“It seems very little, Julia,” said he, despondingly.
“Worse than that. It is less than it looks, George; these tarnished pieces, with a mock air of silver, are of most ignoble origin; they were born copper, and are only silver by courtesy. Let me see what it all makes.”
While she was arranging the money in little piles on the table L'Estrange lighted a cigarette, and puffed it in leisurely fashion.
“Julia,” said he, at last, “I hope I haven't committed a dreadful folly in that investment of your two thousand. You know I took the shares I told you of?”
“I remember, George, you said so; but has anything occurred to make you augur ill of the enterprise?”
“No; I know no more of it now than on the first day I heard of it. I was dazzled by the splendid promise of twenty per cent instead of three that you had received heretofore. It seemed to me to be such a paltry fear to hesitate about doing what scores of others were venturing. I felt as if I were turning away from a big fence while half the field were ready to ride at it. In fact, I made it a question of courage, Julia, which was all the more inexcusable as the money I was risking was not my own.”
“Oh, George, you must not say that to me.”
“Well, well, I know what I think of myself, and I promise you it is not the more favorable because of your generosity.”
“My dear George, that is a word that ought never to occur between us. Our interests are inseparable. When you have done what you believed was the best for me there is no question of anything more. There, now, don't worry yourself further about it. Attend to what I have to say to you here. We have just one hundred and twelve francs to carry us to Milan, where our letter of credit will meet us; so that there must be no more boat excursions; no little picnics, with a dainty basket sent up the mountain at sunrise; none of that charming liberality which lights up the road with pleasant faces, and sets one a-thinking how happy Dives might have been if he had given something better than crumbs to Lazarus. No, this must be what you used to call a week of cold-mutton days, mind that, and resist all temptation to money-spending.”
L'Estrange bowed his head in quiet acquiescence; his was the sad thought that so many of us have felt; how much of enjoyment life shows us, just one hair's breadth beyond our power to grasp; vistas of lovely scenery that we are never to visit; glimpses of bliss closed to us even as we catch them; strains of delicious music of which all our efforts can but retain the dying cadences. Not that he felt all these in any bitterness of spirit; even in narrowed fortune life was very pleasant to him, and he was thoroughly, heartily grateful for the path fate had assigned him to walk in.
How would they have liked to have lingered in the Brianza, that one lovely bit of thoroughly rural Italy, with the green of the west blending through all the gorgeous glow of tropical vegetation; how gladly they would have loitered on the lake at Como—the brightest spot of landscape in Europe; with what enjoyment had they halted at Milan, and still more in Florence! Stern necessity, however, whispered ever onwards; and all the seductions of Raffaels and Titians yielded before the hard demands of that fate that draws the purse-strings. Even at Rome they did not venture to delay, consoling themselves with the thought that they were to dwell so near, they could visit it at will. At last they reached Albano, and as they drove into the village caught sight of a most picturesque little cottage, enshrined in a copse of vines. It was apparently untenanted, and they eagerly asked if it were to be let. The answer was, No, it was waiting for the “Prête Inglese,” who was daily expected to arrive.
“Oh, George, it is ours,” cried Julia, in ecstasy, and hid her head on his shoulder, and actually cried with excess of delight.
The patrons of the English chapel at Albano were the three great leaders of society in Rome in winter, and at Albano during the summer. Of these the first was Lady Augusta Bramleigh; next came Sir Marcus Cluff; and last—not indeed, either in activity or zeal—was Mrs. Trumpler, a widow lady of considerable fortune, and no small share of energy in her nature.
To these George L'Estrange had brought formal letters of introduction, which he was cautiously enjoined should be presented in the order of their respective ranks—making his first approaches to the Lady Augusta. To his request to know at what hour he might have the honor to wait on her Ladyship, came a few lines on the back of his own card, saying, “Two o'clock, and be punctual.” There did not seem to be any unnecessary courtesy in this curt intimation; but he dressed himself carefully for the interview, and with his cravat properly arranged by Julia, who passed his whole appearance in review, he set out for the pretty Villa of the Chestnuts, where her Ladyship lived.
“I don't suppose that I'm about to do anything very unworthy, Julia,” said he, as he bade her good-bye; “but I assure you I feel lower in my own esteem this morning than I have known myself since—since—”
“Since you tumbled over the sunk fence, perhaps,” said she, laughing, and turned back into the house.
L'Estrange soon found himself at the gate of the villa, and was conducted by a servant in deep mourning through a very beautiful garden to a small kiosk, or summerhouse, where a breakfast-table was spread. He was punctual to the moment; but as her Ladyship had not yet appeared he had ample time to admire the beauty of the Sèvres cups of a pale blue, and the rich carving of the silver service—evidently of antique mould, and by a master hand. The rare exotics which were disposed on every side, amongst which some birds of bright plumage were encaged, seemed to fill up the measure of this luxurious spot, and impressed him with—he knew not what exalted idea of her who should be its mistress.
He waited at first patiently enough—there was much to interest and amuse him; but at last, as nigh an hour had elapsed, and she had not appeared, a feeling, half of irritation at the thought of neglect, and half doubt lest he should have mistaken what the servant said, began to worry and distress him. A little pendule on a bracket played a few bars of a waltz, and struck three. Should he wait any longer? was the question he put to himself. His sense of shame on leaving home at the thought of presenting himself before a patron came back upon him now with redoubled force. He had often felt that the ministers who preached for a call were submitting themselves to a very unworthy ordeal. The being judged by those they were appointed to teach seemed in itself little short of an outrage; but the part he was now playing was infinitely worse; he had actually come to show himself, to see if, when looked at and talked to, her Ladyship would condescend to be his patron, and as it were to impress the indignity more strongly upon him he was kept waiting like a lackey!
“I don't think I ought to stoop to this,” muttered he, bitterly, to himself; and taking a card and a pencil from his pocket, he wrote: “The Rev. George L'Estrange has waited from two to three o'clock in the hope of seeing Lady Augusta Bramleigh; he regrets the disappointment, as well as his inability to prolong his attendance.” “There,” cried he, aloud, “I hope that will do!” and he placed the card conspicuously on the table.
“Do what, pray?” said a very soft voice, as a slight figure in deep mourning swept noiselessly into the kiosk, and taking the card up sat down without reading it.
One glance showed that the handsome woman before him was Lady Augusta, and the bashful curate blushed deeply at the awkwardness of his position.
“Mr. L'Estrange, I presume?” said she, waving her hand to him to be seated. “And what is your card to do; not represent you, I hope, for I 'd rather see you in person?”
“In my despair of seeing your Ladyship I wrote a line to say—to say”—and he blundered and stopped short.
“To say you 'd wait no longer,” said she, smiling; “but how touchy you must be. Don't you know that women have the privilege of unpunctuality? don't you know it is one of the few prerogatives you men have spared them? Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes—some hours ago.”
“I forget whether I have not also. I rather think I did take some coffee. I have been very impatient for your coming. Sit here, please,” said she, pointing to an armchair beside her own sofa. “I have been very impatient indeed to see you. I want to hear all about these poor Bramleighs; you lived beside them, did n't you, and knew them all intimately? What is this terrible story of their ruin? this claim to their property? What does it mean? is there really anything in it?”
“It is somewhat of a long story,” began L'Estrange.
“Then don't tell it, I entreat you. Are you married, Mr. L'Estrange?”
“No, madam, I have not that happiness,” said he, smiling at the strange abruptness of her manner.
“Oh, I am so glad,” she cried; “so glad! I 'm not afraid of a parson, but I positively dread a parson's wife. The parson has occasionally a little tolerance for a number of things he does n't exactly like; his wife never forgives them; and then a woman takes such exact measure of another woman's meanings, and a man knows nothing about them at all: that on the whole I 'm delighted you are single, and I fervently trust you will remain so. Will you promise me as much? will you give me your word not to marry till I leave this?”
“I need scarcely pledge myself, madam, to that; my narrow fortune binds me, whether I would or not.”
“And you have your mother with you, haven't you?”
“No, madam; my sister has accompanied me.”
“I wish it had been your mother. I do so like the maternal pride of a dear old lady in her fine, handsome son. Is n't she vain of you? By the way, how did your choice fall upon the Church? You look more like a cavalry officer. I'm certain you ride well.”
“It is, perhaps, the only accomplishment I possess in the world,” said he, with some warmth of manner.
“I 'm delighted to hear that you 're a horseman. There 's a mare of mine become perfectly impossible. A stupid creature I took as groom hurt her mouth with a severe bit, and she rears now at the slightest touch. Could n't you do something with her? Pray do; and in return I'll take you some charming rides over the Campagna. There's a little valley—almost a glen—near this, which I may say I discovered myself. You mustn't be afraid of bad tongues because you ride out with me. Mrs. Trumpler will of course take it up. She's odious—perfectly odious. You have n't seen her yet, but you 'll have to call on her; she contributes a thousand francs a year to the Church, and must not be neglected. And then there's old Sir Marcus Cluff—don't forget him; and take care to remember that his mother was Lady Marion Otley, and don't remember that his father was Cluff and Gosier, the famous fishmonger. I protest I'm becoming as scandalous as Mrs. Trumpler herself. And mind that you come back and tell when you 've seen these people what they said to you, and what you said to them, and whether they abused me. Come to tea, or, if you like better, come and dine to-morrow at six, and I 'll call on your mother in the mean while and ask her—though I 'd rather you 'd come alone.”
“It is my sister, madam, that is with me,” said he, with great difficulty refraining from a burst of laughter.
“Well, and I 've said I 'd visit her, though I 'm not fond of women, and I believe they never like me.”
L'Estrange blundered out some stupid compliment about her having in recompense abundant admiration from the other sex, and she laughed, and said, “Perhaps so. Indeed, I believe I am rather a favorite; but with clever men—not with the fools. You 'll see that they avoid me. And so,” said she, drawing a deep sigh, “you really can tell me nothing about these Bramleighs? And all this time I have been reckoning on your coming to hear everything, and to know about the will. Up to this hour, I am totally ignorant as to how I am left. Is n't that very dreadful?”
“It is very distressing indeed, madam.”
“The Colonel always said he 'd insert a clause or a something or other against my marrying again. Can you imagine anything so ungenerous? It's unchristian, actually unchristian—isn't it?”
A slight gesture seemed to say that he agreed with her; but she was for once determined to be answered more definitely, and she said, “I'm sure, as a clergyman, you can say if there's anything in the Bible against my having another husband?”
“I 'm certain there is not, madam.”
“How nice it is in the Church of Rome that when there 's anything you want to do, and it's not quite right to do it, you can have a dispensation—that is, the Pope can make it perfectly moral and proper, and legal besides. Protestantism is so narrow—terribly narrow. As the dear Monsignore Balbi said to me the other night, it is a long 'Act of Parliament against sin.' Was n't that neat? They are so clever!”
“I am so new to Italy, madam, that I have no acquaintance with these gentlemen.”
“I know you 'll like them when you do know them; they are so gentle and so persuasive—I might say so fascinating. I assure you, Mr. L'Estrange, I ran a very great risk of going over, as it is called. Indeed, the 'Osservatore Romano' said I had gone over; but that is at least premature. These are things one cannot do without long and deep reflection, and intense self-examination—don't you think so? And the dear old Cardinal Bottesini, who used to come to us every Friday evening, warned me himself against my impulsiveness; and then poor Colonel Bramleigh”—here she raised her handkerchief to her eyes—“he would n't hear of it at all; he was so devotedly attached to me—it was positive love in a man of his mould—that the thought of my being lost to him, as he called it, was maddening; and in fact he—he made it downright impossible—impossible!” And at last she paused, and a very painful expression in her face showed that her thoughts at the moment were far from pleasurable. “Where was I? what was it I was going to say?” resumed she, hurriedly. “Oh, I remember, I was going to tell you that you must on no account 'go over,' and therefore, avoid of all things what they call the 'controversy' here; don't read their little books, and never make close friendships with the Monsignori. You're a young man, and naturally enough would feel flattered at their attentions, and all the social attractions they 'd surround you with. Of course you know nothing of life, and that is the very thing they do understand; and perhaps it is not right of me to say it—it's like a treason—but the women, the great leaders of society, aid them powerfully. They 'd like to bring you over,” said she, raising her glass and looking at him. “You'd really look remarkably well in a chasuble and a cope. They 'd positively fight for you as a domestic chaplain”—and the thought so amused her that she laughed outright, and L'Estrange himself joined her. “I hope I have not wearied you with my cautions and my warnings; but really, when I thought how utterly alone and friendless you must be here, nobody to consult with, none to advise you—for, after all, your mother could scarcely be an efficient guide in such difficulties—I felt it would be cruel not to come to your aid. Have you got a watch? I don't trust that little pendule, though it plays a delicious 'Ave Maria' of Rossini's. What hour is it?”
“Half-past four, madam. I am really shocked at the length of my visit.”
“Well, I must go away. Perhaps you 'll come and see my sister—she's charming, I assure you, and she 'd like to know you?”
“If you will vouchsafe to present me on any other day, I shall be but too grateful; but Sir Marcus Cluff gave me a rendezvous for four o'clock.”
“And you 'll be with him at five,” cried she, laughing. “Don't say it was I that made you break your appointment, for he hates me, and would never forgive you. By-by. Tell your mother I 'll call on her to-morrow, and hope you 'll both dine with me.” And without waiting for a word in reply, she tripped out of the summer-house, and hastened away to the villa.
L'Estrange had little time to think over this somewhat strange interview when he reached the entrance-gate to the grounds of Sir Marcus Cluff, and was scarcely admitted within the precincts when a phaeton and a pair of very diminutive ponies drove up, and a thin, emaciated man, carefully swathed in shawls and wrappers, who held the reins, called out, “Is that Mr. L'Estrange?”
The young parson came forward with his excuses for being late, and begged that he might not interrupt Sir Marcus in his intended drive.
“Will you take a turn with me?” said Sir Marcus, in a whining voice, that sounded like habitual complaint. “I 'm obliged to do this every day; it 's the doctor's order. He says, 'Take the air and distract yourself;' and I do so.” L'Estrange had now seated himself, and they drove away.
“I'm glad you've come,” said Sir Marcus. “It will stop all this plotting and intriguing. If you had delayed much longer, I think they 'd have had a dozen here—one of them a converted Jew, a very dirty fellow. Oh, dear, how fatiguing it is! that little crop-eared pony pulls so he can't be held, and we call him John Bright; but don't mention it. I hope you have no family, sir?”
“I have my sister only.”
“A sister isn't so bad. A sister may marry, or she may—” What was the other alternative did not appear, for John Bright bolted at this moment, and it was full five minutes ere he could be pulled up again. “This is the distraction I 'm promised,” said the sick man. “If it was n't for Mr. Needham—I call the near-sider Mr. Needham, as I bought him of that gentleman—I 'd have too much distraction; but Needham never runs away—he falls; he comes down as if he was shot!” cried he, with a joyous twinkle of the eye, “and I bought him for that. There's no drag ever was invented like a horse on his belly—the most inveterate runaway can't escape against that.” If the little cackle that followed this speech did not sound exactly like a laugh, it was all of that emotion that Sir Marcus ever permitted himself.
“I can't ask you if you like this place. You 're too newly come to answer that question,” resumed he; “but I may ask what is the sort of society you prefer?”
“I 've seen next to nothing of the world since I left the University. I have been living these last four or five years in one of the least visited spots in Great Britain, and only since the arrival of the Bramleigh family had a neighbor to speak to.”
“Ah, then, you know these Bramleighs?” said the other with more animation than he had yet displayed. “Overbearing people, I 've heard they were—very rich, and insolent to a degree.”
“I must say I have found them everything that was kind and considerate, hospitable neighbors, and very warmhearted friends.”
“That 's not the world's judgment on them, my dear sir—far from it. They are a proverb for pretension and impertinence. As for Lady Augusta here—to be sure she 's only one of them by marriage—but there's not a soul in the place she has not outraged. She goes nowhere—of course, that she has a right to do—but she never returns a call, never even sends a card. She went so far as to tell Mr. Pemberton, your predecessor here, that she liked Albano for its savagery; that there was no one to know was its chief charm for her.”
“I saw her for the first time this morning,” said L'Estrange, not liking to involve himself in this censure.
“And she fascinated you, of course? I 'm told she does that with every good-looking young fellow that comes in her way. She's a finished coquette, they say. I don't know what that means, nor do I believe it would have much success with me if I did know. All the coquetry she bestows upon me is to set my ponies off in full gallop whenever she overtakes me driving. She starts away in a sharp canter just behind me, and John Bright fancies it a race, and away he goes too, and if Mr. Needham was of the same mettle I don't know what would become of us. I'm afraid, besides, she's a connection of mine. My mother, Lady Marion, was cousin to one of the Delahunts of Kings Cromer. Would you mind taking the reins for a while, John is fearfully rash to-day? Just sit where you are, the near-side gives you the whip-hand for Needham. Ah! that's a relief! Turn down the next road on your left. And so she never asked you about your tenets—never inquired whether you were High Church or Low Church or no church at all?”
“Pardon me, Sir Marcus; she was particularly anxious that I should guard myself against Romish fascinations and advances.”
“Ah, she knows them all! They thought they had secured her—indeed they were full sure of it; but as she said to poor Mr. Pemberton, they found they had hatched a duck. She was only flirting with Rome. The woman would flirt with the Holy Father, sir, if she had a chance. There's nothing serious, nothing real, nothing honest about her; but she charmed you, for all that—I see it. I see it all; and you 're to take moonlight rides with her over the Campagna. Ha, ha, ha! Haven't I hit it? Poor old Pemberton—fifty-eight if he was an hour—got a bad bronchitis with these same night excursions. Worse than that, he made the place too hot for him. Mrs. Trumpler—an active woman Mrs. T., and the eye of a hawk—would n't stand the 'few sweet moments,' as poor Pemberton in his simplicity called them. She threatened him with a general meeting, and a vote of censure, and a letter to the Bishop of Gibraltar; and she frightened him so that he resigned. I was away at the time at the baths at Ischia, or I 'd have tried to patch up matters. Indeed, as I told Mrs. T., I'd have tried to get rid of my Lady, instead of banishing poor Pemberton, as kind-hearted a creature as ever I met, and a capital whist-player. Not one of your new-fangled fellows, with the 'call for trumps' and all the last devices of the Portland, but a steady player, who never varied—did n't go chopping about, changing his suits, and making false leads, but went manfully through his hearts before he opened his spades. We were at Christ Church together. I knew him for a matter of six-and-thirty years, Mr. L'Estrange, and I pledge you my word of honor”—here his voice grew tremulous with agitation—“and in all that time I never knew him revoke!” He drew his hat over his eyes as he spoke, and leaning back in the seat seemed almost overcome by his emotions.
“Will you turn in there at the small gate? It is a private entrance to my grounds. I 'll not ask you to come in to-day, sir. I'm a little flurried and nervous; but if you 'll join a sick man's dinner at two o'clock to-morrow—some rice and a chicken and a bit of fish—nothing more, I promise you. Well, well, I see it does not tempt you. My best thanks for your pleasant company. Let me see you soon. Take care of yourself, beware of my Lady, and avoid the moonlight!”
Apparently this little sally seemed to revive the invalid, for he stepped up the approach to his house with a lively air and waved his hand pleasantly as he said adieu.
“There's another still!” muttered L'Estrange as he inquired the way to Mrs. Trumpler's; “and I wish with all my heart it was over.”
L'Estrange found Mrs. Trumpler at tea. She was an early diner, and took tea about six o'clock, after which she went out for an evening drive over the Campagna. In aspect, the lady was not prepossessing. She was very red-faced, with large grizzly curls arranged in a straight line across her forehead, and she wore spectacles of such a size as to give her somewhat the look of an owl. In figure, she was portly and stout, and had a stand-up sort of air, that, to a timid or bashful man like the curate, was the reverse of reassuring.
“I perceive, sir, I am the last on your list,” said she, looking at her watch as he entered. “It is past six.”
“I regret, madam, if I have come at an inconvenient hour. Will you allow me to wait on you to-morrow?”
“No, sir. We will, with your permission, avail ourselves of the present to make acquaintance with each other.” She rang the bell after this speech, and ordered that the carriage should be sent away. “I shall not drive, Giacomo,” said she; “and I do not receive if any one calls.”
“You brought me a letter, sir, from the Reverend Silas Smallwood,” said she, very much in the tone of a barrister cross-examining a troublesome witness.
“Yes, madam; that gentleman kindly offered a friend of mine to be the means of presenting me to you.”
“So that you are not personally acquainted, sir?”
“We have never, so far as I know, even seen each other.”
“It is as well, sir, fully as well. Mr. Smallwood is a person for whose judgment or discrimination I would have the very humblest opinion, and I have therefore, from what you tell me, the hope that you are not of his party in the Church.”
“I am unable to answer you, madam, knowing nothing whatever of Mr. Smallwood's peculiar views.”
“This is fencing, sir; and I don't admire fencing. Let us understand each other. What have you come here to preach? I hope my question is a direct one?”
“I am an ordained minister of the Church of England, madam; and when I have said so, I have answered you.”
“What, sir? do you imagine your reply is sufficient. In an age when not alone every doctrine is embraced within the Church, but that there is a very large and increasing party who are prepared to have no doctrine at all? I perceive, sir, I must make my approaches to you in a different fashion. Are you a man of vestments, gesticulations, and glass windows? Do you dramatize your Christianity?”
“I believe I can say no, madam, to all these.”
“Are you a Literalist, then? What about Noah, sir? Let me hear what you have to say about the Flood. Have you ever calculated what forty days' rainfall would amount to? Do you know that in Assam, where the rains are the heaviest in that part of the world, and in Colon, in Central America, no twelve hours' rain ever passed five inches and three quarters? You are, I am sure, acquainted with Esch-schormes' book on the Nile deposits? If not, sir, it is yonder—at your service. Now, sir, we shall devote this evening to the Deluge, and, so far as time permits, the age of the earth. To-morrow evening we'll take Moses, on Staub's suggestion that many persons were included under that name. We'll keep the Pentateuch for Friday, for I expect the Rabbi Bensi will be here by that time.”
“Will you pardon me, madam,” said L'Estrange, rising, “if I decline entering upon all discussion of these momentous questions with you? I have no such scholarship as would enable me to prove instructive, and I have conviction sufficiently strong, in my faith in other men's learning, to enable me to reject quibbles and be unmoved by subtleties. Besides,” added he, in a sharper tone, “I have come here to have the honor of making your acquaintance, and not to submit myself to an examination. May I wish you a good evening?”
How he took his leave, how he descended the stairs, and rushed into the street, and found his way to the little inn where his sister wearily was waiting dinner for him, the poor curate never knew to the last day of his life.
In a very humble quarter of the old town of Louvain, at the corner of La Rue des Moines, Augustus Bramleigh and his sister had taken up their lodgings. Madame Jervasse, the proprietress of the house, had in her youth been the femme-de-chambre of some high-born dame of Brussels, and offered her services in the same capacity to Ellen, while, with the aid of her own servant, she prepared their meals, thus at once supplying the modest requirements they needed. Augustus Bramleigh was not a very resolute or determined man, but his was one of those natures that acquire solidity from pressure. When once he found himself on the road of sacrifices, his self-esteem imparted vigor and energy to his character. In the ordinary course of events he was accustomed to hold himself—his abilities and his temperament—cheaply enough. No man was ever less self-opinionated or self-confident. If referred to for advice, or even for opinion, he would modestly decline the last, and say, “Marion or Temple perhaps could help you here.” He shrank from all self-assertion whatever, and it was ever a most painful moment to him when he was presented to any one as the future head of the house and the heir to the Bramleigh estates. To Ellen, from whom he had no secrets, he had often confessed how he wished he had been a younger son. All his tastes and all his likings were those to be enjoyed by a man of moderate fortune, and an ambition even smaller than that fortune. He would say, too, half-jestingly, “With such aspiring spirits amongst us as Marion and Temple, I can afford myself the luxury of obscurity. They are sure to carry our banner loftily, and I may with safety go on my humble path unnoticed.”
Jack had always been his favorite brother: his joyous nature, his sailor-like frankness, his spirit, and his willingness to oblige, contrasted very favorably with Temple's sedate, cautious manner, and the traces of a selfishness that never forgot itself. Had Jack been the second son instead of the youngest, Augustus would have abdicated in his favor at once, but he could not make such a sacrifice for Temple. All the less that the very astute diplomatist continually harped on the sort of qualities which were required to dispense an ample fortune, and more than insinuated how much such a position would become himself, while another might only regard it as a burden and a worry. It was certainly a great shock to him to learn that there was a claimant to his family fortune and estate: the terrible feeling that they were to appear before the world as impostors—holding a station and dispensing a wealth to which they had no right—almost overcame him. The disgrace of a public exposure, the notoriety it would evoke, were about the most poignant sufferings such a man could be brought to endure. He to whom a newspaper comment, a mere passing notice of his name, was a source of pain and annoyance,—that he should figure in a great trial, and his downfall be made the theme of moral reflections in a leading article! How was this to be borne? What could break the fall from a position of affluence and power to a condition of penury and insignificance? Nothing,—if not the spirit which, by meeting disaster half-way, seemed at least to accept the inevitable with courage, and so carry a high heart in the last moments of defeat.
Augustus well knew what a mistaken estimate the world had ever formed of his timid, bashful nature, and this had given his manner a semblance of pride and hauteur which made the keynote of his character. It was all in vain that he tried to persuade people that he had not an immeasurable self-conceit. They saw it in his every word and gesture, in his coolness when they approached him, in his almost ungraciousness when they were courteous to him. “Many will doubtless declare,” said he, “that this reverse of fortune is but a natural justice on one who plumed himself too much on his prosperity, and who arrogated too far on the accident of his wealth. If so, I can but say they will not judge me fairly. They will know nothing of where my real suffering lies. It is less the loss of fortune I deplore, than the world's judgment on having so long usurped that we had no right to.”
From the day he read Sedley's letter and held that conversation with the lawyer, in which he heard that the claimant's case seemed a very strong one, and that perhaps the Bramleighs had nothing to oppose to it of so much weight as the great fact of possession,—from that hour he took a despairing view of the case. There are men who at the first reverse of fortune throw down their cards and confess themselves beaten. There are men who can accept defeat itself better than meet the vacillating events of a changeful destiny; who have no persistence in their courage, nor any resources to meet the coming incidents of life. Augustus Bramleigh possessed a great share of this temperament. It is true that Sedley, after much persuasion, induced him to entertain the idea of a compromise, carefully avoiding the use of that unhappy word, and substituting for it the less obnoxious expression “arrangement.” Now this same arrangement, as Mr. Sedley put it, was a matter which concerned the Bramleighs collectively,—seeing that if the family estates were to be taken away, nothing would remain to furnish a provision for younger children. “You must ascertain what your brothers will do,” wrote Sedley; “you must inquire how far Lord Culduff—who through his marriage has a rent-charge on the estate—will be willing to contribute to an 'arrangement.'”
Nothing could be less encouraging than the answer this appeal called forth. Lord Culduff wrote back in the tone of an injured man, all but declaring that he had been regularly taken in; indeed, he did not scruple to aver that it had never been his intention to embark in a ship that was sure to founder, and he threw out something like a rebuke on the indelicacy of asking him to add to the sacrifice he had already made for the honor of being allied to them.
Temple's note ran thus:—
Dear Gusty,—If your annoyances have not affected your brain, I am at a loss for an explanation of your last letter. How, I would ask you, is a poor secretary of legation to subsist on the beggarly pittance F. O. affords him? Four hundred and fifty per annum is to supply rent, clothes, club expenses, a stall at the opera, and one's little charities in perhaps one of the dearest capitals in Europe. So far from expecting the demands you have made upon me, I actually, at the moment of receiving yours, had a half-finished note on my writing-table asking you to increase my poor allowance. When I left Castello, I think you had sixteen horses. Can you possibly want more than two for the carriage and one for your own riding? As to your garden and greenhouse expenses, I 'll lay ten to one your first peas cost you a guinea a quart, and you never saw a pine at your table under five-and-twenty pounds; and now that I am on the theme of reduction, I would ask what do you want with a chef at two hundred and fifty a year? Do you, or does Ellen, ever eat of anything but the simplest diet at table? Don't you send away the entrées every day, wait for the roast gigot, or the turkey, or the woodcocks, and in consequence, does not Monsieur Grégoire leave the cookery to be done by one of his “aides,” and betake himself to the healthful pursuit of snipe-shooting, and the evening delight of Mrs. Somebody's tea at Portshandon? Why not add this useless extravagance to the condemned list of the vineries, the stables, and the score of other extraordinaires, which an energetic hand would reduce in half an hour?
I 'm sure you 'll not take it in ill part that I bring these things under your notice. Whether out of the balance in hand you will give me five hundred a year, or only three, I shall ever remain Your affectionate brother,
Temple Edgerton Bramleigh.
“Read that, Nelly,” said Augustus, as he threw it across the table. “I 'm almost afraid to say what I think of it.”
This was said as they sat in their little lodgings in the Rue des Moines; for the letter had been sent through an embassy bag, and consequently had been weeks on the road, besides lying a month on a tray in the Foreign Office till some idle lounger had taken the caprice to forward it.
“Her Majesty's Legation at Naples. Lord Culduff is there special, and Temple is acting as secretary to him.”
“And does Marion send no message?”
“Oh, yes. She wants all the trunks and carriage-boxes which she left at Castello to be forwarded to town for transmission abroad. I don't think she remembers us much further. She hopes I will not have her old mare sold, but make arrangements for her having a free paddock for the rest of her life; and she adds that you ought to take the pattern of the slipper on her side-saddle, for if it should happen that you ever ride again, you 'll find it better than any they make now.”
“Considerate, at all events. They tell us that love alone remembers trifles. Is n't this a proof of it, Gusty?”
“Read Temple now, and try to put me in better temper with him than I feel at this moment.”
“I could n't feel angry with Temple,” said she, quietly. “All he does and all he says so palpably springs from consideration of self, that it would be unjust to resent in him what one would not endure from another. In fact, he means no harm to any one, and a great deal of good to Temple Bramleigh.”
“And you think that commendable?”
“I have not said so; but it certainly would not irritate me.”
She opened the letter after this and read it over leisurely.
“Well, and what do you say now, Nelly?” asked he.
“That it's Temple all over; he does not know why in this shipwreck every one is not helping to make a lifeboat for him. It seems such an obvious and natural thing to do that he regards the omission as scarcely credible.”
“Does he not see—does he not care for the ruin that has overtaken us?”
“Yes, he sees it, and is very sorry for it; but he opines, at the same time, that the smallest amount of the disaster should fall to his share. Here's something very different,” said she, taking a letter from her pocket. “This is from Julia. She writes from her little villa at Albano, and asks us to come and stay with them.”
“How thoroughly kind and good-natured!”
“Was it not, Gusty? She goes over how we are to be lodged, and is full of little plans of pleasure and enjoyment; she adds, too, what a benefit you would be to poor George, who is driven half wild with the meddlesome interference of the Church magnates. They dictate to him in everything, and a Mrs. Trumpler actually sends him the texts on which she desires him to hold forth; while Lady Augusta persecutes him with projects in which theological discussion, as she understands it, is to be carried on in rides over the Campagna, and picnics to the hills behind Albano. Julia says that he will not be able to bear it without the comfort and companionship of some kind friend, to whom he can have recourse in his moments of difficulty.”
“It would be delightful to go there, Nelly; but it is impossible.”
“I know it is,” said she, gravely.
“We could not remove so far from England while this affair is yet undetermined. We must remain where we can communicate easily with Sedley.”
“There are scores of reasons against the project,” said she, in the same grave tone. “Let us not speak of it more.”
Augustus looked at her, but she turned away her face, and he could only mark that her cheeks and throat were covered with a deep blush.
“This part of Julia's letter is very curious,” said she, turning to the last page. “They were stopping at a little inn, one night, where Pracontal and Longworth arrived, and George, by a mere accident, heard Pracontal declare that he would have given anything to have known you personally; that he desired, above everything, to be received by you on terms of friendship, and even of kindred; that the whole of this unhappy business could have been settled amicably, and, in fact, he never ceased to blame himself for the line into which his lawyer's advice had led him, while all his wishes tended to an opposite direction.”
“But Sedley says he has accepted the arrangement, and abandoned all claim in future.”
“So he has, and it is for that he blames himself. He says it debars him from the noble part he desired to take.”
“I was no part to this compromise, Nelly; remember that. I yielded to reiterated entreaty a most unwilling assent, declaring, always, that the law must decide the case between us, and the rightful owner have his own. Let not Mr. Pracontal imagine that all the high-principled action is on his side; from the very first, I declared that I would not enjoy for an hour what I did not regard undisputably as my own. You can bear witness to this, Nelly. I simply assented to the arrangement, as they called it, to avoid unnecessary scandal. What the law shall decide between us, need call forth no evil passions or ill-will. If the fortune we had believed our own belongs to another, let him have it.”
The tone of high excitement in which he spoke plainly revealed how far a nervous temperament and a susceptible nature had to do with his present resolve. Nelly had seen this before, but never so fully revealed as now. She knew well the springs which could move him to acts of self-sacrifice and devotion, but she had not thoroughly realized to herself that it was in a paroxysm of honorable emotion he had determined to accept the reverse of fortune, which would leave him penniless in the world.
“No, Nelly!” said he, as he arose and walked the room, with head erect, and a firm step. “We shall not suffer these people who talk slightingly of the newly risen gentry to have their scoff unchallenged! It is the cant of the day to talk of mercantile honor and City notions of what is high-minded and right, and I shall show them that we—'Lombard Street people,' as some newspaper scribe called us the other day—that we can do things the proudest earl in the peerage would shrink back from as from a sacrifice he could not dare to face. There can be no sneer at a class that can produce men who accept beggary rather than dishonor. As that Frenchman said, these habits of luxury and splendor were things he had never known,—the want of them would leave no blank in his existence. Whereas to us they were the daily accidents of life; they entered into our ways and habits, and made part of our very natures; giving them up was like giving up ourselves,—surrendering an actual identity. You saw our distinguished connection, Lord Culduff, how he replied to my letter,—a letter, by the way, I should never have stooped to write; but Sedley had my ear at the time, and influenced me against my own convictions. The noble Viscount, however, was free from all extraneous pressure, and he told us as plainly as words could tell it, that he had paid heavily enough already for the honor of being connected with us, and had no intention to contribute another sacrifice. As for Temple,—I won't speak of him; poor Jack, how differently he would have behaved in such a crisis.”
Happy at the opportunity to draw her brother away, even passingly, from a theme that seemed to press upon him unceasingly, she drew from the drawer of a little work-table a small photograph, and handed it to him, saying, “Is it not like?”
“Jack!” cried he. “In a sailor's jacket, too! What is this?”
“He goes out as a mate to China,” said she, calmly. “He wrote me but half a dozen lines, but they were full of hope and cheerfulness. He said that he had every prospect of getting a ship, when he was once out; that an old messmate had written to his father—a great merchant at Shanghai—about him, and that he had not the slightest fears for his future.”
“Would any one believe in a reverse so complete as this?” cried Augustus, as he clasped his hands before him. “Who ever heard of such ruin in so short a time?”
“Jack certainly takes no despairing view of life,” said she, quietly.
“What! does he pretend to say it is nothing to descend from his rank as an officer of the navy, with a brilliant prospect before him, and an affluent connection at his back, to be a common sailor, or, at best, one grade removed from a common sailor, and his whole family beggared? Is this the picture he can afford to look on with pleasure or with hope? The man who sees in his downfall no sacrifice or no degradation, has no sympathy of mine. To tell me that he is stout-hearted is absurd; he is simply unfeeling.”
Nelly's face and even her neck became crimson, and her eyes flashed indignantly; but she repressed the passionate words that were almost on her lips, and taking the photograph from him, replaced it in the drawer, and turned the key.
“Has Marion written to you?” asked he, after a pause.
“Only a few lines. I 'm afraid she 's not very happy in her exalted condition, after all, for she concluded with these words: 'It is a cruel blow that has befallen you, but don't fancy that there are not miseries as hard to bear in life as those which display themselves in public and flaunt their sufferings before the world.'”
“That old fop's temper, perhaps, is hard to bear with,” said he, carelessly.
“You must write to George L'Estrange, Gusty,” said she, coaxingly. “There are no letters he likes so much as yours. He says you are the only one who ever knew how to advise without taking that tone of superiority that is so offensive, and he needs advice just now,—he is driven half wild with dictation and interference.”
She talked on in this strain for some time, till he grew gradually calmer; and his features, losing their look of intensity and eagerness, regained their ordinary expression of gentleness and quiet.
“Do you know what was passing through my mind just now?” said he, smiling half sadly. “I was wishing it was George had been Marion's husband instead of Lord Culduff. We 'd have been so united, the very narrowness of our fortunes would have banded us more closely together, and I believe, firmly believe, we might have been happier in these days of humble condition than ever we were in our palmy ones; do you agree with me, Nelly?”
Her face was now crimson; and if Augustus had not been the least observant of men, he must have seen how his words had agitated her. She merely said, with affected indifference, “Who can tell how these things would turn out? There 's a nice gleam of sunlight, Gusty. Let us have a walk. I'll go for my hat.”
She fled from the room before he had time to reply, and the heavy clap of a door soon told that she had reached her chamber.