdly,  we  shall  rouse  a  cer- 
tain emulation  amongother  county  gentlemen; 
and  if  Maltravers  decline,  we  shall  have  many 
applicants:  and  fourthly,  suppose  Maltravers 
has  not  changed  his  opinions,  we  shall  make 
him  suspected  by  the  party  he  really  does  be- 
long to,  and  which  would  be  somewhat  for- 
midable if  he  were  to  head  them.  In  fact, 
these  are  mere  county  tactics,  that  you  can't 
be  expected  to  understand." 

"I  see  you  are  quite  right:  meanwhile  you 
will  at  least  have  an  opportunity  (though  I  say 
it,  who  should  not  say  it)  to  present  to  the 
county  one  of  the  prettiest  young  ladies  that 
ever  graced  the  halls  of  Knaresdean." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Cameron  !  I  have  heard  much 
of  her  beauty:  yon  are  a  lucky  fellow,  Var- 
grave ! — by  the  by,  are  we  to  say  anything  of 
the  engagement  ?" 

"Wh)',  indeed,  my  dear  lord,  it  is  now  so 
publicly  known,  that  it  would  be  false  delicacy 
\o  affect  concealment." 


"Very  well;  I  understand." 

"  How  long  I  have  detained  you— a  thous- 
and pardons  ! — I  have  but  just  time  to  dress. 
In  four  or  five  months  I  must  remember  to 
leave  you  a  longer  time  for  your  toilet." 

"  Me — how  !  " 

"Oh,  the  Duke  of  *  *  *  *  can't  live  long; 
and  I  always  observe,  that  when  a  handsome 
man  has  the  Garter,  he  takes  a  longtime  pull- 
ing up  his  stockings." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  you  are  so  droll,  Vargrave." 

"  Ha,  ha  !— I  must  be  off. 

"  The  more  publicity  is  given  to  this  ar- 
rangement, the  more  difficult  for  Evelyn  to 
shy  at  the  leap,"  muttered  Vargrave  to  himself 
as  he  close  the  door.  "Thus  do  I  make  all 
things  useful  to  myself  I  " 

The  dinner  party  were  assembled  in  the 
great  drawing-room,  when  Maltravers  and 
Cleveland,  also  invited  guests  to  the  banquet, 
were  announced.  Lord  Raby  received  the 
former  with  marked  empresseinent ;  and  the 
stately  marchioness  honored  him  with  her 
most  gracious  smile.  Formal  presentations  to 
the  rest  of  the  guests  were  interchanged ;  and 
it  was  not  till  the  circle  was  fully  gone  through 
that  Maltravers  perceived,  seated  by  himself 
in  a  corner,  to  which  he  had  shrunk  on  the  en- 
trance of  Maltravers,  a  gray-haired,  solitary 
man — it  was  Lord  Saxingham  !  The  last  time 
they  had  met  was  in  the  death-chamber  of 
Florence;  and  the  old  man  forgot,  for  the 
moment,  the  anticipated  dukedom  and  the 
dreamed-of  premiership  .'—and  his  heart  flew 
back  to  the  grave  of  his  only  child  !  They 
saluted  each  other— and  shook  hands  in  si- 
lence. And  Vargrave — whose  eye  was  on  them 
— Vargrave,  whose  arts  had  made  that  old  man 
childless,  felt  not  a  pang  of  remorse  !  Living 
ever  in  the  future,  Vargrave  almost  seemed  to 
have  lost  his  memory.  He  knew  not  what  re- 
gret was.  It  is  a  condition  of  life  with  men 
thoroughly  worldly  that  they  never  look  be- 
hind ! 

The  signal  was  given:  in  due  order  the 
party  were  marshalled  into  the  great  hall — a 
spacious  and  lofty  chamber,  which  had  re- 
ceived its  last  alteration  from  the  hand  of 
Inigo  Jones;  though  the  massive  ceiling  with 
its  antique  and  grotesque  masques,  betrayed 
a  much  earlier  date,  and  contrasted  with  the 
Corinthian  pilasters  that  adorned  the  walls, 
and  supported  the  music  gallery — from  which 


^92 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


waved  the  flags  of  modern  warfare  and  its  I 
mimicries.  The  Eagle  of  Napoleon,  a  token 
of  the  services  of  Lord  Raby's  brother  (a 
distinguished  cavalry  officer  in  command  at 
Waterloo),  in  juxtaposition  with  a  much  gayer 
and  more  glittering  banner,  emblematic  of  the 
martial  fame  of  Lord  Raby  himself,  as  Colonel 
of  the  B shire  volunteers  ! 

The  music  pealed  from  the  gallery — the 
plate  glittered  on  the  board— the  ladies  wore 
diamonds,  and  the  gentlemen,  who  had  them, 
wore  stars.  It  was  a  very  fine  sight,  that 
banquet ! — such  as  became  the  festive  day  of 
a  lord-lieutenant,  whose  ancestors  had  now 
defied,  and  now  inter-married,  with  royalty. 
But  there  was  very  little  talk,  and  no  merriment. 
People  at  the  top  of  the  table  drunk  wine 
with  those  at  the  bottom;  and  gentlemen  and 
ladies  seated  next  to  each  other,  whispered 
languidly  in  monosyllabic  commune.  On  one 
side,  Maltravers  was  flanked  by  a  Lady  Some- 
body Something,  who  was  rather  deaf,  and 
very  much  frightened  for  fear  he  should  talk 
Greek;  on  the  other  side  he  was  relieved  by 
Sir  John  Merton — very  civil,  very  pompous, 
and  talking,  at  strictured  intervals,  about 
county  matters,  in  a  measured  intonation, 
savoring  of  the  House-of-Commons  jerk  at 
end  of  the  sentence. 

As  the  dinner  advanced  to  its  close,  Sir 
John  became  a  little  more  diffuse,  through  his 
voice  sunk  into  a  whisper. 

"  I  fear  there  will  be  a  split  in  the  cabinet 
before  parliament  meets." 

"Indeed  !  " 

"Yes;  Vargrave  and  the  Premier  cannot 
pull  together  very  long.  Clever  man,  Var- 
grave !  but  he  has  not  enough  stake  in  the 
country  for  a  leader  !  " 

"All  men  have  public  character  to  stake: 
and  if  that  be  good,  I. suppose  no  stake  can  be 
better  ? " 

"Humph  ! — yes— very  true;  but  still,  when 
a  man  has  land  and  money,  his  opinions,  in  a 
country  like  this,  very  properly  carry  more 
weight  with  them.  If  Vargrave,  for  instance, 
had  Lord  Raby's  property,  no  man  could  be 
more  fit  for  a  leader — a  prime  minister.  We 
might  then  be  sure  that  he  would  have  no 
selfish  interest  to  further;  he  would  not  play 
tricks  with  his  party — you  understand  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  I    am    not  a  party    man,  as  you  may  re- 


member; indeed,  you  and  I  have  voted  alike 
on  the  same  questions.  Measures,  not  men — 
that  is  my  maxim;  but  still  I  don't  like  to  see 
men  placed  above  their  proper  stations." 

"  Maltravers— a  glass  of  wine,"  said  Lord 
Vargrave  across  the  table.  "  Will  you  join  us. 
Sir  John  ?  " 

Sir  John  bowed. 

"Certainly,"  he  resumed,  "Vargrave  is  a 
pleasant  man  and  a  good  speaker;  but  still 
they  say  he  is  far  from  rich — embarassed,  in- 
deed. However,  when  he  marries  Miss  Cam- 
eron it  may  make  a  great  difference — give 
him  more  respectability;  do  you  know  what 
her  fortune  is — something  immense  ?  " 

"Yes;  I  believe  so — I  don't  know." 

"  My  brother  says  that  Vargrave  is  most 
amiable.  The  young  lady  is  very  handsome, 
almost  too  handsome  for  a  wife — don't  you 
think  so  ?  Beauties  are  all  very  well  in  a 
ball-room;  but  they  are  not  not  calculated  for 
domestic  life.  I  am  sure  you  agree  with  me. 
I  have  heard,  indeed,  that  Miss  Cameron  is 
rather  learned;  but  there  is  so  much  scandal 
in  a  country  neighborhood; — people  are  so 
ill-natured.  I  dare  say  she  is  not  more 
learned  than  other  young  ladies,  poor  girl  I 
What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Miss  Cameron  is — is  very  accomplished,  I 
believe.  And  so  you  think  the  Government 
cannot  stand  ? " 

"  I  don't  say  that — very  far  from  it:  but  I 
fear  there  must  be  a  change.  However,  if  the 
country  gentlemen  hold  together,  1  do  not 
doubt  but  what  we  shall  weather  the  storm. 
The  landed  interest,  Mr.  Maltravers,  is  the 
great  stay  of  this  country — the  sheet-anchor, 
I  may  say.  I  suppose  Lord  Vargrave,  who 
seems,  I  must  say,  to  have  right  notions  on 
this  head,  will  invest  Miss  Cameron's  fortune 
in  land.  But  though  one  may  buy  an  estate, 
one  can't  buy  an  old  family,  Mr.  Maltravers  ! 
you  and  I  may  be  thankful  for  that.  By  the 
way,  who  was  Miss  Cameron's  mother,  Lady 
Vargrave  ? — somethig  low,  I  fear — nobody 
knows." 

"  I  am  not  acquainted  with  Lady  Vargrave: 
your  sister-in-law  speaks  of  her  most  highly. 
And  the  daughter  in  herself  is  a  sufficient 
guarantee  for  the  virtues  of  the  mother." 

"Yes;  and  Vargrave  on  one  side,  at  least, 
has  himself  nothing  in  the  way  of  family  to 
boast  of." 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


293 


The  ladies  left  the  hall — the  gentlemen  re- 
seated themselves.  Lord  Raby  made  some 
remark  on  politics  to  Sir  John  Merton,  and  the 
whole  round  of  talkers  immediately  followed 
their  leader. 

"It  is  a  thousand  pities,  Sir  John,"  said 
Lord  Raby,  "  that  you  have  not  a  colleague 
more  worthy  of  you;  Nelthrope  never  attends 
a  committe  does  he?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  he  is  a  very  active  mem- 
ber; but  he  is  young,  and  we  must  make 
allowances  for  him,"  said  Sir  John,  discreetly: 
for  he  had  no  desire  to  oust  his  colleague; 
— it  was  agreeable  enough  to  be  the  efficient 
member. 

"  In  these  times,"  said  Lord  Raby,  loftily, 
•'  allowances  are  not  to  be  made  for  systematic 
neglect  of  duty;  we  shall  have  a  stormy  ses- 
sion— the  opposition  is  no  longer  to  be  de- 
spised— perhaps  a  dissolution  may  be  nearer 
at  hand  than  we  think  for:— as  for  Neltrope, 
he  cannot  come  in  again." 

"That  I  am  quite  sure  of,"  said  a  fat  coun- 
try gentleman  of  great  weight  in  the  county: 
"  he  not  only  was  absent  on  the  great  Malt 
question,  but  he  never  answered  my  letter 
respecting  the  Canal  Company." 

"  Not  answered  your  letter !  "  said  Lord 
Raby,  lifting  up  his  hands  and  eyes  in  amaze 
and  horror.  "  What  conduct  ! — Ah,  Mr.  Mal- 
travers,  you  are  the  man  for  us  !  " 

"  Hear  !  hear  ! "  cried  the  fat  squire. 

"Hear!'  echoed  Vargrave;  and  the  ap- 
proving sound  went  round  the  table. 

Lord  Raby  rose — "  Gentlemen,  fill  your 
glasses; — a  health  to  our  distinguished  neigh- 
bor ! " 

The  company  applauded;  each  in  his  turn 
smiled,  nodded,  and  drank  to  Maltravers,  who, 
though  taken  by  surprise,  saw  at  once  the 
ourse  to  pursue.  He  returned  thanks  simply 
and  shortly;  and;  without  pointedly  noticing 
the  allusion  in  which  Lord  Raby  had  indulged, 
remarked  incidentally,  that  he  had  retired, 
certainly  for  some  years— perhaps  for  ever — 
from  political   life. 

Vargrave  smiled  significantly  at  Lord  Raby, 
and  hastened  to  lead  the  conversation  into 
party  discussion. — Wrapped  in  his  proud  dis- 
.;  dain  of  what  he  considered  the  contests  of 
i,  factions  for  toys  and  shadows,  Maltravers  re- 
j,  mained  silent;  and  the  party  soon  broke  up, 
■r     and  adjourned  to  the  ball  room. 


CHAPTER   IIL 

"  Le  plus  grand  defaut  de  la  penetration  n'est  pas  de 
n'aller  point  jusqu'au  but,  c'est  de  le  passer."  * 

—La  Rochekaucauld. 

Evelyn  had  looked  forward  to  the  Ball  at 
Knaresdean  with  feelings  deeper  than  those 
which  usually  inflame  the  fancy  of  a  girl, 
proud  of  her  dress,  and  confident  of  her  beauty. 
Whether  or  not  she  loved  Maltravers,  in  the 
true  acceptation  of  the  word  love,  it  is  certain 
that  he  had  acquired  a  most  powerful  com- 
mand over  her  mind  and  imagination.  She 
felt  the  warmest  interest  in  his  welfare — the 
most  anxious  desire  for  his  esteem — the 
deepest  regret  at  the  thought  of  their  es- 
trangement. At  Knaresdean  she  should  meet 
Maltravers — in  crowds,  it  is  true — but  still 
she  should  meet  him;  she  should  see  him 
towering  superior  above  the  herd;  she  should 
hear  him  praised;  she  should  mark  him,  the 
observed  of  all.  But  there  was  another,  and 
a  deeper  s  )urce  of  joy  within  her.  A  letter 
had  been  that  morning  received  from  Aubrey, 
in  which  he  had  announced  his  arrival  for  the 
next  day.  The  letter,  though  affectionate, 
was  short.  Evelyn  had  been  some  months 
absent — Lady  Vargrave  was  anxious  to  make 
arrangements  for  her  return;  but  it  was  to  be 
at  her  option  whether  she  would  accompany 
the  curate  home.  Now,  besides  her  delight  at 
seeing  once  more  the  dear  old  man,  and  hear- 
ing from  his  lips  that  her  mother  was  well  and 
happy,  Evelyn  hailed  in  his  arrival  the  means 
of  extricating  herself  from  her  position  with 
Lord  Vargrave.  She  would  confide  in  him 
her  increased  repugnance  to  that  uuion^he 
would  confer  with  Lord  Vargrave;  and  then 
— and  then— did  there  come  once  more  the 
thought  of  Maltravers  ?  No  !— I  fear  it  was 
not  Maltravers  who  called  forth  that  smile 
and  that  sigh  !— Strange  girl,  you  know  not 
your  own  mind;— but  few  of  us,  at  your 
age,  do  ! 

In  all  the  gaiety  of  hope,  in  the  pride  of 
dress  and  half-conscious  loveliness,  Evelyn 
went  with  a  light  step  into  Caroline's  room. 
Miss  Merton  had  already  dismissed  her  woman, 
and  was  seated  by  her  writing-table,  leaning 
her  cheek  thoughtfully  on  her  hand. 


*  The  greatest  defect  of  penetration  is  not  that  of 
not  going  just  up  to  the  point— it  is  the  passing  it. 


2  94 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  Is  it  time  to  go  ? "  said  she,  looking  up. 
•  Well — we  shall  put  papa,  and  the  coachman, 
and  the  horses,  too,  in  excellent  humor.  How 
well  you  look  !  Really,  Evelyn,  you  are  in- 
deed beautiful  !  " — and  Caroline  gazed  with 
honest,  but  not  unenvious  admiration  at  the 
fairy  form  so  rounded,  and  yet  so  delicate; 
and  the  face  that  seemed  to  blush  at  its  own 
charms. 

"I  am  sure  I  can  return  the  flattery,"  said 
Evelyn,  laughing  bashfully.  • 

"  Oh  !  as  for  me,  I  am  well  enough  in  my 
way:  and  hereafter  I  daresay  we  may  be  rival 
beauties.  I  hope  we  shall  remain  good  friends, 
and  rule  the  world  with  divided  empire.  Do 
you  not  long  for  the  stir,  and  excitement,  and 
ambition  of  London? — for  ambition  is  open  to 
us  as  to  men  !  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Evelyn,  smiling:  "  I 
could  be  ambitious,  indeed;  but  it  would  not 
be  for  myself,  but  for " 

"  A  husband,  perhaps;  well,  you  will  have 
ample  scope  for  such  symj^athy.  Lord  Var- 
grave " 

"  Lord  Vargrave  again  ! "  and  Evelyn's 
smile  vanished,  and  she  turned  away. 

•'Ah,"  said  Caroline,  "I  should  have  made 
Vargrave  an  excellent  wife — pity  he  does  not 
think  so  !  As  it  is,  I  must  set  up  for  myself, 
and  become  a  mattresse  femmc. — So  you  think 
I  look  well  to-night  ?  I  am  glad  of  it — Lord 
Doltimore  is  one  who  will  be  guided  by  what 
other  people  say." 

''  You  are  not  serious  about  Lord  Dolti- 
more ? " 

''  Most  sadly  serious." 

"Impossible!  you  could  not  speak  so  if 
you  loved  him." 

"  Loved  him!  no!  but  I  intend  to  marry  him." 

Evelyn  was  revolted,  but  still  incredulous. 

"  And  you,  too,  will  marry  one  whom  you 
do  not  love  ? — 'tis  our  fate " 

"  Never  ! " 

"We  shall  see." 

Evelyn's  heart  was  damped,  and  her  spirits 
fell. 

"  Tell  me  now,"  said  Caroline,  pressing  on 
the  wrung  withers — "  do  you  not  think  this  ex- 
citement, partial  and  provincial  though  it  be 
— the  sense  of  beauty,  the  hope  of  conquest, 
the  consciousness  of  power — better  than  the 
dull  monotony  of  the  Devonshire  cottage  ? 
be  honest " 


"  No,  no,  indeed  !  "  answered  Evelyn,  tear- 
fully and  passionately:  one  hour  with  my 
mother,  one  smile  from  her  lips,  were  worth 
it  all  !  " 

"  And  in  your  visions  of  marriage,  you 
think  then  of  nothing  but  roses  and  doves, — 
love  in  a  cottage  !  " 

"  Love  in  a  home,  no  matter  whether  a  pal- 
ace or  a  cottage,"  returned  Evelyn. 

"  Home  !  "  repeated  Caroline,  bitterly; — 
"  home — home  is  the  English  sj-nonym  for  the 
French  ennui.     But  I  hear  papa  on  the  stairs." 

A  Ball-room — what  a  scene  of  common- 
place !  how  hackneyed  in  novels;  how  trite  in 
ordinary  life;  and  yet  ball-rooms  have  a  char- 
acter and  a  sentiment  of  their  own,  for  all  tem- 
pers and  all  ages.  Something  in  the  lights 
— the  crowd^-the  music — conduces  to  stir  up 
many  of  the  thoughts  that  belong  to  fancy 
and  romance.  It  is  a  melancholy  scene  to 
men  after  a  certain  age.  It  revives  many  of 
those  lighter  and  more  graceful  images  con- 
nected with  the  wandering  desires  of  youth: 
shadows  that  crossed  us,  and  seemed  love, 
but  were  not:  having  much  of  the  grace  and 
charm,  but  none  of  the  passion  and  the  tragedy, 
of  love.  So  many  of  our  earliest  and  gentlest 
recollections  are  connected  with  those  chalked 
floors — and  that  music  painfully  gay  —  and 
those  quiet  nooks  and  corners,  where  the  talk 
that  hovers  about  the  heart  and  does  not  touch 
it  has  been  held.  Apart  and  unsympathizing 
in  that  austerer  wisdom  which  comes  to  us 
after  deep  passions  have  been  excited,  we  see 
form  after  form  chasing  the  butterflies  that 
dazzle  us  no  longer  among  the  flowers  that 
have  evermore  lost  their  fragrance. 

Somehow  or  other,  it  is  one  of  the  scenes 
that  remind  us  most  forcibly  of  the  loss  of 
youth  !  We  are  brought  so  closely  in  contact 
with  the  young  and  with  the  short-lived  pleas- 
ures that  once  pleased  us,  and  have  forfeited 
all  bloom.  Happy  the  man  who  turns  from 
"the  tinkling  cymbal,"  and  "the  gallery  of 
pictures,"  and  can  think  of  some  watchful  eye 
and  some  kind  heart  at  lioine.  But  those  who 
have  no  home — and  they  are  a  numerous  tribe 
— never  feel  lonelier  hermits  or  sadder  moral 
ists,  than  in  such  a  crowd. 

Maltravers  leaned  abstractedly  against  the 
wall,  and  some  such  reflections  perhaps  passed 
within,  as  the  plumes  waved  and  the  diamonds 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


295 


glittered  round  him.  Ever  too  proud  to  be 
vain,  the  moiistrari  digito  had  not  flattered 
even  in  the  commencement  of  his  career.  And 
now  he  hee<]ed  not  the  eyes  that  sought  his 
look,  nor  the  admiring  murmur  of  lips  anxious 
to  be  overheard.  Affluent,  well-born,  unmar- 
ried, and  still  in  the  prime  of  life, — in  the 
small  circles  of  a  province,  Ernest  Maltravers 
would  in  himself  have  been  an  object  of  in- 
terest to  the  diplomacy  of  mothers  and  daugh- 
ters; and  the  false  glare  of  reputation  neces- 
sarily deepened  curiosity,  and  widened  the 
range  of  speculators  and  observers. 

Suddenly,  however,  a  new  object  of  atten- 
tion excited  new  interest— new  whispers  ran 
through  the  crowd,  and  these  awakened  Mal- 
travers from  his  revery.  He  looked  up,  and 
beheld  all  eyes  fixed  upon  one  form  !  His 
own  eyes  encountered  those  of  Evelyn  Came- 
ron ! 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  this  beau- 
tiful young  person  in  all  the  /clat,  pomp,  and 
circumstance  of  her  station,  as  the  heiress  of 
the  opulent  Templeton — the  first  time  he  had 
seen  her  the  cynosure  of  crowds — who,  had 
her  features  been  homely,  would  have  admired 
the  charms  of  her  fortune  in  her  face.  And 
now,  as  radiant  with  youth,  and  the  flush 
of  excitement  on  her  soft  cheek,  she  met  his 
eye,  he  said  to  himself — "  And  could  I  have 
wished  one  so  new  to  the  world  to  have  united 
her  lot  with  a  man,  for  whom  all  that  to  her  is 
delight  has  grown  wearisome  and  stale  ?  Could 
I  have  been  justified  in  stealing  her  from  the 
admiration  that,  at  her  age,  and  to  her  sex,  has 
so  sweet  a  flattery  ?  Or,  on  the  other  hand, 
could  I  have  gone  back  to  her  years,  and  sym- 
pathized with  feelings  that  time  has  taught  me 
to  despise  ? — Better  as  it  is." 

Influenced  by  these  thoughts,  the  greeting 
of  Maltravers  disappointed  and  saddened 
P^velyn,  she  knew  not  why;  it  was  constrained 
and  grave. 

"  Does  not  Miss  Cameron  look  well  ? " 
whispered  Mrs.  Merton,  on  whose  arm  the 
heiress  leant.  "  You  observe  what  a  sensa- 
tion she  creates  ?  " 

Evelyn  overheard,  and  blushed  as  she  stole 
a  glance  at  Maltravers.  There  was  something 
mournful  in  the  admiration  which  spoke  in  his 
deep,  earnest  eyes. 

"  Everywhere,"  said  he,  calmly,  and  in  the 
same  tone,  "  Everywhere  Miss    Cameron  ap- 


pears, she  must  outshine  all  others."  He 
turned  to  Evelyn,  and  said  with  a  smile, 
"You  must  learn  to  enure  yourself  to  admir- 
ation— a  year  or  two  hence,  and  you  will  not 
blush  at  your  own  gifts  !  " 

"  And  you,  too,  contribute  to  spoil  me  ! — 
fie  !  " 

"  Are  you  so  easily  spoiled  ?  If  I  meet  you 
hereafter,  you  will  think  my  compliments  cold 
to  the  common  language  of  others." 

"  You  do  not  know  me — perhaps  you  never 
will." 

"  I  am  contented  with  the  fair  pages  I  have 
already  read." 

"  Where  is  Lady  Raby  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton. "Oh,  I  see:  Evelyn,  my  love,  we  must 
present  ourselves  to  our  hostess. 

The  ladies  moved  on — and  when  Maltravers 
next  caught  a  glance  of  Evelyn,  she  was  with 
Lady  Raby,  and  Lord  Vargrave  also  was  by 
her  side. 

The  whispers  round  him  had  grown    louder. 

"  Very  lovely  indeed  ! — so  young,  too  ! — 
and  she  is  really  going  to  be  married  to  Lord 
Vargrave:  so  much  older  than  she  is—quite  a 
sacrifice  !  " 

"  Scarcely  so.  He  is  so  agreeable  and  still 
handsome.  But  are  you  sure  that  the  thin'.;-  is 
settled  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  Lord  Raby  himself  told  me  so. 
It  will  take  place  very  soon." 

"  But  do  you  know  who  her  mother  was  ? — 
I  cannot  make  out." 

"  Nothing  particular.  You  know  the  late 
Lord  Vargrave  was  a  man  of  low  birth.  I  be- 
lieve she  was  a  widow  of  his  own  rank — she 
lives  quite  in  seclusion." 

"  How  d'  ye  do,  Mr.  Maltravers  ?  So  glad 
to  see  you,"  said  the  quick  shrill  voice  of  Mrs. 
Hare.  "Beautiful  ball — nobody  does  things 
like  Lord  Rabv — don't  you  dance  ?  " 

"  No,  madam." 

"  Oh,  you  young  gentleman  are  ?,o  fine  nowa- 
days." (Mrs.  Hare,  laying  stress  on  the  word 
young,  thought  she  had  paid  a  very  elegant 
compliment,  and  ran  on  with  increased  com- 
placency.) 

"  You  are  going  to  let  Burleigh,  I  hear,  to 
Lord  Doltimore — is  is  true? — No! — really 
now,  what  stories  people  do  tell.  Elegant  man. 
Lord  Doltimore  I  Is  it  true,  that  Miss  Caro- 
line is  going  to  marry  his  lordship? — Great 
match  ! — No  scandal,    I    hope;  you'll  excuse 


^^t> 


BUIAVl'lR'S     WORKS. 


me  ! — Two  wedding  on  the  tapis — quite  stir- 
zing  for  our  stupid  county.  Lady  Vargrave 
and  Lady  Doltimore,  two  new  peeresses. 
Which  do  you  think  is  the  handsomer  ? — Miss 
Merton  is  the  taller,  but  there  is  something 
fierce  in  her  eyes.  Don't  you  think  so  ? — By 
the  by,  I  wish  you  joy — you'll  excuse  me." 

"  Wish  me  joy,  madam  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  are  so  close.  Mr.  Hare  says  he 
shall  support  you.  You  will  have  all  the  ladies 
with  you.  Well,  I  declare,  Lord  Vargrave  is 
going  to  dance.   How  old  is  he,  do  you  think  ?  " 

Maltravers  uttered  an  audible  pshaw,  and 
moved  away;  but  his  penance  was  not  over. 
Lord  Vargrave,  much  as  he  disliked  dancing, 
still  thought  it  wise  to  ask  the  fair  hand  of 
Evelyn;  and  Evelyn,  also,  could  not  refuse. 

And  now,  as  the  crowd  gathered  round  the 
red  ropes,  Maltravers  had  to  undergo  new  ex- 
clamations at  Evelyn's  beauty  and  Vargrave's 
luck.  Impatiently  he  turned  from  the  spot, 
with  that  gnawing  sickness  of  the  heart  which 
no'ie  but  the  jealous  know.  He  longed  to  de- 
part, yet  dreaded  to  do  so.  It  was  the  last 
time  he  should  see  Evelyn,  perhaps  for  years 
— the  last  time  he  should  see  her  as  Miss 
Cameron  ! 

He  passed  into  another  room,  deserted  by 
all  save  four  old  gentlemen — Cleveland  one 
of  them — immersed  in  whist;  and  threw  him- 
self upon  an  ottoman,  placed  in  a  recess  by 
the  oriel  window.  There,  half-concealed  by 
the  draperies,  he  communed  and  reasoned 
with  himself.  His  heart  was  sad  within  him; 
he  never  felt  before  hmi'  deeply  and  how  pas- 
sionately he  loved  Evelyn — how  firmly  that 
love  had  fastened  upon  the  very  core  of  his 
heart  !  Strange,  indeed,  it  was  in  a  girl  so 
young — of  whom  he  had  seen  but  little — and 
that  little  in  positions  of  such  quiet  and  or- 
dinary interest — to  excite  a  passion  so  intense 
in  a  man  who  had  gone  through  strong  emo- 
tions and  stern  trials  !  But  all  love  is  unac- 
countable. The  solitude  in  which  Maltravers 
had  lived — the  absence  of  all  other  excitement 
— perhaps  had  contributed  largely  to  fan  the 
flame.  And  his  affections  had  so  long  slept; 
and  after  long  sleep  the  passions  wake  with 
such  giant  strength  1  He  felt  now  too  well 
that  the  last  rose  of  life  had  bloomed  for  him 
— it  was  blighted  in  its  birth,  but  it  could 
never  be  replaced.  Henceforth,  indeed,  he 
should    be    alone — the    hopes    of   home  were 


gone  for  ever;  and  the  other  occupations  ol 
mind  and  soul — literature,  pleasure,  ambition 
— were  already  forsworn  at  the  very  age  in 
which  by  most  men  they  are  most  indulged  '. 
O  Youth  !  begin  not  thy  career  too  soon,  and 
let  one  passion  succeed  in  its  due  order  to  an- 
other; so  that  every  season  of  life  may  have 
its  appropriate  pursuit  and  charm  ! 

The  hours  waned — still  Maltravers  stirred 
not;  nor  were  his  meditations  disturbed,  except 
by  occasional  ejaculations  from  the  four  old 
gentlemen,  as  between  each  deal  they  moral- 
ized over  the  caprices  of  the  cards. 

At  length,  close  beside  him  he  heard  that 
voice,  the  lightest  sound  of  which  could  send 
the  blood  rushing  through  his  veins;  and  from 
his  retreat  he  saw  Caroline  and  Evelyn,  seated 
close  by. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  former  in  a  low 
voice — "  I  beg  pardon,  Evelyn,  for  calling  you 
away — but  I  longed  to  tell  you.  The  die  is 
cast. — Lord  Doltimore  has  proposed,  and  I 
have  accepted  him  I — Alas,  alas  !  I  half  wish  I 
could  retract  !  " 

"  Dearest  Caroline  ! "  said  the  silver  voice 
of  Evelyn;  "for  Heaven's  sake,  did  not  thus 
wantonly  resolve  on  your  own  unhappiness  I 
You  wrong  yourself,  Caroline  ! — you  do,  in- 
deed ! — You  are  not  the  vain,  ambitious  char- 
acter you  affect  to  be  !  Ah  !  what  is  it  you 
require — wealth? — are  you  not  my  friend  ? — 
am  I  not  rich  enough  for  both? — rank? — what 
can  it  give  you  to  compensate  for  the  misery 
of  an  union  without  love  ?— Pray  forgive  me 
for  speaking  thus;  do  not  think  me  presumptu- 
ous, or  romantic— but  indeed,  indeed,  I  know 
from  my  own  heart  what  j'ours  must  under- 
go !" 

Caroline  pressed  her  friend's  hand  with 
emotion. 

"You  are  a  bad  comforter,  Evelyn; — my 
mother — my  father,  will  preach  a  very  differ- 
ent doctrine.  I  am  foolish,  indeed,  to  be  so 
sad  in  obtaining  the  very  object  I  have  sought  ! 
Poor  Doltimore  ! — he  little  knows  the  nature, 
the  feelings  of  her  whom  he  thinks  he  has 
made  the  happiest  of  her  sex — he  little  knows  " 
— Caroline  paused,  turned  pale  as  death,  and 
then  went  rapidly  on — "  But  you,  Evelyn,  j'tJa 
will  meet  the  same  fate,  we  shall  bear  it  to- 
gether." 


"No 


-no 


-do    not  think   so  ! — Where  I 


give  my  hand,  there  shall  I  give  my  heart.' 


ALICE;     OR,      THE    MYSTERIES. 


297 


At  this  time  Maltravers  half  rose,  and 
sighed  audibl)'. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Caroline,  in  alarm.  At  the 
same  moment,  the  whist-table  broke  up,  and 
Cleveland  approached  Maltravers. 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  he;  ''I  know 
you  will  not  stay  the  supper.  You  will  find 
me  in  the  next  room;  I  am  just  going  to  speak 
to  Lord  Saxingham."  The  gallant  old  gentle- 
man then  paid  a  compliment  to  the  young- 
ladies,  and  walked  away. 

"  So,  you  too  are  a  deserter  from  the  ball- 
room ! "  said  Miss  Merton  to  Maltravers  as 
^he  rose. 

"lam  not  very  well;  but  do  not  let  me 
frighten  you  away." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  hear  the  music — it  is  the  last 
quadrille  before  supper — and  here  is  my  fort- 
unate partner  looking  for  me." 

"  I  have  been  everywhere  in  search  of  you," 
said  Lord  Doltimore,  in  an  accent  of  tender 
reproach;  "come,  we  are  almost  too  late 
now." 

Caroline  put  her  arm  into  Lord  Doltimore's, 
who  hurried  her  into  the  ball-room. 

Miss  Cameron  looked  irresolute  whether  or 
not  to  follow,  when  Maltravers  seated  himself 
beside  her; — and  the  paleness  of  his  brow,  and 
something  that  bespoke  pain  in  the  compressed 
lip — went  at  once  to  her  heart.  In  her  child- 
like tenderness,  she  would  have  given  worlds 
for  the  sister's  privilege  of  sympathy  and  sooth- 
ing. The  room  was  now  deserted — they  were 
alone. 

The  words  that  he  had  overheard  from  Eve- 
lyn's lips — "  Where  I  shall  give  my  hand, 
there  shall  I  give  my  heart " — Maltravers  in- 
terpreted, but  in  one  sense — '  she  loved  her 
betrothed  ! ' — and  strange  as  it  may  seem,  at 
that  thought  which  put  the  last  seal  upon  his 
fate,  selfish  anguish  was  less  felt  than  deep 
compassion.  So  young — so  courted  —  so 
tempted  as  she  must  be — and  with  such  a 
protector  ! — the  cold,  the  unsympathizing,  the 
heartless  Vargrave  !  She,  too  whose  feelings 
so  warm,  ever  trembled  on  her  lip  and  eye — 
Oh  !  when  she  awoke  from  her  dream,  and 
knew  whom  she  had  loved,  what  might  be  her 
destiny— what  her  danger  ! 

"  Miss  Cameron,"  said  Maltravers,  "  let  me 
for  one  moment  detain  you;  I  will  not  trespass 
long.  May  I  once,  and  for  the  last  time  as- 
sume the  austere  rights  of  friendship  !     I  have 


seen  much  of  life,  Miss  Cameron,  and  my 
experience  has  been  purchased  dearly:  and, 
harsh  and  hermit- like  as  I  may  have  grown, 
I  have  not  out-lived  such  feeling  as  you  are 
well  formed  to  excite.  "  Nay,"— (and  Mal- 
travers smiled  sadly) — "I  am  not  about  to 
compliment  or  flatter. — I  speak  not  to  you  as 
the  young  to  the  young;  the  difference  of  our 
years,  that  takes  away  sweetness  from  flattery, 
leaves  still  sincerity  to  friendship.  You  have 
inspired  me  with  a  deep  interest;— deeper 
than  I  thought  that  living  beauty  could  ever 
rouse  in  me  again  !  It  may  be,  that  something 
in  the  tone  of  your  voice,  your  manner,  a 
nameless  grace  that  I  cannot  define — reminds 
me  of  one  whom  I  knew  in  youth; — one  who 
had  not  your  advantages  of  education,  wealth, 
birth;  but  to  whom  Nature  was  more  kind  than 
Fortune." 

He  paused  a  moment;  and,  without  looking 
towards  Evelyn,  thus  renewed: — 

"  You  are  entering  life  under  brilliant  au- 
spices.— Ah  !  let  me  hope  that  the  noonday 
will  keep  the  promise  of  the  dawn  !  You 
are  susceptible — imaginative;  do  not  demand 
too  much,  or  dream  too  fondly.  When  you 
are  wedded,  do  not  imagine  that  wedded 
life  is  exempt  from  its  trials  and  its  cares: 
if  you  know  yourself  beloved — and  beloved 
you  must  be — do  not  ask  from  the  busy  and 
anxious  spirit  of  man  all  which  Romance 
promises  and  Life  but  rarely  yields.  And 
oh  !  "  continued  Maltravers,  with  an  absorbing 
and  earnest  passion  that  poured  forth  its 
language  with  almost  breathless  rapidity; — 
"  if  ever  your  heart  rebels — if  ever  it  be  dis- 
satisfied— fly  the  false  sentiment  as  a  sin  ! 
Thrown,  as  from  your  rank  you  must  be,  on 
a  world  of  a  thousand  perils,  with  no  guide  so 
constant,  and  so  safe,  as  your  own  innocence 
— make  not  that  world  too  dear  a  friend. 
Were  it  possible  that  your  own  home  ever 
could  be  lonely  or  unhappy,  reflect  that  to 
woman  the  unhappiest  home  is  happier  than 
all  excitement  abroad.  You  will  have  a  thou- 
sand suitors,  hereafter:  believe  that  the  asp 
lurks  nnder  the  flatterer's  tongue,  and  resolve, 
come  what  may,  to  be  contented  with  your 
lot.  How  many  have  I  known,  lovely  and 
pure  as  you,  who  have  suffered  the  very  affec- 
tions— the  very  beauty  of  their  nature — to  de- 
stroy them  !  Listen  to  me  as  a  warner — as  a 
brother — as  a  pilot  who  has  passed  the  seas 


^9^ 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


on  which  your  vessel  is  about  to  launch.  And 
ever — ever  let  me  know,  in  whatever  lands 
your  name  may  reach  me,  that  one  who  has 
brought  back  to  me  all  my  faith  in  human 
excellence,  while  the  idol  of  our  sex  is  the 
glory  of  her  own.  Forgive  me  this  strange 
impertinence;  my  heart  is  full,  and  has  over- 
flowed. And  now,  Miss  Cameron — Evelyn 
Cameron — this  is  my  last  offence,  and  my  last 
farewell  !  " 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  involuntarily,  un- 
knowingly, she  clasped  it  as  if  to  detain  him 
till  she  could  summon  words  to  reply.  Sud- 
denly he  heard  Lord  Vargrave's  voice  behind 
— the  spell  was  broken — the  next  moment 
Evelyn  was  alone,  and  the  throng  swept  into 
the  room  towards  the  banquet,  and  laughter 
and  gay  voices  were  heard — and  Lord  Vargrave 
was  again  by  Evelyn's  side  ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

.    .    .    .    "  To  you 
This  journey  is  devoted." 

— Lover  s  Progress,  Act  iv.,  Scene  i. 

As  Cleveland  and  Maltravers  returned  home- 
ward, the  latter  abruptly  checked  the  cheerful 
garrulity  of  his  friend  "  I  have  a  favor — a  great 
favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  " 

"Let  us  leave  Burleigh  to-morrow;  I  care 
not  at  what  hour;  we  need  go  but  two  or  three 
stages  if  you  are  fatigued." 

"  Most  hospitable  host  I  and  why  V 

"  It  is  torture,  it  is  agony  to  me,  to  breathe 
the  air  of  Burleigh,"  cried  Maltravers,  wildly. 
"  Can  you  not  guess  my  secret  ?  Have  I  then 
concealed  it  so  well  ?  I  love,  I  adore  Evelyn 
Cameron,  and  she  is  betrothed  to — she  loves — 
another  ! " 

Mr.  Cleveland  was  breathless  with  amaze; 
Maltravers  had  indeed  so  well  concealed  his 
secret;  and  now  his  emotion  was  so  impetuous, 
that  it  startled  and  alarmed  the  old  man,  who 
had  never  himself  experienced  a  passion, 
though  he  had  indulged  a  sentiment.  He 
sought  to  console  and  soothe;  but  after  the 
first  burst  of  agony,  Maltravers  recovered 
himself,  and  said  gently — 

"  Let  us  never  return  to  this  subject  again: 
it  is  right  that  I  should  conquer  this  madness. 


and  conquer  it  I  will  !  Now  you  know  my 
weakness,  you  will  indulge  it.  My  cure  can- 
not commence,  until  I  can  no  longer  see  from 
my  casements  the  very  roof  that  shelters  the 
affianced  bride  of  another." 

"  Certainly,  then,  we  will  set  off  to-morrow: 
my  poor  friend  !    is  it  indeed " 

"  Ah,  cease,"  interrupted  the  proud  man; 
"no  compassion  I  implore:  give  me  but  time 
and  silence — they  are  the  only  remedies." 

Before  noon  the  next  day,  Burleigh  was 
once  more  deserted  by  its  lord.  As  the  car- 
riage drove  through  the  village,  Mrs.  Elton 
saw  it  from  her  open  window.  But  her  patron,, 
too  absorbed  at  that  hour,  even  for  benevo- 
lence, forgot  her  existence:  and  yet  so  compli- 
cated are  the  webs  of  fate,  that  in  the  breast 
of  that  lowly  stranger  was  locked  a  secret  of 
the  most  vital  moment  to  Maltravers. 

"Where  is  he  going?  where  is  the  squire 
going  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Elton,  anxiously. 

"  Dear  heart  I  "  said  the  cottager,  "  they  do 
say  he  be  going  for  a  short  time  to  foren  parts. 
But  he  will  be  back  at  Christmas." 

"And  at  Christmas  I  may  be  gone  hence 
for  ever,"  muttered  the  invalid.  "  But  what 
will  that  matter  to  him — to  any  one  ?  " 

At  the  first  stage  Maltravers  and  his  friend 
were  detained  a  short  time  for  the  want  of 
horses.  Lord  Raby's  house  had  been  filled 
with  guests  on  the  preceeding  night,  and  the 
stables  of  this  little  inn,  dignified  with  the 
sign  of  the  Raby  Arms,  and  about  two  miles 
distant  from  the  great  man's  place,  had  been 
exhausted  by  numerous  claimants  returning 
homeward  from  Knaresdean.  It  was  a  quiet, 
solitary  post-house,  and  patience,  till  some 
jaded  horses  should  return,  was  the  only 
remedy;  the  host,  assuring  the  travellers  that 
he  expected  forur  horses  every  moment,  in- 
vited them  within.  The  morning  was  cold, 
and  the  fire  not  unacceptable  to  Mr.  Cleve- 
land; so  they  went  into  the  little  parlor.  Here 
they  found  an  elderly  gentleman  of  very  pre- 
possessing appearance,  who  was  waiting  for 
the  same  object.  He  moved  courteously  from 
the    fireplace   as   the   travellers   entered   and 

pushed    the    B shire    Chronicle    towards 

Cleveland:  Cleveland  bowed  urbanely.  "A 
cold  day,  sir;  the  autumn  begins  to  show 
itself." 

"  It  is  true,  sir,"  answered  the  old  gentle- 
man; "and  I  feel   the  cold  the  more,  having 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


299 


just  quitted  the  genial  atmosphere  of  the 
south." 

"Of  Italy?" 

"  No,  of  England  only.  I  see  by  this  paper 
(I  am  not  much  of  a  politician)  that  there  is  a 
chance  of  a  dissolution  of  parliament,  and  that 
Mr.  Maltravers  is  likely  to  come  forward  for 
this  county;  are  you  acquainted  with  him, 
sir? " 

"A  little,"  said  Cleveland,  smiling. 

"  He  is  a  man  I  am  much  interested  in," 
said  the  old  gentleman;  "and  I  hope  soon  to 
be  honored  with  his  acquaintance." 

"  Indeed  !  and  you  are  going  into  his  neigh- 
borhood ? "  asked  Cleveland,  looking  more 
attentively  at  the  stranger,  and  much  pleased 
with  a  certain  simple  candor  in  his  counte- 
nance and  manner. 

"  Yes,  to  Merton  Rectory." 

Maltravers,  who  had  been  hitherto  stationed 
by  the  window,  turned  round. 

"To  Merton  Rectory?"  repeated  Cleve- 
land. "  You  are  acquainted  with  Mr.  Merton, 
then  ?  " 

"Not  yet;  but  I  know  some  of  his  family. 
However  my  visit  is  rather  to  a  young  lady 
who  is  staying  at  the  rectory— Miss  Cameron." 

Maltravers  sighed  heavily;  and  the  aid  gen- 
tleman looked  at  him  curiously.  "Perhaps, 
sir,  if  you  know  that  neighborhood,  you  may 
have  seen " 

"  Miss  Cameron  !  Certainly,  it  is  an  honor 
not  easily  forgotten." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  pleased. 

"  The  dear  child,"  said  he,  with  a  burst  of 
honest  affection — and  he  passed  his  hand  over 
his  eyes.     Maltravers  drew  near  to  him. 

"You  know  Miss  Cameron;  you  are  to  be 
envied,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  I  have  known  her  since  she  was  a  child — 
Lady  Vargrave  is  my  dearest  friend." 

"  Lady  Vargrave  must  be  worthy  of  such  a 
daughter.  Only  under  the  light  of  a  sweet 
disposition  and  pure  heart  could  that  beautiful 
nature  have  been  trained  and  reared." 

Maltravers  spoke  with  enthusiasm;  and,  as 
if  fearful  to  trust  himself  more,  left  the  room. 

"That  gentleman  speaks  not  more  warmly 
than  justly,"  said  the  old  man  with  some  sur- 
prise. He  has  a  countenance  which,  if  physi- 
ognomy be  a  true  science,  declares  his  praise 
to  be  no  common  compliment — may  I  inquire 
his  name  ? " 


"  Maltravers,"  replied  Cleveland,  a  little  vain 
of  the  effect  his  ex-pu|)irs  name  was  to  pro- 
duce. 

The  curate — for  it  was  he — started  and 
changed  countenance. 

"Maltravers:  but  he  is  not  abiut  to  leave 
the  county?" 

"Yes,  for  a  few  months." 

Here  the  host  entered.  Four  horses,  that 
had  been  only  fourteen  miles,  had  just  re-en- 
tered the  yard.  If  Mr.  Maltravers  could  spare 
two  to  that  gentleman,  who  had,  indeed,  pre- 
engaged  them  ? 

"  Certainly,"  said  Cleveland;  "  but  be  quick." 

"  And  is  Lord  Vargrave  still  at  Mr.  Mer- 
lon's ?"  asked  the  curate  musingly. 

"  Oh,  yes — I  believe  so.  Miss  Cameron  is 
to  be  married  to  him  very  shortly — is  it  not 
so?" 

"  I  cannot  say,"  returned  Aubrey,  rather  be  ■ 
wildered.     "You  know  Lord  Vargrave,  sir?  " 

"  Extremely  well  !  " 

"  And  you  think  him  worthy  of  Miss  Cam- 
eron ?  " 

"That  is  a  question  for  her  to  answer.  But 
I  see  the  horses  are  put  to.  Good  day,  sir  ! 
Will  you  tell  your  fair  young  friend  that  you 
have  met  an  old  gentleman  who  wishes  her  all 
happiness;  and  if  she  ask  you  his  name,  say 
Cleveland?" 

So  saying,  Mr.  Cleveland  bowed,  and  re- 
entered the  carriage.  But  Maltravers  was 
yet  missing.  In  fact,  he  returned  to  the 
house  by  the  back  way,  and  went  once  more 
into  the  little  parlor.  It  was  something  to  see 
again  one  who  would  so  soon  see  Evelyn  ! 

"  If  I  mistake  not,"  said  Maltravers,  "  you 
are  that  Mr.  Aubrey  on  whose  virtues  I  have 
often  heard  Miss  Cameron  delight  to  linger  ? 
Will  you  believe  my  regret  that  our  acquaint- 
ance is  now  so  brief  ?  " 

As  Maltravers  spoke  thus  simply,  there  was 
in  his  countenance— his  voice — a  melancholy 
sweetness,  which  greatly  conciliated  the  good 
curate.  And  as  Aubrey  gazed  upon  his  noble 
features  and  lofty  mien,  he  no  longer  won- 
dered at  the  fascination  he  had  appeared  to  ex- 
ercise over  the  young  Evelyn. 

"  And  may  I  not  hope,  Mr.  Maltravers," 
said  he,  "  that  before  long  our  acquaintance 
may  be  renewed  ?  Could  not  Miss  Cameron," 
he  added,  with  a  smile  and  a  penetrating  look, 
tempt  you  into  Devonshire  ? " 


^oo 


B  UL I  VEK'S     WORKS. 


Maltravers  shook  his  head,  and,  muttering 
something  not  very  audible,  quitted  the  room. 
The  curate  heart!  the  whirl  of  the  wheels,  and 
the  host  entered  to  inform  him  that  his  own 
carriage  was  now  ready. 

"  There  is  something  in  this,"  thought  Au- 
drey, "  which  I  do  not  commend.  His  man- 
ner.— his  trembling  voice — bespoke  emotions 
he  struggled  to  conceal.  Can  Lord  Vargrave 
have  gained  his  point  ?  Is  Evelyn,  indeed,  no 
longer  free  ? " 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  Certes,  c'est  un  grand  cas,  leas, 
Que  toujours  tracas  ou  fracas 
Vous  faites  d'une  ou  d'autre  sort; 
C'est  le  diable  qui  vous  emporte!  " 

— VOITURE.* 

Lord  Vargrave  had  passed  the  night  of 
the  ball  and  the  following  morning  at  Knares- 
dean.  It  was  necessary  to  bring  the  councils 
of  the  scheming  conclave  to  a  full  and  definite 
conclusion;  and  this  was  at  last  effected. 
Their  strength  numbered — friends  and  foes 
alike  canvassed  and  considered— and  due  ac- 
count taken  of  the  waverers  to  be  won  over,  it 
really  did  seem,  even  to  the  least  sanguine, 
that  the  Saxingham,  or  Vargrave  party,  was  one 
that  might  well  aspire  either  to  dictate  to,  or  to 
break  up,  a  government.  Nothing  now  was 
left  to  consider  but  the  favorable  hour  for  ac- 
tion. In  high  spirits.  Lord  Vargrave  returned 
about  the  middle  of  the  day  to  the  rectory. 

"  So,"  thought  he,  as  he  reclined  in  his 
carriage — "  so,  in  politics,  the  prospect  clears 
as  the  sun  breaks  out.  The  party  I  have 
espoused  is  one  that  must  be  the  most  durable, 
for  it  possesses  the  greatest  property  and  the 
most  stubborn  prejudice — what  elements  for 
Party  !  All  that  I  now  require  is  a  sufficient 
fortune  to  back  my  ambition.  Nothing  can 
clog  my  way  but  these  cursed  debts — this  dis- 
reputable want  of  gold.  And  yet  Evelyn 
alarms  me  !  Were  I  younger — or  had  I  not 
made  [my  position  too  soon — I  would  marry 
her  by  fraud  or  by  force;  run  off  with  her  to 
Gretna,  and  make  Vulcan  minister  to   Plutus. 


*  Certes,  it  is  the  fact,  leas,  that  you  are  always  en- 
gaged in  tricks  or  scrapes  of  some  sort  or  another — it 
must  be  the  devil  that  bewitches  you. 


But  this  would  never  do  at  my  years,  and 
with  my  reputation.  A  pretty  story  for  the 
newspapers  ! — d— — n  them  !  Well,  nothing 
venture,  nothing  have;  I  will  brave  the  hazard  ! 
Meanwhile,  Doltimore  is  mine,  Caroline  will 
rule  him,  and  I  rule  her.  His  vote  and  his 
boroughs  are  something — his  money  will  be 
more  immediately  useful.  I  must  do  him  the 
honor  to  borrow  a  few  thousands— Caroline 
must  inanage  that  for  me.  The  fool  is  miserly, 
though  a  spendthrift;  and  looked  black  when 
I  delicately  hinted  the  other  day,  that  I  wanted 
a  friend — id  est,  a  loan  !  Money  and  friend- 
ship same  thing — distinction  without  a  differ- 
ence !  "  Thus  cogitating,  Vargrave  whiled 
away  the  minutes  till  his  carriage  stopped  at 
Mr.  Merton's  door. 

As  he  entered  the  hall  he  met  Caroline,  who 
had  just  quitted  her  own  room. 

"  How  lucky  I  am  that  you  have  on  your 
bonnet  I  I  long  for  a  walk  with  you  round  the 
lawn." 

"  And  I,  too,  am  glad  to  see  you.  Lord  Var- 
grave," said  Caroline,  putting  her  arm  in  his. 

"  Accept  my  best  congratulations,  my  own 
sweet  friend,"  said  Vargrave  when  they  were 
in  the  grounds.  "  You  have  no  idea  how 
happy  Doltimore  is.  He  came  to  Knaresdean 
yesterday  to  communicate  the  news,  and  his 
neckcloth  was  primmer  than  ever. —  C'est  un 
bon  enfant." 

"  Ah,  how  can  you  talk  thus?  Do  you  feel 
no  pain  at  the  thought  that — that  I  am 
another's?" 

"  Your  heart  will  be  ever  mine — and  that  is 
the  true  fidelity:  what  else,  too,  could  be  done  ? 
As  for  Lord  Doltimore,  we  will  go  shares  in 
him.  Come,  cheer  thee,  m'amie — I  rattle  on 
thus  to  keep  up  your  spirits.  Do  not  fancy  I 
am  happy  !  " 

Caroline  let  fall  a  few  tears;  but,  beneath 
the  infiuence'^of  Vargrave's  sophistries  and 
flatteries,  she  gradually  recovered  her  usual 
hard  and  worldly  tone  of  mind. 

"  And  where  is  Evelyn  ?  "  asked  Vargrave. 
"  Do  you  know  the  little  witch  seemed  to 
me  half  mad  the  night  of  the  ball:  her  head 
was  turned:  and  when  she  sate  next  me  at 
supper,  she  not  only  answered  every  question 
I  put  to  her  a  tort  et  ci  tr avers,  but  I  fancied 
every  inoment  she  was  going  to  burst  out  cry- 
ing. Can  you  tell  me  what  was  the  matter 
with  her  ?  " 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSlEJilES. 


301 


"  She  was  grieved  to  hear  that  I  was  to  be 
married  to  the  man  I  do  not  love.  Ah,  Var- 
grave  !  she  has  more  heart  than  you  have." 

"  But  she  never  fancies  that  you  love  me  ?  " 
aslced  Lumley,  in  alarm.  "  You  women  are 
so  confoundedly  confidential  !  " 

"  No — she  does  not  suspect  our  secret." 

"  Then  I  scarcely  think  your  approaching 
marriage  was  a  sufficient  cause  for  so  much 
distraction." 

"  Perhaps  she  may  have  overheard  some  of 
the  impertinent  whispers  about  her  mother, — 
'Who  was  « Lady  Vargrave  ?  ' — and,  'What 
Cameron  was  Lady  Vargrave's  first  husband  ? ' 
/overheard  a  hundred  such  vulgar  questions, 
and  provincial  oeople  whisper  so  loud." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  very  probable  solution  of  the 
mystery.  And  for  my  part,  I  am  almost  as 
much  puzzled  as  any  one  else  can  be  to  know 
who  Lady  Vargrave  was  !  " 

"  Did  not  your  uncle  tell  you  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  that  she  was  of  no  very  ele- 
vated birth  and  station,  nothing  more;  and 
she  herself,  with  her  quiet  say- nothing  man- 
ner, slips  through  all  my  careless  questionings 
like  an  eel.  She  is  still  a  beautiful  creature, 
more  regularly  handsome  than  even  Evelyn; 
and  old  Templeton  had  a  very  sweet  tooth  at 
the  back  of  his  head,  though  he  never  opened 
his  mouth  wide  enough  to  show  it." 

"  She  must  ever  at  least  have  been  blame- 
less, to  judge  by  an  air  which,  even  now,  is. 
more  like  that  of  a  child  than  a  matron." 

"Yes;  she  has  not  much  of  the  widow 
about  her,  poor  soul  !  But  her  education,  ex- 
cept in  music,  has  not  been  very  carefully  at- 
tended to;  and  she  knows  about  as  much  of  the 
world^as  the  Bishop  of  Autun  (better  known  as 
Prince  Talleyrand)  knows  of  the  Bible.  If 
she  were  not  so  simple,  she  would  be  silly; 
but  silliness  is  never  simple — always  cunning; 
however,  there  is  some  cunning  in  her  keeping 
her  past  Cameronian  Chronicles  so  close. 
Perhape  I  may  know  more  about  her  in  a  short 
time,  for  I  intend  going  to  C*****,  where  my 
uncle  once  lived,  in  order  to  see  if  I  can  re- 
vive, under  the  rose, — since  peers  are  only 
contraband  electioneerers — his  old  parliamen- 
tary influence  in  that  city:  and  they  may  tell 
me  more  there  than  I  now  know." 

"  Did  the  late  lord  marry  at  C*****  ? " 
"  No — in  Devonshire.     I  do  not  even  know 
if  Mrs.  Cameron  ever  was  at  C*****." 


"  You  must  be  curious  to  know  who  the 
father  of  your  intended  wife  was  ?  " 

"  Her  father  !  No;  I  have  no  curiosity  in 
that  quarter.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am 
much  too  busy  about  the  Present  to  be  raking 
into  that  heap  of  rubbish  we  call  the  Past.  I 
fancy  that  both  your  good  grandmother,  and 
that  comely  old  curate  of  Brook  Green,  know 
everything  about  Lady  Vargrave;  and,  as  they 
esteem  her  so  much,  I  take  it  for  granted  she 
is  sans  tache." 

"  How  could  I  be  so  stupid  ! — a  propos  of 
the  curate,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  he  is  here. 
He  arrived  about  two  hours  ago,  and  has  been 
closeted  with  Evelyn  ever  since  I  " 

"  The  deuce  !  What  brought  the  old  man 
hither  ? " 

"  That  I  know  not.  Papa  received  a  letter 
from  him  yesterday  morning,  to  say  that  he 
would  be  here  to-day.  Perhaps  Lady  Var- 
grave thinks  it  time  for  Evelyn  to  return 
home." 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  said  Vargrave,  anx- 
iously.    "  Dare  I  yet  venture  to  propose  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  yet  be  in  vain,  Vargrave. 
You  must  prepare  for  disappointment." 

"  And  ruin,"  muttered  Vargrave,  gloomily. 
"  Hark  you,  Caroline, — she  may  refuse  me  if 
she  pleases.  But  I  am  not  a  man  to  be  baf- 
fled. Have  her  I  will,  by  one  means  or  an- 
other;— revenge  urges  me  to  it  almost  as  much 
as  ambition.  That  girl's  thread  of  life  has 
been  the  dark  line  in  my  woof — she  has  robbed 
me  of  fortune — she  now  thwarts  me  in  my 
career — she  humbles  me  in  my  vanity.  But 
like  a  hound  that  has  tasted  blood,  I  will  run 
her  down,  whatever  winding  she  takes  !  " 

"Vargrave,  you  terrify  me!  Reflect;  we 
do  not  live  in  an  age  when  violence " 

"  Tush  !  "  interrupted  Lumley,  with  one  of 
those  dark  looks  which  at  times,  though  very 
rarely,  swept  away  all  its  customary  character 
from  that  smooth,  shrewd  countenance. 
"  Tush  ! — we  live  in  an  age  as  favorable  to 
intellect  and  to  energy  as  ever  was  painted  in 
romance.  I  have  that  faith  in  fortune  and 
myself  that  I  tell  you,  with  a  prophet's  voice, 
that  Evelyn  shall  fulfil  the  wish  of  my  dying 
uncle.     But  the  bell  summons  us  back." 

On  returning  to  the  house,  Lord  Vargrave's 
valet  gave  him  a  letter,  which  had  arrived  that 
morning.  It  was  from  Mr.  Gustavus  Douce, 
and  ran  thus: — 


30  2 


BULU'ER'S     WORKS. 


"  Fleet  Street, 20th,  18—. 

"My  Lord, 

"  It  is  with  the  greatest  regret  that  I  apprise  you, 
for  Self  &  Co.,  that  we  shall  not  be  able  in  the  present 
state  of  the  Money  Market  to  renew  your  bill  for 
10,000/.,  due  the  28th  instant.  Respectfully  calling  your 
Lordship's  attention  to  same, 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

"  For  Self  &  Co.,  my  Lord, 

"  Your  Lordship's  most  obedient 
."And  most  obliged  and  humble  servant, 
"  GusTAVus  DotrcE. 
"  To  the  Right  Hon  the  Lord  Vargrave,  etc.  etc." 

The  letter  sharpened  Lord  Vargrave's  anx- 
iety and  resolve;  nay,  it  seemed  almost  to 
sharpen  his  sharp  features  as  he  muttered 
sundry  denunciations  on  Messrs.  Douce  and 
Co.,  while  arranging  his  neckcloth  at  the 
trlass. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

So/.  "  Why,  please  your  honorable  lordship,  we  were 
talking  here  and  there — this  and  that."—  I'Jw  Stranger. 

Aubrey  had  been  closeted  with  Evelyn  the 
whole  morning;  and,  simultaneous  with  his 
arrival,  came  to  her  the  news  of  the  departure 
of  Maltravers:  it  was  an  intelligence  that 
greatly  agitated  and  unnerved  her:  and,  coup- 
ling that  event  with  his  solemn  words  on  the 
previous  night,  Evelyn  asked  herself,  in  won- 
der, what  sentiments  she  could  have  inspired 
in  Maltravers  ?  Could  he  love  her  ? — her,  so 
young — so  inferior — so  uninformed  ! — Impos- 
sible !  Alas  ! — alas  ! — for  Maltravers  !  his 
genius — his  gifts — his  towering  qualities — all 
that  won  the  admiration,  almost  the  awe,  of 
Evelyn — placed  him  at  a  distance  from  her 
heart !  When  she  asked  herself  if  he  loved 
her,  she  did  not  ask,  even  in  that  hour,  if  she 
loved  him.  But  even  the  question  she  did 
ask,  her  judgment  answered  erringly  in  the 
negative — Why  should  he  love,  and  yet  fly 
her?  She  understood  not  his  high-wrought 
scruples — his  self-deluding  belief.  Aubrey 
was  more  puzzled  than  enlightened  by  his 
conversation  with  his  pupil;  only  one  thing 
seemed  certain— her  delight  to  return  to  the 
cottage  and  her  mother. 

Evelyn  could  not  sufficiently  recover  her 
composure  to  mix  with  the  party  below;  and 
Aubrey,  at  the  sound  of  the  second  dinner- 
bell,  left  her  to  solitude,  and  bore  her  excuses 
to  Mrs.  Merton. 


"Dear  me!"  said  that  worthy  lady;  "I 
ami  so  sorry — I  thought  Miss  Cameron  looked 
fatigued  at  breakfast;  and  there  was  some- 
thing hysterical  in  her  spirits;  and  I  suppose 
the  surprise  of  your  arrival  has  upset  her. 
Caroline,  my  dear,  you  had  better  go  and  see 
what  she  would  like  to  have  taken  up  to  her 
room — a  little  soup,  and  the  wing  of  a  chicken." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Merton,  rather  pom- 
pously, "  I  think  it  would  be  but  a  proper  re- 
spect to  Miss  Cameron,  if  you  yourself  ac- 
companied Caroline." 

■  "  I  assure  you,"  said  the  curata,  alarmed  at 
the  avalanche  of  politeness  that  threatened 
poor  Evelyn,  "  I  assure  you  that  Miss  Came- 
ron would  prefer  being  left  alone  at  present;  as 
you  say,  Mrs.  Merton,  her  spirits  are  rather 
agitated." 

But  Mrs.  Merton.  with  a  sliding  bow,  had 
already  quitted  the  room,  and  Caroline  with 
her. 

"  Come  back,  Sophy  ! — Cecilia,  come  back  '." 
said  Mr.  Merton,  settling  his  jabot. 

"  Oh,  dear  Evy  ! — poor  dear  Evy  !— Evy  is 
ill  !  "  said  Sophy;  •'  I  may  go  to  Evy  !  I 
must  go,  papa  !  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  you  are  too  noisy;  these 
children  are  quite  spoiled,  Mr.  Aubrey." 

The  old  man  looked  at  them  benevolently, 
and  drew  them  to  his  knee;  and,  while  Cissy 
stroked  his  long  white  hair,  and  Sophy  ran  on 
about  dear  Evy's  prettiness  and  goodness, 
Lord  Vargrave  sauntered  into  the  room. 

On  seeing  the  curate,  his  frank  face  lighted 
up  the  surprise  and  pleasure;  he  hjistened  to 
him,  seized  him  by  both  hands,  expressed  the 
most  heart-felt  delight  at  seeing  him,  inquired 
tenderly  after  Lady  Vargrave,  and,  not  till  he 
was  out  of  breath,  and  Mrs.  Merton  and  Caro- 
line returning  apprised  him  of  Miss  Cameron's 
indisposition,  did  his  rapture  vanish;  and,  as  a 
moment  before  he  was  all  joy,  so  now  he  was 
all  sorrow. 

The  dinner  passed  off  dully  enough;  the 
children,  re-admitted  to  dessert,  made  a  little 
relief  to  all  parties;  and,  when  they  and  the 
two  ladies  went,  Aubrey  himself  quickly  rose 
to  join  Evelyn. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Miss  Cameron  ?  "  said 
Lord  Vargrave:  "  pray  say  how  unhappy  I  feel 
at  her  illness.  I  think  these  grapes — they  are 
very  fine — could  not  hurt  her.  May  I  ask  you 
to  present  them  with  my  best — best  and  most 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


2>^Z 


anxious  regards  ?  I  shall  be  so  uneasy  till 
you  return.  Now,  Merton  (as  the  door  closed 
on  the  curate),  let's  have  another  bottle  of  this 
famous  claret  I — Droll  old  fellow,  that — quite 
a  character  !  " 

"  He  is  a  great  favorite  with  Lady  Vargrave 
and  Miss  Cameron,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Mer- 
ton. "  A  mere  village  priest,  I  suppose;  no 
talent,  no  energy — or  he  could  not  be  a  curate 
at  that  age." 

"Very  true; — a  shrewd  remark.  The  church 
is  as  good  a  profession  as  any  other  for  getting 
on,  if  a  man  has  anything  in  him.  I  shall  live 
to  see  you  a  bishop  !  " 

■Mr.  Merton  shook  his  head. 

"Yes,  I  shall;  though  you  have  hitherto 
disdained  to  e.xhibit  any  one  of  the  three 
orthodox  qualifications  for  a  mitre." 

"  And  what  are  they,  ray  lord  ?  " 

"  Editing  a  Greek  play— writing  a  political 
pamphlet  —  and  apostatizing  at  the  proper 
moment." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  your  lordship  is  severe  on  us  !  " 

"  Not  I — I  often  wish  I  had  been  brought 
up  to  the  church — famous  profession,  properly 
understood.  By  Jupiter,  I  should  have  been 
a  capital  bishop  !  " 

In  his  capacity  of  parson,  Mr.  Merton  tried 
to  look  grave; — in  his  capacity  of  a  gentleman- 
like, liberal  fellow,  he  gave  up  the  attempt, 
and  laughed  pleasantly  at  the  joke  of  the  rising 
man. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

"  Will  nothing  please  you  ? 
What  do  you  think  of  the  Court  ?" 

—  The  Plain  Dealer. 

On  one  subject,  Aubrey  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  ascertaining  Evelyn's  wishes  and  con- 
dition of  mind  The  experiment  of  her  visit, 
so  far  as  Vargrave's  hopes  were  concerned, 
had  utterly  failed; — she  could  not  contemplate 
the  prospect  of  his  alliance,  and  she  poured 
out  to  the  curate,  frankly  and  fully,  all  her 
desire  to  effect  a  release  from  her  engage- 
ment. As  it  was  now  settled  that  she  should 
return  with  Aubrey  to  Brook  Green,  it  was  in- 
deed necessary  to  come  to  the  long  delayed 
understanding  with  her  betrothed.  Yet  this 
was  difficult,  for  he  had  so  little  pressed — so 
distantly  alluded  to- — their  engagement,  that  it 


was  like  a  forwardness,  an  indelicacy  in  Evelyn, 
to  forestall  the  longed-for,  yet  dreaded  ex- 
planation. This,  however,  Aubrey  took  upon 
himself;  and  at  this  promise  Evelyn  felt  as 
the  slave  may  feel  when  the  chain  is  stricken 
off. 

At  breakfast,  Mr.  Aubrey  communicated  to 
the  Mertons  Evelyn's  intention  to  return  with 
him  to  Brook  Green,  on  the  following  day. 
Lord  Vargrave  started — bit  his  lip — but  said 
nothing. 

Not  so  silent  was  Mr.  Merton: — 

'•  Return  with  you  !  my  dear  Mr.  Aubrey — 
just  consider — it  is  impossible — you  see  Miss 
Cameron's  rank  of  life,  her  position — so  very 
strange — no  servants  of  her  own  here,  but  her 
woman — no  carriage  even  !  You  would  not 
have  her  travel  in  a  post-chaise — such  a  long 
journey  !  Lord  Vargrave,  you  can  never  con- 
sent to  that,  I  am  sure  ?  " 

"  Were  it  only  as  Miss  Q.dan&xox\' %  guardian," 
said  Lord  Vargrave,  pointedly,  "  I  should  cer- 
tainly object  to  such  a  mode  of  performing 
such  a  journey.  Perhaps  Mr.  Aubrey  means 
to  perfect  he  project  by  taking  two  outside 
places  on  the  top  of  the  coach  ? " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  curate,  mildly,  "but 
I  am  not  so  ignorant  of  what  is  due  to  Miss 
Cameron  as  you  suppose.  Lady  Vargrave's 
carriage,  which  brought  me  hither,  will  be  no 
unsuitable  vehicle  for  Lady  Vargrave's  daugh- 
ter; and  Miss  Cameron  is  not,  I  trust,  quite 
so  spoilt  by  all  your  friendly  attentions,  as  to 
be  unable  to  perform  a  journey  of  two  days, 
with  no  other  protector  than  myself." 

"  I  forgot  Lady  Vargrave's  carriage,  or 
rather  I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  used  it, 
my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Merton.  "  But  you 
must  not  blame  us,  if  we  are  sorry  to  lose 
Miss  Cameron  so  suddenly:  I  was  in  hopes 
that  you  too  would  stay  at  least  a  week 
with  us." 

The  curate  bowed  at  the  rector's  conde- 
scending politeness;  and  just  as  he  was  about 
to  answer,  Mrs.  Merton  put  in — 

"  And  you  see  I  had  set  my  heart  on  her 
being  Caroline's  bridesmaid." 

Caroline  turned  pale,  and  glanced  at  Var- 
grave, who  appeared  solely  absorbed  in  break- 
ing toast  into  his  tea — a  delicacy  he  he  had 
never  before  been  known  to  favor. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause:  the  servant 
opportunely  entered  with   a   small    parcel  of 


304 


£  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


books,  a  note  to  Mr.  Merton,  and  that  blessed 
of  all  blessed  things  in  the  country,  the  letter- 
bag. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  the  rector,  opening 
his  note;  while  Mrs.  Merton  unlocked  the  bag 
and  dispensed  the  contents; — "  Left  Burleigh 
for  some  months — a  day  or  two  sooner  than 
he  had  expected — excuse  French  leave-taking 
— return  Mrs.  Merton's  books — much  obliged 
— gamekeeper  has  orders  to  place  the  Burleigh 
preserves  at  my  disposal.  So  we  have  lost  our 
neighbor  !  " 

"  Did  you  not  know  Mr.  Maltravers  was 
gone  ? "  said  Caroline.  "  I  heard  so  from 
Jenkins  last  night;  he  accompanies  Mr.  Cleve- 
land to  Paris." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Merton,  opening  her 
eyes.     "  What  could  take  him  to  Paris  ?  " 

"  Pleasure,  I  suppose,"  answered  Caroline. 
"  I'm  sure  I  should  rather  have  wondered  what 
could  detain  him  at  Burleigh." 

Vargrave  was  all  this  while  breaking  open 
seals,  and  running  his  eyes  over  sundry  scrawls 
with  the  practiced  rapidity  of  the  man  of  busi- 
ness; he  came  to  the  last  letter — his  counte- 
nance brightened — 

"  Royal  invitation,  or  rather  command,  to 
Windsor,"  he  cried.  "  I  am  afraid  I,  too, 
must  leave  you,  this  very  day." 

"  Bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Merton;  "is 
that  from  the  king  ?     Do  let  me  see  !  " 

"  Not  exactly  from  the  king;  the  same  thing, 
though:  "  and  Lord  Vargrave,  carelessly  push- 
ing the  gracious  communication  towards  the 
impatient  hand  and  loyal  gaze  of  Mrs.  Merton, 
carefully  put  the  other  letters  in  his  pocket, 
and  walked  musingly  to  the  window. 

Aubrey  seized  the  opportunity  to  approach 
him.  "  My  lord,  can  I  speak  with  you  a  few 
moments  ? " 

"  Me  !  certainly :  will  you  come  to  my 
dressing-room  ? " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

.     .    .    .     "  There  was  never 

Poor  gentleman  had  such  a  sudden  fortune." 

— Beaumont  and  Fletcher: 
The  Captain,  Act  v.,  Sc.  5. 

"  Mv  Lord,"  said  the  curate,  as  Vargrave, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  appeared  to  examine 


the  shape  of  his  boots;  while,  in  reality,  hi 
'sidelong  looks,'  not  'of  love,'  were  fixed  upon 
his  companion — "  I  need  scarcely  refer  to  the 
wish  of  the  late  lord,  your  uncle,  relative  to 
Miss  Cameron  and  yourself;  nor  need  I,  to 
one  of  a  generous  spirit,  add,  that  an  engage- 
ment could  be  only  so  far  binding  as  both 
the  parties,  whose  happiness  it  concerned 
should  be  willing  in  proper  time  and  season  ti, 
fulfil  it." 

"Sir!"  said  Vargrave,  impatiently  waving 
his  hand;  and,  in  his  irritable  surmise  of  what 
was  to  come,  losing  his  habitual  self-control 
— "  I  know  not  what  all  this  has  to  do  with 
you;  surely  you  trespass  upon  ground  sacred 
to  Miss  Cameron  and  myself.  Whatever  you 
have  to  say,  let  me  beg  you  to  come  at  once 
to  the  point." 

"  My  lord,  I  will  obey  you.  Miss  Cameron 
— and,  I  may  add,  with  Lady  Vargrave's  con- 
sent— deputes  me  to  say  that,  although  she 
feels  compelled  to  decline  the  honor  of  your 
lordship's  alliance,  yet,  if  in  any  arrangement 
of  the  fortune  bequeathed  to  her  she  could 
testify  to  you,  my  lord,  her  respect  and  friend- 
ship, it  would  afford  her  the  most  sincere 
gratification." 

Lord  Vargrave  started. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  know  not  if  I  am  to 
thank  you  for  this  information — the  announce- 
ment of  which  so  strangely  coincides  with 
your  arrival.  But  allow  me  to  say,  that  there 
needs  no  ambassador  betvveen  Miss  Cameron 
and  myself.  It  is  due,  sir,  to  my  station,  to 
my  relationship,  to  my  character  of  guardian, 
to  my  long  and  faithful  affection,  to  all  con- 
siderations which  men  of  the  world  understand, 
which  men  of  feeling  sympathize  with,  to  re- 
ceive from  Miss  Cameron  alone  the  rejection 
of  my  suit  I  " 

"  Unquestionably  Miss  Cameron  will  grant 
your  lordship  the  interview  you  have  a  right 
to  seek;  but  pardon  me,  I  thought  it  might 
save  you  both  much  pain,  if  the  meeting  were 
prepared  by  a  third  person;  and  on  any  mat- 
ter of  business,  any  atonement  to  your  lord- 
ship  " 

"  Atonement  ! — what  can  atone  to  me  ? "  ex- 
claimed Vargrave,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  the 
room  in  great  disorder  and  excitement.  "  Can 
you  give  me  back  years  of  hope  and  expect- 
ancy— the  manhood  wasted  in  a  vain  dream  ? 
Had  I  not  been  taught  to  look  to  this   reward. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


305 


should  I  have  rejected  all  occasion — while  my 
youth  was  not  yet  all  gone,  while  my  heart 
was  not  yet  all  occupied — to  form  a  suit- 
able alliance  ?  Nay,  should  I  have  indulged 
in  a  high  and  stirring  career,  for  which  ray 
own  fortune  is  by  no  means  qualified:  Atone- 
ment ! — atonement  !  Talk  of  atonement  to 
boys  !  Sir  I  I  stand  before  you  a  man  whose 
private  happiness  is  blighted,  whose  public 
prospects  are  darkened,  life  wasted,  fort- 
unes ruined,  the  schemes  of  an  existence, 
built  upon  one  hope,  which  was  lawfully  in- 
dulged, overthrown  ! — and  you  talk  to  me  of 
atonement !  " 

Selfish  as  the  nature  of  this  complaint  might 
be,  Aubrey  was  struck  with  its  justice. 

"My  lord,"  said  he,  a  little  embarrassed,  "I 
cannot  deny  that  there  is  truth  in  much  of 
what  you  say,  Alas  !  it  proves  how  vain  it  is 
for  man  to  calculate  on  the  future,  how  un- 
unhappily  your  uncle  erred  in  imposing  condi- 
tions, which  the  chances  of  life  and  the  caprices 
of  affection  could  at  any  time  dissolve  !  But 
this  is  blame  that  attaches  only  to  the  dead: 
can  you  blame  the  living  ?  " 

"  Sir,  I  considered  myself  bound  by  my 
uncle's  prayer  to  keep  my  hand  and  heart  dis- 
engaged, that  this  title — miserable  and  barren 
distinction  though  it  be  ! — might,  as  he  so 
ardently  desired,  descend  to  Evelyn.  I  had  a 
right  to  expect  similar  honor  upon  her 
side  !  " 

"  Surely,  my  lord,  you,  to  whom  the  late 
lord  on  his  death-bed  confided  all  the  motives 
of  his  conduct  and  the  secret  of  his  life,  can- 
not but  be  aware  that,  while  desirious  of  pro- 
moting your  worldy  welfare,  and  uniting  in  one 
line,  his  rank  and  his  fortune,  your  uncle  still 
had  Evelyn's  happiness  at  heart  as  his  warm- 
est wish;  you  must  know  that,  if  that  happi- 
ness were  forfeited  by  a  marriage  with  you, 
the  marriage  became  but  a  secondary  consid- 
eration. Lord  Vargrave's  will  in  itself  was  a 
proof  of  this.  He  did  not  impose,  as  an  ab- 
solute condition,  upon  Evelyn,  her  union  with 
yourself;  he  did  not  make  the  forfeiture  of  her 
whole  wealth  the  penalty  of  her  rejection  of 
that  alliance.  By  the  definite  limit  of  the  for- 
feit, he  intimated  a  distinction  between  a  com- 
mand and  a  desire.  .4nd  surely,  when  you 
consider  all  circumstances,  your  lordship  must 
think  that,  what  with  that  forfeit  and  the  es- 
tate settled  upon  the  title,  your  uncle  did  all 

fi— 20 


that,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  equity,  and 
even  affection,  could  exact  from  him." 

Vargrave  smiled  bitterly,  but  said  nothing. 

"And  if  this  be  doubted,  I  have  clearer 
proof  of  his  intentions.  Such  was  his  confi- 
dence in  Lady  Vargrave,  that,  in  the  letter  he 
addressed  to  her  before  his  death,  and  which 
I  now  submit  to  your  lordship,  you  will  ob- 
serve that  he  not  only  expressly  leaves  it  to 
Lady  Vargrave's  discretion  to  communicate 
to  Evelyn  that  history  of  which  she  is  at  pres- 
ent ignorant,  liut  that  he  also  clearly  defines 
the  line  of  conduct  he  wished  to  be  adopted 
with  respect  to  Evelyn  and  yourself.  Permit 
me  to  point  out  the  passage." 

Impatiently  Lord  Vargrave  ran  his  eye  over 
the  letter  placed  in  his  hands,  till  he  came  to 
these  lines: — 

"  And  if,  when  she  has  arrived  at  the  proper  age  to 
form  a  judgment,  Evelyn  should  decide  against  Lum- 
ley's  claims,  you  know  that  on  no  account  would  I 
sacrifice  her  happiness:  all  that  I  require  is,  that  fair 
play  be  given  to  his  pretensions — due  indulgence  to 
the  scheme  I  have  long  had  at  heart.  Let  her  be 
brought  up  to  consider  him  her  future  husband,  let  her 
not  be  prejudiced  against  him,  let  her  fairly  judge  for 
herself,  when  the  time  arrives." 

"  You  see,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Aubrey,  as 
he  took  back  the  letter,  "  that  this  letter  bears 
the  same  date  as  your  uncle's  will.  What  he 
desired  has  heen  done.  Be  just,  my  lord — be 
just,  and  exonerate  us  all  from  blame;  who 
.can  dictate  to  the  affections  ?  " 

•'  And  I  am  to  understand  that  I  have  no 
chance,  now  or  hereafter,  of  obtaining  the 
affections  of  Evelyn  ?  Surely,  at  your  age, 
Mr.  Aubrey,  you  cannot  encourage  the  heated 
romance  common  to  all  girls  of  Evelyn's  age. 
Persons  of  our  rank  do  not  marry  like  the 
Cor)'don  and  Phillis  of  a  pastoral.  At  my 
years,  I  never  was  fool  enough  to  expect  that 
I  should  inspire  a  girl  of  seventeen  with  what 
is  called  a  passionate  attachment.  But  happy 
marriages  are  based  upon  suitable  circum- 
stances, mutual  knowledge  and  indulgence, 
respect,  esteem.  Come,  sir,  let  me  hope  yet 
—let  me  hope  that,  on  the  same  day,  I  may 
congratulate  you  on  your  preferment  and  you 
may  congratulate  me  upon  my  marriage." 

Vargrave  said  this  with  a  cheerful  and  easy 
smile;  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  that  of  a 
man  who  wished  to  convey  serious  meaning  in 
a  jesting  accent. 


3o6 


B  UL  WER '  S     WORKS. 


Mr.  Aubrey,  meek  as  he  was,  felt  the  insult 
of  the  hinted  bribe,  and  colored  with  a  resent- 
ment no  sooner  excited  than  checked.  "  Ex- 
cuse me,  my  lord,  I  have  now  said  all — the 
rest  had  better  be  left  to  your  ward  herself." 

"  Be  it  so,  sir.  I  will  ask  you,  then,  to  con- 
vey my  request  to  Evelyn  to  honor  me  with  a 
last  and  parting  interview." 

Vargrave  flung  himself  on  his  chair  and 
Aubrey  left  him. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"  Thus  airy  Strephon  tuned  his  lyre." — Shenstone. 

In  his  meeting  with  Evelyn,  Vargrave  cer- 
tainly exerted  to  the  utmost  all  his  ability  and 
all  his  art.  He  felt  that  violence,  that  sarcasm, 
that  selfish  complaint  would  not  avail,  in  a  man 
who  was  not  loved, — though  they  are  often  ad- 
mirable cards  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who  is. 
As  his  own  heart  was  perfectly  untouched  in 
the  matter,  except  by  rage  and  disappointment 
— feelings  which  with  him  never  lasted  very 
long — he  could  play  coolly  his  losing  game. 
His  keen  and  ready  intellect  taught  him  that 
all  he  could  now  expect  was  to  bequeath  senti- 
ments of  generous  compassion,  and  friendly 
interest;  to  create  a  favorable  impression, 
which  he  might  hereafter  improve;  to  re- 
serve, in  short,  some  spot  of  vantage-ground 
in  the  country,  from  which  he  was  to  affect  tQ 
.  withdraw  all  his  forces.  He  had  known,  in 
his  experience  of  women,  which,  whether  as  an 
actor  or  a  spectator,  was  large  and  various — 
though  not  among  very  delicate  and  refined 
natures— that  a  lady  often  takes  a  fancy  to  a 
suitor  after  she  has  rejected  him;  that,  pre- 
cisely because  she  has  once  rejected,  she  ulti- 
mately accepts  him.  And  even  this  chance 
was,  in  circumstances  so  desperate,  not  to  be 
neglected.  He  assumed,  therefore,  the  coun- 
tenance, the  postures,  and  the  voice  of  heart- 
broken but  submissive  despair;  he  affected  a 
nobleness  and  magnanimity  in  his  grief,  which 
touched  Evelyn  to  the  quick,  and  took  her  by 
surprise. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  he,  in  sad  and  faltering 
accents;  quite  enough  to  me  to, know  that 
you  cannot  love  me, — that  I  should  fail  in 
rendering  you  happy:  say  no  more,  Evelyn, 
say  no  more  !     Let  me  spare  you,  at  least,  the 


pain  your  generous  nature  must  feel  in  my 
anguish — I  resign  all  pretensions  to  your  hand: 
you  are  free  ! — may  you  be  happy  !  " 

"  Oh,  Lord  Vargrave  !  oh,  Lumley  !  "  said 
Evelyn,  weeping,  and  moved  by  a  thousand 
recollections  of  early  years.  "  If  I  could  but 
prove  in  any  other  way  my  grateful  sense  of 
your  merits — your  too-partial  appreciation  of 
me — my  regard  for  my  lost  benefactor — then, 
indeed,  nor  till  then,  could  I  be  happy.  Oh  I 
that  this  wealth,  so  little  desired  by  me,  had 
been  more  at  my  disposal;  but,  as  it  is,  the 
day  that  sees  me  in  possession  of  it,  shall  see 
it  placed  under  your  disposition,  your  control. 
This  is  but  justice — common  justice  to  you; 
you  were  the  nearest  relation  of  the  departed. 
I  had  no  claim  on  him — none,  but  affection. 
Affection  !  and  yet  I  disobey  him  !  " 

There  was  much  in  all  this  that  secretly 
pleased  Vargrave;  but  it  only  seemed  to  re- 
double his  grief. 

"  Talk  not  thus,  my  ward,  my  friend — ah  ! 
still  my  friend,"  said  he,  putting  his  handker- 
chief to  his  eyes.  "  I  repine  not; — I  am  more 
than  satisfied.  Still  let  me  preserve  my  privi- 
lege of  guardian,  of  adviser— a  privilege 
dearer  to  me  than  all  the  wealth  of  the 
Indies  !  " 

Lord  Vargrave  had  some  faint  suspicion 
that  Legard  had  created  an  undue  interest  in 
Evelyn's  heart;  and  on  this  point  he  delicately 
and  indirectly  sought  to  sound  her.  Her  re- 
plies convinced  him  that  if  Evelyn  had  con- 
ceived any  prepossession  for  Legard,  there  had 
not  been  time  or  opportunity  to  ripen  it  into 
deep  attachment.  Of  Maltravers  he  had  no 
fear.  The  habitual  self-control  of  that  re- 
seiA^ed  personage  deceived  him  partly;  and  his 
low  opinion  of  mankind  deceived  him  still 
more.  For,  if  there  had  been  any  love  be- 
tween Maltravers  and  Evelyn,  why  should  the 
former  not  have  stood  his  ground,  and  declared 
his  suit?  Lumley  would  have  "balid"  and 
"pish'd"  at  the  thought  of  any  punctilious  re- 
gard for  engagements  so  easily  broken,  hav- 
ing power  either  to  check  passion  for  beauty, 
or  to  restrain  self-interest,  in  the  chase  of  an 
heiress.  He  had  known  Maltravers  ambitious; 
and  with  him,  ambition  and  self-interest  meant 
the  same. 

Thus,  by  the  very  fnesse  of  his  character- 
while  Vargrave,  ever  with  the  worldly,  was  a 
keen  and  almost  infallible  observer — with  nat- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


307 


ures  of  a  more  refined,  or  a  higher  order,  he 
always  missed  the  mark  by  overshooting.  Be- 
sides, had  a  suspicion  of  Maltravers  ever 
crossed  him,  Caroline's  communications  would 
have  dispelled  it.  It  w^as  more  strange  that 
Caroline  should  have  been  blind;  nor  would 
she  have  been  so,  had  she  been  less  absorbed 
in  her  own  schemes  and  destinies.  All  her 
usual  penetration  had  of  late  settled  in  self; 
and  an  uneasy  feeling — half  arising  from  con- 
scientious reluctance  to  aid  Vargrave's  objects 
— half  from  jealous  irritation  at  the  thought  of 
Vargrave's  marrying  another — had  prevented 
her  from  seeking  any  very  intimate  or  confi- 
dential communication  with  Evelyn  herself. 

The  dreaded  conference  was  over;  Evelyn 
parted  from  Vargrave  with  the  very  feelings 
he  had  calculated  on  exciting; — the  moment 
he  ceased  to  be  her  lover,  her  old  childish  re- 
gard for  him  recommenced.  She  pitied  his 
dejection — she  respected  his  generosity — she 
was  deeply  grateful  for  his  forbearance.  But 
still — still  she  was  free;  and  her  heart  bounded 
within  her  at  the  thought. 

Meanwhile,  Vargrave,  after  his  solemn  fare- 
well to  Evelyn,  retreated  again  to  his  own 
room,  where  he  remained  till  his  post-horses 
arrived.  Then,  descending  into  the  drawing- 
room,  he  was  pleased  to  find  neither  Aubrey 
nor  Evelyn  there.  He  knew  that  much  affec- 
tation would  be  thrown  away  upon   Mr.  and 


Mrs.  Merton;  he  thanked  them  for  their  hos- 
pitality, with  grave  and  brief  cordiality,  and 
then  turned  to  Caroline,  who  stood  apart  by 
the  window. 

"  All  is  up  with  me  at  present,"  he  whis- 
pered. "I  leave  you,  Caroline,  in  anticipation 
of  fortune,  rank,  and  prosperity;  that  is  some 
comfort.  For  myself.  I  see  only  difficulties, 
embarrassment,  and  poverty  in  the  future;  but 
I    despond    of    nothing — hereafter   you    may 

serve  me,  as  I  have  served  you.     Adieu  ! 

I  have  been  advising  Caroline  not  to  spoil 
Doltimore,  Mrs.  Merton;  he  is  conceited 
enough  already.  Good-by  !  God  bless  you 
all  1— love  to  your  little  girls.  Let  me  know 
if  I  can  serve  you  in  any  way,  Merton — good- 
by  again  !  "  And  thus,  sentence  by  sentence, 
Vargrave  talked  himself  into  his  carriage.  As 
it  drove  by  the  drawing-room  windows,  he  saw 
Caroline  standing  motionless  where  he  had  left 
her:  he  kissed  his  hand — her  eyes  were  fixed 
mournfully  on  his.  Hard,  wayward,  and 
worldly,  as  Caroline  Merton  was,  Vargrave 
was  yet  not  worthy  of  the  affection  he  had  in- 
spired; for  she  con\A  feel,  and  he  could  not; — 
the  distinction,  perhaps,  between  the  sexes. 
And  there  still  stood  Caroline  Merton,  recall- 
ing the  last  tones  of  that  indifferent  voice,  till 
she  felt  her  hand  seized,  and  turned  round  to 
see  Lord  Doltimore,  and  smile  upon  the  happy 
lover,  persuaded  that  he  was  adored  ! 


3o8 


B  UL  WER'S     WOKKS. 


BOOK    SIXTH. 


Ilyp  CToi  irpoaotVui,  (coi"  To  <iov  nf>otTKfilJOfi.ai. — KURIP.  AfUlrom.  24. 

I  will  bring  fire  to  thee— 1  reck  not  of  the  place. 


CHAPTER    I. 

*  *        *        "  This  ancient  city, 

How  wanton  sits  she  amidst  Nature's  smiles  ! 

*  *        *        "  Various  nations  meet, 
As  in  the  sea,  yet  not  confined  in  space. 

But  streaming  freely  through  the  spacious  streets." 

— You.\G. 

■'■'       *       *        "  His  teeth  he  still  did  grind. 
And  grimly  gnash,  threatening  revenge  in  vain." 

—Spenser. 

"  Paris  is  a  delighful  place — that  is  allowed 
by  all.  It  is  delightful  to  the  young,  to  the 
gay,  to  the  idle;  to  the  literary  lion,  who  likes 
to  be  petted;  to  the  wiser  epicure,  who  indul- 
ges a  more  justifiable  appetite.  It  is  delight- 
ful to  ladies,  who  wish  to  live  at  their  ease, 
and  buy  beautiful  caps;  delightful  to  philan- 
thropists, who  wish  for  listeners  to  schemes  of 
colonizing  the  moon:  delightful  to  the  haun- 
ters of  balls,  and  ballets,  and  little  theatres, 
and  superb  cafes,  where  men  with  beards  of 
all  sizes  and  shapes  scowl  at  the  English,  and 
involve  their  intellects  in  the  fascinating  game 
of  dominoes.  For  these,  and  for  many  others, 
Paris  is  delightful.  I  say  nothing  against  it. 
But  for  my  own  part,  I  would  rather  live  in  a 
garret  in  London,  than  in  a  palace  in  the 
C/iauss/e  tf  Anfin. — Chacund  son  tnauvais  goUt. 

"  I  don't  like  the  streets,  in  which  I  cannot 
walk  but  in  the  kennel:  I  don't  like  the  shops, 
that  contain  nothing  except  what  *s  at  the 
window:  I  don't  like  the  houses  like  prisons, 
which  look  upon  a  court-yard:  I  don't  like  the 
beaux  jardins,  which  grow  no  jilants  save  a 
Cupid  in  plaster:  I  don't  like  the  wood  fires, 
which  demand  as  many  petits  soins  as  the 
women,  and  which  warm  no  part  of  one  hut 


one's  eyelids:  I  don't  like  the  language,  with 
its  strong  phrases  about  nothing,  and  vibrating 
like  a  pendulum  between  '  rapture  '  and  '  deso- 
lation;' I  don't  like  the  accent,  which  one 
cannot  get,  without  speaking  through  one's 
nose:  I  don't  like  the  eternal  fuss  and  jabber 
about  books  without  nature,  and  revolutions 
without  fruit:  I  have  no  sympathy  with  tales 
that  turn  on  a  dead  jackass;  nor  with  consti- 
tutions that  give  the  ballot  to  the  representa- 
tives, and  withhold  the  suffrage  from  the  peo- 
ple: neither  have  I  much  faith  in  that  enthu- 
siasm for  the  beaux  arts,  which  shows  its 
produce  in  execrable  music,  detestable  pictures, 
abominable  sculpture,  and  a  droll  something 
that  I  believe  the  French  call  poetry.  Danc- 
ing and  cookery — these  are  the  arts  the  French 
excel  in,  I  grant  it;  and  excellent  things  they 
are;  but  oh,  England  !  oh  Germany  !  you 
need  not  be  jealous  of  your  rival !  " 

These  are  not  the  author's  remarks — he  dis- 
owns them;  they  were  Mr.  Cleveland's.  He 
was  a  prejudiced  man; — Maltravers  was  more 
liberal,  but  then  Maltravers  did  not  pretend  to 
be  a  wit. 

Maltravers  had  been  several  weeks  in  the 
city  of  cities,  and  now  he  had  his  apartments- 
in  the  gloomy  but  interesting  Faubourg  St. 
Germains,  all  to  himself.  For  Cleveland,  hav- 
ing attended  eight  days  at  a  sale,  and  having 
moreover  ransacked  all  the  curiosity-shops, 
and  shipped  off  bronzes,  and  cabinets,  and 
Genoese  silks,  and  objefs  dc  vertu,  enough  to 
have  half  furnished  Fonthill,  had  fulfilled  his 
mission,  and  returned  to  his  villa.  Before  the 
old  gentleman  went,  he  flattered  himself  that 
change  of  air  and  scene  had  already  been 
serviceable  to  his  friend;  and  that  time  would 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


309 


work  a  complete  cure  upon  that  commonest  of 
all  maladies,  an  unrequited  passion,  or  an  ill- 
placed  caprice. 

Maltravers,  indeed,  in  the  habit  of  conquer- 
ing, as  well  as  concealing  emotion,  vigorously 
and  earnesly  strove  to  dethrone  the  image 
that  had  usurped  his  heart.  Still  vain  of 
his  self-command,  and  still  worshipping  his 
favorite  virtue  of  Fortitude,  and  his  delusive 
philosophy  of  the  calm  Golden  Mean,  he  would 
not  weakly  indulge  the  passion,  while  he  had 
so  sternly  fled  from  its  object.  But  yet  the 
image  of  Evelyn  pursued — it  haunted  him; 
it  came  on  him  unawares — in  solitude — in 
crowds.  That  smile  so  cheering,  yet  so  soft, 
that  ever  had  power  to  chase  away  the  shadow 
from  his  soul;  that  youthful  and  luxurious 
bloom  of  pure  and  eloquent  thoughts,  which 
was  as  the  blossom  of  genius  before  its  fruit, 
bitter  as  well  as  sweet,  is  born — that  rare 
union  of  quick  feeling  and  serene  temper,  which 
forms  the  very  ideal  of  what  we  dream  of  in 
the  mistress,  and  exact  from  the  wife;  all,  even 
more,  far  more,  than  the  exquisite  form  and 
the  delicate  graces  of  the  less  durable  beauty, 
returned  to  him,  after  every  struggle  with 
himself:  and  time  only  seemed  to  grave,  in 
deeper  if  more  latent  folds  of  his  heart,  the 
ineradicable  impression. 

Maltravers  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
some  persons  not  unfamiliar  to  the  reader. 

Valerie  de  Ventadour. — How  many  recol- 
lections of  the  fairer  days  of  life  were  con- 
nected with  that  name  !  Precisely  as  she  had 
never  reached  to  his  love,  but  only  excited 
his  fancy  (the  fancy  of  twenty-two  !),  had  her 
image  always  retained  a  pleasant  and  grateful 
hue;  it  was  blended  with  no  deep  sorrow — 
no  stern  regret — no  dark  remorse — no  haunt- 
ing shame. 

They  met  again.  Madame  de  Ventadour  was 
still  beautiful,  and  still  admired — perhaps  more 
admired  than  ever:  for  to  the  great,  fashion  and 
celebrity  bring  a  second  and  yet  more  popular 
youth.  But  Maltravers,  if  rejoiced  to  see  how 
gently  Time  had  dealt  with  the  fair  French- 
woman, was  yet  more  pleased  to  read  in  her 
fine  features  a  more  serene  and  contented  ex- 
pression than  they  had  formerly  worn.  Va- 
lerie de  Ventadour  had  preceded  her  younger 
admirer  through  the  "mysteries  of  life;" 
she  had  learned  the  real  objects  of  being;  she 
distinguished  between  the  Actual  and  theVi  - 


sionary — the  Shadow  and  the  Substance;  she 
had  acquired  content  for  the  present,  and 
looked  with  quiet  hope  towards  the  future. 
Her  character  was  still  spotless;  or,  rather, 
every  year  of  temptation  and  trial  had  given 
it  a  fairer  lustre.  Love,  that  might  have 
ruined,  being  once  subdued,  preserved  her 
from  all  after  danger. 

The  first  meeting  between  Maltravers  and 
Valerie  was,  it  is  true,  one  of  some  embarrass- 
ment and  reserve:  not  so  the  second.  They 
did  but  once,  and  that  slightly,  recur  to  the 
past:  and  from  that  moment-,  as  by  a  tacit  un- 
derstanding, true  friendship  between  them 
dated.  Neither  felt  mortified  to  see  that  an 
illusion  had  passed  away — they  were  no  longer 
the  same  in  each  other's  eyes.  Both  might 
be  improved,  and  were  so,  but  the  Valerie  and 
the  Ernest  of  Naples  were  as  things  dead  and 
gone  !  Perhaps  Valerie's  heart  was  even  more 
reconciled  to  the  cure  of  its  soft  and  luxurious 
malady  by  the  renewal  of  their  acquaintance. 
The  mature  and  experienced  reasoner,  in  whom 
enthusiasm  had  undergone  its  usual  change, 
with  the  calm  brow  and  commanding  aspect  of 
sober  manhood,  was  a  being  so  different  from 
the  romantic  boy,  new  to  the  actual  world  of 
civilized  toils  and  pleasures — fresh  from  the 
adventures  of  Eastern  wanderings,  and  full  of 
golden  dreams  of  poetry  before  it  settles  into 
authorship  or  action  ! 

She  missed  the  brilliant  errors — ^the  daring 
aspirations — even  the  animated  gestures  and 
eager  eloquence  —  that  had  interested  and 
enamoured  her  in  the  loiterer  by  the  shores 
of  Baige,  or  amidst  the  tomblike  chambers  of 
Pompeii.  For  the  Maltravers  now  before  her 
—  wiser  —  better  —  nobler  —  even  handsomer 
than  of  yore  (for  he  was  one  whom  manhood 
became  better  than  youth) — the  Frenchwoman 
could  at  any  period  have  felt  friendship  with- 
out danger.  It  seemed  to  her,  not  as  it  really 
was,  the  natural  development,  but  the  very  con- 
trast, of  the  ardent,  variable,  imaginative  boy, 
by  whose  side  she  had  gazed  at  night  on  the 
moonlit  waters  and  rosy  skies  of  the  soft  Par- 
thenope  !  How  does  time,  after  long  absence, 
bring  to  us  such  contrasts  between  the  one  we 
remember  and  the  one  we  see  !  And  what  a 
melancholy  mockery  does  it  seem  of  our  own 
vain  hearts,  dreaming  of  impressions  never  to 
be  changed,  and  affections  that  never  can  grow 
cool  ! 


^lO 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


And  now,  as  they  conversed  with  all  the  ease 
oi  cordial  and  guileless  friendship,  how  did 
Valerie  rejoice  in  secret  that  upon  that  friend- 
ship there  rested  no  blot  of  shame  !  and  that 
she  had  not  forfeited  those  consolations  for  a 
home  without  love,  which  had  at  last  settled 
into  cheerful  nor  unhallowed  resignation — con- 
solations only  to  be  found  in  the  conscience 
and  the  pride  ! 

Monsieur  de  Ventadour  had  not  altered,  ex- 
cept that  his  nose  was  longer,  and  that  he  now 
wore  a  peruque  in  full  curl,  instead  of  his  own 
straight  hair.  But,  somehow  or  other — per- 
haps by  the  mere  charm  of  custom — he  had 
grown  more  pleasing  in  Valerie's  eyes;  habit 
had  reconciled  her  to  his  foibles,  deficiencies, 
and  faults;  and,  by  comparison  with  others, 
she  could  better  appreciate  his  good  qualities, 
such  as  they  were — generosity,  good-temper, 
good-nature,  and  unbounded  indulgence  to 
herself.  Husband  and  wife  have  so  many  in- 
terests in  common,  that,  when  they  have 
jogged  on  through  the  ups-and-downsof  life  a 
sufficient  time,  the  leash  which  at  first  galled 
often  grows  easy  and  familiar;  and  unless  the 
temper,  or  rather  the  disposition  and  the  heart,  of 
either  be  insufferable,  what  was  once  a  grevious 
yoke  becomes  but  a  companionable  tie.  And 
for  the  rest,  Valerie,  now  that  sentiment  and 
fancy  were  sobered  down  could  take  pleasure 
in  a  thousand  things  with  her  pining  affections 
once,  as  it  were,  overlooked  and  overshot.  She 
could  feel  grateful  for  all  the  advantages  her 
station  and  wealth  procured  her;  she  could 
cull  the  roses  in  her  reach,  without  sighing  for 
the  amaranths  of  Elysium. 

If  the  great  have  more  temptations  than 
those  of  middle  life,  and  if  their  senses  of 
enjoyment  become  more  easily  pampered  into 
a  sickly  apathy;  so  at  least  (if  they  can  once 
outlive  satiety)  they  have  many  more  resources 
at  their  command.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
justice  in  the  old  line,  displeasing  though  it 
be  to  those  who  think  of  love  in  a  cottage,- 
"  'tis  best  repenting  in  a  coach  and  six  !  " 
If  among  the  Eupatrids,  the  Well  Born,  there 
is  less  love  in  wedlock,  less  quiet  happiness  at 
home,  still  they  are  less  chained  each  to  each 
— they  have  more  independence,  both  the 
woman  and  the  man — and  occupations  and  the 
solace  without  can  be  so  easily  obtained  ! 
Madame  de  Ventadour,  in  retiring  from  the 
mere    frivolities    of    society — from    crowded 


rooms,  and  the  inane  talk  and  hollow  smiles 
of  mere  acquaintanceship — became  more  sen- 
sible of  the  pleasures  that  her  refined  and 
elegant  intellect  could  derive  from  art  and 
talent,  and  the  communion  of  friendship. 

She  drew  dround  her  the  most  cultivated 
minds  of  her  time  and  country.  Her  abilities, 
her  wit,  and  her  conversational  graces,  enabled 
her  not  only  to  mix  on  equal  terms  with  the 
most  eminent,  but  to  amalgamate  and  blend 
the  varieties  of  talent  into  harmony.  The 
same  persons,  when  met  elsewhere,  seemed  to 
have  lost  their  charm:  under  Valerie's  roof 
every  one  breathed  a  congenial  atmorphere. 
And  music  and  letters,  and  all  that  can  refine 
and  embellish  civilized  life,  contributed  their 
resources  to  this  gifted  and  beautiful  woman. 
And  thus  she  found  that  the  mind  has  excite- 
ment and  occupation,  as  well  as  the  heart; 
and,  unlike  the  latter,  the  culture  we  bestow 
upon  the  first  ever  yields  us  its  return.  We 
talk  of  education  for  the  poor,  but  we  forget 
how  much  it  is  needed  by  the  rich.  Valerie 
was  a  living  instance  of  the  advantages  to 
women  of  knowledge  and  intellectual  resources. 
By  them  she  had  purified  her  fancy — by  them 
she  had  conquered  discontent — by  them  she 
had  grown  reconciled  to  life,  and  to  her  lot  ! 
When  the  heavy  heart  weighed  down  the  one 
scale,  it  was  the  mind  that  restored  the  bal- 
ance. 

The  spells  of  Madame  de  Ventadour  drew 
Maltravers  into  this  charmed  circle  of  all  that 
was  highest,  purest,  and  most  gifted  in  the  so- 
ciety of  Paris.  There  he  did  not  meet,  as  were 
met  in  the  times  of  the  old  regime,  sparkling 
abbes  intent  upon  intrigues;  or  amorous  old 
dowagers,  eloquent  on  Rousseau;  or  powdered 
courtiers,  uttering  epigrams  against  kings  and 
religions — straws  that  foretold  the  whirlwind. 
Paul  Courier  was  right !  Frenchmen  are 
Frenchmen  still,  they  are  full  of  fine  phrases, 
and  their  thoughts  smell  of  the  theatre;  they 
mistake  foil  for  diamonds,  the  Grotesque  for 
the  Natural,  the  Exaggerated  for  the  Sublime: 
— but  still,  I  say,  Paul  Courier  was  right: 
there  is  more  honesty  in  asingleja/(?«in  Paris, 
than  there  was  in  all  France  in  the  days  of 
Voltaire  !  Vast  interests,  and  solemn  causes 
are  no  longer  tossed  about  like  shuttlecocks 
on  the  battledores  of  empty  tongues.  In  the 
bouleversement  of  Rovolution,  the  French  have 
fallen  on  their  feet ! 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


3" 


Meeting  men  of  all  parties  and  all  classes, 
Maltravers  was  struck  with  the  heightened 
tone  of  public  morals,  the  earnest  sincerity  of 
feeling  which  generally  pervaded  all,  as  com- 
pared with  his  first  recollections  of  the  Pari- 
sians. He  saw  that  true  elements'  for  national 
wisdom  were  at  work,  though  he  saw  also  that 
there  was  no  country  in  which  their  operations 
would  be  more  liable  to  disorder,  more  slow 
and  irregular  in  their  results.  The  French 
are  like  the  Israelites  in  the  Wilderness,  when, 
according  to  a  Hel)rew  tradition,  every  morn- 
ing they  seemed  on  the  verge  of  Pisgah,  and 
every  evening  they  were  as  far  from  it  as  ever. 
But  still  time  rolls  on,  the  pilgrimage  draws 
to  its  close,  and  the  Canaan  must  come  at 
last  ! 

At  Valerie's  house,  Maltravers  once  more 
met  the  De  Montaignes.  It  was  a  painful 
meeting,  for  they  thought  of  Cesarini  when 
they  met. 

It  is  now  time  to  return  to  that  unhappy 
man.  Cesarini  had  been  removed  from  Eng- 
land, when  Maltravers  quitted  it  after  Lady 
Florence's  death;  and  Maltravers  had  thought 
it  best  to  acquaint  De  Montaigne  with  all  the 
circumstances  that  had  led  to  his  affliction. 
The  pride  and  the  honor  of  the  high-spirited 
Frenchman  were  deeply  shocked  by  the  tale 
of  fraud  and  guilt,  softened  as  it  was;  but  the 
sight  of  the  criminal,  his  awful  punishment, 
merged  every  other  feeling  in  compassion. 
Placed  under  the  care  of  the  most  skilful 
practitioners  in  Paris,  great  hopes  of  Cesarini's 
recovery  had  been  at  first  entertained.  Nor 
was  it  long,  indeed,  before  he  appeared  en- 
tirely restored;  so  far  as  the  external  and 
superficial  tokens  of  sanity  could  indicate  a 
cure.  He  testified  complete  consciousness  of 
the  kindness  of  his  relations,  and  clear  re- 
membrance of  the  past:  but  to  the  incoherent 
ravings  of  delirium,  an  intense  melancholy, 
still  more  deplorable,  succeeded.  In  this 
state,  however,  he  became  once  more  the  in- 
mate of  his  brother-in-law's  house;  and,  though 
avoiding  all  society,  except  that  of  Teresa, 
whose  affectionate  nature  never  wearied  of  its 
cares,  he  resumed  many  of  his  old  occupations. 
Again  he  appeared  to  take  delight  in  desultory 
and  unprofitable  studies,  and  in  She  cultiva- 
tion of  that  luxury  of  solitary  men,  "the 
thankless  muse."  By  shunning  all  topics  con- 
nected with  the  gloomy  cause  of  his  affliction. 


and  talking  rather  of  the  sweet  recollections 
of  Italy  and  childhood  than  of  more  recent 
events,  his  sister  was  enabled  to  soothe  the 
dark  hour,  and  preserve  some  kind  of  influence 
over  the  ill-fated  man.  Or.e  day,  however, 
there  fell  into  his  hands  an  English  news- 
paper, which  was  full  of  the  praises  of  Lord 
Vargrave;  and  the  article,  in  lauding  the  peer, 
referred  to  his  services  as  the  commoner  Lum- 
ley  Ferrers. 

This  incident,  slight  as  it  appeared,  and 
perfectly  untraceable  by  his  relations,  pro- 
duced a  visible  effect  on  Cesarini;  and  three 
days  afterwards  he  attempted  his  own  life. 
The  failure  of  the  attempt  was  followed  by  the 
fiercest  paroxysms.  His  disease  returned  in 
all  its  dread  force;  and  it  became  necessary  to 
place  him  under  yet  stricter  confinement  than 
he  had  endured  before.  Again,  about  a  year 
from  the  date  now  entered  upon,  he  had  ap- 
peared to  recover;  and  again  he  was  removed 
to  De  Montaigne's  house.  His  relations  were 
not  aware  of  the  influence  which  Lord  Var- 
grave's  name  exercised  over  Cesarini;  in  the 
melancholy  tale  communicated  to  them  by 
Maltravers,  that  name  had  not  been  mentioned. 
If  Maltravers  had  at  one  time  entertained 
some  vague  suspicions  that  Lumley  had  acted 
a  treacherous  part  with  regard  to  Florence, 
those  suspicions  had  long  since  died  away  for 
want  of  confirmation;  nor  did  he  (nor  did 
therefore  the  De  Montaignes)  connect  Lord 
Vargrave  with  the  affliction  of  Cesarini.  De 
Montaigne  himself,  therefore,  one  day  at 
dmner,  alluding  to  a  question  of  foreign  poli- 
tics which  had  been  debated  that  morning  in  the 
Chamber,  and  in  which  he  himself  had  taken 
an  active  part,  happened  to  refer  to  a  speech 
of  Vargrave's  upon  the  subject,  which  had 
made  some  sensation  abroad,  as  well  as  at 
home. — Teresa  asked  innocently  who  Lord 
Vargrave  was .''  and  De  Montaigne,  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  biography  of  the  principal 
English  statesmen,  replied,  that  he  had  com- 
menced his  career  as  Mr.  Ferrers,  and  re- 
minded Teresa  that  they  had  once  been  intro- 
duced to  him  in  Paris. 

Cesarini  suddenly  rose  and  left  the  room; 
his  absence  was  not  noted — for  his  comings 
and  goings  were  ever  strange  and  fitful.  Ter- 
esa soon  afterwards  quitted  the  apartment  with 
her  children,  and  De  Montaigne,  who  was 
rather  fatigued   by   the   exertions  and  excite- 


312 


B  UL  WER'  S     IVORKS. 


ineiit  of  the  morning,  stretched  hunself  in  his 
chair  to  enjoy  a  ahort  siesta.  He  was  suddenly 
awakened  by  a  feeling  of  pain  and  suffocation 
— awakened  in  time  to  struggle  against  a  strong 
gripe  that  had  fastened  itself  at  his  throat. 
The  room  was  darkened  in  the  growing  shades 
of  the  evening;  and,  but  for  the  glittering  and 
savage  eyes  that  were  fixed  on  him,  he  could 
scarcely  discern  his  assailant.  He  at  length 
succeeded,  however,  in  freeing  himself,  and 
casting  the  intended  assassin  on  the  ground. 
He  shouted  for  assistance;  and  the  lights, 
borne  by  the  servants  who  rushed  into  the 
room,  revealed  to  him  the  face  of  his  brother- 
in-lay  !  Cesarini,  though  in  strong  convul- 
sions, still  uttered  cries  and  imprecations  of 
revenge;  he  46i''omiced  De  Montaigne  as  a 
traitor  and  a  murder  !  In  the  dark  confusion 
of  his  mind,  he  had  mistaken  the  guardian  for 
the  distant  foe,  whose  name  sufificed  to  conjure 
up  the  phantoms  of  the  dead,  and  plunge 
reason  into  fury. 

It  was  now  clear  that  there  was  danger  and 
death  in  Cessarini's  disease.  His  madness 
was  pronounced  to  be  capable  of  no  certain 
and  permanent  cure:  he  was  placed  at  a  new 
asylum  (the  superintendents  of  which  were 
celebrated  for  humanity  as  well  as  skill),  a 
little  distance  from  Versailles,  and  there  he 
still  remained.  Recently  his  lucid  intervals 
had  become  more  frequent  and  prolonged;  but 
trifles  that  sprung  from  his  own  mind,  and 
which  no  care  could  prevent  or  detect,  sufificed 
to  renew  his  calamity  in  all  its  fierceness.  At 
such  times  he  required  the  most  unrelaxing 
vigilance;  for  his  madness  ever  took  an  alarm- 
ing and  ferocious  character;  and  had  he  been 
left  unshackled,  the  boldest  and  stoutest  of  the 
keepers  would  have  dreaded  to  enter  his  cell 
unarmed,  or  alone. 

What  made  the  disease  of  the  mind  appear 
more  melancholy  and  confirmed  was,  that  all 
this  time  the  frame  seemed  to  increase  in 
health  and  strength.  This  is  not  an  uncom- 
mon case  in  instances  of  mania — and  it  is  gen- 
erally the  worst  symptom.  In  earlier  youth, 
Cesarini  had  been  delicate  even  to  effeminacy; 
but  now  his  proportions  were  enlarged— his 
form  (though  still  lean  and  spare)  muscular 
and  vigorous — as  if  in  the  vorpor  which  usually 
succeeded  to  his  bursts  of  frenzy,  the  animal 
portion  gained  by  the  repose  or  disorganization 
of  the  intellectual.     When   in   his  better  and 


calmer  moods  in  which  indeed  none  but  the 
experienced  could  have  detected  his  malady 
—books  made  his  chief  delight.  But  then  he 
complained  bitterly,  if  briefly,  of  the  confine- 
ment he  endured — of  the  injustice  he  suffered; 
and  as,  shunning  all  companions,  he  walked 
gloomily  amidst  the  grounds  that  surrounded 
that  House  of  Woe,  his  unseen  guardians  be- 
held him  clenching  his  hands,  as  at  some 
visionary  enemy;  or  overheard  him  accuse 
some  phantom  of  his  brain  of  the  torments  he 
endured. 

Though  the  reader  can  detect  in  Lumley 
Ferrers  the  cause  of  the  frenzy,  and  the  object 
of  the  imprecation,  it  was  not  so  with  the  De 
Montaignes,  nor  with  the  patient's  keepers  and 
physicians;  for  in  his  delirium  he  seldom  or 
never  gave  name  to  the  shadows  that  he  in- 
voked— not  even  to  that  of  Florence.  It  is, 
indeed,  no  unusual  characteristic  of  madness 
to  shun,  as  bj'  a  kind  of  cunning,  all  mention 
of  the  names  of  those  by  whom  the  madness 
has  been  caused.  It  is  as  if  the  Unfortunates 
imagined  that  the  madness  might  be  undis- 
covered, if  the  images  connected  with  it  were 
unbetrayed. 

Such,  at  this  time,  was  the  wretched  state  of 
the  man,  whose  talents  had  promised  a  fair 
and  honorable  career,  had  it  not  been  the 
wretched  tendency  of  his  mind,  from  boyhood 
upward,  to  pamper  every  unwholesome  and 
unhallowed  feeling  as  a  token  of  the  exuber- 
ance of  genius.  De  Montaigne,  though  he 
touched  as  lightly  as  possible  upon  this  dark 
domestic  calamity  in  his  first  communications 
with  Maltravers,  whose  conduct  in  that  melan- 
choly tale  of  crime  and  woe  had,  he  conceived, 
been  stamped  with  generosity  and  feeling, — 
still  betrayed  emotions  that  told  how  much  his 
peace  had  been  embittered. 

"  I  seek  to  console  Teresa,"  said  he,  turning 
away  his  manly  head,  "  and  to  point  out  all 
the  blessings  yet  left  to  her;  but  that  brother 
so  beloved,  from  whom  so  much  was  so  vainly 
expected  ! — still  ever  and  ever,  though  she 
strives  to  conceal  it  from  me,  this  affliction 
comes  back  to  her,  and  poisons  every  thought ! 
Oh  !  better  a  thousand  times  that  he  had  died  ! 
When  reason,  sense,  almost  the  soul,  are  dead 
— how  dark  and  fiend-like  is  the  life  that 
remains  behind !  And  if  it  should  be  in 
the  blood  —  if  Teresa's  children — dreadful 
thought '.  " 


ALICE,     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


7,-^1 


De  Montaigne  ceased,  thoroughly  over- 
come. 

"  Do  not,  my  dear  friend,  so  fearfully  exag- 
gerate your  misfortune,  great  as  it  is;  Cesa- 
rini's  disease  evidently  arose  from  no  physical 
conformation — it  was  but  the  crisis,  the  de- 
velopment, of  a  long-contracted  malady  of 
mind — passions,  morbidly  indulged — the  rea- 
soning faculty,  obstinately  neglected — and  yet 
too  he  may  recover.  The  farther  memory  re- 
cedes from  the  shock  he  has  sustained,  the 
better  the  chance  that  his  mind  will  regain  its 
tone." 

De  Montaigne  wrung  his  friend's  hand — 

"  It  is  strange  that  from  you  should  come 
sympathy  and  comfort  ! — you  whom  he  so  in- 
jured ! — you  whom  his  folly  or  his  crime  drove 
from  your  proud  career,  and  your  native  soil  ! 
But  Providence  will  yet,  I  trust,  redeem  the 
evil  of  its  erring  creature,  and  I  shall  yet  live 
to  see  you  restored  to  hope  and  home,  a  happy 
husband,  an  honored  citizen:  till  then,  I  feel 
as  if  the  curse  lingered  upon  my  race." 

"  Speak  not  thus — whatever  my  destiny,  I 
have  recovered  from  that  wound;  and  still, 
De  Montaigne,  I  find  in  life  that  suffering 
succeeds  to  suffering,  and  disappointment 
to  disappointment,  as  wave  to  wave.  To 
endure  is  the  only  philosophy — to  believe  that 
we  shall  live  again  in  a  brighter  ])lanet,  is  the 
only  hope  that  our  reason  should  accept  from 
our  desires." 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  Monstra  evenerunt  mihi, 
Introit  in  Kdes  ater  alienus  canis, 
Aiiguis  per  impluviura  deciditde  teguhs, 
Gallina  cecinit !  " — Terent.* 

With  his  constitutional  strength  of  mind, 
and  comformably  with  his  acquired  theories, 
Maltravers  continued  to  struggle  against  the 
latest  and  strongest  passion  of  his  life.  It 
might  be  seen  in  the  paleness  of  his  brow,  and 
that  nameless  expression  of  suffering  which  be- 
trays itself  in  the  lines  about  the  month,  that 
his  health  was  affected  by  the  conflict  within 
him:  and  many  a  sudden  fit  of  absence  and 
abstraction,  many  an  impatient  sigh,  followed 
by  a  forced  and  unnatural  gaiety,  told  the  ob- 

*  Prodigies  have  occured;  a  strange  black  dog 
came  into  the  house;  a  snake  glided  from  the  tiles, 
through  the  court;  the  hen  crowed. 


servant  Valerie  that  he  was  the  prey  of  a  sor- 
row he  was  too  proud  to  disclose.  He  com- 
pelled himself,  however,  to  take,  or  to  affect, 
an  interest  in  the  singutar  phenomena  of  the 
social  state  around  him;  phenomena  that,  in  a 
happier  or  serener  mood,  would  indeed  have 
suggested  no  ordinary  food  for  conjecture  and 
meditation. 

The  state  of  visible  transition  is  the  state  of 
nearly    all    the    enlightened    communities    in 
Europe.     But    nowhere    is  it    so    pronounced 
I  as  in  that  country  which   may  be   called    the 
I  Heart  of    European  Civilization.     There,  all, 
;  to  which  the  spirit  of  society  attaches  itself, 
I  appears  broken,  vague,  and   half  developed — 
the  Antique  in  ruins,  and  the  New  not  formed. 
It  is,  perhaps,  the   only  country  in  which  the 
Constructive  principle  has  not  kept  pace  with 
I  the    Destructive.     The    Has   Been  is  blotted 
out — the  To  Be  is  as  the  shadow  of  a  far  land 
:  in  a  mighty  and  perturbed  sea.* 
!      Maltravers,  who  for  several  years  had  not 
I  examined  the  progress  of   modern  literature, 
'  looked  with  mingled  feelings   of  surprise,  dis- 
taste, and  occasional  and  most   reluctant  ad- 
miration on  the  various  works  which  the  suc- 
cessors of  Voltaire  and   Rousseau   have   pro- 
duced, and  are  pleased  to  call  the  offspring  of 
Truth  united  to  Romance. 

Profoundl)'  versed  in  the  mechanism  and 
elements  of  those  masterpieces  of  Germany 
and  England,  froin  which  the  French  have 
borrowed  so  largely,  while  pretending  to  be 
original,  Maltravers  was  shocked  to  see  the 
monsters  which  these  Frankensteins  had 
created  from  the  relics  and  offal  of  the  holiest 
sepulchres.  The  head  of  a  giant  on  the 
limbs  of  a  dwarf — incongruous  members  jum- 
bled together — parts  fair  and  beautiful — the 
whole  a  hideous  distortion  ! 

"It  may  be  possible,"  said  he  to  De  Mon- 
taigne, "  that  these  works  are  admired  and 
extolled;  but  how  they  can  be  vindicated  by 
the  examples  of  Shakspeare  and  Goethe,  or 
even  if  Byron,  who  redeemed  poor  and  rnelo- 
dramatic  conceptions  with  a  manly  vigor  of 
execution,  an  energy  and  completeness  of  pur- 
pose that  Dryden  himself  never  surpassed,  is 
to  me  utterly  inconceivable." 


*  The  reader  will  remember  that  these  remarks  were 
written  long  before  the  last  French  Revolution,  and 
when  the  dynasty  of  Louis  Philippe  was  generally  con- 
sidered most  secure. 


314 


B  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


"  I  allow  that  there  is  a  strange  mixture  of 
faustian  and  maudlin  in  all  these  things," 
answered  De  Montaigne;  "but  they  are  but 
the  wind-falls  of  trees  that  may  bear  rich  fruit 
in  due  season;  meanwhile,  any  new  school  is 
better  than  eternal  imitations  of  the  old.  As 
for  critical  vindications  of  the  works  them- 
selves, the  age  that  produces  the  phenomena 
is  never  the  age  to  classify  and  analyze  them. 
We  have  had  a  deluge,  and  now  new  creatures 
spring  from  the  new  soil." 

"An  excellent  simile:  they  come  forth  from 
slime  and  mud — fetid  and  crawling — unformed 
and  monstrous.  I  grant  exceptions;  and  even 
in  the  New  School,  as  it  is  called,  I  can  admire 
the  real  genius — the  vital  and  creative  power 
of  Victor  Hugo.  But  oh,  that  a  nation  which 
has  known  a  Corneille  should  ever  spawn  forth 
j^  *  *  *  *  I  ^,,(j  viixh  these  ricketty  and  driv- 
elling abortions  —  all  having  followers  and 
adulators — your  Public  can  still  bear  to  be 
told  that  they  have  improved  wonderfully  on 
the  day  when  they  gave  laws  and  models  to 
the  literature  of  Europe; — they  can  bear  to 
hear  *'****  proclaimed  a  sublime  genius 
in  the  same  circles  which  sneer  down  Vol- 
taire ! " 

Voltaire  is  out  of  fashion  in  France,  but 
Rousseau  still  maintains  his  influence,  and 
boasts  his  imitators.  Rousseau  was  the  worse 
man  of  the  two;  perhaps  he  was  also  the  more 
dangerous  writer.  But  his  reputation  is  more 
durable,  and  sinks  deeper  into  the  heart  of  his 
nation;  and  the  danger  of  his  unstable  and 
capricious  doctrines  has  passed  away.  In 
Voltaire  we  behold  the  fate  of  all  writers 
purely  destructive;  their  uses  cease  with  the 
evils  they  denounce.  But  Rousseau  sought  to 
construct  as  well  as  to  destroy;  and  though 
nothing  could  well  be  more  absurd  than  his 
constructions,  still  man  loves  to  look  back  and 
see  even  delusive  images — castles  in  the  air- 
reared  above  the  waste  where  cities  have  been. 
Rather  than  leave  even  a  burial-ground  to  soli- 
tude, we  populate  it  with  ghosts. 

By  degrees,  however,  as  he  mastered  all  the 
features  of  the  French  literature,  Maltravers 
became  more  tolerant  of  the  present  defects, 
and  more  hopeful  of  the  future  results.  He 
saw,  in  one  respect,  that  that  literature  carried 
with  it  its  own  ultimate  redemption. 

Its  general  characteristic  —  contra  distin- 
guished from  the  literature  of  the  old  French 


classic  school — is  to  take  the  heart  for  its 
study;  to  bring  the  i)assions  and  feelings  into 
action,  and  let  the  Within  have  its  record  and 
history  as  well  as  the  Without.  In  all  this, 
our  contemplative  analyst  began  to  allow  that 
the  French  were  not  far  wrong  when  they  con- 
tended that  Shakspeare  made  the  fountain  of 
their  inspiration — a  fountain  which  the  majoriy 
of  our  later  English  Fictionists  have  neglected. 
It  is  not  by  a  story  woven  of  interesting  inci- 
dents, relieved  by  delineations  of  the  externals 
and  surface  of  character,  humorous  phrase- 
ology, and  everyday  ethics,  that  Fiction 
achieves  its  grandest  ends. 

In  the  French  literature,  thus  charactized, 
there  is  much  false  morality,  much  depraved 
sentiment,  and  much  hollow  rant.  But  still  it 
carries  within  it  the  germ  of  an  excellence, 
which,  sooner  or  later,  must,  in  the  progress 
of  national  genius,  arrive  at  its  full  develop- 
ment. 

Meanwhile,  it  is  a  consolation  to  know,  that 
nothing  really  immoral  is  ever  permanently 
popular,  or  ever,  therefore,  long  deleterious; 
what  is  dangerous  in  a  work  of  genius,  cures 
itself  in  a  few  years.  We  can  now  read  Wer- 
ter,  and  instruct  our  hearts  by  its  exposition 
of  weakness  and  passion — our  taste  by  its  ex- 
quisite and  unrivalled  simplicity  of  construction 
detail,  without  any  fear  that  we  shall  shoot 
ourselves  in  top-boots  !  We  can  feel  our- 
selves elevated  by  the  noble  sentiments  of 
"  The  Robbers,"  and  our  penetration  sharp- 
ened as  to  the  wholesale  immorality  of  con- 
ventional cant  and  hypocrisy,  without  any  dan- 
ger of  turning  banditti,  and  becoming  cut- 
throats from  the  love  of  virtue.  Providence, 
that  has  made  the  genius  of  the  few  in  all 
times  and  countries  the  guide  and  prophet  of 
the  many;  and  appointed  Literature,  as  the  sub- 
lime agent  of  Civilization,  of  Opinion,  and  of 
Law,  has  endowed  the  elements  it  employs  with 
a  divine  power  of  self-purification.  I'he  stream 
settles  of  itself  by  rest  and  time;  the  impure 
particles  fly  off,  or  are  neutralized  by  the 
healthful.  It  is  only  fools  that  call  the  works  of 
a  master-spirit  immoral.  There  does  not  exist 
in  the  literature  of  the  world,  one  popular 
book  that  is  immoral  two  centuries  after  it  is 
produced.  For,  in  the  heart  of  nations,  the 
False  does  not  live  so  long;  and  the  True  is 
the  Ethical  to  the  end  of  time. 

From  the  literary,  Maltravers  turned  to  the 


ALICE;     OR,      THE    MVSyERIES. 


315 


political  state  of  France  his  curious  and 
thoughtful  eye.  He  was  struck  by  the  re- 
semblance which  this  nation— so  civilized,  so 
thoroughly  European — bears  in  one  respect  to 
the  despotisms  of  the  East:  the  convulsions  of 
the  capital  decide  the  fate  of  the  country; 
Paris  is  the  tyrant  of  France.  He  saw  in  this 
inflammable  concentration  of  power,  which 
must  ever  be  pregnant  with  great  evils,  one  of 
the  causes  why  the  revolutions  of  that  power- 
ful and  polished  people  are  so  incomplete  and 
unsatisfactory— -why,  like  Cardinal  Fleury, 
system  after  system,  and  Government  after 
Government, 

*        *        "  floruit  sine  fructu, 
Defloruit  sine  luctu."  • 

Maltravers  regarded  it  as  a  singular  instalnce 
of  perverse  ratiocination,  that,  unwarned  by  ex- 
perience, the  French  should  still  persist  in  per- 
petuating this  political  vice;  that  all  their 
policy  should  still  be  the  policy  of  Centraliza- 
tion— a  principle  which  secures  the  momentary 
strength,  but  ever  ends  in  the  abrupt  distruc- 
tion,  of  States.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  perilous  tonic, 
which  seems  to  brace  the  system,  but  drives 
the  blood  to  the  head— thus  come  apoplexy 
and  madness.  By  centralization  the  provinces 
are  weakened,  it  is  true;  but  weak  to  assist  as 
well  as  to  oppose  a  Government — weak  to 
withstand  a  mol).  Nowhere,  nowadays,  is  a 
mob  so  powerful  as  in  Paris;  the  political  his- 
tory of  Paris  is  the  history  of  mobs.  Centrali- 
zation is  an  excellent  quackery  for  a  despot 
who  desires  power  to  last  only  his  own  life,  and 
who  has  but  a  life-interest  in  the  State;  but  to 
true  liberty  and  permanent  order,  centraliza- 
tion is  a  deadly  poison.  The  more  the  prov- 
inces govern  their  own  affairs,  the  more  we 
find  every  thing,  even  to  roads  and  post- 
horses,  are  left  to  the  people;  the  more  the 
Municipal  Spirit  prevades  every  vein  of  the 
vast  body,  the  more  certain  may  we  be  that 
reform  and  change  must  come  from  universal 
opinion,  which  is  slow,  and  constructs  ere  it 
destroys — not  from  public  clamor,  which  is 
sudden,  and  not  only  pulls  down  the  edifice, 
but  sells  the  bricks  ! 

Another  peculiarity  in  the  French  Constitu- 
tion struck  and  perplexed  Maltravers.  This 
people,  so  pervaded  by  the  republican   senti- 


*  Flourished  without  fruit,  and  was  destroyed  with- 
out regret. 


ment — this  people,  who  had  sacrificed  so  much 
for  Freedom — this  .people,  who  in  the  name  of 
Freedom,  had  perpetrated  so  much  crime  with 
Robespierre,  and  achieved  so  much  glory  with 
Napoleon- — this  people  were,  as  a  people,  con- 
tented to  be  utterly  excluded  from  all  power 
and  voice  in  the  State  !  Out  of  thirty-three 
millions  of  subjects,  less  than  two  hundred 
thousand  electors  !  Where  was  there  ever  an 
oligarchy  equal  to  this  ?  What  a  strange  in- 
fatuation, to  demolish  an  aristocracy  and  yet 
to  exclude  a  people  !  What  an  anomaly  in 
political  architecture,  to  build  an  inverted 
pyramid  !  Where  was  the  safety  valve  of 
governments — -where  the  natural  events  of  ex- 
citement in  a  population  so  inflammable  ?  The 
people  itself  were  left  a  mob:  no  stake  in  the 
State — no  action  in  its  affairs — no  legislative 
interest  in  its  security.* 

On  the  other  hand,  it  was  singular  to  see 
how — the  aristocracy  of  birth  broken  down — 
the  aristocracy  of  letters  had  arisen.  A  Peer- 
age, half  composed  of  journalists,  philosophers, 
and  authors  !  This  was  the  beau  ideal  of 
Algernon  Sydney's  Aristocratic  Republic;  of 
the  Halvetian  visions  of  what  ought  to  be  the 
dispensations  of  public  distinctions:  yet  was  it, 
after  all,  a  desirable  aristocracy  ?  Did  society 
gain? — did  literature  lose?  Was  the  Priest- 
hood of  Genius  made  more  sacred  and  more 
pure  by  these  worldly  decorations  and  hollow 
titles  ? — or  was  aristocracy  itself  thus  rendered 
a  more  disinterested,  a  more  powerful,  or  more 
sagacious  element  in  the  administration  of 
law,  or  the  elevation  of  opinion  ?  These  ques- 
tions, not  lightly  to  be  answered,  could  not 
fail  to  arouse  the  speculation  and  curiosity  of 
a  man  who  had  been  familiar  with  the  closet 
and  the  forum;  and,  in  proportion  as  he  found 
his  interest  excited  in  these  problems  to  be 
solved  by  a  foreign  nation,  did  the  thoughtful 
Englishman  feel  the  old  instinct— which  binds 
the  citizen  to  the  father-land— begin  to  stir 
once  more  earnestly  and  vividly  within  him. 

"You,  yourself  individually,  are  passing,  like 
us,"  said  De  Montaigne  one  day  to  Maltravers, 
"  through  a  state  of  transition.  You  have  for 
ever  left  the  Ideal,  and  you  are  carrying  your 
cargo  of  experience  over  to  the  Practical. 
When  you  reach  that  haven,  you  will  have 
completed  the  development  of  your  forces." 


•  Has  not  all  this  proved  prophetic  ? 


3i6 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"You  mistake  me;  I  am  but  a  spectator." 
"Yes;  but   you   desire  to   go   behind   the 
scenes.     And  he  who  once  grows  familiar  with 
the  green-room,  longs  to  be  an  actor." 

With  Madame  de  Ventadour  and  the  De 
Montaignes  Maltravers  passed  the  chief  part 
of  his  time.  They  knew  how  to  appreciate 
his  nobler,  and  to  love  his  gentler,  attributes 
and  qualities;  they  united  in  a  warm  interest 
for  his  future  fate;  they  combated  his  Philoso- 
phy of  Inaction;  and  they  felt  that  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  not  happy  that  he  was  not  wise. 
Experience  was  to  him  what  ignorance  had 
been  to  Alice.  His  faculties  were  chilled  and 
■dormant.  As  affection  to  those  who  are  un- 
skilled in  all  things,  so  is  affection  to  those 
who  despair  of  all  things.  The  mind  of  Mal- 
travers was  a  world  without  a  sun  ! 


CHAPTER  HI. 

"  Coelebs  quid  agam  ?  " — HoRAT. 

In  a  room  at  Fenton's  Hotel  sate  Lord  Var- 
grave  and  Caroline  Lady  Doltimore  —  two 
months  after  the  marriage  of  the  latter. 

"  Doltimore  has  positively  fixed,  then,  to 
go  abroad,  on  your  return  from  Cornwall  ? " 

"Positively — to  Paris.  You  can  join  us  at 
■Christmas,  I  trust  ?  " 

"I  have  no  do  doubt  of  it;  and  before  then, 
I  hope  that  I  shall  have  arranged  certain  pub- 
lic matters,  which  at  present  harass  and  absorb 
me  even  more  than  my  private  affairs." 

"  You  have  managed  to  obtain  terms  with 
Mr.  Douce,  and  to  delay  the  repayment  of 
your  debt  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so,  till  I  touch  Miss  Cam- 
■eron's  income;  which  will  be  mine,  I  trust,  by 
the  time  she  is  eighteen." 

"You  mean  the  forfeit  money  of  30,000/.  ?" 

"  Not  I  ! — I  mean  what  I  said  !  " 

"  Can  you  really  imagine  she  will  still  accept 
your  hand  ? " 

"  With  your  aid,  I  do  imagine  it !  Hear  me. 
You  must  take  Evelyn  with  you  to  Paris.  I 
have  no  doubt  but  that  she  will  be  delighted 
to  accompany  you ;  nay,  I  have  paved  the  way 
so  far.  For,  of  course,  as  a  friend  of  the 
family,  and  guardian  to  Evelyn.  I  have  main- 


*  What  shall  I  do,  a  bachelor? 


tained  a  correspondence  with  Lady  Vargrave. 
She  informs  me  that  Evelyn  has  been  unwell 
and  low-spirited;  that  she  fears  Brook  Green 
is  dull  for  her,  etc.  I  wrote  in  reply,  to  say, 
that  the  more  my  ward  saw  of  the  world,  prior 
to  her  accession,  when  of  age,  to  the  position 
she  would  occupy  in  it,  the  more  she  would 
fulfil  my  late  uncle's  wishes  with  respect  to  her 
education,  and  so  forth.  I  added,  that  as  you 
were  going  to  Paris — and  as  you  loved  her  so 
much — there  could  not  be  a  better  opportunity 
for  her  entrance  into  life,  under  the  most 
favorable  auspices.  Lady  Vargrave's  answer 
to  this  letter  arrived  this  morning: — she  will 
consent  to  such  an  arrangement,  should  you 
propose  it." 

"But  what  good  will  result  to  yourself  in 
this  project? — at  Paris  you  will  be  sure  of 
rivals,  and  —  " 

"  Caroline,"  interrupted  Lord  Vargrave,  "  I 
know  very  well  what  you  would  say  ;  I  also 
know  all  the  danger  I  must  incur.  But  it  is 
a  choice  of  evils;  and  I  choose  the  least.  You 
see  that  while  she  is  at  Brook  Green,  and  un- 
der the  eye  of  that  sly  old  curate,  I  can  effect 
nothing  with  her.  There,  she  is  entirely  re 
moved  from  my  influence; — not  so  abroad — 
not  so  under  your  roof.  Listen  to  me  still 
further.  In  this  country,  and  especially  in  the 
seclusion  and  shelter  of  Brook  Green,  I  have 
no  scope  for  any  of  those  means  which  I  shall 
be  compelled  to  resort  to,  in  failure  of  all 
else." 

"  What  can  you  intend  ? "  said  Caroline, 
with  a  slight  shudder. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  intend  yet.  But  this, 
at  least,  I  can  tell  you — that  Miss  Cameron's 
fortune  I  must  and  will  have.  I  am  a  des- 
perate man,  and  I  can  play  a  desperate  game, 
if  need  be." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  /  will  aid — will 
abet." 

"  Hush  !  not  so  loud  !  Yes,  Caroline,  you 
will,  and  you  must,  aid  and  abet  me  in  any 
project  I  may  form." 

"  Must !  Lord  Vargrave  ? " 

"  Ay  !  "  said  Lumley,  with  a  smile,  and  sink- 
ing his  voice  into  a  whisper;  "ay  ! — you  are  in 
my  pmver  !  " 

"  Traitor  ! — you  cannot  dare — you  cannot 
mean ! " 

"  I  mean  nothing  more  than  to  remind  you 
of  the  ties  that  exist  between    us — ties  which 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


31? 


ought  to  render  us  the  firmest  and  most  confi- 
dential of  friends.  Come,  Caroline,  recollect 
all  the  benefits  must  not  lie  on  one  side;  I 
have  obtained  for  you  rank  and  wealth;  I  have 
procured  you  a  husband — you  must  help  me 
to  a  wife  !  " 

Caroline  sunk  back,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

"  I  allow,"  continued  Vargrave,  coldly — "  I 
allow  that  your  beauty  and  talent  were  suffi- 
cient of  themselves  to  charm  a  wiser  man  than 
Doltimore;  but  had  I  not  suppressed  jealousy 
— sacrificed  love — had  I  dropped  a  hint  to 
your  liege  lord — nay,  had  I  not  fed  his  lap- 
dog  vanity  by  all  the  cream  and  sugar  of  flat- 
tering falsehoods  —  you  would  be  Caroline 
Merton  still  !  " 

"  Oh  !  would  that  I  were  !  Oh  !  that  I 
were  anything  but  your  tool — your  victim  ! 
Fool  that  I  was  ! — wretch  that  I  am  !  I  am 
rightly  punished  !  " 

"  Forgive  me — forgive  me,  dearest,"  said 
Vargrave,  soothingly;  "I  was  to  blame,  for- 
give me:  but  you  irritated,  you  maddened  me, 
by  your  seeming  indifference  to  my  prosperity 
— my  fate.  I  tell  you  again  and  again,  pride 
of  my  soul,  I  tell  you,  that  you  are  the  only 
being  I  love  !  and  if  you  will  allow  me,  if  you 
will  rise  superior,  as  I  once  fondly  hoped,  to 
all  the  cant  and  prejudice  of  convention  and 
education — the  only  woman  I  could  ever  re- 
spect, as  well  as  love  !  Oh,  hereafter,  when 
you  see  me  at  that  height  to  which  I  feel  that 
I  am  born  to  climb,  let  me  think  that  to  your 
generosity,  your  affection,  your  zeal,  I  owed 
the  ascent:  at  present  I  am  on  the  precipice — 
without  your  hand  I  fall  for  ever.  My  own 
fortune  is  gone — the  miserable  forfeit  due  to 
me,  if  Evelyn  continues  to  reject  my  suit, 
when  she  has  arrived  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
is  deeply  mortgaged.  I  am  engaged  in  vast 
and  daring  schemes,  in  which  I  may  either 
rise  to  the  highest  station  or  lose  that  which  I 
now  hold.  In  either  case,  how  necessary  to 
me  is  wealth:  in  the  one  instance,  to  maintain 
my  advancement;  in  the  other,  to  redeem 
my  fall." 

"  But  did  you  not  tell  me,"  said  Caroline, 
"  that  Evelyn  proposed  and  promised  to  place 
her  fortune  at  your  disposal,  even  while  re- 
jecting your  hand  ?  " 

"Absurd  mockery!"  exclaimed  Vargrave; 
"  the  foolish  boast  of  a  girl — an  impulse  liable 


to  every  caprice.  Can  you  suppose,  that  when 
she  launches  into  the  e.xtravagance  natural  to 
her  age,  and  necessary  to  her  position,  she 
will  not  find  a  thousand  demands  upon  her 
rent-roll  not  dreamt  of  now  ?  a  thousand  vani- 
ties and  baubles,  that  will  soon  erase  my  poor 
and  hollow  claim  from  her  recollection  ?  Can 
you  suppose  that,  if  she  marry  another,  her 
husband  will  ever  consent  to  a  child's  ro- 
mance ?  And  even  were  all  this  possible,  were 
it  possible  that  girls  were  not  extravagant, 
and  that  husbands  had  no  common  sense,  is 
it  for  me,  Lord  Vargrave,  to  be  a  mendicant 
upon  reluctant  bounty  ?  a  poor  cousin — a  pen- 
sioned led-captain  !  Heaven  knows  I  have  as 
little  false  pride  as  any  man,  but  still  this 
is  a  degradation  I  cannot  stoop  to.  Besides, 
Caroline,  I  am  no  miser,  no  Harpagon:  I  do 
not  want  wealth  for  wealth's  sake,  but  for  the 
advantages  it  bestows  —  respect  —  honor — • 
position;  and  these  I  get  as  the  husband  of  the 
great  heiress.  Should  I  get  them  as  her  de- 
pendant? No:  for  more  than  six  years  I  have 
built  my  schemes  and  shaped  my  conduct,  ac- 
cording to  one  assured  and  definite  object; 
and  that  object  I  shall  not  now  in  the  eleventh 
hour  let  slip  from  my  hands.  Enough  of  this: 
you  will  pass  Brook  Green  in  returning  from 
Cornwall — you  will  take  Evelyn  with  you  to 
Paris — leave  the  rest  to  me.  Fear  no  folly, 
no  violence,  from  my  plans,  what  ever  they  may 
be:  I  work  in  the  dark.  Nor  do  I  despair  that 
Evelyn  will  love,  that  Evelyn  will  voluntarily 
accept,  me  yet:  my  disposition  is  sanguine;  I 
look  to  the  bright  side  of  thingc: — do  the 
same  ! " 

Here  their  conference  was  interrupted  by 
Lord  Doltimore,  who  lounged  carelessly  into 
the  room,  with  his  hat  on  one  side.  "  Ah  ! 
Vargrave,  how  are  you  ?  You  will  not  forget 
the  letters  of  introduction  ?  Where  are  you 
going,  Caroline  ? " 

"  Only  to  my  own  room,  to  put  on  my  bon- 
net; the  carriage  will  be  here  in  a  few  min- 
utes."    And  Caroline  escaped. 

"So  you  go  to  Cornwall  to-morrow,  Dolti- 
more ? " 

"  Yes — cursed  bore  !  but  Lady  Elizabeth 
insists  on  seeing  us,  and  I  don't  object  to  a 
week's  good  shooting.  The  old  Lady,  too, 
has  something  to  leave,  and  Caroline  had  no 
dowry:  not  that  I  care  for  it;  but  still  mar- 
riage is  expensive." 


3-8 


B  UL  WEE'S     IVOJiA'S. 


"By  the  by,  you  will  want  the  five  thousand 
pounds  you  lent  me?" 

"Why,  whenever  it  is  convenient." 

"  Say  no  more— it  shall  be  seen  to.  Dolti- 
more,  I  am  very  anxious  that  Lady  Dolti- 
more's  dilrtlt  at  Paris  should  bebrillaint:  every 
thing  depends  on  falling  into  the  right  set. 
For  myself,  I  don't  care  about  fashion,  and 
never  did;  but  if  I  were  married,  and  an  idle 
man  like  you,  it  might  be  different." 

"  Oh,  you  will  be  very  useful  to  us  when  we 
return  to  London.  Meanwhile,  you  know,  you 
have  my  proxy  in  the  Lords.  I  dare  say 
there  will  be  some  sharp  work  the  first  week  or 
two  after  the  recess." 

"  Very  likely;  and  depend  on  one  thing, 
my  dear  Doltimore,  that  when  I  am  in  the 
cabinet,  a  certain  friend  of  mine  shall  be  an 
earl.     Adieu." 

"Good-by,  my  dear  Vargrave,  good- by — 
and,  I  say, — I  say,  don't  distress  yourself 
about  that  trifle — a  few  months  hence,  it  will 
suit  me  just  as  well." 

"  Thanks — I  will  just  look  into  my  accounts, 
and  use  you  without  ceremony.  Well — I  dare 
say  we  shall  meet  at  Paris.  0h,  I  forgot  ! 
— I  observe  that  you  have  renewed  your  in- 
timacy with  Legard.  Now  he  is  a  very  good 
fellow,  and   I  gave  him  that  place  to  oblige 

you still,  as  you  are  no  longer   a  garden 

— —but  perhaps  I  shall  offend  you  ?  " 


"  Legard  go  to  Paris — not  if  Evelyn  goes 
there  1 "  muttered  Lumley.  "  Besides,  I  want 
no  partner  in  the  little  that  one  can  screw  out 
of  this  blockhead." 


"  Not  at  all.  What  is  there  against  Legard  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  the  world — but  he  is  a  bit  of 
a  boaster.  I  dare  say  his  ancestor  was  a  Gas- 
con— poor  fellow  ! — and  he  affects  to  say  that 
you  can't  choose  a  coat,  or  buy  a  horse,  with- 
out his  approval  and  advice — that  he  can  turn 
you  round  his  finger.  Now  this  hurts  your 
consequence  in  the  world — you  don't  get  credit 
for  your  own  excellent  sense  and  taste.  Take 
my  advice,  avoid  these  young  hangers-on  of 
fashion — these  club-room  lions.  Having  no 
importance  of  their  own,  they  steal  the  import- 
ance of  their  friends.      Verbtim  sap." 

"  You  are  very  right — Legard /V  a  coxcomb; 
and  now  I  see  why  he  talked  of  joining  us  at 
Paris." 

"  Don't  let  him  do  any  such  thing? — he  will 
be  telling  the  Frenchmen  thnt  her  ladyship  is 
in  love  with  him — ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  ! — a  very  good  joke — poor  Caro- 
line ! — very  good  joke  !  "  Well,  good-by  once 
more;"  and  Vargrave  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


"  Mr.  Bumblecase,  a  word  with  you— I  have  a  little 
business. 

"  Farewell,  the  goodly  Manor  of  Blackacre,  with  all 
its  woods,  underwoods,  and  appurtenances  whatever." 
— Wvcherley:  Plain  Deahr. 


In  quitting  Fenton's  Hotel,  Lord  Vargrave 
entered  into  one  of  the  clubs  in  St.  James's 
Street:  this  was  rather  unusual  with  him,  for 
he  was  not  a  club  man.  It  was  not  his  system 
to  spend  his  time  for  nothing.  But  it  was  a 
wet  December  day — the  House  not  yet  as- 
sembled, and  he  had  done  his  official  business. 
Here,  as  he  was  munching  a  biscuit  and  read- 
ing an  article  in  one  of  the  ministerial  papers 
• — the  heads  of  which  he  himself  had  supplied 
—Lord  Saxingham  joined,  and  drew  him  to 
the  window. 

"  I  have  reason  to  think,"  said  the  earl, 
"  that  your  visit  to  Windsor  did  good." 

"Ah,  indeed;  so  I  fancied." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  a  certain  personage 
will  ever  consent  to  the  *  *  *  *  question;  and 
the  premier,  whom  I  saw  to-day,  seems  chafed 
and  irritated." 

"  Nothing  can  be  better — I  know  that  we 
are  in  the  right  boat." 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  true,  Lumley,  that  your 
marriage  with  Miss  Cameron  is  broken  off; 
such  was  the  on  dit  in  the  club,  just  before  you 
entered." 

"Contradict  it,  my  dear  lord, — contradict  it. 
I  hope  by  the  spring  to  introduce  Lady  Var- 
grave to  you.  But  who  broached  the  absurd 
report  ? " 

"Why,  your f>rot^g<f,  Legard,  says  he  heart! 
so  from  his  uncle,  who  heard  it  from  Sir  John 
Merton." 

"Legard  is  a  puppy,  and  Sir  John  Merton 
a  jackass.  Legard  had  better  attend  to  his 
office,  if  he  wants  to  get  on;  and  I  wish  you'd 
tell  him  so.  I  have  heard  somewhere  that  he 
talks  of  going  to  Paris — you  can  just  hint  to 
him  that  he  must  give  up  such  idle  habits. 
Public  functionaries  are  not  now   what    they 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


3'9 


were — people  are  expected  to  work  for  the 
money  they  pocket — otherwise  Legard  is  a 
cleverish  fellow,  and  deserves  promotion.  A 
word  or  two  of  caution  from  you  will  do  him 
avast  deal  of  good." 

"  Be  sure  I  will  lecture  him.  Will  you  dine 
with  me  to-day,  Lumley  ?  " 

"No.  I  expect  my  co-trustee,  Mr.  Douce, 
on  matters  of  business — a  tite-a-tite  dinner." 

Lord  Vargrve  had,  as  he  conceived,  very 
cleverly  talked  over  Mr.  Douce  into  letting  his 
debt  to  that  gentleman  run  on  for  the  present; 
and,  in  the  meanwhile,  he  had  overwhelmed 
Mr.  Douce  with  his  condescensions.  'I'hat 
gentleman  had  twice  dined  with  Lord  Var- 
grave;  and  Lord  Vargrave  had  twice  dined 
with  him.  The  occasion  of  the  present  more 
familiar  entertainment  was  in  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Douce,  begging  to  see  Lord  Vargrave  on 
particular  business;  and  Vargrave,  who  by  no 
means  liked  the  word  business  from  a  gentle- 
man to  whom  he  owed  money,  thought  that  it 
would  go  off  more  smoothly  if  sprinkled  with 
champagne. 

Accordingly,  he  begged  "  My  dear  Mr. 
Douce"  to  excuse  ceremony,  and  dine  with 
him  on  Thursday,  at  seven  o'clock — he  was 
really  so  busy  all  the  mornings. 

At  seven  o'clock,  Mr.  Douce  came.  The 
moment  he  entered,  Vargrave  called  out,  at 
the  top  of  his  voice,  "  Dinner  immediately  !  " 
And  as  the  little  man  bowed,  and  shuffled,  and 
fidgeted,  and  wriggled  (while  Vargrave  shook 
him  by  the  hand),  as  if  he  thought  he  was 
going  himself  to  be  spitted, — his  host  said, 
"With  your  leave,  we'll  postpone  the  budget 
till  after  dinner.  It  is  the  fashion  nowadays 
to  postpone  the  budgets  as  long  as  we  can — 
eh  ?  Well,  and  how  are  all  at  home  ?  Devil- 
ish cold;  is  it  not?  So  you  go  to  your  villa 
every  day  ? — That's  what  keeps  you  in  such 
capital  health.  You  know  I  had  a  villa  too — 
though  I  never  had  time  to  go  there." 

"  Ah,  yes — I  think,  I  remember,  atFul-Ful- 
Fulham  !  "  gasjied  out  Mr.  Dpuce.  "  Your 
poor  uncle's — ^now  I^ady  Var-Var-Vargrave's 
jointure-house.     So so " 

"  She  don't  live  there  !  "  burst  in  Vargrave 
(far  too  impatient  to  be  polite).  "  Too  cock- 
neyfied  for  her — gave  it  up  to  me — very  pretty 
place,  but  d d  expensive.  I  could  not  af- 
ford it — never  went  there — and  so,, I  have  let 
it  to  my  wine-merchant;  the  rent  just  pays  his 


bill.  You  will  taste  some  of  the  sofas  and 
tables  to-day  in  his  champagne  !  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  1  always  fancy  my  sherry 
smells  like  my  poor  uncle's  old  leather  chair: 
very  odd  smell  it  had — a  kind  of  respectable 
smell  !  1  hope  you're  hungry — dinner's 
ready." 

Vargrave  thus  rattled  away  in  order  to  give 
the  good  banker  to  understand  that  his  affairs 
were  in  the  most  flourishing  condition;  and  he 
continued  to  keep  up  the  ball  all  dinner-time, 
stopping  Mr.  Douce's  little,  miserable,  gasp- 
ing, dace-like  mouth,  with  "a  glass  of  wine. 
Douce  !  "  or  "  by  the  by.  Douce,"  whenever  he 
saw  that  worthy  gentleman  about  to  make  the 
.(Eschylean  improvement  of  the  second  person 
in  the  dialogue. 

At  length,  dinner  being  fairly  over,  and  the 
servants  withdrawn.  Lord  Vargrave,  knowing 
that  sooner  or  later  Douce  would  have  his 
say,  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  put  his  feet  on 
the  fender,  and  cried,  as  he  tossed  off  his 
claret,  "  Now,  Douce,  what   can    I   do    for 

YOU  ? " 

Mr.  Douce  opened  his  eyes  to  their  full  ex- 
tent, and  then  as  rapidly  closed  them;  and 
this  operation  he  continued  till,  having  snuffed 
them  so  much  that  they  could  by  no  possibility 
burn  any  brighter,  he  was  convinced  that  he 
had  not  misunderstood  his  lordship. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  he  began,  in  his  most 
frightened  manner,  "indeed — I — really  your 
lordship  is  very  good— I— -I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  on  business." 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you — some  little 
favor,  eh  ?  Snug  sinecure  for  a  favorite  clerk, 
or  a  place  in  the  Stamp  Office  for  your  fat 
footman— John,  I  think  you  call  him?  You 
know,  ray  dear  Douce,  you  may  command 
me." 

"  Oh,  indeed-:-you  are  all  good-good-good- 
ness—but— but " 

Vargrave  threw  himself  back,  and  shutting 
his  eyes  and  pursing  up  his  mouth,  resolutely 
suffered  Mr.  Douce  to  unbosom  himself  with- 
out interruption.  He  was  considerably  re- 
lieved to  find  that  the  business  referred  to  re- 
lated only  to  Miss  Cameron.  Mr.  Douce 
having  reminded  Lord  Vargrave,  as  he  had 
often  done  before,  of  the  wishes  of  his  uncle, 
that  the  greater  portion  of  the  money  be- 
queathed to  Evelyn  should  be  invested  in 
land,  proceeded  to  say  that  a  most  excellent 


320 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


opportunity  presented  itself  for  just  such  a 
purchase  as  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of 
the  late  lord.  A  superb  place,  in  the  style  of 
Blickling — deer-park  six  miles  round — 10,000 
acres  of  land,  bringing  in  a  clear  8,000/.  a-year 
— purchase-money  only  240,000/.  The  whole 
estate  was,  Indeed,  much  larger — 18, 000  acres; 
but  then  the  more  distant  farms  could  be  sold 
in  different  lots,  in  order  to  meet  the  exact 
sum  Miss  Cameron's  trustees  were  enabled  to 
invest. 

"Well,  said  Vargrave,  "and  where  is  it? 
My  poor  uncle  was  after  De  Clifford's  estate, 
but  the  title  was  not  good." 

"  Oh  !  this- — is  much — much — much  fi-fi- 
finer; — famous  investment — but  rather  far  off 
— in — in  the  north.     Li-Li-Lisle  Court." 

"  Lisle  Court !  Why,  does  not  that  belong 
to  Colonel  Maltravers  ?  " 

"Yes.  It  is,  indeed,  quite,  I  may  say,  a 
secret — yes — really — a  se-se-secret — not  in 
the  market  yet— not  at  all — soon  snapped  up." 

"  Humph  !  Has  Colonel  Maltravers  been 
extravagant  ? " 

"No — but  he  does  not — I  hear — or  rather 
Lady — Julia — so  I'm  told,  yes,  indeed — does 
not  li-like — going  so  far,  and  so  they  spend 
the  winter  in  Italy  instead.  Yes — very  odd — 
very  fine  place." 

Lumley  was  slightly  acquainted  with  the 
elder  brother  of  his  old  friend — a  man  who 
possessed  some  of  Ernest's  faults — very  proud, 
and  very  exacting,  and  very  fastidious: — but 
all  these  faults  were  developed  in  the  ordinary 
commonplace  world,  and  were  not  the  refined 
abstractions  of  his  younger  brother. 

Colonel  Maltravers  had  continued,  since  he 
entered  the  Guards,  to  be  thoroughly  the  man 
of  fashion,  and  nothing  more.  But  rich 
and  well-born,  and  highly  connected,  and 
thoroughly  ci  la  mode  as  he,  was,  his  pride 
made  him  uncomfortable  in  London,  while  his 
fastidiousness  made  him  uncomfortable  in  the 
country.  He  was  rather  a  great  person,  but 
he  wanted  to  be  a  very  great  person.  This 
he  was  a  Lisle  Court;  but  that  did  not  satisfy 
him — he  wanted  not  only  to  be  a  very  great 
person,  but  a  very  great  person  among  very 
great  persons — and  squires  and  parsons  bored 
him.  Lady  Julia,  his  wife  was  a  fine  lady, 
inane  and  pretty,  who  saw  everthing  through 
her  husband's  eyes.  He  was  quite  master 
ehez  ltd,  was  Colonel  Maltravers  I     He  lived  a 


great  deal  abroad — for  on  the  continent  his 
large  income  seemed  princely,  while  his  high 
character,  thorough  breeding,  and  personal 
advantages,  which  were  remarkable,  assured 
him  a  greater  position  in  foreign  courts  than 
at  his  own.  Two  things  had  greatly  disgusted 
him  with  Lisle  Court— trifles  they  might  be 
with  others,  but  they  were  not  trifles  to  Cuth- 
bert  Maltravers; — in  the  first  place,  a  man 
who  had  been  his  father's  attorney,  and  who 
was  the  very  incarnation  of  coarse  unrepellible 
familiarity,  had  bought  an  estate  close  by  the 
said  Lisle  Court,  and  had,  horresco  referens, 
been  made  a  baronet ! 

Sir  Gregory  Gubbins  took  precedence  of 
Colonel  Maltravers  I  He  could  not  ride  out 
but  he  met  Sir  Gregory;  he  could  not  dine 
out  but  he  had  the  pleasure  of  walking  behind 
Sir  Gregory's  bright  blue  coat  with  its  bright 
brass  buttons.  In  his  last  visit  to  Lisle  Court, 
which  he  had  then  crowded  with  all  manner  of 
fine  people,  he  had  seen— the  very  first  morn- 
ing after  his  arrival — seen  from  the  large  win- 
dow of  his  state  saloon,  a  great  staring  white, 
red,  blue,  and  gilt  thing,  at  the  end  of  the 
stately  avenue  planted  by  Sir  Guy  Maltravers 
in  honor  of  the  Victory  over  the  Spanish 
Armada.  He  looked  in  mute  surprise,  and 
every  body  else  looked;  and  a  polite  German 
Count,  gazing  through  his  eye-glass,  said, 
"  Ah  !  dat  is  vat  you  call  a  vim  in  your/avx — 
the  vim  of  Colonel  Maltravers  I  " 

This  "  vim  "  was  the  pagoda  summerhouse 
of  Sir  Gregory  Gubbins — erected  in  imitation 
of  the  Pavilion  at  Brighton.  Colonel  Maltrav- 
ers was  miserable — the  vim  haunted  him — it 
seemed  ubiquitous — he  could  not  escape  it — 
it  was  bnilt  on  the  highest  spot  in  the  county; 
ride,  walk,  sit  where  he  would,  the  vim  stared 
at  him;  and  he  thought  he  saw  little  Man- 
darins shake  their  round  little  heads  at  him. 
This  was  one  of  the  great  curses  of  Lisle 
Court — the  other  was  yet  more  galling.  The 
owners  of  Lisle  Court  had  for  several  genera- 
tions possessed  the  dominant  interest  in  the 
county  town.  The  Colonel  himself  meddled 
little  in  politics,  and  was  too  fine  a  gentleman 
for  the  drudgery  of  parliament: — he  had 
offered  the  seat  to  Ernest,  when  the  latter  had 
commenced  his  public  career;  but  the  result 
of  a  communication  proved  that  their  political 
views  were  dissimilar,  and  the  negotiation 
dropped    without   ill-feeling   on   either    side. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


321 


Subsequently  a  vacancy  occurred;  and  Lady 
Julia's  brother  (just  made  a  Lord  of  the 
Treasury)  wished  to  come  into  parliament,  so 
the  county  town  was  offered  to  him.  Now, 
the  proud  commoner  had  married  into  the 
family  of  a  peer  as  proud  as  himself,  and  Col- 
onel Maltravers  was  always  glad  whenever  he 
could  impress  his  consequence  on  his  connec- 
tions by  doing  them  a  favor.  He  wrote  to  his 
steward  to  see  that  the  thing  was  properly  set- 
tled, and  came  down  on  the  nomination-day 
"  to  share  the  triumph  and  partake  the  gale." 
Guess  his  indignation,  when  he  found  the 
nephew  of  Sir  Gregory  Gubbins  was  already 
in  the  field  !  The  result  of  the  election  was, 
that  Mr.  Augustus  Gubbins  came  in,  and  that 
Colonel  Maltravers  was  pelted  with  cabbage- 
stalks,  and  accused  of  attempting  to  sell  the 
worthy  and  independent  electors  to  a  govern- 
ment nominee  !  In  shame  and  disgust,  Col- 
Maltravers  broke  up  his  establishment  at  Lisle 
Court,  and  once  more  retired  to  the  continent. 

About  a  week  from  the  date  now  touched 
upon.  Lady  Julia  and  himself  had  arrived  in 
London  from  Vienna;  and  a  new  mortification 
awaited  the  unfortunate  owner  of  Lisle  Court. 
A  railroad  company  had  been  established,  of 
which  Sir  Gregory  Gubbins  was  a  principal 
shareholder;  and  the  speculator,  Mr.  Augus- 
tus Gubbins,  one  of  the  "  most  useful  men  in 
the  house,"  had  undertaken  to  carry  the  bill 
through  parliament.  Colonel  Maltravers  re- 
ceived a  letter  of  portentous  size,  enclosing 
the  map  of  the  places  which  this  blessed  rail- 
way was  to  bisect;  and  lo  !  just  at  the  bottom 
of  his  park  ran  a  portentous  line,  which  in- 
formed him  of  the  sacrifice  he  was  expected 
to  make  for  the  public  good — especially  for 
the  good  of  that  very  county  town,  the  inhabi- 
tants of  which  had  pelted  him  with  cabbage- 
stalks  ! 

Colonel  Maltravers  lost  all  patience.  Un- 
acquainted with  our  wise  legislative  proceed- 
ings, he  was  not  aware  that  a  railway  planned 
is  a  very  different  thing  from  a  railway  made; 
and  that  parliamentary  committees  are  not  by 
any  means  favorable  to  schemes  for  carrying 
the  public  through  a  gentleman's  park. 

"  This  country  is  not  to  be  lived  in,"  said 
he  to  Lady  Julia;  "  it  gets  worse  and  worse 
every  year.  I  am  sure  I  never  had  any  com- 
fort m  Lisle  Court.  I've  a  great  mind  to  sell 
it." 

6.  — 21 


"  Why,  indeed,  as  we  have  no  sons,  only 
daughters,  and  Ernest  is  so  well  provided  for," 
said  Lady  Julia;  "  and  the  place  is  so  far  from 
London,  and  the  neighborhood  is  so  disagree- 
able, I  think  that  we  could  do  very  well  with- 
out it." 

Colonel  Maltravers  made  no  answer,  but  he 
revolved  the  pros  and  cons;  and  then  he  began 
to  chink  how  much  it  cost  him  in  gamekeepers, 
and  carpenters,  and  bailiffs,  and  gardeners,  and 
Heaven  knows  whom  besides;  and  then  the 
pagoda  flashed  across  him;  and  then  the  cab- 
bage-stalks, and  at  last  he  went  to  his  solic- 
itor. 

"You  may  sell  Lisle  Court,"  said  he  quietly. 

The  solicitor  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink. 
"  The  particulars  Colonel  ?  " 

"  Particulars  of  Lisle  Court !  every  body, 
that  is,  every  gentleman,  knows  Lisle  Court !  " 

"  Price,  sir  ?  " 

'You  know  the  rents — calculate  accord- 
ingly. It  will  be  too  large  a  purchase  for  one 
individual;  sell  the  outlying  woods  and  farms 
separately  from  the  rest." 

"We  must  draw  up  an  advertisement, 
colonel." 

"  Advertise  Lisle  Court ! — out  of  the  ques- 
tion, sir.  I  can  have  no  publicity  given  to  my 
intention:  mention  it  quietly  to  any  capitalist; 
but  keep  it  out  of  the  papers  till  it  is  all  set- 
tled. In  a  week  or  two  you  will  find  a  pur- 
chaser— the  sooner  the  better." 

Besides  his  horror  of  newspaper  comments 
and  newspaper  puffs.  Colonel  Maltravers 
dreaded  that  his  brother — then  in  Paris — • 
should  learn  his  intention,  and  attempt  to 
thwart  it;  and,  somehow  or  other,  the  colonel 
was  a  little  in  awe  of  Ernest,  and  a  little 
ashamed  of  his  resolution.  He  did  not  know 
that,  by  a  singular  coincidence,  Ernest  himself 
had  thought  of  selling  Burleigh. 

The  solicitor  was  by  no  means  pleased  with 
this  way  of  settling  the  matter.  However,  he 
whispered  it  about  that  Lisle  Court  was  in  the 
market;  and  as  it  really  was  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  places  of  its  kind  in  England,  the 
whisper  spread  among  bankers,  and  brewers, 
and  soap-boilers,  and  other  rich  people — the 
Medici  of  the  New  Noblesse  rising  up  amongst 
us — till  at  last  it  reached  the  ears  of  Mr. 
Douce. 

Lord  Vargrave,  however  bad  a  man  he 
might  be,    had    not  many  of  those   vices  of 


J22 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


character  which  belong  to  what  I  may  call  the 
personal  class  of  vices — that  is,  he  had  no  ill 
will  to  individuals.  He  was  not,  ordinarily, 
a  jealous  man,  nor  a  spiteful,  nor  a  malignant, 
nor  a  vindictive  man:  his  vices  arose  from  utter 
indifference  to  all  men,  and  all  things — except 
as  conducive  to  his  own  ends.  He  would  not 
have  injured  a  worm  if  it  did  him  no  good, 
but  he  would  have  set  any  house  on  fire,  if  he 
had  no  other  means  of  roasting  his  own  eggs. 
Yet  still,  if  any  feeling  of  personal  rancor 
could  harbor  in  his  breast,  it  was  first,  towards 
Evelyn  Cameron;  and,  secondly,  towards 
Ernest  Maltravers.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  did  long  for  revenge — revenge  against 
the  one  for  stealing  his  patrimony,  and  re- 
fusing his  hand;  and  that  revenge  he  hoped  to 
gratify.  As  to  the  other,  it  was  not  so  much 
dislike  he  felt,  as  an  uneasy  sentiment  of  in- 
feriority. 

However  well  he  himself  had  got  on  in  the 
world,  he  yet  grudged  the  reputation  of  a  man 
whom  he  had  remembered  a  wayward,  ine:^- 
perienced  boy:  he  did  not  love  to  hear  any 
one  praise  Maltravers.  He  fancied,  too,  that 
this  feeling  was  reciprocal,  and  that  Maltravers 
was  pained  at  hearing  of  any  new  step  in  his 
own  career.  In  fact,  it  was  that  sort  of  jeal- 
ousy which  men  often  feel  for  the  companions 
of  their  youth,  whose  characters  are  higher 
than  their  own,  and  whose  talents  are  of  an 
order  they  do  not  quite  comprehend.  Now,  it 
certainly  did  seem,  at  that  moment,  to  Lord 
Vargrave,  that  it  would  be  a  most  splendid 
triumph  over  Mr.  Maltravers  of  Burleigh,  to 
be  Lord  of  Lisle  Court,  the  hereditary  seat  of 
the  elder  branch  of  the  family:  to  be,  as  it 
were,  in  the  very  shoes  of  Mr.  Ernest  Mal- 
travers' elder  brother.  He  knew,  too,  that  it 
was  a  property  of  great  consequence:  Lord 
Vargrave  of  Lisle  Court  would  hold  a  very 
different  position   in  the  peerage   from  Lord 

Vargrave   of ,    Fulham  !     Nobody   would 

call  the  owner  of  I,isle  Court  an  adventurer; 
nobody  would  respect  such  a  man  of  caring 
three  straws  about  place  and  salary.  And  if 
he  married  Evelyn,  and  if  Evelyn  bought 
Lisle  Court,  would  not  Lisle  Court  be  his  ? 
He  vaulted  over  the  ifs,  stiff  monosyllables 
though  they  were,  with  a  single  jump.  Be- 
sides, even  should  the  thing  come  to  nothing, 
there  was  the  very  excuse  he  sought  for  join- 
ing Evelyn  at  Paris,  for  conversing  with  her, 


consulting  her.  It  was  true  that  the  will  oi 
the  late  lord  left  it  solely  at  the  discretion  of 
the  trustees  to  select  such  landed  investment 
as  seemed  best  to  them.  But  still  it  was,  if 
not  legally  necessary,  at  least  but  a  proper 
courtesy,  to  consult  Evelyn.  And  plans,  and 
drawings,  and  explanations,  and  rent-rolls, 
would  justify  him  iri  spending  morning  after 
morning  alone  with  her. 

Thus  cogitating.  Lord  Vargrave  suffered 
Mr.  Douce  to  stammer  out  sentence  upon  sen- 
tence, till  at  length,  as  he  rang  for  coffee,  his 
lordship  stretched  himself  with  the  air  of  a 
rhan  stretching  himself  into  self-complacency 
or  a  good  thing,  and  said: 

"  Mr.  Douce,  I  will  go  down  to  Lisle  Court 
as  soon  as  I  can — I  will  see  it — I  will  ascertain 
all  about  it — I  will  consider  favorably  of  it — I 
agree  with  you,  I  think  it  will  do  famously." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  who  seemed  singu- 
larly anxious  about  the  matter,  "we  must 
make  haste,  my  lord;  for  really — yes,  indeed 
— if — if — if  Baron  Roths— Rothschild  should 
— that  is  to  say " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  understand — keep  the  thing 
close,  my  dear  Douce;  make  friends  with  the 
colonel's  lawyer;  play  with  him  a  little,  till  I 
can  run  down." 

"  Besides,  you  see,  you  are  such  a  good 
man  of  business,  my  lord — that  you  see,  that 
— yes,  really — there  must  be  time  to  draw  out 
the  purchase-money — sell  out  at  a  prop — 
prop " 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure — bless  me,  how 
late  it  is  !  I  am  afraid  my  carriage  is  ready  ! 
I  must  go  to  Madame  de  L 's." 

Mr.  Douce,  who  seemed  to  have  much  more 
to  say,  was  forced  to  keep  it  in  for  another 
time,  and  to  take  his  leave. 

Lord  Vargrave  went  to  Madame  de  L 's 

His  position  in  what  is  called  Exclusive  Society 
was  rather  peculiar.  By  those  who  affected 
to  be  the  best  judges,  the  frankness  of  his 
manner,  and  the  easy  oddity  of  his  conversa- 
tion, were  pronounced  at  variance  with  the 
tranquil  serenity  of  thorough  breeding.  But 
still  he  was  a  great  favorite  both  with  fine 
ladies  and  dandies.  His  handsome  keen 
countenance,  his  talents,  his  politics,  his  in- 
trigues, and  an  animated  boldness  in  his 
bearing,  compensated  for  his  constant  violation 
of  all  the  minutiae  of  orthodox  convention 
alism. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


323 


At  this  house  he  met  Colonel  Maltravers, 
and  took  an  opportunity  to  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance with  that  gentleman.  He  then  referred, 
in  a  confidential  whisper,  to  the  communica- 
tion he  had  received  touching  Lisle  Court. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  colonel,  "  I  suppose  I  must 
sell  the  place,  if  I  can  do  so  quietly.  To  be 
sure,  when  I  first  spoke  to  my  lawyer  it  was  in 
a   moment   of   vexation,  on  hearing  that    the 

railroad  was  to  go  through  the  park,  but 

I  find  that  I  overrated  that  danger.  Still,  if 
you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  go  and  look  over 
the  place,  you  will  find  very  good  shooting; 
and  when  you  come  back  you  can  see  if  it  will 
suit  you.  Don't  say  any  thing  about  it,  when 
you  are  there;  it  is  better  not  to  publish  my 
intention  all  over  the  county.  I  shall  have 
Sir  Gregory  Gubbins  offering  to  buy  it,  if  you 
do!" 

"  You  may  depend  on  my  discretion.  Have 
you  heard  any  thing  of  your  brother  lately  ?  " 

"Yes;  I  fancy  he  is  going  to  Switzerland. 
He  would  soon  be  in  England,  if  he  heard  I 
was  going  to  part  with  Lisle  Court  !  " 

"  What,  it  would  vex  him  so  ?  " 

"I  fear  it  would;  but  he  has  a  nice  old 
place  of  his  own,  not  half  so  large,  and  there- 
fore not  half  so  troublesome,  as  Lisle  Court." 

"  Ay  !  and  he  did  talk  of  selling  that  nice 
old  place." 

"  Selling  Burleigh  !  you  surprise  me.  But 
really  country  places  in  England  are  a  bore. 
I  suppose  he  has  his  Gubbins  as  well  as  my- 
self !  " 

Here  the  chief  minister  of  the  government, 
adorned  by  Lord  Vargrave's  virtues,  passed 
by,  and  Lumley  turned  to  greet  him. 

The  two  ministers  talked  together  most 
affectionately  in  a  close  whisper: — so  affection- 
ately, that  one  might  have  seen,  with  half  an 
eye,  that  they  hated  each  other  like  poison  ! 


CHAPTER    V. 

"  Inspicere  tanquam  in  speculum,  in  vitas  omnium 
Jubeo."  *— Terent. 

Ernest  Maltravers  still  lingered  at  Paris: 
he  gave  up  all  notion  of  proceeding  further. 


'*  I  bid  you  look  into  the  lives  of  all  men,  as  it  were 
into  a  mirror. 


He  was,  in  fact,  tired  of  travel.  But  there 
was  another  reason  that  chained  him  to  that 
"  Naval  of  the  Earth " — there  is  not  any 
where  a  better  sounding-board  to  London 
rumors  than  the  English  quartier  between  the 
Boulevard  des  Italienness  and  the  Tuileries; 
here,  at  all  events,  he  should  soonest  learn  the 
worst:  and  every  day,  as  he  took  up  the  Eng- 
lish newspapers,  a  sick  feeling  of  apprehension 
and  fear  came  over  him.  No  !  till  the  seal 
was  set  upon  the  bond— till  the  Rubicon  was 
passed — till  Miss  Cameron  was  the  wife  of 
Lord  Vargrave,  he  could  neither  return  to  the 
home  that  was  so  eloquent  with  the  recollec- 
tions of  Evelyn,  nor,  by  removing  further  from 
England,  delay  the  receipt  of  an  intelligence 
which  he  vainly  told  himself  he  was  prepared 
to  meet. 

He  continued  to  seek  such  distraction  from 
thought  as  were  within  his  reach;  and,  as  his 
heart  was  too  occupied  for  pleasures  which 
had,  indeed,  long  since  palled, — those  diatrac- 
tions  were  of  grave  and  noble  character  which 
it  is  a  prerogative  of  the  intellect  to  afford  to 
the  passions. 

De  Montaigne  was  neither  a  Doctrinaire  nor 
a  Republican — and  yet,  perhaps,  he  was  a  little 
of  both.  He  was  one  who  thought  that  the 
tendency  of  all  European  States  is  towards  De- 
mocracy; but  he  by  no  means  looked  upon 
democracy,  as  a  panacea  for  all  legislative 
evils.  He  thought  that,  while  a  writer  should 
be  in  advance  of  his  time,  a  statesinan  should 
content  himself  with  marching  by  its  side; 
that  a  nation  could  not  be  ripened,  like  an 
exotic,  by  artificial  means;  that  it  must  be  de- 
veloped only  by  natural  influences.  He  be- 
lieved that  forms  of  government  are  never 
universal  in  their  effects.  Thus,  De  Mantaigne 
conceived  that  we  were  wrong  in  attaching 
more  importance  to  legislative  than  to  social 
reforms.  He  considered,  for  instance,  that 
the  surest  sign  of  our  progressive  civilization 
is  in  our  growing  distaste  to  capital  punish- 
ments. He  believed,  not  in  the  ultimate /cr- 
fection  of  mankind,  but  in  their  progressive 
perfectibility.  He  thought  that  improvement 
was  indefinite;  but  he  did  not  place  its  ad- 
vance more  under  Republican  than  under 
Monarchical  forms.  "  Provided,"  he  was  wont 
to  say,  "  all  our  checks  to  power  are  of  the 
right  kind,  it  matters  little  to  what  hands  the 
power  itself  is  confided." 


3*4 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  ^^giiia  and  Athens,"  said  he,  "  were  re- 
publics— commercial  and  maritime — placed 
under  the  same  sky,  surrounded  by  the  same 
neighbors,  and  rent  by  the  same  struggles 
between  oligarchy  and  democracy.  Yet,  while 
one  left  the  world  an  immortal  heir-loom  of 
genius — where  are  the  poets,  the  philosophers, 
the  statesmen,  of  the  other  ?  Arrian  tells  us  of 
republics  in  India — still  supposed  to  exist  by 
modern  investigators — but  they  are  not  more 
productive  of  liberty  of  thought,  or  ferment  of 
intellect,  than  the  principalities.  In  Italy 
there  were  commonwealths  as  liberal  as  the  re- 
public of  Florence;  but  they  did  not  produce 
a  Machiavelli  or  a  Dante.  What  daring 
thought,  what  gigantic  speculation,  what  de- 
mocracy of  wisdom  and  genius,  have  sprung  up 
amongst  the  despotisms  of  Germany  !  You 
cannot  educate  two  individuals  so  as  to  pro- 
duce the  same  results  from  both;  you  cannot, 
by  similar  constitutions  (which  are  the  educa- 
tion of  nations)  produce  the  same  results  from 
different  communities.  The  proper  object  of 
statesmen  should  be,  to  give  every  facility  to 
the  people  to  develop  themselves,  and  every 
facility  to  philosophy  to  dispute  and  discuss 
as  to  the  ultimate  objects  to  be  obtained. 
But  you  cannot,  as  a  practical  legislator,  place 
your  country  under  a  melon-frame:  it  must 
grow  of  its  own  accord." 

I  do  not  say  whether  or  not  De  Montaigne 
was  wrong;  but  Maltravers  saw  at  least  that 
he  was  faithful  to  his  theories;  that  all  his 
motives  were  sincere — all  his  practice  pure. 
He  could  not  but  allow,  too,  that,  in  his  occu- 
pations and  labors,  De  Montaigne  appeared  to 
feel  a  sublime  enjoyment; — that,  in  linking  all 
the  powers  of  his  mind  to  active  and  useful 
objects,  De  Montaigne  was  infinitely  happier 
than  the  Philosophy  of  Indifference,  the  scorn 
of  ambition,  had  made  Maltravers.  The  in- 
fluence exercised  by  the  large-souled  and 
practical  Frenchman  over  the  fate  and  the 
history  of  Maltravers  was  very  peculiar. 

De  Montaigne  had  not,  apparently  and 
directly,  operated  upon  his  friend's  outward 
destinies;  but  he  had  done  so  indirectly,  by 
operating  on  his  mind.  Perhaps  it  was  he  who 
had  consolidated  the  first  wavering  and  uncer- 
tain impulses  of  Maltravers  towards  literary 
exertion;— it  was  he  who  had  consoled  him  for 
the  mortifications  at  the  early  part  of  his 
career;  and  now,  perhaps,  he   might   serve,  in 


the  full  vigor  of  his  intellect,  permanently  to 
reconcile  the  Englishman  to  the  claims  of 
life. 

There  were,  indeed,  certain  conversations 
which  Maltravers  held  with  De  Montaigne, 
the  germ  and  pith  of  which  it  is  necessary  that 
I  should  place  before  the  reader, — for  I  write 
the  inner  as  well  as  the  outer  history  of  a  man; 
and  the  great  incidents  of  life  are  not  brought 
about  only  by  the  dramatic  agencies  of  others, 
but  also  by  our  own  reasonings  and  habits  of 
thought.  What  I  am  now  about  to  set  down 
may  be  wearisome,  but  it  is  not  episodical; 
and  I  promise  that  it  shall  be  the  last  didactic 
conversation  in  the  work. 

One  day,  Maltravers  was  relating  to  De 
Montaigne  all  that  he  had  been  planning  at 
Burleigh  for  the  improvement  of  his  peasantry, 
and  all  his  theories  respecting  Labor-schools 
and  Poor-rates,  when  De  Montaigne  abruptly 
turned  round,  and  said — 

"  You  have,  then,  really  found  that  in  your 
own  little  village,  your  exertions — exertions 
not  very  arduous,  not  demanding  a  tenth  part 
of  your  time — have  done  practical  good  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  think  so,"  replied  Maltravers, 
in  some  surprise. 

"  And  yet  it  was  but  yesterday,  that  you  de- 
clared 'that  all  the  labors  of  Philosophy  and 
Legislation  were  labors  vain;  their  benefits 
equivocal  and  uncertain;  that  as  the  sea, 
where  it  loses  in  one  place,  gains  in  another,  • 
so  civilization  only  partially  profits  us,  steal- 
ing away  one  virtue  while  it  yields  another, 
and  leaving  the  large  proportions  of  good  and 
evil  eternally  the  same.'  " 

"True;  but  I  never  said  that  man  might 
not  relieve  individuals  by  individual  exertion; 
though  he  cannot  by  abstract  theories — nay, 
even  by  practical  action  in  the  wide  circle, — 
benefit  the  mass." 

"Do  you  not  employ  on  behalf  of  individ- 
uals the  same  moral  agencies  that  wise  legis- 
lation or  sound  philosophy  would  adopt  towards 
the  multitude  ?  For  example,  you  find  that 
the  children  of  your  village  are  happier,  more 
orderly,  more  obedient,  promise  to  be  wiser 
and  better  men  in  their  own  station  of  life, 
from  the  new,  and  I  grant,  excellent,  system 
of  school  discipline  and  teaching  that  you 
have  established.  What  you  have  done  in 
one  village,  why  should  not  legislation  do 
throughout  a  kingdom  ?     Again,  you  find  that. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


325 


by  simply  holding  out  hope  and  emulation  toj 
industry — by    making    stern    distinctions    be-! 
tween  the  energetic  and  the  idle — the  inde-  j 
pendent  exertion  and  the  pauper-mendicancy ' 
— you  have  found  a  lever  by  which  you   have 
literally   moved  and  shifted   the   little   world 
around  you.     But  what  is  the  difference  here 
between  the  rules  of  a  village   lord  and  the 
laws  of  a  wise  legislature  ?     The  moral  feel- 
ings you  have  appealed   to  exist  universally — 
the  moral  remedies  you  have  practiced  are  as 
open  to  legislation  as  to  the   individual    pro- 
prietor." 

"Yes;  but  when  you  apply  to  a  nation  the 
same  principles  which  regenerate  a  village, 
new  counter-balancing  principles  arise.  If  I 
give  education  to  my  peasants,  I  send  them 
into  the  world  with  advantages  superior  to 
their  fellows;  advantages  which,  not  being 
common  to  their  class,  enable  them  to  outstrip 
their  fellows.  But  if  this  education  were  uni- 
versal to  the  whole  tribe,  no  man  would  have 
an  advantage  superior  to  the  others;  the 
knowledge  they  would  have  acquired  being 
shared  by  all,  would  leave  all  as  they  now  are, 
hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water:  the 
principle  of  individual  hope,  which  springs 
from  knowledge,  would  soon  be  baffled  by  the 
vast  competition  that  universal  knowledge 
would  produce.  Thus  by  the  universal  im- 
provement would  be  engendered  an  universal 
discontent. 

"  Take  a  broader  view  of  the  subject.  Ad- 
vantages given  to  the  fe7v  around  me — supe- 
rior wages — lighter  toils — a  greater  sense  of 
the  dignity  of  man — are  not  productive  of  any 
change  in  society.  Give  these  advantages  to 
the  whole  mass  of  the  laboring  classes,  and 
what  in  the  small  orbit  is  the  desire  of  the  in- 
dividual \.o  rise,  becomes  in  the  large  circum- 
ference the  desire  of  the  class  to  rise;  hence 
social  restlessness,  social  change,  revolution 
and  its  hazards.  For  revolutions  are  pro- 
duced but  by  the  aspirations  of  one  order,  and 
the  resistance  of  the  other.  Consequently, 
legislative  improvement  differs  widely  from 
individual  amelioration;  the  same  principle, 
the  same  agency,  that  purifies  the  small  body, 
becomes  destructive  when  applied  to  the  large 
one.  Apply  the  flame  to  the  log  on  the  hearth, 
or  apply  it  to  the  forest,  is  there  no  distinction 
in  the  result .' — the  breeze  that  freshens  the 
fountain  passes  to  the  ocean, 'current  impels 


current,  wave  urges  wave,  and  the  breeze  be- 
comes the  storm  ? " 

"  Were  there  truth  in  this  train  of  argument," 
replied  De  Montaigne;  "  had  we  ever  abstained 
from  communicating  to  the  multitude  the 
enjoyments  and  advantages  of  the  Few — had 
we  shrunk  from  the  good,  because  the  good 
is  a  parent  of  the  change  and  its  partial  ills, 
what  now  would  be  society  ?  Is  there  no 
difference  in  collective  happiness  and  virtue 
between  the  painted  Picts  and  the  Druid  wor- 
ship, and  the  glorious  harmony,  light,  and 
order,  of  the  great  English  nation  ?  " 

"  The  question  is  popular,"  said  Maltravers. 
with  a  smile;  and,  were  you  my  opponent 
in  an  election,  would  be  cheered  on  any  hust- 
ings in  the  kingdom.  But  I  have  lived 
among  savage  tribes— savage,  perhaps,  as  the 
race  that  resisted  Csesar;  and  their  happiness 
seems  to  me,  not  perhaps  the  same  as  that 
of  the  few  whose  sources  of  enjoyment  are 
numerous,  refined,  and  save  by  their  own 
passions,  unalloyed;  but  equal  to  that  of  the 
mass  of  men  in  states  the  most  civilized  and 
advanced.  The  artisans,  crowded  together  in 
the  foetid  air  of  factories,  with  physical  ills 
gnawing  at  the  core  of  the  constitution,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave;  drudging  on  from 
dawn  to  sunset,  and  flying  for  recreation  to  the 
dread  excitement  of  the  dram-shop,  or  the 
wild  and  vain  hopes  of  political  fanaticism, — 
are  not  in  my  eyes  happier  than  the  wild  In- 
dians with  hardy  frames,  and  calm  tempers, 
seasoned  to  the  privations  for  which  you  pity 
them,  and  uncursed  with  desires  of  that  better 
state  never  to  be  theirs.  The  Arab  in  his 
desert  has  seen  all  the  luxuries  of  the  pasha  in 
his  harem;  but  he  envies  them  not.  He  is 
contented  with  his  barb,  his  tent,  his  desolate 
sands,  and  his  spring  of  refreshing  water. 

"  Are  we  not  daily  told— do  not  our  priests 
preach  it  from  their  pulpits — that  the  cot- 
tage shelters  happiness  equal  to  that  within 
the  palace  ?  Yet  what  the  distinction  be- 
tween the  peasant  and  the  prince,  differing 
from  that  between  the  peasant  and  the  sav- 
age ?  There  are  more  enjoyments  and  more 
privations  in  the  one  than  in  the  other;  but  if, 
in  the  latter  case,  the  enjoyments,  though 
fewer,  be  more  keenly  felt, — if  the  privations, 
though  apparently  sharper,  fall  upon  duller 
sensibilities  and  hardier  frames, — your  gauge 
of  proportion  loses  all  its  value.     Nay,  in  civ- 


326 


BULWRR'S     WORKS. 


ilization  there  is  for  the  mulitude  an  evil  that 
exists  not  in  the  savage  state.  The  poor  man 
sees  daily  and  hourly  all  the  vast  disparities 
produced  by  civilized  society;  and,  revers- 
ing the  divine  parable,  it  is  Lazarus  who  from 
afar,  and  from  the  despondent  pit,  looks  upon 
Dives  in  the  lap  of  Paradise:  therefore,  his 
privations,  his  sufferings,  are  made  more  keen 
by  comparison  with  the  luxuries  of  others. 
Not  so  in  the  desert  and  the  forest.  There, 
but  small  distinctions,  and  those  softened  by 
immemorial  and  hereditary  usage — that  has  in 
it  the  sanctity  of  religion — separate  the  savage 
from  his  chief  ! 

"The  fact  is,  that  in  civilization  we  behold 
a  splendid  aggregate: — literature  and  science, 
wealth  and  luxury,  commerce  and  glory;  but 
we  see  not  the  million  victims  crushed  be- 
neath the  wheels  of  the  machine — the  health 
sacrificed — the  board  breadless — the  jails 
filled — the  hospitals  reeking — the  human  life 
poisoned  in  every  spring,  and  poured  forth 
like  water  !  Neither  do  we  remember  all  the 
steps,  marked  by  desolation,  crime,  and  blood- 
shed, by  which  this  barren  summit  has  been 
reached.  Take  the  history  of  any  civilized 
state — -England,  France,  Spain  before  she 
rotted  back  into  second  childhood— the  Italian 
Republics — the  Greek  Commonwealths — the 
Empress  of  the  Seven  Hills — what  struggles, 
what  persecutions,  what  crimes,  what  mas- 
sacres !  Where,  in  the  page  of  history,  shall 
we  look  back  and  say  '  here  improvement  has 
diminished  the  sum  of  evil  ? '  Extend,  too, 
your  scope  beyond  the  state  itself:  each  state 
has  won  its  acquisitions  by  the  woes  of  others. 
Spain  springs  above  the  Old  World  on  the 
blood-stained  ruins  of  the  New;  and  the 
groans  and  the  gold  of  Mexico  produce  the 
splendors  of  the  Fifth  Charles  ! 

"Behold  England — the  wise,  the  liberal,  the 
free  England — through  what  struggles  she  has 
passed;  and  is  she  yet  contented  ?  The  sullen 
oligarchy  of  the  Normans — our  own  criminal 
invasions  of  Scotland  and  France — the  plun- 
dered people — the  butchered  kings — the  per- 
secutions of  the  Lollards — the  wars  of  Lan- 
caster and  York — the  new  dynasty  of  the 
Tudors,  that  at  once  put  back  Liberty,  and  put 
forward  Civilization  ! — the  Reformation,  cra- 
dled in  the  lap  of  a  hideous  despot,  and  nursed 
by  violence  and  Rapine — the  stakes  and  fires 
of  Mary;  and  the  craftier  cruelties  of  Eliza- 


beth;— England,  strengthened  by  the  deso 
lation  of  Ireland — the  Civil  Wars — the  reign 
of  Hypocri-sy,  followed  by  the  reign  of  naked 
Vice; — the  nation  that  beheaded  the  graceful 
Charles  gaping  idly  on  the  scaffold  of  the 
lofty  Sidney; — the  vain  Revolution  of  1688, 
which,  if  a  jubilee  in  England,  was  a  massacre 
in  Ireland — the  bootless  glories  of  Marlbor- 
ough— the  organized  corruption  of  Walpole — 
the  frantic  war  with  our  own  American  sons — 
the  exhausting  struggles  with  Napoleon  ! 

"  Well,  we  close  the  page — we  say.  Lo  !  a 
thousand  years  of  incessant  struggles  and 
afflictions  ! — millions  have  perished,  but  Art 
has  survived;  our  boors  wear  stockings,  our 
women  drink  tea,  our  poets  read  Shakespeare, 
and  our  astronomers  improve  on  Newton ! 
Are  we  now  contented  ?  No  I  more  restless 
than  ever.  New  classes  are  called  into  power: 
new  forms  of  government  insisted  on.  Still 
the  same  catch-words — Liberty  here.  Religion 
there — Order  with  one  faction,  Amelioration 
with  the  other.  Where  is  the  goal,  and  what 
have  we  gained  ?  Books  are  written,  silks 
are  woven,  palaces  are  built — mighty  acquisi- 
tions for  the  few — but  the  peasant  is  a  peasant 
still  !  The  crowd  are  yet  at  the  bottom  of 
the  wheel;  b^ter  off  you  say.  No,  for  they 
are  not  more  contented  !  The  Artisan  is  as 
anxious  for  change  as  ever  the  Serf  was;  and 
the  steam  engine  has  its  victims  as  well  as  the 
sword. 

" Talk  of  legislation;  all  isolated  laws  pave 
the  way  to  wholesale  changes  in  the  form  of 
government  !  Emancipate  Catholics,  and  you 
open  the  door  to  the  democratie  principle,  that 
Opinion  should  be  free.  If  free  with  the  sec- 
tarian, it  should  be  free  with  the  elector.  The 
Ballot  is  a  corollary  from  the  Catholic  Relief- 
bill.  Grant  the  Ballot,  and  the  new  corollary 
of  enlarged  suffrage.  Suffrage  enlarged  is 
divided  but  by  a  yielding  surface  (a  circle 
widening  in  the  waters)  from  universal  suf- 
frage. Universal  suffrage  is  Democracy.  Is 
democracy  better  than  the  aristocratic  com- 
monwealth ?  Look  at  the  Greeks,  who  knew 
both  forms,  are  they  agreed  which  is  the  best? 
Plato,  Thucydides,  Xenophon,  Aristophanes 
—  the  Dreamer,  the  Historian,  the  Philosophic 
Man  of  Action,  the  penetrating  Wit — have  no 
ideals  in  Democracy  I  Algernon  Sidney,  the 
martyr  of  liberty,  allows  no  government  to  the 
multitude.     Brutus  died  for  a  republic,  but  a 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


327 


republic  of  Patricians  !  What  form  of  gov- 
ernment is,  then,  the  best  ?  All  dispute,  the 
wisest  cannot  agree.  The  many  still  say  '  a 
Republic; '  yet,  as  you  yourself  will  allow, 
Prussia,  the  Despotism,  does  all  that  Repub- 
lics do.  Yes,  but  a  good  Despot  is  a  lucky 
accident;  true,  but  a  just  and  benevolent  Re- 
public is  as  yet  a  monster  equally  short-lived. 
When  the  people  have  no  other  tyrant,  their 
own  public  opinion  becomes  one.  No  secret 
espionage  is  more  intolerable  to  a  free  spirit 
than  the  broad  glare  of  the  American  eye. 

"  A  rural  republic  is  but  a  patriarchal  tribe 
—  no  emulation,  no  glory; — peace  and  stagna- 
tion. What  Englishman — what  Frenchman, 
would  wish  to  be  a  Swiss  ?  A  commercial 
republic  is  but  an  admirable  machine  for  mak- 
ing money.  Is  Man  created  for  nothing  nobler 
than  freighting  ships,  and  speculating  on  silk 
and  sugar  ?  In  fact,  there  is  no  certain  goal 
in  legislation;  we  go  on  colonizing  Utopia, 
and  fighting  phantoms  in  the  clouds.  Let  us 
content  ourselves  with  injuring  no  man,  and 
doing  good  only  in  our  own  little  sphere.  Let 
us  leave  states  and  senates  to  fill  the  sieve 
of  the  Danaides,  and  roll  up  the  stone  of 
Sisyphus." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  De  Montaigne, 
"  you  have  certainly  made  the  most  of  an 
argument,  which,  if  granted,  would  consign 
government  to  fools  and  knaves,  and  plunge 
the  communities  of  mankind  into  the  Slough 
of  Despond.  But  a  very  common-place  view 
of  the  question  might  suffice  to  shake  your 
system.  Is  life,  mere  animal  life,  on  the 
whole,  a  curse  or  a  blessing  ? " 

"  The  generality  of  men  in  all  countries," 
answered  Maltravers,  "  enjoy  existence,  and 
apprehend  death;  —  were  it  otherwise,  the 
world  had  been  made  by  a  Fiend,  and  not  a 
God  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  observe  how  the  progress  of 
society  cheats  the  grave  !  In  great  cities, 
where  the  effect  of  civilization  must  be  the 
most  visible,  the  diminution  of  mortality  in  a 
corresponding  ratio  with  the  increase  of  civil- 
ization is  most  remarkable.  In  Berlin,  from 
the  year  1747  to  1755,  the  annual  mortality 
was  as  one  to  twenty-eight;  but  from  1816  to 
1822,  it  was  as  one  to  thirty-four  !  You  ask  what 
England  has  gained  by  her  progress  in  the 
arts  ?  I  will  answer  you  by  her  bills  of  mor- 
tality.    In  London,  Birmingham,  and  Liver- 


pool, deaths  have  decreased  in  less  than  a 
century  from  one  to  twenty,  to  one  to  forty 
(precisely  one-half  !).  -"^gam,  whenever  a 
community — nay,  a  single  city,  decreases  in 
civilization,  and  in  its  concomitants,  activity 
and  commerce,  its  mortality  instantly  in- 
creases. But  if  civilization  be  favorable  to 
the  prolongation  of  life,  must  it  not  be  favor- 
able to  all  that  blesses  life— to  bodily  health, 
to  mental  cheerfulness,  to  the  capacities  for 
enjoyment  ?  And  how  much  more  grand,  how 
much  more  sublime,  becomes  the  prospect  of 
gain,  if  we  reflect  that,  to  each  life  thus  called 
forth,  there  is  a  soul — a  destiny  beyond  the 
grave, — multiplied  immortalities  ! 

"  What  an  apology  for  the  continued  progress 
of  states  !  But  you  say  that,  however  we  ad- 
vance, we  continue  impatient  and  dissatisfied: 
can  you  really  suppose  that,  because  man  in 
every  state  is  discontented  with  his  lot,  there 
is  no  difference  in  the  degree  and  quality  of  his 
discontent — no  distinction  between  pining  for 
bread  and  longing  for  the  moon  ?  Desire  is 
implanted  within  us,  as  the  very  principle  of 
existence;  the  physical  desire  fills  the  world, 
and  the  moral  desire  improves  it;  where  there 
is  desire,  there  must  be  discontent;  if  we  are 
satisfied  with  all  things,  desire  is  extinct.  But 
a  certain  degree  of  discontent  is  not  incom- 
patible with  happiness,  nay,  it  has  happiness  of 
its  own;  what  happiness  like  hope? — what  is 
hope,  but  desire  ?  The  European  serf,  whose 
seigneur  could  command  his  life,  or  insist  as  a 
right  on  the  chastity  of  his  daughter,  desires 
to  better  his  condition.  God  has  compassion 
on  his  state;  Providence  calls  into  action  the 
ambition  of  leaders,  the  contests  of  faction, 
the  movement  of  men's  aims  and  passions:  a 
change  passes  through  society  and  legislation, 
and  the  serf  becomes  free  ! 

"  He  desires  still,  but  what  ? — no  longer  per- 
sonal security,  no  longer  the  privileges  of  life 
and  health;  but  higher  wages,  greater  comfort, 
easier  justice  for  diminished  wrongs.  Is  there 
no  difference  in  the  quality  of  that  desire  ? 
Was  one  a  greater  torment  than  the  other  is  ? 
Rise  a  scale  higher: — -A  new  class  is  created — 
the  Middle  Class — the  express  creature  of 
Civilization.  Behold  the  burgher  and  the 
citizen,  still  struggling,  still  contendmg,  still 
desiring,  and  therefore  still  discontented.  But 
the  discontent  does  not  prey  upon  the  springs 
of  life:  it  is  the  discontent  oi  hope,  not  despair; 


S2i 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


it  calls  forth  faculties,  energies,  and  passions, 
in  which  there  is  more  joy  than  sorrow.  It  is 
this  desire  which  makes  the  citizen  in  private 
life  an  anxious  father,  a  careful  master,  an 
active,  and  therefore  not  an  unhappy  man. 
Vou  allow  that  individuals  can  effect  individ- 
ual good:  this  very  restlessness,  this  very  dis- 
content with  the  exact  place  that  he  occupies, 
makes  the  citizen  a  benefactor  in  his  narrow 
circle.  Commerce,  better  than  charity,  feeds 
the  hungry,  and  clothes  the  naked.  Ambition, 
better  than  brute  affection,  gives  education  to 
our  children,  and  teaches  them  the  love  of  in- 
dustry, the  pride  of  independence,  the  respect 
for  others  and  themselves  !  " 

"  In  other  words,  a  deference  to  such  quali- 
ties as  can  best  fit  them  to  get  on  in  the 
world,  and  make  the  most  money  !  " 

"  Take  that  view  if  you  will;  but  the  wiser, 
the  more  civilized  the  state,  the  worse  chances 
for  the  rogue  to  get  on  ! — there  may  be  some 
art,  some  hypocrisy,  some  avarice, — -nay,  some 
hardness  of  heart,  in  paternal  example  and 
professional  tuition.  But  what  are  such  sober 
infirmities  to  the  vices  that  arise  from  defiance 
and  despair  ?  Your  savage  has  his  virtues, 
but  they  are  mostly  physical,  fortitude,  absti- 
nence, patience: — Mental  and  moral  virtues 
must  be  numerous  or  few,  in  proportion  to  the 
range  of  ideas  and  the  exigencies  of  social 
life.  With  the  savage,  therefore,  they  must 
be  fewer  than  with  civilized  men;  and  they 
are  consequently  limited  to  those  simple  and 
rude  elements  which  the  safety  of  his  state 
renders  necessary  to  him.  He  is  usually  hos- 
pitable; sometimes  honest.  But  vices  are 
necessary  to  his  existence,  as  well  as  virtues: 
he  is  at  war  with  a  tribe  that  may  destroy  his 
own;  and  treachery  without  scruple,  cruelty 
without  remorse,  are  essential  to  him;  he  feels 
their  necessity,  and  calls  them  virtues !  Even 
the  half-civilized  man,  the  Arab  whom  you 
praise,  imagines  he  has  a  necessity  for  your 
money;  and  his  robberies  become  virtues  to 
hira.  But  in  civilized  states,  vices  are  at  least 
not  necessary  to  the  existence  of  the  majority; 
they  are  not,  therefore,  worshipped  as  virtues. 
Society  unites  against  them;  treachery,  rob- 
bery, massacre,  are  not  essential  to  the  strength 
or  safety  of  the  community:  they  exist,  it  is 
true,  but  they  are  not  cultivated,  but  punished. 
The  thief  in  St.  Giles's  has  the  virtues  of 
your  savage:  he  is  true  to  his  companions,  he 


is  brave  in  danger,  he  is  patient  in  privation; 
he  practises  the  virtues  necessary  to  the  bonds 
of  his  calling  and  the  tacit  laws  of  his  voca- 
tion. He  might  have  made  an  admirable 
savage;  but  surely  the  mass  of  civilized  men 
are  better  than  the  thief  ?  " 

Maltravers  was  struck,  and  paused  a  little 
before  he  replied;  and  then  he  shifted  his 
ground.  "  But  at  least  all  our  laws,  all  our 
efforts,  must  leave  the  multitude  in  every  state 
condemned  to  a  labor  that  deadens  intellect, 
and  a  poverty  that  embitters  life." 

"Supposing  this  were  true,  still  there  are 
multitudes  besides  tJie  multitude.  In  each 
state  Civilization  produces  a  middle  class, 
more  numerous  to-day  than  the  whole  peas- 
antry of  a  thousand  years  ago.  Would  Move- 
ment and  Progress  be  without  their  divine 
uses,  even  if  they  limited  their  effect  to  the 
production  of  such  a  class  ?  Look  also  to  the 
effect  of  art,  and  refinement,  and  just  laws,  in 
the  wealthier  and  higher  classes.  See  how 
their  very  habits  of  life  tend  to  increase  the 
sum  of  enjoyment — see  the  mighty  activity 
that  their  very  luxury,  the  very  frivolity  of 
their  pursuits,  create  !  Without  an  aristocracy, 
would  their  have  been  a  middle  class  ?  without 
a  middle  class,  would  there  ever  have  been  an 
mterposition  between  lord  and  slave  ?  Before 
Commerce  produces  a  middle  class,  Religion 
creates  one.  The  Priesthood,  whatever  its 
errors,  was  the  curb  to  Power. 

"  But,  to  return  to  the  multitude — you  say 
that  in  all  times  they  are  left  the  same.  Is  it 
so?  I  come  to  statistics  again:  I  find  that 
not  only  civilization,  but  liberty,  has  a  pro- 
digious effect  upon  human  life.  It  is,  as  it 
were,  by  the  instmct  of  self-preservation  that 
liberty  is  so  passionately  desired  by  the  multi- 
tude. A  negro  slave,  for  instance,  dies  annu- 
ally as  one  to  five  or  six,  but  a  free  African  in 
the  English  service  only  as  one  to  thirty-five  ! 
Freedom  is  not,  therefore,  a  mere  abstract 
dream — a  beautiful  name — a  platonic  aspira- 
tion: it  is  interwoven  with  the  most  practical 
of  all  blessings,  life  itself  !  And  can  you  say 
fairly,  that,  by  laws,  labor  cannot  be  lightened 
and  poverty  diminished  ?  We  have  granted 
already,  that  since  there  are  degrees  in  dis- 
content, there  is  a  difference  between  the  peas- 
ant and  the  serf; — how  know  you  what  the 
peasant  a  thousand  years  hence  may  be  ? 
Discontented,  you  will  say — still  discontented. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


329 


Yes;  but  if  he  had  not  been  discontented, 
he  would  have  been  a  serf  still  !  Far  from 
quelling  this  desire  to  better  himself,  we  ought 
to  hail  it  as  the  source  of  his  perpetual  prog- 
ress. That  desire  to  him  is  often  like  imagin- 
ation to  the  poet,  it  transports  him  into  the 
Future — 

'  Crura  sonant  ferro,  sed  canit  inter  opus  ' — 

it  is,  indeed,  the  gradual  transformation  from 
the  desire  gf  Despair  to  the  desire  of  Hope, 
that  makes  the  difference  between  man  and 
man — between  misery  and  bliss." 

'■  And  then  comes  the  crisis.  Hope  ripens 
into  deeds;  the  stormy  revolution,  perhaps  the 
armed  despotism;  the  relapse  into  the  second 
infancy  of  states  !  " 

"  Can  we,  with  new  agencies  at  our  com- 
mand— new  morality — new  wisdom — predicate 
of  the  Future  by  the  Past  ?  In  ancient  states, 
the  mass  were  slaves;  civilization  and  freedom 
rested  with  obligarchies;  in  Athens  20,- 
000  citizens,  400,000  slaves  !  How  easy 
decline,  degeneracy,  overthrow,  in  such  states 
— a  handful  of  soldiers  and  philosophers 
without  a  People  !  Now  we  have  no  longer 
barriers  to  the  circulation  of  the  blood  of 
states.  The  absence  of  slavery,  the  existence 
of  the  Press;  the  healthful  proportions  of  king- 
doms, neither  too  confined  nor  too  vast;  have 
created  new  hopes,  which  history  cannot  de- 
stroy. Asaproof,  look  to  all  late  revolutions:  in 
England  the  Civil  Wars,  the  Reformation, — in 
France  her  awful  Saturnalia,  her  military  des- 
potism !  Has  either  nation  fallen  back  ?  The 
deluge  passes,  and  behold,  the  face  of  things 
more  glorious  than  before  !  Compare  the 
French  of  to-day  with  the  French  of  the  old 
regime.  You  are  silent;  well,  and  if  in  all 
states  there  is  ever  some  danger  of  evil  in 
their  activity,  is  that  a  reason  why  you  are  to 
lie  down  inactive? — why  you  are  to  leave  the 
crew  to  battle  for  the  helm  ?  How  much  may 
individuals,  by  the  diffusion  of  their  own 
thoughts,  in  letters  or  in  action,  regulate  the 
order  of  vast  events — now  prevent — now  soften 
— now  animate — now  guide  !  And  is  a  man, 
to  whom  Providence  and  Fortune  have  im- 
parted such  prerogatives,  to  stand  aloof,  be- 
cause he  can  neither  forsee  the  Future  nor 
create  Perfection  ?  And  you  talk  of  no  certain 
and  definite  goal  !  How  know  we  that  there 
is  a  certain  and  definite  goal,  even  in  Heaven  ? 


how  know  we  that  excellence  may  not  be  il- 
limitable? Enough  that  we  improve — that  we 
proceed:  Seeing  in  the  great  design  of  earth 
that  benevolence  is  an  attribute  of  the  De- 
signer, let  us  leave  the  rest  to  Posterity  and  to 
God." 

"  You  have  disturbed  many  of  my  theories," 
said  Maltravcrs,  candidly;  "  and  I  will  reflect 
on  our  conversation:  but,  after  all,  is  every 
man  to  aspire  to  influence  others  ?  to  throw 
his  opinions  into  the  great  scales  in  which 
human  destinies  are  weighed  ?  Private  life  is 
not  criminal.  It  is  no  virtue  to  write  a  book, 
or  to  make  a  speech.  Perhaps,  I  should  be 
as  well  engaged  in  returning  to  my  country 
village,  looking  at  my  schools,  and  wrangling 
with  the  parish  overseers " 

"Ah,"  interrupted  the  Frenchman,  laughing; 
"  if  I  have  driven  you  to  this  point,  I  will  go 
no  further.  Every  state  of  life  has  its  duties; 
every  man  must  be  himself  the  judge  of  what 
he  is  most  fit  for.  It  is  quite  enough  that  he 
desires  to  be  active,  and  labors  to  be  useful; 
that  he  acknowledges  the  precept,  '  never  to 
be  weary  in  well-doing.'  The  divine  appetite 
once  fostered,  let  it  select  its  own  food.  But 
the  man  who,  after  fair  trial  of  his  capacities, 
and  with  all  opportunity  for  their  full  develop- 
ment before  him,  is  convinced  that  he  has 
faculties  which  private  life  cannot  wholly  ab- 
sorb must  not  repine  that  Human  Nature  is 
not  perfect,  when  he  refuses  even  to  exercise 
the  gifts  he  himself  possesses." 

Now  these  arguments  have  been  very  tedi- 
ous; in  some  places  they  have  been  old  and 
trite;  in  others  they  may  appear  too  much  to 
appertain  to  the  abstract  theory  of  first  prin- 
ciples. Yet  from  such  arguments,  pro  and 
con,  unless  I  greatly  mistake,  are  to  be  derived 
corollaries  equally  practical  and  sublime;  the 
virtue  of  Action — the  obligations  of  Genius — 
and  the  philosophy  that  teaches  us  to  confide 
in  the  destinies,  and  labor  in  the  service,  of 
mankind. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently  her  very  picture: 
Stay — yes  it  is  so — LeTia." 

—  The  Captain,  Act  v.,  Scene  i. 

Maltravers  had  not  shrunk  into  a  system 
of  false  philosophy  from  wayward  and   sickly 


330 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


dreams,  from  resolute  self-delusion; 'on  the 
contrary,  his  errors  rested  on  his  convictions 
— the  convictions  disturbed,  the  errors  were 
rudely  shaken. 

But  when  his  mind  began  restlessly  to  turn 
once  more  towards  the  duties  of  active  life; 
when  he  recalled  all  the  former  drudgeries  and 
toils  of  political  conflict,  or  the  wearing  fatigues 
of  literature,  with  its  small  enmities,  its  false 
friendships,  and  its  meagre  and  capricious 
rewards: — ah  !  then,  indeed,  he  shrunk  in  dis- 
may from  the  thoughts  of  the  solitude  at 
home  !  No  lips  to  console  in  dejection,  no 
heart  to  sympathize  in  triumph,  no  love  within 
to  counter-balance  the  hate  without — and  the 
best  of  man,  his  household  affections,  left  to 
wither  away,  or  to  waste  themselves  on  ideal 
images,  or  melancholy  remembrance. 

It  may,  indeed,  be  generally  remarked  (con- 
trary to  a  common  notion),  that  the  men  who 
are  most  happy  at  home  are  the  most  active 
abroad.  The  animal  spirits  are  necessary  to 
healthful  action;  and  dejection  and  the  sense 
of  solitude  will  turn  the  stoutest  into  dreamers. 
The  hermit  is  the  antipodes  of  the  citizen; 
and  no  gods  animate  and  inspire  us  like  the 
Lares. 

One  evening,  after  an  absence  from  Paris 
of  nearly  a  fortnight,  at  De  Montaigne's  villa, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Cloud,  Maltravers, 
who,  though  he  no  longer  practised  the  art, 
was  not  leas  fond  than  heretofore  of  music, 
was  seated  in  Madame  de  Vantedour's  box  at 
the  Italian  Opera;  and  Valerie,  who  was  above 
all  the  woman's  jealousy  of  beauty,  was  ex- 
patiating with  great  warmth  of  eulogium  upon 
the    charms   of  a   young   English  lady  whom 

she   had  met  at  Lady  G 's  the  preceding 

evening 


"  She  is  just  my  beau  id/al  of  the  true  Eng. 
lish  beauty,"  said  Valerie:  "it  is  not  only  the 
exquisite  fairness  of  the  complexion,  nor  the 
eyes  so  purely  blue,  which  the  dark  lashes  re- 
lieve from  the  coldness  common  to  the  light 
eyes  of  the  Scotch  and  Germans, — that  are  so 
beautifully  national,  but  the  simplicity  of 
manner,  the  unconsciousness  of  admiration, 
the  mingled  modesty  and  sense  of  the  expres- 
sion. No,  I  have  seen  women  more  beautiful, 
but  I  never  saw  one  more  lovely:  you  are 
silent — I  expected  some  burst  of  patriotism 
in  return  for  my  compliment  to  your  country- 
woman !  " 

"  But  I  am  so  absorbed  in  that  wonderful 
Pasta " 

"You  are  no  such  thing;  your  thoughts  are 
far  away.  But  can  you  tell  me  anything  about 
my  fair  stranger  and  her  friends?  In  the  first 
place,  there  is  a  Lord  Doltimore,  whom  I  knew 
before — you  need  say  nothing  about  him;  in 
the  next,  there  is  his  new-married  bride,  hand- 
some, dark — but  you  are  not  well  !  " 

"  It  was  the  draught  from  the  door — go  on 
I  beseech  you— the  young  lady — the  friend, 
her  name  ?" 

"  Her  name  I  do  not  remember;  but  she 
was  engaged  to  be  married  to  one  of  your 
statesmen.  Lord  Vargrave — the  marriage  is 
broken  off — I  know  not  if  that  be  the  cause  of 
a  certain  melancholy  in  her  countenance — a 
melancholy  I  am  sure  not  natural  to  its  Hebe- 
like expression. — But  who  have  just  entered 
the  opposite  box  ?  Ah,  Mr.  Maltravers,  do 
look,  there  is  the  beautiful  English  girl  !  " 

And  Maltravers  raised  his  eyes,  and  once 
more  beheld  the  countenance  of  Evelyn  Cam- 
eron ! 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


11^ 


BOOK    SEVENTH, 


)1A9«.— Soph.  (Edip.  Tyran.  681. 


'  Words  of  dark  import  gave  suspicion  birth." — Potter. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Za«.     Is  the  wind  there  ? 
That  makes  for  me. 
/safi.    Come — I  forget  a  business." 

—  pf^it  without  Money. 

Lord  Vargrve's  travelling  carriage  was  at 
his  door,  and  he  himself  was  putting  on  his 
great-coat  in  his  library,  when  Lord  Saxingham 
entered. 

"  What  !  you  are  going  into  the   country  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  wrote  you  word  —  to  see  Lisle 
Court." 

"Ay,  true;  I  had  forgot.  Somehow  or 
other  my  memory  is  not  so  good  as  it  was." 

"  But,  let  me  see,  Lisle  Court  is  in shire. 

Why,  you  will  pass  within  ten  miles  of 
(2  *****  " 

«  C  *****  !  shall  I  ?  I  am  not  much 
versed  in  the  geography  of  England — never 
learned  it  at  school.  As  for  Poland,  Kams- 
chatka,  Mexico,  Madagascar,  or  any  other 
place  as  to  which  knowledge  would  be  useful, 
I  have  every  inch  of  the  way  at  my  fingers' 
end.  But  apropos  of  C  *****  it  is  the  town 
in  which  my  late  uncle  made  his  fortune." 

"  Ah,  so  it  is.  I  recollect  you  were  to  have 
stood  for  c  *  *  *  *  *,  but  gave  it  up  to  Staunch; 
very  handsome  in  you.  Have  you  any  inter- 
est there  still  ? " 

"  I  think  my  ward  has  some  tenants, — a 
street  or  two, — one  called  Richard  Street,  and 
the  other  Templeton  Place.  I  had  intended 
some  weeks  ago  to  have  gone  down  there,  and 
seen  what  interest  was  still  left  to  our  family; 
but  Staunch  himself  told  me  thatC***** 
*as  a  sure  card. 

"  So  he  thought;  but  he  has  been  with  me 


this  morning  in  great  alarm:  he  now  thinks  h'. 
shall  be  thrown  out.  A  Mr.  Winsley,  who  has 
a  great  deal  of  interest  there,  and  was  a  sup- 
porter of  his,  hangs  back  on  account  of  the 
*  *  *"*  question.  This  is  unlucky,  as  Staunch 
is  quite  with  us;  and  if  he  were  to  rat  now  it 
would  he  most  unfortunate." 

"Winsley  1  Winsley!  —  my  poor  uncle's 
right-hand  man.  A  great  brewer — always 
chairman  of  the  Templeton  Committee.  I 
know  the  name,  though  I  never  saw  the  man." 

"  If  you  could  take  c  *  *  *  *  *  in  your 
way  ?  " 

"To  be  sure.  Staunch  must  not  be  lost. 
We  cannot  throw  away  a  single  vote,  much 
more  one  of  such  weight, — eighteen  stone  af 
the  least  !  I'll  stop  at  C  *****  on  pretence 
of  seeing  after  my  ward's  houses,  and  have  a 
quiet  conference  with  Mr.  Winsley.  Hem  ! 
Peers  must  not  interfere  in  elections — eh  ? 
Well,  good-by;  take  care  of  yourself.  I  shall 
be  back  jn  a  week,  I  hope, — perhaps  less." 

In  a  minute  more.  Lord  Vargrave  and  Mr. 
George  Frederick  Augustus  Howard,  a  slim 
young  gentleman  of  high  birth  and  connec- 
tions, but  who,  having,  as  a  portionless  cadet, 
his  own  way  to  make  in  the  world,  conde- 
scended to  be  his  lordship's  private  secretary, 
were  rattling  over  the  streets  the  first  stage  to 

Q    *    «    *    *    * 

It  was  late  at  night  when  Lord  Vargrave  ar- 
rived at  the  head  inn  of  that  grave  and  respect- 
able cathedral  city,  in  which  once  Richard 
Templeton,  Esq., — saint,  banker,  aud  polit' 
cian, — had  exercised  his  dictatorial  sway. 
Sic  transit  gloria  niundi  !  As  he  warmed  his 
hands  by  the  fire  in  the  large  wainscoted 
apartrpent  into  which  he  was   shown,  his  eye 


532 


B  UL  WEK  S     WORKS. 


met  a  full-length  engraving  of  his  uncle,  with 
a  roll  of  paper  in  his  hands, — meant  for  a  par- 
liamentary bill  for  the  turnpike  trusts  in  the 
neighborhood  of  c  *  *  *  *  *.  The  sight 
brought  liack  his  recollections  of  that  pious 
and  saturnine  relation,  and  insensibly  the 
minister's  thoughts  flew  to  his  death-bed,  and 
to  the  strange  secret  which  in  that  last  hour 
he  had  revealed  to  Lumley, — a  secret  which 
had  done  much  in  deepening  Lord  Vargrave's 
contempt  for  the  forms  and  conventionalities 
of  decorous  life.  And  here  it  may  be  men- 
tioned^though  in  the  course  of  this  volume  a 
penetrating  reader  may  have  guessed  as  much 
as  that,  whatever  that  secret,  it  did  not  refer 
expressly  or  exclusively  to  the  late  lord's 
singular  and  ill-assorted  marriage.  Upon  that 
point  much  was  still  left  obscure  to  arouse 
Lumley's  curiosity,  had  he  been  a  man  whose 
curiosity  was  very  vivacious.  But  on  this  he 
felt  but  little  interest.  He  knew  enough  to 
believe  that  no  further  information  could 
benefit  himself  personally;  why  should  he 
trouble  his  head  with  what  never  would  fill  his 
pockets  ? 

Ao  audible  yawn  from  the  slim  secretary 
roused  Lord  Vargrave  from  his  revery. 

"  I  envy  you,  my  young  friend,"  said  he, 
good-humoredly.  "  It  is  a  pleasure  we  lose 
as  we  growolder^that  of  being  sleepy.  How- 
ever, '  to  bed,'  as  Lady  Macbeth  says.  Faith, 
I  don't  wonder  the  poor  devil  of  a  thane  was 
slow  in  going  to  bed  with  such  a  tigress. 
Good  night  to  you." 


CHAPTER    n. 

"  Ma  fortune  va  prendre  une  face  nouvelle."* 
— Racine:  Androm.  Act  i.  Scene  i. 

The  next  morning  Vargrave  inquired  the 
way  to  Mr.  Winsley's,  and  walked  alone  to  the 
house  of  the  brewer.  The  slim  secretary  went 
to  inspect  the  cathedral. 

Mr.  Winsley  was  a  little  thick  set  man,  with 
a  civil  but  blunt  electioneering  manner.  He 
started  when  he  heard  Lord  Vargrave's  name, 
and  bowed  with  great  stiffness.  Vargrave  saw 
at  a  glance  that  there  was  some  cause  of  a 
grudge  in  the  mind  of  the   worthy   man;  nor 


My  fortune  is  about  to  take  a  turn. 


did  Mr.  Winsley  long  hesitate  before  he 
cleansed  his  bosom  of  its  perilous  stuff. 

"  This  is  an  unexpected  honor,  my  lord:  I 
don't  know  how  to  account  for  it." 

"Why,  Mr.  Winsley,  your  friendship  with 
my  late  uncle  can,  perhaps,  sufificiently  explain 
and  apologize  for  a  visit  from  a  nephew  sin- 
cerely attached  to  his  memory." 

"  Humph  !  I  certainly  did  do  all  in  my 
power  to  promote  Mr.  Templeton's  interest. 
No  man,  I  may  say,  did  more;  and  yet  I  don't 
think  it  was  much  thought  of  at  the  moment 
he  turned  his  back  upon  the  electors  of 
C  *  *  *  *  *.  Not  that  I  bear  any  malice;  I  am 
well  to  do,  and  value  no  man's  favor — no  man's, 
my  lord  !  " 

"  You  amaze  me  I  I  always  heard  my  poor 
uncle  speak  of  you  in  the  highest  terms." 

"  Oh  ! — well,  it  don't  signify — pray  say  no 
more  of  it.  Can  I  offer  your  lordship  a  glass 
of  wine  ?  " 

"No,  lam  much  obliged  to  you;  but  we 
really  must  set  this  little  matter  right.  You 
know  that  after  his  marriage  my  uncle  never 
revisited  c  *  *  *  *  *;  and  that  shortly  before 
his  death  he  sold  the  greater  part  of  his  inter- 
est in  this  city.  His  young  wife,  I  suppose, 
liked  the  neighborhood  of  London;  and  when 
elderly  gentlemen  do  many,  you  know,  they 
are  no  longer  their  own  masters;  but  if  you 
had  ever  come  to  Fulham- — ah  !  then,  indeed, 
my  uncle  would  have  rejoiced  to  see  his  old 
friend." 

"Your  lordship  thinks  so,"  said  Mr.  Wins- 
ley, with  a  sardonic  smile.  "You  are  mis- 
taken; I  did  call  at  Fulham;  and  though  I 
sent  in  my  card,  Lord  Vargrave's  servant  (he 
was  then  My  Lord)  brought  back  word  that 
his  lordship  was  not  at  home." 

"But  that  must  have  been  true;  he  was  out, 
you  may  depend  on  it." 

"  I  saw  him  at  the  window,  my  lord,"  said 
Mr.  Winsley  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff. 

(Oh,  the  deuce  !  Fm  in  for  it,  thought 
Lumley).  "  Very  strange,  indeed  !  but  how 
can  you  account  for  it  ?  Ah  !  perhaps  the 
health  of  Lady  Vargrave — she  was  so  very 
delicate  then,  and  my  poor  uncle  lived  for  her 
— you  know  that  he  left  all  his  fortune  to  Miss 
Cameron  ? " 

"  Miss  Cameron  ' — Who  is  she,  my  lord  ?  " 

"Why,  his  daughter-in-law;  Lady  Vargrave 
was  a  widow — a  Mrs.  Cameron." 


ALICE;     OR,      THE    MYSTERIES. 


333 


"  Mrs.   Cam- 


I  remember  now — they 
put  Cameron  in  the  newspapers;  but  I  thought 
it  was  a  mistake.  But,  perhaps"  (added 
Winsley,  with  a  sneer  of  peculiar  malignity), 
— "  perhaps,  when  your  worthy  uncle  thought 
of  being  a  peer,  he  did  not  like  to  have  it 
known  that  he  married  so  much  beneath  him." 
"  You  quite  mistake,  my  dear  sir;  my  uncle 
never  denied  that  Mrs.  Cameron  was  a  lady  of 
no  fortune  or  connections — widow  to  some 
poor  Scotch  gentleman,  who  died,  I  think,  in 
India." 

"  He  left    her  very  ill    off,  poor  thing;  but 
she    had    a  great  deal   of  merit,  and  worked 

hard — she  taught  my  girls  to  play " 

"  Your  girls  ! — did  Mrs.  Cameron  ever  re- 
side in  C  *****  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure;  but  she  was  then  called  Mrs. 
Butler — just  as  pretty  a  name,  to  my  fancy." 

"You  must  make  a  mistake;  my  uncle  mar- 
ried this  lady  in  Devonshire." 

"Very  possibly,"  quoth  the  brewer,  dogged- 
ly. "  Mrs.  Butler  left  the  town  with  her  little 
girl,  some  time  before  Mr.  Templeton  married. 
"  Well,  you  are  wiser  than  I  am,"  said  Lum- 
ley,  forcing  a  smile.  "  But  how  can  you  be 
sure  that  Mrs.  Butler  and  Mrs.  Cameron  are 
one  and  the  same  person  ?  You  did  not  go 
into  the  house — you  could  not  have  seen  Lady 
Vargrave  "  (and  here  Lumley  shrewdly  guessed 
— if  the  tale  were  true — at  the  cause  of  his 
uncle's  exclusion  of  his  old  acquaintance). 

"No;  but  I  saw  her  ladyship  on  the  lawn," 
said  Mr.  Winsley,  with  another  sardonic  smile; 
"  and  I  asked  the  porter  at  the  lodge  as  I  \vent 
out,  if  that  was  Lady  Vargrave,  and  he  said 
'yes.'  However,  my  lord,  by-gones  are  by- 
gones— I  bear  no  malice;  your  uncle  was  a 
good  man;  and  if  he  had  but  said  to  me, 
'  Winsley,  don't  say  a  word  about  Mrs.  But- 
ler,' he  might  have  reckoned  on  me  just  as 
much  as  when  in  his  elections  he  used  to  put 
five  thousand  pounds  in  my  hands,  and  say, 
"Winsley,  no  bribery — it  is  wicked;  let  this 
be  given  in  charity.'  Did  any  one  ever  know 
how  that  money  went  ?  Was  your  uncle  ever 
accused  of  corruption  ? — But,  my  I.,ord,  surely 
you  will  take  some  refreshment  ?  " 

"No.  indeed;  but  if  you  will  let  me  dine 
with  you  to-morrow,  you'll  oblige  me  much; — 
and,  whatever  my  uncle's  faults  (and  latterly, 
poor  man,  he  was  hardly  in  his  senses; — what 
a  will  he  made  !)  let  not  the  nephew  suffer  for 


them.  Come,  Mr.  Winsley,"  and  Lumley 
held  out  his  hand  with  enchanting  frankness, 
"  you  know  my  motives  are  disinterested — I 
have  no  interest  parliamentary  to  serve — we 
have  no  constituents  for  our  Hospital  of 
Incurables;  —  and — oh  !  that's  right — we're 
friends,  I  see  !  Now,  I  must  go,  and  look 
after  my  ward's  houses.  Let  me  see,  the 
agent's  name  is — is " 

"  Perkins,  I  think,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Wins- 
ley, thoroughly  softened  by  the  charm  of 
Vargrave's  words  and  manner.  "  Let  me  put 
on  my  hat,  and  show  you  his  house." 

"  Will  you  ? — that's  very  kind; — give  me  all 
the  election  news  by  the  way— you  know  I 
was  once  within  an  ace  of  being  your  mem- 
ber." 

Vargrave  learned  from  his  new  friend  some 
further  particulars  relative  to  Mrs.  Butler's 
humble  habits  and  homely  mode  of  life  at 
C  *  *  *  *  *,  which  served  completely  to  explain 
to  him  why  his  proud  and  worldly  uncle  had 
so  carefully  abstained  from  all  intercourse 
with  that  city,  and  had  prevented  the  nephew 
from  standing  for  its  vacant  representation. 
It  seemed,  however,  that  Winsley — whose  re- 
sentment was  not  of  a  very  active  or  violent 
kind — had  not  communicated  the  discovery 
he  had  made  to  his  fellow  townspeople;  but 
had  contented  himself  with  hints  and  aphor- 
isms, whenever  he  had  heard  the  subject  of 
Mr.  Templeton's  marriage  discussed,  which 
had  led  the  gossips  of  the  place  to  imagine 
that  he  had  made  a  much  worse  selection  than 
he  really  had.  As  to  the  accuracy  of  Wins- 
ley's  assertion,  Vargrave,  though  surprised  at 
first,  had  but  little  doubt  on  consideration,  es- 
pecially when  he  heard  that  Mrs.  Butler's 
principal  patroness  had  been  the  Mrs.  Leslie, 
now  the  intimate  friend  of  Lady  Vargrave. 
But  what  had  been  the  career — what  the  ear- 
lier condition  and  struggles  of  this  simple  and 
interesting  creature  ? — with  her  appearance  at 
C  *  *  *  *  *,  commenced  all  that  surmise  could 
invent.  Not  greater  was  the  mystery  that 
wrapped  the  apparition  of  Monco  Capac  by 
the  lake  Titiaca,  than  that  which  shrouded  the 
places  and  the  trials  whence  the  lowly  teacher 
of  music  had  emerged  amidst  the  streets  of 
Q  *  *  *  *  * 

Weary,  and  somewhat  careless,  of  conjec- 
ture. Lord  Vargrave,  in  dining  with  Mr.  Wins- 
ley,  turned  the  conversation  upon  the  busi- 


J34 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


ness  on  which  he  had  principally  undertaken 
his  journey — viz.  the  meditated  purchase  of 
Lisle  Court. 

"  I  myself  am  not  a  very  good  judge  of 
landed  property,"  said  Vargrave;  "I  wish  I 
knew  of  an  experienced  surveyor  to  look  over 
the  farms  and  timber;  can  you  help  me  to 
such  a  one  ?  " 

Mr.  Winsley  smiled,  and  glanced  at  a  rosy- 
cheeked  young  lady,  who  simpered  and  turned 
away.  "  I  think  my  daughter  could  recom- 
mend one  to  your  lordship,  if  she  dared." 

"Oh,  pa!" 

"  I  see.  Well,  Miss  Winsley,  I  will  take  no 
recommendation  but  yours." 

Miss  Winsley  made  an  effort. 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  have  always  heard  Mr. 
Robert  Hobbs  considered  very  clever  in  his 
profession." 

"  Mr.  Robert  Hobbs  is  my  man  !  His  good 
health- — and  a  fair  wife  to  him." 

Miss  Winsley  glanced  at  mamma,  and  then 
at  a  younger  sister,  and  then  there  was  a  tit- 
ter— and  then  a  fluttering — and  then  a  rising 
— and  Mr.  Winsley,  Lord  Vargrave,  and  the 
slim  secretary,  were  left  alone. 

"  Really,  my  lord,"  said  the  host,  resettling 
himself,  and  pushing  the  wine — "  though  you 
have  guessed  our  little  family  arrangement, 
and  I  have  some  interest  in  the  recommenda- 
tion,— since  Margaret  will  be  Mrs.  Robert 
Hobbs  in  a  few  weeks — yet  I  do  not  know  a 
more  acute,  intelligent  young  man  any  where. 
Highly  respectable,  with  an  independent  fort- 
une; his  father  is  lately  dead,  and  made  at 
least  thirty  thousand  pounds  in  trade.  His 
brother  Edward  is  also  dead;  so  he  has  the 
bulk  of  the  property,  and  he  follows  his  pro- 
fession merely  for  amusement.  He  would 
consider  it  a  great  honor." 

"  And  where  does  he  live  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  in  this  county — a  long  way  off; 
close  to  *****;  but  it  is  all  in  your  lord- 
ship's road.  A  very  nice  house  he  has  too. 
I  have  known  his  family  since  I  was  a  boy;  it 
is  astonishing  how  his  father  improved  the 
place; — it  was  a  poor  little  lath-and-plaster 
cottage  when  the  late  Mr.  Hobbs  bought  it, 
and   it  is  now  a  very  excellent  family  house." 

"Well  you  shall  give  me  the  address  and  a 
letter  ol  introduction,  and  so  much  for  that 
matter.  But  to  return  to  politics;  "  and  here 
Lord    Vargrave   ran    eloquently   on,  till    Mr. 


Winsley  thought  him  the  only  man  in  the 
world  who  could  save  the  country  from  that 
utter  annihilation — the  possibility  of  which 
he  had  never  even  suspected  before. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  add,  that,  on  wishing 
Lord  Vargrave  good  night,  Mr.  Winsley  whis- 
pered in  his  ear  "  Your  lordship's  friend.  Lord 
Staunch,  need  be  under  no  apprehension — we 
are  all  right  !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  There  is  the  house,  sir." 

— Love's  Pilgrimage,  Act  iv.  Sc.  2. 

"  Redeunt  Satumia  regna."  *— Virgil. 

The  next  morning,  Lumley  and  his  slender 
companion  were  rolling  rapidly  over  the  same 
road  on  which,  sixteen  years  ago,  way-worn 
and  weary,  Alice  Darvil  had  first  met  with 
Mrs.  Leslie;  they  were  talking  about  a  new 
opera-dancer  as  they  whirled  by  the  very  spot. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
the  next  day,  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  a 
cast-iron  gate,  on  which  was  inscribed  this 
epigraph, —  "Hobbs'   Lodge — Ring  the  Bell." 

"  A  snug  place  enough,"  said  lord  Vargrave, 
as  they  were  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  foot- 
man to  unbar  the  gate. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Howard.  "  If  a  retired 
Cit  could  be  transformed  into  a  house,  such  is 
the  house  he  would  be." 

Poor  Dale  Cottage  !  the  home  of  Poetry 
and  Passion  !  But  change  visits  the  Common- 
place as  well  as  the  Romantic.  Since  Alice 
had  pressed  to  that  cold  grating  her  wistful 
eyes,  time  had  wrought  its  allotted  revolutions 
— the  old  had  died — the  young  grown  up.  Of 
the  children  playing  on  the  lawn,  death  had 
claimed  some,  and  marriage  others;  and  the 
holyday  of  youth  was  gone  for  all. , 

The  servant  opened  the  gate.  Mr.  Robert 
Hobbs  7uas  at  home; — he  had  friends  with 
him — he  was  engaged.  Lord  Vargrave  sent  in 
his  card,  and  the  introductory  letter  from  Mr. 
Winsley.  In  two  seconds,  these  missives 
brought  to  the  gate  Mr.  Robert  Hobbs  him- 
self: a  smart  young  man,  with  a  black  stock, 
red  whiskers,  and  an  eye-glass  pendant  to  a 

•  A  former  state  of  things  returns. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


335 


hair-chain  which  was  possibly  a  gage  d' amour 
from  Miss  Margaret  Winsley. 

A  profusion  of  bows,  compliments,  apolo- 
gies, etc.,  the  carriage  drove  up  the  sweep, 
and  Lord  Vargrave  descended,  and  was  imme- 
diately ushered  into  Mr.  Hobbs'  private  room. 
The  slim  secretary  followed,  and  sate  silent, 
melancholy,  and  upright,  while  the  peer  affably 
explained  his  wants  and  wishes  to  the  surveyor. 

Mr.  Hobbs  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
locality  of  Lisle  Court,  which  was  little  more 
than  thirty  miles  distant;  he  should  be  proud 
t-o  accompany  Lord  Vargrave  thither  the  next 
mornmg.  But,  might  he  venture — might  he 
dare — might  he  presume — a  gentleman  who 
lived  at  the  town  of  *  *  *  *,  was  to  dine  with 
him  that  day;  a  gentleman  of  the  most  pro- 
found knowledge  of  agricultural  affairs;  a 
gentleman  who  knew  every  farm,  almost  every 
acre,  belonging  to  Colonel  Maltravers — if  his 
lordship  could  be  induced  to  waive  ceremony, 
and  dine  with  Mr.  Hobbs,  it  might  be  really 
useful  to  meet  this  gentleman.  The  slim 
secretary,  who  was  very  hungry,  and  who 
thought  he  sniffed  an  uncommonly  savory 
smell,  looked  up  from  his  boots, — Lord  Var- 
grave smiled. 

"  My  young  friend  here  is  too  great  an  ad- 
mirer of  Mrs.  Hobbs — who  is  to  be, — not  to 
feel  anxious  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  any 
members  of  the  family  she  is  to  enter." 

Mr.  George  Frederick  Augustus  Howard 
blushed  indignant  refutation  of  the  calumnious 
charge.     Vargrave  continued: 

"  As  for  me,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  meet  any 
friends  of  yours,  and  am  greatly  obliged  for 
your  consideration.  We  may  dismiss  the 
postboys,  Howard, — and  what  time  shall  we 
summon  them  ? — ten  o'clock  ? " 

"  If  your  lordship  would  condescend  to  ac- 
cept a  bed,  we  can  accommodate  your  lordship 
and  this  gentleman,  and  start  at  any  hour  in 
the  morning  that " 

"So  be  it,"  interrupted  Vargrave.  "You 
speak  like  a  man  of  business.  Howard,  be  so 
kind  as  to  order  the  horses  for  six  o'clock  to- 
morrow.    We'll  breakfast  at  I,isle  Court." 

This  matter  settled,  Lord  Vargrave  and 
Mr.  Howard  were  shown  into  their  respective 
apartments.  Travelling  dresses  were  changed 
— the  dinner  put  back — and  the  fish  over- 
boiled;— but  what  mattered  common  fish,  when 
Mr.  Hobbs  had  just  caught  such  a  big  one  ? 


Of  what  consequence  he  should  be  henceforth 
and  ever  !  A  peer — a  minister — a  stranger  to 
the  county, — to  come  all  this  way  to  consult 
him  .'—to  be  his  guest  ! — to  be  shown  off,  and 
patted,  and  trotted  out  before  all  the  rest  of 
the  company  !  Mr.  Hobbs  was  a  made  man  ! 
Careless  of  all  this, — ever  at  home  with  any 
one,— and  delighted,  perhaps,  to  escape  a 
tete-i-tHe  with  Mr.  Howard  in  a  strange  itin, 
— Vargrave  lounged  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  was  formally  presented  to  the  expectant 
family  and  the  famishing  guests. 

During  the  expiring  bachelorship  of  Mr. 
Robert  Hobbs,  his  sister,  Mrs.  Tiddy  (to  whom 
the  reader  was  first  introduced  as  a  bride — 
gathering  the  wisdom  of  economy  and  large 
joints  from  the  frugal  lips  of  her  mamma), 
officiated  as  lady  of  the  house, — a  comely 
matron,  and  well-preserved, — except  that  she 
had  lost  a  front  tooth, — in  a  jaundiced  satinet 
gown, — with  a  fall  of  British  blonde,  and  a 
tucker  of  the  same:  Mr.  Tiddy  being  a  starch 
man,  and  not  wrlling  that  the  luxuriant  charms 
of  Mrs.  T.  should  be  too  temptingly  exposed  ! 
There  was  also  Mr.  Tiddy,  whom  his  wife  had 
married  for  love,  and  who  was  now  well  to  do; 
a  fine-looking  man,  with  large  whiskers,  and  a 
Roman  nose,  a  little  awry.  Moreover,  there 
war  a  Miss  Biddy  or  Bridget  Hobbs,  a  young 
lady  of  four  or  five-and-twenty,  who  was  con- 
sidering whether  she  might  ask  Lord  Vargrave 
to  write  something  in  her  album,  and  who  cast 
a  bashful  look  of  admiration  at  the  slim  secre- 
tary, as  he  now  sauntered  into  the  room,  in  a 
black  coat,  black  waistcoat,  black  trousers,  and 
black  neckcloth,  with  a  black  pin, — looking 
much  like  an  ebony  cane  split  half-way  up. 
Miss  Biddy  was  a  fair  young  lady,  a  leetle 
faded,  with  uncommonly  thin  arms  and  white 
satin  shoes,  on  which  the  slim  secretary  cast 
his  eyes  and — shuddered  ! 

In  addition  to  the  family  group  were  the 
Rector  of  *  *  *,  an  agreeable  man,  who  pub- 
lished sermons  and  poetry;  also  Sir  William 
Jekyll,  who  was  employing  Mr.  Hobbs  to 
make  a  map  of  an  estate  he  had  just  pur- 
chased; also  two  country  squires  and  their 
two  wives;  moreover  the  physician  of  the 
neighboring  town, — a  remarkably  tall  man, 
who  wore  spectacles  and  told  anecdotes;  and, 
lastly,  Mr.  Onslow,  the  gentleman  to  whom 
Mr.  Hobbs  had  referred,— an  elderly  man  of 
prepossessing  exterior,  of   high  repute  as  the 


33f> 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


most  efficient  magistrate,  the  best  farmer,  and 
the  most  sensible  person  in  the  neighborhood. 
This  made  the  party,  to  each  individual  of 
which  the  great  man  bowed  and  smiled;  and 
the  great  man's  secretary  bent,  condescend- 
ingly, three  joints  of  his  back-bone. 

The  bell  was  now  rung — dinner  announced. 
Sir  William  Jekyll  led  the  way  with  one  of  the 
she-squires,  and  Lord  Vargrave  offered  his 
arm  to  the  portly  Mrs.  Tiddy. 

Vargrave,  as  usual,  was  the  life  of  the  feast. 
Mr.  Howard,  who  sat  next  to  Miss  Bridget, 
conversed  with  her  between  the  courses,  "  in 
dumb  show."  Mr.  Onslow  and  the  physician 
played  second  and  third  to  Lord  Vargrave. 
When  the  dinner  was  over,  and  the  ladies  had 
retired,  Vargrave  found  himself  seated  next  to 
Mr.  Onslow,  and  discovered  in  his  neighbor  a 
most  agreeable  companion.  They  talked 
principally  about  Lisle  Court,  and  from  Colonel 
Maltravers,  the  conversation  turned  naturally 
upon  Ernest.  Vargrave  proclaimed  his  early 
intimacy  with  the  latter  gentleman, — com- 
plained, feelingly,  that  politics  had  divided 
them  of  late, — and  told  two  or  three  anecdotes 
of  their  youthful  adventures  in  the  East.  Mr. 
Onslow  listened  to   him  with   much   attention. 

"  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Maltravers 
many  years  ago,"  said  he,  "  and  upon  a  very 
delicate  occasion.  I  was  greatly  interested  in 
him, — -I  never  saw  one  so  young  (for  he  was 
then  but  a  boy)  manifest  feelings  so  deep.  By 
the  dates  you  have  referred  to,  your  acquaint- 
ance with  him  must  have  commenced  very 
shortly  after  mine.  Was  he,  at  that  time, 
cheerful — in  good  spirits?" 

"  No,  indeed — hypochondriacal  to  the  great- 
est degree." 

''Your  lordship's  intimacy  with  him  and  the 
confidence  that  generally  exists  between  young 
men,  induce  me  to  suppose  that  he  may  have 
told  you  a  little  romance  connected  with  his 
early  years." 

Lumley  paused  to  consider;  and  this  con- 
versation, which  had  been  carried  on  apart, 
was  suddenly  broken  into  by  the  tall  doctor, 
who  wanted  to  know  whether  his  lordship  had 
ever  heard  the  anecdote  about  Lord  Thurlow 
and  the  late  King.  The  anecdote  was  as  long 
as  the  doctor  himself;  and  when  it  was  over, 
the  gentleman  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  all  conversation  was  immediately  drowned 
by  "  Row,  brothers,  row,"  which  had  only  been 


suspended  till  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Tiddy,  who 
had  a  fine  bass  voice. 

Alas  !  eighteen  years  ago,  in  that  spot  of 
earth,  Alice  Darvil  had  first  caught  the  soul  of 
music  from  the  lips  of  Genius  and  of  Love  ! 
But  better  as  it  is — less  romantic,  but  more 
proper— as  Hobbs'  Lodge  was  less  pretty,  but 
more  safe  from  the  winds  and  rains,  than  Dale 
Cottage. 

Miss  Bridget  ventured  to  ask  the  good- 
humored  Lord  Vargrave  if  he  sang?  "  Not  I, 
Miss  Hobbs — but  Howard,  there — Ah,  if  you 
heard  him  !  "  The  consequence  of  this  hint 
was,  that  the  unhappy  secretary,  who  alone,  in 
a  distant  corner,  was  unconsciously  refreshing 
his  fancy  with  some  cool  weak  coffee,  was  in- 
stantly beset  with  applications  from  Miss 
Bridget,  Mrs.  Tiddy,  Mr.  Tiddy  and  the  tali 
doctor,  to  favor  the  company  with  a  specimen 
of  his  talents.  Mr.  Howard  could  sing — he 
could  even  play  the  guitar.  But  to  sing  at 
Hobbs'  Lodge — to  sing  to  the  acccompani- 
ment  of  Mrs.  Tiddy — to  have  his  gentle  tenor 
crushed  to  death  in  a  glee  by  the  heavy  splay- 
foot of  Mr.  Tiddy's  manly  bass — the  thought 
was  insufferable  !  He  faltered  forth  assur- 
ances of  his  ignorance,  and  hastened  to  bury 
his  resentment  in  the  retirement  of  a  remote 
sofa.  Vargrave,  who  had  forgotten  the  sig- 
nificant question  of  Mr.  Onslow,  renewed  in  a 
whisper  his  conversation  with  that  gentleman 
relative  to  the  meditated  investment,  while 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tiddy  sang,  "  Come  dwell  with 
me;  "  and  Onslow  was  so  pleased  with  his  new 
acquaintance,  that  he  volunteered  to  make  a 
fourth  in  Lumley's  carriage  the  next  morning, 
and  accompany  him  to  Lisle  Court.  This  set- 
tled, the  party  soon  afterwards  broke  up.  At 
midnight  Lord  Vargrave  was  fast  asleep;  and 
Mr.  Howard,  tossing  restlessly  to  and  fro  on  his 
melancholy  couch,  was  revolving  all  the  hard- 
ships that  await  a  native  of  St.  James's,  who 
ventures  forth  among 

•'  The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders  !" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  But  how  were  these  doubts  to  be  changed  into 
absolute  certainty."— Edgar  Hunti.ey. 

The  next  morning,  while   it   was   yet  dark, 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


337 


Lord  Vargrave's  carriage  picked  up  Mr.  Onslow 
at  the  door  of  a  large  old-fashioned  house,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  manufacturing  town  of 
*  *  *  *.  The  party  were  silent  and  sleepy, 
till  they  arrived  at  Lisle  Court, — the  sun  had 
then  appeared — the  morning  was  clear — the 
air  frosty  and  bracing.  And  as,  after  travers- 
ing a  noble  park,  a  superb  quadrangular  pile 
of  brick,  flanked  by  huge  square  turrets,  coped 
with  stone,  broke  upon  the  gaze  of  Lord  Var- 
grave,  his  worldly  heart  swelled  within  him, 
and  the  image  of  Evelyn  became  inexpres- 
sibly lovely  and  seductive. 

Though  the  housekeeper  was  not  prepared 
for  Vargrave's  arrival  at  so  early  an  hour,  yet 
he  had  been  daily  expected:  the  logs  soon 
burnt  bright  in  the  ample  hearth  of  the  break- 
fast-room— the  urn  hissed — the  cutlets  smoked 
— and  while  the  rest  of  the  party  gathered 
round  the  fire,  and  unmuffled  themselves  of 
cloaks  and  shawl-handkerchiefs,  Vargrave 
seizing  upon  the  housekeeper  traversed  with 
delighted  steps  the  magnificent  suite  of  rooms 
— gazed  on  the  pictures — admired  the  state 
bed-chambers— peeped  into  the  offices — and 
recognized  in  all  a  mansion  worthy  of  a  Peer 
of  England;  but  which  a  more  prudent  man 
would  have  thought,  with  a  sigh,  required  care- 
ful management  of  the  rent-roll  raised  from 
the  property  adequately  to  equip  and  man- 
tain.  Such  an  idea  did  not  cross  the  mind  of 
Vargrave;  he  only  thought  how  much  he  should 
be  honored  and  envied,  when,  as  Secretary  of 
State,  he  should  yearly  fill  those  feudal  cham- 
bers with  the  pride  and  rank  of  England  !  It 
was  characteristic  of  the  extraordinary  san- 
guineness  and  self-confidence  of  Vargrave, 
that  he  entirely  overlooked  one  slight  obstacle 
to  this  prospect,  in  the  determined  refusal  of 
Evelyn  to  accept  that  passionate  homage  which 
he  offered  to — her  fortune  ! 

When  breakfast  was  over  the  steward  was 
called  in,  and  the  party,  mounted  upon  ponies, 
set  out  to  reconnoitre.  After  spending  the 
short  day  most  agreeably  in  looking  over  the 
gardens,  pleasure  grounds,  park,  and  home- 
farm,  and  settling  to  visit  the  more  distant 
parts  of  the  property  the  next  day,  the  party 
were  returning  home  to  dine,  when  Vargrave's 
eye  caught  the  glittering  7iihi7n  of  Sir  Gregory 
Gubbins. 

He  pointed  it  out  to  Mr.  Onslow  and 
laughed  much  at  hearing  of  the  annoyance  it 

6—23 


occasioned  to  Colonel  Maltravers.  "  Thus," 
said  Lumley,  "do  we  all  crumple  the  rose-leaf 
under  us,  and  quarrel  with  couches  the  most 
luxuriant  !  As  for  me,  I  will  wager,  that  were 
this  property  mine,  or  my  wards,  in  three  weeks 
we  should  have  won  the  heart  of  Sir  Gregory, 
made  him  pull  down  his  whim,  and  coaxed  him 
out  of  his  interest  in  the  city  of  *  *  *  *.  A 
good  seat  for  you,  some  day  or  other." 

"  Sir  Gregory  has  prodigiously  bad  taste," 
said  Mr.  Hobbs.  "  For  my  part,  I  think  that 
there  ought  to  be  a  certain  modest  simplicity 
in  the  display  of  wealth  got  in  business; — that 
was  my  poor  father's  maxim." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Vargrave,  "  Hobbs'  Lodge  is 
a  specimen.  Who  was  your  predecessor  in 
that  charming  retreat  ?  " 

"  Why  the  place — then  called  Dale  Cottage 
— belonged  to  a  Mr.  Berners,  a  rich  bachelor 
in  business,  who  was  rich  enough  not  to  mind 
what  people  said  of  him,  and  kept  a  lady  there. 
She  ran  off  from  him,  and  he  then  let  it  to 
some  young  man — a  stranger — very  eccentric, 
I  hear — a  Mr. — Mr.  Butler — and  he,  too,  gave 
the  cottage  an  unlawful  attraction — a  most 
beautiful  girl,  I  have  heard." 

"Butler!"  echoed  Vargrave — "Butler — 
Butler  !  " — Lumley  recollected  that  such  had 
been  the  real  name  of  Mrs.  Cameron. 

Onslow  looked  hard  at  Vargrave. 

"  You  recognize  the  name,  my  lord,"  said 
he  in  a  whisper  as  Hobbs  had  turned  to  ad- 
dress himself  to  Mr.  Howard.  "I  thought 
you  very  discreet  when  I  asked  you,  last  night, 
if  you  remembered  the  early  follies  of  your 
friend."  A  suspicion  at  once  flashed  upon 
the  quick  mind  of  Vargrave: — Butler  was  a 
name  on  the  mother's  side  in  the  family  of 
Maltravers;  the  gloom  of  Ernest  when  he  first 
knew  him — the  boy's  hints  that  the  gloom  was 
connected  with  the  affections — the  extraordi- 
nary and  single  accomplishment  of  Lady  Var- 
grave in  that  art  of  which  Maltravers  was  so 
consummate  a  master — the  similarity  of  name 
— all  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  meaning 
question  of  Mr.  Onslow,  were  enough  to  sug- 
gest to  Vargrave  that  he  might  be  on  the 
verge  of  a  family  secret,  the  knowledge  of 
which  could  be  turned  to  advantage.  He  took 
care  not  to  confess  his  ignorance,  but  artfully 
proceeded  to  draw  out  Mr.  Onslow's  communi- 
cations. 

"  Why,  it  is  true,"  said  he,  "  that   Maltrav- 


338 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


ers  and  I  had  no  secrets.  Ah  !  we  were  wild 
fellows  then — the  name  of  Butler  is  in  his 
family — eh  ? " 

"  It  is.     I  see  you  know  all." 

"Yes;  he  told  me  the  story,  but  it  is  eigh- 
teen years  ago.  Do  refresh  my  memory. — 
Howard,  my  good  fellow,  just  ride  on  and  ex- 
pedite dinner:  Mr.  Hobbs,  will  you  go  with 
Mr.  What's-his-name,  the  steward,  and  look 
over  the  maps,  outgoings,  etc.  .'  Now,  Mr. 
Onslow — so  Maltravers  took  the  cottage,  and 
a  lady  with  it  ?— ay,  I  remember." 

Mr.  Onslow  (who  was  in  fact  that  magistrate 
to  whom  Ernest  had  confided  his  name  and 
committed  the  search  after  Alice,  and  who  was 
really  anxious  to  know  if  any  tidings  of  the 
poor  girl  had  ever  been  ascertained)  here  re- 
lated that  history  with  which  the  reader  is  ac- 
quainted;— the  robbery  of  the  cottage— the 
disappearance  of  Alice — the  suspicions  that 
connected  that  disappearance  with  her  ruffian 
father — the  despair  and  search  of  Maltravers. 
He  added  that  Ernest,  both  before  his  depar- 
ture from  England,  and  on  his  return,  had 
written  to  him  to  learn  if  Alice  had  ever  been 
heard  of; — the  replies  of  the  magistrate  were 
unsatisfactory.  "  And  do  you  think,  my  lord, 
that  Mr.  Maltravers  has  never  to  this  day  as- 
certained what  became  of  the  poor  young 
woman  ?  " 

"  Why,  let  me  see, — -what  was  her  name  ?  " 

The  magistrate  thought  a  moment,  and  re- 
plied, "Alice  Darvil." 

"Alice!"  exclaimed  Vargrave,  "Alice!" 
— aware  that  such  was  the  Christian  name  of 
his  uncle's  wife,  and  now  almost  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  his  first  vague  suspicion. 

"  You  seem  to  know  the  name." 

"  Of  Alice;  yes— but  not  Darvil.  No,  no; 
I  believe  he  has  never  heard  of  the  girl  to  this 
hour.     Nor  you  either  ?  " 

"  I  have  not.  One  little  circumstance  re- 
lated to  me  by  Mr.  Hobbs,  your  surveyor's 
father,  gave  me  some  uneasiness.  About  two 
years  after  the  young  woman  disappeared,  a 
girl,  of  very  humble  dress  and  appearance, 
stopped  at  the  gate  of  Hobbs'  Lodge,  and 
asked  earnestly  for  Mr.  Butler.  On  hearing 
he  was  gone,  she  turned  away,  and  was  seen 
no  more.  It  seems  that  this  girl  had  an  infant 
in  her  arms — which  rather  shocked  the  pro- 
priety of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hobbs.  The  old  gen- 
tleman told   me  the  circumstance  a  few  days 


after  it  happened,  and  I  caused  inquiry  to  be 
made  for  the  stranger;  but  she  could  not  be 
discovered.  I  thought  at  first  this  possibly 
might  be  the  lost  Alice;  but  I  learned  that, 
during  his  stay  at  the  cottage,  your  friend — 
despite  his  error,  which  we  will  not  stop  to  ex- 
cuse,— had  exercised  so  generous  and  wide  a 
charity  amongst  the  poor  in  the  town  and 
neighborhood,  that  it  was  a  more  probable 
supposition  of  the  two,  that  the  girl  belonged 
to  some  family  he  had  formerly  relieved,  and 
her  visit  was  that  of  a  mendicant,  not  a  mis- 
tress. Accordingly,  after  much  consideration, 
I  resolved  not  to  mention  the  circumstance  to 
Mr.  Maltravers,  when  he  wrote  to  me  on  his 
return  from  the  Continent.  A  considerable 
time  had  then  elapsed  since  the  girl  had  ap- 
plied to  Mr.  Hobbs; — all  trace  of  her  was  lost 
— the  incident  might  open  wounds  that  time 
must  have  nearly  healed^might  give  false 
hopes — or,  what  was  worse,  occasion  a  fresh 
and  unfounded  remorse  at  the  idea  of  Alice's 
destitution;  it  would,  in  fact,  do  no  good,  and 
might  occasion  much  unnecessary  pain.  I 
therefore  suppressed  all  mention  of  it." 

"You  did  right:  and  so  the  poor  girl  had 
an  infant  in  her  arms? — humph  !  What  sort 
of  looking  person  was  this  Alice  Darvil  ? — 
pretty,  of  course  ? " 

"  I  never  saw  her;  and  none  but  the  persons 
employed  in  the  premises  knew  her  by  sight 
— they  described  her  as  remarkably  lovely." 

"  Fair  and  slight, — with  blue  eyes,  I  sup- 
pose ? — those  are  the  orthodox  requisites  of  a 
heroine." 

"  Upon  my  word  I  forget; — indeed  I  should 
never  have  remembered  as  much  as  I  do,  if 
the  celebrity  of  Mr.  Maltravers,  and  the  con- 
sequence of  his  family  in  these  parts,  together 
with  the  sight  of  his  own  agony — the  most 
painful  I  ever  witnessed — had  not  served  to 
impress  the  whole  affair  very  deeply  on  my 
mind." 

"  Was  the  girl  who  appeared  at  the  gate  of 
Hobbs'  Lodge  described  to  you  ?  " 

iiNo; — they  scarcely  observed  her  counte- 
nance, except  that  her  complexion  was  too 
fair  for  a  gipsy's; — yet,  now  I  think  of  it,  Mrs. 
Tiddy,  who  was  with  her  father  when  he  told 
me  the  adventure,  dwelt  particularly  on  her 
having  (as  you  so  pleasantly  conjecture)  fair 
hair  and  blue  eyes.  Mrs.  Tiddy,  being  just 
married,  was  romantic  at  that  day." 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


339 


"  Well,  it  is  an  odd  tale.— But  life  is  full  of 
odd  tales.  Here  we  are  at  the  house— it 
really  is  a  splendid  old  place  !  " 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  Pendent  opera  interrupta."  * — ViRGiL. 

The  history  Vargrave  had  heard,  he  revolved 
much  when  he  retired  to  rest.  He  could  not 
but  allow  that  there  was  still  little  ground  for 
more  than  conjecture,  that  Alice  Darvil  and 
Alice  Lady  Vargrave  were  one  and  the  same 
person.  It  might,  however,  be  of  great  im- 
portance to  him,  to  trace  this  conjecture  to 
certainty.  The  knowledge  of  a  secret  of  early 
sin  and  degradation  in  one  so  pure,  so  spot- 
less, as  Lady  Vargrave,  might  be  of  immense 
service  in  giving  him  a  power  over  her,  which 
he  could  turn  to  account  with  Evelyn.  How 
could  he  best  prosecute  further  inquiry  ?— by 
repairing  at  once  to  Brook  Green — or — the 
thought  struck  him— by  visiting  and  "  pump- 
ing" Mrs.  Leslie,  the  patroness  of  Mrs.  Butler 
QiC*  *  *  *,  the  friend  of  Lady  Vargrave  ?  It 
was  worth  trying  the  latter— it  was  little  out 
of  his  way  back  to  London.  Hie  success  in 
picking  the  brains  of  Mr.  Onslow  of  a  secret, 
encouraged  him  in  the  hope  of  equal  success 
with  Mrs.  Leslie.  He  decided  accordingly, 
and  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  Christmas  battues, 
royal  visitors,  the  cabinet,  the  premiership  ! — 
Well,  no  possession  equals  the  dreams  of  it ! 
— Sleep  on,  my  lord  '.—you  would  be  restless 
enough  if  you  were  to  get  all  you  want. 

For  the  next  three  days.  Lord  Vargrave 
was  employed  in  examining  the  general  out- 
lines of  the  estate,  and  the  result  of  this  survey 
satisfied  him  as  to  the  expediency  of  the  pur- 
chase. On  the  third  day,  he  was  several 
miles  from  the  house  when  a  heavy  rain  came 
on.  Lord  Vargrave  was  constitutionally  hardy, 
and,  not  having  been  much  exposed  to  the 
visitations  of  the  weather  of  late  years,  was 
not  practically  aware  that,  when  a  man  is  past 
forty,  he  cannot  endure  with  impunity  all  that 
falls  innocuously  on  the  elasticity  of  twenty- 
six.  He  did  not,  therefore,  heed  the  rain  that 
drenched  him  to  the  skin,  and  neglected  to 
change  his  dress  till   he  had  finished  reading 


*  The  things  begun  are  interrupted  and  suspended. 


some  letters  and  newspapers  which  awaited 
his  return  at  Lisle  Court.  The  consequence 
of  this  imprudence  was,  that,  the  next  morning 
when  he  woke.  Lord  Vargrave  found  himself, 
for  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life,  seriously 
ill.  His  head  ached  violently — cold  shiverings 
shook  his  frame  like  an  ague;  the  very  strength 
of  the  constitution  on  which  the  fever  had 
begun  to  fasten  itself,  augmented  its  danger. 
Lumley — the  last  man  in  the  world  to  think 
of  the  possibility  of  dying — fought  up  against 
his  own  sensations — ordered  his  post-horses, 
as  his  visit  of  survey  was  now  over,  and 
scarcely  even  alluded  to  his  indisposition. 
About  an  hour  before  he  set  off,  his  letters 
arrived;  one  of  these  informed  him  that  Caro- 
line, accompanied  by  Evelyn,  had  already  ar- 
rived in  Paris;  the  other  was  from  Colonel 
Legard,  respectfully  resigning  his  office,  on 
the  ground  of  an  acession  of  fortune  by  the 
sudden  death  of  the  admiral,  and  his  intention 
to  spend  the  ensuing  year  in  a  continental 
excursion. 

This  last  letter  occasioned  Vargrave  con- 
siderable alarm;  he  had  always  felt  a  deep 
jealousy  of  the  handsome  ex-guardsman,  and 
he  at  once  suspected  that  Legard  was  about 
to  repair  to  Paris  as  his  rival.  He  sighed, 
and  looked  round  the  spacious  apartment,  and 
gazed  on  the  wide  prospects  of  grove  and  turf 
that  extended  from  the  window,  and  said  to 
himself — "  Is  another  to  snatch  these  from  my 
grasp?"  His  impatience  to  visit  Mrs.  Leslie 
— to  gain  ascendancy  over  Lady  Vargrave — 
to  repair  to  Paris— to  scheme— to  manoeuvre 
— to  triumph— accelerated  the  progress  of  the 
disease  that  was  now  burning  in  his  veins;  and 
the  hand  that  he  held  out  to  Mr.  Hobbs,  as 
he  stepped  into  his  carriage,  almost  scorched 
the  cold,  plump,  moist  fingers  of  the  surveyor. 
Before  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Lord  Var- 
grave confessed  reluctantly  to  himself,  that 
he  was  too  ill  to  proceed  much  further. 
"  Howard,"  said  he  then,  breaking  a  silence 
that  had  lasted  some  hours,  "  don't  be  alarmed 
—I  feel  that  I  am  about  to  have  a  severe  at- 
tack;—I  shall  stop  at  M ,  (naming  a  large 

town  they  were  approaching) — I  shall  send 
for  the  best  physician  the  place  affords;  if  I 
am  delirious  to  morrow,  or  unable  to  give  my 
own  orders,  have  the  kindness  to  send  express 
for  Dr.  Holland  —but  don't  leave  me  yourself, 
my   good    fellow.     At   my   age,  i>t  is  a  hait^ 


340 


B  UL  WEH'S     I  VOIiKS. 


thing  to  have  no  one  in  the  world  to  care  for 

me  in  illness:  d n   affection   when    I   am 

well  !  '• 

After  this  strange  burst,  which  very  much 
frightened  Mr.  Howard,  Lumley  relapsed  into 
silence,    not   broken   till    he  reached  M . 

The  best  physician  yvas  sent  for;  and  the 
next  morning,  as  he  had  half- foreseen  and 
foretold;  Lord  Var^rave  was  delirious  ! 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"  Nought  under  Heaven  so  strongly  doth  allure 
The  sense  of  man,  and  all  his  mind  possess, 
As  Beauty's  love-bait." — Spenser. 

Legard  was,  as  I  have  before  intimated,  a 
young  man  of  generons  and  excellent  disposi- 
tions, though  somewhat  spoiled  by  the  tenor  of 
his  education,  and  the  gay  and  reckless  so- 
ciety which  had  administered  tonics  to  his 
vanity  and  opiates  to  his  intellect.  The  effect 
which  the  beauty,  the  grace,  the  innocence  of 
Evelyn,  had  produced  upon  him  had  been 
most  deep  and  most  salutary.  It  had  rendered 
disspation  tasteless  and  insipid — it  had  made 
him  look  more  deeply  into  his  own  heart,  and 
into  the  rules  of  life.  Though,  partly  from  the 
irksomeness  of  dependence  upon  an  uncle  at 
once  generous  and  ungracious,  partly  from  a  dif- 
fident and  feeling  sense  of  his  own  inadequate 
pretensions  to  the  hand  of  Miss  Cameron,  and 
partly  from  the  prior  and  acknowledged  claims 
of  Lord  Vargrave — he  had  accepted,  half  in 
despair,  the  appointment  offered  to  him,  he 
still  found  it  impossible  to  banish  that  image 
which  had  been  the  first  to  engrave  upon 
ardent  and  fresh  affections  an  indelible  im- 
pression. He  secretly  chafed  at  the  thought 
that  it  was  to  a  fortunate  rival  that  he  owed 
the  independence  and  the  station  he  had 
acquired,  and  resolved  to  seize  an  early  op- 
portunity to  free  himself  from  obligations 
that  he  deeply  regretted  he  had  incurred.  At 
length,  he  learned  that  Lord  Vargrave  had 
been  refused — that  Evelyn  was  free;  and, 
within  a  few  days  from  that  intelligence, 
the  admiral  was  seized  with  apoplexy^and 
Legard  suddenly  found  himself  possessed,  if 
not  of  wealth,  at  least  of  a  competence  suffi- 
cient to  redeem  his  character  as  a  suitor  from 
the  suspicion  attached  to  a  fortune-hunter  and 
adventurer.    Despite  the  new  prospects  opened 


to  him  by  the  death  of  his  uncle,  and  despite 
the  surly  caprice  which  had  mingled  with  and 
alloyed  the  old  admiral's  kindness,  Legard  was 
greatly  shocked  by  his  death;  and  his  grate- 
ful and  gentle  nature  was  at  first  only  sensible 
to  grief  for  the  loss  he  had  sustained.  But 
when,  at  last,  recovering  from  his  sorrow, 
he  saw  Evelyn  disengaged  and  free,  and  him- 
self in  a  position  honorably  to  contest  her 
hand,  he  could  not  resist  the  sweet  and  pas- 
sionate hopes  that  broke  upon  him.  He  re- 
signed, as  we  have  seen,  his  official  appoint- 
ment, and  set  out  for  Paris.  He  reached  that 
city  a  day  or  two  after  the  arrival  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Doltimore.  He  found  the  former,  who 
had  not  forgotten  the  cautions  of  Vargrave,  at 
first  cold  and  distant;  but  partly  from  the 
indolent  habit  of  submitting  to  Legard's  dic- 
tates on  matters  of  taste,  partly  from  a  liking 
to  his  society,  and  principally  from  the  popu- 
lar suffrages  of  fashion,  which  had  always 
been  accorded  to  I^egard,  and  which  were  no- 
ways diminished  by  the  news  of  his  accession 
of  fortune — Lord  Doltimore,  weak  and  vain, 
speedily  yielded  to  the  influences  of  his  old 
associate,  and  Legard  became  quietly  installed 
as  the  enfant  de  la  maison.  Caroline  was  not 
in  this  instance  a  very  faithful  ally  to  Var- 
grave's  views  and  policy.  In  his  singular  liaison 
with  Lady  Doltimore,  the  crafty  manoeuvrer 
had  committed  the  vulgar  fault  of  intriguers; 
he  had  over-refined,  and  had  over-reached 
himself.  At  the  commencement  of  their 
strange  and  unprincipled  intimacy,  Vargrave 
had  had,  perhaps,  no  other  thought  than  that 
of  piquing  Evelyn,  consoling  his  vanity,  amus- 
ing his  ennui,  and  indulging  rather  his  propen- 
sities as  a  gallant,  than  promoting  his  more 
serious  objects  as  a  man  of  the  world.  By 
degrees,  and  especially  at  Knaresdean,  Var- 
grave himself  became  deep!}'  entangled,  by  an 
affair  that  he  had  never  l)efore  contemplated 
as  more  important  than  a  passing  diversion: — 
instead  of  securing  a  friend  to  assist  him  in 
his  designs  on  Evelyn,  he  suddenly  found  that 
he  had  obtained  a  mistress  anxious  for  his 
love,  and  jealous  of  his  homage.  With  his 
usual  promptitude  and  self-confidence,  he  was 
led  at  once  to  deliver  himself  of  all  the  ill 
consequences  of  his  rashness — to  get  rid  of 
Caroline  as  a  mistress — and  to  retain  her  as  a 
tool,  by  marrying  her  to  Lord  Doltimore.  By 
the  great  ascendancy  which  his  character  ac- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


341 


quired  over  her,  and  by  her  own  worldly  am- 
bition, he  succeeded  in  inducing  her  to  sacrifice 
all  romance  to  an  union  that  gave  her  rank  and 
fortune;  and  Vargrave  then  rested  satisfied, 
that  the  clever  wife  would  not  only  secure  him 
a  permanent  power  over  the  political  influence 
and  private  fortune  of  the  weak  husband,  but 
also  abet  his  designs  in  securing  at  alliance 
equally  desirable  for  himself.  Here  it  was  that 
Vargrave's  incapacity  to  understand  the  refine- 
ments and  scruples  of  a  woman's  affection  and 
nature,  however  guilty  the  one,  and  however 
worldly  the  other,  foiled  and  deceived  him. 
Caroline,  though  the  wife  of  another,  could  not 
contemplate,  without  anguish,  a  similar  bondage 
for  her  lover;  and,  having  something  of  the  bet- 
ter qualities  of  her  sex  still  left  to  her,  she 
recoiled  from  being  an  accomplice  in  arts  that 
were  to  drive  the  young,  inexperienced,  and 
guileless  creature  who  called  her  "  friend  "  in- 
to the  arms  of  a  man  who  openly  avowed  the 
most  mercenary  motives,  and  who  took  gods 
and  men  to  witness  that  his  heart  was  sacred 
to  another.  Only  in  Vargrave's  presence  were 
those  scruples  overmastered;  but  the  moment 
he  was  gone  they  returned  in  full  force:  she 
had  yielded,  from  positive  fear,  to  his  com- 
mands that  she  should  convey  Evelyn  to  Paris; 
but  she  trembled  to  think  of  the  vague  hints 
and  dark  menaces  that  Vargrave  had  let  fall 
as  to  ulterior  proceedings,  and  was  distracted 
at  the  thought  of  being  implicated  in  some 
villanous  or  rash  design.  When,  therefore, 
the  man  whose  rivalry  Vargrave  most  feared 
was  almost  established  at  her  house,  she  made 
but  a  feeble  resistance:  she  thought  that,  if 
Legard  should  become  a  welcome  and  ac- 
cepted suitor  before  Lumley  arrived,  the  lat- 
ter would  be  forced  to  forego  whatever  hopes 
he  yet  cherished,  and  that  she  shoukl  be  de- 
livered from  a  dilemma,  the  prospect  of  which 
da-unted  and  appalled  her.  Added  to  this, 
Caroline  was  now,  alas  !  sensible  that  a  fool  is 
not  so  easily  governed — her  resistance  to  an 
intimacy  with  Legard  would  have  been  of  lit- 
tle avail:  Doltimore,  in  these  matters,  had  an 
obstinnte  will  of  his  own;  and,  whatever  might 
once  hare  been  Caroline's  influence  over  her 
liege,  certain  it  is,  that  such  influence  had 
been  greatly  impaired  of  late  by  the  indul- 
gence of  a  temper,  always  irritable,  and  now 
daily  more  soured  by  regret,  remorse,  con- 
tempt for  her  husband,  and   the  melancholy 


discovery  that  fortune,  youth,  beauty,  and 
station,  are  no  talismans  against  misery. 

It  was  the  gayest  season  of  Paris;  and,  to 
escape  from  herself,  Caroline  plunged  eagerly 
into  the  vortex  of  its  dissipations.  If  Dolti- 
more's  heart  was  dissapointed,  his  vanity  was 
pleased  at  the  admiration  Caroline  excited; 
and  he  himself  was  of  an  age  and  temper  to 
share  in  the  pursuits  and  amusements  of  his 
wife.  Into  these  gaieties,  new  to  their  fasci- 
nation, dazzled  by  their  splendor,  the  young 
Evelyn  entered,  with  her  hostess;  and  ever  by 
her  side  was  the  unequalled  form  of  Legard. 
Each  of  them  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  each  of 
them  at  once  formed  to  please,  and  to  be 
pleased  by,  that  fair  Armida  which  we  call  the 
World,  there  was  necessarily,  a  certain  con- 
geniality in  their  views  and  sentiments,  their 
occupations  and  their  objects;  nor  was  there, 
io  all  that  brilliant  city,  one  more  calculated 
to  captivate  the  eye  and  fancy  than  George 
Legard.  But  still,  to  a  certain  degree,  diffi- 
dent and  fearful,  Legard  never  yet  spoke  of 
love;  nor  did  their  intimacy  at  this  time  ripen 
to  that  point  in  which  Evelyn  could  have  asked 
herself  if  there  were  danger  in  the  society  of 
Legard,  or  serious  meaning  in  his  obvious  ad- 
miration. Whether  that  melancholy,  to  which 
Lady  Vargrave  had  alluded  in  her  correspond- 
ence with  Lumley,  were  occasioned  by 
thoughts  connected  with  Maltravers,  or  unac- 
knowledged recollections  of  Legard,  it  remains 
for  the  acute  reader  himself  to  ascertain. 

The  Do'.timores  had  been  about  three  weeks 
in  Paris;  and,  for  a  fortnight  of  that  time, 
Legard  had  been  their  constant  guest,  and  half 
the  inmate  of  their  hotel;  when,  on  that  night 
which  has  been  commemorated  in  our  last 
book,  Maltravers  suddenly  once  more  beheld 
the  face  of  Evelyn,  and  in  the  same  hour 
learned  that  she  was  free;  he  quitted  Valerie's 
box:  with  a  burning  pulse  and  a  beating  heart, 
joy  and  surprise,  and  hope,  sparkling  in  his 
eyes,  and  brightening  his  whole  aspect,  he 
hastened  to  Evelyn's  side. 

It  was  at  this  time  Legard,  who  sat  behind 
Miss  Cameron,  unconscious  of  the  approach  of 
a  rival,  happened,  by  one  of  those  chances 
which  occur  jn  conversation,  to  mention  the 
name  of  Maltravers.  He  asked  Evelyn  if  she 
had  yet  met  him  ? 

"  What  !  is  he  then  in  Paris  ?  "  asked  Evelyn 
quickly.     "  I  heard,   indeed,"   she    continued. 


342 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"  that  he  left  Burleigh  for  Paris,  but  imagiued 
he  had  gone  on  to  Italy." 

"No,  he  is  still  here;  but  he  goes,  I  be- 
lieve, little  into  the  society  Lady  Doltimore 
chiefly  visits.  Is  he  one  of  your  favorites. 
Miss  Cameron  ? " 

There  was  a  slight  increase  of  color  in  Eve- 
lyn's beautiful  cheek,  as'  she  answered — 

"Is  it  possible  not  to  admire  and  be  inter- 
ested in  one  so  gifted  ?  " 

"  He  has  certainly  noble  and  fine  qualities," 
returned  Legard;  "but  I  cannot  feel  at  ease 
with  him;  a  coldness — a  hauteur — a  measured 
distance  of  manner — seem  to  forbid  even  es- 
teem. Yet  /ought  not  to  say  so,"  he  added, 
with  a  pang  of  self-reproach. 

"  No,  indeed,  you  ought  not  to  say  so,"  said 
Evelyn,  shaking  her  head  with  a  pretty  affec- 
tation of  anger;  "  for  I  know  that  you  pretend 
to  like  what  I  like,  and  admire  what  I  admir^; 
and  I  am  an  enthusiast  in  all  that  relates  to 
Mr.  Maltravers  ! " 

"  I  know  that  I  would  wish  to  see  all  things 
in  life  through  Miss  Cameron's  eyes,"  whis- 
pered Legard,  softly;  and  this  was  the  most 
meaning  speech  he  had  ever  yet  made. 

Evelyn  turned  away,  and  seemed  absorbed 
in  the  opera;  and  at  that  instant  the  door  of 
the  box  opened,  and  Maltravers  entered. 

In  her  open,  undisguised,  youthful  delight, 
at  seeing  him  again,  Maltravers  felt  indeed 
"  as  if  Paradise  were  opened  in  her  face."  In 
his  own  agitated  emotions,  he  scarcely  noticed 
that  Legard  had  risen  and  resigned  his  seat  to 
him:  he  availed  himself  of  the  civility,  greeted 
his  old  acquaintance  with  a  smile  and  bow, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  in  deep  converse 
with  Evelyn. 


Never  had  he  so  successfully  exerted  the 
singular,  the  master-fascination  that  he  could 
command  at  will — the  more  powerful,  from 
its  contrast  to  his  ordinary  coldness:  in  the 
very  expression  of  his  eyes — the  very  tone  of 
his  voice — there  was  that,  in  Maltravers,  seen 
at  his  happier  moments,  which  irresistibly  in- 
terested and  absorbed  your  attention:  he 
could  make  you  forget  everything  but  himself, 
and  the  rich,  easy,  yet  earnest  eloquence, 
which  gave  color  to  his  language  and  melody 
to  his  voice.  In  that  hour  of  renewed  inter- 
course with  one  who  had  at  first  awakened, 
if  not  her  heart,  at  least  her  imagination  and  her 
deeper  thoughts,  certain  it  is  that  even  Legard 
was  not  missed.  As  she  smiled  and  listened, 
Evelyn  dreamt  not  of  the  anguish  she  inflicted. 
Leaning  against  the  back  of  the  box,  Legard 
surveyed  the  absorbed  attention  of  Evelyn,  the 
adoring  eyes  of  Maltravers,  with  that  utter 
and  crushing  wretchedness  which  no  passion 
but  jealousy,  and  that  only  while  it  is  yet  a 
virgin  agony,  can  bestow !  He  had  never 
before  even  dreamt  of  rivalry  in  such  a  quar- 
ter; but  there  was  that  ineffable  instinct, 
which  lovers  have,  and  which  so  seldom  errs, 
that  told  him  at  once  that  in  Maltravers  was 
the  greatest  obstacle  and  peril  his  passion 
could  encounter.  He  waited  in  hopes  that 
Evelyn  would  take  the  occasion  to  turn  to 
him  at  least — when  the  fourth  act  closed.  She 
did  not;  and,  unable  to  constrain  his  emotions, 
and  reply  to  the  small-talk  of  Lord  Doltimore, 
he  abruptly  quitted  the  box. 

When  the  opera  was  over,  Maltravers  offered 
his  arm  to  Evelyn;  she  accepted  it,  and  then 
she  looked  round  for  Legard.     He  was  gone. 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


343 


BOOK    EIGHTH. 


O  Zei),  Ti  ^ov  5pa<rai  ^c|3ovA<v(ral  irepi  ; 

O  Fate  !    O  Heaven  !— what  have  ye  then  decreed  ? — Soph.  (.Ea.  Tyr.  724. 
'YPpis,  »  •  ♦ 

*  »  *  # 

OKpoTotTav  eiaavaPau'  6.n6ro}iov 
tiipovaiv  viv  €ts  afayKav.  —  Ihtd.  874. 

Insolent  pride  *  * 

»  •  «  » 

The  topmost  crag  of  the  great  precipice 
Surmounts— to  rush  to  ruin. 


CHAPTER    I. 

»       *        *    "  She  is  young,  wise,  fair, 

In  these  to  Nature  she's  immediate  heir. 

»  »  «  *  • 

*       *        *    "  Honors  best  thrive, 

When  rather  from  our  acts  we  them  derive 

Than  our  foregoers!  "—AlCs  Well  That  Ends  Well. 

Letter  from   Ernest  Maltravers   to    tlie   Hon. 
Erederick  Cleveland. 

"  EVEI.YN  is  free— she  is  in  Paris— I  have  seen  her — I 
see  her  daily. 

"  How  true  it  is  that  %ve  cannot  make  a  philosophy 
of  indifference!  The  affections  are  stronger  than  all 
our  reasonings.  We  must  take  them  into  our  alliance, 
or  they  will  destroy  all  our  theories  of  self-govern- 
ment. Such  fools  of  fate  are  we,  passing  from  system 
to  system — from  scheme  to  scheme — vainly  seeking  to 
shut  out  passion  and  sorrow— forgetting  that  they  are 
born  within  us — and  return  to  the  soul  as  the  seasons 
to  the  earth!  Yet, — years,  many  years  ago— when  I 
first  looked  gravely  into  my  own  nature  and  being 
here — when  I  first  awakened  to  the  dignity  and  solemn 
resposibilities  of  human  life — I  had  resolved  to  curb 
and  tame  myself  into  a  thing  of  rule  and  measure. 
Bearing  within  me  the  wound  scarred  over  but  never 
healed — the  consciousness  of  wrong  to  the  heart  that 
had  leaned  upon  me — haunted  by  the  mournful  mem- 
ory of  my  lost  Alice — I  shuddered  at  new  affections 
bequeathing  new  griefs.  Wrapped  in  a  haughty  ego- 
tism. I  wished  not  to  extend  my  empire  over  a  wider 
circuit  than  my  own  intellect  and  passions.  I  turned 
from  the  trader-covetousness  of  bliss,  that  would 
freight  the  wealth  of  life  upon  barks  exposed  to  every 
wind  upon  the  seas  of  Fate — I  was  contented  with  the 
hope  to  pass  life  alone,  honored,  though  unloved. 
Slowly  and  reluctantly  I  yielded  to  the  fascinations  of 
Florence  Lascelles.  The  hour  that  sealed  the  com- 
pact between  us  was  one  of  regret  and  alarm.  In  vain 
I  sought  to  deceive  myself — I  felt  that  I  did  not  love. 
And  then  I  imagined  that  Love  was  no  longer  in  my 
nature — that  I  had  exhausted  its  treasures  before  my 
time,  and  left  my  heart  a  bankrupt.  Not  till  the  last — 
not  till  that  glorious  soul-  broke  out  in  all  its  bright- 
ness, the  nearer  it  approached  the  source  to  which  it 
has  returned— did  I  feel  of  what  tenderness  she  was 
worthy  and  I  was  capable.  She  died,  and  the  world 
was  darkened!  Energy — ambition — my  former  aims 
and  objects — were  all  sacrificed  at  her  tomb.  But 
amidst   ruins  and  through  the  darkness,  my  soul  yet 


supported  me;  I  could  no  longer  hope,  but  I  could  en- 
dure. I  was  resolved  that  I  would  not  be  subdued, 
and  that  the  world  should  not  hear  me  groan.  Amidst 
strange  and  far-distant  scenes— amidst  hordes  to  whom 
my  very  language  was  unknown — in  wastes  and  forests 
which  the  step  of  civilized  man,  with  his  sorrows  and 
his  dreams,  had  never  trodden — I  wrestled  with  my 
soul,  as  the  patriarch  of  old  wrestled  with  the  angel — 
and  the  angel  was  at  last  the  victor!  You  do  not  mis- 
take me — you  know  that  it  was  not  the  death  of  Flor- 
eni,e  alone  that  worked  in  me  that  awful  revolution, 
but  with  that  death  the  last  glory  fled  from  the  face  of 
things,  that  had  seemed  to  me  beautiful  of  old.  Hers 
was  a  love  that  accompanied  and  dignified  the  schemes 
and  aspirations  of  manhood — a  love  that  was  an  incar- 
nation of  ambition  itself;  and  all  the  evils  and  disap- 
pointments that  belong  to  ambition  seemed  to  crowd 
around  my  heart  like  vultures  to  a  feast,  allured  and 
invited  by  the  dead.  But  this  at  length  was  over;  the 
barbarous  state  restored  me  to  the  civilized.  I  re- 
turned to  my  equals,  prepared  no  more  to  be  an  actor 
in  the  strife,  but  a  calm  spectator  of  the  turbulent 
arena.  I  once  more  laid  my  head  beneath  the  roof  of 
my  fathers;  and,  if  without  any  clear  and  definite  ob- 
ject, I  at  least  hoped  to  find  amidst  '  my  old  hereditary 
trees' the  charm  of  contemplation  and  repose.  And 
scarce — in  the  first  hours  of  my  arrival — had  I  indulged 
that  dream,  when  a  fair  face,  a  sweet  voice,  that  had 
once  before  left  deep  and  unobliterated  impressions  on 
my  heart,  scattered  all  my  philosophy  to  the  winds.  I 
saw  Evelyn !  and  if  ever  there  Was  love  at  first  sight, 
it  was  that  which  I  felt  for  her:  I  lived  in  her  presence, 
and  forgot  the  Future!  Or,  rather,  I  was  with  the 
Past— in  the  bowers  of  my  spring-tide  of  life  and  hope! 
It  was  an  after-birth  of  youth — my  love  for  that  young 
, heart  ! 

"  It  is,  indeed,  only  in  maturity  that  we  know  how 
lovely  were  our  earliest  years!  What  depth  of  wisdom 
in  the  old  Greek  myth,  that  allotted  Hebe  as  the  prize 
to  the  God  who  had  been  the  Arch-Laborer  of  life-! 
and  whom  the  satiety  of  all  that  results  from  experi- 
ence, had  made  enamoured  of  all  that  belongs  to  the 
Hopeful  and  the  New  ! 

"  This  enchanting  child— this  delightful  Evelyn— 
this  ray  of  undreamt-of  sunshine— smiled  away  all  my 
palaces  of  ice !  I  loved,  Cleveland — I  loved  more  ar- 
dently, more  passionately,  more  wildly  than  ever  I  did 
of  old !  But  suddenly  I  learned  that  she  was  affianced 
to  another,  and  felt  it  was  not  for  me  to  question,  to 
seek  the  annulment  of,  the  bond.  I  had  been  un- 
worthy to  love  Evelyn,  if  I  had  not  loved  Honor  more! 


344 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


I   fled  from  her  presence,  honestly  and  resolutely;  I  | 
sought  to  conquer  a  forbidden  passion ;  I  believed  that  i 
I   had  not  won  affection   in  return;  I  believed,  from  j 
certain  expressions  that   I   everheard  Evelyn  utter  to 
another,  that  her  heart  as  well  as  her  hand,  was  given  | 
to  Vargrave.     I  came  hither;  you  know  how  sternly 
and  resolutely  I  strove  to  eradicate  a   weakness  that 
seemed  without  even  the  justification  of  hopel    If  I 
suffered,    I   betrayed   it   not.      Suddenly    Evelyn    ap- 
peared again  before  me! — and  suddenly  I  learned  that 
she  was  free!    Oh,  the  rapture  of  that  moment!   Could 
you  have  seen  her  bright  face,  her  enchanting  smile, 
when  we  met  again !     Her  ingenuous  innocence  did  not 
conceal   her    gladness    at    seeing    me!      What    hopes 
broke  upon  me!     Despite  the  difference  of  our  years,  I 
think  she  loves  me!  that  in  that  love  I  am  about  at 
last  to  learn  what  blessings  there  are  in  life ! 

"  Evelyn  has  the  simplicity,  the  tenderness,  of  Alice, 
with  the  refinement  and  culture  of  Florence  herself; 
not  the  genius — not  the  daring  spirit — not  the  almost 
fearful  brilliancy  of  that  ill-fated  being — but  with  a 
taste  as  true  to  the  Beautiful,  with  a  soul  as  sensitive 
to  the  Sublime  !  In  Evelyn's  presence  I  feel  a  sense 
of  peace,  of  security,  of  home!  Happy!  thrice  happy! 
he  who  will  take  her  to  his  breast!  Of  late  she  has  as- 
sumed a  new  charm  in  my  eyes — a  certain  pensiveness 
and  abstraction  have  succeeded  to  her  wonted  gaiety. 
Ah!  Love  is  pensive;  is  it  not,  Cleveland?  How  often 
I  ask  myself  that  question!  And  yet,  amidst  all  my 
hopes,  there  are  hours  when  I  tremble  and  despond  ! 
How  can  that  innocent  and  joyous  spirit  sympathize 
with  all  that  mine  has  endured  and  known?  How, 
even  though  her  imagination  be  dazzled  by  some 
prestige  around  my  name,  how  can  I  believe  that  1 
have  awakened  her  heart  to  that  deep  and  real  love  of 
which  it  is  capable,  and  which  youth  excites  in  youth  ? 
When  we  meet  at  her  home,  or  amidst  the  quiet  yet 
brilliant  society  which  is  gathered  round  Madame  de 
Ventadour  or  ';he  De  Montaignes,  with  whom  she  is  an 
especial  favorite — when  we  converse — when  I  sit  by 
her,  and  her  soft  eyes  meet  mine — X  feel  not  the  dis- 
parity of  years;  my  heart  speaks  to  her,  and  that  is 
youthful  still!  But  in  the  more  gay  and  crowded 
haunts  to  which  her  presence  allures  me,  when  I  see 
that  fairy  form  surrounded  by  those  who  have  not  out- 
lived the  pleasures  that  so  naturally  dazzle  and  capti- 
vate her — then,  indeed,  I  feel  that  my  tastes,  my 
habits,  my  pursuits,  belong  to  another  season  of  life, 
and  ask  myself  anxiously,  if  my  nature  and  ray  years 
are  those  that  can  make  her  happy  ?  Then,  indeed, 
I  recognize  the  wide  interval  that  time  and  trial  place 
between  one  whom  the  world  has  wearied,  and  one  for 
whom  the  world  is  new.  If  she  should  discover  here- 
after that  youth  should  love  only  youth,  my  bitterest 
anguish  would  be  that  of  femorse  !  I  know  how 
deeply  I  love,  by  knowing  how  immeasurably  dearer 
her  happiness  is  than  my  own!  I  will  wait,  then,  yet 
awhile — I  will  examine— I  will  watch  well  that  I  do 
not  deceive  myself.  As  yet,  I  think  that  I  have  no 
rivals  whom  I  need  fear:  surrounded  as  she  is  by  the 
youngest  and  the  gayest,  she  still  turns  with  evident 
pleasure  to  me,  whom  she  calls  her  friend.  She  will 
forego  even  the  amusements  she  most  loves,  for 
society  in  which  we  can  converse  more  at  ease.  You 
remember,  for  instance,  young  Legard  ?— he  is  here; 
and  before  I  met  Evelyn,  was  much  at  Lady  Dolti- 
raore's  house.  I  cannot  be  blind  to  his  superior  ad- 
vantages of  youth  and  person;  and  there  is  something 
striking  and   prepossessing  in  the  gentle  yet  manly 


frankness  of  his  manner; — and  yet  no  fear  of  his  rivaL 
ship  ever  haunts  me.  True,  that  of  late  he  ha-s  been 
little  in  Evelyn's  society;  nor  do  I  think,  m  the  frivolity 
of  his  pursuits,  he  can  have  educated  his  mind  to  ap- 
preciate Evelyn,  or  be  possessed  of  those  qualities 
which  would  render  him  worthy  of  her.  But  there  is 
something  good  in  the  young  man,  despite  his  foibles 
— something  that  wins  upon  me;  and  you  will  smile  to 
learn,  that  he  has  even  surprised  from  we— usually  so 
reserved  on  such  matters— the  confession  of  my  at- 
tachment and  hopes!  Evelyn  often  talks  to  me  of  her 
mother,  and  describes  her  in  colors  so  glowing,  that  I 
feel  the  greatest  interest  in  one  who  has  helped  to  form 
so  beautiful  and  pure  a  mind.  Can  you  learn  who 
Lady  Vargrave  was? — there  is  evidently  some  mystery 
thrown  over  her  birth  and  connections;  and,  from  what 
I  can  hear,  this  arises  from  their  lowliness.  You  know 
that,  though  I  have  been  accused  of  family  pride,  it  is 
a  pride  of  a  peculiar  sort.  I  am  proud,  not  of  the 
length  of  a  mouldering  pedigree,  but  of  some  histori- 
cal quarterings  in  my  escutcheon — of  some  blood  of 
scholars  and  of  heroes  that  rolls  in  my  veins;  it  is  the 
same  kind  of  pride  that  an  Englishman  may  feel  in 
belonging  to  a  country  that  has  produced  Shakespeare 
and  Bacon.  I  have  never,  I  hope,  felt  the  vulgar 
pride  that  disdains  want  of  birth  in  others;  and  I  care 
not  three  straws  whether  my  friend  or  my  wife  be  de- 
scended from  a  king  or  a  peasant.  It  is  myself,  and 
not  my  connections,  who  alone  can  disgrace  my  lineage; 
therefore,  however  humble  Lady  Vargrave's  parentage, 
do  not  scruple  to  inform  me,  should  you  learn  any  in- 
telligence that  bears  upon  it. 

"  I  had  a  conversation  last  night  with  Evelyn,  that 
delighted  me.  By  some  accident  we  spoke  of  Lord 
Vargrave;  and  she  told  me,  with  an  enchantmg  can- 
dor, of  the  position  in  which  she  stood  with  him,  and 
the  conscientious  and  noble  scruples  she  felt  as  to  the 
enjoyment  of  a  fortune,  which  her  benefactor  and 
step-father  had  evidently  intended  to  be  shared  with 
his  nearest  relative.  In  these  scruples  I  cordially  con- 
curred; and  if  I  marry  Evelyn,  my  first  care  will  be  to 
carry  them  into  effect — by  securing  to  Vargrave,  as  far 
as  the  law  may  permit,  the  larger  part  of  the  income — 
I  should  like  to  say  all — at  least  till  Evelyn's  children 
would  have  the  right  to  claim  it:  a  right  not  to  be  en- 
forced during  her  own,  and,  therefore,  probably  not 
during  Vargrave's  life.  I  own  that  this  would  be  no 
sacrifice,  for  I  am  proud  enough  to  recoil  from  the 
thought  of  being  indebted  for  fortune  to  the  woman 
I  love.  It  was  that  kind  of  pride  which  gave  coldness 
and  constraint  to  my  regard  for  Florence:  and  for  the 
rest,  my  own  property  (much  increased  by  the  sim- 
plicity of  my  habits  of  life  for  the  last  few  years)  will 
suffice  for  all  Evelyn  or  myself  could  require.  Ah! 
madman,  that  I  am  ! — 1  calculate  already  on  marriage, 
even  while  I  have  so  much  cause  for  anxiety  as  to  love. 
But  my  heart  beats— my  heart  has  grown  a  dial,  that 
keeps  the  account  of  time;  by  its  movements  I  calcu- 
late  the  moments — in  an  hour  I  shall  see  her  ! 

"  Oh!— never! — never!  in  my  wildest  and  earliest 
visions,  could  I  have  fancied  that  I  should  love  as  I  love 
now!  Adieu,  my  oldest  and  kindest  friend!  If  I  am 
happy  at  last,  it  will  be  something  to  feel  that  at  last  i 
shall  have  satisfied  your  expectations  of  my  youth. 
"  Affectionately  yours. 


'  E.  Maltravers.' 


'  Rue  de ,  Paris, 

January  — ,  i8 — ." 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


345 


CHAPTER    II. 

•  *  *    '■  In  her  youth 

There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect — 
Such  as  moves  men." — Measure  for  Measure. 

"  Abbess.     Haply  in  private — 
Adriana.    And  in  assemblies  too." 

— Comedy  of  Errors. 

It  was  true,  as  Maltravers  had  stated,  that 
Legard  had  of  late  been  little  at  Lady  Uolti- 
more's,  or  in  the  same  society  as  Evelyn. 
With  the  vehemence  of  an  ardent  and  pas- 
sionate nature,  he  yielded  to  the  jealous  rage 
and  grief  that  devoured  him.  He  saw  too 
clearly,  and  from  the  first,  that  Maltravers 
adored  Evelyn;  and,  in  her  familiar  kindness 
of  manner  towards  him,  in  -the  unlimited 
veneration  in  which  she  appeared  to  hold  his 
gifts  and  qualities,  he  though  that  that  love 
might  become  reciprocal.  He  became  gloomy 
and  almost  morose; — he  shunned  Evelyn — he 
forbore  to  enter  into  the  lists  against  his  rival. 
Perhaps  the  intellectual  superiority  of  Mal- 
travers— the  extraordinary  conversational  bril- 
liancy that  he  could  display  when  he  pleased 
— the  commanding  dignity  of  his  manners — 
even  the  matured  authority  of  his  reputation 
and  years,  might  have  served  to  awe  the  hopes, 
as  well  as  to  wound  the  vanity,  of  a  man  ac- 
customed himself  to  be  the  oracle  of  a  circle. 
These  might  have  strongly  influenced  Legard 
in  withdrawing  himself  from  Evelyn's  society; 
but  there  was  one  circumstance,  connected 
with  motives  much  more  generous,  that  mainly 
determined  his  conduct.  It  happened  that 
Maltravers,  shortly  after  his  first  interview 
with  Evelyn,  was  riding  alone  one  day,  in  the 
more  sequestered  part  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
when  he  encountered  Legard,  also  alone,  and 
on  horseback.  The  latter,  on  succeeding  to 
his  uncle's  fortune,  had  taken  care  to  repay 
his  debt  to  Maltravers;  he  had  done  so  in  a 
short,  but  feeling  and  grateful  letter,  which 
had  been  forwarded  to  Maltravers  at  Paris, 
and  which  pleased  and  touched  him.  Since 
that  time  he  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  young 
man,  and  now,  meeting  him  at  Paris,  he 
sought,  to  a  certain  extent,  Legard' s  more  in- 
timate acquaintance.  Maltravers  was  in  the 
happy  mood,  when  we  are  inclined  to  be 
friends  with  all  men.  It  is  true,  however,  that 
though  unknown  to  himself,  that  pride  of 
bearing,  which  often  gave  to  the  very  virtues 


of  Maltravers  an  unamiable  aspect  occasionally 
irritated  one  who  felt  he  had  incurred  to  him 
an  obligation  of  honor  and  of  life,  never  to  be 
effaced;  it  made  the  sense  of  this  obligation 
more  intolerable  to  Legard;  it  made  him  more 
desirous  to  acquit  himself  of  the  charge.  But, 
on  this  day,  there  was  so  much  cordiality  in 
the  greeting  of  Maltravers,  and  he  pressed 
Legard  in  so  friendly  a  manner  to  join  him  in 
his  ride,  that  the  young  man's  heart  was  soft- 
ened, and  they  rode  together,  conversing 
familiarly  on  such  topics  as  were  in  common 
between  them.  At  last  the  conversation  fell 
on  Lord  and  Lady  Doltimore;  and  thence 
Maltravers,  who  soul  was  full  of  otie  thought, 
turned  it  indirectly  towards  Evelyn. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Lady  Vargrave  ? " 

"  Never,"  replied  Legard,  looking  another 
way;  "but  Lady  Doltimore  says  she  is  as 
beautiful  as  Evelyn  herself,  if  that  be  possible; 
and  still  so  young  in  form  and  countenance, 
that  she  looks  rather  like  her  sister  than  her 
mother  !  " 

"  How  I  should  like  to  know  her  !  "  said  Mal- 
travers, with  a  sudden  energy. 

Legard  changed  the  subject.  He  spoke  of 
the  Carnival — of  balls — of  masquerades — of 
operas — of  reigning  beauties  ! 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Maltravers,  with  a  half  sigh, 
"  yours  is  the  age  for  those  dazzling  pleas- 
ures; to  me   they  are 'the  twice-told  tale." 

Maltravers  meant  it  not,  but  this  remark 
chafed  Legard.  He  thought  it  conveyed  a 
sarcasm  on  the  childishness  of  his  own  mind, 
or  the  levity  of  his  pursuits;  his  color  mounted, 
as  he  replied, 

'"  It  is  not,  I  fear,  the  slight  difference  of 
years  between  us,  it  is  the  difference  of  in- 
tellect you  would  insinuate;  but  you  should 
remember  all  men  have  not  your  resources; 
all  men  cannot  pretend  to  genius  !  " 

"  My  dear  Legard,"  said  Maltravers,  kindly, 
"  do  not  fancy  that  I  could  have  designed  any 
insinuation  half  so  presumptuous  and  imperti- 
nent. Believe  me,  I  envy  you,  sincerely  and 
sadly,  all  those  faculties  of  enjoyment  which  I 
have  worn  away.  Oh,  how  I  envy  ypu  !  for, 
were  they  still  mine,  then — then,  indeed,  I 
might  hope  to  mould  myself  into  greater  con- 
geniality with  the  beautiful  and  the  young  !  " 

Maltravers  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed 
with  a  grave  smile:  "  I  trust  Legard,  that  you 
will  be  wiser  than  I  have  been;  that  you  will 


346 


B  UL  WER'  S     WO  HAS. 


gather  your  roses  while  it  is  yet  May:  and 
that  you  will  not  live  to  thirty-six,  pining  for 
happiness  and  home,  a  disappointed  and  deso- 
late man;  till,  when  your  ideal  is  at  last  found, 
you  shrink  back  appalled,  to  discover  that  you 
have  lost  none  of  the  tendencies  to  love,  but 
many  of  the  graces  by  which  love  is  to  be 
allured  ! " 

There  was  so  much  serious  and  earnest  feel- 
ing in  these  words,  that  they  went  home  at 
once  to  Legard's  sympathies.  He  felt  irre- 
sistibly impelled  to  le'arn  the  worst. 

"  Maltravers  ! "  said  he,  in  a  hurried  tone, 
"  it  would  be  an  idle  compliment  to  say  that 
you  are  not  likely  to  love  in  vain:  perhaps  it 
is  indelicate  in  me  to  apply  a  general  remark; 
and  yet — yet  I  cannot  but  fancy  that  I  have 
discovered  your  secret,  and  that  you  are  not 
insensible  to  the  charms  of  Miss  Cameron  ! " 

"  Legard  ! "  said  Maltravers, — and  so  strong 
was  his  fervent  attachment  to  Evelyn,  that  it 
swept  away  all  his  natural  coldness  and  reserve 
— "  I  tell  you  plainly  and  frankly,  that  in  my 
love  for  Evelyn  Cameron  lie  the  last  hopes  I 
have  in  life.  I  have  no  thought,  no  ambition, 
no  sentiment  that  is  not  vowed  to  her.  If  my 
love  should  be  unreturned, — I  may  strive  to 
endure  the  blow — I  may  mix  with  the  world — 
I  may  seem  to  occupy  myself  in  the  aims  of 
others — but  my  heart  will  be  broken  I  Let  us 
talk  of  this  no  more — you  have  surprised  my 
secret,  though  it  must  have  betrayed  itself. 
Learn  from  me  how  preternaturally  strong — 
how  generally  fatal— is  love  deferred  to  that 
day  when— in  the  stern  growth  of  all  the  feel- 
ings— love.writes  itself  on  granite  !  " 

Maltravers,  as  if  impatient  of  his  own  weak- 
ness, put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  they  rode  on 
rapidly  for  some  time  without  speaking. 

That  silence  was  employed  by  Legard  in 
meditating  over  all  he  had  heard  and  wit- 
nessed— in  recalling  all  that  he  owed  to  Mal- 
travers; and  before  that  silence  was  broken 
the  young  man  nobly  resolved  not  even  to  at- 
tempt, not  even  to  hope,  a  rivalry  with  Mal- 
travers; to  forego  all  the  expectations  he  had 
so  fondly  nursed — to  absent  himself  from  the 
company  of  Evelyn — to  requite  faithfully  and 
firmly  that  act  of  generosity  to  which  he  owed 
the  preservation  of  his  life — the  redemption  of 
his  honor  ! 

Agreeably  to  this  determination,  he  aii- 
stained   from  visiting  those  haunts  in  which 


Evelyn  shone;  and  if  accident  brought  them 
together,  his  manner  was  embarrasssed  and 
abrupt.  She  wondered — at  last,  perhaps,  she 
resented — it  may  be  that  she  grieved;  forcer- 
tain  it  is  that  Maltravers  was  right  in  thinking 
that  her  manner  had  lost  the  gaiety  that  dis- 
tinguished it  at  Merton  Rectory.  But  still  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  Evelyn  had  seen 
enough  of  Legard,  and  whether  her  fancy  and 
romance  were  still  sufficiently  free  from  the 
magical  influences  of  the  genius  that  called 
them  forth  in  the  eloquent  homage  of  Mal- 
travers, to  trace,  herself,  to  any  causes  con- 
nected with  her  younger  lover,  the  listless 
melancholy  that  crept  over  her.  In  very 
young  women — new  alike  to  the  world  and  the 
knowledge  of 'themselves — many  vague  and 
undefined  feelings  herald  the  dawn  of  Love; 
shade  after  shade,  and  light  upon  light  suc- 
ceeds, before  the  sun  breaks  forth,  and  the 
earth  awakens  to  his  presence. 

It  was  one  evening  that  Legard  had  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  led  into  a  party  at  the 

ambassador's,  and  there,  as  he  stood  by  the 
door,  he  saw,  at  a  little  distance,  Maltravers 
conversing  with  Evelyn.  Again  he  writhed 
beneath  the  tortues  of  his  jealous  anguish; 
and  there,  as  he  gazed  and  suffered,  he  re- 
solved (as  Maltravers  had  done  before  him) 
a  fly  from  the  place  that  had  a  little  while  ago 
seemed  to  him  Elysium  !  He  would  quit 
Paris,  he  would  travel — he  would  not  see  Eve- 
lyn again  till  the  irrevocable  barrier  was 
passed,  and  she  was  the  wife  of  Maltravers  ! 
In  the  first  heat  of  this  determination,  he 
turned  towards  some  young  men  standing 
near  him, — one  of  whom  was  about  to  visit 
Vienna.  He  gaily  proposed  to  join  him — a 
proposal  readily  accepted,  and  began  convers- 
ing on  the  journey,  the  city,  its  splendid  and 
proud  society,  with  all  that  cruel  exhilaration 
which  the  forced  spirits  of  a  stricken  heart  can 
alone  display,  when  Evelyn  (whose  conference 
with  Maltravers  was  ended)  passed  close  by 
him.  She  was  leaning  on  Lady  Doltimore's 
arm,  and  the  admiring  murmur  of  his.  com- 
panions caused  Legard  to  turn  suddenly 
round. 

"  You  are  not  dancing  to-night,  Colonel 
Legard,"  said  Caroline,  glancing  towards  Eve- 
lyn. "The  more  the  season  for  balls  ad- 
vances, the  more  indolent  you  become." 

Legard  muttered  a  confused  reply,  one-half 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


347 


tleman.     After  all  her  experience  in  angling, 
it  is  odd  that  she  should   still  only  throw  in 


of  which  seemed  petulant,  while  the  other  half 
was  inaudible. 

"  Not  so  indolent  as  you  suppose,"  said  his 
friend:  "Legard  meditates  an  excursion  suf- 
ficient, I  hope,  to  redeem  his  character  in  your 
eyes.  It  is  a  long  journey,  and,  what  is  worse, 
a  very  cold  journey,  to  Vienna." 

"  Vienna  ! — do  you  think  of  going  to 
Vienna  ?  "  cried  Caroline. 

'  Yes,"  said  Legard.  "  I  hate  Paris,  any 
place  better  than  this  odious  city  !  "  and  he 
moved  away. 

Evelyn's  eyes  followed  him  sadly  and 
gravely.  She  remained  by  Lady  Doltimore's 
side,  abstracted  and  silent  for  several  minutes. 
Meanwhile  Caroline,  turning  to  Lord  Devon- 
port  (the  friend  who  had  proposed  the  Vien- 
nese e.\cursion),  said,  "It  is  cruel  in  you  to 
go  to  Vienna, — it  is  doubly  cruel  to  rob  Lord 
Doltimore  of  his  best  friend,  and  Paris  of  its 
best  waltzer." 

"Oh,  it  is  a  voluntary  offer  of  Legard's, 
Lady  Doltimore, — believe  me,  I  have  used  no 
persuasive  arts.  But  the  fact  is,  that  we  have 
been  talking  of  a  fair  widow,  the  beauty  of 
Austria,  and  as  proud  and  as  unassailable  as 
Ehrenbreitstein  itself.  Legard's  vanity  is 
piqued,— and  so— as  a  professed  lady-killer — 
he  intends  to  see  what  can  be  effected  by  the 
handsomest  Englishman  of  his  time." 

Caroline  laughed,— and  new  claimants  on 
her  notice  succeeded  to  Lord  Devonport.  It 
was  not  till  the  ladies  were  waiting  their  car- 
riage in  the  shawl-room,  that  Lady  Doltimore 
noticed  the  paleness  and  thoughtful  brow  of 
Evelyn. 

"  Are  you  fatigued  or  unwell,  dear  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  No,"  answered  Evelyn,  forcing  a  smile,— 
and  at  that  moment  they  were  joined  by  Mal- 
travers,  with  the  intelligence  that  it  would  be 
some  minutes  before  the  carriage  could  draw 
up.  Caroline  amused  herself  in  the  interval, 
by  shrewd  criticisms  on  the  dresses  and  char- 
acters of  her  various  friends.  Caroline  had 
grown  an  amazing  prude  in  her  judgment  of 
others  ! 

"  What  a  turban  !— prudent  for  Mrs.  A 

to  wear— bright  red:  it  puts  out  her  face,  as 
the  sun  puts  out  the  fire.  Mr.  Maltravers,  do 
observe  Lady  B with  that  wrj  young  gen- 


for  small  fish.  Pray,  why  is  the  marriage  be- 
tween   Lady   C D and  Mr.    F 

broken  off?  Is  it  true  that  he  is  so  much  in 
debt  ? — and  is  so  very — very  profligate  ?  They 
say  she  is  heart-broken." 

"  Really,  Lady  Doltimore,"  said  Maltravers, 
smiling,  "I  am  but   a  bad   scandal-monger. 

But  poor  F is  not,  I  believe,  much  worse 

than  others.  How  do  we  know  whose  fault  it 
is    when   a  marriage   is   broken   off?     Lady 


C- 


D- 


heart-broken  !  — what  an  idea  ! 
Nowadays  there  is  never  any  affection  in  com- 
pacts of  that  sort;  and  the  chain  that  binds 
the  frivolous  nature  is  but  a  gossamer  thread. 
Fine  gentlemen  and  fine  ladies  ! — their  loves 
and  their  marriages 

'  May  flourish  and  may  fade— 
A  breath  may  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made.' 

Never  believe  that  a  heart  long  accustomed  to 
beat  only  in  good  society  can  be  broken — it  is 
rarely  even  touched  !  " 

Evelyn  listened  attentively,  and  seemed 
struck.  She  sighed,  and  said  in  a  very  low 
voice,  as  to  herself,  "  It  is  true — how  could  I 
think  otherwise  ?  " 

For  the  next  few  days,  Evelyn  was  unwell, 
and  did  not  quit  her  room.  Maltravers  was 
in  despair.  The  flowers — the  books — the 
music  he  sent — his  anxious  inquiries,  his  ear- 
nest and  respectful  notes — touched  with  that 
ineffable  charm  which  Heart  and  Intellect 
breathe  into  the  most  trifling  coinage  from 
their  mint — all  affected  Evelyn  sensibly;— 
perhaps  she  contrasted  them  with  Legard's  in- 
difference and  apparent  caprice;— perhaps  in 
that  contrast,  Maltravers  gained  more  than  by 
all  his  brilliant  qualities.  Meanwhile,  without 
visit — without  message — without  farewell — 
unconscious,  it  is  true,  of  Evelyn's  illness, — 
Legard  departed  for  Vienna. 


CHAPTER  in. 

'  A  pleasing  land  »  «  « 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye, 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flashing  round  a  summer  sky." 

—Thomson. 


Daily — hourly — increased  the  influence  of 
Evelyn  over  Maltravers.  Oh,  what  a  dupe  is 
a   man's   pride  .'—what   a    fool    his   wisdom  ! 


J4S 


BUL  IVIUi'S     WORKS. 


That  a  girl — a  mere  child, — one  who  scarce 
knew  her  own  heart — beautiful  as  it  was, — 
whose  deeper  feelings  still  lay  coiled  up  in 
their  sweet  buds, —that  she  should  thus  master 
this  proud,  wise  man  !  But  as  thou — our 
universal  teacher — as  thou,  O  Shakespeare  ! 
haply  speaking  from  the  hints  of  thine  own 
experience— hast  declared — 

"  None  are  so  tiuly  caught,  when  they  are  catch'd, 
As  wit  turned  fool;— folly  in  wisdom  hatched, 
Hath  wisdom's  warrant." 

Still,  methinks  that,  in  that  surpassing  and 
dangerously  indulged  affection  which  levelled 
thee,  Maltravers,  with  the  weakest,  which  over- 
turned all  thy  fine  philosophy  of  Stoicism, 
and  made  thee  the  veriest  slave  of  the  "  Rose- 
Garden," — still,  Maltravers,  thou  mightst,  at 
least,  have  seen  that  thou  hadst  lost  for  ever 
all  right  to  pride,  all  privilege  to  disdain  the 
herd  !  But  thou  wert  proud  of  thine  own  in- 
firmity !  And  far  sharper  must  be  that  lesson 
which  can  teach  thee  that  Pride — thine  angel 
— is  ever  pre-doomed  to  fall  ! 

What  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  passions 
are  strongest  in  youth  !  The  passions  are  not 
stronger,  but  the  control  over  them  is  weaker. 
They  are  more  easily  excited — they  are  more 
violent  and  more  apparent, — but  they  have  less 
energy,  less  durability,  less  intense  and  con- 
centrated power,  than  in  maturer  life.  In 
youth,  passion  succeeds  to  passion,  and  one 
breaks  upon  the  other,  as  waves  upon  a  rock, 
till  the  heart  frets  itself  to  repose.  In  man- 
hood, the  great  deep  flows  on,  more  calm,  but 
more  profound,  its  serenity  is  the  proof  of  the 
might  and  terror  of  its  course,  were  the  wind 
to  blow  and  the  storm  to  rise. 

A  young  man's  ambition  is  but  vanity, — it 
has  no  definite  aim, — it  plays  with  a  thousand 
toys.  As  with  one  passion,  so  with  the  rest. 
In  youth,  love  is  ever  on  the  wing,  but,  like  the 
birds  in  April,  it  hath  not  yet  built  its  nest. 
With  so  long  a  career  of  summer  and  bope  be- 
fore it,  the  disappointment  of  to-day  is  suc- 
ceeded by  the  novelty  of  to-inorrow,  and  the 
sun  that  advances  to  the  noon  but  dries  up  its 
fervent  tears.  But  when  we  have  arrived  at 
that  epoch  of  life, — when  if  the  light  fail  us,  if 
the  last  rose  wither,  we  feel  that  the  loss  can- 
not be  retrieved,  and  that  the  frost  and  the 
darkness  are  at  hand,  Love  becomes  to  us  a 
a  treasure  that  we  watch  over  and  hoard   with 


a  miser's  care  Our  youngest-born  aflfection 
is  our  darling  and  our  idol,  the  fondest  pledge 
of  the  Past,  the  most  cherished  of  our  hopes 
for  the  Future.  A  certain  melancholy  that 
mingles  with  our  joy  at  the  possession  only 
enhances  its  charm.  We  feel  ourselves  so  de- 
pendent on  it  for  all  that  is  yet  to  come.  Our 
other  barks — our  gay  galleys  of  pleasure — our 
stately  argosies  of  pride — have  been  swallowed 
up  by  the  remorseless  wave.  On  this  last  ves- 
sel we  freight  our  all — to  its  frail  tenement 
we  commit  ourselves.  The  star  that  guides  it 
is  our  guide,  and  in  the  tempest  that  menaces 
we  behold  our  own  doom  ! 

Still  Maltravers  shrank  from  the  confession 
that  trembled  on  his  lips — still  he  adhered  to 
the  course  he  had  prescribed  to  himself.  If 
ever  (as  he  had  implied  in  his  letter  to  Cleve- 
land)—if  ever  Evelyn  should  discover  they 
were  not  suited  to  each  other  !  The  possi- 
bility of  such  an  affliction  impressed  his 
judgment — the  dread  of  it  chilled  his  heart ! 
With  all  his  pride,  there  was  a  certain  humility 
in  Maltravers  that  was  perhaps  one  cause  of 
his  reserve.  He  knew  what  a  beautifnl  pos- 
session is  youth— its  sanguine  hopes — its 
elastic  spirit — its  inexhaustible  resources  ! 
What  to  the  eyes  of  woman  were  the  acquisi- 
tions which  manhood  had  brought  him  ? — the 
vast,  but  the  sad  experience — the  arid  wisdom 
— the  philosophy  based  on  disappointment  ? 
He  might  be  loved  but  for  the  vain  glitter  of 
name  and  reputation, — and  love  might  vanish 
as  custom  dimmed  the  illusion.  Men  of  strong 
affections  are  jealous  of  their  own  genius. 
They  know  how  separate  a  thing  from  the 
household  character  genius  often  is, — they 
fear  lest  they  should  be  loved  for  a  quality, 
not  for  themselves. 

Thus  communed  he  with  himself — thus,  as 
the  path  has  become  clear  to  his  hopes,  did 
new  fears  arise;  and  thus  did  love  bring,  as  it 
ever  does,  in  its  burning  wake, 

"  The  pang,  the  agony,  the  doubt  ! " 

Maltravers  then  confirmed  himself  in  the 
resolution  he  had  formed:  he  would  cautiously 
examine  Evelyn  and  himself — he  would  weigh 
in  the  balance  every  straw  that  the  wind  should 
turn  up — he  would  not  aspire  to  the  treasure, 
unless  he  could  feel  secure  that  the  coffer 
could  preserve  the  gem.  This  was  not  only  a 
prudent,  it  was  a  just  and  a  generous  determi- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


349 


nation.  It  was  one  which  we  all  ought  to  form 
if  the  fervor  of  our  passions  will  permit  us. 
We  have  no  right  to  sacrifice  years  to  mo- 
ments, and  to  melt  the  pearl  that  has  no  price 
in  a  single  draught  !  But  can  Maltravers  ad- 
here to  his  wise  precautions  ?  The  truth  must 
be  spoken — it  was  perhaps  the  first  time  in  his 
life  that  Maltravers  had  been  really  in  love. 

As  the  reader  will  remember,  he  had  not 
been  in  love  with  the  haughty  Florence;  ad- 
miration, gratitude — the  affection  of  the  head, 
not  that  of  the  feelings, — had  been  the  links 
that  bound  him  to  the  enthusiastic  correspond- 
ent— revealed  in  the  gifted  beauty; — and  the 
gloomy  circumstances  connected  with  her 
early  fate,  had  left  deep  furrows  in  his  memory. 
Time  and  vicissitude  had  effaced  the  wounds, 
and  the  Light  of  the  Beautiful  dawned  once 
more  in  the  face  of  Evelyn.  Valerie  De  Ven- 
tadour  had  been  but  the  fancy  of  a  roving 
breast.  Alice,  the  sweet  Alice  ! — her,  indeed, 
in  the  first  flower  of  youth,  he  had  loved  with 
a  boy's  romance.  He  had  loved  her  deeply, 
fondly — but  perhaps  he  had  never  been  in  love 
with  her;  he  had  mourned  her  loss  for  years — 
insensibly  to  himself  her  loss  had  altered  his 
character  and  cast  a  melancholy  gloom  over 
all  the  colors  of  his  life.  But  she  whose  range 
of  ideas  was  so  confined — she  who  had  but 
broke  into  knowledge,  as  the  chrysalis  into  the 
butterfly — how  much  in  that  prodigal  and 
gifted  nature,  bounding  onwards  into  the 
broad  plains  of  life,  must  the  peasant  girl  have 
failed  to  fill  !  They  had  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon, but  their  youth  and  their  love.  It  was  a 
dream  that  had  hovered  over  the  poet-bo)'  in 
the  morning  twilight  —  a  dream  he  had 
often  wished  to  recall — a  dream  that  had 
haunted  him  in  the  noon-day, — but  had,  as  all 
boyish  visions  ever  have  done,  left  the  heart 
unexhausted,  and  the  passions  unconsumed  ! 
Years — long  years  —  since  then  had  rolled 
away,  and  yet  perhaps  one  unconscious  at- 
traction that  drew  Maltravers  so  suddenly  tow- 
ards Evelyn  was  a  something  indistinct  and 
undefinable  that  reminded  him  of  Alice. 
There  was  no  similarity  in  their  features;  but 
at  times  a  tone  in  Evelyn's  voice — a  "trick  of 
the  manner  " — an  air — a  gesture—  recalled  him, 
over  the  gulfs  of  Time,  to  Poetry,  and  Hope, 
and  Alice. 

In   the  youth  of  each — the  absent  and  the 
present  one — there  was  resemblance, — resem- 


blance in  their  simplicity,  the  grace.  Perhaps, 
Alice,  of  the  two,  had  in  her  nature  more  real 
depth,  more  ardor  of  feeling,  more  sublimity 
of  sentiment,  than  Evelyn.  But  in  her  primi- 
tive ignorance,  half  her  noblest  qualities  were 
embedded  and  unknown.  And  Evelyn — his 
equal  in  rank  —  Evelyn,  well  cultivated — 
Evelyn,  so  long  courted— so  deeply  studied — 
had  such  advantages  over  the  poor  peasant 
girl  !  Still  the  poor  peasant  girl  often  seemed 
to  smile  on  him  from  that  fair  face.  And  in 
Evelyn  he  half  loved  Alice  again  ! 

So  these  two  persons  now  met  daily;  their 
intercourse  was  even  more  familiar  than  before 
— their  several  minds  grew  hourly  more  de- 
veloped and  transparent  to  each  other.  But 
of  love,  Maltravers  still  forbore  to  speak; — 
they  were  friends, — no  more;  such  friends  as 
the  disparity  of  their  years  and  their  experience 
might  warrant  them  to  be.  And  in  that  young 
and  innocent  nature — with  its  rectitude,  its  en- 
thusiasm, and  its  pious  and  cheerful  tendencies 
— Maltravers  found  freshness  in  the  desert,  as 
the  camel-driver  lingering  at  the  well.  In- 
sensibly his  heart  warmed  again  to  his  kind. 
And  as  the  harp  of  David  to  the  ear  of  Saul, 
was  the  soft  voice  that  lulled  remembrance 
and  awakened  hope  in  the  lonely  man. 

Meanwhile,  what  was  the  effect  that  the 
presence,  the  attentions,  of  Maltravers  pro- 
duced on  Evelyn  !  Perhaps  it  was  of  that 
kind  which  most  flatters  us  and  most  deceives. 
She  never  dreamed  of  comparing  him  with 
others.  To  her  thoughts  he  stood  aloof  and 
alone  from  all  his  kind.  It  may  seem  a 
paradox,  but  it  might  be  that  she  admired  and 
venerated  him  almost  too  much  for  love.  Still 
her  pleasure  in  his  society  was  so  evident  and 
unequivocal,  her  deference  to  his  opinion  so 
marked, — she  sympathized  in  so  many  of  his 
objects — she  had  so  much  blindness  or  for- 
bearance for  his  faults  (and  he  never  sought 
to  mask  them),  that  the  most  diffident  of  men 
might  have  drawn  from  so  many  symptoms 
hopes  the  most  auspicious.  Since  the  depar- 
ture of  Legard,  the  gaieties  of  Paris  lost  their 
charm  for  Evelyn,  and  more  than  ever  she 
could  appreciate  the  society  of  her  friend. 
He  thus  gradually  lost  his  earlier  fears  of  her 
forming  too  keen  an  attachment  to  the  great 
world;  and  as  nothing  could  be  more  apparent 
than  Evelyn's  indifference  to  the  crowd  of 
flatterers  and  suitors  that  hovered  round  her 


^5° 


B  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


Maltravers  no  longer  dreaded  a  rival.  He 
began  to  feel  assured  that  they  had  both  gone 
through  the  ordeal;  and  that  he  might  ask 
for  love  without  a  doubt  of  its  immutability 
and  faith.  At  this  period,  they  were  both 
invited,  with  the  Doltimores,  to  spend  a  few 
days  at  the  villa  of  de  Montaigne,  near  St. 
Cloud.  And  there  it  was  that  Maltravers 
determined  to  know  his  fate  ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  Chaos  of  Thought  and  Passion  all  confused." — Pope. 

It  is  to  the  contemplation  of  a  very  differ- 
ent scene  that  the  course  of  our  story  now  con- 
ducts us. 

Between  St.  Cloud  and  Versailles  there  was 
at  that  time— perhaps  there  still  is — a  lone  and 
melancholy  house,  appropriated  to  the  insane. 
Melancholy — not  from  its  site,  but  the  purpose 
to  which  it  is  devoted.  Placed  on  an  emi- 
nence, the  windows  of  the  mansion  command — 
beyond  the  gloomy  walls  that  gird  the  garden 
ground — one  of  those  enchantmg  prospects 
which  win  for  France  her  title  to  La  Belle. 
There,  the  glorious  Seine  is  seen  in  the  dis- 
dance,  broad  and  winding  through  the  varied 
plains,  and  beside  the  gleaming  villages  and 
villas.  There.,  too,  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky 
of  France,  the  forest-lands  of  Versailles  and 
St.  Germain's  stretch  in  dark-luxuriance 
around  and  afar.  There  you  may  see  sleep- 
ing on  the  verge  of  the  landscape,  the  mighty 
city — crowned  with  the  thousand  spires  from 
which,  proud  above  the  rest,  rises  the  eyrie 
of  Napoleon's  eagle,  the  pinnacle  of  Notre 
Dame. 

Remote,  sequestered,  the  place  still  com- 
mands the  survey  of  the  turbulent  world  below. 
And  madness  gazes  upon  prospects  that  might 
well  charm  the  thoughtful  eyes  of  Imagina- 
tion or  of  Wisdom  !  In  one  of  the  rooms  of 
this  house  sate  Castruccio  Cesarini.  The 
apartment  was  furnished  even  with  ele- 
gance; a  variety  of  books  strewed  the  tables 
—nothing  for  comfort  or  for  solace,  that  the 
care  and  providence  of  affection  could  dictate, 
was  omitted. — Cesarini  was  alone;  leaning  his 
cheek  upon  his  hand,  he  gazed  on  the  beautiful 
and  tranquil  view  we  have  described.  "  And 
am  I  never  to   set   a   free  foot  on  that  soil 


again  ?  "  he  muttered  indignantly,  as  he  broke 
from  his  revery. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  keeper  of  the  sad 
abode  (a  surgeon  of  humanity  and  eminence) 
entered,  followed  by  De  Montaigne.  Cesarini 
turned  round  and  scowled  upon  the  latter;  the 
surgeon,  after  a  few  words  of  salutation,  with- 
drew to  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  appeared 
absorbed  in  a  book.  De  Montaigne  ap- 
proached his  brother-in-law — "  I  have  brought 
you  some  poems  just  published  at  Milan,  my 
dear  Castruccio— they  will  please  you." 

"Give  me  my  liberty!"  cried  Cesarini, 
clenching  his  hands.  "  Why  am  I  to  be  de- 
tained here  ?  Why  are  my  nights  to  be  broken 
by  the  groans  of  maniacs,  and  my  days  de- 
voured in  a  solitude  that  loathes  the  aspect  of 
things  around  me  ?  Am  I  mad  ? — You  know 
I  am  not  !  It  is  an  old  trick  to  say  that  poets 
are  mad — you  mistake  our  agonies  for  insan- 
ity. See,  I  am  calm — I  can  reason:  give  me 
any  test  of  sound  mind — no  matter  how  rigid 
— -I  will  pass  it.  I  am  not  mad — I  swear  I  am 
not !  " 

"  No,  my  dear  Castruccio,"  said  De  Mon- 
taigne, soothingly,  "  but  you  are  still  unwell — 
you  still  have  fever; — when  next  I  see  you 
perhaps  you  may  be  recovered  sufficiently  to 
dismiss  the  doctor  and  change  the  air.  Mean- 
while, is  there  anything  you  would  have  added 
or  altered  ? " 

Cesarini  had  listened  to  this  speech  with  a 
mocking  sarcasm  on  his  lip,  but  an  expression 
of  such  hopeless  wretchedness  in  his  eyes,  as 
they  alone  can  comprehend  who  have  wit- 
nessed madness  in  its  lucid  intervals.  He 
sunk  down,  and  his  head  drooped  gloomily  on 
his  breast.  "No,"  said  he;  "I  want  nothing 
but  free  air  or  death — -no  matter  which." 

De  Montaigne  stayed  some  time  with  the 
unhappy  man,  and  sought  to  soothe  him;  but 
it  was  in  vain.  Yet,  when  he  rose  to  depart, 
Cesarini  started  up,  and  fixing  on  him  his  large 
wistful  eyes,  exclaimed — "Ah  !  do  not  leave 
me  yet.  It  is  so  dreadful  to  be  alone  with  the 
dead  and  the  worse  than  dead  ! " 

The  Frenchman  turned  aside  to  wipe  his 
eyes,  and  stifle  the  rising  at  his  heart;  and 
again  he  sate,  and  again  he  sought  to  soothe. 
At  length  Cesarini,  seemingly  more  calm,  gave 
him  leave  to  depart.  "  Go,"  said  he,  "  go — 
tell  Teresa  I  am  better — that  I  love  her  ten- 
derly— that  I  shall  live  to  tell  her  children  not 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


35' 


to  be  poets.  Stay;  you  asked  if  there  was 
aught  I  wished  changed — yes — this  room;  it 
is  too  still:  I  hear  my  own  pulse  beat  so  loudly 
in  the  silence — it  is  horrible  ! — there  is  a  room 
below,  by  the  window  of  which  there  is  a  tree, 
and  the  winds  rock  its  boughs  to  and  fro,  and 
it  sighs  and  groans  like  a  living  thing; — it  will 
be  pleasant  to  look  at  that  tree,  and  see  the 
birds  come  home  to  it, — yet  that  tree  is  wintry 
and  blasted  too  ! — it  will  be  pleasant  to  hear  it 
fret  and  chafe  in  the  stormy  nights:  it  will  be 
a  friend  to  me,  that  old  tree  !  let  me  have  that 
room.  Nay,  look  not  at  each  other — it  is  not 
so  high  as  this — but  the  window  is  barred — I 
cannot  escape  !  "     And  Cesarini  smiled. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  if  you  pre- 
fer that  room;  but  it  has  not  so  fine  a  view." 

"  I  hate  the  view  of  the  world  that  has  cast 
me  off — when  may  I  change  ?  " 

"This  very  evening." 

"  Thank  you — it  will  be  a  great  revolution 
in  my  life." 

And  Cesarini's  eyes  brightened,  and  he 
looked  happy.  De  Montaigne,  thoroughly 
unmanned,  tore  himself  away. 

The  promise  was  kept,  and  Cesarini  was 
transferred  that  night  to  the  chamber  he  had 
selected. 

As  soon  as  it  was  deep  night — the  last  visit 
of  the  keeper  paid — and,  save  now  and  then, 
by  some  sharp  cry  in  the  more  distant  quarter 
of  the  house,  all  was  still,  Cesarini  rose  from 
his  bed;  a  partial  light  came  from  the  stars 
that  streamed  through  the  frosty  and  keen 
air,  and  cast  a  sickly  gleam  through  the  heavy 
bars  of  the  casement.  It  was  then  that 
Cesarini  drew  from  under  his  pillow  a  long- 
cherished  and  carefully-concealed  treasure. 
Oh  !  with  what  rapture  had  he  first  possessed 
himself  of  it  ! — with  what  anxiety  had  it  been 
watched  and  guarded  ! — how  many  cunning 
stratagems  and  profound  inventions  had  gone 
towards  the  baffling  the  jealous  search  of  the 
keeper  and  his  myrmidons  !  The  abandoned 
and  wandering  mother  never  clasped  her  child 
more  fondly  to  her  bosom,  nor  gazed  upon  its 
features  with  more  passionate  visions  for  the 
future.  And  what  had  so  enchanted  the  poor 
prisoner — so  deluded  the  poor  maniac  ?  A 
large  nail  ?  He  had  found  it  accidently  in 
the  garden — he  had  hoarded  it  for  weeks — it 
had  inspired  him  with  the  hope  of  liberty. 
Often,  in  the  days  far  gone,  he   had   read  of 


the  wonders  that  had  been  effected— of  the 
stones  removed  and  the  bars  filed,  by  the 
self-same  kind  of  implement.  He  remem- 
bered that  the  most  celebrated  of  those  bold 
unfortunates  who  live  a  life  against  law,  had 
said,  "  Choose  my  prison,  and  give  me  but  a 
rusty  nail,  and  I  laugh  at  your  jailers  and 
your  walls  !  "  He  crept  to  the  window — he 
examined  his  relic  by  the  dim  starlight — he 
kissed  it  passionately,  and  the  tears  stood  in 
his  eyes. 

Ah  !  who  shall  determine  the  worth  of  things  ? 
No  king  that  night  so  prized  his  crown,  as  the 
madman  prized  that  rusty  inch  of  wire — the 
proper  prey  of  the  rubbish-cart  and  dunghill. 
Little  didst  thou  think,  old  blacksmith,  when 
thou  drewest  the  dull  metal  from  the  fire,  of 
what  precious  price  it  was  to  become  ! 

Cesarini,  with  the  astuteness  of  his  malady, 
had  long  marked  out  this  chamber  for  the 
scene  of  his  operations;  he  had  observed  that 
the  framework  in  which  the  bars  were  set 
seemed  old  and  worm  eaten — that  the  window 
was  but  a  few  feet  from  the  ground — that  the 
noise  made  in  the  winter  nights  by  the  sighing 
branches  of  the  old  tree  without  would  deaden 
the  sound  of  the  lone  workman.  Now,  then, 
his  hopes  were  to  be  crowned.  Poor  Fool  ! 
and  even  thou  hast  hope  still  !  All  that  night 
he  toiled  and  toiled,  and  sought  to  work  his 
iron  into  a  file;  now  he  tried  the  bars,  and  now 
the  framework.  Alas  !  he  had  not  learned  the 
skill  in  such  tools,  possessed  by  his  renowned 
model  and  inspirer;  the  flesh  was  worn  from 
his  fingers — the  cold  drops  stood  on  his  brow 
— and  morning  surprised  him,  advanced  not  a 
hair's-breadth  in  his  labor. 

He  crept  back  to  bed,  and  again  hid  the 
useless  implement,  and  at  last  he  slept. 

And,  night  after  night,  the  same  task — the 
same  results  !  But  at  length,  one  day,  when 
Cesarini  returned  from  his  moody  walk  in  the 
gardens  (//^aj-^z-^r-grounds  they  were  called  by 
the  owner),  he  found  better  workmen  than  he 
at  the  window;  they  were  repairing  the  frame- 
work, they  were  strengthening  the  bars — all 
hope  was  now  gone  !  The  unfortunate  said 
nothing;  too  cunning  to  show  his  despair — he 
eyed  them  silently,  and  cursed  them;  but  the 
old  tree  was  left  still,  and  that  v/as  something 
— company  and  music  ! 

A  day  or  two  after  this  barbarous  counter- 
plot,   Cesarini   was  walking   in   the   gardens. 


352 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


toward  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon  (just 
when,  in  the  short  days,  the  darkness  begins 
to  steal  apace  over  the  chill  and  western  sun), 
when  he  was  accosted  by  a  fellow-captive, 
who  had  often  before  sought  his  acquaintance; 
for  they  try  to  have  friends — those  poor  peo- 
ple !  Even  we  do  the  same;  though  tve  say 
we  are  not  mad  !  This  man  had  been  a  war- 
rior— had  served  with  Napoleon— had  received 
honors  and  ribands — might,  for  aught  we 
know,  have  dreamed  of  being  a  marshal  ! 
But  the  demon  smote  him  in  the  hour  of  his 
pride.  It  was  his  disease  to  fancy  himself  a 
Monarch.  He  believed,  for  he  forgot  chro- 
nology, that  he  was  at  once  the  Iron  Mask, 
and  the  true  sovereign  of  France  and  Navarre, 
confined  in  state  by  the  usurpers  of  his  crown. 
On  other  points  he  was  generally  sane;  a  tall, 
strong  man,  with  fierce  features,  and  stern 
lines,  wherein  could  be  read  many  a  bloody 
tale  of  violence  and  wrong — of  lawless  passions 
—  of  terrible  excesses  —  to  which  madness 
might  be  at  once  the  consummation  and  the 
curse.  This  man  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Cesa- 
rini;  and  in  some  hours,  Cesarini  had  shunned 
him  less  than  others;  for  they  could  alike  rail 
against  all  living  things.  The  lunatic  ap- 
proached Cesarini  with  an  air  of  dignity  and 
condescension — 

"  It  is  a  cold  night,  sir, — and  there  will  be 
no  moon.  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that 
the  winter  is  the  season  for  escape  ? " 

Cesarini  started — the  ex-officer  continued: 

"  Ay, — I  see  by  your  manner  that  you,  too, 
chafe  at  our  ignominious  confinement.  I 
think  that  together  we  might  brave  the  worst. 
You  probably  are  confined  on  some  state 
offence.  I  give  you  full  pardon,  if  you  assist 
me.  For  myself,  I  have  but  to  appear  in  my 
capital — old  Louis  le  Grand  must  be  near  his 
last  hour." 

"This  madman  my  best  companion!" 
thought  Cesarini,  revolted  at  his  own  infirmity, 
as  Gulliver  started  from  the  Yahoo.  "  No 
matter,  he  talks  of  escape." 

"  And  how  think  you,"  said  the  Italian, 
aloud, — "  how  think  you,  that  we  have  any 
chance  of  deliverance  ?  " 

"  Hush — speak  lower,"  said  the  soldier. 
"  In  the  inner  garden,  I  have  observed  for  the 
last  two  days  that  a  gardener  is  employed  in 
nailing  some  fig-trees  and  vines  to  the  wall. 
Between  that  garden  and  these  grounds   there 


is  l)nt  a  paling,  which  we  can  easily  scale. 
He  works  till  dusk;  at  the  latest  hour  we  can, 
let  us  climb  noiselessly  over  the  paling,  and 
creep  along  the  vegetable  beds  till  we  reach 
the  man.  He  uses  a  ladder  for  his  purpose, 
— the  rest  is  clear, — we  must  fell  and  gag  him 
— twist  his  neck  if  necessary — I  have  twisted 
a  neck  before,"  quoth  the  maniac,  with  a  hor- 
rid smile.  "  The  ladder  will  help  us  over  the 
wall — and  the  night  soon  grows  dark  at  this 
season." 

Cesarini  listened,  and  his  heart  beat  quick. 
"  Will  it  be  too  late  to  try  to-night  ?  "  said  he 
in  a  whisper. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  the  soldier,  who  re- 
tained all  this  military  acuteness.  "But  are 
you  prepared? — don't  you  require  time  to  man 
yourself?" 

"No — no, — I  have  had  time  enough  ! —I 
am  ready." 

"Weil,  then, — hist  ! — we  are  watched — one 
of  the  jailers  ! — Talk  easily — smile  —  laugh. 
— This  way."  They  passed  by  one  of  the 
watch  of  the  jilace,  and  just  as  they  were  in 
his  hearing,  the  soldier  turned  to  Cesarini, — 
"  Sir,  will  you  favor  me  with  your  snuff-box  ?  " 

"  I  have  none." 

"  None — what  a  pity  !  My  good  friend," 
and  he  turned  to  the  scout,  "  may  I  request 
you  to  look  in  my  room  for  my  snuff-box? — it 
is  on  the  chimney-piece — it  will  not  take  you 
a  minute." 

The  soldier  was  one  of  those  whose  insanity 
was  deemed  most  harmless  and  his  relations, 
who  were  rich  and  well-i)orn,  had  requested 
every  indulgence  to  be  shown  to  him.  The 
watch  suspected  nothing,  and  repaired  to  the 
house.  As  soon  as  the  trees  hid  him, — 
"  Now,"  said  the  soldier,  "  stoop  almost  on  all 
fours,  and  run  quick." 

So  saying,  the  maniac  crouched  low,  and 
glided  along  with  a  rapidity  which  did  not  dis- 
tance Cesarini.  They  reached  the  palling  that 
separated  the  vegetable  garden  from  the  pleas- 
ure ground^the  soldier  vaulted  over  it  with 
ease — Cesarini,  with  more  difficulty,  followed, 
— they  crept  along;  the  herbs  and  vegetable 
beds,  with  their  long  bare  stalks,  concealed 
their  movements;  the  man  was  still  on  the  lad- 
der. '■'■La bonne Esperance ! "  said  the  soldier, 
through  his  ground  teeth,  muttering  some  old 
watchword  of  the  wars,  and  (while  Cesarini. 
below,  held  the  ladder  steadfast)  he  rushed  un 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


353 


the  steps — and,  with  a  sudden  effort  of  his 
muscular  arm,  hurled  the  gardener  to  the 
ground.  The  man,  surprised,  half  stunned, 
and  wholly  terrified,  did  not  attempt  to  wrestle 
with  the  two  madmen, — he  uttered  loud  cries 
for  help !  But  help  came  too  late;  these 
strange  and  fearful  comrades  had  already 
scaled  the  wall,  had  dropped  on  the  other  side, 
and  were  fast  making  across  the  dusky  fields 
to  the  neighboring  forest. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  Hopes  and  Fears 
Start  up  alarmed,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down:  on  what  ?— a  fathomless  abyss  ! " 

—Young. 

Midnight — and  intense  frost ! — there  they 
were — houseless  and  breadless — the  two  fugi- 
tives, in  the  heart  of  that  beautiful  forest 
which  has  rung  to  the  horns  of  many  a  royal 
chase.  The  soldier,  whose  youth  had  been 
inured  to  hardships,  and  to  the  conquests 
which  our  mother-wit  wrings  froin  the  step- 
dame  Nature — had  made  a  fire  by  the  friction 
of  two  pieces  of  dry  wood;  such  wood  was 
hard  to  be  found,  for  the  snow  whitened  the 
level  ground,  and  lay  deep  in  the  hollows;  and 
when  it  was  discovered,  the  fuel  was  slow  to 
burn;  however,  the  fire  blazed  red  at  last.  On 
a  little  mound,  shaded  by  a  semicircle  of  huge 
trees,  sate  the  Outlaws  of  Human  Reason. 
They  cowered  over  the  blaze  opposite  to  each 
other,  and  the  glare  crimsoned  their  features. 
And  each  in  his  heart  longed  to  rid  himself  of 
his  mad  neighbor;  and  each  felt  the  awe  of 
solitude — the  dread  of  sleep  beside  a  comrade 
whose  soul  had  lost  God's  light ! 

'•  Ho  !  "  said  the  warrior,  breaking  a  silence 
that  had  been  long  kept,  '■  this  is  cold  work  at 
the  best,  and  hunger  pinches  me;  I  almost 
regret  the  prison." 

"  I  do  not  feel  the  cold,"  said  Cesarini, 
"and  I  do  not  care  for  hunger:  I  am  revelling 
only  in  the  sense  of  liberty  !  " 

'•  Try  and  sleep,"  quoth  the  soldier,  with  a 
coaxing  and  sinister  softness  of  voice;  "  we 
will  take  it  by  turns  to  watch." 

"  I  cannot  sleep — take  you  the  first  turn." 

"  Harkye,  sir  !  "  said  the  soldier,  sullenly: 
•'  1    must    not  have   my  commands  disputed; 

6.-23 


now  we  are  free,  we  are  no  longer  equal :  I 
am  heir  to  the  crowns  of  France  and  Navarre. 
Sleep,  I  say  !  " 

"  And  what  Prince  or  Potentate,  King  or 
Kaisar,"  cried  Cesarini,  catching  the  quick 
contagion  of  the  fit  that  had  seized  his  com- 
rade, "  can  dictate  to  the  Monarch  of  Earth 
and  Air — the  Elements  and  the  music-breath- 
ing Stars  ? — I  am  Cesarini  the  Bard  !  and  the 
huntsman  Orion  halts  in  his  chase  above  to 
listen  to  my  lyre  !  Be  stilled,  rude  man  ! — 
thou  scarest  away  the  angels,  whose  breath 
even  now  was  rushing  through  my  hair  !  " 

"It  is  too  horrible!"  cried  the  grim  man 
of  blood,  shivering;  "my  enemies  are  relent- 
less, and  give  me  a  madman  for  a  jailer  ! " 

"  Ha  ! — a  madman  !  "  exclaimed  Cesarini, 
springing  to  his  feet,  and  glaring  at  the  soldier 
with  eyes  that  caught  and  rivalled  the  blaze  of 
the  fire.  "  And  who  are  you  ? — what  devil 
from  the  deep  hell,  that  art  leagued  with  my 
persecutors  against  me  ?" 

With  the  instinct  of  his  old  calling  and 
valor,  the  soldier  also  rose  when  he  saw  the 
movement  of  his  companion;  antl  his  fierce 
features  worked  with  rage  and  fear. 

"  Avaunt !  "  said  he,  waving  his  arm;  "we 
banish  thee  from  our  presence  ! — This  is  our 
palace— and  our  guards  are  at  hand  !  "  point- 
ing to  the  still  and  skeleton  trees  that  grouped 
round  in  ghastly  bareness.     "  Begone  !  " 

At  that  moment  they  heard  at  a  distance 
the  deep  barking  of  a  dog,  and  each  cried 
simultaneously — "They  are  after  me! — be- 
trayeil  ! "  The  soldier  sprung  at  the  throat 
of  Cesarini;  but  the  Italian,  at  the  same  in- 
stant, caught  a  half- burnt  brand  from  the  fire, 
and  dashed  the  blazing  end  in  the  face  of  his 
assailant.  The  soldier  uttered  a  cry  of  pain, 
and  recoiled  back,  blinded  and  dismayed. 
Cesarini,  whose  madness,  when  fairly  roused, 
was  of  the  most  deadly  nature,  again  raised 
his  weapon,  and,  probably,  nothing  but  death 
could  have  separated  the  foes;  but  again  the 
bay  of  the  dog  was  heard,  and  Cesarini,  an- 
swering the  sound  by  a  wild  yell,  threw  down 
the  brand,  and  fled  away  through  the  forest 
with  inconceivable  swiftness.  He  hurried  on 
through  bush  and  dell — and  the  boughs  tore 
his  garments  and  mangled  his  flesh — but 
sto])ped  not  his  progress  till  he  fell  at  last  on 
the  ground,  breathless  and  exhausted,  and 
heard    from    some    far-off    clock    the   second 


354 


BULWER-S     WORKS. 


hour  of  morning.  He  had  left  the  forest — a 
farm-house  stood  before  him;  and  the  whitened 
roofs  of  scattered  cottages  sloped  to  the  tran- 
quil sky.  The  witness  of  man — the  social 
tranquil  sky  and  the  reasoning  man — operated 
like  a  charm  upon  the  senses  which  recent  ex- 
citement had  more  than  usually  disturbed. 
The  unhappy  wretch  gazed  at  the  peaceful 
abodes,  and  sighed  heavily;  then,  rising  from 
the  earth,  he  crept  into  one  of  the  sheds  that 
adjoined  the  farm-house,  and  throwing  him- 
self on  some  straw,  slept  sound  and  quietly 
till  daylight,  and  the  voices  of  peasants  in  the 
shed  awakened  him. 

He  rose  refreshed,  calm,  and,  for  ordinary 
purposes,  sufficiently  sane  to  prevent  suspicion 
of  his  disease.  He  approached  the  startled 
peasants,  and,  representing  himself  as  a  trav- 
eller who  had  lost  his  way  in  the  night  and 
amidst  the  forest,  begged  for  food  and  water. 
Though  his  garments  were  torn,  they  were  new 
and  of  good  fashion;  his  voice  was  mild;  his 
whole  appearance  and  address  those  of  one  of 
some  station — and  the  French  peasant  is  a 
hospitable  fellow.  Cesarini  refreshed  and 
rested  himself  an  hour  or  two  at  the  farm,  and 
then  resumed  his  wanderings;  he  offered  no 
money,  for  the  rules  of  the  asylum  forbade 
money  to  its  inmates; — he  had  none  with  him 
— but  none  was  expected  from  him;  and  they 
bade  him  farewell  as  kindly  as  if  he  had  bought 
their  blessings.  He  then  began  to  consider 
where  he  was  to  take  refuge,  and  how  provide 
for  himself;  the  feeling  of  liberty  braced,  and 
for  a  time  restored,  his  intellect. 

Fortunately,  he  had  on  his  person,  besides 
some  rings  of  trifling  cost,  a  watch  of  no  incon- 
siderable value,  the  sale  of  which  might  support 
him,  in  such  obscure  and  humble  quarter  as 
he  could  alone  venture  to  inhabit,  for  several 
weeks — perhaps  months.  This  thought  made 
him  cheerful  and  elated;  he  walked  lustily  on, 
shunning  the  high  road — the  day  was  clear — 
the  sun  bright — the  air  full  of  racy  health. 
Oh  !  what  soft  raptures  swelled  the  heart  of 
the  wanderer,  as  he  gazed  around  him  !  The 
Poet  and  the  Freeman  alike  stirred  within  his 
shattered  heart !  He  paused  to  contemplate 
the  berries  of  the  icy  trees — to  listen  to  the 
sharp  glee  of  the  blackbird — and  once — when 
he  found  beneath  a  hedge  a  cold,  scentless 
group  of  hardy  violets — he  laughed  aloud  in 
his  joy.     In  that  laughter  there  was  no  mad- 


ness—no danger;  but  when,  as  he  journeyed 
on,  he  passed  through  a  little  hamlet,  and  saw 
the  children  at  play  upon  the  ground,  and 
heard  from  the  open  door  of  a  cabin,  the  sound 
of  rustic  music  then,  indeed,  he  paused  ab- 
ruptly; the  past  gathered  over  him;  he  knew 
that  which  he  had  been — that  ivhich  he  was  now  ! 
— an  awful  memory  ! — a  dread  revelation  ! 
And,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  wept 
aloud.  In  those  tears  were  the  peril  and  the 
method  of  madness.  He  woke  from  them  to 
think  of  his  youth — his  hopes — of  Florence — 
of  Revenge  ! — Lumley,  Lord  Vargrave  !  bet- 
ter, from  that  hour,  to  encounter  the  tiger  in 
his  lair,  than  find  thyself  alone  with  that  miser- 
able man  ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  It  seem'd  the  laurel  chaste  and  .stubborn  oak, 
And  all  the  gentle  trees  on  earth  that  grew; 
It  seem'd  the  land,  the  sea,  and  heaven  above, 
All  breathed  out  fancy  sweet,  and  sigh'd  out  love." 

— Fairkax's  Tasso. 

At  De  Montaigne's  Villa,  Evelyn,  for  the 
first  time,  gathered  from  the  looks,  the  man- 
ners of  Maltravers,  that  she  was  beloved.  It 
was  no  longer  possible  to  mistake  the  evidences 
of  affection.  Formerly,  Maltravers  had  availed 
himself  of  his  advantage  of  years  and  experi- 
ence, and  would  warn,  admonish,  dispute,  even 
reprove;  formerly,  there  had  been  so  much 
of  seeming  caprice,  of  cold  distance,  of  sud- 
den and  wayward  haughtiness,  in  his  bearing; 
— but  now,  the  whole  man  was  changed — the 
Mentor  had  vanished  in  the  Lover: — he  held 
his  being  on  her  breath.  Her  lightest,  pleas- 
ure seemed  to  have  grown  his  law — no  cold- 
ness ever  alternated  the  deep  devotion  of 
his  manner;  an  anxious,  a  timid,  a  watchful 
softness  replaced  all  his  stately  self-posses- 
sion. Evelyn  saw  that  she  was  loved;  and 
she  then  looked  into  her  own  heart. 

I  have  said  before  that  Evelyn  was  gentle, 
even  to  yieldingness;  that  her  susceptibility 
made  her  shrink  from  the  thought  of  pain  to 
another;  and  so  thoroughly  did  she  revere 
Maltravers — so  grateful  did  she  feel  for  a  love 
that  could  not  but  flatter  pride,  and  raise  her 
in  her  self-esteem — that  she  felt  it  impossible 
that  she  could  reject  his  suit.  Then,  "  do  I  love 
him  as  I  dreamt  I  could  love  ? "  she  asked 


ALICE  J     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


355 


herself;  and  her  heart  gave  no  intelligible  re- 
ply. "  Yes  ! — it  must  be  so; — in  his  presence 
I  feel  a  tranquil  and  eloquent  charm;  his 
praise  delights  me;  his  esteem   is    my   most 

high  ambition; — and  yet — and   yet "  she 

sighed,  and  thought  of  Legard,  "  but  he  loved 
me  not !  "  and  she  turned  restlessly  from  that 
image.  "  He  thinks  but  of  the  world — of 
pleasure;  Maltravers  is  right — the  spoiled 
children  of  society  cannot  love:  why  should  I 
think  of  him  ?  " 

There  was  no  guests  at  the  villa,  exxept 
Maltravers,  Evelyn,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Dolti- 
more.  Evelyn  was  much  captivated  by  the 
graceful  vivacity  of  Teresa,  though  that  vi- 
vacity was  not  what  it  had  been  before  her 
brother's  affliction;  their  children,  some  of 
whom  were  grown  up,  constituted  an  amiable 
and  intelligent  family;  and  De  Montaigne 
himself  was  agreeable  and  winning,  despite  his 
sober  manners,  and  his  love  of  philosophical 
dispute.  Evelyn  often  listened  thoughtfully 
to  Teresa's  praises  of  her  husband — to  her  ac- 
count of  the  happiness  she  had  known  in  a 
marriage  where  there  had  been  so  great  a  dis- 
parity of  years; — Evelyn  began  to  question  the 
truth  of  her  early  visions  of  romance. 

Caroline  saw  the  unequivocal  attachment  of 
Maltravers  with  the  same  indifference  with 
which  she  had  anticipated  the  suit  of  Legard. 
It  was  the  same  to  her  what  hand  .  delivered 
Evelyn  and  herself  from  the  designs  of  Var- 
grave; — but  Vargrave  occupied  nearly  all  her 
thoughts.  The  newspapers  had  reported  him 
as  seriously  ill — at  one  time  in  great  danger. 
He  was  now  recovering,  but  still  unableto  quit 
his  room.  He  had  written  to  her  once,  la- 
menting his  ill-fortune — trusting  soon  to  beat 
Paris;  and  touching,  with  evident  pleasure, 
upon  Legard's  departure  for  Vienna,  which  he 
had  seen  in  the  "  Morning  Post."  But  he  was 
afar  —  alone  —  ill — untended ;  —  and  though 
Caroline's  guilty  love  had  been  much  abated 
by  Vargrave's  icy  selfishness — by  absence  and 
remorse — still  she  had  the  heart  of  a  woman; 
and  Vargrave  was  the  only  one  that  had  ever 
touched  it.  She  felt  for  him,  and  grieved  in 
silence;  she  did  not  dare  to  utter  sympathy 
aloud,  for  Doltimore  had  already  given  evi- 
dence of  a  suspicious  and  jealous  temper. 

Evelyn  was  also  deeply  affected  by  the  ac- 
count of  her  guardian's  illness.  As  I  l^efore 
said,  the  moment  he  ceased   to   be   her  lover, 


her  childish  affection  for  him  returned.  She 
even  permitted  herself  to  write  to  him;  and  a 
tone  of  melancholy  depression  which  artfully 
prevaded  his  reply  struck  her  with  something 
like  remorse.  He  told  her  in  that  letter,  that 
he  had  much  to  say  to  her  relative  to  an  in- 
vestment, in  conformity  with  her  step-father's 
wishes,  and  he  should  hasten  to  Paris,  even 
before  the  doctor  would  sanction  his  removal. 
Vargrave  forbore  to  mention  what  the  medi- 
tated investment  was.  The  last  public  ac- 
counts of  the  Minister  had,  however,  been  so 
favorable,  that  his  arrival  might  be  almost 
daily  expected;  and  both  Caroline  and  Evelyn 
felt  relieved. 

To  De  Montaigne,  Maltravers  confided  his 
attachment,  and  both  the  Frenchman  and 
Teresa  sanctioned  and  encouraged  it.  Evelyn 
enchanted  them;  and  they  had  passed  that 
age  when  they  could  have  imagined  it  possible 
that  the  man  they  had  known  almost  as  a  boy 
was  separated  by  years  from  the  lively  feel- 
ings and  extreme  youth  of  Evelyn.  They 
could  not  believe  that  the  sentiments  he  had 
inspired  were  colder  than  those  that  animated 
himself. 

One  day,  Maltravers  had  been  absent  for 
some  hours  on  his  solitary  rambles,  and  De 
Montaigne  had  not  yet  returned  from  Paris — 
which  he  visited  almost  daily.  It  was  so  late 
in  the  noon  as  almost  to  border  on  evening, 
when  Maltravers,  on  his  return,  entered  the 
grounds  by  a  gate  that  separated  them  from 
an  extensive  wood.  He  saw  Evelyn,  Teresa, 
and  two  of  her  children,  walking  on  a  kind  of 
terrace  almost  immediately  before  him.  He 
joined  them;  and,  somehow  or  other,  it  soon 
chanced  that  Teresa  and  himself  loitered  be- 
hind the  rest — a  little  distance  out  of  hearing. 
"Ah,  Mr.  Maltravers,"  said  the  former,  "we 
miss  the  soft  skies  of  Italy  and  the  beautiful 
hues  of  Como." 

"  And  for  my  part.  I  miss  the  youth  that 
gave  '  glory  to  the  grass  and  splendor  to  the 
flower.'  " 

"  Nay;  we  are  happier  now,  believe  me,— or 
at  least  I  should  be,  if — but  I  must  not  think 
of  my  poor  brother.  Ah  !  if  his  guilt  de- 
prived you  of  one  who  was  worthy  of  you,  it 
would  be  some  comfort  to  his  sister  to  think 
at  last  that  the  loss  was  repaired.  And  you 
still  have  scruples  ?  " 

"Who    that    loves    truly    has    not?      How 


J5<^ 


B  UL I VER  •  S     IFOA'A'S 


young — how  lovely — how  worthy  of  lighter 
hearts  and  fairer  forms  than  mine  I  Give  me 
back  the  years  that  have  passed  since  we  last 
met  at  Como,  and  I  might  hope  I  " 

"  And  this  to  me,  who  have  enjoyed  such 
happiness  with  one  older,  when  we  married, 
by  ten  years  than  you  are  now  ?" 

"  But  you,  Teresa,  were  born  to  see  life 
through  the  Claude  glass." 

"  Ah,  you  provoke  me  with  these  refine- 
ments—you  turn  from  a  happiness  you  have 
but  to  demand." 

"  Do  not — do  not  raise  my  hopes  too  high," 
cried  Maltravers,  with  great  emotion;  "  I  have 
been  schooling  myself  all  day.  But  if  I  am 
deceived  !  " 

•'  Trust  me,  you  are  not.  See,  even  now 
she  turns  round  to  look  for  you — she  loves 
you — loves  you  as  you  deserve.  This  differ- 
ence of  years  that  you  so  lament  does  but 
deepen  and  elevate  her  attachment !  " 

Teresa  turned  to  Maltravers — surprised  at 
his  silence.  How  joyous  sate  his  heart  upon 
his  looks — no  gloom  on  his  brow — no  doubt 
m  his  sparkling  eyes  !  He  was  mortal,  and 
he  yielded  to  the  delight  of  believing  himself 
beloved.  He  pressed  Teresa's  hand  in  silence, 
and  quitting  her  abruptly,  gained  the  side  of 
Evelyn.  Madame  de  Montaigne  compre- 
hended all  that  passed  within  him;  and  as 
she  followed,  she  soon  contrived  to  detach 
her  children,  and  returned  with  them  to  the 
house  on  a  whispered  pretence  of  seeing  if 
their  father  had  yet  arrived.  Evelyn  and 
Maltravers  continued  to  walk  on — not  aware, 
at  first,  that  the  rest  of  the  party  were  not 
close  behind. 

The  sun  had  set;  and  they  were  in  a  part  of 
the  grounds  which,  by  way  of  contrast  to  the 
rest,  was  laid  out  in  the  English  fashion;  the 
walk  wound,  serpent-like,  among  a  profusion 
of  evergreens  irrepularly  planted;  the  scene 
was  shut  in  and  bounded,  except  where  at  a 
distance,  through  an  opening  of  the  trees,  you 
caught  the  spire  of  a  distant  church,  over  which 
glimmered,  faint  and  fair,  the  smile  of  the 
evening  star. 

"  This  reminds  me  of  home,"  said  Evelyn, 
gently. 

"  And  hereafter  it  will  remind  me  of  you," 
said  Maltravers,  in  whispered  accents.  He 
fixed  his  eyes  on  her  as  he  spoke.  Never  had 
his  look  been  so  true  to  his  heart — never  had 


his  voice  so  undisguisedly  expressed  the  pro- 
found and  passionate  sentiment  which  had 
sprung  up  within  him — to  constitute,  as  he 
then  believed,  the  latest  bliss,  or  the  crowning 
misery  of  his  life  !  At  that  moment,  it  was  a 
sort  of  instinct  that  told  him  they  were  alone; 
for  who  has  not  felt — in  those  few  and  memor- 
able hours  of  life  when  love  long  suppressed 
overfiows  the  fountain,  and  seems  to  pervade 
the  whole  frame  and  the  whole  spirit — that 
there  is  a  magic  around  and  within  us  that 
hath  a  keener  intelligence  than  intellect  itself? 
Alone  at  such  an  hour  with  the  one  we  love, 
the  whole  world  beside  seems  to  vanish,  and 
our  feet  to  have  entered  the  soil,  and  our  lips 
to  have  caught  the  air,  of  Fairy  Land. 

They  were  alone. — And  why  did  Evelyn 
tremble  ? — Why  did  she  feel  that  a  crisis  of 
existence  was  at  hand  ? 

"  Miss  Cameron — Evelyn," — said  Maltrav- 
ers, after  they  had  walked  some  moments  in 
silence, — "  hear  me — and  let  your  reason  as 
well  as  your  heart  reply.  From  the  first  mo- 
ment we  met,  you  became  dear  to  me.  Yes, 
even  when  a  child,  your  sweetness  and  your 
fortitude  foretold  so  well  what  you  would  be 
in* womanhood:  even  then  you  left  upon  my 
memory  a  delightful  and  mysterious  shadow 
— too  prophetic  of  the  light  that  now  hallows 
and  wraps  your  image  I  We  met  again — and 
the  attraction  that  had  drawn  me  towards  you 
years  before  was  suddenly  renewed. — I  love 
you,  Evelyn  ! — I  love  you  better  than  all  words 
can  tell  ! — Your  future  fate,  your  welfare,  your 
happiness,  contain  and  embody  all  the  hopes 
left  to  me  in  life  ?  But  our  years  are  different, 
Evelyn,  I  have  known  sorrows— and  the  disap- 
pointments and  the  experience  that  have  sev- 
ered me  from  the  common  world  have  robbed 
me  of  more  than  time  itself  hath  done.  They 
have  robbed  of  that  zest  for  the  ordinary  pleas- 
ures of  our  race — which  may  it  be  yours,  sweet 
Evelyn,  ever  to  retain.  To  me,  the  time  foretold 
by  the  Preacher  as  the  lot  of  age  has  already 
arrived — when  the  sun  and  the  moon  are 
darkened,  and  when,  save  in  you  and  through 
you,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  any  thing.  Judge, 
if  such  a  being  you  can  love  !  Judge,  if  my 
very  confession  does  not  revolt  and  chill — if 
it  does  not  present  to  you  a  gloomy  and  cheer- 
less future — were  it  possible  that  you  could 
unite  your  lot  to  mine  !  Answer  not  from 
friendship   or  from  pity;  the  love  I   feel  for 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


357 


you  can  have  a  reply  from  love  alone,  and 
from  that  reasoning  which  love,  in  its  enduring 
power — in  its  healthful  confidence  —  in  its 
prophetic  foresight— alone  supplies  !  I  can 
resign  you  without  a  murmur — but  I  could  not 
live  with  you  and  even  fancy  that  you  had  one 
care  I  could  not  soothe,  though  you  might 
have  happiness  I  could  not  share.  And  fate 
does  not  present  to  me  any  vision  so  dark  and 
terrible — no,  not  your  loss  itself — no,  not  your 
indifference — no,  not  your  aversion, — as  your 
discovery — after  time  should  make  regret  in 
vain,  that  you  had  mistaken  fancy  or  friend- 
ship for  affection — a  sentiment  for  love.  Eve- 
lyn, I  have  confided  to  you  all — all  this  wild 
heart,  now  and  evermore  your  own.  My 
destiny  is  with  you  !  " 

Evelyn  was  silent — he  took  her  hand — and 
her  tears  fell  warm  and  fast  upon  it.  Alarmed 
and  anxious,  he  drew  her  towards  him  and 
gazed  upon  her  face. 

"  You  fear  to  wound  me,"  he  said,  with  pale 
lips  and  trembling  voice.  "  Speak  on, — I  can 
bear  all." 

"  No — no,"  said  Evelyn,  falteringly;  "  I 
have  no  fear,  but  not  to  deserve  you." 

"  You  love  me,  then,— you  love  me  !  "  cried 
Maltravers  wildly,  and  clasping  her  to  his 
heart. 

The  moon  rose  at  that  instant,  and  the 
wintry  sward  and  the  dark  trees  were  bathed 
in  the  sudden  light.  The  time — the  light — so 
equisite  to  all — even  in  loneliness  and  in  sor- 
row— how  divine  in  such  companionship  ! — in 
such  overflowing  and  ineffable  sense  of  bliss  ! 
There  and  then  for  the  first  time  did  Maltrav- 
ers press  upon  that  modest  and  blushing  cheek 
the  kiss  of  Love — of  Hope, — the  seal  of  a 
union  he  fondly  hoped  the  grave  itself  could 
not  dissolve  I 


CHAPTER    Vn. 

*'  Queen.    Whereon  do  you  look? 
Hamlet.    On  him — on  him, — look  you  how  pale  he 
glares ! " — Hamlet. 

Perhaps  to  Maltravers  those  few  minutes 
which  ensued,  as  they  walked  slowly  on,  com- 
pensated for  all  the  troubles  and  cares  of  years; 
— for  natures  like  his  feel  joy  even  yet  more 
intensely  than  sorrow.     It   might   be  that  the 


transport — the  delirium  of  passionate  and 
grateful  thoughts  that  he  poured  forth — when 
at  last  he  could  summon  words — expressed 
feelings  the  young  Evelyn  could  not  compre- 
hend, and  which  less  delighted  than  terrified 
her  with  the  new  responsibility  she  had  in- 
curred. But  love  so  honest — so  generous — so 
intense — dazzled  and  bewildered,  and  carried 
her  whole  soul  away.  Certainly  at  that  hour 
she  felt  no  regret — no  thought  but  that  one  in 
whom  she  had  so  long  recognized  something 
nobler  than  is  found  in  the  common  world — 
was  thus  happy  and  thus  made  happy  by  a 
word — a  look  from  her  I  Such  a  thought  is 
woman's  dearest  triumph, — and  one  so  thor- 
oughly unselfish — so  yielding  and  so  soft — 
could  not  be  insensible  to  the  rapture  she  had 
caused. 

"  And  oh  ! "  said  Maltravers,  as  he  clasped 
again  and  again  the  hand  that  he  believed  he 
had  won  for  ever,  "  now,  at  length,  have  I 
learned  how  beautiful  is  life  !  For  this — for 
this  I  have  been  reserved  ?  Heaven  is  merci- 
ful to  me — and  the  waking  world  is  brighter 
than  all  my  dreams  ?  " 

He  ceased  abruptly.  At  that  instant  they 
were  once  more  on  the  terrace  where  he  had 
first  joined  Teresa — -facing  the  wood — which 
was  divided  by  a  slight  and  low  palisade  from 
the  spot  where  they  stood.  He  ceased  ab- 
ruptly, for  his  eyes  encountered  a  terrible  and 
omnious  opposition — a  form  connected  with 
dreary  associations  of  fate  and  woe.  The 
figure  had  raised  itself  upon  a  pile  of  firewood 
on  the  other  side  the  fence,  and  hence  it 
seemed  almost  gigantic  in  its  stature.  It 
gazed  upon  the  pair  with  eyes  that  burned 
with  a  perternatural  blaze,  and  a  voice  which 
Maltravers  too  well  remembered  shrieked  out, 
— "  Love — love  !  What !  thoit  love  again  ? 
Where  is  the  Dead  ?  Ha  ! — ha  !  Where  is 
the  Dead  ? " 

Evelyn,  startled  by  the  words,  looked  up,  and 
clung  in  speechless  terror  to  Maltravers.  He 
remained  rooted  to  the  spot. 

"  Unhappy  man,"  said  he,  at  length,  and 
soothingly,  "  how  came  you  hither  ?  Fly  not, 
you  are  with  friends." 

"  Friends  I  "  said  the  maniac,  with  a  scorn- 
ful laugh.  "  I  know  thee,  Ernest  Maltravers, — I 
know  thee:  but  it  is  not  thou  who  has  locked  me 
up  in  darkness  and  in  hell,  side  by  side  with  the 
mocking  fiends  !    Friends  ! — ah,  but  no  friends 


358 


B  UL  WER  •  S     WORKS. 


shall  catch  me  now  I  I  am  free  ! — I  am  free  ! 
— air  and  wave  are  not  more  free  ! "  and 
the  madman  laughed  with  horrible  glee.  "  She 
is  fair — fair,"  he  said,  abruptly  checking  him- 
self, and  with  a  changed  voice,  "  but  not  so 
fair  as  the  Dead.  Faithless  that  thou  art — and 
yet  she  loved  thee  !  Woe  to  thee  ! — woe — 
Maltravers,  the  perfidious  !  Woe  to  thee — 
and  remorse — and  shame  !  " 

"  Fear  not,  Evelyn,— fear  not,"  whispered 
Maltravers,  gently,  and  placing  her  behind 
him;  "Support  your  courage — nothing  shall 
harm  you." 

Evelyn,  though  very  pale,  and  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  retained  her  senses.  Mal- 
travers advanced  towards  the  madman.  But 
no  sooner  did  the  quick  eye  of  the  last  per- 
ceive the  movement,  than,  with  the  fear  which 
belongs  to  that  dread  disease— the  fear  of  los- 
ing liberty,  he  turned,  and,  with  a  loud  cry, 
fled  into  the  wood.  Maltravers  leaped  over 
the  fence,  and.  pursued  him  some  way  in  vain. 
The  thick  copses  of  the  wood  snatched  every 
irace  of  the  fugitive  from  his  eye. 


Breathless  and  exhausted,  Maltravers  re- 
turned to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  Evelyn. 
As  he  reached  it,  he  saw  Teresa  and  her  hus- 
band approaching  towards  him,  and  Teresa's 
merry  laugh  sounded  clear  and  musical  in  the 
racy  air.  The  sound  appalled  him — he  hast- 
ened his  steps  to  Evelyn. 

"  Say  nothing  of  what  we  have  seen  to  Ma- 
dame de  Montaigne,  I  beseech  you,"  said  he; 
"  I  will  explain  why  hereafter." 

Evelyn,  too  overcome  to  speak,  nodded  her 
acquiescence.  They  joined  the  De  Montaignes 
and  Maltravers  took  the  Frenchman  aside. 

But  before  he  could  address  him,  De  Mon- 
taigne said, 

"  Hush  !  do  not  alarm  my  wife — she  knows 
nothing — i)ut  I  have  just  heard,  at  Paris,  that 
— that  he  has  escaped — you  know  whom  I 
mean  ? " 

"  I  do — he  is  at  hand— send  in  search  of 
him  ! — I  have  seen  him  ! — once  more  I  have 
seen  Castruccio  Cesarini  !  " 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


3Sy 


BOOK    NINTH. 


a;  oi-  Tai'  iiTi  aiaifiai'^.— Soph.  (Bdlp.  Tyran.  754. 
Woe,  woe:  all  things  are  clear. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  The  privilege  that  statesmen  ever  claim, 
Who  private  interest  never  yet  pursued, 
But  still  pretended  't  was  for  others'  good 
***** 

From  hence  on  every  humorous  wind  that  veer'd 
With  shifted  sails  a  several  course  you  steer'd." 
— Absalom  and  Achilophel,  Part  II. 

Lord  Vargrave  had  for  more  than  a  fort- 
night remained  at  the  inn  at  M ,  too  ill  to 

be  removed  with  safety  in  a  season  so  severe. 
Even  when  at  last,  by  easy  stages,  he  reached 
London,  he  was  subjected  to  a  relapse;  and 
his  recovery  was  slow  and  gradual.  Hitherto 
unused  to  sickness,  he  bore  his  confinement 
with  extreme  impatience;  and,  against  the 
commands  of  his  physician,  insisted  on  con- 
tinuing to  transact  his  official  business,  and 
consult  with  his  political  friends  in  his  sick 
room;  for  Lumley  knew  well,  that  it  is  most 
pernicious  to  public  men  to  be  considered  fail- 
ing in  health: — turkeys  are  not  more  unfeeling 
to  a  sick  brother,  than  politicians  to  an  ailing 
statesman:  they  give  out  that  his  head  is 
touched,  and  see  paralysis  and  epilepsy  in 
every  speech  and  every  despatch.  The  time, 
too,  nearly  ripe  for  his  great  schemes,  made  it 
doubly  necessary  that  he  should  exert  himself, 
and  prevent  being  shelved  with  a  plausible  ex- 
cuse of  tender  compassion  for  his  infirmities. 
As  soon,  therefore,  as  he  learned  that  Legard 
had  left  Paris,  he  thought  himself  safe  for 
awhile  in  that  quarter,  and  surrendered  his 
thoughts  wholly  to  his  ambitious  projects. 
Perhaps,  too,  with  the  susceptible  vanity  of  a 
middle-aged  man,  who  has  had  his  bonnes  for- 
tunes, Lumley  deemed,  with  Rousseau,  that  a 
lover,  pale  and  haggard — just  raised  from  the 


bed  of  suffering — is  more  interesting  to  friend- 
ship, than  attractive  to  love.  He  and  Rous- 
seau were,  I  believe,  both  mistaken;  but  that 
is  a  matter  of  opinion:  they  both  thought  very 
coarsely  of  women,— one,  from  having  no  sen- 
timent, and  the  other,  from  having  a  sentiment 
that  was  but  a  disease.  At  length,  just  as 
Lumley  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  quit  his 
house — to  appear  at  his  office,  and  declare  that 
his  illness  had  wonderfully  improved  his  con- 
stitution,— intelligence  from  Paris,  the  more 
startling  from  being  wholly  unexpected, 
reached  him.  From  Caroline  he  learned  that 
Maltravers  had  proposed  to  Evelyn,  and  been 
accepted.  From  Maltravers  himself  he  heard 
the  confirmation  of  the  news.  'I'he  last  letter 
was  short,  but  kind  and  manly.  He  addressed 
Lord  Vargrave  as  Evelyn's  guardian;  slightly 
alluded  to  the  scruples  he  had  entertained,  till 
Lord  Vargrave's  suit  was  broken  off;  and  feel- 
ing the  subject  too  delicate  for  a  letter,  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  confer  with  Lumley  respect- 
ing Evelyn's  wishes  as  to  certain  arrangements 
in  her  property. 

And  for  this  was  it  that  Lumley  had  toiled  ! 
for  this  had  he  visited  Lisle  Court  !  and  for 
this  had  he  been  stricken  down  to  the  bed  of 
pain  !  Was  it  only  to  make  his  old  rival  the 
purchaser,  if  he  so  pleased  it,  of  the  posses- 
sions of  his  own  family  ?  Lumley  thought  at 
that  moment  less  of  Evelyn  than  of  Lisle 
Court.  As  he  woke  from  the  stupor  and  the 
first  fit  of  rage  into  which  these  epistles  cast 
him,  the  recollection  of  the  story  he  had  heard 
from  Mr.  Onslow  flashed  across  him.  Were 
his  suspicions  true,  what  a  secret  he  would 
possess  !  How  fate  might  yet  befriend  him  ! 
Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.    Weak,  suffering 


jbo 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


as  he  still   was,  he    ordered  his  carriage,  and 
hastened  down  to  Mrs.  Leslie. 

In  the  interview  that  took  place,  he  was 
careful  not  to  alarm  her  into  discretion.  He 
managed  the  conference  with  his  usual  con- 
summate dexterity.  He  did  not  appear  to  be- 
lieve that  there  had  been  any  actual  connection 
between  Alice  and  the  supposed  Butler.  He 
began  by  simply  asking  whether  Alice  had 
ever,  in  early  life,  been  acquainted  with  a  per- 
son of  that  name,  and  when  residing  in  the 
neighbordood  of  *  *  *  *  ?  The  change  of 
countenance  —  the  surprised  start  of  Mrs. 
Leslie — convinced  him  that  his  suspicions 
were  true. 

"  And  why  do  you  ask,  my  lord  ?  "  said  the 
old  lady.  "  Is  it  to  ascertain  this  point  that 
you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  visit  me  ?  " 

"Not  exactly,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Lum- 
ley,  smiling.  "  But  I  am  going  to  C  *  *  *  * 
on  business;  and  besides,  that  I  wished  to 
give  an  account  of  your  health  to  Evelyn, 
whom  I  shall  shortly  see  at  Paris,  I  certainly 
did  desire  to  know  whether  it  would  be  any 
gratification  to  Lady  Vargrave,  for  whom  I 
have  the  deepest  regard,  to  renew  her  acquaint- 
ance with  the  said  Mr.  Butler  !  " 

"  What  does  your  lordship  know  of  him  ? — 
What  is  he  ? — who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  you  turn  the  tables  on 
me,  I  see — -for  my  one  question  you  would 
give  me  fifty.  But,  seriously,  before  I  answer 
you,  you  must  tell  me  whether  Lady  Vargrave 
does  know  a  gentleman  of  that  name;  yet, 
indeed,  to  save  trouble,  I  may  as  well  inform 
you,  that  I  know  it  was  under  that  name  that 
she  resided  at  C  *  *  *  *,  when  my  poor  uncle 
first  made  her  acquaintance.  What  I  ought 
to  ask,  is  this, — supposing  Mr.  Butler  be  still 
alive,  and  a  gentleman  of  character  and  fort- 
une, would  it  please  Lady  Vargrave  to  meet 
with  him  once  more?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  sink- 
ing back  in  her  chair,  much  embarrassed. 

"  Enough,  I  shall  not  stir  further  in  the 
matter.  Glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well. 
Fine  place — beautiful  trees.  Any  commands 
at  C  *  *  *  *,  or  any  message  for  Evelyn  ?" 

Lumley  rose  to  depart. 

"Stay,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  recalling  all  the 
pining,  restless,  untiring  love  that  Lady  Var- 
had  manifested  towards  the  lost,  and  feeling 
that  she  ought  not  to  sacrifice  to  slight  scru- 


ples the  chance  of  happiness  for  her  friend's 
future  years, — "  stay — I  think  this  question 
you  should  address  to  Lady  Vargrave  or  shall 
I?" 

"  As  you  will — perhaps  /  had  better  write. 
Good-day,"  and  Vargrave  hurried  away. 

He  had  satisfied  himself,  but  he  had  another 
yet  to  satisfy, — and  that,  from  certain  reasons 
known  but  to  himself,  without  bringing  the 
third  person  in  contact  with  Lard  Vargrave. 
On  arriving  at  C  *  *  *  *  he  wrote  therefore,  to 
Lady  Vargrave  as  follows: — 

"  My  Dear  Friend, 

"  Do  not  think  me  impertinent  or  intrusive — but  you 
know  me  too  well  for  that.  A  gentleman  of  the  name 
of  Butler  is  exceedingly  anxious  to  ascertain  if  you 
once  lived  near  *  *  *  *,  in  a  pretty  little  cottage,— 
Dove,  or  Dale,  or  Dell  Cottage  (some  such  appellation ), 
— and  if  you  remember  a  person  of  his  name  ? — Should 
you  care  to  give  a  reply  to  these  queries,  send  me  a 
line  addressed  to  London,  which  I  shall  get  on  my  way 
to  Paris.  "  Yours  most  truly, 

"  Vargr.we." 

As  soon  as  he  had  concluded  and  despatched 
this  letter,  Vargrave  wrote  to  Mr.  Winsley  as 
follows: — 

■'  My  Dear  Sir, 

"  I  am  so  unwell,  as  to  be  unable  to  call  on  you,  or 
even  to  see  any  one,  however  agreeable  (nay,  the  more 
agreeable  the  more  exciting!)  I  hope,  however,  to  re- 
new our  personal  acquaintance  before  quitting  C  ****. 
Meanwhile,  oblige  me  with  a  line  to  say  if  I  did  not 
understand  you  to  signify  that  you  could,  if  necessary, 
prove  that  Lady  Vargrave  once  resided  in  this  town  as 
Mrs.  Butler,  a  very  short  time  before  she  married  my 
uncle,  under  the  name  of  Cameron,  in  Devonshire; 
and  had  she  not  also  at  the  time  a  little  girl— an  infant, 
or  nearly  so, — who  must  necessarily  be  the  young  lady 
who  is  my  uncle's  heiress,  Miss  Evelyn  Cameron? 
My  reason  for  thus  troubling  you  is  obvious.  As  Miss 
Cameron's  guardian,  I  have  very  shortly  to  wind  up 
certain  affairs  connected  with  my  uncle's  will;  and, 
what  is  more,  there  is  some  property  bequeathed  by 
the  late  Mr.  Butler,  which  may  make  it  necessary  to 
prove  identity. 

"  Truly  yours, 

"  Vargrave." 

The  answer  to  the  latter  communication  ran 

thus: — 

"  My  Lord, 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  your  lordship'is  so  unwell, 
and  will  pay  my  respects  to-morrow.  I  certainly  can 
swear  that  the  present  Lady  Vargrave  was  the  Mrs. 
Butler  who  resided  at  C  *  *  *  *,  and  taught  music. 
And  as  the  child  with  her  was  of  the  same  sex,  and 
about  the  same  age,  as  Miss  Cameron,  there  can,  I 
should  think,  be  no  difficulty  in  establishing  the  iden- 
tity between  that,young  lady  and  the  child  Lady  Var- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


361 


grave  had  by  her  first  husband,  Mr.  Butler;  but  of  this, 
of  course,  I  cannot  speak. 

"  I  have  the  honor, 

"  Etc.,  etc." 

The  next  morning  Vargrave  despatched  a 
note  to  Mr.  Winsley,  saying  that  his  health 
required  him  to  return  to  town  immediately, 
— and  to  town,  in  fact,  he  hastened.  The  day 
after  his  arrival,  he  received,  in  a  hurried 
hand — strangely  blurred  and  blotted,  perhaps 
'"y  tears, — this  short  letter: — 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what  you  mean!  Yes 
— yes, — I  did  once  reside  at  Dale  Cottage — I  did  know 
one  of  the  name  of  Butler!  Has  he  discovered  the 
name  /  bear  ?  Where  is  he  ?  I  implore  you  to  write, 
or  let  me  see  you  before  you  leave  England  ! 

"  Alice  Vargrave." 

Lumley  smiled  triumphantly,  when  he  read, 
and  carefully  put  up,  this  letter. 

"  I  must  now  amuse  and  put  her  off — at  all 
events  for  the  present." 

In  answer  to  Lady  Vargrave's  letter,  he 
wrote  a  few  lines  to  say,  that  he  had  only 
heard  through  a  third  person  (a  lawyer)  of  a 
Mr.  Butler  residing  somewhere  abroad,  who 
had  wished  these  inquiries  to  be  made — that 
he  believed  it  only  related  to  some  disposition 
of  property— that,  perhaps,  the  Mr.  Butler  who 
made  the  inquiry  was  heir  to  the  Mr.  Butler 
she  had  known — that  he  could  learn  nothing 
else  at  present,  as  the  purport  of  her  reply 
must  be  sent  abroad;  the  lawyer  would  or 
could  say  nothing  more — that  directly  he  re- 
ceived a  further  communication  it  should  be 
despatched  to  her — that  he  was  most  affection- 
ately and  most  truly  hers. 

The  rest  of  that  inorning  Vargrave  devoted  to 
Lord  Sa.xingham  and  his  allies;  and  declaring, 
and  believing,  that  he  should  not  be  long  ab- 
sent at  Paris,  he  took  an  early  dinner,  and  was 
about  once  more  to  commit  himself  to  the 
risks  of  travel,  when,  as  he  crossed  the  hall, 
Mr.  Douce  came  hastily  upon  him. 

"  My  lord — my  lord — I  must  have  a  word 
with  your  1-1-lordship; — you  are  going  to — 
that  is — '■  (and  the  little  man  looked  fright- 
ened) "  you  intend  to — to  go  to— that  is — ab- 
ab-ab — — " 

"  Not  abscond.  Mr.  Douce — come  into  the 
library:  I  am  in  a  great  hurry,  but  I  have  al- 
ways time  {ox you — what's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Why,    then,   my   lord, — I — I    have    heard 


nothing  m-m-more  from  your  lordship  about 
the  pur-pur " 

"  Purchase  ? — I  am  going'to  Paris,  to  settle 
all  particulars  with  Miss  Cameron;  tell  the 
lawyers  so." 

"  May — may — we  draw  out  the  money  to 
— to — show — -that — that  we  are  in  earnest  ? 
otherwise  1  fear — that  is,  I  suspect — I  mean  I 
know,  that  Colonel  Maltravers  will  be  off  the 
bargain." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Douce,  really  I  must  just  see 
my  ward  first  !  but  you  shall  hear  from  me  in 
a  day  or  two; — and  the  ten  thousand  pounds 
I  owe  you  !  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  the  ten — ten — ten — my  part- 
ner is  very " 

"  Anxious  for  it,  no  doubt  ! — my  compli- 
ments to  him — God  bless  you  ! — take  care  of 
yourself — must  be  off  to  save  the  packet;" 
and  Vargrave  hurried  away,  muttering  '•  Heav- 
en sends  money,  and  the  devil  sends  duns  ! " 

Douce  gasped  like  a  fish  for  breath,  as  his 
eyes  followed  the  rapid  steps  of  Vargrave; 
and  there  was  an  angry  scowl  of  disappoint- 
ment on  his  small  features.  Lumley,  by  this 
time,  seated  in  his  carriage,  and  wrapped  up  in 
his  cloak,  had  forgotten  the  creditor's  exist- 
ence, and  whispered  to  his  aristocratic  secre- 
tary, as  he  bent  his  head  out  of  the  carriage 
window,  "  I  have  told  Lord  Saxingham  to 
despatch  you  to  me,  if  there  is  any— the  least 
— necessity  for  me  in  London.  I  leave  you 
behind,  Howard,  because,  your  sister  being  at 
court,  and  your  cousin  with  our  notable 
premier,  you  will  find  out  every  change  in  the 
wind — you  understand.  And  I  say,  Howard 
— don't  think  I  forget  your  kindness  ! — you 
know  that  no  man  ever  served  me  in  vain  !— 
Oh,  there's  that  horrid  little  Douce  behind 
you  ! — tell  them  to  drive  on  !  " 


CHAPTER  n. 

*  *    "  Heard  you  that  ? 

What  prodigy  of  horror  is  disclosing?" 

— Lil.l.o:  Fatal  Curiosity. 

The  unhappy  companion  of  Cesarini's  flight 
was  soon  discovered  and  recaptured;  but  all 
seach  for  Cesarini  himself  proved  ineffectual, 
not  only  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Cloud,  but 
in  the  surrounding  country  and  in  Paris.     The 


362 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


only  comfort  was  in  thinking  that  his  watch 
would  at  least,  preserve  him  for  some  time 
from  the  horrors  of  want;  and  that,  by  the 
sale  of  the  trinket,  he  might  be  traced.  The 
police,  too,  were  set  at  work — the  vigilant 
police  of  Paris  !  Still  day  rolled  on  day,  and 
no  tidings.  The  secret  of  the  escape  was 
carefully  concealed  from  Teresa;  and  public 
cares  were  a  sufficient  excuse  for  the  gloom  on 
De  Montaigne's  brow. 

Evelyn  heard  from  Maltravers,  with  mingled 
emotions  of  compassion,  grief,  and  awe,  the 
gloomy  tale  connected  with  the  history  of  the 
maniac.  She  wept  for  the  fate  of  Florence — 
she  shuddered  at  the  curse  that  had  fallen  on 
Cesarini;  and  perhaps  Maltravers  grew  dearer 
to  her  from  the  thought,  that  there  was  so 
much  in  the  memories  of  the  past  that  needed 
a  comforter  and  a  soother. 

They  returned  to  Paris,  affianced  and 
plighted  lovers;  and  then  it  was  that  Evelyn 
sought  carefully  and  resolutely  to  banish  from 
her  mind  all  recollection,  all  regret,  of  the  ab- 
sent Legard:  she  felt  the  solemnity  of  the  trust 
confided  in  her,  and  she  resolved  that  no 
thought  of  hers  should  ever  be  of  a  nature  to 
gall  the  generous  and  tender  spirit  that  had 
confided  its  life  of  life  to  her  care.  The  in- 
fluence of  Maltravers  over  her  increased  in 
their  new  and  more  familiar  position;  and  yet 
still  it  partook  too  much  of  veneration — too 
little  of  passion;  but  that  might  be  her  inno- 
cence and  youth.  He,  at  least,  was  sensible 
of  no  want — she  had  chosen  him  from  the 
world:  and,  fastidious  as  he  deemed  himself, 
he  reposed,  without  a  doubt,  on  the  security  of 
her  faith.  None  of  those  presentiments  which 
had  haunted  him  when  first  betrothed  to  Flor- 
ence disturbed  him  now.  The  affection  of  one 
so  young  and  so  guileless,  seemed  to  bring 
back  to  him  all  his  own  youth— we  are  ever 
young  while  the  young  can  love  us  I  Sud- 
denly, too,  the  world  took,  to  his  eyes,  a 
brighter  and  fairer  aspect — Hope,  born  again, 
reconciled  him  to  his  career,  and  to  his  race  ! 
The  more  he  listened  to  Evelyn,  the  more  he 
watched  every  evidence  of  her  docile  but  gen- 
erous nature,  the  more  he  felt  assured  that  he 
had  found,  at  last,  a  heart  suited  to  his  own. 
Her  beautiful  serenity  of  temper,  cheerful, 
yet  never  fitful  or  unquiet,  gladdened  him 
with  its  insensible  contagion. 

To  be  with  Evelyn,  was  like  basking  in  the 


sunshine  of  some  happy  sky  !  It  was  an  in- 
expressible charm  to  one  wearied  with  "  the 
hack  sights  and  sounds  "  of  this  jaded  world — 
to  watch  the  ever  fresh  and  sparkling  thoughts 
and  fancies  which  came  from  a  soul  so  new  to 
life  !  It  enchanted  one,  painfully  fastidious 
in  what  relates  to  the  true  nobility  of  char- 
acter, that,  however  various  the  themes  dis- 
cussed, no  low  or  mean  thought  ever  sullied 
those  beautiful  lips.  It  was  not  the  mere  in- 
nocence of  inexperience,  but  the  moral  in- 
cai)ability  of  guile,  that  charmed  him  in  the 
companion  he  had  chosen  on  his  path  to- 
Eternity  !  He  was  also  delighted  to  notice 
Evelyn's  readiness  of  resources:  she  had  that 
faculty,  without  which  woman  has  no  inde- 
pendence from  the  world,  no  pledge  that  do- 
mestic retirement  will  not  soon  languish  into 
wearisome  monotony — the  faculty  of  making 
trifles  contribute  to  occupation  or  amusement; 
she  was  easily  pleased,  and  yet  she  so  soon  rec- 
onciled herself  to  disappointment.  He  felt, 
and  chid  his  own  dullness  for  not  feeling  it  be- 
fore— that,  young  and  surpassingly  lovely  as 
she  was,  she  required  no  stimulant  from  the 
heated  pursuits  and  the  hollow  admiration  of 
the  crowd. 

"  Such,"  thought  he,  "  are  the  natures  that 
alone  can  preserve  through  years  the  poetry  of 
the  first  passionate  illusion — that  can  alone 
render  wedlock  the  seal  that  confirms  affection, 
and  not  the  mocking  ceremonial  that  vainly 
consecrates  its  grave  !  " 

Maltravers,  as  we  have  seen,  formally  wrote 
to  Lumley  some  days  after  their  return  to 
Paris.  He  would  have  written  also  to  Lady 
Vargrave — but  Evelyn  thought  it  best  to  pre- 
jiare  her  mother  by  a  letter  from  herself. 

Miss  Cameron  now  wanted  but  a  few  weeks 
to  the  age  of  eighteen,  at  which  she  was  to  be 
the  sole  mistress  of  her  own  destiny.  On 
arriving  at  that  age,  the  marriage  was  to  take 
place.  Valerie  heard  with  sincere  delight  of 
the  new  engagement  her  friend  had  formed. 
She  eagerly  sought  every  opportunity  to  in- 
crease her  intimacy  with  Evelyn,  who  was 
completely  won  by  her  graceful  kindness; — 
the  result  of  Valerie's  examination  was,  that 
she  did  not  wonder  at  the  i)assionate  love  of 
Maltravers,  but  that  her  deep  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart  (that  knowledge  so  remark- 
able in  the  women  of  her  country  !)  made  her 
doubt  how  far  it  was  adequately  retunied — 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


363 


how  far  Evelyn  deceived  herself.  Her  first 
satisfaction  became  mingled  with  anxiety,  and 
she  relied  more  for  the  future  felicity  of  her 
friend  on  Evelyn's  purity  of  thought  and  gen- 
eral tenderness  of  heart,  than  on  the  exclusive- 
ness  and  ardor  of  her  love.  Alas  !  few  at 
eighteen  are  not  too  young  for  the  irrevocable 
step — and  Evelyn  was  younger  than  her  years  ! 
One  evening,  at  Madame  de  Ventadour's, 
Maltravers  asked  Evelyn  if  she  had  yet  heard 
from  Lady  Vargrave.  Evelyn  expressed  her 
surprise  that  she  had  not,  and  the  conversa- 
tion fell,  as  was  natural,  upon  Lady  Vargrave 
herself.  "Is  she  as  fond  of  music  as  you 
are  ?  "  asked  Maltravers. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  think  so — and  of  the  songs 
of  a  certain  person  in  particular;  they  always 
had  for  her  an  indescribable  charm.  Often 
have  I  heard  her  say,  that  to  read  your  writ- 
ings was  like  talking  to  an  early  friend.  Your 
name  and  genius  seemed  to  make  her  solitary 
connection  with  the  great  world.  Nay — but 
you  will  not  be  angry — I  half  think  it  was  her 
enthusiasm,  so  strange  and  rare,  that  first 
taught  me  interest  in  yourself." 

"  I  have  a  double  reason,  then,  for  loving 
your  mother,"  said  Maltravers,  much  pleased 
and  flattered.  "  And  does  she  not  like  Italian 
music  ?" 

"  Not  much;  she  prefers  some  rather  old- 
fashioned  German  airs,  very  simple,  but  very 
touching." 

"  My  own  early  passion,"  said  Maltravers, 
more  and  more  interested. 

','  But  there  are,  also,  one  or  two  English 
songs  which  I  have  occasionally,  but  very  sel- 
dom, heard  her  sing.  One  in  esjjecial  affects 
her  so  deeply,  even  when  she  plays  the  air, 
that  I  have  always  attached  to  it  a  certain 
mysterious  sanctity.  I  should  not  like  to  sing 
it  before  a  crowd;  but  to-morrow,  when  you 
call  on  me,  and  we  are  alone " 

"  Ah,  to-morrow  I  will  not  fail  to  remind 
you." 

Their  conversation  ceased;  yet,  somehow 
or  other,  that  night  when  he  retired  to  rest, 
the  recollection  of  it  haunted  Maltravers.  He 
felt  a  vague,  unaccountable  curiosity  respect- 
\  ing  this  secluded  and  solitary  mother;  all 
■  concerning  her  early  fate  seemed  so  wrapt 
in  mystery.  Cleveland,  in  reply  to  his  letter, 
had  informed  him  that  all  inquiries  respecting 
the  birth  and  first  marriage  of  Lady  Vargrave 


had  failed.  Evelyn  evidently  knew  but  little 
of  either,  and  he  felt  a  certain  delicacy  in 
pressing  questions  which  might  be  ascribed  to 
the  inquisitiveness  of  a  vulgar  family  pride. 
Moreover,  lovers  have  so  much  to  say  to  each 
other,  that  he  had  not  yet  found  time  to  talk 
at  length  to  Evelyn  about  third  persons.  He 
slept  ill  that  night — dark  and  boding  dreams 
disturbed  his  slumber.  He  rose  late  and  de- 
jected by  presentiments  he  could  not  master: 
his  morning  meal  was  scarcely  over,  and  he 
had  already  taken  his  hat  to  go  to  Evelyn's 
for  comfort  and  sunshine,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  he  was  surprised  by  the  entrance 
of  Lord  Vargrave. 

Lumley  seated  himself  with  a  formal  gravity 
very  unusual  to  him;  and,  as  if  anxious  to 
waive  unnecessary  explanations,  began  as  fol- 
lows with  a  serious  and  impressive  voice  and 
aspect: — 

"  Maltravers,  of  late  years  we  have  been 
estranged  from  each  other;  I  do  not  presume 
to  dictate  to  you  your  friendships  or  your  dis- 
likes. Why  this  estrangement  has  happened, 
you  alone  can  determine.  For  my  part,  I  am 
conscious  of  no  offence;  that  which  I  was  I 
am  still.  It  is  you  who  have  changed. 
Whether  it  be  the  difference  of  our  political 
opinions,  or  any  other  and  more  secret  cause. 
I  know  not.  I  lament,  but  it  is  now  too  late 
to  attempt  to  remove  it.  If  you  suspect  me 
of  ever  seeking,  or  even  wishing,  to  sow  dis- 
sension between  yourself  and  my  ill-fated 
cousin,  now  no  more,  you  are  mistaken.  I 
ever  sought  the  happiness  and  the  union  of 
you  both.  And  yet,  Maltravers,  you  then 
came  between  me  and  an  early  and  cherished 
dream.  But  I  suffered  in  silence;  my  course 
was  at  least  disinterested,  perhaps  generous; 
let  it  pass.  A  second  time  you  cross  my  path 
— you  win  from  me  a  heart  I  had  long  learned 
to  consider  mine.  You  have  no  scruple  of 
early  friendship — you  have  no  forbearance 
towards  acknowledged  and  affianced  ties.  You 
are  my  rival  with  Evelyn  Cameron,  and  your 
suit  has  prospered." 

"Vargrave,"  said  Maltravers,  "you  have 
spoken  frankly;  and  I  will  reply  with  an  equal 
candor.  A  difference  of  tastes,  tempers,  and 
opinions,  led  us  long  since  into  opposite  paths. 
I  am  one  who  cannot  disunite  public  morality 
from  private  virtue.  From  motives  best  known 
to  you,  but  which  I  say  openly  I  hold  to  have 


364 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


been  those  of  interest  or  ambition, — you  did 
not  change  your  opinions  (there  is  no  sin  in 
that),  but  retaining  them  in  private,  professed 
others  in  public,  and  played  with  the  destinies 
of  mankind,  as  if  they  were  but  counters,  to 
mark  a  mercenary  game.  This  led  me  to  ex- 
amine your  character  with  more  searching 
eyes;  and  I  found  it  one  I  could  no  longer 
trust.  With  respect  to  the  Dead— let  the  pall 
drop  over  that  early  grave — I  acquit  you  of  all 
blame.  He  who  sinned  has  suffered  more 
than  would  atone  the  crime  !  You  charge  me 
with  my  love  to  Evelyn.  Pardon  me,  but  I 
seduced  no  affection,  I  have  broken  no  tie  ! 
Not  till  she  was  free,  in  heart  and  in  hand,  to 
choose  between  us,  did  I  hint  at  love.  Let 
me  think,  that  a  way  may  be  found  to  soften 
one  portion  at  least  of  the  disappointment  you 
cannot  but  feel  acutely." 

"  Stay  !  "  said  Lortl  Vargrave  (who,  plunged 
in  a  gloomy  revery,  had  scarcely  seemed  to 
hear  the  last  few  sentences  of  his  rival);  "  stay, 
Maltravers.  Speak  not  of  love  to  Evelyn  ! — a 
horrible  foreboding  tells  me  that,  a  few  hours 
hence,  you  would  rather  pluck  out  your  tongue 
by  the  roots,  than  couple  the  words  of  love 
with  the  thought  of  that  unfortunate  girl  !  Oh, 
if  I  were  vindictive,  what  awful  triumph  would 
await  me  now  !  What  retaliation  on  your  harsh 
judgment,  your  cold  contempt,  your  momen- 
tary and  wretched  victory  over  me  !  Heaven 
is  my  witness,  that  my  only  sentiment  is  that 
of  terror  and  woe  !  Maltravers,  in  your  earliest 
youth,  did  you  form  connection  with  one  whom 
they  called  Alice  Darvil  ?" 

"Alice  ! — merciful  Heaven  !  what  of  her?" 

"  Did  you  never  know  that  the  Christian 
name  of  Evelyn's  mother  is  Alice  ?  " 

"  I  never  asked — I  never  knew;  but  it  is  a 
common  name,"  faltered  Maltravers. 

"Listen  to  me,"  resumed  Vargrave:  "with 
Alice  Darvil  you  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of 
*  *  *  *,  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  Go  on — go  on  !  " 

"  You  took  the  name  of  Butler — by  that 
name  Alice  Darvil  was  afterwards  known  in 
the  town  in  which  my  uncle  resided — (there 
are  gaps  in  the  historj'  that  I  cannot  of  my 
own  knowledge  fill  up) — she  taught  music — 
my  uncle  became  enamoured  of  her — but  he 
was  vain  and  worldly.  She  removed  into 
Devonshire,  and  he  married  her  there,  under 
the   name  of   Cameron,    by   which    name   he 


hoped  to  conceal  from  the  world  the  lowness 
of  her  origin,  and  the  humble  calling  she  had 

followed. Hold  !    do   not   interrupt   me. 

Alice  had  one  daughter,  as  was  supposed,  by 
a  former  marriage — that  daughter  was  the  off- 
spring of  him  whose  name  she  bore — yes,  of 
the  false  Butler  I — that  daughter  is  Evelyn 
Cameron ! " 

"Liar! — devil!"  cried  Maltravers,  spring- 
ing to  his  feet,  as  if  a  shot  had  pierced  his 
heart.     "  Proofs — proofs  !  " 

"  Will  these  suffice  ?  "  said  Vargrave:  as  he 
drew  forth  the  letters  of  Winsley  and  Lady 
Vargrave.  Maltravers  took  them,  but  it  was 
some  moments  before  he  could  dare  to  read. 
He  supported  himself  with  difficulty  from  fall- 
ing to  the  ground;  there  was  a  gurgle  in  his 
throat,  like  the  sound  of  the  death-rattle:  at 
last  he  read,  and  dropped  the  letters  from  his 
hand. 

"  Wait  me  here,"  he  said,  very  faintly,  and 
moved  mechanically  to  the  door. 

"  Hold  !  "  said  Lord  Vargrave,  laying  his 
hand  upon  Ernest's  arm.  "  Listen  to  me 
for  Evelyn's  sake — for  her  mother's.  You 
are  about  to  seek  Evelyn — be  it  so  I  I  know- 
that  you  possess  the  god-like  gift  of  self-con- 
trol. You  will  not  suffer  her  to  learn  that  her 
mother  has  done  that  which  dishonors  alike 
mother  and  child  .'  You  will  not  consummate 
your  wrong  to  Alice  Darvil,  by  robbing  her  of 
the  fruit  of  a  life  of  penitence  and  remorse? 
You  will  not  unveil  her  shame  to  her  own 
daughter  ?  Convince  yourself,  and  master 
yourself  while  you  do  so  !  " 

"  Fear  me  not,"  said  Maltravers,  with  a 
terrible  smile;  "I  will  not  afflict  my  con- 
conscience  with  a  double  curse.  As  I  have 
sowed,  so  must  I  reap.     Wait  me  here  ! '' 


CHAPTER   HI. 

*        •    ■    *    "  Ivl  isery, 

That  gathers  force  each  moment  as  it  rolls, 

And  must,  at  last  "  erwhelra  me." 

— LiLLO;  Fatal  Curiosity. 

Maltravers  found  Evelyn  alone;  she 
turned  towards  him  with  her  usual  sweet  smile 
of  welcome:  but  the  smile  vanished  at  once, 
as  her  eyes  met  his  changed  and  working 
countenance;  cold  drops  stood  upon  the  rigid 


ALICK;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


365 


and  marble  -bfow — the  lips  writhed  as  if  in 
bodily  torture — the  muscles  of  the  face  had 
fallen,  and  there  was  a  wildness  which  ap- 
palled her  in  the  fixed  and  feverish  brightness 
of  the  eyes. 

"  You  are  ill,  Ernest, — dear  Ernest,  you  are 
ill, — your  look  freezes  me  !  " 

"  Nay,  Evelyn,"  said  Maltravers,  recovering 
himself  by  one  of  those  efforts  of  which  men 
who  have  suffered  without  sympathy  are  alone 
capable; — "nay,  I  am  better  now;  I  have  been 
ill — very  ill — but  I  am  better  !  " 

"  111  !  and  I  not  to  know  of  it  !  "  She  at- 
tempted to  take  his  hand  as  she  spoke.  Mal- 
travers recoiled. 

"  It  is  fire  ! — it  burns  !— avaunt  !  "  he  cried, 
franctically.  "Oh  Heaven  I  spare  me,  spare 
me  !  " 

Evelyn  was  now  seriously  alarmed;  she 
gazed  on  him  with  the  tenderest  compassion. 
Was  this  one  of  those  moody  and  overwhelm- 
ing paroxysms  to  which  it  had  been  whispered 
abroad  that  he  was  subject  ?  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  despite  her  terror,  he  was  dearer  to 
her  in  that  hour — as  she  believed,  of  gloom 
and  darkness — that  in  all  the  glory  of  majes- 
tic intellect,  or  all  the  blandishments  of  his 
soft  address. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you  ?  "  she  said, 
approaching  him  again;  "  have  you  seen  Lord 
Vargrave  ?  I  know  that  he  has  arrived,  for 
his  servant  has  been  here  to  say   so;  has  he 

uttered  any  thing  to  distress  you  ?  or  has " 

(she  added  falteringly  and  timidly) — "  has 
l)oor  Evelyn  offended  you  ?  Speak  to  me, — 
only  speak  !  " 

Maltravers  turned,  and  his  face  was  now 
calm  and  serene:  save  by  its  extreme  and 
almost  ghastly  paleness,  no  trace  of  the  hell 
within  him  could  be  discovered. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  gently,  "  I  know  not 
this  morning  what  I  say  or  do;  think  not  of  it 
— think  not  of  me^it  will  pass  away  when  I 
hear  your  voice." 

"  Shall  I  sing  to  you  the  words  I  spoke  of 
last  night  ? — see,  I  have  them  ready — I  know 
them  by  heart;  but  I  thought  you  might  like 
to  read  them,  they  are  so  full  of  simple  but 
deep  feeling." 

Maltravers  took  the  song  from  her  hands, 
and  bent  over  the  paper;  at  first,  the  letters 
seemed  dim  and  indistinct,  for  there  was  a 
mist  before   his  eyes;  but  at  last  a  chord  of 


memory  was  struck — he  recalled  the  words: 
they  were  some  of  those  he  had  composed  for 
Alice  in  the  first  days  of  their  delicious  inter- 
course— links  of  the  golden  chain,  in  which  he 
had  sought  to  bind  the  spirit  of  knowledge  to 
that  of  love. 

"  And  from  whom,"  said  he,  in  a  faint  voice, 
as  he  calmly  put  down  the  verses, — "  from 
whom  did  your  mother  learn  these  words  ? " 

"I  know  not;  some  dear  friend,  years  ago, 
composed,  and  gave  them  to  her.  It  must 
have  been  one  very  dear  to  her,  to  judge  by 
the  effect  they  still  produce." 

"Think  you,"  said  Maltravers,  in  a  hollow 
voice — "  think  you  it  was  your  father?  " 

"My  father  I — she  never  speaks  of  him  I  — 
I  have  been  early  taught  to  shun  all  allusion 
to  his  memory.  My  father  ! — it  is  probable — 
yes  !  it  may  have  been  my  father;  whom  else 
could  she  have  loved  so  fondly?  " 

There  was  a  long  ■  silence;  Evelyn  was  the 
first  to  break  it. 

"  I  have  heard  from  my  mother,  to-day, 
Ernest;  her  letter  alarms  me — I  scarce  know 
why  ?  " 

"  Ay  ! — and  how — " 

"It  is  hurried  and  incoherent — almost  wild: 
she  says  she  has  learned  some  intelligence 
that  has  unsettled  and  unstrung  her  mind: 
she  has  requested  me  to  inquire  if  any  one  I 
am  acquainted  with  has  heard  of,  or  met 
abroad,  some  person  of  the  name  of  Butler. 
You  start ! — have  you  known  one  of  that 
name  ?  " 

"I  ! — did  your  mother  never  allude  to  that 
name  before  ?  " 

"  Never  ! — and  yet,  once  I  remember — " 

"What?" 

"  That  I  was  reading  an  account  in  the 
papers  of  the  sudden  death  of  some  Mr.  Butler; 
and  her  agitation  made  a  powerful  and  strange 
impression  upon  me — in  fact,  she  fainted,  and 
seemed  almost  delirious  when  she  recovered; 
she  would  not  rest  till  I  had  completed  the 
account,  and  when  I  came  to  the  particulars  of 
his  age,  etc.,  (he  was  old,  I  think)  she  clasped 
her  hands,  and  wept;  but  they  seemed  tears  of 
joy.  The  name  is  so  common — whom,  of  that 
naine  have  you  known  ?  " 

"It  is  no  matter!  Is  that  your  mother's 
letter? — is  that  her  handwriting  ?  " 

"  Yes;  "  and  Evelyn  gave  the  letter  to  Mal- 
travers.    He  glanced  over  the  characters;  he 


j66 


B  UL  WEK'S     WORKS. 


hail  once  or  twice  seen  Lady  Vargrave's  hand- 
writing before,  and  had  recognized  no  likeness 
between  that  handwriting  and  such  early 
specimens  of  Alice's  art  as  he  had  witnessed 
so  many  years  ago,  but  now,  "trifles  light  as 
air  "  had  grown  "  confirmation  strong  as  proof 
of  Holy  Writ," — he  thought  he  detected  Alice 
in  every  line  of  the  hurried  and  blotted  scroll; 
and  when  his  eye  rested  on  the  words — "Your 
affectionate  mother,  Alice!"  his  blood  cur- 
dled in  his  veins. 

•'  It  is  strange  ! "  said  he,  still  struggling 
for  self-composure;  "  strange  that  I  never 
thought  of  asking  h<;r  name  before: — Alice  ! 
her  name  is  Alice  ?  " 

"A  sweet  name,  is  it  not?  it  accords  so  well 
with  her  simple  character — how  you  would 
love  her  ! " 

As  she  said  this,  Evelyn  turned  to  Maltravers 
with  enthusiasm,  and  again  she  was  startled 
by  his  aspect;  for  again' it  was  haggard,  dis- 
torted, and  convulsed. 

•'  Oh  !  if  you  love  me,"  she  cried,  "  do  send 
immediately  for  advice  !— And  yet,  is  it  illness, 
Ernest,  or  is  it  some  grief  that  you  hide  from 
me  ? " 

"  It  is  illness,  Evelyn,"  said  Maltravers, 
rising;  and  his  knees  knocked  together.  "  I 
am  not  fit  even  for  your  companionship — I 
will  go  home." 

"  And  send  instantly  for  advice  ?  " 

"Ay  !  it  waits  me  there   already." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  and  you  will  write  to  me 
— one  little  word — to  relieve  me  ?  I  am  so  un- 
easy !  "' 

"  I  will  write  to  you." 

"  This  evening  ?  " 

"Ay!" 

"  Now  go — I  will  not  detain  you." 

He  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  but  when  he 
reached  it  he  turned,  and  catching  her  anxious 
gaze,  he  opened  his  arms;  overpowered  with 
strange  fear  and  affectionate  sympathy,  she 
burst  into  passionate  tears;  and,  surprised  out 
of  the  timidity  and  reserve  which  had  hitherto 
characterized  her  pure  and  meek  attachment 
to  him,  she  fell  on  his  breast,  and  sobbed 
aloud.  Maltravers  raised  his  hands,  and, 
placing  them  solemnly  on  her  young  head,  his 
lips  muttered  as  if  in  prayer.  He  paused,  and 
strained  her  to  his  heart; — but  he  shunned 
that  parting  kiss,  which,  hitherto,  he  had  so 
fondly   sought.     That   embrace   was    one   of 


agony,  and  not  of  rapture;— and  yet  Evelyn 
dreamt  not  that  he  designed  it  for  the  last ! 

Maltravers  re-entered  the  room  in  which  he 
had  left  Lord  Vargrave,  who  still  awaited  his 
return. 

He  walked  up  to  Lumley  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "  You  have  saved  me  from  a  dreadful 
crime — from  an  everlasting  remorse — I  thank 
you  !  " 

Hardened  and  frigid  as  his  nature  was, 
Lumley  was  touched;  the  movement  of  Mal- 
travers took  him  by  surprise.  "  It  has  been  a 
dreadful  duty,  Ernest,"  said  he,  pressing  the 
hand  he  held;  "  but  to  come,  too,  from  me — 
your  rival  ! " 

"  Proceed — proceed,  I  pray  you — explain  all 
this — Yet  explanation  ! — what  do  I  want  to 
know  ? — Evelyn  is  my  daughter — Alice's  child  ! 
For  Heaven's  sake,  give  me  hope, — say  it  is 
not  so — say  that  she  is  Alice's  child,  but  not 
mine !  Father,  father  ! — and  they  call  it  a 
holy  name — it  is  a  horrible  one  !  " 

'' Compose  yourself  my  dear  friend:  recol- 
lect what  you  have  escaped  !  You  will  recover 
this  shock; — time — travel " 

"  Peace,  man, — peace  !  Now  then  I  am 
calm  !  When  Alice  left  me  she  had  no  child. 
I  knew  not  that  she  bore  within  her  the  pledge 
of  our  ill-omened  and  erring  love.  Verily,  the 
sins  of  my  youth  have  risen  against  me;  and 
the  curse  has  come  home  to  roost  !  " 

"  I  cannot  explain  to  you  all  details." 

"  But  why  not  have  told  me  of  this  ?  Why 
not  have  warned  me — why  not  have  said  to  me, 
when  my  heart  could  have  been  satisfied  by  so 
sweet  a  tie — '  Thou  hast  a  daughter— thou  art 
not  desolate  ? '  Why  reserve  the  knowledge 
of  the  blessing  until  it  has  turned  to  poison  ? 
Fiend  that  you  are  !  you  have  waited  this 
hour  to  gloat  over  the  agony  from  which,  a 
word  from  you — a  year,  nay,  a  month  ago — a 
little  month  ago,  might  have  saved  me  and 
her  ! " 

Maltravers,  as  he  spoke,  approached  Var- 
grave, with  eyes  sparkling  with  fierce  passion; 
his  hand  clenched,  his  form  dilated,  the  veins 
on  his  forehead  swelled  liked  cords.  Lumley. 
brave  as  he  was,  recoiled. 

"  I  knew  not  of  this  secret,"  said  he,  depre- 
catingly,  "  till  a  few  days  before  I  came  hither; 
and  I  came  hither  at  once  to  disclose  it  to  j'ou. 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ?     I  knew  that  my  uncle 


ALICE;     OR,     JHE    MYSTERIES. 


367 


had  married  a  person  much  beneath  him  in 
rank;  but  he  was  guarded  and  cautious,  and  I 
knew  no  more,  except  that  by  a  first  husband 
that  lady  had  one  daughter, — Evelyn.  A 
chain  of  accidents  suddenly  acquainted  me 
with  the  rest."  Here  Vargrave  pretty  faith- 
fully repeated  what  he  had  learned  from  the 
brewer  at  C  *  *  *  *  *,  and  from  Mr.  Onslow; 
but  when  he  came  to  the  tacit  confirmation  of 
all  his  suspicions,  received  from  Mrs.  Leslie, 
he  greatly  exaggerated,  and  greatly  distorted 
the  account.  "  Judge,  then,"  concluded  Lum- 
ley,  "  of  the  horror  with,  which  I  heard  that 
you  had  declared  an  attachment  to  Evelyn, 
and  that  it  was  returned.  Ill  as  1  was,  I 
hastened  hither:  you  know  the  rest: — are  you 
satisfied  ? " 

"  I  will  go  to  Alice  ! — I  will  learn  from  her 
own  lips — yet  how  can  I  meet  her  again  ? 
How  say  to  her,  '  I  have  taken  from  thee  thy 
last  hope — I  have  broken  thy  child's  heart  ?  '  " 

"  Forgive  me,  but  I  should  confess  to  you, 
that,  from  all  that  I  can  learn  from  Mrs.  Leslie, 
Lady  Vargrave  has  but  one  prayer — one  hope 
in  life — that  she  may  never  again  meet  with 
her  betrayer.  You  may,  indeed,  in  her  own 
letter,  perceive  how  much  she  is  terrified  by 
the  thought  of  your  discovering  her.  She  has, 
at  length,  recovered  peace  of  mind,  and  tran- 
quillity of  conscience.  She  shrinks  with 
dread  from  the  prospect  of  ever  again  encoun- 
tering one  once  so  dear,  now  associated  in  her 
mind  with  recollections  of  guilt  and  sorrow. 
More  than  this,  she  is  sensitively  alive  to  the 
fear  of  shame,  the  dread  of  detection.  If  ever 
her  daughter  were  to  know  her  sin,  it  would  be 
to  her  as  a  death-blow.  Yet,  in  her  nervous 
state  of  health,  her  ever  quick  and  uncontrol- 
lable feelings,  if  you  were  to  meet  her,  she 
would  disguise  nothing,  conceal  nothing.  The 
veil  would  be  torn  aside;  the  menials  in  her 
own  house  would  tell  the  tale,  and  curiosity 
circulate,  and  scandal  blacken,  the  story  of 
her  early  errors.  No,  Maltravers,  at  least  wait 
awhile  before  you  see  her;  wait  till  her  mind 
can  be  prepared  for  such  an  interview,  till  pre- 
cautions can  be  taken,  till  you  yourself  are  in 
a  calmer  state  of  mind." 

Maltravers  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  on  Lum- 
ley  while  he  thus  spoke,  and  listened  in  deep 
attention. 

"  It  matters  not,"  said  he,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  whether  these  be  your   real   reasons 


for  wishing  to  defer  or  prevent  a  meeting  be- 
tween Alice  and  myself.  The  affliction  that 
has  come  upon  me  bursts  with  too  clear  and 
scorching  a  blaze  of  light,  for  me  to  see  any 
chance  of  escape  or  mitigation.  Even  if 
Evelyn  were  the  daughter  of  Alice  by  another, 
she  would  be  for  ever  separated  from  me. — The 
mother  and  the  child  !  there  is  a  kind  of  in- 
cest even  in  that  thought !  But  such  an  alle- 
viation of  my  anguish  is  forbidden  to  my  rea- 
son. No,  poor  Alice,  I  will  not  disturb  the 
repose  thou  hast  won  at  last !  Thou  shall 
never  have  the  grief  to  know  that  our  error  has 
brought  upon  thy  lover  so  black  a  doom  !  All 
is  over  !  the  world  never  shall  find  me  again. 
Nothing  is  left  for  me  but  the  desert  and  the 
grave  \. " 

"  Speak  not  so,  Ernest,"  said  Lord  Var- 
grave, soothingly:  "a  little  while  and  you 
will  recover  this  blow:  your  control  over  pas- 
sion has,  even  in  youth,  inspired  me  with  admi- 
ration and  surprise;  and,  now,  in  calmer  years, 
and  with  s£ich  incentives  to  self-mastery,  your 
triumph  will  come  sooner  than  you  think. 
Evelyn,  too,  is  so  young;  she  has  not  known  you 
long;  perhaps  her  love,  after  all,  is  that  caused 
by  some  mystic,  but  innocent  working  of  nat- 
ure, and  she  would  rejoice  to  call  you  '  father." 
Happy  years  are  yet  in  store  for  you." 

Maltravers  did  not  listen  to  these  vain  and 
hollow  consolations.  With  his  head  drooping 
on  his  bosom,  his  whole  form  unnerved,  the 
large  tears  rolling  unheeded  down  his  cheeks, 
he  seemed  the  very  picture  of  the  broken- 
hearted man,  whom  fate  never  again  could 
raise  from  despair.  He — who  had,  for  years, 
so  cased  himself  in  pride,  on  whose  very  front 
was  engraved  the  victory  over  passion  and 
misfortune,  whose  step  had  trod  the  earth  in 
the  royalty  of  the  Conqueror; — the  veriest 
slave  that  crawls  bore  not  a  spirit  more  hum- 
bled, fallen,  or  subdued  !  He  who  had  looked 
with  haughty  eyes  on  the  infirmities  of  others, 
who  had  disdained  to  serve  his  race,  because 
of  their  human  follies  and  partial  frailties — /le 
even  /te—the  Pharisee  of  Genius-  had  but 
escaped  by  a  chance,  and  by  the  hand  of  the 
man  he  suspected  and  despised,  from  a  crime 
at  which  nature  herself  recoils, — which  all  law, 
social  and  divine,  stigmatizes  as  inexpiable — 
which  the  sternest  imagination  of  the  very 
heathen  had  invented  as  the  gloomiest  catas- 
trophe   that  can  befall   the   wisdom   and  the 


368 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


pride  of  mortals  !  But  one  step  farther,  and 
the  fabulous  CEdipus  had  not  been  more  ac- 
cursed ! 

Such  thougsts  as  these,  unformed,  confused, 
but  strong  enough  to  bow  him  to  the  dust, 
passed  through  the  mind  of  this  wretched  man. 
He  had  been  familiar  with  grief,  he  had  been 
dull  to  enjoyment;  sad  and  bitter  memories 
had  consumed  his  manhood;  but  pride  had 
been  left  him  still  !  and  he  had  dared  in  his 
secret  heart  to  say,  "  I  can  defy  Fate  !  "  Now 
the  bolt  had  fallen — Pride  was  shattered  into 
fragments— Self-abasement  was  his  companion 
— Shame  sate  upon  his  prostrate  soul.  The 
Future  had  no  hope  left  in  store.  Nothing 
was  left  for  him  but  to  die  ! 

Lord  Vargrave  gazed  at  him  in  real  pain,  in 
sincere  compassion;  for  his  nature,  wily,  de- 
ceitful, perfidious,  though  it  was,  had  cruelty 
only  so  far  as  was  necessary  to  the  unrelent- 
ing execution  of  his  schemes.  No  pity  could 
swerve  him  from  a  purpose*  but  he  had  enough 
of  the  man  within  him  to  feel  pity  not  the  less, 
even  for  his  own  victim  !  At  length  Mal- 
travers  lifted  his  head,  and  waved  his  hand 
gently  to  Lord  Vargrave. 

"  All  is  now  explained,"  said  he,  in  a  feeble 
voice;  "our  interview  is  over.  I  must  be 
alone;  I  have  yet  to  collect  my  reason,  to  com- 
mune calmly  and  deliberately  with  myself; — I 
have  to  write  to  her— to  invent — to  lie — I,  who 
believed  I  could  never,  never  utter,  even  to  an 
enemy,  what  was  false !  And  I  must  not 
soften  the  blow  to  her.  I  must  not  utter  a 
word  of  love — love,  it  is  incest!  I  must  en- 
deavor brutally  to  crush  out  the  very  affection 
I  created  !  She  must  hate  me — oh,  teach  her 
to  hate  me  ! — Blacken  my  name,  traduce  my! 
motives, — let  her  believe  them  levity  or  per- 
fidy, what  you  will.  So  will  she  forget  me  the 
sooner;  so  will  she  the  easier  bear  the  sorrow 
which  the  father  brings  upon  the  child.  And 
she  has  not  sinned  !  O,  Heaven,  the  sin  was 
mine  !  Let  my  punishment  be  a  sacrifice  that 
thou  wilt  accept  for  her  ?  " 

Lord  Vargrave  attempted  again  to  console; 
but  this  time  the  words  died  upon  his  lips. 
His  arts  failed  him.  Maltravers  turned  im- 
patiently away,  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  I  will  see  you  again,"  said  he,  "  before  I 
quit  Paris:  leave  your  address  below." 

Vargrave  was  not,  perhaps,  unwilling  to 
terminate  a  scene  so  painful:  he  muttered  a 


few  incoherent  words,  and  abruptly  withdrew. 
He  heard  the  door  locked  behind  him  as  he 
departed.  Ernest  Maltravers  was  alone  ! — 
what  a  solitude  ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unio\(\."—Hamlft. 


Letter  from  Ernest  Maltravers  to  Evelyn 
Cameron. 

"  Evelyn ! 

"  All  that  you  have  read  of  faithlessness  and  perfidy 
will  seem  tame  to  you  when  compared  with  that  con- 
duct which  you  are  doomed  to  meet  from  me.  We 
must  part,  and  for  ever.  We  have  seen  each  other  (or 
the  last  time.  It  is  bootless  even  to  ask  the  cause. 
Believe  that  I  am  fickle,  false,  heartless — that  a  whim 
has  changed  me,  if  you  will.  My  resolve  is  unalter- 
able. We  meet  no  more,  even  as  friends.  I  do  not 
ask  you  either  to  forgive  or  to  remember  me.  Look 
on  me  as  one  wholly  unworthy  even  of  resentment  '. 
Do  not  think  that  I  write  this  in  madness,  or  in  fever, 
or  excitement.  Judge  me  not  by  my  seeming  illness 
this  morning.  I  invent  no  excuse,  no  extenuation  for 
my  broken  faith  and  perjured  vows.  Calmly,  coldly, 
and  deliberately  I  write:  and  thus  writing,  I  renounce 
your  love. 

"This  language  is  wanton  cruelty — it  is  fiendish  in- 
sult— is  it  not,  Evelyn  ?  Am  I  not  a  villain  ?  Are  you 
not  grateful  for  your  escape  ?  Do  you  not  look  on  the 
past  with  a  shudder  at  the  precipice  on  which  you 
stood  ? 

"  I  have  done  with  this  subject,  I  turn  to  another. 
We  are  parted,  Evelyn,  and  for  ever.  Do  not  fancy — 
I  repeat,  do  not  fancy  that  there  is  any  error,  any 
strange  infatuation  on  my  mind,  that  there  is  any  pos- 
sibility that  the  sentence  can  be  annulled.  It  were 
almost  easier  to  call  the  dead  from  the  grave  than 
bring  us  again  together,  as  we  were  and  as  we  hoped 
to  be.  Now  that  you.are  convinced  of  that  truth,  learn, 
as  soon  as  you  have  recovered  the  first  shock  of  know- 
ing how  much  wickedness  there  is  on  earth— learn  to 
turn  to  the  future  for  happier  and  more  suitable  ties 
than  those  you  could  have  formed  with  me.  You  are 
very  young— in  youth  our  first  impressions  are  lively 
but  evanescent — you  will  wonder  hereafter  at  having 
fancied  you  loved  me.  Another  and  a  fairer  image  will 
replace  mine.  This  is  what  I  desire  and  pray  for.  As 
soon  as  /  learn  that  yon  love  another,  that  you  are  -wedded 
to  another,  I  tvill  reappear  in  the  -world;  till  then  I  am  a 
wanderer  and  an  exile.  Your  hand  alone  can  efface 
from  my  irow  the  hand  of  Cain  !  When  I  am  gone. 
Lord  Vargrave  will  probably  renew  his  suit.  I  would 
rather  you  married  one  of  your  own  years — one  whom 
you  could  love  fondly — one  who  would  chase  aivay 
every  remembrance  of  the  wretch  who  now  forsakes 
you.     But  perhaps  I   have   mistaken   Lord  Vargrave'; 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


369 


character — perhaps  he  may  be  worthier  of  you  than  I 
deemed  (/who  set  up  for  the  censor  of  other  men!) — 
perhaps  he  may  both  win  and  deserve  your  afifection. 

"  Evelyn,  farewell — God,   who  tempers  the  wind  to 
the  shorn  lamb,  will  watch  over  you  ! 

"  Ernest  Maltravers." 


CHAPTER    V. 


■'  Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
The  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still." 

—John  Fletcher. 


The  next  morning  came;  the  carriage  was 
at  the'door  of  Maltravers,  to  bear  him  away 
he  cared  not  whither.  Where  could  he  fly 
from  memory  ?  He  had  just  despatched  the 
letter  to  Evelyn — a  letter  studiously  written 
for  the  object  of  destroying  all  the  affection  to 
which  he  had  so  fondly  looked  as  the  last 
charm  of  life.  He  was  now  only  waiting  for 
Vargrave,  to  whom  he  had  sent,  and  who  hast- 
ened to  obey  the  summons. 

When  Lumley  arrived,  he  was  shocked  at 
the  alteration  which  a  single  night  had  effected 
in  the  appearance,  of  Maltravers;  but  he  was 
surprised  and  relieved  to  find  him  calm  and 
self-possessed. 

"  Vargrave,"  said  Maltravers,  "  whatever  our 
jiast  coldness,  henceforth  I  owe  to  you  an 
eternal  gratitude;  and  henceforth  this  awful 
secret  makes  between  us  an  indissoluble  bond. 
If  I  have  understood  you  rightly,  neither  Alice 
nor  other  living  being  than  yourself  know  that 
in  me,  Ernest  Maltravers,  stands  the  guilty 
object  of  Alice's  first  love.  Let  that  secret 
still  be  kept;  relieve  Alice's  mind  from  the 
apprehension  of  learning  that  the  man  who  be- 
trayed her  yet  lives:  he  will  not  live  long  !  I 
leave  time  and  method  of  explanation  to  your 
own  judgment  and  acuteness.  Now  for  Eve- 
lyn." Here  Maltravers  stated  generally  the 
tone  of  the  lett&r  he  had  written.  Vargrave 
listened  thoughtfully. 

"  Maltravers,"  said  he,  "  it  is  right  to  try 
first  the  effect  of  your  letter.  But  if  it  fail — 
if  it  only  serve  to  inflame  the  imagination  and 
excite  the  interest — if  Evelyn  still  continue  to 
love  you — if  that  love  preys  upon  her — if  it 

fi— 24 


should    undermine    health   and    spirit — if    it 

should  destroy  her  ?  " 

Maltravers  groaned.  Lumley  proceeded, 
"  I  say  this  not  to  wound  you,  but  to  provide 
against  all  circumstances.  I  too  have  spent  the 
night  in  revolving  what  is  best  to  be  done 
in  such  a  case;  and  this  is  the  plan  I  have 
formed.  Let  us,  if  need  be,  tell  the  truth  to 
Evelyn,  robbing  the  truth  only  of  its  shame. 
Nay,  nay,  listen.  Why  not  say  that,  under  a 
borrowed  name,  and  in  the  romance  of  early 
youth,  you  knew  and  loved  Alice  (though  in 
innocence  and  honor):  your  tender  age — 
the  difference  of  rank — forbade  your  union. 
Her  father,  discovering  your  clandestine  cor- 
respondence, suddenly  removed  her  from  the 
country,  and  destroyed  all  clue  for  your  in- 
quires. You  lost  sight  of  each  other— each 
was  taught  to  believe  the  other  dead  Alice  was 
compelled  by  her  father  to  marry  Mr.  Cam- 
eron; and,  after  his  death,  her  poverty  and  her 
love  for  her  only  child  induced  her  to  accept 
my  uncle.  You  have  now  learned  all — have 
learned  that  Evelyn  is  the  daughter  of  your 
first  love — the  daughter  of  one  who  adores 
you  still,  and  whose  life  your  remembrance 
has,  for  so  many  years,  embittered.  Evelyn 
herself  will  at  once  coinprehend  all  the  scru- 
ples of  a  delicate  mind; — Evelyn  herself  will 
recoil  from  the  thougut  of  making  the  child 
the  rival  to  the  mother.  She  will  understand 
why  you  have  flown  from  her;  she  will  sympa- 
thize with  yoin-  struggles;  she  will  recall  the 
constant  melancholy  of  Alice;  she  will  hope 
that  the  ancient  love  may  be  renewed,  and 
efface  all  grief;  Generosity  and  Duty  alike 
will  urge  her  to  conquer  her  own  affection  ! 
And  hereafter,  when  time  has  restored  you 
both,  father  and  child  may  meet  with  such 
sentiments  as  father  and  child  may  own  !  " 

Maltravers  was  silent  for  some  minutes;  at 
length  he  said  abruptly,  '  And  you  really  loved 
her,  Vargrave? — you  love  her  still? — your 
dearest  care  must  be  her  welfare." 

"  It  is  !— indeed,  it  is  !  " 

"Then  I  must  trust  to  your  discretion;  I 
can  have  no  other  confidant;  I  myself  am  not 
fit  to  judge.  My  mind  is  darkened— you  may 
be  right — I  think  so." 

"  One  word  more — she  may  discredit  my 
tale  if  unsupported.  Will  you  write  one  line 
to  me,  to  say  that  I  am  authorized  to  reveal 
the  secret,  and   that  it  is  known  only  to  me  ? 


37° 


B  UL  WEK'  S     WORKS. 


I  will  not  use  it  unless  I  should  think  it  abso- 
lutely required." 

Hastily  and  mechanically  Maltravers  wrote 
a  few  words  to  the  effect  of  what  Lumley  had 
suggested.  "  I  will  inform  you,"  he  said  to 
Vargrave  as  he  gave  him  the  paper,  "  of  what- 
ever spot  may  become  my  asylum;  and  you 
can  communicate  to  me  all  that  I  dread  and 
long  to  hear;  but  let  no  man  know  the  refuge 
of  despair !  " 

There  was  positively  a  tear  in  Vargrave's 
cold  eye;  the  only  tear  that  had  glistened 
there  for  many  years;  he  paused  irresolute, 
then,  advanced,  again  halted,  muttered  to  him- 
self, and  turned  aside. 


"As for  the  world,"  Lumley  resumed,  after 
a  pause,  "  your  engagement  has  been  public 
— some  public  account  of  its  breach  must  be 
invented.  You  have  always  been  considered 
a  proud  man;  we  will  say  it  was  low  birth  on 
the  side  of  both  mother  and  father  (the  last 
only  just  discovered)  that  broke  off  the  alli- 
ance ! " 

Vargrave  was  talking  to  the  deaf:  what 
cared  Maltravers  for  the  world  ?  He  hastened 
from  the  room,  threw  himself  into  his  car- 
riage, and  Vargrave  was  left  to  plot,  to  hopC; 
and  aspire  ! 


ALJCEs     OR,     THE    MYS/ER/ES. 


37  > 


BOOK    TENTH. 


OSAoi'  'OMipo;'.— HOMEK,  1,  2. 
A  dream  ! 


CHAPTER   I. 

"  Qualis  ubi  in  lucem  coluber 
*  *    Mala  gramina  pastiis."  * — Virgil. 

"  Pars  minima  est  ipsa  puella  sui."  t — Ovid. 

It  would  be  superfluous,  and,  perhaps,  a 
sickening  task,  to  detail  at  length  the  mode 
and  manner  in  which  Vargrave  coiled  his 
snares  round  the  unfortunate  girl  whom  his 
destiny  had  marked  out  for  his  prey.  He 
was  right  in  foreseeing  that,  after  the  first 
amazement  caused  by  the  letter  of  Maltravers, 
Evelyn  would  feel  resentment  crushed  beneath 
her  certainty  of  his  affection;  her  incredulity 
at  his  self-accusations,  and  her  secret  convic- 
tion that  some  reverse,  some  misfortune  he 
was  unwilling  she  should  share,  was  the  occa- 
sion of  his  farewell  and  flight.  Vargrave 
therefore  very  soon  communicated  to  Evelyn 
the  tale  he  had  suggested  to  Maltravers.  He 
reminded  her  of  the  habitual  sorrow,  the 
evidence  of  which  was  so  visible  in  Lady  Var- 
grave— of  her  indifference  to  the  pleasures  of 
the  world — of  her  sensitive  shrinking  from  all 
recurrence  to  her  early  fate.  "  The  secret  of 
this,"  said  he,  "  is  in  a  youthful  and  most  fer- 
vent attachment:  your  mother  loved  a  young 
stranger  above  her  in  rank,  who  (his  head  be- 
ing full  of  German  romance)  was  then  roaming 
about  the  country  on  pedestrian  and  adventur- 
ous excursions,  under  the  assumed  name  of 
Butler. 

"  By  him  she  was  most  ardently  beloved  in 
return.     Her   father,    perhaps,  suspected   the 


*  As  when  a  snake  glides  into  light,  having  fed  on 
pernicious  pastures. 
t  The  girl  is  the  least  part  of  himself. 


rank  of  her  lover,  and  was  fearful  of  her  honor 
being  compromised.  He  was  a  strange  man, 
that  father  !  and  I  know  not  his  real  character 
and  motives  !  but  he  suddenly  withdrew  his 
daughter  from  the  suit  and  search  of  her  lover 
— they  saw  each  other  no  more;  her  lover 
mourned  her  as  one  dead.  In  process  of  time 
your  mother  was  constrained  by  her  father  to 
marry  Mr.  Cameron,  and  was  left  a  widow 
with  an  only  child — yourself:  she  was  poor- 
very  poor  !  and  her  love  and  anxiety  for  you 
at  last  induced  her  to  listen  to  the  addresses 
of  my  late  uncle;  for  your  sake  she  married 
again — again  death  dissolved  the  tie  !  But 
still,  unceasingly  and  faithfully,  she  recalled 
that  first  love,  the  memory  of  which  darkened 
and  embittered  all  her  life — and  still  she  lived 
upon  the  hope  to  meet  with  the  lost  again. 
At  last,  and  most  recently,  it  was  my  fate  to 
discover  that  the  object  of  this  unconquerable 
affection  lived— was  still  free  in  hand  if  not  in 
heart: — You  behold  the  lover  of  your  mother 
in  Ernest  Maltravers  !  It  devolved  on  me 
(an  invidious — a  reluctant  duty)  to  inform 
Maltravers  of  the  identity  of  Lady  Vargrave 
with  the  Alice  of  his  boyish  passioq  !  to  prove 
to  him  her  suffering,  patient,  unsubdued  af- 
fection; to  convince  him  that  the  sole  hojie 
left  to  her  in  life  was  that  of  one  day  or  other 
beholding  him  once  again. 

"You  know  Maltravers — his  high-wrought, 
sensitive,  noble  character:  he  recoiled  in  terror 
from  the  thought  of  making  hiS  love  to  the 
daughter  the  fast  and  bitterest  affliction  to 
the  mother  he  had  so  loved;  knowing  too 
how  completely  that  mother  had  entwined  her- 
self round  your  affections,  he  shuddered  at 
the  pain  and  self-reproach  that  would  be  yours 


3?2 


BULWEK'S     IVOKKS. 


when  you  should  discover  to  whom  you  had 
been  the  rival,  and  whose  the  fond  hopes  and 
dreams  that  your  fatal  beauty  had  destroyed. 
Tortured,  despairing,  and  half  beside  himself, 
he  has  fled  from  this  ill-omend  passion,  and 
in  solitude  he  now  seeks  to  subdue  that  pas- 
sion. Touched  by  the  woe,  the  grief,  of  the 
Alice  of  his  youth,  it  is  his  intention,  as  soon 
as  he  can  know  you  restored  to  happiness  and 
content,  to  hasten  to  your  motlier,  and  offer 
his  future  devotion  as  the  fulfilment  of  former 
vows.  On  you,  and  you  alone,  it  depends  to 
restore  Maltravers  to  the  world, — on  you 
alone  it  depends  to  bless  the  remaining  years 
of  the  mother  who  so  dearly  loves  you  !  " 

It  may  be  easily  conceived  with  what  sensa- 
tions of  wonder,  compassion,  and  dismay, 
Evelyn  listened  to  this  tale,  the  progress  of 
which  her  exclamations — her  sobs — often  in- 
terrupted. She  would  write  instantly  to  her 
mother — to  Maltravers.  Oh  !  how  gladly  she 
could  relinquish  his  suit  !  Hew  cheerfully 
promise  to  rejoice  in  that  desertion  which 
brought  happiness  to  the  mother  she  had  so 
loved  ! 

"  Nay,"  said  Vargrave,  "  your  mother  must 
not  know,  till  the  intelligence  can  be  breathed 
by  his  lips,  and  softened  by  his  protestations 
of  returning  affection,  that  the  mysterious  ob- 
ject of  her  early  romance  is  that  Maltravers 
whose  vows  have  been  so  lately  offered  to  her 
own  child.  Would  not  such  intelligence 
shock  all  pride,  and  destroy  all  hope?  How 
could  she  then  consent  to  the  sacrifice  which 
Maltravers  is  prepared  to  make  ?  No  !  not 
till  you  are  another's,  not  (to  use  the  words  of 
Maltravers)  till  you  are  a  happy  and  beloved 
wife — must  your  mother  receive  the  returning 
homage  of  Maltravers — not  till  then  can  she 
know  where  that  homage  has  been  recently 
rendered — jiot  till  then,  can  Maltravers  feel 
justified  in  the  atonement  he  meditates.  He 
is  willing  to  sacrifice  himself — he  trembles  at 
the  thought  of  sacrificing  you  !  Say  nothing 
to  your  mother,  till,  from  her  own  lips,  she 
tells  you  that  she  has  learned  all." 

Could  Evelyn  hesitate  ? — could  Evelyn 
doubt.-"  To  alFay  the  fears,  to  fulfil  the  prayers  of 
the  man  whose  conduct  appeared  so  generous — 
to  restore  him  to  peace  and  the  world — above 
all,  to  pluck  from  the  heart  of  that  beloved 
and  gentle  mother  the  rankling  dart — to  shed 
happiness  over  her   fate— to  reunite  her  with 


the  loved  and  lost; — what  sacrifice   too   great 
for  this  ? 

Ah  !  why  was  Legard  absent  !  Why  did 
she  believe  him  capricious,  light,  and  false  ? 
Why  had  she  shut  her  softest  thoughts  from 
her  soul  ?  But  he — the  true  lover — was  afar, 
and  his  true  love  unknown  !  and  Vargrave  the 
watchful  serpent,  was  at  hand. 

In  a  fatal  hour,  and  in  the  transport  of  that 
enthusiasm  which  inspires  alike  our  more  rash 
and  our  more  sublime  deeds — which  makes  us 
alike  dupes  and  martyrs — the  enthusiasm  that 
tramples  upon  self,  that  forfeits  all  things  to  a 
high-wrought  zeal  for  others,  Evelyn  consented 
to  become  the  wife  of  Vargrave  !  Nor  was 
she  at  first  sensible  of  the  sacrifice — sensible 
of  any  thing  but  the  glow  of  a  noble  sjjirit  and 
an  approving  conscience.  Yes,  thus,  and  thus 
alone,  did  she  obey  both  duties:  that,  which 
she  had  well-nigh  abandoned,  to  her  dead 
benefactor,  and  that  to  the  living  mother.  Af- 
terwards came  a  dread  reaction;  and  then,  at 
last,  that  passive  and  sleep-like  resignation, 
which  is  Despair  under  a  milder  name.  Yes 
— such  a  lot  had  been  predestined  from  the 
first — in  vain  had  she  sought  to  fly  it:  Fate 
had  overtaken  iier,  and  she  must  submit  to 
the  decree  ! 

She  was  most  anxious  that  the  intelligence 
of  the  new  bond  might  be  transmitted  in- 
stantly to  Maltravers.  Vargrave  promised, 
but  took  care  not  to  perform.  He  was  too 
acute  not  to  know  that,  in  so  sudden  a  step, 
Evelyn's  motives  would  be  apparent;  and  his 
own  suit  indelicate  and  ungenerous.  He  was 
desirous  that  Maltravers  should  learn  nothing 
till  the  vows  had  been  spoken,  and  the  indis- 
soluble chain  forged.  Afraid  to  leave  Evelyn, 
even  for  a  day,  afraid  to  trust  her  in  England 
to  an  interview  with  her  mother, — he  remained 
at  Paris,  and  hurried  on  all  the  requisite  prep- 
arations. He  sent  to  Douce,  who  came  in 
person,  with  the  deeds  necessary  for  the  trans- 
fer of  the  money  for  the  purchase  of  Lisle 
Court,  which  was  now  to  be  immediately  com- 
pleted. The  money  was  to  be  lodged  in  Mr. 
Douce's  bank  till  the  lawyers  had  concluded 
their  operations;  and  in  a  few  weeks,  when 
Evelyn  had  attained  the  allotted  age,  Vargrave 
trusted  to  see  himself  lord  alike  of  the  be 
trothed  bride,  and  the  hereditary  lands,  of  the 
crushed  Maltravers.  He  refrained  from  stat- 
ing to  Evelyn  who  was  the  present  proprietor 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSIERIES. 


373 


of  the  estate  to  become  hers;  he  foresaw  all  the 
objections  she  would  form; — and,  indeed,  she 
was  unable  to  think,  to  talk,  of  such  matters. 
One  favor  she  had  asked,  and  it  had  been 
granted:  that  she  was  to  be  left  unmolested 
to  her  solitude,  till  the  fatal  day.  Shut  up  in 
her  lonely  room,  condemned  not  to  confide  her 
thoughts: — to  seek  for  sympathy  even  in  her 
mother,— the  poor  girl  in  vain  endeavored  to 
keep  up  to  the  tenor  of  her  first  enthusiasm, 
and  reconcile  herself  to  a  step,  which,  however, 
she  was  heroine  enough  not  to  retract  or  to 
repent,  even  while  she  recoiled  from  its  con- 
templation. 

Lady  Doltimore,  amazed  at  what  had 
passed;  at  the  flight  of  Maltravers;  the  suc- 
cess of  Lumley — unable  to  account  for  it,  to 
extort  explanation  from  Vargrave  or  from 
Evelyn,  was  distracted  by  the  fear  of  some 
villanous  deceit  which  she  could  not  fathom; 
— To  escape,  herself,  she  plunged  yet  more 
eagerly  into  the  gay  vortex.  Vargrave,  suspi- 
cious, and  fearful  of  trusting  to  what  she  might 
say  in  her  nervous  and  excited  temper,  if  re- 
moved from  his  watchful  eye,  deemed  himself 
compelled  to  hover  round  her.  His  manner, 
his  conduct  were  most  guarded:  but  Caroline 
herself,  jealous,  irritated,  unsettled,  evinced 
at  times  a  right  both  to  familiarity  and  anger, 
which  drew  upon  her  and  himself  the  sly  vigi- 
lance of  slander.  Meanwhile  Lord  Doltimore, 
though  too  cold  and  proud  openly  to  notice 
what  passed  around  him,  seemed  disturbed 
and  anxious.  His  manner  to  Vargrave  was 
distant;  he  shunned  all  fdte-h-tites  with  his 
wife.  Little,  however,  of  this  did  Lumley 
heed — a  few  weeks  more,  and  all  would  be 
well  and  safe.  Vargrave  did  not  publish  his 
engagement  with  Evelyn:  he  sought  carefully 
to  conceal  it  till  the  very  day  was  near  at  hand ; 
but  it  was  whispered  abroad; — some  laughed 
— some  believed.  Evelyn  herself  was  seen 
nowhere.  De  Montaigne  had,  at  first,  been 
indignantly  incredulous  at  the  report  that 
Maltravers  had  broken  off  a  connection- he  had 
so  desired,  from  a  motive  so  weak  and  un- 
worthy as  that  of  mere  family  pride.  A  letter 
from  Maltravers,  who  confided  to  him  and 
Vargrave  alone  the  secret  of  his  retreat,  reluc- 
tantly convinced  him  that  the  wise  are  but 
pompous  fools  !  He  was  angry  and  dis- 
gusted; and  still  more  so,  when  Valerie  and 
Teresa  (for  female  friends  stand  by   us  right 


or  wrong)  hinted  at  excuses;  or  surmised  that 
other  causes  lurked  behind  the  one  alleged. 
But  his  thoughts  were  much  drawn  from  this 
subject  by  increasing  anxiety  for  Cesarini, 
whose  abode  and  fate  still  remained  an  alarm- 
ing mystery. 

It  so  happened  that  Lord  Doltimore,  who 
had  always  had  a  taste  for  the  Antique,  and 
who  was  greatly  displeased  with  his  own  fam- 
ily-seat, because  it  was  comfortable  and  mod- 
ern, fell,  from  ennui,  into  a  habit,  fashionable 
enough  at  Paris,  of  buying  curiosities  and 
cabinets — high-back  chairs,  and  oak-carvings; 
— and  with  this  habit  returned  the  desire  and 
the  affection  for  Burleigh.  Understanding 
from  Lumley  that  Maltravers  had  probably 
left  his  native  land  for  ever,  he  imagined  it 
extremely  [jossible  that  the  latter  would  now 
consent  to  the  sale,  and  he  begged  Vargrave 
to  forward  a  letter  from  him  to  that  effect. 

Vargrave  made  some  excuse,  for  he  felt  that 
nothing  could  be  more  indelicate  than  such  an 
application,  forwarded  through  his  hands,  at 
such  a  time;  and  Doltimore,  who  had  acciden- 
tally heard  De  Montaigne  confess  that  he 
knew  the  address  of  Maltravers,  quietly  sent 
his  letter  to  the  Frenchman,  and,  without  men- 
tioning its  contents,  begged  him  to  forward  it. 
De  Montaigne  did  so.  Now  it  is  very  strange 
how  slight  men  and  slight  incidents  bear  on 
the  great  events  of  life.  But  that  simple  letter 
was  instrumental  to  a  new  revolution  in  the 
strange  history  of  Maltravers. 


CHAPTER  n. 

"  Quid  frustra  simulacra  fugacia  captas? — 
Quod  petisest  nusquam."  *— OviD,  Met.  iii.  432. 

To  no  clime  dedicated  to  the  indulgence  of 
majestic  griefs,  or  to  the  soft  melancholy  of 
regret— not  to  thy  glaciers,  or  thy  dark-blue 
lakes,  beautiful  Switzerland,  Mother  of  many 
exiles — nor  to  thy  fairer  earth,  and  gentler 
Heaven,  sweet  Italy — fled  the  agonized  Mal- 
travers. Once,  in  his  wanderings,  he  had 
chanced  to  pass  by  a  landscape  so  steeped  in 
sullen  and  desolate  gloom,  that  it  had  made 
a   powerful    and    uneffaced    impression    >ipon 

"  Why,  in  vain,  do  you  catch  at  fleeting  shadows ! 
That  which  you  seek  is  nowhere. 


374 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


his  mind:  it  was  admidst  those  swamps  and 
morasses  that  formerly  surrounded  the  castle 
of  Gil  de  Retz,  the  ambitious  Lord,  the  dreaded 
Necromancer,  who  perished  at  the  stake,  after 
a  career  of  such  power  and  splendor  as  seemed 
almost  to  justify  the  dark  belief  in  his  preter- 
natural agencies.  * 

Here,  in  a  lonely  and  wretched  inn,  remote 
from  all  other  habitations,  Maltravers  fixed 
himself.  In  gentler  griefs,  there  is  a  sort  of 
luxury  in  bodily  discomfort: — in  his  inexorable 
and  unmitigated  anguish,  bodily  discomfort 
was  not  felt.  There  is  a  kind  of  magnetism  in 
extreme  woe,  by  which  the  body  itself  seems  laid 
asleep,  and  knows  no  distinction  between  the 
bed  of  Daniien  and  the  rose-couch  of  the  Syb- 
arite. He  left  his  carriage  and  servants  at  a 
post-house  some  miles  distant.  He  came  to  this 
dreary  abode  alone;  and  in  that  wintry  sea- 
son, and  that  most  disconsolate  scene,  his 
gloomy  soul  found  something  congenial,  some- 
thing that  did  not  mock  him,  in  the  frowns  of 
the  haggard  and  dismal  nature.  Vain  would 
it  be  to  describe  what  he  then  felt — what  he 
then  endured.  Suffice  it  that,  through  all,  the 
diviner  strength  of  man  was  not  wholly 
crushed;  and  that  daily,  nightly,  hourly,  he 
prayed  to  the  Great  Comforter  to  assist  him 
in  wrestling  against  a  guilty  love.  No  man 
struggles  so  honestly,  so  ardently  as  he  diil, 
utterly  in  vain;  for  in  us  all,  if  he  would  but 
cherish  it,  there  is  a  spirit  that  must  rise  at 
last — a  crowned,  if  bleeding  conqueror — over 
Fate  and  all  the  Demons  ! 

One  day  after  a  prolonged  silence  from 
Vargrave,  whose  letters  all  breathed  comfort 
and  assurance  in  Evelyn's  progressive  recovery 
of  spirit  and  hope,  his  messenger  returned 
from  the  post-town  with  a  letter  in  the  hand 
of  De  Montaigne.  It  contained,  in  a  blank 
envelope  (De  INIontaingne's  silence  told  him 
how  much  he  had  lost  in  the  esteem  of  his 
friend),  the  communication  of  Lord  Dolti- 
more.      It  ran  thus:  — 


"  My  dkar  Sir, 

"  As  I  hear  that  your  plans  are  likely  to  make  you 
long  resident  on  the  Continent,  may  I  again  inquire  if 
you  would  be  induced  to  dispose  of  Burleigh  ?  I  am 
willing  to  give  more  than  its  real  value,  and  would 
raise  a  mortgage  on  my  own  property  sufficient  to  pay 


*  See,  for  the  description  of  this  scenery,  and  the 
fate  of  De  Retz,  the  high-wrought  and  glowing  ro- 
mance by  Mr.  Ritchie,  nailed   The  Magician. 


off,  at  once,  the  whole  purchase  money.  Perhaps  you 
may  be  the  more  induced  to  the  sale,  from  the  circum- 
stance of  having  an  example  in  the  head  of  your 
family;  Colonel  .Maltravers,  as  I  learn  through  Lord 
Vargrave,  having  resolved  lo  dispose  of  Lisle  Court. 
Waiting  your  answer, 

"  I  am,  dear  Sir, 

"  Truly  yours, 

"  DoLTt-MORE," 

"  Ay,"  said  Maltravers,  bitterly,  crushing 
the  letter  in  his  hand;  "let  our  name  be 
blotted  out  from  the  land,  and  our  hearths 
pass  to  the  stranger.  How  could  I  ever  visit 
again  the  place  where  I  first  saw  heri" 

He  resolved  at  once — he  would  write  to 
England,  and  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of 
agents.  This  was  but  a  short-lived  diversion 
to  his  thoughts,  and  their  cloudy  darkness 
soon  gathered  round  him  again. 

What  I  am  now  about  to  relate  may  api>ear, 
to  a  hasty  criticism,  to  savor  of  the  Super- 
natural; but  it  is  easily  accounted  for  by 
ordinary  agencies,  and  it  is  strictly  to  the  let- 
ter of  the  truth. 

In  his  sleep,  that  night,  a  Dream  appeared 
to  Maltravers.  He  thought  he  was  alone  In 
the  old  library  at  Burleigh,  and  gazing  on  the 
portrait  of  his  mother;  as  he  so  gazed,  he 
fancied  that  a  cold  and  awful  tremor  seized 
upon  him — that  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  with- 
dra,w  his  eyes  from  the  canvas — his  sight  was 
chained  there  by  an  irresistible  spell.  Then 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  portrait  gradually 
changed; — the  features  the  same,  but  the 
bloom  vanished  into  a  white  and  ghastly  hue; 
the  colors  of  the  dress  faded,  their  fashion 
grew  more  large  and  flowing,  but  heavy  and 
rigid,  as  if  cut  in  stone — the  robes  of  the 
grave.  But  on  the  face  there  was  a  soft  and 
melancholy  smile,  that  took  from  its  livid  as- 
pect the  natural  horror: — the  lips  moved,  and,  it 
seemed  as  if  without  a  sound— the  released 
soul  spoke  to  that  which  the  earth  yet  owned. 
"  Return,"  it  said,  "  to  thy  native  land,  and 
thine  own  home.  Leave  not  the  last  relic  of 
her  who  bore  and  yet  watches  over  thee  to 
stranger  hands.  Thy  good  Angel  shall  meet 
thee  at  thy  hearth  !  " 

The  voice  ceased.  With  a  violent  effort 
Maltravers  broke  the  spell  that  had  forbidden 
his  utterance.  He  called  aloud,  and  the 
dream  vanished:  he  was  broad  awake — his 
hair  erect — the  cold  dews  on  his  brow.  The 
pallet,  rather  than  bed  on  which  he  lay,  was 


ALICE;     OR,      THE    MYSTERIES. 


.375 


opposite  to  the  window,  and  the  wintry  moon- 
light streamed  wan  and  spectral  into  the 
cheerless  room.  But  between  himself  and 
the  light  there  seemed  to  stand  a  shape— a 
shadow— that  into  which  the  portrait  had 
changed  in  his  dream — that  which  had  ac- 
costed and  chilled  his  soul.  He  sprang  for- 
ward— "  My  mother  !  even  in  the  grave  canst 
thou  bless  thy  wretched  son  !  Oh,  leave  me 
not — say  that  thou "  The  delusion  van- 
ished, and  Maltravers  fell  back  insensible. 

It  was  long  in  vain,  when,  in  the  healthful 
light  of  day,  he  revolved  this  memorable 
dream,  that  Maltravers  sought  to  convince 
himself  that  dreams  need  no  ministers  from 
heaven  or  hell  to  bring  the  gliding  falsehoods 
along  the  paths  of  sleep;  that  the  effect  of 
that  dream  itself,  on  his  shattered  nerves,  his 
e-Kcited  fancy,  was  the  real  and  sole  raiser  of 
the  spectre  he  had  thought  to  behold  on  wak- 
ing. Long  was  it  before  his  judgment  could 
gain  the  victory,  and  reason  disown  the  em- 
pire of  a  turbulent  imagination;  and,  even 
when  at  length  reluctantly  convinced,  the 
dream  still  haunted  him,  and  he  could  not 
shake  it  from  his  breast.  He  longed  anxiously 
for  the  next  night;  it  came,  but  it  brought 
neither  dreams  nor  sleep,  and  the  rain  beat, 
and  the  winds  howled,  against  the  casement. 
Another  night,  and  the  moon  was  again  bright; 
and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep;  no  vision  dis- 
turbed or  hallowed  it.  He  woke  ashamed  of 
his  own  expectation.  But  the  event,  such  as  it 
was,  by  giving  a  new  turn  to  his  thoughts,  had 
roused  and  relieved  his  spirit,  and  Misery  sate 
upon  him  with  a  lighter  load.  Perhaps  too,  to 
that  still  haunting  recollection,  was  mainly 
owing  a  change  in  his  former  purpose.  He 
would  still  sell  the  old  hall;  but  he  would  first 
return  and  remove  that  holy  portrait,  with 
pious  hands;  he  would  garner  up  and  save  all 
that  had  belonged  to  her  whose  death  had  been 
his  birth.  Ah  !  never  had  she  known  for  what 
trials  the  infant  had  been  reserved  ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

*       *       *    "  The  weary  hours  steal  on, 
And  flakey  darkness  breaks." — Richard  III. 

Once  more,  suddenly  and  unlooked  f8r,  the 
Lord  of  Burleigh  appeared  at  the  gates  of  his 


deserted  hall;  and  again  the  old  housekeeper 
and  her  satellites  were  thrown  into  dismay 
and  consternation.  Amidst  blank  and  wel- 
comeless  faces,  Maltravers  passed  into  his 
study:  and  as  soon  as  the  logs  burnt  and  the 
bustle  was  over,  and  he  was  left  alone,  he  took 
up  the  light  and  passed  into  the  adjoining 
library.  It  was  then  about  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening;  the  air  of  the  room  felt  damp  and 
chill,  and  the  light  but  taintly  struggled  against 
the  mournful  gloom  of  the  dark  book-lined 
walls  and  sombre  tapestry.  He  placed  the 
candle  on  the  table,  and,  drawing  aside  the 
curtain  that  veiled  the  portrait,  gazed  with 
deep  emotion,  not  unmixed  with  awe,  upon 
the  beautiful  face  whose  eyes  seemed  fixed 
upon  him  with  mournful  sweetness.  There  is 
something  mystical  about  those  painted  ghosts 
of  ourselves  that  survive  our  very  dust  I 
Who,  gazing  upon  them  long  and  wistfully, 
does  not  half  fancy  that  they  seem  not  insen- 
sible to  his  gaze,  as  if  we  looked  our  own  life 
into  them,  and  the  eyes  that  followed  us  where 
we  moved  were  animated  by  a  stranger  art 
than  the  mere  trick  of  the  limner's  colors  ? 

With  folded  arms,  rapt  and  motionless,  Mal- 
travers contemplated  the  form  that,  by  the 
upward  rays  of  the  flickering  light,  seemed  to 
bend  down  towards  the  desolate  son.  How 
had  he  ever  loved  the  memory  of  his  mother  ! 
— how  often  in  his  childish  years  had  he  stolen 
away,  and  shed  wild  tears  for  the  loss  of  that 
dearest  of  earthly  ties,  never  to  be  compen- 
sated, never  to  be  replaced  ! — how  had  he 
respected — how  sympathized  with  the  very 
repugnance  which  his  father  had  at  first  testi- 
fied towards  him,  as  the  innocent  cause  of  her 
untimely  death  !  He  had  never  seen  her — 
never  felt  her  passionate  kiss;  and  yet  it 
seemed  to  him,  as  he  gazed,  as  if  he  had 
known  her  for  years.  That  strange  kind  of 
inner  and  spiritual  memory  which  often  recalls 
to  us  places  and  persons  we  have  never  seen 
before,  and  which  Platonists  would  resolve  to 
the  unquenched  and  struggling  consciousness 
of  a  former  life,  stirred  within  him,  and  seemed 
to  whisper,  "  you  were  united  in  the  old  time." 
"Yes!"  he  said,  half  aloud,  "we  will  never 
part  again.  Blessed  be  the  delusion  of  the 
dream  that  recalled  to  my  heart  the  remem- 
brance of  thee,  which  at  least  I  can  cherish 
without  a  sin.  '  My  good  angel  shall  meet 
me  at  my  henrth  !     So   didst  thou    say  in  the 


si(> 


B  UL IVERS     WORKS. 


solemn  vision.  Ah,  does  thy  soul  watch  over 
me  still  ?  How  long  shall  it  be  before  the 
barrier  is  broken— how  long  before  we  meet, 
but  not  in  dreams  !  " 

The  door  opened — the  housekeeper  looked 
in — "  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  I  thought  your 
honor  would  excuse  the  liberty,  though  I  know 
it  is  very  bold  to " 

"What  is  the  matter — what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,  poor  Mrs.  Elton  is  dying — they 
say  she  cannot  get  over  the  night;  and  as  the 
carriage  drove  by  the  cottage  window,  the 
nurse  told  her  that  the  squire  was  returned — 
and  she  has  sent  up  the  nurse  to  entreat  to  see 
V  your  honor  before  she  dies.  I  am  sure  I  was 
most  loath  to  disturb  you,  sir,  with  such  a  mes- 
sage; and  says  I,  the  squire  has  only  just  come 
off  a  journey,  and " 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Elton?" 

"  Don't  your  honor  remember  the  poor 
woman  that  was  run  over,  and  you  were  so 
good  to,  and  brought  iuto  the  house  the  day 
Miss  Cameron " 

"I  remember  — say  I  will  be  with  her  in  a 
few  minutes.  About  to  die  !  "  muttered  Mal- 
travers;  "she  is  to  be  envied — the  prisoner  is 
let  loose — the  bark  leaves  the  desert  isle  !  " 

He  took  his  hat  and  walked  across  the  park, 
dimly  lighted  by  the  stars,  to  the  cottage  -of 
the  sufferer.  He  reached  her  bedside,  and 
took  her  hand  kindly..  She  seemed  to  rally  at 
the  sight  of  him — the  nurse  was  dismissed — 
they  were  left  alone. 

Before  morning,  the  spirit  had  left  that 
humble  clay;  and  the  mists  of  dawn  were 
heavy  on  the  grass  as  Maltravers  returned 
home.  There  were  then  on  his  countenance 
the  traces  of  recent  and  strong  emotion,  and 
his  step  was  elastic,  and  his  cheek  flushed. 
Hope  once  more  broke  within  him,  but  mingled 
with  doubt,  and  faintly  combated  by  reason. 
In  another  hour  Maltravers  was  on  his  way  to 
Brook  Green.  Impatient,  restless,  fevered,  he 
urged  on  the  horses^he  sowed  the  road  with 
gold,  and,  at  length,  the  wheels  stopped  before 
the  door  of  the  village  inn.-  He  descended, 
asked  the  way  to  the  curate's  house;  and, 
crossing  the  burial  ground,  and  passing  under 
the  shadow  of  the  old  yew-tree,  entered  Au- 
brey's garden.  The  curate  was  at  home;  and 
the  conference  that  ensued  was  of  deep  and 
breathless  interest  to  the  visitor. 

It  is  now  time  to  place  before  the  reader,  in 


due  order  and  connection,  the  incidents  of  that 
story,  the  knowledge  of  which,  at  that  period, 
broke  in  detached  and  fragmentary  portions  on 
Maltravers. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  I  canna  cbusc,  but  ever  will 
Be  luving  to  thy  father  still, 
Whair-eir  he  gae,  whair-eir  he  ryde, 
My  luve  with  him  maun  slill  abyde; 
In  well  or  wae,  whair-eir  he  gae, 
Mine  heart  can  neir  depart  him  frae." 

— Ladv  Anne  Both  well's  Lament. 

It  may  be  remembered,  that  in  the  earlier 
part  of  this  continuation  of  the  history  of  Mal- 
travers it  was  stated  that  Aubrey  had  in  early 
life  met  with  the  common  lot  of  a  disappointed 
affection.  Eleanor  Westbrook,  a  young  woman 
of  his  own  humble  rank,  had  won,  and  seemed 
to  return,  his  love;  but  of  that  love  she  was 
not  worthy.  Vain,  volatile,  and  ambitious,  she 
forsook  the  poor  student  for  a  more  brilliant 
marriage.  She  accepted  the  hand  of  a  mer- 
chant, who  was  caught  by  her  beauty,  and  who 
had  the  reputation  of  great  wealth.  They  set- 
tled in  London,  and  Aubrey  lost  all  traces  of 
her.  She  gave  birth  to  an  only  daughter:  and 
when  that  child  had  attained  her  fourteenth 
year,  her  husband  suddenly,  and  seemingly 
without  cause,  put  an  end  to  his  existence. 
The  cause,  however,  was  apparent  before  he 
was  laid  in  his  grave.  He  was  involved  far 
beyond  his  fortune — he  had  died  to  escape 
beggary  and  a  jail.  A  small  annuity,  not  ex- 
ceeding one  hundred  pounds,  had  been  secured 
on  the  widow.  On  this  income  she  retired 
with  her  child  into  the  country;  and  chance, 
the  vicinity  of  some  distant  connections,  and 
the  cheapness  of  the  place,  concurred  to  fix 
her  residence  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town  of 
Q  *  «  *  *  *  Characters  that  in  youth  have 
been  most  volatile  and  most  worldly,  often 
when  bowed  down  and  dejected  by  the  adver- 
sity which  they  are  not  fitted  to  encounter, 
becoine  the  most  morbidly  devout:  they  ever 
require  an  excitement,  and  when  earth  denies, 
they  seek  it  impatiently  from  Heaven. 

This  was  the  case  with  Mrs.  Westbrook; 
and  this  new  turn  of  mind  brought  her  natur- 
ally iftto  contact  with  the  principal  saint  of  the 
I  neighborhood,  Mr.   Richard   Tempieton.     We 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


377 


have  seen  that  that  gentleman  was  not  happy 
in  his  first  marria<je;  death  had  not  then  an- 
milled  the  bond.  He  was  of  an  ardent  and 
sensual  temperament,  and  quietly,  under  the 
broad  cloak  of  his  doctrines,  he  indulged  his 
constiutional  tendencies.  Perhaps  in  this  re- 
spect he  was  not  worse  than  nine  men  out  of 
ten.  But  then  he  professed  to  be  better  than 
nine  hundred  thousand  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  million  !  To  a  fault 
of  temperament  was  added  the  craft  of  hypoc- 
risy, and  the  vulgar  error  became  a  dangerous 
vice.  Upon  Mary  Westbrook,  the  widow's 
daughter,  he  gazed  with  eyes  that  were  far 
from  being  the  eyes  of  the  spirit.  Even  at  the 
age  of  fourteen  she  charmed  him — but  when, 
after  watching  her'  ripening  beauty  expand, 
three  years  were  added  to  that  age,  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton  was  most  deeply  in  love.  Mary  was  in- 
deed lovely — her  disposition  naturally  good 
and  gentle,  but  her  education  worse  than  neg- 
lected. To  the  frivolities  antl  meannesses  of 
a  second-rate  fashion,  inculcated  into  her  till 
her  father's  death,  and  now  succeeded  the 
quackeries,  the  slavish  subservience,  the  intol- 
erant bigotries,  of  a  transcendental  superstition. 
In  a  change  so  abrupt  and  violent,  the  whole 
character  of  the  poor  girl  was  shaken:  her 
principles  unsettled,  vague  and  unformed,  and 
naturally  of  nietliocre  and  even  feeble  intellect, 
she  clung  to  the  first  plank  held  out  to  her  in 
"  that  wide  sea  of  wax  "  in  which  she  "  halted." 
Early  taught  to  place  the  most  implicit  faith 
in  the  dictates  of  Mr.  Templeton — fastening 
her  belief  round  him  as  the  vine  winds  its  ten- 
drils round  the  oak — yiekling  to  his  ascend- 
ancy, and  pleased  with  his  fostering  and  almost 
caressing  manner — no  confessor  in  Papal  Italy 
ever  was  more  dangerous  to  village  virtue  than 
Richard  Templeton  (who  deemed  himself  the 
archetype  of  the  only  pure  Protestantism)  to 
the  morals  and  heart  of  Mary  Westbrook. 

Mrs.  Westbrook,  whose  constitution  had 
been  prematurely  broken  by  long  participation 
in  the  excesses  of  London  dissipation,  and  by 
the  reverseof  fortune  which  still  preyed  upon  a 
spirit  it  had  rather  soured  than  humbled,  died 
when  Mary  was  eighteen.  Templeton  became 
the  sole  friend,  comforter,  and  supporter  of  the 
daughter. 

In  an  evil  hour  (let  us  trust  not  from  pre- 
meditated villany) — an  hour  when  the  heart  of 
one  was  softened  by  grief  and  gratitude,  and 


the  conscience  of  the  other  laid  asleep  by  pas- 
sion, the  virtue  of  Mary  AVestbrook  was  be- 
trayed. Her  sorrow  and  remorse — his  own 
fears  of  detection  and  awakened  self-reproach, 
occasioned  Templeton  the  most  anxious  and 
poignant  regret.  There  had  been  a  young 
woman  in  Mrs.  Westbrook's  service,  who  had 
left  a  short  time  before  the  widow  died,  in 
consequence  of  her  marriage.  Her  husband  ill- 
used  her;  and  glad  to  escape  from  him  and 
prove  her  gratitude  to  her  employer's  daughter, 
of  whom  she  had  been  extremely  fond,  she 
had  returned  to  Miss  Westbrook  after  the 
funeral  of  the  mother.  The  name  of  this 
woman  was  Sarah  Miles.  Templeton  saw  that 
Sarah  more  than  suspected  his  connection  with 
Mary — it  was  necessary  to  make  a  confidant- 
he  selected  her.  Miss  Westbrook  was  re- 
moved to  a  distant  part  of  the  country,  and 
Templeton  visited  her  cautiously  and  rarely. 
Four  months  afterwards,  Mrs.  Templeton  died, 
and  the  husband  was  free  to  repair  his  wrong. 
Oh  !  how  he  then  repented  of  what  had  passed 
— but  four  months'  delay,  and  all  this  sin  and 
sorrow  might  have  been  saved  !  He  was  now 
racked  with  perplexity  and  doubt:  his  unfort- 
unate victim  was  advanced  in  her  pregnancy. 
It  was  necessary  if  he  wished  his  child  to  be 
legitimate — still  more  if  he  wished  to  preserve 
the  honor  of  its  mother — that  he  should  not 
hesitate  long  in  the  reparatios  to  which  duty 
and  conscience  urged  him.  But  on  the  other 
hand — he,  the  saint — the  oracle — the  immacu- 
late example  for  ail  forms,  proprieties,  and 
decorums,  to  scandalize  the  world  by  so  rapid 
and  premature  a  hymen — 

"  Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  in  his  galled  eyes. 
To  marry " 

No  ! — he  could  not  brave  the  sneer  of  the 
gossips — the  triumph  of  his  foes — the  dejec- 
tion of  his  disciples,  by  so  rank  and  rash  a  folly. 
But  still  Mary  pined  so,  he  feared  for  her 
health — for  his  own  unborn  offspring.  There 
was  a  middle  path — a  compromise  between 
duty  and  the  world :  he  grasped  at  it  as  most 
men  similarly  situated  would  have  done — they 
were  married,  but  privately,  and  under  feigned 
names:  the  secret  was  kept  close.  Sarah 
Miles  was  the  only  witness  acquainted  with 
the  real  condition  and  names  of  the  parties. 

Reconciled  to  herself,  the  bride  recovered 


^78 


BULWER-S     WORKS. 


health  and  spirits — Templeton  formed  the 
most  sanguine  hopes.  He  resolved,  as  soon 
as  the  confinement  was  over,  to  go  abroad — 
Mary  should  follow — in  a  foreign  land  they 
should  be  publicly  married — they  would  re- 
main some  years  on  the  Continent — when  he 
returned,  his  child's  age  could  be  ])ut  back  a 
year.  Oh,  nothing  could  be  more  clear  and 
easy  ! 

Death  shivered  into  atoms  all  the  plans  of 
Mr.  Templeton— Mary  suffered  most  severely 
in  childbirth,  and  died  a  few  weeks  afterwards. 
Templeton,  at  first,  was  inconsolable,  but 
worldly  thoughts  were  great  comforters.  He 
had  done  all  that  conscience  could  do  to  atone 
a  sin,  and  he  was  freed  from  a  most  embar- 
rassing dilemma,  and  from  a  temporary  ban- 
ishment utterly  uncongenial  and  unpalatable  to 
his  habits  and  ideas.  But  now  he  had  a  child 
— a  legitimate  child— successor  to  his  name, 
his  wealth— a  first  born  child — the  only  one 
ever  sprung  from  him — the  prop  and  hope  of 
advancing  years  !  On  this  child  he  doted, 
with  all  that  paternal  passion  which  the  hardest 
and  coldest  men  often  feel  the  most  for  their 
own  flesh  and  blood — for  fatherly  love  is 
sometimes  but  a  transfer  of  self-love  from  one 
fund  to  another. 

Yet  this  child — this  darling  that  he  longed 
to  show  to  the  whole  world— it  was  absolutely 
necessary,  for  the  present,  that  he  should  con- 
ceal and  disown.  It  had  happened  that  Sarah's 
husband  died  of  his  own  excesses  a  few  weeks 
before  the  birth  of  Templeton's  child,  she 
having  herself  just  recovered  from  her  con- 
finement:— -Sarah  was  therefore  free  for  ever 
from  her  husband's  vigilance  and  control.  To 
her  care  the  destined  heiress  was  committed, 
and  her  own  child  put  out  to  nurse.  And  this 
was  the  woman  and  this  the  child  who  had  ex- 
cited so  much  benevolent  curiosity  in  the 
breasts  of  the  worthy  clergyman  and  the  three* 
old  maids  of  C  *  *  *  *  *.  Alarmed  at  Sarah's 
account  of  the  scrutiny  of  the  parson,  and  at 
his  own  rencontre  with  that  hawk-eyed  pastor, 
Templeton  lost  no  time  in  changing  the  abode 
of  the  nurse — and  to  her  new  residence  had 
the  banker  bent  his  way,  with  rod  and  angle, 
on  that  evening  which  witnessed  his  adventure 
with  Luke  Darvil.f  When  Mr.  Templeton 
first  met  Alice,  his  own  child  was  only  about 


*  See  Ernest  Maltravers,  Part  I.,  Book  iv. 
t  Ibid,  Part  I.,  Book  iv. 


thirteen  or  fourteen  months  old — but  little 
older  than  Alice's.  If  the  beauty  of  Mrs 
Leslie's  prot^g^e  first  excited  his  coarser  nature, 
her  maternal  tenderness,  her  anxious  care  for 
her  little  one,  struck  a  congenial  chord  in  the 
father's  heart.  It  connected  him  with  her  by 
a  mute  and  unceasing  sympathy.  Templeton 
had  felt  so  deeply  the  alarm  and  pain  of  illicit 
iove — he  had  been  (as  he  profanely  believed) 
saved  from  the  brink  of  public  shame  by  so 
signal  an  interference  of  grace,  that  he  re- 
solved no  more  to  hazard  his  good  name  and 
his  peace  of  mind  u|)on  such  perilous  rocks. 

The  dearest  desire  at  his  heart  was  to  have 
his  daughter  under  his  roof — to  fondle,  to 
play  with  her — to  watch  her  growth — to  win 
her  affection.  This,  at 'present,  seemed  im- 
possible. But  if  he  were  to  marry — marry  a 
widow,  to  whom  he  might  confide  all,  or  a 
portion  of,  the  truth — if  that  child  could  be 
passed  off  as  hers— ah,  that  was  the  best  plan  ! 
And  Templeton  wanted  a  wife  !  Years  were 
creeping  on  him,  and  the  day  would  come 
when  a  wife  would  be  usefuf  as  a  nurse.  But 
Alice  was  supposed  to  be  a  widow;  and  Alice 
was  so  meek,  so  docile,  so  motherly.  If  she 
could  be  induced  to  remove  from  c  *  *  *  *  * 
— either  part  with  her  own  child  or  caUed  it 
her  niece — and  adopt  his.  Such,  from  time  to 
time,  were  Templeton's  thoughts,  as  he  visited 
Alice,  and  found,  with  every  visit,  fresh 
evidence  of  her  tender  and  beautiful  disposi- 
tion— such  the  objects,  which,  in  the  First 
Part  of  this  work,  we  intimated  were  different 
from  those  of  mere  admiration  for  her  beauty.* 
But  again,  worldly  doubts  and  fears — the  dis- 
like of  so  unsuitable  an  alliance — the  worse 
than  lowness  of  Alice's  origin — the  dread 
of  discovery  for  her  early  error — held  him 
back,  wavering  and  irresolute.  To  say  truth, 
too,  her  innocence  and  purity  of  thought 
kept  him  at  a  certain  distance.  He  was  acute 
enough  to  see  that  he — even  he,  the  great 
Richard  Templeton,  might  be  refused  by  the 
faithful  Alice. 

At  last  Darvil  was  dead — he  breathed  more 


*  "  Our  banker  always  seemed  more  struck  by  Alice's 
moral  feelings  than  even  by  her  physical  beauty.  Her 
love  for  her  child,  for  instance,  impressed  him  power 
fully,"  etc. — "  His  feelings  altogether  for  Alice,  the  de 
signs  he  entertained  towards  her,  were  of  a  very  com- 
plicated nature,  and  it  will  be  long,  perhaps,  before 
the  reader  can  thoroughly  comprehend  them." — Sec 
Ernest  Maltravers,  Part  1..  Book  iv. 


ALICE;     OR,      THE    MYSTERIES. 


379 


freely — he  levoived  more  seriously  his  pro- 
jects; and,  at  this  time,  Sarah,  wooed  by  her 
first  lover,  wished  to  marry  again; — his  secret 
would  pass  from  her  breast  to  her  second  hus- 
band's, and  thence  how  far  would  it  travel  ? 
Added  to  this,  Sarah's  conscience  grew  uneasy 
— the  brand  ought  to  be  effaced  from  the 
memory  of  the  dead  mother — the  legitimacy 
of  the  child  proclaimed; — she  became  imp>ort- 
unate — she  wearied  and  she  alarmed  the  pious 
man.  He  therefore  resolved  to  rid  himself  of 
the  onlj'  witness  to  his  marriage,  whose  testi- 
mony he  had  cause  to  fear — of  the  presence 
of  the  only  one  acquainted  with  his  sin,  and 
the  real  name  of  the  husband  of  Mary  West- 
brook.  He  consented  to  Sarah's  marriage 
with  William  Elton,  and  offered  a  liberal 
dowry  on  the  condition  that  she  should  yield 
to  the  wish  of  Elton  himself,  an  adventurous 
young  man,  who  desired  to  try  his  fortunes  in 
the  New  World.  His  daughter  he  must  re- 
move elsewhere. 

While  this  was  going  on,  Alice's  child,  long 
delicate  and  drooping,  became  seriously  ill. 
Symptoms  of  decline  appeared — the  physician 
recommended  a  milder  air,  and  Devonshire 
was  suggested.  Nothing  could  equal  the  gen- 
erous, the  fatherly  kindness  which  Templeton 
evinced  on  this  njost  painful  occasion.  He  in- 
sisted on  providing  Alice  with  the  means  to 
undertake  the  journey  with  ease  and  comfort; 
and  poor  Alice,  with  a  heart  heavy  with  grati- 
tude and  sorrow,  consented  for  her  child's  sake 
to  all  he  offered. 

Now  the  banker  began  to  perceive  that  all 
his  hopes  and  wishes  were  in  good  tram.  He 
foresaw  that  the  child  of  Alice  was  doomed  ! 
— that  was  one  obstacle  out  of  the  way.  Alice 
herself  was  to  be  removed  from  the  sphere  of 
her  humble  calling.  In  a  distant  county  she 
might  appear  of  a  better  station,  and  under 
another  name.  Conformably  to  these  views, 
he  suggested  to  her  that,  in  proportion  to  the 
seeming  wealth  and  respectability  of  patients, 
did  doctors  attend  to  their  complaints.  He 
proposed  that  Alice  should  depart  privately 
to  a  town  many  miles  off— that  there  he  would 
provide  for  her  a  carriage,  and  engage  a  ser- 
vant —that  he  would  do  this  for  her  as  for  a 
relation — and  that  she  should  take  that  rela- 
tions name.  To  this,  .A.lice,  wrapt  in  her 
child,  and  submissive  to  all  that  might  be  for 
the    child's    benefit    passively   consented.     It 


was  arranged  then  as  proposed;  and,  under  the 
name  of  Cameron,  which,  as  at  once  a  comn.on 
yet  a  well-sounding  name,  occurred  to  his  in- 
vention, Alice  departed  with  her  sick  charge 
and  a  female  attendant  (who  knew  nothing  of 
her  previous  calling  or  story),  on  the  road  to 
Devonshire.  Templeton  himself  resolved  to 
follow  her  thither  in  a  few  days;  and  it  was 
fixed  that  they  should  meet  at  Exeter. 

It  was  on  this  melancholy  journey  that  oc- 
curred the  memorable  day  when  Alice  once 
more  beheld  Maltravers;  and,  as  she  believed, 
uttering  the  vows  of  love  to  another.*  The 
indisposition  of  her  child  had  delayed  her 
some  hours  at  the  inn:  the  poor  sufferer  had 
fallen  asleep;  and  Alice  had  stolen  from  its 
couch  for  a  little  while,  when  her  eyes  rested 
on  the  father.  Oh,  how  then  she  longed, — 
she  burned  to  tell  him  of  the  new  sanctity^ 
that,  by  a  human  life,  had  been  added  to  their 
early  love  !  And  when,  crushed  and  sick  at 
heart,  she  turned  away,  and  believed  herself 
forgotten  and  replaced,  it  was  the  pride  of  the 
mother,  rather  than  of  the  mistress,  that  sup- 
ported her.  She,  meek  creature,  felt  not  the 
injury  to  herself;  but  his  child:  the  sufferer — 
perhaps  the  dying  one — there,  there  was  the 
wrong  !  No  !  she  would  not  hazard  the  chance 
of  a  cold — Great  Heaven;  perchance  an  in- 
credulous— look  upon  the  hushed,  pale  face 
above.  But  little  time  was  left  for  thought — 
for  explanation — for  discovery.  She  saw  him 
—  unconscious  of  the  ties  so  near,  anil  thus 
lost — depart  as  a  stranger  from  the  spot;  and 
henceforth  was  gone  the  sweet  hope  of  living 
for  the  future.  Nothing  was  left  her  but  the 
pledge  of  that  which  had  been.  Mournful, 
despondent,  half  broken-hearted,  she  resumed 
her  journey.  At  Exeter  she  was  joined,  as 
agreed,  by  Mr.  Templeton;  and  with  him 
came  a  fair,  a  blooming  and  healthful  girl,  to 
contrast  her  own  drooping  charge.  Though 
but  a  few  weeks  older,  you  would  have  sup- 
posed the  little  stranger  by  a  year  the  senior 
of  Alice's  child:  the  one  was  so  well  grown,  so 
advanced;  the  other  so  backward,  so  nipped 
in  the  sickly   bud. 

"You  can  repay  me  for  all,  for  more  than  I 
have  done;  more  than  I  ever  can  do  for  you 
and  yours,"  said  Templeton;  "by  taking  this 
young  stranger  also   under  your  care.     It  is 

*  See  Ernest  Maltravers,  Part  I.,  Book  V. 


38o 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


the  child  of  one  clear,  most  dear  to  me;  an 
orphan;  I  know  not  with  whom  else  to  place 
it.  Let  it  for  the  jiresent  be  supposed  your 
own — the  elder  child.' 

Alice  could  refuse  nothing  to  her  benefactor; 
but  her  heart  did  not  open  at  first  to  the  beau- 
ful  girl,  whose  sparkling  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks 
mocked  the  languid  looks  and  faded  hues  of 
her  own  darling.  But  the  sufferer  seemed  to 
hail  a  playmate;  it  smiled,  it  put  forth  its  poor, 
thin  hands — it  uttered  its  inarticulate  cr)'  of 
pleasure,  and  Alice  burst  into  tears,  and  clasped 
them  both  to  her  heart. 

Mr.  Templeton  took  care  not  to  rest  under 
the  same  roof  with  her  he  now  seriously  in- 
tended to  make  his  wife;  but  he  followed  Alice 
to  the  sea-side,  and  visited  her  daily.  Her 
infant  rallied — it  was  tenacious  of  the  upper 
air — it  clung  to  life  so  fondly:  poor  child,  it 
could  not  forsee  what  a  bitter  thing  to  some 
of  us  life  is  !  And  now  it  was  that  Temple- 
ton,  learning  from  Alice  her  adventure  with 
her  absent  lover — learning  that  all  hope  in  that 
quarter  was  gone — seized  the  occasion,  and 
pressed  his  suit.  Alice  at  that  hour  was  over- 
flowing with  gratitude;  in  her  child's  reviving 
looks  she  read  all  her  obligations  to  her  bene- 
factor. But  still,  at  the  word  Im'e,  at  the  name 
of  marriage,  her  heart  recoiled;  and  the  lost 
— the  faithless — came  back  to  his  fatal  throne. 
In  choked  and  broken  accents,  she  startled  the 
banker  with  the  refusal — the  faltering,  tearful, 
but  resolute  refusal — of  his  suit. 

But  Templeton  brought  new  engines  to  work: 
he  wooed  her  through  her  child;  he  painted  all 
the  brilliant  prospects  that  would  open  to  the 
infant  by  her  marriage  with  him.  He  would 
cherish,  rear,  provide  for  it  as  his  own.  This 
shook  her  resolves;  but  this  did  not  prevail. 
He  had  recourse  to  a  more  generous  appeal: 
ho  told  her  so  much  of  his  history  with  Mary 
Westbrook  as  commenced  with  his  hasty  and 
indecorous  marriage — attributing  the  haste  to 
love  !  made  her  comprehend  his  scruples  in 
owning  the  child  of  a  union  the  world  would 
be  certain  to  ridicule  or  condemn;  he  expati- 
ated on  the  inestimable  blessings  she  could 
afford  him,  by  delivering  him  from  all  embar- 
rassment, and  restoring  his  daughter,  though 
under  a  borrowed  name,  to  her  father's  roof. 
At  this  Alice  mused, — at  this  she  seemed  ir- 
resolute. She  had  long  seen  how  inexpressibly 
dear  to  Templeton  was  the  child  confided  to 


her  care;  *iow  he  grew  pale  if  the  slightest 
ailment  reached  her — how  he  chafed  at  the 
very  wind  if  it  visited  her  cheek  too  roughly— 
and  she  now  said  to  him  simply: — 

"  Is  your  child,  in  truth,  your  dearest  object 
in  life?  Is  it  with  her,  and  her  alone,  that 
your  dearest  hopes  are  connected  ? " 

"  It  is  ! — it  is,  indeed  !  "  said  the  banker, 
honestly,  surprised  out  of  his  gallantry:  "  at 
least,"  he  added,  recovering  his  self-possession, 
"  as  much  so  as  is  compatible  with  my  affection 
for  you." 

"  And  only  if  I  marry  you,  and  adopt  her  as 
my  own,  do  you  think  that  your  secret  may  be 
safely  kept,  and  all  your  wishes  with  respect 
to  her  be  fulfilled  ?" 

"  Only  so." 

"  And  for  that  reason,  chiefly,  nay  entirely, 
you  condescend  to  forget  what  I  have  been, 
and  seek  my  hand  ?  Well^if  that  were  all — 
I  owe  you  too  much;  my  poor  babe  tells  me 
too  loudly  what  I  owe  you,  to  draw  back  from 
any  thing  that  can  give  you  so  blessed  an  en- 
joyment. Ah  !  one's  child  ! — one's  own  child 
— under  one's  own  roof — it  is  such  al)lessing  ! 
But  then,  if  I  marry  you,  it  can  be  only  to  se- 
cure to  you  that  object— to  be  as  a  mother  to 
your  child — but  wife  only  in  name  to  you  !  I 
am  not  so  lost  as  to  despise  .myself.  I  know 
now,  though  I  knew  it  not  at  first,  that  I  have 
been  guilty;  nothing  can  excuse  that  guilt,  but 
fidelity  to  him  !  Oh,  yes  !  I  never — never 
can  be  unfaithful  to  my  babe's  father  !  As  for 
all  else,  dispose  of  me  as  you  will."  And  Alice, 
who  from  very  innocence  had  uttered  all  this 
without  a  blush,  now  clasped  her  hands  pas- 
sionately, and  left  Templeton  speechless  with 
mortification  and  surprise. 

When  he  recovered  himself  he  affected  not 
to  understand  her;  but  Alice  was  not  satisfied, 
and  all  further  conversation  ceased.  He  began 
slowly,  and  at  last,  and  after  repeated  con- 
ferences and  urgings,  to  comprehend  how 
strange  and  stubborn  in  some  points  was  the 
humble  creature  whom  his  proposals  so 
highly  honored.  Though  his  daughter  was 
indeed  his  first  object  in  life— though  for  her 
he  was  willing  to  make  a  mhalliance,  the  ex- 
tent of  which  it  would  be  incumbent  on  him 
studiously  to  conceal; — yet  still,  the  beauty  of 
Alice  awoke  an  earthlier  sentiment  that  he  was 
not  disposed  to  conquer.  He  was  quite  willing 
to  make  promises,  and   talk  generously; — but 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


381 


when  it  came  to  an  oath — a  solemn,  a  binding 
oath — and  this  Alice  rigidly  exacted — he  was 
startled,  and  drew  back.  Though  hypocritical, 
he  was,  as  we  have  before  said,  a  most  sincere 
believer.  He  might  creep  through  a  promise 
with  unbruised  conscience;  but  he  was  not 
one  who  could  have  dared  to  violate  an  oath, 
and  lay  the  load  of  perjury  on  his  soul.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  the  union  never  would  have 
taken  place,  but  Templeton  fell  ill;  that  soft 
and  relaxing  air  did  not  agree  with  him;  a 
low,  but  dangerous  fever  seized  him,  and  the 
worldly  man  trembled  at  the  aspect  of  Death. 
It  was  in  this  illness  that  Alice  nursed  him 
with  a  daughter's  vigilance  and  care;  and 
when  at  length  he  recovered,  impressed  with 
her  zeal  and  kindness — softened  by  illness — 
afraid  of  the  approach  of  solitary  age — and 
feeling  more  than  ever  his  duties  to  his  mother- 
less child,  he  threw  himself  at  Alice's  feet,  and 
solemnly  vowed  all  that  she  required. 

It  was  during  this  residence  in  Devonshire, 
and  especially  during  his  illness,  that  Temple- 
ton  made  and  cultivated  the  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  Aubrey.  The  good  clergyman  prayed 
with  him  by  his  sick  bed;  and  when  Temple- 
ton's  danger  was  at  its  height,  he  sought  to  re- 
leive  his  conscience  by  a  confession  of  his 
wrongs  to  Mary  Westbrook.  The  name  startled 
Aubrey;  and  when  he  learned  that  the  lovely 
child  who  had  so  often  sate  on  his  knee,  and 
smiled  in  his  face,  was  the  granddaughter  of 
his  first  and  only  love,  he  had  a  new  interest 
in  her  welfare,  a  new  reason  to  urge  Temple- 
ton  to  reparation,  a  new  motive  to  desire  to  pro- 
cure for  the  infant  years  of  Eleanor's  grand- 
child the  gentle  care  of  the  young  mother, 
whose  own  bereavement  he  sorrowfully  fore- 
told. Perhaps  the  advice  and  exhortations  of 
Aubrey  went  far  towards  assisting  the  con- 
science of  Mr.  Templeton,  and  reconciling 
him  to  the  sacrifice  he  made  to  his  affection 
for  his  daughter.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  mar- 
ried Alice,  and  Aubrey  solemnized  and  blessed 
the  chill  and  barren  union. 

But  now  came  a  new  and  inexpressible 
affliction;  the  child  of  Alice  had  rallied  but  for 
a  time.  The  dread  disease  had  but  dallied 
with  its  prey;  it  came  on  with  rapid  and  sud- 
den force;  and  within  a  month  from  the  day 
that  saw  Alice  the  pride  of  Templeton,  the 
last  hope  was  gone,  and  the  mother  was  bereft 
and  childless  ! 


The  blow  that  stunned  Alice  was  not,  after 
the  first  natural  shock  of  sympathy,  an  unwel- 
come event  to  the  banker.  Now  his  child 
would  be  Alice's  sole  care;  now  there  could 
be  no  gossip,  no  suspicion  why,  in  life  and 
after  death,  he  should  prefer  one  child,  sup- 
posed not  his  own,  to  the  other. 

He  hastened  to  remove  Alice  from  the  scene 
of  her  affliction.  He  dismissed  the  solitary 
attendant  who  had  accompanied  her  on  her 
journey;  he  bore  his  wife  to  London,  and 
finally  settled  as  we  have  seen,  at  a  villa  in  its 
vicinity.  And  there,  more  and  more,  day  by 
day,  centered  his  love  upon  the  supposed 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Templeton,  his  darling  and 
his  heiress,  the  beautiful  Evelyn  Cameron. 

For  the  first  year  or  two,  Templeton  evinced 
some  alarming  disposition  to  escape  from  the 
oath  he  had  imposed  upon  himself;  but  on 
the  slightest  hint  there  was  a  sternness  in  the 
wife,  in  all  else  so  respectful,  so  submissive, 
that  repressed  and  awed  him.  She  even 
threatened — and  at  one  time  was  with  difficulty 
prevented  carrying  the  threat  into  effect — to 
leave  his  roof  for  ever,  if  there  were  the 
slightest  question  of  the  sanctity  of  his  vow. 
Templeton  trembled;  such  a  separation  would 
excite  gossip,  curiosity,  scandal,  a  noise  in 
the  world,  public  talk,  possible  discovery. 
Besides,  Alice  was  necessary  to  Evelyn,  neces- 
sary to  his  own  comfort;  something  to  scold 
in  health,  something  to  rely  upon  in  illness. 
(Gradually  then,  but  sullenly,  he  reconciled 
himseif  to  his  lot,  and  as  years  and  infirmities 
grew  upon  him,  he  was  contented,  at  least,  to 
have  secured  a  faithful  friend  and  an  anxious 
nurse.  Still  a  marriage  of  this  sort  was  not 
blest;  Templeton's  vanity  was- wounded;  his 
temper,  always  harsh,  was  soured;  he  avenged 
his  affront  by  a  thousand  petty  tyrannies;  and, 
without  a  murmur,  Alice  perhaps,  in  those 
years  of  rank  and  opulence,  suffered  more  than 
in  all  her  roofless  wanderings,  with  love  at  her 
heart  and  her  infant  in  her  arms. 

Evelyn  was  to  be  the  heiress  to  the  wealth 
of  the  banker.  But  the  title  of  the  new  peer  ! 
— if  he  could  unite  wealth  and  title,  and  set 
the  coronet  on  that  young  brow  !  This  had 
led  him  to  seek  the  alliance  with  Lumley. 
And  on  his  death- bed,  it  was  not  the  secret  of 
Alice,  but  that  of  Mary  Westbrook  and  his 
daughter,  which  he  had  revealed  to  his  dis- 
mayed and  astonished  nephew,  in  excuse  for 


3«2 


B  UL  I  VER'S     I  t'UKKS. 


the  apparently  unjust  alienation  of  his  jjroperty, 
and  as  the  cause  of  the  alliance  he  had  sought. 

While  her  husband — if  husband  he  might 
be  called — lived,  Alice  had  seemed  to  bury  in 
her  bosom  her  regret — deep,  mighty,  passion- 
ate, as  it  was — for  her  lost  child — the  child  of 
the  unforgotten  lover,  to  whom,  through  such 
trials,  and  amid  such  new  ties,  she  had  been 
faithful  from  first  to  last.  But  when  once 
more  free,  her  heart  flew  back  to  the  far  and 
lowly  grave.  Hence  her  yearly  visits  to 
Brook  Green — hence  her  purchase  of  the 
cottage,  hallowed  by  memories  of  the  dead. 
There,  on  that  lawn,  had  she  borne  forth  the 
fragile  form,  to  breathe  the  soft  noontide  air; 
there,  in  that  chamber,  had  she  watched,  and 
hoped,  and  prayed,  and  despaired;  there,  in 
that  quiet  burial-ground,  rested  the  beloved 
dust  !  But  Alice,  even  in  her  holiest  feelings, 
was  not  selfish:  she  forbore  to  gratify  the  first 
wish  of  her  heart  till  Evelyn's  education  was 
sufficiently  advanced  to  enable  her  to  quit  the 
neighborhood;  and  then,  to  the  delight  of 
Aubrey  (who  saw  in  Evelyn  a  fairer,  and 
nobler,  and  purer  Eleanor),  she  came  to  the 
solitary  spot,  which,  in  all  the  earth,  was  the 
least  solitary  to  her  ! 

And  now  the  image  of  the  lover  of  her  youth 
—  which,  during  her  marriage,  she  had  sought, 
at  least,  to  banish — returned  to  her,  and,  at 
times,  inspired  her  with  the  only  hopes  that 
the  grave  had  not  yet  transferred  to  heaven  ! 
In  relating  her  tale  to  Aubrey,  or  in  convers- 
ing with  Mrs.  Leslie — whose  friendship)  she 
still  maintained — she  found  that  both  con- 
curred in  thinking  that  this  obscure  and  wan- 
dering Butler,  so  skilled  in  an  art  in  which  em- 
inence in  men  is  generally  professional,  must 
be  of  mediocre,  or  perhaps  humble,  station. 
Ah  !  now  that  she  was  free  and  rich,  if  she 
were  to  meet  him  again,  and  his  love  was  not 
all  gone,  and  he  would  believe  in  her  strange 
and  constant  truth — now,  his  infidelity  could 
be  forgiven — forgotten  in  the  benefits  it  might 
be  hers  to  bestow  !  And  how,  poor  Alice,  in 
that  remote  village,  was  chance  to  throw  him 
in  your  way  ?  She  knew  not:  but  something 
often  whispered  to  her, — "  Again  you  shall 
meet  those  eyse — again  you  shall  hear  that 
voice;  and  you  shall  tell  him,  weeping  on  his 
breast,  how  you  loved  his  child  !  "  And  would 
he  not  have  forgotten  her  ? — would  he  not  have 
formed  new  ties  ? — could  he  read  the  loveliness 


of  unchangeable  affection  in  that  pale  and  pen- 
sive face  ?  Alas,  when  we  love  intensely,  it  is 
difficult  to  make  us  fancy  that  there  is  no  love 
in  return  I 

The  reader  is  acquainted  with  the  adven- 
tures of  Mrs.  Elton,  the  sole  confidant  of  the 
secret  union  of  Templeton  and  Evelyn's 
mother.  By  a  singular  fatality,  it  was  the 
selfish  and  characteristic  recklessness  of  Var- 
grave  that  had,  in  fi.\ing  her  home  at  Burleigh, 
ministered  to  the  revelation  of  his  own  villan- 
ous  deceit.  On  returning  to  England  she  had 
inquired  for  Mr.  Templeton;  she  had  learned 
that  he  had  married  again,  had  been  raised  to 
the  peerage  under  the  title  of  Lord  Vargrave, 
and  was  gathered  to  his  fathers.  She  had  no 
claim  on  his  widow  or  his  family.  But  the  un- 
fortunate child  who  should  have  inherited  his 
properly — she  could  only  suppose  her  dead. 

When  she  first  saw  Evelyn,  she  was  startled 
by  the  likeness  to  her  unfortunate  mother. 
But  the  unfamiliar  name  of  Cameron — the  in- 
telligence received  from  Maltravers  that 
Evelyn's  mother  still  lived — dispelled  her  sus- 
picions: and  though  at  times  the  resemblance 
haunted  her,  she  doubted  and  inquired  no 
more.  In  fact,  her  own  infirmities  grew  upon 
her,  and  pain  usurped  her  thoughts. 

Now  it  so  happened,  that  the  news  of  the 
engagement  of  Maltravers  to  Miss  Cameron 
became  known  to  the  county  but  a  little  time 
before  he  arrived — for  news  travels  slow  from 
the  Continent  to  our  provinces — and,  of  course, 
excited  all  the  comment  of  the  villagers.  Her 
nurse  repeated  the  tale  to  Mrs.  Elton,  who  in- 
stantly remembered  the  name,  and  recalled 
the  resemblance  of  Miss  Cameron  to  the  un- 
fortuate  Mary  Westbrook. 

"And,"  said  the  gossiping  nurse,  "she  was 
engaged,  they  say,  to  a  great  lord,  and  gave 
him  up  for  the  squire — a  great  lord  in  the 
court,  who  had  been  staying  at  Parson  Mer- 
ton's  ! — Lord  Vargrave  !  " 

"  Lord  Vargrave  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Elton, 
remembering  the  title  to  which  Mr.  Templeton 
had  been  raised. 

"Yes;  they  do  say  as  how  the  late  lord  left 
Miss  Cameron  all  his  money — such  a  heap  of 
it — though  she  was  not  his  child — over  the 
head  of  his  nevy,  the  present  lord,  on  the  un- 
derstanding like  that  they  were  to  be  married 
when  she  came  of  age.     But  she  would  not  take 


ALICE;     OR,     I'HE    MYSTERIES. 


383 


to  him  after  she  had  seen  the  squire.  And, 
to  be  sure,  the  squire  is  the  finest-looking  gen- 
tleman in  the  county." 

"Stop — stop!"  said  Mrs.  Elton,  feebly; 
■"  the  late  lord  left  all  hi^  fortune  to  Miss  Cam- 
eron ? — ^iiot  his  child  !  I  guess  the  riddle — I 
understand  it  all  ! — my  foster-child  !  "  she 
murmured,  turning  away;  "  how  could  I  have 
mistaken  that  likeness  ?  " 

Thengitation  of  the  discovery  she  supposed 
she  had  made,  her  joy  at  the  thought  that  the 
child  she  had  loved  as  her  own  was  alive  and 
possessed  of  its  rights,  expedited  the  progress 
of  Mrs.  Elton's  disease;  and  Maltravers  ar- 
rived just  in  time  to  learn  her  confession 
(which  she  naturally  wished  to  make  to  one 
who  was  at  once  her  benefactor,  and  supposed 
to  be  the  destined  husband  of  her  foster-child), 
and  to  be  agitated  with  hope — with  joy — at 
her  solemn  conviction  of  the  truth  of  her  sur- 
mises. If  Evelyn  were  not  his  daughter — 
even  if  not  to  be  his  bride — what  a  weight 
from  his  soul  !  He  hastened  to  Brook  Green; 
and,  dreading  to  rush  at  once  to  the  presence 
of  Alice,  he  recalled  Aubrey  to  his  recollec- 
tion. In  the  interview  he  sought,  all,  or  at 
least  much,  was  cleared  up.  He  saw  at  once 
the  premeditated  and  well-planned  villany  of 
Vargrave.  And  Alice,  her  tale — her  sufferings 
— her  indomitable  love  ! — how  should  he  meet 
her. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels  !  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles!"— Lychjas. 

While  Maltravers  was  yet  agitated  and  ex- 
cited by  the  disclosures  of  the  curate,  to 
whom,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  had  divulged 
his  own  identity  with  the  mysterious  Butler, 
Aubrey,  turning  his  eyes  to  the  casement,  saw 
the  form  of  Lady  Vargrave  slowly  approach- 
ing towards  the  house. 

"  Will  you  withdraw  to  the  inner  room," 
said;  "she  is  coming;  you  are  not  yet  pre- 
jiared  to  meet  her  ! — nay,  would  it  be  well  ?  " 


"  Yes,  yes — I  am  prepared — we  must  be 
alone.     I  will  await  her  here." 

"  But—" 

"Nay,  I  implore  you  I" 

'l"he  curate,  without  another  word,  retired 
into  the  inner  apartment,  and  Maltravers, 
sinking  in  a  chair,  breathlessly  awaited  the  en- 
trance of  Lady  Vargrave.  He  soon  heard  the 
light  step  without;  the  door,  which  opened  at 
once  on  the  old-fashioned  parlor,  was  gently 
unclosed,  and  Lady  Vargrave  was  in  the  room! 
In  the  position  he  had  taken,  only  the  outline 
of  Ernest's  form  was  seen  by  Alice,  and  the 
daylight  came  dim  through  the  cottage  case- 
ment; and,  seeing  some  one  seated  in  the 
curate's  accustomed  chair,  she  could  but  be- 
lieve that  it  was  Aubrey  himself. 

"  Do  not  let  me  interrupt  you,"  said  that 
sweet,  low  voice,  whose  music  had  been  dumb 
for  so  many  years  to  Maltravers — "  but  I  have 
a  letter  from  France,  from  a  stranger — it 
alarms  me  so — it  is  about  Evelyn  " — and,  as 
if  to  imply  that  she  meditated  a  longer  visit 
than  ordinary.  Lady  Vargrave  removed  her 
bonnet,  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  Surprised 
that  the  curate  had  not  answered,  had  not 
come  forward  to  welcome  her,  she  then  ap- 
proached: Maltravers  rose,  and  they  stood 
before  each  other  face  to  face.  And  how 
lovely  still  was  Alice  !  lovelier  he  thought 
even  than  of  old  !  And  those  eyes,  so  divinely 
blue,  so  dovelike  and  soft,  yet  with  some 
spiritual  and  unfathomable  mystery  in  their 
clear  depth,  were  once  more  fixed  upon  him. 
Alice  seemed  turned  to  stone;  she  moved  not 
— she  spoke  not — she  scarcely  breathed;  she 
gazed  spell-bound,  as  if  her  senses — as  if  life 
itself — had  deserted  her. 

"  Alice  !  "  murmured  Maltravers, — "  Alice, 
we  meet  at  last !  " 

His  voice  restored  memory,  consciousness, 
youth,  at  once  to  her  !  She  uttered  a  loud 
cry  of  unspeakable  joy,  of  rapture !  She 
sprang  forward — reserve,  fear,  time,  change, 
all  forgotten — she  threw  herself  into  his  arms, 
she  clasped  him  to  her  heart  again  and  again  ! 
— the  faithful  dog  that  has  found  his  master 
expresses  not  his  transport  more  uncon- 
trollably, more  wildly.  It  was  something 
fearful  —  the  excess  of  her  ecstasy!  —  she 
kissed  his  hands,  his  clothes;  she  laughed, 
she  wept:  and  at  last,  as  words  came,  she 
laid  her  head  on  his  breast,  and  said  pas.sion- 


j84 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


ately, — "  I  have  been  true  to  thee  !  I  have 
been  true  to  thee — or  this  hour  would  have 
killed  me  ! "  Then,  as  if  alarmed  by  his 
silence,  she  looked  up  into  his  face,  and,  as 
his  burning  tears  fell  upon  her  cheek,  she  said 
again  and  with  more  hurried  vehemence — "  I 
have  been  faithful — do  you  not  believe  me  ?  " 
"  I  c3o — I  do,  noble  unequalled  Alice  !  why, 
why  were  you  so  long  lost  to  me  ?  Why  now 
does  your  love  so  shame  my  own  ?" 

At  these  words,  Alice  appeared  to  awaken 
from  her  first  oblivion  of  all  that  had  chanced 
since  they  met:  she  blushed  deeply,  and  drew 
herself  gently  and  bashfully  from  his  embrace. 
'•  Ah  ! "  she  said,  in  altered  and  humbled 
accents,  "  you  have  loved  another  I  perhaps 
you  have  no  love  left  forme  !  Is  it  so  ?  is  it? 
No,  no; — those  eyes— you  love  me— you  love 
me  still  I " 

And  again  she  clung  to  him,  as  if  it  were 
heaven  to  believe  ail  things,  and  death  to 
doubt.  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  drew  him 
gently  with  both  her  hands  towards  the  light, 
and  gazed  upon  him  fondly,  proudly,  as  if 
to  trace,  line  by  line,  and  feature  by  feature, 
the  countenance  which  had  been  to  her  sweet 
thoughts  .as  the  sunlight  to  the  flowers:— 
"  Changed,  changed,"  she  muttered  —  "  but 
still  the  same, — still  beautiful,  still  divine  !  " 
She  stopped:  a  sudden  thought  struck  her: 
his  garments  were  worn  and  soiled  by  travel, 
and  that  princely  crest,  fallen  and  dejected,  no 
longer  towered  in  proud  defiance  above  the 
sons  of  men.  "You  are  not  rich,"  she  ex- 
claimed, eagerly — "  say  you  are  not  rich  !  I 
am  rich  enough  for  both;  it  is  all  yours — all 
yours — I  did  not  betray  you  for  it;  there  is  no 
shame  in  it— Oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy  !  Thou 
art  come  back  to  thy  poor  Alice  !  thou  know- 
est  how  she  loved  thee  !  " 

There  was  in  Alice's  manner — her  wild  joy, 
something  so  different  from  her  ordinary  self, 
that  none  who  could  have  seen  her — quiet, 
pensive,  subdued — would  have  fancied  her  the 
same  being.  All  that  Society  and  its  woes 
had  taught  were  gone;  and  Nature  once  more 
cl.-iimed  her  fairest  child.  The  very  years 
seemed  to  have  fallen  from  her  brow,  and  she 
looked  scarcely  older  than  when  she  had  stood 
with  him  beneath  the  moonlight  by  the  violet 
banks  far  away.  Suddenly,  her  color  faded; 
the  smile  passed  from  the  dimpled  lips;  a  sad 
and  solemn  aspect  succeeded  to  that  expres- 


sion of  passionate  joy — "  Come,"  she  said  irv 
a  whisper,  "come,  follow;  "  and,  still  clasping 
his  hand,  she  drew  him  to  the  door.  Silent 
and  wonderingly  he  followed  her  across  the 
lawn,  through  the  mo^-grown  gate,  and  into- 
the  lonely  burial-ground.  She  moved' on  with 
a  noiseless  and  gliding  step— so  pale,  so 
hushed,  so  breathless,  that,  even  in  the  noon- 
day, you  might  have  half  fancied  the  fair 
shape  was  not  owned  by  earth.  She  paused 
where  the  yew-tree  cast  its  gloomy  shadowy 
and  the  small  and  tombless  mound,  separated 
from  the  rest,  was  before  them.  She  pointed 
to  it,  and  falling  on  her  knees  beside  it,  mur- 
mured— "  Hush,  it  sleeps  below — thy  child  !  " 
She  covered  her  face  with  both  her  hands,  and 
her  form  shook  convulsively. 

Beside  that  form,  and  before  that  grave, 
knelt  Maltravers.  There  vanished  the  last 
remnant  of  his  stoic  pride;  and  there — Eve- 
lyn herself  forgotten — there  did  he  pray  to 
Heaven  for  pardon  to  himself,  and  blessings 
on  the  heart  he  had  betrayed.  There  sol- 
emnly did  he  vow,  the  remainder  of  his  years, 
to  guard  from  all  future  ill  the  faithful  and 
childless  mother  ! 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"  Will  Fortune  never  come  with  both  hands  full, 
But  write  her  fair  words  still  in  foulest  letters?" 
—Hniry  IV.^'Pz.xX  11. 

I  PASS  over  those  explanations— that  record 
of  Alice's  eventful  history— which  Maltravers 
learnt  from  her  own  lips,  to  confirm  and  add  to 
the  narrative  of  the  curate,  the  purport  of  which 
is  already  known  to  the  reader. 

It  was  many  hours  before  Alice  was  suffi- 
ciently composed  to  remember  the  object  for 
which  she  had  sought  the  curate.  But  she  had 
laid  the  letter  which  she  had  brought,  and 
which  explained  all,  on  the  table  at  the  vicar- 
age; and  when  Maltravers,  having  at  last  in- 
duced Alice,  who  seemed  afraid  to  lose  sight 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


385 


of  him  for  an  instant,  to  retire  to  her  room, 
and  seek  some  short  repose,  returned  towards 
the  vicarage,  he  met  Aubrey  in  the  garden. 
The  old  man  had  taken  the  friend's  acknowl- 
edged license  to  read  the  letter  evidently  meant 
for  his  eye;  and,  alarmed  and  anxious,  he  now 
eagerly  sought  a  consultation  with  Maltravers. 
The  letter,  written  in  English,  as  familiar  to 
the  writer  as  her  own  tongue,  was  from  Ma- 
dame de  Ventadour.  It  had  been  evidently 
•  dictated  by  the  kindest  feelings.  After 
apologizing  briefly  for  her  interference,  she 
stated  that  Lord  Vargrave's  marriage  with 
Miss  Cameron  was  now  a  matter  of  public 
notoriety;  that  it  would  take  place  in  a  few 
days;  that  it  was  observed  with  suspicion  that 
Miss  Cameron  appeared  nowhere;  that  she 
seemed  almost  a  prisoner  in  her  room;  that 
certain  expressions  which  had  dropped  from 
Lady  Doltimore  had  alarmed  her  greatly. 

According  to  these  expressions,  it  would 
seem  that  Lady  Vargrave  was  not  apprised  of 
the  approaching  event;  that,  considering  Miss 
Cameron's  recent  engagement  to  Mr.  Maltrav- 
ers, suddenly  (and,  as  Valerie  thought,  unac- 
countably) broken  off,  on  the  arrival  of  Lord 
Vargrave;  considering  her  extreme  youth,  her 
brilliant  fortune;  and,  Madame  de  Ventadour 
delicately  hinted,  considering  also  Lord  Var- 
grave's character  for  unscrupulous  determina- 
tion in  the  furtherance  of  any  object  on  which 
he  was  bent — considering  all  this,  Madame  de 
Ventadour  had  ventured  to  address  Miss 
Cameron's  mother,  and  to  guard  her  against 
the  possibility  of  design  or  deceit.  Her  best 
apology  for  her  intrusion  must  be,  her  deep 
intrusion  in  Miss  Cameron,  and  her  long  friend- 
ship for  one  to  whom  Miss  Cameron  had  been 
so  lately  betrothed.  If  Lady  Vargrave  were 
aware  of  the  new  engagement,  and  had  sanc- 
tioned it,  of  course  her  intrusion  was  un- 
seasonable and  superfluous;  but,  if  ascribed 
to  its  real  motive,  would  not  be  the  less  for- 
given. 

It  was  easy  for  Maltravers  to  see  in  this 
letter  how  generous  and  zealous  had  been  that 
friendship  for  himself,  which  could  have  in- 
duced the  woman  of  the  world  to  undertake 
so  officious  a  task.  But  of  this  he  thought 
not,  as  he  hurried  over  the  lines,  and  shuddered 
at  Evelyn's  urgent  danger. 

"This  intelligence,"  said  Aubrey,  "must  be, 
indeed,  a  surprise  to  Lady  Vargrave.     For  we 

C.-25 


have  not  heard  a  word  from  Evelyn  or  Lord 
Vargrave  to  announce  such  a  marriage;  and 
she  (and  myself,  till  this  day)  believed  that  the 

engagement  between  Evelyn  and  Mr. ,  I 

mean,  '  said  Aubrey,  with  confusion, — "  I  mean 
yourself,  was  still  in  force:  Lord  Vargrave's 
villany  is  apparent;  we  must  act  immediately. 
What  is  to  be  done  ? " 

"  I  will  return  to  Paris  to-morrow;  I  will 
defeat  his  machinations — expose  his  false- 
hood I " 

"  You  may  need  a  proxy  for  Lady  Vargrave, 
an  authority  for  Evelyn:  one  whom  Lord  Var- 
grave knows  to  possess  the  secret  of  her  birth, 
her  rights:  I  will  go  with  you.  We  must  speak 
to  Lady  Vargrave  !  " 

Maltravers  turned  sharply  round.  "  And 
Alice  knows  not  who  I  am:  that  I^I  am,  or 
was,  a  few  weeks  ago,  the  suitor  of  another; 
and  that  other  the  child  she  has  reared  as  her 
own  !  Unhappy  Alice  !  in  the  very  hour  of 
her  joy  at  my  return,  is  she  to  writhe  beneath 
this  new  affliction  !  " 

"Shall  1  break  it  to  her?"  said  Aubrey, 
pityingly. 

"  No,  no;  these  lips  must  inflict  the  last 
wrong?  " 

Maltravers  walked  away,  and  the  curate  saw 
him  no  more  till  night. 

In  the  interval,  and  late  in  the  evening, 
Maltravers  rejoined  Alice. 

The  fire  burned  clear  on  the  hearth— the 
curtains  were  drawn — the  pleasant  but  simple 
drawing-room  of  the  cottage  smiled  its  wel- 
come as  Maltravers  entered,  and  Alice  sprung 
up  to  greet  him  !  It  was  as  if  the  old  days 
of  the  music-lesson  and  meerschaum  had  come 
back. 

"  This  is  yours,"  said  Alice,  tenderly,  as  he 
looked  round  the  apartment.  "  Now — now  I 
know  what  a  blessed  thing  riches  are  !  Ah, 
you  are  looking  on  that  picture — it  is  of  her 
who  supplied  your  daughter's  place — she  is  so 
beautiful,  so  good,  you  will  love  her  as  a 
daughter.  Oh,  that  letter— that— that  letter— 
I  forgot  it  till  now— it  is  at  the  vicarage— I 
must  go  there  immediately,  and  you  will  come 
too — you  will  advise  us." 

"  Alice,  I  have  read  the  letter— I  know  all. 
Alice,  sit  down  and  hear  me— it  is  you  who 
have  to  learn  from  me.  In  our  young  days,  I 
was  accustomed  to  tell  you  stories  in  winter 
nights  like  these— stories  of  love  like  our  own 


sHb 


BULIVER'S     WORKS. 


—of  sorrows  which,  at  that  time,  we  only  knew 
by  hearsay.  I  have  one  now  for  your  ear, 
truer  and  sadder  than  they  were.  Two  chil- 
dren, for  they  were  then  little  more — children 
in  ignorance  of  the  world — children  in  fresh- 
ness of  heart — children  almost  in  years — were 
thrown  together  by  strange  vicissitudes,  more 
than  eighteen  years  ago.  They  were  of  dif- 
ferent sexes — they  loved,  and  they  erred.  But 
the  error  was  solely  with  the  boy;  for  what 
was  innocence  in  her  was  hut  passion  in  him. 
He  loved  her  dearly;  but  at  that  age  her  qual- 
ities were  half  developed.  He  knew  her  beau- 
tiful, simple,  tender;  but  he  knew  not  all  the 
virtue,  the  faith,  and  the  nobleness  that  Heaven 
had  planted  in  her  soul.  They  parted — they 
knew  not  each  other's  fate.  He  sought  her 
anxiously;  but  in  vain;  and  sorrorand  remorse 
long  consumed  him,  and  her  memory  threw  a 
shadow  over  his  existence.  But  again — for 
his  iove  had  not  the  exalted  holiness  of  hers 
(she  was  true  !) — he  sought  to  renew  in  others 
the  charm  he  had  lost  with  her.  In  vain — 
long — long  in  vain.  Alice,  you  know  to  whom 
the  tale  refers.  Nay,  listen  yet.  I  have  heard 
from  the  old  man  3'onder,  that  you  were  wit- 
ness to  a  scene  many  years  ago  which  deceived 
you  into  the  belief  that  you  beheld  a  rival.  It 
was  not  so:  that  lady  yet  lives,— then,  as  now, 
a  friend  to  me;  nothing  more.  I  grant  that, 
at  one  time,  my  fancy  allured  me  to  her,  but 
my  heart  was  still  true  to  thee." 

"  Bless  you  for  those  words  !  "  murmured 
Alice;  and  she  crept  more  closely  to  him. 

He  went  on.  "Circumstances,  which  at 
some  calmer  occasion  you  shall  hear,  again 
nearly  connected  my  fate  by  marriage  to  an- 
other. I  had  then  seen  you  at  a  distance,  un- 
seen by  you — seen  you  apparently  surrounded 
by  respectability  and  opulence;  and  I  blessed 
Heaven  that  your  lot,  at  least,  was  not  that  of 
penury  and  want."  [Here  Maltravers  related 
where  he  had  caught  that  brief  glimpse  of 
Alice* — how  he  had  sought  for  her  again  and 
again  in  vain].  "  From  that  hour,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  seeing  you  in  circumstances  of 
which  I  could  not  have  dared  to  dream,  I  felt 
more  reconciled  to  the  past;  yet,  when  on  the 
verge  of  marriage  with  another — beautiful, 
gifted,  generous  as  she  was — a  thought — a 
memory  half  acknowledged — dimly  traced — 


*  Sep  Ernest  Maltravirs.  Part  I.,  Book  v. 


chained  back  my  sentiments;  and  admiration, 
esteem,  and  gratitude,  were  not  love  !  Death 
— a  death,  melancholy  and  tragic,  forbade 
this  union;  and  I  went  forth  in  the  world,  a 
pilgrim  and  a  wanderer.  Years  rolled  away, 
and  I  thought  I  had  conquered  the  desire 
for  love — a  desire  that  had  haunted  me  since 
I  lost  thee.  But,  suddenly  and  recently,  a 
being,  beautiful  as  yourself — sweet,  guileless, 
and  young  as  you  were  when  we  met — woke 
in  me  a  new  and  a  strange  sentiment.  I  will 
not  conceal  it  from  you:  Alice,  at  last  I  loved 
another  !  Yet,  singular  as  it  may  seem  to 
you,  it  was  a  certain  resemblance  to  yourself, 
not  in  feature,  but  in  the  tones  of  the  voice— 
the  nameless  grace  of  gesture  and  manner 
— the  very  music  of  your  once  happy  laugh — 
those  traits  of  resemblance  which  I  can  now 
account  for,  and  which  children  catch  not  from 
their  parents  only,  but  from  those  they  most 
see,  and,  loving  most,  most  imitate  in  their 
tender  years; — all  these,  I  say,  made  perhaps 
a  chief  attraction,  that  drew  me  towards — 
Alice,  are  you  prepared  for  it? — drew  me  to- 
wards Evelyn  Cameron.  Know  me  in  my  real 
character,  by  my  true  name:  I  am  that  Mal- 
travers to  whom  the  hand  of  Evelyn  was  a  few 
weeks  ago  betrothed  !  " 

He  paused  and  ventured  to  look  up  at  Alice 
— she  was  exceedingly  pale,  and  her  hands 
were  tightly  clasped  together — but  she  neither 
wept  nor  spoke.  The  worst  was  over — he  con- 
tinued more  rapidly,  and  with  less  constrained 
an  effort.  "  By  the  art,  the  duplicity,  the 
falsehood  of  Lord  Vargrave,  I  was  taught  in  a 
sudden  hour  to  believe  that  Evelyn  was  our 
daughter— that  you  recoiled  from  the  prospect 
of  beholding  once  more  the  author  of  so  many 
miseries.  I  need  not  tell  you,  Alice,  of  the 
horror  that  succeeded  to  love.  I  pass  over  the 
tortures  I  endured.  By  a  train  of  incidents  to 
be  related  to  you  hereafter,  I  was  led  to  sus- 
pect the  truth  of  Vargrave's  tale.  I  came 
hither — I  have  learned  all  from  Aubrey — I  re- 
gret no  more  the  falsehood  that  so  racked  me 
for  the  time  !  I  regret  no  more  the  rupture 
of  my  bond  with  Evelyn — I  regret  nothing  that 
brings  me  at  last  free  and  unshackled  to  thy 
feet,  and  acquaints  me  with  thy  sublime  faith 
and  ineffable  love.  Here,  then — here  beneath 
your  own  roof— here  he,  at  once  your  earliest 
friend  and  foe,  kneels  to  you  for  pardon  and 
for  hope  ! — he  woos  you  as  his  wife— his  com- 


ALICE;     OR,     'J'HE    MYSTERIES. 


387 


panion  to  the  grave  ! — forget  all  his  errors,  and 
be  to  him,  under  a  holier  name,  all  that  you 
were  to  him  of  old  !  " 

"  And  you  are  then  Evelyn's  suitor  ? — you 
are  he  whom  she  loves  ? — I  see  it  all — all  !  " 
Alice  rose,  and,  before  he  was  even  aware  of 
her  purpose,  or  conscious  of  what  she  felt,  she 
had  vanished  from  the  room. 

Long,  and  with  the  bitterest  feelings,  he 
awaited  her  return — she  came  not.  At  last  he 
wrote  a  hurried  note.  Imploring  her  to  join 
him  again,  to  relieve  his  suspense — to  believe 
his  sincerity — to  accept  his  vows.  He  sent  it 
to  her  own  room,  to  which  she  had  hastened 
to  bury  her  emotions.  In  a  few  minutes 
there  came  to  him  this  answer,  written  in 
pencil,  blotted  with  tears. 

"  I  thank  you — I  understand  your  heart — but  forgive 
me — I  cannot  see  you  yet^she  is  so  beautiful  and 
good— she  is  worthy  of  you.  I  shall  soon  be  recon- 
ciled— God  bless  you — bless  you  both  ! " 

The  door  of  the  vicarage  was  opened  ab- 
ruptly, and  Maltravers  entered  with  a  hasty 
but  heavy  tread. 

"  Go  to  her — go  to  that  augel — go,  I  be- 
seech you  !  Tell  her  that  she  wrongs  me — if 
she  thinks,  I  can  ever  wed  another — ever  have 
an  object  in  life,  but  to  atone  to, — to  merit 
her.     "  Go — plead  for  me." 

Aubrey,  who  soon  gathered  from  Maltravers 
what  had  passed,  departed  to  the  cottage — it 
was  near  midnight  before  he  returned.  Mal- 
travers met  him  in  the  church-yard,  beside 
the  yew-tree.  "  Well,  well — what  message  do 
you  bring  ? " 

"She  wishes  that  we  should  both  set  off  for 
Paris  to-morrow.  Not  a  day  is  to  be  lost — we 
must  save  Evelyn  from  this  snare." 

"  Evelyn  !  Yes,  Evelyn  shall  be  saved  but 
the  rest— the  rest — why  do  you  turn  away  ?  " 

"  '  You  are  not  the  poor  artist — the  wantler- 
ing  adventurer — you  are  the  high-born,  the 
wealthy,  the  renowned  Maltravers:  Alice  has 
nothing  to  confer  on  you:  You  have  won  the 
love  of  Evelyn — Alice  cannot  doom  the  child 
confided  to  her  care  to  hopeless  affection:  You 
love  Evelyn— Alice  cannot  compare  herself  to 
the  young,  and  educated,  and  beautiful  creat- 
ure, whose  love  is  a  priceless  treasure:  Alice 
prays  you  not  to  grieve  for  her:  She  will  soon 
be  content  and  happy  in  your  happiness.'  This 
is  the  message." 


"And  what  said  you  ? — did  you  not  tell  her 
such  words  would  break  my  heart  ?  " 

"  No  matter  what  I  said — I  mistrust  myself 
when  I  advise  her.  Her  feelings  are  truer  than 
all  our  wisdom  !  " 

Maltravers  made  no  answer,  and  the  curate 
saw  him  gliding  rapidly  away  by  the  starlit 
graves  towards  the  village. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

"  Think  you  1  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness?" 

— Measure  for  Measure. 

They  were  on  the  road  to  Dover.  Mal- 
travers leant  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage 
with  his  hat  over  his  brows,  though  the  morn- 
ing was  yet  too  dark  for  the  curate  to  perceive 
more  than  the  outliue  of  his  features.  Mile- 
stone after  milestone  glided  by  the  wheels,  and 
neither  of  the  travellers  broke  the  silence.  It 
was  a  cold,  raw  morning,  and  the  mists  rose 
sullenly  from  the  dank  hedges  and  comfort- 
less fields. 

Stern  and  self-accusing  was  the  scrutiny  of 
Maltravers  into  the  recesses  of  his  conscience, 
and  the  blotted  pages  of  the  Past.  That  pale 
and  solitary  mother,  mourning  over  the  grave 
of  her — of  his  own — child,  rose  again  before 
his  eyes,  and  seemed  silently  to  ask  him  for 
an  account  of  the  heart  he  had  made  barren, 
and  of  the  youth  to  which  his  love  had  brought 
the  joylessness  of  age.'  With  the  image  of 
Alice, — afar,  alone,  whether  in  her  wanderings, 
a  beggar  and  an  outcast,  or  in  that  hollow 
prosperity,  in  which  the  very  ease  of  the 
frame  allowed  more  leisure  to  the  piniugs  of 
the  heart — with  that  image,  pure,  sorrowing, 
and  faithful  from  first  to  last,  he  compared  his 
own  wild  and  wasted  youth— his  resort  to 
fancy  and  to  passion  for  excitement.  He 
contrasted  with  her  patient  resignation  his  own 
arrogant  rebellion  against  the  trials,  the  bit- 
terness of  which  his  proud  spirit  had  exagger- 
ated— his  contempt  for  the  pursuits  and  aims 
of  others — the  imperious  indolence  of  his 
later  life,  and   his   forgetfulness  of  the  duties 


388 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


which  Providence  had  fitted  him  to  discharge. 
His  mind,  once  so  rudely  hurled  from  that 
complacent  pedestal,  from  which  it  had  so 
long  looked  down  on  men,  and  said,  "  I  am 
wiser  and  better  than  you,"  became  even  too 
acutely  sensitive  to  its  own  infirmities;  and 
that  desire  for  Virtue,  which  he  had  ever 
deeply  entertained,  made  itself  more  distinctly 
and  loudly  heard  amidst  the  ruins  and  the 
silence  of  his  pride. 

From  the  contemplation  of  the  Past,  he 
roused  himself  to  face  the  Future.  Alice  had 
refused  his  hand — Alice  herself  had  ratified 
and  blessed  his  union  with  another  !  Evelyn 
so  madly  loved — Evelyn  might  still  be  his  ! 
No  law — from  the  violation  of  which,  even  in 
thought,  Hiunan  Nature  recoils  appalled  and 
horror-stricken^forbade  him  to  reclaim  her 
hand — to  snatch  her  from  the  grasp  of  Var- 
grave — to  woo  again,  and  again  to  win  her  ! 
But  did  Maltravers  welcome,  did  he  embrace 
that  thought?  Let  us  do  him  justice:  he  did 
not.  He  felt  that  Alice's  resolution,  in  the 
first  hour  of  mortified  affection,  was  not  to  be 
considered  final;  and  even  if  it  were  so,  he 
felt  yet  more  deeply  that  her  love— the  love 
that  had  withstood  so  many  trials — never  could 
be  subdued.  Was  he  to  make  her  nobleness 
a  curse  ?  Was  he  to  say,  "  Thou  hast  passed 
away  in  thy  generation,  and  I  leave  thee  again 
to  thy  solitude,  for  her  whom  thou  hast  cher- 
ished as  a  child  ? "  He  started  in  dismay 
from  the  thought  of  this  new  and  last  blow 
upon  the  shattered  spirit;  and  then  fresh  and 
equally  sacred  obstacles  between  Evelyn  and 
himself  broke  slowly  on  his  view.  Could 
Templeton  rise  from  his  grave,  with  what  re- 
sentment, with  what  just  repugnance,  would 
he  have  regarded  the  betrayer  of  his  wife 
(even  though  wife  but  in  name)  the  suitor  to 
his  child  ! 

These   thoughts  came   in  fast  and   fearful 
force  upon  Maltravers,  and  served  to  strength- 
en his  honor  and  his  conscience.     He  felt  that 
though,  m  law,  there  was   no   shadow  of  con- 
nection between  Evelyn  and  himself,   yet  his 
tie  with  Alice  had  been  of  a  nature  that  ought 
to  separate  him  from  one  who   had   regarded 
Alice  as  a  mother.     The   load   of  horror,  the  j 
agony  of  shame,  were  indeed  gone;  but  still  a 
voice  whispered  as  before.     "Evelyn  is  lost  to  i 
thee  for  ever  !  "     But  so  shaken  had   already  | 
been  her  image  in  the  late  storms  and  convul- 1 


sion  of  his  soul,  that  this  thought  was  prefer- 
able to  the  thought  of  sacrificing  Alice.  If 
that  were  all — but  Evelyn  might  still  love  him; 
and  justice  to  Alice  might  be  misery  to  her  ! 
He  started  from  his  revery  with  a  vehement 
gesture,  and  groaned  audibly. 

The  curate  turned  to  address  to  him  some 
words  of  inquiry  and  surprise;  but  the  words 
were  unheard,  and  he  perceived,  hy  the  ad- 
vancing daylight,  that  the  countenance  of 
Maltravers  was  that  of  a  man  utterly  rapt  and 
absorbed  by  some  mastering  and  irresistible 
thought.  Wisely  therefore  he  left  his  com- 
panion in  peace,  and  returned  to  his  own  anx- 
ious and  engrossing  meditations. 

The  travellers  did  not  rest  till  they  arrived 
at  Dover.  The  vessel  started  early  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  and  Aubrey,  who  was  much 
fatigued,  retired  to  rest.  Maltravers  glanced 
at  the  clock  upon  the  mantel-piece:  it  was  the 
hour  of  nine.  For  him  there  was  no  hope  of 
sleep;  and  the  prospect  of  the  slow  night  was 
that  of  dreary  suspense,  and  torturing  self- 
commune. 

As  he  turned  restlessly  in  his  seat,  the  waiter 
entered  to  s:iy  that  there  was  a  gentleman,  who 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  below  on  his  ar- 
rival, and  who  was  anxious  to  speak  with  him. 
Before  Maltravers  could  answer,  the  gentleman 
himself  entered,  and  Maltravers  recognized 
Legard. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  latter,  in  a 
tone  of  great  agitation,  "  but  I  was  most  anx- 
ious to  see  you  for  a  few  moments.  I  have 
just  returned  to  England — all  places  alike 
hateful  to  me  !  I  read  in  the  papers — an — an 
announcement — which — which  occasions  me 
the  greatest — I  know  not  what  I  would  say, — 
but  is  it  true? — Read  this  paragraph;"  and 
Legard  placed  "The  Courier"  before  Mal- 
travers. 

The  passage  was  as  follows. — 

"  It  is  whispered  that  Lord  Vargrave,  who 
is  now  at  Paris,  is  to  be  married  in  a  few  days 
to  the  beautiful  and  wealthy  Miss  Cameron,  to 
whom  he  has  been  long  engaged." 

"  Is  it  possible  ? "  exclaimed  Legard,  follow- 
ing the  eyes  of  Maltravers,  as  he  glanced  over 
the  paragraph — "  were  not  yoti  the  lover, — the 
accepted,  the  happy  lover  of  Miss  Cameron  ? 
Speak,  tell  me,  I  implore  you  ! — that  it  was  for 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


389 


you,  who  saved  my  life  and  redeemed  my 
honor,  and  not  for  that  cold  schemer,  that  I 
renounced  all  my  hopes  of  earthly  happiness, 
and  surrendered  the  dream  of  winning  the  heart 
and  hand  of  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved  !  " 

A  deep  shade  fell  over  the  features  of  Mal- 
Iravers.  He  gazed  earnestly  and  long  upon 
the  working  countenance  of  Legard,  and  said, 
after  a  pause, — 

"  You,  too,  loved  her,  then.  I  never  knew 
it — never  guessed  it: — or,  if  once  I  suspected, 
it  was  but  for  a  moment;  and -" 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Legard,  passionately, 
*'  Heaven  is  my  witness  how  fervently  and 
truly  I  did  love  !  I  do  still  love  Evelyn  Cam- 
eron !  But  when  you  confessed  to  me  your 
affection — your  hopes — I  felt  all  that  I  owed 
you; — I  felt  that  I  never  ought  to  become 
your  rival.  I  left  Paris  abruptly.  What  I 
have  suffered  I  will  not  say;  but  it  was  some 
comfort  to  think  that  I  had  acted  as  became 
one  who  owed  you  a  debt  never  to  be  cancelled 
nor  repaid.  I  travelled  from  place  to  place, 
each  equally  hateful  and  wearisome, — at  last, 
I  scarce  know  why,  I  returned  to  England.     I 

have  arrived  this   day, — and   now but  tell 

me,  is  it  true  ?  " 

"I  believe  it  true,"  said  Maltravers,  in  a  hol- 
low voice,  "  that  Evelyn  is  at  this  moment  en- 
gaged to  Lord  Vargrave.  I  believe  it  equally 
true,  that  that  engagement,  founded  upon  false 
impressions,  never  will  be  fulfilled.  With 
that  hope,  and  that  belief,  I  am  on  my  road  to 
Paris." 

"  And  she  will  be  yours  still  ?  "  said  Legard, 
turning  away  his  face:  "  well,  that  I  can  bear 
—  may  you  be  happy,  sir  !  " 

"  Stay,  Legard,"  said  Maltravers,  in  a  voice 
of  great  feeling.  "  Let  us  understand  each 
other  better:  you  have  renounced  your  pas- 
sion to  your  sense  of  honor — (Maltravers 
paused  thoughtfully).— It  was  noble  in  you, 
it  was  more  than  just  to  ine;  I  thank  you  and 
respect  you.  But,  Legard,  was  there  aught 
in  the  manner,  the  bearing  of  Evelyn  Cam- 
eron, that  could  lead  you  to  suppose  that  she 
would  have  returned  your  affection  ?  True, 
had  we  started  on  equal  terms,  I  am  not 
vain  enough  to  be  blind  to  your  advantages  of 
youth  and  person;  but  I  believed  that  the 
affections  of  Evelyn  were  already  mine,  before 
we  met  at  Paris." 

"  It  might   be  so,"    said   Legard,  gloomily; 


"  nor  is  it  for  me  to  say,  that  a  neait  so  pure  and 
generous  as  Evelyn's  could  deceive  yourself 
or  me.  Yet  I  had  fancied — I  had  hoped — 
while  you  stood  aloof,  that  the  partiality  with 
which  she  regarded  you  was  that  of  admiration 
more  than  love;  that  you  had  ilazzled  her  im- 
agination, rather  than  won  her  heart.  I  had 
hoped  that  I  should  win,  that  I  was  winning, 
my  way  to  her  affection  !  But  let  this  pass; 
I  drop  the  subject  for  ever — only,  Maltravers, 
only  do  me  justice.  You  are  a  proutl  man, 
and  your  pride  has  often  irritated  and  stung 
me,  in  spite  of  my  gratitude.  Be  more  lenient 
to  me  than  you  have  been;  think  that,  though 
I  have  my  errors  and  my  follies,  I  am  still 
capable  of  some  conquests  over  myself.  And 
most  sincerely  do  I  row  wish  that  Evelyn's 
love  may  be  to  you  that  ble.ssuig  it  would  have 
been  to  me  !  " 

This  was,  indeed,  a  new  triumph  over  the 
pride  of  Maltravers — a  new  humiliation.-  He 
had  looked  with  a  cold  contempt  on  this  man, 
because  he  affected  not  to  be  above  the  herd; 
and  this  man  had  preceded  him  in  the  very 
sacrifice  he  himself  meditated. 

"  Legard,"  said  Maltravers,  and  a  faint 
blush  overspread  his  face,  "you  rebuke  me 
justly.  I  acknowledge  my  fault,  and  I  ask 
you  to  forgive  it.  From  this  night,  whatever 
happens,  I  shall  hold  it  an  honor  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  your  friendship;  from  this  night, 
George  I^egard  never  shall  find  in  me  the 
offences  of  arrogance  and  harshness." 

Legard  \yung  the  hand  held  out  to  him 
warmly,  but  made  no  answer;  his  heart  was 
full,  and  he  would  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 

"  You  think,  then,"  resumed  Maltravers,  in 
a  more  thoughtful  tone;  "  you  think  that  Eve- 
lyn could  have  loved  you,  had  my  pretensions 
not  crossed  your  own  ?  And  you  think  also 
— pardon  me,  dear  Legard — that  you  could 
have  acquired  the  steadiness  of  character,  the 
firmness  of  purpose,  which  one  s«  fair,  so 
young,  so  inexperienced  and  susceptible,  so 
surrounded  by  a  thousand  temptations,  would 
need  in  a  guardian  and  protector  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  not  judge  of  me  by  what  I  have 
been.  I  feel  that  Evelyn  could  have  reformed 
errors  worse  than  mine;  that  her  love  would 
have  elevated  dispositions  yet  more  light  and 
commonplace.  You  do  not  know  what  mira- 
cles love  works  !  But  now,  what  is  there  left 
for  me  ?— what    matters   it  how  frivolous  and 


39° 


B  UL  WERS     WORKS. 


poor  the  occupations  which  can  distract  my 
thoughts,  and  bring  me  forgetf tihiess  ?  For- 
give me;  I  have  no  right  to  obtrude  all  this 
egotism  on  you." 

"  Do  not  despond,  Legard,''  said  Maltravers, 
kindly;  "  there  may  be  better  fortunes  in  store 
for  you  than  you  yet  anticipate.  I  cannot  say 
more  now;  but  will  you  remain  at  Dover  a  few 
days  longer  ? — within  a  week  you  shall  hear 


from  me.  I  will  not  raise  hopes  that  it  may 
not  be  mine  to  realize.  But  if  it  be  as  yon 
think  it  was — why — little,  indeed,  would  rest 
with  me.  Nay,  look  not  on  me  so  wi.stfully," 
added  Maltravars,  with  a  mournful  smile; 
"and  let  the  subject  close  for  the  present. 
You  will  stay  at  Dover  ?  " 

"I  will;  but " 

"No  buts,  Legard;  it  is  so  settled." 


ALICK;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIhS. 


39' 


BOOK    ELEVENTH. 


•■ydowTTo?  e'vcpAcTO?  ffe^vicw?. — M.  ANTONIN,  lib.  64. 

Man  is  born  to  be  a  doer  of  good. 


CHAPTER  I. 

*        *        *    "  His  teeth  he  slill  did  grind. 
And  grimly  gnash,  threatening  revenge  in  vain." 

— Spenser. 

It  is  now  time  to  return  to  Lord  Vargrave. 
His  most  sanguine  hopes  were  realized;  all 
things  seemed  to  prosper.  The  hand  of  Eve- 
lyn Cameron  was  pledged  to  him — the  wed- 
ding-da)' was  fixed.  In  less  than  a  week,  she 
was  to  confer  upon  the  ruined  peer  a  splendid 
dowry,  that  would  smooth  all  obstacles  in  the 
ascent  of  his  ambition.  From  Mr.  Douce  he 
learned  that  the  deeds,  which  were  to  transfer 
to  himself  the  baronial  possessions  of  the  head 
of  the  house  of  Maltravers,  were  nearly  com- 
pleted; and,  on  his  wedding-day,  he  hoped  to 
be  able  to  announce  that  the  happy  pair  had 
set  out  for  their  princely  mansion  of  Lisle 
Court.  In  politics — though  nothing  could  be 
finally  settled  till  his  return — letters  from 
Lord  Saxingham  assured  him  that  all  was 
auspicious:  the  court  and  the  heads  of  the 
aristocracy  daily  growing  more  alienated  from 
the  ]5remier,  and  more  prepared  for  a  cabinet 
revolution.  And  Vargrave,  perhaps,  like  most 
needy  men,  over-rated  the  advantages  he  should 
derive  from,  and  the  servile  opinions  he  should 
conciliate  in,  his  new  character  of  landed  pro- 
prietor and  wealthy  peer. 

He  was  not  insensible  to  the  silent  anguish 
that  Evelyn  seemed  to  endure,  nor  to  the  bitter 
gloom  that  hung  on  the  brow  of  Lady  Dolti- 
niore.  But  these  were  clouds  that  foretold  no 
storm — light  shadows  that  obscured  not  the 
serenity  of  the  favoring  sky.  He  continued 
to  seem  unconscious  to  either;  to  take  the 
coming  event  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  to 
Evelyn  he  evinced  so  gentle,  unfamiliar,  re- 
spectful, and  delicate  an  attachment,  that  he 
left  no  opening,  either  for  confidence  or  com- 


plaint. Poor  Evelyn  !  her  gaiety,  her  enchant- 
ing levity,  her  sweet  and  infantine  playfulness 
of  manner,  were  indeed  vanished.  Pale,  wan, 
passive,  and  smileless,  she  was  the  ghost  of 
her  former  self  !  But  days  rolled  on,  and  the 
evil  one  drew  near:  she  recoiled,  but  she  never 
dreamt  of  resisting.  How  many  equal  victims 
of  her  age  and  sex  does  the  altar  witness  ! 

One  day,  at  early  noon,  Lord  Vargrave  took 
his  way  to  Evelyn's.  He  had  been  to  pay  a 
political  visit  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain's, 
and  he  was  now  ,  slowly  crossing  the  more 
quiet  and  solitary  part  of  the  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries — his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  after 
his  old,  unaltered  habit,  and  his  eyes  downcast 
— when,  suddenly,  a  man,  who  was  seated  alone 
beneath  one  of  the  trees,  and  who  had  for 
some  moments  watched  his  steps  with  an 
anxious  and  wild  aspect,  rose  and  approached 
him.  Lord  Vargrave  was  not  conscious  of  the 
intrusion,  till  the  man  laid  his  hand  on  Var- 
grave's  arm,  and,  exclaimed — 

"  It  is  he  !— it  is  !  Lumley  Ferrers,  we  meet 
again  1  " 

Lord  Vargrave  started  and  changed  color, 
as  he  gazed  on  the  intruder. 

"  Ferrers,"  continued  Cesarini  (for  it  was 
he),  and  he  wound  his  arm  firmly  into  Lord 
Vargrave's  as  he  spoke;  "you  have  not 
changed ;  your  step  is  light— your  cheek  health- 
ful; and  yet  I! — you  can  scarcely  recognize 
me.  Oh,  I  have  suffered  so  horribly  since  we 
parted  !  Why  is  this — why  have  I  been  so 
heavily  visited  ?— and  why  have  you  gone  free  ? 
Heaven  is  not  just  !  " 

Castruccio  was  in  one  of  his  lucid  intervals; 
but  there  was  that  in  his  uncertain  eye,  and 
strange  unnatural  voice,  which  showed  that  a 
breath  may  dissolve  the  avalanche.  Lord 
Vargrave  looked  anxiously  round;  none  were 
near:  but  he  knew  that  the  more  public   parts 


392 


BULIVER'S     WORKS. 


of  the  garden  were  thronged,  and  through  the 
trees  he  saw  many  forms  moving  in  the  dis- 
tance. He  felt  that  the  sound  of  his  voice 
could  summon  assistance  in  an  instant,  and 
his  assurance  returned  to  him. 

"  My  poor  friend,"  said  he  soothingly,  as  he 
quickened  his  pace,  "  it  grieves  me  to  the 
heart  to  see  you  look  ill:  do  not  think  so  much 
of  what  is  past." 

"  There  is  no  past  ! "  replied  Cesarini, 
gloomily.  "  The  Past  is  my  Present  !  And 
I  have  thought  and  thought,  in  darkness  and 
in  chains,  over  all  that  I  have  endured — and  a 
light  has  broken  on  me  in  the  hours  when  they 
told  me  I  was  mad  !  Lumley  Ferrers,  it  was 
not  for  my  sake  that  you  led  me,  devil  as  you 
are,  into  the  lowest  hell  !  You  had  some  ob- 
ject of  your  own  to  serve  in  separating  her 
from  Maltravers.  You  made  me  your  instru- 
ment. What  was  I  to  you  that  you  should  have 
sinned  for  viy  sake  ?  Answer  me,  and  truly 
—if  those  lips  can  utter  truth  !" 

"  Cesarini,"  returned  Vargrave,  in  his  bland- 
est accents,  "  another  time  we  will  converse  on 
what  has   been;  believe  me,   my  only  object 
was  your  happiness,  combined,  it  may  be,  with  i 
my  hatred  of  your  rival." 

"  Liar  !  "  shouted  Cesarini,  grasping  Var- 
grave's  arm  with  the  strength  of  growing  mad- 
ness, while  his  burning  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
his  tempter's  changing  countenance.  "  You, 
too,  loved  Florence — you,  too,  sought  her  hand 
— you  were  my  real  rival  !  " 

"  Hush  !  my  friend,  hush  !  "  said  Vargrave, 
seeking  to  shake  off  the  gripe  of  the  maniac, 
and  becoming  seriously  alarmed; — "we  are 
approaching  the  crowded  part  of  the  gardens, 
we  shall  be  observed." 

"  And  why  are  men  made  my  foes  ?  Why 
is  my  own  sister  become  my  persecutor  ?  why 
should  she  give  me  up  to  the  torturer  and  the 
dungeon  ?  Why  are  serpents  and  fiends  my 
comrades  ?  Why  is  there  fire  in  my  brain  and 
heart  ?  and  why  do  you  go  free  and  enjo)'  lib- 
erty and  life?  01)served  ! — what  carejiw/  for 
observation  ?     All  men  search  for  me  !  " 

"Then  why  so  openly  expose  yourself  to 
their  notice  ? — why " 

"  Hear  me  !  "  interrupted  Cesarini,  "  AVhen 
I  escaped  from  the  horrible  prison  into  which 
I  was  plunged — when  I  scented  the  fresh  air, 
and  bounded  over  the  grass — when  I  was 
agaui  free  in  limbs  and  spirit — a  sudden  strain 


of  music  from  a  village  came  on  my  ear,  and 
I  stopped  short,  and  couched  down,  a!id  held 
my  breath  to  listen.  It  ceased;  and  I  thought 
I  had  been  with  Florence,  and  I  wept  bitterly  ! 
When  I  recovered,  memory  came  back  to  me 
distinct  and  clear:  and  I  heard  a  voice  say  to 
me,  '  Avenge  her  and  thyself ! '  From  that 
hour  the  voice  has  been  heard  again,  morning 
and  night  1  Lumley  Ferres,  I  hear  it  now  ! 
it  speaks  to  my  heart — it  warms  my  blood — 
it  nerves  my  hand  !  On  whom  should  ven- 
geance fall  ?     Speak  to  me  !  " 

Lumley  strode  rapidly  on:  they  were  now 
without  the  grove:  a  gay  throng  was  before 
them.  "  All  is  safe,"  thought  the  Englishman. 
He  turned  abruptly  and  haughtily  on  Cesarini, 
and  waved  his  hand; — "Begone,  madman!" 
said  he,  in  a  loud  and  stern  voice, — "  begone  ! 
ve.x  me  no  more,  or  I  give  you  into  custody. 
Begone,  I  say  !  " 

Cesarini  halted,  amazed  and  awed  for  the 
moment:  and  then,  with  a  dark  scowl  and  a 
low  cry,  threw  himself  on  Vargrave.  The 
eye  and  hand  of  the  latter  were  vigilant  and 
prepared:  he  grasped  the  lifted  arm  of  the 
maniac,  and  shouted  for  help.  But  the  mad- 
man was  now  in  his  full  fury; — he  hurled 
Vargrave  to  the  ground  with  a  force  for  which 
the  peer  was  not  prepared — and  Lumley  might 
never  have  risen  a  living  man  from  that  spot, 
if  two  soldiers,  seated  close  by,  had  not  hast- 
ened to  his  assistance.  Cesarini  was  already 
kneeling  on  his  breast,  and  his  long  bony 
fingers  were  fastening  upon  the  throat  of  his 
intended  victim.  Torn  from  his  hold,  he 
glared  fiercely  on  his  new  assailants;  and, 
after  a  fierce  but  momentary  struggle,  wrested 
himself  from  their  gripe.  Then,  turning  round 
to  Vargrave,  who  had  with  some  effort  risen 
from  the  ground,  he  shrieked  out,  "  I  shall 
have  thee  yet  !  "  and  fied  through  the  trees 
and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER    n. 

"  Ah!  who  is  nigh  ?— Come  to  me,  friend  or  foe! 
My  parks,  my  wallcs,  my  manors  that  I  had — 
Ev'n  now  forsake  me."—//(^ii'y  VI.,  Third  Part. 

I-ORD  Vargrave,  bold  as  he  was  by  nature, 
in  vain  endeavored  to  banish  from  his  mind 
the  gloomy  impression  which  the  startling  in- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


i95 


tervievv  with  Cesarini  had  bequeathed.  The 
face,  the  voice  of  his  maniac,  haunted  him,  as 
the  shape  of  the  warning  wraith  haunts  the 
mountaineer.  He  returned  at  once  to  his 
hotel,  unable  for  some  hours  to  collect  himself 
sufficiently  to  pay  his  customary  visit  to  Miss 
Cameron.  Inly  resolving  not  to  hazard  a  sec- 
ond meeting  with  the  Italian  during  the  rest 
of  his  sojourn  at  Paris,  by  venturing  in  the  i 
streets  on  foot,  he  ordered  his  carriage  towards 
•evening — dined  at  the  Cafede  Paris;  and  then 
re-entered  his  carriage  to  proceed  to  Lady 
Doltimore's  house. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,"  said  his  ser- 
vant, as  he  closed  the  carriage  door,  "  but  I 
forgot  to  say  that,  a  short  time  after  you  re- 
turned this  morning,  a  strange,  gentleman 
asked  at  the  porter's  lodge  if  Mr.  Ferrers  was 
not  staying  at  the  hotel.  The  porter  said 
there  was  no  Mr.  Ferrers — but  the  gentleman 
insisted  upon  it  that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Ferrers 
enter.  I  was  in  tife  lodge  at  the  moment,  my 
lord, -and  I  explained " 

"That  Mr.  Ferrers  and  Lord  Vargrave  are 
one  and  the  same  ?  What  sort  of  looking 
person  ! " 

■  "  Thin  and  dark,  my  lord — evidently  a  for- 
eigner. When  I  said  that  you  were  now  Lord 
Vargrave,  he  stared  a  moment,  and  saitl  very 
abruptly,  that  he  recollected  it  perfectly — and 
then  he  laughed  and  walked  away." 

"  Did  he  not  ask  to  see  me  ?  " 

"No,  my  lord; — he  said  he  should  take  an- 
other opportunity.  He  was  a  strange-looking 
gentleman — and  his  clothes  were  threadbare." 

"  Ah  !  some  troublesome  petitioner.  Per- 
haps a  Pole  in  distress  !  Remember  I  am 
never  at  home  when  he  calls.  Shut  the  door. 
To  Lady  Doltimore's." 

Lumley's  heart  beat  as  he  threw  himself 
back — he  again  felt  the  gripe  of  the  madman 
at  his  throat.  He  saw,  at  once,  that  Cesarini 
had  dogged  him — he  resolved  the  next  morn- 
ing to  change  his  hotel  and  apply  to  the  police. 
It  was  strange  how  sudden  and  keen  a  fear  had 
entered  the  breast  of  this  callous  and  resolute 
man  I 

On  arriving  at  Lady  Doltimore's,  he  found 
Caroline  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  It  was 
a  tetc-h-tete  that  he  by  no  means  desired. 

"  Lord  Vargrave,"  said  Caroline,  coldly, 
■"  I  wished  a  short  conversation  with  you — and, 
finding  you  did  not   come   in   the    morning,   I 


sent  you  a  note  an  hour  ago.  Did  you  re- 
ceive it  ?  " 

"  No — I  have  been  from  home  since  six 
o'clock — it  is  now  nine." 

"  Well,  then,  Vargrave,"  said  Caroline,  with 
a  compressed  and  writing  lip,  and  turning  very 
pale — "  I  tremljle  to  tell  you  that  I  fear  Dolti- 
more  suspects.  He  looked  at  me  sternly  this 
morning,  and  said,  'You  seem  unhappy,  madam 
— this  marriage  of  Lord  Vargrave's  distresses 
you  I '  " 

"  I  warned  you  how  it  would  be — your  own 
selfishness  will  betray  and  ruin  you." 

"  Do  not  reproach  me,  man  !  "  said  Lady 
Doltiraore,  with  great  vehemence.  "  From 
you  at  least  I  have  a  right  to  pity — to  for- 
bearance— to  succor.  I  will  not  bear  reproach 
ixova.  you." 

"  I  reproach  you  for  your  own  sake — for 
the  faults  you  commit  agajiist  yourself— and  I 
must  say,  Caroline,  that  after  I  had  gener- 
ously conquered  all  selfish  feeling,  and  as- 
sisted you  to  so  desirable  and  even  brilliant  a 
position,  it  is  neither  just  nor  high-minded  in 
you  to  evince  so  ungracious  a  reluctance  to 
my  taking  the  only  step  which  can  save  me 
from  actual  ruin.  But  what  does  Doltimore 
suspect  ?  What  ground  has  he  for  suspicion, 
beyond  that  want  of  command  of  counte- 
nance which  it  is  easy  to  explain — and  which 
it  is  yet  easier  for  a  woman  and  a  great  lady 
(here  Lumley  sneered)  to  acquire  ?" 

"  I  know  not — it  has  been  put  into  his  head. 
Paris  is  so  full  of  slander.  But — Vargrave — 
Lumley— I  tremble — I  shudder  with  terror— if 
ever  Doltimore  should  discover  " 

"Pooh— pooh!  Our  conduct  at  Paris  has 
been  most  guarded — most  discreet.  Dolti- 
more is  Self-conceit  personified — and  Self- 
conceit  is  horn-eyed.  I  am  al)out  to  leave 
Paris — about  to  marry,  from  under  your  own 
roof; — a  little  prudence— a  little  self-control 
— a  smiling  face,  when  you  wish  us  happiness, 
and  so  forth,  and  all  is  safe.  Tush  !  think  of 
It  no  more — Fate  has  cut  and  shuffled  the 
cards  for  you — the  game  is  yours,  unless  you 
revoke— pardon  my  metaphor — it  is  a  favorite 
one — I  have  worn  it  threadbare — but  human 
life  is  so  like  a  rubber  at  whist.  Where  is 
Evelyn  ?" 

"  In  her  own  room.  Have  you  no  pity  for 
her?" 

"She  will  be  very  happy  when  she  is  Lady 


394 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


Vargrave;  and  for  the  rest,  I  shall  neither  be 
a  stern  nor  a  jealous  husband.  She  might 
not  have  given  the  same  character  to  the  mag- 
nificent Maltravers." 

Here  Evelyn  entered;  and  Vargrave  hast- 
ened to  press  her  hand — to  whisper  tender 
salutations  and  compliments — to  draw  the  easy 
chair  to  the  fire — to  place  the  footstool; — to 
lavish  the  petits  soins  that  are  so  agreeable, 
when  they  are  the  small  moralities  of  love. 

Evelyn  was  more  than  usually  pale — more 
than  usually  abstracted.  There  was  no  lustre 
in  her  eye — no  life  in  her  step:  she  seemed 
unconscious  of  the  crisis  to  which  she  ap- 
proached. As  the  myrrh  and  hyssop  which 
drugged  the  malefactors  of  old  into  forgetful- 
ness  of  their  doom,  so  there  are  griefs  which 
stupify  before  their  last  and  crowning  con- 
summation ! 

Vargrave  converged  lightly  on  the  weather, 
the  news,  the  last  book.  Evelyn  answered  but 
in  monosyllables;  and  Caroline  with  a  hand- 
screen  before  her  face,  preserved  an  unbroken 
silence.  Thus,  gloomy  and  joyless  were  two 
of  the  party— thus,  gay  and  animated  the  third, 
when  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  ten; 
and,  as  the  last  stroke  died,  and  Evelyn  sighed 
heavily — for  it  was  an  hour  nearer  to  the  fatal 
day — the  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and, 
pushing  aside  the  servant,  two  gentlemen  en- 
tered the  room. 

Caroline,  the  first  to  perceive  them,  started 
from  her  seat  with  a  faint  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise. Vargrave  turned  abruptly,  and  saw  be- 
fore him  the  stern  countenance  of  Maltravers. 

"  My  child  ! — my  Evelyn  !  "  exclaimed  a 
familiar  voice;  and  Evelyn  had  already  flown 
into  the  arms  of  Aubrey. 

The  sight  of  the  curate,  in  company  with 
Maltravers,  explained  all  at  once  to  Vargrave. 
He  saw  that  the  mask  was  torn  from  his  face 
the  prize  snatched  from  his  grasp— his  false- 
hood known — his  plot  counter-worked — his 
villany  baffled  !  He  struggled  in  vain  for  self- 
composure — all  his  resources  of  courage  and 
craft  seemed  drained  and  exhausted.  Livid, 
speechless,  almost  trembling, — he  cowered  be- 
neath the  eyes  of  Maltravers. 

Evelyn,  not  as  yet  aware  of  the  presence  of 
her  former  lover,  was  the  first  to  break  the 
silence.  She  lifted  her  face  in  alarm  from  the 
bosom  of  the  good  curate — "  My  mother — she 
is  well — she  lives — what  brings  you  hither  ?  " 


"Your  mother  is  well,  my  child.  I  have 
come  hither  at  her  earnest  request,  to  save 
you  from  a  marriage  with  that  unworthy- 
man  1  " 

Lord  Vargrave  smiled  a  ghastly  smile,  but 
made  no  answer. 

"Lord  Vargrave,"  said  Maltravers,  "you 
will  feel  at  once  that  you  have  no  furthur  busi- 
ness under  this  roof.  Let  us  withdraw — I 
have  much  to  thank  you  for." 

"  I  will  not  stir  !  "  exclaimed  Vargrave  pas- 
sionately, and  stamping  on  the  floor.  "  Miss 
Cameron,  the  guest  of  Lady  Doltimore,  whose 
house  and  presence  you  thus  rudely  profane, 
is  my  affianced  bride — affianced  with  her  own 
consent.  Evelyn  —  beloved  Evelyn  !  mine 
you  are  yet — you  alone  can  cancel  the  bond. 
Sir,  I  know  not  what  you  have  to  say — what 
mystery  in  your  immaculate  life  to  disclose; 
but  unless  Lady  Doltimore,  whom  your  vio- 
lence appals  and  terrifies,  orders  me  to  quit 
her  roof,  it  is  not  I — it  is"  yourself,  who  are 
the  intruder  !  Lady  Doltimore,  with,  your 
permission,  I  will  direct  your  servants  lo  con- 
duct this  gentleman  to  his  carriage  !  " 

"  Lady  Doltimore,  pardon  me,"  said  Mal- 
travers, coldly;  "  I  will  not  he  urged  to  any 
failure  of  respect  to  you.  My  lord,  if  the 
most  abject  cowardice  be  not  added  to  your 
other  vices,  you  will  not  make  this  room  the 
theatre  for  our  altercation.  I  invite  you,  in 
those  terms  which  no  gentleman  ever  yet 
refused,  to  withdraw  with  me." 

The  tone  and  manner  of  Maltravers  exer- 
cised a  strange  control  over  Vargrave;  he  en- 
deavored in  vain  to  keep  alive  the  passion  into 
which  he  had  sought  to  work  himself — his 
voice  faltered,  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast. 
Between  these  two  personages,  none  inter- 
fered;— around  them,  all  present  grouped  in 
breathless  silence:  Caroline,  turning  her  eyes 
from  one  to  the  other  in  wonder  and  dismay; 
Evelyn,  believing  all  a  dream,  yet  alive  only 
to  the  thought  that,  by  some  merciful  interpo- 
sition of  Providence,  she  should  escape  the 
consequences  of  her  own  rashness — clinging 
to  Aubrey,  with  her  gaze  riveted  on  Maltrav- 
ers; and  Aubrey,  whose  gentle  character  was 
borne  down  and  silenced  by  the  powerful  and 
tempestuous  passions  that  now  met  in  collision 
and  conflict,  withheld  by  his  abhorrence  of 
Vargrave's  treachery  from  his  natural  desire  to 
propitiate,  and  yet  appalled   hy  the  apprehen- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


395 


sion   of   bloodshed,    that    for   the    first    time 
crossed  him. 

There  was  a  moment  of  dead  silence,  in 
which  Vargrave  seemed  to  be  nerving  and  col- 
lecting himself  for  such  course  as  might  be 
best  to  pursue,  when  again  the  door  opened, 
and  the  name  of  Mr.  Howard  was  announced. 

"  Hurried  and  agitated,  the  young  secretary, 
scarcely  noticing  the  rest  of  the  party,  rushed 
to  Lord  Vargrave. 

"  My  lord  ! — a  thousand  pardons  for  inter- 
rupting you — business  of  such  importance  ! — 
I  am  so  fortunate  to  find  you  !  " 

"What  is  the  matter,  sir?" 

"  These  letters,  my  lord;  I  have  so  much  to 
say  !  " 

Any  interruption,  even  an  earthquake,  at 
that  moment  must  have  been  welcome  to  Var- 
grave. He  bent  his  head,  with  a  polite  smile, 
linked  his  arm  into  his  secretary's,  and  with- 
drew to  the  recess  of  the  furthest  window. 
Not  a  minute  elapsed,  before  he  turned  away 
with  a  look  of  scornful  exultation.  "  Mr. 
Howard,"  said  he,  "go  and  refresh  yourself, 
and  come  to  me  at  twelve  o'clock  to-night;  I 
shall  be  at  home  then."  The  secretary  bowed, 
and  withdrew. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Vargrave  to  Maltravers, 
"  I  am  willing  to  leave  you  in  poseession 
of  the  field.  Miss  Cameron,  it  will  be,  I  fear 
impossible  for  me  to  entertain  any  longer 
the  bright  hopes  I  had  once  formed;  my  cruel 
fate  compels  me  to  seek  wealth  in  my  matri- 
monial engagement.  I  regret  to  inform  you, 
that  you  are  no  longer  the  great  heiress: 
the  whole  of  your  capital  was  placed  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Douce  for  the  completion  of  the 
purchase  of  Lisle  Court.  Mr.  Douce  is  a  bank- 
rupt; he  has  fled  to  America.  This  letter 
is  an  express  from  my  lawyer;  the  house  has 
closed  its  payments  ! — Perhaps  we  may  hope 
to  obtain  sixpence  in  the  pound.  I  am  a 
loser  also;  the  forfeit  money  bequeathed 
to  me  is  gone.  I  know  not  whether,  as  your 
trustee,  I  am  not  accountable  for  the  loss  of 
your  fortune  (drawn  out  on  my  responsibility); 
probably  so.  But  as  I  have  not  now  a  shilling  in 
the  world,  I  doubt  whether  Mr.  Maltravers  will 
advise  you  to  institute  proceedings  against  me. 
Mr.  Maltravers,  to-morrow,  at  nine  o'clock,  I 
will  listen  to  what  you  have  to  say.  I  wish 
you  all  good  night."  He  bowed — seized  his 
hat — and  vanished. 


"Evelyn,"  said  Aubrey,  "  can  you  require 
to  learn  more — do  you  not  already  feel  you 
are  released  from  union  with  a  man  without 
heart  and  honor  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  !  I  am  so  happy  I  "  cried  Evelyn, 
bursting  into  tears.  "  This  hated  wealth — I 
feel  not  its  loss — I  am  released  from  all  duty 
to  my  benefactor.     I  am  free  !  " 

The  last  tie  that  had  yet  united  the  guilty 
Caroline  to  Vargrave  was  broken — a  woman 
forgives  sin  in  her  lover,  but  never  meanness. 
The  degrading,  the  abject  position  in  which 
she  had  seen  one,  whom  she  had  served  as  a 
slave,  (though,  as  yet,  all  his  worst  villanies 
were  unknown  to  her),  filled  her  with  shame, 
horror,  and  disgust.  She  rose  abruptly,  and 
quitted  the  room.     They  did  not  miss  her. 

Maltravers  approached  Evelyn;  he  took  her 
hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  heart. 

"Evelyn,"  said  he,  mournfully,  "you  re- 
quire an  explanation — to-morrow  I  will  give 
and  seek  it.  To-night  we  are  both  too  un- 
nerved for  such  communications.  I  can  only 
now  feel  joy  at  your  escape,  and  hope  that  1 
may  still  minister  to  your  future  happiness." 

"But,"  said  Aubrey,  "can  we  believe  this 
new  and  astounding  statement  ?  can  this  loss 
be  so  irremediable  ?^may  we  not  yet  take  pre- 
caution, and  save,  at  least,  some  wrecks  of  this 
noble  fortune  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you  for  recalling  me  to  the  world," 
said  Maltravers,  eagerly.  "  I  will  see  to  it 
this  instant;  and  to-morrow,  Evelyn,  after  my 
interview  with  you,  I  will  hasten  to  London, 
and  act  in  that  capacity  still  left  to  me — your 
guardian — your  friend." 

He  turned  away  his  face,  and  hurried  to  the 
door. 

Evelyn  clung  more  closely  to  Aubrey — 
"  But  you  will  not  leave  me  to-night  ? — you 
can  stay — we  can  find  you  accommodation — 
do  not  leave  me." 

"  Leave  you,  my  child  ! — no — we  have  a 
thousand  things  to  say  to  each  other.  I  will 
not,"  he  added  in  a  whisper,  turning  to  Mal- 
travers, "forstall  your  communications." 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  Alack,  'tis  he.    Whv,  he  wa.<i  met  even  now 
As  mad  as  the  vex'ii  sea." — Leirr, 

In   the  Rue  de   la  Paix   there    resided  an 
English  lawyer  of  eminence,  with  whom  Mai- 


39^' 


B  UL  WEK'S     WORKS. 


travers  had  had  previous  dealings, — to  this 
gentleman  he  now  drove.  He  acquainted  him 
with  the  news  he  had  just  heard,  respecting 
the  bankruptcy  of  Mr.  Douce;  and  commis- 
sioned him  to  leave  Paris,  the  first  moment  he 
could  obtain  a  passport,  and  to  proceed  to  Lon- 
don. At  all  events,  he  would  arrive  there  some 
hours  before  Maltravers;  and  those  hours  were 
something  gained.  This  done,  he  drove  to  the 
nearest  hotel,  which  chanced  to  be  the   Hotel 

de  M ,  where,  though   he  knew  it   not,  it 

so  happened  that  Lord  Vargrave  himself 
lodged.  As  his  carriage  stopped  without, 
while  the  porter  unclosed  the  gates,  a  man,  who 
had  been  loitering  under  the  lamps,  darted  for- 
ward, and  prying  into  the  carriage  window,  re- 
garded Maltravers  earnestly.  The  latter,  pre- 
occupied and  absorbed  did  not  notice  him; 
but  when  the  carriage  drove  into  the  court-yard, 
it  was  followed  by  the  stranger  who  was 
muffled  in  a  worn  and  tattered  cloak,  and 
whose  movements  were  unheeded  amidst  the 
bustle  of  the  arrival.  The  porter's  wife  led 
the  way  to  a  second-floor,  just  left  vacant,  and 
the  waiter  began  to  arrange  the  fire.  Mal- 
travers threw  himself  abstractedly  upon  the 
sofa,  insensible  to  all  around  him — when,  lift- 
ing his  eyes,  he  saw  before  him  the  counte- 
nance of  Cesarini  !  The  Italian  (supposed, 
perhaps,  by  the  persons  of  the  hotel,  to  be 
one  of  the  new-comers)  was  leaning  over  the 
back -of  a  chair,  supporting  his  face  with  his 
hand,  and  fixing  his  eyes  with  an  earnest  and 
sorrowful  express!  n  upon  the  features  of  his 
ancient  rival.  When  he  perceived  that  he 
was  recognized,  he  approached  INfaltravers, 
and  said  in  Italian,  and  in  a  low  voice,  "You 
are  the  man  of  all  others,  whom,  save  one,  I 
most  desired  to  see.  I  have  much  to  say  to 
to  you,  and  my  time  is  short.  Spare  me  a  few 
minutes." 

The  tone  and  manner  of  Cesarini  were  so 
calm  and  rational,  that  they  changed  the  first 
impulse  of  Maltravers,  which  was  that  of  se- 
curing a  maniac:  while  the  Italian's  emaciated 
countenance — his  squalid  garments — the  air 
of  penury  and  want  diffused  over  his  whole 
appearance — irresistibly  invited  compassion. 
With  all  the  more  anxious  and  pressing 
thoughts  that  weighed  upon  him,  Maltravers 
could  not  refuse  the  conference  thus  de- 
manded. He  dismissed  the  attendants,  and 
motioned  Cesarini  to  be  seated. 


The  Italian  drew  near  to  the  fire,  which  now 
blazed  brightly  and  cheerily,  and,  spreading 
his  thin  hands  to  the  flame,  seemed  to  enjoy 
the  physical  luxury  of  the  warmth.  "Cold — 
cold,"  he  said  piteously,  as  to  himself;  "  Nat- 
ure is  a  very  bitter  protector.  But  frost  and 
famine  are,  at  least,  more  merciful  than  slavery 
and  darkness." 

At  this  moment  Ernest's  servant  entered  to 
know  if  his  master  would  not  take  refresh- 
ments, for  he  had  scarcely  touched  food  upon 
the  road.  And,  as  he  spoke,  Cesarini  turned 
keenly  and  wistfully  round.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  appeal.  Wine  and  cold  meat 
were  ordered:  and  when  the  servant  vanished, 
Cesarini  turned  to  Maltravers  with  a  strange 
smile,  and  said, — "  You  see  what  the  love  of 
liberty  brings  men  to  !  They  found  me  plenty 
in  the  jail  !  But  I  have  read  of  men  who 
feasted  merrily  before  execution — have  not 
you  ? — and  my  hour  is  at  hand.  All  this  day 
I  have  felt  chained  by  an  irresistible  destiny 
to  this  house.  But  it  was  not  you  I  sought; 
no  matter,  in  the  crisis  of  our  doom,  ail  its 
agents  meet  together.  It  is  the  last  act  of  a 
dreary  play  I  " 

The  Italian  turned  again  to  the  fire,  and  bent 
over  it,  muttering  to  himself. 

Maltravers  remained  silent  and  thoughtful. 
Now  was  the  moment  once  more  to  place  the 
maniac  under  the  kindly  vigilance  of  his  fam- 
ily— to  snatch  him  from  the  horrors,  perhaps 
of  starvation  itself,  to  which  his  escape  had 
condemned  him:  if  he  could  detain  Cesarini 
till  De  Montaigne  could  arrive  ! 

Agreeably  to  this  thought,  he  quietly  drew 
towards  him  the  port-folio  which  had  been 
laid  on  the  table— and,  Cesarini's  back  still 
turned  to  him,  wrote  a  hasty  line  to  De  Mon- 
taigne. When  his  servant  re-entered  with  the 
wine  and  viands,  Maltravers  followed  him  out 
of  the  room,  and  bade  him  see  the  note  sent 
immediately.  On  returning,  he  found  Ces- 
arini devouring  the  food  before  him  with  all 
the  voracity  of  famine.  It  was  a  dreadful 
sight  ! — the  intellect  ruined — the  mind  dark- 
ened— the  wild,  fierce  animil,  alone  left  ! 

When  Cesarini  had  appeased  his  hunger,  he 
drew  near  to  Maltravers,  and  thus  accosted 
him: — 

"  I  must  lead  you  back  to  the  past.  I 
sinned  against  you  and  the  dead:  but  Heaven 
has  avenged  you,  and  me  you  can  pity  and  for- 


ALICE;     OR,     IHE    MYSTERIES. 


397 


give.  Maitiavers,  there  is  another  more  guilty 
than  I — but  proud,  prosperous,  and  great. 
His  crime  Heaven  has  left  to  the  revenge  of 
man  ! 1  bound  myself  by  an  oath   not  to 


reveal  his  villany.  I  cancel  the  oath  now,  for 
the  knowledge  of  it  should  survive  his  life  and 
mine.  And,  mad  though  they  deem  me — the 
mad  are  prophets — and  a  solemn  conviction,  a 
voice  not  of  earth,  tells  me  that  he  and  I  are 
already  in  the  Shadow  of  Death." 

Here  Cesarini,  with  a  calm  and  precise  accu- 
racy of  self-possession, — a  minuteness  of  cir- 
cumstance and  detail,  that,  coming  from  one 
whose  very  eyes  betrayed  his  terrible  disease, 
was  infinitely  thrilling  in  its  effect, — related 
the  counsels,  the  persuasion,  the  stratagems 
of  Lumley.  Slowly  and  distinctly  he  forced 
into  the  heart  of  Maltravers  that  sickening 
record  of  cold  fraud,  calculating  on  vehement 
passion  as  its  tool;  and  thus  he  concluded  his 
narration ; — 

"Now,  wonder  no  longer  why  I  have  lived 
till  this  hour — -why  I  have  clung  to  freedom, 
through  want  and  hunger,  amidst  beggars, 
felons,  and  outcasts  !  In  that  freedom  was  my 
last  hope — the  hope  of  revenge  !  " 

Maltravers  returned  no  answer  for  some 
moments.  At  length  he  said  calmly,  "  Cesa-- 
rini,  there  are  injuries  so  great,  that  they  defy 
revenge.  Let  us  alike,  since  we  are  alike  in- 
jured, trust  our  cause  to  Him  who  reads  all 
hearts,  and,  better  than  we  can  do,  measures 
both  crime  and  its  excuses.  You  think  that 
our  enemy  has  not  suffered — that  he  has  gone 
free.  We  know  not  his  internal  history — pros- 
perity and  power  are  no  signs  of  happiness, 
they  bring  no  exemption  from  care.  Be 
soothed  and  be  ruled,  Cesarini.  Let  the 
stone  once  more  close  over  the  solemn  grave. 
Turn  with  me  to  the  future;  and  let  us  rather 
seek  to  be  the  judges  of  ourselves,  than  the 
executioners  of  another." 

Cesarini  listened  gloomily,  and  was  about  to 
answer,  when 

But  here  we  must  return  to  Lord  Vargrave. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


*        *        *    "  My  noble  lord, 
Your  worthy  friends  do  lack  you.' 


— Macbeth. 


*        *        *    "  He  is  about  it: 
The  doors  are  open." — Ibid. 


On  quitting  Lady  Doltimore's  house,  Lum- 
ley drove  to  his  hotel.  His  secretary  had 
been  the  bearer  of  other  communications, 
with  the  nature  of  which  he  had  not  yet  ac- 
quainted himself.  But  he  saw  by  the  super- 
scriptions that  they  were  of  great  importance. 
Still,  however,  even  in  the  solitude  and  privacy 
of  his  own  chamber,  it  was  not  on  the  instant 
that  he  could  divert  his  thoughts  from  the  ruin 
of  his  fortunes:  the  loss  not  only  of  Evelyn's 
property,  but  his  own  claims  upon  it  (for  the 
whole  capital  had  been  placed  in  Donee's 
hands) — the  total  wreck  of  his  grand  scheme 
— the  triumph  he  had  afforded  to  Maltravers  ! 
He  ground  his  teeth  in  impotent  rage,  and 
groaned  aloud,  as  he  traversed  his  room  with 
hasty  and  uneven  strides.  At  last  he  paused 
and  muttered,  "  Well  the  spider  toils  on  even 
when  its  very  power  of  weaving  fresh  webs  is 
exhausted;  it  lies  in  wait — it  forces  itself  into 
the  webs  of  others.  Brave  insect,  thou  art  my 
model  !— While  I  have  breath  in  my  body,  the 
vKorld  and  all  its  crosses — Fortune  and  all  her 
malignity  —  shall  not  prevail  against  me  \ 
What  man  ever  yet  failed  until  he  himself 
grew  craven,  and  sold  his  soul  to  the  arcji 
fiend,  Despair  ! — 'Tis  but  a  girl  and  a  fortune 
lost— they  were  gallantly  fought  for,  that  is 
some  comfort.  Now  to  what  is  yet  left  to 
me  !  " 

The  first  letter  Lumley  opened  was  from 
Lord  Saxingham.  It  filled  him  with  dismay. 
The  question  at  issue  had  been  formally,  but 
abruptly,  decided  in  the  cabinet  against  Var- 
grave and  his  manoeuvres.  Some  hasty  ex- 
pression of  Lord  Saxingham  had  been  instantly 
caught  at  by  the  premier,  and  a  resignation, 
rather  hinted  at  than  declared,  had  been  per- 
emptorily accepted.  Lord  Saxingham  and 
Lumley's  adherents  in  the  government  were  to 
a  man  dismissed;  and,  at  the  time  Lord  Sax- 
ingham wrote,  the  premier  was  with  the  king. 

"  Curse  their  folly  !— the  puppets  !— the 
dolts  !  "  exclaimed  Lumley  crushing  the  letter 
in  his  hand.  "  The  moment  I  leave  them, 
they  run  their  heads   against  the  wall.     Curse 


398 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


them — curse  myseif — curse  the  man  who 
weaves  ropes  with  sand  !  Nothing — nothing 
left  for  me,  but  exile  or  suicide  I — Stay,  wliat 
is  this?" — His  eye  fell  on  the  well-known 
hand-writing  of  the  premier.  He  tore  the 
envelope,  impatient  to  know  the  worst.  His 
eyes  sparkled  as  he  proceeded.  The  letter 
was  most  courteous,  most  complimentary, 
most  wooing.  The  minister  was  a  man  con- 
summately versed  in  the  arts  that  increase,  as 
well  as  those  which  purge,  a  party.  Saxing- 
ham  and  his  friends  were  imbeciles — incapa- 
bles — mostly  men  who  had  outlived  their  day. 
But  Lord  Vargrave,  in  the  prime  of  life — 
versatile,  accomplished,  vigorous,  bitter,  un- 
scrupulous— Vargrave  was  of  another  mould 
— Vargrave  was  to  be  dreaded;  and,  therefore, 
if  possible,  to  be  retained.  His  powers  of 
mischief  were  unquestionably  increased  by 
the  universal  talk  of  London,  that  he  was 
about  soon  to  wed  so  wealthy  a  lady.  The 
minister  knew  his  man.  In  terms  of  affected 
regret,  he  alluded  to  the  loss  the  government 
would  sustain  in  the  services  of  Lord  Saxing- 
ham,  etc. — he  rejoiced  that  Lord  Vargrave's 
absence  from  London  had  prevented  his  being 
prematurely  mixed  up,  by  false  scruples  of 
honor,  in  secessions  which  his  judgment  must 
condemn.  He  treated  of  the  question  in 
dispute  with  the  most  delicate  address  con- 
fessed the  reasonableness  of  Lord  Vargrave's 
former  opposition  to  it;  but  contended  that  it 
was  now,  if  not  wise,  inevitable.  He  said 
nothing  of  the  justice  of  the  measure  he  pro- 
posed to  adopt,  but  much  on  the  expediency. 
He  concluded  by  offering  to  Vargrave,  in  the 
most  cordial  and  flattering  terms,  the  very 
seat  in  the  cabinet  which  Lord  Saxingham  had 
vacated,  with  an  apology  for  its  inadequacy 
to  his  lordship's  merits,  and  a  distinct  and 
definite  promise  of  the  refusal  of  the  gorgeous 
viceroyalty  of  India — which  would  be  vacant 
next  year,  by  the  return  of  the  present  gover- 
nor-general. 

Unprincipled  as  Vargrave  was,  it  is  not, 
perhaps,  judging  him  too  mildly  to  say,  that 
had  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  Evelyn's  hand 
and  fortune,  he  would  have  shrunk  from  the 
baseness  he  now  meditated.  To  step  coldly 
into  the  very  post  of  which  he,  and  he  alone, 
had  been  the  cause  of  depriving  his  earliest 
patron  and  nearest  relative^to  profit  by  the 
betrayal  of  his  own  party — to  damn   himself 


eternally  in  the  eyes  of  his  ancient  friends — 
to  pass  down  the  stream  of  history  as  a  mer- 
cenary apostate;  from  all  this  Vargrave  must 
have  shrunk,  had  he  seen  one  spot  of  honest 
ground  on  which  to  maintain  his  footing.  But 
now  the  waters  of  the  abyss  were  closing  over 
his  head;  he  would  have  caught  at  a  straw: 
how  much  more  consent  to  be  picked  up  by 
the  vessel  of  an  enemy  !  All  objection,  all 
scruple,  vanished  at  once.  And  the  "  barbaric 
gold  "  "  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind  "  glittered  be- 
fore the  greedy  eyes  of  the  penniless  adven- 
turer !  Not  a  day  was  now  to  be  lost:  how 
fortunate  that  a  written  proposition,  from 
which  it  was  impossible  to  recede,  had  been 
made  to  him,  before  the  failure  of  his  matri- 
monial projects  had  become  known  !  Too 
happy  to  quit  Paris,  he  would  set  off  on  the 
morrow,  and  conclude  in  person  the  negotia- 
tion. Vargrave  glanced  towards  the  clock,  it 
was  scarcely  past  eleven;  what  revolutions  are 
worked  in  moments  !  Within  an  hour  he  had 
lost  a  wife — a  noble  fortune— changed  the 
politics  of  his  whole  life— stepped  into  a  cabi- 
net ofifice — -and  was  already  calculating  how 
much  a  governor-general  of  India  could  lay 
by  in  five  years  !  But  it  was  only  eleven 
o'clock — he  had  put  off  Mr.  Howard's  visit 
till  twelve — he  wished  so  much  to  see  him, 
and  learn  all  the  London  gossip  connected 
with  the  recent  events.  Poor  Mr.  Douce  I — 
Vargrave  had  already  forgotten  his  existence  ! 
— he  rang  his  bell  hastily.  It  was  some  time 
before  his  servant  answered. 

Promptitude  and  readiness  were  virtues  that 
Lord  Vargrave  peremptorily  demanded  in  a 
servant;  and  as  he  paid  the  best  price  for  the 
articles — less  in  wages  than  in  plunder — he 
was  generally  sure  to  obtain  them. 

"Where  the  deuce  have  you  been?  this  is 
the  third  time  I  have  rung  !  you  ought  to  be  in 
the  ante-room  I  " 

"  I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon;  but  I  was 
helping  Mr.  Maltravers'  valet  to  find  a  key 
which  he  dropped  in  the  court-yard." 

"  Mr.  Maltravers  !     Is  he  at  this  hotel  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lord;  his  rooms  are  just  over 
head." 

"  Humph  ! — Has  Mr.  Howard  engaged  a 
lodging  here  ? " 

"  No,  my  lord.  He  left  word  that  he  was 
gone  to  his  aunt,  Lady  Jane." 

"  Ah  I — Lady  Jane — lives  at  Paris — so  she 


ALICE  i     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


399 


does — Rue  Chaiiss^e  cl'Antiu — you  know  the 
house  ? — go  immediately — go  yourself ! — don't 
trust  to  a  messenger — and  beg  Mr.  Howard 
to  return  with  you.  I  want  to  see  him  in- 
stantly." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

The  servant  went.  Lumley  was  in  a  mood  in 
which  solitude  was  intolerable.  He  was  greatly 
excited;  and  some  natural  compunctions  at 
the  course  on  which  he  had  decided  made 
him  long  to  escape  from  thought.  So  Mal- 
travers  was  under  the  same  roof  !  He  had 
promised  to  give  him  an  interview  next  day; 
but  next  day  he  wished  to  be  on  the  road  to 
London.  Why  not  have  it  over  to-night  ?  But 
could  Maltravers  meditate  any  hostile  pro- 
ceedings ? — impossible  !  Whatever  his  causes 
of  complaint,  they  were  of  too  delicate  and 
secret  a  nature  for  seconds,  bullets,  and  news- 
paper paragraphs  !  Vargrave  might  feel  se- 
cure that  he  should  not  be  delayed  by  any 
Bois  de  Boulogne  assignation;  but  it  was 
necessary  to  his  honor  (/)  that  he  should  not 
■seetn  to  shun  the  man  he  had  deceived  and 
wronged.  He  would  go  up  to  him  at  once — a 
new  excitement  would  distract  his  thoughts. 
Agreeably  to  this  resolution,  Lord  Vargrave 
quitted  his  room,  and  was  about  to  close  the 
outer  door,  when  he  recollected  that  perhaps 
his  servant  might  not  meet  with  Howard — that 
the  secretary  might  probablj'  arrive  before  the 
time  fixed — it  would  be  as  well  to  leave  his 
door  open.  He  accordingly  stopped,  and 
writing  upon  a  piece  of  paper  "  Dear  Howard, 
send  up  for  me  the  moment  you  arrive:  I 
shall  be  with  Mr.  Maltravers  au  second" — 
Vargrave  waffered  the  affiche  to  the  door, 
which  he  then  left  ajar,  and  the  lamp  in  the 
ianding-place  fell  clear  and  full  on  the  paper. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Vargrave,  in  the  little 
stone-paven  ante-chamber  without,  inquiring 
of  the  servant  if  Mr.  Maltravers  was  at  home, 
which  had  startled  and  interrupted  Cesarini  as 
he  was  about  to  reply  to  Ernest.  Each  recog- 
nized that  sharp  clear  voice — each  glanced  at 
the  other. 

"I  will  not  see  him,"  said  Maltravers, 
hastily  moving  towards  the  door;  "  you  are 
not  fit  to " 

"  Meet  him  ?  no  ! "  si^id  Cesarini,  with  a 
furtive  and  sinister  glance,  which  a  man  versed 
in  his  disease  would  have  understood,  but 
which   Maltravers  did   not  even    observe;  "I 


will  retire  into  the  bed-room;  my  eyes  are 
heavy — I  could  sleep." 

He  opened  the  inner  door  as  he  spoke,  and 
had  scarcely  re-closed  it  before  Vargrave  en- 
tered. 

"Your  servant  said  you  were  engaged;  but 
I  thought  you  might  see  an  old  friend:"  and 
Vargrave  coolly  seated  himself. 

Maltravers  drew  the  bolt  across  the  door 
that  separated  them  from  Cesarini;  and  the 
two  men,  whose  characters  and  lives  were  so 
strongly  contrasted,  were  now  alone. 

"  You  wished  an  interview — an  explanation," 
said  Lumley;  "  I  shrink  from  neither.  Let 
me  forestall  inquiry  and  complaint.  I  de- 
ceived you  knowingly  and  deliberately,  it  is 
quite  true — all  stratagems  are  fair  in  love  and 
war.  The  prize  was  vast  I  I  believed  my  career 
depended  on  it;  I  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion. I  knew  that  before  long  you  would  learn 
that  Evelyn  was  not  your  daughter;  that  the 
first  communication  between  yourself  and 
Lady  Vargrave  would  betray  me;  but  it  was 
worth  trying  a  coup  de  main.  You  have  foiled 
me,  and  conquered: — be  it  so;  I  congratulate 
you.  You  are  tolerably  rich,  and  the  loss  of 
Evelyn's  fortune  will  not  vex  you  as  it  would 
have  done  me." 

"  Lord  Vargrave,  it  is  but  poor  affectation 
to  treat  thus  lightly  the  dark  falsehood  you  con- 
ceived, the  awful  curse  you  inflicted  upon  me  ! 
Your  sight  is  now  so  painful  to  me — it  so  stirs 
the  passions  that  I  would  seek  to  suppress, 
that  the  sooner  our  interview  is  terminated  the 
better.  I  have  to  charge  you,  also,  with  a 
crime — not,  perhaps,  baser  than  the  one  you 
so  calmly  own,  but  the  consequences  of  which 
were  more  fatal:  you  understand  me?" 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Do  not  tempt  me  !  do  not  lie  !  "  said  Mal- 
travers, still  in  a  calm  voice,  though  his  pas- 
sions, naturally  so  strong,  shook  his  whole 
frame.  "  To  your  arts  I  owe  the  exile  of 
years  that  should  have  been  better  spent; — to 
those  arts  Cesarini  owes  the  wreck  of  his  rea- 
son, and  Florence  Lascelles  her  early  grave  ! 
Ah  !  you  are  pale  now;  your  tongue  cleaves  to 
your  mouth  !  And  think  you  these  criines 
will  go  for  ever  unrequited  ?  think  you  that 
there  is  no  justice  in  the  thunderbolts  of 
God?"   ■ 

"Sir,"  said  Vargrave,  starting  to  his  feet; 
"  I  know  not  what  you    suspect,    I    care  not 


400 


BULWKKS     WORKS. 


what  you  believe  !  But  I  am  accountable  to 
man,  and  that  acconnt  I  am  willing  to  render. 
You  threatened  me  in  the  presence  of  my  ward; 
you  spoke  of  cowardice,  and  hinted  at  danger. 
Whatever  my  faults,  want  of  courage  is  not 
one.  Stand  by  your  threats — I  am  ready  to 
brave  them  !  " 

"  A  year,  perhaps  a  short  month  ago,"  re- 
plied Maltravers,  "  and  1  would  have  arrogated 
justice  to  my  own  mortal  hand;  nay,  this  very 
night,  had  the  hazard  of  either  of  our  lives 
been  necessary  to  save  Evelyn  from  your  per- 
secution, I  would  have  incurred  all  things  for 
her  sake  I  "  But  that  is  past;  from  me  you 
have  nothing  to  fear.  The  proofs  of  your 
earlier  guilt,  with  its  dreadful  results,  would 
alone  suffice  to  warn  me  from  the  solemn  re- 
sponsibility of  human  vengeance  !  Great 
Heavens  !  what  hand  could  dare  to  send  a 
criminal  so  long  hardened,  so  black  with  crime, 
unatoning,  unrepentant,  and  unprepared,  be- 
fore the  judgment-seat  of  the  All  Just  ?  Go, 
unhappy  man  !  may  life  long  be  spared  to 
you  !  Awake— awake  from  this  world,  before 
your  feet  pass  the  irrevocable  boundary  of  the 
next  !  " 

"I  came  not  here  to  listen  to  homilies,  and 
the  cant  of  the  conventicle,"  said  Vargrave, 
vainly  struggling  for  a  haughtiness  of  mien 
that  his  conscience-stricken  as|)ect  terribly 
belied;  "not  I — but  this  wrong  World  is  to 
be  blamed,  if  deeds  that  strict  morality  may 
not  justify,  but  the  effects  of  which  I,  no 
prophet,  could  not  forsee,  were  necessary  for 
success  in  life.  I  have  been  but  as  all  other 
men  have  been  who  struggle  against  fortune, 
to  be  rich  and  great: — ambition  must  make 
use  of  foul  ladders." 

"  Oh  I  "  said  Maltravers,  earnestly,  touched 
involuntarily,  and  in  spite  of  his  abhorrence  of 
the  criminal,  by  the  relenting  that  this  miserable 
attempt  at  self-justification  seemed  to  denote, 
—"Oh  !  be  warned  while  it  is  yet  time;  wrap 
not  yourself  in  these  paltry  sophistries;  look 
back  to  your  past  career;  see  to  what  heights 
you  might  have  climbed,  if — with  those  rare 
gifts  and  energies — with  that  subtle  sagacity 
and  indomitable  courage — your  ambition  had 
but  chosen  the  straight,  not  the  crooked,  path. 
Pause  !  many  years  may  yet,  in  the  course  of 
nature,  afford  you  time  to  retrace  your  steps— 
to  atone  to  thousands  the  injuries  you  have 
inflicted  on  the  few.     I    know  not  why  I  thus 


address  you:  but  something  diviner  than 
indignation  urges  me;  tomething  tells  me 
that  you  are  already  on  the  brink  of  the 
abyss  !  " 

Lord  Vargrave  changed  color,  nor  did  he 
speak  for  some  moments;  then  raising  his 
head,  with  a  faint  smile,  he  said,  "  Maltravers, 
you  are  a  false  soothsayer.  At  this  moment 
my  paths,  crooked  though  they  be,  have  led 
me  far  toward  the  summit  of  my  proudest 
hopes — the  straight  path  would  have  left  me  at 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  !  You  yourself  area 
beacon  against  the  course  you  advise.  Let  us 
contrast  each  other.  You  took  the  straight 
path:  I  the  crooked.  You,  my  superior  in 
fortune;  you,  infinitely  above  me  in  genius; 
you,  born  to  command  and  never  to  crouch; 
how  do  we  stand  now,  each  in  the  prime  of 
life?  You,  with  a  barren  and  profitless  repu- 
tation; without  rank,  without  power — almost 
without  the  hope  of  power.  I  —  but  you 
know  not  my  new  dignity — I,  in  the  cabinet 
of  England's  ministry — vast  fortunes  opening 
to  my  gaze — the  proudest  station  not  too 
high  for  my  reasonable  ambition  !  You, 
wedding  yourself  to  some  grand  chimera  of 
an  object  —  aimless^ — when  it  eludes  your 
grasp.  I,  swinging,  squirrel-like,  from  scheme 
to  scheme;  no  matter  if  one  breaks,  another 
is  at  hand  !  Some  men  would  have  cut 
their  throats  in  despair,  an  hour  ago,  in 
losing  the  object  of  a  seven  years'  chase — 
Beauty  and  Wealth  both  !  I  open  a  letter, 
and  find  success  in  one  quarter  to  counterbal- 
ance failure  in  another.  Bah  !  bah  !  each  to 
his  metier,  Maltravers  !  For  you,  honor,  mel- 
ancholy, and,  if  it  please  you,  repentance  also  ! 
For  me,  the  onward,  rushing  life,  never  look- 
ing back  on  the  Past,  never  balancing  the 
stepping-stones  to  the  Future.  Let  us  not 
envy  each  other:  if  you  were  not  Diogenes, 
you  would  be  Alexander.  Adieu  !  our  inter- 
view is  over.  Will  you  forget  and  forgive.aiid 
shake  hands  once  more  ?  You  draw  back — 
you  frown  !  well,  perhaps  you  are  right.  If  we 
meet  again " 

"  It  will  be  as  strangers." 

"  No  rash  vows  !  you  may  return  to  politics 
— you  may  want  office.  I  am  of  your  way  of 
thinking  now:  and— ha  !  ha  !— poor  Lumley 
Ferrers  could  make  you  a  Lord  of  the  Treas- 
ury: smooth  travelling,  and  cheap  turn-pikes 
on  crooked  paths,  believe  me.— Farewell  !  " 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


401 


On  entering  the  room  into  which  Cesarini 
hail  retired,  Maltravers  found  him  flown.  His 
servant  said  that  the  gentleman  liad  gone 
away  shortly  after  Lord  Vargrave's  arrival. 
Ernest  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  neglect- 
ing to  secure  the  door  that  conducted  to  the 
ante-chamber;  but  still  it  was  probable  that 
Cesarini  would  return  in  the  morning. 

The  messenger  who  had  taken  the  letter  to 
De  Montaigne  brought  back  word  that  the 
latter  was  at  his  villa,  but  expected  at  Paris 
early  the  next  day.  Maltravers  hoped  to  see 
him  before  his  departure:  meanwhile  he  threw 
himself  on  his  bed,  and,  despite  all  the  anxie- 
ties that  yet  oppressed  him,  the  fatigues  and 
excitements  he  had  undergone  exhausted  even 
the  endurance  of  that  iron  frame,  and  he  fell 
into  a  profound  slumber. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"  By  eight  to-morrow 
Thou  shalt  be  made  immortal." 

— Measure  for  Measure. 

Lord  Vargrave  returned  to  his  apartment, 
to  find  Mr.  Howard,  who  had  but  just  that  in- 
stant arrived,  warming  his  white  and  well- 
ringed  hands  by  the  fire.  He  conversed  with 
him  for  half  an  hour  on  all  the  topics  on  which 
the  secretary  could  give  him  information,  and 
then  dismissed  him  once  more  to  the  roof  of 
Lady  Jane. 

As  he  slowly  undressed  himself,  he  saw  on 
his  writing-table  the  note  which  Lady  Dolti- 
more  had  referred  to,  and  which  he  had  not 
yet  opened.  He  lazily  broke  the  seal,  ran  his 
eye  carelessly  over  its  few  blotted  words  of 
remorse  and  alarm,  and  threw  it  down  again 
with  a  contemptuous  "  pshaw  !  "  Thus  un- 
equally are  the  sorrows  of  a  guilty  tie  felt  by 
the  man  of  the  world  and  the  woman  of  so- 
ciety ! 

As  his  servant  placed  before  him  his  wine 
and  water,  Vargrave  told  him  to  see  early  to 
the  preparations  for  departure,  and  to  call  him 
at  nine  o'clock. 

"  Shall  I  shut  that  door,  my  lord  ?  "  said 
the  valet,  pointing  to  one  that  communicated 
with  one  of  those  large  closets,  or  annoires, 
that  are  common  appendages  to  French  bed- 
rooms, and  in  which  wood  and  sundry  other 
matters  are  kept. 

6.  — 2G 


•'  No,"  said  Lord  Vargrave,  petulantly; 
"  you  servants  are  so  fond  of  excluding  every 
breath  of  air.  I  should  never  have  a  window 
open,  if  I  did  not  open  it  myself.  Leave  the 
door  as  it  is;  and  do  not  be  later  than  nine  to- 
morrow." 

The  servant,  who  slept  in  a  kind  of  kennel, 
that  communicated  with  the  ante-room,  did  as 
he  was  bid;  and  Vargrave  put  out  his  candle, 
betook  himself  to  bed,  and,  after  drowsily  gaz- 
ing some  minutes  on  the  dying  embers  of  the 
fire,  which  threw  a  dim,  ghastly  light  over  the 
chamber,  fell  fast  asleep.  The  clock  struck 
the  first  hour  of  morning,  and  in  that  house  all 
seemed  still. 

The  next  morning,  Maltravers  was  disturbed 
from  his  slumber  by  De  Montaigne,  who,  ar- 
riving, as  was  often  his  wont,  at  an  early  hour 
from  his  villa,  had  found  Ernest's  note  of  the 
previous  evening. 

Maltravers  rose,  and  dressed  himself;  and, 
while  De  Montaigne  was  yet  listening  to  the 
account  which  his  friend  gave  of  his  adventure 
with  Cesarini,  and  the  unhappy  man's  accusa- 
tion of  his  accomplice,  Ernest's  servant  entered 
the  room  very  abruptly. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  thought  you  might  like  to 
know, — what  is  to  be  done  ? — the  whole  hotel 
is  in  confusion — Mr.  Howard  has  been  sent 
for, — and  Lord  Doltimore — so  very  strange,  so 
sudden  !  " 

"What  is  the  matter?  speak  plain." 

"  Lord  Vargrave,  sir  —  poor  Lord  Var- 
grave  " 

"  Lord  Vargrave  !  " 

"Yes,  sir;  the  master  of  the  hotel,  hearing 
you  knew  his  lordship,  would  be  so  glad  if  you 
would  come  down.  Lord  Vargrave,  sir,  is 
dead — found  dead  in  his  bed  !  " 

Maltravers  was  rooted  to  the  spot  with  amaze 
and  horror.  Dead  !  and  but  last  night  so  full 
of  life  and  schemes,  and  hope,  and  ambition  ! 

As  soon  as  he  recovered  himself,  he  hurried 
to  the  spot,  and  De  Montaigne  followed.  The 
latter,  as  they  descended  the  stairs,  laid  his 
hand  on  Ernest's  arm,  and  detained  him. 

"  Did  you  say  that  Castruccio  left  the  apart- 
ment while  Vargrave  was  with  you,  and  almost 
immediately  after  his  narrative  of  Vargrave's 
instigation  to  his  crime?" 

"Yes.". 

The  eyes  of  the  friends  met — a  terrible  sus- 
picion possessed  both. 


402 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"No — it  is  impossible!"  exclaimed  Mal- 
iravers.  "How  could  he  obtain  entrance — 
how  pass  Lord  Vargrave's  servants  ?  No,  no — 
think  of  it  not." 

They  hurried  down  the  stairs — they  reached 
the  outer  door  of  Vargrave's  apartment — the 
notice  to  Howard,  with  the  name  of  Vargrave 
underscored,  was  still  on  the  panels — De  Mon- 
taigne saw  and  shuddered. 

They  were  in  the  room  by  the  bedside — a 
group  were  collected  round — they  gave  way 
as  the  Englishman  and  his  friend  approached ; 
and  the  eyes  of  Maltravers  suddenly  rested 
on  the  face  of  Lord  Vargrave,  which  was 
locked,  rigid,  and  convulsed. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  voices  which'  had 
ceased  at  the  entrance  of  Maltravers — it  was 
now  renewed.  A  surgeon  had  been  summoned 
— the  nearest  sin-geon — a  young  Englishman, 
of  no  great  repute  or  name.  He  was  making 
inquiries  as  he  bent  over  the  corpse. 

"Yes,  sir,'  said  Lord  Vargrave's  servant, 
"  his  lordship  told  me  to  call  him  at  nine 
o'clock.  I  came  in  at  that  hour,  but  his  lord- 
ship did  not  move  nor  answer  me.  I  then 
looked  to  see  if  he  were  very  sound  asleep,  and 
I  saw  that  the  pillows  had  got  somehow  over 
his  face,  and  his  head  seemed  to  lie  very  low; 
so  I  moved  the  pillows,  and  I  saw  that  his 
lordship  was  dead." 

"Sir,  said  the  surgeon,  turning  to  Mal- 
travers, "  you  were  a  friend  of  his  lordship's, 
I  hear.  I  have  already  sent  for  Mr.  Howard 
and  Lord  Doltimore.  Shall  I  speak  with  you 
a  minute  ?  " 

Maltravers  nodded  assent.  The  surgeon 
cleared  the  room  of  all  but  himself,  De  Mon- 
taigne, and  Maltravers. 

"  Has  that  servant  lived  long  with  Lord 
Vargrave  ?  "  asked  the  surgeon. 

"  I  believe  so — yes — I  recollect  his  face — 
why  ? " 

"  And  j'ou  think  him  safe  and  honest  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — I  know  nothing  of  him." 

"  Look  here,  sir," — and  the  surgeon  pointed 
to  a  slight  discoloration  on  one  side  the  throat 
of  the  dead  man.  "  This  may  be  accidental — 
purely  natural — his  lordship  may  have  died  in 
a  fit — there  are  no  certain  marks  of  outward 
violence — but  suffocation  by  murder  might 
still " 

"But  who  beside  the  servant  could  gain  ad- 
mission ?     Was  the  outer  door  closed  ? " 


"  The  servant  can  take  oath  that  he  shut 
the  door  before  going  to  bed,  and  that  no  one 
was  with  Fiis  lordship,  or  in  the  rooms,  when 
Lord  Vargrave  retired  to  rest.  Entrance 
from  the  windows  is  impossible.  Mind,  sir,  1 
do  not  think  I  have  any  right  to  suspect  any 
one.  His  lordship  had  been  in  very  ill  health 
a  short  time  before;  had  had,  I  hear,  a  rush 
of  blood  to  the  head.  Certainly,  if  the  servant 
be  innocent,  we  can  su.spect  no  one  else. 
You  had  better  send  for  more  experienced 
practitioners." 

De  Montaigne,  who  had  hitherto  said  noth- 
ing, now  looked  with  a  hurried  glance  around 
the  room:  he  perceived  the  closet-door,  which 
was  ajar,  and  rushed  to  it,  as  by  an  involun- 
tary impulse.  The  closet  was  large,  but  a 
considerable  pile  of  wood,  and  some  lumber 
of  odd  chairs  and  tables,  took  up  a  great  part 
of  the  space.  De  Montaigne  searched  behind 
and  amidst  this  litter  with  trembling  haste — 
no  trace  of  secreted  murder  was  visible.  He 
returned  to  the  bed-room  with  a  satisfied  and 
relieved  expression  of  countenance.  He  then 
compelled  himself  to  approach  the  body, 
from  which  he  had  hitherto  recoiled. 

"  Sir,"  said  he  almost  harshly,  as  he  turned 
to  the  surgeon,  "what  idle  doubts  are  these  ! 
Cannot  men  die  in  their  beds — of  sudden 
death, — no  blood  to  stain  their  pillows, — no 
loop-hole  for  crime  to  pass  through,  but  we 
must  have  science  itself  startling,  us  with 
silly  terrors  ?  As  for  the  servant,  I  will  answer 
for  his  innocence — his  manner — his  voice  at- 
test it."  The  surgeon  drew  back,  abashed 
and  humbled,  and  began  to  apologize  —  to. 
qualify,  when  Lord  Doltimore  abruptly  en- 
tered. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  he,  "what  is  this? 
What  do  I  hear?  Is  it  possible  ?  Dead  !  So 
suddenly  !  "  He  cast  a  hurried  glance  at  the 
body— shivered  —  and  sickened— and  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  as  if  to  recover  the  shock. 
When  again  he  removed  his  hand  from  his  face, 
he  saw  lying  before  him  on  the  table  an  of)en 
note.  The  character  was  familiar, — his  own 
name  struck  his  eye, — it  was  the  note  which 
Caroline  had  sent  the  day  before.  Ando  n  one 
heeded  him.  Lord  Doltimore  read  on,  and  pos- 
sessed himself  of  the  proof  of  his  wife's  guilt 
unseen. 

The  surgeon,  now  turning  from  De  Mon- 
taigne, who  had  been  rating  him  soundly  for 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


403 


the  last  few  momeuts,  addressed  himself  to 
Lord  Doltimore.  "  Your  lordship,"  said  he, 
•'was,  I  hear,  1-ord  Vargrave's  most  intimate 
friend  at  Paris." 

"I  his  intimate  friend!"  said  Doltimore, 
coloring  highly,  and  in  a  disdainful  accent. 
"  Sir,  you  are  misinformed." 

"  Have  you  no  orders  to  give,  then,  my 
lord  >.  " 

"  None,  sir.  My  presence  here  is  quite 
useless      Good-day  to  you,  gentlemen." 

"  With  whom,  then,  do  the  last  duties  rest  ? " 
said  the  surgeon,  turning  to  Maltravers  and 
De  Montaigne.  "  With  the  late  lord's  secre- 
tary ? — I  expect  him  every  moment; — and 
here  he  is,  I  suppose," — as  Mr.  Howard,  pale, 
and  evidently  overcome  by  his  agitation,  en- 
tered the  apartment.  Perhaps,  of  all  the 
human  beings  whom  the  ambitious  spirit  of 
that  senseless  clay  had  drawn  around  it  by 
the  webs  of  interest,  affection,  or  intrigue, 
that  young  man,  whom  it  had  never  been  a 
temptation  to  Vargrave  to  deceive  or  injure, 
and  who  missed  only  the  gracious  and  familiar 
patron,  mourned  most  his  memory,  and  de- 
fended most  the  character.  The  grief  of  the 
poor  secretary  was  now  indeed  over-mastering. 
He  sobbed  and  wept  like  a  child. 

When  Maltravers  retired  from  the  chamber 
of  death,  De  Montaigne  accompanied  him; 
but,  soon  quitting  him  again,  as  Ernest  bent 
his  way  to  Evelyn,  he  quietly  rejoined  Mr. 
Howard,  who  readily  grasped  at  his  offers  of 
aid  in  the  last  melancholy  duties  and  direc- 
tions. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  If  we  do  meet  again,  why  we  shall  smile." 

^Julius  Ciesar. 

The  interview  with  Evelyn  was  long  and 
painful.  It  was  reserved  for  Maltravers  to 
break  to  her  the  news  of  the  sudden  death  of 
Lord  Vargrave,  which  shocked  her  unspeak- 
ably; and  this,  which  made  their  first  topic, 
removed  much  constraint  and  deadened  much 
excitement  in  those  which  followed. 

Vargrave's  death  served  also  to  relieve 
Maltravers  from  a  most  anxious  embarrass- 
ment. He  need  no  longer  fear  that  Alice 
would  be  degraded  in  the  eyes  of  Evelyn. 
Henceforth    the    secret    that    identified    the 


erring  Alice  Darvil  with  tiie  spotless  Lady 
Vargrave  was  safe,  known  only  to  Mrs.  Leslie 
and  to  Aubrey.  In  the  course  of  nature,  all 
chance  of  its  disclosure  must  soon  die  with 
them; — and  should  Alice  at  last  become  his 
wife; — and  should  Cleveland  suspect  (which 
was  not  probable)  that  Maltravers  had  re- 
turned to  his  first  love,  he  knew  that  he  might 
depend  on  the  inviolable  secrecy  of  his  earliest 
friend. 

The  tale  that  Vargrave  had  told  to  Evelyn 
of  his  early — but,  according  to  that  tale,  guilt- 
less— passion  for  Alice,  he  tacitly  confirmed; 
and  he  allowed  that  the  recollection  of  her 
virtues,  and  the  intelligence  of  her  sorrows, 
and  unextinguishable  affection,  had  made  him 
recoil  from  a  marriage  with  her  supposed 
daughter.  He  then  proceeded  to  amaze  his 
young  listener  with  the  account  of  the  mode 
in  which  he  had  discovered  her  real  parentage; 
of  which  the  banker  had  left  to  Alice's  discre- 
tion to  inform  her,  after  she  had  attained  the 
age  of  eighteen.  And  then,  simply,  but  with 
manly  and  ill-controlled  emotion,  he  touched 
upon  the  joy  of  Alice  at  beholding  him  again 
— upon  the  endurance  and  fervor  of  her 
love — upon  her  revulsion  of  feeling  at  learning 
that,  in  her  unforgotten  lover,  she  beheld  the 
recent  suitor  of  her  adopted  child. 

"  And  now,"  said  Maltravers,  in  conclusion, 
"  the  path  to  both  of  us  remains  the  same.  To 
Alice  is  our  first  duty.  The  discovery  I  have 
made  of  your  real  parentage  does  not  diminish 
the  claims  which  Alice  has  on  me, — does  not 
lessen  the  grateful  affection  that  is  due  to  her 
from  yourself.  Yes,  Evelyn,  we  are  not  the 
less  separated  for  ever.  But  when  I  learned 
the  wilful  falsehood  which  the  unhappy  man, 
now  hurried  to  his  last  account — to  whom  your 
birth  was  known,  had  imposed  upon  me,  viz., 
that  you  were  the  child  of  Alice — and  when  I 
learned  also,  that  you  had  been  hurried  into  ac- 
cepting his  hand,  I  trembled  at  your  union  with 
one  so  false  and  base.— I  came  hither  resolved 
to  frustrate  his  schemes,  and  to  save  you  from 
an  alliance,  the  motives  of  which  I  foresaw, 
and  to  which  my  own  letter — m}'  own  desertion, 
had  perhaps  urged  you.  New  villanies  on  the 
part  of  this  most  perverted  man  came  to  my 
ear: — but  he  is  dead; — let  us  spare  his  memory. 
For  you — oh  !  still  let  me  deem  myself  your 
friend — your  more  than  brother;  let  me  hope 
now,    that    I    have    planted    no   thorn  in  that 


404 


BULWEK'S     WORKS 


oreast.  and  that  your  affection  does  not  shrink 
irom  the  cold  word  of  friendship." 

"  Of  all  the  wonders  that  you  have  told  me," 
answered  Evelyn,  as  soon  as  she  could  re- 
cover the  power  of  words,  "  my  most  poignant 
sorrow  is,  that  I  have  no  rightful  claim  to 
give  a  ilanghter's  love  to  her  whom  I  shall 
ever  idolize  as  my  mother. — Oh  !  now  I  see 
why  I  thought  her  affection  measured  and 
lukewarm  !  And  have  I — I  destroyed  her  joy 
at  seeing  you  again  ?  But  you — you  will 
hasten  to  console — to  reassure  her  !  She  loves 
you  still, —  she  will  be  happy  at  last; — and  that 
— that  thought — -oh  !  that  thought  compen- 
sates for  all  !  " 

There  was  so  much  warmth  and  simplicity 
in  Evelyn's  artless  manner, — it  was  so  evident 
that  her  love  for  him  had  not  been  of  that  ar- 
dent nature,  which  would  at  first  have  super- 
seded every  other  thought  in  the  anguish  of 
losing  him  for  ever,  that  the  scale  fell  from 
the  eyes  of  Maltravers,  and  he  saw  at  once 
that  his  own  love  had  blinded  him  to  the  true 
character  of  hers.  He  was  human;  and  a  sharp 
pang  shot  across  his  breast.  He  remained 
silent  for  some  moments;  and  then  resumed, 
compelling  himself  as  he  spoke,  to  fi.x  his  eyes 
steadfastly  on  hers.  * 

"  And  now,  Evelyn — still  may  I  so  call  you  ? 
—I  have  a  duty  to  discharge  to  another.  You 
are  loved  " — and  he  smiled,  but  the  smile  was 
sad — "  by  a  younger  and  more  suitable  lover 
than  I  am.  From  noble  and  generous  motives 
he  suppressed  that  love — he  left  you  to  a  rival ; 
the  rival  removed,  dare  he  venture  to  explain 
to  yon  his  own  conduct,  and  plead   his  own 

motives?  —  George   Legard "    Maltravers 

paused.  The  cheek  on  which  he  gazed  was 
tinged  with  a  soft  blush — Evelyn's  eyes  were 
downcast — there  was  a  slight  heaving  beneath 
the  robe.  Maltravers  suppressed  a  sigh  and 
continued.  He  narrated  his  interview  with 
Legard  at  Dover;  and,  passing  lightly  over 
what  had  chanced  at  Venice,  dwelt  with  gen- 
erous eloquence  on  the  magnanimity  with 
which  his  rival's  gratitude  had  been  displayed. 
Evelyn's  eyes  sparkled,  and  the  smile  just 
visited  the  rosy  lips  and  vanished  again — the 
worst,  because  it  was  the  least  selfish,  fear  of 
Maltravers  was  gone;  and  no  vain  doubt  of 
Evelyn's  too  keen  regret  remained  to  chill  his 
conscience  in  obeying  its  earliest  and  strongest 
duties. 


"  Farewell  !  "  he  said,  as  he  rose  to  depart; 
"  I  will  at  once  return  to  London,  and  assist 
in  the  effort  to  save  your  fortune  from  this 
general  wreck:  Life  calls  us  back  to  its  cares 
and  business — farewell,  Evelyn  I  Aubrey 
will,  I  trust,  remain  with  you  still." 

"  Remain  ! — Can  I  not  return  then  to  my — 
to  her — yes,  let  me  call  her  mother  still  ? " 

"Evelyn,"  said  Maltravers,  in  a  very  low 
voice,  "  spare  me — spare  her  that  pain  !  Are 
we  yet  fit  to "  He  paused;  Evelyn  com- 
prehended him,  and,  hiding  her  face  with  her 
hands,  burst  into  tears. 

When  Maltravers  left  the  room,  he  was  met 
by  Aubrey,  who,  drawing  him  aside,  told  him 
that  Lord  Doltimore  had  just  informed  him 
that  it  was  not  his  intention  to  remain  at  Paris, 
and  had  more  than  delicately  hinted  at  a  wish 
for  the  departure  of  Miss  Cameron;  In  this 
emergency,  Maltravers  bethought  himself  of 
Madame  de  Ventadour. 

No  house  in  Paris  was  a  more  eligible 
refuge — no  friend  more  zealous — no  protector 
would  be  more  kind — no  adviser  more  sincere. 
To  her  then  he  hastened.  He  briefly  in- 
formed her  of  Vargrave's  sudden  death;  and 
suggested,  that  for  Evelyn  to  return  at  once 
to  a  sequestered  village  in  England  might  be 
a  severe  trial  to  spirits  already  broken;  and 
declared  truly,  that  though  his  marriage  with 
Evelyn  was  broken  of,  her  welfare  was  no  less 
dear  to  him  than  heretofore.  At  his  first  hint, 
Valerie,  who  took  a  cordial  interest  in  Evelyn 
for  her  sake,  ordered  her  own  carriage, 
and  drove  at  once  to  Lady  Doltimore's. 
His  lordship  was  out — her  ladyship  was  ill — 
in  her  own  room — could  see  no  one — not 
even  her  guest.  Evelyn  in  vain  sent  up  to  re- 
quest an  interview;  and  at  last,  contenting 
herself  with  an  affectionate  note  of  farewell, 
accompanied  .\ubrey  to  the  home  of  her  new 
hostess. 

Gratified  at  least  to  know  her  with  one  who 
would  be  sure  to  win  her  affection,  and 
soothe  her  spirits,  Maltravers  set  out  on  his 
solitary  return  to  England. 

Whatever  suspicious  circumstances  might  or 
might  not  have  attended  the  death  of  Lord 
Vargrave,  certain  it  is,  that  no  evidence  con- 
firmed, and  no  popular  rumor  circulated,  them. 
His  late  illness,  added  to  the  supposed  shock 
of  the  loss  of  the  fortune  he  had  anticipated 
with   Miss  Cameron — aided  by  the    simulta- 


ALICE;     OR,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


405 


neous  intelligence  of  the   defeat  of  the  party 
with  whom  it  was  believed  he  had  indissolubly 
entwined   his   ambition,   sufificed    to    account, 
satisfactorily    enough,    for    the     melancholy 
event.     De    Montaigne,  who  had   been  long, 
though    not   intimately,    acquainted   with  the 
deceased,  took  upon  himself  all  the  necessary 
arrangements,  and  superinteniled  the   funeral; 
after  which    ceremony,    Howard    returned  to 
London:  and   in    Paris,   as  in  the  Grave,  all 
things  are  forgotten  !     But  still   in    De    Mon- 
taigne's   breast   there    dwelt   a   horrible   fear. 
As  soon  as  he  had   learned   from   Maltravers 
the  charge  the   maniac  brought  against  Var- 
grave,  there  came   upon  him  the   recollection 
of  that  day  when  Cesarini  had  attempted   De 
Montaigne's  life,  evidently  mistaking   him  in 
his  delirium  for  another— and  the  sullen,  cun- 
ning,   and    ferocious  character  which  the  in- 
sanity had  ever  afterwards  assumed.     He  had 
learned  from  Howard  that  the  outer  door  had 
been  lt.ft  a-jar  when  Lord   Vargrave  was  with 
Maltravers;    the    writing   on    the    panel— the 
name  of  Vargrave — would  have   struck   Cas- 
truccio's  eye  as  he  descended  the  stairs:  the 
the  servant  was   from   home— the  apartments 
deserted;  he  might' have  won  his  way  into  the 
bed-chamber,  concealed  himself  in   the  arm- 
oire,  and  in  the  deatl  of  the  night,   and  in  the 
deep  and   helpless   sleep  of  his  victim,   have 
done  the  deed.     What  need  of  weapons  ?— 
the  suffocating  i)illows  would  stop  speech  and 
life.     What  so  easy  as  escape  ? — to  pass  into 
the    ante-room— to    unbolt  the  door — to    de- 
scend into  the  court-yard— to  give  the  signal 
to  the  porter  in  his  lodge,  who,  without  seeing 
him,   would    pull    the   cordon,    and    give    him 
egress  unobserved  ?     All  this  was  so  possible 
— so  probable. 
-      De  Montaigne  now  withcTT-ew  all  inquiry  for 
the  unfortunate;  he  trembled  at    the  thought 
of   discovering   him— of   verifying    his    awful 
suspicions— of    beholding   a  murderer  in  the 
brother  of  his  wife  !     But  he  was  not  doomed 
long  to   entertain   fears  for  Cesarini— he  was 
not  fated   ever  to  change    suspicion  into  cer- 
tainty.      A  few    days   after   Lord  Vargrave's 
burial,  a  corpse   was  drawn  from    the  Seine. 
Some   tablets   in   the   pockets,  scrawled  over 
with  wild,  incoherent  verses,  gave  a  clue  to  the 
discovery  of  the  dead  man's  friends;  and,  ex- 
posed   at  the   Morgue,  in  that  bleached  and 
altered    clay,    De    Montaigne  recognized    the 


remains   of   Castruccio   Cesarini. 
and  made  no  sign  !  " 


'  He  died 


CHAPTER   VH. 

"  Singula  quaeque  locum  teneant  sortita."  * 

—Wo?..  Art  Poet. 

Maltravers  and  the  lawyers  were  enabled 
to  save  from  the  insolvent  bank,  but  a  very 
scanty  portion  of  that  wealth  in  which  Richard 
Templeton  had  rested  so  much  of  pride ! 
The  title  extinct,  the  fortune  gone— so  does 
Fate  laugh  at  our  posthumous  ambition  ! 
Meanwhile  Mr.  Douce,  with  a  considerable 
plunder,  had  made  his  way  to  America;  the 
bank  owed  nearly  half-a-million;  the  purchase- 
money  for  Lisle  Court,  which  Mr.  Douce  had 
been  so  anxious  to  get  into  his  clutches,  had 
not  sufficed  to  stave  off  the  ruin— but  a  great 
part  of  it  sufficed  to  procure  competence  for 
himself.  How  inferior  in  wit,  in  acuteness, 
in  stratagem,  was  Douce  to  Vargrave— and 
yet  Douce  had  gulled  him  like  a  child  !  Well 
said  the  shrewd  small  philosopher  of  France, 
— ''  On  pent  kre  plus  fin  qtiun  autre,  mais  pas 
blus  fin  que  tous  les  autres."  \ 

To  Legard,  whom  Maltravers  had  again  en- 
countered at  Dover,  the  latter  related  the 
downfall  of  Evelyn's  fortunes;  and  Maltravers 
loved  him  when  he  saw  that,  far  from  changing 
his  affection,  the  loss  of  wealth  seemed  rather 
to  raise  his  hopes.  They  parted;  and  Legard 
set  out  for  Paris. 

But  was  Maltravers  all  the  while  forgetful 
of  Alice  ?  He  had  not  been  twelve  hours  in 
London  before  he  committed  to  a  long  and 
truthful  letter  all  his  thoughts— his  hopes— 
his  admiring  and  profound  gratitude.  Again, 
and  with  solemn  earnestness,  he  implored  her 
to  accept  his  hand,  and  to  confirm  at  the  altar, 
the  tale,  which  had  been  told  to  Evelyn. 
Truly  he  said,  that  the  shock  which  his  first 
belief  in  Vargrave's  falsehood  had  occasioned 
— his  passionate  determination  to  subdue  all 
trace  of  a  love  then  associated  with  crime  and 
horror— followed  so  close  by  his  discovery  of 
Alice's  enduring  faith  and  affection— had  re- 


*  To  each  lot  its  appropriate  place. 

•t  One  may  be  more  sharp  than  one's  neighbor,  but 
one  can't  be  sharper  than  all  one's  neighbors.— RocHE- 
FAUCAULT. 


4o6 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


moved  the  image  of  Evelyn  from  the  throne  it 
had  hitherto  held  in  his  desires  and  thoughts; 
— truly  he  said,  that  he  was  now  convinced 
chat  Evelyn  would  soon  be  consoled  for  his 
loss  by  another,  with  whom  she  would  be  hap- 
pier than  with  him; — truly  and  solemnly  he 
declared  that  if  Alice  rejected  him  still,  if  even 
Alice  were  no  more,  his  suit  to  Evelyn  never 
could  be  renewed,  and  Alice's  memory  would 
usurp  the  place  of  all  living  love  ! 

Her  answer  came;  it  pierced  him  to  the 
heart.  It  was  so  humble,  so  grateful,  so  ten- 
der still.  Unknown  to  herself,  love  yet  colored 
every  word;  but  it  was  love  pained,  galled, 
crushed,  and  trampled  on:  it  was  love,  proud 
from  its  very  depth  and  purity.  His  offer  was 
refused. 

Months  passed  away — Maltravers  yet  trusted 
to  time.  The  curate  had  returned  to  Brook 
Green,  and  his  letters  fed  Ernest's  hopes 
and  assured  his  doubts.  The  more  leisure 
there  was  left  him  for  reflection,  the  fainter 
became  those  dazzling  and  rainbow  hues  in 
which  Evelyn  had  been  robed  and  surrounded, 
and  the  brighter  the  halo  that  surrounded  his 
earliest  love.  The  more  he  pondered  on 
Alice's  past  history,  and  the  singular  beauty 
of  her  faithful  attachment,  the  more  he  was 
impressed  with  wonder  and  admiration — the 
more  anxious  to  secure  to  his  side  one  to 
whom  Nature  had  been  so  bountiful  in  all  the 
gifts  that  make  woman  the  angel  and  star  of 
life. 

Months  passed — from  Paris  the  news  that 
Maltravers  received  confirmed  all  his  expecta- 
tions— the  suit  of  Legard  had  replaced  his 
own.  It  was  then  that  Maltravers  began  to 
consider  how  far  the  fortune  of  Evelyn  and 
her  destined  husband  was  such  as  to  preclude 
all  anxiety  for  their  future  lot.  Fortune  is  so 
indeterminate  in  its  gauge  and  measurement. 
Money,  the  most  elastic  of  materials,  falls 
short  or  exceeds,  according  to  the  extent  of 
our  wants  and  desires.  With  all  Legard's 
good  qualities,  he  was  constitutionally  careless 
and  extravagant;  and  Evelyn  was  too  inex- 
perienced, and  too  gentle,  perhaps,  to  correct 
his  tendencies.  Maltravers  learned  that 
Legard's  income  was  one  that  required  an 
economy  which  he  feared  that,  in  spite  of  all 
his  reformation,  Legard  might  not  have  the 
self-denial  to  enforce. 

After   some   consideration,    he   resolved  to 


add  secretly  to  the  remains  of  Evelyn's  fortune 
such  a  sum  as  might — being  properly  secured 
to  herself  and  children — lessen  whatever  dan- 
ger could  arise  from  the  possible  improvidence 
of  her  husband,  and  guard  against  the  chance 
of  those  embarrassments  which  are  among  the 
worst  disturbers  of  domestic  peace.  He  was 
enabled  to  effect  this  generosity,  unknown 
to  both  of  them,  as  if  the  sum  bestowed  were 
collected  from  the  wrecks  of  Evelyn's  own 
wealth,  and  the  profits  of  the  houses  \\\ 
C  *  *  *  *  *,  which  of  course  had  not  been  in 
involved,  in  Douce's  bankruptcy.  And  then 
if  Alice  were  ever  his,  her  jointure,  which  had 
been  secured  on  the  property  appertaining  to 
the  villa  at  Fulham,  would  devolve  upon 
Evelyn.  Maltravers  could  never  accept  what 
Alice  owed  to  another.  Poor  Alice  ! — No  ! 
not  that  modest  wealth  which  you  had  looked 
upon  complacently  as  one  day  or  other  to  be 
his! 

Lord  Doltimore  is  travelling  in  the  East, — 
Lady  Doltimore,  less  adventurous,  has  fixed 
her  residence  in  Rome.  She  has  grown  thin, 
and  taken  to  antiquities  and  rouge.  Her 
spirits  are  remarkably  high — not  an  uncom- 
mon effect  of  laudanum. 


CHAPTER     THE    LAST. 

*        *        *    "  Arrived  at  last 

Unto  the  wished  haven."— Shakespeare. 

In  the  August  of  that  eventful  year  a  bridal 
party  were  assembled  at  the  cottage  of  Lady 
Vargrave.  The  ceremony  had  just  been  per- 
formed, and  Ernest  Maltravers  had  bestowed 
upon  George  Legard  the  hand  of  Evelyn  Tem- 
pleton.  " 

If  upon  the  countenance  of  him  who  thus 
officiated  as  a  father  to  her  he  had  once  wooed 
as  a  bride,  an  observant  eye  might  have  noted 
the  trace  of  mental  struggles,  it  was  the  trace 
of  struggles  past;  and  the  calm  had  once  more 
settled  over  the  silent  deeps.  He  saw  from 
the  casement  the  carriage  that  was  to  bear 
away  the  bride  to  the  home  of  another;  the 
gay  faces  of  the  village  group,  whose  intrusion 
was  not  forbidden,  and  to  whom  that  solemn 
ceremonial  was  but  a  joyous  pageant;  and 
when  he  turned  once  more  to  those  within  the 
chamber,  he  felt  his  hand  clasped  in  Legard's. 


ALICE;     OK,     THE    MYSTERIES. 


407 


"  You  have  been  the  preserver  of  my  Hfe — 
you  have  been  the  dispenser  of  my  earthly 
happiness;  all  now  left  to  me  to  wish  for  is, 
that  you  may  receive  from  Heaven  the  bless- 
ings you  have  given  to  others  !  " 

"  Legard,  never  let  her  know  a  sorrow  that 
you  can  guard  her  from;  and  believe  that  the 
husband  of  Evelyn  will  be  dear  to  me  as  a 
brother  !  " 

And  as  a  brother  blesses  some  younger  and 
orphan  sister  bequeathed  and  intrusted  to  a 
care  that  should  replace  a  father's,  so  Mal- 
travers  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  Evelyn's  golden 
tresses,  and  his  lips  moved  in  prayer.  He 
ceased — he  pressed  his  last  kiss  upon  her  fore- 
head, and  placed  her  hand  in  that  of  her  young 
husband.  There  was  silence — and  when  to 
the  ear  of  Maltravers  it  was  broken,  it  was  by 
the  wheels  of  the  carriage,  that  bore  away  the 
wife  of  George  Legard  ! 

The  spell  was  dissolved  forever.  And  there 
stood  before  the  lonely  man  the  idol  of  his 
early  youth,  the  Alice,  still,  perhaps,  as  fair,  and 
once  young  and  passionate,  as  Evelyn — pale, 
changed,  but  lovelier  than  of  old,  if  heavenly 
patience  and  holy  thought,  and  the  trials  that 
purify  and  exalt,  can  shed  over  human  features 
something  more  beautiful  than  bloom. 

The  good  curate  alone  was  present,  besides 
these  two  survivors  of  the  efror  and  the  love 
that  make  the  rapture  and  the  misery  of  so 
many  of  our  kind.  And  the  old  man,  after 
contemplating  them  a  moment,  stole  unper- 
ceived  away. 

"  Alice,"  .said  Maltravers,  and  his  voice 
trembled;  "hitherto,  from  motives  too  pure 
and  too  noble  for  the  practical  affections  and 
ties  of  life,  you  have  rejected  the  hand  of  the 
lover  of  your  youth.  Here  again  I  implore  you 
to  be  mine  !  Give  to  my  conscience  the  balm 
of  believing  that  I  can  repair  to  you  the  evils 
and  the  sorrows  I  have  brought  upon  you. 
Nay,  weep  not;  turn  not  away.  Each  of  us 
stands  alone;  each  of  us  needs  the  other.  In 
your  heart  is  locked  up  all  my  fondest  asso- 
ciations, my  brightest  memories.  In  you  I 
see  the  mirror  of  what  I  was  when  the  world 
was  new,  ere  I  had  found  how  Pleasure  palls 
upon  us,  and  Ambition  deceives  I  And  me, 
Alice — ah,  you  love  me  still  ! — Time  and  ab- 
sence have  but  strengthened  the  chain  that 
binds  us.  By  the  memory  of  our  early  love — 
by  the  grave  of  our  lost  child    that,    had    it 


lived,  would  have  imited  its  parents,  1  implore 
you  to  he  mine  !  " 

"  Too  generous  !  "  said  Alice,  almost  sink- 
ing beneath  the  emotions  that  shook  that 
gentle  spirit  and  fragile  form.  "  How  can  I 
in{ie.T  your  compassion — for  it  is  but  compas- 
sion— to  deceive  yourself  ?  You  are  of  another 
station  than  I  believed  you.  How  can  you 
raise  the  child  of  destitution  and  guilt  to  your 
own  rank  ?  And  shall  I — I — who.  Heaven 
knows  !  would  save  you  from  all  regret — 
bring  to  you  now,  when  years  have  so  changed 
and  broken  the  little  charm  I  could  ever  have 
possessed,  this  blighted  heart  and  weary  spirit  ? 
—oh!  no,  no!"  and  Alice  paused  abruptly 
and  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Be  it  as  you  will,"  said  Maltravers,  mourn- 
fully; "but,  at  least,  ground  your  refusal  upon 
better  motives.  Say  that  now,  independent 
in  fortune,  and  attached  to  the  habits  you 
have  formed,  you  would  not  hazard  your 
happiness  in  my  keeping — perhaps  you  are 
right.  To  fny  happiness  you  would  indeed 
contribute;  your  sweet  voice  might  charm 
away  many  a  inemory  and  many  a  thought  of 
the  baffled  years  that  have  intervened  since 
we  parted;  your  image  might  dissipate  the 
solitude  which  is  closing  round  the  Future  of 
a  disappointed  and  an.Kious  life.  With  you, 
and  with  you  alone,  I  might  yet  find  a  home, 
a  comforter,  a  charitable  and  soothing  friend. 
This  you  could  give  to  me:  and  with  a  heart 
and  a  form  alike  faithful  to  a  love  that  de- 
served not  so  enduring  a  devotion.  But  I — 
what  can  I  bestow  on  you  ?  Your  station  is 
equal  to  my  own;  your  fortune  satifies  your 
simple  wants.  'Tis  true  the  exchange  is  not 
equal,  Alice. — Adieu  !  " 

"  Cruel  !  "  said  Alice,  approaching  him  with 
timid  steps.  "  If  I  could — I,  so  untutored,  so 
unworth)' — if  I  could  comfort  you  in  a  single 
care  !  " 

She  said  no  more,  but  she  had  said  enough; 
and  Maltravers,  clasping  her  to  his  bosom, 
felt  once  more  that  heart  which  never,  even  in 
thought,  had  swerved  from  its  early  worship, 
beating  against  his  own  ! 

He  drew  her  gently  into  the  open  air.  The 
ripe  and  mellow  noon-day  of  the  last  month  of 
summer  glowed  upon  the  odorous  flowers: — 
and  the  broad  sea,  that  stretched  beyond  and 
afar,  wore  upon  its  solemn  waves  a  golden  and 
happy  smile. 


408 


£  UL  WER '  S     WORKS. 


"And  ah,"  murmured  Alice,  softly,  as  she 
looked  up  from  his  breast;  "  I  ask  not  if  you 
have  loved  others  since  we  parted — man's 
faithjs  so  different  from  ours— I  ask  only  if 
you  love  me  now  ? " 

"  More  !  oh,  immeasurably  more,  than  in 
our  youngest  days,"  cried  Maltravers  with 
fervent  passion.  "  More  fondly — more  rev- 
erently— most  trustfully,  than  I  ever  loved 
living  being  ! — even  her,  in  whose  youth  and 
innocence  I  adored  the  memory  of  thee  !  Here 
have  I  found  that  which  shames  and  bank- 
rupts the  Ideal  !  Here  have  I  found  a  virtue, 
that,  coming  at  once  from  God  and  Nature, 
has  been  wiser  than  all  my  false  philosophy,  and 
firmer  than  all  my  pride  !  You,  cradled  by 
misfortune, — your  childhood  reared  amidst 
scenes  of  fear  and  vice,  which,  while  they 
scared  back  the  intellect,  had  no  pollution  for 
the  soul, — your  very  parent  your  temper  and 
you  foe, — you,  only  not  a  miracle  and  an 
angel  by  the  stain  of  one  soft  and  unconscious 
error, — you,  alike  through  the  equal  trials  of 
poverty  and  wealth,  have  been  destined  to  rise 
above  all  triumphant, — -the  example  of  the 
sublime  moral  that  teaches  us  with  what  mys- 
terious beauty  and  immortal  holiness  the 
■  Creator  has  endowed  our  human  nature,  when 
hallowed  by  our  human  affections !  You 
alone  suffice  to  shatter  into  dust  the  haughty 
creeds  of  the  Misanthrope  and  Pharisee  ! 
And  your  fidelity  to  my  erring  self  has  taught 
me  ever  to  love,  to  serve,  to  compassionate,  to 
respect,  the  community  of  God's  creatures  to 
which — noble  and  elevated  though  you  are — 
you  yet  belong  !  " 

He  ceased,  overpowered  with  the  rush  of  his 
own  thoughts.  And  Alice  was  too  blest  for 
words.  But  in  the  murmur  of  the  sunlit  leaves 
— in  the  breath  of  the  summer  air — in  the 
song  of  the  exulting  birds — and  the  deep  and 
distant  music  of  the  heaven-surrounded  seas, 
there  went  a  melodious  voice  that  seemed  as 
if  Nature  echoed  to  his  words,  and  blest  the 
reunion  of  her  children. 

Maltravers  once  more  entered  upon  the  ca- 


reer so  long  suspended.  He  entered  with  an 
energy  more  practical  and  steadfast  than  the 
fitful  enthusiasm  of  former  years.  And  it  was 
noticeable  amongst  those  who  knew  him  well, 
that,  while  the  firmness  of  his  mind  was  not 
impaired,  the  haughtiness  of  his  temper  was 
subdued.  No  longer  despising  Man  as  he  is, 
and  no  longer  exacting  from  all  things  the 
ideal  of  a  visionary  standard,  he  was  more 
fitted  to  mix  in  the  living  World,  and  to  min- 
ister usefully  to  the  great  objects  that  refine 
and  elevate  our  race.  His  sentiments  were 
perhaps,  less  lofty,  but  his  actions  were  infi- 
nitely more  excellent,  and  his  theories  infinitely 
more  wise. 

Stage  after  stage  we  have  proceeded  with 
him  through  the  mysteries  or  life.  The 
Eleusinia  are  closed,  ahd  the  crowning  liba- 
tion poured. 

And  Alice  !— Will  the  world  blame  us  if  you 
are  left  happy  at  the  last  ?  We  are  daily 
banishing  from  our  law-books  the  statutes  that 
disproportion  punishment  to  crime.  Daily  we 
preach  the  doctrine  that  we  demoralize,  where 
ever  we  strain  justice  into  cruelty.  It  is  time 
that  we  should  apply  to  the  Social  Code  the 
wisdom  we  recognize  in  Legislation  !^It  is 
time  that  we  should  do  away  with  the  punish- 
ment of  death  for  inadequate  offences,  even  in 
books; — it  is  tirfte  that  we  should  allow  the 
morality  of  atonement,  and  permit  to  Error 
the  right  to  hope,  as  the  reward  of  submission 
to  its  sufferings.  Nor  let  it  be  thought  that 
the  close  to  Alice's  career  can  offer  tempta- 
tion to  the  offence  of  its  commencement. 
Eighteen  years  of  sadness — a  youth  consumed 
in  silent  sorrow  over  the  grave  of  Joy — have 
images  that  throw  over  these  pages  a  dark 
and  warning  shadow  that  will  haunt  the  young 
long  after  they  turn  from  the  tale  that  is  about 
to  close  !  If  .\lice  had  died  of  a  broken  heart 
— if  her  punishment  had  been  more  than  she 
could  bear — then,  as  in  real  life,  you  would 
have  justly  condemned  my  moral;  and  the 
human  heart,  in  its  pity  for  the  victim,  would 
have  lost  all  recollection  of  the  error. — My 
Tale  is  done. 


END    OF    "ALICE;    OR,    THE    MYSTERIES. 


PA  USA  NI AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


409 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN." 


DEDICATION. 


TO    THE 

Rev.  benjamin  HALL  KENNEDY,  D.D. 

Canon  of  Ely,  and  Regius  Professor  of  Greek  in  the 
University  of  Cambridge. 


My  Deak  Dr.  Kennedy. 

Revised  by  your  helpful  baud,  and  corrected 
by  your  accurate  scholarship,  to  whom  may 
these  pages  be  so  fitly  inscribed  as  to  that 
one  of  their  author's  earliest   and   most   hon- 


*  [This  tale  first  appeared  in  Blackwood's  Magazine, 
.•Xuifust,  1859.  A  portion  of  it  as  then  published  is  now 
.-.iippressed,  because  encroaching  too  much  on  the 
main  plot  of  the  "  Strange  Story."  As  it  stands,  how- 
ever, it  may  be  considered  the  preliminary  outline  of 
that  more  elaborate  attempt  to  construct  an  interest 
akin  to  that  which  our  forefathers  felt  in  tales  of 
witchcraft  and  ghostland,  out  of  ideas  and  beliefs 
which  have  crept  into  fashion  in  the  society  of  our 
own  day.  There  has,  perhaps,  been  no  age  in  which 
certain  phenomena  that  in  all  ages  have  been  pro- 
duced by,  or  upon,  certain  physical  temperaments, 
have  excited  so  general  a  notice, — more  perhaps  among 
the  educated  classes  than  the  uneducated.  Nor  do  I 
believe  that  there  is  any  age  in  which  these  phenomena 
have  engendered  throughout  a  wider  circle  a  more 
credulous  superstition.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
has  certainly  been  no  age  in  which  persons  of  critical 
and  inquisitive  intellect — seeking  to  divest  what  is 
genuine  in  these  apparent  vagaries  of  Nature  from  the 
cheats  of  venal  impostors  and  the  exaggeration  of 
puzzled  witnesses — have  more  soberly  endeavored  to 
render  such  exceptional  thaumaturgia  of  philosophical 
use,  in  enlarging  our  conjectural  knowledge  of  the 
(  omplex  laws  of  being — sometimes  through  physio- 
logical, sometimes  through  metaphysical  research. 
Without  discredit,  however,  to  the  many  able  and  dis- 
tinguished speculators  on  so  vague  a  subject,  it  must 
ije  observed  that  their  explanations  as  j'et  have  been 
rather  ingenious  than  satisfactory.  Indeed,  the  first 
requisites  for  conclusive  theory  are  at  present  wanting. 
The  facts  are  not  sufficiently  generalized,  and  the  evi- 
dences for  them  have  not  been  sufficiently  tested. 

It  is  just  when  elements  of  the  marvellous  are  thus 


ored  friends, f  whose  generous  assistance  has 
enabled  me  to  place  them  before  the  public  in 
their  present  form  ? 

It  is  fully  fifteen,  if  not  twenty,  years 
since  my  father  commenced  the  composition 
of  an  historical  romance  on  the  subject  of 
Pausanias,  the  Spartan  Regent.  Circum- 
stances, which  need  not  here  be  recorded,  com- 
pelled him  to  lay  asitle  the  work  thus  begun. 
But  the  subject  continued  to  haunt  his  imagi- 
nation and  occupy  his  thoughts.  He  detected 
in  it  singular  opportunities  for  effective  exer- 
cise of  the  gifts  most  peculiar  to  his  genius; 
and  repeatedly,  in  the  intervals  of  other  liter- 
ary Libor,  he  returned  to  the  task  which, 
though  again  and  again  interrupted,  was  aban- 
doned. To  that  rare,  combination  of  the 
iinaginative  and  practical  faculties  which  char- 
acterized my  father's  intellect,  and  received 
from  his  life  such  varied' illustration,  the  story 
of  Pausanias,  indeed,  briefly  as  it  is  told  by 
Thucydides  and  Plutarch,  addressed  itself  with 
singular  force.  The  vast  conspiracy  of  the 
Spartan  Regent,  had  it  been  successful,  would 
have  changed  the  whole  course  of  Grecian  his- 
tory. To  any  student  of  political  phenomena, 
but  more  especially  to  one  who,  during  the 
greater  part  of  his    life   had    been   personally 


struggling  between  superstition  and  philosophy,  that 
they  fall  by  right  to  the  domain  of  Art— the  art  of  poet 
or  tale-teller.  They  furnish  the  constructor  of  imag- 
inative fiction  with  materials  for  mysterious  terror  of 
a  character  not  exhausted  by  his  predecessors,  and  not 
foreign  to  the  notions  that  float  on  the  surface  of  his 
own  time;  while  they  allow  him  to  wander  freely  over 
that  range  of  conjecture  which  is  favorable  to  his  pur- 
poses, precisely  because  science  itself  has  not  yet  dis- 
enchanted that  debateable  realm  of  its  haunted  shadows 
and  goblin  lights.] 

+  The  late  Lord  Lytton,  in  his  unpublished  autobio- 
graphical memoirs,  describing  his  contemporaries  at 
Cambridge,  speaks  of  Dr.  Kennedy  as  "  a  young  giant 
of  learning." — L. 


4IO 


BULlVJili'S     IVOJiKS. 


engaged  in  active  politics,  the  story  of  such  a 
conspiracy  could  not  fail  to  be  attractive.  To 
the  student  of  human  nature  the  character  of 
Pausanias  himself  offers  sources  of  the  deepest 
interest;  and,  in  the  strange  career  and  tragic 
fate  of  the  great  conspirator,  an  imagination 
fascinated  by  the  supernatural  must  have 
recognized  remarkable  elements  of  awe  and 
terror.  A  few  months  previous  to  his  death,  I 
asked  my  father  whether  he  had  abandoned  all 
intention  of  finishing  his  romance  of  "  Pau- 
sanias." He  replied,  "  On  the  contrary,  I  am 
finishing  it  now,"  and  entered,  with  great  ani- 
mation, into  a  discussion  of  the  subject  and  its 
capabilities.  This  reply  to  my  inquiry  sur- 
prised and  impressed  me  for,  as  you  are  aware, 
my  father  was  then  engaged  in  the  simultaneous 
composition  of  two  other  and  very  different 
works,  "  Kenelra  Chillingly"  and  the  "  Pari- 
sians." It  was  the  last  time  he  ever  spoke  to 
me  about  Pausanias;  but  from  what  he  then 
said  of  it  I  derived  an  impression  that  the  book 
was  all  but  completed,  and  needing  only  a  few 
finishing  touches  to  l)e  ready  for  publication  at 
no  distant  date. 

This  impression  was  confirmed,  subsequent 
to  my  father's  death,  by  a  letter  of  instructions 
about  his  posthumous  papers  which  accom- 
panied his  will.  In  that  letter,  dated  1856, 
special  allusion  is  made  to  Pausanias  as  a  work 
already  far  advanced  towards  its  conclusion. 

You,  to  whom,  in  your  kind  and  careful  re- 
vision of  it,  this  unfinished  work  has  suggested 
many  questions  which,  alas,  I  cannot  answer, 
as  to  the  probable  conduct  and  fate  of  its  ficti- 
tious characters,  will  readily  understand  my 
reluctance  to  surrender  an  impression  seem- 
ingly so  well  justified.  I  did  not  indeed  cease 
to  cherish  it,  until  reiterated  and  exhaustive 
search  had  failed  to  recover  from  the  "  wallet  " 
wherem  Time  "  put  arms  for  oblivion,"  more 
than  those  few  imperfect  fragments  which,  by 
your  valued  help,  are  here  arranged  in  such 
order  as  to  carry  on  the  narrative  of  Pausa- 
nias, with  no  solution  of  continuity,  to  the 
middle  of  the  second  volume. 

There  the  manuscript  breaks  off.  Was  it 
ever  continued  further  ?  I  know  not.  Many 
circumstances  induce  me  to  believe  that  the 
conception  had  long  been  carefully  completed 
in  the  mind  of  its  author;  but  he  has  left  be- 
hind him  only  a  very  meagre  and  imperfect  in- 
dication of  the  course  which,  beyond  the  point 


where  it  is  broken,  his  narrative  was  intended 
to  follow.  In  presence  of  this  fact  I  have  had 
to  choose  between  the  total  suppression  of  the 
fragment,  and  the  publicatipn  of  it  in  its  pres- 
ent form.  My  choice  has  not  been  made  with- 
out hesitation;  but  I  trust  that,  from  many 
points  of  view,  the  following  pages  will  be 
found  to  justify  it. 

Judiciously  (as  I  cannot  but  think)  for  the 
purposes  of  his  fiction,  my  father  has  taken  u[> 
the  story  of  Pausanias  at  a  period  subsequent 
to  the  battle  of  Plataea;  when  the  Spartan 
Regent,  as  Admiral  of  the  United  Greek  Fleet 
in  the  waters  of  Byzantium,  was  at  the  summit 
of  his  power  and  reputation.  Mr.  Grote,  in  his 
great  work,  expresses  the  opinion  (which  cer- 
tainly cannot  be  disputed  by  unbiassed  readers 
of  Thucydides)  that  the  victory  of  Plataea  was 
not  attributable  to  any  remarkable  abilities  on 
the  part  of  Pausanias.  But  Mr.  Grote  fairly 
recognizes  as  quite  exceptional  the  fame  and 
authority  accorded  to  Pausanias,  after  the 
battle,  by  all  the  Hellenic  States;  the  influence 
which  his  name  commanded,  and  the  awe 
which  his  character  inspired.  Not  to  the  mere 
fact  of  his  birth  as  an  Heracleid,  not  to  the 
lucky  accident  (if  such  it  were)  of  his  suc- 
cess at  Platsea,  and  certainly  not  to  his  un- 
disputed (but  surely  by  no  means  uncommon) 
physical  courage,  is  it  possible  to  attribute  the 
peculiar  position  which  this  remarkable  man 
so  long  occupied  in  the  estimation  of  his  con- 
temporaries. For  the  little  that  we  know  about 
Pausanias  we  are  mainly  dependent  upon 
Athenian  writers,  who  must  have  been  strongly 
prejudiced  against  him.  Mr.  Grote,  adopting 
(as  any  modern  historian  needs  must  do)  the 
narrative  so  handed  down  to  him,  never  once 
pauses  to  question  its  estimate  of  the  charac- 
ter of  a  man  who  was  at  one  time  the  glory, 
and  at  another  the  terror,  of  all  Greece.  Yet, 
in  comparing  the  summary  proceedings  taken 
against  Leotychides  with  the  extreme,  and 
seemingly  pusillanimous,  deference  paid  to- 
Pausanias  by  the  Ephors  long  after  they  pos- 
sessed the  most  alarming  proofs  of  his  treason, 
Mr.  Grote  observes,  without  attempting  to 
account  for  the  fact,  that  Pausanias,  though 
only  Regent,  was  far  more  powerful  than  any 
Spartan  Kmg. 

Why  so  powerful  ?  Obviously,  because  he 
possessed  uncommon  force  of  character;  a 
I  force  of  character  strikingly  attested  by  every 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


41  r 


known  incident  of  his  career;  and  which,  when 
concentrated  upon  the  conception  and  execu- 
tion of  vast  designs  (even  if  those  designs  be 
criminal),  must  be  recognized  as  the  special 
attribute  of  genius.  Thucydides,  Plutarch, 
Diodorus,  Grote,  all  these  writers  ascribe 
solely  to  the  administrative  incapacity  of  Pau- 
sanias  that  offensive  arrogance  which  charac- 
terized his  command  at  Byzantium,  and  ap- 
parently cost  Sparta  the  loss  of  her  maritime 
hegemony.  But  here  is  precisely  one  of  those 
problems  in  public  policy  and  personal  con- 
duct which  the  historian  bequeaths  to  the  im- 
aginative writer,  and  which  needs,  for  its  solu- 
tion, a  profound  knowledge  rather  of  human 
nature  than  of  books.  For  dealing  with  such  a 
problem,  my  father,  in  addition  to  the  intuitive 
penetration  of  character  and  motive  which  is 
common  to  every  great  romance  writer,  cer- 
tainly possessed  two  qualifications  special  to 
himself;  the  habit  of  dealing  practically  with 
political  questions,  and  experience  in  the  active 
management  of  men.  His  explanation  of  the 
policy  of  Pausanias  at  Byzantium,  if  it  be  not 
(as  I  think  it  is)  the  right  one,  is  at  least  the 
only  one  yet  offered.  I  venture  to  think  that, 
historically,  it  merits  attention;  as,  from  the 
imaginative  point  of  view,  it  is  undoubtedly 
felicitous.  By  elevating  our  estimate  of  Pau- 
sanias as  a  statesman,  it  increases  our  interest 
in  him  as  a  man. 

The  Author  of  "  Pausanias  "  does  not  merely 
tell  us  that  his  hero,  when  in  conference  with 
the  Spartan  commissioners,  displayed  "  great 
natural  powers  which,  rightly  trained,  might 
have  made  him  not  less  renowned  in  council 
than  in  war;  "  but  he  gives  us,  though  briefly, 
the  arguments  used  by  Pausanias.  He  pre- 
sents to  us  the  image,  always  interesting,  of  a 
man  who  grasps  firmly  the  clear  conception  of 
I  a  definite  but  difficult  policy,  for  success  in 
■  which  he  is  dependent  on  the  conscious  or  in- 
voluntary cooperation  of  men  impenetrable  to 
that  conception,  and  possessed  of  a  collective 
authority  even  greater  than  his  own.  To  re- 
tain Sparta  temporarily  at  the  head  of  Greece 
was  an  ambition  quite  consistent  with  the  more 
criminal  designs  of  Pausanias;  and  his  whole 
<  onduct  at  Byzantium  is  rendered  more  intel- 
ligible that  it  appears  in  his  history,  when  he 
points  out  that  "  for  Sparta  to  maintain  her 
ascendancy  two  things  are  needful:  first,  to 
lontinue  the  war  by  land,  secondly,  to  disgust 


the  lonians  with  their  sojourn  at  Byzantium, 
to  send  them  with  their  ships  back  to  their 
own  havens,  and  so  leave  Hellas  under  the 
sole  guardianship  of  the  Spartans  and  their 
Peloponnesian  allies."  And  who  has  not 
learned,  in  a  later  school,  the  wisdom  of  the 
Spartan  commissioners  ?  Do  not  their  utter- 
ances sound  familiar  to  us?  "Increase  of 
dominion  is  waste  of  life  and  treasure.  Sparta 
is  content  to  hold  her  own.  What  care  we, 
who  leads  the  Greeks  into  blows  ?  The 
fewer  blows  the  better.  Brave  men  fight 
if  they  must:  wise  men  never  fight  if  they 
can  help  it."  Of  this  scene  and  some  others 
in  the  first  volume  of  the  present  fragment 
(notably  the  scene  in  which  the  Regent  con- 
fronts the  allied  chiefs,  and  defends  himself 
against  the  charge  of  connivance  at  the  escape 
of  the  Persian  prisoners),  I  should  hav^  been 
tempted  to  say  that  they  could  not  have  been 
written  without  personal  experience  of  political 
life;  if  the  interview  between  Wallenstein  and 
the  Swedish  ambassadors  in  Schiller's  great 
trilogy  did  not  recur  to  my  recollection  as  I 
write.  The  language  of  the  ambassadors  in 
that  interview  is  a  perfect  manual  of  practical 
diplomacy;  and  yet  in  practical  diplomacy 
Schiller  had  no  personal  experience.  There 
are,  indeed,  no  limits  to  the  creative  power  of 
genius.  But  it  is,  perhaps,  the  practical 
])olitician  who  will  be  most  interested  by  the 
chapters  in  which  Pausanias  explains  his 
policy,  or  defends  his  position. 

In  publishing  a  romance  which  its  author 
has  left  unfinished,  I  may  perhaps  be  allowed 
to  indicate  briefly  what  I  believe  to  have  been 
the  general  scope  of  its  design,  and  the  prob- 
able progress  of  its  narrative. 

The  "domestic  interest  "  of  that  narrative 
is  supplied  by  the  story  of  Cleonice:  a  story 
which,  briefly  told  by  Plutarch,  suggests  one 
of  the  most  tragic  situations  it  is  possible  to 
conceive.  The  pathos  and  terror  of  this  dark 
weird  episode  in  a  life  which  history  herself 
invests  with  all  the  character  of  romance,  long 
haunted  the  imagination  of  Byron;  and  elicited 
from  Goethe  one  of  the  most  whimsical  illus- 
trations of  the  astonishing  absurdity  into  which 
criticism  sometimes  tumbles,  when  it  "  o'er- 
leaps  itself  and  falls  o'  the  other — ." 

Writing  of  Manfred  and  its  author,  he  says, 
"  There  are,  properly  speaking,  two  females 
whose   phantoms    for   ever   haunt   him;    and 


412 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


which,  in  this  piece  also,  perform  principal 
jjarts.  One  under  the  name  of  Astarte,  the 
other  without  form  or  actual  presence,  and 
merely  a  voice.  Of  the  horrid  occurrence  which 
took  place  with  the  former,  the  following  is  re- 
lated:— When  a  bold  and  enterprising  young 
man,  he  won  the  affections  of  a  Florentine  lady. 
Her  husband  discovered  the  amour,  and  mur- 
dered his  wife.  But  the  murderer  was  the  same 
night  found  dead  in  the  street,  and  there  was  no 
one  to  whom  any  suspicion  could  be  attached. 
Lord  Byron  removed  from  Florence,  and  these 
spirits  hatmted him  all  his  life  after.  This  ro- 
mantic incident  is  rendered  highly  jirobable  by 
innumerable  allusions  to  it  in  his  poems.  As, 
for  instance,  when  turning  his  sad  contempla- 
tions inwards,  he  applies  to  himself  the  fatal 
history  of  the  King  of  Sparta.  It  is  as  follows: 
Pausanias,  a  Lacedaemonian  General,  acquires 
glory  by  the  important  victory  at  Plataea;  but 
afterwards  forfeits  the  confidence  of 'his  coun- 
trymen by  his  arrogance,  obstinacy,  and  secret 
intrigues  with  the  common  enemy.  This  man 
draws  upon  himself  the  heavy  guilt  of  inno- 
cent blood,  which  attends  him  to  his  end. 
For,  while  commanding  the  fleet  of  the  allied 
Greeks  in  the  Black  Sea,  he  is  inflamed  with  a 
violent  passion  for  a  B3-xantine  maiden.  After 
long  resistance,  he  at  length  obtains  her  from 
her  parents;  and  she  is  to  be  delivered  up  to  him 
at  night.  She  modestly  desires  the  servant  to 
put  out  the  lamp,  and,  while  gro])ing  her  way 
in  the  dark,  she  overturns  it.  Pausanias  is 
awakened  from  his  sleep;  apprehensive  of  an 
attack  from  murderers  he  seizes  his  sword, 
and  destroys  his  mistress.  The  horrid  sight 
never  leaves  him.  Her  shade  pursues  him 
unceasingly;  and  in  vain  he  implores  aid  of  the 
gods  and  the  exorcising  priests.  That  poet 
must  have  a  lacerated  heart  who  selects  such 
a  scene  from  antiquity,  appropriates  it  to  him- 
self, and  burdens  his  tragic  image  with  it."* 

It  is  extremely  characteristic  of  Byron,  that, 
instead  of  resenting  this  charge  of  murder,  he 
was  so  pleased  by  the  criticism  in  which  it  oc- 
curs that  he  afterwards  dedicated  "  The  De- 
formed Transformed  "  to  Goethe.  Mr.  Grote 
repeats  the  story  above  alluded  to,  with  all  the 
sanction  of  his  grave  authority,  and  even  men- 
tions the  name  of  the  young  lady;  apparently 
for  the  sake  of  adding  a  few  black  strokes  to 

•  Moore's  "  Life  and  Letters  of  Lord  Byron,"  p.  723. 


his  character  of  Pausanias.  But  the  super- 
natural part  of  the  legand  was,  of  course,  be- 
neath the  notice  of  a  nineteenth-century  critic; 
and  he  passes  it  by.  This  part  of  the  story  is, 
however,  essential  to  the  psychological  inter- 
est of  it.  For  whether  it  be  that  Pausanias 
supposed  himself,  or  that  contemporary  gos- 
sips supposed  him,  to  be  haunted  by  the  phan- 
tom of  the  woman  he  had  loved  and  slain,  the 
fact,  in  either  case,  affords  a  lurid  glimpse  in- 
to the  iiHier  life  of  the  man;— just  as,  although 
Goethe's  murder-story  about  Byron  is  ludi- 
crously untrue,  yet  the  fact  that  such  a  story 
was  circulated,  and  could  be  seriously  repeated 
by  such  a  man  as  Goethe  without  being  re- 
sented by  Byron  himself,  offers  significant 
illustration  both  of  what  Byron  was,  and  of 
what  he  appeared  to  his  contemporaries. 
Grote  also  assigns  the  death  of  Cleonice  to 
that  period  in  the  life  of  Pausanias  when  he 
was  in  the  command  of  the  allies  at  Byzantium; 
and  refers  to  it  as  one  of  the  numerous  out- 
rages whereby  Pausanias  abused  and  disgraced 
the  authority  confided  to  him.  Plutarch,  how- 
ever, who  tells  the  story  in  greater  detail,  dis- 
tinctly fixes  the  date  of  its  catastrophe  subse- 
quent to  the  return  of  the  Regent  to  Byzantium, 
as  a  solitary  volunteer,  in  the  trireme  of 
Hermione.  The  following  is  his  account  of  the 
affair: 

"  It  is  related  that  Pausanias,  when  at  Byz- 
antium, sought  with  criminal  i)urpose,  the  love 
of  a  young  lady  of  good  family,  named  Cleo- 
nice. The  parents  yielding  to  fear,  or  neces- 
sity, suffered  him  to  carry  away  their  daughter. 
Before  entering  his  chamber,  she  requested 
that  the  light  might  be  extinguished;  and  in 
darkness  and  silence  she  approached  the  couch 
of  Pausanias,  who  was  already  asleep.  In  so 
doing  she  accidentally  upset  the  lamp.  Pau- 
sanias, suddenly  aroused  from  slumber,  and 
supposing  that  some  enemy  was  about  to  as- 
sassinate him,  seized  his  sword,  which  lay  by 
his  bedside,  and  with  it  struck  the  maiden  to 
the  ground.  She  died  of  her  wound ;  and  from 
that  moment  repose  was  banished  from  the  life 
of  Pausanias.  A  spectre  appeared  to  him 
every  night  in  his  sleep;  and  repeated  to  him 
in  reproachful  tones  this  hexameter  verse, 

'  Whither  I  wait  thee  march,  and  receive  the  doom  thou 
deserx'est. 
Sooner  or  later,  but  ever,  to  man  crime  bringcth  dis- 
aster." 


J'AUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


413 


The  allies,  scandalized  by  this  misdeed;  con- 
certed with  Cimon,  and  besieged  Pausaiiias  in 
Byzantium.  But  he  succeeded  in  escaping. 
Continually  troubled  by  the  phantom,  he  took 
refuge,  it  is  said,  at  Heraclea,  in  that  temple 
where  the  souls  of  the  dead  are  evoked.  He 
appealed  to  Cleonice  and  conjured  her  to  miti- 
gate his  torment.  She  appeared  to  him,  and 
told  him  that  on  his  return  to  Sparta  he  would 
attain  the  end  of  his  sufferings;  indicating,  as 
it  would  seem,  by  these  enigmatic  words,  the 
death  which  there  awaited  him.  This,"  adds 
Plutarch,  "  is  a  story  told  by  most  of  the  his- 
torians." * 

I  feel  no  doubt  that  this  version  of  the  story, 
or  at  least  the  general  outline  of  it,  would  have 
been  followed  by  the  romance  had  my  father 
lived  to  complete  it.  Some  modification  of  its 
details  would  doubtless  have  been  necessary 
for  the  purposes  of  fiction.  But  that  the  Cleo- 
nice of  the  novel  is  destined  to  die  by  the  hand 
of  her  lover,  is  clearly  indicated.  To  me  it 
seems  that  considerable  skill  and  judgment 
are  shown  in  the  pains  taken,  at  tlie  very  open- 
ing of  the  book,  to  prepare  the  mind  of  the 
reader  for  an  incident  which  would  have  been 
intolerably  painful,  and  must  have  prematurely 
ended  the  whole  narrative  interest,  had  the 
character  of  Cleonice  been  drawn  otherwise 
than  as  we  find  it  in  this  first  portion  of  the 
book.  From  the  outset  she  appears  before  us 
under  the  shadow  of  a  tragic  fatality.  Of 
that  fatality,  she  is  herself  intuitively  con- 
scious: and  with  it  her  whole  being  is  in  har- 
mony. No  sooner  do  we  recognize  her  real 
character  than  we  perceive  that,  for  such  a 
character,  there  can  be  no  fit  or  satisfactory 
issue  from  the  difficulties  of  her  position,  in 
any  conceivable  combination  of  earthly  cir- 
cumstances. But  she  is  not  of  the  earth 
earthly.  Her  thoughts  already  habitually 
hover  on  the  dim  frontier  of  some  vague 
spiritual  region  in  which  her  love  seeks  refuge 
from  the  hopeless  realities  of  her  life;  and, 
recognizing  this  betimes,  we  are  prepared  to 
see  above  the  hand  of  her  ill-fated  lover,  when 
it  strikes  her  down  in  the  dark,  the  merciful 
and  releasing  hand  of  her  natural  destiny. 

]5ut,  assuming  the  author  to  have  adopted 
Plutarch's  chronology,  and  deferred  the  death 
of  Cleonice  till  the  return  of  Pausanias  to  Byz- 
antium (the  latest  date  to  which  he  could 
*  Plutarch,  "  Life  of  Cimon." 


possibly  have  deferred  it),  this  catastrophe 
must  still  have  occurred  somewhere  in  the 
course,  or  at  the  close,  of  his  second  volume. 
There  would,  in  that  case,  have  still  remained 
about  nine  years  (and  those  the  most  eventful) 
of  his  hero's  career  to  be  narrated.  The  prema- 
ture removal  of  the  heroine  from  the  narrative 
so  early  in  the  course  of  it,  would  therefore, 
at  first  sight,  appear  to  be  a  serious  defect  in 
the  conception  of  this  romance.  Here  it  is, 
however,  that  the  credulous  gossip  of  the  old 
biographer  comes  to  the  rescue  of  the  modern 
artist.  I  apprehend  that  the  Cleonice  of  the 
novel  would,  after  her  death,  have  been  still 
sensibly  present  to  the  reader's  imagination 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  romance.  She 
would  then  have  moved  through  it  like  a  fate, 
reappearing  in  the  most  solemn  moments  of 
the  story,  and  at  all  times  apparent,  even  when 
unseen  in  her  visible  influence  upon  the  fierce 
and  passionate  character,  the  sombre  and 
turbulent  career,  of  her  guilty  lover.  In  short, 
we  may  fairly  suppose  that,  in  all  the  closing 
scenes  of  the  tragedy,  Cleonice  would  have 
still  figured  and  acted  as  one  of  those  super- 
natural agencies  which  my  father,  following 
the  example  of  his  great  predecessor,  Scott, 
did  not  scruple  to  introduce  into  the  composi- 
tion of  historical  romance.* 

Without  the  explanation  here  suggested, 
those  metaphysical  conversations  between 
Cleonice,  Alcman,  and  Pausanias,  which  oc- 
cupy the  opening  chapters  of  Book  H.,  might 
be  deemed  superfluous.  But,  in  fact,  they  are 
essential  to  the  preparation  of  the  catastrophe; 
and  that  catastrophe,  if  reached,  would  un- 
doubtedy  have  revealed  to  any  reflective  reader 
their  important  connection  with  the  narrative 
which  they  now  appear  to  retard  somewhat 
unduly. 

Quite  apart  from  the  unfinished  manuscript 
of  this  story  of  Pausanias,  and  in  another 
portion  of  my  father's  papers  which  have  no 
reference  to  this  story,  I  have  discovered  the 
following,  undated,  memorandum  of  the  des- 
tined contents  of  the  second  and  third  volumes 
of  the  work. 

PAUSANIAS. 

vol,.  II. 

Lysander — Sparta — Ephors — Decision  to  recall  Pan. 
sanias.    60. 


*  "  Harold." 


414 


BULiVER'S     WORKS. 


Pausanias  with  Pharnabazes— On  the  point  of  suc- 
cess— Xerxes'  daughter — Interview  with  Cleonice — 
Recalled.    60. 


Sparta — Alcman  with  his  family.    60. 


Cleonice— Antagoras— Yields  to  suit  of  marriage.  6a 


Pausanias    suddenly    reappears,   as    a   volunteer — 
Scenes.    6a 


VOL.  III. 

Pausanias     removes     Cleonice,     etc.  —  Conspiracy 
against  him — Up  to  Cleonice's  death.     100. 


His  expulsion  from   Byzantium — His  despair — His 
journey  into  Thrace — Scythians,  etc.    ? 

Heraclea — Ghost.    60. 


His  return  to  Colonae.    ? 


Antagoras  resolved  on  revenge — Communicates  with 
5parta.    ? 


The  *  *  *— Conference  with  Alcman— Pausanias  de- 
pends on  Helots,  and  money.    40. 

His  return — to  death,     120. 

This  is  the  only  indication  I  can  find  of  the 
intended  conclusion  of  the  story.  Meagre 
though  it  be,  however,  it  sufficiently  suggests 
the  manner  in  which  the  author  of  the  romance 
intended  to  deal  with  the  circumstances  of 
Cleonice's  death  as  related  by  Plutarch.  With 
her  forcible  removal  by  Pausanias  or  her  wil- 
ling flight  with  him  from  the  house  of  her 
father,  it  would  probably  have  been  difficult 
to  reconcile  the  general  sentiment  of  the 
romance,  in  connection  with  any  circumstances 
less  conceivable  than  those  which  are  indi- 
cated in  the  memorandum.  But  in  such  circum- 
stances the  step  taken  by  Pausanias  might 
have  have  had  no  worse  move  than  the  rescue 
of  the  woman  who  loved  him  from  forced 
union  with  another;  and  Cleonice's  assent  to 
that  step  might  have  been  quite  coinpatible 
with  the  purity  and  heroism  of  her  character. 
In  this  manner,  moreover,  a  strong  motive  is 
prepared  for  that  sentiment  of  revenge  on  the 
part  of  Antagoras  whereby  the  dramatic  inter- 
est of  the  story  might  be  'greatly  heightened 
in  the  subsequent  chapters.  The  intended 
introduction  of  the  supernatural  element  is 
also  clearly  indicated.  But  apart  from  this, 
fine  opportunies  for  psj'chological  analysis 
would  doubtless  have  occurred  in  tracing  the 
gradual    deterioration  of  such  a  character  as 


that  of  Pausanias  when,  deprived  of  the  guar- 
dian influence  of  a  hope  passionate  but  not 
impure,  its  craving  for  fierce  excitement  must 
have  been  stimulated  by  remorseful  memories 
and  impotent  despairs.  Indeed,  the  imperfect 
manuscript  now  printed,  contains  only  the  ex- 
position of  a  tragedy.  All  the  most  striking 
effects,  all  the  strongest  dramatic  situations, 
have  been  reserved  for  the  pages  of  the  manu- 
script which,  alas,  are  either  lost  or  unwritten. 

Who  can  doubt,  for  instance,  how  effectually 
in  the  closing  scenes  of  this  tragedy  the  grim 
image  of  Alithea  might  have  assuined  the 
place  assigned  to  it  by  history?  All  that  we 
now  see  is  the  preparation  made  for  its  effec- 
tive presentation  in  the  foreground  of  such 
later  scenes,  by  the  chapter  in  the  second 
volume  describing  the  meeting  between  Lysan- 
der  and  the  stern  mother  of  his  Spantan  chief. 
In  Lysander  himself,  moreover,  we  have  the 
germ  of  a  singularly  dramatic  situation.  How 
would  Lysander  act  in  the  final  struggle  which 
his  character  and  fate  are  already  preparing 
for  him,  between  patriotism  and  friendship, 
his  fidelity  to  Pausanias,  and  his  devotion  to 
Sparta  ?  Is  Lysander's  father  intended  for 
that  Ephor,  who,  in  the  last  moment,  made 
the  sign  that  warned  Pausanias  to  take  refuge 
in  the  temple  which  became  his  living  tomb  ? 
Probably.  Would  Themistocles,  who  was  so 
seriously  compromised  in  the  conspiracy  of 
Pausanias,  have  appeared  and  played  a  part  in 
those  sceiles  on  which  the  curtain  must  re- 
main unlifted?  Possibly.  Is  Alcman  the 
helot  who  revealed,  to  the  Ephors,  the  gigan- 
tic plots  of  his  master  just  when  those  plots 
were  on  the  eve  of  execution  ?  There  is  much 
in  the  relations  between  Pausanias  and  the 
Mathon,  as  they  are  described  in  the  opening 
chapters  of  the  romance,  which  favors,  and 
indeed  renders  almost  irresistible,  such  a  sup- 
position. But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  what 
genius  on  the  part  of  the  author  could  recon- 
cile us  to  the  perpetration  by  his  hero  of  a 
crime  so  mean,  so  cowardly,  as  that  personal 
perfidy  to  which  history  ascribes  the  revela- 
tion of  the  Regent's  far  more  excusable  trea- 
sons, and  their  terrible  punishment  ? 

These  questions  must  remain  unanswered. 
The  magician  can  wave  his  wand  no  more. 
The  circle  is  broken,  the  spells  are  scattered, 
the  secret  lost.  The  images  which  he  evoked 
and  which  he  alone  could  animate,  remain  be- 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


41; 


fore  us  incomplete,  semi-articulate,  unable  to 
satisfy  the  curiosity  they  inspire.  A  group  of 
fragments,  in  many  places  broken,  you  have 
helped  me  to  restore.  With  what  reverent  and 
kindly  care,  with  what  disciplined  judgment 
and  felicitous  suggestion,  you  have  accom- 
plished the  difficult  task  so  generously  under- 
taken, let  me  here  most  gratefully  attest.     Be- 


neath the  sculptor's  name,  allow  me  to  inscribe 
upon  the  pedestal  your  own;  and  accept  this 
sincere  assurance  of  the  inherited  esteem  and 
personal  regard  with  which  I  am, 
My  dear  Dr.  Kennedy, 

Your  obliged  and  faithful 

LVTTON. 

CiNTRA,  s/w/y,  1875. 


4  16 


B  UL I  VER'S     WORKS. 


BOOK    FIRST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

On  one  of  the  quays  which  bordered  the  un- 
rivalled harbor  of  Byzantium,  more  than 
twenty-three  centuries  before  the  date  at 
which  this  narrative  is  begun,  stood  two 
Athenians.  In  the  waters  of  the  haven  rode 
the  vessels  of  the  Grecian  Fleet.  So  deep  was 
the  basin,  in  which  the  tides  are  scarcely  felt,* 
that  the  prows  of  some  of  the  ships  touched 
the  quays,  and  the  setting  sun  glittered  upon 
the  smooth  and  waxen  surfaces  of  the  prows 
rich  with  diversified  colors  and  wrought  glid- 
ing. To  the  extreme  right  of  the  fleet,  and 
and  nearly  opposite  the  place  upon  which  the 
Athenians  stood,  was  a  vessel  still  more  pro- 
fusely ornamented  than  the  rest.  On  the 
prow  were  elaborately  carved  the  heads  of  the 
twin  deities  of  the  Laconian  mariner,  Castor 
and  Pollux;  in  the  centre  of  the  deck  was  a 
wooden  edifice  or  pavilion  having  a  gilded  roof 
and  shaded  by  purple  awnings,  an  imitation  of 
the  luxurious  galleys  of  the  Barbarian;  while 
the  parasemon,  or  flag,  as  it  idly  waved  in  the 
faint  breeze  of  the  gentle  evening,  exhibited 
the  terrible  serpent,  which,  if  it  was  the  fabu- 
lous type  of  demigods  and  heroes,  might  also 
be  regarded  as  an  emblem  of  the  wily  but  stern 
policy  of  the  Spartan  State.  Such  was  the 
galley  of  the  commander  of  the  armament, 
which  (after  the  reduction  of  Cyprus)  had  but 
lately  wrested  from  the  yoke  of  Persia  that  link 
between  her  European  and  Asiatic  domains, 
that  key  of  the  Bosphorous — "  the  Golden 
Horn  "  of  Byzantium. f 

*  Gibbon,  ch.  17. 

t  "  The  harbor  of  Constantinople,  which  may  be 
considered  as  an  arm  of  the  Bosphorus,  obtained  in  a 
very  remote  period  the  denomination  of  the  Golden 
Horn.  The  curve  which  it  describes  might  be  com- 
pared to  the  horn  of  a  stag,  or,  as  it  should  seem,  with 
more  propriety  to  that  of  an  ox." — Gib.  c.  17 ;  Strab.  1.  x 


High  above  all  other  Greeks  (Themistocles- 
alone  excepted)  soared  the  fame  of  that  re- 
nowned chief,  Pausanias,  Regent  of  Sparta 
and  General  of  the  allied  troops  at  the  victori- 
ous battle-field  of  Plataea.  The  spot  on  which 
the  Athenians  stool  was  lonely  and  now  unoc- 
cupied, save  by  themselves  and  the  sentries 
stationed  at  some  distance  on  either  hand. 
The  larger  proportion  of  the  crews  in  the 
various  vessels  were  on  shore;  but  on  the 
decks  idly  reclined  small  groups  of  sailors,  and 
the  murmur  of  their  voices  stole,  indistinguish- 
ably  blended,  upon  the  translucent  air.  Be- 
hind rose,  one  above  the  other,  the  Seven 
Hills,  on  which  long  afterwards  the  Emperor 
Constantine  built  a  second  Rome;  and  over 
these  heights,  even  then,  buildings  were  scat- 
tered of  various  forms  and  dates,  here  the 
pillared  temples  of  the  Greek  colonists,  to 
whom  Byzantium  owed  its  origin,  there  the 
light  roofs  and  painted  domes  which  the 
Eastern  conquerors  had  introduced. 

One  of  the  Athenians  was  a  man  in  the 
meridian  of  manhood,  of  a  calm,  sedate,  but 
somewhat  haughty  aspect;  the  other  was  in 
the  full  bloom  of  youth,  of  lofty  stature,  and 
with  a  certain  majesty  of  bearing;  down  his 
shoulders  flowed  a  profusion  of  long  curled 
hair,*  divided  in  the  centre  of  the  forehead, 
and  connected  with  golden  clasps,  in  which 
was  wrought  the  emblem  of  the  Athenian 
nobles — the  Grasshopper — a  fashion  not  yet 
obsolete,  as  it  had  become  in  the  days  of 
Thucydides.  Still,  to  an  observer,  there  was 
something  heavy  in  the  ordinary  expression 
of  the  handsome  countenance.  His  dres.< 
differed  from  the  earlier  fashion  of  the  lonians; 
it  dispensed  with  those  loose  linen  garments 
which  had  something  of   effeminacy   in  their 

*  Ion  afiuii  Plut. 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


417 


folds,  and  was  confined  to  the  simple  and 
statue-like  grace  that  characterized  the  Dorian 
garb.  Yet  the  clasp  that  fastened  the  chlamys 
upon  the  right  shoulder,  leaving  the  arm  free, 
was  of  pure  gold  and  exquisite  workmanship, 
and  the  materials  of  the  simple  vesture  were 
of  a  quality  that  betokened  wealth  and  rank 
in  the  wearer. 

"Yes,  Cimon  said  the  elder  of  the  Atheni- 
ans, "  yonder  galley  itself  affords  sufficient 
testimony  of  the  change  that  has  come  over 
the  haughty  Spartan.  It  is  difficult,  indeed, 
to  recognize  in  this  luxurious  satrap,  who  af- 
fects the  dress,  the  manners,  the  very  insolence 
of  the  Barbarian,  that  Pausanias,  who,  after  the 
glorious  day  of  Platsea,  ordered  the  slaves  to 
prepare  in  the  tent  of  Mardonius  such  a  ban- 
quet as  would  have  been  served  to  the  Persian, 
while  his  own  Spartan  broth  and  bread  were 
set  beside  it,  in  order  that  he  might  utter  to 
the  chiefs  of  Greece  that  noble  pleasantry, 
'  Behold  the  folly  of  the  Persians,  who  forsook 
such  splendor  to  plunder  such  poverty.'  "  * 

"  Shame  upon  his  degeneracy,  and  thrice 
shame  !  "  said  the  young  Cimon,  sternly.  "  I 
love  the  Spartans  so  well,  that  I  blush  for  what- 
ever degrades  them.  And  all  Sparta  is  dwarf- 
ted  by  the  effeminacy  of  her  chief." 

"  Softly,  Cimon,"  said  Aristides,  with  a 
sober  smile.  "  Whatever  surprise  we  may 
feel  at  the  corruption  of  Pausanias  he  is  not 
one  who  will  allow  us  to  feel  contempt. 
Through  all  the  voluptuous  softness  acquired 
by  intercourse  with  these  Barbarians,  the 
strong  nature  of  the  descendant  of  the  demi- 
god still  breaks  forth.  Even  at  the  distaff  I 
recognize  Alcides,  whether  for  evil  or  for  good. 
Pausanias  is  one  on  whom  our  most  anxious 
gaze  must  be  duly  bent.  But  in  this  change 
of  his  I  rejoice;  the  gods  are  at  work  for 
Athens.  See  you  not  that,  day  after  day, 
while  Pausanias  disgusts  the  allies  with  the 
Spartans  themselves,  he  throws  them  more  and 
more  into  the  arms  of  Athens  ?  Let  his  mad- 
ness go  on,  and  ere  long  the  violet-crowned 
city  will  become  the  queen  of  the  seas." 

"  Such  was  my  own  hope,"  said  Cimon,  his 
face  assuming  a  new  expression,  brightened 
with  all  the  intelligence  of  ambition  and  pride; 
"  but  I  did  not  dare  own  it  to  myself  till  you 
spoke.  Several  officers  of  Ionia  and  the  Isles 
have  already  openly  and  loudly  proclaimed  to 


Herod,  ix.  82. 


me  their  wish  to  exchange  the  Spartan  ascend- 
ancy for  the  Athenian." 

"  And  with  all  your  love  for  Sparta,"  said 
Aristides,  looking  steadfastly,  and  searchingiy 
at  his  comrade,  "  you  would  not  then  hesitate 
to  rob  her  of  a  glory  which  you  might  bestow 
on  your  own  Athens  ?  " 

"  Ah,  am  I  not  Athenian  ? "  answered  Cimon, 
with  a  deep  passion  in  his  voice.  "  Though 
my  great  father  perished  a  victim  to  the  in- 
justice of  a  faction — though  he  who  had  saved 
Athens  from  the  Mede  died  in  the  .Athenian 
dungeon— still,  fatherless,  I  see  in  Athens  but 
a  mother,  and  if  her  voice  sounded  harshly  in 
my  boyish  years,  in  manhood  I  have  feasted 
on  her  smiles.  Yes,  I  honor  Sparta,  but  I  love 
Athens.     You  have  my  answer." 

"You  speak  well,"  said  Aristides,  with 
warmth;  "you  are  worthy  of  the  destinies  for 
which  I  foresee  that  the  son  of  Miltiades  is 
reserved.  Be  wary,  be  cautious;  above  all, 
be  smooth,  and  blend  with  men  of  every  state 
and  grade.  I  would  wish  that  the  allies  them- 
selves should  draw  the  contrast  between  the 
insolence  of  the  Spartan  chief  and  the  cour- 
tesy of  the  Athenians.  What  said  you  to  the 
Ionian  officers  ?  " 

"  I  said  that  Athens  held  there  was  no  dif- 
ference between  to  command  and  to  obey,  ex- 
cept so  far  as  was  best  for  the  interest  of 
Greece;  that — as  on  the  field  of  Platsea,  when 
the  Tegeans  asserted  precedence  over  the 
Athenians,  we,  the  Athenian  army,  at  once  ex- 
claimed, through  your  voice,  Aristides,  '  We 
come  here  to  fight  the  Barbarian,  not  to  dis- 
pute amongst  ourselves  !  place  us  where  you 
will;  '* — even  so  now,  while  the  allies  give  the 
command  to  Sparta,  Sparta  we  will  obey.  But 
if  we  were  thought  by  the  Greecian  States  the 
fittest  leaders,  our  answer  would  be  the  same 
that  we  give  to  Plataea,  '  Not  we,  but  Greece 
be  consulted;  place  us  where  you  will  I '  " 

"  O  wise  Cimon  !  "  exclaimed  Aristides,  "  I 
have  no  caution  to  bestow  on  you.  You  do  by 
intuition  that  which  I  attempt  by  experience. 
But  hark  !  What  music  sounds  in  the  dis- 
tance ?  the'  airs  that  Lydia  borrowed  from 
the  East  ?  " 

"  And  for  which,"  said  Cimon,  sarcastically, 

"  Pausanias  hath  abandoned  the  Dorian  flute." 

Soft,  airy,  and  voluptuous  were   indeed  the 

sounds  which  now,   from    the   streets   leading 


Plut.  in  Vit  Artist. 


6—27 


»i8 


£  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


upwards  from  the  quay,  floated  along  the 
delicious  air.  The  sailors  rose,  listening  and 
eager,  from  the  decks;  there  was  once  more 
bustle,  life,  and  animation  on  board  the  fieet. 
From  several  of  the  vessels  the  trumpets  woke 
a  sonorous  signal-note.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
quays,  before  so  deserted,  swarmed  with  the 
Greecian  mariners,  who  emerged  hastily, 
whether  from  various  houses  in  the  haven,  or 
from  the  encampment  which  stretched  along  it, 
and  hurried  to  their  respective  ships.  On 
board  the  galley  of  Pausanias  there  was  more 
especial  animation;  not  only  mariners,  but 
slaves,  evidently  from  the  Eastern  markets, 
were  seen,  jostling  each  other,  and  heard  talk- 
ing, quick  and  loud,  in  foreign  tongues.  Rich 
carpets  were  unfurled  and  laid  across  the  deck, 
while  trembling  and  hasty  hands  smoothed 
into  yet  more  graceful  folds  the  curtains  that 
shaded  the  gay  pavilion  in  the  centre.  The 
Athenians  looked  on,  the  one  with  thoughtful 
composure,  the  other  with  a  bitter  smile,  while 
these  preparations  announced  the  unexpected, 
and  not  undreaded  approach  of  the  great  Pau- 
sanias. 

"  Ho,  noble  Cimon  ! "  cried  a  young  man 
who,  hurrying  towards  one  of  the  vessels, 
caught  sight  of  the  Athenians  and  paused. 
"  You  are  the  very  person  whom  I  most  de- 
sired to  see.  Aristides  too  ! — we  are  fort- 
unate." 

The  speaker  was  a  young  man  of  slighter 
make  and  lower  stature  than  the  Athenians, 
but  well  shaped,  and  with  features  the  partial 
effeminancy  of  which  was  elevated  by  an 
expression  of  great  vivacity  and  intelligence. 
The  steed  trained  for  Elis  never  bore  in  its 
proportions  the  evidence  of  blood  and  rare 
breeding  more  visibly  than  the  dark  brilliant 
eye  of  this  young  man,  his  broad  low  trans- 
parent brow,  expanded  nostril  and  sensitive 
lip,  revealed  the  passionate  and  somewhat 
arrogant  character  of  the  vivacious  Greek  of 
the  iEgean  Isles. 

"  Antagoras,"  replied  Cimon,  laying  his  hand 
with  frank  and  somewhat  blunt  cordiality  on 
the  Greek's  shoulder,  "  like  the  grape  of  your 
own  Chios,  you  cannot  fail  to  be  welcome  at 
all  times.     But  why  would  you  seek  us  now  ? " 

"  Because  I  will  no  longer  endure  the  in- 
solence of  this  rude  Spartan.  Will  you  be- 
lieve it.  Cimon — will  you  believe  it,  Aris- 
tides ?     Pausanias  has  actually  dared  to  sen- 


tence to  blows,  to  stripes,  one  of  my  own  mea 
— a  free  Chian — nay,  a  Decadarchus.*  I  have 
but  this  instant  heard  it.  And  the  offence — 
Gods  !  the  offence  ! — was  that  he  ventured  to 
contest  with  a  Laconian,  an  underling  in  the 
Spartan  army,  which  one  of  the  two  had  the 
fair  right  to  a  wine  cask  !  Shall  this  be  borne, 
Cimon  ?" 

"  Stripes  to  a  Greek  ?  "  said  Cimon,  and  the 
color  mounted  to  his  brow.  "Thinks  Pausa- 
nias that  the  Ionian  race  are  already  his 
Helots?" 

"  Be  calm,"  said  Aristides;  "Pausanias  ap- 
proaches.    I  will  accost  him." 

"  But  listen  still  !  "  exclaimed  Antagoras, 
eagerly,  plucking  the  gown  of  the  Athenian  as 
the  latter  turned  away.  "When  Pausanias 
heard  of  the  contest  between  my  soldier  and 
his  Laconian,  what  said  he,  think  you  !  '  Prior 
claim;  learn  henceforth  that,  where  the  Spar- 
tans are  to  be  found,  the  Spartans  in  all  mat- 
ters have  the  prior  claim." 

"  We  will  see  to  it,"  returned  Aristides, 
calmly;  "  but  keep  by  my  side." 

And  now  the  music  sounded  loud  and  near, 
and  suddenly,  as  the  procession  approached, 
the  character  of  that  music  altered.  The 
Lydian  measures  ceased,  those  who  had  at- 
tuned them  gave  way  to  musicians  of  loftier 
aspect  and  simpler  garb;  in  whom  might  be 
recognized,  not  indeed  the  genuine  Spartans, 
but  their  free,  if  subordinate,  countrymen  of 
Laconia;  and  a  minstrel,  who  walked  beside 
them,  broke  out  into  a  song,  partially  adapted 
from  the  bold  and  lively  strain  of  Alcseus,  the 
first  two  lines  in  each  stanza  ringing  much  to 
that  chime,  the  two  latter  reduced  into  briefer 
compass,  as,  with  allowance  for  the  differing 
laws  of  national  rhythm,  we  thus  seek  to  render 
the  verse: 

SONG. 

Multitudes,  backward  !    Way  for  the  Dorian: 
Way  for  the  Lord  of  rocky  Laconia; 
Heaven  to  Hercules  opened 
Way  on  earth  for  his  son. 

Steel  and  fate,  blunted,  break  on  his  fortitude: 
Two  evils  only  never  endureth  he — 
Death  by  a  wound  in  retreating. 
Life  with  a  blot  on  his  name. 

Rocky  his  birthplace:  rocks  are  immutable; 
So  are  his  laws,  and  so  shall  his  glory  be. 
Time  is  the  Victor  of  Nations, 
Sparta  the  Victor  of  Time. 

•  Leader  of  ten  men. 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


419 


Watch  o'er  him  heedful  on  the  wide  ocean, 
Brothers  of  Helen,  luminous  guiding  stars; 
Dangerous  to  Truth  are  the  fickle, 
Dangerous  to  Spaita  the  seas. 

Multitudes,  backward!    Way  for  the  Conqueror; 
Way  for  the  footstep  half  the  world  fied  before; 
Nothing  that  Phcebuscan  shine  on 
Needs  so  much  space  as  Renown. 

Behind  the  musicians  came  ten  Spartans, 
selected  from  the  celebrated  three  hundred 
who  claimed  the  right  to  be  stationed  around 
the  king  in  battle.  Tall,  stalwart,  sheathed  in 
armor,  their  shields  slung  at  their  backs,  their 
crests  of  plumage  or  horsehair  waving  over 
their  strong  and  stern  features,  those  hardy- 
warriors  betrayed  to  the  keen  eye  of  Aristides 
their  sullen  discontent  at  the  part  assigned  to 
them  in  the  luxurious  procession;  their  brows 
were  knit,  their  lips  contracted,  and  each  of 
them  who  caught  the  glance  of  the  Athenians, 
turned  his  eyes,  as  half  in  shame,  half  in  an- 
ger, to  the  ground. 

Coming  now  upon  the  quay,  opposite  to  the 
galley  of  Pausanias,  from  which  was  sus- 
pended a  ladder  of  silken  cords,  the  proces- 
sion halted,  and  opening  on  either  side,  left 
space  in  the  midst  for  the  commander. 

"  He  comes,"  whispered  Antagoras  to 
Cimon.  "  By  Hercules  !  I  pray  you  survey 
him  well.  It  is  the  conqueror  of  Mardonius, 
or  the  ghost  of  Mardonius  himself  ?  " 

The  question  of  the  Chian  seemed  not  ex- 
travagant to  the  blunt  son  of  Militiades,  as 
his  eyes  now  rested  on  Pausanias. 

The  pure  Spartan  race  boasted,  perhaps,  the 
most  superb  models  of  masculine  beauty 
which  the  land  blessed  by  Apollo  could  afford. 
The  laws  that  regulate  marriage  seemed  a 
healthful  and  vigorous  progeny.  Gymnastic 
discipline  from  early  boyhood  gave  ease  to 
the  limbs,  iron  to  the  muscle,  grace  to  the 
whole  frame.  Every  Spartan,  being  born  to 
command,  being  noble  \>y  his  birth,  lord  of  the 
Laconians,  Master  of  the  Helots,  superior  in 
the  eyes  of  Greece  to  all  other  Greeks,  was  at 
once  a  Republican  and  an  Aristocrat.  Schooled 
in  the  arts  that  compose  the  presence,  and  give 
calmness  and  majesty  to  the  bearing,  he  com- 
bined with  the  mere  physical  advantages  of 
activity  and  strength  a  conscious  and  yet  nat- 
ural dignity  of  mien.  Amidst  the  Greeks  assem- 
bled at  the  Olympian  contests,  others  showed 
richer  garments,  more  sumptuous  chariots, 
rarer  steeds,  but  no  state  could  vie  with  Sparta 


in  the  thews  and  sinews,  the  aspect  and  the 
majesty  of  the  men.  Nor  were  the  royal  race, 
the  descendants  of  Hercules,  in  external  ap- 
pearance unworthy  of  their  countrymen  and  of 
their  fabled  origin. 

Sculptor  and  painter  would  have  vainly 
tasked  their  imaginative  minds  to  invent  a 
nobler  ideal  for  the  effigies  of  a  hero,  than  that 
which  the  Victor  of  Plataea  offered  to  their  in- 
spiration. As  he  now  paused  amidst  the  group, 
he  towered  high  above  them  all,  even  above 
Cimon  himself.  But  in  his  stature  there  was 
nothing  of  the  cumbrous  bulk  and  stolid  heav- 
iness, which  often  destroy  the  beauty  of  vast 
strength.  Severe  and  early  training,  long 
habits  of  rigid  abstemiousness,  the  toils  of 
war,  and,  more  than  all,  perhaps,  the  constant 
play  of  a  restless,  anxious,  aspiring  temper, 
had  left  undisfigured  by  superfluous  flesh,  the 
grand  proportions  of  a  frame,  the  very  spare- 
ness  of  which  had  at  once  the  strength  and  the 
beauty  of  one  of  those  hardy  victors  in  the 
wrestling  or  boxing  match,  whose  agility  and 
force  are  modelled  by  discipline  to  the  purest 
forms  of  grace.  Without  that  exact  and  chis- 
elled harmony  of  countenance  which  charac- 
terized, perhaps,  the  Ionic  rather  than  the 
Doric  race,  the  features  of  the  royal  Spartan 
were  noble  and  commanding.  His  complexion 
was  sunburnt,  almost  to  oriental  swarthi- 
ness,  and  the  raven's  plume  had  no  darker 
gloss  than  that  of  his  long  hair,  which  (contrary 
to  the  Spartan  custom),  flowing  on  either  side, 
mingled  with  the  closer  curls  of  the  beard.  To 
a  scrutinizing  gaze,  the  more  dignified  and  pre- 
possessing effect  of  this  exterior  would  per- 
haps have  been  counter-balanced  by  an  eye, 
bright  indeed  and  penetrating,  but  restless  and 
suspicious,  by  a  certain  ineffable  mixture  of 
arrogant  pride  and  profound  melancholy  in 
the  general  expression  of  the  countenance,  ill 
according  with  that  frank  and  serene  aspect 
which  best  becomes  the  face  of  one  who  would 
lead  mankind.  About  him  altogether — the 
countenance,  the  form,  the  bearing — there  was 
that  which  woke  a  vague,  profound,  and  singu- 
lar interest,  an  interest  somewhat  mingled  with 
awe,  but  not  altogether  uncalculated  to  pro- 
duce that  affection  which  belongs  to  admira- 
tion, save  when  the  sudden  frown  or  disdainful 
lip  repelled  the  gentler  impulse  and  tended 
rather  to  excite  fear,  or  to  irritate  pride,  or  to 
wound  self-love. 


420 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


But  if  the  form  and  features  of  Pausanias 
were  eminently  those  of  the  purest  race  of 
Greece,  the  dress  which  he  assumed  was  no 
^ess  characteristic  of  the  Barbarian.  He  wore, 
not  the  garb  of  the  noble  Persian  race,  which, 
close  and  simple,  was  but  a  little  less  manly 
than  that  of  the  Greeks,  but  the  flowing  and 
gorgeous  garments  of  the  Mede.  His  long 
gown,  which  swept  the  earth,  was  covered  with 
flowers  wrought  in  golden  tissue.  Instead  of 
the  Spartan  hat,  the  high  Median  cap  or  tiara 
crowned  his  perfumed  and  lustrous  hair,  while 
(what  of  all  was  most  hateful  to  Grecian  eyes) 
he  wore,  though  otherwise  unarmed,  the  curved 
scimitar  and  short  dirk  that  were  the  national 
weapons  of  the  Barbarian.  And  as  it  was  not 
customary,  nor  indeed  legitimate,  for  the 
Greeks  to  wear  weapons  on  peaceful  occasions 
and  with  their  ordinary  costume,  so  this  de- 
parture from  the  common  practice  had  not 
only  in  itself  something  offensive  to  the  jealous 
eyes  of  his  comrades,  but  was  rendered  yet 
more  obnoxious  by  the  adoption  of  the  very 
arms  of  the  east. 

By  the  side  of  Pausanias  was  a  man  whose 
dark  beard  was  already  sown  with  grey.  This 
man,  named  Gongylus,  though  a  Greek — a 
native  of  Eretria,  in  Euboea — was  in  high 
command  under  the  great  Persian  king.  At 
the  time  of  the  barbarian  invasion  under  Datis 
and  Artaphernes,  he  had  deserted  the  cause 
of  Greece  and  had  been  rewarded  with  the 
lordship  of  four  towns  in  ^olis.  Few  among 
the  apostate  Greeks  were  more  deeply  in- 
structed in  the  language  and  manners  of  the 
Persians;  and  the  intimate  and  sudden  friend- 
ship that  had  grown  up  between  him  and  the 
Spartan  was  regarded  by  the  Greeks  with  the 
most  bitter  and  angry  suspicion.  As  if  to 
show  his  contempt  for  the  natural  jealousy  of 
his  countrymen,  Pausanias,  however,  had  just 
given  to  the  Eretrian  the  government  of  Byzan- 
tium itself,  and  with  the  command  of  the 
citadel  had  entrusted  to  him  the  custody  of 
the  Persian  prisoners  captured  in  that  port. 
Among  these  were  men  of  the  highest  rank 
and  influence  at  the  court  of  Xerxes;  and  it 
was  more  than  rumored  that  of  late  Pausanias 
had  visited  and  conferred  with  them,  through 
the  interpretation  of  Gongylus,  far  more  fre- 
quently than  became  the  General  of  the 
Greeks.  Gongylus  had  one  of  those  counte- 
nances which  are  observed  when  many  of  more 


striking  semblance  are  overlooked.  But  the 
features  were  sharp  and  the  visage  lean,  the 
eyes  vivid  and  sparkling  as  those  of  the  lynx, 
and  the  dark  pupil  seemed  yet  more  dark 
from  the  extreme  whiteness  of  the  ball,  from 
which  it  lessened  or  dilated  with  the  impulse 
of  the  spirit  which  gave  it  fire.  There  was  in 
that  eye  all  the  subtle  craft,  the  plotting  and 
restless  malignity,  which  usually  characterized 
those  Greek  renegades  who  prostituted  their 
native  energies  to  the  rich  service  of  the  Bar- 
barian; and  the  lips,  narrow  and  thin,  wore 
that  everlasting  smile  which  to  the  credulous 
disguises  wile,  and  to  the  experienced  betrays 
it.  Small,  spare,  and  prematurely  bent,  the 
Eretrian  supported  himself  by  a  staff,  ujx»n 
which  now  leaning,  he  glanced,  quickly  and 
pryingly,  around,  till  his  eyes  rested  upon  the 
Athenians,  with  the  young  Chian  standing  in 
their  rear. 

"  The  Athenian  Captains  are  here  to  do  you 
homage,  Pausanias,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper, 
as  he  touched  with  his  small  lean  fingers  the 
arm  of  the  Spartan. 

Pausanias  turned  and  muttered  to  himself, 
and  at  that  instant  Aristides  approached. 

"  If  it   please  you,  Pausanias,  Cimon   and 
myself,  the  leaders  of   the   Athenians,  would 
crave  a  hearing  upon  certain  matters." 
"  "  Son  of  Lysimachus,  say  on." 

"Your  pardon,  Pausanias,"  returned  the 
Athenian,  lowering  his  voice,  and  with  a  smile 
—"  This  is  too  crowded  a  council-hall;  may 
we  attend  you  on  board  your  galley  ? " 

"Not  so,"  answered  the  Spartan  haughtily; 
"  the  morning  to  affairs,  the  evening  to  recrea- 
tion. We  shall  sail  in  the  bay  to  see  the 
moon  rise,  and  if  we  indulge  in  consultations, 
it  will  be  over  our  winecups.  It  is  a  good 
custom." 

"  It  is  a  Persian  one,"  said  Cimon  bluntly. 

"  It  is  permitted  to  us,'  returned  the  Spartan 
coldly,  "  to  borrow  from  those  we  conquer. 
But  enough  of  this.  I  have  no  secrets  with 
the  Athenians.  No  matter  if  the  whole  city 
hear  what  you  would  address  to  Pausanias." 

"It  is  to  complain,"  said  Aristides  with 
calm  emphasis,  but  still  in  an  undertone. 

"Ay,  I  doubt  it  not:  the  Athenians  are 
eloquent  in  grumbling." 

"  It  was  not  found  so  at  Plataea,"  returned 
Cimon. 

"  Son  of  Miltiades,"  said   Pausanias  loftily, 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


421 


"  your  wit  outruns  your  experience.  But  my 
time  is  short.     To  the  matter  ! " 

"If  you  will  have  it  so,  I  will  speak,"  said 
Aristides,  raising  his  voice.  "  Before  your 
own  Spartans,  our  comrades  in  arms,  I  pro- 
claim our  causes  of  complaint.  Firstly,  then, 
I  demand  release  and  compensation  to  seven 
Athenians,  free-born  and  citizens,  whom  your 
orders  have  condemned  to  the  unworthy  pun- 
ishment of  standing  all  day  in  the  open  sun 
with  the  weight  of  iron  anchors  on  their 
shoulders." 

"The  mutinous  knaves!"  exclaimed  the 
Spartan.  "  They  introduced  into  the  camp 
the  insolence  of  their  own  agora,  and  were 
publicly  heard  in  the  streets  inveighing  against 
myself  as  a  favorer  of  the  Persians." 

"It  was  easy  to  confute  the  charge;  it  was 
tyrannical  to  punish  words  in  men  whose  deeds 
had  raised  you  to  the  command  of  Greece." 

"  7y««>  deeds  !  Ye  Gods,  give  me  patience  ! 
By  the  help  of  Juno  the  protectress  it  was  this 

brain  and  this  arm  tnat But  I  will  not 

justify  myself  by  imitating  the  Athenian  fash- 
ion of  wordly  boasting.  Pass  on  to  your  next 
complaint." 

"  You  have  placed  slaves — yes.  Helots — 
around  the  springs,  to  drive  away  with  scourges 
the  soldiers  that  come  for  water." 

"  Not  so,  but  rarely  to  prevent  others  from 
filling  their  vases  until  the  Spartans  are  sup- 
plied." 

"  And  by  what  right ?  "  began  Cimon, 

but  Aristides  checked  him  with  a  gesture,  and 
proceeded. 

"  That  precedence  is  not  warranted  by  cus- 
tom, nor  by  the  terms  of  our  alliance;  and  the 
springs,  O  Pausanias,  are  bounteous  enough  to 
provide  for  all.  I  proceed.  You  have  for- 
mally sentenced  citizens  and  soldiers  to  the 
scourge.  Nay,  this  very  day  you  have  ex- 
tended the  sentence  to  one  in  actual  command 
amongst  the  Chians.     Is  it  not  so,  Antagoras  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  the  young  Chian,  coming  for- 
ward boldly;  "and  in  the  name  of  my  coun- 
trymen I  demand  justice." 

"  And  I  also,  Uliades  of  Samos,"  said  a 
thickest  and  burly  Greek  who  had  joined  the 
group  unobserved,  "  /  demand  justice.  What, 
by  the  Gods  !  Are  we  to  be  all  equals  in  the 
day  of  battle?  'My  good  sir,  march  here;' 
and,  '  My  dear  su',  just  run  into  that  breach; ' 
and  yet  when  we   have  won  the  victory  and 


should  share  the  glory,  is  one  state,  nay,  one 
man  to  seize  the  whole,  and  deal  out  iron 
anchors  and  tough  cowhides  to  his  compan- 
ions ?  No,  Spartans,  this  is  not  your  view  of 
the  case;  you  suffer  in  the  eyes  of  Greece  by 
this  misconduct.  To  Sparta  itself  I  ap- 
peal." 

"  And  what,  most  patient  sir,"  said  Pausa- 
nias, with  calm  sarcasm,  though  his  eye  shot 
fire,  and  the  upper  lip,  on  which  no  Spartan 
suffered  the  beard  to  grow,  slightly  quivered — 
"  what  \%  your  contribution  to  the  catalogue  of 
complaints  ?  " 

"  Jest  not,  Pausanias;  you  will  find  me  ir 
earnest,"  answered  Uliades,  doggedly,  and  en- 
couraged by  the  evident  effect  that  his  ck 
quence  had  produced  upon  the  Spartans  them- 
selves. "  I  have  met  with  a  grievous  wrong, 
and  all  Greece  shall  hear  of  it,  if  it  be  not  re- 
dressed. My  own  brother,  who  at  Mycale 
slew  four  Persians  with  his  own  hand,  headed 
a  detachment  for'  forage.  He  and  his  mOM 
were  met  by  a  company  of  mixed  Laconians 
and  Helots,  their  forage  taken  from  them, 
they  themselves  assaulted,  and  my  brother,  a 
man  who  has  moneys  and  maintains  forty 
slaves  of  his  own,  struck  thrice  across  the  face 
by  a  rascally  Helot.  Now,  Pausanias,  your 
answer  ! " 

"  You  have  prepared  a  notable  scene  for  the 
commander  of  your  forces,  son  of  Lysima- 
chus,"  said  the  Spartan  addressing  himself  to 
Aristides.  "  Far  be  it  from  me  to  affect  the 
Agamemnon,  but  your  friends  are  less  modest 
in  imitating  the  venerable  model  of  Thersites. 
Enough"  (and  changing  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
the  chief  stamped  his  foot  vehemently  to  the 
ground):  "  we  owe  no  account  to  our  inferiors; 
we  render  no  explanation  save  to  Sparta  and 
and  her  Ephors." 

"So  be  it,  then,"  said  Aristides,  gravely; 
"we  have  our  answer,  and  you  will  hear  of  our 
appeal." 

Pausanias  changed  color.  "  How  ?  "  said 
he,  with  a  slight  hesitation  in  his  tone.  "  Mean 
you  to  threaten  me — Me — with  carrying  the 
busy  tales  of  your  disaffection  to  the  Spartan 
government  ?  " 

"  Time  will  show.  Farewell,  Pausanias. 
We  will  detain  you  no  longer  from  your  pas- 
time." 

"  But,"  began  Uliades. 

"  Hush,"  said  the  Athenian,  laying  his  hand 


422 


B  UL  WER-S     WORKS. 


on  the  Samian's  shoulder.     "  We  will  confer 
anon." 

Pausanias  paused  a  moment,  irresolute  and 
m  thought.  His  eyes  glanced  towards  his 
own  countrymen,  who,  true  to  their  rigid  dis- 
cipline, neither  spake  nor  moved,  but  whose 
countenances  were  sullen  and  overcast,  and  at 
that  moment  his  pride  was  shaken,  and  his 
heart  misgave  him.  Gongylus  watched  his 
countenance,  and  once  more  laying  his  hand 
on  his  arm,  said  in  a  whisper — 

"  He  who  seeks  to  rule  never  goes  back." 
"  Tush,  you  know  not  the  Spartans." 
"But  I  know  Human  Nature;  it  is  the 
same  everywhere.  You  cannot  yield  to  this 
insolence;  to-morrow,  of  your  own  accord,  send 
for  these  men  separately  and  pacify  them." 
"  You  are  right.  Now  to  the  vessel  !  " 
With  this,  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
Persian,  and  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand 
towards  the  Athenians — he  did  not  deign  even 
that  gesture  to  the  island  officers — Pausanias 
advanced  to  the  vessel,  and  slowly  ascending, 
disappeared  within  his  pavilion.  The  Spar- 
tans and  the  musicians  followed;  then,  spare 
and  swarthy,  some  half  score  of  Egyptian 
sailors;  last  came  a  small  party  of  Laconians 
and  Helots,  who,  standing  at  some  distance 
behind  Pausanias,  had  not  hitherto  been  ob- 
served. The  former  were  but  slightly  armed; 
the  latter  had  forsaken  their  customary  rude 
and  savage  garb,  and  wore  long  gowns  and 
gay  tunics,  somewhat  in  the  fashion  of  the 
Lydians.  With  these  last  there  was  one  of  a 
mien  and  aspecc  that  strongly  differed  from 
the  lowering  and  ferocious  cast  of  countenance 
common  to  the  Helot  race.  He  was  of  the 
ordinary  stature,  and  his  frame  was  not  char- 
acterized by  any  appearance  of  unusual 
strength;  but  he  trod  the  earth  with  a  firm 
step  and  an  erect  crest,  as  if  the  curse  of 
the  slave  had  not  yet  destroyed  the  inborn 
dignity  of  the  human  being.  There  was  a 
certain  delicacy  and  refinement,  rather  of 
thought  than  beauty,  in  his  clear,  sharp,  and 
singularly  intelligent  features.  In  contra- 
distinction from  the  free-born  Spartans,  his 
hair  was  short,  and  curled  close  above  a  broad 
and  manly  forehead;  and  his  large  eyes  of 
dark  blue  looked  full  and  bold  upon  the  Athe- 
nians with  something  if  not  of  defiance,  at 
least  of  pride  in  their  gaze,  as  he  stalked  by 
them  to  the  vessel. 


"  A  sturdy  fellow  for  a  Helot,"  muttered 
Cimon. 

"And  merits  well  his  freedom,"  said  the 
son  of  Lysimachus.  "  I  remember  him  well. 
He  is  Alcman,  the  foster-brother  of  Pausanias, 
whom  he  attended  at  Piataea.  Not  a  Spartan 
that  day  bore  himself  more  bravely." 

"  No  doubt  they  will  put  him  to  death  when 
he  goes  back  to  Sparta,"  said  Antagoras. 
"  When  a  Helot  is  brave,  the  Ephors  clap  the 
black  mark  against  his  name,  and  at  the  next 
crypteia  he  suddenly  disappears." 

"  Pausanias  may  share  the  same  fate  as  his 
Helot,  for  all  I  care,"  quoth  Uliades.  "Well, 
Athenians,  what  say  you  to  the  answer  we  have 
received  ? " 

"That  Sparta  shall  hear  of  it,"  answered 
Aristides.  , 

"  Ah,  but  is  that  all  ?  Recollect  the  lonians 
have  the  majority  in  the  fleet;  let  us  not  wait 
for  the  slow  Ephors.  Let  us  at  once  throw 
off  this  insufferable  yoke,  and  proclaim  Athens 
the  Mistress  of  the  Seas.  What  say  you, 
Cimon?" 

"  Let  Aristides  answer." 

"Yonder  lie  the  Athenian  vessels,"  said 
Aristides  "  Those  who  put  themselves  volun- 
tarily under  our  protection  we  will  not  reject. 
But  remember  we  assert  no  claim;  we  yield 
but  to  the  general  wish." 

"Enough;  I  understand  you,"  said  Anta- 
goras. 

"Not  quite,"  returned  the  Athenian  with  a 
smile.  "  The  breach  between  you  and  Pau- 
sanias is  begun,  but  it  is  not  yet  wide  enough. 
You  yourselves  must  do  that  which  will  annul 
all  power  in  the  Spartan,  and  then  if  ye  come 
to  Athens  ye  will  find  her  as  bold  against  the 
Doric  despot  as  against  the  Barbarian  foe." 

"  But  speak  more  plainly.  What  would  you 
have  us  do  ? "  asked  Uliades,  rubbing  his 
chin  in  great  perplexity. 

"Nay,  nay,  I  have  already  said  enough. 
Fare  ye  well,  fellow-countrymen,"  and  leaning 
lightly  on  the  shoulder  of  Cimon,  the  Athenian 
passed  on. 

.Meanwhile  the  splendid  galley  of  Pausanias 
slowly  put  forth  into  the  farther  waters  of  the 
bay.  The  oars  of  the  rowers  broke  the  sur- 
face into  countless  phosphoric  sparkles,  and 
the  sound  they  made,  as  they  dashed  amidst 
the  gentle  waters,  seemed  to  keep  time  with 
the  song   and    the    instruments  on  the  deck. 


PAUSANJAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


423 


The  lonians  gazed  in  silence  as  the  stately 
vessel,  now  shooting  far  ahead  of  the  rest, 
swept  into  the  centre  of  the  bay.  And  the 
moon,  just  rising,  shone  full  upon  the  glitter- 
ing prow,  and  streaked  the  rippling  billows 
over  which  it  had  bounded,  with  a  light,  as  it 
were,  of  glory. 

Antagoras  sighed. 

"  What  think  you  of  ? "  asked  the  rough 
Samian. 

"  Peace,"  replied  Antagoras.  "  In  this 
hour,  when  the  fair  face  of  Artemis  recalls 
the  old  legends  of  Endymion,  is  it  not  per- 
mitted to  man  to  remember  that  before  the 
iron  age  came  the  golden,  before  war  reigned 
love  ? " 

"  Tush,"  said  Uliades.  "  Time  enough  to 
think  of  love  when  we  have  satisfied  vengeance. 
Let  us  summon  our  friends,  and  hold  council 
on  the  Spartan's  insults." 

"Whither  goes  now  the  Spartan?"  mur- 
mured Antagoras  abstractedly,  as  he  suffered 
his  companion  to  lead  him  away.  Then  halt- 
ing abruptly,  he  struck  his  clenched  hand  on 
his  breast. 

"O  Aphrodite!"  he  cried;  "this  night — 
this  night  I  will  seek  thy  temple.  Hear  my 
vows — soothe  my  jealousy  !  " 

"  Ah,"  grunted  Uliades,  "  if,  as  men  say, 
thou  lovest  a  fair  Byzantine,  Aphrodite  will 
have  sharp  work  to  cure  thee  of  jealousy,  un- 
less she  first  makes  thee  blind." 

Antagoras  smiled  faintly,  and  the  two 
lonians  moved  on  slowly  and  in  silence.  In  a 
few  minutes  more  the  quays  were  deserted  and 
nothing  but  that  blended  murmur,  spreading 
wide  and  indistinct  throughout  the  camp,  and  a 
noisier  but  occasional  burst  of  merriment  from 
those  resorts  of  obscener  pleasure  which  were 
profusely  scattered  along  the  haven,  mingled 
with  the  whispers  of  "the far  resounding  sea." 


CHAPTER  n. 

On  a  couch  beneath  his  voluptuous  awning, 
reclined  Pausanias.  The  curtains,,  drawn 
aside,  gave  to  view  the  moonlit  ocean,  and  the 
dim  shadows  of  the  shore,  with  the  dark  woods 
beyond,  relieved  by  the  distant  lights  of  the 
city.  On  one  side  of  the  Spartan  was  a  small 
table,  that  supported  goblets  and  vases  of  that 


exquisite  wine  which  Maronea  proffered  to  the 
thirst  of  the  Byzantine,  and  those  cooling  and 
delicious  fruits  which  the  orchards  around 
the  city  supplied  as  amply  as  the  fabled  gar- 
dens of  the  Hesperides,  were  heaped  on  the 
other  side.  Towards  the  foot  of  the  couch, 
propped  upon  cushions  piled  on  the  floor,  sat 
Gongylus,  conversing  in  a  low,  earnest  voice, 
and  fixing  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  the  Spar- 
tan. The  habits  of  the  Erefrian's  life,  which 
had  brought  him  in  constant  contact  with  the 
Persians,  had  infected  his  very  language  with 
the  luxuriant  extravagance  of  the  East.  And 
the  thoughts  he  uttered  made  his  language  but 
too  musical  to  the  ears  of  the  listening  Spar- 
tan. 

"  And  fair  as  these  climes  may  seem  to  you, 
and  rich  as  are  the  gardens  and  granaries  of 
Byzantium,  yet  to  me  who  have  stood  on  the 
terraces  of  Babylon  and  looked  upon  groves 
covering  with  blossom  and  fruit  the  very  for- 
tresses and  walls  of  that  queen  of  nations, — 
to  me,  who  have  roved  amidst  the  vast  de- 
lights of  Susa,  through  palaces  whose  very 
porticoes  might  enclose  the  limits  of  a  Grecian 
city — who  have  stood,  awed  and  dazzled,  in 
the  courts  of  that  wonder  of  the  world,  that 
crown  of  the  East,  the  marble  magnificence  of 
Persepolis — to  me,  Pausanias,  who  have  been 
thus  admitted  into  the  very  heart  of  Persian 
glories,  this  city  of  Byzantium  appears  but  a 
village  of  artisans  and  fishermen.  The  very 
foliage  of  its  forests,  pale  and  sickly,  the 
very  moonlight  upon  the  waters,  cold  and 
smileless,  ah,  if  thou  couldst  but  see  !  But 
pardon  me,  I  .weary  thee  ?  " 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  Spartan,  who,  raised  upon 
his  elbow,  listened  to  the  words  of  Gongylus 
with  deep  attention.     "  Proceed." 

"  Ah,  if  thou  couldst  but  see  the  fair  regions 
which  the  great  king  has  apportioned  to  thy 
countryman  Demaratus.  And  if  a  domain, 
that  would  satiate  the  ambition  of  the  most 
craving  of  your  earlier  tyrants,  fall  to  Dema- 
ratus, what  would  be  the  splendid  satraphy  in 
which  the  conqueror  of  Plataea  might  plant  his 
throne  ? " 

"In  truth,  my  renown  and  my  power  are 
greater  than  those  ever  possessed  by  Dema- 
ratus," said  the  Spartan,  musingly. 

"Yet,"  pursued  Gongylus,  "it  is  not  so 
much  the  mere  extent  of  the  territories  which 
the  grateful  Xerxes  could  proffer  to  the  brave 


4*4 


BUL\VKR-S     WORKS. 


Pausanias — it  is  not  their  extent  so  much  that 
might  tempt  desire,  neither  is  it  their  stately 
forests,  nor  the  fertile  meadows,  nor  the  ocean- 
like rivers,  which  the  gods  of  the  East  have 
given  to  the  race  of  Cyrus.  There,  free  from 
the  strange  constraints  which  our  austere  cus- 
toms and  solemn  deities  impose  upon  the 
Greeks,  the  beneficent  Ornuizd  scatters  ever- 
varying  delights  upon  the  paths  of  men.  All 
that  art  can  invent,  all  that  the  marts  of  the 
universe  can  afford  of  the  rare  and  voluptuous, 
are  lavished  upon  abodes  the  splendor  of 
which,  even  our  idle  dreams  of  Olympus  never 
shadowed  forth.  There,  instead  of  the  harsh 
and  imperious  helpmate  to  whom  the  joyless 
Spartan  confines  his  reluctant  love,  all  the 
beauties  of  every  clime  contend  for  the  smile 
of  their  lord.  And  wherever  are  turned  the 
change- loving  eyes  of  Passion,  the  Aphrodite 
of  our  poets,  such  as  the  Cytherian  and  the 
Cyprian  fable  her,  seems  to  recline  on  the  lotus 
leaf  or  to  rise  from  the  unruffled  ocean  of  de- 
light. Instead  of  the  gloomy  brows  and  the 
harsh  tones  of  rivals  envious  of  your  fame, 
hosts  of  friends  aspiring  only  to  be  followers 
will  catch  gladness  from  your  smile  or  sorrow 
from  your  frown.  There,  no  jarring  contests 
with  little  men,  who  deem  themselves  the 
equals  of  the  great,  no  jealous  Ephor  is 
found,  to  load  the  commonest  acts  of  life 
with  fetters  of  iron  custom.  Talk  of  liberty  ! 
Liberty  in  Sparta  is  but  one  eternal  servitude; 
you  cannot  move,  or  eat,  or  sleep,  save  as  the 
law  directs.  Your  very  children  are  wrested 
from  you  just  in  the  age  when  their  voices 
sound  most  sweet.  Ye  are  not  men;  ye  are 
machines.  Call  you  this  liberty,  Pausanias  ? 
I,  a  Greek,  have  known  both  Grecian  liberty 
and  Persian  royalty.  Better  be  chieftain  to  a 
king  than  servant  to  a  mob  !  But  in  Eretria 
at  least,  pleasure  was  not  denied.  In  Sparta 
the  very  Graces  preside  over  discipline  and  war 
only." 

"Your  fire  falls  upon  flax,"  said  Pausanias, 
rising,  and  with  passionate  emotion.  "  And  if 
you,  the  Greek  of  a  happier  state,  you  who 
know  but  by  report  the  unnatural  bondage  to 
which  the  Spartans  are  subjected,  can  weary 
of  the  very  name  of  Greek,  what  must  be  the 
feelings  of  one  who  from  the  cradle  upward 
has  been  starved  out  of  the  genial  desires  of 
life  ?  Even  in  earliest  youth,  while  yet  all 
other  lands  and  customs  were  unknown,  when 


it  was  duly  poured  into  my  ears  that  to  be 
born  a  Spartan  constituted  the  glory  and  the 
bliss  of  earth,  my  soul  sickened  at  the  lesson, 
and  my  reason  revolted  against  the  lie.  Often 
when  my  whole  body  was  lacerated  with  stripes, 
disdaining  to  groan,  I  yet  yearned  to  strike, 
and  I  cursed  my  savage  tutors  who  denied 
pleasure  even  to  childhood  with  all  the  mad- 
ness of  impotent  revenge.  My  mother  herself 
(sweet  name  elsewhere)  had  no  kindness  in 
her  face.  She  was  the  pride  of  the  matronage 
of  Sparta,  because  of  all  our  women  Alithea 
was  the  most  unsexed.  When  I  went  forth  to 
my  first  crypteia,  to  watch,  amidst  the  wintry 
dreariness  of  the  mountains,  upon  the  move- 
ments of  the  wretched  Helots,  to  spy  upon 
their  sufferings,  to  take  account  of  their  groans, 
and  if  one  more  manly  than  the  rest  dared  to 
mingle  curses  with  his  groans,  to  mark /im  for 
slaughter  as  a  wolf  that  threatened  danger  to 
the  fold;  to  lurk,  an  assassin,  about  his  home, 
to  dog  his  walks,  to  fall  upon  him  unawares, 
to  strike  him  from  behind,  to  filch  away  his 
life,  to  bury  him  in  the  ravines,  so  that  murder 
might  leave  no  trace;  when  upon  this  initiat- 
ing campaign,  the  virgin  trials  of  our  youth,  I 
first  set  forth,  my  mother  drew  near,  and  gird- 
ing me  herself  with  my  grandsire's  sword,  '  Go 
forth,'  she  said,  'as  the  young  hound  to  the 
chase,  to  wind,  to  double,  to  leap  on  the  prey, 
and  to  taste  of  blood.  See,  the  sword  is  bright; 
show  me  the  stains  at  thy  return.'  " 

"  Is  it  then  true,  as  the  Greeks  generally 
declare,"  interrupted  Gongylus,  "that  in  these 
campaigns,  or  crypteias,  the  sole  aim  and  object 
is  the  massacre  of  Helots  ?  " 

"Not  so,"  replied  Pausanias;  "savage 
though  the  custom,  it  smells  not  so  foully  of 
the  shambles.  The  avowed  object  is  to  harden 
the  nerves  of  our  youth.  Barefooted,  unat- 
tended, through  cold  and  storm,  performing 
ourselves  the  most  menial  offices  necessary  to 
life,  we  wander  for  a  certain  season  daily  and 
nightly  through  the  rugged  territories  of  La- 
conia.*  We  go  as  boys — we  come  back  as 
men.t  The  avowed  object,  I  say,  is  inurement 
to  hardship,  but  with  this  is  connected  the 
secret  end  of  keeping  watch  on  these  half- 
tamed  and  bull-like  herds  of  men  whom  we  call 


♦  Plat.  Leg.  i.  p.  633.  See  also  Mailer's  Dorians, 
vol.  ii.  p.  41. 

+  Pueros  puberes— neque  prius  in  urbem  redir* 
quam  viri  facti  essent. — Justin,  iii.  3. 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


4»S 


the  Helots.  If  any  be  dangerous,  we  mark 
him  for  the  knife.  One  of  them  had  thrice 
been  a  ringleader  in  revolt.  He  was  wary  as 
well  as  fierce.  He  had  escaped  in  three  succeed- 
ing crypteias.  To  me,  as  one  of  the  Herac- 
lidae,  was  assigned  the  honor  of  tracking  and 
destroying  him.  For  three  days  and  three 
nights  I  dogged  his  footsteps  (for  he  had 
caught  the  scent  of  the  pursuers  and  fled), 
through  forest  and  defile,  through  valley  and 
crag,  stealthily  and  relentlessly.  I  followed 
him  close.  At  last,  one  evening,  having  lost 
sight  of  all  my  comrades,  I  came  suddenly 
upon  him  as  I  emerged  from  a  wood.  It  was 
a  broad  patch  of  waste  land,  through  which 
rushed  a  stream  swollen  by  the  rains,  and 
plunging  with  a  sullen  roar  down  a  deep  and 
gloomy  precipice,  that  to  the  right  and  left 
bounded  the  waste,  the  stream  in  front,  the 
wood  in  the  rear.  He  was  reclining  by  the 
stream,  at  which,  with  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
he  quenched  his  thirst.  I  paused  to  gaze 
upon  him,  and  as  I  did  so  he  turned  and  saw 
me.  He  rose,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  mine, 
and  we  examined  each  other  in  silence.  The 
Helots  are  rarely  of  tall  stature,  but  this  was 
a  giant.  His  dress,  that  of  his  tribe,  of  rude 
sheepskins,  and  his  cap  made  from  the  hide 
of  a  dog  increased  the  savage  rudeness  of 
his  appearance.  I  rejoiced  that  he  saw  me, 
and  that,  as  we  were  alone,  I  might  fight  him 
fairly.  It  would  have  been  terrible  to  slay 
the  wretch  if  I  had  caught  him  in  his  sleep." 

"Proceed,"  said  Gongylus,  with  interest,  for 
so  little  was  known  of  Sparta  by  the  rest  of 
the  Greeks,  especially  outside  the  Peloponne- 
sus, that  these  details  gratified  his  natural 
spirit  of  gossiping  inquisitiveness. 

" '  Stand  ! '  said  I,  and  he  moved  not.  I 
approached  him  slowly.  '  Thou  art  a  Spar- 
tan,' said  he,  in  a  deep  and  harsh  voice,  *  and 
thou  comest  for  my  blood.  Go,  boy,  go,  thou 
art  not  mellowed  to  thy  prime,  and  thy  com- 
rades are  far  away.  The  shears  of  the  Fatal 
deities  hover  over  the  thread  not  of  my  life 
but  of  thine.'  I  was  struck,  Gongylus,  by  this 
address,  for  it  was  neither  desperate  not  das- 
tardly, as  I  had  anticipated;  nevertheless,  it 
beseemed  not  a  Spartan  to  fly  from  a  Helot, 
and  I  drew  the  sword  which  my  mother  had 
girded  on.  The  Helot  watched  my  move- 
ments, and  seized  a  rude  and  knotted  club 
that  lay  on  the  ground  beside  him. 


"  '  Wretch,'  said  I,  '  darest  thou  attack  face 
to  face  a  descendant  of  the  Heraclidae  ?  In 
me  behold  Pausanias,  the  son  of  Cleombro- 
tus.' 

"  '  Be  it  so;  in  the  city  one  is  the  god-born, 
the  other  the  man-enslaved.  On  the  moun- 
tains we  are  equals.' 

" '  Knowest  thou  not,'  said  I,  '  that  if  the 
Gods  condemned  me  to  die  by  thy  hand,  not 
only  thou,  but  thy  whole  house,  thy  wife  and 
children,  would  be  sacrificed  to  my  ghost? ' 

"  '  The  earth  can  hide  the  Spartan's  bones 
as  secretly  as  the  Helot's,'  answered  my 
strange  foe.  '  Begone,  young  and  unfleshed 
in  slaughter  as  you  are;  why  make  war  upon 
me  ?  My  death  can  give  you  neither  gold  nor 
glory.  I  have  never  harmed  thee  or  thine. 
How  much  of  the  air  and  sun  does  this  form 
take  from  the  descendant  of  the  Heraclidae  ? ' 

"  '  Thrice  hast  thou  raised  revolt  among  the 
fi-^Iots,  thrice  at  thy  voice  have  they  risen  in 
bloody,  though  fruitless,  strife  against  their 
masters.' 

"  '  Not  at  my  voice,  but  at  that  of  the  two 
deities  who  are  the  war-gods  of  slaves — Perse- 
cution and  Despair.'  * 

"  Impatient  of  this  parley,  I  tarried  no 
Togger.  I  sprang  upon  the  Helot.  He  evaded 
my  sword,  and  I  soon  found  that  all  my  agility 
and  skill  were  requisite  to  save  me  from  the 
massive  weapon,  one  blow  of  which  would  have 
sufficed  to  crush  me.  But  the  Helot  seemed 
to  stand  on  the  defensive,  and  continued  to  back 
towards  the  wood  from  which  I  had  emerged. 
Fearful  lest  he  would  escape  me,  I  pressed 
hard  on  his  foot-steps.  My  blood  grew  warm; 
my  fury  got  the  better  of  my  prudence.  My 
foot  stumbled;  I  recovered  in  an  instant,  and 
looking  up,  beheld  the  terrible  club  suspended 
over  my  head;  it  might  have  fallen,  but  the 
stroke  of  death  was  withheld.  I  misinterpreted 
the  merciful  delay;  the  lifted  arm  left  the 
body  of  my  enemy  exposed.  I  struck  him  on 
the  side;  the  thick  hide  blunted  the  stroke, 
but  drew  blood.  Afraid  to  draw  back  within 
the  reach  of  his  weapon,  I  threw  myself  on 
him,  and  grappled  to  his  throat.  We  rolled 
on  the  earth  together;  it  was  but  a  moment's 


♦  When  Theraistocles  sought  to  extort  tribute  from 
the  Andrians,  he  said,  "  I  bring  with  me  two  powerful 
gods — Persuasion  and  Foice."  "  And  on  our  side,"  was 
the  answer,  "  are  two  deities  not  less  powerful— Pov- 
erty and  Despair  ! " 


4^6 


BULWER'S     WORKS 


struggle.  Strong  as  I  was  even  in  boyhood, 
the  Helot  would  have  been  a  match  for 
Alcides.  A  shade  passed  over  my  eyes;  my 
breath  heaved  short.  The  slave  was  kneeling 
on  my  breast,  and,  dropping  the  club,  he  drew 
a  short  knife  from  his  girdle.  I  gazed  upon 
him  grim  and  mute.  I  was  conquered,  and  I 
cared  not  for  the  rest. 

"  The  blood  from  his  side,  as  he  bent  over 
me,  trickled  down  upon  my  face. 

"  '  And  this  blood,'  said  the  Helot, '  you  shed 
in  the  very  moment  when  I  spared  your  life; 
such  is  the  honor  of  a  Spartan.  Do  you  not 
deserve  to  die  ?' 

"'Yes,  for  I  am  subdued,  and  by  a  slave. 
Strike  ! ' 

" '  There,'  said  the  Helot  in  a  melancholy 
and  altered  tone,  '  there  speaks  the  soul  of  the 
Dorian,  the  fatal  spirit  to  which  the  Gods  have 
rendered  up  our  wretched  race.  We  are 
doomed — doomed — and  one  victim  will  not 
expiate  our  curse.  Rise,  return  to  Sparta,  and 
forget  that  thou  art  innocent  of  murder.' 

"  He  lifted  his  knee  from  my  breast,  and  I 
rose,  ashamed  and  humbled. 

"  At  that  instant  I  heard  the  crashing  of  the 
leaves  in  the  wood,  for  the  air  was  exceedingly 
still.  I  knew  that  my  companions  were  #it 
hand.  'Fly,'  I  cried;  'fly.  If  they  come  I 
cannot  save  thee,  royal  though  I  be.     Fly.' 

"  '  And  wouldest  thou  save  me  ! '  said  the 
Helot  in  surprise. 

"  '  Ay,  with  my  own  life.  Canst  thou  doubt 
it?  Lose  not  a  moment.  Fly.  Yet  stay;' 
and  I  tore  off  a  part  of  the  woolen  vest  that  I 
wore.  'Place  this  at  thy  side;  staunch  the 
blood,  that  it  may  not  track  thee.  Now  be- 
gone ! ' 

"  The  Helot  looked  hard  at  me,  and  I 
thought  there  were  tears  in  his  rude  eyes;  then 
catching  up  the  club  with  as  much  ease  as  I 
this  staff,  he  sped  with  inconceivable  rapidity, 
despite  his  wound,  towards  the  precipice  on 
the  right,  and  disappeared  amidst  the  thick 
brambles  that  clothed  the  gorge.  In  a  few 
moments  three  of  my  companions  approached. 
They  found  me  exhausted,  and  panting  rather 
with  excitement  than  fatigue.  Their  quick 
eyes  detected  the  blood  upon  the  ground.  I 
gave  them  no  time  to  pause  and  examine. 
'  He  has  escaped  me — he  has  fled,'  I  cried; 
'  follow,'  and  I  led  them  to  the  opposite  part 
of  the  precipice  from  that  which  the  Helot  had 


taken.  Heading  the  search,  I  pretended  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  goatskin  ever  and  anon 
through  the  trees,  and  I  stayed  not  the  pursuit 
till  night  grew  dark,  and  I  judged  the  victim 
was  far  away." 

•'  And  he  escaped  ?  " 

"  He  did.  The  crypteia  ended.  Three 
other  Helots  were  slain,  but  not  by  me.  We 
returned  to  Sparta,  and  my  mother  was  com- 
forted for  my  misfortune  in  not  having  slain 
my  foe  by  seeing  the  stains  on  my  grandsire's 
sword.  I  will  tell  thee  a  secret,  Gongylus  " — 
(and  here  Pausanias  lowered  his  voice,  and 
looked  anxiously  toward  him) — "  since  that 
day  I  have  not  hated  the  Helot  race.  Nay, 
it  may  be  that  I  have  loved  them  better  than 
the  Dorian." 

"I  do  not  wonder  at  it;  but  has  not  your 
wounded  giant  yet  met  with  his  death  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  related  what  had  passed  be- 
tween us  to  any  one  save  my  father.  He  was 
gentle  for  a  Spartan,  and  he  rested  not  till 
Gylippus — so  was  the  Helot  named — obtained 
exemption  from  the  black  list.  He  dared  not, 
however,  attribute  his  intercession  to  the  true 
cause.  It  happened,  fortunately,  that  Gylip- 
pus was  related  to  my  own  foster-brother. 
Alcman,  brother  to  my  nurse;  and  Alcman  is 
celebrated  in  Sparta,  not  only  for  courage  in 
war,  but  for  arts  in  peace.  He  is  a  poet,  and 
his  strains  please  the  Dorian  ear,  for  they  are 
stern  and  simple,  and  they  breathe  of  war. 
Alcman's  merits  won  forgiveness  for  the  of- 
fences of  Gylippus.  May  the  Gods  be  kind 
to  his  race  ! " 

"  Your  Alcman  seems  one  of  no  common  in- 
telligence, and  your  gentleness  to  him  does 
not  astonish  me,  though  it  seems  often  to 
raise  a  frown  on  the  brows  of  your  Spartans." 

"  We  have  lain  on  the  same  bosom,"  said 
Pausanias  touchingly,  "  and  his  mother  was 
kinder  to  me  than  my  own.  You  must  know 
that  to  those  Helots  who  have  been  our  foster- 
brothers,  and  whom  we  distinguish  by  the 
name  of  Mothons,  our  stern  law  relaxes.  They 
have  no  rights  of  citizenship,  it  is  true,  but  they 
cease  to  be  slaves;  *  nay,  sometimes  they  at- 
tain not  only  to  entire  emancipation,  but  to 
distinction,  Alcman  has  bound  his  fate  to 
mine.     But   to   return,  Gongylus.     I  tell  thee 


•  The  appellation  of  Mothons  was  not  confined  to 
the  Helots  who  claimed  the  connection  of  foster- 
brothers,  but  was  also  given  to  household  slaves. 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


42) 


that  it  is  not  thy  descriptions  of  pomp  and 
dominion  that  allure  me,  though  I  am  not 
above  the  love  of  power,  neither  is  it  thy 
glowing  promises,  though  blood  too  wild  for  a 
Dorian  runs  riot  in  my  veins;  but  it  is  my 
deep  loathing,  my  inexpressible  disgust  for 
Sparta  and  her  laws,  my  horror  at  the  thought 
of  wearing  away  life  in  those  sullen  customs, 
amid  that  joyless  round  of  tyrannic  duties,  in 
my  rapture  at  the  hope  of  escape,  of  life  in  a 
land  which  the  eye  of  the  Ephor  never  pierces; 
this  it  is,  and  this  alone,  O  Persian,  that  makes 
me  (the  words  must  out)  a  traitor  to  my 
country,  one  who  dreams  of  becoming  a  de- 
pendent on  her  foe." 

"Nay,"  said  Gongylus  eagerl}';  for  here 
Pausanias  moved  uneasily,  and  the  color 
mounted  to  his  brow.  "Nay,  speak  not  of  de- 
pendence. Consider  the  proposals  that  you 
can  alone  condescend  to  offer  to  the  great 
king.  Can  the  conqueror  of  Platsea,  with 
millions  for  his  subjects,  hold  himself  depend- 
ent, even  on  the  sovereign  of  the  East  ?  How, 
hereafter,  will  the  memories  of  our  sterile 
Greece  and  your  rocky  Sparta  fade  from  your 
state  of  mind;  or  be  remembered  only  as  a 
thraldom  and  bondage,  which  your  riper  man- 
hood has  outgrown  !  " 

"I  will  try  to  think  so,  at  least,"  said  Pau- 
sanias gloomily.  "  And,  come  what  may,  I 
am  not  one  to  recede.  I  have  thrown  my 
shield  into  a  fearful  peril;  but  I  will  win  it 
back  or  perish.  Enough  of  this,  Gongylus. 
Night  advances.  I  will  attend  the  appoint- 
ment you  have  made.  Take  the  boat,  and 
within  an  hour  I  will  meet  you  with  the  pris- 
oners at  the  spot  agreed  on,  near  the  Temple 
of  Aphrodite.     All  things  are  prepared  ?  " 

"All,"  said  Gongylus,  rising, .with  a  gleam 
of  malignant  joy  on  his  dark  face.  "  I  leave 
thee,  kingly  slave  of  the  rocky  Sparta,  to  pre- 
pare the  way  for  thee,  as  Satrap  of  half  the 
East." 

So  saying  he  quitted  the  awning,  and  mo- 
tioned three  Egyptian  sailors  who  lay  on  the 
deck  without.  A  boat  was  lowered,  and  the 
sound  of  its  oars  woke  Pausanias  from  the 
reverie  into  which  the  parting  words  of  the 
Eretrian  had  plunged  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

With  a  slow  and  thoughtful  step,  Pausanias 
passed  on  to  the  outer  deck.  The  moon  was 
up,  and  the  vessel  scarcely  seemed  to  stir,  so 
gently  did  it  glide  along  the  sparkling  waters. 
They  were  still  within  the  bay,  and  the  shores 
rose,  white  and  distinct,  to  his  view.  A  group 
of  Spartans,  reclining  by  the  side  of  the  ship, 
were  gazing  listlessly  on  the  waters.  The 
Regent  paused  beside  them. 

"  Ye  weary  of  the  ocean,  methinks,"  said  he. 
"  We  Dorians  have  not  the  merchant  tastes  of 
the  loniaiis."  * 

"  Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  said  one  of  the 
group,  a  Spartan  whose  rank  and  services  en- 
titled him  to  more  than  ordinary  familiarity 
with  the  chief,  "  it  is  not  the  ocean  itself  that 
we  should  dread,  it  is  the  contagion  of  those 
who,  living  on  the  element,  seem  to  share  in 
its  ebb  and  flow.  The  lonians  are  never  three 
hours  in  the  same  mind." 

"  For  that  reason,"  said  Pausanias,  fixing 
his  eye  steadfastly  on  the  Spartan,  "  for  that 
reason  I  have  judged  it  advisable  to  adopt  a 
rough  manner  with  those  innovators,  to  draw 
with  a  broad  chalk  the  line  between  them  and 
the  Spartans,  and  to  teach  those  who  never 
knew  discipline  the  stern  duties  of  obedience. 
Think  you  I  have  done  wisely?" 

The  Spartan,  who  had  risen  when  Pausanias 
addressed  him,  drew  his  chief  a  little  aside 
from  the  rest. 

"Pausanias,"  said  he,  "the  hard  Naxian 
stone  best  tames  and  tempers  the  fine  steel;  f 
but  the  steel  may  break  if  the  workman  be  not 
skilful.  These  Athenians  are  grown  insolent 
since  Marathon,  and  their  soft  kindred  of  Asia 
have  relighted  the  fires  they  took  of  old  from 
the  Cecropian  Prytaneum.  Their  sail  is  more 
numerous  than  ours;  on  the  sea  they  find  the 
courage  they  lose  on  laird.  Better  be  gentle 
with  those  wayward  allies,  for  the  Spartan 
greyhound  shows  not  his  teeth  but  to  bite." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  will  consider 
these  things,  and  appease  the  mutineers.  But 
it  goes  hard  with  my  pride,  Thrasyllus,  to 
make  equals  of  this  soft-tongued  race.  Why, 
these  lonians,  do  they  not  enjoy  themselves 
in     perpetual   holidays  ? — spend   days   at  the 


*  No  Spartan  served  as  a  sailor,  or  indeed  conde- 
scended to  any  trade  or  calling,  but  that  of  war. 
t  Find.  Isth.  v.  (vi.)  -3. 


428 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


Danquet  ? — ransack  earth  and  sea  for  dainties 
and  for  perfumes  ? — and  shall  they  be  the 
equals  of  us  men,  who,  from  the  age  of  seven 
to  that  of  sixty,  are  wisely  taught  to  make  life 
so  barren  and  toilsome,  that  we  may  well  have 
no  fear  of  death  ?  I  hate  these  sleek  and 
merry  feast-givers;  they  are  a  perpetual  insult 
to  our  solemn  existence." 

There  was  a  strange  mixture  of  irony  and 
passion  in  the  Spartan's  voice  as  he  thus  spoke, 
and  Thrasylliis  looked  at  him  in  grave  sur- 
prise. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  envy  in  the  woman-like 
debaucheries  of  the  Ionian,"  said  he,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Envy  !  no;  we  only  hate  them,  Thrasyllus. 
Yon  Eretrian  tells  me  rare  things  of  the  East. 
Time  may  come  when  we  shall  sup  on  the  black 
broth  in  Susa." 

"  The  Gods  forbid  !  Sparta  never  invades. 
Life  with  us  is  too  precious,  for  we  are  few. 
Pausanias,  I  would  we  were  well  quit  of  Byz- 
antium. I  do  not  suspect  you,  not  I;  but 
there  are  those  who  looked  with  vexed  eyes  on 
those  garments,  and  I,  who  love  you,  fear  the 
sharp  jealousies  of  the  Ephors,  to  whose  ears 
the  birds  carry  all  tidings." 

"  My  poor  Thrasyllus,"  said  Pausanias, 
laughing  scornfully,  "  think  you  that  I  wear 
these  robes,  or  mimic  the  Median  manners, 
for  love  of  the  Mede  ?  No,  no  !  But  there 
are  arts  which  save  countries  as  well  as  those 
of  war.  This  Gongylus  is  in  the  confidence 
of  Xerxes.  I  desire  to  establish  a  peace  for 
Greece  upon  everlasting  foundations.  Reflect; 
Persia  hath  millions  yet  left.  Another  invasion 
may  find  a  different  fortune;  and  even  at  the 
best,  Sparta  gains  nothing  by  these  wars. 
Athens  triumphs,  not  Lacedaemon.  I  would, 
I  say,  establish  a  peace  with  Persia.  I  would 
that  Sparta,  not  Athens,  should  have  that 
honor.  Hence  these  flatteries  to  the  Persian 
— trivial  to  us  who  render  them,  sweet  and 
powerful  to  those  who  receive.  Remember 
these  words  hereafter,  if  the  Ephors  make 
question  of  my  discretion.  And  now,  Thra- 
syllus, return  to  our  friends,  and  satisfy  them 
as  to  the  conduct  of  Pausanias." 

Quitting  Thrasyllus,  the  Regent  now  joined 
a  young  Spartan  who  stood  alone  by  the  prow 
in  a  musing  attitude. 

"Lysander,  my  friend,  my  only  friend,  my 
best-loved  Lysander,"  said  Pausanias,  placing 


his  hand  on  the  Spartan's  shoulder.  "And 
why  so  sad  ?  " 

"  How  many  leagues  are  we  from  Sparta  ?  " 
answered  the  Lysander  mournfully. 

"And  canst  thou  sigh  for  the  black  broth, 
my  friend  ?  Come,  how  often  hast  thou  said, 
'  Where  Pausanias  is,  there  is  Sparta  ! '  " 

"  Forgive  me,  I  am  ungrateful,"  said  Lysan- 
der with  warmth.  "  My  benefactor,  my  guar- 
dian, my  hero,  forgive  me  if  I  have  added  to 
your  own  countless  causes  of  anxiety.  Where- 
ever  you  come  there  is  life,  and  there  glory. 
When  I  was  just  born,  sickly  and  feeble,  I 
was  exposed  on  Taygetus.  You,  then  a  boy, 
heard  my  faint  cry,  and  took  on  me  that  com- 
passion which  my  parents  had  forsworn.  You 
bore  me  to  your  father's  roof,  you  interceded 
for  my  life.  You  prevailed  even  on  your 
stern  mother.  I  was  saved;  and  the  Gods 
smiled  upon  the  infant  whom  the  son  of  the 
humane  Hercules  protected.  I  grew  up  strong 
and  hardy,  and  belied  the  signs  of  my  birth. 
My  parents  then  owned  me;  but  still  you 
were  my  fosterer,  my  saviour,  my  more  than 
father.  As  I  grew  up,  placed  under  your  care, 
I  imbibed  my  first  lessons  of  war.  By  your 
side  I  fought,  and  from  your  example  I  won 
glory.  Yes,  Pausanias,  even  here,  amidst 
luxuries  which  revolt  me  more  than  the  Par- 
thian bow  and  the  Persian  sword,  even  amidst 
the  faces  of  the  stranger,  I  still  feel  thy 
presence  my  home,  thyself  my  Sparta." 

The  proud  Pausanias  was  touched,  and  his 
voice  trembled  as  he  replied,  "Brother  in 
arms  and  in  love,  whatever  service  fate  may 
have  allowed  me  to  render  unto  thee,  thy  high 
nature  and  thy  cheering  affection  have  more 
than  paid  me  back.  Often  in  our  lonely  ram- 
bles amidst  the  dark  oaks  of  the  sacred 
Scotitas,  *  or  by  the  wayward  waters  of  Tiasa,f 
when  I  have  poured  into  thy  faithful  breast 
my  impatient  loathing,  my  ineffable  distaste 
for  the  iron  life,  the  countless  and  wearisome 
tyrannies  of  custom  which  surround  the 
Spartans,  often  have  I  found  a  consoling  refuge 
in  thy  divine  contentment,  thy  cheerful  wis- 
dom. Thou  lovest  Sparta;  why  is  she  not 
worthier  of  thy  love  ?  Allowed  only  to  be 
half  men,  in  war  we  are  demigods,  in  peace, 
slaves.  Thou  wouldst  interrupt  me.  Be 
silent.     I  am    in   a   willful    mood;  thou  canst 


*  Paus.  Lac.  x. 


♦  lb.  c.  xviii. 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


429 


not  comprehend  me,  and  I  often  marvel  at 
thee.  Still  we  are  friends,  such  friends  as  the 
Dorian  disclpHne,  which  makes  friendship 
necessary  in  order  to  endure  life,  alone  can 
form.  Come,  take  up  thy.  staff  and  mantle. 
Thou  shalt  be  my  companion  ashore.  I  seek 
one  whom  alone  in  the  world  I  love  better 
than  thee.  To-morrow  to  stern  duties  once 
more.  Alcman  shall  row  us  across  the  bay, 
and  as  we  glide  along,  if  thou  wilt  praise 
Sparta,  I  will  listen  to  thee  as  the  lonians 
listened  to  their  tale-tellers.  Ho  !  Alcman, 
stop  the  rowers,  and  lower  the  boat." 

The  orders  were  obeyed,  and  a  second  boat 
soon  darted  towards  the  same  part  of  the  bay 
as  that  to  which  the  one  that  bore  Gongylus 
had  directed  its  course.  Thrasyllus  and  his 
companions  watched  the  boat  that  bore  Pau- 
sanias  and  his  two  comrades,  as  it  bounded, 
arrow-like,  over  the  glassy  sea. 

"  Whither  goes  Pausanias  ?  "  asked  one  of 
the  Spartans. 

"  Back  to  Byzantium  on  business,"  replied 
Thrasyllus. 

"  And  we  ?  " 

"  Are  to  cruise  in  the  bay  till  his  return." 

"Pausanias  is  changed." 

"  Sparta  will  restore  him  to  what  he  was. 
Nothing  thrives  out  of  Sparta.  Even  man 
spoils." 

"  True,  sleep  is  the  sole  constant  friend,  the 
same  in  all  climates." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

On  the  shore  to  the  right  of  the  port  of 
Byzantium  were  at  that  time  thickly  scattered 
the  villas  or  suburban  retreats  of  the  wealthier 
and  more  luxurious  citizens.  Byzantium  was 
originally  colonized  by  the  Megarians,  a  Dorian 
race  kindred  with  that  of  Sparta;  and  the  old 
features  of  the  pure  and  antique  Hellas  were 
still  preserved  in  the  dialect,*  as  well  as  in  the 
forms  of  the  descendants  of  the  colonists;  in 
their  favorite  deities,  and  rites,  and  traditions; 
even  in  the  names  of  places,  transferred  from 
the  sterile  Megara  to  that  fertile  coast;  in  the 
rigid  and  helot  like  slavery  to  which  the  native 

•  "The  Byzantine  dialect  was  in  the  time  of  Philip, 
as  we  know  from  the  decree  in  Demosthenes,  rich  in 
Dorisms." — Miiller  on  the  Doric  dialect. 


Bithynians  were  subjected,  and  in  the  attach- 
ment of  their  masters  to  the  oligarchic  prin- 
ciples of  government.  Nor  was  it  till  long 
after  the  present  date,  that  democracy  in  its 
most  corrupt  and  licentious  form  was  intro- 
duced amongst  them.  But  like  all  the  Dorian 
colonies,  when  once  they  departed  from  the 
severe  and  masculine  mode  of  life  inherited 
from  their  ancestors,  the  reaction  was  rapid, 
the  degeneracy  complete. 

Even  then  the  Byzantines,  intermingled 
with  the  foreign  merchants  and  traders  that 
thronged  their  haven,  and  womanized  by  the 
soft  contagion  of  the  East,  were  voluptuous, 
timid,  and  prone  to  every  excess  save  that  of 
valor.  The  higher  class  were  exceedingly 
wealthy,  and  gave  to  their  vices  or  their  pleas- 
ures a  splendor  and  refinement  of  which  the 
elder  states  of  Greece  were  as  yet  unconscious. 
At  a  later  period,  indeed,  we  are  informed  that 
the  Byzantine  citizens  had  their  habitual  resi- 
dence in  the  public  hostels,  and  let  their  houses 
— not  even  taking  the  trouble  to  remove  their 
wives — to  the  strangers  who  crowded  their  gay 
capital.  And  when  their  general  found  it 
necessary  to  demand  their  aid  on  the  ramparts, 
he  could  only  secure  their  attendance  by 
ordering  the  tavern  and  cookshops  to  be  re- 
moved to  the  place  of  duty.  Not  yet  so  far 
sunk  in  sloth  and  debauch,  the  Byzantines 
were  nevertheless  hosts  eminently  dangerous 
to  the  austerer  manners  of  their  Greek  visitors. 
The  people,  the  women,  the  delicious  wine,  the 
balm  of  the  subduing  climate  served  to  tempt 
the  senses  and  relax  the  mind.  Like  all  the 
Dorians,  when  freed  from  primitive  restraint, 
the  higher  class,  that  is,  the  descendants  of  the 
colonists,  were  in  themselves  an  agreeable, 
jovial  race.  They  had  that  strong  bias  to 
humor,  to  jest,  to  satire,  which  in  their  an- 
cestral Megara  gave  birth  to  the  Grecian 
comedy,  and  which  lurked  even  beneath  the 
pithy  aphorisms  and  rude  merry-making  of 
the  severe  Spartan. 

Such  were  the  people  with  whom  of  late 
Pausanias  had  familiarly  mixed,  and  with 
whose  manners  he  contrasted,  far  too  favorably 
for  his  honor  and  his  peace,  the  habits  of  his 
countrymen. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  villas  we  have  described, 
the  favorite  abode  of  the  rich  Diagoras,  and 
in  an  apartment  connected  with  those  more 
private  recesses  of  the  house  appropriated  to 


■+3° 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


the  females,  that  two  persons  were  seated  by 
a  window  which  commanded  a  wide  view  of 
the  glittering  sea  below.  One  of  these  was 
an  old  man  in  a  long  robe  that  reached  to  his 
feet,  with  a  bald  head  and  a  beard  in  which 
some  dark  hairs  yet  withstood  the  encroach- 
ments of  the  grey.  In  his  well-cut  features 
and  large  eyes  were  remains  of  the  beauty 
that  characterized  his  race;  but  the  mouth 
was  full  and  wide,  the  forehead  low  though 
broad,  the  cheeks  swollen,  the  chin  double, 
and  the  whole  form  corpulent  and  unwieldy. 
Still  there  was  a  jolly,  sleek  good  humor  about 
the  aspect  of  the  man  that  prepossessed  you 
in  his  favor.  This  personage,  who  was  no  less 
than  Diagoras  himself,  was  reclining  lazily 
upon  a  kind  of  narrow  sofa  cunningly  inlaid 
with  ivory,  and  studying  new  combinations  in 
that  scientific  game  which  Palamedes  is  said 
to  have  invented  at  the  siege  of  Troy. 

His  companion  was  of  a  very  different  ap- 
pearance. She  was  a  girl  who  to  the  eye  of  a 
northern  stranger  might  have  seemed  about 
eighteen,  though  she  was  probably  much 
younger,  of  a  countenance  so  remarkable  for 
intelligence  that  it  was  easy  to  see  that  her  mind 
had  outgrown  her  years.  Beautiful  she  cer- 
tainly was,  yet  scarcely  of  that  beauty  from 
which  the  Greek  sculptor  would  have  drawn 
his  models.  The  features  were  not  strictly 
regular,  and  yet  so  harmoniously  did  each 
blend  with  each,  that  to  have  amended  one 
would  have  spoilt  the  whole.  There  was  in 
the  fulness  and  depth  of  the  large  but  genial 
eye,  with  its  sweeping  fringe,  and  straight, 
slightly  chiselled  brow,  more  of  Asia  than  of 
Greece.  The  lips,  of  the  freshest  red,  were 
somewhat  full  and  pouting,  and  dimples  with- 
out number  lay  scattered  round  them — lurk- 
ing places  for  the  loves.  Her  complexion  was 
clear  though  dark,  and  the  purest  and  most 
virgin  bloom  mantled,  now  paler  now  richer, 
through  the  soft  surface.  At  the  time  we 
speak  of  she  was  leaning  against  the  open 
door  with  her  arms  crossed  on  her  bosom,  and 
her  face  turned  towards  the  Byzantine.  Her 
robe,  of  a  deep  yellow,  so  trying  to  the  fair 
women  of  the  North,  became  well  the  glowing 
colors  of  her  beauty — the  damask  cheek,  the 
purple  hair.  Like  those  of  the  lonians,  the 
sleeves  of  the  robe,  long  and  loose,  descended 
to  her  hands,  which  were  marvellously  small 
and    delicate.       Long    earrings,    which    ter- 


minated in  a  kind  of  berry,  studded  with 
precious  stones,  then  common  only  with  the 
women  of  the  East;  a  broad  collar,  or  neck- 
lace, of  the  smaragdus  or  emerald;  and  large 
clasps,  medallion^like,  where  the  swan-like 
throat  joined  the  graceful  shoulder,  gave  to 
her  dress  an  appearance  of  opulence  and  splen- 
dor that  betokened  how  much  the  ladies  of 
Byzantium  had  borrowed  from  the  fashions 
of  the  Oriental  world. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  lightness  of  her 
form,  rounded,  it  is  true,  but  slight  and  girlish, 
and  the  high  instep  with  the  slender  foot,  so 
well  set  off  by  the  embroidered  sandal,  would 
have  suited  such  dances  as  those  in  which  the 
huntress  nymphs  of  Delos  moved  around 
Diana.  The  natural  expression  of  her  face, 
if  countenance  so  mobile  and  changeful  had 
one  expression  more  predominant  than  an- 
other, appeared  to  be  irresistibly  arch  and 
joyous,  as  of  one  full  of  youth  and  conscious 
of  her  beauty;  yet,  if  a  cloud  came  over  the 
face,  nothing  could  equal  the  thoughtful  and 
deep  sadness  of  the  dark  abstracted  eyes,  as 
if  some  touch  of  higher  and  more  animated 
emotion — such  as  belongs  to  pride,  or  courage, 
or  intellect  vibrated  on  the  heart.  The  color 
rose,  the  form  dilated,  the  lip  quivered,  the 
eye  flashed  light,  and  the  mirthful  expression 
heightened  almost  into  the  sublime.  Yet, 
lovely  as  Cleonice  was  deemed  at  Byzantium, 
lovelier  still  as  she  would  have  appeared  in 
modern  eyes,  she  failed  in  what  the  Greeks 
generally,  but  especially  the  Spartans,  deemed 
an  essential  of  beauty — in  height  of  stature. 
Accustomed  to  look  upon  the  virgin  but  as 
the  future  mother  of  a  race  of  warriors,  the 
Spartans  saw  beauty  only  in  those  proportions 
which  promised  a  robust  and  stately  progeny, 
and  the  reader  may  remember  the  well-known 
story  of  the  opprobrious  reproaches,  even,  it 
is  said,  accompanied  with  stripes,  which  the 
Ephors  addressed  to  a  Spartan  king,  for  pre- 
suming to  make  choice  of  a  wife  below  the 
ordinary  stature.  Cleonice  was  small  and 
delicate,  rather  like  the  Peri  of  the  Persian 
than  the  sturdy  grace  of  the  Dorian. 

But  her  beauty  was  her  least  charm.  She 
had  all  that  feminine  fascination  of  manner, 
wayward,  varying,  inexpressible,  yet  irresisti- 
ble, which  seizes  hold  of  the  imagination  as 
well  as  the  senses,  and  which  has  so  often 
made  willing  slaves  of  the  proud  rulers  of  the 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


431 


world.  In  fact  Cleonice,  the  daughter  of 
Diagoras,  had  enjoyed  those  advantages  of 
womanly  education  wholly  unknown  at  that 
time  to  the  freeborn  ladies  of  Greece  proper, 
but  which  gave  to  the  women  of  some  of  the 
isles  and  Ionian  cities  their  celebrity  in  ancient 
story.  Her  mother  was  of  Miletus,  famed  for 
the  intellectual  cultivation  of  the  sex,  no  less 
than  for  their  beauty — of  Miletus,  the  birth- 
place of  Aspasia — of  Miletus,  from  which 
those  remarkable  women  who,  under  the  name 
of  Hetaerae,  exercised  afterwards  so  signal  an 
influence  over  the  mind  and  manners  of 
Athens,  chiefly  derived  their  origin,  and  who 
seem  to  have  inspired  an  affection,  which  in 
depth,  constancy,  and  fervor,  approached  to 
the  more  chivalrous  passion  of  the  North  ? 
Such  an  education  consisted  not  only  in  the 
feminine  and  household  arts  honored  univer- 
sally throughout  Greece,  but  in  a  kind  of  spon- 
taneous and  luxuriant  cultivation  of  all  that 
captivates  the  fancy  and  enlivens  the  leisure. 
If  there  were  something  pedantic  in  their  af- 
fectation of  philosophy,  it  was  so  graced  and 
vivified  by  a  brillancy  of  conversation,  a  charm 
of  manner  carried  almost  to  a  science,  a 
womanly  facility  of  softening  all  that  comes 
within  their  circle,  of  suiting  yet  refining  each 
complexity  and  discord  of  character  admitted 
to  their  intercourse,  that  it  had  at  least  noth- 
ing masculine  or  harsh. 

Wisdom,  taken  lightly  or  easily,  seemed  but 
another  shape  of  poetry.  The  matrons  of 
Athens,  who  could  often  neither  read  nor  write 
— ignorant,  vain,  tawdry,  and  not  always  faith- 
ful, if  we  may  trust  to  such  scandal  as  has 
reached  the  modern  time — must  have  seemed 
insipid  beside  these  brilliant  strangers;  and 
while  certainly  wanting  their  power  to  retain 
love,  must  have  had  but  a  doubtful  superiority 
in  the  qualifications  that  ensure  esteem.  But 
we  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  Hetaer»  (that 
mysterious  and  important  class  peculiar  to  a 
certain  state  of  society,  and  whose  appellation 
we  cannot  render  by  any  proper  word  in  mod- 
ern language)  monopolized  all  the  graces  of 
their  countrywomen.  In  the  same  cities  were 
many  of  unblemished  virtue  and  repute,  who 
possessed  equal  cultivation  and  attraction,  but 
whom  a  more  decorous  life  has  concealed  from 
the  equivocal  admiration  of  posterity;  though 
the  numerous  female  disciples  of  Pythagoras 
throw  some  light  on  their  capacity  and  intel- 


lect. Among  such  as  these  had  been  the 
mother  of  Cleonice,  not  long  since  dead,  and 
her  daughter  inherited  and  equalled  her  ac- 
complishments, while  her  virgin  youth,  her  in- 
born playfulness  of  manner,  her  pure  guile- 
lessness,  which  the  secluded  habits  of  the 
unmarried  women  at  Byzantium  preserved 
from  all  contagion,  gave  to  qualities  and  gifts 
so  little  published  abroad,  the  effect  as  it  were 
of  a  happy  and  wondrous  inspiration  rather 
than  of  elaborate  culture. 

Such  was  the  fair  creature  whom  Diagoras, 
looking  up  from  his  pastime,  thus  addressed: — 

"And  so,  perverse  one,  thou  canst  not  love 
this  great  hero,  a  proper  person  truly,  and  a 
mighty  warrior,  who  will  eat  you  an  army  of 
Persians  at  a  meal.  These  Spartan  fighting- 
cocks  want  no  garlic,  I  warrant  you.*  And 
yet  you  can't  love  him,  you  little  rogue." 

"Why,  my  father,"  said  Cleonice,  with  an 
arch  smile,  and  a  slight  blush,  "even  if  I  did 
look  kindly  on  Puusanias,  would  it  not  be  to 
my  own  sorrow?  What  Spartan — above  all, 
what  royal  Spartan — mny  marry  with  a  for- 
eigner, and  a  Byzantine  ? ' 

"  I  did  not  precisely  talk  of  marriage — a 
very  happy  state,  doubtless,  to  those  who  dis- 
like too  quiet  a  life,  and  a  very  honorable  one, 
for  war  is  honor  itself;  but  I  did  not  speak  of 
that,  Cleonice.  I  would  only  say  that  this  man 
of  might  loves  thee — that  he  is  rich,  rich,  rich. 
Pretty  pickings  at  Plataea;  and  we  have  known 
losses,  my  child,  sad  losses.  And  if  you  do 
not  love  him,  why,  you  can  but  smile  and  talk 
as  if  you  did,  and  when  the  Spartan  goes  home, 
you  will  lose  a  tormentor  and  gain  a  dowry." 

"  My  father,  for  shame  !  " 

"Who  talks  of  shame?  You  women  are 
always  so  sharp  at  finding  oracles  in  oak 
leaves,  that  one  don't  wonder  Apollo  makes 
choice  of  your  sex  for  his  priests.  But  listen 
to  me,  girl,  seriously,"  and  here  Diagoras  with 
a  great  effort  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and 
lowering  his  voice,  spoke  with  evident  earnest- 
ness. "  Pausanias  has  life  and  death,  and, 
what  is  worse,  wealth  or  poverty  in  his  hands; 
he  can  raise  or  ruin  us  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 


*  Fighting-cocks  were  fed  with  garlic,  to  make  them 
more  fierce.  The  learned  reader  will  remember  how 
Theorus  advised  Dicaeopolis  to  keep  clear  of  theThra- 
cians  with  garlic  in  their  mouths. — See  the  Acharnians 
of  Aristoph. 


432 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


this  black-curled  Jupiter.  They  tell  me  that 
he  is  fierce,  irascible,  haughty;  and  what 
slighted  lover  is  not  revengeful  ?  For  my 
sake,  Cleonice,  for  your  poor  father's  sake, 
show  no  scorn,  no  repugnance;  be  gentle, 
play  with  him,  draw  not  down  the  thunder-bolt, 
even  if  you  turn  from  the  golden  shower." 

While  Diagoras  spoke,  the  girl  listened  with 
downcast  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  there 
was  an  expression  of  such  shame  and  sadness 
on  her  countenance  that  even,  the  Byzantine, 
pausing  and  looking  up  for  a  reply,  was  startled 
by  it. 

"  My  child,"  said  he,  hesitatingly  and 
absorbed,  "  do  not  misconceive  me.  Cursed  be 
the  hour  when  the  Spartan  saw  thee;  but  since 
the  Fates  have  so  served  us,  let  us  not  make 
bad  worse.  I  love  thee,  Cleonice,  more  dearly 
than  the  apple  of  my  eye;  it  is  for  thee  I  fear, 
for  thee  I  speak.  Alas  !  it  is  not  dishonor  I 
recommend,  it  is  force  I  would  shun." 

"  Force  !  "  said  the  girl,  drawing  up  her 
form  with  sudden  animation.  "  Fear  not  that. 
It  is  not  Pausanias  I  dread,  it  is " 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  No  matter;  talk  of  this  no  more.  Shall  I 
sing  to  thee  ? " 

"  But  Pausanias  will  visit  us  this  very 
night." 

"  I  know  it.  Hark  !  "  and  with  her  finger 
to  her  lip,  her  ear  bent  downward,  her  cheek 
varying  from  pale  to  red,  from  red  to  pale, 
the  maiden  stole  beyond  the  window  to  a  kind 
of  platform  or  terrace  that  overhung  the  sea. 
There,  the  faint  breeze  stirring  her  long  hair, 
and  the  moonlight  full  upon  her  face,  she 
stood,  as  stood  that  immortal  priestess  who 
looked  along  the  starry  Hellespont  for  the 
young  Leander;  and  her  ear  had  not  deceived 
her.  The  oars  were  dashing  in  the  waves  be- 
low, and  dark  and  rapid  the  boat  bounded  on 
towards  the  rocky  shore.  She  gazed  long  and 
steadfastly  on  the  dim  and  shadowy  forms 
which  that  slender  raft  contained,  and  her  eye 
detected  amongst  the  three  the  loftier  form  of 
her  haughty  wooer.  Presently  the  thick  foli- 
age that  clothed  the  descent  shut  the  boat, 
nearing  the  strand,  from  her  view;  but  she 
now  heard  below,  mellowed  and  softened  in 
the  still  and  fragrant  air,  the  sound  of  the 
cithara  and  the  melodious  song  of  the  Mothon, 
thus  imperfectly  rendered  from  the  language 
of  immortal  melody. 


SONG. 

Carry  a  sword  in  the  myrtle  bou^h. 
Ye  who  would  honor  the  tyrant-slayer; 
I,  in  the  leaves  of  the  myrtle  bough, 
Carry  a  tyrant  to  slay  myself. 

I  pluck'd  the  branch  with  a  hasty  hand. 
But  Love  was  lurking  amidst  the  leaves; 
His  bow  is  bent  and  his  shaft  is  poised, 
And  I  must  perish  or  pass  the  bough. 

Maiden,  1  come  with  a  gift  to  thee, 
Maiden,  I  come  with  a  myrtle  wreath; 
Over  thy  forehead,  or  round  thy  breast 
Bind,  1  implore  thee,  my  myrtle  wreath.  • 

From  hand  to  hand  by  the  banquet  lights 
On  with  the  myrtle  bough  passes  song: 
From  hand  to  hand  by  the  silent  stars 
What  with  the  myrtle  wreath  passes?    Love. 

I  bear  the  god  in  a  myrtle  wreath. 
Under  the  stars  let  him  pass  to  thee; 
Empty  his  quiver  and  bind  his  wings. 
Then  pass  the  myrtle  wreath  back  to  me. 

Cleonice  listened  breathlessly  to  the  words, 
and  sighed  heavily  as  they  ceased.  Then,  as 
the  foliage  rustled  below,  she  turned  quickly 
into  the  chamber  and  seated  herself  at  a  little 
distance  from  Diagoras;  to  all  appearance 
calm,  indifferent,  and  composed.  Was  it 
nature,  or  the  arts  of  Miletus,  that  taught  the 
young  beauty  the  hereditary  artifices  of  the 
sex  ? 

"  So  it  is  he,  then  ?  "  said  Diagoras,  with  a 
fidgety  and  nervous  trepidation.  "Well,  he 
chooses  strange  hours  to  visit  us.  But  he  is 
right;  his  visits  cannot  be  too  private.  Cleo- 
nice, you  look  provokingly  at  your  ease." 

Cleonice  made  no  reply,  but  shifted  her 
position  so  that  the  light  from  the  lamp  did 
not  fall  upon  her  face,  while  her  father,  hurry- 
ing to  the  threshold  of  his  hall  to  receive  his 
illustrious  visitor,  soon  re-appeared  with  the 
Spartan  Regent,  talking  as  he  entered  with  the 
volubility  of  one  of  the  parasites  of  Alciphron 
and  Athenaeus. 

"  This  is  most  kind,  most  affable.  Cleonice 
said  you  woukl  come,  Pausanias,  though  I 
began  to  distrust  you.  The  hours  seem  long 
to  those  who  expect  pleasure." 

"And,  Cleonice,  _)w/  knew  that  I  should 
come,"  said  Pausanias,  approaching  the  fair 


*  Garlands  were  twined  round  the  neck,  or  placed 
upon  the  bosom  (uiroffujjiaSet).  See  the  quotations  from 
Alcaeus,  Sappho,  and  Anacreon  in  Athenseus,  book 
xiii.,  c.  17. 


FA  USA NJ AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


433 


Byzantine;  but  his  step  was  timid,  and  there 
was  no  pride  now  in  his  anxious  eye  and  bended 
brow. 

"  You  said  you  would  come  to-night,"  said 
Cleonice,  calmly,  "  and  Spartans,  according  to 
proverbs,  speak  the  truth." 

"When  it  is  to  their  advantage,  yes,"* 
said  Pausanias,  with  a  slight  curl  of  his  lips; 
and,  as  if  the  girl's  compliment  to  his  country- 
men had  roused  his  spleen  and  changed  his 
thoughts,  he  seated  himself  moodily  by  Cle- 
onice, and  remained  silent. 

The  Byzantine  stole  an  arch  glance  at  the 
Spartan,  as  he  thus  sat,  from  the  corner  of  her 
eyes,  and  said,  after  a  pause — 

"You  Spartans  ought  to  speak  the  truth 
more  than  other  people,  for  you  say  much 
les.s.  We  too  have  our  proverb  at  Byzantium, 
and  one  which  implies  that  it  requires  some 
wit  to  tell  fibs." 

"  Child,  child  !  "  exclaimed  Diagoras,  hold- 
ing up  his  hand  reprovingly,  and  directing 
a  terrified  look  at  the  Spartan.  To  his  great 
relief,  Pausanias  smiled,  and  replied — 

"  Fair  maiden,  we  Dorians  are  said  to  have 
a  wit  peculiar  to  ourselves,  but  I  confess  that 
it  is  of  a  nature  that  is  but  little  attractive  to 
your  sex.    The  Athenians  are  blander  wooers." 

"  Do  you  ever  attempt  to  woo  in  Lacedse- 
mon, then?  Ah,  but  the  maidens  there,  per- 
haps, are  not  difficult  to  please." 

"  The  girl  puts  me  in  a  cold  sweat  !  "  mut- 
tered Diagoras,  wiping  his  brow.  And  this 
time  Pausanias  did  not  smile;  he  colored,  and 
answered  gravely — 

And  is  it,  then  a  vain  hope  for  a  Spartan  to 
please  a  Byzantine  ?  " 

"You  puzzle  me.  That  is  an  enigma;  put 
it  to  the  oracle." 

The  Spartan  raised  his  eyes  towards  Cleo- 
nice, and,  as  she  saw  the  inquiring,  perplexed 
look  that  his  features  assumed,  the  ruby  lips 
broke  into  so  wicked  a  smile,  and  the  eyes 
that  met  his  had  so  much  laughter  in  them, 
that  Pausanias  was  fairly  bewitched  out  of 
his  own  displeasure. 

"  Ah.  cruel  one  !  "  said  he,  lowering  his 
voice,    "  I   am   not    so  proud    of   being  Spar- 


*  So  said  Thucydides  of  the  Spartans,  many  years 
afterwards.  "  They  give  evidence  of  honor  among 
themselves,  tmt  virith  respect  to  others,  they  consider 
honorable  whatever  pleases  them,  and  just  whatever  is 
to  their  advantage." — See  Thucyd.,  lib.  v. 

6—28 


tan  that  the  thought  should  console  me  for  thy 

mockery." 

"  Not  proud  of  being  Spartan  !  say  not  so," 
exclaimed  Cleonice.  "Whoever  speaks  of 
Greece  and  places  not  Sparta  at  her  head  ? 
Whoever  speaks  of  freedom  and  forgets  Ther- 
mopylas  ?  Whoever  burns  for  glory,  and 
sighs  not  for  the  fame  of  Pausanias  and 
Plataea  ?  Ah,  yes,  even  in  jest  say  not  that 
you  are  not  proud  to  be  a  Spartan  !  " 

"  The  little  fool  !  "  cried  Diagoras,  chuck- 
ling, and  mightily  delighted;  "she  is  quite 
inad  about  Sparta — no  wonder  !  " 

Pausanias,  surprised  and  moved  by  the 
burst  of  the  fair  Byzantine,  gazed  at  her  ad- 
miringly, and  thought  within  himself  how 
harshly  the  same  sentiment  would  have  sounded 
on  the  lips  of  a  tall  Spartan  virgin;  but  when 
Cleonice  heard  the  approving  interlocution  of 
Diagoras,  her  enthusiasm  vanished  from  her 
face,  and  putting  out  her  lips  poutingly,  she 
said,  "  Nay,  father,  I  repeat  only  what  others 
say  of  the  Spartans.  They  are  admirable 
heroes;  but  from  the  little  I  have  seen,  they 
are " 

"  What  ?  "  said  Pausanias  eagerly,  and  lean- 
ing nearer  to  Cleonice. 

"Proud,  dictatorial,  and  stern  as  compan- 
ions." 

Pausanias  once  more  drew  back. 

"  There  it  is  again  !  "  groaned  Diagoras. 
"  I  feel  exactly  as  if  I  were  playing  at  odd  and 
even  with  a  lion;  she  does  it  to  vex  me.  I 
shall  retaliate  and  creep  away." 

"  Cleonice,"  said  Pausanias,  with  suppressed 
emotion,  "you  trifle  with  me,  and  I  bear  it." 

"  You  are  condescending.  How  would  you 
avenge  yourself  ?  " 

"  How  !  " 

"You  would  not  beat  me;  you  wonld  not 
make  me  bear  an  anchor  on  the  shoulders,  as 
they  say  you  do  your  soldiers.  Shame  on 
you  !  you  bear  with  me  !  true,  what  help  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Maiden,"  said  the  Spartan,  rising  in  great 
anger,  "  for  him  who  loves  and  is  slighted 
there  is  a  revenge  you  have  not  mentioned." 

"For  him  who  loves!  No,  Spartan;  for 
him  who  shuns  disgrace  and  courts  the  fame 
dear  to  gods  and  men,  there  is  no  revenge 
upon  women.     Blush  for  your  threat." 

"You  madden,  but  subdue  me,"  said  the 
Spartan    as   he  turned   away.     He  then   first 


434 


BULVVER'S     WORKS. 


perceived  that  Diagoras  had  gone — that  they 
were  alone.  His  contempt  for  the  father 
awoke  suspicion  of  the  daughter.  Again  he 
approached  and  said,  "  Cleonice,  I  know  but 
little  of  the  fables  of  poets,  yet  is  it  an  old 
maxim  often  sung  and  ever  belied,  that  love 
scorned  becomes  hate.  There  are  moments 
when  I  think  I  hate  thee." 

"  And  yet  thou  hast  never  loved  me,"  said 
Cleonice;  and  there  was  something  soft  and 
tender  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  and  the  rough 
Spartan  was  again  subdued." 

"  I  never  loved  thee  !  What,  then,  is  love  ? 
Is  not  thine  image  always  before  me  ?— amidst 
schemes,  amidst  perils  of  which  thy  very 
dreams  have  never  presented  equal  perplexity 
or  phantoms  so  uncertain,  I  am  occupied  but 
with  thee.  Surely,  as  upon  the  hyacinth  is 
written  the  exclamation  of  woe,  so  on  this 
heart  is  graven  thy  name.  Cleonice,  you  who 
know  not  what  it  is  to  love,  you  affect  to  deny 
or  to  question  mine." 

"  And  what,"  said  Cleonice,  blushing  deeply, 
and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "what  result  can 
come  from  such  a  love?  You  may  not  wed 
with  the  stranger.  And  yet,  Pausanias,  yet 
you  know  that  all  other  love  dishonors  the 
virgin  even  of  Byzantium.  You  are  silent; 
you  turn  away.  Ah,  do  not  let  them  wrong 
you.  My  father  fears  your  power.  If  you 
love  me  you  are  powerless;  your  power  has 
passed  to  me.  It  is  not  so  ?  I,  a  weak  girl, 
can  rule,  command,  irritate,  mock  you,  if  I 
will.     You  may  fly  me,  but  not  control." 

"  Do  not  tempt  me  too  far,  Cleonice,"  said 
the  Spartan,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"Nay,  I  will  be  merciful  henceforth,  and 
you,  Pausanias,  come  here  no  more.  Awake 
to  the  true  sense  of  what  is  due  to  your  divine 
ancestry — your  great  name.  Is  it  not  told  of 
you  that,  after  the  fall  of  Mardonius,  you 
nobly  dismised  to  her  country,  unscathed  and 
honored,  the  captive  Coan  lady  ?  *  Will  you 
reverse  at  Byzantium  the  fame  acquired  at 
Plataea?  Pausanias,  spare  us;  appeal  not  to 
my  father's  fear,  still  less  to  his  love  of  gold" 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot  fly  thee,"  said  the 
Spartan,  with  great  emotion.  "  You  know  not 
how  stormy,  how  inexorable  are  the  passions 
which  burst  forth  after  a  whole  youth  of  re- 
straint.    When  nature  breaks  the  barriers,  she 


•  Herod,  i.x. 


rushes  headlong  on  her  course.  I  am  no  gen- 
tle wooer;  where  in  Sparta  should  I  learn  the 
art?  But,  if  I  love  thee  not  as  these  mincing 
lonians,  who  come  with  offerings  of  flowers 
and  song,  I  do  love  thee  with  all  that  fervor  of 
which  the  old  Dorian  legends  tell.  I  could 
brave,  like  the  Thracian,  the  dark  gates  of 
Hades,  were  thy  embrace  my  reward.  Com- 
mand me  as  thou  wilt — make  me  thy  slave  in 
all  things,  even  as  Hercules  was  to  Omphale; 
but  tell  me  only  that  I  may  win  thy  love  at 
last.  Fear  not.  Why  fear  me  ?  in  my  wildest 
moments  a  look  from  thee  can  control  me.  I 
ask  but  love  for  love.  Without  thy  love  thy 
beauty  were  valueless.     Bid  me  not  despair." 

Cleonice  turned  pale,  and  the  large  tears 
that  had  gathered  in  her  eyes  fell  slowly  down 
her  cheeks;  but  she  did  not  withdraw  her 
hand  from  his  clasp,  or  avert  her  countenance 
•"rom  his  eyes. 

"I  do  not  fear  thee,"  said  she,  in  a  very 
low  voice.  "  I  told  my  father  so;  but — but — " 
(and  here  she  drew  back  her  hand  and  averted 
her  face),  "  I  fear  myself." 

"Ah,  no,  no,"  cried  the  delighted  Spartan, 
detaining  her,  "  do  not  fear  to  trust  to  thine 
own  heart.  Talk  not  of  dishonor.  There 
are"  (and  here  the  Spartan  drew  himself  up, 
and  his  voice  took  a  deeper  swell) — "there 
are  those  on  earth  who  hold  themselves  above 
the  miserable  judgments  of  the  vulgar  herd — 
who  can  emancipate  themselves  from  those 
galling  chains  of  custom  and  of  country  which 
helotize  affection,  genius,  nature  herself. 
What  is  dishonor  here  may  be  glory  else- 
where; and  this  hand,  outstretched  towards  a 
mightier  sceptre  than  Greek  ever  wielded  yet, 
may  dispense,  not  shame  and  sorrow,  but  glory 
and  golden  affluence  to  those  I  love." 

"  You  amaze  me,  Pausanias.  Now  I  fear 
you.  What  mean  these  mysterious  boasts  ? 
Have  you  the  dark  ambition  to  restore  in  your 
own  person  that  race  of  tyrants  whom  your 
country  hath  helped  to  sweep  away?  Can 
you  hope  to  change  the  laws  of  Sparta,  and 
reign  there,  your  will  the  state  ?  " 

"  Cleonice,  we  touch  upon  matters  that 
should  not  disturb  the  ears  of  women.  For- 
give me  if  I  have  been  roused  from  myself." 

"At  Miletus— so  have  I  heard  my  mother 
say — there  were  women  worthy  to  be  the  confi- 
dants of  men." 

"  But  they  were  women  who  loved.  Cleonice, 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


435 


I  should  rejoice  in  an  hour  when  I  might  pour 
every  thought  into  thy  bosom." 

At  this  moment  there  was  heard  on  the 
strand  below  a  single  note  from  the  Mothon's 
instrument,  low,  but  prolonged;  it  ceased,  and 
was  again  renewed.  The  royal  conspirator 
started  and  breathed  hard. 

"It  is  the  signal,"  he  muttered;  "they  wait 
me.  Cleonice,"  he  said  aloud,  and  with  much 
earnestness  in  his  voice,  "I  had  hoped,  ere  we 
parted,  to  have  drawn  from  your  lips  those  as- 
surances which  would  give  me  energy  for  the 
present  and  hope  in  the  future.  Ah,  turn  not 
from  me  because  my  speech  is  plain  and  my 
manner  rugged.  What,  Cleonice,  what  if  I 
could  defy  the  laws  of  Sparta;  what  if,  instead 
of  that  gloomy  soil,  I  could  bear  thee  to  lands 
where  heaven  and  man  alike  smile  benignant 
on  love  ?     Might  I  not  hope  then  ? " 

"  Do  nothing  to  sully  your  fame." 

"  Is  it,  then,  dear  to  thee  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  part  of  thee,"  said  Cleonice  falter- 
ingly;  and,  as  if  she  had  said  too  much,  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Emboldened  by  this  emotion,  the  Spartan 
gave  way  to  his  passion  and  his  joy.  He 
clasped  her  in  his  arms — his  first  embrace 
— and  kissed,  with  wild  fervor,  the  crimsoned 
forehead,  the  veiling  hands.  Then,  as  he 
tore  himself  away,  he  cast  his  right  arm  aloft. 

"  O  Hercules  !  "  he  cried,  in  solemn  and 
kindling  adjuration,  "  my  ancestor  and  my 
divine  guardian,  it  was  not  by  confining  thy 
labors  to  one  spot  of  earth  that  thou  wert 
borne  from  thy  throne  of  fire  to  the  seats  of 
the  Gods.  Like  thee  I  will  spread  the  in- 
fluence of  my  arms  to  the  nations  whose  glory 
shall  be  my  name:  and  as  thy  sons,  my  fathers, 
expelled  from  Sparta,  returned  thither  with 
sword  and  spear  to  defeat  usurpers  and  to 
found  the  long  dynasty  of  the  Heracleids,  even 
so  may  it  be  mine  to  visit  that  dread  abode  of 
torturers  and  spies,  and  to  build  up  in  the 
halls  of  the  Atridae  a  power  worthier  of  the 
lineage  of  the  demigod.  Again  the  signal  ! 
Fear  nor,  Cleonice,  I  will  not  tarnish  my  fame, 
but  I  will  exchange  the  envy  of  abhorring 
rivals  for  the  obedience  of  a  world.  One  kiss 
more  !     Farewell  !  " 

Ere  Cleonice  recovered  herself,  Pausanias 
was  gone,  his  wild  and  uncomprehended  boasts 
still  ringing  in  her  ear.  She  sighed  heavily, 
and  turned  towards  the  opening  that  admitted 


to  the  terraces.  There  she  stood  watching  for 
the  parting  of  her  lover's  boat.  It  was  mid- 
night; the  air,  laden  with  the  perfumes  of  a 
thousand  fragrant  shrubs  and  flowers  that 
bloom  along  that  coast  in  the  rich  luxuriance 
of  nature,  was  hushed  and  breathless.  In  its 
stillness  every  sound  was  audible,  the  rustling 
of  a  leaf,  the  ripple  of  a  wave.  She  heard  the 
murmur  of  whispered  voices  below,  and  in  a 
few  moments  she  recognized,  emerging  from 
the  foliage,  the  form  of  Pausanias;  but  he  was 
not  alone.  Who  were  his  companions  ?  In 
the  deep  lustre  of  that  shining  and  splendid 
atmosphere  she  could  see  sufficient  of  the  out- 
line of  their  figures  to  observe  that  they  were 
not  dressed  in  the  Grecian  garb;  their  long 
robes  betrayed  the  Persian. 

They  seemed  conversing  familiarly  and 
eagerly  as  they  passed  along  the  smooth  sands, 
till  a  curve  in  the  wooded  shore  hid  them  from 
her  view. 

"Why  do  I  love  him  so,"  said  the  girl  me- 
chanically, "  and  yet  wrestle  against  that  love  ? 
Dark  forebodings  tell  me  that  Aphrodite  smiles 
not  on  our  vows.  Woe  is  me  !  What  will  be 
the  end  ?  " 


CHAPTER   V. 

On  quitting  Cleonice,  Pausanias  hastily 
traversed  the  long  passage  that  communicated 
with  a  square  peristyle  or  colonnade,  which 
again  led,  on  the  one  hand,  to  the  more  public 
parts  of  the  villa,  and,  on  the  other,  through  a 
small  door  left  ajar,  conducted  by  a  back  en- 
trance to  the  garden  and  the  sea-shore.  Pur- 
suing the  latter  path,  the  Spartan  bounded 
down  the  descent  and  came  upon  an  opening 
in  the  foilage,  in  which  Lysander  was  seated 
beside  the  boat  that  had  been  drawn  partially 
on  the  strand. 

"Alone?     Where  is  Alcman  ?  " 

"  Yonder;  you  heard  his  signal  ?  " 

"  I  heard  it." 

"  Pausanias,  they  who  seek  you  are  Persians. 
Beware  !  " 

"  Of  what  ?  murder  ?  I  am  warned.' 

"  Murder  to  your  good  name.  There  are  no 
arms  against  appearances." 

"  But  I  may  trust  thee  .'  "  said  the  Regent, 
quickly,  "and  of  Alcraan's  faith  I  am  con- 
vinced." 


436 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  Why  trust  to  any  man  what  it  were  wis- 
dom to  reveal  to  the  whole  Grecian  Council  ? 
To  parley  secretly  with  the  foe  is  half  a  trea- 
son to  our  friends." 

"  Lysander,"  replied  Pausanias,  coldly,  "  you 
have  much  to  learn  before  you  can  be  wholly 
Spartan.     Tarry  here  yet  awhile." 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  this  boy  ? "  muttered 
the  conspirator  as  he  strode  on.  "  I  know  that 
he  will  not  betray  me,  yet  can  I  hope  for  his 
aid  ?  I  love  him  so  well  that  I  would  fain  he 
shared  my  fortunes.  Perhaps  by  little  and 
little  I  may  lead  him  on.  Meanwhile,  his 
race  and  his  name  are  so  well  accredited  in 
Sparta,  his  father  himself  an  Ephor,  that  his 
presence  allays  suspicion.  Well,  here  are  my 
Persians." 

"  A  little  apart  from  the  Mothon,  who,  rest- 
ing his  cithara  on  a  fragment  of  rock,  appeared 
to  be  absorbed  in  reflection,  stood  the  men  of 
the  East.  There  were  two  of  them;  one  of  tall 
stature  and  noble  presence,  in  the  prime  of 
life;  the  other  more  advanced  in  years,  of  a 
coarser  make,  a  yet  darker  complexion,  and  of 
a  sullen  and  gloomy  countenance.  They  were 
not  dressed  alike;  the  taller,  a  Persian  of  pure 
blood,  wore  a  short  tunic  that  reached  only  to 
the  knees:  and  the  dress  fitted  to  his  shape 
without  a  single  fold.  On  his  round  cap  or 
bonnet,  glittered  a  string  of  those  rare  pearls, 
especially  and  immemorially  prized  in  the  East, 
which  formed  the  favorite  and  characteristic 
ornament  of  the  illustrious  tribe  of  the  Pasar- 
gadae.  The  other,  who  was  a  Mede,  differed 
scarcely  in  his  dress  from  Pausanias  himself, 
except  that  he  was  profusely  covered  with  or- 
naments; his  arms  were  decorated  with  brace- 
lets, he  wore  earrings,  and  a  broad  collar  of 
unpolished  stones  in  a  kind  of  filagree  was 
suspended  from  his  throat.  Behind  the  Ori- 
entals stood  Gongylus,  leaning  both  hands  on 
his  staff,  and  watching  the  approach  of  Pausa- 
nias with  the  same  icy  smile  and  glittering  eye 
with  which  he  listened  to  the  passionate  invec- 
tives or  flattered  the  dark  ambition  of  the  Spar- 
tan. The  Orientals  saluted  Pausanias  with  a 
lofty  gravity,  and  Gongylus  drawing  near, 
said:  "Son  of  Cleombrotus,  the  illustrious 
Ariamanes,  kinsman  to  Xerxes,  and  of  the 
House  of  the  Achsemenids,  is  so  far  versed  in 
the  Grecian  tongue  that  I  need  not  proffer  my 
offices  as  interpreter.  In  Datis,  the  Mede, 
brother  to   the  most  renowned  of   the  Magi, 


you  behold  a  warrior  worthy  to  assist  the  arms 
even  of  Pausanias." 

"  I  greet  ye  in  oiir  Spartan  phrase,  '  The 
beautf  ul  to  the  good,'  "  said  Pausanias  regard- 
ing the  Barbarians  with  an  earnest  gaze. 
"  And  I  requested  Gongylus  to  lead  ye  hither 
in  order  that  I  might  confer  with  ye  more  at 
case  than  in  the  confinement  to  which  I  regret 
ye  are  still  sentenced.  Not  in  prisons  should 
be  held  the  conversations  of  brave  men." 

"  I  know,"  said  Ariamanes  (the  statelier  of 
the  Barbarians),  in  the  Greek  tongue,  which  he 
spoke  intelligibly  indeed,  but  with  slowness 
and  hesitation,  "  I  know  that  I  am  with  that 
hero  who  refused  to  dishonor  the  corpse  of 
Mardonius,  and  even  though  a  captive  I  con- 
verse without  shame  with  my  victor." 

"  Rested  it  with  me  alone,  your  captivity 
should  cease,"  replied  Pausanias.  "  War, 
that  has  made  me  acquainted  with  the  valor 
of  the  Persians,  has  also  enlightened  me  as 
to  their  character.  Your  king  has  ever  been 
humane  to  such  of  the  Greeks  as  have  sought 
a  refuge  near  his  throne.  I  would  but  imitate 
his  clemency." 

"  Had  the  great  Darius  less  esteemed  the 
Greeks  he  would  never  have  invaded  Greece. 
From  the  wanderers  whom  misfortune  drove  to 
his  realms,  he  learned  to  wonder  at  the  arts, 
the  genius,  the  energies  of  the  people  of 
Hellas.  He  desired  less  to*  win  their  terri- 
tories than  to  gain  such  subjects.  Too 
vast,  alas,  was  the  work  he  bequeathed  to 
Xerxes." 

"  He  should  not  have  trusted  to  force  alone," 
returned  Pausanias.  "  Greece  may  be  won, 
but  by  the  arts  of  her  sons,  not  by  the  arms 
of  the  stranger.  A  Greek  only  can  subdue 
Greece.  By  such  profound  knowledge  of  the 
factions,  the  interests,  the  envies  and  the  jeal- 
ousies of  each  state  as  a  Greek  alone  can 
possess,  the  mistaken  chain  that  binds  them 
might  be  easily  severed;  some  bought,  some 
intimidated,  and  the  few  that  hold  out  sub- 
dued amidst  the  apathy  of  the  rest." 

"You  speak  wisely,  right  hand  of  Hellas," 
answered  the  Persian,  who  had  listened  to 
these  remarks  with  deep  attention.  "  Yet  had 
we  in  our  armies  your  countryman,  the  brave 
Demaratus," 

"  But,  if  I  have  heard  rightly,  ye  too  often 
disdained  his  counsel.  Had  he  been  listened 
to  there  had  been   neither  a  Salamis   nor  a 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


437 


Plataea.*  Yet  Demaratus  himself  had  been 
too  long  a  stranger  to  Greece,  and  he  knew 
little  of  any  state  save  that  of  Sparta.  Lives 
he  still?" 

"Surely  yes,  in  honor  and  renown?  little 
less  than  the  son  of  Darius  himself." 

"  And  what  reward  would  Xerxes  bestow  on 
one  of  greater  influence  than  Demaratus; 
on  one  who  has  hitherto  conquered  every  foe, 
and  now  beholds  before  him  the  conquest  of 
Greece  herself?" 

"  If  such  a  man  were  found,"  answered  the 
Persian,  "  let  his  thought  run  loose,  let  his 
imagination  rove,  let  him  seek  only  how  to 
find  a  fitting  estimate  of  the  gratitude  of  the 
king  and  the  vastness  of  the  service." 

Pausanias  shaded  his  brow  with  his  hand, 
and  mused  a  few  moments;  then  lifting  his 
eyes  to  the  Persian's  watchful  but  composed 
countenance,  he  said,  with  a  slight  smile — 

"  Hard  is  it,  O  Persian,  when  the  choice  is 
actually  before  him,  for  a  man  to  renounce  his 
country.  There  have  been  hours  within  this 
very  day  when  my  desires  swept  afar  from 
Sparta,  from  all  Hellas,  and  rested  on  the  tran- 
quil pomp  of  Oriental  Satrapies.  But  now, 
rude  and  stern  parent  though  Sparta  be  to  me, 
I  feel  still  that  I  am  her  son;  and,  while  we 
speak,  a  throne  in  stormy  Hellas  seems  the  fit- 
ting object  of  a  Greek's  ambition.  In  a  word, 
then,  I  would  rise,  and  yet  raise  my  country. 
I  would  have  at  my  will  a  force  that  may  suf- 
fice to  overthrow  in  Sparta  its  grim  and  unnat- 
ural laws,  to  found  amidst  its  rocks  that 
single  throne  which  the  son  of  a  demigod 
should  ascend.  From  that  throne  I  would 
spread  my  empire  over  the  whole  of  Greece, 
Corinth  and  Athens  being  my  tributaries.  So 
that,  though  men  now,  and  posterity  hereafter, 
may  say,  '  Pausanias  overthrew  the  Spartan 
government,'  they  shall  add,  '  but  Pausanias 

*  After  the  action  of  Thermopylae,  Demaratus  ad- 
vised Xerxes  to  send  three  hundred  vessels  to  the 
Laconian  coast,  and  seize  the  island  of  Cythera,  which 
commanded  Sparta.  "  The  profound  experience  of 
Demaratus  in  the  selfish  and  exclusive  policy  of  his 
countrymen  made  him  argue  that  if  this  were  done 
the  fear  of  Sparta  for  herself  would  prevent  her  join- 
ing the  forces  of  the  rest  of  Greece,  and  leave  the  latter 
a  more  easy  prey  to  the  invader." — Athens,  its  Rise  and 
Fall.  This  advice  was  overruled  by  Achaemenes.  So 
again,  had  the  advice  of  Artemisia,  the  Carian  princess, 
been  taken — to  delay  the  naval  engagement  of  Salamis, 
and  rather  to  sail  to  the  Peloponnesus — the  Greeks, 
failing  of  provisions,  and  divided  among  themselves, 
would  probably  have  dispersed. 


annexed  to  the  Spartan  sceptre  the  realm  of 
Greece.  Pausanias  was  a  tyrant,  but  not  a 
traitor.'  How,  O  Persian,  can  these  designs 
accord  with  the  policy  of  the  Persian  king  ?  " 

"  Not  without  the  authority  of  my  master 
can  I  answer  thee,"  replied  Ariamanes,  "  so 
that  my  answer  may  be  as  the  king's  signet  to 
his  decree.  But  so  much  at  least  I  say:  that 
it  is  not  the  custom  of  the  Persians  to  inter- 
fere with  the  institutions  of  those  states  with 
which  they  are  connected.  Thou  desirest  to 
make  a  monarchy  of  Greece,  with  Sparta  for 
its  head.  Be  it  so;  the  king  my  master  will 
aid  thee  so  to  scheme  and  so  to  reign,  pro- 
vided thou  dost  but  concede  to  him  a  vase  of 
the  water  from  thy  fountains,  a  fragment  of 
earth  from  thy  gardens." 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Pausanias  thought- 
fully, but  with  a  slight  color  on  his  brow,  "  if 
I  hold  my  dominions  tributary  to  the  king  ?  " 

"The  dominions  that  by  the  king's  aid  thou 
wilt  have  conquered.     Is  that  a  hard  law  ?  " 

"  To  a  Greek  and  a  Spartan  the  very  mimi- 
cry of  allegiance  to  the  foreigner  is  hard." 

The  Persian  smiled.  "Yet,  if  I  understand 
thee  aright,  O  Chief,  even  kings  in  Sparta  are 
but  subjects  to  their  people,  Slave  to  a  crowd 
at  home;  or  tributary  to  a  throne  abroad; 
slave  every  hour,  or  tributary  of  earth  and 
water  once  a  year,  which  is  the  freer  lot  ?  " 

"  Thou  canst  not  understand  our  Grecian 
notions,"  replied  Pausanias,  "  nor  have  I  lei- 
sure to  explain  them.  But  though  I  may  sub- 
due Sparta  to  myself  as  to  its  native  sovereign, 
I  will  not,  even  by  a  type,  subdue  the  land  of 
the  Heraclied  to  the  Barbarian." 

Ariamanes  looked  grave;  the  difficulty 
raised  was  serious.  And  here  the  craft  of 
Gongylus  interposed. 

"  This  may  be  adjusted,  Ariamanes,  as  be- 
fits both  parties.  Let  Pausanias  rule  in  Sparta 
as  he  lists,  and,  Sparta  stand  free  of  tribute. 
But  for  all  other  states  and  cities  that  Pau- 
sanias, aided  by  the  great  king,  shall  conquer, 
let  the  vase  be  filled,  and  the  earth  be  Grecian. 
Let  him  but  render  tribute  for  those  lands 
which  the  Persians  submit  to  his  sceptre.  So 
shall  the  pride  of  the  Spartan  he  appeased, 
and  the  claims  of  the  king  be  satisfied." 

"Shall  it  be  so  ?  "  said  Pausanias. 

"  Instruct  me  so  to  propose  to  my  master, 
and  I  will  do  my  best  to  content  him  with  the 
exception  to  the  wonted  rights  of  the  Persian 


438 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


diadem.  And  then,"  continued  Ariamanes, 
"  then,  Pausanias,  Conqueror  of  Mardonius, 
Captain  at  Plataea,  thou  art  indeed  a  man  with 
whom  the  lord  of  Asia  may  treat  as  an  equal. 
Greeks  before  thee  have  offered  to  render 
Greece  to  the  king  my  master;  but  they  were 
exiles  and  fugitives,  they  had  nothing  to  risk 
or  lose;  thou  hast  fame,  and  command,  and 
power,  and  riches,  and  all " 

"But  for  a  throne,"  interrupted  Gongylus. 

"  It  does  not  matter  what  may  be  my  mo- 
tives," returned  the  Spartan  gloomily,  "  and 
were  I  to  tell  them,  you  might  not  comprehend. 
But  so  much  by  way  of  explanation.  You 
too  have  held  command  ?  " 

"I  have." 

"  If  you  knew  that,  when  power  became  to 
you  so  sweet  that  it  was  as  necessary  to  life 
itself  as  food  and  drink,  it  would  then  be 
snatched  from  you  for  ever,  and  you  would 
serve  as  a  soldier  in  the  very  ranks  you  had 
commanded  as  a  leader;  if  you  knew  that  no 
matter  what  your  services,  your  superiority 
your  desires,  this  shameful  fall  was  inexorably 
doomed,  might  you  not  see  humiliation  in 
power  itself,  obscurity  in  renown,  gloom  in  the 
present,  despair  in  the  future  ?  And  would  it 
not  seem  to  )'ou  nobler  even  to  desert  the 
camp  than  to  sink  into  a  subaltern  ? " 

"  Such  a  prospect  has  in  our  country  made 
out  of  good  subjects  fierce  rebels,"  observed 
the  Persian. 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  doubt  it  not,"  said  Pausanias, 
laughing  bitterly.  "  Well,  then,  such  will  be 
my  lot,  if  I  pluck  not  out  a  fairer  one  from  the 
Fatal  Urn.  As  Regent  of  Sparta,  while  ray 
nephew  is  beardless,  I  am  general  of  her 
armies,  and  I  have  the  sway  and  functions  of 
her  king.  When  he  arrives  at  the  customary 
age,  I  am  a  subject,  a  citizen,  a  nothing,  a 
miserable  fool  of  memories  gnawing  my  heart 
away  amidst  joyless  customs  and  stern  aus- 
terities, with  the  recollection  of  the  glories  of 
Plataea  and  the  delights  of  Byzantium.  Per- 
sian, I  am  filled  from  the  crown  to  the  sole 
with  the  desire  of  power,  with  the  tastes  of 
pleasure.  I  have  that  within  me  which  before 
my  time  has  made  heroes  and  traitors,  raised 
demigods  to  Heaven,  or  chained  the  lofty 
Titans  to  the  rocks  of  Hades.  Something  I 
may  yet  be;  I  know  not  what.  But  as  the 
man  never  returns  to  the  boy,  so  never,  never, 
never  once  more,  can  I  be  again  the    Spartan 


subject.  Enough;  such  as  I  am,  I  can  fulfil 
what  I  have  said  to  thee.  Will  thy  king 
accept  me  as  his  ally,  and  ratify  the  terms  I 
have  proposed  ! " 

"  I  feel  well-nigh  assured  of  it,"  answered 
the  Persian;  "for  since  thou  hast  spoken  thus 
boldly,  I  will  answer  thee  in  the  same  strain. 
Know,  then,  that  we  of  the  pure  race  of  Per- 
sia, we  the  sons  of  those  who  overthrew  the 
Mede,  and  extended  the  race  of  the  mountain 
tribe,  from  the  Scythian  to  the  Arab,  from 
Egypt  to  Ind,  we  at  least  feel  that  no  sacrifice 
were  too  great  to  redeem  the  disgrace  we  have 
suffered  at  the  hands  of  thy  countrymen;  and 
the  world  itself  were  too  small  an  empire,  too 
confined  a  breathing-place  for  the  son  of  Da- 
rius, if  this  nook  of  earth  were  still  left  without 
the  pale  of  his  dominion. 

"This  nook  of  earth  ?  Ay,  but  Sparta  itself 
must  own  no  lord  but  me." 

"  It  is  agreed." 

"  If  I  release  thee,  wilt  thou  bear  these  offers 
to  the  king,  travelling  day  and  night  till  thou 
restest  at  the  foot  of  his  throne  ? " 

"  I  should  carry  tidings  too  grateful  to  suffer 
me  to  loiter  by  the  road." 

"And  Datis,  he  comprehends  us  not;  but 
his  eyes  glitter  fiercely  on  me.  It  is  easy  to 
see  that  thy  comrade  loves  not  the  Greek." 

"  For  that  reason  he  will  aid  us  well.  Though 
but  a  Mede,  and  not  admitted  to  the  privileges 
of  the  Pasargadae,  his  relationship  to  the  most 
powerful  and  learned  of  our  Magi,  and  his  own 
services  in  war,  have  won  him  such  influence 
with  both  priests  and  soldiers,  that  I  would 
fain  have  him  as  my  companion.  I  will  answer 
for  his  fidelity  to  our  joint  object." 

"  Enough;  ye  are  both  free.  Gongylus. 
you  will  now  conduct  our  friends  to  the  place 
where  the  steeds  await  them.  You  will  then 
privately  return  to  the  citadel,  and  give  to  their 
pretended  escape  the  probable  appearances  we 
devised.  Be  quick,  while  it  is  yet  night.  One 
word  more.  Persian,  our  success  depends 
upon  thy  speed.  It  is  while  the  Greeks  are 
yet  at  Byzantium,  while  I  yet  am  in  command, 
that  we  should  strike  the  blow.  If  the  king 
consent,  through  Gongylus  thou  wilt  have 
means  to  advise  me.  A  Persian  army  must 
march  at  once  to  the  Phrygian  confines,  in- 
structed to  yield  command  to  me  when  the 
hour  comes  to  assume  it.  Delay  not  that  aid 
by  such  vast  and  profitless  recruits  as  swelled 


FA  us  AN/AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


439 


the  pomp,  but  embarrassed  the  arms,  of  Xerxes. 
Armies  too  large  rot  by  their  own  unwieldiness 
into  decay.  A  band  of  50,000,  composed  solely 
of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  will  more  than  suf- 
fice. With  such  an  army,  if  my  command  be 
undisputed,  I  will  win  a  second  Plataea,  but 
against  the  Greek." 

"  Your    suggestion    shall    be     law.       May 
Ormuzd  favor  the  bold  !  " 

"Away,  Gongylus.  You  know  the  rest." 
Pausanias  followed  with  thoughtful  eyes  the 
receding  forms  of  Gongylus  and  the  Barbari- 
ans. "  I  have  passed  for  ever,"  he  muttered, 
"  the  pillars  of  Hercules.  I  must  go  on  or 
perish.  If  I  fall,  I  die  execrated  and  abhorred; 
if  I  succeed,  the  sound  of  the  choral  flutes 
will  drown  the  hootings.  Be  it  as  it  may,  I  do 
not  and  will  not  repent.  If  the  wolf  gnaw  my 
entrails,  none  shall  hear  me  groan."  He 
turned  and  met  the  eyes  of  Alcman,  fixed  on 
him  so  intently,  so  exultingly,  that,  wondering 
at  their  strange  expression,  he  drew  back  and 
said  haughtily,  "  You  imitate  Medusa,  but  1 
am  stone  already." 

"Nay,"  said  the  Mothon,  in  a  voice  of  great 
humility,  "  if  you  are  of  stone,  it  is  like  the 
divine  one  which,  when  Ijorne  before  armies, 
secures  their  victory.  Blame  me  not  that  I 
gazed  on  you  with  triumph  and  hope.  For, 
while  you  conferred  with  the  Persian,  me- 
thought  the  murmurs  that  reached  my  ear 
sounded  thus:  'When  Pausanias  shall  rise, 
Sparta  shall  bend  low,  and  the  Helot  shall 
-break  his  chains.'  " 

"  They  do  not  hate  me,  these  Helots  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  only  Spartan  they  love." 

"  Were  my  life  in  danger  from  the  Ephors 


"  The  Helots  would  rise  to  a  man." 

"  Did  I  plant  my  standard  on  Taygetus, 
though  all  Sparta  encamped  against  it " 

"All  the  slaves  would  cut  their  way  to  thy 
side.  O  Pausanias,  think  how  much  nobler  it 
were  to  reign  over  tens  of  thousands  who  be- 
come freemen  at  thy  word,  than  to  be  but  the 
equal  of  10,000  tyrants." 

"The    Helots    fight   well,  when    well    led," 


said    Pausanias,   as   if   to  himself.     "  Launch 
the  boat." 

"  Pardon  me,  Pausanias,  but  is  it  prudent 
any  longer  to  trust  Lysander  ?  He  is  the  pat- 
tern of  the  Spartan  youth,  and  Sparta  is  his 
mistress.  He  loves  her  too  well  not  to  blab 
to  her  every  secret." 

"  O  Sparta,  Sparta,  wilt  thou  not  leave  me 
one  friend  ? "  exclaimed  Pausanias.  "  No, 
Alcman,  I  will  not  separate  myself  from 
Lysander,  till  I  despair  of  his  alliance.  To 
your  oars  !  be  quick." 

At  the  sound  of  the  Mathon's  tread  upon 
the  pebbles,  Lysander,  who  had  hitherto  re- 
mained motionless,  reclining  by  the  boat,  rose 
and  advanced  towards  Pausanias.  There  was 
in  his  countenance,  as  the  moon  shining  on  it 
cast  over  his  statue-like  features  a  pale  and 
marble  hue,  so  much  of  anxiety,  of  affection, 
of  fear,  so  much  of  the  evident,  unmistakable 
solicitude  of  friendship,  that  Pausanias,  who, 
like  most  men,  envied  and  unloved,  was  sus- 
ceptible even  of  the  semblance  of  attachment, 
muttered  to  himself,  "  No,  thou  wilt  not  desert 
me,  nor  I  thee." 

"  My  friend,  my  Pausanias,"  said  Lysander, 
as  he  approached,  "  I  have  had  fears — I  have 
seen  omens.  Undertake  nothing,  I  beseech 
thee,  which  thou  hast  meditated  this  night." 

"  And  what  hast  thou  seen  ?  "  said  Pausa- 
nias, with  a  slight  change  of  countenance. 

"  I  was  praying  the  Gods  for  thee  and 
Sparta,  when  a  star  shot  suddenly  from  the 
heavens.  Pausanias,  this  is  the  eighth  year, 
the  year  in  which  on  moonless  nights  the 
Ephors  watch  the  heavens." 

"And  if  a  star  fall  they  judge  their  kings," 
interrupted  Pausanias  (with  a  curl  of  his 
haughty  lip),  "  to  have  offended  the  Gods,  and 
suspend  them  from  their  office  till  acquitted 
by  an  oracle  at  Delphi,  or  a  priest  at  Olympia. 
A  wise  superstition.  But,  Lysander,  the  night 
is  not  moonless,  and  the  omen  is  therefore 
nought." 

Lysander  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and 
followed  his  chieftain  to  the  boat,  in  gloomy 
silence. 


44° 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


BOOK    SECOND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

At  noon  the  next  day,  not  only  the  vessels 
in  the  harbor  presented  the  same  appearance 
of  inactivity  and  desertion  which  had  charac- 
terized the  preceding  evening,  but  the  camp 
itself  seemed  forsaken.  Pausanias  had  quitted 
his  ship  for  the  citadel,  in  which  he  took  up 
his  lodgment  when  on  shore:  and  most  of  the 
officers  and  sailors  of  the  squandron  were 
dispersed  among  the  taverns  and  wine-shops 
for  which,  even  at  that  day,  Byzantium  was 
celebrated. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  lowest  and  most  popular 
of  these  latter  resorts,  and  in  a  large  and  rude 
chamber,  or  rather  outhouse,  separated  from 
the  rest  of  the  building,  that  a  number  of  the 
Laconian  Helots  were  assembled.  Some  of 
these  were  employed  as  sailors,  others  were 
the  military  attendants  on  the  Regent  and  the 
Spartans  who  accompanied  him. 

At  the  time  we  speak  of,  these  unhappy 
beings  were  in  the  full  excitement  of  that 
wild  and  melancholy  gaiety  which  is  almost 
peculiar  to  slaves  in  their  hours  of  recreation, 
and  which  reaction  of  wretchedness  modern 
writers  have  discovered  the  indulgence  of  a 
native  humor.  Some  of  them  were  drinking 
deep,  wrangling,  jesting,  laughing  in  loud  dis- 
cord over  their  cups.  At  another  table  rose 
the  deep  voice  of  a  singer,  chanting  one  of 
those  antique  airs  known  but  to  these  degraded 
sons  of  the  Homeric  Achaean,  and  probably  in 
its  origin  going  beyond  the  date  of  the  Tale 
of  Troy;  a  song  of  gross  and  rustic  buffoonery, 
but  ever  and  anon  charged  with  some  image 
or  thought  worthy  of  that  language  of  the 
universal  Muses. 

His  companions  listened  with  a  rude  delight 
to  the  rough  voice  and  homely  sounds,  and 
now  and  then  interrupted  the  wassailers  at  the 


other  tables  by  cries  for  silence,  which  none 
regarded.  Here  and  there,  with  intense  and 
fierce  anxiety  on  their  faces,  small  groups  were 
playing  at  dice;  for  gambling  is  the  passion  of 
slaves.  And  many  of  these  men,  to  whom 
wealth  could  bring  no  comfort,  had  secretly 
amassed  large  hoards  at  the  plunder  of  Plataea, 
from  which  they  had  sold  to  the  traders  of 
.^gina  gold  at  the  price  of  brass.  The  appear- 
ance of  the  rioters  was  startling  and  melan- 
choly. They  were  mostly  stunted  and  under- 
sized, as  are  generally  the  progeny  of  the  sons 
of  woe;  lean  and  gaunt  with  early  hardship, 
the  spine  of  the  back  curved  and  bowed  by 
habitual  degradation;  but  with  the  hard-knit 
sinews  and  prominent  muscles  which  are  pro- 
duced by  labor  and  the  mountain  air;  and 
under  shaggy  and  lowering  brows  sparkled 
many  a  fierce,  perfidious,  and  malignant  eye; 
while  as  mirth,  or  gaming,  or  song,  aroused 
smiles  in  the  various  groups,  the  rude  feat- 
ures spoke  of  the  passions  easily  released  from" 
the  sullen  bondage  of  servitude,  and  revealed 
the  nature  of  the  animals  which  thraldom  had 
failed  to  tame, 

Here  and  there,  however,  were  to  be  seen 
forms,  unlike  the  rest,  of  stately  stature,  of 
fair  proportions,  wearing  the  divine  lineaments 
of  Grecian  beauty.  From  some  of  these  a 
higher  nature  spoke  out,  not  in  mirth,  that 
last  mockery  of  supreme  woe,  but  in  an  ex- 
pression of  stern,  grave,  and  disdainful  melan- 
choly; others,  on  the  contrary,  surpassed  the 
rest  in  vehemence,  clamor,  and  exuberant  ex- 
travagance of  emotion,  as  if  their  nobler 
physical  development  only  served  to  entitle 
them  to  that  base  superiority.  For  health 
and  vigor  can  make  an  aristocracy  even  among 
Helots.  The  garments  of  these  merry-makers 
increased  the  peculiar  effect  of  their  general 
appearance.     The    Helots  in   military  excar- 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


441 


sions  naturally  relinquished  the  rough  sheep- 
skin dress  that  characterized  their  countrymen 
at  home,  the  serfs  of  the  soil.  The  sailors 
had  thrown  off,  for  coolness,  the  leathern 
jerkins  they  habitually  wore,  and,  with  their 
bare  arms  and  breasts,  looked  as  if  of  a  race 
that  yet  shivered,  primitive  and  unredeemed, 
on  the  outskirts  of  civilization. 

Strangely  contrasted  with  their  rougher 
comrades  were  those  who,  placed  occasionally 
about  the  person  of  the  Regent,  were  indulged 
with  the  loose  and  clean  robes  of  gay  colors 
worn  by  the  Asiatic  slaves;  and  these  ever 
and  anon  glanced  at  their  finery  with  an  air  of 
conscious  triumph.  Altogether,  it  was  a  sight 
that  might  well  have  appalled,  by  its  solemn 
lessons  of  human  change,  the  poet  who  would 
have  beheld  in  that  embruted  flock  the  de- 
scendants of  the  race  over  whom  Pelops  and 
Atreus,  and  Menelaus,  and  Agamemnon  the 
king  of  men  had  held  their  antique  sway,  and 
might  still  more  have  saddened  the  philoso- 
pher who  believed,  as  Menander  has  nobly 
written,  "  That  Nature  knows  no  slaves." 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  confused  and 
uproarious  hubbub,  the  door  opened,  and 
Alcman  the  Mothon  entered  the  chamber. 
At  this  sight  the  clamor  ceased  in  an  instant. 
The  party  rose,  as  by  a  general  impulse,  and 
crowded  round  the  new-comer. 

"  My  friends,"  said  he,  regarding  them  with 
the  same  calm  and  frigid  indifference  which 
usually  characterized  his  demeanor,  "  you  do 
well  to  make  merry  while  you  may,  for  some- 
thing tells  me  it  will  not  last  long.  We  shall 
return  to  Lacedaemon.  You  look  black.  So, 
then,  is  there  no  delight  in  the  thought  of 
home?" 

"  Home  !  "  muttered  one  of  the  Helots,  and 
the  word,  sounding  drearily  on  his  lips,  was 
echoed  by  many,  so  that  it  circled  like  a 
groan. 

"  Yet  ye  have  your  children  as  much  as  if 
ye  were  free,"  said  Alcman. 

"And  for  that  reason  it  pains  us  to  see  them 
play,  unaware  of  the  future,"  said  a  Helot  of 
better  mien  than  his  comrades. 

"  But  do  you  know,"  returned  the  Mothon, 
gazing  on  the  last  speaker  steadily,  "  that  for 
your  children  there  may  not  be  a  future  fairer 
than  that  which  your  fathers  knew  ?" 

"  Tush  ! "  exclaimed  one  of  the  unhappy 
men,  old  before  his   time,   and   of  an  aspect 


singularly  sullen  and  ferocious.  'Such  have 
been  your  half-hints  and  mystic  prophecies  for 
years.  What  good  comes  of  them  ?  Was 
there  ever  an  oracle  for  Helots  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  repute  in  the  oracles  even  of 
Apollo,"  retured  Alcman,  "  till  the  Apollo- 
serving  Dorians  became  conquerors.  Oracles 
are  the  children  of  victories." 

"  But  there  are  no  victories  for  us,"  said  the 
first  speaker,  mournfully. 

"  Never,  if  ye  despair,"  said  the  Mothon 
loftily.  "What,"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
looking  round  at  the  crowd,  "  what,  do  ye  not 
see  that  hope  dawned  upon  us  from  the  hour 
when  thirty-five  thousand  of  us  were  admitted 
as  soldiers,  ay,  and  as  conquerors,  at  Platjea  ? 
From  that  moment  we  knew  our  strength. 
Listen  to  me.  At  Samos  once  a  thousand 
slaves — mark  me,  but  a  thousand — escaped 
the  yoke — seized  on  arms,  fled  to  the  moun- 
tains (we  have  mountains  even  in  Laconia), 
descended  from  time  to  time  to  devastate  the 
fields  and  to  harass  their  ancient  lords.  By 
habit  they  learned  war,  by  desperation  they 
grew  indomitable.  What  became  of  these 
slaves  ?  were  they  cut  off  ?  Did  they  perish  by 
hunger,  by  the  sword,  in  the  dungeon  or  field  ? 
No;  these  brave  men  were  the  founders  of 
Ephesus."  * 

"  But  the  Samians  were  not  Spartans,"  mum- 
bled the  old  Helot. 

"As  ye  will,  as  ye  will,"  said  Alcman,  re- 
lapsing into  his  usual  coldness.  "  I  wish  you 
never  to  strike  unless  ye  are  prepared  to  die 
or  conquer." 

"  Some  of  us  are,  said  the  younger  Helot. 

"  Sacrifice  a  cock  to  the  Fates,  then." 

"  But  why,  think  you,"  asked  one  of  the 
Helots  "  that  we  shall  be  so  soon  summoned 
back  to  Laconia  ? " 

"  Because  while  ye  are  drinking  and  idling 
here — drones  that  ye  are — there  is  commotion 
in  the  Athenian  bee-hive  yonder.  Know  that 
Ariamanes  the  Persian  and  Datis  the  Mede 
have  escaped.  The  allies,  especially  the 
Athenians,  are  excited  and  angry;  and  many 
of  them  are  already  come  in  a  body  to  Pausa- 
nias,  whom  they  accuse  of  abetting  the  escape 
of  the  fugitives." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Well,  and  if  Pausanias  does  not  give  honey 


*  Malacus  ap.  Athen.  6. 


442 


B  UL  WEKS     WORKS. 


in  his  words — and  few  flowers  grow  on  his 
lips — the  bees  will  sting,  that  is  all.  A  tri- 
reme will  be  despatched  to  Sparta  with  com- 
plaints. Fausanias  will  be  recalled — perhaps 
his  life  endangered." 

"  Endangered  !  "  echoed  several  voices. 

"  Yes.  What  is  that  to  you — what  care  you 
for  his  danger?     He  is  a  Spartan." 

"Ay,"  cried  one;  "  but  he  has  been  kind  to 
the  Helots.' 

"  And  we  have  fought  by  his  side,"  said  an- 
other. 

"  And  he  dressed  my  wound  with  his  own 
hand,"  muttered  a  third. 

"  And  we  have  got  money  under  him," 
growled  a  fourth. 

"And  more  than  all,"  said  Alcman,  in  a 
loud  voice,  "  If  he  lives  he  will  break  down 
the  Spartan  government.  Ye  will  not  let  this 
man  die  ? " 

"  Never  !  "  exclaimed  the  whole  assembly. 
Alcman  gazed  with  a  kind  of  calm  and  strange 
contempt  on  the  flashing  eyes,  the  fiery  ges- 
tures of  the  throng,  and  then  said,  coldly, 

"  So  then  you  would  fight  for  one  man  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay,  that  would  we." 

"  But  not  for  your  own  liberties  and  those  of 
your  children  unborn  ?  " 

There  was  a  dead  silence;  but  the  taunt 
was  felt,  and  its  logic  was  already  at  work  in 
many  of  these  rugged  breasts. 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  suddenly 
thrown  open;  and  a  Helot,  in  the  dress  worn 
by  the  attendants  of  the  Regent,  entered, 
breathless  and  panting. 

"  Alcman  !  the  gods  be  praised  you  are  here. 
Pausanias  commands  your  presence.  Lose 
not  a  moment.  And  you  too,  comrades,  by 
Demeter,  do  you  mean  to  spend  whole  days  at 
your  cups  ?  Come  to  the  citidal;  ye  may  be 
wanted." 

This  was  spoken  to  such  of  the  Helots,  as 
belonged  to  the  train  of  Pausanias. 

"  Wanted — what  for  ?  "  said  one.  "  Pau- 
sanias gives  us  a  holiday  while  he  employs  the 
sleek  Egyptians." 

"  Who  that  serves  Pausanias  ever  asks  that 
question,  or  can  foresee  from  one  hour  to  an- 
other what  he  may  be  required  to  do?"  re- 
turned the  self-important  messenger,  with 
great  contempt. 

Meanwhile  the  Mothon,  all  whose  move- 
ments were  peculiarly  silent  and    rapid,  was 


already  on  his  way  to  the  citaded.  The  dis- 
tance was  not  inconsiderable,  but  Alcman  was 
swift  of  foot.  Tightening  the  girdle  round 
his  waist,  he  swung  himself,  as  it  were,  into  a 
kind  of  run,  which,  though  not  seemingly 
rapid,  cleared  the  ground  with  a  speed  almost 
rivalling  that  of  the  ostrich,  from  the  length 
of  the  stride  and  the  extreme  regularity  of  the 
pace.  Such  was  at  that  day  the  method  by 
which  messages  were  despatched  from  state 
to  state,  especially  in  mountainous  countries; 
and  the  length  of  way  which  was  performed, 
without  stopping,  by  the  foot-couriers  might 
startle  the  best-trained  pedestrians  in  our 
times.  So  swiftly,  indeed,  did  the  Mothon 
pursue  his  course,  that  just  by  the  citadel  he 
came  up  with  the  Grecian  captains  who,  be- 
fore he  joined  the  Helots,  had  set  off  for  their 
audience  with  Pausanias.  There  were  some 
fourteen  or  fifteen  of  them,  and  they  so  filled 
up  the  path,  which,  just  there,  was  not  broad, 
that  Alcman  was  obliged  to  pause  as  he  came 
ujion  their  rear. 

"  And  whither  so  fast,  fellow  ?  "  said  Uliades 
the  Samian,  turning  round  as  he  heard  the 
strides  of  the  Mothon. 

"  Please  you,  master,  I  am  bound  to  the 
General." 

"  Oh,  his  slave  !     Is  he  going  to  free  you  ? " 

"  I  am  already  as  free  as  a  man  who  has  no 
city  can  be." 

"  Pithy.  The  Spartan  slaves  have  the  dry- 
ness of  their  masters.  How,  sirrah  !  do  you 
jostle  me  ?  " 

"  I  crave  pardon.     I  only  seek  to  pass." 

"  Never  !  to  take  precedence  of  a  Samian. 
Keep  back." 

"  I  dare  not."     ' 

"Nay,  nay,  let  him  pass,"  said  the  young 
Chian,  Antagoras;  "  he  will  get  scourged  if 
he  is  too  late.  Perhaps,  like  the  Persians, 
Paus.Tnias  wears  false  hair,  and  wishes  the  slave 
to  dress  it  in  honor  of  us." 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  an  Athenian.  "  Are 
these  taunts  prudent  ? " 

Here  there  sudilenly  broke  forth  a  loud  oath 
from  Uliades,  who,  lingering  a  little  behind 
the  rest,  had  laid  rough  hands  on  the  Mothon, 
as  the  latter  once  more  attempted  to  pass  him. 
With  a  dexterous  and  abrupt  agility,  Alcman 
had  extricated  himself  from  the  Samian 's  grasp, 
but  with  a  force  that  swung  the  captain  on  his 
knee.     Taking  advantage  of  the  position  of  the 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


443 


Toe,  the  Mothon  darted  onward,  and  threading 
the  rest  of  the  party,  disappeared  through  the 
neighboring  gates  of  the  citadel. 

"  You  saw  the  insult  ? "  said  Uliades  be- 
tween his  ground  teeth  as  he  recovered  him- 
self. "  The  master  shall  answer  for  the  slave; 
and  to  me,  too,  who  have  forty  slaves  of  my 
own  at  home  !  " 

"  Pooh  !  think  no  more  of  it,"  said  Anta- 
goras  gaily;  "the  poor  fellow  meant  only  to 
save  his  own  hide." 

"  As  if  that  were  of  any  consequence  !  my 
slaves  are  brought  up  from  the  cradle  not  to 
know  if  they  have  hides  or  not.  You  may 
pinch  them  by  the  hour  together  and  they 
don't  feel  you.  My  little  ones  do  it,  in  rainy 
weather,  to  strengthen  their  fingers.  The 
Gods  keep  them  !  " 

"  An  excellent  gymnastic  invention.  But 
we  are  now  within  the  citadel.  Courage  !  the 
Spartan  greyhound  has  long  teeth." 

Pausanias  was  striding  with  hasty  steps  up 
and  down  a  long  and  narrow  peristyle  or  colon- 
nade that  surrounded  the  apartments  appro- 
priated to  his  private  use,  when  .\lcman  joined 
him. 

"  Well,  well,"  cried  he,  eagerly,  as  he  saw 
the  Mothon,  "you  have  mingled  with  the 
common  gangs  of  these  worshipful  seaman, 
these  new  men,  these  lonians.  Think  you 
they  have  so  far  overcome  their  awe  of  the 
Spartan  that  they  would  ol)ey  the  mutinous 
commands  of  their  officers  ? " 

"Pausanias,  the  truth  must  be  spoken — 
Yes  !  " 

"  Ye  Gods  !  one  would  think  each  of  these 
wranglers  imagined  he  had  a  whole  Persian 
army  in  his  boat.  Why,  I  have  seen  the  day 
when,  if  in  any  assembly  of  Greeks  a  Spartan 
entered,  the  sight  of  his  very  hat  and  walk- 
ing-staff cast  a  terror  through  the  whole 
conclave." 

"True,  Pausanias;  but  they  suspect  that 
Sparta  herself  will  disown  her  General." 

"  Ah  !  say  they  so  ?  " 

"  With  one  voice." 

Pausanias  paused  a  moment  in  deep  and 
perturbed  thought. 

"  Have  they  dared  yet,  think  you,  to  send 
to  Sparta  ?  " 

"  I  hear  not;  but  a  trireme  is  in  readiness 
to  sail  after  your  conference  with  the  cap- 
tains." 


"  So,  Alcman,  it  were  ruin  to  my  schemes  to 
be  recalled — until— until " 

"  The  hour  to  join  the  Persians  on  the  fron- 
tier— yes." 

"  One  word  more.  Have  you  had  occasion 
to  sound  the  Helots  ?  " 

"  But  half  an  hour  since.  They  will  be 
true  to  you.  Lift  your  right  hand,  and  the 
ground  where  you  stand  will  bristle  with  men 
who  fear  death  even  less  than  the  Spartans." 

"Their  aid  were  useless  here  against  the 
whole  Grecian  fleet;  but  in  the  defiles  of  La- 
conia,  otherwise.  I  am  prepared  then  for  the 
worst,  even  recall." 

Here  a  slave  crossed  from  a  kind  of  passage 
that  led  from  the  outer  chambers  into  the  per- 
istyle. 

"  The  Grecian  captains  have  arrived  to  de- 
mand audience." 

"Bid  them  wait,"  cried  Pausanias,  passion- 
ately. 

"  Hist  !  Pausanias,"  whispered  the  Mothon. 
"  Is  it  not  best  to  soothe  them — to  play  with 
them — to  cover  the  lion  with  the  fox's  hide  ?  " 

The  Regent  turned  with  a  frown  to  his  fos- 
ter-brother, as  if  surprised  and  irritated  by  his 
presumption  in  advising;  and  indeed  of  late, 
since  Pausanias  had  admitted  the  son  of  the 
Helot  into  his  guilty  intrigues,  Alcman  had 
assumed  a  bearing  and  tone  of  equality  which 
Pausanias,  wrapped  in  his  dark  schemes,  did 
not  always  notice,  but  at  which  from  time  to 
time  he  chafed  angrily,  yet  again  permitted  it, 
and  the  custom  gained  ground;  for  in  guilt 
conventional  distinctions  rapidly  vanish,  and 
mind  speaks  freely  out  to  mind.  The  presence 
of  the  slave,  however,  restrained  him,  and  after 
a  momentary  silence  his  natural  acuteness, 
great  when  undisturbed  by  passion  or  pride, 
made  him  sensible  of  the  wisdom  of  Alcman's 
counsel. 

"  Hold  !  "  he  said  to  the  slave.  "  Announce 
to  the  Grecian  Chiefs  that  Pausanias  will  await 
them  forthwith.  Begone.  Now,  Alcman,  I 
will  talk  over  these  gentle  monitors.  Not  in 
vain  have  I  been  educated  in  Sparta;  yet  if  by 
chance  I  fail,  hold  thyself  ready  to  haste  to 
Sparta  at  a  minute's  warning.  I  must  fore- 
stall the  foe.  I  have  gold,  gold;  and  he  who 
employs  most  of  the  yellow  orators,  will  pre- 
vail most  with  the  Ephors.  Give  me  my 
staff;  and  tarry  in  yon  chamber  to  the  left." 


444 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

In  a  large  hall,  with  a  marble  fountain  in  the 
middle  of  it,  the  Greek  captains  awaited  the 
coming  of  Pausanias.  A  low  and  muttered 
conversation  was  carried  on  amongst  them,  in 
small  knots  and  groups,  amidst  which  the 
voice  of  Uliades  was  heard  the  loudest.  Sud- 
denly the  hum  was  hushed,  for  footsteps  were 
heard  without.  The  thick  curtains  that  at  one 
extreme  screened  the  door-way  were  drawn 
aside,  and,  attended  by  three  of  the  Spartan 
knights,  amongst  whom  was  Lysander,  and  by 
two  sooothsayers,  who  were  seldom  absent, 
in  war  or  warlike  council,  from  the  side  of  the 
Royal  Ileracleid,  Pausanias  slowly  entered 
the  hall.  So  majestic,  grave,  and  self-collected 
were  the  bearing  and  aspect  of  the  Spartan 
general,  that  the  hereditary  awe  inspired  by 
his  race  was  once  more  awakened,  and  the  an- 
gry crowd  saluted  him,  silent  and  half  abashed. 
Although  the  strong  passions  and  the  daring 
arrogance  of  Pausanias  did  not  allow  him  the 
exercise  of  that  enduring,  systematic,  unsleep- 
ing hypocrisy  which,  in  relations  with  the 
foreigner,  often  characterized  his  country- 
men, and  which,  from  its  outward  dignity  and 
profound  craft,  exalted  the  vice  into  genius; 
yet  trained  from  earliest  childhood  in  the  arts 
that  hide  design,  that  control  the  countenance, 
and  convey  in  the  fewest  words  the  most  am- 
biguous meanings,  the  Spartan  general  could, 
for  a  brief  period,  or  for  a  critical  purpose, 
command  all  the  wiles  for  which  the  Greek 
was  nationally  famous,  and  in  which  Thucy- 
dides  believed  that,  of  all  Greeks,  the  Spartan 
was  the  most  skilful  adept.  And  now,  as 
uniting  the  courtesy  of  the  host  with  the  dig- 
nity of  the  chief,  he  returned  the  salute  of  the 
offiers,  and  smiled  his  gracious  welcome,  the 
unwonted  affability  of  his  manner  took  the 
discontented  by  surprise,  and  half  propitiated 
the  most  indignant  in  his  favor. 

"  I  need  not  ask  you,  O  Greeks,"  said 
he,  "  why  ye  have  sought  me.  Ye  have  learnt 
the  escape  of  Ariamanes  and  Datis — ^a  strange 
and  unaccountable  mischance." 

The  captains  looked  round  at  each  other  in 
silence,  till  at  last  every  eye  rested  upon 
Cimon,  whose  illustrious  birth,  as  well  as  his 
known  respect  for  Sparta,  combined  with  his 
equally  well-known  dislike  of  her  chief,  seemed 
to  mark   him,  despite  his  youth,  as  the  fittest 


person  to  be  speaker  for  the  rest.  Cimon, 
who  understood  the  mute  appeal,  and  whose 
courage  never  failed  his  ambition,  raised  his 
head,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  replied 
to  the  Spartan — 

"Pausanias,  you  guess  rightly  the  cause 
which  leads  us  to  your  presence.  These  pris- 
oners were  our  noblest;  their  capture  the  re- 
ward of  our  common  valor,  they  were  generals, 
moreover,  of  high  skill  and  repute.  They  had 
become  experienced  in  our  Grecian  warfare, 
even  by  their  defeats.  Those  two  men,  should 
Xerxes  again  invade  Greece,  are  worth  more 
to  his  service  than  half  the  nations  whose 
myriads  crossed  the  Hellespont.  But  this  is 
not  all.  The  arms  of  the  Barbarians  we  can 
encounter  undismayed.  It  is  treason  at  home 
which  can  alone  appal  us." 

The  was  a  low  murmur  among  the  lonians 
at  these  words.  Pausanias,  with  well-dissem- 
bled surprise  on  his  countenance,  turned  his 
eyes  from  Cimon  to  the  murmurers,  and  from 
tbem  again  to  Cimon,  and  repeated. — 

"Treason  !  son  of  Miltiades;  and  from 
whom  ? " 

"  Such  is  the  question  that  we  would  put  to 
thee,  Pausanias — to  thee,  whose  eyes,  as 
leader  of  our  armies,  are  doubtless  vigilant 
daily  and  nightly  over  the  interests  of  Greece." 

"  I  am  not  blind,"  returned  Pausanias,  ap)- 
pearing  unconscious  of  the  irony:  "  but  I  am 
not  Argus.  If  thou  hast  discovered  aught  that 
is  hidden  from  me,  speak  boldly." 

"Thou  hast  made  Gongylus,  the  Eretrian, 
governor  of  Byzantium;  for  what  great  ser- 
vices we  know  not.  But  he  has  lived  much  in 
Persia." 

"  For  that  reason,  on  this  the  frontier  of  her 
domains,  he  is  better  enabled  to  penetrate  her 
designs  and  counteract  her  ambition." 

"This  Gongylus,"  continued  Cimon,  "is 
well  known  to  have  much  frequented  the 
Persian  captives  in  their  confinement." 

"In  order  to  learn  from  them  what  may  yet 
be  the  strength  of  the  king.  In  this  he  had 
my  commands." 

"  I  question  it  not.  But,  Pausanias,"  con- 
tinued Cimon,  rising  his  voice,  and  with  en- 
ergy, "  had  he  also  thy  commands  to  leave  thy 
galley  last  night,  and  to  return  to  the  citadel  ?  " 

"  He  had.     What  then  ? " 

"  And  on  his  return  the  Persians  disappear 
— a  singular   chance,  truly.     But   that  is  not 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


445 


all.  Last  night,  before  he  returned  to  the 
citadel,  Gongylus  was  perceived,  alone,  in  a 
retired  spot  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city." 

"Alone?"  echoed  Pausanias. 

"  Alone.  If  he  had  companions  they  were 
not  discerned.  This  spot  was  out  of  the  path 
he  should  have  taken.  By  this  spot,  on  the 
soft  soil,  are  the  marks  of  hoofs,  and  in  the 
thicket  close  by  were  found  these  witnesses," 
and  Cimon  drew  from  his  vest  a  handful  of  the 
pearls  only  worn  by  the  Eastern  captives. 

"  There  is  something  in  this,"  said  Xanthip- 
pus,  "which  requires  at  least  examination. 
May  it  please  you,  Pausanias,  to  summon 
Gongylus  hither  ?" 

A  momentary  shade  passed  over  the  brow 
of  the  conspirator,  but  the  eyes  of  the  Greeks 
were  on  him;  and  to  refuse  were  as  danger- 
ous as  to  comply.  He  turned  to  one  of  his 
Spartans,  and  ordered  him  to  summon  the 
Eretrian. 

"  You  have  spoken  well,  Xanthippus.  This 
matter  must  be  sifted." 

With  that,  motioning  the  captains  to  the 
seats  that  were  ranged  round  the  walls  and 
before  a  long  table,  he  cast  himself  into  a  large 
chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  waited  in 
silent  anxiety  the  entrance  of  the  Eretrian. 
His  whole  trust  now  was  in  the  craft  and  pene- 
tration of  his  friend.  If  the  courage  or  the 
cunning  of  Gongylus  failed  him— if  but  a  word 
betrayed  him — Pausanias  was  lost.  He  was 
girt  by  men  who  hated  him;  and  he  read  in 
the  dark,  fierce  eyes  of  the  lonians — whose 
pride  he  had  so  often  galled,  whose  revenge 
he  had  so  carelessly  provoked — the  certainty 
of  ruin.  One  hand  hidden  within  the  folds  of 
his  robe  convulsively  clinched  the  flesh,  in  the 
stern  agony  of  his  suspense.  His  calm  and 
composed  face  nevertheless  exhibited  to  the 
captains  no  trace  of  fear. 

The  draperies  were  again  drawn  aside,  and 
Gongylus  slowly  entered. 

Habituated  to  peril  of  every  kind  from  his 
earliest  youth,  the  Eretrian  was  quick  to  de- 
tect its  presence.  The  sight  of  the  silent 
Greeks,  formally  seated  round  the  hall,  and 
watching  his  steps  and  countenance  with  eyes 
whose  jealous  and  vindictive  meaning  it  re- 
quired no  CEdipus  to  read,  the  grave  and  half- 
averted  brow  of  Pausanias,  and  the  angry  ex- 
citement that  had  prevailed  amidst  the  host  at 
the  news  of  the  escape  of  the  Persians— all 


sufficed  to  apprise  him  of  the  nature  of  the 
council  to  which  he  had  been  summoned. 

Supporting  himself  on  his  staff,  and  drag- 
ging his  limbs  tardily  along,  he  had  leisure  to 
examine,  though  with  apparent  indifference, 
the  whole  group;  and  when,  with  a  calm  salu- 
tation, he  arrested  his  steps  at  the  foot  of  the 
table  immediately  facing  Pausanias,  he  darted 
one  glance  at  the  Spartan  so  fearless,  so  bright, 
so  cheering,  that  Pausanias  breathed  hard,  as 
if  a  load  were  thrown  from  his  breast,  and 
turning  easily  towards  Cimon,  said — 

"  Behold  your  witness.  Which  of  us  shall 
be  questioner,  and  which  judge  >.  " 

"  That  matters  but  little,"  returned  Cimon. 
"  Before  this  audience  justice  must  force  its 
way." 

"It  rests  with  yon,  Pausanias,"  said  Xan- 
thippus, to  acquaint  the  governor  of  Byzantium 
with  the  suspicions  he  has  excited." 

"Gongylus,"  said  Pausanias,  "the  captive 
Barbarians,  Ariamanes,  and  Datis,  were  placed 
by  me  especially  under  thy  vigilance  and 
guard.  Thou  knowest  that,  while  (for  human- 
ity becomes  the  victor)  I  ordered  thee  to  vex 
them  by  no  undue  restraints,  I  nevertheless 
commanded  thee  to  consider  thy  life  itself 
answerable  for  their  durance.  They  have 
escaped.  The  captains  of  Greece  demand  of 
thee,  as  I  demanded — by  what  means — by 
what  connivance .'  Speak  the  truth,  and  deem 
that  in  falsehood  as  well  as  in  treachery,  detec- 
tion is  easy,  and  death  certain." 

The  tone  of  Pausanias,  and  his  severe  look, 
pleased  and  re-assured  all  the  Greeks  except 
the  wiser  Cimon,  who,  though  his  suspicions 
were  a  little  shaken,  continued  to  fix  his  eyes 
rather  on  Pausanias  than  on  the  Eretrian. 

"Pausanias,"  replied  Gongylus,  drawing  up 
his  lean  frame,  as  with  the  dignity  of  con- 
scious innocence,  "that  suspicion  could  fall 
upon  me,  I  find  it  difficult  to  suppose.  Raised 
by  thy  favor  to  the  command  of  Byzantium, 
what  have  I  to  gain  by  treason  or  neglect  ? 
These  Persians — I  knew  them  well.  I  had 
known  them  in  Susa — known  them  when  I 
served  Darius,  being  then  an  exile  from  Ere- 
tria.  Ye  know,  my  countrymen,  that  when 
Darius  invaded  Greece  I  left  his  court  and 
armies,  and  sought  my  native  land,  to  fall  or 
to  conquer  in  its  cause.  Well,  then,  I  knew 
these  Barbarians.  I  sought  them  frequently; 
partly,   it  may  be,  to  return  to  them  in  their 


446 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


adversity  the  courtesies  sbiown  me  in  mine. 
Ye  are  Greeks;  ye  will  not  condemn  me  for 
humanity  and  gratitude.  Partly  with  another 
motive.  I  knew  that  Ariamanes  had  the 
greatest  influence  over  Xerxes..  I  knew  that 
the  great  king  would  at  any  cost  seek  to  re- 
gain the  liberty  of  his  friend.  I  urged  upon 
Ariamanes  the  wisdom  of  a  peace  with  the 
Greeks  even  on  their  own  terms.  I  told  him 
that  when  Xerxes  sent  to  offer  the  ransorn, 
conditions  of  peace  would  awail  more  than 
sacks  of  gold.  He  listened  and  approved. 
Did  I  wrong  in  this,  Pausanias  ?  No;  for 
thou,  whose  deep  sagacity  has  made  thee  con- 
descend even  to  appear  half  Persian,  because 
thou  art  all  Greek — thou  thyself  didst  sanc- 
tion my  efforts  on  behalf  of  Greece." 

Pausanias  looked  with  a  silent  triumph 
round  the  conclave,  and  Xanthippus  nodded 
approval. 

"  In  order  to  conciliate  them,  and  with  too 
great  confidence  in  their  faith,  I  relaxed  by 
degrees  the  rigor  of  their  confinement;  that 
was  a  fault,  I  own  it.  Their  apartments  com- 
municated with  a  court  in  which  I  suffered 
them  to  walk  at  will.  But  I  placed  there  two 
sentinels  in  whom  I  deemed  I  could  repose  all 
trust — not  my  own  countrymen — not  Eretri- 
ans — not  thy  Spartans  or  Laconians,  Pausa- 
nias. No:  I  deemed  that  if  ever  the  jealousy 
(a  laudable  jealousy)  of  the  Greeks  should  de- 
mand an  account  of  my  faith  and  vigilance, 
my  witnesses  should  be  the  countrymen  of 
those  who  have  ever  the  most  suspected  me. 
Those  sentinels  were,  the  one  a  Samian,  the 
other  a  Plataean.  These  men  have  betrayed 
me  and  Greece.  Last  night,  on  returning 
hither  from  the  vessel,  I  visited  the  Persians. 
They  were  about  to  retire  to  rest,  and  I  quitted 
them  soon,  suspecting  nothing.  This  morn- 
ing they  had  fled,  and  with  them  their  abetters, 
the  sentinels.  I  hastened  first  to  send  sol- 
diers in  search  of  them;  and,  secondly,  to  in- 
form Pausanias  in  his  galley.  If  I  have  erred, 
I  submit  me  to  your  punishment.  Punish 
my  error,  but  acquit  my  honesty." 

"  And  what,"  said  Cimon,  abruptly,  "  led 
thee  far  from  thy  path,  between  the  Herac- 
leid's  galley  and  the  citidal,  to  the  fields  near 
the  temple  of  Aphrodite,  between  the  citidal 
and  the  bay  ?  Thy  color  changes.  Mark 
him,  Greeks.     Quick;  thine  answer. 

The  countenance  of  Gongylus   had  indeed 


lost  its  color  and  hardihood.  The  loud  tone 
of  Cimon — the  effect  his  confusion  produced 
on  the  Greeks,  some  of  whom,  the  lonians  less 
self-possessed  and  dignified  than  the  rest,  half 
rose,  with  fierce  gestures  and  muttered  excla- 
mations— served  still  more  to  embarrass  and 
intimidate  him.  He  cast  a  hasty  look  on  Pau- 
sanias, who  averted  his  eyes.  There  was  a 
pause.  The  Spartan  gave  himself  up  for  lost; 
but  how  much  more  was  his  fear  increased 
when  Gongylus,  casting  an  imploring  gaze  upon 
the  Greeks,  said  hesitatingly — 

"  Question  me  no  farther.  I  dare  not 
speak;  "  and  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  Pau- 
sanias. 

"It  was  the  dread  of  thy  resentment,  Pau- 
sanias," said  Cimon  coldly,  "  that  withheld  his 
confession.     Vouchsafe  to  re-assure  him." 

"  Eretrain,"  said  Pausanias,  striking  his 
clenched  hand  on  the  table.  "  I  know  not 
what  tale  trembles  on  they  lips;  but,  be  it  what 
it  may,  give  it  voice,  I  command  thee." 

"  'I'hou  thyself,  thou  wert  the  cause  that  led 
me  towards  the  temple  of  Aphrodite,"  said 
Gongylus,  in  a  low  voice. 

At  these  words  there  went  forth  a  general 
deep-breathed  murmur.  With  one  accord 
every  Greek  rose  to  his  feet.  The  Spartan 
attendants  in  the  rear  of  Pausanias  drew  closer 
to  his  person;  but  there  was  nothing  in  their 
faces — yet  more  dark  and  vindictive  than  those 
of  the  other  Greeks — that  promised  protec- 
tion. Pausanias  alone  remained  seated  and 
unmoved.  His  imminent  danger  gave  him 
back  all  his  valor,  all  his  pride,  all  his  passion- 
ate and  profound  disdain.  With  unbleached 
cheek,  with  haughty  eyes,  he  met  the  gaze  of 
the  assembly;  and  then  waving  his  hand  as  if 
that  gesture  sufficed  to  restrain  and  awe  them, 
he  said — 

"  In  the  name  of  all  Greece,  whose  chief  I 
yet  am,  whose  protector  I  have  once  been,  I 
command  ye  to  resume  your  seats,  and  listen 
to  the  Eretrian.  Spartans,  fall  back.  Gov- 
ernor of  Byzantium,  pursue  your  tale." 

"Yes,  Pausanias,"  resumed  Gongylus,  "you 
alone  were  the  cause  that  drew  me  from  my 
rest.     I  would  fain  be  silent,  but " 

"  Say  on,"  cried  Pausanias  fiercely,  and 
measuring  the  space  between  himself  and 
Gongylus,  in  doubt  whether  the  Eretrian's 
head  were  within  reach  of  his  scimitar;  so  at 
least  Gongylus  interpreted  that  freezing  look 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


447 


of  despair  and  vengeance,  and  he  drew  back 
some  paces.  "  I  place  myself,  O  Greeks,  un- 
der your  protection;  it  is  dangerous  to  reveal 
the  errors  of  the  great.  Know  that,  as  Gov- 
ernor of  Byzantium,  many  things  ye  wot  not 
of  reach  my  ears.  Hence,  I  guard  against 
dangers  while  ye  sleep.  Learn,  then,  that 
Pausanias  is  not  without  the  weakness  of  his 
ancestor,  Alcides;  he  loves  a  maiden— a  Byz- 
antine— Cleonice,  the  daughter  of  Diagoras." 

This  unexpected  announcement,  made  in  so 
grave  a  tone,  provoked  a  smile  amongst  the 
gay  lonians;  but  an  exclamation  of  jealous 
anger  broke  from  Antagoras,  and  a  blush 
partly  of  wounded  pride,  partly  of  warlike 
shame,  crimsoned  the  swarthy  cheek  of  Pausa- 
nias. Cimon,  who  was  by  no  means  free  from 
the  joyous  infirmities  of  youth,  relaxed  his 
severe  brow,  and  said,  after  a  short  pause — 

"  Is  it,  then,  among  the  grave  duties  of  the 
Governor  of  Byzantium  to  watch  over  the  fair 
Cleonice,  or  to  aid  the  suit  of  her  illustrious 
lover  ? " 

"Not  so,"  answered  Gongylus;  "but  the 
life  of  the  Grecian  general  is  dear,  at  least,  to 
the  grateful  Governor  of  Byzantium.  Greeks, 
ye  know  that  amongst  you  Pausanias  has 
many  foes.  Returning  last  night  from  his 
presence,  and  passing  through  the  thicket,  I 
overhead  voices  at  hand.  I  caught  the  name 
of  Pausanias.  '  The  Spartan,'  said  one  voice, 
'  nightly  visits  the  house  of  Diagoras.  He 
goes  usually  alone.  From  the  height  near  the 
temple  we  can  watch  well,  for  the  night  is 
clear;  if  he  goes  alone,  we  can  intercept  his 
way  on  his  return.'  '  To  the  height !  '  cried 
the  other.  I  thought  to  distingush  the  voices, 
but  the  trees  hid  the  speakers.  I  followed  the 
footsteps  towards  the  temple,  for  it  behoved 
me  to  learn  who  thus  menaced  the  chief  of 
Greece.  But  ye  know  that  the  wood  reaches 
even  to  the  sacred  building,  and  the  steps  gained 
the  temple  before  I  could  recognize  the  men. 
I  concealed  myself,  as  I  thought,  to  watch; 
but  it  seems  that  I  was  perceived,  for  he  who 
saw  me,  and  now  accuses,  was  doubtless  one  of 
the  assassins.  Happy  I,  if  the  sight  of  a  wit- 
ness scared  him  from  the  crime.  Either  fearing 
detection,  or  aware  that  their  intent  that  night 
was  frustrated — for  Pausanias,  visiting  Cleo- 
nice earlier  than  his  wont,  had  already  re- 
sought  his  galley — the  men  retreated  as  they 
came,  unseen,  not  unheard.     I  caught  their  re- 


ceding steps  through  the  brushwood.  Greeks, 
I  have  said.  Who  is  my  accuser  ?  In  him 
behold  the  would-be  murderer  of  Pausanias  !  " 

"  Liar  !  "  cried  an  indignant  and  loud  voice 
amongst  the  captains,  and  Antagoras  stood 
forth  from  the  circle. 

"  It  is  I  who  saw  thee.  Barest  thou  accuse 
Antagoras  of  Chios  ?  " 

"  What  at  that  hour  brought  Antagoras  of 
Chios  to  the  temple  of  Aphrodite  ?  "  retorted 
Gongylus. 

The  eyes  of  the  Greeks  turned  toward  the 
young  captain,  and  there  was  confusion  on  his 
face.  But  recovering  himself  quickly,  the 
Chian  answered,  "Why  should  I  blush  to  own 
it  ?  Aphrodite  is  no  dishonorable  deity  to 
the  men  of  the  Ionian  Isles.  I  sought  the 
temple  at  that  hour,  as  is  our  wont,  to  make 
my  offering,  and  record  my  prayer." 

"Certainly,"  said  Cimon.  "We  must  own 
that  Aphrodite  is  powerful  at  Byzantium. 
Who  can  acquit  Pausanias  and  blame  Anta- 
goras ? " 

"  Pardon  me — one  question,"  said  Gongylus. 
"  Is  not  the  female  heart  which  Antagoras 
would  beseech  the  goddess  to  soften  towards 
him  that  of  the  Cleonice  of  whom  we  spoke  ? 
See,  he  denies  it  not.  Greeks,  the  Chians  are 
warm  lovers,  and  warm  lovers  are  revengeful 
rivals." 

This  artful  speech  had  its  instantaneous 
effect  amongst  the  younger  and  more  unthink- 
ing loiterers.  Those  who  at  once  would  have 
disbelieved  the  imputed  guilt  of  Antagoras 
upon  motives  merely  political,  inclined  to  a 
suggestion  that  ascribed  it  to  the  jealousy  of 
a  lover.  And  his  character,  ardent  and  fiery, 
rendered  the  suspicion  yet  more  plausible. 
Meanwhile  the  minds  of  the  audience  had  been 
craftily  drawn  from  the  grave  and  main  object 
of  the  meeting — the  flight  of  the  Persians — 
and  a  lighter  and  livelier  curiosity  had  sup- 
planted the  eager  and  dark  resentment  which 
had  hitherto  animated  the  circle.  Pausanias, 
with  the  subtle  genius  that  belonged  to  him, 
hastened  to  seize  advantage  of  this  momentary 
diversion  in  his  favor,  and  before  the  Chian 
could  recover  his  consternation,  both  at  the 
charge  and  the  evident  effect  it  had  produced 
upon  a  part  of  the  assembly,  the  Spartan 
stretched  his  hand,  and  spake. — 

"Greeks,  Pausanias  listens  to  no  tale  of 
danger  to  himself.     Willingly  he  believes  that 


448 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


Gongylus  either  misinterpreted  the  intent  of 
some  jealous  and  heated  threats,  or  that  the 
words  he  overheard  were  not  uttered  by  Anta- 
goras.  Possible  is  it,  too,  that  others  may  have 
sought  the  temple  with  less  gentle  desires  than 
our  Chian  ally.  Let  this  pass.  Unworthy  such 
matters  of  the  councils  of  bearded  men;  too 
much  reference  has  been  made  to  those  follies 
which  our  idleness  has  given  birth  to.  Let  no 
fair  Briseis  renew  strife  amongst  chiefs  and 
soldiers.  Excuse  not  thyself,  Antagoras;  we 
dismiss  all  charge  against  thee.  On  the  other 
hand,  Gongylus  will  doubtless  seem  to  you  to 
have  accounted  for  his  appearance  near  the 
precincts  of  the  temple.  And  it  is  but  a  coin- 
cidence, natural  enough,  that  the  Persian  pris- 
oners should  have  chosen,  later  in  the  night, 
the  same  spot  for  the  steeds  to  await  them. 
The  thickness  of  the  wood  round  the  temple, 
and  the  direction  of  the  place  towards  the  east, 
points  out  the  neighborhood  as  the  very  one  in 
which  the  fugitives  would  appoint  the  horses. 
Waste  no  further  time,  but  provide  at  once 
for  the  pursuit.  To  you,  Cimon,  be  this  care 
confided.  Already  have  I  despatched  fifty 
light-armed  men  on  fleet  Thessalian  steeds. 
You,  Cimon,  increase  the  number  of  the  pur- 
suers. The  prisoners  may  be  yet  recaptured. 
Doth  aught  else  remain  worthy  of  our  ears  ? 
If  so,  speak;  if  not,  depart." 

"  Pausanias,"  said  Antagoras,  firmly,  "  let 
Gongylus  retract,  or  not,  his  charge  against 
me,  I  retain  mine  against  Gongylus.  Wholly 
false  is  it  that  in  word  or  deed  I  plotted  vio- 
lence against  thee,  though  of  much — not  as 
Cleonice's  lover,  but  as  Grecian  captain— I 
have  good  reason  to  complain.  Wholly  false 
is  it  that  I  had  a  comrade.  I  was  alone.  And 
coming  out  from  the  temple,  where  I  had  hung 
my  chaplet,  I  perceived  Gongylus  clearly  un- 
der the  starlit  skies.  He  stood  in  listening 
attitude  close  by  the  sacred  myrtle  grove.  I 
hastened  towards  him,  but  methinks  he  saw 
raenot;  he  turned  slowly,  penetrated  the  wood, 
and  vanished.  I  gained  the  spot  on  the  soft 
sward  which  the  drooping  boughs  make  ever 
humid.  I  saw  the  print  of  hoofs.  Within  the 
thicket  I  found  the  pearls  that  Cimon  has  dis- 
played to  you.  Clear  then,  is  it  that  this  man 
lies — clear  that  the  Persians  must  have  fled 
already — although  Gongylus  declares  that  on 
his  return  to  the  citadel  he  visited  them  in  their 
prison.     Explain  this,  Eretrian  ? " 


"  He  who  would  speak  false  witness,"  an- 
swered Gongylus,  with  a  firmness  equal  to  the 
Chian's,  "  can  find  pearls  at  whatsoever  hour 
he  pleases.  Greeks,  this  man  presses  me  to 
renew  the  charge  which  Pausanias  generously 
sought  to  stifle.  I  have  said.  And  I,  Gover- 
nor of  Byzantium,  call  on  the  Council  of  the 
Grecian  Leaders  to  maintain  my  authority, 
and  protect  their  own  Chief." 

Then  arose  a  vexed  and  perturbed  murmur, 
most  of  the  lonians  siding  with  Antagoras, 
such  of  the  allies  as  yet  clung  to  the  Dorian 
ascendancy  grouping  round  Gongylus. 

The  persistence  of  Antagoras  had  made  the 
dilemma  of  no  slight  embarrassment  to  Pau- 
sanias. Something  lofty  in  his  original  nature 
urged  him  to  shrink  from  suppwrting  Gongylus 
in  an  accusation  which  he  believed  untrue. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  abandon  his 
accomplice  in  an  effort,  as  dangerous  as  it  was 
crafty,  to  conceal  their  common  guilt. 

"Son  of  Miltiades,"  he  said  after  a  brief 
pause,  in  which  his  dexterous  resolution  was 
formed,  "  I  invoke  your  aid  to  appease  a  con- 
test in  which  I  foresee  no  result  but  that  of 
schism  amongst  ourselves.  Antagoras  has  no 
witness  to  support  his  tale,  Gongylus  none  to 
support  his  own.  Who  shall  decide  between 
conflicting  testimonies  which  rest  but  on  the 
lips  of  accuser  and  accused  ?  Hereafter,  if 
the  matter  be  deemed  suflftciently  grave,  let  us 
refer  the  decision  to  the  oracle  that  never  errs. 
Time  and  chance  meanwhile  may  favor  us  in 
clearing  up  the  darkness  we  cannot  now  pene- 
trate. For  you,  Governor  of  Byzantium,  it 
behoves  me  to  say  that  the  escape  of  prisoners 
entrusted  to  your  charge  justifies  vigilance  if 
not  suspicion.  We  shall  consult  at  our  leisure 
whether  or  not  that  course  suflSces  to  remove 
you  from  the  government  of  Byzantium. 
Heralds,  advance;  our  council  is  dissolved." 

With  these  words  Pausanias  rose,  and  the 
majesty  of  his  bearing,  with  the  unwonted 
temper  and  conciliation  of  his  language,  so 
came  in  aid  of  his  high  office  that  no  man  ven- 
tured a  dissentient  murmur. 

The  conclave  broke  up,  and  not  till  its  mem- 
bers had  gained  the  outer  air  did  any  signs  ot 
suspicion  or  dissatisfaction  evince  themselves; 
but  then,  gathered  in  groups,  the  lonians  with 
especial  jealousy  discussed  what  had  passed, 
and  with  their  native  shrewdness  ascribed  the 
I  moderation  of  Pausanias  to  his  desire  to  screen 


PA  USA NI AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


449. 


Gongylus  and  avoid  further  inquisition  into 
the  flight  of  the  prisoners.  The  discontented 
looked  round  for  Cimon,  but  the  young  Athe- 
nian had  hastily  retired  from  the  throng,  and, 
after  issuing  orders  to  pursue  the  fugitives, 
sought  Aristides  in  the  house  near  the  quay  in 
which  he  lodged. 

Cimon  related  to  his  friend  what  had  passed 
at  the  meeting,  and  terminating  his  recital, 
said — 

"  Thou  shouldst  have  been  with  us.  With 
thee  we  might  have  ventured  more." 

"  And  if  so,"  returned  the  wise  Athenian 
with  a  smile,  "  ye  would  have  prospered  less. 
Precisely  because  I  would  not  commit  our 
country  to  the  suspicion  of  fomenting  intrigues 
and  mutiny  to  her  own  advantage,  did  I  ab- 
stain from  the  assembly,  well  aware  that  Pau- 
sanias  would  bring  his  minion  harmless 
from  the  unsupported  accusation  of  Anta- 
goras.  Thou  hast  acted  with  cool  judgment, 
Cimon.  The  Spartan  is  weaving  the  webs  of 
the  Parcae  for  his  own  feet.  Leave  him  to 
weave  on,  undisturbed.  The  hour  in  which 
Athens  shall  assume  the  sovereignty  of  the 
seas  is  drawing  near.  Let  it  come,  like  Jove's 
thunder,  in  a  calm  sky." 


CHAPTER  in. 

Pausanias  did  not  that  night  quit  the  city. 
After  the  meeting,  he  held  a  private  confer- 
ence with  the  Spartan  Equals,  whom  custom 
and  the  government  assigned,  in  appearance  as 
his  attendants,  in  reality  as  witnesses  if  not 
spies  of  his  conduct.  Though  every  pure 
Spartan,  as  compared  with  the  subject  Laco- 
nian  population,  was  noble,  the  republic  ac- 
knowledged two  main  distinctions  in  class,  the 
higher,  entitled  Equals,  a  word  which  we 
might  not  inaptly  and  more  intelligibly  render 
Peers;  the  lower,  inferiors.  These  distinc- 
tions, though  hereditary,  were  not  immutable. 
The  peer  could  be  degraded,  the  inferior  could 
become  a  peer.  To  the  royal  person  in  war 
three  peers  were  allotted.  Those  assigned  to 
Pausanias,  of  the  tribe  called  the  Hylleans, 
were  naturally  of  a  rank  and  influence  that 
constrained  him  to  treat  them  with  a  certain 
deference,  which  perpetually  chafed  his  pride 
and  confirmed  his  discontent;  for  these  three 

6—29 


men  were  precisely  of  the  mould  which  at 
heart  he  most  despised.  Polydorus,  the  first 
in  rank — for,  like  Pausanias,  he  boasted  his 
descent  from  Hercules — was  the  personifica- 
tion of  the  rudeness  and  bigotry  of  a  Spartan 
who  had  never  before  stirred  from  his  rocky 
home,  and  who  disdained  all  that  he  could 
not  comprehend.  Gelon,  the  second,  passed 
for  a  very  wise  man,  for  he  seldom  spoke  but 
in  monosyllables;  yet,  probably,  his  words 
were  as  numerous  as  his  ideas.  Cleomenes, 
the  third,  was  as  distastful  to  the  Regent  from 
his  merits  as  the  others  from  their  deficiencies. 
He  had  risen  from  the  grade  of  the  Inferiors 
by  his  valour;  blunt,  homely,  frank,  sincere, 
he  never  disguised  his  displeasure  at  the 
manner  of  Pausanias,  though,  a  true  Spartan 
in  discipline,  he  never  transgressed  the  re- 
spect which  his  chief  commanded  in  time  of 
war. 

Pausanias  knew  that  these  officers  were  in 
correspondence  with  Sparta,  and  he  now  ex- 
erted all  his  powers  to  remove  from  their 
minds  any  suspicion  which  the  disappearance 
of  the  prisoners  might  have  left  in  them. 

In  this  interview  he  displayed  all  those  great 
natural  powers  which,  rightly  trained  and 
guided,  might  have  made  him  not  less  great  in 
council  than  in  war.  With  masterly  precision 
he  enlarged  on  the  growing  ambition  of  Athens, 
on  the  disposition  in  her  favor  evinced  by  all 
the  Ionian  confederates.  "  Hitherto,"  he  said 
truly,  "  Sparta  has  uniformly  held  rank  as  the 
first  state  of  Greece;  the  leadership  of  the 
Greeks  belongs  to  us  by  birth  and  renown. 
But  see  you  not  that  the  war  is  now  shifting 
from  land  to  sea?  Sea  is  not  our  element;  it 
is  that  of  Athens,  of  all  the  Ionian  race.  If 
this  continue  we  lose  our  ascendancy,  and 
Athens  becomes  the  sovereign  of  Hellas.  Be- 
neath the  calm  of  Aristides  I  detect  his  deep 
design.  In  vain  Cimon  affects  the  manner  of 
the  Spartan;  at  heart  he  is  Athenian.  This 
charge  against  Gongylus  is  aimed  at  me. 
Grant  that  the  plot  which  it  conceals,  succeed; 
grant  that  Sparta  share  the  affected  suspicions 
of  the  lonians,  and  recall  me  from  Byzantium; 
deem  you  that  there  lives  one  Spartan  who 
could  delay  for  a  day  the  supremacy  of 
Athens  ?  Nought  save  the  respect  the  Dorian 
Greeks  at  least  attach  to  the  General  at  Platsea 
could  restrain  the  secret  ambition  of  the  city 
of  the  demagogues.     Deem   not  that  I  have 


45° 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS. 


been  as  rash  and  vain  as  some  hold  me  for 
the  stern  visage  I  have  shown  to  the  lonians. 
Trust  me  that  it  was  necessary  to  awe  them, 
with  a  view  to  maintain  our  majesty. 

"For  Sparta  to  preserve  her  ascendancy,  two 
things  are  needful:  first,  to  continue  the  war 
by  land;  secondly,  to  disgust  the  lonians  with 
their  sojourn  here,  send  them  with  their  ships 
to  their  own  havens,  and  so  leave  Hellas  under 
the  sole  guardianship,  of  ourselves  and  our 
Peloponnesian  allies.  Therefore  I  say,  bear 
with  me  in  this  double  design;  chide  me  not 
if  my  haughty  manner  disperse  these  subtle 
lonians.  If  I  bore  with  them  to-day  it  was  less 
from  respect  than,  shall  I  say  it,  my  fear  lest 
you  should  misinterpret  me.  Beware  how  you 
detail  to  Sparta  whatever  might  rouse  the  jeal- 
ousy of  her  government.  Trust  to  me,  and  I 
will  extend  the  dominion  of  Sparta  till  it  grasp 
the  whole  Greece.  We  will  depose  everywhere 
the  revolutionary  Demos,  and  establish  our 
own  oligarchies  in  every  Grecian  state.  We 
will  Laconize  all  Hellas." 

Much  of  what  Pausanias  said  was  wise  and 
profound.  Such  statesmanship,  narrow  and 
congenia,,  but  vigorous  and  crafty,  Sparta 
taught  ii\  later  years  to  her  alert  politicans. 
And  we  have  already  seen  that,  despite  the 
dazzling  prospects  of  Oriental  dominion,  he  as 
yet  had  separated  himself  rather  from  the  laws 
than  the  interests  of  Sparta,  and  still  incorpor- 
ated his  own  ambition  with  the  extension  of 
the  sovereignty  of  his  country  over  the  rest  of 
Greece. 

But  the  peers  heard  him  in  dull  and  gloomy 
silence;  and,  not  till  he  had  paused  and  thrice 
asked  for  a  reply,  did  Polydorus  speak. 

"  You  would  increase  the  dominion  of 
Sparta,  Pausanias.  Increase  of  dominion  is 
waste  of  life  and  treasure.  We  have  few 
men,  little  gold;  Sparta  is  content  to  hold  her 
own." 

"  Good,"  said  Gelon,  with  impassive  coun- 
tenance. "  What  care  we  who  leads  the  Greeks 
into  blows  ?  the  fewer  blows  the  better.  Brave 
men  fight  if  they  must,  wise  men  never  fight 
if  they  can  help  it." 

"  And  such  is  your  counsel,  Cleomenes  ?  " 
asked  Pausanias,  with  a  quivering  lip. 

"Not  from  the  same  reasons,"  answered  the 
nobler  and  more  generous  Spartan.  "  I  pre- 
sume not  to  question  your  motives,  Pausanias. 
I  leave  you  to  explain  them  to  the  Ephors  and 


tne  Gerusia.  But  since  you  press  me,  this  I 
say.  First,  all  the  Greeks,  Ionian  as  well  as 
Dorian,  fought  equally  against  the  Mede,  and 
from  the  commander  of  the  Greeks  all  should 
receive  fellowship  and  courtesy.  Secondly,  I 
say  if  Athens  is  better  fitted  than  Sparta  for 
the  maritime  ascendancy,  let  Athens  rule, 
so  that  Hellas  be  saved  from  the  Mede. 
Thirdly,  O  Pausanias,  I  pray  that  Sparta  may 
rest  satisfied  with  her  own  institutions,  and  not 
disturb  the  peace  of  Greece  by  forcing  them 
upon  other  States  and  thereby  enslaving  Hel- 
las. What  more  could  the  Persian  do  ?  Fin- 
ally, my  advice  is  to  suspend  Gongylus  from 
his  office;  to  conciliate  the  lonians;  to  remain 
as  a  Grecian  armament  firm  and  united,  and 
so  procure,  on  better  terms,  peace  with  Persia. 
And  then  let  each  State  retire  within  itself,  and 
none  aspire  to  rule  the  other.  A  thousand  free 
cities  are  better  guard  against  the  Barbarian 
than  a  single  State  made  up  of  republics  over- 
thrown and  resting  its  strength  upon  hearts 
enslaved." 

"  Do  you  too,"  said  Pausanias,  gnawing  his 
nether  lip,  "do  you  too,  Polydorus,  you  too, 
Gelon,  agree  with  Cleomenes,  that,  if  Athens  is 
better  fitted  than  Sparta  for  the  soverignty  of 
the  seas,  we  should  yield  to  that  restless  rival 
so  perilous  a  power  ?  " 

"  Ships  cost  gold,"  said  Polydorous.  "Spar- 
tans have  none  to  spare.  Mariners  require 
skilful  captains;  Spartans  know  nothing  of  the 
sea." 

"  Moreover,"  quoth  Gelon,  "  the  ocean  is  a 
terrible  element.  What  can  valor  do  against 
a  storm  ?  We  may  lose  more  men  by  adverse 
weather  than  a  century  can  repair.  Let  who 
will  have  the  seas.  Sparta  has  her  rocks  and 
defiles." 

"  Men  and  peers,"  said  Pausanias,  ill  re- 
pressing his  scorn,  "  ye  little  dream  what  arms 
ye  place  in  the  hands  of  the  Athenians.  I 
have  done.  Take  only  this  prophecy.  You 
are  now  the  head  of  Greece.  You  surrender 
your  sceptre  to  Athens,  and  become  a  second- 
rate  power." 

"  Never  second-rate  when  Greece  shall  de- 
mand armed  men,"  said  Cleomenes  proudly. 

"  Armed  men,  armed  men ! "  cried  the 
more  profound  Pausanias.  "  Do  you  suppose 
that  commerce — that  trade — that  maritime 
energy — that  fleets  which  ransack  the  shores 
of   the  world,  will  not  obtain  a  power  greater 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


451 


than  mere  brute-like  valor  ?  But  as  ye  will, 
as  ye  will." 

"  As  we  speak  our  forefathers  thought,"  said 
Gelon. 

"And,  Pausanias,"  said  Cleomenes gravely, 
"as  we  speak,  so  think  the  Ephors." 

Pausanias  fixed  his  dark  eye  on  Cleomenes, 
and,  after  a  brief  pause,  saluted  the  Equals 
and  withdrew.  "  Sparta,"  he  muttered  as  he 
regained  his  chamber,  "  Sparta,  thou  refusest 
to  be  great;  but  greatness  is  necessary  to  thy 
son.  Ah,  their  iron  laws  would  constrain  my 
soul  !  but  it  shall  wear  them  as  a  warrior  wears 
his  armor  and  adapts  it  to  his  body.  Thou 
shalt  be  queen  of  all  Hellas  despite  thyself, 
thine  Ephors,  and  thy  laws.  Then  only  will  I 
forgive  thee." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

DiAGORAS  was  sitting  outside  his  door  and 
giving  various  instructions  to  the  slaves  em- 
ployed on  his  farm,  when,  through  an  arcade 
thickly  covered  with  the  vine,  the  light  form 
of  Antagoras  came  slowly  in  sight. 

"  Hail  to  thee,  Diagoras,"  said  the  Chian, 
"  thou  art  the  only  wise  man  I  meet  with. 
Thou  art  tranquil  while  all  else  are  disturbed; 
and,  worshipping  the  great  Mother,  thou 
carest  nought,  methinks,  for  the  Persian  who 
invades,  or  the  Spartain  who  professes  to  de- 
fend." 

"  Tut,"  said  Diagoras,  in  a  whisper,  "  thou 
knowest  the  contrary:  thou  knowest  that  if  the 
Persian  comes  I  am  ruined;  and,  by  the  gods, 
I  am  on  a  bed  of  thorns  as  long  as  the  Spartan 
stays." 

"  Dismiss  thy  slaves,"  exclaimed  Antagoras, 
in  the  same  undertone;  "  I  would  speak  with 
thee  on  grave  matters  that  concern  us  both." 

After  hastily  finishing  his  instructions  and 
dismissing  his  slaves,  Diagoras  turned  to  the 
impatient  Chian,  and  said : 

"  Now,  young  warrior,  I  am  all  ears  for  thy 
speech." 

"  Truly,"  said  Antagoras,  "  if  thou  wert 
aware  of  what  I  am  about  to  utter,  thou 
wouldst  not  have  postponed  consideration  for 
thy  daughter  to  thy  care  for  a  few  jars  of 
beggarly  olives." 

"  Hem  !  "  said  Diagoras,  peevishly.  "Olives 


are  not  to  be  despised;  oil  to  the  limbs  makes 
them  supple;  to  the  stomach  it  gives  gladness. 
Oil,  moreover,  bringeth  money  when  sold. 
But  a  daughter  is  the  plague  of  a  man's  life. 
First,  one  has  to  keep  away  lovers;  and  next 
to  find  a  husband;  and  v\rhen  all  is  done,  one 
has  to  put  one's  hand  in  one's  chest,  and  pay 
a  tall  fellow  like  thee  for  robbing  one  of  one's 
own  child.  That  custom  of  dowries  is  abomi- 
nable. In  the  good  old  times  a  bridegroom, 
as  was  meet  and  proper,  paid  for  his  bride; 
now  we  poor  fathers  pay  him  for  taking  her. 
Well,  well,  never  bite  thy  forefinger,  and  curl 
up  thy  brows.     What  thou   hast  to  say,  say." 

"  Diagoras,  I  know  that  thy  heart  is  better 
than  thy  speech,  and  that,  much  as  thou 
covetest  money,  thou  lovest  thy  child  more. 
Know,  then,  that  Pausanias— a  curse  light  on 
him  ! — brings  shame  upon  Cleonice.  Know 
that  already  her  name  hath  grown  the  talk  of 
the  camp.  Know  that  his  visit  to  her  the  night 
before  last  was  proclaimed  in  the  council  of 
the  Captains  as  a  theme  for  jest  and  rude 
laughter.  By  the  head  of  Zeus,  how  thinkest 
thou  to  profit  by  the  stealthy  wooings  of  this 
black-browed  Spartan  ?  Knowest  thou  not 
that  his  laws  forbid  him  to  marry  Cleonice  ? 
Wouldst  thou  have  him  dishonor  her  ?  Speak 
out  to  him  as  thou  speakest  to  men,  and  tell 
him  that  the  maidens  of  Byzantium  are  not  in 
the  control  of  the  General  of  the  Greeks." 

"Youth,  youth,"  cried  Diagoras,  greatly 
agitated,  "  wouldst  thou  bring  my  gray  hairs 
to  a  bloody  grave  ?  wouldst  thou  see  my 
daughter  reft  from  me  by  force — and " 

"  How  darest  thou  speak  thus,  old  man  ?  " 
interrupted  the  indignant  Chian.  "  If  Pausa- 
nias wronged  a  virgin,  all  Hellas  would  rise 
against  him." 

"Yes,  but  not  till  the  ill  were  done,  till  my 
throat  were  cut,  and  my  child  dishonored. 
Listen.  At  first  indeed,  when,  as  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  Pausanias,  lodging  a  few  days 
under  my  roof,  saw  and  admired  Cleonice,  I 
did  venture  to  remonstrate,  and  how  think  you 
he  took  it?  'Never,'  quoth  he,  with  his  stern 
quivering  lip,  '  never  did  conquest  forego  its 
best  right  to  the  smiles  of  beauty.  The 
legends  of  Hercules,  my  ancestor,  tell  thee 
that  to  him  who  labors  for  men,  the  gods  grant 
the  love  of  women.  Fear  not  that  I  should 
wrong  thy  daughter — to  woo  her  is  not  to 
wrong.     But  close  thy  door  on  me;  immure 


452 


B  UL  IVRR'S     WORKS. 


Cleonice  from  my  sight;  and  nor  armed  slaves, 
nor  bolts,  nor  bars  shall  keep  love  from  the 
loved  one.'  Therewith  he  turned  on  his  heel 
and  left  me.  But  the  next  day  came  a  Lydian 
in  his  train,  with  a  g;podly  pannier  of  rich  stuffs 
and  a  short  Spartan  sword.  On  the  pannier 
was  written  '  Friendship,'  on  the  sword  '  Wrath,' 
and  Alcman  gave  nje  a  scrap  of  parchment, 
whereon,  with  the  cursed  brief  wit  of  a  Spar- 
tan, was  inscribed  ^Choose/'  Who  could 
doubt  which  to  take  ?  who,  by  the  Gods, 
would  prefer  three  inches  of  Spartan  iron  in  his 
stomach  to  a  basketful  of  rich  stuffs  for  his 
shoulders  ?  Wherefore,  from  that  hour,  Pau- 
sanias  comes  as  he  lists.  But  Cleonice  hu- 
mors him  not,  let  tongues  wag  as  they  may. 
Easier  to  take  three  cities  than  that  child's 
heart." 

"Is  it  so  indeed?"  exclaimed  the  Chian, 
joyfully;  "Cleonice  loves  him  not  ?" 

"  Laughs  at  him  to  his  beard:  that  is,  would 
laugh  if  he  wore  one." 

"  O  Diagoras  !  "  cried  Antagoras,  "  hear  me, 
hear  me.  I  need  not  remind  thee  that  our 
families  are  united  by  the  hospitable  ties;  that 
amongst  thy  treasures  thou  wilt  find  the  gifts 
of  my  ancestors  for  five  generations;  that 
when,  a  year  since,  my  affairs  brought  me  to 
Byzantium,  I  came  to  thee  with  the  symbols 
of  my  right  to  claim  thy  hospitable  cares.  On 
leaving  thee  we  broke  the  sacred  die.  I  have 
one  half,  thou  the  other.  In  that  visit  I  saw 
and  loved  Cleonice.  Fain  would  I  have  told 
my  love,  but  then  my  father  lived,  and  I  feared 
lest  he  should  oppose  my  suit;  therefore,  as 
became  me,  I  was  silent.  On  my  return  home, 
my  fears  were  confirmed;  my  father  desired 
that  I,  a  Chian,  should  wed  a  Chian.  Since  I 
have  been  with  the  fleet,  news  has  reached  me 
that  the  urn  holds  my  father's  ashes."  Here 
the  young  Chian  paused.  "  Alas,  alas  !  "  he 
murmured,  smiting  his  breast,  "  and  I  was  not 
at  hand  to  fix  over  thy  doors  the  sacred  branch, 
to  give  thee  the  parting  kiss,  and  receive  into 
my  lips  thy  latest  breath.  May  Hermes,  O 
father,  have  led  thee  to  pleasant  groves  !  " 

Diagoras,  who  had  listened  attentively  to 
the  young  Chian,  was  touched  by  his  grief, 
and  said  pityingly: 

"  I  know  thou  art  a  good  son,  and  thy 
father  was  a  worthy  man,  though  harsh.  It 
is  a  comfort  to  think  that  all  does  not  die  with 
the  dead.     His  money  at  least  survives  him." 


"  But,"  resumed  Antagoras,  not  heeding 
this  consolation — "but  now  I  am  free:  and 
ere  this,  so  soon  as  my  mourning  garment  had 
been  lain  aside,  I  had  asked  thee  to  bless  me 
with  Cleonice,  but  that  I  feared  her  love  was 
gone — gone  to  the  haughty  Spartan.  Thou 
reassurest  me;  and  in  so  doing,  thou  confirmest 
the  fair  omens  with  which  Aphrodite  has  re- 
ceived my  offerings.  Therefore,  I  speak  out. 
No  dowry  ask  I  with  Cleonice,  save  such, 
more  in  name  than  amount,  as  may  distinguish 
the  wife  from  the  concubine,  and  assure  her 
an  honored  place  amongst  my  kinsmen.  Thou 
knowest  I  am  rich;  thou  knowest  that  my 
birth  dates  from  the  oldest  citizens  of  Chios. 
Give  me  thy  child,  and  deliver  her  thyself  at 
once  from  the  Spartan's  power.  Once  mine, 
all  the  fleets  of  Hellas  are  her  protection, 
and  our  marriage  torches  are  the  swords  of  a 
Grecian  army.  O  Diagoras,  I  clasp  thy  knees; 
put  thy  right  hand  in  mine.  Give  me  thy  child 
as  wife  !  " 

The  Byzantine  was  strongly  affected.  The 
suitor  was  one  who  in  birth  and  possessions, 
was  all  that  he  could  desire  for  his  daughter; 
and  at  Byzantium  there  did  not  exist  that 
feeling  against  intermarriages  with  the  for- 
eigner which  prevailed  in  towns  more  purely 
Greek,  though  in  many  of  them,  too,  that 
antique  prejudice  had  worn  away.  On  the 
other  hand,  by  transferring  to  Antagoras  his 
anxious  charge,  he  felt  that  he  should  take  the 
best  course  to  preserve  it  untarnished  from 
the  fierce  love  of  Pausanias,  and  there  was 
truth  in  the  Chian's  suggestion.  The  daughter 
of  a  Byzantine  might  be  unprotected;  the 
wife  of  an  Ionian  captain  was  safe,  even  from 
the  power  of  Pausanias.  As  these  reflections 
occurred  to  him,  he  placed  his  right  hand  in 
the  Chian's,  and  said: 

"  Be  it  as  thou  wilt;  I  consent  to  betroth 
thee  to  Cleonice.  Follow  me;  thou  art  free  to 
woo  her." 

So  saying,  he  rose,  and,  as  if  in  fear  of  his 
own  second  thoughts,  he  traversed  the  hall 
with  hasty  strides  to  the  interior  of  the  man- 
sion. He  ascended  a  flight  of  steps,  and, 
drawing  aside  a  curtain  suspended  between  two 
columns,  .\ntagoras,  who  followed  timidly  be- 
hind, beheld  Cleonice. 

As  was  the  wont  in  the  domestic  life  of  all 
Grecian  states,  her  handmaids  were  around 
the  noble  virgin.     Two  were  engaged  on  em- 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


453 


broidery,  one  in  spinning,  a  fourth  was  reading 
aloud  to  Cleonice,  and  tliat  at  least  was  a  rare 
diversion  to  women,  for  few  had  the  education 
of  the  fair  Byzantine.  Cleonice  herself  was 
half  reclined  upon  a  bench  inlaid  with  ivory 
and  covered  with  cushions;  before  her  stood 
a  small  triped  table  on  which  she  leant  the 
arm,  the  hand  of  which  supported  Jier  cheek, 
and  she  seemed  listening  to  the  lecture  of  the 
slave  with  earnest  and  absorbed  attention,  so 
.  earnest,  so  absorbed,  that  she  did  not  for  some 
moments  perceive  the  entrance  of  Diagoras 
and  the  Chian. 

"Child,"  said  the  former  —  and  Cleonice 
started  to  her  feet,  and  stood  modestly  before 
her  father,  her  eyes  downcast,  her  arms  crossed 
upon  her  bosom — "child,  I  bid  thee  welcome 
my  guest-friend,  Antagoras  of  Chios.  Slaves, 
ye  may  withdraw." 

Cleonice  bowed  her  head;  and  an  unquiet, 
anxious  change  came  over  her  countenance. 

As  soon  as  the  slaves  were  gone,  Diagoras 
resumed — 

"  Daughter,  I  present  to  thee  a  suitor  for 
thy  hand;  receive  him  as  I  have  done,  and  he 
shall  have  my  leave  to  carve  thy  name  on  every 
tree  in  the  garden,  with  the  lover's  epithet  of 
'  Beautiful '  attached  to  it.  Antagoras,  look 
up,  then,  and  speak  for  thyself." 

But  Antagoras  was  silent;  and  a  fear  un- 
known to  his  frank  hardy  nature  came  over 
him.  With  an  arch  smile,  Diagoras,  deeming 
his  presence  no  longer  necessary  or  expedient, 
lifted  the  curtain,  and  lover  and  maid  were  left 
alone. 

Then,  with  an  effort,  and  still  with  hesitating 
accents,  the  Chian  spoke — 

"  Fair  virgin— not  in  the  groves  of  Byzan- 
tium will  thy  name  be  first  written  by  the  hand 
of  Antagoras.  In  my  native  Chios  the  myrtle 
trees  are  already  eloquent  of  thee.  Since  I 
first  saw  thee,  I  loved.  Maiden,  wilt  thou  be 
my  wife  ? " 

Thrice  moved  the  lips  of  Cleonice,  and 
thrice  her  voice  seemed  to  fail  her.  At  length 
she  said — "  Chian,  thou  art  a  stranger,  and  the 
laws  of  the  Grecian  cities  dishonor  the  stranger 
whom  the  free  citizen  stoops  to  marry." 

"Nay,"  cried  Antagoras,  "  such  cruel  laws 
are  obsolete  in  Chios.  Nature  and  custom, 
and  love's  almighty  goddess,  long  since  have 
set  them  aside.  Fear  not,  the  haughtiest  ma- 
tron of  my  native  state  will  not  be   more  hon- 


ored than  the  Byzantine  bride  of  Antago- 
ras." 

"  Is  it  in  Sparta  only  that  such  laws  exist  ? " 
said  Cleonice,  half  unconsciously,  and  to  the 
sigh  with  which  she  spoke  a  deep  blush  suc- 
ceeded. 

"  Sparta  !  "  exclaimed  Antagoras,  with  a 
fierce  and  jealous  pang — "  Ah,  are  thy  thoughts 
then  upon  the  son  of  Sparta  ?  Were  Pausa- 
iiias  a  Chian,  wouldst  thou  turn  from  him 
scornfully  as  thou  now  dost  from  me?" 

"  Not  scornfully,  Antagoras,"  answered  Cleo- 
nice (who  had  indeed  averted  her  face  at  his 
reproachful  question;  but  now  turned  it  full 
upon  him,  with  an  expression  of  sad  and  pa- 
thetic sweetness),  "  not  scornfully  do  I  turn 
from  thee,  though  with  pain;  for  what  worthier 
homage  canst  thou  render  to  woman  than 
honorable  love  ?  Gratefully  do  I  hearken  to 
the  suit  that  comes  from  thee;  but  gratitude 
is  not  the  return  thou  wouldst  ask,  Antagoras. 
My  hand  is  my  father's;  my  heart,  alas,  is 
mine.  Thou  mayst  claim  from  him  the  one; 
the  other,  neither  he  can  give  nor  thou  receive." 

"Say  not  so  Cleonice,"  cried  the  Chian; 
"  say  not,  that  thou  canst  not  love  me,  if  so  I 
am  to  interpret  thy  words.  Love  brings  love 
with  the  young.  How  canst  thou  yet  know 
thine  own  heart  ?  Tarry  till  thou  hast  listened 
to  mine.  As  the  fire  on  the  altar  spreads  from 
offering  to  offering,  so  spreads  love;  its  flame 
envelops  all  that  are  near  to  it.  Thy  heart 
will  catch  the  heavenly  spark  from  mine." 

"  Chian,"  said  Cleonice,  gently  withdrawing 
the  hand  that  he  sought  to  clasp,  "  when  as 
my  father's  guest  friend  thou  wert  a  sojourner 
within  these  walls,  oft  have  I  heard  thee  speak, 
and  all  thy  words  spoke  the  thoughts  of 
a  noble  soul.  Were  it  otherwise,  not  thus 
would  I  now  address  thee.  Didst  thou  love 
gold,  and  wooed  in  me  but  the  child  of  the 
rich  Diagoras,  or  wert  thou  one  of  those  who 
would  treat  for  a  wife  as  a  trader  for  a  slave, 
invoking  Here,  but  disdaining  Aphrodite,  I 
should  bow  my  head  to  my  doom.  But  thou, 
Antagoras,  askest  love  for  love;  this  I  cannot 
give  thee.  Spare  me,  O  generous  Chian.  Let 
not  my  father  enforce  his  right  to  my  obedi- 
ence." 

"  Answer  me  but  one  question,"  interrupted 
Antagoras  in  a  low  voice,  though  with  com- 
pressed lips:  "  Dost  thou  then  love  another  ?  " 

The  blood  mounted  to  the  virgin's  cheeks, 


454 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


it  suffused  her  brow,  her  neck,  with  burning 
blushes,  and  then  receding,  left  her  face 
colorless  as  a  statue.  Then  with  tones  low 
and  constrained  as  his  own,  she  pressed  her 
hand  on  her  heart,  and  replied,  "  Thou  sayest 
it;  I  love  another." 

And  that  other  is  Pausanias  ?  Alas,  thy 
silence,  thy  trembling,  answer  me." 

Antagoras  groaned  aloud  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands;  but  after  a  short  pause, 
he  exclaimed  with  great  emotion,  "  No,  no — 
say  not  that  thou  lovest  Pausanias;  say  not 
that  Ai)hrodite  hath  so  accurst  thee:  for  to 
love  Pausanias  is  to  love  dishonor." 

"  Hold,  Chian  !  Not  so:  for  my  love  has  no 
hope.  Our  hearts  are  not  our  own,  but  our 
actions  are." 

Antagoras  gazed  on  her  with  suspense  and 
awe;  for  as  she  spoke  her  slight  form  dilated, 
her  lip  curled,  her  cheek  glowed  again,  but 
with  the  blush  less  of  love  than  of  pride.  In 
her  countenance,  her  attitude,  there  was  some- 
thing divine  and  holy,  such  as  would  have  be- 
seemed a  priestess  of  Diana. 

"Yes,"  she  resumed,  raising  her  eyes,  and 
with  a  still  and  mournful  sweetness  in  her  up- 
raised features.  "  What  I  love  is  not  Pau- 
sanias, it  is  the  glory  of  which  he  is  the  sym- 
bol, it  is  the  Greece  of  which  he  has  been  the 
Saviour.  Let  him  depart  as  soon  as  he  must — 
let  these  eyes  behold  him  no  more;  still  there 
exists  for  me  all  that  exists  now — a  name,  a 
renown,  a  dream.  Never  for  me  may  the 
nuptial  hymn  resound,  or  the  marriage  torch 
be  illumined.  O  goddess  of  the  silver  bow, 
O  chaste  and  venerable  Artemis  !  receive,  pro- 
tect thy  servant;  and  ye,  O  funeral  gods,  lead 
me  soon,  lead  the  virgin  unreluctant  to  the 
shades." 

A  superstitious  fear,  a  dread  as  if  his 
earthly  love  would  violate  something  sacred, 
chilled  the  ardor  of  the  young  Chian;  and  for 
several  moments  both  were  silent. 

At  length,  Antagoras,  kissing  the  hem  of 
her  robe,  said — 

"Maiden  of  Byzantium — like  thee,  then,  I 
will  love,  though  without  hope.  I  will  not,  I  dare 
not,  profane  thy  presence  by  prayers  which 
pain  thee,  and  seem  to  me,  having  heard  thee, 
almost  guilty,  as  if  proffered  to  some  nymph 
circling  in  choral  dance  the  moonlit  mountain- 
tops  of  Delos.  But  ere  I  depart,  and  tell  thy 
father  that  my  suit  is  over,  O  place  at  least 


thy  right  hand  in  mine,  and  swear  to  me,  nol 
the  bride's  vow  of  faith  and  truth,  but  that 
vow  which  a  virgin  sister  may  pledge  to  a 
brother,  mindful  to  protect  and  to  avenge  her. 
Swear  to  me,  that  if  this  haughty  Spartan, 
contemning  alike  men,  laws,  and  the  household 
gods,  should  seek  to  constrain  thy  purity  to 
his  will ;  if  thou  shouldst  have  cause  to  tremble 
at  power  and  force;  and  fierce  desire  should 
demand  what  gentle  love  would  but  reverently 
implore — then,  Cleonice,  seeing  how  little  thy 
father  can  defend  thee,  wilt  thou  remember 
Antagoras,  and  through  him,  summon  around 
thee  all  the  majesty  of  Hellas  ?  Grant  me  but 
this  prayer,  and  I  leave  thee,  if  in  sorrow,  yet 
not  with  terror." 

"Generous  and  noble  Chian,"  returned 
Cleonice  as  her  tears  fell  upon  the  hand  he 
extended  to  her — "why,  why  do  I  so  ill  repay 
thee  ?  Thy  love  is  indeed  that  which  ennobles 
the  heart  that  yields  it,  and  her  who  shall  one 
day  recompense  thee  for  the  loss  of  me.  Fear 
not  the  power  of  Pausanias:  dream  not  that  I 
shall  need  a  defender,  while  above  us  reign 
the  gods,  and  below  us  lies  the  grave.  Yet,  to 
appease  thee,  take  my  right  hand,  and  hear  my 
oath.  If  the  hour  comes  when  I  have  need  of 
man's  honor  against  man's  wrong,  I  will  call 
on  Antagoras  as  a  brother." 

Their  hands  closed  in  each  other;  and  not 
trusting  himself  to  speech,  Antagoras  turned 
away  his  face,  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER   V. 

For  some  days,  an  appearance  at  least  of 
harmony  was  restored  to  the  contending  fac- 
tions in  the  Byzantine  camp. 

Pausanias  did  not  dismiss  Gongylus  from 
the  government  of  the  city;  but  he  sent  one 
by  one  for  the  more  important  of  the  Ionian 
complainants,  listened  to  their  grievances,  and 
promised  redress.  He  adopted  a  more  popu- 
lar and  gracious  demeanor,  and  seemed,  with 
a  noble  grace,  to  submit  to  the  policy  of  con- 
ciliating the  allies. 

But  discontent  arose  from  causes  beyond 
his  power,  had  he  genuinely  exerted  it,  to  re- 
move. For  it  was  a  discontent  that  lay  in  the 
hostility  of  race  to  race.  Though  the  Spartan 
Equals  had  preached  courtesy  to  the  lonians, 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


455 


the  ordinary  manner  of  the  Spartan  warriors 
was  invariably  offensive  to  the  vain  and  sus- 
ceptible confederates  of  a  more  polished  race. 
A  Spartan,  wherever  he  might  be  placed, 
unconsciously  assumed  superiority.  The 
levity  of  an  lonion  was  ever  displeasing  to 
him.  Out  of  the  actual  battle-field,  they 
could  have  no  topics  in  common,  none  which 
did  not  provoke  irritation  and  dispute.  On 
the  other  hand,  most  of  the  lonians  could  ill 
conceal  their  disaffection,  mingled  with  some- 
thing of  just  contempt  at  the  notorious  and 
confessed  incapacity  of  the  Spartans  for  mari- 
time affairs,  while  a  Spartan  was  yet  the  com- 
mander of  the  fleet.  And  many  of  them, 
wearied  with  inaction,  and  anxious  to  return 
home,  were  willing  to  seize  any  reasonable 
pretext  for  desertion.  In  this  last  motive  lay 
the  real  strength  and  safety  of  Pausanias. 
And  to  this  end  his  previous  policy  of  arro- 
gance was  not  so  idle  as  it  had  seemed  to 
the  Greeks,  and  appears  still  "in  the  page  of 
history. 

For  a  Spartan  really  anxious  to  preserve  the 
pre-eminence  of  his  country,  and  to  prevent 
the  sceptre  of  the  seas  passing  to  Athens, 
could  have  devised  ho  plan  of  action  more 
sagacious  and  profound  than  one  which  would 
disperse  the  lonians,  and  the  Athenians  them- 
selves, and  reduce  the  operations  of  the  Gre- 
cian force  to  that  land  warfare  in  which  the 
Spartan  pre-eminence  was  equally  indisputable 
and  undisputed.  And  still  Pausanias,  even  in 
his  change  of  manner,  plotted  and  intrigued 
and  hoped  for  this  end.  Could  he  once  sever 
from  the  encampment  the  Athenians  and  the 
Ionian  allies,  and  yet  remain  with  his  own 
force  at  Byzantium  until  the  Persian  army 
could  collect  on  the  Phrygian  frontier,  the  way 
seemed  clear  to  his  ambition.  Under  ordinary 
circumstances,  in  this  object  he  might  have 
succeeded.  But  it  chanced  that  all  his 
schemes  were  met  with  invincible  mistrust  by 
those  in  whose  interest  they  were  conceived, 
and  on  whose  co-operation  they  depended  for 
success.  The  means  adopted  by  Pausanias  in 
pursuit  of  his  policy  were  too  distasteful  to 
the  national  prejudices  of  the  Spartan  govern- 
ment to  enable  him  to  elicit  from  the  national 
ambition  of  that  government  sufficient  sym- 
pathy with  the  object  of  it.  The  more  he 
felf  himself  uncomprehended  and  mistrusted 
by  his  countrymen,  the  more  personal  became 


the  character,  and  the  more  unscrupulous  the 
course,  of  his  ambition.  Unhappily  for  Pau- 
sanias moreover,  the  circumstances  which 
chafed  his  pride  also  thwarted  the  satisfaction 
of  his  affections;  and  his  criminal  ambition 
was  stimulated  by  that  less  guilty  passion 
which  shared  with  it  the  mastery  of  a  singularly 
turbulent  and  impetuous  soul. 

Not  his  the  love  of  sleek,  gallant,  and  wan- 
ton youth;  it  was  the  love  of  a  man  in  his  ma- 
ture years,  but  of  a  man  to  whom  love  till  then 
had  been  unknown.  In  that  large  and  dark 
and  stormy  nature  all  passions  once  admitted 
took  the  growth  of  Titans.  He  loved  as  those 
long  lonely  at  heart  alone  can  love;  he  loved 
as  love  the  unhappy  when  the  unfamiliar  bliss 
of  the  sweet  human  emotion  descends  like 
dew  upon  the  desert.  To  him  Cleonice  was  a 
creature  wholly  out  of  the  range  of  experience. 
Differing  in  every  shade  of  her  versatile 
humor  from  the  only  women  he  had  known, 
the  simple,  sturdy,  uneducated  maids  and 
matrons  of  Sparta,  her  softness  enthralled  him, 
her  anger  awed.  In  his  dreams  of  future 
power,  of  an  absolute  throne  and  unlimited 
dominion,  Pausanias  beheld  the  fair  Byzan- 
tine, crowned  by  his  side.  Fiercely  as  he 
loved,  and  little  as  the  sentiment  of  love  min- 
gled with  his  passion,  he  yet  thought  not  to  dis- 
honor a  victim,  but  to  elevate  a  bride.  What 
though  the  laws  of  Sparta  were  against  such 
nuptials,  was  not  the  hour  approaching  when 
these  laws  should  be  trampled  under  his 
armed  heel  ?  Since  the  contract  with  the  Per- 
sians, which  Gongylus  assured  him  Xerxes 
would  joyously  and  promptly  fulfil,  Pausanians 
already  felt,  in  a  soul  whose  arrogance  arose 
from  the  consciousness  of  powers  that  had  not 
yet  found  their  field,  as  if  he  he  were  not  the 
subject  of  Sparta,  but  her  lord  and  king. 

In  his  interviews  with  Cleonice,  his  language 
took  a  tone  of  promise  'and  of  hope  that  at 
times  lulled  her  fears,  and  communicated  its 
sanguine  colorings  of  the  future  to  her  own 
dreams.  With  the  elasticity  of  youth,  her 
spirits  rose  from  the  solemn  despondency  with 
which  she  had  replied  to  the  reproaches  of 
Antagoras.  For  though  Pausanias  spoke  not 
openly  of  his  schemes,  though  his  words  were 
mysterious,  and  his  replies  to  her  questions 
ambiguous,  and  equivocal,  still  it  seemed  to 
her,  seeing  in  him  the  hero  of  all  Hellas,  so 
natural  that  he  could  make  the  laws  of  Sparta 


45*5 


BULWERS     WORKS. 


yield  to  the  weight  of  his  authority,  or  relax 
in  homage  to  his  renown,  that  she  indulged 
the  belief  that  his  influence  would  set  aside 
the  iron  customs  of  his  country.  Was  it  too 
extravagant  a  reward  to  the  conqueror  of  the 
Mede  to  suffer  him  to  select  at  least  the  part- 
ner of  his  hearth?  No,  hope  was  not  dead  in 
that  young  breast.  Still  might  she  be  the 
brides  of  him  whose  glory  had  dazzled  her 
noble  and  sensitive  nature,  till  the  faults  that 
darkened  it  were  lost  in  the  blaze.  Thus  in- 
sensibly to  herself  her  tones  became  softer  to 
her  stern  lover,  and  her  heart  betrayed  itself 
more  in  her  gentle  looks. 

Yet  again  were  there  times  when  doubt  and 
alarm  returned  with  more  than  their  earlier 
force— times  when,  wrapt  in  his  lurid  and  ab- 
sorbing ambition,  Pausanias  escaped  from  his 
usual  suppressed  reserve— times  when  she  re- 
called that  night  in  which  she  had  witnessed 
his  interview  with  the  strangers  of  the  East, ! 
and  had  trembled  lest  the  altar  should  be 
kindled  upon  the  ruins  of  his  fame.  For 
Cleonice,  was  wholly,  ardently,  sublimely 
Greek,  filled  in  each  crevice  of  her  soul  with 
its  lovely  poetry,  its  beautiful  superstition,  its 
heroic  freedom.  As  Greek,  she  had  loved 
Pausanias,  seeing  in  him  the  lofty  incarnation 
of  Greece  itself.  The  descendant  of  the  demi- 
god, the  champion  of  Plataea,  the  saviour  of 
Hellas — theme  for  song  till  song  should  be 
no  more — these  attributes  were  what  she  be- 
held and  loved;  and  not  to  have  reigned  by 
his  side  over  a  world  would  she  have  welcomed 
one  object  of  that  evil  ambition  which  re- 
nounced the  loyalty  of  a  Greek  for  the  suprem- 
acy of  a  king. 

Meanwhile,  though  Antagoras  had,  with  no 
mean  degree  of  generosity,  relinquished  his 
suit  to  Cleonice,  he  detected  with  a  jealous 
vigilance  the  continued  visits  of  Pausanias, 
and  burned  with  increasing  hatred  against  his 
favored  and  powerful  rival.  Though,  in  com- 
mon with  all  the  Greeks  out  of  the  Pelopon- 
nesus, he  was  very  imperfectly  acquainted  with 
the  Spartan  constitution,  he  could  not  be 
blinded,  like  Cleonice,  into  the  belief  that  a 
law  so  fundamental  in  Sparta,  and  so  general 
in  all  the  primitive  States  of  Greece,  as  that 
which  forbade  intermarriage  with  a  foreigner, 
could  be  cancelled  for  the  Regent  of  Sparta, 
and  in  favor  of  an  obscure  maiden  of  Byzan- 
tium.    Every  visit  Pausanias  paid  to  Cleonice 


but  served  in  his  eyes  as  a  prelude  to  her  ul- 
timate dishonor.  He  lent  himself,  therefore, 
with  all  the  zeal  of  his  vivacious  and  ardent 
character,  to  the  design  of  removing  Pausanias 
himself  from  Byzantium.  He  plotted  with 
the  implacable  Uliades  and  the  other  Ionian 
captains  to  send  to  Sparta  a  formal  mission 
stating  their  grievances  against  the  Regent, 
and  urging  his  recall. 

But  the  altered  manner  of  Pausanias  de- 
prived them  of  their  just  pretext;  and  the 
lonians,  more  and  more  under  the  influence  of 
the  Athenian  chief,  were  disinclined  to  so  ex- 
treme a  measure  without  the  consent  of  Afis- 
tides  and  Cimon.  These  two  chiefs  were  not 
passive  spectators  of  affairs  so  critical  to  their 
ambition  for  Athens — they  penetrated  into  the 
motives  of  Pausanias  in  the  novel  courtesy  of 
demeanor  that  he  adopted,  and  they  foresaw 
that  if  he  could  succeed  in  wearing  away  the 
patience  of  the  allies  and  dispersing  the  fleet, 
yet  without  giving  occasion  for  his  own  recall, 
the  golden  opportunity  of  securing  to  Athens 
the  maritime  ascendancy  would  be  lost.  They 
resolved,  therefore,  to  make  the  occasion 
which  the  wiles  of  the  Regent  had  delayed; 
and  towards  this  object  Antagoras,  moved 
by  his  own  jealous  hate  against  Pausanias, 
worked  incessantly.  Fearless  and  vigilant, 
he  was  ever  on  the  watch  for  some  new 
charge  against  the  Spartan  chief,  ever  re- 
lentless in  stimulating  suspicion,  aggra- 
vating discontent  inflaming  the  fierce,  and 
arguing  with  the  timid.  His  less  exalted 
station  allowed  him  to  mix  more  familiarly 
with  the  various  Ionian  officers  than  would 
have  become  the  high-born  Cimon,  and  the 
dignified  repute  of  Aristides.  Seeking  to  dis- 
tract his  mind  from  the  haunting  thought  of 
Cleonice,  he  flung  himself  with  the  ardor  of 
his  Greek  temperament  into  the  social  pleas- 
ures, which  took  a  zest  from  the  design  that 
he  carried  into  them  all.  In  the  banquets,  in 
the  sports,  he  was  ever  seeking  to  increase  the 
enemies  of  his  rival,  and  where  he  charmed  a 
gay  companion,  there  he  often  enlisted  a  bold 
conspirator. 

Pausanias,  the  unconscious  or  the  careless 
object  of  the  Ionian's  jealous  hate,  could  not 
resist  the  fatal  charm  of  Cleonice's  presence; 
and  if  it  sometimes  exasperated  the  more  evil 
elements  of  his  nature,  at  other  times  it  so 
lulled  them  to  rest  that  had  the  Fates  given 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


457 


him  the  rightful  claim  to  that  single  treasure, 
not  one  guilty  thought  might  have  disturbed 
the  majesty  of  a  soul  which,  though  undis- 
ciplined and  uncultured,  owed  half  its  turbu- 
lence and  half  its  rebellious  pride  to  its  baffled 
yearnings  for  human  affection  and  natural  joy. 
And  Cleonice,  unable  to  shun  the  visits  which 
her  weak  and  covetous  father,  despite  his 
promised  favor  to  the  suit  of  Antagoras,  still 
encouraged;  and  feeling  her  honor,  at  least,  if 
not  her  peace,  was  secured  by  that  ascendancy 
which,  with  each  successive  interview  between 
them,  her  character  more  and  more  asserted 
over  the  Spartan's  higher  nature,  relinquished 
the  tormenting  levity  of  tone  whereby  she  had 
once  sought  to  elude  his  earnestness,  or  con- 
ceal her  own  sentiments.  An  interest  in  a 
fate  so  solemn,  an  interest  far  deeper  than 
mere  human  love,  stole  into  her  heart  and 
elevated  its  instincts.  She  recognized  the  im- 
mense compassion  which  was  due  to  the  man 
so  desolate  at  the  head  of  armaments,  so  dark 
in  the  midst  of  glory.  Centuries  roll,  customs 
change,  but,  ever  since  the  time  of  the  earliest 
mother,  woman  yearns  to  be  the  soother. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  day  when  between 
the  two  principal  meals  of  the  Greeks  men 
surrendered  themselves  to  idleness  or  pleasure; 
when  groups  formed  in  the  market-place,  or 
crowded  the  barbers'  shops  to  gossip  and  talk 
of  news;  when  the  tale-teller  or  ballad-singer 
collected  round  him  on  the  quays  his  credulous 
audience;  when  on  playgrounds  that  stretcTied 
behind  the  taverns  or  without  the  walls  the 
more  active  youths  assembled,  and  the  quoit 
was  hurled,  or  mimic  battles  waged  with 
weapons  of  wood,  or  the  Dorians  weaved  their 
simple,  the  lonians  their  more  intricate  or  less 
decorous,  dances.  At  that  hour  I^ysander, 
wandering  from  the  circles  of  his  countrymen, 
walked  musingly  by  the  sea-shore. 

"  And  why,"  said  the  voice  of  a  person  who 
had  approached  him  unperceived,  "  and  why, 
O  Lysander,  art  thou  absent  from  thy  com- 
rades, thou  model  and  theme  of  the  youths  of 
Sparta,  foremost  in  their  manly  sports,  as  in 
their  martial  labors  ?  " 

Lysander  turned  and  bowed  low  his  graceful 


head,  for  he  who  accosted  him  was  scarcely 
more  honored  by  the  Athenians,  whom  his 
birth,  his  wealth,  and  his  popular  demeanor 
dazzled,  than  by  the  plain  sons  of  Sparta,  who, 
in  his  simple  garb,  his  blunt  and  hasty  man- 
ner, his  professed  admiration  for  all  things 
Spartan,  beheld  one  Athenian  at  least  congenial 
to  their  tastes. 

"  The  child  that  misses  its  mother,"  an- 
swered Lysander,  "  has  small  joy  with  its  play- 
mates.    And  I,  a  Spartan,  pine  for  Sparta." 

"  Truly,"  returned  Cimon,  "  there  must  be 
charms  in  thy  noble  country  of  which  we  other 
Greeks  know  but  little,  if  amidst  all  the  lux- 
uries and  delights  of  Byzantium  thou  canst 
pine  for  her  rugged  hills.  And  although,  as 
thou  knowest  well,  I  was  once  a  sojourner  in 
thy  city  as  ambassador  from  my  own,  yet  to  for- 
eigners so  little  of  the  inner  Spartan  life  is  re- 
vealed, that  I  pray  thee  to  satisfy  my  curiosity 
and  explain  to  me  the  charm  that  reconciles 
thee  and  thine  to  institutions  which  seem  to 
the  lonians  at  war  with  the  pleasures  and  the 
graces  of  social  life."* 

"  111  can  the  native  of  one  land  explain  to 
the  son  of  another  why  he  loves  it,"  returned 
Lysander.  "  That  which  the  Ionian  calls  pleas- 
ure is  to  me  but  tedious  vanity;  that  which  he 
calls  grace  is  to  me  but  enervatclevity.  Me  it 
pleases  to  find  the  day,  from  sunrise  to  night, 
full  of  occupations  that  leave  no  languor,  that 
employ,  but  not  excite.  For  the  morning,  our 
gymnasia,  our  military  games,  the  chase — 
diversions  that  brace  the  limbs  and  leave  us  in 
peace  fit  for  war— diversions,  which,  unlike  the 
brawls  of  the  wordy  Agora,  bless  us  with  the 
calm   mind    and   clear   spirit   resulting    from 


•  Alexander,  King  of  Macedon,  had  visited  the 
Athenians  with  overtures  of  peace  and  alliance  from 
Xerxes  and  Mardonius.  These  overtures  were  con- 
fined to  the  Athenians  alone,  and  the  Spartans  were 
fearful  lest  they  should  be  accepted.  The  Athenians, 
however,  generously  refused  them.  Gold,  said  they, 
hath  no  amount,  earth  no  territory  how  beautiful  so- 
ever that  could  tempt  the  Athenians  to  accept  con- 
ditions 'from  the  Mede  for  the  servitude  of  Greece. 
On  this  the  Persians  invaded  Attica,  and  the  Athe- 
nians, after  waiting  in  vain  for  promised  aid  from 
Sparta,  took  refuge  at  Salamis.  Meanwhile,  they  had 
sent  messengers  or  ambassadors  to  Sparta,  to  remon- 
strate on  the  violation  of  their  agreement  in  delaying 
succor.  This  chanced  at  the  very  time  when,  by  the 
death  of  his  father  Cleombrotus,  Pausanias  became 
Regent.  Slowly,  and  after  much  hesitation,  the  Spar- 
tans sent  them  aid  under  Pausanias.  Two  of  the  am- 
bassadors were  Aristides  and  Cimon. 


458 


£  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


vigorous  habits,  and  ensuring  jocund  health. 
Noon  brings  our  simple  feast,  shared  in  public, 
enlivened  by  jest;  late  at  eve  we  collect  in  our 
Leschae,  and  the  winter  nights  seem  short, 
listening  to  the  old  men's  talk  of  our  sires  and 
heroes.  To  us  life  is  one  serene  yet  active 
holiday.  No  Spartan  condescends  to  labor, 
yet  no  Spartan  can  womanize  himself  by  ease. 
For  us,  too,  differing  from  you  Ionian  Greeks, 
for  us  women  are  companions,  not  slaves. 
Man's  youth  is  passed  under  the  eyes  and  in 
the  presence  of  those  from  whom  he  may 
select,  as  his  heart  inclines,  the  future  mother 
of  his  children.  Not  for  us  your  feverish  and 
miserable  ambitions,  the  intrigues  of  dema- 
gogues, the  drudgery  of  the  mart,  the  babble 
of  the  populace;  we  alone  know  the  quiet  re- 
pose of  heart.  That  which  I  see  everywhere 
else,  the  gnawing  strife  of  passion,  visits  not 
the  stately  calm  of  the  Spartan  life.  We  have 
the  leisure,  not  of  the  body  alone,  but  of  the 
soul.  Equality  with  us  is  the  all  in  all,  and 
we  know  not  that  jealous  anguish — the  desire 
to  rise  one  above  the  other.  We  busy  ourselves 
not  in  making  wealth,  in  ruling  mobs,  in  osten- 
tatious rivalries  of  state,  and  gaud,  and  power 
— struggles  without  an  object.  When  we 
struggle  it  is  for  an  end.  Nothing  moves  us 
from  our  calm  but  danger  to  Sparta,  or  woe  to 
Hellas.  Harmony,  peace,  and  order— these 
are  the  graces  of  our  social  life.  Pity  us,  O 
Athenian  ! " 

Cimon  had  listened  with  profound  attention 
to  a  speech  unusually  proli.x  and  descriptive 
for  a  Sparton;  and  he  sighed  deeply  as  it 
closed.  For  that  young  Athenian,  destined  to 
so  renowned  a  place  in  the  history  of  his 
country,  was,  despite  his  popular  manners,  no 
favorer  of  the  popular  passions.  Lofty  and 
calm,  and  essentially  an  aristocrat  by  nature 
and  opinion,  this  picture  of  a  life  unruffled  by 
the  restless  changes  of  democracy,  safe  and 
aloof  from  the  shifting  humors  of  the  multi- 
tude, charmed  and  allured  him.  He  forgot 
for  the  moment  those  counter  propensities 
which  made  him  still  Athenian — the  tastes  for 
magnificence,  the  love  of  women,  and  the  de- 
sire of  rule.  His  busy  schemes  slept  within 
him,  and  he  answered: 

"  Happy  is  the  Spartan  who  thinks  with  you. 
Yet,"  he  added,  after  a  jiause,  "  yet  own  that 
there  are  amongst  you  many  to  whom  the  life 
you  describe  has  ceased  to  proffer  the  charms 


that  enthral!  you,  and  who  envy  the  more 
diversified  and  exciting  existence  of  surround- 
ing States.  Lysander's  eulogiums  shame  his 
chief  Pausanias." 

"  It  is  not  for  me,  nor  for  thee,  whose  years 
scarce  exceed  my  own,  to  judge  of  our  elders 
in  renown,"  said  Lystander,  with  a  slight  shade 
over  his  calm  brow.  "Pausanias  will  surely 
be  found  still  a  Spartan,  when  Sparta  needs 
him;  and  the  heart  of  the  Heracleid  beats  un- 
der the  robe  of  the  Mede." 

"  Be  frank  with  me,  Lysander;  thou  know- 
est  that  my  own  countrymen  often  jealously 
accuse  me  of  loving  Sparta  too  well.  I  imi- 
tate, say  they,  the  manners  and  dress  of  the 
Spartan,  as  Pausanias  those  of  the  Mede. 
Trust  me  then,  and  bear  with  me,  when  I  say 
that  Pausanias  ruins  the  cause  of  Sparta.  If 
he  tarry  here  longer  in  the  command  he  will 
render  all  the  allies  enemies  to  thy  country. 
Already  he  has  impaired  his  fame  and  dimmed 
his  laurels;  already,  despite  his  pretexts  and  ex- 
cuses, we  perceive  that  his  whole  nature  is  cor- 
rupted. Recall  him  to  Sparta,  while  it  is  yet 
time — time  to  reconcile  the  Greeks  with  Sparta, 
time  to  save  the  hero  of  Plataea  from  the  con- 
taminations of  the  East.  Preserve  his  own 
glory,  dearer  to  thee  as  his  special  friend  than 
to  all  men,  yet  dear  to  me,  though  an  Athe- 
nian, from  the  memory  of  the  deeds  which  de- 
livered Hellas." 

Cimon  spoke  with  the  blunt  and  candid 
eloquence  natural  to  him,  and  to  which  his 
manly  countenance  and  earnest  tone  and 
character  for  truth  gave  singular  effect. 

Lysander  remained  long  silent.  At  length 
he  said,  "  I  neither  deny  nor  assent  to  thine 
arguments,  son  of  Miltiades.  The  Ephors 
alone  can  judge  of  their  wisdom." 

"  But  if  we  address  them,  by  message,  to 
the  Ephors,  thou  and  the  nobler  Spartans  will 
not  resent  our  remon-strances  ?  " 

"All  that  injures  Pausanias  Lysander  will 
resent.  Little  know  I  of  the  fables  of  poets, 
but  Homer  is  at  least  as  familiar  to  the  Dorian 
as  to  the  Ionian,  and  I  think  with  him  that  be- 
tween friends  there  is  but  one  love  and  one 
anger." 

"Then  are  the  frailties  of  Pausanias  dearer 
to  thee  than  his  fame,  or  Pausanias  himself 
dearer  to  thee  than  Sparta — the  erring  brother 
than  the  venerable  mother  ? " 

Lysander's  voice  died  on  his  lips;  the  reproof 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


459 


struck  home  to  him.  He  tmned  away  his 
face,  and  with  a  slow  wave  of  his  hand  seemed 
to  implore  forbearance.  Cimon  was  touched 
by  the  action  and  the  generous  embarrass- 
ment of  the  Spartan;  he  saw,  too,  that  he  had 
left  in  the  mind  he  had  addressed  thoughts 
that  might  work  as  he  had  designed,  and  he 
judged  by  the  effect  he  produced  on  Lysander 
what  influence  the  same  arguments  might  ef- 
fect addressed  to  others  less  under  the  control 
of  personal  friendship.  Therefore,  with  a  few 
gentle  words,  he  turned  aside,  continued  his 
way,  and  left  Lysander  alone. 

Entering  the  town,  the  Athenian  threaded 
his  path  through  some  of  the  narrow  lanes  and 
alleys  that  wound  from  the  quays  towards  the 
citidal,  avoiding  the  broader  and  more  fre- 
quented streets.  The  course  he  took  was  such 
as  rendered  it  little  probable  that  he  should 
encounter  any  of  the  higher  classes,  and  es- 
specially  the  Spartans,  who  form  their  consti- 
tutional pride  shunned  the  resorts  of  the  pop- 
ulace. But  as  he  came  nearer  the  citidal 
stray  Helots  were  seen  at  times,  emerging 
from  the  inns  and  drinking  houses,  and  these 
stopped  short  and  inclined  low  if  they  caught 
sight  of  him  at  a  distance,  for  his  hat  and  staff, 
his  majestic  stature,  and  composed  step, 
made  them  take  him  for  a  Spartan. 

One  of  these  slaves,  however,  emerging  sud- 
denly from  a  house  close  by  which  Cimon 
passed,  recognized  him,  and  retreating  within 
abruptly,  entered  a  room  in  which  a  man  sat 
alone,  and  seemingly  in  profound  thought;  his 
cheek  rested  on  one  hand,  with  the  other  he 
leaned  upon  a  small  lyre,  his  eyes  were  bent 
on  the  ground,  and  he  started,  as  a  man  does 
dream-like  from  a  reverie,  when  the  Helot 
touched  him  and  said  abruptly,  and  in  a  tone 
of  surprise  and  inquiry — 

"  Cimon,  the  Athenian,  is  ascending  the  hill 
towards  the  Spartan  quarter." 

"  The  Spartan  quarter  !  Cimon  !  "  exclaimed 
Alcman,  for  it  was  he.  "  Give  me  thy  cap  and 
hide." 

Hastily  enduing  himself  in  these  rough  gar- 
ments, and  drawing  the  cap  over  his  face,  the 
Mothon  hurried  to  the  threshold,  and,  seeing 
the  Athenian  at  the  distance,  followed  his 
footsteps,  though  with  the  skill  of  a  man  used 
to  ambush  he  kept  himself  unseen — now  under 
the  projecting  roofs  of  the  houses,  now  skirt- 
ing the  wall,  which,  heavy  with  buttresses,  led 


towards  the  outworks  of  the  citadel.  And 
with  such  success  did  he  pursue  his  track  that 
when  Cimon  paused  at  last  at  the  place  of  his 
destination,  and  gave  one  vigilant  and  search- 
ing glance  around  him,  he  detected  no  living 
form. 

He  had  then  reached  a  small  space  of  table- 
land on  which  stood  a  few  trees  of  great  age 
— all  that  time  and  the  encroachments  of  the 
citadel  and  the  town  had  spared  of  the  sacred 
grove  which  formerly  surrounded  a  rude  and 
primitive  temple,  the  grey  columns  of  which 
gleamed  through  the  heavy  foliage.  Passing 
with  a  slow  and  cautious  step,  under  the  thick 
shadow  of  these  trees,  Cimon  now  arrived 
before  the  open  door  of  the  temple,  placed  at 
the  east  so  as  to  admit  the  first  beams  of  the 
rising  sun.  Through  the  threshold,  in  the 
middle  of  the  fane,  the  eye  rested  on  the 
statue  of  Apollo,  raised  upon  a  lofty  pedestal 
and  surrounded  by  a  rail — a  statue  not  such 
as  the  later  genius  of  the  Athenian  represented 
the  god  of  light,  and  youth,  and  beauty;  not 
wrought  from  Parian  marble,  or  smoothest 
ivory,  and  in  the  divinest  proportions  of  the 
human  form,  but  rude,  formal,  and  roughly 
hewn  from  the  wood  of  the  yew-tree— some 
early  effigy  of  the  god,  made  by  the  simple 
piety  of  the  first  Dorian  colonizers  of  Byzan- 
tium. Three  forms  stood  mute  by  an  altar, 
equally  homely  and  ancient,  and  adorned  with 
horns,  placed  a  little  apart,  and  considerably 
below  the  statue. 

As  the  shadow  of  the  Athenian,  who  halted 
at  the  threshold,  fell  long  and  dark  along  the 
floor,  the  figures  turned  slowly,  and  advanced 
towards  him.  With  an  inclination  of  his  head 
Cimon  retreated  from  the  temple;  and,  look- 
ing round,  saw  abutting  from  the  rear  of  the 
building  a  small  cell  or  chamber,  which  doubt- 
less in  former  times  had  served  some  priestly 
purpose,  but  now,  doorless,  empty,  deso- 
late, showed  the  utter  neglect  into  which  the 
ancient  shrine  of  the  Dorian  god  had  fallen 
amidst  the  gay  and  dissolute  Byzantiaus.  To 
this  cell  Cimon  directed  his  steps;  the  men  he 
had  seen  in  the  temple  followed  him,  and  all 
four,  with  brief  and  formal  greeting,  seated 
themselves,  Cimon  on  a  fragment  of  some 
broken  column,  the  others  on  a  bench  that 
stretched  along  the  wall. 

"  Peers  of  Sparta,"  said  the  Athenian,  "  ye 
have  doubtless  ere  this  revolved  sufficiently 


460 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


the  grave  matter  which  I  _  opened  to  you  in 
a  former  conference,  and  in  which,  to  hear 
your  decision,  I  seek  at  your  appointment 
these  sacred  precincts." 

"  Son  of  Miltiades,"  answered  the  blunt 
Polydorous,  "  you  inform  us  that  it  is  the  in- 
tention of  the  Athenians  to  despatch  a  mes- 
senger to  Sparta  demanding  the  instant  recall 
of  Pausanias.  Yon  ask  us  to  second  that  re- 
quest. But  without  our  aid  the  Athenians  are 
masters  to  do  as  they  will.  Why  should  we 
abet  your  quarrel  against  the  Regent  ? " 

"  Friend,"  replied  Cimon,  "  we,  the  Athe- 
nians, confess  to  no  quarrel,  with  Pausanias; 
what  we  demand  is  to  avoid  all  quarrel  with 
him  or  yourselves.  You  seem  to  have  over- 
looked my  main  arguments.  Permit  me  to  re- 
urge  them  briefly.  If  Pausanias  remains,  the 
allies  have  resolved  openly  to  revolt;  if  you, 
the  Spartans  assist  your  chief,  as  methinks 
you  needs  must  do,  you  are  at  once  at  war 
with  the  rest  of  the  Greeks.  If  you  desert 
him  you  leave  Hellas  without  a  chief,  and  we 
will  choose  one  of  our  own.  Meanwhile,  in 
the  midst  of  our  dissensions,  the  towns  and 
states  well  affected  to  Persia  will  return  to  her 
sway;  and  Persia  herself  falls  upon  us  as  no 
longer  an  united  enemy  but  an  easy  prey. 
For  the  sake,  therefore,  of  Sparta  and  of 
Greece,  we  entreat  you  to  co-operate  with  us; 


or  rather,  to  let  the  recall  of  Pausanias  be 
affected  more  by  the  wise  precaution  of  the 
Spartans  than  by  the  fierce  resolve  of  the  other 
Greeks.  So  you  save  best  the  dignity  of  your 
State,  and  so,  in  reality,  you  best  serve  your 
chief.  For  less  shameful  to  him  is  it  to  be 
recalled  by  you  than  to  be  deposed  by  us." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Gelon,  surlily,  "  what 
Sparta  hath  to  do  at  all  with  this  foreign  ex- 
pedition; we  are  safe  in  our  own  defiles." 

"  Pardon  me,  if  I  remind  you  that  you  were 
scarcely  safe  at  Thermopyls,  and  that  had  the 
advice  Demaratus  proffered  to  Xerxes  been 
taken,  and  that  island  of  Cithera,  which  com- 
mands Sparta  itself,  been  occupied  by  Persian 
troops,  as  in  a  future  time,  if  Sparta  desert 
Greece,  it  may  be,  you  were  undone.  And, 
wisely  or  not,  Sparta  is  now  in  command  at 
Byzantium,  and  it  behoves  her  to  maintain, 
with  the  dignity  she  assumes,  the  interests  she 
represents.  Grant  that  Pausanias  be  recalled, 
another  Spartan  can  succeed  him.  Whom  of 
your  countrymen  would  you  prefer  to  that  high 
post,  if  you,  O  Peers,  aid  us  in  the  dismissal 
of  Pausanias  ?  "  * 

*  *  *  *  » 


*  This  chapter  was  left  unfinished  by  the  author; 
probably  with  the  intention  of  recasting  it.  Such  an 
intention,  at  least,  is  indicated  by  the  marginal  marks 
upon  the  MS.— L. 


FA  us  AN  IAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


461 


BOOK    THIRD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  fountain  sparkled  to  the  noonday,  the 
sward  around  it  was  sheltered  from  the  sun 
by  vines  formed  into  shadowy  arcades,  with 
interlaced  leaves  for  roof.  Afar  through  the 
vistas  thus  formed  gleamed  the  blue  of  a 
sleeping  sea. 

Under  the  hills,  or  close  by  the  margin  of 
the  fountain,  Cleonice  was  seated  upon  a 
grassy  knoll,  covered  with  wild  flowers.  Be- 
hind her,  at  a  little  distance,  grouped  her 
handmaids,  engaged  in  their  womanly  work, 
and  occasionally  conversing  in  whispers.  At 
her  feet  reposed  the  grand  form  of  Pausanias. 
Alcman  stood  not  far  behind  him,  his  hand 
resting  on  his  lyre,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the 
upward  jet  of  the  fountain. 

"  Behold,"  said  Cleonice,  "  how  the  water 
soars  up  to  the  level  of  its  source  ! " 

"  As  my  soul  would  soar  to  thy  love,"  said 
the  Spartan  amorously. 

"  As  thy  soul  should  soar  to  the  stars.  O 
son  of  Hercules,  when  I  hear  thee  burst  into 
thy  wild  flights  of  ambition,  I  see  not  thy  way 
to  the  stars." 

"  Why  dost  thou  ever  thus  chide  the  am- 
bition which  may  give  me  thee  ?  " 

"No,  for  thou  mightest  then  be  as  much 
below  me  as  thou  art  now  above.  Too  hum- 
ble to  mate  with  the  Heracleid,  I  am  too  proud 
to  stoop  to  the  Tributary  of  the  Mede." 

"Tributary  for  a  sprinkling  of  water  and  a 
handful  of  earth.  Well,  my  pride  may  revolt, 
too,  from  that  tribute.  But,  alas  !  what  is  the 
tribute  Sparta  exacts  from  me  now  ? — personal 
liberty— freedom  of  soul  itself.  The  Mede's 
Tributary  may  be  a  king  over  millions;  the 
Spartan  Regent  is  a  slave  to  the  few." 

"Cease  —  cease  —  cease.     I   will    not   hear 


thee,"  cried  Cleonice,  placing  her  hands  on  her 
ears. 

Pausanias  gently  drew  them  away;  and  hold- 
ing them  both  captive  in  the  large  clasp  of  his 
own  right  hand,  gazed  eagerly  into  her  pure, 
unshrinking  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "for  in  much  thou  art 
wiser  than  I  am,  unjust  though  thou  art.  Tell 
me  this.  Look  onward  to  the  future  with  a 
gaze  as  steadfast  as  now  meets  mine,  and  say 
if  thou  canst  discover  any  path,  except  that 
which  it  pleases  thee  to  condemn,  which  may 
lead  thee  and  me  to  the  marriage  altar  !  " 

Down  sank  those  candid  eyes,  and  the  vir- 
gin's cheek  grew  first  rosy  red,  and  then  pale, 
as  if  every  drop  of  blood  had  receded  to  the 
heart. 

"  Speak  !  "  insisted  Pausanias,  softening  his 
haughty  voice  to  its  meekest  tone. 

"  I  cannot  see  the  path  to  the  altar,"  mur- 
mured Cleonice,  and  the  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks. 

"  And  if  thou  seest  it  not,"  returned  Pau- 
sanias, "  art  thou  brave  enough  to  say — Be  we 
lost  to  each  other  for  life  ?  I,  though  man  and 
Spartan,  am  not  brave  enough  to  say  that  !  " 

He  released  her  hands  as  he  spoke,  and 
clasped  his  own  over  his  face.  Both  were 
long  silent. 

Alcman  hnd  for  some  moments  watched  the 
lovers  with  deep  interest,  and  had  caught  into 
his  listening  ears  the  purport  of  their  words. 
He  now  raised  his  lyre,  and  swept  his  hand 
over  the  chords.  The  touch  was  that  of  a 
master,  and  the  musical  sounds  produced  their 
effect  on  all.  The  handmaids  paused  from 
their  work.  Cleonice  turned  her  eyes  wistfully 
towards  the  Mothon.  Pausanias  drew  his 
hands  from  his  face,  and  cried  joyously,  "I 
accept  the  omen.    Foster-brother,  I  have  heard 


402 


JiULWEIi'S     WORKS. 


that  measure  to  a  Hymeneal  Song.  Sing  us 
the  words  that  go  with  the  melody." 

"  Nay,"  said  Alcman  gently,  "  the  words  are 
not  those  which  are  sung  before  youth  and 
maiden  when  they  walk  over  perishing  flowers 
to  bridal  altars.  They  are  the  words  which 
embody  a  legend  of  the  land  in  which  the 
heroes  of  old  dwell,  removed  from  earth,  yet 
preserved  from  Hades." 

"  Ah,"  said  Cleonice — and  a  strange  ex- 
pression, calmly  mournful,  settled  on  her 
features — "  then  the  words  may  haply  utter 
my  own  thoughts.  Sing  them  to  us,  I  pray 
thee." 

The  Mothon  bowed  his  head,  and  thus  be- 
gan :— 

THE   ISLE  OF  SPIRITS. 

Many  wonders  on  the  ocean 
By  the  moonlight  may  be  seen; 

Under  moonlight  on  the  Euxine 
Rose  the  blessed  silver  isle, 

As  Leostratus  of  Croton, 

At  the  Pythian  God's  hehest, 
Steer'd  along  the  troubled  waters 

To  the  tranquil  spirit  land. 

In  the  earthquake  of  the  battle, 
When  the  Locrians  reel'd  before 

Croton's  shock  of  marching  iron, 
Strode  a  Phantom  to  their  van: 

Strode  the  shade  of  Locrian  Ajax, 

Guarding  still  the  native  soil, 
And  Leastratus.  confronting. 

Wounded  fell  before  the  spear. 

Leech  and  herb  the  wound  could  heal  not; 

Said  the  Pythian  God,  "  Depart, 
Voyage  o'er  the  troubled  Euxine 

To  the  tranquil  spirit-land. 

"  There  abides  the  Locrian  Ajax, 
He  who  gave  the  wound  shall  heal; 

Godlike  souls  are  in  their  mercy 
Stronger  yet  than  in  their  wrath." 

While  at  ease  on  lulled  waters 

Rose  the  blessed  silver  isle. 
Purple  vines  in  lengthening  vistas 

Knit  the  hill-top  to  the  beach. 

And  the  beach  had  sparry  caverns. 

And  a  floor  of  golden  sands, 
And  wherever  soared  the  cypress. 

Underneath  it  bloomed  the  rose. 

Glimmered  there  amid  the  vine  trees, 

Thoro'  caverns,  over  beach. 
Lifelike  shadows  of  a  beauty 

Which  the  living  know  no  more. 


Towering  statues  of  great  heroes. 
They  who  fought  at  Thebes  and  Troy, 

And  with  looks  that  poets  dream  of 
Beam'd  the  women  heroes  loved. 

Kingly,  forth  before  their  comrades, 
As  the  vessel  touched  the  shore, 

Came  the  stateliest  Two,  by  Hymen 
Ever  hallowed  into  One. 

As  He  strode,  the  forests  trembled 
To  the  awe  that  crowned  his  brow: 

As  She  stepped,  the  ocean  dimpled 
To  the  ray  that  left  her  smile. 

"  Welcome  hither,  fearless  warrior  ! " 
Said  a  voice  in  which  there  slept 

Thunder-sounds  to  scatter  armies, 
As  a  north-wind  scatters  leaves. 

"  Welcome  hither,  wounded  sufferer," 

Said  a  voice  of  music  low 
As  the  coo  of  doves  that  nestle 

Under  summer  boughs  at  noon. 

"  Who  are  ye,  O  shapes  of  glory  ?" 
Ask'd  the  wondering  living  man: 

Quoth  the  Man-ghost,  "  This  is  Helen, 
And  the  Fair  is  for  the  Brave. 

"  Fairest  prize  to  bravest  victor; 

Whom  doth  Greece  her  bravest  deem?" 
Said  Leostratus,  '  Achilles:" 

"  Bride  and  bridegroom  then  are  we." 

"  Low  I  kneel  to  thee,  Pclides, 

But,  O  marvel,  she  thy  bride, 
She  whose  guilt  unpeopled  Hellas, 

She  whose  marriage  lights  fired  Troy?" 

Frown'd  the  large  front  of  Achilles, 

Overshadowing  sea  and  sky, 
Even  as  when  between  Olympus 

And  Oceanus  hangs  storm. 

"  Know,  thou  dullard,"  said  Pclides, 

"  That  on  the  funereal  pyre 
Earthly  sins  are  purged  from  glory, 

And  the  Soul  is  as  the  Name." 

If  to  her  in  life — a  Paris, 

If  to  me  in  life — a  slave, 
Helen's  mate  is  here  Achilles, 

Mine — the  sister  of  the  stars. 

Nought  of  her  survives  but  beauty, 
Nought  of  me  survives  but  fame; 

Here  the  Beautiful  and  Famous 
Intermingle  evermore. 

Then  throughout  the  Blessed  Island 

Sang  aloud  the  Race  of  Light. 
"  Know,  the  Beautiful  and  Famous 

Marry  here  for  evermore!" 

"  Thy  song  hears  a  meaning  deeper  than  its 
words,"  said  Pausanias;  "but  if  that  meaning 
be  consolation,  I  comprehend  it  not." 


PA  us  AN/AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


463 


"I  do,"  said  Cleonice.  "Singer,  I  pray 
thee  draw  near.  Let  us  talk  of  what  my  lost 
mother  said  was  the  favorite  theme  of  the 
grander  sages  of  Miletus.  Let  us  talk  of  what 
lies  afar  and  undiscovered  amid  waters  more 
troubled  than  the  Euxine.  Let  us  speak  of 
the  Land  of  Souls." 

"Who  ever  returned  from  that,  land  to  tell 
us  of  it?"  said  Pausanias.  "Voyagers  that 
never  voyaged  thither  save  in  song." 

"Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  said  Alcman,  "hast 
thou  not  heard  that  in  one  of  the  cities  founded 
by  thine  ancestor,  Hercules,  and  named  after 
his  own  name,  there  yet  dwells  a  Priesthood 
that  can  summon  to  living  eyes  the  Phantoms 
of  the  Dead  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Pausanias,  with  the  credu- 
lous wonder  common  to  eager  natures  which 
Philosophy  has  not  withdrawn  from  the  realm 
of  superstition. 

"  But,"  asked  Cleonice,  "  does  it  need  the 
Necromancer  to  convince  us  that  the  soul  does 
not  perish  when  the  breath  leaves  the  lips  ? 
If  I  judge  the  burthen  of  thy  song  aright, 
thou  art  not,  O  singer,  uninitiated  in  the  divine 
and  consoling  doctrines  which,  emanating,  it 
is  said,  from  the  schools  of  Miletus,  establish 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  not  for  Demigods 
and  Heroes  only,  but  for  us  all;  which  imply 
the  soul's  purification  from  earthly  sins,  in 
some  regions  less  chilling  and  stationary  than 
the  sunless  and  melancholy  Hades." 

Alcman  looked  at  the  girl  surprised. 

"  Art  thou  not,  maiden,"  said  he,  "  one  of 
the  many  female  disciples  whom  the  succes- 
sors of  Pythagoras  the  Samian  have  enrolled  ?  " 

"Nay,"  said  Cleonice  modestly;  "but  my 
mother  had  listened  to  great  teachers  of  wis- 
dom, and  I  speak  imperfectly  the  thoughts  I 
have  heard  her  utter  when  she  told  me  she 
had  no  terror  of  the  grave." 

"  Fair  Byzantine,"  returned  the  Mothon, 
while  Pausanias,  leaning  his  upraised  face  on 
his  hand,  listened  mutely  to  themes  new  to 
his  mind  and  foreign  to  his  Spartan  culture. 
"  Fair  Byzantine,  we  in  Lacedasmon,  whether 
free  or  enslaved,  are  not  educated  to  the  subtle 
learning  which  distinguishes  the  intellect  of 
Ionian  Sages.  But  I,  born  and  licensed  to  be 
a  poet,  converse  eagerly  with  all  who  swell  the 
stores  which  enrich  the  treasure-house  of  song. 
And  thus,  since  we  have  left  the  land  of  Sparta, 
and  more  especially  in  yon  city,  the  centre  of 


many  tribes  and  of  many  minds,  I  have  picked 
up,  as  it  were,  desultory  and  scattered  notions, 
which,  for  want  of  a  fitting  teacher,  I  bind  and 
arrange  for  myself  as  well  as  I  may.  And 
since  the  ideas  that  now  float  through  the  :it- 
mosphere  of  Hellas  are  not  confined  to  the 
great,  nay,  perhaps  are  less  visible  to  them 
than  to  those  whose  eyes  are  not  riveted  on 
the  absorbing  substances  of  ambition  and 
power,  so  I  have  learned  something,  I  know 
not  how,  save  that  I  have  listened  and  re- 
flected. And  here,  where  I  have  heard  what 
sages  conjecture  of  a  world  which  seems  so  far 
off,  but  to  which  we  are  so  near  that  we  may 
reach  it  in  a  moment,  my  interest  might  in- 
deed be  intense.  For  what  is  this  world  to 
him  who  came  into  it  a  slave  ?  " 

"  Alcman,"  exclaimed  Pausanias,  "the  fos- 
ter-brother of  the  Heracleid  is  no  more  a 
slave." 

The  Mothon  bowed  his  head  gratefully,  but 
the  expression  on  his  face  retained  the  same 
calm  and  sombre  resignation. 

"Alas,"  said  Cleonice,  with  the  delicacy  of 
female  consolation,  "  who  in  this  life  is  really 
free  ?  Have  citizens  to  thraldom  in  custom 
and  law  ?     Are  we  not  all  slaves  ?  " 

"True.  All  slaves  !"  murmered  the  royal 
victor.  "  Envy  none,  O  Alcman.  Yet,"  he  con- 
tinued, gloomily,  "  what  is  the  life  beyond  the 
grave  which  sacred  tradition  and  ancient  song 
holds  out  to  us  ?  Not  thy  silver  island,  vain 
singer,  unless  it  be  only  for  an  early  race  more 
immediately  akin  to  the  Gods.  Shadows  in 
the  shade  are  the  dead;  at  the  best  reviving 
only  their  habits  when  on  earth,  in  phantom- 
like delusions;  aiming  spectral  darts  like  Orion 
at  spectral  lions;  things  bloodless  and  pulse- 
less; existences  followed  to  no  purpose  through 
eternity,  as  dreams  are  through  a  night.  Who 
cares  so  to  live  again  ?    Not  I." 

"  The  sages  that  now  rise  around,  and  speak 
oracles  different  from  those  heard  at  Delphi," 
said  Alcman,  "  treat  not  thus  the  Soul's  im- 
mortality. They  begin  by  inquiring  how  cre- 
ation rose;  they  seek  to  find  the  primitive 
element;  what  that  be  they  dispute;  some  say 
the  fiery,  some  the  airy,  some  the  ethereal 
element.  Their  language  here  is  obscure. 
But  it  is  a  something  which  forms,  harmonizes, 
works,  and  lives  on  for  ever.  And  of  that 
something  is  the  Soul;  creative,  harmonious, 
active,  an  element  in  itself.     Out  of  its  devel- 


464 


B  UL  WER  'S     WORKS. 


opment  here,  that  soul  comes  on  to  a  new 
development  elsewhere.  If  here  the  beginning 
lead  to  that  new  development  in  what  we  call 
virtue,  it  moves  to  light  and  joy — if  it  can  only 
ro'l  on  through  the  grooves  it  has  here  made 
ror  itself,  in  what  we  call  vice  and  crime,  its 
path  is  darkness  and  wretchedness." 

"  In  what  we  call  virtue — what  we  call  vice 
and  crime  ?  Ah,"  said  Pausanias,  with  a  stern 
sneer,  "  Spartan  virtue,  O  Alcman,  is  what  a 
Helot  may  call  crime.  And  if  ever  the  Helot 
rose  and'shouted  freedom,  would  he  not  say, 
This  is  virtue  ?  Would  the  Spartan  call  it 
virtue,  too,  my  foster-brother  ? " 

"  Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  answered  Alcman, 
"  it  is  not  for  me  to  vindicate  the  acts  of  the 
master;  nor  to  blame  the  slave  who  is  of  my 
race.  Yet  the  sage  definers  of  virtue  distinguish 
between  the  Conscience  of  a  Polity  and  that 
of  the  Individual  Man.  Self-preservation  is  the 
instinct  of  every  community,  and  all  the  ordi- 
nances ascribed  to  Lycurgus  are  designed  to 
preserve  the  Spartan  existence.  For  what  are 
the  pure  Spartan  race  ?  a  handful  of  men  es- 
tablished as  lords  in  the  midst  of  a  hostile  popu- 
lation. Close  by  the  eyrie  thine  eagle  fathers 
built  in  the  rocks,  hung  the  silent  Amyclae,  a 
city  of  foes  that  cost  the  Spartans  many  gener- 
ations to  subdue.  Hence  thy  State  was  a 
camp,  its  citizens  sentinels;  its  children  were 
brought  up  from  the  cradle  to  support  the  stern 
life  to  which  necessity  devoted  the  men. 
Hardship  and  privation  were  second  nature. 
Not  enough  to  be  brave;  vigilance  was  equally 
essential.  Every  Spartan  life  was  precious; 
therefore  came  the  cunning  which  character- 
izes the  Spartan;  therefore  the  boy  is  per- 
mitted to  steal,  but  punished  if  detected; 
therefore  the  whole  Commonwealth  strives  to 
keep  aloof  from  the  wars  of  Greece  unless  it- 
self be  threatened.  A  single  battle  in  a  com- 
mon cause  might  suffice  to  depopulate  the 
Spartan  race,  and  leave  it  at  the  mercy  of  the 
thousands  that  so  reluctantly  own  its  domin- 
ion. Hence  the  ruthless  determination  to 
crush  the  spirit,  to  degrade  the  class  of  the 
enslaved  Helots;  hence  its  dread  lest  the 
slumbering  brute  force  of  the  Servile  find  in 
its  own  masses  a  head  to  teach  the  conscious- 
ness, and  a  hand  to  guide  the  movements,  of 
its  power.  These  are  the  necessities  of  the 
Polity,  its  vices  are  the  outgrowth  of  its  neces- 
sities; and    the    life   that    so   galls    thee,  and 


which  has  sometimes  rendered  mad  those  who 
return  to  it  from  having  known  another, 
and  the  dauger  that  evermore  surrounds 
the  lords  of  a  sullen  multitude,  are  the  pun- 
ishments of  these  vices.  Comprehendest 
thou  ? " 

"  I  comprehend." 

"  But  individuals  have  a  conscience  apart 
from  that  of  the  Community.  Every  com- 
munity has  its  errors  in  its  laws.  No  human 
laws,  how  skilfully  soever  framed,  but  give  to 
a  national  character  defects  as  well  as  merits, 
merits  as  well  as  defects.  Craft,  selfishness, 
cruelty  to  the  subdued,  inhospitable  frigidity 
to  neighbors,  make  the  defects  of  the  Spartan 
character.  But,"  added  Alcman,  with  a  kind 
of  reluctant  anguish  in  his  voice,  "the  char- 
acter has  its  grand  virtues,  too,  or  would  the 
Helots  not  be  the  masters?  Valor  indomi- 
table; grand  scorn  of  death;  passionate  ardor 
for  the  State  which  is  so  severe  a  mother  to 
them;  antique  faith  in  the  sacred  altars;  sub- 
lime devotion  to  what  is  held  to  be  duty. 
Are  these  not  found  in  the  Spartan  beyond  all 
the  Greeks,  as  thou  seest  them  in  thy  friend 
Lysander;  in  that  soul,  stately,  pure,  compact 
in  its  own  firm  substance  as  a  statue  within  a 
temple  is  in  its  Parian  stone?  But  what  the 
Gods  ask  from  man  is  virtue  in  himself,  ac- 
cording as  he  comprehends  it.  And,  there- 
fore, here  all  societies  are  equal;  for  the  Gods 
pardon  in  the  man  the  faults  he  shares  with 
his  Community,  and  ask  from  him  but  the 
good  and  the  beautiful,  such  as  the  nature  of 
his  Community  will  permit  him  to  conceive 
and  to  accomplish.  Thou  knowest  that  there 
are  many  kinds  of  music — for  instance,  the 
Doric,   the   .^olian,    the    Ionian — in    Hellas. 

"  The  Lydians  have  their  music,  the  Phry- 
gians theirs  too.  The  Scyth  and  the  Mede 
doubtless  have  their  own.  Each  race  prefers 
the  music  it  cultivates,  and  finds  fault  with  the 
music  of  other  races.  And  yet  a  man  who 
has  learned  melody  and  measure  will  recog- 
nize a  music  in  them  all.  So  it  is  with  virtue, 
the  music  of  the  human  soul.  It  differs  in 
differing  races.  But  he  who  has  learned  to 
know  what  virtue  is  can  recognize  its  harmo- 
nies, wherever  they  be  heard.  And  thus  the 
soul  that  fulfils  its  own  notions  of  music,  and 
carries  them  up  to  its  idea  of  excellence,  is 
the  master  soul;  and  in  the  regions  to  which 
it  goes,  when  the  breath  leaves  the  lips  it  pur- 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


4'>5 


sues,  the  same  are  set  free  from  the  trammels 
that  confined,  and  the  false  judgments  that 
marred  it  here.  For  then  the  soul  is  no 
longer  Spartan,  or  Ionian,  Lydian,  Median,  or 
Scythian.  Escaped  into  the  upper  air,  it  is 
the  citizen  of  universal  freedom  and  universal 
light.  And  hence  it  does  not  live  as  a  ghost 
in  gloomy  shades,  being  merely  a  pale  mem- 
ory of  things  that  have  passed  away;  but  in 
its  primitive  being  as  an  emanation  from  the 
one  divine  principle  which  penetrates  every- 
where, vivifies  all  things,  and  enjoys  in  all. 
This  is  what  I  weave  together  from  the  doc- 
trines of  varying  schools;  schools  that  collect 
from  the  fields  of  thought  flowers  of  different 
kinds  which  conceal,  by  adorning  it,  the  liga- 
ment that  unites  them  all:  this,  I  say,  O  Pau- 
sanias,  is  my  conception  of  the  soul." 

Cleonice  rose  softly  and  taking  from  her 
bosom  a  rose,  kissed  it  fervently,  and  laid  it 
at  the  feet  of  the  singer. 

"Were  this  my  soul,"  cried  she,  "  I  would 
ask  thee  to  bind  it  in  the  wreath." 

Vague  and  troubled  thoughts  passed  mean- 
while through  the  mind  of  the  Heracleid;  old 
ideas  being  disturbed  and  dislodged,  the  new 
ones  did  not  find  easy  settlement  in  a  brain 
occupied  with  ambitious  schemes  and  a  heart 
agitated  by  stormy  passions.  In  much  super- 
stitious, in  much  sceptical,  as  education  had 
made  him  the  one,  and  experience  but  of 
worldly  things  was  calculated  to  make  him 
the  other,  he  followed  not  the  wing  of  the 
philosophy  which  passed  through  heights  not 
occupied  by  Olympus,  and  dived  into  depths 
where  no  Tartarus  echoed  to  the  wail  of 
Cocytus. 

After  a  pause  he  said  in  his  perplexity: 
"  Well  mayst  thou  own  that  no  Delphian 
oracle  tells  thee  all  this.  And  when  thou 
speakest  of  the  Divine  Principle  as  One,  dost 
thou  not,  O  presumptuous  man,  depopulate 
the  Halls  of  Ida  !  Nay,  is  it  not  Zeus  him- 
self whom  thou  dethronest;  is  not  thy  Divine 
Principle  the  Fate  which  Zeus  himself  must 
obey  ? " 

"  There  is  a  young  man  of  Clazomenae," 
answered  the  singer,  "  named  Anaxagoras,  who 
avoiding  all  active  life,  though  of  birth  the 
noblest,  gives  himself  up  to  contemplation, 
and  whom  I  have  listened  to  in  the  city  as  he 
passed  through  it,  on  his  way  into  Egypt. 
And    1    heard    him    say,  '  Fate   is   an   empty 

6.  — 30 


name.'  *     Fate    is   blind,  the    Divine   is   All- 
seeing." 

"  How  !  '  cried  Cleonice.  "  An  empty  name 
— she  !     Necessity  the  All-compelling." 

The  musician  drew  from  the  harp  one  of  the 
most  artful  of  Sappho's  exquisite  melodies. 

"  What  drew  forth  that  music  ?  "  he  asked, 
smiling.  "  My  hand  and  my  will  from  a 
genius  not  present,  not  visible.  Was  that 
genius  a  blind  fate  ?  no,  it  was  a  grand  in- 
telligence. Nature  is  to  the  Deity  what  my 
hand  and  will  are  to  the  unseen  genius  of  the 
musician.  They  obey  an  intelligence  and 
they  form  a  music.  If  creation  proceed  from 
an  intelligence,  what  we  call  fate  is  but  the 
consequence  of  its  laws.  And  Nature  operates 
not  in  the  external  world  alone,  but  in  the  core 
of  all  life;  therefore  in  the  mind  of  man  obey- 
ing only  what  some  supreme  intelligence  has 
placed  there;  therefore  in  man's  mind  produc- 
ing music  or  discord,  according  as  he  has 
learned  the  principles  of  harmony,  that  is,  of 
good. 

"  And  there  be  sages  who  declare  that  In- 
telligence and  Love  are  the  same.  Yet,"  added 
the  Mothon,  with  an  aspect  solemnly  compas- 
sionate, "  not  the  love  thou  mockest  by  the 
name  of  Aphrodite.  No  mortal  eye  hath  ever 
seen  that  love  within  the  known  sphere,  yet 
all  insensibly  feel  its  reign.  What  keeps  the 
world  together  but  affection  ?  What  makes 
the  earth  bring  forth  its  fruits,  but  the  kind- 
ness which  beams  in  the  sunlight  and  descends 
in  the  dews  ?  What  makes  the  lioness  watch 
over  her  cubs,  and  the  bird,  with  all  air  for 
its  wanderings,  come  back  to  the  fledglings  in 
its  nest  ?  Strike  love,  the  conjoiner,  from 
creation,  and  creation  returns  to  a  void.  De- 
stroy love  the  parental,  and  life  is  born  but  to 
perish.  Where  stop  the  influence  of  love  or  how 
limit  its  multiform  degrees?  Love  guards  the 
fatherland;  crowns  with  turrets  the  walls  of 
the  freeman.  What  but  love  binds  the  citi- 
zens of  States  together,  and  frames  and  heeds 
the  laws  that  submit  individual  liberty  to  the 
rule  of  the  common  good  ?  Love  creates,  love 
cements,  love  enters  and  harmonizes  all  things. 
And  as  like  attracts  like,  so  love  attracts  in 
the  hereafter  the  loving  souls  that  conceived 
it  here.     From  the  region  where  it  summons 


*  Anaxagoras  was  then  between  twenty  and  thirty 
years  of  age. — See  Ritter,  vol.  ii.,  for  the  sentiment 
here  ascribed  to  him,  and  a  general  view  of  his  tenets. 


466 


B  UL  H'liR'  S     WORKS. 


them,  its  opposites  are  excluded.  There  ceases 
war;  there  ceases  pain.  There  indeed  inter- 
mingle the  beautiful  and  glorious,  but  beauty 
purified  from  earthly  sin,  the  glorious  restmg 
from  earthly  toil.  Ask  ye  how  to  know  on 
earth  where  love  is  really  presiding  ?  Not  in 
Paphos,  not  in  Amathus.  Wherever  thou 
seest  beauty  and  good;  wherever  thou  seest 
life,  and  that  life  pervaded  with  faculties  of 
joy,  there  thou  seest  love;  there  thou  shouldst 
recognize  the  Divinity." 

"  And  where  I  see  misery  and  hate,"  said 
the  Spartan,  "  what  should  I  recognize  there  ?  " 

"  Master,"  returned  the  singer,  "  can  the 
good  come  without  a  struggle  ?  Is  the  beauti- 
ful accomplished  without  strife  ?  Recall  the 
tales  of  primeval  chaos,  when,  as  sang  the 
Ascraean  singer,  love  first  darted  into  the 
midst;  imagine  the  heave  and  throe  of  joining 
elements;  conjure  up  the  first  living  shapes, 
born  of  the  fluctuating  slime  and  vapor. 
Surely  they  were  things  incomplete,  deformed 
ghastly  fragments  of  being,  as  are  the  dreams 
of  a  maniac.  Had  creative  Love  stopped  there, 
and  then,  standing  on  the  height  of  some  fair 
completed  world,  had  viewed  the  warring  por- 
tents, wouldst  thou  not  have  said — But  these 
are  the  works  of  Evil  and  Hate  ?  Love  did 
not  stop  there,  it  worked  on;  and  out  of  the 
chaos  once  ensouled,  this  glorious  world  swung 
itself  into  ether,  the  completed  sister  of  the 
stars.  Again,  O  my  listeners,  contemplate 
the  sculptor,  when  the  block  from  the  granite 
shaft  first  stands  rude  and  shapeless  before 
him.  See  him  in  his  earlier  strife  with  the 
obstinate  matter — how  uncouth  the  first  out- 
line of  limb  and  feature;  unlovelier  often  in 
the  rugged  commencements  of  shape  than' 
when  the  dumb  man  stood  shapeless.  If  the 
sculptor  had  stopped  there,  the  thing  might 
serve  as  an  image  for  the  savage  of  an  abomin- 
able creed,  engaged  in  the  sacrifice  of  human 
flesh.  But  he  pauses  not,  he  works  on. 
Stroke  by  stroke  comes  from  the  stone  a 
shape  of  more  beauty  than  man  himself  is  en- 
dowed with,  and  in  a  human  temple  stands  a 
celestial  image. 

"  Thus  is  it  with  the  soul  -in  the  mundane 
sphere;  it  works  its  way  on  through  the  ad- 
verse matter.  We  see  its  work  half  completed; 
we  cry,  Lo,  this  is  misery,  this  is  hate — be- 
cause the  chaos  is  not  yet  a  perfected  world, 
and  the    stone   block   is  not   yet  a  statue  of 


Apollo.  But  for  that  reason  must  we  pause  ? 
no,  we  must  work  on,  till  the  victory  brings 
the  repose. 

"All  things  come  into  order  from  the  war 
of  contraries — the  elements  fight  and  wrestle 
to  produce  the  wild  flower  at  our  feet;  from  a 
wild  flower  man  hath  striven  and  toiled  to  per- 
fect the  marvellous  rose  of  the  hundred  leaves. 
Hate  is  necessary  for  the  energies  of  love, 
evil  for  the  activity  of  good;  until,  I  say,  the 
victory  is  won,  until  Hate  and  Evil  are  sub- 
dued, as  the  sculptor  subdues  the  stone;  and 
then  rises  the  divine  image  serene  for  ever, 
and  rests  on  its  pedestal  in  the  Uranian  Tem- 
ple, Lift  thine  eyes;  that  temple  is  yonder.  O 
Pausanias,  the  sculptor's  work-room  is  the 
earth." 

Alcman  paused,  and  sweeping  his  hand  once 
more  over  his  lyre,  chanted  as  follows: 

"  Dewdrop  that  weepest  on  the  sharp-barbed  thorn. 
Why  didst  thou  fall  from  Day's  golden  chalices  ? 
'  My  tears  bathe  the  thorn,'  said  the  Dewdrop, 
'  To  nourish  the  bloom  of  the  rose.' 

"  Soul  of  the  Infant,  why  to  calamity 
Comest  thou  wailing  from  the  calm  spirit-source? 
'  Ask  of  the  Dew,'  said  the  Infant, 
'  Why  it  descends  on  the  thorn  ! ' 

"  Dewdrop  from  storm,  and  soul  from  calamity 
Vanish  soon — whither  ?  let  the  Dew  answer  thee; 
'  Have  not  my  tears  been  my  glory  ? 
Tears  drew  me  up  to  the  sun.' 

"  What  were  thine  uses,  that  thou  art  glorified  ? 
What  did  thy  tears  give,  profiting  earth  or  sky  ? 
'  There,  to  the  thorn-stem  a  blossom, 
'  Here,  to  the  Iris  a  tint.'  " 

Alcman  had  modulated  the  tones  of  his 
voice  into  a  sweetness  so  plaintive  and  touch- 
ing that,  when  he  paused,  the  handmaidens 
had  involuntarily  risen  and  gathered  round, 
hushed  and  noiseless.  Cleonice  had  lowered 
her  veil  over  her  face  and  bosom;  but  the 
heaving  of  its  tissue  betrayed  her  half-sup- 
pressed, gentle  sob;  and  the  proud  mournful- 
ness  on  the  Spartan's  swarthy  countenance  had 
given  way  to  a  soft  composure,  melancholy 
still — but  melancholy  as  a  lulled,  though  dark 
water,  over  which  starlight  steals  through  dis- 
parted cloud. 

Cleonice  was  the  first  to  break  the  spell 
which  bound  them  all. 

"  I  would  go  within,"  she  murmured  faintly. 
'The  sun,  now  slanting,  strikes  through  the 
vine-leaves,  and  blinds  me  with  its  glare." 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


467 


Pausanias  approached  timidly,  and  taking 
her  by  the  hand,  drew  her  aside,  along  one  of 
the  grassy  alleys  that  stretched  onwards  to  the 
sea. 

The  handmaidens  tarried  behind  to  cluster 
nearer  round  the  singer.  They  forgot  he  was 
a  slave. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Thou  art  weeping  still,  Cleonice  ! "  said 
the  Spartan,  "  and  I  have  not  the  privilege  to 
kiss  away  thy  tears." 

"  Nay,  I  weep  not,"  answered  the  girl 
throwing  up  her  veil;  and  her  face  was  calm, 
if  still  sad — the  tear  yet  on  the  eyelids,  but  the 
smile  upon  the  lip  —  «outpi.6e>' v«xaoi<ra.  "Thy 
singer  has  learned  his  art  from  a  teacher 
heavenlier  than  the  Pierides  and  its  name  is 
Hope." 

"  But  if  I  understand  him  aright,"  said  Pau- 
sanias, "the  Hope  that  inspires  him  is  a  god- 
dess who  blesses  us  little  on  the  earth." 

As  if  the  Mothon  had  overheard  the  Spartan, 
his  voice  here  suddenly  rose  behind  them, 
singing: 

"  There  the  Beautiful  and  Glorious 
Intermingle  evermore." 

Involuntarily  both  turned.  The  Mothon 
seemed  as  if  explaining  to  the  handmaids  the 
allegory  of  his  marriage  song  upon  Helen  and 
Achilles,  for  his  hand  was  raised  on  high,  and 
again,  with  an  emphasis,  he  chanted: 

"  There,  throughout  the  Blessed  Islands, 
Aud  amid  the  Race  of  Light, 
Do  the  Beautiful  and  Glorious 
Intermingle  evermore." 

"  Canst  thou  not  wait,  if  thou  so  lovest 
me  ?  "  said  Cleonice,  with  more  tenderness  in 
her  voice  than  it  had  ever  yet  betrayed  to  him; 
"life  is  very  short.  Hush!"  she  continued, 
checking  the  passionate  interruption  that  burst 
from  his  lips;  "I  have  something  I  would 
confide  to  thee :  listen.  Know  that  in  my 
childhood  I  had  a  dear  friend,  a  maiden  a  few 
years  older  than  myself,  and  she  had  the 
divine  gift  of  trance  which  comes  from  Apolla 
Often,  gazing  into  space,  her  eyes  became 
fixed,  and  her  frame  still  as  a  statue's;  then  a 
shiver  seized  her  limbs,  and  prophecy  broke 
from  her   lips.     And   she  told   me  in  one  of 


these  hours,  when,  as  she  said,  '  all  space  and 
all  time  seemed  spread  before  her  like  a  sunlit 
ocean,'  she  told  me  of  my  future,  so  far  as  its 
leaves  have  yet  unfolded  from  the  stem  of  my 
life.  Spartan,  she  prophesied  that  I  should 
see  thee — and — "  Cleonice  pause,  blushing, 
and  then  hurried  on,  "  and  she  told  me  that 
suddenly  her  eye  could  follow  my  fate  on  the 
earth  no  more,  that  it  vanished  out  of  the  time 
and  the  space  on  which  it  gazed,  and  saying  it 
she  wept,  and  broke  into  funeral  song.  And 
therefore,  Pausanias,  I  say  life  is  very  short 
for  me  at  least " 

"  Hold,"  cried  Pausanias;  "  torture  not  me, 
nor  delude  thyself  with  the  dreams  of  a  raving 
girl.  Lives  she  near?  Let  me  visit  her  with 
thee,  and  I  will  prove  thy  prophetess  an  im- 
postor." 

"  They  whom  the  Priesthood  of  Delphi  em- 
ploy throughout  Hellas  to  find  the  fit  natures 
for  a  Pythoness  heard  of  her,  and  heard  her- 
self. She  whom  thou  callest  impostor  gives 
the  answer  to  perplexed  nations  from  the  Py- 
thian shrine.  But  wherefore  doubt  her? — 
where  the  sorrow  ?  I  feel  none.  If  love  does 
rule  the  worlds  beyond,  and  does  unite  souls 
who  love  nobly  here,  yonder  we  shall  meet,  O 
descendant  of  Hercules,  arid  human  laws  will 
nor  part  us  there. 

"  Thou  die  !  die  before  me  !  thou,  scarcely 
half  my  years  !  And  I  be  left  here,  with  no 
comfort  but  a  singer's  dfeamy  voice,  not 
even  mine  ambition  !  Thrones  would  vanish 
out  of  earth,  and  turn  to  cinders  in  thine 
urn." 

"  Speak  not  of  thrones,"  said  Cleonice, 
with  imploring  softness,  "  for  the  prophetess, 
too,  spake  of  steps  that  went  towards  a  throne, 
and  vanished  at  the  threshold  of  darkness,  be- 
side which  sate  the  Furies.  Speak  not  of 
thrones,  dream  but  of  glory  and  Hellas — of 
what  thy  soul  tells  thee  is  that  virtue  which 
makes  life  an  Uranian  music  and  thus  unites 
it  to  the  eternal  symphony,  as  the  breath 
of  the  single  flute  melts  when  it  parts  from 
the  instrument  into  the  great  concord  of  the 
choir.  Knowest  thou  not  that  in  the  creed  of 
the  Persians  each  mortal  is  watched  on  earth 
by  a  good  spirit  and  an  evil  one?  And  they 
who  loved  us  below,  or  to  whom  we  have  done 
beneficent  and  gentle  deeds,  if  they  go  before 
us  into  death,  pass  to  the  side  of  the  good 
spirit,  and  strengthen  him  to  save  and  to  bless 


468 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS 


thee  against  the  malice  of  the  bad,  and  the 
bad  is  strengthened  in  his  turn  by  those  whom 
we  have  injured.  Wouldst  thou  have  all  the 
Greeks  whose  birthright  thou  would  barter, 
whose  blood  thou  wouldst  shed  for  barbaric 
aid  to  thy  solitary  and  lawless  power,  stand  by 
the  side  of  the  evil  Fiend  ?  And  what  could 
I  do  against  so  many  ?  What  could  my  soul 
do,"  added  Cleonice  with  simple  pathos,  "  by 
the  side  of  the  kinder  spirit  ? 

Pausanias  was  wholly  subdued.  He  knelt 
to  the  girl,  he  kissed  the  hem  of  her  robe,  and 
for  the  moment  ambition,  luxury,  pomp,  pride 
fled  from  his  soul,  and  left  there  only  the  grate- 
ful tenderness  of  the  man,  and  the  lofty  in- 
stincts of  the  hero.  But  just  then — was  it  the 
evil  spirit  that  sent  him  ? — the  boughs  of  the 
vine  were  put  aside,  and  Gongylus  the  Eretrian 
stood  before  them.  His  black  eyes  glittered 
keen  upon  Pausanias,  who  rose  from  his  knee, 
startled  and  displeased. 

"  What  brings  thee  hither,  man  ?  "  said  the 
Regent,  haughtily. 

"  Danger,"  answered  Gongylus,  in  ^hissing 
whisper.     "  Lose  not  a  moment — come." 

"  Danger  !  "  exclaimed  Cleonice,  tremb- 
lingly, and  clasping  her  hands,  and  all  the 
human  love  at  her  heart  was  visible  in  her 
aspect.     "  Danger,  and  to  him  !  " 

"  Danger  is  but  as  the  breeze  of  my  native 
air,"  said  the  Spartan,  smiling;  "thus  I  draw 
it  in  and  thus  breathe  it  away.  I  follow  thee, 
Gongylus.  Take  my  greeting,  Cleonice — the 
Good  to  the  Beautiful.  Well,  then,  keep  Alc- 
raan  yet  awhile  to  sing  thy  kind  face  to  repose, 
and  this  time  let  him  tune  his  lyre  to  songs  of 
a  more  Dorian  strain — songs  that  show  what  a 
Heracleid  thinks  of  danger." 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  the  two  men,  strid- 
ing hastily,  passed  along  the  vine  alley,  dark- 
ened its  vista  for  a  few  minutes,  then  vanishing 
down  the  descent  to  the  beach,  the  wide  blue 
sea  again  lay  lone  and  still  before  the  eyes  of 
the  Byzantine  maid. 


CHAPTER    ni. 

Pausanias  and  the  Eretrian  halted  on  the 
shore. 

"Now  speak,"  said  the  Spartan  Regent. 
"Where  is  the  danger?" 


"  Before  thee,"  answered  Gongylus,  and  his 
hand  pointed  to  the  ocean. 

"  I  see  the  fleet  of  the  Greeks  in  the  harbor 
— I  see  the  flag  of  my  galley  above  the  forest 
of  their  masts.  I  see  detached  vessels  skim- 
ming along  the  waves  hither  and  thither  as  in 
holiday  and  sport;  but  dicipline  slackens 
where  no  foe  dares  to  show  himself.  Eretrian, 
I  see  no  danger." 

"  Yet  danger  is  there,  and  where  danger  is 
thou  shouldst  be.  I  have  learned  from  my 
spies,  not  an  hour  since,  that  there  is  a  con 
spiracy  formed — a  mutiny  on  the  eve  of  an 
outburst.  Thy  place  now  should  be  in  thy 
galley." 

"  My  boat  waits  yonder  in  that  creek,  over- 
spread by  the  wild  shrubs,"  answered  Pau- 
sanias; "a  few  strokes  of  the  oar,  and  I  am 
where  thou  seest.  And  in  truth,  without  thy 
summons,  I  shouM  have  been  on  board  ere 
sunset,  seeing  that  on  the  morrow  I  have 
ordered  a  general  review  of  the  vessels  of  the 
fleet.  Was  that  to  be  the  occasion  of  the 
mutiny  ?  " 

"So  it  is  supposed." 

"  I  shall  see  the  faces  of  the  mutineers," 
said  Pausanias,  with  a  calm  visage,  and  an  eye 
which  seemed  to  brighten  the  very  atmos- 
phere.    "  Thou  shakest  thy  head;  is  this  all  ? " 

"  Thou  art  not  a  bird — this  moment  in  one 
place,  that  moment  in  another.  There,  with 
yon  armament  is  the  danger  thou  canst  meet. 
But  yonder  sails  a  danger  which  thou  canst 
not,  I  fear  me,  overtake." 

"  Yonder  !  "  said  Pausanias,  his  eye  follow- 
ing the  hand  of  the  Eretrian.  "  I  see  naught 
save  the  white  wing  of  a  seagull — perchance, 
by  its  dip  into  the  water,  it  foretells  a 
storm." 

"Farther  o^  than  the  seagull,  and  seeming 
smaller  than  the  white  spot  of  its  wing,  seest 
thou  nothing  ? " 

"  A  dim  speck  on  the  farthest  horizon,  if 
mine  eyes  mistake  not." 

"  The  speck  of  a  sail  that  is  bound  to 
Sparta.  It  carries  with  it  a  request  for  thy 
recall." 

This  time  the  cheek  of  Pausanias  paled, 
and  his  voice  slightly  faltered  as  he  said: 

"  Art  thou  sure  of  this  ?  " 

"  So  I  hear  that  the  Samian  captain,  Uliades, 
has  boasted  at  noon  in  the  public  baths." 

"  .A.  Samian  ! — is  it  only  a  Samian  who  hath 


PA  us  AN/ AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


469 


ventured  to  address  to  Sparta  a  complaint  of 
her  General  ? " 

"  From  what  1  could  gather,"  replied  Gon- 
gylus,  "the  complaint  is  more  powerfully 
backed.  But  I  have  not  as  yet  heard  more, 
though  I  conjecture  that  Athens  has  not  been 
silent,  and  before  the  vessel  sailed  Ionian  cap- 
tains were  seen  to  come  with  joyous  faces 
from  the  lodgings  of  Cimon." 

The  Regent's  brow  grew  yet  more  troubled. 
"  Cimon,  of  all  the  Greeks  out  of  Laconia,  is 
the  one  whose  word  would  weigh  most  in 
Sparta.  But  my  Spartans  themselves  are  not 
suspected  of  privity  and  connivance  in  this 
mission  ? " 

"  It  is  not  said  that  they  are." 

Pausanias  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand  for 
a  moment  in  deep  thought.  Gongylus  con- 
tinued— 

"  If  the  Ephors  recall  thee  before  the  Asian 
army  is  on  the  frontier,  farewell  to  the  sover- 
eignity of  Hellas  ! " 

"Ha!"  cried  Pausanias,  "tempt  me  not. 
Thinkest  thou  I  need  other  tempter  than  I 
have  here  ?  " — smiting  his  breast. 

Gongylus  recoiled  in  surprise.  "  Pardon 
me,  Pausanias,  but  temptation  is  another  word 
for  hesitation.  I  dreamed  not  that  I  could 
tempt;  I  did  not  know  that  thou  didst  hesi- 
tate." 

The  Spartan  remained  silent. 

"  Are  not  thy  messengers  on  the  road  to  the 
great  king  ? — nay,  perhaps  already  they  have 
reached  him.  Didst  thou  not  say  how  intol- 
erable to  thee  would  be  life  henceforth  in  the 
iron  thraldom  of  Sparta — and  now  ?  " 

"  And  now — I  forbid  thee  to  question  me 
more.  Thou  hast  performed  thy  task,  leave 
me  to  mine." 

He  sprang  with  the  spring  of  the  mountain 
goat  from  the  crag  on  which  he  stood— over  a 
precipitous  chasm,  lighted  on  a  narrow  ledge, 
from  which  a  slip  of  the  foot  would  have  been 
sure  death,  another  bound  yet  more  fearful, 
and  his  whole  weight  hung  suspended  by  the 
bough  of  the  ilex  which  he  grasped  with  a 
single  hand;  then  from  bough  to  bough,  from 
crag  to  crag,  the  Eretrian  saw  him  descending 
till  he  vanished  amidst  the  trees  that  darkened 
over  the  fissures  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 

And  before  Gongylus  had  recovered  his 
amaze  at  the  almost  preterhuman  agility  and 
vigor  of  the  Spartan,  and  his  dizzy  sense  at 


the  contemplation  of  such  peril  braved  by 
another,  a  boat  shot  into  the  sea  from  the  green 
creek,  and  he  saw  Pausanias  seated  beside 
Lysander  on  one  of  the  benches,  and  convers- 
ing with  him,  as  if  in  calm  earnestness,  while 
the  ten  rowers  sent  the  boat  towards  the  fleet 
with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow  to  its  goal. 

"  Lysander,"  said  Pausanias,  "  hast  thou 
heard  that  the  lonians  have  offered  to  me  the 
insult  of  a  mission  to  the  Ephors  demanding 
my  recall  ?" 

"  No.  Who  would  tell  me  of  insult  to 
thee  ? " 

"  But  hast  thou  any  conjecture  that  other 
Spartans'  around  me,  and  who  love  me  less 
than  thou,  would  approve,  nay,  have  approved, 
this  embassy  of  spies  and  malcontents  ? " 

"  I  think  none  have  so  approved.  I  fear 
some  would  so  approve.  The  Spartans  round 
thee  would  rejoice  did  they  know  that  the 
pride  of  their  armies,  the  Victor  of  Plataea, 
were  once  more  within  their  walls." 

"  Even  to  the  danger  of  Hellas  from  the 
Mede  ? " 

"  They  would  rather  all  Hellas  were  Med- 
ised  than  Pausanias  the  Heracleid." 

"  Boy,  boy,"  said  Pausanias,  between  his 
ground  teeth,  "  dost  thou  not  see  that  what  is 
sought  is  the  disgrace  of  Pausanias  the  Hera- 
cleid ?  Grant  that  I  am  recalled  from  the 
head  of  this  armament,  and  on  the  charge  of 
lonians,  and  I  am  dishonored  in  the  eyes  of 
all  Greece.  Dost  thou  remember  in  the 
last  Olympiad  that  when  Themistocles,  the 
only  rival  now  to  be  in  glory,  appeared  on  the 
Altis,  assembled  Greece  rose  to  greet  and  do 
him  honor?  And  if  I,  deposed,  dismissed, 
appeared  at  the  next  Olympiad,  how  would  as- 
sembled Greece  receive  me  ?  Couldst  thou 
not  see  the  pointed  finger  and  hear  the  mut- 
tered taunt — That  is  Pausanias,  whom  the 
lonians  banished  from  Byzantium.  No,  I 
must  abide  here;  I  must  prosecute  the  vast 
plans  which  shall  dwart  into  shadow  the  petty 
genius  of  Themistocles.  I  must  counteract 
this  mischievous  embassy  to  the  Ephors.  I 
must  send  to  them  an  ambassador  of  my  own. 
Lysander,  wilt  thou  go,  and  burying  in  thy 
bosom  thine  owir  Spartan  prejudices,  deem 
that  thou  canst  only  serve  me  by  proving  the 
reasons  why  I  should  remain  here;  pleading 
for  me,  arguing  for  me,  and  winning  my 
suit?" 


47° 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


•'  It  is  for  thee  to  command  and  for  me  to 
obey,"  answered  Lysander,  simply.  "  Is  not 
that  the  duty  of  soldier  to  chief  ?  When  we 
converse  as  friends  I  may  contend  with  thee 
in  speech.  When  thou  sayst,  Do  this,  I  ex- 
ecute thine  action.  To  reason  with  thee  would 
be  revolt." 

Pausanias  placed  his  clasped  hands  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder,  and  leaving  them  there, 
impressively  said — 

"  I  select  thee  for  this  mission  because  thee 
alone  can  I  trust.  And  of  me  hast  thou  a 
doubt?— tell  me." 

"  If  I  saw  thee  taking  the  Persian  gold  I 
should  say  that  the  Demon  had  mocked  mine 
eyes  with  a  delusion.  Never  could  I  doubt, 
unless — unless " 

"  Unless  what  ?  " 

"Thou  wert  standing  under  Jove's  sky 
against  the  arms  of  Hellas." 

"And  then,  if  some  other  chief  bade  thee 
raise  thy  sword  against  me,  thou  art  Spartan 
and  wouldst  obey  ? " 

"  I  am  Spartan,  and  cannot  believe  that  I 
should  ever  have  a  cause,  or  listen  to  a  com- 
mand, to  raise  my  sword  against  the  chief  I 
now  serve  and  love,"  replied  I.ysander. 

Pausanias  withdrew  his  hands  from  the 
young  man's  broad  shoulder.  He  felt  hum- 
bled beside  the  quiet  truth  of  that  sublime 
soul.  His  own  deceit  became  more  black  to 
his  conscience.  "  Methinks,"  he  said,  tremu- 
lously, "  I  will  not  send  thee  after  all — and 
perhaps  the  news  may  be  false." 

The  boat  had  now  gained  the  fleet,  and 
steering  amidst  the  crowded  triremes,  made 
its  way  towards  the  floating  banner  of  the 
Spartan  Serpent.  More  immediately  round 
the  General's  galley  were  the  vessels  of  the 
Peloponnesian  allies,  by  whom  he  was  still 
honored.  A  welcoming  shout  rose  from  the 
seamen  lounging  on  their  decks  as  they  caught 
sight  of  the  renowned  Heracleid.  Cimon, 
who  was  on  his  own  galley  at  some  distance, 
heard  the  shout. 

"So  Pausanias,"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
officers  round  him,  "  has  deigned  to  come 
on  board,  to  direct,  I  suppose,  the  manoeuvres 
for  to-morrow." 

"  I  believe  it  is  but  the  form  of  a  review  for 
manoeuvres,"  said  an  Athenian  officer,  "  in 
which  Pausanias  will  inspect  the  various  divi- 
sions of  the  fleet,  and   if  more  be  intended. 


will  give  the  requisite  orders  for  a  subsequent 
day.  No  arrangements  demanding  much 
preparation  can  be  anticipated,  for  Antagoras, 
the  rich  Chian,  gives  a  great  banquet  this 
day — a  supper  to  the  principal  captains  of  the 
Isles." 

"  A  frank  and  hospitable  reveller  is  Anta- 
goras," answered  Cimon.  "  He  would  have 
extended  his  invitation  to  the  Athenians — me 
included — but  in  their  name  I  declined." 

"  May  I  ask  wherefore  ? "  said  the  officer 
who  had  before  spoken.  "  Cimon  is  not  held 
averse  to  wine-cup  and  myrtle-bough." 

"  But  things  are  said  over  some  wine-cups 
and  under  some  myrtle-boughs,"  answered 
Cimon,  with  a  quiet  laugh,  "  which  it  is  im- 
prudence to  hear  and  would  be  treason  to  re- 
peat. Sup  with  me  here  on  deck,  friends — a 
supper  for  sober  companions — sober  as  the 
Laconian  Syssitia,  and  let  not  Spartans  say 
that  our  manners  are  spoilt  by  the  luxuries  of 
Byzantium." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

In  an  immense  peristyle  of  a  house  which  a 
Byzcintine  noble,  ruined  by  lavish  extrava- 
gance, had  been  glad  to  cede  to  the  accomoda- 
tion of  Antagoras  and  other  officers  of  Chios, 
the  young  rival  of  Pausanias  feasted  the  chiefs 
of  the  ^gean.  However  modern  civilization 
may  in  some  things  surpass  the  ancient,  it  is 
certainly  not  in  luxury  and  splendor.  And 
although  the  Hellenic  States  had  not,  at  that 
period,  aimed  at  the  pomp  of  show  and  the 
refinements  of  voluptuous  pleasure  which  pre- 
ceded their  decline,  and  although  they  never 
did  carry  luxury  to  the  wondrous  extent  which 
it  reached  in  Asia,  or  even  in  Sicily,  yet  even 
at  that  time  a  wealthy  sojourner  in  such  a  city 
as  Byzantium  could  command  an  entertain- 
ment that  no  monarch  in  age  would  venture  to 
parade  before  royal  guests,  and  submit  to  the 
criticism  of  tax-paying  subjects. 

The  columns  of  the  peristyle  were  of  daz- 
zling alabaster,  with  their  capitals  richly  gilt 
The  space  above  was  roofless;  but  an  im- 
mense awning  of  purple,  richly  embroidered 
in  Persian  looms— a  spoil  of  some  gorgeous 
Mede — shaded  the  feasters  from  the  summer 


FA  USA NI AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


47» 


sky.  The  couches  on  which  the  banqueters 
reclined  were  of  citron  wood,  inlaid  with  ivory, 
and  covered  with  the  tapestries  of  Asiatic 
looms.  At  the  four  corners  of  the  vast  hall 
played  four  fountains,  and  their  spray  sparkled 
to  a  blaze  of  light  from  colossal  candelabra, 
in  which  burnt  perfumed  oil.  The  guests 
were  not  assembled  at  a  single  table,  but  in 
small  groups;  to  each  group  its  tripod  of  ex- 
quisite workmanship.  To  that  feast  of  fifty 
revellers  no  less  than  seventy  cooks  had 
contributed  the  inventions  of  their  art,  but 
under  one  great  master,  to  whose  care  the 
banquet  had  been  consigned  by  the  liberal 
host,  and  who  ransacked  earth,  sky,  and  sea 
for  dainties  more  various  than  this  degenerate 
age  ever  sees  accumulated  at  a  single  board. 
Xnd  the  epicure  who  has  but  glanced  over  the 
elaborate  page  of  Athenaeus,  must  own  with 
melancholy  self-humiliation  that  the  ancients 
must  have  carried  the  art  of  flattering  the 
palate  to  a  perfection  as  absolute  as  the  art 
which  built  the  Parthenon,  and  sculptured  out 
of  gold  and  ivory  the  Olympian  Jove.  But 
the  first  course,  with  its  profusion  of  birds, 
flesh,  and  fishes,  its  marvellous  combinations 
of  forced  meats,  and  inventive  poetry  of  sauces, 
was  now  over.  And  in  the  interval  preceding 
that  second  course,  in  which  gastronomy  put 
forth  its  most  exquisite  master-pieces,  the 
slaves  began  to  remove  the  tables,  soon  to  be 
replaced.  Vessels  of  fragrant  waters,  in  which 
the  banqueters  dipped  their  fingers,  were 
handed  round;  perfumes,  which  the  Byzan- 
tine marts  collected  from  every  clime,  escaped 
from  their  precious  receptacles. 

Then  were  distributed  the  garlands.  With 
these  each  guest  crowned  locks  that  steamed 
with  odors;  and  in  them  were  combined  the 
flowers  that  most  charmed  the  eye,  with  bud 
or  herb  that  most  guard  from  the  head  the 
fumes  of  wine:  with  hyacinth  and  flax,  with 
golden  asphodel  and  silver  lily,  the  green  of 
ivy  and  parsley  leaf  was  thus  entwined;  and 
above  all  the  rose,  said  to  convey  a  delicious 
coolness  to  the  temples  on  which  it  bloomed. 
And  now  for  the  first  time  wine  came  to 
heighten  the  spirits  and  test  the  charm  of  the 
garlands.  Each,  as  the  large  goblet  passed  to 
him,  poured  from  the  brim,  before  it  touched 
his  lips,  his  libation  to  the  good  spirit.  And 
as  Antagoras,  rising  first,  set  this  pious  ex- 
ample, out  from  the  further  ends  of  the  hall, 


behind  the  fountains,  burst  a  concert  of  flutes, 
and  the  great  Hellenic  Hymn  of  the  Paean. 

As  this  ceased,  the  fresh  tables  appeared 
before  the  banqueters,  covered  with  all  the 
fruits  in  season,  and  with  those  triumphs  in 
confectionery,  of  which  honey  was  the  main 
ingredient,  that  well  justified  the  favor  in  which 
the  Greeks  held  the  bee. 

Then,  instead  of  the  pure  juice  of  the  grape, 
from  which  the  libation  had  been  poured,  came 
the  wines,  mixed  at  least  three  parts  with 
water  and  deliciously  cooled. 

Up  again  rose  Antagoras,  and  every  eye 
turned  to  him. 

"Companions,"  said  the  young  Chian,  "  it  is 
not  held  in  free  States  well  for  a  man  to  seize 
by  himself  upon  supreme  authority.  We 
deem  that  a  magistracy  should  only  be  ob- 
tained by  the  votes  of  others.  Nevertheless, 
I  venture  to  think  that  the  latter  plan  does  not 
always  ensure  to  us  a  good  master.  I  be- 
lieve it  was  by  election  that  we  Greeks  have 
given  to  ourselves  a  generalissimo,  not  con- 
tented, it  is  said,  to  prove  the  invariable  wis- 
dom of  that  mode  of  government;  wherefore 
this  seems  an  occasion  to  revive  the  good  cus- 
tom of  tyranny.  And  I  propose  to  do  so  in 
my  person  by  proclaiming  myself  Symposiarch 
and  absolute  commander  in  the  Common- 
wealth here  assembled.  But  if  ye  prefer  the 
chance  of  the  die " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  the  guests,  almost  univer- 
sally; "  Antagoras,  the  Symposiarch,  we  sub- 
mit.    Issue  thy  laws." 

"  Hearken  then,  and  obey.  First,  then,  as 
to  the  strength  of  the  wine.  Behold  the  crater 
in  which  there  are  three  Naiades  to  one  Dio- 
nysos.  He  is  a  match  for  them;  not  for  more. 
No  man  shall  put  into  his  wine  more  water 
than  the  slaves  have  mixed.  Yet  if  any  man 
is  so  diffident  of  the  god  that  he  thinks  three 
Naiades  too  much  for  him,  he  may  omit  one 
or  two,  and  let  the  wine  and  the  water  fight  it 
out  upon  equal  terms.  So  much  for  the 
quality  of  the  drink.  As  to  quantity,  it  is  a 
question  to  be  deliberated  hereafter.  And 
now  this  cup  to  Zeus  the  Preserver." 

The  toast  went  round. 

"  Music,  and  the  music  of  Lydia  !  "  then 
shouted  Antagoras,  and  resumed  his  place  on 
the  couch  beside  Uliades. 

The  music  proceeded,  the  wines  circled. 

"  Friend,"  whispered  Uliades  to  the  host. 


472 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"  thy  father  left  thee  wines,  I  know.  But  if 
thou  givest  many  banquets  like  this,  I  doubt 
if  thou  wilt  leave  wines  to  thy  son." 

"  I  shall  die  childless,  perhaps,"  answered 
the  Chian;  "and  any  friend  will  give  me 
enough  to  pay  Charon's  fee  across  the  Styx." 

"  That  is  a  melancholy  reflection,"  said 
Uliades,  "and  there  is  no  subject  of  talk  that 
pleases  me  less  than  that  same  Styx.  Why 
dost  thou  bite  thy  lip,  and  choke  the  sigh  ? 
By  the  Gods  !  art  thou  not  happy  ?  " 

"  Happy  !  "  repeated  Antagoras,  with  a  bit- 
ter smile.     "  Oh,  yes  !  " 

"  Good  !  Cleonice  torments  thee  no  more. 
I  myself  have  gone  through  thy  trials;  ay, 
and  oftentimes.  Seven  times  at  Samos,  five 
at  Rhodes,  once  at  Miletus,  and  forty-three 
times  at  Corinth,  have  I  been  an  impassioned 
and  unsuccessful  lover.    Courage;  I  love  still." 

Antagoras  turned  away.  By  this  time  the 
hall  was  yet  more  crowded,  for  many  not  in- 
vited to  the  supper  came,  as  was  the  custom 
with  the  Greeks,  to  the  Symposium;  but  these 
were  all  of  the  Ionian  race. 

"  The  music  is  dull  without  the  dancers," 
cried  the  host.  "  Ho,  there  !  the  dancing 
girls.  Now  would  I  give  all  the  rest  of  my 
wealth  to  see  among  these  girls  one  face  that 
yet  but  for  a  moment  could  make  me  forget; — " 

"Forget  what,  or  whom?"  said  Uliades; 
"  not  Cleonice  ?  " 

"Man,  man,  wilt  thou  provoke  me  to  stran- 
gle thee  ?  "  muttered  Antagoras. 

Uliades  edged  himself  away. 

"Ungrateful!"  he  cried.  "What  are  a 
hundred  Byzantine  girls  to  one  tried  male 
friend  ? " 

"  I  will  not  be  ungrateful,  Uliades,  if  thou 
stand  by  my  side  against  the  Spartan." 

"  Thou  art,  then,  bent  upon  this  perilous 
hazard  ? " 

"  Bent  on  driving  Pausanias  from  Byzan- 
tium, or  into  Hades — yes." 

"Touch!"  said  Uliades,  holding  out  his 
right  hand.  "  By  Cypris,  but  those  girls  dance 
like  the  daughters  of  Oceanus;  every  step  un- 
dulates as  a  wave." 

Antagoras  motioned  to  his  cup-bearer. 
"Tell  the  leader  of  that  dancing  choir  to 
come  hither."     The  cup-bearer  obeyed. 

A  man  with  a  solemn  air  came  to  the  foot 
of  the  Chian's  couch,  bowing  low.  He  was 
an  Egyptian — one  of  the  meanest  castes. 


"Swarthy  friend,"  said  Antagoras,  "didst 
thou  ever  hear  of  the  Pyrrhic  dance  of  the 
Spartans  ? " 

"  Surely,  of  all  dances  am  I  teacher  and  pre- 
ceptor." . 

"  Your  girls  know  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Somewhat,  from  having  seen  it;  but  not 
from  practice.  'Tis  a  male  dance  and  a  war- 
like dance,  O  magnanimous,  but,  in  this  in- 
stance, untutored,  Chian  ! " 

"  Hist,  and  listen."  Antagoras  whispered. 
The  Egyptian  nodded  his  head,  returned  to 
the  dancing  girls,  and  when  their  measure  had 
ceased,  gathered  them  round  him. 

Antagoras  again  rose. 

"  Companions,  we  are  bound  now  to  do 
homage  to  our  masters — the  pleasant,  affable 
and  familiar  warriors  of  Sparta." 

At  this  the  guests  gave  way  to  their  applaud- 
ing laughter. 

"  And  therefore  these  delicate  maidens  will 
present  to  us  that  flowing  and  Amathusian 
dance;  which  the  Graces  taught  to  Spartan 
sinews.     Ho,  there  !  begin." 

The  Egyptian  had  by  this  time  told  the 
dancers  what  they  were  expected  to  do;  and 
they  came  forward  with  an  affectation  of  stern 
dignity,  the  burlesque  humor  of  which  de- 
lighted all  those  lively  revellers.  And  when 
with  adroit  mimicry  their  slight  arms  and 
mincing  steps  mocked  that  grand  and  mascu- 
line measure  so  associated  with  images  of 
Spartan  austerity  and  decorum,  the  exhibition 
became  so  humorously  ludicrous,  that  perhaps 
a  Spartan  himself  would  have  been  compelled 
to  laugh  at  it.  But  the  merriment  rose  to  its 
height,  when  the  Egyptian,  who  had  withdrawn 
for  a  few  minutes,  re-appeared  with  a  Median 
robe  and  mitred  cap,  and  calling  out  in  his 
barbarous  African  accent,  "  Way  for  the  con- 
queror !  "  threw  into  his  mien  and  gestures  all 
the  likeness  to  Pausanias  himself,  which  a 
practised  mime  and  posture-master  could  at- 
tain. The  laughter  of  Antagoras  alone  was 
not  loud — it  was  low  and  sullen,  as  if  sobs  of 
rage  were  stifling  it;  but  his  eye  watched  the 
effect  produced,  and  it  answered  the  end  he 
had  in  view. 

As  the  dancers  now,  while  the  laughter  was 
at  its  loudest  roar,  vanished  behind  the  drap- 
eries, the  host  rose,  and  his  countenance  was 
severe  and  grave — 

"Companions,  one  cup  more,  and   let   it  be 


PA  USANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


473 


to  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton.  Let  the  song 
in  their  honor  come  only  from  the  lips  of  free 
citizens,  of  our  Ionian  comrades.  Uliades,  be- 
gin. I  pass  to  thee  a  myrtle  bough;  and 
under  it  I  pass  a  sword." 

Then  he  began  the  famous  hymn  ascribed 
to  Callistratus,  commencing  with  a  clear  and 
■sonorous  voice,  and  the  guests  repeating  each 
stanza  after  him  with  the  enthusiasm  which 
the  words  usually  produced  among  the  Hellenic 
republicans: 

I  in  a  myrtle  bough  the  sword  will  carry, 
As  (lid  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton; 
When  they  the  tyrant  slew, 
And  back  to  Athens  gave  her  equal  laws. 

Thou  art  in  nowise  dead,  best-loved  Harmodius; 
Isles  of  the  Blessed  are,  they  say,  thy  dwelling, 
There  swift  Achilles  dwells. 
And  there,  they  say,  with  thee  dwells  Diomed. 

I  in  a  myrtle  bough  the  sword  will  carry. 
As  did  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton, 
When  to  Athen's  shrine 
They  gave  their  sacrifice — a  tyrant  man. 

Ever  on  earth  for  both  of  you  lives  glory, 
O  loved  Harmodius,  loved  Aristogiton. 
For  ye  the  tyrant  slew, 
And  back  to  Athens  ye  gave  equal  laws. 

When  the  song  had  ceased,  the  dancers,  the 
musicians,  the  attendant  slaves  had  withdrawn 
from  the  hall,  dismissed  by  a  whispered  order 
from  Antagoras. 

He,  now  standing  up,  took  from  his  brows 
the  floral  crown,  and  first  sprinkling  them  with 
wine,  replaced  the  flowers  by  a  wreath  of 
poplar.  The  assembly,  a  little  while  before 
so  noisy,  was  hushed  into  attentive  and  earnest 
silence.  The  action  of  Antagoras,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance,  the  e.xclusion  of  the 
slaves,  prepared  all  present  for  soinething  more 
than  the  convivial  address  of  a  Symposiarch. 

"  Men  and  Greeks,"  said  the  Chian,  "  on 
the  evening  before  Teucer  led  his  comrades  in 
exile  over  the  wide  waters  to  found  a  second 
Salamis,  he  springled  his  forehead  with  Lysean 
dews,  being  crowned  with  the  poplar  leaves 
— emblems  of  hardihood  and  contest;  and,  this 
done,  he  invited  his  companions  to  dispel  their 
cares  for  the  night,  that  their  hearts  might 
with  more  cheerful  hope  and  bolder  courage 
meet  what  the  morrow  might  bring  to  them  on 
the  ocean.  I  imitate  the  ancient  hero,  in 
honor  less  of  him  than  of  the  name  of  Salamis 
We,  too,  have  a  Salamis   to   remember,  and  a 


second  Salamis  to  found.  Can  ye  forget  that, 
had  the  advice  of  the  Spartan  leader  Eury- 
biades  been  adopted,  the  victory  of  Salamis 
would  never  have  been  achieved  ?  He  was 
for  retreat  to  the  Isthmus;  he  was  for  de- 
fending the  Peloponnese,  because  in  the 
Peloponnesus  was  the  unsocial  selfish  Sparta, 
and  leaving  the  rest  of  Hellas  to  the  armament 
of  Xerxes.  Theinistocles  spoke  against  the 
ignoble  counsel;  the  Spartan  raised  his  staff 
to  strike  him.  Ye  know  the  Spartan  manners. 
'  Strike  if  you  will,  but  hear  ine,'  cried  Themis- 
tocles.  He  was  heard,  Xerxes  was  defeated, 
and  Hellas  saved.  "I  am  not  Themistocles; 
nor  is  there  a  Spartan  staff  to  silence  free  lips. 
But  I  too  say,  Hear  me  !  for  a  new  Salamis  is 
to  be  won.  What  was  the  former  Salamis  ? — 
the  victory  that  secured  independence  to  the 
Greeks,  and  delivered  them  from  the  Mede 
and  the  Medising  traitor.  Again  we  must 
fight  a  Salainis.  Where,  ye  say,  is  the  Mede  ? 
— not  at  Byzantiuin,  it  is  true,  in  person;  but 
the  Medising  traitor  is  here." 

A  profound  sensation  thrilled  through  the 
assembly. 

"  Enough  of  humility  do  the  maritime  lon- 
ians  practise  when  they  accept  the  hegemony 
of  a  Spartan  landsman;  enough  of  submission 
do  the  free  citizens  of  Hellas  show  when  they 
suffer  the  imperious  Dorian  to  sentence  them 
to  punishments  only  fit  for  slaves.  But  when 
the  Spartan  appears  in  the  robes  of  the  Mede, 
when  the  imperious  Dorian  places  in  the  gov* 
ernment  of  a  city,  which  our  joint  arms  now 
occupy,  a  recreant  who  has  changed  an  Eret- 
rian  birthright  for  a  Persian  satrapy;  when 
prisoners,  made  by  the  valor  of  all  Hellas, 
mysteriously  escape  the  care  of  the  Lacedae- 
monian, who  wears  their  garb,  and  imitates 
their  manners — say,  O  ye  Greeks,  O  ye  war- 
riors, if  there  is  no  second  Salamis  to  con- 
quer ! " 

The  animated  words,  and  the  wine  already 
drunk,  produced  on  the  banqueters  an  effect 
sudden,  electrical,  universal.  They  had  come 
to  the  hall  gay  revellers;  they  were  prepared 
to  leave  the  hall  stern  conspirators. 

Their  hoarse  murmur  was  as  the  voice  of 
the  sea  before  a  storm. 

Antagoras  surveyed  them  with  a  fierce  joy, 
and,  with  a  change  of  tone,  thus  continued: — 
"Ye  understand  me,  ye  know  already  that  a 
delivery  is  to  be  achieved.     I  pass  on:  I  submit 


»74 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


to  your  wisdom  the  mode  of  achieving  it.  While 
I  speak,  a  swift-sailing  vessel  bears  to  Sparta 
the  complaints  of  myself,  of  Uliades,  and  of 
many  Ionian  captains  here  present,  against 
the  Spartan  general.  And  although  the 
Athenian  chiefs  decline  to  proffer  complaints 
of  their  own,  lest  their  State,  which  has  risked 
so  much  for  the  common  cause,  be  suspected 
of  using  the  admiration  it  excites  for  the  pur- 
pose of  subserving  its  ambition,  yet  Cimon, 
the  young  son  of  the  great  Miltiades,  who  has 
ties  of  friendship  and  hospitality  with  families 
of  high  mark  in  Sparta,  has  been  persuaded 
to  add  to  our  public  statement  a  private  letter 
to  the  effect,  that  speaking  for  himself,  not  in 
the  name  of  Athens,  he  deems  our  complaints 
justly  founded,  and  the  recall  of  Pausanias  ex- 
pedient for  the  discipline  of  the  armament. 
But  can  we  say  what  effect  this  embassy  may 
have  upon  a  sullen  and  haughty  government: 
against,  too,  a  royal  descendant  of  Hercules; 
against  the  general  who  at  Platsea  flattered 
Sparta  with  a  renown  to  which  her  absence 
from  Marathon,  and  her  meditated  flight  from 
Salamis,  gave  but  disputable  pretensions  ?  " 

"  And,"  interrupted  Uliades,  rising,  "  and — 
if,  O  Antagoras,  I  may  crave  pardon  for  stand- 
ing a  moment  between  thee  and  thy  guests — 
and  this  is  not  all,  for  even  if  they  recall  Pau- 
sanias, they  may  send  us  another  general  as 
bad,  and  without  the  fame  which  somewhat 
reconciles  our  Ionian  pride  to  the  hegemony 
of  a  Dorian.  Now,  whatever  my  quarrel  with 
Pausanias,  I  am  less  agamst  a  man  than  a 
principle.  I  am  a  seaman,  and  against  the 
principle  of  having  for  the  commander  of  the 
Greek  fleet  a  Spartan  who  does  not  know  how 
to  handle  a  sail.  I  am  an  Ionian,  and  against 
the  principle  of  placing  the  Ionian  race  under 
the  imperious  domination  of  a  Dorian.  There- 
fore I  say,  now  is  the  moment  to  emancipate 
our  blood  and  our  ocean — the  one  from  an 
alien,  the  other  from  a  landsman.  And  the 
hegemony  of  the  Spartan  should  pass  away. 

Uliades  sat  down  with  an  applause  more 
clamorous  than  had  greeted  the  eloquence  of 
Antagoras,  for  the  pride  of  race  and  of  special 
calling  is  ever  more  strong  in  its  impulses 
than  hatred  to  a  single  man.  And  despite  of 
all  that  could  be  said  against  Pausanias,  still 
these  warriors  felt  awe  for  his  greatness,  and 
remembered  that  at  Platsea,  where  all  were 
brave,  he  had  been  proclaimed  the  bravest. 


Antagoras,  with  the  quickness  of  a  repub- 
lican Greek,  trained  from  earliest  youth  to 
sympathy  with  popular  assemblies,  saw  that 
Uliades  had  touched  the  right  key,  and  swal- 
lowed down  with  a  passionate  gulp  his  personal 
wrath  against  his  rival,  which  might  otherwise 
have  been  carried  too  far,  and  have  lost  him 
the  advantage  he  had  gained. 

"  Rightly  and  wisely  speaks  Uliades,"  said 
he.  "Our  cause  is  that  of  our  whole  race; 
and  clear  has  that  true  Samian  made  it  to  you 
all,  O  lonians  and  captains  of  the  seas,  that 
we  must  not  wait  for  the  lordly  answer  Sparta 
may  return  to  our  embassage.  Ye  know  that 
while  night  lasts  we  must  return  to  our  several 
vessels;  an  hour  more,  and  we  shall  be  on 
deck.  To-morrow  Pausanias  reviews  the  fleet, 
and  we  may  be  some  days  before  we  return  to 
land,  and  can  meet  in  concert.  Whether  to- 
morrow or  later  the  occasion  for  action  may 
present  itself,  is  a  question  I  would  pray  you 
to  leave  to  those  whom  you  entrust  with  the 
discretionary  power  to  act." 

"  How  act  ? "  cried  a  Lesbian  officer. 

"  Thus  would  I  suggest,"  said  Antagoras, 
with  well  dissembled  humility;  "  let  the  cap- 
tains of  one  or  more  Ionian  vessels  perform 
such  a  deed  of  open  defiance  against  Pausanias 
as  leaves  to  them  no  option  between  death  and 
success;  having  so  done,  hoist  a  signal,  and 
sailing  at  once  to  the  Athenian  ships,  place 
themselves  under  the  Athenian  leader;  all  the 
rest  of  the  Ionian  captains  will  then  follow 
their  example.  And  then,  too  numerous  and 
too  powerful  to  be  punished  for  a  revolt,  tve 
shall  proclaim  a  revolution,  and  declare  that 
we  will  all  sail  back  to  our  native  havens  un- 
less we  have  the  liberty  of  choosing  our  own 
hegemon." 

"  But,"  said  the  Lesbian  who  had  before 
spoken,  "  the  Athenians  as  yet  have  held  back 
and  declined  our  overtures,  and  without  them 
we  are  not  strong  enough  to  cope  with  the 
Peloponnesian  allies." 

"  The  Athenians  will  be  compelled  to  protect 
the  lonians,  if  the  lonians  in  sufficient  force 
demand  it,"  said  Uliades.  "  For  as  we  are 
nought  without  them,  they  are  nought  with- 
out us.  Take  the  course  suggested  by  Anta- 
goras: I  advise  it.  Ye  know  me,  a  plain  man, 
but  I  speak  not  without  warrant.  And  be- 
fore the  Spartans  can  either  contemptuously 
dismiss  our  embassy  or  send  us  out  anothei 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


47S 


general,  the  Ionian  will  be  mistress  of  the  Hel- 
lenic seas,  and  Sparta,  the  land  of  oligarchies, 
will  no  more  have  the  power  to  oligarchize 
democracy.  Otherwise,  believe  me,  that 
power  she  has  now  from  her  hegemony,  and 
that  power  whenever  it  suit  her,  she  will 
use." 

Uliades  was  chiefly  popular  in  the  fleet  as  a 
rough  good  seaman,  as  a  blunt  and  somewhat 
vulgar  humorist.  But  whenever  he  gave  ad- 
vice, the  advice  carried  with  it  a  weight  not 
always  bestowed  upon  superior  genius,  be- 
cause, from  the  very  commonness  of  his  nat- 
ure, he  reached  at  the  common  sense  and  the 
common  feelings  of  those  whom  he  addressed. 
He  spoke,  in  short,  what  an  ordinary  man 
thought  and  felt.  He  was  a  practical  man, 
brave,  but  not  over-audacious,  not  likely  to 
run  himself  or  others  into  idle  dangers,  and 
when  he  said  he  had  a  warrant  for  his  advice, 
he  was  believed  to  speak  from  his  knowledge 
of  the  course  which  the  Athenian  chiefs,  Aris- 
tides  and  Cimon,  would  pursue  if  tlje  plan 
recommended  were  actively  executed. 

"  I  am  convinced,"  said  the  Lesbian.  "  And 
since  all  are  grateful  to  Athens  for  that  final 
stand  against  the  Mede,  to  which  all  Greece 
owes  her  liberties,  and  since  the  chief  of  her 
armaments  here  is  a  man  of  so  modest  a  virtue, 
and  so  clement  a  justice,  as  we  all  acknowledge 
in  Aristides,  fitting  is  it  for  us  lonians  to^;on- 
stitute  Athens  the  maritime  sovereign  of  our 
race." 

"  Are  ye  all  of '  that  mind  !  "  cried  Anta- 
goras,  and  was  answered  by  the  universal 
shout,  "  We  are — all  !  "  or  if  the  shout  was 
not  universal,  none  heeded  the  few  whom  fear 
or  prudence  might  keep  silent.  "  All  that  re- 
mains then  is  to  appoint  the  captain  who  shall 
hazard  the  first  danger  and  make  the  first 
signal.  For  my  part,  as  one  of  the  electors,  I 
give  my  vote  for  Uliades,  and  this  is  my 
ballot."  He  took  from  his  temples  the  poplar 
wreath,  and  cast  it  into  a  silver  vase  on  the 
tripod  placed  before  him. 

"  Uliades  by  acclamation  !  "  cried  several 
voices. 

"  I  accept,"  said  the  Ionian,  "  and  as  Ulysses, 
a  prudent  man,  asked  for  a  colleague  in  enter- 
prises of  danger,  so  I  ask  for  a  companion  in 
the  hazard  I  lyidertake,  and  I  select  Anta- 
goras." 
This  choice  received  the  same  applauding 


acquiescence  as  that  which  had  greeted  the 
nomination  of  the  Ionian. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  applause  was  heard 
without  the  sharp  shrill  sound  of  the  Phrygian 
pipe. 

"  Comrades,"  said  Antagoras,  "  ye  hear  the 
summons  to  our  ships  ?  Our  boats  are  waiting 
at  the  steps  of  the  quay,  by  the  Temple  of 
Neptune.  Two  sentences  more,  and  then  to 
sea.  First,  silence  and  fidelity;  the  finger  to 
the  lip,  the  right  hand  raised  to  Zeus  Horkios. 
For  a  pledge,  here  is  an  oath.  Secondly,  be 
this  the  signal:  whenever  ye  shall  see  Uliades 
and  myself  steer  our  triremas  out  of  the  line 
in  which  they  may  be  marshalled,  look  forth 
and  watch  breathless,  and  the  instant  you  per- 
ceive that  beside  our  flags  of  Samos  and  Chios 
we  hoist  the  ensign  of  Athens,  draw  off  from 
your  stations,  and  follow  the  wake  of  our  keels, 
to  the  Athenian  navy.  Then  as  the  Gods  di- 
rect us.     Hark,  a  second  time  shrills  the  fife." 


CHAPTER   V. 

At  the  very  hour  when  the  Ionian  captains 
were  hurrying  towards  their  boats,  Pausanias 
was  pacing  his  decks  alone,  with  irregular 
strides,  and  through  the  cordage  and  the 
masts  the  starshine  came  fitfully  on  his 
troubled  features.  Long  undecided  he  paused, 
as  the  waves  sparkled  to  the  stroke  of  oars; 
and  beheld  the  boats  of  the  feasters  making 
towards  the  division  of  the  fleet  in  which  lay 
the  navy  of  the  isles.  Farther  on,  remote  and 
still,  anchored  the  ships  of  Athens.  He 
clenched  his  hand,  and  turned  from  the 
sight. 

"To  lose  an  empire,"  he  muttered,  "and 
without  a  struggle;  an  empire  over  yon  muti- 
nous rivals,  over  yon  happy  and  envied  Athens: 
an  empire — where  its  limits? — if  Asia  puts 
her  armies  to  my  lead,  why  should  not  Asia 
be  Hellenized,  rather  than  Hellas  be  within 
the  tribute  of  the  Mede?  Dull— dull  stolid 
Sparta  !  methinks  I  could  pardon  the  slavery 
thou  inflictest  on  my  life  didst  thou  but  leave 
unshackled  my  intelligence.  But  each  vast 
scheme  to  be  twarted,  every  thought  for 
thine  own  aggrandizement  beyond  thy  barren 
rocks  met  and  inexorably  baffled  by  a  selfish 
aphorism,  a   cramping  saw — 'Sparta   is   wide 


476 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


eno'  for  Spantans.' — '  Ocean  is  the  element  of 
the  fickle.' — 'What  matters  the  ascendancy  of 
Athens  ? — it  does  not  cross  the  Isthmus.' — 
'  Venture  nothing  where  I  want  nothing.' 
Why,  this  is  the  soul's  prison  !  Ah,  had  I 
been  born  Athenian,  I  had  never  uttered  a 
thought  against  my  country.  She  and  I  would 
have  expanded  and  aspired  together." 

Thus  arguing  with  himself,  he  at  length  con- 
firmed his  resolve,  and  with  a  steadfast  step 
entered  his  pavilion.  There,  not  on  broid- 
ered  cushions,  but  by  preference  on  the  hard 
floor,  without  coverlid,  lay  Lysander  calmly 
sleeping,  his  crimson  warlike  cloak,  weather- 
stained,  partially  wrapt  around  him;  no  pillow 
to  his  head  but  his  own  right  arm. 

By  the  light  of  the  high  lamp  that  stood 
within  the  pavilion,  Pausanias  contemplated 
the  slumberer. 

"  He  says  he  loves  me,  and  yet  can  sleep," 
he  murmured  bitterly.  Then  seating  himself 
before  a  table  he  began  to  write,  with  slowness 
and  precision,  whether  as  one  not  accustomed 
to  the  task  or  weighing  every  word. 

When  he  had  concluded,  he  again  turned 
his  eyes  to  the  sleeper.  "  How  tranquil  ! 
Was  my  sleep  ever  as  serene '  I  will  not  dis- 
turb him  to  the  last." 

The  fold  of  the  curtain  was  drawn  aside, 
and  Alcman  entered  noiselessh'. 

"  Thou  hast  obeyed  ?  "  whispered  Pausa- 
nias. 

'Yes;  the  ship  is  ready,  the  wind  favors. 
Hast  thou  decided  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  said  Pausanias,  with  compressed 
lips. 

He  rose,  and  touched  Lysander  lightly,  but 
the  touch  sufficed;  the  sleeper  woke  on  the 
instant,  casting  aside  slumber  easily  as  a  gar- 
ment. 

"  My  Pausanias,"  said  the  young  Spartan, 
"  I  am  at  thine  orders — shall  I  go  ?  Alas  !  I 
read  thine  eye,  and  I  shall  leave  thee  in  peril." 

"  Greater  peril  in  the  council  of  the  Ephors 
and  in  the  babbling  lips  of  the  hoary  Gerontes, 
than  amidst  the  meeting  of  armaments.  Thou 
wilt  take  this  letter  to  the  Ephors.  I  have 
said  in  it  but  little;  I  have  said  that  I  confide 
my  cause  to  thee.  Remember  that  thou  in- 
sist on  the  disgrace  to  me — the  Heracleid,  and 
througTi  me  to  Sparta,  that  my  recall  would 
occason;  remember  that  thou  prove  that  my 
alleged  harshness  is  but  necessary  to  the  dis- 


cipline that  preserves  armies,  and  to  the  as- 
cendancy of  Spartan  rule.  And  as  to  the  idle 
tale  of  Persian  prisoners  escaped,  why  thou 
knowest  how  even  the  lonians  could  make 
nothing  of  that  charge  Crowd  all  sail,  strain 
every  oar,  no  ship  in  the  fleet  so  swift  as  that 
which  bears  thee.  I  care  not  for  the  few 
hours'  start  the  talebearers  have.  Our  Spar- 
tan forms  are  slow;  they  can  scarce  have  an 
audience  ere  thou  reach.  The  Gods  speed 
and  guard  thee,  beloved  friend.  With  thee 
goes  all  the  future  of  Pausanias." 

Lysander  grasped  his  hand  in  a  silence 
more  eloquent  than  words,  and  a  tear  fell  on 
that  hand  which  he  clasped.  "  Be  not  ashamed 
of  it,"  he  said  then,  as  he  turned  away,  and, 
wrapping  his  cloak  round  his  face,  left  the 
pavilion.  Alcman  followed,  lowered  a  boat 
from  the  side,  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
Spartan  and  the  Mothon  were  on  the  sea.  The 
boat  made  to  a  vessel  close  at  hand — a  vessel 
builded  in  Cyprus,  manned  by  Bithynians;  its 
sails  were  all  up,  but  it  bore  no  flag.  Scarcely 
had  Lysander  climbed  the  deck  than  it  heaved 
to  and  fro,  swaying  as  the  anchor  was  drawn 
up,  then,  righting  itself  sprang  forward,  like  a 
hound  unleashed  for  the  chase.  Pausanias 
with  folded  arms  stood  on  the  deck  of  his  own 
vessel,  gazing  after  it,  gazing  long,  till  shooting 
far  beyond  the  fleet,  far  towards  the  melting 
line,  between  sea  and  sky,  it  grew  less  and 
lesser,  and  as  the  twilight  dawned,  it  had  faded 
into  space. 

The  Heracleid  turned  to-  Alcman,  who,  after 
he  had  conveyed  Lysander  to  the  ship,  had 
regained  his  master's  side. 

"  What  thinkest  thou,  Alcman,  will  be  the 
result  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  The  emancipation  of  the  Helots,"  said  the 
Mothon  quietly.  "  The  Athenians  are  too 
near  thee,  the  Persians  are  too  far.  Wouldst 
thou  have  armies  Sparta  can  neither  give  nor 
take  away  from  thee,  bind  to  thee  a  race  by 
the  strongest  of  human  ties — make  them  see 
in  thy  power  the  necessary  condition  of  their 
freedom." 

Pausanias  made  no  answer.  He  turned  with- 
in his  pavilion,  and  flinging  himself  down  on 
the  same  spot  from  which  he  had  disturbed 
Lysander,  said,  "Sleep  here  was  so  kind  to 
him  that  it  may  linger  where  he  left  it.  I  have 
two  hours  yet  for  oblivion  before  the  sun  rise." 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


^Tl 


CHAPTER   VI. 

If  we  were  enabled  minutely  to  examine  the 
mental  organization  of  men  who  have  risked 
great  dangers,  whether  by  the  impulse  of  virtue 
or  in  the  perpetration  of  crime,  we  should 
probably  find  therin  a  large  preponderance  of 
hope.  By  that  preponderance  we  should  account 
for  those  heroic  designs  which  would  annihilate 
prudence  as  a  calculator,  did  not  a  sanguine 
confidence  in  the  results  produce  special  ener- 
gies to  achieve  them,  and  thus  create  a  pru- 
dence of  its  own,  being  as  it  were  the  self-con- 
scious admeasurement  of  the  diviner  strength 
which  justified  the  preterhuman  spring.  Nor 
less  should  we  account  by  the  same  cause  for 
that  audacity  which  startles  us  in  criminals  on 
a  colossal  scale,  which  blinds  them  to  the  risks 
of  detection,  and  often  at  the  bar  of  justice, 
while  the  evidences  that  ensure  condemnation 
are  thickening  round  them,  with  the  persuasion 
of  acquittal  or  escape.  Hope  is  thus  alike 
the  sublime  inspirer  or  the  arch  corrupter;  it 
is  the  foe  of  terror,  the  defier  of  consequences, 
the  buoyant  gamester  which  every  loss  doubles 
the  stakes,  with  a  fium  hand  rattles  the  dice, 
and,  invoking  ruin,  cries  within  itself,  "  How 
shall  I  expend  the  gain  ?  " 

In  the  character,  therefore,  of  a  man  like 
Pausanias,  risking  so  much  glory,  daring  so 
much  peril,  strong  indeed  must  have  been  this 
sanguine  motive-power  of  human  action.  Nor 
is  a  large  and  active  development  of  hope  in- 
compatible with  a  temperament  habitually 
grave  and  often  profoundly  melancholy.  For 
hope  itself  is  often  engendered  by  discontent. 
A  vigorous  nature  keenly  susceptible  to  joy, 
and  deprived  of  the  possession  of  the  joy  it 
yearns  for  by  circumstances  that  surround 
it  in  the  present,  is  goaded  on  by  its  impatience 
and  dissatisfaction;  it  hopes  for  the  something 
it  has  not  got,  indifferent  to  the  things  it  pos- 
sesses, and  saddened  by  the  want  which  it  ex- 
periences. And  therefore  it  has  been  well  said 
by  philosophers,  that  real  happiness  would  ex- 
clude desire;  in  other  words,  not  only  at  the 
gates  of  hell,  but  at  the  porch  of  heaven,  he 
who  entered  would  leave  hope  behind  him. 
For  perfect  bliss  is  but  supreme  content. 
And  if  content  could  say  to  itself,  "  But  I  hope 
for  something  more,"  it  would  destroy  its  own 
existence. 

From  his  brief  slumber  the  Spartan  rose  re- 


freshed. The  trumpets  were  sounding  near 
him,  and  the  very  sound  brightened  his  aspect, 
and  animated  his  spirits. 

Agreeably  to  orders  he  had  given  the  night 
before,  the  anchor  was  raised,  the  rowers  were 
on  their  benches,  the  libation  to  the  Carnean 
Apollo,  under  whose  special  protection  the 
ship  was  placed,  had  been  poured  forth,  and 
with  the  rising  sea  and  to  the  blare  of  trum- 
pets the  gorgeous  trireme  moved  forth  from  the 
bay. 

It  moved,  as  the  trumpets  ceased,  to  the 
note  of  a  sweeter,  but  not  less  exciting  music. 
For,  according  to  Hellenic  custom,  to  the 
rowers  was  allotted  a  muscian,  with  whose 
harmony  their  oars,  when  first  putting  forth  to 
sea,  kept  time.  And  on  this  occasion  Alcman 
superseded  the  wonted  performer  by  his  own 
more  popular  song  and  the  melody  of  his  richer 
voice.  Standing  by  the  mainmast,  and  hold- 
ing the  large  harp,  which  was  stricken  by  the 
quill,  its  strings  being  deepened  by  a  sounding- 
board,  he  chanted  an  lo  Paean  to  the  Dorian 
god  of  light  and  poesy.  The  harp  at  stated 
intervals  was  supported  by  a  burst  of  flutes, 
and  the  burthen  of  the  verse  was  caught  up 
by  the  rowers  as  in  chorus.  Thus,  far  and 
wide  over  the  shining  waves,  went  forth  the 
hymn. 

lo,  lo  Paean!  slowly.    Song  and  oar  must  chime 

together: 
lo,  lo  Paean!  by  what  title  call  Apollo? 
Clarian  !    Xanthian  ?    Boedromian  ? 
Countless  are  thy  names,  Apollo. 
To  Carnee!     lo  Carnee! 
By  the  margent  of  Eu  rotas, 
'Neath  the  shadows  of  Taygetus, 
Thee  the  sons  of  Lacedaemon 
Name  Carneus.     lo,  lo! 
lo  Carnee!    lo  Cornee! 

lo,  lo  Paean!  quicker.  Song  and  voice  must  chime 

together: 
lo  Paean!  lo  Paean!    King  Apollo,  lo,  lol 
lo  Carnee! 

For  thine  altars  do  the  seasons 

Paint  the  tributary  flowers. 

Spring  thy  hyacinth  restores. 

Summer  greets  thee  with  the  rose, 

Autumn  the  blue  Cyane  mingles 

With  the  coronals  of  corn. 

And  in  every  wreath  thy  laurel 
Weaves  its  everlasting  green. 

I o  Carnee!    I o  Carnee! 

For  the  brows  Apollo  favors 

Spring  and  winter  does  the  laurel 

Weave  its  everlasting  green. 


478 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


lo,  lo  Paean!  louder.    Voice  and  oar  must  chime 
together: 

For  the  brows  Apollo  favors 
Even  Ocean  bears  the  laurel. 
lo  Carnee!    loCarnee! 

lo,  lo  Psean!  stronger.    Strong  are  those  who  win 
the  laurel. 


As  the  ship  of  the  Spartan  commander  thus 
bore  out  to  sea,  the  other  vessels  of  the  arma- 
ment had  been  gradually  forming  themselves 
into  a  crescent,  preserving  still  the  order  in 
which  the  allies  maintained  their  several  con- 
tributions to  the  fleet,  the  Athenian  ships  at 
the  extreme  end  occupying  the  right  wing,  the 
Peloponnesians  massed  together  at  the  left. 

The  Chian  galleys  adjoined  the  Samian;  for 
Uliades  and  Antagoras  had  contrived  that 
their  ships  should  be  close  to  each  other,  so 
that  they  might  take  counsel  at  any  moment 
and  act  in  concert. 

And  now  when  the  fleet  had  thus  opened  its 
arms  as  it  were  to  receive  the  commander,  the 
great  trireme  of  Pausanias  began  to  veer 
round,  and  to  approach  the  half-moon  of  the 
expanded  armament.  On  it  came,  with  its 
beaked  prow,  like  a  falcon  swooping  down  on 
some  array  of  the  lesser  birds. 

From  the  stern  hung  a  glided  shield  and  a 
crimson  pennon.  The  heavy  armed  soldier  in 
their  Spartan  mail  occupied  the  centre  of  the 
vessel,  and  the  sun  shone  full  upon  their 
armor. 

"  By  Pallas  the  guardian,"  said  Cimon,  "  it 
is  the  Athenian  vessels  that  the  strategus  hon- 
ors with  his  first  visit." 

And  indeed  the  Spartan  galley  now  came 
alongside  that  of  Aristides,  the  admiral  of  the 
Athenian  navy. 

The  soldiers  on  board  the  former  gave  way 
on  either  side.  And  a  murmur  of  admiration 
circled  through  the  Athenian  ship  as  Pau- 
sanias suddenly  appeared.  For,  as  if  bent 
that  day  on  either  awing  mutiny  or  conciliating 
the  discontented,  the  Spartan  chief  had  wisely 
laid  aside  the  wondrous  Median  robes.  He 
stood  on  her  stern  in  the  armor  he  had  worn 
at  Plataea,  resting  one  hand  upon  his  shield, 
which  itself  rested  on  the  deck.  His  head 
alone  was  uncovered,  his  long  sable  locks 
gathered  up  into  a  knot,  in  the  Spartan  fash- 
ion, a  crest  as  it  were  in  itself  to  that  lofty 
head.  And  so  imposing  were  his  whole  air 
and  carriage,  that  Cimon,  gazing  at  him,  mut- 


tered, "  What  profane  hand  will  dare  to  rob 
that  demigod  of  command  ? " 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

Pausanias  came  on  board  the  vessel  of  the 
Athenian  admiral,  attended  by  the  five  Spartan 
chiefs  who  have  been  mentioned  before  as  the 
warlike  companions  assigned  to  him.  He  re- 
laxed the  haughty  demeanor  which  had  given 
so  much  displeasure,  adopting  a  tone  of 
marked  courtesy.  He  spoke  with  high  and 
merited  praise  of  the  seaman-like  appearance 
of  the  Athenian  crews,  and  the  admirable  build 
and  equipment  of  their  vessels. 

"  Pity  only,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  that  we  have 
no  Persians  on  the  ocean  now,  and  that  in- 
stead of  their  visiting  us  we  must  go  in  search 
of  them." 

"  Would  that  be  wise  on  our  part  ?  "  said 
Aristides.  "  Is  not  Greece  large  enough  for 
Greeks?" 

"  Greece  has  not  done  growing,"  answered 
the  Spartan;  "and  the  Gpds  forbid  that  she 
should  do  so.  When  man  ceases  to  grow  in 
height  he  expands  in  bulk;  when  he  stops 
there  too,  the  frame  begins  to  stoop,  the  mus- 
cles to  shrink,  the  skin  to  shrivel,  and  decrepit 
old  age  steals  on.  I  have  heard  it  said  of  the 
Athenians  that  they  think  nothing  done  while 
aught  remains  to  do.  Is  it  not  truly  said, 
worthy  son  of  Miltiades  ?  " 

Cimon  bowed  his  head.  "  General,  I  cannot 
disavow  the  sentiment.  But  if  Greece  entered 
Asia,  would  it  not  be  as  a  river  that  runs  into 
a  sea?  it  expands,  and  is  merged." 

"  The  river,  Cimon,  may  lose  the  sweetness 
of  its  wave  and  take  the  brine  of  the  sea.  But 
the  Greek  can  never  lose  the  flavor  of  the 
Greek  genius,  and  could  he  penetrate  the  uni- 
verse, the  universe  would  be  Hellenized.  But 
if,  O  Athenian  chiefs,  ye  judge  that  we  have 
now  done  all  that  is  needful  to  protect  Athens, 
and  awe  the  Barbarian,  ye  must  be  longing  to 
retire  from  the  armament  and  return  to  your 
homes." 

"  When  it  is  fit  that  we  should  return,  we 
shall  be  recalled,"  said  Aristides  quietly. 

"What,  is  your  State  so  unerring  in  its 
judgment  ?  Experience  does  not  permit  me 
to  think  so,  for  it  ostracised  Aristides." 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


479 


"  An  honor,"  replied  the  Athenian,  "  that  I 
did  not  deserve,  but  an  action  that,  had  I  been 
the  adviser  of  those  who  sent  me  forth,  I  should 
have  opposed  as  too  lenient.  Instead  of  os- 
tracising me,  they  should  have  cast  both  my- 
self and  Themistocles  into  the  Barathrum." 

"  You  speak  with  true  Attic  honor,  and  I 
comprehend  that  where,  in  commonwealths  con- 
stituted like  yours,  party  runs  high,  and  the 
State  itself  is  shaken,  ostracism  may  be  a 
necessary  tribute  to  the  very  virtues  that  at- 
tract the  zeal  of  a  party  and  imperil  the  equal- 
ity ye  so  prize.  But  what  can  compensate  to 
a  State  for  the  evil  of  depriving  itself  of  its 
greatest  citizens?" 

"  Peace  and  freedom,"  said  Aristides.  "  If 
you  would  have  the  young  trees  thrive  you 
must  not  let  one  tree  be  so  large  as  to  over- 
shadow them.  Ah,  general  at  Platasa,"  added 
the  Athenian,  in  a  benignant  whisper,  for  the 
grand  image  before  him  moved  his  heart  with 
a  mingled  feeling  of  generous  admiration  and 
prophetic  pity,  "  ah,  pardon  me  if  I  remind 
thee  of  the  ring  of  Polycrates,  and  say  that 
Fortune  is  a  queen  that  requires  tribute.  Man 
should  tremble  most  when  most  seemingly 
fortune-favored,  and  guard  most  against  a  fall 
when  his  rise  is  at  the  highest." 

"  But  it  is  only  at  its  highest  flight  that  the 
eagle  is  safe  from  the  arrow,"  answered  Pau- 
sanias. 

"  And  the  nest  the  eagle  has  forgotten  in 
her  soaring  is  the  more  exposed  to  the 
spoiler." 

"Well,  my  nest  is  in  rocky  Sparta;  hardy 
the  spoiler  who  ventures  thither.  Yet,  to  de- 
scend from  these  speculative  comparisons,  it 
seems  that  thou  hast  a  friendly  and  meaning 
purpose  m  thy  warnings.  Thou  knowest  that 
there  are  in  this  armament  men  who  grudge  to 
me  whatever  I  now  owe  to  Fortune,  who  would 
topple  me  from  the  height  to  which  I  did  not 
climb,  but  was  led  by  the  congregated  Greeks, 
and  who,  while  perhaps  they  are  forging  ar- 
row-heads for  the  eagle,  have  sent  to  place 
poison  and  a  snare  in  its  distant  nest.  So  the 
Nausicaa  is  on  its  voyage  to  Sparta,  convey- 
ing to  the  Ephors  complaints  against  me — 
complaints  from  men  who  fought  by  my  side 
against  the  Mede." 

"  I  have  heard  that  a  Cyprian  vessel  left  the 
fleet  yesterday,  bound  to  Laconia.  I  have 
heard  that  it  does  bear  men  charged  by  some 


of  the  lonians  with  representations  unfavor- 
able to  the  continuance  of  thy  command.  It 
bears  none  from  me  as  the  Nauarchus  of  the 
Athenians.     But " 

"  But— what  ?  " 

"  But  I  have  complained  to  thyself,  Pau- 
sanias,  in  vain." 

"  Hast  thou  complained  of  late,  and  in 
vain  ? " 

"  Nay." 

"  Honest  men  may  err;  if  they  amend,  do 
just  men  continue  to  accuse  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  accuse,  Pausanias,  I  but  imply 
that  those  who  do  may  have  a  cause,  but  it 
will  be  heard  before  a  tribunal  of  thine  own 
countrymen,  and  doubtless  thou  has  sent  to 
the  tribunal  those  who  may  meet  the  charge 
on  thy  behalf." 

"  Well,"  said  Pausanias,  still  preserving  his 
studied  urbanity  and  lofty  smile,  "  even  Aga- 
memnon and  Archilles  quarrelled,  but  Greece 
took  Troy  not  the  less.  And  at  least,  since 
Aristides  does  not  denounce  me,  if  I  have 
committed  even  worse  faults  than  Agamemnon, 
I  have  not  made  an  enemy  of  Achilles.  And 
if,"  he  added  after  a  pause,  "  if  some  of  these 
lonians,  not  waiting  for  the  return  of  their 
envoys,  openly  mutiny,  they  must  be  treated 
as  Thersites  was."  Then  he  hurried  on  quickly, 
for  observing  that  Cimon's  brow  lowered,  and 
his  lips  quivered,  he  desired  to  cut  off  all 
words  that  might  lead  to  altercation. 

"  But  I  have  a  request  to  ask  of  the  Athe- 
nian Nauarchus.  Will  you  gratify  myself  and 
the  fleet  by  putting  your  Athenian  triremes 
into  play  ?  Your  seamen  are  so  famous  for 
their  manoeuvres,  that  they  might  furnish  us 
with  sports  of  more  grace  and  agility  than  do 
the  Lydian  dancers.  Landsman  though  I  be, 
no  sight  more  glads  mine  eye  than  these  sea 
lions  of  pine  and  brass,  bounding  under  the 
yoke  of  their  tamers.  I  presume  not  to  give 
thee  instructions  what  to  perform.  Who  can 
dictate  to  the  seamen  of  Salamis  ?  But  when 
your  ships  have  played  out  their  martial  sport, 
let  them  exchange  stations  with  the  Pelopon- 
nesian  vessels,  and  occupy  for  the  present  the 
left  of  the  armament.     Ye  object  not  ?  " 

"  Place  us  where  thou  wilt,  as  was  said  to 
thee  at  Platsea,"  answered  Aristides. 

"  I  now  leave  ye  to  prepare,  Athenians,  and 
greet  ye,  saying,  the  Good  to  the  Beautiful." 

"A  wondrous  presence  for  a  Greek  com- 


480 


B  UL IVER-S     WORKS. 


mander ! "  said  Cimon,  as  Eausanias  again 
stood  on  the  stern  of  his  own  vessel,  which 
moved  off  towards  the  ships  of  the  islands. 

"  And  no  mean  capacity,"  returned  Aris- 
tides.  "  See  you  not  his  object  in  transplac- 
ing  us  ? " 

"Ha,  truly;  in  case  of  mutiny  on  board  the 
Ionian  ships,  he  separates  them  from  Athens. 
But  woe  to  him  if  he  thinks  in  his  heart  that 
an  Ionian  is  a  Thersites,  to  be  silenced  by  the 
blow  of  a  sceptre.  Meanwhile  let  the  Greeks 
see  what  manner  of  seamen  are  the  Athenians. 
Methinks  this  game  ordained  to  us  is  a  contest 
before  Neptune,  and  for  a  crown." 

Pausanias  bore  right  on  towards  the  vessels 
from  the  ^gaen  Isles.  Their  masts  and  prows 
were  heavy  with  garlands,  but  no  music  sounded 
from  their  decks,  no  welcoming  shout  from 
their  erews. 

"Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  said  the  prudent 
Erasinidas,  "  sullen  dogs  bite.  Unwise  the 
stranger  who  trusts  himself  to  their  ken- 
nel. Pass  not  to  those  triremes;  let  the  cap- 
tains, if  thou  wantest  them,  come  to  thee." 

"  Pausanias  replied,  "  Dogs  fear  the  steady 
eye  and  spring  at  the  recreant  back.  Helms- 
man, steer  to  yonder  ship  with  the  Olive  tre,e 
on  the  Parasemon,  and  the  image  of  Bacchus 
on  the  guardian  standard.  It  is  the  ship  of 
Antagoras  the  Chian  captain. 

Pausanias  turned  to  his  warlike  Five.  "  This 
time,  forgive  me,  I  go  alone."  And  before 
their  natural  Spartan  slowness  enabled  them 
to  combat  this  resolution,  their  leader  was  by 
the  side  of  his  rival,  alone  in  the  Chian  ves- 
sel, and  surrounded  by  his  sworn  foes. 

"  Antagoras,"  said  the  Spartan,  "  a  Chian 
seaman's  ship  is  his  dearest  home.  I  stand 
on  thy  deck  as  at  thy  hearth,  and  ask  thy 
hospitality;  a  crust  of  thy  honied  bread,  and  a 
cup  of  thy  Chian  wine.  For  from  thy  ship  I 
would  see  the  Athenian  vessels  go  through 
their  nautical  gymnastics. 

The  Chian  turned  pale  and  trembled;  his 
vengeance  was  braved  and  foiled.  He  was 
powerless  against  the  man  who  had  trusted  to 
his  honor,  and  asked  to  break  of  his  bread 
and  drink  of  his  cup.  Pausanias  did  not  ap- 
pear to  heed  the  embarrassment  of  his  unwil- 
ling host,  but  turning  round,  addressed  some 
careless  words  to  the  soldiers  on  the  raised 
central  platform,  and  then  quietly  seated  him- 
self, directing  his  eyes  towards  the  Athenian 


ships.  Upon  these  all  the  sails  were  now  low- 
ered. In  nice  Manceuvers  the  seamen  pre- 
ferred trusting  to  their  oars.  Presently  one 
vessel  started  forth,  and  with  a  swiftness  that 
seemed  to  increase  at  every  stroke. 

A  table  was  brought  upon  deck  and  placed 
before  Pausanias,  and  the  slaves  began  to 
serve  to  him  such  light  food  as  sufificed  to 
furnish  the  customary  meal  of  the  Greeks  in 
the  earlier  forenoon. 

"  But  where  is  mine  host  ?  "  asked  the  Spar- 
tan. "  Does  Antagoras  himself  not  deign  to 
share  a  meal  with  his  guest  ?  " 

On  receiving  the  message,  Antagoras  had 
no  option  but  to  come  forward.  The  Spartan 
eyed  him  deliberately,  and  the  3'oung  Chian 
felt  with  secret  rage  the  magic  of  that  com- 
manding eye. 

Pausanias  motioned  to  him  to  be  seated, 
making  room  beside  himself.  The  Chian 
silently  obeyed. 

"  Antagoras,"  said  the  Spartan  in  a  low 
voice,  "  Thou  art  doubtless  one  of  those  who 
have  already  infringed  the  laws  of  Military 
discipline  and  obedience.  Interrupt  me  not 
yet.  A  vessel  without  waiting  my  permission 
has  left  the  fleet  with  accusations  against  me, 
thy  commander;  of  what  nature  I  am  not  even 
advised.  Thou  wilt  scarcely  deny  that  thou 
art  one  of  those  who  sent  forth  the  ship  and 
shared  in  the  accusations.  Yet  I  had  thought 
that  if  I  had  ever  merited  thine  ill  will,  there 
had  been  reconciliation  between  us  in  the 
Council  Hall.  What  has  chanced  since  ?  Why 
shouldst  thou  hate  me?  Speak  frankly; 
frankly  have  I  spoken  to  thee." 

"  General,"  replied  Antagoras,  "  there  is  no 
hegemony  over  men's  hearts;  thou  sayest 
truly,  as  man  to  man,  I  hate  thee.  Where- 
fore ?  Because  as  man  to  man,  thou  standest 
between  me  and  happiness.  Because  thou 
wooest,  and  canst  only  woo  to  dishonor,  the 
virgin  in  whom  I  would  seek  the  sacred  wife." 

Pausanias  slightly  recoiled,  and  the  cour- 
tesy he  had  simulated,  and  which  was  essen- 
tially foreign  to  his  vehement  and  haughty 
character,  fell  from  him  like  a  mask.  For 
with  the  words  of  Antagoras,  jealousy  passed 
within  him,  and  for  the  moment  its  agony  was 
such  that  the  Chian  was  avenged.  But  he 
was  too  habituated  to  the  stateliness  of  self 
control  to  give  vent  to  the  rage  that  seized 
him.      He    only    said   with   a   whitened   and 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


481 


writhing  lip,  "Thou  art  right;  ail  animostities 
may  yield  save  those  which  a  woman's  eye 
can  kindle.  Thou  hatest  me — be  it  so — that 
is  as  man  to  man.  But  as  officer  to  chieftian, 
I  bid  thee  henceforth  beware  how  thou  givest 
me  cause  to  set  his  foot  on  the  head  that  lifts 
itself  to  the  height  of  mine." 

With  that  he  rose,  turned  on  his  heel,  and 
walked  towards  the  stern,  where  he  stood 
apart  gazing  o\\  the  Athenian  triremes,  which 
by  this  time  were  in  the  broad  sea.  And  all 
the  eyes  in  the  fleet  were  turned  towards  that 
exhibition.  For  marvellous  was  the  ease  and 
beauty  with  which  these  ships  went  through 
their  nautical  movements;  now  as  in  chase  of 
each  other,  now  approaching  as  in  conflict, 
veering  off,  darting  aside,  threading  as  it  were 
a  harmonious  maze,  gliding  in  and  out,  here, 
there,  with  the  undulous  celerity  of  the  ser- 
pent. The  admirable  build  of  the  ships;  the 
perfect  skill  of  the  seamen;  the  noiseless 
docility  and  instinctive  comprehension  by 
which  they  seemed  to  seize  and  to  obey 
the  unforeseen  signals  of  their  Admiral — all 
struck  the  lively  Greeks  that  beheldthe  dis- 
play, and  universal  was  the  thought  if  not  the 
murmur.  There  was  the  power  that  should 
command  the  Grecian  seas. 

Pausanias  was  too  much  accustomed  to  the 
sway  of  masses  not  to  have  acquired  that 
electric  knowledge  of  what  circles  amongst 
them  from  breast  to  breast,  to  which  habit 
gives  the  quickness  of  an  instinct.  He  saw 
tnat  he  had  committed  an  imprudence,  and 
that  in  seeking  to  divert  a  mutiny,  he  had  in- 
curved a  yet  greater  peril. 

He  returned  to  his  own  ship  without  exchang- 
ing another  word  with  Antagoras,  who  had  re- 
tired to  the  centre  of  the  vessel,  fearing  to 
trust  himself  to  a  premature  utterance  of  that 
defiance  which  the  last  warning  of  his  chief 
provoked,  and  who  was  therefore  arousing  the 
soldiers  to  louder  shouts  of  admiration  at  the 
Athenian  skill. 

Rowing  back  towards  the  wing  occupied  by 
the  Peloponnesian  allies,  of  whose  loyalty  he 
was  assured,  Pausanias  then  summoned  on 
board  their  principal  officer,  and  communicated 
to  him  his  policy  of  placing  the  lonians  not 
only  apart  from  the  Athenians,  but  under  the 
vigilance  and  control  of  Peloponnesian  ves- 
sels in  the  immediate  neighborhood.  "  There- 
fore," said  he,  "  while  the  Athenians  will  oc- 

6—31 


cupy  this  wing,  I  wish  you  to  divide  yourselves; 
the  Lacedaemonian  ships  will  take  the  way  the 
Athenians  abandon,  but  the  Corinthian  triremes 
will  place  themselves  between  the  ships  of  the 
Islands  and  the  Athenians.  I  shall  give 
further  orders  towards  distributing  the  Ionian 
navy.  And  thus  I  trust  either  all  chance  of  a 
mutiny  is  cut  off,  or  it  will  be  put  down  at  the 
first  outbreak.  Now  give  orders  to  your  men 
to  take  the  places  thus  assigned  to  you.  And 
having  gratified  the  vanity  of  our  friends  the 
Athenians  by  their  holiday  evolutions,  I  shall 
send  to  thank  and  release  them  from  the  fatigue 
so  gracefully  borne." 

All  those  with  whom  he  here  conferred,  and 
who  had  no  love  for  Athens  or  Ionia,  readily 
fell  into  the  plan  suggested.  Pausanias  then 
despatched  a  Laconian  vessel  to  the  Athenian 
Admiral,  with  complimentary  messages  and 
orders  to  cease  the  manoeuvres,  and  then  head- 
ing the  rest  of  the  Laconian  contingent,  made 
slow  and  stately  way  towards  the  station  de- 
serted by  the  Athenians.  But  pausing  once 
more  before  the  vessels  of  the  Isles,  he  de- 
spatched orders  to  their  several  commanders, 
which  had  the  effect  of  dividing  their  array, 
and  placing  between  them  the  powerful  Corin- 
thian service.  In  the  orders  of  the  vessels  he 
forwarded  for  this  change,  he  took  especial 
care  to  dislocate  the  dangerous  contiguity  of 
the  Samian  and  Chian  triremes. 

The  sun  was  declining  towards  the  west 
when  Pausanias  had  marshalled  the  vessels  he 
headed,  at  their  new  stations,  and  the  Athenian 
ships  were  already  anchored  close  and  secured. 
But  there  was  an  evident  commotion  in  that 
part  of  the  fleet  to  which  the  Corinthian  gal- 
leys had  sailed.  The  lonians  had  received 
with  indignant  murmurs  the  command  which 
divided  their  strength.  Under  various  pre- 
texts each  vessel  delayed  to  move;  and  when 
the  Corinthian  ships  came  to  take  a  vacant 
space,  they  found  a  formidable  array — the 
soldiers  on  the  platforms  armed  to  the  teeth. 
The  confusion  was  visible  to  the  Spartan  chief; 
the  loud  hubbub  almost  reached  to  his  ears. 
He  hastened  towards  the  place;  but  anxious 
to  continue  the  gracious  part  he  had  so  un- 
wontedly  played  that  day,  he  cleared  his  decks 
of  their  formidable  hoplites,  lest  he  might 
seem  to  meet  menace  by  menace,  and  drafting 
them  into  other  vessels,  and  accompanied  only 
by  his   personal   serving-men  and  rowers,  he 


482 


B  UL  WER'S     n  'ORKS. 


put  forth  alone,  the  gilded  shield  and  the  red 
banner  still  displayed  at  his  stern. 

But  as  he  was  thus  conspicuous  and  solitary, 
and  midway  in  the  space  left  between  the 
Laconian  and  Ionian  galleys,  suddenly  two 
ships  from  the  latter  darted  forth,  passed 
through  the  centre  of  the  Corinthian  contin- 
gent, and  steered  with  the  force  of  all  their 
rowers,  right  towards  the  Spartan's  ship. 

"Surely,"  said  Pansanias,  "that  is  the 
Chian's  vessel.  I  recognize  the  vine  tree  and 
the  image  of  theBromian  god;  and  surely  that 
other  one  is  the  Chimera  under  Uliades,  the 
Saniian.  They  come  hither,  the  Ionian  with 
them,  to  harangue  against  obedience  to  my 
orders." 

"  They  come  hither  to  assault  us,"  exclaimed 
Erasinidas;  "their  beaks  are  right  upon  us." 

He  had  scarcely  spoken  when  the  Chian's 
brass  prow  smote  the  gilded  shield,  and  rent 
the  red  banner  from  its  staff.  At  the  same 
time,  the  Chimera,  under  Uliades,  struck  the 
right  side  of  the  Spartan  ship  and  with  both 
strokes  the  stout  vessel  reeled  and  dived. 
"  Know,  Spartan,"  cried  Antagoras,  from  the 
platform  in  the  midst  of  his  soldiers,  "  that  we 
lonians  hold  together.  He  who  would  separ- 
ate means  to  conquer  us.  We  disown  thy 
hegemony.  If  ye  would  seek  us,  we  are  with 
the  Athenians. 

With  that  the  two  vessels,  having  performed 
their  insolent  and  daring  feat,  veered  and  shot 
off  with  the  same  rapidity  with  which  they  had 
come  to  the  assault;  and  as  they  did  so,  hoisted 
the  Athenian  ensign  over  their  own   national 


standards.  The  instant  that  signal  was  given, 
from  the  other  Ionian  vessels,  which  had  been 
evidently  awaiting  it,  there  came  a  simultane- 
ous shout;  and  ail,  vacating  their  place  and 
either  gliding  through  or  wheeling  round  the 
Corinthian  galleys,  steered  towards  the  Athe- 
nian fleet. 

The  trireme  of  Pausanias,  meanwhile,  sorely 
damaged,  part  of  its  side  rent  away,  and  the 
water  rushing  in,  swayed  and  struggled  alone 
in  great  peril  of  sinking. 

Instead  of  pursuing  the  lonians,  the  Corin- 
thian galleys  made  at  once  to  the  aid  of  the 
insulted  commander. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Pausanias,  in  powerless  wrath, 
"  oh,  the  accursed  element !  Oh  that  mine 
enemies  had  attacked  me  on  the  land  ! " 

"  How  are  we  to  act  ?  "  said  Aristides. 

"We  are  citizens  of  a  Republic,  in  which 
the  maiority  govern,"  answered  Cimon.  "  And 
the  majority  here  tell  us  how  we  are  to  act. 
Hark  to  the  shouts  of  our  men,  as  they  are 
opening  way  for  their  kinsmen  of  the  Isles." 

The  sun  sank,  and  with  it  sank  the  Spartan 
maritime  ascendancy  over  Hellas.  And  from 
that  hour  in  which  the  Samian  and  the  Chian 
insulted  the  galley  of  Pansanias,  if  we  accord 
weight  to  the  authority  on  which  Plutarch  must 
have  based  his  tale,  commenced  the  brief  and 
glorious  sovereignty  of  Athens.  Commence 
when  and  how  it  might,  it  was  an  epoch  most 
signal  in  the  records  of  the  ancient  world  for 
its  results  upon  a  civilization  to  which  as  yet 
human  foresight  can  predict  no  end. 


FAUSAN/AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


483 


BOOK    FOURTH, 


CHAPTER    I. 

We  pass  from  Byzantium,  we  are  in  Sparta. 
In  the  Archeion,  or  office  of  the  Ephoralty, 
sate  five  men,  all  somewhat  advanced  in  years. 
These  constituted  that  stern  and  terrible 
authority  which  had  gradually,  and  from  un- 
known beginnings,*  assumed  a  kind  of  tyranny 
over  the  descendants  of  Hercules  themselves. 
They  were  the  representatives  of  the  Spartan 
people,  elected  without  reference  to  rank  or 
wealth,t  and  possessing  jurisdiction  not  only 
over  the  Helots  and  Laconians,  but  over  most 
of  the  magistrates.  They  could  suspend  or 
terminate  any  office,  they  could  accuse  the 
kings  and  bring  them  before  a  court  in  which 
they  themselves  were  judges  upon  trial  of  life 
and  death.  They  exercised  control  over  the 
armies  and  the  embassies  sent  abroad;  and 
the  king,  at  the  head  of  his  forces,  was  still 
bound  to  receive  his  instructions  from  this 
Council  of  Five.  Their  duty,  in  fact,  was  to 
act  as  a  check  ujion  the  kings,  and  they  were 
the  representatives  of  that  Nobility  which  em- 
braced the  whole  Spartan  people,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  the  Laconians  and  Helots. 

The  conference  in  which  they  were  engaged 
seemed  to  rivet  their  most  earnest  attention. 
And  as  the  presiding  Ephor  continued  the 
obsei-vations  he  addressed  to  them,  the  rest 
listened  with  profound  and  almost  breathless 
silence. 


*  K.  O.  Miiller  (Dorians),  Book  3,  c.  7,  §2.  Accord- 
ing to  Aristotle,  Cicero,  and  others,  tlie  Epliorality  was 
founded  by  Theopompus,  subsequently  to  the  mythi- 
cal time  of  Lycurgus.  To  Lycurgus  itself  it  is  referred 
by  Xenophon  and  Herodotus.  Muller  considers  rightly 
that,  though  an  ancient  Doric  institution,  it  was  in- 
compatible with  the  primitive  constitution  of  Lycur- 
gus, and  had  gradually  acquired  its  peculiar  character 
by  cau.ses  operating  on  the  Spartan  State  alone. 

+  Aristot.  Pol.  ii. 


The  speaker,  named  Periclides,  was  older 
than  the  others.  His  frame,  still  upright  and 
sinewy,  was  yet  lean  almost  to  emaciation, 
his  face  sharp,  and  his  dark  eyes  gleamed  with 
a  cunning  and  sinister  light  under  his  grey 
brows. 

"If,"  said  he,  "we  are  to  believe  these 
lonians,  Pausanias  ineditates  some  deadly  in- 
jury to  Greece.  As  for  the  coinplaints  of  his 
arrogance,  they  are  to  be  received  with  due 
caution.  Our  Spartans,  accustomed  to  the 
peculiar  discipline  of  the  Laws  of  ^Cgimius, 
rarely  suit  the  humors  of  lonians  and  innova- 
tors. The  question  to  consider  is  not  whether 
he  has  been  too  imperious  towards  lonians 
who  were  but  the  other  day  subjected  to  the 
Mede,  but  whether  he  can  make  the  com- 
mand he  received  from  Sparta  menacing  to 
Sparta  herself.  We  lend  him  iron,  he  hath 
holpen  himself  to  gold." 

"  Besides  the  booty  at  Platsea,  they  say  that 
he  has  amassed  much  plunder  at  Byzantium," 
said  Zeu.xidamus;  one  of  the  Ephors,  after  a 
pause. 

Periclides  looked  hard  at  the  speaker,  and 
the  two  men  exchanged  a  significant  glance. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  a  third,  a  man  of  a 
severe  but  noble  countenance,  the  father  of 
Lysander,  and,  what  was  not  usual  with  the 
Ephors,  belonging  to  one  of  the  highest 
families  of  Sparta,  "  I  have  always  held  that 
Sparta  should  limit  its  policy  to  self-defence; 
that,  since  the  Persian  invasion  is  over,  we 
have  no  business  with  Byzantium.  Let  the 
busy  Athenians  obtain  if  they  will  the  empire 
of  the  sea.  The  sea  is  no  province  of  ours. 
All  intercourse  with  foreigners,  Asiatics,  and 
lonians,  enervates  our  men  and  corrupts  our 
generals.  Recall  Pausanias — recall  our  Spar- 
tans.    I  have  said." 

"  Recall    Pausanias    first,"    said    Periclides, 


484 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"and  we  shall  then  hear  the  truth,  and  decide 
what  is  best  to  be  done." 

"  If  he  has  medised,  if  he  has  conspired 
against  Greece,  let  us  accuse  him  to  the  death," 
said  Agesilaus,  Lysander's  father. 

•'  We  may  accuse,  but  it  rests  not  with  us 
to  sentence,"  said  Periclides  disapprovingly. 

•'And,"  said  a  fourth  Ephor^  with  a  visible 
shudder,  "what  Spartan  dare  counsel  sentence 
of  death  to  the  descendant  of  the  Gods  ?  " 

"  I  dare,"  replied  Agesilaus,  "  but  provided 
only  that  the  descendant  of  the  Gods  had 
counselled  death  to  Greece.  And  for  that 
reason,  I  say  that  I  would  not,  without  evi- 
dence the  clearest,  even  harbor  the  thought 
that  a  Heracleid  couid  meditate  treason  to  his 
country.' 

Periclides  felt  the  reproof  and  bit  his  lips. 

"Besides,"  observed  Zeu.xidamus,  "fines 
enrich  the  State." 

Periclides  nodded  approvingly. 

As  expression  of  lofty  contempt  passed  over 
the  brow  and  lip  of  Agesilaus.  But  with 
national  self-command,  he  replied  gravely, 
and  with  equal  laconic  brevity,  "  If  Pausanias 
hath  committed  a  trivial  error  that  a  fine  can 
expiate,  so  be  it.  But  talk  not  of  fines  till  ye 
acquit  him  of  all  treasonable  connivance  with 
the  Mede." 

At  that  moment  an  officer  entered  on  the 
conclave,  and  approaching  the  presiding  Ephor, 
whispered  in  his  ear. 

"  This  is  well,"  exclaimed  Periclides  aloud. 
"  A  messenger  from  Pausanias  himself.  Your 
son  Lysander  has  just  arrived  from  Byzan- 
tium." 

"  My  son  !  "  exclaimed  Agesilaus  eagerly, 
and  then  checking  himself,  added  calmly, 
"  That  is  a  sign  no  danger  to  Sparta  threat- 
ened Byzantium  when  he  left." 

"Let  him  be  admitted,"  said  Periclides. 

Lysander  entered;  and  pausing  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  council  board,  inclined  his 
head  submissively  to  the  Ephors;  save  a  rapid 
interchange  of  glances,'  no  separate  greeting 
took  place  between  son  and  father. 

"  Thou  art  welcome,"  said  Periclides. 
"  Thou  hast  done  thy  duty  since  thou  hast 
left  the  city.  Virgins  will  praise  thee  as  the 
brave  man;  age,  more  sober,  is  contented  to 
say  thou  hast  upheld  the  Spartan  name.  And 
thy  father  without  shame  may  take  thy  hand." 

A  warm   flush  spread  over  the  young  man's 


face.  He  stepped  forward  with  a  quick  step, 
his  eyes  beaming  with  joy.  Calm  and  .stately, 
his  father  rose,  clasped  the  extended  hand, 
then  releasing  his  own,  placed  it  an  instant  on 
his  sou's  bended  head,  and  reseated  himself 
in  silence. 

"  Thou  camest  straight  from  Pausanias  !  " 
said  Periclides. 

Lysander  drew  him  from  his  vest  the  de- 
spatch entrusted  to  him,  and  gave  it  to  the  pre- 
siding Ephor.  Periclides  half  rose  as  if  to 
take  with  more  respect  what  had  come  from 
the  hand  of  the  son  of  Hercules. 

"Withdraw,  Lysander,"  he  said,  "  and  wait 
without  while  we  deliberate  on  the  contents 
herein." 

Lysander  obeyed,  and  returned  to  the  outer 
chamber. 

Here  he  was  instantly  surrounded  by  eager 
though  not  noisy  groups.  Some  in  that 
chamber  were  waiting  on  business  connected 
with  the  civil  jurisdiction  of  the  Ephors. 
Some  had  gained  admittance  for  the  purpose 
of  greeting  their  brave  countryman,  and  hear- 
ing news  of  the  distant  camp  from  one  who 
had  so  lately  quitted  the  great  Pausanias. 
For  men  could  talk  without  restraint  of  their 
General,  though  it  was  but  with  reserve  and 
intlirectly  that  they  slid  in  some  furtive  ques- 
tion as  to  the  health  and  safety  of  a  brother  or 
a  son. 

"  My  heart  warms  to  be  amongst  ye  again," 
said  the  simple  Spartan  youth.  "  As  I  came 
thro"  the  defiles  from  the  sea-coast,  and  saw 
on  the  height  the  gleam  from  the  old  Temple 
of  Pallas  Chalcicecus,  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Blessed  be  the  Gods  that  ordained  me  to 
live  with  Spartans  or  die  with  Sparta  ! " 

"  Thou  wilt  see  how  much  we  shall  make  of 
thee,  Lysander,"  cried  a  Spartan  youth  a  little 
younger  than  himself,  one  of  the  superior 
tribe  of  the  Hylieans.  "We  have  heard  of 
thee  at  Plataea.  It  is  said  tliat  had  Pausanias 
not  been  there  thou  wouldst  have  been  called 
the  bravest  Gree/c  in  the  armament." 

"  Hush,"  said  Lysander,  "thy  few  years  ex- 
cuse thee,  young  friend.  Save  our  General, 
we  were  all  equals  in  the  day  of  battle. 

"So  thinks  not  my  sister  Percalus,"  whis- 
pered the  youth  archly;  "  scold  her  as  thou 
dost  me,  if  thou  dare." 

Lysander  colored,  and  replied  in  a  voice 
that  slightly  trembled,  "  I  cannot  hope  that 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SJ'ARl'AiV. 


48s 


thy  sister  interests  herself  in  me.     Nay,  when 

I  left  Sparta,   I   thought "     He   checked 

himself. 

"  Thought  what  ?  " 

"That  among  those  who  remained  behind, 
Percalus  might  find  her  betrothed  long  before 
I  returned." 

"  Among  those  who  remained  behind /  Per- 
calus !     How  meanly  thou  must  think  of  her." 

Before  L3'sander  could  utter  the  eager  as- 
surance that  he  was  very  far  from  thinking 
meanly  of  Percalus,  the  other  bystanders,  im- 
patient at  this  whispered  colloquy,  seized  his 
attention  with  a  volley  of  questions,  to  which 
he  gave  but  curt  and  not  very  relevant  answers, 
so  much  had  the  lad's  few  sentences  disturbed 
the  calm  tenor  of  his  existing  self-possession. 
Nor  did  he  quite  regain  his  presence  of  mind 
until  he  was  once  more  summoned  into  the 
presence  of  the  Ephors. 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  communication  of  Pausanias  had  caused 
an  animated  discussion  in  the  Council,  and  led 
to  a  strong  division  of  o))iiiion.  But  the  faces 
of  the  Ephors,  rigid  and  composed,  revealed 
nothing  to  guide  the  sagacity  of  Lysander,  as 
he  re-entered  the  chamber.  He  himself,  by  a 
■strong  effort,  had  recovered  the  disturbance 
into  which  the  words  of  the  boy  had  thrown 
his  mind,  and  he  stood  before  the  Ephors  intent 
upon  the  object  of  defending  the  name  and 
fulfilling  the  commands  of  his  chief.  So  rev- 
erent and  grateful  was  the  love  that  he  bore 
to  Pausanias,  that  he  scarcely  permitted  him- 
self even  to  blame  the  deviations  from  Spartan 
■austerity  which  he  secretly  mourned  in  his 
mind;  and  as  to  the  grave  guilt  of  treason  to 
the  Hellenic  cause,  he  had  never  suffered  the 
■suspicion  of  it  to  rest  upon  an  intellect  that 
■only  failed  to  the  penetrating  where  its  sight 
was  limited  by  discipline  and  affection.  He 
felt  that  Pausanias  had  entrusted  to  him  his 
defence,  and  though  he  would  fain,  in  his  se- 
cret heart,  have  beheld  the  Regent  once  more 
in  Sparta,  yet  he  well  knew  that  it  was  the  duty 
of  obedience  and  friendship  to  plead  against 
the  sentence  of  recall  which  was  so  dreaded  by 
his  chief. 

With  all  his  thoughts  collected  towards  that  I 


end,  he  stood  before  the   Ephors,  modest  in 
demeanor,  vigilant  in  purpose. 

"  Lysander,"  said  Periclides,  after  a  short 
pause,  "  we  know  thy  affection  to  the  Regent, 
thy  chosen  friend;  but  we  know  also  thy  affec- 
tion for  thy  native  Sparta;  where  the  two 
may  come  into  conflict,  it  is,  and  it  must  be, 
thy  country  which  will  claim  the  preference. 
We  charge  thee,  by  virtue  of  our  high  jwwers 
and  authority,  to  speak  the  truth  on  the  ques- 
tions we  shall  address  to  thee,  without  fear  or 
favor." 

Lysander  bowed  his  head.  "  I  am  in  pres- 
ence of  Sparta  my  mother  and  Agesilaus  my 
father.  They  know  that  I  was  not  reared  to 
lie  to  either." 

"  Thou  say'st  well.  Now  answer.  Is  it 
true  that  Pausanias  wears  the  robes  of  the 
Mede  ? " 

"  It  is  true." 

"  And  has  he  stated  to  thee  his  reasons  ?  " 
"  Not  only  to  me  but  to  others." 
"  What  are  they  ?  " 

"  That  in  the  mixed  and  half  medise  popu- 
lation of  Byzantium,  splendor  of  attire  has  be- 
come so  associated  with  the  notion  of  sov- 
ereign power,  that  the  Eastern  dress  and  attri- 
butes of  pomp  are  esssential  to  authority;  and 
that  men  bow  before  his  tiara  who  might  rebel 
against  the  helm  and  the  horsehair.  Outward 
signs  have  a  value,  O  Ephors,  according  to 
the  notions  men  are  now  brought  up  to  attach 
to  them." 

"  Good,"  said  one  of  the  Ephors.  "  There 
is  in  this  departure  from  our  habits,  be  it  right 
or  wrong,  no  sign  then  of  connivance  with  the 
Barbarian." 

"  Connivance  is  a  thing  secret  and  concealed, 
and  shuns  all  outward  signs." 

"But,"  said  Periclides,  "what  say  the  other 
Spartan  Captains  to  this  vain  fashion,  which 
savors  not  of  the  Laws  of  yEgimius  ?  " 

"  The  first  law  of  j4igimius  commands  us  to 
fight  and  to  die  for  the  king  or  the  chief  who 
has  kingly  sway.  The  Ephors  may  blame,  but 
the  soldier  must  not  question  }  " 

"Thou  speakest  boldly  for  so  young  a 
man,"  said  Periclides  harshly. 

"  I  was  commanded  to  speak  the  truth." 
"  Has  Pausanias  entrusted  the  command  of 
Byzantium    to    Gongylus   the    Eretrian,   who 
already  holds  four  provinces  under  Xerxes  ?  " 
"  He  has  done  so." 


a86 


£  UL  IVEK'S     WORKS. 


"  Know  you  the  reason  for  that  selec- 
tion ?  " 

"  Pausanias  says  that  the  Eretrian  could  not 
more  show  his  faith  to  Hellas  than  by  resign- 
ing Eastern  satrapies  so  vast." 

"  Has  he  resigned  them  ?  " 

"  I  know  not;  but  I  presume  that  when  the 
Persian  King  knows  that  the  Eretrian  is 
leagued  against  him  with  the  other  Captains 
of  Hellas,  he  will  assign  the  satrapies  to 
another." 

"And  is  it  true  that  the  Persian  prisoners, 
Ariamanes  and  Datis,  have  escaped  from  the 
custody  of  Gongylus  !  " 

"It  is  true.  The  charge  against  Gongylus 
for  that  error  was  heard  in  a  council  of  con- 
federate captains,  and  no  proof  against  him 
was  brought  forward.  Cimon  was  entrusted 
with  the  pursuit  of  the  prisoners.  Pausa- 
nias himself  sent  forth  fifty  scouts  on  Thes- 
salian  horses.  The  prisoners  were  not  dis- 
covered." 

"  Is  it  true,"  said  Zeuxidamus,  "  that  Pau- 
sanias has  amassed  much  plunder  at  Byzan- 
tium ? " 

"What  he  has  won  as  a  conqueror  was  as- 
signed to  him  by  common  voice,  but  he  has 
spent  largely  out  of  his  own  resources  in  se- 
curing the  Greek  sway  at  Byzantium." 

There  was  a  silence.  None  liked  to  ques- 
tion the  young  soldier  farther:  none  liked  to 
put  the  direct  question,  whether  or  not  the 
Ionian  Ambassadors  could  have  cause  for  sus- 
pecting the  descendant  of  Hercules  of  harm 
against  the  Greeks.  At  length  Agesilaus 
said:  "I  demand  the  word,  and  I  claim  the 
right  to  speak  plainly.  My  son  is  young,  but 
he  is  of  the  blood  of  Hyllus. 

"  Son — Pausanias  is  dear  to  thee.  Man 
soon  dies:  man's  name  lives  for  ever.  Dear 
to  thee  if  Pausanias  is,  dearer  must  be  his 
name.  In  brief,  the  Ionian  Ambassadors  com- 
plain of  his  arrogance  towards  the  Confederates ; 
they  demand  his  recall.  Cimon  has  addressed 
a  private  letter  to  the  Spartan  host,  with  whom 
he  lodged  here,  intimating  that  it  may  be  best 
for  the  honor  of  Pausanias,  and  for  our  weight 
with  the  allies,  to  hearken  to  the  Ionian  Em- 
bassy. It  is  a  grave  question,  therefore, 
whether  we  should  recall  the  Regent  or  refuse 
to  hear  these  charges.  Thou  art  fresh  from 
Byzantium:  thou  must  know  more  of  this 
matter  than  wo.     Loose  thy  tongue,  put  aside 


equivocation.  Say  thy  mind,  it  is  for  us  to 
decide  afterwards  what  is  our  duty  to  the 
State." 

"  I  thank  thee,  my  father,"  said  I.,ysander, 
coloring  deeply  at  a  compliment  paid  rarely  to 
one  so  young,  "  and  thus  I  answer  thee: 

"  Pausanias,  in  seeking  to  enforce  discipline 
and  preserve  the  Spartan  supremacy,  was  at 
first  somewhat  harsh  and  severe  to  these 
lonians,  who  had  indeed  but  lately  emancipated 
themselves  from  the  Persian  yoke,  and  who 
were  little  accustomed  to  steady  rule.  But  of 
late  he  has  l)een  affable  and  courteous,  and  no 
complaint  was  urged  against  him  for  austerity 
at  the  time  when  this  embassy  was  sent  to 
you.  Wherefore  was  it  then  sent  1  Partly,  it 
may  be,  from  motives  of  private  hate,  not 
public  zeal,  but  partly  because  the  Ionian  race 
sees  with  reluctance  and  jealousy  the  Hege- 
mony of  Sparta.  I  would  sjjcak  plainly.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  say  whether  ye  will  or  not  that 
Sparta  should  retain  the  maritime  supremacy 
of  Hellas,  but  if  ye  do  will  it,  ye  will  not  re- 
call Pausanias.  No  other  than  the  Conqueror 
of  Platasa  has  a  chance  of  maintaining  that 
authority.  Eager  would  the  lonians  be  upon 
any  pretext,  false  or  frivolous,  to  rid  them- 
selves of  Pausanias. 
• 

"  Artfully  willing  would  be  the  Athenians  in 
especial  that  ye  listened  to  such  pretexts;  for, 
Pausanias  gone,  Athens  remains  and  rules. 
On  what  belongs  to  the  policy  of  the  State  it 
becomes  not  me  to  proffer  a  word,  O  Ephors. 
In  what  I  have  said  I  speak  what  the  whole 
armament  thinks  and  murmurs.  But  this  I 
may  say  as  soldier  to  whom  the  honor  of  his 
chief  is  dear.  The  recall  of  Pausanias  may  or 
may  not  be  wise  as  a  public  act,  but  it  will  be 
regarded  throughout  all  Hellas  as  a  personal 
affront  to  your  general ;  it  will  lower  the  royalty 
of  Sparta,  it  will  be  an  insult  to  the  blood  of 
Hercules.  Forgive  me,  O  venerable  magis- 
trates. I  have  fought  by  the  side  of  Pausanias, 
and  I  cannot  dare  to  think  that  the  great  Con- 
queror of  Plataea,  the  man  who  saved  Hellas 
from  the  Mede,  the  man  who  raised  Sparta  on 
that  day  to  a  renown  which  penetrated  the 
farthest  corners  of  the  East,  will  receive  from 
you  other  return  than  fame  and  glory.  And 
fame  and  glory  will  surely  make  that  proud 
spirit  doubly  Spartan." 

Lysander  paused,  breathing  hard  and  color- 
ing deeply — annoyed  with  himself  for  a  speech 


PA  USA NI AS,     THE    SPARTAN: 


487 


of  which  both  the  length  and  the  audacity 
were  much  more  Ionian  than  Spartan. 

The  Ephors  looked  at  each  other,  and  there 
was  again  silence. 

"  Son  of  Agesilaus,"  said  I'ericlides,  "  thou 
hast  proved  thy  Lacedaemonian  virtues  too 
well,  and  too  high  and  general  is  thy  repute 
amongst  our  army,  as  it  is  borne  to  our  ears, 
for  us  to  doubt  thy  purity  and  patriotism; 
otherwise,  w»  might  fear  that  whilst  thou 
speakest  in  some  contempt  of  Ionian  wolves, 
thou  hadst  learned  the  arts  of  Ionian  Agoras. 
But  enough:  thou  art  dismissed.  Go  to  thy 
home;  glad  the  eyes  of  thy  mother;  enjoy  the 
honors  thou  wilt  find  awaiting  thee  amongst 
thy  coevals.  Thou  wilt  learn  later  whether 
thou  return  to  Byzantium  or  whether  a  better 
field  for  thy  valor  may  not  be  found  in  the 
nearer  war  with  which    Arcadia  threatens  us." 

As  soon  as  Lysander  left  the  chamber,  Age- 
silaus spoke: — 

"  Ye  will  pardon  me,  Ephors,  if  I  bade  my 
son  speak  thus  boldly.  I  need  not  say  I  am 
no  vain,  foolish  father,  desiring  to  raise  the 
youth  above  his  years.  But  making  allowance 
for  his  partiality  to  the  Regent,  ye  will  grant 
that  he  is  a  fair  specimen  of  our  young 
soldiery.  Probably,  as  he  speaks,  so  wiJl  our 
young  men  think.  To  recall  Pausanias  is  to 
disgrace  our  general.  Ye  have  my  mind.  If 
the  Regent  be  guilty  of  the  darker  charges  in- 
sinuated— correspondence  with  the  Persian 
against  Greece — I  know  but  one  sentence  for 
him — Death.  And  it  is  because  I  would  have 
ye  consider  well  how  dread  is  such  a  charge, 
and  how  awful  such  a  sentence,  that  I  entreat 
ye  not  lightly  to  entertain  the  one  unless  ye 
are  prepared  to  meditate  the  other.  As  for 
the  maritime  supremacy  of  Sparta,  I  hold,  as  I 
have  held  before,  that  it  is  not  within  our 
councils  to  strive  for  it;  it  must  pass  from  us. 
We  may  surrender  it  later  with  dignity;  if  we 
recall  our  general  on  such  complaints,  we  lose 
it  with  humiliation." 

"  I  agree  with  Agesilaus,"  said  another, 
"  Pausanias  is  an  Heracleid;  my  vote  shall  not 
insult  him." 

"  I  agree  too  with  Agesilaus,"  said  a  third 
Ephor;  "  not  because  Pausanias  is  the  Hera- 
cleid, but  because  he  is  the  victorious  general 
who  demands  gratitude  and  respect  from  every 
true  Spartan." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Periclides,  who,  seemg  him- 


self thus  outvoted  in  the  council,  covered  his 
disappointment  with  the  self-control  habitual 
to  his  race.  "  But  be  we  in  no  hurry  to  give 
these  Ionian  legates  their  answer  to-day.  We 
must  deliberate  well  how  to  send  such  a  reply 
as  may  be  most  conciliating  and  prudent. 
And  for  the  next  few  days  we  have  an  excuse 
for  delay  in  the  religious  ceremonials  due  to 
the  venerable  Divinity  of  Fear,  which  com- 
mence to-morrow.  Pass  we  to  the  other  busi- 
ness before  us;  there  are  many  whom  we  have 
kept  waiting.  Agesilaus,  thou  art  excused 
from  the  public  table  to-day  if  thou  wouldst 
sup  with  thy  brave  son  at  home." 

"Nay,"  said  Agesilaus,  "my  son  will  go  to 
his  pheidition  and  I  to  mine — as  I  did  on  the 
day  when  I  lost  my  first-born." 


CHAPTER  III. 

On  quitting  the  Hall  of  the  Ephors,  Lysan- 
der found  himself  at  once  on  the  Spartan 
Agora,  wherein  that  Hall  was  placed.  This 
was  situated  on  the  highest  of  the  five  hills 
over  which  the  nnwalled  city  spread  its  scat- 
tered population,  and  was  popularly  called  the 
Tower.  Before  the  eyes  of  the  young  Spartan 
rose  the  statues,  rude  and  antique,  of  Latona, 
the  Pythian  Apollo,  and  his  sister  Artemis — 
venerable  images  to  Lysander's  early  associa- 
tions. The  place  which  they  consecrated  was 
called  Chorus;  for  there,  in  honor  of  Apollo, 
and  in  the  most  pompous  of  all  the  Spartan 
festivals,  the  young  men  were  accustomed  to 
lead  the  sacred  dance.  The  Temple  of  Apollo 
himself  stood  a  little  in  the  back-ground,  and 
near  to  it  that  of  Hera.  But  more  vast  than 
any  image  of  a  god  was  a  colossal  statue  which 
represented  the  Spartan  people;  while  on  a  still 
loftier  pinnacle  of  the  hill  than  that  table-land 
which  enclosed  the  Agora — dominating  as  it 
were,  the  whole  city— soared  into  the  bright 
blue  sky  the  sacred  Chalcioecus,  or  Temple  of 
the  Brazen  Pallas,  darkening  with  its  shadow 
another  fane  towards  the  left  dedicated  to  the 
Lacedfemonian  Muses,  and  receiving  a  gleam 
on  the  right  from  the  brazen  statue  of  Zeus, 
which  was  said  by  tradition  to  have  been 
made  by  a  disciple  of  Daedalus  himself. 

But  short  time  had  Lysander  to  note  undis- 
turbed the  old   familiar  scenes.     A  crowd  of 


488 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


his  early  friends  had  already  collected  round 
the  doors  of  the  Archeion,  and  rushed  forward 
to  greet  and  welcome  him.  The  Spartan  cold- 
ness and  austerity  of  social  intercourse  van- 
ished always  before  the  enthusiasm  created 
by  the  return  to  his  native  city  of  a  man  re- 
nowned for  valor;  and  l.ysander's  fame  had 
come  back  to  Sparta  before  himself.  Joy- 
ously, and  in  triumph,  the  young  men  bore 
away  their  comrade.  As  they  passed  through 
the  centre  of  the  Agora,  where  assembled  the 
various  merchants  and  farmers,  who,  under 
the  name  of  Perioeci,  carried  on  the  main  busi- 
ness of  the  Laconian  mart,  and  were  often 
much  wealthier  than  the  Spartan  citizens, 
trade  ceased  its  hubbub;  all  drew  near  to  gaze 
on  the  young  warrior;  and  now,  as  they  turned 
from  the  Agora,  a  group  of  eager  women  met 
them  on  the  road,  and  shrill  voices  exclaimed: 
"Go,  Lysander,  thou  hast  fought  well — go 
and  choose  for  thyself  the  maiden  that  seems 
to  thee  the  fairest.  Go,  marry  and  get  sons 
for  Sparta." 

Lysander's  steps  seemed  to  tread  on  air, 
and  tears  of  rapture  stood  in  his  downcast 
eyes.  But  suddenly  all  the  voices  hushed; 
the  crowds  drew  back;  his  friends  halted. 
Close  by  the  great  Temple  of  Fear,  and  com- 
ing from  some  place  within  its  sanctuary,  there 
approached  towards  the  Spartan  and  his  com- 
rades a  majestic  woman — a  woman  of  so  grand 
a  step  and  port  that,  though  her  veil  as  yet  hid 
her  face,  her  form  alone  sufficed  to  inspire 
awe.  All  knew  her  by  her  gait:  all  made  way 
for  Alithea,  the  widow  of  a  king,  the  mother  of 
Pausanias  the  Regent.  Lysander,  lifting  his 
eyes  from  the  ground,  impressed  by  the  hush 
around  him,  recognized  the  form  as  it  ad- 
vanced slowly  towards  him,  and,  leaving  his 
comrades  behind,  stepped  forward  to  salute 
the  mother  of  his  chief.  She,  thus  seeing  him, 
turned  slightly  aside,  and  paused  by  a  rude 
building  of  immemorial  antiquity  which  stood 
near  the  temple.  That  building  was  the  tomb 
of  the  mythical  Orestes,  whose  bones  were  said 
to  have  been  interred  there  by  the  command 
of  the  Delphian  Oracle.  On  a  stone  at  the 
foot  of  the  tomb  sate  calmly  down  the  veiled 
woman,  and  waited  the  approach  of  Lysander. 
When  he  came  near,  and  alone — all  the  rest 
remaining  aloof  and  silent — Alithea  removed 
her  veil,  and  a  countenance  grand  and  terrible 
as  that  of  Fate    lifted  its  rig-id    looks   to  the 


young  Spartan's  eyes.  Despite  her  age— for 
she  had  passed  into  middle  life  before  she  had 
borne  Pausanias — Alithea  retained  all  the 
traces  of  a  marvellous  and  almost  preter-hu- 
man  beauty.  But  it  was  not  the  beauty  of 
woman.  No  softness  sate  on  those  lips;  no 
love  beamed  from  those  eyes.  Stern,  inexor- 
able— not  a  fault  in  her  grand  proportions — 
the  stoutest  heart  might  have  felt  a  throb  of 
terror  as  the  eye  rested  upon  that  pitiless  and 
imposing  front.  And  the  dee])  voice  of  the 
Spartan  warrior  had  a  slight  tremor  in  its  tone 
as  it  uttered  its  respectful  salutation. 

"  Draw  near,  Lysander.  What  sayest  thou 
of  my  son  ?  " 

"  I  left  him  well,  and " 

"  Does  a  Spartan  mother  first  ask  of  the 
bodily  health  of  an  absent  man-child  ?  By 
the  tomb  of  Orestes  and  near  the  Temple  of 
Fear,  a  king's  widow  asks  a  Spartan  soldier 
what  he  says  of  a  Spartan  chief." 

"  All  Hellas,"  replied  I,ysander,  recovering 
his  spirit,  ."  might  answer  thee  best,  Alithea. 
For  all  Hellas  proclaimed  that  the  bravest 
man  at  Plataea  was  thy  son,  my  chief." 

"  And  where  did  m)'  son,  thy  chief,  learn 
to  boast  of  bravery  ?  They  tell  me  he  in- 
scribed the  offerings  to  the  Gods  with  his 
name  as  the  victor  of  Platfea — the  battle  won 
not  by  one  man  but  assembled  Greece.  The 
inscription  that  dishonors  him  by  its  vainglory 
will  be  erased.  To  be  brave  is  nought.  Bar- 
barians inay  be  brave.  But  to  dedicate 
bravery  to  his  native  land  becomes  a  Spartan. 
He  who  is  everything  against  a  foe  should 
count  himself  as  nothing  in  the  service  of  his 
country." 

Lysander  remained  silent  under  the  gaze  of 
those  fixed  and  imperious  eyes. 

"Youth,"  said  Alithea,  after  a  short  pause, 
"if  thou  returnest  to  Byzantium,  say  this 
from  Alithea  to  thy  chief:  'From  thy  child- 
hood, Pausanias,  has  thy  mother  feared  for 
thee;  and  at  the  Temple  of  Fear  did  she  sac- 
rifice when  she  heard  that  thou  wert  victorious 
at  Plataea;  for  in  thy  heart  are  the  seeds  of 
arrogance  and  pride;  and  victory  to  thine 
arms  may  end  in  ruin  to  thy  name.  And  ever 
since  that  day  does  Alithea  haunt  the  pre- 
cincts of  that  temple.  Come  back  and  i)e 
Spartan,  as  thine  ancestors  were  before  thee, 
and  Alithea  will  rejoice  and  think  the  Gods 
have   heard    her.     But   if   thou    seest   within 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


489 


thyself  one  cause  why  thy  mother  should 
-sacrifice  to  Fear,  lest  her  son  should  break 
the  laws  of  Sparta,  or  sully  his  Spartan  name, 
humble  thyself,  and  mourn  that  thou  didst  not 
perish  at  Plataea.  By  a  temple  and  from  a 
tomb  I  send  thee  warning.'  Say  this  I  have 
done;  join  thy  friends." 

Again  the  veil  fell  over  the  face,  and  the 
figure  of  the  woman  remained  seated  at  the 
tomb  long  after  the  procession  had  passed 
on,  and  the  mirth  of  young  voices  was  again 
released. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

The  group  that  attended  Lysander  contin- 
ued to  swell  as  he  mounted  the  acclivity  on 
which  his  parental  home  was  placed.  The 
houses  of  the  Spartan  proprietors  were  at  that 
day  not  closely  packed  together  as  in  the 
<lense  population  of  commercial  towns.  More 
like  the  villas  of  a  suburb,  they  lay  a  little 
apart,  on  the  unequal  surface  of  the  rugged 
ground,  perfectly  plain  and  unadorned,  cov- 
■ering  a  large  space  with  ample  court-yards, 
closed  in,  in  front  of  the  narrow  streets.  And 
still  was  in  force  the  primitive  law  which  or- 
<lained  that  doorways  should  be  shaped  only 
by  the  saw,  and  the  ceilings  by  the  axe;  but 
in  contrast  to  the  rudeness  of  the  private 
houses,  at  every  opening  in  the  street  were 
seen  the  Doric  pillars  or  graceful  stairs  of  a 
temple;  and  high  over  all  dominated  the 
Tower-hill,  or  Acropolis,  with  the  antique  fane 
of  Pallas  Chalcioecus 

And  so,  loiid  and  joyous,  the  procession 
bore  the  young  warrior  to  the  threshold  of  his 
home.  It  was  an  act  of  public  honor  to  his 
fair  repute  and  his  proven  valor.  And  the 
Spartan  felt  as  proud  of  that  unceremonies  at- 
tendance as  ever  did  Roman  chief  sweeping 
under  arches  of  triumph  in  the  curule  car. 

At  the  threshold  of  the  door  stood  his 
mother — for  the  tidings  of  his  coming  had 
preceded  him — and  his  little  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. His  step  quickened  at  the  sight  of  these 
beloved  faces. 

"Bound  forward,  Lysander,"  said  one  of 
the  train:  "thou  hast  won  the  right  to  thy 
mother's  kiss." 

"But  fail  us  not  at  the  pheidition  before 
sunset,"  cried   another,     "  Every  one  of  the 


obe  will  send  his  best  coritribution  to  the  feast 
to  welcome  thee  back.  We  shall  have  a  rare 
banquet  of  it." 

And  so,  as  his  mother  drew  him  within  the 
doors,  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  the 
children  clung  to  his  cloak,  to  his  knees,  or 
sprung  up  to  claim  his  kiss,  the  procession  set 
up  a  kind  of  chaunted  shout,  and  left  the 
warrior  in  his  home. 

"Oh,  this  is  joy,  joy  !  "  said  Lysander,  with 
sweet  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he  sat  in  the  women's 
apartment,  his  mother  by  his  side,  and  the 
little  ones  round  him.  "Where,  save  in 
Sparta,  does  a  man  love  a  home  ? " 

And  this  exclamation,  which  might  have  as- 
tonished an  Ionian — seeing  how  much  the 
Spartan  civilians  merged  the  individual  in  the 
state — was  yet  true,  where  the  Spartan  was 
wholly  Spartan,  where,  by  habit  and  associa- 
tion, he  had  learned  to  love  the  severities  of 
the  existence  that  surrounded  him,  and  where 
the  routine  of  duties  which  took  him  from  his 
home,  whether  for  exercises  or  the  public 
tables,  made  )'et  more  precious  the  hours  of 
rest  and  intimate  intercourse  with  his  family. 
For  the  gay  pleasures  and  lewd  resorts  of 
other  Greek  cities  were  not  known  to  the  Spar- 
tan. Not  for  him  were  the  cook-shops  and 
baths  and  revels  of  Ionian  idlers.  When  the 
State  ceased  to  claim  him,  he  had  nothing  but 
his  Home. 

As  Lysander  thus  exclaimed,  the  door  of 
the  room  had  opened  noiselessly,  and  Agesi- 
laus  stood  unperceived  at  the  entrance,  and 
overheard  his  son.  His  face  brightened  sin- 
gularly at  Lysander's  words.  He  came  forward 
and  opened  his  arms. 

"  Embrace  me  now,  my  boy  !  my  brave 
boy  !  embrace  me  now  !  The  Ephors  are  not 
here." 

Lysander  turned,  sprang  up,  and  was  in  his 
father's  arms. 

"  So  thou  art  not  changed.  ByEantium  has 
not  spoiled  thee.  Thy  name  is  uttered  with 
praise  unmixed  with  fear.  All  Persia's  gold, 
all  the  great  king's  Satrapies  could  not  medise 
my  Lysander.  Ah,"  continued  the  father, 
turning  to  his  wife,  "  who  could  have  predicted 
the  happiness  of  this  hour  ?  Poor  child  !  he 
was  born  sickly.  Hera  had  already  given  us 
more  sons  than  we  could  provide  for,  ere  our 
lands  were  increased  by  the  death  of  thy  child- 
less relatives.     Wife,  wife  !  when  the   family 


49C 


BULWKR'S     WORKS. 


council  ordained  him  to  be  exposed  on  Tayge- 
tus,  when  thou  didst  hide  thyself  lest  thy  tears 
should  be  seen,  and  my  voice  trembled  as  I 
said,  '  Be  the  laws  obeyed,'  who  could  have 
guessed  that  the  gods  would  yet  preserve  him 
to  be  the  pride  of  our  house  ?  Blessed  be 
Zeus  the  saviour  and  Hercules  the  warrior  !  " 

"And,"  said  the  mother,  "  blessed  be  Pau- 
sanias,  the  descendant  of  Hercules,  who  took 
the  forlorn  infant  to  his  father's  home,  and 
who  has  reared  him  now  to  be  the  example  of 
Spartan  youths." 

"  Ah,"  said  Lysander,  looking  up  into  his 
father's  eyes,  "  if  I  can  ever  be  worthy  of  your 
love,  O  my  father,  forget  not  I  pray  thee,  that 
it  is  to  Pausanias  I  owe  life,  home,  and  a 
Spartan's  glorious  destiny." 

"  I  forget  it  not,"  answered  Agesilaus,  with 
a  mournful  and  serious  expression  of  counte- 
nance. "  And  on  this  I  would  speak  to  thee 
Thy  mother  must  spare  thee  awhile  to  me. 
Come.  I  lean  on  thy  shoulder  instead  of  my 
staff." 

Agesilaus  led  his  son  into  the  large  hall, 
which  was  the  main  chamber  of  the  house; 
and  pacing  up  and  down  the  wide  and  solitary 
floor,  questioned  him  closely  as  to  the  truth  of 
the  stories  respecting  the  Regent  which  had 
reached  the  Ephors. 

"  Thou  must  speak  with  naked  heart  to 
me,"  said  Agesilaus;  "  for  I  tell  thee  that,  if  I 
am  Spartan,  I  am  also  man  and  father;  and  I 
would  serve  him  who  saved  thy  life  and 
taught  thee  how  to  fight  for  thy  country,  in 
every  way  that  may  be  lawful  to  a  Spartan 
and  a  Greek." 

Thus  addressed,  and  convinced  of  his 
father's  sincerity,  Lysander  replied  with  in- 
genuous and  brief  simplicity.  He  granted 
that  Pausanias  had  exposed  himself  with  a 
haughty  imprudence,  which  it  was  difficult  to 
account  for,  to  the  charges  of  the  lonians. 
"But,"  he  added,  with  that  shrewd  observation 
which  his  affection  for  Pausanias  rather  than 
his  experience  of  human  nature  had  taught 
him — "  But  we  must  remember  that  in  Pausa- 
nias we  are  dealing  with  no  ordinary  man. 
If  he  has  faults  of  judgment,  which  a  Spartan 
rarely  commits,  he  has,  O  my  father,  a  force 
of  intellect  and  passion  which  a  Spartan  as 
rarely  knows.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  truth? 
Our  State  is  too  small  for  him.  But  would  it 
not  have  been  too  small  for  Hercules  ?     Would 


the  laws  of  y^Jgimius  have  permitted  Hercules 
to  perform  his  labors  and  achieve  his  con- 
quests ?  This  vast  and  fiery  nature  suddenly 
released  from  the  cramps  of  our  customs, 
which  Pausanias  never  in  his  youth  regarded 
save  as  galling,  expands  itself,  as  an  eagle  long 
caged  would  outspread  its  wings." 

"  I  comprehend,"  said  Agesilaus  thought- 
fully, and  somewhat  sadly.  "  There  have  been 
moments  in  my  own  life  when  I  regarded 
Sparta  as  a  prison.  In  my  early  manhood  I 
was  sent  on  a  mission  to  Corinth.  Its  pleas- 
ures, its  wild  tumult  of  gay  licence,  dazzled 
and  inebriated  me.  I  said,  '  This  is  to  live.' 
I  came  back  to  Sparta  sullen  and  discontented. 
But  then,  happily,  I  saw  thy  mother  at  the 
festival  of  Diana — we  loved  each  other,  we 
married — and  when  I  was  permitted  to  take 
her  to  my  home,  I  became  sobered  and  was  a 
Spartan  again.  I  comprehend.  Poor  Pausa- 
nias !  But  luxury  and  pleasure,  though  they 
charm  awhile,  do  not  fill  up  the  whole  of  a  soul 
like  that  of  our  Heracleid.  From  these  he 
may  recover;  but  Ambition — that  is  the  true 
liver  of  Tantalus,  and  grows  larger  under  the 
beak  that  feeds  on  it.  What  is  his  ambition, 
if  Sparta  be  too  small  for  him  ? " 

"  I  think  his  ambition  would  be  to  make 
Sparta  as  big  as  himself." 

Agesilaus  stroked  his  chin  musingly. 

"  And  how  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  1  can  only  guess.  But  the 
Persjan  war,  if  I  may  judge  by  what  I  hear  and 
see,  cannot  roll  away  and  leave  the  boundaries 
of  each  Greek  State  the  same.  Two  States 
now  stand  forth  prominent,  Athens  and  S|»rta. 
Themistocles  and  Cimon  aim  at  making  Athens 
the  head  of  Hellas.  Perhaps  Pausanias  aims 
to  effect  for  Sparta  what  they  would  effect  for 
Athens." 

"  And  what  thinkest  thou  of  such  a 
scheme  ? " 

"  Ask  me  not.  1  am  too  young,  too  inex- 
perienced, and  perhaps  too  Spartan  to  answer 
rightly." 

"  Too  Spartan,  because  thou  art  too  covetous 
of  power  for  Sparta." 

"  Too  Spartan,  because  I  may  be  too  anxious 
to  keep  Sparta  what  she  is." 

Agesilaus  smiled.  "AVe  are  of  the  same 
mind,  my  son.  Think  not  that  the  rocky  defiles 
which  enclose  us  shut  out  from  our  minds  all  the 
ideas  that  new  circumstance  strikes  from  Time. 


PA  USA  iV J  AS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


491 


I  have  meditated  on  what  thou  sayest  Pau- 
sanias  may  scheme.  It  is  true  that  the  inva- 
sion of  the  Mede  must  tend  to  raise  up  one 
State  in  Greece  to  which  the  others  will  look 
for  a  head.  I  have  asked  myself,  can  Sparta 
be  that  State  ?  and  my  reason  tells  me,  No. 
Sparta  is  lost  if  she  attempt  it.  She  may  be- 
come something  else,  but  she  cannot  be  Sparta. 
Such  a  State  must  become  maritime,  and  de- 
pend on  fleets.  Our  inland  situation  forbids 
this.  True  we  have  ports  in  which  the  Perioeci 
flourish;  but  did  we  use  them  for  a  permanent 
policy  the  Perioeci  must  become  our  masters. 
There  live  villages  would  be  abandoned  for  a 
mart  on  the  sea-shore.  This  mother  of  men 
would  be  no  more.  A  State  that  so  as]3ires 
must  have  ample  wealth  at  its  command.  We 
have  none.  We  might  raise  tribute  from  other 
Greek  cities,  but  for  that  purpose  we  must 
have  fleets  again,  to  overawe  and  compel,  for 
no  tribute  will  be  long  voluntary.  A  state  that 
would  be  the  active  governor  of  Hellas  must 
have  lives  to  spare  in  abundance.  We  have 
none,  unless  we  always  do  hereafter  as  we  did 
at  Platjea,  raise  an  army  of  Helots — seven 
Helots  to  one  Spartan.  How  long,  if  we  did 
so,  would  the  Helots  obey  us,  and  meanwhile 
how  would  our  lands  be  cultivated  ?  A  State 
that  would  be  the  centre  of  Greece,  must  cul- 
tivate all  that  can  charm  and  allure  strangers. 
We  banish  strangers,  and  what  charms  and  al- 
lures them  would  womanize  us.  More  than 
all,  a  State  that  would  obtain  the  sympathies 
of  the  turbulent  Hellenic  populations  must 
have  the  most  popular  institutions.  It  must 
be  governed  by  a  Demus.  We  are  an  Oligar- 
chic Aristocracy — a  disciplined  camp  of  war- 
riors, not  a  licentious  Agora.  Therefore, 
Sparta  cannot  assume  the  head  of  a  Greek 
Confederacy  except  in  the  rare  seasons  of 
actual  war;  and  the  attempt  to  make  her  the 
head  of  such  a  confederacy  would  cause 
changes  so  repugnant  to  our  manners  and 
habits,  that  it  would  be  fraught  with  destruc- 
tion to  him  who  made  the  attempt,  or  to  us  if 
he  succeeded.  Wherefore,  to  sum  up,  the  am- 
bition of  Pausanias  is  in  this  impracticable, 
and  must  be  opposed." 

"  And  Athens,"  cried  Lysander,  with  a  slight 
pang  of  natural  and  national  jealousy,  "  Athens 
then  must  wrest  from  Pausanias  the  hegemony 
he  now  holds  for  Sparta,  and  Athens  must  be 
what  the  Athenian  ambition  covets." 


"We  cannot  help  it — she  must;  but  can  it 
last  ?— Impossible.  And  woe  to  her  if  she  ever 
comes  in  contact  with  the  bronze  of  Laconian 
shields.  But  in  the  meanwhile  what  is  to  be 
done  with  this  great  and  awful  Heracleid  f 
They  accuse  him  of  medising,  of  secret  con- 
spiracy with  Persia  itself.  Can  that  be  pos- 
sible?" 

"  If  so,  it  is  but  to  use  Persia  on  behalf  of 
Sparta.  If  he  would  subdue  Greece,  it  is  not 
for  the  king,  it  is  for  the  race  of  Hercules." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay,"  cried  Agesilaus,  shading  his- 
face  with  his  hand.  "  All  becomes  clear  to 
me  now.  Listen.  Did  I  openly  defend  Pau- 
sanias before  the  Ephors,  I  should  injure  his 
cause.  But  when  they  talk  of  his  betraying 
Hellas  and  Sparta,  I  place  before  them  nakedly 
and  broadly  their  duty  if  that  charge  be  true. 
For  if  true,  O  my  son,  Pausanias  must  die  as. 
criminals  die." 

"  Die  —  criminal  —  an  Heracleid  —  king's 
blood — the  victor  of  Plataea — my  friend  Pau- 
sanias ! " 

"  Rather  he  than  Sparta.  What  sayest 
thou?" 

"  Neither,  neither,"  exclaimed  Lysander, 
wringing  his  hands — "  impossible  both." 

"  Impossible  both,  be  it  so,  I  place  before 
the  Ephors  the  terrors  of  accrediting  that 
charge,  in  order  that  they  may  repudiate  it. 
For  the  lesser  ones  it  matters  not;  he  is  in  no- 
danger  there,  save  that  of  fine.  And  his 
gold,"  added  Agesilaus  with  a  curved  lip  of 
disdain,  "will  both  condemn  and  save  him. 
For  the  rest  I  would  spare  him  the  dishonor 
of  being  publicly  recalled,  and  to  say  truth. 
I  would  save  Sparta  the  peril  she  might  incur 
from  his  wrath,  if  she  inflicted  on  him  that 
slight.  But  mark  me,  he  himself  must  resign 
his  command,  voluntarily,  and  return  to  Sparta. 
Better  so  for  him  and  his  pride,  for  he  cannot 
keep  the  hegemony  against  the  will  of  the 
lonians,  whose  fleet  is  so  much  larger  thaa 
ours,  and  it  is  to  his  gain  if  his  successor  lose 
it,  not  he.  But  better,  not  only  for  his  pride, 
but  for  his  glory  and  his  name,  that  he  should 
come  from  these  scenes  of  fierce  temptation, 
and,  since  birth  made  him  a  Spartan,  learn 
here  again  to  conform  to  what  he  cannot 
change.  I  have  spoken  thus  plainly  to  thee. 
Use  the  words  I  have  uttered  as  thou  best 
may,  after  thy  return  to  Pausanias,  which  1 
will  strive  to  make  speedy.     But  while  we  talk 


492 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


there  goes  on  danger — danger  still  of  his 
abrupt  recall — for  there  are  those  who  will 
seize  every  excuse  for  it.  Enough  of  these 
^rave  matters;  the  sun  is  sinking  towards  the 
west,  and  thy  companions  await  thee  at  thy 
feast;  mine  will  be  eager  to  greet  me  on  thy 
return,  and  thy  little  brothers,  who  go  with  me 
to  my  pheidition,  will  hear  thee  so  praised  that 
they  will  long  for  the  crypteia — long  to  be 
men,  and  find  some  future  Plataea  for  them- 
selves. May  the  gods  forbid  it  !  War  is  a 
terrible  unsettler.  Time  saps  States  as  a  tide 
the  cliff.  War  is  an  inundation,  and  when  it 
«bbs,  a  landmark  has  vanished." 


CHAPTER  V. 

Nothing  so  largely  contributed  to  the  pe- 
culiar character  of  Spartan  society  as  the 
uniform  custom  of  taking  the  princpal  meal  at 
a  public  table.  It  conduced  to  four  objects: 
the  precise  status  of  aristocracy,  since  each 
table  was  formed  according  to  title  and  rank, 
— equality  among  aristocrats,  since  each  at 
the  same  table  was  held  the  equal  of  the  other 
— military  union,  for  as  they  feasted  so  they 
fought,  being  formed  into  divisions  in  the 
field  according  as  they  messed  together  at 
home;  and  lastly,  that  sort  of  fellowship  in 
public  opinion  which  intimate  associations 
amongst  those  of  the  same  rank  and  habit 
naturally  occasions.  These  tables  in  Sparta 
were  supplied  by  private  contributions;  each 
head  of  a  family  was  obliged  to  send  a  cer- 
tain portion  at  his  own  cost,  and  according  to 
the  number  of  his  children.  If  his  fortune  did 
not  allow  him  to  do  this,  he  was  excluded  from 
the  public  tables.  Hence  a  certain  fortune 
was  indispensable  to  the  pure  Spartan,  and 
this  was  one  reason  why  it  was  permitted  to 
expose  infants,  if  the  family  threatened  to  be 
too  large  for  the  father's  means.  The  gen- 
eral arrangements  were  divided  into  syssitia, 
according,  perhaps,  to  the  number  of  families, 
and  correspondent  to  the  divisions  or  obes 
acknowledged  by  the  State.  But  these  larger 
sections  were  again  subdivided  into  companies 
or  clubs  of  fifteen,  vacancies  being  filled  up  by 
ballot;  but  one  vote  could  exclude.  And 
since,  as  we  have  said,  the  companies  were 
marshalled  in  the  field  according  to  their  as- 
sociation at  the  table,  it  is  clear  that  fathers 


of  grave  years  and  of  high  station  (station  in 
Sparta  increased  with  years)  could  not  "have 
belonged  to  the  same  table  as  the  young  men, 
their  sons.  Their  boys  under  a  certain  age 
they  took  to  their  own  pheiditia,  where  the 
children  sat  upon  a  lower  bench,  and  j^artook 
of  the  simplest  dishes  of  the  fare. 

Though  the  cheer  of  these  public  tables 
was  habitually  plain,  yet  upon  occasion  it  was 
enriched  by  presents  to  the  after-course,  of 
game  and  fruit. 

Lysander  was  received  by  his  old  comrades 
with  that  cordiality  in  which  was  mingled  for 
the  first  time  a  certain  manly  respect,  due  to 
feats  in  battle,  and  so  flattering  to  the  young. 

The  prayer  to  the  Gods,  corres|X)ndent  to 
the  modern  grace,  and  the  pious  libations  be- 
ing concluded,  the  attendant  Helots  served 
the  black  broth,  and  the  party  fell  to,  with  the 
appetite  produced  by  hardy  exercise  and 
mountain  air. 

"  What  do  the  allies  say  to  the  black  broth  ?  " 
asked  a  young  Spartan. 

"  They  do  not  comprehend  its  merits,"  an- 
swered Lysander. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Everything  in  the  familiar  life  to  which  h^ 
had  returned  delighted  the  young  Lysander. 
But  for  anxious  thoughts  about  Pausanias,  h« 
would  have  been  supremely  blest.  To  him 
the  various  scenes  of  his  early  years  brought 
no  associations  of  the  restraint  and  harshness 
which  revolted  the  more  luxurious  nature  and 
the  fiercer  genius  of  Pausanias.  The  plunge 
into  the  frigid  waters  of  Eurotas — the  sole 
bath  permitted  to  the  Spartans  *  at  a  time 
when  then  the  rest  of  Greece  had  already  car- 
ried the  art  of  bathing  into  voluptuous  refine- 
ment— the  sight  of  the  vehement  contests  of 
the  boys,  drawn  up  as  in  battle,  at  the  game 
of  football,  or  in  detached  engagements,  spar- 
ing each  other  so  little,  that  the  popular  belief 
out  of  Sparta  was  that  they  were  permitted  to 
tear   out   each   other's    eyes,f  but  subjecting 

*  Except  occasionally  the  dry  sudorific  bath,  all 
warm  bathing  was  strictly  forbidden  as  enervating. 

t  An  evident  exaggeration.  The  Spartans  had  too 
great  a  regard  for  the  physical  gifts  as  essential  to 
warlike  uses,  to  permit  cruelties  that  would  have 
blinded  their  young  warriors.  And  they  even  forbade 
the  practice  of  tht  pancratium  as  ferocious  and  need- 
lessly dangerous  to  life. 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


49S 


strength  m  every  skilful  art  that  gymnastics 
could  teach — the  mimic  war  on  the  island, 
near  the  antique  trees  of  the  Plane  Garden, 
waged  with  weapons  of  wood  and  blunted  iron, 
and  the  march  regulated  to  the  music  of  flutes 
and  lyres— nay,  even  the  sight  of  the  stern 
altar,  at  which  boys  had  learned  to  bear  the 
anguish  of  stripes  without  a  murmur — all  pro- 
duced in  this  primitive  and  intensely  national 
intelligence  an  increased  admiration  for  the 
ancestral  laws,  which,  carrying  patience,  forti- 
tude, address  and  strength  to  the  utmost  per- 
fection, had  formed  a  handful  of  men  into  the 
calm  lords  of  a  fierce  population,  and  placed 
the  fenceless  villages  of  Sparta  beyond  a  fear  of 
the  external  assaults  and  the  civil  revolutions 
which  perpetually  stormed  the  citadels  and 
agitated  the  market-places  of  Hellenic  cities. 
His  was  not  the  mind  to  perceive,  that  much 
was  relinquished  for  the  sake  of  that  which 
was  gained,  or  to  comprehend  that  there  was 
more  which  consecrates  humanity  in  one 
stormy  day  of  Athens,  than  in  a  serene  century 
of  iron  Lacedsemon.  But  there  is  ever  beauty 
of  soul  where  there  is  enthusiastic  love  of 
country;  and  the  young  Spartan  was  wise  in 
his  own  Dorian  way. 

The  religious  festival  which  had  provided 
the  Ephors  with  an  excuse  for  delaying  their 
answer  to  the  Ionian  envoys  occupied  the  city. 
The  youths  and  the  maidens  met  in  the  sacred 
chorus;  and  Lysander,  standing  by  amidst  the 
gazers,  suddenly  felt  his  heart  beat.  A  boy 
pulled  him  by  the  skirt  of  his  mantle. 

"Lysander,  hast  thou  yet  scolded  Percalus  ? " 
said  the  boy's  voice,  archly. 

"  My  young  friend,"  answered  Lysander, 
coloring  high,  "Percalus  hath  vouchsafed  me 
as  yet  no  occasion;  and,  indeed,  she  alone,  of 
all  the  friends  whom  I  left  behind,  does  not 
seem  to  recognize  me." 

His  eyes,  as  he  spoke,  rested  with  a  mute 
reproach  in  their  gaze  on  the  form  a  virgin, 
who  had  just  paused  in  the  choral  dance,  and 
whose  looks  were  bent  obdurately  on  the 
ground.  Her  luxuriant  hair  was  drawn  up- 
ward from  cheek  and  brow,  braided  into  a 
knot  at  the  crown  of  the  head,  in  the  fashion 
so  trying  to  those  who  have  neither  bloom  nor 
beauty,  so  exquisitely  becoming  to  those  who 
have  both;  and  the  maiden,  even  amid  Spartan 
girls,  was  pre-eminently  lovely.  It  is  true  that 
the  sun  had  somewhat  embrowned  the  smooth 


cheek;  but  the  stately  throat  and  the  rounded 
arms  were  admirably  fair — not,  indeed,  with 
the  pale  and  dead  whiteness  which  the  Ionian 
women  sought  to  obtain  by  art,  but  with  the 
delicate  rose-hue  of  Hebe's  youth.  Her  gar- 
ment of  snow-white  wool,  fastened  over  both 
shoulders  with  large  golden  clasps,  was  with- 
out sleeves,  fitting  not  too  tightly  to  the  har- 
monious form,  and  leaving  more  than  the 
ankle  free  to  the  easy  glide  of  the  dance. 
Taller  than  Hellenic  women  usually  were,  but 
about  the  average  height  of  her  Spartan  com- 
panions, her  shape  was  that  which  the  sculptors 
give  to  Artemis.  Light  and  feminine  and 
virginlike,  but  with  all  the  rich  vitality  of  a 
divine  youth,  with  a  force  not  indeed  of  a  man, 
but  such  as  art  would  give  to  the  goddess 
whose  step  bounds  over  the  mountain  top,  and 
whose  arm  can  launch  the  shaft  from  the  silver 
bow — yet  was  there  something  in  the  mien 
and  face  of  Percalus  more  subdued  and  bash- 
ful than  in  those  of  most  of  the  girls  around 
her;  and,  as  if  her  ear  had  caught  Lysander's 
words,  a  smile  just  now  played  round  her  lips, 
and  gave  to  all  the  countenance  a  wonderful 
sweetness.  Then,  as  it  became  her  turn  once 
more  to  join  in  the  circling  measure  she  lifted 
her  eyes,  directed  them  full  upon  the  young 
Spartan,  and  the  eyes  said  plainly,  "  Ungrate- 
ful !     I  forget  thee  !     I  !  " 

It  was  but  one  glance,  and  she  seemed  again 
wholly  intent  upon  the  dance;  but  Lysander 
felt  as  if  he  had  tasted  the  nectar,  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  courts  of  the  Gods.  No 
further  approach  was  made  by  either,  although 
intervals  in  the  evening  permitted  it.  But  if 
on  the  one  hand  there  was  in  Sparta  an  inter- 
course between  the  youth  of  both  sexes  wholly 
unknown  in  most  of  the  Grecian  States,  and  if 
that  intercourse  made  marriages  of  love  espe- 
cially more  common  there  than  elsewhere,  yet, 
when  love  did  actually  exist,  and  was  acknowl- 
edged by  some  young  pair,  they  shunned  public 
notice;  the  passion  became  a  secret,  or  con- 
fidants to  it  were  few.  Then  came  the  charm  ^^ 
of  stealth: — to  woo  and  to  win,  as  if  the  treas-  "* 
ure  were  to  be  robbed  by  a  lover  from  the 
Heaven  unknown  to  man.  Accordingly  Ly- 
sander now  mixed  with  the  spectators,  con- 
versed cheerfully,  only  at  distant  intervals 
permitted  his  eyes  to  turn  to  Percalus,  and 
when  her  part  in  the  chorus  had  concluded,  a 
sign,  undetected  by  others,  seemed  to  have  been 


494 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


exchanged  l)etween  them,  and,  a  little  while  after 
Lysander  had  disappeared  from  the  assemtily. 
He  wandered  down  the  street  called  the 
Aphetais,  and  after  a  little  while  the  vray 
became  perfectly  still  and  lonely,  for  the 
inhabitants  had  crowded  to  the  sacred  festival, 
and  the  houses  lay  quiet  and  scattered.  So  he 
went  on,  passing-  the  ancient  temple  in  which 
Ulysses  is  said  to  have  dedicated  a  statue  in 
honor  of  his  victory  in  the  race  over  the  suitors 
of  Penelope,  and  paused  where  the  ground  lay 
bare  and  rugged  around  many  a  monument  to 
the  fabled  chiefs  of  the  heroic  age.  Upon  a 
crag  that  jutted  over  a  silent  hollow,  covered 
with  oleander  and  arbute  and  here  and  there 
the  wild  rose,  the  young  lover  sat  down,  wait- 
ing patiently;  for  the  eyes  of  Percalus  had  told 
him  he  should  not  wait  in  vain.  Afar  he  saw, 
in  the  exceeding  clearness  of  the  atmosphere, 
the  Taenarium  or  Temple  of  Neptune,  unpro- 

■  phetic  of  the  dark  connection  that  shrine 
would  hereafter  have  with  him  whom  he  then 
honored  as  a  chief  worthy,  after  death,  of  a 
monument  amidst  those  heroes:  and  the  gale 
that  cooled  his  forehead  wandered  to  him 
from  the  field  of  the  Hellanium  in  which  the 
envoys  of  Greece  had  taken  council  how  to 
oppose  the  march  of  Xerxes,  when  his  myriads 
first  poured  into  Europe. 

Alas,  all  the  great  passions  that  distinguish 
race  from  race  pass  away  in  the  tide  of  genera- 
tions. The  enthusiasm  of  soul  which  gives  us 
heroes  and  demi-gods  for  ancestors,  and  hal- 
lows their  empty  tombs;  the  vigor  of  thought- 
ful freedom  which  guards  the  soil  from  in- 
vasion, and  shivers  force  upon  the  edge  of 
intelligence;  the  heroic  age  and  the  civilized 
alike  depart;  and  he  who  wanders  through  the 
glens  of  Laconia  can  scarcely  guess  where  was 
the  monument  of  Lelex,  or  the  field  of  the 
Hellanium.  And  yet  on  the  same  spot  where 
sat  the  young  Spartan  warrior,  waiting  for  the 
steps  of  the  beloved  one,  nay,  at  this  very 
hour,  some  rustic  lover  be  seated,  with  a  heart 

■beating  with  like  emotions,  and  an  ear  listen- 
ing for  as  light  a  tread.  Love  alone  never 
passes  away  from  the  spot  where  its  footstep 
hath  once  pressed  the  earth,  and  reclaimed  the 
savage.  Traditions,  freedom,  the  thirst  for 
glory,  art,  laws,  creeds,  vanish;  but  the  eye 
thrills  the  breast,  and  hand  warms  to  hand,  as 
before  the  name  of  Lycurgus  was  heard,  or 
Helen  was  borne  a  bride  to  the  home  of  Mene- 


laus.  Under  the  influence  of  this  power,  then, 
something  of  youth  is  still  retained  by  nations 
the  most  worn  with  time.  But  the  jwwer  ihrs 
eternal  in  nations  is  shortlived  for  the  indi- 
vidual being.  Brief,  indeed,  in  the  life  of 
each  is  that  season  which  lasts  for  ever  in  the 
life  of  all.  From  the  old  age  of  nations  glory 
fades  away;  but  in  their  utmost  decrepitude 
there  is  still  a  generation  young  enough  to 
love.  To  the  individual  man,  however,  glory 
alone  remains  when  the  snows  of  ages  have 
fallen,  and  love  is  but  the  memory  of  a  boyish 
dream.  No  wonder  that  the  Greek  genius, 
half  incredulous  of  the  soul,  clung  with  such 
tenacity  to  Youth.  What  a  sigh  from  the 
heart  of  the  old  sensuous  world  breathes  in 
the  strain  of  Mimnermus,  bewailing  with  so 
fierce  and  so  deep  a  sorrow  the  advent  of  the 
years  in  which  man  is  loved  no  more  ! 

Lysander's  eye  was  still  along  the  solitary 
road,  when  he  heard  a  low  musical  laugh  be- 
hind him.  He  started  in  surprise,  and  beheld 
Percalus.  Her  mirth  was  increased  by  his 
astonished  gaze,  till,  in  revenge,  he  caught  both 
her  hands,  and  drawing  her  towards  him, 
kissed,  not  without  a  struggle,  the  lips  into 
serious  gravity. 

Extricating  herself  from  him,  the  maiden 
put  on  an  air  of  offended  dignity,  and  Lysan- 
der, abashed  at  his  own  audacity,  muttered 
some  broken  words  of  ])enitence. 

"  But  indeed,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  the  cloud 
vanishing  from  her  brow;  "  indeed  thou  wert 
so  provoking,  and  so  irrestibly  beauteous. 
And  how  camest  thou  here,  as  if  thou  hadst 
dro]5ped  from  the  heavens  ? " 

"  Didst  thou  think,"  answered  Percalus 
demurdy,  "that  I  could  be  suspected  of  fol- 
lowing thee?  Nay;  I  tarried  till  I  could  ac- 
company Euryclea  to  her  home  yonder,  and 
then  slipping  from  her  by  her  door,  I  came 
across  the  grass  and  the  glen  to  search  for  the 
arrow  shot  yesterday  in  the  hollow  below  thee." 
So  saying,  she  tripped  from  the  crag  by  his  side 
into  the  nooked  recess  below,  which  was  all 
out  of  sight,  in  case  some  passenger  should 
pass  the  road,  and  where,  stooping  down,  she 
seemed  to  busy  herself  in  searching  for  the 
shaft  amidst  the  odorous  shrubs. 

Lysander  was  not  slow  in  following  her 
footstep. 

"Thine  arrow  is  here,"  said  he  placing  his 
hand  to  his  heart. 


FAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


4.0  c 


"  Fie  !  The  Ionian  poets  teach  thee  these 
compliments." 

"  Not  so.  Who  hath  snug  more  of  Love  and 
his  arrows  than  our  own  Alcman?" 

"Mean  you  the  Regent's  favorite  brother ? " 

"  Oh  no  !  The  Ancient  Alcman;  the  poet 
whom  even  the  Ephors  sanction." 

Percalus  ceased  to  seek  for  the  arrow,  and 
they  seated  themselves  on  a  little  knoll  in  the 
hollow,  side  by  side,  and  frankly  she  gave  him 
her  hand,  and  listened,  with  rosy  cheek  and 
rising  bosom,  to  his  honest  wooing.  He  told 
her  truly,  how  her  image  had  been  with  him  in 
the  strange  lands;  how  faithful  he  had  been  to 
the  absent,  amidst  all  the  beauties  of  the  Isies 
and  of  the  East.  He  reminded  her  of  their 
early  days — how,  even  as  children,  each  had 
sought  the  other.  He  spoke  of  his  doubts, 
his  fears,  lest  he  should  find  himself  forgotten 
or  replaced;  and  how  overjoyed  he  had  been 
when  at  last  her  eye  replied  to  his. 

•'  And  we  understood  each  other  so  well,  did 
we  not,  Percalus  ?  Here  we  have  so  often  met 
before;  here  we  parted  last;  here  thou  knew- 
est  I  should  go;  here  I  knew  that  I  might 
await  thee." 

Percalus  did  not  answer  at  much  length,  but 
what  she  said  sufficed  to  enchant  her  lover. 
For  the  education  of  a  Spartan  maid  did  not 
favor  the  affected  concealment  of  real  feelings. 
It  could  not,  indeed,  banish  what  Nature  pre- 
scribes to  women — the  modest  self-esteem — 
the  difficulty  to  utter  by  word,  what  eye  and 
blush  reveal — nor,  perhaps,  something  of  that 
arch  and  innocent  malice,  which  enjoys  to 
taste  the  power  which  beauty  exercises  before 
the  warm  heart  will  freely  acknowledge  the 
power  which  sways  itself.  But  the  girl,  though 
a  little  wilful  and  high-spirited,  was  a  candid, 
pure,  and  noble  creature,  and  too  proud  of 
being  loved  by  Lysander  to  feel  more  than  a 
maiden's  shame  to  confess  her  own. 

"And  when  I  return,"  said  the  Spartan,  "ah 
then  look  out  and  take  care;  for  I  shall  speak 
to  thy  father,  gain  his  consent  to  our  betrothal, 
and  then  carry  thee  away,  despite  all  thy 
struggles,  to  the  bridesmaid,  and  these  long 
locks,  alas,  will  fall." 

"  I  thank  thee  for  thy  warning,  and  will  find 
my  arrow  in  time  to  guard  myself,"  said  Per- 
calus, turning  away  her  face,  but  holding  up 
her  hand  in  pretty  Tiienace;  '•  but  where  is  the 
arrow  ?     I  must  make  haste  and  find  it." 


"  Thou  wilt  have  time  enough,  courteous 
Amazon,  in  mine  absence,  for  I  must  soon  re- 
turn to  Byzantium." 

Percalus.     "  Art  thou  so  sure  of  that  ?  " 

Lysander.     "Why — dost  thou  doubt  it?" 

Percalus  (rising  and  moving  the  arbute 
boughs  aside  with  the  tip  of  her  scandal), 
"  And,  unless  thou  wouldst  wait  very  long  for 
my  father's  consent,  perchance  thou  mayst 
have  to  ask  for  it  very  soon — too  soon  to  pre- 
pare thy  courage  for  so  great  a  peril." 

Lysander  (perplexed).  "  What  canst  thou 
mean  ?  By  all  the  Gods,  I  pray  thee  speak 
plain." 

Percalus.  "  If  Pausanias  be  recalled,  wouldst 
thou  still  go  to  Byzantium  ?" 

Lysander.  "  No;  but  I  think  the  Ephors 
have  decided  not  so  to  discredit  their 
General." 

Percalus  (shaking  her  head  incredulously). 
"Count  not  on  their  decision  so  surely,  valiant 
warrior;  and  suppose  that  Pausanias  is  re- 
called, and  that  some  one  else  is  sent  in  his 
place  whose  absence  would  prevent  thy  ob- 
taining that  consent  thou  covete^t,  and  so 
frustrate  thy  designs  on — on — (she  added, 
blushing  scarlet) — on  these  poor  locks  of 
mine." 

Lysander  (starting).  "Oh,  Percalus  do  I 
conceive  thee  aright  ?  Hast  thou  any  reason 
to  think  that  thy  father  Dorcis  will  be  sent  to 
replace  Pausanias — the  great  Pausanias  ?" 

Percalus  (a  little  offended  at  a  tone  of  ex- 
pression which  seemed  to  slight  her  father's 
pretensions).  "  Dorcis,  my  father,  is  a  war- 
rior whom  Sparta  reckons  second  to  no  none; 
a  most  brave  captain,  and  every  inch  a  Spar- 
tan; but — but — " 

Lysander.  "  Percalus,  do  not  trifle  with  me. 
Thou  knowest  how  my  fate  has  been  linked  to 
the  Regent's.  Thou  must  have  intelligence 
not  shared  even  by  my  father,  himself  an 
Ephor. — What  is  it  ?  " 

Percalus.  "  Thou  wilt  be  secret,  my  Lysan- 
der, for  what  I  may  tell  thee  I  can  only  learn 
at  the  hearth-stone." 

Lysander.  "  Fear  me  not.  Is  not  all  be- 
tween us  a  secret  ?  " 

Percalus.  "Well,  then,  Periclides  and  my 
father,  as  thou  art  aware,  are  near  kinsmen. 
And  when  the  Ionian  Envoys  first  arrived,  it 
was  my  father  who  was  specially  appointed  to 
see  to  their  fitting  entertainment.     And  that 


x()b 


BUIAVER'S     WORKS. 


same  night  I  overheard  Dorcis  say  to  my 
mother,  '  if  I  could  succeed  Pausanias,  and 
conclude  this  war,  I  should  be  consoled  for 
not  having  commanded  at  Platsea.'  And  my 
mother,  who  is  proud  for  her  husband's  glory, 
as  a  woman  should  be,  said,  '  Why  not  strain 
every  nerve  as  for  a  crown  in  Olympia  ?  Peri- 
clides  will  aid  thee — thou  wilt  win.'  " 

Lysander.  "  But  that  was  the  first  night  of 
the  lonians'  arrival." 

Percalus.  "  Since  then,  I  believe  that  my 
father  and  others  of  the  Ephors  overruled 
Periclides  and  Zeuxidamus,  for  I  have  heard 
all  that  passed  between  my  father  and  mother 
on  the  subject.  But  early  this  morning,  while 
my  mother  was  assisting  to  attire  me  for  the 
festival,  Periclides  himself  called  at  our  house, 
and  before  I  came  from  home,  my  mother, 
after  a  short  conference  with  Dorcis,  said  to 
me,  in  the  exuberance  of  her  joy,  '  Go,  child, 
and  call  here  all  the  maidens,  as  thy  father 
ere  long  will  go  to  outshine  all  the  Grecian 
Chiefs.'  So  that  if  my  father  does  go,  thou 
wilt  remain  in  Sparta.  Then,  my  beloved 
Lysander — and — and — but  what  ails  thee  ?  Is 
that  thought  so  sorrowful  ?  " 

Lysander.  "  Pardon  me,  pardon ;  thou  art 
a  Spartan  maid;  thou  must  comprehend  what 
should  be  felt  by  a  Spartan  soldier  when  he 
thinks  of  humiliation  and  ingratitude  to  his 
chief.  Gods  !  the  man  who  rolled  back  the 
storm  of  the  Mede  to  be  insulted  in  the  face 
of  Hellas  by  the  government  of  his  native 
city  !  The  blush  of  shame  upon  his  cheek 
burns  my  own." 

The  warrior  bowed  his  face  in  his  clasped 
hands. 

Not  a  resentful  thought  natural  to  female 
vanity  and  exacting  affection  then  crossed  the 
mind  of  the  Spartan  girl.  She  felt  at  once,  by 
the  sympathy  of  kindred  nurture,  all  that  was 
torturing  her  lover.  She  was  even  prouder  of 
him  that  he  forgot  her  for  the  moment  to  be 
so  truthful  to  his  chief;  and  abandoning  the 
innocent  coyness  she  had  before  shown,  she 
put  her  arm  round  his  neck  with  a  pure  and 
sisterly  fondness,  and,  kissing  his  brow,  whis- 
pered soothingly,  "  It  is  for  me  to  ask  par- 
don, that  I  did  not  think  of  this— that  I  spoke 
so  foolishly;  but  comfort — thy  chief  is  not 
disgraced  even  by  recall.  Let  them  recall 
Pausanias,  they  cannot  recall  his  glory.  When, 
in  Sparta,  did  we  ever  hold  a  brave  man  dis- 


credited by  obedience  to  the  government  ? 
None  are  disgraced  wlio  do  not  disgrace  them- 
selves." 

"Ah  !  my  Percalus,  so  I  should  say;  but  so 
will  not  think  Pausanias,  nor  the  allies;  and  in 
this  slight  to  him  I  see  the  shadow  of  the  Erin- 
nys.  But  it  may  not  be  true  yet;  nor  can 
Periclides  of  himself  dispose  thus  of  the  Lace- 
daemonian armies." 

"  We  will  hope  so,  dear  Lysander,"  said  Per- 
calus, who,  born  to  be  man's  helpmate,  then 
only  thought  of  consoling  and  cheering  him. 
"  And  if  thou  dost  return  to  the  camp,  tarry  as 
long  as  thou  wilt,  thou  wilt  find  Percalus  the 
same." 

"  The  Gods  bless  thee,  maiden  !  "  said  Ly- 
sander, with  grateful  passion,  "  and  blessed  be 
the  State  that  rears  such  women;  elsewhere 
Greece  knows  them  not." 

"  And  does  Greece  elsewhere  know  such 
men  ? "  asked  Percalus,  raismg  her  graceful 
head.  "  But  so  late — is  it  possible  ?  See 
where  the  shadows  are  falling  !  Thou  wilt 
but  be  in  time  for  thy  pheidition.     Farewell." 

"  But  when  to  meet  again  ? ' 

"  Alas  !  when  we  can."  She  sprang  lightly- 
away;  then,  turning  her  face  as  she  fled, 
added,  "  Look  out  !  thou  wert  taught  to  steal 
in  thy  boyhood — steal  an  interview.  I  will  be 
thy  accomplice." 


CHAPTER   Vn. 

That  night,  as  Agesilaus  was  leaving  the 
public  table  at  which  he  supped,  Periclides, 
who  was  one  of  the  same  company,  but  who 
had  been  unusually  silent  during  the  enter- 
tainment, approaching  him,  and  said,  "  Let  us 
walk  towards  thy  home  together;  the  moon  is 
up,  and  will  betray  listeners  to  our  converse 
should  there  be  any." 

"  And  in  default  of  the  moon,  thy  years, 
if  not  yet  mine,  permit  thee  a  lanthorn,  Peri- 
clides." 

"  I  have  not  drunk  enough  to  need  it,"  an- 
swered the  chief  of  the  Ephors,  with  unusual 
pleasantry;  "  but  as  thou  art  the  younger 
man,  I  will  lean  on  thine  arm,  so  as  to  be  closer 
to  thine  ear." 

"  Thou  hast  something  secret  and  grave  to 
say,  then  ? " 

Periclides  nodded. 


PAUSANIAS,     THE    SPARTAN. 


497 


As  they  ascended  the  rugged  acclivity,  dif- 
ferent groups,  equally  returning  home  from 
the  public  tables,  passed  them.  Though  the 
sacred  festival  had  given  excuse  for  prolonging 
the  evening  meal,  and  the  wine-cup  liad  been 
replenished  beyond  the  abstemious  wont,  still 
each  little  knot  of  revellers  passed  and  dis- 
persed in  a  sober  and  decorous  quiet  which 
perhaps  no  other  eminent  city  in  Greece  could 
have  exhibited;  young  and  old  equally  grave 
and  noiseless.  For  the  Spartan  youth,  no  fair 
Hetaerae  then  opened  homes  adorned  with 
flowers,  and  gay  with  wit,  no  less  than  alluring 
with  beauty;  but  as  the  streets  grew  more 
deserted,  there  stood  in  the  thick  shadow  of 
some  angle,  or  glided  furtively  by  some  wind- 
ing wall,  a  bridegroom  lover,  tarrying  till  all  1 
was  still,  to  steal  to  the  arms  of  the  lawful 
wife,  whom  for  years  perhaps  he  might  not 
openly  acknowledge,  and  carry  in  triumph  to 
his  home. 

But  not  of  such  young  adventurers  thought 
the  sage  Periclides,  though  his  voice  was  as 
low  as  a  lover's  "hist  !"  and  his  step  as 
stealthy  as  a  bridegroom's  tread. 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  with  the  faint  grey 
of  the  dawn  there  comes  to  my  house  a  new 
messenger  from  the  camp,  and  the  tidings  he 
brings  change  all  our  decisions.  The  Festival 
does  not  permit  us  as  Ephors  to  meet  in  pub- 
lic, or,  at  least,  I  think  thou  w-ilt  agree  with 
me  it  is  more  prudent  not  to  do  so.  All  we 
should  do  now  should  be  in  strict  privacy." 

"  But  hush  !  from  whom  the  message — Pau- 
sanias  ? " 

"  No— from  Aristides  the  Athenian." 

"  And  to  what  effect?" 

"  The  lonians  have  revolted  from  the  Spar- 
tan hegemony  and  ranged  themselves  under 
the  Athenian  flag." 

"  Gods  !  what  I  feared  has  already  come  to 
pass." 

"  And  Aristides  writes  to  me,  with  whom 
you  remember  that  he  has  the  hospitable  ties, 
that  the  Athenians  cannot  abandon  their  Ionian 
allies  and  kindred  who  thus  appeal  to  them, 
and  that  if  Pausanias  remain,  open  war  may 
break  out  between  the  two  divisions  into  which 
the  fleet  of  Hellas  is  now  rent." 

"  This  must  not  be,  for  it  would  be  war  at 
sea;  we  and  the  Peloponnesians  have  far  the 
fewer  vessels,  the  less  able  seamen.  Sparta 
would  be  conquered." 

G.  — 33 


"  Rather  than  Sparta  should  be  conquered, 
must  we  not  recall  her  General  ? " 

"  I  would  give  all  my  lands,  and  sink  out  of 
the  rank  of  Equal,  that  this  had  not  chanced," 
said  Agesilaus,  bitterly. 

"  Hist  !  hist  !  not  so  loud." 

"  I  had  hoped  we  might  induce  the  Regent 
himself  to  resign  the  command  and  so  have 
been  spared  the  shame  and  the  pain  of  an  act 
that  affects  the  hero-blood  of  our  kings. 
Could  not  that  be  done  yet  ?  " 

"  Dost  thou  think  so  ?  Pausanias  resign  in 
the  midst  of  a  mutiny  ?  Thou  canst  not  know 
the  man." 

"  Thou  art  right — impossible.  I  see  no 
option  now.  He  must  be  recalled.  But  the 
Spartan  hegemony  is  then  gone — gone  for  ever 
— gone  to  Athens." 

"  Not  so.  Sparta  hath  many  a  worthy  son 
beside  this  too  arrogant  Heracleid." 

"Yes;  but  where  his  genius  of  command  ? — 
where  his  immense  renown  ? — where  a  man,  I 
say,  not  in  Sparta,  but  in  all  Greece,  fit  to  cope 
with  Aristides  and  Cimon  in  the  camp,  with 
Themistocles  in  the  city  of  our  rivals  ?  If 
Pausanias  fails,  who  succeeds?" 

"  Be  not  deceived.  What  must  be,  must;  it 
is  but  a  little  time  earlier  than  Necessity  would 
have  fixed.  Wouldst  thou  take  the  com- 
mand ? " 

"  I  ?     The  Gods  forbid." 

"  Then,  if  thou  wilt  not,  I  know  but  one 
man." 

"  And  who  is  he  ? " 

"  Dorcis." 

Agesilaus  started,  and,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  gazed  full  upon  the  face  of  the  chief 
Ephor. 

"  Thy  kinsman,  Dorcis  ?  Ah  !  Periclides, 
hast  thou  schemed  this  from  the  first  ?  " 

Periclides  changed  color  at  finding  himself 
thus  abruptly  detected,  and  as  abruptly  charged: 
however,  he  answered  with  laconic  dryness, — 

"  Friend,  did  I  scheme  the  revolt  of  the 
lonians  ?  But  if  thou  knowest  a  better  man 
than  Dorcis,  speak.  >  Is  he  not  brave?" 

"  Yes." 

"Skilful?" 

"  No.  Tut !  thou  art  as  conscious  as  I  am 
that  thou  mightest  as  well  compare  the  hat  on 
thy  brow  to  the  brain  it  hides  as  liken  the  solid 
Dorcis  to  the  fiery  but  profound  Heracleid." 

"  Ay,  ay.    But  there  is  one  merit  the  hat  has 


498 


BUL IVER  'S     WORKS. 


which  the  brow  has  not — it  can  do  no  harm. 
Shall  we  send  our  chiefs  to  be  made  worse  men 
by  F^astern  manners  ?  Dorcis  has  dull  wit, 
granted;  no  arts  can  corrupt  it;  he  may  not 
save  the  hegemony,  but  he  will  return  as  he 
went,  a  Spartan." 

'*  Thou  art  right  again,  and  a  wise  man, 
Periclides.  I  submit.  'J'hou  hast  my  vote  for 
Dorcis.  What  else  hast  thou  designed  ?  for 
I  see  now  that  whatever  thou  designest  that 
wilt  thou  accomplish;  and  our  meeting  on  the 
Archeion  is  but  an  idle  form." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Periclides,  with  his  austere 
smile,  "  thou  givest  me  a  wil  and  a  will  that  I 
have  not.  But  as  chief  of  the  Ephors  I  watch 
over  the  state.  And  though  I  design  nothing, 
this  I  would  counsel, — On  the  day  we  answer 
the  lonians,  we  shall  tell  them,  'What  ye  ask 
we  long  since  proposed  to  do.  And  Dorcis  is 
already  on  the  seas  as  successor  to  Pausan- 
ias.'  " 

"  When  will  Dorcis  leave  ?  "  said  Agesilaus, 
curtly. 

"  If  the  other  Ephors  concur,  to-morrow 
night." 

"  Here  we  are  at  my  doors,  wilt  thou  not 
enter  ? " 

"  No.  I  have  others  yet  to  see.  I  know  we 
should  be  of  the  same  mind." 

.Agesilaus  made  no  reply;  but  as  he  entered 
the  court-yard  of  his  house,  he  muttered  un- 
easily,— 

"  And  if  Lysander  is  right,  and  Sparta  is  too 

small  for  Pausanias,  do  not  we  bring   back  a 

giant  who  will  widen  it  to  his  own  girth,  and 

raise  the  old  foundations  to  make  room  for  the 

buildings  he  would  add  ?" 

***** 

(unfinished.) 


The  pages  covered  by  the  manuscript  of 
this  uncompleted  story  of  "Pausanias"  are 
scarcely  more  numerous  than  those  which  its 
author  has  filled  with  the 'notes  made  by  him 
from  works  consulted  with  special  reference 
to  the  subject  of  it.  Those  notes  (upon  Greek 
and  Persian  antiquities)  are  wholly  without  in- 
terest for  the  general  public.  They  illustrate 
the  author's  conscientious  industry,  but  they 
afford  no  clue  to  the  plot  of  his  romance. 
Under  the  sawdust,  however,  thus  fallen  in  the 


industrial  process  of  an  imaginative  work,  un- 
happily unfinished,  I  have  found  two  six:ci- 
mens  of  original  composition.  .  They  are 
rough  sketches  of  songs  expressly  composed 
for  "Pausanias;"  and,  since  they  are  not  in- 
cluded m  the  foregoing  portion  of  it,  I  think 
they  mtiy  properly  be  added  here.  The  un- 
rhymed  lyrics  introduced  by  my  father  into 
some  of  the  opening  chapters  of  this  romance 
appear  to  have  been  suggested  by  some  frag- 
ments of  Mimnermus,  and  composed  about 
the  same  time  as  "  The  Lost  Tales  of  Miletus." 
Indeed,  one  of  them  has  been  already  printed 
in  that  work.  The  following  verses,  however, 
which  are  rhymed,  bear  evidence  of  having 
been  composed  at  a  much  earlier  period.  I 
know  not  whether  it  was  my  father's  intention 
to  discard  them  altogether,  or  to  alter  them 
materially,  or  to  insert  them  without  alter- 
ation in  some  later  portion  of  the  romance. 
But  I  print  them  here  precisely  as  they  are 
written.  L. 


FOR  PAUSANIAS. 

Partially  Borrowed  from  Arisloplianes'  "  Peace." 

—V.  1 127,  etc. 

Away,  away,  with  the  helm  and  greaves, 

Away  with  the  leeks  and  cheese!  * 
I  have  conquered  my  passion  for  wounds  and  blows. 
And  the  worst  that  I  wish  to  the  worst  of  my  foes 
Is  the  glory  and  gain 
Of  a  year's  campaign 
On  a  diet  of  leeks  and  cheese. 


I  love  to  drink  by  my  own  warm  hearth, 
Nourisht  with  logs  from  the  pine-clad  heights, 

Which  were  hewn  in  the  blaze  of  the  summer  sun 
To  treasure  his  rays  for  the  winter  nights 

On  the  hearth  where  my  grandam  spun. 

I  love  to  drink  of  the  grape  I  press, 

And  to  drink  with  a  friend  of  yore; 
Quick!  bring  me  a  bough  from  the  myrtle  tree 

Which  is  budding  afresh  by  Nicander's  door. 
Tell  Nicander  himself  he  must  sup  with  me. 
And  along  with  the  bough  from  his  myrtle  tree 
We  will  circle  the  lute,  in  a  choral  glee 

To  the  goddess  of  corn  and  peace. 
For  Nicander  and  I  were  fast  friends  at  school. 
Here  he  comes!    We  are  boys  once  more. 

When  the  grasshopper  chaunts  in  the  bells  of  thyme 
I  love  to  watch  if  the  Lemnian  grape  + 
Is  donning  the  purple  that  decks  its  prime; 


*  tvpov  Tt  KoX  lcpo^^vcoI'.     Cheese  and  onions,  the  rations 
furnished  to  soldiers  in  campaign. 
t  It  ripened  earlier  than  the  others.    The  words  cf 

the  chorus  are,  ro«  .Vq^rtttS  i^ireAovs  ci  irtv9.ivov<n.v  ^Stj. 


PA  us  AN/ AS,     THE    SPARTAiV. 


499 


And,  as  I  sit  at  mv  porch  to  see, 
With  my  little  one  trying  lo  scale  my  knee. 
To  join  in  the  r-rasshopper's  ehaunt  and  sing 
To  Apollo  and  Pan  from  the  heart  of  Spring.  * 
Listen,  O  list  ! 

Hear  ye  not,  neighbors,  the  voice  of  Peace  ? 
"  The  swallow  I  hear  in  the  household  eaves." 

lo  ^gien!  Peace  ! 
'  And  the  skylark  at  poise  o'er  the  bended  sheeves,' 

lo  .(Egien!  Peace! 
Here  and  there,  everywhere,  hear  we  Peace, 
Hear  her,  and  see  her,  and  clasp  her— Peace! 
The  grasshopper  chaunts  in  the  bells  of  thyme. 
And  the  halcyon  is  back  to  her  nest  in  Greece! 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  ATHENIAN  KNIGHTS. 

Imitated  from  the  "  A'iii};/its  "  of  Aristophanes, 

—V.  595,  etc. 

Chaunt  the  fame  of  the  Knights,  or  in  war  or  in  peace, 
Chaunt   the   darlings   of    Athens.t  the    bulwarks   of 

Greece, 
Pressing  foremost  to  glory,  on  wave  and  on  shore. 
Where  the  steed  has  no  footing  they  win  with  the  car.J 

On  their  bosoms  thebattle  splits,  wasting  its  shock. 
If  they  charge  like  the  whirlwind,  they  stand  like  the 
rock. 


*  Variation — 
'  What  a  blessing  is  life  in  a  noon  of  Spring." 

t  Variation — 
"  The  adorners  of  Athens,  the  bulwarks  of  Greece. 

\  Variation — 
"  Keenest  racers  to  glory,  on  wave  or  on  shore, 
By  the  rush  of  the  steed  or  the  stroke  of  the  oar! " 


I  Ha  !  they  count  not  the  numbers,  they  scan  not  the 
ground. 
When  a  foe  comes  in  sight  on  his  lances  they  bound. 

Fails  a  foot  in  its  speed  ?  heed  it  not.    One  and  all  * 
Spurn  the  earth  that  they  spring  from,  and  own  not  a 

fall. 
O  the  darlings  of  Athens,  the  bulwarks  of  Greece, 
Wherefore  envy  the  lovelocks  they  perfume  m  peace! 

Wherefore  scowl  if  they  fondle  a  quail  or  a  dove. 
Or  inscribe  on  a  myrtle  the  names  that  they  love  ? 
Does  Alcides  not  teach  us  how  valor  is  mild  ? 
Lo,  at  rest  from  his  labors  he  plays  with  a  child. 

When  the  slayer  of  Python  has  put  down  his  bow, 
By  his  lute  and  his  lovelocks  Apollo  we  know. 
Fear'd,  O  rowers,  those  gallants  their  beauty  to  spoil, 
When  they  sat   on  your  benches,  and  shared  in  your 
toil! 

When  with  laughter  they  row'd  to  your  cry  "  H  ippopai," 
"On,  ye  coursers  of  wood,  for  the  palm  wreath  away ! " 
Did  those  dainty  youths  ask  you  to  store  in  your  holds 
Or  a  cask  from  their  crypt  or  a  lamb  from  their  folds  ? 

No,  they  cried,  "  We  are  here  both  to  fight  and  to  fast, 
Place  us  first  in  the  fight,  at  the  board  serve  us  last ! 
Wheresoever  is  peril,  we  knights  lead  the  way. 
Wheresoever  is  hardship,  we  claim  it  as  pay. 

"  Call  us  proud,  O  Athenians,  we  know  it  full  well. 
And  we  give  you  the  life  we're  too  haughty  to  sell." 
Hail  the  stoutest  in  war,  hail  the  mildest  in  peace. 
Hail  the  darlings  of  Athens,  the  bulwarks  of  Greece! 


*  Variation — 
"Falls  there  one?  never  help  him!    Our  knights 
one  and  all." 


tf.OO 


BULIVER'S     WORKS. 


LUCRETIA: 


OR, 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   NIGHT. 


PREFACE   TO   THE  PRESENT 
EDITION. 

LuCRETIA,  OR  THE  CHILDREN  OF  NiGHT,  waS 

begun  simultaneously  with  The  Caxtons,  a 
Family  Picture.  The  two  fictions  were  in- 
tended as  pendants;  both  serving,  amongst 
other  collateral  aims  and  objects,  to  show  the 
influence  of  home  education, — of  early  cir- 
cumstance and  example  upon  after  character 
and  conduct.  Lucretia  was  completed  and 
published  before  The  Caxtons.  The  moral 
design  of  the  first  was  misunderstood  and  as- 
sailed; that  of  the  last  was  generally  acknowl- 
edged and  ripproved;  the  moral  design  in  both 
was  nevertheless  precisely  the  same.  But  in 
one  it  was  sought  through  the  darker  side  of 
human  nature,  in  the  other,  through  the  more 
sunny  and  cheerful — one  shows  the  evil,  the 
other  the  salutary  influences  of  early  circum- 
stance and  training.  Necessarily  therefore 
the  first  resorts  to  the  tragic  elements  of  awe 
and  distress — the  second  to  the  comic  ele- 
ments of  humor  and  agreeable  emotion. 
These  differences  serve  to  explain  the  different 
reception  that  awaited  the  two,  and  may  teach 
us  how  little  the  real  conception  of  an  author 
is  known,  and  how  little  it  is  cared  for:  we 
judge — not  by  the  purpose  he  conceives,  but 
according  as  the  impressions  he  effects  are 
pleasurable  or  painful. 

But  while  I  cannot  acquiesce  in  much  of  the 
hostile  criticism  this  fiction  produced  at  its 
first  appearance,  I  readily  allow  that,  as  a  mere 
question  of  art,  the  story  might  have  been  im- 


proved in  itself,  and  rendered  more  acceptable 
to  the  reader,  by  diminishing  the  gloom  of 
the  catastrophe.  In  this  edition  I  have  en- 
deavored to  do  so;  and  the  victim  whose  fate 
in  the  former  cast  of  the  work  most  revolted 
the  reader,  as  a  violation  of  the  trite  but  ami- 
able law  of  Poetical  Justice,  is  saved  from  the 
hands  of  The  Children  of  Night.  Perhaps 
— whatever  the  fault  of  this  work — it  equals 
most  of  its  companions  in  the  sustainment  of 
interest,  and  in  that  coincidence  between  the 
gradual  development  of  motive  or  passion, 
and  the  sequences  of  external  events  consti- 
tuting plot,  which  mainly  distinguish  the  physi- 
cal awe  of  tragedy  from  the  coarse  horrors  of 
melodrama.  I  trust  at  least  that  I  shall  tioio 
find  few  readers,  who  will  not  readily  acknowl- 
edge that  the  delineation  of  crime  has  only 
been  employed  for  the  grave  and  impressive 
purpose  which  brings  it  within  the  due  province 
of  the  poet,  as  an  element  of  terror  and  a 
warning  to  the  heart.  But  should  any  candid 
reader,  after  careful  perusal,  close  this  book 
with  a  doubt  as  to  its  ethical  object  and  ten- 
dency, or  as  to  the  sanction  of  its  sombre 
materials  by  the  example  of  the  greatest  mas- 
ters in  imaginative  compositions, — I  will  en- 
treat him  to  cast  his  eye  over  the  Critical 
Essay  entitled  A  Word  to  the  Public,  ap- 
pended to  this  edition,  which  contains  all  that 
I  desire  to  say  in  definition  of  the  purpose 
designed  in  Lucretia, — and  in  defence  of  those 
legitimate  sources  of  tragic  interest  from  which 
the  narrative  is  derived. 

London,  Dec.  "jth,  1853. 


LUCKKTIA 


LUCRETIA. 


5<^« 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

It  is  somewhere  about  four  years  since  I 
appeared  before  the  public  as  the  writer  of  a 
fiction,  which  I  then  intimated  would  proba- 
bly be  my  last;  but  bad  habits  are  stronger 
than  good  intentions.  When  Fabricio,  in  his 
hospital,  resolved  upon  abjuring  the  vocation 
of  the  Poet,  he  was  m  truth  re-commencing 
his  desperate  career  by  a  Farewell  to  the 
Muses: — I  need  not  apply  the  allusion. 

I  must  own,  however,  that  there  had  long 
been  a  desire  in  my  mind  to  trace  in  some 
work  or  other, — the  strange  and  secret  ways 
through  which  that  Arch-ruler  of  Civilization, 
familiarly  called  "  Money," — insinuates  itself 
into  our  thoughts  and  motives,  our  hearts  and 
actions;  affecting  those  who  undervalue  as 
those  who  over  estimate  its  importance;  ruin- 
ing virtues  in  the  spendthrift  no  less  than  en- 
gendering vices  in  the  miser.  But  when  I 
half  implied  my  farewell  to  the  character  of 
a  novelist,  I  had  imagined  that  this  concep- 
tion might  be  best  worked  out  upon  the  stage. 
After  some  unpublished  and  imperfect  at- 
tempts towards  so  realizing  my  design,  I  found 
either  that  the  subject  was  too  wide  for  the 
limits  of  the  Drama,  or  that  I  wanted  that 
faculty  of  concentration  which  alone  enables 
the  dramatist  to  compress  multiform  varieties 
into  a  very  limited  compass.  With  this  de- 
sign, I  desired  to  unite  some  exhibition  of 
whnt  seems  to  me  a  principal  vice  in  the  hot  and 
emulous  chase  for  happiness  or  fame,  fortune 
or  knowledge,  which  is  almost  synonymous  with 
the  cant  phrase  of  "the  March  of  Intellect,"  in 
that  crisis  of  society  to  which  we  have  arrived. 
The  vice  I  allude  to  is  Impatience.  That 
eager  desire  to  press  forward,  not  so  much  to 
conquer  obstacles,  as  to  elude  them;  that 
gambling  with  the  solemn  destinies  of  life, 
seeking  ever  to  set  success  upon  the  chance  of 
a  die;  that  hastening  from  the  wish  conceived 
to  the  end  accomplished;  that  thirst  after  quick 
returns  to  ingenious  toil,  and  breathless  spur- 
rings  along  short  cuts  to  the  goal,  which  we 
see  everywhere  around  us,  from  the  Mechan- 
ics' Institute  to  the  Stock  Market, — beginning 
in  education  with  the  primers  of  infancy — del- 
uging us  with  "  Philosophies  for  the  Million," 
and  "  Sciences  made  Easy;"  characterizing  the 
books  of  our  writers,  the  speeches  of  our 
statesmen,   no  less   than  the    dealings  of  our 


speculators,  seem,  I  confess,  to  me,  to  consti- 
tute a  very  diseased  and  very  general  symptom 
of  the  times,  I  hold  that  the  greatest  friend 
to  man  is  labor;  that  knowledge  without  toil, 
if  possible,  were  worthless;  that  toil  in  pursuit 
of  knowledge  is  the  best  knowledge  we  can 
attain;  that  the  continuous  effort  for  fame  is 
nobler  than  fame  itself;  that  it  is  not  wealth 
suddenly  acquired  which  is  deserving  of  hom- 
age, but  the  virtues  which  a  man  exercises  in  the 
slow  pursuit  of  wealth, — the  abilities  so  called 
forth,  the  self-denials  so  imposed:  in  a  word 
that  Labor  and  Patience  are  the  true  school- 
masters on  earth.  While  occupied  with  these 
ideas  and  this  belief,  whether  right  or  wrong, 
and  slowly  convinced  that  it  was  only  in  that 
species  of  composition  with  which  I  was  most 
familiar  that  I  could  work  out  some  portion  of 
the  plan  that  I  began  to  contemplate,  I  be- 
came acquainted  with  the  histories  of  two 
criminals,  existing  in  our  own  age; — so  re- 
markable, whether  from  the  extent  and  dark- 
ness of  the  guilt  committed — whether  from  the 
glittering  accomplishments  and  lively  temper 
of  the  one,  the  profound  knowledge  and  intel- 
lectual capacities  of  the  other — that  the  ex- 
amination and  analysis  of  characters  so  per- 
verted became  a  study  full  of  intense,  if 
gloomy  interest. 

In  these  persons  there  appear  to  have  been 
as  few  redeemable  points  as  can  be  found  in 
Human  Nature,  so  far  as  such  points  may  be 
traced  in  the  kindly  instincts  and  generous 
passions  which  do  sometimes  accompany  the 
perpetration  of  great  crimes,  and  without  ex- 
cusing the  individual,  vindicate  the  species. 
Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  their  sanguinary  wick- 
edness was  not  the  dull  ferocity  of  brutes;— it 
was  accompanied  with  instruction  and  culture: 
— nay,  it  seemed  to  me,  on  studying  their 
lives,  and  pondering  over  their  own  letters, 
that  through  their  cultivation  itself  we  could 
arrive  at  the  secret  of  the  ruthless  and  atro- 
cious pre-eminence  in  evil  these  Children  of 
Night  had  attained— that  here  the  monster 
vanished  into  the  mortal,  and  the  phenomena 
that  seemed  aberrations  from  nature  were  ex- 
plained. 

I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  reducing 
to  a  tale  the  materials  which  had  so  engrossed 
my  interest  and  tasked  my  inquiries.  And  in 
this  attempt,  various  incidental  opportunities 
have  occurred,  if   not  of  completely  carrying 


502 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


out,  still  of  incidentally  illustrating,  my  earlier 
design; — of  showing  the  influence  of  Mammon 
upon  our  most  secret  selves,  of  reproving  the 
impatience  which  is  engendered  by  a  civiliza- 
tion—that with  much  of  the  good  brings  all  the 
evils  of  competition,  and  of  tracing  throughout 
all  the  influences  of  early  household  life  upon 
our  subsequent  conduct  and  career.  In  such 
incidental  bearings  the  moral  may  doubtless 
be  more  obvious  than  in  the  delineation  of  the 
darker  and  rarer  crime  which  forms  the  staple 
of  my  narrative.  For  in  extraordinary  guilt, 
we  are  slow  to  recognize  ordinary  warnings — 
we  say  to  the  peaceful  conscience,  "  This  con- 
cerns thee  not  !  " — whereas  at  each  instance  of 
familiar  fault  and  common-place  error  we  own 
a  direct  and  sensible  admonition.  Yet  in  the 
portraiture  of  gigantic  crime,  poets  have  rightly 
found  their  sphere,  and  fulfilled  their  destiny, 
of  teachers.  Those  terrible  truths,  which  appal 
us  in  the  guilt  of  Macbeth,  or  the  villauy  of 
lago,  have  their  moral  uses  not  less  than  the 
popular  infirmities  of  Tom  Jones,  or  the  every- 
day hypocrisy  of  Blifil. 

Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  the  crimes  here- 
in related  took  place  within  the  last  seventeen 
years.  There  has  been  no  exaggeration  as  to 
their   extent,  no  great   departure    from   their 


details — the  means  employed,  even  that  which 
seems  most  far-fetched  (the  instrument  of  the 
poisoned  ring),  have  their  foundation  in  literal 
facts.  Nor  have  I  much  altered  the  social 
position  of  the  criminals,  nor  in  the  least  ovei- 
rated  their  attaiinnents  and  intelligence.  In 
those  more  salient  essentials,  which  will  most, 
perhaps,  provoke  the  Reader's  incredulous 
wonder,  I  narrate  a  history,  not  invent  a  fic- 
tion.* All  that  romance  which  our  own  time 
affords  is  not  more  the  romance  than  the 
philosophy  of  the  time.  Tragedy  never  quits 
the  world — it  surrounds  us  everywhere.  We 
have  but  to  look,  wakeful  and  vigilant,  abroad, 
— and  from  the  age  of  Pelops  to  that  of  Borgia, 
the  same  crimes,  though  under  different  garbs, 
will  stalk  on  our  paths.  Each  age  compre- 
hends in  itself  a  specimens  of  every  virtue 
and  every  vice  which  has  ever  inspired  our 
love  or  moved  our  horror. 

London,  November  ist,  1846. 

*  These  criminals  were  not,  however,  in  actual  life, 
as  in  the  novel,  intimates  and  accomplices.  Their 
crimes  were  of  similar  character,  effected  by  similar 
agencies,  and  committed  at  dates  which  embrace  their 
several  careers  of  guilt  within  the  same  period:  but  L 
have  no  authority  to  suppose  that  the  one  was  known 
to  the  other. 


.1S^ 


J 


L  UCRETIA. 


503 


PART    THE    FIRST. 


PROLOGUE    TO    FART    THE  FIRST. 

In  an  apartment  at  Paris,  one  morning,  dur- 
ing the  Reign  of  Terror,  a  man,  whose  age 
might  be  somewhat  under  thirty,  sate  before  a 
table  covered  with  papers,  arranged  and  la- 
belled with  the  methodical  precision  of  a  mind 
fond  of  order  and  habituated  to  business. 
Behind  him  rose  a  tall  book-case,  surmounted 
with  a  bust  of  Rol)espierre,  and  the  shelves 
were  filled  chiefly  with  works  of  a  scientific 
character;  amongst  which  the  greater  number 
were  on  chemistry  and  medicine.  There,  were 
to  be  seen  also  many  rare  books  on  alchemy, 
the  great  Italian  historians,  some  Englsh  phil- 
osophical treatises,  and  a  few  MSS.  in  Arabic. 
The  absence,  from  this  collection,  of  the 
stormy  literature  of  the  day,  seemed  to  denote 
that  the  owner  wa«  a  quiet  student  living  apart 
from  the  strife  and  passions  of  the  Revolution. 
This  supposition  was,  however,  disproved  by 
certain  papers  on  the  table,  which  were  for- 
mally and  laconically  labelled  "  Reports  on 
Lyons,"  and  by  packets  of  letters  in  the  hand- 
writings of  Robespierre  and  Couthon.  At  one 
of  the  windows,  a  young  boy  was  earnestly 
engaged  in  some  occupation,  which  appeared 
to  excite  the  curiosity  of  the  person  just  de- 
scribed; for  this  last,  after  examining  the 
child's  movements  for  a  few  moments  with  a 
silent  scrutiny,  that  betrayed  but  little  of  the 
half-complacent,  half-melancholy  affection  with 
which  busy  man  is  apt  to  regard  idle  childhood, 
rose  noiselessly  from  his  seat,  approached  the 
boy,  and-looked  over  his  shoulder  unobserved. 
In  a  crevice  of  the  wood  by  the  window,  a  huge 
black  spider  had  formed  his  web;  the  child 
had  just  discovered  another  spider,  and  placed 
it  in  the  meshes;  he  was  watching  the  result 
of     his    operations.      The     intrusive     spider 


stood  motionless  in  the  midst  of  the  web, 
as  if  fascinated.  The  rightful  possessor  was 
also  quiescent;  but  a  very  fine  ear  might  have 
caught  a  low  humming  sound,  which  probably 
augured  no  hospitable  intentions  to  the  in- 
vader. Anon,  the  stranger  insect  seemed 
suddenly  to  awake  from  its  amaze;  it  evinced 
alarm,  and  turned  to  fly;  the  huge  spider 
darted  forward — the  boy  uttered  a  chuckle 
of  delight.  The  man's  pale  lip  curled  in- 
to a  sinister  sneer,  and  he  glided  back  to 
his  seat.  There,  leaning  his  face  on  his 
hand,  he  continued  to  contemplate  the  child. 
That  child  might  have  furnished  to  an  artist 
a  fitting  subject  for  fair  and  blooming  infancy. 
His  light  hair,  tinged  deeply,  it  is  true,  with 
red,  hung  in  sleek  and  glittering  abundance 
down  his  neck  and  shoulders.  His  features, 
seen  in  profile,  were  delicately  and  almost 
femininely  proportioned;  health  glowed  on  his 
cheek,  and  his  form,  slight  though  it  was, 
gave  promise  of  singular  activity  and  vigor. 
His  dress  was  fantastic,  and  betrayed  the 
taste  of  some  fondly  foolish  mother;  but  the 
fine  linen,  trimmed  with  lace,  was  rumpled 
and  stained,  the  velvet  jacket  unbrushed,  the 
shoes  soiled  with  dust;— slight  tokens  these  of 
neglect — but  serving  to  show  that  the  foolish 
fondness  which  had  invented  the  dress,  had 
not  of  late  presided  over  the  toilet. 

"Child,"  said  the  man,  first  in  French; 
and  observing  that  the  boy  heeded  him  not — 
"child,"  he  repeated  in  English,  which  he 
spoke  well,  though  with  a  foreign  accent — 
"  child  ! " 

The  boy  turned  quickly.       • 

"  Has  the  great  spider  devoured  the  small 
one? " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  coloring;  "  the  small 
one  has  had  the  best  of  it."     The  tone  and 


5°4 


BULWER'S     WORKS 


heightened  complexion  of  the  child  seemed  to 
give  meaning  to  his  words — at  least,  so  the  man 
thought.— for  a  slight  frown  passed  over  his 
high,  thoughtful  brow. 

"  Spiders,  then,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
"are  different  from  men;  with  us,  the  small  do 
not  get  the  better  of  the  great.  Hum  !  do  you 
still  miss  your  mother?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  and  the  boy  advanced  eagerly 
to  the  table. 

"Well,  you  will  see  her  once  again." 

"When?" 

The  man  looked  towards  a  clock  on  the 
mantel-piece — -"Before  that  clock  strikes. 
Now,  go  back  to  your  spiders."  The  child 
looked  irresolute  and  disinclined  to  obey;  but 
a  stern  and  terrible  expression  gathered  slowly 
over  the  man's  face;  and  the  boy,  growing 
pale  as  he  remarked  it,  crept  back  to  the  win- 
dow. 

The  father,  for  such  was  the  relation  the 
owner  of  the  room  bore  to  the  child,  drew 
paper  and  ink  towards  him,  and  wrote  for  some 
minutes  rapidly.  Then  starting  up,  he  glanced 
at  the  clock,  took  his  hat  and  cloak,  which  lay 
on  a  chair  beside,  drew  up  the  collar  of  the 
mantle  till  it  almost  concealed  his  countenance, 
and  said — -"Now,  boy,  come  with  me;  I  have 
promised  to  show  you  an  execution.  I  am 
going  to  keep  my  promise.     Come  !  " 

The  boy  clapped  his  hands  with  joy;  and 
you  might  see  then,  child  as  he  was,  that  those 
fair  features  were  capable  of  a  cruel  and  fero- 
cious expression.  The  character  of  the  whole 
face  changed.  He  caught  up  his  gay  cap  and 
plume,  and  followed  his  father  into  the  streets. 

Silently  the  two  took  their  way  towards  the 
Barriire  du  Throne.  At  a  distance,  they  saw 
the  crowd  growing  thick  and  dense,  as  throng 
after  throng  hurried  past  them,  and  the  dread- 
ful guillotine  rose  high  in  the  light  blue  air. 
As  they  came  into  the  skirts  of  the  mob,  the 
father,  for  the  first  time,  took  his  child's  hand. 
"  I  must  get  you  a  good  place  for  the  show," 
he  said,  with  a  quiet  smile. 

There  was  something  in  the  grave,  staid, 
courteous,  yet  haughty  bearing  of  the  man, 
that  made  the  crowd  give  way  as  he  passed. 
They  got  near  ihe  dismal  scene,  and  obtained 
entrance  into  a  wagon  already  crowded  with 
eager  spectators. 

And  now  they  heard  at  a  distance  the  harsh 
and  lumbering  roll  of  the  tumbril  that  bore 


the  victims,  and  the  tramp  of  the  horses  which 
guarded  the  procession  of  death.  The  boy's 
whole  attention  was  absorbed  in  expectation 
of  the  spectacle,  and  his  ear  was,  perhaps,  less 
accustomed  to  French,  though  born  and  reared 
in  France,  than  to  the  language  of  his  mother's 
lips — and  she  was  English:  thus  he  did  not 
hear  or  heed  certain  observations  of  the  bye- 
standers,  which  made  his  father's  pale  cheek 
grow  paler. 

"  What  is  the  batch  to-day  ?  "  quoth  a  l)utcher 
in  the  wagon. 

"Scarce  worth  the  baking — only  two: — but 
one,  they  say,  is  an  aristocrat — a  (i-devant 
marquis,"  answered  a  carpenter. 

"  Ah  !  a  marquis  ! — Bon  ! — And  the  other  ?  " 

"Only  a  dancer;  but  a  pretty  one,  it  is  true: 
I  could  pity  her  but  she  is  English."  And  as 
he  pronounced  the  last  word,  with  a  tone  of 
inexpressible  contempt,  the  butcher  spat,  as  if 
in  nausea. 

"  Mort  diable .'  a  spy  of  Pitt's,  no  doubt. 
What  did  they  discover  ?  " 

A  man  better  dressed  than  the  rest,  turned 
round  with  a  smile,  and  answered — "  Nothing 
worse  than  a  lover,  I  believe;  but  that  lover 
was  a  proscrit.  The  (i-devant  marquis  was 
caught  disguised  in  her  apartment.  She  be- 
trayed for  him  a  good  easy  friend  of  the  peo- 
ple, who  had  long  loved  her,  and  revenge  is 
sweet." 

The  man  whom  we  have  accompanied 
nervously  twitched  up  the  collar  of  his  cloak, 
and  his  compressed  lips  told  that  he  felt  the 
anguish  of  the  laugh  that  circled  round  him. 

"They  are  coming!  There  they  are!" 
cried  the  boy  in  ecstatic  excitement. 

"  That's  the  way  to  bring  up  citizens,"  said 
the  butcher,  patting  the  child's  shoulder,  and 
opening  a  still  better  view  for  him  at  the  edge 
of  the  wagon. 

The  crowd  now  abruptly  gave  way.  The 
tumbril  was  in  sight.  A  man,  young  and 
handsome,  standing  erect  and  with  folded 
arms  in  the  fatal  vehicle,  looked  along  the 
mob  with  an  eye  of  careless  scorn.  Though 
he  wore  the  dress  of  a  workman,  the  most 
unpractised  glance  could  detect,  in  his  mien 
and  bearing,  one  of  the  hated  noblesse,  whose 
characteristics  came  out  even  more  forcibly  at 
the  hour  of  death.  On  the  lip  was  that  smile 
of  gay  and  insolent  levity,  on  the  brow  that 
gallant  if  reckless  contempt  of  physical  dan- 


LUCRE!  I  A. 


505 


ger,  which  had  signalized  the  hero-coxcombs 
of  the  old  regime.  Even  the  rude  dress  was 
woru  with  a  certain  air  of  foppery,  and  the 
bright  hair  was  carefully  adjusted  as  if  for  the 
holiday  of  the  headsman.  As  the  eyes  of 
the  young  noble  wandered  over  the  fierce  faces 
of  that  horrible  assembly,  while  a  roar  of 
hideous  triumph  answered  the  look,  in  which 
for  the  last  time  the  gentilhomme  spoke  his 
scorn  of  the  canaille,  the  child's  father  lowered 
the  collar  of  his  cloak,  and  slowly  raised  his 
hat  from  his  brow. 

The  eye  of  the  marquis  rested  upon  the 
countenance  thus  abruptly  shown  to  him,  and 
which  suddenly  became  individualized  amongst 
the  crowd, — that  eye  instantly  lost  its  calm 
contempt.  A  shudder  passed  visibly  over  his 
frame,  and  his  cheek  grew  blanched  with 
terror.  The  mob  saw  the  change,  but  not  the 
cause,  and  loud  and  louder  rose  their  trium- 
phant yell.  The  sound  recalled  the  pride  of 
the  young  noble; — he  started — lifted  his  crest 
erect,  and  sought  again  to  meet  the  look  which 
had  appalled  him.  But  he  could  no  longer 
single  it  out  among  the  crowd.  Hat  and 
cloak  once  more  hid  the  face  of  the  foe,  and 
crowds  of  eager  heads  intercepted  the  view. 
The  young  marquis's  lips  muttered;  he  bent 
down,  and  then  the  crowd  caught  sight  of  his 
companion,  who  was  being  lifted  up  from  the 
bottom  of  the  tumbril,  where  she  had  fiung 
herself  in  horror  and  despair.  The  crowd 
grew  still  in  a  moment,  as  the  pale  face  of  one, 
familiar  to  most  of  them,  turned  wildly  from 
place  to  place  in  the  dreadful  scene,  vainly 
and  madly  through  its  silence,  imploring  life 
and  pity.  How  often  had  the  sight  of  that 
face,  not  then  pale  and  haggard,  but  wreathed 
with  rosy  smiles,  sufficed  to  draw  down  the 
applause  of  the  crowded  theatre — how,  then, 
had  those  breasts,  now  fevered  by  the  thirst  of 
blood,  held  hearts  spell-bound  by  the  airy 
movements  of  that  exquisite  form  writhing  now 
in  no  stage-mime  agony  !  Plaything  of  the 
city — minion  to  the  light  amusement  of  the 
hour — frail  child  of  Cytherea  and  the  Graces, 
what  relentless  fate  has  conducted  thee  to  the 
shambles  ?  Butterfly  of  the  summer,  why 
should  a  nation  rise  to  break  thee  upon  the 
wheel  ? 

A  sense  of  the  mockery  of  such  an  execu- 
tion, of  the  horrible  burlesque  that  would 
sacrifice  to  the  necessities  of  a  mighty  people 


so  slight  an  offering,  made  itself  felt  among 
the  crowd.  There  was  a  low  murmur  of  shame 
and  indignation.  The  dangerous  sympathy  of 
the  mob  was  perceived  by  the  officer  in  attend- 
ance. Hastily  he  made  the  sign  to  the  heads- 
man, and,  as  he  did  so,  a  child's  cry  was  heard 
in  the  English  tongue — "Mother — mother!" 
The  Father's  hand  grasped  the  child's  arm, 
with  an  iron  pressure;  the  crowd  swam  before 
the  boy's  eyes;  the  air  seemed  to  stifle  him, 
and  become  blood-red;  only  through  the  hum, 
and  the  tramp,  and  the  roll  of  the  drums,  he 
heard  a  low  voice  hiss  in  his  e^ft — '•  Learn  how 
they  perish  who  betray  me  ! ''  i 

As  the  father  said  these  words,  again  his 
face  was  bare,  and  the  woman  whose  ear, 
amidst  the  dull  insanity  of  fear,  had  caught 
the  cry  of  her  child's  voice,  saw  that  face,  and 
fell  back  insensible  in  the  arms  of  the  heads- 
man. 


CHAPTER   I. 

A  Family  Group. 

One  July  evening,  at  the  commencement  of 
the  present  century,  several  persons  were 
somewhat  picturesquely  grouped  along  an  old- 
fashioned  terrace,  which  skirted  the  garden 
side  of  a  manor-house  that  had  considerable 
pretensions  to  baronial  dignity.  The  architect- 
ure was  of  the  most  enriched  and  elaborate 
style  belonging  to  the  reign  of  James  the  First: 
the  porch,  opening  on  the  terrace,  with  its  mul- 
lion  window  above,  was  encased  with  pilasters 
and  reliefs,  at  once  ornamental  and  massive; 
and  the  large  square  tower  in  which  it  was 
placed,  was  surmounted  by  a  stone  falcon, 
whose  talons  gripped  fiercely  a  scutcheon  bla- 
zoned with  the  five  pointed  stars  which 
heralds  recognize  as  the  arms  of  St.  John. 
On  either  side  of  the  tower  extended  long 
wings,  the  dark  brickwork  of  which  was  re- 
lieved with  noble  stone  casements  and  carved 
pediments;  the  high  roof  was  partially  con- 
cealed by  a  balustrade,  perforated  not  inele- 
gantly into  arabesque  designs;  and  what  archi- 
tects call  'the  sky  line'  was  broken  with 
imposing  effect  the  tall  chimney  shafts,  of 
various  form  and  fashion.  These  wings  ter- 
minated in  angular  towers,  similar  to  the 
centre,  though  kept  duly  subordinate  to  it  both 


So6 


B  UL  WEK'S     n  QRKS. 


in  size  and  decoration,  and  crowned  with  stone 
cupolas.  A  low  balustrade,  of  later  date  than 
which  adorned  the  roof,  relieved  by  vases  and 
statues,  bordered  the  terrace,  from  which  a 
double  flight  of  steps  descended  to  a  smooth 
lawn,  intersected  by  l)road  gravel  walks, 
shadowed  by  vast  and  stately  cedars,  and 
gently  and  gradually  mingling  with  the  wilder 
scenery  of  the  park,  from  which  it  was  only 
divided  by  a  ha-ha. 

Upon  the  terrace,  and  under  cover  of  a 
temporary  awning,  sate  the  owner.  Sir  Miles 
St.  John,  of  Laughton,  a  comely  old  man, 
dressed  with  faithful  precision  to  the  costume 
which  he  had  been  taught  to  consider  appro- 
priate to  his  rank  of  gentleman,  and  which  was 
not  yet  wholly  obsolete  and  eccentric.  His 
hair,  still  thick  and  luxuriant,  was  carefully 
powdered,  and  collected  into  a  club  behind. 
His  nether  man  attired  in  grey  breeches  and 
pearl  colored  silk  stockings;  his  vest  of  silk, 
opening  wide  at  the  breast,  and  showing  a  pro- 
fusion of  frill,  slightly  sprinkled  with  the  pul- 
vilio  of  his  favorite  martinique;  his  three-cor- 
nered hat,  placed  on  a  stool  at  his  side,  with 
a  gold-headed  crutch-cane, — hat  made  rather 
to  be  carried  in  the  hand  than  worn  on  the 
head,  the  diamond  in  his  shirt-breast,  the  dia- 
mond on  his  finger,  the  ruffles  at  his  wrist, — 
all  bespoke  the  gallant,  who  had  chatted  with 
Lord  Chesterfield,  and  supped  with  Mrs.  Clive. 
On  a  table  before  him,  were  placed  two  or 
three  decanters  of  wine,  the  fruits  of  the  sea- 
son, an  enambled  snuff-box,  in  which  was  set 
the  portrait  of  a  female — perhaps  the  Chloe  or 
Phillis  of  his  early  love-ditties;  a  lighted  ta- 
per, a  small  china  jar  containing  tobacco,  and 
three  or  four  pipes  of  homely  clay,  for  cherry- 
sticks  and  meerschaums  were  not  then  in 
fashion;  and  Sir  Miles  St.  John,  once  a  gay 
and  sparkling  beau,  now  a  popular  country 
gentleman,  great  at  country  meetings  and 
sheep-shearing  festivals,  had  taken  to  smok- 
ing, as  in  harmony  with  his  bucolic  trans- 
formation; an  old  setter  lay  dozing  at  his 
feet;  a  small  spaniel — old,  too — was  saunter- 
ing lazily  in  the  immediate  neighborhood, 
looking  gravely  out  for  such  stray  bits  of  bis- 
cuit as  had  been  thrown  forth  to  provoke  him 
to  exercise,  and  which  hitherto  had  escaped 
his  attention.  Half  seated,  half  reclined  on 
the  balustrade,  apart  from  the  Baronet,  but 
within  reach  of  his  conversation,  lolled  a  man 


in  the  prime  of  life,  with  an  air  of  unmistakable 
and  sovereign  elegance  and  distinction.  Mr. 
Vernon  was  a  guest  from  London:  and  the 
London  man,  the  man  of  clubs,  and  dinners 
and  routs — of  noon  loungings  through  Bond 
Street;  and  nights  spent  with  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  seemed  stamped  not  more  upon  the 
careful  carelessness  of  his  dress,  and  upon  the 
worn  expression  of  his  delicate  features,  than 
upon  the  listless  ennui,  which,  characterizing 
both  his  face  and  attitude,  appeared  to  take 
pity  on  himself  for  having  been  entrapped  into 
the  country. 

Yet  we  should  convey  an  erroneous  impres- 
sion of  Mr.  Vernon,  if  we  designed,  by  the 
words  •'  listless  ennui,"  to  depict  the  slumberous 
insipidity  of  more  modern  affectation — it  was 
jiot  the  ennui  of  a  man  to  whom  ennui \s  habit- 
ual; it  was  rather  the  indolent  prostration  that 
fills  up  the  intervals  of  excitement.  At  that 
day,  the  word  "  blase"  was  unknown;  men  had 
not  enough  sentiment  for  satiety.  There  was 
a  kind  of  Bacchanalian  fury  in  the  life  led  by 
those  leaders  of  fashion  among  whom  Mr. 
Vernon  was  not  the  least  distinguished:  it  was 
a  day  of  deep  drinking,  of  high  play,  of  jovial 
reckless  dissipation — of  strong  appetite  for  fun 
and  riot — of  four-in-hand  coachmanship — of 
prize-fighting — of  a  strange  sort  of  barbarous 
manliness,  that  strained  every  nerve  of  the 
constitution:  a  race  of  life,  in  which  three- 
fourths  of  the  competitors  died  half-way  in 
the  hippodrome.  What  is  now  the  Dandy  was 
then  the  Buck;  and  something  of  the  Buck, 
though  subdued  by  a  chaster  taste  than  fell  to 
the  ordinary  members  of  his  class,  was  appar- 
ent in  Mr.  Vernon's  costume  as  well  as  air. 
Intricate  folds  of  muslin,  arranged  in  pro- 
digious bows  and  ends,  formed  the  cravat, 
which  Brummell  had  not  yet  arisen  to  reform; 
his  hat  of  a  very  peculiar  shape,  low  at  the 
crown  and  broad  at  the  brim,  was  worn  with 
an  air  of  devil-me-care  defiance;  his  watch- 
chain,  garnished  with  a  profusion  of  rings  and 
seals,  hung  low  from  his  white  waistcoat;  and 
the  adaptation  of  his  nankin  inexpressibles  to 
his  well-shaped  limbs,  was  a  masterpiece  of 
art.  His  whole  dress  and  air  was  not  what 
could  properly  be  called  foppish — it  was  rather 
what  at  that  time  was  called  '  rakish.'  Few 
could  so  closely  approach  vulgarity  without 
being  vulgar:  of  that  privileged  few,  Mr. 
Vernon  was  one  of  the  elect.     Further  on,  and 


LUCRETIA. 


5°7 


near  the  steps  descending  into  the  garden, 
stood  a  man  in  an  attitude  of  profound  ab- 
straction; his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  bent  on 
the  ground,  his  brows  slightly  contracted;  his 
dress  was  a  plain  black  surtout,  and  pantaloons 
of  the  same  color;  something  both  in  the  fash- 
ion of  the  dress,  and  still  more  in  the  face  of 
the  man,  bespoke  the  foreigner. 

Sir  Miles  St.  John  was  an  accomplished  per- 
son for  that  time  of  day;  he  had  made  the 
grand  tour;  he  had  bought  pictures  and  statues; 
he  spoke  and  wrote  well  in  the  modern  lan- 
guages; and  being  rich,  hospitable,  social,  and 
not  averse  from  the  reputation  of  a  patron,  he 
had  opened  his  house  freely  to  the  host  of 
emigrants  whom  the  French  Revolution  had 
driven  to  our  coasts.  Oliver  Dalibard,  a  man 
of  considerable  learning  and  rare  scientific 
attainments,  had   been  tutor  in  the  house  of 

the  Marquis  de  G ,  a  French   nobleman, 

known  many  years  before  to  the  old  baronet. 
The  Marquis  and  his  family  had  been  among 
the  first  emigre's  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Revo- 
lution. The  tutor  had  remained  behind;  for 
at  that  time  no  danger  appeared  to  threaten 
those  who  pretended  to  no  other  aristocracy 
than  that  of  letters.  Contrary,  as  he  said,  with 
repentant  modesty,  to  his  own  inclinations,  he 
had  been  compelled,  not  only  for  his  own 
safety,  but  for  that  of  his  friends,  to  take  some 
part  in  the  subsequent  events  of  the  Revolu- 
tion— a  part  far  from  sincere,  though  so  well 
had  he  simulated  the  patriot,  that  he  had  won 
the  personal  favor  and  protection  of  Robes- 
pierre; nor  till  the  fall  of  that  virtuous  exter- 
minator had  he  withdrawn  from  the  game  of 
politics,  and  effected  in  disguise  his  escape  to 
England. 

As,  whether  from  kindly  or  other  motives 
he  had  employed  the  power  of  his  position  in 
the  esteem  of  Robespierre,  to  save  certain 
noble  heads  from  the  guillotine — amongst 
others,    the  two  brothers  of  the   Marquis  de 

G ,  he  was  received  with  grateful  welcome 

by  his  former  patrons,  who  readily  pardoned 
his  career  of  Jacobinism,  from  their  belief  in 
his  excuses,  and  their  obligations  to  the  services 
which  that  very  career  had  enabled  him  to  ren- 
der to  their  kindred.  Olivier  Dalibard  had 
accompanied  the  Marquis  and  his  family  in 
one  of  the  frequent  visits  they  paid  to  Laugh- 
ton;  and  when  the  Marquis  finally  quitted 
England,  and  fixed  his  refuge  at  Vienna,  with 


some  connections  of  his  wife's,  he  felt  a  lively 
satisfaction  at  the  thought  of  leaving  his 
friend  honorably,  if  unambitiously,  provided 
for,  as  secretary  and  librarian  to  Sir  Miles  St. 
John.  In  fact,  the  scholar,  who  possessed 
considerable  powers  of  fascination,  had  won 
no  less  favor  with  the  English  baronet  than  he 
had  with  the  French  dictator.  He  played  well 
both  at  chess  and  backgammon;  he  was  an 
extraordinary  accountant;  he  had  a  variety  of 
information  upon  all  points,  that  rendered  him 
more  convenient  than  any  cycloptedia  in  Sir 
Miles's  library;  and  as  he  spoke  both  English 
and  Italian  with  a  correctness  and  fluency  ex- 
tremely rare  in  a  Frenchman,  he  was  of  con- 
siderable service  in  teaching  languages  to  (as 
well  as  directing  the  general  literary  education 
of)  Sir  Miles's  favorite  niece — whom  we  shall 
take  an  early  opportunity  to  describe  at  length. 
Nevertheless,  there  had  been  one  serious 
obstacle  to  Dalibard's  acceptance  of  the  ap- 
pointment offered  to  him  by  Sir  Miles. 
Dalibard  had  under  hi.s  charge  a  young  orphan 
boy  of  some  ten  or  twelve  years  old — a  boy 
whom  Sir  Miles  was  not  long  in  suspecting  to 
be  the  scholar's  son.  This  child  had  come 
from  France  with  Dalibard,  and  (while  the 
Marquis's  family  were  in  London)  remained 
under  the  eye  and  care  of  his  guardian  or 
father,  whichever  was  the  true  connection  be 
tween  the  two.  But  this  superintendence 
became  impossible,  if  Dalibard  settled  in 
Hampshire  with  Sir  Miles  St.  John  and  the 
boy  remained  in  London;  nor,  though  the  gen- 
erous old  gentleman  offered  to  pay  for  the 
child's  schooling,  would  Dalibard  consent  to 
part  with  him.  At  last,  the  matter  was  ar- 
ranged, the  boy  \vas  invited  to  Laughton 
on  a  visit,  and  was  so  lively,  yet  so  well 
mannered,  that  he  became  a  favorite,  and 
was  now  fairly  quartered  in  the  house  with 
his  reputed  father:  and  not  to  make  an  un- 
necessary mystery  of  this  connection,  such 
was  in  truth  the  relationship  between  Olivier 
Dalibard  and  Honore  Gabriel  Varney  —  a 
name  significant  of  the  double  and  illegiti- 
mate origin  —  a  French  father,  an  Eng- 
lish mother;  dropping,  however,  the  purely 
French  appellation  of  Honor6,  he  went  famil- 
iarly by  that  of  Gabriel.  Half  way- down  the 
steps  stood  the  lad,  pencil  and  tablet  in  hand, 
sketching.  Let  us  look  over  his  shoulder 
— it  is  his  father's  likeness — a  countenance  in 


^o8 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


itself  not  very  remarkable  at  the  first  glance, 
for  the  features  were  small,  but  when  exam- 
ined, it  was  one  that  most  persons,  women 
especially,  would  have  pronounced  handsome, 
and  to  which  none  could  deny  the  higher 
praise  of  thought  and  intellect.  A  native  of 
Provence,  with  some  Italian  blood  in  his  veins 
— for  his  grandfather,  a  merchant  of  Mar- 
seilles, had  married  into  a  Florentine  family 
settled  at  Leghorn — the  dark  complexion, 
common  with  those  in  the  south,  had  been 
subdued,  probably  by  the  habits  of  the  stu- 
dent, into  a  bronzed  and  steadfast  paleness, 
which  seem  almost  fair  by  the  contrast  of  the 
dark  hair  which  he  wore  unpowdered,  and  the 
still  darker  brows  which  hung  thick  and  promi- 
nent over  clear  grey  eyes.  Compared  with  the 
features,  the  skull  was  disproportiojially  large, 
both  behind  and  before;  and  a  physiognomist 
would  have  drawn  conclusions  more  favorable 
to  the  power  than  the  tenderness  of  the 
Proven9ars  character,  from  the  compact  close- 
ness of  the  lips  and  the  breadth  and  massive- 
ness  of  the  iron  jaw.  But  the  son's  sketch 
exaggerated  every  feature,  and  gave  to  the 
expression  a  malignant  and  terrible  irony,  not 
now,  at  least,  apparent  in  the  quiet  and  medita- 
tive aspect.  Gabriel  himself,  as  he  stood, 
would  have  been  a  more  tempting  study  to 
many  an  artist.  It  is  true  that  he  was  small 
for  his  years;  but  his  frame  had  a  vigor  in  its 
light  proportions,  which  came  from  a  premature 
and  almost  adolescent  symmetry  of  shape  and 
muscular  development. 

The  countenance,  however,  had  much  of 
effeminate  beauty;  the  long  hair  reached  the 
shoulders,  but  did  not  curl;  straight,  fine,  and 
glossy  as  a  girl's,  and,  in  color,  of  the  pale 
auburn,  tinged  with  red,  which  rarely  alters  in 
hue  as  childhood  matures  to  man;  the  com- 
plexion was  dazzlingly  clear  and  fair  Never- 
theless, there  was  something  so  hard  in  the 
lip,  so  bold,  though  not  open,  in  the  brow, 
that  the  girlishness  of  complexion,  and  even 
of  outline,  could  not  leave,  on  the  whole,  an 
impression  of  effeminacy.  All  the  hereditary 
keenness  and  intelligence  were  stamped  upon 
his  face  at  that  moment;  but  the  expression 
had  also  a  large  share  of  the  very  irony  and 
malice  which  he  had  conveyed  to  his  carica- 
ture. The  drawing  itself  was  wonderfully 
vigorous  and  distinct,  showing  great  artistic 
promise,  and  done  with  the  rapidity  and  ease 


which  betrayed  practice.  Suddenly  his  father 
turned,  and  with  as  sudden  a  quickness,  the 
boy  concealed  his  tablet  in  his  vest;  and  the 
sinister  expression  of  his  face  smoothed  into  a 
timorous  smile,  as  his  eye  encountered  Dali- 
bard's.  The  father  beckoned  to  the  boy,  who 
approached  with  alacrity.  "  Gabriel,"  whis- 
pered the  Frenchman,  in  his  own  tongue, 
"  where  are  they  at  this  moment  ?  " 

The  boy  pointed  silently  towards  one  of  the 
cedars.  Dalibard  mused  an  instant,  and  then 
slowly  descending  the  steps,  took  his  noiseless 
way  over  the  smooth  turf  towards  the  tree. 
Its  boughs  dropped  low  and  spread  wide;  and 
not  till  he  was  within  a  few  paces  of  the  spot, 
could  his  eye  perceive  two  forms,  seated  on  a 
bench  under  the  dark  green  canopy.  He  then 
paused  and  contemplated  them. 

The  one  was  a  young  man,  whose  simple 
dress  and  subdued  air  strongly  contrasted  the 
artificial  graces  and  the  modish  languor  of 
Mr.  Vernon;  but  though  wholly  without  that 
nameless  distinction  which  sometimes  charac- 
terizes those  conscious  of  pure  race,  and 
habituated  to  the  atmosphere  of  courts,  he  had 
at  least  Nature's  stamp  of  aristocracy  in  a 
form  eminently  noble,  and  features  of  manly, 
but  surpassing  beauty,  which  were  not  rendered 
less  engaging  by  an  expression  of  modest 
timidity.  He  seemed  to  be  listening  with 
thoughtful  respect  to  his  companion,  a  young 
female  by  his  side,  who  was  speaking  to  him 
with  an  earnestness  visible  in  her  gestures  and 
her  animated  countenance.  And  though  there 
was  much  to  notice  in  the  various  persons 
scattered  over  the  scene,  not  one,  perhaps — 
not  the  graceful  Vernon— not  the  thoughtful 
scholar,  nor  his  fair-haired  hard-lipped  son — 
not  even  the  handsorae  listener  she  addressed 
— no,  not  one  there  would  so  have  arrested  the 
eye,  whether  of  a  physiognomist  or  a  casual 
observer  as  that  young  girl — Sir  Miles  St. 
John's  favorite  niece  and  presumptive  heiress. 

But  as  at  that  moment,  the  expression  of 
her  face  differed  from  that  habitual  to  it,  we 
defer  its  description. 

"  Do  not " — such  were  her  words  to  her  com- 
panion,— ''do  not  alarm  yourself  by  exagger- 
ating the  difficulties;  do  not  even  contemplate 
them — those  be  my  care.  Mainwaring,  when  I 
loved  you,  when,  seeing  that  your  diffidence 
or  your  pride  forbade  you  to  be  the  first  to 
speak,  I  overstepped  the  modesty  or   the  dis- 


lUCRETIA. 


509 


simulation  of  my  sex;  when  I  said, — '  Forget 
that  I  am  the  rejuited  heiress  of  Laughton; 
see  in  me  but  the  faults  and  merits  of  the  hu- 
man being,  of  the  wild  unregulated  girl;  see 
in  me  but  Lucretia  Clavering  (here  her  cheeks 
blushed,  and  her  voice  sank  into  a  lower  and 
more  tremulous  whisper),  and  love  her  if  you 
can  !  ' — When  I  went  thus  far,  do  not  think  I 
had  not  measured  all  the  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  our  union,  and  felt  that  I  could  surmount 
them. 

"  But,"  answered  Mainwaring,  hesitatingly, 
"  can  you  conceive  it  possible  that  your  uncle 
ever  will  consent  ?  Is  not  pride — the  pride  of 
family — almost  the  leading  attribute  of  his 
character?  Did  he  not  discard  your  mother 
— his  own  sister — from  his  house  and  heart, 
for  no  other  offence  but  a  second  marriage, 
which  he  deemed  beneath  her  ?  Has  he  ever 
even  consented  to  see,  much  less  to  receive, 
your  half-sister — the  child  of  that  marriage  ? 
Is  not  his  very  affection  for  you  interwoven 
with  his  pride  in  you,  with  his  belief  in  your 
ambition  ?  Has  he  not  summoned  your 
cousin,  Mr.  Vernon,  for  the  obvious  purpose 
of  favoring  a  suit  which  he  considers  worthy 
of  you,  and  which,  if  successful,  will  unite  the 
two  branches  of  his  ancient  house  ?  How  is  it 
possible  that  he  can  ever  hear  without  a  scorn 
and  indignation  which  would  be  fatal  to  your 
fortunes,  that  your  heart  has  presumed  to 
choose,  in  William  Mainwaring,  a  man  without 
ancestry  or  career  ?  " 

"  Not  without  career  !  "  interrupted  Lucre- 
tia, proudly.  "  Do  you  think,  if  you  were 
master  of  Laughton,  that  your  career  would 
not  be  more  brilliant  than  that  of  yon  indolent 
luxurious  coxcomb  ?  Do  you  think  that  I 
could  have  been  poor-hearted  enough  to  love 
you,  if  I  had  not  recognized  in  you  energies 
and  talents  that  correspond  with  my  own  am- 
bition ?  For  I  am  ambitious,  as  you  know, 
and  therefore  my  mind  as  well  as  my  heart, 
went  with  my  love  for  you." 

"  Ah,  Lucretia  !  but  can  Sir  Miles  St. 
John  see  my  future  rise  in  my  present  ob- 
scurity ? " 

"I  do  not  say  that  he  can,  or  will;  but  if  you 
love  me,  we  can  wait.  Do  not  fear  the  rivalry 
of  Mr.  Vernon.  I  shall  know  how  to  free  my- 
self from  so  tame  a  peril.  We  can  wait — my 
uncle  is  old — his  habits  preclude  the  chance 
of  a  much  longer   life — he   has   already    had 


I  severe   attacks.     We  are  young,  dear   Main- 
1  waring:  what  is  a  year   or   two    to  those  who 
hope  ?  " 

Mainwaring's  face  fell,  and  a  displeasing 
chill  passed  through  his  veins.  Could  this 
young  creature,  her  uncle's  petted  and  trusted 
darling,  she  who  should  be  the  soother  of  his 
infirmities,  the  prop  of  his  age,  the  sincerest 
mourner  at  his  grave,  weigh  coldly  thus  the 
chances  of  his  death,  and  point  at  once  to  the 
altar  and  the  tomb  ? " 

He  was  saved  from  the  embarrassment  of 
reply  by  Dalibard's  approach. 

"  More  than  half  an  hour  absent,"  said  the 
scholar  in  his  own  language,  with  a  smile,  and 
drawing  out  his  watch,  he  placed  it  before 
their  eyes;  "  Do  you  not  think  that  all  will 
miss  you?  Do  you  suppose.  Miss  Clavering, 
that  your  uncle  has  not,  ere  this,  asked  for  his. 
fair  niece?  Come,  and  forestal  him."  He 
offered  his  arm  to  Lucretia  as  he  spoke.  She 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  turning  to 
Mainwaring,  held  out  her  hand:  he  pressed  it, 
though  scarcely  with  a  lover's  warmth;  and  as 
she  walked  back  to  the  terrace  with  Dalibard, 
the  young  man  struck  slowly  into  the  opposite 
direction,  and  passing  by  a  gate,  over  a  foot- 
bridge, that  led  from  the  ha-ha  into  the  park, 
bent  his  way  towards  a  lake  which  gleamed 
below  at  some  distance,  half  concealed  by 
groves  of  venerable  trees,  rich  with  the  prodi- 
gal boughs  of  summer.  Meanwhile,  as  they 
passed  towards  the  house,  Dalibard,  still  using 
his  native  tongue,  thus  accosted  his  pupil:— 

"  You  must  pardon  me  if  I  think  more  of 
your  interests  than  you  do;  and  pardon  me  no 
less  if  I  encroach  on  your  secrets  and  alarm 
your  pride.  This  young  man — can  you  he 
guilty  of  the  folly  of  more  than  a  passing  ca- 
price for  his  society  ?  of  more  than  the  amuse- 
ment of  playing  with  his  vanity  ?  Even  if  that 
be  all,  beware  of  entangling  yourself  in  your 
own  meshes." 

"  You  do,  in  truth,  offend  me,"  said  Lucre- 
tia, with  calm  haughtiness,  "  and  you  have  not 
the  right  thus  to  speak  to  me." 

"  Not  the  right,"  repeated  the  Proven9al, 
mournfully;  "  not  the  right  !— then,  indeed,  I 
am  mistaken  in  my  pupil.  Do  you  conceive 
that  I  would  have  lowered  my  pride  to  remain 
here  as  a  dependent,  that  conscious  of  attain- 
ments, and  perhaps  of  abilities,  that  shoulrt 
win  their  way,  even  in  exile,  to  distinction,  I 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


would  have  frittered  away  my  life  in  these 
rustic  shades,  if  I  had  not  formed  in  you  a  deep 
and  absorbing  interest;  in  that  interest  I 
ground  my  right  to  warn  and  counsel  you.  I 
saw,  or  fancied  I  saw,  in  you  a  mind  congenial 
to  my  own — a  mind  above  the  frivolities  of 
your  sex — a  mind,  in  short,  with  the  grasp  and 
energy  of  a  man's.  You  were  then  but  a 
child;  you  are  scarcely  yet  a  woman;  yet  have 
I  not  given  to  your  intellect  the  strong  food 
on  which  the  statesmen  of  Florence  fed  their 
pupil  princes;  or  the  noble  Jesuits,  the  noble 
men  who  were  destined  to  extend  the  secret 
empire  of  the  imperishable  Loyola  ? " 

"  You  gave  me  the  taste  for  a  knowledge 
rare  in  my  sex,  I  own,"  answered  Lucretia, 
with  a  slight  tone  of  regret  in  her  voice;  "and 
in  the  knowledge  you  have  communicated  I 
felt  a  charm  that,  at  times,  seems  to  me  to  be 
only  fatal.  You  have  confounded  in  my  mind 
evil  and  good,  or,  rather,  you  have  left  both 
good  and  evil  as  dead  ashes,  as  the  dust  and 
cinder  of  a  crucible.  You  have  made  intellect 
the  only  conscience.  Of  late,  I  wish  that  my 
tutor  had  been  a  village  priest  ?  " 

"  Of  late  !  since  you  have  listened  to  the 
pastorals  of  that  meek  Corydon  ? " 

"  Dare  you  despise  him — and  for  what  ? 
that  he  is  good  and  honest  ?  " 

"  I  despise  him  not  because  he  is  good  and 
honest,  but  because  he  is  of  the  common  herd 
of  men,  without  aim  or  character.  And  it  is 
for  this  youth  that  you  will  sacrifice  your  fort- 
unes, your  ambition,  the  station  you  were 
born  to  fill  and  have  been  reared  to  improve — 
this  youth  in  whom  there  is  nothing  but  the 
lap-dog's  merit — sleekness  and  beauty.  Ay, 
frown, — the  frown  betrays  you  —  you  love 
him  I  " 

"  And  if  I  do  ?  "  said  I^icretia,  raising  her 
tall  form  to  its  utmost  height,  and  haughtily 
facing  her  inquisitor.  "  And  if  I  do,  what 
then  ?  Is  he  unworthy  of  me  ?  Converse 
with  him,  and  you  will  find  that  the  noble  form 
conceals  as  high  a  spirit.  He  wants  but 
wealth;  I  can  give  it  to  him.  If  his  temper  is 
gentle,  I  can  prompt  and  guide  it  to  fame  and 
power.  He,  at  least,  has  education,  and  elo- 
quence, and  mind.     What  has  Mr.  Vernon?" 

■'  Mr.  Vernon,  I  did  not  speak  of  him  ! " 

Lucretia  gazed  hard  upon  the  Provencal's 
countenance — gazed  with  that  unpitying  air  of 
triumph  with  which   a   woman   who  detects  a 


power  over  the  heart  she  does  not  desire  to 
conquer,  exults  in  defeating  the  reasons  that 
heart  appears  to  her  to  prompt.  "  No,"  she 
said,  in  a  calm  voice,  to  which  the  venom  of 
secret  irony  gave  stinging  significance — "  no, 
you  spoke  not  of  Mr.  Vernon;  you  thought 
that  if  I  looked  round — if  I  looked  nearer — I 
might  have  a  fairer  choice." 

"You  are  cruel — you  are  unjust,"  said  Dali- 
bard,  falteringly.  "  If  I  once  presumed  for  a 
moment,  have  I  repeated  my  offence  ?  But," 
he  added,  hurriedly,  "  in  me — much  as  you 
appear  to  despise  me — in  me,  at  least,  you 
jvould  have  risked  none  of  the  dangers  that 
beset  you  if  you  seriously  set  your  heart  on 
Mainwaring." 

"  You  think  my  uncle  would  be  proud  to 
give  my  hand  to  Monsieur  Olivier  Dalibard  ?  " 

"  I  think  and  I  know,"  answered  the  Pro- 
vencal, gravely,  and  disregarding  the  taunt, 
"  that  if  you  had  deigned  to  render  me — f>oor 
exile  that  I  am  ! — the  most  enviable  of  men, 
you  had  still  been  the  heiress  of  Laughton." 

"  So  you  have  said  and  urged,"  said  Lucre- 
tia, with  evident  curiosity  in  her  voice;  "yet 
how,  and  by  what  art — wise  and  subtle  as  you 
are — could  you  have  won  my  uncle's  con- 
sent ?  " 

"  That  is  my  secret,"  returned  Dalibard, 
gloomily:  "  and  since  the  madness  I  indulged 
is  for  ever  over — since  I  have  so  schooled  my 
heart,  that  nothing,  despite  your  sarcasm, 
save  an  affectionate  interest  which  I  may  call 
paternal,  rests  there — let  us  pass  from  this 
painful  subject.  Oh,  my  dear  pupil,  be  warned 
in  time  I  know  love  for  what  it  really  is,  in  the 
dark  and  complicated  history  of  actual  life,  a 
brief  enchantment,  not  to  be  disdained,  but 
not  to  be  considered  the  all  in  all.  Look 
round  the  world,  contemplate  all  those  who 
have  married  from  passion — ten  years  after- 
wards, whither  has  the  passion  flown  ?  With 
a  few,  indeed,  where  there  is  community  of 
object  and  character,  new  excitements,  new 
aims,  and  hopes,  sprnig  up;  and,  having  first 
taken  root  in  passion,  the  passion  continues  to 
shoot  out  in  their  fresh  stems  and  fibres.  But 
deceive  yourself  not;  there  is  no  such  com- 
munity between  you  and  Mainwaring.  What 
you  call  his  goodness,  you  will  learn  hereafter 
to  despise  as  feeble;  and  what  in  reality  is 
your  mental  power,  he  soon,  too  soon,  will 
shudder  at  as  unwomanly  and  hateful." 


LUCRETIA. 


5«» 


"  Hold  ! "  cried  Lucretia,  tremulously. 
■"  Hold  !  and  if  he  does,  I  shall  owe  his  hate 
to  you — to  your  lessons — to  your  deadly  in- 
fluence !  " 


"  Lucretia,    no  ! — the    seeds    were 


you 


Can  cultivation  force  from  the  soil  that  which 
it  is  against  the  nature  of  the  soil  to  bear  ?  " 

"  I  will  pluck  out  the  weeds  I  I  will  trans- 
form myself  !  " 

"  Child,  I  defy  you  !  "  said  the  scholar,  with 
a  smile,  that  gave  to  his  face  the  expression 
his  son  had  conveyed  to  it.  "  I  have  warned 
you,  and  my  task  is  done."  With  that  he 
bowed,  and  leaving  her,  was  soon  by  the  side 
of  Sir  Miles  St.  John,  and  the  baronet  and  his 
librarian  a  few  moments  after,  entered  the 
house,  and  sat  down  to  chess. 

But  during  the  dialogues  we  have  sketched, 
we  must  not.  suppose  that  Sir  Miles  himself 
had  been  so  wholly  absorbed  in  the  sensual 
gratification  bestowed  upon  Europe  by  the 
immortal  Raleigh,  as  to  neglect  his  guest  and 
kinsman. 

"And  so,  Charley  Vernon,  it  is  not  the 
fashion  to  smoke  in  Lunnon,"  (thus  Sir  Miles 
pronounced  the  word,  according  to  the  euphu- 
ism of  his  youth,  and  which,  even  at  that  day, 
still  lingered  in  courtly  jargon). 

"  No,  sir.  However,  to  console  us,  we  have 
most  other  vices  in  full  force." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it;  they  say  the  Prince's  set 
exhaust  life  pretty  quickly." 

"  It  certainly  requires  the  fortune  of  an  earl 
and  the  constitution  of  a  prize, fighter,  to  live 
with  him." 

"  Yet  methinks.  Master  Charley,  you  have 
neither  one  nor  the  other." 

"  And  therefore  I  see  before  me,  and  at  no 
very  great  distance,  the  Bench — and  a  con- 
sumption !  "  answered  Vernon,  suppressing  a 
slight  yawn. 

" 'Tis  a  pity;  for  you  had  a  fine  estate  prop- 
erly managed;  and,  in  spite  of  your  faults,  you 
have  the  heart  of  a  true  gentleman.  Come, 
come  !  " — and  the  old  man  spoke  with  tender- 
ness— "  you  are  young  enough  yet  to  reform. 
A  prudent  marriage,  and  a  good  wife,  will  save 
i)oth  your  health  and  your  acres." 

"  If  you  think  so  highly  of  marriage,  my 
dear  Sir  Miles,  it  is  a  wonder  you  did  not  add 
to  your  precepts  the  value  of  your  example." 

"Jackanapes  I  I  had  not  your  infirmities  ! 
I  never  was  a  speiKithrift,  and  I  have  a  consti- 


tution of  iron  !  "  There  was  a  pause.  "  Charles," 
continued  Sir  Miles,  musingly,  "  there  is  many 
an  earl  with  a  less  fortune  than  the  conjoined 
estates  of  Vernon  Grange  and  Laughton  Hall. 
You  must  already  have  understood  me — it  is 
my  intention  to  leave  my  estates  to  Lucretia — 
it  is  my  wish,  nevertheless,  to  think  you  will 
not  be  the  worse  for  my  will.  Frankly,  if  you 
can  like  my  niece,  win  her;  settle  here  while  I 
live,  put  the  Grange  to  nurse,  and  recruit  your- 
self by  fresh  air  and  field-sports.  Zounds, 
Charles,  I  love  you,  and  that's  the  truth  ! — 
Give  me  your  hand  !  " 

"  And  a  grateful  heart  with  it,  sir,"  said 
Vernon,  warmly,  evidently  affected,  as  he  • 
started  from  his  indolent  position,  and  took 
the  hand  extended  to  him.  "  Believe  me,  I  do 
not  covet  your  wealth,  nor  do  I  envy  my  cousin 
anything  so  much  as  the  first  place  in  your  re- 
gard." 

"  Prettily  said,  my  boy;  and  I  don't  sus- 
pect you  of  insincerity.  What  think  you, 
then,  of  my  plan  ?  " 

Mr.  Vernon  seemed  embarrassed;  but,  re- 
covering himself  with  his  usual  ease,  he  re- 
plied archly,  "  Perhaps,  sir,  it  will  be  of  little 
use  to  know  what  I  think  of  your  plan;  my 
fair  cousin  may  have  upset  it  already." 

"  Ha,  sir,  let  me  look  at  you — so — so  ! — 
you  are  not  jesting.  What  the  deuce  do  you 
mean  ?     Gad,  man,  speak  out  !  " 

"Do  you  not  think  that  Mr.  Monderling — 
Mandolin — what's  his  name — eh  ? — do  you  not 
think  that  he  is  a  very  handsome  young  fel- 
low ? "  said  Mr.  Vernon,  drawing  out  his 
snuff-box,  and  offering  it  to  his  kinsman. 

"  Damn  your  snuff,"  quoth  Sir  Miles,  in 
great  choler,  as  he  rejected  the  proffered 
courtesy  with  a  vehemence  that  sent  half  the 
contents  of  the  box  upon  the  joint  eyes  and 
noses  of  the  two  cannie  favorites  dozing  at 
his  feet.  The  setter  started  up  in  an  agony — 
the  spaniel  wheezed  and  sniffled,  and  ran  ofif, 
stopping  every  moment  to  take  his  head  be- 
tween his  paws.  The  old  gentleman  contin- 
ued, without  heeding  the  sufferings  of  his 
dumb  friends — a  sympton  of  rare  discompos- 
ure on  his  part: 

"  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate,  Mr.  Vernon, 
that  my  niece — my  elder  niece,  Lucretia  Clav- 
ering — condescends  to  notice  the  looks,  good 
or  bad,  of  Mr.  Mainwaring  ?  'Sdeath,  sir,  he  is 
the  son  of  a  land-agent  1     Sir,  he  is  intended 


5" 


BULWEKS     WORKS. 


for  trade  !  Sir,  his  highest  ambition  is  to  be 
partner  in  some  fifth-rate  mercantile  house  !  " 

"  My  dear  Sir  Miles,"  replied  Mr.  Vernon, 
as  he  continued  to  brush  away,  with  his  scented 
handkerchief,  such  portions  of  the  prince's 
mixture,  as  his  nankin  inexpressibles  had 
diverted  from  the  sensual  organs  of  Dash  and 
Ponto — "  my  dear  Sir  Miles,  ^a  riempkhe  pas  le 
sentiment !  " 

^^  Empiche  the  fiddlestick  !  You  don't  know 
Lucretia.  There  are  many  girls,  indeed,  who 
might  not  be  trusted  near  any  handsome  flute- 
playing  spark,  with  black  eyes  and  white 
teeth;  but  Lucretia  is  not  one  of  those;  she 
'has  spirit  and  ambition  that  would  never  stoop 
to  a  mesalliance;  she  has  the  mind  and  will  of 
a  queen — old  Queen  Bess,  I  believe." 

"  That  is  saying  much  for  her  talents,  sir; 
but  if  so,  Heaven  help  her  intended  !  I  am 
duly  grateful  for  the  blessings  you  propose 
me!" 

Des|>ite  his  anger,  the  old  gentleman  could 
not  help  smiling. 

"  Why,  to  confess  the  truth,  she  is  hard  to 
manage;  but  we,  men  of  the  world,  know  how 
"to  govern  women,  I  hope— much  more  how  to 
break  in  a  girl  scarce  out  of  her  teens.  As  for 
this  fancy  of  yours,  it  is  sheer  folly — Lucretia 
knows  my  mind.  She  has  seen  her  mother's 
fate;  she  has  seen  her  sister  an  exile  from  my 
house — why?  for  no  fault  of  hers,  poor  thing  ! 
but  because  she  is  the  child  of  disgrace,  and 
the  mother's  sin  is  visited  on  the  daughter's 
head.  I  am  a  good-natured  man,  I  fancy,  as 
men  go;  but  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to 
care  for  my  race.  If  Lucretia  demeaned  her- 
self to  love,  to  encourage,  that  lad — why,  I 
would  strike  her  from  my  will,  and  put  your 
name  where  I  have  placed  hers." 

"Sir,"  said  Vernon,  gravely,  and  throwing 
aside  all  affectation  of  manner,  "  this  becomes 
serious;  and  I  have  no  right  even  to  whisper  a 
doubt  by  which  it  now  seems  I  might  benefit. 
I  think  it  imprudent,  if  you  wish  Miss  Claver- 
ing  to  regard  me  impartially  as  a  suitor  to  her 
hand,  to  throw  her,  at  her  age,  in  the  way  of  a 
man  far  superior  to  myself,  and  to  most  men, 
in  personal  advantages — a  man  more  of  her 
own  years,  well  educated,  well  mannered,  with 
no  evidence  of  his  inferior  birth  in  his  appear- 
ance or  his  breeding.  I  have  not  the  least 
ground  for  supposing  that  he  has  made  the 
slightest  impression  on  Miss  Clavering,  and  if 


he  has,  it  would  be,  perhaps,  but  a  girl's  inno- 
cent and  thoughtless  fancy,  easily  shaken  off 
by  time  and  worldly  reflection:  but  pardon  me, 
if  I  say  bluntly,  that  should  that  be  so,  you 
would  be  wholly  unjustified  in  punishing,  even 
in  blaming  her — it  is  yourself  you  must  blame 
for  your  own  carelessness,  and  that  forgetful 
blindness  to  human  nature  and  youthful  emo- 
tions, which,  I  must  say,  is  the  less  pardonable 
in  one  who  has  known  the  world  so  intimately." 

"  Charles  Vernon,"  said  the  old  baronet, 
"  give  me  your  hand,  again  !  I  was  right,  at 
least,  when  I  said  you  had  the  heart  of  a  true 
gentleman.  Drop  this  subject  for  the  present. 
Who  has  just  left  Lucretia  yonder  ?  " 

"  your  proteg^—tha  Frenchman." 

"  Ah,  he,  at  least,  is  not  blind— go,  and  join 
Lucretia ! " 

Vernon  bowed,  emptied  the  remains  of  the 
Madeira  into  a  tumbler,  drank  the  contents  at 
a  draught,  and  sauntered  towards  Lucretia*; 
but  she,  perceiving  his  approach,  crossed  ab- 
ruptly into  one  of  the  alleys  that  led  to  the 
other  side  of  the  house;  and  he  was  either  too 
indifferent,  or  too  well-bred,  to  force  upon  her 
the  companionship  which  she  so  evidently 
shunned.  He  threw  himself  at  length  upon 
one  of  the  benches  in  the  lawn,  and,  leaning 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  fell  into  reflections, 
which,  had  he  spoken,  would  have  shaped 
themselves  somewhat  thus  into  words: — 

"  If  I  must  take  that  girl  as  the  price  of  this 
fair  heritage,  shall  I  gain  or  lose  ?  I  grant 
that  she  has  the  finest  neck  and  shoulders  I 
ever  saw  out  of  marble;  but  far  from  being  in 
love  with  her,  she  gives  me  a  feeling  like  fear 
and  aversion.  Add  to  this,  that  she  has  evi- 
dently no  kinder  sentiment  for  me  than  I  for 
her;  and  if  she  once  had  a  heart,  that  young 
gentleman  has  long  since  coaxed  i'  away. 
Pleasant  auspices,  these,  for  matrimony,  to  a 
poor  invalid,  who  wishes  at  least  to  decline  and 
to  die  in  peace  !  Moreover,  if  I  were  rich 
enough  to  marry  as  I  pleased — if  I  were  what, 
perhaps,  I  ought  to  be,  heirtoLaughton — why, 
there  is  a  certain  sweet  Mary  in  the  world, 
whose  eyes  are  softer  than  Lucretia  Claver- 
ing's:  but  that  is  a  dream!  On  the  other 
hand,  if  I  do  not  win  this  girl,  and  my  poor 
kinsman  give  her  all  or  nearly  all  his  pos- 
sessions, Vernon  Grange  goes  to  the  usurers, 
and  the  King  will  find  a  lodging  for  myself. 
What   does  it  matter?     I  .cannot   live  above 


LUCRETjA. 


.513 


two  or  three  years  at  the  most,  and  can  only 
hope,  therefore,  that  dear  stout  old  Sir  Miles 
may  outlive  me.  At  thirty-three  I  have  worn 
out  fortune  and  life;  little  pleasure  could 
Laughton  give  me;  brief  pain  the  Bench. 
Fore  Gad,  the  philosophy  of  the  thing  is  on 
the  whole  against  sour  looks  and  the  noose  !  " 
Thus  deciding  in  the  progress  of  his  reverie, 
he  smiled,  and  changed  his  position.  The 
sun  had  set — the  twilight  was  over — the  moon 
rose  in  splendor  from  amidst  a  thick  copse  of 
mingled  beech  arid  oak;  the  beams  fell  full 
on  the  face  of  the  muser,  and  the  face  seemed 
yet  paler,  and  the  exhaustion  of  premature 
decay  yet  more  evident  by  that  still  and  mel- 
ancholy light — all  ruins  gain  dignity  by  the 
moon.  This  was  a  ruin  nobler  than  that  which 
painters  place  on  their  canvas — the  ruin,  not 
of  stone  and  brick,  but  of  humanity  and  spirit; 
the  wreck  of  man,  prematurely  old,  not  stricken 
by  great  sorrow,  not  bowed  by  great  toil,  but 
fretted  and  mined  away  by  small  pleasures 
and  poor  excitements — small  and  poor,  but 
daily,  hourly,  momently  at  their  gnome-like 
work.  Something  of  the  gravity  aijd  the  true 
lesson  of  the  hour  and  scene,  perhaps,  forced 
itself  upon  a  mind  little  given  to  sentiment, 
for  Vernon  rose  languidly,  and  muttered — 

"  My  poor  mother  hoped  better  thmgs  from 
me.  It  is  well,  after  all,  that  it  is  broken  off 
with  Mary  !  Why  should  there  be  any  one  to 
weep  for  me  ?  I  can  the  better  die  smiling, 
as  I  have  lived." 

Meanwhile,  as  it  is  necessary  we  should  fol- 
low each  of  the  principal  characters  we  have 
introduced  through  the  course  of  an  evening 
more  or  less  eventful  in  the  destiny  of  all,  we 
return  to  Mainwaring,  and  accompany  him  to 
the  lake  at  the  bottom  of  the  park,  which  he 
reached  as  its  smooth  surface  glistened  in  the 
last  beams  of  the  sun.  He  saw,  as  he  neared 
the  water,  the  fish  sporting  in  the  pellucid 
tide,  the  dragon-fly  darted  and  hovered  in  the 
air;  the  tedded  grass  beneath  his  feet,  gave 
forth  the  fragrance  of  crushed  thyme  and 
clover;  the  swan  paused,  as  if  slumbering  on 
the  wave;  the  linnet  and  finch  sang  still  from 
the  neighboring  copses;  and  the  heavy  bees 
were  winging  their  way  home  with  a  drowsy 
murmur;  all  around  were  images  of  that  un- 
speakable peace  which  Nature  whispers  to 
thoseattuned  to  her  music;  all  fitted  to  lull, 
but  not  to  deject   the  spirit;  images  dear  to 

6.-33 


the  holiday  of  the  world-worn  man,  to  the  con- 
templation of  serene  and  retired  age;  to  the 
boyhood  of  poets;  to  the  youth  of  lovers.  But 
Mainwaring's  step  was  heavy,  and  his  brow 
clouded;  and  Nature  that  evening  was  dumb 
to  him.  At  the  margin  of  the  lake  stood  a 
solitary  angler,  who  now  (his  evening's  task 
done)  was  employed  in  leisurely  disjointing  his 
rod,  and  whistling  with  much  sweetness  an 
air  from  one  of  Isaak  Walton's  songs.  Main- 
waring  reached  the  angler,  and  laid  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder: 

"  What  sport,  Ardworth  ?  " 

"  A  few  large  roach  with  the  fly,  and  ont 
pike  with  a  gudgeon — a  noble  fellow  ! — look 
at  him  !  He  was  lying  under  the  reeds  yon- 
der; I  saw  his  green  back,  and  teased  him  in- 
to biting.  A  heavenly  evening  !  I  wonder 
you  did  not  follow  my  example  and  escape 
from  a  set,  where  neither  you  nor  I  can  feel 
very  much  at  home,  to  this  green  banquet  of 
Nature,  in  which  at  least  no  man  sits  below  the 
salt-cellar.  The  birds  are  an  older  family 
than  the  St.  John's;  but  they  don't  throw  their 
pedigree  in  our  teeth,  Mainwaring." 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  good  friend,  you  wrong  old 
Sir  Miles;  proud  he  is,  no  doubt,  but  neither 
you  nor  I  have  had  to  complain  of  his  inso- 
lence." 

"Of  his  insolence!  certainly  not --of  his 
condescension,  yes  !  Hang  it,  William,  it  is 
his  very  politeness  that  galls  me.     Don't  you 

observe,  that  with  Vernon,  or  Lord  A ,  or 

Lord  B ,  or  Mr.  C ,  he  is  easy  and  off- 
hand, calls  them  by  their  names,  pats  them  on 
the  shoulder,  rates  them,  and  swears  at  them 
if  they  vex  him;  but  with  you  and  me  and  his 
French  parasite,  it  is  all  stately  decorum  and 
punctilious  courtesy: — 'Mr.  Mainwaring,  lam 
delighted  to  see  you; '  '  Mr.  Ardworth,  as  you 
are  so  near,  dare  I  ask  you  to  ring  the  bell; " 
'  Mons.  Dalibard,  with  the  utmost  deference,  I 
venture  to  disagree  with  you.'  However, 
don't  let  my  foolish  susceptibility  ruffle  your 
pride.  And  you,  too,  have  a  worthy  object  in 
view,  which  might  well  detain  you  from  roach 
and  jack-fish.  Have  you  stolen  your  inter 
view  with  the  superb  Lucretia  ? " 

"Yes,  stolen,  as  you  say:  and  like  al:, 
thieves  not  thoroughly  hardened,  I  am  ashamed 
of  my  gains." 

"  Sit  down,  my  boy,  this  is  a  bank  in  ten 
thousand;  there — that  old  root  to  lean  your 


J''4 


.<iUL\vER'S     WORKS. 


elbow  on,  this  soft  moss  for  your  cushion;  sit 
down  and  confess.  You  ha/e  something  on 
your  mind  that  preys  on  you:  we  are  old  col- 
lege friends — out  with  it  !  " 

"  There  is  no  resisting  you,  Ardworth,"  said 
Mainwaring,  smiling,  and  drawn  from  his  re- 
serve and  his  gloom  Iiy  the  frank  good-humor 
of  his  companion:  "  I  should  like,  I  own,  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it;  and  perhaps  I  may 
profit  by  your  advice.  You  know,  in  the  first 
place,  that  after  I  left  College,  my  father  see- 
ing me  indisposed  for  the  church,  to  which  he 
had  always  destined  me  in  his  own  heart,  and 
for  which,  indeed,  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way 
to  maintain  me  at  the  University,  gave  me  the 
choice  of  his  own  business  as  a  surveyor  and 
land-agent,  or  of  entering  into  the  mercantile 
profession.  I  chose  the  latter,  and  went  to 
Southampton,  where  we  have  a  relation  in 
business,  to  be  initiated  into  the  elementary 
mysteries.  There  I  became  acquainted  with  a 
good  clergyman  and  his  wife,  and  in  that  house 
I  passed  a  great  part  of  my  time." 

"  With  the  hope,  I  trust,  on  better  consider- 
ation, of  gratifying  your  father's  ambition, 
and  learning  how  to  starve  with  gentility  on  a 
cure." 

"  Not  much  of  that,  I  fear." 

"Then  the  clergyman  had  a  daughter  ?  " 

"  You  are  nearer  the  mark  now,'  said  Main- 
waring,  coloring;  "  though  it  was  not  his 
daughter;  a  young  lady  lived  in  his  family, 
not  even  related  to  him;  she  was  placed  there 
with  a  certain  allowance  by  a  rich  relation. 
In  a  word,  I  admired,  perhaps  I  loved  this 
j'oung  person;  but  she  was  without  an  inde- 
pendence, and  I  not  yet  provided  even  with 
the  substitute  of  money,  a  profession.  I 
fancied  (do  not  laugh  at  my  vanity)  that  my 
feelings  might  be  returned.  I  was  in  alarm 
for  her  as  well  as  myself;  I  sounded  the  clergy- 
man as  to  the  chance  of  obtaining  the  consent 
of  her  rich  relation,  and  was  informed  that  he 
thought  it  hopeless.  I  felt  I  had  no  right  to 
invite  her  to  poverty  and  ruin,  and  still  less  to 
entangle  further  (if  I  had  chanced  to  touch 
at  all)  her  affection.  I  made  an  excuse  to  my 
father  to  leave  the  town,  and  returned  home." 

"Prudent  and  honorable  enough,  so  far; 
unlike  me,  I  should  have  run  off  with  the  girl, 
if  she  loved  me,  and  old  Plutus,  the  rascal, 
might  have  done  his  worst  against  Cupid. 
But  I  interrupt  you." 


"  I  came  back  when  the  county  was  greatly 
agitated:  public  meetings,  speeches,  mobs — a 
sharp  election  going  on.  My  father  had  al- 
ways taken  keen  interest  in  politics;  he  was  of 
the  same  party  as  Sir  Miles,  who,  you  know,  is 
red-hot  upon  politics.  I  was  easily  led — partly 
by  ambition,  partly  by  the  effect  of  example, 
partly  by  the  hope  to  give  a  new  turn  to  my 
thoughts — to  make  an  appearance  in  public." 

"  And  a  devilish  creditable  one,  too.  Why 
man,  your  speeches  have  been  quoted  with 
rapture  by  the  London  papers.  Horridly  aris- 
tocratic and  Pittish,  it  is  true; — I  think  differ- 
ently; but  every  man  to  his  taste.     Well " 

"  My  attempts  such  as  they  were,  procured 
me  the  favor  of  Sir  Miles.  He  had  long  been 
acquainted  with  my  father,  who  had  helped 
him  in  his  own  elections  years  ago.  He 
seemed  cordially  delighted  to  patronize  the 
son:  he  invited  me  to  visit  him  at  Laughton, 
and  hinted  to  my  father  that  I  was  formed 
for  something  better  than  a  counting-house: 
my  poor  father  was  intoxicated.  In  a  word, 
here  I  am — here,  often  for  days  almost  weeks 
together,  Ijave  I  been, — a  guest,  always  wel- 
comed." 

"You  pause.  This  is  the  primordium— now 
comes  the  confession,  eh?  " 

"  Why  one  half  the  confession  is  over.  It 
was  my  most  unmerited  fortune  to  attract  the 
notice  of  Miss  Clavering.  Do  not  fancy  me  so 
self-conceited  as  to  imagine,  that  I  should  ever 
have  persumed  so  high,  but  for " 

"  But  for  encouragement — I  understand  ! 
Well,  she  is  a  magnificent  creature  in  her  way; 
and  I  do  not  wonder  that  she  drove  the  poor 
little  girl  at  Southampton  out  of  your 
thoughts." 

"  Ah  !  but  there  is  the  sore — I  am  not  sure 
that  she  has  done  so.  Ardworth,  I  may  trust 
you  ?  " 

"  With  everything  but  half-a-guinea.  I  would 
not  promise  to  be  rock  against  so  great  a  temp- 
tation;" and  Ardworth  turned  his  empty 
pockets  inside  out. 

"  Tush — be  serious  ! — or  I  go." 

"  Serious  !  With  pockets  like  these,  the 
devil's  in  it  if  I  am  not  serious.  Perge,  pre- 
cor." 

"  Ardworth,  then,"  said  Mainwaring,  with 
great  emotion,  "  I  confide  to  you  the  secret 
trouble  of  my  heart.  This  girl  at  Southamp- 
ton   is   Lucretia's  sister — her  half-sister:  the 


LUCRETIA. 


515 


rich  relation  on  whose  allowance  she  lives  is 
Sir  Miles  St.  John." 

"  Whew  ! — my  own  poor  clear  little  cousin, 
by  the  father's  side  !  Mainwaring,  I  trust  you 
have  not  deceived  me;  you  have  not  amused 
yourself  with  breaking  Susan's  heart — for  a 
heart,  and  an  honest,  simple,  English  girl's 
heart,  she  has." 

"  Heaven  forbid  ! — I  tell  you  I  have  never 
even  declared  my  love — and  if  love  it  were,  I 
trust  it  is  over.  But  when  Sir  Miles  was  first 
kind  to  me,  first  invited  me,  I  own  I  had  the 
hope  to  win  his  esteem,  and  since  he  had 
always  made  so  strong  and  cruel  a  distinction 
between  Lucretia  and  Susan,  I  thought  it  not 
impossible  that  he  might  consent  at  last  to  my 
union  with  the  niece  he  had  refused  to  receive 
and  acknowledge.  But  even  while  the  hope 
was  in  me,  I  was  drawn  on— I  was  entangled 
— I  was  spell-bound — I  know  not  how  or  why; 
but,  to  close  my  confidence,  while  still  doubt- 
ful whether  my  own  heart  is  free  from  the  re- 
membrance of  the  one  sister,  I  am  pledged  to 
the  other." 

Ard worth  looked  down  gravely  and  remained 
silent.  He  was  a  joyous,  careless,  reckless 
youth,  with  unsteady  character  and  pursuits — 
and  with  something  of  vague  poetry,  much  of 
unaccommodating  pride  about  his  nature — one 
of  those  youths  little  likely  to  do  what  is  called 
well  in  the  world— not  persevering  enough  for 
an  independent  career — too  blunt  and  honest 
for  a  servile  one.  But  it  was  in  the  very  dis- 
position of  such  a  person  to  judge  somewhat 
harshly  of  Mainwaring's  disclosure,  and  not 
easily  to  comprehend  what,  after  ail,  was  very 
natural — how  a  young  man,  new  to  life,  timid 
by  character,  and  of  an  extreme  susceptibility 
to  the  fear  of  giving  pain,  had,  in  the  surprise, 
the  gratitude,  the  emotion,  of  an  avowed  at- 
tachment from  a  girl,  far  above  him  in  worldly 
position,  been  forced  by  receiving,  to  seem,  at 
least,  to  return  her  affection.  And  indeed 
though  not  wholly  insensible  to  the  brilliant 
prospects  opened  to  him  in  such  a  connection, 
yet,  to  do  him  justice,  Mainwaring  would  have 
been  equally  entangled,  by  a  similar  avowal, 
from  a  girl  more  his  equal  in  the  world.  It 
was  rather  from  an  amiability  bordering  upon 
weakness,  than  from  any  more  degrading 
moral  imperfections,  that  he  had  been  betrayed 
into  a  position  which  neither  contented  his 
heart,  nor  satisfied  his  conscience. 


With  far  less  ability  than  his  friend,  Ard- 
worth  had  more  force  and  steadiness  in  his 
nature,  and  was  wholly  free  from  that  morbid 
delicacy  of  temperament  to  which  susceptible 
and  shy  persons  owe  much  of  their  errors  and 
misfortunes.  He  said,  therefore,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  My  good  fellow,  to  be  plain  with  you, 
I  cannot  say  that  your  confession  has  im- 
proved you  in  my  estimation;  but  that  is  per- 
haps because  of  the  bluntness  of  my  under- 
standing. I  could  quite  comprehend  your 
fogetting  Susan  (and,  after  all,  I  am  left  in 
doubt  as  to  the  extent  of  her  conquest  over 
you),  for  the  very  different  charms  of  her  sis- 
ter. On  the  other  hand,  I  could  still  better 
understand,  that  having  once  fancied  Susan, 
you  could  not  be  commanded  into  love  for 
Lucretia.  But  I  do  not  comprehend  your  feel- 
ing love  for  one,  and  making  love  to  the  other 
— which  is  the  long  and  short  of  the  business." 

"  That  is  not  exactly  the  true  statement," 
answered  Mainwaring,  with  a  powerful  effort  at 
composure.  "  There  are  moments  when,  lis- 
tening to  Lucretia,  when  charmed  by  that  soft- 
ness which,  contrasting  the  rest  of  her  char- 
acter, she  exhibits  to  none  but  me,  struck  by 
her  great  mental  powers,  proud  of  an  unsought 
triumph  over  such  a  being,  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
love  none  but  her;  then,  suddenly,  her  mood 
changes — she  utters  sentiments  that  chill  and 
revolt  me — the  pure  beauty  seems  vanished 
from  her  face.  I  recall,  with  a  sigh,  that 
simple  sweetness  of  Susan,  and  I  feet  as  if  I 
deceived  both  my  mistress  and  myself.  Per- 
haps, however,  all  the  circumstances  of  this 
connection  tend  to  increase  my  doubts.  It  is 
humilating  to  me  to  know  that  I  woo  clandes- 
tinely and  upon  sufferance,  that  I  am  stealing, 
as  it  were,  into  a  fortune,  that  I  am  eating  Sir 
Miles's  bread,  and  yet  counting  upon  his  death; 
and  this  shame  in  mvself  may  make  me  un- 
consciously unjust  to  Lucretia.  But  it  is  use- 
less to  reprove  me  for  what  is  past;  and 
though  I  at  first  imagined  you  could  advise 
me  for  the  future,  I  now  see,  too  clearly,  that 
no  advice  could  avail." 

"  I  grant  that,  too — for  all  you  require,  is  to 
make  up  your  mind  to  be  fairly  off  with  the 
old  love,  or  fairly  on  with  the  new.  However, 
now  you  have  stated  your  case  thus  frankly,  if 
you  permit  me,  I  will  take  advantage  of  the 
strange  chance  of  finding  myself  here,  and 
watch,  ponder,  and  counsel,   if    I    can.     This 


5^6 


B  UL  WEJi'S     WORKS. 


Lucretia,  I  own  it,  puzzles  and  perplexes  me; 
but,  though  no  CEdipiis,  I  will  not  take  fright 
at  the  Sphynx.  I  suppose  now  it  is  time  to 
return.  They  expect  some  of  the  neighbors 
to  drink  tea,  and  I  must  doff  my  fishing- 
jacket.     Come ! " 

As  they  strolled  towards  the  house,  Ardworth 
broke  a  silence  which  had  lasted  for  some 
moments: 

"And  how  is  that  dear  good  Fielden?  I 
ought  to  have  guessed  him  at  once,  when  you 
spoke  of  your  clergyman  and  his  young  charge: 
but  I  did  not  know  he  was  at  Southampton." 

"  He  has  exchanged  his  living  for  a  year,  on 
account  of  his  wife's  health,  and  rather,  I  think 
also,  with  the  wish  to  bring  poor  Susan  nearer 
to  Laughton,  in  the  chance  of  her  uncle  seeing 
her.  But  you  are,  then  acquainted  with 
Fielden  ? " 

"Acquainted  !^my  best  friend.  He  was 
my  tutor,  and  prepared  me  for  Caius  College. 
I  owe  him  not  only  the  little  learning  I  have, 
but  the  little  good  that  is  left  in  me.  I  owe  to 
him  apparently,  also,  whatever  chance  of  bet- 
tering my  prospects  may  arise  from  my  visit 
at  Laughton." 

"  Notwithstanding  our  intimacy,  we  have, 
like  most  young  men  not  related,  spoken  so 
little  of  our  family  matters,  that  I  do  not  now 
understand  how  you  are  cousin  to  Susan;  nor 
what,  to  my  surprise  and  delight,  brought  you 
hither  three  days  ago." 

"  Faith,  my  story  is  easier  to  explain  than 
your  own,  William  !     Here  goes  !  " 

But  as  Ardworth's  recital  partially  involves 
references  to  family  matters,  not  yet  sufficiently 
known  to  the  reader,  we  must  be  pardoned  if 
we  assume  to  ourselves  his  task  of  narrator, 
and  necessarily  enlarge  on  his  details. 

The  branch  of  the  illustrious  family  of  St. 
John,  represented  by  Sir  Miles,  diverged  from 
the  parent  stem  of  the  Lords  of  Bletshoe. 
With  them  it  placed  at  the  summit  of  its  pedi- 
gree the  name  of  William  de  St.  John,  the  Con- 
queror's favorite  and  trusted  warrior,  and 
Oliva  de  Filgiers.  With  them  it  blazoned  the 
latter  alliance,  which  gave  to  Sir  Oliver  St. 
John  the  lands  of  Bletshoe  by  the  hand  of 
Margaret  Beauchamp,  (by  her  second  mar- 
riage with  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  grandmother 
to  Henry  VII).  In  the  following  generation, 
the  younger  son  of  a  younger  son  had  founded, 
partly  by  offices  of  state,  partly  by  marriage 


with  a  wealthy  heiress,  a  house  of  his  own; 
and  in  the  reign  of  James  the  First,  the  St. 
Johns  of  Laughton  ranked  amongst  the  chief 
gentlemen  of  Hampshire.  From  that  time  till 
theaccession  of  George  III.,  the  family,  though 
it  remained  untitled,  had  added  to  its  conse- 
quence by  inter-marriages  of  considerable 
dignity,  chosen,  indeed,  with  a  disregard  for 
money  uncommon  amongst  the  English  aris- 
tocracy, so  that  the  estate  was  but  little  en- 
larged since  the  reign  of  James,  though  profit- 
ing, of  course,  by  improved  cultivation  and  the 
different  value  of  money.  On  the  other  hand, 
perhaps  there  were  scarcely  ten  families  in  the 
country  who  could  boast  of  a  similar  direct- 
ness of  descent  on  all  sides,  from  the  proudest 
and  noblest  aristocracy  of  the  soil:  and  Sir 
Miles  St.  John,  by  blood,  was,  almost  at  the 
distance  of  eight  centuries,  as  pure  a  Norman 
as  his  ancestral  William. 

His  grandfather,  nevertheless,  had  deviated 
from  the  usual  disinterested  practice  of  the 
family,  and  had  married  an  heiress,  who 
brought  the  quarterings  of  Vernon  to  the 
crowded  escutcheon,  and  with  these  quarter- 
ings an  estate  of  some  ^^4000  a  year,  pwpu- 
larly  known  by  the  name  of  Vernon  Grange. 
This  rare  occurrence  did  not  add  to  the  do- 
mestic happiness  of  the  contracting  parties, 
nor  did  it  lead  to  the  ultimate  increase  of  the 
Laughton  possessions.  Two  sons  were  born. 
To  the  elder  was  destined  the  father's  inheri- 
tance— to  the  younger  the  maternal  property. 
One  house  is  not  large  enough  for  two  heirs. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  pride  of  the  father 
as  a  St.  John,  except  the  pride  of  the  mother 
as  a  Vernon.  Jealousies  between  the  two  sons 
began  early,  and  rankled  deep;  nor  was  there 
peace  at  Laughton  till  the  younger  had  car- 
ried away  from  its  rental  the  lands  of  Vernon 
Grange;  and  the  elder  remained  just  where 
his  predecessors  stood  in  point  of  possessions 
— sole  lord  of  Laughton  sole.  The  elder  son, 
Sir  Miles's  father,  had  been,  indeed,  so  chafed 
by  the  rivalry  with  his  brother,  that  in  disgust 
he  had  run  away,  and  thrown  himself,  at  the 
age  of  fourteen,  into  the  navy.  By  accident 
or  by  merit  he  rose  high  in  that  profession,  ac- 
quired name  and  .fame,  and  lost  an  eye  and  an 
arm,— for  which  he  was  gazetted,  at  the  same 
time,  an  admiral  and  a  baronet. 

Thus  mutilated  and  dignified.  Sir  George  St 
John  retired  from  the  profession;  and  finding 


LUCRETIA. 


5>7 


himself  unmarried,  and  haunted  by  the  appre- 
hension that  if  he  died  childless,  Laughton 
would  pass  to  his  brother's  heirs,  he  resolved 
upon  consigning  his  remains  to  the  nuptial 
couch,  previous  to  the  surer  peace  of  the 
family  vault.  At  the  age  of  fifty-nine,  the 
grim  veteran  succeeded  in  finding  a  young 
lady  of  unblemished  decent,  and  much  marked 
with  the  small-pox,  who  consented  to  accept 
the  only  hand  which  Sir  George  had  to  offer. 
From  this  marriage  sprang  a  numerous  family; 
but  all  died  in  early  childhood,  frightened  to 
death,  said  the  neighbors,  by  their  tender 
parents  (considered  the  ugliest  couple  in  the 
county),  except  one  boy  (the  present  Sir  Miles) 
and  one  daughter,  many  years  younger,  des- 
tined to  become  Lucretia's  mother.  Sir  Miles 
came  early  into  his  property;  and  although  the 
softening  advance  of  civilization,  with  the 
liberal  effects  of  travel,  and  a  long  residence 
in  cities,  took  from  him  that  provincial  auster- 
ity of  pride,  which  is  only  seen  in  stanch  per- 
fection amongst  the  lords  of  a  village,  he  was 
yet  little  less  susceptible  to  the  duties  of  main- 
taining his  lineage  pure  as  its  representation 
had  descended  to  him,  than  the  most  supurb 
of  his  predecessors. 

But  owing,  it  was  said,  to  an  early  disap- 
pointment, he  led,  during  youth  and  manhood, 
a  roving  and  desultory  life,  and  so  put  off  from 
year  to  year  the  grar»d  experiment  matrimonial, 
until  he  arrived  at  old  age,  with  the  philosoph- 
ical determination  to  select  from  the  other 
branches  of  his  house  the  successor  to  the 
heritage  of  St.  John.  In  thus  arrogating  to 
himself  a  right  to  neglect  his  proper  duties  as 
head  of  a  family,  he  found  his  excuse  in  adopt- 
ing his  niece  Lucretia.  His  sister  had  chosen 
for  her  first  husband  a  friend  and  neighbor  of 
his  own,  a  younger  son,  of  unexceptionable 
birth,  and  of  very  agreeable  manners  in  society. 
But  this  gentleman  contrived  to  render  her  life 
so  miserable,  that,  though  he  died  fifteen 
months  after  their  marriage,  his  widow  could 
scarcely  be  expected  to  mourn  long  for  him. 
A  year  after  Mr.  Clavering's  death,  Mrs.  Clav- 
ering  married  again,  under  the  mistaken  notion 
that  she  had  the  right  to  choose  for  herself. 
She  married  Dr.  Mivers,  the  provincial  physi- 
cian who  had  attended  her  husband  in  his  last 
illness — a  gentleman  by  education,  manners, 
and  profession,  but  unhappily  the  son  of  a 
silk-mercer.     Sir  Miles  never  forgave  this  con- 


nection. By  her  first  marriage.  Sir  Miles's 
sister  had  one  daughter,  Lucretia;  by  her 
second  marriage,  another  daughter,  named 
Susan.  She  survived  somewhat  more  than  a 
year  the  birth  of  the  latter:  on  her  death,  Sir 
Miles  formally  (through  his  agent)  applied  to 
Dr.  Mivers  for  his  eldest  niece,  Lucretia  Clav- 
ering,  and  the  physician  did  not  think  himself 
justified  in  withholding  from  her  the  probable 
advantages  of  a  transfer  from  his  own  roof  to 
that  of  her  wealthy  uncle. 

He  himself  had  been  no  worldly  gainer  by 
his  connection;  his  practice  had  suffered  ma- 
terially from  the  sympathy  which  was  felt  by 
the  county  families  for  the  supposed  wrongs 
of  Sir  Miles  St.  John,  who  was  personally  not 
only  popular,  but  esteemed,  nor  less  so  on  ac- 
count of  his  pride:  too  dignified  to  refer  even 
to  his  domestic  annoyances,  except  to  his  most 
familiar  associates — to  them,  indeed,  Sir  Miles 
had  said  briefly,  that  he  considered  a  phy- 
sician who  abused  his  entrance  into  a  noble 
family  by  stealing  into  its  alliance,  was  a  char- 
acter in  whose  punishment  all  society  had  an 
interest.  The  words  were  repeated;  they  were 
thought  just.  Those  who  ventured  to- suggest 
that  Mrs.  Clavering,  as  a  widow,  was  a  free 
agent,  were  regarded  with  suspicion.  It  was 
the  time  when  French  principles  were  just 
beginning  to  be  held  in  horror,  especially  in 
the  provinces,  and  when  everything  that  en- 
croached upon  the  rights  and  prejudices  of  the 
high-born  was  called ''a  French  principle." 
Dr.  Mivers  was  as  much  scouted  as  if  he  had 
been  a  sans-culoite.  Obliged  to  quit  the 
county,  he  settled  at  a  distance;  but  he  had  a 
career  to  commence  again;  his  wife's  death 
enfeebled  his  spirits,  and  damped  his  exertions. 
He  did  little  more  than  earn  a  bare  subsis- 
tence, and  died  at  last,  when  his  only  daughter 
was  fourteeen,  poor  and  embarrrassed. 

On  his  death  bed  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Sir 
Miles,  reminding  him  that,  after  all,  Susan 
was  his  sister's  child,  gently  vindicating  him- 
self from  the  unmerited  charge  of  treachery 
which  had  blasted  his  fortunes,  and  left  his 
orphan  penniless;  and  closing  with  a  touching, 
yet  a  manly  appeal  to  the  sole  relative  left  to 
befriend  her.  The  clergyman  who  had  at- 
tended him  in  his  dying  moments  took  charge 
of  this  letter;  he  brought  it  in  person  to 
Laughton,  and  delivered  it  to  Sir  Miles. 
Whatever  his  errors,  the  old  baronet  was  no 


;i8 


B  UL  n  EK'  S     lyOAA'S. 


common  man.  He  was  not  vindictive,  though 
he  could  not  be  called  forgiving.  He  had  con- 
sidered his  conduct  to  his  sister  a  duty  owed  to 
his  name  and  ancestors;  she  had  placed  her- 
self and  her  youngest  child  out  of  the  pale  of 
his  family.  He  would  not  receive  as  his  niece 
the  granddaughter  of  a  silk-mercer.  The  re- 
lationship was  extinct,  as,  in  certain  countries, 
nobility  is  forfeited  by  a  union  with  an  inferior 
class.  But,  niece  or  not,  here  was  a  claim  to 
humanity  and  benevolence;  and  never  yet  had 
appeal  been  made  by  suffering  to  his  heart 
and  purse  in  vain. 

He  bowed  his  head  over  the  letter  as  his  eye 
came  to  the  last  line,  and  remained  silent  so 
long,  that  the  clergyman,  at  last,  moved  and 
hopeful,  approached  and  took  his  hand.  It 
was  the  impulse  of  a  good  man  and  a  good 
priest.  Sir  Miles  looked  up  in  surprise;  but 
the  calm  pitying  face  bent  on  him,  repelled  all 
return  of  pride. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  tremulously,  and  he  pressed 
the  hand  that  grasped  his  own,  "  I  thank  you. 
I  am  not  fit  at  this  moment  to  decide  what  to 
do:  to-morrow,  you  shall  know.  And  the  man 
died  poor  ?  not  in  want,  not  in  want?" 

"Comfort  yourself,  worthy  sir;  he  had,  at 
the  last,  all  that  sickness  and  death  require, 
except  one  assurance,  v/hich  I  ventured  to 
whisper  to  him — I  trust  not  too  rashly — that 
his  daughter  would  not  be  left  unprotected. 
And  I  pray  you  to  reflect,  my  dear  sir, 
that " 

Sir  Miles  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of 
the  sentence;  he  rose  abruptly,  and  left  the 
room.  Mr.  Fielden  (so  the  good  priest  was 
named)  felt  confident  of  the  success  of  his 
mission;  but,  to  win  it  the  more  support,  he 
sought  Lucretia.  She  was  then  seventeen:  it 
is  an  age  when  the  heart  is  peculiarly  open  to 
the  household  ties — to  the  memory  of  a  mother 
— to  the  sweet  name  of  sister.  He  sought  this 
girl,  he  told  his  tale,  and  pleaded  the  sister's 
cause.  Lucretia  heard  in  silence;  neither  eye 
nor  lip  betrayed  emotion;  but  her  color  went 
and  came.  This  was  the  only  sign  that  she 
was  moved:  moved,  but  how?  Fielden's  ex- 
perience in  the  human  heart  could  not  guess. 
When  he  had  done,  she  went  quietly  to  her 
desk  (it  was  in  her  own  room  that  the  confer- 
ence took  place)^she  unlocked  it  with  a  de- 
liberate hand — she  took  from  it  a  pocket-book 
and  a  case  of   jewels,    which    Sir    Miles  had 


given  her  on  her  last  birth-day.  "  Let  my 
sister  have  these — while  I  live  she  shall  not 
want  !  " 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  it  is  not  these  things 
that  she  asks  from  you;  it  is  your  affection, 
your  sisterly  heart,  your  intercession  with  her 
natural  protector;  these,  in  her  name,  I  ask 
for — /u?/i  gemmis  neque  purpurd  venale,  nee 
auro  !  " 

Lucretia  then,  still  without  apparent  emo- 
tion, raised  to  the  good  man's  face,  deep, 
penetrating,  but  unrevealing  eyes,  and  said 
slowly: — 

"  Is  ray  sister  like  my  mother,  who,  they 
say,  was  handsome  ?  " 

Much  startled  by  this  question,  Fielden 
answered — "  I  never  saw  your  mother,  my 
dear;  but  your  sister  gives  promise  of  more 
than  common  comeliness." 

Lucretia's  brows  grew  slightly  compressed. 
"  And  her  education  has  been,  of  course, 
neglected  ?" 

"Certainly,  in  some  points — mathematics, 
for  instance,  and  theology.  But  she  knows 
what  ladies  generally  know —  French  and 
Italian,  and  such  like.  Dr.  Mivers  was  not 
unlearned  in  the  polite  letters.  Oh,  trust  me, 
my  dear  young  lady,  she  will  not  disgrace 
your  family;  she  will  justify  your  uncle's 
favor.  Plead  for  her  !  " — and  the  good  man 
clasped  his  hands.  ■* 

Lucretia's  eyes  fell  musingly  on  the  ground; 
but  she  resumed,  after  a  short  pause. 

''  What  does  my  uncle  himself  say?  " 

"Only  that  he  will  decide  to-morrow." 

"I  will  see  him;"  and  Lucretia  left  the 
room  as  for  that  object.  But  when  she  had 
gained  the  stairs,  she  paused  at  the  large  em- 
bayed casement,  which  formed  a  niche  in  the 
landing-place,  and  gazed  over  the  broad  do- 
mains beyond;  a  stern  smile  settled,  then, 
upon  her  lips;  the  smile  seemed  to  say — "la 
this  inheritance  I  will  have  no  rival.  " 

Lucretia's  influence  with  Sir  Miles  was 
great;  but  here  it  was  not  needed.  Before 
she  saw  him  he  had  decided  on  his  course. 
Her  precocious,  and  apparently  intuitive  knowl- 
edge of  character,  detected,  at  a  glance,  the 
safety  with  which  she  might  intercede.  She 
did  so,  and  was  chid  into  silence. 

The  next  morning,  Sir  Miles  took  the 
priest's  arm,  and  walked  with  him  into  the 
gardens. 


LUCRKTJA. 


5 -'9 


'•  Mr.  Fieldon,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  has  chosen  his  course,  and  deprecates 
all  attempt  to  make  him  swerve  from  it, 
"  if  I  followed  my  own  selfish  wishes,  I  should 
take  home  this  poor  child.  Stay,  sir,  and  hear 
me — I  am  no  hypocrite,  and  I  speak  honestly 
— I  like  young  faces — I  have  no  family  of  my 
own; — I  love  Lucretia,  and  I  am  proud  of  her, 
but  a  girl  brought  up  in  adversity  might  be 
a  better  nurse,  and  a  more  docile  companion — 
let  that  pass.  I  have  reflected,  and  I  feel  that 
I  cannot  set  to  Lucretia — set  to  children  un- 
born— the  example  of  indifference  to  a  name 
degraded  and  a  race  adulterated:  you  may 
call  this  pride,  or  prejudice — I  view  it  differ- 
ently. There  are  duties  due  from  an  individual, 
duties  due  from  a  nation,  duties  due  from  a 
family;  as  my  ancestors  thought,  so  think  I. 
They  left  me  the  charge  of  their  name, 
as  the  fiefrent  by  which  I  hold  their  lands. 
'Sdeath,  sir  !  pardon  me  the  the  expletive  ! — 
I  was  about  to  say,  that  if  I  am  now  a 
childless  old  man,  it  is  because  I  have  myself 
known  temptation,  and  resisted.  I  loved,  and 
denied  myself  what  I  believed  my  best  chance 
of  happiness,  because  the  object  of  my  at- 
tachment was  not  my  equal — that  was  a  bitter 
struggle — I  triumphed,  and  I  rejoice  at  it, 
though  the  result  was  to  leave  all  thoughts  of 
wedlock  elsewhere  odious  and  repugnant. 
These  principles  of  action  have  made  a  part 
of  my  creed  as  gentleman,  if  not  as  Christian 
— now,  to  the  point.  I  beseech  you  to  find  a 
fitting  and  reputable  home  for  Miss — Miss 
Mivers  (the  lips  lightly  curled  as  the  name  was 
said) — I  shall  provide  suitably  for  her  main- 
tenance. When  she  marries,  I  will  dower  her, 
provided  only,  and  always,  that  her  choice  fail 
upon  one  who  will  not  still  further  degrade  her 
lineage  on  her  mother's  side, — in  a  word,  if 
she  select  a  gentleman.  Mr.  Fielden,  on  this 
subject  I  have  no  more  to  say." 

In  vain  the  good  clergyman,  whose  very 
conscience,  as  well  as  reason,  was  shocked  by 
the  deliberate  and  argumentive  manner  with 
which  the  baronet  had  treated  the  abandon- 
ment of  his  sister's  child  as  an  absolutely  moral, 
almost  religious  duty, — in  vain  he  exerted  him- 
seif  to  repel  such  sophisms,  and  put  the  mat- 
ter in  its  true  light.  It  was  easy  for  him  to 
inove  Sir  Miles's  heart — that  was  ever  gentle 
—^that  was  moved  already;  but  the  crotchet 
in    his    head    was    impregnable.     The   more 


touchingly  he  painted  poor  Susan's  unfriended 
youth,  her  sweet  character,  and  promising 
virtues,  the  more  Sir  Miles  St.  John  consid- 
ered himself  a  martyr  to  his  principles,  and 
the  more  obstinate  in  the  martyrdom  he  be- 
came. "  Poor  thing  !  poor  child  !  "  he  said 
often,  and  brushed  a  tear  from  his  eyes;  "  a 
thousand  pities  !  Well,  well,  I  hope  she  will 
be  happy  I  Mind,  money  shall  never  stand  in 
the  way  if  she  have  a  suitable  offer  !  "  This 
was  all  the  worthy  clergyman,  after  an  hour's 
eloquence,  could  extract  from  him.  Out  of 
breath,  and  out  of  patience,  he  gave  in  at  last: 
and  the  baronet,  still  holding  his  reluctant  arm, 
led  him  back  towards  the  house.  After  a 
prolonged  pause,  Sir  Miles  said  abruptly:  "  1 
have  been  thinking  that  I  may  have  unwit- 
tingly injured  this  man — this  Mivers — while  I 
deemed  only  that  he  injured  me.  As  to  re- 
paration to  his  daughter,  that  is  settled;  and, 
after  all,  though  I  do  not  publicly  acknowledge 
her,  she  is  half  my  own  niece." 
"Half?" 

"  Half — the  father's  side  don't  count,  of 
course;  and,  rigidly  speaking,  the  relationship 
is,  perhaps,  forfeited  on  the  other.  However, 
that  half  of  it  I  grant.  Zooks,  sir,  I  say  I 
grant  it  ! — I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons  for 
my  vehemence.  To  return,  perhaps  I  can 
show  at  least  that  I  bear  no  malice  to  this  poor 
doctor.  He  has  relations  of  his  own — silk- 
mercers — trade  has  reverses.  How  are  they 
off  ?  " 

Perfectly  perplexed  by  this  very  contradic- 
tory and  paradoxical,  yet,  to  one  better  ac- 
quainted with  Sir  Miles,  very  characteristic 
benevolence,  Fielden  was  some  time  before  he 
answered.  "  Those  members  of  Dr.  Mivers's 
family  who  are  in  trade  are  sufficiently  pros- 
perous; they  have  paid  his  debts;  they,  Sir 
Miles,  will  receive  his  daughter." 

"  By  no  means  !  "  cried  Sir  Miles,  quickly; 
then  recovering  himself,  he  added,  "  or,  if  you 
think  that  advisable,  of  course  all  interference 
on  my  part  is  withdrawn." 

"  Festina  lente  ! — not  so  quick.  Sir  Miles.  I 
do  not  yet  say  that  it  is  advisable — not  because 
they  are  silk-mercers,  the  which,  I  humbly 
conceive,  is  no  sin  to  exclude  them  from  grati- 
tude for  their  proffered  kindness,  but  because 
Susan,  poor  child  I  having  been  brought  up  in 
different  habits,  may  feel  a  little  strange,  at 
least  at  first,  with " 


B  UL  WER  'S     WORKS. 


"Strange,  yes;  I  should  hope  So!"  inter- 
rupted Sir  Miles,  taking  snuff  with  much  en- 
ergy; "and,  by  the  way,  I  am  thinking  that  it 
would  be  well  if  you  and  Mrs.  Fielden — you 
are  married,  sir?— that  is  right — clergymen  all 
marry  ! — if  you  and  Mrs.  Fielden  would  take 
charge  of  her  yourselves,  it  would  be  a  great 
comfort  to  me  to  think  her  so  well  placed.  We 
differ,  sir — but  I  respect  yon.  Think  of  this. 
Well,  then,  the  doctor  has  left  no  relations 
that  I  can  aid  in  any  way." 

"  Strange  man  !  "  muttered  Fielden.  "Yes; 
I  must  not  let  one  poor  youth  lose  the  oppor- 
tunity offered  by  your — your " 

"  Never  mind  what — proceed  —  one  poor 
youth;  in  the  shop,  of  course  ? 

"No;  and  by  his  father's  side  (since  you  so 
esteem  such  vanities)  of  an  ancient  family — a 
sister  of  Dr.  Mivers  married  Captain  Ard- 
worth." 

"  Ardworth — a  goodish  name — Ardworth,  of 
Yorkshire. 

"  Yes,  of  that  family.  It  was,  of  course,  an 
imprudent  marriage,  contracted  while  he  was 
only  an  ensign.  His  family  did  not  reject 
him.  Sir  Miles." 

"  Sir,  Ardworth  is  a  good  squire's  family, 
but  the  name  is  Saxon;  there  is  no  difference 
in  race  between  the  head  of  the  Ardworths,  if 
he  were  a  duke,  and  my  gardener,  John  Hodge 
— Saxon  and  Saxon,  both.  His  family  did 
not  reject  him — -go  on." 

•  "  But  he  was  a  younger  son  in  a  large  family 
— both  hiir.self  and  his  wife  have  known  all  the 
distresses  common,  they  tell  me,  to  the  poverty 
of  a  soldier,  who  has  no  resource  but  his  pay. 
They  have  a  son;  Dr.  Mivers — though  so  poor 
himself — took  this  boy,  for  he  loved  his  sister 
dearly,  and  meant  to  bring  him  up  to  his  own 
profession.  Death  frustrated  this  intention. 
The  boy  is  high-spirited  and  deserving." 

"Let  his  education  be  coinpleted — send  him 
to  the  university;  and  I  will  see  that  he  is  put 
into  some  career,  of  which  his  father's  family 
would  approve.  You  need  not  mention  to  any 
one  my  intentions  in  this  respect,  not  even  to 
the  lad.  And  now,  Mr.  Fielden,  I  have  done 
my  duty — at  least,  I  think  so.  The  longer 
you  honor  my  house,  the  more  I  shall  be 
pleased  and  grateful;  but  this  topic,  allow  me 
most  respectfully  to  say,  needs  and  bears  no 
further  comment.  Have  you  seen  the  last 
news  from  the  army  ? " 


"The  army! — oh,  fie.  Sir  Miles,  1  must 
speak  one  word  more— may  not  my  poor 
Susan  have,  at  least,  the  comfort  to  embrace 
her  sister?" 

Sir  Miles  mused  a  moment,  and  struck  his 
crutch-stick  thrice  firmly  on  the  ground. 

"  I  see  no  great  objection  to  that;  but,  by 
the  address  of  this  letter,  the  poor  girl  is  too 
far  from  Laughton  to  send  Lucrelia  to  her." 

"  I  can  obviate  that  objection.  Sir  Miles. 
It  is  my  wish  to  continue  to  Susan  her  present 
home  amongst  my  own  children — my  wife 
loves  her  dearly;  and  had  you  consented  to 
give  her  the  shelter  of  your  own  roof,  I  am 
sure  I  should  not  have  seen  a  smile  in  the 
house  for  a  month  after.  If  you  permit  this 
plan,  as  indeed  you  honored  me  by  suggesting 
it,  I  can  pass  through  Southampton,  on  my 
way  to  my  own  living  in  Devonshire,  and 
Miss  Clavering  can  visit  her  sister  there." 

"  Let  it  be  so,"  said  Sir  Miles,  briefly;  and 
so  the  conversation  closed. 

Some  weeks  afterwards,  Lucretia  went  in 
her  uncle's  carriage,  with  four  post-horses, 
with  her  maid  and  her  footman — went  in  the 
state  and  pomp  of  heiress  to  Laughton — to  the 
small  lodging  house  in  which  the  kind  p>astor 
crowded  his  children  and  his  young  guest. 
She  stayed  there  some  days.  She  did  not 
weep  when  she  embraced  Susan— she  did  not 
weep  when  she  took  leave  of  her;  but  she 
showed  no  want  of  actual  kindness,  though 
the  kindness  was  formal  and  stately.  ,  On 
her  return.  Sir  Miles  forbore  to  question;  but 
he  looked  as  if  he  expected,  and  would  will- 
ingly permit,  her  to  speak  on  what  might 
naturally  be  uppermost  at  her  heart.  Lucretia, 
however,  remained  silent,  till  at  last  the  baronet 
coloring,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  curiosity,  said — 

"  Is  your  sister  like  your  mother  ?  " 

"  You  forget,  sir,  I  can  have  no  recollection 
of  my  mother." 

"  Your  mother  had  a  strong  family  likeness 
to  myself." 

"  She  is  not  like  you — they  say  she  is  like 
Dr.  Mivers." 

"Oh  !  "  said  the  baronet,  and  he  asked  no 
more.  The  sisters  did  not  meet  again:  a  few 
letters  passed  between -them,  but  the  cor- 
respondence gradually  ceased. 

Young  Ardworth  went  to  college,  prepared 
by  Mr.  Fielden,  who  was  no  ordmary  scholar, 
and  an  accurate  and  profound  mathematician 


LUCRETIA. 


S2> 


— a  more  important  requisite  than  classical 
learning  in  a  tutor  for  Cambridge.  But  Ard- 
worth  was  idle,  and  perhaps  even  dissipated. 
rfe  took  a  common  degree,  and  made  some 
debts,  which  were  paid  by  Sir  Miles,  without  a 
murmur.  A  few  letters  then  passed  between 
the  baronet  and  the  clergyman,  as  to  Ard- 
worth's  future  destiny:  the  latter  owned  that 
nis  pupil  was  not  persevering  enough  for  the 
bar,  nor  steady  enough  for  the  church. 

These  were  no  great  faults  in  Sir  Miles's 
eyes.  He  resolved,  after  an  effort,  to  judge 
himself  of  the  capacities  of  the  young  man, 
and  so  came  the  invitation  to  Laughton.  Ard- 
worth  was  greatly  surprised  when  Fielden  com- 
municated to  him  this  invitation,  for  hitherto 
he  had  not  conceived  the  slightest  suspicion 
of  his  benefactor — he  had  rather,  and  naturally, 
supposed  that  some  relation  of  his  father's  had 
paid  for  his  maintenance  at  the  university;  and 
he  knew  enough  of  the  family  history  to  look 
upon  Sir  Miles  as  the  proudest  of  men.  How 
was  it,  then,  that  he  who  would  not  receive  the 
daughter  of  Dr.  Mivers,  his  own  niece,  would 
invite  the  nephew  of  Dr.  Mivers,  who  was  no 
relation  to  him  ?  However,  his  curiosity  was 
excited,  and  Fielden  was  urgent  that  he  should 
go;— to  Laughton,  therefore,  had  he  gone. 

We  have  now  brought  down,  to  the  opening 
of  our  narrative,  the  general  records  of  the 
family  it  concerns;  we  have  reserved  our  ac- 
count of  the  rearing  and  the  character  of  the 
]iersonage  most  important,  perhaps,  in  the 
development  of  its  events — Lucretia  Claver- 
ing;  in  order  to  place  singly  before  the  reader, 
the  portrait  of  the  dark,  misguided,  and  ill- 
boding  youth. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Lucretia. 

W.4EN  Lucretia  first  came  to  the  house  of 
Sir  Miles  St.  John,  she  was  an  infant  about 
four  years  old.  The  baronet  then  lived  prin- 
cipally in  London,  with  occasional  visits 
rather  to  the  Continent  or  a  watering  place, 
than  to  his  own  family  mansion.  He  did  not 
pay  any  minute  attention  to  his  little  ward — 
satisfied  that  her  nurse  was  sedulous,  and  her 
nursery  airy  and  commodious.  When  at  the 
age  of  seven,  she  began  to  interest  him,  and 


he  himself,  approaching  old  age,  began  seri- 
ously to  consider,  whether  he  should  select  her 
as  his  heiress,  for  hitherto  he  had  not  formed 
any  decided  or  definite  notions  on  the  matter 
— he  was  startled  by  a  temper  so  vehement,  so 
self-willed  and  sternly  imperious,  so  obsti- 
nately bent  upon  attaining  its  object,  so  indif- 
ferently contemptuous  of  warning,  reproof, 
coaxing,  or  punishment,  that  her  governess 
honestly  came  to  him  in  despair. 

The  management  of  this  unmanageable 
child  interested  Sir  Miles.  It  caused  him  to 
think  of  Lucretia  seriously;  it  caused  him  to 
have  her  much  in  his  society,  and  always  in  his 
thoughts;  the  result  was,  that  by  amusing  and 
occupying  him,  she  forced  a  stronger  hold  on 
his  affections  than  she  might  have  done  had  she 
been  more  like  the  ordinary  run  of  common- 
place children.  Of  all  dogs,  there  is  no  dog 
that  so  attaches  a  master  as  a  dog  that  snarls  at 
everybody  else, — that  no  other  hand  can  ven- 
ture to  pat  with  impunity;  of  all  horses,  there  is 
none  which  so  flatters  the  rider,  from  Alex- 
ander downwards,  as  a  horse  that  nobody  else 
can  ride.  Extend  this  principle  to  the  human 
species,  and  you  may  understand  why  Lucretia 
became  so  dear  to  Sir  Miles  St.  John — she 
got  at  his  heart  through  his  vanity.  For 
though,  at  times,  her  brow  darkened,  and  her 
i  eye  flashed  even  at  his  remonstrance,  she  was 
yet  no  sooner  in  his  society  than  she  made  a 
marked  distinction  between  him  and  the  subor- 
dinates, who  had  hitherto  sought  to  control 
her.  Was  this  affection  ? — he  thought  so. 
Alas,  what  parent  can  trace  the  workings  of  a 
child's  mind — springs  moved  by  an  idle  word 
from  a  nurse — a  whispered  conference  between 
hirelings  !  Was  it  possible  that  Lucretia  had 
not  often  been  menaced,  as  the  direst  evil  that 
could  befall  her,  with  her  uncle's  displeasure; 
that  long  before  she  could  be  sensible  of  mere 
worldly  loss  or  profit,  she  was  not  impressed 
with  a  vague  sense  of  Sir  Miles's  power  over 
her  fate;  nay,  when  trampling,  in  childish 
wrath  and  scorn,  upon  some  menial's  irritable 
feelings,  was  it  possible  that  she  had  not  been 
told  that,  but  for  Sir  Miles,  she  would  be  little 
better  than  a  servant  herself  ? 

Be  this  as  it  may,  all  weakness  is  prone  to 
dissimulate:  and  rare  and  happy  is  the  child 
whose  feelings  are  as  pure  and  transparent  as 
the  fond  parent  deems  them.  There  is  some- 
thing in  children,  too,  which    seems  like  an 


y23 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


instinctive  deference  to  the  aristocratic  api)ear- 
ances  which  sway  the  world.  Sir  Miles's 
stately  person — his  imposing  dress,  the  respect 
with  which  he  was  surrounded — all  tended  to 
beget  notions  of  superiority  and  power,  to 
which  it  was  no  shame  to  succuml),  as  it  was 
to  Miss  Black,  the  governess,  whom  the  maids 
answered  pertly,  or  Martha,  the  nurse,  whom 
Miss  Black  snubbed  if  Lucretia  tore  her 
frock. 

Sir  Miles's  affection  once  won — his  penetra- 
tion not  perhaps  blinded  to  her  more  evident 
faults,  but  his  self-love  soothed  towards  re- 
garding them  leniently — there  was  much  in 
Lucretia's  external  gifts  which  justified  the 
predilection  of  the  haughty  man.  As  a  child, 
she  was  beautiful,  and,  perhaps,  from  her  very 
imperfections  of  temper,  her  beauty  had  that 
air  of  distinction  which  the  love  of  command 
is  apt  to  confer.  If  Sir  Miles  was  with  his 
friends  when  Lucretia  swept  into  the  room,  he 
was  pleased  to  hear  them  call  her  their  little 
"princess,"  and  pleased  yet  more  at  a  certain 
dignified  tranquillity  with  which  she  received 
their  caresses  or  their  toys,  and  which  he  re- 
garded as  the  sign  of  a  superior  mind:  nor  was 
it  long,  indeed,  before  what  we  call  a  superior 
mind  developed  itself  in  the  young  Lucretia. 
All  children  are  quick  till  they  are  set  method- 
ically to  study;  but  Lucretia's  quickness  de- 
fied even  that  numbing  ordeal,  by  which  half 
of  us  are  rendered  dunces.  Rapidity  and  pre- 
cision in  all  the  tasks  set  to  her, — in  the  com- 
prehension of  all  the  explanations  given  to  her 
questions,  evinoed  singular  powers  of  readi- 
ness and  reasoning. 

As  she  grew  older,  she  became  more  reserved 
and  thoughtful.  Seeing  but  few  children  of 
her  own  age,  and  mixing  intimately  with 
none,  her  mind  was  debarred  from  the  usual 
objects  which  distract  the  vivacity,  the  rest- 
less and  wondrous  observation,  of  childhood. 
She  came  in  and  out  of  Sir  Miles's  library  of  a 
morning,  or  his  drawing  room  of  an  evening 
till  her  hour  for  rest,  with  unquestioned  and 
sometimes  unnoticed  freedom;  she  listened  to 
the  conversation  around  her,  and  formed  her 
own  conclusions  unchecked.  It  has  a  great 
influence  upon  a  child,  whether  for  good  or  for 
evil,  to  mix  early  and  habitually  with  those 
grown  up — for  good  to  the  mere  intellect 
always — the  evil  depends  upon  the  character 
and  discretion  of   those   the   child    sees   and 


hears — "  Reverence  the  greatest  is  due  to  chil- 
dren," exclaimed  the  wisest  of  the  Romans;  * 
that  is  so  say  that  we  must  revere  the  candor 
and  inexperience  and  innocence  of  their  minds. 

Now  Sir  Miles's  habitual  associates  were 
persons  of  the  world;  well-bred  and  decorous, 
indeed,  before  children,  as  the  best  of  the  old 
school  were — avoiding  all  anecdotes,  all  allu- 
sions, for  which  the  prudent  matron  would  send 
her  girls  out  of  the  room;  but,  with  that  re- 
serve, speaking  of  the  world  as  the  world  goes; 
if  talking  of  young  A — ,  calculating  carelessly 
what  he  would  have  when  old  A — ,  his 
father,  died — naturally  giving  to  wealth,  and 
station,  and  ability,  their  fi.xed  importance  in 
life — not  over-apt  to  single  out  for  eulogium 
some  quiet  goodness,  rather  inclined  to  speak 
with  irony  of  pretensions  to  virtue — rarely 
speaking  but  with  respect  of  the  worldly 
seemings  which  rule  mankind; — all  these  had 
their  inevitable  effect  upon  that  keen,  quick, 
yet  moody  and  reflective  intellect. 

Sir  Miles  removed  at  last  to  Laughton.  He 
gave  up  London — why,  he  acknowledged  not 
to  himself;  but  it  was  because  he  had  outlived 
his  age— most  of  his  old  set  were  gone — new 
hours,  new  habits  had  stolen  in.  He  had 
ceased  to  be  of  importance  as  a  marrying 
man,  as  a  personage  of  fashion;  his  health 
was  impaired;  he  shrank  from  the  fatigues  of 
a  contested  election;  he  resigned  his  seat  in 
Parliament  for  his  native  county,  and,  once 
settled  at  Laughton,  the  life  there  soothed  and 
flattered  him — there,  all  his  former  claims  to 
distinction  were  still  fresh.  He  amused  him- 
self by  collecting,  in  his  old  halls  and  chambers, 
his  statues  and  pictures,  and  felt  that,  without 
fatigue  or  trouble,  he  was  a  greater  man  at 
Laughton  in  his  old  age,  than  he  had  been  in 
London  during  his  youth. 

Lucretia  was  then  thirteen.  Three  years 
afterwards,  Olivier  Dalibard  was  established  in 
the  house,  and  from  that  time  a  great  change 
became  noticeable  in  her.  The  irregular  vehe- 
mence of  her  temper  gradually  subsided,  and 
was  replaced  by  an  habitual  self-command, 
which  rendered  the  rare  deviations  from  it 
more  effective  and  imposing.  Her  pride 
changed  its  character  wholly  and  permanently; 
no  word,  no  look  of  scorn  to  the  low-born  and 
the  poor  escaped  her.     The  masculine  studies 


•  Cicero.    The  sentiment  is  borrowed  by  Juvenat 


LUCRETIA. 


523 


which  her  erudite  tutor  opened  to  a  grasping 
and  inquisitive  mind,  elevated  her  very  errors 
above  the  petty  distinctions  of  class.  She 
imbibed  earnestly  what  Dalibard  assumed  or 
felt, — the  more  dangerous  pride  of  the  fallen 
angel, — and  set  up  the  intellect  as  a  deity 
All  belonging  to  the  mere  study  of  mind 
charmed  and  enchained  her;  but  active  and 
practical  in  her  very  reveries,  if  she  brooded, 
it  was  to  scheme,  to  plot,  to  weave  web  and 
mesh,  and  to  smile  in  haughty  triumph  at  her 
own  ingenuity  and  daring.  The  first  lesson  of 
mere  worldly  wisdom  teaches  us  to  command 
temper;  it  was  worldly  wisdom  that  made  the 
once  impetus  girl  calm,  tranquil,  and  serene- 
Sir  Miles  was  pleased  by  a  change  that  removed 
from  Lucretia's  outward  character  its  chief 
blot:  perhaps,  as  his  frame  declined,  he  sighed 
sometimes  to  think  that  with  so  much  majesty 
there  appeared  but  little  tenderness;  he  took, 
however,  the  merits  with  the  faults,  and  was 
content  upon  the  whole. 

If  the  Provenfal  had  taken  more  than  com- 
mon pains  with  his  young  pupil,  the  pains  were 
not  solely  disinterested.  In  plunging  her  mind 
amidst  that  profound  corruption  which  belongs 
only  to  intellect  cultivated  in  scorn  of  good, 
and  in  suppression  of  heart,  he  had  his  own 
views  to  serve.  He  watched  the  age  when  the 
passions  ripen;  and  he  grasped  at  the  fruit 
which  his  training  sought  to  mature.  In  the 
human  heart  ill  regulated  there  is  a  dark  desire 
for  the  forbidden.  This  Lucretia  felt— this 
her  studies  cherished,  and  her  thoughts  brooded 
over.  She  detected,  with  the  quickness  of  her 
sex,  the  Preceptor's  stealthy  aim.  She  started 
not  at  the  danger.  Proud  of  her  mastery  over 
herself,  she  rather  triumphed  in  luring  on  into 
weakness  this  master-intelligence  which  had 
lighted  up  her  own, — to  see  her  slave  in  her 
teacher — to  despise  or  to  pity  him  whom  she 
had  first  contemplated  with  awe.  And  with 
this  mere  pride  of  the  understanding  might  be 
connected  that  of  the  sex;  she  had  attained 
the  years  when  woman  is  curious  to  know  and 
to  sound  her  power.  To  inflame  Dalibard's 
cupidity  or  ambition  was  easy;  but  to  touch 
his  heart — that  marble  heart  !— this  had  its 
dignity  and  its  charm.  Strange  to  say,  she 
succeeded. 

The  passion,  as  well  as  interests,  of  this  dan- 
gerous and  able  man  became  enlisted  in  his 
hopes;    and  now  the   game    played    between 


them  had  a  terror  in  its  suspense;  for  if  Dali- 
bard penetrated  not  into  the  recesses  of  his 
pupil's  complicated  nature,  she  was  far  from 
having  yet  sounded  the  hell  that  lay  black  and 
devouring  beneath  his  own.  Not  through  her 
affections — those  he  scarce  hoped  for — but 
through  her  inexperience,  her  vanity,  her  pas- 
sions, he  contemplated  the  path  to  his  victory 
over  her  soul  and  her  fate.  And  so  resolute, 
so  wily,  so  unscrupulous  was  this  person  who 
had  played  upon  all  the  subtlest  keys  and 
chords  in  the  scale  of  turbulent  life,  that,  de- 
..pite  the  lofty  smile  with  which  Lucretia  at 
length  heard  and  repelled  his  suit,  he  had  no 
fear  of  the  ultimate  issue, — when  all  his  pro- 
jects were  traversed, — all  his  mines  and  strata- 
gems abruptly  brought  to  a  close,  by  an  event 
which  he  had  wholly  unforseen — the  appear- 
ance of  a  rival;  the  ardent  and  almost  purify- 
ing love,  which,  escaping  awhile  from  all  the 
demons  he  had  evoked,  she  had,  with  a  girl's 
frank  heart  and  impulse,  conceived  for  Main- 
waring. 

And  here,  indeed,  was  the  great  crisis  in 
Lucretia's  life  and  destiny.  So  interwoven 
with  her  nature  had  become  the  hard  calcula- 
tions of  the  understanding;  so  habitual  to  her 
now  was  the  zest  for  scheming,  which  revels  in 
the  play  and  vivacity  of  intrigue  and  plot,  and 
which  Shakespeare  has,  perhaps,  intended 
chiefly  to  depict  in  the  villany  of  lago,  that  it 
is  probable  Lucretia  could  never  become  a 
character  thoroughly  amiable  and  honest.  But 
with  a  happy  and  well-placed  love,  her  ambi- 
tion might  have  had  legitimate  vents;  her  rest- 
less energies,  the  woman's  natural  field  in 
sympathies  for  another.  The  heart  once 
opened  softens  by  use;  gradually  and  uncon- 
sciously the  interchange  of  affection,  the  com- 
panionship with  an  upright  and  ingenious  mind 
(for  virtue  is  not  only  beautiful ;  it  is  contagious) 
might  have  had  their  redeeming  and  hallowing 
influence.  Happier,  indeed,  had  it  been,  if 
her  choice  had  fallen  upon  a  more  command- 
ing and  lofty  nature.  But  perhaps  it  was  the 
very  meekness  and  susceptibility  of  Mainwar- 
ing's  temper,  relieved  from  feebleness  by  his 
talents,  which,  once  in  play,  were  undeniably 
great,  that  pleased  her  by  contrast  with  her 
own  hardness  of  spirit  and  depotism  of  will. 

That  Sir  Miles  should  have  been  blind  to 
the  position  of  the  lovers,  is  less  disparaging 
to  his  penetration  than  it  may  appear;  for  the 


524 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


very  imprudence  with  which  Lucretia  aban- 
doned herself  to  the  society  of  Mainwaring 
during  his  visits  at  Laughton,  took  a  resem- 
blance to  candor.  Sir  Miles  knew  his  niece 
to  be  more  than  commonly  clever  and  well  in- 
formed; that  she,  like  him,  should  feel  that 
the  conversation  of  a  superior  young  man  was 
a  relief  to  the  ordinary  babble  of  their  country 
neighbors  was  natural  enough;  and  if  now  and 
then  a  doubt,  a  fear,  had  crossed  his  mind, 
and  rendered  him  more  touched  than  he  liked 
to  own  by  Vernon's  remarks,  it  had  vanished 
upon  perceiving  that  Lucretia  never  seemed  a 
shade  more  pensive  in  Mainwaring's  absence. 
The  listlessness  and  the  melancholy  which  are 
apt  to  accompany  love,  especially  where  un- 
propitiously placed,  were  not  visible  on  the 
surface  of  this  strong  nature.  In  truth,  once 
assured  that  Mainwaring  returned  her  affec- 
tion, Lucretia  reposed  on  the  future  with  a 
calm  and  rosolute  confidence;  and  her  cus- 
tomary dissimulation  closed  like  an  unruffled 
sea  over  all  the  under-currents  that  met  aud 
played  below. 

Still  Sir  Miles's  attention  once,  however 
slightly,  aroused  to  the  recollection  that 
Lucretia  was  at  the  age  when  woman  naturally 
meditates  upon  love  and  marriage,  had  sug- 
gested, afresh  and  more  vividly,  a  project 
which  had  before  been  indistinctly  conceived 
—viz.,  the  union  of  the  divided  branches  of  his 
house,  by  the  marriage  of  the  last  male  of  the 
Vernons  with  the  heiress  of  the  St.  Johns. 
Sir  Miles  had  seen  much  of  Vernon  himself,  at 
various  intervals:  he  had  been  present  at  his 
christening,  though  he  had  refused  to  be  his 
godfather,  for  fear  of  raising  undue  expecta- 
tions; he  had  visited  and  munificently 
"tipped"  him  at  Eton;  he  had  accompanied 
him  to  his  quarters  when  he  joined  the  Prince's 
regiment;  he  had  come  often  in  contact  with 
him,  when,  at  the  death  of  his  father,  Vernon 
retired  from  the  army  and  blazed  in  the  front 
ranks  of  metropolitan  fashion;  he  had  given 
him  counsel  and  had  even  lent  him  money. 
Vernon's  spendthrift  habits,  and  dissipated  if 
not  dissolute  life,  had  certainly  confirmed  the 
old  baronet  in  his  intentions  to  trust  the  lands 
of  Laughton  to  the  lesser  ri^k  which  property 
incurs  in  the  hands  of  a  female,  if  tightly  set- 
tled on  her,  than  in  the  more  colossal  and 
multiform  luxuries  of  an  expensive  mau;  and 
to  do  him  justice,  during  the  flush  of  Vernon's 


riotous  career,  he  had  shrunk  from  the  thought 
of  confiding  the  happiness  of  his  niece  to  so 
unstable  a  partner. 

But  of  late,  whether  from  his  impaired 
health,  or  his  broken  fortunes,  Vernon's  follies 
had  been  less  glaring.  He  had  now  arrived  at 
the  mature  age  of  thirty-three,  when  wild  oats 
may  reasonably  be  sown.  The  composed  and 
steadfast  character  of  Lucretia,  might  serve 
to  guide  aud  direct  him:  and  Sir  Miles  was 
one  of  those  who  hold  the  doctrine  that  a 
reformed  rake  makes  the  best  husband;  add 
to  this,  there  was  nothing  in  Vernon's  reputa- 
tion (once  allowing  that  his  thirst  for  pleasure 
was  slaked)  which  could  excite  serious  appre- 
hensions. Through  all  his  difficulties,  he 
had  maintained  his  honor  unblemished;  a 
thousand  traits  of  amiability  and  kindness  of 
heart  made  him  popular  and  beloved.  He 
was  nobody's  enemy  but  his  own.  His  very 
distresses — the  prospect  of  his  ruin,  if  left 
unassisted  by  Sir  Miles's  testamentary  disposi- 
tions— were  arguments  in  his  favor.  And, 
after  all,  though  Lucretia  was  a  nearer  relation, 
Vernon  was  in  truth  the  direct  male  heir,  and, 
according  to  the  usual  prejudices  of  family, 
therefore,  the  fitter  representative  of  the  an- 
cient line.  With  these  feelings  and  views,  he 
had  invited  Vernon  to  his  house,  and  we  have 
seen  already  that  his  favorable  impressions 
had  been  confirmed  by  the  visit. 

And  here,  we  must  say,  that  Vernon  himself 
had  been  brought  up  in  boyhood  and  youth  to 
regard  himself  the  presumptive  inheritor  of 
Laughton.  It  had  been,  from  time  immemo- 
rial, the  custom  of  the  St.  Johns  to  pass  by  the 
claims  of  females  in  the  settlement  of  the  en- 
tails: from  male  to  male  the  estate  had  gone 
— furnishing  warriors  to  the  army,  and  sena- 
tors to  the  state.  And  if  when  Lucretia  first 
came  to  Sir  Miles's  house,  the  bright  prospect 
seemed  somewhat  obscured,  still  the  mesalli- 
ance of  the  mother,  and  Sir  Miles's  obstinate 
resentment  thereat,  seemed  to  warrant  the 
supposition  that  he  would  procably  only  leave 
to  the  orphan  the  usual  portion  of  a  daughter 
of  the  house,  and  that  the  lands  would  go  in 
their  ordinary  destination.  This  belief,  adopted 
passively,  and  as  a  thing  of  course,  had  had  a 
very  prejudicial  effect  upon  Vernon's  career. 
What  mattered  that  he  over-enjoyed  his  youth, 
that  the  subordinate  property  of  the  Vernons, 
a  paltry  four  or  five  thousand  pounds  a  year, 


LUCRETIA. 


525 


went  a  little  too  fast — the  splendid  estates  of 
Laughton  would  recover  all. 

From  this  dream  he  had  only  been  awakened 
two  or  three  years  before,  by  an  attachment 
he  had  formed  to  the  portionless  daughter 
of  an  earl;  and  the  Grange  being  too  far  en- 
cumbered to  allow  him  the  proper  settlements 
which  the  lady's  family  required,  it  became  a 
matter  of  importance  to  ascertain  Sir  Miles's 
intentions.  Too  delicate  himself  to  sound 
them,  he  had  prevailed  upon  the  earl,  who  was 
well  acquainted  with  Sir  Miles,  to  take  Laugh- 
ton  in  his  way  to  his  own  seat  in  Dorsetshire; 
and,  without  betraying  the  grounds  of  his  inter- 
est in  the  question,  learn  carelessly,  as  it  were, 
the  views  of  the  wealthy  man.  The  result 
had  been  a  severe  and  terrible  disappointment. 
Sir  Miles  had  then  fully  determined  upon  con- 
stituting Lucretia  his  heiress,  and,  with  the 
usual  openness  of  his  character,  he  had 
plainly  said  so,  upon  the  very  first  covert 
and  polished  allusion  to  the  subject,  which  the 
earl  slily  made.  This  discovery,  in  breaking 
off  all  hopes  of  an  union  with  Lady  Mary 
Stanville,  had  crushed  more  than  mercenary 
expectations.  It  affected,  through  his  heart, 
Vernon's  health  and  spirits;  it  rankled  deep 
and  was  resented  at  first  as  a  fatal  injury. 

But  Vernon's  native  nobility  of  disposition 
gradually  softened  an  indignation  which  his 
reason  convinced  him  was  groundless  and  un- 
just. Sir  Miles  had  never  encouraged  the  ex- 
pectations, which  Vernon's  family  and  himself 
had  unthinkingly  formed.  The  baronet  was 
master  of  his  own  fortune,  and  after  all  was  it 
not  more  natural  that  he  should  prefer  the 
child  he  had  brought  up  and  reared,  to  a  dis- 
tant relation,  little  more  than  an  acquaintance, 
simply  because  man  succeeded  to  man  in  the 
mouldy  pedigree  of  the  St.  Johns  ?  And, 
Mary  fairly  lost  to  him,  in  his  constitutional 
indifference  to  money,  a  certain  French  levity 
of  temper,  a  persuasion  that  his  life  was  near- 
ing  its  wasted  close,  had  left  him  without  re- 
gret, as  without  resentment,  at  his  kinsman's 
decision.  His  boyish  affection  for  the  hearty, 
generous  old  gentleman  returned,  and  though 
he  abhorred  the  country,  he  had  without  a 
single  interested  thought  or  calculation,  cor- 
dially accepted  the  baronet's  hospitable  over- 
tures, and  deserted,  for  the  wilds  of  Hamp- 
shire, "  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall." 

We    may   now  enter   the   drawing-room   at 


Laughton,  in  which  were  already  assembled 
several  of  the  families  residing  in  the  more 
immediate  neighborhood,  and  who  sociably 
dropped  in  to  chat  around  the  national  tea- 
table,  play  a  rubber  at  whist,  or  make  up,  by 
the  help  of  two  or  three  children  and  two  or 
three  grandpapas,  a  merry  country  dance. 
For,  in  that  happy  day,  people  were  much 
more  sociable  than  they  are  now,  in  the  houses 
of  our  rural  Thanes.  Our  country  seats  be- 
came bustling  and  animated  after  the  Birth- 
day; many  even  of  the  more  important  fami- 
lies resided,  indeed,  all  the  year  round  on  their 
estates.  The  Continent  was  closed  to  us;  the 
fastidious  exclusiveness  which  comes  from 
habitual  residence  in  cities,  had  not  made  that 
demarcation  in  castes  and  -in  talk,  between 
neighbor  and  neighbor,  which  exists  now. 
Our  squires  were  less  educated,  less  refined, 
but  more  hospitable  and  unassuming.  In  a 
word,  there  was  what  does  not  exist  now,  ex- 
cept in  some  districts  remote  from  London, — 
a  rural  society  for  those  who  sought  it. 

The  party,  as  we  enter,  is  grouped  some- 
what thus — but  first,  we  must  cast  a  glance  at 
the  room  itself,  which  rarely  failed  to  be  the 
first  object  to  attract  a  stranger's  notice.  It 
was  a  long,  and  not  particularly  well-propor- 
tioned apartment,  according,  at  least,  to 
modern  notions,  for  it  had  rather  the  appear- 
ance of  two  rooms  thrown  into  one.  At  the 
distance  of  about  thirty-five  feet,  the  walls, 
before  somewhat  narrow,  were  met  by  an  arch, 
supported  by  carved  pilasters,  which  opened 
into  a  space  nearly  double  the  width  of  the 
previous  part  of  the  room,  with  a  domed  ceil- 
ing, and  an  embaved  window  of  such  depth, 
that  the  recess  almost  formed  a  chamber  in 
itself.  But  both  these  divisions  of  the  apart- 
ment corresponded  exactly  in  point  of  decora- 
tion; they  had  the  same  small  panelling,  painted 
a  very  light  green,  which  seemed  almost  white 
by  candle-light,  each  compartment  wrought 
with  an  arabesque,  the  same  enriched  frieze 
and  cornice;  they  had  the  same  high  mantel- 
pieces, ascending  to  the  ceiling,  with  the  arms 
of  St.  John  in  bold  relief.  They  had,  too,  the 
same  old-fashioned  and  venerable  furniture, 
draperies  of  thick  figured  velvet,  with  immense 
chairs  and  sofas  to  correspond,  interspersed,  it 
is  true,  with  more  modern  and  commodious 
inventions  of  the  upholster's  art,  in  grave 
stuffed  leather,  or  lively  chintz. 


526 


B  UL  IVKR'S     WORKS. 


Two  windows,  nearly  as  deep  as  that  in  the 
further  division,  broke  the  outline  of  the 
former  one,  and  helped  to  give  that  irregular 
and  nooky  appearance  to  the  apartment,  which 
took  all  discomfort  from  its  extent,  and  fur- 
nished all  convenience  for  solitary  study  or 
detached  flirtation.  With  little  respect  for  the 
carved  work  of  the  panels,  the  walls  were 
covered  with  pictures  brought  by  Sir  Miles 
from  Italy;  here  and  there  marble  busts  and 
statues  gave  lightness  to  the  character  of  the 
room,  and  harmonized  well  with  that  half- 
Italian  mode  of  decoration  which  belongs  to 
the  period  of  James  the  First.  The  shape  of 
the  .chamber,  in  its  divisions,  lent  itself  ad- 
mirably to  that  friendly  and  sociable  inter- 
mixture of  amusements  which  reconciles  the 
tastes  of  young  and  old.  In  the  first  division, 
near  the  fire-place.  Sir  Miles,  seated  in  his 
easy  chair,  and  sheltered  from  the  opening 
door  by  a  sevenfold  tapestry  screen,  was  still 
at  chess  with  his  librarian.  At  a  little  dis- 
tance, a  middle-aged  gentleman,  and  three 
turbaned  matrons,  were  cutting  in  at  whist^ 
shilling  points — with  a  half-crown  bet,  op- 
tional, and  not  much  ventured  on. 

On  tables,  drawn  into  the  recesses  of  the 
windows,  were  the  .day's  newspapers,  Gilray's 
caricatures,  the  last  new  publications,  and  such 
other  ingenious  suggestions  to  chit-chat.  And 
round  these  tables  grouped  those  who  had  not 
yet  found  elsewhere  their  evening's  amuse- 
ment; two  or  three  shy  young  clergymen,  the 
parish  doctor,  four  or  five  squires,  who  felt 
great  interest  in  politics,  but  never  dreamt  of 
the  extravagance  of  taking  in  a  daily  paper, 
and  who  now,  monopolizing  all  the  journals 
they  could  find,  began  fairly  with  the  heoric 
resolution  to  skip  nothing,  from  the  first  ad- 
vertisement to  the  printer's  name.  Amidst 
one  of  these  groups,  Mainwaring  had  bash- 
fully ensconced  himself.  In  the  further  divi- 
sion, the  chandelier,  suspended  from  the 
doomed  ceiling,  threw  its  cheerful  light  over 
a  large  circular  table  below,  on  which  gleamed 
the  ponderous  tea-urn  of  massive  silver,  with 
its  usual  accompaniments. 

Nor  were  wanting  there,  in  addition  to  those 
airy  nothings,  sliced  infinitesimally,  from  a 
French  roll,  the  more  substantial,  and  now 
exiled  cheer,  of  cakes — plum  and  seed,  York- 
shire and  saffron — attesting  the  light  hand  of 
the  housekeeper,  and  the  strong  digestion  of 


the  guests.  Round  this  table  were  seated,  in 
full  gossip,  the  maids  and  the  matrons,  with  a 
slight  sprinkling  of  the  bolder  young  gentle- 
man who  had  been  taught  to  please  the  fair. 
The  warmth  of  the  evening  allowed  the  upper 
casement  to  be  opened  and  the  curtains  drawn 
aside,  and  the  July  moonlight  feebly  struggled 
against  the  blaze  of  the  lights  within.  At  this 
table  it  was  Miss  Clavering's  obvious  duty  to 
preside;  but  that  was  a  complaisance  to  which 
she  rarely  condescended.  Nevertheless,  she 
had  her  own  way  of  doing  the  honor  of  her 
uncle's  house,  which  was  not  without  courtesy 
and  grace;  to  glide  from  one  to  the  other,  ex- 
change a  few  friendly  words,  see  that  each  set 
had  its  well-known  amusements,  and,  finally, 
sit  quietly  down  to  converse  with  some  who, 
from  gravity  or  age,  appeared  most  to  neglect, 
or  be  neglected  by  the  rest,  was  her  ordinary, 
and  not  unpopular  mode  of  welcoming  the 
guests  at  Laughton — not  unpopular,  for  she 
thus  avoided  all  interference  with  the  flirta- 
tions and  conquests  of  humbler  damsels,  whom 
her  station  and  her  endowments  might  other- 
wise have  crossed  or  humbled,  while  she  en- 
sured the  good  word  of  the  old,  to  whom  the 
young  are  seldom  so  attentive. 

But  if  a  stranger  of  more  than  provincial  re- 
pute chanced  to  be  present,  if  some  stray 
member  of  parliament,  or  barrister  on  the  cir- 
cuit, ar  wandering  artist,  accompanied  any  of 
the  neighbors,  to  him  Lucretia  gave  more 
earnest  and  undivided  attention.  Him  she 
sought  to  draw  into  a  conversation  deeper  than 
the  usual  babble,  and  with  her  calm,  searching 
eyes,  bent  on  him  while  he  spoke,  seemed  to 
fathom  the  intellect  she  set  in  play.  But  as  yet, 
this  evening,  she  had  not  made  her  appear- 
ance— a  sin  against  etiquette  very  unusual  in 
her.  Perhaps  her  recent  conversation  with 
Dalibard  had  absorbed  her  thoughts  toforget- 
fulness  of  the  less  important  demands  on  her 
attention.  Her  absence  had  not  interfered  with 
the  gaiety  at  the  tea-table,  which  was  frank 
even  to  noiseness;  as  it  centered  round  the 
laughing  face  of  Ardworth,  who,  though  un- 
known to  most  or  all  of  the  ladies  present,  be- 
yond a  brief  introduction  to  one  or  two  of  the 
first  comers  from  Sir  Miles  (as  the  host  had 
risen  from  his  chess  to  bid  them  welcome), 
had  already  contrived  to  make  himself  per- 
fectly at  home,  and  outrageously  popular. 

Niched  between  two  bouncing  lasses,  he  had 


LUCRE  ri A. 


527 


commenced  acquaintance  with  them  in  a  strani 
of  familiar  drollery  and  fun,  which  had  soon 
broadened  its  circle,  and  now  embraced  the 
whole  group  in  the  happy  contagion  of  good 
humor  and  young  animal  spirits.  Gabriel, 
allowed  to  sit  up  later  than  his  usual  hour, 
had  not,  as  might  have  been  expected,  attached 


to  be  a  somebody  and  a  something  in  the 
company  of  wits  and  princes,  that  he  felt,  for 
the  first  time,  a  sense  of  insignificance  in  this 
provincial  circle.  Those  fat  squires  had  heard 
nothing  of  Mr.  Vernon,  except  that  he  would 
not  have  Laughton — he  had  no  acres,  no  vote 
in    their   county — he  was  a  nobody  to  them. 


himself  to  this  circle,  nor  indeed   to  any;  he   Those  ruddy  maidens,  though   now  and  then, 


might  be  seen  moving  quietly  about — now 
contemplating  the  pictures  on  the  wall  with  a 
curious  eye — now  pausing  at  the  whist  table, 
and  noting  the  game  with  the  interest  of  an 
embryo  gamester — now  throwing  himself  on 
an  ottoman,  and  trying  to  coax  towards  him 
Dash  or  Ponto — trying  in  vain,  for  both  the 
dogs  abhorred  him;  yet  still,  through  all  this 
general  movement,  had  any  one  taken  the 
pains  to  observe  him  closely,  it  might  have 
been  sufficiently  apparent  that  his  keen,  bright, 
restless  eye,  from  the  corner  of  its  long  sly 
lids,  roved  chiefly  towards  the  three  persons 
whom  he  approached  the  least — his  father, 
Mainwaring,  and  Mr.  Vernon. 

This  last  had  ensconced  himself  apart  from 
all,  in  the  angle  formed  by  one  of  the  pilasters 
of  the  arch  that  divided  the  room,  so  that  he 
was  in  command,  as  it  were,  of  both  sections. 
Reclined,  with  the  careless  grace  that  seemed 
inseparable  from  every  attitude  and  motion  of 
his  person,  in  one  of  the  great  velvet  chairs, 
with  a  book  in  his  hand,  which,  to  say  truth, 
was  turned  upside  down,  but  in  the  lecture  of 
which  he  seemed  absorbed — he  heard  at  one 
hand  the  mirthful  laughter  that  circled  round 
young  Ardworth,  or,  in  its  pauses,  caught  on 
the  other  side,  muttered  exclamations  from  the 
grave  whist-players — "If  you  had  but  trumped 
that  diamond,  ma'am  ! " — "  Bless  me,  sir,  it 
was  the  best  heart !  "  And  somehow  or  other, 
both  the  laughter  and  the  exclamations  affected 
him  alike,  with  what  then  was  called  "  the 
spleen '" — for  the  one  reminded  him  of  his 
own  young  days  of  joyless,  careless  mirth,  of 
which  his  mechanical  gaiety  now  was  but  a 
mocking  ghost,  and  the  other  seemed  a  satire, 
a  parody,  on  the  fierce  but  noiseless  rapture 
of  gaming,  through  which  his  passions  had 
passed — when  thousands  had  slipped  away 
with  a  bland  smile,  provoking  not  one  of  those 
natural  ebullitions  of  emotion  which  there 
accompanied  the  loss  of  a  shilling  point. 
And  besides  this,  Vernon  had  been  so  ac- 
customed to  the  success  of  the  drawing-room. 


indeed,  one  or  two  might  steal  an  admiring 
glance  at  a  figure  of  eloquence  so  unusual,  re- 
garded him  not  with  the  female  interest  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  inspire.  They  felt  in- 
stinctively that  he  could  be  nothing  to  them, 
nor  they  to  him — a  mere  London  fop,  and  not 
half  so  handsome  as  Squires  Bluff  and   Chuff. 

Rousing  himself  from  this  little  vexation  to 
his  vanity,  with  a  conscious  smile  at  his  own 
weakness,  Vernon  turned  his  looks  towards 
the  door,  waiting  for  Lucretia's  entrance,  and 
since  her  uncle's  address  to  him,  feeling  that 
new  and  indescribable  interest  in  her  appear- 
ance, which  is  apt  to  steal  into  every  breast, 
when  what  was  before  but  an  indifferent  ac- 
quaintance, is  suddenly  enhaloed  with  the  light 
of  a  possible  wife.  At  length,  the  door  opened, 
and  Lucretia  entered.  Mr.  Vernon  lowered 
his  book,  and  gazed  with  an  earnestness  that 
partook  both  of  doubt  and  admiration. 

Lucretia  Clavering  was  tall— tall  beyond 
what  is  admitted  to  be  tall  in  woman;  but  in 
her  height  there  was  nothing  either  awkward 
or  masculine — a  figure  more  perfect  never 
served  for  model  to  a  sculptor.  The  dress  at 
that  day,  unbecoming  as  we  now  deem  it,  was 
not  to  her — at  least,  on  the  whole — disadvan- 
tageous. The  short  waist  gave  greater  sweep 
to  her  majestic  length  of  limb,  while  the  classic 
thinness  of  the  drapery  betrayed  the  exact 
proportion  and  the  exquisite  contour.  The 
arms  then  were  worn  bare  almost  to  the 
shoulder,  and  Lucretia's  arms  were  not  more 
faultless  in  shape  than  dazzling  in  their  snowy 
color — the  stately  neck,  the  falling  shoulders, 
the  firm,  slight,  yet  rounded  bust — all  would 
have  charmed  equally  the  artist  and  the  sen- 
sualist. Fortunately,  the  sole  defect  of  her 
form  was  not  apparent  at  a  distance:  that  de- 
fect was  in  the  hand;  it  had  not  the  usual 
faults  of  female  youthfulness — the  superfluity 
of  flesh,  the  too  rosy  healthfulness  of  color; 
on  the  contrary,  it  was  small  and  thin,  but  it 
was,  nevertheless,  more  the  hand  of  a  man 
than  a  woman;  the  shape  had  a  man's  nervous 


5^8 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


distinctness,  the  veins  swelled  like  sinews, 
the  joints  of  the  fingers  were  marked  and 
prominent.  In  that  hand,  it  almost  seemed 
as  if  the  iron  force  of  the  character  betrayed 
itself. 

But  as  we  have  said,  this  slight  defect  which 
few,  if  seen,  would-  hypercritically  notice, 
could  not  of  course  be  perceptible  as  she 
moved  slowly  up  the  room;  and  Vernon's  eye, 
glancing  over  the  noble  figure  rested  upon  the 
face.  Was  it  handsome  ? — was  it  repelling  t 
Strange  that  in  feature  it  had  pretentions  to 
the  highest  order  of  beauty,  and  yet,  even  that 
experienced  connoisseur  in  female  charms  was 
almost  puzzled  what  sentence  to  pronounce. 
The  hair,  as  was  the  fashion  of  the  day,  clus- 
tered in  profuse  curls  over  the  forehead,  but 
could  not  conceal  a  slight  line  or  wrinkle  be- 
tween the  brows;  and  this  line,  rare  in  women 
at  any  age,  rare  even  in  men  at  hers,  gave  an 
expression  at  once  of  thought  and  sternness  to 
the  whole  face.  The  eyebrows  themselves 
were  straight,  and  not  strongly  marked, — a 
shade  or  two  perhaps  too  light,  a  fault  still 
more  apparent  in  the  lashes;  the  eyes  were 
large,  full,  and,  though  bright,  astonishingly 
calm  and  deep,  at  least  in  ordinary  moments; 
yet  withal  they  wanted  the  charm  of  that 
steadfast  and  open  look,  which  goes  at  ©nee 
to  the  heart,  and  invites  its  trust;  their  ex- 
pression was  rather  vague  and  abstracted. 
She  usually  looked  aslant  when  she  spoke,  and 
this,  which  with  some  appears  but  shyness,  in 
one  so  self-collected,  had  an  air  of  falsehood. 
But  when,  at  times,  if  earnest,  and  bent 
rather  on  examining  those  she  addressed  than 
guarding  herself  from  penetration,  she  fixed 
those  eyes  upon  you  with  sudden  and  direct 
scrutiny,  the  gaze  impressed  you  powerfully, 
and  haunted  you  with  a  strange  spell.  The 
eye  itself  was  of  a  peculiar  and  displeasing 
color — not  blue,  nor  gray,  nor  black,  nor  hazel, 
hut  rather  of  that  cat-like  green,  which  is 
drowsy  in  the  light,  and  vivid  in  the  shade. 
The  profile  was  purely  Greek,  and  so  seen, 
Lucretia's  beauty  seemed  incontestable;  but 
in  front  face,  and  still  more  when  inclined 
between  the  two,  all  the  features  took  a  sharp- 
ness, that,  however  regular,  had  something 
chilling  and  severe;  the  mouth  was  small,  but 
the  lips  were  thin  and  pale,  and  had  an  ex- 
pression of  effort  and  contraction,  which  added 
to  the   distrust  that  her  sidelong  glance  was 


calculated  to  inspire.  The  teeth  were  daz- 
zling white,  but  sharp  and  thin,  and  the  eye- 
teeth  were  much  longer  than  the  rest.  The 
complexion  was  pale,  but  without  much  deli- 
cacy; the  paleness  seemed  not  natural  to  it, 
but  rather  that  hue  which  study  and  late 
vigils  give  to  men;  so  that  she  wanted  the 
freshness  and  bloom  of  youth,  and  looked 
older  than  she  was — an  effect  confirmed  by  an 
absence  of  roundness  in  the  cheek,  not  notice- 
able in  the  profile,  but  rendering  the  front  face 
somewhat  harsh  as  well  as  sharp. 

In  a  word,  the  face  and  the  figure  were  not 
in  harmony;  the  figure  prevented  you  from 
pronouncing  her  to  be  masculine — the  face 
took  from  the  figure  the  charm  of  feminacy. 
It  was  the  head  of  the  young  Augustus  upon 
the  form  of  Agrippina.  One  touch  more,  and 
we  close  a  description,  which  already  perhaps 
the  reader  may  consider  frivolously  minute. 
If  you  had  placed  before  the  mouth  and  lower 
part  of  the  face  a  mask  or  bandage,  the  whole 
character  of  the  upper  face  would  have  changed 
at  once;  the  eye  lost  its  glittering  falseness, 
the  brow  its  sinister  contraction;  you  would 
have  pronounced  the  face  not  only  beautiful, 
but  sweet  and  womanly.  Take  that  bandage 
suddenly  away,  and  the  change  would  have 
startled  you,  and  startled  you  the  more,  be- 
cause you  could  detect  no  sufficient  defect  or 
disproportion  in  the  lower  part  of  the  counte- 
nance to  explain  it.  It  was  as  if  the  mouth 
was  the  key  to  the  whole:  the  key  nothing 
without  the  text,  the  text,  uncomprehended 
without  the  key. 

Such,  then,  was  Lucretia  Clavering  in  out- 
ward appearance,  at  the  age  of  twenty — striking 
to  the  most  careless  eye — interesting  and  per- 
plexing the  student  in  that  dark  language,  never 
yet  deciphered, — the  human  countenance. 
The  reader  must  have  obsei^ved,  that  the 
effect  of  every  face  that  he  remarks  for  the 
first  time  produces,  is  different  from  the  im- 
pression it  leaves  upon  him  when  habitually 
seen.  Perhaps,  no  two  persons  differ  more 
from  each  other,  than  does  the  same  counte- 
nance in  our  earliest  recollection  of  it  from  the 
countenance  regarded  in  the  familiarity  of  re- 
peated intercourse.  And  this  was  especially 
the  case  with  Lucretia  Clavering's;  the  first 
impulse  of  nearly  all  who  beheld  it  was 
distrust  that  partook  of  fear;  it  almost  inspired 
you  with  a    sense  of  danger.     The  judgment 


LUCRETIA. 


529 


rose  lip  against  it;  the  heart  set  itself  on  its 
guard.  But  this  uneasy  sentiment  soon  died 
away  with  most  observers,  in  admiration  at 
the  chiselled  outline,  which,  like  the  Grecian 
sculpture,  gained  the  more  the  more  it  was  ex- 
amined; in  respect  for  the  intellectual  power 
of  the  expression;  and  in  fascinated  pleasure 
at  the  charm  of  a  smile,  rarely  employed  it  is 
true,  but  the  more  attractive,  both  for  that 
reason  and  for  its  sudden  effect  in  giving 
brightness  and  persuasion  to  an  aspect  that 
needed  them  so  much.  It  was  literally  like 
the  abrupt  breaking  out  of  a  sunbeam;  and 
the  repellent  impression  of  the  face,  thus  fa- 
miliarized away,  the  matchless  form  took  its 
natural  influence;  so  that,  while  one  who  but 
saw  Lucretia  for  a  moment,  might  have  pro- 
nounced her  almost  plain,  and  certainly  not 
prepossessing  in  appearance,  those  with  whom 
the  lived,  those  whom  she  sought  to  please, 
those  who  saw  her  daily,  united  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  her  beauty;  and  if  they  still  felt  awe, 
atributed  it  only  to  the  force  of  her  under- 
standing. 

As  she  now  came  midway  up  the  room, 
Gabriel  started  from  his  seat,  and  ran  to  her 
caressingly.  Lucretia  bent  down,  and  placed 
her  hand  upon  his  fair  locks.  As  she  did  so, 
he  whispered — 

"  Mr.  Vernon  has  been  watching  for  you." 
"Hush!     Where  is  your  father  ? " 
"  Behind  the  screen,  at  chess  with  Sir  Miles." 
"  With  Sir  Miles  !  "  and  Lucretia's  eye  fell 
with  the  direct  gaze  we  have  before  referred  to, 
upon  the  boy's  face. 

"  I  have  been  looking  over  them  pretty 
often,"  said  he,  meaningly;  "they  have  talked 
of  nothing  but  the  game." 

Lucretia  lifted  her  head,  and  glanced  round 
with  her  furtive  eye;  the  boy  divined  the 
search,  and  with  a  scarce  perceptible  gesture, 
pointed  her  attention  to  Mainwaring's  retreat. 
Her  vivid  smile  passed  over  her  lips,  as  she 
bowed  slightly  to  her  lover,  and  then  with- 
drawing the  hand  which  Gabriel  had  taken  in 
his  own,  she  moved  on,  passed  Vernon  with  a 
commonplace  word  or  two,  and  was  soon  ex- 
changing greetings  with  the  gay  merry-makers 
in  the  farther  part  of  the  room.  A  few  min- 
utes afterwards,  the  servants  entered,  the  tea- 
table  was  removed,  chairs  thrust  back— a  sin- 
gle lady  of  a  certain  age  volunteered  her 
services   at    the    piano,    and    dancing    began 

6—34 


within  the  ample  space  which  the  arch  fenced 
off  from  the  whist-players.  Vernon  had 
watched  his  opportunity,  and  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  piano  had  gained  Lucretia's  side,  and 
with  grave  politeness  pre-engaged  her  hand 
for  the  opening  dance. 

At  that  day,  though  it  is  not  so  very  long 
agOj  gentlemen  were  not  ashamed  to  dance, 
and  to  dance  well;  it  was  no  languid  saunter 
through  a  quadrille;  it  was  fair,  deliberate, 
skilful  dancing,  amongst  the  courtly;  free, 
bounding  movement  amongst  the  gay. 

Vernon,  as  might  be  expected,  was  the 
most  admired  performer  of  the  evening;  but 
he  was  thinking  very  little  of  the  notice  he  at 
last  excited;  he  was  employing  such  ingenuity 
as  his  experience  of  life  supplied  to  the  de- 
ficiencies of  a  very  imperfect  education,  lim- 
ited to  the  little  flogged  into  him  at  Eton,  in 
deciphering  the  character  and  getting  the 
heart  of  his  fair  partner. 

"  I  wonder  you  do  not  make  Sir  Miles  take 
you  to  London,  my  cousin,  if  you  will  allow 
me  to  call  you  so.  You  ought  to  have  been 
presented." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  go  to  London  yet." 

"  Yet  I  "  said  Mr.  Vernon,  with  the  some- 
what/(j^/if  gallantry  of  his  day;  "beauty  even 
like  yours  has  little  time  to  spare." 

"  Hands  across,  hands  across  !  "  cried  Mr. 
Ardworth. 

"And,"  continued  Mr.  Vernon,  as  soon  as  a 
pause  was  permitted  to  him,  "  there  is  a  song 
which  the  Prince  sings,  written  by  some  sen- 
sible old-fashioned  fellow,  which  says — 

'  Gather  your  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 
For  Time  is  still  a-flying.' " 

"  You  have  obeyed  the  moral  of  the  song 
yourself,  I  believe,  Mr.  Vernon." 

"  Call  me  cousin,  or  Charles — Charley,  if 
you  like — as  most  of  my  friends  do:  nobody 
ever  calls  me  Mr.  Vernon;  I  don't  know  my- 
self by  that  name." 

"  Down  the  middle,  we  are  all  waiting  for 
you,"  shouted  Ardworth. 

And  down  the  middle  with  wondrous  grace 
glided  the  exquisite  nankins  of  Carley  Vernon. 

The  dance  now,  thanks  to  Ardworth,  became 
too  animated  and  riotous  to  allow  more  than 
a  few  broken  monosyllables  till  Vernon  and 
his  partner  gained  the  end  of  the  set,  and  then, 
flirting  his  partner's  fan,  he  recommenced — 


S30 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"Seriously,  my  cousin,  you  must  sometimes 
feel  very  much  moped  here." 

"  Never  !  "  answered  Lucretia.  Not  once 
yet  had  her  eye  rested  on  Mr.  Vernon.  She 
felt  that  she  was  sounded. 

"  Yet  I  am  sure  you  have  a  taste  for  the 
pomps  and  vanities.  Aha  !  there  is  ambition 
under  those  careless  curls,"  said  Mr.  Vernon, 
with  his  easy  adorable  impertinence. 

Lucretia  winced. 

"  But  if  I  were  ambitious,  what  field  for  am- 
bition could  I  find  in  London  ? " 

"The  same  as  Alexander — empire,  my 
cousin." 

"  You  forget  that  I  am   not  a  man.     Man,  I 
indeed,  may  hope  for  an  empire.     It  is  some- ! 
thing  to  be  a  Pitt,  or  even  a   Warren   Hast- 
ings." 

Mr.  Vernon  stared.  Was  this  stupidity,  or 
what? 

"  A  woman  has  an  empire  more  undisputed 
than  Mr.  Pitt's,  and  more  pitiless  than  that  of 
Governor  Hastings." 

"  Oh  pardon  me,  Mr.  Vernon " 

"  Charles,  if  you  please." 

Lucretia's  brow  darkened. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  repeated;  "but  these 
compliments,  if  such  they  are  meant  to  be, 
meet  a  very  ungrateful  return.  A  woman's 
empire  over  gauzes  and  ribbons,  over  tea- 
tables  and  drums,  over  fops  and  coquettes,  is 
not  worth  a  journey  from  Laughton  to  Lon- 
don." 

"You  think  you  can  despise  admiration  ?" 

"What  you  mean  by  admiration — yes." 

"  And  love,  too  ? "  said  Vernon,  in  a  whis- 
per. 

Now  Lucretia  at  once  and  abruptly  raised 
her  eyes  to  her  partner.  Was  he  aiming  at 
her  secret  ? — was  he  hinting  at  intentions  of 
his  own  ?  The  look  chilled  Vernon,  and  he 
turned  away  his  head. 

Suddenly,  then,  in  pursuance  of  a  new  train 
of  ideas,  Lucretia  altered  her  manner  to  him. 
She  had  detected  what  before  she  had  sur- 
mised. This  sudden  familiarity  on  his  part 
arose  from  notions  her  uncle  had  instilled— 
the  visitor  had  been  incited  to  become  the 
suitor.  Her  penetration  into  character,  which 
from  childhood  had  been  her  passionate  study, 
told  her  that  on  that  light,  polished,  fearless 
nature,  scorn  would  have  slight  effect — to 
meet  the  familiarity  would  be  the  best  means 


to  secure  a  friend,  to  disarm  a  wooer.  She 
changed  then  her  manner:  she  summoned  up 
her  extraordinary  craft:  she  accepted  the  in- 
timacy held  out  to  her,  not  to  unguard  herself, 
but  to  lay  open  her  opponent.  It  became 
necessary  to  her  to  know  this  man,  to  have 
such  power  as  the  knowledge  might  give  her, 
insensibly  and  gradually  she  led  her  compan- 
ion away  from  his  design  of  approaching  her 
own  secrets  or  character,  into  frank  talk  about 
himself.  All  unconsciously  he  began  to  lay 
bare  to  his  listener  the  infirmities  of  his  erring, 
open  heart.  Silently  she  looked  down,  and 
plumbeci  them  all:  the  frivolity,  the  reckless- 
ness, the  half  gay,  half  mournful  sense  of  waste 
and  ruin.  There,  blooming  amongst  the 
wrecks,  she  saw  the  fairest  flowers  of  noble 
manhood,  profuse  and  fragrant  still — gener- 
osity and  courage,  and  disregard  for  self. 
Spendthrift  and  gambler,  on  one  side  the 
medal;  gentleman  and  soldier,  on  the  other. 
Beside  this  maimed  and  imperfect  nature,  she 
measured  her  own  prepared  and  profound  in- 
tellect, and  as  she  listend,  her  smile  became 
more  bland  and  frequent.  She  could  afford 
to  be  gracious;  she  felt  superiority,  scorn,  and 
safety. 

As  this  seeming  intimacy  had  matured, 
Vernon  and  his  partner  had  quitted  the  dance, 
and  were  conversing  apart  in  the  recess  of 
one  of  the  windows,  which  the  newspaper 
readers  had  deserted,  in  the  part  of  the  room 
where  Sir  Miles  and  Dalibard,  still  seated, 
were  about  to  commence  their  third  game  at 
chess.  The  baronet's  hand  ceased  from  the 
task  of  arranging  his  pawns,  his  eye  was  upon 
the  pair,  and  then,  after  a  long  and  complacent 
gaze,  it  looked  round  without  discovering  the 
object  it  sought. 

"  I  am  about  to  task  your  kindness  most 
improperly.  Monsieur  Dalibard,"  said  Sir 
Miles,  with  that  politeness  so  displeasing  to 
Ardworth,  "but  will  you  do  me-  the  favor  to 
move  aside  that  fold  of  the  screen.  I  wish 
for  a  better  view  of  our  young  people.  Thank 
you  very  much." 

Sir  Miles  now  discovered  Mainwaring,  and 
observed  that  far  from  regarding  with  self- 
betraying  jealousy  the  apparent  flirtation 
going  on  between  Lucretia  and  her  kinsman, 
he  was  engaged  in  animated  conversation  with 
the  chairman  of  the  quarter  sessions.  Sir 
Miles    was    satisfied,    and    ranged  his  pawns. 


LUCRETIA. 


53» 


All  this  time,  and  indeed  ever  since  tliey  sat 
down  to  play,  the  Provencal  had  been  waiting 
with  the  patience  that  belong  to  his  character, 
for  some  observation  from  Sir  Miles  on  the 
subject,  which  his  sagacity  perceived  was  en- 
grossing his  thoughts.  There  had  been  about 
the  old  gentleman  a  fidgety  restlessness,  which 
showed  that  something  was  on  his  mind.  His 
€yes  had  been  frequently  turned  towards  his 
niece  since  her  entrance;  once  or  twice  he  had 
cleared  his  throat  and  hemmed, — his  usual 
prelude  to  some  more  important  communica- 
tion;  and  Dalibard  had  heard  him  muttering 
to  himself,  and  fancied  he  caught  the  name  of 
"  Mainwaring."  And  indeed  the  baronet  had 
been  repeatedly  on  the  verge  of  sounding  his 
secretary,  and  as  often  had  been  checlced  both 
by  pride  in  himself  and  pride  for  Lucretia.  It 
seemed  to  him  beneath  his  own  dignity  and 
hers  even  to  hint  to  an  inferior  a  fear,  a  doubt 
of  the  heiress  of  Laughton. 

Olivier  Dalibard  could  easily  have  led  on  his 
patron — he  could  easily,  if  he  pleased  it,  have 
dropped  words  to  instil  suspicion  and  prompt 
question,  but  that  was  not  his  object;  he  rather 
shunned  than  courted  any  reference  to  himself 
upon  the  matter;  for  he  knew  that  Lucretia, 
if  she  could  suppose  that  he,  however  indi- 
rectly, had  betrayed  her  to  her  uncle,  would  at 
once  declare  his  own  suit  to  her,  and  so  pro- 
cure his  immediate  dismissal;  while  aware  of 
her  powers  of  dissimulation,  and  her  influence 
over  her  uncle,  he  feared  that  a  single  word 
from  her  would  suffice  to  remove  all  suspicion 
in  Sir  Miles,  however  ingeniously  implanted, 
and  however  truthfully  grounded.  But  all  the 
■while,  under  his  apparent  calm,  his  mind  was 
busy,  and  his  passions  burning. 

"  Pshaw,  your  old  play — the  bishop  again  !  " 
said  Sir  Miles,  laughing,  as  he  moved  a  knight 
to  frustrate  his  adversary's  supposed  plan; 
and  then  turning  back,  he  once  more  contem- 
plated the  growing  familiarity  between  Vernon 
and  his  niece.  This  time  he  could  not  con- 
tain his  pleasure:  "  Dalibard,  my  dear  sir,"  he 
said,  rubbing  his  hands,  "  look  yonder;  they 
would  make  a  handsome  couple  !  " 

"Who,  sir?"  said  the  Provencal,  looking 
another  way,  with  dogged  stupidity. 

"  Who  ?  damn  it,  man  !  nay,  pray  forgive  my 
ill  manners — but  I  felt  glad,  sir,  and  proud 
sir.  Who?  Charley  Vernon  and  Lucretia 
Clavering," 


"  Assuredly,  yes.  Do  you  think  that  there 
is  a  chance  of  so  happy  an  event?  " 

"  Why,  it  depends  only  on  Lucretia;  I  shall 
never  force  her."  Here  Sir  Miles  stopped, 
for  Gabriel,  unperceived  before,  picked  up  his 
patron's  pocket  handkerchief. 

Oliver  Dalibard's  grey  eyes  rested  coldly  on 
his  son.  "  You  are  not  dancing  to-night,  my 
boy.     Go;  I  like  to  see  you  amused." 

The  boy  obeyed  at  once,  as  he  always  did, 
the  paternal  commands. — He  found  a  partner, 
and  jomed  a  dance  just  began;  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  dance,  Honore  Gabriel  Varney 
seemed  a  new  being:  not  Ardworth  himself  so 
thoroughly  entered  into  the  enjoyment  of  the 
exercise,  the  lights,  the  music.  With  brilliant 
eyes  and  dilated  nostrils,  he  seemed  prema- 
turely to  feel  all  that  is  exciting  and  volup- 
tuous in  that  exhilaration,  which  to  childhood 
is  usually  so  innocent.  His  glances  followed 
the  fairest  form;  his  clasp  lingered  in  the 
softest  hand;  his  voice  trembled  as  the  warm 
breath  of  his  partner  came  on  his  cheeks. 

Meanwhile,  the  conversation  between  the 
chess-players  continued. 

"Yes,"  said  the  baronet,  "it  depends  only 
on  Lucretia, — and  she  seems  pleased  with 
Vernon;  who  would  not  be?" 

"Your  penetration  rarely  deceives  you,  sir. 
I  own  I  think  with  you.  Does  Mr.  Vernon 
know  that  you  would  permit  the  alliance?" 

"Yes;  but "  the  baronet  stopped  short. 

"  You  were  saying,  but  —  but  what.  Sir 
Miles?" 

"Why  the  dog  affected  diffidence;  he  had 
some  fear  lest  he  should  not  win  her  affec- 
tions— but  luckily,  at  least,  they  are  disen- 
gaged." 

Dalibard  looked  grave,  and  his  eye  as  if 
involuntarily,  glanced  towards  Mainwaring. 
As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  the  young  man  had 
then  ceased  his  conversation  with  the  chairman 
of  the  quarter  sessions,  and  with  arms  folded, 
brow  contracted,  and  looks,  earnest,  anxious, 
and  intent,  was  contemplating  the  whispered 
conference  between  Lucretia  and  Vernon. 

Sir  Miles's  eye  had  followed  his  secretary's, 
and  his  face  changed.  His  hand  fell  on  the 
chess-board,  and  upset  half  the  men;  he  ut- 
tered a  very  audible  "  Zounds  !  " 

"  I  think,  Sir  Miles,"  said  the  Provengal, 
rising  as  if  conscious  that  Sir  Miles  wished  to 
play  no  more — "  I  think  that  if  you  spoke  soon 


53* 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


to  Miss  Clavering,  as  to  your  views  with  re- 
gard to  Mr.  Vernon,  it  might  ripen  matters; 
for  I  have  heard  it  said  by  French  mothers — 
and  our  French  women  understand  the  female 
heart,  sir — that  a  girl  having  no  other  affection 
is  often  prepossessed  at  once  in  favor  of  a 
man,  whom  she  knows  beforehand  is  prepared 
to  woo  and  to  win  her,  whereas  without  that 
knowledge,  he  would  have  seemed  but  an  ordi- 
nary acquaintance." 

"  It  is  shrewdly  said,  my  dear  Monsieur 
Dalibard;  and  for  more  reasons  than  one,  the 
sooner  I  speak  to  her  the  better.  Lend  me 
your  arm — it  is  time  for  supper — I  see  the 
dance  is  over." 

Passing  by  the  place  where  Mainwaring  still 
leant,  the  baronet  looked  at  him  fixedly.  The 
young  man  did  not  notice  the  gaze.  Sir  Miles 
touched  him  gently.  He  started  as  from  a 
reverie: 

"  You  have  not  danced,  Mr.  Mainwaring." 

"  I  dance  so  seldom.  Sir  Miles,"  said  Main- 
waring, coloring. 

"  Ah  !  you  employ  your  head  more  than 
your  heels,  young  gentleman;  very  right — I 
must  speak  to  you  to-morrow.  Well,  ladies, 
I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  yourselves.  My  dear 
Mrs.  Vesey,  you  and  I  are  old  friends,  you 
know — many  a  minuet  we  have  danced  to- 
gether, eh  !  We  can't  dance  now — but  we  can 
walk  arm  in  arm  together  still.  Honor  me. 
And  your  little  grandson  —  vaccinated,  eh! 
Wonderful  invention  !  To  supper,  ladies — to 
supper !  " 

The  company  were  gone.  The  lights  were 
out,  all  save  the  lights  of  heaven,  and  they 
came  bright  and  still  through  the  casements: 
Moonbeam  and  Starbeam,  they  seemed  now 
to  have  the  old  house  to  themselves.  In  came 
the  rays,  brighter  and  longer  and  bolder — like 
fairies  that  march,  rank  upon  rank,  into  their 
kingdom  of  solitude.  Down  the  oak  stairs, 
from  the  casements,  blazoned  with  heraldry, 
moved  the  rays,  creepingly,  fearfully.  On  the 
armor  in  the  hall  clustered  the  rays  boldly 
and  brightly,  till  the  steel  shone  out  like  a 
mirror.  In  the  library,  long  and  low,  they 
just  entered,  stopped  short — it  was  no  place 
for  their  play.  In  the  drawing-room,  now  de- 
serted, they  were  more  curious  and  adventur- 
ous. Through  the  large  window,  still  open, 
they  came  in  freely  and  archly,  as  if  to  spy 
what  had  caused  such  disorder;  the  stiff  chairs 


out  of  place,  the  smooth  floor  despoiled  of  its 
carpet — that  flower  dropped  on  the  ground — 
that  scarf  forgotten  on  the  table — the  rays 
lingered  upon  them  all.  Up  and  down, 
through  the  house,  from  the  base  to  the  roof, 
roved  the  children  of  the  air, — and  found  but 
two  spirits  awake  amidst  the  slumber  of  the 
rest. 

In  that  tower  to  the  east— in  the  tapestry 
chamber — with  the  large  gilded  bed  in  the  re- 
cess, came  the  rays,  tamed  and  wan,  as  if 
scared  by  the  grosser  light  on  the  table.  By 
that  table  sat  a  girl,  her  brow  leaning  on  one 
hand;  in  the  other  she  held  a  rose — it  is  a 
love-token — exchanged  with  its  sister  rose,  by 
stealth — in  mute  sign  of  reproach  for  doubt 
excited — an  assurance  and  a  reconciliation. 
A  love-token  ! — shrink  not,  ye  rays — there  is 
something  akin  to  you  in  love.  But,  see,  the 
hand  closes  convulsively  on  the  flower — it 
hides  it  not  in  the  breast — it  lifts  it  not  to  the 
lip;  it  throws  it  passionately  aside.  "  How 
long  !  "  muttered  the  girl,  impetuously — "  how 
long  !  and  to  think  that  will  here  cannot  shorten 
an  hour  ! "  Then  she  rose,  and  walked  to 
and  fro,  and  each  time  she  gained  a  certain 
niche  in  the  chamber,  she  paused,  and  then 
irresolutely  passed  on  again.  What  is  in  that 
niche  ?  Only  books.  What  can  books  teach 
thee,  pale  girl  ?  The  step  treads  firmer;  this 
time  it  halts  more  resolved.  The  hand  that 
clasped  the  flower  takes  down  a  volume.  The 
girl  sits  again  before  the  light.  See,  oh.  rays, 
what  is  the  volume  ? 

Moon  and  Starbeam,  ye  love  what  lovers 
read  by  the  lamp  in  the  loneliness.  No  love- 
ditty  this;  no  yet  holier  lesson  to  patience  and 
moral  to  hope.  What  hast  thou,  yonng  girl 
strong  in  health  and  rich  in  years,  with  the 
lore  of  the  leech,  —  with  prognostics,  and 
symptons,  and  diseases  ?  She  is  tracing  with 
hard  eyes  the  signs  that  precede  the  grim 
enemy,  in  his  most  sudden  apjjroach — the 
habits  that  invite  him,  the  warnings  that  he 
gives.  He  whose  wealth  shall  make  her  free, 
has  twice  had  the  visiting  shock — he  starves 
not— he  lives  free  !  She  closes  the  volume, 
and,  musing,  metes  him  out  the  hours  and 
days  he  has  to  live.  Shrink  back,  ye  rays  ! 
The  love  is  disenhallowed:  while  the  hand 
was  on  the  rose  the  thought  was  on  the  charnel. 

Yonder,  in  the  opposite  tower,  in  the  small 
casement  near  the  roof,  came  the  rays;  Child- 


LUCRETIA. 


533 


hood  is  asleep,  \toon  and  Starbeam,  ye  love 
the  slumbers  of  the  child  !  The  door  opens 
— a  dark  figure  steals  noiselessly  in.  The 
'ather  comes  to  look  on  the  sleep  of  his  son. 
Holy  tenderness,  if  this  he  all  ! 

"Gabriel,  wake  !  "  said  a  low,  sternvoice, 
and  a  rough  hand  shook  the  sleeper. 

The  sharpest  test  of  those  nerves,  upon 
which  depends  the  ?Tiere  animal  courage,  is  to 
be  roused  suddenly  in  the  depth  of  night, 
by  a  violent  hand.  The  impulse  of  Gabriel, 
thus  startled,  was  neither  of  timidity  or  sur- 
prise. It  was  that  of  some  Spartan  boy,  not 
new  to  danger:  with  a  slight  cry,  and  a  fierce 
spring,  the  son's  hand  clutched  at  the  father's 
throat.  Dalibard  shook  him  off  with  an  effort, 
and  a  smile  half  in  approval,  half  in  irony, 
played  by  the  moonlight  over  his  lips. 

"  Blood  will  out,  young  tiger,"  said  he. 
'  Hush,  and  hear  me  !  " 

"Is  it  you,  father?"  said  Gabriel;  "I 
thought, — I  dreamed " 

"  No  matter;  think  —  dream  always,  that 
man  should  be  prepared  for  defence  from 
peril  !  " 

"  Gabrie/,  (and  the  pale  scholar  seated  him- 
self on  the  bed),  turn  your  face  to  mine — 
nearer;  let  the  moon  fall  on  it;  lift  your  eyes 
— look  at  me — so  !  Are  you  not  playing  false 
to  me  ?  Are  you  not  Lucretia's  spy,  while 
you  are  pretending  to  be  mine  ?  It  is  so; 
your  eye  betrays  you.  Now,  heed  me;  you  have 
a  mind  beyond  your  years.  Do  you  love  best 
the  miserable  garret  in  London,  the  hard  fare 
and  squalid  dress, — or  your  lodgment  here, 
the  sense  of  luxury,  the  sight  of  splendor,  the 
atmosphere  of  wealth  ?  You  have  the  choice 
before  you." 

"I  choose  as  you  would  have  me,  then," 
said  the  boy — "  the  last." 

"  I  believe  you.  Attend  !  you  do  not  love 
me — that  is  natural — you  are  the  son  of  Clara 
Varney !  You  have  supposed  that  in  loving 
Lucretia  Clavering,  you  might  vex  or  thwart 
me,  you  scarce  knew  how:  and  Lucretia 
Clavering  has  gold  and  gifts,  and  soft  words, 
and  promises,  to  bribe  withal.  I  now  tell  you 
openly  my  plan  with  regard  to  this  girl:  it  is 
my  aim  to  marry  her — to  be  master  of  this 
house  and  these  lands.  If  I  succeed  you 
share  them  with  me.  By  betraying  me,  word  or 
look,  to  Lucretia,  you  frustrate  this  aim;  you 
plot  against  our  rise  and  to  our  ruin.     Deem 


not  that  you  could  escape  my  fall;  if  I  am 
driven  hence — as  you  might  drive  me— yon 
share  my  fate;  and,  mark  me,  you  are  delivered 
up  to  my  revenge  !  You  cease  to  be  my  son 
— you  are  my  foe.     Child  !  you  know  me." 

The  boy,  bold  as  he  was,  shuddered;  but 
after  a  pause,  so  brief  that  a  breath  scarce 
passed  between  his  silence  and  his  words,  he 
replied,  with  emphasis: 

"  Father,  you  have  read  my  heart.  I  have 
been  persuaded  by  Lucretia  (for  she  bewitches 
me),  to  watch  you — at  least,  when  you  are 
with  Sir  Miles.  I  knew  that  this  was  mixed 
up  with  Mr.  Mainwaring.  Now  that  you  have 
made  me  understand  your  own  views,  I  will  be 
true,  to  you — true  without  threats." 

The  father  looked  hard  on  him,  and  seemed 
satisfied  with  the  gaze.  "  Remember,  at  least, 
that  your  future  rests  upon  your  truth;  that  is 
no  threat — that  is  a  thought  of  hope.  Now 
sleep  or  muse  on  it."  He  dropped  the  curtain 
which  his  hand  had  drawn  aside,  and  stole 
from  the  room  as  noiselessly  as  he  had 
entered.  The  boy  slept  no  more.  Deceit, 
and  cupidity,  and  corrupt  ambition,  were  at 
work  in  his  brain.  Shrink  back.  Moon  and 
Starbeam  !  On  that  child's  brow  play  the 
demons  who  had  followed  the  father's  step  to 
his  bed  of  sleep. 

Back  to  his  own  room,  close  at  hand,  crept 
Olivier  Dalibard.  The  walls  were  lined  with 
books — many  in  language  and  deep  in  lore. 
Moon  and  Starbeam,  ye  love  the  midnight  sol- 
itude of  the  scholar  !  The  Provencal  stole  to 
the  casement,  and  looked  forth.  All  was 
serene;  breathless  trees,  and  gleaming  sculp- 
ture, and  whitened  sward,  girdled  by  the  mass 
of  shadow.  Of  what  thought  the  man  ?  not 
of  the  present  lovliness  which  the  scene  gave 
to  his  eye,  nor  of  the  future  mysteries 
which  the  stars  should  whisper  to  the  soul. 
Gloomily  over  a  stormy  and  a  hideous  past, 
roved  the  memory,  stored  with  fraud  and  foul 
with  crime;  plan  upon  plan,  schemed  with 
ruthless  wisdom,  followed  up  by  remorseless 
daring,  and  yet  all  now  a  ruin  and  a  blank  ! — 
an  intellect  at  war  with  good,  and  the  good 
had  conquered  !  But  the  conviction  neither 
touched  the  conscience,  nor  enlightened  the 
reason;  he  felt,  it  is  true,  a  moody  sense  of 
impotence,  but  it  brought  rage,  not  despond- 
ency: it  was  not  that  he  submitted  to  Good, 
as  too  powerful  to  oppose,  but  that  he  deemed 


534 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


he  had  not  yet  gained  all  the  mastery  over 
Che  arsenal  of  Evil.  And  evil  he  called  it  not. 
Good  and  Evil  to  him  were  but  subordinate 
genii,  at  the  command  of  Mind;  they  were  the 
slaves  of  the  lamp. 

But  had  he  got  at  the  true  secret  of  the 
lamp  itself  ?  "  How  is  it,"  he  thought,  as  he 
turned  impatiently  from  the  casement,  "  that  I 
am  baffled  here,  where  my  fortunes  seemed 
most  assured  ?  Here  the  mind  has  been  of 
my  own  training,  and  prepared  by  nature  to 
my  hand;^here  all  opportunity  has  smiled. 
And  suddenly  the  merest  commonplace,  in  the 
vulgar  lives  of  mortals — an  unlooked  for  rival, 
— rival,  too,  of  the  mould  I  had  taught  her  to 
despise — one  of  the  stock  gallants  of  a  comedy 
— no  character,  but  youth  and  fair  looks;  yea, 
the  lover  of  the  stage  starts  up,  and  the  fabric 
of  years  is  overthrown."  As  he  thus  mused, 
he  placed  his  hand  upon  a  small  box  on  one 
of  the  tables.  "  Yet,  within  this,"  resumed 
his  soliloquy,  and  he  struck  the  lid,  that  gave 
back  a  dull  sound, — "  within  this  I  hold  the 
keys  of  life  and  death  !  Fool,  the  power  does 
not  reach  to  the  heart,  except  to  still  it.  Verily 
and  indeed  were  the  old  heathens  mistaken  ? 
Are  there  no  philtres  to  change  the  current  of 
desire  ? — but  touch  one  chord  in  a  girl's  af- 
fection, and  all  the  rest  is  mine — all — all, 
lands,  station,  power — all  the  rest  are  in  the 
opening  of  this  lid  !  " 

Hide  in  the  cloud,  O  Moon  ! — shrink  back, 
ye  Stars  !  send  not  your  holy,  pure,  and  trou- 
ble-lulling light  to  the  countenance  blanched 
and  livid  with  the  thoughts  of  murder. 


CHAPTER  in. 


Conferences. 


The  next  day  Sir  Miles  did  not  appear  at 
breakfast;  not  that  he  was  unwell,  but  that  he 
meditated  holding  certain  audiences,  and  on 
such  occasions  the  good  old  gentleman  liked 
to  prepare  himself.  He  belonged  to  a  school 
in  which,  amidst  much  that  was  hearty  and 
convivial,  there  was  much  also  that,  now-a- 
days,  would  seem  stiff  and  formal,  contrasting 
the  other  school  immediately  succeeding  him, 
which  Mr.  Vernon  represented,  and  of  which 
the  Charles  Surface  of  Sheridan  is  a  faithful 


and  admirable  type.  The  room  that  Sii 
Miles  appropriated  to  himself  was,  properly 
speaking,  the  state  apartment,  called,  in  the 
old  inventories,  "King  James's  chamber;"  it 
was  on  the  first  floor,  communicating  with 
the  picture  gallery,  which,  at  the  farther  end 
opened  upon  a  corridor,  admitting  to  the  prin- 
cipal bed-rooms.  As  Sir  Miles  care  nothing 
for  holiday  state,  he  had  unscrupulously  taken 
his  cubiculum  in  this  chamber,  which  was 
really  the  handsomest  in  the  house,  except  the 
banquet  hall;  placed  his  bed  in  one  angle, 
with  a  huge  screen  before  it,  filled  up  the 
space  with  his  Italian  antiques  and  curiosities, 
and  fixed  his  favorite  pictures  on  the  faded 
gilt  leather  panelled  on  the  walls. 

His  main  motive  in  this  was  the  communica- 
tion with  the  adjoining  gallery,  which,  when  the 
weather  was  unfavorable,  furnished  ample 
room  for  his  habitual  walk.  He  knew  how 
many  strides  by  the  help  of  his  crutch  made  a 
mile,  and  this  was  convenient.  Moreover  he 
liked  to  look,  when  alone,  on  these  old  por- 
traits of  his  ancestors,  which  he  hadreligiously 
conserved  in  their  places,  preferring  to  thrust 
his  Florentine  and  Venetian  masterpieces  into 
bedrooms  and  parlors  rather  than  to  dislodge 
from  the  gallery  the  stiff  ruffs,  doublets,  and 
fardingales  of  his  predecessors.  It  was  whis- 
pered in  the  house,  that  the  baronet  whenever 
he  had  to  reprove  a  tenant,  or  lecture  a  de- 
pendant, took  care  to  have  him  brought  to  his 
sanctum,  through  the  full  length  of  this  gal- 
lery, so  that  the  victim  might  be  duly  pre- 
pared and  awed  by  the  imposing  effect  of  so 
stately  a  journey,  and  the  grave  faces  of  all  the 
generations  of  St.  John,  which  could  not  fail 
to  impress  him  with  the  dignity  of  the  family, 
and  alarm  him  at  the  prospect  of  the  injured 
frown  of  its  representative.  Across  this  gal- 
lery now,  following  the  steps  of  the  powdered 
valet,  strode  young  Ardworth;  staring  now  and 
then  at  some  portrait  more  than  usually  grim, 
more  often  wondering  why  his  boots  that  never 
creaked  before,  could  creak  on  those  particular 
boards,  and  feeling  a  quiet  curiosity  without 
the  least  mixture  of  fear  or  awe,  as  to  what  old 
Square-toes  intended  to  say  to  him. 

But  all  feeling  of  irreverence  ceased  when, 
shown  into  the  baronet's  room,  and  the  door 
closed.  Sir  Miles  rose  with  a  smile  and  cor- 
dially shaking  his  hand,  said,  dropping  the 
punctilious   courtesy  of   Mister — "  .'Xnlworth, 


LUCJiETIA. 


535 


sir,  if  I  had  a  little  prejudice  against  you, 
before  you  came,  you  have  conquered  it.  You 
are  a  fine  manly,  spirited  fellow,  sir;  and  you 
have  an  old  man's  good  wishes,  which  are  no 
bad  beginning  to  a  young  man's  good  fort- 
unes." 

The  color  rushed  over  Ardworth's  forehead, 
and  a  tear  sprang  to  his  eyes.  He  felt  a  rising 
at  his  throat,  as  he  stammered  out  some  not 
very  audible  reply. 

"I  wished  to  see  you,  young  .gentleman, 
that  I  might  judge  myself  what  you  would  like 
best,  and  what  would  best  fit  you.  Your 
father  is  in  the  army;  what  say  you  to  a  pair 
of  colors  ? " 

"Oh,  Sir  Miles,  that  is  my  utmost  ambition  ! 
Anything  but  law,  except  the  church;  any- 
thing but  the  church,  except  a  desk  and  a 
counter !  " 

The  baronet,  much  pleased,  gave  him  a  gen- 
tle pat  on  the  shoulder.  "  Ha,  ha  !  we  gentle- 
men, you  see,  (for  the  Ardworths  are  very  well 
born — very)  we,  gentlemen,  understand  each 
other  !  Between  you  and  me,  I  never  liked 
the  law — never  thought  a  man  of  birth  should 
belong  to  it — take  money  for  lying — shabby — 
shocking  !  Don't  let  that  go  any  further  ! 
The  church — Mother  Church — I  honor  her  ! 
Church  and  state  go  together  !  But  one  ought 
to  be  very  good  to  preach  to  others — better 
than  you  and  I  are— eh,  eh  ?  ha,  ha  !  Well, 
then,  you  like  the  army — there's  a  letter  for 
you  to  the  Horse  Guards — go  up  to  town — 
your  business  is  done;  and,  as  for  your  outfit 
read  this  little  book  at  yon  leisure,"  And  Sir 
Miles  thrust  a  pocket-book   into  Ardworth's 

hand. 

« 

"  But  pardon  me,"  said  the  young  man, 
much  bewildered.  "What  claim  have  I,  Sir 
Miles,  to  such  generosity  ?  I  know  that  my 
uncle  offended  you." 

"Sir,  that's  the  claim!"  said  Sir  Miles, 
gravely.  "  I  cannot  live  long  !  "  he  added, 
with  a  touch  of  melancholy  in  his  voice;  "  let 
me  die  in  peace  with  all  ! — perhaps  I  injured 
your  uncle  ?  Who  knows  but,  if  so,  he  hears 
and  pardons  me  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Sir  Miles  !  "  exclaimed  the  thoughtless, 
generous-hearted  young  man,  "  and  my  little 
playfellow,  Susan,  your  own  niece  !  " 

Sir  Miles  drew  back  haughtily;  but  the 
burst  that  offended  him  rose  so  evidently 
from   the   heart,   was   so   excusable   from   its 


motive,  and  the  youth's  ignorance  of  the 
world,  that  his  frown  soon  vanished,  as  he 
said,  calmly  and  gravely-^ 

"  No  man,  my  good  sir,  can  allow  to  others 
the  right  to  touch  on  his  family  affairs;  I  trust 
I  shall  be  just  to  the  poor  young  lady;  and  so, 
if  we  never  meet  again,  let  us  think  well  of 
each  other.  Go,  my  boy  !  serve  your  king 
and  your  country  !  " 

"I  will  do  my  best.  Sir  Miles,  if  only  to 
merit  your  kindness. 

"Stay  a  moment;  you  are  intimate,  I  find, 
with  young  Mainwaring?" 

"  An  old  college  friendship.  Sir  Miles." 
"  The  army  will  not  do  for  him,  eh  ?  " 
"  He  is  too  clever  for  it,  sir." 
"  Ah,  he'd  make  a  lawyer,  I  suppose— glib 
tongue  enough  !  and  can  talk  well,— and  lie, 
if  he's  paid  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  lawyers  regard  those 
matters.  Sir  Miles;  but  if  you  don't  make  him 
a  lawyer,'!  am  sure  you  must  leave  him  an 
honest  man." 

"Really  and  truly " 

"  Upon  my  honor  I  think  so." 
"Good  day  to  you,  and  good  luck.  You 
must  catch  the  coach  at  the  lodge;  for,  I  see 
by  the  papers,  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  talk 
about  Peace,  they  are  raising  regiments  like 
wildfire." 

With  very  dififerent  feelings  from  those  with 
which  he  had  entered  the  room,  Ardworth 
quitted  it.  He  hurried  into  his  own  chamber 
to  thrust  his  clothes  into  his  portmanteau, 
and,  while  thus  employed,  Mainwaring  en- 
tered. 

"Joy,  my  dear  follow!  wish  me  joy!  I 
am  going  to  town — into  the  army — abroad  to 
be  shot  at,  thank  Heaven  !  That  dear  old 
gentleman  ! — just  throw  me  that  coat,  will 
you  ?  " 

A  very  few  more  words  sufificed  to  explain 
what  had  passed  to  Mainwaring;  he  sighed 
when  his  friend  had  finished:  "I  wish  I  were 
going  with  you  I  " 

"  Do  you  ?  Sir  Miles  has  only  got  to  write 
another  letter  to  the  Horse  Guards;  but  no, 
you  are  meant  to  be  something  better  than  food 
for  powder;  and,  besides,  your  Lucretia ! 
Hang  it,  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  stay  to  examine 
her  as  I  had  promised;  but  I  have  seen  enough 
to  know  that  she  certainly  loves  you.  Ah, 
when  she  changed  flowers  with  you,  you  did 


536 


BULWJiK'S     WORKS. 


not  think  I  saw  you — sly,  was  not  I  ?  Pshaw  ! 
she  was  only  playing  with  Vernon  !  But  still, 
do  you  know,  Will,'  now  that  Sir  Miles  has 
spoken  to  me  so,  that  I  could  have  sobbed— 
'  God  bless  you,  my  old  boy  I ' — 'pon  my  life, 
I  could  ! — now,  do  you  know,  that  I  feel  en- 
raged with  you  for  abetting  that  girl  to  deceive 
him." 

"  I    am    enraged    with    myself;    and " 

Here  a  servant  entered,  and  informed  Main- 
waring  that  he  had  been  searching  for  him — 
Sir  Miles  requested  to  see  him  in  his  room. 
Mainwaring  started  like  a  culprit.  "  Never 
fear,"  whispered  Ardworth;  "  he  has  no  sus- 
picion of  you,  I'm  sure.  Shake  hands;  when 
shall  we  meet  again  ?  Is  it  not  odd,  I,  who  am 
a  Republican  by  theory,  taking  King  George's 
pay  to  fight  against  the  French  ?  No  use 
stopping  now  to  moralize  on  such  contradic- 
tions. John — -Tom,  what's  your  name — here, 
my  man,  here,  throw  that  portmanteau  on 
your  shoulder,  and  come  to  the  lodge."  And 
so,  full  of  health,  hope,  vivacity,  and  spirit, 
John  Walter  Ardworth  departed  on  his  career. 

Meanwhile,  Mainwaring  slowly  took  his  way 
to  Sir  Miles.  As  he  approached  the  gallery, 
he  met  Lucretia,  who  was  coming  from  her 
own-  room.  "  Sir  Miles  has  sent  for  me,"  he 
said,  meaningly.  He  had  time  for  no  more, 
for  the  valet  was  at  the  door  of  the  gallery, 
waiting  to  usher  him  to  his  host. 

"  Ha  !  you  will  say  not  a  word  that  can  be- 
tray us;  guard  your  looks,  too!"  whispered 
Lucretia,  hurriedly;  "  afterwards,  join  me  by 
the  cedars."  She  passed  on  towards  the  stair- 
case, and  glanced  at  the  large  clock  that  was 
placed  there.  "  Past  eleven;  Vernon  is  never 
up  before  twelve.  I  must  see  him  before  my 
uncle  sends  for  me,  as  he  will  send  if  he  sus- 
pects  "     She   paused,    went   back    to  her 

room,  rang  for  her  maid,  dressed  as  for  walk- 
ing, and  said,  carelessly,  "  If  Sir  Miles  wants 
me,  I  am  gone  to  the  rectory,  and  shall  prob- 
ably return  by  the  village,  so  that  I  shall  be 
back  about  one."  Towards  the  rectory,  in- 
deed, Lucretia  bent  her  way;  but  half  way 
there,  turned  back,  and  passing  through  the 
plantation  at  the  rear  of  the  house,  awaited 
Mainwaring  on  the  bench  beneath  the  cedars. 
He  was  not  long  before  he  joined  her.  His 
face  was  sad  and  thoughtful;  and  when  he 
seated  himself  by  her  side,  it  was  with  a  weari- 
ness of  spirit  that  alarmed  her. 


"  Well,  said  she,  fearfully,  and  she  placed 
her  hand  on  his. 

"  Oh,  Lucretia,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  pressed 
that  hand,  with  an  emotion  that  came  from 
other  passions  than  love,  "  we,  or  rather,  /, 
have  done  great  wrong.  I  have  been  leading 
you  to  betray  your  uncle's  trust,  to  convert 
your  gratitude  to  him  into  hypocrisy.  I  have 
been  unworthy  of  myself. — I  am  poor — I  am 
humbly  born;  but,  till  1  came  here,  I  was  rich 
and  proud  in  honor.  I  am  not  so  now.  Lu- 
cretia, pardon  me — pardon  me  !  let  the  dream 
be  over — we  must  not  sin  thus;  for  it  is  sin, 
and  the  worst  of  sin — treachery.  We  must 
part:  forget  me  !  " 

"  Forget  you  !  never,  never,  never  !  "  cried 
Lucretia,  with  suppressed,  but  most  earnest 
vehemence — her  breast  heaving,  her  hands,  as 
he  dropped  the  one  he  held,  clasped  together, 
her  eyes,  full  of  tears — transformed  at  once 
into  softness,  meekness,  even  while  racked  by 
passion  and  despair. 

•'Oh,  William,  say  anything  —  reproach, 
chide,  despise  me,  for  mine  is  all  the  fault; 
say  anything  but  that  word — 'part.'  I  have 
chosen  you,  I  have  sought  you  out,  I  have 
wooed  you  if  you  will;  be  it  so.  I  cling  to 
you — you  are  my  all — all  that  saves  me  from 
— from  myself^'  she  added,  falteringly,  and  in 
a  hollow  v6ice.  "  Your  love — you  know  not 
what  it  is  to  me  !  I  scarcely  knew  it  myself 
before.  I  feel  what  it  is  now,  when  you  say 
'part:  " 

Agitated  and  tortured,  Mainwaring  writhed 
at  these  burning  words,  bent  his  face  low,  and 
covered  it  with  his  hands. 

He  felt  her  clasp  struggling  to  withdraw 
them,  yielded,  and  saw  her  kneeling  at  his 
feet.  His  manhood,  and  his  gratitude,  and 
his  heart,  all  moved  by  that  sight  in  one  so 
haughty,  he  opened  his  arms,  and  she  fell  on 
his  breast.  "  You  will  never  say  '  part '  again, 
William  ?"  she  gasped,  convulsively. 

"  But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"  Say,  first,  what  has  passed  between  you 
and  my  uncle." 

"Little  to  relate;  for  I  can  repeat  words, 
not  tones  and  looks.  Sir  Miles  spoke  to  me, 
at  first  kindly  and  encouragingly,  about  my 
prospects,  said  it  was  time  that  I  should  fi.\  my- 
self, added  a  few  words  with  menacing  empha- 
sis against  what  he  called  '  idle  dreams  and  de- 
sultory ambition,'  and  obsei"ving  that  I  changed 


LUCRETIA. 


537 


countenance — for  I  felt  that  I  did — his  man- 
ner became  more  cold  and  severe.  Lucretia, 
if  he  has  not  detected  our  secret,  he  more  than 
suspects  my — my  presumption.  Finally,  he 
said,  drily,  that  I  had  better  return  home,  con- 
sult with  my  father,  and  that  if  I  preferred 
entering  into  the  service  of  the  government  to 
any  mercantile  profession,  he  thought  he  had 
sufficient  interest  to  promote  my  views.  But, 
clearly  and  distinctly,  he  left  on  my  mind  one 
impression — that  my  visits  here  are  over." 

"  Did  he  allude  to  me — to  Mr.  Vernon  ? " 

"Ah,  Lucretia  I  do  you  know  him  so  little 
— his  delicacy,  his  pride  ?  " 

Lucretia  was  silent,  and  Mainwaring  con- 
tinued: 

"I  felt  that  I  was  dismissed;  I  took  my 
leave  of  your  uncle;  I  came  hither  with  the 
intention  to  say  farewell  for  ever." 

"Hush,  hush!  that  thought  is  over!  And 
you  return  to  your  father's;  perhaps  better  so; 
it  is  but  hope  deferred:  and,  in  your  absence, 
I  can  the  more  easily  allay  all  suspicion,  if 
suspicion  exists;  but  I  must  write  to  you;  we 
must  correspond.  William,  dear  William, 
write  often — write  kindly;  tell  me,  in  every 
letter,  that  you  love  me — that  you  love  only 
me — that  you  will  be  patient,  and  confide." 

"  Dear  Lucretia,"  said  Mainwaring,  tenderly, 
and  moved  by  the  pathos  of  her  earnest  and 
imploring  voice:  "  but  you  forget;  the  bag  is 
always  brought  first  to  Sir  Miles;  he  will 
recognize  my  hand;  and  to  whom  can  you 
trust  your  own   letters  ?  " 

"True,"  replied  Lucretia,  despondingly; 
and  there  was  a  pause:  suddenly  she  lifted 
her  head,  and  cried,  "  but  your  father's  house 
is  not  far  from  this— not  ten  miles — we  can 
find  a  spot  at  the  remote  end  of  the  park, 
near  the  path  through  the  great  wood;  there  I 
can  leave  my  letters;  there  I   can  find  yours." 

"But  it  must  be  seldom.  If  any  of  Sir 
Miles's  servants  see  me,  if " 

"Oh,  William,  William,  this  is  not  the  lan- 
guage of  love  !  " 

"  Forgive  me — I  think  of  you  !  " 

"  Love  thinks  of  nothing  but  itself;  it  is 
tyrannical,  absorbing — it  forgets  even  the  ob- 
ject loved;  it  feeds  on  danger — it  strengthens 
by  obstacles,"  said  Lucretia,  tossing  her  hair 
from  her  forehead,  and  with  an  expression  of 
dark  and  wild  power  on  her  brow  and  in  her 
eyes:  "  fear  not  for  me,  I  am   sufficient  guard 


upon  myself;  even  while  I  speak,  I  think;  yes, 
I  have  thought  of  the  very  spot.  You  remem- 
ber that  hollow  oak  at  the  bottom  of  the  dell, 
in  which  Guy  St.  John,  the  cavalier,  is  said  to 
have  hid  himself  from  Fairfax's  soldiers. 
Every  Monday  I  will  leave  a  letter  in  that 
hollow;  every  Tuesday  you  can.  search  for  it, 
and  leave  your  own.  This  is  but  once  a  week; 
there  is  no  risk  here." 

Mainwaring's  conscience  still  smote  him; 
but  he  had  not  the  strength  to  resist  the  en- 
ergy of  Lucretia.  The  force  of  her  character 
seized  upon  the  weak  part  of  his  own — its 
gentleness,  its  fear  of  inflicting  pain,  it  reluc- 
tance to  say  "no" — that  simple  cause  of 
misery  to  the  over  timid.  A  few  sentences 
more,  full  of  courage,  confidence,  and  passion, 
on  the  part  of  the  woman,  of  constraint,  and 
yet  of  soothed  and  grateful  affection  on  that  of 
the  man,  and  the  affianced  parted. 

Mainwaring  had  already  given  orders  to  have 
his  trunks  sent  to  him  at  his  father's:  and,  a 
hardy  pedestrian  by  habit,  he  now  struck 
across  the  park,  passed  the  dell  and  the  hol- 
low tree,  commonly  called  "  Guy's  Oak,"  and 
across  woodland  and  fields  golden  with  ripen- 
ing corn,  took  his  way  to  the  town,  in  the  cen- 
tre of  which,  squre,  solid,  and  imposing,  stood 
the  respectable  residence  of  his  bustling, 
active,  electioneering  father. 

Lucretia's  eye  followed  a  form,  as  fair  as 
ever  captivated  maiden's  glance,  till  it  was  out 
of  sight;  and  then,  as  she  emerged  from  the 
shade  of  the  cedars  into  the  more  open  space 
of  the  garden,  her  usual  thoughtful  composure 
was  restored  to  her  steadfast  countenance.  On 
the  terrace,  she  caught  sight  of  Vernon,  who 
had  just  quitted  his  own  room,  where  he 
always  breakfasted  alone,  and  who  was  now 
languidly  stretched  on  a  bench,  and  basking 
in  the  sun.  Like  all  who  have  abused  life, 
Vernon  was  not  the  same  man  in  the  early 
part  of  the  day.  The  spirits  that  rose  to  tem- 
perate heat  the  third  hour  after  noon,  and  ex. 
panded  into  glow,  when  the  lights  shone  over 
gay  carousers,  at  morning  were  fiat  and  ex- 
hausted. With  hollow  eyes,  and  that  weary 
fall  of  the  muscles  of  the  cheeks,  which  be- 
trays the  votary  of  Bacchus,  the  convivial 
three-bottle  man — Charley  Vernon  forced  a 
smile,  meant  to  be  airy  and  impertinent,  to  his 
pale  lips,  as  he  rose  with  effort,  and  extended 
three  fingers  to  his  cousin. 


538 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  Where  have  you  been  hiding  ?  catching 
bloom  from  the  roses  ? — you  have  the  prettiest 
shade  of  color — just  enough — not  a  hue  too 
much.  And  there  is  Sir  Miles's  valet  gone  to 
the  rectory,  and  the  fat  footman  puffing  away 
towards  the  village,  and  I,  like  a  faithful 
warden,  from  my  post  at  the  castle,  all  looking 
out  for  the  truant." 

"  But  who  wants  me,  cousin  ?  "  said  Lucre- 
tia,  with  the  full  blaze  of  her  rare  and  capti- 
vating smile. 

"  The  knight  of  Laughton  confessedly  wants 
thee,  O  damsel  ! — the  knight  of  the  Bleeding 
Heart  may  want  thee  more — dare  he  own  it  ?  " 

And  with  a  hand  that  trembled  a  little,  not 
with  love — at  least  it  trembled  always  a  little 
before  the  Madeira  at  luncheon — he  lifted 
hers  to  his  lips. 

"  Compliments  again,  words — idle  words  !  " 
said  Lucretia,  looking  down  bashfully. 

"  How  can  1  convince  thee  of  my  sincerity, 
unless  thou  takest  my  life  as  its  pledge,  maid 
of  Laughton  ?" 

And  very  much  tired  of  standing,  Charley 
Vernon  drew  her  gently  to  the  bench,  and 
seated  himself  by  her  side.  Lucretia's  eyes 
were  still  downcast,  and  she  remained  silent; 
Vernon,  suppressing  a  yawn,  felt  that  he  was 
bound  to  continue.  There  was  nothing  very 
formidable  in  Lucretia's  manner. 

"  Fore  Gad  !  "  thought  he,  "  I  suppose  I 
must  take  the  heiress  after  all;  the  sooner  'tis 
over,  the  sooner  I  can  get  back  to  Brook 
Street." 

"  It  is  premature,  my  fair  cousin,"  said  he, 
aloud — "  premature,  after  less  than  a  week's 
visit,  and  only  some  fourteen  or  fifteen  hours' 
permitted  friendship  and  intimacy,  to  say 
what  is  uppermost  in  my  thoughts,  but  we 
spendthrifts  are  slow  at  nothing,  not  even  at 
wooing.  By  sweet  Venus,  then,  fair  cousin, 
you  look  provokingly  handsome  !  Sir  Miles, 
your  good  uncle,  is  pleased  to  forgive  all  my 
follies  and  faults,  upon  one  condition,  that 
you  will  take  on  yourself  the  easy  task  to  re- 
form me.  Will  you,  my  fair  cousin  ?  Such 
as  I  am,  you  behold  me  !  I  am  no  sinner  in 
the  disguise  of  a  saint !  My  fortune  is  spent 
— my  health  is  not  strong;  but  a  young 
widow's  is  no  mournful  position.  I  am  gay 
when  I  am  well;  good  tempered  when  ailing. 
I  never  betrayed  a  trust — can  you  trust  me 
with  yourself?" 


This  was  a  long  speech,  and  Charley  Vernon 
felt  pleased  that  it  was  over.  There  was  much 
in  it  that  would  have  touched  a  heart  even 
closed  to  him,  and  a  little  genuine  emotion  had 
given  light  to  his  eyes  and  color  to  his  cheek. 
Amidst  all  the  ravages  of  dissipation,  there 
was  something  interesting  in  his  countenance, 
and  manly  in  his  tone  and  his  gesture.  But 
Lucretia  was  only  sensible  to  one  part  of  his 
confession — her  uncle  had  consented  to  his 
suit.  This  was  all  of  which  she  desired  to  be 
assured,  and  against  this  she  now  sought  to 
screen  herself. 

"Your  candor,  Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said, 
avoiding  his  eye,  "  deserves  candor  in  me.  I 
cannot  affect  to  misunderstand  you; — but  you 
take  me  by  surprise — I  was  so  unprepared  for 
this.     Give  me  time — I  must  reflect." 

"  Reflection  is  dull  work  in  the  country;  you 
can  reflect  more  amusingly  in  town,  my  fair 
cousin." 

"  I  will  wait,  then,  till  I  find  myself  in 
town." 

"Ah,  you  make  me  the  happiest,  the  most 
grateful  of  men,"  cried  Mr.  Vernon,  rising 
with  a  semi-genuflection,  which  seemed  to  im- 
ply, "Consider  yourself  knelt  to,"  just  as  a 
courteous  assailer,  with  a  motion  of  the  hand, 
implies,  "Consider  yourself  horsewhipped." 

Lucretia,  who,  with  all  her  intellect,  had  no 
capacity  for  humor,  recoiled  and  looked  up  in 
positive  surprise. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Mr.  Vernon,"  she 
said,  with  austere  gravity. 

"Allow  me  the  bliss  of  flattering  myself 
that  you,  at  least,  are  understood,"  replied 
Charley  Vernon,  with  imperturbable  assurance. 
"  You  will  wait  to  reflect  till  you  are  in  town — 
that  is  to  say,  the  day  after  our  honeymoon, 
when  you  awake  in  May  Fair." 

Before  Lucretia  could  reply,  she  saw  the  in- 
defatigable valet  formally  approaching,  with 
the  anticipated  message  that  Sir  Miles  re- 
quested to  see  her.  She  replied  hurriedly  to 
this  last,  that  she  would  be  with  her  uncle  im- 
mediately, and  when  he  had  again  disappeared 
within  the  porch,  she  said,  with  a  constrained 
effort  at  frankness — 

"  Mr.  Vernon,  if  I  have  misunderstood  your 
words,  I  think  I  do  not  mistake  your  charac- 
ter. You  cannot  wish  to  take  advantage  of 
my  affection  for  my  uncle,  and  the  passive 
obedience  I  owe  to  him,  to   force  me  into  a 


LUC  RET/ A. 


SZ<^ 


step^of  which — of  which — I  have  not  yet 
sufficiently  considered  the  results.  If  you 
really  desire  that  my  feelings  should  be  con- 
sulted, that  I  should  not — pardon  me — con- 
sider myself  sacrificed  to  the  family  pride 
of  my  guardian,  and  the  interests  of  my 
suitor " 

"  Madam  !  "  exclaimed  Vernon,  reddening. 

Pleased  with  the  irritating  effect  her  words 
had  produced — Lucretia  continued  calmly — 
"  If,  in  a  word,  I  am  to  be  a  free  agent  in  a 
choice  on  which  my  happiness  depends,  for- 
bear to  urge  Sir  Miles  further  at  present — for- 
bear to  press  your  suit  upon  me.  Give  me  the 
delay  of  a  few  months;  I  shall  know  how  to 
appreciate  your  delicacy." 

"  Miss  Clavering,"  answered  Vernon,  with  a 
touch  of  the  St.  John  haughtiness,  "  I  am  in 
despair  that  you  should  even  think  so  grave  an 
appeal  to  my  honor  necessary.  I  am  well 
aware  of  your  expectations  and  my  poverty. 
And  believe  me,  I  would  rather  rot  in  a  prison 
than  enrich  myself  by  forcing  your  inclinations. 
You  have  but  to  say  the  word,  and  I  will  (as 
becomes  me  as  man  and  gentleman)  screen 
you  from  all  chance  of  Sir  Miles's displeasure, 
by  taking  it  on  myself  to  decline  an  honor 
of  which  I  feel,  indeed,  very  undeserving." 

"But  I  have  offended  you,"  said  Lucretia, 
softly,  while  she  turned  aside  to  conceal  the 
glad  light  of  her  eyes, — "pardon  me;  and,  to 
prove  that  you  do  so,  give  me  your  arm  to  my 
uncle's  room." 

Vernon,  with  rather  more  of  Sir  Miles's  an- 
tiquated stiffness,  than  his  own  rakish  ease, 
offered  his  arm,  with  a  profound  reverence,  to 
his  cousin;  and  they  took  their  way  to  the 
liouse.  Not  till  they  had  passed  up  the  stairs, 
and  were  even  in  the  gallery,  did  further  words 
pass  between  them.  Then  Vernon  said,  "  But 
what  is  your  wish,  Miss  Clavering  ?  On  what 
footing  shall  I  remain  here?" 

"Will  you  suffer  me  to  dictate?"  replied 
Lucretia,  stopping  short  with  well  feigned  con- 
fusion, as  if  suddenly  aware  that  the  right  to 
dictate  gives  the  right  to  hope. 

"  Ah,  consider  me  at  least  as  your  slave  !  " 
whispered  Vernon,  as  his  eye,  resting  on  the 
contour  of  that  matchless  neck,  partially  and 
advantageously  turned  frc«n  him,  he  began 
with  his  constitutional  admiration  of  the  sex, 
to  feel  interested  in  a  pursuit,  that  now  seemed, 
after  piquing,  to  flatter,  his  self-love. 


"  Then  I  will  use  the  privilege  when  we  meet 
again,"  answered  Lucretia;  and  drawing  her 
arm  gently  from  his,  she  passed  on  to  her 
uncle,  leaving  Vernon  midway  in  the  gallery. 

Those  faded  portraits  looked  down  on  her 
with  that  melancholy  gloom,  which  the  effigies 
of  our  dead  ancestors  seem  mysteriously  to 
acquire.  To  noble  and  aspiring  spirits,  no 
homily  to  truth,  and  honor,  and  fair  ambition 
is  more  eloquent,  than  the  mute  and  melan- 
choly canvas,  from  which  our  fathers,  made, 
by  death,  our  household  gods,  contemplate  us 
still.  They  appear  to  confide  to  us  the  charge 
of  their  unblemished  names.  They  speak  to 
us  from  the  grave,  and,  heard  aright,  the  pride 
of  family  is  the  guardian  angel  of  its  heirs. 
But  Lucretia,  with  her  hard  and  scholastic 
mind,  despised  as  the  veriest  weakness  all  the 
poetry  that  belongs  to  the  sense  of  a  pure 
descent.  It  was  because  she  was  proud  as  the 
proudest  in  herself,  that  she  had  nothing  but 
contempt  for  the  virtue,  the  valor,  or  the  wis- 
dom of  those  that  had  gone  before.  So  with 
a  brain  busy  with  guile  and  stratagem,  she 
trod  on  beneath  the  eyes  of  the  simple  and 
spotless  Dead. 

Vernon,  thus  left  alone,  mused  a  few  mo- 
ments on  what  had  passed  between  himself 
and  the  heiress,  and  then  slowly  retracing  his 
steps,  his  eye  roved  along  the  stately  series  of 
his  line.  "  Faith  !  "  he  muttered,  "  if  my  boy- 
hood had  been  passed  in  this  old  gallery,  his 
Royal  Highness  would  have  lost  a  good  fellow 
and  hard  drinker;  and  his  Majesty  would  have 
had,  perhaps,  a  more  distinguished  soldier — 
certainly,  a  worthier  subject.  If  I  marry 
this  lady,  and  we  are  blessed  with  a  son,  he 
shall  walk  through  this  gallery,  once  a  day, 
before  he  is  flogged  into  Latin  I  " 

Lucretia's  interview  with  her  uncle  was  a 
masterpiece  of  art.  What  pity  that  such  craft 
and  subtlety  were  wasted  in  our  little  day,  and 
on  such  petty  objects;  under  the  Medici,  that 
spirit  had  gone  far  to  the  shaping  of  history 
Sure,  from  her  uncle's  openness,  that  he  would 
plunge  at  once  into  the  subject  for  which  she 
deemed  she  was  summoned,  she  evinced  no 
repugnance,  when,  tenderly  kissing  her,  he 
asked,  "  If  Charles  Vernon  had  a  chance  of 
winning  favor  in  her  eyes  ?  "  She  knew  that 
she  was  safe  in  saying  "  No:  "  that  her  uncle 
would  never  force  her  inclinations:  Safe  so 
far  as  Vernon  was  concerned;  but  she  desired 


54° 


BULII  Eli  S     WORKS. 


more;  she  desired  thoroughly  to  quench  all 
suspicion  that  her  heart  was  pre-occupied; 
entirely  to  remove  from  Sir  Miles's  thoughts 
the  image  of  Mainvvaring;  and  a  denial  of  one 
suitor  might  quicken  the  baronet's  eyes  to  the 
concealment  of  the  other. 

Nor,  was  this  all:  if  Sir  Miles  was  seriously 
bent  upon  seeing  her  settled  in  marriage  be- 
fore his  death,  the  dismissal  of  Vernon  might 
only  expose  her  to  the  importunity  of  new 
candidates,  more  difficult  to  deal  with.  Ver- 
non himself  she  could  use  as  the  shield  against 
the  arrows  of  a  host.  Therefore,  when  Sir 
Miles  repeated  his  question,  she  answered  with 
much  gentleness  and  seeming  modest  sense, 
that  "  Mr.  Vernon  had  much  that  must  pre- 
possess in  his  favor;  that  in  addition  to  his 
own  advantages  he  had  one,  the  highest  in  her 
eyes,  her  uncle's  sanction  and  approval.  But," 
and  she  hesitated  with  becoming  and  natural 
diffidence,  "  were  not  his  habits  unfixed  and 
roving?  So  it  was  said;  she  knew  not  herself 
— she  would  trust  her  happiness  to  her  uncle. 
But  if  so,  and  if  Mr.  Vernon  were  really  dis- 
posed to  change,  would  it  not  be  prudent  to 
try  him — try  him  where  there  was  temptation; 
not  in  the  repose  of  Laughton,  but  amidst  his 
own  haunts  of  London  ?  Sir  Miles  had  friends 
who  would  honestly  inform  him  of  the  result. 
She  did  but  suggest  this:  she  was  too  ready 
to  leave  all  to  her  dear  guardian's  acuteness 
and  experience." 

Melted  by  her  docility,  and  in  high  approval 
of  the  prudence  which  betokened  a  more 
rational  judgment  than  he  himself  had 
evinced,  the  good  old  man  clasped  her  to  his 
breast,  and  shed  tears  as  he  praised  and 
thanked  her — she  had  decided  as  she  always 
did,  for  the  best. — Heaven  forbid  that  she 
should  be  wasted  on  an  incorrigible  man  of 
pleasure  !  "  And,"  said  the  frank-hearted 
gentleman,  unable  long  to  keep  any  thought 
concealed,  "  And  to  think  that  I  could  have 
wronged  you,  for  a  moment,  my  own  noble 
child  ! — that  I  could  have  been  dolt  enough  to 
supix)se  that  the  good  looks  of  that  boy  Main- 
waring  might  have  caused  you  to  forget  what 
— but  you  change  color  !  " — for  with  all  her 
dissimulation,  Lucretia  loved  too  ardently  not 
to  shrink  at  that  name  thus  suddenly  pro- 
nounced. "  Oh,"  continued  the  baronet, 
drawing  her  towards  him  still  more  closely, 
while  with  one  hand  he  put  back  her  face  that 


he  might  read  its  expression  the  more  closely 
— "  oh,  if  it  had  been  so — if  it  be  so,  I  will 
pity,  not  blame  you,  for  my  neglect  was  the 
fault;  pity  you,  for  I  have  known  a  similar 
struggle;  admire  you  in  pity,  for  you  have  the 
spirit  of  your  ancestors,  and  you  will  conquer 
the  weakness.  Speak  !  have  I  touched  on  the 
truth  ?  Speak  without  fear,  child  ! — you  have 
no  mother;  but  in  age  a  man  sometimes  gets  a 
mother's  heart." 

Startled  and  alarmed  as  the  lark  when  the 
step  nears  its  nest,  Lucretia  summoned  all  the 
dark  wile  of  her  nature  to  mislead  the  intruder. 
"No,  uncle,  no;  I  am  not  so  unworthy.  You 
misconceived  my  emotion." 

"  Ah,  you  know  that  he  has  had  the  pre- 
suption  to  love  you — the  puppy  !  and  you  feel 
the  compassion  you  women  always  feel  for 
such  offenders  1     Is  that  it  ? " 

Rapidly  Lucretia  considered  if  it  would  be 
wise  to  leave  that  impression  on  his  mind;  on 
one  hand,  it  might  account  for  a  moment's 
agitation,  and  if  Mainwaring  were  detected 
hovering  near  the  domain,  in  the  exchange  of 
their  correspondence,  it  might  appear  but  the 
idle,  if  hopeless,  romance  of  youth,  which 
haunts  the  mere  home  of  its  object — but,  no; 
on  the  other  hand,  it  left  his  banishment  abso- 
lute and  confirmed.  Her  resolution  was  taken 
with  a  promptitude  that  made  her  pause  not 
perceptible. 

"  No,  my  dear  uncle,"  she  said,  so  cheer- 
fully, that  it  removed  all  doubt  from  the  mind 
of  her  listener,  "  but  Monsieur  Dalibard  has 
rallied  me  on  the  subject,  and  I  was  so  angry 
with  him,  that  when  you  touched  on  it  I 
thought  more  of  my  quarrel  with  him  than  of 
poor  timid  Mr.  Mainwaring  himself.  Come 
now,  own  it,  dear  sir  !  Monsieur  Dalibard 
has  instilled  this  strange  fancy  into  your  head." 

"  No,  'Slife:  if  he  had  taken  such  a  liberty, 
I  should  have  lost  my  librarian.  No,  I  assure 
you,  it  was  rather  Vernon:  you  know  true  love 
is  jealous." 

"  Vernon  !  "  thought  Lucretia;  "  he  must 
go,  and  at  once."  Sliding  from  her  uncle's 
arms  to  the  stool  at  his  feet,  she  then  led  the 
conversation  more  familiarly  back  into  the 
channel  it  hail  lost,  and  when  at  last  he  es- 
caped, it  was  wijh  the  understanding  that, 
without  promise  or  compromise,  Mr.  Vernon 
should  return  to  London  at  once,  iiid  be  put 
upon  the  ordeal,  through  which   she  felt  as- 


LUCRETIA. 


541 


sured  it  was  little  likely  he  should  pass  with 
success. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Guy's  Oak. 

Three  weeks  afterwards,  the  life  at  Laugh- 
ton  seemed  restored  to  the  cheerful  and  some- 
what monotonous  tranquillity  of  its  course, 
before  chafed  and  disturbed  by  the  recent 
interruptions  to  the  stream.  Vernon  had 
departed  satisfied  with  the  justice  of  the  trial 
imposed  on  him,  and  far  too  high-spirited  to 
seek  to  extort  from  niece  or  uncle  any  engage- 
ment beyond  that  which,  to  a  nice  sense  of 
honor,  the  trial  itself  imposed.  His  memory 
and  his  heart  were  still  faithful  to  Mary;  but 
his  senses,  his  fancy,  his  vanity,  were  a  little 
involved  in  his  success  with  the  heiress. 
Though  so  free  from  all  mercenary  meanness, 
Mr.  Vernon  was  still  enough  man  of  the  world 
to  be  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  the  alliance 
which  had  first  been  pressed  on  him  by  Sir 
Miles;  and  from  which  Lucretia  herself  ap- 
peared not  to  be  averse. 

The  season  of  London  was  over,  but  there 
was  always  a  set,  and  that  set  the  one  in 
which  Charley  Vernon  principally  moved,  who 
found  town  fuller  than  the  country.  Besides, 
he  went  occasionally  to  Brighton,  which  was 
then  to  England  what  Baiae  was  to  Rome. 
The  Prince  was  holding  gay  court  at  the  Pa- 
villion,  and  that  was  the  atmosphere  which 
Vernon  was  habituated  to  breathe.  He  was 
no  parasite  of  royalty:  he  had  that  strong  per- 
sonal affection  to  the  Prince  which  it  is  often 
the  good  fortune  of  royalty  to  attract.  Noth- 
ing is  less  founded  than  the  complaint  which 
poets  put  into  the  lips  of  princes,  that  they 
have  no  friends;  it  is,  at  least,  their  own  per- 
verse fault  if  that  be  the  case — a  little  ami- 
ability, a  little  of  frank  kindness  goes  so  far 
when  it  emanates  from  the  rays  of  a  crown  ! 
But  Vernon  was  stronger  than  Lucretia  deemed 
him, — once  contemplating  the  prospect  of  a 
union  which  was  to  consign  to  his  charge  the 
happiness  of  another,  and  feeling  all  that  he 
should  owe  in  such  a  marriage  to  the  con- 
fidence both  of  niece  and  uncle,  he  evinced 
steadier  principles  than  he  had  ever  made 
manifest,  when  he  had  only  his  own  fortune  to 
mar,  and  his  own  happiness  to  trifle  with.     He 


joined  his  old  companions;  but  he  kept  aloof 
from  their  more  dissipated  pursuits.  Beyond 
what  was  then  thought  the  venial  error  of  too 
devout  libations  to  Bacchus,  Charley  Vernon 
seemed  reformed. 

Ard worth  had  joined  a  regiment  which  had 
departed  for  the  field  of  action.  Mainwaring 
was  still  with  his  father,  and  had  not  yet  an- 
nounced to  Sir  Miles  any  wish  or  project  for 
the  future. 

Olivier  Dalibard,  as  befort,  passed  his 
mornings  alone  in  his  chamber — his  noon  and 
his  evenings  with  Sir  Miles.  He  avoided  all 
private  conference  with  Lucretia.  She  did  not 
provoke  them.  Young  Gabriel  amused  him- 
self in  copying  Sir  Miles's  pictures,  sketching 
from  Nature,  scribbling  in  his  room,  prose  or 
verse,  no  matter  which  (he  never  showed  his 
lucubrations),  pinching  the  dogs  when  he 
could  catch  them  alone,  shooting  the  cats,  if 
they  appeared  in  the  plantation,  on  pretence 
of  love  for  the  young  pheasants,  sauntering 
into  the  cottages,  where  he  was  a  favorite,  be- 
cause of  his  good  looks,  but  where  he  always 
contrived  to  leave  the  trace  of  his  visits  in  dis- 
order and  mischief,  upsetting  the  tea-kettle 
and  scalding  the  children,  or,  what  he  loved 
dearly,  setting  two  gossips  by  the  ears. 

But  these  occupations  were  over  by  the  hour 
Lucretia  left  her.  apartment.  From  that  time 
he  never  left  her  out  of  view;  and,  when  en- 
couraged to  join  her  at  his  usual  privileged 
times,  whether  in  the  gardens  at  sunset,  or  in 
her  evening  niche  in  the  drawing-room,  he  was 
sleek,  silken,  and  caressing  as  Cupid,  after 
plaguing  the  Nymphs,  at  the  feet  of  Psyche. 
These  two  strange  persons  had  indeed  ap- 
parently that  sort  of  sentimental  familiarity 
which  is  sometimes  seen  between  a  fair  boy 
and  a  girl  much  older  than  himself;  but  the 
attaction  that  drew  them  together  was  an  inde- 
finable instinct  of  their  similarity  in  many  traits 
of  their  several  characters, — the  whelp  leopard 
sported  fearlessly  round  the  she-panther.  Be- 
fore Olivier's  midnight  conference  with  his 
son,  Gabriel  had  drawn  close  and  closer  to 
Lucretia,  as  an  ally  against  his  father;  for  that 
father  he  cherished  feelings  which,  beneath 
the  most  docile  obedience,  concealed  horror 
and  hate,  and  something  of  the  ferocity  of  re- 
venge. And  if  young  Varney  loved  any  one  on 
earth  except  himself  it  was  Lucretia  Clavering. 
She  had  administered  to  his  ruling  passions, 


542 


B  UL  TVER-  S     WORKS. 


which  were  for  effect  and  display;  she  had 
devised  the  dress  which  set  off  to  the  utmost 
his  exterior,  and  gave  it  that  picruresque  and 
artistic  appearance  which  he  had  sighed  for  in 
his  study  of  the  portraits  of  Titian  and  Van- 
dyke. She  supplied  him  (for  in  money  she 
was  generous)  with  enough  to  gratify  and  fore- 
stall every  boyish  caprice,  and  this  liberality 
now  turned  against  her,  for  it  had  increased 
into  a  settled  vice,  his  natural  taste  for  ex- 
travagance, and  made  all  other  considerations 
subordinate  to  that  of  feeding  his  cupidity. 
She  praised  his  drawings,  which,  though  self- 
taught,  were  indeed  extraordinary,  predicted 
his  fame  as  an  artist,  lifted  him  into  conse- 
quence amongst  the  guests  by  her  notice  and 
eulogies;  and  what,  perhaps,  won  him  more 
than  all,  he  felt  that  it  was  to  her — to  Dali- 
bard's  desire  to  conceal  before  her  his  more 
cruel  propensities — that  he  owed  his  father's 
change  from  the  most  refined  severity  to  the 
most  paternal  gentleness. 

And  thus  he  had  repaid  her,  as  she  expected, 
by  a  devotion  which  she  trusted  to  employ 
against  her  tutor  himself,  should  the  baffled 
aspirant  become  the  scheming  rival  and  the 
secret  foe.  But  now,  thoroughly  aware  of  the 
gravity  of  his  father's  objects,  seeing  before 
him  the  chance  of  a  settled  establishment  at 
Laughton,  a  positive  and  influential  connection 
with  Lucretia;  and  on  the  other  hand,  a  return 
to  the  poverty  he  recalled  with  disgust,  and 
the  terrors  of  his  father's  solitary  malice  and 
revenge,  he  entered  fully  into  Dalibard's  som- 
bre plans,  and,  without  scruple  or  remorse, 
would  have  abetted  any  harm  to  his  bene- 
factress. Thus  craft  doomed  to  have  accom- 
plices in  craft,  resembles  the  spider  whose  web, 
spread  indeed  for  the  fly,  attracts  the  fellow 
spider  that  shall  thrust  it  forth,  and  profit  by 
the  meshes  it  has  woven  for  a  victim,  to  sur- 
render to  a  master. 

Already  young  Varney,  set  quietly  and  cease- 
lessly to  spy  every  movement  of  Lucretia's,  had 
reported  to  his  father  two  visits  to  the  most 
retired  part  of  the  park;  but  he  had  not  yet 
ventured  near  enough  to  discover  the  exact 
spot,  and  his  very  watch  on  Lucretia  had  pre- 
vented the  detection  of  Mainwaring  himself  in 
his  stealthy  exchange  of  correspondence. 
Dalibard  bade  him  continue  his  watch,  with- 
out hinting  at  his  ulterior  intentions,  for  in- 
deed,  in   these    he   was    not   decided.     Even 


should  he  discover  any  communication  be- 
tween Lucretia  and  Mainwaring,  how  reveal  it 
to  Sir  Miles  without  for  ever  precluding  him- 
self from  the  chance  of  profiting  by  the  be- 
trayal ?  Could  Lucretia  ever  forgive  the  in- 
jury, and  could  she  fail  to  detect  the  hand 
that  inflicted  it  ?  His  only  hope  was  in  the 
removal  of  Mainwaring  from  his  path  by  other 
agencies  than  his  own,  and  (by  an  appearance 
of  generosity  and  self-abandonment;  in  keep- 
ing her  secret,  and  submitting  to  his  fate)  he 
trusted  to  regain  the  confidence  she  now 
withheld  from  him,  and  use  it  to  his  advantage 
when  the  time  came  to  defend  himself  from 
Vernon.  For  he  had  learned  from  Sir  Miles 
the  passive  understanding  with  respect  to 
that  candidate  for  her  hand;  and  he  felt  as- 
sured that  had  Mainwaring  never  existed, 
could  he  cease  to  exist  for  her  hopes,  Lucretia, 
despite  her  dissimulation,  would  succumb  to 
one  she  feared  but  respected,  rather  than  to 
one  she  evidently  trifled  with  and  despised. 

"  But  the  course  to  be  taken  must  be 
adopted  after  the  evidence  is  collected," 
thought  the  subtle  schemer,  and  he  tranquilly 
continued  his  chess  with  the  baronet. 

Before,  however,  Gabriel  could  make  any 
further  discoveries,  an  event  occurred  which 
excited  very  different  emotions  amongst  those 
it  more  immediately  interested. 

Sir  Miles  had,  during  the  last  twelvemonths, 
been  visited  by  two  seizures,  seemingly  of  an 
apopletic  character.  Whether  they  were  apo- 
plexy or  the  less  alarming  attacks  that  arise 
from  some  more  gentle  congestion,  occasioned 
by  free  living  and  indolent  habits,  was  matter 
of  doubt  with  his  physician — not  a  very  skil- 
ful, though  a  very  formal  man.  Country  doc- 
tors were  not  then  the  same  able  educated, 
and  scientific  class  that  they  are  now  rapidly 
becoming.  Sir  Miles  himself  so  stoutly  and 
so  eagerly  repudiated  the  least  hint  of  the 
more  unfavorable  interpretation,  that  the  doc- 
tor, if  not  convinced  by  his  patient,  was  awed 
from  expressing  plainly  a  contrary  opinion. 
There  are  certain  persons  who  will  dismiss 
their  physician  if  he  tells  them  the  truth:  Sir 
Miles  was  one  of  them. 

In  his  character  there  was  a  weakness  not 
uncommon  to  the  proud.  He  did  not  fear 
death,  but  he  shrank  from  the  thought  that 
others  should  calcaulate  on  his  dying.  He 
was  fond  of  his  power,  though   he  exercised  it 


LUCRE  TI A. 


543 


gently:  he  knew  that  the  power  of  wealth  and 
station  is  enfeebled  in  proportion  as  its  depend- 
ents can  foresee  the  date  of  its  transfer.  He 
dreaded,  too,  the  comments  which  are  always 
made  on  those  visited  by  his  peculiar  disease: 
•'  Poor  Sir  Miles  !  an  apopletic  fit  !  his  intel- 
lect must  be  very  much  shaken — he  revoked  at 
whist  last  night — memory  sadly  impaired  !  " 
This  may  be  a  pitiable  foible;  but  heroes  and 
statesmen  have  had  it  most:  pardon  it  in  the 
proud  old  man.  He  enjoined  the  physician  to 
state  throughout  the  house  and  the  neighbor- 
hood, that  the  attacks  were  wholly  innocent 
and  unimportant.  The  physician  did  so,  and 
was  generally  believed;  for  Sir  Miles  seemed 
as  lively  and  as  vigorous  after  them  as  before. 
Two  persons  alone  were  not  deceived — Dali- 
bard  and  Lucretia.  The  first,  at  an  earlier 
part  of  his  life,  had  studied  pathology  with  the 
profound  research  and  ingenious  application, 
which  he  brought  to  bear  upon  all  he  under- 
took. He  whispered  from  the  first  to  Lucre- 
tia— 

"  Unless  your  uncle  changes  his  babits, 
takes  exercise,  and  forbears  wine  and  the 
table,  his  days  are  numbered." 

And  when  this  intelligence  was  first  con- 
veyed to  her,  before  she  had  become  ac- 
quainted with  Mainwaring,  Lucretia  felt  the 
shock  of  a  grief  sudden  and  sincere.  We  have 
seen  how  these  better  sentiments  changed  as  a 
human  life  became  an  obstacle  in  her  way. 
In  her  character,  what  phrenologists  call  '  de- 
structiveness,'  in  the  comprehensive  sense  of 
the  word,  was  superlatively  developed.  She 
had  not  actual  cruelty;  she  was  not  blood- 
thirsty: those  vices  belong  to  a  different  cast 
of  character.  She  was  rather  deliberately  and 
intellectually  unsparing — a  goal  was  before  her; 
she  must  march  to  it;  all  in  the  way  were  but 
hostile  impediments.  At  first,  however.  Sir 
Miles  was  not  in  the  way,  except  to  fortune, 
and  for  that,  as  avarice  was  not  her  leading 
vice,  she  could  well  wait;  therefore,  at  this  hint 
of  the  Provencal's,  she  ventured  to  urge  her 
uncle  to  abstinence  and  exercise,  but  Sir  Miles 
was  touchy  on  the  subject;  he  feared  the  in- 
terpretations which  great  change  of  habits 
might  suggest,  the  memory  of  the  fearful 
warning  died  away,  and  he  felt  as  well  as  be- 
fore, for,  save  an  old  rheumatic  gout  (which 
had  long  since  left  him,  with  no  other  apparent 
evil  but  a  lameness  in  the  joints,  that  rendered 


exercise  unwelcome  and  painful),  he  possessed 
one  of  those  comfortable,  and  often  treacher- 
ous constitutions,  which  evince  no  displeasure 
at  irregalarities,  and  bear  all  liberties  with 
philosophical  composure. 

Accordingly,  he  would  have  his  own  way; 
and  he  contrived  to  coax  or  to  force  his  doc- 
tor into  an  authority  on  his  side:  wine  was 
necessary  to  his  constitution;  much  exercise 
was  a  dangerous  fatigue.  The  second  attack, 
following  four  moths  after  the  first,  was  less 
alarming,  and  Sir  Miles  fancied  it  concealed 
even  from  his  niece;  but  three  nights  after  his 
recovery,  the  old  baronet  sat  musing  alone  for 
some  time  in  his  own  room,  before  he  retired 
to  rest.  Then  he  rose,  opened  his  desk,  and 
read  his  will  attentively,  locked  it  up  with  a 
slight  sigh,  and  took  down  his  Bible.  The 
next  morning  he  despatched  the  letters  which 
summoned  Ardworth  and  Vernon  to  his  house; 
and,  as  he  quitted  his  room,  his  look  lingered 
with  melancholy  fondness  upon  the  portraits  in 
the  gallery.  No  one  was  by  the  old  man'to 
interpret  these  slight  signs,  in  which  lay  a 
world  of  meaning. 

A  few  weeks  after  Vernon  had  left  the 
house,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  restored  tran- 
quillity we  have  described,  it  so  happened  that 
Sir  Miles's  physician,  after  dining  at  the  hall, 
had  been  summoned  to  attend  one  of  the 
children  at  the  neighboring  rectory,  and  there 
he  spent  the  night.  A  little  before  daybreak 
his  slumbers  was  disturbed;  he  was  recalled 
in  all  haste  to  Laughton  Hall.  For  the  third 
time,  he  found  Sir  Miles  speechless.  Dali- 
bard  was  by  his  bedside,  Lucretia  had  not 
been  made  aware  of  the  seizure;  for  Sir  Miles 
had  previously  told  his  valet  (who  of  late 
slept  in  the  same  room)  never  to  alarm  Miss 
Clavering  if  he  was  taken  ill.  The  doctor  was 
about  to  apply  his  usual  remedies;  but  when 
he  drew  forth  his  lancet,  Dalibard  placed  his 
hand  on  the  physician's  arm — 

"Not  this  time,"  he  said  slowly,  and  with 
emphasis;  "it  will  be  his  death." 

"  Pooh,  sir  !  "  said  the  doctor,  disdainfully. 

"  Do  so,  then  !  bleed  him,  and  take  the  re- 
sponsibility. I  have  studied  medicine — I  know 
these  symptoms.  In  this  case  the  apoplexy 
may  spare — the  lancet  kills." 

The  physician  drew  back  dismayed  and 
doubtful. 

"  What  would  you  do,  then  ?  " 


544 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"  Wait  three  minutes  longer  the  effect  of  the 
cataplasms  I  have  applied.     If  they  fail " 

"  Ay,  then  ?  " 

"A  chill  bath,  and  vigorous  friction." 

"Sir,  I  will  never  permit  it." 

"  Then  murder  your  patient  your  own 
way." 

All  this  while  Sir  Miles  lay  senseless,  his 
eyes  wide  open,  his  teeth  locked.  The  doctor 
drew  near,  looked  at  the  lancet,  and  said  ir- 
resolutely— 

"Your  practice  is  new  to  me;  but  if  you 
have  studied  medicine,  that's  another  mat- 
ter. Will  you  guarantee  the  success  of  your 
plan?" 

"Yes." 

"Mind,  I  wash  my  hands  of  it;  I  take  Mr. 
Jones  to  witness:  "  and  he  appealed  to  the 
valet. 

"Call  up  the  footmen,  and  lift  your  master," 
said  Dalibard;  and  the  doctor,  glancing  round, 
saw  that  a  bath,  filled  some  seven  or  eight 
inches  deep  with  water,  stood  already  pre- 
pared in  the  room.  Perplexed  and  irresolute 
he  offered  no  obstacle  to  Dalibard's  move- 
ments. The  body,  seeming  lifeless,  was  placed 
in  the  bath;  and  the  servant's  under  Dalibard's 
directions,  applied  vigorous  and  incessant 
friction.  Several  minutes  elapsed  before  any 
favorable  sympton  took  place;  at  length. 
Sir  Miles  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  the  eyes 
moved — a  minute  or  two  more,  and  the  teeth 
chattered;  the  blood,  set  in  motion,  appeared 
on  the  surface  of  the  skin:  life  ebbed  back; 
the  danger  was  past;  the  dark  foe  driven  from 
the  citadel.  Sir  Miles  spoke  audibly,  though 
incoherently,  as  he  was  taken  back  to  his  bed, 
warmly  covered  up,  the  lights  removed,  noise 
forbidden,  and  Dalibard  and  the  doctor  re- 
mained in  silence  by  the  bedside. 

"  Rich  man,"  thought  Dalibard,  "  thine  hour 
is  not  yet  come;  thy  wealth  must  not  pass  to 
the  boy  Main  waring." 

Sir  Miles's  recovery,  under  the  care  of 
Dalibard,  who  now  had  his  own  way,  was  as 
rapid  and  complete  as  before.  Lucretia,  when 
she  heard,  the  next  morning,  of  the  attack, 
felt,  we  dare  not  say,  a  guilty  joy,  but  a  terri- 
ble and  feverish  agitation.  Sir  Miles  himself, 
informed  by  his  valet,  of  Dalibard's  wrestle 
with  the  doctor,  felt  a  profound  gratitude,  and 
reverent  wonder  for  the  simple  means  to  which 
he  probably  owed  his  restoration;  and  he  list- 


ened with  a  docility  which  Dalibard  was  not 
prepared  to  expect,  to  his  learned  secretary's 
urgent  admonitions  as  to  the  life  he  must 
lead,  if  he  desired  to  live  at  all.  Convinced, 
at  last,  that  wine  and  good  cheer  had  not 
blockaded  out  the  enemy,  and  having  to  do, 
in  Olivier  Dalibard,  with  a  very  different  tem- 
per from  the  doctor's,  he  assented  with  a  toler- 
able grace  to  the  trial  of  a  strict  regimen  and 
to  daily  exercise  in  the  open  air.  Dalibard 
now  became  constantly  with  him — the  increase 
of  his  influence  was  as  natural  as  it  was  ap- 
parent. Lucretia  trembled;  she  divined  a 
danger  in  his  power,  now  separate  from  her 
own,  and  which  threatened  to  be  independent 
of  it.  She  became  abstracted  and  uneasy — 
jealousy  of  the  Provencal  possessed  her.  She 
began  to  meditate  schemes  for  his  downfall. 
At  this  time.  Sir  Miles  received  the  following 
letter  from  Mr.  Fielden:— 


"  Southampton,  August  20th,  1801. 
"  Dear  Sir  Miles, — You  will  remember  that  1  in- 
formed^you  when  I  arrived  at  Southampton,  with  my 
dear  young  charge;  and  Susan  has  twice  written  to  her 
sister,  implying  the  request  which  she  lacked  the  cour- 
age, seeing  that  she  is  timid,  expressly  to  urge,  that 
Miss  Clavering  might  again  be  permitted  to  visit  her. 
Miss  Clavering  has  answered,  as  might  be  expected 
from  the  propinquity  of  the  relationship;  but  she  has 
perhaps  the  same  fears  of  offending  you  that  actuate 
her  sister.  But  now,  since  the  worthy  clergyman,  who 
had  undertaken  my  parochial  duties,  has  found  the  air 
insalubrious,  and  prays  me  not  to  enforce  the  engage- 
ment by  which  we  had  exchanged  our  several  charges 
for  the  space  of  a  calendar  year,  I  am  reluctantly  com- 
pelled to  return  home — my  dear  wife,  thank  Heaven, 
being  already  restored  to  health,  which  is  an  unspeak- 
able mercy;  and  I  am  sure  I  cannot  be  sufficiently 
grateful  to  Providence,  which  has  not  only  provided 
me  with  a  liberal  independence  of  more  than  two  hun- 
dred pounds  a-year,  but  the  best  of  wives  and  the  most 
dutiful  of  children — possessions  that  I  venture  to  call 
'  the  riches  of  the  heart.'  Now,  1  pray  you,  my  dear 
Sir  Miles,  to  gratify  these  two  deserving  young  per- 
sons, and  to  suffer  Miss  Lucretia  incontinently  to  visit 
her  sister.  Counting  on  your  consent,  thus  boldly 
demanded,  I  have  already  prepared  an  apartment  for 
Miss  Clavering;  and  Susan  is  busy  in  what,  though  I 
do  not  know  much  of  such  feminine  matters,  the  whole 
house  declares  to  be  a  most  beautiful  and  fanciful  toilet 
cover,  with  roses  and  forget-me-nots  cut  out  of  muslin, 
and  two  large  silk  tassels,  which  cost  her  three  shil- 
lings and  fourpence.  I  cannot  conclude,  without 
thanking  you  from  my  heart  for  your  noble  kindness 
to  young  Ardworth.  He  is  so  full  of  ardor  and  spirit, 
that  I  remember,  poor  lad,  when  1  left  him,  as  I 
thought,  hard  at  work  on  that  well-known  problem  of 
Euclid,  vulgarly  called  the  Asses'  Bridge— 1  found  him 
describing  a  figure  8  on  the  village  pond,  which  was  only 
just  frozen  over  !  Poor  lad !  Heaven  will  take  care  of 
him,  I  know  as  it  does  of  all  who  take  no  care  of  them- 


LUC  RETT  A. 


545 


selves.    Ah,  Sir  Miles,  if  you  could  but  see  Susan — 
such  a  nurse,  too,  in  illness  ! 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be, 
"  Sir  Miles, 
"  Your  most  humble,  poor  servant,  to  command, 
Mathew  Fiei.den." 


Sir  Miles  put  this  letter  in  his  niece's  hand, 
and  said,  kindly,  '-Why  not  have  gone  to  see 
your  sister  before  ? — I  should  not  have  been 
angry.  Go,  my  child,  as  soon  as  you  like:  to- 
morrow is  Sunday — no  travelling  that  day — 
but  the  next,  the  carriage  shall  be  at  your 
order." 

Lucretia  hesitated  a  moment.  To  leave 
Dalibard  in  sole  possession  of  the  field,  even 
for  a  few  days,  was  a  thought  of  alarm;  but 
what  evil  could  he  do  in  that  time  ?  And  her 
pulse  beat  quickly  ! — Mainwaring  could  come 
to  Southampton  I — she  should  see  him  again, 
after  more  than  six  weeks'  absence  !  She  had 
s.o  much  to  relate  and  to  hear — she  fancied 
his  last  letter  had  been  colder  and  shorter — 
she  yearned  to  hear  him  say  with  his  own  lips, 
that  "  he  loved  her  still  !  "  This  idea  ban- 
ished or  prevailed  over  all  others.  She 
thanked  her  uncle  cheerfully  and  gaily,  and 
the  journey  was  settled. 

"  Be  at  watch  early  on  Monday,"  said 
Olivier  to  his  son. 

Monday  came — the  baronet  had  ordered  the 
carriage  to  be  at  the  door  at  ten.  A  little 
before  eight,  Lucretia  stole  out,  and  took  her 
way  to  Guy's  Oak.  Gabriel  had  placed  him- 
self in  readiness;  he  had  climbed  a  tree  at  the 
bottom  of  the  park  (near  the  place  where 
hitherto  he  had  lost  sight  of  her);  she  passed 
under  it, — on  through  a  dark  grove  of  pollard 
oaks.  When  she  was  at  a  sufficient  distance, 
the  boy  dropped  from  his  perch;  with  the 
stealth  of  an  Indian,  he  crept  on  her  trace, 
following  from  tree  to  tree,  always  sheltered, 
always  watchful;  he  saw  her  pause  at  the  dell, 
and  look  round— she  descended  into  the  hol- 
low; he  slunk  through  the  fern — he  gained  the 
marge  of  the  dell,  and  looked  down— she  was 
lost  to  his  sight.  At  length,  to  his  surprise, 
he  saw  the  gleam  of  her  robe  emerge  from  the 
hollow  of  a  tree — her  head  stooped  as  she 
came  through  the  aperture;  he  had  time  to 
shrink  back  amongst  the  fern;  she  passed  on 
hurriedly,  the  same  way  she  had  taken,  back 
to  the  house;  then  into  the  dell  crept  the  boy. 
Guy's  Oak,  vast  and   venerable,  with  gnarled 

6.-35 


green  boughs  below,  and  sere  branches  above, 
that  told  that  its  day  of  fall  was  decreed  at 
last — rose  high  from  the  abyss  of  the  hollow 
— high  and  far- seen  amidst  the  trees  that  stood 
on  the  vantage-ground  above — even  as  a  great 
name  soars  the  loftier  when  it  springs  from  the 
grave. 

A  dark  and  irregular  fissure  gave  entrance 
to  the  heart  of  the  oak — the  boy  glided  in  and 
looked  round — he  saw  nothing — yet  some- 
thing there  must  be.  The  rays  of  the  early 
sun  did  not  penetrate  into  the  hollow,  it  was  as 
dim  as  a  cave.  He  felt  slowly  in  every  crevice, 
and  a  startled  moth  or  two  flew  out.  It  was 
not  for  moths  that  the  girl  had  come  to  Guy's 
Oak  !  He  drew  back,  at  last,  in  despair;  as 
he  did  so,  he  heard  a  low  sound  close  at  hand, 
a  low  murmuring,  angry  sound,  like  a  hiss;  he 
looked  round,  and  through  the  dark,  two  burn- 
ing eyes  fixed  his  own — he  had  startled  a  snake 
from  its  bed.  He  drew  out  in  time,  as  the 
reptile  sprang;  but  now,  his  task,  search,  and 
object  were  forgotten.  With  the  versality  of  a 
child,  his  thoughts  were  all  on  the  enemy  he 
had  provoked.  That  zest  of  prey  which  is  in- 
herent in  man's  breast,  which  makes  him  love 
the  sport  and  the  chase,  and  maddens  boy- 
hood and  age  with  the  passion  for  slaughter, 
leapt  up  within  him;  anything  of  danger,  and 
contest,  and  excitement,  gave  Gabriel  Varney 
a  strange  fever  of  pleasure. 

He  sprang  up  the  sides  of  the  dell,  climbed 
the  park  pales  on  which  it  bordered,  was  in 
the  wood  where  the  young  shoots  rose  green 
and  strong  from  the  underwood: — to  cut  a 
staff  for  the  strife,  to  descend  again  into  the 
dell,  creep  again  through  the  fissure,  look 
round  for  those  vengeful  eyes,  was  quick  done 
as  the  joyous  play  of  the  nnpulse.  The  poor 
snake  had  slid  down  in  content  and  fancied 
security;  its  young,  perhaps,  were  not  far  off; 
its  wrath  had  been  the  instinct  Nature  gives 
to  the  mother.  It  hath  done  thee  no  harm  yet, 
boy;  leave  it  in  peace  !  The  young  hunter 
had  no  ear  to '  such  whisper  of  prudence  or 
mercy.  Dim  and  blind  in  the  fissure  he  struck 
the  ground  and  the  tree  with  his  stick,  shouted 
out,  bade  the  eyes  gleam,  and  defied  them; 
whether  or  not  the  reptile  had  spent  its  ire  in 
the  first  fruitless  spring,  and  this  unlocked  for 
return  of  the  intruder  rather  daunted  than 
exasperated,  we  leave  those  better  versed  in 
natural  history  to  conjecture;  but  iustead  of 


546 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


obeying  the  challenge  and  courting  the  contest, 
il  glided  by  the  sides  of  the  oak,  close  to  the 
very  feet  of  its  foe,  and,  emerging  into  the 
light,  dragged  its  grey  coils  through  the  grass; 
but  its  hiss  still  betrayed  it.  Gabriel  sprang 
through  the  fissure,  and  struck  at  the  craven, 
insulting  it  with  a  laugh  of  scorn  as  he  struck. 
Suddenly  it  halted,  suddenly  reared  its 
crest;  the  throat  swelled  with  venom,  the 
tongue  darted  out,  and  again,  green  as  emer- 
alds, glared  the  spite  of  its  eyes.  No  fear 
felt  Gabriel  Varney;  his  arm  was  averted;  he 
gazed  spelled  and  admiringly  with  the  eye  of 
an  artist.  Had  he  had  pencil  and  tablet  at 
that  moment,  he  would  have  dropped  his 
weapon  for  the  sketch,  though  the  snake  had 
been  as  deadily  as  the  viper  of  Sumatra.  The 
sight  sunk  into  his  memory,  to  be  reproduced 
often  by  the  wild,  morbid  fancies  of  his  hand. 
Scarce  a  moment,  however,  had  he  for  the 
gaze;  the  reptile  sprang,  and  fell,  baffled  and 
bruised  by  the  involuntary  blow  of  its  enemy. 
As  it  writhed  on  the  grass,  how  its  colors 
came  out — how  graceful  were  the  movements 
of  its  pain  !  And  still  the  boy  gazed,  till  the 
eye  was  sated,  and  the  cruelty  returned.  A 
blow —  a  second — a  third — all  the  beauty  is 
gone — shapeless,  and  clotted  with  glore,  that 
elegant  head;  mangled  and  dissevered  the 
airy  spires  of  that  delicate  shape,  which  had 
glanced  in  its  circling  involutions,  free  and 
winding  as  a  poet's  thought  through  his  verse. 
The  boy  trampled  the  quivering  relics  into  the 
sod,  with  a  fierce  animal  joy  of  conquest,  and 
turned  once  more  towards  the  hollow,  for  a 
last  almost  hopeless  survey.  Lo,  his  object 
was  found  !  In  his  search  for  the  snake, 
eitheir  his  staff,  or  his  foot,  had  disturbed  a 
layer  of  moss  in  the  corner;  the  faint  ray,  ere 
he  entered  the  hollow,  gleamed  upon  some- 
thing white.  He  emerged  from  the  cavity 
with  a  letter  in  his  hand:  he  read  the  address, 
thrust  it  into  his  bosom,  and  as  stealthily,  but 
more  rapidly,  than  he  had  come,  took  his  way 
to  his  father. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Household  Treason. 

The  Provencal  took  the  letter  from  his  son's 
hand,  aiKi  looked  at  him  with  an  approbation 


half-complacent,  half-ironical.     •'  Mon  fils  ! 
said  he,  patting  the  boy's  head  gently;  "why 
should    we    not  be   friends  ?     We    want   each 
other;    we    have    the    strong   world    to   fight 
against." 

"  Not  if  you  are  master  of  this  place." 
"  Well  answered:  no;  then  we  shall  have  the 
strong  world  on  our  side,  and  shall  have  only 
rogues  ancj  the  poor  to  make  war  upon." 
Then,  with  a  quiet  gesture,  he  dismissed  his 
son,  and  gazed  slowly  on  the  letter.  His 
pulse,  which  was  usually  low,  quickened,  and 
his  lips  were  tightly  compressed;  he  shrank 
from  the  contents  with  a  jealous  pang;  as  a 
light  quivers  strugglingly  in  a  noxious  vault, 
love,  descended  into  that  hideous  breast, 
gleamed  upon  dreary  horrors,  and  warred  with 
the  noxious  atmosphere;  but  it  shone  still. 
To  this  dangerous  man,  every  art  that  gives 
power  to  the  household  traitor  was  familiar; 
he  had  no  fear  that  the  violated  seal  shoul,ci 
betray  the  fraud  which  gave  the  contents  to 
the  eye  that,  at  length,  steadily  fell  upon  the 
following  lines: 

"  Dearest,  and  ever  dearest, — 

"  Where  art  thou  at  this  moment  ?  what  are  thy 
thoughts  ?  are  they  upon  me  ?  I  write  this  at  the  dead 
of  night.  I  picture  you  to  myself  as  my  hand  glides 
over  the  paper.  I  think  I  see  you,  as  you  look  on 
these  words,  and  envy  them  the  gaze  of  those  dark 
eves.  Press  your  lips  to  the  paper.  Do  you  feel  the 
kiss  that  I  leave  there?  Well,  well!  it  will  not  be  for 
long  now  that  we  shall  be  divided.  Oh,  what  joy, 
when  I  think  that  1  am  about  to  see  you.  Two  days 
more,  at  most  three,  and  we  shall  meet — shall  we  not  ? 
1  am  going  to  see  my  sister.  I  subjoin  my  address. 
Come,  come,  come;  I  thirst  to  see  you  once  more. 
And  I  did  well  to  say,  'Wait,  and  be  patient  ;'  we 
shall  not  wait  long:  befoic  the  year  is  out,  I  shall  be 
free.  My  uncle  has  had  another  and  more  deadly  at- 
tack. I  see  its  trace  in  his  face,  in  his  step,  in  his 
whole  form  and  bearing.  The  only  obstacle  between 
us  is  fading  away.  Can  I  grieve  when  I  think  it  ? — 
grieve  when  life  with  you  spreads  smiling  beyond  ihc 
old  man's  grave?  And  why  should  age,  that  has  sur- 
vived all  passion,  stand  with  its  chilling  frown,  and  the 
miserable  prejudices  the  world  has  not  conquered;  but 
strengthened  into  a  creed — why  should  age  stand  be- 
tween youth  and  youth  ?  I  feel  your  mild  eyes  rebuke 
me  as  I  write.  But  chide  me  not  that  on  earth  I  see 
only  you:  And  it  will  be  mine  to  give  you  wealth  and 
rank! — mine  to  see  the  homage  of  my  own  heart  re- 
flected from  the  crowd  who  bow  not  to  the  statue,  but 
the  pedestal.  Oh,  how  I  shall  enjoy  your  revenge 
upon  the  proud !— for  I  have  drawn  no  pastoral  scenes 
in  my  picture  of  the  future.  No;  I  see  you  leading 
senates,  and  duping  fools.  I  shall  be  by  your  side, 
your  partner,  step  after  step,  as  you  mount  the  height, 
for  I  am  ambitious,  you  know,  William;  and  not  less, 
because  I  love:  Rather  ten  thousand  times  more  so. 
I  would  not  have  you    born  great  and  noble,  for  what 


LUCRETIA. 


547 


then  could  we  look  to  ?  what  use  all  my  schemes,  and 
my  plans,  and  aspirings?  Fortune,  accident  would 
have  taken  from  us  the  great  zest  of  life,  which  is 
desire. 

"  When  I  see  you,  I  shall  tell  you  that  I  have  some 
fears  of  Olivier  Dalibard:  he  has  evidently  some  wily 
project  in'view.  He,  who  never  interfered  before  with 
the  blundering  physician,  now  thrusts  him  aside,  af- 
fects to  have  saved  the  old  man,  attends  him  always. 
Dares  he  think  to  win  an  influence,  to  turn  against 
me  ? — against  us  ?  Happily,  when  I  shall  come  back, 
my  uncle  will  probably  be  restored  to  the  false 
strength  which  deceives  him,  he  will  have  less  need 
of  Dalibard,  and  then— then  let  the  Frenchman  be- 
ware! 1  have  already  a  plot  to  turn  his  schemes  to  his 
own  banishment.  Come  to  Southampton,  then,  as 
soon  as  you  can— perhaps  the  day  you  receive  this — 
on  Wednesday,  at  farthest.  Your  last  letter  implies 
blame  of  my  policy  with  respect  to  Vernon.  Again  I 
say,  it  is  necessary  to  amuse  my  uncle  to  the  last. 
Before  Vernon  can  advance  a  claim,  there  will  be 
weeping  at  Laughton.  I  shall  weep,  too,  perhaps;  but 
there  will  be  joy  in  those  tears,  as  well  as  sorrow:  for 
then,  when  I  clasp  thy  hand,  I  can  murmur, '  It  is  mine 
at  last,  and  for  ever  ! ' 

"Adieu!  no,  not  adieu — to  our  meeting,  my  lover, 
my  beloved !— thy  Lucretia  !  " 

An  hour  after  Miss  Clavering  had  departed 
on  her  visit,  Dalibard  returned  the  letter  to  his 
son,  the  seal  seemingly  unbroken,  and  bade 
him  replace  it  in  the  hollow  of  the  tree,  but 
sufficiently  in  sight,  to  betray  itself  to  the  first 
that  entered.  He  then  communicated  the 
plan  he  had  formed  for  its  detection — a  plan 
which  would  prevent  Lucretia  ever  suspecting 
the  agency  of  his  son  or  himself;  and  this  done, 
he  joined  Sir  Miles  in  the  gallery.  Hitherto,  in 
addition  to  his  other  apprehensions  in  revealing 
to  the  baronet  Lucretia's  clandestine  intimacy 
with  Mainwaring,  Dalibard  had  shrunk  from 
the  thought,  that  the  disclosure  would  lose  her 
the  heritage  which  had  first  tempted  his  avarice 
or  ambition;  but  now  his  jealous  and  his  vin- 
dictive passions  were  aroused,  and  his  whole 
plan  of  strategy  was  changed.  He  must  Crush 
Lucretia,  or  she  would  crush  him,  as  her  threats 
declared.  To  ruin  her  in  Sir  Miles's  eyes,  to 
expel  her  from  his  house,  might  not,  after  all, 
weaken  his  own  position,  even  with  regard  to 
power  over  herself.  If  he  remained  firmly  es- 
tablished at  Laughton,  he  could  affect  inter- 
cession, he  could  delay  at  least  any  precipitate 
union  with  Mainwaring,  by  practising  on  the 
ambition  which  he  still  saw  at  work  beneath 
her  love;  he  might  become  a  necessary  ally, 
and  then, — why  then  —  his  ironical  smile 
glanced  across  his  lips.  But  beyond  this  his 
quick  eye  saw  fair  prospects  to  self-interest — 


Lucretia  banished;  the  heritage  not  hers;  the 
will  to  be  altered;  Dalibard  esteemed  indis- 
pensable to  the  life  of  the  baronet  !  Come, 
there  was  hope  here,  not  for  the  heritage,  in- 
deed, but  at  least  for  a  munificent  bequest. 

At  noon,  some  visitors,  bringing  strangers 
from  London,  whom  Sir  Miles  had  invited  to 
see  the  house,  (which  was  one  of  the  lions  of 
the  neighborhood,  though  not  professedly  a 
show  place),  were  expected.  Aware  of  this, 
Dalibard  prayed  the  baronet  to  rest  quiet  till 
his  company  arrived,  and  then  he  said  care- 
lessly— 

"It  will  be  a  healthful  diversion  to  your 
spirits  to  accompany  them  a  little  in  the  park 
— you  can  go  in  your  garden  chair — you  will 
have  new  companions  to  talk  with  by  the  way; 
and  it  is  always  warm  and  sunny  at  the  slope 
of  the  hill,  towards  the  bottom  of  the  park." 

Sir  Miles  assented  cheerfully:  the  guest's 
came;  strolled  over  the  house,  admired  the 
pictures  and  the  armor,  and  the  hall  and  the 
staircase:  paid  due  respect  to  the  substantial 
old-fashioned  luncheon;  and  then,  refreshed, 
and  in  great  good  humor,  acquiesced  in  Sir 
Miles's  proposition  to  saunter  through  the 
park. 

The  poor  baronet  was  more  lively  than  usual. 
The  younger  people  clustered  gaily  round  his 
chair  (which  was  wheeled  by  his  valet),  smiling 
at  his  jests,  and  charmed  with  his  courteous 
high  breeding.  A  little  in  the  rear,  walked 
Gabriel,  paying  special  attention  to  the  pret- 
tiest and  merriest  girl  of  the  company,  who  was 
a  great  favorite  with  Sir  Miles,  perhaps  for 
those  reasons. 

"What  a  delightful  old  gentleman!"  said 
the  young  lady.  "  How  I  envy  Miss  Clavering 
such  an  uncle  !  " 

"Ah  !  but-you  are  a  little  out  of  favor  to- 
day, I  can  tell  you,"  said  Gabriel,  laughingly; 
"  you  were  close  by  Sir  Miles  when  he  went 
through  the  picture-gallery,  and  you  never 
asked  him  the  history  of  the  old  knight  in  the 
bluff  doublet  and  blue  sash." 
"  Dear  me,  what  of  that  ?  " 
"  Why,  that  was  brave  Colonel  Guy  St.  John, 
the  cavalier;  the  pride  and  boast  of  Sir  Miles: 
you  know  his  weakness.  He  looked  so  dis- 
pleased when  you  said,  '  what  a  droll  looking 
figure  ! '     I  was  on  thorns  for  you  !  " 

"What  a  pity  !  I  would  not  oftend  dear  Sir 
Miles  for  the  world." 


548 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


"  Well,  it's  easy  to  make  up  with  him.  Go, 
and  tell  him  that  he  must  take  you  to  see  Guy's 
Oak,  in  the  dell,  that  you  have  heard  so  much 
about  it;  and  when  you  get  him  on  his  hobby, 
it  is  hard  if  you  can't  make  your  peace." 

"  Oh  !  I'll  certainly  do  it.  Master  Varney  ;  " 
and  the  young  lady  lost  no  time  in  obeying  the 
hint.  Gabriel  had  set  other  tongues  on  the 
same  cry,  so  that  there  was  a  general  exclama- 
tion, when  the  girl  namedr  the  subject — "  Oh, 
Guy's  Oak,  by  all  means  !  " 

Much  pleased  with  the  enthusiasim  this 
memorial  of  his  pet  ancestor  produced.  Sir 
Miles  led  the  way  to  the  dell,  and,  pausing  as 
he  reached  the  verge,  said — 

"  I  fear  I  cannot  do  you  the  honors:  it  is  too 
steep  for  my  chair  to  descend  safely." 

Gabriel  whispered  the  fair  companion  whose 
side  he  still  kept  to. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Sir  Miles,"  cried  the  girl, 
"  I  positively  won't  stir  without  you;  I  am  sure 
we  could  get  down  the  chair  without  a  jolt. 
Look  there,  how  nicely  the  ground  slopes  ! 
Jane,  Lucy,  my  dears,  let  us  take  charge  of  Sir 
Miles.     Now,  then." 

The  gallant  old  gentleman  would  have 
marched  to  the  breach  in  such  guidance:  he 
kissed  the  fair  hands  that  lay  so  temptingly 
on  his  chair,  and  then  rising  with  some  diffi- 
culty, said — 

"No,  my  dears,  you  have  made  me  so 
young  again,  that  I  think  I  can  walk  down  the 
steep  with  the  best  of  you." 

So,  leaning  partly  on  his  valet,  and  by  the 
help  of  the  hands  extended  to  him,  step  after 
step,  Sir  Miles,  with  well-disguised  effort, 
reached  the  huge  roots  of  the  oak. 

"  The  hollow  then  was  much  smaller,"  said 
he,  "  so  he  was  not  so  easily  detected  as  a 
man  would  be  noiv:  the  damned  crop  ears — I 
beg  pardon,  my  dears — the  rascally  rebels, 
poked  their  swords  through  the  fissure,  and 
two  went,  one  through  his  jerkin,  one  through 
his  arm;  but  he  took  care  not  to  swear  at  the 
liberty,  and  they  went  away,  not  suspecting 
him." 

While  thus  speaking,  the  young  people  were 
already  playfully  struggling  which  should  first 
enter  the  oak.  Two  got  precedence,  and  went 
in  and  out,  one  after  the  other.  Gabriel 
breathed  hard — "  The  blind  owlets  !  "  thought 
he,  "  and  I  put  the  letter  where  a  mole  would 
have  seen  it  !  " 


"  You  know  the  spell  when  you  enter  an  oak 
tree  where  the  fairies  have  been,"  he  whis- 
pered to  the  fair  object  of  his  notice.  "  You 
must  turn  round  three  times,  look  carefully  on 
the  ground,  and  you  will  see  the  face  you  love 
best.  If  I  was  but  a  little  older,  how  I  should 
pray  ! " 


"  Nonsense  !  "  said  the  girl,  blushing,  as 
she  now  slid  through  the  crowd,  and  went 
timidly  in;  presently  she  uttered  a  little  ex- 
clamation. 

The  gallant  Sir  Miles  stooped  down  to  see 
what  was  the  matter,  and  offering  his  hand  as 
she  came  out,  was  startled  to  see  her  holding 
a  letter. 

"  Only  think  what  I  have  found  ?  "  said  the 
girl.  "  What  a  strange  place  for  a  post-office  ! 
Bless  me  !  it  is  directed  to  Mr.  Mainwaring  ! " 

"  Mr.  Mainwaring  ! "  cried  three  or  four 
voices;  but  the  baronet's  was  mute.  His  eye 
recognized  Lucretia's  hand;  his  tongue  clove 
to  the  roof  of  his  mouth;  the  blood  surged, 
like  a  sea,  in  his  temples;  his  face  became 
purple.  Suddenly  Gabriel,  peeping  over  the 
girl's  shoulder,  snatched  away  the  letter. 

"  It  is  my  letter — it  is  mine  !  What  a 
shame  in  Mainwaring  not  to  have  come  for  it 
as  he  promised  !  " 

Sir  Miles  looked  round,  and  breathed  more 
freely. 

"Yours,  Master  Varney  !  "  said  the  young 
lady,  astonished.  "  What  can  make  your  let- 
ters to  Mr.  Mainwaring  such  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  you'll  laugh  at  me;  but but I 

wrote  a  poem  on  Guy's  Oak,  and  Mr.  Main- 
waring promised  to  get  it  into  the  County 
Paper  for  me;  and  as  he  was  to  pass  close  by 
the  park  pales,  through  the  wood   yonder,  on 

his  way  to   D last  Saturday,  we  agreed 

that  I  should  leave  it  here;  but  he  has  forgot- 
ten his  promise,  I  see." 

Sir  Miles  grasped  the  boy's  arm  with  a  con- 
vulsive pressure  of  gratitude.  There  was  a 
general  cry  for  Gabriel  to  read  his  poem  on 
the  spot;  but  the  boy  looked  sheepish,  and 
hung  down  his  head,  and  seemed  rather  more 
disposed  to  cry  than  to  recite.  Sir  Miles,  with 
an  effort  at  simulation  that  all  his  long  prac- 
tice of  the  world  never  could  have  nerved  him 
to,  unexcited  by  a  motive  less  strong  than  the 
honor  of  his  blood  and  house,  came  to  the  re- 
lief of  the  young  wit  that  had  just  come  to  his 
own. 


LUCRETIA. 


.54y 


"Nay,"  he  said,  almost  calmly,"!  know 
our  young  poet  is  too  shy  to  oblige  you.  I 
will  take  charge  of  your  verses,  Master  Gab- 
riel; "  and,  with  a  grave  air  of  command,  he 
took  the  letter  from  the  boy,  and  placed  it  in 
his  pocket. 

The  return  to  the  house  was  less  gay  than 
the  visit  to  the  oak.  The  baronet  himself 
made  a  feverish  effort  to  appear  blithe  and  de- 
bonnair  as  before;  but  it  was  not  successful. 
Fortunately,  the  carriages  were  all  at  the  door 
as  they  the  reached  house,  and,  luncheon 
being  over,  nothing  delayed  the  parting  com- 
pliments of  the  guests.  As  the  last  carriage 
drove  away.  Sir  Miles  beckoned  to  Gabriel 
and  bade  him  follow  him  into  his  room. 

When  there,  he  dismissed  his  valet,  and 
said — 

"You  know,  then,  who  wrote  this  letter. 
Have  you  been  in  the  secret  of  the  correspon- 
dence ?  Speak  the  truth,  my  dear  boy,  it  shall 
cost  you  nothing." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Miles  !  "  cried  Gabriel,  earnestly, 
■"I  know  nothing  \vhatever  beyond  this — that 
I  saw  the  hand  of  my  dear  kind  Miss  Lucretia; 
that  I  felt,  I  hardly  knew  why,  that  both  you 
and  she  would  not  have  those  people  discover 
it,  which  they  would  if  the  letter  had  been 
circulated  from  one  to  the  other,  for  some  one 
would  have  known  the  hand  as  well  as  myself, 
and  therefore  I  spoke,  without  thinking,  the 
first  thuig  that  came  into  my  head." 

"  You — you  have  obliged  me  and  my  niece, 
sir,"  said  the  baronet,  tremulously:  and  then 
with  a  forced  and  sickly  smile,  he  added — 
^'  some  foolish  vagary  of  Lucretia' s,  I  suppose; 
I  must  scold  her  for  it.  Say  nothing  about  it, 
however,  to  any  one." 

"  Oh  no,  sir  !  " 

"  Good-by,  my  dear  Gabriel  !  " 

"And  that  boy  saved  the  honor  of  my 
neice's  name  —  my  mother's  grandchild! 
Oh,  God  !  this  is  bitter  ! — in  my  old  age, 
too  !  " 

He  bowed  his  head  over  his  hands,  and  tears 
forced  themselves  through  his  fingers  He  was 
long  before  he  had  courage  to  read  the  letter, 
though  he  little  foreboded  all  the  shock  that  it 
would  give  him.  It  was  the  first  letter,  not 
destined  to  himself,  of  which  he  had  ever 
broken  the  seal.  Even  that  recollection  made 
the  honorable  old  man  pause;  but  his  duty  was 
plain  and   evident,  as  head  of  the  house,  and 


guardian  to  his  niece.  Thrice  he  wiped  his 
spectacles;  still  they  were  dim,  still  the  tears 
would  come.  He  rose  tremblingly,  walked  to 
the  window,  and  saw  the  stately  deer  grouped 
in  the  distance,  saw  the  church  spire,  that  rose 
above  the  burial-vault  of  his  ancestors,  and 
his  heart  sunk  deeper  and  deeper,  as  he  mut- 
tered—" Vain  pride  !  pride  !  "  Then  he  crept 
to  the  door,  and  locked  it,  and  at  last,  seating 
himself  firmly,  as  a  wounded  man  to  some  ter- 
rible operation,  he  read  the  letter. 

Heaven  support  thee,  old  man  !  thou  hast 
to  pass  through  the  bitterest  trial  which  honor 
and  affection  can  undergo; — household  trea- 
son !  When  the  wife  lifts  high  the  blushless 
front,  and  brazens  out  her  guilt;  when  the 
child,  with  loud  voice,  throws  off  all  control, 
and  makes  boast  of  disobedience,  man  revolts 
at  the  audacity;  his  spirit  arms  against  his 
wrong;  its  face,  at  least,  is  bare;  the  blow,  if 
sacrilegious,  is  direct.  But,  when  mild  words 
and  soft  kisses  conceal  the  worst  foe  Fate  can 
arm — when  amidst  the  confidence  of  the  heart 
starts  up  the  form  of  Perfidy — when  out  from 
the  reptile  swells  the  fiend  in  its  terror — when 
the  breast  on  which  man  leaned  for  comfort, 
has  taken  counsel  to  deceive  him — when  he 
learns,  that  day  after  day,  the  life  entwined 
with  his  own  has  been  a  lie  and  a  stagemime, 
he  feels  not  the  softness  of  grief,  nor  the  ab- 
sorption of  rage;  it  is  mightier  than  grief,  and 
more  withering  than  rage;  it  is  a  horror  that 
appals.  The  heart  does  not  bleed;  the  tears 
do  not  flow,  as  in  woes  to  which  humanity  is 
commonly  subjected;  it  is  as  if  something  that 
violates  the  course  of  nature  had  taken  place; 
something  monstrous  and  out  of  all  thought 
and  forewarning;  for  the  domestic  traitor  is  a 
being  apart  from  the  orbit  of  criminals;  the 
felon  has  no  fear  of  his  innocent  children;  with 
a  price  on  his  head,  he  lays  it  in  safety  on  the 
bosom  of  his  wife.  In  his  hotne,  the  ablest 
man,  the  most  subtle  and  suspecting,  can  be 
as  much  a  dupe  as  the  simplest.  Were  it  not 
so  as  the  rule,  and  the  exceptions  most  rare, 
this  world  were  the  riot  of  a  hell  I 

And  therefore  it  is  that  to  the  household 
perfidy,  in  all  lands,  in  all  ages,  God's  curse 
seems  to  cleave,  and  to  God's  curse  man 
abandons  it:  he  does  not  honor  it  by  hate, 
still  less  will  he  lighten  and  share  the  guilt  by 
descending  to  revenge.  He  turns  aside  with 
a  sickness  and    loathing,  and   leaves  Nature 


550 


BULWEK'S     WORKS 


to  purify  from  the  earth  the  ghastly  jihenom- 
enon  she  abhors. 

Old  man,  that  she  wilfully  deceived  thee — 
that  she  abused  thy  belief — and  denied  to  thy 
question — and  profaned  maidenhood  to  stealth 
— -all  this  might  have  galled  thee, — but  to 
these  wrongs  old  men  are  subjected; — they 
give  mirth  to  our  farces; — maid  and  lover  are 
privileged  impostors.  But  to  have  counted 
the  sands  in  thine  hour-glass,  to  have  sate  by 
thy  side,  marvelling  when  the  worms  should 
have  thee — and  looked  smiling  on  thy  face  for 
the  signs  of  the  death-writ, — die  quick,  old 
man,  the  executioner  hungers  for  the  fee  ! 

There  were  no  tears  in  those  eyes  when  they 
came  to  the  close — the  letter  fell  noiselessly  to 
thfe  floor;  and  the  head  sank  on  the  breast,  and 
the  hands  drooped  upon  the  poor  crippled 
limbs,  whose  crawl  in  the  sunshine  hard 
youth  had  grudged.  He  felt  humbled, 
stunned — crushed;  the  pride  was  clean  gone 
from  him;  the  cruel  words  struck  home — 
worse  than  a  cipher  did  he  then  but  cumber 
the  earth  ?  At  that  moment,  old  Ponto,  the 
setter,  shook  himself,  looked  up,  and  laid  his 
head  in  his  master's  lap;  and  Dash,  jealous, 
rose  also,  and  sprang,  not  actively,  for  Dash 
was  old,  too,  upon  his  knees,  and  licked  the 
numbed  drooping  hands.  Now,  people  praise 
the  fidelity  of  dogs  till  the  theme  is  worn  out, 
but  nobody  knows  what  a  dog  is,  unless  he 
has  been  deceived  by  men;  then,  that  honest 
face;  then,  that  sincere  caress;  then,  that 
coaxing  whine  that  never  lied  !  Well,  then — 
what  then  ?  A  dog  is  long  lived  if  he  live  to 
ten  years — small  career  this  to  truth  and 
friendship  !  Now,  when  Sir  Miles  felt  that  he 
was  not  deserted,  and  his  look  met  those  four 
fond  eyes,  fixed  with  that  strange  wistfulness 
which,  in  our  hours  of  trouble,  the  eyes  of  a 
dog  sympathizingly  assume — an  odd  thought 
for  a  sensible  man  passed  into  him — showing, 
more  than  pages  of  sombre  elegy,  how  deep 
was  the  sudden  misanthropy  that  blackened 
the  world  around.  "  When  I  am  dead,"  ran 
that  thought,  "  is  there  one  human  being  whom 
I  can  trust  to  take  charge  of  the  old  man's 
dogs  ? " 

So — let  the  scene  close  ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  Will 


The  next  day,  or  rather  the  next  evening, 
Sir  Miles  St.  John  was  seated  before  his  un- 
shared chicken;  seated  alone,  and  vaguely 
surprised  at  himself,  in  a  large  comfortable 
room  in  his  old  Hotel,  Hanover-square; — yes, 
he  had  escaped.  Hast  thou,  O  Reader,  tasted 
the  luxury  of  escape  from  a  home  where  the 
charm  is  broken — where  Distrust  looks  askant 
from  the  Lares  !  In  vain  had  Dalibard  re- 
monstrated, conjured  up  dangers,  and  asked  at 
least  to  accompany  him.  Excepting  his  dogs 
and  his  old  valet,  who  was  too  like  a  dog  in 
his  fond  fidelity  to  rank  amongst  bipeds.  Sir 
Miles  did  not  wish  to  have  about  him  a  single 
face,  familiar  at  Laughton, — -Dalibard  espe- 
cially. Lucretia's  letter  had  hinted  at  plans  and 
designs  in  Dalibard.  It  might  be  unjust,  it 
might  be  ungrateful,  but  he  grew  sick  at  the 
thought  that  he  was  the  centre  stone  of  strata- 
gems and  plots.  The  smooth  face  of  the 
Provengal  took  a  wily  expression  in  his  eyes; 
nay,  he  thought  his  very  footmen  watched  his 
steps  as  if  to  count  how  long  before  they  fol- 
lowed his  bier  !  So,  breaking,  from  all  roughly 
with  a  shake  of  his  head,  and  a  laconic  asser- 
tion of  business  in  London,  he  got  into  his 
carriage — his  own  old  bachelor's  lumbering 
travelling  carriage — and  bade  the  post-i)oys. 
drive  fast,  fast.  Then,  when  he  felt  alone — 
quite  alone — and  the  gates  of  the  lodge  swung 
behind  him,  he  rubbed  his  hands  with  a  school- 
boy's glee,  and  chuckled  loud,  as  if  he  enjoyed 
not  only  the  sense  but  the  fun  of  his  safety— 
as  if  he  had  done  something  prodigiously 
cunning  and  clever. 

So  when  he  saw  himself  snug  in  his  old 
well-remembered  hotel,  in  the  same  room  as 
of  yore — when  returned,  brisk  and  gay,  from 
the  breezes  of  Weymouth,  or  the  brouillards 
of  Paris,  he  thought  he  shook  hands  again 
with  his  youth.  Age  and  lameness,  apoplexy 
and  treason,  all  were  forgotten  for  the  moment. 
And  when,  as  the  excitement  died,  those  grim 
spectres  came  back  again  to  his  thoughts, 
they  found  their  victim  braced  and  prepared, 
standing  erect  on  that  hearth,  for  whose  hos- 
pitality he  paid  his  guinea  a-day — his  front 
proud  and  defying.  He  felt  yet  that  he  had 
fortune   and   power,   that  a    movement  of  his 


LUCRETIA. 


5SV 


hand  could  raise  and  strike  down,  that,  at  the 
verge  of  the  tomb,  he  was  armed,  to  punish  or 
reward,  with  the  balance  and  the  sword. 
Tripped  in  the  smug  waiter,  and  announced 
"Mr.  Parchmount." 

"  Set  a  chair,  and  show  him  in." 

The  lawyer  entered. 

"  My  dear  Sir  Miles,  this  is  indeed  a  sur- 
prise.    What  has  brought  you  to  town  ?  " 

"  The  common  whim  of  the  old,  sir.  I 
would  alter  my  will." 

Three  days  did  lawyer  and  client  devote  to 
the  task,  for  Sir  Miles  was  minute,  and  Mr. 
Parchmount  was  precise;  and  the  little  diffi- 
culties arose,  and  changes  in  the  first  outline 
were  made;  and  Sir  Miles,  from  the  very 
depth  of  his  disgust,  desired  not  to  act  only 
from  passion.  In  that  last  deed  of  his  life, 
the  old  man  was  sublime.  He  sought  to  rise 
out  of  the  mortal,  fix  his  eyes  on  the  Great 
Judge,  weigh  circumstances  and  excuses,  and 
keep  justice  even  and  serene. 

Meanwhile,  unconscious  of  the  train  laid 
afar,  Lucretia  reposed  on  the  mine — reposed, 
indeed,  is  not  the  word,  for  she  was  agitated 
and  restless,  that  Mainwaring  had  not  obeyed 
her  summons.  She  wrote  to  him  again  from 
Southampton  the  third  day  of  her  arrival;  but 
before  his  answer  came,  she  received  this  short 
epistle  from  London: 

'■  Mr.  Parchmount  presents  his  compliments  to  Miss 
Clavering,  and,  by  desire  of  Sir  Miles  St.  John,  re- 
quests her  not  to  return  to  Laughton.  Miss  Clavering 
will  hear  further  in  a  few  days,  when  Sir  Miles  has  con- 
cluded the  business  that  has  brought  him  to  London." 

This  letter,  if  it  excited  much  curiosity,  did 
not  produce  alarm.  It  was  natural  that  Sir 
Miles  should  be  busy  in  winding  up  his  affairs: 
his  journey  to  I^ondon  for  that  purpose  was  no 
ill  omen  to  her  prospects,  and  her  thoughts 
flew  back  to  the  one  subject  that  tyrannized 
over  them.  Mainwaring's  reply,  which  came 
two  days  afterwards,  disquieted  her  much 
more.  He  had  not  found  the  letter  she  had 
left  for  him  in  the  tree  He  was  full  of  ap- 
prehensions; he  condemned  the  imprudence  of 
calling  on  her  at  Mr.  Fielden's;  he  begged  her 
to  renounce  the  idea  of  such  a  risk.  He  would 
return  again  to  Guy's  Oak,  and  search  more 
narrowly — had  she  changed  the  spot  where 
the  former  letters  were  placed  ?  Yet  now,  not 
even  the  non-receipt  of  her  letter,  which  she 
ascribed  to  the  care  with  which   she   had  con- 


cealed it  amidst  the  dry  leaves  and  moss,  dis- 
turbed her  so  much  as  the  evident  constraint 
with  which  Mainwaring  wrote — the  cautious 
and  lukewarm  remonstrance  which  answered 
her  passionate  appeal.  It  may  be,  that  her 
very  doubts,  at  times,  of  Mainwaring's  affec- 
tion had  increased  the  ardor  of  her  own  attach- 
ment; for  in  some  natures,  the  excitement  of 
fear  deepens  love  more  than  the  calmness  of 
trust.  Now  with  the  doubt  for  the  first  time 
flashed  the  resentment,  and  her  answer  to 
Mainwaring  was  vehement  and  imperious. 
But  the  next  day  came  a  messenger  express 
from  London,  with  a  letter  from  Mr.  Parch- 
mount, that  arrested  for  the  moment  even  the 
fierce  current  of  love. 

When  the  task  had  been  completed — the 
will  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered — the  old 
man  had  felt  a  load  lifted  from  his  heart. 
Three  or  four  of  his  old  friends,  bons  vivans 
like  himself,  had  seen  his  arrival  duly  pro- 
claimed in  the  newspapers,  and  had  hastened 
to  welcome  him.  Warmed  by  the  genial 
sight  of  faces  associated  with  the  frank  joys 
of  his  youth.  Sir  Miles,  if  he  did  not  forget 
the  prudent  counsels  of  Dalibard,  conceived  a 
proud  bitterness  of  joy  in  despising  them. 
Why  take  such  care  of  the  worn-out  carcase  ? 
His  will  was  made.  What  was  left  to  life  so 
peculiarly  attractive  ?  He  invited  his  friends 
to  a  feast  worthy  of  old;  seasoned  revellers 
were  they,  with  a  free  gout  for  a  vent  to  all 
indulgence.  So  they  came;  and  they  drank, 
and  they  laughed,  and  they  talked  back  their 
young  days:  they  saw  not  the  nervous  irrita- 
tion, the  strain  on  the  spirits,  the  heated  mem- 
brane of  the  brain,  which  made  Sir  Miles  the 
most  jovial  of  all.  It  was  a  night  of  nights — 
the  old  fellows  were  lifted  back  into  their 
chariots  or  sedans.  Sir  Miles  alone  seemed 
as  steady  and  sober  as  if  he  had  supped  with 
Diogenes.  His  servant,  whose  respectful  ad- 
monitions had  been  awed  into  silence,  lent  him 
his  arm  to  bed,  but  Sir  Miles  scarcely  touched 
it.  The  next  morning,  when  the  servant  (who 
slept  in  the  same  room)  awoke,  to  his  surprise, 
the  glare  of  a  candle  streamed  on  his  eyes;  he 
rubbed  them:  could  he  see  right  ? — Sir  Miles 
was  seated  at  the  table — he  must  have  got  up, 
and  lighted  a  candle  to  write — noiselessly,  in- 
deed. The  servant  looked  and  looked,  and 
the  stillness  of  Sir  Miles  awed  him:  he  was 
seated  on  an  arm-chair,  leaning  back.     As  awe 


552 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


succeeded  to  suspicion,  he  sprang  up,  ap- 
proached his  master,  took  his  hand:  it  was 
cold,  and  fell  heavily  from  his  clasp — Sir 
Miles  must  have  been  dead  for  hours. 

The  pen  lay  on  the  ground,  where  it  had 
dropped  from  the  hand;  the  letter  on  the  table 
was  scarcely  commenced ;  the  words  ran  thus — 

"  LucRETiA, — You  will  return  no  more  tomy  house. 
You  are  free  as  if  I  were  dead;  but  I  shall  be  just 
Would  that  I  had  been  so  to  your  mother — to  your 
sister  !     But  I  am  old  now,  as  you  say,  and ■" 

To  one  who  could  have  seen  into  that  poor, 
proud  heart,  at  the  moment  the  hand  paused 
for  ever,  what  remained  unwritten  would  have 
been  clear.  There,  was  first,  the  sharp  strug- 
gle to  conquer  loathing  repugnance,  and  ad- 
dress at  all,  the  false  and  degraded  one;  then 
came  the  sharp  sting  of  ingratitude — then  the 
idea  of  the  life  grudged,  and  the  grave  desired 
— then  the  stout  victory  over  scorn — the  reso- 
lution to  be  just — then  the  reproach  of  the 
conscience,  that  for  so  far  less  an  offence,  the 
sister  had  been  thrown  aside — the  comfort, 
perhaps,  found  in  her  gentle  and  neglected 
child,  obstinately  repelled — then  the  conviction 
of  all  earthly  vanity  and  nothingness — the 
look  on  into  life,  with  the  chilling  sentiment 
that  affection  was  gone — that  he  could 
never  trust  again — that  he  was  too  old  to 
open  his  arms  to  new  ties;  and  then,  before 
felt  singly,  all  these  thoughts  united,  and 
snapped  the  chord  ! 

In  anouncing  his  mournful  intelligence,  with 
more  feeling  than  might  have  been  expected 
from  a  lawyer  (but  even  his  lawyer  loved  Sir 
Miles,)  Mr.  Parchmount  observed,  '  that  as 
the  deceased  lay  at  an  hotel,  and  as  Miss 
Clavering's  presence  would  not  be  needed  in 
the  performance  of  the  last  rites,  she  would 
probably  forbear  the  journey  to  town.  Never- 
theless, as  it  was  Sir  Miles's  wish  that  the  will 
should  be  opened  as  soon  as  possible  after  his 
death,  and  it  would  doubtless,  contain  instruc- 
tions as  to  his  funeral,  it  would  be  well  that 
Miss  Clavering  and  her  sister  should  immedi- 
ately depute  some  one  to  attend  the  reading 
of  the  testament,  on  their  behalf.  Perhaps 
Mr.  Fielden  would  kindly  undertake  that  mel- 
ancholy office.' 

To  do  justice  to  Lucretia,  it  must  be  said, 
that  her  first  emotions,  on  the  receipt  of  this 
letter,  were  those  of  a  poignant  and  remorseful 


grief,  for  which  she  was  unprepared.  But  how 
different  it  is  to  count  on  what  shall  follow 
death,  and  to  know  that  death  has  come ! 
Susan's  sobbing  sympathy  availed  not,  nor  Mr. 
Fielden's  pious  and  tearful  exhortations;  her 
own  sinful  thoughts  and  hopes  came  back  to 
her,  haunting  and  stern  as  furies.  She  insisted 
at  first  upon  going  to  London — gazing  once 
more  on  the  clay:  nay,  the  carriage  was  at  the 
door,  for  all  yielded  to  her  vehemence;  but 
then  her  heart  misgave  her;  she  did  not  dare 
to  face  the  dead  !  Conscience  waved  her  back 
from  the  solemn  offices  of  nature;  she  hid  her 
face  with  her  hands,  shrunk  again  into  her 
room;  and  Mr.  Fielden,  assuming  unbidden 
the  responsibility,  went  alone. 

Only  Vernon  (summoned  from  Brighton), 
the  good  clergyman,  and  the  lawyer,  to  whom, 
as  sole  executor,  the  will  was  addressed,  and 
in  whose  custody  it  had  been  left,  were  present 
when  the  seal  of  the  testament  was  broken. 
The  will  was  long,  as  is  common  when  the 
dust  that  it  disposes  of  covers  some  fourteen 
or  fifteen  thousand  acres.  But  out  of  the 
mass  of  technicalities  and  repetitions,  these 
points  of  interest  rose  salient — To  Charles 
Vernon,  of  Vernon  Grange,  Esq.,  and  his  heirs 
by  him  lawfully  begotten,  were  left  all  the 
lands  and  woods  and  manors  that  covered 
that  space  in  the  Hampshire  map,  known  by 
the  name  of  the  "  Laughton  property,"  on 
condition  that  he  and  his  heirs  assumed  the 
name  and  arms  of  St.  John;  and  on  the  failure 
of  Mr.  Vernon's  issue,  the  estate  passed,  first 
(with  the  same  conditions)  to  the  issue  of 
Susan  Mivers;  next,  to  that  of  Lucretia  Claver- 
ing. There  the  entail  ceased — and  the  con- 
tingency fell  the  rival  ingenuity  of  lawyers 
in  hunting  out,  amongst  the  remote  and  for- 
gotten descendants  of  some  ancient  St.  John, 
the  heir-at-law.  To  Lucretia  Clavering,  without 
a  word  of  endearment,  was  bequeathed  10,000/., 
the  usual  portion  which  the  house  of  St.  John 
had  allotted  to  its  daughters;  to  Susan  Mivers 
the  same  sum,  but  with  the  addition  of  these 
words,  withheld  from  her  sister — '•  ami  my  bless- 
ing!" To  Olivier  Dalibard,  an  annuity  of 
200/.  a-year;  to  Honor^  Gabriel  Varney. 
3000/.;  to  the  Rev.  Mathew  Fielden.  4000/.; 
and  the  same  sum  to  John  Walter  Ardworth 
To  his  favorite  servant,  Henry  Jones,  an 
ample  provision,  and  the  charge  of  his  dogs 
Dash  and  Ponto,  with  an  allowance  therefor,  to 


LUCRRTIA. 


553 


be  paid  weekly,  and  cease  at  their  deaths. 
Poor  old  man  !  he  made  it  the  interest  of  their 
guardian  not  to  grudge  their  lees  of  life.  To 
his  other  attendants,  suitable  and  munificent 
bequests,  proportioned  to  the  length  of  their 
services.  For  his  body,  he  desired  it  buried 
in  the  vault  of  his  ancestors  without  pomp, 
but  without  a  pretence  to  a  humility  which  he 
had  not  manifested  in  life;  and  he  requested 
that  a  small  miniature  in  his  writing-desk 
should  be  placed  in  his  cofifin.  That  last  in- 
junction was  more  than  a  sentiment,  it  bespoke 
the  moral  conviction  of  the  happiness  the 
original  might  have  conferred  on  his  life; — of 
that  happiness  his  pride  had  deprived  him; 
nor  did  he  repent,  for  he  had  deemed  pride  a 
duty;  but  the  mute  likeness,  buried  in  his 
grave — that  told  the  might  of  the  sacrifice 
he  had  made  !  Death  removes  all  distinc- 
tions, and  in  the  coffin  the  Lord  of  Laughton 
might  choose  his  partner. 

When  the  will  had  been  read,  Mr.  Parch- 
mount  produced  two  letters,  one  addressed  in 
the  hand  of  the  deceased  to  Mr.  Vernon,  the 
other  In  the  lawyer's  own  hand  to  MissClaver- 
ing.  The  last  enclosed  the  fragment  found 
on  Sir  Mile's  table,  and  her  own  letter  to 
Mainwaring,  redirected  to  her  Sir  Mile's  bold- 
est and  stateliest  autograph.  He  had,  no 
doubt,  meant  to  return  it  in  the  letter  left  un- 
completed. 

The  letter  to  Vernon  contained  a  copy  of 
Lucretia's  fatal  epistle,  and  the  following 
lines  to  Vernon  himself: 

"  My  dear  Charles, — With  much  deliberation,  and, 
with  natural  reluctance  to  reveal  to  you  my  niece's 
shame,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  transmit  to  you  the  accom- 
panying enclosure,  copied  from  the  original  with  my 
own  hand,  which  the  task  sullied.  I  do  so  first,  be- 
cause otherwise,  you  might,  as  I  should  have  done  in 
your  place,  feel  bound  in  honor  to  persist  in  the  offer 
of  your  hand — feel  bound  the  more,  because  Miss 
Clavering  is  not  my  heiress;  secondly,  because  had 
her  attachment  been  stronger  than  her  interest,  and 
she  had  refused  your  offer,  you  might  still  have 
deemed  her  hardly  and  capriciously  dealt  with  by  me 
and  not  only  sought  to  augment  her  portion,  but  have 
profaned  the  house  of  my  ancestors  by  receiving  her 
there,  as  an  honored  and  welcomed  relative  and  guest. 
Now,  Charles  Vernon,  I  believe,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
poor  judgment,  I  have  done  what  is  right  and  just.  I 
have  taken  into  consideration,  that  this  yoimg  person 
has  been  brought  up  as  a  daughter  of  my  house,  and 
what  the  daughters  of  my  house  have  received,  I  be- 
queath her;  I  put  aside,  as  far  as  [  can,  all  resentment 
of  mere  family  pride;  I  show  that  I  do  so,  when  I  re- 
pair my  harshness  to  my  poor  sister,  and  leave  both 
her  children  the  same  provision.    And    if  you   exceed 


what  I  have  done  for  Lucretia,  unless,  on  more  dispas- 
sionate consideration  than  I  can  give,  you  conscien- 
tiously think  me  wrong,  you  insult  my  memory  and 
impugn  my  justice;  be  it  in  this  as  your  conscience 
dictates;  but  I  entreat,  I  adjure,  I  command  at  least, 
that  you  never  knowingly  admit  by  a  hearth,  hitherto 
sacred  to  unblemished  truth  and  honor,  a  person  who 
has  desecrated  it  with  treason.  As  gentleman  to  gen- 
tleman, I  impose  on  you  this  solemn  injunction.  I 
could  have  wished  to  leave  that  young  woman's  chil- 
dren barred  from  the  entail;  but  our  old  tree  has  so 
few  branches  !  You  are  unwedded ;  Susan,  too.  I 
must  take  my  chance  that  Miss  Clavering's  children,  if 
ever  they  inherit,  do  not  imitate  the  mother.  I  con- 
clude she  will  wed  that  Mainwaring;  her  children  will 
have  a  low-born  father.  Well,  her  race,  at  least,  is 
pure.  Clavering  and  St.  John  are  names  to  guarantee 
faith  and  honor;  yet  you  see  what  she  is! — Charles 
Vernon,  if  her  issue  inherit  the  soul  of  gentlemen,  it 
must  come,  after  all,  not  from  the  well-born  mother  ! 
I  have  lived  to  say  this;  I,  who — but  perhaps  if  we  had 
looked  more  closely  into  the  pedigree  of  those  Cover- 
ings I— 

"  Marry  yourself — marry  soon,  Charles  Vernon,  my 
dear  kinsman — keep  the  old  house  in  the  old  line,  and 
true  to  its  old  fame.  Be  kind  and  good  to  my  poor — 
don't  strain  on  the  tenants.  By  the  way,  Farmer 
Strongbow  owes  three  years'  rent— I  forgive  him — pen- 
sion him  off — he  can  do  no  good  to  the  land,  but  he 
was  born  on  it,  and  must  not  fall  on  the  parish.  But 
to  be  kind  and  good  to  the  poor,  not  to  strain  on  the 
tenants,  you  must  learn  not  to  waste,  my  dear  Charles. 
A  needy  man  can  never  be  generous  without  being 
unjust.  How  give,  if  you  are  in  debt?  You  will  think 
of  this — now — now — while  your  good  heart  is  soft — 
while  your  feelings  are  moved.  Charley  Vernon,  1 
think  you  will  shed  a  tear  when  you  see  my  arm-chair 
still  and  empty.  And  I  would  have  left  you  the  care 
of  my  dogs,  but  you  are  thoughtless,  and  will  go  much 
to  London,  and  they  are  used  to  the  country  now. 
Old  Jones  will  have  a  cottage  in  the  village;  he  has 
promised  to  live  there;  drop  in  now  and  then,  and  see 
poor  Ponto  and  Dash.  It  is  late,  and  old  friends  come 
to  dine  here.  So,  if  anything  happens  to  me,  and  we 
don't  meet  again,  good  bye,  and  God  bless  you. 
"  Your  affectionate  kinsman, 

"Miles  St.  John." 


CHAPTER    Vn. 


The  Engagement. 


It  is  somewhat  less  than  three  months  after 
the  death  of  Sir  Miles  St.  John— November 
reigns  in  London.  And  "  reigns "  seems 
scarcely  a  metaphysical  expression  as  applied 
to  the  sullen,  absolute,  sway,  which  that  dreary 
Month— (first  in  the  dynasty  of  Winter)— 
spreads  over  the  passive,  dejected  city.  Else- 
where, in  England,  November  is  no  such 
gloomy  grim  fellow  as  he  is  described.  Over 
the  brown   glebes   and  changed  woods  in  the 


554 


BULWERS     IVORKS. 


country,  his  still  face  looks  contemplative  and 
mild,  and  he  hast  soft  smiles,  too,  at  times, — 
lighting  up  his  taxed  vassals  the  groves — 
gleaming  where  the  leaves  still  clung  to  the 
boughs— ^and  reflected  in  dimples  from  the 
waves  which  still  glide  free  from  his  chains. 
But  as  a  conqueror,  who  makes  his  home  in 
the'  capital,  weighs  down  with  hard  policy  the 
mutinous  citizens,  long  ere  his  iron  influence 
is  felt  in  the  province,  so  the  first  tyrant  of 
Winter  has  only  rigor  and  frowns  for  London. 
The  very  aspect  of  the  wayfarers  has  the  look 
of  men  newly  enslaved;  cloaked  and  muffled, 
they  steal  to  and  fro  through  the  dismal  fogs. 
Even  the  children  creep  timidly  through  the 
streets;  the  carriages  go  cautious  and  hearse- 
like along;  daylight  is  dim  and  obscure;  the 
town  is  not  filled,  nor  the  brisk  mirth  of 
Christmas  commenced;  the  unsocial  shadows 
flit  amidst  the  mist,  like  men  on  the  eve  of  a 
fatal  conspiracy.  Each  other  month  in  Lon- 
don has  its  charms  for  the  experienced. 

Even  from  August  to  October,  when  The 
Season  lies  dormant,  and  Fashion  forbids  her 
sons  to  be  seen  within  hearing  of  Bow,  the 
true  lover  of  London  finds  pleasure  still  at 
hand,  if  he  search  for  her  duly; — the  early 
walks  through  the  parks  and  green  Kensington 
Gardens,  which  now  change  their  character  of 
resort,  and  seem  rural  and  countrylike,  but 
yet  with  more  life  than  the  country;  for  on  the 
benches  beneath  the  trees,  and  along  the 
sward  and  up  the  malls,  are  living  beings 
enough  to  interest  the  eye  and  divert  the 
thoughts,  if  you  are  a  guesser  into  character, 
and  amateur  of  the  human  face;  fresh  nursery- 
maid and  playful  children,  and  the  old  shabby- 
genteel  buttoned-up  officer,  musing  on  half- 
pay,  as  he  sits  alone  in  some  alcove  of  Kenna, 
or  leans  pensive  over  the  rail  of  the  vacant 
Ring;  and  early  tradesman,  or  clerk  from  the 
suburban  lodging,  trudging  brisk  to  his  busi- 
ness, for  business  never  ceases  in  London; 
then  at  noon,  what  delight  to  escape  to  the 
banks  at  Putney  or  Richmond— -the  row  up  the 
river — the  fishing-punt — the  ease  at  your  inn 
till  dark  ! — or,  if  this  tempt  not,  still.  Autumn 
shines  clear  and  calm  over  the  roofs,  where  the 
smoke  has  a  holiday;  and  how  clean  gleam  the 
vistas  through  the  tranquillized  thoroughfares, 
and  as  you  saunter  along,  you  have  all  London 
to  yourself,  Andrew  Selkirk,  but  with  the  mart 
of  the  world  for  your  desert !    And  when  Octo- 


ber comes  on,  it  has  one  characteristic  of 
spring,  life  busily  returns  to  the  city;  you  see 
the  shops  bustling  up,  trade  flowing  back;  as 
birds  scent  the  April,  so  the  children  of  com- 
merce plume  their  wings,  and  prepare  for  the 
first  slack  returns  of  the  season.  But  Novem- 
ber ! — strange  the  taste,  stout  the  lungs,  grief- 
defying  the  heart  of  the  visitor  who  finds 
charms  and  joy  in  a  London  November. 

In  a  small  lodging-house  in  Bulstrode- 
street,  Manchester-square,  grouped  a  family 
in  mourning,  who  had  had  the  temerity  to 
come  to  town  in  November,  for  the  purpose, 
no  doubt,  of  raising  their  spirits.  In  the  dull 
small  drawing-room  of  the  dull  small  house, 
we  introduce  to  you,  first,  a  middle-aged  gen- 
tleman, whose  dress  showed,  what  dress  now 
fails  to  show — his  profession;  nobody  could 
mistake  the  cut  of  the  cloth,  and  the  shajje  of 
the  hat,  for  he  had  just  come  in  from  a  walk 
and  not  from  discourtesy,  but  abstraction,  the 
broad  brim  still  shadowed  his  pleasant  placid 
face.  Parson  spoke  out  in  him,  from  beaver 
to  buckle.  By  the  coal  fire,  where,  through 
volumes  of  smoke,  fussed  and  flickered  a  pre- 
tension to  flame,  sate  a  middle-aged  lady, 
whom,  without  being  a  conjuror,  you  would 
pronounce  at  once  to  be  wife  to  the  parson, 
and  sundry  children  sate  on  stools  all  about 
her,  with  one  book  between  them,  and  a  low 
whispered  murmur  from  their  two  or  three 
pursed  lips,  announcing  that  that  book  was 
superfluous.  By  the  last  of  three  dim-looking 
windows,  made  dimmer  by  brown  moreen 
draperies,  edged  genteelly  with  black  cotton 
velvet,  stood  a  girl  of  very  soft  and  pensive 
expression  of  features — pretty,  unquestionably 
— excessively  pretty — but  there  was  something 
so  delicate  and  elegant  about  her — the  bend  of 
her  head,  the  shape  of  her  slight  figure,  the  little 
fair  hands  crossed  one  on  each  other,  as  the  face 
mournfully  and  listlessly  turned  to  the  window 
— that  '  pretty  '  would  have  seemed  a  word  of 
praise,  too  often  proffered  to  milliner  and  serv- 
ing maid;  nevertheless,  it  was  perhaps  the  right 
one; — handsome  would  have  implied  some- 
thing statelier  and  more  commanding — beauti- 
ful, greater  regularity  of  feature,  or  richness 
of  coloring.  The  parson,  who,  since  his  en- 
trance, had  been  walking  up  and  down  the 
small  room,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  glanc- 
ing now  and  then  at  the  young  lady,  but  not 
speaking,  at  length  paused  from  the  monoto- 


LUC  RETT  A. 


555 


nous  exercise,  by  the  chair  of  his  wife,  and 
touched  her  shoulder.  She  stopped  from  her 
work,  which,  more  engrossing  than  elegant, 
was  nothing  less  than  what  is  technically  called 
•'  the  taking  in  "  of  a  certain  blue  jacket,  which 
was  about  to  pass  from  Matthew,  the  eldest 
born,  to  David,  the  second,  and  looked  up  at 
her  husband  affectionately;  her  husband  how- 
ever spoke  not,  he  only  made  a  sign,  partly 
with  his  eyebrow,  partly  with  a  jerk  of  his 
thumb  over  his  right  shoulder,  in  the  direction 
of  the  young  lady  we  have  described,  and  then 
completed  the  pantomime  with  a  melancholy 
shake  of  the  head.  The  wife  turned  round, 
and  looked  hard,  the  scissors  horizontally 
raised  in  one  hand,  while  the  other  reposed  on 
the  cuff  of  the  jacket.  At  this  moment  a  low 
knock  was  heard  at  the  street-door.  The 
worthy  pair  saw  the  girl  shrink  back,  with  a 
kind  of  tremulous  movement;  presently  there 
came  the  sound  of  a  footstep  below — the  creak 
of  a  hinge  on  the  ground  floor — and  again,  all 
was  silent. 

"  That  is  Mr.  Mainwaring's  knock,"  said 
one  of  the  children. 

The  girl  left  the  room  abruptly,  and,  light 
as  was  her  step,  they  heard  her  steal  up  the 
stairs. 

"My  dears,"  said  the  parson,  "itwants  an 
hour  yet  to  dark,  you  may  go  and  walk  in  the 
square." 

"  'Tis  so  dull  in  that  ugly  square,  and 
they  won't  let  us  into  the  green.  I  am  sure 
we'd  rather  stay  here,"  said  one  of  the  chil- 
dren, as  spokesman  for  the  rest,  and  they  all 
nestled  closer  round  the  hearth. 

•'  But,  my  dears,"  said  the  parson,  simply, 
"I  want  to  talk  alone  with  your  mother. 
However,  if  you  like  best  to  go  and  keep  quiet 
in  your  own  room,  you  may  do  so." 
"  Or  we  can  go  into  Susan's  ?  " 
"No,"  said  the  parson;  "you  must  not  dis- 
turb Susan." 

"  She  never  used  to  care  about  being  dis- 
turbed.    I  wonder  what's  come  to  her  ?  " 

The  parson  made  no  rejoinder  to  this  half- 
petulant  question.  The  children  consulted 
together  a  moment,  and  resolved  that  the 
square,  though  so  dull,  was  less  dull  than  their 
own  little  attic.  That  being  decided,  it  was 
the  mother's  turn  to  address  them.  And 
though  Mr.  Fielden  has  as  anxious  and  fond 
as  most  fathers,  he  grew  a  little  impatient  be- 


fore comforters,  kerchiefs,  and  muffatees  were 
arranged,  and  minute  exordiums  as  to  the  dan- 
ger of  crossing  the  street,  and  the  risk  of  pat- 
ting strange  dogs,  etc.  etc.,  were  half-way  con- 
cluded;— with  a  shrug  and  a  smile,  he  at 
length  fairly  pushed  out  the  children,  shut  the 
door,  and  drew  his  chair  close  to  his  wife's. 

"  My  dear,"  he  began  at  once,  "  I  am  ex- 
tremely uneasy  about  that  poor  girl." 

"  What  !  Miss  Clavering?  Indeed,  she  eats 
almost  nothing  at  all,  and  sits  so  moping 
alone;  but  she  sees  Mr.  Mainwaring  every 
day.  What  can  we  do  ?  She  is  so  proud,  I'm 
afraid  of  her." 

"  My  dear,  I  was  not  thinking  of  Miss 
Clavering,  though  I  did  not  interrupt  you,  for 
it  is  very  true  that  she  is  much  to  be  pitied." 

"And  I  am  sure  it  was  for  her  sake  alone 
that  you  agreed  to  Susan's  request,  and  got 
Blackman  to  do  duty  for  you  at  the  vicarage, 
while  we  all  came  up  here,  in  hopes  London 
town  would  divert  her.  We  left  all  at  sixes 
and  sevens;  and  I  should  not  at  all  wonder  if 
John  made  away  with  the  apples." 

"  But,  I  say,"  resumed  the  parson,  without 
heeding  that  mournful  foreboding — "  I  say, 
I  was  then  only  thinking  of  Susan.  You  see 
how  pale  and  sad  she  is  grown." 

"  Why,  she  is  so  very  soft-hearted,  and  she 
must  feel  for  her  sister." 

"  But  her  sister,  though  she  thinks  much, 
and  keeps  aloof  from  us,  is  not  sad  herself; 
only  reserved.  On  the  contrary,  I  believe  she 
has  now  got  over  even  poor  Sir  Miles's 
death." 

"  And  the  loss  of  the  great  property  !  " 
"Fie,    Mary!"    said    Mr.    Fielden,   almost 
austerely; 

Mary  looked  down,  rebuked,  for  she  was 
not  one  of  the  high-spirited  wives  who  despise 
their  husbands  for  goodness. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  my  dear,"  she  said,  meekly; 
"it  was  very  wrong  in  me;  but  I  cannot — <lo 
what  I  will — I  cannot  like  that  Miss  Clav- 
ering." 

"  The  more  need  to  judge  her  with  charity. 
And  if  what  I  fear  is  the  case,  I'm  sure  we 
can't  feel  too  much  compassion  for  the  poor 
blinded  young  lady." 

"  Bless  my  heart,  Mr.  Fielden,  what  is  it 
you  mean  ?  " 

The  parson  looked  round  to  be  sure  the 
door  was  quite  closed,  and  replied,  in  a  whisper 


356 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


— "  I  mean  that  I  fear  Willian  Mainwaring 
loves  not  Lucretia,  but  Susan." 

The  scissors  fell  from  the  hand  of  Mrs. 
Fielden;  and  though  one  point  stuck  in  the 
ground,  and  the  other  point,  threatened  war 
upon  flounces  and  toes,  stran<je  to  say,  she 
did  not  even  stoop  to  remove  the  chmaus  de 
/rise. 

"  Why,  then,  he's  a  most  false-hearted 
young  man  !  " 

"To  blame,  certainly,"  said  Fielden;  "I 
don't  say  to  the  contrary,  though  I  like  the 
young  man,  and  am  sure  that  he's  more  timid 
than  false.  I  may  now  tell  you — for  I  want 
your  advice,  Mary — what  I  kept  secret  before. 
When  Mainwaring  visited  us,  many  months 
ago,  at  Southampton,  he  confessed  to  me  that 
he  felt  warmly  for  Susan,  and  asked  if  I 
thought  Sir  Miles  would  consent.  I  knew  too 
well  how  proud  the  poor  old  gentleman  was  to 
give  him  any  such  hopes.  So  he  left  very  hon- 
orably. You  remember,  after  he  went,  that 
Susan's  spirits  were  low  —  you  remarked 
it." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  remember.  But  when  the 
first  shock  of  Sir  Miles's  death  was  over,  she 
got  back  her  sweet  color,  and  looked  cheerful 
enough." 

"  Because,  perhaps,  then  she  felt  that  she 
had  a  fortune  to  bestow  on  Mr.  Mainwaring, 
and  thought  all  obstacle  was  over." 

"  Why,  how  clever  you  are  !  How  did  you 
get  at  her  thoughts  ?  " 

"  My  own  folly — my  own  rash  folly,"  almost 
groaned  Mr.  Fielden.  "  For,  not  guessing 
that  Mr.  Mainwaring  could  have  got  engaged 
meanwhile  to  Lucretia,  and  suspecting  how  it 
was  with  Susan's  poor  little  heart,  I  let  out,  in 
a  jest— Heaven  forgive  me  ! — what  William 
had  said;  and  the  dear  child  blushed,  and 
kissed  me,  and — why  a  day  or  two  after,  when 
it  was  fixed  that  we  should  come  up  to  Lon- 
don, Lucretia  informed  me,  with  her  freezing 
politeness,  that  she  was  to  marry  Mainwaring 
herself,  as  soon  as  her  first  mourning  was 
over." 

"  Poor,  dear — dear  Susan  !  " 

"Susan  behaved  like  an  angel;  and  when  I 
broached  it  to  her,  I  thought  she  was  calm; 
and  I  am  sure  she  prayed  with  her  whole  heart 
that  both  might  be  happy." 

"  I'm  sure  she  did.  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
I  understand  it  all  now.     Dear  me,  dear  me  ! 


— a  sad  piece  of  work,  indeed."  And  Mrs. 
Fielden  abstractedly  picked  up  the  scissors. 

"  It  was  not  till  our  coming  to  town,  and  Mr. 
Mainwaring's  visits  to  Lucretia,  that  her 
strength  gave  way." 

"A  hard  sight  to  bear:  I  never  could  have 
borne  it,  my  love.  If  I  had  seen  you  paying 
court  to  another,  I  should  have — I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  !  But  what  an  artful 
wretch  this  young  Mainwaring  must  be." 

"  Not  very  artful;  for  you  see  that  he  looks 
even  sadder  than  Susan.  He  got  entangled 
somehow,  to  be  sure.  Perhaps  he  had  given 
up  Susan  in  despair;  and  Miss  Clavering,  if 
haughty,  is  no  doubt  a  very  superior  young 
lady;  and,  I  dare  say,  it  is  only  now  in  seeing 
them  both  together,  and  comparing  the  two 
that  he  feels  what  a  treasure  he  has  lost. 
Well,  what  do  you  advise,  Mary  ?  Mainwaring, 
no  doubt,  is  bound  in  honor  to  Miss  Clavering; 
but  she  will  be  sure  to  discover,  sooner  or 
later,  the  state  of  his  feelings,  and  then  I 
tremble  for  both.  I'm  sure  she  will  never  be 
happy,  while  he  will  be  wretched;  and  Susan 
— I  dare  not  think  upon  Susan — she  has  a 
cough  that  goes  to  my  heart." 

•'So  she  has;  that  cough — you  don't  know 
the  money  I  spend  on  black-current  jelly  ! 
What's  my  advice  ?  why  I'd  speak  to  Miss 
Clavering  at  once,  if  I  dared.  I'p  sure  love 
never  will  break  /ler  heart;  and  she's  so  proud, 
she'd  throw  him  off  without  a  sigh,  if  she 
knew  how  things  stood." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Fielden; 
"  for  truth  is  the  best  policy  after  all.  Still, 
it's  scarce  my  business  to  meddle;  and  if  it 
were  not  for  Susan — well,  well,  I  must  think  of 
it,  and  pray  Heaven  to  direct  me." 

This  conference  suffices  to  explain  to  the 
reader  the  stage  to  which  the  history  of 
Lucretia  had  arrived.  Willingly  we  pass  over 
what  it  were  scarcely  possible  to  describe — 
her  first  shock  at  the  fall  from  the  expecta- 
tions of  her  life; — fortune,  rank,  and  what  she 
valued  more  than  eithef,  power — crushed  at  a 
blow.  From  the  dark  and  sullen  despair  into 
which  she  was  first  plunged,  she  was  roused 
into  hope — into  something  like  joy — by  Main- 
waring's letters.  Never  had  they  been  so 
warm  and  so  tender;  for  the  young  man 
felt  not  only  poignant  remorse  that  he  hati 
been  the  cause  of  her  downfall  (though  she 
broke  it  to  him  with  more  delicacy  than  might 


LUCRETIA. 


55/ 


have  been  expected  from  the  state  of  her  feel- 
ings and  the  hardness  of  her  character),  'out 
he  felt  also  imperiously  the  obligations  which 
her  loss  rendered  more  binding  than  ever. 
He  persuaded,  he  urged,  he  forced  himself  in- 
to affection;  and,  probably,  without  a  murmur 
of  his  heart,  he  would  have  gone  with  her  to 
the  altar,  and,  once  wedded,  custom  and  duty 
would  have  strengthened  the  chain  imposed 
on  himself,  had  it  nnt  been  for  Lucretia's  fatal 
eagerness  to  see  him,  to  come  up  to  London 
where  she  induced  him  to  meet  her — for  with 
her  came  Susan;  and  in  Susan's  averted  face, 
and  trembling  hand,  and  mute  avoidance  of 
his  eye,  he  read  all  which  the  poor  dissembler 
fancied  she  concealed. 

But  the  die  was  cast,  the  union  announced, 
the  time  fixed,  and  day  by  day  he  came  to  the 
house,  to  leave  it  in  anguish  and  despair.  A 
feeling  they  shared  in  common  caused  these 
two  unhappy  persons  to  shun  each  other. 
Mainwaring  rarely  came  into  the  usual  sitting- 
room  of  the  family;  and  when  he  did  so, 
chiefly  in  the  evening,  Susan  usually  took 
refuge  in  her  own  room.  If  they  met,  it  was 
by  accident,  on  the  stairs,  or  at  the  sudden 
opening  of  a  door;  then  not  only  no  word,  but 
'scarcely  even  a  look  was  exchanged;  neither 
had  the  courage  to  face  the  other.  Perhaps, 
of  the  two,  this  reserve  weighed  most  on 
Susan;  perhaps  she  most  yearned  to  break  the 
silence,  for  she  thought  she  divined  the  cause 
of  Mainwaring's  gloomy  and  mute  constraint, 
in  the  upbraidings  of  his  conscience,  which 
might  doubtless  recall — if  no  positive  pledge  to 
Susan — at  least,  those  words  and  tones  which 
betray  the  one  heart,  and  seek  to  allure  the 
other;  and  the  profound  melancholy  stamped 
on  his  whole  person,  apparent  even  to  her 
hurried  glance,  touched  her  with  a  compassion 
free  from  all  the  bitterness  of  selfish  reproach. 
She  fancied  she  could  die  happy  if  she  could 
remove  that  cloud  from  his  brow,  that  shadow 
from  his  conscience.  Die — for  she  thoug-ht 
not  of  life.  She  loved  gently,  quietly;  not 
with  the  vehement  passion  that  belongs  to 
stronger  natures;  but  it  was  the  love  of  which 
the  young  and  the  pure  have  died.  The  face 
of  the  Genius  was  calm  and  soft;  and  only  by 
the  lowering  of  the  hand  do  you  see  that  the 
torch  burns  out,  and  that  the  image  too  serene 
for  earthly  love,  is  the  genius  of  loving  Death. 
Absorbed  in  the  egotism  of  her   passion — 


increased,  as  is  ever  the  case  with  women, 
even  the  worst,  by  the  sacrifices  it  had  cost 
her — and  if  that  passion  paused,  by  the  energy 
of  her  ambition,  which  already  began  to 
scheme  and  re-construct  new  scaffolds  to  re- 
pair the  ruined  walls  of  the  past,  Lucretia  as 
yet  had  not  detected  what  was  so  apparent  to 
the  simple  sense  of  Mr.  Fielden.  That  Main- 
waring  was  grave,  and  thoughtful,  and  ab- 
stracted, she  ascribed  only  to  his  grief  at  the 
thought  of  her  loss,  and  his  anxieties  for  her 
altered  future;  and  in  her  efforts  to  console 
him,  her  attempts  to  convince  him  that  great- 
ness in  England  did  not  consist  only  in  lands 
and  manors — that  in  the  higher  walks  of  life 
which  conduct  to  the  Temple  of  Renown,  the 
leaders  of  the  procession  are  the  aristocracy  of 
knowledge  and  of  intellect — she  so  betrayed, 
not  generous  emulation  and  high-souled  aspir- 
ing, but  the  dark,  unscrupulous,  tortuous  am- 
bition of  cunning,  stratagem,  and  intrigue, 
that  instead  of  feeling  grateful  and  encouraged, 
he  shuddered  and  revolted.  How,  accom- 
panied and  led  by  a  spirit  which  he  fett  to  be 
stronger  and  more  commanding  than  his  own 
— how  preserve  the  whiteness  of  his  soul,  the 
uprightness  of  his  honor?  Already  he  felt 
himself  debased.  But  in  the  still  trial  of  do- 
mestic intercourse,  with  the  daily,  hourly 
dripping  on  the  stone,  in  the  many  struggles 
between  truth  and  falsehood,  guile  and  candor, 
which  men — and,  above  all,  ambitious  men — 
must  wage,  what  darker  angel  would  whisper 
him  in  his  monitor  ?  Still  he  was  bound — 
bound  with  an  iron  band— he  writhed,  but 
dreamed  not  of  escape. 

The  day  after  that  of  P'ieldon's  conference 
with  his  wife,  an  unexpected  visitor  came  to 
the  house.  Olivier  Dalibard  called.  He  had 
not  seen  Lucretia  since  she  had  left  Laugh- 
ton,  nor  had  any  correspondence  passed  be- 
tween them.  He  came  at  dusk,  just  after 
Mainwaring's  daily  visit  was  over,  and  Lucre- 
tia was  still  in  the  parlor  which  she  had  ap- 
propriated to  herself.  Her  brow  contracted  as 
his  name  was  announced,  and  the  maid-servant 
lighted  the  candle  on  the  tabic,  stirred  the 
fire,  and  gave  a  tug  at  the  curtains.  Her  eye, 
glancing  from  his,  round  the  mean  room. 
with  its  dingy,  horsehair  furniture,  involun- 
tarily implied  the  contrast  between  the  past 
state  and  the  present,  which  his  sight  could 
scarcely   help  to  impress  on   her.     But    she 


i58 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


welcomed  him  with  her  usual  stately  compos- 
ure, and  without  reference  to  what  had  been. 
Dalibard  was  secretly  anxious  to  discover  if 
she  suspected  himself  of  any  agency  in  the  de- 
tection of  the  eventful  letter,  and,  assured  by 
her  manner  that  no  such  thought  was  yet  har- 
bored, he  thought  it  best  to  imitate  her  own 
reserve.  He  assumed,  however,  a  manner  that, 
far  more  respectful  than  he  ever  before  ob- 
served to  his  pupil,  was  nevertheless  suffi- 
ciently kind  and  familiar  to  restore  them  grad- 
ually to  their  old  footing;  and  that  he  succeeded 
was  apparent,  when,  after  a  pause,  Lucretia 
said  abruptly — "  How  did  Sir  Miles  St.  John 
discover  my  correspondence  with  Mr.  Main- 
waring  ? " 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  ignorant  ?  Ah, 
how — how  should  you  know  it  ?  "  And  Dali- 
bard so  simply  explained  the  occurrence,  in 
which,  indeed,  it  was  impossible  to  trace  the 
hand  that  had  moved  springs  which  seemed 
so  entirely  set  at  work  by  an  accident,  that 
despite  the  extreme  suspiciousness  of  her 
nature,  Lucretia  did  not  see  a  pretence  for 
accusing  him.  Indeed,  when  he  related  the 
little  subterfuge  of  Gabriel,  his  attempt  to  save 
her  by  taking  the  letter  on  himself,  she  felt 
thankful  to  the  boy,  and  deemed  Gabriel's 
conduct  quite  in  keeping  wirh  his  attachment 
to  herself.  And  this  accounted  satisfactorily 
for  the  only  circumstance  that  had  ever 
troubled  her  with  a  doubt — viz.,  the  legacy 
left  to  Gabriel.  She  knew  enough  of  Sir  Miles 
to  be  aware  that  he  would  be  grateful  to  any 
one  who  had  saved  the  name  of  his  niece,  even 
while  most  embittered  against  her,  from  the 
shame  attached  to  clandestine  correspondence. 

"  It  is  strange,  nevertheles,"  said  she, 
thoughtfully,  after  a  pause,  "that  the  girl 
should  have  detected  the  letter,  concealed,  as 
it  was,  by  the  leaves  that  covered  it." 

"But,"  answered  Dalibard,  readily,  "you 
see  two  or  three  persons  had  entered  before 
and  their  feet  must  have  displaced  the  leaves." 

"Possibly;  the  evil  is  now  past  recall." 

"And  Mr.  Mainwaring?  do  you  still  adhere 
to  one  who  has  cost  you  so  much,  poor  child  ? " 

"  In  three  months  more  I  shall  be  his  wife." 

Dalibard  sighed  deeply,  but  offered  no  re- 
monstrance. 

"Well,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  with  min- 
gled reverence  and  affection — "  well,  I  oppose 
to  your  inclinations  no  more,  for  tunv  there  is 


nothing  to  risk,  you  are  mistress  of  your  own 
fortune;  and  since  Mainwaring  has  talents, 
that  fortune  will  suffice  for  a  career.  Are  you 
at  length  convinced  that  I  have  conquered  my 
folly  ?  that  I  was  disinterested  when  I  incurred 
your  displeasure?  If  so,  can  you  restore  to 
me  your  friendship  ?  You  will  have  some 
struggle  with  the  world,  and,  with  my  long  ex- 
perience of  men  and  life,  even  I,  the  poor 
exile,  may  assist  you." 

And  so  thought  Lucretia;  for  with  some 
dread  of  Dalibard's  craft,  she  yet  credited  his 
attachment  to  herself,  and  she  felt  profouud 
admiration  for  an  intelligence  more  consum- 
mate and  accomplished  than  any  ever  yet  sub- 
mitted to  her  comprehension.  From  that  time, 
Dalibard  became  an  habitual  visitor  at  the 
house;  he  never  interfered  with  Lucretia's  in- 
terviews with  Mainwaring;  he  took  the  union 
for  granted,  and  conversed  with  her  cheerfully 
on  the  prospects  before  her;  he  ingratiate<l 
with  the  Fieldens,  played  with  the  chil- 
dren, made  himself  at  home,  and  in  the  even- 
ings when  Mainwaring,  as  often  as  he  could 
find  the  excuse,  absented  himself  from  the 
family  circle,  he  contrived  to  draw  Lucretia 
into  more  social  intercouse  with  her  homely 
companions  than  she  had  hefore  condescended  ■ 
to  admit.  Good  Mr.  Fielden  rejoiced:  here 
was  the  very  person,  the  old  friend  of  Sir 
Miles,  the  preceptor  of  Lucretia  herself,  evi- 
dently most  attached  to  her,  having  influence 
over  her — the  very  person  to  whom  to  confide 
his  embarrassment.  One  day,  therefore,  when 
Dalibard  had  touched  his  heart  by  noticing 
the  paleness  of  Susan,  he  took  him  aside  and 
told  him  all.  "And  now,"  concluded  the  pas- 
tor, hoping  he  had  found  one  to  relieve  him  of 
his  dreaded  and  ungracious  task,  "  don't  you 
think  that  I — or,  rather,  you — as  so  old  a 
friend,  should  speak  frankly  to  Miss  Claver- 
ing  herself." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  the  Provencal,  quickly; 
"  if  we  spoke  to  her  she  would  disbelieve  us. 
She  would  no  doubt  appeal  to  Mainwaring, 
and  Mainwaring  would  have  no  choice  but  to 
contradict  us.  Once  put  on  his  guard,  he 
would  control  his  very  sadness.  Lucretia 
ofifended,  might  leave  your  house,  and  cer- 
tainly she  would  regard  her  sister  as  having 
influenced  your  confession — a  position  un- 
worthy Miss  Mivers.  But  do  n<3t  fear;  if 
the  evil   be  so,   it  carries  with  its  inevitable 


LUC  RE  TI A. 


559 


remedy.  Let  Liicretia  discover  it  herself; 
but,  pardon  me,  she  must  have  seen,  at  your 
first  reception  of  Mainwaring,  that  he  had  be- 
fore been  acquainted  with  you  ?  " 

"  She  was  not  in  the  room  when  we  first  re- 
ceived Mainwaring,  and  I  have  always  been 
distant  to  him,  as  you  may  suppose,  for  I  felt 
disappointed  and  displeased.  Of  course,  how- 
ever, she  is  aware  that  we  knew  hira  before  she 
did.     What  of  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  do  you  think  then  he  told  her  at 
Laughton  of  this  acquaintance? — that  he 
spoke  of  Susan  ? — I  suspect  not." 

"  I  cannot  say,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Fielden. 
"  Ask  her  that  question  accidentally,  and  for 
the  rest  be  discreet,  my  dear  sir.  I  thank  you 
for  your  confidence.  I  will  watch  well  over 
my  poor  young  pupil.  She  must  not,  indeed, 
be  sacrificed  to  a  man  whose  affections  are 
engaged  elsewhere." 

Dalibard  trod  on  air  as  he  left  the  house; 
his  very  countenance  had  changed;  he  seemed 
ten  years  younger.  It  was  evening;  and  sud- 
denly, as  he  came  into  Oxford-street,  he  en- 
countered a  knot  of  young  men — noisy  and 
laughing  loud  —  obstructing  the  pavement, 
breaking  jests  on  the  more  sober  passengers, 
and  attracting  the  especial  and  admiring  at- 
tention of  sundry  ladies  in  plumed  hats  and 
scarlet  pelisses;  for  the  streets  then  enjoyed  a 
gay  liberty  which  has  vanished  from  London 
with  the  lanterns  of  the  watchman.  Noisiest, 
and  most  conspicuous  of  these  descendants  of 
the  Mohawks,  the  s4eek  and  orderly  scholar 
beheld  the  childish  figure  of  his  son.  Nor  did 
Gabriel  shrink  from  his  father's  eye,  stern  and 
scornful  as  it  was,  but  rather  braved  the  glance 
with  an  impudent  leer. 

Right,  however,  in  the  midst  of  the  group, 
strode  the  Provencal,  and  laying  his  hand  very 
gently  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  he  said — "  My 
son,  come  with  me." 

Gabriel  looked  irresolute,  and  glanced  at 
his  companions.  Delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  a  scene,  they  now  gathered  round,  with 
countenances  and  gestures  that  seemed  little 
disposed  to  acknowledge  the  parental  au- 
thority. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Dalibard,  turning  a 
shade  more  pale,  for  though  morally  most  res- 
olute, physically  he  was  not  brave — "gentle- 
men, I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me— this  child 
is  my  son  I  " 


"  But  Art  is  his  mother,"  replied  a  tall  raw- 
boned  young  man,  with  long  tawny  hair 
streaming  down  from  a  hat  very  much  bat- 
tered. "  At  the  juvenile  age,  the  child  is 
consigned  to  the  mother  !  Have  I  said  it  ?  " 
and  he  turned  round  theatrically  to  his  com- 
rades. 

"  Bravo  I "  cried  the  rest,  clapping  their 
hands. 

"  Down  with  all  tyrants  and  fathers — hip, 
hip,  hurrah  I  "  and  the  hideous  diapasion 
nearly  split  the  drum  of  the  ears  into  which  it 
resounded. 

"  Gabriel,"  whispered  the  father,  you  had 
better  follow  me,  had  you  not?  Reflect!" 
So  saying,  he  bowed  low  to  the  un propitious 
assembly,  and,  as  if  yieldng  the  victory, 
stepped  aside,  and  crossed  over  towards  Bond- 
street. 

Before  the  din  of  derision  and  triumph 
died  away,  Dalibard  looked  back  and  saw 
Gabriel  behind  him. 

"Approach,  Sir,"  he  said,  and  as  the  boy 
stood  still,  he  added;  "  I  promise  peace,  if  you 
will  accept  it." 

"  Peace,  then  !  "  answered  Gabriel,  and  he 
joined  his  father's  side. 

"  So,"  said  Dalibard,  "  when  I  consented  to 
your  studying  Art,  as  you  call  it,  under  your 
mother's  most  respectable  brother,  I  ought  to 
have  contemplated  what  would  be  the  natural 
and  becoming  companions  of  the  rising  Raf- 
faele  I  have  given  to  the  world." 

"I  own,  sir,"  replied  Gabriel,  demurely, 
"  that  they  are  riotous  fellows,  but  some  of 

them  are  clever,  and " 

"And  excessively'drunk,"  interrupted  Dali- 
bard, examining  the  gait  of  his  son.  "  Do 
you  learn  that  accomplishment  also,  by  way  of 
steadying  your  hand  for  the  easel  ?  " 

"  No,  sir;  I  like  wine  well  enough,  but  I 
would  not  be  drunk  for  the  world.  I  see 
people  when  they  are  drunk  are  mere  fools 
—let  out  their  secrets,  and  show  themselves 
up." 

"  Well  said,"  replied  the  father  almost 
admiringly;  "  but  a  truce  with  this  bantering, 
Gabriel.  Can  you  imagine  that  I  will  permit 
you  any  longer  to  remain  with  that  vagabond 
Varney,  and  yon  crew  of  Vauriens  1  You  will 
come  home  with  me;  and  if  you  must  be  a 
painter,  I  will  look  out  for  a  more  trustworthy 
master." 


56o 


BULWERS     WORKS. 


"  I  shall  stay  where  I  am,"  answered  Gabriel, 
firmly,  and  compressing  his  lips  with  a  force 
that  left  them  bloodless. 

"  What,  boy  ?  do  I  hear  right  ?  Dare  you 
disobey  me  ?     Dare  you  defy  ?  " 

"  Not  in  your  house,  so  I  will  not  enter  it 
again." 

Dalibard  laughed,  mockingly. 

"  Peste  I  but  this  is  modest !  You  are  not  of 
age,  yet,  Mr.  Varney; — you  are  not  free  from 
a  fathers  tyrannical  control." 

"  The  law  does  not  own  you  as  my  father, 

I    am    told,    sir;    you    have    said    my    name 

■  rightly — it  is  Varney,  not  Dalibard.     We  have 

no  rights  over  each  other;  so  at  least  says  Tom 

Passmore,  and  his  father's  a  lawyer  !  " 

Dalibard's  hand  griped  his  son's  arm  fiercely. 
Despite  his  pain,  which  was  acute,  the  child  ut- 
tered no  cry;  but  he  growled  beneath  his 
teeth,  "  Beware  !  beware  ! — or  my  mother's 
son  may  avenge  her  death  !  " 

Dalibard  removed  his  hand,  and  staggered 
as  if  struck.  Gliding  from  his  side,  Gabriel 
seized  the  occasion  to  escape;  he  paused,  how- 
ever, midway  in  the  dull  lamp-lit  kennel,  when 
he  saw  himself  out  of  reach,  and  then  ap- 
proaching cautiously,  said — "  I  know  I  am  a 
boy,  but  you  have  made  me  man  enough  to 
take  care  of  myself.  Mr.  Varney,  my  uncle, 
will  maintain  me — when  of  age,  old  Sir  Miles 
has  provided  for  me.  Leave  me  in  peace — 
treat  me  as  free;  and  I  will  visit  you,  help  you 
when  you  want  me — obey  you  still, — yes,  fol- 
low your  instructions;  for  I  know  you  are  " — 
he  paused — "  you  are  itiise;  but  if  you  seek 
again  to  make  me  your  slave,  you  will  only 
find  me  your  foe.  Goocf  night;  and  remem- 
ber that  a  bastard  has  no  father  ! " 

With  these  words  he  moved  on,  and  hurry- 
ing down  the  street,  turned  the  corner,  and 
vanished. 

Dalibard  remained  motionless  for  some 
minutes — at  length,  he  muttered,  "  Ay,  let 
him  go,  he  is  dangerous  ! — What  son  ever 
revolted  even  from  the  worst  father,  and  throve 
in  life  ? — Food  for  the  gibbet  !  What  mat- 
ters ?  " 

When  next  Dalibard  visited  Lucretia,  his 
manner  was  changed — the  cheerfulness  he  had 
before  assumed  gave  place  to  a  kind  of  melan- 
choly compassion;  he  no  longer  entered  into 
her  plans  for  the  future,  but  would  look  at  her 
mournfully,    start    up,  and    walk   away.     She 


would  have  attributed  the  change  to  some 
return  of  his  ancient  passion,  but  she  heard 
him  once  murmur  with  unspeakable  pity, 
"  Poor  child — poor  child  !  "  A  vague  appre- 
hension seized  her — first,  indeed,  caught  from 
some  remarks  dropped  by  Mr.  Fielden,  which 
were  less  discreet  than  Dalibard  had  recom- 
mended. A  day  or  two  afterwards,  she  asked 
Mainwaring,  carelessly,  "  why  he  had  never 
spoken  to  her  at  Laughton  of  his  acquaintance 
with  Fielden." 

"  You  asked  me  that  before,"  he  said  some- 
what sullenly. 

"  Did  I  ?  I  forget  !  But  how  was  it  ?  Tell 
me  again." 

"I  scarcely  know,"  he  replied,  confusedly; 
"  we  were  always  talking  of  each  other,  or  poor 
Sir  Miles — our  own  hopes  and  fears." 

This  was  true,  and  a  lover's  natural  excuse. 
In  the  present  of  love  all  the  past  is  forgotten. 

"  Still,"  said  Lucretia,  with  her  sidelong 
glance — "  still,  as  you  must  have  seen  much 
of  my  own  sister " 

Mainwaring,  while  she  spoke,  was  at  work 
on  a  button  on  his  gaiter — (gaiters  were  then 
worn  tight  at  the  ancle) — the  effort  brought 
the  blood  to  his  forehead. 

"  But,"  he  said,  still  stooping  at  his  occupa- 
tion, "  you  were  so  little  intimate  with  your 
sister, — I  feared  to  offend.  Family  differ- 
ences are  so  difficult  to  approach." 

Lucretia  was  satisfied  at  the  moment.  For 
so  vast  was  her  stake  in  Mainwaring's  heart, 
so  did  her  whole  heart  and  soul  grapple  to  the 
rock  left  serene  amidst  the  deluge,  that  she 
habitually  and  resolutely  thrust  from  her  mind 
all  the  doubts  that  at  times  invaded  it. 

"I  know,"  she  would  often  say  to  herself — 
"  I  know  he  does  not  love  as  I  do — but  man 
never  can,  never  ought  to  love  as  woman  1 
Were  I  a  man,  I  should  scorn  myself  if  I 
could  be  so  absorbed  in  one  emotion  as  I 
am  proud  to  be  now — I,  poor  woman  ! — I 
know,"  again  she  would  think, — "  I  know  how 
suspicious  and  distrustful  I  am — I  must  not 
distrust  him — I  shall  only  irritate — I  may  lose 
him:  I  dare  not  distrust — it  would  be  too* 
dreadful." 

Thus,  as  a  system  vigorously  embraced 
by  a  determined  mind,  she  had  schooled 
and  forced  herself  into  reliance  on  her  lover. 
His  words  now,  we  say,  satisfied  her  at  the 
moment;  but  afterwards,  in  absence,  they  were 


LUCRETIA. 


561 


recalled,  in  spite  of  herself — in  the  midst  of 
fears,  shapeless  and  undefined.  Involuntarily 
she  began  to  examine  the  countenance,  the 
movements,  of  her  sister — to  court  Susan's 
society  more  than  she  had  done — for  her  previ- 
ous indifference  had  now  deepened  into  bitter- 
ness. Susan,  the  neglected  and  despised,  had 
become  her  equal — nay,  more  than  her  equal 
— Susan's  children  would  have  precedence  to 
her  own  in  the  heritage  of  Laughton  !  Hith- 
erto she  had  never  deigned  to  talk  to  her  in 
the  sweet  familiarity  of  sisters  so  placed — 
never  deigned  to  confide  to  her  those  feelings 
for  her  future  husband,  which  burned  lone  and 
ardent  in  the  close  vault  of  her  guarded  heart. 
Now,  however,  she  began  to  name  him,  wind 
her  arm  into  Susan's,  talk  of  love  and  home, 
and  the  days  to  come;  and  as  she  spoke  she 
read  the  workings  of  her  sister's  face.  That 
part  of  the  secret  grew  clear  almost  at  the  first 
glance.  Susan  loved — loved  William  Main- 
waring;  but  was  it  not  a  love  hopeless  and  un- 
returned  ?  Might  not  this  be  the  cause  that 
had  made  Mainwaring  so  reserved  ?  He 
might  have  seen,  or  conjectured,  a  conquest 
he  had  not  sought;  and  hence,  with  manly 
delicacy,  he  had  avoided  naming  Susan  to 
Lucretia;  and  now,  perhaps,  sought  the  ex- 
cuses which  at  times  had  chafed  and  wounded 
her  for  not  joining  the  household  circle.  If 
one  of  those  who  glance  over  these  pages 
chance  to  be  a  person  more  than  usually  able 
and  acute — a  person  who  has  loved  and  been 
deceived — he  or  she,  no  matter  which,  will 
perhaps  recall  those  first  moments  when  the 
doubt,  long  put  off,  insisted  to  be  heard;  a 
weak  and  foolish  heart  gives  way  to  the  doubt 
at  once,  not  so  the  subtler  and  more  powerful; 
it  rather,  on  the  contrary,  recalls  all  the  little 
circumstances  that  justify  trust  and  make 
head  against  suspicion;  it  will  not  render  the 
citadel  at  the  mere  sound  of  the  trumpet;  it 
arms  all  its  forces,  and  bars  its  gates  on  the 
foe. 

Hence  it  is,  that  the  person  most  easy  to 
dupe  in  matters  of  affection  are  usually  those 
most  astute  in  the  larger  affairs  of  life. 
Moliere,  reading  every  riddle  in  the  vast  com- 
plexities of  human  character,  and  clinging,  in 
self-imposed  credulity,  to  his  profligate  wife, 
is  a  type  of  a  striking  truth.  Still,  a  forebod- 
ing, a  warning  instinct  withheld  Lucretia  from 
pi  umbing  farther  into  the  deeps  of  her  own  fears. 

6.-36 


So  horrible  was  the  thought  that  she  had  been 
deceived,  that  rather  than  face  it,  she  would 
have  preferred  to  deceive  herself.  This  poor 
bad  heart  shrunk  from  inquiry — it  trembled  at 
the  idea  of  condemnation.  She  hailed  with  a 
sentiment  of  release  that  partook  of  rapture, 
Susan's  abrupt  announcement  one  morning, 
that  she  had  accepted  an  invitation  from  some 
relations  of  her  father,  to  spend  some  time  with 
them  at  their  villa  near  Hampstead;  she  was 
to  go  the  end  of  the  week,  l^ucretia  hailed  it, 
though  she  saw  the  cause.  Susan  shrank  from 
the  name  of  Mainwaring  on  Lucretia's  lips — 
shrank  from  the  familiar  intercourse  so  ruth- 
lessly forced  on  her  !  With  a  bright  eye,  that 
day,  Lucretia  met  her  lover;  yet  she  would  not 
tell  him  of  Susan's  intended  departure — she 
had  not  the  courage 

Dalibard  was  foiled.  This  contradiction  in 
Lucretia's  temper — so  suspicious — so  deter- 
mined— puzzled  even  his  penetration.  He 
saw  that  bolder  tactics  were  required.  He 
waylaid  Mainwaring  on  the  young  man's  way 
to  his  lodgings,  and,  after  talking  to  him  on 
indifferent  matters,  asked  him  carelessly, 
whether  he  did  not  think  Susan  far  gone  in  a 
decline.  Affecting  not  to  notice  the  convul- 
sive start  with  which  the  question  was  re- 
ceived, he  went  on — 

"There  is  evidently  something  on  her  mind 
— I  observe  that  her  eyes  are  often  red  as 
with  weeping — poor  girl  ! — perhaps  some  silly 
love  affair.  However,  we  shall  not  see  her 
again  before  your  marriage;  she  is  going  away 
in  a  day  or  two;  the  change  of  air  may  possi- 
bly yet  restore  her:  I  own,  though,  I  fear  the 
worst.  At  this  time  of  the  year,  and  in  your 
climate,  such  complaints  as  I  take  hers  to  be 
are  rapid.  Good  day.  We  may  meet  this 
evening." 

Terror-stricken  at  these  barbarous  words, 
Mainwaring  no  sooner  reached  his  lodgings 
than  he  wrote  and  despatched  a  note  to 
Fielden,  entreating  him  to  call. 

The  Vicar  obeyed  the  summons,  and  found 
Mainwaring  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on 
distraction;  nor  when  Susan  was  named  did 
Fielden's  words  take  the  shape  of  comfort; 
for  he  himself  was  seriously  alarmed  for  her 
health;  the  sound  of  her  low  cough  rang  in 
his  ears,  and  he  rather  heightened  than  re- 
moved the  picture  which  haunted  Mainwaring 
Susan,  stricken,  dying,  broken-hearted  ! 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS. 


Tortured  both  in  heart  and  conscience, 
Mainwaring  felt  as  if  he  had  but  one  wish  left 
in  the  world — to  see  Susan  once  more  !  What 
to  say,  he  scarce  knew;  but  for  her  to  depart 
—depart,  perhaps,  to  her  grave,  believing  him 
coldly  indifferent — for  her  not  to  know,  at 
least,  his  struggles,  and  pronounce  his  pardon, 
was  a  thought  beyond  endurance.  After  such 
an  interview  both  would  have  new  fortitude — 
each  would  unite  in  encouraging  the  other  in 
the  only  step  left  to  honor.  And  this  desire 
he  urged  upon  Fielden  with  all  the  eloquence 
of  passionate  grief,  as  he  entreated  him  to 
permit  and  procure  one  last  conference  with 
Susan.  But  this,  the  plain  sense  and  straight- 
forward conscience  of  the  good  man  long  re- 
fused. If  Mainwaring  had  been  left  in  the 
position  to  explain  his  heart  to  Lucretia,  it 
would  not  have  been  for  Fielden  to  object; 
but  to  have  a  clandestine  interview  with  one 
sister  while  betrothed  to  the  other,  bore  in  it- 
self a  character  too  equivocal  to  meet  with  the 
simple  Vicar's  approval. 

"  What  can  you  apprehend  ? "  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  almost  fiercely — for,  harassed  and 
tortured,  his  mild  nature  was  driven  to  bay. 
"  Can  you  suppose  that  I  shall  encourage  my 
own  misery  by  the  guilty  pleadings  of  unavail- 
ing love  ?  All  that  I  ask  is  the  luxury — yes, 
the  luxury,  long  unknown  to  me,  of  candor — 
to  place  fairly  and  manfully  before  Susan  the 
])Osition  in  which  fate  has  involved  me.  Can 
you  suppose  that  we  shall  not  both  take  com- 
fort and  strength  from  each  other  ?  Our  duty 
is  plain  and  obvious;  but  it  grows  less  painful, 
encouraged  by  the  lips  of  a  companion  in 
suffering.  I  tell  you  fairly,  that  see  Susan  I 
will  and  must.  I  will  watch  round  her  home 
wherever  it  be — hour  after  hour — come  what 
may,  I  will  find  my  occasion.  Is  it  not  better 
that  the  interview  should  be  under  your  roof, 
within  the  same  walls  which  shelter  her  sister? 
There,  the  place  itself  imposes  restraint  on 
despair.  Oh,  sir,  this  is  no  time  for  formal 
scruples — be  merciful,  I  beseech  you,  not  to 
me,  but  to  Susan.  I  judge  of  her  by  myself. 
I  know  that  I  shall  go  to  the  altar  more  re- 
signed to  the  future,  if  for  once  I  can  give 
vent  to  what  weighs  upon  my  heart.  She  will 
then  see  as  I  do,  that  the  path  before  me  is 
inevitable,  she  will  compose  herself  to  face  the 
fate  that  compels  us.  We  shall  swear  tacitly 
to  each    other,  not   to  love,  but   to   conquer 


love.  Believe  me,  sir,  I  arn  not  selfish  in  this 
prayer:  an  instinct,  the  intuition  which  human 
grief  has  into  the  secrets  of  human  grief,  as- 
sures me  that  that  which  I  ask,  is  the  best 
consolation  you  can  afford  to  Susan.  You 
own  she  is  ill — suffering.  Are  not  your  fears 
for  her  very  life — O  Heaven,  for  her  very  life 
— gravely  awakened  ?  And  yet  you  see,  we 
have  been  silent  to  each  other  !  Can  speech 
be  more  fatal  in  its  results  than  silence  ?  Oh, 
for  her  sake  hear  me  !  " 

The  good  man's  tears  fell  fast — his  scruples 
were  shaken;  there  was  truth  in  what  Main- 
waring urged.  He  did  not  yield;  but  he 
promised  to  reflect,  and  inform  Mainwaring, 
by  a  line,  in  the  evening.  Finding  this  was 
all  he  could  effect,  the  young  man  at  last  suf- 
fered him  to  leave  the  house,  and  Fielden 
hastened  to  take  counsel  of  Dalibard;  that 
wily  persuader  soon  reasoned  away  Mr. 
Fielden's  last  faint  objection — it  now  only  re- 
mained to  procure  Susan's  assent  to  the  inter- 
view, and  to  arrange  that  it  should  be  undis- 
turbed. Mr.  Fielden  should  take  out  the 
children  the  next  morning.  Dalibard  volun- 
teered to  contrive  the  absence  of  Lucre- 
tia at  the  hour  appointed.  Mrs.  Fielden, 
alone,  should  remain  within,  and  might,  if  it 
were  judged  proper,  be  present  at  the  inter- 
view, which  was  fixed  for  the  forenoon  in  the 
usual  drawing-room.  Nothing  but  Susan's 
consent  was  now  necessar}',  and  Mr.  Fielden 
ascended  to  her  room.  He  knocked  twice — no 
sweet  voice  bade  him  enter;  he  opened  the 
door  gently — Susan  was  in  prayer.  At  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  room,  by  the  side  of  her 
bed,  she  knelt,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands, 
and  he  heard,  low  and  indistinct,  the  murmur 
broken  by  the  sob.  But,  gradually,  and,  as 
he  stood  unpreceived,  sob  and  murmur  ceased 
— prayer  had  its  customary  and  blessed  effect 
with  the  pure  and  earnest.  And  when  Susan 
rose,  though  the  tears  yet  rolled  down  her 
cheeks,  the  face  was  serene  as  an  angel's. 

The  pastor  approached,  and  took  her  hand; 
— a  blush  then  broke  over  her  countenance — 
she  trembled,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the  ground. 
"My  child,"  he  said  solemnly,  "God  will  hear 
you  !  "  And,  after  those  words,  there  was  a 
long  silence.  He  then  drew  her  passively 
towards  a  seat,  and  sate  down  by  her  embar- 
rassed how  to  begin.  At  length,  he  said, 
looking   somewhat   aside,    "  Mr.    Mainwaiin;^ 


LUCRETIA. 


563 


has  made  me  a  request — a  prayer  which  re- 
lates to  you,  and  which  I  refer  to  you.  He 
asks  you  to  grant  him  an  interview,  before 
you  leave  us — to-morrow,  if  you  will.  I  re- 
fused at  first — I  am  in  doubt  still;  for,  my 
dear,  I  have  always  found  that,  when  the 
feelings  move  us,  our  duty  becomes  less  clear 
to  the  human  heart — corrupt,  we  know^but 
still  it  is  often  a  safer  guide  than  our  reason; 
I  never  knew  reason  unerring,  except  in  mathe- 
matics; we  have  no  Euclid  (and  the  good  man 
smiled  mournfully)  in  the  problems  of  real 
life;  I  will  not  urge  you  one  way  or  the  other 
— I  put  the  case  before  you.  Would  it,  as 
the  young  man  says,  give  you  comfort  and 
strength  to  see  him  once  again  while,  while — 
in  short,  before  your  sister  is — I  mean  before 
— that  is,  would  it  soothe  you  n<nv,  to  have  an 
unreserved  communicatir)n  with  him?  He 
implores  it. — What  shall  I  answer?" 

"This  trial,  too  !  "  muttered  Susan,  almost 
inaudibly — "  this  trial  which  I  once  yearned 
for" — and  the  hand  clasped  in  Fielden's  was 
as  cold  as  ice;  then,  turning  her  eyes  to  her 
guardian  somewhat  wildly,  she  cried,  "  But  to 
what  end  ?  what  object  ?  why  should  he  wish  to 
see  me  ?" 

"To  take  greater  courage  to  do  his  duty— 
to  feel  less  unhappy  at — at " 

"  1  will  see  him,"  interrupted  Susan,  firmly, 
"  he  is  right,  it  will  strengthen  both — I  will  see 
him  !  " 

"  But  human  nature  is  weak,  my  child ;  if  my 
heart  be  so  now,  what  will  be  yours  ?  " 

"  Fear  me  not,"  answered  Susan,  with  a  sad 
wandering  smile;  and  she  repeated  vacantly, 
"  I  will  see  him  !  " 

The  good  man  looked  at  her,  threw  his  arms 
round  her  wasted  form,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes, 
his  lips  stirred  with  such  half-syllabled  words 
as  fathers  breathe  on  high. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 


The  Discovery. 


Dalibard  had  undertaken  to  get  Lucretia 
from  the  house;  in  fact,  her  approaching 
marriage  rendered  necessary  a  communication 
with  Mr.  Parchmount,  as  executor  to  her 
uncle's  will,   relative   to   the  transfer   of  her 


portion;  and  she  had  asked  Dalibard  to  ac- 
company her  thither,  for  her  pride  shrank  from 
receiving  the  lawyer  in  the  shabby  parlor  of 
the  shabby  lodging-house;  she  therefore,  that 
evening,  fi.xed  the  next  day,  before  noon,  for 
the  visit.  A  carriage  was  hired  for  the  occa- 
sion, and,  when  it  drove  off,  Mr.  Fielden  took 
his  children  a  walk  to,  Primrose  Hill,  and 
called,  as  was  agreed,  on  Mainwaring  by  the 
way. 

The  carriage  had  scarcely  rattled  fifty  yards 
through  the  street  when  Dalibard  fixed  his 
eyes,  with  deep  and  solemn  commiseration,  on 
Lucretia.  Hitherto,  with  masterly  art,  he  had 
kept  aloof  from  direct  explanations  with  his 
pupil;  he  knew  that  she  would  distrust  no  one 
like  himself.  The  plot  was  now  ripened,  and 
it  was  time  for  the  main  agent  to  conduct  the 
catastrophe.  The  look  was  so  expressive 
that  Lucretia  felt  a  chill  at  her  heart,  and 
could  not  help  exclaiming,  "  What  has  hap- 
pened ?  you  have  some  terrible  tidings  to 
communicate  ? " 

"  1  have  indeed  to  say  that  which  may,  per- 
haps, cause  you  to  hate  me  for  ever;  as  we 
hate  those  who  report  our  afflictons.  I  must 
endure  this;  I  have  struggled  lopg  between 
my  indignation  and  my  compassion.  Rouse 
up  your  strong  mind,  and  hear  me.  Mainwar- 
ing loves  your  sister  !  " 

Lucretia  uttered  a  cry  that  seemed  scarcely 
to  come  from  a  human  voice — 

"No — no  !"  she  gasped  out,  "do  not  tell 
me.  I  will  hear  no  more — I  will  not  believe 
you  ! " 

With  an  inexpressible  pity  and  softness  in 
his  tone,  this  man,  whose  career  had  given 
him  such  profound  experience  in  the  frailties 
of  the  human  heart,  continued:  "I  do  not  ask 
you  to  believe  me,  Lucretia;  I  would  not  now 
speak,  if  you  had  not  the  opportunity  to  con- 
vince yourself;  even  those  with  whom  you  live 
are  false  to  you;  at  this  moment,  they  have 
arranged  all,  for  Mainwaring  to  steal,  in  your 
absence,  to  your  sister;  in  a  few  moments 
more  he  will  be  with  her,  if  you  yourself 
would  learn  what  passes  between  them,  you 
have  the  power." 

"  I  have — I  have  not — not — the  courage; 
— drive  on — -faster— faster." 

Dalibard  again  was  foiled.  In  this  strange 
cowardice,  there  was  something  so  terrible, 
yet  so  touching,  that  it  became   sublime — it 


5^4 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


was  the  grasp  of  a  drowning  soul  at  the  last 
plank. 

"You  are  right,  perhaps,"  he  said  after  a 
pause;  and  wisely  forbearing  all  taunt  and  re- 
sistance, he  left  the  heart  to  its  own  work- 
ings. 

Suddenly  Lucretia  caught  at  the  check- 
string — "  Stop,"  she  exclaimed — "  stop  !  I 
will  not,  I  cannot  endure  this  suspense,  to  last 
through  a  life  !  I  will  learn  the  worst.  Bid 
him  drive  back." 

"We  must  descend  and  walk;  you  forget 
we  must  enter  unsuspected;  and  Dalibard,  as 
the  carriage  stopped,  opened  the  door,  and  let 
down  the  steps. 

"Lucretia  recoiled,  then  pressing  one  hand 
to  her  heart,  she  descended  without  touch- 
ing the  arm  held  out  to  her. 

Dalibard  bade  the  coachman  wait,  and  they 
walked  back  to  the  house. 

"  Yes,  he  may  see  her,"  exclaimed  Lucretia, 
her  face  brightening.  "  Ah,  there  you  have 
not  deceived  me;  I  see  your  stratagem — I 
despise  it;  I  know  she  loves  him;  she  has 
sought  this  interview.  He  is  so  mild  and 
gentle,  so  fearful  to  give  pain;  he  has  con- 
sented, from  pity — that  is  ail.  Is  he  not 
pledged  ?  He,  so  candid,  so  ingenuous ! 
There  must  be  truth  somewhere  in  the  world. 
If  he  is  false,  where  find  truth  ?  Dark  man, 
must  I  look  for  it  in  you  ? — you  !  " 

"It  is  not  my  truth  I  require  you  to  test;  I 
pretend  not  to  truth  universal;  I  can  be  true 
to  one,  as  you  may  yet  discover:  but  I  own 
your  belief  is  not  impossible;  my  interest  in 
you  may  have  made  me  rash  and  unjust — 
what  you  may  over-hear,  far  from  destroying, 
may  confirm  for  ever  your  happiness.  Would 
that  it  may  be  so  !  " 

"  It  must  be  so,"  returned  Lucretia,  with  a 
fearful  gloom  on  her  brow  and  in  her  accent; 
"  I  will  interpret  every  word  to  my  own  salva- 
tion." 

Dalibard's  countenance  Changed,  despite  his 
usual  control  over  it.  He  had  set  all  his 
chances  upon  this  cast,  and  it  was  more 
hazardous  than  he  had  deemed.  He  had 
counted  too  much  upon  the  jealousy  of  com- 
mon natures.  After  all,  how  little  to  the  ear 
of  one  resolved  to  deceive  herself  might  pass 
between  these  young  persons,  meeting  not  to 
avow  attachment,  but  to  take  courage  from 
each  other !  what  restraint  might  they  impose 


on   their  feelings  !     Still   the  game  must  be 
played  out. 

As  they  now  neared  the  house,  Dalibard 
looked  carefully  round,  least  they  should  en- 
counter Mainwaring  on  his  way  to  it.  He  had 
counted  on  arriving  before  the  young  man 
could  get  there. 

"  But,"  said  Lucretia,  breaking  silence  with 
an  ironical  smile — "  but  (for  your  tender  anx- 
iety for  me  has,  no  doubt,  provided  all  means 
and  contrivance,  all  necessary  aids  to  base- 
ness and  eaves-dropping,  that  can  assure  my 
happiness),  how  am  I  to  be  present  at  this 
interview  ?" 

'■  I  have  provided,  as  you  say,"  answered 
Dalibard,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  deeply  hurt 
"those  means  which  I,  who  have  found  the 
world  one  foe  and  one  traitor,  deemed  the  best, 
to  distinguish  falsehood  from  truth.  I  have- 
arranged  that  we  shall  enter  the  house  unsus- 
pected. Mainwaring  and  your  sister  will  be 
in  the  drawing-room — the  room  next  to  it  will 
be  vacant,  as  Mr.  Fielden  is  from  home;  there 
is  but  a  glass  door  between  the  two  chambers." 

"  Enough,  enough  !  "  and  Lucretia  turned 
round,  and  placed  her  hand  lightly  on  the  Pro- 
venfal's  arm.  "  The  next  hour  will  decide 
whether  the  means  you  suggest,  to  learn  truth 
and  defend  safety,  will  be  familiar  or  loath- 
some to  me  for  life — will  decide  whether  trust 
is  a  madness — whether  you,  my  youth's  teacher, 
are  the  wisest  of  men,  or  only  the  most  danger- 
ous." 

"Believe  me,  or  not,  when  I  say,  I  would 
rather  the  decision  should  condemn  me;  for  I, 
too,  have  need  of  confidence  in  men." 

Nothing  further  was  said ;  the  dull  street  was 
quiet  and  desolate  as  usual.  Dalibard  had 
taken  with  him  the  key  of  the  house-door. 
The  door  opened  noiselessly — they  were  in  the 
house.  Mainwaring's  cloak  was  in  the  hall; 
he  had  arrived  a  few  moments  before  them. 
Dalibard  pointed  silently  to  that  evidence  in 
favor  of  his  tale.  Lucretia  bowed  her  head, 
but  with  a  look  that  implied  defiance;  and 
(still  without  a  word)  she  ascended  the  stairs, 
and  entered  the  room  appointed  for  conceal- 
ment. But  as  she  entered,  at  the  further 
corner  of  the  chamber  she  saw  Mrs.  Fielden 
seated — seated,  remote  and  out  of  hearing. 
The  good-natured  woman  had  yielded  to 
Mainwaring's  prayer,  and  Susan's  silent  look 
that  enforced  it,  to  let  their  interview  be  un- 


LUCRETIA. 


565 


witnessed.  She  did  not  perceive  Lucretia  till 
the  last  walked  glidingly,  but  firmly,  up  to  her, 
placed  a  burning  hand  on  her  lips,  and  whis- 
pered— "  Hush,  betray  me  not;  my  happiness 
for  life' — Susan's — his — are  at  stake  !  I  must 
hear  what  passes;  it  is  my  fate  that  is  decid- 
ing. Hush — I  command  ! — for  I  have  the 
right  !  " 

Mrs.  Fielden  was  awed  and  startled;  and 
before  she  could  recover  even  breath,  Lucretia 
had  quitted  her  side,  and  taken  her  post  at  the 
fatal  door.  She  lifted  the  corner  of  the  cur- 
tain from  the  glass  panel,  and  looked  in. 

Mainwaring  was  seated  at  a  little  distance 
from  Susan,  whose  face  was  turned  from  her. 
Mainwaring's  countenance  was  in  full  view. 
But  it  was  Susan's  voice  that  met  her  ear; 
and  though  sweet  and  low,  it  was  distinct,  and 
even  firm.  It  was  evident  from  the  words  that 
the  conference  had  but  just  begun. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Mainwaring,  you  have  nothing 
to  explain — nothing  of  which  to  accuse  your- 
self.    It  was  not  for  this,  believe   me  " — and 
here  Susan  turned  her  face,  and  its  aspect  of 
heavenly  innocence  met  the  dry  lurid  eye  of  the 
unseen  witness — "  not  for  this,  believe  me,  that 
I  consented  to  see  you.     If  I  did  so,  it  was 
only  because  I  thought — because  I  feared  from 
your  manner,  when  we  met  at  times,  still  more 
from  your  evident  avoidance  to  meet  me  at  all,  ( 
that  you  were  unhappy  (for  I  know  you  kind  | 
and  honest);  unhappy  at  the  thought  that  you 
had  wounded  me,  and  my  heart  could  not  bear  | 
that,  nor,  perhaps,  my  pride  either.     That  you 
should  have  forgotten  me " 

"  Forgotten  you  !  " 

"  That  you  should  have  been  captivated  " 
(continued  Susan,  in  a  more  hurried  tone) 
"by  one  so  superior  to  me  in  all  things  as 
Lucretia,  is  very  natural.  I  thought,  then — 
thought  only — that  nothing  could  cloud  your 
happiness  but  some  reproach  of  a  conscience 
too  sensitive.  For  this  I  have  met  you — met 
you  without  a  thought  which  Lucretia  would 
have  a  right  to  blame,  could  she  read  my 
heart;  met  you  (and  the  voice  for  the  first 
time  faltered),  that  I  might  say,  'Be  at  peace: 
it  is  your  sister  that  addresses  you.  Requite 
Lucretia's  love — it  is  deep  and  strong;  give 
her  as  she  gives  to  you — a  whole  heart, 
and  in  your  happiness,  I,  your  sister — sis- 
ter to  both—/  shall  be  blest.'  "  With  a 
smile  inexpressibly   touching  and  ingenuous, 


she  held  out  her  hand  as  she  ceased.  Main- 
waring sprang  forward,  and,  despite  her  strug- 
gle, pressed  it  to  his  lips — his  heart. 

"  Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  in  broken  accents, 
which  gradually  became  more  clear  and  loud, 
"  what — what  have  I  lost  ! — loved  for  ever  ! 
No,  no,  I  will  be  worthy  of  you  !  I  do  not — 
I  dare  not  say  that  I  love  you  still  !  I  feel 
what  I  owe  to  Lucretia.  How  I  became  first 
ensnared,  infatuated;  how,  with  your  image 
graven  so  deeply  here " 

"  Mainwaring — Mr.  Mainwaring — I  must 
not  hear  you.     Is  this  your  promise  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  must  hear  me  yet.  How  I  be- 
came engaged  to  your  sister — so  different,  in- 
deed, from  you — I  start  in  amaze  and  bewil- 
derment when  I  seek  to  conjecture.  But  so  it 
was.  For  me  she  has  forfeited  fortune,  rank 
— all  which  that  proud,  stern  heart  so  prized 
and  coveted.  Heaven  is  my  witness  how  I 
have  struggled  to  repay  her  affection  with  my 
own;  if  I  cannot  succeed,  at  least,  all  that 
faith  and  gratitude  can  give  are  hers.  Yes; 
when  I  leave  you,  comforted  by  your  forgive- 
ness, your  prayers,  I  shall  have  strength  to 
tear  you  from  my  heart — it  is  my  duty — my 
fate.  With  a  firm  step  I  will  go  to  these  ab- 
horred nuptials.  Oh,  shudder  not;  turn  not 
away!  Forgive  the  word;  but  I  must  speak 
— my  heart  will  out — yes,  abhorred  nuptials  ! 
Between  my  grave  and  the  altar,  would — 
would  that  I  had  a  choice  !  " 

From  this  burst,  which  in  vain  from  time  to 
time  Susan  had  sought  to  check,  Mainwaring 
was  startled  by  an  apparition  which  froze  his 
veins,  as  a  ghost  from  the  grave.  The  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  Lucretia  stood  in  the 
aperture — stood,  gazing  on  him,  face  to  face; 
and  her  own  was  so  colorless,  so  rigid,  so 
locked  in  its  livid  and  awful  solemnity  of  as- 
pect, that  it  was,  indeed,  as  one  risen  from 
the  dead. 

Dismayed  by  the  abrupt  cry,  and  the 
changed  face  of  her  lover,  Susan  turned  and 
beheld  her  sister.  With  the  impulse  of  the 
pierced  and  loving  heart,  which  divined  all  the 
agony  inflicted,  she  sprang  to  Lucretia's  side 
— she  fell  to  the  ground,  and  clasped  her 
knees. 

"Do  not  heed — do  not  believe  him:  it  is 
but  the  frenzy  of  a  moment.  He  spoke  but 
to  deceive  me— w^,  who  loved  him  once  ! 
Mine  alone — mine  is  the  crime.     He  knows 


566 


B  UL  IVF.R'  S     WORKS. 


all  your  worth;  pity— pity— pity  on  yourself, 
on  him — on  me  !  " 

Lucretia's  eyes  fell  with  the  glare  of  a  fiend 
upon  the  imploring  face  lifted  to  her  own. 
Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  was  audible. 
At  length  she  drew  herself  from  her  sister's 
clasp,  and  walked  steadily  up  to  Mainwaring. 
She  surveyed  him  with  a  calm  and  cruel  gaze, 
as  if  she  enjoyed  his  shame  and  terror.  Be- 
fore, however,  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Fielden,  who 
had  watched,  as  one  spell-bound,  Lucretia's 
movements,  and  without  hearing  what  had 
passed,  had  the  full  foreboding  of  what  would 
ensue,  but  had  not  stirred  till  Lucretia  herself 
terminated  the  suspense,  and  broke  the  charm 
of  her  awe, — before  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Fielden 
rushed  in,  and  giving  vent  to  her  agitation  in 
loud  sobs,  as  she  threw  her  arms  round  Susan, 
who  was  still  kneeling  on  the  floor,  brought 
something  of  grotesque  to  the  more  tragic 
and  fearful  character  of  the  scene. 

"My  uncle  was  right;  there  is  neither 
courage  nor  honor  in  the  low-born  !  He,  the 
schemer,  too,  is  right.  All  hollow — all  false  !  " 
Thus  said  Lucretia,  with  a  strange  sort  of 
musing  accent,  at  first  scornful,  at  last  only 
quietly  abstracted.  "  Rise,  sir,"  she  then 
added,  with  her  most  imperious  tone;  "do 
you  not  hear  your  Susan  weep  ?  do  you  fear 
in  my  presence  to  console  her?  Coward  to 
her,  as  forsworn  to  me.    Go,  sir,  you  are  free  !  " 

"  Hear  me,"  faltered  Mainwaring,  attempt- 
ing to  seize  her  hand;  "  I  do  not  ask  you  to 
forgive;  but " 

"  Forgive,  sir  !  "  interrupted  Lucretia,  rear- 
ing her  head,  and  with  a  look  of  freezing  and 
unspeakable  majesty,  "  there  is  only  one  per- 
son here  who  needs  a  pardon;  but  her  fault 
is  inexpiable:  it  is  the  woman  who  stopped  be- 
neath her  ? " 

With  these  words,  hurled  from  her  with  a 
scorn  which  crushed,  while  it  galled,  she  me- 
chanically drew  round  her  form  her  black 
mantle;  her  eye  glanced  on  the  deep  mourn- 
ing of  the  garment,  and  her  memory  recalled 
all  that  that  love  had  cost  her;  but  she  added 
no  other  reproach.  Slowly  she  turned  away: 
passing  Susan,  who  lay  senseless  in  Mrs. 
Fielden's  arms,  she  paused,  and  kissed  her 
forehead. 

"  When  she  recovers,  madam,"  she  said,  to 
Mrs.  Fielden,  who  was  moved  and  astonished 
by  this  softness,  "  say,  that  Lucretia  Clavering 


uttered  a  vow,  when  she  kissed  the  brow  <.i 
William  Mainwaring's  future  wife  !  " 

Oliver  Dalibard  was  still  seated  in  the  parlor 
below  when  Lucretia  entered.  Her  face  yet 
retained  its  almost  unearthly  rigidity  and 
calm;  but  a  sort  of  darkness  had  come  over 
its  ashen  pallor — that  shade  so  indescribable 
which  is  seen  in  the  human  face,  after  long 
illness,  a  day  or  two  before  death.  Dalibard 
was  appalled,  for  he  had  too  often  seen  that 
hue  in  the  dying,  not  to  recognize  it  now. 
His  emotion  was  sufficiently  genuine  to  give 
more  than  usual  earnestness  to  his  voice  and 
gesture,  as  he  poured  out  every  word  that 
spoke  sympathy  and  soothing.  For  a  long 
time  Lucretia  did  not  seem  to  hear  him:  at 
last  her  face  softened — the  ice  broke. 

"  Motherless — friendless  —  lone — alone  for 
ever  —  undone  —  undone!"  she  murmured. 
Her  head  sunk  upon  the  shoulder  of  her  fear- 
ful counsellor,  unconscious  of  its  resting-place 
and  she  burst  into  tears — tears  which,  perhaps 
saved  her  reason  or  her  life. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

A  Soul  without  Hope. 

When  Mr.  Fielden  returned  home,  Lucretia 
had  quitted  the  house.  She  left  a  line  for 
him  in  her  usual  bold,  clear  handwriting,  re- 
ferring him  to  his  wife  for  explanation  of  the 
reasons  that  forbade  a  further  residence  be- 
neath his  roof.  She  had  removed  to  an  hotel, 
until  she  had  leisure  to  arrange  her  plans  for 
the  future.  In  a  few  months,  she  should  be 
of  age;  and  in  the  meanwhile,  who  now  living 
claimed  authority  over  her  ?  For  the  rest, 
she  added,  "  I  repeat  what  I  told  Mr.  Main- 
waring; all  engagement  between  us  is  at  an 
end;  he  will  not  insult  me  either  by  letter  or 
by  visit.  It  is  natural  that  I  should  at  present 
shrink  from  seeing  Susan  Mivers.  Hereafter, 
if  permitted,  I  will  visit  Mrs.  Mainwaring." 

Though  all  had  chanced  as  Mr.  Fielden  had 
desired  (if,  as  he  had  once  meditated,  he  had 
spoken  to  Lucretia  herself),  though  a  marriage 
that  could  have  brought  happiness  to  none, 
and  would  have  made  the  misery  of  two,  was 
at  an  end,  he  yet  felt  a  bitter  pang,  almost  of 
remorse,  when  he  learned  what  had  occurred. 


LUCRETIA. 


567 


And  Liicretia,  before  secretly  disliked  (if  any 
one  he  could  dislike),  became  dear  to  him  at 
once,  by  sorrow  and  compassion.  Forgetting 
every  other  person  he  hurried  to  the  hotel 
Lucretia  had  chosen,  but  her  coldness  de- 
ceived and  her  pride  repelled  him.  She  lis- 
tened drily  to  all  he  said,  and  merely  replied, 
"  I  feel  only  gratitude  at  my  eseape.  Let 
this  subject  now  close  forever." 

Mr.  Fielden  left  her  presence  with  less  anx- 
ious and  commiserating  feelings — perhaps  all 
had  chanced  for  the  best.  And,  on  returning 
home,  his  whole  mind  became  absorbed  in 
alarm  for  Susan.  She  was  delirious  and  in 
great  danger;  it  w-as  many  weeks  before  she 
recovered.  Meanwhile,  Lucretia  had  removed 
into  private  apartments,  of  which  she  withheld 
the  address.  During  this  time,  therefore,  they 
lost  sight  of  her. 

If,  amidst  the  punishments,  with  which  the 
sombre  imagination  of  poets  has  diversified 
the  Realm  of  the  tortured  Shadows,  it  had  de- 
picted some  soul  condemned  to  look  evermore 
down  into  an  abyss — all  change  to  its  gnze 
forbidden  —  chasm  upon  chasm,  yawning 
deeper  and  deeper,  darker  and  darker,  endless 
and  infinite;  so  that,  eternally  gazing,  the 
soul  became,  as  it  were,  a  part  of  the  abyss, 
such  an  image  would  smybol  forth  the  state  of 
Lucretia's  mind. 

It  was  not  the  mere  desolation  of  one  whom 
love  has  abandoned  and  betrayed.  In  the 
abyss,  were  mingled  ine.xtricably  together,  the 
gloom  of  the  past  and  of  the  future — there,  the 
broken  fortunes,  the  crushed  ambition,  the 
ruin  of  the  worldly  e.xpectations  long  insepar- 
able from  her  schemes;  and  amidst  them,  the 
angry  shade  of  the  more  than  father,  whose 
heart  she  had  wrung,  and  whose  old  age  she 
had  speeded  to  the  grave.  These  sacrifices  to 
love,  while  love  was  left  to  her,  might  have 
haunted  her  at  moments,  but  a  smile,  a  word, 
a  glance  banished  the  regret  and  the  remorse. 
Now,  love  being  raised  out  of  life,  the  ruins 
of  all  else  loomed  dismal  amidst  the  darkness; 
and  a  voice  rose  up,  whispering  "  Lo,  Fool  ! 
what  thou  hast  lost  because  thou  didst  be- 
lieve and  love  !  "  And  this  thought  grasped 
together  the  two  worlds  of  being— the  what 
has  been,  and  the  what  shall  be.  All  hope 
seemed  stricken  from  the  future  as  a  man 
strikes  from  the  calculations  of  his  income  the 
returns  from  a  property   irrevocably  lost.     At 


her  age,  but  few  of  her  sex  have  parted  with 
religion,  but  even  such  mechanical  faith  as  the 
lessons  of  her  childhood,  and  the  constrained 
conformities  with  Christian  ceremonies,  had 
instilled,  had  long  since  melted  away  in  the 
hard  scholastic  scepticism  of  her  fatal  tutor — 
a  scepticism  which  had  won,  with  little  effort, 
a  reason  delighting  in  the  maze  of  doubt,  and 
easily  narrowed  into  the  cramped  and  iron 
logic  of  disbelief,  by  an  intellect  that  scorned 
to  submit  where  it   failed  to  comprehend. 

Nor  had  faith  given  place  to  those  large 
moral  truths  from  which  philosophy  has  sought 
to  restore  the  proud  statue  of  pagan  Virtue  as 
a  substitute  for  the  meek  symbol  of  the  Chris- 
tian cross.  By  temperament  unsocial — nor 
readily  moved  to  the  genial  and  benevolent — 
that  absolute  egotism  in  which  Oliver  Dali- 
bard  centered  his  dreary  ethics,  seemed  sanc- 
tioned to  Lucretia  by  her  studies  into  the 
motives  of  man  and  the  history  of  the  world. 
She  had  read  the  chronicles  of  states  and  the 
memoirs  of  the  statesmen,  and  seen  how  craft 
carries  on  the  movements  of  an  age.  Those 
Viscontis,  Castruccios,  and  Medici — those 
Richelieus,  and  Mazarins,  and  de  Retz — those 
Loyolas,  and  Mahomets,  and  Cromwells — 
those  Monks  and  Godolphins — those  Marl- 
boroughs  and  Walpoles — those  founders  of 
history,  and  dynasties,  and  sects — those 
leaders  and  dupers  of  men,  greater  or  lesser, 
corrupters  or  corrupt — all  standing  out  prom- 
inent and  renowned  from  the  guiltless  and 
laurelless  obscure — seemed  to  -win,  by  the 
homage  of  posterity,  the  rewards  that  attend 
the  deceivers  of  their  time.  By  a  superb  ar- 
rogance of  generalization,  she  transferred  into 
private  life,  and  the  rule  of  commonplace  ac- 
tions, the  policy  that,  to  the  abasement  of 
honor,  has  so  often  triumphed  in  the  guidance 
of  states.  Therefore,  betimes,  the  whole 
frame  of  society  was  changed  to  her  eye,  from 
the  calm  aspect  it  wears  to  those  who  live 
united  with  their  kind — she  viewed  all  seem- 
ings  with  suspicion;  and  before  she  had  en- 
tered the  world,  prepared  to  live  in  it  as  a  con- 
spirator in  a  city  convulsed,  spying  and  espied, 
schemed  against  and  scheming — here  the 
crown  for  the  crafty,  there  the  axe  for  the  out 
witted. 

But  her  love,  for  love  is  trust,  had  led  her 
half  way  forth  from  this  maze  of  the  intellect. 
That  fair  youth  of  inexperience  and  candor, 


S68 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


which  seemed  to  bloom  out  in  the  face  of 
her  betrothed — his  very  shrinking  from  the 
schemes  so  natural  to  her,  that  to  her  they 
seemed  even  innocent — his  apparent  reliance 
on  mere  masculine  ability,  with  the  plain  aids 
of  perseverance  and  honesty — all  had  an  at- 
traction that  plucked  her  b^ck  from  herself. 
If  she  clung  to  him,  firmly,  blindly,  credu- 
lously, it  was  not  as  the  lover  alone.  In  the 
lover,  she  beheld  the  good  angel.  Had  he 
only  died  to  her— still  the  angel  smile  would 
have  survived  and  warned.  But  the  man  had 
not  died — the  angel  itself  had  deceived; — the 
wings  could  uphold  her  no  more — they  had 
touched  the  mire,  and  were  sullied  with  the 
soil; — with  the  stain,  was  forfeited  the  strength. 
All  was  deceit  and  hollowness  and  treachery. 
Lone  again  in  the  universe,  rose  the  eternal  /. 
So  down  into  the  abyss  she  looked,  depth  up- 
on depth,  and  the  darkness  had  no  relief,  and 
the  deep  had  no  end. 

Olivier  Dalibard  alone,  of  all  she  knew,  was 
admitted  to  her  seclusion.  He  played  his 
part  as  might  be  expected  from  the  singular 
patience  and  penetration  which  belonged  to 
genius  of  his  character. 

He  forbore  the  most  distant  allusion  to  his 
attachment  or  his  hopes.  He  evinced  sym- 
pathy rather,  by  imitating  her  silence,  than 
attempts  to  console.  When  he  spoke,  he 
sought  to  interest  her  mind,  more  than  to  heal 
directly  the  deep  wounds  of  her  heart.  There 
is  always  to  the  afflicted  a  certain  charm  in 
the  depth  and  bitterness  of  eloquent  misan- 
thropy. And  Dalibard,  who  professed  not  to 
be  a  man-hater,  but  a  world-scorner,  had 
powers  of  language  and  of  reasoning  commen- 
surate with  his  astute  intellect  and  his  pro- 
found research.  His  society  became  not  only 
a  relief,  it  grew  almost  a  want,  to  that  stern 
sorrower.  But,  whether  alarmed  or  not  by 
the  influence  she  felt  him  gradually  acquiring, 
or  whether,  through  some  haughty  desire  to 
rise  once  more  aloft  from  the  state  of  her 
rival  and  her  lover,  she  made  one  sudden  effort 
to  grasp  at  the  rank  from  which  she  had  been 
hurled.  The  only  living  person,  whose  con- 
nection could  reopen  to  her  the  great  world, 
with  its  splendors  and  its  scope  to  ambition, 
was  Charles  Vernon.  She  scarcely  admitted 
to  her  own  mind  the  idea  that  she  would  now 
accept,  if  offered,  the  suit  she  had  before 
despised — she  did   not  even  contemplate  the 


renewal  of  that  suit — though  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  gallant  and  disinterested  character 
of  Vernon  which  should  have  made  her  believe 
he  would  regard  their  altered  fortunes  rather 
as  a  claim  on  his  honor  than  a  release  to  his 
engagements. 

But  hitherto  no  communication  had  passed 
between  them,  and  this  was  strange  if  he  re- 
tained the  same  intentions  which  he  had  an- 
nounced at  Laughton.  Putting  aside,  we  say, 
however,  all  such  considerations,  Vernon  had 
sought  her  friendship,  called  her  "  cousin," 
enforced  the  distant  relationship  between  them 
Not  as  lover,  but  as  kinsman,  the  only  kins- 
man of  her  own  rank  she  possessed — his 
position  in  the  world,  his  connections,  his 
brilliant  range  of  acquaintance,  made  his 
counsel  for  her  future  plans,  his  aid  in  the  re- 
establishment  of  her  consequence  (if  not  as 
wealthy,  still  as  well  born),  and  her  admission 
amongst  her  equals,  of  price  and  value.  It 
was  worth  sounding  the  depth  of  the  friend- 
ship he  had  offered,  even  if  his  love  had 
passed  away  with  the  fortune  on  which  doubt- 
less it  had  been  based. 

She  took  a  bold  step — she  wrote  to  Vernon 
— not  even  to  allude  to  what  had  passed  be- 
tween them:  her  pride  forbade  such  unwomanly 
vulgarity.  The  baseness  that  was  in  her,  took 
at  least  a  more  delicate  exterior.  She  wrote 
to  him  simply  and  distantly,  to  state  that  there 
were  some  books  and  trifles  of  hers  left  at 
Laughton,  which  she  prized  beyond  their  trivial 
value;  and  to  request,  as  she  believed  him  to  be 
absent  from  the  hall,  permission  to  call  at  her 
old  home,  in  her  way  to  a  visit  in  a  neighbor- 
ing county,  and  point  out  to  whomsoever  he 
might  appoint  to  meet  her,  the  effects  she 
deemed  herself  privileged  to  claim.  The  let- 
ter was  one  merely  of  business,  but  it  was  a 
sufficient  test  of  the  friendly -feelings  of  her 
former  suitor. 

She  sent  this  letter  to  Vernon's  house  in 
London,  and  the  next  day  came  the  answer. 

Vernon,  we  must  own,  entirely  sympathized 
with  Sir  Miles,  in  the  solemn  injunctions  the 
old  man  had  bequeathed.  Immediately  after 
the  death  of  one  to  whom  we  owe  gratitude 
and  love,  all  his  desires  take  a  sanctity  irre- 
sistible and  ineffable.  We  adopt  his  affection, 
his  dislikes,  his  obligations  and  his  wrongs. 
And  after  he  had  read  the  copy  of  Lucretia's 
letter,  enclosed  to  him  by  Sir  Miles,  the  con- 


LUCRETIA. 


569 


quest  the  poor  baronet  had  made  over  resent- 
ment and  vindictive  emotion,  the  evident  effort 
at  passionless  justice  with  which  he  had  pro- 
vided becomingly  for  his  niece,  while  he  can- 
celled her  claims  as  his  heiress,  had  filled 
Vernon  with  a  reverence  for  his  wishes  and 
decisions,  that  silenced  all  those  inclinations 
to  over-generosity  which  an  unexpected  inheri- 
tance is  apt  to  create  towards  the  less  fort- 
unate expectants;  nevertheless,  Lucretia's 
direct  application,  her  formal  appeal  to  his 
common  courtesy  as  host  and  kinsman,  per- 
plexed greatly  a  man  ever  accustomed  to  a 
certain  chivalry  towards  the  sex;  the  usual 
frankness  of  his  disposition  suggested,  how- 
ever, plain  dealing  as  the  best  escape  from  his 
dilemma,  and  therefore  he  answered  thus: 

"  Madam, — Under  other  circumstances  it  would  have 
given  me  no  common  pleasure  to  place  the  house,  that 
you  so  long  inhabited,  again  at  your  disposal.  And  I 
feel  so  painfully  the  position  which  my  refusal  of  your 
request  inflicts  upon  me,  that  rather  than  resort  to  ex- 
cuses and  pretexts,  which,  while  conveying  an  impres- 
sion of  my  sincerity,  would  seem  almost  like  an  insult 
to  yourself,  I  venture  frankly  to  inform  you,  that  it  was 
the  dying  wish  of  my  lamented  kinsman,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  letter  which  came  under  his  eye,  that  the 
welcome  you  had  hitherto  received  at  Laughton  should 
be  withdrawn.  Pardon  me.  Madam,  if  I  express  my- 
self thus  bluntly — it  is  somewhat  necessary  to  the  vin- 
dication of  my  character  in  your  eyes,  both  as  regards 
the  honor  of  your  request  and  my  tacit  resignation  of 
hopes,  fervently,  but  too  presumptuously,  entertained. 
In  this  most  painful  candor.  Heaven  forbid  that  I 
should  add  wantonly  to  your  self-reproaches  for  the 
fault  of  youth  and  inexperience,  which  I  should  be  the 
the  last  person  to  judge  rigidly,  and  which,  had  Sir 
Miles's  life  been  spared,  you  would  doubtless  have 
amply  repaired.  The  feelings  which  actuated  Sir 
Miles  in  his  latter  days  might  have  changed:  but  the 
injunction  those  feelings  prompted,  I  am  bound  to 
respect. 

"  For  the  mere  matter  of  business,  on  which  you 
have  done  me  the  honor  to  address  me,  I  hare  only  to 
say,  that  any  orders  you  may  give  to  the  steward,  or 
transmit  through  any  person  you  may  send  to  the  hall, 
with  regard  to  the  effects  you  so  naturally  desire  to 
claim,  shall  be  implicitly  obeyed. 

"  And  believe  me,  Madam,  (though  I  do  not  presume 
to  add  those  expressions,  which  might  rather  heighten 
the  offence  I  fear  this  letter  will  give  you),  that  the  as- 
surance of  your  happiness  in  the  choice  you  have 
made,  and  which  now  no  obstacle  can  oppose,  will 
considerably  lighten  the  pain  with  which  I  shall  long 
recall  my  ungracious  reply  to  your  communication. 
'•  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  etc.,  etc. 

"  C.  Vernon  St.  John. 

Brook  Street,  Dec.  2'ith,  18—." 

The  receipt  of  such  a  letter  could  hardly 
add  to  the  profounder  grief  which  preyed  in 
the  innermost  core  of  Lucretia's  heart,  but  in 


repelling  the  effort  she  had  made  to  distract 
that  grief  by  ambition,  it  blackened  the  sullen 
despondency  with  which  she  regarded  the 
future.  As  the  insect  in  the  hollow  snare  of 
the  ant-lion,  she  felt  that  there  was  no  footing 
up  the  sides  of  the  cave  into  which  she  had 
fallen — the  sand  gave  way  to  the  step.  But 
despondency  in  her,  brought  no  ineekness — 
the  cloud  did  not  descend  in  rain; — resting 
over  the  horizon,  its  darkness  was  tinged  with 
the  fires  which  it  fed.  The  heart,  already  so 
embittered,  was  .stung  and  mortified  into  in- 
tolerable shame  and  wrath.  From  the  home 
that  should  have  been  hers,  in  which,  as  ac- 
knowledged heiress,  she  had  smiled  down  on 
the  ruined  Vernon,  she  was  banished  by  him 
who  had  supplanted  her,  as  one  worthless  and 
polluted.  Though,  from  motives  of  obvious 
delicacy,  Vernon  had  not  said  expressly  that 
he  had  seen  the  letter  to  Mainwaring,  the  un- 
familiar and  formal  tone  which  he  assumed, 
indirectly  declared  it,  and  betrayed  the  im- 
pression it  had  made,  in  spite  of  his  reserve. 
A  living  man  then  was  in  possession  of  a 
secret  which  justified  his  disdain,  and  that 
man  was  master  of  Laughton  !  The  supprest 
ruge  which  embraced  the  lost  lover,  extended 
darkly  over  this  witness  to  that  baffled  and 
miserable  love.  But  what  availed  rage  against 
either  ? 

Abandoned  and  despoiled,  she  was  power- 
less to  avenge.  It  was  at  this  time,  when  her 
prospects  seemed  most  dark,  her  pride  was 
most  crushed,  and  her  despair  of  the  future  at 
its  height,  that  she  turned  to  Dalibard  as  the 
only  friend  left  to  her  under  the  sun.  Even 
the  vices  she  perceived  in  him  became  merits, 
for  they  forbade  him  to  despise  her.  And  now, 
this  man  rose  suddenly  into  another  and  higher 
aspect  of  character:  of  late,  though  equally 
deferential  to  her,  there  had  been  something 
more  lofty  in  his  mien,  more  assured  on  his 
brow;  gleams  of  a  secret  satisfaction,  even  of 
a  joy,  that  he  appeared  anxious  to  suppress,  as 
ill  in  harmony  with  her  causes  for  dejection, 
broke  out  in  his  looks  and  words.  At  length, 
one  day,  after  some  preparatory  hesitation,  he 
informed  her  that  he  was  free  to  return  to 
France — that  even  without  the  peace  between 
England  and  France,  which  (known  under  the 
name  of  the  Peace  of  Amiens),  had  been  just 
concluded,  he  should  have  crossed  the  channel. 
The  advocacy  and  interest  of   friends,  whom 


370 


B  UL  1 1  Ek  S     I  i  UJ<Ki;. 


he  had  left  at  Paris,  had  already  brought  him 
under  the  special  notice  of  the  wonderful  man 
who  then  governed  France,  and  who  sought  to 
unite  in  its  service  every  description  and  vari- 
ety of  intellect.  He  should  return  to  France, 
and"  then — why,  then,  the  ladder  was  on  the 
walls  of  Fortune  and  the  foot  planted  on  the 
step  !  As  he  spoke,  confidently  and  sanguinejy, 
with  the  verve  and  assurance  of  an  able  man 
who  sees  clear  the  path  to  his  goal,  as  he 
sketched  with  rapid  precision  the  nature  of 
his  prospects  and  his  hopes,  all  that  subtle 
wisdom  which  had  before  often  seemed  but 
vague  and-  general,  took  practical  shape  and 
interest,  thus  applied  to  the  actual  circum- 
stances of  men;  the  spirit  of  intrigue,  which 
seemed  mean  when  employed  on  mean  things, 
swelled  into  statesmanship  and  masterly  genius 
to  the  listener,  when  she  saw  it  linked  with  the 
large  objects  of  masculine  ambition.  Insen- 
sibly, therefore,  her  attention  became  earnest 
— her  mind  aroused.  The  vision  of  a  field, 
afar  from  the  scenes  of  her  humiliation  and 
*3espair— a  field  for  energy,  stratagem,  and 
contest — invited  her  restless  intelligence.  As 
Dalibard  had  profoundly  calculated,  there  was 
no  new  channel  for  her  affections — -the  source 
was  dried  up,  and  the  parched  sands  heaped 
over  it;  but  while  the  heart  lay  dormant,  the 
mind  rose,  sleepless,  chafed,  and  perturbed. 
Through  the  mind,  he  indirectly  addressed 
and  subtly  wooed  her. 

"  Such  " — he  said,  as  he  rose  to  take  leave 
• — "  such  is  the  career,  to  which  I  could  depart 
with  joy  if  I  did  not  depart  alone  !  " 

"  Alone  ! "  that  word,  more  than  once  that 
day,  Lucretia  repeated  to  herself — "  alone  !  " 
— and  what  career  was  left  to  her — she,  too, 
alone  ! 

In  certain  stages  of  great  grief,  our  natures 
yearn  for  excitement.  This  has  made  some 
men  gamblers;  it  has  made  even  women  drunk- 
ards— it  had  effect  over  the  serene  calm,  and 
would-be  divinity  of  the  Poet-sage.  When  his 
son  dies,  Goethe  does  not  mourn — he  plunges 
into  the  absorption  of  a  study,  uncultivated 
before.  But  in  the  great  contest  of  life,  in 
the  whirlpool  of  actual  affairs,  the  stricken 
heart  finds  all — the  gambling,  the  inebriation, 
and  the  study. 

We  pause  here.  We  have  pursued  long 
enough  that  patient  analysis,  with  all  the  food 
for  reflection  that  it  possibly  affords  to  which 


we  were  insensibly  led  on  by  an  interest,  dark 
and  fascinating,  that  grew  more  and  more  upon 
us,  as  we  proceeded  in  our  research  into  the 
early  history  of  a  person  fated  to  pervert  no 
ordinary  powers  into  no  commonplace  guilt. 

The  charm  is  concluded — the  circle  closed 
round — the  self-guided  seeker  after  knowledge 
has  gained  the  fiend  for  the  familiar. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  Reconciliation  between  Father  and  Son. 

We  pass  over  an  interval  of  some  months. 

A  painter  stood  at  work  at  the  easel;  his 
human  model  before  him.  He  was  employed 
on  a  nymph — the  Nymph  Galatea.  The  sub- 
ject had  been  taken  before  by  Salvator,  whose 
genius  found  all  its  elements  in  the  wild  rocks, 
gnarled  fantastic  trees,  and  gushing  waterfalls 
of  the  landscape — in  the  huge  ugliness  of  Poly- 
phemus the  lover — in  the  grace  and  suavity 
and  unconscious  abandonment  of  the  nymph, 
sleeking  her  tresses  dripping  from  the  bath. 
The  painter,  on  a  larger  canvas  (for  Salvator's 
picture,  at  least,  the  one  we  have  seen,  is 
among  the  small  sketches  of  the  great  artistic 
creator  of  the  romantic  and  grotesque),  had 
transferred  the  subject  of  the  master;  but  he 
had  left  subordinate  the  landscape  and  the 
giant,  to  concentrataall  his  art  on  the  person 
of  the  Nymph.  Middle-aged  was  the  painter, 
in  truth;  but  he  looked  old.  His  hair,  though 
long,  was  gray  and  thin;  his  face  was  bloated 
by  intemperance;  and  his  hand  trembled  much, 
though  from  habit  no  trace  of  the  tremor  was 
visible  in  his  work. 

A  boy  near  at  hand,  was  also  employed  on 
the  same  subject,  with  a  rough  chalk  and  a 
bold  freedom  of  touch.  He  was  sketching  his 
design  of  a  Galatea  and  Polyphemus  on  the 
wall;  for  the  wall  was  onl)'  white-washed,  and 
covered  already  with  the  multiform  vagaries 
whether  of  master  or  pupils;  caricatures  and 
demigods,  hands  and  feet,  tor.sos  and  monsters, 
and  Venuses — the  rude  creations,  all  muti- 
lated, jarring,  and  mingled,  gave  a  cyincal, 
mocking,  devil-may-care  kind  of  aspect  to  the 
sanctum  of  art.  It  was  like  the  dissection- 
room  of  the  anatomist.  The  boy's  sketch  was 
more  in  harmony  with  the  walls  of  the  studio 


LUCRETIA. 


571 


than  the  canvass  of  the  master.  His  nymph, 
accurately  drawn  from  the  undressed  propor- 
tions of  the  Model  down  to  the  waist,  termi- 
nated in  the  scales  of  a  fish.  The  forked 
branches  of  the  tress  stretched  weird  and 
imp-like  as  the  hands  of  skeletons.  Polyphe- 
mus, peering  over  the  rocks,  had  the  leer  of  a 
demon;  and  in  his  gross  features  there  was  a' 
certain  distorted,  hideous  likeness  of  the 
grave  and  symmetrical  lineaments  of  Olivier 
Dalibard. 

All  around  was  slovenly,  squalid,  and 
poverty-stricken;  rickety,  worn-out,  rush-bot- 
tom chairs;  unsold,  unfinished  pictures,  pell- 
mell  in  the  corner,  covered  with  dust;  broken 
casts  of, plaster;  a  lay-figure  battered  in  its 
basket-work  arms,  with  its  doll-like  face,  all 
smudged  and  besmeared:  a  pot  of  porter  and 
a  noggin  of  gin  on  a  stained  deal  table,  accom- 
panied by  two  or  three  broken,  smoke-black- 
ened pipes,  some  tattered  song-books,  and  old 
numbers  of  the  Convent-garden  Magazine,  be- 
trayed the  tastes  of  the  artist,  and  accounted 
for  the  shaking  hand  and  the  bloated  form. 

A  jovial,  disorderly,  vagrant  dog  of  a 
painter,  was  Tom  Varney  ! — a  bachelor  of 
course — humorous  and  droll — a  boon  compan- 
ion, and  a  terrible  borrower;  clever  enough  in 
his  calling;  with  pains  and  some  method,  he 
had  easily  gained  subsistence  and  established 
a  name;  but  he  had  one  trick  that  soon  ruined 
him  in  the  busines-part  of  his  profession.  He 
took  a  fourth  of  his  price  in  advance;  and 
having  once  clutched  the  money,  the  poor  cus- 
tomer might  go  hang  for  his  picture!  The 
only  things  Tom  Varne)'  ever  fairly  completed 
were  those  for  which  no  order  had  been  given; 
for  in  them,  somehow  or  other,  his  fancy  be- 
came interested,  and  on  them  he  lavished  the 
gusto  which  he  really  possessed.  But  the 
subjects  were  rarely  saleable.  Nymphs  and 
deities  undraperied  have  few  worshippers  in 
P^ngland  amongst  the  buyers  of  furniture 
]Mctures."  And,  to  say  truth,  nymph  and 
deity  had  usually  a  very  equivocal  look;  and 
if  they  came  from  the  gods,  you  would  swear 
it  was  the  gods  of  the  galleries  of  Drury. 
When  Tom  Varney  sold  a  picture,  he  lived 
upon  clover  till  the  money  was  gone.  But 
the  poorer  and  less  steady  alumni  of  the  ris- 
ing school,  especially  those  at  war  with  the 
Academy  from  which  Varney  was  excluded, 
pitied,  despised,   yet  liked   and  courted    him 


withal.  In  addition  to  his  good  qualities  of 
blithe  song-singer,  droll  story-teller,  and  stanch 
Bacchanalian,  Tom  Varney  was  liberally  good- 
natured  in  communicating  instruction  really 
valuable  to  those  who  knew  how  to  avail  them- 
selves of  a  knowledge  he  had  made  almost 
worthless  to  himself. 

He  was  a  shrewd,  though  good-natured 
critic,  had  many  little  secrets  of  coloring  and 
composition,  which  an  invitation  to  supper,  or 
the  loan  of  ten  shillings,  was  sufficient  to 
bribe  from  him.  Ragged,  out  of  elbows,  un- 
shaven, and  slipshod,  he  still  had  his  set, 
amongst  the  gay  and  the  young — a  precious 
master,  a  profitable  set,  for  his  nephew.  Mas- 
ter Honore  Gabriel  !  But  the  poor  rapscal- 
lion had  a  heart  larger  than  many  honest 
painstaking  men.  As  soon  as  Gabriel  had 
found  him  out,  and  entreated  refuge  from  his 
fear  of  his  father,  the  painter  clasped  him 
tight  in  his  great  slovenly  arms,  sold  a  Venus 
half-price,  to  buy  him  a  bed  and  awash-stand, 
and  swore  a  tremendous,  oath,  "that  the  son 
of  his  poor  guillotined  sister  should  share  the 
last  shilling  in  his  pocket — the  last  drop  in  his 
can." 

Gabriel,  fresh  from  the  cheer  of  Laughton, 
and  spoiled  by  the  prodigal  gifts  of  Lucretia, 
had  little  gratitude  for  shillings  and  porter. 
Nevertheless,  he  condescended  to  take  what 
he  could  get,  while  he  sighed,  from  the  depths 
of  a  heart  in  which  cupidity  and  vanity  had  be- 
come the  predominant  rulers,  for  a  destiny  more 
worthy  his  genius,  and  more  in  keeping  with 
the  sphere  from  which  he  had  descended. 

The  boy  finished  his  sketch,  with  an  impu- 
dent wink  at  the  model,  flung  himself  back  on 
his  chair,  folded  his  arms,  cast  a  discontented 
glance  at  the  whitened  seams  of  the  sleeves,  and 
soon  seemed  lost  in  his  own  reflections.  The 
painter  worked  on  in  silence.  The  model, 
whom  Gabriel's  wink  had  aroused,  half-flat- 
tered, half-indignant  for  a  moment,  lapsed  into 
a  doze.  Outside  the  window,  you  heard  the 
song  of  a  canary — a  dingy,  smoke-colored 
canary — that  seemed  shedding  its  plumes,  for 
they  were  as  ragged  as  the  garments  of  its 
master;  still  it  contrived  to  sing — trill-trill- 
trill-trill-trill,  as  b'.ithely  as  if  free  in  its  native 
woods,  or  pampered  by  fair  hands  in  a  glided 
cage.  The  bird  was  the  only  true  artist  there: 
it  sang,  as  the  poet  sings,  to  obey  its  nature 
and   vent   its    heart.      Trill-trill-trillela-la-la- 


572 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


trill-trill,  went  the  song — louder,  gayer  than 
usual — for  there  was  a  gleam  of  April  sun- 
shine, struggling  over  the  roof-tops.  The 
song  at  length  roused  up  Gabriel;  he  turned 
his  chair  round,  laid  his  head  on  one  side, 
listened,  and  looked  curiously  at  the  bird. 

At  length,  an  idea  seemed  to  cross  him:  he 
rose,  opened  the  window,  drew  in  the  cage, 
placed  it  on  the  chair,  then  took  up  one  of  his 
uncle's  pipes,  walked  to  the  fire-place,  and 
trust  the  shank  of  the  pipe  into  the  bars. 
When  it  was  red-hot,  he  took  it  out  by  the 
bowl,  having  first  protected  his  hand  from  the 
heat  by  wrapping  round  it  his  handkerchief; 
this  done,  he  returned  to  the  cage.  His  move- 
ments had  wakened  up  the  dozing  model. 
She  eyed  them  at  first  with  dull  curiosity, 
then  with  lively  suspicion;  and  presently  start- 
ing up  with  an  exclamation,  such  as  no  novelist 
but  Fielding  dare  put  into  the  mouth  of  a 
female — much  less  a  nymph  of  such  renown 
as  Galatea — she  sprang  across  the  room,  well- 
nigh  upsetting  easel  and  painter,  and  fastened 
firm  hold  on  Gabriel's  shoulders. 

"The  varment!"  she  crted,  vehemently; 
"the  good-for-nothing  varment!  If  it  had 
been  a  jay,  or  a  nasty  raven,  well  and  good  ! 
— but  a  poor  little  canary  !  " 

"  Hoity-toity  !  what  are  you  about,  nephew  ? 
What's  the  matter  ! "  said  Tom  Varney,  com- 
ing up  to  the  strife.  And,  indeed,  it  was  time, 
for  Gabriel's  teeth  were  set  in  his  cat-like 
jaws,  and  the  glowing  point  of  the  pipe-shank 
was  within  an  inch  of  the  cheek  of  the  model. 

"What's  the  matter?"  replied  Gabriel,  sul- 
lenly; "why,  I  was  only  going  to  try  a  little 
experiment." 

"  An  experiment .'  not  on  my  canary,  poor, 
dear  little  thing  ! — the  hours  and  hours  that 
creature  has  strained  its  throat  to  say — '  sing 
and  be  merry,'  when  I  had  not  a  rap  in  my 
pocket  !  It  would  have  made  a  stone  feel  to 
hear  it." 

"  But  I  think  I  can  make  it  sing  much  better 
than  ever — only  just  let  me  try  !  They  say, 
that  if  you  put  out  the  eyes  of  a  canary,  it 

"  Gabriel   was   not   allowed  to   conclude 

his  sentence;  for  here  rose  that  clamor  of 
horror  and  indignation,  from  both  painter  and 
model,  which  usually  greets  the  announce- 
ment of  every  philosophical  discovery — at  least, 
when  about  to  be  practically  applied;  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  hubbub,  the  poor  little  canary. 


who  had  been  fluttering  about  the  cage  to 
escape  the  hand  of  the  benevolent  operator, 
set  up  no  longer  the  cheerful  trill — trillela-la- 
trill,  but  a  scared  and  heart-breaking  chirp — a 
shrill,  terrified  twit-twit-twitter-twit. 

"  Damn  the  bird  ! — hold  your  tongues  !  " 
cried  Gabriel  Varney,  reluctantly  given  away; 
but  still  eyeing  the  bird  with  the  scientific  re- 
gret with  which  the  illustrious  Majendie  might 
contemplate  a  dog  which  some  brute  of  a  mas- 
ter refused  to  disembowel  for  the  good  of  the 
colics  of  mankind. 

The  model  seized  on  the  cage,  shut  the  door 
of  the  wires,  and  carried  it  off.  Tom  Varney 
drained  the  rest  of  his  porter,  and  wiped  his 
forehead  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat.   , 

"  And  to  use  my  pipe  for  such  cruelty ! 
Boy,  boy,  I  could  not  have  believed  it  !  But 
you  were  not  in  earnest — oh,  no,  impossible  ! 
Sukey,  my  love — Galatea,  the  divine — calm 
thy  breast;  Cupid  did  but  jest: 

'  Cupid  is  the  God  of  Laughter, 
Quip,  and  jest,  and  joke,  sir.'  " 

"  If  you  don't  whip  the  little  wretch  within 
an  inch  of  his  life,  he'll  have  a  gallows  end 
on't,"  replied  Galatea. 

"  Go,  Cupid,  go  and  kiss  Galatea,  and  make 
your  peace: 

'  Oh,  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 
And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine  ! ' 

And  'tis  no  use  asking  for  wine,  or  for  gin 
either — not  a  drop  in  the  noggin  !  " 

All  this  while,  Gabriel,  disdaining  the  recom- 
mendations held  forth  to  him,  was  employed 
in  brushing  his  jacket  with  a  very  mangy-look- 
ing brush;  and  when  he  had  completed  that 
operation,  he  approached  his  uncle,  and  cooly 
thrust  his  hands  into  that  gentleman's  waist- 
coat-pockets. 

"  Uucle,  what  have  you  done  with  those 
seven  shillings  ?  I  am  going  out  to  spend  the 
day." 

"  If  you  give  them  to  him,  Tom,  I'll  scratch 
your  eyes  out,"  cried  the  model;  "and  then 
we'll  see  hovi you'll  sing.  Whip  him,  I  say — 
whip  him  !  " 

"But,  strange  to  say,  this  liberty  of  the 
boy's  quite  re-opened  the  heart  of  the  uucle 
— it  was  a  pleasure  to  him,  who  put  his  hands 
so  habitually  into  other  people's  pockets,  to 
be  invested  with  the  novel  grandeur  of   the 


LUCRETIA. 


573 


man  sponged  upon.  "That's  right,  Cupid, 
son  of  Cytherea;  all's  common  property 
amongst  friends.  Seven  Shillings,  I  have 
'em  not !  '  They  now  are  five  who  once  were 
seven; '  but  such  as  they  are,  we'll  share  ! 

'  Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown.'  " 

"  Crowns  bear  no  division,  my  uncle,"  said 
Gabriel,  drily — and  he  pocketed  the  five  shil- 
lings. Then,  having  first  secured  his  escape, 
by  gaining  the  threshold,  he  suddenly  seized 
one  of  the  rickerty  chairs  by  its  leg,  and  re- 
gardless of  the  gallantries  due  to  the  sex,  sent 
it  right  against  the  model,  who  was  shaking 
her  fist  at  him.  A  scream,  and  a  fall,  and  a 
sharp  twit  from  the  cage,  which  was  hurled 
nearly  into  the  fire-place,  told  that  the  missive 
had  taken  effect.  Gabriel  did  not  wait  for  the 
probable  re-action;  he  was  in  the  streets  in  an 
instant. 

"  This  won't  do,"  he  muttered  to  himself; 
"there  is  no  getting  on  here.  Foolish, 
drunken  vagabond  !  no  good  to  be  got  from 
him.  My  father  is  terrible,  but  he  will  make 
his  way  in  the  world.  Umph  !  if  I  were  but 
his  match — and  why  not  ?  I  am  brave,  and 
he  is  not.     There's  fun,  too,  in  danger." 

Thus  musing,  he  took  his  way  to  Dalibard's 
lodgings.  His  father  was  at  home.  Now, 
though  they  were  but  lodgings,  and  the  street 
not  in  fashion,  Olivier  Dalibard's  apartments 
had  an  air  of  refinement,  and  even  elegance, 
that  contrasted  both  the  wretched  squalor  of 
the  abode  Gabriel  had  just  left,  and  the  mean- 
ness of  Dalibard's  former  quarters  in  London. 
The  change  seemed  to  imply  that  the  Pro- 
vencal had  already  made  some  way  in  the 
world.  And,  truth  to  say,  at  all  times,  even  in 
the  lowest  ebb  of  his  fortunes,  there  was  that 
indescribable  neatness  and  formality  of  pre- 
cision about  all  the  exterior  seemings  of  the 
ci-devant  friend  of  the  prim  Robespierre  which 
belong  to  those  in  whom  order  and  method 
are  strongly  developed — qualities  which  give 
even  to  neediness  a  certain  dignity.  As  the 
room  and  its  owner  met  the  eye  of  Gabriel,  on 
whose  senses  all  externals  had  considerable  in- 
fluence, the  ungrateful  young  ruffian  recalled 
the  kind,  tattered  slovenly  uncle,  whose  purse 
he  had  just  emptied,  without  one  feeling  milder 
than  disgust.  Olivier  Dalibard,  always  care- 
ful, if  simple,  in   his  dress,  with  his  brow  of 


grave  intellectual  power,  and  his  mien  impos- 
ing, not  only  from  its  calm,  but  from  that 
nameless  refinement  which  rarely  fails  to  give 
to  the  student  the  air  of  a  gentleman — Olivier 
Dalibard  he  might  dread — he  might  even  de- 
test; but  he  was  not  ashamed  of  him. 

"I  said  I  would  visit  you,  sir,  if  you  would 
permit  me,"  said  Gabriel,  in  a  tone  of  respect, 
not  unmingled  with  some  defiance,  as  if  in 
doubt  of  his  reception. 

The  father's  slow  full  eye,  so  different  from 
the  sidelong  furitive  glance  of  Lucretia, 
turned  on  the  son,  as  if  to  penetrate  his  very 
heart. 

"  You  look  pale  and  haggard,  child:  you  are 
fast  losing  your  health  and  beauty.  Good 
gifts  these,  not  to  be  wasted  before  they  can 
be  duly  employed.  But  you  have  taken  your 
choice.  Be  an  artist— copy  Tom  Varney,  and 
prosper." 

Gabriel  remained  silent,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
floor. 

"  You  come  in  time  for  my  farewell,"  re- 
sumed Dalibard.  "  It  is  a  comfort,  at  least, 
that  I  leave  your  youth  so  honorably  pro- 
tected. I  am  about  to  return  to  my  country 
—  my  career  is  once  more  before  me  !  " 

"  Your  country — to  Paris  ?  " 

"  There  are  fine  pictures  in  the  Louvre — a 
good  place  to  inspire  an  artist !  " 

"  You  go  alone,  father  !  " 

"You  forget,  young  gentlemen,  you  disown 
me  as  father  !  Go  alone  !  I  thought  I  told 
you  in  the  times  of  our  confidence,  that  I 
should  marry  Lucretia  Clavering.  I  rarely 
fail  in  my  plans.  She  has  lost  Laughton,  it 
is  true,  but  ten  thousand  pounds  will  make  a 
fair  commencement  to  fortune,  even  at  Paris. 
Well,  what  do  you  want  with  me,  worthy  god- 
son of  Honore  Gabriel  Mirabeau  ?  " 

"  Sir,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  go  with 
you." 

Dalibard  shaded  his  brow  with  his  hand, 
and  reflected  on  the  filial  proposal.  On  the 
one  hand,  it  might  be  convenient,  and  would 
certainly  be  economical  to  rid  himself  evermore 
of  the  mutinous  son  who  had  already  thrown 
off  his  authority;  on  the  other  hand,  there  was 
much  in  Gabriel,  mutinous  and  even  menac- 
ing as  he  had  lately  become,  that  promised  an 
unscrupulous  tool  or  a  sharp-witted  accom- 
plice, with  interests  that  every  year  the  ready 
youth   would   more   and   more  discover  were 


574 


BULilER'S     iVOUKS. 


bound  up  in  his  plotting  father's.  This  last 
consideration,  joined,  if  not  to  affection  still  to 
habit — to  the  link  between  blood  and  blood, 
which  even  the  hardest  find  it  difficult  to 
sever,  prevailed.  He  extended  his  pale  hand 
to  Gabriel,  and  said,  gently — 

"  I  will  take  you,  if  we  rightly  understand 
each  other.  Once  again  in  my  power,  I  might 
constrain  you  to  my  will,  it  is  true.  But  I 
rather  confer  with  you  as  man  to  man  than  as 
man  to  boy." 

"  It  is  the  best  way,"  said  Gabriel  firmly. 

"  I  will  use  no  harshness — inflict  no  punish- 
ment, unless,  indeed,  amply  merited  by  stub- 
born disobedience  or  wilful  deceit.  But  if  I 
meet  with  these,  better  rot  on  a  dunghill  than 
come  with  me  !  I  ask  implicit  confidence  in 
all  my  suggestions,  prompt  submission  to  all 
my  requests.  Grant  me  but  these,  and  I 
promise  to  consult  your  fortune  as  my  own — 
to  gratify  your  tastes  as  far  as  my  means  will 
allow — to  grudge  not  your  pleasures;  and, 
when  the  age  for  ambition  comes,  to  aid  your 
rise  if  I  rise  myself;  nay,  if  well  contented 
with  you,  to  remove  the  blot  from  your  birth, 
by  acknowledging  and  adopting  you  formally 
as  my  son." 

■'Agreed  !  and  I  thank  you,"  said  Gabriel. 
"  And  Lucretia  is  going,  oh,  I  so  long  to  see 
her  !  " 

"  See  her — not  yet;  but  next  week." 

"  Do  not  fear  that  I  should  let  out  about  the 
letter.  I  should  betray  myself  if  I  did,"  said 
the  boy,  bluntly  betraying  his  guess  at  his 
father's  delay. 

The  evil  scholar  smiled. 

"You  will  do  well  to  keep  it  secret  for  your 
own  sake;  for  mine,  I  should  not  fear.  Ga- 
briel, go  back  now  to  your  master — you  do 
right,  like  the  rats,  to  run  from  the  falling 
house.  Next  week,  I  will  send  for  you,  Ga- 
briel !  " 

Not,  however,  back  to  the  sudio  went  the 
boy.  He  sauntered  leisurely  through  the  gay- 
est streets,  eyed  the  shops,  and  the  equipages, 
the  fair  women,  and  the  well-dressed  men — 
eyed  with  envy,  and  longings,  and  visions  of 
pomps,  and  vanities  to  come;  then,  when  the 
day  began  to  close,  he  sought  out  a  young 
painter,  the  wildest  and  maddest  of  the  crew 
to  whom  his  uncle  had  presented  their  future 
comrade  and  rival,  and  went  with  this  youth, 
at  half-price,  to  the  theatre,  not  to  gaze  on  the 


actors  or  study  the  play,  but  to  stroll  in  the 
saloon.  A  supper  in  the  Finish  completed  the 
void  in  his  pockets,  and  concluded  his  day's 
rank  experience  of  life. 

By  the  grey  dawn  he  stole  back  to  his  bed, 
and  as  he  laid  himself  down,  he  thought  with 
avid  pleasure  of  Paris,  its  gay  gardens,  and 
brilliant  shops,  and  crowded  streets;  he 
thought,  too,  of  his  father's  calm  confidence 
of  success,,  of  the  triumph  that  already  had 
attended  his  wiles — a  confidence  and  a  tri- 
umph which,  exciting  his  reverence  and  rousing 
his  emulation,  had  decided  his  resolution.  He 
thought,  too,  of  Lucretia,  with  something  of 
affection,  recalled  her  praises  and  bribes,  her 
frequent  mediation  with  his  father,  and  felt 
that  they  should  have  need  of  each  other.  Oh, 
no,  he  never  would  tell  her  of  the  snare  laid  at 
Guy's  Oak — never,  not  even  if  incensed  with 
his  father  !  An  instmct  told  him  that  that  of- 
fence could  never  be  forgiven,  and  that,  hence- 
forth, Lucretia's  was  a  destiny  bound  up  in 
his  own.  He  thought,  too,  of  Dal  i  bard's 
warning  and  threat.  But,  with  fear  itself, 
came  a  strange  excitement  of  pleasure — to 
grapple,  if  necessary,  he  a  mere  child,  with 
such  a  man  ! — his  heart  swelled  at  the  thought. 
So,  at  last  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  that  he 
saw  his  mother's  trunkless  face  dripping  gore, 
and  frowning  on  him — dreamed  that  he  heard 
her  say:  '-Goest  thou  to  the  scene  of  my  exe- 
cution only  to  fawn  upon  my  murderer?" 
Then  a  night-mare  of  horrors,  of  scaffolds,  and 
executioners,  and  grinning  mobs,  and  agon- 
ized faces,  came  on  him — dark,  confused  and 
indistinct.  And  he  woke,  with  his  hair  stand- 
ing on  end,  and  heard  below,  in  the  rising  sun, 
the  merry  song  of  the  poor  canary — trill-lill- 
lill,  trill-trill-lill-lill-la?  Did  he  feel  glad  that 
his  cruel  hand  had  been  stayed. 


EPILOGUE  TO  PART  THE  FIRST. 

It  is  a  year  since  the  November  day  on 
which  Lucretia  Clavering  quitted  the  roof  of 
Mr.  Fielden.  And  first  we  must  recall  the 
eye  of  the  reader  to  the  old-fashioned  ter- 
race at  Laughton;  the  jutting  porch,  the 
quaint  balustrades,  the  broad,  dark,  changeless 
cedars  on  the  lawn  beyond.  The  day  is  calm, 
clear  and  mild,  for  November  in  the  country 


LUCRETIA. 


575 


is  often  a  gentle  month.  On  that  terrace 
walked  Charles  Vernon,  now  known  by  his  new 
name  of  St.  John.  Is  it  the  change  of  name 
that  has  so  changed  the  person  ?  Can  the 
wand  of  the  Herald's  Office  have  filled  up  the 
hollows  of  the  cheek,  and  replaced  by  elastic 
vigor  the  listless  langnor  of  the  tread  ?  No; 
there  is  another  and  a  better  canse  for  that 
heathful  change.  Mr.  Vernon  St.  John  is  not 
alone — a  fair  companion  leans  on  his  arm. 
See,  she  pauses  to  press  closer  to  his  side, 
gaze  on  his  face,  and  whisper,  "  We  did  well 
to  have  hope  and  faith  !  " 

The  husband's  faith  had  not  been  so  un- 
shaken as  his  Mary's,  and  a  slight  blush  passed 
over  his  cheek  as  he  thought  of  his  concession 
to  Sir  Miles's  wishes,  and  his  overtures  to  Lu- 
cretia  Clavering.  Still  that  fault  had  been 
fairly  acknowledged  to  his  wife,  and  she  felt, 
the  moment  she  had  spoken,  that  she  had 
committed  an  indiscretion;  nevertheless,  with 
an  arch  touch  of  womanly  malice,  she  added 
softly,— 

'•  And  Miss  Clavering,  you  persist  in  saying, 
was  not  really  handsome  ?  " 

"  My  love,"  replied  the  husband,  gravely, 
"  you  would  oblige  me  by  not  recalling  the 
very  painful  recollections  connected  with  that 
name.  Let  it  never  be  mentioned  in  this 
house." 

Lady  Mary  bowed  her  graceful  head  in 
submission — she  understood  Charles's  feelings. 
For  though  he  had  not  shown  her  Sir  Miles's 
letter  and  its  enclosure,  he  had  communicated 
enough  to  account  for  the  unexpected  heritage, 
and  to  lessen  his  wife's  compassion  for  the 
disappointed  heiress.  Nevertheless,  she  com- 
prehended that  her  husband  felt  an  uneasy 
twinge  at  the  idea  that  he  was  compelled  to 
act  hardly  to  the  one  whose  hopes  he  had 
supplanted.  Lucretia's  banishment  from 
Laughton  was  a  just  humiliation,  but  it  hum- 
bled a  generous  heart  to  inflict  the  sentence. 
Thus,  on  all  accounts,  the  remembrance  of 
Lucretia  was  painful  and  unwelcome  to  the 
successor  of  Sir  Miles.  There  was  a  silence 
— Lady  Mary  pressed  her  husband's  hand. 

"It  is  strange,  said  he,  giving  vent  to  his 
thoughts  at  that  tender  sign  of  sympathy  in 
his  feeling—"  strange  that,  after  all,  she  did 
not  marry  Mainwaring,  but  fixed  her  choice 
on  that  supple  Frenchman.  But  she  has  set- 
tled  abroad    now,    perhaps    for  life — a  great 


relief  to  my  mind.  Yes,  let  us  never  recur  to 
her." 

"  Fortunately,"  said  Lady  Mary,  with  some 
hesitation,  "  she  does  not  seem  to  have  created 
much  interest  here.  The  poor  seldom  name 
her  to  me,  and  our  neighbors  only  with  sur- 
prise at  her  marriage.  In  another  year  she 
will  be  forgotten  !  " 

Mr.  St.  John  sighed.  Perhaps  he  felt  how 
much  more  easily  he  had  been  forgotten, 
were  he  the  banished  one,  Lucretia  the  pos- 
sessor !  His  light  nature,  however,  soon 
escaped  from  all  thoughts  and  sources  of  an- 
noyance, and  he  listened  with  complacent  at- 
tention to  Lady  Mary's  gentle  plans  for  the 
poor,  and  the  children's  school,  and  the  cot- 
tages that  ought  to  be  repaired,  and  the  labor- 
ers that  ought  to  be  employed.  For,  though 
it  may  seem  singular,  Vernon  St.  John,  insen- 
sibly influenced  by  his  wife's  meek  superiority, 
and  corrected  by  her  pure  companionship,  had 
begun  to  feel  the  charm  of  innocent  occupa- 
tions;— more,  perhaps,  than  if  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  the  larger  and  loftier  excite- 
ments of  life,  and  missed  that  stir  of  intellect 
which  is  the  element  of  those  who  have 
warred  in  the  democracy  of  letters,  or  con- 
tended for  the  leadership  of  states.  He  had 
begun  already  to  think  that  the  country  "was 
no  such  exile  after  all.  Naturally  benevolent, 
he  had  taught  himself  to  share  the  occupa- 
tions his  Mary  had  already  found  in  the  busy 
'  luxury  of  doing  good,'  and  to  conceive  that 
brotherhood  of  charity  which  usually  unites 
the  lord  of  the  village  with  its  poor. 

"  I  think,  what  with  hunting  once  a  week, — 
(I  will  not  venture  more  till  my  pain  in  the 
side  is  quite  gone), — and  with  the  help  of  some 
old  friends  at  Christmas,  we  can  get  through 
the  winter  very  well,  Mary." 

"Ah,  those  old  friends!  I  dread  them 
more  than  the  hunting  !  " 

"  But  we'll  have  your  grave  father,  and  your 
dear,  precise,  excellent  mother,  to  keep  us  in 
order.  And  if  I  sit  more  than  half  an  hour 
after  dinner,  the  old  butler  shall  pull  me  out 
by  the  ears.  Mary,  what  do  yon  say  to  thin- 
ning the  grove  yonder  ?  We  shall  get  a  better 
view  of  the  landscape  beyond.  No,  hang  it  ! 
dear  old  Sir  Miles  loved  his  trees  better  than 
the  prospect — I  won't  lop  a  bough.  But  that 
avenue  we  are  planting  will  be  certainly  a 
noble  improvement " 


576 


£  UI.  IVER'S     WORKS 


"  Fifty  years  hence,  Charles  !  " 

"  It  is  our  duty  to  think  of  posterity,"  ans- 
wered the  ci-devant  spendthrift,  with  a  gravity 
that  was  actually  pompous.  "  But  hark  ?  is 
that  two  o'clock  ?  Three,  by  Jove  !  How 
time  flies  !  and  my  new  bullocks  that  I  was 
to  see  at  two  !  Come  down  to  the  farm,  that's 
my  own  Mary.  Ah,  your  fine  ladies  are  not 
such  bad  housewives  after  all  !  " 

"And  your  fine  gentlemen 

"  Capital  farmers  I  I  had  no  idea  till  last 
week  that  a  prize  ox  was  so  interesting  an 
animal.  One  lives  to  learn.  Put  me  in  mind, 
by-the-bye,  to  write  to  Coke  about  his  sheep." 

"This  way,  dear  Charles;  we  can  go  round 
by  the  village,  and  see  poor  Ponto  and  Dash." 

The  tears  rushed  to  Mr.  St.  John's  eyes. 
"  If  poor  Sir  Miles  could  have  known  you  !  " 
he  said,  with  a  sigh;  and,  though  the  garden- 
ers were  at  work  on  the  lawn,  he  bowed  his 
head,  and  kissed  the  blushing  cheek  of  his 
wife  as  heartly  as  if  he  had  been  really  a 
farmer. 

From  the  terrace  at  Laughton,  turn  to  the 
humbler  abode  of  our  old  friend  the  Vicar — 
the  same  day,  the  same  hour.  Here  also  the 
scene  is  without  doors — we  are  in  the  garden 
of  the  Vicarage;  the  children  are  playing  at 
hide' and  seek  amongst  the  espaliers,  which 
screen  the  winding  gravel  walks  from  the  escu- 
lents more  dear  to  Ceres  than  to  Flora.  The 
Vicar  is  seated  in  his  little  parlor,  from  which 
a  glazed  door  admits  into  the  garden.  The 
door  is  now  open,  and  the  good  man  has  paused 
from  his  work  (he  had  just  discovered  a  new 
emendation  in  the  first  chorus  of  the  Medea),  to 
look  out  at  the  rosy  faces  that  gleam  to  and 
fro  across  the  scene.  His  wife,  with  a  basket 
in  her  hand,  is  standing  without  the  door,  but 
a  little  aside,  not  to  obstruct  the  view. 

"It  does  one's  heart  good  to  see  them!" 
said  the  Vicar;  "  little  dears  !  " 

"  Yes,  they  ought  to  be  dear  at  this  time  of 
the  year,"  observed  Mrs.  Fielden,  who  was  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contents  of  the  basket. 

"  And  so  fresh  !  " 

"  Fresh,  indeed  ! — how  different  from  Lon- 
don I  In  London  they  were  not  fit  to  be  seen; 
as  old  as — I  am  sure  I  can't  guess  how  old 
they  were.  But  you  see  here  they  are  new  laid 
every  morning  !  " 

"  My  dear  I  "  said  Mr.  Fielden,  opening  his 
eyes — "  new  laid  every  morning  !  " 


"  Two  dozen  and  four." 

"  Two  dozen  and  four  ! — What  on  earth  are 
you  talking  about,  Mrs.  Fielden  ?  " 

"  Why  the  eggs  to  be  sure,  my  love  !  " 

"Oh!  "said  the  Vicar,  "two  dozen  and 
four  ! — you  alarmed  me  a  little;  'tis  of  no  con- 
sequence— only  my  foolish  mistake.  Always 
prudent  and  saving,  my  dear  Sarah;  just  as  i£ 
poor  Sir  Miles  had  not  left  us  that  munificent 
fortune,  I  may  call  it." 

"  It  will  not  go  very  far  when  we  have  our 
young  ones  to  settle.  And — David  is  very 
extravagant  already:  he  has  torn  such  a  hole 
in  his  jacket  !  " 

At  this  moment,  up  the  gravel  walk,  two 
young  persons  came  in  sight.  The  children 
darted  across  them,  whooping  and  laughing, 
and  vanished  in  the  further  recess  of  the 
garden. 

"  All  is  for  the  best— blind  mortals  that  we 
are  ! — all  is  for  the  best  !  "  said  the  Vicar, 
musingly,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  ap- 
proaching pair. 

"Certainly,  my  love;  you  are  always  right, 
and  it  is  wicked  to  grumble.  Still,  if  you  saw 
what  a  hole  it  was — past  patching,  I  fear  !  " 

"  Look  round  !  "  said  Mr.  Fielden,  benevo- 
lently. "How  we  grieved  for  them  both; 
how  wroth  we  were  with  William — how  sad  for 
Susan  !  And  now  see  them — they  will  be  the 
better  man  and  wife  for  their  trial  !  " 

"  Has  Susan  then  consented  ?  I  was  almost 
afraid  she  never  would  consent.  How  often 
have  I  been  almost  angry  with  her,  poor 
lamb  !  when  I  have  heard  her  accuse  herself 
of  causing  her  sister's  unhappiness,  and  de- 
clare with  sobs  that  she  felt  it  a  crime  to 
think  of  William  Mainwaring  as  a  husband." 

"I  trust  I  have  reasoned  her  out  of  a  mor- 
bid sensibility,  which,  while  it  could  not  have 
rendered  Lucretia  the  happier,  must  have  en- 
sured the  wretchedness  of  herself  and  William. 
But  if  Lucretia  had  not  married,  and  so  for 
ever  closed  the  door  on  William's  repentance 
(that  is,  supposing  he  did  repent),  I  believe 
poor  Susan  would  rather  have  died  of  a  broken 
heart,  than  have  given  her  hand  to  Main- 
waring." 

"  It  was  an  odd  marriage  of  that  proud 
young  lady's,  after  all,"  said  Mrs.  Fielden; 
"  so  much  older  than  her — a  foreigner,  too  !  " 

"  But  he  is  a  very  pleasant  man,  and  they 
had   known  each  other  so    long.     I  did  not 


LUCRETIA. 


577 


however,  quite  like  a  sort  of  cunning  he 
showed,  when  I  come  to  reflect  on  it,  in 
bringing  Lucretia  back  to  the  house;  it  looks 
as  if  he  had  laid  a  trap  for  her  from  the 
first." 

"Ten  thousand  pounds  ! — a  great  catch  for 
a  foreigner  ! "  observed  Mrs.  Fielden,  with 
the  shrewd  instinct  of  her  sex;  and  then  she 
added,  in  the  spirit  of  a  prudent  sympathy 
equally  characteristic:  "But  I  think  you  say 
Mr.  Parchmount  persuaded  her  to  allow  half 
to  be  settled  on  herself.  That  will  be  a  hold 
on  him." 

"  A  bad  hold,  if  that  be  all,  Sarah.  There 
is  a  better — he  is  a  learned  man,  and  a  scholar. 
Scholars  are  naturally  domestic,  and  make 
good  husbands." 

"  But  you  know  he  must  be  a  papist  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Fielden. 

"  Umph  I  '■  muttered  the  Vicar,  irresolutely. 

While  the  worthy  couple  were  thus  con- 
versing, Susan  and  her  lover,  not  having 
finished  their  conference,  had  turned  back 
through  the  winding  walk. 

"Indeed,"  said  William,  drawing  her  arm 
closer  to  his  side,  "  these  scruples — these  fears 
— are  cruel  to  me  as  well  as  to  yourself.  If 
you  were  no  longer  existing,  I  could  be  noth- 
ing to  your  sister.  Nay,  even  were  she  not 
married,  you  must  know  enough  of  her  pride 
to  be  assured  that  I  can  retain  no  place  in  her 
affections.  What  has  chanced  was  not  our 
crime.  Perhaps  Heaven  designed  to  save,  not 
only  us,  but  herself,  from  the  certain  misery 
of  nuptials  so  inauspicious  !  " 

"  If  she  would  but  answer  one  of  my  let- 
ters !  "  sighed  Susan;  "  or  if  I  could  but  know 
that  she  were  happy  and  contented  !  " 

"Your  letters  must  have  miscarried — you 
are  not  sure  even  of  her  address.  Rely  upon 
it  she  is  happy.  Do  you  think  that  she  would, 
a  second  time  '  have  stooped  beneath  her  '  "— 
Mainwaring's  lip  writhed  as  he  repeated  that 
phrase — "if  her  feelings  had  not  been  in- 
volved ?  I  would  not  wrong  your  sister — I 
shall  ever  feel  gratitude  for  the  past,  and  re- 
morse for  my  own  shameful  weakness — still  I 
must  think  that  the  nature  of  her  attachment 
to  me  was  more  ardent  than  lasting." 

"  Ah,  William  I  how  can  you  know  her 
heart  ? " 

"  By  comparing  it  with  yours.  Oh,  there, 
indeed,  I   may  anchor  my  faith  !     Susan,  we 

6—37 


were  formed  for  each  other  !  Our  natures 
are  alike — save  that  yours,  despite  its  surpass- 
ing sweetness,  has  greater  strength  in  its  sim- 
ple candor.  You  will  be  my  guide  to  good. 
Without  you  I  should  have  no  aim  in  life — no 
courage  to  front  the  contests  of  this  world. 
Ah,  this  hand  trembles  still  !  " 

"  William,  William,  I  cannot  repress  a  fore- 
boding— a  superstition  !  At  night,  I  am 
haunted  with  that  pale  face,  as  I  saw  it  last, — 
pale  with  suppressed  despair.  Oh,  if  ever 
Lucretia  could  have  need  of  us — need  of  our 
services,  our  affections — if  we  could  but  repair 
the  grief  we  have  caused  her  !  " 

Susan's  head  sank  on  her  lover's  shoulder. 
She  had  said  "  need  of  us  " — need  of  our  ser- 
vices." In  those  monosyllables  the  union 
was  pledged — the  identity  of  their  lots  in  the 
dark  urn  was  implied. 

From  this  scene  turn  again — the  slide  shifts 
in  the  lantern— we  are  at  Paris.  In  the 
ante-chamber  at  the  Tuileries,  a  crowd  of  ex- 
pectant courtiers  and  adventurers  gaze  upon  a 
figure  who  passes  with  modest  and  downcast 
eyes  through  the  throng;  he  has  just  left  the 
closet  of  the  First  Consul. 

"  Par  Dieu  !  "     said  B ,    "  power,    like 

misery,  makes  us  acquainted  with  strange 
bedfellows.  I  should  like  to  hear  what  the 
First  Consul  can  have  to  say  to  Olivier  Dali- 
bard." 

Fouche,  who  at  that  period  was  scheming 
for  the  return  to  his  old  dignities  as  minister 
of  police,  smiled  slightly,  and  answered,  "  In 
a  time  when  the  air  is  filled  with  daggers, 
one  who  was  familiar  with  Robespierre  has  his 
uses.  Oliver  Dalibard  is  a  remarkable  man. 
He  is  one  of  those  children  of  the  Revolution, 
whom  the  great  mother  is  bound  to  save." 

"  By  betraying  his  brethren  ?  "  said  B , 

drily. 

"  I  do  not  allow  the  inference.  The  simple 
fact  is  that  Dalibard  has  spent  many  years  in 
England — he  has  married  an  Englishwoman 
of  birth  and  connections — he  knows  well  the 
English  language  and  English  people — and 
just  now,  when  the  First  Consul  is  so  anxious 
to  approfondir  the  popular  feelings  of  that 
strange  nation,  with  whose  government  he  is 
compelled  to  go  to  war,  he  may  naturally  have 
much  to  say  to  so  acute  an  observer  as 
Olivier  Dalibard." 

"  Um  !  "  said  B ;  "  with  such  patronage, 


578 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


Robespierre's  friend  should  hold  his  head 
somewhat  higher  !  " 

Meanwhile,  Olivier  Dalibard,  crossing  the 
gardens  of  the  palace,  took  his  way  to  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain.  There  was  no  change 
m  the  aspect  of  this  man;  the  same  medita- 
tive tranquillity  characterized  his  downward 
eyes  and  bended  brow;  the  same  precise  sim- 
plicity of  dress  which  had  pleased  the  prim 
taste  of  Robespierre,  gave  decorum  to  his 
slender  stooping  form.  No  expression  more 
cheerful,  no  footstep  more  elastic,  bespoke  the 
exile's  return  to  his  native  land,  or  the  sangu- 
ine expectations  of  Intellect  restored  to  a 
career.  Yet,  to  all  appearance,  the  prospects 
of  Dalibard  were  bright  and  promising. 

The  First  Consul  was  at  that  stage  of  his 
greatness,  when  he  sought  to  employ  in  his 
service  all  such  talent  as  the  Revolution  had 
made  manifest — provided  only,  that  it  was  not 
stained  with  notorious  bloodshed,  or  too 
strongly  associated  with  the  Jacobin  clubs. 
His  quick  eye  seemed  to  have  discovered 
already  the  abilities  of  Dalibard,  and  to  have 
appreciated  the  sagacity  and  knowledge  of 
men  which  had  enabled  this  subtle  person  to 
obtain  the  friendship  of  Robespierre,  without 
sharing  in  his  crimes.  He  had  been  fre- 
quently closeted  with  Buonaparte;  he  was  in 
the  declared  favor  of  Fouche,  who,  though  not 
at  that  period  at  the  head  of  the  Police,  was 
too  necessary  amidst  the  dangers  of  the  time, 
deepened  as  they  were  by  the  rumors  of 
some  terrible  and  profound  conspiracy,  to  be 
laid  aside,  as  the  First  Consul  had  at  one  mo- 
ment designed.  One  man  alone,  of  those  high 
in  the  State,  appeared  to  distrust  Olivier  Dali- 
bard—the  celebrated  Cambacferes.  But  with 
his  aid  the  Provencal  could  dispense.  What 
was  the  secret  of  Dalibard's  power  ?  was  it,  in 
truth,  owing  solely  to  his  native  talent,  and 
his  acquired  experience,  especially  of  Eng- 
giand  ? — was  it  by  honorable  means  that  he 
had  won  the  ear  of  the  first  Consul  ?  We  may 
be  sure  of  the  contrary;  for  it  is  a  striking 
attribute  of  men  once  thoroughly  tainted  by 
the  indulgence  of  vicious  schemes  and  strata- 
gems, that  they  become  wholy  blinded  to  those 
plain  paths  of  ambition,  which  common  sense 
makes  manifest  to  ordinary  ability.  If  we  re- 
gard narrowly  the  lives  of  great  criminals,  we 
are  often  very  much  startled  by  the  extrordi- 
nary   acuteness — the    profound    calculation — 


the  patient  meditative  energy  which  they  have 
employed  upon  the  conception  and  execution 
of  a  crime. 

We  feel  inclined  to  think  that  such  intellect- 
ual power  would  have  commanded  great  dis- 
tinction, worthily  used  and  guided;  but  we 
never  find  that  these  great  criminals  seem  to 
have  been  sensible  of  the  opportunities  to  real 
eminence  which  they  have  thrown  away. 
Often  we  observe  that  there  have  been  before 
them  vistas  into  worldly  greatness,  which,  by 
no  uncommon  prudence  and  exertion,  would 
have  conducted  honest  men,  half  as  clever,  to 
fame  and  power;  but,  with  a  strange  obliquity 
of  vision,  they  appear  to  have  looked  from 
these  broad  clear  avenues,  into  some  dark, 
tangled  defile,  in  which,  by  the  subtlest  in- 
genuity, and  through  the  most  besetting  perils, 
they  might  attain  at  last  to  the  success  of  a 
fraud,  or  the  enjoyment  of  a  vice.  In  crime 
once  indulged,  there  is  a  wonderful  fascination 
— and  the  fascination  is,  not  rarely,  gfreat  in 
proportion  to  the  intellect  of  the  criminal. 
There  is  always  hope  of  reform  for  a  dull,  un- 
educated, stolid  man,  led  by  accident  or  temp- 
tation into  guilt;  but  where  a  man  of  great 
ability,  and  highly  educated,  besots  himself  in 
the  intoxication  of  dark  and  terrible  excite- 
ments, takes  impure  delight  in  tortuous  and 
slimy  ways,  the  good  angel  abandons  him  for 
ever. 

Olivier  Dalibard  walked  musingly  on  — 
gained  a  house  in  one  of  the  most  desolate 
quarters  of  the  abandoned  Faubourg,  mounted 
the  spacious  stairs,  and  rang  at  the  door  of  an 
attic  next  the  roof.  After  some  moments, 
the  door  was  slowly  and  cautiously  opened, 
and  two  small  fierce  eyes,  peering  through  a 
mass  of  black  tangled  curls,  gleamed  through 
the  aperture.     The  gaze  seemed  satisfactory. 

"Enter,  friend,"  said  the  inmate,  with  a 
sort  of  complacent  grunt;  and,  as  Dalibard 
obeyed,  the  man  reclosed,  and  barred  the 
door. 

The  room  was  bare  to  beggary,— the  ceiling, 
low  and  sloping,  was  blackened  with  smoke. 
A  wretched  bed,  two  chairs,  a  table,  a  strong 
chest,  a  small  cracked  looking-glass,  com- 
pleted the  inventory.  The  dress  of  the  occu- 
pier was  not  in  keeping  with  the  chamber; — 
true  that  it  was  not  such  as  was  worn  by  the 
wealthier  classes,  but  it  betokened  no  sign  of 
poverty.     A  blue  coat,  with  high  collar,  and 


LUCRETIA. 


S79 


half  of  military  fashion,  was  buttoned  tight 
over  a  chest  of  vast  girth;  the  nether  garments 
were  of  leather,  scrupulously  clean,  and  solid, 
heavy  riding  boots  came  half  way  up  the  thigh. 
A  more  sturdy,  stalwart,  strong-built  knave, 
never  excited  the  admiration  which  physical 
power  always  has  a  right  to  command:  And 
Dalibard  gazed  on  him  with  envy.  The  pale 
scholar  absolutely  sighed  as  he  thought — what 
an  auxiliary  to  his  own  scheming  mind  would 
have  been  so  tough  a  frame  ! 

But  even  less  in  form  than  face  did  the  man 
of  thews  and  sinews  contrast  the  man  of  wile 
and  craft.  Opposite  that  high  forehead,  with 
its  massive  development  of  organs,  scowled 
the  low  front  of  one  to  whom  thought  was  un- 
familiar— protuberant,  indeed,  over  the  shaggy 
brows,  where  phrenologists  place  the  seats  of 
practical  perception — strongly  marked  in  some 
of  the  brutes,  as  in  the  dog — but  almost  fiter- 
ally  void  of  those  higher  organs,  by  which  we 
reason,  and  imagine,  and  construct.  But  in 
rich  atonement  for  such  deficiency,  all  the  an- 
imal reigned  triumphant  in  the  immense  mass 
and  width  of  the  skull  behind.  And  as  the 
hair,  long  before,  curled  in  close  rings  to  the 
nape  of  the  bull-like  neck,  you  saw  before 
you  one  of  those  useful  instruments  to  am- 
bition and  fraud,  which  recoil  at  no  danger, 
comprehend  no  crime,  are  not  without  certain 
good  qualities,  under  virtuous  guidance, — for 
they  have  the  fidelity,  the  obedience,  the  stub- 
born courage  of  the  animal;  but  which  under 
evil  control,  turn  those  very  qualities  to  un- 
sparing evil — bull-dogs  to  rend  the  foe,  as 
bull-dogs  to  defend  the  master. 

For  some  moments  the  two  men  ga^ed 
silently  at    each  other.     At  length,  Dalibard 

said,  with  an  air  of  calm  superiority 

"My  friend,  it  is-time  that  I  should  be  pre- 
sented to  the  chiefs  of  your  party  !  " 

"Chiefs,  par  tons  les  diables  !  "  growled  the 
other;  "we  Chotians  are  all  chiefs,  when  it 
comes  to  blows.  You  have  seen  my  creden- 
tials; you  know  that  I  am  a  man  to  be  trusted; 
what  more  do  you  need  ?  " 

"  For  myself  nothing;  but  my  friends  are 
more  scrupulous.  I  have  sounded,  as  I  prom- 
ised, the  heads  of  the  old  Jacobin  party — and 
they  are  favorable.  This  upstart  soldier,  who 
has  suddenly  seized  in  his  iron  grasp  all  the 
fruits  of  the  Revolution,  is  as  hateful  to  them 
as  to  you.     But,   que  voulez  voiis,  mon  cher — 


men  are  men  !  It  is  one  thing  to  destroy 
Buonaparte;  it  is  another  thing  to  restore  the 
Bourbons.  How  can  the  Jacobin  chiefs  de- 
pend on  your  assurance,  or  my  own,  that  the 
Bourbons  will  forget  the  old  offences,  and  re- 
ward the  new  service  ?  You  apprise  me,  so  do 
your  credentials,  that  a  Prince  of  the  blood  is 
engaged  in  this  enterprise,  that  he  will  appear 
at  the  proper  season.  Put  me  in  direct  com- 
munication with  this  representative  of  the 
Bourbons,  and  I  promise  in  return,  if  his  as- 
surances are  satisfactory,  that  you  shall  have 
an  ^metite  to  be  felt  from  Paris  to  Marseilles. 
If  you  can  not  do  this,  I  am  useless;  and    I 

withdraw " 

"  Withdraw  !  Garde  i  vous — Monsieur  le 
Savant !  No  man  withdraws  alive  from  a  con- 
spiracy like  ours." 

We  have  said  before  that  Olivier  Dalibard 
was  not  physically  brave;  and  the  look  of  the 
Chouan,  as  those  words  were  said,  would  have 
frozen  the  blood  of  many  a  bolder  man.  But 
the  habitual  hypocrisy  of  Dalibard  enabled 
him  to  disguise  his  fear,  and  he  replied 
drily: 

"Monsieur  le  Chouan, — it  is  not  by  threats 
that  you  will  gain  adherents  to  a  desperate 
cause,  which,  on  the  contrary,  requires  mild 
words  and  flattering  inducements.  If  you 
commit  a  violence — a  murder — mon  cher — 
Paris  is  not  Bretagne;  we  have  a  police;  you 
will  be  discovered." 

"  Ha,  ha  ! — what  then  ? — do  you  think  I 
fear  the  guillotine?" 

"For yourself — no;  but  for  your  leaders — 
yes  !  If  you  are  dicovered,  and  arrested  for 
crime,  do  you  fancy  that  the  Police  will  not 
recognize  the  right  arm  of  the  terrible  George 
Cadoudal  ? — that  they  will  not  guess  that 
Cadoudal  is  at  Paris? — that  Cadoudal  will 
not  accompany  you  to  the  guillotine  ?  " 

The  Chouan's  face  fell.  Olivier  watched 
him,  and  pursued  his  advantage. 

"  I  asked  you  to  introduce  to  me  this 
shadow  of  a  prince,  under  which  you  would 
march  to  a  counter-revolution.  But  I  will  be 
more  easily  contented.  Present  me  to  George 
Cadoudal,  the  hero  of  Morbihan;  he  is  a  man 
in  whom  I  can  trust,  and  with  whom  I  can 


deal.  What ! — you  hesitate  ? — How  do  you 
suppose  enterprises  of  this  nature  can  be 
carried  on  ?  If,  from  fear  and  distrust  of 
each  other,  the  man  you  would  employ  cannot 


58o 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


meet  the  chief  who  directs  him,  there  will  be 
delay — confusion — panic, — and  you  will  all 
perish  by  the  executioner.  And  for  me, 
Pierre  Guillot,  consider  my  position:  1  am  in 
some  favor  with  the  First  Consul — 1  have  a 
station  of  respectability — a  career  lies  before 
me.  Can  you  think  that  I  will  hazard  these, 
with  my  head  to  boot,  like  a  rash  child  ?  Do 
you  suppose  that,  in  entering  into  this  terrible 
contests,  I  would  consent  to  treat  only  with 
subordinates  ?  Do  not  deceive  yourself. 
Again,  I  say,  tell  your  employers  that  they 
must  confer  with  me  directly,  or  je  m'en  lave 
les  mains." 

"  I  will  repeat  what  you  say,"  answered 
Guillot,  sullenly.     "  Is  this  all  ?  " 

"  All  for  the  present,"  said  Dalibard, 
slowly  drawing  on  his  gloves,  and  retreating 
towards  the  door.  The  Chouan  watched  him 
with  a  suspicious  and  sinister  eye;  and  as  the 
Provencal's  hand  was  on  the  latch,  he  laid  his 
own  rough  grasp  on  Dalibard's  shoulder — 

"I  know  not  how  it  is,  Monsieur  Dalibard, 
but  I  mistrust  you." 

"  Distrust  is  natural  and  prudent  to  all  who 
conspire,"  replied  the  scholar,  quietly.  "I  do 
not  ask  you  to  confide  in  me — your  employers 
bade  you  seek  me — I  have  mentioned  my  con- 
ditions— let  them  decide." 

"  You  carry  it  off  well.  Monsieur  Dalibard. 
And  I  am  under  a  solemn  oath,  which  poor 
George  made  me  take  knowing  me  to  be  a 
hot-headed,  honest  fellow — mauvaise  tite,  if 
you  will — that  I  will  keep  my  hand  off  pistol 
and  knife  upon  mere  suspicion — that  nothing 
less  than  his  word  or  than  clear  and  positive 
proof  of  treachery  shall  put  me  out  of  good 
humor  and  into  warm  blood.  But  bear  this 
with  you.  Monsieur  Dalibard,  if  I  once  discover 
that  you  use  our  secrets  to  betray  them, — 
should  George  see  you,  and  one  hair  of  his 
head  come  to  injury  through  your  hands,  I 
will  wring  your  neck  as  a  housewife  wrings  a 
pullet's." 

"  I  don't  doubt  your  strength  or  your  feroc- 
ity, Pierre  Guillot;  but  my  neck  will  be  safe; 
you  have  enough  to  do  to  take  care  of  your 
own — au  reiwir." 

With  a  tone  and  look  of  calm  and  fearless 
irony,  the  scholar  thus  spoke  and  left  the  room; 
but  when  he  was  on  the  stairs,  he  paused,  and 
caught  at  the  balustrade — the  sickness  as  of 
terror  at  some  danger  past,  or  to  be,  came  over 


him;  and  this  contrast  between  the  self-com- 
mand, or  simulation  which  belongs  to  moral 
courage,  and  the  feebleness  of  natural  and 
constitutional  cowardice,  would  have  been  sub- 
lime if  shown  in  a  noble  cause.  In  one  so 
corrupt,  it  but  betrayed  a  nature  doubly  for- 
midable; for  treachery  and  murder  hatch  their 
brood  amidst  the  folds  of  a  hypocrite's  cow- 
ardice. 

While  thus  the  interview  between  Dalibard 
and  the  conspirator, — we  must  bestow  a  glance 
upon  the  Provencal's  home. 

In  an  apartment  in  one  of  the  principal 
streets,  between  the  Boulevards  and  the  Rue 
St.  Honore,  a  boy  and  a  woman  sate  side  by 
side,  conversing  in  whispers.  The  boy  was 
Gabriel  Varney,  the  woman  Lucretia  Dalibard. 
The  apartment  was  furnished  in  the  then 
modern  taste  which  affected  classical  forms; 
and" though  not  without  a  certain  elegance, 
had  something  meagre  and  comfortless  in 
its  splendid  tripods  and  thin-legged  chairs. 
There  was  in  the  apartment  that  air  which 
besjjeaks  the  struggle  for  appearances — that 
struggle  familiar  with  those  of  limited  income, 
and  vain  aspirings,  who  want  the  taste  which 
smoothes  all  inequalities,  and  gives  a  smile  to 
home — that  taste  which  affection  seems  to 
prompt,  if  not  to  create — -which  show  itself  in 
a  thousand  nameless,  costless  trifles,  each  a 
grace.  No  sign  was  there  of  the  household 
cares  or  industry  of  women.  No  flowers,  no 
music,  no  embroidery-frame,  no  work-table. 
Lucretia  had  none  of  the  sweet  feminine 
habits  which  betray  so  lovelily  the  whereabout 
of  women.  All  was  formal  and  precise,  like 
rooms  which  we  enter  and  leave — not  those  in 
in  which  we  settle  and  dwell. 

Lucretia  herself  is  changed,  her  air  is  more 
assured,  her  complexion  more  pale,  the  evil 
character  of  her  mouth  more  firm  and  pro- 
nounced. 

Gabriel,  still  a  mere  boy  in  years,  has  a 
premature  look  of  man.  The  down  shades  his 
lips.  His  dress,  though  showy  and  theatrical, 
is  no  longer  that  of  boyhood.  His  rounded 
cheek  has  grown  thin,  as  with  the  care  and 
thought  which  beset  the  anxious  step  of  youth 
on  entering  into  life. 

Both,  as  before  remarked,  spoke  in  whis- 
per«; — both  from  time  to  time  glanced  fear- 
fully at  the  door;  both  felt  that  they  belonged 
to  a  hearth  round  which  smile  not  the  jocund 


LUCRF.riA. 


S8' 


graces  of  trust  and  love,  and  the  heart's  open 
ease. 

"  But,"  said  Gabriel — "  but  if  you  would  be 
safe,  my  father  must  have  no  secrets  hid  from 
you." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  he  has.  He  speaks  to 
me  frankly  of  his  hopes — of  the  share  he  has 
-in  the  discovery  of  the  plot  against  the  First 
Consul — of  his  interviews  with  Pierre  Guillot, 
the  Breton." 

"  Ah,  because  there  your  courage  supports 
him,  and  your  acuteness  assists  his  own.  Such 
secrets  belong  to  his  public  life — his  political 
schemes — with  those  he  will  trust  you.  It  is 
his  private  life — his  private  projects  you  must 
know," 

"  But  what  does  he  conceal  from  me  ? 
Apart  from  polilics,  his  whole  mind  seems 
bent  on  the  very  natural  object  of  securing  the 
intimacy  with  his  rich  cousin,  Monsieur  Bel- 
langer,  from  whom  he  has  a  right  to  e.xpect  so 
large  an  inheritance." 

"  Bellanger  is  rich,  but  he  is  not  much  older 
than  my  father." 

"  He  has  bad  health." 

"  No,"  said  Gabriel,  with  a  downcast  eye 
and  a  strange  smile — "  he  has  not  bad  health, 
but  he  may  not  be  long  lived." 

"  How  d^  •  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Lucretia, 
sinking  her  voice  into  a  still  lower  whisper, 
while  a  shudder,  she  scarce  knew  why,  passed 
over  her  frame. 

"What  does  my  father  do,"  resumed  Ga- 
briel, "  in  that  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  ? 
Does  he  tell  you  that  secret?  " 

"  He  makes  experiments  in  chemistry.  You 
know  that  that  was  always  his  favorite  study. 
You  smile  again  !  Gabriel,  do  not  smile  so; 
it  appals  me.  Do  you  think  there  is  some 
mystery  in  that  chamber  ?  " 

"  It  matters  not  what  we  think,  belle  mire — 
it  matters  much  what  we  know.  If  I  were  you, 
I  ivould  know  what  is  in  that  chamber.  I  re- 
peat, to  be  safe,  you  must  have  all  his  secrets 
or  none.     Hush,  that  is  his  step !  " 

The  door  handle  turned  noiselessly,  and 
Olivier  entered.  His  look  fell  on  his  son's 
face,  which  betrayed  only  apparent  surprise  at 
his  unexpected  return.  He  then  glanced  at 
Lucretia' s,  which  was,  as  usual,  cold  and  im- 
penetrable. 

"Gabriel,"  said  Dalibard,  gently,  "I  have 
come  in  for  you.     I  have  promised  to  take  you 


to  spend  the  day  at  Monsieur  Bellanger's;  you 
are  a  great  favorite  with  Madame.  Come,  my 
boy.  I  shall  be  back  soon,  Lucretia.  I  shall 
but  drop  in  to  leave  Gabriel  at  my  cousin's." 

Gabriel  rose  cheerfully,  as  if  only  alive  to 
the  expectation  of  the  bon-bons  and  compli- 
ments he  received  habitually  from  Madame 
Bellanger. 

"  And  you  can  take  your  drawing  imple- 
ments with  you,"  continued  Dalibard.  "This 
good  Monsieur  Bellanger  has  given  you  per- 
mission to  copy  his  Poussin." 

"  His  Poussin  !  Ah,  that  is  placed  in  his 
bed-room,*  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Dalibard,  briefly. 

Gabriel  lifted  his  sharp  bright  eyes  to  his 
father's  face.     Dalibard  turned  away. 

"Come!"  he  said,  with  some  impatience; 
and  the  boy  took  up  his  hat. 

In  another  ihinute,  Lucretia  was  alone. 

Alone,  in  an  English  home,  is  a  word  imply- 
ing no  dreary  solitude  to  an  accomplished 
woman;  but  alone  in  that  foreign  land — alone 
in  those  half-furnished,  desolate  apartments — 
few  books,  no  musical  instruments,  no  com- 
panions during  the  day  to  drop  in; — that  lone- 
liness was  wearing.  And  that  mind  so  morbidly 
active  !  In  the  old  Scottish  legend,  the  Spirit 
that  serves  the  wizard  must  be  kept  constantly 
employed;  suspend  its  work  for  a  moment, 
and  it  rends  the  enchanter.  It  is  so  with  minds 
that  crave  for  excitement,  and  live  without  re- 
lief of  heart  and  affection,  on  the  hard  tasks  of 
the  intellect. 

Lucretia  mused  over  Gabriel's  words  and 
warning:  "  To  be  safe,  you  must  know  all  his 
secrets  or  none."  What  was  the  secret  which 
Dalibard  had  not  communicated  to  her  ? 

She  rose,  stole  up  the  cold,  cheerless  stairs, 
and  ascended  to  the  attic  which  Dalibard  had 
lately  hired.  It  was  locked;  and  she  observed 
that  the  lock  was  small — so  small,  that  the 
key  might  be  worn  in  a  ring.  She  descended 
and  entered  her  husband's  usual  cabinet, 
which  adjoined  the  sitting-room.  All  the 
books  which  the  house  contained  were  there; 
a  few  works  on  metaphysics — Spinosa  in  es- 
pecial— the  great  Italian  histories,  some  vol- 
umes   of   statistics,    many    on    physical    and 


"  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  bed-cham- 
bers in  Paris,  when  forming  part  of  the  suite  of  recep 
tion   rooms,  are  often  decorated  no  less  elaboratel 
than  the  other  apartments. 


^'82 


BULIVER'S     WORKS. 


mechanical  philosophy,  and  one  or  two  works 
of  biography  and  memoirs: — No  light  litera- 
ture, that  grace  and  flower  of  human  culture 
— that  best  philosophy  of  all,  humanizing  us 
with  gentle  art,  making  us  wise  through  the 
humors,  elevated  through  the  passions,  tender 
in  the  affections  of  our  kind  !  She  took  out 
one  of  the  volumes  that  seemed  less  arid  than 
the  rest,  for  she  was  weary  of  her  own  thoughts, 
and  began  to  read.  To  her  surprise,  the  first 
passage  she  opened  was  singularly  interesting, 
though  the  title  was  nothing  more  seductive 
than  the  "Life  of  a  Physician  of  Padua,  in  the 
Sixteenth  Century."  It  related  to  that  singu- 
lar epoch  of  terror  in  Italy,  when  some  mys- 
terious disease,  varying  in  a  thousand  symp- 
toms, bafiled  all  remedy,  and  long  defied  all 
conjecture — a  disease  attacking  chiefly  the 
heads  of  families,  father  and  husband — rarely 
women.  In  one  city  seven  hundred  husbands 
perished,  but  not  one  wife  ! 

The  disease  was  poison.  The  hero  of  the 
memoir  was  one  of  the  earlier  discoverers  of 
the  true  cause  of  this  household  epidemic. 
He  had  been  a  chief  authority  in  a  commission 
of  inquiry.  Startling  were  the  details  given  in 
the  work;  the  anecdotes,  the  histories,  the  as- 
tonishing craft  brought  daily  to  bear  on  the 
victim,  the  wondrous  perfidy  of  the  subtle 
means,  the  variation  of  the  certain  murder- 
here  swift  as  epilepsy — there  slow  and  wasting 
as  long  decline: — the  lecture  was  absorbing; 
and  absorbed  in  the  book  Lucretia  still  was, 
when  she  heard  Dalibard's  voice  behind;  he 
was  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

"  A  strange  selection  for  so  fair  a  student ! 
Enfant,  play  not  with  such  weapons  !  " 

"But  is  this  all  true?" 

"  True,  though  scarce  a  fragment  of  the 
truth.  The  physician  was  a  sorry  chemist, 
and  a  worse  philosopher.  He  blundered  in 
his  analysis  of  the  means;  and,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  he  whines  like  a  priest  at  the  motives; 
for  see  you  not  what  was  really  the  cause  of 
this  spreading  pestilence.  It  was  the  Satur- 
nalia of  the  Weak — a  burst  of  mocking  licence 
against  the  Strong:  it  was  more — it  was  the 
innate  force  of  the  individual  waging  war 
against  the  many." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  No  !  In  that  age,  husbands  were,  indeed, 
lords  of  the  household:  they  married  mere 
children  for  their  lands:  they  neglected  and 


betrayed  them;  they  were  inexorable  if  the 
wife  committed  the  faults  set  before  her  exam- 
ple. Suddenly  the  wife  found  herself  armed 
against  her  tyrant.  His  life  was  in  her  hands. 
So  the  weak  had  no  mercy  on  the  strong  !  But 
man,  too,  was  then,  even  more  than  now,  a 
lonely  wrestler  in  a  crowded  arena.  Brute 
force  alone  gave  him  distinction  in  courts; 
wealth  alone  brought  him  justice  in  the  halls, 
or  gave  him  safety  in  his  home.  Suddenly, 
the  frail,  puny  man  saw  that  he  could  reach  the 
mortal  part  of  his  giant  foe.  The  noiseless 
sling  was  in  his  hand— it  smote  Goliath  from 
afar.  Suddenly,  the  poor  man,  ground  to 
the  dust,  spat  upon  by  contempt,  saw  through 
the  crowd  of  richer  kinsmen,  who  shunned  and 
bade  him  rot — saw  those  whose  death  made 
him  heir  to  lordship,  and  gold,  and  palaces, 
and  i)ower,  and  esteem  !  As  a  worm  through 
a  wardrobe,  that  man  ate  through  velvet  and 
ermine,  and  gnawed  out  the  hearts  that  beat  in 
his  way.  No  !  A  great  intellect  can  compre- 
hend these  criminals,  and  account  for  the 
crime.  It  is  a  mighty  thing  to  feel  in  one's 
self  that  one  is  an  army — more  than  an  army  ! 
What  thousands  and  millions  of  men,  with 
trumpet  and  banner,  and  under  the  sanction 
of  glory,  strive  to  do — destroy  a  foe,  that,  with 
little  more  than  an  effort  of  the  will — with  a 
drop,  a  grain,  for  all  his  arsenal — one  man 
can  do  ! " 

There  was  a  horrible  enthusiasm  about  this 
reasoning  devil  as  he  spoke  thus;  his  crest 
rose,  his  breast  expanded.  That  animation 
which  a  noble  thought  gives  to  generous 
hearts,  kindled  in  the  face  of  the  apologist 
for  the  darkest  and  basest  of  human  crimes. 
Lucretia  suddered;  but  her  gloomy  imagination 
was  spelled;  there  was  an  interest  mingled 
with  her  terror. 

"Hush!  you  appal  me,"  she  said,  at  last, 
timidly.  "  But,  happily,  this  fearful  art  exists 
no  more  to  tempt  and  destroy  ? " 

"As  a  mere  philosophical  discovery,  it 
might  be  amusing  to  a  chemist  to  learn  ex- 
actly what  were  the  compounds  of  those 
ancient  poisons,"  said  Dalibard,  not  directly 
answering  the  implied  question.  "  Portions  of 
the  art  are  indeed  lost,  unless,  as  I  suspect, 
there  is  much  credulous  exaggeration  in  the 
accounts  transmitted  to  us.  To  kill  by  a 
flower,  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  soap  ball— kill  by 
means  which  elude  all  possible  suspicion — is  it 


LUCRETIA. 


583 


creditable?  What  say  you?  An  amusing 
research,  indeed,  if  one  had  leisure  !  But 
enough  of  this  now;  it  grows  late.     We  dine 

with  the  Monsieur  de .     He  wishes  to  let 

his  hotel.  Why,  Lucretia,  if  we  knew  a  lit- 
tle of  this  old  art,  Par  Dieu  !  we  could  soon 
hire  the  hotel  !  Well,  well,  perhaps  we  may 
survive  my  cousin,  Jean  Bellanger  !  " 

Three  days  afterwards,  Lucretia  stood  by 
her  husband's  side  in  the  secret  chamber. 
From  the  hour  when  she  left  it,  a  change  was 
perceptible  in  her  countenance,  which  gradu- 
ally removed  from  it  the  character  of  youth. 
Paler  the  cheek  could  scarce  become,  nor 
more  cold  the  discontented,  restless  eye.  But 
it  was  as  if  some  great  care  had  settled  on 
her  brow,  and  contracted  yet  more  the  stern 
outline  of  the  lips.  Gabriel  noted  the  alter- 
ation; but  he  did  not  attempt  to  win  her  con- 
fidence. He  was  occupied  rather  in  consid- 
ering, first,  if  it  were  well  for  him  to  sound 
deeper  into  the  mystery  he  suspected;  and, 
secondly,  to  what  extent,  and  on  what  terms 
it  became  his  interest  to  aid  the  designs  in 
which,  by  Daiibard's  hints  and  kindly  treat- 
ment, he  foresaw  that  he  he  was  meant  to  par- 
ticipate. 

A  word  now  on  the  rich  kinsman  of  the  Dali- 
bards:  Jean  Bellanger  had  been  one  of  those 
prudent  republicans  who  had  put  the  Revolu- 
tion to  profit.  By  birth  a  Marseillais, — he 
had  settled  in  Paris,  as  an  Spicier,  about  the 
year  1785,  and  had  distinguished  himself  by 
the  adaptability  and  finesse  which  become 
those  who  fish  in  such  troubled  waters.  He 
had  sided  with  Mirabeau,  next  with  Vergniaud, 
and  the  Girondins.  These  he  forsook  in  time 
for  Danton,  whose  facile  corruptibility  made 
him  a  seductive  patron.  He  was  a  large  pur- 
chaser in  the  sale  of  the  emigrant  property; 
he  obtained  a  contract  for  the  supply  of  the 
army  in  the  Netherlands;  he  abandoned  Dan- 
ton  as  he  had  abandoned  the  Girondins,  but 
without  taking  any  active  part  in  the  after  pro- 
ceedings of  the  Jacobins.  His  next  connec- 
tion was  with  Tallien  and  Barras,  and  he  en- 
riched himself  yet  more  under  the  Directory 
than  he  had  done  in  the  earlier  stages  of  the 
Revolution. 

Under  cover  of  an  appearance  of  bonhomie 
and  good  humor,  a  frank  laugh  and  open 
countenance,  Jean  Bellanger  had  always  re- 
tained general  popularity  and  good  will;  and 


was  one  of  those  whom  the  policy  of  the  First 
Consul  led  him  to  conciliate.  He  had  long 
since  retired  from  the  more  vulgar  departments 
of  trade,  but  continued  to  flourish  as  an  army 
contractor.  He  had  a  large  hotel  and  a 
splendid  establishment.  He  was  one  of  the 
great  capitalists  of  Paris.  The  relationship 
between  Dalibard  and  Bellanger  was  not  very 
close,  it  was  that  of  cousins  twice  removed; 
and  during  Daiibard's  previous  residence  at 
Paris,  each  embracing  different  parties,  and 
each  eager  in  his  career,  the  blood-tie  between 
them  had  not  been  much  thought  of,  though 
they  were  good  friends,  and  each  respected  the 
other  for  the  discretion  with  which  he  had  kept 
aloof  from  the  more  sanguinary  excesses  of  the 
lime.  As  Bellanger  was  not  many  years  older 
than  Dalibard,  as  the  former  had  but  just  mar- 
ried in  the  year  1791,  and  had  naturally  before 
him  the  prospect  of  a  family — as  his  fortunes  at 
that  time,  though  rising,  were  unconfirmed,  and 
as  some  nearer  relations  stood  between  them,  in 
the  shape  of  two  promising  sturdy  nephews, 
Dalibard  had  not  then  calculated  on  any  in- 
heritence  from  his  cousin.  On  his  return,  cir- 
cumstances were  widely  altered — Bellanger  had 
been  married  some  years,  and  no  issue  had 
blessed  his  nuptials.  His  nephews,  draughted 
into  the  conscription,  had  perished  in  Egypt. 
Dalibard  apparently  became  his  nearest  rela- 
tive. 

To  avarice  or  to  worldly  ambition,  there 
was,  undoubtedly,  something  very  dazzling  in 
the  prospect  thus  opened  to  the  eyes  of 
Olivier  Dalibard.  The  Contractor's  splendid 
mode  of  living,  vying  with  that  of  ihe  fermier- 
gMral  of  old,  the  colossal  masses  of  capital, 
by  which  he  backed  and  supported  specula- 
tions, that  varied  with  an  ingenuity  rendered 
practical  and  profound  by  experience,  in- 
flamed into  fever  the  morbid  restlesness  of 
fancy  and  intellect  which  characterized  the 
evil  scholar.  For  that  restlessness  seemed  to 
supply  to  his  nature,  vices  not  constitutional 
to  it.  Dalibard  had  not  the  avarice  that  be- 
longs either  to  a  miser  or  a  spendthrift.  In 
his  youth,  his  books  and  the  simple  desires  of 
an  abstract  student  sufficed  to  his  wants,  and 
a  habit  of  method  and  order,  a  mechanical 
calculation  which  accompanied  all  his  acts, 
from  the  least  to  the  greatest — preserved  him, 
even  when  most  poor,  from  neediness  and 
want.     Nor  was  he  by  nature  vain  and  osten- 


D»4 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


tatious — those  infirmities  accompany  a  larger 
and  more  luxuriant  nature.  His  philosophy 
rather  despised,  than  inclined  to  show.  Yet 
since  to  plot  and  to  scheme  made  his  sole 
amusement,  his  absorbing  excitement, — so  a 
man  wrapped  in  himself,  and  with  no  generous 
ends  in  view,  has  little  to  plot  or  to  scheme 
for,  but  objects  of  worldly  aggrandisement.  In 
this,  Dalibard  resembled  one  whom  the  intoxi- 
cation of  gambling  has  mastered,  who  neither 
wants,  nor  greatly  prizes,  the  stake,  but  who 
has  grown  wedded  to  the  venture  for  it.  In 
was  a  madness  like  that  of  a  certain  rich  noble- 
man in  our  own  country,  who,  with  more 
money  than  he  could  spend,  and  with  a  skill, 
in  all  games  where  skill  enters,  that  would 
have  secured  him  success  of  itself, — having 
learned  the  art  of  cheating,  could  not  resist  its 
indulgence.  No  hazard,  no  warning,  could  re- 
strain him — cheat  he  must — the  propensity 
became  iron-strong  as  a  Greek  destiny. 

That  the  possible  chance  of  an  inheritance  so 
magnificent  should  dazzle  Lucretia  and  Gabriel, 
was  yet  more  natural;  for  in  them,  it  appealed 
to  more  direct  and  eloquent,  though  not  more 
powerful,  propensities.  Gabriel  had  every  vice 
which  the  greed  of  gain  most  irritates  and  ex- 
cites. Intense  covetousness  lay  at  the  core  of 
his  heart;  he  had  the  sensual  temperament 
which  yearns  for  every  enjoyment,  and  takes 
pleasure  in  every  pomp  antl  show  of  life. 
Lucretia,  with  a  hardness  of  mind  that  dis- 
dained luxury;  and  a  certain  grandeur,  (if 
such  a  word  may  be  applied  to  one  so  per- 
verted), that  was  incompatible  with  the  sordid 
infirmities  of  the  miser,  had  a  determined  and 
insatiable  ambition  to  which  gold  was  a  neces- 
sary instrument.  Wedded  to  one  she  loved, 
like  Mainwaring,  the  ambition,  as  we  have  said 
in  a  former  chapter,  could  have  lived  in  an- 
other, and  become  devoted  to  intellectual 
efforts,  in  the  nobler  desire  for  power  based 
on  fame  and  genius.  But  now  she  had  the 
gloomy  cravings  of  one  fallen,  and  the  uneasy 
desire  to' restore  herself  to  a  lost  position — 
she  fed  as  an  ailment  upon  scorn  to  bitter- 
ness, of  all  beings  and  all  things  around  her. 
She  was  gnawned  by  that  false  fever  which 
liots  in  those  who  seek  by  outward  seemings 
and  distinctions  to  console  themselves  for  the 
want  of  their  own  self-esteem;  or  who,  despis- 
ing the  world  with  which  they  are  brought 
into  contact,  sigh  for  those  worldly  advantages. 


which  alone  justify  to  the  world  itself  theii 
contempt. 

To  these  diseased  infirmities  of  vanity  or 
pride,  whether  exhibited  in  Gabriel  or  Lucretia, 
Ualibard  administered  without  apparent  effort, 
not  only  by  his  conversation,  but  his  habits  of 
life.  He  mixed  with  those  much  wealthier 
than  himself,  but  not  better  born — those  who, 
in  the  hot  and  fierce  ferment  of  that  new 
society,  were  rising  fast  into  new  aristocracy, 
— fortunate  soldiers,  daring  speculators,  plun- 
derers of  many  an  argosy  that  had  been  wrecked 
ill  the  Great  Storm.  Every  one  about  them 
was  actuated  by  the.  keen  desire  "  to  make  a 
fortune  " — the  desire  was  contagious.  They 
were  not  absolutely  poor  in  the  proper  sense 
of  the  word  [wverty,  with  Dalibard's  annuity 
and  the  interest  of  Lucretia's  fortune,  but  they 
were  poor  compared  to  those  with  whom  they 
associated — poor  enough  for  discontent.  Thus, 
the  image  of  the  mighty  wealth  from  which, 
perhaps,  but  a  single  life  divided  them,  became 
horribly  haunting.  To  Gabriel's  sensual  vis- 
ion, the  image  presented  itself  in  the  shape  of 
unlimited  pleasure  and  prodigal  riot;  to  Lucre- 
tia, it  wore  the  solemn  majesty  of  power:  to 
Dalibard  himself  it  was  but  the  Eureka  of  a 
calculation — the  palpable  reward  of  wile,  and 
scheme,  and  dexterous  combinations.  The 
devil  had  temptations  suited  to  each.  Mean- 
while, the  Dalibards  were  more  and  more  with 
the  Bellangers.  Olivier  glided  in  to  talk  of 
the  chances  and  changes  of  the  state  and  the 
market.  Lucretia  sate  for  hours,  listening 
mutely  to  the  Contractor's  boasts  of  past 
frauds,  or  submitting  to  the  martyrdom  of  his 
victorious  games  at  tric-trac.  Gabriel,  a 
spoiled  darling,  copied  the  pictures  on  the 
walls,  complimented  Madame,  flattered  Mon- 
sieur, and  fawned  on  both  for  trinkets  and 
crowns.  Like  three  birds  of  night  aud  omen, 
these  three  evil  natures  settled  on  the  rich 
man's  roof. 

Was  the  rich  man  himself  blind  to  the  mo- 
tives which  budded  for  into  such  attentive 
affection  ?  His  penetration  was  too  acute — 
his  ill  opinion  of  mankind  too  strong,  perhaps, 
for  such  amiable  self-delusions.  But  he  took 
all  in  good  part,  availed  himself  of  Dalibard's 
hints  and  suggestions  as  to  the  employment  of 
his  capital;  was  polite  to  Lucretia,  and  readily 
condemned  her  to  be  beaten  at  tric-trac,  while 
he  accepted  with  bonhomie  Gabriel's  spirited 


LUC  RETT  A. 


585 


copies  of  his  pictures.  But  at  times,  tliere  was 
a  gleam  of  satire  and  malice  in  his  round  grey 
eyes,  and  an  inward  chuclcle  at  the  caresses 
and  flatteries  he  received,  which  perplexed 
Dalibard,  and  humbled  Lucretia.  Had  his 
wealth  been  wholly  at  his  own  disposal,  these 
signs  would  have  been  inauspicious,  but  the 
new  law  was  strict,  and  the  bulk  of  Bellanger's 
property  could  not  be  alienated  from  his  near- 
est kin.     Was  not  Dalibard  the  nearest  ? 

These  hopes  and  speculations  did  not,  as  we 
have  seen,  absorb  the  restless  and  rank  ener- 
gies of  Dalibard's  crooked,  but  capacious  and 
grasping  intellect.  Patiently  and  ingeniously 
he  pursued  his  main  political  object— the  de- 
tection of  that  audacious  and  complicated  con- 
spiracy against  the  First  Consul,  which  ended 
in  the  tragic  deaths  of  Pichegru,  the  Due 
D'Enghien,  and  the  erring  but  illustrious  hero 
of  La  Vandee,  George  Cadoudal.  In  the 
midst  of  these  dark  plots  for  personal  aggran- 
dizement and  political  fortune,  we  leave,  for 
the  moment,  the  sombre  sullen  soul  of  Olivier 
Dalibard. 

***** 
***** 


Time  has  passed  on,  and  Spring  is  over  the 
world;  the  seeds,  buried  in  the  earth,  burst  to 
flower;  but  man's  breast  knoweth  not  the 
sweet  division  of  the  seasons.  In  winter  or 
summer,  autumn  or  spring  alike,  his  thoughts 
sow  the  germs  of  his  actions,  and  day  after 
■day  his  destiny  gathers  in  her  hai-vests. 

The  joy-bells  ring  clear  through  the  groves 
of  Laughton— an  heir  is  born  to  the  old  name 
and  fair  lands  of  St.  John  !  And,  as  usual, 
the  present  race  welcomes  merrily  in,  that 
which  shall  succeed  and  replace  it — that  which 
shall  thrust  the  enjoyers  down  into  the  black 
graves,  and  wrest  from  them  the  pleasant 
goods  of  the  world.  The  joy-l)ell  of  birth  is 
a  note  of  warning  to  the  knell  for  the  dead; 
it  wakes  the  worms  beneath  the  mould;  the 
new-born,  every  year  that  it  grows  and  flour- 
ishes, speeds  the  Parent  to  their  feast.  Yet 
who  can  predict  that  the  infant  shall  become 
the  heir? — who  can  tell  that  Death  sits  not 
side  by  side  with  the  nurse  at  the  cradle  ? 
Can  the  mother's  hand  measure  out  the  woof 
of  the  Parcae,  or  the  father's  eye  detect,  through 
the  darkness  of  the  morrow,  the  gleam  of  the 
fatal  shears  ? 


It  is  market-day,  at  a  town  in  the  midland 
districts  of  England.  There,  Trade  takes  its 
healthiest  and  most  animated  form.  You  see 
not  the  stunted  form  and  hollow  eye  of  the 
mechanic — poor  slave  of  the  capitalist — poor 
agent  and  victim  of  the  arch  disequalizer — 
Civilization.  There,  strides  the  burly  form 
of  the  farmer;  there,  waits  the  ruddy  hind 
with  his  flock;  there,  patient,  sits  the  miller 
with  his  samples  of  corn;  there,  in  the  booths, 
gleam  the  humble  wares  which  form  the 
luxuries  of  cottage  and  farm.  The  thronging 
of  men,  and  the  clacking  of  whips,  and  the 
dull  sound  of  wagon  or  dray,  that  parts  the 
crowd  as  it  passes,  and  the  lowing  of  herds 
and  the  bleating  of  sheep,  all  are  sounds  of 
movement  and  bustle,  yet  blend  with  the  pas- 
toral associations  of  the  Primitive  Commerce, 
when  the  link  between  market  and  farm  was 
visible  and  direct. 

Towards  one  large  house  in  the  centre  of 
the  brisk  life  ebbing  on,  you  might  see 
stream  after  stream  pour  its  way.  The  large 
doors  swinging  light  on  their  hinges,  the  gilt 
letters  that  shine  above  the  threshold,  the  win- 
dows, with  their  shutters  outside  cased  in  iron 
and  studded  with  nails,  announce  that  that 
house  is  the  Bank  of  the  town.  Come  in  with 
that  yeoman,  whose  broad  face  tells  its  tale, 
sheepish  and  down-eyed — he  has  come  not  to 
invest,  but  to  borrow.  What  matters,  war  is 
breaking  out  anew,  to  bring  the  time  of  high 
prices,  and  paper  money  and  credit.  Honest 
yeoman,  you  will  not  be  refused.  He  scratches 
his  rough  head,  pulls  a  leg,  as  he  calls  it,  when 
the  clerk  leans  over  the  counter,  and  asks  to 
see  "  Muster  Mawnering  hisself."  The  clerk 
points  to  the  little  office-room  of  the  junior 
partner,  who  has  brought  ten  thousand  pounds, 
and  a  clear  head,  to  the  firm.  And  the  yeo- 
man's great  boots  creak  heavily  in.  I  told 
you  so,  honest  yeoman;  you  come  out  with  a 
smile  on  your  brown  face,  and  your  hand,  that 
might  fell  an  ox,  buttons  up  your  huge 
breeches-pocket.  You  will  ride  home  with  a 
light  heart — go  and  dine,  and  be  merry. 

The  yeoman  tramps  to  the  Ordinary;  plates 
clatter,  tongues  wag;  and  the  borrower's  full 
heart  finds  vent  in  a  good  word  for  that  kind 
"  Muster  Mawnering."  For  a  wonder,  all  join 
in  the  praise.  "  He's  an  honor  to  the  town; 
he's  a  pride  to  the  countr)' — thof  he's  such  a 
friend  at  a  pinch,  he's  a  rale  mon  of  business  I 


5  so 


BULWEK'S     WORKS. 


He'll  make  the  baunk  worth  a  million  ! — and 
how  well  he  spoke  at  the  great  county  meet- 
ing about  the  war,  and  the  laund,  and  them 
blood-thirsty  Mounseers  !  If  their  members 
were  loike  him,  Muster  Fox  would  look  small  !  " 
The  day  declines;  the  town  empties — whis- 
kies, horses,  and  carts,  are  giving  life  to  'the 
roads  and  the  lanes — and  the  market  is  de- 
serted, and  the  bank  is  ihut  up,  and  William 
Mainwaring  walks  back  to  his  home  at  the 
skirts  of  the  town — not  villa  nor  cottage — that 
plain  English  house  with  its  cheerful  face  of 
red  brick,  and  its  solid  squareness  of  shape — 
a  symbol  of  substance  in  the  fortunes  of  the 
owner  !  Yet,  as  he  passes,  he  sees  through 
the  distant  trees  the  hall  of  the  member  for 
the  town.  He  pauses  a  moment,  and  sighs 
unquietly.  That  pause  and  that  sigh  betray 
the  germ  of  ambition  and  discontent.  Why 
should  not  he  who  can  speak  so  well,  be  mem- 
ber for  the  town,  instead  of  that  stammering 
squire  ?  But  his  reason  has  soon  silenced  the 
querulous  murmur.  He  hastens  his  step — he 
is  at  home  !  And  there,  in  the  neat  furnished 
drawing-room,  which  looks  on  the  garden  be- 
hind, hisses  the  welcoming  tea-urn;  and  the 
piano  is  open,  and  there  is  a  packet  of  new 
books  on  the  table;  and,  best  of  all,  there  is 
the  glad  face  of  the  sweet  English  wife.  The 
happy  scene  was  characteristic  of  the  time, 
just  when  the  simpler  and  more  innocent  lux- 
uries of  the  higher  class  spread,  not  to  spoil, 
but  refine  the  middle.  The  dress,  air,  mien, 
movements  of  the  young  couple;  the  unas- 
suming, suppressed,  sober  elegance  of  the 
house;  the  flower-garden,  the  books,  and  the 
music,  evidences  of  cultivated  taste,  not  sig- 
nals of  display — all  bespoke  the  gentle  fusion 
of  ranks,  before  rude  and  uneducated  wealth, 
made  in  looms  and  lucky  hits,  rushed  in  to 
separate  for  ever  the  gentleman  from  the  par- 
venu. 

Spring  smiles  over  Paris,  over  the  spires  of 
Notre  Dame,  and  the  crowded  alleys  of  the 
Tuileries,  over  thousands  and  thousands  eager, 
joyous,  aspiring,  reckless — the  New  Race  of 
France — bound  to  one  man's  destiny,  children 
of  glory  and  of  carnage,  whose  blood  the  wolf 
and  the  vulture  scent,  hungry,  from  afar  ! 

The  conspiracy  against  the  life  of  the  First 
Consul  has  been  detected  and  defeated. 
Pichegru  is  in  prison,  George  Cadoudal  awaits 
his   trial,  the  Due   D'Enghien    sleeps   in   his 


bloody  grave;  the  imperial  crown  is  prepared 
for  the  great  soldier,  and  the  great  soldier's 
creatures  bask  in  the  noon-day  sun.  Olivier 
Dalibard  is  in  high  and  lucrative  employment; 
his  rise  is  ascribed  to  his  talents — his  opin- 
ions. No  service  connected  with  the  detection 
of  the  conspiracy  is  traced  or  traceable  by  the 
public  eye.  If  such  exist,  it  is  known  but  to 
those  who  have  no  desire  to  reveal  it.  The 
old  apartments  are  retained;  but  they  are  no 
longer  dreary,  and  comfortless,  and  deserted. 
They  are  gay  with  draperies,  and  or-molu, 
and  mirrors;  and  Madame  Dalibard  has  hei 
nights  of  reception,  and  Monsieur  Dalibard  has 
already  his  troops  of  clients.  In  that  gigantic 
concentration  of  egotism  which,  under  Napo- 
leon, is  called  The  State,  Dalibard  has  found 
his  place.  He  has  served  to  swell  the  power 
of  the  unit,  and  the  cipher  gains  importance 
by  its  position  in  the  sum. 

Jean  Bellanger  is  no  more.  He  died,  not 
suddenly,  and  yet  of  some  quick  disease — 
nervous  exhaution:  his  schemes,  they  said, 
had  worn  him  out.  But  the  state  of  Dalibard,^ 
though  prosperous,  is  not  that  of  the  heir  to 
the  dead  millionaire.  What  mistake  is  this  ? 
The  bulk  of  that  wealth  must  go  to  the  near- 
est kin — so  runs  the  law.  But  the  will  is  read; 
and,  for  the  first  time,  Olivier  Dalibard  learns 
that  the  dead  man  had  a  son — a  son  by  a 
former  marriage — the  marriage  undeclared, 
unknown,  amidst  the  riot  of  the  revolution; 
for  the  wife  was  the  daughter  of  a  proscrii. 
The  son  had  been  reared  at  a  distance,  put  to 
school  at  Lyons,  and  unavowed  to  the  second 
wife,  who  had  brought  an  ample  dower,  and 
whom  that  discdvery  might  have  deterred  from 
the  altar.  Unacknowledged  through  life — in 
death,  at  least,  the  son's  right's  are  proclaimed: 
and  Olivier  Dalibard  feels  that  Jean  Bellanger 
has  died  in  vain  !  For  days  has  the  pale 
Provencal  been  closeted  with  lawyers;  but 
there  is  no  hope  in  litigation.  The  proofs  of 
the  marriage,  the  birth,  the  identity,  come  out 
clear  and  clearer;  and  the  beardless  school- 
boy at  Lyons  reaps  all  the  profit  of  those 
nameless  schemes  and  that  mysterious  death. 
Oliver  Dalibard  desires  the  friendship — the 
intimacy  of  the  heir.  But  the  heir  is  con- 
signed to  the  guardianship  of  a  merchant  at 
Lyons,  near  of  kin  to  his  mother — and  the 
guardian  responded  but  coldly  to  Olivier's  let- 
ters.    Suddenly  the   defeated  aspirant  seems 


LUCRETIA. 


587 


reconciled  to  his  loss.  The  widow  Bellanger 
has  her  own  separate  fortune;  and  it  is  large, 
beyond  expectation.  In  addition  to  the  wealth 
she  brought  the  deceased,  his  affection  had  led 
him  to  invest  vast  sums  in  her  name.  The 
widow,  then,  is  rich — rich  as  the  heir  himself. 
She  is  still  fair.  Poor  woman,  she  needs  con- 
solation !  But,  meanwhile,  the  nights  of 
Olivier  Dalibard  are  disturbed  and  broken. 
His  eye,  in  the  day-time,  is  haggard  and  anx- 
ious; he  is  seldom  seen  on  foot  in  the  streets. 
Fear  is  his  companion  by  day,  and  sits  at 
night  on  his  pillow.  The  Chouan,  Pierre  Guil- 
lot,  who  looked  to  George  Cadoudnl  as  a  god, 
knows  that  George  Cadoudal  has  been  be- 
trayed, and  suspects  Oliver  Dalibard;  and  the 
Chouan  has  an  arm  of  iron  and  a  heart  steeled 
against  all  mercy.  Oh,  how  the  pale  scholar 
thirsted  for  that  Chouan  s  blood  !  With  what 
relentless  pertinacity,  with  what  ingenious  re- 
search he  had  set  all  the  hounds  of  the  police 
upon  the  track  of  that  single  man  !  How 
notably  he  had  failed  !  An  avenger  lived; 
and  Olivier  Dalibard  started  at  his  own  shadow 
on  the  wall.  But  he  did  not  the  less  continue 
to  plot  and  to  intrigue — nay,  such  occupation 
became  more  necessary,  as  an  escape  from 
himself. 

And,  in  the  meanwhile,  Olivier  Dalibard 
sought  to  take  courage  from  the  recollection 
that  the  Chouan  had  taken  an  oath  (and  he 
knew  that  oaths  are  held  sacred  with  the 
Bretons)  that  he  would  keep  his  hand  from  his 
knife,  unless  he  had  clear  evidence  of  treach- 
ery;— such  evidence  existed,  but  only  in  Dali- 
bard's  desk,  or  the  archives  of  Fouche.  Tush, 
he  was  safe  !  And  so,  when  from  dreams  of 
fear,  he  started  at  the  depth  of  night,  so  his 
bolder  wife  would  whisper  to  him  with  'firm 
uncaressing  lips.  Olivier  Dalibard,  thou  fear- 
est  the  living,  dost  thou  never  fear  the  dead  ? 
Thy  dreams  are  haunted  with  a  spectre.  Why 
takes  it  not  the  accusing  shape  of  thy  moul- 
dering kinsman  ?  Dalibard  would  have  an- 
swered, for  he  was  a  philosopher  in  his  cowar- 
dice, "//  fiy  a  qui  les  morts,  qui  nc  m'iennent 
pas." 

It  is  the  notable  convenience  of  us  narrators 
to  represent,  by  what  is  called  soliloquy,  the 
thoughts — the  interior  of  the  personages  we 
describe.  And  this  is  almost  the  master-work 
of  the  tale-teller — that  is,  if  the  soliloquy  be 
really  in  words,  what  self-commune  is  in  the 


dim  and  tangled  recesses  of  the  human  heart ! 
But  to  this  privilege  we  are  rarely  admitted  in 
the  case  of  Olivier  Dalibard;  for  he  rarely 
communed  with  himself;  a  sort  of  mental 
calculation,  it  is  true,  eternally  went  on  within 
him,  Hke  the  wheels  of  a  destiny;  but  it  had 
become  a  mechanical  operation — seldom  dis- 
turbed by  that  consciousness  of  thought,  with  its 
struggles  of  fear  and  doubt,  conscience  and 
crime,  which  gives  its  appalling  interest  to  the 
soliloquy  of  tragedy.  Amidst  the  tremendous 
secrecy  of  that  profound  intellect,  as  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  only  monstrous  images  of 
terror,  things  of  prey,  stirred  in  cold-blooded 
and  devouring  life;  but  into  these  deeps 
Olivier  himself  did  not  dive.  He  did  not  face 
his  own  soul;  his  outer  life  and  his  inner  life 
seemed  separate  individualities,  just  as,  in 
some  complicated  State,  the  social  machine 
goes  on  through  all  its  numberless  cycles  of 
vice  and  dread,  whatever  the  acts  of  the 
government,  which  is  the  representative  of  the 
state,  and  stands  for  the  state  in  the  shallow 
judgment  of  history. 

Before  this  time  Olivier  Dalibard's  manner 
to  his  son  had  greatly  changed  from  the  in- 
difference it  betrayed  in  England:  it  was  kind 
and  affectionate,  almost  caressing;  while  on 
the  other  hand,  Gabriel,  as  if  in  possession  of 
some  secret  which  gave  him  power  over  his 
father,  took  a  more  careless  and  independent 
tone,  often  absented  himself  from  the  house 
for  days  together,  joined  the  revels  of  young 
profligates  older  than  himself,  with  whom  he 
had  formed  acquaintance,  indulged  in  spend- 
thrift expenses,  and  plunged  prematurely  into 
the  stream  of  vicious  pleasures  that  oozed 
through  the  mud  of  Paris. 

One  morning,  Dalibard,  returning  from  a 
visit  to  Madame  Bellanger,  found  Gabriel 
alone  in  the  salon,  contemplating  his  fair  face 
and  gay  dress  in  one  of  the  mirrors,  and 
smoothing  down  the  hair,  which  he  wore  long 
and  sleek,  as  in  the  portraits  of  Raffaelle. 
Dalibard's  lip  curled  at  the  boy's  coxcombery, 
though  such  tastes  he  himself  had  fostered, 
according  to  his  ruling  principles,  that  to  gov- 
ern, you  must  find  a  foible,  or  instil  it;  but  the 
sneer  changed  into  a  smile. 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  yourself , j'oli gar- 
fonf"  he  said,  with  saturine  playfulness. 

"  At  least,  sir,  I  hope  that  you  will  not  be 
ashamed    of   me,  when   you    formally   legiti- 


{88 


BULWJiR'S     WORKS. 


matize  me  as  your  son.  The  time  has  come, 
you  know,  to  keep  your  promise." 

"  And  it  shall  be  kept,  do  not  fear.  But 
first,  I  have  an  employment  for  you — a  mission 
— your  first  embassy,  Gabriel." 

"  I  listen,  sir." 

"  I  have  to  send  to  England  a  communication 
of  the  utmost  importance — public  importance 
— to  the  secret  agent  of  the  French  govern- 
ment. We  are  on  the  eve  of  a  descent  on 
England.  We  are  in  correspondence  with 
some  in  London  on  whom  we  count  for  sup- 
port. A  man  might  be  suspected,  and  searched 
— mind,  searched.  You,  a  boy,  with  English 
name  and  speech,  will  be  my  safest  envoy. 
Buonaparte  approves  my  selection.  On  your 
return,  he  permits  me  to  present  you  to  him. 
He  loves  the  rising  generation.  In  a  few  days, 
you  will  be  prepared  to  start." 

Despite  the  calm  tone  of  the  father,  so  had 
the  son,  from  the  instinct  of  fear  and  self- 
preservation,  studied  every  accent,  every 
glance  of  Olivier^so  had  he  constituted  him- 
self a  spy  upon  the  heart  whose  perfidy  was 
ever  armed,  that  he  detected  at  once  in  the 
proposal  some  scheme  hostile  to  his  interests. 
He  made,  however,  no  opposition  to  the  plan 
suggested;  and,  seemingly  satisfied  with  his 
obedience,  the  father  dismissed  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  streets,  Gabriel 
went  straight  to  the  house  of  Madame  Bellan- 
ger.  The  hotel  had  been  purchased  in  her 
name,  and  she  therefore  retained  it.  Since 
her  husband's  death,  he  had  avoided  that 
house,  before  so  familiar  to  him;  and  now  he 
grew  pale,  and  breathed  hard,  as  he  passed  by 
the  porter's  lodge  up  the  lofty  stairs. 

He  knew  of  his  father's  recent  and  constant 
visits  at  the  house;  and,  without  conjecturing 
precisely  what  were  Olivier's  designs,  he  con- 
nected them,  in  the  natural  and  acquired 
shrewdness  he  possessed,  with  the  wealthy 
widow.  He  resolved  to  watch,  observe,  and 
draw  his  own  conclusions.  As  he  entered  Ma- 
dame Bellanger's  room  rather  abruptly,  he 
observed  her  push  aside  amongst  her  papers 
something  she  had  been  gazing  on — something 
which  sparkled  to  his -eyes.  He  sate  himself 
down  close  to  her  with  the  caressing  manner 
he  usually  adopted  towards  women;  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  babbling  talk  with  which  ladies 
generally  honor  boys,  he  suddenly,  as  if  by 
accident,  displaced    the   papers,  and    saw  his 


father's  miniature  set  in  brilliants.  The  start 
of  the  widow,  her  blush,  and  her  exclamation, 
strengthened  the  light  that  flashed  upon  his 
mind.  "  O-ho,  I  see  now,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"why  my  father  is  always  praising  black  hair: 
and — nay,  nay — gentleman  may  admire  ladies 
in  Paris,  surely  !  " 

"  Pooh,  my  dear  child,  your  father  is  an  old 
friend  of  my  poor  husband's,  and  a  near  rela- 
tion too  !  But  Gabriel,  mon  petit  ange  !  you 
had  better  not  say  at  home  that  you  have  seen 
this  picture,  —  Madame  Dalibard  might  be 
foolish  enough  to  be  angry." 

"  To  be  sure  not.  I  have  kept  a  secret  be- 
fore now  ! "  and  again  the  boy's  cheek  grew 
pale,  and  he  looked  hurriedly  round. 

"  And  you  are  very  fond  of  Madame  Dali- 
bard, too,  so  you  must  not  vex  her." 

"Who  says  I'm  fond  of  Madame  Dalibard? 
— a  stepmother  !  " 

"  Why,  your  father,  of  course — il  est  si  bon 
—ce  paiivre  Dalibard;  and  all  men  like  cheer- 
ful faces,  but  then,  poor  lady — an  English 
woman  so  strange  here — very  natural  she 
should  fret,  and  with  bad  health,  too." 

"Bad  health,  ah!  I  remember! — she  also 
does  not  seem  likely  to  live  long  !  " 

"  So  your  poor  father  apprehends.  Well, 
well,  how  uncertain  life  is  !  Who  would  have 
thought  dear  Bellanger  would  have " 

Gabriel  rose  hastily,  and  interrupted  the 
widow's  pathetic  reflections.  "  I  only  ran  in 
to  say,  Bon  jour.     I  must  leave  you  now." 

"Adieu,  my  dear  boy — not  a  word  on  the 
miniature  !  By-the-by,  here's  a  shirt-pin  for 
you — tu  es  joli  covtme  un  amour." 

All  was  now  clear  to  Gabriel — it  was  neces- 
sary to  get  rid  of  him,  and  for  ever  !  Dali- 
bard might  dread  his  attachment  to  Lucretia 
— he  would  dread  still  more  his  closer  intimacy 
with  the  widow  of  Bellanger,  should  that  widow 
wed  again — and  Dalibard,  need  like  her  (by 
what  means  ?)  be  her  choice  !  Into  that  abyss 
of  wickedness,  fathomless  to  the  innocent,  the 
young  villanous  eye  plunged,  and  surveyed 
the  ground;  a  terror  seized  on  him — a  terror 
of  life  and  death.  Would  Dalibard  spare  even 
his  own  son,  if  that  son  had  the  power  to  in- 
jure ?  This  mission — was  it  exile  only  ? — only 
a  fall  back  to  the  old  squalor  of  his  uncle's 
studio  ? — only  the  laying  aside  of  a  useless 
tool — or  was  it  a  snare  to  the  grave  ?  Demon, 
as  Dalibard  was,  doubtless  the  boy  wronged 


LUCRETIA. 


589 


him.  But  guilt  construes  guilt  for  the  worst. 
Gabriel  had  formerly  enjoyed  the  thought 
to  match  himself,  should  danger  come,  with 
Dalibard;  the  hour /^^^  come,  and  he  felt  his 
impotence.  Brave  his  father,  and  refuse  to 
leave  France  !  from  that  even  his  reckless 
hardihood  shrank  as  from  inevitable  destruc- 
tion. But  to  depart — be  the  poor  victim  and 
dupe;  after  having  been  let  loose  amongst  the 
riot  of  pleasure,  to  return  to  labor  and  priva- 
tion—from that  option  his  vanity  and  his 
senses  vindictively  revolted.  And  Lucretia  ! 
— the  only  being  who  seemed  to  have  a  human 
kindness  to  him  ! — through  all  the  vicious 
egotism  of  his  nature,  he  had  some  grateful 
sentiments  for  her  ! — and  even  the  egotism 
assisted  that  unwonted  amiability,  for  he  felt 
that,  Lucretia  gone,  he  had  no  hold  on  his 
father's  house — that  the  home  of  her  successor 
never  would  be  his.  While  thus  brooding,  he 
lifted  his  eyes,  and  saw  Dalibard  pass  in  his 
carriage  towards  the  Tuileries.  The  house, 
then,  was  clear — he  could  see  Lucretia  alone. 
He  formed  his  resolution  at  once,  and  turned 
homewards.  As  he  did  so,  he  observed  a  man 
at  the  angle  of  the  street,  whose  eyes  followed 
Dalibard's  carriage  with  an  expression  of  un- 
mistakeable  hate  and  revenge;  but  scarcely 
had  he  marked  the  countenance,  before  the 
man,  looking  hurriedly  round,  darted  away 
and  was  lost  amongst  the  crowd. 

Now,  that  countenance  was  not  quite  unfa- 
miliar to  Gabriel.  He  had  seen  it  before,  as 
he  saw  it  now, — hastily,  and,  as  it  were,  by 
fearful  snatches.  Once  he  had  marked,  on  re- 
turning home  at  twilight,  a  figure  lurking  by 
the  house — and  something  in  the  quickness 
with  which  it  turned  from  his  gaze,  joined  to 
his  knowledge  of  Dalibard's  apprehensions, 
made  him  mention  the  circumstance  to  his 
father,  when  he  entered.  Dalibard  bade  him 
hasten  with  a  note,  written  hurriedly,  to  an 
agent  of  the  police,  whom  be  kept  lodged  near 
at  hand.  The  man  was  still  on  the  threshold, 
when  the  boy  went  out  on  this  errand,  and  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face;  but  before  the 
police-agent  reached  the  spot,  the  ill-omened 
apparitfon  had  vanished.  Gabriel  now,  as  his 
his  eye  rested  full  upon  that  threatening  brow, 
and  those  burning  eyes,  was  convinced  that  he 
saw  before  him  the  terrible  Pierre  Guillot, 
whose  very  name  blenched  his  father's  cheek. 
When  the  figure  retreated,  he  resolved  at  once 


to  pursue.  He  hurried  through  the  crowd 
amidst  which  the  man  had  disappeared,  and 
looked  eagerly  into  the  faces  of  those  he 
jostled — sometimes,  at  the  distance,  he  caught 
sight  of  a  figure,  which  appeared  to  resemble 
the  one  which  he  pursued,  but  the  likeness 
faded  on  approach. 

The  chase,  however,  vague  and  desultory  as 
it  was,  led  him  on  till  his  way  was  lost  amongst 
labyrinths  of  narrow  and  unfamiliar  streets. 
Heated  and  thirsty,  he  paused  at  last  before  a 
small  cafe — entered  to  ask  for  a  draught  of 
lemonade — and  behold,  chance  had  favored 
him  ! — the  man  he  sought  was  seated  there, 
before  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  intently  reading 
the  newspaper.  Gabriel  sat  himself  down  at 
the  adjoining  table.  In  a  few  moments  the  man 
was  joined  by  a  new  comer — the  two  con- 
versed, but  in  whispers  so  low,  that  Gabriel 
was  unable  to  hear  their  conversation — though 
he  caught  more  than  once  the  name  of 
"  George."  Both  the  men  were  violently  ex- 
cited, and  the  expression  of  their  countenances 
was  menacing  and  sinister.  The  first-comer 
pointed  often  to  the  newspaper,  and  read  pas- 
sages from  it  to  his  companion.  This  sug- 
gested to  Gabriel  the  demand  for  another 
journal.  When  the  waiter  brought  it  to  him, 
his  eye  rested  upon  a  long  paragraph,  in  which 
the  name  of  George  Cadoudal  frequently  oc- 
curred. In  fact,  all  the  journals  of  the  day 
were  filled  with  speculations  on  the  conspiracy 
and  trial  of  that  fiery  martyr  to  an  erring 
adaptation  of  a  noble  principle.  Gabriel  knew 
that  his  father  had  had  a  principal  share  in  the 
detection  of  the  defeated  enterprise;  and  his 
previous  persuasions  were  confirmed. 

His  sense  of  hearing  grew  sharper  by  con- 
tinued effort,  and  at  length  he  heard  the  first- 
comer  say  distinctly—"  If  I  were  but  sure 
that  I  had  brought  this  fate  upon  George,  by 
introducing  to  him  that  accursed  Dalibard — if 

my   oath   did    but  justify  me,  I  would ; " 

the  concluding  sentence  was  lost.  A  few  mo- 
ments after,  the  two  men  rose,  and  from  the 
familiar  words  that  passed  between  them  and 
the  master  of  the  caf^,  who  approached,  him- 
self, to  receive  the  reckoning,  the  shrewd  boy 
perceived  that  the  place  was  no  unaccustomed 
haunt.  He  crept  nearer  and  nearer;  and  as 
the  landlord  shook  hands  with  his  customer, 
he  heard  distinctly  the  former  address  him  by 
the  name  of  "  Guillot."     When  the  men  with- 


39° 


£  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


drew,  Gabriel  followed  them  at  a  distance, 
(taking  care  first  to  impress  on  his  memory 
the  name  of  the  caf^,  and  the  street  in  which 
it  was  placed)  and,  as  he  thought,  unobserved; 
he  was  mistaken.  Suddenly,  in  one  street, 
more  solitary  than  the  rest,  the  man  whom  he 
was  mainly  bent  on  tracking,  turned  round — 
advanced  to  Gabriel,  who  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  him 
so  abruptly,  that  the  boy  was  fairly  taken  by 
surprise. 

"  Who  bade  you  follow  us  ? "  said  he,  with 
so  dark  and  fell  an  expression  of  countenance, 
that  even  Gabriel's  courage  failed  him:  "no 
evasion — no  lies — speak  out,  and  at  once;  " 
and  the  grasp  tightened  on  the  boy's  throat. 

Gabriel's  readiness  of  resource  and  presence 
of  mind  did  not  long  forsake  him. 

"  Loose  your  hold,  and  1  will  tell  you — you 
stifle  me."  The  man  slightly  relaxed  his 
grasp,  and  Gabriel  said,  quickly — "  My  mother 
perished  on  the  guillotine  in  the  Reign  of 
Terror;  I  am  for  the  Bourbons.  I  thought  I 
overheard  words  which  showed  sympathy  for 
poor  George,  the  brave  Choiian.  I  followed 
you;  for  I  thought  I  was  following  friends." 

The  man  smiled  as  he  fixed  his  steady  eye 
upon  the  unflinching  child:  "  My  poor  lad," 
he  said,  gently,  "  I  believe  you — pardon  me — 
but  follow  us  no  more — we  are  dangerous  ! '' 
He  waved  his  hand,  and  strode  away,  rejoined 
his  companion,  and  Gabriel  reluctantly  aban- 
doned the  pursuit,  and  went  homeward.  It  was 
long  before  he  reached  his  father's  house,  for 
he  had  strayed  into  a  strange  quarter  of  Paris, 
and  had  frequently  to  inquire  the  way.  At 
length  he  reached  home  and  ascended  the  stairs 
to  a  small  room,  in  which  Lucretia  usually  sat, 
and  which  was  divided  by  a  narrow  corridor 
from  the  sleeping  chamber  of  herself  and 
Dalibard.  His  step-mother,  leaning  her  cheek 
upon  her  hand,  was  seated  by  the  window,  so 
absorbed  in  some  gloomy  thoughts,  which  cast 
over  her  rigid  face  a  shade,  intense  and  sol- 
emn as  despair,  that  she  did  not  perceive  the 
approach  of  the  boy  till  he  threw  his  arm 
round  her  neck,  aud  then  she  started  as  in 
alarm 

"  You !  only  you"  she  said,  with  a  con- 
strained smile;  "see,  my  nerves  are  not  so 
strong  as  they  were  !  " 

"  You  are  disturbed,  belle  mire — has  he  been 
vexing  you  ? " 


"  He — Dalibard — no,  mdeed,  we  were  only, 
this  morning,  discussing  matters  of  business." 

"  Business  ! — that  means  money  !  " 

"  Truly,"  said  Lucretia,  "  money  does  make 
the  staple  of  life's  business.  In  spite  of  his 
new  appointment,  your  father  needs  some 
sums  in  hand — favors  are  to  be  bought — 
opportunities  for  speculation  occur,  and •" 

"  And  my  father,"  interrupted  Gabriel, 
"  wishes  your  consent  to  raise  the  rest  of  your 
portion." 

Lucretia  looked  surprised,  but  answered 
quietly:  "He  had  my  consent  long  since,  but 
the  trustees  to  the  marriage  settlement — mere 
men  of  business — my  uncle's  bankers,  for  I 
had  lost  all  claim  on  my  kindred — refuse,  or 
at  least  interpose  such  difficulties  as  amount 
to  refusal." 

"  But  that  reply  came  some  days  since," 
said  Gabriel,  musingly. 

"  How  did  you  know — did  your  father  teli 
you  ?  " 

"  Poor  belle  mere ! "  said  Gabriel,  almost 
with  pity,  "  can  you  live  in  this  house,  and 
not  watch  all  that  passes  —  every  stranger, 
every  message,  every  letter  ? — But  what,  then, 
does  he  wish  with  you  ?  " 

"  He  has  suggested  my  returning  to  Eng- 
land, and  seeing  the  trustees  myself.  His 
interest  can  obtain  my  passport." 

"  And  you  have  refused  ? " 

"  I  have  not  consented." 

"Consent! — hush! — your  maid — Marie  is 
not  waiting  without,"  and  Gabriel  rose  and 
looke(J  forth;  "no,  confound  these  doors! 
none  close  as  they  ought  in  this  house.  Is  it 
not  a  clause  in  your  settlement  that  half  of 
your  fortune  now  invested  goes  to  the  sur- 
vivor ?  " 

"  It  is,"  replied  Lucretia,  struck  and  thrilled 
at  the  question.  "  How,  again,  did  you  know 
this  ?  " 

"  I  saw  my  father  reading  the  copy.  If  you 
die  first,  then,  he  has  all  !  If  he  merely  wanted 
the  money  he  would  not  send  you  away  !  " 

There  was  a  terrible  pause.  Gabriel  re- 
sumed: "I  trust  you.  it  may  be,  with  my  life; 
but  I  will  speak  out.  My  father  goes  much 
to  Bellanger's  widow — she  is  rich  and  weak. 
Come  to  England  !  Yes,  come — for  he  is 
about  to  dismiss  me.  He  fears  that  I  shall  be 
in  the  way,  to  warn  you,  perhaps,  or  to — to — 
in  short,  bofk  of  us  are  in  his  way.     He  gives 


LUCJiETJA. 


59t 


you  an  escape.  Once  in  England,  the  war 
which  is  breaking  out  will  prevent  your  return. 
He  will  twist  the  laws  of  divorce  to  his  favor 
— he  will  marry  again  !  What  then  ? — he 
spares  you  what  remains  of  your  fortune — he 
spares  your  life.  Remain  here — cross  his 
schemes — and — no,  no; — come  to  England — 
safer  anywhere  than  here  !  " 

As  he  spoke,  great  changes  had  passed  over 
Lucretia's  countenance.  At  first  it  was  the 
flash  of  conviction,  then  the  stunned  shock  of 
horror;  now  she  rose — rose  to  her  full  height 
— and  there  was  a  lived  and  deadly  light  in  her 
eyes — the,  light  of  conscious  courage,  and 
power,  and  revenge.  "  Fool,"  she  muttered, 
"  with  all  his  craft !  Fool,  fool  !  As  if,  in  the 
war  of  household  perfidy,  the  woman  did  not 
always  conquer  !  Man's  only  chance  is  to  be 
mailed  in  honor  !  " 

"  But,"  said  Gabriel,  overhearing  her,  "  but 
you  do  not  remember  what  it  is.  There  is 
nothing  you  can  see,  and  guard  against.  It 
is  not  like  an  enemy  face  to  face;  it  is  death 
in  the  food,  in  the  air,  in  the  touch.  You 
stretch  out  your  arms  in  the  dark — you  feel 
nothing,  and  you  die  !  Oh,  do  not  fancy  that 
I  have  not  thought  well  (for  I  am  almost  a 
man  now)  if  there  were  no  means  to  resist- 
there  are  none  !  As  well  make  head  against 
the  plague — it  is  in  the  atmosphere.  Come  to 
England,  and  return.  Live  poorly,  if  you  must 
— but  live  ! — but  live  !  " 

"Return  to  England  poor  and  despised,  and 
bound  still  to  him,  or  a  disgraced  and  divorced 
wife — disgraced  by  the  low-born  dependent  on 
my  kinsman's  house — and  fawn  perhaps  upon 
my  sister  and  her  husband  for  bread  !  Never  ! 
— I  am  at  my  post,  and  I  will  not  fly  ! " 

"  Brave  !  brave  !  "  said  the  boy,  clapping 
his  hands,  and  sincerely  moved  by  a  daring 
superior  to  his  own — "  I  wish  I  could  help 
you  !  " 

Lucretia's  eye  rested  on  him  with  the  full 
gaze,  so  rare  in  its  looks.  She  drew  him  to 
her,  and  kissed  his  brow — "  Boy,  through  life, 
whatever  our  guilt  and  its  doom,  we  are  bound 
to  each  other.  I  may  yet  live  to  have  wealth 
— if  so,  it  is  yours  as  a  son's.  I  may  be  iron 
to  others — never  to  you.  Enough  of  this — I 
must  reflect !  "  She  passed  her  hands  over 
her  eyes  a  moment,  and  resumed — "You 
would  help  rhe  in  my  self-defence;  I  think 
you  can.     Yoj  have  been  more  alert  in  your 


watch  than  I  have.  You  must  have  means  I 
have  not  secured.  Your  father  guards  well 
all  his  papers  !  " 

"  I  have  keys  to  every  desk.  My  foot 
passed  the  threshold  of  that  room  under  the 
roof,  before  yours.  But,  no;  his  powers  can 
never  be  yours  !  He  has  never  confided  to 
you  half  his  secrets  !  He  has  antidotes  for 
every — every " 

"  Hist  !  what  noise  is  that  ?  Only  the 
shower  on  the  casements  !  No,  no,  child,  that 
is  not  my  object.  Cadoudal's  conspiracy ! 
Your  father  has  letters  from  Fouch^,  which 
show  how  he  has  betrayed  others  who  are 
stronger  to  avenge  than  a  woman  and  a  boy." 

"Well  I" 

"  I  would  have  those  letters  !  Give  me  the 
keys  !  But  hold  ! — Gabriel — Gabriel,  you 
may  yet  misjudge  him.  This  woman — wife  to 
the  dead  man — his  wife  !  Horror  !  Have 
you  not  proofs  of  what  you  imply  ? " 

"  Proofs  !  "  echoed  Gabriel,  in  a  tone  of 
of  wonder,  "  I  can  but  see  and  conjecture. 
You  are  warned,  watch  and  decide  for  your- 
self. But  again  I  say,  come  to  England;  J 
shall  go  !  " 

Without  reply,  Lucretia  took  the  keys  from 
Gabriel's  half- reluctant  hand,  and  passed  into 
her  husband's  writing  room.  When  she  had 
entered,  she  locked  the  door.  She  passed  at 
once  to  a  huge  secretary,  of  which  the  key  was 
small  as  a  fairy's  work.  She  opened  it  with 
ease  by  one  of  the  counter.''eits.  No  love  cor- 
respondence— the  fir.st  object  of  her  search, 
for  she  was  woman — met  her  eye.  What  need 
of  letters,  when  interviews  were  so  facile  ! 
But  she  soon  found  a  document  that  told  all 
which  love-letters  could  tell — it  was  an  ac- 
count of  the  monies  and  possessions  of  Madame 
Bellanger — and  there  were  pencil  notes  on  the 
margin: — "Vautran  will  give  400,000  francs 
for  the  lands  in  Auvergne — to  be  accepted. 
Consult  on  the  power  of  sale  granted  to  a 
second  husband.  Query,  if  there  is  no  chance 
of  the  heir-at-law  disputing  the  monies  in- 
vested in  Madame  B.'s  name," — and  such 
memoranda  as  a  man  notes  down  in  the 
schedule  of  properties  about  to  be  his  own. 
In  these  inscriptions  there  was  a  hideous 
mockery  of  ail  love — like  the  blue  lights  of 
corruption,  they  showed  the  black  vault  of  the 
heart. 

The  pale    reader  saw  what  her  own  attrac- 


592 


B  UL  VVER'S     WORKS. 


tions  had  been,  and,  fallen  as  she  was,  she 
smiled  superior  in  her  bitterness  of  scorn. 
Arranged  methodically  with  the  precision  of 
business,  she  found  the  letters  she  ne.xt  looked 
for;  one  recognizing  Ualibard's  services  in  the 
detection  of  the  conspiracy,  and  authorizing 
him  to  employ  the  police  in  the  search  of 
Pierre  Guillot,  sufficed  for  her  purpose.  She 
withdrew,  and  secreted  it.  She  was  about  to 
lock  up  the  secretary,  when  her  eye  fell  on 
the  title  of  a  small  MS.  volume  in  a  corner; 
and  as  she  read,  she  pressed  one  hand  con- 
vulsively to  her  heart,  while,  twice  with  the 
other,  she  grasped  the  volume,  and  twice  with- 
drew the  grasp.  The  title  ran  harmlessly 
thus: — Philosophical  and  chemical  inquiries  itito 
the  nature  and  materials  of  the  poisons  in  use 
between  the  \/^th  and  i6th  centuries."  Hur- 
riedly, and  at  last,  as  if  doubtful  of  herself, 
she  left  the  MS.,  closed  the  secretary,  and  re- 
turned to  Gabriel. 

"  You  have  got  the  paper  you  seek  ? "  he 
said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  whatever  you  do,  you  must  be  quick 
— he  will  soon  discover  the  loss." 

"  I  will  be  quick." 

"  It  is  I  whom  he  will  suspect,"  said  Gabriel, 
in  alarm,  as  that  thought  struck  him.  "  No, 
for  my  sake,  do  not  take  the  letter  till  I  am 
gone.  Do  not  fear,  in  the  meantime — he  will 
do  nothing  against  you,  while  I  am  here." 

"  I  will  replace  the  letter  till  then,"  said 
Lucretia,  meekly.  "  You  have  a  right  to  my 
first  thoughts."  So  she  went  back,  and  Ga- 
briel, (suspicious,  perhaps,)  crept  after  her. 

As  she  replaced  the  document,  he  pointed 
to  the  MS.  which  had  tempted  her — "  I  have 
seen  that  before,  how  I  longed  for  it !  If  any- 
thing ever  happens  to  him,  I  claim  that  as  my 
legacy." 

Their  hands  met  as  he  said  this,  and 
grasped  each  other  convulsively;  Lucretia  re- 
locked  the  secretary,  and  when  she  gained  the 
next  room,  she  tottered  to  a  chair.  Her 
strong  nerves  gave  way  for  the  moment;  she 
uttered  no  cry,  but,  by  the  whitenees  of  her 
face,  Gabriel  saw  that  she  was  senseless; 
senseless  for  a  minute  or  so^scarcely  more. 
But  the  return  to  consciousness  with  a  clenched 
fiand,  and  a  brow  of  defiance,  and  s  stare  of 
mingled  desperation  and  dismay,  seemed 
rather  the  awaking  from  some  frightful  dream 


of  violence  and  struggle  than  the  slow  languid 
recovery  from  the  faintness  of  a  swoon.  Yes, 
henceforth,  to  sleep,  was  to  couch  by  a  ser- 
pent— to  breathe  was  to  listen  for  the  ava- 
lanche !  Thou  who  dids  ttrifle  so  wantonly  with 
Treason,  now  gravely  front  the  grim  comrade 
thou  hast  won ;  thou  scheming  desecrator  of  the 
Household  Gods,  now  learn,  to  the  last  page 
of  dark  knowledge,  what  the  hearth  is  without 
them. 

Gabriel  was  strangely  moved  as  he  beheld 
that  proud  and  solitary  despair.  An  instinct 
of  nature  had  hitherto  checked  him  from  ac- 
tively aiding  Lucretia  in  that  struggle  with  his- 
father,  which  could  but  end  in  the  destruction 
of  one  or  the  other.  He  had  contented  him- 
self with  forewarnings,  with  hints,  with  indi- 
rect suggestions;  but  now,  all  his  sympathy 
was  so  strongly  roused  on  her  behalf,  that  the 
last  faint  scruple  of  filial  conscience  vanished 
into  the  abyss  of  blood,  over  which  stood  that 
lonely  Titaness.  He  drew  near,  and,  clasping 
her  hand,  said,  in  a  quick  and  broken  voice — 

"  Listen  !     You   know   where  to  find    proof 

of  my  fa that  is,  of — Dalibard's    treason 

to  the  conspirators;  you  know  the  name  of 
the  man  he  dreads  as  an  avenger,  and  you 
know  that  he  waits  but  the  proof  to  strike; 
but  you  do  not  know  where  to  find  that  man, 
if  his  revenge  is  wanting  for  yourself.  The 
police  has  not  hunted  him  out;  how  can  you  ? 
Accident  has  made  me  acquainted  with  one 
of  his  haunts.  Give  me  a  single  promise, 
and  I  will  put  you  at  least  upon  that  clue — 
weak,  perhaps  but  as  yet  the  sole  one  to  be 
followed.  Promise  me  that,  only  in  defence 
of  your  own  life,  not  for  mere  jealousy,  you 
will  avail  yourself  of  the  knowledge,  and  you 
shall  know  all  I  do  !  " 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Lucretia,  in  a  calm, 
cold  voice,  "  that  it  is  for  jealousy,  which  is 
love,  that  I  would  murder  all  hope,  all  peace? 
for  we  have  here — (and  she  smote  her  breast) 
— here,  if  not  elsewhere,  a  heaven  and  a  hell  ! 
Son,  1  will  not  harm  your  father,  except  in 
self-defence  !  But  tell  me  nothing  that  may 
make  the  son  a  party  in  the  father's  doom." 

"  The  father  slew  the  mother,"  muttered 
Gabriel,  between  his  clenched  teeth;  "and  to 
me,  you  have  well  nigh  supplied  her  place. 
Strike,  if  need  be,  in  her  name  !  If  you  are 
driven  to  want  the  arm  of  Pierre  Guillot,  seek 
news  of  him  at  the  Cafi  Dufour,  Rue  S , 


LUCRETIA. 


593 


Boulevard  du  J'emple.  Be  calm,  now,  I  hear 
your  husband's  step." 

A  few  days  more,  and  Gabriel  is  gone  ! 
Wife  and  husband  are  alone  with  each  other. 
Lucretia  has  refused  to  depart.  Then  that 
mute  coma  of  horror  !  that  suspense  of  two 
foes  in  the  conflict  of  death — for  the  subtle 
prying  eye  of  Olivier  Dalibard  sees  that  he 
himself  is  susjjected — farther  he  shuns  from 
sifting  !  Glance  fastens  on  glance,  and  then 
hurries  smilingly  away.  From  the  cup,  grims 
a  skeleton — at  the  board,  warns  a  spectre. 
But  how  kind  still  the  words,  and  how  gentle 
the  tone;  and  they  lie  down  side  by  side  in  the 
marriage  bed — brain  plotting  against  brain, 
heart  loathing  heart.  It  is  a  duel  of  life  and 
death,  between  those  sworn  through  life  and 
beyond  death  at  the  altar.  But  it  is  carried 
on  with  all  the  forms  and  courtesies  of  duel 
in  the  age  of  chivalry.  No  conjugal  wrangling 
— no  slip  of  the  tongue; — the  oil  is  on  the 
surface  of  the  wave — the  monsters  in  the  hell 
of  the  abyss  war  invisibly  below.  At  length, 
a  dull  torpor  creeps  over  the  woman — she  feels 
the  taint  in  her  veins, — the  slow  victory  is  be- 
gun. What  mattered  all  her  vigilance  and 
caution  ?  Vainly  glide  from  the  pangs  of  the 
serpent,  his  very  breath  suffices  to  destroy  I 
Pure  seems  the  draught  and  wholesome  the 
viand — that  master  of  the  science  of  murder 
needs  not  the  means  of  the  bungler  1  Then, 
keen  and  strong  from  the  creeping  lethargy 
started  the  fierce  instinct  of  self  and  the  ruth- 
less impulse  of  revenge.  Not  too  late  yet  to 
escape;  for  those  subtle  banes,  that  are  to 
defy  all  detection,  work  but  slowly  to  their 
end. 

One  evening,  a  woman,  closely  mantled, 
stood  at  watch  by  the  angle  of  a  wall.  The 
light  came  dim  and  muffled  from  the  window 
of  a  cafe  hard  at  hand^ — the  reflection  slept 
amidst  the  shadows  on  the  dark  pavement, 
and,  save  a  solitary  lamp,  swung  at  distance 
in  the  vista  over  the  centre  of  the  narrow 
street,  no  ray  broke  the  gloom.  The  night 
was  clouded  and  starless,  the  wind  moaned  in 
gusts,  and  the  rain  fell  heavily;  but  the  gloom 
and  the  loneliness  did  not  appal  the  eye,  and 
the  wind  did  not  chill  the  heart,  and  the  rain 
fell  unheeded  on  the  head,  of  the  woman  at 
her  post.  At  times,  she  paused  in  her  slow, 
sentry-like  pace  to  and  fro,  to  look  through 
the    window   of   the   cafe,    and    her  gaze  fell 

G.-ns 


always  on  one  figure  seated  apart  from  the 
rest.  At  length,  her  pulse  beat  more  quickly 
and  the  patient  lips  smiled  sternly.  The 
figure  had  risen  to  depart.  A  man  came  out, 
and  walked  quickly  up  the  street,  the  woman 
approached,  and  when  the  man  was  under  the 
single  lamp  swung  aloft,  he  felt  his  arm 
touched;  the  woman  was  at  his  side,  and  look- 
ing steadily  into  his  face — 

"You  are  Pierre  Guillot,  the  Breton,  the 
friend  of  George  Cadoudal.  Will  you  be  his 
avenger  ? " 

The  Chouans  first  impulse  had  been  to 
place  his  hand  in  his  vest,  and  something  shone 
bright  in  the  lamp-light,  clasped  in  those  iron 
fingers.  The  voice  and  the  manner  reassured 
him,  and  he  answered  readily — 

"  I  am  he  whom  you  seek,  and  I  only  live 
to  avenge." 

"  Read,  then,  and  act,"  answered  the  woman, 
and  she  placed  a  i)aper  in  his  hands. 


* 
« 
» 


* 


At  Laughton  the  babe  is  on  the  breast  of 
the  fair  mother;  and  the  father  sits  beside  the 
bed;  and  mother  and  father  dispute  almost 
angrily  whether  mother  or  father,  those  soft 
rounded  features  of  slumbering  infancy  resem- 
ble most.  At  the  red  house,  near  the  market 
town,  there  is  a  hospitable  bustle.  William  is 
home,  earlier  than  usual.  Within  the  last 
hour,  Susan  has  been  thrice  into  every  room. 
Husband  and  wife  are  now  watching  at  the 
window.  The  good  Fieldens,  with  a  coach  full 
of  children,  are  expected,  every  moment,  on  a 
week's  visit,  at  least. 

In  the  cafS  in  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  sit 
Pierre  Guillot,  the  Chouan,  and  another  of  the 
■old  band  of  brigands,  whom  George  Cadoudal 
had  mustered  in  Paris.  There  is  an  expres- 
sion of  content  on  Guillot's  countenance — it 
seems  more  open  than  usual,  and  there  is  a 
complacent  smile  on  his  lips.  He  is  whisper- 
ing low  to  his  friend,  in  the  intervals  of  eating, 
an  employment  pursued  with  the  hearty  gusto 
of  a  hungry  man.  But  his  friend  did  not  seem 
to  sympathize  with  the  cheerful  feelings  of  his 
comrade;  he  is  pale,  and  there  is  terror  on  his 
face;  and  you  may  see  that  the  journal  in 
his  hand  trembles  like  a  leaf. 

In  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries,  some  score 
or  so  of  gossips  group  together. 


594 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"And  no  news  of  the  murderer?"  asked 
one. 

"No;  but  a  man  who  had  been  friend  to 
Robespierre  must  have  made  secret  enemies 
enough." 

"■  Ce  pauvre  Dalibard !  He  was  not  mixed 
tip  with  the  Terrorists,  nevertheless." 

"  Ah,  but  the  more  deadly  for  that,  perhaps 
— a  sly  man  was  Olivier  Dalibard  !  ' 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  said  an  employi, 
lounging  up  to  the  group.  "  Are  you  talking 
of  Olivier  Dalibard  .'  It  is  but  the  other  day 
he  had  Marsan's  appointment.  He  is  now  to 
have  Pleyel's.  I  heard  it  two  days  ago — a 
capital  thing  !  Peste,  il  ira  loin  !  We  shall 
see  him  a  senator  soon." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,"  quoth  a  ci-devant 
Abbe,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  should  be  sorry  to 
see  him  again,  soon,  wherever  he  be." 

"  Plait-il! — I  don't  understand  you  !  " 

"  Don't  you  know  that  Olivier  Dalibard  is 
murdered — found  stabbed — in  his  own  house, 
too  ! " 

'■'■  Ciel !  Pray  tell  me  all  you  know.  His 
place,  then,  is  vacant !  " 

"  Why,  it  seems  that  Dalibard,  who  had  been 
brought  up  to  medicine,  was  still  fond  of 
chemical  experiments.  He  hired  a  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house  for  such  scientific  amuse- 
,  ments.  He  was  accustomed  to  spend  part  of 
his  nights  there.  They  found  him  at  morning, 
bathed  in  his  blood,  with  three  ghastly  wounds 
in  his  side,  and  his  fingers  cut  to  the  bone. 
He  had  struggled  hard  with  the  knife  that 
butchered  him." 

"  In  his  own  house  !  "  said  a  lawyer:  "  some 
servant  or  spendthrift  heir  !  " 

"  He  has  no  heir  but  young  Bellanger,  who 
will  be  riche  d,  millions,  and  is  now  but  a 
schoolboy  at  Lyons.  No:  it  seems  that  the 
window  was  left  open,  and  that  it  communi- 
cates with  the  roof-tops.  There  the  murderer 
had  entered,  and  by  that  way  escaped,  for  they 
found  the  leads  of  the  gutter  dabbled  with 
blood.  The  next  house  was  uninhabited — easy 
enough  to  get  in  there,  and  lie  perdu  till  night." 

"Hum,"  said  the  lawyer;  "but  the  assassin 
could  only  have  learned  Dalibard's  habits 
from  some  one  in  the  house.  Was  the  de- 
ceased married  ? " 

"Oh,  yes;  to  an  Englishwoman." 

"  She  had  lovers,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Pooh  !  lovers  ! — the  happiest  couple  ever 


known  !  You  should  have  seen  them  together. 
I  dined  there  last  week." 

"  It  is  strange  !  "  said  the  lawyer. 

"  And  he  was  getting  on  so  well,"  muttered 
a  hungry-looking  man. 

"  And  his  place  is  vacant  !  "  repeated  the 
employ^,  as  he  quitted  the  crowd,  abstractedly. 

In  the  house  of  Olivier  Dalibard  sits  Lucre- 
tia,  alone,  and  in  her  own  usual  morning  room. 
The  officer  appointed  to  such  tasks  by  the 
French  law,  has  performed  his  visit,  and  made 
his  notes,  and  expressed  condolence  with  the 
widow,  and  promised  justice  and  retribution, 
and  placed  his  seal  on  the  locks  till  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  heir-at-law  shall  arrive;  and 
the  heir-at-law  is  the  very  boy  who  had  suc- 
ceeded so  unexpectedly  to  the  wealth  of  Jean 
Bellanger,  the  contractor  !  But  Lucretia  has 
obtained  beforehand  all  she  wishes  to  save 
from  the  rest.  An  open  box  is  on  the  floor, 
into  which  her  hand  drops  noiselessly  a  vol- 
ume in  manuscript.  On  the  forefinger  of  that 
hand  is  a  ring,  larger  and  more  massive  than 
those  usually  worn  by  women; — by  Lucretia 
never  worn  before.  Why  should  that  ring 
have  been  selected  with  such  care  from  the 
dead  man's  hoards  ?  Why  so  precious  the  dull 
opal  in  that  cumbrous  setting?  From  the 
hand  the  volume  drops  without  sound  into  the 
box,  as  those  whom  the  secrets  of  the  volume 
instruct  you  to  destroy,  may  drop  without 
noise  into  the  grave.  The  trace  of  some  ill- 
ness, recent  and  deep,  nor  conquered  yet,  has 
ploughed  lines  in  that  young  countenance,  and 
dimmed  the  light  of  those  searching  eyes. 
Yet  courage  !  the  poison  is  arrested — the  ix)i- 
soner  is  no  more — minds  like  thine,  stern 
woman,  are  cased  in  coffers  of  steel,  and  the 
rust  as  yet  has  gnawed  no  deeper  than  the 
surface.  So,  over  that  face  stamped  with 
bodily  suffering,  plays  a  calm  smile  of  tri- 
umph. The  schemer  has  baffled  the  schemer  ! 
Turn  now  to  the  right,  pass  by  that  narrow 
corridor,  you  are  in  the  marriage  chamber — 
the  windows  are  closed.  Tall  tapers  burn  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Now  go  back  to  that 
narrow  corridor;  disregarded,  thrown  aside,  are 
a  cloth  and  a  besom;  the  cloth  is  wet  still;  but 
here,  and  there,  the  red  stains  are  dry,  and 
clotted  as  with  bloody  glue:  and  the  hairs  of 
the  besom  starts  up,  torn  and  ragged,  as  if  the 
bristles  had  a  sense  of  some  horror — as  if  things 
inanimate  still  partook  of  men's  dread  at  men's 


LUCRETIA. 


595 


deeds.  If  you  passed  through  the  corridor, 
and  saw  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  that  homeli- 
est of  instruments  cast  away  and  forgotten, 
you  would  smile  at  the  slatternly  house-work. 
But  if  you  knew  that  a  corpse  had  been  borne 
down  those  stairs  to  the  left — borne  along 
those  floors  to  that  marriage  bed,  with  the 
blood  oozing,  and  gushing,  and  plashing  be- 
low, as  the  bearers  passed  with  their  burthen, 
then,  straight  that  dead  thing  would  take  the 
awe  of  the  dead  being;  it  told  its  own  tale  of 
violence  and  murder;  it  had  dabbled  in  the 
gore  of  the  violated  clay;  it  had  become  an 
evidence  of  the   crime.     No  wonder  that  its 


hairs    bristled    up,  sharp  and    ragged,  in   the 
shadow  of  the  wall  ! 

The  first  part  of  the  tragedy  ends.  Let  fall 
the  curtain.  When  next  it  rises,  years  will 
have  passed  away,  graves  uncounted  will  have 
wrought  fresh  hollows  in  our  merry  sepulchre 
—sweet  earth  !  Take  a  sand  from  the  shore, 
take  a  drop  from  the  ocean,  less  than  sand- 
grain,  and  drop  in  man's  planet  one  Death 
and  one  Crime  !  On  the  map,  trace  all  oceans, 
and  search  out  every  shore, — more  than  seas, 
more  than  lands,  in  God's  balance  shall  weigh 
one  Death  and  one  Crime  ! 


END   OF    PART   ONB. 


596 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


PART    THE    SECOND. 


PROLOG Ua  TO  PART  THE  SECOND. 

The  century  has  advanced:  The  rush  of 
the  deluge  has  ebbed  back,  the  old  landmarks 
have  reappeared;  the  dynasties  Napoleon 
willed  into  life  have  crumbled  to  the  dust;  the 
plough  has  passed  over  Waterloo;  autumn 
after  autumn  the  harvests  have  glittered  on 
that  grave  of  an  empire.  Through  the  im- 
mense ocean  of  universal  change,  we  look 
back  on  the  single  track  which  our  frail  boat 
has  cut  through  the  waste.  As  a  star  shines 
impartially  over  the  measureless  expanse, 
though  it  seems  to  gild  but  one  broken  line  to 
each  eye;  so,  as  our  memory  gazes  on  the 
past,  the  light  spreads  not  over  all  the  breadth 
of  the  waste,  where  nations  have  battled,  and 
argosies  gone  down — it  falls  narrow,  and  con- 
fined, along  the  single  course  we  have  taken: 
we  lean  over  the  small  raft  on  which  we  float, 
and  see  the  sparkles  but  reflected  from  the 
waves  that  it  divides. 

On  the  terrace  at  Laughton,  but  one  step 
paces  slowly.  The  bride  clings  not  now  to 
the  bridegroom's  arm.  Though  pale  and  worn, 
it  is  still  the  same  gentle  face;  but  the  blush 
of  woman's  love  has  gone  from  it  evermore. 

Charles  Vernon  (to  call  him  still  by  the 
name  in  which  he  is  best  known  to  us),  sleeps 
in  the  vault  of  the  St.  Johns.  He  had  lived 
longer  than  he  himself  had  expected,  than  his 
physician  had  hoped — lived,  cheerful  and 
happy,  amidst  quiet  pursuits  and  innocent  ex- 
citements. Three  sons  had  blessed  his  hearth, 
to  mourn  over  his  grave.  But  the  two  elder 
were  delicate  and  sickly.  They  did  not  long 
survive  him,  and  died  within  a  few  months  of 
each  other.  The  third  seemed  formed  of  a 
difierent  mould  and  constitution  from  his 
brethren.     To  him  descended  the  ancient  heri- 


tage of  Laughton,  and  he  promised  to  enjoy 
it  long. 

It  is  Vernon's  widow  who  walks  alone  in  the 
stately  terrace;  sad  still,  for  she  loved  well  the 
choice  of  her  youth,  and  she  misses  yet  the 
children  in  the  grave;  from  the  date  of  Ver- 
non's death,  she  wore  mourning  without  and 
within;  and  the  sorrows  that  came  later,  broke 
more  the  bruised  reed; — sad  still,  but  resigned. 
One  son  survives;  and  earth  yet  has  the 
troubled  hopes  and  the  holy  fears  of  afifection. 
Though  that  son  be  afar,  in  sport  or  in  earn- 
est, in  pleasure  or  in  toil,  working  out  his  des- 
tiny as  man,  still  that  step  in  less  solitary  than 
it  seems.  When  does  the  son's  image  not 
walk  beside  the  mother?  Though  she  lives  in 
seclusion,  though  the  gay  world  tempts  no 
more,  the  gay  world  is  yet  linked  to  her 
thoughts.  From  the  distance  she  hears  its 
murmurs  in  music.  Her  fancy  still  mingles 
with  the  crowd,  and  follows  one,  to  her  eye, 
outshining  all  the  rest.  Never  vain  in  herself, 
she  is  vain  now  of  another;  and  the  small  tri- 
umphs of  the  young  and  well-born  seem 
trophies  of  renown  to  the  eyes  so  tenderly  de- 
ceived. 

In  the  old-fashioned  market  town  still  the 
business  goes  on,  still  the  doors  of  the  Bank 
open  and  close  every  moment  on  the  great  day 
of  the  week;  but  the  names  over  the  threshold 
are  partially  changed.  The  junior  partner  is 
busy  no  more  at  the  desk;  not  wholly  forgot- 
ten— if  his  name  still  is  spoken,  it  is  not  with 
thankfulness  and  praise.  A  something  rests 
on  the  name — that  something  which  dims  and 
attaints — not  proven,  not  certain,  but  suspected 
and  dubious.  The  head  shakes,  the  voice 
whispers, — and  the  attorney  now  lives  in  the 
solid  red  house  at  the  verge  of  the  town. 

In    the    vicarage.    Time,    the    old    scythe- 


LUCRETIA. 


597 


bearer,  had  not  paused  from  his  work.  Still 
employed  on  Greek  texts,  little  changed,  save 
that  his  hair  is  grey,  and  that  some  lines  in 
his  kindly  face  tell  of  sorrows  as  of  years, 
the  Vicar  sits  in  his  parlor,  but  the  children 
no  longer,  blithe-voiced  and  rose-cheeked,  dart 
through  the  rustling  espaliers.  Those  chil- 
dren, grave  men,  or  staid  matrons  (save  one 
whom  Death  chose,  and  therefore  now  of  all 
best  beloved)  !  are  at  their  posts  in  the  world. 
The  young  ones  are  flown  from  the  nest,  and, 
with  anxious  wings,  here  and  there,  search  food 
in  their  turn  for  their  young.  But  the  blithe 
voice  and  rose-cheek  of  the  child  make  not 
that  loss  which  the  hearth  misses  the  most. 
From  childhood  to  manhood,  and  from  man- 
hood to  departure,  the  natural  changes  are 
gradual  and  prepared.  The  absence  most 
missed  is  that  household  life  which  presided, 
which  kept  things  in  order,  and  must  be  coaxed 
if  a  chair  were  displaced.  The  providence  in 
trifles,  that  clasp  of  small  links,  that  dear, 
bustling  agency— now  pleased,  now  complain- 
ing—dear alike  in  each  change  of  its  humor; 
that  active  life  which  has  no  self  of  it  sown; — 
like  the  mind  of  a  poet,  though  its  prose  be 
the  humblest,  transferring  self  into  others, 
with  its  right  to  be  cross,  and  its  charter  to 
scold; — for  the  motive  is  clear — it  takes  what 
it  loves  too  anxiously  to  heart.  The  door  of 
the  parlor  is  open,  the  garden  path  still  passes 
before  the  threshold;  but  no  step  now  has  full 
right  to  halt  at  the  door,  and  interrupt  the 
grave  thought  on  Greek  texts; — no  small  talk 
on  details  and  wise  savings  chimes  in  with  the 
wrath  of  Medea.  The  Prudent  Genius  is  gone 
from  the  household;  and  perhaps  as  the  good 
scholar  now  wearily  pauses,  and  looks  out  on 
the  silent  garden,  he  would  have  given  with 
joy  all  that  Athens  produced,  from  ^^schylus 
to  Plato,  to  hear  again  from  the  old  familiar 
lips  the  lament  on  torn  jackets,  or  the  statisti-  j 
cal  economy  of  eggs  !  i 

But  see,  though  the  wife  is  no  more,  though 
the  children  have  departed,  the  Vicar's  home 
is  not  utterly  desolate.  See,  along  the  same 
walk  on  which  William  soothed  Susan's  fears, 
and  won  her  consent — see,  what  fairy  ad- 
vances ?  Is  it  Susan  returned  to  youth  ? 
How  like  ! — yet,  look  again,  and  how  unlike  ! 
The  same,  the  pure,  candid  regard— the  same, 
the  clear,  limpid  blue  of  the  eye — the  same, 
that  fair  hue  of  the  hair — light,  but  not  auburn 


— more  subdued,  more  harmonious  than  thai 
equivocal  color  which  too  nearly  approaches 
to  red.  But  how  much  more  blooming  and 
joyous  than  Susan's  is  that  exquisite  face  in 
which  all  Hebe  smiles  forth — how  much  arier 
the  tread,  light  with  health  —  how  much 
rounder,  if  slighter  still,  the  wave  of  that 
undulating  form  !  She  smiles — her  lips  move 
— she  is  conversing  with  herself — she  cannot 
be  all  silent,  even  when  alone;  for  the  sunny 
gladness  of  her  nature  mu.st  have  vent  like  a 
bird's. 

But  do  not  fancy  that  that  gladness  speaks 
the  levity  which  comes  from  the  absence  of 
thought;  it  is  rather  from  the  depth  of  thought 
that  it  springs,  as  from  the  depth  of  a  sea 
comes  its  music.  See,  while  she  pauses  and 
listehs,  with  her  finger  half  raised  to  her  lip, 
as  amidst  that  careless  jubilee  of  birds  she 
hears  a  note  more  grave  and  sustained,  the 
nightingale  singing,  by  day, — (as  sometimes, 
though  rarely,  he  is  heard — perhaps,  because 
he  misses  his  mate — perhaps,  because  he  sees 
from  his  bower  the  creeping  form  of  some  foe 
to  his  race); — see,  as  she  listens  now  to  that 
plaintive,  low-chanted  warble,  how  quickly  the 
smile  is  sobered,  how  the  shade,  soft  and  pen- 
sive, steals  over  the  brow.  It  is  but  the 
mystic  sympathy  with  Nature  that  bestows 
the  smile  or  the  shade.  In  that  heart  lightly 
moved  beats  the  fine  sense  of  the  poet.  It  is 
the  exquisite  sensibility  of  the  nerves  that 
sends  its  blithe  play  to  t,hose  spirits,  and  from 
the  clearness  of  the  atmosphere  comes,  warm 
and  ethereal,  the  ray  of  that  light. 

And  does  the  roof  of  the  pastor  give  shelter 
to  Helen  Mainwaring's  youth  ?  Has  Death 
taken  from  her  the  natural  protectors  ?  Those 
forms  which  we  sa»v  so  full  of  youth  and 
youth's  heart,  in  that  very  spot, — has  the  grave 
closed  on  them  yet?  Yet! — ^how  few  attain 
to  the  age  of  the  Psalmist  !  Twenty-seven 
years  have  passed  since  that  date — how  often, 
in  those  years,  have  the  dark  doors  opened  for 
the  young  as  for  the  old  !  William  Mainwar- 
ing  died  first,  care-worn  and  shame-bowed: 
the  blot  on  his  name  had  cankered  into  his 
heart.  Susan's  life,  always  precarious,  had 
struggled  on,  while  he  lived,  by  the  strong 
power  of  affection  and  will; — she  would  not 
die,  for  who  then  could  console  him  ?  but  at 
his  death  the  power  gave  way.  She  lingered, 
but  lingered  dyingly  for  three  years;  and  then, 


598 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


for  the  first  time  since  William's  death,  she 
smiled — that  smile  remained  on  the  lips  of  the 
corpse.  They  had  had  many  trials,  that  young 
couple  whom  we  left  so  prosperous  and  happy  ! 
Not  till  many  years  after  their  marriage- had 
one  sweet  consoler  been  born  to  them.  In  the 
season  of  poverty,  and  shame,  and  grief,  it 
came;  and  there  was  no  pride  on  Mainwaring's 
brow  when  they  placed  his  first-born  in  his 
arms.  By  her  will,  the  widow  consigned  Helen 
to  the  joint  guardianship  of  Mr.  Fielden  and 
her  sister:  but  the  latter  was  abroad,  her  ad- 
dress unknown,  so  the  Vicar  for  two  years  had 
had  sole  charge  of  the  orphan.  She  was  not 
unprovided  for. 

The  sunvthat  Susan  brought  to  her  husband 
had  been  long  since  gone,  it  is  true — lost  in 
the  calamity  which  had  wrecked  William 
Mainwaring's  name  and  blighted  his  prospects 
— but  Helen's  grandfather,  the  land-agent,  had 
died  some  time  subsequent  to  that  event,  and, 
indeed,  just  before  William's  death.  He  had 
never  forgiven  his  son  the  stain  on  his  name — 
never  assisted,  never  even  seen  him  since  that 
fatal  day — but  he  left  to  Helen  a  sum  of  about 
8000/., — for  she,  at  least,  was  innocent.  In 
Mr  Fielden's  eyes,  Helen  was  tlierefore  an 
heiress.  And  who  amongst  his  small  range  of 
acquaintance  was  good  enough  for  her,  not 
only  so  richly  portioned,  but  so  lovely; — ac- 
complished too,  for  her  parents  had  of  late 
years  lived  chiefly  in  France,  and  languages 
there  are  easily  learned,  and  masters  cheap  ? 
Mr.  Fielden  knew  but  one,  whom  Providence 
had  also  consigned  to  his  charge — the  sup- 
posed son  of  his  old  pupil  Ardworth;  but 
though  ft  tender  affection  existed  between  the 
two  young  persons,  it  seemed  too  like  that  of  a 
brother  and  sister,  to  afferd  much  ground  for 
Mr.  Fielden's  anxiety  or  hope. 

From  his  window  the  Vicar  observed  the 
still  attitude  of  the  young  orphan  for  a  few 
moments,  then  he  pushed  aside  his  books, 
rose,  and  approached  her.  At  the  sound  of 
his  tread,  she  woke  from  her  reverie,  and 
bounded  lightly  towards  him. 

"Ah,  you  would  not  see  me  before!"  she 
said,  in  a  voice  in  which  there  was  the  slight- 
est possible  foreign  accent,  which  betrayed  the 
country  in  which  her  childhood  had  been 
passed — "  I  peeped  in  twice  at  the  window.  I 
wanted  you  so  much,  to  walk  to  the  village. 
But  you  jyill  come  now — will  you  not  ?  "  added 


the  girl,  coaxingly,  as  she  looked  up  at  him 
under  the  shade  of  her  straw  hat. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  in  the  village,  my 
pretty  Helen  ?" 

"Why  you  know  it  is  Fair  day,  and  you 
promised  Bessie  that  you  would  buy  her  a 
fairing — to  say  nothing  of  me." 

"Very  true,  and  I  ought  to  look  in;  it  will 
help  to  keep  the  poor  people  from  drinking. 
A  clergyman  should  mix  with  his  parishioners 
in  their  holidays.  We  must  not  associate  our 
office  only  with  grief,  and  sickness,  and  preach- 
ing. We  will  go.  And  what  fairing  are  you 
to  have  ?  " 

"  Oh,  something  very  brilliant,  I  promise 
you  !  I  have  formed  grand  notions  of  a  fair. 
I  am  sure  it  must  be  like  the  bazaars  we  read 
of  last  night,  in  that  charming  '  Tour  in  the 
East.'  " 

The  Vicar  smiled,  half  benignly,  half  anx- 
iously. "  My  dear  child,  it  is  so  like  you  to 
be  an  eastern  bazaar.  If  you  always  thus 
judge  of  things  by  your  fancy,  how  this  sober 
world  will  deceive  you,  poor  Helen  ! " 

"  It  is  not  my  fault — iu  me  grondez  pas, 
m^chant"  answered  Helen  hanging  her  head. 
"  But  come,  sir,  allow,  at  least,  that  if  I  let 
my  romance,  as  you  call  it,  run  away  with  me 
now  and  then,  I  can  still  content  myself  with 
the  reality.  What,  you  shake  your  head  still  ! 
Don't  you  remember  the  sparrow  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  yes — the  sparrow  that  the  ped- 
lar sold  you  for  a  goldfinch;  and  you  were  so 
proud  of  your  purchase,  and  wondered  so  much 
why  you  could  not  coax  the  goldfinch  to  sing, 
till  at  last  the  paint  wore  away,  and  it  was  only 
a  poor  little  sparrow  !  " 

"Go  on!  Confess;  did  I  fret,  then?  Was 
I  not  as  pleased  with  my  dear  sparrow,  as  I 
should  have  been  with  the  prettiest  goldfinch 
that  ever  sang  ?  Does  not  the  sparrow  follow 
me  about,  and  nestle  on  my  shoulder — dear 
little  thing  !  And  I  was  right  after  ail;  for  if 
I  had  not  fancied  it  a  goldfinch,  I  should  not 
have  bought  it,  perhaps.  But  now  I  would 
not  change  it  for  a  goldfinch — no,  not  even  for 
that  nightingale  I  heard  just  now.  So  let  me 
still  fancy  the  poor  fair  a  bazaar;  it  is  a 
double  pleasure,  first  to  fancy  the  bazaar,  and 
then  to  be  surprised  at  the  fair." 

"  You  argue  well,"  said  the  Vicar,  as  they 
now  entered  the  village.  "I  really  think,  in 
spite  of  all  your  turn  for  poetry,  and  Goldsmith, 


LUCRETIA. 


599 


and  Cowper,  that  you  would  take  as  kindly  to 
mathematics  as  your  cousin  John  Ardworth, 
poor  lad  ! " 

"Not  if  mathematics  have  made  him  so 
grave — and  so  churlish,  I  was  going  to  say — 
but  that  word  does  him  wrong.  Dear  cousin, 
so  kind  and  so  rough  !  " 

"  It  is  not  mathematics  that  are  to  blame,  if 
he  is  grave  and  absorbed,"  said  the  Vicar,  with 
a  sigh;  "  it  is  the  two  cares  that  gnaw  most — 
poverty  and  ambition." 

"Nay,  do  not  sigh:  it  must  be  such  a  pleas- 
ure to  feel  as  he  does,  that  one  must  triumph 
at  last  !  " 

"  Umph  ! — John  must  have  nearly  reached 
London  by  this  time,"  said  Mr.  Fielden,  "  for 
he  is  a  stout  walker,  and  this  is  the  third  day 
since  he  left  us.  Well,  now  that  he  is  about 
fairly  to  be  called  to  the  bar,  I  hope  that  his 
fever  will  cool,  and  he  will  settle  calmly  to 
work.  I  have  felt  great  pain  for  him  during 
this  last  visit." 

"Pain!     But  why?" 

"  My  dear,  do  you  remember  what  I  read 
out  to  you  both  from  Sir  William  Temple,  the 
night  before  John  left  us  ?  " 

Helen  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  with  a 
readiness  which  showed  a  memory  equally 
quick  and  retentive,  replied,  "Yes;  was  it  not 
to  this  effect.'  I  am  not  sure  of  the  exact 
words — '  To  have  something  we  have  not,  and 
be  something  we  are  not,  is  the  root  of  all 
evil.' " 

"  Well  remembered,  my  darling  !  " 

"  Ah,  but,"  said  Helen,  archly,  "  I  remem- 
ber too  what  my  cousin  replied,  '  If  Sir  William 
Temple  had  practised  his  theory,  he  would 
not  have  been  ambassador  at  the  Hague, 
or •  " 

"  Pshaw  !  the  boy's  always  ready  enough 
with  his  answers,"  interrupted  Mr.  Fielden, 
rather  petulantly.  "  There's  the  fair,  my  dear; 
more  in  your  way,  I  see,  than  Sir  William 
Temple's  philosophy." 

And  Helen  was  right — the  fair  was  no 
eastern  bazaar:  but  how  delighted  that  young, 
impressionable  mind  was,  notwithstanding  ! 
delighted  with  the  swings  and  the  roundabouts, 
the  shows,  the  booths,  even  down  to  the  gilt 
gingerbread  kings  and  queens.  All  minds 
genuinely  poetical,  are  peculiarly  susceptible 
to  movement — that  is,  to  the  excitement  of 
numbers.     If  the  movement  is  sincerely  joy- 


ous, as  in  the  mirth  of  a  village  holiday,  such 
a  nature  shares  insensibly  in  the  joy.  But  if 
the  movement  is  a  false  and  spurious  gaiety, 
as  in  a  state  ball,  where  the  impassive  face 
and -languid  step  are  out  of  harmony  with  the 
evident  object  of  the  scene — then  the  nature 
we  speak  of  feels  chilled  and  dejected.  Hence 
it  really  is,  that  the  more  delicate  and  ideal 
order  of  minds  soon  grow  inexpressibly  weary 
of  the  hack  routine  of  what  are  called  fashion- 
able pleasures.  Hence  the  same  person  most 
alive  to  a  dance  on  the  green,  would  be  with- 
out enjoyment  at  Almack's.  It  is  not  because 
one  scene  is  a  village  green,  and  the  other  a 
room  in  King  Street;  nor  is  it  because  the 
actors  in  the  one  are  of  the  humble,  in  the 
others  of  the  noble  class,  but  simply  because 
the  enjoyment  in  the  first  is  visible  and  hearty, 
because  in  the  other  it  is  a  listless  and  melan- 
choly pretence.  Helen  fancied  it  was  the 
swings  and  the  booths  that  gave  her  that 
innocent  exhilaration — it  was  not  so;  it  was 
the  unconscious  sympathy  with  the  crowd 
around  her.  When  the  poetical  nature  quits 
its  own  dreams  for  the  actual  world,  it  enters, 
and  transfuses  itself  into  the  hearts  and  hu- 
mors of  others.  The  two  wings  of  that  spirit 
which  we  call  Genius,  are  reverie  and  sym- 
pathy. 

But  poor  little  Helen  had  no  idea  that  she 
had  genius.  Whether  chasing  the  butterfly, 
or  talking  fond  fancies  to  her  birds,  or  whether 
with  earnest,  musing  eyes,  watching  the  stars 
come  forth,  and  the  dark  pine  trees  gleam  into 
silver;  whether  with  airy  day-dreams  and 
credulous  wonder  poring  over  the  magic  tales 
of  Mirglip  or  Aladdin,  or  whether  spell-bound 
to  awe  by  the  solemn  woes  of  Lear,  or  follow- 
ing the  blind  great  bard  into  "the  heaven  of 
heavens,  an  earthly  guest  to  draw  empyreal 
air,"  she  obeyed  but  the  honest  and  varying 
impulse  in  each  change  of  her  pliant  mood; 
and  would  have  ascribed  with  genuine  humil- 
ity to  the  vagaries  of  childhood,  that  prompt 
gathering  of  pleasure — that  quick  shifting 
sport  of  the  fancy  by  which  Nature  binds  to 
itself,  in  chains  undulating  as  melody,  the 
lively  senses  of  genius. 

While  Helen,  leaning  on  the  Vicar's  arm, 
thus  surrendered  herself  to  the  innocent  excite- 
ment of  the  moment,  the  Vicar  himself  smiled 
and  nodded  to  his  parishioners,  or  paused  to 
exchange   a   friendly  word   or  two   with    the 


6oo 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


youngest  or  the  eldest  loiterers  (those  two  ex- 
tremes of  mortality  which  the  Church  so  ten- 
derly unites),  whom  the  scene  drew  to  its 
tempting  vortex,  when  a  rough-haired  lad,  with 
a  leather  bag  strapped  across  his  waist,  turned 
from  one  of  the  ginger-bread  booths,  and 
touching  his  hat,  said,  "  Please  you,  sir,  I  was 
a-coming  to  your  house  with  a  letter." 

The  Vicar's  correspondence  was  confined 
and  rare,  despite  his  distant  children,  for 
letters  but  a  few  years  ago  were  costly  luxuries 
to  persons  of  narrow  income,  and  therefore  the 
juvenile  letter-carrier  who  plied  between  the 
Post  town  and  the  village  failed  to  excite  in 
his  breast  that  indignation  for  being  an  hour 
or  more  behind  his  time,  which  would  have 
animated  one  to  whom  the  Post  brings  the 
usual  event  of  the  day.  He  took  the  letter 
from  the  boy's  hand,  and  paid  for  it  with  a 
thrifty  sigh,  as  he  glanced  at  a  handwriting 
unfamiliar  to  him — perhaps  from  some  clergy- 
man poorer  than  himself.  However,  that  was 
not  the  place  to  read  letters,  so  he  put  the 
epistle  in  his  pocket,  until  Helen,  who  watched 
his  countenance  to  see  when  he  grew  tired  of 
the  scene,  kindly  proposed  to  return  home. 
As  they  gained  a  stile  half  way,  Mr.  Fielden 
remembered  his  letter,  took  it  forth,  and  put 
on  his  spectacles.  Helen  stooped  over  the 
bank  to  gather  violets;  the  Vicar  seated  him- 
self on  the  stile.  As  he  again  looked  at  the 
address,  the  hand-writing,  before  unfamiliar, 
seemed  to  grow  indistinctly  on  his  recollection. 
That  bold,  firm  hand — thin  and  fine  as  woman's, 
but  large  and  regular  as  man's — was  too 
peculiar  to  be  forgotten.  He  uttered  a  brief 
exclamation  of  surprise  and  recognition,  and 
hastily  broke  the  seal.  The  contents  ran 
thus: — 


"  Dear  Sir, — So  many  years  have  passed  since  any 
communication  has  taken  place  between  us,  that  the 
name  of  Lucretia  Dalibard  will  seem  more  strange  to 
you  than  that  of  Lucretia  Clavering.  I  have  recently 
returned  to  England  after  a  long  residence  abroad.  I 
perceive  by  my  deceased  sister's  will  that  she  has  con- 
fided her  only  daughter  to  my  guardianship,  con- 
jointly with  yourself.  I  am  anxious  to  participate  in 
that  tender  charge.  I  am  alone  in  the  world— an  ha- 
bitual sufferer — afflicted  with  a  partial  paralysis  that 
deprives  me  of  the  use  of  my  limbs.  In  such  circum- 
stances, it  is  the  more  natural  that  I  should  turn  to  the 
only  relative  left  me.  My  journey  to  England  has  so 
exhausted  my  strength,  and  all  movement  is  so  pain- 
ful, that  I  must  request  you  to  excuse  me  for  not  com- 
ing in  person  for  my  niece.  Your  benevolence,  how- 
ever, will,  I  am  sure,  prompt  you  to  afford  me  the 


comfort  of  her  society,  as  soon  as  you  can  contrive 
some  suitable  arrangement  for  her  journey.  Begging 
you  to  express  to  Helen,  in  my  name,  the  assurance  of 
such  a  welcome  as  is  due  from  me  to  my  sister's  child, 
and  waiting  with  great  anxiety  your  reply, — I  am,  dear 
Sir,  your  very  faithful  servant, 

LucRET/A  Dalibard. 

"  P.S.— I  can  scarcely  venture  to  ask  you  to  bring 
Helen  yourself  to  town,  but  I  should  be  glad  if  other 
inducements  to  take  the  journey  afforded  me  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  once  again.  I  am  anxious,  in  addi- 
tion to  such  details  of  my  late  sister  as  you  may  be 
enabled  to  give  me,  to  learn  something  of  the  history 
of  her  connection,  Mr.  Ardworth,  in  whom  I  felt  much 
interested  years  ago,  and  who,  I  am  recently  informed, 
left  an  infant,  his  supposed  son,  under  your  care.  So 
long  absent  from  England,  how  much  have  I  to  learn, 
and  how  little  the  mere  gravestones  tell  us  of  the 
dead!" 


While  the  Vicar  is  absorbed  in  this  letter, 
equally  unwelcome  and  unexpected, — while, 
unconscious  as  the  daughter  of  Ceres  gather- 
ing flowers  when  the  Hell  King  drew  near,  of 
the  change  that  awaited  her  and  the  grim 
presence  that  approached  on  her  fate, — Helen 
bends  still  over  the  bank  odorous  with  shrink- 
ing violets,  we  turn  where  the  new  generation 
equally  invites  our  gaze,  and  make  our  first 
acquaintance  with  two  persons  connected  with 

the  progress  of  our  tale. 

***** 

*  *  *  *  * 

***** 

The  britska  stopped.  The  servant,  who  had 
been  gradually  accumulating  present  dust 
and  future  rheumatisms  on  the  "  bad  emi- 
nence "  of  a  rumble-tumble,  exposed  to  the 
nipping  airs  of  an  English  sky,  leapt  to  the 
ground  and  opened  the  carriage  door. 

"This  is  the  best  place  for  the  view,  sir — a 
little  to  the  right." 

Percival  St.  John  threw  aside  his  book,  (a 
volume  of  Voyages),  whistled  to  a  spaniel 
dozing  by  his  side,  and  descended  lightly. 
Light  was  the  step  of  the  young  man,  and 
merry  was  the  bark  of  the  dog,  as  it  chased 
from  the  road  the  startled  sparrow,  rising  high 
into  the  clear  air— favorites  of  Nature  both, 
man  and  dog  ! 

You  had  but  to  glance  at  Percival  St.  John, 
to  know  at  once  that  he  was  of  the  race  that 
toils  not;  the  assured  step  spoke  confidence 
in  the  world's  fair  smile.  No  care  for  the 
morrow  dimmed  the  bold  eye  and  the  radiant 
bloom. 


LUCRETIA. 


60lL 


About  the  middle  height— his  slight  figure, 
yet  undeveloped,  seemed  not  to  have  attained 
to  its  full  growth — the  darkening  down  only 
just  shaded  a  cheek  somewhat  sunburnt, 
though  naturally  fair,  round  which  locks  black 
as  jet  played  sportively  in  the  fresh  air — about 
him  altogether  there  was  the  inexpressible 
charm  of  happy  youth.  He  scarcely  looked 
sixteen,  though  above  four  years  older;  but 
for  his  firm  though  careless  step,  and  the  open 
fearlessness  of  his  frank  eye,  you  might  have 
almost  taken  him  for  a  girl  in  men's  clothes, 
not  from  effeminacy  of  feature,  but  from  the 
sparkling  bloom  of  his  youth,  and  from  his 
unmistakable  newness  to  the  cares  and  sins  of 
man.  A  more  delightful  vision  of  ingenuous 
boyhood  opening  into  life,  under  happy  aus- 
pices, never  inspired  with  pleased  yet  melan- 
choly interest  the  eye  of  half  envious,  half 
pitying  age. 

"  And  that,"  mused  Percival  St.  John — 
"that  is  London  !  Oh,  for  the  Diable  Boiteux 
to  unroof  me  those  distant  houses,  and  show 
me  the  pleasures  that  lurk  within  ! — Ah,  what 
long  letters  I  shall  have  to  write  home  ! — How 
the  dear  old  Captain  will  laugh  over  them, 
and  how  my  dear  good  mother  will  put  down 
her  work  with  a  sigh  !  Home  ! — Um,  I  miss 
it  already.  How  strange  and  grim,  after  all, 
the  huge  city  seems  !  " 

His  glove  fell  to  the  ground,  and  his  spaniel 
mumbled  it  into  shreds.  The  young  man 
laughed,  and,  throwing  himself  on  the  grass, 
played  gaily  with  the  dog. 

"  P'ie,  Beau,  sir, — fie;  gloves  are  indigesti- 
ble. Restrain  your  appetite,  and  we'll  lunch 
together  at  the  Clarendon." 

At  this  moment  there  arrived  at  the  same 
patch  of  greensward  a  pedestrian  some  years 
older  than  Percival  St.  John — a  tall,  muscular, 
raw-boned,  dust-covered,  travel-stained  pedes- 
trian— one  of  your  pedestrians  in  good  earnest 
— no  amateur  in  neat  gambroon,  manufactured 
by  Inkson,  who  leaves  his  carriage  behind 
him,  and  walks  on  with  his  fishing-rod  by 
choice,  but  a  sturdy  wanderer,  with  thick  shoes 
and  strapless  trousers,  a  thread-bare  coat  and 
a  knapsack  at  his  back.  Yet  withal,  the  young 
man  had  the  air  of  a  gentleman;  not  gentle- 
man as  the  word  is  understood  in  St.  James's, 
the  gentleman  of  the  noble  and  idle  class,  but 
the  gentleman  as  the  title  is  accorded,  by 
courtesy,  to  all  to  whom  both  education  and 


the  habit  of  mixing  with  educated  persons 
gives  a  claim  to  the  distinction  and  imparts  an 
air  of  refinement.  The  new  comer  was  strongly 
built,  at  once  lean  and  large — far  more  strongly 
built  than  Percival  St.  John,  but  without  his 
look  of  cheerful  and  comely  health. 

His  complexion  had  not  the  florid  hues  that 
should  have  accompanied  that  strength  of 
body;  it  was  pale,  though  not  sickly;  the  ex- 
pression grave,  the  lines  deep,  the  face  strongly 
marked.  By  his  side  trotted  painfully  a  wiry, 
yellowish,  foot-sore  Scotch  terrier.  Beau 
sprang  from  his  master's  caress,  cocked  his 
handsome  head  on  one  side,  and  suspended  in 
silent  halt  his  right  forepaw.  Percival  cast 
over  his  left  shoulder  a  careless  glance  at  the 
intruder.  The  last  heeded  neither  Beau  nor 
Percival.  He  slipped  his  knapsack  to  the 
ground,  and  the  Scotch  terrier  sank  upon  it 
and  curled  himself  up  into  a  ball.  The  way- 
farer folded  his  arms  tightly  upon  his  breast, 
heaved  a  short  unquiet  sigh,  and  cast  over  the 
giant  city,  from  under  deep-pent  lowering 
brows,  a  look  so  earnest,  so  searching,  so  full 
of  inexpressible,  dogged,  determined  power, 
that  Percival,  roused  out  of  his  gay  indiffer- 
ence, rose  and  regarded  him  with  curious  in- 
terest. 

In  the  meanwhile  Beau  had  very  leisurely 
approached  the  bilious-looking  terrier;  and 
after  walking  three  times  round  him,  with  a 
stare  and  a  small  sniff  of  superb  impertinence, 
halted  with  great  composure  and  lifting  his 
hind  leg — O  Beau,  Beau,  Beau  !  your  historian 
blushes  for  your  breeding,  and.  like  Sterne's 
recording  angel,  drops  a  tear  upon  the  stain 
which  washes  it  from  the  register — but  not, 
alas  !  from  the  back  of  the  bilious  terrier ! 
The  space  around  was  wide,  Beau.  You  had 
all  the  world  to  choose;  why 'select  so  specially 
for  insult  the  single  spot  on  which  reposed  the 
worn-out  and  unoffending  ?  O,  dainty  Beau  ! 
— O,  dainty  world  !  Own  the  truth,  both  of  ye. 
There  is  something  irresistibly  provocative  of 
insult  in  the  back  of  a  shabby-looking  dog  ! 

The  poor  terrier,  used  to  affronts,  raised  its 
heavy  eyelids,  and  shot  the  gleam  of  just  in- 
dignation from  its  dark  eyes.  But  it  neither 
stirred  nor  growled,  and  Beau,  extremely 
pleased  with  his  achievement,  wagged  his  tail 
in  triumph,  and  returned  to  master — perhaps, 
in  parliamentary  phrase,  to  '  report  proceed- 
ings, and  ask  leave  to  sit  again.' 


602 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


"  I  wonder,"  soliloquized  Perciva!  St.  John, 
"  what  that  poor  fellow  is  thinking  of; — per- 
haps he  ts  poor,  indeed  ! — no  doubt  of  it,  now 
I  look  again.  And  I  so  rich  !  I  should  like 
to — hem — let's  see  what  he's  made  of." 

Herewith  Percival  approached,  and  with  all 
a  boy's  .half  bashful,  half  saucy  frankness, 
said — "  A  fine  prospect,  sir." 

The  pedestrian  started,  and  threw  a  rapid 
glance  over  the  brilliant  figure  that  accosted 
him.  Percival  St.  John  was  not  to  be  abashed 
by  stern  looks;  but  that  glance  might  have 
abashed  many  a  more  experienced  man.  The 
glance  of  a  squire  upon  a  corn-law  missionary, 
of  a  Crockford  dandy  upon  a  Regent-street 
tiger,  could  not  have  been  more  disdainful. 

"  Tush  !  "  said  the  pedestrian,  rudely,  and 
turned  upon  his  heel. 

Percival  colored,  and,  shall  we  own  it  ?  was 
boy  enough  to  double  his  fist.  Little  would 
he  have  been  deterred  by  the  brawn  of  those 
great  arms  and  the' girth  of  that  Herculean 
chest,  if  he  had  been  quite  sure  that  it  was  a 
proper  thing  to  resent  pugilistically  so  dis- 
courteous a  monosyllable.  The  "  tush  !  " 
stuck  greatly  in  his  throat.  But  the  man,  now 
removed  to  the  farther  verge  of  the  hill,  looked 
so  tranquil  and  so  lost  in  thought,  that  the 
short-lived  anger  died. 

"  And  after  all,  if  I  was  as  poor  as  he  looks, 
I  dare  say  I  should  be  just  as  proud,"  mut- 
tered Percival.  "  However,  it's  his  own  fault 
if  he  goes  to  London  on  foot,  when  I  might, 
at  least,  have  given  him  a  lift.  Come,  Beau, 
sir." 

With  his  face  still  a  little  flushed  and  his 
hat,  unconsciously,  cocked  fiercely  on  one  side, 
Percival  sauntered  back  to  his  britska. 

As  in  a  whirl  of  dust,  the  light  carriage  was 
borne  by  the  four  posters  down  the  hill,  the 
pedestrian  turned  for  an  instant  from  the  view 
before  to  the  cloud  behind,  and  muttered — 
"  Ay,  a  fine  prospect  for  the  rich — a  noble  field 
for  the  poor  !  "  The  tone  in  which  those  words 
were  said  told  volumes;  there,  spoke  the  pride, 
the  hope  the  energy,  the  ambition,  which  make 
youth  laborious,  manhood  prosperous,  age  re- 
nowned. 

The  stranger  then  threw  himself  on  the 
sward,  and  continued  his  silent  and  intent 
contemplation  till  the  clouds  grew  red  in  the 
west.  When,  then,  he  rose,  his  eye  was  bright, 
his  mien  erect,  and  a  smile,  playing  round  his 


firm,  full  lips  stole  the  moody  sternness  from 
his  hard  face.  Throwing  his  knapsack  once 
more  on  his  back,  John  Ardworth  went  reso- 
lutely on  to  the  great  vortex. 


CHAPTER  L 
The  Coronation. 

The  eighth  of  September,  1831,  was  a  holi- 
day in  London.  William  the  Fourth  received 
the  crown  of  his  ancestors  in  that  mighty 
church,  in  which  the  most  impressive  monitors 
to  human  pomp  are  the  monuments  of  the 
dead:  the  dust  of  conquerors  and  statesmen, 
of  the  wise  heads  and  the  bold  hands  that  had 
guarded  the  thrones  of  departed  kings,  slept 
around;  and  the  great  men  of  the  Modern 
time  was  assembled  in  homage  to  the  monarch, 
to  whom  the  prowess  and  the  liberty  of  genera- 
tions hath  bequeathed  an  empire  in  which  the 
sun  never  sets.  In  the  Abbey — thinking  little 
of  the  past,  caring  little  for  the  future— the 
immense  audience  gazed  eagerly  on  the 
pageant  that  occurs  but  once  in  that  division 
of  history — the  lifetime  of  a  king.  The  as- 
semblage was  brilliant  and  imposing.  The 
galleries  sparkled  with  the  gems  of  women 
who  still  upheld  the  celebrity  for  form  and 
feature,  which,  from  the  remotest  times,  has 
been  awarded  to  the  great  English  race. 

Below,  in  their  robes  and  coronets,  were  men 
who  neither  in  the  senate  nor  the  field  have 
shamed  their  fathers.  Conspicuous  amongst 
all,  for  grandeur  of  mien  and  stature,  towered 
the  brothers  of  the  king;  while  commanding 
yet  more  the  universal  gaze,  were  seen,  here 
the  eagle  features  of  the  old  hero  of  Waterloo, 
and  there  the  majestic  brow  of  the  haughty 
statesman  who  was  leading  the  people  (while 
the  last  of  the  Bourbons,  whom  Waterloo  had 
restored  to  the  Tuileries,  had  left  the  orb  and 
purple  to  the  kindred  house,  so  fatal  to  his 
name),  through  a  stormy  and  perilous  transi- 
tion to  a  bloodless  revolution  and  a  new 
charter. 

Tier  upon  tier,  in  the  division  set  apart  for 
them,  the  members  of  the  Lower  House  moved 
and  murmured  above  the  pageant;  and  the 
coronation  of  the  new  sovereign  was  con- 
nected in  their  minds  with  the  great  measure, 


LUC  RETT  A. 


603 


which,  still  undecided,  made  at  that  time  a 
link  between  the  People  and  the  King;  and 
arrayed  against  both,  if  not,  indeed,  the  real 
Aristocracy,  at  least  the  Chamber  recognized 
by  the  Constitution  as  its  representative. 
Without  the  space,  was  one  dense  mass. 
Houses,  from  balcony  to  balcony,  window  to 
window,  were  filled  as  some  immense  theatre. 
Up,  through  the  long  thoroughfare  to  White- 
hall, the  eye  saw  that  audience — a  people;  and 
the  gaze  was  bounded  at  the  spot  where 
Charles  the  First  had  passed  from  the  banquet- 
house  to  the  scaffold. 

The  ceremony  was  over;  the  procession  had 
swept  slowly  by;  the  last  huzza  had  died  away. 
And,  after  staring  awhile  upon  Orator  Hunt, 
who  had  clambered  up  the  iron  palisade  near 
Westminster  Hall,  to  exhibit  his  goodly  person 
in  his  court  attire,  the  serried  crowds,  hurrying 
from  the  shower  which  then  unseasonably  de- 
scended, broke  into  large  masses  or  lengthen- 
ing columns. 

In  that  part  of  London  which  may  be  said 
to  form  a  boundary  between  its  old  and  its 
new  world,  by  which,  on  the  one  hand,  you 
pass  to  Westminster,  or  through  that  gorge  of 
the  Strand  which  leads  along  endless  rows  of 
shops  that  have  grown  up  on  the  sites  of  the 
ancient  halls  of  the  Salisburysand  the  Exeters, 
the  Buckinghams  and  Southamptons,  to  the 
heart  of  the  City,  built  around  the  primeval 
palace  of  the  "  Tower," — while,  on  the  other 
hand  you  pass  into  the  new  city  of  aristocracy 
and  letters,  of  art  and  fashion,  embracing  the 
whilom  chase  of  Marylebone,  and  the  once 
sedge-grown  waters  of  Pimlico; — by  this  ig- 
noble boundary,  (the  crossing  from  the  Opera 
House,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Haymarket  to 
the  commencement  of  Charing  Cross),  stood 
a  person  whose  discontented  countenance  was 
in  singular  contrast  with  the  general  gaiety 
and  animation  of  the  day.  This  person,  O 
gentle  reader — this  sour,  querulous,  discon- 
tented person— was  a  king,  too,  in  his  own 
walk  !  None  might  dispute  it.  He  feared  no 
rebel;  he  was  harassed  by  no  reform;  he 
ruled  without  ministers,  tools  he  had;  but, 
when  worn  out,  he  replaced  them  without  a 
pension  or  a  sigh.  He  lived  by  taxes — but 
they  were  voluntary;  and  his  Civil  List  was 
supplied,  without  demand  for  the  redress  of 
grievances.  This  person,  nevertheless— not 
ileposed,  was  suspended    from   his  empire  for 


the  day.  He  was  pushed  aside;  he  was  for- 
gotten. He  was  not  distinct  from  the  crowd. 
Like  Titus,  he  had  lost  a  day — his  vocation 
was  gone.  This  person  was  the  Sweeper  of 
the  Crossing  ! 

He  was  a  character  !  He  was  young,  in  the 
fairest  prime  of  youth;  but  it  was  the  face  of 
an  old  man  on  young  shoulders.  His  hair  was 
long,  thin,  and  prematurely  streaked  with  grey; 
his  face  was  pale,  and  deeply  furrowed;  his 
eyes  hollow,  and  their  stare  gleamed,  cold  and 
stolid,  under  his  bent  and  shaggy  brows.  The 
figure  was  at  once  fragile  and  ungainly — and 
the  narrow  shoulders  curved  in  a  perpetual 
stoop.  It  was  a  person  once  noticed  that  you 
would  easily  remember,  and  associate  with 
some  undefined,  painful  impression.  The 
manner  was  humble,  but  not  meek;  the  voice 
was  whining,  but  without  pathos.  There  was 
a  meagre,  passionless,  dulness  about  the  as- 
pect, though,  at  times,  it  quickened  into  a  kind 
of  avid  acuteness.  No  one  knew  by  what 
human  parentage  this  personage  came  into  the 
world.  He  had  been  reared  by  the  charity  of 
a  stranger,  crept  through  childhood,  and  mis- 
ery, and  rags  mysteriously;  and  suddenly  suc- 
ceeded an  old  defunct  negro  in  the  profitable 
crossing  whereat  he  is  now  standing.  All  edu- 
cation was  unknown  to  him,  so  was  all  love. 
In  those  festive  haunts  at  St.  Giles's,  where  he 
who  would  see  'Life  in  London'  may  often 
discover  the  boy  who  has  held  his  horse  in  the 
morning,  dancing  merrily  with  his  chosen 
damsel  at  night,  our  sweeper's  character  was 
austere  as  Charles  the  Twelfth's  !  And,  the 
poor  creature  had  his  good  qualities  I 

He  was  sensitively  alive  to  kindness — little 
enough  had  been  shown  him  to  make  the 
luxury  the  more  prized  from  its  rarity ! — 
though  fond  of  money  he  would  part  with  it 
(we  do  not  say  cheerfully,  but  part  with  it 
still)  not  to  mere  want,  indeed  (for  he  had 
been  too  pinched  and  starved  himself,  and  had 
grown  too  obtuse  to  pinching  and  to  starving 
for  the  sensitiveness  that  prompts  to  charity), 
but  to  any  of  his  companions  who  had  done 
him  a  good  service,  or  who  had  even  warmed 
his  dull  heart  by  a  friendly  smile;  he  was 
honest,  too — honest  to  the  backbone.  You 
might  have  trusted  him  with  gold  untold. 
Through  the  heavy  clod  which  man's  care  had 
not  moulded,  nor  books  enlightened,  nor  the 
priest's    solemn    lore   informed,    still    natural 


004 


B  UL  IVEJi'S     WORKS. 


rays  from  the  great  parent  source  of  Deity 
.vstruggled,  fitful  and  dim.  He  had  no  lawful 
name;  none  knew  if  sponsors  had  ever  stood 
security  for  his  sins  at  the  sacred  front.  But 
he  had  christened  himself  by  the  strange,  un- 
christianlike  name  of  "  Beck."  There  he  was, 
then,  seemingly  without  origin,  parentage,  or 
kindred  tie — a  lonesome,  squalid,  bloodless 
thing,  which  the  great  monster,  London, 
seemed  to  have  spawned  forth  of  its  own  self 
— one  of  its  sickly,  miserable,  rickety  offspring, 
whom  it  puts  out  at  nurse  to  Penury,  at  school 
to  Starvation,  and,  finally,  and  literally  gives 
them  stones  for  bread,  with  the  option  of  the 
gallows  or  the  dunghill,  when  the  desperate  off- 
spring calls  on  the  giant  mother  for  return  and 
home  !  And  this  creature  did  love  something 
— loved,  perhaps,  some  fellow-being— -of  that 
hereafter,  when  we  dive  into  the  secrets  of  his 
privacy.  Meanwhile,  openly  and  frankly,  he 
loved  his  crossing;  he  was  proud  of  his  cross- 
ing; he  was  grateful  to  his  crossing.  God 
help  thee,  son  of  the  street,  why  not !  He 
had  in  it  a  double  affection;  that  of  serving 
and  being  served.  He  kept  the  crossing — if 
the  crossing  kept  him.  He  smiled  at  times 
to  himself  when  he  saw  it  lie  fair  and  brilliant 
amidst  the  mire  round;  it  bestowed  on  him  a 
sense  of  property  !  What  a  man  may  feel 
for  a  fine  estate  in  a  ring  fence,  Beck  felt  for 
that  isthmus  of  the  kennel  which  was  sub- 
ject to  his  broom  !  The  Coronation  had  made 
one  rebellious  spirit,  when  it  swept  the  sweeper 
from  his  crossing. 

He  stood  then  half  under  the  clonnade  of 
the  Opera  House,  as  the  crowd  now  rapidly 
grew  thinner  and  more  scattered  :  and  when 
the  last  carriage  of  a  long  string  of  vehicles 
had  passed  by,  he  muttered  audibly — 

"  It'll  take  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  make 
she  right  again  !  " 

"  So  you  be's  ere  to-day.  Beck  ! "  said  a 
ragamuffiin  boy,  who,  pushing  and  scrambling 
through  his  betters,  now  halted,  and  wiped  his 
forehead  as  he  looked  at  the  sweeper.  "  Vy, 
ve  are  all  out  pleasuring.  Vy  vont  you  come 
with  ve?— lots  of  fim  !  " 

The  sweeper  scowled  at  the  urchin,  and 
made  no  answer,  but  began  sedulously  to 
apply  himself  to  the  crossing. 

"  Vy,  there  isn't  another  sweep  in  the  streets, 
Beck.  His  Majesty  King  Bill's  Currynation 
makes  all  on  us  so  appy  !  " 


"  It  has  made  she  unkimmon  dirty  !  "  re 
turned  Beck,  pointing  to  the  dingy  crossing, 
scarce  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the 
road. 

The  ragamuffin  laughed. 

"  But  ve  be's  goin'  to  ave  Reform  now. 
Beck.  The  peopul's  to  have  their  rights  and 
libties,  hand  the  luds  is  to  be  put  down,  hand 
beefsteaks  is  to  be  a  penny  a  pound,  and " 

"  What  good  will  that  do  to  she  ?  " 

"  Vy,  man,  ve  shall  take  turn  about,  and 
sum  vun  helse  will  sveep  the  crossings,  and 
ve  shall  ride  in  sum  vun  helse's  coach  and 
four  prads — cos  vy  ?  ve  shall  hall  be  hequals  !  " 

"  Hequals !  I  tell  you  vot,  if  you  keeps 
jawing  there,  atween  me  and  she,  I  shall  vop 
you,  Joe — cos  vy — I  be's  the  biggest !  "  was 
the  answer  of  Beck  the  sweeper  to  Joe  the 
ragamuffin. 

The  Jovial  Joe  laughed  aloud,  snapped  his 
fingers,  threw  up  his  ragged  cap  with  a  shout 
for  King  Bill,  and  set  off  scampering  and 
whooping  to  join  those  festivities  which  Beck 
had  so  churlishly  disdained. 

Time  crept  on — evening  began  to  close  in, 
and  Beck  was  still  at  his  crossing,  when  a 
young  gentleman  on  horseback,  who,  after 
seeing  the  procession,  had  stolen  away  for  a 
quiet  ride  in  the  suburbs,  reined  inclose  by  the 
crossing,  and,  looking  round,  as  for  some  one 
to  hold  his  horse,  could  discover  no  loiterer 
worthy  that  honor  except  the  solitary  Beck. 
So  young  was  the  rider,  that  he  seemed  still  a 
boy.  On  his  smooth  countenance,  all  that 
most  prepossessed  in  early  youth  left  its  witch- 
ing stamp.  A  smile,  at  once  gay  and  sweet 
played  on  his  lips.  There  was  a  charm,  even 
in  a  certain  impatient  petulance,  in  his  quick 
eye,  and  the  slight  contraction  of  his  delicate 
brows.  Almaviva  might  well  have  been  jeal- 
ous of  such  a  page  !  He  was  the  beau  idealoi 
Cherubino.  He  held  up  his  whip,  with  an  arch 
sign,  to  the  sweeper.  "Follow,  my  man,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone,  the  very  command  of  which 
sounded  gentle,  so  blithe  was  the  movement  of 
the  lips,  and  so  silvery  the  easy  accent;  and, 
without  waiting,  he  cantered  carelessly  down 
Pall  Mall. 

The  sweeper  cast  a  rueful  glance  at  his  mel- 
ancholy domain.  But  he  had  gained  but  little 
that  day,  and  the  offer  was  too  tempting  to  be 
rejected.  He  heaved  a  sigh,  shouldered  his 
broom,  and   murmuring    to   himself   that  he 


LUCRETIA. 


605 


would  give  her  a  last  brush  before  he  retired 
for  the  night,  he  put  his  long  limbs  into  that 
swinging,  shambling  trot,  which  characterizes 
the  motion  of  those  professional  jackals,  who, 
having  once  caught  sight  of  a  groomless  rider, 
fairly  hunt  him  down,  and  appear  when  he 
least  expects  it,  the  instant  he  dismount*. 

The  young  rider  lightly  swung  himself  from 
h*s  sleek,  high-bred  grey,  at  the  door  of  one  of 
the  clubs  in  St.  James's  Street,  patted  his 
horse's  neck,  chucked  the  rein  to  the  swepper, 
and  sauntered  into  the  house,  whistling,  musi- 
cally— if  not  from  want  of  thought,  certainly 
from  want  of  care. 

As  he  entered  the  club,  two  or  three  men, 
young,  indeed,  but  much  older,  to  appearance, 
at  least,  than  himself,  who  were  dining  together 
at  the  same  table,  nodded  to  him  their  friendly 
greeting. 

"  Ah,  Perce,"  said  one,  "  we  have  only  just 
sat  down— here  is  a  seat  for  you," 

The  boy  blushed  shyly,  as  he  accepted  the 
proposal,  and  the  young  men  made  room  for 
him  at  the  table,  with  a  smiling  alacrity  which 
showed  that  his  shyness  was  no  hindrance  to 
his  popularity. 

"  Who,"  said  an  elderly  dandy,  dining  apart 
with  some  of  his  contemporaries — "who  is 
that  lad  ?  One  ought  not  to  admit  such  mere 
boys  into  the  club." 

"  He  is  the  only  surviving  son  of  an  old 
friend  of  ours,"  answered  the  other,  dropping 
his  eye-glass.      "  Young  Percival  St.  John." 

"  St.  John  '  What !  Vernon  St.  John's 
son  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  He  has  not  his  father's  good  air.  These 
young  fellows  have  a  tone — a  something — a 
want  of  self-possession,  eh  ? " 

"  Very  true.  The  fact  is,  that  Percival  was 
meant  for  the  navy,  and  even  served  as  a  mid. 
for  a  year  or  so.  He  was  a  younger  son,  then 
— third  I  think.  The  two  elder  ones  died,  and 
Master  Percival  walked  into  the  inheritance. 
I  don't  think  he  is  quite  of  age  yet.' 

"  Of  age  !  he  does  not  look  seventeen  !  " 

"  Oh,  he  is  more  than  that  !  I  remember 
him  in  his  jacket  at  Laughton.  A  fine  prop- 
erty !  " 

"  Ay,  I  don't  wonder  those  fellows  are  so 
civil  to  him.  This  claret  is  corked  ! — every 
thing  is  so  bad  at  this  d— d  club  ! — no  won- 
der, when  a  troop  of  boys  are  let  in  !— enough 


to  spoil  any  club!— don't  know  Larose  from 
Lafitte.     Waiter  !  " 

Meanwhile,  the  talk  round  the  table,  at 
which  sat  Percival  St.  John,  was  animated, 
lively  and  various— the  talk  common  with 
idlers;  of  horses,  and  steeple-chases,  and 
opera-dancers,  and  reigning  beauties,  and 
good-humored  jests  at  each  other.  In  all  this 
babble,  there  was  freshness  about  Percival  St. 
John's  conversation,  which  showed  that,  as 
yet,  for  him  life  had  the  zest  of  novelty.  He  was 
more  at  home  about  horses  and  steeple-chases, 
than  about  opera-dancers,  and  beauties,  and 
the  small  scandals  of  town.  Talk  on  these 
latter  topics  did  not  seem  to  interest  him;  on 
the  contrary,  almost  to  pain.  Shy  and  modest 
as  a  girl,  he  colored  or  looked  aside  when  his 
more  hardened  friends  boasted  of  assignations 
and  love-affairs.  Spirited,  gay,  and  manly 
enough  in  all  really  manly  points,  the  virgin 
bloom  of  innocence  was  yet  visible  in  his 
frank  charming  manner.  And  often,  out  of 
respect  for  his  delicacy,  some  hearty  son  of 
pleasure  stopjied  short  in  his  narrative,  or  lost 
the  point  of  his  anecdote;  and  yet  so  loveable 
was  Percival  in  his  good-humor,  his  naivete^, 
his  joyous  entrance  into  innocent  joy,  that  his- 
companions  were  scarcely  conscious  of  t\\&ghu. 
and  restraint  he  imposed  on  them.  Those 
merry,  dark  eyes,  and  that  flashing  smile,  were 
conviviality  of  themselves.  They  brought 
with  them  a  contagious  cheerfulness,  which 
compensated  for  the  want  of  corruption. 

Night  had  set  in.  St.  John's  companion.? 
had  departed  to  their  severel  haunts,  and  Per- 
cival himself  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  club^ 
resolving  that  he  would  join  the  crowds  that 
swept  through  the  streets  to  gaze  on  the  il- 
luminations, when  he  perceived  Beck  (still  at 
the  rein  of  his  dozing  horse),  whom  he  had 
quite  forgot  till  that  moment.  Laughing  at 
his  own  want  of  memory,  Percival  put  some 
silver  into  Beck's  hand — more  silver  than  Beck 
had  ever  before  received  for  similar  service — 
and  said: 

"  Well,  my  man,  I  suppose  I  can  trust  you 
to  take  my  horse  to  his  stables — No.  — ,  the 
Mews,  behind  Curzon-street.  Poor  tellow, 
he  wants  his  supper, — and  you,  too,  I  sup- 
pose ! " 

Beck  smiled — a  pale,  hungry  smile,  and 
pulled  his  forelock  politely — "  I  can  take  the 
OSS  werry  safely,  your  onor." 


6o6 


B  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


"Take  him,  then,  and  good  evening;  but 
don't  get  on,  for  your  life." 

"Oh,  no,  sir;  I  never  gets  on:  'taint  in  my 
vays." 

And  Beck  slowly  led  the  horse  through  the 
crowd,  till  he  vanished  from  Percival's  eyes. 

Just  then,  a  man  passing  through  the  street, 
paused  as  he  saw  the  young  gentleman  on  the 
steps  of  the  club,  and  said,  gaily,  "  Ah;  how 
do  you  do?  Pretty  faces  in  plenty  out  to- 
night !     Which  way  are  you  going  ? " 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Var- 
ney.  I  was  just  thinking  which  turn  to  take 
— the  right  or  the  left." 

"Then  let  me  be  your  guide,"  and  Varney 
offered  his  arm. 

Percival  accepted  the  courtesy;  and  the 
two  walked  on  towards  Picadilly.  Many  a 
kind  glance  from  the  milliners  and  maid-ser- 
"vants,  whom  the  illuminations  drew  abroad, 
roved,  somewhat  impartially,  towards  St.  John 
and  his  companion;  but  they  dwelt  longer  on 
the  last,  for  there.,  at  least,  they  were  sure 
■of  a  return.  Varney,  if  not  in  his  first 
youth,  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life;  and  Time 
had  dealt  with  him  so  leniently,  that  he  re- 
tained all  the  personal  advantages  of  youth 
itself.  His  complexion  still  was  clear;  and 
as  only  his  upper  lip,  decorated  with  a  slight, 
•silken,  and  well-trimmed  moustache,  was  un- 
shaven, the  contour  of  the  face  added  to  the 
juvenility  of  his  appearance  by  the  rounded 
symmetry  it  betrayed.  His  hair  escaped  from 
his  hat  in  fair  unchanged  luxuriance.  And 
the  nervous  figure,  agile  as  a  panther's,  though 
broad-shouldered  and  deep-chested,  denoted, 
all  the  slightness  and  elasticity  of  twenty-five, 
combined  with  the  muscular  power  of  forty. 
His  dress  was  rather  fanastic — too  showy 
for  the  good  taste  which  is  habitual  to  the 
English  gentleman — and  there  was  a  peculiar- 
ity in  his  gait  almost  approaching  to  a, strut, 
which  bespoke  a  desire  of  effect — a  conscious- 
ness of  personal  advantages — equally  opposed 
to  the  mien  and  manner  of  Percival's  usual 
companions;  yet  withal  even  the  most  fastidi- 
ous would  have  hesitated  to  apply  to  Gabriel 
Varney  the  epithet  of  '  vulgar.'  Many  turned 
to  look  again;  but  it  was  not  to  remark  the 
dress,  or  the  slight  swagger: — an  expression  of 
reckless,  sinister  power  in  the  countenance — 
something  of  vigor  and  determination  even  in 
that  very  walk,  foppish  as  it  would  have  been 


in  most,  made  you  sink  all  observation  of  the 
mere  externals,  in  a  sentiment  of  curiosity 
towards  the  man  himself.  He  seemed  a  some- 
body— not  a  somebody  of  conventional  rank, 
but  a  somebody  of  personal  individuality — an 
artist  perhaps,  a  poet,  or  a  soldier  in  some 
foreign  service,  but  certainly  a  man  whose 
name  you  would  expect  to  have  heard  of. 
Amongst  the  common  mob  of  passengers  he 
stood  out  in  marked  and  distinct  relief. 

"  I  feel  at  home  in  a  crowd,"  said  Varney. 
"  Do  you  understand  me  ? " 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Percival.  "  If  ever 
I  could  become  distinguished,  I,  too,  should 
feel  at  home  in  a  crowd." 

"  You  have  ambition,  then  ?  you  mean  to 
become  distinguished  ?  "  asked  Varney,  with 
a  sharp,  searching  look. 

There  was  a  deeper  and  steadier  flash  than 
usual  from  Percival's  dark  eyes,  and  a  manlier 
glow  over  his  cheek,  at  Varney's  question. 
But  he  was  slow  in  answering;  and  when  he 
did  so,  his  manner  had  all  its  wonted  mixture 
of  graceful  bashfulness  and  gay  candor. 

"Our  rise  does  not  always  depend  on  our- 
selves. We  are  not  all  born  great,  nor  do  we 
all  have  '  greatness  thrust  on  us.'  " 

"  One  can  be  what  one  likes,  with  your  fort- 
une," said  Varney;  and  there  was  a  growl  of 
envy  in  his  voice. 

"  What,  be  a  painter  like  you  !  Ha,   ha  !  " 

"  Faith,"  said  Varney,  "  at  least,  if  you 
could  paint  at  all,  you  would  have  what  I  have 
not, — praise  and  fame." 

Percival  pressed  kindly  on  Varney's  arm. 
"  Courage  you  will  get  justice  some  day  !  " 

Varney  shook  his  head.  "  Bah  !  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  justice;  all  are  underrated 
or  overrated.  Can  you  name  one  man  whom 
you  think  is  estimated  by  the  public  at  his 
precise  value  ?  As  for  present  popularity,  it 
depends  on  two  qualities — each  singly  or  both 
united — cowardice  and  charlatanism;  that  is, 
servile  compliance  with  the  taste  and  opinion 
of  the  moment,  or  a  quack's  spasmodic  efforts 
at  originality.  But  why  bore  you  on  such 
matters  !  There  are  things  more  attractive 
round  us.  A  good  ankle  that,  eh?  Why, 
pardon  me,  it  is  strange;  but  you  don't  seem 
to  care  much  for  women  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Percival,  with  a 
sly  demureness.  '  I  am  very  fond  of — my 
mother  !  " 


LUCRETIA. 


607 


"  Very    proper    and    filial,"    said    Varney,  ] 
laughing,  "  and   does  your   love  for   the    sex 
stop  there  ?  "  j 

"  Well,  and  in  truth  I  fancy  so — pretty 
nearly.  You  know  my  grandmother  is  not 
alive  !  But  that  is  something  really  worth 
looking  at !  "  And  Percival  pointed,  almost 
with  a  child's  delight,  at  an  illumination  more 
brilliant  than  the  rest. 

"  I  suppose,  when  you  come  of  age,  you  will 
have  all  the  cedars  at  Laughton  hung  with 
colored  lamps.  Ah,  you  must  ask  me  there, 
some  day.  I  should  so  like  to  see  the  old 
place  again." 

"You  never  saw  it,  I  think  you  say,  in  my 
poor  father's  time  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"Yet  you  knew  him." 

"But  slightly." 

"  And  you  never  saw  my  mother  !  " 

"No;  but  she  seems  to  have  such  influence 
over  you,  that  I  am  sure  she  must  be  a  very 
superior  person — rather  proud,  I  suppose." 

"  Proud — no;  that  is,  not  exactly  proud,  for 
she  is  very  meek  and  very  affable.  But 
yet " 

"  But  yet — you  hesitate — she  would  not  like 
you  to  be  seen,  perhaps,  walking  in  Piccadilly 
with  Gabriel  Varney,  the  natural  son  of  old 
Sir  Miles's  librarian, — Gabriel  Varney  the 
painter — Gabriel  Varney  the  adventurer  I  " 

"  As  long  as  Gabriel  Varney  is  a  man  with- 
out stain  on  his  character  and  honor,  my 
mother  would  only  be  pleased  that  I  should 
know  an  able  and  accomplished  person,  what- 
ever his  origin  or  parentage.  But  my  mother 
would  be  sad  if  she  knew  me  intimate  with  a 
Bourbon  or  a  Raffaelle,  the  first  in  rank  or 
the  first  in  genius,  if  either  prince  or  artist 
had  lost  or  even  sullied  his  'scutcheon  of 
gentleman.  In  a  word,  she  is  most  sensitive 
as  to  honor  and  conscience — all  else  she  dis- 
regards." 

"  Hem  !  "  Varney  stooped  down,  as  if  ex- 
amining the  polish  of  his  boot,  while  he  con- 
tinued, carelessly — "  Impossible  to  walk  the 
streets  and  keep  one's  boots  out  of  the  mire  ! 
Well— and  you  agree  with  your  mother  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  strange  if  I  did  not.  When  1 
was  scarcely  four  years  old,  my  poor  father 
used  to  lead  me  through  the  long  picture- 
gallery  at  Laughton,  and  say,  'Walk  through 
life  as  if  those  brave  gentlemen  looked  down 


on  you.'  And,"  added  St.  John,  with  his  in- 
genuous smile — "  my  mother  would  put  in  her 
word — '  And  those  unstained  women,  too,  my 
Percival  !  ' " 

There  was  something  noble  and  touching  in 
the  boy's  low  accents  as  he  said  this;  it  gave 
the  key  to  his  unusual  modesty,  and  his  frank, 
healthful  innocence  of  character. 

The  devil  in  Varney's  lip  sneered  mockingly. 

"  My  young  friend,  you  have  never  loved 
yet.— Do  you  think  you  ever  shall  ?  " 

"  I  have  dreamed  that  I  could  love  one  day. 
But  I  can  wait." 

Varney  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  was  ac- 
costed abruptly  by  three  men  of  that  exagger- 
ated style  of  dress  and  manner,  which  is  im- 
plied  by  the  vulgar  appellation  of  '  Tigrish.' 
Each  of  the  three  men  had  a  cigar  in  his  mouth 
— each  seemed  flushed  with  wine.  One  wore 
long  brass  spurs,  and  immense  moustaches; 
another  was  distinguished  by  an  enormous 
surface  of  black  satin  cravat,  across  which 
meandered  a  Pactolus  of  gold  chain;  a  third 
had  his  coat  laced  and  braided,  a  la  Polonaise, 
and  pinched  and  padded  a  la  Rtisse,  with  trous- 
ers shaped  to  the  calf  of  a  sinewy  leg,  and  a 
glass  screwed  into  his  right  eye." 

"  Ah,  Grabriel  ! — ah,  Varney  ! — ah,  prince 
of  good  fellows,  well  met  !  You  sup  with  us 
to-night  at  little  Celeste's  we  were  just  going 
in  search  of  you." 

"  Who's  your  friend — one  of  us  ?  "  whispered 
a  second. 

And  the  third  screwed  his  arm  tight  and 
lovingly  into  Varney's. 

Gabriel,  despite  his  habitual  assurance, 
looked  abashed  for  a  moment,  and  would  have 
extricated  himself  from  cordialities  not  at  that 
moment  welcome;  but  he  saw  that  his  friends 
were  too  far  gone  in  their  cups  to  be  easily 
shaken  off,  and  he  felt  relieved  when  Percival, 
after  a  dissatisfied  glance  at  the  three,  said, 
quietly — "  I  must  detain  you  no  longer — 1 
shall  soon  look  in  at  your  studio;  "  and  with- 
out waiting  for  answer,  slid  off  and  was  lost 
among  the  crowd. 

Varney  walked  on  with  his  new  found 
friends,  unheeding  for  some  moments  their 
loose  remarks  and  familiar  banter.  At  length 
he  shook  off  his  abstraction,  and  surrendering 
himself  to  the  coarse  humors  of  his  compan- 
ions, soon  eclipsed  them  all  by  the  gusto  of 
his    slang   and  the  mocking  profligacy  of  his 


6o8 


HULU'EH'S     WORKS. 


sentiments;  for  here  he  no  longer  piayed  a 
part,  or  suppressed  his  grosser  instincts.  That 
uncurbed  dominion  of  the  senses,  to  which  his 
very  boyhood  had  abandoned  itself,  found  a 
willing  slave  in  the  man.  Even  the  talents 
themselves  that  he  displayed  came  from  the 
cultivation  of  the  sensual.  His  eye,  studying 
externals,  made  him  a  painter — his  ear,  quick 
and  practised,  a  musician.  His  wild,  prodigal 
fancy  rioted  on  every  excitement,  and  brought 
him  in  a  vast  harvest  of  experience  in  knowl- 
edge of  the  frailties  and  the  vices  on  which  it 
indulged  its  vagrant  experiments. 

Men  who  over-cultivate  the  art  that  con- 
nects itself  with  the  senses,  with  little  coun- 
terpoise from  the  reason  and  pure  intellect, 
are  apt  to  be  dissipated  and  irregular  in  their 
lives.  This  is  frequently  noticeable  in  the 
biographies  of  musiciaus,  singers,  and  painters, 
less  so  in  poets,  because  he  who  deals  with 
words,  not  signs  and  tones,  must  perpetually 
compare  his  senses  with  the  pure  images  of 
which  the  senses  only  see  the  appearances;  in 
a  word,  he  must  employ  his  intellect,  and  his 
self-education  must  be  large  and  comprehen- 
sive. But  with  most  real  genius,  however  fed 
merely  by  the  senses — most  really  great 
painters,  singers,  and  musicians,  however 
easily  led  astray  into  temptation,  the  richness 
of  the  soil  throws  up  abundant  good  qualities 
to  countervail  or  redeem  the  evil — they  are 
usually  compassionate,  generous,  sympathiz- 
ing. That  Varney  had  not  such  beauties  of 
soul  and  temperament  it  is  unnecessary  to  add 
— principally,  it  is  true,  because  of  his  nur- 
ture, education,  parental  example,  the  utter 
corruption  in  which  his  childhood  and  youth 
had  passed — partly  because  he  had  no  real 
genius;  it  was  a  false  apparition  of  the  divine 
spirit,  reflected  from  the  exquisite  perfection 
of  his  frame,  (which  rendered  all  his  senses  so 
vigorous  and  acute),  and  his  riotous  fancy, 
and  his  fitful  energy,  which  was  capable  at 
times  of  great  application,  but  not  of  definite 
purpose  or  earnest  study. 

All  about  him  was  flashy  and  hollow.  He 
had  not  the  natural  subtlety  and  depth  of 
mind  that  had  characterized  his  terrible  father. 
The  graft  of  the  opera  dancer  was  visible  on 
the  stock  of  the  scholar;  wholly  without  the 
habits  of  method  and  order,  without  the 
patience,  without  the  mathematical,  calculating 
brain  of  Dalibard,  he  played  wantonly  with  the 


horrible  and  loathsome  wickedness  of  which 
Olivier  had  made  dark  and  solemn  study. 
Extravagant  and  lavish,  he  spent  money  as 
fast  as  he  gained  it;  he  threw  away  all  chances 
of  eminence  and  career.  In  the  midst  of  the 
direst  plots  of  his  villany,  or  the  most  ener- 
getic i)ursuit  of  his  art,  the  poorest  excite- 
ment, the  veriest  bauble  would  draw  him  aside. 
His  heart  was  with  Falri  in  the  sty,  his  fancy 
with  Aladdin  in  the  palace.  To  make  a  show 
was  his  darling  object;  he  loved  to  create 
effect  by  his  person,  his  talk,  his  dress,  as  well 
as  by  his  talents.  Living  from  hand  to  mouth, 
crimes  through  which  it  is  not  our  intention  to 
follow  him,  had  at  times  made  him  rich  to-day, 
for  vices  to  make  him  poor  again  to-morrow. 
What  he  called  "luck,"  or  "his  star,"  had 
favored  him — he  was  not  hanged! — he  lived; 
and,  as  the  greater  part  of  his  unscrupulous 
career  had  been  conducted  in  foreign  1ands> 
and  under  other  names, — in  his  own  name, 
and  in  his  own  countiy,  though  something 
scarcely  to  be  defined,  but  equivocal  and  pro- 
vocative of  suspicion,  made  him  displeasing  to 
the  prudent,  and  vaguely  alarmed  the  ex- 
perience of  the  sober, — still  no  positive  ac- 
cusation was  attached  to  the  general  integrity 
of  his  character;  and  the  mere  dissipation  of 
his  habits  was  naturally  little  known  out  of  his 
familiar  circle.  Hence,  he  had  the  most  pre- 
sumptuous confidence  in  himself — a  confidence 
native  to  his  courage,  and  confirmed  by  his  ex- 
perience. His  conscience  was  so  utterly 
obtuse,  that  he  might  almost  be  said  to  present 
the  phenomenon  of  a  man  7vithout  conscience 
at  all.  Unlike  Conrad,  he  did  not  "  know 
himself  a  villain;"  all  that  he  knew  of  himself 
was,  that  he  was  a  remarkably  clever  fellow, 
without  prejudice  or  superstition.  That,  with 
all  his  gifts,  he  had  not  succeeded  better  in 
ife,  he  ascribed  carelessly  to  the  surpassing 
wisdom  or  his  philosophy.  He  could  have 
done  better  if  he  had  enjoyed  himself  less — 
but  was  not  enjoyment  that  be  all  and  end 
all  of  this  little  life  ? 

More  often,  indeed,  in  the  moods  of  his 
bitter  envy,  he  would  lay  the  fault  upon  the 
world.  How  great  he  could  have  been  if  he 
had  been  rich  and  high  born  !  Oh,  he  was 
made  to  spend,  not  to'  save — to  command,  not 
to  fawn  I  He  was  not  formed  to  plod  through 
the  dull  mediocrities  of  fortune;  he  must  toss 
up  for  All  or  the  Nothing  !     It  was  no  control 


LUCRETJA. 


609 


over  himself  that  made  Varney  now  turn  his 
thoughts  from  certain  grave  designs  on  Per- 
cival  St.  John,  to  the  brutal  debauchery  of  his 
three  companions,— rather  he  then  yielded 
most  to  his  natural  self.  And  when  the  morn- 
ing star  rose  over  the  night  he  passed  with  low 
profligates  and  venal  nymphs, — when,  over  the 
fragments  on  the  board  and  emptied  bottles, 
and  drunken  riot,  dawn  gleamed  and  saw  him 
in  all  the  pride  of  his  magnificent  organization, 
and  the  cynicism  of  his  measured  vice; — fair, 
fresh,  and  blooming  amidst  those  maudlin  eyes, 
and  flushed  cheeks,  and  reeling  figures; — 
laughing  hideously  over  the  spectacle  he  had 
provoked,  and  kicking  aside,  with  a  devil's 
scorn,  the  prostrate  form  of  the  favored  part- 
ner whose  head  had  rested  on  his  bosom,  as 
alone  with  a  steady  step  he  passed  the  threshold, 
and  walked  into  the  fresh,  healthful  air; — Ga- 
briel Varney  enjoyed  the  fell  triumph  of  his 
hell-born  vanity,  and  revelled  in  his  sentiment 
of  superiority  and  power. 

Meanwhile,  on  quitting  Varney,  young  Per- 
cival  strolled  on  as  the  whim  directed  him. 
Turning  down  the  Haymarket,  he  gained  the 
colonnade  of  the  Opera  House.  The  crowd 
there  was  so  dense  that  his  footsteps  were  ar- 
rested, and  he  leant  against  one  of  the  col- 
umns in  admiration  of  the  various  galaxies  in 
view. 

In  front  blazed  the  rival  stars  of  the 
United  Service  Club  and  the  Athenaeum; — to 
the  left,  the  quaint  and  peculiar  device  which 
lighted  up  the  Northumberland  House; — to 
the  right,  the  anchors,  cannons,  and  bombs, 
which  typified  ingeniously  the  martial  attri- 
butes of  the  Ordnance  Office. 

At  that  moment  there  were  three  persons 
connected  with  this  narrative  within  a  few  feet 
of  each  other,  distinguished  from  the  multi- 
tude by  the  feelings  with  which  each  regarded 
the  scene  and  felt  the  jostle  of  the  crowd. 
Percival  St.  John,  in  whom  the  harmless  sense 
of  pleasure  was  yet  vivid  and  unsatiated, 
caught  from  the  assemblage  only  that 
physical  hilarity  which  heightened  his  own 
spirits.  If  in  a  character  as  yet  so  undevel- 
oped— to  which  the  large  passions  and  stern 
ends  of  life  were  as  yet  unknown — stirred 
some  deeper  and  more  musing  thoughts  and 
speculations,  giving  gravity  to  the  habitual 
smile  on  his  rosy  lip,  and  steadying  the  play 
of  his  sparkling  eyes,  he  would  have  been  at  a 

6—39 


loss  himself  to  explain  the  dim  sentiment,  and 
the  vague  desire. 

Screened  by  another  column  from  the  pres- 
sure of  the  mob,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  a  man  some  few  years  older  in  point  of 
time— many  years  older  in  point  of  character 
— gazed  (with  thoughts  how  turbulent — with 
ambition  how  profound  ?)  upon  the  dense  and 
dark  masses  that  covered  space  and  street  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach.  He,  indeed,  could 
not  have  said,  with  Varney,  that  he  was  "  at 
home  in  crowd."  For  a  crowd  did  not  fill 
him  with  the  sense  of  his  own  individual  being 
and  importance,  but  grappled  him  to  its 
mighty  breast  with  the  thou.sand  tissues  of  a 
common  destiny.  Who  shall  explain  and 
disentangle  those  high,  and  restless,  and  in- 
terwoven emotions  with  which  intellectual 
ambition,  honorable  and  ardent,  gazes  upon 
that  solemn  thing  with  which,  in  which,  for 
which  it  lives  and  labors — the  Human  Multi- 
tude ?  To  that  abstracted,  solitary  man,  the 
illumination,  the  festivity,  the  curiosity,  the 
holiday,  were  nothing,  or  but  as  fleeting  phan- 
toms and  vain  seemings.  In  his  heart's  eye, 
he  saw  before  him  but  the  people,  the  shadow 
of  an  everlasting  audience — audience  at  once 
and  judge. 

And  literally  touching  him  as  he  stood,  the 
ragged  sweeper,  who  had  returned  in  vain  to 
devote  a  last  care  to  his  beloved  charge,  stood 
arrested  with  the  rest,  gazing  joylessly  on  the 
blazing  lamps,  dead  as  the  stones  he  heeded, 
to  the  young  vivacity  of  the  one  man,  the 
solemn  visions  of  the  other.  So,  O  London, 
amidst  the  universal  holiday  to  monarch  and 
to  mob,  in  those  three  souls  lived  the  three 
elements,  which,  duly  mingled  and  adminis- 
tered, make  thy  vice  and  thy  virtue — thy  glory 
and  thy  shame — thy  labor  and  thy  luxury; 
pervading  the  palace  and  the  street — the  hos- 
pital and  the  prison; — enjoyment,  which  it- 
pleasure — energy,  which  is  action — torpor, 
which  is  want  ! 


CHAPTER   II. 

Love  at  first  sight. 

Suddenly  across  the  gaze  of  Percival  St. 
John  there  flashed  a  face  that  woke  him  from 
his  abstraction,  as  a  light  awakes  the  sleeper. 


oio 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


It  was  as  a  recognition  of  something  seen 
dimly  before — a  truth  coming  out  from  a 
dream.  It  was  not  the  mere  beauty  of  that 
face  (and  beautiful  it  was),  that  arrested  his 
eye  and  made  his  heart  beat  more  quickly — it 
was  rather  that  nameless  and  inexplicable  sym- 
pathy which  constitutes  love  at  first  sight; — a 
sort  of  impulse  and  instinct  common  to  the 
dullest  as  the  quickest — the  hardest  reason  as 
the  liveliest  fancy.  Plain  Cobbett,  seeing  be- 
fore the  cottage  door,  at  her  homeliest  of  house 
work,  the  girl  of  whom  he  said — "  That  girl 
should  be  my  wife;"  and  Dante,  first  thrilled 
by  the  vision  of  Beatrice,  are  alike  true  types 
of  a  common  experience:  Whatever  of  love 
sinks  the  deepest  is  felt  at  first  sight;  it  streams 
on  us  abrupt  from  the  cloud,  a  lightning  flash 
— a  destiny  revealed  to  us  face  to  face. 

Now,  there  was  nothing  poetical  in  the 
place  or  the  circumstance,  still  less  in  the  com- 
panionship in  which  this  fair  creature  startled 
the  virgin  heart  of  that  careless  boy;  she  was 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  stout,  rosy-faced 
matron  in  a  puce-colored  gown,  who  was 
flanked  on  the  other  side  by  a  very  small,  very 
spare  man,  with  a  very  wee  face,  the  lower  part 
of  which  was  enveloijed  in  an  immense  belcher. 
Besides  these  two  incumbrances,  the  stout 
lady  contrived  to  carry  in  her  hands  an 
umbrella,  a  basket,  and  a  pair  of  pattens. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strange,  unfamiliar 
emotion  which  his  eye  conveyed  to  his  heart, 
Percival's  ear  was  displeasingiy  jarred  by  the 
loud,  bluff,  hearty  voice  of  the  girl's  female 
companion — 

"  Gracious  me  !  if  that  is  not  John  Ardworth; 
who'd  have  thought  it !  Why,  John — I  say, 
John  !  "  and  lifting  her  umbrella  horizontally, 
she  poked  aside  two  city  clerks  in  front  of  her, 
wheeled  round  the  little  man  on  her  left,  upon 
whom  the  clerks  simultaneously  bestowed  the 
appellation  of  "  feller,"  and  driving  him,  as 
being  the  sharpest  and  thinnest  wedge  at  hand, 
though  a  dense  knot  of  some  half-a-dozen 
gapers,  while  following  his  involuntary  progress 
she  looked  defiance  on  the  malcontents,  she  suc- 
ceeded in  clearing  her  way  to  the  spot  where 
stood  the  young  man  she  had  discovered. 
The  ambitious  dreamer,  for  it  was  he,  thus 
detected  and  disturbed,  looked  embarrassed 
for  a  moment,  as  the  stout  lady,  touching  him 
with  the  umbrella,  said, 

"  Well,  I  declare,  if  this  is  not  too  bad  !    You 


sent  word  that  you  should  not  be  able  to  come 
out  with  us  to  see  the  'luminations,  and  here 
you  are  as  large  as  life  !  " 

"  I  did  not  think  at  the  moment  you  wrote 
to  me,  that " 

"  Oh,  stuff !  "  interrupted  the  stout  woman,  ■ 
with  a  significant,  good-humored  shake  of  her 
head,  "I  know  what's  what;  tell  the  truth,  and 
shame  the  gentleman  who  objects  to  showing 
his  feet.  You  are  a  wild  fellow,  John  Ard- 
worth— you  are  !  you  like  looking  after  the 
pretty  faces — you  do — you  do — ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
very  natural  !  So  did  you  once — did  not  you, 
Mr.  Mivers — did  not  you,  eh  ?  men  must  be 
men — they  always  are  men,  and  its  my  belief 
that  men  they  always  will  be  !  " 

With  this  sage  conjecture  into  the  future, 
the  lady  turned  to  Mr.  Mivers,  who,  thus  ap- 
pealed to,  extricated  with  some  difficulty  his 
chin  from  the  folds  of  his  belcher,  and  putting 
up  his  small  face,  said,  in  a  small  voice,  "Yes, 
I  was  a  wild  fellow  once,  but  you  have  tamed 
me  !  you  have,  Mrs.  M." 

And  therewith  the  chin  sunk  again  into  the 
belcher,  and  the  small  voice  died  into  a  small 
sigh. 

The  stout  lady  glanced  benignly  at  her 
spouse,  and  then  resuming  her  address,  to 
which  Ardworth  listened  with  a  half  frown 
and  a  half  smile,  observed,  encouragingly — 

"  Yes,  there's  nothing  like  a  lawful  wife,  to 
break  a  man  in,  as  you  will  find  some  day. 
Howsomever,  your  time's  not  come  for  the 
Altar,  so  suppose  you  give  Helen  your  arm, 
and  come  with  us." 

"  Do,"  said  Helen,  in  a  sweet,  coaxing 
voice. 

Ardworth  bent  down  his  rough,  earnest  face 
to  Helen's,  and  an  evident  pleasure  relaxed 
its  thoughtful  lines.  "I  cannot  resist  you," 
he  began,  and  then  he  paused  and  frowned. 
"  Pish,"  he  added,  I  was  talking  folly;  but 
what  head  would  not  you  turn  ?  Resist  you  I 
must,  for  I  am  on  my  way  now  to  my  drudg- 
ery. Ask  me  anything,  some  years  hence, 
when  I  have  time  to  be  happy,  and  then  see 
if  I  am  the  bear  you  now  call  me." 

'•Well,"  said  Mrs.  Mivers,  emphatically, 
"  are  you  coming,  or  are  you  not  ?  Don't 
stand  there,  shilly-shally." 

"  Mrs.  Mivers,"  returned  Ardworth,  with  a 
kind  of  sly  humor,  "  I  am  sure  you  would  be 
very   angry   with     your   husband's    excellent 


LUCRETIA. 


6n 


shopmen,  if  that  was  the  way  they  spoke  to 
your  customers.  If  some  unhappy  dropper- 
in — some  lady  who  came  to  buy  a  yard  or  so 
of  Irish,  was  suddenly  dazzled,  as  I  am,  by  a 
luxury  wholly  unforeseen  and  eagerly  coveted 
— a  splendid  lace  veil,  or  a  ravishing  cash- 
mere, or  whatever  else  you  ladies  desiderate, 
and  while  she  was  balancing  between  prudence 
and  temptation,  your  foreman  exclaimed — 
'Don't  stand  shilly-shally,' — come,  I  put  it  to 
you." 

"  Stuff  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mivers. 

"  Alas  !  unlike  your  imaginary  customer — 
(I  hope  so,  at  least,  for  the  sake  of  your  till) 
—prudence  gets  the  better  of  me;  "  unless," 
added  Ardworth,  irresolutely,  and  glancing 
at  Helen—''  unless,  indeed,  you  are  not  suffi- 
ciently protected,  and " 

"  Purtected  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mivers,  in 
an  indignant  tone  of  astonishment,  and  agita- 
ting the  formidable  umbrella,  "as  if  I  was  not 
enough,  with  the  help  of  this  here  domestic 
commodity,  to  purtect  a  dozen  such.  Pur- 
tected, indeed  ! " 

"John  is  right,  Mrs.  M.;  business  is  busi- 
ness," said  Mr.  Mivers.  "  Let  us  move  on — 
we  stop  the  way,  and  those  idle  lads  are  listen- 
ing to  us,  and  sniggering." 

"  Sniggering  !  "  exclaimed  the  gentle  help- 
mate; "I  should  like  to  see  those  who  pre- 
sume for  to  snigger; "  and  as  she  spoke  she 
threw  a  look  of  defiance  around  her.  Then, 
having  satisfied  her  resentment,  she  thus  pre- 
pared to  obey,  as  no  doubt  she  always  did,  her 
lord  and  master.  Suddenly,  with  a  practised 
movement,  she  wheeled  round  Mr.  Mivers, 
and  taking  care  to  protrude  before  him  the 
sharp  point  of  the  umbrella,  cut  her  way 
through  the  crowd  like  the  scythed  car  of  the 
ancient  Britons,  and  was  soon  lost  amidst  the 
throng,  although  her  way  might  be  guessed  by 
a  slight  ripple  of  peculiar  agitation  along  the 
general  stream,  accompanied  by  a  prolonged 
murmur  of  reproach  or  expostulation  which 
gradually  died  in  the  distance. 

Ardworth  gazed  after  the  fair  form  of  Helen 
with  a  look  of  regret;  and,  when  it  vanished, 
— with  a  slight  start  and  a  suppressed  sigh, 
he  turned  away,  and  with  the  long,  steady 
stride  of  a  strong  man,  cleared  his  path  through 
the  Strand,  towards  the  printing-office  of  a 
journal  on  which  he  was   responsibly  engaged. 

But  Percival,  who  had  caught  much  of  the 


conversation  that  took  place  so  near  him — 
Percival,  happy  child  of  idleness  and  whim, 
had  no  motive  of  labor  and  occupation  to  stay 
the  free  impulse  of  his  heart,  and  his  heart 
drew  him  on,  with  magnetic  attraction,  in  the 
track  of  the  first  being  that  had  ever  touched 
the  sweet  instincts  of  youth. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Mivers  was  destined  to 
learn — though,  perhaps,  the  lesson  little  availed 
her — ^that  to  get  smoothly  through  this  world 
it  is  necessary  to  be  supple  as  well  as  strong; 
and  though,  up  to  a  certain  point,  man  or 
woman  may  force  the  way  by  poking  umbrellas 
into  people's  ribs,  and  treading  mercilessly 
upon  people's  toes,  yet  the  endurance  of  ribs 
and  toes  has  its  appointed  limits. 

Helen,  half  terrified,  also  half  amused  by 
her  companion's  robust  resolution  of  purpose, 
had  in  Mrs.  Mivers'  general  courage  and  suc- 
cess that  confidence  which  the  weak  repose  in 
the  strong,  and  though,  whenever  she  turned 
her  eyes  from  the  illuminations,  she  besought 
Mrs.  Mivers  to  be  more  gentle,  yet,  seeing 
that  they  had  gone  safely  from  St.  Paul's  to 
St.  James's,  she  had  no  distinct  apprehension 
of  any  practically  ill  resuits  from  the  energies 
she  was  unable  to  mitigate.  But  now,  having 
just  gained  the  end  of  St.  James's  Street,  Mrs. 
Mivers  at  last  found  her  match.  The  crowd 
here  halted,  thick  and  serried,  to  gaze  in  peace 
upon  the  brilliant  vista  which  the  shops  and 
clubs  of  that  street  presented.  -Coaches  and 
carriages  had  paused  in  their  line,  and  imme- 
diately before  Mrs.  Mivers  stood  three  very 
thin,  small  women,  whose  dress  bespoke  them 
to  be  of  the  humblest  class. 

"  Make  way,  there — make  way,  my  good 
women,  make  way ! "  cried  Mrs.  Mivers, 
equally  disdainful  of  the  size  and  the  rank  of 
the  obstructing  parties. 

"  Arrah,  and  what  shall  we  make  way  for  the 
like  of  you,  you  ould  busy  body?"  said  one 
of  the  dames,  turning  round,  and  presenting  a 
very  formidable  squint  to  the  broad  optics  of 
Mrs.  Mivers. 

Without  deigning  a  reply,  Mrs.  Mivers  had 
recourse  to  her  usual  tactics.  Umbrella  and 
husband  went  right  between  two  of  the  femi- 
nine obstructives;  and  to  the  inconceivable 
astonishment  and  horror  of  the  assailant, 
husband  and  umbrella  instantly  vanished. 
The  three  small  furies  had  pounced  upon  both. 
They  were  torn   from   their  natural  owner— 


012 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


they^were  hurried  away;  the  stream  behind, 
long  fretted  at  the  path  so  abruptly  made 
amidst  it,  closed  in,  joyous  with  a  thousand 
waves.  Mrs.  Mivers  and  Helen  were  borne 
forward  in  one  way,  the  umbrella  and  the 
husband  in  the  other;  at  the  distance  a  small 
voice  was  heard — "  Don't  you  ! — don't !  Be 
quiet  !  Mrs. — Mrs.  M.  !  Oh  !  oh  !  Mrs. 
M.  ! "  At  that  last  repetition  of  the  beloved 
and  familiar  initial,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  almost 
superhuman  anguish,  the  conjugal  heart  of 
Mrs.  Mivers  was  afflicted  beyond  control. 

"  Wait  here  a  moment,  my  dear  I  I'll  just 
give  it  them — that's  all  !  "  And  in  another  mo- 
ment Mrs.  Mivers  was  heard  bustling,  scold- 
ing, till  all  trace  of  her  whereabout  was  gone 
from  the  eyes  of  Helen.  Thus  left  alone,  in 
exceeding  shame  and  dismay,  the  poor  girl  cast 
a  glance  around.  The  glance  was  caught  by 
two  young  men,  whose  station,  in  these  days 
when  dress  is  an  equivocal  designator  of  rank, 
could  not  be  guessed  by  their  exterior.  They 
might  be  dandies  from  the  west — they  might 
be  clerks  from  the  east. 

"  By  Jove,'^  exclaimed  one,  "  that's  a  sweet 
pretty  girl  !  "  and,  by  a  sudden  movement  of 
the  crowd,  they  both  found  themselves  close 
to  Helen. 

"  Are  you  alone,  my  dear  f  "  said  a  voice 
rudely  familiar. 

Helen  made  no  reply — the  tone  of  the  voice 
frightened  her.  A  gap  in  the  mob  showed  the 
space  towards  Cleveland  Row,  which,  leading 
to  no  illuminations,  was  vacant  and  solitary. 
She  instantly  made  towards  the  spot;  the  two 
men  followed  her, — the  bolder  and  elder  one 
occasionally  trying  to  catch  hold  of  her  arm. 
At  last,  as  she  passed  the  last  house  to  the 
left,  a  house  then  owned  by  One  who,  at  once 
far-sighted  and  impetuous,  affable  and  haughty 
— characterized  alike  by  solid  virtues  and 
brilliant  faults — would,  but  for  hollow  friends, 
have  triumphed  over  countless  foes,  and  en- 
joyed at  last  that  brief  day  of  stormy  power 
for  which  statesmen  resign  the  heath  of  man- 
hood and  the  hope  of  age — as  she  passed  that 
memorable  mansion,  she  suddenly  perceived 
that  the  space  before  her  had  no  thorough- 
fare, and,  while  she  paused  in  dismay,  her  pur- 
suers blockaded  her  escape. 

One  of  them  now  fairly  seized  her  hand: 
"  Nay,  pretty  one,  why  so  cruel  ?  But  one 
kiss — only   one  !  "     He   endeavored    to   pass 


his  arm  round  her  waist  while  he  spoke. 
Helen  eluded  him,  and  darted  forward,  to  find 
her  way  stopped  by  her  persecutor's  com- 
panion, when,  to  her  astonishment,  a  third  per- 
son gently  pushed  aside  the  form  that  impedetl 
her  path,  approached,  and  looking  mute  defi 
ance  at  the  unchivalric  molesters,  offered  her 
his  arm.  Helen  gave  but  one  timid  hurrying 
glance  to  her  unexpected  protector:  some- 
thing in  his  face,  his  air,  his  youth,  appealed 
at  once  to  her  confidence.  Mechanically,  and 
scarce  knowing  what  she  did,  she  laid  her 
trembling  hand  on  the  arm  held  out  to  her. 

The  two  Lotharios  looked  foolish.  One 
pulled  up  his  shirt  collar,  the  other  turned, 
with  a  forced  laugh,  on  his  heel.  Boy  as  Per- 
cival  seemed,  and  little  more  than  boy  as  he 
was,  there  was  a  dangerous  fire  in  his  eye,  and 
an  expression  of  spirit  and  ready  courage  in 
his  whole  countenance,  which,  if  it  did  not  awe 
his  tall  rivals,  made  them  at  least  unwilling  to 
have  a  scene,  and  provoke  the  interference  of 
the  policeman,  one  of  whom  was  now  seen 
walking  slowly  up  to  the  spot.  They,  there- 
fore, preserved  a  discomfited  silence;  and 
Percival  St.  John,  with  his  heart  going  ten 
knots  a  beat,  sailed  triumphantly  oH  with  his 
prize. 

Scarcely  knowing  whither  he  went,  certainly 
forgetful  of  Mr.  Mivers,  in  his  anxiety  to  es- 
cape at  least  from  the  crowd,  Percival  walked 
on  till  he  found  himself  with  his  fair  charge 
under  the  trees  of  St.  James's  Park. 

Then  Helen,  recovering  herself,  paused,  and 
said,  alarmed,  "But  this  is  not.  my  way — I 
must  go  back  to  the  street !  " 

"  How  foolish  I  am — that  is  true  ! "  said 
Percival,  looking  confused.  "I — I  felt  so 
happy  to  be  with  you,  feel  your  hand  on  my 
arm,  and  think  that  we  were  all  by  ourselves, 
that  —  that  —  but  you  have  dropped  your 
flowers  !  " 

And  as  a  bouquet  Helen  wore,  dislodged 
somehow  or  other,  fell  to  the  ground,  both 
stooped  to  pick  it  up,  and  their  hands  met. 
At  that  touch,  Percival  felt  a  strange  tremble, 
which  perhaps  communicated  itself  (for  such 
things  are  contagious)  to  his  fair  companion. 
Percival  had  got  the  nosegay,  and  seemed 
willing  to  detain  it,  for  he  bent  his  face 
lingeringly  over  the  flowers.  At  length,  he 
turned  his  bright  ingenuous  eyes  to  Helen, 
and  singling  one  rose  from  the  rest,  said  be- 


LUCRE'llA 


613 


seechingly — "  May  I  keep  this  ?  See,  it  is 
not  so  fresh  as  the  others." 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,"  said  Helen,  coloring,  and 
looking  down,  "  I  owe  you  so  much  that  I 
should  be  glad  if  a  poor  flower  could  repay  it." 

"  A  poor  flower  !  You  don't  know  what  a 
prize  this  is  to  me  !  " 

Percival  placed  the  rose  reverently  in  his 
bosom,  and  the  two  moved  back  slowly,  as  if 
reluctant  both,  through  the  old  palace  court 
into  the  street. 

"  Is  that  lady  related  to  you  ?"  asked  Per- 
cival, looking  another  way,  and  dreading  the 
reply:   "  Not  your  mother,  surely  !  " 

"Oh,  no  ! — I  have  no  mother  !  " 

"  Forgive  me  !  "  said  Percival,  for  the  tone 
of  Helen's  voice  told  him  that  he  had  touched 
the  spring  of  a  household  sorrow.  "And,"  he 
added,  with  a  jealousy  that  he  could  scarcely 
restrain  from  making  itself  evident  in  his  ac- 
cent, "  that  gentlemen  who  spoke  to  you  under 
the  Colonnade, — I  have  seen  him  before,  but 
where  I  cannot  remember.  In  fact,  you  have 
put  everything  but  yourself  out  of  my  head. 
Is  he  related  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  is  my  cousin." 

"  Cousin  !  "  repeated  Percival,  pouting  a  lit- 
tle; and  again  there  was  silence. 

"  I  don't  now  how  it  is,"  said  Percival,  at  last, 
and  very  gravely,  as  if  much  perplexed  by  some 
abstruse  thought,  "  but  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
known  you  all  my  life.  I  never  felt  this  for 
any  one  before." 

There  was  something  so  irresistibly  inno- 
cent in  the  boy's  serious,  wondering  tone,  as 
he  said  these  words,  that  a  smile,  in  spite  of 
herself,  broke  out  amongst  the  thousand  dim- 
ples round  Helen's  charming  lips.  Perhaps 
the  little  witch  felt  a  touch  of  coquetry  for  the 
first  time. 

Percival,  who  was  looking  sidelong  into  her 
face,  saw  the  smile,  and  said,  drawing  up  his 
head,  and  shaking  back  his  jetty  curls,  "  I  dare 
say  you  are  laughing  at  me  as  a  mere  boy; 
but  I  am  older  than  I  look.  I  am  sure  I  am 
much  older  than  you  are.  Let  me  see,  you 
are  seventeen,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Helen,  getting  more  and  more  at  her  ease, 
nodded  playful  assent. 

"  And  I  am  not  far  from  twenty-one.  Ah  ! 
you  may  well  look  surprised — but  so  it  is.  An 
hour  ago  I  felt  a  mere  boy;  now  I  shall  never 
feel  a  boy  again  !  " 


Once  more  there  was  a  long  pause,  and  be- 
fore it  was  broken  they  had  gained  the  very 
spot  in  which  Helen  had  lost  her  friend. 

"  Why,  bless  us,  and  save  us  !  "  exclaimed  a 
voice  '  loud  as  a  trumpet,'  but  not  '  with  a  sil- 
ver sound,' "  there  you  are,  after  all;"  and 
Mrs.  Mivers  (husband  and  umbrella  both  re- 
gained) planted  herself  full  before  them. 

"  Oh,  a  pretty  fright  I  have  been  in;  and 
now  to  see  you  coming  along  as  cool  as  if 
nothing  had  happened — as  if  the  umbrella  had 
not  lost  its  hivory  andle — it's  quite  purvoking. 
Dear,  dear  !  what  we  have  gone  through  ! 
And  who  is  this  young  gentleman,  pray  ? " 

Helen  whispered  some  hesitating  explana- 
tion, which  Mrs.  Mivers  did  not  seem  to  re- 
ceive as  graciously  as  Percival,  poor  fellow, 
had  a  right  to  expect.  She  stared  him  full  in 
the  face,  and  shook  her  head  suspiciously 
when  she  saw  him  a  little  confused  by  the  sur- 
vey. Then,  tucking  Helen  tightly  under  her 
arm,  she  walked  back  towords  the  Haymarket, 
merely  saying  to  Percival — 

"  Much  obligated,  and  good  night.  I  have 
a  long  journey  to  take  to  set  down  this  here 
young  lady,  and  the  best  thing  we  can  all  do  is 
to  get  home  as  fast  we  can,  and  have  a  refresh- 
ing cup  of  tea — that's  my  mind,  sir.  Excuse 
me  !  " 

Thus  abruptly  dismissed,  poor  Percival 
gazed  wistfully  on  his  Helen,  as  she  was  borne 
along,  and  was  somewhat  comforted  at  see- 
ing her  look  back,  with  (as  he  thought)  a 
touch  of  regret  in  her  parting  smile.  Then 
suddenly  it  flashed  across  him  how  sadly  he 
had  wasted  his  time.  Novice  that  he  was,  he 
had  not  even  learned  the  name  and  address 
of  his  new  acquaintance.  At  that  thought  he 
hurried  on  through  the  crowd,  but  only  reached 
the  object  of  his  pursuit  just  in  time  to  see 
her  placed  in  a  coach,  and  to  catch  a  full  view 
of  the  luxuriant  proportions  of  Mrs.  Mivers  as 
she  followed  her  into  the  vehecle. 

As  the  lumbering  conveyance  (the  only 
coach  on  the  stand)  heaved  itself  into  motion, 
Percival's  eye  fell  on  the  sweeper,  who  was 
still  leaning  on  his  broom,  and  who,  in  grate- 
ful recognition  of  the  unwonted  generosity  that 
had  repaid  his  service,  touched  his  ragged  hat, 
and  smiled  drowsily  on  his  yoinig  customer. 
Love  sharpens  the  wit,  and  animates  the  timid; 
— a  thought  worthy  of  the  most  experienced, 
inspired   Percival  St.  John:  he  hurried  to  the 


6i4 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


sweeper,  laid  his  hand  on  his  patchwork  coat, 
and  said,  breathlessly — 

"  You  see  that  coach  turning  into  the  square; 
follow  it — find  out  where  it  sets  down.  There's 
a  sovereign  for  you — another  if  you  succeed. 

Call  and  tell  me  your  success.     Number 

Curzon-street  ! — off,  like  a  shot  !  " 

The  sweeper  nodded  and  grinned;  it  was 
possibly  not  his  first  commission  of  a  similar 
kind.  He  darted  down  the  street;  and  Perci- 
val,  following  him  with  equal  speed,  had  the 
satisfaction  to  see  him,  as  the  coach  traversed 
St.  James's  square,  comfortably  seated  on  the 
the  footboard. 

Beck,  dull  clod,  knew  nothing,  cared  nothing, 
felt  nothing  as  to  the  motives  or  purpose  of  his 
employer.  Honest  love  or  selfish  vice,  it  was 
the  same  to  him.  He  saw  only  the  one  sov- 
erign  which,  with  astounded,  he  still  gazed  at 
on  his  palm,  and  the  vision  of  the  sovereign 
that  was  yet  to  come: 

"  Scandit  aeratas  vitiosa  naves 
Cura:  nee  tunnas  equitum  relinquit." 

It  was  the  Selfishness  of  London — calm  and 
stolid,  whether  on  the  track  of  innocence  or 
at  the  command  of  guile. 

At  half-past  ten  o'clock,  Percival  St.  John 
was  seated  in  his  room,  and  the  sweeper  stood 
at  the  threshold.  Wealth  and  penury  seemed 
brought  into  visible  contact  in  the  persons  of 
the  visitor  and  the  host.  The  dwelling  is  held 
by  some  to  give  an  index  to  the  character  of 
the  owner:  if  so,  Percival's  apartments  dif- 
fered much  from  those  generally  favored  by 
young  men  of  rank  and  fortune.  On  the 
one  hand  it  had  none  of  that  affectation  of 
superior  taste,  evinced  in  marqueterie  and 
gilding,  or  the  more  picturesque  discomfort 
of  high  backed  chairs  and  medieval  curio- 
sities which  prevails  in  the  dainter  abodes  of 
fastidious  bachelors.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  it  the  sporting  character  which  individ- 
ualizes the  ruder  juveniles  '  qui  gaudent  equis,' 
betrayed  by  engravings  of  racers,  and  cele- 
brated fox-hunts,  relieved,  perhaps,  if  the 
Nimrod  condescend  to  across  of  the  Lovelace, 
with  portraits  of  figurantes,  and  ideals  of 
French  sentiment,  entitled  "  Le  Soi'r,"  or  "La 
ReveilUe"  "  L' Espoir,"  or  "L' Abandon." 
But  the  rooms  had  a  physiognomy  of  their 
own,  from  their  exquisite  neatness  and  cheer- 
ful   simplicity.      The   chintz  draperies    were 


lively  with  gay  flowers;  books  filled  up  the 
niches;  here  and  there  were  small  pictures, 
chiefly  sea-pieces — well  chosen,  well  placed. 
There  might,  indeed,  have  been  something 
almost  effeminate  in  a  certain  inexpressible 
purity  of  taste,  and  a  cleanliness  of  detail  that 
seemed  actually  brilliant,  had  not  the  folding- 
doors  allowed  a  glimpse  of  a  plainer  apartment, 
with  fencing  foils  and  boxing-gloves,  ranged 
on  the  wall,  and  a  cricket-bat  resting  carelessly 
in  the  corner.  These  gave  a  redeeming  air  of 
manliness  to  the  rooms,  but  it  was  the  manli- 
ness of  a  boy;  half  girl,  if  you  please,  in  the 
purity  of  thought  that  pervaded  one  room,  all 
boy  in  the  playful  pursuits  that  were  made 
manifest  in  the  other.  Simple,  however,  as 
this  abode  really  was,  poor  Beck  had  never 
been  admitted  to  the  sight  of  anything  half  so 
fine.  He  stood  at  the  door  for  a  moment,  and 
stared  about  him,  bewildered  and  dazzled. 
But  his  natural  torpor  to  things  that  concerned 
him  not,  soon  brought  to  him  the  same  stoicism 
that  philosophy  gives  the  strong;  and  after 
the  first  surprise,  his  eye  quietly  settled  on  hi* 
employer.  St.  John  rose  eagerly  from  the 
sofa,  on  which  he  had  been  contemplating  the 
starlit  tree-tops  of  Chesterfield  Gardens — 

"Well,  well  ?"  said  Percival. 

"  ZTold  Brompton,"  said  Beck,  with  a  brevity 
of  word  and  clearness  of  perception  worthy  a 
Spartan. 

"  Old  Brompton  ?  "  repeated  Percival,  think- 
ing the  reply  the  most  natural  in  the  world. 

"In  a  big  ous  by  hisself,"  continued  Beck, 
"  with  a  igh  vail  in  front." 

"You  would  know  it  again  ?  " 

"In  course;  he's  so  wery  pecular." 

"  He  ?  who  ? " 

"  Vy,  the  ous.  The  young  lady  got  out,  and 
the  hold  folks  driv  back.  I  did  not  go  arter 
them!"  and  Beck  looked  sly. 

"  So; — I  must  find  out  the  name." 

"  I  axed  at  the  public,"  said  Beck,  proud  of 
his  diplomacy.  "  They  keeps  a  sarvant  vot 
takes  half  a  pint  at  her  meals.  The  young 
lady's  ma  be  a  foriner." 

"  A  foreigner  !  Then  she  lives  there  with 
her  mother  ? " 

"  So  they  'spose  at  the  public." 

"  And  the  name  ?  " 

Beck  shook  his  head,  "  'Tis  a  French  un, 
your  onor;  but  the  sarvan's  is  Martha." 

"  You   must   meet   me   at  Brompton,  near 


LUCRETIA. 


615 


the    turnpike,   to-morrow,    and    show  me  the 
house." 

'•  Vy,  I's  in  bizness  all  day,  please  your 
onor." 

"  In  business  ?  " 

"  I's  the  place  of  the  crossing,"  said  Beck, 
with  much  dignity;  "  but  arter  eight  I  goes 
vhere  I  likes." 

"To-morrow  evening,  then,  at  half-past 
eight,  by  the  turnpike." 

Beck  pulled  his  forelock  assentingly. 

"  There's  the  sovereign  I  promised  you,  my 
poor  fellow — much  good  may  it  do  you.  Per- 
haps you  have  some  father  or  mother  whose 
heart  it  will  glad." 

"I  never  had  no  such  thing,"  replied  Beck, 
turning  the  coin  in  his  hand. 

"Well,  don't  spend  it  in  drink." 

•'  I  never  drinks  nothing  but  svipes." 

"Then,"  said  Percival,  laughingly,  "what, 
my  good  friend,  will  you  ever  do  with  your 
money?  " 

Beck  put  his  finger  to  his  nose,  sunk  his 
voice  into  a  whisper,  and  replied,  solemnly — 
"  I  as  a  mattris." 

"A  mistress,"  said  Percival;  "  oh,  a  sweet- 
heart !  Well;  but  if  she's  a  good  girl,  and 
loves  you,  she'll  not  let  you  spend  your  money 
on  her." 

•'I  haint  such  a  ninny  as  that,"  said  Beck, 
with  majestic  contempt.  "  I  'spises  the  flat 
that  is  done  brown  by  the  blowens.  I  as  a 
mattris." 

"  A  mattress  !  a  mattress  !  Well,  what  has 
that  to  do  with  the  money  ? " 

"Vy,  I  lines  it." 

Percival  looked  puzzled.  "  Oh,"  said  he 
after  a  thoughtful  pause,  and  in  a  tone  of  con- 
siderable compassion,  "  I  understand;  you  sew 
your  money  in  your  mattress.  My  poor,  poor 
lad,  you  can  do  better  than  that  ! — there  are 
the  savings  banks." 

Beck  looked  frightened:  "I  opes  your  onor 
vont  tell  no  vun.  I  opes  no  vun  vont  go  for 
to  put  my  tin  vere  I  shall  know  nothing  vat- 
somever  about  it.  Now,  I  knows  vere  it  is — 
and  I  lays  on  it." 

"  Do  you  sleep  more  soundly  when  you  lie 
on  your  treasure  ?  " 

"No;  it's  hodd,"  said  Beck,  musingly, 
"but  the  more  I  lines  it  the  vorse  I  sleeps." 

Percival  laughed;  but  there  was  melancholy 
in    his   laughter.;    something    in   the    forlorn. 


benighted,  fatherless,  squalid  miser,  went  to 
the  core  of  his  open,  generous  heart. 

"  Do  you  ever  read  your  Bible  ?  "  said  he 
after  a  pause;  " — or  even  the  newspaper?  " 

"  I  does  not  read  nothing,  cos  vy,  I  haint 
been  made  a  scholloard,  like  swell  Tim,  as  was 
lagged  for  a  forgery." 

"  You  go  to  church  on  a  Sunday  ?  " 

"Yes;  I  'as  a  veekly  hingagement  at  the 
New  Road." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  To  see  arter  the  gig  of  a  geraman  vot 
comes  from.  Ighgate." 

Percival  lifted  his  brillant  eyes,  and  they 
were  moistened  with  a  heavenly  dew,  on  the 
dull  face  of  his  fellow-creature.  Beck  made  a 
scrape,  looked  round,  shambled  back  to  the 
door,  and  ran  home,  through  the  lamp-lit 
streets  of  the  great  mart  of  the  Christian 
universe,  to  sew  the  gold  in  his  mattress. 


CHAPTER    III. 

Early  Training  for  an  Upright  Gentleman. 

Percival  St.  John  had  been  brought  up 
at  home  under  the  eye  of  his  mother  and  the 
care  of  an  excellent  man,  who  had  been  tutor 
to  himself  and  his  brothers.  The  tutor  was 
not  much  of  a  classical  scholar,  for  in  great 
measure,  he  had  educated'  himself;  and  he 
who  does  so,  usually  lacks  the  polish  and 
brilliancy  of  one  whose  footsteps  have  been  led 
early  to  the  Temple  of  the  Muses.  In  fact. 
Captain  Greville  was  a  gallant  soldier,  with 
whom  Vernon  St.  John  had  been  acquainted  in 
his  own  brief  military  career,  and  whom  circum- 
stances had  so  reduced  in  life  as  to  compel  him 
to  sell  his  commission,  and  live  as  he  could. 
He  had  always  been  known  in  his  regiment  as 
a  reading  man,  and  his  authority  looked  up  to 
in  all  the  disputes  as  to  history  and  dates,  and 
literary  anecdotes,  which  might  occur  at  the 
mess-table.  Vernon  considered  him  the  most 
learned  man  of  his  acquaintance;  and,  when 
accidentally  meeting  him  in  London,  he  learned 
his  fallen  fortunes,  he  congratulated  himself 
on  a  very  brilliant  idea,  when  he  suggested 
that  Captain  Greville  should  assist  him  in  the 
education  of  his  boys  and  the  management  of 
his  estate. 


oi6 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


At  first,  all  that  Greville  modestly  under- 
took, with  respect  to  the  former,  and,  indeed, 
was  expected  to  do,  was  to  prepare  the  young 
gentleman  for  Eton,  to  which  Vernon,  with  the 
natural  predilection  of  an  Eton  man,  destined 
his  sons.  But  the  sickly  constitutions  of  the 
two  elder  justified  Lady  Mary  in  her  opposi- 
tion to  a  public  school;  and  Percival  con- 
ceived early  so  strong  an  affection  for  a 
sailor's  life,  that  the  father's  intentions  were 
frustrated.  The  two  elder  continued  their 
education  at  home;  and  Percival,  at  an  earlier 
age  than  usual,  went  to  sea.  The  last  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  have  for  his  captain  one  of 
that  new  race  of  naval  officers  who,  well  edu- 
cated and  accomplished,  form  a  notable  con- 
trast to  the  old  heroes  of  Smollet.  Percival, 
however,  had  not  been  long  in  the  service  be- 
fore the  deaths  of  his  two  elder  brothers,  pre- 
ceded by  that  of  his  father,  made  him  the 
head  of  his  ancient  house,  and  the  sole  prop  of 
his  mother's  earthly  hopes.  He  conquered 
with  a  generous  effort  the  passion  for  his  noble 
profession,  which  service  had  but  confirmed, 
and  returned  home  with  his  fresh  child-like 
nature  uncorrupted,  his  constitution  strength- 
ened, his  lively  and  impressionable  mind 
braced  by  the  experience  of  danger  and  the 
habits  of  duty,  and  quietly  resumed  his  read- 
ing under  Captain  Greville,  who  had  moved 
from  the  hall  to  a  small  house  in  the  village. 

Now,  the  education  he  had  received,  from 
first  to  last,  was  less  adapted  prematurely  to 
quicken  his  intellect  and  excite  his  imagina- 
tion than  to  warm  his  heart  and  elevate,  while 
it  chastened,  his  moral  qualities;  for  in  Lady 
Mary  there  was,  amidst  singular  sweetness  of 
temper,  a  high  cast  of  character  and  thought. 
She  was  not  what  is  commonly  called  clever, 
and  her  experience  of  the  world  was  limited, 
compared  to  that  of  most  women  of  similar 
rank  who  pass  their  lives  in  the  vast  theatre  of 
London.  But  she  became  superior  by  a  cer- 
tain single-heartedness  which  made  truth  so 
habitual  to  her,  that  the  light  in  which  she 
lived  rendered  all  objects  around  her  clear. 
One  who  is  always  true  in  the  great  duties  of 
life,  is  nearly  always  wise.  And  Vernon,  when 
he  had  fairly  buried  his  faults,  had  felt  a  noble 
shame  for  the  excesses  into  which  they  had 
led  him.  Gradually  more  and  more  wedded 
to  his  home,  he  dropped  his  old  companions. 
He  set  grave  guard  on  his  talk  {y(\%  liabits  now 


required  no  guard),  lest  any  of  the  ancient 
levity  should  taint  the  ears  of  his  children. 
Nothing  is  more  common  in  parents  than  their 
desire  that  their  children  should  escape  their 
faults.  We  scarcely  know  ourselves  till  we 
have  children,  and  then,  if  we  love  them  duly, 
we  look  narrowly  into  failings  that  become 
vices,  when  they  serve  as  examples  to  the 
young. 

The  inborn  gentleman  with  the  native  cour- 
age, and  spirit,  and  horror  of  trick  and  false- 
hood which  belong  to  that  chivalrous  abstrac- 
tion, survived  almost  alone  in  Vernon  St. 
John;  and  his  boys  sprang  up  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  generous  sentiments  and  transparent 
truth.  The  tutor  was  in  harmony  with  the 
parents — a  soldier  every  inch  of  him— not  a 
mere  disciplinarian,  yet  with  a  profound  sense 
of  duty  and  a  knowledge  that  duty  is  to  be 
found  in  attention  to  details.  Li  inculcating 
the  habit  of  subordination  so  graceful  to  the 
young,  he  knew  how  to  make  himself  beloved 
and  what  is  harder  still,  to  be  understootl. 
The  soul  of  this  poor  soldier  was  white  and 
unstained,  as  the  arms  of  a  maiden  knight; 
it  was  full  of  suppressed,  but  lofty  enthusiasm. 
He  had  been  ill-used,  whether  by  Fate  or  the 
Horse  Guards — his  career  had  been  a  failure, 
but  he  was  as  loyal  as  if  his  hand  held  the 
field-marshal's  truncheon  and  the  garter  bound 
his  knee.  He  was  above  all  querulous  dis- 
content. From  him,  no  less  than  from  his 
parents,  Percival  caught  not  only  a  spirit  of 
honor  worthy  the  antiqua  fides  of  the  poets, 
but  that  peculiar  cleanliness  of  thought,  if 
the  expression  may  be  used,  which  belongs  to 
the  ideal  of  youthful  chivahy.  In  mere  book- 
learning,  Percival,  as  may  be  supposed,  was 
not  very  extensively  read;  but  his  mind  if  not, 
largely  stored,  had  a  certain  unity  of  culture 
which  gave  it  stability  and  individualized  its 
operations. 

Travels,  voyages,  narratives  of  heroic  ad- 
venture, biographies  of  great  men,  had  made 
the  favorite  pasture  of  his  enthusiasm.  To 
this  was  added  the  more  stirring,  and,  perhaps, 
the  more  genuine  order  of  poets  who  make 
you  feel  and  glow,  rather  than  doubt  and 
ponder.  He  knew,  at  least,  enough  of  Greek 
to  enjoy  old  Homer;  and  if  he  could  have 
come  but  ill  through  a  college  examination  in- 
to .(Eschylus  and  Sophocles,  he  had  dwelt  with 
delight  on  the  rushing  storm  of  spears,  in  the 


LUCJiElYA. 


617 


Sa>en  before  Thebes,  and  wept  over  the  heroic 
calamities  of  Antigone.  In  science,  he  was  no 
adept;  but  his  clear,  good  sense,  and  quick 
appreciation  of  positive  truths,  had  led  him 
easily  though  the  elementary  mathematics, 
and  his  somewhat  martial  spirit  had  made 
him  delight  in  the  old  captain's  lectures  on 
military  tactics.  Had  he  remained  in  the 
navy,  Percival  St.  John  would,  doubtless,  have 
been  distinguished.  His  talents  fitted  him 
for  straightforward  manly  action;  and  he  had 
a  generous  desire  of  distinction,  vague,  per- 
haps, the  moment  he  was  taken  from  his 
profession,  and  curbed  by  his  diffidence  in 
himself  and  his  sense  of  deficiencies  in  the 
ordinary  routine  of  purely  classical  education. 
Still  he  had  in  him  all  the  elements  of  a  true 
man — a  man  to  go  through  life  with  a  firm 
step  and  a  clear  conscience,  and  a  gallant 
hope.  Such  a  man  may  not  win  fame,  that  is 
an  accident;  but  he  must  occupy  no  despicable 
place  in  the  movement  of  the  world. 

It  was  at  first  intended  to  send  Percival  to 
Oxford,  but  for  some  reason  or  other,  that 
design  was  abandoned.  Perhaps  Lady  Mary, 
over-cautious,  as  mothers  left  alone  sometimes 
are, — feared  the  contagion  to  which  a  young 
man  of  brilliant  expectations,  and  no  studious 
turn,  is  necessarily  exposed  in  all  places  of 
miscellaneous  resort. — So  Percival  was  sent 
abroad  for  two  years,  under  the  guardianship 
of  Captain  Greville.  On  his  return,  at  the 
age  of  nineteen — the  great  world  lay  before 
him,  and  he  longed  ardently  to  enter.  For  a 
year  Lady  Mary's  fears  and  fond  anxieties 
detained  him  at  Laughton;  but,  though  his 
great  tenderness  for  his  mother  withheld  Per- 
cival from  opposing  her  wishes  by  his  own, 
this  interval  of  inaction  affected  visil)ly  his 
health  and  spirits.  Captain  Greville,  a  man 
of  the  world,  saw  the  cause  sooner  than  Lady 
Mary,  and  one  morning,  earlier  than  usual,  he 
walked  up  to  the  Hall. 

The  captain,  with  all  his  deference  to  the 
sex,  was  a  plain  man  enough,  when  business 
was  to  be  done.  Like  his  great  commander, 
he  came  to  the  point  in  a  few  words. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Mary,  our  boy  must  go  to 
London — we  are  killing  him  here." 

"  Mr.  Greville  !  "  cried  Lady  Mary,  turning 
pale  and  putting  aside  her  embroidery— 
"killing  him?" 

"  Killing  the  man  in  him.     I  don't  mean  to 


alarm  you — I  dare  say  his  lungs  are  sound 
enough,  and  that  his  heart  would  bear  the 
sthenoscope  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  College 
of  Surgeons.  But,  my  dear  ma'am,  Percival 
is  to  be  a  man — it  is  the  man  you  are  killing 
by  keeping  him  tied  to  your  apron-string." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Greville  !  I  am  sure  you  don't 
wish  to  wound  me,  but " 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons.  I  am  rough, 
but  truth  is  rough  sometimes." 

"  It  is  not  for  my  sake,"  said  the  mother, 
warmly,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  that  I 
have  wished  him  to  be  here.  If  he  is  dull, 
can  we  not,  fill  the  house  for  him  ?  " 

"  Fill  a  thimble,  my  dear  Lady  Mary — 
Percival  should  have  a  plunge  in  the  ocean." 

"  But  he  is  so  young  yet,  that  horrid  London! 
— such  temptations — fatherless,  too  !  " 

"  I  have  no  fear  of  the  result  if  Percival 
goes  now  while  his  principles  are  strong,  and 
his  imagination  not  inflamed;  but  if  we  keep 
him  here  much  longer  against  his  bent,  he  will 
learn  to  brood  and  to  muse,  write  bad  poetry 
perhaps,  and  think  the  world  withheld  from 
him  a  thousand  times  more  delightful  than  it 
is.  This  very  dread  of  temptation  will  provoke 
his  curiosity,  irritate  his  fancy,  make  him  im- 
agine the  temptation  must  be  a  very  delightful 
thing.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  ma'am,  I 
have  caught  him  sighing  over  fashionable 
novels,  and  subscribing  to  the  Southampton 
Circulating  Library.  Take  my  word  for  it,  it 
is  time  that  Percival  should  begin  life,  and 
swim  without  corks." 

Lady  Mary  had  a  profound  confidence  in 
Greville's  judgment  and  affection  for  Percival, 
and  like  a  sensible  woman  she  was  aware  of 
her  own  weakness.  She  remained  silent  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  said,  with  an  effort — 

"You  know  how  hateful  London  is  to  me 
now — how  unfit  I  am  to  return  to  the  hollow 
forms  of  its  society;  still,  if  you  think  it  right, 
I  will  take  a  house  for  the  season,  and  Percival 
can  still  be  under  our  eye." 

"  No  ma'am,  pardon  me,  that  will  be  the 
surest  way  to  make  him  either  discontented  or 
hypocritical.  A  young  man  of  his  prospects 
and  temper  can  hardly  be  expected  to  chime 
in  with  all  our  sober,  old-fashioned  habits. 
You  will  impose  on  him— if  he  is  to  conform 
to  our  hours,  and  notions,  and  quiet  set — a 
thousand  irksome  restraints;  and  what  will  be 
the  consequence  ?     In  a  year,  he  will  be  of  age, 


oi8 


B  UL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


and  can  throw  us  off  altogether,  if  he  pleases. 
1  know  the  boy: — don't  seem  to  distrust  him 
— he  may  be  trusted.  You  place  the  true 
constraint  on  temptation,  when  you  say  to  him, 
'  We  confide  to  you  our  dearest  treasure — your 
honor,  your  morals,  your  conscience,  your- 
self ! " 

"  But,  at  least,  you  will  go  with  him,  if  it 
must  be  so,"  said  Lady  Mary,  after  a  few 
timid  arguments,  from  which,  one  by  one,  she 
was  driven. 

"  I  ! — what  for  ? — to  be  a  jest  of  the  young 
puppies  he  must  know — to  make  him  ashamed 
of  himself  and  me — himself  as  a  milksop,  and 
me  as  a  dry  nurse." 

"  But  this  was  not  so  abroad  !  " 

"Abroad,  ma'am,  I  gave  him  full  swing,  I 
promise  you;  and  when  we  went  abroad,  he 
was  two  years  younger." 

"  But  he  is  a  mere  child,  still." 

"  Child,  Lady  Mary  !  At  his  age,  I  had 
gone  through  two  sieges.  There  are  younger 
faces  than  his  at  a  mess-room.  Come,  come  ! 
I  know  what  you  fear — he  may  commit  some 
follies;  very  likely.  He  may  be  taken  in,  and 
lose  some  money — he  can  afford  it,  and 
he  will  get  experience  in  return.  Vices  he  has 
none.  I  have  seen  him — ay,  with  the  vicious. 
Send  him  out  against  the  world,  like  a  saint  of 
old,  with  his  Bible  in  his  hand,  and  no  spot  on 
his  robe.  Let  him  see  fairly  what  is,  not  stay 
here  to  dream  of  what  is  not.  And  when  he's 
of  age,  ma'am,  we  must  get  him  an  object — 
a  pursuit; — start  him  for  the  county,  and  make 
him  serve  the  state;  he  will  understand  that 
business  pretty  well.  Tush  !  tush  I  what  is 
there  to  cry  at  ?  " 

The  Captain  prevailed.  We  don't  say  that 
his  advice  would  have  been  equally  judicious 
for  all  youths  of  Percival's  age;  but  he  knew 
well  the  nature  to  which  he  confided;  he  knew 
well  how  strong  was  that  young  heart  m  its 
healthful  simplicity  and  instintive  rectitude; 
and  he  appreciated  its  maniless  not  too  highly 
when  he  felt  that  all  evident  props  and  aids 
would  be  but  irritating  tokens  of  distrust. 

And  thus,  armed  only  with  letters  of  intro- 
duction, his  mother's  tearful  admonitions,  and 
Greville's  experienced  warnings,  Percival  St. 
John  was  launched  into  London  life.  After 
the  first  month  or  so,  Greville  came  up  to  visit 
him,  do  him  sundry  kind  invisible  offices 
amongst  his  old  friends,  help  him  to  equip  his 


apartments,  and  mount  his  stud;  and,  wholly 
satisfied  with  the  results  of  his  experiment,  re- 
turned in  high  spirits  with  flattering  reports  to 
the  anxious  mother. 

But,  indeed,  the  tone  of  Percival's  letters 
would  have  been  sufficient  to  allay  even  mater- 
nal anxiety.  He  did  not  write,  as  sons  are  too 
apt  to  do,  short  excuses  for  not  writing  more  at 
length,  unsatisfactory  compressions  of  details 
(exciting  words  of  conjecture),  into  a  hurried 
sentence.  Frank  and  overflowing,  those  de- 
lightful epistles  gave  accounts  fresh  from  the 
first  impressions  of  all  he  saw  and  did.  There 
was  a  racy,  wholesome  gusto  in  his  enjoyment 
of  novelty  and  independence.  His  balls  and 
his  dinners,  and  his  cricket  at  Lord's — his  part- 
ners, and  his  companions;  his  genera!  gaiety, 
his  occasional  ^«««/,  furnished  ample  materials 
to  one  who  felt  he  was  corresponding  with 
another  heart,  and  had  nothing  to  fear  or  to 
conceal. 

But  about  two  months  before  this  portion  of 
our  narrative  opens  with  the  coronation, 
Lady  Mary's  favorite  sister,  who  had  never 
married,  and  who,  by  the  death  of  her  parents, 
was  left  alone  in  the  worse  than  widowhood  of 
of  an  old  maid,  had  been  ordered  to  Pisa,  for 
a  complaint  that  betrayed  pulmonary  symp- 
toms; and  Lady  Mary,  with  her  usual  unself- 
ishness, conquered  both  her  aversion  to  move- 
ment and  her  wish  to  be  in  reach  of  her  son, 
to  accompany  abroad  this  beloved  and  solitary 
relative.  Captain  Greville  was  pressed  into 
service  as  their  joint  cavalier.  And  thus  Per- 
cival's habitual  intercourse  with  his  two  prin- 
cipal correspondents  received  a  temporary 
check. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


John  Ardworth. 


At  noon  the  next  day.  Beck,  restored  to  his 
grandeur,  was  at  the  helm  of  his  state;  Per- 
cival was  vainly  trying  to  be  amused  by  the 
talk  of  two  or  three  loungers  who  did  him  the 
honor  to  smoke  a  cigar  in  his  rooms;  and  John 
Ardworth  sat  in  his  dingy  cell  in  Gray's  Inn, 
with  a  pile  of  law  books  on  the  table,  and  the 
daily  newspapers  carpeting  a  footstool  of  Han- 
sard's Debates   upon    the    floor — no   unusual 


LUCRETIA. 


619 


combination  of  studies  amongst  the  poorer  and 
more  ardent  students  of  the  law,  who  often 
owe  their  earliest,  nor  perhaps  their  least  noble 
earnings,  to  employment  in  the  empire  of  the 
Press.  By  the  power  of  a  mind  habituated  to 
labor,  and  backed  by  a  frame  of  remarkable 
strength  and  endurance,  Ardworth  grappled 
with  his  arid  studies  not  the  less  manfully  for 
a  night  mainly  spent  in  a  printer's  office,  and 
stinted  to  less  than  four  hours'  actual  sleep. 
But  that  sleep  was  profound  and  refreshing  as 
a  peasant's.  The  nights  thus  devoted  to  the 
Press  (he  was  employed  in  the  sub-editing  of 
a  daily  journal),  the  mornings  to  the  law,  he 
kept  distinct  the  two  separate  callings  with  a 
stern  subdivision  of  labor,  which  in  itself 
proved  the  vigor  of  his  energy  and  the  resolu- 
tion of  his  will. 

Early  compelled  to  shift  for  himself,  and 
carve  out  his  own  way,  he  had  obtained  a 
small  fellowship  at  the  small  college  in  which 
he  had  passed  his  academic  career.  Previous 
to  his  arrival  in  London,  by  contributions  to 
political  periodicals,  and  a  high  reputation  at 
that  noble  debating  society  in  Cambridge 
which  has  trained  some  of  the  most  eminent 
of  living  public  men,*  he  had  established  a 
name  which  was  immediately  useful  to  him  in 
obtaining  employment  on  the  Press.  Like 
most  young  men  of  practical  ability,  he  was 
an  eager  politician.  The  popular  passion  of 
the  day  kindled  his  enthusiasm,  and  stirred  the 
depths  of  his  soul  with  magnificent,  though 
exaggerated,  hopes  in  the  destiny  of  his  race. 
He  identified  himself  with  the  people,  his  stout 
heart  beat  loud  in  thier  stormy  cause.  His 
compositions,  if  they  wanted  that  knowledge 
of  men,  that  subtle  comprehension  of  the  true 
state  of  parties,  that  happy  temperance  in  which 
the  crowning  wisdom  of  statesmen  must  con- 
sist— qualites  which  experience  alone  can  give 
— excited  considerable  attention  by  their  bold 
eloquence  and  hardy  logic.  They  were  suited 
to  the  time.  But  John  Ardworth  had  that 
solidity  of  understanding  which  betokens  more 

*  Amongst  those  whom  the  "Union"  almost  con- 
temporaneously prepared  for  public  life,  and  whose 
distinction  has  kept  the  promise  of  their  youth,  we 
may  mention  the  eminent  barristers,  Messrs.  Austin 
and  Cockburn:  and  amongst  statesmen,  Lord  Grey, 
Mr.  C.  Buller,  Mr.  Charles  Villiers,  and  Mr.  flacaulay. 
Nor  ought  we  to  forget  those  brilliant  competitors  for 
the  prizes  of  the  University,  Dr.  Kennedy  (now  head- 
master of  Shrewsbury  School)  and  the  late  Winthrop 
M.  Praed. 


than  talent,  and  which  is  the  usual  substratum 
of  genius. 

He  would  not  depend  alone  on  the  precari- 
ous and  often  unhonored  toils  of  polemical 
literature  for  that  distinction  on  which  he  had 
fixed  his  steadfast  heart.  Patiently  he  ploded 
on  through  the  formal  drudgeries  of  his  new 
profession,  lighting  up  dulness  by  his  own  acute 
comprehension,  weaving  complexities  into 
simple  system  by  the  grasp  of  an  intellect  in- 
ured to  generalize;  and  learning  to  love  even 
what  was  most  distasteful,  by  the  sense  of 
difficulty  overcome,  and  the  clearer  vision 
which  every  step  through  the  mists,  and  up  the 
hill,  gave  of  the  land  beyond.  Of  what  the 
superficial  are  apt  to  consider  genius,  John 
Ardworth  had  but  little.  He  had  some  imag- 
ination (for  a  true  thinker  is  never  without 
that),  but  he  had  a  very  slight  share  of  fancy. 
He  did  not  flirt  with  the  Muses;  on  the  granite 
of  his  mind,  few  flowers  could  spring.  His 
style  rushing  and  earnest,  admitted  at  times 
of  a  humor  not  without  delicacy — though  less 
delicate  than  forcible  and  deep — but  it  was 
little  adorned  with  wit,  and  still  less  with 
poetry. 

Yet  Ardworth  had  genius,  and  genius  ample 
and  magnificent.  There  was  genious  in  that 
industrious  energy  so  patient  in  the  conquest 
of  detail,  so  triumphant  in  the  perception  of 
results.  There  was  genius  in  that  kindly 
sympathy  with  mankind— genius  in  that 
stubborn  determination  to  succeed — genius 
in  that  vivid  comprhension  of  affairs,  and  the 
large  interests  of  the  world — genius  fed  in 
the  labors  of  the  closet,  and  evinced  the  in- 
stant he  was  brought  in  contact  with  men; 
evinced  in  readiness  of  thought,  grasp  of  mem- 
ory, even  in  a  rough  imperious  manner, 
which  showed  him  born  to  speak  strong  truths, 
and  in  their  name  to  struggle  and  command. 

Rough  was  this  man  often  in  his  exterior, 
though  really  gentle  and  kind-hearted.  John 
Ardworth  had  sacrificed  to  no  Graces;  he 
would  have  thrown  Lord  Chesterfield  into  a 
fever.  Not  that  he  was  ever  vulgar,  for  vul- 
garity implies  affectation  of  refinement,  but 
he  talked  loud,  and  laughed  loud,  if  the  whim 
seized  him,  and  rubbed  his  great  hands,  with  a 
boyish  heartiness  of  glee,  if  he  discomfited 
an  adversary  in  argument.  Or,  sometimes  he 
would  sit  abstracted  and  moody,  and  answer 
briefly   and   boorishly  those   who  interrupted 


620 


BUI.WER'S     WORKS 


him.  Young  men  were  mostly  afraid  of  him, 
though  he  wanted  but  fame  to  have  a  set  of 
admiring  disciples.  Old  men  censured  his 
presumption,  and  recoiled  from  the  novelty  of 
his  ideas.  Women  alone  liked  and  appreciated 
him,  as,  with  their  finer  insight  into  character, 
they  generally  do,  what  is  honest  and  sterling. 
Some  strange  failings,  too,  had  John  Ard worth 
— some  of  the  usual  vagaries  and  contradic- 
tions of  clever  men.  As  a  system,  he  was 
rigidly  abstemious.  For  days  together  he 
would  drink  nothing  but  water,  eat  nothing  but 
bread,  or  hard  biscuit,  or  a  couple  of  eggs: 
then  having  wound  up  some  alloted  portion  of 
work,  Ardworth  would  indulge  what  he  called 
a  self-saturnalia — would  stride  off  with  old 
college  friends  to  an  inn  in  one  of  the  suburbs, 
and  spend,  as  he  said  triumphantly,  'a  day  of 
blessed  debauch  ! '  Innocent  enough,  for  the 
most  part,  the  debauch  was; — consisting  in 
cracking  jests,  strining  puns,  a  fish  dinner,  per- 
haps, and  an  extra  bottle  or  two  of  fiery  port. 
Sometimes  this  jolity,  which  was  always 
loud  and  uproarious,  found  its  scene  in  one  of 
the  cider  cellars  or  midnight  taverns,  but 
Ardworth's  labors  on  the  Press  made  that  lat- 
ter dissi|3ation  extremely  rare.  These  relaxa- 
tions were  always  succeeded  by  a  mien  more 
than  usually  grave,  a  manner  more  than  usually 
curt  and  ungracious,  an  application  more  than 
ever  rigorous  and  intense.  John  Ardworth 
was  not  a  good-tempered  man,  but  he  was  the 
best-natured  man  that  ever  breathed.  He  wis 
like  all  ambitious  persons,  very  much  occupied 
with  self,  and  yet  it  would  have  been  a  ludi- 
crous misapplication  of  words  to  call  him  selfish. 
Even  the  desire  of  fame  which  absorbed  him 
was  but  a  part  of  benevolence — a  desire  to  pro- 
mote justice  and  to  serve  his  kind. 

John  Ardworth's  shaggy  brows  were  bent 
over  his  open  volumes,  when  his  clerk  entered 
noiselessly,  and  placed  on  his  table  a  letter 
which  the  two-penny  postman  had  just  de- 
livered. With  an  imjwtient  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  Ardworth  glanced  towards  the  super- 
scription, but  his  eye  became  earnest  and  his 
interest  aroused,  as  he  recognized  the  hand. 
"Again!"  he  muttered,  "what  mystery  is 
this  ?  Who  can  feel  such  interest  in  my  fate  ? " 
He  broke  the  seal,  and  read  as  follows: — 

"  Do  you  neglect  my  advice,  or  have  you  begun  to 
act  upon  it  ?  Are  you  contented  only  with  the  slow 
process  of  mechanical  application,  or  will  you  make  a 


triumphant  effort  to  abridge  your  apprenticeship,  and 
emerge  at  once  into  fame  and  power?  I  repeat  that 
you  fritter  away  your  talents  and  your  opportunities 
upou  this  miserable  task-work  on  a  journal.  I  am  im- 
patient for  you.  Come  forward  yourself,  put  your 
force  and  your  knowledge  into  some  work  of  which 
the  world  may  know  the  author.  Day  after  day,  I  am 
examining  into  your  destiny,  and  day  after  day  I  be- 
lieve more  and  more  that  you  are  not  fated  for  the 
tedious  drudgery  to  which  you  doom  your  youth.  I 
would  have  you  great,  but  in  the  senate,  not  a  wretched 
casuist  at  the  bar.  Appear  in  public  as  an  individual 
authority,  not  one  of  that  nameless  troop  of  shadows, 
contemned  while  dreaded  as,  the  Press.  Write  for  re- 
nown. Go  into  the  world,  and  make  friends.  Soften 
your  rugged  bearing.  Lift  yourself  above  that  herd 
whom  you  call  the  people.  What  if  you  are  born  of  the 
noble  class  ?  What  if  your  career  is  as  Gentleman  not 
Plebeian  ?  Want  not  for  money.  Use  what  I  send 
you,  as  the  young  and  the  well-born  should  use  it;  or 
let  it,  at  least,  gain  you  a  respite  from  toils  for  bread— 
and  support  you  in  your  struggle  to  emancipate  your- 
self from  obscurity  into  fame, 

"  Your  Unknown  Friend." 

A  bank-note  for  loo/.  dropped  from  the  en- 
velope, as  Ardworth  silently  replaced  the  let- 
ter on  the  table. 

Thrice  before  had  he  received  communica- 
tions in  the  same  handwriting,  and  much  to 
the  same  effect.  Certainly,  to  a  minci  of  less 
strength,  there  would  have  been  something 
very  unsettling  in  those  vague  hints  of  a 
station  higher  than  he  owned — of  a  future  at 
variance  with  the  toilsome  lot  he  had  drawn 
from  the  urn;  but  after  a  single  glance  over 
his  lone  position  in  all  its  bearings,  and  prob- 
able expectations,  Ardworth's  steady  sense 
shook  off  the  slight  disturbance  such  misty 
v.iticinations  had  effected.  His  mother's  fam- 
ily was  indeed  unknown  to  him — he  was  even 
ignorant  of  her  maiden  name.  But  that  very 
obscurity  seemed  unfavorable  to  much  hope 
from  such  a  quarter.  The  connections  with 
the  rich  and  well-born  are  seldom  left  obsci re. 
From  his  father's  family  he  had  not  one  ex- 
pectation. More  had  he  been  moved  by  ex- 
hortations now  generally  repeated,  but  in  a 
previous  letter  more  precisely  detailed — viz., 
to  appeal  to  the  reading  public  in  his  acknowl- 
edged person,  and  by  some  striking  and  origi- 
nal work.  This  idea  he  had  often  contem- 
plated and  revolved;  but  partly  the  necessity 
of  keeping  pace  with  the  many  exigencies  of 
the  hour,  had  deterred  him,  and  partly  also  the 
convictfbn  of  his  sober  judgment,  that  a  man 
does  himself  no  good  at  the  bar,  even  by  the 
most  brilliant  distinction  gained  in  discursive 
fields. 


LUCREriA. 


621 


He  had  the  natural  yearning  of  the  Restless 
Genius;  and  the  Patient  Genius  (higher  power 
of  the  two)  had  suppressed  the  longing.  Still, 
so  far,  the  whispers  of  his  correspondent 
tempted  and  aroused.  But  hitherto  he  had 
sought  to  persuade  himself  that  the  communi- 
cations thus  strangely  forced  on  him,  arose, 
perhaps,  from  idle  motives — a  jest,  it  might 
1)6,  of  one  of  his  old  college  friends,  or  at  best 
the  vain  enthusiasm  of  some  more  credulous 
admirer.  But  the  enclosure  now  sent  to  him, 
forbade  either  of  these  suppositions.  Who 
that  he  knew  could  afford  so  costly  a  jest,  or 
so  extravagant  a  tribute?  He  was  perplexed, 
and  with  his  perplexity  was  mixed  a  kind  of 
fear.  Pla-in,  earnest,  unromantic  in  the  com- 
mon acceptation  of  the  word,  the  mystery  of 
this  intermeddling  with  his  fate,  this  arrogation 
of  the  licence  to  spy,  the  right  to  counsel,  and 
the  privilege  to  bestow,  gave  him  the  uneasi- 
ness the  bravest  men  may  feel  at  noises  in  the 
dark.  That  day  he  could  apply  no  more — he 
could  not  settle  back  to  his  Law  Reports.  He 
took  two  or  three  unquiet  turns  up  and  down 
his  smoke-dried  cell,  then  locked  up  the  letter 
and  enclosure,  seized  his  hat,  and  strode,  with 
his  usual  lusty  swinging  strides,  into  the  open 
air. 

But  still  the  letter  haunted  him.  "And  if," 
he  said,  almost  audibly,  "  if  I  were  the  heir  to 
some  higher  station,  why  then  I  might  have  a 
heart  like  idle  men;  and  Helen — beloved 
Helen  !  " — he  paused,  sighed,  shook  his  rough 
head,  shaggy  with  neglected  curls,  and  added 
— "  As  if  even  then  I  could  steal  myself  into 
a  girl's  good  graces  !  Man's  esteem  I  may 
command,  though  poor — woman's  love  could 
I  win,  though  rich  !  Pooh  !  pooh  !  every 
wood  does  not  make  a  Mercury:  and  faith, 
the  wood  I  am  made  of,  will  scarcely  cut  up 
into  a  lover." 

Nevertheless,  though  thus  soliloquizing, 
Ariiworth  mechanically  bent  his  way  towards 
Brompton,  and  halted,  half  ashamed  of  him- 
self, at  the  house  where  Helen  lodged  with 
her  aunt.  It  was  a  building  that  stood  apart 
from  all  the  cottages  and  villas  of  that  charm- 
ing suburb,  half  way  down  a  narrow  lane,  and 
enclosed  by  high  melancholy  walls,  deep  set 
in  which  a  small  door,  with  the  paint  blistered 
and  weather  stained,  gave  unfrequented  en- 
trance to  the  demesne.  A  woman  servant  of 
middle  age,  and  starched  puritanical  appear- 


ance, answered  the  loud  ring  of  the  bell,  and 
Ardworth  seemed  a  privileged  visitor,  for  she 
asked  him  no  question,  as  with  a  slight  nod, 
and  a  smileless  stupid  expression  in  a  face 
otherwise  comely,  she  led  the  way  across  a 
paved  path,  much  weed-grown,  to  the  house. 
That  house  itself  had  somewhat  of  a  stern 
and  sad  exterior.  It  was  not  ancient,  yet  it 
looked  old  from  shabbiness  and  neglect.  The 
vine,  loosened  from  the  rusty  nails,  trailed 
rankly  against  the  wall,  and  fell  in  crawling 
branches  over  the  ground.  The  house  had 
once  been  white-washed,  but  the  color,  worn 
off  in  great  patches,  distained  with  damp, 
struggled  here  and  there  with  the  dingy  chipped 
bricks  beneath.  There  was  no  peculiar  want 
of  what  is  called  '  tenantable  repair; '  the  win- 
dows were  whole,  and  doubtless  the  roof  shel- 
tered from  the  rain.  But  the  wood-work  that 
encased  the  panes  was  decayed,  and  house- 
leek  covered  the  tiles.  Altogether  there  was 
that  forlorn  and  cheerless  aspect  about  the 
place,  which  chills  the  visitor,  he  defines  not 
why.  And  Ardworth  steadied  his  usual  care- 
less step,  and  crept,  as  if  timidly,  up  the  creak- 
ing stairs. 

On  entering  the  drawing-room — it  seemed 
at  first  deserted;  but  the  eye  searching  round, 
perceived  something  stir  in  the  recess  of  a  huge 
chair — set  by  the  fireless  hearth.  And  from 
amidst  a  mass  of  coverings  a  pale  face 
emerged,  and  a  thin  hand  waved  its  welcome 
to  the  visitor. 

Ardworth  approached,  pressed  the  hand,  and 
drew  a  seat  near  to  the  sufferer's 

"  You  are  better,  I  hope  ?  "  he  said  cordially, 
— and  yet  in  a  tone  of  more  respect  than  was 
often  perceptible  in  his  deep  blunt  voice. 

"  I  am  always  the  same,"  was  the  quiet 
answer;  "  come  nearer  still.  Your  visits  cheer 
me." 

And  as  these  last  words  were  said,  Madame 
Dalibard  raised  herself  from  her  recumbent 
posture,  and  gazed  long  upon  Ardworth's  face 
of  power  and  front  of  thought.  "You  over- 
fatigue yourself,  my  poor  kinsman,"  she  said, 
with  a  certain  tenderness:  "you  look  already 
too  old  for  your  young  years." 

"  That's  no  disadvantage  at  the  bar." 

"  Is  the  bar  your  means,  or  your  end  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Madame  Dalibard,  it  is  my  pro- 
fession." 

"  No,  your  profession  is  to  rise.     John  Ard- 


622 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


worth,"  and  the  low  voice  swelled  in  its  volume. 
"  You  are  bold,  able,  and  aspiring — for  this,  I 
love  you — love  you  almost — almost  as  a 
mother.  Your  fate,"  she  continued,  hurriedly, 
"  interests  me;  your  energies  inspire  me  with 
admiration.  Often  I  sit  here  for  hours,  mus- 
ing over  your  destiny  to  be — so  that  at  times, 
I  may  almost  say  that  in  your  life  I  live." 

Ardworth  looked  embarrassed,  and  with  an 
awkward  attempt  at  compliment,  he  began 
hesitatingly:  "I  should  think  too  highly  of 
myself,  if  I  could  really  believe  that  you " 

"  Tell  me,"  interrupted  Madame  Dalibard: 
"we  have  had  many  conversations  upon  grave 
and  subtle  matters;  we  have  disputed  on 
the  secret  mysteries  of  the  human  mind;  we 
have  compared  our  several  experiences  of  out- 
ward life  and  the  mechanism  of  the  social 
world, — tell  me  then,  and  frankly,  what  do 
you  think  of  me  ?  Do  you  regard  me  merely 
as  your  sex  is  apt  to  regard  the  woman,  who 
aspires  to  equal  men — a  thing  of  borrowed 
phrases  and  unsound  ideas — feeble  to  guide 
and  unskilled  to  teach  ?  or  do  you  recognize 
in  this  miserable  body  a  mind  of  force  not  un- 
worthy yours,  ruled  by  an  experience  larger 
than  your  own  ?  " 

"  I  think  of  you,"  answered  Ardworth, 
frankly,  "  as  the  most  remarkable  woman  I 
have  ever  met.  Yet  do  not  be  angry,  I  do 
not  like  to  yield  to  the  influence  which  you 
gain  over  me  when  we  meet.  It  disturbs  my 
canvictions— it  disquiets  my  reason— I  do  not 
settle  back  to  my  life  so  easily  after  your 
breath  has  passed  over  it." 

"And  yet,"  said  Lucretia,  with  a  solemn 
sadness  in  her  voice,  "  that  influence  is  but 
the  natural  power  which  cold  maturity  exer- 
cises on  ardent  youth.  It  is  my  mournful  ad- 
vantage over  you,  that  disquiets  your  happy 
calm.  It  is  my  experience  that  unsettles  the 
fallacies  which  you  name  '  convictions.'  Let 
this  pass.  I  asked  your  opinion  of  me,  be- 
cause I  wished  to  place  at  your  service  all 
that  knowledge  of  life  which  I  possess.  In 
proportion  as  you  esteem  me,  you  will  accept 
or  reject  my  counsels." 

"I  have  benefited  by  them  already.  It  is 
the  tone  that  you  advised  me  to  assume,  that 
gave  me  an  importance  I  had  not  before,  with 
that  old  formalist  whose  paper  I  serve,  and 
whose  prejudices  I  shock  ;]it  is  to  your  criticisms 
*hat  I  owe  the  more  practical  turn  of  my  writ- 


ings, and  the  greater  hold  they  have  taken  on 
the  public." 

"  Trifles  indeed,  these,"  said  Madame  Dali- 
bard, with  a  half  smiie.  "  Let  them  at  least 
induce  you  to  listen  to  me;  if  I  propose  to 
make  your  path  more  pleasant,  yet  your  ascent 
more  rapid." 

Ardworth  knit  his  brows,  and  his  counte- 
nance assumed  an  expression  of  doubt  and 
curiosity.  However,  he  only  replied  with  a 
blunt  laugh — 

"  You  must  be  wise,  indeed,  if  you  have 
discovered  a  royal  road  to  distinction  ! 

"  '  Ah.  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 

The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar!' 

A  more  sensible  exclamation  than  poets  usually 
preface  with  their  whining  '  Ah's  '  and  '  Oh's  ! ' 

"What  we  arex^  nothing,"  pursued  Madame 
Dalibard;  "  what  we  seem  is  much." 

Ardworth  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  shook  his  head.  The  wise  woman  con- 
tinued, unheeding  his  dissent  from  her  pre- 
mises. 

"  Everything  you  are  taught  to  value  has  a 
likeness,  and  it  is  that  likeness  which  the 
world  values.  Take  a  man  out  of  the  streets, 
poor  and  ragged,  what  will  the  world  do  with 
him  ?  Send  him  to  the  work-house,  if  not  to 
the  jail.  Ask  a  great  painter  to  take  that 
man's  portrait,  rags,  squalor,  and  all;  and  kings 
will  bid  for  the  picture.  You  would  thrust 
the  man  from  your  doors,  you  would  place  the 
portrait  in  your  palaces.  It  is  the  same 
with  qualities,  the  portrait  is  worth  more  than 
the  truth.  What  is  virtue  without  character? 
But  a  man  without  virtue  may  thrive  on  a 
character  !  What  is  genius  without  success  ? 
But  how  often  you  bow  to  success  without 
genius  !  John  Ardworth,  possess  yourself  of 
the  portraits — win  the  character — seize  the 
success." 

"  Madam,"  exclaimed  Ardworth,  rudely 
"this  is  horrible  !  " 

"  Horrible,  it  may  be,"  said  Madame  Dali- 
bard, gently,  and  feeling,  perhaps,  that  she  had 
gone  too  far:  "  but  it  is  the  world's  judgment. 
Seem,  then,  as  well  as  be.  You  have  virtue,  as 
I  believe.  Well,  wrap  yourself  in  it— in  your 
closet.  Go  into  the  world,  and  earn  character. 
If  you  have  genius,  let  it  comfort  you.  Rush 
into  the  crowd  and  get  success." 

"Stop  !  "  cried  Ardworth;  "I  recognize  you 


LUCRETIA. 


623 


How  could  I  be  so  blind  ?  It  is  you  who  have 
written  to  me,  and  in  the  same  strain;  you 
have  robbed  yourself — you,  poor  sufferer,  to 
throw  extravagance  into  these  strong  hands. 
And  why  ?     What  am  I  to  you  ? " 

An  expression  of  actual  fondness  softened 
Lucretia's  face,  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  and 
replied;  "I  will  tell  you  hereafter  what  you 
are  to  me.  First,  I  confess  it  is  I  whose  let- 
ters have  perplexed,  perhaps  offended  you. 
The  sum  that  I  sent,  I  do  not  miss.  I  have 
more — will  ever  have  more  at  your  command 
— never  fear.  Yes,  I  wish  you  to  go  into  the 
world,  not  as  a  dependent,  but  as  an  equal  to 
the  world's  favorites.  I  wish  you  to  know 
more  of  men  than  mere  law-books  teach 
you.  I  wish  you  to  be  in  men's  mouths,  create 
a  circle  that  shall  talk  of  young  Ardvvorth — 
that  talk  would  travel  to  those  who  can  ad- 
vance your  career.  The  very  possession  of 
money  in  certain  stages  of  life  gives  assurance 
to  the  manner,  gives  attraction  to  the  address." 

"But,"  said  Ardworth,  "all  this  is  very 
well  for  some  favorite  of  birth  and  fortune; 
but  for  me — yet  speak,  and  plainly;  you 
throw  out  hints  that  I  am  what  I  know  not; 
but  something  less  dependent  on  his  nerves 
and  brain,  than  is  plain  John  Ardworth.  What 
is  it  you  mean  ?  " 

Madame  Dalibard  bent  her  face  over  her 
breast,  and  rocking  herself  in  her  chair, 
seemed  to  muse  for  some  moments  before 
she  answered. 

"When  I  first  came  to  England,  some 
months  ago,  I  desired  naturally  to  learn  all 
the  particulars  of  my  family  and  kindred, 
from  which  my  long  residence  abroad  had 
estranged  me.  John  Walter  Ardworth  was 
related  to  my  half-sister,  to  me  he  was  but  a 
mere  connection.  However,  I  knew  some- 
thing of  his  history,  yet  I  did  not  know  that 
he  had  a  son.  Shortly  before  I  came  to  Eng- 
land, I  learned  that  one  who  passed  for  his  son 
had  been  brought  up  by  Mr.  Fielden,  and 
from  Mr.  Fielden  I  have  since  learned  all  the 
grounds  for  that  belief,  from  which  you  take 
the  name  of  Ardworth." 

Lucretia  paused  a  moment;  and  after  a 
glance  at  the  impatient,  wondering,  and  eager 
countenance  that  bent  intent  upon  her,  she 
resumed: 

"Your  reputed  father  was,  you  are  doubt- 
less aware,  of  reckless  and  extravagant  habits 


He  had  been  put  into  the  army  by  my  uncle, 
and  he  entered  that  profession  with  the  care- 
less buoyancy  of  his  sanguine  nature.  I  re- 
member those  days — that  day  !  Well,  to  re- 
turn— where  was  I  ? — Walter  Ardworth  had  the 
folly  to  entertain  strong  notions  of  politics. 
He  dreamt  of  being  a  soldier,  and  yet  per- 
suaded himself  to  be  a  republican.  His  no- 
tions, so  hateful  in  his  profession,  got  wind: 
he  disguised  nothing,  he  neglected  the  portraits 
of  things — Appearances.  He  excited  the  ran- 
cor of  his  commanding  officer — for  politics 
then,  more  even  than  now,  were  implacable 
ministrants  to  hate — occasion  presented  itself: 
during  the  short  Peace  of  Amiens  he  had  been 
recalled.  He  had  to  head  a  detachment  of 
soldiers  against  some  mob,  in  Ireland,  I  be- 
lieve; he  did  not  fire  on  the  mob  according  to 
orders — so,  at  least,  it  was  said:  John  Walter 
Ardworth  was  tried  by  a  court-martial,  and 
broke  !     But  you  know  all  this,  perhaps  !  " 

"My  poor  father!  Only  in  part:  I  knew 
that  he  had  been  dismissed  the  army — I  be- 
lieved unjustly.  He  was  a  soldier,  and  yet  he 
dared  to  think  for  himself,  and  be  humane  ! " 

"But  my  uncle  had  left  him  a  legacy — it 
brought  no  blessing — none  of  that  old  man's 
gold  did.  Where  are  they  all  now  ?  Dalibard, 
Susan,  and  her  fair-faced  husband.  Where  ? 
Vernon  is  in  his  grave — but  one  son  of  many 
left !  Gabriel  Varney  lives,  it  is  true  ! — and 
I !  But  that  gold — yea,  in  our  hands,  there 
was  a  curse  on  it !  Walter  Ardworth  had  his 
legacy — his  nature  was  gay:  if  disgraced  in 
his  profession,  he  found  men  to  pity  and  praise 
him — Fools  of  Party  like  himself.  He  lived 
joyously — drank  or  gamed,  or  lent  or  borrowed 
— what  matters  the  wherefore  ? — he  was  in 
debt — he  lived  at  last  a  wretched,  shifting, 
fugitive  life — snatching  bread  where  he  could 
— with  the  bailiffs  at  his  heels — then,  for  a 
short  time,  we  met  again." 

Lucretia's  brow  grew  black  as  night,  as  her 
voice  dropped  at  that  last  sentence,  and  it  was 
with  a  start  that  she  continued. 

"  In  the  midst  of  this  hunted  existence,  Wal- 
ter Ardworth  appeared,  late  one  night,  at  Mr. 
Fielden's  with  an  infant.  He  seemed,  so  says 
Mr.  Fielden,  ill,  worn,  and  haggard.  He  en- 
tered  into  no  explanations  with  respect  to  the 
child  that  accompanied  him,  and  retired  at 
once  to  rest.  What  follows,  Mr.  Fielden,  at 
my  request,  has  noted  down.     Read,  and  see 


624 


B  UL IVER'  S     WORKS. 


what  claim  you  have  to  the  honorable  parent- 
age so  vaguely  ascribed  to  you." 

As  she  spoke,  Madame  Dalibard  open.ed  a 
box  on  her  table,  drew  forth  a  paper  in  Field- 
en's  writing  and  placed  it  in  Ardworth's  hand. 
After  some  preliminary  statement  of  the 
writer's  intimacy  with  the  elder  Ardworth,  and 
the  appearance  of  the  latter  at  his  house,  as 
related  by  Madame  Dalibard,  etc.,  the  docu- 
ment went  on  thus: — 

'•  The  next  day,  when  my  poor  guest  was  still  in  bed, 
my  servant  Hannah  came  to  advise  me  that  two  per- 
sons were  without,  waiting  to  see  me.  As  is  my  wont, 
I  bade  them  be  shown  in.  On  their  entrance  (two 
rough  farmer-looking  men  they  were,  whom  1  thought 
might  be  coming  to  hire  my  little  pasture  field),  1 
prayed  them  to  speak  low,  as  a  sick  gentleman  was 
just  over  head.  Whereupon,  and  without  saying  a 
word  further,  the  two  strangers  made  a  rush  from  the 
room,  leaving  me  dumb  with  amazement;  in  a  few 
moments,  I  heard  voices  and  a  scuffle  above.  I  re- 
covered myself,  and  thinking  robbers  had  entered  my 
peaceful  house,  I  called  out  lustily,  when  Hannah 
came  in,  and  we  both,  taking  courage,  went  up  stairs, 
and  found  that  poor  Waller  was  in  the  hands  of  these 
supposed  robbers,  who  in  truth  were  but  bailiffs.  They 
would  not  trust  him  out  of  their  sight  for  a  moment. 
However,  he  took  it  more  pleasantly  than  I  could  have 
supposed  possible;  prayed  me  in  a  whisper  to  take 
care  of  the  child,  and  I  should  soon  hear  from  him 
again.  In  less  than  an  hour,  he  was  gone.  Two  days 
afterwards,  I  received  from  him  a  hurried  letter,  with- 
out address,  of  which  this  is  the  copy: — 

• '  Dear  Friend, — I  slipt  from  the  bailiffs,  and  here 
1  am  in  a  safe  little  tavern  in  sight  of  the  sea  !  Mother 
Country  is  a  very  bad  parent  to  me  !  Mother  Brown- 
rigg  herself  could  scarcely  be  worse.  I  shall  work  out 
my  passage  to  some  foreign  land,  and  if  I  can  recover 
ray  health  (sea-air  is  bracing  !)  I  don't  despair  of  get- 
ting my  bread  honestly,  somehow.  If  ever  I  can  pay 
my  debts  I  may  return.  But,  meanwhile,  my  good  old 
tutor,  what  will  you  think  of  me  ?  You  to  whom  my 
sole  return  for  so  much  pains  taken  in  vain,  is  another 
mouth  to  feed!  And  no  money  to  pay  for  the  board  ! 
Yet  you'll  not  grudge  the  child  a  place  at  your  table, 
will  you  ?  No,  nor  kind,  saving  Mrs.  Fielden  either— 
God  bless  her  tender,  economical  soul!  You  know 
quite  enough  of  me  to  be  sure  that  1  shall  very  soon 
either  free  you  of  the  boy,  or  send  you  something,  to 
prevent  its  being  an  encumberance.     I  would  say,  love 

and  pity  the  child  for  my  sake.     But  I  own  I  feel 

By  Jove,  I  must  be  off— I  hear  the  first  signal  from  the 
vessel,  that Yours  in  haste.  '  J.  W.  A.' " 

Young  Ardworth  stopped  from  the  lecture, 
and  sighed  heavily.  There  seemed  to  him, 
in  this  letter,  worse  than  a  mock  gaiety; — a 
certain  levity  and  recklessness — which  jarred 
on  his  own  high  principles.  And  the  want  of 
affection  for  the  child  thus  abandoned  was 
evident — not  one  fond  word.     He  resumed  the 


statement  with  a  gloomy  and  disheartened  at- 
tention. 

"  This  was  all  I  heard  from  poor  erring  Walter  for 
more  than  three  years,  but  I  knew,  in  spite  of  his  fol- 
lies, that  his  heart  was  sound  at  bottom,"  (the  son's  eye 
brightened  here,  and  he  kissed  the  paper),  "and  the 
child  was  no  burthen  to  us — we  loved  it,  not  only  for 
Ardworth's  sake,  but  for  its  own,  and  for  charity's,  and 
Christ's.    Ardworth's  second  letter  was  as  follows: — 

"  '  En  iterum  Crispiniis  .' — 1  am  still  alive,  and  get- 
ting on  in  rhe  world — ay,  and  honestly  too — I  am  no 
longer  spending  heedlessly;  1  am  saving  for  my  debts, 
and  I  shall  live,  I  trust,  to  pay  off  every  farthing. 
First,  for  my  debt  to  you — I  send  an  order  not  signed 
in  my  name,  but  equally  valid,  on  Messrs.  Drummond, 
for  ;^250.  Repay  yourself  what  the  boy  has  cost.  Let 
him  be  educated  to  get  his  own  living— if  clever,  as  a 
scholar  or  a  lawyer — if  dull,  as  a  tradesman.  Whatever 
I  may  gain,  he  will  have  his  own  way  to  make.  I 
ought  to  tell  you  the  story  connected  with  his  birth, 
but  it  is  one  of  pain  and  shame;  and  on  reflection,  I 
feel  that  I  have  no  right  to  injure  him  by  affixing  tc^ 
his  early  birth  an  approbrium  of  which  he  himself  is 
guiltless.  If  ever  I  return  to  England,  you  shall  know 
all,  and  by  your  counsels  I  will  abide.  Love  to  all 
your  happy  family — Your  grateful  Friend  and  Pupil.' 

"  From  this  letter  I  began  to  suspect  that  the  poor 
boy  was  probably  not  born  in  wedlock,  and  that  Ard- 
worth's silence  arose  from  his  compunction.  I  con- 
ceived it  best  never  to  mention  this  suspicion  to  John 
himself  as  he  grew  up.  Why  should  I  afflict  him  by  a 
doubt  from  which  his  father  shrunk,  and  which  might 
only  exist  in  my  own  inexperienced  and  uncharitable 
interpretation  of  some  vague  words  ?  When  John  was 
fourteen,  I  received  from  Messrs.  Drummond  a  further 
sum  of  /500,  but  without  any  line  from  Ardworth,  and 
only  to  the  effect  that  Mesrrs.  Drummond  were  direc- 
ted by  a  correspondent  in  Calcutta  to  pay  me  the  said 
sum  on  behalf  of  expenses  incurred  for  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  child  left  to  my  charge  by  John  Walter 
Ardworth.  My  young  pupil  had  been  two  years  at  the 
university,  when  I  received  the  letter  of  which  this  is 
a  copy: — 

"'  How  are  you  ?— still  well— still  happy?— let  me 
hope  so  !  I  have  not  written  to  you,  dear  old  friend, 
but  I  have  not  been  forgetful  of  you— I  have  inquired 
of  you  through  my  correspondents,  and  have  learned, 
from  time  to  time,  such  accounts  as  satisfied  my  grate- 
ful affection  for  you.  I  find  that  you  have  given  the 
boy  my  name  ?  Well,  let  him  bear  it— it  is  nothing  to 
boast  of,  such  as  it  became  in  my  person;  but,  mind,  I 
do  not,  therefore,  acknowledge  him  as  my  son.  I  wish 
him  to  think  himself  without  parents,  without  other 
aid  in  the  career  of  life  than  his  own  industry  and 
talent,— if  talent  he  has.  Let  him  go  through  the 
healthful  probation  of  toil— let  him  search  for  and  find 
independence.  Till  he  is  of  age,  /150  per  annum  will 
be  paid  quarterly  to  your  account  for  him  at  .Messrs. 
Drummonds'.  if  then,  to  set  him  up  in  any  business 
or  profession,  a  sum  of  money  be  necessary,  name  the 
amount  by  a  line,  signed  A.B.,  Calcutta,  to  the  care  of 
Messrs.  Drummond,  and  it  will  reach,  and  find  me  dis- 
posed to  follow  your  instructions.  But  after  that  time 
all  further  supply  from  me  will  cease.    Do  not  sup- 


LUCRETIA. 


625 


pose,  because  I  send  this  from  India,  that  1  am  laden 
with  rupees;  all  I  can  hope  to  attain  is  a  competence. 
That  boy  is  not  the  only  one  who  has  claims  to  share 
it.  Even  therefore,  if  I  had  the  wish  to  rear  him  to 
the  extravagant  habits  that  ruined  myself,  I  have  not 
the  power.  Yes!— let  him  lean  on  his  own  strength. 
In  the  letter  you  send  me,  write  fully  of  your  family. 
your  sons,  and  write  as  to  a  man  who  can  perhaps  help 
them  in  the  world,  and  will  be  too  happy  thus  in  some 
slight  degree  to  repay  all  he  owes  you.  You  would 
smile  approvingly  if  you  saw  me  now — a  steady, 
money-getting  man,  but  still  yours  as  ever. 

" '  P.S. — Do  not  let  the  boy  write  to  me,  nor  give 
nim  this  clue  to  my  address." 

"  On  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  I  wrote  fully  to  Ard- 
worth  about  the  excellent  promise  and  conduct  of  his 
poor  neglected  son.  I  told  him  truly  he  was  a  son 
any  father  might  be  proud  of,  and  rebuked,  even  to 
harshness,  Walter's  unseemly  tone  respecting  him. 
One's  child  is  one's  child,  however  the  father  may 
have  wronged  the  mother.  To  this  letter  I  never  re- 
ceived any  answer.  When  John  was  of  age,  and  had 
made  himself  independent  of  want,  by  obtaining  a  col- 
lege fellowship,  1  spoke  to  him  about  his  prospects. 
I  told  him  that  his  father,  though  residing  abroad  and 
for  some  reasons  keeping  himself  concealed,  had 
munificently  paid  hitherto  for  his  maintenance,  and 
would  lay  down  what  might  be  necessary  to  start  him 
in  business,  or  perhaps  place  him  in  the  army;  but  that 
his  father  might  be  better  pleased  if  he  could  show  a 
love  of  independence,  and  henceforth  maintain  him- 
self. I  knew  the  boy  I  spoke  to — John  thought  as  I 
did,  and  I  never  applied  for  another  donation  to  the 
elder  Ardworth.  The  allowance  ceased:  John  since 
then  has  mamtained  himself.  I  have  heard  no  more 
from  his  father,  though  I  have  written  often  to  the 
address  he  gave  me.  I  begin  to  fear  that  he  is  dead. 
I  once  went  up  to  town  and  saw  one  of  the  heads  of 
Messrs.  Drummonds'  firm — a  very  polite  gentleman, 
but  he  could  give  me  no  information,  except  that  he 
obeyed  instructions  from  a  correspondent  at  Calcutta 
— one  Mr.  Macfarren.  Whereon  1  wrote  to  Mr.  Mac- 
farren,  and  asked  him,  as  I  thought  very  pressingly, 
to  tell  me  all  he  knew  of  poor  Ardworth  the  elder. 
He  answered  shortly,  that  he  knew  of  no  such  person 
at  all,  and  that  A.B.  was  a  French  merchant,  settled  in 
Calcutta,  who  had  been  dead  for  above  two  years.  I 
now  gave  up  all  hopes  of  any  further  intelligence,  and 
was  more  convinced  than  ever  that  I  had  acted  rightly 
in  withholding  from  poor  John  my  correspondence 
with  his  father.  The  lad  had  been  curious  and  inquisi- 
tive naturally,  but  when  I  told  him  that  I  thought  it 
my  duty  to  his  father  to  be  so  reserved,  he  forebore  to 
press  me.  I  have  only  to  add,  first,  that  by  all  the  in- 
quiries I  could  make  of  the  surviving  members  of 
Walter  Ardworth's  family,  it  seemed  their  full  belief 
that  he  had  never  been  married,  and  therefore  I  fear 
we  must  conclude  that  he  had  no  legitimate  children, 
which  may  account  for,  though  it  cannot  excuse,  his 
neglect;  and  secondly,  with  respect  to  the  sums  re- 
ceived on  dear  John's  account — I  put  them  all  by, 
capital  and  interest,  deducting  only  the  expense  of  his 
first  year  at  Cambridge  (the  which  I  could  not  defray, 
without  injuring  my  own  children),  and  it  all  stands  in 
his  name  at  Messrs.  Drummonds',  vested  in  the  Three 
Per  Cents.  That  I  have  not  told  him  of  this  was  by  my 
poor  dear  wife's  advice;  for  she  said  very  sensibly,  and 


she  was  a  shrewd  woman  on  money  matters,  'If  he 
knows  he  has  such  a  large  sum  all  in  the  lump,  who 
knows  but  he  may  grow  idle  and  extravagant,  and 
spend  it  at  once,  like  his  father  before  him;  whereas, 
some  time  or  other,  he  will  want  to  marry,  or  need 
money  for  some  particular  purpose— then  what  a 
blessing  it  will  be  !' 

"  However,  my  dear  madam,  as  you  know  the  world 
better  than  I  do,  you  can  now  do  as  you  please,  both 
as  to  communicating  to  John  all  the  information  herein 
contained  as  to  his  parentage,  and  as  to  apprising  him 
of  the  large  sum  of  which  he  is  lawfvUy  possessed. 

Mathew  Fiklder. 

"  P.S. — In  justice  to  poor  John  Ardworth,  and  to 
show  that  whatever  whim  he  may  have  conceived 
about  his  own  child,  he  had  still  a  heart  kind  enough 
to  rememb.er  mine,  though  Heaven  knows  I  said  noth- 
ing about  them  in  my  letters,  my  eldest  boy  received 
an  offer  of  an  excellent  place  in  a  West  India  mer- 
chant's house,  and  has  got  on  to  be  chief  clerk,  and  my 
seeond  son  was  presented  to  a  living  of  one  hundred 
and  seventeen  pounds  a-year,  by  a  gentleman  he  never 
heard  of.  Though  I  never  traced  these  good  acts  to 
Ardworth,  from  whom  else  could  they  come  ?" 

Ardworth  put  down  the  paper  without  a 
word;  and  Lucretia,  who  had  watched  him 
while  he  read,  was  struck  with  the  self-control 
he  evinced  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  the 
disclosure.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and 
said, 

"  Courage  !  you  have  lost  nothing  !  " 

"  Nothing  !  "  said  Ardworth,  with  a  bitter 
smile.  "  A  father's  love  and  a  father's  name 
— nothing  !  " 

"  But,"  exclaimed  Lucretia,  "  is  this  man 
your  father  ?  Does  a  father's  heart  beat  in 
one  line  of  those  hard  sentences.  No,  no;  it 
seems  to  me  probable — it  seems  to  me  almost 
certain,  that  you  are — "  she  stopped,  and  con- 
tinued with  a  calmer  accent,  "  near  to  my  own 
blood.  I  am  now  in  England — in  London — 
to  prosecute  the  inquiry  built  upon  that  hope. 
If  so — if  so — you  shall—"  Madame  Dalibard 
again  stopped  abruptly,  and  there  was  some- 
thing terrible  in  the  very  exultation  of  her 
countenance.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
resumed,  with-  an  evident  effort  at  self-com- 
mand— "  If  so,  I  have  a  right  to  the  interest  I 
feel  for  you.  Suffer  me  yet  to  be  silent  as  to 
the  grounds  of  my  belief,  and — and — love  me 
a  little  in  the  meanwhile  !  " 

Her  voice  trembled,  as  if  with  rushing  tears, 
at  these  last  words,  and  there  was  almost  an 
agony  in  thejtone  in  which  they  were  said,  and 
in  the  gesture  of  the  clasped  hands  she  held 
out  to  him. 

Much  moved  (amidst  all  his  mingled  emo- 


626 


£  UL  WER  S     WORKS. 


tions  at  the  tale  thus  made  known  to  him)  by 
the  manner  and  voice  of  the  narrator,  Ard- 
worth  bent  down  and  kissed  the  extended 
hands.  Then  he  rose  abruptly,  walked  to  and 
fro  the  room,  muttering  to  himself — paused 
opposite  the  window — threw  it  open,  as  for  air, 
and,  indeed,  fairly  gasped  for  breath.  When 
he  turned  round,  however,  his  face  was  com- 
posed, and  folding  his  arms  on  his  large  breast 
with  a  sudden  action,  he  said  aloud,  and  yet 
rather  to  himself  than  to  his  listener, — 

"What  matter  after  all,  by  what  name  men 
call  our  fathers  ?  We  ourselves  make  our 
own  fate  !  Bastard  or  noble,  not  a  jot  care 
I.  Give  me  ancestors,  I  will  not  disgrace 
them;  raze  from  my  lot  even  the  very  name 
of  father,  and  my  sons  shall  have  an  ancestor 
in  me  ! " 

As  he  thus  spoke,  there  was  a  rough  gran- 
deur in  his  hard  face  and  the  strong  ease  of 
his  powerful  form.  And  while  thus  standing 
and  thus  looking,  the  door  opened,  and  Varney 
walked  in  abruptly. 

These  two  men  had  met  occasionally  at 
Madame  Dalibard's,  but  no  intimacy  had  been 
established  between  them.  Varney  was  for- 
mal and  distant  to  Ardworth,  and  Ardworth 
felt  a  repugnance  to  Varney.  With  the  in- 
stinct of  sound,  sterling,  weighty  natures,  he 
iletected  at  once,  and  disliked  heartily,  that 
something  of  gaudy,  false,  exaggerated,  and 
hollow,  which  pervaded  Gabriel  Varney's  talk 
and  manner — even  the  trick  of  his  walk,  and 
the  cut  of  his  dress.  And  Ardworth  wanted 
that  boyish  and  beautiful  luxuriance  of  char- 
acter which  belonged  to  Percivnl  St.  John, 
easy  to  please  and  to  be  pleased,  and  expand- 
ing into  the  warmth  of  admiration  for  all 
talent  and  all  distinction.  For  art,  if  not  the 
highest,  Ardworth  cared  not  a  straw:  it  was 
nothing  to  him  that  Varney  painted  and  com- 
posed, and  ran  showily  through  the  jargon  of 
literary  babble,  or  toyed  with  the  puzzles  of 
unsatisfying  metaphysics.  He  saw  but  a 
charlatan,  and  he  had  not  yet  learned  from 
experience  what  strength  and  what  danger  lie 
hid  in  the  boa  parading  its  colors  in  the  sun, 
and  shifting,  in  the  sensual  sportiveness  of  its 
being,  from  bough  to  bough. 

Varney  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
as  his  eye  rested  first  on  Ardworth,  and  then 
glanced  towards  Madame  Dalibard.  But 
Ardworth,  jarred  from  his  reverie  or  resolves 


by  the  sound  of  a  voice  discordant  to  his  ear 
at  all  times,  especially  in  the  mood  which  then 
possessed  him,  scarcely  returned  Varney's  salu- 
tation, buttoned  his  coat  over  his  chest,  seized 
his  hat,  and  upsetting  two  chairs,  and  very 
considerably  disturbing  the  gravity  of  a  round 
table,  forced  his  way  to  Madame  Dalibard, 
pressed  her  hand,  and  said  in  a  whisper,  "  I 
shall  see  you  again  soon,"  and  vanished. 

Varney,  soothing  his  hair  with  fingers  that 
shone  with  rings,  slid  into  the  seat  next  Ma- 
dame Dalibard,  which  Ardworth  had  lately 
occupied,  and  said,  "If  I  were  a  clytemnestra, 
I  should  dread  an  Orestes  in  such  a  son  !  " 

Madame  Dalibard  shot  towards  the  speaker 
one  of  the  sidelong  suspicious  glances  which 
of  old  had  characterized  Lucretia,  and  said, 

"  Clytemnestre  was  happy !  The  Furies 
slept  to  her  crime,  and  haunted  but  the 
avenger." 

"  Hist  !  "  said  Varney. 

The  door  opened,  and  Ardworth  reappeared. 

"  I  quite  forgot,  what  I  half  came  to  know. 
— How  is  Helen  ?  Did  she  return  home 
safe  ? " 

"  Safe — yes  !  " 

"  Dear  girl — I  am  glad  to  hear  it  !  Where 
is  she  ?  Not  gone  to  those  Mivers'  again  !  I 
am  no  aristocrat,  but  why  should  one  couple 
together  refinement  and  vulgarity  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Ardworth,"  said  Madame  Dalibard, 
with  haughty  coldness,  "  my  niece  is  under 
my  care,  and  you  will  permit  me  to  judge  for 
myself  how  to  discharge  the  trust.  Mr. 
Mivers  is  her  own  relation — a  nearer  one  than 
you  are." 

Not  at  all  abashed  by  the  rebuke,  Ardworth 
said  carelessly,  "Well,  I  shall  talk  to  you  again 
on  that  subject.  Meanwhile,  pray  give  my 
love  to  her — Helen,  I  mean." 

Madame  Dalibard  half  rose  in  her  chair, 
then  sunk  back  again,  motioning  with  her 
hand  to  Ardworth  to  approach.  Varney  rose 
and  walked  to  the  window,  as  if  sensible  that 
something  was  about  to  be  said  not  meant  for 
his  ear. 

When  Ardworth  was  close  to  her  chair, 
Madame  Dalibard  grasped  his  hand  with  a 
vigor  that  surprised  him,  and  drawing  him 
nearer  still,  whispered  as  he  bent  down — 

"  I  will  give  Helen  your  love,  if  it  is  a 
cousin's — or,  if  you  will,  a  brother's  love. 
Do    you    intend — do    you    feel — another,    a 


LUCRETIA. 


627 


warmer  love  ?  Speak,  sir  !  '  and  drawing 
suddenly  back,  she  gazed  on  his  face,  with  a 
stern  and  menacing  expression,  her  teeth  set, 
and  the  lips  firmly  pressed  together. 

Ardworth,  though  a  little  startled,  and  half 
angry,  answered  with  the  low  ironical  laugh, 
not  uncommon  to  him,  "  Pish  !  you  ladies  are 
apt  to  think  us  men  much  greater  fools  than 
we  are.  A  briefless  lawyer  is  not  very  inflam- 
mable tinder.  Yes,  a  cousin's  love — quite 
enough.  Poor  little  Helen  !  time  enough  to 
put  other  notions  into  her  head;  and  then — 
she  will  have  a  sweetheart,  gay  and  handsome 
like  herself  !  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Madame  Dalibard,  with  a  slight 
smile,  "ay,  I  am  satisfied.     Come  soon." 

Ardworth  nodded,  and  hurried  down  the 
stairs.  As  he  gained  the  door,  he  caught 
sight  of  Helen  at  a  distance,  bending  over  a 
flower-bed  in  the  neglected  garden.  He 
paused,  irresolute,  a  moment.  "No,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself;  "  no,  I  am  fit  company  only 
for  myself !  A  long  walk  into  the  fields,  and 
then — away  with  these  mists  round  the  Past 
and  Future:  the  Present  at  least  is  mine  !  " 


CHAPTER   V. 

The  Weavers  and  the  Woof. 

"  And  what,"  said  Varney — "  what,  while  we 
are  pursuing  a  fancied  clue,  and  seeking  to 
provide  first  a  name,  and  then  a  fortune  for 
this  young  lawyer — what  steps  have  you  really 
taken  to  meet  the  danger  that  menaces  me — 
to  secure,  if  our  inquiries  fail,  an  independence 
for  yourself  ?  Months  have  elapsed,  and  you 
have  still  shrunk  from  advancing  the  great 
scheme  upon  which  we  built,  when  the  daughter 
of  Susan  Mainwaring  was  admitted  to  your 
hearth." 

"  Why  recall  me,  in  these  rare  moments 
when  I  feel  myself  human  still — why  recall 
me  back  to  the  nethermost  abyss  of  revenge 
and  crime  ?  Oh  !  let  me  be  sure  that  I  have 
still  a  son  !  Even  if  John  Ardworth,  with  his 
gifts  and  energies,  be  denied  to  me  ! — a  son, 
though  in  rags,  I  will  give  him  wealth  ! — a 
son,  though  ignorant  as  the  merest  boor,  I  will 
pour  into  his  brain  my  dark  wisdom  ? — a  son — 
a  son  ! — my   heart   swells  at  the  word.     Ah, 


you  sneer  !  Yes,  my  heart  swells,  but  not 
with  the  mawkish  fondness  of  a  feeble  mother. 
In  a  son,  I  shall  live  again — transmigrate  from 
this  tortured  and  horrible  life  of  mine — drink 
back  my  youth.  In  him  I  shall  rise  from  my 
fall — strong  in  his  power — great  in  his  gran- 
deur. It  is  because  I  was  born  a  woman — had 
woman's  poor  passions,  and  infirm  weakness 
that  I  am  what  I  am — I  would  transfer  myself 
into  the  soul  of  man — man  who  has  the  strength 
to  act,  and  the  privilege  to  rise.  Into  the 
bronze  of  man's  nature  I  would  pour  the  ex- 
perience which  has  broken,  with  its  fierce 
elements,  the  puny  vessel  of  clay.  Yes, 
Gabriel,  in  return  for  all  I  have  done  and 
sacrificed  for  you,  I  ask  but  co-operation  in 
that  one  hope  of  my  shattered  and  storm-beat 
being.  Bear — forbear — await — risk  not  that 
hope  by  some  wretched  peddling  crime,  which 
will  bring  on  us  both  detection — some  wanton 
revelry  in  guilt,  which  is  not  worth  the  terror 
that  treads  upon  its  heels." 

"  You  forget,"  answered  Varney,  with  a  kind 
of  submissive  sullenness,  for  whatever  had 
passed  between  these  two  persons  in  their 
secret  and  fearful  intimacy,  there  was  still  a 
power  in  Lucretia,  surviving  her  fall  amidst 
the  fiends,  that  impressed  Varney  with  the 
only  respect  he  felt  for  man  or  woman — "you 
forget  strangely  the  nature  of  our  elaborate 
and  master  project,  when  you  speak  of  '•^ped- 
(lling  crime,'  or  'wanton  revelry'  in  guilt  I 
You  forget,  too,  how  every  hour  that  we 
waste,  deepens  the  peril  that  surrounds  me, 
and  may  sweep  from  your  side  the  sole  com- 
panion that  can  aid  you  in  your  objects — nay, 
without  whom,  they  must  wholly  fail.  Let  me 
speak  first  of  that  most  urgent  danger,  for 
your  memory  seems  short  and  troubled,  since 
you  have  learned  only  to  hope  the  recovery  of 
your  son.  If  this  man,  Stubmore,  in  whom 
the  trust  created  by  my  uncle's  will  is  now 
vested — once  comes  to  town — once  begins  to 
bustle  about  his  accursed  projects  of  transfer- 
ring the  money  from  the  Bank  of  England,  I 
tell  you  again  and  again  that  my  forgery  on 
the  bank  will  be  detected,  and  that  transpor- 
tation will  be  the  smallest  penalty  inflicted; 
part  of  the  forgery,  as  you  know,  was  com- 
mitted on  your  behalf,  to  find  the  monies 
necessary  for  the  research  for  your  son — com- 
mitted on  the  clear  understanding,  that  our 
project  on   Helen  should  repay  me — should 


628 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


enable  me,  perhaps  undetected,  to  restore  the 
sums  illegally  abstracted,  or,  at  the  worst  to 
confess  to  Stubmore,  whose  character  I  well 
know — that  oppressed  by  difficulties,  I  had 
yielded  to  temptation — that  I  had  forged  his 
name  (as  I  had  forged  his  father's)  as  an 
authority  to  sell  the  capital  from  the  bank, 
and  that  now,  in  replacing  the  money,  I  repaid 
my  error,  and  threw  myself  on  his  indulgence 
— on  his  silence.  I  say,  that  I  know  enough 
of  the  man  to  know,  that  I  should  be  thus 
cheaply  saved,  or  at  the  worst,  I  should  have 
but  to  strengthen  his  compassion  by  a  bribe 
to  his  avarice.  But  if  I  cannot  replace  the 
money,  I  am  lost." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Lucretia,  "the  money 
you  shall  have,  let  me  but  find  my  son, 
and " 

"  Grant  me  patience  !  "  cried  Varney,  im- 
petuously; "  but  what  can  your  son  do,  if 
found,  unless  you  endow  him  with  the  heritage 
of  Laughton  ?  To  do  that,  Helen,  who  comes 
next  to  Percival  St.  John,  in  the  course  of  the 
entail,  must  cease  to  live  !  Have  I  not  aided 
— am  I  not  aiding  you  hourly,  in  your  grand 
objects  ?  This  evening  I  shall  see  a  man 
whom  I  have  long  lost  sight  of,  but  who  has 
acquired  in  a  lawyer's  life  the  true  scent  after 
evidence;— if  that  evidence  exist,  it  shall  be 
found.  I  have  just  learned  his  address.  By 
to-morrow  he  shall  be  on  the  track.  I  have 
stinted  myself  to  save  from  the  results  of  the 
last  forgery  the  gold  to  whet  his  zeal.  For 
the  rest,  as  I  have  said,  your  design  involves 
the  removal  of  two  lives.  Already,  over  the 
one  more  difficult  to  slay,  the  shadow  creeps 
and  the  pall  hangs.  I  have  won,  as  you  wished 
and  as  was  necessary,  young  St.  John's  familiar 
acquaintance;  when  the  hour  comes,  he  is  in 
my  hands." 

Lucretia  smiled  sternly:  "  If,"  she  said, 
between  her  ground  teeth,  "  the  father  forbade 
me  the  house  that  was  my  heritage  !  I  have 
but  to  lift  a  finger  and  breathe  a  word,  and, 
desolate  as  I  am,  I  thrust  from  that  home  the 
son  !  The  spoiler  left  me  the  world — I  leave 
his  son  the  grave  !  " 

"  But,"  said  Varney,  doggedly  pursuing  his 
dreadful  object,  "  why  force  me  to  repeat  that 
his  is  not  the  only  life  between  you  and  your 
son's  inheritance  ?  St.  John  gone,  Helen  still 
remains.  And  what,  if  your  researches  fail, 
are  we  to  lose  the  rich   harvest  which   Helen 


will  yield  us — a  harvest  you  reap  with  the  same 
sickle  which  gathers  in  your  revenge  ?  Do 
you  no  longer  see  in  Helen's  face  the  features 
of  her  mother  ?  Is  the  perfidy  of  William 
Mainwaring  forgotten  or  forgiven  ? " 

"  Gabriel  Varney,"  said  Lucretia,  in  a  hol- 
low and  tremulous  voice,  "when  in  that  hour 
in  which  my  whole  being  was  revulsed,  and  1 
heard  the  cord  snap  from  the  anchor,  and  saw 
the  demons  of  the  storm  gather  round  my 
bark — when,  in  that  hour,  I  stooped  calmly 
down  and  kissed  my  rival's  brow,  I  murmured 
an  oath,  which  seemed  not  inspired  by  my  own 
soul,  but  by  an  influence  henceforth  given  to 
my  fate — I  vowed  that  the  perfidy  dealt  to  me 
should  be  repaid — I  vowed  that  the  ruin  of  my 
own  existence  should  fall  on  the  brow  which  I 
kissed.  I  vowed  that  if  shame  and  disgrace 
were  to  supply  the  inheritance  I  had  forfeited, 
I  would  not  stand  alone  amidst  the  scorn  of 
the  pitiless  world.  In  the  vision  of  ray  agony, 
I  saw,  afar,  the  altar  dressed,  and  the  bride- 
chamber  prepared,  and  I  breathed  my  curse, 
strong  as  prophecy,  on  the  marriage-hearth 
and  the  marriage-bed.  Why  dream,  then,  that 
I  would  rescue  the  loathed  child  of  that  loathed 
union  from  your  grasp  ? — But  is  the  time 
come  ?    Yours  may  be  come — is  mine  ? " 

Something  so  awful  there  was  in  the  look  of 
his  accomplice — so  intense  in  the  hate  of  her 
low  voice — that  Varney,  wretch  as  he  was,  and 
contemplating  at  that  very  hour  the  foulest, 
and  most  hideous  guilt,  drew  back,  appalled. 

Madame  Dalibard  resumed,  and  in  a  some- 
what softer  tone,  but  softened  only  by  the 
anguish  of  despair. 

"  Oh,  had  it  been  otherwise,  what  might  I 
have  been  !  Given  over  from  that  hour  to  the 
very  incirnation  of  plotting  crime — none  to 
resist  the  evil  impulse  of  my  own  maddening 
heart — the  partner,  forced  on  me  by  fate,  lead- 
ing me  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  inextricable 
hell — from  that  hour,  fraud  upon  fraud,  guilt 
upon  guilt,  infamy  heaped  on  infamy,  till  I 
stand  a  marvel  to  myself  that  the  thunderbolt 
falls  not — that  Nature  thrusts  not  from  her 
breast  a  living  outrage  on  all  her  laws  I  Was 
I  not  justified  in  the  desire  of  retribution  ? 
Every  step  that  I  fell,  every  glance  that  1  gave 
to  the  gulf  below,  increased  but  in  me  the  de- 
sire for  revenge.  All  my  acts  had  flowed  from 
one  fount — should  the  stream  roll  pollution, 
and  the  fount  spring  pure  ? " 


LUCRETIA. 


629 


••  Yua  have  had  your  revenge  on  your  rival 
and  her  husband." 

"  I  had  it,  and  I  passed  on  !  "  said  Lucretia 
with  nostrils  dilated  as  with  haughty  triumph; 
"  They  were  crushed,  and  I  suffered  them  to 
live  !  Nay,  when,  by  chance,  I  heard  of  Wil- 
liam Mainwaring's  death,  I  bowed  down  my 
head,  and  I  almost  think  I  wept.  The  old 
days  came  back  upon  me.  Yes,  I  wept !  But 
I  had  not  destroyed  their  love.  No,  no;  there, 
I  had  miserably  failed.  A  pledge  of  that  love 
lived.  I  had  left  their  hearth  barren;  Fate 
sent  them  a  comfort,  which  I  had  not  foreseen. 
And  suddenly  my  hate  returned,  my  wrongs 
rose  again,  my  vengeance  was  not  sated.  The 
love  that  had  destroyed  more  than  my  life — 
my  soul,  rose  again  and  cursed  me  in  the  face 
of  Helen.  The  oath  which  I  took  when  I 
kissed  my  rival's  brow,  demanded  another  prey 
when  I  kissed  the  child  of  those  nuptials." 

"  You  are  prepared  at  last,  then,  to  act  ?  " 
cried  Varney,  in  a  tone  of  savage  joy. 

At  that  moment,  close  under  the  window, 
•■ose,  sudden  and  sweet,  the  voice  of  one  sing- 
ing— the  young  voice  of  Helen.  The  words 
were  so  distinct  that  they  came  to  the  ears  of 
the  dark-plotting,  and  guilty  pair.  In  the 
song  itself  there  was  little  to  remark,  or  pecu- 
liarly apposite  to  the  consciences  of  those 
who  heard;  yet  in  the  extreme  and  touching 
purity  of  the  voice,  and  in  the  innocence  of 
the  general  spirit  of  the  words,  trite  as  might 
be  the  image  they  conveyed,  there  was  some- 
thing that  contrasted  so  fearfully  their  own 
thoughts  and  minds,  that  they  sate  silent, 
looking  vacantly  into  each  other's  faces,  and 
shrinking,  perhaps  to  turn  their  eyes  within 
themselves. 

HELEN'S  HYMN. 

"  Ye  fade,  yet  still  how  sweet,  ye  Flowers! 

Your  scent  outlives  the  bloom! 
So,  Father,  may  my  mortal  hours 

Grow  sweeter  towards  the  tombl 

"  In  withered  leaves  a  healing  cure 

The  simple  gleaners  find; 
So  may  our  withered  hopes  endure 

In  virtues  left  behind  ! 

"  Oh,  not  to  me  be  vainly  given 

The  lesson  ye  bestow, 
Of  thoughts  that  rise  in  sweets  to  Heaven, 

And  turn  to  use  below." 

The  song  died,  but  still  the  listeners  re- 
mained  silent,  till  at  length   shaking  off  the 


effect,  with  his  laugh  of  discordant  irony, 
Varney  said, — 

"  Sweet  innocence,  fresh  from  the  nursery  ! 
Would  it  not  be  sin  to  suffer  the  world  to  mar 
it  ?  You  hear  the  prayer — why  not  grant  it, 
and  let  the  flower  '  turn  to  use  beloiv  ? '  " 

"  Ah,  but  could  it  wither  first !  "  muttered 
Lucretia,  with  an  accent  of  suppressed  rage. 
"Do  you  think  that  her — that  his— daughter 
is  to  me  but  a  vulgar  life,  to  be  sacrificed 
merely  for  gold  ?  Imagine  away  your  sex, 
man  !  Women  only  know  what  I — such  as  I, 
woman  still — feel  in  the  presence  of  the  pure  ! 
Do  you  fancy  that  I  should  not  have  held 
death  a  blessing,  if  death  could  have  found  me 
in  youth  such  as  Helen  is  ?  Ah,  could  she  but 
live  to  suffer !  Die  !  Well,  since  it  must 
be — since  my  son  requires  the  sacrifice — 
do  as  you  will  with  the  victim  that  death 
mercifully  snatches  from  my  grasp.  I  could 
have  wished  to  prolong  her  life,  to  load  it  with 
some  fragment  of  the  curse  her  parents  heaped 
upon  me  ! — baffled  love,  and  ruin,  and  de- 
spair ! — I  could  have  hoped  in  this  division 
of  the  spoil,  that  mine  had  been  the  vengeance, 
if  yours  the  gold.  You  want  the  life — I  the 
heart; — the  heart  to  torture  first,  and  then — 
why  then — more  willingly  than  I  do  now, 
could  I  have  thrown  the  carcass  to  the 
jackal  ! " 

"  Listen  !  "  began  Varney,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Helen  herself  stood  unconsciously 
smiling  at  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

The  Lawyer  and  the  Body-snatcher. 

That  same  evening,  Beck,  according  to 
appointment,  met  Percival,  and  showed  him 
the  dreary-looking  house,  which  held  the  fair 
stranger  who  had  so  attracted  his  youthful 
fancy.  And  Percival  looked  at  the  high  walls, 
with  the  sailor's  bold  desire  for  adventure, 
while  confused  visions  reflected  from  plays, 
operas,  and  novels,  in  which  scahng  walls  with 
rope  ladders  and  dark  lanterns,  was  represented 
as  the  natural  avocation  of  a  lover,  flitted 
across  his  brain;— and  certainly  he  gave  a 
deep  sigh,  as  his  common  sense  plucked  him 
back  from  such  romance.     However,  having 


030 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


now  ascertained  the  house,  it  would  be  easy  to 
learn  the  name  of  its  inmates,  and  to  watch  or 
make  his  opportunity.  As  slowly  and  reluc- 
tantly he  walked  back  to  the  spot  where  he 
had  left  his  cabriolet,  he  entered  into  some 
desultory  conversation  with  his  strange  guide; 
and  the  pity  he  had  before  conceived  for  Beck, 
increased  upon  him,  as  he  talked  and  listened. 
This  benighted  mind,  only  illumined  by  a  kind 
of  miserable  astuteness,  and  that  'cuiming  of 
the  belly  '  which  is  born  of  want  to  engender 
avarice — this  joyless  temperament — this  age 
in  youth — this  living  reproach,  rising  up  from 
the  stones  of  London  against  our  social  indif- 
ference to  the  souls  which  wither  and  rot  under 
the  hard  eyes  of  science  and  the  deaf  ears  of 
wealth,  had  a  pathos  for  his  lively  sympathies 
and  his  fresh  heart. 

"If  ever  you  want  a  friend,  come  to  me," 
said  St.  John,  abruptly. 

The  sweeper  stared,  and  a  gleam  of  diviner 
nature,  a  ray  of  gratitude  and  unselfish  devo- 
tion, darted  through  the  fog  and  darkness  of 
his  mind.  He  stood,  with  his  hat  off,  watching 
the  wheels  of  the  cabriolet,  as  it  bore  away  the 
happy  child  of  fortune,  and  then  shaking  his 
head,  as  at  some  puzzle  that  perplexed  and 
defied  his  comprehension,  strode  back  to  the 
town,  and  bent  his  way  homeward. 

Between  two  and  three  hours  after,  Percival 
thus  parted  from  the  sweeper,  a  man  whose 
dress  was  little  m  accordance  with  the  scene 
in  which  we  present  him,  threaded  his  way 
through  a  foul  labyrinth  of  alleys  in  the  worst 
part  of  St.  Giles's:  a  neighborhood,  indeed, 
carefully  shunned  at  dusk,  by  wealthy  passen- 
gers; for  here  dwelt  not  only  Penury  in  its 
grimmest  shape,  but  the  desperate  and  dan- 
gerous Guilt,  which  is  not  to  be  lightly  en- 
countered in  its  haunts  and  domiciles.  Here 
children  imbide  vice  with  their  mother's  milk. 
Here  Prostitution,  commencing  with  child- 
hood, grows  fierce  and  sanguinary  in  the  teens, 
and  leagues  with  theft  and  murder.  Here 
slinks  the  pickpocket — here  emerges  the  burg- 
lar— here  skulks  the  felon.  Yet  all  about  and 
all  around,  here,  too,  may  be  found  virtue  in 
its  rarest  and  noblest  form — virtue  outshining 
circumstance  and  defying  temptation — the  vir- 
tue of  utter  poverty,  which  groans  and  yet  sins 
not.  So  interwoven  are  these  webs  of  penury 
and  fraud,  that  in  one  court  your  life  is  not 
safe,  but  turn  to  the   right  hand,  and   in  the 


other,  you  might  sleep  safely  in  that  worse 
than  Irish  shealing,  though  your  pockets  were 
full  of  gold.  Through  these  haunts,  the  ragged 
and  penniless  may  walk  unfearing,  for  they 
have  nothing  to  dread  from  the  lawless — more, 
perhaps,  from  the  law;  but  the  wealthy,  the 
respectable,  the  spruce,  the  dainty,  let  them 
beware  the  spot,  unless  the  policeman  is  in 
sight,  or  day  is  in  the  skies  ! 

As  this  passenger,  whose  appearance,  as  we 
have  implied,  was  certainly  not  that  of  a  deni- 
zen, turned  into  one  of  the  alleys,  a  rough 
hand  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  suddenly  a 
group  of  girls  and  tatterdemalions  issued  from 
a  house,  in  which  the  lower  shutters  unclosed, 
showed  a  light  burning,  and  surrounded  him 
with  a  hoarse  whoop. 

The  passenger  whispered  a  word  in  the  eai 
of  the  grim  blackguard  who  had  seized  him, 
and  his  arm  was  instantly  released. 

"  Hist  !  a  pal:  he  has  the  catch,"  said  the 
blackguard,  surily.  The  'group  gave  way, 
and  by  the  light  of  the  clear  star-lit  skies  and 
a  single  lamp,  hung  at  the  entrance  of  the 
alley,  gazed  upon  the  stranger.  But  they 
made  no  effort  to  detain  him;  and  as  he  disap- 
peared in  the  distant  shadows,  hastened  back 
into  the  wretched  hostelry,  where  they  had 
been  merry-making.  Meanwhile,  the  stranger 
gained  a  narrow  court,  and  stopped  before  a 
house  in  one  of  its  angles — a  house  taller  than 
the  rest — so  much  taller  than  the  rest,  that  it 
had  the  effect  of  a  tower;  you  would  have  sup- 
posed it  (perhaps,  rightly)  to  be  the  last  remains 
of  some  ancient  building  of  importance,  around 
which,  as  population  thickened  and  fashion 
changed,  the  huts  below  it  had  insolently 
sprung  up.  Quaint  and  massive  pilasters,  black 
with  the  mire  and  soot  of  centuries,  flanked 
the  deep-set  door:  the  windows  were  heavy  with 
mullions  and  transoms,  and  strongly  barred  in 
the  lower  floor;  but  few  of  the  panes  were 
whole,  and  only  here  and  there  had  any 
attempt,  been  made  to  keep  out  the  wind  and 
rain  by  rags,  paper,  old  shoes,  old  hats,  and 
other  ingenious  contrivances.  Beside  the 
door  was  conveniently  placed  a  row  of  some 
ten  or  twelve  bell  pulls,  appertaining  no  doubt 
to  the  various  lodgements  into  which  the  build- 
ing was  subdivided.  The  stranger  did  not 
seem  very  familiar  with  the  appurtenances  of 
the  place.  He  stood  in  some  suspense,  as  to 
the  proper  bell  to  select,  but  at  last  guided  by 


LUCRETIA. 


631 


a  brass-plate  annexed  to  one  of  the  pulls, 
which,  though  it  was  too  dark  to  decipher  the 
inscription,  denoted  a  claim  to  superior  gentility 
than  the  rest  of  that  nameless  class,  he 
hazarded  a  tug,  which  brought  forth  a  larum 
loud  enough  to  startle  the  whole  court  from  its 
stillness. 

In  a  minute  or  less,  the  casement  in  one  of 
the  upper  stories  opened,  a  head  peered  forth, 
and  one  of  those  voices  peculiar  to  low  debauch 
— raw,  cracked,  and  hoarse — called  out,  "  Who 
waits  ? " 

"  Is  it  you,  Grabman  ?"  asked  the  stranger 
dubiously. 

"Yes;  Nicolas  Grabman,  attorney-at-law, 
sir,  at  your  service:  and  your  name  ?  " 

"Jason,"  answered  the  stranger. 

"  Ho  !  there — ho  !  Beck,"  cried  the  cracked 
voice  to  some  one  within;  "go  down  and  open 
the  door." 

In  a  few  moments  the  heavy  portal  swung 
and  creaked,  and  yawned  sullenly,  and  a  gaunt 
form,  half-undressed,  with  an  inch  of  a  farthing 
rushlight,  glimmering  through  a  battered  lan- 
tern, in  its  hand,  presented  itself  to  Jason. 
The  last  eyed  the  ragged  porter  sharply. 

"  Do  you  live  here  ? " 

"Yes,"  answered  Beck,  with  the  cringe 
habitual  to  him.  "  H-up  the  ladder,  with  the 
rats,  drat'em." 

"Well,  lead  on — hoM  up  the  lantern;  a 
devil  of  a  dark  place  this  !  "  grumbled  Jason, 
as  he  nearly  stumbled  over  sundry  broken 
chattels,  and  gained  a  flight  of  rude,  black, 
broken  stairs,  that  creaked  under  his  tread. 

"  'St  !  'st  !  "  said  Beck,  between  his  teeth, 
as  the  stranger,  halting  at  the  second  floor, 
demanded,  in  no  gentle  tones,  whether  Mr. 
Grabman  lived  in  the  chimney-pots. 

"  'St !  'st  ! — don't  make  such  a  rumpus,  or 
No.  7  will  be  at  you.  ' 

"  What  do  I  care  for  No  7  ?  and  who  the 
devil  is  No.  7  ?  " 

"  A  Body-snatcher  !  "  whispered  Beck,  with 
a  shudder.  "  He's  a  dillicut  sleeper,  and 
can't  abide  having  his  night's  rest  sp'lt.  And 
he's  the  houtrageoustest  great  cretur,  when 
he's  h-up  in  his  tantrums — it  makes  your  hair 
stand  on  ind  to  hear  him  !  " 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  him, 
then,"  said  the  stranger  curiously.  And 
while  he  spoke,  the  door  of  No.  7  opened  ab- 
ruptly.    A    huge    head,  covered    with  matted 


hair,  was  thrust  for  a  moment  through  the 
aperture,  and  two  dull  eyes,  that  seem  covered 
with  a  film,  like  that  of  the  birds  which  feed 
on  the  dead,  met  the  stranger's  bold  sparkling 
orbs. 

"  Hell  and  fury,"  bawled  out  the  voice  of 
this  ogre,  like  a  clap  of  near  thunder,  "  if  you 
two  keep — tramp,  tramp  there,  close  at  my 
door,  I'll  make  you  meat  for  the  surgeons — 
b- 


you  ; 

"  Stop  a  moment,  my  civil  friend,"  said  the 
stranger,  advancing;  "  just  stand  where  you 
are;  I  should  like  to  make  a  sketch  of  your 
head." 

That  head  protruded  farther  from  the  door, 
and  with  it  an  enormous  bulk  of  chest  and 
shoulder.  But  the  adventurous  visitor  was  not 
to  be  daunted.  He  took  out,  very  coolly,  a 
pencil,  and  the  back  of  a  letter,  and  began  his 
sketch. 

The  body-snatcher  stared  at  him  an  instant, 
in  mute  astonishment;  but  that  operation  and 
the  composure  of  the  artist  were  so  new  to  him, 
that  they  actually  inspired  him  with  terror. 
He  slunk  back — banged-to  the  door.  And  the 
stranger,  putting  up  his  implements,  said,  with 
a  disdainful  laugh,  to  Beck,  who  had  slunk 
away  into  a  corner — 

"  No.  7  knows  well  how  to  take  care  of  No. 
I.     Lead  on,  and  be  quick  then  !  " 

As  they  continued  to  mount,  they  heard  the 
body-snatcher  growling  and  blaspheming  in 
his  den,  and  the  sound  made  Beck  clamber 
the  quicker,  till  at  the  next  landing-place,  he 
took  breath,  threw  open  a  door,  and  Jason, 
pushing  him  aside,  entered  first. 

The  interior  of  the  room  bespoke  better  cir- 
cumstances than  might  have  been  supposed 
from  the  approach:  the  floor  was  covered  with 
sundry  scraps  of  carpets,  formerly  of  different 
hues  and  patterns,  but  mellowed  by  time  into 
one  threadbare  mass  of  grease  and  canvas. 
There  was  a  good  fire  on  the  hearth,  though 
the  night  was  warm:  there  were  sundry  vol- 
umes piled  round  the  walls,  in  the  binding 
peculiar  to  law  books;  in  a  corner,  stood  a  tall 
desk,  of  the  fashion  used  by  clerks,  perched 
on  tall  slim  legs,  and  companioned  by  a  tall 
slim  stool.  On  a  table  before  the  fire,  were 
scattered  the  remains  of  the  nightly  meal; 
broiled  bones,  the  skeleton  of  a  herring;  and 
the  steam  rose  from  a  tumbler,  containing  a 
liquid,  colorless  as  water,  but  poisonous  as  gin. 


632 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


The  room  was  squalid  and  dirty,  and  be- 
spoke mean  and  slovenly  habits,  but  it  did  not 
bespeak  penury  and  want;  it  had  even  an  air 
of  filthy  comfort  of  its  own — the  comfort  of 
the  swine  in  its  warm  sty.  The  occupant  of 
the  chamber  was  in  keeping  with  the  localities. 
Figure  to  yourself  a  man  of  middle  height — 
not  thin,  but  void  of  all  muscular  flesh, 
bloated,  puffed,  unwholesome.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  gray  flannel  gown  and  short  breeches,  the 
stockings  wringled  and  distained,  the  feet  in 
slippers.  The  stomach  was  that  of  a  portly 
man,  the  legs  those  of  a  skeleton;  the  cheeks 
full  and  swollen,  like  a  plough-boy's,  but  livid, 
bespeckled,  of  a  dull  lead-color,  like  a  patient 
in  the  dropsy.  The  head,  covered  in  patches 
with  thin,  yellowish  hair,  gave  some  promise 
of  intellect,  for  the  forehead  was  high,  and  ap- 
peared still  more  so  from  partial  baldness;  the 
eyes,  embedded  in  fat  and  wrinkled  skin,  were 
small  and  lustreless,  but  they  still  had  that 
acute  look  which  education  and  ability  com- 
municate to  the  human  orb;  the  mouth  most 
showed  the  animal — full-lipped, — coarse,  and 
sensual;  while,  behind  one  of  two  great  ears 
stuck  a  pen. 

You  see  before  you,  then,  this  slatternly 
figure — slip-shod,  half-clothed,  with  a  sort  of 
shabby-demigentility  about  it — half  ragamuffin, 
half  clerk;  while,  in  strong  contrast,  appeared 
the  new-comer,  scrupulously  neat,  new — with 
bright  black  satin  stock,  coat  cut  jauntily  to 
the  waist,  varnished  boots,  kid  gloves,  and 
trim  moustache. 

Behind  this  sleek  and  comely  personage,  on 
knock-knees,  in  torn  shirt  open  at  the  throat, 
with  apathetic,  listless,  unlighted  face,  stood 
the  lean  and  gawkey  Beck. 

"  Set  a  chair  for  the  gentleman,"  said  the 
inmate  of  the  chamber  to  Beck  with  a  dignified 
wave  of  the  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr. — Mr. — humph — 
Jason  ? — how  do  you  do  ? — always  smart  and 
blooming — the  world  thrives  with  you." 

"  The  world  is  a  farm,  that  thrives  with  all 
who  till  it  properly,  Grabman,"  answered  Jason, 
drily,  and  with  his  hankerchief  he  carefully 
dusted  the  chair  on  which  he  then  daintily  de- 
posited his  person. 

"  But  who  is  your  Ganymede — your  valet, 
your  gentleman  usher  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  a  lad  about  town,  who  lodges  above  ! 
and  does  odd  jobs  for  me — brushes  my  coat. 


cleans  my  shoes,  and,  after  his  day's  work 
goes  an  errand  now  and  then.  Make  yourself 
scarce.  Beck  ! — Anatomy,  vanish  !  " 

Beck  grinned,  nodded,  pulled  hard  at  a 
flake  of  his  hair,  and  closed  the  door. 

"One  of  your  brotherhood,  that  ?"  asked 
Jason,  carelessly. 

"  He,  oaf  ! — no,"  said  Grabman,  with  pro- 
found contempt  in  his  sickly  visage.  "  He 
works  for  his  bread  ! — instinct  ! — turnspits, 
and  truffle-dogs,  and  some  silly  men  have 
it !-— What  an  age  since  we  met — shall  I  mix 
you  a  tumbler  ?  " 

"You  know  I  never  drink  your  vile  spirits; 
though  in  Champagne  and  Bordeaux  I  am  any 
man's  match." 

"  And  how  the  devil  do  you  keep  old  black 
thoughts  out  or  your  mind  by  those  washy 
potations  ?" 

"  Old  black  thoughts  !— of  what  ?  " 
1  "  Of  black   actions,    Jason.     We  have  not 
met  since  you  paid  me  for  recommending  the 
nurse  who  attended  your  uncle  in  his  last  ill- 
ness ? ' 

"  Well,  poor  coward  ?  " 

Grabman  knit  his  thin  eyebrows,  and  gnawed 
his  blubber  lip — ■ 

"  I  am  no  coward,  as  you  know." 

"  Not  when  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  but  after 
it  is  done.  You  brave  the  substance,  and 
tremble  at  the  shad«w.  I  dare  say  you  see 
ugly  goblins  in  the  dark,  Grabman." 

"Ay,  ay;  but  it  is  no  use  talking  to  you. 
You  call  yourself  Jason,  because  of  your 
yellow  hair,  or  your  love  for  the  golden  fleece; 
but  your  old  comrades  called  you  Rattlesnake, 
and  you  have  its  blood,  as  its  venom." 

"  And  its  charm,  man,"  added  Jason,  with  a 
strange  smile,  that,  though  hypocritical  and 
constrained,  had  yet  a  certain  softness,  and 
added  greatly  to  the  comeliness  of  features, 
which  many  might  call  beautiful,  and  all  would 
allow  to  be  regular  and  symmetrical.  "I 
shall  find  at  least  ten  love-letters  on  my  table, 
when  I  go  home.  But  enough  of  these  fop- 
peries: I  am  here  on  business." 

"Law,  of  course;  I  am  your  man — who's 
the  victim  ? "  and  a  hideous  grin  on  Grabman's 
face  contrasted  the  sleek  smile  that  yet  lingered 
upon  his  visitor's. 

"No;  something  less  hazardous,  but  not 
less  lucrative  than  our  old  practices.  This  is 
a   business   that   may   bring    you    hundreds, 


LUCRETIA. 


633 


thousands — that  may  take  yoii  from  this  hovel, 
to  speculate  at  the  West  End — that  may 
change  your  gin  into  Lafitte,  and  your  herring 
into  venison — that  may  lift  the  broken  attor- 
ney again  upon  the  wheel, — again  to  roll  down, 
it  may  be;  but  that  is  your  affair." 

"  'Fore  Gad,  open  the  case,"  cried  Grabman, 
eagerly,  and  shoving  aside  the  ignoble  relics 
of  his  supper,  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  the 
table,  and  his  chin  on  his  damp  palms,  while 
eyes,  that  positively  brightened  into  an  expres- 
sion of  greedy  and  relentless  intelligence,  were 
fixed  upon  his  visitor. 

"The  case  runs  thus,"  said  Jason:  "Once 
upon  a  time,  there  lived,  at  an  old  house  in 
Hampshire,  called  Laughton,  a  wealthy  baronet 
named  St.  John.  He  was  a  bachelor — his 
estates  at  his  own  disposal.  He  had  two 
nieces  and  a  more  distant  kinsman.  His 
eldest  niece  lived  with  him — she  was  sup- 
posed to  be  destined  for  his  heiress;  circnm- 
stances,  needless  to  relate,  brought  upon  this 
girl  her  uncle's  displeasure — she  was  dismissed 
his  house.  Shortly  afterwards  he  die<l,  leav- 
ing to  his  kinsman — a  Mr.  Vernon — his  estates, 
with  remainder  to  Mr.  Vernon's  issue,  and,  in 
default  thereof  —  first,  to  the  issue  of  the 
younger  niece,  next  to  that  of  the  elder  and 
disinherited  one.  The  elder  married,  and  was 
left  a  widow,  without  children.  She  married 
again,  and  had  a  son.  Her  second  husband, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  conceived  ill  opin- 
ions of  his  wife.  In  his  last  illness  (he  did 
not  live  long)  he  resolved  to  punish  the  wife 
by  robbing  the  mother.  He  sent  away  the 
son — nor  have  we  been  able  to  discover  him 
since.     It  is  that  son  whom  you  are  to  find." 

"  I  see,  I  see  ! — go  on,"  said  Grabman. 
"  This  son  is  now  the  remainder-man.  How 
lost  ? — when  ? — what  year  ? — what  trace  ?  " 

"  Patience  !  You  will  find  in  this  paper  the 
date  of  the  loss,  and  the  age  of  the  child,  then 
a  mere  infant.  Now  for  the  trace.  This  hus- 
band—did I  tell  you  his  name  ?— no — Alfred 
Braddell — had  one  friend  more  intimate  than 
the  rest — John  Walter  Ardworth,  a  cashiered 
officer,  a  ruined  man,  pursued  by  bill-brokers, 
Jews  and  bailiflfs.  To  this  man  we  have  lately 
had  reason  to  believe  that  the  child  was  given. 
Ardworth,  however,  was  shortly  afterwards 
obliged  to  fly  his  creditors.  We  know  that  he 
went  to  India,  but  if  residing  there,  it  must 
have  been  under  some  new  name,  and  we  fear 


he  is  now  dead.  All  our  inquiries  at  least, 
after  this  man — have  been  fruitless.  Before 
he  went  abroad,  he  left  with  his  old  tutor  a 
child,  corresponding  in  age  to  that  of  Mrs. 
Braddell's.  In  this  child,  she  thinks  she  recog- 
nizes her  son.  All  that  you  have  to  do  is  to 
trace  his  idenity,  by  good  legal  evidence — 
don't  smile  in  that  foolish  way — I  mean  sound 
bond  fide  e.-^\A&c\Q.e.,  that  will  stand  the  fire  of 
cross-examination;  you  know  what  thai  is! 
You  will  therefore  find  out — first,  whether 
Braddell  did  consign  his  child  to  Ardworth, 
and,  if  so,  you  must  then  follow  Ardworth, 
with  that  child  in  his  keeping,  to  Matthew 
Fielden's  house,  whose  address  you  find  noted 
in  the  paper  I  gave  you,  together  with  many 
other  memoranda  as  to  Ardworth's  creditors, 
and  those  whom  he  is  likely  to  have  come 
across." 

"  John  Ardworth,  I  see  ! 

"  John  Walter  Ardworth,  commonly  called 
Walter;  he,  like  me,  preferred  to  be  known 
only  by  his  second  baptismal  name.  He,  be- 
cause of  a  favorite  Radical  godfather — I,  be- 
cause Honore  is  an  inconvenient  Gallicism, 
and  perhaps,  when  Honore  Mirabeau  i'/y  (god- 
father) went  out  of  fashion  with  the  sans- 
culottes, my  father  thought  Gabriel  a  safer 
designation.     Now  I  have  told  you  all  !  " 

"  What  is  the  mother's  maiden  name  ?" 

"  Her  maiden  name  was  Clavering;  she  was 
married  under  that  of  Dalibard,  her  first  hus- 
band." 

"And,"  said  Grabman,  looking  over  the 
notes  in  the  paper  given  to  him,  "  it  is  at 
Liverpool  that  the  husband  died,  and  whence 
the  child  was  sent  away  ?  " 

"It  is  so;  to  Liverpool  you  will  go  first.  I 
tell  you  fairly,  the  task  is  difficult,  for  hitherto 
it  has  foiled  me.  I  knew  but  one  man  who, 
without  flattery,  could  succeed;  and  therefore 
I  spared  no  pains  to  find  out  Nicholas  Grab- 
man.  You  have  the  true  ferret's  faculty;  you, 
too,  are  a  lawyer,  and  snuff  evidenee  in  every 
breath.  Find  up  a  son — a  legal  son — a  son 
to  be  shown  in  a  court  of  law,  and  the  moment 
he  steps  into  the  lands  and  the  Hall  of  Laugh- 
ton,  you  have  5000/." 

"  Can  I  have  a  bond  to  that  effect  ? 

"  My  bond  I  fear  is  worth  no  more  than  my 
word.  Trust  to  the  last: — if  I  break  it  you 
know  enough  of  my  secrets  to  hang  me  !  " 

"  Don't  talk  of  hanging — I  hate  that  sub- 


034 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


ject.  But  stop— if  found,  does  this  son  suc- 
ceed ?  Did  this  Mr.  Vernon  leave  no  heir — this 
other  sister  continue  single,  or  prove  barren  ?" 

"  Oh,  true  !  he,  Mr  Vernon,  who  by  will  took 
the  name  of  St.  John, — he  left  issue — but  only 
one  son  still  survives,  a  minor  and  unmarried. 
The  sister,  too,  left  a  daughter;  both  are  poor 
sickly  creatures — their  lives  not  worth  a  straw. 
Never  mind  them.  You  find  Vincent  Brad- 
dell,  and  he  will  not  be  long  out  of  his  prop- 
erty, nor  you  out  of  your  5000/.  !  You  see, 
under  there  circumstances,  a  bond  might  be- 
come dangerous  evidence  !  " 

Graham  emitted  a  fearful  and  tremulous 
chuckle — a  laugh,  like  the  laugh  of  a  super- 
stitious man  when  you  talk  to  him  of  ghosts 
and  churchyards.  He  chuckled — and  his 
hair  bristled  !  But,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he 
seemed  to  wrestle  with  his  own  conscience,  he 
said—"  Well,  well — you  are  a  strange  man, 
Jason,  you  love  your  joke — I  have  nothing  to 
do,  except  to  find  out  this  ultimate  remainder- 
man— mind  that  !  " 

"Perfectly;  nothing  like  subdivision  of 
labor." 

"  The  search  will  be  expensive  !  " 

"There  is  oil  for  your  wheels,"  answered 
Jason,  putting  a  note-book  into  his  confidant's 
hands.  "But  mind,  you  waste  it  not;  no 
tricks,  no  false  play  with  me;  you  know  Jason, 
or  if  you  like  the  name  better,  you  know  the 
Rattlesnake  !  " 

"I  will  account  for  every  penny,"  said 
Grabman,  eagerly,  and  clasping  his  hands, 
while  his  pale  face  grew  livid. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  quill-driver.  Look 
sharp,  start  to-morrow  !  Get  thyself  decent 
clothes,  be  sober,  cleanly,  and  respectable. 
Act  as  a  man  who  sees  before  him  five  thou- 
sand pounds.  And,  now  light  me  down- 
stairs." 

With  the  candle  in  his  hand,  Grabman  stole 
down  the  rugged  steps,  even  more  timorously 
than  Beck  had  ascended  them,  and  put  his 
finger  to  his  mouth  as  they  came  in  the  dread 
vicinity  of  No.  7.  But  Jason,  or  rather  Ga- 
briel Varney,  with  that  fearless,  reckless  bra- 
vado of  temper,  which,  while  causing  half  his 
guilt,  threw  at  times  a  false  glitter  over  its 
baseness,  piqued  by  the  cowardice  of  his  com- 
rade— gave  a  lusty  kick  at  the  closed  door, 
and  shouted  out — "  Old  Grave-stealer,  come 
out,  and  let  me  finish  your  picture.     Out,  out ! 


— I  say — out !  "  Grabman  left  the  candle  on 
the  steps,  and  made  but  three  bounds  to  his 
own  room. 

At  the  third  shout  of  his  disturber,  the 
Resurrection-man  threw  open  his  door,  vio- 
lently, and  appeared  at  the  gap — the  upward 
flare  of  the  candle  showing  the  deep,  lines 
ploughed  in  his  hideous  face  and  the  immense 
strength  of  his  gigantic  trunk  and  limbs. 
Slight,  fair,  and  delicate  as  he  was,  Varney 
eyed  him  deliberately,  and  trembled  not. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  said  the 
terrible  voice,  tremulous  with  rage. 

"  Only  to  finish  your  portrait,  as  Pluto.  He 
was  the  god  of  Hell,  you  know  ! " 

The  next  moment,  the  vast  hand  of  the  ogre 
hung  like  a  great  cloud  over  Gabriel  Varney. 
This  last,  ever  on  his  guard,  sprang  aside,  and 
the  light  gleamed  on  the  steel  of  a  pistol. 
"  Hands  off ! — or " 

The  click  of  the  pistol-cock  finished  the  sen- 
tence. The  ruffian  halted.  A  glare  of  disap- 
pointed fury  gave  a  momentary  lustre  to  his 
dull  eyes.  "P'raps,  I  shall  meet  you  agin  one 
o'  these  days,  or  nights,  and  I  shall  know  ye  in 
ten  thousand." 

"Nothing  like  a  bird  in  the  hand,  Master 
Grave-stealer  !  Where  can  we  ever  meet 
again  ? " 

"  P'raps  in  the  fields — p'raps  on  the  road 
— p'rays  at  the  Old  Bailey — p'raps  at  the  gal- 
lows— p'raps  in  the  convict-ship,  I  knows  what 
that  is  !  I  was  chained  night  and  day  once 
to  a  chap  jist  like  you  — didn't  I  break  his 
spurit — didn't  I  spile  his  sleep  !  Ho,  ho  ! — 
you  looks  a  bit  less  varraently  howdacious  now 
— my  flash  cove  !  " 

Varney  hitherto  had  not  known  one  pang  of 
fear,  one  quicker  beat  of  the  heart  before. 
But  the  image  presented  to  his  irritable  fancy 
(always  prone  to  brood  over  terrors) — the 
image  of  that  companion — chained  to  him 
night  and  day — suddenly  quelled  his  courage 
— the  image  stood  before  him  palpably  like 
the  Oulos  Oneiros — the  Evil  Dream  of  the 
Greeks. 

He  breathed  loud.  The  body-stealer's  stu- 
pid sense  saw  that  he  had  produced  the  usual 
effect  of  terror,  which  gratified  his  brutal  self- 
esteem;  he  retreated  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  to 
the  door,  followed  by  Varney's  appalled  and 
staring  eye — and  closed  it  with  such  violence, 
that  the  candle  was  extinguished. 


LUCRETIA. 


63s 


Varney,  not  daring — yes  literally,  not  daring 
—to  call  aloud  to  Grahman  for  another  light, 
crept  down  the  dark  stairs  with  hurried,  ghost- 
like steps— and,  after  groping  at  the  door- 
handle with  one  hand,  while  the  other  grasped 
his  pistol,  with  a  strain  of  horror,  he  succeeded 
at  last  in  winning  access  to  the  street,  and 
stood  a  moment  to  collect  himself,  in  the  open 
air — the  damps  upon  his  forehead,  and  his 
limbs  trembling  like  one  who  has  escaped  by  a 
hair-breadth  the  crash  of  a  falling  house. 


CHAPTER   VII. 


The  Rape  of  the  Mattcess. 


That  Mr.  Grabman  slept  calmly  that  night, 
is  probable  enough,  for  his  gin-bottle  was 
empty  the  next  morning;  and  it  was  with  eyes 
more  than  usually  heavy  that  he  dozily  fol- 
lowed the  movements  of  Beck,  who,  according 
to  custom,  opened  the  shutters  of  the  little 
den  adjoining  his  sitting-room,  brushed  his 
clothes,  made  his  fire,  set  on  the  kettle  to  boil, 
and  laid  his  breakfast-things,  preparatory  to 
his  own  departure  to  the  duties  of  the  day. 
Stretching  himself,  however,  and  shaking  off 
slumber,  as  the  remembrance  of  the  enterprise 
he  had  undertaken  glanced  pleasantly  across 
him,  Grabman  sat  up  in  his  bed,  and  said  in  a 
voice  that  if  not  maudlin  was  affectionate,  and 
if  not  affectionate  was  maudlin, — 

"  Beck,  you  are  a  good  fellow  !  You  have 
faults — you  are  human;  humanum  est  err  are, 
which  means  that  you  sometimes  scorch  my 
muffins.  But,  take  you  all  in  all,  you  are  a 
kind  creature.  Beck,  I  am  going  into  the 
country  for  some  days.  I  shall  leave  my  key 
in  the  hole  in  the  wall — you  know;  take  care 
of  it  when  you  come  in.  You  were  out  late 
last  night,  my  poor  fellow.  Very  wrong  ! 
Look  well  to  yourself,  or  who  knows,  you  may 
be  clutched  by  that  blackguard  Resurrection- 
man,  No.  7.  Well,  well  !  to  think  of  that 
Jason's  fool-hardiness.  But  he's  the  worse 
devil  of  the  two.  Eh  !  what  was  I  saying  ? 
And  always  gave  a  look  into  my  room  every 
night  before  you  go  to  roost.  The  place 
swarms  with  cracksmen,  and  one  can't  be  too 
cautious.  Lucky  dog,  you,  to  have  nothing 
to  be  robbed  of  ! " 


Beck  winced  at  that  last  remark.  Grabman 
did  not  seem  to  notice  his  confusion,  and 
proceeded,  as  he  put  on  his  stockings,  "  And 
Beck,  you  are  a  good  fellow,  and  have  served 
me  faithfully;  when  I  come  back,  I  will  bring 
you  something  handsome — a  backey-box — or, 
who  knows,  a  beautiful  silver  watch,  Mean- 
while, I  think — let  me  see — yes,  I  can  give 
you  this  elegant  pair  of  small-clothes.  Put 
out  my  best — the  black  ones.  And  now, 
Beck,  I'll  not  keep  you  any  longer.-" 

The  poor  sweep,  with  many  pulls  at  his 
forelock,  acknowledged  the  munificent  dona- 
tion, and  having  finished  all  his  preparations, 
hastened  first  to  his  room,  to  examine  at  lei- 
sure, and  with  great  admiration,  the  drab  small- 
clothes. Room,  indeed,  we  can  scarcely  style 
the  wretched  inclosure  which  Beck  called  his 
own.  It  was  at  the  top  of  the  house,  under 
the  roof,  and  hot — oh,  so  hot,  in  the  summer  ! 
It  had  one  small  begrimed  window,  through 
which  the  light  of  heaven  never  came,  for  the 
parapet,  beneath  which  ran  the  choked  gut- 
ter, prevented  that.  But  the  rain  and  the 
wind  came  in.  So,  sometimes,  through  four 
glassless  panes,  came  a  fugitive  tom-cat.  As 
for  the  rats,  they  held  the  place  as  their  own. 
Accustomed  to  beck,  they  cared  nothing  for 
him.  They  were  the  Mayors  of  that  Palace — 
he  only  le  rot  faineant.  They  ran  over  his 
bed  at  night;  he  often  felt  them  on  his  face, 
and  was  convinced  they  would  have  eaten  him, 
if  there  had  been  anything  worth  eating  upon 
his  bones;  still,  perhaps  out  of  precaution 
rather  than  charity,  he  generally  left  them  a 
potato  or  two,  or  a  crust  of  bread,  to  take  off 
the  edge  of  their  appetites.  But  Beck  was  f;ir 
better  off  than  most  who  occupied  the  various 
settlements  in  that  Alsatia — he  had  his  room 
to  himself.  That  was  necessary  to  his  sole 
luxury — the  inspection  of  his  treasury,  the 
safety  of  his  mattress;  for  it  he  paid,  without 
grumbling,  what  he  thought  was  a  very  high  rent. 
To  this  hole  in  the  roof  there  was  no  lock, — 
for  a  very  good  reason,  there  was  no  door  to 
it.  You  went  up  a  ladder,  as  you  would  go 
into  a  loft.  Now,  it  had  often  been  matter  of 
much  intense  cogitation  to  Beck,  whether  or 
not  he  should  have  a  door  to  this  chamber; 
and  the  result  of  tho  cogitation  was  invariably 
the  same — he  dared  not  !  What  should  he 
want  with  a  door — a  door  with  a  lock  to  it— 
for  one  followed  as  a  consequence  to  the  other. 


636 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


Such  a  novel  piece  of  grandeur  would  be  an 
ostentatious  advertisement  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  guard.  He  could  have  no  pretence 
for  it  on  the  ground  that  he  was  intruded  on 
by  neighbors;  no  step  but  his  own  was  ever 
caught  by  him  ascending  that  ladder;  it  led 
to  no  other  room.  All  the  offices  required  for 
the  lodgment  he  performed  himself.  His  sup- 
posed poverty  was  a  bettter  safeguard  than 
doors  of  iron.  Besides  this,  a  door,  if  dan- 
gerous, woOld  be  superfluous;  the  moment  it 
was  suspected  that  Beck  had  something  worth 
guarding,  that  moment  all  the  picklocks  and 
skeleton  keys  in  the  neighborhood  would  be 
in  a  jingle.  And  a  cracksman  of  high  repute 
lodged  already  on  the  ground-floor.  So  Beck's 
treasure,  like  the  bird's-nest,  was  deposited  as 
much  out  of  sight  as  his  instinct  could  con- 
trive; and  the  locks  and  bolts  of  civilized  man 
were  equally  dispensed  with  by  bird  and  Beck. 

On  a  rusty  nail  the  sweep  suspended  the 
drab  small  clothes  stroked  them  down  loving- 
ly, and  murmured,  "  They  he's  too  good  for  I 
— I  should  like  to  pop  'em  !  .But  vouldn't 
that  be  a  shame  ?  Beck,  ben't  you  a  hungrate- 
ful  beast  to  go  for  to  think  of  nothin'  but  the 
tin,  ven  your  'art  ought  to  varm  with  hemo- 
tion?  I  vill  vear 'em  ven  I  waits  on  him. 
Yen  he  sees  his  own  smalls  bringing  in  the 
muffins,  he  will  say,  "  Beck,  you  becomes 
em  ! '  " 

Fraught  with  this  noble  resolution,  the 
sweep  caught  up  his  broom,  crept  down  the 
ladder,  and,  with  a  furtive  glance  at  the  door 
of  the  room  in  which  the  cracksmen  lived, 
let  himself,  out,  and  shambled  his  way  to  his 
crossing.  Grabman,  in  the  meanwhile, 
dressed  himself  with  more  care  than  usual, 
shaved  his  beard  from  a  four-days'  crop,  and 
while  seated  at  his  breakfast,  read  attentively 
over  the  notes  which  Varney  had  left  to  him, 
pausing  at  times  to  make  his  own  pencil  mem- 
oranda. He  then  packed  up  such  few  articles 
as  so  moderate  a  worshipper  of  the  Graces 
might  require,  deposited  them  in  an  old  blue 
brief-bag;  and  this  done  he  opened  his  door, 
and  creeping  to  the  threshold  listened  care- 
fully. Below,  a  few  sounds  might  be  heard; 
here,  the  wail  of  a  child — there,  the  shrill 
scold  of  a  woman,  in  that  accent  above  all 
others  adapted  to  scold — the  Irish.  Farther 
down  still,  the  deep  bass  oath  of  the  choleric 
Resurrection-man;  but  above,  all   was  silent. 


Only  one  floor  intervened  between  Grabman  s 
apartment  and  the  ladder  that  led  to  Beck's 
loft.  And  the  inmates  of  that  room  gave  no 
sound  of  life.  Grabman  took  courage,  and, 
shuffling  off  his  shoes,  ascended  the  stairs;  he 
passed  the  closed  door  of  the  room  above — he 
seized  the  ladder  with  a  shaking  hand — he 
mounted,  step  after  step, — he  stood  in  Beck's 
room. 

Now,  O  Nicholas  Grabmam,  some  moralists 
may  be  harsh  enough  to  condemn  thee  for 
what  thou  art  doing:  kneeling  yonder,  in  the 
dim  light,  by  that  curtainless  pallet,  with  greedy 
fingers  feeling  here  and  there,  and  a  placid, 
self-hugging  smile  upon  thy  pale  lips.  That 
poor  vagabond,  whom  thou  art  about  to  de- 
spoil, has  served  thee  well  and  faithfully,  has 
borne  with  thine  ill  humors,  thy  sarcasms,  thy 
swearings,  thy  kicks  and  buffets — often,  when 
in  the  bestial  sleep  of  drunkenness,  he  has 
found  thee  stretched  helpless  on  thy  floor,  with 
a  kindly  hand  he  has  moved  away  the  sharp 
fender,  too  near  that  knavish  head,  now  bent 
on  his  ruin;  or  closed  the  open  window,  lest 
the  keen  air,  that  thy  breath  tainted,  should 
visit  thee  with  rheum  and  fever.  Small  has 
been  his  guerdon  for  uncomplaining  sacrifice 
of  the  few  hours  spared  to  the  weary  drudge 
from  his  daily  toil — small,  but  gratefully  re- 
ceived. And  if  Beck  had  been  taught  to  pray, 
he  would  have  prayed  for  thee,  as  for  a  good 
man,  O  miserable  sinner  !  And  thou  art  going 
now,  Nicholas  Grabman,  upon  an  enterprise 
which  promises  thee  large  gains,  and  thy  purse 
is  filled;  and  thou  wantest  nothing  for  thy 
wants,  or  thy  swinish  lu.xuries.  Why  should 
those  shaking  fingers  itch  for  the  poor  beggar- 
man's  hoards  ? 

But  hadst  thou  been  hound  on  an  errand 
that  would  have  given  thee  a  million,  thou 
wouldst  not  have  left  unrifled  that  secret  store 
which  thy  prying  eye  had  discovered,  and  thy 
hungry  heart  had  coveted.  No;  since  one 
night,  fatal,  alas  !  to  the  owner  of  loft  and 
treasure,  when,  needing  Beck  for  some  service, 
and  fearing  to  call  aloud,  (for  the  Resurrec- 
tion-man in  the  floor  below  thee,  whose  oaths 
even  now  ascend  to  thine  ear,  sleeps  ill,  and 
has  threatened  to  make  thee  mute  for  ever  if 
thou  disturbest  him  in  the  few  nights  in  which 
his  dismal  calling  suffers  him  to  sleep  at  all) — 
thou  didst  creep  up  the  ladder,  and  didst  see 
the  unconscious  miser  at  his  nightly  work,  and 


LUCRETIA. 


637 


after  the  sight,  didst  steal  down  again,  smiling 
— no:  since  that  night,  no  schoolboy  ever  more 
rootedly  and  ruthlessly  set  his  rnind  upon  nest 
of  linnet,  than  thine  was  set  upon  the  stores 
in  Beck's  mattress. 

And  yet,  why,  O  lawyer,  should  rigid  moral- 
ists blame  thee  more  than  such  of  thy  tribe  as 
live  honored  and  respectable,  upon  the  frail 
and  the  poor  ?  Who  among  them  ever  left 
loft  or  mattress  while  a  rap  could  be  wrung 
from  either  ?  Matters  it  to  Astraea,  whether 
the  spoliation  be  made,  thus  nakedly  and 
briefly,  or  by  all  the  acknowledged  forms  in 
which  item  on  item,  six-and-eightpence  on  six- 
and-eightpence,  the  inexorable  hand  closes,  at 
length,  on  the  last  farthing  of  duped  despair? 
Not— Heaven  forbid  ! — that  we  make  thee, 
foul  Nicholas  Grabman,  a  type  for  all  the 
class  called  attorneys-at-law  !  Noble  hearts, 
liberal  minds,  are  there  amongst  that  brother- 
hood, we  know,  and  have  experienced ;  but  a  type 
art  thou  of  those  whom  want,  and  error,  and 
need  have  proved — alas,  too  well — the  lawyers 
of  the  poor.  And  even  while  we  write,  and  even 
while  ye  read,  many  a  Grabman  steals  from 
helpless  toil  the  savings  of  a  life. 

Ye  poor  hoards — darling  delights  of  your 
otherwise  joyless  owner — how  easily  has  his 
very  fondness  made  ye  the  prey  of  the 
spoiler !  How  gleefully  when  the  pence 
swelled  into  a  shilling  have  they  been  ex- 
changed into  the  new  bright  piece  of  silver, 
the  newest  and  brightest  that  could  be  got  ! 
then  the  shillings  into  crowns,  then  the  crowns 
into  gold — got  slily  and  at  a  distance,  and 
contemplated  with  what  rapture  ! — so  that,  at 
last,  the  total  lay  manageable  and  light  in  its 
radiant  compass.  And  what  a  total  1 — what 
a  surprise  to  Grabman  !  Had  it  been  but  a 
sixpence,  he  would  have  taken  it;  but  to 
grasp  sovereigns,  by  the  handful,  it  was  too 
much  for  him;  and,  as  he  rose,  he  positively 
laughed,  from  a  sense  of  fun. 

But  amongst  his  booty,  there  was  found  one 
thing  that  specially  moved  his  mirth-r-it  was  a 
child's  coral,  with  its  little  bells.  Who  could 
have  given  Beck  such  a  bauble — or  how  Beck 
could  have  refrained  from  turning  it  into 
mo'.iey  would  have  been  a  fit  matter  for  spec- 
alotion.  But  it  was  not  that  at  which  Grab- 
man  chuckled;  he  laughed,  first,  because  it 
was  an  emblem  of  the  utter  childishness  and 
folly  of  the  creature  he  was  leaving  penniless; 


and,  secondly,  because  it  furnished  his  ready 
wit  with  a  capital  contrivance  to  shift  Beck's 
indignation  from  his  own  shoulders  to  a  party 
more  liable  to  suspicion.  He  left  the  coral 
on  the  floor  near  the  bed,  stole  down  the  lad- 
der, reached  his  own  room,  took  up  his  brief- 
bag,  locked  his  door,  slipped  the  key  in  the 
rat-hole,  where  the  trusty,  plundered  Beck 
alone  could  find  it,  and  went  boldly  down 
stairs;  passing  successively  the  doors,  within 
which  still  stormed  the  Resurrection-man,  still 
wailed  the  child,  still  shrieked  the  Irish  shrew; 
he  paused  at  the  grouud-floor  occupied  by 
Bill  the  cracksman,  and  his  long-fingered, 
slender,  quick-eyed  imps,  trained  already  to 
pass  through  broken  window  panes,  on  their 
precocious  progress  to  the  hulks. 

The  door  was  open,  and  gave  a  pleasant 
sight  of  the  worthy  family  within.  Bill,  him- 
self, a  stout-looking  fellow,  with  a  florid,  jolly, 
countenance,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  was 
sitting  at  his  window,  with  his  brawny  legs  loll- 
ing on  a  table  covered  with  the  remains  of  a 
very  tolerable  breakfast.  Four  small  Bills  were 
employed  in  certain  sports,  which  no  doubt, 
according  to  the  fashionable  mode  of  educa- 
tion, instilled  useful  lessons  under  the  artful 
guise  of  playful  amusement.  Against  the 
wall,  at  one  corner  of  the  room,  was  affixed  a 
row  of  bells,  from  which  were  suspended  ex- 
ceedingly tempting  apples  by  slender  wires. 
Two  of  the  boys  were  engaged  in  the  innocent 
entertainment  of  extricating  the  apples  with- 
out occasioning  any  alarm  from  the  bells;  a 
third  was  amusing  himself  at  a  table,  covered 
with  mock  rings  and  trinkets,  in  a  way  that 
seemed  really  surprising;  with  the  end  of  a 
finger  dipped  probably  in  some  glutinous  mat- 
ter, he  just  touched  one  of  the  gew-gaws,  and 
lo,  it  vanished  ! — vanished  so  magically,  that 
the  quickest  eye  could  scarcely  trace  whither; 
sometimes  up  a  cuff,  sometimes  into  a  shoe — 
here,  there,  anywhere — except  back  again  upon 
the  table.  The  fourth,  an  urchin  apparently 
about  five  years  old;  he  might  be  much 
younger,  judging  from  his  stunted  size;  some- 
what older,  judging  from  the  vicious  acuteness 
of  his  face,  on  the  floor  under  his  father's 
chair,  was  diving  his  little  hand  into  the 
paternal  pockets  in  search  for  a  marble,  sport- 
ively hidden  in  those  capacious  recesses.  On 
the  rising  geniuses  around  him.  Bill,  the  cracks- 
man, looked,  and  his  father's  heart  was  proud. 


038 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


Pausing  at  the  threshold,  Grabman  looked 
in.  and  said,  cheerfully,  "  Good  day  to  you — 
good  day  to  you  all,  my  little  dears." 

"  Ah,  Grabman,"  said  Bill,  rising,  and  mak- 
ing a  bow,  for  Bill  valued  himself  much  on  his 
politeness—"  come  to  blow  a  cloud,  eh  ? 
Bob!"  (this  to  the  eldest  born);  "manners, 
sir;  wipe  your  nose,  and  set  a  chair  for  the 
gent." 

"Many  thanks  to  you  Bill,  but  I  can't  stay 
now — I  have  a  long  journey  to  take.  But 
bless  my  soul,  how  stupid  I  am;  I  have  for- 
gotten my  clothes-brush.  I  know  there  was 
something  on  my  mind  all  the  way  I  was  com- 
ing down  the  stairs.  I  was  saying  to  myself, 
'  Grabman,  there  is  something  forgotten  ! '  " 

"I  know  what  that  ere  feelin'  is,"  said  Bill, 
thoughtfully;  "  I  had  it  myself  the  night  afore 

last;  and  sure  enough  when  I  got  to  the 

but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Bob,  run  up 
stairs,  and  fetch  down  Mr.  Grabman's  clothes- 
brush.  'Tis  the  least  you  can  do  for  a  gent 
who  saved  your  father  from  the  fate  of  them 
ere  innocent  apples, — your  fist,  Grabman.  I 
have  a  heart  in  my  bozzom; — cut  me  open,  and 
you  will  find  there  ' Halibi  and  Grabman!' 
Give  Bob  your  key." 

"  The  brush  is  not  in  my  room,"  answered 
Grabman;  "it  is  at  the  top  of  the  house;  up  the 
ladder,  in  Beck's  loft — Beck,  the  sweeper. 
The  stupid  dog  always  keeps  it  there,  and  for- 
got to  give  it  me.  Sorry  to  occasion  my  friend 
Bob  so  much  trouble.'' 

"Bob  has  a  soul  above  trouble;  his  father's 
heart  beats  in  his  buzzom.  Bob,  track  the 
dancers.  Up  like  a  lark — and  down  like  a 
dump." 

Bob  grinned,  made  a  mow  at  Mr.  Grabmam, 
and  scampered  up  the  stairs. 

"You  never  attends  our  free-and-easy,"  said 
Bill;  "but  we  toasts  you,  with  three  times 
three,  and  up  standing.  'Tis  a  hungrateful 
world  !  But  some  men  has  a  heart;  and,  to 
those  who  has  a  heart,  Grabmam  is  a  trump  !  " 

"  I  am  sure,  whenever  I  can  do  you  a  ser- 
vice, you  may  reckon  on  me.  Meanwhile,  if 
you  could  get  that  cursed  bullying  fellow  who 
lives  under  me  to  be  a  little  more  civil,  you 
would  oblige  me." 

"  Under  you  ?  No.  7  !  No.  7  —  is  it  ? 
Grabman,  h-am  I  a  man  ?  Is  this  a  h-arm,  and 
this  a  bunch  of  fives  ?  I  dare's  do  all  that  does 
become  a  man;  but  No.  7  is  a  body-snatcher  ! 


No.  7  has  bullied  me — and  I  bore  it  !  No.  7 
might  whop  me — and  this  h-arm  would  let 
him  whop  !  He  lives  with  graves,  and  church- 
yards, and  stiff  'uns — that  damnable  No.  7  ! 
Ask  some'at  else,  Grabman.  I  dares  not 
touch  No.  7  any  more  than  the  ghosteses." 

Grabman  sneered  as  he  saw  that  Bill,  stout 
rogue  as  he  was,  turned  pale  while  he  spoke; 
but  at  that  moment  Bob  reappeared  with 
the  clothes-brush,  which  the  ex-attorney  thrust 
into  his  pocket;  and  shaking  Bill  by  the  hand, 
and  patting  Bob  on  the  head,  he  set  out  on  his 
journey. 

Bill  reseated  himself,  muttering,  "  Bully  a 
body-snatcher  !  'drot  that  Grabman,  does  he 
want  to  get  rid  of  poor  Bill  ? " 

Meanwhile  Bob  exhibited  slily,  to  his  second 
brother,  the  sight  of  Beck's  stolen  coral.  The 
childen  took  care  not  to  show  it  to  their  father. 
They  were  already  inspired  by  the  laudable 
ambition  to  set  up  in  business  on  their  own 
account. 


CHAPTER  VHI. 


Percival  visits  Lucretia. 


Having  once  ascertained  the  house  in  which 
Helen  lived,  it  was  no  difficult  matter  for  St. 
John  to  learn  the  name  of  the  guardian  whom 
Beck  had  supposed  to  be  her  mother.  No 
common  delight  mingled  with  Percival's  amaze, 
when  in  that  name  he  recognized  one  borne  by 
his  own  kinswoman.  Very  little,  indeed,  of 
the  family  history  was  known  to  him.  Neither 
his  father  nor  his  mother  ever  willingly  con- 
versed of  the  fallen  heiress — it  was  a  subject 
which  the  children  had  felt  to  be  proscribed; 
but  in  the  neighborhood,  Percival  had,  of 
course,  heard  some  mention  of  Lucretia,  as 
the  haughty  and  accomplished  Miss  Clavering 
— who  had,  to  the  astonishment  of  all,  stooped 
to  a  misalliance  with  her  uncle's  French  libra- 
rian. That  her  loss  of  the  St.  John  property, 
the  succession  of  Percival's  father,  were  unex- 
pected by  the  villagers  and  squires  around, 
and  perhaps  set  down  to  the  caprice  of  Sir 
Miles,  or  to  an  intellect  impaired  by  apoplectic 
attacks,  it  was  not  likely  that  he  should  have 
heard.  The  rich  have  the  polish  of  their  edu- 
cation, and  the  poor  that  instinctive  tact  so 
wonderful  amongst  the  agricultural  peasantry, 


LUCRETIA. 


639 


to  prevent  such  unmannerly  disclosures  or  un- 
welcome hints;  and,  both  by  rich  and  poor,  the 
Vernon  St.  Johns  were  too  popular  and  re- 
spected for  wanton  allusions  to  subjects  cal- 
culated to  pain  them.  All,  therefore,  that 
Percival  knew  of  his  relation,  was  that  she  had 
resided  from  infancy  with  Sir  Miles;  that  after 
their  uncle's  death,  she  had  married  an  inferior 
in  rank,  of  the  name  of  Dalibard,  and  settled 
abroad;  that  she  was  a  person  of  peculiar 
manners;  and,  he  had  heard  somewhere,  of 
rare  gifts.  He  had  been  unable  to  learn  the 
name  of  the  young  lady  staying  with  Madame 
Dalibard;  he  had  learned  only  that  she  went 
by  some  other  name,  and  was  not  the  daughter 
of  the  lady  who  rented  the  house.  Certainly, 
it  was  possible  that  this  last  might  not  be  his 
kinswoman,  after  all.  The  name,  though 
strange  to  English  ears,  and  not  common  in 
France,  was  no  sufficient  warrant  for  Percival's 
high  spirits  at  the  thought  that  he  had  now 
won  legitimate  and  regular  access  to  the  house 
— still  it  allowed  him  to  call;  it  furnished  a 
fair  excuse  for  a  visit. 

How  long  he  was  at  his  toilet  that  day,  poor 
boy  !  How  sedulously,  with  comb  and  brush, 
he  sought  to  smoothe  into  straight  precision 
that  luxuriant  labyrinth  of  jetty  curls,  which 
had  never  cost  him  a  thought  before  !  Gil 
Bias  says  that  the  toilet  is  a  pleasure  to  the 
young  though  a  labor  to  the  old;  Percival  St. 
John's  toilet  was  no  pleasure  to  him  that  anx- 
ious morning. 

At  last,  he  tore  himself,  dissatisfied  and  des- 
perate, from  the  glass,  caught  his  hat  and  his 
whip,  threw  himself  on  his  horse,  and  rode,  at 
first  very  fast  and  at  last  very  slowly,  to  the 
old,  decayed,  shabby,  neglected  house,  that 
lay  hid,  like  the  poverty  of  fallen  pride,  amidst 
the  trim  villas  and  smart  cottages  of  fair  and 
flourishing  Brompton. 

The  same  servant  who  had  opened  the  gate 
to  Ardworth  appeared  to  his  summons,  and, 
after  eyeing  him  for  some  moments  with  a 
listless  stupid  stare,  said,  "  You'll  be  after 
some  mistake  ! "  and  turned  away. 

"  Stop — stop  !  "  cried  Percival,  trying  to  in- 
trude himself  through  the  gate;  but  the  ser- 
vant blocked  up  the  entrance  sturdily.  "  It  is 
no  mistake  at  all,  my  good  lady.  I  have  come 
to  see  Madame  Dalibard,  my — my  relation  ! 

"  Your  relation  ! "  and  again  the  woman 
stared  at  Percival  with  a  look  through  the  dull 


vacancy  of  which  some  distrust  was  dimly 
perceptible.  "  Bide  a  bit  there,  and  give  us 
your  name." 

Percival  gave  his  card  to  the  servant,  with 
his  sweetest  and  most  persuasive  smile.  She 
took  it  with  one  hand,  and,  with  the  other, 
turned  the  key  in  the  gate,  leaving  Percival 
outside.  It  was  five  minutes  before  she  re- 
turned, and  she  then,  with  the  same  prim, 
smileless  expression  of  countenance  opened 
the  gate,  and  motioned  him  to  follow. 

The  kind-hearted  boy  sighed  as  he  cast  a 
glance  at  the  desolate  and  poverty-stricken 
appearance  of  the  house,  and  thought  within 
himself — "Ah,  pray  Heaven,  she  may  be  my 
relation,  and  then  I  shall  have  the  right  to  find 
her,  and  that  sweet  girl,  a  very  different 
home ! "  The  old  woman  threw  open  the 
drawing-room  door,  and  Percival  was  in  the 
presence  of  his  deadliest  foe  !  The  arm- 
chair wus  turned  towards  the  entrance,  and 
from  amidst  the  coverings  that  hid  the  form, 
the  remarkable  countenance  of  Madame  Dali- 
bard emerged,  sharp  and  earnest,  directly 
fronting  the  intruder. 

"  So,"  she  said  slowly,  and,  as  it  were, 
devouring  him  with  her  keen,  steadfast  eyes 
— "  so,  you  are  Percival  St.  John  !  Welcome  ! 
I  did  not  know  that  we  should  ever  meet.  I 
have  not  sought  you — you  seek  me  !  Strange 
— yes,  strange — that  the  young  and  the  rich 
should  seek  the  suffering  and  the  pnaor  !  " 

Surprised  and  embarrassed  by  this  singular 
greeting,  Percival  halted  abruptly  in  the  middle 
of  the  room;  and  there  was  something  inex- 
pressibly winning  in  his  shy,  yet  graceful  con- 
fusion. It  seemed,  with  silent  eloquence,  to 
apologize  and  to  deprecate.  And  when,  in 
his  silvery  voice,  scarcely  yet  tuned  to  the 
fulness  of  manhood,  he  said,  feelingly,  "  For- 
give me,  Madam,  but  my  mother  is  not  in 
England," — the  excuse  evinced  such  delicacy 
of  idea,  so  exquisite  a  sense  of  high  breeding, 
that  the  calm  assurance  of  worldly  ease  could 
not  have  more  attested  the  chivalry  of  the 
native  gentleman. 

•'I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  Mr.  St.  John," 
said  Lucretia,  with  a  softened  manner.  "  Par- 
don me  rather,  that  my  infirmities  do  not  allow 
me  to  rise  to  receive  you.  This  seat, — here, — 
next  to  me.  You  have  a  strong  likeness  to 
your  father." 

Percival  received  this  last  remark  as  3  com- 


640 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS 


pliment,  and  bowed.  Then,  as  he  lifted  his 
ingenuous  brow,  he  took,  for  the  first  time,  a 
steady  view  of  his  new  found  relation.  The 
peculiarities  of  Lucretia's  countenance  in  youth 
had  natutally  deepened  with  middle-age.  The 
contour,  always  too  sharp  and  pronounced,  was 
now  strong  and  bony  as  a  man's:  the  line  be- 
tween the  eyebrows  was  hollowed  into  a  fur- 
row. The  eye  retained  its  old  uneasy,  sinister, 
side-long  glance;  or,  at  rare  moments,  (as  when 
Percival  entered),  its  searching  penetration, 
and  assured  command ;  but  the  eyelids  them- 
selves, red  and  injected,  as  with  grief  or  vigil, 
gave  something  haggard  and  wild,  whether  to 
glance  or  gaze.  Despite  the  paralysis  of  the 
frame,  the  face,  though  pale  and  thin,  showed 
no  bodily  decay.  A  vigor  surpassing  the 
strength  of  woman,  might  still  be  seen  in  the 
play  of  the  bold  muscles,  the  firmness  of 
the  contracted  lips.  What  physicians  call 
'vitality^  and  trace  at  once  (if  experienced) 
on  the  physiognomy,  as  the  prognostic  of  long 
life,  undulated  restlessly  in  every  aspect  of  the 
face,  every  movement  of  those  thin  nervous 
hands,  which,  contrasting  the  rest  of  that 
motionless  form,  never  seemed  to  be  at  rest. 
The  teeth  were  still  white  and  regular,  as  in 
youth;  and  when  they  shone  out  in  speaking, 
gave  a  strange,  unnatural  freshness  to  a  face 
otherwise  so  worn. 

As  Percival  gazed,  and,  while  gazing,  saw 
those  wandering  eyes  bent  down,  and  yet  felt 
they  watched  him,  a  thril,  almost  of  fear,  shot 
through  his  heart.  Nevertheless,  so  much 
more  impressionable  was  he  to  charitable  and 
trustful,  than  to  suspicious  and  timid  emotions, 
that,  when  Madame  Dalibard,  suddenly  look- 
ing up,  and  shaking  her  head  gently,  said — 

"  You  see  but  a  sad  wreck,  young  kinsman," 
all  those  in-stincts,  which  nature  itself  seemed 
to  dictate  for  self-preservation,  vanished  into 
heavenly  tenderness  and  pity. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  rising  and  pressing  one  of 
those  deadly  hands  in  both  his  own,  while 
tears  rose  to  his  eyes.  "  Ah  !  since  you  call 
me  kinsman,  I  have  all  a  kinsman's  privileges. 
You  must  have  the  best  advice — the  most 
skilful  surgeons.  Oh,  you  will  recover— you 
must  not  despond." 

Lucretia's  lips  moved  uneasily.  This  kind- 
ness took  her  by  surprise.  She  turned  des- 
perately away  from  the  human  gleam  that 
shot  across  the   sevenfold  gloom  of  her  soul: 


"  Do  not  think  of  me,"  she  said,  with  a  forced 
smile:  "  it  is  ray  peculiarity  not  to  like  allusion 
to  myself,  though  this  time  I  provoked  it. 
Speak  to  me  of  the  old  cedar  trees  at  Laugh- 
ton — do  they  stand  still  ?  You  are  the  master 
of  Laughton,  now: — it  is  a  noble  heritage  !  " 

Then,  St.  John,  thinking  to  please  her, 
talked  of  the  old  manor-house,  described  the 
improvements  made  by  his  father,  spoke  gaily 
of  those  which  he  himself  contemplated;  and 
as  he  ran  on,  Lucretia's  brow,  a  moment 
ruffled,  grew  smooth  and  smoother,  and  the 
gloom  settled  back  apon  her  soul. 

All  at  once,  she  interrupted  him.  "  How 
did  you  discover  me — was  it  through  Mr. 
Varney  !  I  bade  him  not  mention  me — yet 
how  else  could  you  learn?"  As  she  spoke, 
there  was  an  anxious  trouble  in  her  tone, 
which  increased,  while  she  observed  that  St. 
John  looked  confused. 

"Why,"  he  began,  hesitatingly,  and  brush- 
ing his  hat  with  his  hand;  "  why— 7perhaps 
you    may   have  heard    from  the — that    is — I 

think  there  is  a  young .     Ah,  it  is  you — it 

is  you  !  I  see  you  once  again  ! "  And 
springing  up,  he  was  at  the  side  of  Helen, 
who  at  that  instant  had  entered  the  room,  and 
now,  her  eyes  downcast,  her  cheeks  blushing, 
her  breast  gently  heaving, — heard,  but  an- 
swered   not  that  passionate  burst  of  joy. 

Startled,  Madame  Dalibard  (her  hands  firm- 
ly grasping  the  sides  of  her  chair)  contem- 
plated the  two.  She  had  heard  nothing, 
guessed  nothing  of  their  former  meeting.  All 
that  had  passed  before  between  them  was  un- 
known to  her.  Yet,  there,  was  evidence  un- 
mistakeable,  conclusive — the  son  of  her  de- 
spoiler  loved  the  daughter  of  her  rival,  and — 
if  the  virgin  heart  speaks  by  the  outward 
sign — those  downcast  eyes,  those  blushing 
cheeks,  that  heaving  breast,  told  that  he  did 
not  love  in  vain  ! 

Before  her  lurid  and  murderous  gaze,  as  if 
to  defy  her,  the  two  inheritors  of  a  revenge 
unglutted  by  the  grave — stood,  united  mys- 
teriously together.  Up,  from  the  vast  ocean 
of  her  hate,  rose  that  poor  isle  of  love;  there, 
unconscious  of  the  horror  around  them— the 
victims  found  their  footing  !  How  beautiful 
at  that  hour  their  youth — their  very  ignorance 
of  their  own  emotions — their  innocent  glad- 
ness—their sweet  trouble  !  The  fell  gazer 
drew  a  long  breath  of  fiendlike  complacency 


LUCRKTJA. 


()4i 


and  glee,  and  her  hands  opened  wide,  and  then 
slowly  closed,  as  if  she  felt  them  in  her  grasp. 


CHAPTER    IX. 
The  Rose  Beneath  the  Upas. 

And  from  that  day,  Percival  had  his  privi- 
leged entry  into  Madame  Dalibard's  hoi.se. 
The  little  narrative  of  the  circumstances  con- 
nected with  his  first  meeting  with  Helen, 
partly  drawn  from  Percival,  partly  aftervi-ards 
from  Helen  (with  blushing  and  faltering  ex- 
cuses from  the  latter,  for  not  having  men- 
tioned before  an  incident  that  might,  perhaps 
needlessly,  vex  or  alarm  her  aunt  in  so  deli- 
cate a  state  of  health),  was  received  by  Lucre- 
tia  with  rare  graciousness.  The  connection, 
•  not  only  between  herself  and  Percival,  but 
between  Percival  and  Helen,  was  allowed,  and 
even  dwelt  upon  by  Madaine  Dalibard,  as  a 
natural  reason  for  jiermitting  the  artless  in- 
timacy which  immediately  sprang  up  between 
these  young  persons.  She  permitted  Percival 
to  call  daily,  to  remain  for  hours,  to  share  in 
their  simple  meals,  to  wander  alone  with  Helen 
in  the  garden,  assist  her  to  hind  up  the  ragged 
flowers,  and  sit  by  her  in  the  old  ivy-grown 
arbor,  when  their  work  was  done.  She  affected 
to  look  upon  them  both  as  children,  and  to 
leave  thein  to  that  happy  familiarity  which 
childhood  only  sanctions,  and  compared  to 
which  the  affection  of  maturer  years  seems  at 
once  seems  coarse  and  cold. 

As  they  grew  more  familiar,  the  differences 
and  similarities  in  their  characters  came  out, 
and  nothing  more  delightful  than  the  harmony 
into  which  even  the  contrasts  blended,  ever  in- 
vited the  guardian  angel  to  pause  and  smile. 
As  flowers  in  some  trained  parterre  relieve 
each  other,  now  softening,  now  heightening 
each  several  hue,  till  all  unite  in  one  concord 
of  interwoven  beauty,  so  these  two  blooming 
natures,  brought  together,  seemed,  where  vary- 
ing still,  to  melt  and  fuse  their  affluences  into 
one  wealth  of  innocence  and  sweetness.  Both 
had  a  native  buoyancy  and  cheerfulness  of 
spirit,  a  noble  trustfulness  in  others,  a  singu- 
lar candor,  and  freshness  of  mind  and  feeling. 
But  beneath  the  gaiety  of  Helen,  there  was  a 
soft  and  holy  under-stream  of  thoughtful  mel- 
ancholy, a  high   and    religious   sentiment  that 

6—41 


vibrated  more  exquisitely  to  the  subtle  luys- 
teries  of  creation — the  solemn  imison  between 
the  bright  world  without,  and  gave  destinies 
of  that  world  within  (which  is  an  imperishable 
soul),  than  the  lighter  and  more  vivid  youth- 
fulness  of  Percival  had  yet  conceived.  In 
him,  lay  the  germs  of  the  active  mortal,  who 
might  win  distinction  in  the  l)old  career  we 
run  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth.  In  her, 
there  was  that  finer  and  more  spiritual  essence 
which  lifts  the  poet  to  the  golden  atmosphere, 
of  dreams,  and  reveals  in  glimpses  to  the 
saint  the  choral  Populace  of  Heaven.  We  do 
not  say  that  Helen  would  ever  have  found  the 
utterance  of  the  poet,  that  her  reveries,  unde- 
fined and  unanalyzed,  could  have  taken  the 
sharp,  clear  form  of  words. 

For  to  the  poet,  practically  developed  anil 
made  manifest  to  the  world,  many  other  gifts, 
besides  the  mere  poetic  sense,  are  needed; 
stern  study,  and  logical  generalization  of 
scattered  truths,  and  patient  observation  of 
the  characters  of  men,  and  the  wisdom  that 
comes  from  sorrow  and  passion,  and  a  sage's 
experience  of  things  actual,  embracing  the 
dark  secrets  of  human  infirmity  and  crime. 
But,  despite  all  that  has  been  said  in  disparage- 
ment or  disbelief  of  "  mute  inglorious  Miltons," 
we  maintain  that  there  are  natures  in  which 
the  divinest  element  of  poetry  exists,  the  purer 
and  more  delicate  for  escaping  from  bodily 
form,  and  evaporating  from  the  coarser  ves- 
sels mto  which  the  poet,  so  called,  must  pour 
the  ethereal  fluid.  There  is  a  certain  virtue 
within  us,  comprehending  our  subtlest  and 
noblest  emotions,  which  is  poetry  while  un- 
told, and  grows  pale  and  poor  in  proportion  as 
we  strain  it  into  poems.  Nay,  it  may  be  said 
of  this  airy  properly  of  our  inmost  being,  that, 
more  or  less,  it  dejiarts  from  us,  according  as 
we  give  it  forth  into  the  world,  even,  as  only 
by  the  loss  of  its  particles,  the  rose  wastes  its 
perfume  on  the  air.  So  this  more  spiritual 
sensibility  dwelt  in  Helen,  as  the  latent  mes- 
merism in  water,  as  the  invisible  fairy  is  an 
enchanted  ring.  It  was  an  essence  or  divinity, 
shrined  and  shrouded  in  herself,  which  gave 
her  more  intimate  and  vital  union  with  all  the 
influences  of  the  universe,  a  companion  to  her 
loneliness,  an  angel  hymning  low  to  her  own 
listening  soul.  This  made  her  enjoyment  of 
Nature,  in  its  merest  trifles,  exquisite  and  pro- 
found; this  gave  to  her  tenderness  of  heart  all 


042 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


the  delicious  and  sportive  variety  love  bor- 
rows from  imagination;  this  lifted  her  piety 
above  the  mere  forms  of  conventional  religion, 
and  breathed  into  her  prayers  the  ecstacy  of 
the  saint. 

But  Helen  was  not  the  less  filled  with  the 
sweet  humanities  of  her  age  and  sex;  her  very 
gravity  was  tinged  with  rosy  light,  as  a  western 
cloud  with  the  sun.  She  had  sportiveness, 
and  caprice,  and  even  whim,  as  the  butterfly, 
though  the  emblem  of  the  soul,  still  flutters 
wantonly  over  every  wild  flower,  and  expands 
its  glowHig  wings  on  the  sides  of  the  beaten 
road.  And  with  a  sense  of  weakness  in  the 
common  world,  (growing  out  of  her  very 
strength  in  nobler  atmospheres),  she  leaned 
the  more  trustfully  on  the  strong  arm  of  her 
young  adorer;  not  fancying  that  the  difference 
between  them  arose  from  superiority  in  her, — 
but  rather  as  a  bird  once  tamed,  flies  at  the 
sight  of  the  hawk  to  the  breast  of  its  owner; 
so  from  each  airy  flight  into  the  loftier  heaven, 
let  but  the  thought  of  danger  daunt  her  wing, 
and,  as  in  a  more  powerful  nature,  she  took 
refuge  on  that  fostering  heart. 

The  love  between  these  children,  for  so,  if 
not  literally  in  years,  in  their  newness  to  all 
that  steals  the  freshness  and  the  dew  from 
niaturer  life,  they  may  be  rightly  called,  was 
such  as  befitted  those  whose  souls  have  not 
forfeited  the  Eden.  It  was  more  like  the  love 
of  fairies  than  of  human  beings.  They  showed 
it  to  each  other;  innocently  and  frankly: 
yet  of  love,  as  we  of  the  grosser  creation  call 
it,  with  its  impatient  pains,  and  burning  hopes, 
they  never  spoke  nor  dreamed.  It  was  an 
unutterable,  ecstatic  fondness — a  clingiug  to 
each  other — in  thought,  desire  and  heart — a 
joy  more  than  mortal  in  each  other's  presence; 
yet,  in  parting,  not  that  idle  and  empty  sorrow 
which  unfits  the  weak  for  the  homelier  demands 
on  time  and  life.  And  this,  because  of  the 
wondrous  trust  in  themselves,  and  in  the 
future,  which  made  a  main  part  of  the  credu- 
lous happy  natures.  Neither  felt  fear  nor 
jealousy— or  if  jealousy  came,  it  was  the  pretty 
child-like  jealousies  which  have  no  sting — 
of  the  bird  if  Helen  listened  to  its  note  too 
long — of  the  flower,  if  Percival  left  Helen's 
side  too  quickly,  to  tie  up  its  drooping  petals, 
or  refresh  its  dusty  leaves.  Close  l)y  the  stir 
of  the  great  city,  with  all  its  fret,  and  chafe, 
and  storm   of  life — in   the  desolate  garden  of 


that  sombre  house,  and  under  the  whithering 
eyes  of  relentless  Crime,  revived  the  A  ready 
of  old — the  scene  vocal  to  the  reeds  of  idyllist 
and  shepherd:  and  in  the  midst  of  the  iron 
Tragedy,  harmlessly  and  unconsciously  arose 
the  strain  of  the  Pastoral  Music. 

It  would  be  a  vain  effort  to  describe  the 
state  of  Lucretia's  mind,  while  she  watched 
the  progress  of  the  affection  she  had  favored, 
and  gazed  on  the  spectacle  of  the  fearless 
happiness  she  had  promoted.  The  image  of 
a  felicity  at  once  so  great  and  so  holy,  wore 
to  her  gloomy  sight  the  aspect  of  a  mocking 
Fury.  It  rose  in  contrast  to  her  own  ghastly 
and  crime-stained  life;  it  did  not  upbraid  her 
conscience  with  guilt  so  loudly  as  it  scoffed  at 
her  intellect  for  folly.  These  children,  playing 
on  the  verge  of  life,  how  much  more  of  life's 
true  secret  did  they  already  know,  then  she, 
with  all  her  vast  native  powers  and  wasted 
realms  of  blackened  and  charred  experience? 
For  what  had  she  studied,  and  schemed,  and 
calculated,  and  toiled,  and  smned  ?  As  a  con- 
queror stricken  unto  death  would  render  up 
all  the  regions  vanquished  by  his  sword  for 
one  drop  of  water  to  his  burning  lips,  how 
gladly  would  she  have  given  all  the  knowledge 
bought  with  blood  and  fire,  to  feel  one  moment 
as  those  children  felt  !  Then,  from  out  her 
silent  and  grim  despair,  stood  forth,  fierce  and 
prominent,  the  great  fiend.  Revenge. 

By  a  monomania,  not  uncommon  to  those 
who  have  made  self  the  centre  of  being,  Lu- 
cretia  referred  to  her  own  sullen  history  of 
wrong  and  passion,  all  that  bore  analogy  to  it, 
however  distant.  She  had  never  been  enabled, 
without  an  intolerable  pang  of  hate  and  envy, 
to  contemplate  courtship  and  love  in  others. 
From  the  rudest  shape  to  the  most  refined — 
that  master-passion  in  the  existence,  at  least, 
of  woman — reminding  her  of  her  own  brief 
episode  of  human  tenderness  and  devotion, 
opened  every  wound,  and  wrung  every  fibre  of 
a  heart  that,  while  crime  had  indurated  it  to 
most  emotions,  memory  still  left  morbidly 
sensitive  to  one.  But  if  tortured  by  the  sight 
of  love  in  those  who  had  had  no  connection  with 
her  fate — who  stood  apart  from  her  lurid  orbit, 
and  were  gazed  upon  only  afar,  (as  a  lost  soul, 
from  the  abyss,  sees  the  gleam  of  angels'  wings 
within  some  planet  it  never  has  explored),  how 
ineffably  more  fierce  and  intolerable  was  the 
wrath  that  seized   her,  when,  in  her  haunted 


LUCRF.77A. 


<'43 


imagination,  she  saw  all  Susan's  rapture  at  the 
vows  of  Mainwaring-  mantling  in  Helen's  face  ! 
All  that  might  have  disarmed  a  heart  as  hard, 
but  less  diseased,  less  preoccupied  by  revenge, 
only  irritated  more  the  consuming  hate  of  that 
inexorable'  spirit.  Helen's  seraphic  purity — 
her  exquisite  overflowing  kindness,  ever  for- 
getting self — her  airy  cheerfulness — even  her 
very  moods  of  melancholy,  calm  and  seemingly 
causeless  as  they  were,  perpetually  galled  and 
blistered  that  writhing  preternatural  suscepti- 
bility which  is  formed  by  the  consciousness  of 
infamy,  the  dreary  egotism  of  one  cut  off  from 
the  charities  of  the  world,  with  whom  all  mirth 
is  sardonic  convulsion,  all  sadness,  rayless, 
and  unresigned  despair. 

Of  the  two,  Percival  inspired  her  with  feel- 
ings the  most  akin-  to  humanity.  For  him, 
despite  her  bitter  memories  of  his  father,  she 
felt  something  of  compassion,  and  shrunk 
from  the  touch  of  his  frank  hand  in  remorse. 
She  had  often  need  to  whisper  to  herself,  that 
his  life  was  an  obstacle  to  the  heritage  of  the 
son ;  of  whom,  as  we  have  seen,  she  was  in 
search,  and  whom,  indeed,  she  believed  she 
had  already  found  in  John  Ardworth;  that  it 
was  not  in  wrath  and  in  vengeance  that  this 
victim  was  to  be  swept  into  the  grave,  but  as 
an  indispensable  sacrifice  to  a  cherished  ob- 
ject— a  determined  policy.  As  in  the  studies 
of  her  youth,  she  had  adopted  the  Machiavel- 
ism  of  ancient  state-craft  as  a  rule  admissible 
in  private  life,  so  she  seemed  scarcely  to  ad- 
mit as  a  crime  that  which  was  but  the  removal 
of  a  barrier  between  her  aim  and  her  end. 
Before  she  had  become  personally  acquainted 
with  Percival,  she  had  rejected  all  occasion  to 
know  him.  She  had  suffered  Varney  to  call 
upon  him,  as  the  o\d  proteg^  oi  Sir  Miles,  and 
to  wind  into  his  intimacy — meaning  to  leave  to 
her  accomplice,  when  the  hour  should  arrive, 
the  dread  task  of  destruction.  This,  not  from 
cowardice,  for  Gabriel  had  once  rightly  de- 
scribed her  when  he  said,  that  "'if  she  lived 
with  shadows  she  could  quell  them,"  but  sim- 
ply because,  more  intellectually  unsparing 
than  constitutionally  cruel,  (save  where  the  old 
vindictive  memories  thoroughly  unsexed  her), 
this  was  a  victim  whose  pangs  she  desired  not 
to  witness,  over  whose  fate  it  was  no  luxury  to 
gloat  and  revel.  She  wished  not  to  see,  nor  to 
know  him  living,  only  to  learn  that  he  was  no 
more,  and    that    Helen    alone    stood  between 


Laughton  and  her  son.  Now  that  he  had  him- 
self, as  if  with  predestined  feet,  crossed  her 
threshold — that  he,  like  Helen,  had  delivered 
himself  into  her  toils,  the  hideous  guilt,  before 
removed  from  her  hands,  became  haunting, 
fronted  her  face  to  face,  and  filled  her  with  a 
superstitious  awe. 

Meanwhile,  her  outward  manner  to  both  her 
meditated  victims,  if  moody  and  fitful  at 
times,  was  not  such  as  would  have  provoked 
suspicion  even  in  less  credulous  hearts.  From  ' 
the  first  entry  of  Helen  under  her  roof,  she 
had  been  formal  and  measured  in  her  welcome 
—  kept  her,  as  it  were,  aloof,  and  affected  no 
prodigal  superfluity  of  dissimulation;  but  she 
had  never  been  positively  harsh  or  unkind  in 
word  or  in  deed,  and  had  coldly  excused  her- 
self for  the  repulsiveness  of  her  manner. 

"  I  am  irritable,"  she  said,  "  from  long  suf- 
fering; I  am  unsocial  from  habitual  solitude; 
do  not  expect  from  me  the  fondness  and 
warmth  that  should  belong  to  our  relationship. 
Do  not  harass  yourself  with  vain  solicitude  for 
one  whom  all  seeming  attention  but  reminds 
more  painfully  of  infirmity,  and  who  even  thus, 
stricken  down,  would  be  independent  of  all 
cares  not  bought  and  paid  for.  Be  satisfied  to 
live  here  in  all  reasonable  liberty,  to  follow 
your  own  habits  and  caprices  uncontrolled. 
Regard  me  but  as  a  piece  of  necessary  furni- 
ture. You  can  never  displease  me,  but  when 
you  notice  that  I  live  and  suffer.". 

If  Helen  wept  bitterly  at  these  hard  words 
when  first  spoken,  it  was  not  with  anger  that 
her  loving  heart  was  so  thrown  back  upon  her- 
self. On  the  contrary,  she  became  inspired 
with  a  compassion  so  great  that  it  took  the 
character  of  reverence.  She  regarded  this  very 
coldness  as  a  mournful  dignit}'.  She  felt 
grateful  that  one  who  could  thus  dispense 
with,  should  yet  have  sought,  her.  She  had 
heard  her  mother  say  that  "  she  had  been 
under  great  obligations  to  Lucretia; "  and 
now,  when  she  was  forbidden  to  repay  them, 
even  by  a  kiss  on  those  weary  eyelids,  a 
daughter's  hand  to  that  sleepless  pillow;  when, 
she  saw  that  the  barrier  first  imposed  was 
irremovable — that  no  time  diminished  the  dis- 
tance her  aunt  set  between  them — that  the 
least  approach  to  the  tenderness  of  service 
beyond  the  most  casual  offices,  really  seemed 
but  to  fret  those  excitable  nerves,  and  fever 
the    hand,    that    she    ventured    timorously  to 


044 


B  UL  i  I  KK  S     IP  OAA'S. 


clasp;  she  retreated  into  herself  with  a  sad 
amaze  that  increased  her  pity,  and  heightened 
her  respect.  To  her,  love  seemed  so  neces- 
sary a  thing  in  the  helplessness  of  human  life, 
even  when  blessed  with  health  and  youth,  that 
this  rejection  of  all  love  in  one  so  bowed  and 
crippled,  struck  her  imagination  as  something 
sublime  in  its  dreary  grandeur  and  stoic  pride 
of  independence.  She  regarded  it,  as  of  old  a 
tender  and  pious  nun  would  have  regarded  the 
asceticism  of  some  sanctified  recluse  —  as 
Teresa  (had  she  lived  in  the  same  age)  might 
have  regarded  St.  Simon  Stylites  exi.sting  aloft 
from  human  sympathy  on  the  roofless  summit 
of  his  column  of  stone:  And  with  this  feeling 
she  sought  to  inspire  Percival.  He  had  the 
heart  to  enter  into  her  compassion,  but  not 
the  imagination  to  sympathize  with  her  rever- 
ence. Even  the  repugnant  awe  that  he  had 
first  conceived  for  Madame  Dalibard,  so  bold 
was  he  by  temperament;  he  had  long  since 
cast  off;  he  recognized  only  the  moroseness 
and  petulance  of  an  habitual  invalid,  and  shook 
playfully  his  glossy  curls,  when  Helen,  with 
her  sweet  seriousness,  insisted  on  his  recog- 
nizing more. 

To  this  house  few,  indeed,  were  the  visitors 
admitted.  The  Mivers's,  whom  the  benevolent 
officiousness  of  Mr.  Fielden  had  originally 
sent  thither  to  see  their  young  kinswoman, 
now  and  then  came  to  press  Helen  to  join 
some  party  to  the  theatre,  or  Vauxhall,  or  a 
pic-nic  in  Richmond  park;  but  when  they 
found  their  overtures,  which  had  at  first  been 
politely  accepted  by  Madame  Dalibard,  were 
rejected,  they  gradually  ceased  their  visits, 
wounded  and  indignant. 

Certain  it  was,  that  Lucretria  had,  at  one 
time,  eagerly  caught  at  their  well-meant  civili- 
ties to  Helen — timv  she  as  abruptly  declined 
them.  Why  ?  It  would  be  hard  to  plumb  in- 
to all  the  black  secrets  of  that  heart.  It 
would  have  been  but  natural  to  her,  who 
shrank  from  dooming  Helen  to  no  worse 
calamity  than  a  virgin's  grave,  to  have  de- 
signed to  throw  her  in  such  uncongenial  guid- 
ance, amidst  all  the  manifold  temptations  of 
the  corrupt  city — to  have  suffered  her  to  be 
seen,  and  to  be  ensnared  by  those  gallants 
ever  on  the  watch  for  defenceless  beauty;  and 
to  contrast  with  their  elegance  of  mien,  and 
fatal  flatteries — the  grossness  of  the  com- 
panions selected  for  her,  and  the  unloving  dis- 


comfort of  the  home  into  which  she  had  been 
thrown.  But  now  that  St.  John  had  appeared 
-^that  Helen's  heart  and  fancy  were  steeled 
alike  against  more  dangerous  temptation, — the 
object  to  be  obtained  from  the  pressing  cour- 
tesy of  Mrs.  Mivers  existed  no  more.  The 
vengeance  flowed  into  other  channels. 

The  only  other  visitors  at  the  house  were 
John  Ardworth  and  Gabriel  Varney. 

Madame  Dalibard  watched  vigilantly  the 
countenance  and  manner  of  Ardworth,  when, 
after  presenting  him  to  Percival,  she  whispered 
— "  I  am  glad  you  assured  me  as  to  your  sen- 
timents for  Helen.  She  has  found  there,  the 
lover  you  wished  for  her — "gay  and  handsome 
as  herself.'  " 

And,  in  the  sudden  paleness  that  overspread 
Ardworth's  face,  in  his  compressed  lips,  and 
convulsive  start,  she  read  with  unsf>eakable 
rage  the  untold  secret  of  his  heart — till  the 
rage  gave  way  to  complacency  at  the  thought 
that  the  last  insult  to  her  wrongs  was  spared 
her — that  her  son  (as  son  she  believed  he  was) 
could  not  now,  at  least,  be  the  successful  suitor 
of  her  loathed  sister's  loathed  child.  Her 
discovery,  perhaps,  confirmed  her  in  her  coun- 
tenance to  Percival's  progressive  wooing,  and 
half  reconciled  her  to  the  pangs  it  inflicted  on 
herself. 

At  the  first  introduction,  Ardworth  had 
scarcely  glanced  at  Percival.  He  regarded 
him,  but  as  the  sleek  flutterer  in  the  sunshine 
of  fortune.  And  for  the  idle,  the  gay,  the 
fair,  the  well  dressed,  and  wealthy — the  sturdy 
workman  of  his  own  rough  way,  felt  something 
of  the  uncharitable  disdain  which  the  laborious 
have  nets  too  usually  entertain  for  the  pros- 
perous haves.  But  the  moment  the  unwelcome 
intelligence  of  Madame  Dalibard  was  conveyed 
to  him,  the  smooth-faced  boy  swelled  into  dig- 
nity and  importance. 

Yet  it  was  not  merely  as  a  rival,  that  tha 
strong  manly  heart,  after  the  first  natural 
agony,  regarded  Percival.  No,  he  looked  upon 
him  less  with  an  anger  than  with  interest — as 
the  one  in  whom  Helen's  happiness  was  hence- 
forth to  be  invested.  And  to  Madame  Dali- 
bard's  astonishment,  for  this  nature  was  wholly 
new  to  her  experience,  she  saw  him,  even  in 
that  first  interview,  composing  his  rough  face 
to  smiles,  smoothing  his  bluff  imperious  accents 
into  courtesy,  listening  patiently,  watching  be- 
nignly, and    at  last   thrusting  his  large  hand 


LUCRETIA. 


&45 


frankly  forth — griping  Pcrcival's  slender  fin- 
gers in  his  own;  and  then,  with  an  indistinct 
chuckle,  that  seemed  half  laugh  and  half  groan, 
as  if  he  did  not  dare  to  trust  himself  farther, 
he  made  his  wonted  unceremonious  nod,  and 
strode  hurriedly  from  the  room. 

But  he  came  again,'  and  again,  almost  daily, 
for  about  a  fortnight;  sometimes,  without  en- 
tering the  house,  he  would  join  the  young  peo- 
ple in  the  garden,  assist  them  with  awkward 
hands  in  their  playful  work  on  the  garden,  or 
sit  with  them  in  the  ivied  bower;  and,  warming 
more  and  more  each  time  he  came,  talk  at  last 
with  the  cordial  frankess  of  an  elder  brother. 
There  was  no  disguise  in  this — ^he  began  to 
love  Percival — what  would  seem  more  strange 
to  the  superficial,  to  admire  him.  Genius  has 
a  quick  perception  of  the  moral  qualities; 
genius  which,  differing  thus  from  mere  talent, 
is  more  allied  to  the  heart  than  to  the  head, 
sympathizes  genially  with  goodness.  Ard- 
worth  respected  that  young,  ingenuous,  unpol- 
luted mind:  he  himself  felt  better  and  purer 
in  its  atmosphere.  Much  of  the  affection  he 
cherishetl  for  Helen  passed  thus  beautifully 
and  nobly  into  his  sentiments  for  the  one 
whom  Helen  not  unworthily  preferred.  And 
they  grew  so  fond  of  him  I  as  the  young  and 
gentle  ever  will  grow  fond  of  genius — however 
rough — once  admitted  to  its  companionship  ! 

Percival,  by  this  time,  had  recalled  to  his 
mind,  where  he  had  first  seen  that  strong- 
featured,  dark-browed  countenance,  and  he 
gaily  reminded  Ardworth  of  his  discourtesy, 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  which  commanded  the 
view  of  London.  That  reminiscence  made 
his  new  friend  writhe;  for  then,  amidst  all  his 
ambitious  visions  of  the  future,  he  had  seen 
Helen  in  the  distance — the  reward  of  every 
labor — the  fairest  star  in  his  horizon.  But  he 
strove  stoutly  against  the  regret  of  the  illusion 
lost;  the  vivemU  causa  were  left  him  still,  and 
for  the  nymph  that  had  glided  from  his  clasp, 
he  clung  at  least  to  the  laurel  that  was  left  in 
her  place.  In  the  folds  of  his  robust  forti- 
tude, Ardworth  thus  wrapped  his  secret. 
Neither  of  his  young  playmates  suspected  it. 
He  would  have  disdained  himself  if  he  had 
so  poisoned  their  pleasure.  That  he  suffered 
when  alone,  much  and  bitterly,  is  not  to  he 
denied;  but  in  that  masculine  and  complete 
being,  Love  took  but  its  legitimate  rank, 
amidst  the    passions    and    cares   of  man.     It 


soured  no  existence— it  broke  no  heart — the 
wind  swept  some  blossoms  from  the  bough, 
and  tossed  wildly  the  agitated  branches  from 
root  to  summit,  but  the  trunk  stood  firm. 

In  some  of  these  visits  to  Madame  Dali- 
bard's  Ardworth  renewed  with  her  the  more 
private  conversation  which  had  so  imsettled 
his  past  convictions  as  to  his  birth,  and  so  dis- 
turbed the  calm,  strong  currents  of  his  mind. 
He  was  chiefly  anxious  to  learn  what  conjec- 
tures Madame  Dalibard  had  formed  as  to  his 
parentage,  and  what  ground  there  was  for 
belief  that  he  was  near  in  blood  to  herself,  or 
that  he  was  born  to  a  station  less  dependent 
on  continuous  exertion;  but  on  these  points 
the  dark  sibyl  presei-ved  an  obstinate  silence. 
She  was  satisfied  with  the  hints  she  had  already 
thrown  out,  and  absolutely  refused  to  say  more 
till  better  authorized  by  the  inquiries  she  had 
set  on  foot.  Artfull)',  she  turned  from  these 
topics  of  closer  and  more  household  interest,' 
to  those  on  which  she  had  previously  insisted 
— connected  with  the  general  knowledge  of 
mankind,  and  the  complicated  science  of  prac- 
tical life.  To  fire  his  genius,  wing  his  ener- 
gies, inflame  his  ambition  above  that  slow, 
laborious  drudgery  to  which  he  had  linked  the 
chances  of  his  career,  and  which  her  fiery  and 
rapid  intellect  was  wholly  unable  to  compre- 
hend— save  as  a  waste  of  life  for  uncertain  and 
distant  objects — became  her  task.  And  she 
saw  with  delight  that  Ardworth  listened  to  her 
more  assentingly  than  he  had  done  at  first.  In 
truth,  the  pain  shut  within  his  heart,  the  con- 
flict waged  keenly  between  his  reason  and  his 
passion,  unfitted  him,  for  the  time,  for  mere 
mechanical  employment,  in  which  his  genius 
could  afford  him  no  consolation.  Now,  genius 
is  given  to  man,  not  only  to  enlighten  others, 
but  to  comfort  as  well  as  to  elevate  himself. 
Thus,  in  all  the  sorrows  of  actual  existence, 
the  man  is  doubly  inclined  to  turn  to  his  genius 
for  distraction.  Harassed  in  this  world  of 
action,  he  knocks  at  the  gate  of  that  world  of 
idea  or  fancy  which  he  is  privileged  to  enter: 
he  escapes  from  the  clay  to  the  spirit.  And 
rarely,  till  some  great  grief  comes,  does  the 
man  in  whom  the  celestial  fire  is  lodged  know 
all  the  gift  of  which  he  is  possessed.  At  last, 
Ardworth's  visits  ceased  abruptly.  He  shut 
himself  up  once  more  in  his  chambers;  but 
the  law  books  were  laid  aside. 

Varney,    who   generally  contrived    to    call 


o^b 


B  UL  /  VER'  S     IVOA'A'S. 


when  Ardvvoith  was  not  there,  seldom  inter- 
ruptetl  the  lovers  in  their  little  paradise  of  the 
garden;  but  he  took  occasion  to  ripen  and 
cement  his  intimacy  with  Percival;  sometimes 
walked,  or,  (if  St.  John  and  his  cabriolet), 
drove  home  and  dined  with  him,  tetc-a-tete  in 
Curzon-street;  and  as  he  made  Helen  his 
chief  subject  of  conversation,  Percival  could 
not  but  esteem  him  amongst  the  most  agree- 
able of  men.  With  Helen,  when  Percival  was 
not  there,  Varney  held  some  secret  conferences 
— secret  eVen  from  Percival;  two,  or  three 
times,  before  the  hour  in  which  Percival  was 
accustomed  to  come,  they  had  been  out  to- 
gether; and  Helen's  face  looked  more  cheerful 
than  usual  on  their  return.  It  was  not  sur- 
prising that  Gabriel  Varney,  so  displeasing 
to  a  man  like  Ardworth,  should  have  won 
little  less  favor  with  Helen  than  with  Per- 
cival; for,  to  say  nothing  of  an  ease  and  suav- 
ity of  manner  which  stole  into  the  confidence 
of  those  in  whom  to  confide  was  a  natural 
propensity,  his  various  acquisitions  and  talents, 
imposing,  from  the  surface  over  which  they 
spread,  and  the  glitter  which  they  made,  had 
an  inevitable  effect  upon  a  mind  so  sus- 
ceptible as  Helen's  to  admiration  for  art  and 
respect  for  knowledge.  But  what  chiefly  con- 
ciliated her  to  Varney,  whom  she  regarded, 
moreover,  as  her  aunt's  most  intimate  friend, 
was  that  she  was  persuaded  he  was  unhappy, 
and  wronged  by  the  world  for  fortune.  Varney 
had  a  habit  of  so  representing  himself — of 
dwelling  with  a  bitter  eloquence  which  his  nat- 
ural malignity  made  forcible — on  the  injustice 
of  the  world  to  superior  intellect.  He  was  a 
great  accuser  of  Fate.  It  is  the  illogical  weak- 
ness of  some  evil  natures  to  lay  all  their  crimes, 
and  the  consequences  of  crime,  upon  Destiny. 
There  was  a  -heat,  a  vigor,  a  rush  of  words, 
and  a  readiness  of  strong,  if  trite,  imagery  in 
what  Varney  said,  that  deceived  the  young 
into  the  monstrous  error  that  he  was  an  en- 
thusiast— misanthropical,  perhaps,  but  only  so 
from  enthusiasm.  How  could  Helen,  whose 
slightest  thought,  when  a  star  broke  forth  from 
the  cloud,  or  a  bird  sung  suddenly  from  the 
copse,  had  more  of  wisdom  and  of  poetry  than 
all  Varney's  gaudy  and  painted  seemings  ever 
could  even  mimic — how  could  she  be  so  de- 
ceived ?  Yet  so  it  was.  -Here  stood  a  man 
whose  youth  she  supposed  had  been  devoted 
to  refined  and  elevating  pursuits,  gifted,  neg- 


lected, disappointed,  solitary,  and  unhappy. 
She  saw  little  beyond.  You  had  but  to  touch 
her  pity  to  win  her  interest,  and  to  excite  her 
trust.  Of  anything  farther,  even  had  Percival 
never  existed,  she  could  not  have  dreamed. 
It  was  because  a  secret  and  undefinable  repug- 
nance, in  the  midst  of  pity,  trust,  and  friend- 
shij),  put  Varney  altogether  out  of  the  light  of 
a  possible  lover,  that  all  those  sentiments  were 
so  easily  kindled.  This  repugnance  arose  not 
from  the  disparity  between  their  years;  it  was 
rather  that  nameless  uncongeniality,  which 
does  not  forbid  friendship  but  is  irreconcilable 
with  love.  To  do  Varney  justice,  he  never 
offered  to  reconcile  the  two.  Not  for  love  did 
he  secretly  confer  with  Helen — not  for  love 
did  his  heart  beat  against  the  hand  which  re- 
posed so  carelessly  on  his  murderous  arm. 


CHAPTER  X. 


The  Battle  of  the  Snake. 


The  progress  of  affection  between  natures 
like  those  of  Percival  and  Helen,  favored  by 
free  and  constant  intercouse,  was  naturally 
rapid.  It  was  scarcely  five  weeks  from  the 
day  he  had  first  seen  Helen,  and  he  already 
regarded  her  as  his  plighted  bride.  During 
the  earlier  days  of  his  courtship,  Percival,  en- 
amoured and  absorbed  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  did  not  hasten  to  make  his  mother  the 
confidante  of  his  happiness.  He  had  writteit 
but  twice;  and  though  he  said  briefly,  in  the 
second  letter,  that  he  had  discovered  two  re- 
lations, both  interesting,  and  one  charming,  he 
had  deferred  naming  them,  or  entering  into 
detail.  This,  not  alone  from  that  indescribable 
coyness  which  all  have  experienced  in  adxiress- 
ing  even  those  with  whoni  they  are  most  inti- 
mate, in  the  early,  half  unrevealed,  and  mys- 
tic emotions  of  first  love;  but  because  Lady- 
Mary's  letters  had  been  so  full  of  her  sister's 
declining  health,  of  her  own  anxieties  and 
fears,  that  he  had  shrunk  from  giving  her  a 
new  subject  of  anxiety;  and  a  conadence,  full 
of  hope  and  joy,  seemed  to  him  unfeeling  and 
unseasonable.  He  knew  how  necessarily  un- 
easy and  restless  an  avowal  that  his  heart  was 
seriously  engaged  to  one  she  had  never  seen„ 
would  make  that  tender  mother;  and   that  his 


LUCKEJ  JA. 


647 


confession  would  rather  add  to  her  cares,  than 
produce  sympathy  with  his  transports. 

But  now,  feeling  impatient  for  his  mother's 
assent  to  the  formal  proposals  which  had  be- 
come due  to  Madame  Dalibard  and  Helen,  and 
taking  advantage  of  the  letter  last  received 
from  her,  which  gave  more  cheering  accounts 
of  her  sister,  and  expressed  curiosity  for 
further  explanation  as  to  his  half  disclosure, 
he  wrote  at  length,  and  cleared  his  breast  of 
all  its  secrets.  It  was  the  same  day  in  which 
he  wrote  this  confession,  and  pleaded  his 
cause,  that  we  accompany  him  to  the  house  of 
his  sweet  mistress,  and  leave  him  by  her  side, 
in  the  accustomed  garden.  Within,  Madame 
Daliliard,  whose  chair  was  set  by  the  window, 
bent  over  certain  letters,  which  she  took,  one 
by  one,  from  her  desk,  and  read  slowly,  lifting 
her  eyes  from  time  to  time,  and  glancing 
towards  the  young  people,  as  they  walked, 
hand  in  hand,  round  the  small  demesnes,  now 
hid  by  the  fading  foliage,  now  emerging  into 
view.  Those  letters  were  the  early  love- 
epistles  of  William  Mainwaring.  She  had  not 
recurred  to  them  for  years.  Perhaps  she  now- 
felt  that  food  necessary  to  the  sustainment  of 
her  fiendish  designs.  It  was  a  strange  spec- 
tacle, to  see  this  being,  so  full  of  vital  energy, 
mobile  and  restless  as  a  serpent;  condemned 
to  that  helpless  decrepitude,  chained  to  the 
uneasy  seat — not  as  in  the  resigned  and  passive 
imbecility  of  extreme  age,  but  rather  as  one 
whom,  in  the  prime  of  life,  the  rack  has  broken, 
leaving  the  limbs  inert,  the  mind  active,  the 
form  as  one  dead,  the  heart  with  superbundant 
vigor; — a  cripple's  impotence,  and  a  Titan's 
will  ! 

What,  in  that  dreary  imprisonment,  and 
amidst  the  silence  she  habitually  preserved, 
passed  through  the  caverns  of  that  breast,  one 
can  no  more  conjecture,  than  one  can  count 
the  blasts  that  sweep  and  rage  through  the 
hollows  of  impenetrable  rock,  or  the  elements 
that  conflict  in  the  bosom  of  the  volcano,  ever- 
lastingly at  work.  She  had  read,  and  replaced 
the  letters,  and  leaning  her  cheek  on  her  hand, 
was  gazing  vacantly  on  the  w^all,  when  Varney 
intruded  on  that  dismal  solitude. 

He  closed  the  door  after  him,  with  more 
than  usual  care;  and,  drawing  a  seat  close  to 
Lucretia's,  said,  •'  Belle  mire,  the  time  has 
arrived  iot  you  to  act — my  part  is  well-nigh 
closed." 


"  Ay  !  "  said  Lucretia,  wearily;  "  what  is  the 
news  you  bring  ?  " 

"  First,"  replied  Varney,  and,  as  he  spoke, 
he  shut  the  wintlow,  as  if  his  whisper  could 
possibly  be  heard  without — ■'  first,  all  this 
business  connected  with  Helen  is  at  length 
arranged.  You  know  when,  agreeably  to  your 
permission,  I  first  suggested  to  her,  as  it  were 
casually,  that  you  were  so  reduced  in  fortune, 
that  I  trembled  to  regard  your  future, — that 
you  had  years  ago  sacrificed  nearly  half  your 
pecuniary  resources  to  maintain  her  parents — 
she  of  herself  reminded  me  that  she  was  en- 
titled, when  of  age,  to  a  sum  far  exceeding  all 
her  wants,  and " 

"That  I  might  be  a  pensioner  on  the  child 
of  William  Mainwaring  and  Susan  Mivers," 
interrupted  Lucretia.  "  I  know  that,  and 
thank  her  not.     Pass  on." 

"  And  you  know,  too,  that  in  the  course  of 
my  conversation  with  the  girl,  I  let  out  also 
incidentally  that,  even  so,  you  were  dependent 
on  the  chances  of  her  life;  that  if  she  died 
(and  youth  itself  is  mortal)  before  she  was  of 
age,  the  sum  left  her  by  her  grandfather  would 
revert  to  her  father's  family;  and  so,  by  hints, 
I  drew  her  on  to  ask  if  there  was  no  mode  by 
which,  in  case  of  her  death,  she  might  ensure 
subsistence  to  you.  So  that  you  see  the 
whole  scheme  was  made  at  her  own  prompting. 
I  did  but,  as  a  man  of  business,  suggest  the 
means — an  insurance  on  her  life." 

"  Varney,  these  details  are  hateful.  I  do 
not  doubt  that  you  have  done  all  to  forestall 
inquiry  and  elude  risk.  The  girl  has  insured 
her  life  to  the  amount  of  her  fortune  ? " 

"  To  that  amount  only  !  Pooh  !  Her 
death  will  Ixiy  more  than  that !  As  no  one 
single  office  will  insure  for  more  than  5000/., 
and  as  it  was  easy  to  pursuade  her  that  such 
offices  were  liable  to  failure,  and  that  it  was 
usual  to  insure  in  several,  and  for  a  larger 
amount  than  the  sum  desired,  I  got  her  to 
enter  herself  at  three  of  the  principal  offices. 
The  amount  paid  to  us  on  her  death  will  be 
fifteen  thousand  pounds.  It  will  be  paid,  (and 
here  I  have  followeil  the  best  legal  advice),  in 
trust  to  me  for  your  benefit.  Hence,  there- 
fore, even  if  our  researches  fail  us,  if  no  son 
of  yours  can  be  found,  with  sufficient  evidence 
to  prove,  against  the  keen  interests  and  bought 
advocates  of  heirs-at-law,  the  right  to  Laughton, 
this  girl  will  repay  us  well,  will  replace  what  I 


04^ 


BULWKR-S     n  UKKS. 


have  taken,  at  the  risk  of  my  neck,  perh:ips  — 
certainly  at  the  risk  of  the  hulks,  from  the 
capital  of  my  uncle's  legacy — will  refund  what 
we  have  spent  on  the  inquiry — and  the  residue 
will  secure  to  you  an  independence  sufficing 
for  your  wants  almost  for  life,  and  to  me,  what 
will  purchase  with  economy "  (and  Varney 
smiled)  "  a  year  or  so  of  a  gentleman's  idle 
pleasures.     Are  you  satisfied  thus  far  ?" 

•'  She  will  die  happy  and  innocent  !  "  mut- 
tered Lucretia,  with  the  growl  of  demoniac 
disappointment. 

"Will  yon  wait,  then,  till  my  forgery  is 
detected,  and  I  have  no  power  to  buy  the 
silence  of  the  trustees — wait  till  I  am  in  prison, 
and  on  a  trial  for  life  and  death  ?  Reflect, 
every  day,  every  hour  of  delay,  is  fraught  with 
peril.  But  if  my  safety  is  nothing  compared 
to  the  refinement  of  your  revenge,  will  you 
wait. till  Helen  marries  Percival  St.  John.  You 
start  !  But  can  you  suppose  that  this  innocent 
love-play  will  not  pass  rapidly  to  its  lUnoue- 
ment  ?  It  is  but  yesterday  that  Percival  con- 
fided to  me,  that  he  should  write  this  very  day 
to  his  mother,  and  communicate  all  his  feel- 
ings and  his  hopes; — that  he  waited  but  her 
assent,  to  propose  formally  for  Helen.  Now 
one  of  two  things  must  happen.  Either  this 
mother,  haughty  and  vain  as  lady  mothers 
mostly  are,  may  refuse  consent  to  her  son's 
marriage  with  the  daughter  of  a  disgraced 
banker,  and  the  niece  of  that  Lucretia  Dali- 
bard  whom  her  husband  would  not  admit  be- 
neath his  roof " 

"  Hold,  sir  I  "  exclaimed  Lucretia,  haughtily, 
and  amidst  all  the  passions  that  darkened  her 
countenance  and  degraded  her  soul,  some  flash 
of  her  ancestral  spirit  shot  across  her  brow; 
but  it  passed  quickly,  and  she  added,  with 
fierce  composure — "  You  are  right;  go  on  !  " 

"Either  —  and  pardon  me  for  an  insult 
that  comes  not  from  me — either  this  will 
be  the  case;  Lady  Mary  St.  John  will  hasten 
back  in  alarm  to  London;  she  exercises  ex- 
traordinary control  over  her  son;  she  may 
withdraw  him  from  us  altogether,  from  me  as 
well  as  you,  and  the  occasion  now  presented  to 
us  may  be  lost  (who  knows  ?)  for  ever;  or  she 
may  be  a  weak  and  fond  woman. — may  be 
detained  in  Italy  by  her  sister's  illness. — may 
be  anxious  that  the  last  lineal  descendant  of 
the  St.  Johns  should  marry  betimes;  and, 
moved  by  her  darling's   prayers,  may  consent 


at  once  to  the  union.  Or  a  third  course,  which 
Percival  thinks  the  most  probable,  and  which, 
though  most  unwelcome  to  us  of  all,  I  had 
well  nigh  forgotten,  may  be  adopted.  She 
may  come  to  England,  and,  in  order  to  judge 
her  son's  choice  with  her  own  eyes,  may  with- 
draw Helen  from  your  roof  to  hers.  At  all 
events,  delays  are  dangerous  —  dangerous, 
putting  aside  my  personal  interest,  and  re- 
garding only  your  own  object — may  bring  to 
our  acts  new  and  searching  eyes — may  cut  us 
off  from  the  habitual  presence  either  of  Per- 
cival, or  Helen,  or  both;  or  surround  them,  at 
the  first  breath  of  illness,  with  prying  friends, 
and  formidable  precautions.  The  birds  now 
are  in  our  hands.  Why  then  open  the  cage 
and  bid  them  fly,  in  order  to  spread  the  net  ? 
This  morning  all  flie  final  documents  with  the 
Insurance  Companies  are  completed.  It  re- 
mains for  me  but  to  jiay  the  first  quarterly 
premiums.  For  that  I  think  I  am  prepared 
without  drawing  farther  on  your  hoards  or  my 
own  scanty  resources,  M-hich  Grabman  will 
take  care  to  drain  fast  enough." 

"And  Percival  St.  John?"  said  Madame 
Dalibard.  "We  want  no  idle  sacrifices.  If 
my  son  be  not  found,  we  need  not  that  boy's 
ghost  amongst  those  who  haunt  us." 

"  Surely  not,"  said  Varney;  "  and  for  my 
part,  he  may  be  more  useful  to  me  alive  than 
dead.  There  is  no  insurance  on  his  life,  and 
a  rich  friend  (credulous  green-horn  that  he 
is  !)  is  scarcely  of  that  flock  of  geese  which  it 
were  wise  to  slay  from  the  mere  hope  of  a 
golden  egg.  Percival  St.  John  is  your  victim, 
not  mine — not  till  you  give  the  order,  would  I 
lift  a  finger  to  harm  him." 

"  Yes,"  let  him  live,  unless  my  son  be  found 
to  me,"  said  Madame  Dalibard  almost  ex- 
ultingly:  "  let  him  live  to  forget  yon  fair- 
faced  fool,  leaning  now,  see  you,  so  delightedly 
on  his  arm,  and  fancying  eternity  in  the  hol- 
low vows  of  love  I — let  him  live  to  wrong  and 
abandon  her  by  forgetfuIness,*though  even  in 
the  grave;  to  laugh  at  his  boyish  dreams— to 
sully  her  memory  in  the  arms  of  harlots  I  Oh, 
if  the  dead  can  suffer,  let  him  live,  that  she 
may  feel  beyond  the  grave  his  inconstancy 
and  his  fall  !  Methinks  that  that  thought  will 
comfort  me,  if  Vincent  be  no  more,  and  I 
stand  childless  in  the  world  !  " 

"  It  is  so  settled,  then,"  said  Varney,  ever 
ready  to  clench    the    business    that    promised 


LUCRETIA. 


649 


•gold,  and  relieve  his  apprehensions  of  the  de- 1  aliout  whom,  between  ourselves,  I  never  cared 
tection  of  his  fraud.  "  And  now  to  your  \  three  straws,  even  in  a  poem.  How  pleased 
noiseless  hands,  as  soon  as  may  be,  I  consign   you  will  be  with  Laughton  !     Do  you   know,  I 


the  srirl:  she  has  lived  Ion"-  enouiih 


CHAPTER    XI. 

Love  and  Innocence. 

While  this  the  conference  between  these 
■execrable  and  ravening  birds  of  night  and  prey, 
Helen  and  her  boy-lover  were  thus  conversing 
in  the  garden,  while  the  autumn  sun — for  it 
was  in  the  second  week  of  October — broke 
:pleasantly  through  the  yellowing  leaves  of  the 
Jranquil  shrubs,  and  the  flowers,  which  should 
have  died  with  the  gone  summer,  still  fresh  by 
their  tender  care,  despite  the  lateness  of  the 
icason,  smiled  gratefully  as  their  light  foot- 
steps passed. 

"Yes,  Helen,"  said  Percival — "yes,  you  will 
love  my  mother,  for  she  is  one  of  those  people 
who  seem  to  attract  love,  as  if  it  were  a  prop- 
terty  belonging  to  them.  Even  my  dog  Beau 
'(you  know  how  fond  Beau  is  of  me  !^  always 
nestles  at  her  feet,  when  we  are  at  home.  I 
own  she  has  pride,  but  it  is  a  pride  that  never 
offended  any  one.  You  know  there  are  some 
flowers  that  we  call  proud.  The  pride  of  the 
flower  is  not  more  harmless  than  my  mother's. 
T5ut  perhaps  pride  is  not  the  right  word — it  is 
rather  the  aversion  to  anything  low  or  mean, 
the  admiration  for  everything  pure  and  high. 
Ah,  how  that  very  pride,  if  pritle  it  be,  will 
make  her  Jpve  you,  my  Helen  !  " 

"  You  need  not  tell  me,"  said  Helen,  smiling 
■seriously,  "that  I  shall  love  your  mother,  I 
love  her  already — nay,  from  the  first  moment 
you  said  you  had  a  mother,  my  heart  leaped 
to  her.  Your  mother  !  if  ever  you  are 
really  jealous,  it  must  be  of  her  !  but  that  she 
should  love  me, — that  it  is  what  I  doubt  and 
fear.  For  if  you  were  my  brother,  Percival,  I 
should  be  so  ambitious  for  you.  A  nymph 
must  rise  from  the  stream,  a  sylphid  from  the 
rose,  before  I  could  allow  another  to  steal  you 
from  my  side.  And  if  I  think  I  should  feel 
this  only  as  your  sister,  what  can  be  precious 
enough  to  satisfy  a  mother  ?  " 

"  You,  and  you  only,"  answered  Percival, 
with  his  blithesome  laugh — "you,  my  sweet 
Helen,  much  better  than   nymph  or  sylphid. 


was  lying  awake  all  last  night,  to  consider 
what  room  you  would  like  best  for  your  own. 
And  at  last,  I  have  decided — come,  listen — it 
opens  from  the  music-gallery  that  overhangs 
the  hall.  From  the  window,  you  overlook  the 
southern  side  of  the  park,  and  catch  a  view  of 
the  lake  beyond.  There  are  two  niches  in  the 
wall — one  for  your  piano,  one  for  your  favor- 
ite books.  It  is  just  large  enough  to  hold 
four  persons  with  ease — our  mother  and  my- 
self, your  aunt,  whom  by  that  time  we  shall 
have  petted  into  good  humor,  and  if  we  can 
coax  Ardworth  there — the  best  good  fellow 
that  ever  lived — I  think  our  party  will  be  com- 
plete. By  the  way,  I  am  uneasy  about  Ard- 
worth, it  IS  so  long  since  we  have  seen  him, 
I  have  called  three  times — nay,  five — but  his 
odd-looking  clerk  always  swears  he  is  not  at 
home.  Tell  me,  Helen,  now,  you  who  know 
him  so  well — tell  me,  how  I  can  serve  him  ? 
You  know,  I  am  so  terribly  rich,  (at  least,  I 
shall  be  in  a  month  or  two;) — I  can  never  get 
through  my  money,  unless  my  friends  will 
help  me.  And  is  it  not  shocking  that  that 
noble  fellow  should  be  so  poor,  and  yet  suffer 
me  to  call  him  '  friend,'  as  if  in  friendship  one 
man  should  want  everything,  and  the  other 
nothing.  Still,  I  don't  know  how  to  venture 
to  propose — come,  you  understand  me,  Helen 
— let  us  lay  our  wise  heads  together,  and 
make  him  well  off,  in  spite  of  himself." 

It  was  in  the  loose,  boyish  talk  of  Percival's. 
that  he  had  found  the  way  not  only  to  Helen's 
heart,  but  to  her  soul.  For  in  this,  she  (grand 
undeveloped  poetess)  recognized  a  nobler 
poetry  than,  we  chain  to  rhythm— the  poetry  of 
generous  deeds.  She  yearned  to  kiss  the 
warm  hand  she  held,  and  drew  nearer  to  his 
side  as  she  answered — "  And  sometimes,  dear, 
dear  Percival.  you  wonder  why  I  would  rather 
listen  to  you  than  to  all  Mr.  Varney's  bitter 
eloquence,  or  even  to  my  dear  cousin's  aspiring 
ambition.  They  talk  well,  but  it  is  of  them- 
selves; while  you " 

Percival  blushed,  and  checked  her. 

"Well,"  she  said  — "well,  to  your  question. 
Alas  !  you  know  little  of  my  cousin,  if  you 
think  all  our.arts  could  decoy  him  but  of  his 
rugged  independence,  and,  much  as  I  love 
him,  I  could  not  wish  it.     But  do  not  feat  fo" 


050  BULWKR'S 

him;  he  is  one  of  those  who  ^ire  born  to   siiC-  ] 
ceed,  and  without  help." 

"  How  do  you  Icnow  that,  pretty  prophet- 
ess ? "  said  Percivai,  with  the  superior  air  of 
manhood.  "  I  have  seen  more  of  the  world 
than  you  have,  and  I  cannot  see  why  Ardworth 
should  j^^iTi'^'^/ as  you  call  it; — or,  if  so,  why 
he  should  succeed  less  if  he  swung  his  ham- 
mock in  a  better  birth  than  that  hole  in  Gray's 
Inn,  and  would  just  let  me  keep  him  a  cab  and 
a  groom." 

Had  Percivai  talked  of  keeping  John  Ard- 
worth an  elephant  and  a  palanquin,  Helen 
could  not  have  been  more  amused.  She 
clapped  her  little  hands  in  a  delight  that  pro- 
voked Percivai,  and  laughed  out  loud.  Then 
seeing  her  boy-lover's  lip  pouted  petulantly, 
and  his  brow  was  overcast,  she  said  more 
seriously — 

"  Do  you  not  know  what  it  is  to  feel  con- 
vinced of  something  which  you  cannot  ex- 
plain ?  Well,  I  feel  this  as  to  my  cousin's 
fame  and  fortunes.  Surely,  too,  you  must 
feel  it,  you  scarce  know  why,  when  he  speaks 
of  that  future,  which  seems  so  dim  and  so 
far  to  me,  as  of  something  that  belonged  to 
him." 

"  Very  true,  Helen,"  said  Percivai,  "he  lays 
it  out  like  the  map  of  his  estate.  One  can't 
laugh  when  he  says  so  carelessly — 'At  such 
an  age  I  shall  lead  my  circuit — at  such  an 
age  I  shall  be  rich — at  such  an  age  I  shall 
enter  parliament — and  beyond  that  I  shall 
look  as  yet  no  farther.'  .\nd,  poor  fellow,  then 
he  will  be  forty-three  !  And  in  the  meanwhile 
to  suffer  such  privations  !  " 

''  There  are  no  privations  to  one  who  lives 
in  the  future,"  said  Helen  with  that  noble  in- 
tuition into  lofty  natures,  which  at  times  flashed 
from  her  childish  simplicity,  foreshadowing 
what,  if  Heaven  spare  her  life,  her  maturer 
intellect  may  develop:  "  For  Ardworth  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  poverty.     He  is  as  rich  in 

his  hopes  as  we  are  in "    She  stopped  short, 

blushed  and  continued  with  downcast  looks — 
"  As  well  might  you  pity  me  in  these  walks,  so 
dreary  with  Hit  you.  I  do  not  live  in  them— I 
hve  in  my  thoughts  of  you." 

Her  voice  trembled  with  emotion  in  those 
last  words.  She  slid  from  Percival's  arm,  and 
timidly  sat  down  (and  he  beside  her)  on  a  lit- 
tle mound  under  the  single  chestnut  tree,  that 
threw  its  shade  over  the  warden. 


Both  were  silent  for  some  moments — Per 
cival  with  grateful  ecstacy — Helen  with  one 
of  those  sudden  fits  of  mysterious  melancholy, 
to  which  her  nature  was  so  subjected. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Helen,"  he 
said  gravely,  "  since  I  have  known  you,  I  feel 
as  if  life  were  a  more  solemn  thing  than  I 
ever  regarded  it  before.  It  seems  to  me  as  i*' 
a  new  and  more  arduous  duty  was  added  t 
those  for  which  I  was  prepared— a  duty,  Helen, 
to  become  worthy  of  you  I — Will  you  smile  ? 
No — you  will  not  smile,  if  I  say  I  have  had 
my  brief  moments  of  ambition.  Sometimes 
as  a  boy,  with  Plutarch  in  my  hand,  stretched 
idly  under  the  old  cedar  trees  at  Laughton — 
sometimes  as  a  sailor,  when,  becalmed  on  the 
Atlantic,  and  my  ears  freshly  filled  with  tales 
of  Collingwood  and  Nelson,  I  stole  from  my 
comrades,  and  leant,  musingly  over  the  bound- 
less sea.  But  when  this  ample  heritage 
passed  to  me — when  I  had  no  more  my  own 
fortunes  to  make,  my  own  rank  to  build  up, — 
such  dreams  became  less  and  less  frequent. 
Is  it  not  true  that  wealth  makes  us  contented 
to  be  obscure?  Yes;  I  understand,  while  I 
speak,  why  poverty  itself  befriends,  not  crip>- 
ples,  Ardworth's  energies.  But  since  I  have 
known  you,  dearest  Helen,  those  dreams  re- 
turn more  vividly  than  ever.  He  who  claims 
you,  should  be — must  be — something  nobler 
than  the  crowd  !  Helen  !  " — and  he  rose  by 
an  irresistible  and  restless  impulse — "I  shall 
not  be  contented  till  you  are  as  proud  of  your 
choice  as  I  of  mine  ! " 

It  seemed,  as  Percivai  spoke  and  looked,  as 
if  boyhood  were  cast  from  him  for  ever.  The 
unusual  weight  and  gravity  of  his  words,  to 
which  his  tone  gave  even  eloquence — the  steady 
flash  of  his  dark  eyes — his  erect,  elastic  form 
—  all  had  the  dignity  of  man.  Helen  gazed 
on  him  silently,  and  with  a  heart  so  full,  that 
words  would  not  come,  and  tears  overflowed 
instead. 

That  sight  sobered  him  at  once — he  knelt 
down  beside  her,  thrpw  his  arms  around  her 
— it  was  his  first  embrace — and  kissed  the 
tears  away. 

"  How  have  I  distressed  you  ? — why  do  yo;. 
weep  ? " 

"  Let  me  weep  on,  Percivai,  dear  Percivai  ' 
These  tears  are  like  prayers — they  speak  u> 
Heaven — and  of  you  !  " 

A  step  came  noiselessly  over  the  grass,  and 


LUC  RET  I  A. 


65  > 


between  the  lovers  and    the    sunlight,    stood 
Gabriel  Varney. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Sudden  Celebrity  and  Patient  Hope. 

Percival  was  unusually  gloomy  and  ab- 
stracted in  his  Way  to  town  that  day,  though 
Varney  was  his  companion,  and  in  the  full  play 
of  those  animal  spirits  which  he  owed  to  his 
unrivalled  physical  organization  and  the  ob- 
tuseness  of  his  conscience.  Seeing,  at  length, 
that  his  gaiety  did  not  communicate  itself  to 
Percival,  he  paused  and  looked  at  him  sus- 
piciously. A  falling  leaf  startles  the  steed, 
and  a  shadow  the  guilty  man. 

"You  are  sad,  Percival  ?"  he  said,  inquir- 
ingly.    "  What  has  disturbed  you  ?  " 

"It  is  nothing — or,  at  least,  would  seem 
nothing  to  you,"  answered  Percival,  with  an 
effort  to  smile,  "  for  I  have  heard  you  laugh 
at  the  doctrine  of  presentiments.  We  sailors 
are  more  superstitious." 

"  What  presentiment  can  you  possibly  en- 
tertain ?  "  asked  Varney,  more  anxiously  than 
Percival  could  have  anticipated. 

"  Presentiments  are  not  so  easily  defined, 
Varney.  But,  in  truth,  poor  Helen  has  in- 
fected me.  Have  you  not  remarked,  that, 
gay  as  she  habitually  is,  some  shadow  comes 
over  her  so  suddenly,  that  one  cannot  trace 
the  cause  ? " 

"  My  dear  Percival,"  said  Varney,  after  a 
short  pause,  "  what  you  say  does  not  surprise 
me.  It  would  be  false  kindness  to  conceal 
from  you  that  I  have  heard  Madame  Dalibard 
say  that  her  mother  was,  when  about  her  age, 
threatened  with  consumptive  symptoms, — but 
she  lived  many  years  afterwards.  Nay,  nay, 
rally  yotirself;  Helen's  appearance,  despite 
the  extreme  purity  of  her  complexion,  is  not 
that  of  one  threatened  by  the  terrible  malady 
of  our  climate.  The  young  are  often  haunted 
with  the  idea  of  early  death.  As  we  grow 
older,  that  thought  is  less  cherished;  in  youth 
it  IS  a  sort  of  luxury.  To  this  mournful  idea, 
(which  you  see",  you  have  remarked  as  well  as 
I),  we  must  attribute  not  only  Helen's  occa- 
sional melancholy,  but  a  generosity  of  fore- 
thought, which  I  cannot  deny  myself  the 
pleasure  of  communicating  to  you,  though  her 


delicacy  would  be  shocked  at  my  indiscretion. 
You  know  how  hel|)less  her  aunt  is.  Well, 
Helen,  who  is  entitled,  when  of  age,  to  a  mod- 
erate coinpetence,  has  persuaded  me  to  insure 
her  life,  and  accept  a  trust  to  hold  the  monies 
(if  ever  unhappily  due)  for  the  benefit  of  my 
mother-in-law,  so  that  Madaine  Dalibard  may 
not  be  left  destitute,  if  her  niece  die  before 
she  is  twenty-one.  How  like  Helen  ! — is  it 
not  ?  " 

Percival  was  too  overcome  to  answer. 

Varney  resumed — "  I  entreat  you  not  to  men- 
tion this  to  Helen — it  would  offend  her  modesty 
to  have  the  secret  of  her  good  deeds  thus  be- 
trayed by  one  to  whom  alone  she  confided 
them.  I  could  not  resist  her  entreaties; 
though,  entre-fwus,  it  cripples  me  not  a  little 
to  advance  for  her  the  necessary  sums  for  the 
premiums.  Apropos,  this  bring  me  to  a  point 
on  which  I  feel,  as  the  vulgar  idiom  goes, 
'  very  awkward,' — as  I  always  do  in  those  con- 
founded money  matters.  But  you  were  good 
enough  to  ask  me  to  paint  you  a  couple  of 
pictures  for  Laughton.  Now,  if  you  could  let 
me  have  some  portion  of  the  sum,  whatever  it 
be  (for  I  don't  price  my  paintings  to  you),  it 
would  very  much  oblige  me." 

Percival  turned  away  his  face  as  he  wrung 
Varney's  hand,  and  muttered,  with  a  choked 
voice,  "  Let  me  have  my  share  in  Helen's 
divine  forethought.  Good  heavens  !  she,  so 
young,  to  look  thus  beyond  the  grave,  always 
for  others — for  others  !  " 

Callous  as  the  wretch  was,  Percival's  emo- 
tion and  his  proposal  struck  Varnjy  with  a 
sentiment  like  compunction.  He  had  designed 
to  appropriate  the  lover's  gold,  as  it  was  now 
offered;  but  that  Percival  himself  shoul-d  jpro^ 
pose  it,  blind  to  the  grave,  to  which  thai  goJdi 
paved  the  way,  was  a  horror  not  counted  in 
those  to  which  his  fell  cupidity  and  his  goad- 
ing apprehensions  had  familiarized  his  con- 
science. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  one  of  those  wayward 
scruples  to  which  the  blackest  criminals  are 
sometimes  susceptible — "  no.  I  have  promised 
Helen  to  regard  this  as  a  loan  to  her,  which 
she  is  to  repay  me  when  of  age.  What  you 
may  advance  me  is  for  the  picture.  I  have  a 
right  to  do  as  I  please  with  what  is  bought  by 
my  own  labor.  And  the  subjects  of  the  pic- 
tures— what  shall  they  be  ? " 

"  For  one  picture  try  and   recall    Hefen's 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


aspect  and  attitude  when  you  came  to  us  in 
the  garden,  and  entitle  your  subject — '  The 
Foreboding.'  " 

"  Hem  !  "  said  Varney,  hesitatingly.  "  And 
the  other  subject  !  " 

'  Wait  for  that,  till  the  joy-bells  at  Laugh- 
ton  have  welcomed  a  bride,  and  then — and 
then,  Varney,"  added  Percival,  with  something 
of  his  natural  joyous  smile,  "you  must  take 
the  expression  as  you  find  it.  Once  under  my 
care,  and,  please  Heaven,  the  one  picture  shall 
laughingly  upbraid  the  other  !  " 

As  this  was  said,  the  cabriolet  stopped  at 
Percival's  door.  Varney  dined  with  him  that 
day;  and  if  the  conversation  flagged,  it  did 
not  revert  to  the  subject  which  had  so  darkened 
the  bright  spirits  of  the  host,  and  so  tried  the 
hypocrisy  of  the  guest.  When  Varney  left, 
which  he  did  as  soon  as  the  dinner  was  con- 
cluded, Percival  silently  put  a  check  into  his 
hands,  to  a  greater  amount  that  Varney  had 
anticijiated  even  from  his  generosity. 

"  This  is  for  four  jiictures,  not  two,"  he 
said,  shaking  his  head;  and  then,  with  his 
characteristic  conceit,  he  added — "  Well,  some 
years  hence,  the  world  shall  not  call  them  over- 
paid. Adieu,  my  Medici;  a  dozen  such  men, 
and  Art  Avould  revive  in  England." 

When  he  was  left  alone,  Pereival  sate  down, 
and,  leaning  his  face  on  both  hands,  gave  way 
to  the  gloom  which  _his  native  manliness,  and 
the  delicacy  that  belongs  to  true  affection,  had 
made  him  struggle  not  to  indulge  in  the  pres- 
ence of  another.  Never  had  he  so  loved 
Helen  a%in  that  hour;  never  had  he  so  inti- 
mately and  intensely  felt  her  matchless  worth. 
The  image  of  her  unselfish,  quiet,  melancholy 
consideration  for  that  austere,  uncaressing, 
unsympathizing  relation,  under  whose  shade 
her  young  heart  must  have  withered,  seemed 
to  him  filled  with  a  celestial  pathos.  And  he 
almost  hated  Varney  that  the  cynic  painter 
could  have  talked  of  it  with  that  business-like 
phlegm.  The  evening  deepened;  the  tranquil 
street  grew  still;  the  air  seemed  close;  the 
solitude  oppressed  him;  he  rose  abruptly, 
seized  his  hat,  and  went  forth  slowly,  and  still 
with  a  heavy  heart. 

As  he  entered  Piccadilly,  on  the  broad 
step  of  that  house  successively  inhabited  by 
the  Duke  of  Queensbury  and  Lord  Hertford, 
— on  the  step  of  that  mansion,  up  which  so 
many    footsteps    light    with    wanton    pleasure 


have  gaily  trod,  Percival's  eye  fell  upon  a 
wretched,  squalid,  ragged  object,  doubled  uj), 
as  it  were,  in  that  last  despondency  which  has 
ceased  to  beg,  that  has  no  care  to  steal,  that 
has  no  wish  to  live.  Percival,  halted  and 
touched  the  outcast. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  poor  fellow? 
Take  care — the  policeman  will  not  suffer  you 
to  rest  here.  Come,  cheer  up,  I  say  !  There 
is  something  to  find  you  a  better  lodging  I  " 

The  silver  fell  unheeded  on  the  stones. 
The  thing  of  rags  did  not  even  raise  its  head, 
but  a  low  broken  voice,  muttered — 

"  It  be  too  late  now — let  'em  take  me  to 
prison — let  'em  send  me  'cross  the  sea  to 
Buttany — let  'em  hang  me.  if  they  please.  1 
be's  good  for  nothin'  now — nothin'  !  " 

Altered  as  the  voice  was,  it  struck  Percival 
as  familiar.  He  looked  down  and  caught  a 
view  of  the  drooping  face. 

"  Up,  man,  up!"  he  said,  cheerily;  "see, 
Providence  sends  you  an  old  friend  in  need,  to 
teach  you  never  to  despair  again." 

The  hearty  accent,  more  than  the  words, 
touched  and  aroused  the  poor  creature.  He 
rose  mechanically,  and  a  sickly  grateful  smile 
passed  over  his  wasted  features,  as  he  recog- 
nized St.  John. 

"  Come  !  how  is  this  ?  I  have  always  un- 
derstood that  to  keep  a  crossing  was  a  flourish- 
ing trade  now-a-days." 

"  I  'as  no  crossin'.  I  'as  sold  her  I  "  groaned 
Beck,  "  I  be's  good  for  nothin'  now,  but  to 
cadge  about  the  streets,  and  steal,  and  filch, 
and  hang  like  the  rest  on  us  !  Thank  you, 
kindly,  sir,"  (and  Beck  pulled  his  forelock). 
"  but,  please  your  'onor,  I  vould  rather  make 
an  ind  on  it  !  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  didn't  I  tell  you  when  you 
wanted  a  friend  to  come  to  me  ?  Wh\'  did  you 
doubt  me,  foolish  fellow  ?  Pick  up  those 
shillings — get  a  bed  and  a  supper.  Come  and 
see  me  to-morrow  at  nine  o'clock;  you  know 
where — the  same  house  in  Curzon  street;  you 
shall  tell  me  then  your  whole  story,  and  it 
shall  go  hard  but  I'll  buy  you  another  cross-  i 
ing,  or  get  you  something  just  as  good." 

Poor  Beck  swayed  a  moment  or  two  on  his 
slender  legs,  like  a  drunken   man,  and  then     i 
suddenly  falling  on  his  knees,  he  kissed  the     - 
hem  of   his  benefactor's  garment,  aud  fairly 
wept,     Those  tears  relieved  him — they  seemed 
to  was  the  drought  of  despair  from  his  heart. 


LUCRETIA. 


653 


"Hush,  hush  I  or  we  shall  have  a  crowd 
round  us.     You'll  not  forget,  my  poor  friend, 

No.    ,    Curzon-street  —  nine    to-morrow. 

Make  haste,  now,  and  get  food  and  rest — you 
look,  indeed,  as  if  you  wanted  them.  Ah  ! 
would  to  Heaven  all  the  poverty  in  this  huge 
city  stood  here  in  thy  person,  and  we  could  aid 
it  as  easily  as  I  can  thee  !  " 

Percival  had  moved  on  as  he  said  those  last 
words,  and,  looking  back,  he  had  the  satisfac- 
tion to  see  that  Beck  was  slowly  crawling  after 
him,  and  had  escaped  the  grim  question  of  a 
very  portly  policeman,  who  had  no  doubt  ex- 
pressed a  natural  indignation  at  the  audacity 
of  so  ragged  a  skeleton  not  keeping  itself  re- 
spectably at  home  in  its  churchyard. 

Entering  one  of  the  clubs  in  St.  James's 
street,  Percival  found  a  small  knot  of  politi- 
cians in  eager  conversation  respecting  a  new 
book  which  had  been  published  but  a  day  or 
two  before,  but  which  had  already  seized  the 
public  attention  with  that  strong  grasp  which 
constitutes  always  an  era  in  an  author's  life, 
sometimes  an  ei)och  in  a  nation's  literature. 
The  newspapers  were  full  of  extracts  from  the 
work — the  gossips  of  conjecture  as  to  the  au- 
thorship. We  need  scarcely  say  that  a  book 
which  makes  this  kind  of  sensation,  must  hit 
some  popular  feeling  of  the  hour,  supply  some 
popular  want.  Ninety-nine  times  out  of  a 
hundred,  therefore,  its  character  is  political:  it 
was  so  in  the  present  instance.  It  may  be  re- 
membered that  that  year  Parliament  sate  dur- 
ing great  part  of  the  month  of  October,  that  it 
was  the  year  in  which  the  Reform  Bill  was  re- 
jected by  the  House  of  Lords,  and  that  public 
feeling  in  our  time  had  never  been  so  keenly 
excited. 

This  work  appeared  during  the  short  inter- 
val between  the  rejection  of  the  Bill  and  the 
prorogation  of  Parliament.*  And  what  made 
it  more  remarkable,  was  that  while  stamped 
with  the  passion  of  the  time,  there  was  a  weight 
of  calm  and  stern  reasoning,  embodied  in  its 
vigorous  periods,  which  gave  to  the  arguments 
of  the  advocate  something  of  the  impartiality 
of  the  judge.  Unusually  abstracted  and  un- 
social, for,  despite  his  youth  and  that  peculiar 
bashfulness  before  noticed,  he  was  generally 
alive  enough  to  all  that  passed  around  him, 
Percival  paid  little  attention  to  the  comments 


*  Parliament  was  prorogued  October  20th;  the  bill 
rejected  by  the  Lords,  October  8th. 


that  circulated  round  the  easy  chairs  in  his 
vicinity,  till  a  subordinate  in  the  administration, 
with  whom  he  was  slightly  acquainted,  pushed 
a  small  volume  towards  him,  and  said: 

"  You  have  seen  this,  of  course,  St.  John  ? 
Ten  to  one    you  do  not  guess  the  author.     It 

is    certainly    not    B m,    though   the   Lord 

Chancellor  has  energy  enough  for  anything. 
R says  it  has  a  touch  of  S r." 

"  Could  M y  have  written  it  ?  "  asked  a 

young  member  of  Parliament,  timidly. 

"  M y  ! — very  like  his  matchless  style, 

to  be  sure  !     You  can  have  read  very  little  of 

M y,  I  should  think,"  said  the  subordinate, 

with  "the  true  sneer  of  an  official  and  a  critic. 

The  young  member  could  have  slunk  into  a 
nutshell. 

Percival  with  very  languid  interest,  glanced 
over  the  volume.  But  despite  his  mood,  and 
his  moderate  affection  for  political  writings, 
the  passage  he  opened  upon  struck  and  seized 
him  unawares.  Though  the  sneer  of  the  of- 
ficial was  just,  and  the  style  was  not  compar- 
able to  M-5 y's,  (whose  is?)  still  the  steady 

rush  of  strong  words,  strong  with  strong 
thoughts — heaped  massively  together — showed 
the  ease  of  genius  and  the  gravity  of  thought : 
—  the  absence  of  all  effeminate  glitter — the 
iron  grapple  with  the  pith  and  substance  of 
the  argument  opposed,  seemed  familiar  to 
Percival.  He  thought  he  heard  the  deep  bass 
of  John  Ardworth's  earnest  voice,  when  some 
truth  roused  his  advocacy,  or  some  falsehood 
provoked  his  wrath.  He  put  down  the  book, 
bewildered.  Could  it  be  the  obscure  briefless 
lawyer  in  Gray's  inn,  (that  very  morning  the 
object  of  his  young  ])ity,)  who  was  thus 
lifted  into  fame  ?  He  smiled  at  his  own 
credulity.  But  he  listened  with  more  atten- 
tion to  the  enthusiastic  praises  that  circled 
round,  and  the  various  guesses  which  accom- 
panied them.  Soon,  however,  his  former 
gloom  returned — the  Babel  began  to  chafe  and 
weary  him.  He  rose  and  went  forth  again  in- 
to the  air.  He  strolled  on  without  purpose, 
but  mechanically,  into  the  street  where  he  had 
first  seen  Helen.  He  paused  a  few  moments 
under  the  colonnade  which  faced  Beck's  old 
deserted  crossing.  His  pause  attracted  the 
notice  of  one  of  the  unhappy  beings  whom 
we  suffer  to  pollute  our  streets  and  rot  in  our 
hospitals.  She  approached  and  spoke  to  him 
— to  him  whose  heart  was  so  full  of  Helen  ! 


OS4 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


He  shuddered,  and  strode  on.  At  length, 
he  paused  before  the  twin  towers  of  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  on  which  the  moon  rested  in  sol- 
emn splendor;  and  in  that  space,  one  man  only 
shared  his  solitude.  A  figure  with  folded 
arms  leant  against  the  iron  rails,  near  the 
statue  of  Canning,  and  his  gaze  comprehended 
in  one  view,  the  walls  of  the  Parliament,  in 
which  all  passions  wage  their  war,  and  the 
glorious  abbey,  which  gives  a  Walhalla  to  the 
great.  The  utter  stillness  of  the  figure  so  in 
unison  with  the  stillness  of  the  scene,  had  upon 
Percival  more  effect  than  would  have  been 
produced  by  the  most  clamorous  crowd.  He 
looked  round  curiously,  as  he  passed,  and 
uttered  an  exclamation,  as  he  recognized  John 
A  rd  worth. 

*'  You,  Percival  !  "  said  Ardworth  —  "a 
strange  meeting  place  at  this  hour  !  What 
can  bring  you  hither  ? " 

"  Only  whim,  I  fear — and  you  ? "  as  Percival 
linked  his  arm  into  Ardworth's. 

''Twenty  years  henoe  I  will  tell  you  what 
brought  me  hither  ! "  answered  Ardworth, 
moving  slowly  back  towards  Whitehall. 

"  If  we  are  alive  then  !  " 

"  We  live  till  our  destinies  below  are  ful- 
filled; till  our  uses  have  passed  from  us  in  this 
sphere,  and  rise  to  benefit  another.  For  the 
soul  is  as  a  sun,  but  with  this  noble  distinction, 
the  sun  is  confined  in  its  career — day  after 
day,  it  visits  the  same  lands,  gilds  the  same 
planets,  or  rather,  as  the  astronomers  hold, 
stands  the  motionless  centre  of  moving  worlds. 
But  the  soul,  when  it  sinks  into  seeming  dark- 
ness and  the  deep,  rises  to  new  destinies,  fresh 
regions  unvisited  before.  What  we  call  Etern- 
ity, may  be  but  an  endless  series  of  those  tran- 
sitions, which  men  call  deaths,  abandonments 
of  home  after  home,  ever  to  fairer  scenes  and 
loftier  heights.  Age  after  age,  the  spirit,  that 
glorious  Nomand,  may  shift  its  tent,  faded 
not  to  rest  in  the  dull  Elysium  of  the  Heathen, 
but  carrying  with  it  evermore  its  elements, — 
Activity  and  Desire.  Why  should  the  soul 
ever  repose  ?  God,  its  principle,  reposes  never. 
While  we  speak,  new  worlds  are  sparkling 
forth — suns  are  throwing  off  their  nebulse — 
nebula;  are  hardening  into  worlds.  The  Al- 
mighty proves  his  existence  by  creating. 
Think  you  that  Plato  is  at  rest,  and  Shakspeare 
only  basking  on  a  sun-cloud  ?  Labor  is  the 
very  essence  of  spirit   as  of  divinity:  labor  is 


the  purgatory  of  the  erring;  it  may  become 
the  hell  of  the  wicked,  but  labor  is  not  less  the 
heaven  of  the  good  !  " 

Ardworth  spoke  with  unusual  earnestness 
and  passion;  and  his  idea  of  the  future  was 
emblematic  of  his  own  active  nature:  for  each 
of  us  is  wisely  left  to  shape  out,  amidst  the 
impenetrable  mists,  his  own  ideal  of  the  Here- 
after. The  warrior  child  of  the  biting  north 
placed  his  Hela  amid  snows,  and  his  Himmel 
in  the  banquets  of  victorious  war;  the  son  of 
the  east,  parched  by  relentless  summer— his 
hell  amidst  fire,  and  his  elysium  by  cooling 
streams;  the  weary  peasant  sighs  through  life 
for  rest,  and  rest  awaits  his  vision  beyond  the 
grave;  the  workman  of  genius — ever  ardent, 
ever  young — honors  toil  as  the  glorious  de- 
velopment of  being — and  springs  refreshed 
over  the  abyss  of  the  grave — to  follow,  from 
star  to  star,  the  progress  that  seems  to  him  at 
once  the  supreme  felicity  and  the  necessary 
law.  So  be  it  with  the  fantasy  of  each ! 
Wisdom  that  is  infallible,  and  love  that  never 
sleeps,  watch  over  the  darkness — and  bid  dark- 
ness be,  that  we  may  dream  ! 

"  Alas  !  "  said  the  young  listener — "  what 
reproof  do  you  not  convey  to  those,  like  me, 
who,  devoid  of  the  power  which  gives  results 
to  every  toil,  have  little  left  to  them  in  life,  but 
to  idle  life  away.  All  have  not  the  gift  to 
write,  or  harangue,  or  speculate,  or " 

"Friend,"  interrupted  Ardworth,  bluntly: 
"  do  not  belie  yourself.  There  lives  not  a  man 
on  earth — out  of  a  lunatic  asylum — who  has 
not  in  him  the  power  to  do  good.  What  can 
writers,  haranguers,  or  speculators  do  more 
than  that  ?  Have  you  ever  entered  a  cottage 
— ever  travelled  in  a  coach — ever  talked  with  a 
peasant  in  the  field,  jir  loitered  with  a  mechanic 
at  the  loom,  and  not  found  that  each  of  those 
men  had  a  talent  you  had  not,  knew  some 
things  you  knew  not  ?  The  most  useless 
creature  that  ever  yawned  at  a  club,  or  counted 
the  vermin  on  his  rags  under  the  suns  of 
Calabria,  has  no  excuse  for  want  of  intellect. 
What  men  want  is,  not  talent,  it  is  purpose; — 
in  other  words,  not  the  power  to  achieve,  but 
the  will  to  labor.  You,  Perci^'al  Saint  John — 
you  affect  to  despond,  lest  you  should  not  have 
your  uses — you  with  that  fresh  warm  heart — 
you  with  that  pure  enthusiasm  for  what  is 
fresh  and  good — you,  who  can  even  admire 
a   thing    like    Varney,    because,    through    the 


LUCRE'J-JA. 


«>S5 


tau-dryman,  you  recognize  art  and  skill,  even 
though  wasted  in  spoiling  canvass — -you,  who 
have  only  to  live  as  you  feel,  in  order  to  dif- 
fuse blessings  all  around  you, — fie,  foolish 
l)oy  I — you  will  own  your  error  when  I  tell 
you  why  I  come  from  my  rooms  at  Gray's  Inn 
to  see  the  walls  in  which  Hampden,  a  plain 
country  squire  like  you,  shook  with  plain 
words  the  tyranny  of  eight  hundred  years." 

"  Ardworth,  I  will  not  wait  your  time  to  tell 
me  what  took  you  yonder.  I  have  penetrated 
a  secret  that  you,  not  kindly,  kept  from  me. 
This  morning  you  rose  and  found  yourself 
famous;  this  evening  you  have  come  to  gaze 
upon  the  scene  of  the  career  to  which  that 
fame  will  more  rapidly  conduct  you — — " 

"  And  upon  the  tomb  which  the  proudest 
ambition  I  can  form  on  earth  must  content, 
itself  to  win  !  A  poor  conclusion,  if  all  ended 
here  !  " 

"  I  am  right,  however,"  said  Percival,  with 
boyish  pleasure.  "It  is  you  whose  praises 
have  just  filled  my  ears.  You,  dear — dear 
Ardworth  !     How  rejoiced  I  am  !  " 

Ardworth  pressed  heartily  the  hand  extended 
to  him:  "  I  should  have  trusted  you  with  my 
secret  to-morrow,  Percival;  as  it  is,  keep  it 
for  the  present.  A  craving  of  my  nature  has 
been  satisfied,  a  grief  .has  found  distraction;  as 
for  the  rest,  any  child  who  throws  a  stone  into 
the  water  with  all  his  force  can  make  a  splash; 
but  he  would  lie  a  fool,  indeed,  if  he  supposed 
that  the  splash  was  a  sign  that  he  had  turned 
■a  stream." 

Here  Ardworth  ceased  abruptly — and  Per- 
cival, engrossed  by  a  bright  idea,  which  had 
suddenly  occurred  to  him,  exclaimed — 

"  Ardworth — your  desire,  your  ambition,  is 
to  enter  parliament;  there  must  be  a  dissolu- 
tion shortly — the  success  of  your  book  will 
render  you  acceptable  to  many  a  popular  con- 
stituency. All  you  can  want  is  a  sum  for  the 
necessary  expenses.  Borrow  that  sum  from 
me — repay  me  when  you  are  in  the  cabinet,  or 
attorney-general.     It  shall  be  so  !  " 

A  look  so  bright,  that  even  by  that  dull 
lamplight,  the  glow  of  the  cheek,  the  brilliancy 
of  tl^e  eye  were  visible — flashed  over  Ard- 
worth's  face.  He  felt  at  that  moment  what 
ambitious  man  must  feel  when  the  object  he 
has  seen  dimly  and  afar — is  placed  within  his 
grasp;  but  his  reason  was  proof  even  against 
that  strong  temptation. 


He  passed  his  arm  round  the  boy's  slender 
waist,  and  drew  him  to  his  heart,  with  grateful 
affection,  as  he  replied. 

"  And  what,  if  now  in  parliament,  giving  up 
my  career — with  no  regular  means  of  subsist- 
ence— what  could  I  be,  but  a  venal  adventurer  ? 
Place  would  become  so  vitally  necessary  to 
me,  that  I  should  feed  but  a  dangerous  war 
between  my  conscience  and  my  wants.  In 
chasing  Fame,  the  shadow,  I  should  lose 
the  substance,  Independence, — why,  that  very 
thought  would  paralyze  my  tongue.  No, 
no — my  generous  friend.  As  labor  is  the 
arch  elevator  of  man,  so  patience  in  the  es- 
sence of  labor.  First  let  me  build  the  founda- 
tion, I  may  then  calculate  the  height  of  my 
tower.  First  let  me  be  independent  of  the 
great — I  will  then  be  the  champion  of  the 
lowly.  Hold  ! — tempt  me  no  more — do  not 
lure  me  to  the  loss  of  self-esteem  !  And  now 
Percival,"  resumed  Ardworth,  in  the  tone  of 
one  who  wishes  to  plunge  into  some  utterly 
Wiw  current  of  thought — "  let  us  forget  for 
awhile  these  solemn  aspirations,  and  be  frolic- 
some and  human.  '  Nemo  mortaliinn  omnibus 
horis  sapit.'  ^  Neque  semper  arcum  tendit  Ap- 
polo.'     What  say  you  to  a  cigar?" 

Percival  stared.  He  was  not  yet  familiar- 
ized to  the  eccentric  whims  of  his  friend  ! 

"  Hot  negus  and  a  cigar  !  "   repeated  Ard- 
worth, while  a  smile,  full  of  drollery,  'played 
round  the  corners  of  his  lips,  and  twinkled  in 
his  deep-set  eyes. 
"  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  Not  serious — I  have  been  serious  enough," 
(and  Ardworth  sighed),  for  the  last  three 
weeks.  Who  goes  '  to  Corinth  to  be  sage,  or 
to  the  Cider  Cellar  to  be  serious  ?  " 

"  I  subscribe,  then,  to  the  negus  and  cignr," 
said  Percival,  smiling;  and  he  had  no  cause  to 
repent  his  compliance,  as  he  accompanied 
Ardworth  to  one  of  the  resorts  favored  by 
that  strange  person  in  his  rare  hours  of  re- 
laxation. 

For,  seated  at  his  favorite  table,  which 
ha|)pened,  luckily,  to  be  vacant,  with  his  head 
thrown  carelessly  back,  and  his  negus  steam- 
ing before  him,  John  Ardworth  continued  to 
pour  forth,  till  the  clock  struck  three,  jest 
upon  jest — pun  upon  pun — broad  drollery  upon 
broad  drollery,  without  flagging,  without  in- 
termission— so  varied,  so  copious,  so  ready,  so 
irresistible,  that   Percival  was  transported  out 


BULIVER'S     WORKS. 


of  all  his  melancholy,  in  enjoying,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  the  exuberant  gaiety  of  a 
grave  mind  once  set  free — all  its  nitellect 
sparkling  into  wit — all  its  passion  rushing  into 
humor.  And  this  was  the  man  he  had  jiitied  ! 
— supposed  to  have  no  sunny  side  to  his  life  ! 
How  much  greater  had  been  his  compassion 
and  his  wonder,  if  he  could  have  known  all 
that  had  passed,  within  the  last  few  weeks, 
through  that  gloomy,  yet  silent  breast,  which, 
by  the  very  breadth  of  its  mirth,  showed  what 
must  be  the  depth  of  its  sadness  ! 


CHAPTER    Xiri. 

The  Loss  of  the  Crossing. 

Despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour  before  he 
got  to  rest,  Percival  had  already  breakfasted, 
when  his  valet  informed  him,  with  raised  super- 
cilious eyebrows,  that  "  an  uncommon  ragged 
sort  of  a  person  insisted  that  he  had  been  told 
to  call."  Though  Beck  had  been  at  the  house 
before,  and  the  valet  had  admitted  him — so 
much  thinner,  so  much  more  ragged  was  he 
now,  that  the  trim  servant — no  close  observer 
of  such  folks — did  not  recognize  him.  How- 
ever, at  Percival's  order,  too  well  bred  to  show 
surprise,  he  ushered  Beck  up  with  much  civil- 
ity; and  St.  John  was  painfully  struck  with  the 
ravages  a  few  weeks  had  made  upon  the 
sweeper's  countenance.  The  lines  were  so 
deeply  ploughed — the  dry  hair  looked  so  thin, 
and  was  so  sown  with  gray,  that  Beck  might 
have  beat  all  Farren's  skill  in  the  part  of  an 
old  man. 

The  poor  Sweeper's  tale,  extricated  from  its 
peculiar  phraseology,  was  simple  enough,  and 
soon  told: — He  had  returned  home  at  night  to 
find  his  hoards  stolen,  and  the  labor  of  his  life 
overthrown.  How  he  passed  that  night  he  did 
not  very  well  remember.  We  may  well  sup- 
pose that  the  little  reason  he  possessed  was 
well  nigh  bereft  from  him.  No  suspicion  of 
the  exact  thief  crossed  his  perturbed  mind. 
Bad  as  Grabman's  character  might  be,  he  held 
a  respectable  position  compared  with  the  other 
lodgers  in  the  house.  Bill,  the  cracksman, 
naturally,  and  by  vocation,  suggested  the  hand 
that  had  despoiled  him; — how  hope  for  redress, 
or  extort   surrender,    from    such  a   quarter  ? 


Mechanically,  however,  when  the  hour  arrivea 
to  return  to  his  day's  task,  he  stole  down  the 
stairs,  and  lo,  at  the  very  door  of  the  house, 
Bill's  children  were  at  play,  and  in  the  hand 
of  the  eldest  he  recognized  what  he  called  his 
"curril." 

"  Your  curril  ?  "  interrupted  St.  John. 
"  Yes,  curril— vot  the  little  uns   bite,  afore 
they  gets  their  teethin'." 

St.   John  smiled,  and   supposing  that  Beck- 
had  some  time  or  other   been  puerile  enough 
to  purchase  such  a  bauble,  nodded   to  him  to 
continue; — To  seize  upon   the  urchin,  and,  in 
spite  of  kicks,  bites,  shrieks,  or  scratches,  re- 
possess himself  of  his  treasure,  was  the  feat  of 
a    moment.     The  brat's  clamor  drew  out  the 
father — and  to  him  Beck,  pocketing  the  coral, 
that    its   golden    bells    might    not  attract  tht 
more  experienced  eye,  and  influence  the  more 
formidable  greadiness  of  the   paternal  thief), 
loudly,  and  at  first  fearlessly,  appealed.     Him 
he  charged,  and  accused,  and  threatened   with 
all     vengeance,    human     and    Divine.       Then 
changing  his  tone,  he  implored — he  wept — he 
knelt.     As  soon  as  the  startled   cracksman  re- 
covered   his   astonishment   at   such  audacity, 
and  comprehended  the  nature  of   the  charge 
against  himself  and  his  family,  he  felt  the  more 
indignant  from  a  strange  and  unfamiliar  con- 
sciousness of  innocence.     Seizing  Beck  by  the 
nape  of  the  neck,  with  a  dexterous  application 
of  hand  and  foot,  he  sent   him    spinning  into 
the  kennel. 

"Go  to  Jericho,  mud-scraper!"  cried  Bill, 
in  a  voice  of  thunder — "  and  if  ever  thou  sayst 
such  a  vopper  agin — 'sparaging  the  characters 
of  them  ere  motherless  babes — I'll  seal  thee 
up  in  a  'tato  sack,  and  sell  thee  for  fiv'pence 
to  No.  7,  the  great  body-snatcher.  Take  care 
how  I  ever  sets  eyes  agin  on  thy  h-ugly  mug  !  " 
With  that  Bill  clapped  to  the  door,  and  Beck, 
frightened  out  of  her  wits,  crawled  from  the 
kennel,  and,  bruised  and  smarting,  crept  to  his 
crossing.  But  he  was  unable  to  discharge  his 
duties  that  day;  his  ill-fed,  miserable  frame 
was  too  weak  for  the  stroke  he  had  received. 
Long  before  dusk,  he  sneaked  away,  and, 
dreading  to  return  to  his  lodging;  lest,  since 
nothing  now  was  left  worth  robbing  but  his 
carcass,  Bill  might  keep  his  word,  and  sell  that 
to  the  body-snatcher,  he  took  refuge  under  the 
only  roof  where  he  felt  he  could  sleep  in  safety. 
And  here  we  must  pause  to  explain.     In  our 


LUCRE'/JA. 


65  7 


first  introduction  of  Buck,  we   contented  our-- 
selves    with    implying    to    the    ingenious    and 
practised  reader,  that  his  heart   might  still  be 
large    enough  to  hold  something  besides  his 
crossing.     Now,  ni  one  of  the  small  alleys  that 
have  their  vent  in  the  great  stream  of  Fleet- 
street,  there  dwelt  an  old  widow-woman,  who 
eked  out  her  existence  by  charing — an  indus- 
trious, drudging-creature,  whose   sole  occupa- 
tion since  her  husband,  the  journeyman  brick- 
layer, fell  from  a  scaffold,  and,  breaking  his 
neck,   left    her    happily  childless,    as    well  as 
penniless— had    been    scrubbing    stone-floors, 
and  cleaning  out  dingy  houses  when  about  to 
be  let, — charing,  in  a  word.     And  in   this  vo- 
cation had  she   kept  body  and  soul  together, 
till  a  bad  rheumatism  and  old  age  had   put  an 
end    to  her  utilities,  and    entitled   her  to  the 
receipt  of  two  shillings  weekly  from  parochial 
munificence.     Between    this   old    woman    and 
Beck  there  was  a  mysterious  tie — so   mysteri- 
ous that  he  did  not  well  comprehend  it  himself. 
Sometimes  he  called   her  "  mammy  " — some- 
times "  the  h-old  crittur."     But  certain   it  is, 
that  to  her  he  was   indebted    for   that    name 
which  he  bore,  to  the  puzzlement  of  St.  Giles's. 
Becky   Carruthers  was   the   same    the   old 
woman;  but    Becky    was    one    of  those  good 
creatures  who  are  always  called  by  their  Chris- 
tian names,  and  never  rise  into  the  importance 
of  the  surname,  and  the  dignity  of  "  Mistress:  " 
— lopping  off  the  last  syllable  of  the  familiar 
appellation,    the    outcast   christened    himself 
"  Beck." 

"And,"  said  St.  John,  who  in  the  course  of 
question  and  answer  had  got  thus  far  into  the 
marrow  of  the  Sweeper's  narrative,  "  is  not 
this  good  woman  really  your  mother?" 

"Mother!"  echoed  Beck,  with  disdain; 
"  no,  I  'as  a  gritter  mother  nor  she.  Sint 
Poll's  is  my  mother.  But  the  h-old  crittur  tuk 
cars  on  me." 

"  I  really  don't  understand  you,  Saint  Paul's 
IS  your  mother  ? — How  ?  " 

Beck  shook  his  head  mysteriously,  and  with- 
out answering  the  question,  resumed  the  tale, 
which  we  must  thus  paraphrastically  continue 
to  deliver. 

When  he  was  a  little  more  than  six  years  old. 
Beck  began  to  earn  his  own  livelihood,  by 
running  errands,  holding  horses,  scraping  to- 
gether pence  and  half-pence.  Betimes,  his 
passion  for  saving  began;  at  first  with  a  good 


and    unselfish    motive,     that     of     surprising 
"mammy,"    at   the    week's    end.      But  when 
"  mammy,"  who  then  gained  enough  for  herself 
patted  his  head  and  called  him  good  boy,  and 
bade  him  save  for  his  own  uses,  and  told  him 
what  a  great  thing  it  would  be  if  he  could  lay 
by   a   pretty    penny  against    he  was  a    man, 
he  turned  miser  on  his  own  account;  and  the 
miserable  luxury  grew  upon  him.     At  last,  by 
the  permission  of  the  police  inspector,  strength- 
ened by  that  of  the  owner  of  the  contiguous 
house,  he  made  his  great  step  in  life,  and  suc- 
ceeded a  deceased   negro  in  the  dignity  and 
emoluments  of  the  memorable  crossing.   From 
that  hour  he  felt  himself  fulfilling  his   proper 
destiny;  but  poor  Becky,  alas,  had  already  fallen 
into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  !  with  her  decline, 
her  good  qualities  were  impaired.    She  took  to 
drinking — not  to  positive   intoxication,  but  to 
making  herself  "comfortable;" — and,  to  sat- 
isfy her  craving.   Beck,  waking  betimes  one 
morning,  saw  her  emptying  his  pockets.    Then 
he  resolved,  quietly  and  without  upraiding  her, 
to  remove   to  a  safer   lodging.      To    save  had 
become  the  imperative  necessity  of  his  exist- 
ence.    But   to   do   him   justice.  Beck    had    a 
glimmering  sense    of  what   was    due   to   the 
"  h-old  crittur."     Every  Saturday  evening,  he 
called  at  her  house,  and  deposited  with  her  a 
certain  sum,  not  large  even  in  proportion  to  his 
earnings,  but  which  seemed  to  the  poor  igno- 
rant  miser,    who  grudged    every    farthing  to 
himself,    an    enormous    deduction    from    his 
total,  and  a  sum  sufiicient   for  every  possible 
want  of  humankind  even  to  satiety.    And  now, 
in    returning    despoiled   of   all,  save    the    few 
pence  he  had  collected  that  day,  it  is  but  fair 
to  him  to  add  that   not  his   least   bitter   pang 
was  in  the  remembrance  that  this  was  the  only 
Saturday   on   which,    for   the    first   time,   the 
weekly  stipend  would  fail. 

But  so  ill  and  so  wretched  did  he  look  when 
he  reached  her  little  room,  that  "  mammy  "  for- 
got all  thought  of  herself;  and  when  he  had 
told  his  tale,  so  kind  was  her  comforting,  so  un- 
selfish her  sympathy,  that  his  heart  smote  him 
for  his  own  parsimony,  for  his  hard  resentment 
at  her  single  act  of  peculation; — had  not  she 
the  right  to  all  he  made  ?  But  remorse  and 
grief  alike  soon  vanished  in  the  fever  that 
now  seized  him;  for  several  days  he  was  in- 
sensible; and  when  he  recovered  sufficiently 
to  be  aware  of  what  was  around    him,  he  saw 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


the  widow  seated  beside  him,  within  four  bare 
walls, — everything,  except  the  bed  he  slept  on 
had  been  sold  to  support  him  in  his  illness. 
As  soon  as  he  could  totter  forth,  Beck  hast- 
ened to  his  crossing — alas,  it  was  preoccupied  ! 
His  absence  had  led  to  ambitious  usurpation. 
A  one-legged,  sturdy  sailor  had  mounted  his 
throne,  and  wielded  his  sceptre.  The  decorum 
of  the  street  forbade  altercation  to  the  con- 
tending parties;  but  the  sailor  referred  dis- 
cussion to  a  meeting  at  a  flash  house  in  the 
Rookery  that  evening.  There,  a  jury  was  ap- 
pointed, and  the  case  opened.  By  the  con- 
ventional laws  that  regulate  this  useful  com- 
munity, Beck  was  still  in  his  rights;  his 
reappearance  sufficed  to  restore  his  claims, 
and  an  appeal  to  the  policeman  would  no  doubt 
re-establish  his  authority.  But  Beck  was  still 
so  ill  and  so  feeble,  that  he  had  a  melancholy 
persuasion  that  he  could  not  suitably  perform 
the  duties  of  his  office;  and  when  the  sailor, 
not  a  bad  fellow  on  the  whole,  offered  to  pay 
down  on  the  nail  what  really  seemed  a  very 
liberal  sum  for  Beck's  peaceful  surrender  of 
his  rights,  the  poor  wretch  thought  of  the 
bare  walls  at  his  "  mammy's,"  of  the  long, 
dreary  interval  that  must  elapse,  even  if  able 
to  work,  before  the  furniture  pawned  could  be 
redeemed  by  the  daily  jirofits  of  his  ]>ost,  and 
with  a  groan,  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  con- 
cluded the  bargain. 

Creeping  home  to  the  "  h-old  crittur,"  he 
threw  the  purchase-money  into  her  lap;  then, 
broken-hearted,  and  in  despair,  he  slunk  forth 
again,  in  a  sort  of  vague,  dreamy  hope,  that 
the  law  which  abhors  vagabonds,  would  seize 
and  finish  him. 

When  this  tale  was  done,  Percival  did  not 
neglect  the  gentle  task  of  admonition,  which 
the  poor  Sweeper's  softened  heart  and  dull 
remorse  made  the  easier.  He  pointed  out,  in 
soft  tones,  how  the  avarice  he  had  indulged 
had  been,  perhaps,  mercifull  chastised;  and 
drew  no  ineloquent  picture  of  -the  vicious 
miseries  of  the  confirmed  miser.  Beck  lis- 
tened humbly  and  respectfully,  though  so 
little  did  he  understand  of  mercy,  and  Provi- 
dence, and  vice,  that  the  diviner  part  of  the 
homily  was  quite  lost  on  him.  However,  he 
confessed  penitently  that  "  the  mattress  had 
made  him  vorse  nor  a  beast  to  the  h-old  crit- 
tur; "  and  that  "  he  was  cured  of  saving  to  the 
end  of  his  days. 


"  And  now,"  said  Percival,  "  as  you  really 
seem  not  strong  enough  to  bear  this  out-of- 
door  work,  (the  winter  coming  on,  too),  what 
say  you  to  entering  into  my  service  ?  I  want 
some  help  in  my  stables.  The  work  is  easy 
enough;  and  you  are  used  to  horses,  you 
know,  in  a  sort  of  a  way." 

Beck  hesitated,  and  looked  a  moment  un- 
decided. At  last,  he  said,  "  Please  your  'onor, 
if  I  beant  strong  enough  for  the  crossin',  I'se 
afeared  I'm  too  h-ailing  to  sarve  you.  And 
vouldn't  I  be  vorse  nor  a  wiper,  to  take  your 
vages,  and  not  vork  for»'em  h-as  I  h-ought  ? " 

"  Pooh,  we'll  soon  make  you  strong,  my 
man.  Take  my  advice — don't  let  your  head 
run  on  the  crossing.  That  kind  of  industry 
exposes  you  to  bad  com])any  and  bad 
thoughts." 

"That's  vot  it  is,  sir,"  said  Beck,  assent- 
ingly,  laying  his  dexter  forefinger  on  his 
sinister  palm. 

"  Well  !  you  are  in  my  service,  then.  Go 
down  stairs  now,  and  get  your  breakfast; — by 
and  by,  you  shall  show  me  your,  •  mammy's ' 
house,  and  we'll  see  what  can  be  done  for 
her." 

Beck  pressed  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  trying 
hard  not  to  cry;  but  it  was  too  much  for  him; 
and  as  the  valet,  who  appeared  to  Percival's 
summons,  led  him  down  the  stairs,  his  sobs 
were  heard  from  attic  to  basement 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

News  from  Grabman. 

That  day,  opening  thus  auspiciously  to 
Beck,  was  memorable  to  other  and  more 
prominent  persons  in  this  history. 

Early  in  the  forenoon  a  parcel  was  brought 
into  Madame  Dalibard  which  contained  Ard- 
worth's  already  famous  book,  a  goodly  assort- 
ment of  extracts  from  the  newspapers  thereon, 
and  the  following  letter  from  the  young  au- 
thor: 

"  You  will  see,  by  the  accompanying  packet,  that 
your  counsels  have  had  weight  with  me.  I  have  turned 
aside  in  my  slow  legitimate  career.  I  have,  as  you  de- 
sired, made  '  men  talk  of  me.'  What  solid  benefit  I 
may  reap  from  thi.s  I  know  not.  I  shall  not  openly 
avow  the  book.  Such  notoriety  cannot  help  me  at  the 
bar.     But  lihcravi  animam  menni — excuse  my  pedantry 


LUCRE  J- J  A. 


<>59 


—1  have  let  my  soul  free  for  a  moment— I  am  now 
catching  it  back,  to  put  bit  and  saddle  on  again.  I  will 
not  tell  you  how  you  have  disturbed  me— how  you 
have  stung  me  into  this  premature  rush  amidst  the 
crowd — how,  after  robbing  me  of  name  and  father, 
you  have  driven  me  to  this  experiment  with  my  own 
mind,  to  see  if  I  was  deceived,  when  I  groaned  to  my- 
self, 'The  Public  shall  give  you  a  name,  and  Fame 
shall  be  your  mother.'  I  am  satisfied  with  the  experi- 
ment. I  know  better  now  what  is  in  me:  and  I  have 
regained  my  peace  of  mind.  If,  in  the  success  of  this 
hasty  work,  there  be  that  which  will  gratify  the  in- 
terest you  so  kindly  take  in  me,  deem  that  success 
your  own:  I  owe  it  to  you — to  your  revelations — to 
your  admonitions.  I  wait  patiently  your  own  time  for 
further  disclosures;  till  then,  the  wheel  must  work  on, 
and  the  grist  be  ground.  Kind  and  generous  friend, 
till  now  I  would  not  wound  you  by  returning  the  sum 
you  sent  me — nay,  more,  I  knew  I  should  please  you 
by  devoting  part  of  it  to  the  risk  of  giving  this  essay 
to  the  world,  and  so  making  its  good  fortune  doubly 
your  own  work.  Now,  when  the  publisher  smiles,  and 
the  shopmen  bow,  and  1  am  acknowledged  to  have  a 
bank  in  my  brains, — now,  you  cannot  be  offended  to 
receive  it  back.  Adieu.  When  my  mind  is  in  train 
again,  and  1  feel  my  step  firm  on  the  old  dull  road, 
1  will  come  to  see  you.  Till  then,  youns — by  what 
name  ?  Open  the  '  Biographical  Dictionary,'  at  hazard, 
and  send  me  one." 
"  Gray's  Inn." 

Not  at  the  noble  thoughts,  and  the  deep 
sympathy  with  mankind,  that  glowed  through 
that  work,  over  which  Lucretia  now  tremulously 
hurried,  did  she  feel  delight.  All  that  she 
recognized  or  desired  to  recognize,  were  those 
evidences  of  that  kind  of  intellect  which  wins 
its  way  through  the  world,  and  which,  strong 
and  unniistakeable,  rose  up  in  every  page  of 
that  vigorous  logic  and  commanding  style. 
'I'he  book  was  soon  dropped  thus  read:  the 
newspaper  extracts  pleased  even  more. 

''  This."  she  said,  audibly,  in  the  freedom  of 
her  solitude — "  this  is  the  son  I  asked  for — -a 
son  in  whoin  I  can  rise — in  whom  I  can  ex- 
change the  sense  of  crushing  infamy  for  the 
old  delicious  ecstacy  of  pride  1  For  this  son 
can  I  do  too  much  !  No;  in  what  I  may  do 
for  him,  methinks  there  will   be  no  romorse  ! 


And  he  calls  his  success  mine — mine  !  "  Her 
nostrils  dilated,  and  her  front  rose  erect. 

In  the  midst  of  this  exultation,  Varney  found 
her,  and  before  he  could  communicate  the 
business  which  had  brought  him,  he  had  to 
listen,  which  he  did  with  the  secret  gnawing 
envy  that  every  other  man's  success  occasioned 
him,  to  her  haughty  self-felicitations. 

He  could  not  resist  saying,  with  a  sneer 
when  she  paused,  as  if  to  ask  his  sympathy: 

*'  k\\  this  is  very  fine,  belle  mire;  and  yef  I 


should  hardly  have  thought  that  coarse-fea- 
tured, uncouth  limb  of  the  law,  who  seldom 
moves  without  upsetting  a  chair — never  laughs 
but  the  i)anes  rattle  in  the  window — I  should 
hardly  have  thought  him  the  precise  person  to 
gratify  your  pride,  or  answer  the  family  ideal 
of  a  gentleman  and  a  St.  John." 

"  Gabriel,"  said  Lucretia,  sternly — "  you 
have  a  biting  tongue,  and  it  is  folly  in  me  to 
resent  those  privileges  which  our  fearful  con- 
nection gives  you.     But — this  raillery " 

"Come,  come,  I  was  wrong — forgive  it  ! " 
interrupted  Varney,  who,  dreading  nothing 
else,  dreaded  much  the  rebuke  of  his  grim 
step-mother. 

"  It  is  forgiven,"  said  Lucretia,  coldly,  and 
with  a  slight  waive  of  her  hand;  then  she 
added,  with  composure: 

•'  Long  since — even  while  heiress  of  Laugh- 
ton — I  parted  with  mere  pride  in  the  hollow 
seemings  of  distinction.  Had  I  not,  should  I 
have  stooped  to  William  Mainwaring  ? — What 
I  then  respected,  amidst  all  the  degradations 
I  have  known,  I  respect  still;  talent,  ambition, 
intellect  and  will.  Do  you  think  I  would  ex- 
change these  in  a  son  of  mine,  for  the  mere 
graces  which  a  dancing-master  can  sell  him  ? 
Fear  not  ?  Let  us  give  but  wealth  to  that  in- 
tellect, and  the  world  will  see  no  clumsiness  in 
the  movements  that  march  to  its  high  places, 
and  hear  no  discord  in  the  laugh  that  triumphs 
over  fools  !  But  you  have  some  news  to  com- 
municate, or  some  proposal  to  suggest." 

'•  I  have  both,"  said  Varney.  "  In  the  first 
place,  I  have  a  letter  from  Grabman  !  " 

Lucretia's  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  snatched 
eagerly  at  the  letter  her  son-in-law  drew  forth. 


Liverpool,  October,  1831. 
"Jason,— I  think  I  am  on  the  road  to  success.  Hav- 
ing first  possessed  myself  of  the  fact,  commemorated 
in  the  parish  register,  of  the  birth  and  baptism  of 
Alfred  Braddell's  son,  for  we  must  proceed  regularly 
in  these  matters,  I  next  set  my  wits  to  work,  to  trace 
that  son's  exodus  from  the  paternal  mansion.  I  haVe 
hunted  up  an  old  woman-servant,  Jane  Prior,  who 
lived  with  the  Braddell's.  She  now  thrives  as  a  laun- 
dress; she  is  a  rank  puritan,  and  starches  for  the  godly. 
She  was  at  first  very  wary  and  reserved  in  her  com- 
munications, but  by  siding  with  her  prejudices  and 
humors,  and  by  the  intercession  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Graves 
(of  her  own  persuasion),  I  have  got  her  to  open  her 
lips.  It  seems  that  these  Braddell's  lived  very  unh.ip 
pily- the  husband,  a  pious  dissenter,  had  married  a 
lady  who  turned  out  of  a  very  different  practice  and 
belief.  Jane  Prior  pitied  her  master,  and  detested  hei 
mistress.    .Some  circumstances  in  the  conduct  of  Mrs, 


o6o 


BULllJiJi'S     WORKS. 


Braddcll  made  the  husband,  who  was  then  in  his  last  ill- 
ness, resolve,  from  a  point  of  conscience,  to  save  his 
child  from  what  he  deemed  the  contamination  of  her 
precepts  and  example.  Mrs.  Braddell  was  absent  from 
Liverpool,  on  a  visit,  which  was  thought  very  unfeeling 
by  the  husband's  friends;  during  this  time  Braddell 
was  visited  constantly  by  a  gentleman  (Mr.  Ardworth), 
who  differed  from  him  greatly  in  some  things,  and 
seemed  one  of  the  carnal;  but  with  whom  agreement 
in  politics  (for  they  were  both  great  politicians  and 
republicans)  seems  to  have  established  a  link.  One 
evening,  when  Mr.  Ardworth  was  in  the  house,  Jane 
Prior,  who  was  the  only  maid  servant  (for  they  kept 
but  two,  and  one  had  been  just  discharged),  had  been 
sent  out  to  the  apothecary's.  On  her  return,  Jane  Prior 
going  into  the  nursery,  missed  the  infant;  she  thought 
it  was  with  her  master,  but  coming  into  his  room,  Mr. 
Braddell  told  her  to  shut  the  door,  informed  her  that 
he  had  entrusted  the  boy  to  Mr.  Ardworth,  to  be 
brought  up  in  a  righteous  and  pious  manner,  and  im- 
plored and  commanded  her  to  keep  this  a  secret  from 
his  wife,  whom  he  was  resolved,  indeed,  if  he  lived, 
not  to  receive  back  into  his  house.  Braddell,  however, 
did  not  survive  more  than  two  days  this  event.  On  his 
death,  Mrs.  Braddell  returned,  but  circumstances  con- 
nected with  the  symptoms  of  his  malady,  and  a  strong 
impression  which  haunted  himself,  and  with  which  he 
had  infected  Jane  Prior,  that  he  had  been  poisoned, 
led  to  a  posthumous  examination  of  his  remains.  No 
trace  of  poison  was  however  discovered,  and  sus- 
picions that  had  been  directed  against  his  wife,  could 
not  be  substantiated  by  law;  still,  she  was  regarded  in 
so  unfavorable  a  light  by  all  who  had  known  them 
both,  she  met  with  such  little  kindness  or  sympathy  in 
her  widowhood,  and  had  been  so  openly  denounced  by 
Jane  Prior,  that  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she 
left  the  place  as  soon  as  possible.  The  hou.se,  indeed, 
was  taken  from  her,  for  Braddell's  affairs  were  found 
in  such  confusion,  and  his  embarrassments  so  great, 
that  everything  was  seized,  and  sold  off;  nothing  left 
for  the  widow,  nor  for  the  child  (if  the  last  were  ever 
discovered). 

"  As  may  be  supposed,  Mrs.  Braddell  was  at  first 
very  clamorous  for  the  lost  child,  but  Jane  Prior  kept 
her  promise,  and  withheld  all  clue  to  it.  And  Mrs 
Braddell  was  forced  to  quit  the  place,  in  ignorance 
what  had  become  of  it;  since  then  no  one  had  heard  of 
her,  but  Jane  Prior  says  that  she  is  sure  '  she  had  come 
to  no  good.'  Now,  though  much  of  this  may  be,  no 
doubt,  familiar  to  you,  dear  Jason,  it  is  right,  when  I 
put  the  evidence  before  you,  that  you  should  know 
and  guard  against  what  to  expect;  and  in  any  trial  at 
law  to  prove  the  identity  of  Vincent  Braddell,  Jane 
Prior  must  be  a  principal  witness,  and  will  certainly 
not  spare  poor  Mrs.  Braddell.  For  the  main  point, 
however,  viz.,  the  suspicion  of  poisoning  her  husband, 
the  inquest  and  verdict  may  set  aside  all  alarm. 

"  My  next  researches  have  been  directed  on  the 
track  of  Walter  Ardworth,  after  leaving  Liverpool, 
which  ( I  find  by  the  books  at  the  inn  where  he  lodged 
and  was  known)  he  did  in  debt  to  the  innkeeper,  the 
very  night  he  received  the  charge  of  the  child.  Here, 
as  yet,  I  am  in  fault:  but  I  have  ascertained  that  a 
woman,  one  of  the  sect,  of  the  name  of  Joplin,  living 
in  a  village  fifteen  miles  from  the  town,  had  the  care 
of  some  infant,  to  replace  her  own,  which  she  had 
lost.  I  am  going  to  this  village  to-morrow.  But  I 
cannot  expect  much  in  that  quarter,  since  it  would 
seem  at  variance  with  your  more  probable  belief  that 


Walter  Ardworth  took  the  child  at  once  to  .Mr.  Fiel- 
den's.  However,  you  see  I  have  already  gone  very  far 
in  the  evidence; — the  birth  of  the  child — the  delivery 
of  the  child  to  Ardworth.  1  see  a  very  pretty  case 
already  before  us,  and  I  do  not  now  doubt  for  a 
moment  of  ultimate  success. 

"  Yours, 

"  N.  Grabma.n.' 

Lucretia  read  steadily,  and  with  no  change 
of  countenance,  to  the  last  line  of  the  letter. 
Then,  as  she  put  it  down  on  the  table  before 
her,  she  repeated,  with  a  tone  of  deep  exulta- 
tion—"No  doubt  of  ultimate  success  !  " 

"  You  do  not  fear  to  brave  all  whicTi  the 
spite  of  this  wOman,  Jane  Prior,  may  prompt 
her  to  sa.y  against  you  ?  "  asked  Varney. 

Lucretia's  brow  fell.  '■  It  is  another  tor- 
ture," she  said,  "  even  to  own  my  marriage 
with  a  low-born  hypocrite.  But  I  can  endure 
it  for  the  cause,"  she  added,  more  haughtily. 
"  Nothing  can  really  hurt  ine  in  these  obsolete 
aspersions,  and  this  vague  scandal.  The  in- 
quest acquitted  me,  and  the  world  will  be 
charitable  to  the  mother  of  him  who  has  wealth 
and  rank,  and  that  vigorous  genius  which,  if 
proved  in  obscurity,  shall  command  opinion 
in  renown." 

"  You  are  now,  then,  disposed  at  once  t« 
proceed  to  action.  For  Helen,  all  is  prepared 
— the  insurances  settled — the  trust  for  which 
I  hold  them  on  your  behalf  is  signed  and 
completed.  But  for  Percival  St.  John,  I  await 
your  directions.  Will  it  be  best  first  to  prove 
your  son's  identity,  or  when  morally  satisfied 
that  that  proof  is  forthcoming,  to  remove  be- 
times both  the  barriers  to  his  inheritance.  If 
we  tarry  for  the  last,  the  removal  of  St.  John 
becomes  more  suspicious  than  it  does  at  a 
time  when  you  have  no  visible  interest  in  his 
death.  Besides,  now  we  have  the  occasion,  or 
can  make  it — can  we  tell  how  long  it  will  last  ? 
Again,  it  wil.  seem  more  natural  that  the  lover 
should  break  his  heart  in  the  first  shock 
of " 

"  Ay,"  interrupted  Lucretia,  "  I  would  have 
all  thought  and  contemplation  of  crime  at  an 
end;  \yhen,  clasping  my  boy  to  my  heart,  I 
can  say — '  Your  mother's  inheritance  is  yours.' 
I  would  not  have  a  murder  before  my  eyes, 
when  they  should  look  only  on  the  fair  pro- 
spects beyond.  I  would  cast  back  all  the 
hideous  images  into  the  rear  of  memory,  so 
that  hope  may  for  once  visit  me  again  undis- 
turbed.    No,    Gabriel,   were   I    to   speak    for 


LLCREl'lA. 


661 


ever,  you  would  comprehend  not  what  I  grasp 
at  in  a  son  !  It  is  at  a  future  !  Rolling  a 
stone  over  the  sepulchre  of  the  past — it  is  as 
a  resurrection  into  a  fresh  world — it  is  to 
know  again  one  emotion  not  impure — one 
scheme  not  criminal.  It  is,  in  a  word,  to 
cease  to  be  as  myself,  to  think  in  another 
soul,  to  hear  my  heart  beat  in  another  form. 
All  this  I  covet  in  a  son.  And  when  all  this 
should  smile  before  me  in  his  image,  shall  'I 
be'  plucked  back  again  into  my  hell,  by  the 
consciousness  that  a  new  crime  is  to  be  done  ? 
No;  wade  quickly  through  the  passage  of  blood, 
that  we  may  dry  our  garments,  and  breathe 
the  air,  upon  the  bank  where  sun  shines  and 
flowers  bloom  !  " 

"  So  be  it,  then  !  "  said  Varney.  "  Before 
the  week  is  out,  I  must  be  under  the  saine  roof 
as  St.  John. — Before  the  week  is  out,  why  not 
all  meet  in  the  old  halls  of  Laughton  ?  " 

"  Ay,  in  the  halls  of  Laughton  !  on  the 
hearth  of  our  ancestors  the  deeds  done  for  our 
descendants  look  less  dark  !  " 

"  And  first,  to  prepare  the  way,  Helen  should 
sicken  in  these  fogs  of  London,  and  want 
change  of  air." 

"  Place  before  me  that  desk.  I  will  read 
William  Mainwaring's  letters  again  and  again, 
till  from  every  shadow  in  the  past  a  voice 
comes  forth — '  The  child  of  your  rival,  your 
betrayer,  your  undoer,  stands  between  the 
daylight  and  3'our  son  !  '  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 


V'arieties. 


Leaving  the  guilty  pair  to  concert  their 
schemes,  and  indulge  their  atrocious  hopes, 
we  accompany  Percival  to  the  hovel  occupied 
by  Becky  Carruthers. 

On  following  Beck  into  the  room  she  rented, 
Precival  was  greatly  surprised  to  find,  seated 
comfortably  on  the  only  chair  to  be  seen,  no 
less  a  person  than  the  worthy  Mrs.  Mivers. 
This  good  lady,  in  her  spinster  days,  had 
earned  her  own  bread  by  hard  work.  She  had 
captivated  Mr.  Mivers  when  but  a  simple 
housemaid  in  the  service  of  one  of  his  rela- 
tions. And  while  this  humble  condition  in 
her  earlier  life  maj"  account  for  much  in   her 


language  and  manners  which  is  now-a-days 
inconsonant  with  the  breeding  and  education 
that  characterize  the  wives  of  opulent  trades- 
men, so  perhaps  the  remembrance  of  it  made 
her  unusually  susceptible  to  the  duties  of 
charity.  For  there  is  no  class  of  society  more 
prone  to  pity  and  relieve  the  poor,  than  fe- 
males in  domestic  service;  and  thi.s  virtue  Mrs. 
Mivers  had  not  laid  aside,  as  many  do,  so 
soon  as  she  was  in  a  condition  to  practice  it 
with  effect.  Mrs.  Mivers  blushed  scarlet,  on 
being  detected  in  her  visit  of  kindness,  and 
hastened  to  excuse  herself  by  the  information 
that  she  belonged  to  a  society  of  ladies  for 
"  the  Bettering  the  Condition  of  the  Poor." 
and  that  having  just  been  informed  of  Mrs. 
Becky's  destitute  s'tate,  she  had  looked  in  to 
recommend  her — a  ventilator  ! 

"  It's  quite  shocking  to  see  how  little  the 
poor  attends  to  the  proper  wentilating  their 
houses.  No  wonder  there's  so  much  typus 
about!"  said  Mrs.  Mivers.  "And  for  one- 
and-sixpence,  we  can  introduce  a  stream  of 
hair  that  goes  up  the  chimbly,  and  carries 
away  all  that  it  finds  !  " 

"  I  'umbly  thank  you,  marm,"  said  the  poor 
bundle  of  rags  that  went  by  the  name  of 
'Becky,'  as,  with  some  difficulty,  she  contrived 
to  stand  in  the  presence  of  the  benevolent 
visitor;  "  but,  I'm  much  afeard,  that  the  hail 
will  make  the  rheumatiz  werry  rumpatious  !  " 

"  On  the  contrary — on  the  contrary,"  said 
Mrs.  Mivers  triumphantly,  and  she  proceeded 
philosophically  to  explain,  that  all  the'  fevers, 
aches,  pains,  and  physical  ills  that  harass  the 
poor,  arise  from  the  want  of  an  air-trap  in  the 
chimney,  and  a  perforated  net-work  in  the  win- 
dow-pane. Becky  listened  patiently;  for  Mrs. 
Mivers  was  only  a  philosopher  in  her  talk,  and 
she  had  proved  herself  anything  but  a  philoso- 
pher in  her  actions,  by  the  spontaneous  present 
of  five  shillings,  and  the  promise  of  a  basket 
of  victuals,  and  some  good  wine  to  keep  the 
cold  wind  she  invited  to  the  apartment  out  of 
the  stomach. 

Percival  imitated  the  silence  of  Becky, 
whose  spirit  was  so  bowed  down  by  an  exist- 
ence of  drudgery,  that  not  even  the  sight  of 
her  foster-son  could  draw  her  attention  from 
the  respect  due  to  a  superior. 

"  And  is  this  poor  cranky-looking  cretur 
your  son,  Mrs.  Becky  ? "  said  the  visitor, 
struck  at  last  by  the  appearance  cf  the  ex- 


o62 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


Sweeper  as  he  stood  at  the  threshold,  hat  in 
hand. 

•' No,  indeed,  inarm,"  answered  Becky;  "I 
often  says — says — I — •  child,  you  be  the  son 
of  Sint  Poll's.'  " 

Beck  smiled  proudly. 

"  It  was  agin  the  grit  church,  marm — but 
it's  a  long  story.  My  poor  good  man  had  not 
a  long  been  dead — as  good  a  man  as  h-ever 
lived,  marm,"  and  Becky  dropped  a  curtesy; 
"  he  fell  off  a  scaffol,  and  pitched  right  on  his 
ead — or  I  should  not  have  come  on  the  par- 
ish, marm — and  that's  the  truth  on't  !  " 

"  Very  well,  I  shall  call  and  hear  all  about 
it — a  sad  case,  I  dare  say.  You  see,  your 
husband  should  have  subscribed  to  our  Loan 
Society,  and  then  they'd  "have  found  him  a 
'andsome  coffin,  and  given  three  pounds  to  his 
widder.  But  the  poor  are  so  benighted  in  these 
parts.  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  can't  guess  what 
brought  yon  here  ? — but  that's  no  business  of 
mine.  And  how  are  all  at  Old  Brompton  ?  " 
— here  Mrs.  Mivers  bridled  indignantly. 
'•  There  was  a  time  when  Miss  Mainwaring 
was  very  glad  to  come  and  chat  with  Mr.  M. 
and  myself;  but  now  'rum  has  riz,' as  the  say- 
ing is — not  but  what  I  dare  say  it's  not  her 
fault,  poor  thing  ! — that  stiff  aunt  of  her's — 
she  need  not  look  so  high — pride  and  poverty, 
forsooth  !  " 

While  delivering  these  conciliatory  senten- 
ces, Mrs.  Mivers  had  gathered  up  her  gown, 
and  was  evidently  in  the  bustle  of  departure. 
As  she  how  nodded  to  Becky,  Percival  stepped 
up,  and,  with  his  irresistible  smile,  offered  her 
his  arm.  Much  surprised,  and  much  flattered, 
Mrs.  Mivers  accepted  it.  As  she  did  so,  he 
gently  detained  her,  while  he  said  to  Becky: 

"  My  good  friend,  I  have  brought  you  the 
poor  lad,  to  whom  yon  have  been  a  mother,  to 
tell  you  that  good  deeds  find  their  reward 
sooner  or  later.  As  for  him,  make  yourself 
easy;  he  will  inform  you  of  the  new  step  he 
has  taken;  and  for  you,  good,  kind-hearted 
creature,  thank  the  boy  you  brought  up,  if 
your  old  age  shall  be  made  easy  and  cheerful. 
Now  Beck,  silly  lad,  go  and  tell  all  to  your 
nurse  !     Take  care  of  this  stej),  Mrs.  Mivers." 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  street,  Percival, 
who,  if  amused  at  the  ventilator,  had  seen  the 
five  shillings  gleam  on  Becky's  palm,  and  felt 
that  he  had  found  under  the  puce-colored 
gown    a  good  woman's   heart   to    understand 


him,  gave  ]\Irs.  Mivers  a  short  sketch  of  pooi 
Beck's  history  and  misfortunes,  and  so  con- 
trived to  interest  her  in  behalf  of  the  nurse, 
that  she  willingly  promised  to  become  Per- 
cival's  almoner,  to  execute  his  commission,  to 
improve  the  interior  of  Becky's  abode,  and 
distribute  weekly  the  liberal  stipend  he  pro- 
posed to  settle  on  the  old  widow.  They  had 
grown,  indeed,  quite  friendly  and  intimate,  by 
the  time  he  reached  the  smart  plate-glazed 
mahogany-colored  facade,  within  which  the 
flourishing  business  of  Mr.  Mivers  was  carried 
on;  and  when,  knocking  at  the  private  door, 
promptly  opened  by  a  lemon-colored  page,  she 
invited  him  up  stairs,  it  so  chanced  that  the 
conversation  had  slid  off  to  Helen,  and  Per- 
cival was  sufficiently  interested  to  bow  assent, 
and  to  enter. 

Though  all  the  way  up  the  stairs,  Mrs. 
Mivers,  turning  back  at  every  other  step,  did 
her  best  to  impress  upon  her  young  visitor's 
mind  the  important  fact,  that  they  kept  their 
household  establishment  at  their  '  wilier,'  and 
that  their  apartments  in  Fleet-street  were  only 
a  '  conwenience ' — the  store  set  up  by  the 
worthy  housewife  upon  her  goods  and  chattels 
was  sufficiently  visible  in  the  drugget  that 
threaded  its  narrow  way  uj)  the  gay  Brussels 
stair-carpet,  and  in  certain  layers  of  paper, 
which  protected  from  the  profanation  of  im- 
mediate touch,  the  mahogany  hand-rail.  And 
nothing  could  exceed  the  fostering  care  ex- 
hibited in  the  drawing-room,  when,  the  door 
thrown  open,  admitted  b  view  of  its  damask 
moreen  curtains,  pinned  back  from  such  im- 
pertinent sunbeams  as  could  force  their  way 
through  the  foggy  air  of  the  east  into  the 
windows,  and  the  ells  of  yellow  muslin  that 
guarded  the  frames,  at  least,  of  a  collection  of 
colored  prints,  and  two  kit-kat  jwrtraitures  of 
Mr.  Mivers  and  his  lady,  from  the  perambula- 
tions of  the  flies. 

But  Percival's  view  of  this  interior  was 
somewhat  impeded  by  his  portly  guide,  who, 
uttering  a  little  exclamation  of  surprise,  stood 
motionless  on  the  threshold,  as  she  perceived 
Mr.  Mivers  seated  by  the  hearth  in  close  con- 
ference with  a  gentleman  whom  she  had  never 
seen  before.  At  that  hour,  it  was  so  rare  an 
event  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Mivers  to  be  found  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  that  he  should  have  an 
acquaintance  unknown  to  his  helpmate,  was  a 
circumstance    so  much  rater    still,    that  Mrs, 


LUCREIJA 


663 


Mi  vers  may  well  be  forgiven  for  keeping  St. 
John  standing  at  the  door  till  she  had  recov- 
ered her  amaze. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Mivers  rose  in  some  confu- 
sion, and  was  apparently  about  to  introduce 
his  guest,  when  that  gentleman  coughed  and 
pinched  the  host's  arm  significantly.  Mr. 
Mivers  coughed  also,  and  stammered  out — 
"A  gentleman,  Mrs.  M. — a  friend: — stay  with 
us  a  day  or  two.     Much  honored — hum  !  " 

Mrs.  Mivers  stared  and  curtseyed,  and  stared 
again.  But  there  was  an  open,  good-humored 
smile  in  the  face  of  the  visitor,  as  he  advanced 
and  took  her  hand,  that  attracted  a  heart  very 
easily  conciliated.  Seeing  that  that  was  no 
moment  for  further  explanation,  she  plumped 
herself  into  a  seat,  and  said — 

"  But  bless  us  and  save  us,  I  am  keeping 
yon  standing,  Mr.  St.  John  ! " 

'•  St.  John  !  "  repeated  the  visitor,  with  a 
vehemencd  that  startled  Mrs.  Mivers. 

"  Your  name  is  St.  John,  sir — related  to  the 
St.  Johns  of  Laughton  !  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Percival,  with  his 
shy,  arch  smiles,  "  Laughton  at  present  has  no 
worthier  owner  than  myself.'" 

The  gentleman  made  two  strides  to  Per- 
cival, and  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand. 

"  This  is  pleasant,  indeed  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"You  must  excuse  my  freedom;  but  I  knew 
well  poor  old  Sir  Miles,  and,  my  heart  warms 
at  the  sight  of  his  representative." 

Percival  glanced  at  his  new  acquaintance, 
and  on  the  whole  was  prepossessed  in  his 
favor.  He  seemed  somewhere  on  the  sunnier 
side  of  fifty,  with  that  superb  yellow  bronze  of 
complexion  which  betokens  long  residence 
under  eastern  skies.  Deep  wrinkles  near  the 
eyes,  and  a  dark  circle  round  them,  spoke  of 
cares  and  fatigue,  and  perhaps  dissipation. 
But  he  had  evidently  a  vigor  of  constitution 
that  had  borne  him  passably  through  all;  his 
frame  was  wiry  and  nervous;  his  eye  bright 
and  full  of  life;  and  there  was  that  abrupt, 
unsteady,  mercurial  restlessness  in  his  move- 
ments and  manner,  which  usually  accompanies 
the  man  whose  sanguine  temperament  prompts 
him  to  concede  to  the  impulse,  and  who  is 
blessed  or  cursed  with  a  superabundance  of 
energy,  according  as  circumstance  may  favor 
or  judgment  correct,  that  equivocal  gift  of 
constitution. 

Percival  said  something  appropriate  in  reply 


to  so  much  cordiality  paid  to  the  iiccoimt  of 
the  Sir  Miles  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and 
seated  himself, — coloring  slightly  under  the 
influence  of  the  fixed,  pleased,  and  earnest 
look  still  bent  upon  him. 

Searching  for  something  else  to  say,  Percival 
asked  Mrs.  Mivers  if  she  had  lately  seen  John 
Ardworth. 

The  guest,  who  had  just  reseated  himself, 
turned  his  chair  round  at  that  question  with 
such  vivacity,  that  Mrs.  Mivers  heard  it  crack. 
Her  chairs  were  not  meant  for  such  usage.  A 
shade  fell  over  her  rosy  countenance  as  she 
replied — 

"  No,  indeed,  (please,  sir,  them  chairs  is 
brittle  ?)  No, — -he  is  like  Madam  at  Bronip- 
ton,  and  seldom  condescends  to  favor  us  now. 
It  was  but  last  Sunday  we  asked  him  to  din- 
ner. I  am  sure  he  need  not  turn  up  his  nose 
at  our  roast  beef  and  pudding  !  " 

Here  Mr.  Mivers  was  taken  with  a  violent 
fit  of  coughing,  which  di'ew  off  his  wife's  at- 
tention.    She  was  afraid  he  had  taken  cokl. 

The  stranger  took  out  a  large  snuff-box.  in- 
haled a  long  pinch  of  snuff,  and  said  to  St. 
John: 

This  Mr.  John  Ardworth,  a  pert  enough 
Jackanapes,  I  suppose — a  limb  of  the  law,  eh  ? " 

'"Sir,"  said  Percival,  gravely;  "John  Ard- 
worth is  my  particular  friend.  It  is  clear  that 
you  know  very  little  of  him." 

"  That's  true,"  said  the  stranger — "  'pon  my 
life,  that's  very  true.  But  I  suppose  he's  like 
all  lawyers — -cunning  and  tricky,  conceited 
and  supercilious,  full  of  prejudice  and  cant, 
and  a  red-hot  tory  into  the  bargain.  I  know 
them,  sir — I  know  them  I  " 

"  Well."  answered  St.  John,  half  gaily,  half 
angrily,  "  your  general  experience  serves  you 
very  little  here;  for  Ardworth  is  exactly  the 
opposite  of  all  you  have  described." 

"  Even  in  politics  ?  " 

"Why,  I  fear  he  is  half  a  Radical — certainly 
more  than  a  Whig,"  answered  St.  John,  rather 
mournfully;  for  his  own  theories  were  all  the 
o'ther  way,  notwithstanding  his  unpatriotic  for- 
getfulness  of  them,  in  his  offer  to  assist  Ard- 
worth's  entrance  into  parliament. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  cried  the 
stranger,  again  taking  snuff.  "And  this  Ma- 
dame at  Brompton — perhaps  I  know  her  a  little 
better  than  I  do  young  Mr.  Ardworth — Mrs. 
Brad — I  mean  Madame  Dalibard  !  "  and  the 


b64 


BULWER'S     WORKS 


strangei-  glanced  at  Mr.  Mivcrs,  who  was 
slowly  lecoveritig  from  some  vigorous  slaps 
on  the  back,  administered  to  him  by  his  wife, 
as  a  counter-irritant  to  the  cough.  "  Is  it 
true  that  she  has  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs  ?" 

Percival  shook  his  head. 

"  And  takes  care  of  poor  Helen  Main- 
waring,  the  orphan  .■'  Well,  well  !  that 
looks  amiable  enough.  I  must  see — I  must 
see  !  " 

"Who  shall  I  say  inquired  alter  her,  when  I 
see  Madame  Dalibard?"  asked  Percival,  with 
some  curiosity. 

"  Who  ?  Oh,  Mr.  'lomkins.  She  \yill  not 
recollect  him,  though,"— and  the  stranger 
laughed,  and  Mr.  Mivers  laughed,  too;  and 
Mrs.  Mivers,  who,  indeed,  always  laughed 
when  other  people  laughed,  laughed  also.  So 
Percival  thought  he  ought  to  laugh  for  the 
sake  of  good  company,  and  all  laughed  to- 
gether, as  he  arose  and  took  leave. 

He  had  not,  however,  got  far  from  the  house, 
on  his  way  to  his  cabriolet,  which  he  had  left 
by  Temple  Bar,  when,  somewhat  to  his  sur- 
prise, he  found  Mr.  Tomkins  at  his  elbow. 

"  I  beg  your  i^ardon,  Mr.  St.  John,  but  I 
have  only  just  returned  to  England,  and  on 
such  occasions  a  man  is  apt  to  seem  curious. 
This  young  lawyer;  you  see  the  elder  Ard- 
worth — (a  good-for-nothing  scamp!)— was  a 
sort  of  friend  of  miue — not  exactly  friend, 
indeeil,  for,  by  Jove,  I  think  he  was  a  worse 
friend  to  me  than  he  was  to  anybody  else, — 
still  I  had  a  foolish  interest  for  him,  and 
should  be  glad  to  hear  something  more  about 
any  one  bearing  his  name,  than  I  can  coax 
out  of  that  droll  little  linen  draper.  You  are 
really  intimate  with  young  Ardworth,  eh  ?  " 

"  Intimate  !  poor  fellow,  he  will  not  let  any 
one  be  that  !  He  works  too  hard  to  be 
social.  But  I  love  him  sincerely;  and  I  ad- 
mire him  beyond  measure." 

"  The  dog  has  industry,  then — that's  good. 
And  does  he  make  debts,  like  that  rascal, 
Ardworth,  senior  ?  " 

"  Really,  sir,  I  must  say,  this  tone  with 
respect  to  Mr.  Ardworth's  father " 

"  What  the  devil,  sir  !  Do  you  take  the 
father's  part,  as  well  as  the  son's  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  Mr.  Ard- 
worth, senior,"  said  Percival,  pouting;  "  but  I 
do  know  that  my  friend  would  not  allow  any 
one  to  speak  ill  of  his  father  in   his   presence; 


and  I  beg  you,  sir,  to  consider,  that  whatever 
would  offend  him,  must  offend  me." 

"  Gad's  my  life  !  He's  the  luckiest  young 
rogue  to  have  such  a  friend.  Sir,  I  wish  you 
a  very  good  day." 

Mr.  Tomkins  took  off  his  hat — bowed — and 
passing  St.  John  with  a  rapid  step,  was  soon 
lost  to  his  eye  amongst  the  crowd  hurrying 
westward. 

But  our  business  being  now  rather  with  him 
than  Percival,  we  leave  the  latter  to  mount  his 
cabriolet,  and  we  proceed  with  Mr.  Mivers's 
mercurial  guest  on  his  eccentric  way  through 
the  throng. 

There  was  an  odd  mi.\ture  of  thoughtful 
abstraction  and  quick  observation  in  the  so- 
liloquy in  which  this  gentleman  indulged,  as 
he  walked  briskly  on. 

"  A  pretty  young  spark,  that  St.  John  !  A 
look  of  his  father,  but  handsomer,  and  less 
affected.  I  like  him.  Fine  shop  that — very  ! 
London  wonderfully  improved.  A  hookah  in 
that  window  ! — God  bless  me  ! — a  real  hookah  ! 
This  is  all  very  good  news  about  that  poor 
boy — very.     After  all,  he  is  not  to  blame  if 

his  mother  was  such  a  damnable 1  must 

contrive  to  see  and  judge  of  him  myself  as 
soon  as  possible.  Can't  trust  to  others — too 
sharp  for  that !  What  an  ugly  dog  that  is, 
looking  after  me  !  It  is  certainly  a  bailiff. 
Hang  it  ! — what  do  I  care  for  bailiffs  ?  Hem 
— hem  ! "  And  the  gentleman  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  and  laughed,  as  the  jingle  of 
coin  reached  his  ear  through  the  din  without. 
"Well,  I  must  make  haste  to  decide;  for, 
really  there  is  a  very  troublesome  piece  of 
Inisiness  before  me.  Plague  take  her  ! — what 
can  have  become  of  the  woman  ?  I  shall  have 
to  hunt  out  a  sharp  lawyer.  But  John's  a  law- 
yer himself.  No — attorjieys,  I  supjxjse,  are 
the  men.  Gad  !  they  were  sharp  enough  when 
they  had  to  hunt  me  !  What's  that  great  bill 
on  the  wall  about  ? — '  Down  with  the  Lords.' 
Pooh,  pooh  I  Master  John  Bull,  you  love 
Lords  a  great  deal  too  much  for  that.  A 
prettyish  girl  !  English  women  are  very  good- 
looking,  certainly.     That  Lucretia — -what  shall 

I  do,  // Ah,  time  enough   to  think  of  her, 

when  I  have  got  over  that  mighty  stiff  if !" 

In  such  cogitations  ami  mental  remarks  our 
traveller  whiled  away  the  time,  till  he  found 
himself  in  Piccadilly.  There,  a  publisher's 
shop,  (and    he    had    that   keen  eve  for  shops 


LUCRKTIA. 


66s 


which  betrays  the  stranger  in  London),  with 
its  new  publications  exposed  at  the  window 
attracteil  his  notice.  Conspicnous  amongst 
the  rest  was  the  open  title-page  of  a  book,  at 
the  foot  of  which  was  placed  a  placard,  with 
the  enticing  words — '  Fourth  Edition:  just 
OUT,'  in  red  capitals.  The  title  of  the  work 
struck  his  irritable  curious  fancy;  he  walked 
into  the  shop — asked  for  the  volume — and 
while  looking  over  the  contents,  with  muttered 
ejaculations:  "Good  ! — capital  !  why  this  re- 
minds one  of  Home  Tooke  !  What's  the 
price  ?  very  dear — must  have  it  though — must. 
Ha  !  ha  !  home-thrust  there  !  " — while  thus 
turning  over  the  leaves,  and  renduig.  them 
assunder  with  his  forefinger,  regardless  of  the 
paper-cutter  extended  to  him  by  the  shop- 
man, a  gentleman  pushing  by  him,  asked  if 
the  publisher  was  at  home:  and  as  the  shop- 
man, bowing  very  low,  answered,  "  Yes,"  the 
new-comer  darted  into  a  little  recess  behind 
the  shop.  Mr.  Tomkins,  who  had  looked  up 
very  angrily  on  being  jostled  so  uncere- 
moniously, started  and  changed  color,  when  he 
saw  the  face  of  the  offender.  "  Saints  in  heav- 
en I"  he  murmured  almost  audibly;  "what  a 
look  of  that  woman  !  and  yet — no — it  is  gone!" 

"Who  is  that  gentleman  .>"  he  asked, 
abruptly,  as  he  paid  for  his  book. 

The  shopman  smiled,  but  answered,  "  I  don't 
know,  sir." 

"  That's  a  lie  ! — you  would  never  bow  so 
low  to  a  man  you  did  not  know  ! " 

The  shopman  smiled  again.  "  Why,  sir, 
there  are  many  who  come  to  this  house  who 
don't  wish  us  to  know  them." 

"Ah,  1  understand  !  you  are  political  pub- 
lishes— afraid  of  liljles,  I  dare  say.  Always 
the  same  thing  in  this  cursed  country,  and 
then  they  tell  us  we  are  '  free  I '  So  I  suppose 
that  gentlemen  has  written  something  William 
Pitt  does  not  like.  But,  William  Pitt  !— ba- 
the's dead  ! — very  true,  so  he  is  !  Sir,  this  lit- 
tle book  seems  most  excellent;  but,  in  my 
tmie,  a  man  would  have  been  sent  to  Newgate 
for  printing  it." 

While  thus  running  on,  Mr.  Tomkins  had 
edged  himself  pretty  close  to  the  recess,  with- 
in which  the  last  comer  had  disappeared;  and 
there,  seated  on  a  high  stool,  he  contrived  to 
read  and  talk  at  the  same  time,  but  his  eye 
and  his  ear  were  both  turned  every  instant 
towards  the  recess. 


The  shopman,  little  suspecting  that  in  so 
very  eccentric,  garrulous  a  person,  he  was 
permitting  a  spy  to  enroach  upon  the  secrets 
of  the  house,  continued  to  make  up  sundry  par- 
cels of  the  new  publication  which  had  so  en- 
chanted his  customer,  while  he  expatiated  on 
the  prodigious  sensation  the  book  had  created; 
and  while  the  customer  hinrself  had  already 
caught  enough  of  the  low  conversation  within 
the  recess  to  be  aware  that  the  author  of  the 
book  was  the  very  person  who  had  so  roused 
his  curiosity. 

Not  till  that  gentleman,  followed  to  the  door 
by  the  polite  publisher,  had  quitted  the  shop, 
did  Mr.  Tomkins  ])ut  his  volume  in  his  pocket, 
and,  with  a  familiar  nod  at  the  shopman,  take 
himself  off. 

He  was  scarcely  in  the  street,  when  he  saw 
Percival  St.  John  leaning  out  of  his  cabriolet, 
and  conversing  with  the  author  he  had  dis- 
covered. He  halted  a  moment  irresolute,  but 
the  young  man,  in  whom  our  reader  recognizes 
John  Ardworth,  declining  St.  John's  invitation 
to  accompany  him  to  Brompton,  resumed  his 
way  through  the  throng;  the  cabriolet  drove 
on;  and  Mr.  Tomkins,  though  with  a  graver 
mien,  and  a  steadier  step,  continued  his  desul- 
tory rambles.  Meanwhile,  John  Ardworth 
strode  gloomily  back  to  his  lonely  chamber. 

There,  throwing  himself  on  the  well-worn 
chair  before  the  crowded  desk,  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  for  some  minutes  he 
felt  all  that  profound  despondency,  peculiar  to 
those  who  have  won  fame,  to  add  to  the  dark 
volume  of  experience  the  conviction  of  fame's 
nothingness.  For  some  minutes,  he  felt  an 
illiberal  and  ungrateful  envy  of  St.  John — so 
fair,  so  light-hearted,  so  favored  by  fortune, 
so  rich  in  friends — in  a  mother's  love,  and  in 
Helen's  half-plighted  troth.  And  he,  from  his 
very  birth,  cut  off  from  the  social  ties  of 
blood — no  mother's  kiss  to  reward  the  toils,  or 
gladden  the  sports,  of  childhood — no  father's 
cheering  word  up  the  steep  hill  of  man  ! 

And  Helen,  for  whose  sake  he  had  so  often, 
when  his  heart  grew  weary,  nerved  himself 
again  to  labor,  saying — "  Let  me  be  rich,  let 
me  be  great,  and  then  I  will  dare  to  tell  Helen 
that  I  love  her !  " — Helen  smiling  upon  an- 
other, unconconscious  of  his  pangs  !  What 
could  fame  bestow  in  compensation  !  What 
matter  that  strangers  praised,  and  the  babble 
of   the   world's   running   stream   lingered    its 


o66 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


brief  moment  round  the  pebble  in  its  way.  In 
the  bitterness  of  his  mood,  he  was  unjust  to 
his  rival.  All  that  exquisite,  but  half-con- 
cealed treasure  of  imagination  and  thought, 
which  lay  beneath  the  surface  of  Helen's 
childlike  smile,  he  believed  that  he  alone — he, 
soul  of  power  and  son  of  genius,  was  worthy  to 
discover  and  to  prize.  In  the  pride  not  unfre- 
quent  with  that  kingliest  of  all  aristocracies, 
the  Chiefs  of  Intellect,  he  forgot  the  grandeur 
which  invests  the  attributes  of  the  heart — for- 
got that,  in  the  lists  of  love,  the  heart  is  at 
least  the  equal  of  the  mind.  In  the  reaction 
that  follows  great  excitement,  Ardworth  had 
morbidly  felt,  that  day,  his  utter  solitude — 
felt  it  in  the  streets  through  which  he  had 
passed — in  the  home  to  which  he  had  returned 
— the  burning  tears,  shed  for  the  first  time 
since  childhood,  forced  themselves  through 
his  clasped  fingers.  At  length,  he  rose,  with 
a  strong  effort  at  self-mastery — some  con- 
tempt of  his  weakness,  and  much  remorse  at 
his  ungrateful  envy. 

He  gathered  together  the  soiled  manuscript 
and  dingy  proofs  of  his  book,  and  thrust  them 
through  the  grimy  bars  of  his  grate;  then, 
opening  his  desk,  he  drew  out  a  small  packet, 
with  tremulous  fingers,  unfolding  paper  after 
paper,  and  gazed  with  eyes  still  moistened,  on 
the  relics  kept  till  then,  in  the  devotion  of  the 
only  sentiment  inspired  by  Eros,  that  had  ever, 
perhaps,  softened  his  iron  nature:  These  were 
two  notes  from  Helen — some  violets  she  had 
once  given  him,  and  a  little  purse  she  had  knit- 
ted for  him  (with  a  playful  prophecy  of  future 
fortunes),  when  he  had  last  left  the  vicarage. 
Nor  blame  him,  ye  who  with  more  habitual 
romance  of  temper,  and  richer  fertility  of 
imagination,  can  reconcile  the  tenderest 
memories  with  the  sternest  duties,  if  he,  with 
all  his  strength,  felt  that  the  associations  con- 
nected with  those  tokens  would  but  enervate 
his  resolves,  and  embitter  his  resignation. 
You  can  guess  not  the  extent  of  the  sacrifice, 
the  i)itteniess  of  the  pang,  when,  averting  his 
head,  he  dropped  those  relics  on  the  hearth. 
The  evidence  of  the  desultory  ambition,  the 
tokens  of  the  visionary  love — the  same  flame 
leapt  up  to  devour  both  !  It  was  as  the 
funeral  pyre  of  his  youth  ! 

"  So  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  let  all  that  can 
divert  me  from  the  true  ends  of  my  life— con- 
sume ! — Labor,  take  back  your  son." 


An  hour  afterwards,  and  his  clerk,  returning 
home,  found  Ardworth  employed  as  calmly  as 
usual  on  his  Law  Reports. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

The  Invitation  to  Laughton. 

That  day,  when  he  called  at  Brompton, 
Percival  reported  to  Madame  Dalibard  his  in- 
terview with  the  eccentric  Mr.  Tomkins.  Lu- 
cretia  seemed  chafed  and  disconcerted  by  the 
inquiries  with  which  that  gentleman  had  hon- 
ored her,  and  as  soon  as  Percival  had  gone,, 
she  sent  for  Varney.  He  did  not  come  till 
late — she  repeated  to  him  what  St.  John  had 
said  of  the  stranger.  Varney  ])articipr.ted  in 
her  uneasy  alarm.  The  name,  indeed,  was 
unknown  to  them,  nor  could  they  conjecture 
the  bearer  of  so  ordinary  a  patronymic;  but 
there  had  been  secrets  enow  in  Lucretia's  life, 
to  render  her  apprehensive  of  encountering 
those  who  had  known  her  in  earlier  years;  and 
Varney  feared  lest  any  rumor  reported  to  St. 
John  might  create  his  mistrust,  or  lessen  the 
hold  obtained  upon  a  victim  heretofore  so  un- 
suspicious. They  both  agreed  in  the  expedi- 
ency of  withdrawing  themselves  and  St.  John, 
as  soon  as  possible,  from  London,  and  frustra- 
ting Percival's  chance  of  closer  intercourse 
with  the  stranger,  who  had  evidently  aroused 
his  curiosity. 

The  next  day  Helen  was  much  indisposed, 
and  the  symtoms  grew  so  grave  towards 
the  evening,  that  Madame  Dalibard  expressed 
alarm,  and  willingly  suffered  Percival  (who 
had  only  been  permitted  to  see  Helen  for 
a  few  minutes,  when  her  lassitude  was  so 
extreme  that  she  was  obliged  to  retire  to  her 
room)  to  go  in  search  of  a  physician:  he 
returned  with  one  of  the  most  eminent  of 
the  faculty.  On  the  way  to  Brompton,  in  re- 
ply to  the  questions  of  Dr. ,  Percival  spoke 

of  the  dejection  to  which  Helen  was  occa- 
sionally subject,  and  this  circumstance  con- 
firmed Dr. ,  after  he  had  seen  his  jxitient, 

in  his  view  of  the  case.     In  addition  to  some 
feverish  and  inflammatory  symptons  which  he 
trusted    his   prescriptions   would  speedly    ri 
move,  he  found  great  nerv'ous  debility,  and 
willingly  fell  in  with  the  casual  suggestion  of 


LUCRETIA. 


667 


Varney,  who  was  present,  that  a  change  of  air 
would  greatly  improve  Miss  Mainwaring's  gen- 
eral health,  as  soon  as  the  temporary  acute  at- 
tack had  subsided.  He  did  not  regard  the 
present  complaint  very  seriously,  and  reas- 
sured poor  Percival  by  his  cheerful  mien  and 
sanguine  predictions.  I'ercival  remained  at 
the  house  the  whole  day.  and  had  the  satisfac- 
tion, iiefore  he  left,  of  hearing  that  the  reme- 
dies had  already  abated  the  fever,  and  that 
Helen  had  fallen  into  a  profound  sleep. 
Walking  back  to  town  with  Varney,  the  last 
said,  hesitatingly — ••  You  were  saying  to  me, 
the  other  day,  that  you  feared  you  should 
have  to  go,  for  a  few  days,  both  to  Vernon 
Grange  and  to  Laughton,  as  your  steward 
wished  to  point  out  to  you  some  extensive  al- 
terations in  the  management  of  your  woods, 
to  commence  this  autumn.  As  you  were  so 
soon  coming  of  age,  Lady  Mary  desired  that 
her  directions  should  yield  to  your  own.  N(jw, 
since  Helen  is  recommended  change  of  air, 
why  not  invite  Madame  Dalibard  to  visit  you 
at  one  of  these  places  ?  I  would  suggest 
Laughton.  My  poor  mother-in-law,  I  know, 
longs  to  revisit  the  scene  of  her  youth,  and 
you  could  not  compliment  or  conciliate  her 
more  than  by  such  an  invitation." 

"  Oh,"  said  Percival,  joyfully,  "  it  would 
realize  the  fondest  dream  of  my  heart  to  see 
Helen  under  the  okl  roof- tree  of  Laughton; 
but  as  my  mother  is  abroad,  and  there  is 
therefore  no  lady  to  receive  them,  per- 
haps  " 

•'  Why,"  interrupted  Varney,  "  Madame 
Dalibard  herself  is  almost  the  very  person 
whom  les  biensdances  might  induce  you  to 
select  to  do  the  honors  of  your  house  in  Lady 
Mary's  absence;  not  only  as  kinswoman  to 
yourself,  but  as  the  nearest  surviving  relative 
of  Sir  Miles — the  most  immediate  descendant 
of  the  St.  Johns;  mature  her  years  and 
decorum  of  life,  her  joint  kindred  to  Helen 
and  yourself,  surely  remove  every  appearance 
of  impropriety." 

"  If  she  thinks  so,  certainly — I  am  no  ac- 
curate judge  of  such  formalities.  You  could 
not  oblige  me  more,  Varney,  than  in  pre-ob- 
taining  her  consent  to  the  proposal.  Helen  at 
Laughton  ! — Oh,  blissful  thought  !  " 

"  And  in  what  air  would  she  be  so  likely  to 
revive  ?  "  said  Varney,  but  his  voice  was  thick 
and  husky. 


The  ideas  thus  presented  to  hmi,  almost 
banished  its  anxiety  from  Percival's  breast. 
In  a  thousand  delightful  shapes  they  haunted 
him  during  the  sleepless  night.  And  when, 
the  next  morning,  he  found  that  Helen  was 
surprisingly  better,  he  pressed  his  invitation 
upon  Madame  Dalibard,  with  a  warmth  that 
made  her  cheek  yet  more  pale,  and  the  hand, 
which  the  boy  grasped  as  he  pleaded,  as  cold 
as  the  dead.  But  she  briefly  consented,  and 
Percival,  allowed  a  brief  interview  with  Helen, 
had  the  rapture  to  see  her  smile  in  a  delight 
as  childlike  as  his  own  at  the  news  he  com- 
municated, and  listen,  with  swimming  eyes, 
when  he  dwelt  on  the  walks  they  should  take 
together,  amidst  haunts  to  become  henceforth 
dear  to  her  as  to  himself.  Fairyland  dawned 
before  them. 

The  visit  of  the  physician  justified  Percival's 
heightened  spirits.  All  the  acuter  symptons 
had  vanished  already.  He  sanctioned  his 
patient's  departure  from  town  as  soon  as  Ma- 
dame Dalibard's  convenience  would  permit, 
and  recommended  only  a  course  of  restorative 
medicines  to  strengthen  the  nervous  system, 
which  was  to  commence  with  the  following 
morning,  and  be  persisted  in  for  some  weeks. 
He  dwelt  much  on  the  effect  to  be  derived 
from  taking  these  medicines,  the  first  thing  in 
the  day,  as  soon  as  Helen  woke.  Varney  and 
Madame  Dalibard  exchanged  a  rapid  glance. 
Charmed  with  the  success  that  in  this  instance 
had  attended  the  skill  of  the  great  physician 
Percival,  in  his  usual  zealous  benevolence, 
now  eagerly  pressed   upon   Madame  Dalibard 

the  wisdom  of  consulting  Dr. for  her  own 

malady;  and  the  doctor,  putting  on  his  spec- 
tacles, and  drawing  the  chair  nearer  to  the 
frowning  cripple,  began  to  question  her  of  her 
state;  but  Madame  Daliliard  abruptly  and 
discourteously  put  a  stop  to  all  interrogatories 
— she  had  already  exhausted  all  remedies  art 
could  suggest — she  had  become  reconciled  to 
her  deplorable  infirmity,  and  lost  all  faith  in 
physicians; — some  day  or  other  she  might  try 
the  baths  at  Egra,  but,  till  then,  she  must  be 
permitted  to  suffer  undisturbed. 

The  doctor,  by  no  means  wishing  to  uniler- 
take  a  case  of  chronic  paralysis,  rose  smilingly,, 
and  with  a  liberal  confession  that  the  Gerpian 
baths  were  sometimes  extremely  efficacious 
in  such  complaints,  pressed  Percival's  out- 
stretched   hand,    then    slipped    his    own   into 


068 


B  UL  IYER'S     WORKS. 


his  pocket,  and  bowed  his  way  out  of  the 
room. 

Relieved  from  all  apprehension,  Percival 
very  good-humoredly  received  the  hint  of 
Madame  Dalibard,  that  the  excitement  through 
which  she  had  gone  for  the  last  twenty-four 
hours,  rendered  her  unfit  for  his  society;  and 
went  home  to  write  to  Laughton,  and  prepare 
all  things  for  the  reception  of  his  guests. 
Varney  accompanied  him.  Percival  found 
Beck  in  the  hall,  already  much  altered,  and 
embellished,  by  a  new  suit  of  livery.  The  ex- 
sweeper  stared  hard  at  Varney,  who,  without 
recognizing,  in  so  smart  a  shape,  the  squalid 
tatterdemalion  who  had  lighted  him  up  the 
stairs  to  Mr.  Grabman's  apartments,  passed 
him  by  into  Percival's  little  study,  on  the 
ground-floor. 

"  Well,  Beck,"  said  Percival,  ever  mindful 
of  others,  and  attributing  his  groom's  aston- 
ished gaze  at  Varney  to  his  admiration  of 
that  gentleman's  showy  exterior — "  I  shall 
send  you  down  to  the  country  to-morrow  with 
two  of  the  horses — so  you  may  have  to-day  to 
yourself,  to  take  leave  of  your  nurse.  I  flat- 
ter myself  you  will  find  her  rooms  a  little  more 
comfortable  than  they  were  yesterday." 

Beck  heard  with  a  bursting  heart;  and  his 
master,  giving  him  a  cheering  tap  on  the 
shoulder,  left  him  to  find  his  way  into  the 
streets,  and  to  Becky's  abode. 

He  found,  indeed,  that  the  last  had  already 
undergone  the  magic  transformation  which  is 
ever  at  the  command  of  godlike  wealth.  Mrs. 
Mivers,  who  was  naturally  prompt  and  active, 
had  had  pleasure  in  executing  Percival's  com- 
mission. Early  in  the  morning,  floors  had 
been  scrubbed — the  windows  cleaned — the 
ventilator  fixed; — then  followed  jwrters  with 
chairs  and  tables,  and  a  wonderful  Dutch 
clock,  and  new  bedding,  and  a  bright  piece  of 
carpet;  and  then  c.ime  two  servants  belonging 
to  Mrs.  Mivers  to  arrange  the  chattels;  and 
finally,  when  .  all  was  nearly  completed,  the 
Avatar  of  Mrs.  Mivers  herself,  to  give  the  last 
finish  with  her  own  mittened  hands,  and  in  her 
own  housewifely  apron. 

The  good  lady  was  still  employed  in  ranging 
a  set  of  tea-cups  on  the  shelves  of  the  dresser, 
when  Beck  entered;  and  his  old  nurse,  in  the 
overflow  of  her  gratitude,  hobbled  up  to  her 
foundling,  and  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck. 


'  "  That's  right  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mivers,  good- 
i  humoredly,  turning  round,  and  wiping  the 
tear  from  her  eye.  "  You  ought  to  make 
much  of  him,  ])oor  lad;  he  has  turned  out  a 
;  God-send,  indeed;  and  upon  my  word,  he  looks 
very  respectable  in  his  new  clothes.  But 
what  is  this — a  child's  coral  ?  "  as,  opening  a 
drawer  in  the  dresser,  she  discovered  Beck's 
treasure.  "  Dear  me,  it  is  a  very  handsome 
one — why  these  bells  look  like  gold  !  " — and, 
suspicion  o  f  her  protdge's  honesty,  for  a  mo- 
ment, contracted  her  thoughtful  brow — "  how 
ever  on  earth  did  you  come  by  this,  Mrs. 
Becky  ?" 

"  Sure  and  sartin,"  answered  Becky,  drop- 
ping her  mutilated  curtsey,  ■'  I  he's  glad  it  be 
found  now,  instead  of  sum  days  afore,  or  I 
might  have  been  vicked  enough  to  let  it  go 
vith  the  rest  to  the  pop-shop;  and  I'm  sure  the 
time's  out  of  my  mind,  ven  that  'ere  boy  was 
a  h-urchin,  that  I've  risted  the  timtashung, 
and  said,  '  No,  Becky  Carruthers,  that  maun't 
go  to  my  h-uncle's  ! " 

"  And  why  not,  my  good  womaii  ?  " 

"  Lor'  love  you,  marm,  if  that  currll  could 
speak,  who  knows  vot  it  might  say — eh,  lad, 
who  knows  ?  You  sees,  marm,  my  good  man 
had  not  a  long  been  dead — I  could  not  a  get 
no  vork,  no  vays — •  Becky  Carruthers,'  says  I, 
'you  must  go  out  in  the  streets  a  begging  I  ' 
I  niver  thought  I  should  a  come  to  that.  But 
my  poor  husband,  you  sees,  marm,  fell  from  a 
scaffol, — as  good  a  man  as  hever " 

"Yes,  yes,  you  told  me  all  that  before,"  said 
Mrs.  Mivers,  growing  impatient,  and  already 
diverted  from  her  interest  in  the  coral  by  a 
new  cargo,  all  bright  from  the  tinman,  which, 
indeed,  no  less  instantaneously,  'absorbed  the 
admiration  of  both  Beck  and  his  nurse.  And 
what  with  the  inspection  of  these  articles,  and 
the  comments  each  provoked,  the  coral  rested 
in  peace  on  the  dresser,  till  Mrs.  Mivers,  when 
just  about  to  renew  her  inquiries,  was  startled 
by  the  sound  of  the  Dutch  clock  striking  four, 
a  voice  which  reminded  her  of  the  lapse  of 
time,  and  her  own  dinner  hour.  So,  with 
many  promises  to  call  again,  and  have  a  good 
chat  with  her  humble  friend,  she  took  her  de- 
parture, amidst  the  blessings  of  Becky,  and  the 
less  noisy,  but  not  less  grateful  salutations  of 
Beck. 

Very  happy  was  the  evening  these  poor 
creatures  passed  together  over  their  first  cup  of 


LUCRETIA. 


669 


tea  fiom  the  new  bright  copper  kettle,  and 
the  ahnost-forgotten  luxury  of  crumpets,  in 
which  their  altered  circumstances  permitted 
them,  without  extravagance  to  indulge. 
In  the  course  of  conversation,  Beck  com- 
municated how  much  he  had  been  astonished 
by  recognizing  the  visitor  of  Grabman,  the 
provoker  of  the  irritable  grave-stealer,  in  the 
familiar  companion  of  his  master;  and  when 
Becky  told  him  how  often  in  the  domestic  ex- 
perience her  avocation  of  charing  had  accumu- 
lated, she  had  heard  of  the  ruin  brought  on 
rich  young  men,  by  gamblers  and  sharpers. 
Beck  promised  to  himself  to  keep  a  sharp  eye 
on  Grabman's  showy  acquaintance.  "  For 
master  is  but  a  +)abe  like,"  said  he,  majesti- 
cally; "and  I'd  be  cut  into  mincemeat  afore 
I'd  let  an  'air  on  his  'ead  come  to  'arm,  if  so 
be's  h-as  ow  I  could  perwent  it." 

We  need  not  say  that  his  nurse  confirmed 
him  in  these  good  resolutions. 

"  And  now,"  said  Beck,  when  the  time  came 
for  parting,  "you'll  keep  from  the  gin-shop, 
old  'oman,  and  not  shame  the  young  master  ?  " 

"Sartin  sure,"  answered  Becky;  "it  is  only 
ven  vun  is  down  in  the  vorld  that  vun  goes  to 
the  licker-shop.  Now,  h-indeed," — and  she 
looked  round  very  proudly — "  I  'as  a  'specta- 
ble  stashion,  and  I  vouldn't  go  for  to  lower  it, 
and  let  'em  say  that  Becky  Carruthers  does 
not  know  how  to  conduct  herself.  The  curril 
will  be  safe  enuff  now — but  praps  you  had  best 
take  it  yourself,  lad." 

"  Vot  should  I  do  vith  it  ?  I've  had  enuff 
of  the  'sponsibility.  Put  it  up  in  a  'ankerchiff, 
and  praps  ven  master  gets  married,  and  'as  a 
babby  vot's  teethin',  he  vill  say,  'Thank  ye, 
Beck,  for  your  curril'  Vould  not  that  make 
us  proud,  mammy  ?  " 

Chuckling  heartily  at  that  vision,  Beck 
kissed  his  nurse,  and  trying  hard  to  keep  him- 
self upright,  and  do  credit  to  the  dignity  of 
his  cloth,  returned  to  his  new  room  over  the 
stables. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  Waking  of  the  Serpent. 
And  how,  O  Poet  of  the    sad    belief,    and 
eloquence,    "  like    ebony   at    once   dark    and 
splendid,"  *  how  couklst  thou,  august  Lucre- 


*  It  was  said  of  Tertullian,  that  '  his  style  was  lik" 
ebony,  dark  and  spIendiH  " 


tius,  deem  it  but  sweet  to  behold  from  the 
steep  the  strife  of  the  great  sea,  or,  safe  from 
the  peril,  gaze  on  the  wrath  of  the  battle,  or 
serene  in  the  temples  of  the  wise,  look  afar 
on  the  wanderings  of  human  error?  Is  it  so 
sweet  to  survey  the  ills  from  which  thou  art 
delivered  ?  Shall  not  the  strong  law  of  Sympa- 
thy find  thee  out,  and  thy  heart  rebuke  thy 
philosophy  ?  Not  sweet,  indeed,  can  be  man's 
shelter  in  self,  when  he  says  to  the  storm,  "  I 
have  no  bark  on  the  sea;  "  or  to  the  gods  of 
the  battle,  "  I  have  no  son  in  the  slaughter;  " 
— when  he  smiles  unmoved  upon  Woe,  and 
murmurs,  "  Weep  on,  for  these  eyes  know  no 
tears;" — when  unappalled,  he  beholdeth  the 
black  deeds  of  crime,  and  cries  to  his  con- 
science, "Thou  art  calm:" — Yet  solemn  is 
the  sight  to  him,  who  lives  in  all  life;  seeks 
for  Nature  in  the  storm,  and  Providence  in 
the  battle;  loses  self  in  the  woe;  probes  his 
heart  in  the  crime;  and  owns  no  philosophy 
that  sets  him  free  from  the  fetters  of  man. 
Not  in  vain  do  we  scan  all  the  contrasts  in  the 
large  frame-work  of  civilized  earth,  if  we  note, 
"  when  the  dust  groweth  into  hardness,  and 
the  clods  cleave  fast  togther."  Range,  O  Art, 
through  all  space,  clasp  together  all  extremes, 
shake  idle  wealth  from  its  lethargy,  and  bid 
States  look  in  hovels,  where  the  teacher  is 
dumb,  and  Reason  unweeded  runs  to  rot  ! 

Bid  haughty  Intellect  pause  in  its  triumph, 
and  doubt  if  intellect  alone  can  deliver  the 
soul  from  its  tempters  I — Only  M«/ lives  uncor- 
rupt,  which  preserves  in  all  seasons  the  human 
affections  in  which  the  breath  of  God  breathes, 
and  is  !  Go  forth  to  the  world,  O  Art  !— go 
forth  to  the  innocent,  the  guilty; — the  wise, 
and  the  dull  ! — go  forth  as  the  still  voice  of 
Fate  ! — speak  of  the  insecurity  even  of  Good- 
ness below  ! — carry  on  the  rapt  vision  of  suf- 
fering Virtue  through  "  the  doors  of  the 
shadows  of  death  !  " — show  the  dim  revelation 
symbolled  forth  in  the  Tragedy  of  old  ! — how 
incomplete  is  man's  destiny,  how  undeveloped 
is  the  justice  divine,  if  Antigone  sleep  eter- 
nally in  the  ribs  of  the.  rock,  and  CEdipus  van- 
ish for  ever  in  the  Grove  of  the  Furies  !  Here, 
below,  "  the  waters  are  hid  with  a  stone,  and 
the  face  of  the  deep  is  frozen  !  "  But  above 
liveth  He  "  who  can  bind  the  sweet  influences 
of  the  Pleiades,  and  loose  the  bands  of  Orion." 
Go  with  Fate  over  the  bridge,  and  she  vanishes 
in  the  land  beyond  the  gulf  !     Behold  where 


<570 


B  UL I VER  S     II  OAA'S. 


the  Eternal  demands  Eternity  for  the  progress 
of  His  creatures,  and  the  vindication  of  His 
justice  ! 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  Lucretia  sat  alone 
in  her  dreary  room;  her  head  buried  on  her 
bosom,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  her  hands 
resting  on  her  knees; — it  was  an  image  of  in- 
animate prostration  and  decrepitude  that  might 
have  moved  compassion  to  its  depth.  The 
door  opened,  and  Martha  entered,  to  assist 
Madame  Daiibard,  as  usual,  to  retire  to  rest. 
Her  mistress  slowly  raised  her  eyes  at  the 
noise  of  the  opening  door,  and  those  eyes 
took  their  searching,  penetrating  acuteness,  as 
they  fixed  upon  the  florid,  nor  uncomely  coun- 
tenance of  the  waiting-woman. 

In  her  starched  cap,  her  sober-colored  stuff 
gown — in  her  prim,  quiet  manner,  and  a  cer- 
tain sanctified  demureness  of  aspect,  there 
was  something  in  the  first  appearance  of  this 
woman,  that  impressed  you  with  the  notion  of 
respectability,  and  inspired  confidence  in  those 
steady,  good  qualities  which  we  seek  in  a 
trusty  servant.  But,  more  closely  examined, 
an  habitual  observer  might  have  found  much 
to  qualify,  perhaps  to  disturb,  his  first  prepos- 
sessions. The  exceeding  lowness  of  the  fore- 
head, over  which  that  stiff,  harsh  hair  was  so 
puritanically  parted — the  severe  hardness  of 
those  thin,  small  lips,  so  pursed  up  and  con- 
strained— even  a  certain  dull  cruelty  in  those 
light,  cold  blue  eyes,  might  have  caused  an 
uneasy  sentiment,  almost  approaching  to  fear. 
The  fat  grocer's  spoiled  child  instinctively 
recoiled  from  her,  when  she  entered  the  shop 
to  make  her  household  purchases — the  old, 
grey-whiskered  terrier  dog,  at  the  public  house, 
slunk  into  the  tap  when  she  crossed  the 
threshold. 

Madame  Daiibard  silently  suffered  herself 
to  be  wheeled  into  the  adjoining  bed-room, 
and  the  process  of  disrobing  was  nearly  com- 
pleted before  she  said,  abruptly — 

"  So  you  attended  Mr.  Varney's  uncle  in  his 
last  illness.     Did  he  suffer  much?" 

"  He  was  a  poor  creature,  at  best,"  answered 
Martha;  "but  he  gave  me  a  deal  of  trouble 
afore  he  went.  He  was  a  scranny  corpse  when 
I  strecked  him  out." 

Madame  Dalit)ard  shrank  from  the  hands  at 
that  moment  employed  upon  herself,  and  said— 

"  It  was  not,  then,  the  first  corpse  you  have 
laid  0!it  for  the  grave?" 


"  Not  by  many." 

"And  did  any  of  those  you  so  prepared,  die 
of  the  same  complaint  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  I'm  sure,"  returned  Martha. 
"  I  never  inquires  how  folks  die;  my  bizness 
was  to  nurse 'em  till  all  was  over,  and  then  to 
sit  up.  As  they  say  in  my  country — '  Riving 
Pike  wears  a  hood,  when  the  weather  bodes 
ill.'"* 

"  And  when  you  sat  up  with  Mr.  Varney's 
uncle,  did  you  feel  no  fear  in  the  dead  of  the 
night  ? — that  corpse  before  you — no  fear  ?  " 

"  Young  Mr.  Varney  said  I  should  come  to 
no  harm.  Oh,  he's  a  clever  man.  What 
should  I  fear,  ma'am  ? "  answered  Martha,  with 
a  horrid  simplicity. 

"You  have  belonged  to  a  very  religious 
sect,  I  think  I  have  heard  you  say — a  sect  not 
unfamiliar  to  me — a  sect  to  which  great  crime 
is  very  rarely  known  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  some  of  'em  be  tame  enough, 
but  others  be  weel+  deep  !  " 

"  You  do  not  believe  what  they  taught  you  ?  " 

"  I  did,  when  I  was  young  and  sillj'." 

"  And  what  disturbed  your  belief?" 

"  Ma'am,  the  man  what  taught  me,  and  my 
mother  afore  me,  was  the  first  I  ever  kep  com- 
pany with,"  answered  Martha,  without  a  change 
in  her  florid  hue,  which  seemed  fixed  in  her 
cheek,  as  the  red  in  an  autumn  leaf.  "  After 
he  had  ruined  me,  as  the  girls  say,  he  told  me 
as  how  it  was  all  sham  !  " 

"You  loved  him,  then  ?' 

"  The  man  was  well  enough,  ma'am,  and  he 
behaved  handsome,  and  got  me  a  husband. 
I've  known  better  days." 

"  You  sleep  well  at  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  thank  you.  I  loves  my  bed." 

"  I  have  done  with  you,"  said  Madame  Daii- 
bard, stifling  a  groan,  as  now,  placed  in  her 
bed,  she  turned  to  the  wall.  Martha  extin- 
guished the  candle,  leaving  it  on  the  table  by 
the  bed,  with  a  book  and  a  box  of  matches, 
for  Madame  Daiibard  was  a  bad  sleeper,  and 
often  read  in  the  night.  She  then  drew  the 
curtains,  and  went  her  way. 

It  might  be  an  hour  after  Martha  had  retired 
to  rest,  that  a  hand  was  stretched  from  the  bed, 
that  the  candle  was  lighted,  and  Lucretia  Dali- 


*  "  If  Riving  Pike  do  wear  a  hood, 

The  day,  be  sure,  will  ne'er  be  good." 

— A  Lancashire  Distich 
t  Weel,— whirlpool. 


LUCRETIA. 


67' 


bard  rose;  with  a  sudden  movement  she  threw 
aside  the  coverings,  and  stood  in  her  long 
night-gear  on  the  floor.  Yes,  the  helpless, 
paralyzed  cripple  rose — was  on  her  feet — tali, 
elastic,  erect  !  It  was  as  a  resuscitation  from 
the  grave.  Never  was  change  more  startling 
than  that  simple  action  effected — not  in  the 
form  alone,  but  the  whole  character  of  the 
face.  The  solitary  light  streamed  upward  on 
a  countenance,  on  every  line  of  which  spoke 
sinister  power  and  strong  resolve.  If  you  had 
■ever  seen  her  before,  in  her  false  crippled 
state,  prostrate  and  helpless,  and  could  have 
seen  her  then — those  eyes,  if  haggard  still, 
now  full  of  life  and  vigor — that  frame,  if  spare, 
towering  aloft  in  commanding  stature,  perfect 
in  its  proportions  as  a  Grecian  image  of  Nem- 
esis— your  amaze  would  ^ave  merged  into 
terror,  so  preternatural  did  the  transformation 
a|)pear  ! — so  did  aspect  and  bearing  contradict 
the  very  character  of  her  sex;  uniting  the  two 
elements,  most  formidable  in  man  or  in  fiend 
— wickedness  and  power  I 

She  stood  a  moment  motionless,  breathing 
Unid,  as  if  it  were  a  joy  to  breathe  free  from 
restraint,  and  then,  lifting  the  light,  and  glid- 
ing to  the  adjoining  room,  she  unlocked  a 
bureau  in  the  corner,  and  bent  over  a  small 
casket,  which  she  opened  with  a  secret  spring. 

Reader,  cast  back  you  eye  to  that  passage 
in  this  history,  when  Lucretia  Clavering  took 
down  the  volume  from  the  niche  in  the  tapes- 
tried chamber  at  Laughton,  and  numbered,  in 
thought,  the  hours  left  to  her  uncle's  life. 
Look  back  on  the  ungrateful  thought — behold, 
how  it  has  swelled  and  ripened  into  the  guilty 
<\t>;x\  !  There,  in  that  box,  Death  guards  his 
treasure-crypt.  There,  all  the  science  of 
Hades  numbers  its  murderous  inventions.  As 
she  searched  for  the  ingredients  her  design 
had  pre-selected,  something  heavier  than  those 
small  packets  she  deranged,  fell  to  the  bottom 
of  the  box  with  a  low  and  hollow  sound.  She 
started  at  the  noise,  and  then  smiled,  in  scorn 
of  her  momentary  fear,  as  she  took  up  the 
ring  that  had  occasioned  the  sound — a  ring 
plain  and  solid,  like  those  used  as  signets  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  with  a  large  dull  opal  in  the 
centre.  What  secret  could  that  bauble  have 
in  common  with  its  ghastly  companions  in 
Death's  crypt  ?  This  had  been  found  amongst 
Olivier's  papers;  a  note  in  that  precious  manu- 
script, which  had   given  to  the   hands   of  his 


successors  the  keys  of  the  grave,  had  discov- 
ered the  mystery  of  its  uses. 

By  the  pressure  of  the  hand,  at  the  touch  of 
a  concealed  spring,  a  barbed  pouit  flew  forth, 
steeped  in  venom,  more  deadly  than  the  Indian 
extracts  from  the  bag  of  the  cobra-capella,— a 
venom  to  which  no  antidote  is  known,  which 
no  test  can  detect.  It  corrupts  the  whole  mass 
of  the  blood — it  mounts  in  frenzy  and  fire  to 
the  brain — it  rends  the  soul  from  the  body  in 
spasm  and  convulsion.  But  examine  the  dead, 
and  how  divine  the  effect  of  the  cause  ? — how 
go  back  to  the  records  of  the  Borgias,  and 
amidst  all  the  scepticism  of  times  in  which, 
happily,  such  arts  are  unknown,  unsuspected, 
learn  from  the  hero  of  Machiavel  how  a  clasp 
of  the  hand  can  get  rid  of  a  foe  ?  Easier  and 
more  natural  to  point  to  the  living  puncture  in 
the  skin,  and  the  swollen  flesh  round  it,  and 
dilate  on  the  danger  a  rusty  nail— nay,  a  pin, 
can  engender — when  the  humorous  are  pec- 
cant, and  the  blood  is  impure  !  The  fabrica- 
tion of  that  bauble,  the  discovery  of  Borgia's 
device,  was  the  masterpiece  in  the  science  of 
Dalibard;  a  curious  and  philosophical  triumph 
of  research,  hitherto  unused  by  its  inventor 
and  his  heirs;  for  that  casket  is  rich  in  the 
choice  of  more  gentle  materials;  but  the  use 
yet  may  come.  As  she  gazed  on  the  ring, 
there  was  a  complacent  and  proud  expression 
on  Lucretia's  face. 

"  Dumb  token  of  Ccesar  Borgia  !  "  she  mur 
mured — ■'  him  of  the  wisest  head  and  the  bold  • 
est  hand  that  ever  grasped  at  empire;^whom 
Machiavel  the  virtuous,  rightly  praised  as  the 
model  of  accomplished  ambition  I  Why 
should  I  falter  in  the  paths  which  he  trod  with 
his  royal  step,  only  because  my  goal  is  not  a 
throne  ?  Every  circle  is  as  complete  in  itself, 
whether  rounding  a  globule  or  a  star.  Why 
groan  in  the  belief  that  the  mind  defiles  itself 
by  the  darkness  through  which  it  glides  on  its 
object,  or  the  mire  through  which  it  ascends 
to  the  hill  ?  Murderer  as  he  was,  poisoner, 
and  fratricide— did  blood  clog  his  intellect  ! 
or  crime  impoverish  the  luxury  of  his  genius  ? 
Was  his  verse  less  melodious,*  or  his  love  of 
art   less   intense,  or   his   eloquence  less  per- 


*  It  is  well  known*  that  Ccesar  Borgia  was  both  a 
munificent  patron  and  an  exquisite  appreciator  of  art 
— we  1  known  also  are  his  powers  of  persuasion;  but 
the  general  reader  may  not  perhaps  be  acquainted 
with  the  (act,  that  this  terrible  criminal  was  also  a  poet. 


07: 


/)•  UL  i)/EK'S     ti  U/i'AS. 


suasive,  because  he  sought  to  leniove  every 
barrier,  revenge  every  wrong,  crush  every 
foe  ? " 

In  the  wondrous  corruption  to  which  her 
mind  had  descended,  thus  murmured  Lu- 
cretia.  Intellect  had  been  so  long  made  her 
sole  god,  that  the  very  monster  of  history  was 
lifted  to  her  reverence  by  his  ruthless  intellect 
alone;  lifted,  in  that  mood  of  feverish  excite- 
ment, when  conscience,  often  less  silenced, 
lay  crushed  under  the  load  of  the  deed  to 
come,  into  an  example  and  a  guide. 

Though,  at  times,  when  looking  back,  op- 
pressed by  the  blackest  despair,  no  remorse 
of  the  past  ever  weakened  those  nerves,  when 
the  Hour  called  up  its  demon,  and  the  Will 
ruled  the  rest  of  the  human  being  as  a 
machine. 

She  replaced  the  ring — she  reclosed  the 
casket,  and  relocked  its  depository;  then 
passed  again  into  the  adjoining  chamber. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  and  the  dim  light 
that  stole  from  the  heavens  (in  which  the  moon 
was  partially  overcast),  through  the  casement 
on  the  staircase,  rested  on  a  shapeless  figure, 
robed  in  black  from  head  to  foot — a  figure  so 
obscure  and  indefinable  in  outline,  so  suited  to 
the  gloom  in  its  hue,  so  stealthy  and  rapid  in 
its  movements,  that  had  you  started  from 
sleep,  and  seen  it  on  your  floor,  you  would, 
perforce,  have  deemed  that  your  fancy  had 
befooled  you  ! 

Thus  darkly,  through  the  darkness,  went  the 
Poisoner  to  her  prey. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 
Retrospect. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  that  stage  in  this 
history  when  it  is  necessary  to  look  back  on 
the  interval  in  Lucretia's  life — between  the 
death  of  Dalibard,  and  her  re-introduction,  in 
the  second  portion  of  our  tale. 

One  day,  without  previous  notice  or  warning, 
T.ucretia  arrived  at  William  Mainwaring's 
house;  she  was  in  the  deep  weeds  of  widow- 
hood, and  that  garb  of  mourning  sufficed  to 
add  Susan's  tenderest  commiseration  to  the 
warmth  of  her  affectionate  welcome.  Lucretia 
appeared  to  have   forgiven    the   past,   and  to 


have  conquered  its  more  painful  recollections; 
she  was  gentle  to  Susan,  though  she  rather 
suffered  than  returned  her  caresses;  she  was. 
open  and  frank  to  Willliam.  Both  felt  inex- 
pressibly grateful  for  her  visit — the  forgive- 
ness if  betokened,  and  the  confidence  it  im- 
plied. At  this  time,  no  condition  could  be 
more  promising  anti  prosperous  than  that  of 
the  young  banker.  From  the  first,  the  most 
active  partner  in  the  bank,  he  had  now  vir- 
tually almost  monopoflzed  the  business.  The 
senior  partner  was  old  and  infirm;  the  second 
had  a  bucolic  turn,  and  was  much  taken  up  by 
the  care  of  a  large  farin  he  had  recently  pur- 
chased, so  that  Mainwaring,  more  and  more 
trusted  and  honored,  became  the  sole  man- 
aging administrator  of  the  firm.  Business 
throve  in  his  able  pinds;  and  with  patient  and 
steady  perseverance  there  was  little  but  what, 
before  middle  age  was  attained,  his  competence 
would  have  swelled  into  a  fortune  sufficient  to 
justify  him  in  realizing  the  secret  dream  of 
his  heart — the  parliamentary  representation  of 
the  town  in  which  he  had  already  secured  the 
affection  and  esteem  of  the  inhabitants. 

It  was  not  long  before  Lucretia  detected 
the  ambition  William's  industry  but  partially 
concealed ;  it  was  not  long  before,  with  the 
ascendency  natural  to  her  will  and  her  talents, 
she  began  to  exercise  considerable,  though 
unconscious,  influence  over  a  man  in  whom  a 
thousand  good  qualities,  and  some  great 
talents  were  unhajipily  accompanied  by  infirm 
purpose  and  weak  resolutions.  The  ordinary 
conversation  of  Lucretia,  unsettled  his  mind 
and  inflamed  his  vanity — a  conversation  able, 
aspiring,  full  both  of  knowledge  drawn  from 
books,  and  of  that  experience  of  public  men, 
which  her  residence  in  Paris — (whereon,  with 
its  new  and  greater  Charlemagne,  the  eyes  of 
the  world  were  turned)  had  added  to  her  ac- 
quisitions in  the  lore  of  human  life.  Nothing 
more  disturbs  a  mind  like  William  Mainwar- 
ing's than  that  species  of  eloquence  which  re- 
bukes its  patients  in  the  present,  by  inflaming 
all  it  hopes  in  the  future.  Lucretia  had  none 
of  the  charming  babi)le  of  women — none  of 
that  tender  interest  in  household  details,  in  the 
minutiie  of  domestic  life,  which  relaxes  the  in- 
tellect while  softening  the  heart.  Hard  and 
vigorous,  her  sentences  came  forth  in  eternal 
appeal  to  the  reason,  or  address  to  the  sterner 
passions  in  which  love  has  no  share.     Beside 


LUCRETIA. 


673 


this  strong  thinker,  poor  Susan's  sweet  talk 
seemed  frivolous  and  inane.  Her  soft  hold 
upon  Mainwaring  loosened:  He  ceased  to  con- 
sult her  upon  business — he  began  to  repine 
that  the  partner  of  his  lot  could  have  little 
sympathy  with  his  dreams — more  often  and 
more  bitterly  now  did  his  discontented  glance, 
in  his  way  homeward,  rove  to  the  roof-tops  of 
the  rural  member  for  the  town;  more  eagerly 
did  he  read  the  parliamentary  debates — more 
heavily  did  he  sigh  at  the  thought  of  elo- 
quence denied  a  vent,  and  ambition  delayed 
in  its  career. 

When  arrived  at  this  state  of  mind,  Lucretia's 
conversation  took  a  more  worldly,  a  more 
practical  turn.  Her  knowledge  of  the  specu- 
lators of  Paris  instructed  her  pictures  of  bold 
ingenuity  creating  sudden  wealth;  she  spoke 
of  fortunes  made  in  a  day — of  parvenus  burst- 
ing into  millionaires — of  wealth  as  the  neces- 
sary instrument  of  ambition,  as  the  arch  ruler 
of  the  civilized  world.  Never  once,  be  it  ob- 
served, in  these  temptations,  did  Lucretia 
address  herself  to  the  heart — the  ordinary 
channels  of  vulgar  seduction  was  disdained  by 
her;  she  would  not  have  stooped  so  low  as 
Mainwaring's  love,  could  she  have  commanded 
or  allured  it;  she  was  willing  to  leave  to  Susan 
the  husband  reft  from  her  own  passionate 
youth,  but  leave  him  with  the  brand  on  his 
brow  and  the  worm  at  his  heart— a  scoff  and  a 
wreck. 

At  this  time,  there  was' in  that  market  town, 
one  of  those  adventurous  speculative  men, 
who  are  the  more  dangerous  impostors,  because 
imposed  upon  by  their  own  sanguine  chimeras, 
who  have  a  plausibility  in  their  calculations, 
an  earnestness  in  their  arguments,  which 
account  for  the  dupes  they  daily  make  in 
our  most  sober  and  wary  of  civilized  com- 
munities. Unscrupulous  in  their  means,  yet 
really  honest  in  the  belief  that  their  objects 
can  be  attained,  they  are  at  once  the  rogues 
and  fanatics  of  Mammon  !  This  person  was 
held  to  have  been  fortunate  in  some  adroit 
speculations  in  the  corn  trade,  and  he  was 
brought  too  frequently  into  business  with 
Mainwaring  not  to  be  a  frequent  visitor  at  the 
house.  In  him,  Lucretia  saw  the  very  instru- 
ment of  her  design,  she  led  him  on  to  talk  of 
business  as  a  game — of  money  as  a  realizer 
of  cent,  per  cent. — she  drew  him  into  details 
—she    praised    him,    she    admired.       In     his  i 

6—43 


presence  she  seemed  only  to  hear  him — in  his 
absence,  musingly,  she  started  from  silence  to 
exclaim  on  the  acuteness  of  his  genius  and 
the  accuracy  of  his  figures.  Soon  the  temp- 
ter at  Mainwaring's  heart  gave  signification  to 
these  praises^soon  this  adventurer  became 
his  most  intimate  friend.  Scarcely  knowing 
why,  never  ascribing  the  change  to  her  sister, 
poor  Susan  wept,  amazed  at  Mainwaring's 
transformation — no  care  now  for  the  new  books 
from  London,  or  the  roses  in  the  garden  ! — 
the  music  on  the  instrument  was  unheeded  ! 
Books,  roses,  music  ! — what  are  'those  trifles 
to  a  man  thinking  upon  cent,  per  cent.? 
Mainwaring's  very  countenance  altered — it 
lost  its  frank,  affectionate  beauty; — sullen  ab- 
stracted, morose — it  showed  that  some  great 
care  was  at  the  core.  Then  Lucretia  herself 
began  grievingly  to  notice  the  change  to 
Susan — gradually  she  altered  her  tone  with  re- 
gard to  the  speculator,  and  hinted  vague  fears, 
and  urged  Susan  to  remonstrance  and  warning. 
As  she  anticipated,  warning  and  remonstrance 
came  in  vain  to  the  man,  who  comparing  Lu- 
cretia's mental  power  to  Susan's,  had  learned 
to  despise  the  unlearned  timid  sense  of  the 
last. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  trace  this  change 
in  Mainwaring,  step  by  step,  or  to  meas- 
sure  the  time  which  suflficed  to  his  reason 
and  blind  his  honor.  In  the  midst  of  schemes 
and  hopes,  which  the  lust  of  gold  now  per- 
vaded, came  a  thunderbolt.  An  anonymous 
letter  to  the  head  partner  of  the  bank,  pro- 
voked suspicions  that  led  to  minute  examina- 
tion of  the  accounts.  It  seemed  that  sums 
had  been  irregularly  advanced  (upon  bills 
drawn  upon  men  of  straw)  to  the  speculator 
by  Mainwaring;  and  the  destination  of  these 
sums  could  be  traced  to  gambling  operations 
in  trade,  in  which  Mainwaring  had  a  private 
interest  and  partnership.  So  great,  as  we  have 
said,  had  been  the  confidence  placed  in  Wil- 
liam's abilities  and  honor,  that  the  facilities 
afforded  him,  in  the  disposal  of  the  joint  stock, 
far  exceeded  those  usually  granted  to  the 
partner  of  a  firm,  and  the  breach  of  trust  ap- 
peared the  more  flagrant  from  the  extent  of 
the  confidence  misplaced.  Meanwhile,  William 
Mainwaring,  though  as  yet  unconscious  of  the 
proceedings  of  his  partners,  was  gnawed  by 
anxiety  and  remorse,  not  unmixed  with  hope. 
He  depended  upon  the  result  of  a  bold  specu- 


074 


liULW  EK'S      i\  OkKS 


lation  ill  the  purchase  of  shares  in  a  Canal 
Company,  a  bill  for  which  was  then  before 
Parliament,  with  (as  he  was  led  to  believe)  a 
certainty  of  success.  The  sums  he  had,  on 
his  own  responsibility,-  abstracted  from  the 
joint  account  were  devoted  to  this  adventure. 
But  to  do  him  justice,  he  never  dreamed  of 
appropriating  the  profits  anticipated,  to  him- 
self. Though  knowing  that  the  bills,  on  which 
the  monies  had  been  advanced,  were  merely 
nominal  deposits,  he  had  confidently  calculated 
on  the  certainty  of  success  for  the  specula- 
tions, to  which  the  proceeds  so  obtained  were 
devoted,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the  moment 
when  he  might  avow  what  he  had  done,'  and 
justify  it  by  doubling  the  capital  withdrawn. 
But  to  his  inconceivable  horror,  the  bill  of  the 
Canal  Company  was  rejected  in  the  Lords — 
the  shares  bought  at  a  premium  went  down  to 
zero;  and,  to  add  to  his  perplexity,  the  specu- 
lator abruptly  disappeared  from  the  town.  In 
this  crisis,  he  was  summoned  to  meet  his  in- 
dignant associates. 

The  evidence  against  him  was  morally 
damning,  if  not  legally  conclusive.  The  un- 
happy man  heard  all  in  the  silence  of  despair. 
Crushed  and  bewildered,  he  attempted  no  de- 
fence. He  asked  but  an  hour  to  sum  up  the 
losses  of  the  bank,  and  his  own;  they  amounted 
within  a  few  hundreds  to  the  ten  thousand 
pounds  he  had  brought  to  the  firm,  and  which, 
in  the  absence  of  marriage-settlements,  was 
entirely  at  his  own  disposal.  This  sum  he  at 
once  resigned  to  his  associates,  on  condition 
that  they  should  defray  from  it  his  personal 
liabilities.  The  money  thus  repaid,  his  part- 
ners naturally  relinquished  all  further  inquiry. 
They  were  moved  by  pity  for  one  so  gifted 
and  so  fallen — they  even  offered  him  a  subor- 
dinate, but  lucrative  situation,  in  the  firm  in 
which  he  had  been  partner:  but  Mainwaring 
wanted  the  patience  and  resolution  to  work 
back  the  redemption  of  his  name — perhaps, 
ultimately,  of  his  fortunes.  In  the  fatal  an- 
guish of  his  shame  and  despair,  he  fled  from 
the  town,  his  flight  confirmed  for  ever  the 
rumors  against  him — ^rumors  worse  than  the 
reality.  It  was  long  before  he  even  admitted 
Susan  to  the  knowledge  of  the  obscure  refuge 
he  had  sought;  there,  at  length,  she  joined 
him.  Meanwhile,  what  did  Lucretia? — she 
sold  nearly  half  of  her  own  fortune,  constituted 
l^rincipally  of  the  moiety  of  her  portion,  which. 


at  Dalibard's  death,  and  passed  to  herself  as 
survivor  and  partly  of  the  share  in  her  de- 
ceased husband's  effects,  which  the  French 
law  awarded  to  her;  and  with  the  proceeds  of 
this  sum  she  purchased  an  annuity  for  her 
victims  ? 

Was  this  strange  generosity  the  act  of 
mercy^ — the  result  of  repentance  ?  No;  it  was 
one  of  the  not  least  subtle  and  delicious  re- 
finements of  her  revenge.  To  know  him  who 
had  rejected  her — the  rival  who  had  supplanted 
— the  miserable  pensioners  of  her  bounty,  was 
dear  to  her  haughty  and  disdainful  hate.  The 
lust  of  power,  ever  stronger  in  her  than  ava- 
rice, more  than  reconciled  her  to  the  sacrifice 
of  gold; — yes,  here,  she,  the  despised,  the  de- 
graded— had  power  still; — her  wrath  had 
ruined  the  fortunes  of  her  victim,  blasted  the 
repute,  embittered  and  desolated  evermore  the 
future, — now  her  contemptuous  charity  fed  the 
wretched  lives  that  she  spared  in  scorn.  She 
no  small  difficulty,  it  is  true,  in  persuading 
Susan  to  accept  this  sacrifice,  and  she  did  so 
only  by  sustaining  her  sister's  belief,  that  the 
past  yet  could  be  retrieved — that  Mainwaring's 
energies  could  yet  rebuild  their  fortunes, — and 
that  as  the  annuity  was  at  any  time  redeem- 
able, the  aid  therefore  was  only  tempora-y. 
With  this  understanding,  Susan,  overwhelmed 
with  gratitude,  weeping,  and  broken-heartc' 
dtyjarted  to  join  the  choice  of  her  youth.  A 
the  men,  deputed  by  the  auctioneer  to  arrange 
the  ticket  the  furniture  for  sale,  entered  the 
desolate  house,  Lucretia  then,  with  the  step  of 
a  conquerer.  passed  from  the  threshold. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  murmured  as  she  paused,  ami 
gazed  on  the  walls — "  ah,  they  were  happy 
when  I  first  entered  those  doors  I — happy  in 
each  other's  tranquil  love — happier  still,  when 
they  deemed  I  had  forgiven  the  wrong,  and 
abjured  the  past  !  How  honored  was  then 
their  home  !  How  knew  I  then,  for  the  first 
time,  what  the  home  of  love  can  be  ?  And 
who  had  destroyed  for  me,  upon  all  the  earth, 
a  home  like  theirs  ? — they  on  whom  that  home 
smiled  with  its  serene  and  taunting  peace  ! — I 
— I,  the  guest  ! — I — I,  the  abandoned  ! — the 
betrayed — what  dark  memories  were  on  my 
soul  !— what  a  hell  boiled  within  my  bosom  '. 
—Well  might  those  memories  take  each  a 
voice  to  accuse  them  ! — well,  from  that  hell, 
might  rise  the  Alecto  !  Their  lives  were  in 
my  power  ! — my  fatal  dowry  at  my  command 


LUCRETIA. 


675 


— rapid  death,  or  slow  consuming  torture; — 
but  to  have  seen  each  cheer  the  other  to  the 
grave,  lighting  every  downward  step  with  the 
eyes  of  love — vengeance,  so  urged,  would  have 
fallen  only  on  myself  !  Ha  !  deceiver,  didst 
thou  plume  thyself,  forsooth,  on  spotless  repu- 
tation ! — didst  thou  stand,  me  by  thy  side, 
amongst  thy  perjured  household  gods,  and 
talk  of  honor?  Thy  home — it  is  reft  from 
thee  ! — thy  reputation,  it  is  a  scoff — thine 
honor,  it  is  a  ghost  that  shall  haunt  thee  ! 
Thy  love,  can  it  linger  yet? — Shall  the  soft 
eyes  of  thy  wife  not  burn  into  thy  heart,  and 
shame  turn  love  into  loathing  ?  Wrecks  of 
my  vengeance — minions  of  my  bounty— I  did 
well  to  let  ye  live  !  I  shake  the  dust  from 
my  feet  on  your  threshold; — live  on — home- 
less, hopeless,  and  childless  !  The  curse  is 
fulfilled  !  " 

From  that  hour,  Lucretia  never  paused  from 
her  career  to  inquire  further  of  her  victim; — 
she  never  entered  into  communication  with 
either.  They  knew  not  her  address,  nor  her 
fate,  nor  she  theirs.  As  she  had  reckoned, 
Mainwaring  made  no  effort  to  recover  himself 
from  his  fall.  All  the  high  objects  that  had 
lured  his  ambition,- were  gone  from  him  ever- 
more. No  place  in  the  state,  no  authority  in 
the  senate,  awaits  in  England  the  man  with  a 
blighted  name.  For  the  lesser  objects  of  life, 
he  had  no  heart,  and  no  care.  They  lived  in 
obscurity  in  a  small  village  in  Cornwall,  till 
the  Peace  allowed  them  to  remove  to  France. 
The  rest  of  their  fate  is  known. 

Meanwhile,  Lucretia  removed  to  one  of 
those  smaller  Londons — resorts  of  pleasure 
and  idleness,  with  which  rich  England  abounds, 
and  in  which  widows  of  limited  income  can 
make  poverty  seem  less  plebeian.  .4nd  now, 
to  all  those  passions  that  had  hitherto  raged 
within  her,  a  dismal  apathy  succeeded.  It  was 
the  great  calm  in  her  sea  of  life.  The  winds 
fell,  and  the  sails  drooped.  Her  vengeance 
satisfied,  that,  which  she  had  made  so  preter- 
naturally  the  main  object  of  existence,  once 
fulfilled,  left  her  in  youth  objectless. 

She  strove  at  first  to  take  pleasure  in  the 
society  of  the  place,  but  its  frivolities  and 
pettiness  of  purpose  soon  wearied  that  mascu- 
line and  grasping  mind,  already  made  insen- 
sible to  the  often  healthful,  often  innocent,  ex- 
citement of  trifles,  by  the  terrible  ordeal  it  had 
passed.     Can  the  touch  of  the  hand,  scorched 


by  the  burning  iron,  feel  pleasure  in  the  soft- 
ness of  silk,  or  the  light  down  of  the  cygnet's 
plume?  She  next  sought  such  relief  as  study 
could  afford;  and  her  natural  bent  of  thought, 
and  her  desire  to  vindicate  her  deeds  to  her- 
self, plunged  her  into  the  fathomless  abyss  of 
metaphysical  inquiry,  with  the  hope  to  confirm 
into  positive  assurance  her  earlier  scepticism— 
with  the  atheist's  hope  to  annihilate  the  soul, 
and  banish  the  presiding  tlod.  But  no  voice 
that  could  satisfy  her  reason  came  from  those 
dreary  deeps:  contradiction  on  contradiction 
met  her  in  the  maze.  Only  when,  wearied 
with  book-lore,  she  turned  her  eyes  to  the 
visible  nature,  and  beheld  evervvhere  harmony, 
order,  system,  contrivance,  art,  did  she  start 
with  the  amaze  and  awe  of  instinctive  convic- 
tion; and  the  natural  religion  revolted  from 
her  cheerless  ethics  !  Then,  came  one  of 
those  sudden  reactions  common  with  strong 
passions  and  exploring  minds — but  more  com- 
mon with  women,  however  manlike,  than  with 
men.  Had  she  lived  in  Italy  then,  she  had 
become  a  nun  !  For  in  this  woman,  unlike 
Varney  and  Dalibard,  the  conscience  could 
never  be  utterly  silenced.  In  her  choice  of 
evil,  she  found  only  torture  to  her  spirit  in  all 
the  respites  afforded  to  the  occupations  it  in- 
dulged. When  employed  upon  ill,  remorse 
gave  way  to  the  zest  of  scheming;  when  the 
ill  was  done,  remorse  came  with  the  repose. 

It  was  in  this  peculiar  period  of  her  life  that 
Lucretia,  turning  everywhere,  and  desperately, 
for  escape  from  the  past,  became  acquainted 
with  some  members  of  one  of  the  most  rigid 
of  the  sects  of  dissent.  At  first,  she  permitted 
herself  to  know  and  commune  with  these  per- 
sons from  a  kind  of  contemptuous  curiosity; 
she  desired  to  encourage,  in  contemplating 
them,  her  experience  of  the  follies  of  human 
nature;  but  in  that  crisis  of  her  mind,  in  those 
struggles  of  her  reason,  whatever  showed  that 
which  she  yearned  most  to  discover — viz., 
earnest  faith,  rooted  and  genuine  conviction, 
whether  of  annihilation  or  of  immortality— a 
philosophy  tha;t  might  reconcile  her  to  crime 
by  destroying  the  providence  of  good,  or  a 
creed  that  could  hold  out  the  hope  of  redeem- 
ing the  past,  and  exorcising  sin  by  the  mys- 
tery of  a  Divine  sacrifice, — had  over  her  a 
power  which  she  had  not  imagined  or  divined. 
Gradually  the  intense  convictions  of  her  new 
associates  disturbed  and  infected  her.     Their 


076 


BUL  WER'  S     WORKS. 


affirmation,  that  as  we  are  born  in  wrath,  so 
sin  is  our  second  nature,  our  mysterious  heri- 
tage, seemed,  to  her  understanding,  willing  to 
be  blinded,  to  imply  excuses  for  her  past  mis- 
deeds. Their  assurances  that  the  worst  sinner 
may  become  the  most  earnest  saint — that 
through  but  one  act  of  the  will,  resolute  faith, 
all  redemption  is  to  be  found, — these  affirma- 
tions and  these  assurances,  which  have  so 
often  restored  the  guilty,  and  remodelled  the 
human  heart,  made  a  salutary,  if  brief,  im- 
pression upon  her.  Nor  were  the  lives  of  these 
dissenters),  for  the  most  part,  austerely 
moral),  nor  the  peace  and  self-complacency 
which  they  evidently  found  in  the  satisfaction  of 
conscience  and  fulfilment  of  duty,  without  an 
influence  over  her,  that,  for  awhile,  both  chast- 
ened and  soothed. 

Hopeful  of  such  a  convert,  the  good  teach- 
ers strove  hard  to  confirm  the  seeds,  springing 
up  from -the  granite  and  amidst  the  weeds; 
and  amongst  them  came  one  man  more  elo- 
quent, more  seductive  than  the  rest,  Alfred 
Braddell.  This  person,  a  trader  at  Liverpool, 
was  one  of  those  strange  living  paradoxes  that 
can  rarely  be  found  out  of  a  commercial  com- 
munity. He  himself  had  been  a  convert  to 
the  sect,  and  like  most  converts,  he  pushed 
his  enthusiasm  into  the  bigotry  of  the  zealot. 
He  saw  no  salvation  out  of  the  pale  into  which 
he  had  entered;  but  though  his  belief  was 
sincere,  it  did  not  genially  operate  on  his 
practical  life;  with  the  most  scrupulous  atten- 
tion to  forms,  he  had  the  worldliness  and  cun- 
ning of  the  carnal.  He  had  abjured  the  vices 
of  the  softer  senses,  but  not  that  which  so 
seldom  wars  on  the  decorums  of  outer  life. 
He  was  essentially  a  money-maker — close, 
acute,  keen,  over-reaching.  Good  works  with 
him  were  indeed  as  nothing — faith,  the  all  in 
all:  He  was  one  of  the  elect,  and  could  not 
fall.  Still  in  this  man  there  was  all  the  in- 
tensity which  often  characterizes  a  mind  in 
proportion  to  the  narrowness  of  its  compass- 
that  intensity  gave  fire  to  his  gloomy  elo- 
quence, and  strength  to  his  obstinate  will. 
He  saw  Lucretia,  and  his  zeal  for  her  conver- 
sion soon  expanded  into  love  for  her  person, 
yet  that  love  was  secondary  to  his  covetous- 
ness.  Though  ostensibly  in  a  flourishing  busi- 
ness, he  was  greatly  distressed  for  money  to 
carry  on  operations  which  swelled  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  capital;  his  fingers  itched   for  the 


sum  which  Lucretia  had  still  at  hei  ui:<p')sal. 
But  the  seeming  sincerity  of  the  man,  the 
persuasion  of  his  goodness,  his  reputation  for 
sanctity,  deceived  her;  she  believed  herself 
honestly  and  ardently  beloved,  and  by  one 
who  could  guide  her  back,  if  not  to  happiness, 
at  least  to  repose.  She  herself  loved  him  u"' 
she  could  love  no  more.  But  it  seemed 
her  a  luxury  to  find  some  one  she  could  trust, 
she  could  honor.  If  you  had  probed  into  the 
recesses  of  her  mind  at  that  time,  you  would 
have  found  that  no  religious  belief  was  there 
settled — -only  the  desperate  wish  to  believe — 
only  the  disturbance  of  all  previous  infidelity 
— only  a  restless  gnawing  desire  to  escape 
from  memory,  to  emerge  from  the  gulf.  In 
this  troubled,  impatient,  disorder  of  mind  and 
feeling,  she  hurried  into  a  second  marriage  as 
fatal  as  the  first. 

For  awhile  she  bore  patiently  all  the  priva- 
tions of  that  ascetic  household;  assisted  in  r.ll 
those  external  formalities,  centered  all  her  in- 
tellect within  that  iron  range  of  existence. 
But  no  grace  descended  on  her  soul— no  warm 
ray  unlocked  the  ice  of  the  well.  Then, 
gradually  becoming  aware  of  the  niggardly 
meannesses,  of  the  harsh,-  uncharitable  judg- 
ments, of  the  decorous  frauds,  that,  with  un- 
conscious hypocrisy,  her  husband  concealed 
beneath  the  robes  of  sanctity,  a  weary  disgust 
stole  over  her;  it  stole,  it  deepened,  it  increased : 
— it  became  intolerable,  when  she  discovered 
that  Braddell  had  knowingly  deceived  her  as 
to  his  worldly  ssbstance.  In  that  mood  into 
which  she  had  rushed  into  these  ominous  nup- 
tials, she  had  had  no  thought  for  vulgar  ad- 
vantages; had  Braddell  been  a  beggar,  she  had 
married  him  as  rashly.  But  he,  with  the  m- 
ability  to  comprehend  a  nature  like  hers — dim 
not  more  to  her  terrible  vices  than  to  the  sin- 
ister grandeur  which  made  their  ordinary 
atmosphere — had  descended  cunningly  to  ad- 
dress the  avarice  he  thought  as  potent  in  others 
as  himself,  to  enlarge  on  the  worldly  prosper- 
ity with  which  Providence  had  blessed  him; 
and  now  she  saw  that  her  dowry  alone  had 
saved  the  crippled  trader  from  the  bankrupt 
list.  With  this  revolting  discovery,  with  the 
scorn  it  produced,  vanished  all  Lucretia's 
unstable  visions  of  reform.  She  saw  this  man 
a  saint  amongst  his  tribe,  and  would  not  be- 
lieve in  the  virtues  of  his  brethren,  great  and 
unquestionable  as  they  might  have  been  proved 


LUCRETJA. 


^Vi 


to  a  more  dispassionate  and  humble  inquirer. 
The  imposture  she  detected,  she  deemed  uni- 
versal in  the  circle  in  which  she  dwelt;  and 
Satan  once  more  smiled  upon  the  subject  he 
regained. 

Lucretia  became  a  mother — but  their  child 
formed  no  endearing  tie  between  the  ill-as- 
sorted pair;  it  rather  embittered  their  discord. 
Dimly,  even  then,  as  she  bent  over  the  cradle, 
that  vision  which  now,  in  the  old  house  at 
Brompton,  haunted  her  dreams,  and  beckoned 
her  over  seas  of  blood  into  the  fancied  future — 
was  foreshadowed  in  the  face  of  her  infant  son. 
To  be  born  again  in  that  birth — to  live  only 
in  that  life — to  aspire  as  man  may  aspire,  in 
that  future  man  whom  she  would  train  to 
knowledge  and  lead  to  power, — these  were  the 
feelings  with  which  that  sombre  mother  gazed 
upon  her  babe.  The  idea  that  the  low-born, 
grovelling  father  had  the  sole  right  over  that 
son's  destiny,  had  the  authority  to  cabin  his 
mind  in  the  walls  of  form,  bind  him  down  to 
the  sordid  apprenticeship,  debased,  not  dig- 
nified, by  the  solemn  mien,  roused  her  indig- 
nant wrath, — she  sickened  when  Braddell 
touched  her  child.  All  her  pride  of  intellect, 
that  had  never  slept — all  her  pride  of  birth, 
long  dormant,  woke  up  to  protect  the  heir  of 
her  ambition,  the  descendent  of  her  race,  from 
the  defilement  of  the  father's  nurture.  Not 
long  after  her  confinement,  she  formed  a  plan 
for  escape — she  disappeared  from  the  house 
with  her  child.  Taking  refuge  in  a  cottage, 
living  on  the  sale  of  the  few  jewels  she  pos- 
sessed, she  was  for  some  weeks  almost  happy. 
But  Braddell,  less  grieved  by  the  loss  than 
shocked  by  the  scandal,  was  indefatigable  in 
his  researches — he  discovered  her  retreat. 

The  scene  between  them  was  terrible.  There 
was  no  resisting  the  power  which  all  civilized 
laws  give  to  the  rights  of  husband  and  father. 
Before  this  man,  whom  she  scorned  so  un- 
utterably, Lucretia  was  impotent.  Then,  all 
the  boiling  passions  long  suppressed  beneath 
that  command  of  temper,  which  she  owed  both 
to  habitual  simulation  and  intense  disdain, 
rushed  forth.  Then,  she  appalled  the  impostor 
with  her  indignant  denunciations  of  his  hypoc- 
risy, his  meanness,  and  his  guile.  Then, 
throwing  off  the  mask  she  had  worn,  she 
hurled  her  anathema  on  his  sect,  on  his  faith, 
with  the  same  breath  that  smote  his  con- 
science and  left  it  wordless.     She  shocked  all 


the  notions  he  sincerely  entertained,  and 
he  stood  awed  by  accusations  from  a  blas- 
phemer whom  he  dared  not  rebuke.  His  rage 
broke  at  length  from  his  awe.  Stung,  mad- 
dened by  the  scorn  of  himself,  his  blood  fired 
into  juster  indignation  by  her  scoff  at  his 
creed,  he  lost  all  self-possession,  and  struck 
her  to  the  ground.  In  the  midst  of  shame  and 
dread  at  disclosure  of  his  violence,  which  suc- 
ceeded the  act  so  provoked,  he  was  not  less 
relieved  than  amazed  when  Lucretia,  rising 
slowly,  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm,  and 
said,  "  Repent  not,  it  is  past;  fear  not,  I  will 
be  silent  !  Come,  you  are  the  stronger — 
you  prevail.  I  will  follow  my  child  to  your 
home." 

In  this  unexpected  submission  in  one  so  im- 
perious, Braddell's  imper.*'ect  comprehension 
of  character  saw  but  fear,  and  his  stupidity 
exulted  in  his  triumph.  Lucretia  returned 
with  him.  A  few  days  afterwards,  Braddell 
became  ill;  the  illness  increased, — slow,  grad- 
ual, wearing.  It  broke  his  spirit  with  his 
health;  and  then  the  steadfast  imperiousness 
of  Lucretia's  stern  will  ruled  and  subjugated 
him.  He  cowered  beneath  her  haughty, 
searching  gaze,  he  shivered  at  her  sidelong, 
malignant  glance;  but  with  this  fear  came 
necessarily  hate;  and  this  hate,  somethimes 
sufficing  to  vanquish  the  fear,  spitefully 
evinced  itself  in  thwarting  her  legitimate  con- 
trol over  her  infant.  He  would  have  it  (though 
he  had  little  real  love  for  children)  constantly 
with  him,  and  affected  to  contradict  all  her 
own  orders  to  the  servants,  in  the  sphere  in 
which  mothers  arrogate  most  the  right.  Only 
on  these  occasions  sometimes  would  Lucretia 
lose  her  grim  self-control,  and  threaten  that 
her  child  yet  should  be  emancipated  from  his 
hands, — should  yet  be  taught  the  scorn  for 
hypocrites,  which  he  had  taught  herself. 
These  words  sank  deep  not  only  in  the  re- 
sentment, but  in  the  conscience  of  the  hus- 
band. Meanwhile,  Lucretia  scrupled  not  to 
evince  her  disdain  of  Braddell,  by  markedly 
abstaining  from  all  the  ceremonies  she  had 
before  so  rigidly  observed.  The  sect  grew 
scandalized.  Braddell  did  not  abstain  from 
making  kno^vn  his  causes  of  complaint.  The 
haughty,  imperious  woman  was  condemned  in 
the  community,  and  hated  in  the  household. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Walter  Ardworth. 
who  was  then  striving  to  eke  out  his  means  by 


OjH 


BULii  KR  S     W  UKkS. 


political  lectures  (which  at  the  earlier  part  of 
the  century  found  ready  audience)  in  our 
greats  towns,  came  to  Liverpool.  Braddell 
and  Ardworth  had  been  schoolfellows,  and 
even  at  school,  embryo  politicians  of  con- 
genial notions;  and  the  conversion  of  the  for- 
mer to  one  of  the  sects  which  had  grown  out 
of  the  old  creeds,  that,  under  Cromwell,  had 
broken  the  sceptre  of  the  son  of  Belial,  and 
established  the  Commonwealth  of  Saints,  had 
only  strengthened  the  republican  tenets  of  the 
sour  fanatic,  Ardworth  called  on  Braddell, 
and  was  startled  to  find  in  his  schoolfellow's 
wife,  the  niece  of  his  benefactor.  Sir  Miles  St. 
John.  Now,  Lucretia  had  never  divulged  her 
true  parentage  lo  her  husband.  In  an  union 
so  much  beneath  her  birth,  she  had  desired  to 
conceal  trom  all  her  connections — the  fall 
of  the  once-honored  heiress.  She  had  de- 
scended, in  search  of  peace,  to  obscurity;  but 
her  pride  revolted  from  the  thought,  that  her 
low-born  husband  might  boast  of  her  connec- 
tions, and  parade  her  descent  to  his  level. 
Fortunately,  as  she  thought,  she  received 
.Vrdworth  before  he  was  admitted  to  her  hus- 
band, who  now,  growing  feebler  and  feebler, 
usually  kept  his  room.  She  stooped  to  beseech 
.\rd worth  not  to  reveal  her  secret,  and  he, 
comprehending  her  pride,  as  a  man  well-born 
himself,  and  pitying  her  pain,  readily  gave  his 
promise. 

At  the  first  interview,  Braddell  evinced  no 
pleasure  in  the  sight  of  his  old  schoolfellow. 
It  was  natural  enough  that  one  so  precise 
should  be  somewhat  revolted  by  one  so  care- 
less of  all  form.  But  when  Lucretia  impru- 
dently evinced  satisfaction  at  his  surly  remarks 
on  his  visitor — when  he  perceived  that  it  would 
please  her  that  he  should  not  cultivate  the 
acquaintance  offered  him,  he  was  moved  by 
the  spirit  of  contradiction,  and  the  spiteful 
delight  even  in  frivolous  annoyance  to  con- 
ciliate and  court  the  intimacy  he  had  at  first 
ilisdained;  and  then,  by  degrees,  sympathy  in 
political  matters  and  old  recollections  of 
sportive,  careless  boyhood,  cemented  the  in- 
timacy into  a  more  familiar  bond  than  the 
sectarian  had  contracted  really  with  any  of  his 
late  associates. 

Lucretia  regarded  this  growing  friendship 
with  great  uneasiness — the  uneasiness  in- 
creased to  alarm,  when  one  day,  in  the  pres- 
ence of   Ardworth,    Braddell,  writhing  with  a 


sudden  spasm,  said — "  I  cannot  account  foi 
these  strange  seizures — I  think  verily  I  am 
poisoned!" — and  his  dull  eye  rested  on  Lu- 
cretia's  pallid  brow.  She  was  unusually 
thoughtful  for  some  days  after  this  remark, 
and  one  morning  she  informed  her  husband 
that  she  had  received  the  intelligence  that  a  re- 
lation, from  whom  she  had  pecuniary  expecta- 
tions, was  dangerously  ill,  and  requested  his 
permission  to  visit  this  sick  kinsman,  who 
dwelt  in  a  distant  county.  Braddell's  eyes 
brightened  at  the  thought  of  her  absence; 
with  little  further  questioning  he  consented; 
and  Lucretia,  sure  perhaps  that  the  barb  was 
in  the  side  of  her  victim,  and  reckoning,  it 
may  be,  on  greater  freedom  from  suspicion 
if  her  husband  died  in  her  absence,  left  the 
house.  It  was,  indeed,  to  the  neighborhood 
of  her  kindred  that  she  went.  In  a  private 
conversation  with  Ardworth,  when  questioning 
him  of  his  news  of  the  present  possessor  of 
Laughton,  he  had  mformed  her,  that  he  had 
heard  accidentally  that  Vernon's  two  sons 
(Percival  was  not  then  born)  was  sickly;  and 
she  went  into  Hampshire,  secretly  and  un- 
known, to  see  what  were  really  the  chances 
that  her  son  might  yet  become  the  lord  of  her 
lost  inheritance. 

During  this  absence,  Braddell,  now  gloomily 
aware  that  his  days  were  numbered,  resolved 
to  put  into  practice  the  idea  long  contemplated, 
and  even  less  favored  by  his  spite  than  justi- 
fied by  the  genuine  convictions  of  his  con- 
science. vVhatever  his  faults,  sincere  at  least 
in  his  religious  belief,  he  might  well  look  with 
dread  to  the  prospect  of  the  training  and  edu- 
cation his  son  would  receive  from  the  hands 
of  a  mother  who  had  blasphemed  his  sect,  and 
openly  proclaimed  her  infidelity.  By  will,  it 
is  true,  he  might  create  a  trust,  and  appoint 
guardians  to  his  child.  But  to  have  lived 
under  the  same  roof  with  his  wife — nay  to 
have  carried  her  back  to  that  roof  when  she 
had  left  it,  afforded  tacit  evidence  that  what- 
ever the  disagreement  between  them,  her  con^ 
duct  could  hardly  have  merited  her  exclusion 
from  the  privileges  of  a  mother.  The  guar- 
dianship might  therefore  avail  little  to  frustrate 
Lucretia's  indirect  contamination,  if  not  her 
positive  control.  Beside,  where  guardians  are 
appointed  money  must  be  left;  and  Braddell 
knew  that  at  his  death  his  assets  would  be  found 
insufficient  for  his  debts.     Who  would  be  guar- 


LUCRETIA. 


679 


dian  to  a  penniless  infant?  He  resolved,  |  idly  speaking,  he  thns  defrauded;  but  direct 
therefore,  to  send  his  child  from  his  roof,  to  !  dishonesty  was  as  wholly  out  of  the  chapter  of 
some  place  where,  if  reared  humbly,  it  might  I  his  vices,  as  if  he  had  been  a  man  of  the  strict- 


at  least  be  brought  up  in  the  right  faith — some 
place  which  might  defy  the  search  and  be  be- 
yond the  perversion  of  the  unbelieving  mother. 
He  looked  round,  and  discovered  no  instru- 
ment for  his  purpose  that  seemed  so  ready  as 
Walter  Ardworth.  For  by  this  time  he  had 
thoroughly  excited  the  pity  and  touched  the 
heart  of  that  good-natured,  easy  man. 

His  representations    of  the  misconduct  of 
I.ucretia  were  the  more  implicitly  believed  by 
one  who  had  always  been  secretly  prepossessed 
against  her — who,  admitted  to  household  in- 
timacy, was  an  eye-witness  to  her  hard  indiffer- 
ence to  her  husband's  sufferings — who  saw  in 
her  very  request  not  to  betray  her  gentle  birth, 
the    shame   she  felt  in  her  election — who  re- 
garded with  indignation  her  unfeeling  desertion 
of  Braddell  in  his  last  moments,  and  who,  be- 
sides all  this,  had  some  private    misfortunes 
of  his  own.  which  made   him   the  more  ready 
listener  to  themes  on  the  faults  of  women,  and 
had  already,  by  mutual  confidences,  opened  the 
hearts  of  the  two  ancient  school-fellows  to  each 
other's    complaints   and   wrongs.       The    only 
other  confidante  in  the  refuge  selected  for  the 
child,  was  a  member  of  the  same  community 
as  Braddell,  who  kindly  undertook  to  search 
for   a   pious,  godly   woman,   who,   upon  such 
pecuniary  considerations  as  Braddell,  by  rob- 
bing  his    creditors,    could    afford    to   bestow, 
would  permanently  offer  to  the   poor  infant  a 
mother's   home  and   a  mother's  care.     When 
this  woman  was   found,  Braddell  confided  his 
child  to  Ardworth,  with  such  a  sum  as  he  could 
scrape   together   for   its   future  maintenance. 
And   to  Ardworth,  rather  than   to   his  fellow- 
sectarian,  this  double  trust  was  given,  because 
the  latter  feared   scandal  and   misrepresenta- 
tion, if  he  should  be  ostensibly  mixed  up  in  so 
equivocal  a  charge.     Poor  and  embarrassed  as 
Walter   Ardworth   was,  Braddell    did  not  for 
once  misinterpret  character   when    he  placed 
the  money  in  his  hands,  and   this  because  the 
characters  we  have  known  in  transparent  boy- 
hood we  have  known  for  ever.     Ardworth  was 
reckless,  and  his  whole  life  had  been  wrecked 
— his  whole   nature  materially    degraded — by 
the  want  of  common  thrift  and  prudence.    His 
own  money   slipped   through  his  fingers,  and 
left  him  surrounded  by  creditors,  whom,  rig- 


est  principles  and  the  steadiest  honor. 

The  child'was  gone — the  father  died — Lu- 
cretia  returned,  as  we  have  seen  in  Grabman's 
letter,  to  the  house  of  death,  to  meet  suspicion 
and  cold  looks,  and  menial  accusations,  and 
an  inquest  on  the  dead:  but  through  all  this 
the  reft  tigress  mourned  her  stolen  whelp.  As 
soon  as  all  evidence  against  her  was  proved 
legally  groundless,  and  she  had  leave  to  de- 
part, she  searched  blindly  and  franctically  for 
her  lost  child;  but  in  vain.  The  utter  and 
penniless  destitution  in  which  she' was  left  by 
her  husband's  decease,  did  not  suffice  to  ter- 
minate her  maddening  chase.  On  foot  she 
wandered  from  village  to  village,  and  begged 
her  way,  wherever  a  false  clue  misled  her 
steps. 

At  last,  in  reluctant  despair,  she  resigned 
the  pursuit,  and  found  herself  one  day  in  the 
midst  of  the  streets  of  London,  half-famished 
and  in  rags;  and  before  her  suddenly,  now 
grown  into  vigorous  youth — blooming,  sleek, 
and  seemingly  prosperous^stood  Gabriel  Var- 
ney.  By  her  voice,  as  she  approached  and 
spoke,  he  recognized  his  step-mother;  and, 
after  a  short  pause  of  hesitation,  he  led  her  to 
his  home.  It  is  not  our  purpose  (for  it  is  not 
necessary  to  those  passages  of  their  lives  from 
which  we  have  selected  the  thread  of  our  tale) 
to  follow  these  two,  thus  united,  through  their 
general  career  of  spoliation  and  crime.  Birds 
of  prey,  they  searched  in  human  follies  and 
human  errors  for  their  food:  sometimes 
severed,  sometimes  together,  their  interests 
remained  one.  Varney  profited  by  the 
mightier  and  subtler  genius  of  evil  to  which 
he  had  leashed  himself;  for,  caring  little  for 
lu.xuries,  and  dead  to  the  softer  senses,  she 
abandoned  to  him  readily  the  larger  share  of 
their  plunder.  Under  a  variety  of  names  and 
disguises,  through  a  succession  of  frauds,  . 
some  vast  and  some  mean,  but  chiefly  on  the 
Continent,  they  had  pursued  their  course,  elud- 
ing all  danger,  and  baffling  all  law. 

Between  three  and  four  years  before  this 
period,  Varney's  uncle  the  painter,  by  one  of 
those  unexpected  caprices  of  fortune  which 
sometimes  find  heirs  to  a  millionaire  at  the 
weaver's  loom  or  the  laborers  plough,  had  sud- 
denly, by  the  death  of  a  very  distant  kinsman, 


(i8o 


BUf.WF.R'S     UOKKS. 


whom  he  had  never  seen,  come  into  possession 
of  a  small  estate,  which  he  sold  for  6000/. 
Retiring  from  his  profession,  he  lived,  as  com- 
fortably as  his  shattered  constitution  per- 
mitted, upon  the  interest  of  this  »um;  and  he 
wrote  to  his  nephew,  then  at  Paris,  to  corn- 
municate  the  good  news,  and  offer  the  hospi- 
tality of  his  hearth.  Varney  hastened  to 
London.  Shortly  afterwards  a  nurse,  recom- 
mended as  an  experienced,  useful  person  in 
her  profession,  by  Nicholas  Grabman,  who,  in 
many  a  tortuous  scheme,  had  been  Gabriel's 
confederate,  was  installed  in  the  poor  painter's 
house.  From  that  time  his  infirmities  in- 
creased. He  died,  as  his  doctor  said,  "  by 
abstaining  from  the  stimulants  to  which  his 
constitution  had  been  so  long  accustomed;" 
and  Gabriel  Varney  was  summoned  to  the 
reading  of  the  will.  To  his  inconceivable  dis- 
appointment, instead  of  bequeathing  to  his 
nephew  the  free  disposal  of  his  6000/.,  that 
sum  was  assigned  to  trustees  for  the  benefit  of 
Gabriel  Varney  and  his  children  yet  unborn: 
"  An  inducement,"  said  the  poor  testator, 
tenderly,  "  for  the  boy  to  marry  and  reform  !  " 
So  that  the  nephew  could  only  enjoy  the  in- 
terest, and  had  no  control  over  the  capital. 
The  interest  of  6000/.  invested  in  the  Bank  of 
England,  was  floccl,  nauci  to  the  vuluptuous 
spendthrift,  Gabriel  Varney  ! 

Now,  these  trustees  were  selected  from  the 
painter's  earlier  and  more  respectable  associ- 
ates, who  had  dropped  him,  it  is  true,  in  his 
days  of  beggary  and  disrepute,  but  whom\  the 
fortune  that  made  him  respectable  bad  again 
conciliated.  One  of  these  trustees  had  lately 
retired  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  days 
at  Boulogne; — the  other  was  a  hypochondri- 
acal valetudinarian.  Neither  of  them,  in 
short,  a  man  of  business.  Gabriel  was  left  to 
draw  out  the  interest  of  the  money,  as  it  be- 
came periodically  due,  at  the  Bank  of  England. 
In  a  few  months,  the  trustee  settled  at  Bou- 
logne died — the  trust,  of  course  lapsed  to  Mr. 
Stubmore,  the  valetudinarian  survivor.  Soon 
pinched  by  extravagance,  and  emboldened  by 
the  character  and  helpless  state  of  the  sur- 
viving trustee,  Varney  forged  Mr.  Stubmore's 
signature  to  an  order  on  the  Bank,  to  sell  out 
such  portion  of  the  capital  as  his  wants  re- 
quired. The  impunity  of  one  offence,  begot 
courage  for  others,  till  the  whole  was  well 
nigh  expended.      Upon  these  sums,    Varney 


I  had  lived  very  pleasantly,  and  he  saw  with  a 
deep  sigh  the  approaching  failure  of  so  facile 
a  resource. 

I      In  one   of  the    melancholy    moods    engen- 
I  dered  by  this  reflection,  Varney  happened  to 
I  be  in  the  very   town  in  France  in  which   the 
!  Mamwarings,  in  their   later  years,  had  taken 
I  refuge,  and  from   which   Helen  had  been  re- 
I  moved  to  the  roof  of  Mr.  Fielden.     By   acci- 
\  dent   he    heard  the   name,  and,  his  curiosity 
leading  to  further  inquiries,  learned  that  Helen 
was  made  an  heiress  by  the  will  of  her  grand- 
father.    With  this  knowledge  came  a  thought 
of  the  most  treacherous,  the  most  miscreant 
and  the  vilest  crime,  that  even  he  yet  hati  per- 
pertrated;  so  black    was  it,  that  for  awhile,  he 
absolutely  struggled  against  it.     But   in  guilt 
there  seems  ever  a  Necessity,  that   urges  on 
step  after  step — to    the  last    consummation. 
Varney  received  a  letter  to  inform  him  that  the 
last  surviving   trustee  was  no   more,  that  'the 
trust  was,  therefore,  now  centered  in  his  son 
and  heir,  that  that  gentleman  was  at  present 
very  busy  in  settling  his  own  affairs,  and  ex- 
amining into  a  very   mismanaged  property  in 
Devonshire,  which  had   devolved    upon  him; 
but  that  he  hoped  in  a  few  months  to  discharge 
more  efificiently,  than  his  father  had  done,  the 
duties  of  trustee,  and    that  some  more  profit- 
able  investment  than   the    Bank    of  England 
would  probably  occur. 

This  new  trustee  was  known  personally  to 
Varney — a  contemporary  of  his  own,  and,  i.-i 
earlier  youth,  a  pupil  to  his  uncle.  But,  since 
then,  he  had  made  way  in  life,  and  retired 
from  the  Profession  of  Art.  This  young  Stub- 
more,  he  knew  to  be  a  bustling,  officious,  man 
of  business — somewhat  greedy  and  covetous, 
but  withal  somewhat  weak  of  purpose,  good- 
natured  in  the  main,  and  with  a  little  lukewarm 
kindness  for  Gabriel,  as  a  quondam  fellow- 
pupil.  That  Stubmore  would  discover  the 
fraud  was  evident — that  he  would  declare  it, 
for  his  own  sake,  was  evident  also — that  the 
Bank  would  prosecute — that  Varney  would  be, 
convicted,  was  no  less  surely  to  be  appre- 
hended. There  was  only  one  chance  left  to 
the  forger — if  he  could  get  into  his  hands,  and 
m  time,  before  Stubmore's  bustling  interfer- 
ence, a  sum  sufficient  to  replace  what  had 
been  fraudently  taken — he  might  easily  man- 
age, he  thought,  to  prevent  the  forgery  ever 
becoming  known.     Nay,  if  Stubmore,  roused 


LUCREl'IA. 


681 


iiitu  strict  personal  investigation,  by  the  new 
Power  of  Attorney,  which  a  new  investment  in 
the  Bank  would  render  necessary,  should  as- 
certain what  hatl  occurred,  his  liabilities  being 
now  indemnified,  and  the  money,  replaced, 
Varney  thought  he  could  confidently  rely  on 
his  ci-devant  fellow-pupil's  assent  to  wink  at 
the  forgery,  and  hush  up  the  matter.  But  this 
was  his  only  chance.  How  was  the  money  to 
be  gained  ?  He  thought  of  Helen's  fortune, 
and  the  last  scruple  gave  way  to  the  imminence 
of  his  peril,  and  the  urgency  of  his  fears. 

With  this  decision,  he  repaired  to  Lucretia, 
whose  concurrence  was  necessary  to  his  de- 
signs. Long  habits  of  crime  had  now  deep- 
ened still  more  the  dark  and  stern  color  of 
that  dread  woman's  sobre  nature.  But  through 
all  that  had  ground  the  humanity  from  her 
soul,  one  human  sentiment,  fearfully  tainted 
and  adulterated  as  it  was,  still  struggled  for  life 
— the  memory  of  the  mother.  It  was  by 
this,  her  least  criminal  emotion,  that  Varney 
led  her  to  the  worst  of  her  crimes.  He  offered 
to  sell  out  the  remainder  of  the  trust-money  by 
a  fresh  act  of  forgery — to  devote  such  pro- 
ceeds to  the  search  for  her  lost  Vincent;  he  re- 
vived the  hopes  she  had  long  since  gloomily 
relinquished,  till  she  began  to  conceive  the 
discovery  easy  and  certain.  He  then  brought 
before  her  the  prospect  of  that  son's  succession 
to  Laughton — but  two  lives  now  between  him 
and  those  broad  lands — those  two  lives,  asso- 
ciated with  just  cause  of  revenge  ! — huo  lives  ! 
T^ucretia,  till  then,  did  not  know  that  Susan 
had  left  a  child — that  a  pledge  of  those  nup- 
tials, to  which  she  imputed  all  her  infamy,  ex- 
isted to  revive  a  jealousy  never  extinguished, 
appeal  to  the  hate  that  had  grown  out  of  her 
love.  More  readily  than  Varney  had  antici- 
pated, and  with  fierce  exultation,  she  fell  into 
his  horrible  schemes. 

Thus  had  she  returned  to  England,  and 
claimed  the  guardianship  of  her  niece.  Var- 
ney engaged  a  dull  house  in  the  suburb,  and 
looking  out  for  a  servant,  not  likely  to  suspfect 
and  betray,  found  the  nurse  who  had  watched 
over  his  uncle's  last  illness;  but  Lucretia  ac- 
cording to  her  invariable  practice,  rejected  all 
menial  accomplices — reposed  no  confidence  in 
the  tools  of  her  black  deeds.  Feigning  an 
infimity  that  would  mock  all  suspicion  of  the 
hand  that  mixed  the  draught,  and  the  step 
that  stole  to  the  slumber,  she  defied   the  jus- 


tice ofjearth,  and  stood  alone  under  the  omni- 
science of  heaven. 

Various  considerations  had  delayed  the  ex- 
ecution of  the  atrocious  deed  so  coldly  con- 
templated. Lucretia  herself  drew  back;  per- 
haps more  daunted  by  conscience  than  she 
herself  was  distinctly  aware, — and  disguising 
her  scruples  in  those  yet  fouler  refinements  of 
hoped  revenge  which  her  conversations  with 
Varney  have  betrayed  tq  the  reader.  The 
failure  of  the  earlier  researches  for  the  lost 
Vincent,  the  suspended  activity  of  Stubmore, 
left  the  more  impatient  murderer  leisure  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  St.  John,  steal  into 
the  confidence  of  Helen,  and  render  the  In- 
surances on  the  life  of  the  latter  less  open  to 
suspicion  than  if  effected  immediately  on  her 
entrance  into  that  shamble-house,  and  before 
she  could  be  supposed  to  form  that  affection 
for  her  aunt  which  made  probable  so  tender  a 
fore-thought.  These  causes  of  delay  now 
vanished,  the  Parcae  closed  the  abrupt  woof, 
and  lifted  the  impending  shears. 

Lucretia  had  long  since  dropped  the  name 
of  Braddell.  She  shrank  from  proclaiming 
those  second  spousals,  sullied  by  the  degrada- 
tion to  which  they  had  exposed  her,  and  the 
suspicions  implied  on  the  inquest  on  her  hus- 
band, until  the  hour  for  acknowledging  her  son 
should  arrive.  She  resumed,  therefore,  the 
name  of  Dalibard,  and  by  that  we  will  continue 
to  call  her.  Nor  was  Varney  uninfluential  in 
dissuading  her  from  proclaiming  her  second 
marriage  till  occasion  necessitated.  If  the 
son  were  discovered,  and  the  proofs  of  his 
birth  in  the  keeping  of  himself  and  his  accom- 
plice, his  avarice  naturally  suggested  the  ex- 
pediency of  wringing  from  that  son  some 
pledge  of  adequate  reward  on  succession  to  an 
inheritance  which  the}'  alone  could  secure  to 
him:  out  of  this  fancied  fund,  not  only  Grab- 
man,  but  his  employer,  was  to  be  paid.  The 
concealment  of  the  identity  between  Mrs. 
Braddell  and  Madame  Dalibard  might  facili- 
tate such  an  arrangement.  This  idea  Varney 
locked  as  yet  in  his  own  breast.  He  did  not 
dare  to  speak  to  Lucretia  of  the  bargain  he 
ultimately  meditated  with  her  son. 


682 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Mr.  Grabman's  Adventures 

The  lackeys  in  their  dress-liverics  stood  at 
the  porch  of  Laughton,  as  the  postilions 
drove  rapidly  along  the  road,  sweeping  through 
venerable  groves  tinged  with  the  hues  of  au- 
tumn, up  to  that  stately  pile.  From  the  win- 
dow of  the  large  cumbrous  vehicle,  which 
Percival,  mindful  of  Madame  Dalibard's  in- 
firmity, had  hired  for  her  special  accommoda- 
tion, Lucretia  looked  keenly  forth.  On  the 
slope  of  the  hill  grouped  the  deer,  and  below, 
where  the  lake  gleamed,  the  swan  rested  on 
the  wave.  Farther  on  to  the  left,  gaunt  and 
stag-headed,  rose,  living  still,  from  the  depth 
of  the  glen,  Guy's  memorable  oak.  Coming 
now  in  sight,  though  at  a  distance,  the  gray 
church  tower  emerged  from  the  surrounding 
masses  of  solemn  foliage.  Suddenly,  the 
road  curves  round,  and  straight  before  her 
(the  rooks  cawing  above  the  turrets,  the  sun 
reflected  from  the  vanes)  Lucretia  gazes  on 
the  halls  of  Laughton.  And  didst  thou  not, 
O  Guy's  oak,  murmur  warning  from  thine 
oracular  hollows  ?  And  thou  who  sleepest  be- 
low the  church  tower,  didst  thou  not  turn, 
Miles  St.  John,  in  thy  grave,  when,  with  such 
tender  care,  the  young  Lord  of  Laughton  bore 
that  silent  guest  across  his  threshold,  and 
with  credulous,  moistened  eyes,  welcomed 
Treason  and  Murther  to  his  hearth  ? 

There,  at  the  porch,  paused  Helen  gazing 
with  the  rapt  eye  of  the  poetess  on  the  broad 
landscape,  chequered  by  the  vast  shadows 
cast  from  the  setting  sun.  There,  too,  by  her 
side,  lingered  Varney,  with  an  artist's  eye  for 
the  stately  scene,  till  a  thought,  not  of  art, 
changed  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  the  view 
without  mirrored  back  the  Golgotha  of  his 
soul. 

Leave  them  thus — we  must  hurry  on. 

One  day  a  traveller  stopped  his  gig  at  a  pub- 
lic house  in  a  village  in  Lancashire.  He 
chucked  the  rein  to  the  ostler,  and  in  reply  to 
a  question  what  oats  should  be  given  to  the 
horse,  said — "  Hay  and  water — the  beast  is  on 
job."  Then  sauntering  to  the  bar,  he  called 
for  a  glass  of  raw  brandy  for  himself;  and 
while  the  host  drew  the  spirit  forth  from  the 
tap,  he  asked,  carelessly,  if,  some  years  ago,  a 
woman  of  the  name  of  Joplin  had  not  resided 
in  the  village. 


"  It  is  strange,"  said  the  host  musingly. 

"  What  is  strange  ?  " 

"  Why,  we  have  just  had  a  gent,  asking  the 
same  question.  I  have  only  been  here  nine 
year  come  December,  but  my  old  ostler  was 
born  in  the  villiage,  and  never  left  it.  So  the 
gent  had  in  the  ostler,  and  he  is  now  gone  in- 
to the  villiage  to  pick  up  what  else  he  can 
learn." 

This  intelligence  seemed  to  surprise  and 
displease  the  traveller.  "  What  the  deuce," 
he  muttered,  "  does  Jason  mistrust  me  ?  Has 
he  set  another  dog  on  the  scent  ?  Humph  !  " 
He  drained  off  his  brandy,  and  sallied  forth  to 
confer  with  the  ostler. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Mr.  Grabman,  for 
the  traveller  was  no  other  than  that  worthy — 
"  well,  so  you  remember  Mrs.  Joplin  more 
than  twenty  years  ago — eh  ?  " 

"Yees,  I  guess;  more  than  twenty  years 
since  she  left  the  Fleck."  * 

"  Ah,  she  seems  to  have  been  a  restless 
body — she  had  a  child  with  her  !  " 

"  Yees,  I  moind  that." 

"  And  I  dare  say  you  heard  her  say  the 
child  was  not  her  own,  that  she  was  paid  well 
for  it,  eh  ?  " 

"Noa;  my  missus  did  not  loike  me  to 
chaffer  much  with  neighbor  Joplin,  for  she 
was  but  a  bad  'un — pretty  fease,  too.  She 
lived  agin  the  wog/i  f  yonder,  where  you  see 
that  gent  coming  out." 

"Oho!  that  is  the  gent  who  was  asking 
after  Mrs.  Joplin  ?  " 

"Yees;  and  hegire  mehalf-a-croon  !  "  said 
the  clever  ostler,  holding  out  his  hand. 

Mr.  Grabman,  too  thoughtful,  too  jealous 
of  his  rival,  to  take  the  hint  at  that  moment, 
darted  off,  as  fast  as  his  thin  legs  could  carry 
him,  towards  the  unwelcome  interferer  in  his 
own  business. 

Approaching  the  gentleman — a  tall,  power- 
ful-looking young  man — he  somewhat  softened 
his  tone,  and  mechanically  touched  his  hat  as 
he  said — 

"  AVhat,  sir,  are  yoti,  too,  in  search  of  Mrs. 
Joplin?" 

"  Sir,  I  am,"  answered  the  young  man,  eye- 
ing Grabman  deliberately,  "  and  you,  I  sup- 
pose, are  the  person  I  have  found  before  me 


•  P/eci, — Lancashire  and   Yorkshire,  synonym   for 
place. 
t  Attglicf, — wall- 


LUC  RETT  A. 


683 


oil  the  same  search — first,  at  Liverpool;  next, 

at  C ,  about  fifteen  miles  from  that  town; 

thirdly,    at    L ;   and  now  we  meet   here. 

You   have   had  the  start  of  me.     What  have 
you  learned  ?  " 

Mr.  Grabman  smiled:  "  Softly,  sir,  softly. 
May  I  first  ask,  (since  open  questioning  seems 
the  order  of  the  day),  whether  1  have  the 
honor  to  address  a  brother  practitioner — one 
of  the -law,  sir— one  of  the  law  ?  " 

"  I  am  one  of  the  law." 

Mr.  Grabman  bowed  and  scowled. 

"  And  may  I  make  bold  to  ask  the  name  of 
your  client  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  you  may  ask.  Every  man  has 
a  right  to  ask  what  he  pleases,  in  a  civil 
way." 

"  But  you'll  not  answer  ?  Deep  !  Oh,  I 
understand  !  Very  good.  But  I  am  deep 
too,  sir.     You  know  Mr.  Varney,  I  suppose  ?  " 

The  gajitleman  looked  surprised.  His 
bushy  brows  met  over  his  steady,  sagacious 
eyes;  but  after  a  moment's  pause,  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face  cleared  up. 

"  It  is  as  I  thought,"  he  said  half  to  himself. 
"  Who  else  could  have  had  an  interest  in 
similar  inquires  ?  "  "  Sir,"  he  added,  with  a 
quick  and  decided  tone,  "  you  are,  doubtless, 
employed  by  Mr.  Varney  on  behalf  of  Madame 
Dalibard,  and  in  search  of  evidence  connected 
with  the  loss  of  an  unhappy  infant.  I  am  on 
the  same  quest,  and  for  the  same  end.  The  I 
interests  of  your  client  are  mine.  Two  heads  j 
are  better  than  one;  let  us  unite  our  ingenuity 
and  endeavors," 

"  And  share  the  pec,  I  suppose  ? "  said 
Grabman  drily,  buttoning  up  his  pockets. 

"  Whatever  fee  yoti  may  expect,  you  will 
have,  anyhow,  whether  I  assist  you  or  not.  I 
expect  no  fee — for  mine  is  a  personal  interest, 
which  I  serve  gratuitously;  but  I  can  under- 
take to  promise  you,  on  my  own  part,  more 
than  the  ordinary  professional  reward  for  your 
co-operation." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Grabman,  mollified,  "  you 
speak  very  much  like  a  gentleman.  My  feel- 
ings were  hurt  at  first,  I  own.  I  am  hasty, 
but  I  can  listen  to  reason.  Will  you  walk 
back  with  me  to  the  house  you  have  just  left  ? 
and  suppose  we  turn  in  and  have  a  chop  to- 
gether, and  compare  notes." 

"  Willingly  !  "  answered  the  tall  stranger, 
and  the  two  inquisitors  am.icably  joined  com- 


pany. The  result  of  their  inquiries  was  not, 
however,  very  .satisfactory.  No  one  knew 
whither  Mrs.  Joplin  had  gone,  though  all 
agreed  it  was  in  company  with  a  man  of  bad 
character  and  vagrant  habits — all  agreed,  too, 
in  the  vague  recollection  of  the  child,  and 
some  remembered  that  it  was  dressed  in  clothes 
finer  than  would  have  been  natural  to  an  infant 
legally  and  filially  appertaining  to  Mrs.  Joplin. 
One  old  woman  remembered,  that  on  her  re- 
proaching Mrs.  Joplin  for  some  act  of  great 
cruelty  to  the  poor  babe,  she  replied  that  it 
was  not  her  flesh  and  blood,  and  that  if  she 
had  not  expected  more  than  she  had  got,  she 
would  never  have  undertaken  the  charge.  On 
comparing  the  information  gleaned  at  the  pre- 
vious places  of  their  research,  they  found  an 
entire  agreement  as  to  the  character  personally 
borne  by  Mrs.  Joplin.  At  the  village  to  which 
their  inquiry  had  been  first  directed,  she  was 
known  as  a  respectable,  precise  yomig  woman, 
one  of  a  small  congregation  of  rigid  dissenters. 
She  had  married  a  member  of  the  sect,  and 
borne  him  a  child,  which  died  two  weeks  after 
birth.  She  was  then  seen  nursing  another  in- 
fant— though  how  she  came  by  it,  none  knew. 
Shortly,  after  this,  her  husb;ind,  a  journeyman 
carpenter  of  good  repute,  died;  but  to  the  sur- 
prise of  the  neighbors,  Mrs.  Joplin  continued 
to  live  as  comfortably  as  before,  and  seemed 
not  to  miss  the  wages  of  her  husband ;  nay, 
she  rather  now,  as  if  before  kept  back  by  the 
prudence  of  the  deceased,  launched  into  a  less 
thrifty  mode  of  life,  and  a  gaiety  of  dress  at 
variance  both  with  the  mourning  her  recent 
loss  should  have  imposed,  and  the  austere 
tenets  of  her  sect. 

This  indecorum  excited  angry  curiosity,  and 
drew  down  stern  remonstrance.  Mrs.  Joplin, 
in  apparent  disgust  at  this  intermeddling  with 
her  affairs,  withdrew  from  the  village  to  a 
small  town,  about  twenty  miles  distant,  and 
there  set  up  a  shop.  But  her  moral  lapse  be- 
came now  confirmed;  her  life  was  notoriously 
abandoned,  and  her  house  the  resort  of  all  the 
reprobates  of  the  place.  Whether  her  means 
began  to  be  exhausted,  or  the  scandal  she  pro- 
voked attracted  the  notice  of  the  magistrates, 
and  imposed  a  check  on  her  course,  was  not 
very  certain,  but  she  sold  off  her  goods  sud- 
denly, and  was  next  tracked  to  the  village  in 
which  Mr.  Grabman  met  his  new  coadjutor; 
and  there,  though   her  conduct  was  less  fla- 


()04 


BULiiKK  6      \\VKK:S. 


grant  and  her  expenses  less  reckless,  she  made 
but  a  very  unfavorable  impression,  which  was 
confirmed  l)y  her  flight  with  an  intinerant 
hawker  of  the  lowest  possible  character. 
Seated  over  their  port  wine,  the  two  gentle- 
men compared  their  experience,  and  consulted 
on  the  best  mode  of  re-mending  the  broken 
thread  of  their  research;  when  Mr.  Grabman 
said,  coolly,  "  But,  after  all,  I  think  it  most 
likely  that  we  are  not  on  the  right  scent. 
This  bantling  may  not  be  the  one  we  search 
for." 

"  Be  not  misled  by  that  doubt.  To  arrive 
at  the  evidence  we  desire,  we  must  still  track 
this  wretched  woman." 

"  You  are  certain  of  that  ?  " 
"  Certain." 

"Hem  !  Did  you  ever  ftear  of  a  Mr.  Wal- 
ter Ard worth  ?" 

"Yes;  what  of  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  can  best  tell  us  where  to  look  for 
the  child." 

"I  am  sure  he  would  counsel  as  I  do." 

'•  You  know  him,  then  ? " 

"  I  do." 

"What!— he  lives  still  ?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Can  you  bring  me  across  him  ?  " 

"  If  necessary." 

"  And    that  young  man,    who  goes   by  his 

name,  brought  up  by  Mr.  Fielden  ? " 

"  Well,  sir  ?  " 

"  Is  he  not  the  son  of  Mr.  Braddell  ?  " 
The  stranger  was  silent,    and,   shading  his 
face  with  his  hand,  seemed  buried  in  thought. 
He  then  rose,  took   up  his  candle,  and    said 
quietly — 

"  Sir,  I  wish  you  good  evening.  I  have 
letters  to  write  in  my  own  room.  I  will  con- 
sider by  to-morrow,  if  you  stay  till  then, 
whether  we  can  really  aid  each  other  farther, 
or  whether  we  should  pursue  our  researches 
separately."  With  these  words,  he  closed  the 
door:  and  Mr.  Grabman  remained  baffled  and 
bewildered. 

However,  he  too  had  a  letter  to  write;  so, 
calling  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  a  pint  of 
brandy,  he  indited  his  complaints  and  his  news 
to  Varney. 

"Jason"  (he  began),  "are  you  playing  me  false? 
Have  you  sent  another  man  on  the  track  with  a  view 
to  bilk  me  of  my  promised  fee  ?— Explain,  or  I  throw 
up  the  business." 


Herewith,  Mr.  Grabman  gave  a  minute  dc 
scription  of  the    stranger,  and  related  prett) 
accurately  what  had  i)assed  between  that  gen- 
tlemen and  himself.     He  then  added  the  prog 
ress  of   his  own    inquiries,    and    renewed,  a^ 
peremptorily  as  he  dared,  his  demand  for  can 
dor  and  plain  dealing.     Now,  it  so   happenci 
that  in  stumbling  up  stairs  to  bed,   Mr.  Grai 
man  passed  the  door  in  which   his  mysterioi 
fellow-seeker  was  lodged,  and,  as  is  the.usa- 
in  hostels,  a  pair  of  boots    stood   outside  tin, 
door,  to  be  cleaned  betimes   in   the    morning. 
Though  somewhat  drunk,  Grabman   still  pre- 
served the  rays  of  his  habitual  astuteness.     A 
clever,  and  a  natural  idea,  shot  across  his  brain, 
illuminating    the    fumes   of   the    brandy;    he 
stopped,    and    while   one    hand    on    the   wall 
steadied  his  footing,  with  the  other  he  fished 
up  a  boot,  and    peering   within,    saw    legibly 
written — "  Johh  Ardworth,  Esq.,  Gray's  Inn." 
At  that  sight,  he  felt  what  a  philosopher  feeis 
at  the  sudden  elucidation    of   a  troublesome 
problem.     Down    stairs  again  tottered   Grab- 
man, re-opened  his  letter,  and  wrote — 

"  P.  S. — I  have  wronged  you,  Jason,  by  my  sus- 
picions; never  mmii—fuhilate  !  This  mterloper,  who 
made  me  so  jealous — who,  think  you,  it  is?  Whv, 
young  Ardworth  himself — that  is,  the  lad  who  goc.-. 
by  such  name.  Now,  is  it  not  clear? — of  course,  n 
one  else  has  such  interest  in  learning  his  birth  as  the 
lost  child  himself— Here  he  is!— If  old  Ardworth  lives 
(as  he  says),  old  Ardworth  has  set  him  to  work  on  his 
own  business.  But  then,  that  Fielden— rather  a  puz- 
zler that!  Yet,  no; — now,  I  understand — old  Ardworth 
gave  the  boy  to  Mrs.  Joplin,  and  took  it  away  from  her 
again  when  he  went  to  the  parson's.  Now,  certainly, 
it  might  be  quite  necessary  to  prove — first,  that  the 
boy  he  took  from  .Mr.  Braddell's  he  gave  to  Mrs 
Joplin;  secondly,  that  the  boy  he  left  with  Mr.  Fielden. 
was  the  same  that  he  took  again  from  that  woman — 
therefore,  the  necessity  of  finding  out  .Mother  Joplin, 
an  essential  witness:  Q.  E.  D.,  Master  Jason!" 

It  was  not  till  the  sun  had  been  some  hours 
risen  that  Mr.  Grabman  imitated  that  lumi- 
nary's' example.  When  he  did  so,  he  found, 
somewhat  to  his  chagrin,  that  John  Ardworth 
had  long  been  gone.  In  fact,  whatever  the 
motive  that  had  led  the  latter  on  the  search, 
he  had  succeeded  in  gleaning  from  Grabman 
all  that  that  person  could  communicate,  antl 
their  interview  had  inspired  him  with  such 
disgust  of  the  attorney,  and  so  small  an  opinion 
of  the  value  of  his  co-operation  (in  which  last 
belief,  perhaps,  he  was  mistaken)  that  he  had 
resolved  to  continue  his  inquiries  alone,  and 
had    already,    in    his    early    morning's    walk 


L  UCRF.riA. 


685 


through  the  village,  ascertained  that  the  man 
with  whom  Mrs.  Joplin  had  quitted  the  place, 
had  some  time  after  been  sentenced  to  six 
months  imprisonment  in  the  county  jail.  Pos- 
sibly the  prison  authorities  might  know  some- 
thing to  lead  to  his  discovery;  and  through 
him  the  news  of  his  paramour  might  be 
gained. 


CHAPTER    XX. 


More  of  Mrs.  Joplin. 


One  day  at  the  hour  of  noon,  the  court 
boasting  the  tall  residence  of  Mr.  Grabman 
was  startled  from  the  quiet  usually  reigning 
there  at  broad  daylight,  by  the  appearance  of 
two  men,  evidently  no  inhabitants  of  the  place. 
The  squalid,  ill-favored  denizens  lounging  be- 
fore the  doors,  stared  hard;  and,  at  the  fiUler 
view  of  one  of  the  men,  most  of  them  retreated 
hastily  within.  Then,  in  those  houses,  you 
might  have  heard  a  murmur  of  consternation 
and  alarm.  The  ferret  was  in  the  burrow — a 
Bow-street  officer  in  the  court  !  The  two  men 
paused,  looked  round,  and,  stopping  before  the 
dingy  tower-like  house,  selected  the  bell  which 
appealed  to  the  inmates  of  the  ground-floor,  to 
the  left.  At  that  summons  Bill  the  cracksman 
imprudently  presented  a  full  view  of  his  coun- 
tenance through  his  barred  window;  he 
drew  it  back  with  astonishing  celebrity;  but 
not  in  time  to  escape  the  eye  of  the  Bow-street 
runner. 

"Open  the  door,  Bill — there's  nothing  to 
fear— I  have  no  summons  against  you,  'pon 
honor.  You  know  I  never  deceive.  Why 
should  1  ?     Open  the  door,  I  say  !  " 

No  answer. 

The  officer  tapped  with  his  cane  at  the  foul 
window. 

"  Bill  !  there's  a  gentleman  who  comes  to 
you  for  information,  and  he  will  pay  for  it 
handsomely." 

Bill  again  appeared  at  the  casement,  and 
peeped  forih,  very  cautiously,  through  the 
bars. 

"  Bless  my  vitals,  Mr.  R — —  !  and  it  is  you, 
is  it  ?  What  were  you  saying  about  '  paying 
handsomely? '  " 

"  That  your  evidence  is  wanted — not  against 


a  pal,  man.  It  will  hurt  no  one,  and  put  at 
least  five  guineas  in  your  pocket." 

''  Ten  guineas  !  "  said  the  Bow-street  officer's 
companion. 

"  You    he's    a  man  of  'onor,  Mr.  R !  " 

said  Bill,  emphatically;  "  and  I  scorns  to  doubt 
you — so  here  goes." 

With  that,  he  withdrew  from  the  window, 
and  in  another  minute  or  so  the  door  was 
opened,  and  Bill,  with  a  superb  bow,  asked  his 
visitors  into  his  room. 

In  the  interval,  leisrre  had  been  given  to 
the  cracksman  to  remove  all  trace  of  the 
wonted  educational  employment  of  his  hopeful 
children.  The  urchins  were  seated  on  the 
floor,  playing  at  push-pin;  and  the  Bow-street 
officer  benignly  patted  a  pair  of  curly  heads 
as  he  passed  them,  drew  a  uhair  to  the  table, 
and,  wiping  his  forehead,  sat  down,  quite  at 
home.  Bill  then  deliberately  seated  himself, 
and,  unbuttoning  his  waistcoat,  permitted  the 
butt-ends  of  a  brace  of  pistols  to  be  seen  by 
his  guests.  Mr.  R's  companion  seemed  very 
unmoved  by  this  significant  action.  He  bent 
one  inquiring  steady  look  on  the  cracksman, 
which,  as  Bill  afterwards  said,  went  through 
him  "  like  a  gimblet  through  a  panny,"  and, 
taking  out  a  purse,  through  the  network  of 
which  the  sovereigns  gleamed  plesantly,  placeil 
it  on  the  table,  and  said: 

"This  purse  is  yours,  if  you  will  tell  me 
what  has  become  of  a  woman  named  Joplin, 
with  whom  you  left  the  village  of  — — ,  in 
Lancashire,  in  the  year  18 — ." 

"  And,"  put  in  Mr.  R ,  "  the  gentleman 

wants  to  know,  with  no  view  of  harming  the 
woman.  It  will  be  to  her  own  advantage  to 
inform  him  where  she  is." 

"  'Pon  honor,  again  ?  "  said  Bill. 

" 'Pon  honor !  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  has  a  heart  in  my  buzzom, 
and  if  so  be  I  can  do  a  good  turn  to  the  'oman 
wot  I  has  loved — and  kep  company  with, — 
why  not  ? " 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  "  said  Mr.  R .  "  .\nil 

as  we  want  to  learn,  not  only  what  has  become 
of  Mrs.  Joplin,  but  what  she  did  with  the  child 
she  carried  off  from ,  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  tell  us  all  you  know." 

Bill  tnused. 

"  How  much  is  there  in  the  pus  ?  " 

"Eighteen  sovereigns." 

"  Make  it  twenty — you  nod — twenty  then  ? 


Oi.0 


ULLtl  J-.K'S      UOAA. 


— a  bargain  !  Now,  I'll  go  on  right  a-head. 
You  sees  as  how,  some  months  arter  we — that 

is,  Peggy  Joplin  and  self,  left ,  I  was  put 

ill  quod  in  Lancaster  jail — so  I  lost  sight  of 
the  blowen.  When  I  got  out  and  came  to 
Lunnon — it  was  a  matter  ot  seven  year,  afore, 
all  of  a  sudding,  I  came  bang  agin  her — at  the 
corner  of  Common  Garden.  '  Why,  Bill  !  ' 
says  she.  '  Why  Peggy  ! '  says  I— and  we 
bussed  each  other  like  winky.  '  Shall  us  come 
together  agin  ? '  says  she.  '  Why,  no,'  says  I 
— '  I  has  a  wife  wots  a  good  un — and  gets  her 
bread  by  setting  up  as  a  widder  with  seven 
small  children  !  By-the-bye,  Peg,  what's  a 
come  of  your  brat  ?  ' — for  as  you  says,  Sir, 
Peg  had  a  child  put  out  to  her  to  nurse.  Lor  I 
how  she  cuffed  it!  'The  brat!'  says  she, 
laughing  like  mad — Oh,  I  god  rid  o'  that,  when 
you  were  in  jail,  Bill.'  'As  how?'  says  I. 
'  Why  there  was  a  woman  begging  agin  St. 
toll's  churchyard — so  I  purtended  to  see  a 
a  frind  at  a  distance—'  'old  the  babby  a  mo- 
ment,' says  I,  puffing  and  panting^ — 'while  I 
ketches  my  friend  yonder.'  So  she  'olds  the 
brat,  and  I  never  sees  it  agin; — and  there's 
an  ind  of  the  bother  ! '  '  But  won't  they  ever 
ax  for  the  child — them  as  giv'  it  you  ? '  '  Oh 
no,'  says  Peg,  '  they  left  it  too  long  for  that, 
and  all  the  tin  was  a-gone;  and  one  mouth  is 
hard  enough  to  feed  in  these  days  ! — let  by 
other  folks'  bantlings.'  'Well,'  says  I,  'where 
do  you  hang  out  ?  I'll  pop  in,  in  a  friendly 
way.'  So  she  tells  me — som'are  in  Lambeth 
(I  forgets  hexackly) — and  many's  the  good 
piece  of  work  we  ha'  done  togither." 

"And  where  is  she  now?" — asked  Mr. 
R 's  companion. 

"  I  doesn't  know  purcisely,  but  I  can  com' 
at  her:  you  see,  when  my  jMor  wife  died,  four 
year  com'  Chris'nias,  and  left  me  with  as  fine 
a  famuly,  tho'  I  says  it,  as  h-old  King  Georgy 
himsslf  walked  afore,  with  his  gold  'eaded 
cane,  on  the  terris  at  Vindsor — all  heights  and 
all  h-ages,  to  the  babby  in  arms  (for  the  littel 
un  there  warn't  above  a  year  old,  and  had 
been  a-brought  up  upon  spoon-meat,  with  a 
dash  o'  blue-ruin  to  make  him  slim  and  gin- 
teel);  as  for  the  bigger  uns  wot  you  don't  see, 
they  be  doin'  well  in  forin  parts,  Mr.  R !  " 

Mr.  R smiled,  significantl)'. 

Bill  resumed.  "  Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  when 
my  wife  died,  I  wanted  some  un  to  take  care 
of  the  children,  so  I  takes  Peg   into   the  'ous. 


But  Lor  !  how  she  larrupped  'em — she  has  a 
cruel  heart — hasn't  she  Bob  ?     Bob  is  a  cute 

child,  Mr.  R .     Just  as   I   was  a-thinking 

of  turning  her  out  neck  an'  crop,  a  gemman 
what  lodges  aloft,  wot  be  a  laryer,  and  wot  had 

just  saved  my  nick,  Mr.  R ,  by   proving  a 

h-alibi,  said  '  That's  a  tidy  body,  your  Peg  !  ' 
(for  you  see  he  was  often  a  wisiting  here,  an' 
h-indeed,  sin'  thin,  he  has  taken  our  third 
floor,  No.  9)  '  I've  been  a  speakin'  to  her,  and 
I  find  she  has  been  a  nus  to  the  sick.  I  has  a 
frind  wots  a  h-uncle  that's  ill,  can  you  spare 
her.  Bill,  to  attind  him  ?  '  '  That  I  can,'  says 
I,  '  anything  to  obleedge.'  So  Peg  packs  off 
— bag  and  baggidge." 

"  And  what  was  the  sick  gentleman's  name  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  R.'s  companion. 

"  It  was  one  Mr.  Warney — a  painter,  wot 
lived  at  Clap'am.  Since  thin  I've  lost  sight  of 
Peg;  for  we  had  "igh  words  about  the  childern, 
— and  she's  a  spiteful  'oman.  But  you  can 
larn  where  she  she  be  at  Mr.  Warney's — if  so 
be  he's  still  above-ground." 

"  And  did  this  woman  still  go  by  the  name 
of  Joplin  ?  " 

Bill  grinned,  "  She  warn't  such  a  spooney 
as  that — that  name  was  in  your    black  books 

too  much,  Mr.  R for  a  'spectable  nuss  for 

sick  bodies;  no,  she  was  then  called  Martha 
Skeggs,  what  was  her  own  mother's  name  afore 
marridge.     Any  thing  more,  gemmen  ?  " 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  said  the  younger  visitor, 

rising;  "  there    is    the   purse,  and    Mr.  R 

will  bring  you  ten  sovereigns  in  addition. 
Good-day  to  yon." 

Bill,  with  superabundant  bows  and  flourishes, 
showed  his  visitors  out,  and  then,  in  high  glee, 
he  began  to  romp  with  his  children;  and  the 
whole  family  circle  was  in  a  state  of  uproari- 
ous enjoyment,  when  the  door  flew  open  and 
in  entered  Grabman,  his  brief-bag  in  hand, 
dust-soiled,  and  unshaven. 

"  Aha,  neighbor  !  your  servant — y^mr  ser- 
vant,— just  come  back  ! — always  so  merry — 
for  the  life  of  me,  I  could'nt  help  looking  in  ! 
Dear  me,  Bill  !  why,  you're  in  luck  I  "  and 
Mr.  Grabman  pointed  to  a  pile  of  sovereigns 
which  Bill  had  emptied  from  the  purse  to 
count  over,  and  weigh  on  the  tip  of  his  fore- 
finger. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bill,  sweeping  the  gold  into 
his  corderoy  pocket;  '.'and  who  do  you  think 
brought   me   these  shiners  ?     Why,  who    but 


LUCRETIA. 


687 


old  Peggy,  the  'omaii  wot  you  put  out  at 
Clai)'a:n." 

"  Well,  never  mind  Peggy,  now,  Bill;  I  want 
to  ask  you  what  you  have  done  with  Margaret 
Joplin — whom,  sly  seducer  that  you  are,  you 
carried  off  from '' 

•'Why,  man,  Peggy  be  Joplin,  and  Joplin 
be  Peggy  ! — and  it's  for  that  piece  oi  noos 
that  I  got  all  them  pretty  new  piciers  of  his 
majesty.  Bill — my  namesake,  God  bliss  'im  ! " 

"  D n,"  exclaimed   Grabman,    aghast — 

the  young  chap's  spoiling  my  game  again  !  " 
And  seizing  up  his  brief-bag,  he  darted  out  of 
the  house,  in  the  hope  to  arrive,  at  least,  at 
Clapham  before  his  competitors. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Beck's  Discovery. 


Under  the  cedar  trees,  at  Laughton,  sate 
that  accursed  and  adhorrent  being,  who  sate 
there  young,  impassioned,  hopeful,  as  Lu- 
cretia  Clavering — under  the  old  cedar  trees, 
which,  save  that  their  vast  branches  cast  an 
imperceptibly  broader  shade  over  the  mossy 
sward,  the  irrevocable  winters  had  left  the 
same.  Where,  through  the  nether  boughs, 
the  autumn  sun-beams  came  aslant,  the  win- 
dows, enriched  by  many  a  haughty  scutcheon, 
shone  brightly  against  the  western  rays.  From 
the  flower-beds  in  the  quaint  garden  near  at 
hand,  the  fresh  yet  tranquil  air  wafted  faint 
perfumes  from  the  lingering  heliotrope  and 
fading  rose.  The  peacock  perched  dozingly 
on  the  heavy  balustrade;  the  blithe  robin 
hopped  busily  along  the  sun-track  on  the  lawn; 
in  the  distance  the  tinkling  bells  of  the  flock, 
the  plaining  low  of  some  wandering  heifer, 
while,  breaking  the  silence,  seemed  still  to 
blend  with  the  repose.  All  images  around 
lent  themselves  to  complete  that  picture  of 
stately  calm,  which  is  the  character  of  those 
old  mansion  houses,  which  owner  after  owner 
has  loved,  and  heeded,— leaving  to  them  the 
graces  of  antiquity,  guardmg  them  from  the 
desolation  of  decay. 

Alone  sate  Lucretia,  under  the  cedar  trees, 
and  her  heart  made  dismal  contrast  to  the  no- 
ble tranquillity  that  breathed  around.  From 
whatever    softening    or    repentant    emotions 


which  the  scene  of  her  youth  might  first  have 
awakened — from  whatever  of  less  unholy  an- 
guish which  memory  might  have  caused,  when 
she  first,  once  more,  sate  under  those  remem- 
bered boughs,  and,  as  a  voice  from  a  former 
world,  some  faint  whisper  of  youthful  love 
sighed  across  the  waste  and  ashes  of  her  de- 
vastated soul, — from  all  such  rekindled  hu- 
manities in  the  past  she  had  now,  with 
gloomy  power,  wrenched  herself  away.  Crime, 
such  as  hers,  admits  not  long  the  sentiment 
that  softens  the  remorse  of  gentler  error.  If 
there  wakes  one  moment  from  the  past  warning 
and  melancholy  ghost,  soon  from  that  abyss 
rises  the  Fury  with  the  lifted  scourge,  and 
hunts  on  the  frantic  footsteps  towards  the 
future.  In  the  future,  the  haggard  intellect 
of  crime  must  live;  must  involve  itself  me- 
chanically in  webs  and  meshes,  and  lose  past 
and  present  in  the  welcome  atmosphere  of 
darkness. 

Thus,  while  Lucretia  sate,  and  her  eyes 
rested  upon  the  halls  of  her  youth,  her  mind 
overleapt  the  gulf  that  yet  yawned  between 
her  and  the  object  on  which  she  was  bent. 
Already,  in  fancy,  that  home  was  hers  again; 
— its  present  possessor  swept  away,  the  inter- 
loping race  of  Vernon,  ending  in  one  of  those 
abrupt  lines  familiar  to  genealogists,  which 
branch  out  busily  from  the  main  tree,  as  if  all 
pith  and  sap  were  monopolized  by  them,  con- 
tinue for  a  single  generation  and  then  shrink 
into  a  printer's  bracket,  with  the  formal  lacon- 
ism,  '  Died  without  issue.'  Back,  then,  in  the 
pedigree  would  turn  the  eye  of  some  curious 
descendant,  and  see  the  race  continue  in  the 
posterity  of  Lucretia  Clavering. 

With  all  her  ineffable  vices,  mere  cupidity 
had  not,  as  we  have  often  seen,  been  a  main 
characteristic  of  this  fearful  woman;  and  in 
her  design  to  endow,  by  the  most  determined 
guilt,  her  son  with  the  heritage  of  her  ances- 
tors, she  had  hitherto  looked  but  little  to  mere 
mercenary  advantages  for  herself;  but  now,  in 
the  sight  of  that  venerable  and  broad  domain, 
a  covetousness,  absolute  in  itself,  broke  forth. 
Could  she  have  gained  it  for  her  own  use, 
rather  than  her  son's,  she  would  have  felt  a 
greater  zest  in  her  ruthless  purpose.  She 
looked  upon  the  scene  as  a  deposed  monarch 
upon  his  usurped  realm;  it  was  her  right. 
The  early  sen,se  of  possession  in  that  inheri- 
tance returned  to  her.     Reluctantly  would  she 


688 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


even  yield  her  claims  to  her  child.  Here,  too, 
in  this  atmosphere  she  tasted  once  more  what 
had  long  been  lost  to  her — the  luxury  of  that 
dignified  respect  which  surrounds  the  well- 
born. Here,  she  ceased  to  be  the  suspected 
adventuress,  the  friendless  outcast,  the  needy 
wrestler  with  hostile  fortune,  the  skulking 
enemy  of  the  law.  She  rose  at  once,  and  with- 
out effort,  to  her  original  state — the  honored 
daughter  of  an  illustrious  house.  The  home- 
liest welcome  that  greeted  her  from  some  aged 
but  unforgotten  villager,  the  salutation  of 
homage,  the  bated  breath  of  humble  reverence 
— even  trifles  like  these  were  dear  to  her,  and 
made  her  the  more  resolute  to  retain  them. 
In  her  calm,  relentless,  onward  vision,  she  saw 
herself  enshrined  in  those  halls,  ruling  in  the 
delegated  authority  of  her  son,  safe  evermore 
from  prying  suspicion  and  degrading  need,  and 
miserable  guilt  for  miserable  objects.  Here, 
but  one  great  crime,  and  she  resumed  the  ma- 
jesty of  her  youth  !  While  thus  dwelling  on 
the  future,  her  eye  did  not  even  turn  from 
those  sunlit  towers  to  the  forms  below,  and 
more  immediately  inviting  its  survey. 

On  the  very  spot  where,  at  the  opening  of 
this  tale,  sate  Sir  Miles  St.  John,  sharing  his 
attention  between  his  dogs  and  his  guest, — 
sate  now  Helen  Mainwaring;  against  the 
balustrade,  where  had  lounged  Charles  Vernon, 
leant  Percival  St.  John;  and  in  the  same  place 
where  he  had  stationed  himself  that  eventful 
evening,  to  distort,  in  his  malignant  sketch, 
the  features  of  his  father,  Gabriel  Varney, 
with  almost  the  same  smile  of  irony  on  his 
lips,  was  engaged  in  transferring  to  his  canvas 
a  more  faithful  likeness  of  the  heirs's  intended 
bride.  Helen's  countenance,  indeed,  exhibited 
comparatively  but  little  of  the  ravages  which 
the  pernicious  aliment,  administered  so  noise- 
lessly, made  upon  the  frame.  The  girl's  eye, 
it  is  true,  had  sunk,  and  there  was  a  languid 
heaviness  in  its  look;  but  the  contour  of  the 
cheek  was  so  naturally  rounded,  and  the  feat- 
ures so  delicately  fine,  that  the  fall  of  the 
muscles  was  less  evident;  and  the  bright  warm 
hue  of  the  complexion,  and  the  pearly  sparkle 
of  the  teeth,  still  give  a  fallacious  freshness  to 
the  aspect.  But,  as  yet,  the  poisoners  had 
forborne  those  ingredients  which  invade  the 
springs  of  life,  resorting  only  to  such  as  under- 
mine the  health,  and  prepare  the  way  to  un- 
suspected graves.     Out  of  the  infernal  variety 


of  the  materials  at  their  command,  they  had 
selected  a  mixture  which  works  by  sustaining 
perpetual  fever !  which  gives  little  pain,  little 
suffering,  beyond  that  of  lassitude  and  thirst; 
which  wastes  like  consumption,  and  yet  puz- 
zles the  physician,  by  betraying  few  or  none 
of  its  ordinary  symptoms.  But  the  disorder, 
as  yet,  was  not  incurable — its  progress  would 
gradually  cease  with  the  discontinuance  of  the 
venom. 

Although  October  was  far  advanced,  the  day 
was  as  mild  and  warm  as  August.  But  Per- 
cival, who  had  been  watching  Helen's  coun- 
tenance, with  the  anxiety  of  love  and  fear,  now 
proposed  that  the  sitting  should  be  adjourned. 
The  sun  was  declining,  and  it  was  certainly 
no  longer  safe  for  Helen  to  be  exposed  to  the 
air  without  exercise.  He  proposed  that  they 
should  walk  through  the  garden,  and  Helen, 
rising  cheerfully,  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
But  she  had  scarcely  descended  the  steps  of 
the  terrace  when  she  stopped  short,  and 
breathed  hard  and  painfully.  The  spasm  was 
soon  over,  and,  walking  slowly  on,  they  passed 
Lucretia  with  a  brief  word  or  two,  and  were 
soon  out  of  sight  amongst  the  cedars. 

"  Lean  more  on  my  arm,  Helen,"  said  Per- 
cival. "  How  strange  it  is,  that  the  change  of 
air  has  done  so  little  for  you,  and  our  country 
doctor  still  less  !  I  should  feel  miserable,  in- 
deed, if  Simmons,  whom  my  mother  always 
considered  very  clever,  did  not  assure  me  that 
there  was  no  ground  for  alarm — that  these 
symptoms  were  only  nervous.  Cheer  up, 
Helen— sweet  love,  cheer  up  !  " 

Helen  raised  her  face,  and  strove  to  smile, 
but  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes:  "  It  would  be 
harder  to  die  now,  Percival  !  "  she  said  falter- 
ingly. 

"To  die — oh,  Helen!  No;  we  must  not 
stay  here  longer — the  air  is  certainly  too  keen 
for  you.  Perhaps  your  aunt  will  go  to  Italy — 
why  not  all  go  there,  and  seek  my  mother  ? 
And  she  will  nurse  you,  Helen, — and — and 
■'     He  could  not  trust  his  voice  farther. 


Helen  pressed  his  arm  tenderly:    "Forgive 
me,  dear  Percival — it  is  but  at  moments  I  feel 
so  despondent — now,  again,  it  is  past.     Ah,  I 
so  long  to  .see   your   mother  !  when  will  yo 
hear  from  her?     Are  you  not  too  sanguine  ? 
do  you  really  feel  sure  she  will  consent  to  s- 
lowly  a  choice  ?  " 

"  Never  doubt  her  affectii^n — her  apprecia- 


LUCRETIA. 


689 


tion  of  you,"  answered  Percival,  gladly  and 
hoping  that  Helen's  natural  anxiety  might  be 
the  latent  cause  of  her  dejected  spirits:  "often 
when  talking  of  the  future,  under  these  very 
cedars,  my  mother  has  said — '  You  have  no 
cause  to  marry  for  ambition — marry  only  for 
your  happiness.'  She  never  had  a  daughter — 
in  return  for  all  her  love,  I  shall  give  her  that 
blessing." 

Thus  talking,  the  lovers  rambled  on  till  the 
sun  set,  and  then,  returning  to  the  house,  they 
found  that  Varney  and  Madame  Dalibard  had 
preceded  them.  That  evening  Helen's  spirits 
rose  to  their  natural  bouyancy.  And  Per- 
cival's  heart  was  once  more  set  at  ease  by  her 
silvery  laugh. 

When,  at  their  usual  early  hour,  the  rest 
of  the  family  retired  to  sleep,  Percival  re- 
mained in  the  drawing-room  to  write  again, 
and  at  length,  to  Lary  Mary  and  Captain 
Greville.  While  thus  engaged,  his  valet  en- 
tered, to  say,  that  Beck,  who  had  been  out 
since  the  early  morning,  in  search  of  a  horse 
that  had  strayed  from  one  of  the  pastures,  had 
just  returned  with  the  animal,  who  had  wan- 
dered nearly  as  far  as  Southampton. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Percival,  ab- 
stractedly, ajid  continuing  his  letter. 

The  valet  still  lingered — Percival  looked  up 
in  surprise. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  you  said  you  particu- 
larly wished  to  see  Beck,  when  became  back." 

"  I_oh,  true  !  Tell  him  to  wait.  I  will 
speak  to  him  by  and  by — you  need  not  sit  up 
for  me — let  Beck  attend  to  the  bell." 

The  valet  withdrew.  Percival  continued 
his  letter,  and  filled  page  after  page,  and  sheet 
after  sheet;  and  when  at  length  the  letters, 
not  containing  a  tithe  of  what  he  wished  to 
convey,  were  brought  to  a  close,  he  fell  into 
a  reverie  that  lasted  till  the  candies  burnt  low, 
and  the  clock  from  the  turret  tolled  one. 
Starting  up  in  surprise  at  the  lapse  of  time, 
Percival  then  for  the  first  tmie,  remembered 
Beck,  and  rung  the  bell. 

The  ci-devant  sweeper,  in  his  smart  livery, 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Beck,  my  poor  fellow,  I  am  ashamed  to 
have  kept  you  waiting  so  long;  but  I  received 
a  letter  this  morning  which  relates  to  you. 
Let  me  see,  I  left  it  in  my  study  upstairs.  Ah 
— you'll  never  find  the  way — follow  me — I  have 
some  questions  to  put  to  jo\.\.' 

6.-44 


"Nothin'  agin  my  carakter,  I  hopes,  your 
'onor,"  said  Beck,  timidly. 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  Noos  of  the  mattriss,  then  ? "  exclaimed 
Beck,  joyfully. 

"  Nor  that  either,"  answered  Percival,  laugh- 
ing, as  he  lighted  the  chamber  candlestick,  and 
followed  by  Beck,  ascended  the  grand  staircase 
to  a  small  room  which,  as  it  adjoined  his  sleep- 
ing apartment,  he  had  habitually  used  as  his 
morning  writing-room  and  study. 

Percival  had,  indeed,  received  that  day  a 
letter  which  had  occasioned  him  much  sur- 
prise; it  was  from  John  Ard worth,  and  ran 
thus: — 

"  My  dear  Percival, — It  seems  that  you  have  taken 
into  your  service  a  young  man  known  only  by  the 
name  of  Beck.  Is  he  now  with  you  at  Laughton  ?  If 
so,  pray  retain  him,  and  suffer  him  to  be  in  readiness 
to  come  to  me  at  a  day's  notice  if  wanted,  though  it  is 
probable  enough  that  I  may  rather  come  to  you.  At 
present,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  am  detained 
in  London  by  business  connected  with  that  important 
personage.  Will  you  ask  him  carelessly,  as  it  were, 
in  the  meanwhile,  the  following  questions: 

"First:  How  did  he  become  possessed  of  a  certain 
child's  coral,  which  he  left  at  the  house  of  one  Becky 
Carruthers,  in  Cole's  Buildings  ? 

"  Secondly:  Is  he  aware  of  any  mark  on  his  arm— if 
so,  will  he  describe  it  ? 

-"Thirdly:  How  long  has  he  known  the  said  Beckv 
Carruthers? 

"Fourthly:  Does  he  believe  her  to  be  honest,  and 
truthful ? 

"  Take  a  memorandum  of  his  answers,  and  send  it 
to  me.  I  am  pretty  well  aware  of  what  they  are  likely 
to  be;  but  I  desire  you  to  put  the  questions  that  1  may 
judge  if  there  be  any  discrepancy  between  his  state- 
ment and  that  of  Mrs.  Carruthers.  I  have  much  to 
tell  you,  and  am  eager  to  receive  your  kind  congratu- 
lations upon  an  event  that  has  given  me  more  happi- 
ness than  the  fugitive  success  of  my  little  book.  Ten- 
derest  regards  to  Helen;  and,  hoping  soon  to  see  you, 
ever  affectionately  yours. 

"  P.S. — Say  not  a  word  of  the  corvtents  of  this  letter 
to  Madame  Dalibard,  Helen,  or  to  any  one  except 
Beck.  Caution  him  to  the  same  discretion.  If  you 
can't  trust  to  his  silence,  send  him  to  town." 

When  the  post  brought  this  letter.  Beck  was 
already  gone  on  his  errand,  and  after  puzzling 
himself  with  vague  conjectures,  Percival's 
mind  had  been  naturally  too  absorbed  with  his 
anxieties  for  Helen  to  recur  much  to  the  sub- 
ject. 

Now,  refreshing  his  memory  with  the  con- 
tents of  the  letter,  he  drew  pen  and  ink  before 
him,  put  the  questions  seriatim,  noted  down 
the  answers  as  desired,  and  smiling  at  Beck's 


090 


B  UL  WEIi'S     WORKS. 


frightened  curiosity  to  know  who  could  pos- 
sibly care  about  such  matters,  and  feeling  con- 
fident (from  that  very  fright)  of  his  discretion, 
dismissed  the  groom  to  his  repose. 

Beck  had  never  been  in  that  part  of  the 
house  before;  and  when  he  got  into  the  corridor, 
he  became  bewildered,  and  knew  not  which 
turn  to  take — the  right  or  the  left.  He  had  no 
candle  with  him;  but  the  moon  came  clear 
through  a  high  and  wide  skylight;  the  light, 
however,  gave  him  no  guide.  While  pausing, 
much  perplexed,  and  not  sure  that  he  should 
even  know  again  the  door  of  the  room  he  had 
just  quitted,  if  venturing  to  apply  to  his  young 
master  for  a  clue  through  such  a  labyrinth,  he 
was  inexpressibly  startled  and  appalled  by  a 
sudden  apparition.  A  door  at  one  end  of  the 
corridor  opened  noiselessly,  and  a  figure,  at  first 
scarcely  distinguishable,  for  it  was  robed  from 
head  to  foot  rn  a  black,  shapeless  garb, 
scarcely  giving  even  the  outline  of  the  human 
form,  stole  forth. 

Beck  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  crept,  mechani- 
cally, close  within  the  recess  of  one  of  the 
doors  that  communicated  with  the  passage. 
The  figure  advanced  a  few  steps  towards 
him;  and  what  words  can  describe  his  as- 
tonishment, when  he  beheld  thus  erect,  and 
in  full  possession  of  physical  power  and 
motion,  the  palsied  cripple  whose  chair  he  had 
often  seen  wheeled  into  the  garden,  and  whose 
unhappy  state  was  the  common  topic  of  com- 
ment in  the  servants'  hall.  Yes,  the  moon 
from  above  shone  full  upon  that  face  which 
never,  once  seen,  could  be  forgotten.  And  it 
seemed  more  than  mortally  stern  and  pale, 
contrasted  with  the  sable  of  the  strange  garb, 
and  beheld  by  that  mournful  light.  Had  a 
ghost,  indeed,  risen  from-  the  dead,  it  could 
scarcely  have  appalled  him  more.  Madame 
Dalibard  did  not  see  the  involuntary  spy;  for 
the  recess  in  which  he  had  crept,  was  on  that 
side  of  the  wall  on  which  the  moon's  shadow 
was  cast.  With  a  quick  step,  she  turned  into 
another  room,  opposite  that  which  she  had 
quitted,  the  door  of  which  stood  ajar,  and  van- 
ished noiselessly  as  she  had  appeared. 

Taught  suspicion  by  his  early  acquaintance 
with  the  "  night-side  "  of  human  nature.  Beck 
had  good  cause  for  it  here — this  detection  of 
an  imposture  most  familiar  to  his  experience- 
that  of  a  pretended  cripple — the  hour  of  the 
night — the  evil   expression  on   the  face  of  the 


deceitful  guest — Madame  Dalibard's  familiai 
intimacy  and  near  connection  with  Varney — 
Varney  the  visitor  to  Grabman,  who  received 
no  visitors  but  those  who  desire  not  to  go  to 
law,  but  to  escape  from  its  penalties — Varney, 
who  had  dared  to  brave  the  Resurrection  Man 
in  his  den, — and  who  seemed  so  fearlessly  at 
home  in  abodes  where  nought  but  poverty 
could  protect  the  honest, — Varney  now,  with 
that  strange  woman,  an  inmate  of  a  house  in 
which  the  master  was  so  young,  so  inexperi- 
enced— so  liable  to  be  duped  by  his  own 
generous  nature  —  all  these  ideas  vaguely 
combined  inspired,  Beck  with  as  vague  a 
terror;  surely  something,  he  knew  not  what, 
was  about  to  be  perpetrated  against  his  bene- 
factor— some  scheme  of  villany  which  it  was 
his  duty  to  detect.  He  breathed  hard — formed 
his  resolves,  and,  stealing  on  tiptoe,  followed 
the  shadowy  form  of  the  poisoner  through  the 
half-opened  doorway. 

The  shutters  of  the  room  of  which  he  thus 
crossed  the'  threshold — were  not  closed — the 
moon  shone  in,  bright  and  still.  He  kept  his 
body  behind  the  door — peeping  in — with 
straining  fearful  stare.  He  saw  Madame 
Dalibard  standing  beside  a  bed,  round  which 
the  curtains  were  closed — standing  for  a  mo- 
ment  or  so  motionless,  and  as  if  in  the  act  of 
listening,  with  one  hand  on  a  table  lx;side  the 
bed.  He  then  saw  her  take  from  the  folds  of 
her  dress  something  white  and  glittering,  and 
pour  from  it,  which  appeared  to  him  but^  a 
drop  or  two — cautiously,  slowly — into  a  phial 
on  the  table,  from  which  she  withdrew  the 
stopper:  that  done,  she  left  the  phial  where 
she  had  found  it — again  paused  a  moment, 
and  turned  towards  the  door.  Beck  retreated 
hastily  to  his  former  hiding-place,  and  gained 
it  in  time.  Again  the  shadowy  form  passed 
him  and  again  the  white  face  in  the  white 
moonlight  froze  his  blood  with  its  fell  and 
horrible  expression  He  remained  cowering 
and  shrinking  against  the  wall  for  some  time, 
striving  to  collect  his  wits,  and  considering 
what  he  should  do.  His  first  thought  was  to 
go  at  once  and  inform  St.  John  of  what  he 
had  witnessed.  But  the  poor  have  a  proverbial 
dread  of  deposing  aught  against  a  superior. 
Madame  Dalibard  would  deny  his  tale — the 
guest  would  be  believed  against  the  menial — 
he  should  be  but  dismissed  with  ignominy. 

At  that   idea,  he  left   his  hiding-place,  and 


LUCRETIA. 


691 


crept  along  the  corridor,  in  the  hope  of  finding 
some  passage  at  the  end  which  might  lead  to 
the  offices.  But  when  he  arrived  at  the  other 
extremity,  he  was  only  met  by  great  folding 
doors,  which  evidently  communicated  with  the 
state  apartments.  He  must  retrace  his  steps 
— he  did  so — and  when  he  came  to  the  door 
which  Madame  Dalibard  had  entered,  and 
which  still  stood  ajar,  he  had  recovered  some 
courage,  and  with  courage,  curiosity  seized 
him.  For  what  purpose  could  the  strange 
woman  seek  that  room  ai  night  thus  feloni- 
ously— what  could  she  have  poured  and  with 
such  stealthy  caution  into  the  phial  ?  Natur- 
ally and  suddenly  the  idea  of  poison  flashed 
across  him.  Tales  of  such  crime  (as  indeed 
of  all  crime)  had  necessarily  often  thrilled  the 
ear  of  the  vagrant  fellow-lodger  with  burglars 
and  outlaws.  But  poison  to  whom  ?  Could 
it  be  meant  for  his  benefactor  ?  Could  St. 
John  sleep  in  that  room  ? — why  not  ?  The 
woman  had  sought  the  chamber  before  her 
young  host  had  retired  to  rest,  and  mingled 
her  potion  with  some  medicinal  draught.  All 
fear  vanished  before  the  notion  of  danger  to 
his  employer.  He  stole  at  once  through  the 
doorway,  and  noiselessly  approached  the  table 
on  which  yet  lay  the  phial;  His  hand  closed 
on  it  firmly.  He  resolved  to  carry  it  away, 
and  consider  next  morning  what  next  to  do. 
At  all  events,  it  might  contain  some  proof 
to  back  his  tale  and  justify  his  suspicions. 
When  he  came  once  more  into  the  corridor, 
he  made  a  quick  rush  onwards,  and  luckily  ar- 
rived at  the  staircase.  There,  the  blood-red 
stains  reflected  on  the  stone-floors  from  the 
blazoned  casements,  daunted  him  little  less 
than  the  sight  at  which  his  hair  still  bristled. 
He  scarcely  drew  breath  till  he  had  got  into 
his  own  little  crib,  in  the  wing  set  apart  for 
the  stablemen,  when,  at  length,  he  fell  into 
broken  and  agitated  sleep,  the  visions  of  ail 
that  had  successively  disturbed  him  waking, 
united  confusedly,  as  in  one  picture  of  gloom 
and  terror.  He  thought  that  he  was  in  his  old 
loft  in  St.  Giles's;  that  the  Gravestealer  was 
wrestling  with  Varney  for  his  body,  while  he 
himself,  lying  powerless  on  his  pallet,  fancied 
he  should  be  safe  so  long  as  he  could  retain, 
as  a  talisman,  his  child's  coral,  which  he 
clasped  to  his  heart.  Suddenly,  in  that  black 
shapeless  garb  in  which  he  had  beheld  her 
Madame    Dalibard    bent   over   him,  with  her 


stern  colorless  face  and  wrenched  from  him 
his  charm.  Then  ceasing  his  struggle  with 
his  horrible  antagonist,  Varney  laughed  aloud, 
and  the  Gravestealer  seized  him  in  his  deadly 
arms. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

The  Tapestry  Chamber. 

When  Beck  woke  the  next  morning,  and 
gradually  recalled  all  that  had  so  startled  and 
appalled  him  the  previous  night — the  grateful 
creature  felt  less  by  the  process  of  reason  than 
by  a  brute  instinct,  that  in  the  mysterious 
resuscitation  and  nocturnal  wanderings  of 
the  pretended  paralytic,  some  danger  menaced 
his  master^he  became  anxious  to  learn 
whether  it  was  really  St.  John's  room  Madame 
Dalibard  stealthily  visited.  A  bright  idea 
struck  him — and  in  the  course  of  the  day,  at 
an  hour  when  the  family  were  out  of  doors,  he 
contrived  to  coax  the  good-natured  valet,  who 
had  taken  him  under  his  special  protection,  to 
show  him  over  the  house.  He  had  heard  the 
other  servant  say  there  was  such  a  power  of  fine 
things,  that  a  peep  into  the  room  was  as  good  as 
a  show,  and  the  valet  felt  pride  in  being  cicerone 
even  to  Beck.  After  having  stared  sufficiently 
at  the  banquet-hall  and  the  drawing-room,  the 
armor,  the  busts,  and  the  pictures,  and  list- 
ened, open-mouthed,  to  the  guide's  critical  ob- 
servations. Beck  was  led  up  the  great  stairs 
into  the  old  fainily  picture-gallery,  and  into 
Sir  Miles's  ancient  room  at  the  end,  which 
had  been  left  undisturbed,  with  the  bed  still 
in  the  angle;  on  returning  thence.  Beck  found 
himself  in  the  corridor  which  communicated 
with  the  principal  bed-rooms,  in  which  he  had 
lost  himself  the  night  before. 

•'  And  vot  room  be  that  vith  the  littul  vite 
'ead  h-over  the  door  ? "  asked  Beck,  pointing 
to  the  chamber  from  which  Madame  Dalibard 
had  emerged. 

"  That  white  head.  Master  Beck,  is  Floorer 
the  goddess;  but  a  heathen  like  you  knows 
nothing  about  goddesses.  Floorer  has  a  half- 
moon  in  her  hair,  you  see,  which  shows  that 
the  idolatrous  Turks  worship  her,  for  the 
Turkish  flag  is  a  half  moon,  as  I  have  seen  at 
Constantinople  !     I  have  travelled.  Beck." 

"  And  vot  room  be  it  ?  Is  it  the  master's  >" 
persisted  Beck. 


692 


BUJAVKR'S     WORKS. 


"  No,  the  pretty  young  lady,  Miss  Mainwar- 
ing,  has  it  at  present.  There  is  nothing  to  see 
in  it.  But  that  one,  opposite;  "  and  the  valet 
advanced  to  the  door  through  which  Madame 
Dalibard  had  disappeared — "///<//  is  curious; 
and  as  Madame  is  out,  we  may  just  take  a 
peep."  He  opened  the  door  gently,  and  Beck 
looked  in.  "  This,  which  is  called  the  turret- 
chamber,  was  Madame's  when  she  was  a  girl, 
I  have  heard  Old  Bessy  say;  so  master  pops 
her  there  now.  For  my  part,  I'd  rather  sleep 
in  your  little  crib,  than  have  those  great,  gruff- 
looking  figures  staring  at  me  by  the  firelight, 
and  shaking  their  heads  with  every  wind  on  a 
winter's  night."  And  the  valet  took  a  pinch 
of  snuff,  as  he  drew  Beck's  attention  to  the 
faded  tapestry  on  the  walls.  As  they  spoke, 
the  draught  between  the  door  and  the  window 
caused  the  gloomy  arras  to  wave  with  a  life- 
like motion:  and  to  those  more  superstitious 
than  romantic,  the  chamber  had  certainly  no 
inviting  aspect. 

"  I  never  sees  these  old  tapestry  rooms," 
said  the  valet,  "without  thinking  of 'the  story 
of  the  lady  who  coming  from  a  ball  and  taking 
off  her  jewels,  happened  to  look  up,  and  saw 
an  eye  in  one  of  the  figures  which  she  felt  sure 
was  no  peeper  in  worsted." 

"  Vot  vos  it,  then  ?  "  asked  Beck,  timidly 
lifting  up  the  hangings,  and  noticing  that  there 
was  a  considerable  space  between  them  and 
the  wall,  which  was  filled  up  in  part  by  closets 
and  wardrobes  set  into  the  wall,  with  intervals 
more  than  deep  enough  for  the  hiding-place 
of  a  man. 

"  Why,"  answered  the  valet,  "  it  was  a  thief. 
He  had  come  for  the  jewels;  but  the  lady 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  say  aloud,  as  if 
to  herself,  that  she  had  forgotten  something, 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  locked  the  door, 
called  up  the  servants,  and  the  thief — who 
was  no  less  a  person  than  the  under-butler — 
was  nabbed." 

"  And  the  French  'oman  sleeps  'ere  ?  "  said 
Beck,  musingly. 

"French  'oman!  Master  Beck,  nothing's 
so  vulgar  as  these  nick-names,  in  a  first-rate 
sitivation.  It  is  all  very  well  when  one  lives 
with  skinflints;  but  with  such  a  master  as  our'n, 
respect's  the  go.  Besides,  Madame  is  not  a 
French  'oman;  she  is  one  of  the  family — and 
as  old  a  family  it  is,  too,  as  e'er  a  lord's  in 
the  three  kingdoms.  But  come,  your  cnriosity 


is  satisfied  now,  and  you  must  trot  back  to 
your  horses." 

As  Beck  returned  to  the  stables,  his  mind 
yet  more  misgave  him  as  to  the  criminal  de- 
signs of  his  master's  visitor.  It  was  from 
Helen's  room  that  the  false  cripple  had  walked, 
and  the  ill-health  of  the  poor  young  lady  was 
a  general  subject  of  compassionate  Comment. 
But  Madame  Dalibard  was  Helen's  relation 
—from  what  motive  could  she  harbor  an  evil 
thought  against  her  own  niece?  But  still,  if 
those  drops  were  poured  into  the  healing 
draught  for  good — why  so  secretly?  Once 
more  he  revolved  the  idea  of  speaking  to  St. 
John — an  accident  dissuaded  him  from  this 
intention;  the  only  proof  to  back  his  tale  was 
the  mysterious  phial  he  had  carried  away; 
but  unluckily,  forgetting  that  it  was  in  his 
pocket — at  a  time  when  he  flung  off  his  coat 
to  groom  one  of  the  horses,  the  bottle  struck 
against  the  corn-bin  and  broke — all  the  con- 
tents were  spilt.  This  incident  made  him 
suspend  his  intention,  and  wait  till  he  could 
obtain  some  fresh  evidence  of  evil  intentions. 
The  day  passed  without  any  other  noticeable 
occurrence.  The  doctor  called,  found  Helen 
somewhat  better,  and  ascribed  it  to  his  medi- 
cine, especially  to  the  effect  of  his  tonic 
draught  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Helen 
smiled — "Nay,  doctor,"  said  she,  "this  morn- 
ing, at  least,  it  was  forgotten.  I  did  not  find 
it  by  my  bedside.  Don't  tell  my  aunt,  she 
would  be  so  angry."  The  doctor  looked 
rather  discomposed. 

'•  Well,"  said  he,  soon  recovering  his  good 
humor,  "  since  you  are  certainly  better  to-day 
without  the  draught,  discontinue  it  also  to- 
morrow. I  will  make  an  alteration  for  the 
day  after "  So  that  night  Madame  Dali- 
bard visited  in  vain  her  niece's  chamber — 
Helen  had  a  reprieve. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

The  Shades  on  the  Dial. 

The  following  morning  was  indeed  eventful 
to  the  family  at  Laughton;  and,  as  if  con- 
scions  of  what  it  brought  forth,  it  rose  dreary 
and  sunless;  one  heavy  mist  covered  all  the 
landscape,  and  a  raw  drizzling  rain  fell  pat- 
tering through  the  )'ellow  leaves. 


LUCRETIA. 


693 


Made  Dalibard,  pleading  her  infirmities, 
rarely  left  her  room  before  noon,  and  Varney 
professed  himself  very  irregular  in  his  hours 
of  rising;  the  breakfast,  therefore,  afforded  no 
social  assembly  to  the  family,  but  each  took 
that  meal  in  the  solitude  of  his  or  her  own 
chamber.  Percival,  in  whom  ail  habits  par- 
took of  the  healthfulness  and  simplicity  of  his 
character,  rose  habitually  early;  and  that  day, 
in  spite  of  the  weather,  walked  forth  betimes 
to  meet  the  person  charged  with  the  letters 
from  the  post.  He  had  done  so  for  the  last 
three  or  four  days,  impatient  to  hear  from  his 
mother,  and  calculating  that  it  was  full  time 
to  receive  the  expected  answer  to  his  confes- 
sion and  his  prayer.  He  met  the  messenger 
at  the  bottom  of  the  park,  not  far  from  Guy's 
Oak.  This  day  he  was  not  disappointed.  The 
letter-bag  contained  three  letters  for  himself, 
two  with  the  foreign  post-mark — the  third  in 
Ardworth's  hand.  It  contained  also  a  letter 
for  Madame  Dalil>ard,  and  two  for  Varney. 

Leaving  the  messenger  to  take  these  last  to 
the  hall,  Percival,  with  his  own  prizes,  plunged 
into  the  hollow  of  the  glen  before  him,  and, 
seating  himself  at  the  foot  of  Guy's  Oak, 
through  the  vast  branches  of  which  the  rain 
scarcely  came,  and  only  in  single,  mournful 
drops,  he  opened  first  the  letter  in  his  mother's 
hand,  and  read  as  follows: — 

"  My  dear,  dear  Son,— How  can  I  express  to  you  the 
alarm  your  letter  has  given  to  me  !  So  these,  then, 
are  the  new  relations  you  have  discovered!  I  fondly 
imagined  that  you  were  alluding  to  some  qf  my  own 
family,  and  conjecturing  who  amongst  my  many 
cousins  could  have  so  captivated  your  attention. 
These  the  new  relations  !     Lucretia  Dalibard— Helen 

Mainwaring  !      Percival    do   you   not   know No, 

you  cannot  know — that  Helen  Mainwaring  is  the 
daughter  of  a  disgraced  man— of  one  who  (more  than 
suspected  of  fraud  in  the  bank  in  which  he  was  a  part- 
ner) left  his  country,  condemned  even  by  his  own 
father.  If  you  doubt  this,  yoU  have  but  to  inquire  at 
*  *  *  *,  not  ten  miles  from  Laughton,  where  the  elder 
Mainwaring  resided.  Ask  there,  what  became  of 
William  Mainwaring.  And  Lucretia,— you  do  not 
know  that  the  dying  prayer  of  her  uncle,  Sir  Miles  St. 
John,  was  that  she  might  never  enter  the  house  he  be- 
queathed to  your  father.  Not  till  after  my  poor 
Charles's  death  did  I  know  the  exact  cause  for  Sir 
Miles's  displeasure,  though  confident  it  wis  just;  but 
then  amongst  his  papers  I  found  the  ungrateful  letter 
which  betrayed  thoughts  so  dark,  and  passions  so  un- 
womanly, that  I  blushed  for  my  sex  to  read  it.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  that  poor  old  man's  prayers  were 
unheeded— that  that  treacherous  step  could  ever  cross 
your  threshold— that  that  cruel  eye  which  read  with 
such  barbarous  joy  the  ravages  of  death  on  a  bene- 
factor's face,  could  rest  on  the  hearth,  by  which  your 


frank  truthful  countenance  has  so  often  smiled  away 
my  tears,  1  should  feel  indeed,  as  if  a  thunder-cloud 
hung  over  the  roof. — No!  if  you  marry  the  niece,  the 
the  aunt  must  be  banished  from  your  house. — Good 
Heavens!  and  it  is  the  daughter  of  William  Main- 
waring, the  niece  and  ward  of  Lucretia  Dalibard,  to 
whom  you  have  given  your  faithful  affection — whom 
you  single  from  the  world  as  your  wife  !  Oh!  my  son 
— my  beloved — my  sole  surviving  child — do  not  think 
that  I  blame  you,  that  my  heart  does  not  bleed  while  i 
write  thus;  but  I  implore  you  on  my  knees  to  pause 
at  least, — to  suspend  this  intercourse,  till  I  myself  can 
reach  England.  And  what  then  ?  Why,  then,  Per- 
cival, I  promise,  on  my  part,  that  I  will  see  your  Helen 
with  unprejudiced  eyes — that  I  will  put  away  from  mc, 
as  far  as  possible,  all  visions  of  disappointed  pride — the 
remembrance  of  faults  not  her  own;  and  if  she  be,  as 
you  say  and  think,  I  will  take  her  to  my  heart  and  call 
her  '  Daughter.'  Are  you  satisfied  ?  If  so.  come  to  me 
— come  at  once,  and  take  comfort  from  your  mother's 
lips.  How  I  long  to  be  with  you  while  you  read  this 
— how  I  tremble  at  the  pain  I  so  rudely  give  you!  But 
my  poor  sister  still  chains  me  here,  I  dare  not  leave  her, 
lest  I  should  lose  her  last  sigh.  Come  then,  come,  we 
will  console  each  other. 

"  Your  fond  (how  fond!)  and  sorrowing  mother, 

"  Mary  St.  John. 

"  October  31/,  1831. 

"  Sorrento. 

"  P.S. — You  see  by  this  address  that  we  have  left 
Pisa  for  this  place,  recommended  by  our  physician; 
hence  an  unhappy  delay  of  some  days  in  my  reply. 
Ah,  Percival,  how  sleepless  will  be  my  pillow  till  I  hear 
from  you ! " 

Long,  very  long,  was  it  before  St.  John, 
mute  and  overwhelmed  with  the  sudden  shock 
of  his  anguish,  opened  his  other  letters — the 
first  was  from  Captain  Greville: 

"  What  trap  have  you  fallen  into,  foolish  boy  ?  That 
you  would  get  into  some  silly  scrape  or  another  was 
natural  enough.  But  a  scrape  for  life,  Sir — that  is 
serious!  But,  God  bless  you  for  your  candor,  my 
Percival — you  have  written  to  us  in  time— you  are  old- 
fashioned  enough  to  think  that  a  mother's  consent  is 
necessary  to  a  young  man's  union.  And  you  have  left 
it  in  our  power  to  save  you  yet;  it  is  not  every  boyish 
fancy  that  proves  to  be  true  love.  But  enough  of  this 
preaching;  I  shall  do  Vjetter  than  write  scolding  letters. 
I  shall  come  and  scola  you  in  person.  My  servant  is 
at  this  very  moment  packing  my  portmanteau,  the 
laquais-di-phue  is  gone  to  Naples  for  my  passport. 
Almost  as  soon  as  you  receive  this  I  shall  be  with  you; 
and  if  I  am  a  day  or  two  later  than  the  mail,  be  patient; 
do  not  commit  yourself  further.  Break  your  heart  if 
you  please,  but  don't  implicate  your  honor.  I  shall 
come  at  once  to  Curzon-street.    Adieu! 

"  H.  Greville." 

Ardworth's  letter  was  shorter  than  the  others; 
fortunately  so,  for  otherwise  it  had  been  un- 
read : 

"  If  I  do  not  come  to  you  myself  the  day  after  you 
receive  this,  dear  Percival,  vfhich,  indeed,  is  most 
probable,  I  shall  send  you  my  proxy  in  one  whom,  for 


094 


B  UL  WER  •  S     WORKS. 


my  sake,  I  know  that  you  will  kindly  welcome.  He 
will  undertake  my  task,  and  clear  up  all  the  mysteries 
with  which,  I  trust,  my  correspondence  has  thoroughly 
bewildered  your  lively  imagination. 

"  Yours,  ever, 

"  John  Ardworth. 
"  Gray's  Inn." 

Littje,  indeed,  did  Percival's  imagination 
busy  itself  with  the  mysteries  of  Ardworth's 
correspondence.  His  mind  scarcely  took  in 
the  sense  of  the  words,  over  which  his  eye  me- 
chanically wandered. 

And  the  letter  which  narrated  the  visit  of 
Madame  Dalibard  to  the  house  thus  solemnly 
mterdicted  to  her  step,  was  on  its  way  to  his 
mother;  nay,  by  this  time  would  almost  have 
reached  her.  Greville  was  on  the  road;  nay, 
as  his  tutor's  letter  had  been  forwarded  from 
London — might,  perhaps,  be  in  Curzon-street 
that  day.  How  desirable  to  see  him  before  he 
could  reach  Laughton,  to  prepare  him  for 
Madame  Dalibard's  visit;  for  Helen's  illness; 
explain  the  position  in  which  he  was  involved, 
and  conciliate  the  old  soldier's  rough  kind 
heart  to  his  love  and  his  distress  ! 

He  did  not  dread  the  meeting  with  Gre- 
ville; he  yearned  for  it.  He  needed  an  ad- 
viser, a  confidant,  a  friend.  To  dismiss  ab- 
ruptly his  guests  from  his  house — impossible  ! 
to  abandon  Helen  because  of  her  father's 
crime,  or  her  aunt's  fault,  (whatever  that  last 
might  be — and  no  clear  detail  of  it  was  given) 
that  never  entered  his  thoughts  !  Pure 
and  unsullied,  the  starry  face  of  Helen  shone 
the  holier  for  the  cloud  around  it.  An  inex- 
pressible and  chivalrous  compassion  mingled 
with  his  love  and  confirmed  his  faith.  She, 
poor  child,  to  suffer  for  the  deeds  of  others  ! 
No.  What  availed  his  power  as  man,  and 
dignity  as  gentleman,  if  they  could  not  wrap 
in  their  own  shelter  the  one  by  whom  such 
shelter  was  now  doubly  needed  ?  Thus,  amidst 
all  his  emotions — firm  and  resolved,  at  least 
on  one  point — and  beginning  already  to  re- 
cover the  hope  of  his  sanguine  nature,  from 
his  reliance  on  his  mother's  love,  on  the  prom- 
ises that  softened  her  disclosures  and  warnings, 
and  on  his  conviction  that  Helen  had  only  to 
be  seen  for  every  scruple  to  give  way,  Percival 
wandered  back  towards  the  house,  and,  com- 
ing abruptly  on  the  terrace,  he  encountered 
Varney,  who  was  leaning  motionless  against 
the  balustrades,  with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand, 
Varney   was   deadly  pale,  and    there  was  the 


trace  of  some  recent  and  gloomy  agitation  in 
the  relaxed  muscles  of  his  cheeks,  usually  so 
firmly  rounded.  But  Percival  did  not  heed 
his  appearance  as  he  took  him  gravely  by  the 
arm,  and  leading  him  into  the  garden,  said, 
after  a  painful  pause — 

"  Varney,  I  am  about  to  ask  you  two  ques- 
tions, which  your  close  connection  with  Ma- 
dame Dalibard  may  enable  you  to  answer; 
but  in  which,  from  obvious  motives,  I  must 
demand  the  strictest  confidence.  You  will 
not  hint  to  her  or  to  Helen  what  I  am  about 
to  say  ? " 

Varney  stared  uneasily  on  Percival's  serious 
countenance,  and  gave  the  promise    required. 

"  First,  then,  for  what  offence  was  Madame 
Dalibard  expelled  from  her  uncle's  house — 
this  house  of  Laughton  ? 

"  Secondly,  what  is  the  crime  with  which 
Mr.  Mainwaring,  Heleri's  father  is  charged  ?  " 

"  With  regard  to  the  fust,"  said  Varney,  re- 
covering his  composure,  "  I  thought  I  had 
already  told  you  that  Sir  Miles  was  a  proud 
man,  and  that,  in  consequence  of  discovering 
a  girlish  flirtation  between  his  niece  Lucretia 
(now  Madame  Dalibard)  and  Mainwaring,  who 
afterwards  jilted  her  for  Helen's  mother,  he 
altered  his  will — 'expelled  her  his  house,'  is 
too  harsh  a  phrase.  This  is  all  I  know.  With 
regard  to  the  second  question,  no  crime  was 
ever  brought  home  to  William  Mainwaring. 
He  was  suspected  of  dealing  improperly  with 
the  funds  of  the  bank,  and  he  repaid  the 
alleged  deficit  by  the  sacrifice  of  all  he  pos- 
sessed." 

"  This  is  the  truth  !  "  exclaimed  Percival, 
joyfully. 

"The  plain  truth,  I  believe;  but  why  these 
questions  at  this  moment  ?  Ah,  you  too,  I  see. 
have  had  letters — I  understand  !  Lady  Mary 
gives  these  reasons  for  withholding  her  con- 
sent." 

"  Her  consent  is  not  withheld,"  answered 
Percival;  "but,  shall  I  own  it? — remember,  I 
have  your  promise  not  to  wound  and  offend 
Madame  Dalibard  by  the  disclosure:  my 
mother  does  refer  to  the  subjects  I  have  al- 
luded to,  and  Captain  Greville,  my  old  friend 
and  tutor,  is  on  his  way  to  England— perhaps 
to-morrow  he  may  arrive  at  Laughton." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Varney,  startled—"  to-morrow  '. 
— and  what  sort  of  a  man  is  this  Captain  Gre- 
ville?" 


LUCRETIA. 


69s 


"  The  best  man  possible  for  such  a  case  as 
mine — i<ind-hearted,  yet  cool,  sagacious,  the 
finest  observer,  the  quickest  judge  of  character 
— nothing  escapes  him.  Oh,  one  interview 
will  suffice  to  show  him  all  Helen's  innocent 
and  matchless  excellence  !  " 

"  To-morrow  !  this  man  comes  to-morrow  !  " 

"  All  that  I  fear  is — for  he  is  rather  rough 
and  blunt  in  his  manner, — all  that  I  fear  is, 
his  first  surprise — and,  dare  I  say,  displeasure, 
at  seeing  this  poor  Madame  Dalibard,  whose 
faults,  I  fear,  were  graver  than  you  suppose, 
at  the  house  from  which  her  uncle — to  whom, 
indeed,  I  owe  this  inheritance " 

"  I  see  —  I  see  !  "  interrupted  Varney, 
quickly.  "  And  Madame  Dalibard  is  the 
most  susceptible  of  women — so  weW-born, 
and  so  poor,  so  gifted,  and  so  helpless — it  is 
natural.  Can  you  not  write,  and  put  off  this 
Captain  Greville  for  a  few  days  ? — until,  in- 
deed, I. can  find  some  excuse  for  terminating 
our  visit." 

"  But  my  letter  may  be  hardly  in  time  to 
reach  him;  he  may  be  in  town  to-day." 

''  Go  then  to  town  at  once;  you  can  be  back 
late  at  night,  or  at  least  to-morrow.  Anything 
better  than  wounding  the  pride  of  a  woman, 
on  whom,  after  all,  you  must  depend  for  free 
and  open  intercourse  with  Helen." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  thought  of;  but 
what  excuse  ? " 

"  Excuse  ! — a  thousand  !  Every  man  com- 
ing of  age  into  such  a  property,  has  business 
with  his  lawyers;  or  why  not  say  simply  that 
you  want  to  meet  a  friend  of  yours,  who  has 
just  left  your  mother  in  Italy  ? — in  short,  any 
excuse  suffices,  and  none  can  be  offensive." 

"  I  will  order  my  carriage  instantly." 

"Right!"  exclaimed  Varney;  and  his  eye 
followed  the  receding  form  of  Percival  with  a 
mixture  of  fierce  exultation  and  anxious  fear. 
Then  turning  towards  the  window  of  the  tur- 
ret-chamber, in  which  Madame  Dalibard  re- 
posed, and  seeing  it  still  closed,  he  muttered 
an  impatient  oath;  but  even  while  he  did  so, 
the  shutters  were  slowly  opened,  and  a  foot- 
man, stepping  from  the  porch,  approached 
Varney  with  a  message,  that  Madame  Dali- 
bard would  see  him  in  five  minutes,  if  he 
would  then  have  the  goodness  to  ascend  to 
her  room. 

Before  that  time  was  well  expired,  Varney 
was  in  the  chamber.     Madame  Dalibard  was 


up,  and  in  her  chair:  and  the  unwonted  joy 
which  her  countenance  evinced,  was  in  strong 
contrast  with  the  sombre  shade  upon  his  son- 
in-law's  brow,  and  the  nervous  quiver  of  his 
lip." 

"Gabriel,"  she  said,  as  he  drew  near  to  her, 
"  my  son  is  found  I  " 

"  I  know  it,"  he  answered  petulantly. 

"  You  ! — from  whom  ?  " 

"  From  Grabman." 

"  And  I  from  a  still  better  authority — from 
Walter  Ardworth  himself  !  He  lives;  he  will 
restore  my  child  ! "  She  extended  a  letter 
while  she  spoke.  He  in  return,  gave  her,  not 
that  still  crumpled  in  his  hand,  but  one  which 
he  drew  from  his  breast.  These  letters  sev- 
erally occupied  both,  begun  and  finished  almost 
in  the  same  moment. 

That  from  Grabman  ran  that: — 

"  Dear  Jason, — Toss  up  your  hat,  and  cry  hip-hip  ! 
At  last,  from  person  to  person,  I  have  tracked  the  lost 
Vincent  Braddell.  He  lives  still!  We  can  maintain 
his  identity  in  any  court  of  law.  Scarce  in  time  forthe 
post,  I  have  not  a  moment  for  further  particulars.  I 
shall  employ  the  next  two  days  in  reducing  all  the  evi- 
dence to  a  regular  digest,  which  I  will  despatch  to  you. 
Meanwhile,  prepare,  as  soon  as  may  be,  to  put  me  in 
possession  of  my  fee, — ;f5,ooo,  and  my  expedition 
merits  something  more.     Yours, 

"  Nicholas  Grabman." 

The  letter  from  Ardworth  was  no  less 
positive: 

"  Madam, — In  obedience  to  the  commands  of  a  dying 
friend,  I  took  charge  of  his  infant,  and  concealed  its 
existence  from  his  mother — yourself.  On  returning  to 
England,  I  need  not  say  that  I  was  not  unmindful  of 
my  trust.  Your  son  lives;  and  after  mature  reflection, 
I  have  resolved  to  restore  him  to  your  arms.  In  this  I 
have  been  decided  by  what  1  have  heard  from  one 
whom  I  can  trust,  of  your  altered  habits,  your  de- 
corous life,  your  melancholy  infirmities,  and  the  gener- 
ous protection  you  have  given  to  the  orphan  of  my 
poor  cousin  Susan,  my  old  friend  Mainwaring.  Alfred 
Braddell  himself,  if  it  be  permitted  to  him  to  look 
down  and  read  my  motives,  will  pardon  me,  I  venture 
to  feel  assured,  this  departure  from  his  injunctions. 
Whatever  the  faults  which  displeased  him,  they  have 
been  amply  chastised.  And  your  son,  grown  to  man, 
can  no  longer  be  endangered  by  example,  in  tending 
the  couch,  or  soothing  the  repentance,  of  his  mother. 

"  These  words  are  severe;  but  you  will  pardon  them 
in  him  who  gives  you  back  your  child.  I  shall  venture 
to  wait  on  you  in  person,  with  such  proofs  as  may 
satisfy  you  as  to  the  identity  of  your  son.  I  count  oa 
arriving  at  Laughton  to-morrow.  Meanwhile,  I 
simply  sign  myself  by  a  name,  in  which  you  will 
recognize  the  kinsman  to  one  branch  of  your  family, 
and  the  friend  of  your  dead  husband, 

"  J.  Walter  Ardworth, 

"  Craven  Hotel,  October,  1S31." 


096 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


"  Well  !  and  you  are  not  rejoiced  !  '  said 
Liicretia,  gazing  surprised  on  Varney's  sullen 
and  unsympathizing  face. 

"No!  because  time  presses;  because,  even 
while  discovering  your  son,  you  may  fail  in 
securing  his  heritage;  because,  in  the  midst  of 
your  triumph,  I  see  Newgate  opening  to  my- 
self !  Look  you,  I,  too,  have  had  my  news — 
less  pleasing  than  yours.  This  Stubmore 
(curse  him  !)  writes  me  word,  that  he  shall 
certainly  be  in  town  next  month  at  farthest, 
and  that  he  meditates,  immediately  on  his  ar- 
rival, transferring  the  legacy  from  the  Bank  of 
England  to  an  excellent  mortgage  of  which  he 
has  heard.  Were  it  not  for  this  scheme  of 
ours,  nothing  would  be  left  for  me  but  flight 
and  exile." 

"A  month  ! — that  is  a  longtime.  Do  you 
think,  now  that  my  son  is  found,  and  that  son 
one  like  John  Ardworth,  (for  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  my  surmise  was  right),  with  genius 
to  make  station  the  pedestal  to  the  power  I 
dreamed  of  in  my  youth,  but  which  my  sex 
forbade  me  to  attain — do  you  think  I  will  keep 
him  a  month  from  his  inheritance  ?  Before 
the  month  is  out,  you  shall  replace  what  you 
have  taken,  and  buy  your  trustee's  silence,  if 
need  be — either  from  the  sums  you  have  in- 
sured, or  from  the  rents  of  Laughton." 

"  Lucretia  !  "  said  Varney,  whose  fresh 
colors  had  grown  livid — "  what  is  to  be  done 
must  be  done  at  once  !  Percival  St.  John  has 
heard  from  his  mother.  Attend  !  "  And  Var- 
ney rapidly  related  the  questions  St.  John  had 
put  to  him,  the  dreaded  arrival  of  Captain 
Greville,  the  danger  of  so  keen  an  observer — 
the  necessity,  at  all  events,  of  abridging  their 
visit — the  urgency  of  hastening  the  catastrophe 
to  its  close. 

Lucretia  listened  in  ominous  and  steadfast 
silence. 

"  But,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  j'ou  have  per- 
suaded St.  John  to  give  this  man  the  meeting 
in  London — to  put  off  his  visit  for  the  time  ! 
St.  John  v^\\\  return  to  us  to-morrow.  Well; 
and  if  he  finds  his  Helen  is  no  more  !  Two 
nights  9go  I,  for  the  first  time,  mingled  in  the 
morning  draught  that  which  has  no  antidote 
and  no  cure.  This  night  two  drops  more,  and 
St.  John  will  return- to  find  that  Death  is  in 
the  house  before  him.  And  then  for  himself 
— the  sole  remaining  barrier  between  my  son 
and  this   inheritance,    for    himself — why  grief 


sometimes  kills  suddenly;  and  there  be  drugs 
whose  effect  simulates  the  death-stroke  of 
grief." 

"  Yet,  yet,  this  rapidity,  if  necessary,  is 
perilous.  Nothing  in  Helen's  state  forebodes 
sudden  death  by  natural  means.  The  strange- 
ness of  two  deaths  -both  so  young — Greville 
in  England,  if  not  here — hastening  down  to 
examine,  to  inquire,  with  such  prepossessions 
against  you: — there  must  be  an  inquest  !" 

"Well,  and  what  can  be  discovered?  It 
was  1  who  shrunk  before— it  is  I  who  now 
urge  dispatch.  I  feel  as  in  my  proper  home 
in  these  halls.  I  would  not  leave  them  again 
but  to  my  grave  !  I  stand  on  the  hearth  of 
my  youth.  I  fight  for  my  rights  and  my 
son's.  ,  Perish  those  who  oppose  me  !  " 

A  fell  energy  and  power  were  in  the  aspect 
of  the  murderess  as  she  thus  spoke;  and  while 
her  determination  awed  the  inferior  villainy 
of  Varney,  it  served  somewhat  to  mitigate  his 
fears. 

As  in  more  detail  they  began  to  arrange 
their  execrable  plans,  Percival,  while  the  horses 
were  being  harnessed  to  take  him  to  the  near- 
est post-town,  sought  Helen,  and  found  her  in 
the  little  chamber  which  he  had  described 
and  appropriated  as  her  own,  when  his  fond 
fancy  had  sketched  the  fair  outline  of  the 
future. 

This  room  had  been  orginally  fitted  up  for 
the  private  devotions  of  the  Roman-catholic 
wife  of  an  ancestor,  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
II.;  and  in  a  recess,  half  veiled  by  a  curtain, 
there  still  stood  that  holy  symbol,  which, 
whether  Protestant  or  Roman  Catholic,  no  one 
sincerely  penetrated  with  the  solemn  pathos 
of  sacred  history  can  behold  unmoved — the 
Cross  of  the  Divine  Agony.  Before  this  holy 
symbol,  Helen  stood  in  earnest  reverence. 
She  did  not  kneel  (for  the  forms  of  the  re- 
ligion in  which  she  had  been  reared  were  ojv 
posed  to  that  posture  of  worship  before  the 
graven  image),  but  you  could  see  in  that 
countenance,  eloquent  at  once  with  the  en- 
thusiasm and  the  meekness  of  piety,  that  the 
soul  was  filled  with  the  memories  and  the 
hopes,  which,  age  after  age,  have  consoled 
the  sufferer,  and  inspired  the  martyr.  The 
soul  knelt  to  the  idea,  if  the  knee  bowed  not 
to  the  image,  embracing  the  tender  grandeur 
of  the  sacrifice,  and  the  vnst  inheritance  opened 
to  faith  in  the  redemption. 


LUCRETIA. 


697 


The  young  man  held  his  breath  while  he 
gazed.  He  was  moved,  and  he  was  awed. 
Slowly  Helen  turned  towards  him,  and,  smiling 
sweetly,  held  out  to  him  her  hand.  They 
seated  themselves  in  silence  in  the  depth  of 
the  overhanging  casement;  and  the  mournful 
character  of  the  scene  without,  where,  dimly 
through  the  misty  rains,  gloomed  the  dark 
foliage  of  the  cedars,  made  them  insensibly 
draw  closer  to  each  other,  in  the  instinct  of 
love  when  the  world  frowns  around  it.  Perci- 
val  wanted  the  courage  to  say  that  he  had 
come  to  take  farewell,  though  but  for  a  day, 
and  Helen  spoke  first. 

"  I  cannot  guess  why  it  is,  Percival,  but  I 
am  startled  at  the  change  I  feel  in  myself — no, 
not  in  health,  dear  Percival,  I  mean  in  mind, — • 
during  the  last  few  months; — since,  indeed, 
we  have  known  each  other.  I  remember  so 
well  the  morning  in  which  my  aunt's  letter  ar- 
rived at  the  dear  vicarage.  We  were  return- 
ing from  the  village  fair,  and  my  good  guar- 
dian was  smiling  at  my  notions  of  the  world. 
I  was  then  so  giddy,  and  light,  and  thoughtless 
— everything  presented  itself  to  me  in  such 
gay  colors, — I  scarcely  believed  in  sorrow. 
And  now  I  feel  as  if  I  were  awakened  to  a 
truer  sense  of  a  nature — of  the  ends  of  our 
being  here;  I  seem  to  know  that  life  is  a  grave 
and  solemn  thing.  Yet  I  am  not  less  happy, 
Percival.  No,  I  think,  rather,  that  I  knew  not 
true  happiness  till  I  knew  you.  I  have  read 
somewhere  that  the  slave  is  gay  in  his  holiday 
from  toil;  if  you  free  him,  if  you  educate 
him,  the  gaiety  vanishes,  and  he  cares  no  more 
for  the  dance  under  the  palm-tree.  But  is  he 
less  ha[)py  ?     So  it  is  with  me  !  " 

"  My  sweet  Helen,  I  would  rather  have  one 
gay  smile  of  old — the  arch,  careless  laugh 
which  came  so  naturally  from  those  rosy  lips, 
than  hear  you  talk  of  happiness  with  that 
quiver  in  your  voice — those  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"  Yet  gaiety,"  said  Helen,  thoughtfully,  and 
in  the  strain  of  her  pure,  truthful  poetry  of 
soul,  "  is  only  the  light  impression  of  the  pres- 
ent moment — the  play  of  the  mere  spirits;  and 
happiness  seems  a  forethought  of  the  future, 
spreading  on,  far  and  broad,  over  all  time  and 
space." 

"  And  you  live,  then,  in  the  future,  at  last — 
you  have  no  misgivings  now,  my  Helen  ? 
Well,  that  comforts  me  !  Say  it,  Helen,— say 
the  future  will  be  ours  !  "  | 


"  It  will — it  will— for  ever  and  forever,"  said 
Helen,  earnestly,  and  her  eyes  involuntarily 
rested  on  the  Cross. 

In  his  younger  spirit  and  less  imaginative 
nature,  Percival  did  not  comprehend  the  depth 
of  sadness  implied  in  Helen's  answer;  taking 
it  literally,  he  felt  as  if  a  load  were  lifted  from 
his  heart,  and  kissing  with  rapture  the  hand 
he  held,  he  exclaimed — "  Yes,  this  shall  soon 
— oh,  soon  be  mine  !  I  fear  nothing  while 
you  hope.  You  cannot  guess  how  those  words 
have  cheered  me,  for  I  am  leaving  you,  though 
but  for  a  few  hours,  and  I  shall  repeat  those 
words — they  will  ring  in  my  ears,  in  my  heart, 
till  we  meet  again." 

"  Leaving  me  !  "  said  Helen,  turning  pale, 
and  her  clasp  on  his  hand  tightened.  Poor 
child,  she  felt  mysteriously  a  sentiment  of 
protection  in  his  presence. 

"But  at  most  for  a" day.  My  old  tutor,  of 
whom  we  have  so  often  conversed,  is  on  his 
way  to  England — perhaps,  even  now  in  Lon- 
don. He  has  some  wrong  impressions  against 
your  aunt — his  manner  is  blunt  and  rough.  It  ■ 
is  necessary  that  I  should  see  him  before  he 
comes  hither — you  know  how  susceptible  is 
your  aunt's  pride — just  to  prepare  him  for 
meeting  her, — you  understand  ?  " 

"  What  impressions  against  my  aunt  ?  Does 
he  even  know  her?"  asked  Helen;  and  if 
such  a  sentiment  as  suspicion  could  cross  that 
candid  innocence  of  mind — that  sentiment 
towards  this  stern  relation  whose  arms  had 
never  embraced  her — whose  lips  had  never 
spoken  of  the  past — whose  history  was  as 
sealed  volume,  disturbed  and  disquieted  her. 

"It  is  because  he  has  never  known  her  that 
he  does  her  wrong.  Some  old  story  of  her 
indiscretion  as  a  girl— of  her  uncle's  dis- 
pleasure— what  matters  now?"  said  Percival, 
shrinking  sensitively  from  one  disclosure  that 
might  wound  Helen  in  her  kinswoman. 
"  Meanwhile,  dearest,  you  will  be  prudent — 
you  will  avoid  this  damp  air,  and  keep  qinetiy 
at  home,  and  amuse  yourself,  sweet  fancier  of 
the  future,  in  planning  how  to  improve  these 
old  halls,  when  they  and  their  unworthy  mas- 
ter are  your  own.  God  bless  you  ! — God  guard 
you,  Helen  ! " 

He  rose,  and  with   that   loyal   chivalry  of 
love  which  felt  respect  the  more  for  the  care-* 
less  guardianship  to  which  his  Helen  was  en- 
trusted, he  refrained  from   that   parting  kiss 


09^ 


JiULWEKS     WORKS. 


which  their  pure  courtship  warranted, — for 
which  his  lip  yearned.  But  as  he  lingered,  an 
irresistil)Ie  impulse  moved  Helen's  heart. 
Mechanically  she  opened  her  arms,  and  her 
head  sunk  upon  his  shoulder.  In  that  em- 
brace, they  remained  some  moments  silent, 
and  an  angel  might  unreprovingly  have  heard 
their  hearts  beat  through  the  stillness. 

At  length,  Percival  tore  himself  from  those 
arms  which  relaxed  their  imploring  hold  re- 
luctantly:— she  heard  his  hurried  step  descend 
the  stairs,  and,  in  a  moment  more,  the  roll  of 
the  wheels  in  the  court  without: — a  dreary 
sense  as  of  some  utter  desertion,  some  ever- 
lasting bereavement,  chilled  and  appalled  her. 
She  stood  motionless,  as  if  turned  to  stone,  on 
the  floor;  suddenly  the  touch  of  something 
warm  on  her  hand — a  plaining  whine,  awoke 
her  attention; — Percival's  favorite  dog  missed 
his  master,  and  had  slunk  for  refuge  to  her. 
The  dread  sentiment  of  loneliness  vanished  in 
that  humble  companionship;  and  seating  her- 
self on  the  ground,  she  took  the  dog  in  her 
arms,  and  bending  over  it,  wept  in  silence. 


CHAPTER    XXrV. 

Murder,  towards  his  Design,  moves  like  a  Ghost. 

The  reader  will,  doubtless  have  observed 
the  consummate  art  with  which  the  poisoner 
had  hitherto  advanced  upon  her  prey.  The 
desigh  conceived  from  afar,  and  executed 
with  elaborate  stealth,  defied  every  chance 
of  detection,  against  which  the  ingenuity  of 
practised  villany  could  guard.  Grant  even 
that  the  deadly  drugs  should  betray  the  nat- 
ure of  the  death  they  inflicted  and  by  some  un- 
conjectured  secret,  in  the  science  of  chemistry, 
the  presence  of  those  vegetable  compounds 
which  had  hitherto  baffled  every  known  and 
positive  test,  in  the  posthumous  examination 
of  the  most  experienced  surgeons,  should  be 
clearly  ascertained,  not  one  suspicion  seemed 
likely  to  fall  upon  the  ministrant  of  death. 
The  medicines  were  never  brought  to  Madame 
Dalibard,  were  never  given  by  her  hand;  noth- 
ing ever  tasted  by  the  victim  could  be  tracked 
to  her  aunt.  The  helpless  condition  of  the 
eripple,  which  Lucretia  had  assumed,  forbade 
all  notion  even  of  her  power  of  movement. 
Only  in  the  dead   of  night,   when,  as   she  be- 


lieved, every  human  eye  that  could  watch  her 
was  sealed  in  sleep,  and  then  in  those  dark 
habiliments,  which,  (even,  as  might  sometimes 
happen,  if  the  victim  herself  were  awake),  a 
chance  ray  of  light  struggling  through  cfiink 
or  shutter  could  scarcely  distinguish  from  the 
general  gloom, — did  she  steal  to  the  chamber, 
and  infuse  the  colorless  and  tasteless  liquid* 
in  the  morning  draught,  meant  to  bring 
strength  and  healing.  Grant  that  the  draught 
was  untouched — that  it  was  examined  by  the 
surgeon — that  the  fell  admixture  could  be 
detected — suspicion  would  wander  anywhere 
rather  than  to  that  crippled  and  helpless  kins- 
woman, who  could  not  rise  from  her  bed  with- 
out aid. 

But  now  this  patience  was  to  be  abandoned, 
the  folds  of  the  serpent  were  to  coil  in  one  fell 
clasp  upon  its  prey. 

Fiend  as  Lucretia  had  become,  and  hard- 
ened as  were  all  her  resolves  by  the  discovery 
of  her  son,  and  her  impatience  to  endow  him 
with  her  forfeited  inheritance,  she  yet  shrank 
from  the  face  of  Helen  that  day;  on  the  ex- 
cuse of  illness,  she  kept  her  room,  and  ad- 
mitted only  Varney.  who  stole  in  from  time 
to  time,  with  creeping  step  and  haggard  coun- 
tenance, to  sustain  her  courage  or  his  own. 
And  every  time  he  entered,  he  found  Lucretia 
sitting  with  Walter  Ardworth's  open  letter  in 
her  hand,  and  turning  with  a  preternatural  ex- 
citement, that  seemed  almost  like  aberration 
of  mind,  from  the  grim  and  horrid  topic  which 
he  invited,  to  thoughts  of  wealth,  and  power, 
and  triumph,  and  exulting  prophecies  of  the 
fame  her  son  should  achieve;  he  looked  but 
on  the  blackness  of  the  gulf,  and  shuddered; 
her  vision  overleapt  it,  and  smiled  on  the 
misty  palaces  her  fancy  built  beyond. 

Late  in  the  evening,  before  she  retired  to 
rest,  Helen  knocked  gently  at  her  aunt's  door, 
— a  voice  quick  and  startled,  bade  her  enter; 
she  came  in,  with  her  sweet  caressing  look, 
and  took  Lucretia's  hand,  which  struggled 
from  the  clasp.  Bending  over  that  haggard 
brow,  she  said,  simply,  yet  to  Lucretia's  ear 
the  voice  seemed  that  of  command:  "  Let  me 
kiss  you,  this  night ! "  and  her  lips  pressed 
that  brow.  The  murderess  shuddered,  and 
closed  her  eyes;  when  she  opened  them,  the 
angel  visitor  M'as  gone. 


*  The  celebrated  aqua  di  Tufania  (Tufania  water), 
was  wholly  without  taste  or  color. 


LUCRETIA. 


699 


Night  deepened  and  deepened  into  those 
hours  from  the  first  of  which  we  number  the 
morn,  though  night  still  is  at  her  full.  Moon- 
beam and  star-beam  came  through  the  case- 
ments, shyly,  and  fairy-like,  as  on  that  night, 
when  the  murderess  was  young  and  crimeless 
— in  deed,  if  not  in  thought— that  night,  when 
in  the  book  of  Leechcraft,  she  meted  out  the 
hours,  in  which  the  life  of  her  benefactor  might 
still  interpose  between  her  passion  and  its  end. 
Along  the  stairs,  through  the  hall,  marched  the 
armies  of  light — noiseless,  and  still  and  clear, 
as  the  judgments  of  God,  amidst  the  darkness 
and  shadow  of  mortal  destinies.  In  one  cham- 
ber alone,  the  folds,  curtained  close,  forbade 
all  but  a  single  ray — ^that  ray  came  direct,  as 
the  stream  from  a  lantern,  as  the  beam  re- 
flected back  from  an  eye: — as  an  eye  it 
seemed  watchful,  and  steadfast,  through  the 
dark;  it  shot  along  the  floor — it  fell  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 

Suddenly,  in  the  exceeding  hush,  there  was 
a  strange  and  ghastly  sound — -it  was  the  howl 
of  a  dog  !  Helen  started  from  her  sleep. 
Percival's  dog  had  followed  her,  into  her  room, 
it  had  coiled  itself,  grateful  for  the  kindness, 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Now,  it  was  on  the 
pillow,  she  felt  its  heart  beat  against  her  hand; 
it  was  trembling;  its  hairs  bristled  up,  and  the 
howl  changed  into  a  shrill  bark  of  terror  and 
wrath.  Alarmed,  she  looked  round:  quickly 
between  her  and  that  ray  from  the  crevice,  a 
shapeless  Darkness  passed,  and  was  gone  ! 
So  undistinguishable,  so  without  outline,  that 
it  had  no  likeness  of  any  living  form; — like  a 
cloud,  like  a  thought,  like  an  omen,  it  came  in 
gloom,  and  it  vanished. 

Helen  was  seized  with  a  superstitious  terror 
— the  dog  continued  to  tremble  and  growl  low. 
All  once  more  was  still — the  dog  sighed  itself 
to  rest.  The  stillness,  the  solitude — the  glim- 
mer of  the  moon — all  contributed  yet  more  to 
appal  the  enfeebled  nerves  of  the  listening 
shrinking  girl.  At  length  she  buried  her  face 
under  the  clothes,  and  towards  daybreak  fell 
into  a  broken  feverish  sleep,  haunted  with 
threatening  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


The  Messenger  speeds. 


Towards  the  afternooon  of  the  following 
day,  an  elderly  gentleman  was  seated  in  the 
coffee-room  of  an  hotel  at  Southampton,  en- 
gaged in  writing  a  letter,  while  the  waiter  in 
attendance  was  employed  on  the  wires  that 
fettered  the  petulent  spirit  contained  in  a  bot- 
tle of  Schweppe's  soda  water.  There  was 
something  in  the  aspect  of  the  old  gentleman, 
and  in  the  very  tone  of  his  voice,  that  inspired 
respect,  and  the  waiter  fiad  cleared  the  other 
tables  of  their  latest  newspapers  to  place  be- 
fore him.  He  had  only  just  arrived  by  the 
packet  from  Havre,  and  even  the  newspapers 
had  not  been  to  him  that  primary  attraction 
they  generally  constitute  to  the  Englishman 
returning  to  his  bustling  native  land,  which, 
somewhat  to  his  surprise,  has  contrived  to  go 
on  tolerably  well  during  his  absence. 

We  use   our  privilege  of   looking  over  his 
shoulder  while  he  writes: — 

"  Here  I  am,  then,  dear  Lady  Mary,  at  Southampton, 
and  within  an  easy  drive  of  the  old  Hall!  A  file  of 
Galignani's  Journals,  which  I  found  on  the  ro.id  be- 
tween Marseilles  and  Paris,  informed  me,  under  the 
head  of  'fashionable  movements,'  that  '  Percival  St. 
John,  Esq.,  was  gone  to  his  seat  at  Laughton.'  Accord- 
ing to  my  customary  tactics  of  marching  at  once  to 
the  seat  of  action,  I  therefore  made  direct  for  Havre, 
instead  of  crossing  from  Calais;  and  I  suppose  I  shall 
find  our  young  gentlemau  engaged  in  the  slaughter  of 
hares  and  partridges.  You  see,  it  is  a  good  sign  that 
he  can  leave  London,  Keep  up  your  spirits,  my  dear 
friend.  If  Perce  has  been  really  duped  and  taken  in, — 
as  all  you  mothers  are  so  apt  to  fancy, — rely  upon  an 
old  soldier  to  defeat  the  enemy,  and  expose  the  ruse. 
But  if,  after  all,  the  girl  is  such  as  he  describes  and 
believes — innocent,  artless,  and  worthy  his  affection — 
oh,  then  I  range  myself,  with  your  own  good  heart, 
upon  his  side.  Never  will  I  run  the  risk  of  unsettling 
a  man's  whole  character  for  life  by  wantonly  inter- 
fering with  his  affections.     But  there  we  are  agreed. 

"  In  a  few  hours  I  shall  be  with  our  dear  boy,  and  his 
whole  heart  will  come  out  clear  and  candid  as  when  it 
beat  under  his  midshipman's  true  blue.  In  a  day  or 
two,  I  shall  make  him  take  me  to  town,  to  introduce 
me  to  the  whole  nest  of  them.  Then  I  shall  report 
progress.  Adieu,  till  then!  Kind  regards  to  your 
poor  sister.  I  think  we  shall  have  a  mild  winter. 
Not  one  warning  twinge,  as  yet,  of  the  old  rheumatism. 
"  Ever  your  devoted  old  friend 

"  and  prt'iix  f/tn'idier, 

"  H.  Greville." 

The  captain  had  completed  his  letter,  sipped 
his  soda  water,  and  was  affixing  to  his  com- 
munication his  seal,  when  he  hearti  the  rattle 


70O 


BULllER-S     ilORKS. 


of  a  post-chaise  without.  Fancying  it  was  the 
one  he  had  ordered,  he  went  to  the  open  win- 
dow which  looked  on  the  street:  but  the  chaise 
contained  travellers,  only  halting  to  change 
horses.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  and  a  little 
to  his  chagrin, — for  the  captain  did  not  count 
on  finding  company  at  the  Hall, — he  heard  one 
of  the  travellers  in  the  chaise  ask  the  distance 
to  Laughton.  The  countenance  of  the  ques- 
tioner was  not  familiar  to  him.  But,  leaving 
the  worthy  captain  to  question  the  landlord, 
without  any  satisfactory  information,  and  to 
hasten  the  chaise  for  Jiimself,  we  accompany 
the  travellers  on  their  way  to  Laughton.  They 
were  but  two — the  proper  complement  of  a 
post-chaise — and  they  were  both  of  the  ruder 
sex.  The  elder  of  the  two  was  a  man  of  mid- 
dle age,  but  whom  the  wear  and  tear  of  active 
life  had  evidently  advanced  towards  the  state 
called  elderly.  But  there  was  still  abundant 
life  in  his  quick,  dark  eye;  and  that  mercurial 
youthfulness  of  character,  which  in  some 
happy  constitutions,  seems  to  defy  years  and 
sorrows,  evinced  itself  in  a  rapid  play  of  coun- 
tenance, and  as  much  gesticulation  as  the  nar- 
row confines  of  the  vehicle,  and  the  position  of 
a  traveller,  will  permit.  The  younger  man, 
far  more  grave  in  aspect  and  quiet  in  manner, 
leaned  back  in  the  corner  with  folded  arms, 
and  listened  with  respectful  attention  to  his 
companion. 

"  Certainly,  Dr.  Johnson  is  right — great 
happiness  in  an  English  post  chaise  properly 
driven  ! — more  exhilarating  than  a  palanquin: 
'■Post  cqnitcnv  scdet  atra  cura' — true  only  of 
such  scrubby  hacks  as  old  Horace  could  have 
known.  Black  Care  does  not  sit  behind  Eng- 
lish posters — eh,  my  boy  ! "  As  he  spoke 
this,  the  gentleman  had  twice  let  down  the 
glass  of  the  vehicle,  and  twice  put  it  up  again. 

"Yet,"  he  resumed,  without  noticing  the 
brief,  good-humored  reply  of  his  companion— 
"  yet  this  is  an  anxious  business  enough  that 
we  are  about.  I  don't  feel  quite  easy  in  my 
conscience.  Poor  Braddell's  injunctions  were 
very  strict,  and  I  disobey  them.  It  is  on  your 
responsibility,  John  !  " 

"  I  take  it  without  hesitation.  All  the 
motives  for  so  stern  a  severance  must  have 
ceased,  and  is  it  not  a  sufficient  punishment  to 
find  in  that  hoped-for  son,  a " 

"  Poor  woman  ! "  interrupted  the  elder 
gentleman,  in  whom  we  begin  to  recognize  the 


soi-disant  Mr.  Tomkins — "true,  indeed— too 
true.  How  well  I  remember  the  impression 
LucretiaClavering  first  produced  on  me; — and 
to  think  of  her  now  as  a  miserable  cripple  ! 
By  Jove,  you  are  right,  sir  !  Drive  on  post- 
boy, quick,  quick  !  " 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

The  elder  gentleman,  abruptly,  put  his  hand 
upon  his  companion's  arm. 

"  What  consummate  acuteness— what  patient 
research  you  have  shown  !  What  could  I 
have  done  in  this  business  without  you  ?  How 
often  had  that  garrulous  Mrs.  Mivers  bored 
me  with  Becky  Carruthers.  and  the  coral,  and 
St.  Paul's,  and  not  a  suspicion  came  across 
me; — a  word  was  sufficient  for  you; — and  then 
to  track  this  unfeeling  old  Joplin,  from  place 
to  place,  till  you  find  her  absolutely  a  servant 
under  the  very  roof  of  Mrs  Braddell  herself  ! 
Wonderful  1  Ah,  boy,  you  will  be  an  honor  to 
the  law,  and  to  your  country.  And,  what  a 
hard-hearted  rascal  you  must  think  me,  to 
have  deserted  you  so  long  !  " 

"  My  dear  Father,"  said  John  Ardworth, 
tenderly—"  your  love  now  recompenses  me 
for  all.  And  ought  I  not  rather  to  rejoice  not 
to  have  known  the  tale  of  a  mother's  shame, 
until  I  could  half  forget  it  on  a  father's 
breast  ? " 

"  John,"  said  the  elder  Ardworth,  with  a  chok- 
ing voice — "  I  ought  to  wear  sackcloth  all  my 
life,  for  having  given  you  such  a  mother.  When 
I  think  what  I  have  suffered  from  the  habit  of 
carelessness  in  those  confounded  money  mat- 
ters { — '  irritamenta  malorum,'  indeed  !)  I 
have  only  one  consolation,  that  my  patient, 
noble  son,  is  free  from  my  vice.  You  would 
not  believe  what  a  well-principled,  honorable 
fellow  I  was  at  your  age,  and  yet,  how  truly  I 
said  to  my  poor  friend,  William  Mainwaring, 
one  day  at  Laughton  (1  remember  it  now) — 
'  Trust  me  with  any  thing  else  but  half-a- 
guinea  ! '  Why,  sir,  it  was  that  fault  that 
threw  me  into  low  company— that  brought  me 
in  contact  with  my  innkeeper's  daughter  at 
Limerick.  I  fell  in  love,  and  I  married  (for, 
with  all  my  faults,  I  was  never  a  seducer, 
John).  I  did  not  own  my  marriage;  why 
should  I?  my  relatives  had  cut  me  already. 
You  were  born,  and  hunted  poor  devil  as  I  was, 
I  forgot  all  by  your  cradle.  Then,  in  the  midst 
of  my  troubles,  that  ungrateful  woman  de- 
serted me — then,  I  was  led  to  believe  that  it 


LUCRETIA. 


701 


was  not  iny  own  son  whom  I  had  kissed  and 
hlessed.  Ah,  but  for  that  thought  should  I 
have  left  you  as  I  did  !  And  even  in  infancy, 
you  had  thu  features  only  o^  your  mother. 
Then,  when  the  death  of  the  adulteress  set 
me  free,  and  years  afterward,  in  India,  I  mar- 
ried again  and  had  new  ties — my  heart  grew 
still  harder  to  you.  I  excused  myself  by 
knowing  that  at  least  you  were  cared  for,  and 
trained  to  good  by  a  better  guide  than  I.  But 
when,  by  so  strange  a  hazard,  the  very  priest 
who  had  confessed  your  mother  on  her  death- 
bed (she  was  a  Catholic),  came  to  India,  and 
(for  he  had  known  me  at  Limerick)  recog- 
nized my  altered  person,  and  obeying  his  pen- 
itent's last  injunctions,  assured  me  that  you 
were  my  son, — oh,  John,  then,  believe  me,  I 
hastened  back  to  England,  on  the  wings  of  re- 
morse !  Love  you,  boy  !  I  have  left  at 
Madras,  three  children,  young  and  fair,  by  a 
woman  now  in  heaven,  who  never  wronged  me 
and,  by  my  soul,  John  Ardworth,  you  are 
dearer  to  me  than  all  !  " 

The  father's  head  drooped  on  his  son's 
breast  as  he  spoke;  then,  dashing  away  his 
tears,  he  resumed: 

"Ah,  why  would  not  Braddel!  permit  me, 
as  I  proposed,  to  find  for  his  son  the  same 
guardianship  as  that  to  which  I  entrusted  my 
own;  but  his  bigotry  besotted  him; — a  clergy- 
man of  the  high  church, — that  was  worse  than 
an  atheist !  I  had  no  choice  left  to  me  but 
the  roof  of  that  she-hypocrite.  Yet  I  ought 
to  have  come  to  England  when  I  heard  of  the 
child's  loss,  braved  duns  and  all;  but  I  was 
money-making,  money-making  —  retribution 
for  money-wasting; — and— well,  it's  no  use  re- 
penting 1— and — and — there  is  the  lodge,  the 
park,  the  old  tree  !     Poor  Sir  Miles  !  " 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


The  Spy  flies. 


Meanwhile  at  Laughton,  there  was  confu- 
sion and  alarm.  Helen  had  found  herself 
more  than  usually  unwell  in  the  morning;  tow- 
ards noon,  the  maid,  who  attended  her,  in- 
formed Madame  Dalibard  that  she  was  afraid 
the  poor  young  lady  had  much  fever,  and  in- 
quired if  the  doctor  should  be  sent  for.     Ma- 


dame Dalibard  seemed  surprised  at  the  intelli 
gence,  and  directed  her  chair  to  be  wheeled 
into  her  niece's  room,  in  order  herself  to  judge 
of  Helen's  state.  The  maid,  sure  that  the 
doctor  would  be  summoned,  hastened  to  the 
stables  and  seeing  Beck,  instructed  hnn  to  sad- 
dle one  of  the  horses,  and  to  await  further 
orders.  Beck  kept  her  a  few  moments  talking, 
while  he  saddled  his  horse,  and  then  followed 
her  into  the  house,  observing  that  it  would 
save  time  if  he  were  close  at  hand. 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  said  the  maid,  "  and 
you  may  as  well  wait  in  the  corridor.  Ma- 
dame may  wish  to  speak  to  you  herself,  and 
give  you  her  own  message  or  note  to  the  Doc- 
tor." 

Beck,  full  of  gloomy  suspicions,  gladly 
obeyed;  and  while  the  maid  entered  the  sick 
chamber,  stood  anxiously  without.  Presently 
Varney  passed  him,  and  knocked  at  Helen's 
door;  the  maid  half  opened  it. 

"How  is  Miss  Mainwaring?"  said  he  ea- 
gerly. 

"  I  fear  she  is  worse,  sir,— but  Madame 
Dalibard  does  not  not  think  there  is  any  dan- 
ger." 

"No  danger!  I  am  glad;  but  pray  ask 
Madame  Dalibard  to  let  me  see  her  for  a  few 
moments,  in  her  own  room.  If  she  come  out 
I  will  wheel  her  chair  to  it.  Whether  there  is 
danger  or  not  we  had  better  send  for  other 
advice  than  his  country  doctor,  who  has  per- 
haps mistaken  the  case;  tell  her  I  am  very 
uneasy,  and  beg  her  to  join  me  immediately." 

"I  think  you  are  quite  right,  sir;"  said  the 
maid,  closing  the  door. 

Varney  then  turning  round  for  the  first  time, 
noticed  Beck,  and  said,  roughly — 

"What  do,  you  do  here?  Wait  below  till 
you  are  sent  for." 

Beck  pulled  his  forelock,  and  retreated  back, 
not  in  the  direction  of  the  principal  staircase, 
but  towards  that  used  by  the  servants,  and 
which  his  researchers  into  the  topography  of 
the  mansion  had  now  made  known  to  him.  To 
gain  these  back  stairs  he  had  to  pass  Lucretia's 
room;  the  door  stood  ajar;  Varney's  face  was 
turned  from  him.  Beck  breathed  hard,  looked 
round,  then  crept  within,  and,  in  a  moment, 
was  behind  the  folds  of  the  tapestry. 

Soon  the  chair  in  which  sat  Madame  Dali- 
bard was  drawn  by  Varney  himself  into  the 
room. 


B  UL  WER  •  S     IVORKS. 


Shutting  the  door  with  care,  and  turning 
the  key,  Galiriel  said,  with  low,  suppressed 
passion — 

"Well;  your  mind  seems  wandering  — 
speak  !  " 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Lucretia,  in  hollow 
tones,  "  can  Nature  turn  accomplice,  and  be- 
friend us  here  ? " 

"Nature  !  did  you  not  last  night  administer 
the " 

"No,"  interrupted  Lucretia.  "No;  she 
came  into  the  room — she  kissed  me  here,  on 
the  brow  that  even  then  was  meditating  mur- 
<ier.  The  kiss  burned;  it  burns  still — it  eat 
into  the  brain,  like  remorse.  But  I  did  not 
yield — 1  read  again  her  false  father's  protesta- 
tion of  love — 1  read  again  the  letter  announc- 
ing the  discovery  of  my  son,  and  remorse  lay 
still — I  went  forth  as  before— I  stole  into  her 
chamber — I  had  the  fatal  crystal  in  my  hand — " 

"Well  !  well  !  " 

"  And  suddenly  there  came  the  fearful  howl 
of  a  dog  1  and  the  dog's  fierce  eyes  glared  on 
me — I  paused — I  trembled —Helen  started, 
woke,  called  aloud — I  turned  and  fled.  The 
poison  was  not  given. 

Varney  ground  his  teeth.  "  But  this  illness  ! 
Ha  !  the  effect,  perhaps,  of  the  drops  adminis- 
tered two  nights  ago." 

"No!  this  illness  has  no  symptoms  like 
those  the  poison  should  bequeath;  it  is  but 
natural  fever,  a  shock  on  the  nerves;  she  told 
me  she  had  been  wakened  by  the  dog's  howl, 
and  seen  a  dark  form,  like  a  thing  from  the 
grave,  creeping  along  the  floor.  But  she  is 
really  ill — send  for  the  physician;  there  is 
nothing  in  her  illness  to  betray  the  hand  of 
man.  Be  it  as  it  may — -that  kiss  still  burns — 
I  will  stir  in  this  no  more.  Do  vvhat  you  will 
yourself  !  " 

"  Fool,  fool  !  "  exclaimed  Varney,  almost 
rudely  grasping  her  arm.  "  Remember  how 
much  we  have  yet  to  prepare  for — how  much 
to  do— and  the  time  so  short  !  Percival's  re- 
turn— perhaps  this  Greville's  arrival.  Give 
me  the  drugs,  I  will  mix  them  for  her  in  the 
potion  the  physician  sends.  And  when  Per- 
cival  returns — his  Helen  dead  or  dying — why 
/  will  attend  on  him  .'  Silent  still  ?  Recall 
your  son  !  Soon  you  will  clasp  him  in  your 
arms  as  a  beggar  eras  the  lord  of  Laughton  I  " 

Lucretia  shuddered  but  did  not  rise;  she 
drew  forth    a  ring  of  keys  from  her   bosom. 


and  pointed  towards  a  secretary.  Varney 
snatched  the  keys,  unlocked  the  secretary, 
seized  the  fatal  casket,  and  sate  down  quietly 
before  it. 

When  the  dire  selections  were  made,  and 
secreted  about  his  person,  Varney  rose,  ap- 
proached the  fire,  and  blew  the  wood  embers 
to  a  blaze. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  with  his  icy  irony  of 
smile,  "we  may  dismiss  these  useful  instru- 
ments, perhaps  for  ever.  Though  Walter 
Ardworth,  in  restoring,  your  son,  leaves  us 
dependant  on  that  son's  filial  affection,  and  I 
may  have,  therefore,  little  to  hope  for  from  the 
succession,  to  secure  which  I  have  risked,  and 
am  again  to  risk  my  life,  I  yet  trust  to  that 
influence,  which  you  never  fail  to  obtain  over 
others.  I  take  it  for  gfanted,  that,  when  these 
halls  are  Vincent  Braddell's,  we  shall  have  no 
need  of  gold,  nor  of  these  pale  alchemies. 
Perish,  then,  the  mute  witnesses  of  our  acts  I 
— the  elements  we  have  bowed  to  our  will  ! 
No  poisons  shall  be  found  in  our  hoards  1 
Fire,  consume  your  consuming  children  !  " 

As  he  spoke,  he  threw  upon  the  hearth  the 
contents  of  the  casket,  and  set  his  heel  upon 
the  logs.  A  bluish  flame  shot  up,  breaking 
into  countless  sparks,  and  then  died. 

Lucretia  watched  him,  without  speaking. 

In  coming  back  towards  the  table,  Varney 
felt  something  hard  beneath  his  tread;  he 
stooped,  and  picked  up  the  ring  which  has 
before  been  described  as  amongst  the  ghastly 
treasures  of  the  casket,  and  which  had  rollcii 
on  the  floor,  almost  to  Lucretia's  feet,  as  he 
had  emptied  the  contents  on  the  hearth. 

"This  at  least,  need  tell  no  tales,"  said  he 
— "  a  pity  to  destroy  so  rare  a  piece  of  work- 
manship— one,  too,  which  we  never  can  re- 
place !  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Lucretia,  abstractedly, — "  and, 
if  detection  comes,  it  may  secure  a  refuge 
from  the  gibbet — give  me  the  ring  !  ' 

"  A  refuge  more  terrible  than  the  detection," 
said  Varney — "beware  of  such  a  thought;" 
as  Lucretia,  taking  it  from  his  hand,  placed 
the  ring  on  her  finger. 

"  And  now,  I  leave  you  for  awhile  to  re- 
collect yourself — to  compose  your  counte- 
nance, and  your  thoughts.  I  will  send  for  the 
physician." 

Lucretia,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
did  not  heed  him,  and  he  withdrew. 


LUCJiETJA. 


703 


So  motionless  was  her  attitude — so  still  her 
very  breathing — that  the  unseen  witness  behind 
the  tapestry,  who,  while  struck  with  horror  at 
what  he  had  overheard  (the  general  purport  of 
which  it  was  "impossible  that  he  could  mis- 
understand), was  parched  with  impatience  to 
escape — to  rescue  his  beloved  master  from  his 
impending  fate,  and  warn  him  of  the  fate 
ihovering  nearer  still  over  Helen, — ventured  to 
•creep  along  the  wall  to  the  threshold — to  peer 
forth  from  the  arras,  and  seeing  her  eyes  still 
downcast,  to  emerge,  and  place  his  hand  on 
the  door. 

At  that  very  moment  Lucretia  looked  up, 
and  saw  him  gliding  from  the  tapestry — their 
eyes  met — his  were  fascinated  as  the  bird's  by 
the  snake's.  At  the  sight,  all  her  craft— her 
intellect  i-eturned.  With  a  glance,  ^he  com- 
prehended the  terrible  danger  that  awaited 
her.  Before  he  was  aware  of  her  movement, 
she  was  at  his  side — her  hand  on  his  own — 
her  voice  in  his  ear. 

"Stir  not  a  step — utter  not  a  sound — or  you 
are " 

Beck  did  not  suffer  her  to  proceed.  With 
the  violence  rather  of  fear  than  of  courage,  he 
struck  her  to  the  ground;  but  she  clung  to 
him  still;  and,  though  rendered  for  the  mo- 
ment speechless  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
blow,  her  eyes  took  an  expression  of  unspeak- 


of  detection,  paralyzed  her  wondrous  vigor  of 
mind  and  frame,— when  Varney  entered. 

"They  tell  me  she  sleeps,"  he  said,  in 
hoarse  muttered  accents,  before  he  saw  the 
prostrate  form  at  his  very  feet.  But  Varney's 
step,  Varney's  voice,  had  awakened  Lucrctia's 
reason  to  consciousness  and  the  sense  of  peril. 
Rising,  though  with  effort,  she  related  hur- 
riedly, what  had  passed. 

"  Fly — fly  !  "she  gasped,  as  she  concluded. 
"  Fly — to  detain,  to  secrete  this  man  some- 
where, for  the  next  few  hour.s.  Silence  him 
but  till  then — I  have  done  the  rest  !  "—and 
her  finger  pointed  to  the  fatal  ring. 

Varney  waited  for  no  farther  words;  he  hur- 
ried out,  and  made  at  once  to  the  stables:  his 
shrewdness  conjectured  that  Beck  would  carry 
his  tale  elsewhere.  The  groom  was  already 
gone — (his  fellows  said)  'without  a  word,  but 
towards  the  lodge  that  led  to  the  Southampton 
road.  Varney  ordered  the  swiftest  horse  the 
stables  held  to  be  saddled,  and  said,  as  he 
sprang  on  its  back, 

"  I,  too,  must  go  towards  Southampton — the 
poor  young  lady  ! — I  must  prepare  your  mas- 
ter— he  is  on  his  road  back  to  us;"  and  the 
last  word  was  scarce  out  of  his  lips,  as  the 
sparks  flew  from  the  flints  under  the  horse's 
hoofs,  and  he  spurred  from  the  yard. 

As  he  rode  at  full  speed  through  the  park, 
able  cruelty  and  fierceness.  He  struggled  the  villain's  mind  sped  more  rapidly  than  the 
with  all  his  might  to  shake  her  off;  as  he  did  animal  he  bestrode — sped  from  fear  to  hope — 
so,  she  placed  feebly  her  other  hand  upon  the    hope  to  assurance.     Grant  that  the   spy  lived 


wrist  of  the  lifted  arm  that  had  smitten  her, 
and  he  felt  a  sharp  pain,  as  if  the  nails  had 
fastened  into  the  flesh.  This  but  exasperated 
him  into  new  efforts.  He  extricated  himself 
from  her  grasp,  which  relaxed,  as  her  lips 
writhed  into  a  smile  of  scorn  and  triumph, 
and,  spurning  her  while  she  lay  before  the 
threshold,  he  opened  the  door,  sprang  forward, 
and  escaped.  No  thought  had  he  of  tarrying 
in  that  House  of  Pelope,  those  human  sham- 
bles, of  denouncing  Murder  in  its  lair;— to  fly, 
to  reach  his  master,  warn  and  shield  him — that 
was  the  sole  thought  which  crossed  his  con- 
fused, bewildered  brain. 

It  might  be  from  four  to  five  minutes,  that 
Lucretia,  half  stunned,  half  senseless,  lay 
upon  those  floors;  for,  besides  the  violence  of 
her  fall,  the  shock  of  the  struggle,  upon  nerves 
weakened  by  the  agony  of  apprehension,  occa- 
sioned by  the  imminent  and  unforeseen  chance 


to  tell  his  tale — incoherent,  improbable  as  the 
tale  would  be — who  would  believe  it  ?  How 
easy  to  meet  tale  by  tale  !  The  man  must 
own  that  he  was  secreted  behind  the  tapestry; 
— wherefore  but  to  rob  ?  Detected  by  Ma- 
dame Dalibard,  he  had  coined  this  wretched 
fable.  And  the  spy,  too,  could  not  live 
through  the  day — he  bore  Death  with  him  as 
he  rode — he  fed  its  force  by  his  speed— and 
the  effects  of  the  venom  itself  would  be  those 
of  frenzy.  Tush  !  his  tale,  at  best,  would 
seem  but  the  ravings  of  delirium.  Still,  it  was 
well  to  track  him  where  he  went, — delay  him, 
if  possible;  and  Varney's  spurs  plunged  deep 
and  deeper  into  the  bleeding  flanks:  on  des- 
perately scoured  the  horse.  He  passed  the 
lodge — he  was  on  the  road — a  chaise  and  pair 
dashed  by  him— he  heard  not  a  voice  exclaim 
"  Varney  !  " — he  saw  not  the  wondering  face 
of  John  Ardworth;— bending  over  the  tossing 


704 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


mane — he  was  deaf,  he  was  iiliiKl,  to  all  with- 
out and  around.  A  milestone  glides  by, 
another,  and  a  third.  Ha  !  his  eyes  can  see 
now.  The  object  of  his  chase  is  before  him — 
—he  views  distinctly,  on  the  brow  of  yon  hill, 
the  horse  and  the  rider,  spurring  fast,  like 
himself.  They  descend  the  hill,  horse  and 
horseman,  and  are  snatched  from  his  sight. 
Up  the  steep  strains  the  pursuer.  He  is  at 
the  summit.  He  sees  the  fugitive  before  him, 
almost  within  hearing.  Beck  has  slackened 
his  speed;  he  seems  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the 
saddle.  Ho,  ho  !  the  barbed  ring  begins  to 
work  in  his  veins  !  Varney  looks  round — not 
another  soul  is  in  sight— a  deep  wood  skirts 
the  road.  Place  and  time  seem  to  favor — 
Beck  has  reined  in  his  horse — he  bends  low 
over  the  saddle,  as  if  about  to  fall.  Varney 
utters  a  half-suppressed  cry  of  triumph,  shakes 
his  reins,  and  spurs  on — when,  suddenly  (by 
the  curve  of  the  road,  hid  before),  another 
chaise  comes  in  sight,  close  where  Beck  had 
wearily  halted. 

The  chaise  stops— Varney  pulls  in  and  draws 
aside  to  the  hedge-row  !  Some  one  within  the 
vehicle  is  speaking  to  the  fugitive  !  May  it 
not  be  St.  John  himself  ?  To  his  rage  and  his 
terror,  he  sees  Beck  painfully  dismount  from 
his  horse — sees  him  totter  to  the  door  of  the 
chaise — sees  a  servant  leap  from  the  box,  and 
help  him  up  the  step^sees  him  enter.  It 
tnnst  be  Percival  on  his  return  !  Percival,  to 
whom  he  tells  that  story  of  horror  !  Varney's 
brute-like  courage  forsook  him — his  heart  was 
appalled.  In  one  of  those  panics  so  common 
with  that  boldness  which  is  but  animal,  his 
sole  thought  became  that  of  escape.  He 
turned  his  horse's  head  to  the  fence — forced 
his  way  desperately  through  the  barrier — made 
into  the  wood,  and  sate  there,  cowering  and 
listening,  till  in  another  minute  he  heard  the 
wheels  rattle  on,  and  the  horses  gallop  hard 
down  the  hill  towards  the  park. 

The  autumn  wind  swept  through  the  trees — 
it  shook  the  branches  of  the  lofty  ash  that 
overhung  the  Accursed  One.  What  observer 
of  nature  knows  not  that  peculiar  sound  which 
the  ash  gives  forth  in  the  blast — not  the  sol- 
emn groan  of  the  oak — not  the  hollow  murmur 
of  the  beech,  but  a  shrill  wail — a  shriek,  as  of 
a  human  voice  in  sharp  anguish.  Varney 
shuddered,  as  if  he  had  heard  the  death-cry  of 
his  intended   victims  !      Through  liriars    and 


thickets,  torn  by  the  thorns,  bruised  by  iht 
boughs — he  plunged  deeper  and  deejjer  int< 
the  wood — gained  at  length  the  main  path  cut 
through  it — found  himself  in  a  lane,  and  rode 
on,  careless  whither,  till  he  had  reached  a 
small  town,  about  ten  miles  from  I^iughton, 
where  he  resolved  to  wait  till  his  nerves  had 
recovered  their  tone,  and  he  could  more  calmly 
calculate  the  chances  of  safety. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 
Lucretia  Regains  her  Son. 

It  seemed  as  if  now,  when  danger  became 
most  iminent  and  present — that  that  very  dan- 
ger served  to  restore  to  Lucretia  Dalibard  all 
her  faculties,  which  during  the  earlier  day  had 
been  steeped  in  a  kind  of  dreary  stupor.  Thi- 
absolute  necessity  of  playing  out  her  execrable 
part  with  all  suitable  and  consistent  hypocrisy, 
braced  her  into  iron.  But  the  disguise  she 
assumed  was  a  supernatural  effort — it  stretched 
to  cracking  every  fibre  of  the  brain.  It  seemed 
almost  to  herself,  as  if,  her  object  once  gained, 
either  life  or  consciousness  could  hold  out  no 
more  ! 

A  chaise  stopped  at  the  jMrch — two  gentle- 
men-descended. The  elder  paused  irresolutely,, 
and  at  length,  taking  out  a  card,  inscribed 
"  Mr.  Walter  Ardworth,"  said,  "  If  Madame 
Dalibard  can  be  spoken  to  for  a  moment,  will 
you  give  her  this  card  ?  " 

The  footman  hesitatingly  stared  at  the  card^ 
and  then  invited  the  gentlemen  into  the  hall^ 
while  he  took  up  the  message.  Not  long  had 
the  visitor  to  wait,  pacing  the  drak  oak  floors 
and  gazing  on  the  faded  banners,  before  the 
servant  reappeared — Madame  Dalibard  would 
see  him.  He  followed  his  guide  up  the  stairs; 
while  his  young  companion  turned  from  the 
hall,  and  seated  himself  musingly  on  one  of 
the  benches  on  the  deserted  terrace. 

Grasping  the  arms  of  her  chair  with  both 
hands,  her  eyes  fixed  eagerly  on  his  face,  Lu- 
cretia Dalibard  awaited  the  welcome  visitor. 

Prepared  as  he  had  been  for  change,  Walter 
was  startled  by  the  ghastly  alteration  in  Lucre- 
tia's  features,  increased,  as  it  was  that  moment, 
by  all  the  emotions  which  raged  within.  He 
sank  into  the  chair  placed   for  him  opposite 


LUCRETIA. 


7C5 


Lucretia,  and,  clearing  his  throat,  said,  falter- 
ingly— 

"  I  grieve  indeed,  madam,  that  my  visit,  in- 
tended to  bring  but  joy,  should  chance  thus 
inopportunely.  The  servant  informed  me,  as 
we  came  up  the  stairs,  that  your  niece  was  ill, 
and  I  sympathize  with  your  natural  anxiety — 
Susan's  only  child,  too — poor  Susan  ! " 

"  Sir,"  said  Lucretia,  impatiently,  "  these 
moments  are  precious.  Sir — sir  ! — my  son — 
my  son  !  "  and  her  eyes  glanced  to  the  door. 
"  You  have  brought  with  you  a  companion, — 
does  he  wait  without  ? — My  son  !  " 

"  Madam,  give  me  a  moment's  patience.  I 
will  be  brief,  and  compress  what,  in  other 
moments,  might  be  a  long  narrative,  into  a  few 
sentences." 

Rapidly,  then,  Walter  Ardworth  passed  over 
the  details,  unnecessary  now  to  repeat  to  the 
reader;  the  injunctions  of  Braddell,  the  deliv- 
ery of  the  child  to  the  woman  selected  by  his 
fellow-sectarian,  (who,  it  seemed,  by  John 
Ardworth's  recent  inquiries,  were  afterwards 
expelled  the  community,  and  who,  there  was 
reason  to  believe,  had  been  the  first  seducer 
of  the  woman  thus  recommended).  No  clue 
to  the  child's  parentage  had  been  given  to  the 
woman,  with  the  sum  entrusted  for  his  main- 
tenance, which  sum  had  perhaps  been  the  main 
cause  of  her  reckless  progress  to  infamy  and 
ruin.  The  narrator  passed  lightly  over  the 
neglect  and  cruelty  of  the  nurse,  to  her  aban- 
donment of  the  child  when  the  money  was  ex- 
hausted. Fortunately,  she  had  overlooked  the 
coral,  round  its  neck.  By  that  coral,  and  by 
the  initials,  V.  B.,  which  Ardworth  had  had 
the  precaution  to  have  burned  into  the  child's 
wrist,  the  lost  son  had  been  discovered:  the 
nurse  herself  (found  in  the  person  of  Martha 
Skeggs,  Lucretia's  own  servant),  had  been 
confronted  with  the  woman  to  whom  she  gave 
the  child,  and  recognized  at  once.  Nor  had  it 
heen  difficult  to  obtain  from  her  the  confes- 
sion which  completed  the  evidence. 

"In  this  discovery,"  concluded  Ardworth, 
"the  person  I  employed  met  your  own  agent, 
and  the  last  links  in  the  chain  they  traced 
together.  But  to  that  person, — to  his  zeal  and 
intelligence, — yon  owe  the  happiness  I  trust 
to  give  you.  He  sympathized  with  me  the 
more  that  he  knew  you  personally,  felt  for 
your  sorrows,  and  had  a  lingering  belief  that 
you  supposed  him  to  be  the  child  you  yearned 

6—45 


for.     Madam,  thank  my  Son  for  the  restora- 
tion of  your  own  !  " 

Without  sound,  Lucretia  had  listened  to 
these  details,  though  her  countenance  changed 
fearfully  as  the  narrator  proceeded.  But  now 
she  groaned  aloud  and  in  agony. 

"  Nay,  madam,"  said  Ardworth,  feelingly 
and  in  some  surprise,  "  surely  the  discovery 
of  your  son  should  create  gladder  emotions. 
Though,  indeed,  you  will  be  prepared  to  find 
that  the  poor  youth  so  reared  wants  education 
and  refinement,  I  have  heard  enough  to  con- 
vince me  that  his  dispositions  are  good  and  his 
heart  grateful.  Judge  of  this  yourself;  he  is 
in  these  walls — he  is " 

"  Abandoned  by  a  harlot — reared  by  a  beg- 
gar I  My  son  ! "  interrupted  Lucretia,  in 
broken  sentences.  "  Well,  sir,  have  you  dis- 
charged your  task  !  Well  have  you  replaced 
a  mother  I " 

Before  Ardw'orth  could  reply,  loud  and 
rapid  steps  were  heard  in  the  corridor,  and  a 
voice,  cracked,  indistinct,  but  vehement.  The 
door  was  thrown  open,  and,  half-supported  by 
Captain  Greville,  half  dragging  him  along — 
his  features  convulsed,  whether  by  pain  or 
passion,— the  spy  upon  Lucretia's  secrets,  the 
denouncer  of  her  crime,  tottered  to  the  thres- 
hold. Pointing  to  where  she  sat  with  his 
long,  lean  arm.  Beck  exclaimed — "  Seize  her  ! 
I  'cuse  her,  face  to  face,  of  the  murder  of  her 
niece  ! — of — of  I  told  you,  sir — I  told  you " 

"Madam,"  said'  Captain  Greville,  "you 
stand  charged  by  this  witness  with  the  most 
terrible  of  human  crimes.  I  judge  you  not. 
Your  niece,  I  rejoice  to  hear,  yet  lives  !  Pray 
God  that  her  death  be  not  traced  to  those 
kindred  hands ! " 

Turning  her  eyes  from  one  to  the  other  with 
a  wandering  stare,  Lucretia  Dalibard  remained 
silent.  But  there  was  still  scorn  on  her  lip, 
and  defiance  on  her  brow.  At  last  she  said, 
slowly,  and  to  Ardworth — 

"  Where  is  my  son  ?  You  say,  he  is  within 
these  walls — call  him  forth  to  protect  his 
mother !  Give  me,  at  least,  my  son — my 
son  !  " 

Her  last  words  were  drowned  by  a  fresh 
burst  of  fury  from  her  denouncer.  In  all  the 
coarsest  invective  his  education  could  supply 
— in  all  the  hideous  vulgarities  of  his  untutored 
dialect — in  that  uncurbed  licentiousness  of 
tone,   look,  and   manner  which   passion,  once 


7o6 


BULWEIVS     WORKS. 


aroused,  gives  to  the  dregs  and  scum  of  the 
populace,  Beck  poured  forth  his  frightful 
charges — his  frantic  execrations.  In  vain 
Captain  Greville  strove  to  checlv  him.  In  vain 
Walter  Ardworth  sought  to  draw  him  from  the 
room.  But  while  the  poor  wretch — madden- 
ing not  more  with  the  consciousness  of  the 
crime,  than  with  the  excitement  of  the  poison 
in  his  blood — thus  raved  and  stormed,  a  ter- 
rible suspicion  crossed  Waiter  Ardworth: 
mechanically — as  his  grasp  was  on  the  ac- 
cuser's arm — he  bared  the  sleeve,  and  on  the 
wrist  were  the  dark  blue  letters,  burned  into 
the  skin,  and  bearing  witness  to  his  identity 
with  the  lost  Vincent  Braddell. 

"  Hold,  hold  !  "  he  exclaimed  then — "  hold, 
unhappy  man  ! — it  is  your  mother  whom  you 
denounce  !  " 

Lucretia  sprang  up  erect — her  eyes  seemed 
starting  from  her  head;  she  caught  at  the  arm 
pointed  towards  her  in  wrath  and  menace — 
and  there,  amidst  those  letters  that  proclaimed 
her  son,  was  the  small  puncture  surrounded  by 
a  livid  circle,  that  announced  her  victim.  In 
the  same  instant  she  discovered  her  child  in 
the  man  who  was  calling  down  upon  her  head 
the  hatred  of  Earth  and  the  justice  of  Heaven, 
and  knew  herself  his  murderess. 

She  dropped  the  arm,  and  sank  back  on  the 
chair;  and,  whether  the  poison  had  now  reached 
to  the  vitals,  or  whether  so  unwonted  a  pns- 
sion  in  so  frail  a  frame,  sufficed  for  the  death- 
stroke,  Beck  himself,  with  a  low  suffocated  cry, 
slid  from  the  hand  of  Ardworth,  and,  tottering 
a  step  or  so,  the  blood  gushed  from  his  mouth, 
over  Lucretia's  robe;^his  head  drooped  an  in- 
stant, and  falling,  rested  first  upon  her  lap — 
then  struck  heavily  upon  the  floor.  The  two 
men  bent  over  him,  and  raised  him  in  their 
arms— his  eyes  opened  and  closed — his  throat 
rattled,  and,  as  he  fell  back  into  their  arms  a 
corpse,  a  laugh  rose  close  at  hand — it  rang 
through  the  walls,  it  was  heard  near  and  afar 
— above  and  below.  Not  an  ear  in  that  house 
that  heard  it  not.  In  that  laugh  fled  for  ever, 
till  the  Judgment-day,  from  the  blackened 
ruins  of  her  lost  soul,  the  reason  of  the  mur- 
dress-mother. 


CHAPTER    XXVTIi. 

The  Lots  vanish  within  the  Urn. 

Varnev's  self-commune  restored  to  him  his 
constitutional  audacity.  He  returned  to 
Laughton  towards  the  evening,  and  held  a 
long  conference  with  Greville.  Fortunately 
for  him,  perhaps,  and  happily  for  all,  Helen 
had  lost  all  more  dangerous  symptoms,  and 
the  physician  who  was  in  the  house,  saw  in 
her  state  nothing  not  easily  to  be  accounted 
for  by  natural  causes.  Percival  had  arrived, 
had  seen  Helen — no  wonder  she  was  better. 
Both  from  him  and  from  Helen,  Madame 
Dalibard's  fearful  condition  was  for  the  present 
concealed.  Ardworth's  story,  and  the  fact  of 
Beck's  identity  with  Vincent  Braddell,  were 
also  reserved  for  a  later  occasion.  .  .  .  The 
tale  which  Beck  had  poured  into  the  ear  of 
Greville,  (when  recognizing  the  St.  John  livery 
the  Captain  stopped  his  chaise  to  inquire  if 
Percival  were  at  the  Hall,  and  when  thrilled 
by  the  hideous  import  of  his  broken  reply, 
that 'gentleman  had  caused  him  to  enter  the 
vehicle  to  explain  himself  further)  Varney 
with  his  wonted  art  and  address,  contrived  to 
strip  of  all  probable  semblance.  Evidently 
the  poor  lad  had  been  already  delirious,  his 
story  must  be  deemed  the  night-mare  of  his 
disordered  reason.  Varney  insisted  upon 
surgical  examination  as  to  the  cause  of  his 
death — the  membranes  of  the  brain  were 
found  surcharged  with  blood,  as  in  cases  of 
great  mental  excitement— the  slight  puncture 
in  the  wrist,  ascribed  to  the  prick  of  a  rusty 
nail,  provoked  no  suspicion.  If  some  doubts 
remained  still  on  Greville's  acute  mind,  he  was 
not  eager  to  express,  still  less  to  act,  upon 
them.  Helen  was  declared  to  be  out  of  dan- 
ger. Percival  was  safe — why  affix  by  minute 
inquiry  into  the  alleged  guilt  of  Madame  Dali- 
bard,  (already  so  awfully  affected  by  the  death 
of  her  son  and  by  the  loss  of  her  reason)  so 
foul  a  stain  on  the  honored  family  of  St. 
John  ?  But  Greville  was  naturally  anxious  to 
free  the  house  as  soon  as  possible,  both  of 
Varney  and  that  ominous  Lucretia,  whose 
sojourn  under  its  roof  seemed  accursed.  He 
therefore  readily  assented  when  Varney  pro- 
posed—as his  obvious  and  personal  duty,  to 
take  charge  of  his  mother-in-law,  and  remove 
her  to  London  for  immediate  advice. 


LUCRETIA. 


707 


At  the  <.<ead  of  the  black-cloiuled  night — 
no  moon  and  no  stars — the  son  of  Olivier 
Dalihard  bore  away  the  form  of  the  once  for- 
midable Lucietia: — the  fornu  for  the  mind 
was  gone-^that  teeming,  restless,  and  fertile 
intellect,  which  had  carried  along  the  projects, 
with  the  preter-hiiman  energies  of  the  fiend, 
was  hurled  into  night  and  chaos.  Manacled 
and  bound,  for  at  times  her  paroxysms  were 
terrible,  and  all  partook  of  the  destructive  and 
murderous  character,  which  her  faculties,  when 
present,  had  betrayed,  she  was  placed  in  the 
vehicle  by  the  shrinking  side  of  her  accom- 
plice. 

Long  before  he  arrived  in  London,  Varney 
had  got  rid  of  his  fearful  companion.  His 
chaise  had  stopped  at  the  iron  gates  of  a  large 
building,  somewhat  out  of  the  main  road,  and 
the  doors  of  the  Madhouse  closed  on  Lucre- 
tia  Dal  i  bard. 

Varney  then  hastened  to  Dover  with  inten- 
tion of  flight  into  France;  he  was  just  about 
to  step  into  the  vessel  when  he  was  tapped 
rudely  on  the  shoulder,  and  a  determined 
voice  said — "  Mr.  Gabriel  Varney,  you  are  my 
prisoner  !  " 

"  For  what — some  paltry  debt  ?  "  said  Var- 
nej'  haughtily. 

"  For  forgery  on  the  bank  of  England  1  " 

Varney's  hand  plunged  into  his  vest.  The 
officer  seized  it  in  time,  and  wrested  the 
blade  from  his  grasp.  Once  arrested  for  an 
offence  it  was  impossible  to  disprove,  although 


remorse  of  the  &o\x\,—that  still  slept  within 
him,  too  noble  an  agency  for  one  so  debased — 
but  the  gross  physical  terror.  As  the  fear  of 
the  tiger  once  aroused  is  more  paralyzing  than 
that  of  the  deer,  proportioneil  to  the  savage- 
ness  of  a  disposition  to  which  fear  is  a  nov- 
elty, so  the  very  boldness  of  Varney,  coming 
only  from  the  perfection  of  the  nervous  organi- 
zation and  unsupported  by  one  moral  senti- 
ment, once  struck  down  was  corrupted  into 
the  vilest  cowardice.  With  his  audacity,  his 
shrewdness  forsook  him. 

Advised  by  his  lawyer  to  plead  guilty,  he 
obeyed,  and  the  sentence  of  transportation  for 
life  gave  him,  at  first  a  feeling  of  reprieve; 
but  when  his  imagination  began  to  picture,  in 
the  darkness  of  his  cell,  all  the  true  tortures 
of  that  penalty,  not  so  much,  perhaps,  to  the 
uneducated  peasant  felon,  inured  to  toil,  and 
familiarized  with  coarse  companionship,  as  to 
one  pampere<I  like  himself  by  all  soft  and  half 
womanly  indulgencies — the  shaven  hair — the 
convict's  dress — the  rigorous  privation — the 
drudging  toil;— the  exile  seemed  as  grim  as 
the  grave.  In  the  dotage  of  faculties  smitten 
into  drivelling — he  wrote  to  the  Home  Office, 
offering  to  disclose  secrets  connected  with 
crimes  that  had  hitherto  escaped  or  baffled 
justice,  on  condition  that  his  sentence  might 
be  repealed,  or  mitigated  into  the  gentler 
forms  of  ordinary  transportation.  No  answer 
was  returned  to  him — but  his  letter  provoked 
research — circuinstances   connected    with    his 


the  very  smallest  of  which  his  conscience  might  j  uncle's  deatn,  and  with  various  other  dark  pas- 
charge  him,  Varney  sank  into  the  blackest 
despair.  Though  he  had  often  boasted,  not 
only  to  others,  but  to  his  own  vain  breast,  of 
the  easy  courage  with  which,  when  life  ceased 
to  yield  enjoyment,  he  could  dismiss  it  by  the 
act  of  his  own  will — though  he  had  possessed 
himself  of  Lucretia's  murderous  ring,  and 
death,  if  fearful,  was  therefore  at  his  command, 
self-destruction  was  the  last  thought  that  oc- 
curred to  him — that  morbid  excitability  of 
fancy,  which,  whether  in  his  art  or  in  his  deeds, 
had  led  him  to  strange  delight  in  horror,  now 
served  but  to  haunt  him  with  the  images  of 
death  in  those  ghastliest  shapes  familiar  to 
them  who  look  only  into  the  bottom  of  the 
charnel,  and  see  but  the  rat  and  the  worm, 
and  the  loathsome  agencies  of  corruption.  It 
was  not  the  despair  of  conscience  that  seized 
him,  it  was  the  abject  clinging  to  life; — not  the 


sages  in  his  life — sealed  against  him  all  hope 
of  more  merciful  sentence,  and  when  some  ac- 
quaintances whom  his  art  had  made  for  him, 
and  who,  while  grieving  for  his  crime,  saw  in 
it  some  excuses,  (ignorant  of  his  feller  deeds), 
sought  to  intercede  in  his  behalf;  the  reply  of 
the  Home  Office  was  obvious,  "  He  is  a  for- 
tunate man  to  have  been  tried  and  condemned 
for  his  least  offence."  Not  one  indulgence 
that  could  distinguish  him  from  the  most  exe- 
crable ruffian,  condemned  to  the  same  sen- 
tence, was  conceded. 

The  idea  of  the  gibbet  lost  all  its  horror. 
Here  was  a  gibbet  for  every  hour  !  No  hope 
—no  escape.  Already  that  Future  Doom 
which  comprehends  the  '  For  ever '  opened 
upon  him,  black  and  fathomless.  The  hour- 
glass was  i)roken  up — the  hand  of  the  time- 
piece  was   arrested.     The   beyond    stretched 


7o8 


BULWER'S     WORKS 


before  him,  without  limit,  without  goal — on  in- 
to Annihilation  or  into  Hell. 


EPILOGUE   TO  PART  THE  SECOND. 

Stand,  O  Man  !  upon  the  hill-top— in  the 
stillness  of  the  evening  hour— and  gaze,  not 
with  joyous,  but  with  contented  eyes,  upon  the 
beautiful  world  around  thee  !  See,  where  the 
mists,  soft  and  dim,  rise  over  the  green  mead- 
ows, through  which  the  rivulet  steals  its  way  ! 
See  where,  broadest  and  stillest,  the  wave  ex- 
pands to  the  full  smile  of  the  setting  sun — and 
the  willow  that  trembles  on  the  breeze — and 
the  oak  that  stands  firm  in  the  storm,  are  re- 
flected back,  peaceful  both,  from  the  clear 
glass  of  the  tides  !  See,  where,  begirt  by  the 
gold  of  the  harvests,  and  backed  by  the  pomp 
of  a  thousand  groves — the  roofs  of  the  town, 
bask,  noiseless,  in  the  calm  glow  of  the  sky. 
Not  a  sound  from  those  abodes  floats  in  dis- 
cord to  thine  ear, — only  from  the  church-tower, 
soaring  high  above  the  rest,  perhaps,  faintly 
heard  through  the  stillness,  swells  the  note  of 
the  holy  bell.  Along  the  mead  low  skims  the 
swallow — on  the  wave,  the  silver  circlet,  break- 
ing into  spray,  shows  the  sport  of  the  fish. 
See,  the  Earth,  how  serene,  though  all  eloquent 
of  activity  and  life  !  See  the  Heavens,  how 
benign,  though  dark  clouds,  by  yon  mountain, 
blend  the  purple  with  the  gold  !  Gaze  con- 
tented, for  Good  is  around  thee — not  joyous, 
for  Evil  is  the  shadow  of  Good  !  Let  thy  soul 
pierce  through  the  veil  of  the  senses,  and  thy 
sight  plunge  deeper  than  the  surface  which 
gives  delight  to  thine  eye.  Below  the  glass 
of  that  river,  the  pike  darts  on  his  prey;  the 
circle  in  the  wave,  the  soft  plash  amongst 
the  reeds,  are  but  signs  of  Destroyer  and  of 
Victim. 

In  the  ivy  sound  the  oak  by  the  margin,  the 
owl  hungers  for  the  night,  which  shall  give  its 
beak  and  its  talons  living  food  for  its  young; 
and  the  spray  of  the  willow  trembles  with  the 
wing  of  the  redbreast,  whose  bright  eye  sees 
the  worm  on  the  sod.  Canst  thou  count  too, 
O  Man  !  all  the  cares — all  the  sins — that  those 
noiseless  roof-tops  conceal  ?  With  every  curl 
of  that  smoke  to  the  sky,  a  human  thought 
soars  as  dark,  a  human  hope  melts  as  briefly. 
And  the  hell  from  the  church-tower,   that  to 


thy  ear  gives  but  music,  perhaps  knolls  for  the 
dead.  The  swallow  but  chases  the  moth,  and 
the  cloud  that  deepens  the  glory  of  the  heaven, 
and  the  sweet  shadows  on  the  earth,  nurses 
but  the  thunder  that  shall  rend  tht  grove,  and 
the  storm  that  shall  devastate  the  harvests. 
Not  with  fear,  not  with  doubt,  recognize,  O 
Mortal,  the  presence  of  Evil  in  the  world.* 
Hush  thy  heart  in  the  humbleness  of  awe,  that 
its  mirror  may  reflect  as  serenely  the  shadow 
as  the  light.  Vainly,  for  its  moral,  dost  thou 
gaze  on  the  landscape,  if  thy  soul  puts  no 
check  on  the  dull  delight  of  the  senses.  Two 
wings  only  raise  thee  to  the  summit  of  Truth 
— where  the  Cherub  shall  comfort  the  sorrow, 
where  the  Seraph  shall  enlighten  the  joy. 
Dark  as  ebon,  spreads  the  one  wing,  white  as 
snow  gleams  the  other— mournful  as  thy  rea- 
son when  it  descends  into  the  deep — exulting 
as  ihy  faith  when  it  springs  to  the  day-star. 

Beck  sleeps  in  the  churchyard  of  Laughton. 
He  had  lived  to  frustrate  the  monstrous  de- 
sign intended  to  benefit  himself,  and  to  be- 
come the  instrument,  while  the  victim  of  the 
dread  Eumenides.  That  done,  his  life  passed 
with  the  crimes  that  had  gathered  around,  out 
of  the  sight  of  mortals.  Helen  slowly  regained 
her  health  in  the  atmosphere  of  love  and  hap- 
piness; and  Lady  Mary  soon  learned  to  forget 
the  fault  of  the  Father  in  the  virtues  of  the 
Child.  Married  to  Percival,  Helen  fulfilled 
the  destines  of  woman's  genius,  in  calling  forth 
into  action  man's  earnest  duties.  She  breathed 
into  Percival's  warm  beneficent  heart,  her  own 
more  steadfast  and  divine  intelligence.  Like 
him  she  grew  ambitious,  by  her  he  became 
distinguished.  While  I  write,  fair  children 
play  under  the  cedars  of  Laughton.  And  the 
husband  tells  the  daughters  to  resemble  their 
mother;— and  the  wife's  highest  praise  to  the 
boys  is — "  You  have  spoken  truth  or  done  good 
like  your  father." 

John  Ardworth  has  not  paused  in  his  career, 
nor  belied  the  promise  of  his  youth.  Though 
the  elder  Ardworth,  partly  by  his  own  exer- 
tions, parity  by  his  second   marriage  with  the 


•  Not,  indeed,  that  the  evil  here  narrated  is  the  ordi- 
luiry  evil  of  the  world.  The  lesson  it  inculcates  would 
be  lost,  if  so  construed;  but  that  the  mystery  of  evil, 
whatever  its  degree,  only  increases  the  necessity  of 
faith  in  the  vindication  of  the  contrivance  which  re- 
quires infinity  for  its  range,  and  eternity  for  its  con- 
summation. It  is  in  the  existence  of  evil  that  man 
finds  his  duties,  and  his  soul  its  progress. 


LUCRETIA. 


709 


daughter  of  the  French  merchant  (through 
whose  agency  he  had  corresponded  with 
Fielden),  had  realized  a  moderate  fortinie,  it 
but  sufficed  for  his  own  wants,  and  for  the  chil- 
dren of  his  later  nuptials,  upon  whom  the 
bulk  of  it  was  settled. 

Hence,  happily  perhaps  for  himself  and 
others,  the  easy  circumstances  of  his  father 
allowed  to  John  Ardworth  no  exemption  from 
labor.  His  success  in  the  single  episode  from 
active  life  to  literature,  did  not  intoxicate  or 
mislead  him.  He  knew  that  his  real  element 
was  not  in  the  field  of  letters,  but  in  the  world 
of  men.  Not  undervaluing  the  noble  destinies 
of  the  Author,  he  felt  that  those  destinies,  if 
realized  to  the  utmost,  tiemanded  powers  other 
than  his  own;  and  that  man  is  only  true  to 
his  genius  when  the  genius  is  at  home  in  his 
career.  He  would  not  renounce  for  a  brief 
celebrity  distant  and  solid  "fame.  He  con- 
tinued for  a  few  years  in  patience  and  priva- 
tion, and  confident  self-reliance,  to  drudge 
on,  till  the  occupation  for  the  intellect  fed  by 
restraint,  and  the  learning  accumulated  by 
study,  came  and  found  the  whole  man  de- 
veloped and  prepared.  Then,  he  rose  rapidly 
from  step  to  step — then,  still  retaining  his  high 
enthtisiasm,  he  enlarged  his  sphere  of  action 
from  the  cold  practice  of  law,  into  those  vast 
social  improvements  which  law,  rightly  re- 
garded, should  lead,  and  vivify,  and  create. 
Then,  and  long  before  the  twenty  years  he 
had  imposed  on  his  probation  had  expired,  he 
gazed  again  upon  the  senate  and  the  abbey, 
and  saw  the  doors  of  the  one  open  to  his 
resolute  tread,  and  anticipated  the  glorious 
sepulchre,  which  heart  and  brain  should  win 
him  in  the  other. 

John  Ardworth  has  never  married.  When 
Percival  rebukes  him  for  his  celibacy,  his  lip 
quivers  slightly,  and  he  applies  himself  with 
more  dogged  earnestness  to  his  studies  or  his 
career.  But  he  never  complains  that  his  lot  is 
lonely  or  his  affections  void.  For  him  who 
aspires,  and  for  him  who  loves,  life  may  lead 
through  the  thorns,  but  it  never  stops  in  the 
desert. 

On  the  minor  personages  involved  in  this  his- 
tory, there  is  little  need  to  dwell.  Mr.  Fiel- 
don,  thanks  to  St.  John,  has  obtained  a  much 
better  living  in  the  rectory  of  Laughton;  but 
has  found  new  sources  of  pleasant  trouble  for 
himself,  in  seeking  to   drill   into  the   mind  of 


Percival's  eldest  son  the  elements  of  F^uclid, 
and  the  principles  of  Latin  syntax. 

We  may  feel  satisfied  that  the  Miver's  will 
go  on  much  the  same  while  trades  enriches 
without  refining,  and  while,  nevertheless,  right 
feelings  in  the  common  paths  of  duty  may 
unite  charitable  emotions  with  graceless  lan- 
guage. 

We  nuiy  rest  assured  that  the  poor  widow 
who  had  reared  the  lost  son  of  Lucretia,  re- 
ceived from  the  bounty  of  Percival  all  that 
could  comfort  her  for  his  death. 

We  have  no  need  to  track  the  dull  crimes 
of  Martha,  or  the  quick,  cunning  vices  of 
Grabman,  to  their  inevitable  goals,  in  the  hos- 
pital or  the  prison,  the  dunghill  or  the  gibbet. 

Of  the  elder  Artlworth  our  parting  notice 
may  be  less  brief.  We  first  saw  him  in  san- 
guine and  generous  youth,  with  higher  princi- 
ples and  clearer  insight  into  honor  than 
William  Mainwaring.  We  have  seen  him  next 
a  spendthrift  and  a  fugitive,  his  principles  de- 
based, and  his  honor  dimmed.  He  presents 
to  us  no  uncommon  example  of  the  corruption 
engendered  by  that  vulgar  self-indulgence 
which  mortgages  the  morrow  for  the  pleasures 
of  to-day.  No  Deity  presides  where  Prudence 
is  absent.  Man,  a  world  in  himself,  requires 
for  the  development  of  his  faculties,  patience; 
and  for  the  balance  of  his  actions,  order. 
Even  where  he  had  deemed  himself  most  op- 
pressively made  the  martyr — viz.,  in  the  pro- 
fession of  mere  political  opinions,  Walter  Ard- 
worth had  but  followed  out  into  theory  the 
restless,  uncalculating  impatience,  which  had 
brought  adver.sity  on  his  manhood,  and,  de- 
spite his  constitutional  cheerfulness,  shadowed 
his  age  with  remorse.  The  death  of  the  child 
committed  to  his  charge,  long  (perhaps  to  the 
last)  embittered  his  pride  in  the  son  whom 
without  merit  of  his  own,  Providence  had  spared 
to  a  brighter  fate.  But  for  the  faults  which 
had  banished  him  his  country,  and  the  habits 
which  had  seared  his  sense  of  duty,  could  that 
child  have  been  so  abandoned,  and  have  so 
perished  ? 

It  remains  only  to  cast  our  glance  over  the 
punishments  which  befel  the  sensual  villany  of 
Varney, — the  intellectual  corruption  of  his  fell 
stepmother. 

These  two  persons  had  made  a  very  trade 
of  those  crimes  to  which  man's  law  awards 
death.     They   had  said    in  their  hearts   that 


/lO 


B  UL  WER'S     WORKS. 


they  would  dare  the  crime,  but  elude  the  pen- 
alty. By  wonderful  subtlety,  craft,  and  dex- 
terity, which  reduced  guilt  to  a  science,  Provi- 
dence seemed,  as  in  disdain  of  the  vulgar  in- 
struments of  common  retribution,  to  concede 
to  them  that  which  they  had  schemed  for, — 
escape  from  the  rope  and  gibbet.  Varney, 
saved  from  detection  of  his  darker  and  more 
inexpiable  crimes,  punished  only  for  the  least 
one— retained  what  had  seemed  to  him  the 
master  boon — life  !  Safer  still  from  the  law, 
no  mortal  eye  had  i)lumbed  the  profound 
night  of  Lucretia's  awful  guilt.  Murderess 
of  husband  and  son,  the  blinded  law  bade  her 
go,  unscathed,  unsuspected.  Direct  as  from 
Heaven,  without  a  clou.l,  fell  the  thunderbolt. 
Is  the  life  they  have  saved  worth  the  prizing  ? 
Doth  the  chalice,  unsplit  on  the  ground,  not 
return  to  the  hand  ?  Is  the  sudden  pang  of 
the  hangman  more  fearful  than  the  doom 
which  they  breathe  and  bear  ?  Look,  and 
judge  I 

Behold  that  dark  ship  on  the  waters  !  Its 
burthens  are  not  of  Ormus  and  Tyre.  No 
goodly  merchandise  doth  it  waft  over  the 
wave,  no  blessing  cleaves  to  its  sails,  freighted 
with  terror  and  with  guilt,  with  remorse  and 
despair,  or  more  ghastly  than  either,  the  sullen 
apathy  of  souls  hardened  into  stone,  it  carries 
the  dregs  and  offal  of  the  old  world  to  popu- 
late the  new.  On  a  bench  in  that  ship,  sit 
side  by  side  two  men,  companions  assigned  to 
each  other.  Pale,  abject,  cowering,  all  the 
bravery  rent  from  his  garb,  all  the  gay  inso- 
lence vanished  from  his  brow — can  that  hol- 
low-eye, haggard  wretch,  be  the  same  man 
whose  senses  opened  on  every  joy,  whose 
nerves  mocked  at  every  peril  ?  But  beside 
him,  with  a  grin  of  vile  glee  on  his  features, 
all  muscle  and  brawn  in  the  form,  all  malice, 
at  once  spiteful  and  dull,  in  the  heavy  eye, 
sits  his  fit  comrade — the  Grave-stealer  I 

At  the  first  glance  each  had  recognized 
each,  and  the  prophecy  and  the  vision  rushed 
back  upon  the  daintier  convict.  If  he  seek  to 
escape  from  him,  the  grave-stealer  claims  him 
as  a  prey,  he  threatens  him  with  his  eye  as  a 
slave,  he  kicks  him  with  his  hoof  as  they  sit, 
and  laughs  at  the  writhing  of  the  pain.  Carry 
on  your  gaze  from  the  ship: — hear  the  cry 
from  the  mast-head— see  the  land  arise  from 
the  waste  !  A  lantl  without  hope  !  At  first, 
despite  the  rigor  of  the  Home  Office,  the  edu- 


cation and  intelligence  of  Varney  have  their 
price — the  sole  crime  for  which  he  is  con- 
victed is  not  of  the  darkest.  He  escapes  from 
that  hideous  comrade,  he  can  teach  as  a 
schoolmaster; — let  his  brain  work,  not  his 
hands  !  But  the  most  irredeemable  of  con- 
victs are  ever  those  of  nurture,  and  birth,  and 
culture  better  than  the  rufiftan-rest.  You  may 
enlighten  the  clod,  but  the  meteor  still  must 
feed  on  the  marsh:  And  the  pride,  and  the 
vanity,  work  where  the  crime  itself  seems  to 
lose  its  occasion.  Ever  avid,  ever  grasping, 
he  falls,  step  by  step,  in  the  foul  sink,  and  the 
colony  sees  in  Gabriel  Varney  its  most  pesti- 
lent rogue;  arch-convict  amidst  convicts, 
doubly  lost  amongst  the  damned;  they  banish 
him  to  the  sternest  of  the  penal  settlements — 
they  send  him  forth  with  the  vilest  to  break 
stones  upon  the  roads.  Shrivelled,  and  bowed, 
and  old,  prematurely — see  that  shaq)  face  peer- 
ing forth  amongst  that  gang,  scarcely  human, — 
see  him  cringe  to  the  lash  of  the  scornful 
overseer  —  see  the  pairs  chained  together, 
night  and  day  !  Ho,  ho  !  his  comrade  hath 
found  him  again,  the  Artist  and  the  Grave- 
stealer  leashed  together  !  Conceive  that 
fancy,  so  nurtured  by  habit — those  tastes, 
so  womanized  by  indulgence — the  one  sug- 
gesting the  very  horrors  that  are  not,  the  other 
revolting  at  all  toil  as  a  torture. 

But  intellect  not  all  gone,  though  hourly 
dying  heavily  down  to  the  level  of  the  brute, 
yet  schemes  for  delivery  and  escape.  Let  the 
plot  ripen,  and  the  heart  bound:  break  his 
chain — set  him  free — send  him  forth  to  the 
wilderness  I  Hark,  the  whoop  of  the  wild 
men  !  See  those  things  that  ape  our  species 
dance  and  gibber  round  the  famishing  hunted 
wretch.  Hark  how  he  shrieks  at  the  torture  ! 
How  they  tear,  and  they  pinch,  and  they  burn, 
and  they  rend  him  !  They,  too,  spare  his  life 
— it  is  charmed  !  A  Caliban  amidst  Calibans, 
they  heap  him  with  their  burthens,  and  feed 
him  on  their  offal.  Let  him  live;  he  loved 
life  for  himself,  he  has  cheated  the  gibbet,— 
LET  HIM  LIVE  !  Let  him  watch,  let  him  once 
more  escape;  all  naked  and  mangled,  let  him 
wander  back  to  the  huts  of  his  gang.  Lo  ! 
where  he  kneels,  the  foul  tears  streaming 
down,  and  cries  aloud,—"  I  have  broken  all 
your  laws,  I  will  tell  you  all  my  crimes;  I  ask 
but  one  sentence — hang  me  up — let  me  die  !  " 
And  from  the  gang  groan  many  voices—"  Hang 


LUCRETIA. 


7n 


us  up — iet  us  die  !  "  The  overseer  turns  on 
his  heel,  and  Gabriel  Varney  again  is  chained 
to  the  laughing  Grave-stealer. 

You  enter  those  gates  so  jealousy  guarded 
— you  pass,  with  a  quick  beat  of  the  heart,  by 
those  groups  on  the  lawn,  though  they  are 
harmless; — you  follow  your  guide  through 
those  passages;  where  the  open  doors  will  per- 
mit, you  see  the  emperor  brandish  his  sceptre 
of  straw — hear  the  speculator  counting  his 
millions — sigh,  where  the  maiden  sits  smiling, 
the  return  of  her  shipwrecked  lover — -or  gravely 
shake  the  head  and  hurry  on,  where  the  fanatic 
raves  his  Apocalypse,  and  reigns  in  judgment 
on  the  world; — you  pass  by  strong  grates  into 
corridors  gloomier  and  more  remote.  Nearer 
and  nearer,  you  hear  the  yell,  and  the  oath 
and  blaspheming  curse — you  are  in  the  heart 
of  the  Mad-house,  where  they  chain  those  at 
once  cureless  and  dangerous — who  have  l)ut 
sense  enough  left  them  to  smite,  and  to 
throttle,  and  to  murder. 

Your  guide  opens  that  door,  massive  as  a 
wall,  you  see  (as  we,  who  narrate,  have  seen 
her)  Lucretia  Dalibard: — a  grisly,  squalid, 
ferocious  mockery  of  a  human  being — more 
appalling  and  more  fallen,  than  Dante  ever 
fabled  in  his  spectres,  than  Swift  ever  scoffed 
in  his  Ya-hoos  ! — Only  where  all  other  feature 
seems  to  have  lost  its  stamp  of  humanity,  still 
burns  with  unquenchable  fever — the  red  de- 
vouring eye.  That  eye  never  seems  to  sleep, 
or,  in  sleep,  the  lid  never  closes  over  it.  As 
you  shrink  from  its  light,  it  seems  to  you  as  if 
the  mind  that  had  lost  coherence  and  harmony, 
still  retained  latent  and  incommunicable  con- 
sciousness as  its  curse.  For  days,  for  weeks — 
that  awful  maniac  will  preserve  obstinate,  un- 
broken silence;  but,  as  the  eye  never  closes, 
so  the  hands  never  rest — thev  open  and  grasp, 
as  if  at  some  palpable  object  on  which  they 
close,  vice-like,  as  a  bird's  talons  on  its  prey — 
sometimes  they  wander  over  that  brow,  where 
the  furrows  seem  torn  as  the  thunder  scars,  as 
if  to  wipe  from  it  a  stain,  or  charm  from  it  a 
pang — sometimes  they  gather  up  the  hem  of 
that  sordid  robe,  and  seem,  for  hours  together, 
striving  to  rub  from  it  a  soil.  Then  out  from 
prolonged  silence,  without  cause  or  warning, 
will  ring,  peal  after  peal  (tjll  the  frame,  ex- 
hausted with  the  effort,  sinks  senseless  into 
stupor)  the  frightful  laugh.  But  speech,  in- 
telligible and  coherent,  those  lips  rarely  yield. 


There  are  times,  indeed,  when  the  attend- 
ants are  persuaded  that  her  mind  in  part  re- 
turns to  her;  and  those  times,  e.tperience  has 
taught  them  to.  watch  with  peculiar  caution. 
The  crisis  evinces  itself  by  a  change  in  the 
manner — by  a  quick  apprehension  of  all  that 
is  said — by  a  straining  anxious  look  at  the  dis- 
mal walls — by  a  soft  fawning  docility — by 
murmured  complaints  of  the  chains  that  fetter 
— and  (though,  as  we  have  said,  but  very 
rarely),  by  prayers,  that  seem  rational,  for 
greater  ease  and  freetlom. 

In  the  earlier  time  of  her  dread  captivity, 
perhaps,  when  it  was  believed  at  the  asylum 
that  she  was  a  patient  of  condition,  with  friend.s 
who  cared  for  her  state,  and  would  liberally 
reward  her  cure, — they,  in  those  moments,  re- 
laxed her  confinement,  and  sought  the  gentler 
remedies  their  art  employs;  but  then  invari- 
ably, and,  it  was  said,  with  a  cunning  that 
surpassed  all  the  proverbial  astuteness  of  the 
mad,  she  turned  this  indulgence  to  the  most 
deadly  uses-  she  crept  to  the  pallet  of  some 
adjacent  sufferer  weaker  than  herself,  and  the 
shrieks  that  brought  the  attendants  into  the 
cell,  scarcely  saved  the  intended  victim  from 
her  hands.  It  seemed,  in  those  imperfectly 
lucid  intervals,  as  if  the  reason  only  returned 
to  guide  her  to  destroy — only  to  animate  the 
broken  mechanism  into  the  beast  of  pray. 

Years  have  now  passed  since  her  entrance 
within  those  walls.  He  who  placed  her  there 
never  had  returned — he  had  given  a  false  name 
— no  clue  to  him  was  obtained — the  gold  he 
had  left  was  but  the  quarter's  pay.  When 
Varney  had  been  first  apprehended,  Percival 
requested  the  younger  .\rdworth  to  seek  the 
forger  in  prison — and  to  question  him  as  to 
Madame  Dalibard;  but  Varney  was  then  so 
apprehensive  that,  even  if  still  insane,  her  very 
ravings  might  betray  his  share  in  her  crimes, 
or  still  more,  if  she  recovered,  that  the  remem- 
brance of  her  son's  murder  would  awaken  the 
repentance  and  the  confession  of  crushed  de- 
spair, that  the  wretch  had  judged  it  wiser  to 
say  that  his  accomplice  was  no  more — that  her 
insanity  had  already  terminated  in  death. 
The  place  of  her  confinement  thus  continued  a 
secret  locked  in  his  own  breast.  Egotist  to 
the  last,  she  was  henceforth  dead  to  him— why 
not  to  the  world  ? 

Thus  the  partner  of  her  crimes  had  cut  off 
her   sole   resource,  in   the  compassion  of  her 


712 


BULWER'S     WORKS. 


unconscious  kindred; — thus  the  gates  of  the 
living  world  were  shut  to  her  evermore.  Still, 
in  a  kind  of  compassion,  or  as  an  object  of  ex- 
periment— as  a  subject  to  be_  dealt  with  un- 
scrupulously in  that  living  dissection-hall — 
her  grim  jailers  did  not  grudge  her  an  asylum. 
But,  year  after  year,  the  attendance  was  more 
slovenly  —  the  treatment  more  harsh;  and 
strange  to  say,  while  the  features  were  scarcely 
recognizable — while  the  form  underwent  all 
the  change  which  the  shape  suffers  when  mind 
deserts  it,  that  prodigious  vitality  which  be- 
longed to  the  temperament  still  survived.  No 
signs  of  decay  are  yet  visible.  Death,  as  if 
spurning  the  carcass,  stands  ine.xorably  afar 
off.  Baffler  of  man's  law,  thou,  too,  hast  es- 
caped with  life  !  Not  for  thee  is  the  sentence, 
"Blood  for  blood  I  "  Thou  livest — thou 
mayst  pass  the  extremest  boundaries  of  age. 
Live  on,  to  wipe  the  blood  from  thy  robe  !  — 

LIVE  ON  ! 

Not  for  the  coarse  object  of  creating  an  idle 
terror — not  for  the  shock  upon  the  nerves  and 
the  thrill  of  the  grosser  interest  which  the 
narrative  of  crime  creates,  has  this  book  been 
compiled  from  the  facts  and  materials  afforded 
to  the  author.  When  the  great  German  poet 
describes,  in  not  the  least  noble  of  his  lyrics, 
the  sudden  apparition  of  some  '  Monster  Fate  ' 
in  the  circles  of  careless  Joy,  he  assigns  to 
him  who  teaches  the  world  through  parable 
or  song,  the  right  to  invoke  the  spectre.  It  is 
well  to  be  awakened  at  times  from  the  easy 
common-place  that  surrounds  our  habitual  life 
— to  cast  broad  and  steady,  and  patient  light 
on  the  darker  secrets  of  the  heart;  on  the 
vaults  and  caverns  of  the  social  state,  over 
which  we  build  the  market-place  and  the 
|)alace. 

We  recover  from  the  dread,  and  the  awe. 
antl  the  half-incredulous  wonder,  to  set  closer 
watch  upon  our  inner  and  hidden  selves.  In 
him  who  cultivates  only  the  reason,  and  suffers 
the  heart  and  the  spirit  to  lie  waste  and  dead, 
who  schemes,  and  constructs,  and  revolves 
round  the  axle  of  self,  unwarmed  by  the  affec- 
tions, unpoised  by  the  attraction  of  right, — 


lies  the  germ  Fate  might  ripen  into  the  guilt 
of  Olivier  Dalibard.  Let  him  who  but  lives 
through  the  senses,  spread  the  wings  of  the 
fancy  in  the  gaudy  glare  of  enjoyment  cor- 
rupted, avid  to  seize,  and  impatient  to  toil, 
whose  faculties  are  curbed  but  to  the  range  of 
physical  perception,  whose  very  courage  is  but 
the  strength  of  the  nerves,  who  developes  but 
the  animal  as  he  stifles  the  man, — let  him  gaze 
on  the  viUany  of  Varney,  and  startle  to  see 
some  magnified  shadow  of  himself  thrown 
dimly  on  the  glass  !  Let  those  who,  with 
powers  to  command  and  passions  to  wing  the 
powers,  would  sweep  without  scruple  from  the 
aim  to  the  end — who,  trampling  beneath  their 
footprint  of  iron  the  humanities  that  bloom  up 
in  their  path — would  march  to  success  with  the 
proud  stride  of  the  destroyer,  hear,  in  the 
laugh  of  yon  maniac  murderess,  the  glee  of 
the  fiend  they  have  wooed  to  their  own  souls  ! 
Guard  well,  O  Heir  of  Eternity,  the  portal  of 
sin — ihti  thought !  From  the  thought  to  the 
deed,  the  subiler  thy  brain,  and  the  bolder  thy 
courage,  the  briefer  and  straighter  is  the  way. 
Read  these  pages  in  disdain  of  self-commune 
— they  shall  revolt  thee,  not  instruct;  read 
them,  looking  steadfastly  within,  and  how 
humble  soever  the  art  of  the  narrator,  the  facts 
he  narrates,  like  all  history,  shall  teach  by  ex- 
ample Every  human  Act,  good  or  ill;  is  an 
Angel  to  guide  or  to  warn;  *  and  the  deeds  of 
the  worst  have  messages  from  Heaven  to  the 
listening  hearts  of  the  best.  Amidst  the  glens 
in  the  Appennine, — in  the  lone  wastes  of  Cal- 
abria, the  sign  of  the  Cross  marks  the  s|>ot, 
where  a  deed  of  violence  has  been  done;  on 
all  that  pass  by  the  road,  the  symbol  has  vary- 
ing effect;  sometimes  it  startles  the  con- 
science, sometimes  it  invokes  the  devotion;  the 
robber  drops  the  blade,  the  priest  counts  the 
rosary.  So  is  it  with  the  record  of  crime:  and 
in  the  witness  of  Guilt,  Man  is  thrilled  with  the 
whisper  of  Religion. 


*  Our  Acts  our  Angels  are— or  good  or  ill: 
The  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 

— Fletcher. 


A     WOUn     TC     THE    PUBLIC. 


713 


A   WORD   TO   THE    PUBLIC:* 

CONTAINING    HINTS   TOWARDS    A    CRITICAL   ESSAY    UPON    THE    ARTISTIC    PRINCIPLES   AND 

ETHICAL   DESIGNS  OF    FICTION. 


It  is  not  as  a  retort  to  attacks  that  1  write 
these  pages.  They  are  designed,  it  is  true,  to 
remove  errors,  whether  of  wilful  misstatement, 
or  honest  misconception,  on  subjects  affecting 
myself.  But  as  those  subjects  are  connected 
with  interests  in  literature,  very  general  and 
important,  I  shall  endeavor  to  preserve  the 
dispassionate  tone  proper  to  an  inquiry  ad- 
dressed to  the  candor  of  the  Public,  and  the 
consideration  of  educated  men. 

I  pass  by  all  assaults  that  may  appear  to 
have  exceeded  the  due  licence  of  criticism 
with  the  single  remark, — that  wherever  per- 
sonal motives  are  strong  enough  to  violate  the 
ordinary  decorum  of  literary  censure,  the 
reader  must  be  prepared  to  expect  that  they 
will  suffice  to  corrupt  all  integrity  of  statement. 
Thus  extracts  will  be  garbled  and  misquoted 
— sentences  stripped  of  the  context  that  ex- 
plains them, — and   opinions,  which   the  writer 


*  CiiRTAiN  criticisms  on  "  Lucretia,"  at  its  first  ap- 
pearance, having  been  made  the  vehicle  for  remarks  of 
no  common  virulence  on  the  Author's  general  writ- 
ings, he  took  the  occasion  thus  afforded  to  him,  to  put 
forth  in  the  following  pages,  entitled,  "  A  Word  to 
THE  Public,"  not  only  a  vindication  of  his  own  ethical 
designs,  in  his  own  various  fictions,  but  an  exposition 
of  the  prerogatives  of  inventive  art  in  the  selection  of 
the  agencies  employed  towards  moving  the  passions  of 
pity  and  terror.  The  "  Word  to  the  Public"  is  still 
retained  as  an  appendix  to  this  romance:  for  though  it 
may  be  no  longer  needed  as  a  defence  of  the  works 
which  Time  itself  has  sufficed  to  clear  from  the  charges 
to  which  they  were  once  subjected,  it  may  still  have  an 
interest  to  the  general  reader  as  a  somewhat  elaborate 
analysis  of  the  main  causes  that  conduce  to  emotions 
legitimately  tragic.  If,  therefore,  it  have  any  value,  it 
is  less  as  the  vindication  which  an  author  makes  of  his 
own  works,  than  as  the  result  of  the  study  he  has  de- 
voted to  the  masterpieces  of  others;— in  short,  as  a 
critical  essay— offering  suggestions  as  to  the  grander 
uses  of  imaginative  compositions  in  the.passions  which 
they  openly  sway,  and  the  warnings  which  they  un- 
consciously bequeath. 


most  earnestly  holds  up  to  reprot)ation,  and 
places  in  the  lips  of  characters  whom  he  draws 
but  to  condemn,  be  deliberately  cited  as  the 
sentiments  of  the  author  himself.  I  do  not 
stop  to  cominent  on  artifices  like  these;  if, 
from  no  broader  principle  than  that  of  justice 
to  the  author,  they  need  rebuke  or  are  capable 
of  discouragement — discouragement  and  re- 
buke will  come  more  efSciently  from  others; 
nor  should  I  have  made  even  this  brief  refer- 
ence to  matters  not  immediately  essential  to 
my  argument,  if  some  temporary  injustice  to 
the  Author  were  the  only  evil  such  practices 
could  possibly  effect;  but  thus,  a  work  the 
most  innocent  can  not  only  be  represented  as 
mischievous,  but  in  reality  rendered  so.  Let 
me  forestal  the  subsequent  inquiry,  and  as- 
sume for  the  moment,  that  the  true  moral, 
whether  of  "  Eugene  Aram,"  or  the  "  Children 
of  Night"  be  either  salutary  or  harmless,  and 
then  let  me  suppose  it  gravely  asserted  in 
some  two  or  three  of  those  popular  journals 
which  penetrate  every  corner  of  society,  read 
alike  by  the  educated  and  the  ignorant,  the 
good  and  the  bad — the  sole  vehicles  of  liter- 
ary information  to  those  whom  it  is  most 
facile  and  most  dangerous  to  mislead — that 
the  author,  a  man  of  some  social  position,  and 
some  acknowledged  repute  in  letters,  lends  all 
the  weight  of  his  name  and  auth  >rity  to  the 
defence  and  encouragement  of  crime, — is  the 
author  himself  the  party  most  seriously  ag- 
grieved ?  The  injury  done  to  him  may  be 
wholly  effaced  by  the  gradual  influence  of  the 
judicious,  and  the  tranquil  investigation  of 
time;  but  is  it  so  easy  to  efface  the  injury 
effected  by  garbled  extracts,  and  wilful  mis- 
representation, upon  minds  uninstructed  and 
perverted,  at  which   the   book  itself,  with  its 


7'4 


B  UL  IVER'S     WORKS. 


real  lessons,  never  may  arrive,  and  which  only 
too  readily  accept  the  sanction  that  the  news- 
paper assures  them  it  affords  ? 

So  far  as  concerns  myself,  I  am  contented 
to  appeal,  from  assailants  of  this  kind,  to 
those  cultivators  of  literature  with  whom  I 
may  claim  fellowship,  and  to  thnt  Public,  who, 
I  trust,  have  connected  gentler  associations 
with  my  name. 

With  regard  to  those  purely  literary  faults 
and  defects  which  afford  the  fair  questions  to 
criticism,  though,  some  years  since,  I  might 
have  been  tempted  to  enter  into  the  vindication 
of  a  few,  at  least,  out  of  the  many  with  which 
I  have  been  charged,  I  am  not  now  disposed 
to  intrude  upon  the  public  a  defence  against 
censures  morally  unimportant  and  legitimately 
made.  Good  or  bad,  my  works  have  been 
written  with  such  care  as  I  could  bestow  on 
them;  and  in  all  that  affects  their  literary 
reputation  alone,  I  willingly  leave  them  to  that 
calm  and  equitable  decision  between  praise 
and  blame  which  time  only  can  pronounce. 

I  confine  myself  to  questions  of  graver  mo- 
ment than  those  which  relate  to  the  mere  skill 
or  ability  displayed  by  a  living  writer  in  the 
treatment  of  the  subjects  he  selects,  and  if  I 
would  borrow  something  from  indulgence,  it 
is  only  a  certain  leniency  whenever  an  earnest 
wish  to  correct  misconception  may  render  me 
tedious  in  explanation.  P'or  the  charges 
against  me  are  not  limited  to  a  single  work; 
and  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  invite  an  in- 
quiry, from  the  warrantable  conclusions  of 
which,  I  trust,  my  entire  vindication  will  pro- 
ceed— viz.,  into  the  recognized  principles  of  fic- 
tion, and  the  fair  liberty  in  the  choice  of  mate- 
rials, which  it  is  the  interest,  both  of  art  and 
the  public  to  permit  to  imaginative  writers. 

In  this  discussion,  I  ask,  then,  but  for  that 
patience  with  which  we  listen  to  the  most  or- 
dinary mechanic,  when  at  home  in  the  subject 
of  a  craft  to  which  his  toil  and  life  have  been 
applied.  For  several  years,  I  have  studied  the 
art  of  which  I  treat;  and  it  is  but  reasonable 
to  suppose  that  I  should  speak  with  some 
knowledge  of  the  principles  which,  applied  to 
practice,  have  gained  me  whatever  reputation 
I  possess.  I  will  presume  that  the  reader  en- 
ters on  the  consideration  of  the  mattes  which 
he  is  called  upon  to  adjudicate,  not  with  a  mind 
steeled  against  conviction,  and  determined  to 
resist,  but  rather  with  a  juryman's  sincere  de- 


sire to  judge  for  himself,  and  exclude  from 
the  trial  all  that  he  has  heard  out  of  court; — 
regretting  generously  if,  at  the  close,  he  is. 
obliged  to  condemn,  rejoicing  honestly  if  his 
reason  and  his  conscience  allow  him  to  acquit. 
And  if  there  be  many  who  come  to  this  in- 
quiry with  minds  so  pre|5ared,  amongst  them 
there  may  be  those  who  unthinkingly  have 
done  me  wrong,  and  who,  after  hearing  the 
evidence  I  shall  adduce,  and  more  carefully 
considering  the  laws  by  which  I  should  be 
judged,  may  depart  from  the  hearing  with  a 
manly  desire  to  repair  an  injury— small  in- 
deed, if  it  were  as  lightly  felt  as  it  is  heed- 
lessly inflicted  ! 

It  is  not  so  easy,  as  at  first  it  may  appear^ 
to  decide  upon  the  moral  tendencies  and  de- 
signs of  a  writer.  Upon  no  conceivable  sub- 
ject have  more  signal  mistakes  been  made; 
and  none  affords  us  a  more  memorable  warning 
to  judge  of  others  with  modest  charity  and 
cautious  deliberation.  It  would  take  a  large 
catalogue  to  contain  the  titles  of  those  books 
which  have  been  denounced  as  immoral  and 
mischievous,  and  which  are  now  universally 
acknowledged  as  the  sources  of  harmless 
pleasure  or  ethical  instruction.  From  the 
father  of  poetry,  from  Homer  himself,  who 
has  been  charged  '•  with  degrading  the  gods, 
and  demoralizing  man  " — "  sanctioning  perjury 
and  avarice," — "holding  up  even  parricides  to 
reverence" — "teaching  what  is  wicked,  and 
debasing  what  is  good " — through  the  long 
order  of  his  illustrious  children, — we  can  find 
few  whom  we  now  recognize  amongst  our  most 
genial  civilizers,  and  our  gentlest  teachers,  who 
have  not,  at  one  time  or  another,  been  sub- 
jected to  the  common  charge  of  immoral  ten- 
dency and  pernicious  effect. 

Since  the  good  bishop  Heliodorus  saw  his 
tale  oiTheagenes  ami  Chariclea  condemned  by 
a  synod,  as  prejudicial  to  the  young:  since 
Mahomet  denounced  in  the  Koran  those  harm- 
less tales,  of  which  the  Arabian  Nights  are  a 
sample,  novelists  have  been  treated,  if  pos- 
sible, more  harshly  than  their  ekler  brothers 
the  poets.  There  is  no  iiovel  we  more  will- 
ingly give  to  the  schoolboy,  than  Don  Quixote, 
yet  Cervantes  has  been  driven  to  find  in  Sis- 
mondi  a  defence  "against  those  who  consider 
Don  Quixote  the  most  melancholy  book  ever 
written,"  and  .(adds  Mr.  Hallam)  "  who  no 
doubt  consider  it  also  as  one   of  the  most  im 


A      WORD     TO     THK    PUBLIC. 


715 


moral,  as  chilling  and  pernicious  as  its  influ- 
ence on  the  social  converse  of  mankind,  as 
'  The  Prince'  of  Machiavel  is  in  their  political 
intercourse."  *  There  is  no  tale  that  with 
safer  conscience  we  submit  to  the  simplest  un- 
derstanding, than  the  Rasselas  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
and  yet  it  has  been  charged  with  instilling  the 
same,  more  than  doubtful,  moral,  that  freezes 
men's  hopes  in  the  rockery  of  Candide.\ 
Philosophers  the  most  earnest,  moralists  the 
most  rigid,  have  been  as  liable  to  this  erring 
accusation,  as  the  wildest  of  poets  and  the 
most  careless  of  romancers.  Locke  presides 
over  our  academies,  yet  he  has  been  denounced 
as  the  founder  of  a  sect  of  materialists.  Cud- 
worth  is  received  amongst  the  holiest  cham- 
pions of  religion,  yet  Warburton  informs  us 
that  he  never  published  the  secod  part  of  his 
work,  because  of  the  malignity  that  had  vis- 
ited the  first.  In  the  same  painful  and  warn- 
ing mistake  of  shallow  judgments,  our  divines 
themselves  have  been  assailed,  and  the  twin 
lights  of  our  religious  literature,  Tillotson  and 
Taylor,  calumniated — the  one  was  a  Socinian 
in  disguise,  the  other  as  a  schismatic  in  de- 
sign. 

Time  brings  justice  at  the  end,  and  vindi- 
cates the  name  if  it  preserves  the  work. 
Happy  he,  whose  justification  comes  before 
the  hand  has  forgot  its  cunning,  and  the  tomb 
shut  out  the  sweets  of  the  atonement  from  the 
bitterness  of  the  wrong  !  Happy  he,  too, 
who,  early  inured  to  calumny,  grows  indifferent 
to  its  sting  !  He  will  not,  at  least,  die  a 
lunatic,  like  Ritson,  "stabbed  by  assassins  in 
the  dark," — nor  like  Cummyns,  waste  away 
"in  the  slow  fever  produced  by  an  anonymous 
assault."  \ 

Do  not  let  me  be  suspected  of  so  egregious 
a  conceit,  as  implying  a  claim  to  association 
with  the  lofty  names  that  I  have  cited.  I  but 
use  the  argument  the  citations  suggest,  to 
establish  the  simple  truth  which  literary 
history  affords  to  a  more  intelligent,  and  I 
trust,  a  more  liberal  age — viz.,  that  the  pulic 
should  receive  with  great  caution  rash  accusa- 
tions against  the  motives  of  authors  and  the 
latent  immorality  of  works.     For,  easy  to  the 

*  Hallam's  History  of  Literature,  vol.  iii.  p.  156. 

t  Voltaire  congratulated  himself,  indeed,  that  "  Can- 
dide"had  appeared  before  "Rasselas,"  so  that  the 
scoifing  wit  might  not  be  accused  of  plagiarising  his 
moral  from  our  serious  and  sturdy  Doctor. 

X  Disraeli,  "  Curiosities  of  Literature." 


lowest  understanding  is  this  general  charge  of 
immoral  tendency  and  ol)ject — and  tempting 
it  is  to  malice,  when  it  cannot  deny  the  literary 
reputation  which  it  envies — to  assail  the  moral 
design,  because  that  (always  more  or  less  com- 
plicated) needs  some  effort  beyond  the  com- 
monplace indifference  of  the  public  to  perceive 
and  to  defend.  Of  whatever  is  plainly  obscene 
and  licentious,  of  whatever  openly  assails  the 
acknowledged  principles  of  religion,  or  saps 
the  moral  foundations  of  society,  all  men 
may  judge;  and  on  these,  at  least  in  our  own 
age,  no  differences  of  opinion  are  likely  to 
exist.  But  the  wise  and  the  honest  will  be 
wary  of  ascribing  to  writers  secret  tendencies 
and  objects  at  variance,  not  only  with  the 
designs  they  announce,  but  the  reputation  ac- 
corded to  thein  by  judges,  whether  at  home 
or  abroad,  uninfluenced  by  personal  predilec- 
tions, or  political  bias. 

And  I  fear  that  the  writer,  the  inost  really 
dangerous  to  society  is  to  be  found  in  the 
critic,  who  bids  the  young  and  unthinking 
search,  am.idst  the  most  popular  forms  of 
literature,  for  excuses  to  vice  and  sanctions  to 
crime,  which  the  author  himself  never  intended, 
and  which,  without  such  directions,  no  reader 
would  have  suspected.  It  is  critics  like  these 
who  would  pervert  to  poison  the  most  inno- 
cent intellectual  nutriment;  who  would  inter- 
pret the  exhortations  of  St.  Augustine  into  an 
appeal  to  the  passions,  or  the  "  whole  Duty  of 
Man"  into  a  libel  on  one's  neighbor.  Shortly 
after  Addison's  "  Cato "  had  appeared  upon 
the  stage,  an  unhappy  person  destroyed  him- 
self, leaving  upon  his  table  a  paper  with  these 
words — 

"  That  must  be  good 
Which  Cato  did  and  Addison  approved." 

One  must  mournfully  regret  this  poor  man's 
perverse  misconstruction  of  "  Cato;  "  yet  who 
can  say,  for  that  reason,  that  "  Cato  "  is  dan- 
gerous, or  that  Addison  sanctioned  suicide  ? 
But,  suppose  that  Addison  had  lived,  and 
"  Cato"  been  produced,  in  our  day,  and  sup- 
pose that  some  writer  in  one  of  our  popular 
journals  had,  after  some  prelude  upon  "  mor- 
bid idiosyncracies  and  the  frequency  of  sui- 
cides," instead  of  removing  from  such  "  mor- 
bid idiosyncracies  "  the  dangerous  impression 
that  Addison  approved  self-slaughter— pre- 
ferred   rather  to   gratify  a  spleen  against  the 


7i6 


BULWKK'S     WORKS. 


poet,  in  asserting  that  the  design  of  the 
tragedy  and  the  purpose  of  the  author  were 
devoted  to  the  mischievous  vindication  of 
suicide — would  not  that  writer  have  incurred 
the  gravest  responsii^ilities,  afforded  to  "mor- 
bid idiosyncracies  "  the  very  stimulus  it  was 
his  duty  to  withhold,  and  encouraged  the  very 
error  it  was  his  duty  to  ex[)ose  ?  Let  the 
editor  of  every  influential  journal  weigh  well 
the  considerations  this  reflection  should  sug- 
gest, and  perhaps  he  may  confess  that  the 
more  readily  an  author's  intention  may  be 
misconceived  by  sickly  or  ignorant  minds,  the 
more  the  popular  reviewer,  whose  opportunities 
give  him  the  quickest  and  readiest  facility 
towards  correcting  such  mistakes,  should  seek 
not  to  confirm  but  dispel  the  dangerous  mis- 
conception.   . 

It  is  not  given  to  all  to  have  genius — it  is 
given  to  all  to  have  honesty  of  purpose;  an 
ordinary  writer  may  have  this  in  common  with 
the  greatest — that  he  may  compose  his  works 
with  sincere  and  distinct  views  of  promoting 
truth  and  administering  to  knowledge.  I  claim 
this  intention  fearlessly  for  myself.  And  if, 
contrary  to  my  most  solemn  wishes,  and  my 
most  thoughtful  designs,  any  one  of  my  writ- 
ings can  be  shown  by  dispassionate  argument, 
to  convey  lessons  tending  to  pervert  the  un- 
derstanding, and  confound  the  eternal  distinc- 
tion between  right  and  wrong,  I  will  do  my 
liest  to  correct  the  error,  by  stamping  on  it 
my  own  condemnation,  and  omitting  it  from 
the  list  of  those  it  does  not  shame  me  to  ac- 
knowledge. 

Every  reader,  who  has  honored  my  books 
with  some  attention,  must  long  since  have 
recognized  in  their  very  imperfections  as  works 
of  art — the  favorite  and  peculiar  studies  of 
their  author;  some,  especially,  of  the  compan- 
ions of  my  youth,  must  often  have  traced  to 
those  inquiries,  which  we  pursued  together 
through  the  labyrinth  of  metaphysics,  and 
amidst  the  ingenious  speculations  of  writers 
who  have  sought  by  the  analysis  of  our  ideas 
to  arrive  at  the  springs  of  our  manifold  varieties 
in  conduct,  that  over-indulgence  of  moralizing 
deductions,  and  those  often  tedious  attempts 
to  explain  the  workings  of  mind,  which  have 
weakened  the  effect  of  my  characters,  and  in- 
terrupted the  progress  of  my  plots.  But  no 
man  can  have  made  the  study  of  the  great  in- 
vestigators of  human  conduct  his  passion  and 


his  habit,  and  ever  consciously  and  wilfully 
meditate  a  work  at  variance  with  morality; — 
more  likely  is  it  that  he  will  err  in  the  opposite 
extreme,  and  undertake  no  work,  however 
light,  without  a  purpose  too  sharply  definite. 
Even  in  the  object  on  which  he  is  most  intent, 
it  is  true  that  he  may  err, — the  grave.st  moral- 
ists, the  wisest  divines,  have  so  erred;  human 
judgment  cannot  be  infallible: 

"  Taccre 
Tutura  semper  erit." — 

"  If  one  would  be  safe,  one  has  no  resource 
but  to  be  silent."  But  an  error  of  this  kind  is 
one  only  of  mistaken,  yet  honest  intention, 
and  may  surely  be  exposed,  without  heated  in- 
vectives, and  calumnious  personalites. 

What  is  the  charge  that  has  been  i)rought 
against  me  urged  and  re-urged,  in  words  which 
I  will  not  trust  myself  to  repeat,  and  in  a 
spirit  which  I  will  not  pause  to  expose  ?  I 
state  its  broad  substance,  I  believe  fairly  in 
this,  "That  I  have  had  a  morbid  and  mis- 
chievous pass  for  treating  of  crime  arid  guilt 
— that  it  is  the  prevailing  character  of  my 
books  to  made  heroes  of  criminals  and  felons." 

Now  it  is  the  interest  of  all  writers,  from  the 
greatest  poet  to  the  meanest  novelist,  that  the 
due  license  of  fiction  in  the  materials  it  selects, 
should  be  clearly  laid  down  and  generally  ad- 
mitted. And  it  is  no  less  to  the  interest  of 
the  ])ublic,  that  writers  should  not  be  scared, 
by  tacit  acquiescence  in  charges  most  painful 
to  honorable  men,  from  whatever  exposition  of 
evil  as  it  exists — whatever  investigation  of  the 
human  mind,  in  its  sublimity  or  its  baseness, 
its  virtues  or  its  gui  t,  the  uniform  example  of 
received  authorities  in  literature,  has  proved  it 
to  be  salutary  or  safe  to  permit  to  the  scope 
of  the  poet,  and  the  purpose  of  the  teacher. 

1  shall  proceed  to  show  that,  if  the  delinea- 
tion of  crime  <//(/ afford  the  ordinary  and  fa- 
vorite subject  of  my  works— if  criminals  or 
felons  were  made  what  is  called  the  heroes 
(that  is,  the  leading  characters)  in  all  or  most 
of  them, — such  a  charge  would  only  prove  the 
ignorance  of  those  who  advance  it,  whether  of 
the  most  acknowledged  privileges  of  fiction, 
or  the  scope  of  the  moral  which  writers  the 
most  blamless  have  been  left  at  liberty  to  de- 
velop and  enforce.  But  the  charge  itself  is  so 
utterly  untrue,  that  a  single  glance  over  the 
list  of  niy  publications  will  suffice  to  refute  it. 
I  annex  that  list  as  my  reply: 


A     WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


7>7 


Peluam. 

The  Disowned. 

Devereux. 

GoDOLrniN. 
*Paul  Clifford. 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine. 
•Eugene  Aram. 

The  Last  Days  of  Pomi'eii. 

Rienzi. 

The  Conquest  of  Grenada. 

Ernest  Maltravers,  ist  Part. 

Ernest  Maltravers,  2d  Part;  (first printed  as 
Alice). 

Night  and  Morning. 

Zanoni. 

The  Last  of  the  Barons. 
*Lucretia. 

So  that  out  of  a  list  of  sixteen  works  'of 
fiction  (besides  five  Plays),  the  essays  called 
"  England  and  the  English,"  and  "  The  Stu- 
dent," a  History  of  Athens,  (and  a  volume  or 
two  of  poems,*)  the  three  to  which  I  have 
prefixed  an  asterisk,  are  the  otily  books  in 
which  felons  or  criminals  have  been  made  the 
heroes.  In  works  professing  to  treat  of 
human  life  in  all  its  complexities,  this  is  surely 
but  a  small  proportion  assigned  to  the  ex- 
press delineation  of  human  crimes.  And  this 
list  alone,  to  those  who  have  read  the  works, 
is  a  sufficient  answer  to  the  charge— that  it 
has  been  my  habit  as  an  author  to  select 
criminals  and  felons  as  my  heroes.  Five  of 
the  fictions  I  have  cited  are  devoted  to  the 
historical  illustrations  of  former  times,  with 
whatever  images,  fair  or  noble,  the  age  might 
afford,  or  the  progress  of  the  narrative  pre- 
sent; six  to  those  circles  of  modern  society, 
in  which  it  was  difficult  to  avoid  the  opposite 
reproach  of  dealing  exclusively  with  the 
more  polished  or  more  frivolous  classes,  and 
forgetting,  that  beneath  the  surface  of  man- 
ners, grave  and  stern  lessons  are  to  be  found 
—  yes,  even  in  the  guilt  and  the  woe,  which 
are  at  work  within  the  deeps;  and  two  out 
of  the  number  ("  Zanoni  "  and  "  The  Pilgrims 
of  the  Rhine,")  are  dedicated  to  fancies  which 
may  be  called,  if  you  please,  too  visionary 
and  unreal,  but  are  wholly  remote  from  that 
grosser  and  more  actual  world  of  evil  and  sin, 
to  which  I  am  accused  of  having   morbidly 

*  Including  a  translation  of  Schiller,  to  which  I 
could  have  had  no  reasonable  inducement  to  devote 
the  labor  of  more  than  two  years,  except  that  of  ren- 
dering more  familiar  to  my  countrymen  a  collection 
of  Poems,  universally  considered  to  create,  upon  the 
whole,  moral  impressions  peculiarly  pure  and  ele- 
"ating. 


confined  my  invention,  or  monotonously  di- 
rected my  research. 

In  each  and  all  of  these,  no  doubt,  there  are 
(couKl  they  paint  life  without,  or  has  any 
novelist  attempted  to  do  so  ?) — characters  good 
and  bad.  But  in  none  of  my  books  (save  the 
three  before  mentioned)  has  crime  been  made 
the  leading  agency,  or  a  criminal  the  pre- 
dominant character.  In  most  of  them,  indeed, 
the  fairer  and  gentler  side  of  human  nature, 
has  been  not  unfavoralily  exhibited;  in  most  of 
them,  I  believe,  the  characters  that  remain  the 
more  vividly  clear  in  the  remembrance  of  an 
impartial  reader,  will  be  associated  with  such 
qualities  as  dignify  or  endear  our  species. 

To  only  three  fictions  out  of  sixteen,  then, 
does  the  charge  so  indiscriminately  made 
against  all,  shrink  in  its  application; — viz., 
that  "  I  have  sought  materials  in  crime,  and 
heroes  in  criminals."  We  come,  then,  at  once 
to  a  question,  which  common  sense  and  uni- 
versal authority  ought  long  since  to  have  de- 
cided— viz.,  "  How  far  the  delineation  of  crime 
is  a  legitimate  object  of  fictitious  composition." 

It  would  seem  from  the  hackneyed  repetition 
of  the  same  accusation  against  me,  and  the 
vehemence  with  which  it  is  accompanied,  that 
I  had  had  the  discredit  to  introduce  into  fiction 
some  hideous  innovation,  opposed  by  the 
greatest  writers  or  at  variance  with  the  usual 
privileges  of  my  calling.  But  what  is  the  fact  ? 
Has  not  the  delineation  of  crime,  in  every  age, 
been  the  more  especial  and  chosen  thesis  of 
the  greatest  masters  of  art  quoted  to  us  as  au- 
thorities and  held  up  to  us  as  models  ?  The 
parricide  of  Qidipus,  furnishes  inspiration  to 
the  all-perfect  and  all-polished  genius  of 
Sophocles;  Medea  murders  her  children;  Cly- 
temnestra  her  husband,  Orestes  his  mother; 
Phaedra  woos  her  step-son.  I  grant  all  that 
may  be  said  as  to  differences  of  ancient  man- 
ners and  habits  of  thought;  l)ut  these  very 
same  subjects  have  been  readapted  to  the 
modern  stage,  adorned  by  the  greatest  geniuses 
of  France,  in  an  age  when  she  especially  prided 
herself  on  the  purity  of  her  drama,  and  the 
humanity  of  her  audiences.  They  are  enrolled 
amongst  the  masterpieces  of  Racine,  Corneille. 
and  Voltaire.  They  are  incorporated  with  the 
drama  of  Italy.  In  England  they  furnish  plots 
to  the  authors  who  were  listened  to  as  Re- 
formers of  the  Stage  from  its  ruder  barbaritiei 
and  grosser  licence. 


7i8 


B  UL  WEK  •  .S'     WORKS. 


Turn  to  the  titles  in  the  earlier  editions  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  and  they  even  seem  to 
invite  attention  by  the  promise  of  the  criines 
they  are  to  depict.  What  are  we  to  say  of 
the— 

"  Tragedie  of  Kynge  Richard,  conteyninge 
his  treacherous  plots  againss  his  brother  Clar- 
ence, and  the  murther  of  his  innocent  nephevves 
in  the  Tower;  wyth  the  whole  course  of  his 
detested  life;"  or  of 

"  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmarke,  wyth  his 
just  revenge  on  the  adulterous  Kynge  Clau- 
dius, and  the  poysoning  of  the  Queen  Ger- 
trude." 

Or,  "The  Tragedie  of  Macbeth,  showing 
how,  by  treachery  and  manyfold  murders,  he 
obtained  the  crown  of  Scotland." 

Or,  "  Othello  the  Moor  of  Venice,  his  deathe 
and  strangling  the  fair  Desdemona."  * 

I  attach  no  weight  to  these  titles  themselves, 
of  which  Shakespeare  is  doubtless,  innocent; 
but  they  certainly  do  not  exaggerate  the  crimes 
which  the  plays  depict.  Crime,  in  fact,  is  the 
essential  material  of  the  Tragic  Drama.  Take 
crime  for  tragedy,  and  you  annihilate  tragedy 
itself.  Whatever  aims  at  the  tragic  effect, 
whether  on  the  stage  or  in  more  sober  narra- 
tive, cannot  dispense  with  the  evil  which  works 
to  mischief — excites  to  terror — involves  the 
innocent  in  its  own  ruin,  and  conduces  to  the 
tragic  passions  of  our  pity  and  our  awe.f    You 

*  To  say  nothing  of  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  which  is, 
probably,  not  Shakespeare's,  or  his  only  in  part,  but 
which  we  admit  into  our  collections  with  no  fear  of 
demoralizing  weak  minds,  or  poisoning  the  purity  of 
youth  by  the  successions  of  crimes  and  atrocities,  mur- 
ders, rapes — amputating  hands,  plucking  forth  tongues, 
hewing  off  heads — stabbing  with  a  joke  of  "Weke, 
weke,  so  cries  a  pig" — cutting  throats  on  the  stage, 
while  Lavinia  between  her  stumps  holds  a  bason  for 
the  blood,  serving  up  to  a  mother  her  children  baked 
in  a  pie,  etc.,  etc.  Why  is  not  this  play  (no  matter 
whose  it  be)  to  be  banished  from  our  collections  ?  Be- 
cause, here,  time  has  brought  healthful  discernment; 
because,  whatever  the  defective  art  which  introduces 
such  gratuitous  horrors  in  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  every 
one  knows  that  they  not  co«/«;h?k«/c  the  moral  sense; 
the  image  of  crime,  made  execrable,  may  pain  and  re- 
volt us,  but  for  that  very  reason,  it  does  not  allure  or 
corrupt. 

+  Nothing  can  be  more  unsatisfactory  than  all  defini- 
tions which  have  sought  to  limit  the  author's  liberty  of 
selection  from  criminal  agencies  and  instruments. 
"  The  only  circumstance,"  says  one  critic,  "  which  ele- 
vates the  crime  mto  a  subject  for  the  poet  or  the 
dramatist,  is  the  influence  under  which  it  is  committed, 
the  object  which  it  is  to  attain,  the  nature  of  the  im- 
pelling necessities  which  lead  to  it, — when  these  spring 
from  causes  not  base  or  ignoble  in  themselves,  when 


may  say  at  once,  and  literally  of  nearly  all 
tragic  writers  "  that  they  have  sought  in  crimes 
their  materials,  and  in  criminals  their  heroes." 

Mr.  Burke  has  probably  in  much  accounted 
for  this  sombre  selection  of  character  and  sub- 
ject, in  those  remarks,  not  the  least  subtle 
and  profound,  in  his  memorable  treatise,  where- 
in he  demonstrates  that,  as  power  is  a  source 
of  the  sublime,  so  power  to  be  sublime,  must 
be  suggestive  of  terror,  and  associated  with 
attributes  of  destruction. 

"  Whatever,"  he  says,  "  is  fitted  in  any  sort 
to  excite  the  ideas  of  pain  or  danger — that  is 
to  say,  whatever  is  any  sort  terrible,  or  is 
conversant  about  terrible  objects,  or  operates 
in  a  manner  analogous  to  terror,  is  a  source  of 
the  sublime."  * 

Again,  "  that  power  derives  all  its  sublimity 
from  terror  with  which  it  is  generally  accom- 
panied, will  appear  evidently,  from  its  effect 
in  the  very  few  cases  in  which  it  may  be  pos- 
sible to  strip  a  considerable  degree  of  strength 
of  its  power  to  hurt, — when  you  do  this,  you 
spoil  it  of  everthing  sublime,  and  it  immedi- 
ately becomes  contemptible."  He  proceeds 
to  compare  the  ox,  strong  but  innocent,  and 
therefore  the  idea  of  which  is  not  grand,  with 
the  bull,  which,  precisely  because  its  strength 
is  often  destructive,  has  frequently  a  place  in 
sublime  description.  "We  have  continually 
about  us  animals  of  a  strength  that  is  consid- 
erable, but  not  pernicious;  amongst  these  we 
never  look  for  the  sublime.  It  comes  upou 
us  in  the  gloomy  forest  and  in  the  howling 
wilderness — in  the  forms  of  the  lion,  the  tiger, 
the  panther,  or  rhinoceros."  f 

Without  absolutely  going  to  the  extreme  of 
the  principle  this  eminent  thinker  has  en- 
forced, or  asserting  that  strength,  to  be  sub- 
lime, must  be  necessarily  pernicious;  it  is  un- 
deniable at  least,  that  the  association  of  power 
with  destruction   is  one  of  the  most   obvious 


they  come,  for  instance,  from  a  combination  of  wrong 
not  otherwise  to  be  redressed,  murder  becomes  a 
poetic  subject;  it  is  that  which  is  dignified  as  a  '  trag- 
edy '  and  distinguished  from  mere  felony."  Words, 
signifying  nothing  !  The  crimes  of  lago  are  base  and 
ignoble  in  themselves— they  come  from  "  no  combina- 
tion of  wrong  not  otherwise  to  be  redressed;"  neither 
do  those  of  Richard  III.,  nor  those  of  Phsdra,  of  Cly- 
temnestra,  of  the  daughters  of  Lear  and  the  mother  of 
Hamlet,  and  the  wife  of  Macbeth. 

♦  Burke  on  the  "  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  Part  I. 
sect,  vii. 

t  lb.  Part  II.  sect.  v. 


A      WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


719 


sources  of  the  sublime.  And,  as  guilt  in  Man, 
when  accompanied  with  intellect  or  daring, 
contains  a  power  infinitely  exceeding  the 
brute  force  of  the  mere  animal,  so  crime 
is  the  customary  material  for  tragic  art,  and 
furnishes  the  tremendous  instrument  for  mov- 
ing the  human  heart  by  the  agency  of   terror. 

Other  reasons  might  be  adduced  to  show 
why  crime  has  been  made  an  essential  element 
on  the  stage; — how  it  has  afforded  to  the  master 
of  human  nature  his  amplest  scope  for  investi- 
gating the  most  subtle  and  hiden  recesses  of 
character  and  passion,  unravelling  the  skein 
of  intellectual  error,  and  holding  up  to  a 
thoughtless  world  those  striking  and  solemn 
warnings  in  which  the  more  direct  morality 
of  tragic  composition  may  be  said  to  con- 
sist. Perhaps  the  old  Greek  Platonist  who 
eloquently  defended  Homer  from  the  accusa- 
tions of  his  master,  has  made  some  remarks 
on  this  part  of  our  subject  not  unworty  of 
attention. 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  he  says,  "  that  whatever 
is  tragical,  monstrous,  and  out  of  the  common 
course  of  nature  in  poetical  fictions,  excites 
the  hearers  in  all  imaginable  ways  to  the  in- 
vestigation of  the  truth,  attracts  us  to  recon- 
dite knowledge,  and  does  not  suffer  us  through 
apparant  probability  to  rest  satisfied  with 
superficial  conceptions,  but  compels  us  to  pen- 
etrate into  the  interior  parts  of  fables,  to  explore 
the  obscure  intention  of  their  authors,"  etc.* 

Enough,  then,  has  been  said  to  show  that 
crime  is  an  admitted  and  necessary  element  of 
tragic  fiction,  an  agency  employed  l)y  the 
greatest  poets,  and  to  be  vindicated  by  the 
plainest  principles  of  their  art;  and  so  popularly 
is  this  understood,  that  the  very  statue  of  the 
Tragic  Muse  is  represented  with  the  dagger  in 
one  hand,  the  poison  bo^ul  in  the  other. 

But  then  it  is  implied,  if  not  openly  con- 
tended, that,  though  the  presentation  of  crime 
is  allowable  on  the  stage,  it  is  to  be  condemned 
in  a  novel.  Much  is  said  about  the  "  weak 
minds  of  circulating  library  readers  " — "  the 
young "  and  "  impressionable,"  etc.  As  if 
there  were  no  weak  minds  in  the  pit  and  the 


*  Taylor's  translation  of  Proclus  in  the  "Apology 
for  the  Fables  of  Homer."  I  prefer  adopting  his  trans- 
lation, though  not  so  forcible  as  1  could  wish,  to  any 
attempt  of  my  own.  I  have  taken,  however,  the  liberty 
of  substituting  for  the  word  "  unnatural,"  the  para- 
phrase, "  Out  of  the  common  course  of  nature,"  which 
is  certainly  the  true  meaning  of  Proclus. 


gallery  of  Drury-lane — as  if  only  sages  and 
stoics  were  to  be  found  in  the  boxes — as  if  a 
dramatic  audience  were  not,  upon  the  whole, 
a  far  more  miscellaneous  class  than  that  of 
subscribers  to  a  circulating  library,  compre- 
hending far  lower  degress  of  instruction,  and 
a  more  general  admixture,  both  of  rank  and 
of  age  * — as  if,  too,  after  all,  literature  were  a 
kind  of  medicated  farina,  to  be  adapted  with 
the  daintiest  nicety  to  the  digestion  of  the 
Aveakly  and  diseased — as  if  any  man  of  educa- 
tion and  vigor,  no  matter  whether  he  write  a 
novel  or  a  history,  must  not  take  it  for  granted, 
that  he  addresses  readers  of  ordinary  under- 
standing and  healthful  comprehension  !  Is 
there,  in  fact,  a  book  in  the  world  that  could 
ever  have  established  a  fame,  if  it  had  not 
mainly  addressed  itself  to  strong  heads  and 
clear  intellects  ? 

Much,  too,  is  said  of  the  example  of  former 
novelists,  who  were  contented  with  exhibiting 
manners,  and  ridiculing  folly — as  if  all  prose 
fiction  were  to  be  narrowed  into  a  single  class- 
ification, or  as  if  all  grave  purpose  and  tragic 
end  were  forbidden  to  the  compositions  of 
fiction,  because  they  are  divided  into  chapters, 
not  compressed  into  acts  !  What  is  the  fair 
source  of  terror  in  one  composition  may  be  as 
readily  resorted  to  in  another.  What  is  free 
to  the  imagination,  if  put  into  five  acts,  does 
not  become  reprehensible,  if  employed  in  three 
volumes.  Each,  the  narrative  or  the  drama,  is 
l)ound  but  by  its  own  peculiar  modes  of  rela- 
tion or  expression.  And  since,  whatever  our 
varieties  of  appeal  to  the  passions,  all  are 
traceable  to  springs  in  the  human  mind,  to 
which  all  who  treat  of  the  passions  must  apply 
— the  narrator  is  not  only  privileged,  l)ut  abso- 
lutely constrained Xo  coine  to  the  same  sources 
as  the  writer  for  the  stage.  Pause  to  consider 
how  inoral  terror  in  tragic  composition  is  ob- 
tained. The  more  you  examine,  the  more  you 
will  find  that  moral  f  terror  is  never  excited 


*  These  poor  circulating  library  readers  area  littie 
too  superciliously  treated.  Say  what  we  like  about 
them,  they  still  form  the  ordinary  mass  of  the  reading 
public,  and  comprehend  all  its  varieties  of  intellect  and 
instruction.  They  certainly  cannot  be  said  to  exclude 
the  refined  and  scholastic  few,  while  they  as  certainly 
do  not  embrace  the  lowest  orders  in  mental  cultivation. 

t  I  say  moral  terror,  though  even  the  physical  terror 
caused  by  representations  of  bodily  pain  and  danger 
can  scarcely  be  artistically  produced,  without  tracing 
it  to  moral  evil,  either  in  those  who  endure,  or  those 
who  inflict  it. 


720 


B  UL  VVER  ■  S     WO/'iKS. 


except  by  images  of  evil  or  punishment — by 
some  destroying  or  dangerous  agency.  Look 
a  little  deeper,  and  you  will  find  that  there  are 
only  two  kinds  of  this  agency — the  first,  su- 
pernatural, such  as  Fate,  a  ghost,  a  witch,  a 
fiend,  an  oracle,  etc.,  in  which  the  images  from 
another  world  are  summoned  to  exercise  evil 
influence  over  this;  the  second  agency  is  hu- 
man crime.  Search,  I  say,  all  tragedies,  all 
fictions,  and  you  will  find  that  moral  terror  is 
never  produced,  but  l)y  some  evil  or  destroy- 
ing power,  and  that  that  power  is  never  to  be 
found,  except  in  the  two  agencies  I  have 
named — viz.,  the  supernatural  or  the  criminal. 
Grant,  then,  what  you  cannot  deny,  that  the 
narrator  is  in  the  exercise  of  his  undoubted 
right,  to  attempt,  if  he  can,  to  create  the  pas- 
sion of  terror,  and  you  are  compelled  to  grant 
him  the  only  means  by  which  he  can  effect  his 
object — viz.,  the  supernatural  or  the  criminal. 
This  is  so  evident  a  truth,  that  it  would  be 
unnecessary  to  say  a  word  further  on  the  sub- 
ject, if  it  were  not  that  the  public  are  less  fa- 
miliarized to  representations  of  guilt  in  the  nar- 
rative fiction,  than  they  were  in  the  dramatic; 
and  hence  the  comparative  unfamiliarity  has 
given  a  readier  reception  to  shallow  criticism 
of  the  romance,  than  common  sense  and  daily 
custom  would  permit  to  be  appled  to  the 
drama.  But  this  only  proves  what  is  undeni- 
able— viz.,  that  the  tragic  prose  romance  is  of 
very  great  recent  date  in  literature,  and  has 
hitherto  been  sparingly  cultivated.  I  believe 
that  Richardson's  "Clarissa  Harlmve"  was 
the  first  prose  fiction,  attaining  permanent 
celebrity,  that  resorted  for  interest  to  the  ele- 
ments of  tragedy.  I  need  not  say,  that  the 
plot  of  that  work  is  founded  on  the  progress 
and  perpetration  of  a  crime  equally  odious  and 
base,  conducted  through  scenes,  abetted  by 
characters,  and  consummated  by  means  which 
the  public  would  probably  not  permit  to  a 
writer  in  the  present  day.  Yet,  of  Richard- 
son, our  great  moralist  could  say  with  truth 
"  that  he  taught  the  passions  to  move  at  the 
command  of  Virtue."  The  next  tragic  fiction 
that  won  fame  from  the  public,  was  the 
''Julia  de  Houbign/"  of  the  gentle-hearted 
Mackenzie.  It  closes  in  murder  and  suicide; 
and  those  who  would  fly  at  higher  game  than 
the  living,  may  find,  perhaps,  something  to 
say  against  the  dead  great  author,  who  holds 
up   as  the    ideal  of   chivalrous    honor — high. 


though  erring — the  jealous  assassin,  who 
poisons  his  wife,  and  escapes  by  self-slaughter 
the  penalties  and  shame  of  his  deed.  Yet 
who,  amongst  the  true  judges  of  literature, 
would  deny  to  Mackenzie  the  praise  he  de- 
serves as  a  writer  of  the  purest  intentions,  and 
the  mildest  humanity?  Not  long  after  this, 
with  some  tragic  purpose  (though  I  do  not  in- 
clude it  amongst  the  fictions  that  we  recognize 
as  critically  tragic),  came  the  "  Zeluco"  of 
Moore— the  gloomy  jwrtrait  of  a  hero  whom 
no  moral  sentiment  ennobles,  no  genial  im- 
pulse ever  warms — but  justifying  the  author 
by  his  aim  to  show  in  the  maturer  life  of  his 
hero  the  errors  of  early  education,  and  the 
absorbing  debasement  of  cultivated  egotism. 
Nor  has  any  man  ventured  to  deny,  that  Dr. 
Moore  in  his  writings  has  deserved  the  repu- 
tation for  virtuous  purpose,  which,  more  than 
his  genius,  obtained  him  the  favor  of  the 
public. 

To  these  succeeded  the  truly  tragic  fiction 
of  Godwin's  "  Caleb  Williams,"  in  which,  as  in 
'■'Julia  de  Roribign^,"  a  murderer  is  made  the 
hero,  with  false  humor  for  his  tempter,  while 
his  reinorse  and  his  terror  supply  both  analysis 
and  incident.  Yet,  whatever  may  be  said  of 
Mr.  Godwin's  speculative  opinions,  on  political 
and  other  subjects,  all  will  admit  that  his  aims 
were  those  of  a  philosopher,  who  sought,  in 
his  own  way,  the  inculcation  of  morals.  And 
while  his  more  erroneous  expositions  of  doc- 
trine have  sunk  into  oblivion,  "  Caleb  Wil- 
liams "  lives  yet,  and  will,  perhaps,  live  while 
our  language  lasts,  as  a  monuments  of  genius, 
on  which  are  graven  admonitions  to  error. 

Thiis  it  will  be  perceived,  that  in  all  the 
classic  tragic  prose  fictions  preceding  our  own 
age,  criminals  have  afforded  the  prominent 
characters,  and  crime  the  essential  material. 

Since  the  production  of  those  works,  prose 
fiction  has  yet  more  extended  its  ancient 
limits.*  It  has  entered  with  Goethe  the  do- 
mains of  speculative  thought;  it  has  been  en- 


*  Thus,  indeed,  a  class  of  composition  has  arisen,  for 
which,  as  yet  we  have  no  definite  name:  it  corresponds 
not  with  our  associations  of  the  novel,  nor  yet  with 
those  of  the  romance.  It  does  not  belong  precisely  to 
either.  We  cannot  justly  call  "  Wilhelm  Meisler,"  ot 
"  Anastasius,"  "Undine"  or  "  Picciola,"  "Alala"  or 
"  Rene,"  "  Caleb  Williams"  and  "Julia  de  Roubigne," 
either  novels  or  romance.  In  England  the  word  fiction 
has  thus  crept  into  use,  for  want  of  one  less  general 
and  vague- 


A     WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


721 


largecTto  almost  boundless  extent  by  the  en- 
ergies of  Scott.  But  while  that  last-named 
and  illustrious  writer  enriched  the  realms  he 
had  won  with  the  stores  of  the  historian,  and 
from  the  mines  of  the  poet — while,  in  mere 
form,  more  than  any  one,  he  relieved  and  ani- 
mated the  ])rogress  of  narrative,  and  the  deline- 
ation of  character  with  the  dialogue  and  action 
of  the  stage,  of  tragic  fiction,  rigidly  so  called, 
he  has  left  but  one  signal  master-piece,  '•  The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor."  *  In  this,  to  create 
his  effects  of  awe,  though  human  evil  is  un- 
questionably introduced,  he  rather  resorted  to 
the  old  Greek  instrumentality  of  fate — a 
means  which  (for  an  obvivious  reason  that  I 
shall  state  hereafter)  he  could  not  have  con- 
tinued to  employ  if  he  had  more  generally 
directed  his  genius  to  tragic  compositions. 
But,  though  the  "  BriJe  of  Lammermoor" 
sufifices  to  show  that  Scott's  power  in  the 
sterner  narrative  surpassed  all  before  him  and 
since,  the  more  habitual  tendencies  of  his 
mind  did  not  lead  his  choice  to  the  regions 
over  which  awe  and  terror  preside, 

"  Di  quibus  imperiumest  animarumumbraequesilentes 
Et  Chaos  et  Phlegethon,  loca  nocte  silentia  late;  " 

still  to  the  adventurer  whom  those  regions  in- 
vite, it  is  permitted  to  add — 

"  Sil  mihi  fas  audita  loqui:  sit,  nuraine  vestro, 
Pandere  res  alta  terra  el  caligine  mersas." 

The  tragic  fiction  is  conceived — it  has  taken 
growth — it  may  be  destined,  amidst  the  com- 
[)arative  neglect  of  the  stage,  to  supply  the 
lessons  which  the  tragic  drama  has,  for  awhile, 
abandoned.  Do  not  fetter  its  wanderings 
from  free  search  after  truth  through  the  mazes 
of  society,  and  amidst  all  the  contrasts  of 
nature.  If  it  is  to  be  a  voice  to  the  heart,  an 
interpreter  of  the  secrets  of  life, — you  cannot 
withhold  from  it  the  broadest  experience  of 
the  struggle  between  good  and  evil,  happiness 
and  woe. 

■'  Hunc  igitur;tcrrorem  aninii,  tenebrasque  necesse  est." 

But  I  am   told,  somewhat  more  definitely 


•  Unless  we  admit,  as  perhaps  we  ought,  the  more 
mixed  and  less  gloomy  romance  of  "  Kenilworth,"  in 
which  I  need  not  say,  that  all  which  is  effected  of  ter- 
ror is  produced  by  the  agency  of  guilt;  in  fact,  wher- 
ever Walter  Scott  has  produced  terror  without  employ- 
ing stipcrnaliiral  means,  it  will  always  and  unavoid- 
ably, from  the  causes  stated  in  the  text,  be  found  in 
connection  with  crime. 

6.  — 4fi 


and  precisely,  that  though  crimes  of  a  lofty 
order,  rendered  high  and  solemn  by  ancient 
tradition,  and  clad  in  the  pomp  of  history, 
are  fitting  subjects  for  fiction,  the  crimes 
which  occur  in  our  own  day,  and  finish  their 
career  at  the  gallows  or  the  hulks,  are  wholly 
to  be  banished  from  recital.  "  Such  things 
may  be:  leave  them  to  their  own  ignominy. 
Why  elevate  vulgar  felons  into  heroes,  and 
take  us  for  interest  to  the  Old  Bailey  ?" 

This,  I  believe,  is  a  correct  quotation  from 
the  kind  of  censure  with  which  (stripped  of 
its  grosser  personalities)  I  have  had  to  con- 
tend. Once  for  all,  I  will  seek  to  answer  it  as 
seriously  as  if  it  were  an  argument,  not  a  dec- 
lamation; a  friendly  remonstrance,  not  a  hos- 
tile and  heated  assault.  And  while  replying 
to  my  assailants  in  the  Press,  I  address  calmly 
and  respectfully  my  arguments  to  those  on 
whom  attacks  so  frequently  and  passionately 
urged  may  have  produced  an  impression 
which  it  pains  me  most  deeply  to  think  any 
work  of  mine  should  create  on  one  honorable 
and  impartial  mind. 

I  have  already,  I  trust,  shown  that  the 
charge  of  habitually  selecting  criminals  for 
my  themes  is  in  itself  untrue.  I  proceed  now 
to  the  question,  how  far  the  crimes  of  our  own 
days,  the  crimes  of  Tyburn  and  the  Old 
Bailey,  may  be  admissable  to  the  licence  of 
art  in  fiction,  and  conducive  to  the  moral  it 
should  inculcate. 

I  will  grant  at  once  that  for  the  purposes  of 
poetry,  high  tragic  effect  may  be  more  readily 
produced,  and  may  usually  create  a  grander  or 
less  distressful  sentiment  of  awe,  when  it  is 
sought  in  the  ancient  treasure-house  of  history 
or  fable;  and  in  some  of  my  works  I  have 
reverently  drawn  from  such  elder  and  remoter 
sources.  But  one  region  of  Art  does  not  ex- 
clude the  other.  The  past  cannot  monopolize 
the  sorrows  and  crimes  of  ages.  While  we 
live,  we  ourselves  become  a  past.  Antl  we  are 
unquestionably  warranted  to  consult  the  Book 
of  Time,  in  the  page  which  is  spread  before 
our  eyes.  Can  we  do  so  faithfully  if  we  strike 
out  all  passages  that  pain  or  perplexes  us  ? 
Can  we  give  any  fair  idea  of  the  record,  if  we 
confine  all  our  extracts  to  what  we  instinctively 
approve  and  readily  comprehend  ?  No,  every 
one  concedes  to  me  at  once,  that  a  writer  is 
at  liberty  to  search  amidst  the  materials  af- 
forded to  him  in  modern  life,  for  the  subjects 


BULWKR'S     WORKS. 


and  characters  of  fiction.  The  comic  writer 
takes  fearlessly  whatever  in  the  errors  and 
vices  of  mankind  adapts  itself  to  the  comic  re- 
sult of  exciting  our  ridicule,  and  moving  onr 
contempt: — 

"  Licet,  semperque  liccbit 
(iicere  dc  vitiis."  * 

"  It  ever  has,  and  ever  will  be,  lawful  to 
speak  of  the  vices,"  which  it  is  the  province 
of  Comedy  as  of  Satire  to  expose.  The 
Tartuffe  of  Moliere,  the  Blifil  of  Fielding,  the 
SqiUre  Thonihill  of  Goldsmith  (a  scoundrel, 
|)erhaps  the  vilest  and  the  most  sparingly  pun- 
ished in  comic  fiction),  the  whole  spirit  in  Le 
Sage,  the  whole  object  in  Swift,  are  uniformly 
directed  to  the  exposure  of  the  meaner  and 
more  vicious  propensities  of  men.  Folly  and 
error,  vice  punished  by  ridicule,  constitute  the 
main  materials  of  the  comic  writer,  whether 
he  employ  them  in  a  drama  or  a  novel.  Must 
we  not  grant  to  the  writer  who  seeks  for  the 
elements  of  tragedy  that  exist  in  his  own  time, 
the  equal  licence  to  seek  for  the  materials  to 
which  tragedy  must  apply  ?  What  are  those 
materials  but  the  passions  and  the  crimes  of 
men, — as,  for  comedy,  the  materials  are  drawn 
from  the  humors  and  the  vices  ?  Terror  and 
compassion  are  the  sources  of  the  tragic 
writer's  effects;  the  destructive  or  pernicious 
power  of  intellect  corrupted  into  guilt,  affords 
him  the  natural  means  of  creating  terror  for 
the  evil,  and  compassion  for  its  victims.  To 
say  that  the  criminals  he  is  thus  compelled  to 
employ  as  the  agents  of  his  plot,  are  unfit  for 
his  purpose  because  they  may  be  classed 
amongst  the  prey  of  Newgate  and  the  Old 
Bailey,  is  but  to  lay  down  the  preposterous 
principle,  that  we  must  not  extract  tragedy 
from  times  in  which  laws  are  carried  into 
effect;  it  is  simply  to  say,  that,  because  men 
in  our  day  are  transported  and  hanged  for 
guilt,  the  guilt  of  our  day  it  is  improper  to 
analyze  and  depict. 

All  crimes  now,  if  detected,  must  obtain  the 
notoriety  of  the  Old  Bailey,  or  reap  their  desert 
in  Newgate;' and  to  contend  that  Newgate  and 
the  Old  Bailey  unfit  them  for  the  uses  of  the 
writer  of  fiction,  is  virtually  to  deprive  him 
of  the  use  of  all  crimes  punished  by  modern 
law  and  enacted  in  the  modern  day:  as  if  there 


»  Hor.  Sat.  4.  lib.  i. 


were  no  warning  to  be  drawn  from  sii*s  that 
are  not  ennobled  by  ermine  and  purple;  as  if 
there  were  no  terror  in  the  condemned  cell,  no 
tragedy  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows  i  And  yet 
how  hackneyed  is  the  aphorism,  that  the  hu- 
man heart,  and  the  tragedy  to  be  drawn  from 
it,  remain  the  same  in  every  age  !  Unless, 
then,  we  deny  altogether  that  we  are  to  seek 
for  the  sources  of  tragedy  amidst  the  times 
which  we  must  necessarily  know  the  best, 
amongst  the  characters  on  which  the  broadest 
and  steadiest  light  can  be  cast,  amidst  the 
warnings  the  most  immediately  useful  to  us, 
we  cannot  reject  to  the  writer  of  modern  fic- 
tion the  materials  of  modern  tragedy,  even 
though  they  are  drawn  from  the  records  of 
the  prison-house,  and  the  judgments  of  the 
law.  The  materials  must  be  open  to  choice, 
with  certain  stipulations  as  to  the  treatment, 
into  which  we  shall  enter  later. 

It  has  long,  indeed,  been  the  opinion  of 
many  minds  the  most  thoughtfully  bent  upon 
the  alliance  between  humanity  and  art,  that 
we  have  too  much  neglected  the  deeper  and 
graver  characteristics  of  our  own  age;  too 
much  contented  ourselves  with  surveys  of  the 
surface,  delineations  of  manners,  fashions,  and 
foibles,  and  turned  to  the  past  for  that  sterner 
poetry  which  is  not  less  sensibly  to  be  found 
in  the  sorrows  and  the  guilt  of  the  life  around 
us.  Thus,  towards  the  close  of  his  life, 
Schiller,  whom,  at  that  time,  no  man  can  accuse 
of  rash  and  unconsidered  tamperings  with  the 
legitimate  end  of  genius,  meditated  a  drama 
that  would  seem  least  poetical  to  the  shallow, 
but  was  intended  to  extract  poetry  from  the 
very  sources  which  it  seems  we  are  now  for- 
bidden to  explore.  His  proposed  subject  was 
"The  French  Police;"  and  I  need  not  say, 
that  the  conception  could  not  fail  to  compre- 
hend the  evils,  the  abuses,  and  the  crimes,  of 
modern  civilization. 

Good  men  there  are,  no  doubt,  who  would 
interdict  altogether  the  presentation  of  actual 
crime  as  painful  and  revolting — as  administer- 
ing to  a  passion  for  diseased  excitement;  I 
respect  their  scruples.  But,  without  here 
pausing  to  examine  what  weight  can  be  at- 
tached to  them,  is  the  prohibition  even  possi- 
ble ?  Crime  meets  us  as  a  fact  everywhere; 
you  cannot  open  a  newspaper,  you  cannot  refer 
to  statistics,  you  cannot  mix  in  the  ordinary 
world— but  crime   is   forced  daily  and  hourly 


A     WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


m 


on  yom-  notice.  You  must  close  up  for  punty 
and  youth  all  history,  sacred  and  profane: 
you  must  shut  out  from  the  calendar  of  life 
the  tyrant  and  the  martyr;  you  must  seal  up 
the  fountains  of  literature,  and  silence  the 
long  succession  of  poets  from  Sophocles  to 
Dante,  from  Dante  to  Shakespeare,  from 
Shakespeare  to  the  last  song  that  has  thrilled 
through  the  world — if  you  seek  to  exclude 
from  the  mind  the  dark  certainties  of  guilt. 

Even  tlien  you  will  fail.  Man  has  but  to 
live,  to  know  that  crime  is  the  foe  man  must 
brave.  Could  you  instruct  him  what  he  should 
resist  and  abhor,  if  you  could  leave  him  igno- 
rant of  its  existence  and  its  chastisement  ? 
You  cannot,  like  the  Emperor  of  China,  live 
in  a  fancied  succession  of  triumphs  and  se- 
curity, and  receive  congratulations  on  the 
felecity  of  your  reign  and  the  impregnability 
of  your  dominion,  while  the  enemy  are  block- 
ading your  ports  and  sailing  up  your  rivers. 
The  essential  characteristic  of  this  age  and 
\dL\'\tX\'i  publicity.  There  exists  a  Press  which 
bares  at  once  to  the  universal  eye  every  exam- 
ple of  guilt  that  comes  before  a  legal  tribunal. 
In  these  very  newspapers  which  would  forbid 
a  romance  writer  to  depict  crime  with  all 
that  he  can  suggest  to  demonstrate  its  causes, 
portray  its  hideousness,  insist  on  its  inevitable 
doom, — are  everywhere  to  be  found  the  min- 
utest details  of  guilt, — the  meanest  secrets  of 
the  prison-house  are  explored,  turnkeys  inter- 
rogated, and  pages  filled  with  descriptions  of 
the  personal  appearance  of  the  felon,  his  dress 
at  the  bar,  his  courage  at  the  gallows.  To 
find  the  true  literature  of  Newgate  and  Tyburn, 
you  have  only  to  open  the  newspaper  on  your 
table.  That  reports  thus  send  abroad  to  all 
quarters  of  a  motley  civilization,  read  aloud 
in  the  lowest  alehouse,  and  in  the  vilest  re- 
sorts of  outcasts  and  thieves — the  only  literary 
food  (as  newspapers  are)  of  the  most  unedu- 
cated classes; — that  such  may  do  harm,  I  am 
ready  to  confess,  and  this  from  the  careless 
tone  and  the  base  detail — the  obtrusion  of  a 
criminal  notoriety  unaccompanied  by  a  single 
les.son — gorging  the  curiosity  and  familiarizing 
away  the  solemnity  of  guilt.*     But  how  differ- 


*  This  is  the  necessity  of  the  newspaper  press,  rather 
than  a  reproach  to  it.  That  press  but  obeys  the  imper- 
ious demands  iar  publicity  which  the  age  enforces.  Its 
business  is  to  deal  with  facts;  and  it  can  only  partially 
and  briefly  convey  the  deductions  which  the  author  of 
a  fiction  writes  volumes  to  explain. 


ent  this  from  a  narrative  of  a  writer  ol  fiction, 
who  presents  no  single  portrature  of  crime  to 
monopolize  the  morbid  fancy — who  contrasts 
it  with  images  of  purity  and  innocence,  who 
analyzes  the  workings  of  the  heart,  and  thus 
checks  its  progress  to  corruption — who  accom- 
panies the  crime,  as  by  its  shadow,  with  the 
darkness  of  its  own  deformity — who  exerts  all 
the  power  he  possesses  to  accumulate  terrors 
round  its  consequences  and  chastisements — 
whose  work  by  its  literary  treatment  (if  the 
author  possess  but  ordinary  scholarship),  to 
say  nothing  of  its  mode  of  publication,  is  not 
destined  to  penetrate,  like  the  newspaper, 
amongst  the  most  ignorant  and  perverted — the 
accomplices  and  imitators  of  the  guilty — but 
is  almost  necessarily  confined  to  classes  of  a 
certain  education,  which  would  render  the  imi- 
tation as  untempting  as  the  guilt  itself  is  ab- 
horrent. The  fiction  supplies  the  very  lessons 
the  newspaper  cannot  give.  If  the  reader 
doubt  this,  let  him  only  compare  (he  impres- 
sions made  upon  his  mind  by  a  crime  brought 
before  the  courts  of  law  with  those  produced 
by  a  crime  which  some  imaginative  writer  has 
depicted; — I  am  greatly  mistaken  if  he  does 
not  own  at  once,  that  the  last  are  infinitely  more 
grave,  more  forcible,  and  more  enduring. 

Analysis  of  the  darker  or  coarser  crimes  of 
society  is  not  intended  to  reform  the  criminals 
— then  it  does  not  reach.  It  is  not  as  a  curb 
to  tyrants  that  "  William  Tell"  is  effective. 
It  is  not  to  reform  an  Appius  that  we  express 
our  sympathy  with  Virginius.  It  is  not  to 
breathe  virtue  into  burglars  that  ^^  Jonathan 
Wild"  was  composed,  or  to  prevent  men  from 
poisoning  their  wives,  that  Mackenzie  wrote 
his  ''Julia  de  Roubign/.''  Limited,  indeed, 
M'ould  be  the  moral  uses  of  fiction,  if  confined 
to  the  peculiar  idiosyncrasies  of  character  it 
selects.  Nor  is  it  only  by  the  catastrophe  it- 
self that  fiction  reaches  the  heart,  but  yet  more 
by  the  mental  dissection  which  it  adpiits,  that 
it  corrects  our  errors,  in  developing  their 
causes.  It  is  by  the  tendencies  to  which  terror 
or  compassion  in  the  tragic  form,  ridicule  and 
contempt  in  the  comic,  are  the  agents,  that  we 
confirm  social  enthusiasm  for  virtue,  and  unite 
the  reason  with  the  passions  in  detestation  of 
crime.  And  all  this  can  be  equally  effected, 
whether  we  resort  for  materials  to  the  past  or 
to  the  present,  to  the  vices  of  the  great  or  to 
those  of  the  mean.     It  is  the  treatment  that 


724 


B  UL  WEirS     H  OKKS. 


ennobles,  not  the  subject.  Grant  that  the 
characters  are  what  convention  calls  Icnv — in 
birth,  station,  instruction;  born  in  a  cellar, 
dying  on  the  gibbet,  they  are  not  one  jot,  for 
those  reasons,  made  necessarily  low  to  art. 
Art  can,  with  Fielding,  weave  an  epic  from 
adventures  with  gamekeepers  and  barbers. 
Art  can,  with  Goethe,  convert  into  poetry  the 
most  lofty,  the  homely  image  of  the  girl  con- 
demned for  infanticide,  and  confine  the  vast 
war  between  spirits  and  men,  to  the  floors  of 
her  felon  cell.  Rightly  has  the  most  majestic 
of  poets  placed  at  the  Portals  of  Dread,  not 
those  fiends  which  are  the  tempters  of  the 
great  and  deluders  of  the  wise,  but  rather  the 
demons  of  the  ruder  multitude,  "  Fear,  and 
ill-advising  Hunger,  Labor,  and  shameful 
Want  "— 

"  Et  Metus,  et  malesuada  Fames  et  turpis  Egestas; 
Terribiles  visu  form;e — Lcluinque,  Laborque."  * 

To  sum  tip,  I  think,  then,  we  must  allow — 

ist.  That  crime,  however  great  and  heinous, 
is  an  admitted  and  necessary  agency  in  tragic 
fiction,  warranted  by  the  employment  of  the 
greatest  masters,  and  the  sanction  of  all  ages. 

2ndly.  That  it  is  equally  adiliissable  in  the 
narrative  fiction  as  the  dramatic. 

3rdly.  That  we  may  seek  for  the  materials 
of  terror  in  crime,  or  destructive pmver,  amidst 
the  present  as  the  past — ^that  we  are  limited 
neither  to  particular  periods,  nor  conventional 
gradations  of  rank — that  wherever  we  find  the 
facts  that  furnish  the  passions  of  terror.f  and 
the  characters  that  permit  the  analysis  of 
motive  to  conduct,  (the  cause  to  the  effect) — ■ 
we  are  at  full  liberty  to  use  them. 

I  said  that  we  have  a  right  to  demand  cerr 
tain  stipulations  as  to  treatment  and  selec- 
tion. 

istly.  We  have  a  right  to  demand  that, 
whatever  interest  the  author  bids  us  take  in 
the  crimiTial,  we  should  never,  by  any  meta- 
physical sophistry,  be  seduced  into  admiration 
i)f  the  crime — that  even  where,  as  usually  in 
the  drama,  the  criminal  is  invested  with  attri- 
butes that  enforce  respect,  or  is  induced  to  an 
offence  at  war  with  his  general  character  hy 


*  Virg.  yEn,  vi.  276,  277. 

+  I  should  apologize  for  the  fatigfuing  repetition  of 
the  word  ti-n-or  throughout  the  inquiry.  But  I  could 
not  avoid  it  without  obscurity  and  circumlocution.  I 
must  make  the  same  excuse  for  the  repetition  of  the 
ivord  art. 


circinnstance  and  temptation — still  the  crime 
itself  should  be  shown  clearly  as  a  violation  of 
eternal  laws,  and  be  condemned,  not  only  by 
the  residt  in  the  fiction,  but  the  reason  of  the 
beholder.  We  are  not  forbidden  to  sympathize 
with  Othello  in  his  jealousy,  nor  to  admire  the 
nobleness  which  contrasts  an  infirmity  ordi- 
narily, mean  and  egotistical;  for  we  see  that 
the  crime  to  which  it  urges  him  entails  its  own 
direful  punishment,  and  no  compassion  for  the 
murderer  lessons  our  horror  of  the  murder. 

2ndly.  The  crimes  depicted  should  not  be 
of  a  nature  to  lead,  us  through  licentious  scenes, 
nor  accompanied  with  descriptions  that  appeal 
dangerously  to  the  senses.  'J'here  is  one  class 
of  evil  which  shocks  and  revolts  us— there  is 
another  class  of  evil  to  which  the  most  perilous 
ally  is  in  our  own  nature.  There  is  nothing  to 
corrupt  us  in  the  delineation  of  murder  and 
violent  wrong;  our  instincts  recoil  at  once 
from  the  idea  of  imitation.  There  may  be 
much  to  corrupt  us  in  the  delineation  of  an 
adulterous  love,  though  the  moral  it  is  meant 
to  convey  may,  in  itself,  he  excellent.  And, 
therefore,  it  is  safest  not  to  make  prominent 
or  minutely  to  detail  cnmes  of  a  nature  which 
less  openly  revolts  us  than  insidiously  al- 
lures.* 

jrdly.  In  dealing  especially  with  the  coarser 
and  more  violent  crimes  least  idealized  by 
remote  tradition,  least  dignified  by  history 
above  vulgar  associations,  the  author  is  bound 
to  have  some  object  in  view,  belonging  to  the 
purer  and  more  thoughtful  principles  of  art, 
to  which  the  means  he  employs  are  subordi- 
nate and  conducive.  If  in  "  /atiathaii  Wild" 
Fielding  takes  us  almost  solely  among  thieves 
and  pickpockets,  it  is  not  merely,  anil  objec- 
tively, as  it  were,  to  familiarize  us  with  their 
principles  and  habits.  In  describing  the  ac- 
tual mealiness,  he  is  aiming  his  satire  at  false 
greatness.  It  is  not  because  a  man  is  a  felon 
and  a  criminal  that  therefore  he  fiu'nishes  a 
fitting  theme  for  the  drama  or  the  narrative. 
I  guard  myself  especially  against   appearing 


*  And  this  principle  of  treatment,  be  it  observed, 
holds  as  good  in  the  delineation  of  virtue  as  in  the  ex- 
hibition of  guilt.  "  Pamela."  for  instance,  is  intended 
to  celebrate  the  triumph  of  virtue  in  a  woman, — "Caleb 
Williams  "  depicts  the  guilty  fall  of  a  man.  Yet  which 
of  the  two  fictions  would  a  father  prefer  to  trust  to  his 
children  ?  The  design  of  Richardson  is  eminently 
virtuous,  but,  by  an  error  in  art,  the  tre.it  ment  ob- 
trudes scenes  and  suggests  ideas  of  very  questionable 
s,lfi:tv. 


A     IVOJiB     JO     771  li    PUBLIC. 


725 


to  sanction  so  preposterous  a  conclusion.  But 
if  there  be  anything  so  peculiar  in  his  guilt, 
or  the  circumstances  attending  it,  as  to  al'lord 
fair  scope  for  artistic  purpose,  suggest  useful 
reflections,  or  inculcate  a  salutary  lesson, — 
then  it  is,  not  because  he  is  a  criminal  or  felon, 
that  he  becomes  an  unfit  instrument  for  those 
ends  to  which,  indeed  (as  we  have  seen),  the 
agency  of  crime  is  essential.  If,  therefore, 
the  author  make  use  of  the  actual  and  more 
violent  guilt  that  forms  one  element  of  the 
society  around  us — we  have  a  right  to  expect 
that  it  will  be  introduced,  not  in  wanton  levity, 
but  for  some  thoughtful  purpose — tending  (to 
the  best  of  his  judgment)  to  illustrate  some 
serviceable  truth. 

These,  I  believe,  are  the  main  restrictions 
which  we  must  impose  upon  the  liberty  of 
the  author,  in  granting  him  all  the  privileged 
resources  of  his  art. 

I  venture  to  assert,  that  by  these  restrictions 
I  have  been  bound.  Throwing  myself  on  the 
indulgence  of  the  candid  for  an  egotism  ren- 
dered necessary  by  the  direct  personality  of 
the  attacks,  and  without  which  the  reader 
must  be  sensible  that  these  remarks  would  be 
desultory  and  incomplete;  and  assuming 
merely,  that  the  three  works  I  am  called  upon 
to  defend  have  been  read  by  those  to  whom  I 
address  myself,  I  proceed  to  challenge  for 
them  the  severest  application  the  impartial  can 
bestow,  of  the  rules  I  have  laid  down  for  the 
proprieties  of  treatment. 

And  first,  as  to  "  Paul  Clifford"  *  The  ob- 
ject of  "Paul  Clifford"  ought  to  be  sufficiently 
apparent.  It  was  written  at  a  time  when 
capital  punishment  was  still  in  this  country 
iudiscriminately  impolitic  and  severe — when 
society  was  not  employed,  as  it  is  virtuously 
now,  in  seeking  to  reform  the  circumstances 
which  engender  crime  in  the  masses;  but  was 
content  with  punishing  by  severity  the  offences 
it  had  in  much  caused  by  neglect.  To  quote 
from  the  short  preface  to  the  edition  of  1840, 
it  was  my  design,  therefore,  "to  draw  atten- 
tion to  two  errors  in  our  penal  institutions — 
viz,  a  vicious  prison  disciplme,  and  a  sangui- 
nary criminal  code— the  habit  of  first  corrupt- 
ing the  boy  by  the  very  punishment  that  ought 
to  redeem  him,  and  then   hanging  the  man  on 

*  The  real  hero  of  this  book  is  perhaps  ralher  Wil- 
liam Brandon  than  his  son;  but  I  talce  the  responsi- 
bility created  by  the  title  selected. 


the  first  occasion,  as  the  easiest  w;iy  of  get- 
ting rid  of  our  own  blunders;  "  it  was  •'  a  sa- 
tire on  the  short  cut  established  between  the 
house  of  correction  and  the  condemned  cell." 

Paul  Clifford  is  thus  represented  as  one  of 
the  very  numerous  class  to  which  all  practical 
philanthropists  are  now  invitingour  attention; 
exposed  in  boyhood  to  the  contagion  of  evil 
companionship — sent  to  prison  for  an  offence 
he  does  not  commit — escaping  from  it  by  the 
dexterity  of  one  of  those  confirmed  rogues, 
with  whom  a  prison  brings  him  into  familiar 
association — and  afterwards,  almost  neces- 
sarily driven  for  a  livelihood  into  defiance  of 
the  Law,  which  had  already  expelled  him 
from  its  pale.  Paul  Clifford  offends,  and  he 
is  punished— he  is  an  exile  for  ever  from  his 
country;  but  as  his  offence  is  extenuated  by 
circumstances — as  society  in  itself  is  in  some 
measure  a  partaker  of  it — as  some  good  qual- 
ities, that  show  hiiTi  capable  of  reform,  belong 
to  his  character,  and  as  he  has  been  led  into 
none  of  the  darker  crimes  of  cruelty,  revenge, 
and  bloodshed— so  he  is  not  punished  to  the 
extent  of  the  gallows.  He  is  allowed  to  work 
out  his  redemption  by  repentance  and  atone- 
ment. In  all  this,  the  Novelist  does  but  sec- 
ond the  improved  disposition  of  Society  itself. 
He  does  but  advocate  in  a  fiction  the  princi- 
ples which  are  now  enlightening  our  journals 
and  ameliorating  our  laws. 

To  guard  against  danger  of  imitation  by  the 
modern  invaders  of  property  (if  such  a  book 
could  ever  reach  them),  Paul  Clifford  is  not 
represented — as  certain  parties  choose  un- 
blu shingly  to  assert — as  a  mere  pickpocket 
and  thief — he  is  taken  out  of  the  range  of 
existing  subjects  for  the  Old  Bailey.  His 
offence  is  that  of  the  obsolete,  and  now  impos- 
sible nature,  which  characterized  what  was 
satirically  called  the  "Gentleman  Highway- 
man;" and  has  passed  away  from  our  well- 
regulated  roads  and  enclosed  commons  as 
entirely  as  the  band  of  Robin  Hood  has 
passed  from  the  glades  of  Sherwood.  It  can 
now  be  imitated  no  more  than  adventurous 
youth  can  imitate  the  Lockslcy  and  the  Rob 
Roy  of  Walter  Scott.  And  with  quite  as  much 
justice  in  the  last-cited  novel  may  its  great 
and  healthful  author  be  accused  of  exalting  a 
robber  into  a  hero,  and  weaving  round  him  a 
dangerous  and  immoral  interest,  as  the  hum- 
bler writer,  now  put  upon  his  defence,  6i  such  a 


726 


BULWER'S     WCriiKS. 


design  in  the  moonlight  rides  of  Paul  Clifford, 
the  Highwayman.*  If  exception  be  taken  to 
the  mere  lowness  of  scenes  and  characters 
occasionally  introduced  in  the  book,  but  by  no 
means  forming  the  principal  part  of  it,  I  may 
observe,  that  as  they  contain  nothing  obscene 
or  licentious,  nothing  to  incite  or  inflame,  and 
are  not  introduced  for  themselves,  but  for 
satire  upon  the  real  vulgarity  often  found  be- 
neath the  mere  conventional  polish  they 
travesty  or  burlesque, — so  whatever  may  be 
said  against  such  an  introduction  on  the  score 
of  art,  it  is  free,  at  least,  from  all  tendency  to 
corrupt.  And  in  this,  since  I  cannot  claim  the 
merit  of  originality,  I  have  at  least  the  sanc- 
tion of  authorities  the  most  respected — not 
only  in  the  disputed  morality  of  the  "  Beggars 
Opera"  or  the  nobler  precedent  of  ^'Jonathan 
JVild" — but  in  the  "Beggar's  Bush  "  of  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  which  does  not  disdain  •  to 
put  slang  into  verse — in  the  "  Guzman  D' Al- 
farache"  of  Le  Sage— in  the '•  S/iar/ter  "  of 
Quevedo — and  in  the  innumerable  scenes  in 
what  is  called  "  low  life,"  which  are  never  cited 
in  reproach  of  our  greatest  novelists. 

I  think,  therefore,  that  I  may  fairly  dismiss 
"Paul  Clifford"  to  the  acquittal  of  any  impar- 
tial jury  upon  the  capital  charges  that  without 
evidence  and  against  precedent,  have  been 
laid  to  its  charge. 

In  "Eugene  Aram"  the  case  was  wholly 
different,  demanding  graver  "  treatment  and 
more  awful  chastisement;  here,  at  least,  there 
was  no  vulgar  offender,  nor  here  was  there  any 
victim  to  the  errors  and  neglect  of  society. 
Here  was  one  of  those  startling  phenomena  in 
human  conduct  which  had  arrested  the  atten- 
tion of  the  historian,  claimed  the  muse  of  the 
Poet,  which  had  been  more  than  the  nine  days' 
wonder  in  the  age  in  which  it  had  occurred, 
and  remained  in  the  record  and  memories  of 
men,  as  containing  the  problems,  and  exciting 
the  terror,  of  a  completed  tragedy  in  itself. 
The  picture  of  a  laborious  and  self-taught  stu- 
dent, apparently  of  a  life  the  most  blameless,  a 


*  Rob  Roy  defies  the  law,  plunders  the  traveller, 
ravages  the  border,  spares  not  life,  if  in  his  way,  and 
is  represented  on  the  whole  as  an  amiable  and  gallant 
character,  anil  dismissed  without  punishment,  to  the 
doubtful  approbation  of  the  reader.  In  all  this  the  as- 
sailers  of  "  Paul  Clifford"  see  nothing  to  call  for  the 
charge  of  raising  robbers  into  heroes,  or  bestowing  in- 
terest upon  criminals.  And  they  are  right.  Let  them 
be  but  consistent.  If  this  miserable  jargon  is  to  be 
employed  at  all,  let  tnem  use  it  impartially. 


character  the  most  humane,  locking  within  his 
conscience  the  secret  of  a  dark  and  inexplic- 
able crime,  not  to  be  explained  by  intelligible 
motives — attributed  to  what  seemed  essentially 
opj)osite  to  his  nature  and  pursuits,  (viz.  the 
mean  desire  of  gain) — brought  to  light  after 
many  years,  by  a  series  of  circumstances, 
regular  and  coherent  as  the  links  in  a  Drama, 
is  surely  not  to  be  classed  amidst  the  vulgar 
and  commonplace  offences  of  Newgate  records; 
and  if  ever  crime  be  admissible  in  fiction,  I 
confess  that  I  know  of  few  within  that  wide 
history  in  which  it  finds  its  place,  more  set 
apart  and  marked  out  for  tragic  analysis  and 
delineation.  Not  in  the  various  subjects  it  has 
been  my  fortune  to  select,  though  they  have 
dealt  with  larger  and  more  complicated  inter.- 
ests  of  mankind;  not  in  Pliny's  fearful  account 
of  the  flaming  mountain  and  buried  city;  not 
in  the  failing  attempt  of  Rienzi  to  resuscitate 
the  corpse  of  Roman  grandeur,  recorded  in 
the  aimals  of  Italy;  not  in  the  wild  and  gloomy 
struggle  in  which  our  own  Chroniclers  have 
tracked,  amidst  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  the 
sanguinary  transition  from  the  feudal  to  the 
social  age,  can  I  recognize  a  theme  more 
adapted  to  Tragic  purposes  than  the  image  of 
that  solitary  mind,  silent  and  bowed  down  be- 
neath the  weight  of  its  solitary  crime.  I  was 
not  singular  in  my  belief  that  this  subiect  was 
appropriate  to  the  purposes  to  which  I  pre- 
sumed to  apply  it.  Mr.  Godwin  assured  me 
that  he  had  often  meditated  a  fiction,  of  which 
Eugene  Aram  was  to  be  the  hero;  and  I  am 
informed  by  a  high  and  indisi)utable  author- 
ity,* that  Sir  Walter  Scott  expressed  his  sur- 
prise that  a  crime  so  peculiarly  adapted  to 
tragedy  or  romance,  had  been  so  long  un- 
treated by  either. 

I  venture,  then,  to  assume  that  the  choice 
of  my  subject  was  sufficiently  legitimate. 
And  I  addressed  myself  to  its  execution  with 
an  earnest  study  neither  to  palliate  the  offence, 
nor  diminish' the  terror  of  the  chastisement. 
Here,  unlike  the  milder  guilt  of  Paul  Clifford, 
the  author  was  not  to  imply  reform  to  society, 
nor  open  in  this  world  atonement  and  pardon 
to  the  criminal.  As  it  would  have  been 
wholly  in  vain  to  disguise,  by  meati  tamper- 
ings  with  art  and  truth,  the  ordinary  habits  of 
life   and   attributes    of    character,   which    all 


•  Our  distinguished  diplomatist.  Sir  Hamilton  S€y- 
mour. 


./      lyOJin     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


record  and  remembrance  ascribed  to  Eugene 
Aram,  as  it  would  have  defeated  every  end  of 
the  moral  inculcated  by  his  guilt,  to  portray 
in  the  caricature  of  the  murderer  of  melo- 
drame,  a  man  immersed  in  study,  of  whom  it 
was  noted  that  he  turned  aside  from  the  worm 
in  his  path,*  so  I  have  allowed  to  him  what- 
ever contrasts  with  his  inexpiable  crime  have 
been  recorded  on  sufficient  authority.  But  I 
have  invariably  taken  care  that  the  crime  it- 
self should  stand  stripped  of  every  sophistry, 
and  be  hideous  to  the  perpetrator  as  well  as  to 
the  world.  Allowing  all  by  which  attention 
to  his  biography  may  explain  the  tremendous 
paradox  of  fearful  guilt  in  a  man  aspiring  after 
knowledge  and  not  generally  inhumane — al- 
lowing that  the  crime  came  upon  him  in  the 
partial  insanity,  produced  by  the  combining 
circumstances  of  a  brain  overwrought  by  in- 
tense study,  disturbed  by  an  excited  imagina- 
tion, and  the  fumes  of  a  momentary  disease  of 
the  reasoning  faculty,  consumed  by  the  desire 
of  knowledge,  unwholesome  and  morbid,  be- 
cause coveted  as  an  end,  not  a  means  added 
to  the  other  physical  causes  of  mental  aberra- 
tion— to  be  found  in  loneliness,  and  want 
verging  upon  famine; — all  these  which  a  bio- 
grapher may  suppose  to  have  conspired  to  his 
crime,  have  never  been  used  by  the  novelist 
as  excuses  for  its  enormity,  nor  indeed,  less 
they  should  seem  as  excuses,  have  they  ever 
been  clearly  presented  to  the  view.  The 
moral  consisted  in  showing  more  than  the 
mere  legal  punishment  at  the  close.  It  was 
to  show  how  the  consciousness  of  the  deed 
was  to  exclude  whatever  humanity  of  character 
preceded  and  belied  it  from  all  active  exercise 
— all  social  confidence;  how  the  knowledge 
of  the  bar  between  the  minds  of  others  and 
his  own,  deprived  the  criminal  of  all  motive  to 
ambition,  and  blighted  knowledge  of  all  fruit: 
Miserable  in  his  affections,  barren  in  his  in- 
tellect— clinging  to  solitude,  yet  accursed  in  it 
— dreading  as  a  danger  the  fame  he  had  once 
coveted— obscure  in  spite  of  learning,  hopeless 
in  spite  of  love,  fruitless  and  joyless  in  his 
life,  calamitous  and  shameful  in  his  end; — 
surely  such  is  no  palliative  of  crime,  no  dalli- 
ance and  toying  with  the  grimness  of  evil  ! 
And  surely,   to  any  ordinary  comprehension, 


•  The  Rev.  Mr.  Hinton  said  "  he  used  frequently  to 
observe  Aram,  when  walking  in  the  garden,  stoop 
down  to  remove  a  snail  or  a  worm  from  the  path." 


any  candid   mind,  such  is  the  moral  conveyed 
by  the  fiction  of  "  Eugene  Aram  !  " 

I  come  now  to  the  last  of  the  three  works  oi 
which  I  have  undertaken  the  defence.  But 
before  I  speak  of  the  object  really  intended  in 
the  romance  of  "  Lucretia,"  I  must  clear  up  a 
very  signal  and  general  mistake  on  the  part 
of  my  critics.  In  the  preface  to  "Lucretia,"  it 
will  be  observed  that  I  speak  much  of  an 
intention  I  had  long  entertaineil  of  depicting 
the  influences  of  money  upon  modern  civiliza- 
tion, and  exposing  what  I  held  as  a  vice  of 
the  day,  in  impatience  or  dislike  to  the  slow 
returns  of  legitimate  toil,  whether  in  pecuniary 
speculation  or  intellectual  ambition.  And  up- 
on this,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  re- 
viewers, there  has  been  an  outcry  of  simultan- 
eous discovery  that  the  design  announced  in 
the  preface  was  not  borne  out  in  the  execution 
of  the  book;  and  accordingly  that  the  book  was 
a  failure,  because  the  author  had  not  accurately 
defined  what  the  book  was  intended  to  convey. 
If  these  gentlemen  will  do  me  the  favor  to 
correct  in  themselves  that  '  impatience  '  which 
I  took  the  liberty  to  denounce,  and  look 
with  a  little  less  haste  at  that  unfortunate  pre- 
face, they  will,  perhaps,  convince  themselves 
that  I  never  professed  "  Lucretia  "  to  be  the 
fulfilment  or  carrying  out  of  the  purpose 
which  I  said  I  had  once  meditated  in  an 
earlier  <\&^\gn.  What  I  stated,  I  thought  with 
sufilicient  distinctness,  was,  that  when  I  half 
implied  my  farewell  to  the  character  of  a 
novelist,  I  had  imagined  that  an  attempt  to 
illustrate  the  influences  of  money  might  be 
best  worked  out  upon  the  stage;  that  that  de- 
sign, with  which  I  wished  to  couple  some  ex- 
position of  the  popular  vice  of  impatience,  I 
afterwards  thought  I  could  best  treat  in  a 
novel;  but  that  while  meditating  such  a  concep- 
tion, I  became  acquainted  with  the  lives  of 
two  criminals,  so  remarkabe  as  to  engage  my 
examination  and  analysis;  and,  that  this 
j-(r,r^«(/design  had  supplanted  the  first,  I  thought 
I  had  made  abundantly  clear  by  the  following 
remarks: — 

"  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  reduc- 
ing to  a  tale  the  materials  (viz.,  the  lives  and 
letters  of  the  said  two  criminals)  which  had 
so  engrossed  my  interest  and  tasked  my  in- 
quiries; and,  in  this  attempt,  various /«r/Viv//<« 
opportunities  have  occurred,  if  not  completely 
carrying  out,   still  of  incidentally    illustrating 


728 


JJU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


my  earlier  design."  And  a  few  lines  farther, 
1  expressly  observe,  "that  the  delineation  of 
the  darker  crime  formed  the  staple  of  my  nar- 
rative," proceeding  to  remark,  that  in  that  de- 
lineation "  the  less  obvious  moral  must  i)e 
found  in  those  uses  to  which  poets  have  ap- 
plied the  portraiture  of  gigantic  crime." 

Therefore,  any  impartial  person  will  perceive 
at  once,  that  even  at  the  commencement  of 
my  book  its  object  has  been,  to  say  the  least, 
carelessly  misrepresented; — that  what  made 
the  purpose  of  an  earlier  and  suspended  de- 
sign, only  furnised  incidental  illustration  to  the 
present — and  that  that  illustration  was  the  less 
noticeable  in  the  agencies  of  the  greater  crime 
which  formed  the  staple  of  the  narrative,  and 
in  which  another  moral  must  necessarily  be 
sought. 

"  The  incidental  opportunities  "  to  which  I 
limited  my  engagement,  occur  chiefly  in  the 
minor  agents  of  the  fiction.  William  Main- 
waring  with  a  competent  fortune,  and  abilities 
calculated,  with  steady  perseverance,  to  gratify 
ambition  by  an  honorable  repute,  finds  his 
tempter  in  the  undue  desire  of  gain,  and  the 
rash  impatience  for  distinction.  Without  these 
enemies  in  his  own  breast,  Lucretia  had  been 
powerless  against  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
Walter  Ardworth,  represented  as  honest  in  his 
impulse  and  generous  in  his  sympathies,  loses 
character  for  want  of  due  regard  to  the  pru- 
dence in  preserving,  which  is  the  counter  error 
to  greed  in  acquiring;  and  too  impatient,  even 
in  the  social  and  generous  tendencies  which 
attach  him  to  liberty  as  the  advancement  of 
his  species — to  study  the  application'of  theory 
to  practice,  sinks  into  a  shallow  declaimer,  as 
useless  to  his  cause,  as  unprofitable  to  himself. 
In  contrast  to  both  these,  meant  to  unite  the 
talents  of  the  one  with  the  sympathies  of  the 
other,  is  sketched  in  outline  the  character  of 
John  Ardworth — energetic  but  not  rash — un- 
covetous,  but  self-denying — valuing  money  at 
its  just  standard,  and  looking  to  steadfast 
labor  as  the  surest  means  of  success.  Inci- 
dentally (if  only  incident.illy)  the  secret  and 
sinister  influences  of  money  upon  conduct,  are 
also  suggested  in  the  mechanical  avarice  of 
Beck — the  habitual  degradation  of  Grabman — 
incidentally  they  even  apply  to  the  career  of 
the  two  arch  criminals  themselves — covetous- 
ness  and  impatience  are  twin  elements  in  the 
grasping,  hollow,  character  of  the  scoundrel, 


Varney,  "alieni  appetns,  sui  profusus,"  with 
the  cold  heart  of  the  miser — the  rank  lusts  of 
the  spendthrift.  Impatience  to  attain  to  the 
end,  which  her  selfish  love  for  Mainwaring 
suggests,  is  the  first  cause  of  those  criminal 
desires  in  Lucretia,  which  are  the  germs  of  her 
criminal  deeds,  and  by  which  she  first  permits 
herself  to  encourage  the  contemplation  of  a 
human  life  as  an  obstacle  in  her  way.  And 
with  all  her  constitutional  indifference  to 
money  in  itself,  so  much  is  money  mixed  up 
with  men's  fellest,  as  their  noblest  design.s, 
that  it  is  for  the  coveted  inheritance  of  her 
son,  for  the  power  money  can  bestow,  that  her 
crowning  and  most  hideous  guilt  is  principally 
conceived  and  accomplished.  If  it  be  said 
that  these  are  not  the  patent  and  obvious  in- 
fluences of  money,  I  reply  that,  even  in  my 
earlier  design,  such  indirect  influences  were 
not  those  which  I  stated  it  to  be  my  intention 
to  depict.  The  broad  characteristics,  whether 
of  a  Harpagon,  a  Beverley  or  an  Heir  of  Lynn, 
have  been  sufficiently  portrayed.  I  spoke  em- 
phatically of  a  former  design  to  trace  rather 
"  the  strange  and  secret  ways  in  which  that  arch 
civilize!",  familiarly  called  money,  insinuates 
itself  into  our  thoughts  and  motives,  our 
hearts  and  actions."  But  all  I  professed  in 
this  work,  was  to  take  advantage  of  incidental 
opportunities  of  suggesting  such  lessons — and 
I  have  now  shown,  that  I  have  fulfilled  my  in- 
tention to  the  extent  of  my  engagement. 

The  deeper,  sterner,  and  more  tragical  de- 
sign to  be  found  in  the  crimes  that  form  the 
staple  of  the  narrative,  I  did  not  detail  in  my 
preface,  partly  because  I  trusted  it  might  be 
sufificiently  obvious  to  the  more  intelligent 
reader,  partly  because  it  could  not  have  been 
explained  without  impertinently  forestalling 
the  plot,  and  could  not  well  have  been  under- 
stood till  the  volumes  were  closed,  and  the 
mind  could  look  back  upon  the  whole.  I  was 
mistaken,  it  seems,  in  my  first  reason  for 
silence,  and  I  have  no  longer  the  motive  for 
the  second.  Here  let  me  pause  for  a  moment, 
anti  endeavor  to  remove  from  the  mind  of  the 
reader  the  principal  obstacle,  I  apprehend  in 
the  way  of  his  candid  judgment. 

CoUey  Gibber  tells  us  in  his  amusing  auto- 
biography, that  in  his  time  actors  did  not  like 
to  represent  the  parts  of  villains,  "  lest  in 
some  sort  they  should  be  confounded  with  the 
persons    represented,"    and.  indeed,   that    the 


A     IVOJiD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


729 


audience  themselves  "were  shy  of  giving  ap- 
plause to  lago,  lest  they  should  be  loooked  on 
as  abettors  of  the  wickedness  in  view."  Nay, 
"  the  Master  of  the  Revels,  who  then  licensed 
plays  for  the  stage,  would  strike  out  whole 
scenes,  where  a  vicious  and  immoral  character 
was  introduced,  however  visibly  it  were  shown 
that  it  was  to  be  afterwards  punished  or  re- 
formed." Once,  much  to  poor  Colley's  dis- 
may, this  wise  Master  of  the  Revels  struck  out 
the  whole  of  the  first  act  of  Richard  III., 
"without  leaving  a  line  of  it."  In  vain  was 
the  prayer,  "  for  a  speech  or  two,  that  the 
other  four  acts  might  limp  on  with  a  little  less 
absurdity."  The  Master  of  the  Revels  was 
obdurate,  "  and  so  the  play  was  positively 
acted  for  some  years  without  the  first  act  at 
all!" 

Now  something,  perhaps,  of  this  prejudice 
still  exists  in  the  public;  when  the  author  has 
presented  some  character  of  villainy  to  their 
eyes,  perhaps  they  are  still  shy  of  their  ap- 
plause, "lest  they  be  looked  upon  as  abettors 
of  the  wickedness  described."  Nay,  perhaps 
the  more  life-like  and  truthful  the  villainy,  the 
greater  the  dread  of  being  entrapped  into  own- 
ing the  faithful  colors  of  the  author,  and  the 
easier,  by  some  artful  foe  in  the  house,  they 
iiiay  be  led  into  venting  on  the  writer  some 
part  of  the  resentment  which  he  designedly 
raised  against  his  creations.  This  is  like  be- 
heading Dr.  Guillotine  by  the  very  machine 
he  intended,  out  of  the  least  truculent  motives, 
for  the  more  artistic  decapitation  of  felons.  I 
must  entreat,  however,  the  reader  to  lay  aside 
that  prejudice  which,  however  amiable,  is  cer- 
tainly unjust,  and  dissociate  entirely  the  idea 
of  what  is  due  to  the  author,  from  the  sense 
of  what  is  due  to  the  characters  whom  the 
author  has  purposely  submitted  to  abhorrence. 
He  does  not  the  less  hate  the  crimes,  because 
he  has  sought,  in  presenting,  to  deduce  from 
them  what  warnmgs  they  may  convey:  and 
he  is  about  now  more  clearly  to  explain  what 
moral,  perhaps  not  unprofitable,  may  come, 
clear  and  fair,  from  the  guilt  it  has  shocked 
the  good  to  behold. 

When  the  chief  materials  for  the  gloomier 
pan  of  this  tale  were  subinitteti  to  me,  in  the 
lives,  writings,  and  correspondence  of  the  two 
persons  represented  under  the  names  of  Lu- 
cretia  and  Varney,  that  which  made  upon  me 
the  deepest  and  most  startling  impression  was 


the  degree  of  intellectual  cultivation  which  ac- 
companied and  heightened  their  ineffable  guilt. 
We  are  so  accustomed  to  consider  crime  the 
hideous  offspring  of  ignorance,  that  when  we 
find  it  accompanied  by  much  literary  instruc- 
tion, it  startles  the  wonder  of  the  indifferent, 
and  rouses  the  inquiry  of  those  who  love  to 
explore  the  workings  of  the  human  mind. 

The  person  whose  guilt  is  certainly  not  ex- 
aggerated in  Varney,  was  an  artist,  a  musician, 
a  critic,  and  a  writer  of  liveliness  and  versatil- 
ity. In  his  correspondeoce,  he  appears  to 
have  skimmed  the  surface  of  a  large  and  vari- 
ous reading — speaks  familiarly  of  Kant,  and 
hints  at  a  translation  of  Schelling.  In  the  cor- 
respondence of  the  original  from  whom  is 
drawn  the  Lucretia  of  the  fiction,  are  apparent 
a  cultivation  more  elaborate,  and  faculties 
more  formidable.  These  were  facts  not  to  be 
got  over.  Some  lesson,  like  all  facts,  they 
must  convey.  And  I  searched  for  that  lesson 
as  a  physician  may  watch  some  fearful  dis- 
ease, so  rare  indeed  in  itself,  that  his  deduc- 
tions might  never  be  applied  to  one  precisely 
similar,  but  which,  if  comprehended  and  de- 
tailed, might  add  to  the  general  stores  of 
pa^thology,  and  unravel  some  of  the  more  mys- 
terious complications  of  the  human  frame.  It 
is  ever  painful  to  believe  in  the  union  of  men- 
tal cultivation  with  cruel  propensities  or  moral 
depravity;  still,  the  fact  of  such  a  imion  rises 
out  from  every  page  in  the  varying  chronicles 
of  history.  Sometimes  the  most  ruthless  ex- 
terminator is  found  in  one  who  has  armed 
himself  against  his  kind,  with  all  the  learning 
of  his  age;  and  the  accomplishments  of  a 
woman  have  been  interwoven  with  the  ferocities 
of  a  savage. 

The  most  sanguinary  tyrant  of  ancient 
Greece  so  cultivated  the  reasoning  faculties 
he  perverted,  as  to  induce  the  popular  error  to 
class  him  amongst  the  sages:  Nero  had  stored 
his  cruel  and  sensual  mind  with  the  very  ac- 
complishments supposed  most  to  humanize 
and  soften;  everything  that  his  time  could 
teach  him,  refined  into  system  the  atrocities  of 
Csesar  Borgia;  Tiptoft,  Earl  of  Worcester,  sur- 
passed the  most  ruthless  in  an  age  of  barbar- 
ity; yet  "with  his  head,"  say  the  chroniclers, 
"fell  half  the  scholarship  of  England;"  Rich- 
ard the  Third  brought  to  the  fierce,  unlettered 
struggles  of  his  day  the  arts  of  Italy  and  the 
learning  of   Utrecht.     Happily,  the  moral  to 


73° 


BU LIVER'S     WORKS. 


be  drawn  from  these  colossal  criminals  is,  the 
utter  failure  of  the  very  intellect  so  perverted 
and  misused.  And  as,  whatever  our  inclination 
to  the  contrary,  we  cannot  deny  that  in  private 
individuals  the  same  discordant  and  dismal 
union  of  cultivated  intellect  and  corrupted  con- 
science does  sometimes,  though  rarely,  exist, 
let  us  deduce  from  biography  and  fiction  the 
same  salutary  truth  that  consoles  us  in  history. 
History  makes  clear  the  fact  and  loud  the 
warning.  Is  it  wrong  for  fiction,  that  history 
of  the  inner  heart,  to  do  the  same  ?  To  show 
the  nothingness  and  impotence  of  intellect, 
even  in  the  attainment  of  its  own  intellectual 
aims,  when  it  once  admits  crime  as  its  agency 
— to  show  how  useless,  nay,  pernicious,  to  the 
guilty  possessor  is  the  very  mental  power  he 
thus  desecrates  and  perverts — to  show  that 
goodness  and  genial  affection  are  essential  to 
the  triumph  and  fruitfulness  of  all  that  mind 
may  plot  for,  and  force  would  command — -for 
these  lessons,  it  might  be  as  permissible  to 
dive  into  the  guilt  of  Lucretia  as  into  that  of 
the  Prince  of  Valentinois — and  expose  in  the 
humbler  villain  of  our  own  day  the  same  attri- 
butes of  character,  the  same  alliance  of  the 
sensual  and  the  cruel,  the  effeminate  and  un- 
sparing, which  may  startle  us  in  the  imperial 
poisoner  and  parricide  of  old.  It  is  only  "  the 
property-man  "  of  the  stage  that  sees  grandeur 
but  in  the  crown  or  the  toga.  Strip  off  the 
externals.  We  have  a  right  to  compare  men 
with  men. 

I  wished,  then,  to  show  the  fate  of  intelli- 
gence abused  to  the  ends  of  guilt.  Somewhat 
of  this  had  already  been  shadowed  out,  as  I 
have  said,  in  the  tale  of  "  Eugene  Aram."  I 
sought  now  to  follow  the  inquiry  it  suggested 
into  wider  tracks,  and  into  yet  more  compre- 
hensive results.  With  two  out  of  the  three 
great  divisions  of  human  intelligence,  facts 
supplied  me;  I  drew  from  invention  for  the 
third. 

In  Dalibard,  the  intention  was  to  portray 
the  wary,  calculating,  and  laborious  intel- 
lect, which,  rightly  directed,  leads  to  science; 
in  Varney,  the  versatile,  lively,  impressiona- 
ble fancy,  which,  purified  and  guided,  may 
conduct  to  art;  in  Lucretia,  the  energy  and 
active  will,  which,  nobly  stimulated  and  trained, 
may  lead  to  eminence  and  success  in  the  out- 
ward concerns  of  life. 

All  these  intellects  had  but  to  be  honest  to 


succeed.  Each  of  these  intellects  divorces 
itself  early  from  all  interests  but  its  own. 
Each  works  and  plots  solely  for  objects  identi- 
fied with  itself.  Each  admits  crime  for  its 
agency;  and  from  that  moment  all  three,  so 
essentially  distinct,  are  merged  in  one  com- 
mon infamy  and  degradation — from  that  mo- 
ment, every  effort  of  the  intellect  itself  be- 
comes a  failure;  and  time  and  justice,  and  the 
truth  of  things,  crush  them  beneath  the  Aljis 
they  themselves  have  created.  In  the  minutiae 
of  treatment,  all  ground  for  such  mischief,  as 
the  most  cautious  might  apprehend,  in  instruct- 
ing depravity  (if  depravity  such  a  book  should 
ever  reach),  as  to  the  materials  at  its  com- 
mand, has  been  so  studiously  avoided,  that  the 
reader  will  perceive  the  uniform  care  with 
the  possible  attainment  of  those  materials 
have  been  placed  out  of  the  reach  of  the  guilty; 
the  temporary  success  that  attends  the  poisons 
employed  by  the  murderers  is  made  to  depend 
solely  on  their  selection  of  no  drug  to  be  pro- 
cured by  common-place  villany — in  the  secrets 
of  chemical  compounds,  which  at  no  shop  could 
be  purchased,  of  which  no  hint  is  conveyed, 
except  that  only  by  chemistry,  the  most  eru- 
dite and  skilful,  they  can  possil)ly  be  com- 
bined. Rather  than  incur,  however  innocently, 
the  possibility  of  supplying  to  one  "  morbid 
idiosyncrasy "  the  agencies  at  the  service  of 
these  modern  Borgias,  I  have  willingly  invited 
the  much  more  plausible  accusation  of  far- 
fetched and  impracticable  devices,  if  ever  ex- 
isting, wholly  lost  to  the  invention,  wholly  out 
of  the  command,  of  guilt  in  the  age  of  which 
we  live. 

I  said  in  my  preface  that  the  originals  from 
whom  I  had  drawn  had  as  little  as  imagination 
can  conceive  to  redeem  their  guilt.  And  this, 
I  trust,  I  have  sternly  kept  in  view.  I  have 
never  once  held  them  up  to  compassion.  I 
have  left  them  that  degree  of  ability  which  was 
justified  by  facts;  not  elevated  into  the  genius, 
with  which,  as  in  history,  we  find  such  crimi- 
naliiy  is  not  accompanied.  It  has  been  even 
reproached  to  me,  that  I  have  not  given  them 
genius,  and  that  all  their  cuiming,  instruction, 
or  audacity  avails  them  not  for  worldly  sue 
cess.  Why,  that  was  precisely  one  truth  that 
I  aimed  at !  The  Borgias  and  the  Richards 
fall  short  of  genius,  but  have  ability  suflScient 
to  have  won  them  some  distinction  in  good, 
and  powerful    only  for  destruction    when  ap- 


A     IVOHn     -JO     THE    PUBLIC. 


731 


plied  to  evil.  I  have  never  suffered  "ability  so 
debased  to  pass  into  the  command  of  admira- 
tion— I  have  shown  how  impotent  it  was  to 
lessen  one  atom  of  our  detestation,  though 
sufficient,  (if  such  art  be  in  the  writer),  to  ac- 
company detestation  with  terror.  Pressed 
into  the  service  of  Death,  Mind  itself  grows 
grim  and  hateful  as  the  king  that  it  serves. 

"  Black  it  stands  as  Night, 
Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell. 
And  shakes  a  deadly  dart  !  " 

These  Children  of  Night,  by  the  paths  they 
themselves  have  chosen,  are  conducted  to 
catastrophes,  which,  while  punishing  them  the 
most  in  the  sin  each  had  most  favored,  was 
that  which  each  (could  the  soul  have  foreseen 
it)  would  have  regarded  as  the  most  fearful 
and  appalling.  Dalibard,  the  coward  and  the 
calculator,  shrinking  from  all  physical  danger, 
and  using  his  holiest  relationships  but  as  tools 
to  his  purpose,  is  betrayed  at  the  hearth  he 
had  desecrated,  and  butchered  by  the  dull 
ruffian  he  had  duped.  Varney,  who  had  pros- 
tituted the  perfection  of  his  physical  senses  to 
their  vilest  gratifications,  luxurious  amidst  his 
infamy,  effeminate  in  despite  of  his  animal 
audacity,  is  sentenced  to  the  coarsest  of  hard- 
ships, the  vilest  of  labor,  chained  to  the  most 
loathesome  of  malefactors,  doomed  to  all  that 
the  senses,  most  pampered,  would  shudder 
from  the  most,  all  that  the  fancy,  so  perverted, 
could  body  forth  of  horror  and  despair.  Lu- 
cretia,  who  had  made  on  earth  no  god  but  the 
intellect — is  cursed  in  the  intellect — smitten 
down  below  the  brutes,  but  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  mortal — retaining,  amidst  the  ruins 
of  all  the  past,  only  the  image  of  her  crime, 
standing  face  to  face  with  it,  as  a  visible 
thing.— Surely  these  punishments  are  as  ap- 
palling and  as  appropriate  to  the  guilt  as  poetic 
justice  can  coinmand  !  And  beside  them  the 
gibbet  is  mercy  and  reprieve. 

The  delineation,  then,  of  these  three  arch 
criminals,  was  not  the  indulgence  of  any  idle 
or  morbid  affection  for  the  contemplation  of 
guilt  in  itself,  it  was  but  undertaken  for  an 
honest  and  serious  purpose.  And  a  thought- 
ful reader  will  perceive,  that  even  the  more 
subordinate  images  of  evil  introduced,  were  in 
accordance  with  one  earnest  and  elaborate 
design.  The  dull  and  villainous  brutality  of 
the  grave-stealer,  for  instance,  forms  no  super- 


fluous figure  on  the  gloomy  canvas,  nor,  in 
chaining  that  sordid  ruffian  to  the  more  pam- 
pered miscreant,  is  the  idea  of  befitting  pun- 
ishment to  the  last,  alone  enforced.  But  in 
confounding  in  one  lowest  abyss  of  human 
degradation,  the  man  in  whom  no  nobler  faculty 
has  ever  been  awakenetl,  and  the  man  to  whom 
all  falculties  sufficing  for  the  perception  of 
good  have  been  given,  and  by  whom  they  have 
been  voluntarily  perverted  to  odious  and  ex- 
ecrable ends,  it  was  sought  to  convey  a  truth, 
suggestive  of  no  unprofitable  reflections. 

That  wise  man.  Dr.  Slop,  in  discussing 
Yorick's  Sermon,  contends  that  the  Roman 
Catholic  Sermons  "  have  greatly  the  advantage, 
that  they  never  introduce  any  character  below 
a  patriarch,  or  a  patriarch's  wife,  or  a  martyr, 
or  a  saint.  'There  are  some  very  bad  char- 
acters in  this,  hovvever,'  said  my  father,  '  and 
I  do  hot  think  the  sermon  is  a  jot  the  worse 
for  'em.'  " 

Perhaps  Mr.  Shandy  in  this  was  a  belter 
judge  than  Dr.  Slop. 

I  contend,  then,  and  I  think  that  I  have 
proved,  that  the  design  of  this  book  of  the 
"Children  of  Night,"  was  conformable  to  the 
laws  of  fiction  and  the  truths  of  history;  that 
the  moral  it  enforces  is  serious  and  impres- 
sive; not  the  less  for  the  pain  it  bequeaths; 
that  it  can  but  deepen  the  horror  of  guilt,  and 
the  dread  of  its  consequences;  that  it  can 
but  preach  wholesome  lessons  to  the  intel- 
lect, and  awaken  lively  self-examination  in  the 
heart;  and  that  there  is  not  a  single  attempt 
to  create  for  the  criminals  any  interest  save 
that  of  terror  and  suspense  in  their  deeds,*  or 
to  pervert  for  one  instant  the  channels  of  sym- 
pathy from  their  legitimate  source. 

I  have  been  toki,  indeed,  that,  though  these 
dark  social  phenomena  may  exist,  they  are  too 
peculiar,  too  rare,  for  more  or  artistical  treat- 
ment. Perhaps,  such  critics  would  never  have 
made  the  charge  had  they  been  aware  of  the 
compliments  it  implies.  Every  man  really  a 
critic  in  art,  knows  that  rare  truths  are  more 
important  than  frequent  ones.  "The  teaching 
of  Nature,"  says  one  who  has  thoroughly  mas- 
tered the  subject  he  treats  of,  "is  as  varied 


*  By  a  strange  inconsistency,  the  very  parties  that 
reproached  me  for  blending  some  redeeming  good 
qualities  with  the  oflfences  of  Paul  Clifford  and  the 
crime  of  Eugene  Aram,  reproach  me  for  the  opposite 
fault  of  leaving  the  wickedness  of  Varney  and  Lucretia 
utterly  unredeemed. 


/32 


BULWEKS     WORKS. 


and  infinite  as  it  is  constant,  and  the  duty  of 
the  painter  is  to  watch  for  every  one  of  her 
lessons,  and  to  give  (for  human  life  can  admit 
of  nothing  more)  those  in  which  she  has  mani- 
fested each  of  her  principles  in  the  most  strik- 
ing and  peculiar  way.  The  rarer  his  phe- 
nomena, the  more  valuable  his  works  will  be." 
Not,  indeed,  that  we  must  delineate  the  rare 
alone.  "  Both  the  frequent  and  the  rare  are 
parts  of  the  same  great  system;  to  give  either 
exclusively  is  imperfect  truth." 

If  these  "Children  of  Night"  are  happily 
rare  deviations  from  the  order  established  be- 
low, they  do  not  occupy  the  whole  of  my  can- 
vas, and  they  are  surrounded  with  images 
more  bright,  and  I  believe,  more  frequent.  Is 
there  nothing  iimocent  in  Helen  ?  nothing  frank 
and  pure  in  the  youth  of  Percy  ?  nothing  hon- 
est and  upright  in  John  Ardworth?  nothing 
benevolent  in  Fielden  ?  nothing  amiable- in  the 
genial  Sir  Miles  St.  John  ?  And  as  the  general 
disposition  and  tendencies  of  an  author  are  not 
to  be  judged  by  one  work  alone,  so  I  may 
venture  to  invite  those  who  have  really  read 
me,  to  add  to  the  contrast  of  the  gloom  and 
guilt  depicted  in  "  Lucretia,"  whatever  of  gen- 
tler fancies  they  may  remember  in  the 
"Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine,"  of  attempts  to  sym- 
bolize the  beauty  of  Art  in  the  romance  of 
"  Zanoiii,"  or  to  embody  the  steadfast  virtue 
of  practical  life  in  the  Mordaunt  "  The  Dis- 
mvned."  And  if  they  will  permit  their  thoughts 
to  wander  for  a  moment  through  the  whole 
range  of  my  writings,  they  will  own  at  least 
that,  whatever  their  faults,  they  are  not  to  be 
accused  of  sameness  in  the  characters,  nor  of 
monotony  in  treatment. 

"  Lucretia,"  I  confess  to  be  a  painful  book; 
all  delineation  of  fearful  crime,  and  the  ruin 
it  entails,  must  necessarily  be  so.  If,  in  its 
treatment,  I  have  overstepped  the  true  limits 
of  terror,  that  may  be  an  error  in  art,  but  not 
one,  (be  it  remembered  and  distinguished),  in 
moral  tendency  and  design.* 

There  is  this  distinction  between  the  old 
tragedy  and  the  new.  With  the  Greek,  Fate 
was  the  main  instrument  of  woe  and  crime; — 
so  with  the  Greek,  there  was  little  need  of 
mental    analysis — little    need    to    show   from 


•  In  the  present  edition  it  will  be  seen  that  the 
author  has  endeavored  by  an  alteration  in  the  catas- 
trophe, to  lighten  the  pain  which  the  earlier  cast  of  the 
work  had  produced. 


what  errors  of  his  own,  man  suffered  and 
sinned.  Fate  stalked  across  his  way  or  stood 
upon  his  hearth — his  fell  and  irresistible  foe. 
An  oracle  declared  he  should  murder,  a  god 
led  his  sttyjs  to  his  doom.  But,  with  us,  guilt 
or  woe  has  its  source  in  ourselves.  Our  con- 
science is  our  oracle,  our  deeds  shape  our  fate. 
And  though,  in  a  few  rare  instances,  modern 
writers  have  still  had  recourse  to  the  iron  deity 
of  old,  it  is  obvious  that  unless  the  instrumen- 
tality of  a  power  which  we  cannot  influence 
and  control  be  most  sparingly  and  cautiously 
employed,  we  should  seem  to  sanction  the 
dangerous  principle  that  we  are  the  passive 
and  unconscious  tools,  not  the  active  and  rea- 
soning contrivers,  of  the  evil  that  conducts  us 
to  the  abyss.  Hence  arises  the  imperious 
necessity,  for  those  who  resort  to  the  sources 
of  tragedy,  and  trace  from  them  the  channels 
of  woe  or  guilt — to  search  narrowly  and 
patiently  (often,  it  may  be,  with  distaste  to 
themselves)  into  all  that  is  dark  and  hidden  in 
the  mechanism  of  the  mind  for  the  causes  of 
evil,  and  the  links  between  the  thought  and  the 
sin.  And  thus  in  proportion  to  the  crime  they 
depict,  and  the  destruction  it  effects,  must  be 
the  gloom  of  the  impression  they  create,  and 
the  degree  of  pain  they  inflict.  If,  in  the  nar- 
rative of  these  "Children  of  Night," — if,  as 
some  assert,  "its  horror  is  burlesque,"  and 
its  treatment  "  excites  rather  ridicule  than 
awe," — if,  as  I  am  assured  by  others,  it  is 
"  dulness  upon  dulness,"  "  nothing  graphic  in 
the  pictures,"  "  nothing  striking  in  the  inci- 
dents,"— then,  though  its  moral  cannot  be 
pernicious,  I  have  certainly  failed  to  render  it 
instructive.  But  if  it  bequeaths  (as  the  facts 
on  which  it  is  founded  should  enable  it  to  do) 
the  effect  of  tragedy  thoroughly  in  earnest — a 
sensation  of  terror. that  oppresses  the  more 
from  the  conviction  that  reality  lies  beneath 
the  fiction — a  relief  in  the  heartfelt  detestation 
of  the  crime  from  which  the  terror  proceeds — 
a  dread  of  "  the  destructive  power  "  which  is 
the  essence  of  the  hateful  combination  be- 
tween intellect  and  guilt,  and  a  desire  to  rush 
for  escape  to  the  cheerful  atmosphere  of  good, 
— then  does  this  book  come,  at  least,  within 
the  allotted  limits  of  the  art  that  is  built  upon 
terror,  and  sanctions  its  coimection  with  pain 
and  distress,*  and  then  tloes  it  attain  to  those 

•  In  quoting  the  following  passage,  it  is  not  with  the 
presumption  of  advancing  any  claim  to  the  high  at- 


A     IVORn     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


733 


moral  effects  which  are  produced  by  the  means 
of  the  passions. 

Th^  moral  conveyed  in  all  works  of  the 
imagination,  is  in  part  distinct  and  immediate, 
in  part  also  it  is  untraceable,  distant  and  in- 
direct. And  this  latter  part  is  perhaps  the 
most  really  valuable  and  efficient.  Ask  any 
thoughtful  and  educated  man,  what  works 
have  produced  the  most  marked  and  recog- 
nized influence  on  his  conduct,  and  I  believe 
he  will  never  name  a  fiction  or  a  poem.  Next, 
and  unspeakably  subordinate,  to  the  more 
sacred  monitors  whose  counsel  he  rever- 
ently obeys — he  will  tell  us,  perhaps  of  some 
homely  treatise,  or  some  artless  biograph)'. 
But  ask  that  man  to  dissociate  from  the  general 
influences  on  his  conduct,  whatever  he  may 
have  learned  from  the  pages  of  poetry  and 
fiction,  and  he  will  doubtless  tell  you  it  is  im- 
possible. He  will  acknowledge  how  much, 
yet  how  insensibly,  they  have  strengtened  his 
moral  impressions — how  much  they  have  sug- 
gested reflections  that  brighten  his  perceptions 
of  truths — how  much  they  have  added  to  that 
general  knowledge  of  the  heart  which  has  set 
emotion  on  its  guard,  and  animated  into  gener- 
ous passion  his  love  for  the  noble  and  the 
good — his  scorn  for  the  sordid  and  the  evil. 
And  this  it  is,  I  presume,  that  some  writer  in- 
tended to  express  when  he  finely  asked,  "  Who 
amongst  us  now  living  can  tell  what  he  would 
have  been  if  Shakspeare  had  never  existed  ? " 

None  of  my  readers  will  ever,  I  know,  have 
to  resist  one  temptaton  to  a  villainy,  a  mil- 
lionth part  so  hateful  as  that  described  in 
"  liUcretia "  as  a  monstrous  phenomenon. 
But  in  the  struggles  of  life,  the  minor  seduc- 
tions of  evil  are  often  repelled  by  the  lively 
horror  derived  from  the  doom  which  poet  or 


tainment  of  which  mention  is  made,  but  simply  to 
show  that,  in  the  judgment  of  a  very  eminent  critic, 
art  finds  in  distress  one  ingredient  of  the  sublime;  and 
though,  of  course,  an  effect  is  not  sublime  because  it  is 
distressing,  yet  at  least  it  is  not  an  offence  to  art  that 
the  sensation  of  distress  is  occasioned.  Though  a 
writer  may  make  no  pretence  to  the  sublime,  he  may 
still  apply  for  such  effects  as  his  degrees  of  power  per- 
mits him  to  produce  to  whatever  are  suggested  as  its 
sources.  "  Ol  feeling,  little  more  can  be  said,  than  that 
the  idea  of  bodily  pain  in  all  the  modes  and  degrees  of 
labor,  pain,  anguish,  torment,  is  productive  of  the  sub- 
lime, and  nothing  else  in  this  sense  can  produce  it." — 
Its  strongest  emotion  (that  of  the  sublime),  is  an  emo- 
tion of  distress,  and  no  pleasure  from  a  positive  cause 
belongs  to  it." — Burke  On  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful, 
part  ii.,  sect.  22. 


tale-teller  has  assigned  to  concessions  to  the 
greater.  If  this  were  not  so,  the  gigantic  and 
unfamiliar  crimes  depicted  on  the  heroic 
stage,  would  be  but  idle  exaggerations.  Who 
amongst  the  audience  that  listen  to  "  Mac- 
beth "  will  have  to  wade  through  lilood  to  a 
throne,  yet  who  may  not  have  some  selfish  ob- 
ject his  ambition  would  promote,  and  be 
tempted  by  the  meaner  "  juggles  of  the 
fiend  ?  "  In  the  picture  of  a  crime  dwells  the 
warning  to  an  error.  Divers  and  specious  are 
the  allurements  to  attain  to  ends  coveted  i)y 
the  intellect  through  means  more  or  less 
disapproved  by  the  conscience:  and  not  unsal- 
utary  may  Ije  the  true  lesson  to  be  derived 
from  '-Lucretia  "  if  the  impressions  it  bequeaths 
though  vague  and  unalyzed,  serve  to  quicken 
the  instantaneous  conviction  that  all  which  de- 
files the  conscience  defeats  and  defrauds  the 
intellect. 

"  The  first  step  passed,  compels  us  on  to  more. 
And  guilt  proves/«^f,  which  was  but  ehoiee  before." 

A  task  reluctantly  undertaken  is  now  ful- 
filled. I  have  shown  that  it  is  uncharitable 
and  rash  10  decide  in  haste  against  the  moral 
purposes  of  writers  who  have  no  object  to  de- 
prave— 1  have  shown  the  laws  and  examples 
which  render  justifiable  in  fiction,  the  delinea- 
tions of  crime — I  have  exposed  the  falsity  of 
the  charge  so  reiterated  against  myself,  that 
habitually,  and  by  preference,  I  have  inade 
criminals  my  heroes— I  have  shown  that,  out 
of  sixteen  fictions,  to  three  only  can  this 
charge  be  applied.  I  have,  I  trust,  maile  it 
manifest,  that  each  of  these  three  will  bear  the 
test  of  the  strictest  reference  to  the  due  re- 
strictions to  be  placed  upon  their  treatment 
and  design;  that  no  sophistry  has  been  em- 
ployed to  vindicate  the  crnne:  that  the  crime 
has  not  been  of  that  nature  in  which  the  narra- 
tive needs,  or  has  found,  inflammatory  appeals 
to  the  more  tempting  passions— obtruding  the 
presentation  of  licentious  images,  and  clothing 
itself  in  a  garb  which  rather  allures  than  re- 
volts; and,  finally,  I  trust  I  have  made  it  clear 
to  the  reader,  that  such  stern  and  sombre  sub- 
jects have  not  been  undertaken  without  the 
befitting  gravity  of  thoughtful  and  earnest 
purpose. 

If  I  have  not  entered  at  length  into  the 
subjects  of  my  other  works,  it  is  because  such 
self-criticism  would   have  been  unpardonable. 


734 


JWLWER'S     WORKS. 


unless  for  the  iinpeiativu  necessities  of  self- 
defence — each  singly  considered,  their  moral 
tendencies  and  ol)jects  have  been  tacitly  ad- 
mitted, or  only  vaguely  assailed;  and  the 
reader  will  acknowledge,  that  in  mainly  con- 
fining myself  to  those  works  in  which  crimi- 
nals have  been  made  the  predominant  char- 
acters, I  have  fairly  and  honestly  met  the 
gravamen  of  the  charge  that  has  been  urged 
against  me.  The  rest  of  my  writings,  there- 
fore, I  confidently  leave  to  the  recollections  of 
the  general  reader;  and  though,  amongst 
works  so  numerous,  commenced  at  so  early  an 
age,  and  comprehending  delineations  of  life, 
with  its  manners  and  its  passions,  so  widely 
various,  there  may  occur,  unavoi'dably,  some 
errors  of  judgment,  some  passages  too  lightly 
considered, — (and  what  writer  could  bear  a 
maligant  research  through  more  than  forty 
volumes,  made  with  a  design  of  interpreting 
every  sentence  to  the  worst  ?) — yet  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  result  of  any  candid  survey 
would  establish  the  fact,  that  all  those  works 
were  conceived  with  the  heartfelt  desire  to 
minister,  however  humbly,  to  truth  and  good, 
and  executed  with  a  reverent  care  to  unsettle 
no  man's  mind  as  to  the  clear  principles  of 
religion — or  the  broad  distinctions  which  the 
conscience  has  established  between  what  we 
should  aspire  to,  and  what  we  should  avoid. 

This  vindication,  which,  I  think,  has  been 
conducted  in  that  fair  spirit  of  dispassionate 
argument  which  I  prescribed  to  myself  at  the 
commencement,  shall  be  sent  to  those  whose 


charges,  less  temperately  made,  luive  called 
it  forth.  It  is  at  their  option  to  treat  it  with 
silence — or,  if  it  so  please  them,  in  th^  same 
tone,  and  with  recourse  to  the  same  arts,  by 
which  they  have  previously  sought  to  pervert 
my  meaning,  and  degrade  my  name:  or  why 
should  I  think  so  ill,  even  of  enemies,  as  not 
to  hope  that  some  amongst  them,  at  least, 
while  retaining  fairly  their  opinion  of  the 
literary  demerits  of  my  writings,  may  retract 
what  alone  I  have  the  right  to  complain  of— 
viz.,  heedless  and  unconsidered  misstatements 
as  to  their  honest  tendency  and  design  ?  Be 
this  as  it  may — though  the  wrong  that  has  been 
done  me  may  not,  and  cannot,  be  readily  and 
lightly  repaired — though  I  am  aware  that  many 
who  never  read  my  works  have  yet  read,  and 
may  be  long  impressed  by  the  attacks  of  their 
assailants — that  many  more,  who  have  read 
both  the  works  and  the  attacks  will  never  read 
this  explanation  of  the  one  and  this  reply  to 
the  other — nay,  even  though  these  pages,  like 
the  works  that  preceded  them,  may  be  garbled 
and  distorted  from  their  meaning, — yet  I  am 
immovably  persuaded  that,  from  few  to  more, 
from  the  segment  to  the  circle,  the  main  truths 
I  have  stated  will  gradually,  but  surely,  pene- 
trate and  extend;  and  that,  whatever  literary 
faults  and  blemishes  in  my  writings  may  be 
justly  condemned,  soon  or  late,  the  author  will 
be  held  to  have  given  an  unanswerable  vindi- 
cation of  the  legitimate  selection  of  his  mate- 
rials, and  his  conscientious  sense  of  his  more 
serious  responsibilities. 


END     OF     "  LUCRETIA,"     AND     "  A    WORD     TO    THE     PUBLIC.  ' 


PR  Lytton,  Edward  George  Earle 

4900  Lytton  Bulwer-Lytton 
E50       The  works  of  Edward  Bulwer 

V.6  Lytton 


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