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Title: Endymion

Author: Benjamin Disraeli

Release Date: April 27, 2006 [EBook #7926]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENDYMION ***




Produced by John Bickers; Dagny





ENDYMION

by Benjamin Disraeli, Earl Of Beaconsfield, K.G.



First Published 1880




CHAPTER I

It was a rich, warm night, at the beginning of August, when a gentleman
enveloped in a cloak, for he was in evening dress, emerged from
a club-house at the top of St. James' Street, and descended that
celebrated eminence. He had not proceeded more than half way down the
street when, encountering a friend, he stopped with some abruptness.

"I have been looking for you everywhere," he said.

"What is it?"

"We can hardly talk about it here."

"Shall we go to White's?"

"I have just left it, and, between ourselves, I would rather we should
be more alone. 'Tis as warm as noon. Let us cross the street and get
into St. James' Place. That is always my idea of solitude."

So they crossed the street, and, at the corner of St. James' Place, met
several gentlemen who had just come out of Brookes' Club-house. These
saluted the companions as they passed, and said, "Capital account
from Chiswick--Lord Howard says the chief will be in Downing Street on
Monday."

"It is of Chiswick that I am going to speak to you," said the gentleman
in the cloak, putting his arm in that of his companion as they walked
on. "What I am about to tell you is known only to three persons, and is
the most sacred of secrets. Nothing but our friendship could authorise
me to impart it to you."

"I hope it is something to your advantage," said his companion.

"Nothing of that sort; it is of yourself that I am thinking. Since our
political estrangement, I have never had a contented moment. From Christ
Church, until that unhappy paralytic stroke, which broke up a government
that had lasted fifteen years, and might have continued fifteen more, we
seemed always to have been working together. That we should again unite
is my dearest wish. A crisis is at hand. I want you to use it to your
advantage. Know then, that what they were just saying about Chiswick
is moonshine. His case is hopeless, and it has been communicated to the
King."

"Hopeless!"

"Rely upon it; it came direct from the Cottage to my friend."

"I thought he had a mission?" said his companion, with emotion; "and men
with missions do not disappear till they have fulfilled them."

"But why did you think so? How often have I asked you for your grounds
for such a conviction! There are none. The man of the age is clearly the
Duke, the saviour of Europe, in the perfection of manhood, and with an
iron constitution."

"The salvation of Europe is the affair of a past generation," said his
companion. "We want something else now. The salvation of England should
be the subject rather of our present thoughts."

"England! why when were things more sound? Except the split among our
own men, which will be now cured, there is not a cause of disquietude."

"I have much," said his friend.

"You never used to have any, Sidney. What extraordinary revelations can
have been made to you during three months of office under a semi-Whig
Ministry?"

"Your taunt is fair, though it pains me. And I confess to you that
when I resolved to follow Canning and join his new allies, I had many a
twinge. I was bred in the Tory camp; the Tories put me in Parliament
and gave me office; I lived with them and liked them; we dined and
voted together, and together pasquinaded our opponents. And yet, after
Castlereagh's death, to whom like yourself I was much attached, I had
great misgivings as to the position of our party, and the future of the
country. I tried to drive them from my mind, and at last took refuge in
Canning, who seemed just the man appointed for an age of transition."

"But a transition to what?"

"Well, his foreign policy was Liberal."

"The same as the Duke's; the same as poor dear Castlereagh's. Nothing
more unjust than the affected belief that there was any difference
between them--a ruse of the Whigs to foster discord in our ranks. And
as for domestic affairs, no one is stouter against Parliamentary Reform,
while he is for the Church and no surrender, though he may make a
harmless speech now and then, as many of us do, in favour of the
Catholic claims."

"Well, we will not now pursue this old controversy, my dear Ferrars,
particularly if it be true, as you say, that Mr. Canning now lies upon
his deathbed."

"If! I tell you at this very moment it may be all over."

"I am shaken to my very centre."

"It is doubtless a great blow to you," rejoined Mr. Ferrars, "and I wish
to alleviate it. That is why I was looking for you. The King will,
of course, send for the Duke, but I can tell you there will be a
disposition to draw back our friends that left us, at least the younger
ones of promise. If you are awake, there is no reason why you should not
retain your office."

"I am not so sure the King will send for the Duke."

"It is certain."

"Well," said his companion musingly, "it may be fancy, but I cannot
resist the feeling that this country, and the world generally, are on
the eve of a great change--and I do not think the Duke is the man for
the epoch."

"I see no reason why there should be any great change; certainly not in
this country," said Mr. Ferrars. "Here we have changed everything that
was required. Peel has settled the criminal law, and Huskisson the
currency, and though I am prepared myself still further to reduce the
duties on foreign imports, no one can deny that on this subject the
Government is in advance of public opinion."

"The whole affair rests on too contracted a basis," said his companion.
"We are habituated to its exclusiveness, and, no doubt, custom in
England is a power; but let some event suddenly occur which makes a
nation feel or think, and the whole thing might vanish like a dream."

"What can happen? Such affairs as the Luddites do not occur twice in a
century, and as for Spafields riots, they are impossible now with Peel's
new police. The country is employed and prosperous, and were it not so,
the landed interest would always keep things straight."

"It is powerful, and has been powerful for a long time; but there are
other interests besides the landed interest now."

"Well, there is the colonial interest, and the shipping interest," said
Mr. Ferrars, "and both of them thoroughly with us."

"I was not thinking of them," said his companion. "It is the increase of
population, and of a population not employed in the cultivation of the
soil, and all the consequences of such circumstances that were passing
over my mind."

"Don't you be too doctrinaire, my dear Sidney; you and I are practical
men. We must deal with the existing, the urgent; and there is nothing
more pressing at this moment than the formation of a new government.
What I want is to see you as a member of it."

"Ah!" said his companion with a sigh, "do you really think it so near as
that?"

"Why, what have we been talking of all this time, my dear Sidney? Clear
your head of all doubt, and, if possible, of all regrets; we must deal
with the facts, and we must deal with them to-morrow."

"I still think he had a mission," said Sidney with a sigh, "if it were
only to bring hope to a people."

"Well, I do not see he could have done anything more," said Mr. Ferrars,
"nor do I believe his government would have lasted during the session.
However, I must now say good-night, for I must look in at the Square.
Think well of what I have said, and let me hear from you as soon as you
can."



CHAPTER II

Zenobia was the queen of London, of fashion, and of the Tory party. When
she was not holding high festivals, or attending them, she was always
at home to her intimates, and as she deigned but rarely to honour the
assemblies of others with her presence, she was generally at her evening
post to receive the initiated. To be her invited guest under such
circumstances proved at once that you had entered the highest circle of
the social Paradise.

Zenobia was leaning back on a brilliant sofa, supported by many
cushions, and a great personage, grey-headed and blue-ribboned, who was
permitted to share the honours of the high place, was hanging on her
animated and inspiring accents. An ambassador, in an armed chair which
he had placed somewhat before her, while he listened with apparent
devotion to the oracle, now and then interposed a remark, polished
and occasionally cynical. More remote, some dames of high degree were
surrounded by a chosen band of rank and fashion and celebrity; and
now and then was heard a silver laugh, and now and then was breathed
a gentle sigh. Servants glided about the suite of summer chambers,
occasionally with sherbets and ices, and sometimes a lady entered and
saluted Zenobia, and then retreated to the general group, and sometimes
a gentleman entered, and pressed the hand of Zenobia to his lips, and
then vanished into air.

"What I want you to see," said Zenobia, "is that reaction is the law
of life, and that we are on the eve of a great reaction. Since Lord
Castlereagh's death we have had five years of revolution--nothing but
change, and every change has been disastrous. Abroad we are in league
with all the conspirators of the Continent, and if there were a general
war we should not have an ally; at home our trade, I am told, is quite
ruined, and we are deluged with foreign articles; while, thanks to Mr.
Huskisson, the country banks, which enabled Mr. Pitt to carry on the
war and saved England, are all broken. There was one thing, of which
I thought we should always be proud, and that was our laws and their
administration; but now our most sacred enactments are questioned, and
people are told to call out for the reform of our courts of judicature,
which used to be the glory of the land. This cannot last. I see, indeed,
many signs of national disgust; people would have borne a great deal
from poor Lord Liverpool--for they knew he was a good man, though
I always thought a weak one; but when it was found that his boasted
Liberalism only meant letting the Whigs into office--who, if they had
always been in office, would have made us the slaves of Bonaparte--their
eyes were opened. Depend upon it, the reaction has commenced."

"We shall have some trouble with France," said the ambassador, "unless
there is a change here."

"The Church is weary of the present men," said the great personage. "No
one really knows what they are after."

"And how can the country be governed without the Church?" exclaimed
Zenobia. "If the country once thinks the Church is in danger, the affair
will soon be finished. The King ought to be told what is going on."

"Nothing is going on," said the ambassador; "but everybody is afraid of
something."

"The King's friends should impress upon him never to lose sight of the
landed interest," said the great personage.

"How can any government go on without the support of the Church and the
land?" exclaimed Zenobia. "It is quite unnatural."

"That is the mystery," remarked the ambassador. "Here is a government,
supported by none of the influences hitherto deemed indispensable, and
yet it exists."

"The newspapers support it," said the great personage, "and the
Dissenters, who are trying to bring themselves into notice, and who are
said to have some influence in the northern counties, and the Whigs,
who are in a hole, are willing to seize the hand of the ministry to help
them out of it; and then there is always a number of people who will
support any government--and so the thing works."

"They have got a new name for this hybrid sentiment," said the
ambassador. "They call it public opinion."

"How very absurd!" said Zenobia; "a mere nickname. As if there could be
any opinion but that of the Sovereign and the two Houses of Parliament."

"They are trying to introduce here the continental Liberalism," said the
great personage. "Now we know what Liberalism means on the continent. It
means the abolition of property and religion. Those ideas would not suit
this country; and I often puzzle myself to foresee how they will attempt
to apply Liberal opinions here."

"I shall always think," said Zenobia, "that Lord Liverpool went much
too far, though I never said so in his time; for I always uphold my
friends."

"Well, we shall see what Canning will do about the Test and Corporation
Acts," said the great personage. "I understand they mean to push him."

"By the by, how is he really?" said the ambassador. "What are the
accounts this afternoon?"

"Here is a gentleman who will tell us," said Zenobia, as Mr. Ferrars
entered and saluted her.

"And what is your news from Chiswick?" she inquired.

"They say at Brookes', that he will be at Downing Street on Monday."

"I doubt it," said Zenobia, but with an expression of disappointment.

Zenobia invited Mr. Ferrars to join her immediate circle. The great
personage and the ambassador were confidentially affable to one whom
Zenobia so distinguished. Their conversation was in hushed tones, as
become the initiated. Even Zenobia seemed subdued, and listened; and to
listen, among her many talents, was perhaps her rarest. Mr. Ferrars was
one of her favourites, and Zenobia liked young men who she thought would
become Ministers of State.

An Hungarian Princess who had quitted the opera early that she might
look in at Zenobia's was now announced. The arrival of this great
lady made a stir. Zenobia embraced her, and the great personage with
affectionate homage yielded to her instantly the place of honour, and
then soon retreated to the laughing voices in the distance that had
already more than once attracted and charmed his ear.

"Mind; I see you to-morrow," said Zenobia to Mr. Ferrars as he also
withdrew. "I shall have something to tell you."



CHAPTER III

The father of Mr. Ferrars had the reputation of being the son of a once
somewhat celebrated statesman, but the only patrimony he inherited from
his presumed parent was a clerkship in the Treasury, where he
found himself drudging at an early age. Nature had endowed him with
considerable abilities, and peculiarly adapted to the scene of their
display. It was difficult to decide which was most remarkable, his
shrewdness or his capacity of labour. His quickness of perception and
mastery of details made him in a few years an authority in the office,
and a Secretary of the Treasury, who was quite ignorant of details,
but who was a good judge of human character, had the sense to appoint
Ferrars his private secretary. This happy preferment in time opened the
whole official world to one not only singularly qualified for that kind
of life, but who possessed the peculiar gifts that were then commencing
to be much in demand in those circles. We were then entering that era
of commercial and financial reform which had been, if not absolutely
occasioned, certainly precipitated, by the revolt of our colonies.
Knowledge of finance and acquaintance with tariffs were then rare gifts,
and before five years of his private secretaryship had expired, Ferrars
was mentioned to Mr. Pitt as the man at the Treasury who could do
something that the great minister required. This decided his lot. Mr.
Pitt found in Ferrars the instrument he wanted, and appreciating all his
qualities placed him in a position which afforded them full play. The
minister returned Ferrars to Parliament, for the Treasury then had
boroughs of its own, and the new member was preferred to an important
and laborious post. So long as Pitt and Grenville were in the ascendant,
Mr. Ferrars toiled and flourished. He was exactly the man they liked;
unwearied, vigilant, clear and cold; with a dash of natural sarcasm
developed by a sharp and varied experience. He disappeared from the
active world in the latter years of the Liverpool reign, when a newer
generation and more bustling ideas successfully asserted their
claims; but he retired with the solace of a sinecure, a pension, and
a privy-councillorship. The Cabinet he had never entered, nor dared to
hope to enter. It was the privilege of an inner circle even in our then
contracted public life. It was the dream of Ferrars to revenge in
this respect his fate in the person of his son, and only child. He
was resolved that his offspring should enjoy all those advantages
of education and breeding and society of which he himself had been
deprived. For him was to be reserved a full initiation in those costly
ceremonies which, under the names of Eton and Christ Church, in his time
fascinated and dazzled mankind. His son, William Pitt Ferrars, realised
even more than his father's hopes. Extremely good-looking, he was gifted
with a precocity of talent. He was the marvel of Eton and the hope
of Oxford. As a boy, his Latin verses threw enraptured tutors into
paroxysms of praise, while debating societies hailed with acclamation
clearly another heaven-born minister. He went up to Oxford about the
time that the examinations were reformed and rendered really efficient.
This only increased his renown, for the name of Ferrars figured among
the earliest double-firsts. Those were days when a crack university
reputation often opened the doors of the House of Commons to a young
aspirant; at least, after a season. But Ferrars had not to wait. His
father, who watched his career with the passionate interest with which a
Newmarket man watches the development of some gifted yearling, took care
that all the odds should be in his favour in the race of life. An old
colleague of the elder Mr. Ferrars, a worthy peer with many boroughs,
placed a seat at the disposal of the youthful hero, the moment he was
prepared to accept it, and he might be said to have left the University
only to enter the House of Commons.

There, if his career had not yet realised the dreams of his youthful
admirers, it had at least been one of progress and unbroken prosperity.
His first speech was successful, though florid, but it was on foreign
affairs, which permit rhetoric, and in those days demanded at least
one Virgilian quotation. In this latter branch of oratorical adornment
Ferrars was never deficient. No young man of that time, and scarcely any
old one, ventured to address Mr. Speaker without being equipped with a
Latin passage. Ferrars, in this respect, was triply armed. Indeed, when
he entered public life, full of hope and promise, though disciplined to
a certain extent by his mathematical training, he had read very little
more than some Latin writers, some Greek plays, and some treatises of
Aristotle. These with a due course of Bampton Lectures and some dipping
into the "Quarterly Review," then in its prime, qualified a man in
those days, not only for being a member of Parliament, but becoming a
candidate for the responsibility of statesmanship. Ferrars made his way;
for two years he was occasionally asked by the minister to speak, and
then Lord Castlereagh, who liked young men, made him a Lord of the
Treasury. He was Under-Secretary of State, and "very rising," when the
death of Lord Liverpool brought about the severance of the Tory party,
and Mr. Ferrars, mainly under the advice of zealots, resigned his office
when Mr. Canning was appointed Minister, and cast in his lot with the
great destiny of the Duke of Wellington.

The elder Ferrars had the reputation of being wealthy. It was supposed
that he had enjoyed opportunities of making money, and had availed
himself of them, but this was not true. Though a cynic, and with little
respect for his fellow-creatures, Ferrars had a pride in official
purity, and when the Government was charged with venality and
corruption, he would observe, with a dry chuckle, that he had seen a
great deal of life, and that for his part he would not much trust any
man out of Downing Street. He had been unable to resist the temptation
of connecting his life with that of an individual of birth and rank;
and in a weak moment, perhaps his only one, he had given his son
a stepmother in a still good-looking and very expensive
Viscountess-Dowager.

Mr. Ferrars was anxious that his son should make a great alliance, but
he was so distracted between prudential considerations and his desire
that in the veins of his grand-children there should flow blood of
undoubted nobility, that he could never bring to his purpose that clear
and concentrated will which was one of the causes of his success in
life; and, in the midst of his perplexities, his son unexpectedly
settled the question himself. Though naturally cold and calculating,
William Ferrars, like most of us, had a vein of romance in his being,
and it asserted itself. There was a Miss Carey, who suddenly became
the beauty of the season. She was an orphan, and reputed to be no
inconsiderable heiress, and was introduced to the world by an aunt
who was a duchess, and who meant that her niece should be the same.
Everybody talked about them, and they went everywhere--among other
places to the House of Commons, where Miss Carey, spying the senators
from the old ventilator in the ceiling of St. Stephen's Chapel, dropped
in her excitement her opera-glass, which fell at the feet of Mr.
Under-Secretary Ferrars. He hastened to restore it to its beautiful
owner, whom he found accompanied by several of his friends, and he was
not only thanked, but invited to remain with them; and the next day
he called, and he called very often afterwards, and many other things
happened, and at the end of July the beauty of the season was
married not to a Duke, but to a rising man, who Zenobia, who at first
disapproved of the match--for Zenobia never liked her male friends to
marry--was sure would one day be Prime Minister of England.

Mrs. Ferrars was of the same opinion as Zenobia, for she was ambitious,
and the dream was captivating. And Mrs. Ferrars soon gained Zenobia's
good graces, for she had many charms, and, though haughty to the
multitude, was a first-rate flatterer. Zenobia liked flattery, and
always said she did. Mr. Under-Secretary Ferrars took a mansion in Hill
Street, and furnished it with befitting splendour. His dinners were
celebrated, and Mrs. Ferrars gave suppers after the opera. The equipages
of Mrs. Ferrars were distinguished, and they had a large retinue of
servants. They had only two children, and they were twins, a brother and
a sister, who were brought up like the children of princes. Partly for
them, and partly because a minister should have a Tusculum, the Ferrars
soon engaged a magnificent villa at Wimbledon, which had the advantage
of admirable stables, convenient, as Mrs. Ferrars was fond of horses,
and liked the children too, with their fancy ponies, to be early
accustomed to riding. All this occasioned expenditure, but old Mr.
Ferrars made his son a liberal allowance, and young Mrs. Ferrars was an
heiress, or the world thought so, which is nearly the same, and then,
too, young Mr. Ferrars was a rising man, in office, and who would
always be in office for the rest of his life; at least, Zenobia said so,
because he was on the right side and the Whigs were nowhere, and never
would be anywhere, which was quite right, as they had wished to make us
the slaves of Bonaparte.

When the King, after much hesitation, send for Mr. Canning, on the
resignation of Lord Liverpool, the Zenobian theory seemed a little at
fault, and William Ferrars absolutely out of office had more than one
misgiving; but after some months of doubt and anxiety, it seemed after
all the great lady was right. The unexpected disappearance of Mr.
Canning from the scene, followed by the transient and embarrassed
phantom of Lord Goderich, seemed to indicate an inexorable destiny that
England should be ruled by the most eminent men of the age, and the most
illustrious of her citizens. William Ferrars, under the inspiration of
Zenobia, had thrown in his fortunes with the Duke, and after nine months
of disquietude found his due reward. In the January that succeeded the
August conversation in St. James' Street with Sidney Wilton, William
Ferrars was sworn of the Privy Council, and held high office, on the
verge of the Cabinet.

Mr. Ferrars had a dinner party in Hill Street on the day he had returned
from Windsor with the seals of his new office. The catastrophe of the
Goderich Cabinet, almost on the eve of the meeting of Parliament, had
been so sudden, that, not anticipating such a state of affairs, Ferrars,
among his other guests, had invited Sidney Wilton. He was rather
regretting this when, as his carriage stopped at his own door, he
observed that very gentleman on his threshold.

Wilton greeted him warmly, and congratulated him on his promotion. "I
do so at once," he added, "because I shall not have the opportunity
this evening. I was calling here in the hope of seeing Mrs. Ferrars, and
asking her to excuse me from being your guest to-day."

"Well, it is rather awkward," said Ferrars, "but I could have no idea of
this when you were so kind as to say you would come."

"Oh, nothing of that sort," said Sidney. "I am out and you are in, and
I hope you may be in for a long, long time. I dare say it may be so, and
the Duke is the man of the age, as you always said he was. I hope your
being in office is not to deprive me of your pleasant dinners; it would
be too bad to lose my place both at Whitehall and in Hill Street."

"I trust that will never happen, my dear fellow; but to-day I thought it
might be embarrassing."

"Not at all; I could endure without wincing even the triumphant glances
of Zenobia. The fact is, I have some business of the most pressing
nature which has suddenly arisen, and which demands my immediate
attention."

Ferrars expressed his regret, though in fact he was greatly relieved,
and they parted.

Zenobia did dine with the William Ferrars to-day, and her handsome
husband came with her, a knight of the garter, and just appointed to a
high office in the household by the new government. Even the excitement
of the hour did not disturb his indigenous repose. It was a dignified
serenity, quite natural, and quite compatible with easy and even cordial
manners, and an address always considerate even when not sympathetic.
He was not a loud or a long talker, but his terse remarks were full
of taste and a just appreciation of things. If they were sometimes
trenchant, the blade was of fine temper. Old Mr. Ferrars was there and
the Viscountess Edgware. His hair had become quite silvered, and
his cheek rosy as a December apple. His hazel eyes twinkled with
satisfaction as he remembered the family had now produced two privy
councillors. Lord Pomeroy was there, the great lord who had returned
William Ferrars to Parliament, a little man, quite, shy, rather
insignificant in appearance, but who observed everybody and everything;
a conscientious man, who was always doing good, in silence and secrecy,
and denounced as a boroughmonger, had never sold a seat in his life, and
was always looking out for able men of character to introduce them to
public affairs. It was not a formal party, but had grown up in great
degree out of the circumstances of the moment. There were more men than
women, and all men in office or devoted supporters of the new ministry.

Mrs. Ferrars, without being a regular beauty, had a voluptuous face and
form. Her complexion was brilliant, with large and long-lashed eyes of
blue. Her mouth was certainly too large, but the pouting richness of her
lips and the splendour of her teeth baffled criticism. She was a woman
who was always gorgeously or fantastically attired.

"I never can understand," would sometimes observe Zenobia's husband to
his brilliant spouse, "how affairs are carried on in this world. Now we
have, my dear, fifty thousand per annum; and I do not see how Ferrars
can have much more than five; and yet he lives much as we do, perhaps
better. I know Gibson showed me a horse last week that I very much
wanted, but I would not give him two hundred guineas for it. I called
there to-day to look after it again, for it would have suited me
exactly, but I was told I was too late, and it was sold to Mrs.
Ferrars."

"My dear, you know I do not understand money matters," Zenobia said in
reply. "I never could; but you should remember that old Ferrars must be
very rich, and that William Ferrars is the most rising man of the day,
and is sure to be in the Cabinet before he is forty."

Everybody had an appetite for dinner to-day, and the dinner was worthy
of the appetites. Zenobia's husband declared to himself that he never
dined so well, though he gave his _chef_ 500 pounds a year, and old Lord
Pomeroy, who had not yet admitted French wines to his own table, seemed
quite abashed with the number of his wine-glasses and their various
colours, and, as he tasted one succulent dish after another, felt a
proud satisfaction in having introduced to public life so distinguished
a man as William Ferrars.

With the dessert, not without some ceremony, were introduced the two
most remarkable guests of the entertainment, and these were the twins;
children of singular beauty, and dressed, if possible, more fancifully
and brilliantly than their mamma. They resembled each other, and had the
same brilliant complexion, rich chestnut hair, delicately arched brows,
and dark blue eyes. Though only eight years of age, a most unchildlike
self-possession distinguished them. The expression of their countenances
was haughty, disdainful, and supercilious. Their beautiful features
seemed quite unimpassioned, and they moved as if they expected
everything to yield to them. The girl, whose long ringlets were braided
with pearls, was ushered to a seat next to her father, and, like her
brother, who was placed by Mrs. Ferrars, was soon engaged in negligently
tasting delicacies, while she seemed apparently unconscious of any one
being present, except when she replied to those who addressed her with a
stare and a haughty monosyllable. The boy, in a black velvet jacket
with large Spanish buttons of silver filagree, a shirt of lace, and a
waistcoat of white satin, replied with reserve, but some condescension,
to the good-natured but half-humorous inquiries of the husband of
Zenobia.

"And when do you go to school?" asked his lordship in a kind voice and
with a laughing eye.

"I shall go to Eton in two years," replied the child without the
slightest emotion, and not withdrawing his attention from the grapes he
was tasting, or even looking at his inquirer, "and then I shall go to
Christ Church, and then I shall go into Parliament."

"Myra," said an intimate of the family, a handsome private secretary of
Mr. Ferrars, to the daughter of the house, as he supplied her plate with
some choicest delicacies, "I hope you have not forgotten your engagement
to me which you made at Wimbledon two years ago?"

"What engagement?" she haughtily inquired.

"To marry me."

"I should not think of marrying any one who was not in the House of
Lords," she replied, and she shot at him a glance of contempt.

The ladies rose. As they were ascending the stairs, one of them said to
Mrs. Ferrars, "Your son's name is very pretty, but it is very uncommon,
is it not?"

"'Tis a family name. The first Carey who bore it was a courtier of
Charles the First, and we have never since been without it. William
wanted our boy to be christened Pomeroy but I was always resolved, if I
ever had a son, that he should be named ENDYMION."



CHAPTER IV

About the time that the ladies rose from the dinner-table in Hill
Street, Mr. Sidney Wilton entered the hall of the Clarendon Hotel, and
murmured an inquiry of the porter. Whereupon a bell was rung, and soon
a foreign servant appeared, and bowing, invited Mr. Wilton to ascend the
staircase and follow him. Mr. Wilton was ushered through an ante-chamber
into a room of some importance, lofty and decorated, and obviously
adapted for distinguished guests. On a principal table a desk was open
and many papers strewn about. Apparently some person had only recently
been writing there. There were in the room several musical instruments;
the piano was open, there was a harp and a guitar. The room was rather
dimly lighted, but cheerful from the steady blaze of the fire, before
which Mr. Wilton stood, not long alone, for an opposite door opened, and
a lady advanced leading with her left hand a youth of interesting mien,
and about twelve years of age. The lady was fair and singularly thin. It
seemed that her delicate hand must really be transparent. Her cheek
was sunk, but the expression of her large brown eyes was inexpressibly
pleasing. She wore her own hair, once the most celebrated in Europe,
and still uncovered. Though the prodigal richness of the tresses had
disappeared, the arrangement was still striking from its grace. That
rare quality pervaded the being of this lady, and it was impossible not
to be struck with her carriage as she advanced to greet her guest; free
from all affectation and yet full of movement and gestures, which might
have been the study of painters.

"Ah!" she exclaimed as she gave him her hand, which he pressed to his
lips, "you are ever faithful."

Seating themselves, she continued, "You have not seen my boy since he
sate upon your knee. Florestan, salute Mr. Wilton, your mother's most
cherished friend."

"This is a sudden arrival," said Mr. Wilton.

"Well, they would not let us rest," said the lady. "Our only refuge was
Switzerland, but I cannot breathe among the mountains, and so, after
a while, we stole to an obscure corner of the south, and for a time we
were tranquil. But soon the old story: representations, remonstrances,
warnings, and threats, appeals to Vienna, and lectures from Prince
Metternich, not the less impressive because they were courteous, and
even gallant."

"And had nothing occurred to give a colour to such complaints? Or was it
sheer persecution?"

"Well, you know," replied the lady, "we wished to remain quiet and
obscure; but where the lad is, they will find him out. It often
astonishes me. I believe if we were in the centre of a forest in some
Indian isle, with no companions but monkeys and elephants, a secret
agent would appear--some devoted victim of our family, prepared to
restore our fortunes and renovate his own. I speak the truth to you
always. I have never countenanced these people; I have never encouraged
them; but it is impossible rudely to reject the sympathy of those who,
after all, are your fellow-sufferers, and some of who have given proof
of even disinterested devotion. For my own part, I have never faltered
in my faith, that Florestan would some day sit on the throne of his
father, dark as appears to be our life; but I have never much believed
that the great result could be occasioned or precipitated by intrigues,
but rather by events more powerful than man, and led on by that fatality
in which his father believed."

"And now you think of remaining here?" said Mr. Wilton.

"No," said the lady, "that I cannot do. I love everything in this
country except its climate and, perhaps, its hotels. I think of trying
the south of Spain, and fancy, if quite alone, I might vegetate there
unnoticed. I cannot bring myself altogether to quit Europe. I am, my
dear Sidney, intensely European. But Spain is not exactly the country
I should fix upon to form kings and statesmen. And this is the point
on which I wish to consult you. I want Florestan to receive an English
education, and I want you to put me in the way of accomplishing this.
It might be convenient, under such circumstances, that he should not
obtrude his birth--perhaps, that it should be concealed. He has many
honourable names besides the one which indicates the state to which he
was born. But, on all these points, we want your advice." And she seemed
to appeal to her son, who bowed his head with a slight smile, but did
not speak.

Mr. Wilton expressed his deep interest in her wishes, and promised to
consider how they might best be accomplished, and then the conversation
took a more general tone.

"This change of government in your country," said the lady, "so
unexpected, so utterly unforeseen, disturbs me; in fact, it decided my
hesitating movements. I cannot but believe that the accession of
the Duke of Wellington to power must be bad, at least, for us. It is
essentially reactionary. They are triumphing at Vienna."

"Have they cause?" said Mr. Wilton. "I am an impartial witness, for I
have no post in the new administration; but the leading colleagues of
Mr. Canning form part of it, and the conduct of foreign affairs remains
in the same hands."

"That is consoling," said the lady. "I wonder if Lord Dudley would see
me. Perhaps not. Ministers do not love pretenders. I knew him when I
was not a pretender," added the lady, with the sweetest of smiles, "and
thought him agreeable. He was witty. Ah! Sidney, those were happy days.
I look back to the past with regret, but without remorse. One might have
done more good, but one did some;" and she sighed.

"You seemed to me," said Sidney with emotion, "to diffuse benefit and
blessings among all around you."

"And I read," said the lady, a little indignant, "in some memoirs the
other day, that our court was a corrupt and dissolute court. It was
a court of pleasure, if you like; but of pleasure that animated and
refined, and put the world in good humour, which, after all, is good
government. The most corrupt and dissolute courts on the continent
of Europe that I have known," said the lady, "have been outwardly the
dullest and most decorous."

"My memory of those days," said Mr. Wilton, "is of ceaseless grace and
inexhaustible charm."

"Well," said the lady, "if I sinned I have at least suffered. And I hope
they were only sins of omission. I wanted to see everybody happy,
and tried to make them so. But let us talk no more of ourselves. The
unfortunate are always egotistical. Tell me something of Mr. Wilton;
and, above all, tell me why you are not in the new government."

"I have not been invited," said Mr. Wilton. "There are more claimants
than can be satisfied, and my claims are not very strong. It is scarcely
a disappointment to me. I shall continue in public life; but, so far as
political responsibility is concerned, I would rather wait. I have some
fancies on that head, but I will not trouble you with them. My time,
therefore, is at my command; and so," he added smilingly, "I can attend
to the education of Prince Florestan."

"Do you hear that, Florestan?" said the lady to her son; "I told you we
had a friend. Thank Mr. Wilton."

And the young Prince bowed as before, but with a more serious
expression. He, however, said nothing.

"I see you have not forgotten your most delightful pursuit," said Mr.
Wilton, and he looked towards the musical instruments.

"No," said the lady; "throned or discrowned, music has ever been the
charm or consolation of my life."

"Pleasure should follow business," said Mr. Wilton, "and we have
transacted ours. Would it be too bold if I asked again to hear those
tones which have so often enchanted me?"

"My voice has not fallen off," said the lady, "for you know it was never
first-rate. But they were kind enough to say it had some expression,
probably because I generally sang my own words to my own music. I will
sing you my farewell to Florestan," she added gaily, and took up her
guitar, and then in tones of melancholy sweetness, breaking at last into
a gushing burst of long-controlled affection, she expressed the agony
and devotion of a mother's heart. Mr. Wilton was a little agitated;
her son left the room. The mother turned round with a smiling face, and
said, "The darling cannot bear to hear it, but I sing it on purpose, to
prepare him for the inevitable."

"He is soft-hearted," said Mr. Wilton.

"He is the most affectionate of beings," replied the mother.
"Affectionate and mysterious. I can say no more. I ought to tell you his
character. I cannot. You may say he may have none. I do not know. He has
abilities, for he acquires knowledge with facility, and knows a
great deal for a boy. But he never gives an opinion. He is silent and
solitary. Poor darling! he has rarely had companions, and that may be
the cause. He seems to me always to be thinking."

"Well, a public school will rouse him from his reveries," said Mr.
Wilton.

"As he is away at this moment, I will say that which I should not care
to say before his face," said the lady. "You are about to do me a great
service, not the first; and before I leave this, we may--we must--meet
again more than once, but there is no time like the present. The
separation between Florestan and myself may be final. It is sad to think
of such things, but they must be thought of, for they are probable.
I still look in a mirror, Sidney; I am not so frightened by what has
occurred since we first met, to be afraid of that--but I never deceive
myself. I do not know what may be the magical effect of the raisins of
Malaga, but if it saves my life the grape cure will indeed achieve a
miracle. Do not look gloomy. Those who have known real grief seldom seem
sad. I have been struggling with sorrow for ten years, but I have got
through it with music and singing, and my boy. See now--he will be a
source of expense, and it will not do for you to be looking to a woman
for supplies. Women are generous, but not precise in money matters. I
have some excuse, for the world has treated me not very well. I never
got my pension regularly; now I never get it at all. So much for
the treaties, but everybody laughs at them. Here is the fortune of
Florestan, and I wish it all to be spent on his education," and she
took a case from her bosom. "They are not the crown jewels, though. The
memoirs I was reading the other day say I ran away with them. That is
false, like most things said of me. But these are gems of Golconda,
which I wish you to realise and expend for his service. They were the
gift of love, and they were worn in love."

"It is unnecessary," said Mr. Wilton, deprecating the offer by his
attitude.

"Hush!" said the lady. "I am still a sovereign to you, and I must be
obeyed."

Mr. Wilton took the case of jewels, pressed it to his lips, and then
placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. He was about to retire, when
the lady added, "I must give you this copy of my song."

"And you will write my name on it?"

"Certainly," replied the lady, as she went to the table and wrote, "For
Mr. Sidney Wilton, from AGRIPPINA."



CHAPTER V

In the meantime, power and prosperity clustered round the roof and
family of Ferrars. He himself was in the prime of manhood, with an
exalted position in the world of politics, and with a prospect of the
highest. The Government of which he was a member was not only deemed
strong, but eternal. The favour of the Court and the confidence of the
country were alike lavished upon it. The government of the Duke could
only be measured by his life, and his influence was irresistible. It was
a dictatorship of patriotism. The country, long accustomed to a strong
and undisturbed administration, and frightened by the changes and
catastrophes which had followed the retirement of Lord Liverpool, took
refuge in the powerful will and splendid reputation of a real hero.

Mrs. Ferrars was as ambitious of social distinction as her husband was
of political power. She was a woman of taste, but of luxurious taste.
She had a passion for splendour, which, though ever regulated by a fine
perception of the fitness of things, was still costly. Though her
mien was in general haughty, she flattered Zenobia, and consummately.
Zenobia, who liked handsome people, even handsome women, and persons who
were dressed beautifully, was quite won by Mrs. Ferrars, against whom
at first she was inclined to be a little prejudiced. There was an entire
alliance between them, and though Mrs. Ferrars greatly influenced and
almost ruled Zenobia, the wife of the minister was careful always to
acknowledge the Queen of Fashion as her suzerain.

The great world then, compared with the huge society of the present
period, was limited in its proportions, and composed of elements more
refined though far less various. It consisted mainly of the great landed
aristocracy, who had quite absorbed the nabobs of India, and had nearly
appropriated the huge West Indian fortunes. Occasionally, an eminent
banker or merchant invested a large portion of his accumulations in
land, and in the purchase of parliamentary influence, and was in
time duly admitted into the sanctuary. But those vast and successful
invasions of society by new classes which have since occurred, though
impending, had not yet commenced. The manufacturers, the railway kings,
the colossal contractors, the discoverers of nuggets, had not yet found
their place in society and the senate. There were then, perhaps, more
great houses open than at the present day, but there were very few
little ones. The necessity of providing regular occasions for the
assembling of the miscellaneous world of fashion led to the institution
of Almack's, which died out in the advent of the new system of
society, and in the fierce competition of its inexhaustible private
entertainments.

The season then was brilliant and sustained, but it was not flurried.
People did not go to various parties on the same night. They remained
where they were assembled, and, not being in a hurry, were more
agreeable than they are at the present day. Conversation was more
cultivated; manners, though unconstrained, were more stately; and the
world, being limited, knew itself much better. On the other hand, the
sympathies of society were more contracted than they are at present.
The pressure of population had not opened the heart of man. The world
attended to its poor in its country parishes, and subscribed and danced
for the Spitalfields weavers when their normal distress had overflowed,
but their knowledge of the people did not exceed these bounds, and the
people knew very little more about themselves. They were only half born.

The darkest hour precedes the dawn, and a period of unusual stillness
often, perhaps usually, heralds the social convulsion. At this moment
the general tranquillity and even content were remarkable. In politics
the Whigs were quite prepared to extend to the Duke the same provisional
confidence that had been accepted by Mr. Caning, and conciliation began
to be an accepted phrase, which meant in practice some share on their
part of the good things of the State. The country itself required
nothing. There was a general impression, indeed, that they had been
advancing at a rather rapid rate, and that it was as well that the reins
should be entrusted to a wary driver. Zenobia, who represented society,
was enraptured that the career of revolution had been stayed. She still
mourned over the concession of the Manchester and Liverpool Railway in a
moment of Liberal infatuation, but flattered herself that any extension
of the railway system might certainly be arrested, and on this head the
majority of society, perhaps even of the country, was certainly on her
side.

"I have some good news for you," said one of her young favourites as he
attended her reception. "We have prevented this morning the lighting of
Grosvenor Square by gas by a large majority."

"I felt confident that disgrace would never occur," said Zenobia,
triumphant. "And by a large majority! I wonder how Lord Pomeroy voted."

"Against us."

"How can one save this country?" exclaimed Zenobia. "I believe now the
story that he has ordered Lady Pomeroy not to go to the Drawing Room in
a sedan chair."

One bright May morning in the spring that followed the formation of the
government that was to last for ever, Mrs. Ferrars received the world
at a fanciful entertainment in the beautiful grounds of her Wimbledon
villa. The day was genial, the scene was flushed with roses and pink
thorns, and brilliant groups, amid bursts of music, clustered and
sauntered on the green turf of bowery lawns. Mrs. Ferrars, on a
rustic throne, with the wondrous twins in still more wonderful attire,
distributed alternate observations of sympathetic gaiety to a Russian
Grand Duke and to the serene heir of a German principality. And yet
there was really an expression on her countenance of restlessness,
not to say anxiety, which ill accorded with the dulcet tones and the
wreathed smiles which charmed her august companions. Zenobia, the great
Zenobia, had not arrived, and the hours were advancing. The Grand Duke
played with the beautiful and haughty infants, and the German Prince
inquired of Endymion whether he were destined to be one of His Majesty's
guards; but still Zenobia did not come, and Mrs. Ferrars could scarcely
conceal her vexation. But there was no real occasion for it. For even at
this moment, with avant-courier and outriders and badged postillions
on her four horses of race, the lodge-gates were opening for the
great lady, who herself appeared in the distance; and Mrs. Ferrars,
accompanied by her distinguished guests, immediately rose and advanced
to receive the Queen of Fashion. No one appreciated a royal presence
more highly than Zenobia. It was her habit to impress upon her noble
fellows of both sexes that there were relations of intimacy between
herself and the royal houses of Europe, which were not shared by her
class. She liked to play the part of a social mediator between the
aristocracy and royal houses. A German Serenity was her delight, but
a Russian Grand Duke was her embodiment of power and pomp, and sound
principles in their most authentic and orthodox form. And yet though she
addressed their highnesses with her usual courtly vivacity, and poured
forth inquiries which seemed to indicate the most familiar acquaintance
with the latest incidents from Schonbrunn or the Rhine, though she
embraced her hostess, and even kissed the children, the practised eye of
Mrs. Ferrars, whose life was a study of Zenobia, detected that her late
appearance had been occasioned by an important cause, and, what was
more, that Zenobia was anxious to communicate it to her. With feminine
tact Mrs. Ferrars moved on with her guests until the occasion offered
when she could present some great ladies to the princes; and then
dismissing the children on appropriate missions, she was not surprised
when Zenobia immediately exclaimed: "Thank heaven, we are at last
alone! You must have been surprised I was so late. Well, guess what has
happened?" and then as Mrs. Ferrars shook her head, she continued: "They
are all four out!"

"All four!"

"Yes; Lord Dudley, Lord Palmerston, and Charles Grant follow Huskisson.
I do not believe the first ever meant to go, but the Duke would not
listen to his hypocritical explanations, and the rest have followed. I
am surprised about Lord Dudley, as I know he loved his office."

"I am alarmed," said Mrs. Ferrars.

"Not the slightest cause for fear," exclaimed the intrepid Zenobia. "It
must have happened sooner or later. I am delighted at it. We shall now
have a cabinet of our own. They never would have rested till they had
brought in some Whigs, and the country hates the Whigs. No wonder, when
we remember that if they had had their way we should have been wearing
sabots at this time, with a French prefect probably in Holland House."

"And whom will they put in the cabinet?" inquired Mrs. Ferrars.

"Our good friends, I hope," said Zenobia, with an inspiring smile; "but
I have heard nothing about that yet. I am a little sorry about Lord
Dudley, as I think they have drawn him into their mesh; but as for the
other three, especially Huskisson and Lord Palmerston, I can tell you
the Duke has never had a quiet moment since they joined him. We shall
now begin to reign. The only mistake was ever to have admitted them. I
think now we have got rid of Liberalism for ever."



CHAPTER VI

Mr. Ferrars did not become a cabinet minister, but this was a vexation
rather than a disappointment, and transient. The unexpected vacancies
were filled by unexpected personages. So great a change in the frame
of the ministry, without any promotion for himself, was on the first
impression not agreeable, but reflection and the sanguine wisdom of
Zenobia soon convinced him that all was for the best, that the thought
of such rapid preferment was unreasonable, and that time and the due
season must inevitably bring all that he could desire, especially as
any term to the duration of the ministry was not now to be foreseen:
scarcely indeed possible. In short, it was shown to him that the
Tory party, renovated and restored, had entered upon a new lease of
authority, which would stamp its character on the remainder of the
nineteenth century, as Mr. Pitt and his school had marked its earlier
and memorable years.

And yet this very reconstruction of the government necessarily led to
an incident which, in its consequences, changed the whole character of
English politics, and commenced a series of revolutions which has not
yet closed.

One of the new ministers who had been preferred to a place which Mr.
Ferrars might have filled was an Irish gentleman, and a member for one
of the most considerable counties in his country. He was a good speaker,
and the government was deficient in debating power in the House of
Commons; he was popular and influential.

The return of a cabinet minister by a large constituency was more
appreciated in the days of close boroughs than at present. There was a
rumour that the new minister was to be opposed, but Zenobia laughed
the rumour to scorn. As she irresistibly remarked at one of her evening
gatherings, "Every landowner in the county is in his favour; therefore
it is impossible." The statistics of Zenobia were quite correct, yet
the result was different from what she anticipated. An Irish lawyer,
a professional agitator, himself a Roman Catholic and therefore
ineligible, announced himself as a candidate in opposition to the new
minister, and on the day of election, thirty thousand peasants, setting
at defiance all the landowners of the county, returned O'Connell at the
head of the poll, and placed among not the least memorable of historical
events--the Clare election.

This event did not, however, occur until the end of the year 1828, for
the state of the law then prevented the writ from being moved until that
time, and during the whole of that year the Ferrars family had pursued
a course of unflagging display. Courage, expenditure, and tact combined,
had realised almost the height of that social ambition to which Mrs.
Ferrars soared. Even in the limited and exclusive circle which then
prevailed, she began to be counted among the great dames. As for the
twins, they seemed quite worthy of their beautiful and luxurious mother.
Proud, wilful, and selfish, they had one redeeming quality, an intense
affection for each other. The sister seemed to have the commanding
spirit, for Endymion was calm, but if he were ruled by his sister, she
was ever willing to be his slave, and to sacrifice every consideration
to his caprice and his convenience.

The year 1829 was eventful, but to Ferrars more agitating than anxious.
When it was first known that the head of the cabinet, whose colleague
had been defeated at Clare, was himself about to propose the
emancipation of the Roman Catholics, there was a thrill throughout the
country; but after a time the success of the operation was not doubted,
and was anticipated as a fresh proof of the irresistible fortunes of the
heroic statesman. There was some popular discontent in the country
at the proposal, but it was mainly organised and stimulated by the
Dissenters, and that section of Churchmen who most resembled them.
The High Church party, the descendants of the old connection which had
rallied round Sacheverell, had subsided into formalism, and shrank from
any very active co-operation with their evangelical brethren.

The English Church had no competent leaders among the clergy. The spirit
that has animated and disturbed our latter times seemed quite dead, and
no one anticipated its resurrection. The bishops had been selected from
college dons, men profoundly ignorant of the condition and the wants of
the country. To have edited a Greek play with second-rate success, or
to have been the tutor of some considerable patrician, was the
qualification then deemed desirable and sufficient for an office, which
at this day is at least reserved for eloquence and energy. The social
influence of the episcopal bench was nothing. A prelate was rarely seen
in the saloons of Zenobia. It is since the depths of religious
thought have been probed, and the influence of woman in the spread
and sustenance of religious feeling has again been recognised, that
fascinating and fashionable prelates have become favoured guests in the
refined saloons of the mighty, and, while apparently indulging in the
vanities of the hour, have re-established the influence which in old
days guided a Matilda or the mother of Constantine.

The end of the year 1829, however, brought a private event of moment to
the Ferrars family. The elder Mr. Ferrars died. The world observed at
the time how deeply affected his son was at this event. The relations
between father and son had always been commendable, but the world was
hardly prepared for Mr. Ferrars, junior, being so entirely overwhelmed.
It would seem that nothing but the duties of public life could have
restored him to his friends, and even these duties he relinquished
for an unusual time. The world was curious to know the amount of his
inheritance, but the proof of the will was unusually delayed, and public
events soon occurred which alike consigned the will and the will-maker
to oblivion.



CHAPTER VII

The Duke of Wellington applied himself to the treatment of the critical
circumstances of 1830 with that blended patience and quickness of
perception to which he owed the success of so many campaigns. Quite
conscious of the difficulties he had to encounter, he was nevertheless
full of confidence in his ability to control them. It is probable that
the paramount desire of the Duke in his effort to confirm his power was
to rally and restore the ranks of the Tory party, disturbed rather than
broken up by the passing of the Relief Bill. During the very heat of
the struggle it was significantly observed that the head of the powerful
family of Lowther, in the House of Commons, was never asked to resign
his office, although he himself and his following voted invariably
against the Government measure. The order the day was the utmost
courtesy to the rebels, who were treated, as some alleged, with more
consideration than the compliant. At the same time the desire of the
Whigs to connect, perhaps even to merge themselves with the ministerial
ranks, was not neglected. A Whig had been appointed to succeed
the eccentric and too uncompromising Wetherell in the office of
attorney-general, other posts had been placed at their disposal, and one
even, an old companion in arms of the Duke, had entered the cabinet.
The confidence in the Duke's star was not diminished, and under
ordinary circumstances this balanced strategy would probably have
been successful. But it was destined to cope with great and unexpected
events.

The first was the unexpected demise of the crown. The death of King
George the Fourth at the end of the month of June, according to the then
existing constitution, necessitated a dissolution of parliament, and so
deprived the minister of that invaluable quality of time, necessary
to soften and win back his estranged friends. Nevertheless, it is not
improbable, that the Duke might still have succeeded, had it not been
for the occurrence of the French insurrection of 1830, in the very heat
of the preparations for the general election in England. The Whigs who
found the Duke going to the country without that reconstruction of his
ministry on which they had counted, saw their opportunity and seized it.
The triumphant riots of Paris were dignified into "the three glorious
days," and the three glorious days were universally recognised as
the triumph of civil and religious liberty. The names of Polignac
and Wellington were adroitly connected together, and the phrase
Parliamentary Reform began to circulate.

It was Zenobia's last reception for the season; on the morrow she was
about to depart for her county, and canvass for her candidates. She was
still undaunted, and never more inspiring. The excitement of the times
was reflected in her manner. She addressed her arriving guests as they
made their obeisance to her, asked for news and imparted it before she
could be answered, declared that nothing had been more critical
since '93, that there was only one man who was able to deal with the
situation, and thanked Heaven that he was not only in England, but in
her drawing-room.

Ferrars, who had been dining with his patron, Lord Pomeroy, and had
the satisfaction of feeling, that at any rate his return to the new
parliament was certain, while helping himself to coffee could not
refrain from saying in a low tone to a gentleman who was performing the
same office, "Our Whig friends seem in high spirits, baron."

The gentleman thus addressed was Baron Sergius, a man of middle age. His
countenance was singularly intelligent, tempered with an expression
mild and winning. He had attended the Congress of Vienna to represent
a fallen party, a difficult and ungracious task, but he had shown
such high qualities in the fulfilment of his painful duties--so much
knowledge, so much self-control, and so much wise and unaffected
conciliation--that he had won universal respect, and especially with the
English plenipotentiaries, so that when he visited England, which he did
frequently, the houses of both parties were open to him, and he was as
intimate with the Whigs as he was with the great Duke, by whom he was
highly esteemed.

"As we have got our coffee, let us sit down," said the baron, and they
withdrew to a settee against the wall.

"You know I am a Liberal, and have always been a Liberal," said the
baron; "I know the value of civil and religious liberty, for I was
born in a country where we had neither, and where we have since enjoyed
either very fitfully. Nothing can be much drearier than the present lot
of my country, and it is probable that these doings at Paris may help my
friends a little, and they may again hold up their heads for a time; but
I have seen too much, and am too old, to indulge in dreams. You are a
young man and will live to see what I can only predict. The world is
thinking of something else than civil and religious liberty. Those are
phrases of the eighteenth century. The men who have won these 'three
glorious days' at Paris, want neither civilisation nor religion. They
will not be content till they have destroyed both. It is possible that
they may be parried for a time; that the adroit wisdom of the house of
Orleans, guided by Talleyrand, may give this movement the resemblance,
and even the character, of a middle-class revolution. It is no such
thing; the barricades were not erected by the middle class. I know these
people; it is a fraternity, not a nation. Europe is honeycombed with
their secret societies. They are spread all over Spain. Italy is
entirely mined. I know more of the southern than the northern nations;
but I have been assured by one who should know that the brotherhood are
organised throughout Germany and even in Russia. I have spoken to
the Duke about these things. He is not indifferent, or altogether
incredulous, but he is so essentially practical that he can only deal
with what he sees. I have spoken to the Whig leaders. They tell me that
there is only one specific, and that a complete one--constitutional
government; that with representative institutions, secret societies
cannot co-exist. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that with these
secret societies representative institutions rather will disappear."



CHAPTER VIII

What unexpectedly took place in the southern part of England, and
especially in the maritime counties, during the autumn of 1830, seemed
rather to confirm the intimations of Baron Sergius. The people in the
rural districts had become disaffected. Their discontent was generally
attributed to the abuses of the Poor Law, and to the lowness of
their wages. But the abuses of the Poor Law, though intolerable, were
generally in favour of the labourer, and though wages in some parts
were unquestionably low, it was observed that the tumultuous assemblies,
ending frequently in riot, were held in districts where this cause did
not prevail. The most fearful feature of the approaching anarchy was the
frequent acts of incendiaries. The blazing homesteads baffled the feeble
police and the helpless magistrates; and the government had reason to
believe that foreign agents were actively promoting these mysterious
crimes.

Amid partial discontent and general dejection came the crash of the
Wellington ministry, and it required all the inspiration of Zenobia
to sustain William Ferrars under the trial. But she was undaunted and
sanguine as a morning in spring. Nothing could persuade her that the
Whigs could ever form a government, and she was quite sure that the
clerks in the public offices alone could turn them out. When the Whig
government was formed, and its terrible programme announced, she laughed
it to scorn, and derided with inexhaustible merriment the idea of the
House of Commons passing a Reform Bill. She held a great assembly the
night that General Gascoyne defeated the first measure, and passed an
evening of ecstasy in giving and receiving congratulations. The morrow
brought a graver brow, but still an indomitable spirit, and through all
these tempestuous times Zenobia never quailed, though mobs burnt the
castles of dukes and the palaces of bishops.

Serious as was the state of affairs to William Ferrars, his condition
was not so desperate as that of some of his friends. His seat at least
was safe in the new parliament that was to pass a Reform Bill. As
for the Tories generally, they were swept off the board. Scarcely a
constituency, in which was a popular element, was faithful to them. The
counties in those days were the great expounders of popular principles,
and whenever England was excited, which was rare, she spoke through her
freeholders. In this instance almost every Tory knight of the shire lost
his seat except Lord Chandos, the member for Buckinghamshire, who owed
his success entirely to his personal popularity. "Never mind," said
Zenobia, "what does it signify? The Lords will throw it out."

And bravely and unceasingly she worked for this end. To assist this
purpose it was necessary that a lengthened and powerful resistance to
the measure should be made in the Commons; that the public mind should
be impressed with its dangerous principles, and its promoters cheapened
by the exposure of their corrupt arrangements and their inaccurate
details. It must be confessed that these objects were resolutely kept
in view, and that the Tory opposition evinced energy and abilities
not unworthy of a great parliamentary occasion. Ferrars particularly
distinguished himself. He rose immensely in the estimation of the House,
and soon the public began to talk of him. His statistics about the
condemned boroughs were astounding and unanswerable: he was the only man
who seemed to know anything of the elements of the new ones. He was as
eloquent too as exact,--sometimes as fervent as Burke, and always as
accurate as Cocker.

"I never thought it was in William Ferrars," said a member, musingly, to
a companion as they walked home one night; "I always thought him a good
man of business, and all that sort of thing--but, somehow or other, I
did not think this was in him."

"Well, he has a good deal at stake, and that brings it out of a fellow,"
said his friend.

It was, however, pouring water upon sand. Any substantial resistance
to the measure was from the first out of the question. Lord Chandos
accomplished the only important feat, and that was the enfranchisement
of the farmers. This perpetual struggle, however, occasioned a vast deal
of excitement, and the actors in it often indulged in the wild credulity
of impossible expectations. The saloon of Zenobia was ever thronged, and
she was never more confident than when the bill passed the Commons. She
knew that the King would never give his assent to the bill. His
Majesty had had quite enough of going down in hackney coaches to carry
revolutions. After all, he was the son of good King George, and the
court would save the country, as it had often done before. "But it will
not come to that," she added. "The Lords will do their duty."

"But Lord Waverley tells me," said Ferrars, "that there are forty of
them who were against the bill last year who will vote for the second
reading."

"Never mind Lord Waverley and such addlebrains," said Zenobia, with a
smile of triumphant mystery. "So long as we have the court, the Duke,
and Lord Lyndhurst on our side, we can afford to laugh at such conceited
poltroons. His mother was my dearest friend, and I know he used to have
fits. Look bright," she continued; "things never were better. Before a
week has passed these people will be nowhere."

"But how it is possible?"

"Trust me."

"I always do--and yet"----

"You never were nearer being a cabinet minister," she said, with a
radiant glance.

And Zenobia was right. Though the government, with the aid of the
waverers, carried the second reading of the bill, a week afterwards,
on May 7, Lord Lyndhurst rallied the waverers again to his standard and
carried his famous resolution, that the enfranchising clauses should
precede the disenfranchisement in the great measure. Lord Grey and his
colleagues resigned, and the King sent for Lord Lyndhurst. The bold
chief baron advised His Majesty to consult the Duke of Wellington, and
was himself the bearer of the King's message to Apsley House. The Duke
found the King "in great distress," and he therefore did not hesitate in
promising to endeavour to form a ministry.

"Who was right?" said Zenobia to Mr. Ferrars. "He is so busy he could
not write to you, but he told me to tell you to call at Apsley House at
twelve to-morrow. You will be in the cabinet."

"I have got it at last!" said Ferrars to himself. "It is worth living
for and at any peril. All the cares of life sink into insignificance
under such circumstances. The difficulties are great, but their very
greatness will furnish the means of their solution. The Crown cannot be
dragged in the mud, and the Duke was born for conquest."

A day passed, and another day, and Ferrars was not again summoned. The
affair seemed to hang fire. Zenobia was still brave, but Ferrars, who
knew her thoroughly, could detect her lurking anxiety. Then she told him
in confidence that Sir Robert made difficulties, "but there is nothing
in it," she added. "The Duke has provided for everything, and he means
Sir Robert to be Premier. He could not refuse that; it would be almost
an act of treason." Two days after she sent for Mr. Ferrars, early
in the morning, and received him in her boudoir. Her countenance was
excited, but serious. "Don't be alarmed," she said; "nothing will
prevent a government being formed, but Sir Robert has thrown us over;
I never had confidence in him. It is most provoking, as Mr. Baring had
joined us, and it was such a good name for the City. But the failure of
one man is the opportunity of another. We want a leader in the House of
Commons. He must be a man who can speak; of experience, who knows the
House, its forms, and all that. There is only one man indicated. You
cannot doubt about him. I told you honours would be tumbling on your
head. You are the man; you are to have one of the highest offices in the
cabinet, and lead the House of Commons."

"Peel declines," said Ferrars, speaking slowly and shaking his head.
"That is very serious."

"For himself," said Zenobia, "not for you. It makes your fortune."

"The difficulties seem too great to contend with."

"What difficulties are there? You have got the court, and you have got
the House of Lords. Mr. Pitt was not nearly so well off, for he had
never been in office, and had at the same time to fight Lord North and
that wicked Mr. Fox, the orator of the day, while you have only got Lord
Althorp, who can't order his own dinner."

"I am in amazement," said Ferrars, and he seemed plunged in thought.

"But you do not hesitate?"

"No," he said, looking up dreamily, for he had been lost in abstraction;
and speaking in a measured and hollow voice, "I do not hesitate." Then
resuming a brisk tone he said, "This is not an age for hesitation; if
asked, I will do the deed."

At this moment there was a tap at the door, and the groom of the
chambers brought in a note for Mr. Ferrars, which had been forwarded
from his own residence, and which requested his presence at Apsley
House. Having read it, he gave it to Zenobia, who exclaimed with
delight, "Do not lose a moment. I am so glad to have got rid of Sir
Robert with his doubts and his difficulties. We want new blood."

That was a wonderful walk for William Ferrars, from St. James' Square to
Apsley House. As he moved along, he was testing his courage and capacity
for the sharp trials that awaited him. He felt himself not unequal
to conjectures in which he had never previously indulged even in
imagination. His had been an ambitious, rather than a soaring spirit. He
had never contemplated the possession of power except under the aegis of
some commanding chief. Now it was for him to control senates and guide
councils. He screwed himself up to the sticking-point. Desperation is
sometimes as powerful an inspirer as genius.

The great man was alone,--calm, easy, and courteous. He had sent for
Mr. Ferrars, because having had one interview with him, in which his
co-operation had been requested in the conduct of affairs, the Duke
thought it was due to him to give him the earliest intimation of the
change of circumstances. The vote of the house of Commons on the motion
of Lord Ebrington had placed an insurmountable barrier to the formation
of a government, and his Grace had accordingly relinquished the
commission with which he had been entrusted by the King.



CHAPTER IX

Availing himself of his latch-key, Ferrars re-entered his home
unnoticed. He went at once to his library, and locked the door of the
apartment. There sitting before his desk, he buried his face in his
hands and remained in that posture for a considerable time.

They were tumultuous and awful thoughts that passed over his brain.
The dreams of a life were dissipated, and he had to encounter the stern
reality of his position--and that was Ruin. He was without hope and
without resource. His debts were vast; his patrimony was a fable; and
the mysterious inheritance of his wife had been tampered with. The
elder Ferrars had left an insolvent estate; he had supported his son
liberally, but latterly from his son's own resources. The father had
made himself the principal trustee of the son's marriage settlement. His
colleague, a relative of the heiress, had died, and care was taken that
no one should be substituted in his stead. All this had been discovered
by Ferrars on his father's death, but ambition, and the excitement of
a life of blended elation and peril, had sustained him under the
concussion. One by one every chance had vanished: first his private
means and then his public prospects; he had lost office, and now he was
about to lose parliament. His whole position, so long, and carefully,
and skilfully built up, seemed to dissolve and dissipate into
insignificant fragments. And now he had to break the situation to his
wife. She was to become the unprepared partner of the secret which had
gnawed at his heart for years, during which to her his mien had often
been smiling and always serene. Mrs. Ferrars was at home, and alone,
in her luxurious boudoir, and he went to her at once. After years
of dissimulation, now that all was over, Ferrars could not bear the
suspense of four-and-twenty hours.

It was difficult to bring her into a mood of mind capable of
comprehending a tithe of of what she had to learn; and yet the darkest
part of the tale she was never to know. Mrs. Ferrars, though singularly
intuitive, shrank from controversy, and settled everything by
contradiction and assertion. She maintained for a long time that what
her husband communicated to her could not be; that it was absurd and
even impossible. After a while, she talked of selling her diamonds
and reducing her equipage, sacrificing which she assumed would put
everything right. And when she found her husband still grave and still
intimating that the sacrifices must be beyond all this, and that they
must prepare for the life and habits of another social sphere, she
became violent, and wept and declared her wrongs; that she had been
deceived and outraged and infamously treated.

Remembering how long and with what apparent serenity in her presence he
had endured his secret woes, and how one of the principal objects of his
life had ever been to guard her even from a shade of solicitude, even
the restrained Ferrars was affected; his countenance changed and his
eyes became suffused. When she observed this, she suddenly threw her
arms round his neck and with many embraces, amid sighs and tears,
exclaimed, "O William! if we love each other, what does anything
signify?"

And what could anything signify under such circumstances and on such
conditions? As Ferrars pressed his beautiful wife to his heart, he
remembered only his early love, which seemed entirely to revive.
Unconsciously to himself, too, he was greatly relieved by this burst of
tenderness on her part, for the prospect of this interview had been most
distressful to him. "My darling," he said, "ours is not a case of common
imprudence or misfortune. We are the victims of a revolution, and we
must bear our lot as becomes us under such circumstances. Individual
misfortunes are merged in the greater catastrophe of the country."

"That is the true view," said his wife; "and, after all, the poor King
of France is much worse off than we are. However, I cannot now buy the
Duchesse of Sevres' lace, which I had promised her to do. It is rather
awkward. However, the best way always is to speak the truth. I must tell
the duchess I am powerless, and that we are the victims of a revolution,
like herself."

Then they began to talk quite cosily together over their prospects, he
sitting on the sofa by her side and holding her hand. Mrs. Ferrars would
not hear of retiring to the continent. "No," she said, with all her
sanguine vein returning, "you always used to say I brought you luck, and
I will bring you luck yet. There must be a reaction. The wheel will turn
and bring round our friends again. Do not let us then be out of the way.
Your claims are immense. They must do something for you. They ought to
give you India, and if we only set our mind upon it, we shall get it.
Depend upon it, things are not so bad as they seem. What appear to be
calamities are often the sources of fortune. I would much sooner that
you should be Governor-General than a cabinet minister. That odious
House of Commons is very wearisome. I am not sure any constitution
can bear it very long. I am not sure whether I would not prefer being
Governor-General of India even to being Prime-Minister."



CHAPTER X

In consequence of the registration under the Reform Act it was not
possible for parliament to be dissolved, and an appeal made to the new
constituency, until the end of the year. This was advantageous to Mr.
Ferrars, and afforded him six months of personal security to arrange his
affairs. Both husband and wife were proud, and were anxious to quit the
world with dignity. All were so busy about themselves at that period,
and the vicissitudes of life between continental revolutions and English
reform so various and extensive, that it was not difficult to avoid the
scrutiny of society. Mrs. Ferrars broke to Zenobia that, as her husband
was no longer to be in parliament, they had resolved to retire for some
time to a country life, though, as Mr. Ferrars had at length succeeded
in impressing on his wife that their future income was to be counted by
hundreds, rather than thousands, it was difficult for her to realise a
rural establishment that should combine dignity and economy. Without,
however, absolutely alleging the cause, she contrived to baffle the
various propositions of this kind which the energetic Zenobia made to
her, and while she listened with apparent interest to accounts of deer
parks, and extensive shooting, and delightful neighbourhoods, would just
exclaim, "Charming! but rather more, I fancy, than we require, for we
mean to be very quiet till my girl is presented."

That young lady was now thirteen, and though her parents were careful
to say nothing in her presence which would materially reveal their real
situation, for which they intended very gradually to prepare her, the
scrutinising powers with which nature had prodigally invested their
daughter were not easily baffled. She asked no questions, but nothing
seemed to escape the penetrative glance of that large dark blue eye,
calm amid all the mystery, and tolerating rather than sharing the
frequent embrace of her parents. After a while her brother came home
from Eton, to which he was never to return. A few days before this
event she became unusually restless, and even agitated. When he arrived,
neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ferrars was at home. He knocked gaily at the
door, a schoolboy's knock, and was hardly in the hall when his name
was called, and he caught the face of his sister, leaning over the
balustrade of the landing-place. He ran upstairs with wondrous speed,
and was in an instant locked in her arms. She kissed him and kissed him
again, and when he tried to speak, she stopped his mouth with kisses.
And then she said, "Something has happened. What it is I cannot make
out, but we are to have no more ponies."



CHAPTER XI

At the foot of the Berkshire downs, and itself on a gentle elevation,
there is an old hall with gable ends and lattice windows, standing in
grounds which once were stately, and where there are yet glade-like
terraces of yew trees, which give an air of dignity to a neglected
scene. In the front of the hall huge gates of iron, highly wrought, and
bearing an ancient date as well as the shield of a noble house, opened
on a village green, round which were clustered the cottages of the
parish with only one exception, and that was the vicarage house, a
modern building, not without taste, and surrounded by a small but
brilliant garden. The church was contiguous to the hall, and had been
raised by the lord on a portion of his domain. Behind the hall and its
enclosure, the country was common land but picturesque. It had once
been a beech forest, and though the timber had been greatly cleared,
the green land was still occasionally dotted, sometimes with groups and
sometimes with single trees, while the juniper which here abounded, and
rose to a great height, gave a rich wildness to the scene, and sustained
its forest character.

Hurstley had for many years been deserted by the family to which it
belonged. Indeed, it was rather difficult to say to whom it did belong.
A dreary fate had awaited an ancient, and, in its time, even not
immemorable home. It had fallen into chancery, and for the last
half-century had either been uninhabited or let to strangers. Mr.
Ferrars' lawyer was in the chancery suit, and knew all about it.
The difficulty of finding a tenant for such a place, never easy, was
increased by its remoteness from any railway communication, which was
now beginning to figure as an important element in such arrangements.
The Master in Chancery would be satisfied with a nominal rent, provided
only he could obtain a family of consideration to hold under him. Mr.
Ferrars was persuaded to go down alone to reconnoitre the place. It
pleased him. It was aristocratic, yet singularly inexpensive. The house
contained an immense hall, which reached the roof, and which would have
become a baronial mansion, and a vast staircase in keeping; but the
living rooms were moderate, even small, in dimensions, and not numerous.
The land he was expected to take consisted only of a few meadows,
which he could let if necessary, and a single labourer could manage the
garden.

Mrs. Ferrars was so delighted with the description of the galleried
hall, that she resolved on their taking Hurstley without even her
previously visiting it. The only things she cared for in the country
were a hall and a pony-chair.

All the carriages were sold, and all the servants discharged. Two or
three maid-servants and a man who must be found in the country, who
could attend them at table, and valet alike his master and the pony, was
the establishment which was to succeed the crowd of retainers who had
so long lounged away their lives in the saloons of Hill Street, and the
groves and gardens of Wimbledon.

Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars and their daughter travelled down to Hurstley in a
post-chaise; Endymion, with the servants, was sent by the stage-coach,
which accomplished the journey of sixty miles in ten hours. Myra said
little during the journey, but an expression of ineffable contempt and
disgust seemed permanent on her countenance. Sometimes she shrugged her
shoulders, sometimes she raised her eyebrows, and sometimes she turned
up her nose. And then she gave a sigh; but it was a sigh not of sorrow,
but of impatience. Her parents lavished attentions on her which she
accepted without recognition, only occasionally observing that she
wished she had gone with Endymion.

It was dusk when they arrived at Hurstley, and the melancholy hour did
not tend to raise their spirits. However, the gardener's wife had lit a
good fire of beechwood in the drawing-room, and threw as they entered
a pannier of cones upon the logs, which crackled and cheerfully blazed
away. Even Myra seemed interested by the novelty of the wood fire and
the iron dogs. She remained by their side, looking abstractedly on the
expiring logs, while her parents wandered about the house and examined
or prepared the requisite arrangements. While they were yet absent,
there was some noise and a considerable bustle in the hall. Endymion
and his retinue had arrived. Then Myra immediately roused herself, and
listened like a startled deer. But the moment she caught his voice, an
expression of rapture suffused her countenance. It beamed with vivacity
and delight. She rushed away, pushed through the servants and the
luggage, embraced him and said, "We will go over the house and see our
rooms together."

Wandering without a guide and making many mistakes, fortunately they
soon met their parents. Mrs. Ferrars good-naturedly recommenced her
labours of inspection, and explained all her plans. There was a very
pretty room for Endymion, and to-morrow it was to be very comfortable.
He was quite pleased. Then they were shown Myra's room, but she said
nothing, standing by with a sweet scoff, as it were, lingering on her
lips, while her mother disserted on all the excellences of the chamber.
Then they were summoned to tea. The gardener's wife was quite a leading
spirit, and had prepared everything; the curtains were drawn, and the
room lighted; an urn hissed; there were piles of bread and butter and a
pyramid of buttered toast. It was wonderful what an air of comfort had
been conjured up in this dreary mansion, and it was impossible for
the travellers, however wearied or chagrined, to be insensible to the
convenience and cheerfulness of all around them.

When the meal was over, the children sate together in whispering tattle.
Mrs. Ferrars had left the room to see if all was ready for their hour of
retirement, and Mr. Ferrars was walking up and down the room, absorbed
in thought.

"What do you think of it all, Endymion?" whispered Myra to her twin.

"I rather like it," he said.

She looked at him with a glance of blended love and mockery, and then
she said in his ear, "I feel as if we had fallen from some star."



CHAPTER XII

The morrow brought a bright autumnal morn, and every one woke, if not
happy, interested. There was much to see and much to do. The dew was so
heavy that the children were not allowed to quit the broad gravel walk
that bounded one side of the old house, but they caught enticing vistas
of the gleamy glades, and the abounding light and shade softened and
adorned everything. Every sight and sound too was novel, and from
the rabbit that started out of the grove, stared at them and then
disappeared, to the jays chattering in the more distant woods, all was
wonderment at least for a week. They saw squirrels for the first time,
and for the first time beheld a hedgehog. Their parents were busy in
the house; Mr. Ferrars unpacking and settling his books, and his wife
arranging some few articles of ornamental furniture that had been saved
from the London wreck, and rendering their usual room of residence as
refined as was in her power. It is astonishing how much effect a woman
of taste can produce with a pretty chair or two full of fancy and
colour, a table clothed with a few books, some family miniatures, a
workbag of rich material, and some toys that we never desert. "I have
not much to work with," said Mrs. Ferrars, with a sigh, "but I think the
colouring is pretty."

On the second day after their arrival, the rector and his wife made them
a visit. Mr. Penruddock was a naturalist, and had written the history of
his parish. He had escaped being an Oxford don by being preferred early
to this college living, but he had married the daughter of a don, who
appreciated the grand manners of their new acquaintances, and who, when
she had overcome their first rather awe-inspiring impression, became
communicative and amused them much with her details respecting the
little world in which they were now to live. She could not conceal
her wonderment at the beauty of the twins, though they were no longer
habited in those dresses which had once astonished even Mayfair.

Part of the scheme of the new life was the education of the children
by their parents. Mr. Ferrars had been a distinguished scholar, and was
still a good one. He was patient and methodical, and deeply interested
in his contemplated task. So far as disposition was concerned the pupil
was not disappointing. Endymion was of an affectionate disposition and
inclined to treat his father with deference. He was gentle and docile;
but he did not acquire knowledge with facility, and was remarkably
deficient in that previous information on which his father counted. The
other pupil was of a different temperament. She learned with a glance,
and remembered with extraordinary tenacity everything she had acquired.
But she was neither tender nor deferential, and to induce her to study
you could not depend on the affections, but only on her intelligence.
So she was often fitful, capricious, or provoking, and her mother,
who, though accomplished and eager, had neither the method nor the
self-restraint of Mr. Ferrars, was often annoyed and irritable. Then
there were scenes, or rather ebullitions on one side, for Myra was
always unmoved and enraging from her total want of sensibility.
Sometimes it became necessary to appeal to Mr. Ferrars, and her manner
to her father, though devoid of feeling, was at least not contemptuous.
Nevertheless, on the whole the scheme, as time went on, promised to be
not unsuccessful. Endymion, though not rapidly, advanced surely, and
made some amends for the years that had been wasted in fashionable
private schools and the then frivolity of Eton. Myra, who,
notwithstanding her early days of indulgence, had enjoyed the advantage
of admirable governesses, was well grounded in more than one modern
language, and she soon mastered them. And in due time, though much after
the period on which we are now touching, she announced her desire to
become acquainted with German, in those days a much rarer acquirement
than at present. Her mother could not help her in this respect, and that
was perhaps an additional reason for the study of this tongue, for Myra
was impatient of tuition, and not unjustly full of self-confidence.
She took also the keenest interest in the progress of her brother, made
herself acquainted with all his lessons, and sometimes helped him in
their achievement.

Though they had absolutely no acquaintance of any kind except the rector
and his family, life was not dull. Mr. Ferrars was always employed, for
besides the education of his children, he had systematically resumed
a habit in which he had before occasionally indulged, and that was
political composition. He had in his lofty days been the author of more
than one essay, in the most celebrated political publication of the
Tories, which had commanded attention and obtained celebrity. Many a
public man of high rank and reputation, and even more than one Prime
Minister, had contributed in their time to its famous pages, but never
without being paid. It was the organic law of this publication, that
gratuitous contributions should never be admitted. And in this principle
there was as much wisdom as pride. Celebrated statesmen would point with
complacency to the snuff-box or the picture which had been purchased by
their literary labour, and there was more than one bracelet on the arm
of Mrs. Ferrars, and more than one genet in her stable, which had been
the reward of a profound or a slashing article by William.

What had been the occasional diversion of political life was now to
be the source of regular income. Though living in profound solitude,
Ferrars had a vast sum of political experience to draw upon, and though
his training and general intelligence were in reality too exclusive and
academical for the stirring age which had now opened, and on which he
had unhappily fallen, they nevertheless suited the audience to which
they were particularly addressed. His Corinthian style, in which the
Maenad of Mr. Burke was habited in the last mode of Almack's, his
sarcasms against the illiterate and his invectives against the low, his
descriptions of the country life of the aristocracy contrasted with
the horrors of the guillotine, his Horatian allusions and his Virgilian
passages, combined to produce a whole which equally fascinated and
alarmed his readers.

These contributions occasioned some communications with the editor or
publisher of the Review, which were not without interest. Parcels came
down by the coach, enclosing not merely proof sheets, but frequently new
books--the pamphlet of the hour before it was published, or a volume
of discoveries in unknown lands. It was a link to the world they had
quitted without any painful associations. Otherwise their communications
with the outside world were slight and rare. It is difficult for us,
who live in an age of railroads, telegraphs, penny posts and penny
newspapers, to realise how uneventful, how limited in thought and
feeling, as well as in incident, was the life of an English family of
retired habits and limited means, only forty years ago. The whole world
seemed to be morally, as well as materially, "adscripti glebae."

Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars did not wish to move, but had they so wished, it
would have been under any circumstances for them a laborious and costly
affair. The only newspaper they saw was the "Evening Mail," which
arrived three times a week, and was the "Times" newspaper with all its
contents except its advertisements. As the "Times" newspaper had the
credit of mainly contributing to the passing of Lord Grey's Reform Bill,
and was then whispered to enjoy the incredible sale of twelve thousand
copies daily, Mr. Ferrars assumed that in its columns he would trace
the most authentic intimations of coming events. The cost of postage
was then so heavy, that domestic correspondence was necessarily very
restricted. But this vexatious limitation hardly applied to the Ferrars.
They had never paid postage. They were born and had always lived in
the franking world, and although Mr. Ferrars had now himself lost
the privilege, both official and parliamentary, still all their
correspondents were frankers, and they addressed their replies without
compunction to those who were free. Nevertheless, it was astonishing
how little in their new life they cared to avail themselves of this
correspondence. At first Zenobia wrote every week, almost every day, to
Mrs. Ferrars, but after a time Mrs. Ferrars, though at first pleased
by the attention, felt its recognition a burthen. Then Zenobia, who
at length, for the first time in her life, had taken a gloomy view of
affairs, relapsed into a long silence, and in fact had nearly forgotten
the Ferrars, for as she herself used to say, "How can one recollect
people whom one never meets?"

In the meantime, for we have been a little anticipating in our last
remarks, the family at Hurstley were much pleased with the country they
now inhabited. They made excursions of discovery into the interior of
their world, Mrs. Ferrars and Myra in the pony-chair, her husband
and Endymion walking by their side, and Endymion sometimes taking his
sister's seat against his wish, but in deference to her irresistible
will. Even Myra could hardly be insensible to the sylvan wildness of the
old chase, and the romantic villages in the wooded clefts of the downs.
As for Endymion he was delighted, and it seemed to him, perhaps he
unconsciously felt it, that this larger and more frequent experience of
nature was a compensation for much which they had lost.

After a time, when they had become a little acquainted with simple
neighbourhood, and the first impression of wildness and novelty had
worn out, the twins were permitted to walk together alone, though within
certain limits. The village and its vicinity was quite free, but they
were not permitted to enter the woods, and not to wander on the chase
out of sight of the mansion. These walks alone with Endymion were the
greatest pleasure of his sister. She delighted to make him tell her of
his life at Eton, and if she ever sighed it was when she lamented that
his residence there had been so short. Then they found an inexhaustible
fund of interest and sympathy in the past. They wondered if they ever
should have ponies again. "I think not," said Myra, "and yet how merry
to scamper together over this chase!"

"But they would not let us go," said Endymion, "without a groom."

"A groom!" exclaimed Myra, with an elfish laugh; "I believe, if the
truth were really known, we ought to be making our own beds and washing
our own dinner plates."

"And are you sorry, Myra, for all that has happened?" asked Endymion.

"I hardly know what has happened. They keep it very close. But I am too
astonished to be sorry. Besides, what is the use of whimpering?"

"I cried very much one day," said Endymion.

"Ah, you are soft, dear darling. I never cried in my life, except once
with rage."

At Christmas a new character appeared on the stage, the rector's son,
Nigel. He had completed a year with a private tutor, and was on the
eve of commencing his first term at Oxford, being eighteen, nearly
five years older than the twins. He was tall, with a countenance
of remarkable intelligence and power, though still softened by the
innocence and bloom of boyhood. He was destined to be a clergyman. The
twins were often thrown into his society, for though too old to be their
mere companion, his presence was an excuse for Mrs. Penruddock more
frequently joining them in their strolls, and under her auspices their
wanderings had no limit, except the shortness of the days; but they
found some compensation for this in their frequent visits to the
rectory, which was a cheerful and agreeable home, full of stuffed birds,
and dried plants, and marvellous fishes, and other innocent trophies and
triumphs over nature.



CHAPTER XIII

The tenant of the Manor Farm was a good specimen of his class; a
thorough Saxon, ruddy and bright visaged, with an athletic though rather
bulky frame, hardened by exposure to the seasons and constant exercise.
Although he was the tenant of several hundred acres, he had an eye to
the main chance in little things, which is a characteristic of farmers,
but he was good-natured and obliging, and while he foraged their pony,
furnished their woodyard with logs and faggots, and supplied them from
his dairy, he gratuitously performed for the family at the hall many
other offices which tended to their comfort and convenience, but which
cost him nothing.

Mr. Ferrars liked to have a chat every now and then with Farmer
Thornberry, who had a shrewd and idiomatic style of expressing his
limited, but in its way complete, experience of men and things, which
was amusing and interesting to a man of the world whose knowledge of
rural life was mainly derived from grand shooting parties at great
houses.

The pride and torment of Farmer Thornberry's life was his only child,
Job.

"I gave him the best of educations," said the farmer; "he had a much
better chance than I had myself, for I do not pretend to be a scholar,
and never was; and yet I cannot make head or tail of him. I wish you
would speak to him some day, sir. He goes against the land, and yet we
have been on it for three generations, and have nothing to complain of;
and he is a good farmer, too, is Job, none better; a little too fond of
experimenting, but then he is young. But I am very much afraid he will
leave me. I think it is this new thing the big-wigs have set up in
London that has put him wrong, for he is always reading their papers."

"And what is that?" said Mr. Ferrars.

"Well, they call themselves the Society for the Diffusion of Knowledge,
and Lord Brougham is at the head of it."

"Ah! he is a dangerous man," said Mr. Ferrars.

"Do you know, I think he is," said Farmer Thornberry, very seriously,
"and by this token, he says a knowledge of chemistry is necessary for
the cultivation of the soil."

"Brougham is a man who would say anything," said Mr. Ferrars, "and of
one thing you may be quite certain, that there is no subject which Lord
Brougham knows thoroughly. I have proved that, and if you ever have time
some winter evening to read something on the matter, I will lend you a
number of the 'Quarterly Review,' which might interest you."

"I wish you would lend it to Job," said the farmer.

Mr. Ferrars found Job not quite so manageable in controversy as his
father. His views were peculiar, and his conclusions certain. He had
more than a smattering too of political economy, a kind of knowledge
which Mr. Ferrars viewed with suspicion; for though he had himself been
looked upon as enlightened in this respect in the last years of Lord
Liverpool, when Lord Wallace and Mr. Huskisson were astonishing the
world, he had relapsed, after the schism of the Tory party, into
orthodoxy, and was satisfied that the tenets of the economists were mere
theories, or could only be reduced into practice by revolution.

"But it is a pleasant life, that of a farmer," said Mr. Ferrars to Job.

"Yes, but life should be something more than pleasant," said Job, who
always looked discontented; "an ox in a pasture has a pleasant life."

"Well, and why should it not be a profitable one, too?" said Mr.
Ferrars.

"I do not see my way to that," said Job moodily; "there is not much to
be got out of the land at any time, and still less on the terms we hold
it."

"But you are not high-rented!"

"Oh, rent is nothing, if everything else were right, but nothing is
right," said Job. "In the first place, a farmer is the only trader who
has no security for his capital."

"Ah! you want a lease?"

"I should be very sorry to have a lease like any that I have seen,"
replied Job. "We had one once in our family, and we keep it as a
curiosity. It is ten skins long, and more tyrannical nonsense was never
engrossed by man."

"But your family, I believe, has been on this estate for generations
now," said Ferrars, "and they have done well."

"They have done about as well as their stock. They have existed," said
Job; "nothing more."

"Your father always gives me quite the idea of a prosperous man," said
Mr. Ferrars.

"Whether he be or not I am sure I cannot say," said Job; "for as neither
he nor any of his predecessors ever kept any accounts, it is rather
difficult to ascertain their exact condition. So long as he has money
enough in his pocket to pay his labourers and buy a little stock, my
father, like every British farmer, is content. The fact is, he is a serf
as much as his men, and until we get rid of feudalism he will remain
so."

"These are strong opinions," said Mr. Ferrars, drawing himself up and
looking a little cold.

"Yes, but they will make their way," said Job. "So far as I myself am
concerned, I do not much care what happens to the land, for I do not
mean to remain on it; but I care for the country. For the sake of the
country I should like to see the whole thing upset."

"What thing?" asked Mr. Ferrars.

"Feudalism," said Job. "I should like to see this estate managed on the
same principles as they do their great establishments in the north
of England. Instead of feudalism, I would substitute the commercial
principle. I would have long leases without covenants; no useless
timber, and no game."

"Why, you would destroy the country," said Mr. Ferrars.

"We owe everything to the large towns," said Job.

"The people in the large towns are miserable," said Mr. Ferrars.

"They cannot be more miserable than the people in the country," said
Job.

"Their wretchedness is notorious," said Mr. Ferrars. "Look at their
riots."

"Well, we had Swing in the country only two or three years ago."

Mr. Ferrars looked sad. The reminiscence was too near and too fatal.
After a pause he said with an air of decision, and as if imparting a
state secret, "If it were not for the agricultural districts, the King's
army could not be recruited."

"Well, that would not break my heart," said Job.

"Why, my good fellow, you are a Radical!"

"They may call me what they like," said Job; "but it will not alter
matters. However, I am going among the Radicals soon, and then I shall
know what they are."

"And can you leave your truly respectable parent?" said Mr. Ferrars
rather solemnly, for he remembered his promise to Farmer Thornberry to
speak seriously to his son.

"Oh! my respectable parent will do very well without me, sir. Only let
him be able to drive into Bamford on market day, and get two or three
linendrapers to take their hats off to him, and he will be happy enough,
and always ready to die for our glorious Constitution."



CHAPTER XIV

Eighteen hundred and thirty-two, the darkest and most distressing year
in the life of Mr. Ferrars, closed in comparative calm and apparent
content. He was himself greatly altered, both in manner and appearance.
He was kind and gentle, but he was silent and rarely smiled. His hair
was grizzled, and he began to stoop. But he was always employed, and was
interested in his labours.

His sanguine wife bore up against their misfortunes with far more
animation. She was at first amused with her new life, and when she was
accustomed to it, she found a never-failing resource in her conviction
of a coming reaction. Mrs. Ferrars possessed most feminine qualities,
and many of them in excess. She could not reason, but her intuition was
remarkable. She was of opinion that "these people never could go on,"
and that they must necessarily be succeeded by William and his friends.
In vain her husband, when she pressed her views and convictions on him,
would shake his head over the unprecedented majority of the government,
and sigh while he acknowledged that the Tories absolutely did not now
command one fifth of the House of Commons; his shakes and sighs were
equally disregarded by her, and she persisted in her dreams of riding
upon elephants.

After all Mrs. Ferrars was right. There is nothing more remarkable in
political history than the sudden break-up of the Whig party after their
successful revolution of 1832. It is one of the most striking instances
on record of all the elements of political power being useless without a
commanding individual will. During the second year of their exile in the
Berkshire hills, affairs looked so black that it seemed no change could
occur except further and more calamitous revolution. Zenobia went to
Vienna that she might breathe the atmosphere of law and order, and
hinted to Mrs. Ferrars that probably she should never return--at least
not until Parliament met, when she trusted the House of Lords, if they
were not abolished in the interval, would save the country. And yet at
the commencement of the following year an old colleague of Mr. Ferrars
apprised him, in the darkest and deepest confidence, that "there was a
screw loose," and he must "look out for squalls."

In the meantime Mr. Ferrars increased and established his claims on his
party, if they ever did rally, by his masterly articles in their great
Review, which circumstances favoured and which kept up that increasing
feeling of terror and despair which then was deemed necessary for the
advancement of Conservative opinions.

At home a year or more had elapsed without change. The occasional
appearance of Nigel Penruddock was the only event. It was to all a
pleasing, and to some of the family a deeply interesting one. Nigel,
though a student and devoted to the holy profession for which he was
destined, was also a sportsman. His Christianity was muscular, and
Endymion, to whom he had taken a fancy, became the companion of his
pastimes. All the shooting of the estate was at Nigel's command, but as
there were no keepers, it was of course very rough work. Still it was a
novel and animating life for Endymion; and though the sport was slight,
the pursuit was keen. Then Nigel was a great fisherman, and here their
efforts had a surer return, for they dwelt in a land of trout streams,
and in their vicinity was a not inconsiderable river. It was an
adventure of delight to pursue some of these streams to their source,
throwing, as they rambled on, the fly in the rippling waters. Myra, too,
took some pleasure in these fishing expeditions, carrying their luncheon
and a German book in her wallet, and sitting quietly on the bank for
hours, when they had fixed upon some favoured pool for a prolonged
campaign.

Every time that Nigel returned home, a difference, and a striking
difference, was observed in him. His person, of course, became more
manly, his manner more assured, his dress more modish. It was impossible
to deny that he was extremely good-looking, interesting in his
discourse, and distinguished in his appearance. Endymion idolised him.
Nigel was his model. He imitated his manner, caught the tone of his
voice, and began to give opinions on subjects, sacred and profane.

After a hard morning's march, one day, as they were lolling on the turf
amid the old beeches and the juniper, Nigel said--

"What does Mr. Ferrars mean you to be, Endymion?"

"I do not know," said Endymion, looking perplexed.

"But I suppose you are to be something?"

"Yes; I suppose I must be something; because papa has lost his fortune."

"And what would you like to be?"

"I never thought about it," said Endymion.

"In my opinion there is only one thing for a man to be in this age,"
said Nigel peremptorily; "he should go into the Church."

"The Church!" said Endymion.

"There will soon be nothing else left," said Nigel. "The Church must
last for ever. It is built upon a rock. It was founded by God; all other
governments have been founded by men. When they are destroyed, and the
process of destruction seems rapid, there will be nothing left to govern
mankind except the Church."

"Indeed!" said Endymion; "papa is very much in favour of the Church,
and, I know, is writing something about it."

"Yes, but Mr. Ferrars is an Erastian," said Nigel; "you need not tell
him I said so, but he is one. He wants the Church to be the servant of
the State, and all that sort of thing, but that will not do any longer.
This destruction of the Irish bishoprics has brought affairs to a
crisis. No human power has the right to destroy a bishopric. It is a
divinely-ordained office, and when a diocese is once established, it is
eternal."

"I see," said Endymion, much interested.

"I wish," continued Nigel, "you were two or three years older, and Mr.
Ferrars could send you to Oxford. That is the place to understand these
things, and they will soon be the only things to understand. The rector
knows nothing about them. My father is thoroughly high and dry, and has
not the slightest idea of Church principles."

"Indeed!" said Endymion.

"It is quite a new set even at Oxford," continued Nigel; "but their
principles are as old as the Apostles, and come down from them,
straight."

"That is a long time ago," said Endymion.

"I have a great fancy," continued Nigel, without apparently attending to
him, "to give you a thorough Church education. It would be the making
of you. You would then have a purpose in life, and never be in doubt or
perplexity on any subject. We ought to move heaven and earth to induce
Mr. Ferrars to send you to Oxford."

"I will speak to Myra about it," said Endymion.

"I said something of this to your sister the other day," said Nigel,
"but I fear she is terribly Erastian. However, I will give you something
to read. It is not very long, but you can read it at your leisure,
and then we will talk over it afterwards, and perhaps I may give you
something else."

Endymion did not fail to give a report of this conversation and similar
ones to his sister, for he was in the habit of telling her everything.
She listened with attention, but not with interest, to his story. Her
expression was kind, but hardly serious. Her wondrous eyes gave him a
glance of blended mockery and affection. "Dear darling," she said, "if
you are to be a clergyman, I should like you to be a cardinal."



CHAPTER XV

The dark deep hints that had reached Mr. Ferrars at the beginning of
1834 were the harbingers of startling events. In the spring it began to
be rumoured among the initiated, that the mighty Reform Cabinet with its
colossal majority, and its testimonial goblets of gold, raised by the
penny subscriptions of the grateful people, was in convulsions, and
before the month of July had elapsed Lord Grey had resigned, under
circumstances which exhibited the entire demoralisation of his party.
Except Zenobia, every one was of the opinion that the King acted wisely
in entrusting the reconstruction of the Whig ministry to his late
Secretary of State, Lord Melbourne. Nevertheless, it could no longer be
concealed, nay, it was invariably admitted, that the political situation
had been largely and most unexpectedly changed, and that there was a
prospect, dim, perhaps, yet not undefinable, of the conduct of
public affairs again falling to the alternate management of two rival
constitutional parties.

Zenobia was so full of hope, and almost of triumph, that she induced
her lord in the autumn to assemble their political friends at one of his
great seats, and Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars were urgently invited to join the
party. But, after some hesitation, they declined this proposal. Had Mr.
Ferrars been as sanguine as his wife, he would perhaps have overcome
his strong disinclination to re-enter the world, but though no longer
despairing of a Tory revival, he was of opinion that a considerable
period, even several years, must elapse before its occurrence. Strange
to say, he found no difficulty in following his own humour through any
contrary disposition on the part of Mrs. Ferrars. With all her ambition
and passionate love of society, she was unwilling to return to that
stage, where she once had blazed, in a subdued and almost subordinate
position. In fact, it was an affair of the wardrobe. The queen of
costumes, whose fanciful and gorgeous attire even Zenobia was wont to
praise, could not endure a reappearance in old dresses. "I do not so
much care about my jewels, William," she said to her husband, "but one
must have new dresses."

It was a still mild day in November, a month which in the country, and
especially on the light soils, has many charms, and the whole Ferrars
family were returning home after an afternoon ramble on the chase. The
leaf had changed but had not fallen, and the vast spiral masses of the
dark green juniper effectively contrasted with the rich brown foliage of
the beech, varied occasionally by the scarlet leaves of the wild cherry
tree, that always mingles with these woods. Around the house were some
lime trees of large size, and at this period of the year their foliage,
still perfect, was literally quite golden. They seemed like trees in
some fairy tale of imprisoned princesses or wandering cavaliers, and
such they would remain, until the fatal night that brings the first
frost.

"There is a parcel from London," said the servant to Mr. Ferrars, as
they entered the house. "It is on your desk."

A parcel from London was one of the great events of their life. What
could it be? Perhaps some proofs, probably some books. Mr. Ferrars
entered his room alone. It was a very small brown paper parcel,
evidently not books. He opened it hastily, and disencumbered its
contents of several coverings. The contents took the form of a letter--a
single letter.

The handwriting was recognised, and he read the letter with an agitated
countenance, and then he opened the door of his room, and called loudly
for his wife, who was by his side in a few moments.

"A letter, my love, from Barron," he cried. "The King has dismissed
Lord Melbourne and sent for the Duke of Wellington, who has accepted the
conduct of affairs."

"You must go to town directly," said his wife. "He offered you the
Cabinet in 1832. No person has such a strong claim on him as you have."

"It does not appear that he is exactly prime minister," said Mr.
Ferrars, looking again at the letter. "They have sent for Peel, who is
at Rome, but the Duke is to conduct the government till he arrives."

"You must go to town immediately," repeated Mrs. Ferrars. "There is not
a moment to be lost. Send down to the Horse Shoe and secure an inside
place in the Salisbury coach. It reaches this place at nine to-morrow
morning. I will have everything ready. You must take a portmanteau and
a carpet-bag. I wonder if you could get a bedroom at the Rodneys'. It
would be so nice to be among old friends; they must feel for you. And
then it will be near the Carlton, which is a great thing. I wonder how
he will form his cabinet. What a pity he is not here!"

"It is a wonderful event, but the difficulties must be immense,"
observed Ferrars.

"Oh! you always see difficulties. I see none. The King is with us, the
country is disgusted. It is what I always said would be; the reaction is
complete."

"Well, we had better now go and tell the children," said Ferrars. "I
leave you all here for the first time," and he seemed to sigh.

"Well, I hope we shall soon join you," said Mrs. Ferrars. "It is the
very best time for hiring a house. What I have set my heart upon is the
Green Park. It will be near your office and not too near. I am sure I
could not live again in a street."

The children were informed that public events of importance had
occurred, that the King had changed his ministry, and that papa must go
up to town immediately and see the Duke of Wellington. The eyes of Mrs.
Ferrars danced with excitement as she communicated to them all this
intelligence, and much more, with a volubility in which of late years
she had rarely indulged. Mr. Ferrars looked grave and said little.
Then he patted Endymion on the head, and kissed Myra, who returned his
embrace with a warmth unusual with her.

The whole household soon became in a state of bustle with the
preparations for the early departure of Mr. Ferrars. It seemed difficult
to comprehend how filling a portmanteau and a carpet-bag could induce
such excited and continuous exertions. But then there was so much to
remember, and then there was always something forgotten. Mrs. Ferrars
was in her bedroom surrounded by all her maids; Mr. Ferrars was in his
study looking out some papers which it was necessary to take with him.
The children were alone.

"I wonder if we shall be restored to our greatness," said Myra to
Endymion.

"Well, I shall be sorry to leave the old place; I have been happy here."

"I have not," said Myra; "and I do not think I could have borne this
life had it not been for you."

"It will be a wonderful change," said Endymion.

"If it comes; I fear papa is not daring enough. However, if we get out
of this hole, it will be something."

Tea-time brought them all together again, but when the meal was over,
none of the usual occupations of the evening were pursued; no work, no
books, no reading aloud. Mr. Ferrars was to get up very early, and that
was a reason for all retiring soon. And yet neither the husband nor
the wife really cared to sleep. Mrs. Ferrars sate by the fire in his
dressing-room, speculating on all possible combinations, and infusing
into him all her suggestions and all her schemes. She was still prudent,
and still would have preferred a great government--India if possible;
but had made up her mind that he must accept the cabinet. Considering
what had occurred in 1832, she thought he was bound in honour to do so.
Her husband listened rather than conversed, and seemed lost in thought.
At last he rose, and, embracing her with much affection, said, "You
forget I am to rise with the lark. I shall write to you every day.
Best and dearest of women, you have always been right, and all my good
fortune has come from you."



CHAPTER XVI

It was a very tedious journey, and it took the whole day to accomplish
a distance which a rapid express train now can achieve in an hour. The
coach carried six inside passengers, and they had to dine on the road.
All the passengers were strangers to Mr. Ferrars, and he was by them
unknown; one of them purchased, though with difficulty, a second
edition of the "Times" as they approached London, and favoured his
fellow-travellers with the news of the change of ministry. There was
much excitement, and the purchaser of the paper gave it as his opinion,
"that it was an intrigue of the Court and the Tories, and would never
do." Another modestly intimated that he thought there was a decided
reaction. A third announced that England would never submit to be
governed by O'Connell.

As the gloom of evening descended, Mr. Ferrars felt depressed. Though
his life at Hurstley had been pensive and melancholy, he felt now the
charm and the want of that sweet domestic distraction which had often
prevented his mind from over-brooding, and had softened life by sympathy
in little things. Nor was it without emotion that he found himself again
in London, that proud city where once he had himself been so proud. The
streets were lighted, and seemed swarming with an infinite population,
and the coach finally stopped at a great inn in the Strand, where Mr.
Ferrars thought it prudent to secure accommodation for the night. It
was too late to look after the Rodneys, but in deference to the strict
injunction of Mrs. Ferrars, he paid them a visit next morning on his way
to his political chief.

In the days of the great modistes, when an English lady might absolutely
be dressed in London, the most celebrated mantua-maker in that city was
Madame Euphrosyne. She was as fascinating as she was fashionable.
She was so graceful, her manners were so pretty, so natural, and so
insinuating! She took so lively an interest in her clients--her very
heart was in their good looks. She was a great favourite of Mrs.
Ferrars, and that lady of Madame Euphrosyne. She assured Mrs. Ferrars
that she was prouder of dressing Mrs. Ferrars than all the other fine
ladies in London together, and Mrs. Ferrars believed her. Unfortunately,
while in the way of making a large fortune, Madame Euphrosyne, who was
romantic, fell in love with, and married, a very handsome and worthless
husband, whose good looks had obtained for him a position in the
company of Drury Lane Theatre, then a place of refined resort, which his
abilities did not justify. After pillaging and plundering his wife for
many years, he finally involved her in such engagements, that she had
to take refuge in the Bankruptcy Court. Her business was ruined, and her
spirit was broken, and she died shortly after of adversity and chagrin.
Her daughter Sylvia was then eighteen, and had inherited with the grace
of her mother the beauty of her less reputable parent. Her figure
was slight and undulating, and she was always exquisitely dressed. A
brilliant complexion set off to advantage her delicate features, which,
though serene, were not devoid of a certain expression of archness. Her
white hands were delicate, her light eyes inclined to merriment, and her
nose quite a gem, though a little turned up.

After their ruin, her profligate father told her that her face was her
fortune, and that she must provide for herself, in which she would find
no difficulty. But Sylvia, though she had never enjoyed the advantage of
any training, moral or religious, had no bad impulses even if she had
no good ones, was of a rather cold character, and extremely prudent. She
recoiled from the life of riot, and disorder, and irregularity, in
which she had unwittingly passed her days, and which had terminated so
tragically, and she resolved to make an effort to secure for herself
a different career. She had heard that Mrs. Ferrars was in want of an
attendant, and she determined to apply for the post. As one of the
chief customers of her mother, Sylvia had been in the frequent habit of
waiting on that lady, with whom she had become a favourite. She was
so pretty, and the only person who could fit Mrs. Ferrars. Her appeal,
therefore, was not in vain; it was more than successful. Mrs. Ferrars
was attracted by Sylvia. Mrs. Ferrars was magnificent, generous, and
she liked to be a patroness and surrounded by favourites. She determined
that Sylvia should not sink into a menial position; she adopted her as a
humble friend, and one who every day became more regarded by her. Sylvia
arranged her invitations to her receptions, a task which required finish
and precision; sometimes wrote her notes. She spoke and wrote French
too, and that was useful, was a musician, and had a pretty voice. Above
all, she was a first-rate counsellor in costume; and so, looking also
after Mrs. Ferrars' dogs and birds, she became almost one of the family;
dined with them often when they were alone, and was frequently Mrs.
Ferrars' companion in her carriage.

Sylvia, though not by nature impulsive, really adored her patroness. She
governed her manners and she modelled her dress on that great original,
and, next to Mrs. Ferrars, Sylvia in time became nearly the finest lady
in London. There was, indeed, much in Mrs. Ferrars to captivate a
person like Sylvia. Mrs. Ferrars was beautiful, fashionable, gorgeous,
wonderfully expensive, and, where her taste was pleased, profusely
generous. Her winning manner was not less irresistible because it was
sometimes uncertain, and she had the art of being intimate without being
familiar.

When the crash came, Sylvia was really broken-hearted, or believed she
was, and implored that she might attend the deposed sovereigns into
exile; but that was impossible, however anxious they might be as to
the future of their favourite. Her destiny was sooner decided than they
could have anticipated. There was a member of the household, or rather
family, in Hill Street, who bore almost the same relation to Mr. Ferrars
as Sylvia to his wife. This was Mr. Rodney, a remarkably good-looking
person, by nature really a little resembling his principal, and
completing the resemblance by consummate art. The courtiers of Alexander
of Macedonia could not study their chief with more devotion, or more
sedulously imitate his mien and carriage, than did Mr. Rodney that
distinguished individual of whom he was the humble friend, and who he
was convinced was destined to be Prime Minister of England. Mr. Rodney
was the son of the office-keeper of old Mr. Ferrars, and it was the
ambition of the father that his son, for whom he had secured a sound
education, should become a member of the civil service. It had become an
apothegm in the Ferrars family that something must be done for Rodney,
and whenever the apparent occasion failed, which was not unfrequent, old
Mr. Ferrars used always to add, "Never mind; so long as I live, Rodney
shall never want a home." The object of all this kindness, however, was
little distressed by their failures in his preferment. He had implicit
faith in the career of his friend and master, and looked forward to the
time when it might not be impossible that he himself might find a haven
in a commissionership. Recently Mr. Ferrars had been able to confer
on him a small post with duties not too engrossing, and which did not
prevent his regular presence in Hill Street, where he made himself
generally useful.

If there were anything confidential to be accomplished in their domestic
life, everything might be trusted to his discretion and entire devotion.
He supervised the establishment without injudiciously interfering with
the house-steward, copied secret papers for Mr. Ferrars, and when that
gentleman was out of office acted as his private secretary. Mr. Rodney
was the most official person in the ministerial circle. He considered
human nature only with reference to office. No one was so intimately
acquainted with all the details of the lesser patronage as himself,
and his hours of study were passed in the pages of the "Peerage" and in
penetrating the mysteries of the "Royal Calendar."

The events of 1832, therefore, to this gentleman were scarcely a less
severe blow than to the Ferrars family itself. Indeed, like his chief,
he looked upon himself as the victim of a revolution. Mr. Rodney had
always been an admirer of Sylvia, but no more. He had accompanied her
to the theatre, and had attended her to the park, but this was quite
understood on both sides only to be gallantry; both, perhaps, in their
prosperity, with respect to the serious step of life, had indulged in
higher dreams. But the sympathy of sorrow is stronger than the sympathy
of prosperity. In the darkness of their lives, each required comfort: he
murmured some accents of tender solace, and Sylvia agreed to become Mrs.
Rodney.

When they considered their position, the prospect was not free from
anxiety. To marry and then separate is, where there is affection,
trying. His income would secure them little more than a roof, but how to
live under that roof was a mystery. For her to become a governess, and
for him to become a secretary, and to meet only on an occasional Sunday,
was a sorry lot. And yet both possessed accomplishments or acquirements
which ought in some degree to be productive. Rodney had a friend, and he
determined to consult him.

That friend was no common person; he was Mr. Vigo, by birth a
Yorkshireman, and gifted with all the attributes, physical and
intellectual, of that celebrated race. At present he was the most
fashionable tailor in London, and one whom many persons consulted.
Besides being consummate in his art, Mr. Vigo had the reputation
of being a man of singularly good judgment. He was one who obtained
influence over all with whom he came in contact, and as his business
placed him in contact with various classes, but especially with the
class socially most distinguished, his influence was great. The golden
youth who repaired to his counters came there not merely to obtain
raiment of the best material and the most perfect cut, but to see and
talk with Mr. Vigo, and to ask his opinion on various points. There
was a spacious room where, if they liked, they might smoke a cigar, and
"Vigo's cigars" were something which no one could rival. If they liked
to take a glass of hock with their tobacco, there was a bottle ready
from the cellars of Johannisberg. Mr. Vigo's stable was almost as famous
as its master; he drove the finest horses in London, and rode the
best hunters in the Vale of Aylesbury. With all this, his manners were
exactly what they should be. He was neither pretentious nor servile, but
simple, and with becoming respect for others and for himself. He never
took a liberty with any one, and such treatment, as is generally the
case, was reciprocal.

Mr. Vigo was much attached to Mr. Rodney, and was proud of his intimate
acquaintance with him. He wanted a friend not of his own order, for that
would not increase or improve his ideas, but one conversant with the
habits and feelings of a superior class, and yet he did not want a fine
gentleman for an intimate, who would have been either an insolent patron
or a designing parasite. Rodney had relations with the aristocracy,
with the political world, and could feel the pulse of public life. His
appearance was engaging, his manners gentle if not gentlemanlike, and
he had a temper never disturbed. This is a quality highly appreciated
by men of energy and fire, who may happen not to have a complete
self-control.

When Rodney detailed to his friend the catastrophe that had occurred and
all its sad consequences, Mr. Vigo heard him in silence, occasionally
nodding his head in sympathy or approbation, or scrutinising a statement
with his keen hazel eye. When his visitor had finished, he said--

"When there has been a crash, there is nothing like a change of scene. I
propose that you and Mrs. Rodney should come and stay with me a week at
my house at Barnes, and there a good many things may occur to us."

And so, towards the end of the week, when the Rodneys had exhausted
their whole programme of projects, against every one of which there
seemed some invincible objection, their host said, "You know I rather
speculate in houses. I bought one last year in Warwick Street. It is a
large roomy house in a quiet situation, though in a bustling quarter,
just where members of parliament would like to lodge. I have put it in
thorough repair. What I propose is that you should live there, let the
first and second floors--they are equally good--and live on the ground
floor yourselves, which is amply convenient. We will not talk about
rent till the year is over and we see how it answers. The house is
unfurnished, but that is nothing. I will introduce you to a friend of
mine who will furnish it for you solidly and handsomely, you paying
a percentage on the amount expended. He will want a guarantee, but of
course I will be that. It is an experiment, but try it. Try it for
a year; at any rate you will be a householder, and you will have the
opportunity of thinking of something else."

Hitherto the Rodneys had been successful in their enterprise, and the
soundness of Mr. Vigo's advice had been proved. Their house was full,
and of the best tenants. Their first floor was taken by a distinguished
M.P., a county member of repute whom Mr. Rodney had known before the
"revolution," and who was so pleased with his quarters, and the comfort
and refinement of all about him, that to ensure their constant enjoyment
he became a yearly tenant. Their second floor, which was nearly as good
as their first, was inhabited by a young gentleman of fashion, who took
them originally only by the week, and who was always going to give
them up, but never did. The weekly lodger went to Paris, and he went
to German baths, and he went to country houses, and he was frequently
a long time away, but he never gave up his lodgings. When therefore Mr.
Ferrars called in Warwick Street, the truth is the house was full and
there was no vacant room for him. But this the Rodneys would not admit.
Though they were worldly people, and it seemed impossible that anything
more could be gained from the ruined house of Hurstley, they had,
like many other people, a superstition, and their superstition was an
adoration of the family of Ferrars. The sight of their former master,
who, had it not been for the revolution, might have been Prime Minister
of England, and the recollection of their former mistress and all her
splendour, and all the rich dresses which she used to give so profusely
to her dependent, quite overwhelmed them. Without consultation this
sympathising couple leapt to the same conclusion. They assured Mr.
Ferrars they could accommodate him, and that he should find everything
prepared for him when he called again, and they resigned to him, without
acknowledging it, their own commodious and well-furnished chamber, which
Mrs. Rodney prepared for him with the utmost solicitude, arranging his
writing-table and materials as he used to have them in Hill Street, and
showing by a variety of modes she remembered all his ways.



CHAPTER XVII

After securing his room in Warwick Street, Mr. Ferrars called on his
political chiefs. Though engrossed with affairs, the moment his card was
exhibited he was seen, cordially welcomed, and addressed in confidence.
Not only were his claims acknowledged without being preferred, but an
evidently earnest hope was expressed that they might be fully satisfied.
No one had suffered more for the party and no one had worked harder
or more effectively for it. But at present nothing could be done and
nothing more could be said. All depended on Peel. Until he arrived
nothing could be arranged. Their duties were limited to provisionally
administering the affairs of the country until his appearance.

It was many days, even weeks, before that event could happen. The
messenger would travel to Rome night and day, but it was calculated that
nearly three weeks must elapse before his return. Mr. Ferrars then went
to the Carlton Club, which he had assisted in forming three or four
years before, and had established in a house of modern dimensions in
Charles Street, St. James. It was called then the Charles Street gang,
and none but the thoroughgoing cared to belong to it. Now he found it
flourishing in a magnificent mansion on Carlton Terrace, while in very
sight of its windows, on a plot of ground in Pall Mall, a palace was
rising to receive it. It counted already fifteen hundred members, who
had been selected by an omniscient and scrutinising committee, solely
with reference to their local influence throughout the country, and the
books were overflowing with impatient candidates of rank, and wealth,
and power.

Three years ago Ferrars had been one of the leading spirits of this
great confederacy, and now he entered the superb chamber, and it seemed
to him that he did not recognise a human being. Yet it was full to
overflowing, and excitement and anxiety and bustle were impressed on
every countenance. If he had heard some of the whispers and remarks,
as he entered and moved about, his self-complacency would scarcely have
been gratified.

"Who is that?" inquired a young M.P. of a brother senator not much more
experienced.

"Have not the remotest idea; never saw him before. Barron is speaking to
him; he will tell us. I say, Barron, who is your friend?"

"That is Ferrars!"

"Ferrars! who is he?"

"One of our best men. If all our fellows had fought like him against the
Reform Bill, that infernal measure would never have been carried."

"Oh! ah! I remember something now," said the young M.P., "but anything
that happened before the election of '32 I look upon as an old
almanack."

However, notwithstanding the first and painful impression of strangers
and strangeness, when a little time had elapsed Ferrars found many
friends, and among the most distinguished present. Nothing could be more
hearty than their greeting, and he had not been in the room half an hour
before he had accepted an invitation to dine that very day with Lord
Pomeroy.

It was a large and rather miscellaneous party, but all of the right
kidney. Some men who had been cabinet ministers, and some who expected
to be; several occupiers in old days of the secondary offices; both the
whips, one noisy and the other mysterious; several lawyers of repute
who must be brought into parliament, and some young men who had
distinguished themselves in the reformed house and whom Ferrars had
never seen before. "It is like old days," said the husband of Zenobia to
Ferrars, who sate next to him; "I hope it will float, but we shall know
nothing till Peel comes."

"He will have difficulty with his cabinet so far as the House of Commons
is concerned," said an old privy councillor "They must have seats, and
his choice is very limited."

"He will dissolve," said the husband of Zenobia. "He must."

"Wheugh!" said the privy councillor, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"The old story will not do," said the husband of Zenobia. "We must have
new blood. Peel must reconstruct on a broad basis."

"Well, they say there is no lack of converts," said the old privy
councillor.

All this, and much more that he heard, made Ferrars ponder, and
anxiously. No cabinet without parliament. It was but reasonable. A
dissolution was therefore in his interest. And yet, what a prospect!
A considerable expenditure, and yet with a considerable expenditure a
doubtful result. Then reconstruction on a broad basis--what did that
mean? Neither more nor less than rival candidates for office. There was
no lack of converts. He dare say not. A great deal had developed since
his exile at Hurstley--things which are not learned by newspapers, or
even private correspondence. He spoke to Barron after dinner. He had
reason to believe Barron was his friend. Barron could give no opinion
about dissolution; all depended on Peel. But they were acting, and had
been acting for some time, as if dissolution were on the cards. Ferrars
had better call upon him to-morrow, and go over the list, and see what
would be done for him. He had every claim.

The man with every claim called on Barron on the morrow, and saw his
secret list, and listened to all his secret prospects and secret plans.
There was more than one manufacturing town where there was an opening;
decided reaction, and a genuine Conservative feeling. Barron had no
doubt that, although a man might not get in the first time he stood, he
would ultimately. Ultimately was not a word which suited Mr. Ferrars.
There were several old boroughs where the freemen still outnumbered the
ten-pounders, and where the prospects were more encouraging; but the
expense was equal to the goodness of the chance, and although Ferrars
had every claim, and would no doubt be assisted, still one could not
shut one's eyes to the fact that the personal expenditure must be
considerable. The agricultural boroughs must be fought, at least this
time, by local men. Something might be done with an Irish borough;
expense, comparatively speaking inconsiderable, but the politics deeply
Orange.

Gloom settled on the countenance of this spoiled child of politics, who
had always sate for a close borough, and who recoiled from a contest
like a woman, when he pictured to himself the struggle and exertion and
personal suffering he would have to encounter and endure, and then with
no certainty of success. The trained statesman, who had anticipated
the mass of his party on Catholic emancipation, to become an Orange
candidate! It was worse than making speeches to ten-pounders and
canvassing freemen!

"I knew things were difficult," said Ferrars; "but I was in hopes that
there were yet some seats that we might command."

"No doubt there are," said Mr. Barron; "but they are few, and they are
occupied--at least at present. But, after all, a thousand things may
turn up, and you may consider nothing definitely arranged until Sir
Robert arrives. The great thing is to be on the spot."

Ferrars wrote to his wife daily, and kept her minutely acquainted with
the course of affairs. She agreed with Barron that the great thing was
to be on the spot. She felt sure that something would turn up. She was
convinced that Sir Robert would send for him, offer him the cabinet, and
at the same time provide him with a seat. Her own inclination was still
in favour of a great colonial or foreign appointment. She still hankered
after India; but if the cabinet were offered, as was certain, she did
not consider that William, as a man of honour, could refuse to accept
the trust and share the peril.

So Ferrars remained in London under the roof of the Rodneys. The
feverish days passed in the excitement of political life in all its
manifold forms, grave council and light gossip, dinners with only one
subject of conversation, and that never palling, and at last, even
evenings spent again under the roof of Zenobia, who, the instant her
winter apartments were ready to receive the world, had hurried up to
London and raised her standard in St. James' Square. "It was like old
days," as her husband had said to Ferrars when they met after a long
separation.

Was it like old days? he thought to himself when he was alone. Old days,
when the present had no care, and the future was all hope; when he was
proud, and justly proud, of the public position he had achieved, and of
all the splendid and felicitous circumstances of life that had clustered
round him. He thought of those away, and with whom during the last three
years he had so continuously and intimately lived. And his hired home
that once had been associated only in his mind with exile, imprisonment,
misfortune, almost disgrace, became hallowed by affection, and in the
agony of the suspense which now involved him, and to encounter which he
began to think his diminished nerve unequal, he would have bargained for
the rest of his life to pass undisturbed in that sweet solitude, in the
delights of study and the tranquillity of domestic love.

A little not unamiable weakness this, but it passed off in the morning
like a dream, when Mr. Ferrars heard that Sir Robert had arrived.



CHAPTER XVIII

It was a dark December night when Mr. Ferrars returned to Hurstley. His
wife, accompanied by the gardener with a lantern, met him on the green.
She embraced him, and whispered, "Is it very bad, love? I fear you have
softened it to me?"

"By no means bad, and I told you the truth: not all, for had I, my
letter would have been too late. He said nothing about the cabinet, but
offered me a high post in his government, provided I could secure my
seat. That was impossible. During the month I was in town I had realised
that. I thought it best, therefore, at once to try the other tack, and
nothing could be more satisfactory."

"Did you say anything about India?" she said in a very low voice.

"I did not. He is an honourable man, but he is cold, and my manner is
not distinguished for _abandon_. I thought it best to speak generally,
and leave it to him. He acknowledged my claim, and my fitness for such
posts, and said if his government lasted it would gratify him to meet my
wishes. Barron says the government will last. They will have a majority,
and if Stanley and Graham had joined them, they would have had not an
inconsiderable one. But in that case I should probably not have had the
cabinet, if indeed he meant to offer it to me now."

"Of course he did," said his wife. "Who has such claims as you have?
Well, now we must hope and watch. Look cheerful to the children, for
they have been very anxious."

With this hint the meeting was not unhappy, and the evening passed with
amusement and interest. Endymion embraced his father with warmth, and
Myra kissed him on both cheeks. Mr. Ferrars had a great deal of gossip
which interested his wife, and to a certain degree his children. The
latter of course remembered Zenobia, and her sayings and doings were
always amusing. There were anecdotes, too, of illustrious persons which
always interest, especially when in the personal experience of those
with whom we are intimately connected. What the Duke, or Sir Robert, or
Lord Lyndhurst said to papa seemed doubly wiser or brighter than if
it had been said to a third person. Their relations with the world
of power, and fashion, and fame, seemed not to be extinct, at least
reviving from their torpid condition. Mr. Ferrars had also brought a
German book for Myra; and "as for you, Endymion," he said, "I have been
much more successful for you than for your father, though I hope I shall
not have myself in the long run to complain. Our friends are faithful to
us, and I have got you put down on the private list for a clerkship both
in the Foreign Office and the Treasury. They are the two best things,
and you will have one of the first vacancies that will occur in either
department. I know your mother wishes you to be in the Foreign
Office. Let it be so if it come. I confess, myself, remembering your
grandfather's career, I have always a weakness for the Treasury, but so
long as I see you well planted in Whitehall, I shall be content. Let
me see, you will be sixteen in March. I could have wished you to wait
another year, but we must be ready when the opening occurs."

The general election in 1834-5, though it restored the balance of
parties, did not secure to Sir Robert Peel a majority, and the anxiety
of the family at Hurstley was proportionate to the occasion. Barron was
always sanguine, but the vote on the Speakership could not but alarm
them. Barron said it did not signify, and that Sir Robert had resolved
to go on and had confidence in his measures. His measures were
excellent, and Sir Robert never displayed more resource, more energy,
and more skill, than he did in the spring of 1835. But knowledge of
human nature was not Sir Robert Peel's strong point, and it argued some
deficiency in that respect, to suppose that the fitness of his measures
could disarm a vindictive opposition. On the contrary, they rather
whetted their desire of revenge, and they were doubly loth that he
should increase his reputation by availing himself of an opportunity
which they deemed the Tory party had unfairly acquired.

After the vote on the Speakership, Mr. Ferrars was offered a
second-class West Indian government. His wife would not listen to it. If
it were Jamaica, the offer might be considered, though it could scarcely
be accepted without great sacrifice. The children, for instance, must be
left at home. Strange to say, Mr. Ferrars was not disinclined to accept
the inferior post. Endymion he looked upon as virtually provided for,
and Myra, he thought, might accompany them; if only for a year. But he
ultimately yielded, though not without a struggle, to the strong feeling
of his wife.

"I do not see why I also should not be left behind," said Myra to her
brother in one of their confidential walks. "I should like to live in
London in lodgings with you."

The approaching appointment of her brother filled her from the first
with the greatest interest. She was always talking of it when they were
alone--fancying his future life, and planning how it might be happier
and more easy. "My only joy in life is seeing you," she sometimes said,
"and yet this separation does not make me unhappy. It seems a chance
from heaven for you. I pray every night it may be the Foreign Office."

The ministry were still sanguine as to their prospects in the month
of March, and they deemed that public opinion was rallying round Sir
Robert. Perhaps Lord John Russell, who was the leader of the opposition,
felt this, in some degree, himself, and he determined to bring affairs
to a crisis by notice of a motion respecting the appropriation of the
revenues of the Irish Church. Then Barron wrote to Mr. Ferrars that
affairs did not look so well, and advised him to come up to town, and
take anything that offered. "It is something," he remarked, "to have
something to give up. We shall not, I suppose, always be out of office,
and they get preferred more easily whose promotion contributes to
patronage, even while they claim its exercise."

The ministry were in a minority on the Irish Church on April 2, the
day on which Mr. Ferrars arrived in town. They did not resign, but
the attack was to be repeated in another form on the 6th. During the
terrible interval Mr. Ferrars made distracted visits to Downing Street,
saw secretaries of state, who sympathised with him not withstanding
their own chagrin, and was closeted daily and hourly with
under-secretaries, parliamentary and permanent, who really alike wished
to serve him. But there was nothing to be had. He was almost meditating
taking Sierra Leone, or the Gold Coast, when the resignation of Sir
Robert Peel was announced. At the last moment, there being, of course,
no vacancy in the Foreign Office, or the Treasury, he obtained from
Barron an appointment for Endymion, and so, after having left Hurstley
five months before to become Governor-General of India, this man, "who
had claims," returned to his mortified home with a clerkship for his son
in a second-rate government office.



CHAPTER XIX

Disappointment and distress, it might be said despair, seemed fast
settling again over the devoted roof of Hurstley, after a three years'
truce of tranquillity. Even the crushing termination of her worldly
hopes was forgotten for the moment by Mrs. Ferrars in her anguish at the
prospect of separation from Endymion. Such a catastrophe she had never
for a moment contemplated. True it was she had been delighted with
the scheme of his entering the Foreign Office, but that was on the
assumption that she was to enter office herself, and that, whatever
might be the scene of the daily labours of her darling child, her roof
should be his home, and her indulgent care always at his command. But
that she was absolutely to part with Endymion, and that, at his tender
age, he was to be launched alone into the wide world, was an idea that
she could not entertain, or even comprehend. Who was to clothe him, and
feed him, and tend him, and save him from being run over, and guide and
guard him in all the difficulties and dangers of this mundane existence?
It was madness, it was impossible. But Mr. Ferrars, though gentle,
was firm. No doubt it was to be wished that the event could have
been postponed for a year; but its occurrence, unless all prospect of
establishment in life were surrendered, was inevitable, and a slight
delay would hardly render the conditions under which it happened less
trying. Though Endymion was only sixteen, he was tall and manly beyond
his age, and during the latter years of his life, his naturally sweet
temper and genial disposition had been schooled in self-discipline and
self-sacrifice. He was not to be wholly left to strangers; Mr. Ferrars
had spoken to Rodney about receiving him, at least for the present, and
steps would be taken that those who presided over his office would be
influenced in his favour. The appointment was certainly not equal to
what had been originally anticipated; but still the department, though
not distinguished, was highly respectable, and there was no reason on
earth, if the opportunity offered, that Endymion should not be removed
from his present post to one in the higher departments of the state. But
if this opening were rejected, what was to be the future of their son?
They could not afford to send him to the University, nor did Mr. Ferrars
wish him to take refuge in the bosom of the Church. As for the army,
they had now no interest to acquire commissions, and if they could
succeed so far, they could not make him an allowance, which would permit
him to maintain himself as became his rank. The civil service remained,
in which his grandfather had been eminent, and in which his own parent,
at any rate, though the victim of a revolution, had not disgraced
himself. It seemed, under the circumstances, the natural avenue for
their child. At least, he thought it ought to be tried. He wished
nothing to be settled without the full concurrence of Endymion himself.
The matter should be put fairly and clearly before him, "and for this
purpose," concluded Mr. Ferrars, "I have just sent for him to my room;"
and he retired.

The interview between the father and the son was long. When Endymion
left the room his countenance was pale, but its expression was firm and
determined. He went forth into the garden, and there he saw Myra. "How
long you have been!" she said; "I have been watching for you. What is
settled?"

He took her arm, and in silence led her away into one of the glades Then
he said: "I have settled to go, and I am resolved, so long as I live,
that I will never cost dear papa another shilling. Things here are very
bad, quite as bad as you have sometimes fancied. But do not say anything
to poor mamma about them."

Mr. Ferrars resolved that Endymion should go to London immediately, and
the preparations for his departure were urgent. Myra did everything.
If she had been the head of a family she could not have been more
thoughtful or apparently more experienced. If she had a doubt, she
stepped over to Mrs. Penruddock and consulted her. As for Mrs. Ferrars,
she had become very unwell, and unable to attend to anything. Her
occasional interference, fitful and feverish, and without adequate
regard to circumstances, only embarrassed them. But, generally speaking,
she kept to her own room, and was always weeping.

The last day came. No one pretended not to be serious and grave. Mrs.
Ferrars did not appear, but saw Endymion alone. She did not speak, but
locked him in her arms for many minutes, and then kissed him on the
forehead, and, by a gentle motion, intimating that he should retire, she
fell back on her sofa with closed eyes. He was alone for a short time
with his father after dinner. Mr. Ferrars said to him: "I have treated
you in this matter as a man, and I have entire confidence in you. Your
business in life is to build up again a family which was once honoured."

Myra was still copying inventories when he returned to the drawing-room.
"These are for myself," she said, "so I shall always know what you ought
to have. Though you go so early, I shall make your breakfast to-morrow,"
and, leaning back on the sofa, she took his hand. "Things are dark, and
I fancy they will be darker; but brightness will come, somehow or other,
to you, darling, for you are born for brightness. You will find friends
in life, and they will be women."

It was nearly three years since Endymion had travelled down to Hurstley
by the same coach that was now carrying him to London. Though apparently
so uneventful, the period had not been unimportant in the formation,
doubtless yet partial, of his character. And all its influences had been
beneficial to him. The crust of pride and selfishness with which large
prosperity and illimitable indulgence had encased a kind, and far from
presumptuous, disposition had been removed; the domestic sentiments
in their sweetness and purity had been developed; he had acquired some
skills in scholarship and no inconsiderable fund of sound information;
and the routine of religious thought had been superseded in his instance
by an amount of knowledge and feeling on matters theological, unusual
at his time of life. Though apparently not gifted with any dangerous
vivacity, or fatal facility of acquisition, his mind seemed clear
and painstaking, and distinguished by common sense. He was brave and
accurate.

Mr. Rodney was in waiting for him at the inn. He seemed a most
distinguished gentleman. A hackney coach carried them to Warwick Street,
where he was welcomed by Mrs. Rodney, who was exquisitely dressed. There
was also her sister, a girl not older than Endymion, the very image of
Mrs. Rodney, except that she was a brunette--a brilliant brunette. This
sister bore the romantic name of Imogene, for which she was indebted
to her father performing the part of the husband of the heroine in
Maturin's tragedy of the "Castle of St. Aldobrand," and which, under the
inspiration of Kean, had set the town in a blaze about the time of her
birth. Tea was awaiting him, and there was a mixture in their several
manners of not ungraceful hospitality and the remembrance of past
dependence, which was genuine and not uninteresting, though Endymion was
yet too inexperienced to observe all this.

Mrs. Rodney talked very much of Endymion's mother; her wondrous beauty,
her more wondrous dresses; the splendour of her fetes and equipages.
As she dilated on the past, she seemed to share its lustre and its
triumphs. "The first of the land were always in attendance on her," and
for Mrs. Rodney's part, she never saw a real horsewoman since her dear
lady. Her sister did not speak, but listened with rapt attention to the
gorgeous details, occasionally stealing a glance at Endymion--a glance
of deep interest, of admiration mingled as it were both with reverence
and pity.

Mr. Rodney took up the conversation if his wife paused. He spoke of
all the leading statesmen who had been the habitual companions of Mr.
Ferrars, and threw out several anecdotes respecting them from personal
experience. "I knew them all," continued Mr. Rodney, "I might say
intimately;" and then he told his great anecdote, how he had been so
fortunate as perhaps even to save the Duke's life during the Reform
Bill riots. "His Grace has never forgotten it, and only the day before
yesterday I met him in St. James' Street walking with Mr. Arbuthnot, and
he touched his hat to me."

All this gossip and good nature, and the kind and lively scene, saved
Endymion from the inevitable pang, or at least greatly softened it,
which accompanies our first separation from home. In due season, Mrs.
Rodney observed that she doubted not Mr. Endymion, for so they ever
called him, must be wearied with his journey, and would like to retire
to his room; and her husband, immediately lighting a candle, prepared to
introduce their new lodger to his quarters.

It was a tall house, which had recently been renovated, with a story
added to it, and on this story was Endymion's chamber; not absolutely
a garret, but a modern substitute for that sort of apartment. "It is
rather high," said Mr. Rodney, half apologising for the ascent, "but Mr.
Ferrars himself chose the room. We took the liberty of lighting a fire
to-night."

And the cheerful blaze was welcome. It lit up a room clean and not
uncomfortable. Feminine solicitude had fashioned a toilette-table for
him, and there was a bunch of geraniums in a blue vase on its sparkling
dimity garniture. "I suppose you have in your bag all that you want at
present?" said Mr. Rodney. "To-morrow we will unpack your trunks and
arrange your things in their drawers; and after breakfast, if you
please, I will show you your way to Somerset House."

Somerset House! thought Endymion, as he stood before the fire alone.
Is it so near as that? To-morrow, and I am to be at Somerset House! And
then he thought of what they were doing at Hurstley--of that terrible
parting with his mother, which made him choke--and of his father's last
words. And then he thought of Myra, and the tears stole down his cheek.
And then he knelt down by his bedside and prayed.



CHAPTER XX

Mr. Rodney would have accompanied Endymion to Somerset House under any
circumstances, but it so happened that he had reasons of his own for a
visit to that celebrated building. He had occasion to see a gentleman
who was stationed there. "Not," as he added to Endymion, "that I know
many here, but at the Treasury and in Downing Street I have several
acquaintances."

They separated at the door in the great quadrangle which led to the
department to which Endymion was attached, and he contrived in due time
to deliver to a messenger a letter addressed to his future chief. He was
kept some time in a gloomy and almost unfurnished waiting-room, and his
thoughts in a desponding mood were gathering round the dear ones who
were distant, when he was summoned, and, following the messenger down
a passage, was ushered into a lively apartment on which the sun was
shining, and which, with its well-lined book-shelves, and tables covered
with papers, and bright noisy clock, and general air of habitation and
business, contrasted favourably with the room he had just quitted. A
good-natured-looking man held out his hand and welcomed him cordially,
and said at once, "I served, Mr. Ferrars, under your grandfather at the
Treasury, and I am glad to see you here." Then he spoke of the duties
which Endymion would have at present to discharge. His labours at first
would be somewhat mechanical; they would require only correctness and
diligence; but the office was a large one, and promotion not only sure,
but sometimes rapid, and as he was so young, he might with attention
count on attaining, while yet in the prime of life, a future of very
responsible duties and of no inconsiderable emolument. And while he was
speaking he rang the bell and commanded the attendance of a clerk,
under whose care Endymion was specially placed. This was a young man of
pleasant address, who invited Endymion with kindness to accompany him,
and leading him through several chambers, some capacious, and all full
of clerks seated on high stools and writing at desks, finally ushered
him into a smaller chamber where there were not above six or eight at
work, and where there was a vacant seat. "This is your place," he said,
"and now I will introduce you to your future comrades. This is Mr.
Jawett, the greatest Radical of the age, and who, when he is President
of the Republic, will, I hope, do a job for his friends here. This is
Mr. St. Barbe, who, when the public taste has improved, will be the most
popular author of the day. In the meantime he will give you a copy of
his novel, which has not sold as it ought to have done, and in which we
say he has quizzed all his friends. This is Mr. Seymour Hicks, who, as
you must perceive, is a man of fashion." And so he went on, with what
was evidently accustomed raillery. All laughed, and all said something
courteous to Endymion, and then after a few minutes they resumed their
tasks, Endymion's work being to copy long lists of figures, and routine
documents of public accounts.

In the meantime, Mr. St. Barbe was busy in drawing up a public document
of a different but important character, and which was conceived
something in this fashion:--

"We, the undersigned, highly approving of the personal appearance and
manners of our new colleague, are unanimously of opinion that he should
be invited to join our symposium to-day at the immortal Joe's."

This was quietly passed round and signed by all present, and then given
to Mr. Trenchard, who, all unconsciously to the copying Endymion, wrote
upon it, like a minister of state, "Approved," with his initial.

Joe's, more technically known as "The Blue Posts," was a celebrated
chop-house in Naseby Street, a large, low-ceilinged, wainscoted room,
with the floor strewn with sawdust, and a hissing kitchen in the centre,
and fitted up with what were called boxes, these being of various sizes,
and suitable to the number of the guests requiring them. About this time
the fashionable coffee-houses, George's and the Piazza, and even the
coffee-rooms of Stevens' or Long's, had begun to feel the injurious
competition of the new clubs that of late years had been established;
but these, after all, were limited, and, comparatively speaking,
exclusive societies. Their influence had not touched the chop-houses,
and it required another quarter of a century before their cheerful and
hospitable roofs and the old taverns of London, so full, it ever
seemed, of merriment and wisdom, yielded to the gradually increasing but
irresistible influence of those innumerable associations, which, under
classic names, or affecting to be the junior branches of celebrated
confederacies, have since secured to the million, at cost price, all
the delicacies of the season, and substituted for the zealous energy
of immortal JOES the inexorable but frigid discipline of managing
committees.

"You are our guest to-day," said Mr. Trenchard to Endymion. "Do not be
embarrassed. It is a custom with us, but not a ruinous one. We dine off
the joint, but the meat is first-rate, and you may have as much as you
like, and our tipple is half-and-half. Perhaps you do not know it. Let
me drink to your health."

They ate most heartily; but when their well-earned meal was despatched,
their conversation, assisted by a moderate portion of some celebrated
toddy, became animated, various, and interesting. Endymion was highly
amused; but being a stranger, and the youngest present, his silence was
not unbecoming, and his manner indicated that it was not occasioned by
want of sympathy. The talk was very political. They were all what are
called Liberals, having all of them received their appointments since
the catastrophe of 1830; but the shades in the colour of their opinions
were various and strong. Jawett was uncompromising; ruthlessly logical,
his principles being clear, he was for what he called "carrying them
out" to their just conclusions. Trenchard, on the contrary, thought
everything ought to be a compromise, and that a public man ceased to be
practical the moment he was logical. St. Barbe believed that literature
and the arts, and intellect generally, had as little to hope for from
one party as from the other; while Seymour Hicks was of opinion that
the Tories never would rally, owing to their deficiency in social
influences. Seymour Hicks sometimes got an invitation to a ministerial
soiree.

The vote of the House of Commons in favour of an appropriation of
the surplus revenues of the Irish Church to the purposes of secular
education--a vote which had just changed the government and expelled
the Tories--was much discussed. Jawett denounced it as a miserable
subterfuge, but with a mildness of manner and a mincing expression,
which amusingly contrasted with the violence of his principles and the
strength of his language.

"The whole of the revenues of the Protestant Church should be at once
appropriated to secular education, or to some other purpose of general
utility," he said. "And it must come to this."

Trenchard thought the ministry had gone as far in this matter as
they well could, and Seymour Hicks remarked that any government which
systematically attacked the Church would have "society" against it.
Endymion, who felt very nervous, but who on Church questions had strong
convictions, ventured to ask why the Church should be deprived of its
property.

"In the case of Ireland," replied Jawett, quite in a tone of
conciliatory condescension, "because it does not fulfil the purpose for
which it was endowed. It has got the property of the nation, and it
is not the Church of the people. But I go further than that. I would
disendow every Church. They are not productive institutions. There is no
reason why they should exist. There is no use in them."

"No use in the Church!" said Endymion, reddening; but Mr. Trenchard, who
had tact, here interfered, and said, "I told you our friend Jawett is
a great Radical; but he is in a minority among us on these matters.
Everybody, however, says what he likes at Joe's."

Then they talked of theatres, and critically discussed the articles in
the daily papers and the last new book, and there was much discussion
respecting a contemplated subscription boat; but still, in general,
it was remarkable how they relapsed into their favourite
subject--speculation upon men in office, both permanent and
parliamentary, upon their characters and capacity, their habits and
tempers. One was a good administrator, another did nothing; one had no
detail, another too much; one was a screw, another a spendthrift; this
man could make a set speech, but could not reply; his rival, capital at
a reply but clumsy in a formal oration.

At this time London was a very dull city, instead of being, as it is
now, a very amusing one. Probably there never was a city in the world,
with so vast a population, which was so melancholy. The aristocracy
probably have always found amusements adapted to the manners of the time
and the age in which they lived. The middle classes, half a century
ago, had little distraction from their monotonous toil and melancholy
anxieties, except, perhaps, what they found in religious and
philanthropic societies. Their general life must have been very dull.
Some traditionary merriment always lingered among the working classes of
England. Both in town and country they had always their games and fairs
and junketing parties, which have developed into excursion trains and
colossal pic-nics. But of all classes of the community, in the days
of our fathers, there was none so unfortunate in respect of public
amusements as the bachelors about town. There were, one might almost
say, only two theatres, and they so huge, that it was difficult to see
or hear in either. Their monopolies, no longer redeemed by the stately
genius of the Kembles, the pathos of Miss O'Neill, or the fiery passion
of Kean, were already menaced, and were soon about to fall; but the
crowd of diminutive but sparkling substitutes, which have since taken
their place, had not yet appeared, and half-price at Drury Lane or
Covent Garden was a dreary distraction after a morning of desk work.
There were no Alhambras then, and no Cremornes, no palaces of crystal in
terraced gardens, no casinos, no music-halls, no aquaria, no promenade
concerts. Evans' existed, but not in the fulness of its modern
development; and the most popular place of resort was the barbarous
conviviality of the Cider Cellar.

Mr. Trenchard had paid the bill, collected his quotas and rewarded the
waiter, and then, as they all rose, said to Endymion, "We are going to
the Divan. Do you smoke?"

Endymion shook his head; but Trenchard added, "Well, you will some day;
but you had better come with us. You need not smoke; you can order a cup
of coffee, and then you may read all the newspapers and magazines. It is
a nice lounge."

So, emerging from Naseby Street into the Strand, they soon entered
a tobacconist's shop, and passing through it were admitted into a
capacious saloon, well lit and fitted up with low, broad sofas, fixed
against the walls, and on which were seated, or reclining, many persons,
chiefly smoking cigars, but some few practising with the hookah and
other oriental modes. In the centre of the room was a table covered with
newspapers and publications of that class. The companions from Joe's
became separated after their entrance, and St. Barbe, addressing
Endymion, said, "I am not inclined to smoke to-day. We will order some
coffee, and you will find some amusement in this;" and he placed in his
hands a number of "SCARAMOUCH."

"I hope you will like your new life," said St. Barbe, throwing down a
review on the Divan, and leaning back sipping his coffee. "One thing may
be said in favour of it: you will work with a body of as true-hearted
comrades as ever existed. They are always ready to assist one. Thorough
good-natured fellows, that I will say for them. I suppose it is
adversity," he continued, "that develops the kindly qualities of our
nature. I believe the sense of common degradation has a tendency to make
the degraded amiable--at least among themselves. I am told it is found
so in the plantations in slave-gangs."

"But I hope we are not a slave-gang," said Endymion.

"It is horrible to think of gentlemen, and men of education, and perhaps
first-rate talents--who knows?--reduced to our straits," said St. Barbe.
"I do not follow Jawett in all his views, for I hate political economy,
and never could understand it; and he gives it you pure and simple, eh?
eh?--but, I say, it is something awful to think of the incomes that some
men are making, who could no more write an article in 'SCARAMOUCH' than
fly."

"But our incomes may improve," said Endymion. "I was told to-day that
promotion was even rapid in our office."

"Our incomes may improve when we are bent and grey," said St. Barbe,
"and we may even retire on a pension about as good as a nobleman
leaves to his valet. Oh, it is a horrid world! Your father is a privy
councillor, is not he?"

"Yes, and so was my grandfather, but I do not think I shall ever be
one."

"It is a great thing to have a father a privy councillor," said St.
Barbe, with a glance of envy. "If I were the son of a privy councillor,
those demons, Shuffle and Screw, would give me 500 pounds for my novel,
which now they put in their beastly magazine and print in small type,
and do not pay me so much as a powdered flunkey has in St. James'
Square. I agree with Jawett: the whole thing is rotten."

"Mr. Jawett seems to have very strange opinions," said Endymion. "I
did not like to hear what he said at dinner about the Church, but Mr.
Trenchard turned the conversation, and I thought it best to let it
pass."

"Trenchard is a sensible man, and a good fellow," said St. Barbe; "you
like him?"

"I find him kind."

"Do you know," said St. Barbe, in a whisper, and with a distressed and
almost vindictive expression of countenance, "that man may come any day
into four thousand a year. There is only one life between him and
the present owner. I believe it is a good life," he added, in a more
cheerful voice, "but still it might happen. Is it not horrible? Four
thousand a year! Trenchard with four thousand a year, and we receiving
little more than the pay of a butler!"

"Well, I wish, for his sake, he might have it," said Endymion, "though I
might lose a kind friend."

"Look at Seymour Hicks," said St. Barbe; "he has smoked his cigar, and
he is going. He never remains. He is going to a party, I'll be found.
That fellow gets about in a most extraordinary manner. Is it not
disgusting? I doubt whether he is asked much to dinner though, or I
think we should have heard of it. Nevertheless, Trenchard said the other
day that Hicks had dined with Lord Cinque-Ports. I can hardly believe
it; it would be too disgusting. No lord ever asked me to dinner. But the
aristocracy of this country are doomed!"

"Mr. Hicks," said Endymion, "probably lays himself out for society."

"I suppose you will," said St. Barbe, with a scrutinising air. "I should
if I were the son of a privy councillor. Hicks is nothing; his father
kept a stable-yard and his mother was an actress. We have had several
dignitaries of the Church in my family and one admiral. And yet Hicks
dines with Lord Cinque-Ports! It is positively revolting! But the things
he does to get asked!--sings, rants, conjures, ventriloquises, mimics,
stands on his head. His great performance is a parliamentary debate. We
will make him do it for you. And yet with all this a dull dog--a very
dull dog, sir. He wrote for 'Scaramouch' some little time, but they can
stand it no more. Between you and me, he has had notice to quit. That
I know; and he will probably get the letter when he goes home from
his party to-night. So much for success in society! I shall now say
good-night to you."



CHAPTER XXI

It was only ten o'clock when Endymion returned to Warwick Street, and
for the first time in his life used a pass-key, with which Mr. Rodney
had furnished him in the morning, and re-entered his new home. He
thought he had used it very quietly, and was lighting his candle and
about to steal up to his lofty heights, when from the door of the
parlour, which opened into the passage, emerged Miss Imogene, who took
the candlestick from his hand and insisted on waiting upon him.

"I thought I heard something," she said; "you must let me light you up,
for you can hardly yet know your way. I must see too if all is right;
you may want something."

So she tripped up lightly before him, showing, doubtless without
premeditation, as well-turned an ankle and as pretty a foot as could
fall to a damsel's fortunate lot. "My sister and Mr. Rodney have gone to
the play," she said, "but they left strict instructions with me to see
that you were comfortable, and that you wanted for nothing that we could
supply."

"You are too kind," said Endymion, as she lighted the candles on his
dressing-table, "and, to tell you the truth, these are luxuries I am not
accustomed to, and to which I am not entitled."

"And yet," she said, with a glance of blended admiration and pity, "they
tell me time was when gold was not good enough for you, and I do not
think it could be."

"Such kindness as this," said Endymion, "is more precious than gold."

"I hope you will find your things well arranged. All your clothes are in
these two drawers; the coats in the bottom one, and your linen in those
above. You will not perhaps be able to find your pocket-handkerchiefs
at first. They are in this sachet; my sister made it herself. Mr. Rodney
says you are to be called at eight o'clock and breakfast at nine. I
think everything is right. Good-night, Mr. Endymion."

The Rodney household was rather a strange one. The first two floors, as
we have mentioned, were let, and at expensive rates, for the apartments
were capacious and capitally furnished, and the situation, if not
distinguished, was extremely convenient--quiet from not being a
thoroughfare, and in the heart of civilisation. They only kept a couple
of servants, but their principal lodgers had their personal attendants.
And yet after sunset the sisters appeared and presided at their
tea-table, always exquisitely dressed; seldom alone, for Mr. Rodney
had many friends, and lived in a capacious apartment, rather finely
furnished, with a round table covered with gaudy print-books, a
mantelpiece crowded with vases of mock Dresden, and a cottage piano, on
which Imogene could accompany her more than pleasing voice.

Somehow or other, the process is difficult to trace, Endymion not
unfrequently found himself at Mrs. Rodney's tea-table. On the first
occasion or so, he felt himself a little shy and embarrassed, but it
soon became natural to him, and he would often escape from the symposia
at Joe's, and, instead of the Divan, find in Warwick Street a more
congenial scene. There were generally some young men there, who seemed
delighted with the ladies, listened with enthusiasm to Imogene's
singing, and were allowed to smoke. They were evidently gentlemen, and
indeed Mr. Rodney casually mentioned to Endymion that one of the most
frequent guests might some day even be a peer of the realm. Sometimes
there was a rubber of whist, and, if wanted, Mrs. Rodney took a hand in
it; Endymion sitting apart and conversing with her sister, who amused
him by her lively observations, indicating even flashes of culture; but
always addressed him without the slightest pretence and with the utmost
naturalness. This was not the case with Mr. Rodney; pretence with him
was ingrained, and he was at first somewhat embarrassed by the presence
of Endymion, as he could hardly maintain before his late patron's son
his favourite character of the aristocratic victim of revolution. And
yet this drawback was more than counterbalanced by the gratification of
his vanity in finding a Ferrars his habitual guest. Such a luxury seemed
a dangerous indulgence, but he could not resist it, and the moth was
always flying round the candle. There was no danger, however, and that
Mr. Rodney soon found out. Endymion was born with tact, and it came to
him as much from goodness of heart as fineness of taste. Mr. Rodney,
therefore, soon resumed his anecdotes of great men and his personal
experience of their sayings, manners, and customs, with which he was
in the habit of enlivening or ornamenting the whist table; occasionally
introducing Endymion to the notice of the table by mentioning in a low
tone, "That is Mr. Ferrars, in a certain sense under my care; his father
is a privy councillor, and had it not been for the revolution--for I
maintain, and always will, the Reform Bill was neither more nor less
than a revolution--would probably have been Prime Minister. He was my
earliest and my best friend."

When there were cards, there was always a little supper: a lobster and
a roasted potato and that sort of easy thing, and curious drinks, which
the sisters mixed and made, and which no one else, at least all said so,
could mix and make. On fitting occasions a bottle of champagne appeared,
and then the person for whom the wine was produced was sure with
wonderment to say, "Where did you get this champagne, Rodney? Could you
get me some?" Mr. Rodney shook his head and scarcely gave a hope,
but subsequently, when the praise in consequence had continued and
increased, would observe, "Do you really want some? I cannot promise,
but I will try. Of course they will ask a high figure."

"Anything they like, my dear Rodney."

And in about a week's time the gentleman was so fortunate as to get his
champagne.

There was one subject in which Mr. Rodney appeared to be particularly
interested, and that was racing. The turf at that time had not developed
into that vast institution of national demoralisation which it now
exhibits. That disastrous character may be mainly attributed to the
determination of our legislators to put down gaming-houses, which,
practically speaking, substituted for the pernicious folly of a
comparatively limited class the ruinous madness of the community. There
were many influences by which in the highest classes persons might
be discouraged or deterred from play under a roof; and in the great
majority of cases such a habit was difficult, not to say impossible, to
indulge. But in shutting up gaming-houses, we brought the gaming-table
into the street, and its practices became the pursuit of those who
would otherwise have never witnessed or even thought of them. No doubt
Crockford's had its tragedies, but all its disasters and calamities
together would hardly equal a lustre of the ruthless havoc which has
ensued from its suppression.

Nevertheless, in 1835 men made books, and Mr. Rodney was not inexpert
in a composition which requires no ordinary qualities of character
and intelligence; method, judgment, self-restraint, not too much
imagination, perception of character, and powers of calculation. All
these qualities were now in active demand and exercise; for the Derby
was at hand, and the Rodney family, deeply interested in the result,
were to attend the celebrated festival.

One of the young gentlemen, who sometimes smoked a cigar and sometimes
tasted a lobster in their parlour, and who seemed alike and equally
devoted to Mrs. Rodney and her sister, insisted upon taking them to
Epsom in his drag, and they themselves were to select the party to
accompany them. That was not difficult, for they were naturally all
friends of their munificent host with one exception. Imogene stipulated
that Endymion should be asked, and Mr. Rodney supported the suggestion.
"He is the son of the privy councillor the Right Hon. William Pitt
Ferrars, my earliest and my best friend, and in a certain sense is under
my care."

The drive to the Derby was not then shorn of its humours and glories. It
was the Carnival of England, with equipages as numerous and various,
and with banter not less quick and witty. It was a bright day--a day, no
doubt, of wild hopes and terrible fears, but yet, on the whole, of joy
and exultation. And no one was happier and prouder than pretty Mrs.
Rodney, exquisitely dressed and sitting on the box of a patrician
drag, beside its noble owner. On the seat behind them was Imogene, with
Endymion on one side, and on the other the individual "who might one
day be a peer." Mr. Rodney and some others, including Mr. Vigo, faced
a couple of grooms, who sat with folded arms and unmoved countenances,
fastidiously stolid amid all the fun, and grave even when they opened
the champagne.

The right horse won. Mr. Rodney and his friends pocketed a good stake,
and they demolished their luncheon of luxuries with frantic gaiety.

"It is almost as happy as our little suppers in Warwick Street,"
whispered their noble driver to his companion.

"Oh! much more than anything you can find there," simpered Mrs. Rodney.

"I declare to you, some of the happiest hours of my life have been
passed in Warwick Street," gravely murmured her friend.

"I wish I could believe that," said Mrs. Rodney.

As for Endymion, he enjoyed himself amazingly. The whole scene was new
to him--he had never been at a race before, and this was the most famous
of races. He did not know he had betted, but he found he too had won a
little money, Mr. Rodney having put him on something, though what that
meant he had not the remotest idea. Imogene, however, assured him it was
all right--Mr. Rodney constantly put her on something. He enjoyed
the luncheon too; the cold chicken, and the French pies, the wondrous
salads, and the iced champagne. It seemed that Imogene was always
taking care that his plate or his glass should be filled. Everything was
delightful, and his noble host, who, always courteous, had hitherto been
reserved, called him "Ferrars."

What with the fineness of the weather, the inspirations of the excited
and countless multitude, the divine stimulus of the luncheon, the
kindness of his charming companions, and the general feeling of
enjoyment and success that seemed to pervade his being, Endymion felt
as he were almost acting a distinguished part in some grand triumph of
antiquity, as returning home, the four splendid dark chestnuts swept
along, two of their gay company playing bugles, and the grooms sitting
with folded arms of haughty indifference.

Just at this moment his eye fell upon an omnibus full, inside and out,
of clerks in his office. There was a momentary stoppage, and while he
returned the salute of several of them, his quick eye could not avoid
recognising the slightly surprised glance of Trenchard, the curious
amazement of Seymour Hicks, and the indignant astonishment of St. Barbe.

"Our friend Ferrars seems in tiptop company," said Trenchard.

"That may have been a countess on the box," said Seymour Hicks, "for I
observed an earl's coronet on the drag. I cannot make out who it is."

"There is no more advantage in going with four horses than with two,"
said St. Barbe; "indeed, I believe you go slower. It is mere pride;
puffed-up vanity. I should like to send those two grooms with their
folded arms to the galleys--I hate those fellows. For my part, I never
was behind four horses except in a stage-coach. No peer of the realm
ever took me on his drag. However, a day of reckoning will come; the
people won't stand this much longer."

Jawett was not there, for he disapproved of races.



CHAPTER XXII

Endymion had to encounter a rather sharp volley when he went to the
office next morning. After some general remarks as to the distinguished
party which he had accompanied to the races, Seymour Hicks could not
resist inquiring, though with some circumlocution, whether the lady was
a countess. The lady was not a countess. Who was the lady? The lady was
Mrs. Rodney. Who was Mrs. Rodney? She was the wife of Mr. Rodney, who
accompanied her. Was Mr. Rodney a relation of Lord Rodney? Endymion
believed he was not a relation of Lord Rodney. Who was Mr. Rodney then?

"Mr. Rodney is an old friend of my father."

This natural solution of doubts and difficulties arrested all further
inquiry. Generally speaking, the position of Endymion in his new life
was satisfactory. He was regular and assiduous in his attendance at
office, was popular with his comrades, and was cherished by his chief,
who had even invited him to dinner. His duties were certainly at present
mechanical, but they were associated with an interesting profession;
and humble as was his lot, he began to feel the pride of public life. He
continued to be a regular guest at Joe's, and was careful not to seem
to avoid the society of his fellow-clerks in the evenings, for he had
an instinctive feeling that it was as well they should not become
acquainted with his circle in Warwick Street. And yet to him the
attractions of that circle became daily more difficult to resist. And
often when he was enduring the purgatory of the Divan, listening to the
snarls of St. Barbe over the shameful prosperity of everybody in this
world except the snarler, or perhaps went half-price to the pit of Drury
Lane with the critical Trenchard, he was, in truth, restless and absent,
and his mind was in another place, indulging in visions which he did not
care to analyse, but which were very agreeable.

One evening, shortly after the expedition to Epsom, while the rest were
playing a rubber, Imogene said to him, "I wish you to be friends with
Mr. Vigo; I think he might be of use to you."

Mr. Vigo was playing whist at this moment; his partner was Sylvia, and
they were playing against Mr. Rodney and Waldershare.

Waldershare was a tenant of the second floor. He was the young gentleman
"who might some day be a peer." He was a young man of about three or
four and twenty years; fair, with short curly brown hair and blue eyes;
not exactly handsome, but with a countenance full of expression, and the
index of quick emotions, whether of joy or of anger. Waldershare was the
only child of a younger son of a patrician house, and had inherited from
his father a moderate but easy fortune. He had been the earliest lodger
of the Rodneys, and, taking advantage of the Tory reaction, had just
been returned to the House of Commons.

What he would do there was a subject of interesting speculation to his
numerous friends, and it may be said admirers. Waldershare was one of
those vivid and brilliant organisations which exercise a peculiarly
attractive influence on youth. He had been the hero of the debating club
at Cambridge, and many believed in consequence that he must become
prime minister. He was witty and fanciful, and, though capricious and
bad-tempered, could flatter and caress. At Cambridge he had introduced
the new Oxford heresy, of which Nigel Penruddock was a votary.
Waldershare prayed and fasted, and swore by Laud and Strafford. He took,
however, a more eminent degree at Paris than at his original Alma Mater,
and becoming passionately addicted to French literature, his views
respecting both Church and State became modified--at least in private.
His entrance into English society had been highly successful, and as he
had a due share of vanity, and was by no means free from worldliness,
he had enjoyed and pursued his triumphs. But his versatile nature, which
required not only constant, but novel excitement, became palled, even
with the society of duchesses. There was a monotony in the splendour of
aristocratic life which wearied him, and for some time he had persuaded
himself that the only people who understood the secret of existence were
the family under whose roof he lodged.

Waldershare was profligate, but sentimental; unprincipled, but romantic;
the child of whim, and the slave of an imagination so freakish and
deceptive, that it was always impossible to foretell his course. He was
alike capable of sacrificing all his feelings to worldly considerations
or of forfeiting the world for a visionary caprice. At present his
favourite scheme, and one to which he seemed really attached, was to
educate Imogene. Under his tuition he had persuaded himself that she
would turn out what he styled "a great woman." An age of vast change,
according to Waldershare, was impending over us. There was no male
career in which one could confide. Most men of mark would probably be
victims, but "a great woman" must always make her way. Whatever the
circumstances, she would adapt herself to them; if necessary, would
mould and fashion them. His dream was that Imogene should go forth
and conquer the world, and that in the sunset of life he should find a
refuge in some corner of her palace.

Imogene was only a child when Waldershare first became a lodger. She
used to bring his breakfast to his drawing-room and arrange his table.
He encountered her one day, and he requested her to remain, and always
preside over his meal. He fell in love with her name, and wrote her a
series of sonnets, idealising her past, panegyrising her present,
and prophetic of her future life. Imogene, who was neither shy nor
obtrusive, was calm amid all his vagaries, humoured his fancies, even
when she did not understand them, and read his verses as she would a
foreign language which she was determined to master.

Her culture, according to Waldershare, was to be carried on chiefly by
conversations. She was not to read, or at least not to read much, until
her taste was formed and she had acquired the due share of previous
knowledge necessary to profitable study. As Waldershare was eloquent,
brilliant, and witty, Imogene listened to him with wondering interest
and amusement, even when she found some difficulty in following him; but
her apprehension was so quick and her tact so fine, that her progress,
though she was almost unconscious of it, was remarkable. Sometimes in
the evening, while the others were smoking together or playing whist,
Waldershare and Imogene, sitting apart, were engaged in apparently
the most interesting converse. It was impossible not to observe the
animation and earnestness of Waldershare, and the great attention with
which his companion responded to his representations. Yet all this time
he was only giving her a lecture on Madame de Sevigne.

Waldershare used to take Imogene to the National Gallery and Hampton
Court, and other delightful scenes of popular education, but of late
Mrs. Rodney had informed her sister that she was no longer young enough
to permit these expeditions. Imogene accepted the announcement without
a murmur, but it occasioned Waldershare several sonnets of heartrending
remonstrance. Imogene continued, however, to make his breakfast, and
kept his Parliamentary papers in order, which he never could manage,
but the mysteries of which Imogene mastered with feminine quickness and
precision. Whenever Waldershare was away he always maintained a constant
correspondence with Imogene. In this he communicated everything to her
without the slightest reserve; describing everything he saw, almost
everything he heard, pages teeming with anecdotes of a world of which
she could know nothing--the secrets of courts and coteries, memoirs of
princes and ministers, of dandies and dames of fashion. "If anything
happens to me," Waldershare would say to Imogene, "this correspondence
may be worth thousands to you, and when it is published it will connect
your name with mine, and assist my grand idea of your becoming 'a great
woman.'"

"But I do not know Mr. Vigo," whispered Endymion to Imogene.

"But you have met him here, and you went together to Epsom. It is
enough. He is going to ask you to dine with him on Saturday. We shall
be there, and Mr. Waldershare is going. He has a beautiful place, and
it will be very pleasant." And exactly as Imogene had anticipated,
Mr. Vigo, in the course of the evening, did ask Endymion to do him the
honour of being his guest.

The villa of Mr. Vigo was on the banks of the Thames, and had once
belonged to a noble customer. The Palladian mansion contained a suite of
chambers of majestic dimensions--lofty ceilings, rich cornices, and
vast windows of plate glass; the gardens were rich with the products of
conservatories which Mr. Vigo had raised with every modern improvement,
and a group of stately cedars supported the dignity of the scene and
gave to it a name. Beyond, a winding walk encircled a large field
which Mr. Vigo called the park, and which sparkled with gold and silver
pheasants, and the keeper lived in a newly-raised habitation at the
extreme end, which took the form of a Swiss cottage.

The Rodney family, accompanied by Mr. Waldershare and Endymion, went to
the Cedars by water. It was a delightful afternoon of June, the river
warm and still, and the soft, fitful western breeze occasionally rich
with the perfume of the gardens of Putney and Chiswick. Waldershare
talked the whole way. It was a rhapsody of fancy, fun, knowledge,
anecdote, brilliant badinage--even passionate seriousness. Sometimes
he recited poetry, and his voice was musical; and, then, when he had
attuned his companions to a sentimental pitch, he would break into
mockery, and touch with delicate satire every mood of human feeling.
Endymion listened to him in silence and admiration. He had never heard
Waldershare talk before, and he had never heard anybody like him. All
this time, what was now, and ever, remarkable in Waldershare were his
manners. They were finished, even to courtliness. Affable and winning,
he was never familiar. He always addressed Sylvia as if she were one of
those duchesses round whom he used to linger. He would bow deferentially
to her remarks, and elicit from some of her casual observations an acute
or graceful meaning, of which she herself was by no means conscious. The
bow of Waldershare was a study. Its grace and ceremony must have been
organic; for there was no traditionary type in existence from which he
could have derived or inherited it. He certainly addressed Imogene and
spoke to her by her Christian name; but this was partly because he was
in love with the name, and partly because he would persist in still
treating her as a child. But his manner to her always was that of tender
respect. She was almost as silent as Endymion during their voyage, but
not less attentive to her friend. Mr. Rodney was generally silent, and
never opened his mouth on this occasion except in answer to an inquiry
from his wife as to whom a villa might belong, and it seemed always that
he knew every villa, and every one to whom they belonged.

The sisters were in demi-toilette, which seemed artless, though in
fact it was profoundly devised. Sylvia was the only person who really
understood the meaning of "simplex munditiis," and this was one of
the secrets of her success. There were some ladies, on the lawn of the
Cedars when they arrived, not exactly of their school, and who were
finely and fully dressed. Mrs. Gamme was the wife of a sporting attorney
of Mr. Vigo, and who also, having a villa at hand, was looked upon as
a country neighbour. Mrs. Gamme was universally recognised to be a
fine woman, and she dressed up to her reputation. She was a famous
whist-player at high points, and dealt the cards with hands covered with
diamond rings. Another country neighbour was the chief partner in the
celebrated firm of Hooghley, Dacca, and Co., dealers in Indian and other
shawls. Mr. Hooghley had married a celebrated actress, and was proud and
a little jealous of his wife. Mrs. Hooghley had always an opportunity
at the Cedars of meeting some friends in her former profession, for Mr.
Vigo liked to be surrounded by genius and art. "I must have talent," he
would exclaim, as he looked round at the amusing and motley multitude
assembled at his splendid entertainments. And to-day upon his lawn might
be observed the first tenor of the opera and a prima-donna who had just
arrived, several celebrated members of the English stage of both sexes,
artists of great reputation, whose principal works already adorned the
well-selected walls of the Cedars, a danseuse or two of celebrity, some
literary men, as Mr. Vigo styled them, who were chiefly brethren of the
political press, and more than one member of either House of Parliament.

Just as the party were preparing to leave the lawn and enter the
dining-room arrived, breathless and glowing, the young earl who had
driven the Rodneys to the Derby.

"A shaver, my dear Vigo! Only returned to town this afternoon, and
found your invitation. How fortunate!" And then he looked around, and
recognising Mrs. Rodney, was immediately at her side. "I must have the
honour of taking you into dinner. I got your note, but only by this
morning's post."

The dinner was a banquet,--a choice bouquet before every guest, turtle
and venison and piles of whitebait, and pine-apples of prodigious size,
and bunches of grapes that had gained prizes. The champagne seemed to
flow in fountains, and was only interrupted that the guests might quaff
Burgundy or taste Tokay. But what was more delightful than all was the
enjoyment of all present, and especially of their host. That is a rare
sight. Banquets are not rare, nor choice guests, nor gracious hosts; but
when do we ever see a person enjoy anything? But these gay children of
art and whim, and successful labour and happy speculation, some of them
very rich and some of them without a sou, seemed only to think of the
festive hour and all its joys. Neither wealth nor poverty brought them
cares. Every face sparkled, every word seemed witty, and every sound
seemed sweet. A band played upon the lawn during the dinner, and were
succeeded, when the dessert commenced, by strange choruses from singers
of some foreign land, who for the first time aired their picturesque
costumes on the banks of the Thames.

When the ladies had withdrawn to the saloon, the first comic singer of
the age excelled himself; and when they rejoined their fair friends, the
primo-tenore and the prima-donna gave them a grand scene, succeeded by
the English performers in a favourite scene from a famous farce. Then
Mrs. Gamme had an opportunity of dealing with her diamond rings, and
the rest danced--a waltz of whirling grace, or merry cotillon of jocund
bouquets.

"Well, Clarence," said Waldershare to the young earl, as they stood for
a moment apart, "was I right?"

"By Jove! yes. It is the only life. You were quite right. We should
indeed be fools to sacrifice ourselves to the conventional."

The Rodney party returned home in the drag of the last speaker. They
were the last to retire, as Mr. Vigo wished for one cigar with his noble
friend. As he bade farewell, and cordially, to Endymion, he said, "Call
on me to-morrow morning in Burlington Street in your way to your office.
Do not mind the hour. I am an early bird."



CHAPTER XXIII

"It is no favour," said Mr. Vigo; "it is not even an act of
friendliness; it is a freak, and it is my freak; the favour, if there be
one, is conferred by you."

"But I really do not know what to say," said Endymion, hesitating and
confused.

"I am not a classical scholar," said Mr. Vigo, "but there are two things
which I think I understand--men and horses. I like to back them both
when I think they ought to win."

"But I am scarcely a man," said Endymion, rather piteously, "and I
sometimes think I shall never win anything."

"That is my affair," replied Mr. Vigo; "you are a yearling, and I have
formed my judgment as to your capacity. What I wish to do in your case
is what I have done in others, and some memorable ones. Dress does
not make a man, but it often makes a successful one. The most precious
stone, you know, must be cut and polished. I shall enter your name in my
books for an unlimited credit, and no account to be settled till you are
a privy councillor. I do not limit the credit, because you are a man of
sense and a gentleman, and will not abuse it. But be quite as careful
not to stint yourself as not to be needlessly extravagant. In the first
instance, you would be interfering with my experiment, and that would
not be fair."

This conversation took place in Mr. Vigo's counting-house the morning
after the entertainment at his villa. Endymion called upon Mr. Vigo in
his way to his office, as he had been requested to do, and Mr. Vigo
had expressed his wishes and intentions with regard to Endymion, as
intimated in the preceding remarks.

"I have known many an heiress lost by her suitor being ill-dressed,"
said Mr. Vigo. "You must dress according to your age, your pursuits,
your object in life; you must dress too, in some cases, according to
your set. In youth a little fancy is rather expected, but if
political life be your object, it should be avoided, at least after
one-and-twenty. I am dressing two brothers now, men of considerable
position; one is a mere man of pleasure, the other will probably be a
minister of state. They are as like as two peas, but were I to dress
the dandy and the minister the same, it would be bad taste--it would be
ridiculous. No man gives me the trouble which Lord Eglantine does;
he has not made up his mind whether he will be a great poet or prime
minister. 'You must choose, my lord,' I tell him. 'I cannot send you out
looking like Lord Byron if you mean to be a Canning or a Pitt.' I have
dressed a great many of our statesmen and orators, and I always dressed
them according to their style and the nature of their duties. What all
men should avoid is the 'shabby genteel.' No man ever gets over it. I
will save you from that. You had better be in rags."



CHAPTER XXIV

When the twins had separated, they had resolved on a system of
communication which had been, at least on the part of Myra, scrupulously
maintained. They were to interchange letters every week, and each letter
was to assume, if possible, the shape of a journal, so that when they
again met no portion of the interval should be a blank in their past
lives. There were few incidents in the existence of Myra; a book, a
walk, a visit to the rectory, were among the chief. The occupations of
their father were unchanged, and his health seemed sustained, but that
of her mother was not satisfactory. Mrs. Ferrars had never rallied since
the last discomfiture of her political hopes, and had never resumed her
previous tenour of life. She was secluded, her spirits uncertain, moods
of depression succeeded by fits of unaccountable excitement, and, on
the whole, Myra feared a general and chronic disturbance of her nervous
system. His sister prepared Endymion for encountering a great change in
their parent when he returned home. Myra, however, never expatiated on
the affairs of Hurstley. Her annals in this respect were somewhat dry.
She fulfilled her promise of recording them, but no more. Her pen was
fuller and more eloquent in her comments on the life of her brother, and
of the new characters with whom he had become acquainted. She delighted
to hear about Mr. Jawett, and especially about Mr. St. Barbe, and was
much pleased that he had been to the Derby, though she did not exactly
collect who were his companions. Did he go with that kind Mr. Trenchant?
It would seem that Endymion's account of the Rodney family had been
limited to vague though earnest acknowledgments of their great civility
and attention, which added much to the comfort of his life. Impelled
by some of these grateful though general remarks, Mrs. Ferrars, in a
paroxysm of stately gratitude, had sent a missive to Sylvia, such as
a sovereign might address to a deserving subject, at the same time
acknowledging and commending her duteous services. Such was the old
domestic superstition of the Rodneys, that, with all their worldliness,
they treasured this effusion as if it had really emanated from the
centre of power and courtly favour.

Myra, in her anticipation of speedily meeting her brother, was doomed to
disappointment. She had counted on Endymion obtaining some holidays in
the usual recess, but in consequence of having so recently joined the
office, Endymion was retained for summer and autumnal work, and not
until Christmas was there any prospect of his returning home.

The interval between midsummer and that period, though not devoid of
seasons of monotony and loneliness, passed in a way not altogether
unprofitable to Endymion. Waldershare, who had begun to notice him,
seemed to become interested in his career. Waldershare knew all about
his historic ancestor, Endymion Carey. The bubbling imagination of
Waldershare clustered with a sort of wild fascination round a living
link with the age of the cavaliers. He had some Stuart blood in his
veins, and his ancestors had fallen at Edgehill and Marston Moor.
Waldershare, whose fancies alternated between Stafford and St. Just,
Archbishop Laud and the Goddess of Reason, reverted for the moment to
his visions on the banks of the Cam, and the brilliant rhapsodies of
his boyhood. His converse with Nigel Penruddock had prepared Endymion in
some degree for these mysteries, and perhaps it was because Waldershare
found that Endymion was by no means ill-informed on these matters, and
therefore there was less opportunity of dazzling and moulding him, which
was a passion with Waldershare, that he soon quitted the Great Rebellion
for pastures new, and impressed upon his pupil that all that had
occurred before the French Revolution was ancient history. The French
Revolution had introduced the cosmopolitan principle into human affairs
instead of the national, and no public man could succeed who did not
comprehend and acknowledge that truth. Waldershare lent Endymion books,
and book with which otherwise he would not have become acquainted.
Unconsciously to himself, the talk of Waldershare, teeming with
knowledge, and fancy, and playfulness, and airy sarcasm of life, taught
him something of the art of conversation--to be prompt without being
stubborn, to refute without argument, and to clothe grave matters in a
motley garb.

But in August Waldershare disappeared, and at the beginning of
September, even the Rodneys had gone to Margate. St. Barbe was the only
clerk left in Endymion's room. They dined together almost every day, and
went on the top of an omnibus to many a suburban paradise. "I tell
you what," said St. Barbe, as they were watching one day together
the humours of the world in the crowded tea-garden and bustling
bowling-green of Canonbury Tavern; "a fellow might get a good chapter
out of this scene. I could do it, but I will not. What is the use of
lavishing one's brains on an ungrateful world? Why, if that fellow Gushy
were to write a description of this place, which he would do like a
penny-a-liner drunk with ginger beer, every countess in Mayfair would be
reading him, not knowing, the idiot, whether she ought to smile or shed
tears, and sending him cards with 'at home' upon them as large as life.
Oh! it is disgusting! absolutely disgusting. It is a nefarious world,
sir. You will find it out some day. I am as much robbed by that fellow
Gushy as men are on the highway. He is appropriating my income, and
the income of thousands of honest fellows. And then he pretends he is
writing for the people! The people! What does he know about the people?
Annals of the New Cut and Saffron Hill. He thinks he will frighten some
lord, who will ask him to dinner. And that he calls Progress. I hardly
know which is the worst class in this country--the aristocracy, the
middle class, or what they call the people. I hate them all."

About the fall of the leaf the offices were all filled again, and among
the rest Trenchard returned. "His brother has been ill," said St. Barbe.
"They say that Trenchard is very fond of him. Fond of a brother who
keeps him out of four thousand pounds per annum! What will man not
say? And yet I could not go and congratulate Trenchard on his brother's
death. It would be 'bad taste.' Trenchard would perhaps never speak to
me again, though he had been lying awake all night chuckling over the
event. And Gushy takes an amiable view of this world of hypocrisy and
plunder. And that is why Gushy is so popular!"

There was one incident at the beginning of November, which eventually
exercised no mean influence on the life of Endymion. Trenchard offered
one evening to introduce him as a guest to a celebrated debating
society, of which Trenchard was a distinguished member. This society had
grown out of the Union at Cambridge, and was originally intended to have
been a metropolitan branch of that famous association. But in process
of time it was found that such a constitution was too limited to ensure
those numbers and that variety of mind desirable in such an institution.
It was therefore opened to the whole world duly qualified. The
predominant element, however, for a long time consisted of Cambridge
men.

This society used to meet in a large room, fitted up as much like the
House of Commons as possible, and which was in Freemason's Tavern, in
Great Queen Street. Some hundred and fifty members were present when
Endymion paid his first visit there, and the scene to Endymion was novel
and deeply interesting. Though only a guest, he was permitted to sit in
the body of the chamber, by the side of Trenchard, who kindly gave
him some information, as the proceedings advanced, as to the principal
personages who took part in them.

The question to-night was, whether the decapitation of Charles the First
were a justifiable act, and the debate was opened in the affirmative
by a young man with a singularly sunny face and a voice of music.
His statement was clear and calm. Though nothing could be more
uncompromising than his opinions, it seemed that nothing could be fairer
than his facts.

"That is Hortensius," said Trenchard; "he will be called this term. They
say he did nothing at the university, and is too idle to do anything at
the bar; but I think highly of him. You should hear him in reply."

The opening speech was seconded by a very young man, in a most
artificial style, remarkable for its superfluity of intended sarcasm,
which was delivered in a highly elaborate tone, so that the speaker
seemed severe without being keen.

"'Tis the new Cambridge style," whispered Trenchard, "but it will not go
down here."

The question having been launched, Spruce arose, a very neat speaker;
a little too mechanical, but plausible. Endymion was astonished at
the dexterous turns in his own favour which he gave to many of the
statements of Hortensius, and how he mangled and massacred the seconder,
who had made a mistake in a date.

"He is the Tory leader," said Trenchard. "There are not twenty Tories in
our Union, but we always listen to him. He is sharp, Jawett will answer
him."

And, accordingly, that great man rose. Jawett, in dulcet tones of
philanthropy, intimated that he was not opposed to the decapitation of
kings; on the contrary, if there were no other way of getting rid of
them, he would have recourse to such a method. But he did not think the
case before them was justifiable.

"Always crotchety," whispered Trenchard.

Jawett thought the whole conception of the opening speech erroneous. It
proceeded on the assumption that the execution of Charles was the act of
the people; on the contrary, it was an intrigue of Cromwell, who was the
only person who profited by it.

Cromwell was vindicated and panegyrised in a flaming speech by Montreal,
who took this opportunity of denouncing alike kings and bishops, Church
and State, with powerful invective, terminating his address by the
expression of an earnest hope that he might be spared to witness the
inevitable Commonwealth of England.

"He only lost his election for Rattleton by ten votes," said Trenchard.
"We call him the Lord Protector, and his friends here think he will be
so."

The debate was concluded, after another hour, by Hortensius, and
Endymion was struck by the contrast between his first and second
manner. Safe from reply, and reckless in his security, it is not easy
to describe the audacity of his retorts, or the tumult of his eloquence.
Rapid, sarcastic, humorous, picturesque, impassioned, he seemed to carry
everything before him, and to resemble his former self in nothing
but the music of his voice, which lent melody to scorn, and sometimes
reached the depth of pathos.

Endymion walked home with Mr. Trenchard, and in a musing mood. "I
should not care how lazy I was," said Endymion, "if I could speak like
Hortensius."



CHAPTER XXV

The snow was falling about the time when the Swindon coach, in which
Endymion was a passenger, was expected at Hurstley, and the snow had
been falling all day. Nothing had been more dreary than the outward
world, or less entitled to the merry epithet which is the privilege of
the season. The gardener had been despatched to the village inn, where
the coach stopped, with a lantern and cloaks and umbrellas. Within the
house the huge blocks of smouldering beech sent forth a hospitable heat,
and, whenever there was a sound, Myra threw cones on the inflamed mass,
that Endymion might be welcomed with a blaze. Mrs. Ferrars, who had
appeared to-day, though late, and had been very nervous and excited,
broke down half an hour before her son could arrive, and, murmuring that
she would reappear, had retired. Her husband was apparently reading, but
his eye wandered and his mind was absent from the volume.

The dogs barked, Mr. Ferrars threw down his book, Myra forgot her cones;
the door burst open, and she was in her brother's arms.

"And where is mamma?" said Endymion, after he had greeted his father.

"She will be here directly," said Mr. Ferrars. "You are late, and the
suspense of your arrival a little agitated her."

Three quarters of a year had elapsed since the twins had parted, and
they were at that period of life when such an interval often produces
no slight changes in personal appearance. Endymion, always tall for
his years, had considerably grown; his air, and manner, and dress were
distinguished. But three quarters of a year had produced a still greater
effect upon his sister. He had left her a beautiful girl: her beauty was
not less striking, but it was now the beauty of a woman. Her mien was
radiant but commanding, and her brow, always remarkable, was singularly
impressive.

They stood in animated converse before the fire, Endymion between his
father and his sister and retaining of each a hand, when Mr. Ferrars
nodded to Myra and said, "I think now;" and Myra, not reluctantly, but
not with happy eagerness, left the room.

"She is gone for your poor mother," said Mr. Ferrars; "we are uneasy
about her, my dear boy."

Myra was some time away, and when she returned, she was alone. "She says
she must see him first in her room," said Myra, in a low voice, to her
father; "but that will never do; you or I must go with him."

"You had better go," said Mr. Ferrars.

She took her brother's hand and led him away. "I go with you, to prevent
dreadful scenes," said his sister on the staircase. "Try to behave just
as in old times, and as if you saw no change."

Myra went into the chamber first, to give to her mother, if possible,
the keynote of the interview, and of which she had already furnished the
prelude. "We are all so happy to see Endymion again, dear mamma. Papa is
quite gay."

And then when Endymion, answering his sister's beckon, entered, Mrs.
Ferrars rushed forward with a sort of laugh, and cried out, "Oh! I am so
happy to see you again, my child. I feel quite gay."

He embraced her, but he could not believe it was his mother. A visage at
once haggard and bloated had supplanted that soft and rich countenance
which had captivated so many. A robe concealed her attenuated frame;
but the lustrous eyes were bleared and bloodshot, and the accents of the
voice, which used to be at once melodious and a little drawling, hoarse,
harsh, and hurried.

She never stopped talking; but it was all in one key, and that the
prescribed one--her happiness at his arrival, the universal gaiety it
had produced, and the merry Christmas they were to keep. After a
time she began to recur to the past, and to sigh; but instantly Myra
interfered with "You know, mamma, you are to dine downstairs to-day,
and you will hardly have time to dress;" and she motioned to Endymion to
retire.

Mrs. Ferrars kept the dinner waiting a long time, and, when she entered
the room, it was evident that she was painfully excited. She had a cap
on, and had used some rouge.

"Endymion must take me in to dinner," she hurriedly exclaimed as she
entered, and then grasped her son's arm.

It seemed a happy and even a merry dinner, and yet there was something
about it forced and constrained. Mrs. Ferrars talked a great deal, and
Endymion told them a great many anecdotes of those men and things which
most interested them, and Myra seemed to be absorbed in his remarks and
narratives, and his mother would drink his health more than once, when
suddenly she went into hysterics, and all was anarchy. Mr. Ferrars
looked distressed and infinitely sad; and Myra, putting her arm round
her mother, and whispering words of calm or comfort, managed to lead her
out of the room, and neither of them returned.

"Poor creature!" said Mr. Ferrars, with a sigh. "Seeing you has been too
much for her."

The next morning Endymion and his sister paid a visit to the rectory,
and there they met Nigel, who was passing his Christmas at home. This
was a happy meeting. The rector had written an essay on squirrels, and
showed them a glass containing that sportive little animal in all its
frolic forms. Farmer Thornberry had ordered a path to be cleared on
the green from the hall to the rectory; and "that is all," said Mrs.
Penruddock, "we have to walk upon, except the high road. The snow has
drifted to such a degree that it is impossible to get to the Chase. I
went out the day before yesterday with Carlo as a guide. When I did not
clearly make out my way, I sent him forward, and sometimes I could only
see his black head emerging from the snow. So I had to retreat."

Mrs. Ferrars did not appear this day. Endymion visited her in her room.
He found her flighty and incoherent. She seemed to think that he had
returned permanently to Hurstley, and said she never had any good
opinion of the scheme of his leaving them. If it had been the Foreign
Office, as was promised, and his father had been in the Cabinet, which
was his right, it might have been all very well. But, if he were to
leave home, he ought to have gone into the Guards, and it was not too
late. And then they might live in a small house in town, and look after
him. There were small houses in Wilton Crescent, which would do very
well. Besides, she herself wanted change of air. Hurstley did not agree
with her. She had no appetite. She never was well except in London, or
Wimbledon. She wished that, as Endymion was here, he would speak to his
father on the subject. She saw no reason why they should not live at
their place at Wimbledon as well as here. It was not so large a house,
and, therefore, would not be so expensive.

Endymion's holiday was only to last a week, and Myra seemed jealous
of his sparing any portion of it to Nigel; yet the rector's son was
sedulous in his endeavours to enjoy the society of his former companion.
There seemed some reason for his calling at the hall every day. Mr.
Ferrars broke through his habits, and invited Nigel to dine with them;
and after dinner, saying that he would visit Mrs. Ferrars, who was
unwell, left them alone. It was the only time they had yet been alone.
Endymion found that there was no change in the feelings and views of
Nigel respecting Church matters, except that his sentiments and opinions
were more assured, and, if possible, more advanced. He would not
tolerate any reference to the state of the nation; it was the state of
the Church which engrossed his being. No government was endurable that
was not divine. The Church was divine, and on that he took his stand.

Nigel was to take his degree next term, and orders as soon as possible.
He looked forward with confidence, after doubtless a period of
disturbance, confusion, probably violence, and even anarchy, to the
establishment of an ecclesiastical polity that would be catholic
throughout the realm. Endymion just intimated the very contrary opinions
that Jawett held upon these matters, and mentioned, though not as an
adherent, some of the cosmopolitan sentiments of Waldershare.

"The Church is cosmopolitan," said Nigel; "the only practicable means by
which you can attain to identity of motive and action."

Then they rejoined Myra, but Nigel soon returned to the absorbing theme.
His powers had much developed since he and Endymion used to wander
together over Hurstley Chase. He had great eloquence, his views were
startling and commanding, and his expressions forcible and picturesque.
All was heightened, too, by his striking personal appearance and the
beauty of his voice. He seemed something between a young prophet and an
inquisitor; a remarkable blending of enthusiasm and self-control.

A person more experienced in human nature than Endymion might have
observed, that all this time, while Nigel was to all appearance chiefly
addressing himself to Endymion, he was, in fact, endeavouring to impress
his sister. Endymion knew, from the correspondence of Myra, that Nigel
had been, especially in the summer, much at Hurstley; and when he was
alone with his sister, he could not help remarking, "Nigel is as strong
as ever in his views."

"Yes," she replied; "he is very clever and very good-looking. It is a
pity he is going into the Church. I do not like clergymen."

On the third day of the visit, Mrs. Ferrars was announced to be unwell,
and in the evening very unwell; and Mr. Ferrars sent to the nearest
medical man, and he was distant, to attend her. The medical man did
not arrive until past midnight, and, after visiting his patient, looked
grave. She had fever, but of what character it was difficult to decide.
The medical man had brought some remedies with him, and he stayed
the night at the hall. It was a night of anxiety and alarm, and the
household did not retire until nearly the break of dawn.

The next day it seemed that the whole of the Penruddock family were in
the house. Mrs. Penruddock insisted on nursing Mrs. Ferrars, and her
husband looked as if he thought he might be wanted. It was unreasonable
that Nigel should be left alone. His presence, always pleasing, was a
relief to an anxious family, and who were beginning to get alarmed. The
fever did not subside. On the contrary, it increased, and there were
other dangerous symptoms. There was a physician of fame at Oxford, whom
Nigel wished they would call in. Matters were too pressing to wait for
the posts, and too complicated to trust to an ordinary messenger. Nigel,
who was always well mounted, was in his saddle in an instant. He seemed
to be all resource, consolation, and energy: "If I am fortunate, he will
be here in four hours; at all events, I will not return alone."

Four terrible hours were these: Mr. Ferrars, restless and sad, and
listening with a vacant air or an absent look to the kind and unceasing
talk of the rector; Myra, silent in her mother's chamber; and Endymion,
wandering about alone with his eyes full of tears. This was the Merrie
Christmas he had talked of, and this his long-looked-for holiday. He
could think of nothing but his mother's kindness; and the days gone
by, when she was so bright and happy, came back to him with painful
vividness. It seemed to him that he belonged to a doomed and unhappy
family. Youth and its unconscious mood had hitherto driven this thought
from his mind; but it occurred to him now, and would not be driven away.

Nigel was fortunate. Before sunset he returned to Hurstley in a
postchaise with the Oxford physician, whom he had furnished with an able
and accurate diagnosis of the case. All that art could devise, and all
that devotion could suggest, were lavished on the sufferer, but in
vain; and four days afterwards, the last day of Endymion's long-awaited
holiday, Mr. Ferrars closed for ever the eyes of that brilliant being,
who, with some weaknesses, but many noble qualities, had shared with no
unequal spirit the splendour and the adversity of his existence.



CHAPTER XXVI

Nigel took a high degree and obtained first-class honours. He was
ordained by the bishop of the diocese as soon after as possible. His
companions, who looked up to him with every expectation of his eminence
and influence, were disappointed, however, in the course of life on
which he decided. It was different from that which he had led them to
suppose it would be. They had counted on his becoming a resident light
of the University, filling its highest offices, and ultimately reaching
the loftiest stations in the Church. Instead of that he announced that
he had resolved to become a curate to his father, and that he was about
to bury himself in the solitude of Hurstley.

It was in the early summer following the death of Mrs. Ferrars that he
settled there. He was frequently at the hall, and became intimate with
Mr. Ferrars. Notwithstanding the difference of age, there was between
them a sympathy of knowledge and thought. In spite of his decided mind,
Nigel listened to Mr. Ferrars with deference, soliciting his judgment,
and hanging, as it were, on his accents of wise experience and refined
taste. So Nigel became a favourite with Mr. Ferrars; for there are few
things more flattering than the graceful submission of an accomplished
intellect, and, when accompanied by youth, the spell is sometimes
fascinating.

The death of his wife seemed to have been a great blow to Mr. Ferrars.
The expression of his careworn, yet still handsome, countenance became,
if possible, more saddened. It was with difficulty that his daughter
could induce him to take exercise, and he had lost altogether that
seeming interest in their outer world which once at least he affected to
feel. Myra, though ever content to be alone, had given up herself much
to her father since his great sorrow; but she felt that her efforts to
distract him from his broodings were not eminently successful, and
she hailed with a feeling of relief the establishment of Nigel in the
parish, and the consequent intimacy that arose between him and her
father.

Nigel and Myra were necessarily under these circumstances thrown much
together. As time advanced he passed his evenings generally at the hall,
for he was a proficient in the only game which interested Mr. Ferrars,
and that was chess. Reading and writing all day, Mr. Ferrars required
some remission of attention, and his relaxation was chess. Before the
games, and between the games, and during delightful tea-time, and for
the happy quarter of an hour which ensued when the chief employment of
the evening ceased, Nigel appealed much to Myra, and endeavoured to draw
out her mind and feelings. He lent her books, and books that favoured,
indirectly at least, his own peculiar views--volumes of divine poesy
that had none of the twang of psalmody, tales of tender and sometimes
wild and brilliant fancy, but ever full of symbolic truth.

Chess-playing requires complete abstraction, and Nigel, though he was
a double first, occasionally lost a game from a lapse in that condensed
attention that secures triumph. The fact is, he was too frequently
thinking of something else besides the moves on the board, and his ear
was engaged while his eye wandered, if Myra chanced to rise from her
seat or make the slightest observation.

The woods were beginning to assume the first fair livery of autumn,
when it is beautiful without decay. The lime and the larch had not yet
dropped a golden leaf, and the burnished beeches flamed in the sun.
Every now and then an occasional oak or elm rose, still as full of deep
green foliage as if it were midsummer; while the dark verdure of
the pines sprang up with effective contrast amid the gleaming and
resplendent chestnuts.

There was a glade at Hurstley, bounded on each side with masses of
yew, their dark green forms now studded with crimson berries. Myra was
walking one morning in this glade when she met Nigel, who was on one of
his daily pilgrimages, and he turned round and walked by her side.

"I am sure I cannot give you news of your brother," he said, "but I have
had a letter this morning from Endymion. He seems to take great interest
in his debating club."

"I am so glad he has become a member of it," said Myra. "That kind Mr.
Trenchard, whom I shall never see to thank him for all his goodness to
Endymion, proposed him. It occupies his evenings twice a week, and then
it gives him subjects to think of and read up in the interval."

"Yes; it is a good thing," said Nigel moodily; "and if he is destined
for public life, which perhaps he may be, no contemptible discipline."

"Dear boy!" said Myra, with a sigh. "I do not see what public life he is
destined to, except slaving at a desk. But sometimes one has dreams."

"Yes; we all have dreams," said Nigel, with an air of abstraction.

"It is impossible to resist the fascination of a fine autumnal morn,"
said Myra; "but give me the long days of summer and its rich leafy joys.
I like to wander about, and dine at nine o'clock."

"Delightful, doubtless, with a sympathising companion."

"Endymion was such a charming companion," said Myra.

"But he has left us," said Nigel; "and you are alone."

"I am alone," said Myra; "but I am used to solitude, and I can think of
him."

"Would I were Endymion," said Nigel, "to be thought of by you!"

Myra looked at him with something of a stare; but he continued--

"All seasons would be to me fascination, were I only by your side. Yes;
I can no longer repress the irresistible confusion of my love. I am
here, and I am here only, because I love you. I quitted Oxford and
all its pride that I might have the occasional delight of being your
companion. I was not presumptuous in my thoughts, and believed that
would content me; but I can no longer resist the consummate spell, and I
offer you my heart and my life."

"I am amazed; I am a little overwhelmed," said Myra. "Pardon me, dear
Mr. Penruddock--dear Nigel--you speak of things of which I have not
thought."

"Think of them! I implore you to think of them, and now!"

"We are a fallen family," said Myra, "perhaps a doomed one. We are not
people to connect yourself with. You have witnessed some of our sorrows,
and soothed them. I shall be ever grateful to you for the past. But I
sometimes feel our cup is not yet full, and I have long resolved to bear
my cross alone. But, irrespective of all other considerations, I can
never leave my father."

"I have spoken to your father," said Nigel, "and he approved my suit."

"While my father lives I shall not quit him," said Myra; "but, let me
not mislead you, I do not live for my father--I live for another."

"For another?" inquired Nigel, with anxiety.

"For one you know. My life is devoted to Endymion. There is a mystic
bond between us, originating, perhaps, in the circumstance of our birth;
for we are twins. I never mean to embarrass him with a sister's love,
and perhaps hereafter may see less of him even than I see now; but I
shall be in the world, whatever be my lot, high or low--the active,
stirring world--working for him, thinking only of him. Yes; moulding
events and circumstances in his favour;" and she spoke with fiery
animation. "I have brought myself, by long meditation, to the conviction
that a human being with a settled purpose must accomplish it, and
that nothing can resist a will that will stake even existence for its
fulfilment."



CHAPTER XXVII

Endymion had returned to his labours, after the death of his mother,
much dispirited. Though young and hopeful, his tender heart could not be
insensible to the tragic end. There is anguish in the recollection that
we have not adequately appreciated the affection of those whom we have
loved and lost. It tortured him to feel that he had often accepted with
carelessness or indifference the homage of a heart that had been to him
ever faithful in its multiplied devotion. Then, though he was not of a
melancholy and brooding nature, in this moment of bereavement he could
not drive from his mind the consciousness that there had long been
hanging over his home a dark lot, as it were, of progressive adversity.
His family seemed always sinking, and he felt conscious how the sanguine
spirit of his mother had sustained them in their trials. His father had
already made him the depositary of his hopeless cares; and if anything
happened to that father, old and worn out before his time, what would
become of Myra?

Nigel, who in their great calamity seemed to have thought of everything,
and to have done everything, had written to the chief of his office, and
also to Mr. Trenchard, explaining the cause of the absence of Endymion
from his duties. There were no explanations, therefore, necessary when
he reappeared; no complaints, but only sympathy and general kindness.
In Warwick Street there was unaffected sorrow; Sylvia wept and went into
the prettiest mourning for her patroness, and Mr. Rodney wore a crape
on his hat. "I never saw her," said Imogene, "but I am told she was
heavenly."

Waldershare was very kind to Endymion, and used to take him to the House
of Commons on interesting evenings, and, if he succeeded in getting
Endymion a place under the gallery, would come and talk to him in the
course of the night, and sometimes introduce him to the mysteries of
Bellamy's, where Endymion had the satisfaction of partaking of a steak
in the presence of statesmen and senators.

"You are in the precincts of public life," said Waldershare; "and if you
ever enter it, which I think you will," he would add thoughtfully,
"it will be interesting for you to remember that you have seen these
characters, many of whom will then have passed away. Like the shades of
a magic lantern," he added, with something between a sigh and a smile.
"One of my constituents send me a homily this morning, the burthen
of which was, I never thought of death. The idiot! I never think of
anything else. It is my weakness. One should never think of death. One
should think of life. That is real piety."

This spring and summer were passed tranquilly by Endymion, but not
unprofitably. He never went to any place of public amusement, and,
cherishing his sorrow, declined those slight openings to social life
which occasionally offered themselves even to him; but he attended his
debating club with regularity, and, though silent, studied every subject
which was brought before it. It interested him to compare their sayings
and doings with those of the House of Commons, and he found advantage in
the critical comparison. Though not in what is styled society, his
mind did not rust from the want of intelligent companions. The clear
perception, accurate knowledge, and unerring judgment of Trenchard, the
fantastic cynicism of St. Barbe, and all the stores of the exuberant
and imaginative Waldershare, were brought to bear on a young and plastic
intelligence, gifted with a quick though not a too profound sensibility
which soon ripened into tact, and which, after due discrimination, was
tenacious of beneficial impressions.

In the autumn, Endymion returned home for a long visit and a happy one.
He found Nigel settled at Hurstley, and almost domesticated at the hall;
his father more cheerful than his sister's earlier letters had led him
to suppose; and she herself so delighted by the constant companionship
of her brother that she seemed to have resumed all her original pride of
life.

Nearly two years' acquaintance, however limited, with the world,
had already exercised a ripening influence over Endymion. Nigel soon
perceived this, though, with a native tact which circumstances had
developed, Endymion avoided obtruding his new conclusions upon his
former instructor. But that deep and eager spirit, unwilling ever to let
a votary escape, and absorbed intellectually by one vast idea, would not
be baffled. Nigel had not renounced the early view of Endymion taking
orders, and spoke of his London life as an incident which, with his
youth, he might in time only look upon as an episode in his existence.

"I trust I shall ever be a devoted son of the Church," said Endymion;
"but I confess I feel no predisposition to take orders, even if I had
the opportunity, which probably I never shall have. If I were to choose
my career it would be public life. I am on the last step of the ladder,
and I do not suppose that I can ever be anything but a drudge. But even
that would interest me. It brings one in contact with those who are
playing the great game. One at least fancies one comprehends something
of the government of mankind. Mr. Waldershare takes me often to the
House of Commons, and I must say, I am passionately fond of it."

After Endymion's return to London that scene occurred between Nigel and
Myra, in the glade at Hurstley, which we have noticed in the preceding
chapter. In the evening of that day Nigel did not pay his accustomed
visit to the hall, and the father and the daughter were alone. Then it
was, notwithstanding evident agitation, and even with some degree of
solemnity, that Mr. Ferrars broke to his daughter that there was a
subject on which he wished seriously to confer with her.

"Is it about Nigel?" she inquired with calmness.

"It is about Nigel."

"I have seen him, and he has spoken to me."

"And what have you replied?"

"What I fear will not be satisfactory to you, sir, but what is
irrevocable."

"Your union would give me life and hope," said Mr. Ferrars; and then,
as she remained silent, he continued after a pause: "For its happiness
there seems every security. He is of good family, and with adequate
means, and, I firmly believe, no inconsiderable future. His abilities
are already recognised; his disposition is noble. As for his personal
qualities, you are a better judge than I am; but, for my part, I never
saw a countenance that more became the beauty and nobility of his
character."

"I think him very good-looking," said Myra, "and there is no doubt he is
clever, and he has shown himself, on more than one occasion, amiable."

"Then what more can you require?" said Mr. Ferrars.

"I require nothing; I do not wish to marry."

"But, my daughter, my dearest daughter," said Mr. Ferrars, "bear with
the anxiety of a parent who is at least devoted to you. Our separation
would be my last and severest sorrow, and I have had many; but there is
no necessity to consider that case, for Nigel is content, is more than
content, to live as your husband under this roof."

"So he told me."

"And that removed one objection that you might naturally feel?"

"I certainly should never leave you, sir," said Myra, "and I told Nigel
so; but that contingency had nothing to do with my decision. I declined
his offer, because I have no wish to marry."

"Women are born to be married," said Mr. Ferrars.

"And yet I believe most marriages are unhappy," said Myra.

"Oh! if your objection to marry Nigel arises from an abstract objection
to marriage itself," said Mr. Ferrars, "it is a subject which we might
talk over calmly, and perhaps remove your prejudices."

"I have no objection against marriage," rejoined Myra. "It is likely
enough that I may marry some day, and probably make an unhappy marriage;
but that is not the question before us. It is whether I should marry
Nigel. That cannot be, my dear father, and he knows it. I have assured
him so in a manner which cannot be mistaken."

"We are a doomed family!" exclaimed the unhappy Mr. Ferrars, clasping
his hands.

"So I have long felt," said Myra. "I can bear our lot; but I want no
strangers to be introduced to share its bitterness, and soothe us with
their sympathy."

"You speak like a girl," said Mr. Ferrars, "and a headstrong girl, which
you always have been. You know not what you are talking about. It is a
matter of life or death. Your decorous marriage would have saved us from
absolute ruin."

"Alone, I can meet absolute ruin," said Myra. "I have long contemplated
such a contingency, and am prepared for it. My marriage with Nigel could
hardly save you, sir, from such a visitation, if it be impending. But
I trust in that respect, if in no other, you have used a little of
the language of exaggeration. I have never received, and I have never
presumed to seek, any knowledge of your affairs; but I have assumed,
that for your life, somehow or other, you would be permitted to exist
without disgrace. If I survive you, I have neither care nor fear."



CHAPTER XXVIII

In the following spring a vexatious incident occurred in Warwick Street.
The highly-considered county member, who was the yearly tenant of Mr.
Rodney's first floor, and had been always a valuable patron, suddenly
died. An adjourned debate, a tough beefsteak, a select committee still
harder, and an influenza caught at three o'clock in the morning in an
imprudent but irresistible walk home with a confidential Lord of the
Treasury, had combined very sensibly to affect the income of Mr. Rodney.
At first he was sanguine that such a desirable dwelling would soon find
a suitable inhabitant, especially as Mr. Waldershare assured him that he
would mention the matter to all his friends. But time rolled on, and the
rooms were still vacant; and the fastidious Rodneys, who at first would
only listen to a yearly tenant, began to reduce their expectations.
Matters had arrived at such a pass in May, that, for the first time in
their experience, they actually condescended to hoist an announcement of
furnished apartments.

In this state of affairs a cab rattled up to the house one morning, out
of which a young gentleman jumped briskly, and, knocking at the
door, asked, of the servant who opened it, whether he might see the
apartments. He was a young man, apparently not more than one or two and
twenty, of a graceful figure, somewhat above the middle height, fair,
with a countenance not absolutely regular, but calm and high-bred. His
dress was in the best taste, but to a practised eye had something of a
foreign cut, and he wore a slight moustache.

"The rooms will suit me," he said, "and I have no doubt the price you
ask for them is a just one;" and he bowed with high-bred courtesy to
Sylvia, who was now in attendance on him, and who stood with her pretty
hands in the pretty pockets of her pretty apron.

"I am glad to hear that," said Sylvia. "We have never let them before,
except to a yearly tenant."

"And if we suit each other," said the gentleman, "I should have no great
objection to becoming such."

"In these matters," said Sylvia, after a little hesitation, "we give and
receive references. Mr. Rodney is well known in this neighbourhood and
in Westminster generally; but I dare say," she adroitly added, "he has
many acquaintances known to you, sir."

"Not very likely," replied the young gentleman; "for I am a foreigner,
and only arrived in England this morning;" though he spoke English
without the slightest accent.

Sylvia looked a little perplexed; but he continued: "It is quite just
that you should be assured to whom you are letting your lodgings. The
only reference I can give you is to my banker, but he is almost too
great a man for such matters. Perhaps," he added, pulling out a case
from his breast pocket, and taking out of it a note, which he handed to
Sylvia, "this may assure you that your rent will be paid."

Sylvia took a rapid glance at the hundred-pound-note, and twisting it
into her little pocket with apparent _sangfroid_, though she held it
with a tight grasp, murmured that it was quite unnecessary, and then
offered to give her new lodger an acknowledgment of it.

"That is really unnecessary," he replied. "Your appearance commands from
me that entire confidence which on your part you very properly refuse to
a stranger and a foreigner like myself."

"What a charming young man!" thought Sylvia, pressing with emotion her
hundred-pound-note.

"Now," continued the young gentleman, "I will return to the station to
release my servant, who is a prisoner there with my luggage. Be pleased
to make him at home. I shall myself not return probably till the
evening; and in the meantime," he added, giving Sylvia his card, "you
will admit anything that arrives here addressed to Colonel Albert."

The settlement of Colonel Albert in Warwick Street was an event of
no slight importance. It superseded for a time all other topics of
conversation, and was discussed at length in the evenings, especially
with Mr. Vigo. Who was he? And in what service was he colonel? Mr.
Rodney, like a man of the world, assumed that all necessary information
would in time be obtained from the colonel's servant; but even men of
the world sometimes miscalculate. The servant, who was a Belgian, had
only been engaged by the colonel at Brussels a few days before his
departure for England, and absolutely knew nothing of his master, except
that he was a gentleman with plenty of money and sufficient luggage.
Sylvia, who was the only person who had seen the colonel, was strongly
in his favour. Mr. Rodney looked doubtful, and avoided any definite
opinion until he had had the advantage of an interview with his new
lodger. But this was not easy to obtain. Colonel Albert had no wish
to see the master of the house, and, if he ever had that desire, his
servant would accordingly communicate it in the proper quarter. At
present he was satisfied with all the arrangements, and wished neither
to make nor to receive remarks. The habits of the new lodger were
somewhat of a recluse. He was generally engaged in his rooms the whole
day, and seldom left them till the evening, and nobody, as yet, had
called upon him. Under these circumstances, Imogene was instructed
to open the matter to Mr. Waldershare when she presided over his
breakfast-table; and that gentleman said he would make inquiries about
the colonel at the Travellers' Club, where Waldershare passed a great
deal of his time. "If he be anybody," said Mr. Waldershare, "he is sure
in time to be known there, for he will be introduced as a visitor." At
present, however, it turned out that the "Travellers'" knew nothing of
Colonel Albert; and time went on, and Colonel Albert was not introduced
as a visitor there.

After a little while there was a change in the habits of the colonel.
One morning, about noon, a groom, extremely well appointed, and having
under his charge a couple of steeds of breed and beauty, called at
Warwick Street, and the colonel rode out, and was long absent, and after
that, every day, and generally at the same hour, mounted his horse.
Mr. Rodney was never wearied of catching a glimpse of his distinguished
lodger over the blinds of the ground-floor room, and of admiring the
colonel's commanding presence in his saddle, distinguished as his seat
was alike by its grace and vigour.

In the course of a little time, another incident connected with the
colonel occurred which attracted notice and excited interest. Towards
the evening a brougham, marked, but quietly, with a foreign coronet,
stopped frequently at Mr. Rodney's house, and a visitor to the colonel
appeared in the form of a middle-aged gentleman who never gave his name,
and evaded, it seemed with practised dexterity, every effort, however
adroit, to obtain it. The valet was tried on this head also, and replied
with simplicity that he did not know the gentleman's name, but he was
always called the Baron.

In the middle of June a packet arrived one day by the coach, from the
rector of Hurstley, addressed to Endymion, announcing his father's
dangerous illness, and requesting him instantly to repair home. Myra was
too much occupied to write even a line.



CHAPTER XXIX

It was strange that Myra did not write, were it only a line. It was so
unlike her. How often this occurred to Endymion during his wearisome and
anxious travel! When the coach reached Hurstley, he found Mr. Penruddock
waiting for him. Before he could inquire after his father, that
gentleman said, "Myra is at the rectory; you are to come on there."

"And my father?"----

"Matters are critical," said Mr. Penruddock, as it were avoiding a
direct answer, and hastening his pace.

It was literally not a five minutes' walk from the village inn to the
rectory, and they walked in silence. The rector took Endymion at once
into his study; for we can hardly call it a library, though some shelves
of books were there, and many stuffed birds.

The rector closed the door with care, and looked distressed; and,
beckoning to Endymion to be seated, he said, while still standing and
half turning away his head, "My dear boy, prepare yourself for the
worst."

"Ah! he is gone then! my dear, dear father!" and Endymion burst into
passionate tears, and leant on the table, his face hid in his hands.

The rector walked up and down the room with an agitated countenance. He
could not deny, it would seem, the inference of Endymion; and yet he did
not proffer those consolations which might be urged, and which it became
one in his capacity peculiarly to urge.

"I must see Myra," said Endymion eagerly, looking up with a wild air and
streaming eyes.

"Not yet," said the rector; "she is much disturbed. Your poor father is
no more; it is too true; but," and here the rector hesitated, "he did
not die happily."

"What do you mean?" said Endymion.

"Your poor father had much to try him," said the rector. "His life,
since he was amongst us here, was a life, for him, of adversity--perhaps
of great adversity--yet he bore up against it with a Christian spirit;
he never repined. There was much that was noble and exalted in his
character. But he never overcame the loss of your dear mother. He was
never himself afterwards. He was not always master of himself. I could
bear witness to that," said the rector, talking, as it were, to himself.
"Yes; I could conscientiously give evidence to that effect"----

"What effect?" asked Endymion, with a painful scrutiny.

"I could show," said the rector, speaking slowly, and in a low voice,
"and others could show, that he was not master of himself when he
committed the rash act."

"O Mr. Penruddock!" exclaimed Endymion, starting from his chair, and
seizing the rector by the arm. "What is all this?"

"That a great sorrow has come upon you, and your sister, and all of us,"
said Mr. Penruddock; "and you, and she, and all of us must bow before
the Divine will in trembling, though in hope. Your father's death was
not natural."

Such was the end of William Pitt Ferrars, on whom nature, opportunity,
and culture appeared to have showered every advantage. His abilities
were considerable, his ambition greater. Though intensely worldly, he
was not devoid of affections. He found refuge in suicide, as many do,
from want of imagination. The present was too hard for him, and his
future was only a chaotic nebula.

Endymion did not see his sister that evening. She was not made aware
of his arrival, and was alone with Mrs. Penruddock, who never left her
night or day. The rector took charge of her brother, and had a sofa-bed
made for him in the kind man's room. He was never to be alone. Never
the whole night did Endymion close his eyes; and he was almost as much
agitated about the impending interview with Myra, as about the dark
event of terror that had been disclosed to him.

Yet that dreaded interview must take place; and, about noon, the rector
told him that Myra was in the drawing-room alone, and would receive him.
He tottered as he crossed the hall; grief and physical exhaustion had
unmanned him; his eyes were streaming with tears; he paused for a moment
with his hand upon the door; he dreaded the anguish of her countenance.

She advanced and embraced him with tenderness; her face was grave, and
not a tear even glistened.

"I have been living in a tragedy for years," said Myra, in a low, hollow
voice; "and the catastrophe has now arrived."

"Oh, my dear father!" exclaimed Endymion; and he burst into a renewed
paroxysm of grief.

"Yes; he was dear to us, and we were dear to him," said Myra; "but the
curtain has fallen. We have to exert ourselves. Energy and self-control
were never more necessary to two human beings than to us. Here are his
keys; his papers must be examined by no one but ourselves. There is a
terrible ceremony taking place, or impending. When it is all over, we
must visit the hall at least once more."

The whole neighbourhood was full of sorrow for the event, and of
sympathy for those bereft. It was universally agreed that Mr. Ferrars
had never recovered the death of his wife; had never been the same man
after it; had become distrait, absent, wandering in his mind, and the
victim of an invincible melancholy. Several instances were given of his
inability to manage his affairs. The jury, with Farmer Thornberry for
foreman, hesitated not in giving a becoming verdict. In those days
information travelled slowly. There were no railroads then, and no
telegraphs, and not many clubs. A week elapsed before the sad occurrence
was chronicled in a provincial paper, and another week before the report
was reproduced in London, and then in an obscure corner of the journal,
and in small print. Everything gets about at last, and the world began
to stare and talk; but it passed unnoticed to the sufferers, except by
a letter from Zenobia, received at Hurstley after Myra had departed from
her kind friends. Zenobia was shocked, nay, overwhelmed, by what she had
heard; wanted to know if she could be of use; offered to do anything;
begged Myra to come and stay with her in St. James' Square; and assured
her that, if that were not convenient, when her mourning was over
Zenobia would present her at court, just the same as if she were her own
daughter.

When the fatal keys were used, and the papers of Mr. Ferrars examined,
it turned out worse than even Myra, in her darkest prescience, had
anticipated. Her father had died absolutely penniless. As executor of
his father, the funds settled on his wife had remained under his sole
control, and they had entirely disappeared. There was a letter addressed
to Myra on this subject. She read it with a pale face, said nothing,
and without showing it to Endymion, destroyed it. There was to be an
immediate sale of their effects at the hall. It was calculated that the
expenses of the funeral and all the country bills might be defrayed by
its proceeds.

"And there will be enough left for me," said Myra. "I only want ten
pounds; for I have ascertained that there is no part of England where
ten pounds will not take me."

Endymion sighed and nearly wept when she said these things. "No," he
would add; "we must never part."

"That would ensure our common ruin," said Myra. "No; I will never
embarrass you with a sister. You can only just subsist; for you could
not well live in a garret, except at the Rodneys'. I see my way," said
Myra; "I have long meditated over this--I can draw, I can sing, I can
speak many tongues: I ought to be able to get food and clothing; I may
get something more. And I shall always be content; for I shall always be
thinking of you. However humble even my lot, if my will is concentrated
on one purpose, it must ultimately effect it. That is my creed," she
said, "and I hold it fervently. I will stay with these dear people for
a little while. They are not exactly the family on which I ought to
trespass. But never mind. You will be a great man some day, Endymion,
and you will remember the good Penruddocks."



CHAPTER XXX

One of the most remarkable families that have ever flourished in England
were the NEUCHATELS. Their founder was a Swiss, who had established
a banking house of high repute in England in the latter part of the
eighteenth century, and, irrespective of a powerful domestic connection,
had in time pretty well engrossed the largest and best portion of
foreign banking business. When the great French Revolution occurred,
all the emigrants deposited their jewels and their treasure with the
Neuchatels. As the disturbance spread, their example was followed by
the alarmed proprietors and capitalists of the rest of Europe; and,
independently of their own considerable means, the Neuchatels thus had
the command for a quarter of a century, more or less, of adventitious
millions. They were scrupulous and faithful stewards, but they were
doubtless repaid for their vigilance, their anxiety, and often their
risk, by the opportunities which these rare resources permitted them to
enjoy. One of the Neuchatels was a favourite of Mr. Pitt, and assisted
the great statesman in his vast financial arrangements. This Neuchatel
was a man of large capacity, and thoroughly understood his period.
The minister wished to introduce him to public life, would have opened
Parliament to him, and no doubt have showered upon him honours and
titles. But Neuchatel declined these overtures. He was one of those
strong minds who will concentrate their energies on one object; without
personal vanity, but with a deep-seated pride in the future. He was
always preparing for his posterity. Governed by this passion, although
he himself would have been content to live for ever in Bishopsgate
Street, where he was born, he had become possessed of a vast
principality, and which, strange to say, with every advantage of
splendour and natural beauty, was not an hour's drive from Whitechapel.

HAINAULT HOUSE had been raised by a British peer in the days when nobles
were fond of building Palladian palaces. It was a chief work of Sir
William Chambers, and in its style, its beauty, and almost in its
dimensions, was a rival of Stowe or Wanstead. It stood in a deer park,
and was surrounded by a royal forest. The family that had raised it wore
out in the earlier part of this century. It was supposed that the place
must be destroyed and dismantled. It was too vast for a citizen, and the
locality was no longer sufficiently refined for a conscript father.
In this dilemma, Neuchatel stepped in and purchased the whole
affair--palace, and park, and deer, and pictures, and halls, and
galleries of statue and bust, and furniture, and even wines, and all the
farms that remained, and all the seigneurial rights in the royal forest.
But he never lived there. Though he spared nothing in the maintenance
and the improvement of the domain, except on a Sunday he never visited
it, and was never known to sleep under its roof. "It will be ready for
those who come after me," he would remark, with a modest smile.

Those who came after him were two sons, between whom his millions were
divided; and Adrian, the eldest, in addition to his share, was made the
lord of Hainault. Adrian had inherited something more, and something
more precious, than his father's treasure--a not inferior capacity,
united, in his case, with much culture, and with a worldly ambition to
which his father was a stranger. So long as that father lived, Adrian
had been extremely circumspect. He seemed only devoted to business, and
to model his conduct on that of his eminent sire. That father who had
recognised with pride and satisfaction his capacity, and who was without
jealousy, had initiated his son during his lifetime in all the secrets
of his wondrous craft, and had entrusted him with a leading part in
their affairs. Adrian had waited in Downing Street on Lord Liverpool, as
his father years before had waited on Mr. Pitt.

The elder Neuchatel departed this life a little before the second French
Revolution of 1830, which had been so fatal to Mr. Ferrars. Adrian, who
had never committed himself in politics, further than sitting a short
time for a reputed Tory borough, for which he paid a rent of a thousand
a year to the proprietor, but who was known to have been nurtured in the
school of Pitt and Wellington, astonished the world by voting for Lord
Grey's Reform Bill, and announcing himself as a Liberal. This was a
large fish for the new Liberal Treasury to capture; their triumph was
great, and they determined to show that they appreciated the power and
the influence of their new ally. At the dissolution of 1831, Adrian
Neuchatel was a candidate for a popular constituency, and was elected
at the head of the poll. His brother, Melchior, was also returned, and
a nephew. The Liberals were alarmed by a subscription of fabulous
dimensions said to have been collected by the Tories to influence the
General Election; and the undoubted contribution of a noble duke was
particularly mentioned, which alone appalled the heart of Brooks'. The
matter was put before Neuchatel, as he entered the club, to which he
had been recently elected with acclamation. "So you are a little
frightened," he said, with a peculiarly witching smile which he had,
half mockery and half good nature; as much as to say, "I will do what
you wish, but I see through you and everybody else." "So you are a
little frightened. Well; we City men must see what we can do against the
dukes. You may put me down for double his amount."

Adrian purchased a very fine mansion in Portland Place, and took up his
residence formally at Hainault. He delighted in the place, and to dwell
there in a manner becoming the scene had always been one of his dreams.
Now he lived there with unbounded expenditure. He was passionately fond
of horses, and even in his father's lifetime had run some at Newmarket
in another name. The stables at Hainault had been modelled on those at
Chantilly, and were almost as splendid a pile as the mansion itself.
They were soon full, and of first-rate animals in their different ways.
With his choice teams Adrian could reach Bishopsgate from Hainault,
particularly if there were no stoppages in Whitechapel, in much under an
hour.

If he had fifty persons in his stables, there were certainly as many in
his park and gardens. These latter were most elaborate. It seemed there
was nothing that Hainault could not produce: all the fruits and flowers
of the tropics. The conservatories and forcing-houses looked, in the
distance, like a city of glass. But, after all, the portion of this
immense establishment which was most renowned, and perhaps, on the
whole, best appreciated, was the establishment of the kitchen. The chef
was the greatest celebrity of Europe; and he had no limit to his staff,
which he had selected with the utmost scrutiny, maintained with becoming
spirit, and winnowed with unceasing vigilance. Every day at Hainault
was a banquet. What delighted Adrian was to bring down without notice a
troop of friends, conscious they would be received as well as if there
had been a preparation of weeks. Sometimes it was a body from the Stock
Exchange, sometimes a host from the House of Commons, sometimes a board
of directors with whom he had been transacting business in the morning.
It delighted Adrian to see them quaffing his burgundy, and stuffing down
his truffles, and his choice pies from Strasbourg, and all the delicate
dishes which many of them looked at with wonder, and tasted with
timidity. And then he would, with his particular smile, say to a brother
bank director, whose mouth was full, and who could only answer him with
his eyes, "Business gives one an appetite; eh, Mr. Trodgits?"

Sunday was always a great day at Hainault. The Royal and the Stock
Exchanges were both of them always fully represented; and then they
often had an opportunity, which they highly appreciated, of seeing and
conferring with some public characters, M.P.'s of note or promise, and
occasionally a secretary of the Treasury, or a privy councillor. "Turtle
makes all men equal," Adrian would observe. "Our friend Trodgits seemed
a little embarrassed at first, when I introduced him to the Right
Honourable; but when they sate next each other at dinner, they soon got
on very well."

On Sunday the guests walked about and amused themselves. No one was
allowed to ride or drive; Mrs. Neuchatel did not like riding and driving
on Sundays. "I see no harm in it," said Adrian, "but I like women to
have their way about religion. And you may go to the stables and see
the horses, and that might take up the morning. And then there are
the houses; they will amuse you. For my part, I am for a stroll in
the forest;" and then he would lead his companions, after a delightful
ramble, to some spot of agrestic charm, and, looking at it with delight,
would say, "Pretty, is it not? But then they say this place is not
fashionable. It will do, I think, for us City men."

Adrian had married, when very young, a lady selected by his father.
The selection seemed a good one. She was the daughter of a most eminent
banker, and had herself, though that was of slight importance, a large
portion. She was a woman of abilities, highly cultivated. Nothing had
ever been spared that she should possess every possible accomplishment,
and acquire every information and grace that it was desirable to attain.
She was a linguist, a fine musician, no mean artist; and she threw out,
if she willed it, the treasures of her well-stored and not unimaginative
mind with ease and sometimes eloquence. Her person, without being
absolutely beautiful, was interesting. There was even a degree of
fascination in her brown velvet eyes. And yet Mrs. Neuchatel was not a
contented spirit; and though she appreciated the great qualities of her
husband, and viewed him even with reverence as well as affection, she
scarcely contributed to his happiness as much as became her. And for
this reason. Whether it were the result of physical organisation, or
whether it were the satiety which was the consequence of having been
born, and bred, and lived for ever, in a society of which wealth was the
prime object of existence, and practically the test of excellence, Mrs.
Neuchatel had imbibed not merely a contempt for money, but absolutely
a hatred of it. The prosperity of her house depressed her. The stables
with their fifty grooms, and the grounds with their fifty gardeners,
and the daily visit of the head cook to pass the bill of fare, were
incidents and circumstances that made her melancholy. She looked upon
the Stock Exchange coming down to dinner as she would on an invasion
of the Visigoths, and endured the stiff observations or the cumbrous
liveliness of the merchants and bank directors with gloomy grace.
Something less material might be anticipated from the members of
Parliament. But whether they thought it would please the genius of the
place, or whether Adrian selected his friends from those who sympathised
with his pursuits, the members of Parliament seemed wonderfully to
accord with the general tone of the conversation, or varied it only by
indulging in technical talk of their own. Sometimes she would make a
desperate effort to change the elements of their society; something in
this way: "I see M. Arago and M. Mignet have arrived here, Adrian. Do
not you think we ought to invite them here? And then you might ask Mr.
Macaulay to meet them. You said you wished to ask Mr. Macaulay."

In one respect the alliance between Adrian and his wife was not an
unfortunate one. A woman, and a woman of abilities, fastidious, and
inclined to be querulous, might safely be counted on as, in general,
ensuring for both parties in their union an unsatisfactory and unhappy
life. But Adrian, though kind, generous, and indulgent, was so absorbed
by his own great affairs, was a man at the same time of so serene a
temper and so supreme a will, that the over-refined fantasies of his
wife produced not the slightest effect on the course of his life. Adrian
Neuchatel was what very few people are--master in his own house. With
a rich varnish of graciousness and favour, he never swerved from his
purpose; and, though willing to effect all things by smiles and sweet
temper, he had none of that morbid sensibility which allows some men
to fret over a phrase, to be tortured by a sigh, or to be subdued by a
tear.

There had been born of this marriage only one child, the greatest
heiress in England. She had been christened after her father, ADRIANA.
She was now about seventeen; and, had she not been endowed with the
finest disposition and the sweetest temper in the world, she must have
been spoiled, for both her parents idolised her. To see her every day
was for Adrian a reward for all his labours, and in the midst of his
greatest affairs he would always snatch a moment to think how he could
contribute to her pleasure or her happiness. All that was rare and
delightful and beautiful in the world was at her command. There was
no limit to the gratification of her wishes. But, alas! this favoured
maiden wished for nothing. Her books interested her, and a beautiful
nature; but she liked to be alone, or with her mother. She was impressed
with the horrible and humiliating conviction, that she was courted and
admired only for her wealth.

"What my daughter requires," said Adrian, as he mused over these
domestic contrarieties, "is a companion of her own age. Her mother is
the very worst constant companion she could have. She requires somebody
with charm, and yet of a commanding mind; with youthful sympathy, and
yet influencing her in the right way. It must be a person of birth and
breeding and complete self-respect. I do not want to have any parasites
in my house, or affected fine ladies. That would do no good. What I do
want is a thing very difficult to procure. And yet they say everything
is to be obtained. At least, I have always thought so, and found it so.
I have the greatest opinion of an advertisement in the 'Times.' I
got some of my best clerks by advertisements in the 'Times.' If I had
consulted friends, there would have been no end of jobbing for such
patronage. One could not trust, in such matters, one's own brother. I
will draw up an advertisement and insert it in the 'Times,' and have
the references to my counting-house. I will think over the wording as I
     drive to town." This was the wording:--ADVERTISEMENT

     A Banker and his Wife require a Companion for their only child, a
     young lady whose accomplishments and acquirements are already
     considerable. The friend that they would wish for her must be of
     about the same age as herself, and in every other respect their
     lots will be the same. The person thus desired will be received
     and treated as a daughter of the house, will be allowed her own
     suite of apartments, her own servants and equipage. She must be a
     person of birth, breeding, and entire self-respect; with a mind
     and experience capable of directing conduct, and with manners
     which will engage sympathy.--Apply to H. H., 45 Bishopsgate Street
     Within.

This advertisement met the eye of Myra at Hurstley Rectory about a
month after her father's death, and she resolved to answer it. Her
reply pleased Mr. Neuchatel. He selected it out of hundreds, and placed
himself in communication with Mr. Penruddock. The result was, that Miss
Ferrars was to pay a visit to the Neuchatels; and if, on experience,
they liked each other, the engagement was to take place.

In the meantime the good rector of Hurstley arrived on the previous
evening with his precious charge at Hainault House; and was rewarded for
his kind exertions, not only by the prospect of assisting Myra, but by
some present experience of a splendid and unusual scene.



CHAPTER XXXI

"What do you think of her, mamma?" said Adriana, with glistening eyes,
as she ran into Mrs. Neuchatel's dressing-room for a moment before
dinner.

"I think her manners are perfect," replied Mrs. Neuchatel; "and as there
can be no doubt, after all we have heard, of her principles, I think we
are most fortunate. But what do you think of her, Adriana? For, after
all, that is the main question."

"I think she is divine," said Adriana; "but I fear she has no heart."

"And why? Surely it is early to decide on such a matter as that!"

"When I took her to her room," said Adriana, "I suppose I was nervous;
but I burst into tears, and threw my arms round her neck and embraced
her, but she did not respond. She touched my forehead with her lips, and
withdrew from my embrace."

"She wished, perhaps, to teach you to control your emotions," said Mrs.
Neuchatel. "You have known her only an hour, and you could not have done
more to your own mother."

It had been arranged that there should be no visitors to-day; only a
nephew and a foreign consul-general, just to break the formality of the
meeting. Mr. Neuchatel placed Myra next to himself at the round table,
and treated her with marked consideration--cordial but courteous, and
easy, with a certain degree of deference. His wife, who piqued herself
on her perception of character, threw her brown velvet eyes on her
neighbour, Mr. Penruddock, and cross-examined him in mystical whispers.
She soon recognised his love of nature; and this allowed her to dissert
on the subject, at once sublime and inexhaustible, with copiousness
worthy of the theme. When she found he was an entomologist, and that it
was not so much mountains as insects which interested him, she shifted
her ground, but treated it with equal felicity. Strange, but nature is
never so powerful as in insect life. The white ant can destroy fleets
and cities, and the locusts erase a province. And then, how beneficent
they are! Man would find it difficult to rival their exploits: the bee,
that gives us honey; the worm, that gives us silk; the cochineal, that
supplies our manufactures with their most brilliant dye.

Mr. Penruddock did not seem to know much about manufactures, but always
recommended his cottagers to keep bees.

"The lime-tree abounds in our village, and there is nothing the bees
love more than its blossoms."

This direct reference to his village led Mrs. Neuchatel to an inquiry as
to the state of the poor about Hurstley, and she made the inquiry in a
tone of commiseration.

"Oh! we do pretty well," said Mr. Penruddock.

"But how can a family live on ten or twelve shillings a week?" murmured
Mrs. Neuchatel.

"There it is," said Mr. Penruddock. "A family has more than that. With a
family the income proportionately increases."

Mrs. Neuchatel sighed. "I must say," she said, "I cannot help feeling
there is something wrong in our present arrangements. When I sit down
to dinner every day, with all these dishes, and remember that there are
millions who never taste meat, I cannot resist the conviction that it
would be better if there were some equal division, and all should have,
if not much, at least something."

"Nonsense, Emily!" said Mr. Neuchatel, who had an organ like Fine-ear,
and could catch, when necessary, his wife's most mystical revelations.
"My wife, Mr. Penruddock, is a regular Communist. I hope you are not,"
he added, with a smile, turning to Myra.

"I think life would be very insipid," replied Myra, "if all our lots
were the same."

When the ladies withdrew, Adriana and Myra walked out together
hand-in-hand. Mr. Neuchatel rose and sate next to Mr. Penruddock, and
began to talk politics. His reverend guest could not conceal his alarm
about the position of the Church and spoke of Lord John Russell's
appropriation clause with well-bred horror.

"Well, I do not think there is much to be afraid of," said Mr.
Neuchatel. "This is a liberal age, and you cannot go against it. The
people must be educated, and where are the funds to come from? We must
all do something, and the Church must contribute its share. You know I
am a Liberal, but I am not for any rash courses. I am not at all sorry
that Sir Robert Peel gained so much at the last general election. I like
parties to be balanced. I am quite content with affairs. My friends, the
Liberals, are in office, and, being there, they can do very little. That
is the state of things, is it not, Melchior?" he added, with a smile to
his nephew, who was an M.P. "A balanced state of parties, and the house
of Neuchatel with three votes--that will do. We poor City men get a
little attention paid to us now, but before the dissolution three votes
went for nothing. Now, shall we go and ask my daughter to give us a
song?"

Mrs. Neuchatel accompanied her daughter on the piano, and after a time
not merely on the instrument. The organ of both was fine and richly
cultivated. It was choice chamber music. Mr. Neuchatel seated himself
by Myra. His tone was more than kind, and his manner gentle. "It is a
little awkward the first day," he said, "among strangers, but that will
wear off. You must bring your mind to feel that this is your home, and
we shall all of us do everything in our power to convince you of it. Mr.
Penruddock mentioned to me your wish, under present circumstances, to
enter as little as possible into society, and this is a very social
house. Your feeling is natural, and you will be in this matter entirely
your own mistress. We shall always be glad to see you, but if you are
not present we shall know and respect the cause. For my own part, I am
one of those who would rather cherish affection than indulge grief, but
every one must follow their mood. I hear you have a brother, to whom
you are much attached; a twin, too, and they tell me strongly resembling
you. He is in a public office, I believe? Now, understand this; your
brother can come here whenever he likes, without any further invitation.
Ask him whenever you please. We shall always be glad to see him. No
sort of notice is necessary. This is not a very small house, and we can
always manage to find a bed and a cutlet for a friend."



CHAPTER XXXII

Nothing could be more successful than the connection formed between
the Neuchatel family and Myra Ferrars. Both parties to the compact were
alike satisfied. Myra had "got out of that hole" which she always hated;
and though the new life she had entered was not exactly the one she
had mused over, and which was founded on the tradition of her early
experience, it was a life of energy and excitement, of splendour and
power, with a total absence of petty vexations and miseries, affording
neither time nor cause for the wearing chagrin of a monotonous and
mediocre existence. But the crowning joy of her emancipation was the
prospect it offered of frequent enjoyment of the society of her brother.

With regard to the Neuchatels, they found in Myra everything they could
desire. Mrs. Neuchatel was delighted with a companion who was not the
daughter of a banker, and whose schooled intellect not only comprehended
all her doctrines, however abstruse or fanciful, but who did not
hesitate, if necessary, to controvert or even confute them. As for
Adriana, she literally idolised a friend whose proud spirit and clear
intelligence were calculated to exercise a strong but salutary influence
over her timid and sensitive nature. As for the great banker himself,
who really had that faculty of reading character which his wife
flattered herself she possessed, he had made up his mind about Myra from
the first, both from her correspondence and her conversation. "She has
more common sense than any woman I ever knew, and more," he would add,
"than most men. If she were not so handsome, people would find it
out; but they cannot understand that so beautiful a woman can have
a headpiece, that, I really believe, could manage the affairs in
Bishopsgate Street."

In the meantime life at Hainault resumed its usual course; streams
of guests, of all parties, colours, and classes, and even nations.
Sometimes Mr. Neuchatel would say, "I really must have a quiet day that
Miss Ferrars may dine with us, and she shall ask her brother. How glad I
shall be when she goes into half-mourning! I scarcely catch a glimpse of
her." And all this time his wife and daughter did nothing but quote her,
which was still more irritating, for, as he would say, half-grumbling
and half-smiling, "If it had not been for me she would not have been
here."

At first Adriana would not dine at table without Myra, and insisted on
sharing her imprisonment. "It does not look like a cell," said Myra,
surveying, not without complacency, her beautiful little chamber,
beautifully lit, with its silken hangings and carved ceiling and bright
with books and pictures; "besides, there is no reason why you should be
a prisoner. You have not lost a father, and I hope never will."

"Amen!" said Adriana; "that would indeed be the unhappiest day of my
life."

"You cannot be in society too much in the latter part of the day," said
Myra. "The mornings should be sacred to ourselves, but for the rest of
the hours people are to see and to be seen, and," she added, "to like
and be liked."

Adriana shook her head; "I do not wish any one to like me but you."

"I am sure I shall always like you, and love you," said Myra, "but I am
equally sure that a great many other people will do the same."

"It will not be myself that they like or love," said Adriana with a
sigh.

"Now, spare me that vein, dear Adriana; you know I do not like it. It is
not agreeable, and I do not think it is true. I believe that women are
loved much more for themselves than is supposed. Besides, a woman should
be content if she is loved; that is the point; and she is not to inquire
how far the accidents of life have contributed to the result. Why should
you not be loved for yourself? You have an interesting appearance. I
think you very pretty. You have choice accomplishments and agreeable
conversation and the sweetest temper in the world. You want a little
self-conceit, my dear. If I were you and admired, I should never think
of my fortune."

"If you were the greatest heiress in the world, Myra, and were married,
nobody would suppose for a moment that it was for your fortune."

"Go down to dinner and smile upon everybody, and tell me about your
conquests to-morrow. And say to your dear papa, that as he is so kind as
to wish to see me, I will join them after dinner."

And so, for the first two months, she occasionally appeared in the
evening, especially when there was no formal party. Endymion came and
visited her every Sunday, but he was also a social recluse, and though
he had been presented to Mrs. Neuchatel and her daughter, and been most
cordially received by them, it was some considerable time before he made
the acquaintance of the great banker.

About September Myra may be said to have formally joined the circle at
Hainault. Three months had elapsed since the terrible event, and
she felt, irrespective of other considerations, her position hardly
justified her, notwithstanding all the indulgent kindness of the family,
in continuing a course of life which she was conscious to them
was sometimes an inconvenience and always a disappointment. It was
impossible to deny that she was interested and amused by the world which
she now witnessed--so energetic, so restless, so various; so full of
urgent and pressing life; never thinking of the past and quite heedless
of the future, but worshipping an almighty present that sometimes seemed
to roll on like the car of Juggernaut. She was much diverted by the
gentlemen of the Stock Exchange, so acute, so audacious, and differing
so much from the merchants in the style even of their dress, and in the
ease, perhaps the too great facility, of their bearing. They called each
other by their Christian names, and there were allusions to practical
jokes which intimated a life something between a public school and
a garrison. On more solemn days there were diplomatists and men in
political office; sometimes great musical artists, and occasionally a
French actor. But the dinners were always the same; dishes worthy of the
great days of the Bourbons, and wines of rarity and price, which could
not ruin Neuchatel, for in many instances the vineyards belonged to
himself.

One morning at breakfast, when he rarely encountered them, but it was
a holiday in the City, Mr. Neuchatel said, "There are a few gentlemen
coming to dine here to-day whom you know, with one exception. He is a
young man, a very nice young fellow. I have seen a good deal of him of
late on business in the City, and have taken a fancy to him. He is a
foreigner, but he was partly educated in this country and speaks English
as well as any of us."

"Then I suppose he is not a Frenchman," said Mrs. Neuchatel, "for they
never speak English."

"I shall not say what he is. You must all find out; I dare say Miss
Ferrars will discover him; but, remember, you must all of you pay him
great attention, for he is not a common person, I can assure you."

"You are mysterious, Adrian," said his wife, "and quite pique our
curiosity."

"Well, I wish somebody would pique mine," said the banker. "These
holidays in the City are terrible things. I think I will go after
breakfast and look at the new house, and I dare say Miss Ferrars will be
kind enough to be my companion."

Several of the visitors, fortunately for the banker whose time hung
rather heavily on his hands, arrived an hour or so before dinner, that
they might air themselves in the famous gardens and see some of the new
plants. But the guest whom he most wished to greet, and whom the ladies
were most curious to welcome, did not arrive. They had all entered the
house and the critical moment was at hand, when, just as dinner
was about to be announced, the servants ushered in a young man of
distinguished appearance, and the banker exclaimed, "You have arrived
just in time to take Mrs. Neuchatel in to dinner," and he presented to
her--COLONEL ALBERT.



CHAPTER XXXIII

The ladies were much interested by Colonel Albert. Mrs. Neuchatel
exercised on him all the unrivalled arts by which she so unmistakably
discovered character. She threw on him her brown velvet eyes with a
subdued yet piercing beam, which would penetrate his most secret and
even undeveloped intelligence. She asked questions in a hushed mystical
voice, and as the colonel was rather silent and somewhat short in
his replies, though ever expressed in a voice of sensibility and with
refined deference of manner, Mrs. Neuchatel opened her own peculiar
views on a variety of subjects of august interest, such as education,
high art, the influence of women in society, the formation of character,
and the distribution of wealth, on all of which this highly gifted
lady was always in the habit of informing her audience, by way of
accompaniment, that she was conscious that the views she entertained
were peculiar. The views of Mrs. Neuchatel were peculiar, and therefore
not always, or even easily, comprehended. That indeed she felt was
rather her fate in life, but a superior intelligence like hers has a
degree of sublimated self-respect which defies destiny.

When she was alone with the ladies, the bulletin of Mrs. Neuchatel was
not so copious as had been expected. She announced that Colonel Albert
was sentimental, and she suspected a poet. But for the rest she had
discovered nothing, not even his nationality. She had tried him both
in French and German, but he persisted in talking English, although he
spoke of himself as a foreigner. After dinner he conversed chiefly
with the men, particularly with the Governor of the Bank, who seemed
to interest him much, and a director of one of the dock companies, who
offered to show him over their establishment, an offer which Colonel
Albert eagerly accepted. Then, as if he remembered that homage was
due at such a moment to the fairer sex, he went and seated himself
by Adriana, and was playful and agreeable, though when she was
cross-examined afterwards by her friends as to the character of his
conversation, she really could not recall anything particular except
that he was fond of horses, and said that he should like very much to
take a ride with her. Just before he took his departure, Colonel Albert
addressed Myra, and in a rather strange manner. He said, "I have been
puzzling myself all dinner, but I cannot help feeling that we have met
before."

Myra shook her head and said, "I think that is impossible."

"Well," said the colonel with a look a little perplexed and not
altogether satisfied, "I suppose then it was a dream. May dreams so
delightful," and he bowed, "never be wanting!"

"So you think he is a poet, Emily," said Mr. Neuchatel when they had all
gone. "We have got a good many of his papers in Bishopsgate Street, but
I have not met with any verses in them yet."

The visit of Colonel Albert was soon repeated, and he became a rather
frequent guest at Hainault. It was evident that he was a favourite with
Mr. Neuchatel. "He knows very few people," he would say, "and I wish him
to make some friends. Poor young fellow: he has had rather a hard
life of it, and seen some service for such a youth. He is a perfect
gentleman, and if he be a poet, Emily, that is all in your way. You like
literary people, and are always begging that I should ask them. Well,
next Saturday you will have a sort of a lion--one of the principal
writers in 'Scaramouch.' He is going to Paris as the foreign
correspondent of the 'Chuck-Farthing,' with a thousand a year, and one
of my friends in the Stock Exchange, who is his great ally, asked me to
give him some letters. So he came to Bishopsgate Street--they all come
to Bishopsgate Street--and I asked him to dine here on Saturday. By the
by, Miss Ferrars, ask your brother to come on the same day and stay with
us till Monday. I will take him up to town with me quite in time for his
office."

This was the first time that Endymion had remained at Hainault. He
looked forward to the visit with anticipation of great pleasure.
Hainault, and all the people there, and everything about it, delighted
him, and most of all the happiness of his sister and the consideration,
and generosity, and delicate affection with which she was treated. One
morning, to his astonishment, Myra had insisted upon his accepting from
her no inconsiderable sum of money. "It is no part of my salary," she
said, when he talked of her necessities. "Mr. Neuchatel said he gave it
to me for outfit and to buy gloves. But being in mourning I want to
buy nothing, and you, dear darling, must have many wants. Besides, Mrs.
Neuchatel has made me so many presents that I really do not think that I
shall ever want to buy anything again."

It was rather a grand party at Hainault, such as Endymion had little
experience of. There was a cabinet minister and his wife, not only
an ambassador, but an ambassadress who had been asked to meet them,
a nephew Neuchatel, the M.P. with a pretty young wife, and several
apparently single gentlemen of note and position. Endymion was nervous
when he entered, and more so because Myra was not in the room. But
his trepidation was absorbed in his amazement when in the distance he
observed St. Barbe, with a very stiff white cravat, and his hair
brushed into unnatural order, and his whole demeanour forming a singular
contrast to the rollicking cynicisms of Joe's and the office.

Mr. Neuchatel presented St. Barbe to the lady of the mansion. "Here is
one of our greatest wits," said the banker, "and he is going to Paris,
which is the capital of wits." The critical moment prevented prolonged
conversation, but the lady of the mansion did contrive to convey to St.
Barbe her admiring familiarity with some of his effusions, and threw out
a phrase which proved how finely she could distinguish between wit and
humour.

Endymion at dinner sate between two M.P.'s, whom his experience at the
House of Commons allowed him to recognise. As he was a young man whom
neither of them knew, neither of them addressed him, but with delicate
breeding carried on an active conversation across him, as if in fact he
were not present. As Endymion had very little vanity, this did not at
all annoy him. On the contrary, he was amused, for they spoke of matters
with which he was not unacquainted, though he looked as if he knew or
heard nothing. Their conversation was what is called "shop:" all
about the House and office; criticisms on speakers, speculations as to
preferment, what Government would do about this, and how well Government
got out of that.

Endymion was amused by seeing Myra, who was remote from him, sitting
by St. Barbe, who, warmed by the banquet, was evidently holding forth
without the slightest conception that his neighbour whom he addressed
had long become familiar with his characteristics.

After dinner St. Barbe pounced upon Endymion. "Only think of our meeting
here!" he said. "I wonder why they asked you. You are not going to
Paris, and you are not a wit. What a family this is!" he said; "I had
no idea of wealth before! Did you observe the silver plate? I could not
hold mine with one hand, it was so heavy. I do not suppose there are
such plates in the world. It gives one an idea of the galleons and
Anson's plunder. But they deserve their wealth," he added, "nobody
grudges it to them. I declare when I was eating that truffle, I felt a
glow about my heart that, if it were not indigestion, I think must have
been gratitude; though that is an article I had not believed in. He is
a wonderful man, that Neuchatel. If I had only known him a year ago! I
would have dedicated my novel to him. He is a sort of man who would have
given you a cheque immediately. He would not have read it, to be sure,
but what of that? If you had dedicated it to a lord, the most he would
have done would have been to ask you to dinner, and then perhaps cut up
your work in one of the Quality reviews, and taken money for doing it
out of our pockets! Oh! it's too horrid! There are some topsawyers here
to-day, Ferrars! It would make Seymour Hicks' mouth water to be here. We
should have had it in the papers, and he would have left us out of
the list, and called us, etc. Now I dare say that ambassador has been
blundering all his life, and yet there is something in that star and
ribbon; I do not know you feel, but I could almost go down on my knees
to him. And there is a cabinet minister; well, we know what he is; I
have been squibbing him for these two years, and now that I meet him I
feel like a snob. Oh! there is an immense deal of superstition left in
the world. I am glad they are going to the ladies. I am to be honoured
by some conversation with the mistress of the house. She seems a
first-rate woman, familiar with the glorious pages of a certain classic
work, and my humble effusions. She praised one she thought I wrote,
but between ourselves it was written by that fellow Seymour Hicks, who
imitates me; but I would not put her right, as dinner might have been
announced every moment. But she is a great woman, sir,--wonderful eyes!
They are all great women here. I sat next to one of the daughters,
or daughters-in-law, or nieces, I suppose. By Jove! it was tierce and
quart. If you had been there, you would have been run through in a
moment. I had to show my art. Now they are rising. I should not be
surprised if Mr. Neuchatel were to present me to some of the grandees. I
believe them to be all impostors, but still it is pleasant to talk to a
man with a star.

"'Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven,'

"Byron wrote; a silly line; he should have written,

"'Ye stars, which are the poetry of dress.'"



CHAPTER XXXIV

St. Barbe was not disappointed in his hopes. It was an evening of
glorious success for him. He had even the honour of sitting for a time
by the side of Mrs. Neuchatel, and being full of good claret, he, as he
phrased it, showed his paces; that is to say, delivered himself of some
sarcastic paradoxes duly blended with fulsome flattery. Later in the
evening, he contrived to be presented both to the ambassador and the
cabinet minister, and treated them as if they were demigods; listened
to them as if with an admiration which he vainly endeavoured to repress;
never spoke except to enforce and illustrate the views which they had
condescended to intimate; successfully conveyed to his excellency that
he was conversing with an enthusiast for his exalted profession; and
to the minister that he had met an ardent sympathiser with his noble
career. The ambassador was not dissatisfied with the impression he had
made on one of the foreign correspondents of the "Chuck-Farthing," and
the minister flattered himself that both the literary and the graphic
representations of himself in "Scaramouch" might possibly for the future
be mitigated.

"I have done business to-night," said St. Barbe to Endymion, towards the
close of the evening. "You did not know I had left the old shop? I kept
it close. I could stand it no longer. One has energies, sir, though not
recognised--at least not recognised much," he added thoughtfully. "But
who knows what may happen? The age of mediocrity is not eternal. You see
this thing offered, and I saw an opening. It has come already. You
saw the big-wigs all talking to me? I shall go to Paris now with some
_eclat_. I shall invent a new profession; the literary diplomatist. The
bore is, I know nothing about foreign politics. My line has been the
other way. Never mind; I will read the 'Debats' and the 'Revue des Deux
Mondes,' and make out something. Foreign affairs are all the future, and
my views may be as right as anybody else's; probably more correct, not
so conventional. What a fool I was, Ferrars! I was asked to remain here
to-night and refused! The truth is, I could not stand those powdered
gentlemen, and I should have been under their care. They seem so haughty
and supercilious. And yet I was wrong. I spoke to one of them very
rudely just now, when he was handing coffee, to show I was not afraid,
and he answered me like a seraph. I felt remorse."

"Well, I have made the acquaintance of Mr. St. Barbe," said Myra to
Endymion. "Strange as he is, he seemed quite familiar to me, and he was
so full of himself that he never found me out. I hope some day to know
Mr. Trenchard and Mr. Waldershare. Those I look upon as your chief
friends."

On the following afternoon, Adriana, Myra, and Endymion took a long
walk together in the forest. The green glades in the autumnal woods were
inviting, and sometimes they stood before the vast form of some doddered
oak. The air was fresh and the sun was bright. Adriana was always gay
and happy in the company of her adored Myra, and her happiness and her
gaiety were not diminished by the presence of Myra's brother. So it was
a lively and pleasant walk.

At the end of a long glade they observed a horseman followed by a groom
approaching them. Endymion was some little way behind, gathering wild
flowers for Adriana. Cantering along, the cavalier soon reached them,
and then he suddenly pulled up his horse. It was Colonel Albert.

"You are walking, ladies? Permit me to join you," and he was by their
side. "I delight in forests and in green alleys," said Colonel Albert.
"Two wandering nymphs make the scene perfect."

"We are not alone," said Adriana, "but our guardian is picking some wild
flowers for us, which we fancied. I think it is time to return. You are
going to Hainault, I believe, Colonel Albert, so we can all walk home
together."

So they turned, and Endymion with his graceful offering in a moment met
them. Full of his successful quest, he offered with eager triumph the
flowers to Adriana, without casting a glance at her new companion.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed Adriana, and she stopped to admire and arrange
them. "See, dear Myra, is not this lovely? How superior to anything in
our glass-houses!"

Myra took the flower and examined it. Colonel Albert, who was silent,
was watching all this time Endymion with intentness, who now looked
up and encountered the gaze of the new comer. Their eyes met, their
countenances were agitated, they seemed perplexed, and then it seemed
that at the same time both extended their hands.

"It is a long time since we met," said Colonel Albert, and he retained
the hand of Endymion with affection. But Endymion, who was apparently
much moved, said nothing, or rather only murmured an echo to the remarks
of his new friend. And then they all walked on, but Myra fell a little
back and made a signal to Endymion to join her.

"You never told me, darling, that you knew Colonel Albert."

"Colonel Albert!" said Endymion, looking amazed, and then he added, "Who
is Colonel Albert?"

"That gentleman before us," said Myra.

"That is the Count of Otranto, whose fag I was at Eton."

"The Count of Otranto!"



CHAPTER XXXV

Colonel Albert from this day became an object of increased and deeper
interest to Myra. His appearance and manners had always been attractive,
and the mystery connected with him was not calculated to diminish
curiosity in his conduct or fate. But when she discovered that he was
the unseen hero of her childhood, the being who had been kind to her
Endymion in what she had ever considered the severest trial of her
brother's life, had been his protector from those who would have
oppressed him, and had cherished him in the desolate hour of his
delicate and tender boyhood, her heart was disturbed. How often had they
talked together of the Count of Otranto, and how often had they wondered
who he was! His memory had been a delightful mystery to them in their
Berkshire solitude, and Myra recalled with a secret smile the numberless
and ingenious inquiries by which she had endeavoured to elicit from her
brother some clue as to his friend, or to discover some detail which
might guide her to a conclusion. Endymion had known nothing, and was
clear always that the Count of Otranto must have been, and was, an
English boy. And now the Count of Otranto called himself Colonel Albert,
and though he persisted in speaking English, had admitted to Mrs.
Neuchatel that he was a foreigner.

Who was he? She resolved, when she had an opportunity, to speak to the
great banker on the subject.

"Do you know, Mr. Neuchatel," she said, "that Endymion, my brother, was
at school with Colonel Albert?"

"Ah, ah!" said Mr. Neuchatel.

"But when he was at school he had another name," said Myra.

"Oh, oh!" said Mr. Neuchatel.

"He was then called the Count of Otranto."

"That is a very pretty name," said Mr. Neuchatel.

"But why did he change it?" asked Myra.

"The great world often change their names," said Mr. Neuchatel. "It is
only poor City men like myself who are always called Mr., and bear the
same name as their fathers."

"But when a person is called a count when he is a boy, he is seldom
called only a colonel when he is a man," said Myra. "There is a great
mystery in all this."

"I should not be surprised," said Mr. Neuchatel, "if he were to change
his name again before this time year."

"Why?" asked Myra.

"Well, when I have read all his papers in Bishopsgate Street, perhaps I
shall be able to tell you," said Mr. Neuchatel, and Myra felt that she
could pursue the theme no further.

She expected that Endymion would in time be able to obtain this
information, but it was not so. In their first private conversation
after their meeting in the forest, Endymion had informed Colonel Albert
that, though they had met now for the first time since his return, they
had been for some time lodgers in London under the same roof. Colonel
Albert smiled when Endymion told him this; then falling into thought,
he said; "I hope we may often meet, but for the moment it may be as well
that the past should be known only to ourselves. I wish my life for the
present to be as private as I can arrange it. There is no reason why we
should not be sometimes together--that is, when you have leisure. I had
the pleasure of making your acquaintance at my banker's."

Parliament had been dissolved through the demise of the crown in the
summer of this year (1837), and London society had been prematurely
broken up. Waldershare had left town early in July to secure his
election, in which he was successful, with no intention of settling
again in his old haunts till the meeting of the new House of Commons,
which was to be in November. The Rodneys were away at some Kentish
watering-place during August and September, exhibiting to an admiring
world their exquisitely made dresses, and enjoying themselves amazingly
at balls and assemblies at the public rooms. The resources of private
society also were not closed to them. Mr. and Mrs. Gamme were also there
and gave immense dinners, and the airy Mrs. Hooghley, who laughed a
little at the Gammes' substantial gatherings and herself improvised
charming pic-nics. So there was really little embarrassment in the
social relations between Colonel Albert and Endymion. They resolved
themselves chiefly into arranging joint expeditions to Hainault.
Endymion had a perpetual invitation there, and it seemed that the
transactions between Mr. Neuchatel and the colonel required much
conference, for the banker always expected him, although it was well
known that they met not unfrequently in Bishopsgate Street in the course
of the week. Colonel Albert and Endymion always stayed at Hainault from
Saturday till Monday. It delighted the colonel to mount Endymion on one
of his choice steeds, and his former fag enjoyed all this amazingly.

Colonel Albert became domiciled at Hainault. The rooms which were
occupied by him when there were always reserved for him. He had a
general invitation, and might leave his luggage and books and papers
behind him. It was evident that the family pleased him. Between Mr.
Neuchatel and himself there were obviously affairs of great interest;
but it was equally clear that he liked the female members of the
family--all of them; and all liked him. And yet it cannot be said that
he was entertaining, but there are some silent people who are more
interesting than the best talkers. And when he did speak he always
said the right thing. His manners were tender and gentle; he had an
unobtrusive sympathy with all they said or did, except, indeed, and that
was not rarely, when he was lost in profound abstraction.

"I delight in your friend the colonel, Adrian," said Mrs. Neuchatel,
"but I must say he is very absent."

"He has a good deal to think about," said Mr. Neuchatel.

"I wonder what it can be," thought Myra.

"He has a claim to a great estate," said Mr. Neuchatel, "and he has to
think of the best mode of establishing it; and he has been deprived of
great honours, and he believes unjustly, and he wishes to regain them."

"No wonder, then, he is absent," said Mrs. Neuchatel. "If he only knew
what a burthen great wealth is, I am sure he would not wish to possess
it, and as for honours I never could make out why having a title or a
ribbon could make any difference in a human being."

"Nonsense, my dear Emily," said Mr. Neuchatel. "Great wealth is a
blessing to a man who knows what to do with it, and as for honours, they
are inestimable to the honourable."

"Well, I ardently hope Colonel Albert may succeed," said Myra, "because
he was so kind to my brother at Eton. He must have a good heart."

"They say he is the most unscrupulous of living men," said Mr.
Neuchatel, with his peculiar smile.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Neuchatel.

"How terrible!" said Adriana. "It cannot be true."

"Perhaps he is the most determined," said Myra. "Moral courage is the
rarest of qualities, and often maligned."

"Well, he has got a champion," said Mr. Neuchatel.

"I ardently wish him success," said Myra, "in all his undertakings. I
only wish I knew what they were."

"Has not he told your brother, Miss Ferrars?" asked Mr. Neuchatel, with
laughing eyes.

"He never speaks of himself to Endymion," said Myra.

"He speaks a good deal of himself to me," said Mr. Neuchatel; "and he is
going to bring a friend here to-morrow who knows more about his affairs
even than I do. So you will have a very good opportunity, Miss Ferrars,
of making yourself acquainted with them, particularly if you sit next to
him at dinner, and are very winning."

The friend of Colonel Albert was Baron Sergius, the baron who used to
visit him in London at twilight in a dark brougham. Mrs. Neuchatel
was greatly taken by his appearance, by the calmness of his mien, his
unstudied politeness, and his measured voice. He conversed with her
entirely at dinner on German philosophy, of which he seemed a complete
master, explained to her the different schools, and probably the
successful ones, and imparted to her that precise knowledge which she
required on the subject, and which she had otherwise been unable
to obtain. It seemed, too, that he personally knew all the famous
professors, and he intimated their doctrines not only with profound
criticism, but described their persons and habits with vividness and
picturesque power, never, however, all this time, by any chance raising
his voice, the tones of which were ever distinct and a little precise.

"Is this the first visit of your friend to this country?" asked Myra of
Colonel Albert.

"Oh no; he has been here often--and everywhere," added Colonel Albert.

"Everywhere! he must be a most interesting companion then."

"I find him so: I never knew any one whom I thought equal to him. But
perhaps I am not an impartial judge, for I have known him so long and
so intimately. In fact, I had never been out of his sight till I was
brought over to this country to be placed at Eton. He is the counsellor
of our family, and we all of us have ever agreed that if his advice had
been always followed we should never have had a calamity."

"Indeed, a gifted person! Is he a soldier?"

"No; Baron Sergius has not followed the profession of arms."

"He looks a diplomatist."

"Well, he is now nothing but my friend," said the colonel. "He might
have been anything, but he is a peculiarly domestic character, and is
devoted to private life."

"You are fortunate in such a friend."

"Well, I am glad to be fortunate in something," said Colonel Albert.

"And are you not fortunate in everything?"

"I have not that reputation; but I shall be more than fortunate if I
have your kind wishes."

"Those you have," said Myra, rather eagerly. "My brother taught me, even
as a child, to wish nothing but good for you. I wish I knew only what I
was to wish for."

"Wish that my plans may succeed," said Colonel Albert, looking round to
her with interest.

"I will more than wish," said Myra; "I will believe that they will
succeed, because I think you have resolved to succeed."

"I shall tell Endymion when I see him," said Colonel Albert, "that his
sister is the only person who has read my character."



CHAPTER XXXVI

Colonel Albert and Baron Sergius drove up in their landau from Hainault
while Endymion was at the door in Warwick Street, returning home. The
colonel saluted him cordially, and said, "The baron is going to take
a cup of coffee with me; join us." So they went upstairs. There was
a packet on the table, which seemed to catch the colonel's eye
immediately, and he at once opened it with eagerness. It contained many
foreign newspapers. Without waiting for the servant who was about to
bring candles, the colonel lighted a taper on the table with a lucifer,
and then withdrew into the adjoining chamber, opening, however, with
folding doors to the principal and spacious apartment.

"A foreign newspaper always interests our friend," said the baron,
taking his coffee.

"Well, it must always be interesting to have news from home, I suppose,"
said Endymion.

"Home!" said the baron. "News is always interesting, whether it come
from home or not."

"To public men," said Endymion.

"To all men if they be wise," said the baron; "as a general rule, the
most successful man in life is the man who has the best information."

"But what a rare thing is success in life!" said Endymion. "I often
wonder whether I shall ever be able to step out of the crowd."

"You may have success in life without stepping out of the crowd," said
the baron.

"A sort of success," said Endymion; "I know what you mean. But what I
mean is real success in life. I mean, I should like to be a public man."

"Why?" asked the baron.

"Well, I should like to have power," said Endymion, blushing.

"The most powerful men are not public men," said the baron. "A public
man is responsible, and a responsible man is a slave. It is private life
that governs the world. You will find this out some day. The world talks
much of powerful sovereigns and great ministers; and if being talked
about made one powerful, they would be irresistible. But the fact is,
the more you are talked about the less powerful you are."

"But surely King Luitbrand is a powerful monarch; they say he is the
wisest of men. And the Emperor Harold, who has succeeded in everything.
And as for ministers, who is a great man if it be not Prince
Wenceslaus?"

"King Luitbrand is governed by his doctor, who is capable of governing
Europe, but has no ambition that way; the Emperor Harold is directed by
his mistress, who is a woman of a certain age with a vast sagacity,
but who also believes in sorcery; and as for Prince Wenceslaus, he is
inspired by an individual as obscure as ourselves, and who, for aught I
know, may be, at this moment, like ourselves, drinking a cup of coffee
in a hired lodging."

"What you say about public life amazes me," said Endymion musingly.

"Think over it," said the baron. "As an Englishman, you will have
difficulty in avoiding public life. But at any rate do not at present
be discontented that you are unknown. It is the first condition of real
power. When you have succeeded in life according to your views, and I
am inclined to believe you will so succeed, you will, some day, sigh
for real power, and denounce the time when you became a public man, and
belonged to any one but yourself. But our friend calls me. He has found
something startling. I will venture to say, if there be anything in it,
it has been brought about by some individual of whom you never heard."



CHAPTER XXXVII

With the assembling of parliament in November recommenced the sittings
of the Union Society, of which Endymion had for some time been a member,
and of whose meetings he was a constant and critical, though
silent, attendant. There was a debate one night on the government
of dependencies, which, although all reference to existing political
circumstances was rigidly prohibited, no doubt had its origin in
the critical state of one of our most important colonies, then much
embarrassing the metropolis. The subject was one which Endymion had
considered, and on which he had arrived at certain conclusions. The
meeting was fully attended, and the debate had been conducted with a
gravity becoming the theme. Endymion was sitting on a back bench, and
with no companion near him with whom he was acquainted, when he rose
and solicited the attention of the president. Another and a well-known
speaker had also risen, and been called, but there was a cry of "new
member," a courteous cry, borrowed from the House of Commons, and
Endymion for the first time heard his own voice in public. He has since
admitted, though he has been through many trying scenes, that it was
the most nervous moment of his life. "After Calais," as a wise wit said,
"nothing surprises;" and the first time a man speaks in public, even if
only at a debating society, is also the unequalled incident in its way.
The indulgence of the audience supported him while the mist cleared
from his vision, and his palpitating heart subsided into comparative
tranquillity. After a few pardonable incoherencies, he was launched into
his subject, and spoke with the thoughtful fluency which knowledge alone
can sustain. For knowledge is the foundation of eloquence.

"What a good-looking young fellow!" whispered Mr. Bertie Tremaine to his
brother Mr. Tremaine Bertie. The Bertie Tremaines were the two greatest
swells of the Union, and had a party of their own. "And he speaks well."

"Who is he?" inquired Mr. Tremaine Bertie of their other neighbour.

"He is a clerk in the Treasury, I believe, or something of that sort,"
was the reply.

"I never saw such a good-looking young fellow," said Mr. Bertie
Tremaine. "He is worth getting hold of. I shall ask to be introduced to
him when we break up."

Accordingly, Mr. Bertie Tremaine, who was always playing at politics,
and who, being two-and-twenty, was discontented he was not Chancellor
of the Exchequer like Mr. Pitt, whispered to a gentleman who sate behind
him, and was, in short, the whip of his section, and signified, as a
minister of state would, that an introduction to Mr. Ferrars should be
arranged.

So when the meeting broke up, of which Mr. Ferrars' maiden speech was
quite the event, and while he was contemplating, not without some fair
self-complacency, walking home with Trenchard, Endymion found himself
encompassed by a group of bowing forms and smiling countenances, and,
almost before he was aware of it, had made the acquaintance of the great
Mr. Bertie Tremaine, and received not only the congratulations of that
gentleman, but an invitation to dine with him on the morrow; "quite
_sans facon_."

Mr. Bertie Tremaine, who had early succeeded to the family estate, lived
in Grosvenor Street, and in becoming style. His house was furnished with
luxury and some taste. The host received his guests in a library, well
stored with political history and political science, and adorned with
the busts of celebrated statesmen and of profound political sages.
Bentham was the philosopher then affected by young gentleman of
ambition, and who wished to have credit for profundity and hard heads.
Mr. Bertie Tremaine had been the proprietor of a close borough, which
for several generations had returned his family to parliament, the
faithful supporters of Pitt, and Perceval, and Liverpool, and he had
contemplated following the same line, though with larger and higher
objects than his ancestors. Being a man of considerable and versatile
ability, and of ample fortune, with the hereditary opportunity which
he possessed, he had a right to aspire, and, as his vanity more than
equalled his talents, his estimate of his own career was not mean.
Unfortunately, before he left Harrow, he was deprived of his borough,
and this catastrophe eventually occasioned a considerable change in the
views and conduct of Mr. Bertie Tremaine. In the confusion of parties
and political thought which followed the Reform Act of Lord Grey, an
attempt to govern the country by the assertion of abstract principles,
and which it was now beginning to be the fashion to call Liberalism,
seemed the only opening to public life; and Mr. Bertie Tremaine, who
piqued himself on recognising the spirit of the age, adopted Liberal
opinions with that youthful fervour which is sometimes called
enthusiasm, but which is a heat of imagination subsequently discovered
to be inconsistent with the experience of actual life. At Cambridge
Mr. Bertie Tremaine was at first the solitary pupil of Bentham, whose
principles he was prepared to carry to their extreme consequences, but
being a man of energy and in possession of a good estate, he soon found
followers, for the sympathies of youth are quick, and, even with an
original bias, it is essentially mimetic. When Mr. Bertie Tremaine left
the university he found in the miscellaneous elements of the London
Union many of his former companions of school and college, and from
them, and the new world to which he was introduced, it delighted him to
form parties and construct imaginary cabinets. His brother Augustus, who
was his junior only by a year, and was destined to be a diplomatist, was
an efficient assistant in these enterprises, and was one of the guests
who greeted Endymion when he arrived next day in Grosvenor Street
according to his engagement. The other three were Hortensius, the whip
of the party, and Mr. Trenchard.

The dinner was refined, for Mr. Bertie Tremaine combined the Sybarite
with the Utilitarian sage, and it secretly delighted him to astonish or
embarrass an austere brother republican by the splendour of his
family plate or the polished appointments of his household. To-day the
individual to be influenced was Endymion, and the host, acting up to his
ideal of a first minister, addressed questions to his companions on the
subjects which were peculiarly their own, and, after eliciting their
remarks, continued to complete the treatment of the theme with adequate
ability, though in a manner authoritative, and, as Endymion thought,
a little pompous. What amused him most in this assemblage of youth was
their earnest affectation of public life. The freedom of their comments
on others was only equalled by their confidence in themselves. Endymion,
who only spoke when he was appealed to, had casually remarked in answer
to one of the observations which his host with elaborate politeness
occasionally addressed to him, that he thought it was unpatriotic to
take a certain course. Mr. Bertie Tremaine immediately drew up, and
said, with a deep smile, "that he comprehended philanthropy, but
patriotism he confessed he did not understand;" and thereupon delivered
himself of an address on the subject which might have been made in the
Union, and which communicated to the astonished Endymion that patriotism
was a false idea, and entirely repugnant to the principles of the new
philosophy. As all present were more or less impregnated with these
tenets, there was no controversy on the matter. Endymion remained
discreetly silent, and Augustus--Mr. Bertie Tremaine's brother--who sate
next to him, and whose manners were as sympathising as his brother's
were autocratic, whispered in a wheedling tone that it was quite true,
and that the idea of patriotism was entirely relinquished except by a
few old-fashioned folks who clung to superstitious phrases. Hortensius,
who seemed to be the only one of the company who presumed to meet Mr.
Bertie Tremaine in conversation on equal terms, and who had already
astonished Endymion by what that inexperienced youth deemed the extreme
laxity of his views, both social and political, evinced, more than once,
a disposition to deviate into the lighter topics of feminine character,
and even the fortunes of the hazard-table; but the host looked severe,
and was evidently resolved that the conversation to-day should resemble
the expression of his countenance. After dinner they returned to the
library, and most of them smoked, but Mr. Bertie Tremaine, inviting
Endymion to seat himself by his side on a sofa at the farther end of the
room, observed, "I suppose you are looking to parliament?"

"Well, I do not know," said the somewhat startled Endymion; "I have not
thought much about it, and I have not yet reached a parliamentary age."

"A man cannot enter parliament too soon," said Mr. Bertie Tremaine;
"I hope to enter this session. There will be a certain vacancy on a
petition, and I have arranged to have the seat."

"Indeed!" said Endymion. "My father was in parliament, and so was my
grandfather, but I confess I do not very well see my way there."

"You must connect yourself with a party," said Mr. Bertie Tremaine, "and
you will soon enter; and being young, you should connect yourself with
the party of the future. The country is wearied with the present men,
who have no philosophical foundation, and are therefore perpetually
puzzled and inconsistent, and the country will not stand the old men, as
it is resolved against retrogression. The party of the future and of the
speedy future has its headquarters under this roof, and I should like to
see you belong to it."

"You are too kind," murmured Endymion.

"Yes, I see in you the qualities adapted to public life, and which may
be turned to great account. I must get you into parliament as soon as
you are eligible," continued Mr. Bertie Tremaine in a musing tone. "This
death of the King was very inopportune. If he had reigned a couple
of years more, I saw my way to half a dozen seats, and I could have
arranged with Lord Durham."

"That was unfortunate," said Endymion.

"What do you think of Hortensius?" inquired Mr. Bertie Tremaine.

"I think him the most brilliant speaker I know," said Endymion. "I never
met him in private society before; he talks well."

"He wants conduct," said Mr. Bertie Tremaine. "He ought to be my
Lord Chancellor, but there is a tone of levity about him which is
unfortunate. Men destined to the highest places should beware of
badinage."

"I believe it is a dangerous weapon."

"All lawyers are loose in their youth, but an insular country subject
to fogs, and with a powerful middle class, requires grave statesmen. I
attribute a great deal of the nonsense called Conservative Reaction to
Peel's solemnity. The proper minister for England at this moment would
be Pitt. Extreme youth gives hope to a country; coupled with ceremonious
manners, hope soon assumes the form of confidence."

"Ah!" murmured Endymion.

"I had half a mind to ask Jawett to dinner to-day. His powers are
unquestionable, but he is not a practical man. For instance, I think
myself our colonial empire is a mistake, and that we should disembarrass
ourselves of its burthen as rapidly as is consistent with the dignity of
the nation; but were Jawett in the House of Commons to-morrow, nothing
would satisfy him but a resolution for the total and immediate abolition
of the empire, with a preamble denouncing the folly of our fathers in
creating it. Jawett never spares any one's self-love."

"I know him very well," said Endymion; "he is in my office. He is very
uncompromising."

"Yes," said Mr. Bertie Tremaine musingly; "if I had to form a
government, I could hardly offer him the cabinet." Then speaking more
rapidly, he added, "The man you should attach yourself to is my brother
Augustus--Mr. Tremaine Bertie. There is no man who understands foreign
politics like Augustus, and he is a thorough man of the world."



CHAPTER XXXVIII

When parliament reassembled in February, the Neuchatels quitted Hainault
for their London residence in Portland Place. Mrs. Neuchatel was
sadly troubled at leaving her country home, which, notwithstanding its
distressing splendour, had still some forms of compensatory innocence
in its flowers and sylvan glades. Adriana sighed when she called to mind
the manifold and mortifying snares and pitfalls that awaited her, and
had even framed a highly practical and sensible scheme which would
permit her parents to settle in town and allow Myra and herself to
remain permanently in the country; but Myra brushed away the project
like a fly, and Adriana yielding, embraced her with tearful eyes.

The Neuchatel mansion in Portland Place was one of the noblest in that
comely quarter of the town, and replete with every charm and convenience
that wealth and taste could provide. Myra, who, like her brother, had a
tenacious memory, was interested in recalling as fully and as accurately
as possible her previous experience of London life. She was then indeed
only a child, but a child who was often admitted to brilliant circles,
and had enjoyed opportunities of social observation which the very
youthful seldom possess. Her retrospection was not as profitable as she
could have desired, and she was astonished, after a severe analysis of
the past, to find how entirely at that early age she appeared to
have been engrossed with herself and with Endymion. Hill Street and
Wimbledon, and all their various life, figured as shadowy scenes; she
could realise nothing very definite for her present guidance; the past
seemed a phantom of fine dresses, and bright equipages, and endless
indulgence. All that had happened after their fall was distinct and full
of meaning. It would seem that adversity had taught Myra to feel and
think.

Forty years ago the great financiers had not that commanding, not to say
predominant, position in society which they possess at present, but
the Neuchatels were an exception to this general condition. They were
a family which not only had the art of accumulating wealth, but of
expending it with taste and generosity--an extremely rare combination.
Their great riches, their political influence, their high integrity and
their social accomplishments, combined to render their house not only
splendid, but interesting and agreeable, and gave them a great hold upon
the world. At first the fine ladies of their political party called on
them as a homage of condescending gratitude for the public support which
the Neuchatel family gave to their sons and husbands, but they soon
discovered that this amiable descent from their Olympian heights on
their part did not amount exactly to the sacrifice or service which they
had contemplated. They found their host as refined as themselves, and
much more magnificent, and in a very short time it was not merely the
wives of ambassadors and ministers of state that were found at the
garden fetes of Hainault, or the balls, and banquets, and concerts
of Portland Place, but the fitful and capricious realm of fashion
surrendered like a fair country conquered as it were by surprise. To
visit the Neuchatels became the mode; all solicited to be their guests,
and some solicited in vain.

Although it was only February, the world began to move, and some of the
ministers' wives, who were socially strong enough to venture on such a
step, received their friends. Mr. Neuchatel particularly liked this
form of society. "I cannot manage balls," he used to say, "but I like a
ministerial reception. There is some chance of sensible conversation and
doing a little business. I like talking with ambassadors after dinner.
Besides, in this country you meet the leaders of the opposition,
because, as they are not invited by the minister, but by his wife,
anybody can come without committing himself."

Myra, faithful to her original resolution, not to enter society while
she was in mourning, declined all the solicitudes of her friends to
accompany them to these assemblies. Mrs. Neuchatel always wished Myra
should be her substitute, and it was only at Myra's instance that
Adriana accompanied her parents. In the meantime, Myra saw much of
Endymion. He was always a welcome guest by the family, and could call
upon his sister at all the odds and ends of time that were at his
command, and chat with her at pleasant ease in her pretty room.
Sometimes they walked out together, and sometimes they went together to
see some exhibition that everybody went to see. Adriana became almost
as intimate with Endymion as his sister, and altogether the Neuchatel
family became by degrees to him as a kind of home. Talking with
Endymion, Myra heard a good deal of Colonel Albert, for he was her
brother's hero--but she rarely saw that gentleman. She was aware from
her brother, and from some occasional words of Mr. Neuchatel, that the
great banker still saw Colonel Albert and not unfrequently, but the
change of residence from Hainault to London made a difference in their
mode of communication. Business was transacted in Bishopsgate Street,
and no longer combined with a pleasant ride to an Essex forest. More
than once Colonel Albert had dined in Portland Place, but at irregular
and miscellaneous parties. Myra observed that he was never asked to
meet the grand personages who attended the celebrated banquets of Mr.
Neuchatel. And why not? His manners were distinguished, but his whole
bearing that of one accustomed to consideration. The irrepressible
curiosity of woman impelled her once to feel her way on the subject with
Mr. Neuchatel, but with the utmost dexterity and delicacy.

"No," said Mr. Neuchatel with a laughing eye, and who saw through
everybody's purpose, though his own manner was one of simplicity
amounting almost to innocence, "I did not say Colonel Albert was going
to dine here on Wednesday; I have asked him to dine here on Sunday. On
Wednesday I am going to have the premier and some of his colleagues.
I must insist upon Miss Ferrars dining at table. You will meet Lord
Roehampton; all the ladies admire him and he admires all the ladies. It
will not do to ask Colonel Albert to meet such a party, though perhaps,"
added Mr. Neuchatel with a merry smile, "some day they may be asked to
meet Colonel Albert. Who knows, Miss Ferrars? The wheel of Fortune turns
round very strangely."

"And who then is Colonel Albert?" asked Myra with decision.

"Colonel Albert is Colonel Albert, and nobody else, so far as I know,"
replied Mr. Neuchatel; "he has brought a letter of credit on my house
in that name, and I am happy to honour his drafts to the amount in
question, and as he is a foreigner, I think it is but kind and courteous
occasionally to ask him to dinner."

Miss Ferrars did not pursue the inquiry, for she was sufficiently
acquainted with Mr. Neuchatel to feel that he did not intend to gratify
her curiosity.

The banquet of the Neuchatels to the premier, and some of the principal
ambassadors and their wives, and to those of the premier's colleagues
who were fashionable enough to be asked, and to some of the dukes and
duchesses and other ethereal beings who supported the ministry, was the
first event of the season. The table blazed with rare flowers and rarer
porcelain and precious candelabra of sculptured beauty glittering with
light; the gold plate was less remarkable than the delicate ware that
had been alike moulded and adorned for a Du Barri or a Marie Antoinette,
and which now found a permanent and peaceful home in the proverbial
land of purity and order; and amid the stars and ribbons, not the least
remarkable feature of the whole was Mr. Neuchatel himself, seated at
the centre of his table, alike free from ostentation or over-deference,
talking to the great ladies on each side of him, as if he had nothing to
do in life but whisper in gentle ears, and partaking of his own dainties
as if he were eating bread and cheese at a country inn.

Perhaps Mrs. Neuchatel might have afforded a companion picture. Partly
in deference to their host, and partly because this evening the first
dance of the season was to be given, the great ladies in general wore
their diamonds, and Myra was amused as she watched their dazzling tiaras
and flashing rivieres, while not a single ornament adorned the graceful
presence of their hostess, who was more content to be brilliant only by
her conversation. As Mr. Neuchatel had only a few days before presented
his wife with another diamond necklace, he might be excused were he
slightly annoyed. Nothing of the sort; he only shrugged his shoulders,
and said to his nephew, "Your aunt must feel that I give her diamonds
from love and not from vanity, as she never lets me have the pleasure
of seeing them." The sole ornament of Adriana was an orchid, which had
arrived that morning from Hainault, and she had presented its fellow to
Myra.

There was one lady who much attracted the attention of Myra, interested
in all she observed. This lady was evidently a person of importance, for
she sate between an ambassador and a knight of the garter, and they vied
in homage to her. They watched her every word, and seemed delighted with
all she said. Without being strictly beautiful, there was an expression
of sweet animation in her physiognomy which was highly attractive: her
eye was full of summer lightning, and there was an arch dimple in her
smile, which seemed to irradiate her whole countenance. She was quite a
young woman, hardly older than Myra. What most distinguished her was the
harmony of her whole person; her graceful figure, her fair and finely
moulded shoulders, her pretty teeth, and her small extremities, seemed
to blend with and become the soft vivacity of her winning glance.

"Lady Montfort looks well to-night," said the neighbour of Myra.

"And is that Lady Montfort? Do you know, I never saw her before."

"Yes; that is the famous Berengaria, the Queen of Society, and the
genius of Whiggism."

In the evening, a great lady, who was held to have the finest voice in
society, favoured them with a splendid specimen of her commanding skill,
and then Adriana was induced to gratify her friends with a song, "only
one song," and that only on condition that Myra should accompany her.
Miss Neuchatel had a sweet and tender voice, and it had been finely
cultivated; she would have been more than charming if she had only taken
interest in anything she herself did, or believed for a moment that
she could interest others. When she ceased, a gentleman approached
the instrument and addressed her in terms of sympathy and deferential
praise. Myra recognised the knight of the garter who had sat next to
Lady Montfort. He was somewhat advanced in middle life, tall and of a
stately presence, with a voice more musical even than the tones which
had recently enchanted every one. His countenance was impressive,
a truly Olympian brow, but the lower part of the face indicated not
feebleness, but flexibility, and his mouth was somewhat sensuous. His
manner was at once winning; natural, and singularly unaffected, and
seemed to sympathise entirely with those whom he addressed.

"But I have never been at Hainault," said the gentleman, continuing
a conversation, "and therefore could not hear the nightingales. I am
content you have brought one of them to town."

"Nightingales disappear in June," said Miss Ferrars; "so our season will
be short."

"And where do they travel to?" asked the gentleman.

"Ah! that is a mystery," said Myra. "You must ask Miss Neuchatel."

"But she will not tell me," said the gentleman, for in truth Miss
Neuchatel, though he had frequently addressed her, had scarcely opened
her lips.

"Tell your secret, Adriana," said Miss Ferrars, trying to force her to
converse.

"Adriana!" said the gentleman. "What a beautiful name! You look with
that flower, Miss Neuchatel, like a bride of Venice."

"Nay," said Myra; "the bride of Venice was a stormy ocean."

"And have you a Venetian name?" asked the gentleman.

There was a pause, and then Miss Neuchatel, with an effort, murmured,
"She has a very pretty name. Her name is Myra."

"She seems to deserve it," said the gentleman.

"So you like my daughter's singing," said Mr. Neuchatel, coming up to
them. "She does not much like singing in public, but she is a very good
girl, and always gives me a song when I come home from business."


"Fortunate man!" said the gentleman. "I wish somebody would sing to me
when I come home from business."

"You should marry, my lord," said Mr. Neuchatel, "and get your wife to
sing to you. Is it not so, Miss Ferrars? By the by, I ought to introduce
you to--Lord Roehampton."



CHAPTER XXXIX

The Earl of Roehampton was the strongest member of the government,
except, of course, the premier himself. He was the man from whose
combined force and flexibility of character the country had confidence
that in all their councils there would be no lack of courage, yet
tempered with adroit discretion. Lord Roehampton, though an Englishman,
was an Irish peer, and was resolved to remain so, for he fully
appreciated the position, which united social distinction with the power
of a seat in the House of Commons. He was a very ambitious, and, as it
was thought, worldly man, deemed even by many to be unscrupulous, and
yet he was romantic. A great favourite in society, and especially
with the softer sex, somewhat late in life, he had married suddenly
a beautiful woman, who was without fortune, and not a member of the
enchanted circle in which he flourished. The union had been successful,
for Lord Roehampton was gifted with a sweet temper, and, though people
said he had no heart, with a winning tenderness of disposition, or at
least of manner, which at the same time charmed and soothed. He had been
a widower for two years, and the world was of opinion that he ought to
marry again, and form this time a becoming alliance. In addition to his
many recommendations he had now the inestimable reputation, which no one
had ever contemplated for him, of having been a good husband.

Berengaria, Countess of Montfort, was a great friend of Lord Roehampton.
She was accustomed to describe herself as "the last of his conquests,"
and though Lord Roehampton read characters and purposes with a glance,
and was too sagacious to be deceived by any one, even by himself,
his gratified taste, for he scarcely had vanity, cherished the bright
illusion of which he was conscious, and he responded to Lady Montfort
half sportively, half seriously, with an air of flattered devotion. Lord
Roehampton had inherited an ample estate, and he had generally been in
office; for he served his apprenticeship under Perceval and Liverpool,
and changed his party just in time to become a member of the Cabinet of
1831. Yet with all these advantages, whether it were the habit of his
life, which was ever profuse, or that neglect of his private interests
which almost inevitably accompanies the absorbing duties of public life,
his affairs were always somewhat confused, and Lady Montfort, who
wished to place him on a pinnacle, had resolved that he should marry
an heiress. After long observation and careful inquiry and prolonged
reflection, the lady she had fixed upon was Miss Neuchatel; and she
it was who had made Lord Roehampton cross the room and address Adriana
after her song.

"He is not young," reasoned Lady Montfort to herself, "but his mind and
manner are young, and that is everything. I am sure I meet youth every
day who, compared with Lord Roehampton, could have no chance with my
sex--men who can neither feel, nor think, nor converse. And then he is
famous, and powerful, and fashionable, and knows how to talk to women.
And this must all tell with a banker's daughter, dying, of course, to
be a _grande dame_. It will do. He may not be young, but he is
irresistible. And the father will like it, for he told me in confidence,
at dinner, that he wished Lord Roehampton to be prime minister; and with
this alliance he will be."

The plot being devised by a fertile brain never wanting in expedients,
its development was skilfully managed, and its accomplishment
anticipated with confidence. It was remarkable with what dexterity the
Neuchatel family and Lord Roehampton were brought together. Berengaria's
lord and master was in the country, which he said he would not quit; but
this did not prevent her giving delightful little dinners and holding
select assemblies on nights when there was no dreadful House of Commons,
and Lord Roehampton could be present. On most occasions, and especially
on these latter ones, Lady Montfort could not endure existence without
her dear Adriana. Mr. Neuchatel, who was a little in the plot, who at
least smiled when Berengaria alluded to her enterprise, was not wanting
in his contributions to its success. He hardly ever gave one of his
famous banquets to which Lord Roehampton was not invited, and, strange
to say, Lord Roehampton, who had the reputation of being somewhat
difficult on this head, always accepted the invitations. The crowning
social incident, however, was when Lord Roehampton opened his own house
for the first time since his widowhood, and received the Neuchatels at
a banquet not inferior to their own. This was a great triumph for Lady
Montfort, who thought the end was at hand.

"Life is short," she said to Lord Roehampton that evening. "Why not
settle it to-night?"

"Well," said Lord Roehampton, "you know I never like anything
precipitate. Besides, why should the citadel surrender when I have
hardly entered on my first parallel?"

"Ah! those are old-fashioned tactics," said Lady Montfort.

"Well, I suppose I am an old-fashioned man."

"Be serious, now. I want it settled before Easter. I must go down to my
lord then, and even before; and I should like to see this settled before
we separate."

"Why does not Montfort come up to town?" said Lord Roehampton. "He is
wanted."

"Well," said Lady Montfort, with half a sigh, "it is no use talking
about it. He will not come. Our society bores him, and he must be
amused. I write to him every day, and sometimes twice a day, and pass my
life in collecting things to interest him. I would never leave him for a
moment, only I know then that he would get wearied of me; and he thinks
now--at least, he once said so--that he has never had a dull moment in
my company."

"How can he find amusement in the country?" said Lord Roehampton. "There
is no sport now, and a man cannot always be reading French novels."

"Well, I send amusing people down to him," said Berengaria. "It
is difficult to arrange, for he does not like toadies, which is so
unreasonable, for I know many toadies who are very pleasant. Treeby is
with him now, and that is excellent, for Treeby contradicts him, and is
scientific as well as fashionable, and gives him the last news of the
Sun as well as of White's. I want to get this great African traveller to
go down to him; but one can hardly send a perfect stranger as a guest.
I wanted Treeby to take him, but Treeby refused--men are so selfish.
Treeby could have left him there, and the traveller might have remained
a week, told all he had seen, and as much more as he liked. My lord
cannot stand Treeby more than two days, and Treeby cannot stand my lord
for a longer period, and that is why they are such friends."

"A sound basis of agreement," said Lord Roehampton. "I believe absence
is often a great element of charm."

"But, _a nos moutons_," resumed Lady Montfort. "You see now why I am so
anxious for a conclusion of our affair. I think it is ripe?"

"Why do you?" said Lord Roehampton.

"Well, she must be very much in love with you."

"Has she told you so?"

"No; but she looks in love."

"She has never told me so," said Lord Roehampton.

"Have you told her?"

"Well, I have not," said her companion. "I like the family--all of them.
I like Neuchatel particularly. I like his house and style of living.
You always meet nice people there, and bear the last thing that has been
said or done all over the world. It is a house where you are sure not to
be dull."

"You have described a perfect home," said Lady Montfort, "and it awaits
you."

"Well, I do not know," said Lord Roehampton. "Perhaps I am fastidious,
perhaps I am content; to be noticed sometimes by a Lady Montfort should,
I think, satisfy any man."

"Well, that is gallant, but it is not business, my dear lord. You can
count on my devotion even when you are married; but I want to see you on
a pinnacle, so that if anything happens there shall be no question who
is to be the first man in this country."



CHAPTER XL

The meeting of parliament caused also the return of Waldershare to
England, and brought life and enjoyment to our friends in Warwick
Street. Waldershare had not taken his seat in the autumn session. After
the general election, he had gone abroad with Lord Beaumaris, the young
nobleman who had taken them to the Derby, and they had seen and
done many strange things. During all their peregrinations, however,
Waldershare maintained a constant correspondence with Imogene,
occasionally sending her a choice volume, which she was not only to
read, but to prove her perusal of it by forwarding to him a criticism of
its contents.

Endymion was too much pleased to meet Waldershare again, and told him of
the kind of intimacy he had formed with Colonel Albert and all about
the baron. Waldershare was much interested in these details, and it was
arranged that an opportunity should be taken to make the colonel and
Waldershare acquainted.

This, however, was not an easy result to bring about, for Waldershare
insisted on its not occurring formally, and as the colonel maintained
the utmost reserve with the household, and Endymion had no room of
reception, weeks passed over without Waldershare knowing more of Colonel
Albert personally than sometimes occasionally seeing him mount his
horse.

In the meantime life in Warwick Street, so far as the Rodney family were
concerned, appeared to have re-assumed its pleasant, and what perhaps
we are authorised in styling its normal condition. They went to the
play two or three times a week, and there Waldershare or Lord Beaumaris,
frequently both, always joined them; and then they came home to supper,
and then they smoked; and sometimes there was a little singing, and
sometimes a little whist. Occasionally there was only conversation, that
is to say, Waldershare held forth, dilating on some wondrous theme,
full of historical anecdote, and dazzling paradox, and happy phrase. All
listened with interest, even those who did not understand him. Much of
his talk was addressed really to Beaumaris, whose mind he was forming,
as well as that of Imogene. Beaumaris was an hereditary Whig, but had
not personally committed himself, and the ambition of Waldershare was
to transform him not only into a Tory, but one of the old rock, a
real Jacobite. "Is not the Tory party," Waldershare would exclaim, "a
succession of heroic spirits, 'beautiful and swift,' ever in the van,
and foremost of their age?--Hobbes and Bolingbroke, Hume and Adam Smith,
Wyndham and Cobham, Pitt and Grenville, Canning and Huskisson?--Are not
the principles of Toryism those popular rights which men like Shippen
and Hynde Cotton flung in the face of an alien monarch and his mushroom
aristocracy?--Place bills, triennial bills, opposition to standing
armies, to peerage bills?--Are not the traditions of the Tory party the
noblest pedigree in the world? Are not its illustrations that glorious
martyrology, that opens with the name of Falkland and closes with the
name of Canning?"

"I believe it is all true," whispered Lord Beaumaris to Sylvia, who had
really never heard of any of these gentlemen before, but looked most
sweet and sympathetic.

"He is a wonderful man--Mr. Waldershare," said Mr. Vigo to Rodney, "but
I fear not practical."

One day, not very long after his return from his travels, Waldershare
went to breakfast with his uncle, Mr. Sidney Wilton, now a
cabinet minister, still unmarried, and living in Grosvenor Square.
Notwithstanding the difference of their politics, an affectionate
intimacy subsisted between them; indeed Waldershare was a favourite of
his uncle, who enjoyed the freshness of his mind, and quite appreciated
his brilliancy of thought and speech, his quaint reading and
effervescent imagination.

"And so you think we are in for life, George," said Mr. Wilson, taking a
piece of toast. "I do not."

"Well, I go upon this," said Waldershare. "It is quite clear that Peel
has nothing to offer the country, and the country will not rally round a
negation. When he failed in '34 they said there had not been sufficient
time for the reaction to work. Well, now, since then, it has had nearly
three years, during which you fellows have done everything to outrage
every prejudice of the constituency, and yet they have given you a
majority."

"Yes, that is all very well," replied Mr. Wilton, "but we are the
Liberal shop, and we have no Liberal goods on hand; we are the party
of movement, and must perforce stand still. The fact is, all the great
questions are settled. No one will burn his fingers with the Irish
Church again, in this generation certainly not, probably in no other;
you could not get ten men together in any part of the country to
consider the corn laws; I must confess I regret it. I still retain my
opinion that a moderate fixed duty would be a wise arrangement, but
I quite despair in my time of any such advance of opinion; as for
the ballot, it is hardly tolerated in debating societies. The present
government, my dear George, will expire from inanition. I always told
the cabinet they were going on too fast. They should have kept back
municipal reform. It would have carried us on for five years. It was our
only _piece de resistance_."

"I look upon the House of Commons as a mere vestry," said Waldershare.
"I believe it to be completely used up. Reform has dished it. There are
no men, and naturally, because the constituencies elect themselves, and
the constituencies are the most mediocre of the nation. The House of
Commons now is like a spendthrift living on his capital. The business
is done and the speeches are made by men formed in the old school.
The influence of the House of Commons is mainly kept up by old social
traditions. I believe if the eldest sons of peers now members would
all accept the Chiltern hundreds, and the House thus cease to be
fashionable, before a year was past, it would be as odious and as
contemptible as the Rump Parliament."

"Well, you are now the eldest son of a peer," said Sidney Wilton,
smiling. "Why do you not set an example, instead of spending your
father's substance and your own in fighting a corrupt borough?"

"I am _vox clamantis_," said Waldershare. "I do not despair of its being
done. But what I want is some big guns to do it. Let the eldest son of
a Tory duke and the eldest son of a Whig duke do the same thing on
the same day, and give the reason why. If Saxmundham, for example, and
Harlaxton would do it, the game would be up."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Wilton, "Saxmundham, I can tell you, will be
the new cabinet minister."

"Degenerate land!" exclaimed Waldershare. "Ah! in the eighteenth
century there was always a cause to sustain the political genius of the
country,--the cause of the rightful dynasty."

"Well, thank God, we have got rid of all those troubles," said Mr.
Wilton.

"Rid of them! I do not know that. I saw a great deal of the Duke of
Modena this year, and tried as well as I could to open his mind to the
situation."

"You traitor!" exclaimed Mr. Wilton. "If I were Secretary of State, I
would order the butler to arrest you immediately, and send you to the
Tower in a hack cab; but as I am only a President of a Board and your
uncle, you will escape."

"Well, I should think all sensible men," said Waldershare, "of all
parties will agree, that before we try a republic, it would be better to
give a chance to the rightful heir."

"Well, I am not a republican," said Mr. Wilton, "and I think Queen
Victoria, particularly if she make a wise and happy marriage, need not
much fear the Duke of Modena."

"He is our sovereign lord, all the same," said Waldershare. "I wish he
were more aware of it himself. Instead of looking to a restoration to
his throne, I found him always harping on the fear of French invasion. I
could not make him understand that France was his natural ally, and that
without her help, Charlie was not likely to have his own again."

"Well, as you admire pretenders, George, I wish you were in my shoes
this morning, for I have got one of the most disagreeable interviews on
hand which ever fell to my lot."

"How so, my dear uncle?" said Waldershare, in a tone of sympathy, for he
saw that the countenance of Mr. Wilton was disturbed.

"My unhappy ward," said Mr. Wilton; "you know, of course, something
about him."

"Well, I was at school and college," said Waldershare, "when it all
happened. But I have just heard that you had relations with him."

"The most intimate; and there is the bitterness. There existed between
his mother Queen Agrippina and myself ties of entire friendship. In her
last years and in her greatest adversity she appealed to me to be the
guardian of her son. He inherited all her beauty and apparently all her
sweetness of disposition. I took the greatest pains with him. He was at
Eton, and did well there. He was very popular; I never was so deceived
in a boy in my life. I though him the most docile of human beings, and
that I had gained over him an entire influence. I am sure it would have
been exercised for his benefit. In short, I may say it now, I looked
upon him as a son, and he certainly would have been my heir; and yet
all this time, from his seventeenth year, he was immersed in political
intrigue, and carrying on plots against the sovereign of his country,
even under my own roof."

"How very interesting!" said Waldershare.

"It may be interesting to you; I know what it cost me. The greatest
anxiety and sorrow, and even nearly compromised my honour. Had I not
a large-hearted chief and a true man of the world to deal with, I must
have retired from the government."

"How could he manage it?" said Waldershare.

"You have no conception of the devices and resources of the secret
societies of Europe," said Mr. Wilton. "His drawing-master, his
fencing-master, his dancing-master, all his professors of languages, who
delighted me by their testimony to his accomplishments and their praises
of his quickness and assiduity, were active confederates in bringing
about events which might have occasioned an European war. He left me
avowedly to pay a visit in the country, and I even received letters from
him with the postmark of the neighbouring town; letters all prepared
beforehand. My first authentic information as to his movements was to
learn, that he had headed an invading force, landed on the shores which
he claimed as his own, was defeated and a prisoner."

"I remember it," said Waldershare. "I had just then gone up to St.
John's, and I remember reading it with the greatest excitement."

"All this was bad enough," said Mr. Wilton, "but this is not my sorrow.
I saved him from death, or at least a dreadful imprisonment. He was
permitted to sail to America on his parole that he would never return
to Europe, and I was required, and on his solemn appeal I consented, to
give my personal engagement that the compact should be sacred. Before
two years had elapsed, supported all this time, too, by my bounty, there
was an attempt, almost successful, to assassinate the king, and my ward
was discovered and seized in the capital. This time he was immured, and
for life, in the strongest fortress of the country; but secret societies
laugh at governments, and though he endured a considerable imprisonment,
the world has recently been astounded by hearing that he had escaped.
Yes; he is in London and has been here, though in studied obscurity,
for some little time. He has never appealed to me until within these
few days, and now only on the ground that there are some family affairs
which cannot be arranged without my approval. I had great doubts
whether I should receive him. I feel I ought not to have done so. But I
hesitated, and I know not what may be the truth about women, but of this
I am quite sure, the man who hesitates is lost."

"How I should like to present at the interview, my dear uncle!" said
Waldershare.

"And I should not be sorry to have a witness," said Mr. Wilton, "but it
is impossible. I am ashamed to say how unhinged I feel; no person, and
no memories, ought to exercise such an influence over one. To tell you
the truth, I encouraged your pleasant gossip at breakfast by way of
distraction at this moment, and now"----

At this moment, the groom of the chambers entered and announced "His
royal highness, Prince Florestan."

Mr. Wilton, who was too agitated to speak, waved his hand to Waldershare
to retire, and his nephew vanished. As Waldershare was descending the
staircase, he drew back on a landing-place to permit the prince to
advance undisturbed. The prince apparently did not observe him, but when
Waldershare caught the countenance of the visitor, he started.



CHAPTER XLI

"I know, sir, you are prejudiced against me," said Prince Florestan,
bowing before Mr. Wilton with a sort of haughty humility, "and therefore
I the more appreciate your condescension in receiving me."

"I have no wish to refer to the past," said Mr. Wilton somewhat sternly.
"You mentioned in your letter that my co-operation was necessary with
reference to your private affairs, of which I once was a trustee, and
under those circumstances I felt it my duty to accede to your request. I
wish our communication to be limited to that business."

"It shall be so strictly," said the prince; "you may remember, sir, that
at the unhappy period when we were deprived of our throne, the name
of Queen Agrippina was inscribed on the great book of the state for a
considerable sum, for which the credit of the state was pledged to her.
It was strictly her private property, and had mainly accrued through
the sale of the estates of her ancestors. This sum was confiscated, and
several other amounts, which belonged to members of our house and to our
friends. It was an act of pure rapine, so gross, that as time revolved,
and the sense of justice gradually returned to the hearts of men,
restitution was made in every instance except my own, though I have
reason to believe that individual claim was the strongest. My bankers,
the house of Neuchatel, who have much interested themselves in this
matter, and have considerable influence with the government that
succeeded us, have brought things to this pass, that we have reason to
believe our claim would be conceded, if some of the foreign governments,
and especially the government of this country, would signify that the
settlement would not be disagreeable to them." And the prince ceased,
and raising his eyes, which were downcast as he spoke, looked Mr. Wilton
straight in the face.

"Before such a proposal could even be considered by Her Majesty's
Government," said Mr. Wilton with a reddening cheek, "the intimation
must be made to them by authority. If the minister of your country has
such an intimation to make to ours, he should address himself to the
proper quarter, to Lord Roehampton."

"I understand," said Prince Florestan; "but governments, like
individuals, sometimes shrink from formality. The government of my
country will act on the intimation, but they do not care to make it an
affair of despatches."

"There is only one way of transacting business," said Mr. Wilton
frigidly, and as if, so far as he was concerned, the interview was
ended.

"I have been advised on high authority," said Prince Florestan, speaking
very slowly, "that if any member of the present cabinet will mention in
conversation to the representative of my country here, that the act of
justice would not be disagreeable to the British Government, the affair
is finished."

"I doubt whether any one of my colleagues would be prepared to undertake
a personal interference of that kind with a foreign government," said
Mr. Wilton stiffly. "For my own part, I have had quite enough of such
interpositions never to venture on them again."

"The expression of feeling desired would involve no sort of engagement,"
said the imperturbable prince.

"That depends on the conscience of the individual who interferes. No
man of honour would be justified in so interposing if he believed he was
thus furnishing arms against the very government of which he solicited
the favour."

"But why should he believe this?" asked the prince with great calmness.

"I think upon reflection," said Mr. Wilton, taking up at the same time
an opened letter which was before him, as if he wished to resume the
private business on which he had been previously engaged, "that your
royal highness might find very adequate reasons for the belief."

"I would put this before you with great deference, sir," said the
prince. "Take my own case; is it not more likely that I should lead that
life of refined retirement, which I really desire, were I in possession
of the means to maintain such a position with becoming dignity, than if
I were distressed, and harassed, and disgusted, every day, with sights
and incidents which alike outrage my taste and self-respect? It is not
prosperity, according to common belief, that makes conspirators."

"You _were_ in a position, and a refined position," rejoined Mr. Wilton
sharply; "you had means adequate to all that a gentleman could desire,
and might have been a person of great consideration, and you wantonly
destroyed all this."

"It might be remembered that I was young."

"Yes, you were young, very young, and your folly was condoned. You
might have begun life again, for to the world at least you were a man of
honour. You had not deceived the world, whatever you might have done to
others."

"If I presume to make another remark," said the prince calmly, but pale,
"it is only, believe me, sir, from the profound respect I feel for you.
Do not misunderstand these feelings, sir. They are not unbecoming the
past. Now that my mother has departed, there is no one to whom I am
attached except yourself. I have no feeling whatever towards any other
human being. All my thought and all my sentiment are engrossed by my
country. But pardon me, dear sir, for so let me call you, if I venture
to say that, in your decision on my conduct, you have never taken into
consideration the position which I inherited."

"I do not follow you, sir."

"You never will remember that I am the child of destiny," said Prince
Florestan. "That destiny will again place me on the throne of my
fathers. That is as certain as I am now speaking to you. But destiny for
its fulfilment ordains action. Its decrees are inexorable, but they are
obscure, and the being whose career it directs is as a man travelling
in a dark night; he reaches his goal even without the aid of stars or
moon."

"I really do not understand what destiny means," said Mr. Wilton.
"I understand what conduct means, and I recognise that it should be
regulated by truth and honour. I think a man had better have nothing to
do with destiny, particularly if it is to make him forfeit his parole."

"Ah! sir, I well know that on that head you entertain a great prejudice
in my respect. Believe me it is not just. Even lawyers acknowledge
that a contract which is impossible cannot be violated. My return from
America was inevitable. The aspirations of a great people and of many
communities required my presence in Europe. My return was the natural
development of the inevitable principle of historical necessity."

"Well, that principle is not recognised by Her Majesty's Ministers,"
said Mr. Wilton, and both himself and the prince seemed to rise at the
same time.

"I thank you, sir, for this interview," said his royal highness. "You
will not help me, but what I require will happen by some other means. It
is necessary, and therefore it will occur."

The prince remounted his horse, and rode off quickly till he reached
the Strand, where obstacles to rapid progress commenced, and though
impatient, it was some time before he reached Bishopsgate Street. He
entered the spacious courtyard of a noble mansion, and, giving his
horse to the groom, inquired for Mr. Neuchatel, to whom he was at
once ushered,--seated in a fine apartment at a table covered with many
papers.

"Well, my prince," said Mr. Neuchatel with a smiling eye, "what brings
such a great man into the City to-day? Have you seen your great friend?"
And then Prince Florestan gave Mr. Neuchatel a succinct but sufficient
summary of his recent interview.

"Ah!" said Mr. Neuchatel, "so it is, so it is; I dare say if you
were received at St. James', Mr. Sidney Wilton would not be so very
particular; but we must take things as we find them. If our fine friends
will not help us, you must try us poor business men in the City. We can
manage things here sometimes which puzzle them at the West End. I saw
you were disturbed when you came in. Put on a good countenance. Nobody
should ever look anxious except those who have no anxiety. I dare say
you would like to know how your account is. I will send for it. It is
not so bad as you think. I put a thousand pounds to it in the hope that
your fine friend would help us, but I shall not take it off again. My
Louis is going to-night to Paris, and he shall call upon the ministers
and see what can be done. In the meantime, good appetite, sir. I am
going to luncheon, and there is a place for you. And I will show you
my Gainsborough that I have just bought, from a family for whom it was
painted. The face is divine, very like our Miss Ferrars. I am going to
send the picture down to Hainault. I won't tell you what I gave for it,
because perhaps you would tell my wife and she would be very angry. She
would want the money for an infant school. But I think she has schools
enough. Now to lunch."

On the afternoon of this day there was a half-holiday at the office, and
Endymion had engaged to accompany Waldershare on some expedition. They
had been talking together in his room where Waldershare was finishing
his careless toilette, which however was never finished, and they had
just opened the house door and were sallying forth when Colonel Albert
rode up. He gave a kind nod to Endymion, but did not speak, and the
companions went on. "By the by, Ferrars," said Waldershare, pressing his
arm and bubbling with excitement, "I have found out who your colonel is.
It is a wondrous tale, and I will tell it all to you as we go on."



CHAPTER XLII

Endymion had now passed three years of his life in London, and
considering the hard circumstances under which he had commenced
this career, he might on the whole look back to those years without
dissatisfaction. Three years ago he was poor and friendless, utterly
ignorant of the world, and with nothing to guide him but his own good
sense. His slender salary had not yet been increased, but with the
generosity and aid of his sister and the liberality of Mr. Vigo, he was
easy in his circumstances. Through the Rodneys, he had become acquainted
with a certain sort of miscellaneous life, a knowledge of which is
highly valuable to a youth, but which is seldom attained without risk.
Endymion, on the contrary, was always guarded from danger. Through
his most unexpected connection with the Neuchatel family, he had seen
something of life in circles of refinement and high consideration, and
had even caught glimpses of that great world of which he read so much
and heard people talk more, the world of the Lord Roehamptons and the
Lady Montforts, and all those dazzling people whose sayings and doings
form the taste, and supply the conversation, and leaven the existence of
admiring or wondering millions.

None of these incidents, however, had induced any change in the scheme
of his existence. Endymion was still content with his cleanly and airy
garret; still dined at Joe's; was still sedulous at his office, and
always popular with his fellow clerks. Seymour Hicks, indeed, who
studied the "Morning Post" with intentness, had discovered the name
of Endymion in the elaborate lists of attendants on Mrs. Neuchatel's
receptions, and had duly notified the important event to his colleagues;
but Endymion was not severely bantered on the occasion, for, since the
withdrawal of St. Barbe from the bureau, the stock of envy at Somerset
House was sensibly diminished.

His lodging at the Rodneys', however, had brought Endymion something
more valuable than an innocuous familiarity with their various and
suggestive life. In the friendship of Waldershare he found a rich
compensation for being withdrawn from his school and deprived of his
university. The care of his father had made Endymion a good classical
scholar, and he had realised a degree of culture which it delighted
the brilliant and eccentric Waldershare to enrich and to complete.
Waldershare guided his opinions, and directed his studies, and formed
his taste. Alone at night in his garret, there was no solitude, for he
had always some book or some periodical, English or foreign, with which
Waldershare had supplied him, and which he assured Endymion it was
absolutely necessary that he should read and master.

Nor was his acquaintance with Baron Sergius less valuable, or less
fruitful of results. He too became interested in Endymion, and poured
forth to him, apparently without reserve, all the treasures of his vast
experience of men and things, especially with reference to the conduct
of external affairs. He initiated him in the cardinal principles of the
policies of different nations; he revealed to him the real character
of the chief actors in the scene. "The first requisite," Baron Sergius
would say, "in the successful conduct of public affairs is a personal
acquaintance with the statesmen engaged. It is possible that events
may not depend now, so much as they did a century ago, on individual
feeling, but, even if prompted by general principles, their application
and management are always coloured by the idiosyncrasy of the chief
actors. The great advantage which your Lord Roehampton, for example, has
over all his colleagues in _la haute politique_, is that he was one of
your plenipotentiaries at the Congress of Vienna. There he learned to
gauge the men who govern the world. Do you think a man like that, called
upon to deal with a Metternich or a Pozzo, has no advantage over an
individual who never leaves his chair in Downing Street except to kill
grouse? Pah! Metternich and Pozzo know very well that Lord Roehampton
knows them, and they set about affairs with him in a totally different
spirit from that with which they circumvent some statesman who has
issued from the barricades of Paris."

Nor must it be forgotten that his debating society and the acquaintance
which he had formed there, were highly beneficial to Endymion. Under
the roof of Mr. Bertie Tremaine he enjoyed the opportunity of forming
an acquaintance with a large body of young men of breeding, of high
education, and full of ambition, that was a substitute for the society,
becoming his youth and station, which he had lost by not going to the
university.

With all these individuals, and with all their circles, Endymion was a
favourite. No doubt his good looks, his mien--which was both cheerful
and pensive--his graceful and quiet manners, all told in his favour,
and gave him a good start, but further acquaintance always sustained
the first impression. He was intelligent and well-informed, without any
alarming originality, or too positive convictions. He listened not only
with patience but with interest to all, and ever avoided controversy.
Here are some of the elements of a man's popularity.

What was his intellectual reach, and what his real character, it was
difficult at this time to decide. He was still very young, only on
the verge of his twentieth year; and his character had no doubt been
influenced, it might be suppressed, by the crushing misfortunes of his
family. The influence of his sister was supreme over him. She had never
reconciled herself to their fall. She had existed only on the solitary
idea of regaining their position, and she had never omitted an occasion
to impress upon him that he had a great mission, and that, aided by her
devotion, he would fulfil it. What his own conviction on this subject
was may be obscure. Perhaps he was organically of that cheerful and easy
nature, which is content to enjoy the present, and not brood over the
past. The future may throw light upon all these points; at present it
may be admitted that the three years of seemingly bitter and mortifying
adversity have not been altogether wanting in beneficial elements in the
formation of his character and the fashioning of his future life.



CHAPTER XLIII

Lady Montfort heard with great satisfaction from Mr. Neuchatel that Lord
Roehampton was going to pay a visit to Hainault at Easter, and that he
had asked himself. She playfully congratulated Mrs. Neuchatel on the
subject, and spoke as if the affair was almost concluded. That lady,
however, received the intimation with a serious, not to say distressed
countenance. She said that she should be grieved to lose Adriana under
any circumstances; but if her marriage in time was a necessity, she
trusted she might be united to some one who would not object to becoming
a permanent inmate of their house. What she herself desired for her
daughter was a union with some clergyman, and if possible, the rector
of their own parish. But it was too charming a dream to realise. The
rectory at Hainault was almost in the Park, and was the prettiest house
in the world, with the most lovely garden. She herself much preferred it
to the great mansion--and so on.

Lady Montfort stared at her with impatient astonishment, and then said,
"Your daughter, Mrs. Neuchatel, ought to make an alliance which would
place her at the head of society."

"What a fearful destiny," said Mrs. Neuchatel, "for any one, but
overwhelming for one who must feel the whole time that she occupies a
position not acquired by her personal qualities!"

"Adriana is pretty," said Lady Montfort. "I think her more than pretty;
she is highly accomplished and in every way pleasing. What can you
mean, then, my dear madam, by supposing she would occupy a position not
acquired by her personal qualities?"

Mrs. Neuchatel sighed and shook her head, and then said, "We need not
have any controversy on this subject. I have no reason to believe there
is any foundation for my fears. We all like and admire Lord Roehampton.
It is impossible not to admire and like him. So great a man, and yet so
gentle and so kind, so unaffected--I would say, so unsophisticated; but
he has never given the slightest intimation, either to me or her father,
that he seriously admired Adriana, and I am sure if he had said anything
to her she would have told us."

"He is always here," said Lady Montfort, "and he is a man who used to go
nowhere except for form. Besides, I know that he admires her, that he is
in love with her, and I have not a doubt that he has invited himself to
Hainault in order to declare his feelings to her."

"How very dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Neuchatel. "What are we to do?"

"To do!" said Lady Montfort; "why, sympathise with his happiness, and
complete it. You will have a son-in-law of whom you may well be proud,
and Adriana a husband who, thoroughly knowing the world, and women, and
himself, will be devoted to her; will be a guide and friend, a guide
that will never lecture, and a friend who will always charm, for there
is no companion in the world like him, and I think I ought to know,"
added Lady Montfort, "for I always tell him that I was the last of his
conquests, and I shall ever be grateful to him for his having spared to
me so much of his society."

"Adriana on this matter will decide for herself," said Mrs. Neuchatel,
in a serious tone, and with a certain degree of dignity. "Neither Mr.
Neuchatel, nor myself, have ever attempted to control her feelings in
this respect."

"Well, I am now about to see Adriana," said Lady Montfort; "I know she
is at home. If I had not been obliged to go to Princedown, I would have
asked you to let me pass Easter at Hainault myself."

On this very afternoon, when Myra, who had been walking in Regent's Park
with her brother, returned home, she found Adriana agitated, and really
in tears.

"What is all this, dearest?" inquired her friend.

"I am too unhappy," sobbed Adriana, and then she told Myra that she had
had a visit from Lady Montfort, and all that had occurred in it. Lady
Montfort had absolutely congratulated her on her approaching alliance
with Lord Roehampton, and when she altogether disclaimed it, and
expressed her complete astonishment at the supposition, Lady Montfort
had told her she was not justified in giving Lord Roehampton so
much encouragement and trifling with a man of his high character and
position.

"Fancy my giving encouragement to Lord Roehampton!" exclaimed Adriana,
and she threw her arms round the neck of the friend who was to console
her.

"I agree with Lady Montfort," said Myra, releasing herself with
gentleness from her distressed friend. "It may have been unconsciously
on your part, but I think you have encouraged Lord Roehampton. He is
constantly conversing with you, and he is always here, where he never
was before, and, as Lady Montfort says, why should he have asked himself
to pass the Easter at Hainault if it were not for your society?"

"He invited himself to Hainault, because he is so fond of papa," said
Adriana.

"So much the better, if he is to be your husband. That will be an
additional element of domestic happiness."

"O Myra! that you should say such things!" exclaimed Adriana.

"What things?"

"That I should marry Lord Roehampton."

"I never said anything of the kind. Whom you should marry is a question
you must decide for yourself. All that I said was, that if you marry
Lord Roehampton, it is fortunate he is so much liked by Mr. Neuchatel."

"I shall not marry Lord Roehampton," said Adriana with some
determination, "and if he has condescended to think of marrying me," she
continued, "as Lady Montfort says, I think his motives are so
obvious that if I felt for him any preference it would be immediately
extinguished."

"Ah! now you are going to ride your hobby, my dear Adriana. On that
subject we never can agree; were I an heiress, I should have as little
objection to be married for my fortune as my face. Husbands, as I have
heard, do not care for the latter too long. Have more confidence in
yourself, Adriana. If Lord Roehampton wishes to marry you, it is that he
is pleased with you personally, that he appreciates your intelligence,
your culture, your accomplishments, your sweet disposition, and your
gentle nature. If in addition to these gifts you have wealth, and even
great wealth, Lord Roehampton will not despise it, will not--for I
wish to put it frankly--be uninfluenced by the circumstances, for Lord
Roehampton is a wise man; but he would not marry you if he did not
believe that you would make for him a delightful companion in life, that
you would adorn his circle and illustrate his name."

"Ah! I see you are all in the plot against me," said Adriana. "I have no
friend."

"My dear Adriana, I think you are unreasonable; I could say even
unkind."

"Oh! pardon me, dear Myra," said Adriana, "but I really am so very
unhappy."

"About what? You are your own mistress in this matter. If you do not
like to marry Lord Roehampton, nobody will attempt to control you. What
does it signify what Lady Montfort says? or anybody else, except your
own parents, who desire nothing but your happiness? I should never have
mentioned Lord Roehampton to you had you not introduced the subject
yourself. And all that I meant to say was, what I repeat, that your
creed that no one can wish to marry you except for your wealth is a
morbid conviction, and must lead to unhappiness; that I do not believe
that Lord Roehampton is influenced in his overture, if he make one, by
any unworthy motive, and that any woman whose heart is disengaged should
not lightly repudiate such an advance from such a man, by which, at all
events, she should feel honoured."

"But my heart is engaged," said Adriana in an almost solemn tone.

"Oh! that is quite a different thing!" said Myra, turning pale.

"Yes!" said Adriana; "I am devoted to one whose name I cannot now
mention, perhaps will never mention, but I am devoted to him. Yes!"
she added with fire, "I am not altogether so weak a thing as the Lady
Montforts and some other persons seem to think me--I can feel and decide
for myself, and it shall never be said of me that I purchased love."



CHAPTER XLIV

There was to be no great party at Hainault; Lord Roehampton particularly
wished that there should be no fine folks asked, and especially no
ambassadors. All that he wanted was to enjoy the fresh air, and to
ramble in the forest, of which he had heard so much, with the young
ladies.

"And, by the by, Miss Ferrars," said Mr. Neuchatel, "we must let what
we were talking about the other day drop. Adriana has been with me quite
excited about something Lady Montfort said to her. I soothed her and
assured her she should do exactly as she liked, and that neither I nor
her mother had any other wishes on such a subject than her own. The fact
is, I answered Lady Montfort originally only half in earnest. If the
thing might have happened, I should have been content--but it really
never rested on my mind, because such matters must always originate with
my daughter. Unless they come from her, with me they are mere fancies.
But now I want you to help me in another matter, if not more grave, more
businesslike. My lord must be amused, although it is a family party.
He likes his rubber; that we can manage. But there must be two or three
persons that he is not accustomed to meet, and yet who will interest
him. Now, do you know, Miss Ferrars, whom I think of asking?"

"Not I, my dear sir."

"What do you think of the colonel?" said Mr. Neuchatel, looking in her
face with a rather laughing eye.

"Well, he is very agreeable," said Myra, "and many would think
interesting, and if Lord Roehampton does not know him, I think he would
do very well."

"Well, but Lord Roehampton knows all about him," said Mr. Neuchatel.

"Well, that is an advantage," said Myra.

"I do not know," said Mr. Neuchatel. "Life is a very curious thing, eh,
Miss Ferrars? One cannot ask one person to meet another even in one's
own home, without going through a sum of moral arithmetic."

"Is it so?" said Myra.

"Well, Miss Ferrars," said Mr. Neuchatel, "I want your advice and I want
your aid; but then it is a long story, at which I am rather a bad hand,"
and Mr. Neuchatel hesitated. "You know," he said, suddenly resuming,
"you once asked me who Colonel Albert was."

"But I do not ask you now," said Myra, "because I know."

"Hah, hah!" exclaimed Mr. Neuchatel, much surprised.

"And what you want to know is," continued Myra, "whether Lord Roehampton
would have any objection to meet Prince Florestan?"

"That is something; but that is comparatively easy. I think I can manage
that. But when they meet--that is the point. But, in the first place,
I should like very much to know how you became acquainted with the
secret."

"In a very natural way; my brother was my information," she replied.

"Ah! now you see," continued Mr. Neuchatel, with a serious air, "a word
from Lord Roehampton in the proper quarter might be of vast importance
to the prince. He has a large inheritance, and he has been kept out of
it unjustly. Our house has done what we could for him, for his mother,
Queen Agrippina, was very kind to my father, and the house of Neuchatel
never forgets its friends. But we want something else, we want the
British Government to intimate that they will not disapprove of the
restitution of the private fortune of the prince. I have felt my way
with the premier; he is not favourable; he is prejudiced against the
prince; and so is the cabinet generally; and yet all difficulties would
vanish at a word from Lord Roehampton."

"Well, this is a good opportunity for you to speak to him," said Myra.

"Hem!" said Mr. Neuchatel, "I am not so sure about that. I like Lord
Roehampton, and, between ourselves, I wish he were first minister. He
understands the Continent, and would keep things quiet. But, do you
know, Miss Ferrars, with all his playful, good-tempered manner, as if he
could not say a cross word or do an unkind act, he is a very severe man
in business. Speak to him on business, and he is completely changed.
His brows knit, he penetrates you with the terrible scrutiny of that
deep-set eye; he is more than stately, he is austere. I have been up to
him with deputations--the Governor of the Bank, and all the first men in
the City, half of them M.P.s, and they trembled before him like aspens.
No, it will not do for me to speak to him, it will spoil his visit. I
think the way will be this; if he has no objection to meet the prince,
we must watch whether the prince makes a favourable impression on him,
and if that is the case, and Lord Roehampton likes him, what we must do
next is this--_you_ must speak to Lord Roehampton."

"I!"

"Yes, Miss Ferrars, you. Lord Roehampton likes ladies. He is never
austere to them, even if he refuses their requests, and sometimes he
grants them. I thought first of Mrs. Neuchatel speaking to him, but my
wife will never interfere in anything in which money is concerned; then
I thought Adriana might express a hope when they were walking in the
garden, but now that is all over; and so you alone remain. I have great
confidence in you," added Mr. Neuchatel, "I think you would do it very
well. Besides, my lord rather likes you, for I have observed him often
go and sit by you at parties, at our house."

"Yes, he is very high-bred in that," said Myra, gravely and rather
sadly; "and the fact of my being a dependent, I have no doubt,
influences him."

"We are all dependents in this house," said Mr. Neuchatel with his
sweetest smile; "and I depend upon Miss Ferrars."

Affairs on the whole went on in a promising manner. The weather was
delightful, and Lord Roehampton came down to Hainault just in time for
dinner, the day after their arrival, and in the highest spirits. He
seemed to be enjoying a real holiday; body and mind were in a like state
of expansion; he was enchanted with the domain; he was delighted with
the mansion, everything pleased and gratified him, and he pleased and
gratified everybody. The party consisted only of themselves, except one
of the nephews, with whom indeed Lord Roehampton was already acquainted;
a lively youth, a little on the turf, not too much, and this suited Lord
Roehampton, who was a statesman of the old aristocratic school, still
bred horses, and sometimes ran one, and in the midst of an European
crisis could spare an hour to Newmarket. Perhaps it was his only
affectation.

Mrs. Neuchatel, by whom he was seated, had the happy gift of
conversation; but the party was of that delightful dimension, that it
permitted talk to be general. Myra sate next to Lord Roehampton, and
he often addressed her. He was the soul of the feast, and yet it is
difficult to describe his conversation; it was a medley of graceful
whim, interspersed now and then with a very short anecdote of a very
famous person, or some deeply interesting reminiscence of some critical
event. Every now and then he appealed to Adriana, who sate opposite to
him in the round table, and she trusted that her irrepressible smiles
would not be interpreted into undue encouragement.

Lord Roehampton had no objection to meet Prince Florestan, provided
there were no other strangers, and the incognito was observed. He rather
welcomed the proposal, observing he liked to know public men personally;
so, you can judge of their calibre, which you never can do from books
and newspapers, or the oral reports of their creatures or their enemies.
And so on the next day Colonel Albert was expected.

Lord Roehampton did not appear till luncheon; he had received so many
boxes from Downing Street which required his attention. "Business will
follow one," he said; "yesterday I thought I had baffled it. I do not
like what I shall do without my secretaries. I think I shall get you
young ladies to assist me."

"You cannot have better secretaries," said Mr. Neuchatel; "Miss Ferrars
often helps me."

Then what was to be done after luncheon? Would he ride, or would he
drive? And where should they drive and ride to? But Lord Roehampton did
not much care to drive, and was tired of riding. He would rather walk
and ramble about Hainault. He wanted to see the place, and the forest
and the fern, and perhaps hear one of those nightingales that they had
talked of in Portland Place. But Mrs. Neuchatel did not care to walk,
and Mr. Neuchatel, though it was a holiday in the City, had a great many
letters to write, and so somehow or other it ended in Lord Roehampton
and the two young ladies walking out together, and remaining so long
and so late, that Mrs. Neuchatel absolutely contemplated postponing the
dinner hour.

"We shall just be in time, dear Mrs. Neuchatel," said Myra; "Lord
Roehampton has gone up to his rooms. We have heard a nightingale, and
Lord Roehampton insisted upon our sitting on the trunk of a tree till it
ceased--and it never ceased."

Colonel Albert, who had arrived, was presented to Lord Roehampton before
dinner. Lord Roehampton received him with stately courtesy. As Myra
watched, not without interest, the proceeding, she could scarcely
believe, as she marked the lofty grace and somewhat haughty mien of Lord
Roehampton, that it could be the same being of frolic and fancy, and
even tender sentiment, with whom she had been passing the preceding
hours.

Colonel Albert sate next to Myra at dinner, and Lord Roehampton between
Mrs. Neuchatel and her daughter. His manner was different to-day, not
less pleased and pleasing, but certainly more restrained. He encouraged
Mrs. Neuchatel to occupy the chief part in conversation, and whispered
to Adriana, who became somewhat uneasy; but the whispers mainly
consisted of his delight in their morning adventures. When he remarked
that it was one of the most agreeable days of his life, she became a
little alarmed. Then he addressed Colonel Albert across the table, and
said that he had heard from Mr. Neuchatel that the colonel had been in
America, and asked some questions about public men, which brought him
out. Colonel Albert answered with gentleness and modesty, never at any
length, but in language which indicated, on all the matters referred to,
thought and discrimination.

"I suppose their society is like the best society in Manchester?" said
Lord Roehampton.

"It varies in different cities," said Colonel Albert. "In some there is
considerable culture, and then refinement of life always follows."

"Yes, but whatever they may be, they will always be colonial. What
is colonial necessarily lacks originality. A country that borrows its
language, its laws, and its religion, cannot have its inventive powers
much developed. They got civilised very soon, but their civilisation was
second-hand."

"Perhaps their inventive powers may develop themselves in other ways,"
said the prince. "A nation has a fixed quantity of invention, and it
will make itself felt."

"At present," said Lord Roehampton, "the Americans, I think, employ
their invention in imaginary boundary lines. They are giving us plenty
of trouble now about Maine."

After dinner they had some music; Lord Roehampton would not play whist.
He insisted on comparing the voices of his companions with that of the
nightingales of the morning. He talked a great deal to Adriana, and
Colonel Albert, in the course of the evening much to Myra, and about her
brother. Lord Roehampton more than once had wished to tell her, as he
had already told Miss Neuchatel, how delightful had been their morning;
but on every occasion he had found her engaged with the colonel.

"I rather like your prince," he had observed to Mr. Neuchatel, as they
came from the dining-room. "He never speaks without thinking; very
reserved, I apprehend. They say, an inveterate conspirator."

"He has had enough of that," said Mr. Neuchatel. "I believe he wants to
be quiet."

"That class of man is never quiet," said Lord Roehampton.

"But what can he do?" said Mr. Neuchatel.

"What can he not do? Half Europe is in a state of chronic conspiracy."

"You must keep us right, my dear lord. So long as you are in Downing
Street I shall sleep at nights."

"Miss Ferrars," said Lord Roehampton abruptly to Mr. Neuchatel, "must
have been the daughter of William Ferrars, one of my great friends in
old days. I never knew it till to-day, and she did not tell me, but it
flashed across me from something she said."

"Yes, she is his daughter, and is in mourning for him at this moment.
She has had sorrows," said Mr. Neuchatel. "I hope they have ceased. It
was one of the happiest days of my life when she entered this family."

"Ah!" said Lord Roehampton.

The next day, after they had examined the famous stud and stables, there
was a riding party, and in the evening Colonel Albert offered to perform
some American conjuring tricks, of which he had been speaking in the
course of the day. This was a most wonderful performance, and surprised
and highly amused everybody. Colonel Albert was the last person who they
expected would achieve such marvels; he was so quiet, not to say grave.
They could hardly credit that he was the same person as he poured floods
of flowers over Myra from her own borrowed pocket-handkerchief, and
without the slightest effort or embarrassment, robbed Lord Roehampton of
his watch, and deposited it in Adriana's bosom. It was evident that he
was a complete master of slight-of-hand.

"Characteristic!" murmured Lord Roehampton to himself.

It was the day after this, that Myra being in the music room and alone,
Lord Roehampton opened the door, looked in, and then said, "Where is
Miss Neuchatel?"

"I think she is on the terrace."

"Let us try to find her, and have one of our pleasant strolls. I sadly
want one, for I have been working very hard all this morning, and half
the night."

"I will be with you, Lord Roehampton, in a moment."

"Do not let us have anybody else," he said, as she left the room.

They were soon on the terrace, but Adriana was not there.

"We must find her," said Lord Roehampton; "you know her haunts. Ah! what
a delight it is to be in this air and this scene after those dreadful
boxes! I wish they would turn us out. I think they must soon."

"Now for the first time," said Myra, "Lord Roehampton is not sincere."

"Then you think me always sincere?" he replied.

"I have no reason to think you otherwise."

"That is very true," said Lord Roehampton, "truer perhaps than you
imagine." Then rather abruptly he said, "You know Colonel Albert very
well?"

"Pretty well. I have seen him here frequently, and he is also a friend
of my brother."

"Ah! a friend of your brother." Then, after a slight pause, he said, "He
is an interesting man."

"I think so," said Myra. "You know all about him, of course."

"Very good-looking."

"Well, he looks unhappy, I think, and worn."

"One is never worn when one is young," said Lord Roehampton.

"He must have great anxieties and great sorrows," said Myra. "I cannot
imagine a position more unfortunate than that of an exiled prince."

"I can," said Lord Roehampton. "To have the feelings of youth and the
frame of age."

Myra was silent, one might say dumbfounded. She had just screwed herself
up to the task which Mr. Neuchatel had imposed on her, and was about to
appeal to the good offices of Lord Roehampton in favour of the prince,
when he had indulged in a remark which was not only somewhat strange,
but from the manner in which it was introduced hardly harmonised with
her purpose.

"Yes, I would give up everything," said Lord Roehampton. "I would even
be an exile to be young; to hear that Miss Ferrars deems me interesting
and good-looking, though worn."

"What is going to happen?" thought Myra. "Will the earth open to receive
me?"

"You are silent," said Lord Roehampton. "You will not speak, you will
not sigh, you will not give a glance of consolation or even pity. But I
have spoken too much not to say more. Beautiful, fascinating being, let
me at least tell you of my love."

Myra could not speak, but put her left hand to her face. Gently taking
her other hand, Lord Roehampton pressed it to his lips. "From the first
moment I met you, my heart was yours. It was love at first sight; indeed
I believe in no other. I was amused with the projects of my friend,
and I availed myself of them, but not unfairly. No one can accuse me of
trifling with the affections of your sweet companion, and I must do
her the justice to say that she did everything to convince me that she
shrank from my attentions. But her society was an excuse to enjoy yours.
I was an habitual visitor in town that I might cherish my love, and,
dare I say it, I came down here to declare it. Do not despise it,
dearest of women; it is not worthy of you, but it is not altogether
undeserving. It is, as you kindly believed it,--it is sincere!"



CHAPTER XLV

On the following day, Mr. Neuchatel had good-naturedly invited Endymion
down to Hainault, and when he arrived there, a servant informed him that
Miss Ferrars wished to see him in her room.

It was a long interview and an agitated one, and when she had told her
tale, and her brother had embraced her, she sat for a time in silence,
holding his hand, and intimating, that, for a while, she wished that
neither of them should speak. Suddenly, she resumed, and said, "Now you
know all, dear darling; it is so sudden, and so strange, that you must
be almost as much astounded as gratified. What I have sighed for,
and prayed for--what, in moments of inspiration, I have sometimes
foreseen--has happened. Our degradation is over. I seem to breathe for
the first time for many years. I see a career, ay, and a great one; and
what is far more important, I see a career for you."

"At this moment, dear Myra, think only of yourself."

"You are myself," she replied, rather quickly, "never more so than at
this moment;" and then she said in a tone more subdued, and even tender,
"Lord Roehampton has every quality and every accident of life that I
delight in; he has intellect, eloquence, courage, great station and
power; and, what I ought perhaps more to consider, though I do not,
a sweet disposition and a tender heart. There is every reason why we
should be happy--yes, very happy. I am sure I shall sympathise with him;
perhaps, I may aid him; at least, he thinks so. He is the noblest
of men. The world will talk of the disparity of our years; but Lord
Roehampton says that he is really the younger of the two, and I think he
is right. My pride, my intense pride, never permitted to me any levity
of heart."

"And when is it to happen?" inquired Endymion.

"Not immediately. I could not marry till a year had elapsed after our
great sorrow; and it is more agreeable, even to him, that our union
should be delayed till the session is over. He wants to leave England;
go abroad; have a real holiday. He has always had a dream of travelling
in Spain; well, we are to realise the dream. If we could get off at the
end of July, we might go to Paris, and then to Madrid, and travel in
Andalusia in the autumn, and then catch the packet at Gibraltar, and get
home just in time for the November cabinets."

"Dear Myra! how wonderful it all seems!" involuntarily exclaimed
Endymion.

"Yes, but more wonderful things will happen. We have now got a lever
to move the world. Understand, my dear Endymion, that nothing is to
be announced at present. It will be known only to this family, and the
Penruddocks. I am bound to tell them, even immediately; they are friends
that never can be forgotten. I have always kept up my correspondence
with Mrs. Penruddock. Besides, I shall tell her in confidence, and she
is perfectly to be depended on. I am going to ask my lord to let Mr.
Penruddock marry us."

"Oh! that will be capital," said Endymion.

"There is another person, by the by, who must know it, at least my lord
says so," said Myra, "and that is Lady Montfort; you have heard of that
lady and her plans. Well, she must be told--at least, sooner or later.
She will be annoyed, and she will hate me. I cannot help it; every one
is hated by somebody."

During the three months that had to elapse before the happy day, several
incidents occurred that ought to be noted. In the first place, Lady
Montfort, though disappointed and very much astonished, bore the
communication from Lord Roehampton more kindly than he had anticipated.
Lord Roehampton made it by letter, and his letters to women were more
happy even than his despatches to ministers, and they were unrivalled.
He put the matter in the most skilful form. Myra had been born in a
social position not inferior to his own, and was the daughter of one of
his earliest political friends. He did not dilate too much on her charms
and captivating qualities, but sufficiently for the dignity of her
who was to become his wife. And then he confessed to Lady Montfort how
completely his heart and happiness were set on Lady Roehampton being
welcomed becomingly by his friends; he was well aware, that in these
matters things did not always proceed as one could wish, but this was
the moment, and this the occasion, to test a friend, and he believed he
had the dearest, the most faithful, the most fascinating, and the most
powerful in Lady Montfort.

"Well, we must put the best face upon it," exclaimed that lady; "he was
always romantic. But, as he says, or thinks, what is the use of friends
if they do not help you in a scrape?"

So Lady Montfort made the acquaintance of Myra, and welcomed her
new acquaintance cordially. She was too fine a judge of beauty and
deportment not to appreciate them, even when a little prejudice lurked
behind. She was amused also, and a little gratified, by being in the
secret; presented Myra with a rare jewel, and declared that she should
attend the wedding; though when the day arrived, she was at Princedown,
and could not, unfortunately, leave her lord.

About the end of June, a rather remarkable paragraph appeared in the
journal of society:

"We understand that His Royal Highness Prince Florestan, who has been
for some little time in this country, has taken the mansion in Carlton
Gardens, recently occupied by the Marquis of Katterfelto. The mansion is
undergoing very considerable repairs, but it is calculated that it will
be completed in time for the reception of His Royal Highness by the
end of the autumn; His Royal Highness has taken the extensive moors of
Dinniewhiskie for the coming season."

In the earlier part of July, the approaching alliance of the Earl
of Roehampton with Miss Ferrars, the only daughter of the late Right
Honourable William Pitt Ferrars, of Hurstley Hall, in the county of
Berks, was announced, and great was the sensation, and innumerable the
presents instantly ordered.

But on no one did the announcement produce a greater effect than
on Zenobia; that the daughter of her dearest friend should make
so interesting and so distinguished an alliance was naturally most
gratifying to her. She wrote to Myra a most impassioned letter, as if
they had only separated yesterday, and a still longer and more fervent
one to Lord Roehampton; Zenobia and he had been close friends in other
days, till he wickedly changed his politics, and was always in office
and Zenobia always out. This was never to be forgiven. But the bright
lady forgot all this now, and sent to Myra the most wondrous bracelet
of precious stones, in which the word "Souvenir" was represented in
brilliants, rubies, and emeralds.

"For my part," said Myra to Endymion, "my most difficult task are
the bridesmaids. I am to have so many, and know so few. I feel like a
recruiting sergeant. I began to Adriana, but my lord helps me very much
out of his family, and says, when we have had a few family dinners, all
will be right."

Endymion did not receive the banter he expected at the office. The event
was too great for a jest. Seymour Hicks, with a serious countenance,
said Ferrars might get anywhere now,--all the ministerial receptions of
course. Jawett said there would be no ministerial receptions soon;
they were degrading functions. Clear-headed Trenchard congratulated him
quietly, and said, "I do not think you will stay much longer among us,
but we shall always remember you with interest."

At last the great day arrived, and at St. George's, Hanover Square,
the Right Honourable the Earl of Roehampton, K.G., was united to Miss
Ferrars. Mr. Penruddock joined their hands. His son Nigel had been
invited to assist him, but did not appear, though Myra had written to
him. The great world assembled in force, and Endymion observed Mr. and
Mrs. Rodney and Imogene in the body of the church. After the ceremony
there was an entertainment in Portland Place, and the world ate
ortolans and examined the presents. These were remarkable for number and
splendour. Myra could not conceal her astonishment at possessing so many
friends; but it was the fashion for all Lord Roehampton's acquaintance
to make him offerings, and to solicit his permission to present gifts
to his bride. Mr. Neuchatel placed on her brow a diamond tiara, and
Mrs. Neuchatel encircled her neck with one of her diamond necklaces.
"I should like to give the other one to Adriana," she observed, "but
Adriana says that nothing will ever induce her to wear jewels." Prince
Florestan presented Lady Roehampton with a vase which had belonged to
his mother, and which had been painted by Boucher for Marie Antoinette.
It was matchless, and almost unique.

Not long after this, Lord Beaumaris, with many servants and many guns,
took Waldershare and Endymion down with him to Scotland.



CHAPTER XLVI

The end of the season is a pang to society. More hopes have been baffled
than realised. There is something melancholy in the last ball, though
the music ever seems louder, and the lights more glaring than usual. Or
it may be, the last entertainment is that hecatomb they call a wedding
breakfast, which celebrates the triumph of a rival. That is pleasant.
Society, to do it justice, struggles hard to revive in other scenes the
excitement that has expired. It sails to Cowes, it scuds to bubbling
waters in the pine forests of the continent, it stalks even into
Scotland; but it is difficult to restore the romance that has been
rudely disturbed, and to gather again together the threads of the
intrigue that have been lost in the wild flight of society from that
metropolis, which is now described as "a perfect desert"--that is to
say, a park or so, two or three squares, and a dozen streets where
society lives; where it dines, and dances, and blackballs, and bets, and
spouts.

But to the world in general, the mighty million, to the professional
classes, to all men of business whatever, the end of the season is the
beginning of carnival. It is the fulfilment of the dream over which they
have been brooding for ten months, which has sustained them in toil,
lightened anxiety, and softened even loss. It is air, it is health,
it is movement, it is liberty, it is nature--earth, sea, lake, moor,
forest, mountain, and river. From the heights of the Engadine to
Margate Pier, there is equal rapture, for there is an equal cessation of
routine.

Few enjoy a holiday more than a young clerk in a public office, who has
been bred in a gentle home, and enjoyed in his boyhood all the pastimes
of gentlemen. Now he is ever toiling, with an uncertain prospect of
annual relaxation, and living hardly. Once on a time, at the paternal
hall, he could shoot, or fish, or ride, every day of his life, as a
matter of course; and now, what would he not give for a good day's
sport? Such thoughts had frequently crossed the mind of Endymion when
drudging in London during the autumn, and when all his few acquaintances
were away. It was, therefore, with no ordinary zest that he looked
forward to the unexpected enjoyment of an unstinted share of some of the
best shooting in the United Kingdom. And the relaxation and the
pastime came just at the right moment, when the reaction, from all the
excitement attendant on the marvellous change in his sister's position,
would have made him, deprived of her consoling society, doubly sensible
of his isolated position.

It so happened that the moors of Lord Beaumaris were contiguous to
the celebrated shootings of Dinniewhiskie, which were rented by Prince
Florestan, and the opportunity now offered which Waldershare desired
of making the acquaintance of the prince in an easy manner. Endymion
managed this cleverly. Waldershare took a great fancy to the prince.
He sympathised with him, and imparted to Endymion his belief that they
could not do a better thing than devote their energies to a restoration
of his rights. Lord Beaumaris, who hated foreigners, but who was always
influenced by Waldershare, also liked the prince, and was glad to be
reminded by his mentor that Florestan was half an Englishman, not to say
a whole one, for he was an Eton boy. What was equally influential
with Lord Beaumaris was, that the prince was a fine shot, and indeed a
consummate sportsman, and had in his manners that calm which is rather
unusual with foreigners, and which is always pleasing to an English
aristocrat. So in time they became intimate, sported much together, and
visited each other at their respective quarters. The prince was never
alone. What the county paper described as distinguished foreigners were
perpetually paying him visits, long or short, and it did not generally
appear that these visits were influenced by a love of sport. One
individual, who arrived shortly after the prince, remained, and, as was
soon known, was to remain permanently. This was a young gentleman, short
and swarthy, with flashing eyes and a black moustache, known by the
name of the Duke of St. Angelo, but who was really only a cadet of that
illustrious house. The Duke of St. Angelo took the management of the
household of the prince--was evidently the controller; servants trembled
at his nod, and he rode any horse he liked; he invited guests, and
arranged the etiquette of the interior. He said one day very coolly to
Waldershare: "I observe that Lord Beaumaris and his friends never rise
when the prince moves."

"Why should we?"

"His rank is recognised and guaranteed by the Treaty of Vienna," said
the Duke of St. Angelo, with an arrogant air.

"His princely rank," replied Waldershare, "but not his royalty."

"That is a mere refinement," said the duke contemptuously.

"On the contrary, a clear distinction, and specifically made in the
treaty. I do not think the prince himself would desire such a ceremony,
and let me recommend you, duke," added Waldershare, "not to go out of
your way to insist on these points. They will not increase the prince's
popularity."

"The time will come, and before long, when the Treaty of Vienna, with
its clear distinctions, will be at the bottom of the Red Sea," said the
Duke of St. Angelo, "and then no one will sit when His Majesty rises."

"Amen!" said Waldershare. "All diplomacy since the Treaty of Utrecht
seems to me to be fiddle-faddle, and the country rewarded the great man
who made that treaty by an attainder."

Endymion returned to town towards the end of September, Waldershare went
to Paris, and Lord Beaumaris and the prince, who had become intimate,
repaired together to Conington, the seat of Lord Beaumaris, to kill
pheasants. Even the Rodneys, who had gone to the Rhine this year, had
not returned. Endymion had only the society of his fellow clerks. He
liked Trenchard, who was acute, full of official information, and of
gentle breeding. Still it must be confessed that Endymion felt the
change in his society. Seymour Hicks was hardly a fit successor
to Waldershare, and Jawett's rabid abstractions on government were
certainly not so interesting as _la haute politique_ of the Duke of St.
Angelo. Were it not for the letters which he constantly received from
his sister, he would have felt a little despondent. As it was, he
renewed his studies in his pleasant garret, trained himself in French
and German, and got up several questions for the Union.

The month seemed very long, but it was not unprofitably spent. The
Rodneys were still absent. They had not returned as they had intended
direct to England, but had gone to Paris to meet Mr. Waldershare.

At the end of October there was a semi-official paragraph announcing the
approaching meeting of the Cabinet, and the movements of its members.
Some were in the north, and some were in the south; some were killing
the last grouse, and some, placed in green ridings, were blazing in
battues. But all were to be at their post in ten days, and there was a
special notification that intelligence had been received of the arrival
of Lord and Lady Roehampton at Gibraltar.



CHAPTER XLVII

Lady Roehampton, in her stately mansion in St. James' Square, found life
very different from what she had experienced in her Andalusian dream.
For three months she had been the constant companion of one of the most
fascinating of men, whose only object had been to charm and delight her.
And in this he had entirely succeeded. From the moment they arrived in
London, however, they seemed to be separated, and although when they
met, there was ever a sweet smile and a kind and playful word for her,
his brow, if not oppressed with care, was always weighty with thought.
Lord Roehampton was little at his office; he worked in a spacious
chamber on the ground floor of his private residence, and which was
called the Library, though its literature consisted only of Hansard,
volumes of state papers, shelves of treatises, and interminable folios
of parliamentary reports. He had not been at home a week before the
floor of the apartment was literally covered with red boxes, all
containing documents requiring attention, and which messengers were
perpetually bringing or carrying away. Then there were long meetings of
the Cabinet almost daily, and daily visits from ambassadors and foreign
ministers, which prevented the transaction of the current business, and
rendered it necessary that Lord Roehampton should sit up late in his
cabinet, and work sometimes nearly till the hours of dawn. There had
been of course too some arrears of business, for secretaries of state
cannot indulge with impunity in Andalusian dreams, but Lord Roehampton
was well served. His under-secretaries of state were capable and
experienced men, and their chief had not been altogether idle in his
wanderings. He had visited Paris, and the capital of France in those
days was the capital of diplomacy. The visit of Lord Roehampton had
settled some questions which might have lingered for years, and had
given him that opportunity of personal survey which to a statesman is
invaluable.

Although it was not the season, the great desert had, comparatively
speaking, again become peopled. There were many persons in town, and
they all called immediately on Lady Roehampton. The ministerial families
and the diplomatic corps alone form a circle, but there is also a
certain number of charming people who love London in November, and lead
there a wondrous pleasant life of real amusement, until their feudal
traditions and their domestic duties summon them back to their Christmas
homes.

Lord and Lady Roehampton gave constant dinners, and after they had tried
two or three, he expressed his wish to his wife that she should hold a
small reception after these dinners. He was a man of great tact, and he
wished to launch his wife quietly and safely on the social ocean. "There
is nothing like practising before Christmas, my love," he would say;
"you will get your hand in, and be able to hold regular receptions in
the spring." And he was quite right. The dinners became the mode, and
the assemblies were eagerly appreciated. The Secretary of the Treasury
whispered to an Under-Secretary of State,--"This marriage was a _coup_.
We have got another house."

Myra had been a little anxious about the relations between Lord
Roehampton and her brother. She felt, with a woman's instinct, that her
husband might not be overpleased by her devotion to Endymion, and she
could not resist the conviction that the disparity of age which is
easily forgotten in a wife, and especially in a wife who adores you,
assumes a different, and somewhat distasteful character, when a
great statesman is obliged to recognise it in the shape of a boyish
brother-in-law. But all went right, for the sweetness of Lord
Roehampton's temper was inexhaustible. Endymion had paid several visits
to St. James' square before Myra could seize the opportunity, for which
she was ever watching, to make her husband and her brother acquainted.

"And so you are one of us," said Lord Roehampton, with his sweetest
smile and in his most musical tone, "and in office. We must try to give
you a lift." And then he asked Endymion who was his chief, and how he
liked him, and then he said, "A good deal depends on a man's chief. I
was under your grandfather when I first entered parliament, and I never
knew a pleasanter man to do business with. He never made difficulties;
he always encouraged one. A younker likes that."

Lady Roehampton was desirous of paying some attention to all those who
had been kind to her brother; particularly Mr. Waldershare and Lord
Beaumaris--and she wished to invite them to her house. "I am sure
Waldershare would like to come," said Endymion, "but Lord Beaumaris,
I know, never goes anywhere, and I have myself heard him say he never
would."

"Yes, my lord was telling me Lord Beaumaris was quite _farouche_, and it
is feared that we may lose him. That would be sad," said Myra, "for he
is powerful."

"I should like very much if you could give me a card for Mr. Trenchard,"
said Endymion; "he is not in society, but he is quite a gentleman."

"You shall have it, my dear. I have always liked Mr. Trenchard, and I
dare say, some day or other, he may be of use to you."

The Neuchatels were not in town, but Myra saw them frequently, and
Mr. Neuchatel often dined in St. James' Square--but the ladies always
declined every invitation of the kind. They came up from Hainault to see
Myra, but looked as if nothing but their great affection would prompt
such a sacrifice, and seemed always pining for Arcadia. Endymion,
however, not unfrequently continued his Sunday visits to Hainault,
to which Mr. Neuchatel had given him a general welcome. This young
gentleman, indeed, soon experienced a considerable change in his social
position. Invitations flocked to him, and often from persons whom he
did not know, and who did not even know him. He went by the name of Lady
Roehampton's brother, and that was a sufficient passport.

"We are trying to get up a carpet dance to-night," said Belinda to a
fair friend. "What men are in town?"

"Well, there is Mr. Waldershare, who has just left me."

"I have asked him.

"Then there is Lord Willesden and Henry Grantley--I know they are
passing through town--and there is the new man, Lady Roehampton's
brother."

"I will send to Lord Willesden and Henry Grantley immediately, and
perhaps you will send a card, which I will write here, for me to the new
man."

And in this way Mr. Ferrars soon found that he was what is called
"everywhere."

One of the most interesting acquaintances that Lady Roehampton made was
a colleague of her husband, and that was Mr. Sidney Wilton, once the
intimate friend of her father. He had known herself and her brother when
they were children, indeed from the cradle. Mr. Sidney Wilton was in the
perfection of middle life, and looked young for his years. He was tall
and pensive, and naturally sentimental, though a long political career,
for he had entered the House of Commons for the family borough the
instant he was of age, had brought to this susceptibility a salutary
hardness. Although somewhat alienated from the friend of his youth
by the course of affairs, for Mr. Sidney Wilton had followed Lord
Roehampton, while Mr. Ferrars had adhered to the Duke of Wellington,
he had not neglected Ferrars in his fall, but his offers of assistance,
frankly and generously made, had been coldly though courteously
rejected, and no encouragement had been given to the maintenance of
their once intimate acquaintance.

Mr. Sidney Wilton was much struck by the appearance of Lady Roehampton.
He tried to compare the fulfilment of her promise with the beautiful
and haughty child whom he used to wonder her parents so extravagantly
spoiled. Her stature was above the average height of women and finely
developed and proportioned. But it was in the countenance--in the
pellucid and commanding brow, the deep splendour of her dark blue eyes
softened by long lashes, her short upper lip, and the rich profusion of
her dark chestnut hair--that his roused memory recalled the past; and he
fell into a mood of agitated contemplation.

The opportunities which he enjoyed of cultivating her society were
numerous, and Mr. Wilton missed none. He was frequently her guest, and
being himself the master of a splendid establishment, he could offer
her a hospitality which every one appreciated. Lord Roehampton was
peculiarly his political chief, and they had always been socially
intimate. As the trusted colleague of her husband--as one who had known
her in her childhood, and as himself a man singularly qualified, by his
agreeable conversation and tender and deferential manner, to make his
way with women--Mr. Sidney Wilton had no great difficulty, particularly
in that happy demi-season which precedes Christmas, in establishing
relations of confidence and intimacy with Lady Roehampton.

The cabinets were over: the government had decided on their measures,
and put them in a state of preparation, and they were about to disperse
for a month. The seat of Lord Roehampton was in the extreme north
of England, and a visit to it was inconvenient at this moment, and
especially at this season. The department of Lord Roehampton was very
active at this time, and he was unwilling that the first impression by
his wife of her future home should be experienced at a season little
favourable to the charms of a northern seat. Mr. Sidney Wilton was
the proprietor of the most beautiful and the most celebrated villa in
England; only twenty miles from town, seated on a wooded crest of
the swan-crowned Thames, with gardens of delight, and woods full of
pheasants, and a terrace that would have become a court, glancing over a
wide expanse of bower and glade, studded with bright halls and delicate
steeples, and the smoke of rural homes.

It was arranged that Lord and Lady Roehampton should pass their
Christmas at Gaydene with Mr. Sidney Wilton, stay as long as they liked,
go where they chose, but make it their headquarters. It was a most
successful visit; for a great deal of business was done, as well as
pleasure enjoyed. The ambassadors, who were always a little uneasy at
Christmas when everybody is away, and themselves without country homes,
were all invited down for that week. Lord Roehampton used to give them
audiences after the shooting parties. He thought it was a specific
against their being too long. He used to say, "The first dinner-bell
often brings things to a point." After Christmas there was an
ever-varying stream of company, chiefly official and parliamentary. The
banquet and the battue did not always settle the business, the clause,
or the schedule, which the guests often came down to Gaydene ostensibly
to accomplish, but they sent men back to town with increased energy and
good humour, and kept the party in heart. Towards the end of the month
the premier came down, and for him the Blue Ribbon Covert had been
reserved, though he really cared little for sport. It was an eighteenth
century tradition that knights of the garter only had been permitted to
shoot this choice preserve, but Mr. Sidney Wilton, in this advanced age,
did not of course revive such an ultra-exclusive practice, and he was
particular in arranging the party to include Mr. Jorrocks. This was
a Radical member to whom considerable office had been given at the
reconstruction of 1835, when it was necessary that the Whigs should
conciliate the Mountain. He was a pretentious, underbred, half-educated
man, fluent with all the commonplaces of middle-class ambition, which
are humorously called democratic opinions, but at heart a sycophant
of the aristocracy. He represented, however, a large and important
constituency, and his promotion was at first looked upon as a
masterpiece of management. The Mountain, who knew Jorrocks by heart, and
felt that they had in their ranks men in every sense his superior, and
that he could be no representative of their intelligence and opinions,
and so by degrees prepare for their gradual admission to the sacred
land, at first sulked over the promotion of their late companion, and
only did not publicly deride it from the feeling that by so doing they
might be playing the game of the ministry. At the time of which we are
writing, having become extremely discontented and wishing to annoy
the government, they even affected dissatisfaction at the subordinate
position which Jorrocks occupied in the administration, and it was
generally said--had become indeed the slang of the party--that the
test of the sincerity of the ministry to Liberal principles was to put
Jorrocks in the cabinet. The countenance of the premier when this
choice programme was first communicated to him was what might have
been expected had he learnt of the sudden descent upon this isle of
an invading force, and the Secretary of the Treasury whispered in
confidence to one or two leaders of the Mountain, "that if they did not
take care they would upset the government."

"That is exactly what we want to do," was the reply.

So it will be seen that the position of the ministry, previous to the
meeting of parliament in 1839, was somewhat critical. In the meantime,
its various members, who knew their man, lavished every practicable
social attention on Jorrocks. The dinners they gave him were doubled;
they got their women to call on his women; and Sidney Wilton, a member
of an illustrious garter family, capped the climax by appointing him one
of the party to shoot the Blue Ribbon Covert.

Mr. Wilton had invited Endymion to Gaydene, and, as his stay there could
only be brief, had even invited him to repeat the visit. He was, indeed,
unaffectedly kind to one whom he remembered so young, and was evidently
pleased with him.

One evening, a day or two before the break-up of the party, while some
charming Misses Playfellow, with an impudent brother, who all lived
in the neighbourhood, were acting charades, Mr. Wilton said to Lady
Roehampton, by whose side he was sitting in the circle--

"I have had a very busy morning about my office. There is to be a
complete revolution in it. The whole system is to be reconstructed;
half the present people are to be pensioned off, and new blood is to be
introduced. It struck me that this might be an opening for your brother.
He is in the public service--that is something; and as there are to be
so many new men, there will be no jealousy as to his promotion. If you
will speak to him about it, and he likes it, I will appoint him one of
the new clerks; and then, if he also likes it, he shall be my private
secretary. That will give him position, and be no mean addition to
his income, you know, if we last--but that depends, I suppose, on Mr.
Jorrocks."

Lady Roehampton communicated all this to her brother on her return to
London. "It is exactly what I wished," she said. "I wanted you to be
private secretary to a cabinet minister, and if I were to choose any
one, except, of course, my lord, it would be Mr. Wilton. He is a perfect
gentleman, and was dear papa's friend. I understand you will have three
hundred a year to begin with, and the same amount as his secretary.
You ought to be able to live with ease and propriety on six hundred a
year--and this reminds me of what I have been thinking of before we went
to Gaydene. I think now you ought to have a more becoming residence. The
Rodneys are good people, I do not doubt, and I dare say we shall have
an opportunity of proving our sense of their services; but they are not
exactly the people that I care for you to live with, and, at any rate,
you cannot reside any longer in a garret. I have taken some chambers
in the Albany, therefore, for you, and they shall be my contribution to
your housekeeping. They are not badly furnished, but they belonged to
an old general officer, and are not very new-fashioned; but we will go
together and see them to-morrow, and I dare say I shall soon be able to
make them _comme il faut_."



CHAPTER XLVIII

This considerable rise in the life of Endymion, after the first
excitement occasioned by its announcement to him had somewhat subsided,
was not contemplated by him with unmixed feelings of satisfaction. It
seemed to terminate many relations of life, the value of which he had
always appreciated, but which now, with their impending conclusion,
he felt, and felt keenly, had absolutely contributed to his happiness.
There was no great pang in quitting his fellow-clerks, except Trenchard,
whom he greatly esteemed. But poor little Warwick Street had been to
him a real home, if unvarying kindness, and sedulous attention, and the
affection of the eyes and heart, as well as of the mouth, can make a
hearth. He hoped he might preserve the friendship of Waldershare, which
their joint intimacy with the prince would favour; but still he could
hardly flatter himself that the delightful familiarity of their past
lives could subsist. Endymion sighed, and then he sighed again. He felt
sad. Because he was leaving the humble harbour of refuge, the entrance
to which, even in the darkest hour of his fallen fortunes, was thought
somewhat of an indignity, and was about to assume a position which would
not have altogether misbecome the earliest expectations of his life?
That seems unreasonable; but mankind, fortunately, are not always
governed by reason, but by sentiment, and often by very tender
sentiment.

When Endymion, sitting in his little room, analysed his feelings, he
came to the conclusion that his sadness was occasioned by his having to
part from Imogene. It often requires an event in life, and an unexpected
one, to make us clearly aware of the existence of feelings which
have long influenced us. Never having been in a position in which the
possibility of uniting his fate to another could cross his mind for
a moment, he had been content with the good fortune which permitted a
large portion of his life to be passed in the society of a woman who,
unconsciously both to him and to herself, had fascinated him. The
graceful child who, four or five years ago, had first lit him to his
garret, without losing any of her rare and simple ingenuousness, had
developed into a beautiful and accomplished woman. There was a strong
resemblance between Imogene and her sister, but Imogene was a brunette.
Her countenance indicated far more intellect and character than that
of Sylvia. Her brow was delicately pencilled and finely arched, and her
large dark eyes gleamed with a softness and sweetness of expression,
which were irresistibly attractive, and seemed to indicate sympathy with
everything that was good and beautiful. Her features were not so regular
as her sister's; but when she smiled, her face was captivating.

Endymion had often listened, half with fondness and half with
scepticism, to Waldershare dilating, according to his wont, on the high
character and qualities of Imogene, whom he persisted in believing he
was preparing for a great career. "How it will come about I cannot say,"
he would remark; "but it will come. If my legitimate sovereign were on
the throne, and I in the possession of my estates, which were graciously
presented by the usurper to the sausage-makers, or some other choice
middle-class corporation, I would marry her myself. But that is
impossible. That would only be asking her to share my ruin. I want her
to live in palaces, and perhaps, in my decline of life, make me her
librarian, like Casanova. I should be content to dine in her hall
every day beneath the salt, and see her enter with her state, amid the
flourish of trumpets." And now, strange to say, Endymion was speculating
on the fate of Imogene, and, as he thought, in a more practical spirit.
Six hundred a year, he thought, was not a very large income; but it was
an income, and one which a year ago he never contemplated possessing
until getting grey in the public service. Why not realise perfect
happiness at once? He could conceive no bliss greater than living with
Imogene in one of those little villas, even if semi-detached, which
now are numbered by tens of thousands, and which were then beginning
to shoot out their suburban antennae in every direction of our huge
metropolis. He saw her in his mind's eye in a garden of perpetual
sunshine, breathing of mignonette and bright with roses, and waiting for
him as he came down from town and his daily labours, in the cheap and
convenient omnibus. What a delightful companion to welcome him! How much
to tell her, and how much to listen to! And then their evenings with a
delicious book or some delightful music! What holidays, too, of romantic
adventure! The vine-clad Rhine, perhaps Switzerland; at any rate, the
quaint old cities of Flanders, and the winding valley of the Meuse. They
could live extremely well on six hundred a year, yes, with all the real
refinements of existence. And all their genuine happiness was to be
sacrificed for utterly fantastic and imaginary gratifications, which,
if analysed, would be found only to be efforts to amuse and astonish
others.

It did not yet occur to Endymion that his garden could not always be
sunshiny; that cares crop up in villas, even semi-detached, as well as
joys; that he would have children, and perhaps too many; that they
would be sick, and that doctors' bills would soon put a stop to romantic
excursions; that his wife would become exhausted with nursing and
clothing and teaching them; that she herself would become an invalid,
and moped to death; that his resources would every day bear a less
proportion to his expenditure; and that wanting money, he would return
too often from town a harassed husband to a jaded wife!

Mr. Rodney and Sylvia were at Conington on a visit to Lord Beaumaris,
hunting. It was astonishing how Sylvia had ridden to the hounds, mounted
on the choicest steeds, and in a scarlet habit which had been presented
to her by Mr. Vigo. She had created quite an enthusiasm in the field,
and Lord Beaumaris was proud of his guests. When Endymion parted with
his sister at the Albany, where they had been examining his rooms, he
had repaired to Warwick Street, with some expectation that the Rodneys
would have returned from Conington, and he intended to break to his host
the impending change in his life. The Rodneys, however, had not arrived,
and so he ascended to his room, where he had been employed in arranging
his books and papers, and indulging in the reverie which we have
indicated. When he came downstairs, wishing to inquire about the
probable arrival of his landlord, Endymion knocked at the door of the
parlour where they used to assemble, and on entering, found Imogene
writing.

"How do you do, Mr. Ferrars?" she said, rising. "I am writing to Sylvia.
They are not returning as soon as they intended, and I am to go down to
Conington by an early train to-morrow."

"I want to see Mr. Rodney," said Endymion moodily.

"Can I write anything to him, or tell him anything?" said Imogene.

"No," continued Endymion in a melancholy tone. "I can tell you what
I wanted to say. But you must be occupied now, going away, and
unexpectedly, to-morrow. It seems to me that every one is going away."

"Well, we have lost the prince, certainly," said Imogene, "and I doubt
whether his rooms will be ever let again."

"Indeed!" said Endymion.

"Well, I only know what Mr. Waldershare tells me. He says that Mr.
Rodney and Mr. Vigo have made a great speculation, and gained a great
deal of money; but Mr. Rodney never speaks to me of such matters, nor
indeed does Sylvia. I am myself very sorry that the prince has gone, for
he interested me much."

"Well, I should think Mr. Rodney would not be very sorry to get rid of
me then," said Endymion.

"O Mr. Ferrars! why should you say or think such things! I am sure
that my brother and sister, and indeed every one in this house, always
consider your comfort and welfare before any other object."

"Yes," said Endymion, "you have all been most kind to me, and that makes
me more wretched at the prospect of leaving you."

"But there is no prospect of that?"

"A certainty, Imogene; there is going to be a change in my life," and
then he told her all.

"Well," said Imogene, "it would be selfish not to be happy at what I
hear; but though I hope I am happy, I need not be joyful. I never used
to be nervous, but I am afraid I am getting so. All these great changes
rather shake me. This adventure of the prince--as Mr. Waldershare
says, it is history. Then Miss Myra's great marriage, and your
promotion--although they are exactly what we used to dream about, and
wished a fairy would accomplish, and somehow felt that, somehow or
other, they must happen--yet now they have occurred, one is almost as
astounded as delighted. We certainly have been very happy in Warwick
Street, at least I have been, all living as it were together. But where
shall we be this time next year? All scattered, and perhaps not even the
Rodneys under this roof. I know not how it is, but I dread leaving the
roof where one has been happy."

"Oh! you know you must leave it one day or other, Imogene. You are sure
to marry; that you cannot avoid."

"Well, I am not by any means sure about that," said Imogene. "Mr.
Waldershare, in educating me, as he says, as a princess, has made me
really neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, nor even that coarser but popular
delicacy never forgotten. I could not unite my life with a being who was
not refined in mind and in manners, and the men of my class in life, who
are the only ones after all who might care to marry me, shock my taste,
I am ashamed to say so. I am not sure it is not wicked to think it even;
but so it is."

"Why do you not marry Waldershare?" said Endymion.

"That would be madness! I do not know any alliance that could prove
more unfortunate. Mr. Waldershare must never marry. All people of
imagination, they say, are difficult to live with; but a person who
consists solely of imagination, like Mr. Waldershare, who has indeed no
other attribute--before a year was past, married, he would fly to the
desert or to La Trappe, commit terrible scandals from mere weariness of
feeling, write pasquinades against the wife of his bosom, and hold us
both up to the fierce laughter of the world. No, no; he is the best,
the dearest, and the most romantic of friends; tender as a father, and
sometimes as wise, for genius can be everything. He is going to rise
early to-morrow, which he particularly dislikes, because he will not
let me go to the station alone; though I tell him, as I often tell him,
those are the becoming manners of my class."

"But you might meet a person of the refinement you require," said
Endymion, "with a moderate and yet a sufficient income, who would not be
unworthy of you."

"I doubt it," said Imogene.

"But, do not doubt it, dear Imogene," said Endymion, advancing; "such
charms as yours, both of body and of mind, such a companion in life,
so refined, so accomplished, and yet endowed with such clear sense, and
such a sweet disposition--believe me"----

But at this moment a splendid equipage drove up to the door, with
powdered footmen and long canes behind, and then a terrible rap, like
the tattoo of a field-marshal.

"Good gracious! what is all this?" exclaimed Imogene.

"It is my sister," said Endymion, blushing; "it is Lady Roehampton."

"I must go to her myself," said Imogene; "I cannot have the servant
attend upon your sister."

Endymion remained silent and confused. Imogene was some little time
at the carriage-door, for Lady Roehampton had inquiries to make after
Sylvia and other courteous things to say, and then Imogene returned, and
said to Endymion, "Lady Roehampton wishes you to go with her directly on
some particular business."



CHAPTER XLIX

Endymion liked his new official life very much. Whitehall was a great
improvement on Somerset House, and he had sufficient experience of the
civil service to duly appreciate the advantage of being permanently
quartered in one of the chief departments of the state, instead of
obscurely labouring in a subordinate office, with a limited future, and
detached from all the keenly interesting details of public life. But it
was not this permanent and substantial advantage which occasioned him
such lively and such novel pleasure, as the fact of his being a private
secretary, and a private secretary to a cabinet minister.

The relations between a minister and his secretary are, or at least
should be, among the finest that can subsist between two individuals.
Except the married state, there is none in which so great a degree of
confidence is involved, in which more forbearance ought to be exercised,
or more sympathy ought to exist. There is usually in the relation an
identity of interest, and that of the highest kind; and the perpetual
difficulties, the alternations of triumph and defeat, develop devotion.
A youthful secretary will naturally feel some degree of enthusiasm for
his chief, and a wise minister will never stint his regard for one in
whose intelligence and honour he finds he can place confidence.

There never was a happier prospect of these relations being established
on the most satisfactory basis than in the instance of Endymion and
his new master. Mr. Sidney Wilton was a man of noble disposition, fine
manners, considerable culture, and was generally gracious. But he was
disposed to be more than gracious to Endymion, and when he found that
our young friend had a capacity for work--that his perception was quick
and clear--that he wrote with facility--never made difficulties--was
calm, sedulous, and patient, the interest which Mr. Wilton took in him
as the son of William Ferrars, and, we must add, as the brother of Lady
Roehampton, became absorbed in the personal regard which the minister
soon entertained for his secretary. Mr. Wilton found a pleasure in
forming the mind of Endymion to the consideration and comprehension of
public affairs; he spoke to him both of men and things without reserve;
revealed to him the characters of leading personages on both sides,
illustrated their antecedents, and threw light upon their future; taught
him the real condition of parties in parliament, rarely to be found in
newspapers; and finally, when he was sufficiently initiated, obtained
for his secretary a key for his cabinet boxes, which left little of the
business of government unknown to Endymion.

Such great confidence, and that exhibited by one who possessed so many
winning qualities, excited in the breast of Endymion the most lively
feelings of gratitude and respect. He tried to prove them by the
vigilant and unwearying labour with which he served his master, and he
served him every day more effectually, because every day he became more
intimate with the mind and method of Mr. Wilton. Every one to a certain
degree is a mannerist; every one has his ways; and a secretary will be
assisted in the transaction of business if a vigilant observation has
made him acquainted with the idiosyncrasy of his chief.

The regulations of the office which authorise a clerk, appointed to
a private secretaryship, to deviate from the routine duties of the
department, and devote his time entirely to the special requirements of
his master, of course much assisted Endymion, and proved also a pleasant
relief, for he had had enough at Somerset House of copying documents and
drawing up formal reports. But it was not only at Whitehall that he saw
Mr. Wilton, and experienced his kindness. Endymion was a frequent guest
under Mr. Wilton's roof, and Mr. Wilton's establishment was one of the
most distinguished in London. They met also much in the evenings, and
always at Lady Roehampton's, where Mr. Wilton was never absent. Whenever
and wherever they met, even if they had been working together the
whole morning, Mr. Wilton always greeted Endymion with the utmost
consideration--because he knew such a recognition would raise Endymion
in the eyes of the social herd, who always observe little things, and
generally form from them their opinions of great affairs.



CHAPTER L

Mr. Wilton was at Charing Cross, on his way to his office, when a lady
saluted him from her carriage, which then drew up to the pavement and
stopped.

"We have just arrived," said Lady Montfort, "and I want you to give me
a little dinner to-day. My lord is going to dine with an Old Bailey
lawyer, who amuses him, and I do not like to be left, the first day, on
the _pave_."

"I can give you a rather large dinner, if you care to come," said Mr.
Wilton, "but I fear you will not like it. I have got some House of
Commons men dining with me to-day, and one or two of the other House to
meet them. My sister Georgina has very good-naturedly promised to come,
with her husband, and I have just written a note to the Duchess Dowager
of Keswick, who often helps me--but I fear this sort of thing would
hardly suit you."

"On the contrary, I think it will be very amusing. Only do not put
me between two of your colleagues. Anybody amuses me for once. A
new acquaintance is like a new book. I prefer it, even if bad, to a
classic."

The dinner party to-day at Mr. Wilton's was miscellaneous, and not
heterogeneous enough to produce constraint, only to produce a little
excitement--some commoners high in office, and the Treasury whip,
several manufacturers who stood together in the room, and some
metropolitan members. Georgina's husband, who was a lord-in-waiting, and
a great swell, in a green riband, moved about with adroit condescension,
and was bewitchingly affable. The manufacturing members whispered to
each other that it was a wise thing to bring the two Houses together,
but when Her Grace the Duchess Dowager of Keswick was announced,
they exchanged glances of astounded satisfaction, and felt that
the government, which had been thought to be in a somewhat rickety
condition, would certainly stand.

Berengaria came a little late, not very. She thought it had been
earlier, but it was not. The duchess dowager opened her eyes with
wonderment when she beheld Lady Montfort, but the company in general
were not in the least aware of the vast social event that was occurring.
They were gratified in seeing another fine lady, but did not, of course,
rank her with a duchess.

The dinner went off better than Mr. Wilton could have hoped, as it was
impossible to place a stranger by Lady Montfort. He sate in the middle
of his table with the duchess dowager on his right hand, and Berengaria,
who was taken out by the green riband, on the other. As he knew the
green riband would be soon exhausted, he devoted himself to Lady
Montfort, and left the duchess to her own resources, which were
considerable, and she was soon laying down her opinions on men and
things to her other neighbours with much effect. The manufacturers
talked shop to each other in whispers, that is to say, mixed House of
Commons tattle about bills and committees with news from Manchester and
Liverpool, and the West Riding. The metropolitan members, then a more
cosmopolitan body and highly miscellaneous in their character and
pursuits, were louder, and perhaps more easy, even ventured to
talk across the table when near its end, and enticed the peers into
discussions on foreign politics.

Mr. Sidney Wilton having been delightful, thought it necessary to
observe that he feared Lady Montfort had been bored. "I have been, and
am, extremely amused," she replied; "and now tell me, who is that young
man at the very end of the table?"

"That is my private secretary, Mr. Ferrars."

"Ferrars!"

"A brother of Lady Roehampton."

"Present him to me after dinner."

Endymion knew Lady Montfort by sight, though she did not know him. He
had seen her more than once at the receptions of Mrs. Neuchatel, where,
as indeed in every place, she was the cynosure. He was much astonished
at meeting her at this party to-day,--almost as surprised as the duchess
dowager, for Endymion, who was of an observant nature, was beginning
to comprehend society and all its numerous elements, and schools,
and shades, and classes. When they entered the saloon, Mr. Wilton led
Endymion up to Lady Montfort at once, and she immediately inquired after
his sister. "Do you think," she said, "Lady Roehampton would see me
to-morrow if I called on her?"

"If I were Lady Roehampton, I would," said Endymion.

Lady Montfort looked at him with a glance of curious scrutiny; not
smiling, and yet not displeased. "I will write her a little note in
the morning," said Lady Montfort thoughtfully. "One may leave cards for
ever. Mr. Wilton tells me you are quite his right hand."

"Mr. Wilton is too kind to me," said Endymion. "One could not be excused
for not doing one's best for such a master."

"You like people to be kind to you?" said Lady Montfort.

"Well, I have not met with so much kindness in this world as to become
insensible to it."

"You are too young to be melancholy," said Lady Montfort; "are you older
than Lady Roehampton?"

"We are twins."

"Twins! and wonderfully like too! Is it not thought so?"

"I have sometimes heard it mentioned."

"Oh, it is striking!" said Lady Montfort, and she motioned to him to sit
down by her; and then she began to talk politics, and asked him what the
members thought at dinner of the prospects of the government, and what
he had heard of the malcontent movement that they said was _in petto_.
Endymion replied that Mr. Sharpset, the Secretary of the Treasury, did
not think much of it.

"Well, I wish I did not," said Lady Montfort. "However, I will soon find
out something about it. I have only just come to town; but I intend to
open my house, immediately. Now I must go. What are you going to do with
yourself to-morrow? I wish you would come and dine with Lord Montfort.
It will be quite without form, a few agreeable and amusing people; Lord
Montfort must be amused. It seems a reasonable fancy, but very difficult
to realise; and now you shall ask for my carriage, and to-morrow I hope
to be able to tell Lady Roehampton what very great pleasure I have had
in making the acquaintance of her brother."



CHAPTER LI

The morning after, Endymion was emerging from the court-yard of the
Albany, in order to call on Mr. Rodney, who, as he learnt from a casual
remark in a letter from Waldershare, would be in town. The ladies were
left behind for the last week of hunting, but business called Mr. Rodney
home. Waldershare wrote to Endymion in the highest spirits, and more
than once declared that he was the happiest of men. Just as Endymion had
entered Piccadilly, he was stopped by a once familiar face; it was St.
Barbe, who accosted him with great warmth, and as usual began to talk
about himself. "You are surprised to see me," he said. "It is two years
since we met. Well, I have done wonders; carried all before me. By Jove,
sir, I can walk into a minister's private room with as much ease as I
were entering the old den. The ambassadors are hand and glove with me.
There are very few things I do not know. I have made the fortune of the
'Chuck-Farthing,' trebled its circulation, and invented a new style,
which has put me at the head of all 'our own correspondents.' I wish you
were at Paris; I would give you a dinner at the Rocher, which would make
up for all our dinners at that ferocious ruffian, Joe's. I gave a dinner
the other day to forty of them, all 'our own correspondents,' or such
like. Do you know, my dear fellow, when I looked round the room, there
was not a man who had not done his best to crush me; running down my
works or not noticing them, or continually dilating on Gushy as if
the English public would never read anything else. Now, that was
Christian-like of me, was not it? God, sir, if they only had but one
neck, and I had been the Emperor Nero--but, I will not dwell on it; I
hate them. However, it suits me to take the other line at present. I am
all for fraternity and that sort of thing, and give them dinners. There
is a reason why, but there is no time to talk about that now. I shall
want their sweet voices--the hounds! But, my dear fellow, I am truly
glad to see you. Do you know, I always liked you; and how come you to be
in this quarter this fine morning?"

"I live in the Albany," said Endymion.

"You live in the Albany!" repeated St. Barbe, with an amazed and
perturbed expression. "I knew I could not be a knight of the garter, or
a member of White's--the only two things an Englishman cannot command;
but I did think I might some day live in the Albany. It was my dream.
And you live there! Gracious! what an unfortunate fellow I am! I do not
see how you can live in the Albany with your salary; I suppose they have
raised you."

"I have left Somerset House," said Endymion, "and am now at the Board of
Trade, and am private secretary to Mr. Sidney Wilton."

"Oh!" said St. Barbe; "then we have friends at court. You may do
something for me, if I only knew what I wanted. They have no decorations
here. Curse this aristocratic country, they want all the honours to
themselves. I should like to be in the Board of Trade, and would make
some sacrifice for it. The proprietors of the 'Chuck-Farthing' pay well;
they pay like gentlemen; though, why I say so I do not exactly know, for
no gentleman ever paid me anything. But, if I could be Secretary of the
Board of Trade, or get 1500 pounds a year secure, I would take it; and
I dare say I could get employed on some treaties, as I speak French, and
then I might get knighted."

"Well, I think you are very well off," said Endymion; "carrying, as you
say, everything before you. What more can you want?"

"I hate the craft," said St. Barbe, with an expression of genuine
detestation; "I should like to show them all up before I died. I suppose
it was your sister marrying a lord that got you on in this way. I could
have married a countess myself, but then, to be sure, she was only a
Polish one, and hard up. I never had a sister; I never had any luck in
life at all. I wish I had been a woman. Women are the only people who
get on. A man works all his life, and thinks he has done a wonderful
thing if, with one leg in the grave and no hair on his head, he manages
to get a coronet; and a woman dances at a ball with some young fellow or
other, or sits next to some old fellow at dinner and pretends she
thinks him charming, and he makes her a peeress on the spot. Oh! it is
a disgusting world; it must end in revolution. Now you tell your master,
Mr. Sidney Wilton, that if he wants to strengthen the institutions of
this country, the government should establish an order of merit, and the
press ought to be represented in it. I do not speak only for myself; I
speak for my brethren. Yes, sir, I am not ashamed of my order."

And so they bade each other farewell.

"Unchanged," thought Endymion, as he crossed Piccadilly; "the vainest,
the most envious, and the most amusing of men! I wonder what he will do
in life."

Mr. Rodney was at home, had just finished his breakfast, read his
newspaper, and was about to "go into the City." His costume was
perfect. Mr. Rodney's hat seemed always a new one. Endymion was a little
embarrassed by this interview, for he had naturally a kind heart, and
being young, it was still soft. The Rodneys had been truly good to him,
and he was attached to them. Imogene had prepared Mr. Rodney for the
change in Endymion's life, and Endymion himself had every reason
to believe that in a worldly point of view the matter was entirely
insignificant to his old landlord. Still his visit this morning ratified
a permanent separation from those with whom he had lived for a long
time, and under circumstances of sympathy and family connection
which were touching. He retained Mr. Rodney's hand for a moment as he
expressed, and almost in faltering tones, his sorrow at their separation
and his hope that their friendly connection might be always cherished.

"That feeling is reciprocal," said Mr. Rodney. "If only because you were
the son of my revered and right honourable friend, you would always be
esteemed here. But you are esteemed, or, I may say beloved, for your
own sake. We shall be proud to be considered with kindness by you, and I
echo your wish that, though no longer living under the same roof, we
may yet, and even often, meet. But do not say another word about the
inconvenience you are occasioning us. The truth is, that although
wherever we went the son of my revered and right honourable friend would
have always commanded hospitality from us, there are many changes about
to take place in our family which have made us for some time contemplate
leaving Warwick Street. Affairs, especially of late, have gone pretty
well with me in the world,--at least not badly; I have had friends, and
I hope have proved not undeserving of them. I wish Sylvia, too, to
live in an airier situation, near the park, so that she may ride every
morning. Besides, I have a piece of news to communicate to you, which
would materially affect our arrangements. We are going to lose Imogene."

"Ah! she is going to be married," said Endymion, blushing.

"She is going to be married," said Mr. Rodney gravely.

"To Mr. Waldershare?" said Endymion. "He almost said as much to me in a
letter this morning. But I always thought so."

"No; not to Mr. Waldershare," said Mr. Rodney.

"Who is the happy man then?" said Endymion, agitated. "I truly call him
so; for I think myself that Imogene is perfection."

"Imogene is about to be married to the Earl of Beaumaris."



CHAPTER LII

Simon, Earl of Montfort, with whom Endymion was so unexpectedly going
to dine, may be said to have been a minor in his cradle. Under
ordinary circumstances, his inheritance would have been one of the most
considerable in England. His castle in the north was one of the glories
of the land, and becomingly crowned his vast domain. Under the old
parliamentary system, he had the greatest number of nomination boroughs
possessed by any Whig noble. The character and conduct of an individual
so qualified were naturally much speculated on and finely scanned.
Nothing very decided transpired about them in his boyhood, but certainly
nothing adverse. He was good-looking and athletic, and was said to
be generous and good-natured, and when he went to Harrow, he became
popular. In his eighteenth year, while he was in correspondence with
his guardians about going to Christ Church, he suddenly left his country
without giving any one notice of his intentions, and entered into, and
fulfilled, a vast scheme of adventurous travel. He visited countries
then rarely reached, and some of which were almost unknown. His flag
had floated in the Indian Ocean, and he had penetrated the dazzling
mysteries of Brazilian forests. When he was of age, he returned, and
communicated with his guardians, as if nothing remarkable had happened
in his life. Lord Montfort had inherited a celebrated stud, which the
family had maintained for more than a century, and the sporting world
remarked with satisfaction that their present representative appeared to
take much interest in it. He had an establishment at Newmarket, and his
horses were entered for all the great races of the kingdom. He appeared
also at Melton, and conducted the campaign in a style becoming such
a hero. His hunters and his cooks were both first-rate. Although he
affected to take little interest in politics, the events of the time
forced him to consider them and to act. Lord Grey wanted to carry his
Reform Bill, and the sacrifice of Lord Montfort's numerous boroughs was
a necessary ingredient in the spell. He was appealed to as the head
of one of the greatest Whig houses, and he was offered a dukedom. He
relinquished his boroughs without hesitation, but he preferred to remain
with one of the oldest earldoms of England for his chief title. All
honours, however, clustered about him, though he never sought them, and
in the same year he tumbled into the Lord Lieutenancy of his country,
unexpectedly vacant, and became the youngest Knight of the Garter.

Society was looking forward with the keenest interest to the impending
season, when Lord Montfort would formally enter its spell-bound ranks,
and multiform were the speculations on his destiny. He attended an early
levee, in order that he might be presented--a needful ceremony which had
not yet taken place--and then again quitted his country, and for years.
He was heard of in every capital except his own. Wonderful exploits
at St. Petersburg, and Paris, and Madrid, deeds of mark at Vienna, and
eccentric adventures at Rome; but poor Melton, alas! expecting him
to return every season, at last embalmed him, and his cooks, and his
hunters, and his daring saddle, as a tradition,--jealous a little
of Newmarket, whither, though absent, he was frequently transmitting
foreign blood, and where his horses still ran, and were often
victorious.

At last it would appear that the restless Lord Montfort had found his
place, and that place was Paris. There he dwelt for years in Sybaritic
seclusion. He built himself a palace, which he called a villa, and which
was the most fanciful of structures, and full of every beautiful object
which rare taste and boundless wealth could procure, from undoubted
Raffaelles to jewelled toys. It was said that Lord Montfort saw no
one; he certainly did not court or receive his own countrymen, and this
perhaps gave rise to, or at least caused to be exaggerated, the tales
that were rife of his profusion, and even his profligacy. But it was not
true that he was entirely isolated. He lived much with the old families
of France in their haughty faubourg, and was highly considered by them.
It was truly a circle for which he was adapted. Lord Montfort was the
only living Englishman who gave one an idea of the nobleman of
the eighteenth century. He was totally devoid of the sense of
responsibility, and he looked what he resembled. His manner, though
simple and natural, was finished and refined, and, free from forbidding
reserve, was yet characterised by an air of serious grace.

With the exception of the memorable year when he sacrificed his
nomination boroughs to the cause for which Hampden died on the field
and Sidney on the scaffold--that is to say, the Whig government of
England--Lord Montfort had been absent for his country for ten years,
and one day, in his statued garden at the Belvedere, he asked himself
what he had gained by it. There was no subject, divine or human, in
which he took the slightest interest. He entertained for human nature
generally, and without any exception, the most cynical appreciation. He
had a sincere and profound conviction, that no man or woman ever acted
except from selfish and interested motives. Society was intolerable to
him; that of his own sex and station wearisome beyond expression; their
conversation consisted only of two subjects, horses and women, and he
had long exhausted both. As for female society, if they were ladies, it
was expected that, in some form or other, he should make love to them,
and he had no sentiment. If he took refuge in the _demi-monde_, he
encountered vulgarity, and that, to Lord Montfort, was insufferable.
He had tried them in every capital, and vulgarity was the badge of all
their tribe. He had attempted to read; a woman had told him to read
French novels, but he found them only a clumsy representation of the
life which, for years, he had practically been leading. An accident made
him acquainted with Rabelais and Montaigne; and he had relished them,
for he had a fine sense of humour. He might have pursued these studies,
and perhaps have found in them a slight and occasional distraction, but
a clever man he met at a guingette at Passy, whither he had gone to try
to dissipate his weariness in disguise, had convinced him, that if there
were a worthy human pursuit, an assumption which was doubtful, it was
that of science, as it impressed upon man his utter insignificance.

No one could say Lord Montfort was a bad-hearted man, for he had no
heart. He was good-natured, provided it brought him no inconvenience;
and as for temper, his was never disturbed, but this not from sweetness
of disposition, rather from a contemptuous fine taste, which assured
him, that a gentleman should never be deprived of tranquillity in a
world where nothing was of the slightest consequence.

The result of these reflections was, that he was utterly wearied with
Belvedere and Paris, and as his mind was now rather upon science, he
fancied he should like to return to a country where it flourished,
and where he indulged in plans of erecting colossal telescopes, and
of promoting inquiry into the origin of things. He thought that with
science and with fishing, the only sport to which he still really clung,
for he liked the lulling influence of running streams, and a pastime he
could pursue in loneliness, existence might perhaps be endured.

Society was really surprised when they heard of the return of Lord
Montfort to England. He came back in the autumn, so that there should
be no season to encounter, and his flag was soon flying at his castle.
There had been continuous attacks for years on the government for having
made an absentee lord lieutenant of his country, and conferring the high
distinction of the garter on so profligate a character. All this made
his return more interesting and exciting.

A worthy nobleman of high rank and of the same county, who for the last
five years everybody, shaking everybody's head, had been saying ought to
have been lord lieutenant, had a great county function in his immediate
neighbourhood in the late autumn, and had invited a large party to
assist him in its celebration. It seemed right also to invite the lord
lieutenant, but no one expected that he would make his appearance. On
the contrary, the invitation was accepted, and the sensation was great.
What would he be like, and what would he do, and was he so very wicked
as the county newspaper said? He came, this wicked man, with his
graceful presence and his diamond star, and everybody's heart palpitated
with a due mixture of terror and admiration. The only exception to these
feelings was the daughter of the house, the Lady Berengaria. She
was then in her second season, but still unparagoned, for she was a
fastidious, not to say disdainful lady. The highest had been at her
feet, and sued in vain. She was a stirring spirit, with great ambition
and a daring will; never content except in society, and influencing
it--for which she was qualified by her grace and lively fancy, her ready
though capricious sympathy, and her passion for admiration.

The function was successful, and the county full of enthusiasm for their
lord lieutenant, whose manner quite cleared his character. The party
did not break up, in fact the function was only an excuse for the party.
There was sport of all kinds, and in the evenings a carnival--for Lady
Berengaria required everybody about her to be gay and diverting--games
and dances, and infinite frolic. Lord Montfort, who, to the surprise of
every one, did not depart, spoke to her a little, and perhaps would
not have spoken at all, had they not met in the hunting-field. Lady
Berengaria was a first-rate horsewoman, and really in the saddle looked
irresistible.

The night before the party, which had lasted a week, broke up, Lord
Montfort came and sat by Lady Berengaria. He spoke about the run of the
morning, and she replied in the same vein. "I have got a horse, Lady
Berengaria, which I should like you to ride. Would you do so?"

"Certainly, and what sort of horse is it?"

"You shall see to-morrow. It is not far off. I like to have some horses
always near," and then he walked away.

It was a dark chestnut of matchless beauty. Lady Berengaria, who was
of an emphatic nature, was loud in her admiration of its beauty and its
hunting qualities.

"I agree with you," said Lord Montfort, "that it will spoil you for any
other horse, and therefore I shall ask permission to leave it here for
your use."

The party broke up, but, strange to say, Lord Montfort did not depart.
It was a large family. Lady Berengaria had several sisters; her
eldest brother was master of the hounds, and her younger brothers were
asserting their rights as cadets, and killing their father's pheasants.
There was also a number of cousins, who were about the same age, and
were always laughing, though it was never quite clear what it was about.
An affectation of gaiety may be sometimes detected in youth.

As Lord Montfort always had the duty of ushering the lady of the
house to dinner, he never had the opportunity of conversing with Lady
Berengaria, even had he wished it; but it was not all clear that he did
wish it, and it seemed that he talked as much to her sisters and the
laughing cousins as to herself, but still he did not go away, which was
most strange, and commenced to be embarrassing.

At last one evening, both her parents slumbering, one over the newspaper
and the other over her work, and the rest of the party in a distant
room playing at some new game amid occasional peals of laughter, Lord
Montfort, who had been sitting for some time by Lady Berengaria's side,
and only asking now and then a question, though often a searching one,
in order to secure her talking to him, rather abruptly said, "I wonder
if anything would ever induce you to marry me?"

This was the most startling social event of the generation. Society
immediately set a-wondering how it would turn out, and proved very
clearly that it must turn out badly. Men who knew Montfort well at Paris
looked knowing, and said they would give it six months.

But the lady was as remarkable a woman as the bridegroom was in his
sex. Lady Berengaria was determined to be the Queen of Society, and had
confidence in her unlimited influence over man. It is, however, rather
difficult to work on the feelings of a man who has no heart. This she
soon found out, and to her dismay, but she kept it a profound secret.
By endless ingenuity on her part, affairs went on very well much longer
than the world expected, and long enough to fulfil the object of Lady
Berengaria's life. Lord Montfort launched his wife well, and seemed
even content to be occasionally her companion until she had mounted
the social throne. He was proud of her as he would be of one of his
beautiful horses; but when all the world had acknowledged the influence
of Berengaria, he fell into one of his old moods, and broke to her that
he could bear it no longer, and that he must retire from society. Lady
Montfort looked distressed, but, resolved under no circumstances to be
separated from her husband, whom she greatly admired, and to whom,
had he wished it, she could have become even passionately attached,
signified her readiness to share his solitude. But she then found
out that this was not what he wanted. It was not only retirement from
society, but retirement from Lady Montfort, that was indispensable. In
short, at no time of his perverse career had Lord Montfort been more
wilful.

During the last years of his residence in Paris, when he was shut up
in his delicious Belvedere, he had complained much of the state of his
health, and one of his principal pursuits was consulting the faculty on
this interesting subject. The faculty were unanimous in their opinion
that the disorder from which their patient was suffering was _Ennui_.
This persistent opinion irritated him, and was one of the elements
of his decision to leave the country. The unexpected distraction that
followed his return to his native land had made him neglect or forget
his sad indisposition, but it appears that it had now returned, and in
an aggravated form. Unhappily the English physicians took much the
same view of the case as their French brethren. They could find nothing
organically wrong in the constitution or condition of Lord Montfort,
and recommended occupation and society. At present he shrank with some
disgust at the prospect of returning to France, and he had taken it into
his head that the climate of Montfort did not agree with him. He was
convinced that he must live in the south of England. One of the most
beautiful and considerable estates in that favoured part of our country
was virtually in the market, and Lord Montfort, at the cost of half a
million, became the proprietor of Princedown. And here he announced that
he should dwell and die.

This state of affairs was a bitter trial to the proudest woman in
England, but Lady Montfort was also one of the most able. She resisted
nothing, sympathised with all his projects, and watched her opportunity
when she could extract from his unconscious good-nature some reasonable
modification of them. And she ultimately succeeded in establishing a
_modus vivendi_. He was to live and die at Princedown; that was settled;
but if he ever came to town, to consult his physicians, for example, he
was always to inhabit Montfort House, and if she occasionally required a
whiff of southern air, she was to have her rooms always ready for her at
Princedown. She would not interfere with him in the least; he need not
even see her, if he were too unwell. Then as to the general principle of
his life, it was quite clear that he was not interested in anything, and
never would be interested in anything; but there was no reason that he
should not be amused. This distinction between interest and amusement
rather pleased, and seemed to satisfy Lord Montfort--but then it was
difficult to amuse him. The only thing that ever amused him, he said,
were his wife's letters, and as he was the most selfish as well as the
most polite of men, he requested her to write to him every day. Great
personages, who are selfish and whimsical, are generally surrounded
by parasites and buffoons, but this would not suit Lord Montfort; he
sincerely detested flattery, and he wearied in eight-and-forty hours of
the most successful mountebank in society. What he seemed inclined to
was the society of men of science, of travellers in rare parts, and
of clever artists; in short, of all persons who had what he called
"idiosyncrasy." Civil engineering was then beginning to attract general
attention, and Lord Montfort liked the society of civil engineers; but
what he liked most were self-formed men, and to learn the secret of
their success, and how they made their fortune. After the first fit of
Princedown was over, Lord Montfort found that it was impossible, even
with all its fascination, to secure a constant, or sufficient, presence
of civil engineers in such distant parts, and so he got into the habit
of coming up to Montfort House, that he might find companions and
be amused. Lady Montfort took great pains that he should not be
disappointed, and catered for him with all the skill of an accomplished
_chef_. Then, when the occasion served, she went down to Princedown
herself with welcome guests--and so it turned out, that circumstances,
which treated by an ordinary mind must have led to a social scandal,
were so adroitly manipulated, that the world little apprehended the real
and somewhat mortifying state of affairs. With the utmost license of
ill-nature, they could not suppose that Lord and Lady Montfort, living
under the same roof, might scarcely see each other for weeks, and that
his communications with her, and indeed generally, were always made in
writing.

Lady Monfort never could agree with her husband in the cardinal
assumption of his philosophy. One of his reasons for never doing
anything was, that there was nothing for him to attain. He had got
everything. Here they at once separated in their conclusions. Lady
Montfort maintained they had got nothing. "What," she would say, "are
rank and wealth to us? We were born to them. We want something that
we were not born to. You reason like a parvenu. Of course, if you had
created your rank and your riches, you might rest on your oars, and find
excitement in the recollection of what you had achieved. A man of your
position ought to govern the country, and it always was so in the
old days. Your family were prime ministers; why not you, with as much
talent, and much more knowledge?"

"You would make a very good prime minister, Berengaria."

"Ah! you always jest, I am serious."

"And so am I. If I ever am to work, I would sooner be a civil engineer
than a prime minister."

Nothing but the indomitable spirit of Lady Montfort could fight
successfully against such obstacles to her schemes of power as were
presented by the peculiar disposition of her lord. Her receptions every
Saturday night during the season were the most important of social
gatherings, but she held them alone. It was by consummate skill that
she had prevailed upon her lord occasionally appearing at the preceding
banquets, and when they were over, he flitted for an instant and
disappeared. At first, he altogether refused, but then Lady Montfort
would introduce Royalty, always kind, to condescend to express a wish
to dine at Montfort House, and that was a gracious intimation it was
impossible not to act upon, and then, as Lady Montfort would say, "I
trust much to the periodical visits of that dear Queen of Mesopotamia.
He must entertain her, for his father was her lover."

In this wonderful mystification, by which Lord Montfort was made to
appear as living in a society which he scarcely ever entered, his
wife was a little assisted by his visits to Newmarket, which he even
frequently attended. He never made a bet or a new acquaintance, but he
seemed to like meeting men with whom he had been at school. There is
certainly a magic in the memory of school-boy friendships; it softens
the heart, and even affects the nervous system of those who have no
hearts. Lord Montfort at Newmarket would ask half a dozen men who had
been at school with him, and were now members of the Jockey Club, to be
his guests, and the next day all over the heath, and after the heath,
all over Mayfair and Belgravia, you heard only one speech, "I dined
yesterday," or "the other day," as the case might be, "with Montfort;
out and out the best dinner I ever had, and such an agreeable fellow;
the wittiest, the most amusing, certainly the most charming fellow that
ever lived; out and out! It is a pity he does not show a little more."
And society thought the same; they thought it a pity, and a great one,
that this fascinating being of whom they rarely caught a glimpse, and
who to them took the form of a wasted and unsympathising phantom, should
not show a little more and delight them. But the most curious thing was,
that however rapturous were his guests, the feelings of their host after
they had left him, were by no means reciprocal. On the contrary, he
would remark to himself, "Have I heard a single thing worth remembering?
Not one."



CHAPTER LIII

Endymion was a little agitated when he arrived at the door of Montfort
House, a huge family mansion, situate in a court-yard and looking into
the Green Park. When the door was opened he found himself in a large
hall with many servants, and he was ushered through several rooms on the
ground floor, into a capacious chamber dimly lighted, where there were
several gentlemen, but not his hostess. His name was announced, and then
a young man came up to him and mentioned that Lord and Lady Montfort
would soon be present, and then talked to him about the weather. The
Count of Ferroll arrived after Endymion, and then another gentleman
whose name he could not catch. Then while he was making some original
observations on the east wind, and, to confess the truth, feeling
anything but at his ease, the folding doors of a further chamber
brilliantly lighted were thrown open, and almost at the same moment Lady
Montfort entered, and, taking the Count of Ferroll's arm, walked into
the dining-room. It was a round table, and Endymion was told by the
same gentleman who had already addressed him, that he was to sit by Lady
Montfort.

"Lord Montfort is a little late to-day," she said, "but he wished me not
to wait for him. And how are you after our parliamentary banquet?"
she said, turning to Endymion; "I will introduce you to the Count of
Ferroll."

The Count of Ferroll was a young man, and yet inclined to be bald. He
was chief of a not inconsiderable mission at our court. Though not to
be described as a handsome man, his countenance was striking; a brow
of much intellectual development, and a massive jaw. He was tall,
broad-shouldered, with a slender waist. He greeted Endymion with a
penetrating glance, and then with a winning smile.

The Count of Ferroll was the representative of a kingdom which, if
not exactly created, had been moulded into a certain form of apparent
strength and importance by the Congress of Vienna. He was a noble of
considerable estate in a country where possessions were not extensive
or fortunes large, though it was ruled by an ancient, and haughty, and
warlike aristocracy. Like his class, the Count of Ferroll had received a
military education; but when that education was completed, he found but
a feeble prospect of his acquirements being called into action. It
was believed that the age of great wars had ceased, and that even
revolutions were for the future to be controlled by diplomacy. As he was
a man of an original, not to say eccentric, turn of mind, the Count
of Ferroll was not contented with the resources and distraction of his
second-rate capital. He was an eminent sportsman, and, for some time,
took refuge and found excitement in the breadth of his dark forests, and
in the formation of a stud, which had already become celebrated. But all
this time, even in the excitement of the chase, and in the raising of
his rare-breed steeds, the Count of Ferroll might be said to have been
brooding over the position of what he could scarcely call his country,
but rather an aggregation of lands baptized by protocols, and christened
and consolidated by treaties which he looked upon as eminently
untrustworthy. One day he surprised his sovereign, with whom he was
a favourite, by requesting to be appointed to the legation at London,
which was vacant. The appointment was at once made, and the Count of
Ferroll had now been two years at the Court of St. James'.

The Count of Ferroll was a favourite in English society, for he
possessed every quality which there conduces to success. He was of great
family and of distinguished appearance, munificent and singularly frank;
was a dead-shot, and the boldest of riders, with horses which were the
admiration alike of Melton and Newmarket. The ladies also approved of
him, for he was a consummate waltzer, and mixed with a badinage gaily
cynical a tone that could be tender and a bewitching smile.

But his great friend was Lady Montfort. He told her everything, and
consulted her on everything; and though he rarely praised anybody, it
had reached her ears that the Count of Ferroll had said more than once
that she was a greater woman than Louise of Savoy or the Duchesse de
Longueville.

There was a slight rustling in the room. A gentleman had entered and
glided into his unoccupied chair, which his valet had guarded. "I fear I
am not in time for an oyster," said Lord Montfort to his neighbour.

The gentleman who had first spoken to Endymion was the secretary of Lord
Montfort; then there was a great genius who was projecting a suspension
bridge over the Tyne, and that was in Lord Montfort's country. A
distinguished officer of the British Museum completed the party with a
person who sate opposite Endymion, and whom in the dim twilight he had
not recognised, but whom he now beheld with no little emotion. It was
Nigel Penruddock. They had not met since his mother's funeral, and the
associations of the past agitated Endymion. They exchanged recognitions;
that of Nigel was grave but kind.

The conversation was what is called general, and a great deal on
suspension bridges. Lord Montfort himself led off on this, in order
to bring out his distinguished guest. The Count of Ferroll was also
interested on this subject, as his own government was making inquiries
on the matter. The gentleman from the British Museum made some remarks
on the mode in which the ancient Egyptians moved masses of granite, and
quoted Herodotus to the civil engineer. The civil engineer had never
heard of Herodotus, but he said he was going to Egypt in the autumn by
desire of Mehemet Ali, and he would undertake to move any mass which
was requisite, even if it were a pyramid itself. Lady Montfort, without
disturbing the general conversation, whispered in turns to the Count of
Ferroll and Endymion, and told the latter that she had paid a visit to
Lady Roehampton in the morning--a most delightful visit. There was no
person she admired so much as his sister; she quite loved her. The
only person who was silent was Nigel, but Lady Montfort, who perceived
everything, addressed him across the table with enthusiasm about some
changes he had made in the services of some church, and the countenance
of Nigel became suffused like a young saint who has a glimpse of
Paradise.

After dinner Lady Montfort led Endymion to her lord, and left him seated
by his host. Lord Montfort was affable and natural in his manner. He
said, "I have not yet made the acquaintance of Lady Roehampton, for I
never go out; but I hope to do so, for Lady Montfort tells me she is
quite captivating."

"She is a very good sister," said Endymion.

"Lady Montfort has told me a great deal about yourself, and all of it
I was glad to hear. I like young men who rise by their merits, and Mr.
Sidney Wilton tells Lady Montfort that yours are distinguished."

"Mr. Sidney Wilton is a kind master, sir."

"Well, I was his fag at Harrow, and I thought him so," said Lord
Montfort. "And now about your office; tell me what you do. You were not
there first, Lady Montfort says. Where were you first? Tell me all about
it. I like detail."

It was impossible to resist such polished and amiable curiosity, and
Endymion gratified it with youthful grace. He even gave Lord Montfort a
sketch of St. Barbe, inspired probably by the interview of the morning.
Lord Montfort was quite amused with this, and said he should so much
like to know Mr. St. Barbe. It was clear, when the party broke up, that
Endymion had made a favourable impression, for Lord Montfort said, "You
came here to-day as Lady Montfort's friend, but you must come in future
as mine also. And will you understand, I dine at home every day when I
am in town, and I give you a general invitation. Come as often as you
like; you will be always welcome. Only let the house know your intention
an hour before dinner-time, as I have a particular aversion to the table
being crowded, or seeing an empty chair."

Lady Montfort had passed much of the evening in earnest conversation
with Nigel, and when the guests quitted the room, Nigel and Endymion
walked away together.



CHAPTER LIV

The meeting between Nigel and Endymion was not an ordinary one, and when
they were at length alone, neither of them concealed his feelings of
pleasure and surprise at its occurrence. Nigel had been a curate in the
northern town which was defended by Lord Montfort's proud castle, and
his labours and reputation had attracted the attention of Lady Montfort.
Under the influence of his powerful character, the services of his
church were celebrated with a precision and an imposing effect, which
soon occasioned a considerable excitement in the neighbourhood, in time
even in the county. The pulpit was frequently at his command, for his
rector, who had imbibed his Church views, was not equal to the task of
propagating them, and the power and fame of Nigel as a preacher began to
be much rumoured. Although the church at which he officiated was not
the one which Lady Montfort usually attended, she was soon among his
congregation and remained there. He became a constant guest at the
castle, and Lady Montfort presented his church with a reredos of
alabaster. She did more than this. Her enthusiasm exceeded her
selfishness, for though the sacrifice was great which would deprive her
of the ministrations and society of Nigel in the country, she prevailed
upon the prime minister to prefer him to a new church in London, which
had just fallen vacant, and which, being situated in a wealthy and
populous district, would afford him the opportunity of making known to
the world his eloquence and genius. This was Nigel's simple, yet not
uneventful history; and then, in turn, he listened to Endymion's brief
but interesting narrative of his career, and then they agreed to adjourn
to Endymion's chambers and have a good talk over the past and the
present.

"That Lady Montfort is a great woman," said Nigel, standing with his
back to the fire. "She has it in her to be another Empress Helena."

"Indeed!"

"I believe she has only one thought, and that the only thought worthy
the human mind--the Church. I was glad to meet you at her house.
You have cherished, I hope, those views which in your boyhood you so
fervently and seriously embraced."

"I am rather surprised," said Endymion, not caring to answer this
inquiry, "at a Whig lady entertaining such high views in these matters.
The Liberal party rather depends on the Low Church."

"I know nothing about Whigs or Tories or Liberals, or any other new
names which they invent," said Nigel. "Nor do I know, or care to know,
what Low Church means. There is but one Church, and it is catholic and
apostolic; and if we act on its principles, there will be no need, and
there ought to be no need, for any other form of government."

"Well, those are very distinct views," said Endymion, "but are they as
practical as they are clear?"

"Why should they not be practical? Everything is practical which we
believe; and in the long run, which is most likely that we should
believe, what is taught by God, or what is taught by man?"

"I confess," said Endymion, "that in all matters, both civil and
religious, I incline to what is moderate and temperate. I always trace
my dear father's sad end, and all the terrible events in my family,
to his adopting in 1829 the views of the extreme party. If he had only
followed the example and the advice of his best friend, Mr. Sidney
Wilton, what a different state of affairs might have occurred!"

"I know nothing about politics," said Nigel. "By being moderate and
temperate in politics I suppose you mean being adroit, and doing that
which is expedient and which will probably be successful. But the Church
is founded on absolute truth, and teaches absolute truth, and there can
be no compromise on such matters."

"Well, I do not know," said Endymion, "but surely there are many very
religious people, who do not accept without reserve everything that is
taught by the Church. I hope I am a religious person myself, and yet,
for example, I cannot give an unreserved assent to the whole of the
Athanasian Creed."

"The Athanasian Creed is the most splendid ecclesiastical lyric ever
poured forth by the genius of man. I give to every clause of it an
implicit assent. It does not pretend to be divine; it is human, but the
Church has hallowed it, and the Church ever acts under the influence of
the Divine Spirit. St. Athanasius was by far the greatest man that
ever existed. If you cavil at his creed, you will soon cavil at other
symbols. I was prepared for infidelity in London, but I confess, my dear
Ferrars, you alarm me. I was in hopes that your early education would
have saved you from this backsliding."

"But let us be calm, my dear Nigel. Do you mean to say, that I am to
be considered an infidel or an apostate, because, although I fervently
embrace all the vital truths of religion, and try, on the whole, to
regulate my life by them, I may have scruples about believing, for
example, in the personality of the Devil?"

"If the personality of Satan be not a vital principle of your religion,
I do not know what is. There is only one dogma higher. You think it is
safe, and I daresay it is fashionable, to fall into this lax and
really thoughtless discrimination between what is and what is not to be
believed. It is not good taste to believe in the Devil. Give me a
single argument against his personality which is not applicable to the
personality of the Deity. Will you give that up; and if so, where are
you? Now mark me; you and I are young men--you are a very young man.
This is the year of grace 1839. If these loose thoughts, which you
have heedlessly taken up, prevail in this country for a generation or
so--five and twenty or thirty years--we may meet together again, and I
shall have to convince you that there is a God."



CHAPTER LV

The balance of parties in the House of Commons, which had been virtually
restored by Sir Robert Peel's dissolution of 1834, might be said to be
formally and positively established by the dissolution of parliament
in the autumn of 1837, occasioned by the demise of the crown. The
ministerial majority became almost nominal, while troubles from all
quarters seemed to press simultaneously upon them: Canadian revolts,
Chartist insurrections, Chinese squabbles, and mysterious complications
in Central Asia, which threatened immediate hostilities with Persia, and
even with one of the most powerful of European empires. In addition to
all this, the revenue continually declined, and every day the general
prejudice became more intense against the Irish policy of the ministry.
The extreme popularity of the Sovereign, reflecting some lustre on her
ministers, had enabled them, though not without difficulty, to tide
through the session of 1838; but when parliament met in 1839 their
prospects were dark, and it was known that there was a section of the
extreme Liberals who would not be deeply mortified if the government
were overthrown. All efforts, therefore, political and social, and
particularly the latter, in which the Whigs excelled, were to be made to
prevent or to retard the catastrophe.

Lady Montfort and Lady Roehampton opened their houses to the general
world at an unusually early period. Their entertainments rivalled those
of Zenobia, who with unflagging gallantry, her radiant face prescient of
triumph, stopped her bright vis-a-vis and her tall footmen in the midst
of St. James' Street or Pall Mall, while she rapidly inquired from some
friendly passer-by whom she had observed, "Tell me the names of the
Radical members who want to turn out the government, and I will invite
them directly."

Lady Montfort had appropriated the Saturdays, as was her custom and
her right; so Myra, with the advice of Lord Roehampton, had fixed on
Wednesdays for her receptions.

"I should have liked to have taken Wednesdays," said Zenobia, "but I
do not care to seem to be setting up against Lady Roehampton, for her
mother was my dearest friend. Not that I think any quarter ought to be
shown to her after joining those atrocious Whigs, but to be sure she was
corrupted by her husband, whom I remember the most thorough Tory going.
To be sure, I was a Whig myself in those days, so one must not say too
much about it, but the Whigs then were gentlemen. I will tell you what
I will do. I will receive both on Saturdays and Wednesdays. It is an
effort, and I am not as young as I was, but it will only be for a season
or less, for I know these people cannot stand. It will be all over by
May."

Prince Florestan had arrived in town, and was now settled in his mansion
in Carlton Terrace. It was the fashion among the _creme de la creme_ to
keep aloof from him. The Tories did not love revolutionary dynasties,
and the Whigs being in office could not sanction a pretender, and
one who, they significantly intimated with a charitable shrug of the
shoulders, was not a very scrupulous one. The prince himself, though he
was not insensible to the charms of society, and especially of agreeable
women, was not much chagrined by this. The world thought that he had
fitted up his fine house, and bought his fine horses, merely for
the enjoyment of life. His purposes were very different. Though his
acquaintances were limited, they were not undistinguished, and he
lived with them in intimacy. There had arisen between himself and Mr.
Waldershare the closest alliance both of thought and habits. They
were rarely separated. The prince was also a frequent guest at the
Neuchatels', and was a favourite with the head of the house.

The Duke of St. Angelo controlled the household at Carlton Gardens with
skill. The appointments were finished and the cuisine refined. There was
a dinner twice a week, from which Waldershare was rarely absent, and
to which Endymion, whom the prince always treated with kindness, had
a general invitation. When he occasionally dined there he met always
several foreign guests, and all men apparently of mark--at any rate, all
distinguished by their intelligence. It was an interesting and useful
house for a young man, and especially a young politician, to frequent.
Endymion heard many things and learnt many things which otherwise would
not have met his ear or mind. The prince encouraged conversation, though
himself inclined to taciturnity. When he did speak, his terse remarks
and condensed views were striking, and were remembered. On the days on
which he did not receive, the prince dined at the Travellers' Club,
to which Waldershare had obtained his introduction, and generally with
Waldershare, who took this opportunity of gradually making his friend
acquainted with eminent and influential men, many of whom in due time
became guests at Carlton Terrace. It was clear, indeed, that these
club-dinners were part of a system.

The prince, soon after his arrival in town, while riding, had passed
Lady Roehampton's carriage in the park, and he had saluted her with
a grave grace which distinguished him. She was surprised at feeling
a little agitated by this rencontre. It recalled Hainault, her not
mortifying but still humble position beneath that roof, the prince's
courtesy to her under those circumstances, and, indeed, his marked
preference for her society. She felt it something like ingratitude to
treat him with neglect now, when her position was so changed and had
become so elevated. She mentioned to Lord Roehampton, while they
were dining alone, that she should like to invite the prince to her
receptions, and asked his opinion on the point. Lord Roehampton shrugged
his shoulders and did not encourage her. "You know, my darling, our
people do not much like him. They look upon him as a pretender, as
having forfeited his parole, and as a refugee from justice. I have no
prejudices against him myself, and perhaps in the same situation might
have acted in the same manner; but if he is to be admitted into society,
it should hardly be at a ministerial reception, and of all houses, that
of one who holds my particular post."

"I know nothing about his forfeiting his parole," said Lady Roehampton;
"the charge is involved in mystery, and Mr. Waldershare told me it was
an entire fabrication. As for his being a pretender, he seems to me as
legitimate a prince as most we meet; he was born in the purple, and his
father was recognised by every government in Europe except our own. As
for being a refugee from justice, a prince in captivity has certainly a
right to escape if he can, and his escape was romantic. However, I will
not contest any decision of yours, for I think you are always right.
Only I am disappointed, for, to say nothing of the unkindness, I cannot
help feeling our not noticing him is rather shabby."

There was silence, a longer silence than usually occurred in
_tete-a-tete_ dinners between Lord and Lady Roehampton. To break the
silence he began to converse on another subject, and Lady Roehampton
replied to him cheerfully, but curtly. He saw she was vexed, and this
great man, who was at that time meditating one of the most daring acts
of modern diplomacy, who had the reputation, in the conduct of public
affairs, of not only being courageous, but of being stern, inflexible,
unfeeling, and unscrupulous beyond ordinary statesmen, who had passed
his mornings in writing a menacing despatch to a great power and
intimating combinations to the ambassadors of other first-rate states
which they almost trembled to receive, was quite upset by seeing his
wife chagrined. At last, after another embarrassing pause, he said
gaily, "Do you know, my dear Myra, I do not see why you should not ask
Prince Florestan. It is you that ask him, not I. That is one of the
pleasant results of our system of political entertainments. The guests
come to pay their respects to the lady of the house, so no one is
committed. The prince may visit you on Wednesday just as well as
the leaders of the opposition who want our places, or the malcontent
Radicals who they say are going to turn us out."

So Prince Florestan was invited to Lady Roehampton's receptions, and he
came; and he never missed one. His visits were brief. He appeared, made
his bow, had the pleasure of some slight conversation with her, and then
soon retired. Received by Lady Roehampton, in time, though sluggishly,
invitations arrived from other houses, but he rarely availed himself of
them. He maintained in this respect great reserve, and was accustomed to
say that the only fine lady in London who had ever been kind to him was
Lady Roehampton.

All this time Endymion, who was now thoroughly planted in society, saw a
great deal of the Neuchatels, who had returned to Portland Place at
the beginning of February. He met Adriana almost every evening, and was
frequently invited to the house--to the grand dinners now, as well as
the domestic circle. In short, our Endymion was fast becoming a young
man of fashion and a personage. The brother of Lady Roehampton had now
become the private secretary of Mr. Sydney Wilton and the great friend
of Lady Montfort. He was indeed only one of the numerous admirers
of that lady, but he seemed not the least smiled on. There was never
anything delightful at Montfort House at which he was not present, or
indeed in any other place, for under her influence, invitations from
the most distinguished houses crowded his mantelpiece and were stuck all
round his looking-glass. Endymion in this whirl of life did not forget
his old friends. He took care that Seymour Hicks should have a frequent
invitation to Lady Roehampton's assemblies. Seymour Hicks only wanted a
lever to raise the globe, and this introduction supplied him with
one. It was astonishing how he made his way in society, and though,
of course, he never touched the empyrean regions in which Endymion now
breathed, he gradually, and at last rapidly, planted himself in a world
which to the uninitiated figures as the very realm of nobility and
fashion, and where doubtless is found a great fund of splendour,
refinement, and amusement. Seymour Hicks was not ill-favoured, and was
always well dressed, and he was very civil, but what he really owed his
social advancement to was his indomitable will. That quality governs all
things, and though the will of Seymour Hicks was directed to what many
may deem a petty or a contracted purpose, life is always interesting
when you have a purpose and live in its fulfilment. It appeared from
what he told Endymion that matters at the office had altered a good deal
since he left it. The retirement of St. Barbe was the first brick out
of the wall; now, which Endymion had not yet heard, the brother of
Trenchard had most unexpectedly died, and that gentleman come into a
good estate. "Jawett remains, and is also the editor of the 'Precursor,'
but his new labours so absorb his spare time that he is always at the
office of the paper. So it is pretty well all over with the table at
Joe's. I confess I could not stand it any longer, particularly after
you left. I have got into the junior Pan-Ionian; and I am down for
the senior; I cannot get in for ten years, but when I do it will be a
_coup_; the society there is tiptop, a cabinet minister sometimes, and
very often a bishop."



CHAPTER LVI

Endymion was glad to meet Baron Sergius one day when he dined with
Prince Florestan. There were several distinguished foreigners among the
guests, who had just arrived. They talked much, and with much emphasis.
One of them, the Marquis of Vallombrosa, expatiated on the Latin
race, their great qualities, their vivacity, invention, vividness of
perception, chivalrous valour, and sympathy with tradition. The northern
races detested them, and the height of statesmanship was to combine the
Latin