CHAPTER LIX. A VERY BRIEF DREAM.
Julia was seldom happier than when engaged in preparing for a coming guest. There was a blended romance and fuss about it all that she liked. She liked to employ her fancy in devising innumerable little details, she liked the active occupation itself, and she liked best of all that storied web of thought in which she connected the expected one with all that was to greet him. How he would be pleased with this; what he would think of that? Would he leave that chair or that table where she had placed it? Would he like that seat in the window, and the view down the glen, as she hoped he might? Would the new-comer, in fact, fall into the same train of thought and mind as she had who herself planned and executed all around him?
Thus thinking was it that, with the aid of a stout Dalmatian peasant-girl, she busied herself with preparations for Augustus Bramleigh's arrival. She knew all his caprices about the room he liked to occupy. How he hated much furniture, and loved space and freedom; how he liked a soft and tempered light, and that the view from his window should range over some quiet, secluded bit of landscape, rather than take in what recalled life and movement and the haunts of men.
She was almost proud of the way she saw into people's natures by the small dropping preferences they evinced for this or that, and had an intense pleasure in meeting the coming fancy. At the present moment, too, she was glad to busy herself in any mode rather than dwell on the thoughts that the first interval of rest would be sure to bring before her. She saw that Jack Bramleigh was displeased with her, and, though not without some misgivings, she was vexed that he alone of all should resent the capricious moods of a temper resolutely determined to take the sunniest path in existence, and make the smaller worries of life but matter for banter.
“He mistakes me altogether,” said she, aloud, but speaking to herself, “if he imagines that I 'm in love with poverty and all its straits; but I 'm not going to cry over them for all that. They may change me in many ways. I can't help that. Want is an ugly old hag, and one cannot sit opposite her without catching a look of her features; but she 'll not subdue my courage, nor make me afraid to meet her eye. Here, Gretchen, help me with this great chest of drawers. We must get rid of it out of this, wherever it goes.” It was a long and weary task, and tried their strength to the last limit; and Julia threw herself into a deep-cushioned chair when it was over, and sighed heavily. “Have you a sweetheart, Gretchen?” she asked, just to lead the girl to talk, and relieve the oppression that she felt would steal over her. Yes, Gretchen had a sweetheart, and he was a fisherman, and he had a fourth share in a “bragotza;” and when he had saved enough to buy out two of his comrades he was to marry her; and Gretchen was very fond, and very hopeful, and very proud of her lover, and altogether took a very pleasant view of life, though it was all of it in expectancy. Then Gretchen asked if the signorina had not a sweetheart, and Julia, after a pause,—and it was a pause in which her color came and went,—said, “No!” And Gretchen drew nigh, and stared at her with her great hazel eyes, and read in her now pale face that the “No” she had uttered had its own deep meaning; for Gretchen, though a mere peasant, humble and illiterate, was a woman, and had a woman's sensibility under all that outward ruggedness.
“Why do you look at me so, Gretchen?” asked Julia.
“Ah, signorina,” sighed she, “I am sorry—I am very sorry! It is a sad thing not to be loved.”
“So it is, Gretty; but every day is not as nice and balmy and fresh as this, and yet we live on, and, taking one with the other, find life pretty enjoyable, after all!” The casuistry of her speech made no convert. How could it?—it had not any weight with herself.
The girl shook her head mournfully, and gazed at her with sad eyes, but not speaking a word. “I thought, signorina,” said she, at last, “that the handsome prince—”
“Go to your dinner, Gretchen. You are late already,” said Julia, sharply; and the girl withdrew, abashed and downcast. When thus alone, Julia sat still, wearied by her late exertions. She leaned her head on the arm of the chair, and fell fast asleep. The soft summer wind that came tempered through the window-blinds played with her hair and fanned her to heavy slumber—at first, dreamless slumber, the price of actual fatigue.
Jack Bramleigh, who had been wandering about alone, doing his best to think over himself and his future, but not making any remarkable progress in the act, had at length turned into the house, strolling from room to room, half unconsciously, half struck by the vastness and extent of the building. Chance at last led him along the corridor which ended in this chamber, and he entered, gazing carelessly around him, till suddenly he thought he heard the deep-drawn breathing of one in heavy sleep. He drew nigh, and saw it was Julia. The arm on which her head lay hung listlessly down, and her hand was half hid in the masses of her luxuriant hair. Noiselessly, stealthily, Jack crept to her feet, and crouched down upon the floor, seeming to drink in her long breathings with an ecstasy of delight. Oh, what a moment was that! Through how many years of life was it to pass, the one bright thread of gold in the dark tissue of existence. As such he knew it; so he felt it; and to this end he treasured up every trait and every feature of the scene. “It is all that I shall soon have to look back upon,” thought he; and yet to be thus near her seemed a bliss of perfect ecstasy.
More than an hour passed over, and he was still there, not daring to move lest he should awake her. At last he thought her lips seemed to murmur something. He bent down, close—so close that he felt her breath on his face. Yes, she was dreaming—dreaming, too, of long ago; for he heard her mutter the names of places near where they had lived in Ireland. It was of some party of pleasure she was dreaming,—her dropping words indicated so much; and at last she said, “No, no; not Lisconnor. Jack does n't like Lisconnor.” Oh, how he blessed her for the words; and bending over, he touched the heavy curl of her hair with his lips. Some passing shock startled her, and she awoke with a start and a faint cry. “Where am I?” she cried; “what is this?” and she stared at him with her wide, full glance, while her features expressed terror and bewilderment.
“Don't be frightened, dearest. You are safe, and at home with those who love you.”
“And how are you here? how came you here?” asked she, still terrified.
“I was strolling listlessly about, and chance led me here. I saw you asleep in that chair, and I lay down at your feet till you should awake.”
“I know nothing of it at all,” muttered she. “I suppose I was dreaming. I fancied I was in Ireland, and we were about to go on some excursion, and I thought Marion was not pleased with me;—how stupid it is to try and disentangle a dream. You should n't have been here, Master Jack. Except in fairy tales, young princes never take such liberties as this, and even then the princesses are under enchantment.”
“It is I that am under the spell, not you, Julia,” said he, fondly.
“Then you are come to ask pardon for all your crossness, your savagery of this morning?”
“Yes, if you desire it.”
“No, sir; I desire nothing of the kind; it must be spontaneous humility. You must feel you have behaved very ill, and be very, very sorry for it.”
“I have behaved very ill, and am very, very sorry for it,” repeated he, softly, after her.
“And this is said seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“And on honor?”
“On honor!”
“And why is it said—is it because I have asked you to say it?”
“Partly; that is, you have in asking given me courage to say it.”
“Courage to ask pardon! what do you mean by that?”
“No; but courage to make me hope you care to hear it. Oh, Julia, for once listen to me seriously, and let me tell you how I love you; how I have always loved you; how you are to me all that is worth living for.”
“It would be very nice to be told such pretty things, all the more being bound to believe them.”
“And do you doubt?”
“I 'll tell you what there is not, nor can be any doubt about, Jack; that we are both very poor, and though I, woman-like, may feel it a very comforting and sustaining thought, through my poverty, that one honest heart beats affectionately for me, yet I 'm far from sure that it would be the same good influence over your life; in fact, our bargain would be unequal, and I should have all the best of it.”
“Oh, Julia, could you love me—”
“I think I 've done things fully as hard,” said she, with affected thoughtfulness.
“Do you think me, then, so hopeless of advancement in life that I shall live and die the humble creature you now see me?”
“No, I don't think that. I think if fate is not very dead against you, you are likely, whatever you turn to, or wherever you go, to make your way; but to do this you must be heart-whole. The selfishness that men call ambition cannot afford to be weighted with thought of another and another's welfare. Have a little patience with me—hear me out, for I am saying what I have thought over many and many an hour—what I have already told Nelly. There's an old Persian fable that says, the people who love on through life are like two lovers who walk on opposite banks of a river, and never meet till the river mingles with the ocean, which is eternity, and then they are parted no more. Are you satisfied with this? I thought not. Well, what are your plans for the future?”
“I have scores of them. If I would take service with any of those South American republics, there is not one would not give me rank and station to-morrow. Brazil would take me. If I offered myself to the Sultan's Government, where I am known, I could have a command at once.”
“I don't know that I like Turkish ideas on the married state,” said she, gravely.
“Julia, Julia! do not torture me,” cried he, anxiously. “It is my very life is at stake—be serious for once;” he took her hand tenderly as he spoke, and was bending down to kiss it, when a heavy foot was heard approaching, and suddenly L'Estrange burst into the room, with an open newspaper in his hand.
“I have got something here will surprise you, Jack,” he cried. “You will be astonished to learn that you owe your escape from Ischia to no intrepidity of your own; that you had neither act nor part in the matter, but that it was all due to the consummate skill of a great diplomatist, who represented England at Naples. Listen to this—it is 'our own special correspondent' who writes:—'I have naturally been curious to ascertain the exact history of Rogers' escape, the journals of this country having invested that event with most melodramatic, I might go further, and say incredible, details. My own knowledge of the precautions adopted against evasion, and the jealous care bestowed by the Neapolitan Government towards political prisoners, rendered me slow to believe that an unaided convict would have the slightest chance of effecting his liberation; and, as far as I can learn, late events have not diminished, in any degree, my faith in this opinion.
“'If the stories which circulate in diplomatic circles are to be credited, it was H. B. M's special envoy at this Court who planned the whole achievement. He, seeing the fatal obduracy of the King's Ministers, and the utter impracticability of all proceedings to instil into them notions of right or honor, determined, while prosecuting the cause with unusual ardor, to remove the basis of the litigation. By what bribery he effected his object, or of whom, I do not profess to know, though very high names are mentioned with unsparing freedom here; but the fact remains, that when the last despatch of the Foreign Secretary was on its way to our envoy, Rogers was careering over the glad waters in one of H. M.'s steam-launches—thus relieving the controversy of a very material and interesting item in the negotiation. Of course this has no other foundation than mere rumor; but it is a rumor that no one assumes to discredit, nor, indeed, any to deny, except the very discreet officials of our mission here, who naturally protest that it is a fabrication of the French press. The envoy is still here, and actively proceeding against the Government for an indemnity for unjust imprisonment.' And now, Jack, here is the best of all. Listen to this: 'So sensible are our ministers at home of the great service rendered by this adroit measure, the relief experienced by the removal of what at any moment might have become the very gravest of all questions,—that of peace or war,—that no reward is deemed too high for its distinguished author, and his Excellency Lord Viscount Culduff'—Culduff—”
“Lord Culduff!” cried Jack and Julia, in amazement.
“'Viscount Culduff has been offered the post of ambassador at Constantinople!'”
Jack snatched the paper from his hands, and stared in mute amazement at the lines.
“And is this the way fortunes are made in the world?” cried he, at last.
“Only in the great walks of life, Jack,” said Julia. “Small people talk and labor, take service in Argentine republics, or fight for Mussulmen; distinguished people fire but one shot, but it always explodes in the enemy's magazine.”
“I wonder what he would have thought if he had known for whom he was negotiating,” said Jack, dryly. “I half suspect my distinguished brother-in-law would have left me in chains far rather than drive down the Corso with me.”
“I declare—no, I won't say the spiteful thing that crossed my mind—but I will say, I 'd like to have seen a meeting between you and your brother Temple.”
“You think he'd have been so ashamed of me,” said Jack, with a laugh.
“Not a bit of it. You might possibly have been ashamed of the situation—shocked with being such an unworthy member of a great house—but he, Temple, would have accepted you like a fever or an ague,—a great calamity sent from above,—but he would not have felt shame, any more than if you had been the scarlatina. Look at poor George,” cried she, with a merry laugh. “He thinks I 've said something very wicked, and he feels he ought to deplore it and possibly rebuke me.”
Jack could not help laughing at the rueful expression of L'Estrange's face, and his emotion was catching; for the others joined in the laugh, and in this merry mood returned to the garden.
CHAPTER LX. A RETURN HOME
The morning that followed this scene broke very happily on the villa; for Augustus was to arrive by the afternoon packet, and all were eager to meet him. His telegram said, “Cutbill is with me; but I do not know if he will stop.” And this announcement, indeed, more than tempered the pleasure they felt at the thought of meeting Augustus.
Jack, whose sailor's eye had detected a thin streak of smoke in the sky long ere the others had seen it, and knew by what time the steamer might arrive, hastened down to the shore to meet his brother alone, not wishing that the first meeting should be observed by others. And he was so far right. Men as they were,—tried and hardened by the world's conflict,—they could not speak as they clasped each other in their arms; and when they separated to gaze at each other's faces, their eyes swam in heavy tears. “My poor fellow!” was all that Augustus could say for several minutes, till, struck by the manly vigor and dignified bearing of the other, he cried out, “What a great powerful fellow you have grown, Jack! You are twice as strong as you used to be.”
“Strong enough, Gusty; but I suppose I shall need it all. But how comes it that you have gray hair here?”
“You find me terribly changed, Jack! I have aged greatly since we met.”
“You are tired, now, old fellow. A little rest, and the pleasant care of the villa will soon set you up again.”
“Perhaps so. At all events, I have strength enough for what I am called on to bear. How are they all?”
“Well and hearty. I 'd say jollier than I ever saw them before.”
“What a noble girl is Nelly!”
“Ay, and her companion, too. I tell you, Gusty, there's the same comrade spirit amongst girls that there is in a ship's company; and where good ones come together they make each other better. But tell me now of yourself. What's your news?”
“Not good; far from it. I believe, indeed, our cause is 'up.' He—Pracontal, I mean—intends to behave handsomely by us. There will be no severity used. Indeed, he means to go further; but I 'll have time enough for all this later on. I 'm so glad to see you again, my poor dear fellow, that I have no mind to think of anything else.”
“How did you get rid of Cutbill?”
“I have n't got rid of him; he is on board there. I don't think he means to land. I suspect he 'll go on with the steamer to-night; and he is so ashamed to show, that he is snug in his berth all this time.”
“But what does he mean by that?”
“He 's in a scrape, Jack, and had to get away from England to save himself from a jail; but I 'll tell you the story this evening,—or, better still, I 'll make him tell you, if you can manage to persuade him to come on shore.”
“That he shall do,” said Jack. “He behaved like a trump to me once when I was in trouble; and I don't forget it.” And so saying, he hastened on board the packet, and hurried below, to re-appear in a few minutes, holding Cutbill by the collar, as though he were his prisoner.
“Here's the culprit,” cried Jack; “and if he won't land his luggage, he must take to a Montenegro rig like mine; and he 'll become it well.”
“There, don't collar me that fashion. See how the fellows are all staring at us. Have you no decency?”
“Will you come quietly, then?”
“Yes; let them hand up my two trunks and my violin case. What a droll place this is.”
“There 's many a worse, I can tell you, than our villa yonder. If it were my own, I 'd never ask to leave it.”
“Nor need you, Jack,” whispered Augustus. “I've brought back money to buy it; and I hope it will be our home this many a day.”
“What's this scrape of yours, Cutty?” said Jack, as they made their way homewards. “Whom have you been robbing this time, or was it forgery?”
“Let him tell you,” said Cutbill, doggedly, as he motioned with his hand towards Gusty.
“It's a mixed case of robbery with housebreaking,” said Augustus. “Pracontal had taken it into his head that certain papers of great value to himself were concealed in some secret press in our house at Castello; and Cutbill was just as convinced that there were no papers and no press, and that the whole was a dream or a delusion. They argued the case so often that they got to quarrel about it.”
“No, we did n't quarrel,” broke in Cutbill, sulkily; “we betted.”
“Yes, that is more correct Pracontal was so firmly persuaded that the papers existed that he offered three to one on it, and Cutbill, who likes a good thing, took it in hundreds.”
“No. I wish I had. It was in fifties.”
“As they had no permission to make the search, which required to break down the wall, and damage a valuable fresco—”
“No. It was under the fresco, in a pedestal. I 'd engage to make it good for thirty shillings,” broke in Cutbill.
“Well, we 'll not dispute that The essential point is that Pracontal's scruples would not permit him to proceed to an act of depredation, but that Cutbill had more resolution. He wanted to determine the fact.”
“Say that he wanted to win his money, and you 'll be nearer the mark,” interposed Cutbill.
“Whichever way we take it, it amounts to this: Pracontal would not be a housebreaker, and Cutbill had no objection to become one. I cannot give you the details of the infraction—perhaps he will.”
Cutbill only grunted, and the other went on—“However he obtained entrance, he made his way to the place indicated, smashed the wall, and dragged forth a box with four or five thick volumes, which turned out to be the parish registries of Portshandon for a very eventful period, at least a very critical one for us; for, if the discovery loses Mr. Cutbill his fifty pounds, it places the whole estate in jeopardy.”
“That's the worst of it,” cried Cutbill. “My confounded meddling has done it all.”
“When my lawyer came to hear what had occurred, and how, he lost no time in taking measures to proceed against Cutbill for a felony; but Master C. had got away, and was already hiding in Germany, and our meeting on the steamboat here was a mere hazard. He was bound for—where was it, Cutbill?”
“Albania. I want to see the salt mines. There 's something to be done there now that the Turks are not sure they 'll own the country this time twelvemonth.”
“At all events, it 's better air than Newgate,” said Jack.
“As you politely observe, sir, it's better air than Newgate. By the way, you've been doing a little stroke of work as a jailbird, latterly; is it jolly?”
“No; it ain't exactly jolly; it's too monotonous for that. And then the diet.”
“Ah, there's the rub! It's the skilly, it's the four-ounce system, I 'm afraid of. Make it a good daily regimen, and I 'll not quarrel with the mere confinement, nor ask for any extension of the time allotted to exercise.”
“I must say,” said Jack, “that, for a very acute and ingenious gentleman, this same piece of burglary was about one of the stupidest performances I ever heard of.”
“Not so fast, admiral, not so fast. I stood on a double event. I had lent Pracontal a few hundreds, to be repaid by as many thousands if he established his claim. I began to repent of my investment, and my bet was a hedge. Do you see, old fellow, if there were no books, I pocketed a hundred and fifty. If the books turned up, I stood to win on the trial. You may perceive that Tom Cutbill sleeps like a weazel, and has always one eye open.”
“Was it a very friendly part, then, to lend a man money to prosecute a claim against your own friend?” asked Jack.
“Lord love ye, I'd do that against my brother. The man of business and the desk is one thing, the man of human feelings and affections is another. If a man follows any pursuit worth the name of a pursuit, the ardor to succeed in it will soon swamp his scruples; aye, and not leave him one jot the worse for it. Listen to me a minute. Did you ever practise fly-fishing? Well, can you deny it is in principle as ignoble a thing as ever was called sport? It begins in a fraud, and it finishes with a cruelty; and will you tell me that your moral nature, or any grand thing that you fancy dignifies you, was impaired or stained when you landed that eight-pound trout on the grass?”
“You forget that men are not trout, Master Cutbill.”
“There are a good number of them gudgeons, I am happy to say,” cried he. “Give me a light for my cigar, for I am sick of discussion. Strange old tumble-down place this—might all be got for a song, I 'd swear. What a grand speck it would be to start a company to make a watering place of it: 'The Baths of Cattaro, celebrated in the time of Diocletian'—eh? Jack, does n't your mouth water at the thought of 'preliminary expenses'?”
“I can't say it does. I've been living among robbers lately, and I found them very dull company.”
“The sailor is rude; his manners smack of the cockpit,” said Cutbill, nudging Augustus in the side. “Oh, dear, how I 'd like a commission to knock this old town into a bathing machine.”
“You'll have ample time to mature your project up at the villa. There, you see it yonder.”
“And is that the British flag I see waving there? Wait a moment till I master my emotion, and subdue the swelling feelings of my breast.”
“I 'll tell you what, Master Cutbill,” said Jack, sternly, “if you utter any stupid rubbish against the Union Jack, I'll be shot if I don't drop you over the sea-wall for a ducking; and, what's more, I 'll not apologize to you when you come out.”
“Outrage the second. The naval service is not what I remember it.”
“Here come the girls,” said Augustus. “I hear Julia's merry laugh in the wood.”
“The L'Estrange girl, isn't it?” asked Cutbill; and though Jack started and turned almost as if to seize him, he never noticed the movement.
“Miss L'Estrange,” said Augustus Bramleigh.
“Why didn't you say she was here, and I'd not have made any 'bones' about stopping? I don't know I was ever as spooney as I was about that girl up at Albano. And did n't I work like a negro to get back her two thousand pounds out of that precious coal mine? Aye, and succeeded too. I hope she knows it was Tom Cutbill saved the ship. Maybe she 'll think I 've come to claim salvage.”
“She has heard of all your good-nature, and is very grateful to you,” said Gusty.
“That's right; that's as it ought to be. Doing good by stealth always strikes me as savoring of a secret society. It's Thuggee, or Fenian, or any other dark association you like.”
“I'll go forward and meet them, if you'll permit me,” said Augustus, and, not waiting a reply, hurried on towards the wood.
“Look here, Master Jack,” said Cutbill, stopping short and facing round in front of him. “If you mean as a practice to sit upon me, every occasion that arises, just please to say so.”
“Nothing of the kind, man; if I did, I promise you once would be quite enough.”
“Oh, that's it, is it?”
“Yes, that's it.”
“Shake hands, then, and let us have no more squabbling. If you ever find me getting into shoal-water, and likely to touch a sandbank, just call out 'Stop her!' and you 'll see how I 'll reverse my engine at once. It's not in my line, the locomotives, but I could drive if I was put to it, and I know well every good lesson a man acquires from the practice.”
“What do you think of this cause of ours, Cutty; how does it look to your eyes?”
“Just as dark as thunder! Why you go to trial at all next term I can't make out. Pracontal's case is clear as noonday. There's the proof of the marriage,—as legal a marriage as if an archbishop celebrated it,—and there 's the registry of birth, and there is, to confirm all, old Bramleigh's letters. If you push on after such a show of danger signals as these, it is because you must like a smash.”
“You'd strike, then, without firing a shot?”
“To be sure I would, if it was only to save the expense of the powder; besides, Pracontal has already declared, that if met by an amicable spirit on your brother's part, there are no terms he would not accede to, to secure recognition by your family, and acceptance as one of you.”
“I 'm sure I don't see why he should care for it.”
“Nor I, for the matter of that. If there's a lot in life I 'd call enviable, it would be to be born in a foundling hospital, and inherit ten thousand a year. A landed estate, and no relations, comes nearer to my ideas of Paradise than anything in Milton's poems.”
“Here they come,” cried Jack, as a merry group issued from the road, and came joyously forward to meet them.
“Here's this good fellow Tom Cutbill come to spend some days with us,” said Jack, as the girls advanced to greet him.
“Is n't it kind of him?” said Cutbill; “is n't it like that disinterested good-nature that always marks him? Of course I'm heartily welcome! how could it be otherwise? Miss Bramleigh, you do me proud. Miss Julia, your slave. Ah, your reverence! let's have a shake of your devout paw. Now I call this as pleasant a place for a man to go through his sentence of transportation as need be. Do the ladies know what I'm charged with?”
“They know nothing, they desire to know nothing,” said Augustus. “When we have dined and had our coffee, you shall make your own confession; and that only if you like it, and wish to disburden your conscience.”
“My conscience is pretty much like my balance at my banker's—it's a mighty small matter, but somehow it never troubles me; and you 'll see by-and-by that it does n't interfere with my appetite.”
“You saw my sister at Naples, Mr. Cutbill,” said Nelly; “how was she looking?”
“Decidedly handsome; and as haughty as handsome; as an Irish friend who was walking with me one day her carriage passed, observed, 'A bow from her was the next thing to a black-eye.'”
“Marion's pride always became her,” said Nelly, coldly.
“It must be a comfort to her to feel she has a great stock of what suits her constitution.”
“And the noble Viscount,” asked Jack, “how was he looking?”
“As fresh as paint. The waxworks in the museum seemed faded and worn after him. He was in an acute attack of youth, the day I dined with him last, and I hope his system has not suffered for it.”
“Stop her,” muttered Jack, with a sly look at Cutbill; and to the surprise of the others, that astute individual rejoined, “Stop her, it is.”
“We dine at four, I think?” said Bramleigh, “and there 's just time to dress. Jack, take charge of Cutbill, and show him where he is to lodge.”
“And is it white choker and a fiddle coat? Do you tell me you dress for dinner?” asked Cutbill.
“Mr. Cutbill shall do exactly as he pleases,” said Julia; “we only claim a like privilege for ourselves.”
“You've got it now, Tom Cutbill,” said he, sorrowfully, “and I hope you like it.”
And with this they went their several ways; Jack alone lingering in the garden in the hope to have one word with Julia, but she did not return, and his “watch on deck,” as he called it, was not relieved.
CHAPTER LXI. LADY CULDUFF'S LETTER
A long letter, a letter of several pages, from Marion, reached the villa; and though it is not my intention to ask the reader to listen to it textually or throughout, I crave permission to give certain parts of its contents.
As Lady Culduff prospered in the world, she became what she thought “devout,” and perpetually reminded all around her that she was well aware she was living in a very sinful world, and keeping daily company with transgressors; and she actually brought herself to believe that by a repeated reference to the wickedness of this life, she was entering a formal protest against sin, and qualifying herself, at this very cheap price, for something much better hereafter.
She was—and it was a pet phrase with her—“resigned” to everything: resigned to Lord Culduff's being made a grand cross and an ambassador, with the reasonable prospect of an earldom; resigned to her own great part—and was it not a great part?—in this advancement; resigned to be an ambassadress! That she was resigned to the ruin and downfall of her family, especially if they should have the delicacy and good taste to hide themselves somewhere, and not obtrude that ruin and downfall on the world, was plainly manifest; and when she averred that, come what might, we ought to be ever assured that all things were for the best, she meant in reality to say, it was a wise dispensation that sent herself to live in a palace at Pera, and left her brothers and sisters to shiver out existence in barbarism.
There was not a shadow of hypocrisy in all this. She believed every word she said upon it. She accepted the downfall of her family as her share of those ills which are the common lot of humanity; and she was very proud of the fortitude that sustained her under this heavy trial, and of that resignation that enabled her not to grieve over these things in an unseemly fashion, or in any way that might tell on her complexion.
“After that splendid success of Culduff's at Naples,” wrote she, “of which the newspapers are full, I need not remind you that we ought to have had Paris, and, indeed, must have had it, but the Ministry made it a direct and personal favor of Culduff that he would go and set that troublesome Eastern question to rights. As you know nothing of politics, dear Nelly, and, indeed, are far happier in that ignorance, I shall not enter upon what, even with the fullest explanation, would only bewilder you. Enough if you know that we have to out-manouvre the Russians, baffle the French, and bully the Greeks; and that there is not for the task Culduff's equal in England. I think I see your astonishment that I should talk of such themes: they were not certainly the sort of subjects which once occupied our thoughts: but, my dear Nelly, in linking your fate to that of a man of high ambition, you accept the companionship of his intellect, instead of a share in his heart. And, as you well know I always repudiated the curate and cottage theory, I accept the alternative without repining. Can I teach you any of this philosophy, Nelly, and will it lighten the load of your own sorrows to learn how I have come to bear mine? It is in the worldliness of people generally lies their chief unhappiness. They will not, as Culduff says, 'accept the situation.' Now we have accepted it, we submit to it, and, in consequence, suffer fewer heart-burnings and repinings than our neighbors. Dear Augustus never had any costly tastes; and as for yourself, simplicity was your badge in everything. Temple is indeed to be pitied, for Temple, with money to back him, might have made a respectable figure in the world and married well; but Temple, a poor man, must fall down to a second-class legation, and look over the Minister's larder. Culduff tried, but failed to make something of him. As C. told him one day, you have only to see Charles Mathews act, to be convinced that to be a coxcomb a man must be consummately clever; and yet it is exactly the 'rôle' every empty fellow fancies would suit him. T. resented this, well meant as it was, and resigned his secretaryship. He has gone over to England, but I do not imagine with much prospect of re-employment.
“Do not think, my dear Nelly, of quitting your present refuge. You are safe now, and in harbor, and be slow to adventure on that wide ocean of life where shipwrecks are occurring on every hand. So long as one is obscure, poverty has no terrors. As Culduff says, you may always wear a ragged coat in the dark. It is we, who unfortunately must walk in the noonday, cannot be seen unless in fine raiment. Do not mistake me, however. I say this without complaint; I repine at nothing.
“I had written so much of my letter, dear Nelly, intending to finish it at Rome; but Culduff is obliged to hurry on to Ischl, where some great diplomatic gathering is now assembled, and I must omit a number of things I desire to say to you.
“Culduff thinks we must call on Lady Augusta as we go through. I own I have done my best to avoid this, and if I must go, it will not be in the best of tempers. The oddest thing of all is, C. dislikes her fully as much as I do; but there is some wonderful freemasonry among these people that obliges them, like the members of a secret society, to certain égards towards each other; and I am satisfied he would rather do a positive wrong to some one in middle-class life than be wanting in some punctilio or attention to a person of her condition. I have often been much provoked by displays of this sentiment, needlessly paraded to offend my own sense of propriety. I shall add a line after my visit.
“Rome.
“I have news for you. M. Pracontal—if this be his name—not only takes your estates, but your stepmother. The odious woman had the effrontery to tell us so to our faces. How I bore it, what I said, or felt, or suffered, I know not. Some sort of fit, I believe, seized me, for Culduff sent for a physician when I got back to the hotel, and our departure was deferred.
“The outrage of this conduct has so shaken my nerves that I can scarcely write, nor is my sense of indignation lessened by the levity with which it pleases Culduff to treat the whole matter. 'It is a bold coup—a less courageous woman would have recoiled from it—she is very daring.' This is what he says of her. She has the courage that says to, the world, 'I am ready to meet all your censures and your reproaches;' but I never heard this called heroism before. Must I own to you, Nelly, that what overwhelms me most in this disgraceful event is the confidence it evinces in this man's cause. 'You may swear,' said Culduff, 'that she is backing the winner. Women are timid gamblers, and never risk their money without almost every chance in their favor.' I know that my Lord plumes himself on knowing a great deal about us, prompting him at times to utter much that is less than complimentary; but I give you this opinion of his here for what it is worth, frankly owning that my dislike to the woman is such I can be no fair judge of any case into which she enters.
“Pracontal—I only saw him for an instant—struck me as a third-class Frenchman, something between a sous-officier of cavalry and a commis-voyageur; not ill-looking, and set up with that air of the soldier that in France does duty for dignity. He had a few hasty words with Culduff, but did not persist nor show any desire to make a row in presence of ladies. So far, his instincts as a corporal guided him safely. Had he been led by the commis-voyageur side of his character, we should have had a most disgraceful scene, ending by a hostile meeting between a British peer and a bagman.
“My nerves have been so shaken by this incident, and my recollection is still so charged with this odious woman's look, voice, and manner, that I cannot trust myself to say more. Be assured, dear Nelly, that in all the miserable details of this great calamity to our family, no one event has occurred equal in poignant suffering to the insult I have thus been subjected to.
“Culduff will not agree to it, but I declare to you she was positively vulgar in the smirking complacence in which she presented the man as her future husband. She was already passée when she married my father, and the exuberant joy at this proposal revealed the old maid's nature. C. of course, calls her charming, a woman of very attractive qualities and such like; but men of a certain age have ideas of their own on these subjects, and, like their notions on cookery, make no converts among people under forty. I believe I told him so, and, in consequence, the whole theme has been strictly avoided by each of us ever since.”
The remainder of the letter was devoted to details as to her future life at Constantinople, and the onerous duties that would devolve on her as ambassadress. She hinted also to a time when she would ask dear Nelly to come and visit her; but, of course, until matters were fully settled and concluded, she could not expect her to leave dear Gusty.
The postscript ran thus:—“Culduff meant to have given some small Church promotion to young L'Estrange, and, indeed, believed he had done so: but some difficulty has arisen. It is either not his turn, or the Bishop is troublesome, or the Ecclesiastical Commissioners—if there be such people—are making objections. If he—I mean L'Estrange—be still disengaged, would it be wise to offer him the chaplaincy to the embassy? I mean wise as regards ourselves; but I take it the sister may be still unmarried, and if she be like what I remember her, a person not easily suppressed, nor at all indisposed to assume airs of perfect equality, even with those separated from her by a whole hemisphere of station. Give me your candid advice on this point, not thinking of them, but of me, for though I feel Julia—is not that her name?—would be insupportable, the parson himself would be very useful, and I think a comfort to me.
“Of course you will not consult any one upon this matter. It is your own personal opinion I want, and you will give it to me, knowing me and my prejudices,—I suppose I had better call them,—and not thinking of your own leanings and likings for the girl. She may, for aught I know, have changed. Culduff has some wise saw about acid wines growing dry by age; I don't know whether young ladies mellow in this fashion, but Julia was certainly tart enough once to have tested the theory, and might be the 'Amontillado' of old maids by this time.”
It may be imagined that after a sally of this kind it was not easy for the writer to recover that semi-moralizing vein in which the letter opened. Nor did she. The conclusion was abrupt, and merely directed Nelly to address her next to the Summer Palace at Therapia; “for those horrid people, our predecessors, have left the embassy house in such a condition it will take weeks and several thousand pounds to make it habitable. There must be a vote taken 'in supply' on this. I am writing Greek to you, poor child; but I mean they must give us money, and, of course, the discussion will expose us to many impertinences. One writer declared that he never knew of a debate on the estimates without an allusion to Lord Culduff's wig. We shall endure this—if not with patience, without resentment. Love to dear Gusty, and believe me your affectionate sister,
“Marion Culduff.”
Such were the most striking passages of a long letter which, fortunately for Nelly, Mr. Cutbill's presence at the breakfast-table rescued her from the indiscretion of reading aloud. One or two extracts she did give, but soon saw that the document was one which could not be laid on the table, nor given without prejudice to the public service. Her confusion, as she crumpled up the paper, and thrust it back into its envelope, was quickly remarked, and Mr. Cutbill, with his accustomed tact, observed, “I'd lay a 'fiver' we 've all of us been led out for a canter in that epistle. It 's enough to see Miss Ellen's face to know that she wouldn't read it out for fifty pounds. Eh, what!” cried he, stooping and rubbing his leg; “I told you to say, 'Stop her, Master Jack,' when you wanted to take weigh off, but I never said, 'Kick my shins.'”
This absurd exclamation, and the laugh it provoked, was a lucky diversion, and they arose from table without another thought on Marion's epistle.
“Has Nelly shown you Marion's note?” asked Jack, as he strolled with Julia through the garden.
“No, and it is perhaps the only letter I ever knew her to get without handing me to read.”
“I suspect, with Cutbill, that we all of us catch it in that pleasant document.”
“You perhaps are the only one who has escaped.”
“As for me, I am not even remembered. Well, I'll bear even that, if I can be sure of a little sympathy in another quarter.”
“Master Jack, you ask for too many professions. I have told you already to-day, and I don't mean to repeat it for a week, that you are not odious to me.”
“But will you not remember, Julia, the long months of banishment I have suffered? Will you not bear in mind that if I have lived longingly for this moment, it is cruel now to dash it with a doubt.”
“But it is exactly what I am not doing! I have given you fully as much encouragement as is good for you. I have owned—and it is a rash confession for a girl to make at any time—that I care for you more than any part of our prospects for the future could warrant, and if I go one step further there will be nothing for it but for you to buy a bragotza and turn fisherman, and for me to get a basket and sell pilchards in the piazza.”
“You need n't taunt me with my poverty, I feel it bitterly enough already. Nor have you any right to think me unable to win a living.”
“There, again, you wrong me. I only said, Do not, in your impatience to reach your goal, make it not worth the winning. Don't forget what I told you about long engagements. A man's share of them is the worst.”
“But you love me, Julia?” said he, drawing her close to him.
“How tiresome you are!” said she, trying to free herself from his arm.
“Let me once—only once—hear you say this, and I swear to you, Julia, I 'll never tease you more.”
“Well, then if I must—”
More was not spoken, for the lips were pressed by a rapturous kiss, as he clasped her to his heart, muttering, “My own, my own!”
“I declare there is Nelly,” cried Julia, wresting herself from his embrace, and starting off; not, however, towards Ellen, but in the direction of the house.
“Oh, Nelly,” said Jack, rushing towards his sister, “she loves me—she has said so—she is all my own.”
“Of course she is, Jack. I never doubted it, though I own I scarcely thought she'd have told it.”
And the brother and sister walked along hand in hand without speaking, a closer pressure of the fingers at intervals alone revealing how they followed the same thoughts and lived in the same joys.