Gllr 
 
 PROM THE 
 . II LIBRARY OF 
 
 ^^^Im'-^r ■■■.■■ 
 
 WILLIAM 
 
 AND ANNL 
 HABBERLEY 
 
KNEBWORTH LIMITED EDITION 
 
 Ernest Maltravers 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 
 
 (LOUD LYTTON) 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 ESTES AND LAUPIAT 
 
 1891 
 
KNEBWORTH LIMITED EDITION. 
 
 Limited to One Thousand Copies. 
 
 No,.595 
 
 -/^1;*^-X.<^^^d <9-t^i^ 
 
 TVrOGRAPHY, ELECTROTYPING, AND 
 PRINTING BY JOHN WILSON AND SON. 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS 
 
 M5y:'a?G 
 
THE GREAT GERMAN PEOPLE, 
 
 A RACE OF THINKERS AND OF CRITICS; A FOREIGN BUT 
 
 FAMILIAR AUDIENCE, PROFOUND IN JUDGMENT, 
 
 CANDID IN REPROOF, GENEROUS IN 
 
 APPRECIATION, 
 
 Cfjis asaorh is BcDicatcti 
 
 BY AN ENGLISH AUTHOR 
 
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840. 
 
 However numerous the works of fiction with which, my 
 dear reader, I have trespassed on your attention, I have 
 pubhshed but three, of any account, in which the plot has 
 been cast amidst the events and coloured by the manner 
 of our own times. The first of these, " Pelham," composed 
 when I was little more than a boy, has the faults, and 
 perhaps the merits, natural to a very early a,t>(^, — when the 
 novelty itself of life quickens the observation ; when we see 
 distinctly, and represent vividly, what lies upon the surface 
 of the world ; and when, half sympathizing with the follies 
 we satirize, there is a gusto in our paintings which atones 
 for their exaggeration. As we grow older we observe less, 
 we reflect more ; and, like Frankenstein, we dissect in 
 order to create. 
 
 The second novel of the present day ^ which, after an 
 interval of some years, I submitted to the world was one I 
 now for the first time acknowledge, and which (revised and 
 corrected) will be included in this series ; namely, " Go- 
 dolphin," — a work devoted to a particular portion of so- 
 ciety and the development of a peculiar class of character. 
 The third, which I now reprint, is " Ernest Maltravers," ^ 
 
 J For "The Disowned " is oast in the timo nf our j^jrand fathers, and 
 " The Pili:!;rims of the Rhine " had nothinp; to do witli actual life, and is 
 not, therefore, to be calh'd a novel. 
 
 ■^ At the date of this preface " Niglit and Morning " had not 
 appeared. 
 
vi PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840. 
 
 — the most mature, and ou the whole the most compre- 
 hensive, of all that I have hitherto written. 
 
 For the original idea — which with humility I will venture 
 to call the philosophical design — of a moral education or 
 apprenticeship, I have left it easy to be seen that I am 
 indebted to Goethe's " Wilhelm Meister." But in " Wil- 
 helm Meister " the apprenticeship is rather that of theoret- 
 ical art. In the more homely plan that I set before myself, 
 the apprenticeship is rather that of practical life ; and with 
 this view it has been especially my study to avoid all those 
 attractions lawful in romance — or talcs of pure humour or 
 unbridled fancy, — attractions that in the language of 
 reviewers are styled under the head of " most striking de- 
 scriptions," " scenes of extraordinary power," etc., and 
 are derived from violent contrasts and exaggerations 
 pushed into caricature. It has been my aim to subdue and 
 tone down the persons introduced, and the general agencies 
 of the narrative, into the lights and shadows of life as it is. 
 I do not mean by " life as it is " the vulgar and the out- 
 ward life alone, but life in its spiritual and mystic as well 
 as its more visible and fleshly characteristics. The idea of 
 not only describing but developing character under the 
 ripening influences of time and circumstance is not con- 
 fined to the apprenticeship of Maltravers alone, but per- 
 vades the progress of Cesarini, Ferrers, and Alice Darvil. 
 
 The original conception of Alice is taken from real life, 
 
 — from a person I never saw but twice, and then she was 
 no longer young, l)ut whose history made on me a deep 
 impression. Her early ignorance and home ; her first 
 love ; the strange and affecting fidelity that she maintained, 
 in spite of new ties ; her final re-meeting, almost in middle- 
 age, with one lost and adored almost in childliood, — all 
 this, as shown in the novel, is but the imperfect transcript 
 of the true adventures of a liviuir woman. 
 
PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840. vii 
 
 In regard to Maltravers himself, I must own that I have 
 but inadequately struggled against the great and obvious 
 difficulty of representing an author living in our own times, 
 with whose supposed works or alleged genius, and those of 
 any one actually existing, the reader can establish no iden- 
 tification, — and he is therefore either com})elled constantly 
 to humour the delusion by keeping his imagination on the 
 stretch, or lazily driven to confound the author in the 
 book with the author of the book.^ But I own also I 
 fancied, while aware of this objection and in spite of it, 
 that so much not hitherto said might be conveyed with 
 advantage through the lips or in the life of an imaginary 
 writer of our own time, that I was contented, on the whole, 
 either to task the imagination or submit to the suspicions 
 of the reader. All that my own egotism approi)riates in 
 the book are some occasional remarks, the natural result of 
 practical experience. With the life or the character, the 
 adventures or the humours, the errors or the good qualities, 
 of Maltravers himself 1 have nothing to do, except as the 
 narrator and inventor. 
 
 E. B. L. 
 
 ^ In some foreign journal I have been much amused by a credulity of 
 this latter description, and seen the various adventures of Mr. Mal- 
 travers gravely approi)riated to the euihellishment of my own life, in- 
 cluding the attachment to the original of poor Alice Darvil, — who now, 
 by the way, must be at least seventy years of age, with a grandchild 
 nearly as old as myself. 
 
A WORD TO THE READER. 
 
 TREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF 1837. 
 
 Thou must not, my old and partial friend, look into this 
 work for that species of interest which is drawn from 
 stirring adventures and a perpetual variety of incident. 
 To a novel of the present day are necessarily forbidden the 
 animation, the excitement, the bustle, the pomp, and the 
 stage-effect which history affords to romance. Whatever 
 merits in thy gentle eyes " Ricnzi," or " The Last Days of 
 Pompeii," may have possessed, this tale, if it please thee at 
 all, must owe that happy fortune to qualities widely differ- 
 ent from those which won thy favour to pictures of the 
 past. Thou must sober down thine imagination, and pre- 
 pare thyself for a story not dedicated to the narrative of 
 extraordinary events, nor the elucidation of the characters 
 of great men. Though there is scarcely a i)agc in this 
 work episodical to the main design, there may be much 
 that may seem to thee wearisome and prolix, if thou wilt 
 not lend thyself in a kindly spirit and with a generous 
 trust to the guidance of the Author. In the hero of this 
 •talc thou wilt find neither a majestic demigod nor a fasci- 
 nating demon. He is a man with the weaknesses derived 
 from humanity, with the strength that we inherit from the 
 soul, — not often obstinate in error, more often irresolute 
 in virtue ; sometimes too aspiring, sometimes too despond- 
 ent ; influenced by the circumstances to which he yet strug- 
 gles to be superior, and changing in character with the 
 
X A WORD TO THE READER. 
 
 changes of time and fate ; but never wantonly rejecting 
 those great principles by which alone we can work out the 
 Science of Life, — a desire for the Good, a passion for the 
 Honest, a yearning after the True. From such principles, 
 Experience, that severe Mentor, teaches us at length the 
 safe and practical philosophy which consists of fortitude to 
 bear, serenity to enjoy, and faith to look beyond ! 
 
 It would have led, perhaps, to more striking incidents, 
 and have furnished an interest more intense, if I had cast 
 Maltravers, the Man of Genius, amidst those fierce but 
 ennobling struggles witli poverty and want to which genius 
 is so often condemned. But wealth and lassitude have 
 their temptations as well as penury and toil. And for the 
 rest, I have taken much of my tale and many of my char- 
 acters from real life, and would not unnecessarily seek 
 other fountains when the Well of Truth was in my reach. 
 
 The Author has said his say ; he retreats once more into 
 silence and into shade ; he leaves you alone with the cre- 
 ations he has called to life, — the representatives of his 
 emotions and his thoughts, the intermediators between the 
 individual and the crowd. Children not of the clay, but of 
 the spirit, may they be faithful to their origin ! So should 
 they be monitors, not loud but deep, of the world into 
 which they are cast, struggling against the o))staclcs that 
 will beset them lor the heritage of their parent, — the right 
 to survive the grave ! 
 
 London, August 12, 1837. 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Pagb 
 
 Maltravers and Alice — the Music Lesson . . . Frontispiece 
 
 Valerie and Maltravers at the Window 88 
 
 "Every day he rode out with Valerie" 214 
 
 Lady Florence and Maltravers 33(? 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Th yap vea^ov iu rotoTaSe fioffKerai 
 XdpOKTtv aiiTov ' kw. viv ov daKiros Ofov 
 OvS 6fi$pos, ovSe irvevfj-dTwv oiiSev KKovfi 
 'A\\' T]Soya7s d/uoxSov i^a'ipei fiiov. 
 
 Sophocles : Trachin. 144-147. 
 
 " Youth pastures in a valley of its own : 
 The glare of noon, the rains and wiuJs of heaven 
 Mar not the calm yet virgin of all care ; 
 But ever with sweet joys it buildeth up 
 The airy halls of life." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 My meaning in't, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the maid 
 . . . yet who would have suspected au ambush where I was taken ? — All 's 
 Well that Ends Well, Act. iv. sc. 3. 
 
 Some four miles distant from one of our nortliern manufact- 
 uring towns, in the year 18 — , was a wide and desolate com- 
 mon. A more dreary spot it is impossible to conceive; the 
 herbage grew up in sickly patches from the midst of a black 
 and stony soil; not a tree was to be seen in the whole of the 
 comfortless expanse. Nature herself had seemed to desert 
 the solitude, as if scared by the ceaseless din of the neigh- 
 bouring forges ; and even Art, which presses all things into 
 service, had disdained to cull use or beauty from these un- 
 promising demesnes. There was something weird and prime- 
 
 1 
 
2 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 val in tlie aspect of the place, especially when in the long 
 nights of winter you beheld the distant fires and lights, which 
 give to the vicinity of certain manufactories so preternatural 
 an appearance, streaming red and wild over the waste. So 
 abandoned by man appeared the spot that you found it diffi- 
 cult to imagine that it was only from human fires that its 
 bleak and barren desolation was illumined. For miles along 
 the moor you detected no vestige of any habitation; but as 
 you approached the verge nearest to the town you could just 
 perceive at a little distance from the main road, by which the 
 common was intersected, a small, solitary, and miserable 
 hovel. 
 
 Within this lonely abode, at the time in which my story 
 opens, were seated two persons. The one was a man of about 
 fifty years of age, and in a squalid and wretched garb, which 
 was yet relieved by an affectation of ill-assorted finery. A 
 silk handkerchief, which boasted the ornament of a large 
 brooch of false stones, was twisted jauntily round a muscular 
 but meagre throat ; his tattered breeches were also decorated 
 by buckles, — one of pinchbeck, and one of steel. His frame 
 was lean, but broad and sinewy, indicative of considerable 
 strength. His countenance was prematurely marked by deep 
 furrows, and his grizzled hair waved over a low, rugged, and 
 forbidding brow, on which there hung an everlasting frown 
 that no smile from the lips (and the man smiled often) could 
 chase away. It was a face that spoke of long-continued and 
 hardened vice ; it was one in which the Past had written in- 
 delible characters. The brand of the hangman could not have 
 stamped it more plainly, nor have more unequivocally warned 
 the suspicion of honest or timid men. 
 
 He was employed in counting some few and paltry coins, 
 which, though an easy matter to ascertain their value, he 
 told and retold, as if the act could increase the amount. 
 " There must be some mistake here, Alice, " he said in a low 
 and muttered tone; "we can't be so low. You know I had 
 two pounds in the drawer but Monday, and now — Alice, 
 you must have stolen some of the mone}', curse you ! " 
 
 The person thus addressed sat at the opposite side of the 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 3 
 
 smouldering and sullen fire; she now looked quietly up, and 
 her face singularly contrasted that of the man. 
 
 She seemed about fifteen years of age, and her complexion 
 was remarkably pure and delicate, even despite the siinburnt 
 tinge which her habits of toil had brought it. Her auburn 
 hair hung in loose and natural curls over her forehead, and 
 its luxuriance was remarkable even in one so young. Her 
 countenance was beautiful, — nay, even faultless, — in its 
 small and child-like features ; but the expression pained you, 
 it was so vacant. In repose it was almost the expression of 
 an idiot; but when she spoke or smiled, or even moved a 
 muscle, the eyes, colour, lips, kindled into a life, which 
 proved that the intellect was still there, though but imper- 
 fectly awakened. 
 
 " I did not steal any, Father, " she said in a quiet voice ; 
 " but I should like to have taken some, only I knew you would 
 beat me if I did." 
 
 "And what do you want money for?" 
 
 "To get food when I'm hungered." 
 
 "Nothing else?" 
 
 "I don't know." The girl paused. "Why don't you let 
 me," she said, after a while, — "why don't you let me go and 
 work with the other girls at the factory? I should make 
 money there for you and me both." 
 
 The man smiled — such a smile ! It seemed to bring into 
 sudden play all the revolting characteristics of his counte- 
 nance. "Child," he said, "you are just fifteen, and a sad 
 fool you are. Perhaps if you went to the factory, you would 
 get away from me; and what should I do without you? No; 
 I think, as you are so pretty, you might get more money 
 another way." 
 
 The girl did not seem to understand this allusion ; but re- 
 peated, vacantly, "I should like to go to the factory." 
 
 "Stuff!" said the man, angrily; "I have three minds 
 to — " 
 
 Here he was interrupted by a loud knock at the door of the 
 hovel. 
 
 The man grew pale. "What can that be?" he muttered. 
 
4 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "The hour is late — near eleven. Again — again ! Ask who 
 knocks, Alice." 
 
 The girl stood for a moment or so at the door; and as she 
 stood, her form rounded yet slight, her earnest look, her 
 varying colour, her tender youth, and a singular grace of at- 
 titude and gesture would have inspired an artist with the very 
 ideal of rustic beauty. 
 
 After a pause she placed her lips to a chink in the door, 
 and repeated her father's question. 
 
 "Pray, pardon me," said a clear, loud, yet courteous voice; 
 "but seeing a light at your window, I have ventured to ask if 
 
 any one within will conduct me to . I will pay the 
 
 service handsomely." 
 
 " Open the door. Alley, " said the owner of the hut. 
 
 The girl drew a large wooden bolt from the door ; and a tall 
 figure crossed the threshold. 
 
 The new-comer was in the first bloom of youth, perhaps 
 about eighteen years of age, and his air and appearance sur- 
 prised both sire and daughter. Alone, on foot, at such an 
 hour, it was impossible for any one to mistake him for other 
 than a gentleman; yet his dress was plain and somewhat 
 soiled by dust, and he carried a small knapsack on his shoul- 
 der. As he entered, he lifted his hat with somewhat of for- 
 eign urbanity, and a profusion of fair brown hair fell partially 
 over a high and commanding forehead. His features were 
 handsome, without being eminently so, and his aspect was at 
 once bold and prepossessing. 
 
 "I am much obliged by your civility," he said, advancing 
 carelessly and addressing the man, who surveyed him with a 
 scrutinizing eye, "and trust, my good fellow, that you will 
 increase the obligation by accompanying me to ." 
 
 "You can't miss well your way," said the man, surlily; 
 "the lights will direct you." 
 
 "They have rather misled me, for they seem to surround 
 the whole common, and there is no path across it that I can 
 see ; however, if you will put me in the right road I will not 
 trouble you further." 
 
 "It is very late," replied the hurlish landlord, equivocally. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 6 
 
 " The better reason why I shouhl be at . Come, my 
 
 good friend, put on your hat, and 1 will give you half a guinea 
 for your trouble." 
 
 The man advanced, then halted; again surveyed his guest, 
 and said, "Are you quite alone, sir?" 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "Probably you are known at ?" 
 
 "Not I. But what matters that to you? I am a stranger 
 in these parts." 
 
 "It is full four miles." 
 
 " So far, and I am fearfully tired already ! " exclaimed the 
 young man with impatience. As he spoke he drew out his 
 watch. " Past eleven too ! " 
 
 The watch caught the eye of the cottager; that evil eye 
 sparkled. He passed his hand over his brow. "I am 
 thinking, sir," he said in a more civil tone than he had yet 
 assumed, " that as you are so tired and the hour is so late, 
 you might almost as well — " 
 
 "What?" exclaimed the stranger, stamping somewhat 
 petulantly. 
 
 "I don't like to mention it; but my poor roof is at your 
 service, and I would go with you to at daybreak to- 
 morrow." 
 
 The stranger stared at the cottager, and then at the dingy 
 walls of the hut. He was about, very abruptly, to reject the 
 hospitable proposal, when his eye rested suddenly on the form 
 of Alice, who stood eager-eyed and open-mouthed, gazing on 
 the handsome intruder. As she caught his eye, she blushed 
 deeply and turned aside. The view seemed to change the in- 
 tentions of the stranger. He hesitated a moment, then mut- 
 tered between his teeth ; and sinking his knapsack on the 
 ground he cast himself into a chair beside the fire, stretched 
 his limbs, and cried gayly, "So be it, my host. Sliut up 
 your house again; bring me a cup of beer and a crust of 
 bread, and so much for supper! As for bed, this chair will 
 do vastly well." 
 
 "Perhaps we can manage better for you than that chair," 
 answered the host. " But our best accommodation must seem 
 
6 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 bad enough to a gentleman; we are very poor people, — hard- 
 working, but very poor." 
 
 "Never mind me," answered the stranger, busying himself 
 in stirring the fire ; " I am tolerably well accustomed to greater 
 hardships than sleeping on a chair in an honest man's house; 
 and though you are poor, I will take it for granted you are 
 honest." 
 
 The man grinned, and turning to Alice, bade her spread 
 what their larder would afford. Some crusts of bread, some 
 cold potatoes, and some tolerably strong beer composed all 
 the fare set before the traveller. 
 
 Despite his previous boasts, the young man made a wry 
 face at these Socratic preparations, while he drew his chair 
 to the board. But his look grew more gay as he caught 
 Alice's eye; and as she lingered by the table, and faltered 
 out some hesitating words of apology, he seized her hand, 
 and pressing it tenderly, "Prettiest of lasses," said he, — and 
 while he spoke he gazed on her with undisguised admiration, 
 — "a man who has travelled on foot all day, through the 
 ugliest country within the three seas, is sufficiently refreshed 
 at night by the sight of so fair a face." 
 
 Alice hastily withdrew her hand and went and seated her- 
 self in a corner of the room, whence she continued to look at 
 the stranger with her usual vacant gaze, but with a half -smile 
 upon her rosy lips. 
 
 Alice's father looked hard, first at one, then at the other, 
 
 "Eat, sir," said he, with a sort of chuckle, "and no fine 
 words; poor Alice is honest, as you said just now." 
 
 "To be sure," answered the traveller, employing with great 
 zeal a set of strong, even, and dazzling teeth at the tough 
 crusts, — "to be sure she is. I did not mean to offend you; 
 but the fact is that I am half a foreigner; and abroad, you 
 know, one may say a civil thing to a pretty girl without hurt- 
 ing her feelings or her father's either." 
 
 "Half a foreigner! why, you talk English as well as I do," 
 said the host, whose intonation and words were on the whole 
 a little above his station. 
 
 The stranger smiled. "Thank you for the compliment," 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 7 
 
 said he. " What I meant was, that I have been a great deal 
 abroad; in fact, I have just returned from Germany. But I 
 am English born." 
 
 "And going home?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Far from hence?" 
 
 "About thirty miles, I believe." 
 
 "You are young, sir, to be alone." 
 
 The traveller made no answer, but finished his uninviting 
 repast and drew his chair again to the fire. He then thought 
 he had sufiiciently ministered to his host's curiosity to be 
 entitled to the gratification of his own. 
 
 "You work at the factories, I suppose?" said he. 
 
 "I do, sir. Bad times." 
 
 "And your pretty daughter?" 
 
 "Minds the house." 
 
 "Have you no other children? " 
 
 "No; one mouth besides my own is as much as I can feed, 
 and that scarcely. But you would like to rest now; you can 
 have my bed, sir, — I can sleep here." 
 
 "By no means," said the stranger, quickly; "just put a 
 few more coals on the fire, and leave me to make myself 
 comfortable." 
 
 The man rose, and did not press his offer, but left the room 
 for a supply of fuel. Alice remained in her corner. 
 
 "Sweetheart," said the traveller, looking round and satisfy- 
 ing himself that they were alone, " I should sleep well if I 
 could get one kiss from those coral lips." 
 
 Alice hid her face with her hands. 
 
 "Do I vex you?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sir." 
 
 At this assurance the traveller rose, and approached Alice 
 softly. He drew away her hands from her face, when she 
 said gently, "Have you much money about you?" 
 
 " Oh, the mercenary baggage ! " said the traveller to him- 
 self; and then replied aloud, "Why, pretty one? Do you sell 
 your kisses so high, then?" 
 
 Alice frowned and tossed the hair from her brow. "If you 
 
8 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 have money," she said, in a whisper, "don't say so to Father. 
 Don't sleep if you can help it. I 'm afraid — hush, he 
 comes ! " 
 
 The young man returned to his seat with an altered manner; 
 and as his host entered, he for the first time surveyed him 
 closely. The imperfect glimmer of the half -dying and single 
 candle threw into strong lights and shades the marked, rugged, 
 and ferocious features of the cottager; and the eye of the 
 traveller, glancing from the face to the limbs and frame, saw 
 that whatever of violence the mind might design the body 
 might well execute. 
 
 The traveller sank into a gloomy revery. The wind howled, 
 the rain beat; through the casement shone no solitary star, 
 — all was dark and sombre. Should he proceed alone, might 
 he not suffer a greater danger upon that wide and desert moor? 
 Might not the host follow, assault him in the dark? He had 
 no weapon save a stick; but within he had at least a rude 
 resource in the large kitchen poker that was beside him. At 
 all events it would be better to wait for the present; he might 
 at any time, when alone, withdraw the bolt from the door, 
 and slip out unobserved. 
 
 Such was the fruit of his meditations while his host plied 
 the fire. 
 
 "You will sleep sound to-night," said his entertainer, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Humph ! Why, I am over-fatigued. I dare say it will be 
 an hour or two before I fall asleep; but when I once am 
 asleep, I sleep like a rock." 
 
 "Come, Alice," said her father, "let us leave the gentle- 
 man. Good-night, sir." 
 
 "Good-night, good-night," returned the traveller, yawning. 
 
 The father and daughter disappeared through a door in the 
 corner of the room. The guest heard them ascend the creak- 
 ing stairs ; all was still. 
 
 "Fool that I am," said the traveller to himself; "will 
 nothing teach me that I am no longer a student at Gottingen, 
 or cure me of these pedestrian adventures? Had it not been 
 for that girl's big blue eyes I should be safe at by this 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 9 
 
 time; if, indeed, the grim father had not murdered me by the 
 road. However, we'll balk him yet; another half-hour, 
 and I am on the moor. We must give him time ; and in the 
 mean while here is the poker. At the worst it is but one to 
 one; but the churl is strongly built." 
 
 Although the traveller thus endeavoured to cheer his cour- 
 age, his heart beat more loudly than its wont. He kept his 
 eyes stationed on the door by which the cottagers had van- 
 ished, and his hand on the massive poker. 
 
 While the stranger was thus employed below, Alice, instead 
 of turning to her own narrow cell, went into her father's room. 
 
 The cottager was seated at the foot of his bed muttering to 
 himself, and with eyes fixed on the ground. 
 
 The girl stood before him, gazing on his face, and with her 
 arms lightly crossed above her bosom. 
 
 "It must be worth twenty guineas," said the host, abruptly 
 to himself. 
 
 " What is it to you, Father, what the gentleman's watch is 
 worth?" 
 
 The man started. 
 
 "You mean," continued Alice, qiiietly, "you mean to do 
 some injury to that young man ; but you shall not. " 
 
 The cottager's face grew black as night. " How, " he began 
 in a loud voice, but suddenly dropped the tone into a deep 
 growl, — "how dare you talk to me so! Go to bed; go to 
 bed." 
 
 "Ko, Father." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "I will not stir from this room until daybreak." 
 
 "We will soon see that," said the man, with an oath. 
 
 "Touch me, and I will alarm the gentleman and tell him 
 that — " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 The girl approached her father, placed her lips to his ear, 
 and whispered, "That you intend to murder him." 
 
 The cottager's frame trembled from head to foot; he shut 
 his eyes and gasped painfully for breath. "Alice," said he 
 gently, after a pause, — "Alice, we are often nearly starving." 
 
10 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 " / am, — you never ! " 
 
 " Wretch ! yes, if I do drink too much one day, I pinch for 
 it the next. But go to bed, I say ; I mean no harm to the 
 young man. Think you I would twist myself a rope? Xo, 
 no ; go along, go along ! " 
 
 Alice's face, which had before been earnest and almost in- 
 telligent, now relapsed into its wonted vacant stare. 
 
 "To be sure. Father, they would hang you if 3'ou cut his 
 throat. Don't forget that. Good-night; " and so saying, she 
 walked to her own opposite chamber. 
 
 Left alone, the host pressed his hand tightly to his fore- 
 head and remained motionless for nearly half an hour. 
 
 "If that cursed girl would but sleep," he muttered at last, 
 turning round, " it might be done at once. And there 's the 
 pond behind, as deep as a well ; and I might say at daybreak 
 that the boy had bolted. He seems quite a stranger here, — 
 nobody '11 miss him. He must have plenty of blunt to give 
 half-a-guinea to a guide across a common ! I want money, 
 and I won't work, — if I can help it, at least." 
 
 While he thus soliloquized, the air seemed to oppress him; 
 he opened the window, he leaned out, — the rain beat upon 
 him. He closed the window with an oath, took off his shoes, 
 stole to the threshold, and by the candle, which he shaded 
 with his hand, surveyed the opposite door. It was closed. 
 He then bent anxiously forward and listened. 
 
 "All's quiet," thought he; "perhaps he sleeps already. I 
 will steal down. If Jack Walters would but come to-night, 
 the job would be done charmingly. " 
 
 With that he crept gently down the stairs. In a corner 
 at the foot of the staircase lay sundry matters, a few fagots, 
 and a cleaver. He caught up the last. "Aha! " he muttered, 
 "and there's the sledge-hammer somewhere for Walters." 
 Leaning himself against the door, he then applied his eye to 
 a chink which admitted a dim view of the room within, 
 lighted fitfully by the fire. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 11 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "What have we here ■? 
 A carrion death ! 
 
 Mercliant of Venice, Act ii. sc. 7. 
 
 It was about this time that the stranger deemed it advisable 
 to commence his retreat. The slight and suppressed sound 
 of voices, which at first he had heard above in the conversa- 
 tion of the father and child, had died away. The stillness at 
 once encouraged and warned him. He stole to the front door, 
 softly undid the bolt, and found the door locked and the key 
 missing. He had not observed that during his repast, and 
 ere his suspicions had been aroused, his host, in replaciug the 
 bar and relocking the entrance, had abstracted the key. His 
 fears were now confirmed. His next thought was the win- 
 dow: the shutter only protected it half way, and was easily 
 removed; but the aperture of the lattice, which only opened 
 in part, like most cottage casements, was far too small to ad- 
 mit his person. His only means of escape was in breaking 
 the whole window, — a matter not to be effected without 
 noise, and consequent risk. 
 
 He paused in despair. He was naturally of a strong-nerved 
 and gallant temperament, nor unaccustomed to those perils of 
 life and limb which German students delight to brave; but 
 his heart wellnigh failed him at that moment. The silence 
 became distinct and burdensome to him, and a chill moisture 
 gathered to his brow. While he stood irresolute and in sus- 
 pense, striving to collect his thoughts, his ear, preternatural ly 
 sharpened by fear, caught the faint, muffled sound of creep- 
 ing footsteps, — he heard the stairs creak. The sound broke 
 the spell. The previous vague apprehension gave way when 
 the danger became actually at hand. His presence of mind 
 returned at once; he went back quickly to the fireplace, 
 seized the poker, and began stirring the fire and coughing 
 
12 ERXEST MALTR AVERS. 
 
 loud, and indicated as vigorously as possible tliat he was 
 "wide awake. 
 
 He felt tliat he was watched; he felt that he was mo- 
 mently in peril; he felt that the appearance of slumber would 
 be the signal for a mortal conflict. Time passed, — all re- 
 mained silent; nearly half an hour had elapsed since he had 
 heard the steps upon the stairs. His situation began to prey 
 upon his nerves, — it irritated them; it became intolerable. 
 It was not now fear that he experienced, it was the over- 
 wrought sense of mortal enmity, — the consciousness that a 
 man may feel who knows that the eye of a tiger is on him, 
 and who, while in suspense he has regained his courage, fore- 
 sees that sooner or later the spring must come; the suspense 
 itself becomes an agony, and he desires to expedite the deadly 
 struggle he cannot shun. 
 
 Utterly incapable any longer to bear his own sensations, 
 the traveller rose at last, fixed his eyes upon the fatal door, 
 and was about to cry aloud to the listener to enter, when he 
 heard a slight tap at the window; it was twice repeated, and 
 at the third time a low voice pronounced the name of Darvil, 
 It was clear, then, that accomplices had arrived; it was no 
 longer against one man that he would have to contend. He 
 drew his breath hard, and listened with throbbing ears. He 
 heard steps without upon the plashing soil; they retired, — all 
 was still. 
 
 He paused a few minutes, and walked deliberately and 
 firmly to the inner door, at which he fancied his host sta- 
 tioned; with a steady hand he attempted to open the door: it 
 was fastened on the opposite side. " So ! " said he, bitterly, 
 and grinding his teeth, "I must die like a rat in a cage. 
 Well, I '11 die biting." 
 
 He returned to his former post, drew himself up to his full 
 height, and stood grasping his homely weapon, prepared for 
 the worst, and not altogether undated with a proud con- 
 sciousness of his own natural advantages of activity, stature, 
 strength, and daring. Minutes rolled on; the silence was 
 broken by some one at the inner door; he heard the bolt 
 gently withdrawn. He raised his weapon with both hands. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 13 
 
 and started to find the intruder was only Alice. She came in 
 with bare feet and pale as marble, her finger on her lips. 
 
 She approached, she touched him. 
 
 "They are in the shed behind," she whispered, "looking 
 for the sledge-hammer; they mean to murder you. Get you 
 gone, quick ! " 
 
 "How? The door is locked." 
 
 "Stay! I have taken the key from his room." 
 
 She gained the door, applied the key; the door yielded. 
 The traveller threw his knapsack once more over his shoulder, 
 and made but one stride to the threshold. The girl stopped 
 him. " Don't say anything about it; he is my father, — they 
 would hang him." 
 
 "iSTo, no. But you are safe, I trust? Depend on my grati- 
 tude. I shall be at to-morrow, — the best inn; seek me 
 
 if you can. Which way now? " 
 
 "Keep to the left." 
 
 The stranger was already several paces distant; through 
 the darkness and in the midst of the rain he fled on, with the 
 speed of youth. The girl lingered an instant, sighed, then 
 laughed aloud; closed and re-barred the door, and was creep- 
 ing back, when from the inner entrance advanced the grim 
 father and another man, of broad, short, sinewy frame, his 
 arms bare, and wielding a large hammer. 
 
 "How?" asked the host. "Alice here, and — Hell and 
 the devil! have you let him go?" 
 
 "I told you that you should not harm him." 
 
 With a violent oath the ruffian struck his daughter to the 
 ground, sprang over her body, unbarred the door, and, accom- 
 panied by his comrade, set off in vague pursuit of his in- 
 tended victim. 
 
14 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Yoc knew, none so well, of mj daughter's flight. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Act iii. sc. 1. 
 
 The day dawned. It was a mild, damp, hazy morning; the 
 sod sank deep beneath the foot, the roads were heavy with 
 mire, and the rain of the past night lay here and there in 
 broad, shallow pools. Towards the town, wagons, carts, 
 pedestrian groups were already moving; and now and then 
 you caught the sharp horn of some early coach, wheeling its 
 be-cloaked outside and be-nightcapped inside passengers along 
 the northern thoroughfare. 
 
 A young man bounded over a stile into the road just oppo- 
 site to the milestone that declared him to be one mile from 
 
 "Thank Heaven!" he said almost aloud; "after spending 
 the night wandering about morasses like a will-o'-the-wisp, I 
 approach a town at last. Thank Heaven again, and for all 
 its mercies this night! I breathe freely. I am safe." 
 
 He walked on somewhat rapidly; he passed a slow wagon, 
 he passed a group of mechanics, he passed a drove of sheep, 
 and now he saw walking leisurely before him a single figure. 
 It was a girl, in a worn and humble dress, who seemed to 
 seek her weary way with pain and languor. He was about 
 also to pass her, when he heard a low cij. He turned, 
 and beheld in the wayfarer his preserver of the previous 
 night. 
 
 "Heavens! is it indeed you? Can I believe my eyes?" 
 
 "I was coming to seek you, sir," said the girl, faintly. "I 
 too have escaped. I shall never go back to Father; I have no 
 roof to cover my head now." 
 
 "Poor child! But how is this? Did they ill-use you for 
 releasing me?" 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 15 
 
 "Father knocked me down, and beat rae again when he 
 came back. But that is not all," she added, in a very low 
 tone. 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 The girl grew red and white by turns. She set her teeth 
 rigidly, stopped short, and then, walking on quicker than be- 
 fore, replied: "It don't matter : I will never go back, — I'm 
 alone now. What, what shall I do?" and she wrung her 
 hands. 
 
 The traveller's pity was deeply moved. "My good girl," 
 said he, earnestly, "you have saved my life, and I am not un- 
 grateful. Here," and he placed some gold in her hand, "get 
 yourself a lodging, food, and rest, — you look as if you 
 wanted them, — and see me again this evening when it is dark 
 and we can talk unobserved." 
 
 The girl took the money passively, and looked up in his 
 face while he spoke ; the look was so unsuspecting, and the 
 whole countenance was so beautifully modest and virgin-like, 
 that had any evil passion prompted the traveller's last words, 
 it must have fled scared and abashed as he met the gaze. 
 
 "My poor girl," said he, embarrassed, and after a short 
 pause, "you are very young, and very, very pretty. In this 
 town you will be exposed to many temptations: take care 
 where you lodge. You have, no doubt, friends here?" 
 
 "Friends? What are friends?" answered Alice. 
 
 "Have you no relations, — no viother^s kin ."^ " 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Do you know where to ask shelter?" 
 
 "No, sir; for I can't go where Father goes, lest he should 
 find me out." 
 
 " Well, then, seek some quiet inn, and meet me this even- 
 ing just here, — half a mile from the town, at seven. I will 
 try and think of something for you in the mean while. But 
 you seem tired, — you walk with pain; perhaps it will fatigue 
 you to come, — I mean, you had rather perhaps rest another 
 day." 
 
 "Oh, no, no! it will do me good to see you again, sir." 
 
 The young man's eyes met hers, and hers were not with- 
 
16 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 drawn; their soft blue was suffused with tears, — they pene- 
 trated his soul. He turned away hastily, and saw that they 
 were already the subject of curious observation to the various 
 passengers that overtook them. "Don't forget!" he whis- 
 pered, and strode on with a pace that soon brought him to 
 the town. 
 
 He inquired for the principal hotel, entered it with an air 
 that bespoke that nameless consciousness of superiority which 
 belongs to those accustomed to purchase welcome wherever 
 welcome is bought and sold; and before a blazing fire and no 
 unsubstantial breakfast, forgot all the terrors of the past 
 night, or rather felt rejoiced to think he had added a new and 
 strange hazard to the catalogue of adventures already experi- 
 enced by Ernest Maltravers. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Con una Dama tenia 
 Un galan conversacion.^ 
 
 MoRATiN. El Te'alro Espanol (Num. 15). 
 
 Maltravers was first at the appointed place. His charac- 
 ter was in most respects singularly energetic, decided, and 
 premature in its development ; but not so in regard to women, 
 
 — with them he was the creature of the moment ; and driven 
 to and fro by whatever impulse or whatever passion caught 
 the caprice of a wild, roving, and all-poetical imagination, 
 Maltravers was, half unconsciously, a poet, — a poet of action, 
 
 — and woman was his muse. 
 
 He had formed no plan of conduct towards the poor girl he 
 was to meet; he meant no harm to her. If she had been less 
 handsome he would have been equally grateful, and her dress 
 and youth and condition would equally have compelled him 
 to select the hour of dusk for an interview. 
 
 1 " With a dame he held a gallant conversation. " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 17 
 
 He arrived at the spot. The winter night had already de- 
 scended; but a sharp frost had set in, — the air was clear, the 
 stars were bright, and the long shadows slept, still and calm, 
 along the broad road and the whitened fields beyond. 
 
 He walked briskly to and fro, without much thought of the 
 interview or its object, half chanting old verses, German and 
 English, to himself, and stopping to gaze every moment at 
 the silent stars. 
 
 At length he saw Alice approach; she came up to him tim- 
 idly and gently. His heart beat more quickly ; he felt that 
 he was young, and alone with beauty. " Sweet girl, " he said, 
 with involuntary and mechanical compliment, " how well this 
 light becomes you ! How shall I thank you for not forgetting 
 me?" 
 
 Alice surrendered her hand to his without a struggle. 
 
 "What is your name?" said he, bending his face down to 
 hers. 
 
 "Alice Darvil." 
 
 "And your terrible father, — is he, in truth, your father? " 
 
 " Indeed, he is my father and mother too ! " 
 
 "What made you suspect his intention to murder me? Has 
 he ever attempted the like crime? " 
 
 " No ; but lately he has often talked of robbery. He is very 
 poor, sir; and when I saw his eye, and when, afterwards, 
 while your back was turned, he took the key from the door, 
 I felt that — that you were in danger. " 
 
 "Good girl! go on." 
 
 "I told him so when we went upstairs. I did not know 
 what to believe when he said he would not hurt you; but I 
 stole the key of the front door, which he had thrown on the 
 table, and went to my room. I listened at my door; I heard 
 him go down the stairs, — he stopped there for some time; 
 and I watched him from above. The place where he was, 
 opened to the field by the back way. After some time I heard 
 a voice whisper him, — I knew the voice; and then they both 
 went out by the back way. So I stole down, and went out 
 and listened: and I knew the other man was John Walters, 
 — I'm afraid of hi7)i, sir. And then Walters said, says he, 
 
 2 
 
18 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 *I will get the hammer, and, sleep or wake, we '11 do it.' And 
 Father said, 'It's in the shed.' So I saw there was no time 
 to be lost, sir, and — and — But you know all the rest." 
 
 "Bvit how did you escape?" 
 
 *' Oh ! my father, after talking to Walters, came to my room 
 and beat and — and — frightened me ; and when he was gone 
 to bed, I put on my clothes and stole out, — it was just light; 
 and I walked on till I met you." 
 
 " Poor child, in what a den of vice you have been brought 
 
 up 
 
 r » 
 
 " Anan, sir ?" 
 
 "She don't understand me. — Have you been taught to read 
 and write?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 " But I suppose you have been taught, at least, to say your 
 catechism, — and you pray sometimes?" 
 
 "I have prayed to Father not to beat me." 
 
 "But to God?" 
 
 " God, sir,— what is that? " ^ 
 
 Maltravers drew back, shocked and appalled. Premature 
 philosopher as he was, this depth of ignorance perplexed his 
 wisdom. He had read all the disputes of schoolmen, whether 
 or not the notion of a Supreme Being is innate ; but he had 
 never before been brought face to face with a living creature 
 who was unconscious of a God. 
 
 After a pause he said: "My poor girl, we misunderstand 
 each other. You know that there is a God? " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Did no one ever tell you who made the stars you now sur- 
 vey, — the earth on which you tread?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " And have you never thought about it yourself? " 
 
 ^ This ignorance — indeed, the whole sketch of Alice — is from the life ; 
 nor is snch ignorance, accompanied by what almost seems an instinctive or 
 iutnitive notion of right or wrong, ver\' uncommon, as onr police reports can 
 testify. In the "Examiner" for, I think, the year 1835, will be fonnd the 
 case of a yonng girl, ill-treated by her father, whose answers to the interroga- 
 tories of the magistrate are very similar to those of Alice to the (iuestions of 
 Maltravers. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 19 
 
 "Why should I? What has that to do with being cold and 
 hungry?" 
 
 Maltravers looked incredulous. " You see that great build- 
 ing, with the spire rising in the starlight? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, sure." 
 
 "What is it called?" 
 
 "Why, a church." 
 
 " Did you never go into it? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What do people do there?" 
 
 " Father says one man talks nonsense, and the other folk 
 listen to him." 
 
 " Your father is — No matter. Good heavens ! what shall 
 I do with this unhappy child?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I am very unhappy," said Alice, catching at the 
 last words ; and the tears rolled silently down her cheeks. 
 
 Maltravers never was more touched in his life. Whatever 
 thoughts of gallantry might have entered his young head, had 
 he found Alice such as he might reasonably have expected, he 
 now felt that there was a kind of sanctity in her ignorance; 
 and his gratitude and kindly sentiment towards her took al- 
 most a brotherly aspect. "You know, at least, what school 
 is?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, I have talked with girls who go to school." 
 
 "Would you like to go there too?" 
 
 "Oh, no, sir; pray not!" 
 
 "What should you like to do, then? Speak out, child, I 
 owe you so much that 1 should be too happy to make you 
 comfortable and contented in your own way." 
 
 "I should like to live with you, sir." MaltraA^ers started, 
 and half smiled and coloured. But looking on her eyes, 
 which were fixed earnestly on his, there was so much artless- 
 ness in their soft, unconscious gaze that he saw she was 
 wholly ignorant of the interpretation that might be put upon 
 so candid a confession. 
 
 I have said that IMaltravers was a wild, enthusiastic, odd 
 being, — he was, in fact, full of strange German romance and 
 metaphysical speculations. He had once shut himself up for 
 
20 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 months to study astrology, and been even suspected of a seri- 
 ous hunt after the philosopher's stone; another time he had 
 narrowly escaped with life and liberty from a frantic conspir- 
 acy of the young republicans of his University, in which, be- 
 ing bolder and madder than most of them, he had been an 
 active ringleader; it was, indeed, some such folly that had 
 comj)elled him to quit Germany sooner than himself or his 
 parents desired. He had nothing of the sober Englishman 
 about him. Whatever was strange and eccentric had an irre- 
 sistible charm for Ernest Maltravers. And agreeably to this 
 disposition, he now revolved an idea that enchanted his mo- 
 bile and fantastic philosophy. He himself would educate 
 this charming girl ; he would write fair and heavenly charac- 
 ters upon this blank page, — he would act the Saint-Preux to 
 this Julie of Nature. Alas ! he did not think of the result 
 which the parallel should have suggested. At that age, 
 Ernest Maltravers never damped the ardour of an experiment 
 by the anticipation of consequences. 
 
 " So, " he said, after a short revery, " so you would like to 
 live with me? But, Alice, we must not fall in love with each 
 other." 
 
 "I don't understand, sir." 
 
 "Never mind," said Maltravers, a little disconcerted. 
 
 "I always wished to go into service." 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 "And you would be a kind master." 
 
 Maltravers was half disenchanted. 
 
 " No very flattering preference, " thought he ; " so much the 
 safer for us. Well, Alice, it shall be as you wish. Are you 
 comfortable where you are, in your new lodgings? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why, they do not insult you?" 
 
 "No; but they make a noise, and I like to be quiet, to 
 think of you." 
 
 The young philosopher was reconciled again to his scheme. 
 
 "Well, Alice, go back. I will take a cottage to-morrow, 
 and you shall be my servant, and I will teach you to read and 
 write and say your prayers, and know that you have a Eather 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 21 
 
 above who loves you better than he below. Meet me again at 
 the same hour to-morrow. "Why do you cry, Alice? Why do 
 you cry? " 
 
 " Because, because, " sobbed the girl, " I am so happy, and 
 I shall live with you and see you." 
 
 "Go, child, — go, child," said Maltravers, hastily; and he 
 walked away with a quicker pulse than became his new char- 
 acter of master and preceptor. 
 
 He looked back, and saw the girl gazing at him; he waved 
 his hand, and she moved on and followed him slowly back to 
 the town. 
 
 Maltravers, though not an elder son, was the heir of afflu- 
 ent fortunes ; he enjoyed a munificent allowance that sufficed 
 for the whims of a youth who had learned in Germany none 
 of the extravagant notions common to young Englishmen of 
 similar birth and prospects. He was a spoiled child, with 
 no law but his own fancy; his return home was not expected; 
 there was nothing to prevent the indulgence of his new ca- 
 price. The next day he hired a cottage in the neighbourhood, 
 which was one of those pretty thatched edifices, with ve- 
 randas and monthly roses, a conservatory and a lawn, which 
 justify the English proverb about a cottage and love. It had 
 been built by a mercantile bachelor for some Fair Eosamond, 
 and did credit to his taste. An old woman, let with the 
 house, was to cook and do the work; Alice was but a nominal 
 servant. Neither the old woman nor the landlord compre- 
 hended the platonic intentions of the young stranger; but he 
 paid his rent in advance, and they were not particular. He, 
 however, thought it prudent to conceal his name ; it was one 
 sure to be known in a town not very distant from the resi- 
 dence of his father, — a wealthy and long-descended country 
 gentleman. He adopted, therefore, the common name of 
 Butler, — which, indeed, belonged to one of his maternal con- 
 nections ; and by that name alone was he known in the neigh- 
 bourhood and to Alice. From her he would not have sought 
 concealment; but, somehow or other, no occasion ever pre- 
 sented itself to induce him to talk much to her of his parent- 
 age or birth. 
 
22 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. — Gray. 
 
 Maltravebs found Alice as docile a pupil as any reasona- 
 ble preceptor might have desired. But still, reading and 
 writing, they are very uninteresting elements. Had the 
 ground-work been laid, it might have been delightful to raise 
 the fairy palace of knowledge; but the digging the founda- 
 tions and the constructing the cellars is weary labour. Per- 
 haps he felt it so ; for in a few days Alice was handed over to 
 the very oldest and ugliest writing-master that the neighbour- 
 ing town could afford. The poor girl at first wept much at the 
 exchange; but the grave remonstrances and solemn exhorta- 
 tions of Maltravers reconciled her at last, and she promised 
 to work hard and pay every attention to her lessons. I am 
 not sure, however, that it was the tedium of the work that 
 deterred the idealist, — perhaps he felt its danger, — and at 
 the bottom of his sparkling dreams and brilliant follies lay a 
 sound, generous, and noble heart. He was fond of pleasure, 
 and had been already the darling of the sentimental German 
 ladies. But he was too young and too vivid and too roman- 
 tic to be what is called a sensualist. He could not look upon 
 a fair face and a guileless smile and all the ineffable symme- 
 try of a woman's shape with the eye of a man buying cattle 
 for base uses. He very easily fell in love, — or fancied he 
 did, — it is true; but then he could not separate desire from 
 fancy, or calculate the game of passion without bringing the 
 heart or the imagination into the matter. And though Alice 
 was very pretty and very engaging, he was not yet in love 
 with her, and he had no intention of becoming so. 
 
 He felt the evening somewhat long when, for the first time, 
 Alice discontinued her usual lesson; but Maltravers had 
 abundant resources in himself. He placed Shakspeare and 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 23 
 
 Schiller on his table, and lighted his German meerschaum; 
 he read till he became inspired, and then he wrote; and when 
 he had composed a few stanzas he was not contented till he 
 had set them to music and tried their melody with his v(5ice, 
 
 — for he had all the passion of a German for song and music, 
 that wild Maltravers ! and his voice was sweet, his taste con- 
 summate, his science profound. As the sun puts out a star, 
 so the full blaze of his imagination, fairly kindled, extin- 
 guished for the time his fairy fancy for his beautiful pupil. 
 
 It was late that night when Maltravers went to bed; and 
 as he passed through the narrow corridor that led to his 
 chamber he heard a light step flying before him, and caught 
 the glimpse of a female figure escaping through a distant 
 door. "The silly child!" thought he, at once divining the 
 cause; "she has been listening to my singing. I shall scold 
 her." But he forgot that resolution. 
 
 The next day, and the next, and many days passed, and 
 Maltravers saw but little of the pupil for whose sake he had 
 shut himself up in a country cottage in the depth of winter. 
 Still, he did not repent his purpose, nor was he in the least 
 tired of his seclusion; he would not inspect Alice's progress, 
 for he was certain he should be dissatisfied with its slowness, 
 
 — and people, however handsome, cannot learn to read and 
 write in a day. But he amused himself, notwithstanding. 
 He was glad of an opportunity to be alone with his own 
 thoughts, for he was at one of those periodical epochs of life 
 ■when we like to pause and breathe a while, in brief respite 
 from that methodical race in which "we run to the grave. He 
 wished to re-collect the stores of his past experience, and re- 
 pose on his own mind, before he started afresh upon the ac- 
 tive world. The weather was cold and inclement; but Ernest 
 Maltravers was a hardy lover of Nature, and neither snow 
 nor frost could detain him from his daily rambles. So about 
 noon he regularly threw aside books and papers, took his hat 
 and staff, and went whistling or humming his favourite airs 
 through the dreary streets, or along the bleak waters, or 
 amidst the leafless woods, just as the humour seized him; for 
 he was not an Edwin or Harold, who reserved speculation 
 
24 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 only for lonely brooks and pastoral hills. Maltravers de- 
 lighted to contemplate Nature in men, as well as in sheep or 
 trees. The humblest alley in a crowded town had something 
 poetical for him ; he was ever ready to mix in a crowd, if it 
 were only gathered round a barrel-organ or a dog-fight, and 
 listen to all that was said, and notice all that was done. And 
 this I take to be the true poetical temperament essential to 
 every artist who aspires to be something more than a scene- 
 painter. But above all things, he was most interested in any 
 display of human passions or affections ; he loved to see the 
 true colours of the heart where they are most transparent, — 
 in the uneducated and poor, — for he was something of an op- 
 timist, and had a hearty faith in the loveliness of our nature. 
 Perhaps indeed he owed much of the insight into and mas- 
 tery over character that he was afterwards considered to dis- 
 play, to his disbelief that there is any wickedness so dark as 
 not to be susceptible of the light in some place or another. 
 But Maltravers had his fits of unsociability, and then noth- 
 ing but the most solitary scenes delighted him. Winter or 
 summer, barren waste or prodigal verdure, all had beauty in 
 his eyes ; for their beauty lay in his own soul, through which 
 he beheld them. From these walks he would return home at 
 dusk, take his simple meal, rhyme or read away the long 
 evenings with such alternation as music or the dreamy 
 thoughts of a young man with gay life before him could 
 afford. Happy Maltravers! youth and genius have luxuries 
 all the Eothschilds cannot purchase. And yet, Maltravers, 
 you are ambitious; life moves too slowly for you; you would 
 push on the wheels of the clock! Fool, brilliant fool I you 
 are eighteen, and a poet! What more can you desire? Bid 
 Time stop forever! 
 
 One morning Ernest rose earlier than his wont, and saun- 
 tered carelessly through the conservatory which adjoined his 
 sitting-room, observing the plants with placid curiosity (for 
 besides being a little of a botanist, he had odd, visionary no- 
 tions about the life of plants, and he saw in them a hundred 
 mysteries which the herbalists do not teach us), when he 
 heard a low and very musical voice singing at a little distance. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 25 
 
 He listened, and recognized with surprise words of his ov,-n 
 which he had lately set to music, and was sufficiently pleased 
 with to sing nightly. 
 
 When the song ended, Maltravers stole softly through the 
 conservatory, and as he opened the door which led into the 
 garden, he saAv at the open window of a little room which was 
 apportioned to Alice, and jutted out from the building in the 
 fanciful irregularity common to ornamental cottages, the form 
 of his discarded pupil. She did not observe him, and it was 
 not till he twice called her by name that she started from her 
 thoughtful and melancholy posture. 
 
 "Alice," said he, gently, "put on your bonnet and walk 
 with me in the garden. You look pale, child; the fresh air 
 will do you good." 
 
 Alice coloured and smiled, and in a few moments was by 
 his side. Maltravers, meanwhile, had gone in and lighted 
 his meerschaum; for it was his great inspirer whenever his 
 thoughts were perplexed or he felt his usual fluency likely to 
 fail him, and such was the case now. With this faithful ally 
 he awaited Alice in the little walk that circled the lawn, 
 amidst shrubs and evergreens. 
 
 "Alice," said he after a pause; but he stopped short. 
 
 Alice looked up at him with grave respect. 
 
 "Tush!" said Maltravers; "perhaps the smoke is unpleas- 
 ant to you. It is a bad habit of mine." 
 
 "Ko, sir," answered Alice; and she seemed disappointed. 
 Maltravers paused, and picked up a snowdrop. 
 
 "It is pretty," he said; "do you love flowers?" 
 
 "Oh, dearly," answered Alice, with some enthusiasm; "I 
 never saw many till I came here." 
 
 "Xow then I can go on," thought Maltravers, — why, I 
 cannot say, for I do not see the sequitur ; but on he went in 
 medias res. "Alice, you sing charmingly." 
 
 "Ah, sir, you — you — " She stopped abruptly, and trem- 
 bled visibly. 
 
 "Yes, I overheard you, Alice." 
 
 "And you are angry?" 
 
 "I? Heaven forbid! It is a talent; but you don't know 
 
26 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 what that is, — I mean it is an excellent thing to have an ear 
 and a voice and a heart for music; and you have all three." 
 
 He paused, for he felt his hand touched; Alice suddenly- 
 clasped and kissed it. Maltravers thrilled through his whole 
 frame; but there was something in the girl's look that showed 
 she was wholly unaware that she had committed an unmaid- 
 enly or forward action. 
 
 " I was so afraid you would be angry, " she said, wiping her 
 eyes as she dropped his hand; "and now I suppose you know 
 all." 
 
 "All?" 
 
 "Yes, — how I listened to you every evening, and lay awake 
 the whole night with the music ringing in my ears, till I 
 tried to go over it myself; and so at last I ventured to sing 
 aloud. I like that much better than learning to read." 
 
 All this was delightful to Maltravers, — the girl had touched 
 upon one of his weak points; however, he remained silent. 
 Alice continued, — 
 
 "And noAv, sir, I hope you will let me come and sit outside 
 the door every evening and hear you; I will make no noise, I 
 will be so quiet." 
 
 "What, in that cold corridor, these bitter nights?" 
 
 " I am used to cold, sir. Father would not let me have a 
 fire when he was not at home." 
 
 "No, Alice; but you shall come into the room while I play, 
 and I will give you a lesson or two. I am glad you have so 
 good an ear; it may be a means of your earning your own 
 honest livelihood when you leave me." 
 
 "When I — But I never intend to leave you, sir!" said 
 Alice, beginning fearfully and ending calmly. 
 
 Maltravers had recourse to the meerschaum. 
 
 Luckily, perhaps, at this time they were joined by Mr. 
 Simcox, the old writing-master. Alice went in to prepare 
 her books ; but Maltravers laid his hand upon the preceptor's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "You have a quick pupil, I hope, sir?" said he. 
 
 " Oh ! very, very, Mr. Butler ; she comes on famously. She 
 practises a great deal when I am away, and I do my best." 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 27 
 
 "And," asked Maltravers, in a grave tone, "have you suc- 
 ceeded in instilling into the poor child's mind some of those 
 more sacred notions of which I spoke to you at our first 
 meeting? " 
 
 "Why, sir, she was indeed quite a heathen, — quite a Ma- 
 hometan, I may say; but she is a little better novv^." 
 
 "What have you taught her? " 
 
 "That God made her." 
 
 "That is a great step." 
 
 "And that he loves good girls and will watch over them." 
 
 " Bravo ! You beat Plato. " 
 
 "No, sir, I never beat any one, except little Jack Turner; 
 but he is a dunce." 
 
 "Bah! Wliat else do you teach her?" 
 
 '' That the devil runs away with bad girls, and — " 
 
 "Stop there, Mr. Sinicox. Never mind the devil yet a 
 while. Let her first learn to do good, that God may love her; 
 the rest will follow. I would rather make people religious 
 through their best feelings than their worst, — through their 
 gratitude and affections, rather than their fears and calcula- 
 tions of risk and punishment." 
 
 Mr. Simcox stared. 
 
 "Does she say her prayers?" 
 
 "I have taught her a short one." 
 
 "Did she learn it readily?" 
 
 " Lord love her, yes ! When I told her she ought to pray 
 to God to bless her benefactor, she would not rest till I had 
 repeated a prayer out of our Sunday-school book, and she got 
 it by heart at once." 
 
 "Enough, Mr. Simcox; I will not detain you longer." 
 
 Forgetful of his untasted breakfast, Maltravers continued 
 his meerschaum and his reflections : he did not cease till he 
 had convinced himself that he was but doing his duty to Alice 
 by teaching her to cultivate the charming talent she evidently 
 possessed, and through which she might secure her own inde- 
 pendence. He fancied that he should thus relieve himself of 
 a charge and responsibility which often perplexed him. Alice 
 would leave him, enabled to walk the world in an honest 
 
28 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 professional path. It was an excellent idea. "But there is 
 danger," whispered Conscience. "Ay," answered Philosophy 
 and Pride, those wise dupes that are always so solemn and al- 
 ways so taken in; "but what is virtue without trial?" 
 
 And now every evening when the windows were closed and 
 the hearth burned clear, while the winds stormed and the rain 
 beat without, a lithe and lovely shape hovered about the stu- 
 dent's chamber, and his wild songs were sung by a voice 
 which Nature had made even sweeter than his own. 
 
 Alice's talent for music was indeed surprising; enthusias- 
 tic and quick as he himself was in all he undertook, Mal- 
 travers was amazed at her rapid progress. He soon taught 
 her to play by ear; and Maltravers could -not but notice that 
 her hand, always delicate in shape, had lost the rude colour 
 and roughness of labour. He thought of that pretty hand 
 more often than he ought to have done, and guided it over 
 the keys when it could have found its way very well without 
 him. 
 
 On coming to the cottage he had directed the old servant to 
 provide suitable and proper clothes for Alice; but now that 
 she was admitted "to sit with the gentleman," the crone had 
 the sense, without waiting for new orders, to buy the "pretty 
 young woman " garments, still, indeed, simple, but of better 
 materials and less rustic fashion; and Alice's redundant 
 tresses were now carefully arranged into orderly and glossy 
 curls, and even the texture was no longer the same; and hap- 
 piness and health bloomed on her downy cheeks and smiled 
 from the dewy lips, which never quite closed over the fresh 
 white teeth, except when she Avas sad, — but that seemed 
 never, now she was not banished from Maltravers. 
 
 To say nothing of the unusual grace and delicacy of Alice's 
 form and features, there is nearly always something of Na- 
 ture's own gentility in very young women (except, indeed, 
 when they get together and fall a giggling) ; it shames us 
 men to see how much sooner they are polished into conven- 
 tional shape than our rough, masculine angles. A vulgar boy 
 requires Heaven knows what assiduity to move three steps, — 
 I do not say like a gentleman, but like a body that has a soul 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 29 
 
 in it; but give the least advantage of society or tuition to a 
 peasant girl, and a hundred to one but she will glide into 
 refinement before the boy can make a bow without upsetting 
 the table. There is sentiment in all women, and sentiment 
 gives delicacy to thought, and tact to manner. But sentiment 
 with men is generally acquired, — an offspring of the intel- 
 lectual quality, not, as with the other sex, of the moral. 
 
 In the course of his musical and vocal lessons, Maltravers 
 gently took the occasion to correct poor Alice's frequent 
 offences against grammar and accent: and her memory was 
 prodigiously quick and retentive. The very tones of her 
 voice seemed altered in the ear of Maltravers ; and, somehow 
 or other, the time came when he was no longer sensible of 
 the difference in their rank. 
 
 The old woman-servant, when she had seen how it would 
 be from the first, and taken a pride in her own prophecy as 
 she ordered Alice's new dresses, was a much better philoso- 
 pher than Maltravers, though he was already up to his ears 
 in the moonlit abyss of Plato, and had filled a dozen com- 
 monplace books with criticisms on Kant. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 YoTTNG man, I fear thy blood is rosy red, 
 Thy heart is soft. 
 
 D'Aguilar : Fiesco, Act iii. sc. I. 
 
 As ediTcation does not consist in reading and writing only, 
 so Alice, while still very backward in those elementary arts, 
 forestalled some of their maturest results in her intercourse 
 with ^Maltravers. Before the inoculation took effect, she 
 caught knowledge in the natural way; for the refinement of a 
 graceful mind and a happy manner is very contagious, and 
 Maltravers was encouraged by her quickness in music to at- 
 
30 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 tempt such instruction in other studies as conversation could 
 afford. It is a better school than parents and masters think 
 for; there was a time when all information was given orally; 
 and probably the Athenians learned more from hearing Aris- 
 totle than we do from reading him. It was a delicious 
 revival of Academe, — in the walks, or beneath the rustic 
 porticos of that little cottage, — the romantic philosopher 
 and the beautiful disciple! And his talk was much like that 
 of a sage of the early world, with some wistful and earnest 
 savage for a listener, — of the stars and their courses; of 
 beasts and birds and fishes and plants and flowers, the wide 
 family of Nature; of the beneficence and power of God; of 
 the mystic and spiritual history of Man. 
 
 Charmed by her attention and docility, Maltravers at length 
 diverged from lore into poetry. He would repeat to her the 
 simplest and most natural passages he could remember in his 
 favourite poets; he would himself compose verses elaborately 
 adapted to her understanding : she liked the last the best, and 
 learned them the easiest. Never had young poet a more gra- 
 cious inspiration, and never did this inharmonious world 
 more complacently resolve itself into soft dreams, as if to hu- 
 mour the novitiate of the victims it must speedily take into 
 its joyless priesthood. And Alice had now quietly and in- 
 sensibly carved out her own avocations, — the tenor of her 
 service. The plants in the conservatory had passed under 
 her care, and no one else was privileged to touch Maltravers 's 
 books or arrange the sacred litter of a student's apartment. 
 When he came down in the morning, or returned from his 
 walks, everything was in order, yet, by a kind of magic, just 
 as he wished it, — the flowers he loved best, bloomed, fresh- 
 gathered, on his table; the very position of the large chair, 
 just in that corner by the fireplace, whence, on entering the 
 room, its hospitable arms opened with the most cordial air of 
 welcome, bespoke the presiding genius of a woman; and then, 
 precisely as the clock struck eight, Alice entered, so pretty 
 and smiling and happy looking that it was no wonder the sin- 
 gle hour at first allotted to her extended into three. 
 
 Was Alice in love with Maltravers? She certainly did not 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 31 
 
 exhibit the symptoms in the ordinary way; she did not grow 
 more reserved and agitated and timid ; there was no worm in 
 the bud of her damask cheek, — nay, though from the first she 
 had been tolerably bold, she was more free and confidential, 
 more at her ease every day; in fact, she never for a moment 
 suspected that she ought to be otherwise. She had not the 
 conventional and sensitive delicacy of girls who, whatever 
 their rank of life, have been taught that there is a mystery 
 and a peril in love; she had a vague idea about girls going 
 wrong, but she did not know that love had anything to do 
 with it, — on the contrary, according to her father, it had 
 connection with money, not love; all that she felt was so 
 natural and so very sinless. Could she help being so de- 
 lighted to listen to him, and so grieved to depart? What 
 thus she felt, she expressed, no less simply and no less guile- 
 lessly; candour sometimes completely blinded and misled 
 him. No, she could not be in love, or she could not so 
 frankly own that she loved him, — it was a sisterly and grate- 
 ful sentiment. 
 
 "The dear girl, — I am rejoiced to think so," said Maltrav- 
 ers to himself; "I knew there would be no danger." 
 
 "Was he not in love himself? The reader must decide. 
 
 "Alice," said Maltravers one evening after a long pause of 
 thought and abstraction on his side, while she was uncon- 
 sciously practising her last lesson on the piano, "Alice, — no, 
 don't turn round, sit where you are, but listen to me, — we 
 cannot live always in this way." 
 
 Alice was instantly disobedient; she did turn round, and 
 those great blue eyes were fixed on his own with such anxiety 
 and alarm that he had no resource but to get up and look 
 round for the meerschaum. But Alice, who divined by an 
 instinct his lightest vv-ish, brought it to him while he was yet 
 hunting, amidst the further comers of the room, in places 
 where it was certain not to be. There it was, already filled 
 with the fragrant Salonica, glittering with the gilt pastille, 
 which, not too healthfully, adulterates the seductive weed 
 with odours that pacify the repugnant censure of the fastid- 
 ious, — for Malti'avers was an epicurean even in his worst 
 
32 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 habits ; there it was, I say, in that pretty hand which he had 
 to touch as he took it; and while he lit the weed, he had 
 again to blush and shrink beneath those great blue eyes. 
 
 "Thank you, Alice," he said; "thank you. Do sit down, 
 — there, — out of the draught. I am going to open the win- 
 dow, the night is so lovely." 
 
 He opened the casement, overgrown with creepers, and the 
 moonlight lay fair and breathless upon the smooth lawn. The 
 calm and holiness of the night soothed and elevated his 
 thoughts; he had cut himself off from the eyes of Alice, and 
 he proceeded with a firm, though gentle voice, — 
 
 "My dear Alice, we cannot always live together in this 
 way; you are now wise enough to understand me, so listen 
 patiently. A young woman never wants a fortune so long as 
 she has a good character; she is always poor and despised 
 without one. Now, a good character in this world is lost as 
 much by imprudence as guilt; and if you were to live with 
 me much longer, it would be imprudent, and your character 
 would suffer so much that you would not be able to make your 
 own way in the world. Far, then, from doing you a service, 
 I should have done you a deadly injury, which I could not 
 atone for. Besides, Heaven knows what may happen worse 
 than imprudence; for I am very sorry to say," added Mal- 
 travers, with great gravity, "that you are much too pretty 
 and engaging to — to — In short, it won't do. I must go 
 home; my friends will have a right to complain of me if I re- 
 main thus lost to them many weeks longer. And you, my 
 dear Alice, are now sufficiently advanced to receive better 
 instruction than I or Mr. Simcox can give you. I therefore 
 propose to place you in some respectable family, where you 
 will have more comfort and a higher station than you have 
 here. You can finish your education, and instead of being 
 taught, you will be thus enabled to become a teacher to 
 others. With your beauty, Alice," and Maltravers sighed, 
 "and natural talents and amiable temper, you have only to 
 act well and prudently to secure at last a worthy husband and 
 a happy home. Have you heard me, Alice? Such is the plan 
 I have formed for you. " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 33 
 
 The young man thought as he spoke, with honest kindness 
 and upright honour; it was a bitterer sacrifice than perhaps 
 the reader thinks for. But Maltravers, if he had an impas- 
 sioned, had not a selfish heart; and he felt, to use his own 
 expression, more emphatic than eloquent, that " it would not 
 do" to live any longer alone with this beautiful girl, like the 
 two children whom the good Fairy kept safe from sin and the 
 world in the Pavilion of Roses. 
 
 But Alice comprehended neither the danger to herself nor 
 the temptations that Maltravers, if he could not resist, de- 
 sired to shun. She rose, pale and trembling, approached 
 Maltravers, and laid her hand gently on his arm. 
 
 "I will go away when and where you wish, — the sooner 
 the better; to-morrow, — yes, to-morrow. You are ashamed 
 of poor Alice, and it has been very silly in me to be so happy. " 
 She struggled with her emotion for a moment, and went on. 
 " You know Heaven can hear me, even when I am away from 
 you; and when I know more, I can pray better; and Heaven 
 will bless you, sir, and make you happy, for I never can pray 
 for anything else." 
 
 With these words she turned away and walked proudly to- 
 wards the door. But when she reached the threshold, she 
 stopped and looked round, as if to take a last farewell. All 
 the associations and memories of that beloved spot rushed 
 upon her, she gasped for breath, tottered, and fell to the 
 ground insensible. 
 
 Maltravers was already by her side; he lifted her light 
 weight in his arms; he uttered wild and impassioned excla- 
 mations: "Alice, beloved Alice, forgive me; we will never 
 part! " He chafed her hands in his own while her head lay 
 on his bosom, and he kissed again and again those beautiful 
 eyelids till they opened slowly upon him, and the tender 
 arms tightened round him involuntarily. 
 
 "Alice," he whispered, — "Alice, dear Alice, I love thee." 
 Alas! it was true; he loved — and forgot all but that love. 
 He was eighteen. 
 
34 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 How like a younker or a prodigal, 
 
 The scarfed bark puts from her native bay ! 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
 We are apt to connect the voice of Conscience witli the 
 stillness of midnight. But I think we wrong that innocent 
 hour. It is that terrible "next morning," when reason is 
 wide awake, upon which remorse fastens its fangs. Has a 
 man gambled away his all, or shot his friend in a duel; has 
 he committed a crime or incurred a laugh, — it is the next 
 morning, when the irretrievable Past rises before him like a 
 spectre; then doth the churchyard of memory yield up its 
 grisly dead; then is the witching hour when the foul fiend 
 within us can least tempt, perhaps, but most torment. At 
 night we have one thing to hope for, one refuge to fly to, — 
 oblivion and sleep. But at morning, sleep is over, and we 
 are called upon coldly to review and re-act and live again the 
 waking bitterness of self-reproach. Maltravers rose a peni- 
 tent and unhappy man; remorse was new to him, and he 
 felt as if he had committed a treacherous and fraudulent as 
 Avell as guilty deed. This poor girl, she was so innocent, so 
 confiding, so unprotected, even by her own sense of right. 
 He went downstairs listless and dispirited. He longed yet 
 dreaded to encounter Alice. He heard her step in the con- 
 servatory, paused irresolute, and at length joined her. For 
 the first time she blushed and trembled, and her eyes shunned 
 his. But when he kissed her hand in silence, she whispered, 
 "And am I now to leave you?" And Maltravers answered 
 fervently, " Never ! " and then her face grew so radiant with 
 joy that Maltravers was comforted despite himself. Alice 
 knew no remorse, though she felt agitated and ashamed ; as 
 she had not comprehended the danger, neither was she aware 
 of the fall. In fact, she never thought of herself. Her whole 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 35 
 
 soul was with him; she gave him back in love the spirit she 
 had caught from him iu knowledge. 
 
 And they strolled together through the garden all that day, 
 and Maltravers grew reconciled to himself. He had done 
 wrong, it is true; but then perhaps Alice had already suffered 
 as much as she could in the world's opinion by living with 
 him alone, though innocent, so long. And now she had an 
 everlasting claim to his protection, — she should never know 
 shame or want. And the love that had led to the wrong 
 should, by fidelity and devotion, take from it the character 
 of sin. 
 
 Natural and commonplace sophistries! "L'homme se 
 pique," as old Montaigne said, — "Man is his own sharper." 
 The conscience is the most elastic material in the world. To- 
 day you cannot stretch it over a mole-hill; to-morrow it hides 
 a mountain. 
 
 Oh, how happy they were now, that young pair ! How the 
 days flew like dreams ! Time went on, winter passed away, 
 and the early spring, with its flowers and sunshine, was like 
 a mirror to their own youth. Alice never accompanied Mal- 
 travers in his walks abroad, partly because she feared to meet 
 her father, and partly because Maltravers himself was fastid- 
 iously averse to all publicity. But then they had all that 
 little world of three acres — lawn and fountain, shrubbery 
 and terrace — to themselves, and Alice never asked if there 
 was any other world without. She was now quite a scholar, 
 as Mr. Simcox himself averred. She could read aloud and 
 fluently to Maltravers, and copied out his poetry in a small, 
 fluctuating hand, and he had no longer to chase throughout 
 his vocabulary for short Saxon monosyllables to make the 
 bridge of intercourse between their ideas. Eros and Psyche 
 are ever united, and Love opens all the petals of the soul. 
 On one subject alone, Maltravers was less eloquent than of 
 yore. He had not succeeded as a moralist, and he thought it 
 hypocritical to preach what he did not practise. But Alice 
 was gentler and purer, and as far as she knew, sweet fool! 
 better than ever, — she had invented a new prayer for herself; 
 
36 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 and she prayed as regularly and as fervently as if she were 
 doing nothing amiss. But the code of Heaven is gentler than 
 that of earth, and does not declare that ignorance excuseth 
 not the crime. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their prey. 
 
 No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
 Nor spangled stars be glorious. 
 
 Bykon : Heaven and Earth. 
 
 It was a lovely evening in April ; the weather was unusu- 
 ally mild and serene for the time of year in the northern 
 districts of our isle, and the bright drops of a recent shower 
 sparkled upon the buds of the lilac and laburnum that clus- 
 tered round the cottage of Maltravers. The little fountain 
 that played in the centre of a circular basin, on whose clear 
 surface the broad-leaved water-lily cast its fairy shadow, 
 added to the fresh green of the lawn, — 
 
 " And softe as velvet the yonge grass," 
 
 on which the rate and early flowers were closing their heavy 
 lids. That twilight shower had given a racy and vigorous 
 sweetness to the air which stole over many a bank of violets 
 and slightly stirred the golden ringlets of Alice as she sat by 
 the side of her entranced and silent lover. They were seated 
 on a rustic bench just without the cottage, and the open win- 
 dow behind them admitted the view of that happy room, with 
 its litter of books and musical instruments, eloquent of the 
 Poetry of Home. 
 
 Maltravers was silent, for his flexile and excitable fancy 
 was conjuring up a thousand shapes along the transparent air,' 
 or upon those shadowy violet banks. He was not thinking, 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 37 
 
 he was imagining. His genius reposed dreamily upon the 
 calm, but exquisite sense of his happiness. Alice was not 
 absolutely in his thoughts, but unconsciously she coloured 
 them all. If she had left his side, the whole charm would 
 have been broken. But Alice, who was not a poet or a gen- 
 ius, was thinking, and thinking only of Maltravers. His 
 image was "the broken mirror," multiplied in a thousand 
 faithful fragments over everything fair and soft in that lovely 
 microcosm before her. But they were both alike in one thing, 
 — they were not with the Future, they were sensible of the 
 Present; the sense of the actual life, the enjoyment of the 
 breathing time, was strong within them. Such is the privi- 
 lege of the extremes of our existence, — Youth and Age. 
 Middle life is never with to-day, its home is in to-morrow, — 
 anxious and scheming and desiring, and wishing this plot 
 ripened and that hope fulfilled, while every wave of the for- 
 gotten Time brings it nearer and nearer to the end of all 
 things. Half our life is consumed in longing to be nearer 
 death. 
 
 "Alice," said Maltravers, waking at last from his revery, 
 and drawing that light, childlike form nearer to him, "you 
 enjoy this hour as much as 1 do." 
 
 " Oh, much more ! " 
 
 "More! and why so?" 
 
 "Because I am thinking of you, and perhaps you are not 
 thinking of yourself." 
 
 Maltravers smiled, and stroked those beautiful ringlets, 
 and kissed that smooth, innocent forehead, and Alice nestled 
 herself in his breast. 
 
 " How young you look by this light, Alice!" said he, ten- 
 derly looking down. 
 
 "Would you love me less if I were old?" asked Alice. 
 
 " I suppose I should never have loved you in the same way 
 if you had been old when I first saw you." 
 
 " Yet I am sure I should have felt the same for you if you 
 had been — oh ! ever so old ! " 
 
 "What, with wrinkled cheeks and palsied head and a 
 brown wig and no teeth, like Mr. Simcox?" 
 
38 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Oh, but you could never be like that! You would always 
 look young; your heart would be always in your face. That 
 dear smile, — ah, you would look beautiful to the last! " 
 
 "But Simcox, though not very lovely now, has been, I 
 dare say, handsomer than I am, Alice; and I shall be con- 
 tented to look as well when I am as old!" 
 
 " I should never know you were old, because I can see you 
 just as I please. Sometimes, when you are thoughtful, your 
 brows meet, and you look so stern that I tremble ; but then 1 
 think of you when you last smiled, and look up again, and 
 though you are frowning still, you seem to smile. I am 
 sure you are different to other eyes than to mine; and time 
 must kill me before, in my sight, it could alter youy 
 
 "Sweet Alice, you talk eloquently, for you talk love." 
 
 "My heart talks to you. Ah! I wish it could say all I felt. 
 I wish it could make poetry like you, or that words were 
 music, — I would never speak to you in anything else. I was 
 so delighted to learn music, because when I played I seemed 
 to be talking to you. I am sure that whoever invented music 
 did it because he loved dearly and wanted to say so. I said 
 *he,' but I think it was a woman. Was it?" 
 
 "The Greeks I told you of, and whose life was music, 
 thought it was a god." 
 
 "Ah! but you say the Greeks made Love a god. Were 
 they wicked for it? " 
 
 "Our own God above is Love," said Ernest, seriously, "as 
 our own poets have said and sung. But it is a love of another 
 nature, — divine, not human. Come, we will go within; the 
 air grows cold for you." 
 
 They entered, his arm round her waist. The room smiled 
 upon them its quiet welcome ; and Alice, whose heart had not 
 half vented its fulness, sat down to the instrument still to 
 " talk love " in her own way. 
 
 But it was Saturday evening. Now, every Saturday, Mal- 
 travers received from the neighbouring town the provincial 
 newspaper, — it was his only medium of communication with 
 the great world. But it was not for that communication that 
 he always seized it with avidity and fed on it with interest. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 39 
 
 The county in wliich his father resided bordered on the sliire 
 in which Ernest sojourned, and the paper included the news 
 of that familiar district in its comprehensive columns. It 
 therefore satisfied Ernest's conscience and soothed his filial 
 anxieties to read from time to time that Mr. ]\Ialtravers was 
 entertaining a distinguished party of friends at his noble 
 mansion of Lisle Court; or that Mr. Maltravers's fox-hounds 
 had met on such a day at something copse; or that Mr. Mal- 
 travers, with his usual munificence, had subscribed twenty 
 guineas to the new county jail. And as now Maltravers saw 
 the expected paper laid beside the hissing urn, he seized it 
 eagerly, tore the envelope, and hastened to the well-known 
 corner appropriated to the paternal district. The very first 
 words that struck his eye were these : — 
 
 ALARMING ILLNESS OF MR. MALTRAVERS. 
 
 We regret to state that this exemplary and distinijuished gentleman 
 was suddenly seized on Wednesday night with a severe spasmodic 
 
 affection. Dr. was immediately sent for, who pronounced it to be 
 
 gout in the stomach. The first medical assistance from London has 
 been summoned. 
 
 P. S. We have just learned, in answer to our inquiries at Lisle 
 Court, that the respected owner is considerably worse ; but slight hopes 
 are entertained of his recovery. Captain Maltravers, his eldest son 
 and heir, is at Lisle Court. An express has been despatched in search 
 of Mr. Ernest Maltravers, who, involved by his high EngUsh spirit in 
 some dispute with the authorities of a despotic government, had sud- 
 denly disappeared from Gottingen, where his extraordinary talents had 
 highly distinguished him. He is supposed to be staying at Paris. 
 
 The paper dropped on the floor. Ernest threw himself 
 back on the chair and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 Alice was beside him in a moment. He looked up, and 
 caught her wistful and terrified gaze. "Oh, Alice!" he 
 cried bitterly, and almost pushing her away, "if you could 
 but guess my remorse ! " Then, springing on his feet, he 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 Presently the whole house was in commotion. The gar- 
 
40 EKNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 dener, who was always in the house about supper-time, flew 
 to the town for post-horses. The old woman was in despair 
 about the laundress, for her first and only thought was for 
 "master's shirts." Ernest locked himself in his room. Alice, 
 poor Alice! 
 
 In little more than twenty minutes the chaise was at the 
 door, and Ernest, pale as death, came into the room where he 
 had left Alice. 
 
 She was seated on the floor, and the fatal paper was on her 
 lap. She had been endeavouring in vain to learn what had 
 so sensibly affected Maltravers ; for, as I said before, she was 
 unacquainted with his real name, and therefore the ominous 
 paragraph did not even arrest her eye. 
 
 He took the paper from her, for he wanted again and again 
 to read it : some little word of hope or encouragement must 
 have escaped him. And then Alice flung herself on his 
 breast. "Do not weep," said he; "Heaven knows I have sor- 
 row enough of my own! My father is dying! So kind, so 
 generous, so indulgent ! God, forgive me ! Compose your- 
 self, Alice. You will hear from me in a day or two." 
 
 He kissed her, but the kiss was cold and forced. He hur- 
 ried away; she heard the wheels grate on the pebbles. She 
 rushed to the window; but that beloved face was not visible. 
 Maltravers had drawn the blinds, and thrown himself back 
 to indulge his grief. A moment more, and even the vehicle 
 that bore him away was gone. And before her were the flow- 
 ers and the starlit lawn and the playful fountain and the 
 bench where they had sat in such heartfelt and serene de- 
 light. He was gone; and often, oh, how often! did Alice re- 
 member that his last words had been uttered in estranged 
 tones, — that his last embrace had been without love! 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 41 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Thy due from me 
 Is tears and heavy sorro\\s of the blood, 
 Which nature, luve, and filial tenderness 
 Shall, dear father, pay thee plenteously ! 
 
 Second Part of Henri/ IV. Act iv. sc. 4. 
 
 It was late at night when the chaise that bore Maltravers 
 stopped at the gates of a park lodge. It seemed an age be- 
 fore the peasant within was aroused from the deep sleep of 
 labour-loving health. "My father," he cried, while the gate 
 creaked on its hinges, "my father, — is he better? Is he 
 alive?" 
 
 •'Oh! bless your heart. Master Ernest, the squire was a 
 little better this evening," 
 
 "Thank Heaven! On, on! " 
 
 The horses smoked and galloped along a road that wound 
 through venerable and ancient groves. The moonlight slept 
 soft upon the sward, and the cattle, disturbed from their 
 sleep, rose lazily up and gazed upon the unseasonable intruder. 
 
 It is a wild and weird scene, one of those noble English parks 
 at midnight, with its rough forest-ground broken into dell and 
 valley, its never-innovated and mossy grass, overrun with fern, 
 and its immemorial trees, that have looked upon the birth, 
 and look yet upon the graves, of a hundred generations. 
 Such spots are the last proud and melancholy trace of Xorman 
 knighthood and old romance left to the laughing landscapes 
 of cultivated England. They always throw something of 
 shadow and solemn gloom upon minds that feel their associa- 
 tions, like that which belongs to some ancient and holy edi- 
 fice. They are the cathedral aisles of Xature, with their 
 darkened vistas and columned trunks and arches of mighty 
 foliage. But in ordinary times the gloom is pleasing, and 
 more delightful than all the cheerful lawns and sunny slopes 
 
42 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 of the modern taste. Now to Maltravers it was ominous and 
 oppressive; the darkness of death seemed brooding in every 
 shadow, and its warning voice moaning in every breeze. 
 
 The wheels stopped again. Lights flitted across the base- 
 ment story, and one above, more dim than the rest, shone 
 palely from the room in which the sick man slept. The bell 
 rang shrilly out from amidst the dark ivy that clung around 
 the porch. The heavy door swung back, — Maltravers was 
 on the threshold. His father lived, was better, was awake. 
 The son was in the father's arms. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The guardian oak 
 Mourned o'er the roof it sheltered ; the thick air 
 Laboured with doleful sounds. 
 
 Elliott of Sheffield. 
 
 Many days had passed, and Alice was still alone; but she 
 had heard twice from Maltravers. The letters were short 
 and hurried. One time his father was better, and there were 
 hopes; another time, and it was not expected that he could 
 survive the week. They were the first letters Alice had ever 
 received from him. Those first letters are an event in a 
 girl's life, — in Alice's life they were a very melancholy one. 
 Ernest did not ask her to write to him, — in fact, he felt at 
 such an hour a repugnance to disclose his real name and re- 
 ceive the letters of clandestine love in the house in which a 
 father lay in death. He might have given the feigned ad- 
 dress he had previously assumed, at some distant post-town 
 where his person was not known. But then, to obtain such 
 letters, he must quit his father's side for hours. The thing 
 was impossible. These diiflculties Maltravers did not explain 
 to Alice. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 43 
 
 She thought it singular he did not wish to hear from her; 
 but Alice was humble. What could she say worth troubling 
 him with, and at such an hour? But how kind in him to 
 write! How precious those letters! And yet they disap- 
 pointed her, and cost her floods of tears, they were so short, 
 so full of sorrow, there was so little love in them; and 
 "dear," or even ''dearest, Alice," that uttered by the voice 
 was so tender, looked cold upon the lifeless paper. If she 
 but knew the exact spot where he was, it would be some com- 
 fort; but she only knew that he was away, and in grief; and 
 though he was little more than thirty miles distant, she felt 
 as if immeasurable space divided them. However, she con- 
 soled herself as she could, and strove to shorten the long, 
 miserable day by playing over all the airs he liked, and read- 
 ing all the passages he had commended; she should be so im- 
 proved when he returned! And how lovely the garden would 
 look; for every day its trees and bouquets caught a new smile 
 from the deepening spring. Oh, they would be so happy 
 once more! Alice now learned the life that lies in the fu- 
 ture; and her young heart had not, as yet, been taught that 
 of that future there is any prophet but Hope! 
 
 Maltravers on quitting the cottage had forgotten that Alice 
 was without money; and now that he found his stay would 
 be indefinitely prolonged, he sent a remittance. Several 
 bills were unpaid, some portion of the rent was due; and 
 Alice, as she was desired, intrusted the old servant with a 
 bank-note, with which she was to discharge these petty 
 debts. One evening, as she brought Alice the surplus, the 
 good dame seemed greatly discomposed. She was pale and 
 agitated; or, as she expressed it, had "a terrible fit of the 
 shakes." 
 
 "What is the matter, Mrs. Jones? You have no news of 
 him, of — of my — of your master? " 
 
 "Dear heart — miss — no," answered Mrs. Jones; "how 
 should I? But I'm sure I don't wish to frighten you; there 
 has been two sich robberies in the neighbourhood! " 
 
 "Oh, thank Heaven that 's all! " exclaimed Alice. 
 
 "Oh! don't go for to thank Heaven for that, miss; it's 
 
44 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 a shocking thing for two lone females like us, and them 'ere 
 windows all open to the ground You sees, as I was taking 
 the note to be changed at Mr. Harris's, the great grocer's 
 shop, where all the poor folk was a-buymg agin to-morrow " 
 (for it was Saturday night, — the second Saturday after Er- 
 nest's departure ; from that Hegira Alice dated all her chro- 
 nology), "and everybody was a-talking about the robberies 
 last night. La, miss, they bound old Betty — you know 
 Betty? A most respectable 'oman, who has known sorrows, 
 and drinks tea with me once a week. Well, miss, they (only 
 think!) bound Betty to the bedpost, with nothing on her but 
 her shift, poor old soul! And as Mr. Harris gave me the 
 change (please to see, miss, it 's all right), and I asked for 
 half gould, miss, — it's more convenient, — sich an ill-looking 
 fellow was by me, a-buying o' baccy, and he did so stare at 
 the money that I vows I thought he 'd have rin away with it 
 from the counter; so I grabbled it up and went away. But 
 — would you believe, miss? — just as I got into the lane, 
 afore you turns through the gate, I chanced to look back, and 
 there, sure enough, was that ugly fellow close behind, a-run- 
 ning like mad. Oh! I set up such a screech; and young 
 Dobbins was a-taking his cow out of the field, and he perked 
 up over the hedge when he heard me ; and the cow, too, with 
 her horns. Lord bless her! So the fellow stopped, and I bus- 
 tled through the gate and got home. But la, miss, if we are 
 all robbed and murdered ! " 
 
 Alice had not heard much of this harangue; but what she 
 did hear very slightly affected her strong, peasant-born 
 nerves, — not half so much, indeed, as the noise Mrs. Jones 
 made in double-locking all the doors and barring, as well as a 
 peg and a rusty inch of chain would allow, all the windows ; 
 which operation occupied at least an hour and a half. 
 
 All at last was still. Mrs. Jones had gone to bed, — in the 
 arms of sleep she had forgotten her terrors, — and Alice had 
 crept upstairs and undressed and said her prayers and wept a 
 little, and with the tears yet moist upon her dark eyelashes 
 had glided into dreams of Ernest. ]\Iidnight was passed ; the 
 stroke of one sounded unheard from the clock at the foot of 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 45 
 
 the stairs. The moon was gone; a slow, drizzling rain was 
 falling upon the flowers, and cloud and darkness gathered fast 
 and thick around the sky. 
 
 About this time a low, regular, grating sound commenced 
 at the thin shutters of the sitting-room below, preceded by a 
 very faint noise, like the tinkling of small fragments of glass 
 on the gravel without. At length it ceased, and the cautious 
 and partial gleam of a lantern fell along the floor; another 
 moment, and two men stood in the room. 
 
 " Hush, Jack ! " whispered one ; " hang out the glim, and 
 let 's look about us." 
 
 The dark-lantern, now fairly unmuffled, presented to the 
 gaze of the robbers nothing that could gratify their cupidity. 
 
 Books and music, chairs, tables, carpet, and fire-irons, 
 though valuable enough in a house-agent's inventory, are 
 worthless to the eyes of a housebreaker. They muttered a 
 mutual curse. 
 
 "Jack," said the former speaker, "we must make a dash at 
 the spoons and forks, and then hey for the money. The old 
 girl had thirty shiners, besides flimsies." 
 
 The accomplice nodded consent; the lantern was again par- 
 tially shaded, and with noiseless and stealthy steps the men 
 quitted the apartment. Several minutes elapsed, when Alice 
 was awakened from her slumber by a loud scream. She 
 started, — all was again silent; she must have dreamed it. 
 Her little heart beat violently at first, but gradually regained 
 its tenor. She rose, however, and the kindness of her nature 
 being more susceptible than her fear, she imagined Mrs. 
 Jones might be ill, — she would go to her. With this idea 
 she began partially dressing herself, when she distinctly 
 heard heavy footsteps and a strange voice in the room beyond. 
 She was now thoroughly alarmed. Her first impulse was to 
 escape from the house; her next, to bolt the door and call 
 aloud for assistance. But who would hear her cries? Be- 
 tween the two purposes she halted irresolute, and remained, 
 pale and trembling, seated at the foot of the bed, when a 
 broad light streamed through the chinks of the door; an in- 
 stant more and a rude hand seized her. 
 
46 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 *'Come, mem, don't be fritted, we won't harm you; but 
 where 's tlie gold-dust, — where 's the money? The old girl 
 says you 've got it. Fork it over." 
 
 "Oh, mercy, mercy! John Walters, is that you?" 
 
 " Damnation ! " muttered the man, staggering back. *' So 
 you knows me, then? But you sha 'n't peach; you sha'u't 
 scrag me, b — t you ! " 
 
 While he spoke, he again seized Alice, held her forcibly 
 down with one hand, while with the other he deliberately 
 drew from a side pouch a long case-knife. In that moment of 
 deadly peril the second ruffian, who had been hitherto de- 
 layed in securing the servant, rushed forward. He had heard 
 the exclamation of Alice, he heard the threat of his com- 
 rade; he darted to the bedside, cast a hurried gaze upon 
 Alice, and hurled the intended murderer to the other side 
 of the room. 
 
 "What, man, art mad?" he growled between his teeth. 
 "Don't you know her? It is Alice, — it is my daughter." 
 
 Alice had sprung up when released from the murderer's 
 knife, and now, with eyes strained and starting with horror, 
 gazed upon the dark and evil face of her deliverer. 
 
 " God, it is, it is my father ! " she muttered, and fell 
 senseless. 
 
 "Daughter or no daughter," said John Walters, "I shall 
 not put my scrag in her power; recollect how she fritted us 
 before, when she run away." 
 
 Darvil stood thoughtful and perplexed; and his associate 
 approached doggedly, with a look of such settled ferocity as 
 it was impossible for even Darvil to contemplate without a 
 shudder. 
 
 "You say right," muttered the father after a pause, but fix- 
 ing his strong gripe on his comrade's shoulder, — "the girl 
 must not be left here; the cart has a covering. We are leav- 
 ing the country; I have a right to my daughter, — she shall 
 go with us. There, man, grab the money, — it 's on the table; 
 you 've got the spoons. Now then — " as Darvil spoke, he 
 seized his daughter in his arms, threw over her a shawl and 
 a cloak that lay at hand, and was already on the threshold. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 47 
 
 "I don't half like it," said Walters, grumblingly ; **it 
 be n't safe." 
 
 "At least it is as safe as murder! " answered Darvil, turn- 
 ing round, with a ghastly grin. "Make haste." 
 
 When Alice recovered her senses, the dawn was breaking 
 slowly along desolate and sullen hills. She was lying upon 
 rough straw, the cart was jolting over the ruts of a precipi- 
 tous, lonely road, and by her side scowled the face of that 
 dreadful father. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Yet he beholds her with the eyes of mind, — 
 He sees the form which he no more shall meet ; 
 She like a passionate thought is come and gone, 
 While at his feet the bright rill babbles on. 
 
 Elliott of Sheffield. 
 
 It was a little more than three weeks after that fearfiil 
 night when the chaise of Maltravers stopped at the cottage - 
 door. The windows were shut up; no one answered the re- 
 peated summons of the post-boy. Maltravers himself, alarmed 
 and amazed, descended from the vehicle; he was in deep 
 mourning. He went impatiently to the back entrance, — that 
 also was locked; round to the French windows of the draw- 
 ing-room, always hitherto half-opened, even in the frosty 
 days of winter, — they were now closed like the rest. He 
 shouted in terror, "Alice, Alice!" No sweet voice answered 
 in breathless joy, no fairy step bounded forward in welcome. 
 
 At this moment, however, appeared the form of the gar- 
 dener coming across the lawn. The tale was soon told: the 
 house had been robbed; the old woman at morning found 
 gagged and fastened to her bed-post; Alice flown. A magis- 
 trate had been applied to, — suspicion fell upon the fugitive. 
 None knew anything of her origin or name, not even the old 
 
48 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 woman. Maltravers had naturally and sedulously ordained 
 Alice to preserve that secret, and she was too much in fear 
 of being detected and claimed by her father not to obey the 
 injunction with scrupulous caution. But it was known, at 
 least, that she had entered the house a poor peasant girl ; and 
 what more common than for ladies of a certain description to 
 run away from their lover and take some of his property by 
 mistake? And a poor girl like Alice, what else could be ex- 
 pected? The magistrate smiled, and the constables laughed. 
 After all, it was a good joke at the young gentleman's ex- 
 pense ! Perhaps, as they had no orders from Maltravers, and 
 they did not know where to find him, and thought he would 
 be little inclined to prosecute, the search was not very rig- 
 orous. But two houses had been robbed the night before. 
 Their owners were more on the alert. Suspicion fell upon a 
 man of infamous character, John Walters ; he had disappeared 
 from the place. He had been last seen with an idle, drunken 
 fellow who was said to have known better days, and who at 
 one time had been a skilful and well-paid mechanic, till his 
 habits of theft and drunkenness threw him out of employ; 
 and he had been since accused of connection with a gang of 
 coiners, tried, and escaped from want of sufficient evidence 
 against him. That man was Luke Darvil. His cottage was 
 searched, but he also had fled. The trace of cart-wheels by 
 the gate of Maltravers gave a faint clew to pursuit; and after 
 an active search of some days, persons answering to the de- 
 scription of the suspected burglars, with a young female in 
 their company, were tracked to a small inn, notorious as a 
 resort for smugglers, by the sea-coast. But there every ves- 
 tige of their supposed whereabouts disappeared. 
 
 And all this was told to the stunned Maltravers; the gar- 
 rulity of the gardener precluded the necessity of his own in- 
 quiries, and the name of Darvil explained to him all that was 
 dark to others. And Alice was suspected of the basest and 
 blackest guilt! Obscure, beloved, protected as she had been, 
 she could not escape the calumny from which he had hoped 
 everlastingly to shield her. But did he, share that hateful 
 thought? Maltravers was too generous and too enlightened. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 49 
 
 "Dog! " said he, grinding his teeth and clenching his hands 
 at the startled menial, " dare to utter a syllable of suspicion 
 against her, and I will trample the breath out of your body ! " 
 
 The old woman, who had vowed that for the 'varsal world 
 she would not stay in the house after such a " night of shakes," 
 had now learned the news of her master's return, and came 
 hobbling up to him. She arrived in time to hear his menace 
 to her fellow-servant. 
 
 "Ah! that's right; give it him, your honour. Bless your 
 good heart, that's what I says! 'Miss rob the house?' says 
 I, — 'Miss run away? Oh, no! Depend on it, they have 
 murdered her and buried the body ! ' " 
 
 Maltravers gasped for breath; but without uttering another 
 word he re-entered the chaise and drove to the house of the 
 magistrate. He found that functionary a worthy and intelli- 
 gent man of the world. To him he confided the secret of 
 Alice's birth and his own. The magistrate concurred with 
 him in believing that Alice had been discovered and removed 
 by her father. New search was made, gold was lavished; 
 Maltravers himself headed the search in person. But all 
 came to the same result as before, save that by the descrip- 
 tions he heard of the person, the dress, the tears of the young 
 female who had accompanied the men supposed to be Darvil 
 and Walters, he was satisfied that Alice yet lived; he hoped 
 she might yet escape and return. In that hope he lingered 
 for weeks, for months, in the neighbourhood ; but time passed, 
 and no tidings. He was forced at length to quit a neighbour- 
 hood at once so saddened and endeared. But he secured a 
 friend in the magistrate, who promised to communicate with 
 him if Alice returned or her father was discovered. He en- 
 riched Mrs. Jones for life, in gratitude for her vindication of 
 his lost and early love; he promised the amplest rewards for 
 the smallest clew; and with a crushed and desponding spirit 
 he obeyed at last the repeated and anxious summons of the 
 guardian to whose care, until his majority was attained, the 
 young orphan was now intrusted. 
 
50 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Sure there are poets that did never dream 
 Upon Parnassus. — Denham. 
 
 Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age 
 
 Come tittering on, and shove you from the stage. — Pope. 
 
 Hence to repose your trust in me was wise. 
 
 Dryden: Absalom and Achitophel. 
 
 Mr. Frederick Cleveland, a younger son of the Earl of 
 Byrneham, and therefore entitled to the style and distinction 
 of "Honourable," was the guardian of Ernest Maltravers. 
 He was now about the age of forty -three; a man of letters 
 and a man of fashion, — if the last half -obsolete expression be 
 permitted to us, as being at least more classical and definite 
 than any other which modern euphuism has invented to con- 
 vey the same meaning. Highly educated, and with natural 
 abilities considerably above mediocrity, Mr. Cleveland early 
 in life had glowed with the ambition of an author. He had 
 written well and gracefully, but his success, though respecta- 
 ble, did not satisfy his aspirations. The fact is, that a new 
 school of literature ruled the public, despite the critics, — a 
 school very different from that in which Mr. Cleveland formed 
 his unimpassioned and polished periods. And as that old 
 earl, who in the time of Charles the First was the reigning 
 wit of the court, in the time of Charles the Second was con- 
 sidered too dull even for a butt, so every age has its own 
 literary stamp and coinage, and consigns the old circulation 
 to its shelves and cabinets as neglected curiosities. Cleveland 
 could not become the fashion with the public as an author, 
 though the coteries cried him up and the reviewers adored 
 him, and the ladies of quality and the amateur dilettanti 
 bought and bound his volumes of careful poetry and cadenced 
 prose. But Cleveland had high birth and a handsome com- 
 petence; his manners were delightful, his conversation fluent. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 61 
 
 and his disposition was as amiable as his mind was cultured. 
 He became, therefore, a man greatly sought after in society, 
 both respected and beloved. If he had not genius, he had 
 great good sense ; he did not vex his urbane tem})er and kindly 
 heart with walking after a vain shadow and disquieting him- 
 self in vain. Satisfied with an honourable and unenvied rep- 
 utation, he gave up the dream of that higher fame which he 
 clearly saw was denied to his aspirations, and maintained 
 his good-humour with the world, though in his secret soul he 
 thought it was very wrong in its literary caprices. Cleveland 
 never married; he lived partly in town, but principally at 
 Temple Grove, — a villa not far from Eichmond. Here, with 
 an excellent library, beautiful grounds, and a circle of at- 
 tached and admiring friends, which comprised all the more 
 refined and intellectual members of what is termed, by em- 
 phasis, "Good Society," this accomplished and elegant person 
 passed a life perhaps much happier than he would have 
 known had his young visions been fulfilled, and it had become 
 his stormy fate to lead the rebellious and fierce Democracy of 
 Letters. 
 
 Cleveland was, indeed, if not a man of high and original 
 genius, at least very superior to the generality of patrician 
 authors. In retiring, himself, from frequent exercise in the 
 arena, he gave up his mind with renewed zest to the thoughts 
 and masterpieces of others. From a well-read man, he be- 
 came a deeply instructed one. Metaphysics and some of the 
 material sciences added new treasures to information more 
 light and miscellaneous, and contributed to impart weight and 
 dignity to a mind that might otherwise have become some- 
 what effeminate and frivolous. His social habits, his clear 
 sense, and benevolence of judgment, made him also an exquis- 
 ite judge of all those indefinable nothings, or little things, 
 that, formed into a total, become knowledge of the Great 
 World. I say the "Great World," for of the world without 
 the circle of the great, Cleveland naturally knew but little. 
 But of all that related to that subtle orbit in which gentlemen 
 and ladies move in elevated and ethereal order, Cleveland was 
 a profound philosopher. It was the mode with many of his 
 
52 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 admirers to style him the Horace Walpole of the day; but 
 though lu some of the more external and superficial points of 
 character they were alike, Cleveland had considerably less 
 cleverness, and infinitely more heart. 
 
 The late Mr. Maltravers, a man not, indeed, of literary 
 habits, but an admirer of those who were, an elegant, high- 
 bred, hospitable seigneur de province, had been one of the ear- 
 liest of Cleveland's friends. Cleveland had been his fag at 
 Eton, and he found Hal Maltravers — Handsome Hal! had 
 become the darling of the clubs when he made his own debut 
 in society. They were inseparable for a season or two; and 
 when Mr. Maltravers married and, enamoured of country pur- 
 suits, proud of his old hall, and sensibly enough conceiving 
 that he was a greater man in his own broad lands than in the 
 republican aristocracy of London, settled peaceably at Lisle 
 Court, Cleveland corresponded with him regularly, and vis- 
 ited him twice a year. Mrs. Maltravers died in giving birth 
 to Ernest, her second son. Her husband loved her tenderly, 
 and was long inconsolable for her loss. He could not bear 
 the sight of the child that had cost him so dear a sacrifice. 
 
 Cleveland and his sister, Lady Julia Danvers, were resid- 
 ing with him at the time of this melancholy event, and with 
 judicious and delicate kindness, Lady Julia proposed to place 
 the unconscious oifender amongst her own children for some 
 months. The proposition was accepted, and it was two 
 years before the infant Ernest was restored to the paternal 
 mansion. During the greater part of that time he had gone 
 through all the events and revolutions of baby life under the 
 bachelor roof of Frederick Cleveland. 
 
 The result of this was that the latter loved the child like a 
 father. Ernest's first intelligible word hailed Cleveland as 
 "papa;" and when the urchin was at length deposited at 
 Lisle Court, Cleveland talked all the nurses out of breath 
 with admonitions and cautions and injunctions and promises 
 and threats which might have put many a careful mother to 
 the blush. This circumstance formed a new tie between 
 Cleveland and his friend. Cleveland's visits were now three 
 times a year, instead of twice. Nothing was done for Ernest 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 53 
 
 without Cleveland's advice; he was not even breeched till 
 Cleveland gave his grave consent. Cleveland chose his 
 school and took him to it, and he spent a week of every 
 vacation in Cleveland's house. The boy never got into a 
 scrape, or won a prize, or wanted a "tip," or coveted a book, 
 but what Cleveland was the first to know of it. Fortunately, 
 too, Ernest manifested by times tastes which the graceful 
 author thought similar to his own. He early developed very 
 remarkable talents and a love for learning, — though these 
 were accompanied with a vigour of life and soul, an energy, 
 a daring, which gave Cleveland some uneasiness, and which 
 did not appear to him at all congenial with the moody shyness 
 of an embryo genius or the regular placidity of a precocious 
 scholar. Meanwhile the relation between father and son was 
 rather a singular one. Mr. Maltravers had overcome his 
 first, not unnatural, repugnance to the innocent cause of his 
 irremediable loss. He was now fond and proud of his boy, 
 as he was of all things that belonged to him ; he spoiled and 
 petted him even more than Cleveland did : but he interfered 
 very little with his education or pursuits. His eldest son, 
 Cuthbert, did not engross all his heart, but occupied all his 
 care. With Cuthbert he connected the heritage of his ancient 
 name and the succession of his ancestral estates. Cuthbert 
 was not a genius, nor intended to be one, — he was to be an 
 accomplished gentleman and a great proprietor. The father 
 understood Cuthbert, and could see clearly both his character 
 and career. He had no scruple in managing his education 
 and forming his growing mind. But Ernest puzzled him. 
 Mr. Maltravers was even a little embarrassed in the boy's 
 society; he never quite overcame that feeling of strangeness 
 towards him which he had experienced when he first received 
 him back from Cleveland, and took Cleveland's directions 
 about his health and so forth. It always seemed to him as if 
 his friend shared his right to the child; and he thought it a 
 sort of presumption to scold Ernest, though he very often 
 swore at Cuthbert. As the younger son grew up, it certainly 
 was evident that Cleveland did understand him better than 
 his own father did ; and so, as I have before said, on Cleve- 
 
54 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 land the father was not displeased passively to shift the re- 
 sponsibility of the rearing. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Maltravers might not have been so indifferent, 
 had Ernest's prospects been those of a younger son in gen- 
 eral. If a profession had been necessary for him, Mr. Mal- 
 travers would have been naturally anxious to see him duly 
 fitted for it. But from a maternal relation Ernest inherited 
 an estate of about four thousand pounds a year, and he was 
 thus made independent of his father. This loosened another 
 tie between them ; and so by degrees Mr. Maltravers learned 
 to consider Ernest less as his own son, to be advised or re- 
 buked, praised or controlled, than as a very affectionate, 
 promising, engaging boy, who, somehow or other, without 
 any trouble on his part, was very likely to do great credit to 
 his family and indulge his eccentricities upon four thousand 
 pounds a year. The first time that Mr, Maltravers was seri- 
 ously perplexed about him was when the boy, at the age of 
 sixteen, having taught himself German and intoxicated his 
 wild fancies with "Werther" and "The Robbers," announced 
 his desire, which sounded very like a demand, of going to 
 Gottingen instead of to Oxford. Never were Mr. Maltravers's 
 notions of a proper and gentlemanlike finish to education 
 more completely and rudely assaulted. He stammered out a 
 negative, and hurried to his study to write a long letter to 
 Cleveland, who, himself an Oxford prize-man, would, he was 
 persuaded, see the matter in the same light. Cleveland an- 
 swered the letter in person; listened in silence to all the 
 father had to say, and then strolled through the park with 
 the young man. The result of the latter conference was that 
 Cleveland declared in favour of Ernest. 
 
 "But, my dear Frederick," said the astonished father, "I 
 thought the boy was to carry off all the prizes at Oxford? " 
 
 "I carried off some, Maltravers; but I don't see what good 
 they did me." 
 
 "Oh, Cleveland!" 
 
 "I am serious." 
 
 "But it is such a very odd fancy." 
 
 "Your son is a very odd young man." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 55 
 
 "I fear he is so; I fear he is, poor fellow! But what will 
 he learn at Gottingen? " 
 
 "Languages and independence," said Cleveland. 
 
 " And the classics, the classics ; you are such an excellent 
 Grecian ! " 
 
 "There are great Grecians in Germany," answered Cleve- 
 land; "and Ernest cannot well unlearn what he knows al- 
 ready. My dear Maltravers, the boy is not like most clever 
 young men. He must either go through action and adventure 
 and excitement in his own way, or he will be an idle dreamer 
 or an impracticable enthusiast all his life. Let him alone. 
 So Cuthbert is gone into the Guards?" 
 
 "But he went first to Oxford." 
 
 " Humph ! What a fine young man he is ! " 
 
 "Not so tall as Ernest, but — " 
 
 "A handsomer face," said Cleveland. "He is a son to be 
 proud of in one way, as I hope Ernest will be in another. 
 Will you show me your new hunter?" 
 
 It was to the house of this gentleman, so judiciously made 
 his guardian, that the student of Gottingen now took his mel- 
 ancholy way. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 BoT if a little exercise you choose, 
 
 Some zest for ease, 't is not forbidden here ; 
 
 Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, 
 Or tend the blooms and deck the vernal vear. 
 
 Castle of Indolence. 
 
 The house of Mr. Cleveland was an Italian villa adapted to 
 an English climate. Through an Ionic arch you entered a 
 domain of some eighty or a hundred acres in extent, but so 
 well planted and so artfully disposed that you could not have 
 
56 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 supposed the unseen boundaries enclosed no ampler a space. 
 The road wound through the greenest sward, in which trees 
 of venerable growth were relieved by a profusion of shrubs, 
 and flowers gathered into baskets intertwined with creepers, 
 or blooming from classic vases placed with a tasteful care in 
 such spots as required the filling up and harmonized well 
 with the object chosen. Not an old ivy-grown pollard, not a 
 modest and bending willow, but was brought out, as it were, 
 into a peculiar feature by the art of the owner. Without be- 
 ing overloaded or too minutely elaborate (the common fault 
 of the rich man's villa), the whole place seemed one diversi- 
 fied and cultivated garden; even the air almost took a differ- 
 ent odour from different vegetation, with each winding of 
 the road; and the colours of the flowers and foliage varied 
 with every view. 
 
 At length, when, on a lawn sloping towards a glassy lake 
 overhung by limes and chestnuts, and backed by a hanging 
 wood, the house itself came in sight, the whole prospect 
 seemed suddenly to receive its finishing and crowning feature. 
 The house was long and low. A deep peristyle that sup- 
 ported the roof extended the whole length, and being raised 
 above the basement, had the appearance of a covered terrace; 
 broad flights of steps, with massive balustrades, supporting 
 vases of aloes and orange-trees, led to the lawn; and under 
 the peristyle were ranged statues, Roman antiquities, and 
 rare exotics. On this side the lake another terrace, very 
 broad, and adorned, at long intervals, with urns and sculp- 
 ture, contrasted the shadowy and sloping bank beyond, and 
 commanded, through unexpected openings in the trees, exten- 
 sive views of the distant landscape, with the stately Thames 
 winding through the midst. The interior of the house corre- 
 sponded with the taste without. All the principal rooms, 
 even those appropriated to sleep, were on the same floor. A 
 small but lofty and octagonal hall conducted to a suite of four 
 rooms. At one extremity was a moderately sized dining- 
 room, with a ceiling copied from the rich and gay colours of 
 Guido's "Hours;" and landscapes, painted by Cleveland him- 
 self with no despicable skill, were let into the walls. A sin- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 57 
 
 gle piece of sculpture, copied from the Piping Faun, and 
 tinged with a flesh-like glow by purple and orange draperies 
 behind it, relieved without darkening the broad and arched 
 window which formed its niche. This communicated with a 
 small picture-room, — not, indeed, rich with those immortal 
 gems for which princes are candidates, for Cleveland's fortune 
 was but that of a private gentleman, though, managed with a 
 discreet if liberal economy, it sufficed for all his elegant de- 
 sires ; but the pictures had an interest beyond that of art, and 
 their subjects were within the reach of a collector of ordinary 
 opulence. They made a series of portraits, some originals, 
 some copies (and the copies were often the best), of Cleve- 
 land's favourite authors ; and it was characteristic of the man 
 that Pope's worn and thoughtful countenance looked down 
 from the central place of honour. Appropriately enough, this 
 room led into the library, — the largest room in the house; 
 the only one, indeed, that was noticeable from its size, as 
 well as its embellishments. It was nearly sixty feet in 
 length. The bookcases were crowned with bronze busts, 
 while at intervals statues, placed in open arches backed with 
 mirrors, gave the appearance of galleries opening from the 
 book-lined walls, and introduced an inconceivable air of 
 classic lightness and repose into the apartment; with these 
 arches the windows harmonized so well, opening on the peri- 
 style, and bringing into delightful view the sculpture, the 
 flowers, the terraces, and the lake without, that the actual 
 prospects half seduced you into the belief that they were de- 
 signs by some master-hand of the poetical gardens that yet 
 crown the hills of Rome. Even the colouring of the pros- 
 pects on a sunny day favoured the delusion, owing to the 
 deep, rich hues of the simple draperies and the stained glass 
 of which the upper panes of the windows were composed. 
 Cleveland was especially fond of sculpture; he was sensible, 
 too, of the mighty impulse which that art has received in 
 Europe within the last half century. He was even capable 
 of asserting the doctrine, not yet sufficiently acknowledged in 
 this country, that Flaxman surpassed Canova. He loved 
 sculpture too, not only for its own beauty, but for the beauti- 
 
58 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 fying and intellectual effect that it produces wherever it is 
 admitted. It is a great mistake, he was wont to say, in col- 
 lectors of statues to arrange them pele-mele in one long, 
 monotonous gallery. The single relief or statue or bust or 
 simple urn, introduced appropriately in the smallest apart- 
 ment we inhabit, charms us infinitely more than those gi- 
 gantic museums crowded into rooms never entered but for 
 show and without a chill, uncomfortable shiver. Besides, 
 this practice of galleries, which the herd consider orthodox, 
 places sculpture out of the patronage of the public. There 
 are not a dozen people who can afford galleries, but every 
 moderately affluent gentleman can afford a statue or a bust. 
 The influence, too, upon a man's mind and taste created by 
 the constant and habitual view of monuments of the only im- 
 perishable art which resorts to physical materials, is unsj^eak- 
 able. Looking upon the Greek marble, we become acquainted, 
 almost insensibly, with the character of the Greek life and 
 literature. That Aristides, that Genius of Death, that frag- 
 ment of the unrivalled Psyche, are worth a thousand Scaligers ! 
 
 " Do you ever look at the Latin translation when you read 
 ^schylus?" said a schoolboy once to Cleveland. 
 
 "That is my Latin translation," said Cleveland, pointing to 
 the Laocoon. 
 
 The library opened at the extreme end to a small cabinet 
 for curiosities and medals, which, still in a straight line, con- 
 ducted to a long belvidere terminating in a little circular 
 summer-house that by a sudden wind of the lake below, hung 
 perpendicularly over its transparent tide, and seen from the 
 distance, appeared almost suspended on air, so light were its 
 slender columns and arching dome. Another door from the 
 library opened upon a corridor which conducted to the prin- 
 cipal sleeping-chambers ; the nearest door was that of Cleve- 
 land's private study, communicating with his bedroom and 
 dressing-closet. The other rooms were appropriated to, and 
 named after, his several friends. 
 
 Mr. Cleveland had been advised by a hasty line of the 
 movements of his ward, and he received the young man with 
 a smile of welcome, though his eyes were moist and his lips 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 59 
 
 trembled ; for the boy was like bis father ! A new generation 
 had commenced for Cleveland ! 
 
 *' Welcome, my dear Ernest, " said he ; "I am so glad to see 
 you that I will not scold you for your mysterious absence. 
 This is your room, — you see your name over the door; it is a 
 larger one than you used to have, for you are a man now. 
 And there is your German sanctum adjoining, — for Schiller 
 and the meerschaum, A bad habit that, the meerschaum, but 
 not worse than the Schiller, perhaps ! You see you are in the 
 peristyle immediately. The meerschaum is good for flowers, 
 I fancy, so have no scruple. Why, my dear boy, how pale 
 you are ! Be cheered, be cheered ! Well, I must go myself, 
 or you will infect me." 
 
 Cleveland hurried away; he thought of his lost friend. 
 Ernest sank upon the first chair, and buried his face in his 
 hands. Cleveland's valet entered and bustled about and un- 
 packed the portmanteau and arranged the evening dress. But 
 Ernest did not look up nor speak; the first bell sounded; the 
 second tolled unheard upon his ear. He was thoroughly over- 
 come by his emotions. The first notes of Cleveland's kind 
 voice had touched upon a soft chord that months of anxiety 
 and excitement had strained to anguish, but had never woke 
 to tears. His nerves were shattered, — those strong young 
 nerves! He thought of his dead father when he first saw 
 Cleveland ; but when he glanced round the room prepared for 
 him, and observed the care for his comfort and the tender 
 recollection of his most trifling peculiarities everywhere visi- 
 ble, Alice, the watchful, the humble, the loving, the lost 
 Alice rose before him. Surprised at his ward's delay, Cleve- 
 land entered the room; there sat Ernest still, his face buried 
 in his hands. Cleveland drew them gently away, and Mal- 
 travers sobbed like an infant. It was an easy matter to bring 
 tears to the eyes of that young man ; a generous or a tender 
 thought, an old song, the simplest air of music, sufficed for 
 that touch of the mother's nature. But the vehement and 
 awful passion which belongs to manhood when thoroughly 
 unmanned, — this was the first time in which the relief of 
 that stormy bitterness was known to him! 
 
60 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Musing full sadly in his sullen mind. — Spenser. 
 
 There forth issued from under the altar-smoke 
 A dreadful fiend. — Spensek. 
 
 Nine times out of ten it is over the Bridge of Sighs that 
 we pass the narrow gulf from Youth to Manhood. That in- 
 terval is usually occupied by an ill-placed or disappointed 
 affection. We recover, and we find ourselves a new being. 
 The intellect has been hardened by the fire through which it 
 has passed. The mmd profits by the wrecks of every passion, 
 and we may measure our road to wisdom by the sorrows we 
 have undergone. 
 
 But Maltravers was yet on the bridge, and for a time, both 
 mind and body were prostrate and enfeebled. Cleveland had 
 the sagacity to discover that the affections had their share in 
 the change that he grieved to witness, but he had also the 
 delicacy not to force himself into the young man's confidence. 
 But by little and little his kindness so completely penetrated 
 the heart of his ward that Ernest one evening told his whole 
 tale. As a man of the world, Cleveland perhaps rejoiced 
 that it was no worse, for he had feared some existing entan- 
 glement, perhaps with a married woman. But as a man who 
 was better than the world in general, he sympathized with 
 the unfortunate girl whom Ernest pictured to him in faithful 
 and unflattered colours, and he long forbore consolations 
 which he foresaw would be unavailing. He felt, indeed, that 
 Ernest was not a man " to betray the noon of manhood to a 
 myrtle-shade;" that with so sanguine, buoyant, and hardy a 
 temperament, he would at length recover from a depression 
 which, if it could bequeath a warning, might as well not be 
 wholly divested of remorse. And he also knew that few be- 
 come either great authors or great men (and he fancied Ernest 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 61 
 
 was born to be one or the other) without the fierce emotions 
 and passionate struggles through which the Wilhelm Meister 
 of real life must work out his apprenticeship and attain the 
 Master Rank. But at last he had serious misgivings about 
 the health of his ward. A constant and spectral gloom 
 seemed bearing the young man to the grave. It was in vain 
 that Cleveland, who secretly desired him to thirst for a pub- 
 lic career, endeavoured to arouse his ambition; the boy's 
 spirit seemed quite broken, and the visit of a political char- 
 acter, the mention of a political work, drove him at once into 
 his solitary chamber. At length his mental disease took a 
 new turn. He became, of a sudden, most morbidly and fanat- 
 ically — I was about to say religious; but that is not the 
 word: let me call it pseudo-religious. His strong sense and 
 cultivated taste did not allow him to delight in the raving 
 tracts of illiterate fanatics; and yet out of the benign and 
 simple elements of the Scripture he conjured up for himself a 
 fanaticism quite as gloomy and intense. He lost sight of 
 God the Father, and night and day dreamed only of God the 
 Avenger. His vivid imagination was perverted to raise out 
 of its own abyss phantoms of colossal terror. He shuddered 
 aghast at his own creations, and earth and heaven alike seemed 
 black with the everlasting wrath. These symptoms completely 
 baffled and perplexed Cleveland. He knew not what remedy 
 to administer; and to his unspeakable grief and surprise he 
 found that Ernest, in the true spirit of his strange bigotry, 
 began to regard Cleveland — the amiable, the benevolent 
 Cleveland — as one no less out of the pale of grace than him- 
 self. His elegant pursuits, his cheerful studies, were consid- 
 ered by the young but stern enthusiast as the miserable 
 recreations of Mammon and the world. There seemed every 
 probability that Ernest Maltravers would die in a madhouse, 
 or, at best, succeed to the delusions without the cheerful 
 intervals of Cowper. 
 
62 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit, 
 
 Restless, unfixed in principles and place. — Dktden. 
 
 Whoever acquires a very great number of ideas interesting to the so- 
 ciety in which he lives, will be regarded in that society as a man of 
 abilities. — Helvetius. 
 
 It was just when Ernest Maltravers was so bad that he 
 could not be worse that a young man visited Temple Grove. 
 The name of this young man was Lumley Ferrers, his age 
 was about twenty-six, his fortune about eight hundred a year; 
 he followed no profession. Lumley Eerrers had not what is 
 usually called "genius," — that is, he had no enthusiasm; 
 and if the word "talent" be properly interpreted as meaning 
 the talent of doing something better than others, Ferrers had 
 not much to boast of on that score. He had no talent for 
 writing, nor for music, nor painting, nor the ordinary round 
 of accomplishments; neither at present had he displayed 
 much of the hard and useful talent for action and business. 
 But Ferrers had what is often better than either genius or 
 talent, — he had a powerful and most acute mind. 
 
 He had, moreover, great animation of manner, high physi- 
 cal spirits, a witty, odd, racy vein of conversation, deter- 
 mined assurance, and profound confidence in his own 
 resources. He was fond of schemes, stratagems, and plots, 
 — they amused and excited him ; his power of sarcasm, and 
 of argument too, was great, and he usually obtained an aston- 
 ishing influence over those with whom he was brought in 
 contact. His high spirits and a most happy frankness of 
 bearing carried off and disguised his leading vices of charac- 
 ter, which were callousness to whatever was affectionate, and 
 insensibility to whatever was moral. Though less learned 
 than Maltravers, he was on the whole a very instructed man. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 63 
 
 He mastered the surfaces of many sciences, became satisfied 
 of their general principles, and threw the study aside, never 
 to be forgotten (for his memory was like a vice), but never to 
 be prosecuted any further. To this he added a general ac- 
 quaintance with whatever is most generally acknowledged as 
 standard in ancient or modern literature. What is admired 
 only by a few, Lumley never took the trouble to read. Liv- 
 ing amongst trifles, he made them interesting and novel by 
 his mode of viewing and treating them. And here indeed 
 was a talent, — it was the talent of social life; the talent of 
 enjoyment to the utmost with the least degree of trouble to 
 himself. Lumley Ferrers was thus exactly one of those men 
 whom everybody calls exceedingly clever, and yet it would 
 puzzle one to say in what he was so clever. It was, indeed, 
 that nameless power which belongs to ability, and w^hich 
 makes one man superior, on the whole, to another, though 
 in many details by no means remarkable. I think it is Goethe 
 who says, somewhere, that in reading the life of the greatest 
 genius, we always find that he was acquainted with some men 
 superior to himself, who yet never attained to general dis- 
 tinction. To the class of these mystical superior men Lumley 
 Ferrers might have belonged; for though an ordinary jour- 
 nalist would have beaten him in the arts of composition, few 
 men of genius, however eminent, could have felt themselves 
 above Ferrers in the ready grasp and plastic vigour of nat- 
 ural intellect. It only remains to be said of this singular 
 young man, whose character as yet was but half developed, 
 that he had seen a great deal of the world, and could live at 
 ease and in content with all tempers and ranks; fox-hunters 
 or scholars, lawyers or poets, patricians or parvenus, it was 
 all one to Lumley Ferrers. 
 
 Ernest was, as usual, in his own room when he heard, along 
 the corridor without, all that indefinable bustling noise which 
 announces an arrival. Next came a most ringing laugh, and 
 then a sharp, clear, vigorous voice, that ran through his ears 
 like a dagger. Ernest was immediately aroused to all the 
 majesty of indignant sullenness. He walked out on the ter- 
 race of the portico to avoid the repetition of the disturbance, 
 
64 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 and once more settled back into his broken and hypochondri- 
 acal reveries. Pacing to and fro that part of the peristyle 
 which occupied the more retired wing of the house, with his 
 arms folded, his eyes downcast, his brows knit, and all the 
 angel darkened on that countenance which formerly looked 
 as if, like truth, it could shame the devil and defy the world, 
 Ernest followed the evil thought that mastered him, through 
 the Valley of the Shadow. Suddenly he was aware of some- 
 thing, some obstacle which he had not previously encoun- 
 tered. He started, and saw before him a young man of plain 
 dress, gentlemanlike appearance, and striking countenance. 
 
 "Mr. Maltravers, I think," said the stranger; and Ernest 
 recognized the voice that had so disturbed him. "This is 
 lucky; we can now introduce ourselves, for I find Cleveland 
 means us to be intimate. Mr. Lumley Ferrers, Mr. Ernest 
 Maltravers. There, now, I am the elder, so I first offer my 
 hand and grin properly. People always grin when they make 
 anew acquaintance! Well, that's settled. Which way are 
 you walking? " 
 
 Maltravers could, when he chose it, be as stately as if he 
 had never been out of England. He now drew himself up in 
 displeased astonishment, extricated his hand from the gripe 
 of Ferrers, and saying very coldl}', "Excuse me, sir, I am 
 busy, " stalked back to his chamber. He threw himself into 
 his chair, and was presently forgetful of his late annoyance, 
 when, to his inexpressible amazement and wrath, he heard 
 again the sharp, clear voice close at his elbow. 
 
 Ferrers had followed him through the French casement 
 into the room. " You are busy, you say, my dear fellow. I 
 want to write some letters; we sha'n't interrupt each other, 
 — don't disturb yourself; " and Ferrers seated himself at the 
 writing-table, dipped a pen into the ink, arranged blotting- 
 book and paper before him in due order, and was soon em- 
 ployed in covering page after page with the most rapid and 
 hieroglyphical scrawl that ever engrossed a mistress or per- 
 plexed a dun. 
 
 "The presuming puppy!" growled Maltravers, half audi- 
 bly, but effectually roused from himself; and examining with 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 65 
 
 some curiosity so cool an intruder, he was forced to own that 
 the countenance of Ferrers was not that of a puppy. 
 
 A forehead compact and solid as a block of granite over- 
 hung small, bright, intelligent eyes of a light hazel; the feat- 
 ures were handsome, yet rather too sharp and fox-like; the 
 complexion, though not highly-coloured, was of that hardy, 
 healthy hue which generally betokens a robust constitution 
 and high animal spirits; the jaw was massive, and to a physi- 
 ognomist betokened firmness and strength of character; but 
 the lips, full and large, were those of a sensualist, and their 
 restless play, and habitual half smile, spoke of gayety and 
 humour, though when in repose there was in them something 
 furtive and sinister. 
 
 IVIaltravers looked at him in grave silence; but when 
 Ferrers, concluding his fourth letter before another man 
 would have got through his first page, threw down the pen 
 and looked full at Maltravers, with a good-humoured but 
 penetrating stare, there was something so whimsical in the 
 intruder's expression of face, and indeed in the whole scene, 
 that Maltravers bit his lip to restrain a smile, — the first he 
 had known for weeks. 
 
 "I see you read, Maltravers," said Ferrers, carelessly turn- 
 ing over the volumes on the table, — "all very right. We 
 should begin life with books, — they multiply the sources of 
 employment; so does capital. But capital is of no use unless 
 we live on the interest; books are waste paper unless we spend 
 in action the wisdom we get from thought. Action, Mal- 
 travers, action, — that is the life for us. At our age we have 
 passion, fancy, sentiment; we can't read them away or scrib- 
 ble them away; we must live upon them generously, but 
 economically." 
 
 Maltravers was struck ; the intruder was not the empty bore 
 he had chosen to fancy him. He roused himself languidly to 
 reply. ''Life, Mr. Ferrers — " 
 
 "Stop, mon cher, stop! Don't call me 'Mister; ' we are to 
 be friends, — I hate delaying that which must be, even by a 
 superfluous dissyllable: you are Maltravers, I am Ferrers. 
 But you were going to talk about life. Suppose we live a 
 
 5 
 
6Q ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 little while, instead of talking about it. It wants an hour to 
 dinner : let us stroll into the grounds ; I want to get an appe- 
 tite. Besides, I like Nature when there are no Swiss moun- 
 tains to climb before one can arrive at a prospect. Allans ! " 
 
 " Excuse — " again began Maltravers, half interested, half 
 annoyed. 
 
 " I '11 be shot if I do. Come ! " 
 
 Ferrers gave Maltravers his hat, wound his arm into that 
 of his new acquaintance, and they were on the broad terrace 
 by the lake before Ernest was aware of it. 
 
 How animated, how eccentric, how easy was Ferrers' talk 
 (for talk it was, rather than conversation, since he had the 
 ball to himself) ! Books and men and things, he tossed them 
 about and played with them like shuttlecocks ; and then his 
 egotistical narrative of half a hundred adventures, in which 
 he had been the hero, told so that you laughed at him and 
 laughed with him. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
 Comes dancing from the east. — Milton. 
 
 Hitherto Ernest had never met with any mind that had 
 exercised a strong influence over his own. At home, at 
 school, at Gottingen, everywhere, he had been the brilliant 
 and wayward leader of others, persuading or commanding 
 wiser and older heads than his own; even Cleveland always 
 yielded to him, though not aware of it. In fact, it seldom 
 happens that we are very strongly influenced by those much 
 older than ourselves. It is the senior of from two to ten 
 years that most seduces and enthralls us. He has the same 
 pursuits, views, objects, pleasures, but more art and experi- 
 ence in them all. He goes with us in the patli we are or- 
 dained to tread, but from which the elder generation desires 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 67 
 
 to warn us off. There is very little influence where there is 
 not great sympathy. It was now an epoch in the intellectual 
 life of Maltravers. He met for the first time with a mind 
 that controlled his own. Perhaps the physical state of his 
 nerves made him less able to cope with the half-bullying, but 
 thoroughly good-humoured imperiousness of Ferrers. Every 
 day this stranger became more and more potential with Mal- 
 travers. Ferrers, who was an utter egotist, never asked his 
 new friend to give him his confidence; he never cared three 
 straws about other people's secrets, unless useful to some pur- 
 pose of his own. But he talked with so much zest about 
 himself, — about women and pleasure, and the gay, stirring 
 life of cities, — that the young spirit of Maltravers was roused 
 from its dark lethargy without an effort of its own. The 
 gloomy phantoms vanished gradually; his sense broke from 
 its cloud ; he felt once more that God had given the sun to 
 light the day, and even in the midst of darkness had called 
 up the host of stars. 
 
 Perhaps no other person could have succeeded so speedily 
 in curing Maltravers of his diseased enthusiasm. A crude or 
 sarcastic unbeliever he would not have listened to; a moder- 
 ate and enlightened divine he would have disregarded as a 
 worldly and cunning adjuster of laws celestial with customs 
 earthly. But Lumley Ferrers, who, when he argued, never 
 admitted a sentiment or a simile in reply, who wielded his 
 plain iron logic like a hammer, which, though its metal 
 seemed dull, kindled the ethereal spark with every stroke, — 
 Lumley Ferrers was just the man to resist the imagination 
 and convince the reason of Maltravers; and the moment the 
 matter came to argument, the cure was soon completed : for 
 however we may darken and puzzle ourselves with fancies 
 and visions and the ingenuities of fanatical mysticism, no 
 man can mathematically or syllogistically contend that the 
 world which a God made and a Saviour visited was designed 
 to be damned. 
 
 And Ernest Maltravers one night softly stole to his room 
 and opened the New Testament and read its heavenly morali- 
 ties with purged eyes; and when he had done, he fell upon 
 
68 ERNEST MALTKAVERS. 
 
 his knees and prayed the Almighty to pardon the ungrateful 
 heart that, worse than the Atheist's, had confessed his exist- 
 ence, but denied his goodness. His sleep was sweet and his 
 dreams were cheerful. Did he rise to find that the penitence 
 which had shaken his reason would henceforth suffice to save 
 his life from all error? Alas! remorse overstrained has too 
 often reactions as dangerous; and homely Luther says well 
 that " the mind, like the drunken peasant on horseback, when 
 propped on the one side, nods and falls on the other." All 
 that can be said is that there are certain crises in life which 
 leave us long weaker, from which the system recovers with 
 frequent revulsion and weary relapse, but from which, look- 
 ing back, after years have passed on, we date the foundation 
 of strength or the cure of disease. It is not to mean souls 
 that creation is darkened by a fear of the anger of Heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 There are times when we are diverted out of errors, hut couhl not he 
 preached out of them. There are practitioners who can cure us of one dis- 
 order, though in ordinary cases they be but poor physicians, — nay, dangerous 
 quaclis, — Stephen Montague. 
 
 LuMLET Ferrers had one rule in life, and it was this, — to 
 make all things and all persons subservient to himself. And 
 Ferrers now intended to go abroad for some years. He 
 wanted a companion, for he disliked solitude ; besides, a com- 
 panion shared the expenses, — and a man of eight hundred a 
 year, who desires all the luxuries of life, does not despise a 
 partner in the taxes to be paid for them. Ferrers at this 
 period rather liked Ernest than not; it was convenient to 
 choose friends from those richer than himself, and he re- 
 solved, when he first came to Temple Grove, that Ernest 
 should be his travelling companion. This resolution formed, 
 it was very easy to execute it. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 69 
 
 Maltravers was now warmly attached to his new friend, and 
 eager for change. Cleveland was sorry to part with him, 
 but he dreaded a relapse, if the young man were again left 
 upon his hands. Accordingly, the guardian's consent was 
 obtained, a travelling carriage was bought, and fitted up with 
 every imaginable imperial and malle. A Swiss (half valet 
 and half courier) was engaged, one thousand a year was al- 
 lowed to Maltravers, and one soft and lovely morning, towards 
 the close of October, Ferrers and Maltravers found them- 
 selves midway on the road to Dover. 
 
 "How glad I am to get out of England!" said Ferrers. 
 "It is a famous country for the rich; but here, eight hun- 
 dred a year, without a profession save that of pleasure, goes 
 upon pepper and salt: it is a luxurious competence abroad." 
 
 *' I think I have heard Cleveland say that you will be rich 
 some day or other." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I have what are called expectations. You must 
 know that I have a kind of settlement on two stools, — the 
 "Well-born and the Wealthy j but between two stools — You 
 recollect the proverb! The present Lord Saxingham, once 
 plain Frank Lascelles, and my father, Mr. Ferrers, were first 
 cousins. Two or three relations good-naturedly died, and 
 Frank Lascelles became an earl; the lands did not go with 
 the coronet; he was poor, and married an heiress. The lady 
 died; her estate was settled on her only child, — the handsom- 
 est little girl you ever saw. Pretty Florence, I often wish I 
 could look up to you! Her fortune will be nearly all at her 
 own disposal, too, when she comes of age, — now she is in the 
 nursery, 'eating bread and honey.' My father, less lucky 
 and less wise than his cousin, thought fit to marry a IMiss 
 Templeton, — a nobody. The Saxingham branch of the fam- 
 ily politely dropped the acquaintance. Now, my mother had 
 a brother, — a clever, plodding fellow, in what is called 'busi- 
 ness;' he became richer and richer, but my father and mother 
 died, and were never the better for it. And I came of age, 
 and worth (I like that expression) not a farthing more or less 
 than this often-quoted eight hundred pounds a year. My 
 rich uncle is married, but has no children. I am, therefore, 
 
70 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 heir-presumptive; but be is a saint, and close, though osten- 
 tatious. The quarrel between Uncle Templeton and the Sax- 
 inghams still continues. Templeton is angry if I see the 
 Saxinghams ; and the Saxinghams — my lord, at least — is by 
 no means so sure that I shall be Templetou's heir as not to 
 feel a doubt lest I should some day or other sponge upon his 
 Lordship for a place. Lord Saxingham is in the Administra- 
 tion, you know. Somehow or other, I have an equivocal, 
 amphibious kind of place in London society which 1 don't 
 like: on one side I am a patrician connection, whom the 
 parvenu branches always incline lovingly to; and on the 
 other side I am a half-dependent cadet, whom the noble 
 relations look civilly shy at. Some day, when I grow tired 
 of travel and idleness, I shall come back and wrestle with 
 these little difficulties, conciliate my Methodistical uncle, and 
 grapple with my noble cousin. But now I am fit for some- 
 thing better than getting on in the world. Dry chips, not 
 green wood, are the things for making a blaze! How slow 
 this fellow drives! Hollo, you sir, get on! Mind, twelve 
 miles to the hour! You shall have sixpence a mile. Give 
 me your purse, Maltravers; I may as well be cashier, being 
 the elder and the wiser man: we can settle accounts at the 
 end of the journey. By Jove, what a pretty girl ! " 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 0vr)Twv S'o<ppa ris dvOos exv iroKvripaTov i]0r]S, 
 Kovcpov exw dvfj,hv, ttoAA' dreAeo'TO voe7. 
 
 SiMONiDES : In Vit. Hum, 
 
 ' He, of wide-blooming youth's fair flower possessed. 
 Owns the vain thouglits, the heart that cannot rest ! " 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Il y eut certainement quelque chose de singulier dana mes sentiments pour 
 cette charmaute femme.^ — Rousseau. 
 
 It was a brilliant ball at the Palazzo of the Austrian em- 
 bassy at Kaples, and a crowd of those loungers, whether 
 young or old, who attach themselves to the reigning beauty, 
 was gathered round Madame de Ventadour. Generally speak- 
 ing, there is more caprice than taste in the election of a beauty 
 to the Idalian throne. Nothing disappoints a stranger more 
 than to see for the first time the woman to whom the world 
 has given the golden apple. Yet he usually falls at last into 
 the popular idolatry, and passes with inconceivable rapidity 
 from indignant scepticism into superstitious veneration. In 
 fact, a thousand things besides mere symmetry of feature go 
 to make up the Cytherea of the hour, — tact in society, the 
 charm of manner, a nameless and piquant brilliancy. Where 
 the world find the Graces they proclaim the Venus. Few 
 persons attain pre-eminent celebrity for anything, without 
 some adventitious and extraneous circumstances which have 
 nothing to do with the thing celebrated; some qualities or 
 
 1 " There certainly was sometliing singular in my sentiments for this 
 charming woman." 
 
72 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 some circumstances throw a m^^sterious or personal charm 
 about tliem. "Is Mr. So-and-So really such a genius?" "Is 
 Mrs. Such-a-One really such a beauty?" you ask incredu- 
 lously. " Oh, yes ! " is the answer, " Do you know all alout 
 him or her? Such a thing is said, or such a thing has hap- 
 pened." The idol is interesting in itself, and therefore its 
 leading and popular attribute is worshipped. 
 
 Now, Madame de Ventadour was at this time the beauty of 
 Naples ; and though fifty women in the room were handsomer, 
 no one would have dared to say so. Even the women con- 
 fessed her pre-eminence, for she was the most perfect dresser 
 that even France could exhibit. And to no pretensions do 
 ladies ever concede with so little demur as those which de- 
 pend upon that feminine art which all study, and in which 
 few excel. Women never allow beauty in a face that has 
 an odd-looking bonnet above it, nor will the}" readily allow 
 any one to be ugly whose caps are unexceptionable. Madame 
 de Ventadour had also the magic that results from intuitive 
 high-breeding, polished by habit to the utmost. She looked 
 and moved the grande dame, as if Nature had been employed 
 by Eank to make her so. She was descended from one of 
 the most illustrious houses of France ; had married at sixteen 
 a man of equal birth, but old, dull, and pompous, — a carica- 
 ture rather than a portrait of that great French noblesse, now 
 almost, if not wholly, extinct. But her virtue was without a 
 blemish, — some said from pride, some said from coldness. 
 Her wit was keen and court-like, — lively, jet subdued; for 
 her French high-breeding was very different from the lethar- 
 gic and taciturn imperturbability of the English. All silent 
 people can seem conventionally elegant. A groom married a 
 rich lady; he dreaded the ridicule of the guests whom his 
 new rank assembled at his table. An Oxford clergyman gave 
 him this piece of advice : " Wear a black coat, and hold your 
 tongue! " The groom took the hint, and is always considered 
 one of the most gentlemanlike fellows in the county. Con- 
 versation is the touchstone of the true delicacy and subtle 
 grace which make the ideal of the moral mannerism of a 
 court. And there sat Madame de Ventadour, a little apart 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 73 
 
 from the dancers, with the silent English dandy Lord Taun- 
 ton, exquisitely dressed and superbly tall, bolt upright behind 
 her chair; and the sentimental German Baron von Schomberg, 
 covered with orders, whiskered and wigged to the last hair of 
 perfection, sighing at her left hand; and the French minister, 
 shrewd, bland, and eloquent, in the chair at her right; and 
 round on all sides pressed and bowed and complimented a 
 crowd of diplomatic secretaries and Italian princes, whose 
 bank is at the gaming-table, whose estates are in their galler- 
 ies, and who sell a picture, as English gentlemen cut down a 
 wood, whenever the cards grow gloomy. The charming De 
 Ventadour, she had attraction for them all, — smiles for the 
 silent, badinage for the gay, politics for the Frenchman, 
 poetry for the German, the eloquence of loveliness for all! 
 She was looking her best; the slightest possible tinge of 
 rouge gave a glow to her transparent complexion, and lighted 
 up those large, dark, sparkling eyes (with a latent softness 
 beneath the sparkle) seldom seen but in the French, and 
 widely distinct from the unintellectual languish of the Span- 
 iard, or the full and majestic fierceness of the Italian gaze. 
 Her dress of black velvet, and graceful hat with its princelj^ 
 plume, contrasted the alabaster whiteness of her arms and 
 neck. And what with the eyes, the skin, the rich colouring 
 of the complexion, the rosy lips, and the small ivory teeth, no 
 one would have had the cold hypercriticism to observe that 
 the chin was too pointed, the mouth too wide, and the nose, 
 so beautiful in the front face, was far from perfect in the 
 profile. 
 
 "Pray was Madame in the Strada Nuova to-day?" asked 
 the German, with as much sweetness in his voice as if he 
 had been vowing eternal love. 
 
 "What else have we to do with our mornings, we women?'' 
 replied Madame de Ventadour. " Our life is a lounge, from 
 the cradle to the grave, and our afternoons are but the type 
 of our career. A promenade and a crowd, — voild tout/ We 
 never see the world except in an open carriage." 
 
 "It is the pleasantest way of seeing it," said the French- 
 man, dryly. 
 
74 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "I doubt it; tlie worst fatigue is that which comes without 
 exercise." 
 
 "Will you do me the honour to waltz?" said the tall Eng- 
 lish lord, who had a vague idea that Madame de Ventadour 
 meant she would rather dance than sit still. The Frenchman 
 smiled. 
 
 "Lord Taunton enforces your own philosophy," said the 
 minister. 
 
 Lord Taunton smiled because every one else smiled, — and 
 besides, he had beautiful teeth; but he looked anxious for an 
 answer. 
 
 "Not to-night, — I seldom dance. Who is that very pretty 
 woman? What lovely complexions the English have! And 
 who," continued Madame de Ventadour, without waiting for 
 an answer to the first question, "who is that gentleman, — the 
 young one I mean, — leaning against the door?" 
 
 "What, with the dark mustache?" said Lord Taunton. 
 "He is a cousin of mine." 
 
 "Oh, no! not Colonel Bellfield, — I know him; how amus- 
 ing he is ! Ko ; the gentleman I mean wears no mustache. " 
 
 "Oh, the tall Englishman with the bright eyes and high 
 forehead," said the French minister. "He is just arrived, — 
 from the East, I believe." 
 
 "It is a striking countenance," said Madame de Ventadour; 
 "there is something chivalrous in the turn of the head. 
 Without doubt. Lord Taunton, he is noble ? " 
 
 "He is what you call nohle,^'' replied Lord Taunton, — "that 
 is, what we call a 'gentleman; ' his name is Maltravers. He 
 lately came of age, and has, I believe, rather a good property." 
 
 "Monsieur Maltravers, — only Monsieur?" repeated Ma- 
 dame de Ventadour. 
 
 "Why," said the French minister, "you understand that 
 the English gentilhomme does not require a De or a title to 
 distinguish him from the roturier.^' 
 
 "I know that; but he has an air above a simple gentil- 
 homme. There is something great in his look, — but it is not, 
 I must own, the conventional greatness of rank ; perhaps he 
 would have looked the same had he been born a peasant." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 75 
 
 "You don't think him handsome?" said Lord Taunton, al- 
 most angrily (for he was one of the Beauty-men, and Beauty - 
 men are sometimes jealous). 
 
 "Handsome! I did not say that," replied Madame de 
 Ventadour, smiling; " it is rather a fine head than a handsome 
 face. Is he clever, I wonder? But all you English, milord, 
 are well educated." 
 
 "Yes, profound, — profound; we are profound, not super- 
 ficial," replied Lord Taunton, drawing down his wristbands. 
 
 "Will Madame de Ventadour allow me to present to her 
 one of my countrymen?" said the English minister, ap- 
 proaching, — "Mr. Maltravers." 
 
 Madame de Ventadour half smiled and half blushed as she 
 looked up and saw bent admiringly upon her the proud and 
 earnest countenance she had remarked. 
 
 The introduction made, a few monosyllables exchanged, the 
 French diplomatist rose and walked away with the English 
 one. Maltravers succeeded to the vacant chair. 
 
 "Have you been long abroad?" asked Madame de 
 Ventadour. 
 
 "Only four years; yet long enough to ask whether I should 
 not be most abroad in England." 
 
 "You have been in the East, — I envy you! And Greece 
 and Egypt, — all the associations! You have travelled back 
 into the Past; you have escaped, as Madame d'Epinay wished, 
 out of civilization and into romance ! " 
 
 "Yet Madame d'Epinay passed her own life in making 
 pretty romances out of a very agreeable civilization," said 
 Maltravers, smiling. 
 
 "You know her Memoirs, then?" said Madame de Venta- 
 dour, slightly colouring. " In the current of a more exciting 
 literature few have had time for the second-rate writings of a 
 past century." 
 
 "Are not those second-rate performances often the most 
 charming," said Maltravers, "when the mediocrity of the in- 
 tellect seems almost as if it were the effect of a touching, 
 though too feeble, delicacy of sentiment? Madame d'Epi- 
 nay's Memoirs are of this character. She was not a virtuous 
 
76 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 woman, but she felt virtue and loved it; she was not a woman 
 of genius, but she was tremblingly alive to all the influences 
 of genius. Some persons seem born with the temperament 
 and the tastes of genius without its creative power; they have 
 its nervous system, but something is wanting in the intellect- 
 ual; they feel acutely, yet express tamely. These persons 
 always have in their character an unspeakable kind of pathos. 
 A court civilization produces many of them, and the French 
 memoirs of the last century are particularly fraught with 
 such examples. This is interesting, — the struggle of sensi- 
 tive minds against the lethargy of a society, dull, yet bril- 
 liant, that glares them, as it were, to sleep. It comes home 
 to us; for," added Maltravers, with a slight change of voice, 
 "how many of us fancy we see our own image in the mirror! '' 
 
 And where was the German baron? Flirting at the other 
 end of the room. And the English lord? Dropping mono- 
 syllables to dandies by the doorway. And the minor satel- 
 lites? Dancing, whispering, making love, or sipping 
 lemonade. And Madame de Ventadour was alone with the 
 young stranger in a crowd of eight hundred persons; and 
 their lips spoke of sentiment, and their eyes involuntarily 
 applied it! 
 
 While they were thus conversing, Maltravers was suddenly 
 startled by hearing close behind him a sharp, significant voice, 
 saying in French, '' Hein, hein! I've my suspicions; I've 
 my suspicions." 
 
 Madame de Ventadour looked round with a smile. "It is 
 only my husband," said she, quietly; "let me introduce him 
 to you." 
 
 Maltravers rose and bowed to a little thin man most elabor- 
 ately dressed, and with an immense pair of spectacles upon a 
 long, sharp nose. 
 
 '"Charmed to make your acquaintance, sir!'* said M. de 
 Ventadour. "Have you been long in Naples? Beautiful 
 weather, — won't last long; hein, hein. I've my suspicions! 
 No news as to your parliament, — be dissolved soon! Bad 
 opera in London this year! Hein, hein! I've my 
 suspicions." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 77 
 
 This rapid monologue was delivered with appropriate gest- 
 ure. Each new sentence M. de Ventadour began with a sort 
 of bow; and when it dropped in the almost invariable conclu- 
 sion affirmative of his shrewdness and incredulity, he made a 
 mystical sign with his forefinger by passing it upward in a 
 parallel line with his nose, which at the same time performed 
 its own part in the ceremony by thi-ee convulsive twitches 
 that seemed to shake the bridge to its base. ^ 
 
 Maltravers looked with mute surprise upon the connubial 
 partner of the graceful creature by his side, and i\I. de Ven- 
 tadour, who had said as much as he thought necessary, wound 
 up his eloquence by expressing the rapture it would give him 
 to see M. Maltravers at his hotel. Then, turning to his wife, 
 he began assuring her of the lateness of the hour and the ex- 
 pediency of departure. Maltravers glided away, and as he 
 regained the door was seized by our old friend Lumley 
 Ferrers. "Come, my dear fellow," said the latter; "I have 
 been waiting for you this half hour. Allans ! But perhaps, 
 as I am dying to go to bed, you have made up your mind to 
 stay supper. Some people have no regard for other people's 
 feelings." 
 
 *' Xo, Ferrers, I 'm at your service ; " and the young man 
 descended the stairs and passed along the Chiaja towards 
 their hotel. As they gained the broad and open space on 
 which it stood, with the lovely sea before them, sleeping in 
 the arms of the curving shore, Maltravers, who had hitherto 
 listened in silence to the volubility of his companion, paused 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Look at that sea, Ferrers! What a scene; what delicious 
 air! How soft this moonlight! Can you not fancy the old 
 Greek adventurers, when they first colonized this divine 
 Fartheuope, — the darling of the ocean, — gazing along those 
 waves and pining no more for Greece?" 
 
 " I cannot fancy anything of the sort," said Ferrers. " And, 
 depend upon it, the said gentlemen, at this hour of the night, 
 unless they were on some piratical excursion, — for they were 
 cursed ruffians, those old Greek colonists, — were fast asleep 
 in their beds." 
 
78 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Did you ever write poetry, Ferrers?" 
 
 "To be sure; all clever men have written poetry once in 
 their lives, — small-pox and poetry, they are our two juvenile 
 diseases." 
 
 "And did you qy ex feel poetry?" 
 
 "Feel it?" 
 
 " Yes. If you put the moon into your verses, did you first 
 feel it shining into your heart? " 
 
 " My dear Maltravers, if I put the moon into my verses, 
 in all probability it was to rhyme to 'noon.' ' The night was 
 at her noon ' is a capital ending for the first hexameter, and 
 the moon is booked for the next stage. Come in." 
 
 "No, I shall stay out." 
 
 "Don't be nonsensical." 
 
 "By moonlight there is no nonsense like common-sense." 
 
 "What! we, who have climbed the Pyramids, and sailed up 
 the Nile, and seen magic at Cairo, and been nearly murdered, 
 bagged, and Bosphorized at Constantinople, — is it for us, 
 who have gone through so many adventures, looked on so 
 many scenes, and crowded into four years events that would 
 have satisfied the appetite of a cormorant in romance, if it 
 had lived to the age of a phoenix, — is it for us to be doing 
 the pretty and sighing to the moon, like a black-haired ap- 
 prentice without a neckcloth on board of the Margate hoy? 
 Nonsense, I say; we have lived too much not to have lived 
 away our green sickness of sentiment." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, Ferrers," said Maltravers, smiling. 
 "But I can still enjoy a beautiful night." 
 
 "Oh! if you like flies in your soup, as the man said to his 
 guest, when he carefully replaced those entomological blacka- 
 moors in the tureen, after helping himself, — if you like flies 
 in your soup, well and good; buona notte.^^ 
 
 Ferrers certainly was right in his theory that when we 
 have known real adventures we grow less morbidly senti- 
 mental. Life is a sleep in which we dream most at the com- 
 mencement and the close; the middle part absorbs us too 
 much for dreams. But still, as Maltravers said, we can en- 
 joy a fine night, especially on the shores of Naples. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 79 
 
 Maltravers paced musingly to and fro for some time. His 
 heart was softened, — old rhymes rang in his ear, old memo- 
 ries passed through his brain; but the sweet, dark eyes of 
 Madame de Ventadour shone forth through every shadow of 
 the past. Delicious intoxication, the draught of the rose- 
 coloured phial, — which is fancy, but seems love! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Then gan the Palmer thns : " Most wretched man, 
 
 That to affections dost the bridle lend, 
 
 In their beginnings they are weak and wan, 
 
 But soon, through suffrance, growe to fearfull end ; 
 
 While they are weak, betimes with them contend." 
 
 Spenseb. 
 
 Maltravers went frequently to the house of Madame de 
 Ventadour; it was open twice a week to the Vv'orld, and thrice 
 a week to friends. Maltravers was soon of the latter class. 
 Madame de Ventadour had been in England in her childhood, 
 for her parents had been emigres. She spoke English well 
 and fluently; and this pleased Maltravers, for though the 
 French language was sufficiently familiar to him, he was like 
 most who are more vain of the mind than the person, and 
 proudly averse to hazarding his best thoughts in the domino 
 of a foreign language. We don't care how faulty the accent 
 or how incorrect the idiom in which we talk nothings; but if 
 we utter any of the poetry within us, we shudder at the risk 
 of the most trifling solecism. 
 
 This was especially the case with Maltravers; for besides 
 being now somewhat ripened from his careless boyhood into 
 a proud and fastidious man, he had a natural love for the 
 Becoming. This love was unconsciously visible in trifles, — 
 it is the natural parent of Good Taste. And it was indeed 
 an inborn good taste which redeemed Ernest's natural care- 
 
80 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 lessness in those personal matters in which young men usu- 
 ally take a pride. An habitual and soldier-like neatness, and 
 a love of order and symmetry, stood with him in the stead of 
 elaborate attention to equipage and dress. 
 
 Maltravers had not thought twice in his life whether he 
 was handsome or not; and, like most men who have a knowl- 
 edge of the gentler sex, he knew that beauty had little to do 
 with engaging the love of women. The air, the manner, 
 the tone, the conversation, the something that interests, and 
 the something to be proud of, — these are the attributes of the 
 man made to be loved. And the Beauty-man is, nine times 
 out of ten, little more than the oracle of his aunts and the 
 " Sich a love ! " of the housemaids ! 
 
 To return from this digression : Maltravers was glad that 
 he could talk in his own language to Madame de Ventadour; 
 and the conversation between them generally began in French, 
 and glided away into English. Madame de Ventadour was 
 eloquent, and so was Maltravers; yet a more complete con- 
 trast in their mental views and conversational peculiarities 
 can scarcely be conceived. Madame de Ventadour viewed 
 everything as a woman of the world. She was brilliant, 
 thoughtful, and not without delicacy and tenderness of senti- 
 ment; still, all was cast in a worldly mould. She had been 
 formed by the influences of society, and her mind betrayed its 
 education. At once witty and melancholy (no uncommon 
 union), she was a disciple of the sad but caustic philosophy 
 produced by satiety. In the life she led, neither her heart 
 nor her head was engaged; the faculties of both were irri- 
 tated, not satisfied or employed. She felt somewhat too 
 sensitively the hollowness of the great world, and had a low 
 opinion of human nature. In fact, she was a woman of the 
 French memoirs, — one of those charming and spiritueUe As- 
 pasias of the boudoir who interest us by their subtlety, tact, 
 and grace, their exquisite tone of refinement, and are re- 
 deemed from the superficial and frivolous, partly by a con- 
 summate knowledge of the social system in which they move, 
 and partly by a half-concealed and touching discontent of the 
 trifles on which their talents and affections are wasted. These 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 81 
 
 are the women wlio, after a youth of false pleasure, often end 
 by an old age of false devotion. They are a class peculiar to 
 those ranks and countries in which shines and saddens that 
 gay and unhappy thing, — a woman iv'itliout a home? 
 
 Now, this was a specimen of life, this Valerie de Venta- 
 dour, that Maltravers had never yet contemplated; and Mal- 
 travers was perhaps equally new to the Frenchwoman. They 
 were delighted with each other's society, although it so hap- 
 pened that they never agreed. 
 
 Madame de Ventadour rode on horseback, and Maltravers 
 was one of her usual companions. And oh, the beautiful 
 landscapes through which their daily excursions lay ! 
 
 Maltravers was an admirable scholar. The stores of the 
 immortal dead were as familiar to him as his own language. 
 The poetry, the philosophy, the manner of thought and hab- 
 its of life of the graceful Greek and the luxurious Roman 
 were a part of knowledge that constituted a common and 
 household portion of his own associations and peculiarities 
 of thought. He had saturated his intellect with the Pactolus 
 of old, and the grains of gold came down from the classic 
 Tmolus with every tide. This knowledge of the dead, often 
 so useless, has an inexpressible charm when it is applied to 
 the places where the dead lived. We care nothing about the 
 ancients on Highgate Hill; but at Baise, Pompeii, by the 
 Virgilian Hades, the ancients are society with which we 
 thirst to be familiar. To the animated and curious French- 
 woman what a cicerone was Ernest Maltravers ! How eagerly 
 she listened to accounts of a life more elegant than that of 
 Paris; of a civilization which the world never can know 
 again! So much the better; for it was rotten at the core, 
 though most brilliant in the complexion. Those cold names 
 and unsubstantial shadows which Madame de Ventadour had 
 been accustomed to yawn over in skeleton histories, took 
 from the eloquence of Maltravers the breath of life; they 
 glowed and moved; they feasted and made love, — were wise 
 and foolish, merry and sad, like living things. On the other 
 hand, Maltravers learned a thousand new secrets of the exist- 
 ing and actual world from the lips of the accomplished and 
 
82 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 observant Valerie. What a new step in the philosophy of life 
 does a young man of genius make when he first compares his 
 theories and experience with the intellect of a clever woman 
 of the world! Perhaps it does not elevate him, but how it 
 enlightens and refines! What numberless minute yet im- 
 portant mysteries in human character and practical wisdom 
 does he drink unconsciously from the sparkling lursiflage 
 of such a companion ! Our education is hardly ever complete 
 without it. 
 
 "And so you think these stately Romans were not, after 
 all, so dissimilar to ourselves?" said Valerie one day, as they 
 looked over the same earth and ocean along which had roved 
 the eyes of the voluptuous but august Lucullus. 
 
 " In the last days of their Republic, a coiip-d^oeil of their 
 social date might convey to us a general notion of our own. 
 Their system like ours, — a vast aristocracy, heaved and agi- 
 tated, but kept ambitious and intellectual by the great demo- 
 cratic ocean which roared below and around it. An immense 
 distinction between rich and poor, — a nobility sumptuous, 
 wealthy, cultivated, yet scarcely elegant or refined; a people 
 with mighty aspirations for more perfect liberty, but always 
 liable, in a crisis, to be influenced and subdued by a deep- 
 rooted veneration for the very aristocracy against which 
 they struggled. A ready opening through all the walls of 
 custom and privilege for every description of talent and am- 
 bition, but so strong and universal a respect for wealth that 
 the finest spirit grew avaricious, griping, and corrupt, almost 
 unconsciously; and the man who rose from the people did not 
 scruple to enrich himself out of the abuses he affected to la- 
 ment; and the man who would have died for his country could 
 not help thrusting his hands into her pockets. Cassius, the 
 stubborn and thoughtful patriot, with his heart of iron, had, 
 you remember, an itching palm. Yet what a blow to all the 
 hopes and dreams of a world was the overthrow of the free 
 party after the death of Caesar! What generations of free- 
 men fell at Philippi! In England, perhaps, we may have 
 ultimately the same struggle; in France, too (perhaps a 
 larger stage, with far more inflammable actors), we already 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 83 
 
 perceive the same war of elements which shook Rome to her 
 centre, which finally replaced the generous Julius with the 
 hypocritical Augustus, which destroyed the colossal patri- 
 cians to make way for the glittering dwarfs of a court, and 
 cheated the people out of the substance with the shadow of 
 liberty. How it may end in the modern world, who shall 
 say? But while a nation has already a fair degree of consti- 
 tutional freedom, I believe no struggle so perilous and awful 
 as that between the aristocratic and the democratic principle. 
 A people against a despot, — that contest requires no prophet; 
 but the change from an aristocratic to a democratic common- 
 wealth is indeed the wide, unbounded prospect upon which 
 rest shadows, clouds, and darkness. If it fail, — for cen- 
 turies is the dial-hand of Time put back; if it succeed — " 
 Maltravers paused. 
 
 "And if It succeed?" said Valerie. 
 
 "Why, then, man will have colonized Utopia!" replied 
 Maltravers. 
 
 "But at least, in modern Europe," he continued, "there 
 will be fair room for the experiment. For we have not that 
 curse of slavery which, more than all else, vitiated every sys- 
 tem of the ancients, and kept the rich and the poor alternately 
 at war; and we have a Press, which is not only the safety- 
 vah^e of the passions of every party, but the great note-book 
 of the experiments of every hour, — the homely, the invalua- 
 ble ledger of losses and of gains. No; the people who keep 
 that tablet well, never can be bankrupt. And the society 
 of those old Romans, — their daily passions, occupations, hu- 
 mours, — why, the satire of Horace is the glass of our own 
 follies; we may fancy his easy pages written in the Chaussee 
 d'Antin or Mayfair. But there was one thing that will ever 
 keep the ancient world dissimilar from the modern." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 "The ancients knew not that delicacy in the affections 
 which characterizes the descendants of the Goths," said Mal- 
 travers, and liis voice slightly trembled; "they gave up to 
 the monopoly of the senses what ought to have had an equal 
 share in the reason and the imacfination. Their love was a 
 
84 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 beautiful and wanton butterfly, but not the butterfly which is 
 the emblem of the soul." 
 
 Valerie sighed. She looked timidly into the face of the 
 young philosopher; but his eyes were averted. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, after a short pause, "we pass our 
 lives more happily without love than with it. And in our 
 modern social system," she continued thoughtfully, and with 
 profound truth, though it is scarcely the conclusion to which 
 a woman often arrives, "I think we have pampered Love to 
 too great a preponderance over the other excitements of life. 
 As children, we are taught to dream of it; in youth, our 
 books, our conversation, our plays, are filled with it. We 
 are trained to consider it the essential of life; and yet, the 
 moment we come to actual experience, the moment we indulge 
 this inculcated and stimulated craving, nine times out of ten 
 we find ourselves wretched and undone. Ah! believe me, 
 Mr. Maltravers, this is not a world in which we should preach 
 up too far the philosophy of Love." 
 
 "And does Madame de Ventadour speak from experience?" 
 asked Maltravers, gazing earnestly upon the changing coun- 
 tenance of his companion. 
 
 "No; and I trust that I never may!" said Valerie, with 
 great energy. 
 
 Ernest's lip curled slightly, for his pride was touched. 
 
 " I could give up many dreams of the future, " said he, " to 
 hear Madame de Ventadour revoke that sentiment." 
 
 "We have outridden our companions, Mr. Maltravers," said 
 Valerie, coldly, and she reined in her horse. "Ah, Mr. 
 Ferrers," she continued, as Lumley and the handsome Ger- 
 man baron now joined her, "you are too gallant; I see you 
 imply a delicate compliment to my horsemanship when you 
 wish me to believe you cannot keep up with me: Mr. Mal- 
 travers is not so polite." 
 
 "Nay," returned Ferrers, who rarely threw away a compli- 
 ment without a satisfactory return, — "nay, you and ]\Laltrav- 
 ers appeared lost among the old Romans ; and our friend the 
 baron took that opportunity to tell me of all the ladies who 
 adore him." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 85 
 
 ** Ah, Monsieur Ferrare, que vous etes malin! " said Schoui- 
 berg, looking very much coufusecl. 
 
 ^^ Malin! no; I spoke from no envy, — 1 never was adored, 
 thank Heaven! What a bore it must be! " 
 
 " I congratulate you on the sympathy between yourself and 
 Ferrers," whispered Maltravers to Valerie. 
 
 Valerie laughed; but during the rest of the excursion she 
 remained thoughtful and absent, and for some days their 
 rides were discontinued. Madame de Ventadour was not 
 well. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 O Love ! forsake me not ; 
 Mine were a lone, dark lot, 
 Bereft of thee. 
 
 Hemans : Genius singing to Love. 
 
 I FEAR that as yet Ernest Maltravers had gained little from 
 Experience, except a few current coins of worldly wisdom 
 (and not very valuable those!), while he had lost much of 
 that nobler wealth with which youthful enthusiasm sets out 
 on the journey of life. Experience is an open giver, but a 
 stealthy thief. There is, however, this to be said in her 
 favour, that we retain her gifts ; and if ever we demand resti- 
 tution in earnest, 'tis ten to one but what we recover her 
 thefts. Maltravers had lived in lands where public opinion 
 is neither strong in its influence, nor rigid in its canons; and 
 that does not make a man better. Moreover, thrown head- 
 long amidst the temptations that make the first ordeal of 
 youth, with ardent passions and intellectual superiority, he 
 had been led by the one into many errors, from the conse- 
 quences of which the other had delivered him; the necessity 
 of roughing it through the world — of resisting fraud to-day, 
 and violence to-morrow — had hardened over the surface of 
 his heart, though at bottom the springs were still fresh and 
 
86 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 living. He had lost much of his chivalrous veneration for 
 women, for he had seen them less often deceived than deceiv- 
 ing. Again, too, the last iew years had been spent without 
 any high aims or fixed pursuits. Maltravers had beeii living 
 on the capital of his faculties and affections in a wasteful, 
 speculating spirit. It is a bad thing for a clever and ardent 
 man not to have from the onset some paramount object of 
 life. 
 
 All this considered, we can scarcely wonder that Maltravers 
 should have fallen into an involuntary system of pursuing his 
 own amusements and pursuits, without much forethought of 
 the harm or the good they were to do to others or himself. 
 The moment we lose forethought, we lose sight of duty; and 
 though it seems like a paradox, we can seldom be careless 
 without being selfish. 
 
 In seeking the society of Madame de Ventadour, Maltravers 
 obeyed but the mechanical impulse that leads the idler to- 
 wards the companionship which most pleases his leisure. He 
 was interested and excited: and Valerie's manners, which to- 
 day flattered, and to-morrow piqued him, enlisted his vanity 
 and pride on the side of his fancy. But although M. de 
 Ventadour, a frivolous and profligate Frenchman, seemed 
 utterly indifferent as to what his wife chose to do, — and in 
 the society in which Valerie lived, almost every lady had her 
 cavalier, — yet Maltravers would have started with incredul- 
 ity or dismay had any one accused him of a systematic design 
 on her affections. But he was living with the world, and the 
 world affected him as it almost always does every one else. 
 Still, he had at times in his heart the feeling that he was not 
 fulfilling his proper destiny and duties; and when he stole 
 from the brilliant resorts of an unworthy and heartless pleas- 
 ure, he was ever and anon haunted by his old familiar aspi- 
 rations for the Beautiful, the Virtuous, and the Great. 
 However, hell is paved with good intentions; and so, in the 
 mean while, Ernest Maltravers surrendered himself to the 
 delicious presence of Valerie de Ventadour. 
 
 One evening Maltravers, Ferrers, the French minister, a 
 pretty Italian, and the Princess di made the whole party 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 87 
 
 collected at Madame de Ventadour's. The conversation fell 
 upon one of tlie tales of scandal relative to English persons, 
 so common on the Continent. 
 
 **Is it true, Monsieur," said the French minister, gravely, 
 to Lumley, "that your countrymen are much more immoral 
 than other people? It is very strange, but in every town 1 
 enter, there is always some story in which les uingUtis are 
 the heroes. I hear nothing of French scandal, nothing of 
 Italian; totijours les Anglais.^'' 
 
 "Because we are shocked at these things, and make a noise 
 about them, while you take them quietly. Vice is our epi- 
 sode, — your epic." 
 
 *'I suppose it is so," said the Frenchman, with affected se- 
 riousness. " If we cheat at play, or flirt with a fair lady, we 
 do it with decorum, and our neighbours think it no business 
 of theirs. But you treat every frailty you find in your coun- 
 trymen as a public concern, to be discussed and talked over 
 and exclaimed against and told to all the world." 
 
 "I like the system of scandal," said Madame de Ventadour, 
 abruptly; "say what you will, the policy of fear keeps many 
 of us virtuous. Sin might not be odious if we did not tremble 
 at the consequence even of appearances." 
 
 "Jlein, hein / " grunted M. de Ventadour, shuffling into 
 the room. "How are you? How are you? Charmed to see 
 you! Dull night; I suspect we shall have rain. Hein,hein! 
 Aha, Monsieur Ferrers, comment ga va-t-il? Will you give 
 me my revenge at ^carte ? I have my suspicions that I am in 
 luck to-night. Hein, hein ! " 
 
 '■'■ tlcarte! Well, with pleasure," said Ferrers. 
 
 Ferrers played well. 
 
 The conversation ended in a moment. The little party 
 gathered round the table, — all except Valerie and Maltravers. 
 The chairs that were vacated left a kind of breach between 
 them; but still they were next to each other, and they felt 
 embarrassed, for they felt alone. 
 
 "Do you never play?" asked Madame de Ventadour, after 
 a pause. 
 
 "I have played," said Maltravers, "and I know the temp- 
 
»» ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 tation; I dare not play now. I love the excitement, but I 
 have been humbled at the debasement, — it is a moral drunk- 
 enness that is worse than the physical." 
 
 ** You speak warmly." 
 
 " Because I feel keenly. I once won of a man I respected, 
 who was poor. His agony was a dreadful lesson to me. I 
 went home, and was terrified to think I had felt so much 
 pleasure in the pain of another. I have never played since 
 that night." 
 
 "So young and so resolute! " said Valerie, with admiration 
 in her voice and eyes; "you are a strange person. Others 
 would have been cured by losing, — you were cured by win- 
 ning. It is a fine thing to have principle at your age, Mr. 
 Maltravers." 
 
 "I fear it was rather pride than principle," said Maltravers. 
 "Error is sometimes sweet; but there is no anguish like an 
 error of which we feel ashamed. I cannot submit to blush 
 for myself." 
 
 "Ah!" muttered Valerie, "this is the echo of my own 
 heart!" She rose and went to the window. Maltravers 
 paused a moment, and followed her. Perhaps he half thought 
 there was an invitation in the movement. 
 
 There lay before them the still street, with its feeble and 
 unfrequent lights; beyond, a few stars, struggling through 
 an atmosphere unusually clouded, brought the murmuring 
 ocean partially into sight. Valerie leaned against the wall, 
 and the draperies of the window veiled her from all the 
 guests save Maltravers; and between her and himself was a 
 large marble vase filled Avith flowers; and by that uncertain 
 light Valerie's brilliant cheek looked pale and soft and 
 thoughtful. Maltravers never before felt so much in love 
 with the beautiful Frenchwoman. 
 
 "Ah, Madame!" said he, softly, "there is one error, if it 
 be so, that never can cost me shame." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Valerie, with an unaffected start, for she 
 was not aware he was so near her. As she spoke, she began 
 plucking (it is a woman's common trick) the flowers from the 
 vase between her and Ernest. That small, delicate, almost 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 89 
 
 transi)arent hand! Maltravers gazed upon the hand, then on 
 the countenance, then on the hand again. The scene swam 
 before him, and invokmtarily and as by an irresistible im- 
 pulse, the next moment that hand was in his own. 
 
 "Pardon me, pardon me," said he, falteringly; "but that 
 error is in the feelings that I know for you." 
 
 Valerie lifted on him her large and radiant eyes, and made 
 no answer. 
 
 Maltravers went on. " Chide me, scorn me, hate me if you 
 will, — Valerie, 1 love you." 
 
 Valerie drew away her hand, and still remained silent. 
 
 "Speak to me," said Ernest, leaning forward, — "one word, 
 I implore you ; speak to me ! " 
 
 He paused, — still no reply; he listened breathlessly, — he 
 heard her sob. Yes, that proud, that wise, that lofty woman 
 of the world in that moment was as weak as the simplest girl 
 that ever listened to a lover. But how different the feelings 
 that made her weak ; what soft and what stern emotions were 
 blent together! 
 
 "Mr. Maltravers," she said, recovering her voice, though it 
 sounded hollow, yet almost unnaturally firm and clear, "the 
 die is cast, and I have lost forever the friend for whose hap- 
 piness I cannot live, but for whose welfare I would have died; 
 I should have foreseen this, but I was blind. No more, no 
 more ; see me to-morrow, and leave me now ! " 
 
 " But, Valerie — " 
 
 "Ernest Maltravers," said she, laying her hand lightly on 
 his own, ^^ there is no anguish like an error of which we feel 
 ashamed ! " 
 
 Before he could reply to this citation from his own aphor- 
 ism, Valerie had glided away, and was already seated at the 
 card-table by the side of the Italian princess. 
 
 Maltravers also joined the group. He fixed his eyes on 
 Madame de Ventadour, but her face was calm, — not a trace 
 of emotion was discernible. Her voice, her smile, her charm- 
 ing and courtly manner, all were as when he first beheld her. 
 
 " These women, what hypocrites they are ! " muttered Mal- 
 travers to himself; and his lip writhed into a sneer which 
 
90 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 had of late often forced away the serene and gracious expres' 
 sion of his earlier years, ere he knew what it was to despise. 
 But Maltravers mistook the woman he dared to scorn. 
 
 He soon withdrew from the palazzo and sought his hotel. 
 There, while yet musing in his dressing-room, he was joined 
 by Ferrers. The time had passed when Ferrers had exercised 
 an influence over Maltravers ; the boy had grown up to be the 
 equal of the man in the exercise of that two-edged sword, — 
 the reason. And Maltravers now felt, unalloyed, the calm 
 consciousness of his superior genius. He could not confide to 
 Ferrers what had passed between him and Valerie. Luniley 
 was too hard for a confidant in matters where the heart was 
 at all concerned. In fact, in high spirits, and in the midst 
 of frivolous adventures, Ferrers was charming; but in sad- 
 ness, or in the moments of deep feeling, Ferrers was one 
 whom you would wish out of the way. 
 
 "You are sullen to-night, mo7i cher,'^ said Lumley, yawn- 
 ing; "I suppose you want to go to bed. Some persons are so 
 ill-bred, so selfish, they never think of their friends. Kobody 
 asks me what I won at &carU. Don't be late to-morrow, — I 
 hate breakfasting alone, and / am never later than a quarter 
 before nine; I hate egotistical, ill-mannered people. Good- 
 night!" 
 
 With this, Ferrers sought his own room ; there, as he slowly 
 undressed, he thus soliloquized : " I think I have put this man 
 to all the use I can make of him. We don't pull well to- 
 gether any longer, — perhaps I myself am a little tired of this 
 sort of life. That is not right. I shall grow ambitious by 
 and by; but I think it a bad calculation not to make the 
 most of youth. At four or five and thirty it will be time 
 enough to consider what one ought to be at fifty." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 91 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 Most Jaugeruus 
 Is that temptation that does goad us on 
 To sin in loving virtue. — JJeasure for Measure. 
 
 "See her to-morrow, — that morrow is come!" thought 
 Maltravers, as he rose the next day from a sleepless couch. 
 Ere yet he had obeyed the impatient summons of Ferrers, 
 who had thrice sent to say that he never kept people wait- 
 ing, his servant entered with a packet from England that 
 had just arrived by one of those rare couriers who sometimes 
 honour that Naples which might be so lucrative a mart to 
 English commerce if ISTeapolitan kings cared for trade, or 
 English senators for "foreign politics." Letters from stew- 
 ards and bankers were soon got through, and Maltravers re- 
 served for the last an epistle from Cleveland. There was 
 much in it that touched him home. After some dry details 
 about the property to which Maltravers had now succeeded, 
 and some trifling comments upon trifling remarks in Ernest's 
 former letters, Cleveland went on thus : — 
 
 I confess, my dear Ernest, that I long to welcome you back to Eng- 
 land. You have been abroad long enough to see other countries ; do not 
 stay long enough to prefer them to your own. You are at Xaples, too, 
 — I tremble for you. I know well that delicious, dreaming, holiday-life 
 of Italy, so sweet to men of learning and imagination, so sweet, too, to 
 youth, so sweet to pleasure ! But, Ernest, do you not feel already how 
 it enervates ; how the luxurious far nienle unfits us for grave exertion? 
 Men may become too refined and too fastidious for useful purposes; and 
 nowhere can they become so more rapidly than in Italy. My dear 
 Ernest, I know you well ; you are not made to sink down into a vir- 
 tuoso, with a cabinet full of cameos and a head full of pictures, still less 
 are you made to be an indolent cicesheo to some fair Italian, with one 
 passion and two ideas. And yet I have known men as clever as you 
 whom that bewitching Italy has sunk into one or other of these insig- 
 
92 ERNEST MALTR AVERS. 
 
 nificant beings. Don't run away with the notion that you have plenty 
 of time before you. You have no such thing. At your age, and with 
 your fortune (I wish you were not so rich !), the boHday of one year 
 becomes the custom of the next. In England, to be a useful or a dis- 
 tinguished man, you must labour. Now, labour itself is sweet, if we 
 take to it early. We are a hard race, but we are a manly one ; and our 
 stage is the most exciting in Europe for an able and an honest ambition. 
 Perhaps you will tell me you are not ambitious now. Very possibly ; 
 but ambitious you will be ; and, believe me, there is no unhappier wretch 
 than a man who is ambitious but disappointed, — who has the desire for 
 fame, but has lost the power to achieve it ; who longs for the goal, but 
 will not and cannot put away his slippei-s to walk to it. What I most 
 fear for you is one of these two evils, — an early marriage, or a fatal 
 liaison with some married woman. The first evil is certainly the least ; 
 but for you it would still be a great one. With your sensitive romance, 
 with your morbid cravings for the ideal, domestic happiness would sooa 
 grow trite and dull. You would demand new excitement, and become a 
 restless and disgusted man. It is necessary for you to get rid of all the 
 false fever of life before you settle down to everlasting ties. You do not 
 yet know your own mind ; you would choose your partner from some 
 visionary caprice or momentary impulse, and not from the deep and ac- 
 curate knowledge of those qualities which would most harmonize with 
 your own character. People to live happily with each other must Jit 
 in, as it were, — the proud be mated with the meek, the irritable with 
 the gentle, and so forth. No, my dear Maltravers, do not think of mar- 
 riage yet a while ; and if there is any danger of it, come over to me im- 
 mediately. But if I warn you against a lawful tie, how much more 
 against an illicit one I You are precisely at the age and of the dispo- 
 sition which render the temptation so strong and so deadly. With you 
 it might not be the sin of an hour, but the bondage of a life. I know 
 your chivalric honour, your tender heart ; T know how faithful you 
 would be to one who had sacrificed for you. But that fidelity, Maltra- 
 vers, to what a life of wasted talent and energies would it not compel 
 you ! Putting aside for the moment (for that needs no comment) the 
 question of the grand immorality, what so fatal to a bold and proud 
 temper as to be at war with society at the first entrance into life ! What 
 so withering to manly aims and purposes as the giving into the keeping 
 of a woman who has interest in your love and interest against your 
 career, which might part you at once from her side, the control of your 
 future destinies ! I could say more ; but I trust what I have said is 
 superfluous, — if so, pray assure me of it. Depend upon this, Ernest 
 Maltravers, that Lf you do not fulfil what nature intended for your fate, 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 93 
 
 you ■will be a morbid misanthrope or an indolent voluptuary, — wretched 
 and listless in manhood, repining and joyless in old age. But if you do 
 fulfil your fate, you must enter soon into your apprenticeship. Let me 
 see you labour and aspire, — no matter what in, — what to. Work, 
 work ; that is all I ask of you ! 
 
 I wish you could see your old country-house , it has a venerable and 
 picturesque look, and during your minority they have let the ivy cover 
 three sides of it. INIontaigne might have lived there. 
 
 Adieu, dearest Ernest. 
 
 Your anxious and affectionate guardian, 
 
 Frederick Cleveland. 
 
 P. S. I am writing a book, — it shall last me ten years ; it occupies 
 me, but does not faiigue. Write a book yourself. 
 
 Maltravers had just finished this letter when Ferrers en- 
 tered impatiently. "Will you ride out?" said he. "I have 
 sent the breakfast away. I saw that breakfast was a vain 
 hope to-day, — indeed, mij appetite is gone." 
 
 "Pshaw! " said Maltravers. 
 
 "Pshaw! Humph! for my part I like well-bred people." 
 
 "I have had a letter from Cleveland." 
 
 "And what the deuce has that got to do with the chocolate? " 
 
 "Oh, Lumley, you are insufferable! You think of nothing 
 but yourself; and self with you means nothing that is not 
 animal." 
 
 "Why, yes, I believe I have some sense," replied Ferrers, 
 complacently. "I know the philosophy of life. All un- 
 fledged bipeds are animals, I suppose. If Providence had 
 made me graminivorous, I should have eaten grass; if rum- 
 inating, I should have chewed the cud; but as it has made 
 me a carniverous, culinary, and eachinnatory animal, I eat a 
 cutlet, scold about the sauce, and laugh at you, — and this is 
 what yoii call being selfish ! " 
 
 It was late at noon when INIaltravers found himself at the 
 palazzo of Madame de Ventadour. He was surprised, but 
 agreeably so, that he was admitted, for the first time, into 
 that private sanctum which bears the hackneyed title of bou- 
 doir. But there was little enough of the fine lady's boudoir 
 
94 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 in the simple morning-room of Madame de Ventadour. It 
 ■was a lofty apartment, stored with books, and furnished, not 
 without claim to grace, but with very small attention to 
 luxury. 
 
 Valerie was not there, and Maltravers, left alone, after a 
 hasty glance around the chamber leaned abstractedly against 
 the wall, and forgot, alas! all the admonitions of Cleveland. 
 In a few moments the door opened, and Valerie entered. 
 She was unusually pale, and Maltravers thought her eyelids 
 betrayed the traces of tears. He was touched, and his heart 
 smote him. 
 
 "I have kept you waiting, I fear," said Valerie, motioning 
 him to a seat at a little distance from that on which she 
 placed herself; "but you will forgive me," she added, with a 
 slight smile. Then, observing he was about to speak, she 
 went on rapidly: "Hear me, Mr. Maltravers — before you 
 speak, hear me! You uttered words last night that ought 
 never to have been addressed to me. You professed to — 
 love me." 
 
 "Professed!" 
 
 "Answer me," said Valerie, with abrupt energy, — "not as 
 man to woman, but as one human creature to another. From 
 the bottom of your heart, from the core of your conscience, I 
 call on you to speak the honest and the simple truth. Do you 
 love me as your heart, your genius, must be capable of 
 loving? " 
 
 "I love you truly, passionately!" said Maltravers, sur- 
 prised and confused, but still with enthusiasm in his musical 
 voice and earnest eyes. Valerie gazed upon him as if she 
 sought to penetrate into his soul. Maltravers went on. 
 "Yes, Valerie, when we first met, you aroused a long dor- 
 mant and delicious sentiment. But since then, what deep 
 emotions has that sentiment called forth? Your graceful in- 
 tellect, your lovely thoughts, wise, yet womanly, have com- 
 pleted the conquest your face and voice began. Valerie, I 
 love you. And you — you, Valerie — ah ! I do not deceive 
 myself — you also — " 
 
 "Love!" interrupted Valerie, deeply blushing, but in a 
 
. ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 95 
 
 calm voice. "Ernest IMaltravers, I do not deny it; honestly 
 and frankly I confess the fault. I have examined my heart 
 during the whole of the last sleepless night, and I confess 
 that I love you. Now, then, understand me, — we meet no 
 more." 
 
 "What!" said Maltravers, falling involuntarily at her feet, 
 and seeking to detain her hand, which he seized. "What! 
 now, when you have given life a new charm, will you as sud- 
 denly blast it? No, Valerie, no; I will not listen to you." 
 
 Madame de Ventadour rose and said, with a cold dignity : 
 " Hear me calmly, or I quit the room, and all I would now 
 say rests forever unspoken." 
 
 Maltravers rose also, folded his arms haughtily, bit his lip, 
 and stood erect, and confronting Valerie rather in the attitude 
 of an accuser than a suppliant. 
 
 "Madame," said he, gravely, "I will offend no more; I will 
 trust to your manner, since I may not believe your words." 
 
 "You are cruel," said Valerie, smiling mournfully; "but 
 so are all men. Now let me make myself understood. I was 
 betrothed to M. de Ventadour in my childhood. I did not see 
 him till a month before we married. I had no choice; French 
 girls have none. We were wed. I had formed no other 
 attachment. I was proud and vain; wealth, ambition, and 
 social rank for a time satisfied my faculties and ray heart. 
 At length I grew restless and unhappy. I felt that something 
 of life was wanting. M. de Ventadour's sister was the first 
 to recommend me to the common resource of our sex, at least, 
 in France, — a lover. I was shocked and startled, for I belong 
 to a family in which women are chaste and men brave. I 
 began, however, to look around me and examine the truth of 
 the philosophy of vice. I found that no woman who loved 
 honestly and deepl}'' an illicit lover was happy. I found, 
 too, the hideous profundity of Rochefoucauld's maxim that a 
 woman — I speak of French women — may live without a 
 lover; but, a lover once admitted, she never goes through life 
 with only one. She is deserted; she cannot bear the anguish 
 and the solitude; she fills up the void with a second idol. 
 For her there is no longer a fall from virtue, — it is a gliding 
 
96 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 and involuntary descent from sin to sin, till old age comes on 
 and leaves her without love and without respect. I reasoned 
 calmly, for my passions did not blind my reason. I could 
 not love the egotists around me. I resolved upon my career; 
 and now, in temptation, I will adhere to it. Virtue is my 
 lover, my pride, my comfort, my life of life. Do you love 
 me, and will you rob me of this treasure? I saw you, and 
 for the first time I felt a vague and intoxicating interest in 
 another ; but I did not dream of danger. As our acquaintance 
 advanced, I formed to myself a romantic and delightful vi- 
 sion. I would be your firmest, your truest friend; your con- 
 fidant, your adviser, — perhaps, in some epochs of life, your 
 inspiration and your guide. I repeat that I foresaw no dan- 
 ger in your society. I felt myself a nobler and a better being. 
 I felt more benevolent, more tolerant, more exalted. I saw 
 life through the medium of purifying admiration for a gifted 
 nature and a profound and generous soul. I fancied we might 
 be ever thus, each to each, — one strengthened, assured, sup- 
 ported, by the other. Nay, I even contemplated with pleas- 
 ure the prospect of your future marriage with another, — of 
 loving your wife; of contributing, with her, to your happi- 
 ness: my imagination made me forget that we are made of 
 clay. Suddenly all these visions were dispelled, the fairy 
 palace was overthrown, and I found myself awake and on the 
 brink of the abyss. You loved me, and in the moment of 
 that fatal confession the mask dropped from my soul, and I 
 felt that you had become too dear to me. Be silent still, I 
 implore you. I do not tell you of the emotions, of the strug- 
 gles, through which I have passed the last few hours, — the 
 crisis of a life. I tell you only of the resolution 1 formed. 
 I thought it due to you, nor unworthy to myself, to speak 
 the truth. Perhaps it might be more womanly to conceal it; 
 but my heart has something masculine in its nature. I have 
 a great faith in your nobleness. 1 believe you can sympathize 
 with whatever is best in human weakness. I tell you that I 
 love you; I throw myself upon your generosity. I beseech 
 you to assist my own sense of right, to think well of me, to 
 honour me, and to leave me! " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 97 
 
 During the last part of this strange and frank avowal, 
 Valerie's voice had grown inexpressibly touching; her ten- 
 derness forced itself into her manner; and when she ceased, 
 her lip quivered; her tears, repressed by a violent effort, 
 trembled in her eyes, her hands were clasped, her attitude 
 was that of humility, not pride. 
 
 Maltravers stood perfectly spell- bound. At length he ad- 
 vanced, dropped on one knee, kissed her hand with an aspect 
 and air of reverential homage, and turned to quit the room 
 in silence; for he would not dare to trust himself to speak. 
 
 Valerie gazed at him in anxious alarm. "Oh, no, no! " she 
 exclaimed, "do not leave me yet; this is our last meeting, 
 — our last. Tell me at least that you understand me, that 
 you see, if I am no weak fool, I am also no heartless coquette; 
 tell me that you see I am not as hard as I have seemed; that 
 I have not knowingly trifled with your happiness; that even 
 now 1 am not selfish. Your love — I ask it no more; but 
 your esteem, your good opinion. Oh, speak, speak, I implore 
 you!" 
 
 " Valerie," said Maltravers, "if I was silent, it was because 
 my heart was too full for words. You have raised all woman- 
 hood in my eyes. I did love you, — I now venerate and adore. 
 Your noble frankness, so unlike the irresolute frailty, the 
 miserable wiles of your sex, has touched a chord in my heart 
 that has been mute for years. I leave you to think better of 
 human nature. Oh!" he continued, "hasten to forget all of 
 me that can cost you a pang. Let me still, in absence and in 
 sadness, think that I retain in your friendship — let it be 
 friendship only — the inspiration, the guide of which you 
 spoke; and if, hereafter, men shall name me with praise and 
 honour, feel, Valerie, feel that I have comforted myself for 
 the loss of your love by becoming worthy of your confidence, 
 your esteem. Oh that we had met earlier, when no barrier 
 was between us ! " 
 
 "Go, go, now," faltered Valerie, almost choked with her 
 emotions ; " may Heaven bless you ! Go ! " 
 
 Maltravers muttered a few inaudible and incoherent words, 
 and quitted the apartment. 
 
 7 
 
98 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The men of sense, those idols of the shallo^v, are very inferior to the men 
 of Passions. It is the strong passions which, rescuing us from sloth, can alone 
 impart to us that continuous and earnest attention necessary to great intel- 
 lectual efforts. — Helvetids. 
 
 When Ferrers returned that day from his customary ride, 
 he was surprised to see the lobbies and hall of the apartment 
 which he occupied in common with Maltravers, littered with 
 bags and malles, boxes and books, and Ernest's Swiss valet 
 directing porters and waiters in a mosaic of French, English, 
 and Italian. 
 
 "Well!" said Lumley, "and what is all this?" 
 
 " II signore va partir, sare, ah, mon Dieu ! — tout of a 
 sudden." 
 
 "0 — h! and where is he now?" 
 
 "In his room, sare." 
 
 Over the chaos strode Ferrers, and opening the door of his 
 friend's dressing-room without ceremony, he saw Maltravers 
 buried in a fauteuil, with his hands drooping on his knees, 
 his head bent over his breast, and his whole attitude expres- 
 sive of dejection and exhaustion. 
 
 " What is the matter, my dear Ernest? You have not 
 killed a man in a duel?" 
 
 '*No." 
 
 "What then? Why are you going away, and whither?" 
 
 "No matter; leave me in peace." 
 
 "Friendly!" said Ferrers; "very friendly! And what is 
 to become of me, — what companion am 1 to have in this 
 cursed resort of antiquarians and lazzaroni? You have no 
 feeling, Mr. Maltravers!" 
 
 "Will you come with me, then?" said Maltravers, in vain 
 endeavouring to rouse himself. 
 
 "But where are you going?" 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 99 
 
 "Anywhere, — to Paris, to London." 
 
 "No J 1 have arranged my plans for the summer. I am not 
 so rich as some people. I hate change j it is so expensive." 
 
 " But, my dear fellow — " 
 
 "Is this fair dealing with me?" continued Lumley, who, 
 for once in his life, was really angry. "If 1 were an old coat 
 you had worn for five years you could not throw me off with 
 more nonchalance.'^ 
 
 "Ferrers, forgive me. My honour is concerned. I must 
 leave this place. I trust you will remain my guest here, 
 though in the absence of your host. You know that I have 
 engaged the apartments for the next three months." 
 
 "Humph! " said Ferrers, "as that is the case I may as well 
 stay here. But why so secret? Have you seduced Madame 
 de Ventadour, or has her wise husband his suspicions? Bein, 
 hein ! " 
 
 Maltravers smothered his disgust at this coarseness; and 
 perhaps there is no greater trial of temper than in a he 
 friend's gross remarks upon the connections of the heart. 
 
 "Ferrers," said he, "if you care for me, breathe not a word 
 disrespectful to Madame de Ventadour; she is an angel! " 
 
 "But why leave Naples?" 
 
 "Trouble me no more." 
 
 "Good day, sir," said Ferrers, highly offended, and he 
 stalked out of the chamber; nor did Ernest see him again 
 before his departure. 
 
 It was late that evening when Maltravers found himself 
 alone in his carriage, pursuing by starlight the ancient and 
 melancholy road to Mola di Gaeta. 
 
 His solitude was a luxury to Maltravers; he felt an inex- 
 pressible sense of relief to be freed from Ferrers. The hard 
 sense, the un pliant, though humorous, imperiousness, the 
 animal sensuality of his companion would have been a tor- 
 ture to him in his present state of mind. 
 
 The next morning, when he rose, the orange-blossoms of 
 Mola di Gaeta were sweet beneath the window of the inn 
 where he rested. It was now the early spring, and the 
 freshness of the odour, the breathing health of earth and air, 
 
100 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 it is impossible to describe. Italy itself boasts few spots 
 more lovely than that same Mola di Gaeta, nor does that hal- 
 cyon sea wear, even at Naples or Sorrento, a more bland and 
 enchanting smile. 
 
 So, after a hasty and scarcely tasted breakfast, Maltravers 
 strolled through the orange groves and gained the beach; 
 and there, stretched at idle length by the murmuring waves, 
 he resigned himself to thought, and endeavoured, for the first 
 time since his parting with Valerie, to collect and examine 
 the state of his mind and feelings. Maltravers, to his own 
 surprise, did not find himself so unhappy as he had expected. 
 On the contrary, a soft and almost delicious sentiment, which 
 he could not well define, floated over all his memories of the 
 beautiful Frenchwoman. Perhaps the secret was that while 
 his pride was not mortified, his conscience was not galled; 
 perhaps, also, he had not loved Valerie so deeply as he had 
 imagined. The confession and the separation had happily 
 come before her presence had grown the want of a life. As 
 it was, he felt as if, by some holy and mystic sacrifice, he had 
 been made reconciled to himself and mankind. He woke to 
 a juster and higher appreciation of human nature, and of 
 woman's nature in especial. He had found honesty and 
 truth where he might least have expected it, — in a woman 
 of a court, in a woman surrounded by vicious and frivolous 
 circles; in a woman who had nothing in the opinion of her 
 friends, her country, her own husband, the social system in 
 which she moved, to keep her from the concessions of frailty; 
 in a woman of the world, a woman of Paris ! Yes, it was his 
 very disappointment that drove away the fogs and vapours 
 that, arising from the marshes of the great world, had gradu- 
 ally settled round his soul. Valerie de Ventadour had taught 
 him not to despise her sex, not to judge by appearances, not 
 to sicken of a low and a hypocritical world. He looked in his 
 heart for the love of Valerie, and he found there the love of 
 virtue. Thus, as he turned his eyes inward, did he gradually 
 awaken to a sense of the true impressions engraved there. 
 And he felt the bitterest drop of the deep fountains was not 
 sorrow for himself, but for her. What pangs must that high 
 
EnXEST MALTRAVERS. 101 
 
 spirit have endured ere it could have submitted to the avowal 
 it had made ! Yet, even in this attiiction, he found at last a 
 solace. A mind so strong could support and heal the weakness 
 of the heart. He felt that Valerie de Ventadour was not a 
 woman to pine away in the unresisted indulgence of morbid 
 and unholy emotions. He could not flatter himself that she 
 would not seek to eradicate a love she repented; and he sighed 
 with a natural selfishness when he owned also that sooner or 
 later she would succeed. "But be it so," said he, half aloud, 
 — "I will prepare my heart to rejoice when I learn that she 
 remembers me only as a friend. Next to the bliss of her 
 love is the pride of her esteem." 
 
 Such was the sentiment with which his reveries closed; 
 and with every league that bore him farther from the South, 
 the sentiment grew strengthened and confirmed. 
 
 Ernest Maltravers felt that there is in the affections them- 
 selves so much to purify and exalt that even an erring love, 
 conceived without a cold design, and (when its nature is 
 fairly understood) wrestled against with a noble spirit, leaves 
 the heart more tolerant and tender, and the mind more set- 
 tled and enlarged. The philosophy limited to the reason puts 
 into motion the automata of the closet ; but to those who have 
 the world for a stage, and who find their hearts are the great 
 actors, experience and wisdom must be wrought from the 
 Philosophy of the Passions. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 'fi 'TroAXaiy ov navrl (paeiverai, . . . 
 Os I.UV tSj), ixiyas ovtos. 
 
 Callimachus : Ex Hymno in ApoUinar. 
 
 " Not to all men Apollo shows himself ; 
 Who sees him, — he is great ! " 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Here will we sit and let the sounds of music 
 Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night 
 Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
 
 Shakspeaee. 
 
 BOAT SONG ON THE LAKE OF COMO. 
 
 The Beautiful Clime ! the Clime of Love ! 
 
 Thou beautiful Italy ! 
 Like a mother's eyes, the earnest skies 
 
 Ever have smiles for thee ! 
 Not a flower that blows, not a beam that glows, 
 
 But what is in love with thee ! 
 
 The beautiful lake, the Larian lake ! ^ 
 
 Soft lake like a silver sea ; 
 The Huntress Queen, with her nymphs of sheen. 
 
 Never had bath like thee. 
 See, the Lady of night and her maids of light 
 
 Even now are mid-deep in thee ! 
 
 1 The ancient name for Como. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 103 
 
 Beautiful child of the lonely hills, 
 
 Ever blest may thy slumbers be ! 
 No mouruer should tread by thy dreamy bed, 
 
 No life bring a care to thee, — 
 Nay, soft to thy bed let the mourner tread. 
 
 And life be a dream like thee ! 
 
 Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now 
 imperfectly translated, — such were the notes that floated one 
 lovely evening in summer along the lake of Como. The boat, 
 from which came the song, drifted gently down the sparkling 
 waters towards the mossy banks of a lawn whence on a little 
 eminence gleamed the white walls of a villa backed by vine- 
 yards. On that lawn stood a young and handsome woman 
 leaning on the arm of her husband and listening to the 
 song. But her delight was soon deepened into one of more 
 personal interest as the boatmen, nearing the banks, changed 
 their measure, and she felt that the minstrelsy was in honour 
 of herself. 
 
 SERENADE TO THE SONGSTRESS. 
 
 Choecs. 
 
 Softly, oh ! soft, let us rest on the oar, 
 
 And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore ; 
 
 For sacred the spot where the starry waves meet 
 
 With the beach, where the breath of the citron is sweet. 
 
 There 's a spell on the waves that now waft us along 
 
 To the last of our Muses, — the Spirit of Song. 
 
 Recitative. 
 
 The Eagle of old renown, 
 
 And the Lombard's iron crown 
 And Milan's mighty name are ours no more ; 
 
 But by this glassy water, 
 
 Ilarmonia's youngest daughter 
 Still from the lightning saves one laurel to our shore. 
 
104 ER^'EST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 They heard thee, Teresa, the Teuton, the Gaul, 
 
 Who have raised the rude thrones of the North on our fall, — 
 
 They heard thee, and bowed to the might of thy song. 
 
 Lili.e love went thy steps o'er the hearts of the strongs 
 
 As the moou to the air, as the soul to the clay. 
 
 To the void of this earth was the breath of thy lay. 
 
 Eecitative. 
 
 Honour for aye to her. 
 
 The bright interpreter 
 Of Art's great mysteries to the enchanted throng ! 
 
 While tyrants heard thy strains, 
 
 Sad Rome forgot her chains ; 
 The world the sword had lost was conquered back by song ! 
 
 " Thou repentest, my Teresa, that thou hast renounced thy 
 dazzling career for a dull home and a husband old enough to 
 be thy father," said the husband to the wife, with a smile 
 that spoke confidence in the answer. 
 
 "Ah, no! even its homage would have no music to me if 
 thou didst not hear it." 
 
 She was a celebrated personage in Italy, — the Signora 
 Cesarini, now Madame de Montaigne. Her earlier 3'outh had 
 been spent upon the stage, and her promise of vocal excellence 
 had been most brilliant. But after a brief though splendid 
 career she married a French gentleman of good birth and 
 fortune, retired from the stage, and spent her life alternately 
 in the gay saloons of Paris and upon the banks of the dreamy 
 Como, on which her husband had purchased a small but beau- 
 tiful villa. She still, however, exercised in private her fas- 
 cinating art; to which — for she was a woman of singular 
 accomplishment and talent — she added the gift of the 
 improvvisatrice. She had just returned for the summer to 
 this lovely retreat, and a party of enthusiastic youths from 
 Milan had sought the lake of Como to welcome her arrival 
 with the suitable homage of song and music. It is a charm- 
 ing relic, that custom of the brighter days of Italy; and I 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 105 
 
 myself have listened, on the still waters of the same lake, to 
 a similar greeting to a greater genius, — the queeu-like and 
 unrivalled Pasta, the Semiramis of Song! And while my 
 boat paused, and I caught something of the enthusiasm of the 
 serenaders, the boatman touched me, and pointing to a part 
 of the lake on which the setting sun shed its rosiest smile, 
 he said, "There, Signor, was drowned one of your country- 
 men, — 'bellissimo uomo! che fu bello! '" Yes, there, in the 
 pride of his promising youth, of his noble and almost godlike 
 beauty, before the very windows, the very eyes, of his bride, 
 the waves, without a frown, had swept over the idol of many 
 hearts, — the graceful and gallant Locke,' And above his 
 grave was the voluptuous sky, and over it floated the trium- 
 phant music. It was as the moral of the Eoman poets, — 
 calling the living to a holiday over the oblivion of the dead. 
 
 As the boat now touched the bank, Madame de Montaigne 
 accosted the musicians, thanked them with a sweet and un- 
 affected earnestness for the compliment so delicately offered, 
 and invited them ashore. The Milanese, who were six in 
 number, accepted the invitation, and moored their boat to the 
 jutting shore. It was then that M. de Montaigne pointed 
 out to the notice of his wife a boat, that had lingered under 
 the shadow of a bank, tenanted by a young man, who had 
 seemed to listen with rapt attention to the music, and who 
 had once joined in the chorus (as it was twice repeated) with 
 a voice so exquisitely attuned and so rich in its deep power 
 that it had awakened the admiration even of the serenaders 
 themselves. 
 
 "Does not that gentleman belong to your party?" De Mon- 
 taigne asked of the Milanese. 
 
 ^ Captain William Locke, of the Life Guards (the onl}' son of the accom- 
 plished Mr Locke, of Norbury Park), distiuguished by a character the most 
 amiable, and by a personal beauty tliat certainly equalled, perhaps surpassed, 
 the highest masterpiece of Grecian sculpture. He was returning in a boat 
 from the town of Como to his villa, on the banks of the lake, when the boat 
 was upset by one of the mysterious under-currcnts to which the lake is danger- 
 ously subjected, and he was drowned in sight of his bride, who was watching 
 his return from the terrace, or balcony, of their home. 
 
106 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "No, Signer, we know him not," was the answer; "his 
 boat came unawares upon us as we were singing." 
 
 While this question and answer were going on, the young 
 man had quitted his station, and his oars cut the glassy sur- 
 face of the lake just before the place where De Montaigne 
 stood. With the courtesy of his country, the Frenchman 
 lifted his hat, and by his gesture arrested the eye and oar of 
 the solitary rower. "Will you honour us," he said, "by 
 joining our little party?" 
 
 "It is a pleasure I covet too much to refuse," replied the 
 boatman, witn a slight foreign accent; and in another moment 
 he was on shore. He was one of remarkable appearance. 
 His long hair floated with a careless grace over a brow more 
 calm and thoughtful than became his years; his manner was 
 unusually quiet and self-collected, and not without a certain 
 stateliness, rendered more striking by the height of his stat- 
 ure, a lordly contour of feature, and a serene but settled ex- 
 pression of melancholy in his eyes and smile. "You will 
 easily believe," said he, "that, cold as my countrymen are 
 esteemed (for you must have discovered already that I am an 
 Englishman), I could not but share in the enthusiasm of those 
 about me when loitering near the very ground sacred to the 
 inspiration. For the rest, I am residing for the present in 
 yonder villa, opposite to your own; my name is Maltravers; 
 and I am enchanted to think that I am no longer a personal 
 stranger to one whose fame has already reached me." Ma- 
 dame de Montaigne was flattered by something in the manner 
 and tone of the Englishman, which said a great deal more 
 than his words; and in a few minutes, beneath the influence 
 of the happy Continental ease, the whole party seemed as if 
 they had known each other for years. Wines and fruits and 
 other simple and unpretending refreshments were brought out 
 and arranged on a rude table upon the grass, round wliich the 
 guests seated themselves with their host and hostess, and the 
 clear moon shone over them, and the lake slept below in sil- 
 ver. It was a scene for a Boccaccio or a Claude. 
 
 The conversation naturally fell upon music; it is almost 
 the only thing which Italians in general can be said to know, 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 107 
 
 — and even that knowledge comes to them, like Dogberry's 
 reading and writing, by nature, — for of music as an art the 
 unprofessional amateurs know but little. As vain and arro- 
 gant of the last wreck of their national genius as the Romans 
 of old were of the empire of all arts and arms, they look upon 
 the harmonies of other lands as barbarous} nor can they ap- 
 preciate or understand appreciation of the mighty German 
 music, which is the proper minstrelsy of a nation of vie^i, — a 
 music of philosophy, of heroism, of the intellect and the im- 
 agination, beside which the strains of modern Italy are indeed 
 effeminate, fantastic, and artificially feeble. Rossini is the 
 Canova of music, with much of the pretty, with nothing of 
 the grand. 
 
 The little party talked, however, of music with an anima- 
 tion and gusto that charmed the melancholy Maltravers, 
 who for weeks had known no companion save his own thoughts, 
 and with whom, at all times, enthusiasm for any art found 
 a ready sympathy. He listened attentively, but said little; 
 and from time to time, whenever the conversation flagged, 
 amused himself by examining his companions. The six 
 Milanese had nothing remarkable in their countenances or in 
 their talk; they possessed the characteristic energy and vol- 
 ubility of their countrymen, with something of the masculine 
 dignity which distinguishes the Lombard from the Southern, 
 and a little of the French polish which the inhabitants of 
 Milan seldom fail to contract. Their rank was evidently that 
 of the middle class; for Milan has a middle class, and one 
 which promises great results hereafter. But they were no- 
 ways distinguished from a thousand other Milanese whom 
 Maltravers had met with in the walks and cafes of their noble 
 city. The host was somewhat more interesting. He was a 
 tall, handsome man, of about eight and forty, with a high 
 forehead, and features strongly impressed with the sober 
 character of thought. He had but little of the French viva- 
 city in his manner; and without looking at his countenance, 
 you would still have felt insensibly that he was the eldest of 
 the party. His wife was at least twenty years younger than 
 himself, mirthful and playful as a child, but with a certain 
 
108 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 feminine and fascinating softness in her unrestrained gestures 
 and sparkling gayety, which seemed to subdue her natural 
 joyousness into the form and method of conventional ele- 
 gance. Dark hair carelessly arranged, an open forehead, 
 large, black, laughing ej^es, a small, straight nose, a com- 
 plexion just relieved from the olive by an evanescent, yet 
 perpetually recurring blush, a round, dimpled cheek, an ex- 
 quisitely-shaped mouth, with small pearly teeth, and a light 
 and delicate figure a little below the ordinary standard, com- 
 pleted the picture of Madame de Montaigne. 
 
 "Well," said Signor Tirabaloschi, the most loquacious and 
 sentimental of the guests, filling his glass, "these are hours 
 to think of for the rest of life. But we cannot hope the 
 Signora will long remember what we never can forget. 
 'Paris,' says the French proverb, 'est le paradis des femmes;' 
 and in Paradise, I take it for granted, we recollect very little 
 of what happened on earth." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Madame de Montaigne, with a pretty, musical 
 laugh, " in Paris it is the rage to despise the frivolous life of 
 cities, and to affect des sentivients romanesques. This is 
 precisely the scene which our fine ladies and fine writers would 
 die to talk of and to describe. Is it not so, Tnon ami?" and 
 she turned affectionately to De Montaigne. 
 
 "True," replied he; "but you are not worthy of such a 
 scene, — you laugh at sentiment and romance." 
 
 " Only at French sentiment and the romance of the Chaussee 
 d'Antin. You English," she continued, shaking her head at 
 Maltravers, "have spoiled and corrupted us; we are not con- 
 tent to imitate you, we must excel you, — we out-horror 
 horror, and rush from the extravagant into the frantic ! " 
 
 " The ferment of the new school is perhaps better than the 
 stagnation of the old," said Maltravers. "Yet even you," 
 addressing himself to the Italians, " who first in Petrarch, in 
 Tasso, and in Ariosto set to Europe the example of the Senti- 
 mental and the Romantic; who built among the very ruins of 
 the classic school, amidst its Corinthian columns and sweep- 
 ing arches, the spires and battlements of the Gothic, — even 
 3'ou are deserting your old models and guiding literature into 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 109 
 
 newer and wilder paths. 'T is the way of the world: eternal 
 progress is eternal change." 
 
 "Very possibly," said Signor Tirabaloschi, who understood 
 nothing of what was said. "Nay, it is extremely profound; 
 on reflection, it is beautiful — superb! you English are so — 
 so; in short, it is admirable. Ugo Foscolo is a great genius, 
 so is Monti; and as for Rossini, you know his last opera, — 
 cosa stiq^enda!" 
 
 Madame de Montaigne glanced at Maltravers, clapped her 
 little hands, and laughed outright. Maltravers caught the 
 contagion, and laughed also. But he hastened to repair the 
 pedantic error he had committed of talking over the heads 
 of the company. He took up the guitar, which, among their 
 musical instruments, the serenaders had brought, and after 
 touching its chords for a few moments, said: "After all, 
 Madame, in your society, and with this moonlit lake l^efore 
 us, we feel as if music were our best medium of conversa- 
 tion. Let us prevail upon these gentlemen to delight us 
 once more." 
 
 "You forestall what I was going to ask," said the ex- 
 singer; and Maltravers offered the guitar to Tirabaloschi, 
 who was, in fact, dying to exhibit his powers again. He 
 took the instrument with a slight grimace of modesty, and 
 then saying to Madame de Montaigne, " There is a song com- 
 posed by a young friend of mine which is much admired by 
 the ladies, though tome it seems a little too sentimental," 
 sang the following stanzas (as good singers are wont to do) 
 with as much feeling as if he could understand them : — 
 
 NIGHT AND LOVE. 
 
 "When the stars are in the quiet skies, 
 
 Then most I pine for thee ; 
 Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes, 
 
 As stars look on the sea ! 
 
 For thoughts, like waves that glide hy night, 
 
 Are stillest where they shine ; 
 Mine earthly love lies hushed in light 
 
 Beneath the heaven of thine. 
 
110 ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 TTiere is an hour when angels keep 
 
 Familiar watch on men, 
 When coarser soals are wrapped in sleep, — 
 
 Sweet spirit, meet me then ! 
 
 There is an hour when holy dreams 
 
 Through slumber fairest glide ; 
 And in that mystic hour it seems 
 
 Thou shoiddst be by my side. 
 
 The thoughts of thee too sacred are 
 
 For daylight's common beam, — 
 I car but know thee as my star, 
 
 My angel, and my dream ! 
 
 And now, the example set and the praises of the fair host- 
 ess exciting general emulation, the guitar circled from hand 
 to hand, and each of the Italians performed his part; you 
 might have fancied yourself at one of the old Greek feasts, 
 with the l^'re and the myrtle-branch going the round. 
 
 But both the Italians and the Englishman felt the enter- 
 tainment would be incomplete without hearing the celebrated 
 vocalist and imiirovvisatrice who presided over the little ban- 
 quet; and Madame de Montaigne, with a woman's tact, di- 
 vined the general wish, and anticipated the request that was 
 sure to be made. She took the guitar from the last singer, 
 and turning to Maltravers, said, " You have heard, of course, 
 some of our more eminent improvvisatori, and therefore if I 
 ask you for a subject, it will only be to prove to you that the 
 talent is not general amongst the Italians." 
 
 "Ah! " said ]Maltravers, "I have heard, indeed, some ugly 
 old gentlemen with immense whiskers, and gestures of the 
 most alarming ferocity, pour out their vehement impromptus; 
 but I have never yet listened to a young and a handsome lady. 
 I shall only believe the inspiration when I hear it direct from 
 the Muse." 
 
 "Well, I will do my best to deserve your compliments; 
 you must give me the theme." 
 
 Maltravers paused a moment, and suggested the Influence 
 of Praise on Genius. 
 
 The improvvisatrlce nodded assent, and after a short pre- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. Ill 
 
 lude broke forth into a wild and varied strain of verse, in a 
 voice so exquisitely sweet, with a taste so accurate, and a 
 feeling so deep, that the poetry sounded to the enchanted lis- 
 teners like the language that Armida might have uttered. 
 Yet the verses themselves, like all extemporaneous effusions, 
 were of a nature both to pass from the memory and to defy 
 transcription. 
 
 When Madame de Montaigne's song ceased, no rapturous 
 plaudits followed, — the Italians were too much affected by 
 the science, Maltravers by the feeling, for the coarseness of 
 ready praise; and ere that delighted silence which made the 
 first impulse was broken, a new-comer, descending from the 
 groves that clothed the ascent behind the house, was in 
 the midst of the party. 
 
 "Ah, my dear brother," cried Madame de Montaigne, start- 
 ing up, and hanging fondly on the arm of the stranger, " why 
 have you lingered so long in the wood, — you, so delicate? 
 And how are you? How pale you seem! " 
 
 " It is but the reflection of the moonlight, Teresa," said the 
 intruder; "I feel well." So saying, he scowled on the merry 
 party, and turned as if to slink away. 
 
 "No, no," whispered Teresa; "you must stay a moment 
 and be presented to my guests. There is an Englishman 
 here whom you will like, who will interest you." With that 
 she almost dragged him forward, and introduced him to her 
 guests. 
 
 Signor Cesarini returned their salutations with a mixture 
 of bashfulness and hatitetir, half -awkward and half-graceful, 
 and muttering some inaudible greeting, sank into a seat and 
 appeared instantly lost in revery. Maltravers gazed upon 
 him, and was pleased with his aspect, which, if not hand- 
 some, was strange and peculiar. He was extremely slight 
 and thin, his cheeks hollow and colourless, with a profusion 
 of black silken ringlets that almost descended to his shoulders. 
 His eyes, deeply sunk into his head, were large and intensely 
 brilliant; and a thin mustache, curling downwards, gave an 
 additional austerity to his mouth, which was closed with 
 gloomy and half-sarcastic firmness. He was not dressed as 
 
112 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 people dress in general, but wore a frock of dark camlet, with 
 a large shirt-collar turned down, and a narrow slip of black 
 silk twisted rather than tied round his throat; his nether 
 garments fitted tight to his limbs, and a pair of half-hessians 
 completed his costume. It was evident that the young man 
 (and he was very young, — perhaps about nineteen or twenty) 
 indulged that coxcombry of the Picturesque which is the sign 
 of a vainer mind than is the commoner coxcombry of the Mode. 
 
 It is astonishing how frequently it happens that the intro- 
 duction of a single intruder upon a social party is sufi&cient 
 to destroy all the familiar harmony that existed there before. 
 We see it even when the intruder is agreeable and communi- 
 cative ; but in the present instance a ghost could scarcely have 
 been a more unwelcoming or unwelcome visitor. The pres- 
 ence of this shy, speechless, supercilious-looking man threw 
 a damp over the whole group. The gay Tirabaloschi immedi- 
 ately discovered that it was time to depart : it had not struck 
 any one before, but it certainly tvas late. The Italians began 
 to bustle about, to collect their music, to make fine speeches 
 and fine professions, to bow and to smile, to scramble into 
 their boat, and to push off towards the inn at Como, where 
 they had engaged their quarters for the night. As the boat 
 glided away, and while two of them were employed at the 
 oar, the remaining four took up their instruments and sang a 
 parting glee. It was quite midnight; the hush of all things 
 around had grown more intense and profound; there was a 
 wonderful might of silence in the shining air and amidst the 
 shadows throv\^n by the near banks and the distant hills over 
 the water; so that as the music chiming in with the oars grew 
 fainter and fainter, it is impossible to describe the thrilling 
 and magical effect it produced. 
 
 The party ashore did not speak; there was a moisture — 
 a grateful one — in the bright eyes of Teresa as she leaned 
 upon the manly form of De Montaigne, for whom her attach- 
 ment was perhaps yet more deep and pure for the difference 
 of their ages. A girl who once loves a man, not indeed old, 
 but mucji older than herself, loves him with such a looking 
 up and venerating love ! Maltravers stood a little apart from 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 113 
 
 the couple, on tlie edge of the shelving bank, with folded 
 arms and thoughtful countenance. "How is it," said he, un- 
 conscious that he was speaking half aloud, " that the common- 
 est beings of the world should be able to give us a pleasure so 
 unworldly? What a contrast between those musicians and 
 this music! At this distance their forms are dimly seen; 
 one might almost fancy the creators of those sweet sounds to 
 be of another mould from us. Perhaps even thus the poetry 
 of the Past rings on our ears, — the deeper and the diviner 
 because removed from the clay which made the poets. Art, 
 Art, how dost thou beautify and exalt us ! What is Nature 
 without thee?" 
 
 "You are a poet, Signor," said a soft, clear voice beside 
 the soliloquist; and Maltravers started to find that he had 
 had, unknowingly, a listener in the young Cesarini. 
 
 "ISI'o," said Maltravers; "I cull the flowers, — I do not cul- 
 tivate the soil." 
 
 "And why not? " said Cesarini, with abrupt energy. "You 
 are an Englishman; you have a public; you have a country; 
 you have a living stage, a breathing audience, — we Italians 
 have nothing but the dead." 
 
 As he looked on the young man, Maltravers was surprised 
 to see the sudden animation which glowed upon his pale 
 features. 
 
 "You asked me a question I would fain put to you," said 
 the Englishman, after a pause. " You, methinks, are a 
 poet?" 
 
 " I have fancied that I might be one. But poetry with us 
 is a bird in the wilderness, — it sings from an impulse; the 
 song dies without a listener. Oh that I belonged to a living 
 country, — France, England, Germany, America, — and not to 
 the corruption of a dead giantess ! — for such is now the land 
 of the ancient lyre." 
 
 "Let us meet again, and soon," said Maltravers, holding 
 out his hand. 
 
 Cesarini hesitated a moment, and then accepted and re- 
 turned the proffered salutation. Reserved as he was, some- 
 thing in Maltravers attracted him, — and, indeed, there was 
 
114 ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 that in Ernest which fascinated most of those unhappy eccen- 
 trics who do not move in the common orbit of the world. 
 
 In a few moments more the Englishman had said farewell 
 to the owner of the villa, and his light boat skimmed rapidly- 
 over the tide. 
 
 "What do you think of the Inglese?" said Madame de 
 Montaigne to her husband as they turned towards the house. 
 (They said not a word about the Milanese.) 
 
 "He has a noble bearing for one so young," said the French- 
 man, "and seems to have seen the world, and both to have 
 profited and to have suffered by it." 
 
 " He will prove an acquisition to our society here, " returned 
 Teresa, — "he interests me. And you, Castruccio?" turning 
 to seek for her brother; but Cesarini had already, with his 
 usual noiseless step, disappeared within the house. 
 
 " Alas, my poor brother ! " she replied, " I cannot compre- 
 hend him. What does he desire? " 
 
 " Fame ! " replied De Montaigne, calmly. " It is a vain 
 shadow, — no wonder that he disquiets himself in vain." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Alas ! what boots it with incessant care 
 To strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? 
 Were it not better done, as others use, 
 To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
 Or with the tangles of Nesera's hair ? 
 
 Milton : Li/cidas. 
 
 There is nothing more salutary to active men than occa- 
 sional intervals of repose, — when we look within, instead of 
 without, and examine almost insenslhhj (for I hold strict and 
 conscious self -scrutiny a thing much rarer than we suspect) 
 what we have done, what we are capable of doing. It is set- 
 tling, as it were, a debtor and creditor account with the past 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 115 
 
 before we plunge into new speculations. Sucli an interval 
 of repose did Maltravers now enjoy. In utter solitude, so far 
 as familiar companionship is concerned, he had for several 
 weeks been making himself acc^uainted with his own charac- 
 ter and mind. He read and thought much, but without any 
 exact or defined object. I think it is Montaigne who says 
 somewhere: "People talk about thinking; but for my part, I 
 never think, except when I sit down to write." I believe 
 this is not a very common case, for people who don't write, 
 think as well as people who do. But connected, severe, well- 
 developed thought, in contradistinction to vague meditation, 
 must be connected with some tangible plan or object; and 
 therefore we must be either writing men or acting men, if we 
 desire to test the logic and unfold into symmetrical design 
 the fused colours of our reasoning faculty. JMaltravers did 
 not yet feel this, but he was sensible of some intellectual 
 want. His ideas, his memories, his dreams crowded thick 
 and confused upon him ; he wished to arrange them in order, 
 and he could not. He was overpowered by the unorganized 
 affluence of his own imagination and intellect. He had often, 
 even as a child, fancied that he was formed to do something 
 in the world; but he had never steadily considered what it 
 was to be, whether he was to become a man of books or a 
 man of deeds. He had written poetry when it poured irre- 
 sistibly from the fount of emotion within, but looked at his 
 effusions with a cold and neglectful eye when the enthusiasm 
 had passed away. 
 
 Maltravers was not much gnawed by the desire of fame, — 
 perhaps few men of real genius are, until artificially worked 
 up to it. There is in a sound and correct intellect, with all 
 its gifts fairly balanced, a calm consciousness of power, a 
 certainty that when its strength is fairly put out, it must be 
 to realize the usual result of strength. Men of second-rate 
 faculties, on the contrary, are fretful and nervous, fidgeting 
 after a celebrity which they do not estimate by their own tal- 
 ents, but by the talents of some one else. They see a tower, 
 but are occupied only with measuring its shadow, and think 
 their own height (which they never calculate) is to cast as 
 
116 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 broad a one over the earth. It is the short man who is al- 
 ways throwing up his chin and is as erect as a dart. The tall 
 man stoops, and the strong man is not always using the 
 dumb-bells. 
 
 Maltravers had not yet, then, the keen and sharp yearning 
 for reputation ; he had not, as yet, tasted its sweets and bit- 
 ters, — fatal draught, which, once tasted, begets too often an 
 insatiable thirst! — neither had he enemies and decriers whom 
 he was desirous of abashing by merit. And that is a very 
 ordinary cause for exertion in proud rtiinds. He was, it is 
 true, generally reputed clever, and fools were afraid of him; 
 but as he actively interfered with no man's pretensions, so 
 no man thought it necessary to call him a blockhead. At 
 present, therefore, it was quietly and naturally that his mind 
 was working its legitimate way to its destiny of exertion. 
 He began idly and carelessly to note down his thoughts and 
 impressions ; what was once put on the paper, begot new mat- 
 ter; his ideas became more lucid to himself; and the page 
 grew a looking-glass, which presented the likeness of his own 
 features. He began by writing with rapidity, and without 
 method. He had no object but to please himself and to find 
 a vent for an overcharged spirit; and, like most writings of 
 the young, the matter was egotistical. We commence with 
 the small nucleus of passion and experience, to widen the 
 circle afterwards; and perhaps the most extensive and uni- 
 versal masters of life and character have begun by being 
 egotists. For there is in a man that has much in him a 
 wonderfully acute and sensitive perception of his own exist- 
 ence. An imaginative and susceptible person has, indeed, 
 ten times as much life as a dull fellow, "an he be Hercules." 
 He multiplies himself in a thousand objects, associates each 
 with his own identity, lives in each, and almost looks upon 
 the world with its infinite objects as a part of his individual 
 being. Afterwards, as he tames down, he withdraws his forces 
 into the citadel ; but he still has a knowledge of, and an in- 
 terest in, the land they once covered. He understands other 
 people, for he has lived in other people, — the dead and the 
 living; fancied himself now Brutus, and now Ctesar, and 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 117 
 
 thought how he should act iu almost every imaginable cir- 
 cumstance of life. 
 
 Thus, when he begins to paint human characters essentially 
 different from his own, his knowledge comes to him almost 
 intuitively. It is as if he were describing the mansions in 
 which he himself has formerly lodged, though for a short 
 time. Hence in great writers of History, of Eomance, of the 
 Drama, the gusto with which they paint their personages, — 
 their creations are flesh and blood, not shadows or machines. 
 
 Maltravers was at first, then, an egotist in the matter of his 
 rude and desultory sketches ; in the manner, as I said before, 
 he was careless and negligent, — as men will be who have not 
 yet found that expression is an art. Still, those wild and 
 valueless essays, those rapt and secret confessions of his own 
 heart, were a delight to him. He began to taste the trans- 
 port, the intoxication, of an author. And oh, what a luxury 
 is there in that first love of the Muse ; that process by which 
 we give palpable form to the long-intangible visions which 
 have flitted across us, — the beautiful ghost of the Ideal 
 within us, which we invoke in the Gadara of our still closets 
 with the wand of the simple pen ! 
 
 It was early noon, the day after he had formed his acquaint- 
 ance with the De Montaignes, that Maltravers sat in his fa- 
 vourite room, — the one he had selected for his study from the 
 many chambers of his large and solitary habitation. He sat 
 in a recess by the open window which looked on the lake ; and 
 books were scattered on his table, and Maltravers was jotting 
 down his criticisms on what he read, mingled with his im- 
 pressions on what he saw. It is the pleasantest kind of com- 
 position, — the note-book of a man who studies in retirement, 
 who observes in society, who in all things can admire and 
 feel. He was yet engaged in this easy task when Cesarini 
 was announced, and the young brother of the fair Teresa en- 
 tered his apartment. 
 
 "I have availed myself soon of your invitation," said the 
 Italian. 
 
 "I acknowledge the compliment," replied Maltravers, 
 pressing the hand shj^ly held out to him. 
 
 "I see you have been writing, — I thought you were at* 
 
118 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 tached to literature. I read it in your countenance, I heard 
 it in your voice," said Cesarini, seating himself. 
 
 "I have been idly beguiling a very idle leisure, it is true," 
 said Maltravers. 
 
 "But you do not write for yourself alone, you have an eye 
 to the great tribunals, — Time and the Public." 
 
 "Not so, I assure you honestly," said Maltravers, smiling. 
 "If you look at the books on my table, you will see that they 
 are the great masterpieces of ancient and modern lore. These 
 are studies that discourage tyros — " 
 
 "But inspire them." 
 
 " I do not think so. Models may form our taste as critics, 
 but do not excite us to be authors. 1 fancy that our own 
 emotions, our own sense of our destiny, make the great lever 
 of the inert matter we accumulate. 'Look in thy heart, and 
 write,' said an old English writer,^ — who did not, however, 
 practise what he preached. And you, Signor — " 
 
 "Am nothing, and would be something," said the young 
 man, shortly and bitterly. 
 
 "And how does that wish not realize its object?" 
 
 "Merely because I am Italian," said Cesarini. "With us 
 there is no literary public, — no vast reading class; we have 
 dilettanti and literati and students, and even authors; but 
 these make only a coterie, not a public. I have written, I 
 have published; but no one listened to me. T am an author 
 without readers." 
 
 "It is no uncommon case in England," said Maltravers, 
 
 The Italian continued : " I thought to live in the mouths of 
 men; to stir up thoughts long dumb; to awaken the strings 
 of the old lyre! In vain. Like the nightingale, I sing only 
 to break my heart with a false and melancholy emulation of 
 other notes." 
 
 "There are epochs in all countries," said Maltravers, gently, 
 "when peculiar veins of literature are out of vogue, and 
 when no genius can bring them into public notice. But you 
 wisely said there were two tribunals, — the Public and Time. 
 You have still the last to appeal to. Your great Italian his- 
 torians wrote for the unborn, — their works not even published 
 1 Sir rhilip Sidney. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVEllS. 119 
 
 till their death. That indifference to living reputation has in 
 it, to me, something of the sublime." 
 
 "I cannot imitate them, — and they were not poets," said 
 Cesarini, sharply. "To poets, praise is a necessary aliment, 
 — neglect is death." 
 
 "My dear Signor Cesarini," said the Englishman, feelingly, 
 "do not give way to these thoughts. There ought to be in a 
 healthful ambition the stubborn stuff of persevering longev- 
 ity; it must live on, and hope for the day which comes, slow 
 or fast, to all whose labours deserve the goal." 
 
 " But perhaps mine do not. I sometimes fear so, — it is a 
 horrid thought." 
 
 "You are very young yet," said Maltravers; "how few at 
 your age ever sicken for fame! That first step is perhaps the 
 half way to the prize." 
 
 I am not sure that Ernest thought exactly as he spoke, but 
 it was the most delicate consolation to offer to a man whose 
 abrupt frankness embarrassed and distressed him. The young 
 man shook his head despondingly. Maltravers tried to change 
 the subject. He rose and moved to the balcony, which over- 
 hung the lake; he talked of the weather; he dwelt on the ex- 
 quisite scenery; he pointed to the minute and more latent 
 beauties around, with the eye and taste of one who had looked 
 at Nature in her details. The poet grew more animated and 
 cheerful; he became even eloquent; he quoted poetry and he 
 talked it. Maltravers was more and more interested in him. 
 He felt a curiosity to know if his talents equalled his aspi- 
 rations; he hinted to Cesarini his wish to see his composi- 
 tions: it was just what the young man desired. Poor 
 Cesarini! It was much to him to get a new listener, and he 
 fondly imagined every honest listener must be a warm ad- 
 mirer. But with the coyness of his caste, he affected reluct- 
 ance and hesitation; he dallied with his own impatient 
 yearnings. And Maltravers, to smooth his way, proposed an 
 excursion on the lake. 
 
 "One of my men shall row," said he; "you shall recite to 
 me, and I will be to you what the old housekeeper was to 
 Moliere." 
 
120 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Maltravers had deep good-nature where he -was touched, 
 though he had not a superfluity of what is called good-hu- 
 mour, which floats on the surface and smiles on all alike. He 
 had much of the milk of human kindness, but little of its oil. 
 
 The poet assented, and they were soon upon the lake. It 
 was a sultry day, and it was noon; so the boat crept slowly 
 along by the shadow of the shore, and Cesarini drew from his 
 breast-pocket some manuscripts of small and beautiful writ- 
 ing. Who does not know the pains a young poet takes to 
 bestow a fair dress on his darling rhymes! 
 
 Cesarini read well and feelingly. Everything was in fa- 
 vour of the reader, — his own poetical countenance; his voice; 
 his enthusiasm, half -suppressed; the pre-engaged interest of 
 the auditor; the dreamy loveliness of the hour and scene, — 
 for there is a great deal as to time in these things. Mal- 
 travers listened intently. It is very difficult to judge of the 
 exact merit of poetry in another language, even when we 
 know that language well, — so much is there in the untrans- 
 latable magic of expression, the little subtleties of style. 
 But Maltravers, fresh, as he himself had said, from the study 
 of great and original writers, could not but feel that he was 
 listening to feeble though melodious mediocrity. It was the 
 poetry of words, not things. He thought it cruel, however, 
 to be hypercritical, and he uttered all the commonplaces of 
 eulogium that occurred to him. The young man was en- 
 chanted. "And yet," said he with a sigh, "I have no Pub- 
 lic. In England they would appreciate me." Alas! in 
 England at that moment there were five hundred poets as 
 young, as ardent, and yet more gifted, whose hearts beat with 
 the same desire, whose nerves were broken by the same 
 disappointments. 
 
 Maltravers found that his young friend would not listen 
 to any judgment not purely favourable. The archbishop in 
 " Gil Bias " was not more touchy upon any criticism that was 
 not panegyric. Maltravers thought it a bad sign; but he 
 recollected "Gil Bias," and prudently refrained from bringing 
 on himself the benevolent wish of "beaucoup de bonheur et 
 unpen plus de bon gout." When Cesarini had finished his 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 121 
 
 manuscript, he was anxious to conclude the excursion, — he 
 longed to be at home, and think over the admiration he had ex- 
 cited. But he left his poems with Maltravers, and getting on 
 shore by the remains of Pliny's villa, was soon out of sight. 
 
 Maltravers that evening read the poems with attention. 
 His first opinion was confirmed. The young man wrote with- 
 out knowledge. He had never felt the passions he painted, 
 never been in the situations he described. There was no 
 originality in him, for there was no experience; it was ex- 
 quisite mechanism, his verse, — nothing more. It might well 
 deceive him, for it could not but flatter his ear, — and Tasso's 
 silver march rang not more musically than did the chiming 
 stanzas of Castruccio Cesarini. 
 
 The perusal of this poetry, and his conversation with the 
 poet, threw Maltravers into a fit of deep musing. " This poor 
 Cesarini may warn me against myself! " thought he. "Better 
 hew wood and draw water than attach ourselves devotedly to 
 an art in which we have not the capacity to excel. It is to 
 throw away the healthful objects of life for a diseased dream; 
 worse than the Eosicrucians, it is to make a sacrifice of all 
 human beauty for the smile of a sylphid that never visits us 
 but in visions." Maltravers looked over his own composi- 
 tions, and thrust them into the fire. He slept ill that night. 
 His pride was a little dejected; he was like a beauty who has 
 seen a caricature of herself. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Still follow Sense, of every art the Soul. 
 
 Pope : Moral Essays {Essai/ iv ). 
 
 Ernest Maltra^^rs spent much of his time with the fam- 
 ily of De Montaigne. There is no period of life in which 
 we are more accessible to the sentiment of friendship than in 
 the intervals of moral exhaustion which succeed to the disap- 
 
122 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 pointments of the passions. There is, then, something invit- 
 ing in those gentler feelings which keep alive, but do not 
 fever, the circulation of the affections. Maltravers looked 
 with the benevolence of a brother upon the brilliant, versa- 
 tile, and restless Teresa. She was the last person in the 
 world he could have been in love with; for his nature, ar- 
 dent, excitable, yet fastidious, required something of repose in 
 the manners and temperament of the woman whom he could 
 love, and Teresa scarcely knew what repose was. Whether 
 playing with her children (and she had two lovely ones, — the 
 eldest six years old), or teasing her calm and meditative hus- 
 band, or pouring out extempore verses, or rattling over airs, 
 which she never finished, on the guitar or piano, or making 
 excursions on the lake, or, in short, in whatever occupation 
 she appeared as the Cynthia of the minute, she was always 
 gay and mobile, never out of humour, never acknowledging a 
 single care or cross in life, never susceptible of grief, save 
 when her brother's delicate health or morbid temper saddened 
 her atmosphere of sunshine. Even then, the sanguine elas- 
 ticity of her mind and constitution quickly recovered from 
 the depression; and she persuaded herself that Castruccio 
 would grow stronger every year, and ripen into a celebrated 
 and happy man. Castruccio himself lived what romantic 
 poetasters call the ''life of a poet." He loved to see the sun 
 rise over the distant Alps, or the midnight moon sleeping on 
 the lake. He spent half the day, and often half the night, in 
 solitary rambles, weaving his airy rhymes or indulging his 
 gloomy reveries, and he thought loneliness made the element 
 of a poet. Alas ! Dante, Alfieri, even Petrarch, might have 
 taught him that a poet must have intimate knowledge of men as 
 well as mountains, if he desire to become the Creator. When 
 Shelley, in one of his prefaces, boasts of being familiar with 
 Alps and glaciers and Heaven knows what, the critical artist 
 cannot help wishing that he had been rather more familiar 
 with Fleet Street or the Strand. Perhaps then that remark- 
 able genius might have been more capable of realizing charac- 
 ters of flesh and blood, and have composed corporeal and 
 consummate wholes, not confused and glittering fragments. 
 
 t 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 123 
 
 Though Ernest was attached to Teresa and deeply interested 
 in Castruccio, it was for De Montaigne for whom he experi- 
 enced the higher and graver sentiment of esteem. This 
 Frenchman was one acquainted with a much larger world 
 than that of the Coteries. He had served in the army, had 
 been employed with distinction in civil affairs, and was of 
 that robust and healthful moral constitution which can bear 
 with every variety of social life, and estimate calmly the bal- 
 ance of our moral fortunes. Trial and experience had left 
 him that true philosopher who is too wise to be an optimist, 
 too just to be a misanthrope. He enjoyed life with sober 
 judgment, and pursued the path most suited to himself, with- 
 out declaring it to be the best for others. He was a little 
 hard, perhaps, upon the errors that belong to weakness and 
 conceit, — not to those that have their source in great natures 
 or generous thoughts. Among his characteristics was a pro- 
 found admiration for England. His own country he half loved, 
 yet half disdained. The impetuosity and levity of his com- 
 patriots displeased his sober and dignified notions. He could 
 not forgive them (lie was wont to say) for having made the 
 two grand experiments of popular revolution and military 
 despotism in vain. He sympathized neither with the j^oung 
 enthusiasts who desired a republic, without well knowing the 
 numerous strata of habits and customs upon which that fab- 
 ric, if designed for permanence, should be built, nor with the 
 uneducated and fierce chivalry that longed for a restoration of 
 the warrior empire, nor with the dull and arrogant bigots 
 who connected all ideas of order and government with the ill- 
 starred and worn-out dynasty of the Bourbons. In fact, good 
 SEXSE was with him the princijnum et fons of all theories 
 and all practice; and it was this quality that attached him 
 to the English. His philosophy on this head was rather 
 curious. 
 
 "Good sense," said he one day to Maltravers, as they were 
 walking to and fro at De Montaigne's villa, by the margin of 
 the lake, " is not a merely intellectual attribute. It is rather 
 the result of a just equilibrium of all our faculties, spiritual 
 and moral. The dishonest, or the toys of their own passions, 
 
124 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 may have genius, but tliey rarely, if ever, have good sense in 
 the conduct of life. They may often win large prizes, but it 
 is by a game of chance, not skill. But the man whom I per- 
 ceive walking an honourable and upright career, just to others, 
 and also to himself (for we owe justice to ourselves, — to the 
 care of our fortunes, our character, to the management of our 
 passions), is a more dignified representative of his Maker 
 than the mere child of genius. Of such a man we say he has 
 GOOD SENSE, — ycs, but he has also integrity, self-respect, and 
 self-denial. A thousand trials which his sense braves and 
 conquers, are temptations also to his probity, his temper, — 
 in a word, to all the many sides of his complicated nature. 
 Now, I do not think he will have this good sense any more 
 than a drunkard will have strong nerves, unless he be in the 
 constant habit of keeping his mind clear from the intoxication 
 of envy, vanity, and the various emotions that dupe and mis- 
 lead us. Good sense is not, therefore, an abstract quality or 
 a solitary talent, but it is the natural result of the habit of 
 thinking justly, and therefore seeing clearly, and is as differ- 
 ent from the sagacity that belongs to a diplomatist or attorney 
 as the philosophy of Socrates differed from the rhetoric of 
 Gorgias. As a mass of individual excellences make up this 
 attribute in a man, so a mass of such men thus characterized 
 give a character to a nation. Your England is therefore re- 
 nowned for its good sense ; but it is renowned also for the ex- 
 cellences which accompany strong sense in an individual, — 
 high honesty and faith in its dealings, a warm love of justice 
 and fair play, a general freedom from the violent crimes com- 
 mon on the Continent, and the energetic perseverance in en- 
 terprise once commenced, which results from a bold and 
 healthful disposition." 
 
 "Our wars, our debt — " began Maltravers. 
 
 "Pardon me," interrupted De Montaigne, "lam speaking 
 of your people, not of your government. A government is 
 often a very unfair representative of a nation. But even in 
 the wars you allude to, if you examine, you will generally 
 find them originate in the love of justice, which is the basis 
 of good sense, not from any insane desire of conquest or glory. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 125 
 
 A man, however sensible, must have a heart in his bosom, 
 and a great nation cannot be a piece of selfish clockwork. 
 Suppose you and I are sensible, prudent men, and we see in a 
 crowd one violent fellow unjustly knocking another on the 
 head, we should be brutes, not men, if we did not interfere 
 with the savage; but if we thrust ourselves into a crowd 
 with a large bludgeon, and belabour our neighbours, with the 
 hope that the spectators would cry, 'See what a bold, strong 
 fellow that is!' — then we should be only playing the mad- 
 man from the motive of the coxcomb. I fear you will find in 
 the military history of the French and English the applica- 
 tion of my parable." 
 
 " Yet still, I confess, there is a gallantry and a nobleman- 
 like and Norman spirit in the whole French nation which 
 make me forgive many of their excesses, and think they are 
 destined for great purposes, when experience shall have so- 
 bered their hot blood. Some nations, as some men, are slow 
 in arriving at maturity; others seem men in their cradle. 
 The English, thanks to their sturdy Saxon origin, elevated, 
 not depressed, by the Norman infusion, never were children. 
 The difference is striking, when you regard the representa- 
 tives of both in their great men, whether writers or active 
 citizens." 
 
 "Yes," said De Montaigne, "in Milton and Cromwell there 
 is nothing of the brilliant child. I cannot say as much for 
 Voltaire or Napoleon. Even Eichelieu, the manliest of our 
 statesmen, had so much of the French infant in him as to 
 fancy himself a beau gargon, a gallant, a wit, and a poet. As 
 for the Racine school of writers, they were not out of the 
 leading-strings of imitation, — cold copyists of a pseudo- 
 classic in which they saw the form, and never caught the 
 spirit. What so little Roman, Greek, Hebrew, as their 
 Roman, Greek, and Hebrew dramas? Your rude Shaks- 
 peare's 'Julius Caesar,' even his 'Troilus and Cressida,' have 
 the ancient spirit, precisely as they are imitations of nothing 
 ancient. Bixt our Frenchmen copied the giant images of old 
 just as the school-girl copies a drawing, by holding it up to 
 the window and tracing the lines on silver paper." 
 
126 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "But your new writers, — De Stael, Chateaubriand?"^ 
 
 "I find no fault with the sentimentalists," answered the 
 severe critic, " but that of exceeding feebleness. They have 
 no bone and muscle in their genius ; all is flaccid and rotund 
 in its feminine symmetry. They seem to think that vigour 
 consists in florid phrases and little aphorisms, and delineate 
 all the mighty tempests of the human heart with the polished 
 prettiness of a miniature-painter on ivory. No; these two 
 are children of another kind, — affected, tricked-out, well- 
 dressed children, very clever, very precocious, but children 
 still. Their whinings and their sentimentalities and their 
 egotism and their vanity cannot interest masculine beings 
 who know what life and its stern objects are." 
 
 "Your brother-in-law," said Maltravers, with a slight 
 smile, "must find in you a discouraging censor." 
 
 " My poor Castruccio ! " replied De Montaigne, with a half- 
 sigh; "he is one of those victims whom I believe to be more 
 common than we dream of, — men whose aspirations are above 
 their powers. I agree with a great German writer, that in 
 the first walks of Art no man has a right to enter unless he 
 is convinced that he has strength and speed for the goal. 
 Castruccio might be an amiable member of society, — nay, an 
 able and useful man, — if he would apply the powers he pos- 
 sesses to the rewards they may obtain. He has talent enough 
 to win him reputation in any profession but that of a poet." 
 
 "Biit authors who obtain immortality are not always first- 
 rate." 
 
 "First-rate in their way, I suspect, even if that way be 
 false or trivial. They must be connected with the history of 
 their literature; you must be able to say of them, 'In this 
 school, be it bad or good, they exerted such and such an influ- 
 ence, ' — in a word, they must form a link in the great chain of 
 a nation's authors, which may be afterwards forgotten by the 
 superficial, but without wliieli the chain would be incomplete. 
 And thus, if not first-rate for all time, they have been first- 
 
 1 At the time of this conversation the latter school, adorned by Victor 
 Hugo, who, with notions of art elaborately wrong, is still a man of extraor- 
 dinary genius, had not risen into its present equivocal reputation. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 127 
 
 rate in their own day. But Castruccio is only tlie echo of 
 others, — he can neither found a school nor ruin one. Yet 
 this," again added De Montaigne, after a pause, "this mel- 
 ancholy malady in my brother-in-law would cure itself, per- 
 haps, if he were not Italian. In your animated and bustling 
 country, after sufficient disappointment as a poet, he would 
 glide into some other calling, and his vanity and craving for 
 effect would find a rational and manly outlet. But in Italy, 
 what can a clever man do if he is not a poet or a robber? If 
 he love his country, that crime is enough to unfit him for 
 civil employment, and his mind cannot stir a step in the bold 
 channels of speculation without falling foiil of the Austrian 
 or the Pope. No; the best I can hope for Castruccio is that 
 he will end in an antiquary, and dispute about ruins with the 
 Romans. Better that than mediocre poetry." 
 
 Maltravers was silent and thoughtful. Strange to say, De 
 Montaigne's views did not discourage his own new and secret 
 ardour for intellectual triumphs, — not because he felt that he 
 was now able to achieve them, but because he felt the iron of 
 his own nature, and knew that a man who has iron in his na- 
 ture must ultimately hit upon some way of shaping the metal 
 into use. 
 
 The host and guest were now joined by Castruccio himself, 
 — silent and gloomy, as indeed he usually was, especially in 
 the presence of De Montaigne, with whom he felt his " self- 
 love" wounded; for though he longed to despise his hard 
 brother-in-law, the young poet was compelled to acknowledge 
 that De Montaigne was not a man to be despised. 
 
 Maltravers dined with the De Montaignes and spent the 
 evening with them. He could not but observe that Castruccio, 
 who affected in his verses the softest sentiments, who was, in- 
 deed, by original nature tender and gentle, had become so 
 completely warped by that worst of all mental vices, — the 
 eternally pondering on his own excellences, talents, mortifica- 
 tions, and ill-usage, — that he never contributed to the gratifi- 
 cation of those around him; he had none of the little arts of 
 social benevolence, none of the playful youth of disposition 
 which usually belongs to the good-hearted, and for which men 
 
128 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 of a master-genius, however elevated their studies, however 
 stern or reserved to the vulgar world, are commonly noticeable 
 amidst the friends they love or in the home they adorn. 
 Occupied with one dream, centred in self, the young Italian 
 was sullen and morose to all who did not sympathize with his 
 own morbid fancies. From the children, the sister, the friend, 
 the whole living earth, he fled to a poem on Solitude, or 
 stanzas upon Fame. Maltravers said to himself: "I will 
 never be an author, I will never sigh for renown, if I am to 
 purchase shadows at such a price I " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It cannot be too deeply impressed on the mind that application is the price 
 to be paid for mental acquisitions, and that it is as absurd to expect them with- 
 out it as to hope for a harvest where we have not sown the seed. 
 
 In everything we do, we may be possibly laying a train of consequences, 
 the operation of which may terminate only with our existence. 
 
 Bailey : Essays on the Formation and Publication of Opinions. 
 
 Time passed, and autumn was far advanced towards winter; 
 still Maltravers lingered at Como. He saw little of any 
 other family than that of the De Montaignes, and the greater 
 part of his time was necessarily spent alone. His occupation 
 continued to be that of making experiments of his own pow- 
 ers, and these gradually became bolder and more comprehen- 
 sive. He took care, however, not to show his " Diversions of 
 Como" to his new friends; he wanted no audience, he 
 dreamed of no Public, he desired merely to practise his own 
 mind. He became aware, of his own accord, as he proceeded, 
 that a man can neither study with much depth, nor compose 
 with much art, unless he has some definite object before him, 
 — in the first, some one branch of knowledge to master; in 
 the last, some one conception to work out. Maltravers fell 
 back upon his boyish passion for metaphysical speculation; 
 but with what different results did he now wrestle with the 
 subtle Schoolmen, now that he had practically known man- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 129 
 
 kind! How insensibly new lights broke in upon him as he 
 threaded the labyrinth of cause and effect by which we seek 
 to arrive at that curious and biform monster, our own nature. 
 His mind became saturated, as it were, with these profound 
 studies and meditations ; and when at length he paused from 
 them, he felt as if he had not been living in solitude, but had 
 gone through a process of action in the busy world, so much 
 juster, so much clearer, had become his knowledge of himself 
 and others. Bat though these researches coloured, they did 
 not limit, his intellectual pursuits. Poetry and the lighter 
 letters became to him, not merely a relaxation, but a critical 
 and thoughtful study. He delighted to penetrate into the 
 causes that have made the airy webs spun by men's fancies 
 so permanent and powerful in their influence over the hard, 
 work-day world. And what a lovely scene, what a sky, what 
 an air wherein to commence the projects of that ambition 
 which seeks to establish an empire in the hearts and memo- 
 ries of mankind! I believe it has a great effect on the future 
 labours of a writer, — the place where he first dreams that it 
 is his destiny to write! 
 
 From these pursuits Ernest was aroused by another letter 
 from Cleveland. His kind friend had been disappointed and 
 vexed that Maltravers did not follow his advice and return to 
 England; he had shown his displeasure by not answering 
 Ernest's letter of excuses. But lately he had been seized 
 with a dangerous illness which reduced him to the brink of 
 the grave ; and with a heart softened by the exhaustion of the 
 frame, he now wrote in the first moments of convalescence to 
 Maltravers, informing him of his attack and danger, and once 
 more urging him to return. The thought that Cleveland, the 
 dear, kind, gentle guardian of his youth, had been near unto 
 death, that he might never more have hung upon that foster- 
 ing hand nor replied to that paternal voice, smote Ernest 
 with terror and remorse. He resolved instantly to return to 
 England, and made his preparations accordingly. 
 
 He went to take leave of the De Montaigne s. Teresa was 
 trying to teach her first-born to read ; and seated by the open 
 window of the villa, in her neat, not precise, dishabille, with 
 
 9 
 
130 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 the little boy's delicate, yet bold and bealthy countenance 
 looking up fearlessly at hers, while she was endeavouring to 
 initiate him — half gravely, half laughingly — into the mys- 
 teries of monosyllables, the pretty boy and the fair young 
 mother made a delightful picture. De Montaigne was read- 
 ing the Essays of his celebrated namesake, in whom he 
 boasted, I know not with what justice, to claim an ancestor. 
 From time to time he looked from the page to take a glance 
 at the progress of his heir and keep up with the march of in- 
 tellect. But he did not interfere with the maternal lecture ; 
 he was wise enough to know that there is a kind of sympathy 
 between a child and a mother which is worth all the grave 
 superiority of a father in making learning palatable to young 
 years. He was far too clever a man not to despise all the 
 systems of forcing infants under knowledge-frames, which 
 are the present fashion. He knew that philosophers never 
 made a greater mistake than in insisting so much upon begin- 
 ning abstract education from the cradle. It is quite enough 
 to attend to an infant's temper, and correct that cursed pre- 
 dilection for telling fibs which falsifies all Dr. Reid's absurd 
 theory about innate propensities to truth, and makes the pre- 
 vailing epidemic of the nursery. Above all, what advantage 
 ever compensates for hurting a child's health or breaking his 
 spirit? Never let him learn, more than you can help it, the 
 crushing bitterness of fear. A bold child who looks you in 
 the face, speaks the truth and shames the devil, — that is the 
 stuff of which to make good and brave — ay, and wise men. 
 
 Maltravers entered, unannounced, into this charming family 
 party, and stood unobserved for a few moments by the open 
 door. The little pupil was the first to perceive him, and for- 
 getful of monosyllables, ran to greet him; for Maltravers, 
 though gentle rather than gay, was a favourite with children, 
 and his fair, calm, gracious countenance did more for him 
 with them than if, like Goldsmith's Burchell, his pockets had 
 been filled with gingerbread and apples. "Ah, fie on you, 
 Mr. Maltravers!" cried Teresa, rising; "you have blown 
 away all the characters I have been endeavouring this last 
 hour to imprint upon sand." 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 131 
 
 "Not so, Signora," said Maltravers, seating himself, and 
 placing the child on his knee; "my young friend will set to 
 work again with a greater gusto after this little break in upon 
 his labours." 
 
 "You will stay with us all day, I hope?" said De 
 Montaigne, 
 
 "Indeed," said Maltravers, "I am come to ask permission 
 to do so, for to-morrow I depart for England." 
 
 "Is it possible?" cried Teresa. "How sudden! How we 
 shall miss you! Oh! don't go. But perhaps you have bad 
 news from England? " 
 
 "I have news that summon me hence," replied Maltravers; 
 " my guardian and second father has been dangerously ill. I 
 am uneasy about him, and reproach myself for having for- 
 gotten him so long in your seductive society." 
 
 "I am really sorry to lose you," said De Montaigne, with 
 greater warmth in his tones than in his words. "I hope 
 heartily we shall meet again soon. You will come, perhaps, 
 to Paris?" 
 
 "Probably," said Maltravers; "and you, perhaps, to 
 England?" 
 
 "Ah, how I should like it! " exclaimed Teresa. 
 
 "No, you would not," said her husband; "you would not 
 like England at all, — you would call it triste beyond measure. 
 It is one of those countries of which a native should be 
 proud, but which has no amusement for a stranger, precisely 
 because full of such serious and stirring occupations to the 
 citizens. The pleasantest countries for strangers are the worst 
 countries for natives (witness Italy); and vice versa.'''' 
 
 Teresa shook her dark curls, and would not be convinced. 
 
 "And where is Castruccio? " asked Maltravers. 
 
 "In his boat on the lake," replied Teresa. "He will be 
 inconsolable at your departure; you are the only person he 
 can understand, or who understands him, — the only person 
 in Italy, I had almost said in the whole world." 
 
 "Well, we shall meet at dinner," said Ernest; "mean- 
 while, let me prevail on you to accompany me to the Plini- 
 ana. I wish to say farewell to that crystal spring." 
 
132 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Teresa, delighted at any excursion, readily consented. 
 
 "And I too. Mamma," cried the child, "and my little 
 sister? " 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! " said Maltravers, speaking for the parents. 
 
 So the party was soon ready, and they pushed oS in the 
 clear, genial noontide (for November in Italy is as early as 
 September in the North) across the sparkling and dimpled 
 waters. The children prattled, and the grown-up people 
 talked on a thousand matters. It was a pleasant day, that 
 last day at Como ; for the farewells of friendship have indeed 
 something of the melancholy, but not the anguish, of those 
 of love. Perhaps it would be better if we could get rid of 
 love altogether. Life would go on smoother and happier 
 without it. Friendship is the wine of existence, but love is 
 the dram-drinking. 
 
 When they returned, they found Castruccio seated on the 
 lawn. He did not appear so much dejected at the prospect of 
 Ernest's departure as Teresa had anticipated; for Castruccio 
 Cesarini was a very jealous man, and he had lately been cha- 
 grined and discontented with seeing the delight that the De 
 Montaignes took in Ernest's society. 
 
 "Why is this?" he often asked himself, — "why are they 
 more pleased with this stranger's societ}' than mine? My 
 ideas are as fresh, as original; I have as much genius; yet 
 even my dry brother-in-law allows his talents, and predicts 
 that he will be an eminent man, while / — No, one is not a 
 prophet in one's own country! " 
 
 Unhappy young man, his mind bore all the rank weeds of 
 the morbid poetical character, and the weeds choked up the 
 flowers that the soil, properly cultivated, should alone bear! 
 Yet that crisis in life awaited Castruccio, in which a sensitive 
 and poetical man is made or marred, — the crisis in which a 
 sentiment is replaced by the passions ; in which love for some 
 real object gathers the scattered rays of the heart into a focus. 
 Out of that ordeal he might pass a purer and manlier being, 
 — so Maltravers often hoped. Maltravers then little thought 
 how closely connected with his own fate was to be that pas- 
 sage in the history of the Italian! Castruccio contrived to 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 133 
 
 take Maltravers aside, and as he led the Englishman through 
 the wood that backed the mansion, he said, with some em- 
 barrassment, "You go, I suppose, to London?" 
 
 *'I shall pass through it. Can I execute any commission 
 for you?" 
 
 "Why, yes; my poems! I think of publishing them in 
 England. Your aristocracy cultivate the Italian letters ; and 
 perhaps I may be read by the fair and noble, — that is the 
 proper audience of poets. For the vulgar herd, I disdain it! " 
 
 "My dear Castruccio, I will undertake to see your poems 
 published in London, if you wish it; but do not be sanguine. 
 In England we read little poetry, even in our own language, 
 and we are shamefully indifferent to foreign literature." 
 
 "Yes, foreign literature generally, and you are right; but 
 my poems are of another kind. They must command atten- 
 tion in a polished and intelligent circle." 
 
 "Well, let the experiment be tried; you can let me have 
 the poems when we part." 
 
 "I thank you," said Castruccio, in a joyous tone, pressing 
 his friend's hand; and for the rest of that evening, he seemed 
 an altered being, — he even caressed the children, and did not 
 sneer at the grave conversation of his brother-in-law. 
 
 When Maltravers rose to depart, Castruccio gave him the 
 packet; and then, utterly engrossed with his own imagined 
 futurity of fame, vanished from the room to indulge his rev- 
 eries. He cared no longer for Maltravers, — he had put him to 
 use ; he could not be sorry for his departure, for that depart- 
 ure was the Avatar of His appearance to a new world! 
 
 A small, dull rain was falling, though, at intervals, the 
 stars broke through the unsettled clouds, and Teresa did not, 
 therefore, venture from the house ; she presented her smooth 
 cheek to the young guest to salute, pressed him by the hand, 
 and bade him adieu with tears in her eyes. " Ah ! " said she, 
 "when we meet again I hope you will be married, — I shall 
 love your wife dearly. There is no happiness like marriage 
 and home ! " and she looked with ingenuous tenderness at De 
 Montaigne. 
 
 Maltravers sighed; his thoughts flew back to Alice. Where 
 
134 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 now was that lone and friendless girl whose innocent lore 
 had once brightened a home for him? He answered by a 
 vague and mechanical commonplace, and quitted the room 
 with De Montaigne, who insisted on seeing him depart. As 
 they neared the lake, De Montaigne broke the silence. 
 
 " My dear Maltravers, " he said, with a serious and thought- 
 ful affection in his voice, "we may not meet again for years. 
 I have a warm interest in your happiness and career, — yes, 
 career ; I repeat the word. I do not habitually seek to in- 
 spire young men with ambition. Enough for most of them to 
 be good and honourable citizens. But in your case it is 
 different. I see in you the earnest and meditative, not rash 
 and overweening, youth which is usually productive of a dis- 
 tinguished manhood. Your mind is not yet settled, it is true; 
 but it is fast becoming clear and mellow from the first fer- 
 ment of boyish dreams and passions. You have everything 
 in your favour, — competence, birth, connections; and, above 
 all, you are an Englishman. You have a mighty stage, on 
 which, it is true, you cannot establish a footing without merit 
 and without labour, — so much the better, — on which strong 
 and resolute rivals will urge you on to emulation, and their 
 competition will task your keenest powers. Think what a 
 glorious fate it is to have an influence on the vast but ever- 
 growing mind of such a country; to feel, when you retire 
 from the busy scene, that you have played an unforgotten 
 part, that you have been the medium, under God's great will, 
 of circulating new ideas throughout the world, — of upholding 
 the glorious priesthood of the Honest and the Beautiful. 
 This is the true ambition; the desire of mere personal noto- 
 riety is vanity, not ambition. Do not, then, be lukewarm or 
 supine. The trait I have observed in you, " added the Erench- 
 man, with a smile, *' most prejudicial to your chances of dis- 
 tinction is that you are too philosophical, too apt to cui-bono 
 all the exertions that interfere with the indolence of culti- 
 vated leisure. And you must not suppose, Maltravers, that 
 an active career will be a path of roses. At present you have 
 no enemies; but the moment you attempt distinction, you 
 will be abused, calumniated, reviled. You will be shocked 
 
ERNEST MALTR AVERS. 135 
 
 at the wrath you excite, and sigh for your old obscurity, and 
 consider, as Franklin has it, that 'you have paid too dear for 
 your whistle,' But in return for individual enemies, what 
 a noble recompense to have made the Public itself your friend, 
 perhaps even Posterity your familiar! Besides," added De 
 Montaigne, with almost a religious solemnity in his voice, 
 " there is a conscience of the head as well as of the heart, and 
 in old age we feel as much remorse if we have wasted our 
 natural talents as if we had perverted our natural virtues. 
 The profound and exultant satisfaction with which a man 
 who knows that he has not lived in vain, that he has entailed 
 on the world an heirloom of instruction or delight, looks back 
 upon departed struggles, is one of the happiest emotions of 
 which the conscience can be capable. What, indeed, are the 
 petty faults we commit as individuals, affecting but a narrow 
 circle, ceasing with our own lives, to the incalculable and 
 everlasting good we may produce as public men by one book 
 or by one law? Depend upon it that the Almighty, who sums 
 up all the good and all the evil done by his creatures in a just 
 balance, will not judge the august benefactors of the world 
 with the same severity as those drones of society who have no 
 great services to show in the eternal ledger as a set-off to the 
 indulgence of their small vices. These things rightly consid- 
 ered, Maltravers, you will have every inducement that can 
 tempt a lofty mind and a pure ambition to awaken from the 
 voluptuous indolence of the literary Sybarite, and contend 
 worthily in the world's wide Altis for a great prize." 
 
 Maltravers never before felt so flattered, so stirred into high 
 resolves. The stately eloquence, the fervid encouragement, of 
 this man, usually so cold and fastidious, roused him like the 
 sound of a trumpet. He stopped short, his breath heaved 
 thick, his cheek flushed. "De Montaigne," said he, "your 
 words have cleared away a thousand doubts and scruples, — 
 they have gone right to my heart. For the first time I under- 
 stand what fame is, — what the object and what the reward of 
 labour! Visions, hopes, aspirations, I may have had before; 
 for months a new spirit has been fluttering within me. I 
 have felt the wings breaking from the shell ; but all was con- 
 
136 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 fused, dim, uncertain. I doubted the wisdom of effort, with 
 life so short and the pleasures of youth so sweet. I now look 
 no longer on life but as a part of the eternity to which I feel 
 we were born, and I recognize the solemn truth that our ob- 
 jects, to be worthy life, should be worthy of creatures in 
 whom the living principle never is extinct. Farewell ! come 
 joy or sorrow, failure or success, I will struggle to deserve 
 your friendship." 
 
 Maltravers sprang into his boat, and the shades of night 
 soon snatched him from the lingering gaze of De Montaigne. 
 
 j 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 e'lrl Se leV&J 
 Naieis x^'"'^> '''"^ afdirSpov 
 Kolras d\€(ra(ra \eKTpoy 
 
 ToAairo. 
 
 Euripides : Medea, 442. 
 
 Strange is the land that holds thee, and thy conch 
 Is widowed of the loved one. — Translation by R. G. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I, ALAS ! 
 
 Have lived but on this eartli a few sad years ; 
 And so my lot was ordered, that a father 
 First turned the moments of awakening life 
 To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope. 
 
 Cenct. 
 
 From accompanying Maltravers along the noiseless progress 
 of mental education, we are now called a while to cast our 
 glances back at the ruder and harsher ordeal which Alice 
 Darvil was ordained to pass. Along her path poetry shed no 
 flowers, nor were her lonely steps towards the distant shrine 
 at which her pilgrimage found its rest lighted by the mystic 
 lamp of science, or guided by the thousand stars which are 
 never dim in the heavens for those favoured eyes from which 
 genius and fancy have removed many of the films of clay. 
 Not along the aerial and exalted ways that wind far above 
 the homes and business of common men, — the solitary Alps 
 of Spiritual Philosophy, — wandered the desolate steps of the 
 child of poverty and sorrow. On the beaten and rugged high- 
 ways of common life, with a weary heart and with bleeding 
 
138 ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 feet, she went her melancholy course. But the goal which is 
 the great secret of life, the sutmnuni arcanum of all philoso- 
 phy, whether the Practical or the Ideal, was perhaps no less 
 attainable for that humble girl than for the elastic step and 
 aspiring heart of him who thirsted after the Great and almost 
 believed in the Impossible. 
 
 We return to that dismal night in which Alice was torn 
 from the roof of her lover. It was long before she recovered 
 her consciousness of what had passed, and gained a full per- 
 ception of the fearful revolution which had taken place in her 
 destinies. It was then a gray and dreary morning twilight; 
 and the rude but covered vehicle which bore her was rolling 
 along the deep ruts of an unfrequented road, winding among 
 the uninclosed and mountainous wastes that, in England, 
 usually betoken the neighbourhood of the sea. With a shud- 
 der Alice looked round: Walters, her father's accomplice, 
 lay extended at her feet, and his heavy breathing showed that 
 he was fast asleep. Darvil himself was urging on the jaded 
 and sorry horse, and his broad back was turned towards Alice; 
 the rain, from which, in his position, he was but ill protected 
 by the awning, dripped dismally from his slouched hat; and 
 now, as he turned round, and his sinister and gloomy gaze 
 rested upon the face of Alice, his bad countenance, rendered 
 more haggard by the cold, raw light of the cheerless dawn, 
 completed the hideous picture of unveiled and ruffianly 
 wretchedness. 
 
 "Ho, ho! Alley, so you are come to your senses," said he, 
 with a kind of joyless grin. " I am glad of it, for I can have 
 no fainting fine ladies with me. You have had a long holi- 
 day, Alley; you must now learn once more to work for your 
 poor father. Ah, you have been d — d sly! But never 
 mind the past, — I forgive it. You must not run away again 
 without my leave; if you are fond of sweethearts I won't 
 balk you, but your old father must go shares, Alley." 
 
 Alice could hear no more; she covered her face with the 
 cloak that had been thrown about her, and though she did not 
 faint, her senses seemed to be locked and paralyzed. By 
 and by Walters woke, and the two men, heedless of her pres- 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 139 
 
 ence, conversed upon their plans. By degrees she recovered 
 sufficient self-possession to listen, in the instinctive hope that 
 some plan of escape might be suggested to her. But from 
 what she could gather of the incoherent and various projects 
 they discussed, one after another, — disputing upon each with 
 frightful oaths and scarce intelligible slang, — she could only 
 learn that it was resolved at all events to leave the district in 
 which they were; but whither, seemed yet all undecided. 
 The cart halted at last at a miserable-looking hut, which the 
 signpost announced to be an inn that afforded good accommo- 
 dation to travellers ; to which announcement was annexed the 
 following epigrammatic distich : — 
 
 "Old Tom he is the best of gin ; 
 Driuk him once, and you '11 drink him agin ! " 
 
 The hovel stood so remote from all other habitations, and 
 the waste around was so bare of trees, and even shrubs, that 
 Alice saw with despair that all hope of flight in such a place 
 would be indeed a chimera. But to make assurance doubly 
 sure, Darvil himself, lifting her from the cart, conducted her 
 up a broken and unlighted staircase into a sort of loft rather 
 than a room, and rudely pushing her in, turned the key upon 
 her and descended. The weather was cold, the livid damps 
 hung upon the distained walls, and there was neither tire nor 
 hearth; but thinly clad as she was, — her cloak and shawl her 
 principal covering, — she did not feel the cold, for her heart 
 was more chilly than the airs of heaven. At noon an old 
 woman brought her some food, which, consisting of fish and 
 poached game, was better than might have been expected in 
 such a place, and what would have been deemed a feast under 
 her father's roof. With an inviting leer, the crone pointed 
 to a pewter measure of raw spirits that accompanied the 
 viands, and assured her, in a cracked and maudlin voice, 
 that " Old Tom " was a kinder friend than any of the young 
 fellers! This intrusion ended, Alice was again left alone 
 till dusk, when Darvil entered with a bundle of clothes such 
 as are worn by the peasants of that primitive district of 
 Ensrland. 
 
140 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "There, Alley, "" said he, "put on this warm toggery, — fin- 
 ery won't do now. We must leave no scent in the track; the 
 hounds are after us, my little blowen. Here's a nice stuff 
 gown for you, and a red cloak that would frighten a turkey- 
 cock. As to the other cloak and shawl, don't be afraid, — 
 they sha'n't go to the pop-shop, but we '11 take care of them 
 against we get to some large town where there are young fel- 
 lows with blunt in their pockets; for you seem to have al- 
 ready found out that your face is your fortune, Alley. 
 Come, make haste; we must be starting. I shall come up 
 for you in ten minutes. Pish! don't be faint-hearted; here, 
 take 'Old Tom,'— take it, I say. What, you won't? Well, 
 here 's to your health, and a better taste to you! " 
 
 And now, as the door once more closed upon Darvil, tears 
 for the first time came to the relief of Alice. It was a 
 woman's weakness that procured for her that woman's lux- 
 ury. Those garments, — they were Ernest's gift, Ernest's 
 taste ; they were like the last relic of that delicious life which 
 now seemed to have fled forever. All traces of that life, — of 
 him, the loving, the protecting, the adored; all trace of her- 
 self, as she had been re-created by love, was to be lost to her 
 forever. It was — as she had read somewhere, in the little 
 elementary volumes that bounded her historic lore — like that 
 last fatal ceremony in which those condemned for life to the 
 mines of Siberia are clothed with the slave's livery, their 
 past name and record eternally blotted out, and thrust into 
 the vast wastes from which even the mercy of despotism, 
 should it ever re-awaken, cannot recall them ; for all evidence 
 of them, all individuality, all mark to distinguish them from 
 the universal herd, is expunged from the world's calendar. 
 She was still sobbing in vehement and unrestrained passion, 
 when Darvil re-entered. "What, not dressed yet?" he ex- 
 claimed, in a voice of impatient rage. " Hark ye, this won't 
 do. If in two minutes you are not ready, I '11 send up John 
 Walters to help you; and he is a rough hand, I can tell you." 
 
 This threat recalled Alice to herself. "I will do as you 
 wish," said she, meekly. 
 
 "Well, then, be quick," said Darvil; "they are now put- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 141 
 
 ting the horse to. And mark me, girl, your father is running 
 away from the gallows; and that thought does not make a 
 man stand upon scruples. If you once attempt to give me the 
 slip, or do or say anything that can bring the bulkies upon, 
 us, by the devil in hell, — if indeed there be hell or devil, — 
 my knife shall become better acquainted with that throat; so 
 look to it!" 
 
 And this was the father, this the condition, of her whose 
 ear had for months drunk no other sound than the whispers 
 of flattering love, — the murmurs of Passion from the lips of 
 Poetry ! 
 
 They continued their journey till midnight; they then ar- 
 rived at an inn little different from the last, — but here Alice 
 was no longer consigned to solitude. In a long room, reek- 
 ing with smoke, sat from twenty to thirty ruffians before a 
 table on which mugs and vessels of strong potations were 
 formidably interspersed with sabres and pistols. They re- 
 ceived Walters and Darvil with a shout of welcome, and 
 would have crowded somewhat unceremoniously round Alice, 
 if her father, whose well-known desperate and brutal feroc- 
 ity made him a man to be respected in such an assembly, had 
 not said sternly: *' Hands off, messmates, and make way by 
 the fire for my little girl, — she is meat for your masters." 
 
 So saying, he pushed Alice down into a huge chair in the 
 chimney-nook, and, seating himself near her at the end of the 
 table, hastened to turn the conversation. 
 
 •'Well, Captain," said he, addressing a small, thin man at 
 the head of the table, " I and Walters have fairly cut and 
 run; the land has a bad air for us, and we now want the sea- 
 breeze to cure the rope-fever. So, knowing this was your 
 night, we have crowded sail, and here we are. You miist 
 give the girl there a lift, though I know you don't like such 
 lumber, and we '11 run ashore as soon as we can." 
 
 "She seems a quiet little body," replied the captain; "and 
 we would do more than that to oblige an old friend like you. 
 In half an hour Oliver ^ puts on his nightcap, and we must 
 then be off." 
 
 ^ The moou. 
 
142 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "The sooner the better." 
 
 The men now appeared to forget the presence of Alice, who 
 sat faint with fatigue and exhaustion, — for she had been too 
 sick at heart to touch the food brought to her at their previ- 
 ous halting-place, — gazing abstractedly upon the fire. Her 
 father before their departure made her swallow some morsels 
 of sea-biscuit, though each seemed to choke her; and then, 
 wrapped in a thick boat-cloak, she was placed in a small well- 
 built cutter; and as the sea-winds whistled round her, the 
 present cold and the past fatigues lulled her miserable heart 
 into the arms of the charitable Sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 You are once more a free woman ; 
 Here I discharge your bonds. 
 
 The Custom of the Country. 
 
 And many were thy trials, poor child; many that, were 
 this book to germinate into volumes more numerous than 
 monk ever composed upon the lives of saint or martyr, — 
 though a hundred volumes contained the record of two years 
 only in the life of Saint Anthony, — it would be impossible to 
 describe! We may talk of the fidelity of books, but no man 
 ever wrote even his own biography without being compelled 
 to omit at least nine tenths of the most important materials. 
 What are three, what six volumes? We live six volumes in 
 a day! Thought, emotion, joy, sorrow, hope, fear, — how 
 prolix would they be if they might each tell their hourly 
 tale! But man's life itself is a brief epitome of that which 
 is infinite and everlasting; and his most accurate confessions 
 are a miserable abridgment of a hurried and confused 
 compendium! 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 143 
 
 It was about three months or more from the night in which 
 Alice wept herself to sleep amongst those wild companions, 
 when she contrived to escape from her father's vigilant eye. 
 They were then on the coast of Ireland. Darvil had sepa- 
 rated himself from Walters, from his seafaring companions; 
 he had run through the greater part of the money his crimes 
 had got together; he began seriously to attempt putting into 
 execution his horrible design of depending for support upon 
 the sale of his daughter. Now, Alice might have been 
 molded into sinful purposes before she knew Maltravers; but 
 from that hour her very error made her virtuous, — she had 
 comprehended, the moment she loved, what was meant by 
 female honour ; and by a sudden revelation she had purchased 
 modest}^, delicacy of thought and soul, in the sacrifice of her- 
 self. Much of our morality (prudent and right upon system) 
 with respect to the first false step of women leads us, as we 
 all know, into barbarous errors as to individual exceptions. 
 Where from pure and confiding love that first false step has 
 been taken, many a woi^an has been saved in after life from 
 a thousand temptations. The poor unfortunates who crowd 
 our streets and theatres have rarely in the first instance been 
 corrupted by love, but by poverty, and the contagion of cir- 
 cumstance and example. It is a miserable cant phrase to call 
 them the victims of seduction, — they have been the victims 
 of hunger, of vanity, of curiosity, of e\'\\ female counsels; but 
 the seduction of love hardly ever conducts to a life of vice. 
 If a woman has once really loved, the beloved object makes 
 an impenetrable barrier between her and other men; their 
 advances terrify and revolt, — she would rather die than be 
 unfaithful even to a memory. Though man loves the sex, 
 woman loves only the individual; and the more she loves 
 him, the more cold she is to the species. For the passion of 
 woman is in the sentiment, the fancy, the heart. It rarely 
 has much to do with the coarse images with which boys and 
 old men — the inexperienced and the worn-out — connect it. 
 
 But Alice, though her blood ran cold at her terrible father's 
 language, saw in his very design the prospect of escape. In 
 an hour of drunkenness he thrust her from the house and sta- 
 
144 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 tioned himself to watch her; it was in the city of Cork. She 
 formed her resolution instantly, — turned up a narrow street, 
 and fled at full speed. Darvil endeavoured in vain to keep 
 pace with her, his eyes dizzy, his steps reeling with intoxica- 
 tion. She heard his last curse dying from a distance on the 
 air, and her fear winged her steps; she paused at last, and 
 found herself on the outskirts of the town. She paused, 
 overcome, and deadly faint; and then, for the first time, she 
 felt that a strange and new life was stirring within her own. 
 She had long since known that she bore in her womb the un- 
 born offspring of Maltravers, and that knowledge had made 
 her struggle and live on. But now the embryo had quick- 
 ened into being; it moved, it appealed to her, — a thing un- 
 seen, unknown; but still it was a living creature appealing to 
 a mother! Oh, the thrill, half of ineffable tenderness, half 
 of mysterious terror, at that moment! What a new chapter 
 in the life of woman did it not announce! Now, then, she 
 must be watchful over herself, — must guard against fatigue, 
 must wrestle with despair. Solemn was the trust committed 
 to her, — the life of another, the child of the Adored! It was 
 a summer night; she sat on a rude stone, the city on one side, 
 with its lights and lamps, — the whitened fields beyond, with 
 the moon and the stars above; and above she raised her 
 streaming eyes, and she thought that God the Protector smiled 
 upon her from the face of the sweet skies. So, after a pause 
 and a silent prayer, she rose and resumed her way. When 
 she was wearied she crept into a shed in a farmyard, and 
 slept, for the first time for weeks, the calm sleep of security 
 and hope. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 145 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 How like a prodigal doth she return, 
 With over-weathered rihs and ragged sails. 
 
 Merchant of Venice. 
 
 Mer. What are these ? 
 Uncle. The tenants. 
 
 Beaumont axd Fletcher : Wit without Money. 
 
 It was just two years from tlie night in which Alice had 
 been torn from the cottage, and at that time Maltravers was 
 wandering amongst the ruins of ancient Egypt, when, upon 
 the very lawn where Alice and her lover had so often loitered 
 hand in hand, a gay party of children and young people were 
 assembled. The cottage had been purchased by an opulent 
 and retired manufacturer. He had raised the low thatched 
 roof another story high, and blue slate had replaced the 
 thatch ; and the pretty verandas overgrown with creepers had 
 been taken down, because Mrs. Hobbs thought they gave the 
 rooms a dull look; and the little rustic doorway had been re- 
 placed by four Ionic pillars in stucco; and a new dining- 
 room, twenty-two feet by eighteen, had been built out at one 
 wing, and a new drawing-room had been built over the new 
 dining-room. And the poor little cottage looked quite grand 
 and villa-like. The fountain had been taken away, because 
 it made the house damp; and there was such a broad carriage- 
 drive from the gate to the house! The gate was no longer the 
 modest green wooden gate, ever ajar with its easy latch, but 
 a tall, cast-iron, well-locked gate, between two pillars to 
 match the porch. And on one of the gates was a brass-plate, 
 on which was graven, "Hobbs Lodge. Ring the bell." The 
 lesser Hobbses and the bigger Hobbses were all on the lawn, 
 — many of them fresh from school ; for it was the half-holi- 
 day of a Saturday afternoon. There was mirth and noise and 
 
 10 
 
146 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 shouting and whooping, and the respectable old couple looked 
 calmly on, Hobbs the father smoking his pipe (alas, it was 
 not the dear meerschaum !) ; Hobbs the mother talking to her 
 eldest daughter (a fine young woman, three months married, 
 for love, to a poor man) upon the proper number of days that 
 a leg of mutton (weight ten pounds) should be made to last. 
 
 "Always, my dear, have large joints, — they are much the 
 most saving. Let me see — What a noise the boys do 
 make! No, my love, the ball 's not here." 
 
 "Mamma, it is under your petticoats." 
 
 " La, child, how naughty you are ! " 
 
 "Holla, you sir! it's my turn to go in now. Biddy, wait! 
 Girls have no innings; girls only fag out." 
 
 "Bob, you cheat." 
 
 "Pa, Ned says I cheat." 
 
 "Very likely, my dear; you are to be a lawyer." 
 
 " Where was I, my dear? " resumed Mrs Hobbs, resettling 
 herself and readjusting the invaded petticoats. "Oh, about 
 the leg of mutton. Yes, large joints are the best. The second 
 day a nice hash, with dumplings ; the third, broil the bone, 
 — your husband is sure to like broiled bones, — and then keep 
 the scraps for Saturday's pie. You know, my dear, your 
 father and I were worse off than you when we began; but 
 now we have everything that is handsome about us, — nothing 
 like management. Saturday pies are very nice things, and 
 then you start clear with your joint on Sunday. A good wife 
 like you should never neglect the Saturday's pie! " 
 
 "Yes," said the bride, mournfully; "but Mr. Tiddy does 
 not like pies." 
 
 "Not like pies! That 's very odd, — Mr. Hobbs likes pies. 
 Perhaps you don't have the crust made thick eno'. How- 
 somever, you can make it up to him with a pudding. A wife 
 should always study her husband's tastes: what is a man's 
 home without love? Still, a husband ought not to be aggra- 
 vating, and dislike pie on a Saturday! " 
 
 "Holla! I say, Ma, do you see that 'ere gypsy? I shall 
 go and have my fortune told." 
 " And I, and I ! " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 147 
 
 "Lor', if there be n't a tramper! " cried Mr. Hobbs, rising 
 indignantly. "What can the parish be about? " 
 
 The object of these latter remarks, filial and paternal, was 
 a young woman in a worn, threadbare cloak, with her face 
 pressed to the open-work of the gate, and looking wistfully 
 — oh, how wistfully! — within. The children eagerly ran up 
 to her; but they involuntarily slackened their steps when 
 they drew near, for she was evidently not what they had 
 taken her for. No gypsy hues darkened the pale, thin, deli- 
 cate cheek; no gypsy leer lurked in those large, blue, and 
 streaming eyes ; no gypsy effrontery bronzed that candid and 
 childish brow. As she thus pressed her countenance with 
 convulsive eagerness against the cold bars, the young people 
 caught the contagion of inexpressible and half-fearful sad- 
 ness; they approached almost respectfully. "Do you want 
 anything here?" said the eldest and boldest of the boys. 
 
 " I — I — Surely this is Dale Cottage? " 
 
 " It was Dale Cottage, it is Hobbs Lodge now. Can't you 
 read?" said the heir of the Hobbs's honours, losing, in con- 
 tempt at the girl's ignorance, his first impression of sympathy. 
 
 " And — and — Mr. Butler, is he gone too ? " 
 
 Poor child! she spoke as if the cottage was gone, not im- 
 proved; the Ionic portico had no charm for her! 
 
 "Butler! No such person lives here. Pa, do you know 
 where Mr. Butler lives?" 
 
 Pa was now moving up to the place of conference the slow 
 artillery of his fair round belly and portly calves. "Butler, 
 no; I know nothing of such a name. No Mr. Butler lives 
 here. Go along with you, — ain't you ashamed to beg?" 
 
 "No Mr. Butler!" said the girl, gasping for breath, and 
 clinging to the gate for support. "Are you sure, sir?" 
 
 "Sure, yes! What do you want with him?" 
 
 "Oh, Papa, she looks faint!" said one of the girls, depre- 
 catingly. "Do let her have something to eat, — I'm sure 
 she 's hungry." 
 
 Mr. Hobbs looked angry; he had often been taken in, and 
 no rich man likes beggars. Generally speaking, the rich man 
 is in the right. But then Mr. Hobbs turned to the suspected 
 
148 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 tramper's sorrowful face, and then to his fair, pretty child : 
 and his good angel whispered something to Mr. Hobbs's 
 heart, and he said, after a pause: "Heaven forbid that we 
 should not feel for a poor fellow -creature not so well to do as 
 ourselves. Come in, my lass, and have a morsel to eat." 
 
 The girl did not seem to hear him, and he repeated the in- 
 vitation, approaching to unlock the gate. 
 
 "Xo, sir," said she, then; "no, I thank you. I could not 
 come in now. I could not eat here. But tell me, sir, I im- 
 plore you, can you not even guess where I may find Mr. 
 Butler?" 
 
 "Butler! " said Mrs. Hobbs, whom curiosity had now drawn 
 to the spot. " I remember that was the name of the gentle- 
 man who hired the place, and was robbed." 
 
 "Bobbed!" said Mr. Hobbs, falling back and re-locking 
 the gate; "and the new tea-pot just come home," he muttered 
 inly. "Come, be off, child, be off; we know nothing of your 
 Mr. Butlers." 
 
 The young woman looked wildly in his face, cast a hurried 
 glance over the altered spot, and then, with a kind of shiver, 
 as if the wind had smitten her delicate form too rudely, she 
 drew her cloak more closely round her shoulders, and without 
 saying another word, moved away. The party looked after 
 her as, with trembling steps, she passed down the road, and 
 all felt that pang of shame which is common to the human 
 heart at the sight of a distress it has not sought to soothe. 
 But this feeling vanished at once from the breast of Mrs. 
 and Mr. Hobbs when they saw the girl stop where a turn 
 of the road brought the gate before her eyes, and for the first 
 time they perceived, what the worn cloak had hitherto con- 
 cealed, that the poor young thing bore an infant in her arms. 
 She halted, she gazed fondly back. Even at that distance the 
 despair of her eyes was visible; and then, as she pressed her 
 lips to the infant's brow, they heard a convulsive sob, they 
 saw" her turn away, and she was gone! 
 
 "Well, I declare! " said Mrs. Hobbs. 
 
 "News for the parish," said Mr. Hobbs; "and she so young 
 too ! What a shame ! " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 149 
 
 "The girls about here are very bad, nowadays, Jenny," said 
 the mother to the bride. 
 
 "I see now why she wanted Mr. Butler," quoth Hobbs, 
 with a knowing wink, — "the slut has come to swear! " 
 
 And it was for this that Alice had supported her strength, 
 her courage, during the sharp pangs of childbirth, during a 
 severe and crushing illness, which for months after her con- 
 linement had stretched her upon a peasant's bed (the object 
 of the rude but kindly charity of an Irish shealing) ; for this, 
 day after day, she had whispered to herself, " I shall get well, 
 and I will beg my way to the cottage, and find him there 
 still, and put my little one into his arms, and all will be 
 bright again;" for this, as soon as she could walk without 
 aid, had she set out on foot from the distant land; for this, 
 almost with a dog's instinct (for she knew not what way to 
 turn, what county the cottage was placed in, — she only knew 
 the name of the neighbouring town, and that, populous as it 
 was, sounded strange to the ears of those she asked; and she 
 had often and often been directed wrong), — for this, I say, 
 almost with a dog's faithful instinct, had she, in cold and 
 heat, in hunger and in thirst, tracked to her old master's 
 home her desolate and lonely way! And thrice had she over- 
 fatigued herself, and thrice again been indebted to humble 
 pity for a bed whereon to lay a feverish and broken frame. 
 And once, too, her baby — her darling, her life of life — had 
 been ill, had been near unto death, and she could not stir till 
 the infant (it was a girl) was well again, and could smile in 
 her face and crow. And thus many, many months had elapsed 
 since the day she set out on her pilgrimage, to that on which 
 she found its goal. But never, save when the child was ill, 
 had she desponded or abated heart and hope. She should see 
 him again, and he would kiss her child. And now — No, I 
 cannot paint the might of that stunning blow ! She knew not, 
 she dreamed not, of the kind precautions ^Maltravers had 
 taken ; and he had not sufficiently calculated on her thorough 
 ignorance of the world. How could she divine that the mag- 
 istrate, not a mile distant from her, could have told her all 
 she sought to know? Could she but have met the gardener, 
 
150 ERNEST MALTR AVERS. 
 
 or the old -woman-servant, all would have been well ! These 
 last, indeed, she had the forethought to ask for; but the 
 woman was dead, and the gardener had taken a strange ser- 
 vice in some distant county. And so died her last gleam of 
 hope. If one person who remembered the search of Mal- 
 travers had but met and recognized her! But she had been 
 seen by so few, and now the bright, fresh girl was so sadly 
 altered! Her race was not yet run, and many a sharp wind 
 upon the mournful seas had the bark to brave before its haven 
 was found at last. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Patience and sorrow strove 
 Which should express her goodliest. — Shakspeare. 
 
 Je la plains, je la blame, et je suis son appui.i — ■ Voltaire. 
 
 And now Alice felt that she was on the wide world alone, 
 with her child, no longer to be protected, but to protect; and 
 after the first few days of agony, a new spirit, not indeed of 
 hope, but of endurance, passed within her. Her solitary wan- 
 derings, with God her only guide, had tended greatly to ele- 
 vate and confirm her character. She felt a strong reliance on 
 His mysterious mercy; she felt, too, the responsibility of a 
 mother. Thrown for so many months upon her own resources, 
 even for the bread of life, her intellect was unconsciously 
 sharpened, and a habit of patient fortitude had strengthened 
 a nature originally clinging and femininely soft. She resolved 
 to pass into some other county, for she could neither bear the 
 thoughts that haunted the neighbourhood around, nor think, 
 without a loathing horror, of the possibility of her father's 
 return. Accordingly, one day she renewed her wanderings, 
 and after a week's travel arrived at a small village. Charity 
 is so common in England, it so spontaneously springs up 
 
 1 " I pity her, I blame her, and am her snpport." 
 
 1 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 151 
 
 everywhere, like the good seed by the roadside, that she had 
 rarely wanted the bare necessaries of existence. And her 
 humble manner, and sweet, well-tuned voice, so free from the 
 professional whine of mendicancy, had usually its charm for 
 the sternest. So she generally obtained enough to buy bread 
 and a night's lodging; and if sometimes she failed, she could 
 bear hunger, and was not afraid of creeping into some shed, 
 or, when by the sea-shore, even into some sheltering cavern. 
 Her child throve too, for God tempers the wind to the shorn 
 lamb! But now, so far as physical privation went the worst 
 was over. 
 
 It so happened that as Alice was drawing herself wearily 
 along to the entrance of the village which was to bound her 
 day's journey she was met by a lady, past middle age, in 
 whose countenance compassion was so visible that Alice would 
 not beg; for she had a strange delicacy, or pride, or what- 
 ever it may be called, and rather begged of the stern than of 
 those who looked kindly at her, — she did not like to lower 
 herself in the eyes of the last. 
 
 The lady stopped. 
 
 "My poor girl, where are you going?" 
 
 "Where God pleases, madam," said Alice. 
 
 "Humph! and is that your own child? — you are almost a 
 child yourself." 
 
 "It is mine, madam," said Alice, gazing fondly at the in- 
 fant; "it is my all!" 
 
 The lady's voice faltered. "Are you married?" she asked. 
 
 "Married? Oh, no, madam!" replied Alice, innocently, 
 yet without blushing; for she never knew that she had done 
 wrong in loving Maltravers. 
 
 The lady drew gently back, but not in horror, — no, in still 
 deeper compassion; for that lady had true virtue, and she 
 knew that the faults of her sex are sufficiently punished to 
 permit Virtue to pity them without a sin. 
 
 "I am sorry for it," she said, however, with greater gravity. 
 "Are you travelling to seek the father?" 
 
 "Ah, madam! I shall never see him again!" And Alice 
 wept. 
 
152 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "What, he has abandoned you! — So young, so beautiful!" 
 added the lady to herself. 
 
 "Abandoned me? No, madam; but it is a long tale. Good 
 evening; I thank you kindly for your pity." 
 
 The lady's eyes ran over. 
 
 "Stay," said she; "tell me frankly where you are going, 
 and what is your object." 
 
 " Alas ! madam, I am going anywhere, for I have no home ; 
 but I wish to live, and work for my living, in order that my 
 child may not want for anything. I wish I could maintain 
 myself, — he used to say I could." 
 
 " He ! Your language and manner are not those of a peas- 
 ant. What can you do? What do you know? " 
 
 " Music and work and — and — " 
 
 "Music! This is strange! What were your parents?" 
 
 Alice shuddered, and hid her face with her hands. 
 
 The lady's interest was now fairly warmed in her behalf. 
 
 "She has sinned," said she to herself; "but at that age, 
 how can one be harsh? She must not be thrown upon the 
 world to make sin a habit. — Follow me," she said, after a 
 little pause, "and think you have found a friend." 
 
 The lady then turned from the high-road down a green lane 
 which led to a park lodge. This lodge she entered; and after 
 a short conversation with the inmate, beckoned to Alice to 
 join her. 
 
 "Janet," said Alice's new protector to a comely and i)leas- 
 ant-eyed woman, "this is the young person; you will show 
 her and the infant every attention. I shall send down proper 
 clothing for her to-morrow, and I shall then have thought 
 what will be best for her future welfare." 
 
 With that the lady smiled benignly upon Alice, whose 
 heart was too full to speak ; and the door of the cottage closed 
 upon her, and Alice thought the day had grown darker. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 153 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Believe me, she has won me much to pity her. 
 Alas ! her geutle nature was not made 
 To buffet with adversity. — Rowe. 
 
 Sober he was, and grave from early youth, 
 Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth ; 
 In a light drab he uniformly dressed. 
 And look serene th' vmruffled mind expressed. 
 
 Yet might observers in his sparkling eye 
 
 Some observation, some acuteness, spv, — 
 
 The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous deemed it sly ; 
 
 Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect. 
 
 His actions all were, like his speech, correct. 
 
 Chaste, sober, solemn, and devout they named 
 
 Him who was this, and not of this ashamed. — Ckabbe. 
 
 I '11 on, and sound this secret. — Beaumont axd Fletcher. 
 
 Mrs. Le.slie, the lady introduced to the reader in the last 
 chapter, was a woman of the firmest intellect combined — no 
 unusual combination — with the softest heart. She learned 
 Alice's history with admiration and pity. The natural inno- 
 cence and honesty of the young mother spoke so eloquently in 
 her words and looks that Mrs. Leslie, on hearing her tale, 
 found much less to forgive than she had anticipated. Still, 
 she deemed it necessary to enlighten Alice as to the crimi- 
 nality of the connection she had formed. But here Alice was 
 singularly dull; she listened in meek patience to Mrs. Leslie's 
 lecture, but it evidently made but slight impression on her. 
 She had not yet seen enough of the social state to correct the 
 first impressions of the natural ; and all she could say in an- 
 swer to Mrs. Leslie was : " It may be all very true, madam, 
 but I have been so much better since 1 knew him ! " 
 
 But though Alice took humbly any censure upon herself, 
 she would not hear a svHable insinuated against Maltravers. 
 
154 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 When, in a very natural indignation, Mrs. Leslie denounced 
 him as a destroyer of innocence, — for Mrs. Leslie could not 
 learn all that extenuated his offence, — Alice started up, with 
 flashing eyes and heaving heart, and would have hurried from 
 the only shelter she had in the wide world; she would sooner 
 have died, she would sooner even have seen her child die, 
 than have done that idol of her soul, who in her eyes stood 
 alone on some pinnacle between earth and heaven, the wrong 
 of hearing him reviled. With difficulty Mrs. Leslie could re- 
 strain, with still more difliculty could she pacify and soothe 
 her; and for the girl's petulance, which others might have 
 deemed insolent or ungrateful, the woman-heart of Mrs. 
 Leslie loved her all the better. The more she saw of Alice, 
 and the more she comprehended her story and her character, 
 the more was she lost in wonder at the romance of which this 
 beautiful child had been the heroine, and the more perplexed 
 she was as to Alice's future prospects. 
 
 At length, however, when she became acquainted with 
 Alice's musical acquirements, which were, indeed, of no com- 
 mon order, a light broke in upon her. Here was the source 
 of her future independence. Maltravers, it will be remem- 
 bered, was a musician of consummate skill as well as taste, 
 and Alice's natural talent for the art had advanced her in the 
 space of months to a degree of perfection which it cost others 
 — which it had cost even the quick Maltravers — years to 
 obtain. But we learn so rapidly when our teachers are those 
 we love; and it may be observed that the less our knowledge, 
 the less, perhaps, our genius, in other things, the more facile 
 are our attainments in music, which is a very jealous mistress 
 of the mind. Mrs. Leslie resolved to have her perfected in 
 this art, and so enable her to become a teacher to others. In 
 
 the town of C , about thirty miles from Mrs. Leslie's 
 
 house, though in the same county, there was no inconsidera- 
 ble circle of wealthy and intelligent persons; for it was a 
 cathedral town, a.nd the resident clergy drew around them a 
 kind of provincial aristocracy. Here, as in most rural towns 
 in England, music was much cultivated, both among the 
 higher and middle classes. There were amateur concerts 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 155 
 
 and glee-clubs and subscriptions for sacred music; and once 
 
 every live years there was the great C Festival. In this 
 
 town Mrs. Leslie established Alice; she placed her under the 
 roof of a ci-devant music-master, who, having retired from 
 his profession, was no longer jealous of rivals, but who by 
 handsome terms was induced to complete the education of 
 Alice. It was an eligible and comfortable abode, and the 
 music-master and his wife were a good-natured, easy old 
 couple. 
 
 Three months of resolute and unceasing perseverance, com- 
 bined with the singular ductility and native gifts of Alice, 
 sufficed to render her the most promising pupil the good mu- 
 sician had ever accomplished; and in three months more, in- 
 troduced by Mrs. Leslie to many of the families in the place, 
 Alice was established in a home of her own ; and what with 
 regular lessons, and occasional assistance at musical parties, 
 she was fairly earning what her tutor reasonably pronounced 
 to be "a very genteel independence." 
 
 Now, in these arrangements (for we must here go back a 
 little) there had been one gigantic difficulty, of conscience in 
 one party, of feeling in another, to surmount. IVIrs. Leslie 
 saw at once that unless Alice's misfortune was concealed, all 
 the virtues and all the talents in the Avorld could not enable 
 her to retrace the one false step. Mrs. Leslie was a woman 
 of habitual truth and strict rectitude, and she was sorely per- 
 plexed between the propriety of candour and its cruelty. She 
 felt unequal to take the responsibility of action on herself; 
 and after much meditation she resolved to confide her scru- 
 l»les to one who, of all whom she knew, possessed the highest 
 character for moral worth and religious sanctity. This gen- 
 tleman, lately a widower, lived at the outskirts of the town 
 selected for Alice's future residence, and at that time hap- 
 pened to be on a visit in Mrs. Leslie's neighbourhood. He 
 was an opulent man, a banker; he had once represented the 
 town in parliament, and retiring, from disinclination to the 
 late hours and onerous fatigues even of an unreformed House 
 of Commons, he still possessed an influence to return one, if 
 not both, of the members for the city of C . And that in- 
 
156 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 fluence was always exerted so as best to secure his own inter- 
 est with the powers that be, and advance certain objects of 
 ambition (for he was both an ostentatious and ambitious man 
 in his own way) which he felt he might more easily obtain by 
 proxy than by his own votes and voice in parliament, — an 
 atmosphere in which his light did not shine. And it was 
 with a wonderful address that the banker contrived at once to 
 support the Government, and yet, by the frequent expression 
 of liberal opinions, to conciliate the Whigs and the Dissen- 
 ters of his neighbourhood. Parties, political and sectarian, 
 were not then so irreconcilable as they are now. In the 
 whole county there was no one so respected as this eminent 
 person; and yet he possessed no shining talents, though a 
 laborious and energetic man of business. It was solely and 
 wholly the force of moral character which gave him his posi- 
 tion in society. He felt this; he was sensitively proud of it; 
 he was painfully anxious not to lose an atom of a distinction 
 that required to be vigilantly secured. He was a very re- 
 markable, yet not, perhaps (could we penetrate all hearts), a 
 very tmcommon, character, this banker. He had risen from, 
 comparatively speaking, a low origin and humble fortunes, 
 and entirely by the scrupulous and sedate propriety of his out- 
 ward conduct. With such a propriety he therefore insepara- 
 bly connected every notion of worldly prosperity and honour. 
 Thus, though far from a bad man, he was forced into being 
 something of a hypocrite. Every year he had groAvn more 
 starched and more saintly. He was conscience-keei^er to the 
 whole town ; and it is astonishing how many persons hardly 
 dared to make a will or subscribe to a charity without his 
 advice. As he was a shrewd man of this world, as well as an 
 accredited guide to the next, his advice was precisely of a 
 nature to reconcile the Conscience and the Interest; and he 
 was a kind of negotiator in the reciprocal diplomacy of earth 
 and heaven. But our banker was really a charitable man and 
 a benevolent man and a sincere believer. How, then, was he 
 a hypocrite? Simply because he professed to be far more 
 charitable, more benevolent, and more pious than he really 
 was. His reputation had now arrived to that degree of im- 
 
ernp:st maltravers. 157 
 
 maculate polish that the smallest breath, which would not 
 have tarnished the character of another man, would have fixed 
 an indelible stain upon his. As he affected to be more strict 
 than the Churchman, and was a great oracle with all who 
 regarded Churchmen as lukewarm, so his conduct was nar- 
 rowly watched by all the clergy of the orthodox cathedral, — 
 good men, doubtless, but not affecting to be saints, who were 
 jealous at being so luminously outshone by a layman and an 
 authority of the sectarians. On the other hand, the intense 
 homage and almost worship he received from his followers 
 kept his goodness upon a stretch, if not beyond all human 
 power, certainly beyond his own. For " admiration, " as it is 
 well said somewhere, " is a kind of superstition which ex- 
 pects miracles." From nature this gentleman had received 
 an inordinate share of animal propensities; he had strong 
 passions, he was by temperament a sensualist. He loved 
 good eating and good wine; he loved women. The two former 
 blessings of the carnal life are not incompatable with canoni- 
 zation; but Saint Anthony has shown that women, however 
 angelic, are not precisely that order of angels that saints 
 may safely commune with. If, therefore, he ever yielded to 
 temptations of a sexual nature, it was with profound secrecy 
 and caution; nor did his right hand know what his left hand 
 did. 
 
 This gentleman had married a woman much older than him- 
 self; but her fortune had been one of the necessary stepping- 
 stones in his career. His exemplary conduct towards this lady, 
 ugly as well as old, had done much towards increasing the 
 odour of his sanctity. She died of an ague, and the widower 
 did not shock probabilities by affecting too severe a grief. 
 
 "The Lord's will be done!" said he. "She was a good 
 woman ; but we should not set our affections too much upon 
 His perishable creatures! " 
 
 This was all he was ever heard to say on the matter. He 
 took an elderly gentlewoman, distantly related to him, to 
 manage his house and sit at the head of the table; and it was 
 thought not impossible, though the widower was past fifty, 
 that he might marry again. 
 
158 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Such was the gentleman called in by Mrs. Leslie, who, of 
 the same religious opinions, had long known and revered him, 
 to decide the affairs of Alice and of Conscience. 
 
 As this man exercised no slight or fugitive influence over 
 Alice Darvil's destinies, his counsels on the point in discus- 
 sion ought to be fairly related. 
 
 "And now," said Mrs. Leslie, concluding the history, 
 "you will perceive, my dear sir, that this poor young creature 
 has been less culpable than she appears. From the extra- 
 ordinary proficiency she has made in music in a time that 
 by her own account seems incredibly short, I should suspect 
 her unprincipled betrayer must have been ao artist, — a pro- 
 fessional man. It is just possible that they may meet again 
 and (as the ranks between them cannot be so very dispropor- 
 tionate) that he may marry her. I am sure that he could not 
 do a better or a wiser thing, for she loves him too fondly, 
 despite her wrongs. Under these circumstances would it be 
 a — a — a culpable disguise of truth to represent her as a mar- 
 ried woman, separated from her husband, and give her the 
 name of her seducer? Without such a precaution you will 
 see, sir, that all hope of settling her reputably in life, all 
 chance of procuring her any creditable independence, is out of 
 the question. Such is my dilemma. What is your advice ? 
 Palatable or not, I shall abide by it." 
 
 The banker's grave and saturnine countenance exhibited a 
 slight degree of embarrassment at the case submitted to him. 
 He began brushing away, with the cuff of his black coat, some 
 atoms of dust that had settled on his drab small-clothes ; and 
 after a slight pause he replied: "Why, really, dear madam, 
 the question is one of much delicacy, — I doubt if men could 
 be good judges upon it; your sex's tact and instinct on these 
 matters are better, much better, than our sagacity. There is 
 much in the dictates of your own heart; for to those who are 
 in the grace of the Lord, He vouchsafes to communicate His 
 pleasure by spiritual hints and inward suggestions ! " 
 
 "If so, my dear sir, the matter is decided; for my heart 
 whispers me that this slight deviation from truth would be a 
 less culpable offence than turning so young and, I had almost 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 159 
 
 said, so innocent a creature adrift upon the world. I may 
 take your opinion as my sanction?" 
 
 "Why, really, I can scarcely say so much as that," said the 
 banker, with a slight smile. " A deviation from truth cannot 
 be incurred without some forfeiture of strict duty." 
 
 "Not in any case? Alas, I was afraid so!" said Mrs. 
 Leslie, despondingly. 
 
 "In any case? Oh, there may be cases! But had I not 
 better see the young woman, and ascertain that your benevo- 
 lent heart has not deceived you? " 
 
 "I wish you would," said Mrs. Leslie; "she is now in the 
 house. I will ring for her." 
 
 "Should we not be alone? " 
 
 "Certainly; I will leave you together." 
 
 Alice was sent for, and appeared. 
 
 "This pious gentleman," said Mrs. Leslie, "will confer 
 with you for a few moments, my child. Do not be afraid; he 
 is the best of men." With these words of encouragement the 
 good lady vanished, and Alice saw before her a tall, dark 
 man, with a head bald in front, yet larger behind than before, 
 with spectacles upon a pair of shrewd, penetrating eyes, and 
 an outline of countenance that showed he must have been 
 handsome in earlier manhood. 
 
 "My young friend," said the banker, seating himself, after 
 a deliberate survey of the fair countenance that blushed be- 
 neath his gaze, "Mrs. Leslie and myself have been conferring 
 upon your temporal welfare. You have been unfortunate, 
 my child." 
 
 "Ah, yes!" 
 
 " Well, wel 1, you are very young ; we must not be too severe 
 upon youth. You will never do so again? " 
 
 "Do what, please you, sir? " 
 
 "What! Humph! I mean that you will be more rigid, 
 more circumspect. Men are deceitful ; you must be on your 
 guard against them. You are handsome, child, very hand- 
 some, — more 's the pity." And the banker took Alice's hand 
 and pressed it with great unction. Alice looked at him 
 gravely, and drew her hand away instinctively. 
 
160 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 The banker lowered Ms spectacles and gazed at her without 
 their aid; his eyes were still fine and expressive. "What is 
 your name?" he asked. 
 
 "Alice — Alice Darvil, sir." 
 
 "Well, Alice, we have been considering what is best for 
 you. You wish to earn your own livelihood, and perhaps 
 marry some honest man hereafter." 
 
 "Marry, sir? Never!" said Alice, with great earnestness, 
 her eyes filling with tears. 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Because I shall never see him on earth, and they do not 
 marry in heaven, sir," 
 
 The banker was moved, for he was not worse than his 
 neighbours, though trying to make them believe he was so 
 much better. 
 
 "Well, time enough to talk of that; but in the meanwhile 
 you would support yourself? " 
 
 "Yes, sir. His child ought to be a burden to none, — nor 
 I either. I once wished to die ; but then who would love my 
 little one? Now I wish to live." 
 
 "But what mode of livelihood would you prefer? Would 
 you go into a family in some capacity? Not that of a ser- 
 vant, — you are too delicate for that." 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" 
 
 "But, again, why?" asked the banker, soothingly, yet 
 surprised. 
 
 "Because," said Alice, almost solemnly, "there are some 
 hours when I feel I must be alone, I sometimes think I am 
 not all right here" and she touched her forehead. "They 
 called me an idiot before I knew him ! No, I could not live 
 with others, for I can only cry when nobody but my child is 
 with me." 
 
 This was said with such unconscious, and therefore with 
 such pathetic, simplicity that the banker was sensibly atfected. 
 He rose, stirred the fire, resettled himself, and after a pause 
 said emphatically: "Alice, I will be your friend. Let me be- 
 lieve you will deserve it." 
 
 Alice bent her graceful head ; and seeing that he had sunk 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 161 
 
 into an abstracted silence, she thought it time for her to 
 withdraw. 
 
 "She is indeed beautiful," said the banker, almost aloud, 
 when he was alone; "and the old lady is right, — she is as 
 innocent as if she had not fallen. I wonder — " Here he 
 stopped short, and walked to the glass over the mantelpiece, 
 where he was still gazing on his own features when Mrs. 
 Leslie returned. 
 
 "Well, sir?" said she, a little surprised at this seeming 
 vanity in so pious a man. 
 
 The banker started. "Madam, I honour your penetration 
 as much as your charity; I think that there is so much to be 
 feared in letting all the world know this young female's past 
 error that, though I dare not advise, I cannot blame, your 
 concealment of it." 
 
 "But, sir, your words have sunk deep into my thoughts; 
 you said every deviation from truth was a forfeiture of 
 duty." 
 
 "Certainly; but there are some exceptions. The world is 
 a bad world, — we are born in sin, and the children of wrath. 
 We do not tell infants all the truth when they ask us ques- 
 tions, the proper answers of which would mislead, not en- 
 lighten, them. In some things the whole world are infants. 
 The very science of government is the science of concealing 
 truth; so is the system of trade. We could not blame the 
 tradesman for not telling the public that if all his debts were 
 called in he would be a bankrupt." 
 
 "And he may marry her, after all, this Mr. Butler." 
 
 "Heaven forbid, — the villain! Well, madam, T will see 
 to this poor young thing; she shall not want a guide." 
 
 "Heaven reward you! How wicked some people are to call 
 you severe ! " 
 
 " I can bear that blame with a meek temper, madam. 
 Good-day. " 
 
 " Good-day. You will remember how strictly confidential 
 has been our conversation." 
 
 "Not a breath shall transpire. I will send you some tracts 
 to-morrow, — so comforting. Heaven bless you! " 
 
 11 
 
162 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 This difficulty smoothed, Mrs. Leslie, to her astonishment, 
 found that she had another to contend with in Alice herself. 
 For, first, Alice conceived that to change her name and keep 
 her secret was to confess that she ought to be ashamed rather 
 than proud of her love to Ernest, and she thought that so 
 ungrateful to him ; and, secondly, to take his name, to pass 
 for his wife — what presumption! He would certainly have 
 a right to be offended! At these scruples Mrs. Leslie well- 
 nigh lost all patience; and the banker, to his own surprise, 
 was again called in. We have said that he was an experi- 
 enced and skilful adviser, — which implies the faculty of per- 
 suasion. He soon saw the handle by which Alice's obstinacy 
 might always be moved, — her little girl's welfare. He put 
 this so forcibly before her eyes; he represented the child's 
 future fate as resting so much, not only on her own good 
 conduct, but on her outward respectability, that he prevailed 
 upon her at last; and perhaps one argument that he inciden- 
 tally used had as much effect on her as the rest. "This Mr. 
 Butler, if yet in England, may pass through our town, may 
 visit amongst us, may hear you spoken of by a name similar 
 to his own, and curiosity would thus induce him to seek you. 
 Take his name, and you will always bear an honourable index 
 to your mutual discovery and recognition. Besides, when 
 you are respectable, honoured, and earning an independence, 
 he may not be too proud to marry you. But take your own 
 name, avow your own history, and not only will your child 
 be an outcast, yourself a beggar, or, at best, a menial depend- 
 ent, but you lose every hope of recovering the object of your 
 too-devoted attachment. " 
 
 Thus Alice was convinced. From that time she became 
 close and reserved in her communications. Mrs. Leslie had 
 wisely selected a town sufficiently remote from her own abode 
 to preclude any revelations of her domestics; and as Mrs. 
 Butler, Alice attracted universal sympathy and respect from 
 the exercise of her talents, the modest sweetness of her man- 
 ners, the unblemished propriety of her conduct. Somehow or 
 other, no sooner did she learn the philosophy of concealment 
 than she made a great leap in knowledge of the world. And 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 1G3 
 
 though flattered and courted by the young loungers of C , 
 
 she steered her course with so much address that she Avas 
 never persecuted; for there are few men in the world who 
 make advances where there is no encouragement. 
 
 The banker observed her conduct with silent vigilance. He 
 met her often, he visited her often. He was intimate at 
 houses where she attended to teach or perform. He lent her 
 good books, he advised her, he preached to her. Alice began 
 to look up to him, to like him, to consider him as a village 
 girl in Catholic countries may consider a benevolent and kindly 
 priest. And he — what was his object? At that time it is 
 impossible to guess; he became thoughtful and abstracted. 
 
 One day an old maid and an old clergyman met in the High 
 Street of C . 
 
 " And how do you do, ma'am? " said the clergyman. " How 
 is the rheumatism? " 
 
 "Better, thank you, sir. Any news?" 
 
 The clergyman smiled, and something hovered on his lips, 
 which he suppressed. 
 
 "Were you," the old maid resumed, "at Mrs. Macnab's last 
 night? Charming music! " 
 
 "Charming! How pretty that Mrs. Butler is! and how 
 humble ! Knows her station, — so unlike professional 
 people." 
 
 "Yes, indeed! What attention a certain banker paid her! " 
 
 "He! he! he! yes; he is very fatherly — very! " 
 
 "Perhaps he will marry again; he is always talking of the 
 holy state of matrimony, A holy state it may be, but Heaven 
 knows his wife, poor woman, did not make it a pleasant one." 
 
 "There may be more causes for that than we guess of," said 
 the clergyman, mysteriously. " I would not be uncharitable, 
 bi;t — " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " Oh, when he was young, our great man was not so cor- 
 rect, I fancy, as he is now." 
 
 "So I have heard it whispered; but nothing against him 
 was ever known." 
 
 "Hem, it is very odd! " 
 
164 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 " What 's very odd? " 
 
 "Why, — but it's a secret; I dare say it's all very right." 
 
 " Oh, I sha'n't say a word. Are you going to the cathedral? 
 Don't let me keep you standing. ]Srow, pray proceed! " 
 
 " Well, then, yesterday I was doing duty in a village more 
 than twenty miles tence, and I loitered in the village to take 
 an early dinner; and, afterwards, while my horse was feed- 
 ing, I strolled down the green." 
 
 "Well, well?" 
 
 " And I saw a gentleman muffled carefully up, with his hat 
 slouched over his face, at the door of a cottage, with a little 
 child in his arms ; and he kissed it more fondly than, be we 
 ever so good, we generally kiss other people's children; and 
 then he gave it to a peasant woman standing near him, and 
 mounted his horse, which was tied to the gate, and trotted 
 past me. And who do you think this was?" 
 
 "Patience me, I can't guess! " 
 
 "Why, our saintly banker! I bowed to him, and I assure 
 you he turned as red, ma'am, as your waistband." 
 
 "My!" 
 
 " I just turned into the cottage when he was out of sight, 
 for I was thirsty, and asked for a glass of water; and I saw the 
 child. I declare I would not be uncharitable, but I thought 
 it monstrous like — you know whom ! " 
 
 " Gracious ! you don't say — " 
 
 " I asked the woman if it was hers ; and she said ' No, ' but 
 was very short." 
 
 "Dear me, I must find this out! What is the name of the 
 village?" 
 
 "Covedale." 
 
 "Oh, I know, I know!" 
 
 " Not a word of this ; I dare say there is nothing in it. But 
 I am not much in favour of your new lights." 
 
 " Nor I neither. What better than the good old Church of 
 England? " 
 
 "Madam, your sentiments do you honour. You'll be sure 
 not to say anything of our little mystery? " 
 
 "Not a syllable." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 165 
 
 Two days after this, three old maids made an excursion to 
 the village of Covedale, and lo! the cottage in question was 
 shut up, the woman and the child were gone. The people in 
 the village knew nothing about them, had seen nothing par- 
 ticular in the woman or child, — had always supposed them 
 mother and daughter; and the gentleman identified by the 
 clerical inquisitor with the banker had never but once been 
 observed in the place. 
 
 "The vile old parson," said the eldest of the old maids, 
 "to take away so good a man's character! and the fly will cost 
 one pound two, with the baiting! " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 In this disposition was I when, looking out of my window one day to take 
 the air, I perceived a kind of peasant who looked at me very attentively. 
 
 Gil Bias. 
 
 A summer's evening in a retired country town has some- 
 thing melancholy in it. You have the streets of a metropolis 
 without their animated bustle ; you have the stillness of the 
 country without its birds and flowers. The reader will please 
 to bring before him a quiet street in the quiet country town 
 
 of C , in a quiet evening in quiet June ; the picture is not 
 
 mirthful. Two young dogs are playing in the street; one old 
 dog is watching by a newly painted door. A few ladies of mid- 
 dle age move noiselessly along the pavement, returning home 
 to tea; they wear white muslin dresses, green spencers a little 
 faded, straw poke bonnets with green or coffee-coloured gauze 
 veils. By twos and threes they have disappeared within the 
 thresholds of small, neat houses, with little railings enclosing 
 little green plots, — threshold, house, railing, and plot each 
 as like to the other as are those small commodities called 
 "nest-tables," which, "even as a broken mirror multiplies," 
 
166 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 summon to the bewildered eye countless iterations of one four- 
 legged individual. Paradise Place was a set of nest-houses. 
 
 A cow had passed through the streets with a milkwoman 
 behind; two young and gay shopmen, "looking after the 
 gals," had reconnoitred the street, and vanished in despair. 
 The twilight advanced, but gently; and though a star or two 
 were up, the air was still clear. At the open window of one 
 of the tenements in this street sat Alice Darvil. She had 
 been working (that pretty excuse to women for thinking) ; 
 and as the thoughts grew upon her, and the evening waned, 
 the work had fallen upon her knee, and her hands dropped 
 mechanically ' on her lap. Her profile was turned towards 
 the street; but without moving her head or changing her atti- 
 tude, her eyes glanced from time to time to her little girl, 
 who, nestled on the ground beside her, tired with play, and 
 wondering, perhaps, why she was not already in bed, seemed 
 as tranquil as the young mother herself. And sometimes 
 Alice's eyes filled with tears; and then she sighed, as if to 
 sigh the tears away. But, poor Alice, if she grieved, hers 
 was now a silent and a patient grief. 
 
 The street was deserted of all other passengers when a man 
 passed along the pavement on the side opposite to Alice's 
 house. His garb was rude and homely, between that of a 
 labourer and a farmer; but still there was an affectation of 
 tawdry show about the bright scarlet silk handkerchief, tied 
 in a sailor or smuggler fashion round the sinewy throat; the 
 hat was set jauntily on one side, and, dangling many an inch 
 from the gayly striped waistcoat, glittered a watch-chain 
 and seals which appeared suspiciously out of character with 
 the rest of his attire. The passenger was covered with dust; 
 and as the street was in a suburb communicating with the 
 high-road, and formed one of the entrances into the town, he 
 had probably, after a long day's journey, reached his evening's 
 destination. The looks of this stranger were anxious, restless, 
 and perturbed. In his gait and swagger there was the reck- 
 lessness of the professional blackguard; but in his vigilant, 
 prying, suspicious eyes there was a hang-dog expression of ap- 
 prehension and fear. He seemed a man upon whom Crime had 
 
ERNEST MALTKAVERS. 167 
 
 set its significant mark, and who saw a purse with one eye 
 and a gibbet with the other. Alice did not note the stranger 
 until she herself had attracted and centred all his attention. 
 He halted abruptly as he caught a view of her face, shaded 
 his eyes with his hands as if to gaze more intently, and at 
 length burst into an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. 
 At that instant Alice turned, and her gaze met that of the 
 stranger. The fascination of the basilisk can scarcely more 
 stun and paralyze its victim than the look of this stranger 
 charmed, with the appalling glamoury of horror, the eye and 
 soul of Alice Darvil. Her face became suddenly locked and 
 rigid, her lips as white as marble, her eyes almost started 
 from their sockets, she pressed her hands convulsively to- 
 gether, and shuddered, but still she did not move. The man 
 nodded and grinned, and then, deliberately crossing the street, 
 gained the door and knocked loudly. Still Alice did not stir; 
 her senses seemed to have forsaken her. Presently the 
 stranger's loud, rough voice was heard below, in answer to 
 the accents of the solitary woman-servant whom Alice kept in 
 her employ; and his strong, heavy tread made the slight stair- 
 case creak and tremble. Then Alice rose as by an instinct, 
 caught her child in her arms, and stood erect and motionless, 
 facing the door. It opened ; and the father and daughter 
 were once more face to face within the same walls. 
 
 "Well, Alley, how are you, my blowen? Glad to see your 
 old dad again, I'll be sworn. No ceremony, sit down! Ha, 
 ha! snug here, very snug; we shall live together charmingly. 
 Trade on your own account, eh? sly! Well, can't desert your 
 poor old father. Let 's have something to eat and drink." 
 
 So saying, Darvil threw himself at length upon the neat, 
 prim, little chintz sofa, with the air of a man resolved to 
 make himself perfectly at home. 
 
 Alice gazed, and trembled violently, but still said nothing; 
 the power of voice had indeed left her. 
 
 "Come, why don't you stir your stumps? I suppose I must 
 wait on myself. Fine manners! But, ho, ho, — a bell, by 
 gosh! Mighty grand! Never mind; I am used to call for 
 mv own wants." 
 
168 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 A hearty tug at the frail bell-rope sent a shrill alarm half- 
 way through the long lath-and-plaster row of Paradise Place, 
 and left the instrument of the sound in the hand of its 
 creator. 
 
 Up came the maid-servant, a formal old woman, most 
 respectable. 
 
 "Hark ye, old girl!" said Darvil, "bring up the best you 
 have to eat, — not particular; let there be plenty. And I say, 
 a bottle of brandy. Come, don't stand there staring like a 
 stuck pig. Budge! Hell and furies ! don't you hear me?" 
 
 The servant retreated, as if a pistol had been put to her 
 head; and Darvil, laughing loud, threw himself again upon 
 the sofa. Alice looked at him, and, still without saying a 
 word, glided from the room, her child in her arms. She hur- 
 ried downstairs, and in the hall met her servant. The latter, 
 who was much attached to her mistress, was alarmed to see 
 her about to leave the house. 
 
 " Why, marm, where be you going? Dear heart, you have 
 no bonnet on! What is the matter? Who is this? " 
 
 "Oh!" cried Alice, in agony, "what shall I do? Where 
 shall I fly?" The door above opened. Alice heard, started, 
 and the next moment was in the street. She ran on breath- 
 lessl}', and like one insane. Her mind was, indeed, for the 
 time, gone ; and had a river flowed before her way, she would 
 have plunged into an escape from a world that seemed too 
 narrow to hold a father and his child. 
 
 But just as she turned the corner of a street that led into 
 the more public thoroughfares, she felt her arm grasped, and 
 a voice called out her name in surprised and startled accents. 
 
 "Heavens, Mrs. Butler! Alice! What do T see? What 
 is the matter? " 
 
 "Oh, sir, save me ! You are a good man — a great man; 
 save me, — he is returned! " 
 
 "He ! who? Mr. Butler?" said the banker (for that gen- 
 tleman it was), in a changed and trembling voice. 
 
 " No, no — ah, not he ! — I did not say he, I said my father — 
 my, my — ah — look behind — look behind — is he coming? " 
 
 " Calm yourself, my dear young friend, no one is near. I 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 169 
 
 will go and reason with your father. No one shall harm you; 
 I will protect you. Go back, go back; I will follow, — we 
 must not be seen together! " And the tall banker seemed try- 
 ing to shrink into a nutshell. 
 
 "No, no," said Alice, growing yet paler; "I cannot go 
 back." 
 
 "Well, then, just follow me to the door; your servant shall 
 get you your bonnet, and accompany you to my house, where 
 you can wait till I return. Meanwhile I will see your father, 
 and rid you, I trust, of his presence." 
 
 The banker, who spoke in a very hurried and even impa- 
 tient voice, waited for no reply, but took his way to Alice's 
 house. Alice herself did not follow, but remained in the 
 very place where she was left, till joined by her servant, who 
 then conducted her to the rich man's residence. Eut Alice's 
 mind had not recovered its shock, and her thoughts wandered 
 alarmingly. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Miramont. Do they chafe roundly ? 
 
 Andrew. As they were rubbed with soap, sir. 
 
 And now they swear aloud, now calm again 
 
 Like a ring of bells, whose sound the wind still utters ; 
 
 And then they sit in council what to do, 
 
 And then they jar again what shall be done. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Oh ! what a picture of human nature it was when the banker 
 and the vagabond sat together in that little drawing-room fac- 
 ing each other, — one in the armchair, one on the sofa! Darvil 
 was still employed on some cold meat, and was making wry 
 faces at the very indifferent brandy which he had frightened 
 the formal old servant into buying at the nearest public- 
 house ; and opposite sat the respectable, highly respectable, 
 man of forms and ceremonies, of decencies and quackeries, 
 
170 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 gazing gravely upon this low, dare-devil ruffian; the well-to- 
 do hypocrite, the penniless villain; the man who had every- 
 thing to lose, — the man who had nothing in the wide world but 
 his own mischievous, rascally life, a gold watch, chain, and 
 seals, which he had stolen the day before, and thirteen shil- 
 lings and threepence halfpenny in his left breeches pocket! 
 
 The man of wealth was by no means well acquainted with 
 the nature of the beast before him. He had heard from Mrs. 
 Leslie (as we remember) the outline of Alice's history, and 
 ascertained that their joint pvoUgee,'' s father was a great 
 blackguard; but he expected to find Mr. Darvil a mere dull, 
 brutish villain, a peasant-ruffian, a blunt serf, without brains, 
 or their substitute, effrontery. But Luke Darvil was a clever, 
 half -educated fellow ; he did not sin from ignorance, but had 
 wit enough to have bad principles, and he was as impudent 
 as if he had lived all his life in the best society. He was not 
 frightened at the banker's drab breeches and imposing air, 
 not he ! The Duke of Wellington would not have frightened 
 Luke Darvil, unless his Grace had had the constables for 
 his aides-de-camjy. 
 
 The banker, to use a homely phrase, was "taken aback." 
 "Look you here, Mr. What 's-your-name," said Darvil, 
 swallowing a glass of the raw alcohol as if it had been water, 
 — "look you now, you can't humbug me. What the devil do 
 you care about my daughter's respectability, or comfort, or 
 anything else, grave old dog as you are ! It is my daughter 
 herself you are licking your brown old chaps at! and, faith, 
 my Alley is a very pretty girl, very; but queer as moonshine. 
 You '11 drive a much better bargain with me than with her." 
 
 The banker coloured scarlet; he bit his lips and measured 
 his companion from head to foot, while the latter lolled on 
 the sofa, as if he were meditating the possibility of kicking 
 him downstairs. But Luke Darvil would have thrashed the 
 banker and all his clerks into the bargain. His frame was 
 like a trunk of thews and muscles packed up by that careful 
 Dame Nature as tightly as possible ; and a prize-fighter would 
 have thought twice before he entered the ring against so 
 awkward a customer. The banker was a man prudent to a 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 171 
 
 fault, and he pushed his chair six inches back as he concluded 
 his survey. 
 
 *' Sir, " then said he, very quietly, " do not let us misunder- 
 stand each other. Your daughter is safe from your control; 
 if you molest her, the law will protect — " 
 
 "She is not of age," said Darvil. "Your health, old boy! " 
 
 "Whether she is of age or not," returned the banker, un- 
 heeding the courtesy conveyed in the last sentence, " I do not 
 care three straws ; I know enough of the law to know that if 
 she have rich friends in this town, and you have none, she 
 will be protected and you will go to the treadmill." 
 
 "That is spoken like a sensible man," said Darvil, for the 
 first time with a show of respect in his manner; "you now 
 take a practical view of matters, as we used to say at the 
 spouting-club." 
 
 " If I were in your situation, Mr. Darvil, I tell you what I 
 would do. I would leave my daughter and this town to- 
 morrow morning, and I would promise never to return, and 
 never to molest her, on condition she allowed me a certain 
 sum from her earnings, paid quarterly." 
 
 "And if I preferred living with her? " 
 
 " In that case, I, as a magistrate of this town, would have 
 you sent away as a vagrant, or apprehended — " 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " Apprehended on suspicion of stealing that gold chain and 
 seals w^hich you wear so ostentatiously." 
 
 "By goles, but you 're a clever fellow," said Darvil, invol- 
 untarily; "you know human natur'." 
 
 The banker smiled ; strange to say, he was pleased with the 
 compliment. 
 
 "But," resumed Darvil, helping himself to another slice of 
 beef, "you are in the wrong box, — planted in Queer Street, as 
 we say in London ; for if you care a d — n about my daughter's 
 respectability, you will never muzzle her father on suspicion 
 of theft, — and so there 's tit for tat, my old gentleman I " 
 
 " I shall deny that you are her father, Mr. Darvil ; and I 
 think you will find it hard to prove the fact in any town 
 where I am a magistrate.'' 
 
172 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 " By goles, what a good prig you would have made ! You 
 are as sharp as a gimlet. Surely you were brought up at the 
 Old Bailey!" 
 
 *' Mr. Darvil, be ruled. You seem a man not deaf to rea- 
 son, and I ask you whether, in any town in this country, a 
 poor man in suspicious circumstances can do anything against 
 a rich man whose character is established? Perhaps you are 
 right in the main ; I have nothing to do with that. But 1 
 tell you that you shall quit this house in half an hour ; that 
 you shall never enter it again but at your peril ; and if you 
 do, within ten minutes from that time you shall be in the 
 town jail. It is no longer a contest between you and your 
 defenceless daughter, it is a contest between — " 
 
 "A tramper in fustian and a gemman as drives a coach," 
 interrupted Darvil, laughing bitterly, yet heartily. "Good, 
 good! " 
 
 The banker rose. " I think you have made a very clever defi- 
 nition," said he. "Half an hour, you recollect! Good evening." 
 
 "Stay," said Darvil; "you are the first man I have seen 
 for many a year that I can take a fancy to. Sit down, sit 
 down, I say, and talk a bit, and we shall come to terms soon, 
 I dare say. That 's right. Lord, how I should like to have 
 you on the roadside, instead of within these four gimcrack 
 walls! Ha! ha! the argufying would be all in my favour 
 then." 
 
 The banker was not a brave man, and his colour changed 
 slightly at the intimation of this obliging wish. Darvil eyed 
 him grimly and chucklingly. 
 
 The rich man resumed: "That may or may not be, Mr. 
 Darvil, according as I might happen or not to have pistols 
 about me. But to the point. Quit this house without fur- 
 ther debate, without noise, without mentioning to any one 
 else your claim upon its owner — " 
 
 "Well, and the return?" 
 
 " Ten guineas now, and the same sum quarterly as long as 
 the young lady lives in this town and you never persecute her 
 by word or letter." 
 
 "That is forty guineas a year; I can't live upon it." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 173 
 
 "You will cost less in the House of Correction, Mr. 
 Darvil." 
 
 "Come, make it a hundred; Alley is cheap at that." 
 
 "Not a farthing more," said the banker, buttoning up his 
 breeches pockets with a determined air. 
 
 "Well, out with the shiners." 
 
 "Do you promise or not? " 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 " There are your ten guineas. If in half an hour you are 
 not gone, why, then — " 
 
 "Then?" 
 
 " Why, then you have robbed me of ten guineas, and must 
 take the usual consequences of robbery." 
 
 Darvil started to his feet, his eyes glared; he grasped the 
 carving-knife before him. 
 
 " You are a bold fellow, " said the banker, quietly, " but it 
 won't do. It is not worth your while to murder me, and I 
 am a man sure to be missed." 
 
 Darvil sank down, sullen and foiled. The respectable 
 man was more than a match for the villain. 
 
 " Had you been as poor as I, Gad, what a rogue you would 
 have been! " 
 
 "I think not," said the banker; "I believe roguery to be a 
 very bad policy. Perhaps once I was almost as poor as you 
 are, but I never turned rogue." 
 
 "You never were in my circumstances," returned Darvil, 
 gloomily. " I was a gentleman's son. Come, you shall hear 
 my story. My father was well-born, but married a maid- 
 servant when he was at college; his family disowned him, 
 and left him to starve. He died in the struggle against a 
 poverty he was not brought up to, and my dam went into 
 service again, became housekeeper to an old bachelor, sent 
 me to school; but Mother had a family by the old bachelor, 
 and I was taken from school and put to trade. All hated 
 me, for I was ugly, damn them! Mother cut me. I wanted 
 money, robbed the old bachelor, was sent to jail, and learned 
 there a lesson or two how to rob better in future. Mother 
 died; I was adrift on the world. The world was my foe; could 
 
174 ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 not make it up with the world, so we went to war, — you un- 
 derstand, old boy? Married a poor woman and pretty, — wife 
 made me jealous; had learned to suspect every one. Alice 
 born; did not believe her mine, — not like me; perhaps a gen- 
 tleman's child. I hate, I loathe gentlemen. Got drunk one 
 night; kicked my wife in the stomach three weeks after her 
 confinement. Wife died; tried for my life, — got off. Went 
 to another county ; having had a sort of education, and being 
 sharp eno', got work as a mechanic. Hated work just as I 
 hated gentlemen, — for was I not by blood a gentleman? 
 There was the curse. Alice grew up; never looked on her 
 
 as my flesh and blood. Her mother was a w , why 
 
 should not she be one? There, — that's enough; plenty of 
 excuse, I think, for all I have ever done. Curse the world ; 
 curse the rich ; curse the handsome ; curse, curse all ! " 
 
 "You have been a very foolish man," said the banker, "and 
 seem to me to have had very good cards, if you had known 
 how to pla}' them. However, that is your lookout. It is not 
 yet too late to repent; age is creeping on you. Man, there 
 is another world." 
 
 The banker said the last words with a tone of solemn and 
 even dignified adjuration. 
 
 " You think so, do you? " said Darvil, staring at him. 
 
 "From my soul I do." 
 
 "Then you are not the sensible man I took you for," re- 
 plied Darvil, dryly; "and I should like to talk to you on that 
 subject." 
 
 But our Dives, however sincere a believer, was by no means 
 
 one — 
 
 "At whose control 
 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul." 
 
 He had words of comfort for the pious, but he had none for 
 the sceptic; he could soothe, but he could not convert, — it 
 was not in his way; besides, he saw no credit in making a 
 convert of Luke Darvil. Accordingly, he again rose, Avith 
 some quickness, and said, — 
 
 "No, sir, that is useless, I fear, and I have no time to 
 spare; and so once more good -night to you." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVEllS. 175 
 
 "But you have not arranged where my allowance is to be 
 sent." 
 
 "Ah! true; I will guarantee it. You will find my name 
 sufficient security." 
 
 "At least, it is the best I can get," returned Darvil, care- 
 lessly; "and, after all, it is not a bad chance day's work. 
 But I'm sure I can't say where the money shall be sent. 1 
 don't know a man who Avould not grab it." 
 
 "Very well, then; the best thing (I speak as a man of busi- 
 ness) will be to draw on me for ten guineas quarterly. 
 Wherever you are staying, any banker can effect this for you. 
 But mind, if ever you overdraw, the account stops." 
 
 "I understand," said Darvil; "and when I have finished 
 the bottle I shall be off." 
 
 "You had better," replied the banker, as he opened the 
 door. 
 
 The rich man returned home hurriedly. "So Alice, after 
 all, has some gentle blood in her veins," thought he. "But 
 that father, — no, it will never do. I wish he were hanged, 
 and nobody the wiser. I should very much like to arrange 
 the matter without marrying; but then — scandal, scandal, 
 scandal. After all, I had better give up all thoughts of her. 
 She is monstrous handsome, and so — Humph ! I shall never 
 grow an old man." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Began to bend down liis admiring eyes 
 
 On all her touching looks and qualities, 
 
 Turning their shapely sweetness every way 
 
 Till 'twas his food and habit day by day. — Lkigii Hunt. 
 
 There must have been a secret something about Alice Darvil 
 singularly captivating that (associated as she was with images 
 of the most sordid and the vilest crimes) left her still pure and 
 
176 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 lovely alike in the eyes of a man as fastidious as Ernest Mal- 
 travers and of a man as influenced by all the thoughts and 
 
 theories of the world as the shrewd banker of C . Amidst 
 
 things foul and hateful had sprung up this beautiful flower, 
 as if to preserve the inherent heavenliness and grace of hu- 
 man nature, and proclaim the handiwork of God in scenes 
 where human nature had been most debased by the abuses of 
 social art, and where the light of God himself was most dark- 
 ened and obscured. That such contrasts, though rarely and as 
 by chance, are found, every one who has carefully examined 
 the wastes and deserts of life must own. I have drawn Alice 
 Darvil scrupulously from life, and I can declare that I have 
 not exaggerated hue or lineament in the portrait. I do not 
 suppose, with our good banker, that she owed anything, un- 
 less it might be a greater delicacy of form and feature, to 
 whatever mixture of gentle blood was in her veins. But 
 somehow or other, in her original conformation there was the 
 happy bias of the plants, towards the Pure and the Bright. 
 For, despite Helvetius, a common experience teaches us that 
 though education and circumstances may mould the mass, 
 Nature herself sometimes forms the individual, and throws 
 into the clay, or its spirit, so much of beauty or deformity 
 that nothing can utterly subdue the original elements of char- 
 acter. From sweets one draws poison ; from poisons another 
 extracts but sweets. But I, often deeply pondering over the 
 psychological history of Alice Darvil, think that one princi- 
 pal cause why she escaped the early contaminations around 
 her was in the slow and protracted development of her intel- 
 lectual faculties. Whether or not the brutal violence of her 
 father had in childhood acted through the nerves upon the 
 brain, certain it is that until she knew Maltravers, — until 
 she loved, till she was cherished, — her mind had seemed 
 torpid and locked up. True, Darvil had taught her nothing, 
 nor permitted her to be taught anything; but that mere igno- 
 rance would have been no preservation to a quick, observant 
 mind. It was the bluntness of the senses themselves that 
 operated like an armour between her mind and the vile things 
 around her. It was the rough, dull covering of the chrysalis, 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 177 
 
 framed to bear rude contact and biting weather, that the but- 
 terfly might break forth, winged and glorious, in due season. 
 Had Alice been a quick child, Alice would have probably 
 grown up a depraved and dissolute woman ; but she compre- 
 hended, she understood, little or nothing till she found an in- 
 spirer in that affection which inspires both beast and man, 
 which makes the dog (in his natural state one of the meanest 
 of the savage race) a companion, a guardian, a protector, and 
 raises Instinct half-way to the height of Reason. 
 
 The banker had a strong regard for Alice, and when he 
 reached home he heard with great pain that she was in a high 
 state of fever. She remained beneath his roof that night, 
 and the elderly gentlewoman, his relation and gouvernante, 
 attended her. The banker slept but little, and the next morn- 
 ing his countenance was unusually pale. 
 
 Towards daybreak Alice had fallen into a sound and re- 
 freshing sleep; and when, on waking, she found, by a note 
 from her host, that her father had left her house and she 
 might return in safety and without fear, a violent flood of 
 tears, followed by long and grateful prayer, contributed to 
 the restoration of her mind and nerves. Imperfect as this 
 young woman's notions of abstract right and wrong still 
 were, she was yet sensible to the claims of a father — no 
 matter how criminal — upon his child; for feelings with her 
 were so good and true that they supplied in a great measure 
 the place of principles. She knew that she could not have 
 lived under the same roof with her dreadful parent; but she 
 still felt an uneasy remorse at thinking he had been driven 
 from that roof in destitution and want. She hastened to 
 dress herself and seek an audience with her protector; and the 
 latter found with admiration and pleasure that he had antici- 
 pated her own instantaneous and involuntary design in the 
 settlement made upon Darvil. He then communicated to 
 Alice the compact he had already formed with her father, 
 and she wept and kissed his hand when she heard, and se- 
 cretly resolved that she would work hard to be enabled to in- 
 crease the sum allowed. Oh, if her labours could serve to 
 retrieve a parent from the necessity of darker resources for 
 
 12 
 
178 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 support ! Aias ! when crime has become a custom, it is like 
 gaming or drinking, — the excitement is wanting; and had 
 Luke Darvil been suddenly made inheritor of the wealth of a 
 Rothschild, he would either still have been a villain in one 
 way or the other, or ennui would have awakened conscience, 
 and he would have died of the change of habit. 
 
 Our banker' always seemed more struck by Alice's moral 
 feelings than even by her physical beauty. Her love for her 
 child, for instance, impressed him powerfully, and he always 
 gazed upon her with softer eyes when he saw her caressing or 
 nursing the little fatherless creature, whose health was now 
 delicate and precarious. It is difficult to say whether he was 
 absolutely in love with Alice, — the phrase is too strong, per- 
 haps, to be applied to a man past fifty, who had gone through 
 emotions and trials enough to wear away freshness from his 
 heart. His feelings altogether for Alice, the designs he en- 
 tertained towards her, were of a very complicated nature; 
 and it will be long, perhaps, before the reader can thoroughly 
 comprehend them. He conducted Alice home that day; but 
 he said little by the way, — perhaps because his female rela- 
 tion, for appearance's sake, accompanied them also. He, 
 however, briefly cautioned Alice on no account to communicate 
 to any one that it was her father who had been her visitor; 
 and she still shuddered too much at the reminiscence to aj)- 
 pear likely to converse on it. The banker also judged it ad- 
 visable to be so far confidential with Alice's servant as to take 
 her aside and tell her that the inauspicious stranger of the 
 previous evening had been a very distant relation of Mrs. 
 Butler, who, from a habit of drunkenness, had fallen iuto 
 evil and disorderly courses. The banker added, with a sanc- 
 tified air, that he trusted, by a little serious conversation, he 
 had led the poor man to better notions, and that he had gone 
 home with an altered mind to his family. "But, my good 
 Hannah," he concluded, "you know you are a superior per- 
 son, and above the vulgar sin of indiscriminate gossip; there- 
 fore, mention what has occurred to no one, — it can do no 
 good to Mrs. Butler; it may hurt the man himself, who is 
 well-to-do, — better off than he seems, and who, I hope, with 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 17'J 
 
 grace, may be a sincere penitent; and it will also — but that 
 IS nothing — very seriously displease me. By the by, Han- 
 nah, I shall be able to get your grandson into the Free 
 School." 
 
 The banker was shrewd enough to perceive that he had car- 
 ried his point; and he was walking home, satisfied, on the 
 whole, with the way matters had been arranged, when he was 
 met by a brother magistrate. 
 
 "Ha!" said the latter, "and how are you, my good sir? 
 Do you know that we have had the Bow Street officers here, 
 in search of a notorious villain who has broken from prison? 
 He is one of the most' determined and dexterous burglars in 
 all England, and the runners have hunted him into our town. 
 His very robberies have tracked him by the way. He robbed 
 a gentleman the day before yesterday of his watch, and left 
 him for dead on the road, — this was not thirty miles hence." 
 
 "Bless me! " said the banker, with emotion; "and what is 
 the wretch's name?" 
 
 " Why, he has as many aliases as a Spanish grandee : but 
 I believe the last name he has assumed is Peter Watts." 
 
 "Oh!" said our friend, relieved, — "well, have the runners 
 found him?" 
 
 "No, but they are on his scent. A fellow answering to his 
 description was seen by the man at the toll-bar, at daybreak 
 
 this morning, on the way to F ; the officers are after 
 
 him." 
 
 "I hope he may meet with his deserts, — and crime is never 
 unpunished, even in this world. My best compliments to 
 your lady. And how is little Jack? Well! glad to hear it, 
 — fine boy, little Jack! Good-day." 
 
 "Good-day, my dear sir. Worthy man, that! " 
 
180 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 " But who is this ? " thought he. " A demon vile. 
 With wicked meaning and a vulgar style, — 
 Hammond they call him ; they can give the name 
 Of man to devils. Why am I so tame 1 
 Why crush I not the viper ? " Fear replied, 
 "Watch him a while, and let his strength be tried." — Ckabbe. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, the banker took his 
 horse, — a crop-eared, fast-trotting hackney, — and merely 
 leaving word that he was going upon business into the coun- 
 try and should not return to dinner, turned his back on the 
 spires of C . 
 
 He rode slowly, for the day was hot. The face of the coun- 
 try, which was fair and smiling, might have tempted others 
 to linger by the way ; but our hard and practical man of the 
 world was more influenced by the weather than the loveliness 
 of the scenery. He did not look upon Nature with the eye of 
 imagination; perhaps a railroad, had it then and there ex- 
 isted, would have pleased him better than the hanging woods, 
 the shadowy valleys, and the changeful river that from time 
 to time beautified the landscape on either side the road. But, 
 after all, there is a vast deal of hypocrisy in the affected ad- 
 miration for Nature; and I don't think one person in a hun- 
 dred cares for what lies by the side of a road, so long as the 
 road itself is good, hills levelled, and turnpikes cheap. 
 
 It was mid-noon, and many miles had been passed, when the 
 banker turned down a green lane and quickened his pace. At 
 the end of about three quarters of an hour he arrived at a lit- 
 tle solitary inn called "The Angler," put up his horse, or- 
 dered his dinner at six o'clock, begged to borrow a basket to 
 hold his fish ; and it was then apparent that a longish cane he 
 had carried with him was capable of being extended into a 
 fishing-rod. He fitted in the various joints with care, as if 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 181 
 
 to be sure no accident had happened to the implement by the 
 journey; pried anxiously into the contents of a black case of 
 lines and flies, slung the basket behind his back, and while 
 his horse was putting down his nose and whisking about his 
 tail, in the course of those nameless coquetries that horses 
 carry on with hostlers, our worthy brother of the rod strode 
 rapidly through some green fields, gained the river side, and 
 began fishing with much semblance of earnest interest in the 
 sport. He had caught one trout, — seemingly by accident; 
 for the astonished fish was hooked up on the outside of its 
 jaw, probably while in the act, not of biting, but of gazing at, 
 the bait, — when he grew discontented with the spot he had 
 selected; and after looking round as if to convince himself 
 that he was not liable to be disturbed or observed (a thought 
 hateful to the fishing fraternity), he stole quickly along the 
 margin, and finally quitting the river side altogether, struck 
 into a path that, after a sharp walk of nearly an hour, brought 
 him to the door of a cottage. He knocked twice, and then 
 entered of his own accord; nor was it till the summer sun 
 was near its decline that the banker regained his inn. His 
 simple dinner, which they had delayed in wonder at the pro- 
 tracted absence of the angler and in expectation of the fishes 
 he was to bring back to be fried, was soon despatched; his 
 horse was ordered to the door, and the red clouds in the west 
 already betokened the lapse of another day as he spurred from 
 the spot on the fast-trotting hackney, fourteen miles an hour. 
 
 " That 'ere gemman has a nice bit of blood," said the hostler, 
 scratching his ear. 
 
 "Oiy; who be he?" said a hanger-on of the stables. 
 
 " I dooan't know. He has been here twice afoar, and he 
 never cautches anything to sinnify, — he be mighty fond of 
 fishing, snvelt/." 
 
 Meanwhile, away sped the banker; milestone on milestone 
 glided by, and still, scarce turning a hair, trotted gallantly 
 out the good hackney. But the evening grew darker, and it 
 began to rain, — a drizzling, persevering rain, that wets a man 
 through ere he is aware of it. After his fiftieth year, a gen- 
 tleman who has a tender regard for himself does not like to 
 
182 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 get wet; and the rain inspired the banker, who was subject 
 to rheumatism, witli the resolution to take a short cut along 
 the fields. There were one or two low hedges by this short 
 way ; but the banker had been there in the spring, and knew 
 every inch of the ground. The hackney leaped easily, and the 
 rider had a tolerably practised seat, and two miles saved 
 might just prevent the menaced rheumatism ; accordingly, our 
 friend opened a white gate and scoured along the fields with- 
 out any misgivings as to the prudence of his choice. He ar- 
 rived at his first leap : there was the hedge, its summit just 
 discernible in the dim light. On the other side, to the right, 
 was a haystack, and close by this haystack seemed the most 
 eligible place for clearing the obstacle. Now, since the 
 banker had visited this place a deep ditch, that served as a 
 drain, had been dug at the opposite base of the hedge, of 
 which neither horse nor man was aware, so that the leap was 
 far more perilous than was anticipated. Unconscious of this 
 additional obstacle, the rider set off in a canter. The banker 
 was high in air, his loins bent back, his rein slackened, his 
 right hand raised knowingly, when the horse took fright at 
 an object crouched by the haystack, swerved, plunged midway 
 into the ditch, and pitched its rider two or three yards over 
 its head. The banker recovered himself sooner than might 
 have been expected; and finding himself, though bruised and 
 shaken, still whole and sound, hastened to his horse. But 
 the poor animal had not fared so well as its master, and its 
 off-shoulder was either put out or dreadfully sprained. It had 
 scrambled its way out of the ditch, and there it stood, discon- 
 solate, by the hedge, as lame as one of the trees that, at ir- 
 regular intervals, broke the symmetry of the barrier. On 
 ascertaining the extent of his misfortune the banker became 
 seriously uneasy; the rain increased, he was several miles 
 yet from home, he was in the midst of houseless fields, with 
 another leap before him, — the leap he had just passed be- 
 hind, — and no other egress that he knew of into the main 
 road. While these thoughts passed through his brain, he 
 became suddenly aware that he was not alone. The dark ob- 
 ject that had frightened his horse rose slowly from the snug 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 183 
 
 corner it had occupied by the haystack, and a gruff voice, 
 that made the banker thrill to the marrow of his bones, cried : 
 *' Holla, who the devil are you? " 
 
 Lame as his horse was, the banker instantly put his foot 
 into the stirrup; but before he could mount, a heavy gripe 
 was laid on his shoulder, and turning round with as much 
 fierceness as he could assume, he saw — what the tone of the 
 voice had already led him to forebode — the ill-omened and 
 eut-throat features of Luke Darvil. 
 
 "Ha! ha! my old annuitant, my clever feelosofer, jolly old 
 boy, how are you? Give us a fist. Who would have thought 
 to meet you on a rainy night, by a lone haystack, with a deep 
 ditch on one side, and no chimney-pot within sight? Why, 
 old fellow, I, Luke Darvil, — I, the vagabond, I, whom you 
 would have sent to the treadmill for being poor and calling 
 on my own daughter, — I am as rich as you are here, and as 
 great, and as strong, and as powerful ! " 
 
 And while he spoke, Darvil, who was really an under-sized 
 man, seemed to swell and dilate till he appeared half a head 
 taller than the shrinking banker, who was five feet eleven 
 inches without his shoes. 
 
 "E — hem!" said the rich man, clearing his throat, which 
 seemed to him uncommonly husky, ''I do not know whether I 
 insulted your poverty, my dear Mr. Darvil, — 1 hope not. 
 But this is hardly a time for talking; pray let me mount, 
 and—" 
 
 " Not a time for talking ! " interrupted Darvil, angrily ; 
 •'it's just the time, to my mind. Let me consider, — ay, I 
 told you that whenever we met by the roadside, it would be 
 my turn to have the best of the argufying." 
 
 "1 dare say, I dare say, my good fellow." 
 
 "'Fellow' not me! I won't be fellowed now. I say I have 
 the best of it here; man to man, I am your match." 
 
 "But why quarrel with me?" said the banker, coaxingly; 
 " I never meant you harm, and I am sure you cannot mean me 
 harm." 
 
 "No! And why," asked Darvil, coolly, "why do you think 
 I can mean you no harm?" 
 
184 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Because your annuity depends on me." 
 
 " Shrewdly put ! We '11 argufy that point. My life is a bad 
 one, — not worth more than a year's purchase; now, suppose 
 you have more than forty pounds about you, it may be better 
 worth my while to draw my knife across your gullet than to 
 wait for the quarter-day's ten pounds a time. You see, it 's 
 all a matter of calculation, my dear Mr. What's-your-name ! " 
 
 "But," replied the banker, and his teeth began to chatter, 
 "I have not forty pounds about me." 
 
 "How do I know that? You say so. Well, in the town 
 yonder your word goes for more than mine ; I never gainsaid 
 you when you put that to me, did I? But here, by the hay- 
 stack, my word is better than yours ; and if I say you must 
 and shall have forty pounds about you, let 's see whether you 
 dare contradict me." 
 
 "Look you, Darvil," said the banker, summoning up all 
 his energy and intellect, for his moral power began now to 
 back his physical cowardice, and he spoke calmly, and even 
 bravely, though his heart throbbed aloud against his breast, 
 and you might have knocked him down with a feather, " the 
 London runners are even now hot after you." 
 
 "Ha! you lie!" 
 
 " Upon my honour I speak the truth ; I heard the news last 
 
 evening. They tracked you to C ; they tracked you out 
 
 of the town ; a word from me would have given you into their 
 hands. I said nothing, — you are safe; you may yet escape. 
 I will even help you to fly the country, and live out your nat- 
 ural date of years secure and in peace." 
 
 "You did not say that the other day in the snug drawing- 
 room; you see I have the best of it now, — own that." 
 
 "I do," said the banker. 
 
 Darvil chuckled, and rubbed his hands. 
 
 The man of wealth once more felt his importance, and went 
 on. "This is one side of the question. On the other, sup- 
 pose you rob and murder me, do you think my death will 
 lessen the heat of the pursuit against you? The whole coun- 
 try will be in arms, and before forty-eight hours are over you 
 will be hunted down like a mad dog." 
 
ERNf:ST MALTRAVERS. 185 
 
 Darvil was silent, as if in thought; and after a pause re- 
 plied: "Well, you are a 'cute one after all. What have you 
 got about you? You know you drove a hard bargain the 
 other day, — now it's my market: fustian has riz, — kersey 
 has fell." 
 
 "All I have about me shall be yours," said the banker, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Give it me, then." 
 
 " There ! " said the banker, placing his purse and pocket- 
 book into Darvil's hands. 
 
 "And the watch?" 
 
 "The watch? Well, there!" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 The banker's senses were sharpened by fear, but they were 
 not so sharp as those of Darvil; he heard nothing but the rain 
 pattering on the leaves, and the rush of water in the ditch at 
 hand. Darvil stooped and listened till, raising himself again, 
 with a deep-drawn breath he said : " I think there are rats in 
 the haystack; they will be running over me in my sleep: but 
 they are playful creturs, and I like 'em. And now, my dear 
 sir, I am afraid I must put an end to you! " 
 
 "Good heavens, what do you mean? How?" 
 
 "Man, there is another world! " quoth the ruffian, mimick- 
 ing the banker's solemn tone in their former interview. " So 
 much the better for you! In that world they don't tell 
 tales." 
 
 "I swear I will never betray you." 
 
 "You do? Swear it, then." 
 
 "By all my hopes of earth and heaven! " 
 
 " What a d — d coward you be ! " said Darvil, laughing 
 scornfully. "Go, — you are safe. I am in good humour with 
 myself again. I crow over you, for no man can make me 
 tremble ; and villain as you think me, while you fear me you 
 cannot despise, — you respect me. Go, I say, go." 
 
 The banker was about to obey when suddenly from the hay- 
 stack a broad red light streamed upon the pair, and the next 
 moment Darvil was seized from behind and struggling in the 
 gripe of a man nearly as powerful as himself. The light, 
 
186 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 which came from a dark-lantern placed on the ground, revealed 
 the forms of a peasant in a smock-frock and two stout-built 
 stalwart men armed with pistols, besides the one engaged 
 with Darvil. 
 
 The whole of this scene was brought as by the trick of the 
 stage, as by a flash of lightning, as by the change of a show- 
 man's phantasmagoria, before the astonished eyes of the 
 banker. He stood arrested and spell-bound, his hand on his 
 bridle, his foot on his stirrup. A moment more, and Darvil 
 had dashed his antagonist on the ground; he stood at a little 
 distance, his face reddened by the glare of the lantern, and 
 fronting his assailants, that fiercest of all beasts, — a desper- 
 ate man at bay ! He had already succeeded in drawing forth 
 his pistols, and he held one in each hand, his eyes flashing 
 from beneath his bent brows, and turning quickly from foe to 
 foe ! At last those terrible eyes rested on the late reluctant 
 companion of his solitude. 
 
 "So you then betrayed me," he said, very slowly, and di- 
 rected his pistol to the head of the dismounted horseman. 
 
 "No, no! " cried one of the officers, for such were Darvil's 
 assailants; "fire away in this direction, my hearty, — we're 
 paid for it. The gentleman knew nothing at all about it." 
 
 "Nothing, by G — !" cried the banker, startled out of his 
 sanctity. 
 
 "Then I shall keep my shot," said Darvil; "and mind, the 
 first who approaches me is a dead man." 
 
 It so happened that the robber and the officers were beyond 
 the distance which allows sure mark for a pistol-shot, and 
 each party felt the necessity of caution. 
 
 "Your time is up, my swell cove!" cried the head of the 
 detachment; "you have had your swing, and a long one it 
 seems to have been, — you must now give in. Throw down 
 your barkers, or we must make mutton of you, and rob the 
 gallows." 
 
 Darvil did not reply, and the officers, accustomed to hold 
 life cheap, moved on towards him, their pistols cocked and 
 levelled. 
 
 Darvil fired, — one of the men staggered and fell. With a 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 187 
 
 kind of instinct, Darvil had singled out the one with whom 
 he had before wrestled for life. The ruffian waited not for 
 the others, — he turned and fled along the fields. 
 
 "Zounds, he is off!" cried the other two, and they rushed 
 after him in pursuit. A pause, a shot, another, an oath, a 
 groan, and all was still. 
 
 " It 's all up with him now ! " said one of the runners, in the 
 distance; "he dies game." 
 
 At these words, the peasant, who had before skulked behind 
 tlie haystack, seized the lantern from the ground and ran to 
 the spot. The banker involuntarily followed. 
 
 There lay Luke Darvil on the grass, — still living, but a 
 horrible and ghastly spectacle. One ball had pierced his 
 breast, another had shot away his jaw. His eyes rolled fear- 
 fully, and he tore up the grass with his hands. 
 
 The officers looked coldly on. "He was a clever fellow! " 
 said one. 
 
 "And has given us much trouble," said the other; "let us 
 see to Will." 
 
 "But he 's not dead yet," said the banker, shuddering. 
 
 "Sir, he cannot live a minute." 
 
 Darvil raised himself bolt upright, shook his clenched fist 
 at his conquerors, and a fearful gurgling howl, which the na- 
 ture of his wounds did not allow him to syllable into a curse, 
 came from his breast; with that he fell flat on his back — a 
 corpse. 
 
 "I am afraid, sir," said the elder officer, turning away, 
 "you had a narrow escape; but how came you here? " 
 
 "Rather, how came you here?" 
 
 "Honest Hodge there, with the lantern, had marked the 
 fellow skulk behind the haystack when he himself was going 
 out to snare rabbits. He had seen our advertisement of 
 Watts's person, and knew that we were then at a public-house 
 some miles off. He came to us, conducted us to the spot; we 
 heard voices, showed up the glim, and saw our man. Hodge, 
 you are a good subject, and love justice." 
 
 " Yees, but I shall have the rewourd," said Hodge, showing 
 his teeth. 
 
188 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Talk o' that by and by," said the officer. "Will, how are 
 you, man?" 
 
 "Bad," groaned the poor runner; and a rush of blood from 
 the lips followed the groan. 
 
 It was many days before the ex-member for C suffi- 
 ciently recovered the tone of his mind to ^think further of 
 Alice; when he did, it was with great satisfaction that he re- 
 flected that Darvil was no more, and that the deceased ruffian 
 was only known to the neighbourhood by the name of Peter 
 Watts. 
 
BOOK V. 
 
 'O novcTOiroihs, fvdaS' 'livTruva^ Kiirat, 
 El txiv TTOvriphs, nv iror^pxi" ^V Tv/x^q/ 
 £( S' icrffl Kfjrjyvos re nal irapa xpl^Tfci' 
 ©apaiuiv Ka6i^€u' Kav deKrjs diro/Spilo)/. 
 
 Theocritus : Epig. in Hippon. 
 
 PARODY. 
 
 " My hero, turned author, lies mute in this section. 
 You may pass by the place if yon 're bored by reflection ; 
 But if honest enough to be fond of the Muse, 
 Stay, and read where you 're able, and sleep where yon choose. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Mt genius spreads her wing, 
 And flies where Britain courts the western spring. 
 
 Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
 I see the lords of human kind pass by. 
 Intent on high designs. — Goldsmith. 
 
 I HAVE no respect for the Englishman who re-enters London 
 after long residence abroad without a pulse that beats quick 
 and a heart that heaves high. The public buildings are few, 
 and for the most part mean ; the monuments of antiquity not 
 comparable to those which the pettiest town in Italy can boast 
 of ; the palaces are sad rubbish ; the houses of our peers and 
 princes are shabby and shapeless heaps of brick. But what 
 of all this? The spirit of London is in her thoroughfares, — 
 her population! What wealth, what cleanliness, what order, 
 what animation! How majestic, and yet how vivid is the life 
 that runs through her myriad veins! How, as the lamps 
 
190 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 blaze upon you at night, and street after street glides by your 
 wheels, each so regular in its symmetry, so equal in its civil- 
 ization, — how all speak of the City of Freemen! 
 
 Yes, Maltravers felt his heart swell within him as the post- 
 horses whirled on his dingy carriage over Westminster Bridge, 
 along Whitehall, through Regent Street, towards one of the 
 quiet and private-house-like hotels that are scattered round 
 the neighbourhood of Grosvenor Square. 
 
 Ernest's arrival had been expected. He had written from 
 Paris to Cleveland to announce it, and Cleveland had in reply 
 informed him that he had engaged aj)artments for him at 
 Mivart's. The smiling waiters ushered him into a spacious 
 and well-aired room, the armchair was already wheeled by 
 the fire, a score or so of letters strewed the table, together 
 Avith two of the evening papers. And how eloquently of busy 
 England do those evening papers speak! A stranger might 
 have felt that he wanted no friend to welcome him, — the 
 whole room smiled on him a welcome. 
 
 Maltravers ordered his dinner and opened his letters. They 
 were of no importance: one from his steward, one from his 
 banker, another about the county races, a fourth from a man 
 he had never heard of, requesting the vote and powerful in- 
 terest of Mr. Maltravers for the county of B , should the 
 
 rumour of a dissolution be verified; the unknown candidate 
 referred Mr. Maltravers to his " well-known public character." 
 From these epistles Ernest turned impatiently, and perceived 
 a little three-cornered note which had hitherto escaped his 
 attention. It was from Cleveland, intimating that he was in 
 town, that his health still precluded his going out, but that 
 he trusted to see his dear Ernest as soon as he arrived. 
 
 Maltravers was delighted at the prospect of passing his 
 evening so agreeably; he soon despatched his dinner and his 
 newspapers, and walked in the brilliant lamjjlight of a clear, 
 frosty evening of early December in London to his friend's 
 house in Curzon Street, — a small house, bachelor-like and 
 unpretending; for Cleveland spent his moderate though easy 
 fortune almost entirely at his country villa. The familiar 
 face of the old valet greeted Ernest at the door, and he only 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 191 
 
 paused to hear that his guardian was nearly recovered to his 
 usual health, ere he was m the cheerful drawing-room, and — 
 since Englishmen do not embrace — returning the cordial 
 gripe of the kindly Cleveland. 
 
 "Well, my dear Ernest," said Cleveland, after they had 
 gone through the preliminary round of questions and answers, 
 "here you are at last, Heaven be praised! And how well 
 you are looking; how much you are improved! It is an ex- 
 cellent period of the year for your debut in London. I shall 
 have time to make you intimate with people before the whirl 
 of 'the season' commences." 
 
 " Why, I thought of going to Burleigh, my country place. 
 I have not seen it since 1 was a child." 
 
 "No, no; you have had solitude enough at Como, if I may 
 trust to your letter. You must now mix with the great Lon- 
 don world; and you will enjoy Burleigh the more in the 
 summer." 
 
 " I fancy this great London world will give me very little 
 pleasure; it may be pleasant enough to young men just let 
 loose from college, but your crowded ballrooms and monot- 
 onous clubs will be wearisome to one who has grown fastid- 
 ious before his time. J'ai vecu beaucoup dans peu d'annees. 
 I have drawn in youth too much upon the capital of existence 
 to be highly delighted with the ostentatious parsimony with 
 which our great men economize pleasure." 
 
 "Don't judge before you have gone through the trial," said 
 Cleveland; "there is something in the opulent splendour, the 
 thoroughly sustained magnificence, with which the leaders of 
 English fashion conduct even the most insipid amusements, 
 that IS above contempt. Besides, you need not necessarily 
 live with the butterflies. There are plenty of bees that will 
 be very happy to make your acquaintance. Add to this, my 
 dear Ernest, the pleasure of being made of — of being of im- 
 portance in your own country; for you are young, well-born, 
 and sufficiently handsome to be an object of interest to moth- 
 ers and to daughters; while your name and property and in- 
 terest will make you courted by men who want to borrow your 
 money and obtain your influence in your county. Ko, Mai- 
 
192 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 travers, stay in London, — amuse yourself your first year, and 
 decide on your occupation and career the next; but recon- 
 noitre before you give battle." 
 
 Maltravers was not ill-pleased to follow his friend's ad- 
 vice, since by so doing he obtained his friend's guidance and 
 society. Moreover, he deemed it wise and rational to see, 
 face to face, the eminent men in England with whom, if he 
 fulfilled his promise to De Montaigne, he was to run the race 
 of honourable rivalry. Accordingly, he consented to Cleve- 
 land's propositions. 
 
 "And have you," said he, hesitating, as he loitered by the 
 door after the stroke of twelve had warned him to take his 
 leave, — "have you never heard anything of my — my — the 
 unfortunate Alice Darvil?" 
 
 " Who? Oh! that poor young woman, — I remember. Not 
 a syllable." 
 
 Maltravers sighed deeply and departed. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Je trouve que c'est une folie de vouloir e'tudier le monde en simple spec- 
 tateur. . . . Dans I'ecole du monde, comme dans cette de I'amour, il faut 
 commencer par pratiquer ce qu'on veut appreudre.^ — Rousseau. 
 
 Ernest Maltravers was now fairly launched upon the 
 wide ocean of London. Amongst his other property was a 
 house in Seamore Place, — that quiet, yet central street, which 
 enjoys the air without the dust of the Park. It had been 
 hitherto let, and the tenant now quitting very opportunely, 
 Maltravers was delighted to secure so pleasant a residence; 
 for he was still romantic enough to desire to look out upon 
 trees and verdure rather than brick houses. He indulged 
 only in two other luxuries : his love of music tempted him to 
 
 1 " I find that it is a folly to wish to study the world like a simple specta- 
 tor. ... In the school of the world, as in that of love, it is necessary to begin 
 by practising what we wish to learn." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 193 
 
 an opera-box, and he had that English feeling which prides 
 itself in the possession of beautiful horses, — a feeling that 
 enticed him into an extravagance on this head that baffled the 
 competition and excited the envy of much richer men. But 
 four thousand a year goes a great way with a single man who 
 does not gamble, and is too philosophical to make superflu- 
 ities wants. 
 
 The world doubled his income, magnified his old country- 
 seat into a superb chateau, and discovered that his elder 
 brother, who was only three or four years older than himself, 
 had no children. The world was very courteous to Ernest 
 JNIaltravers. 
 
 It was, as Cleveland said, just at that time of year when 
 people are at leisure to make new acquaintances. A few only 
 of the most difficult houses in town were open, and their 
 doors were cheerfully expanded to the accomplished ward of 
 the popular Cleveland. Authors and statesmen and orators 
 and philosophers, — to all he was presented, all seemed 
 pleased with him, and Ernest became the fashion before he 
 was conscious of the distinction. But he had rightly fore- 
 l)oded. He had commenced life too soon; he was disap- 
 pointed, he found some persons he could admire, some whom 
 he could like, but none with whom he could grow intimate, 
 or for whom he could feel an interest. Neither his heart nor 
 his imagination was touched; all appeared to him like artifi- 
 cial machines; he was discontented with things like life, but 
 in which something or other was wanting. He more than 
 ever recalled the brilliant graces of Valerie de Ventadour, 
 which had thrown a charm over the most frivolous circles; 
 he even missed the perverse and fantastic vanity of Castruc- 
 eio. The mediocre poet seemed to him at least less mediocre 
 than the worldlings about him. Nay, even the selfish good 
 spirits and dry shrewdness of Lnmley Ferrers would have 
 been an acceptable change to the dull polish and unrevealed 
 egotism of jealous wits and party politicians. "If these are 
 the flowers of the parterre, what must be the weeds?" said 
 Maltravers to himself, returning from a party at which he 
 had met half a score of the most orthodox lions. 
 
 13 
 
194 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 He began to feel the aching pain of satiety. 
 
 But the winter glided away, the season commenced, and 
 Maltravers was whirled on with the rest into the bubbling 
 vortex. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 And crowds commencing mere vexation, 
 Retirement sent its invitation. — Shenstone. 
 
 The tench no doubt considers the pond in which he lives as 
 the Great World. There is no place, however stagnant, which 
 is not the Great World to the creatures that move about in it. 
 People who have lived all their lives in a village still talk of 
 the world as if they had ever seen it! An old woman in a 
 hovel does not put her nose out of her door on a Sunday with- 
 out thinking she is going amongst the pomps and vanities of 
 the Great World. Ergo, the Great World is to all of us the 
 little circle in which we live. But as fine people set the 
 fashion, so the circle of fine people is called the Great World 
 par excellence. Now this Great World is not a bad thing 
 when we thoroughly understand it; and the London Great 
 World is at least as good as any other. But then we scarcely 
 do understand that or anything else in our beaux jours, — 
 which, if they are sometimes the most exquisite, are also often 
 the most melancholy and the most wasted portion of our life. 
 Maltravers had not yet found out either the set that pleased 
 him or the species of amusement that really amused. There- 
 fore he drifted on and about the vast whirlpool, making 
 plenty of friends, going to balls and dinners, and bored with 
 both, as men are who have no object in society. Now, the 
 way society is enjoyed is to have a pursuit, a metier of some 
 kind, and then to go into the world, either to make the indi- 
 vidual object a social pleasure, or to obtain a reprieve from 
 some toilsome avocation. Thus, if you are a politician, poli- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 195 
 
 tics at once make an object in j^our closet, and a social tie be- 
 tween others and yourself when you are in the world. The 
 same may be said of literature, though in a less degree, and 
 though, as fewer persons care about literature than politics, 
 your companions must be more select. If you are very young, 
 you are fond of dancing; if you are very profligate, perhaps 
 you are fond of flirtations with your friend's wife. These 
 last are objects in their way, but they don't last long, and, 
 even with the most frivolous, are not occupations that satisfy 
 the whole mind and heart, in which there is generally an as- 
 piration after something useful. It is not vanity alone that 
 makes a man of the -mode, invent a new bit, or give his name 
 to a new kind of carriage, — it is the influence of that mystic 
 yearning after utility which is one of the master-ties between 
 the individual and the species. 
 
 Mai tra vers was not happy, — that is a lot common enough; 
 but he was not amused, — and that is a sentence more insup- 
 portable. He lost a great part of his sympathy with Cleve- 
 land, for when a man is not amused, he feels an involuntary 
 contempt for those who are. He fancies they are pleased 
 with trifles which his superior wisdom is compelled to dis- 
 dain. Cleveland was of that age when we generally grow 
 social ; for by being rubbed long and often against the great 
 loadstone of society, we obtain, in a thoiisand little minute 
 points, an attraction in common with our fellows. Their 
 petty sorrows and small joys, their objects of interest or em- 
 ployment, at some time or other have been ours. We gather 
 up a vast collection of moral and mental farthings of ex- 
 change, and we scarcely find any intellect too poor but what 
 we can deal with it in some way. But in youth we are ego- 
 tists and sentimentalists, and Maltravers belonged to the fra- 
 ternity who employ — 
 
 " The heart in passion and the head in rhymes." 
 
 At length, just when London begins to grow most pleasant, 
 when flirtations become tender, and water-parties numerous, 
 when birds sing in the groves of Richmond, and whitebait 
 refresh the statesman by the shores of Greenwich, — Maltrav- 
 
196 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 ers abruptly fled from the gay metropolis, and arrived, one 
 lovely evening in July, at his own ivy-grown porch of 
 Burleigh. 
 
 What a soft, fresh, delicious evening it was! He had 
 quitted his carriage at the lodge, and followed it across the 
 small but picturesque park alone and on foot. He had not 
 seen the place since childhood; he had quite forgotten its 
 aspect. He now wondered how he could have lived anywhere 
 else. The trees did not stand in stately avenues, nor did the 
 antlers of the deer wave above the sombre fern; it was not 
 the domain of a grand seigneur, but of an old, long-descended 
 English squire. Antiquity spoke in the moss-grown palings, 
 in the shadowy groves, in the sharp gable-ends and heavy 
 mullions of the house as it now came in view at the base of a 
 hill covered with wood, and partially veiled by the shrubs of 
 the neglected pleasure-ground, separated from the park by the 
 invisible ha-ha. There, gleamed in the twilight the watery 
 face of the oblong fish-pool, with its old-fashioned willows at 
 each corner; there, gray and quaint, was the monastic dial; 
 and there was the long terrace walk, with discoloured and 
 broken vases, now filled with the orange or the aloe, which, 
 in honour of his master's arrival, the gardener had extracted 
 from the dilapidated greenhouse. The very evidence of ne- 
 glect around, the very weeds and grass on the half-obliterated 
 road, touched Maltravers with a sort of pitying and remorse- 
 ful affection for his calm and sequestered residence. And it 
 was not with his usual proud step and erect crest that he 
 passed from the porch to the solitary library through a line 
 of his servants ; the two or three old retainers belonging to 
 the place were utterly unfamiliar to him, and they had no 
 smile for their stranger lord. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 197 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Lucian. He that is born to be a man, neither should nor can be anything 
 nobler, greater, and better than a man. 
 
 Pererp-ine. But, good Lucian, for the very reason that he may not become 
 less than a man, he should be always striving to be more. — Wieland : Pere- 
 grinus Proteus. 
 
 It was two years from the date of the last chapter before 
 Maltravers again appeared in general society. These two 
 years had sufficed to produce a revolution in his fate. Ernest 
 Maltravers had lost the happy rights of the private individual ; 
 he had given himself to the Public; he had surrendered his 
 name to men's tongues, and was a thing that all had a right 
 to praise, to blame, to scrutinize, to spy. Ernest Maltravers 
 had become an author. 
 
 Let no man tempt Gods and Columns without weighing 
 well the consequences of his experiment. He who publishes 
 a book attended with a moderate success, passes a mighty 
 barrier. He will often look back with a sigh of regret at the 
 land he has left forever. The beautiful and decent obscurity 
 of hearth and home is gone. He can no longer feel the just 
 indignation of manly pride when he finds himself ridiculed or 
 reviled. He has parted with the shadow of his life. His 
 motives may be misrepresented, his character belied; his 
 manners, his person, his dress, the "very trick of his walk" 
 are all fair food for the cavil and the caricature. He can 
 never go back, he cannot even pause ; he has chosen his path, 
 and all the natural feelings that make the nerve and muscle 
 of the active being, urge him to proceed. To stop short is 
 to fail. He has told the world that he will make a name; 
 and he must be set down as a pretender, or toil on till the 
 boast be fulfilled. Yet Maltravers thought nothing of all this 
 when, intoxicated with his own dreams and aspirations, he 
 desired to make a world his confidant, — when from the living 
 
198 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Kature, and the lore of books, and the mingled result of in- 
 ward study and external observation, he sought to draw forth 
 something that might interweave his name with the pleasura- 
 ble associations of his kind. His easy fortune and lonely 
 state gave him up to his own thoughts and contemplations ; 
 they suffused his mind till it ran over upon the page which 
 makes the channel that connects the solitary Fountain with 
 the vast Ocean of Human Knowledge. The temperament of 
 Maltravers was, as we have seen, neither irritable nor fearful. 
 He formed himself, as a sculptor forms, with a model before 
 his eyes and an ideal in his heart. He endeavoured, with 
 labour and patience, to approach nearer and nearer with everj' 
 effort to the standard of such excellence as he thought might 
 ultimately be attained by a reasonable ambition; and when, 
 at last, his judgment was satisfied, he surrendered the product 
 with a tranquil confidence to a more impartial tribunal. 
 
 His first work was successful; perhaps for this reason, — 
 that it bore the stamp of the Honest and the Eeal. He did 
 not sit down to report of what he had never seen, to dilate on 
 what he had never felt. A quiet and thoughtful observer of 
 life, his descriptions were the more vivid because his own 
 first impressions were not yet worn away. His experience 
 had sunk deep, not on the arid surface of matured age, but 
 in the fresh soil of youthful emotions. Another reason, per- 
 haps, that obtained success for his essay was that he had more 
 varied and more elaborate knowledge than young authors 
 think it necessary to possess. He did not, like Cesarini, 
 attempt to make a show of words upon a slender capital of 
 ideas. Whether his style was eloquent or homely, it was 
 still in him a faithful transcript of considered and digested 
 thought. A third reason — and I dwell on these points, not 
 more to elucidate the career of Maltravers than as hints which 
 may be useful to others — a third reason why Maltravers ob- 
 tained a prompt and favourable reception from the public was 
 that he had not hackneyed his peculiarities of diction and 
 thought in that worst of all schools for the literary novice, 
 — the columns of a magazine. Periodicals form an excellent 
 mode of communication between the public and an author al- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 199 
 
 ready established, who has lost the charm of novelty, but 
 gained the weight of acknowledged reputation, and who, 
 either upon politics or criticism, seeks for frequent and con- 
 tinuous occasions to enforce his peculiar theses and doctrines. 
 But upon the young writer this mode of communication, if too 
 long continued, operates must injuriously both as to his fu- 
 ture prospects and his own present taste and style. With re- 
 spect to the first, it familiarizes the i)ublic to his mannerism 
 (and all writers worth reading have mannerism) in a form to 
 which the said public are not inclined to attach much weight. 
 He forestalls in a few months what ought to be the effect of 
 years; namely, the wearying a world soon nauseated with the 
 tovjours perdrix. With respect to the last, it induces a man 
 to write for momentary effects; to study a false smartness of 
 style and reasoning; to bound his ambition of durability to 
 the last day of the month ; to expect immediate returns for 
 labour; to recoil at the "hope deferred" of serious works on 
 which judgment is slowly formed. The man of talent who 
 begins young at periodicals, and goes on long, has generally 
 something crude and stunted about both his compositions and 
 his celebrity. He grows the oracle of small coteries, and we 
 can rarely get out of the impression that he is cockneyfied 
 and conventional. Periodicals sadly mortgaged the claims 
 that Hazlitt and many others of his contemporaries had upon 
 a vast reversionary estate of Fame. But I here speak too po- 
 litically: to some, the res augustce domi leave no option; and, 
 as Aristotle and the Greek proverb have it, we cannot carve 
 out all things with the knife of the Delphic cutler. 
 
 The second work that Maltravers put forth, at an interval 
 of eighteen months from the first, was one of a graver and 
 higher nature, — it served to confirm his reputation; and that 
 is success enough for a second work, which is usually an au- 
 thor's //c/w asinorum. He who, after a triumphant first book, 
 does not dissatisfy the public with a second, has a fair chance 
 of gaining a fixed station in literature. But now commenced 
 the pains and perils of the after-birth. By a maiden effort 
 an author rarely makes enemies. His fellow-writers are not 
 yet prepared to consider him as a rival; if he be tolerably 
 
200 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 rich, they unconsciously trust that he will not become a reg- 
 ular, or, as they term it, "a professional" author: he did 
 something just to be talked of; he may write no more, or his 
 second book may fail. But when that second book comes out, 
 and does not fail, they begin to look about them : envy wakens, 
 malice begins, and all the old school — gentlemen who have 
 retired on their pensions of renown — regard him as an in- 
 truder; then the sneer, then the frown, the caustic irony, the 
 biting review, the depreciating praise. The novice begins to 
 think that he is farther from the goal than before he set out 
 upon the race. 
 
 Maltravers had upon the whole a tolerably happy tempera- 
 ment; but he was a very proud man, and he had the nice soul 
 of a courageous, honourable, punctilious gentleman. He 
 thought it singular that society should call upon him, as a 
 gentleman, to shoot his best friend if that friend affronted 
 him with a rude word, and yet that, as an author, every fool 
 and liar might, with perfect impunity, cover reams of paper 
 with the most virulent personal abuse of him. 
 
 It was one evening in the early summer that, revolving anx- 
 ious and doubtful thoughts, Ernest sauntered gloomily along 
 his terrace, — 
 
 " And watched with wistful eyes the setting sun," — 
 
 when he perceived a dusty travelling carriage whirled along 
 the road by the ha-ha, and a hand waved in recognition from 
 the open window. His guests had been so rare and his 
 friends were so few that Maltravers could not conjecture who 
 was his intended visitant. His brother, he knew, was in 
 London. Cleveland, from whom he had that day heard, was 
 at his villa. Ferrers was enjoying himself in Vienna. Who 
 could it be? We may say of solitude what we please; but 
 after two years of solitude, a visitor is a pleasurable excite- 
 ment. Maltravers retraced his steps, entered his house, and 
 Avas just in time to find himself almost in the arms of De 
 Montaigne. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 201 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Quid tam dextro pede concipis ut te, 
 Conatus non poeniteat, votique peracti ? ^ — Juvenal. 
 
 "Yes," said De Montaigne, "in my way I also am fulfilling 
 my destiny. I am a member of the Chambre de Deputes, and 
 on a visit to England upon some commercial affairs. I found 
 myself in your neighbourhood, and of course could not resist 
 the temptation; so you must receive me as your guest for 
 some days." 
 
 "I congratulate you cordially on your senatorial honours. 
 I have already heard of your rising name." 
 
 " I return the congratulations with equal warmth. You are 
 bringing my prophecies to pass. I have read your works 
 with increased pride at our friendship." 
 
 Maltravers sighed slightly, and half turned away. 
 
 "The desire of distinction," said he, after a pause, "grows 
 upon us till excitement becomes disease. The child who is 
 born with the mariner's instinct laughs with glee when his 
 paper bark skims the wave of a pool ; by and by nothing will 
 content him but the ship and the ocean. Like the child is the 
 author." 
 
 "I am pleased with your simile," said De Montaigne, smil- 
 ing. "Do not spoil it, but go on with your argument." 
 
 Maltravers continued: "Scarcely do we win the applause 
 of a moment ere we summon the past and conjecture the fu- 
 ture. Our contemporaries no longer suffice for competitors, 
 our age for the court to pronounce on our claims ; we call up 
 the Dead as our only true rivals, we appeal to Posterity as 
 our sole just tribunal. Is this vain in us? Possibly. Yet 
 such vanity humbles. 'T is then only we learn all the differ- 
 
 1 " What ! under sucli happy auspii-cs do you conceive tliat you may not 
 repent of your endeavour and accomplished wish ? " 
 
202 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 ence between Eeputation and Fame,— between To-Day and 
 Immortality ! " 
 
 "Do you think," replied De Montaigne, "that the dead did 
 not feel the same when they first trod the path that leads to 
 the life beyond life? Continue to cultivate the mind, to 
 sharpen by exercise the genius, to attempt to delight or to in- 
 struct your race ; and even supposing you fall short of every 
 model you set before you,— supposing your name moulder 
 with your dust,— still you will have passed life more nobly 
 than the unlaborious herd. Grant that you win not that glo- 
 rious accident, 'a name below,' how can you tell but what 
 you may have fitted yourself for high destiny and employ in 
 the world, not of men, but of spirits? The powers of the 
 mind are things that cannot be less immortal than the mere 
 sense of identity; their acquisitions accompany us through 
 the Eternal Progress ; and we may obtain a lower or a higher 
 grade hereafter, in proportion as we are more or less fitted by 
 the exercise of our intellect to comprehend and execute the 
 solemn cagencies of God. The wise man is nearer to the an- 
 gels than the fool is. This may be an apocryphal dogma, but 
 it is not an impossible theory." 
 
 " But we may waste the sound enjoyments of actual life in 
 chasing the hope you justly allow to be 'apocryphal;' and our 
 knowledge may go for nothing in the eyes of the Omniscient." 
 "Very well," said De Montaigne, smiling; "but answer me 
 honestly. By the pursuits of intellectual ambition do you 
 waste the sound enjoyments of life? If so, you do not pursue 
 the system rightly. Those pursuits ought only to quicken 
 yoTir sense for such pleasures as are the true relaxations of 
 life. And this, with you peculiarly, since you are fortunate 
 enough not to depend for subsistence upon literature. Did 
 you do so, I might rather advise you to be a trunkmaker than 
 an author. A man ought not to attempt any of the highest 
 walks of Mind and Art as the mere provision of daily bread; 
 not literature alone, but everything else of the same degree. 
 He ought not to be a statesman, or an orator, or a i)hiloso- 
 pher, as a thing of pence and shillings; and usually all men, 
 save the poor poet, feel this truth insensibly." 
 
ERNEST MALTllAVERS. 203 
 
 "This maybe fine preaching," said Maltravers; "but you 
 may be quite sure that tlie pursuit of literature is a pursuit 
 apart from the ordinary objects of life, and you cannot com- 
 mand the enjoyments of botli." 
 
 "I think otherwise," said De Montaigne; "but it is not in 
 a country house eighty miles from the capital, without wife, 
 guests, or friends, that the experiment can be fairly made. 
 Come, Maltravers, I see before you a brave career, and I 
 cannot permit you to halt at the onset." 
 
 " You do not see all the calumnies that are already put forth 
 against me, to say nothing of all the assurances (and many by 
 clever men) that there is nothing in me ! " 
 
 " Dennis was a clever man, and said the same thing of your 
 I'ope. Madame de Sevign4 was a clever woman, but she 
 thought Kacine would never be very famous. Milton saw 
 nothing in the first efforts of Dryden that made him consider 
 Dryden better than a rhymester. Aristophanes was a good 
 judge of poetry, yet how ill he judged of Euripides ! But all 
 this is commonplace, and yet you bring arguments that a 
 commonplace answers in evidence against yourself." 
 
 "But it is unpleasant not to answer attacks, — not to retal- 
 iate on enemies." 
 
 "Then answer attacks, and retaliate on enemies." 
 
 " But would that be wise? " 
 
 "If it give you pleasure, — it would not please ??ie." 
 
 "Come, De Montaigne, you are reasoning Socratically. I 
 will ask you plainly and bluntly, would you advise an author 
 to wage war on his literary assailants, or to despise them?" 
 
 "Both; let him attack but few, and those rarely. But it 
 is his policy to show that he is one whom it is better not to 
 provoke too far. The author always has the world on his 
 side against the critics, if he choose his opportunity. And he 
 must always recollect that he is 'a state ' in himself, which 
 must sometimes go to war in order to procure peace. The 
 time for war or for peace must be left to the State's own 
 diplomacy and wisdom." 
 
 "You would make us political machines." 
 
 "I would make every man's conduct more or less mechaui- 
 
204 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 cal, for system is the triumph of mind over matter; the just 
 equilibrium of all the powers and passions may seem like 
 machinery. Be it so. Kature meant the world, the creation, 
 man himself, for machines." 
 
 "And one must even be in a passion mechanically, according 
 to your theories." 
 
 "A man is a poor creature who is not in a passion some- 
 times ; but a very unjust, or a very foolish one, if he be in a 
 passion with the wrong person and in the wrong place and 
 time. But enough of this, it is growing late." 
 
 "And when will Madame visit England?" 
 
 "Oh! not yet, I fear. But you will meet Cesarini in Lon- 
 don this year or the next. He is persuaded that you did not 
 see justice done to his poems, and is coming here, as soon as 
 his indolence will let him, to proclaim jorv treachery in a 
 biting preface to some toothless satire." 
 
 " Satire ! " 
 
 " Yes ; more than one of your poets made their way by a 
 satire, and Cesarini is persuaded he shall do the same. Cas- 
 truccio is not as far-sighted as his namesake the Prince of 
 Lucca. Good-night, my dear Ernest." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 When with much pains this boasted learning 's got, 
 'T is an aiJrout to those who have it not. 
 
 Churchill : The Author. 
 
 There was something in De Montaigne's conversation 
 which, without actual flattery, reconciled Maltravers to him- 
 self and his career. It served less, perhaps, to excite than to 
 sober and brace his mind. De Montaigne could have made 
 no man rash, but he could have made many men energetic and 
 persevering. The two friends had some points in common; 
 but Maltravers had far more prodigality of nature and passion 
 about him, — had more of flesh and blood, with the faults and 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 205 
 
 excellences of flesh and blood. De Montaigne held so much 
 to his favourite doctrine of moral equilibrium that he had 
 really reduced himself in much to a species of clockwork. 
 As impulses are formed from habits, so the regularity of De 
 INIoutaigne's habits made his impulses virtuous and just, and 
 he yielded to them as often as a hasty character might have 
 done ; but then those impulses never urged to anything specu- 
 lative or daring. De Montaigne could not go beyond a certain 
 defined circle of action. He had no sympathy for any reason- 
 ings based purely on the hypotheses of the imagination: he 
 could not endure Plato, and he was dumb to the eloquent 
 whispers of whatever was refining in poetry or mystical in 
 wisdom. 
 
 Maltravers, on the contrary, not disdaining Reason, ever 
 sought to assist her by the Imaginative Faculty, and held all 
 philosophy incomplete and unsatisfactory that bounded its 
 inquiries to the limits of the Known and Certain. He loved 
 the inductive process ; but he carried it out to Conjecture as 
 well as Fact. He maintained that, by a similar hardihood, all 
 the triumphs of science, as well as art, had been accomplished ; 
 that Newton, that Copernicus, would have done nothing if they 
 had not imagined as well as reasoned, guessed as well as as- 
 certained. Nay, it was an aphorism with him that the very 
 soul of philosophy is conjecture. He had the most implicit 
 confidence in the operations of the mind and the heart properly 
 formed, and deemed that the very excesses of emotion and 
 thought, in men well trained by experience and study, are 
 conducive to useful and great ends. But the more advanced 
 years, and the singularly practical character of De JNIontaigne's 
 views, gave him a superiority in argument over Maltravers 
 which the last submitted to unwillingly. While, on the other 
 hand, De Montaigne secretly felt that his young friend rea- 
 soned from a broader base and took in a much wider circum- 
 ference, and that he was at once more liable to failure and 
 error, and more capable of new discovery and of intellectual 
 achievement. But their ways in life being different, they did 
 not clash ; and De Montaigne, who was sincerely interested in 
 Ernest's fate, was contented to harden his friend's mind 
 
206 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 against the obstacles in his way, and leave the rest to experi- 
 ment and to Providence. They went up to London together, 
 and De Montaigne returned to Paris. Maltravers appeared 
 once more in the haunts of the gay and great. He felt that 
 his new character had greatly altered his position. He was 
 no longer courted and caressed for the same vulgar and ad- 
 ventitious circumstances of fortune, birth, and connections as 
 before, yet for circumstances that to him seemed equally un- 
 flattering. He was not sought for his merit, his intellect, his 
 talents, but for his momentary celebrity. He was an author 
 in fashion, and run after, as anything else in fashion might 
 have been. He was invited, less to be talked to than to be 
 stared at. He was far too proud in his temper, and too pure 
 in his ambition, to feel his vanity elated by sharing the enthu- 
 siasm of the circles with a German prince or an industrious 
 flea. Accordingly, he soon repelled the advances made to 
 him, was reserved and supercilious to fine ladies, refused to 
 be the fashion, and became very unpopular with the literary 
 exclusives. They even began to run down the works because 
 they were dissatisfied with the author. But IVIaltravers had 
 based his experiments upon the vast masses of the general 
 Public. He had called the people of his own and other 
 countries to be his audience and his judges, and all the cote- 
 ries in the world could not have injured him. He was like 
 the member for an immense constituency, who may offend 
 individuals, so long as he keep his footing with the body at 
 large. But while he withdrew himself from the insipid and 
 the idle, he took care not to become separated from the world. 
 He formed his own society according to his tastes ; took pleas- 
 ure in the manly and exciting topics of the day; and sharpened 
 his observation and widened his sphere as an author by mix- 
 ing freely and boldly with all classes as a citizen. But litera- 
 ture became to him as art to the artist, as his mistress to the 
 lover, an engrossing and passionate delight. He made it his 
 glorious and divine profession; he loved it f/s a profession; 
 he devoted to its piirsuits and honours his youth, cares, 
 dreams, — his mind and his heart and his soul. He was a 
 silent but intense enthusiast in the priesthood he had entered. 
 
ERNEST MALTHA VERS. 207 
 
 From LITERATURE he imagined had come all that makes 
 nations enlightened and men humane. And he loved Litera- 
 ture the more because her distinctions were not those of the 
 world, because she had neither ribbons, nor stars, nor high 
 places at her command. A name in the deep gratitude and 
 hereditary delight of men, — this was the title she bestowed. 
 Hers was the Great Primitive Church of the world, without 
 Popes or Muftis, sinecures, pluralities, and hierarchies. Her 
 servants spoke to the earth as the prophets of old, anxious 
 only to be heard and believed. Full of this fanaticism, Ernest 
 Maltravers pursued his way in the great procession of the 
 myrtle-bearers to the sacred shrine. He carried the thyrsus, 
 and he believed in the god. By degrees his fanaticism worked 
 in him the philosophy which De Montaigne would have derived 
 from sober calculation, — it made him indifferent to the thorns 
 in the path, to the storms in the sky. He learned to despise 
 the enmity he provoked, the calumnies that assailed him. 
 Sometimes he was silent, but sometimes he retorted. Like a 
 soldier who serves a cause, he believed that when the cause 
 was injured in his person, the weapons confided to his hands 
 might be wielded without fear and without reproach. Gradu- 
 ally he became feared as well as known; and while many 
 abused him, none could contemn. 
 
 It would not suit the design of this work to follow Mal- 
 travers step by step in his course. I am only describing the 
 principal events, not the minute details, of his intellectual 
 life. Of the character of his works it Avill be enough to say, 
 that, whatever their faults, they were original, they were 
 his own. He did not write according to copy, nor compile 
 from commonplace books. He was an artist, it is true, — for 
 what is genius itself but art? — but he took laws and harmony 
 and order from the great code of Truth and Nature, — a code 
 that demands intense and unrelaxing study, though its first 
 principles are few and simple. That study Maltravers did 
 not shrink from. It was a deep love of truth that made him 
 a subtle and searching analyst even in what the dull world 
 considers trifles; for he knew that nothing in literature is in 
 itself trifling. — that it is often biit a hairsbreadth that di- 
 
208 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 vides a truism from a discovery. He was the more original, 
 because he sought rather after the True than the New. No 
 two minds are ever the same, and therefore any man who will 
 give us fairly and frankly the results of his own impressions, 
 uninfluenced by the servilities of imitation, will be original. 
 But it was not from originality, which really made his pre- 
 dominant merit, that Maltravers derived his reputation, for 
 his originality was not of that species which generally daz- 
 zles the vulgar, — it was not extravagant nor bizarre; he 
 affected no system and no school. Many authors of his day 
 seemed more novel and unique to the superficial. Profound 
 and durable invention proceeds by subtle and fine gradations; 
 it has nothing to do with those jerks and starts, those convul- 
 sions and distortions, which belong, not to the vigour and 
 health, but to the epilepsy and disease, of Literature. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Being got out of town, the first thing I did was to give my mule her 
 head. — Gil Bias. 
 
 Although the character of Maltravers was gradually be- 
 coming more hard and severe ; although, as his reason grew 
 more muscular, his imagination lost something of its early 
 bloom, and he was already very different from the wild boy 
 who had set the German youths in a blaze, and had changed 
 into a Castle of Indolence the little cottage tenanted with 
 Poetry and Alice, — he still preserved many of his old habits; 
 he loved, at frequent intervals, to disappear from the great 
 world, to get rid of books and friends, and luxury and wealth, 
 and make solitary excursions, sometimes on foot, sometimes 
 on horseback, through this fair garden of England. 
 
 It was one soft May-day that he found himself on such an 
 expedition, slowly riding through one of the green lanes of 
 shire. His cloak and his saddle-bags comprised all his 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 209 
 
 baggage, and the world was before him, "where to choose 
 his place of rest." The lane wound at length into the main 
 road, and just as he came upon it he fell in with a gay party 
 of equestrians. 
 
 Foremost of the cavalcade rode a lady in a dark-green habit, 
 mounted on a thoroughbred English horse, which she man- 
 aged with so easy a grace that Maltravers halted in involun- 
 tary admiration. He himself was a consummate horseman, 
 and he had the quick eye of sympathy for those who shared 
 the accomplishment. He thought, as he gazed, that he had 
 never seen but one woman whose air and mien on horseback 
 were so full of that nameless elegance which skill and cour- 
 age in any art naturally bestow : that woman was Valerie de 
 Ventadour. Presently, to his great surprise, the lady ad- 
 vanced from her companions, neared Maltravers, and said, in 
 a voice which he did not at first distinctly recognize : " Is it 
 possible? Do I see Mr. Maltravers?" 
 
 She paused a moment, and then threw aside her veil, and 
 Ernest beheld — Madame de Ventadour ! By this time a tall, 
 thin gentleman had joined the Frenchwoman. 
 
 "Has Madame met with an acquaintance?" said he; "and 
 if so, will she permit me to partake her pleasure?" 
 
 The interruption seemed a relief to Valerie; she smiled 
 and coloured. 
 
 "Let me introduce you to Mr. Maltravers. Mr. Maltravers, 
 this is my host. Lord Doningdale." 
 
 The two gentlemen bowed, the rest of the cavalcade sur- 
 rounded the trio, and Lord Doningdale, with a stately yet 
 frank courtesy, invited Maltravers to return with the party 
 to his house, which was about four miles distant. As may be 
 supposed, Ernest readily accepted the invitation. The cav- 
 alcade proceeded, and Maltravers hastened to seek an ex- 
 planation from Valerie It was soon given. Madame de 
 Ventadour had a younger sister who had lately married a son 
 of Lord Doningdale. The marriage had been solemnized in 
 Paris, and Monsieur and Madame de Ventadour had been in 
 England a week on a visit to the English peer. 
 
 The rencontre was so sudden and unexpected that neither 
 
 14 
 
210 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 recovered siifl&cient self-possession for fluent conversation. 
 The explanation given, Valerie sank into a thoughtful silence, 
 and Maltravers rode by her side equally taciturn, pondering 
 on the strange chance which, after the lapse of years, had 
 thrown them again together. 
 
 Lord Doningdale, who at first lingered with his other vis- 
 itors, now joined them, and Maltravers was struck with his 
 highbred manner, and a singular and somewhat elaborate 
 polish in his emphasis and expression. They soon entered a 
 noble park, which attested far more care and attention than 
 are usually bestowed upon those demesnes so peculiarly Eng- 
 lish. Young plantations everywhere contrasted the venerable 
 groves, new cottages of picturesque design adorned the out- 
 skirts, and obelisks and columns, copied from the antique and 
 evidently of recent worknianshi]), gleamed upon them as they 
 neared the house, — a large pile, in which the fashion of 
 Queen Anne's day had been altered into the French roofs and 
 windows of the architecture of the Tuileries. "You reside 
 much in the country, I am sure, my lord," said Maltravers. 
 
 "Yes," replied Lord Doningdale, with a pensive air, "this 
 place is greatly endeared to me. Here his Majesty Louis 
 XVIII., when in England, honoured me with an annual visit. 
 In compliment to him, I sought to model my poor mansion 
 into an humble likeness of his own palace, so that he might as 
 little as possible miss the rights he had lost. His own rooms 
 were furnished exactly like those he had occupied at the 
 Tuileries. Y''es, the place is endeared to me; I think of the 
 old times with pride. It is something to have sheltered a 
 Bourbon in his misfortunes." 
 
 " It cost milord a vast sum to make these alterations, " said 
 Madame de Ventadour, glancing archly at Maltravers. 
 
 "Ah, yes," said the old lord, and his face, lately elated, 
 became overcast, — "nearly three hundred thousand pounds. 
 But what then? 'Les souvenirs, Madame, sont sans prix! ' " 
 
 "Have you visited Paris since the restoration. Lord Don- 
 ingdale?" asked Maltravers. 
 
 His lordship looked at him sharply, and then turned liis 
 eye to Madame de Ventadour. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 211 
 
 "Nay," said Valerie, laughing, "I did not dictate the 
 question." 
 
 "Yes," said Lord Doningdale, "I have been at Paris." 
 
 "His Majesty must have been delighted to return your 
 Lordship's hospitality." 
 
 Lord Doningdale looked a little embarrassed, and made no 
 reply, but put his horse into a canter. 
 
 "You have galled our host," said Valerie, smiling. "Louis 
 XVIII. and his friends lived here as long as they pleased and 
 as sumptuously as they could; their visits half ruined the 
 owner, who is the model of a gent ill comme and preux chevalier. 
 He went to Paris to witness their triumph; he expected, I 
 fancy, the order of the Saint Esprit. Lord Doningdale has 
 royal blood in his veins. His Majesty asked him once to 
 dinner, and when he took leave, said to him, 'We are happy, 
 Lord Doningdale, to have thus requited our obligations to 
 your Lordship.' Lord Doningdale went back in dudgeon, yet 
 he still boasts of his souvenirs, poor man." 
 
 "Princes are not grateful, neither are republics," said 
 Maltravers. 
 
 "Ah! who is grateful," rejoined Valerie, "except a dog and 
 a woman?" 
 
 Maltravers found himself ushered into a vast dressing-room, 
 and was informed by a French valet that in the country Lord 
 Doningdale dined at six; the first bell would ring in a few 
 minutes. While the valet was speaking, Lord Doningdale 
 himself entered the room. His Lordship had learned, in the 
 meanwhile, that Maltravers was of the great and ancient 
 commoners' house whose honours were centred in his brother; 
 and yet more, that he was the Mr. jNIaltravers whose writings 
 every one talked of, whether for praise or abuse. Lord 
 Doningdale had the two characteristics of a highbred gentle- 
 man of the old school, — respect for birth, and respect for tal- 
 ent; he was, therefore, more than ordinarily courteous to 
 Ernest, and pressed him to stay some days with so much cor- 
 diality that Maltravers could not but assent. His travelling 
 toilet was scanty, but Maltravers thought little of dress. 
 
212 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It is the soul that sees. The outward eyes 
 
 Present the object, but the mind descries ; 
 
 And theuce delight, disgust, or cool indifference rise. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 When Maltravers entered tlie enormous saloon, hung witli 
 damask and decorated with the ponderous enrichments and 
 furniture of the time of Louis XIY. (that most showy and 
 barbarous of all tastes, which has nothing in it of the grace- 
 ful, nothing of the picturesque, and which, nowadays, people 
 who should know better imitate with a ludicrous servility), 
 he found sixteen persons assembled. His host stepped up 
 from a circle which surrounded him, and formally presented 
 his new visitor to the rest. He was struck with the likeness 
 which the sister of Valerie bore to Valerie herself; but it was 
 a sobered and chastened likeness, less handsome, less impres- 
 sive. Mrs. George Herbert — such was the name she now 
 owned — was a pretty, shrinking, timid girl, fond of her hus- 
 band, and mightily awed by her father-in-law. Maltravers 
 sat by her, and drew her into conversation. He could not 
 help pitying the poor lad}' when he found she was to live 
 altogether at Doningdale Park, remote from all the friends 
 and habits of her childhood, alone, so far as the affections 
 were concerned, with a young husband who was passionately 
 fond of field-sports, and who, from the few words Ernest ex- 
 changed with him, seemed to have only three ideas, — his 
 dogs, his horses, and his wife. Alas! the last woiild soon be 
 the least in importance. It is a sad position, — that of a lively 
 young Frenchwoman entombed in an English country house ! 
 Marriages with foreigners are seldom fortunate experiments. 
 But Ernest's attention was soon diverted from the sister by 
 the entrance of Valerie herself, leaning on her husband's arm. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 213 
 
 Hitherto he had not very minutely observed what change 
 time had effected in her, — perhaps he was half afraid. He 
 now gazed at her with curious interest. Valerie was still ex- 
 tremely handsome, but her face had grown sharper, her form 
 thinner and more angular; there was something in her eye 
 and lip discontented, restless, almost querulous: such is the 
 too-common expression in the face of those born to love, and 
 condemned to be indifferent. The little sister was more to 
 be envied of the two : come what may, she loved her husband, 
 such as he was, and her heart might ache, but it was not with 
 a void. 
 
 M. de Ventadour soon shuffled up to Maltravers, his nose 
 longer than ever. 
 
 '"'■ Hein, hein, how d'ye do, how d'ye do? Charmed to see 
 you. Saw Madame before me, hein, hein! I suspect, I 
 suspect — " 
 
 " Mr. Maltravers, will you give Madame de Ventadour your 
 arm?" said Lord Doningdale, as he stalked on to the dining- 
 room with a duchess on his own. 
 
 *'And you have left Naples," said Maltravers, — "left it 
 for good?" 
 
 "We do not think of returning." 
 
 " It was a charming place. How I loved it! How well I 
 remember it ! " Ernest spoke calmly ; it was but a general 
 remark. 
 
 Valerie sighed gently. 
 
 During dinner the conversation between Maltravers and 
 3Iadame de Ventadour was vague and embarrassed. Ernest 
 was no longer in love with her, — he had outgrown that youth- 
 ful fancy. She had exercised influence over him, — the new 
 influences that he had created had chased away her image. 
 Such is life. Long absences extinguish all the false lights, 
 though not the true ones. The lamps are dead in the ban- 
 quet-room of yesterday; but a thousand years hence, and the 
 stars we look on to-night will burn as brightly. Maltravers 
 was no longer in love with Valerie. But Valerie — ah, per- 
 haps hers had been true love! 
 
 Maltravers was surprised when he came to examine the 
 
214 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 state of his own feelings; he was surprised to find that his 
 pulse did not beat quicker at the touch of one whose very 
 glance had once thrilled him to the soul, — he was surprised, 
 but rejoiced. He was no longer anxious to seek, but to shun 
 excitement, and he was a better and a higher being than he 
 had been on the shores of Naples. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Whence that low voice, a whisper from the heart, 
 That told of days long past 1 — Wordsworth. 
 
 Erxest stayed several days at Lord Doningdale's, and 
 every day he rode out with Valerie, but it was with a large 
 party; and every evening he conversed with her, but the 
 whole world might have overheard what they said. In fact, 
 the sympathy that had once existed between the young dreamer 
 and the proud, discontented woman had in much passed away. 
 Awakened to vast and grand objects, Maltravers was a dreamer 
 no more. Inured to the life of trifles she had once loathed, 
 Valerie had settled down into the usages and thoughts of the 
 common world ; she had no longer the superiority of earthly 
 wisdom over Maltravers, and his romance was sobered in its 
 eloquence, and her ear dulled to its tone. Still Ernest felt a 
 deep interest in her, and still she seemed to feel a sensitive 
 pride in his career. 
 
 One evening Maltravers had joined a circle in which Ma- 
 dame de Ventadour, with more than her usual animation, pre- 
 sided, and to which, in her pretty, womanly, and thoroughly 
 Erench way, she was lightly laying down the law on a hun- 
 dred subjects, — Philosophy, Poetry, Sevres china, and the 
 balance of power in Europe. Ernest listened to her, de- 
 lighted, but not enchanted. Yet Valerie was not natural that 
 night, — she was speaking from forced spirits. 
 
ERNEST MALTR AVERS. 215 
 
 "Well," said Madame de Veiitadour at last, tired, perliaps, 
 of the part she had been playing, and bringing to a sudden 
 close an animated description of the then French court, — 
 "well, see now if we ought not to be ashamed of ourselves; 
 our talk has positively interrupted the music. Did you see 
 Lord Doningdale stop it with a bow to me, as much as to say, 
 with his courtly reproof, 'It shall not disturb you, madam'? 
 I will no longer be accessory to your crime of bad taste ! " 
 
 With this the Frenchwoman rose, and gliding through the 
 circle, retired to the farther end of the room. Ernest fol- 
 lowed her with his eyes. Suddenly she beckoned to him, 
 and he approached and seated himself by her side. 
 
 "Mr. Maltravers," said Valerie then, with great sweetness 
 in her voice, "I have not yet expressed to you the delight I 
 have felt from your genius. In absence you have suffered 
 me to converse with you; your books have been to me dear 
 friends. As we shall soon part again, let me now tell you 
 of this frankly and without compliment." 
 
 This paved the way to a conversation that approached more 
 on the precincts of the past than any they had yet known. 
 But Ernest was guarded, and Valerie watched his words and 
 looks with an interest she could not conceal, — an interest 
 that partook of disappointment. 
 
 "It is an excitement," said Valerie, "to climb a mountain, 
 though it fatigue, and though the clouds may even deny us a 
 prospect from its summit; it is an excitement that gives a 
 very universal pleasure, and that seems almost as if it were 
 the result of a common human instinct which makes us desire 
 to rise, — to get above the ordinary thoroughfares and level of 
 life. Some such pleasure you must have in intellectual am- 
 bition, in which the mind is the upward traveller." 
 
 "It is not the ambition that pleases," replied Maltravers, 
 " it is the following a path congenial to our tastes and made 
 dear to us in a short time by habit. The moments in which 
 we look beyond our work, and fancy ourselves seated beneath 
 the Everlasting Laurel, are few. It is the work itself, 
 whether of action or literature, that interests and excites us. 
 And at length the dryness of toil takes the familiar sweet- 
 
216 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 ness of custom. But in intellectual labour there is another 
 charm, — we become more intimate with our own nature. 
 The heart and the soul grow friends, as it were, and the 
 affections and the aspirations unite. Thus, we are never 
 without society, we are never alone ; all that we have read, 
 learned, and discovered, is company to us. This is pleasant," 
 added Maltravers, "to those who have no dear connections in 
 the world without." 
 
 "And is that your case?" asked Valerie, with a timid 
 smile. 
 
 " Alas, yes ! and since I conquered one affection, Madame de 
 Ventadour, I almost think I have outlived the capacity of lov- 
 ing. I believe that when we cultivate very largely the reason 
 or the imagination, we blunt, to a certain extent, our young 
 susceptibilities to the fair impressions of real life. From 
 'idleness,' says the old Roman poet, 'Love feeds his torch.' " 
 
 " You are too young to talk thus." 
 
 "I speak as I feel.'' 
 
 Valerie said no more. Shortly afterwards Lord Doningdale 
 approached them, and proposed that they should make an 
 excursion the next day to see the ruins of an old abbey some 
 few miles distant. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 
 How shall I greet thee ? — Byron. 
 
 It was a smaller party than usual the next day, consisting 
 only of Lord Doningdale, his son George Herbert, Valerie, 
 and Ernest. They were returning from the ruins, and the 
 sun, now gradually approaching the west, threw its slant rays 
 over the gardens and houses of a small, picturesque town, 
 or, perhaps, rather village, on the high North Road. It is 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 217 
 
 one of the prettiest places in England, that town or village, 
 and boasts an excellent old-fashioned inn, with a large and 
 quaint pleasure -garden. It was through the long and strag- 
 gling street that our little party slowly rode, when the sky 
 became suddenly overcast, and, a few large hailstones falling, 
 gave notice of an approaching storm. 
 
 " I told you we should not get safely through the day, " said 
 George Herbert. "Now we are in for it." 
 
 "George, that is a vulgar expression," said Lord Doning- 
 dale, buttoning up his coat. "While he spoke, a vivid flash of 
 lightning darted across their very path, and the sky grew 
 darker and darker. 
 
 " We may as well rest at the inn, " said Maltravers ; " the 
 storm is coming on apace, and Madame de Ventadour — " 
 
 "You are right," interrupted Lord Doningdale; and he put 
 his horse into a canter. 
 
 They were soon at the door of the old hotel. Bells rang, 
 dogs barked, hostlers ran. A plain, dark, travelling post- 
 chariot was before the inn-door; and roused, perhaps, by the 
 noise below, a lady in the "first-floor front. No. 2," came to 
 the window. This lady owned the travelling-carriage, and 
 was at this time alone in that apartment. As she looked 
 carelessly at the party, her eyes rested on one form : she 
 turned pale, uttered a faint cry, and fell senseless on the 
 floor. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lord Doningdale and his guests were shown 
 into the room next to that tenanted by the lady. Properly 
 speaking, both the rooms made one long apartment for balls 
 and county meetings, and the division was formed by a thin 
 partition removable at pleasure. The hail now came on fast 
 and heavy ; the trees groaned, the thunder roared, and in the 
 large, dreary room there was a palpable and oppressive sense 
 of coldness and discomfort. Valerie shivered, a fire was 
 lighted, and the Frenchwoman drew near to it. 
 
 "You are wet, my dear lady," said Lord Doningdale. 
 "You should take off that close habit and have it dried." 
 
 "Oh, no! What matters it?" said Valerie bitterly, and 
 almost rudely. 
 
218 ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 "It matters everything," said Ernest; "pray be ruled." 
 
 "And do you care for me?" murmured Valerie. 
 
 "Can you ask that question?" replied Ernest, in the same 
 tone, and with affectionate and friendly warmth. 
 
 Meanwhile the good old lord had summoned the chamber- 
 maid, and with the kindly imperiousness of a father made 
 Valerie quit the room. The three gentlemen, left together, 
 talked of the storm, wondered how long it would last, and 
 debated the propriety of sending to Doningdale for the car- 
 riage. While they spoke, the hail suddenly ceased, though 
 clouds in the distant horizon were bearing heavily up to re- 
 new the charge. George Herbert, who was the most impa- 
 tient of mortals, especially of rainy weather in a strange place, 
 seized the occasion, and insisted on riding to Doningdale and 
 sending back the carriage. 
 
 "Surely a groom would do as well, George," said the 
 father. 
 
 " My dear father, no ; I should env}- the rogue too much. I 
 am bored to death here. Marie will be frightened about us. 
 Brown Bess will take me back in twent}^ minutes. I am a 
 hardy fellow, you know. Good-by." 
 
 Away darted the young sportsman, and in two minutes they 
 saw him spur gayly from the inn-door. 
 
 " It is very odd that / should have such a son, " said Lord 
 Doningdale, musinglj^, — "a son who cannot amuse himself 
 in-doors for two minutes together. I took great pains with 
 his education, too. Strange that people should weary so 
 much of themselves that they cannot brave the prospect of a 
 few minutes passed in reflection ; that a shower and the re- 
 sources of their own thoughts are evils so galling, — very 
 strange indeed. But it is a confounded climate this, cer- 
 tainly. I wonder when it will clear up." 
 
 Thus muttering. Lord Doningdale walked, or rather marched, 
 to and fro the room, with his hands in his coat -pockets, and 
 his whip sticking perpendicularly out of the right one. Just 
 at this moment the waiter came to announce that his lord- 
 ship's groom was without, and desired much to see him. 
 Lord Doningdale had then the pleasure of learning that his 
 
' ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 219 
 
 favourite gray hackney, which he had ridden, winter and 
 Gummer, for fifteen years, was taken with shivers, and, as the 
 groom expressed it, seemed to have "the collar [cholera?] in 
 its bowels ! " 
 
 Lord Doningdale turned pale, and hurried to the stables 
 without saying a word. 
 
 IMaltravers, who, plunged in thought, had not overheard 
 the low and brief conference between master and groom, re- 
 mained alone, seated by the fire, his head buried in his bosom, 
 and his arms folded. 
 
 Meanwhile, the lady, who occupied the adjoining chamber, 
 had recovered slowly from her swoon. She put both hands to 
 her temj)les, as if trying to recollect her thoughts. Hers was 
 a fair, innocent, almost childish face; and now, as a smile 
 shot across it, there was something so sweet and touching in 
 the gladness it shed over that countenance that you could not 
 have seen it without strong and almost painful interest. For 
 it was the gladness of a person who has known sorrow. Sud- 
 denly she started up, and said : " No, then. I do not dream. 
 He is come back, — he is here; all will be well again! Ha! 
 it is his voice. Oh, bless him, it is Jiis voice! " She paused, 
 her finger on her lip, her face bent down. A low and indis- 
 tinct sound of voices reached her straining ear through the 
 thin door that divided her from Maltravers. She listened in- 
 tently, but she could not overhear the import. Her heart beat 
 violently. "He is not alone!" she murmured mournfully. 
 " 1 will wait till the sound ceases, and then I will venture in ! " 
 
 And what was the conversation carried on in that chamber? 
 "We must return to Ernest. He Avas sitting in the same 
 thoughtful posture when Madame de Ventadour returned. 
 
 The Frenchwoman coloured when she found herself alone 
 with Ernest, and Ernest himself was not at his ease. 
 
 "Herbert has gone home to order the carriage, and Lord 
 Doningdale has disappeared, I scarce know whither. You 
 do Dot, I trust, feel the worse for the rain?" 
 
 "No," said Valerie. 
 
 "Shall you have any commands in London?" asked Mal- 
 travers; "I return to town to-morrow." 
 
220 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 " So soon ! " and Valerie sighed. " Ah ! " she added, after 
 a pause, " we shall not meet again for years, perhaps. M. de 
 
 Ventadour is to be appointed ambassador to the Court, 
 
 and so, and so — AVell, it is no matter. What has become 
 of the friendship we once swore to each other?" 
 
 " It is here, " said Maltravers, laying his hand on his heart. 
 " Here, at least, lies the half of that friendship which was my 
 charge; and more than friendship, Valerie de Ventadour, — 
 respect, admiration, gratitude. At a time of life when pas- 
 sion and fancy, most strong, might have left me an idle and 
 worthless voluptuary, you convinced me that the world has 
 virtue, and that woman is too noble to be our toy, — the idol 
 of to-day, the victim of to-morrow. Your influence, Valerie, 
 left me a more thoughtful man, — I hope a better one." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Madame de Ventadour, strongly affected, " I 
 bless you for what you tell me ; you cannot know, you cannot 
 guess, how sweet it is to me! Now I recognize you once 
 more. What — what did my resolution cost me ! Xow I am 
 repaid! " 
 
 Ernest was moved by her emotion and by his own remem- 
 brances; he took her hand, and pressing it with frank and re- 
 spectful tenderness, "I did not think, Valerie," said he, 
 "when I reviewed the past, I did not think that you loved 
 me, — I was not vain enough for that; but if so, how much is 
 your character raised in my eyes, — how provident, how wise 
 your virtue I Happier and better for both, our present feel- 
 ings, each to each, than if we had indulged a brief and guilty 
 dream of passion, at war with all that leaves passion without 
 remorse, and bliss without alloy. Now — " 
 
 "Now," interrupted Valerie, quickly, and fixing on him 
 her dark eyes — " now you love me no longer ! Yet it is bet- 
 ter so. Well, I will go back to my cold and cheerless state 
 of life, and forget once more that Heaven endowed me with a 
 heart!" 
 
 "Ah, Valerie! esteemed, revered, still beloved, not indeed 
 with the fires of old, but with a deep, undying, and holy ten- 
 derness, speak not thus to me. Let me not believe you un- 
 happy; let me think that, wise, sagacious, brilliant as you 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 221 
 
 are, you have employed your gifts to reconcile yourself to a 
 common lot. Still let me look up to you when I would de- 
 spise the circles in which you live, and say: 'On that pedestal 
 an altar is yet placed to which the heart may bring the offer- 
 ings of the soul. ' " 
 
 "It is in vain, in vain that I struggle," said Valerie, half- 
 choked with emotion, and clasping her hands passionately. 
 "Ernest, I love you still; 1 am wretched to think you love 
 me no more ; I would give you nothing, yet I exact all. My 
 youth is going, my beauty dimmed, my very intellect is 
 dulled by the life I lead; and yet I ask from you that which 
 your young heart once felt for me. Despise me, Maltravers, 
 I am not what I seemed; I am a hypocrite, — despise me." 
 
 "No," said Ernest, again possessing himself of her hand, 
 and falling on his knee by her side. "No, never-to-be-for- 
 gotten, ever-to-be-honoured Valerie, hear me." As he spoke, 
 he kissed the hand he held; with the other, Valerie covered 
 her face and wept bitterly, but in silence. Ernest paused 
 till the burst of her feelings had subsided, her hand still in 
 his, still warmed by his kisses, — kisses as pure as cavalier 
 ever impressed on the hand of his queen. 
 
 At this time the door communicating with the next room 
 gently opened. A fair form — a form fairer and younger than 
 that of Valerie de Ventadour — entered the apartment; the 
 silence had deceived her, — she believed that Maltravers was 
 alone. She had entered with her heart upon her lips, — love, 
 sanguine, hopeful love, in every vein, in every thought; she 
 had entered dreaming that across that threshold life would 
 dawn upon her afresh, that all would be once more as it had 
 been, when the common air was rapture. Thus she entered; 
 and now she stood spell -bound, terror-stricken, pale as death, 
 — life turned to stone ; youth, hope, bliss, were forever over 
 to her! Ernest kneeling to another was all she saw! For 
 this had she been faithful and true amidst storm and desola- 
 tion; for this had she hoped, dreamed, lived. They did not 
 note her; she was unseen, unheard. And Ernest, who would 
 have gone barefoot to the end of the earth to find her, was in 
 the very room with her, and knew it not! 
 
222 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Call me again beloved!^' said Valerie, very softly. 
 
 "Beloved Valerie, hear me." 
 
 These words were enough for the listener ; she turned noise- 
 lessly away: humble as that heart was, it was proud. The 
 door closed on her. She had obtained the wish of her whole 
 being; Heaven had heard her prayer, — she had once more 
 seen the lover of her youth ; and thenceforth all was night and 
 darkness to her. What matter what became of her? One 
 moment, — what an effect it produces upon years! Oxe mo- 
 ment! Virtue, crime, glory, shame, woe, rapture, rest upon 
 moments ! Death itself is but a moment, yet Eternity is its 
 successor! 
 
 " Hear me ! " continued Ernest, unconscious of what had 
 passed, — " hear me ; let us be what human nature and worldly 
 forms seldom allow those of opposite sexes to be, — friends 
 to each other, and to virtue also; friends through time and 
 absence; friends through all the vicissitudes of life; friends 
 on whose affection shame and remorse never cast a shade; 
 friends who are to meet hereafter! Oh, there is no attach- 
 ment so true, no tie so holy, as that which is founded on the 
 old chivalry of loyalty and honour, and which is what love 
 would be if the heart and the soul were unadulterated by 
 clay." 
 
 There was in Ernest's countenance an expression so noble, 
 in his voice a tone so thrilling, that Valerie was brought back 
 at once to the nature which a momentary weakness had sub- 
 dued. She looked at him with an admiring and grateful gaze, 
 and then said, in a calm but low voice : " Ernest, I understand 
 you; yes, your friendship is dearer to me than love." 
 
 At this time they heard the voice of Lord Doningdale on 
 the stairs. Valerie turned away. Maltravers, as he rose, 
 extended his hand ; she pressed it warmly, and the spell was 
 broken, the temptation conquered, the ordeal passed. While 
 Lord Doningdale entered the room, the carriage, with Herbert 
 in it, drove to the door. In a few minutes the little party 
 were within the vehicle. As they drove away, the hostlers 
 were harnessing the horses to the dark-green travelling-car- 
 riage. From the window, a sad and straining eye gazed 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 223 
 
 upon the gayer equipage of the peer, — that eye which Mal- 
 travers would have given his whole fortune to meet again. 
 But he did not look up; and Alice Darvil turned away, and 
 her fate was fixed! 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Strange fits of passion I have known, 
 And I ^vill dare to tell. — Wordsworth. 
 
 . . . The food of hope 
 Is meditated action. — Wordsworth. 
 
 Maltravers left Doningdale the next day. He had no 
 further conversation with Valerie ; but when he took leave of 
 her, she placed in his hand a letter, which he read as he rode 
 slowly through the beech avenues of the park. Translated, 
 it ran thus : — 
 
 " Others would despise me for the weakness I showed, but you will 
 not ! It is the sole weakness of a life. Xone can know what I have 
 passed through, what hours of dejection and gloom, — I, whom so many 
 envy ! Better to have been a peasant girl, with love, than a ([ueen whose 
 life is but a dull mechanism. You, Maltravers, I never forgot in ab- 
 sence, and your image made yet more wearisome and trite the things 
 around me. Years passed, and your name was suddenly on men's lips. 
 I heard of you wherever I went, — I could not shut you from me. Your 
 fame was as if you were conversing by my side. We met at last, sud- 
 denly and unexpectedly. I saw that you loved me no more, and that 
 thought conquered all my resolves : anguish subdues the nerves of the 
 mind as sickness those of the body. And thus I forgot, and humbled, 
 and might have undone myself. Juster and better thoughts are once 
 more awakened within me, and when we meet again I shall be worthy 
 of your respect. I see how dangerous are that luxury of thought, that 
 sin of discontent which I indulged. I go back to life resolved to van- 
 quish all that can interfere with its claims and duties. Heaven guide 
 and preserve you, Ernest! Think of me as one whom you will not 
 blush to have loved, whom you will not blush hereafter to present to 
 your wife. With so much that is soft, as well as great within you, you 
 were not formed like me, — to be alone. Farewell ! " 
 
224 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Maltravers read and re-read this letter; and when he reached 
 his home, he placed it carefully amongst the things he most 
 valued. A lock of Alice's hair lay beside it: he did not think 
 that either was dishonoured by the contact. 
 
 With an effort, he turned himself once more to those stern 
 yet high connections which literature makes with real life. 
 Perhaps there was a certain restlessness in his heart which 
 induced him ever to occupy his mind. That was one of the 
 busiest years of his life, — the one in which he did most to 
 sharpen jealousy and confirm fame. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 In effect, lie entered my apartment. — Gil Bias. 
 
 " I am surprised," said he, " at the caprice of Fortune, who sometimes de- 
 lights in loading an execrable author with favours, whilst she leaves good 
 writers to perish for want." — Gil Bias. 
 
 It was just twelve months after his last interview with 
 Valerie, and Madame de Yentadour had long since quitted 
 England, when one morning, as Maltravers sat alone in his 
 study, Castruccio Cesarini was announced. 
 
 "Ah, my dear Castruccio, how are you?" cried Maltravers, 
 eagerly, as the opening door presented the form of the Italian. 
 
 "Sir," said Castruccio, with great stiffness, and speaking 
 in French, which was his wont when he meant to be distant, 
 — " sir, I do not come to renew our former acquaintance : you 
 are a great man [here a bitter sneer], I an obscure one [here 
 Castruccio drew himself up] ;■ I only come to discharge a debt 
 to you which I find I have incurred." 
 
 "What tone is this, Castruccio, and what debt do j'ou 
 speak of?" 
 
 "On my arrival in town yesterday," said the poet, sol- 
 emnly, "I went to the man whom you deputed some years 
 since to publish my little volume, to demand an account of its 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 225 
 
 success ; and I found that it had cost one hundred and twenty 
 pounds, deducting the sale of forty-nine copies which had 
 been sokl. Yottr books sell some thousands, I am told. It 
 is well contrived, — mine fell still-born; no pains were taken 
 with it. No matter [a wave of the hand] . You discharged 
 this debt, I repay you: there is a check for the money. 
 Sir, I have done ! I wish you a good day, and health to enjoy 
 your reputation." 
 
 "Why, Cesarini, this is folly." 
 
 "Sir — " 
 
 "Yes, it is folly; for there is no folly equal to that of 
 throwing away friendship in a world where friendship is so 
 rare. You insinuate that I am to blame for any neglect 
 which your work experienced. Your publisher can tell you 
 that I was more anxious about your book than I have ever 
 been about my own." 
 
 " And the proof is that forty-nine copies were sold ! " 
 
 "Sit down, Castruccio, sit down and listen to reason;" and 
 Maltravers proceeded to explain and soothe and console. He 
 reminded the poor poet that his verses were written in a for- 
 eign tongue; that even English poets of great fame enjoyed 
 but a limited sale for their works; that it was impossible to 
 make the avaricious public purchase what the stupid public 
 would not take an interest in, — in short, he used all those 
 arguments which naturally suggested themselves as best cal- 
 culated to convince and soften Castruccio; and he did this 
 with so much evident sympathy and kindness that at length 
 the Italian could no longer justify his own resentment. A 
 reconciliation took place, sincere on the part of Maltravers, 
 hollow on the part of Cesarini ; for the disappointed author 
 could not forgive the successful one. 
 
 "And how long shall you stay in London?" 
 
 "Some months." 
 
 "Send for your luggage, and be my guest." 
 
 "No; I have taken lodgings that suit me. I am formed for 
 solitude." 
 
 "While you stay here, you will, however, go into the 
 world." 
 
 15 
 
226 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Yes, I have some letters of introduction, and I hear that 
 the English can honour merit, even in an Italian." 
 
 " You hear the truth, and it will amuse you, at least, to see 
 our eminent men. They will receive you most hospitably. 
 Let me assist you as a cicerone." 
 
 " Oh, your valuable time ! " 
 
 "Is at your disposal; but where are you going? " 
 
 " It is Sunday, and I have had my curiosity excited to hear 
 
 a celebrated preacher, Mr. , who, they tell me, is now 
 
 more talked of than any author in London." 
 
 "They tell you truly; I will go with you, — I myself have 
 not yet heard him, but proposed to do so this very day." 
 
 "Are you not jealous of a man so much spoken of?" 
 
 "Jealous! Why, I never set up for a popular preacher, — 
 ce n' est pas mon metier ! " 
 
 "If I were a successful author, I should be jealous if the 
 dancing-dogs were talked of." 
 
 "No, my dear Cesarini, I am sure you would not. You are 
 a little irritated at present by natural disappointment; but 
 the man who has as much success as he deserves, is never 
 morbidly jealous, even of a rival in his own line. Want of 
 success sours us; but a little sunshine smiles away the va- 
 pours. Come, we have no time to lose." 
 
 Maltravers took his hat, and the two young men bent their 
 
 way to Chapel. Cesarini still retained the singular 
 
 fashion of his dress, though it was now made of handsomer 
 materials, and worn with more coxcombry and pretension. 
 He had much improved in person; had been admired in 
 Paris, and told that he looked like a man of genius ; and with 
 his black ringlets flowing over his shoulders, his long mus- 
 tache, his broad, Spanish-shaped hat, and eccentric garb, he 
 certainly did not look like other people. He smiled with 
 contempt at the plain dress of his companion. "I see," said 
 he, "that you follow the fashion, and look as if you passed 
 your life with elegans instead of students. I wonder you 
 condescend to such trifles as fashionably shaped hats and 
 coats." 
 
 "It would be worse trifling to set up for originality in hats 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 227 
 
 and coats, at least in sober England. I was born a gentle- 
 man, and I dress my outward frame like others of my order. 
 Because I am a writer, why should I affect to be different 
 from other men?" 
 
 "I see that you are not above the weakness of your country- 
 man Congreve," said Cesarini, "avIio deemed it finer to be a 
 gentleman than an author." 
 
 " I always thought that anecdote misconstrued. Congreve 
 had a proper and manly pride, to my judgment, when he ex- 
 pressed a dislike to be visited merely as a raree-show." 
 
 " But is it policy to let the world see that an author is like 
 other people? Would he not create a deeper personal interest 
 if he showed that even in person alone he was unlike the 
 herd? He ought to be seen seldom, — not to stale his pres- 
 ence, — and to resort to the arts that belong to the royalty of 
 intellect as well as the royalty of birth." 
 
 " I dare say an author, by a little charlatanism of that na- 
 ture, might be more talked of, — might be more adored in the 
 boarding-schools, and make a better picture in the exhibition. 
 But I think, if his mind be manly, he would lose in self-re- 
 spect at every quackery of the sort. And my philosophy is, 
 that to respect oneself is worth all the fame in the world." 
 
 Cesarini sneered, and shrugged his shoulders; it was quite 
 evident that the two authors had no sympathy with each other. 
 
 Thej' arrived at last at the chapel, and with some difficulty 
 procured seats. 
 
 Presently the service began. The preacher was a man of 
 unquestionable talent and fervid eloquence; but his theatrical 
 arts, his affected dress, his artificial tones and gestures, and, 
 above all, the fanatical mummeries which he introduced into 
 the House of God, disgusted Maltravers, while they charmed, 
 entranced, and awed Cesarini. The one saw a mountebank 
 and impostor, — the other recognized a profound artist and an 
 inspired prophet. 
 
 But while the discourse was drawing towards a close, while 
 the preacher was in one of his most eloquent bursts, — the 
 ohs! and ahs! of which were the grand prelude to the pa- 
 thetic peroration, — the dim outline of a female form in the 
 
228 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 distance riveted the eyes and absorbed the thoughts of Mal- 
 travers. The chapel was darkened, though it was broad day- 
 light; and the face of the person that attracted Ernest's at- 
 tention was concealed by her head-dress and veil. But that 
 bend of the neck, so simply graceful, so humbly modest, re- 
 called to his heart but one image. Every one has, perhaps, 
 observed that there is a physiognomy (if the bull may be par- 
 doned) oi form as well as face, which it rarely happens that 
 two persons possess in common. And this, with most, is 
 peculiarly marked in the turn of the head, the outline of the 
 shoulders, and the ineffable something that characterizes the 
 postures of each individual in repose. The more intently he 
 gazed, the more firmly Ernest was persuaded that he saAv be- 
 fore him the long-lost, the never-to-be-forgotten mistress of 
 his boyish days and his first love. On one side of the lady in 
 question sat an elderly gentleman, whose eyes were fixed upon 
 the preacher; on the other, a beautiful little girl, with long, 
 fair ringlets, and that cast of featvires which, from its exqui- 
 site delicacy and expressive mildness painters and poets call 
 the "angelic." These persons appeared to belong to the same 
 party. Maltravers literally trembled, so great were his im- 
 patience and agitation. Yet still, the dress of the supposed 
 likeness of Alice, the appearance of her companions, were so 
 evidently above the ordinary rank that Ernest scarcely ven- 
 tured to yield to the suggestions of his own heart. Was it 
 possible that the daughter of Luke Darvil, thrown upon the 
 wide world, could have risen so far beyond her circumstances 
 and station? At length the moment came when he might re- 
 solve his doubts ; the discourse was concluded, the extempo- 
 raneous prayer was at an end, the congregation broke up, and 
 Maltravers pushed his way as well as he could through the 
 dense and serried crowd. But every moment some vexatious 
 obstruction, in the shape of a fat gentleman or three close- 
 wedged ladies, intercepted his progress. He lost sight of the 
 party in question amidst the profusion of tall bonnets and 
 waving plumes. He arrived at last, breathless and pale as 
 death (so great was the struggle within him), at the door of 
 the chapel. He arrived in time to see a plain carriage, with 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 229 
 
 servants in gray undress liveries, driving from the porch, and 
 caught a glimpse, within the vehicle, of the golden ringlets 
 of a child. He darted forward, he threw himself almost be- 
 fore the horses. The coachman drew in, and with an angry 
 exclamation very much like an oath whipped his horses aside 
 and went off. But that momentary pause sufl&ced. "It is 
 she, it is! Oh, Heaven, it is Alice!" murmured Maltravers. 
 The whole place reeled before his eyes, and he clung, over- 
 powered and unconscious, to a neighbouring lamp-post for 
 support. But he recovered himself with an agonizing effort 
 as the thought struck upon his heart that he was about to 
 lose sight of her again forever, and he rushed forward, like 
 one frantic, in pursuit of the carriage. But there was a vast 
 crowd of other carriages, besides stream upon stream of foot- 
 passengers, for the great and the gay resorted to that place of 
 worship as a fashionable excitement in a dull day; and after 
 a weary and a dangerous chase, in which he had been nearly- 
 run over three times, Maltravers halted at last, exhausted 
 and in despair. Every succeeding Sunday, for months, he 
 went to the same chapel, but in vain; in vain, too, he re- 
 sorted to every public haunt of dissipation and amusement. 
 Alice Darvil he beheld no more ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Tell me, sir. 
 Have you cast up your state, rated your land, 
 And find it able to endure the charge 1 
 
 The Noble Gentleman. 
 
 By degrees, as Maltravers sobered down from the first shock 
 of that unexpected meeting, and from the prolonged disap- 
 pointment that followed it, he became sensible of a strange 
 kind of happiness or contentment. Alice was not in poverty, 
 she was not eating the unhallowed bread of vice, or earning 
 
230 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 the bitter wages of laborious penury. He saw her in reputa- 
 ble, nay, opulent, circumstances. A dark nightmare, that 
 had often, amidst the pleasures of youth or the triumphs of 
 literature, weighed upon his breast, was removed. He breathed 
 more freely, he could sleep in peace. His conscience could 
 no longer say to him, " She who slept upon thy bosom is a 
 wanderer upon the face of the earth, exposed to every temp- 
 tation, perishing perhaps for want." That single sight of 
 Alice had been like the apparition of the injured Dead con- 
 jured up at Heraclea, whose sight could pacify the aggressor 
 and exorcise the spectres of remorse ; he was reconciled with 
 himself, and walked on to the Future with a bolder step and 
 a statelier crest. Was she married to that staid and sober- 
 looking personage whom he had beheld with her? Was that 
 child the offspring of their union? He almost hoped so, — 
 it was better to lose than to destroy her. Poor Alice ! could 
 she have dreamed, when she sat at his feet gazing up into his 
 eyes, that a time would come when Maltravers would thank 
 Heaven for the belief that she was happy with another? 
 
 Ernest Maltravers now felt a new man; the relief of con- 
 science operated on the efforts of his genius. A more buoy- 
 ant and elastic spirit entered into them, — they seemed to 
 breathe as with a second youth. 
 
 Meanwhile Cesarini threw himself into the fashionable 
 world, and to his own surprise was feted and caressed. In 
 fact, Castruccio was exactly the sort of person to be made a 
 lion of. The letters of introduction that he had brought 
 from Paris were addressed to those great personages in Eng- 
 land between whom and personages equally great in France 
 politics makes a bridge of connection, Cesarini appeared to 
 them as an accomplished young man, brother-in-law to a dis- 
 tinguished member of the French Chamber. Maltravers, on 
 the other hand, introduced him to the literary dilettanti who 
 admire all authors that are not rivals. The singular costume 
 of Cesarini, which would have revolted persons in an Eng- 
 lishman, enchanted them in an Italian. He looked, they 
 said, like a poet. Ladies like to have verses written to them, 
 and Cesarini, who talked very little, made up for it by scrib- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 231 
 
 bliug eternally. The young man's head soon grew filled with 
 comparisons between himself in London and Petrarch at Avig- 
 non. As he had always thought that fame was in the gift of 
 lords and ladies, and had no idea of the multitude, he fancied 
 himself already famous; and since one of his strongest feel- 
 ings was his jealousy of Maltravers, he was delighted at be- 
 ing told he was a much more interesting creature than that 
 haughty personage, who wore his neckcloth like other people, 
 and had not even those indispensable attributes of genius, — 
 black curls and a sneer. Fine society, which, as Madame de 
 Stael well says, depraves the frivolous mind and braces the 
 strong one, completed the ruin of all that was manly in 
 Cesarini's intellect. He soon learned to limit his desire of 
 effect or distinction to gilded saloons, and his vanity contented 
 itself upon the scraps and morsels from which the lion heart 
 of true ambition turns in disdain. But this was not all. 
 Cesarini was envious of the greater affluence of Maltravers. 
 His own fortune was in a small capital of eight or nine thou- 
 sand pounds; but thrown in the midst of the wealthiest soci- 
 ety in Europe, he could not bear to sacrifice a single claim 
 upon its esteem. He began to talk of the satiety of wealth, 
 and young ladies listened to him Avith remarkable interest 
 when he did so; he obtained the reputation of riches: he was 
 too vain not to be charmed with it. He endeavoured to main- 
 tain the claim by adopting the extravagant excesses of the 
 day. He bought horses, he gave away jewels, he made love 
 to a marchioness of forty-two who was very kind to him and 
 very fond of icarte, he gambled; he was in the high road to 
 destruction. 
 
BOOK VI. 
 
 Eifirois av, iis 6 xpt'c^s «« viko, raSe 
 
 UXovrelv re Tipirvov. — Euripides . Ion. line 641. 
 
 ' Perchance you say that gold 's the arch-exceUer, 
 And to be rich is sweet ? " 
 
 . . . Kilvo 5' ovK avaax^TOv 
 
 EiKeiv dSov xaAoJyTa to?j KaKioicriv. — Ibid, line 648. 
 
 . . . " 'T is not to be endured, 
 
 To yield our trodden path and turn aside. 
 
 Giving our place to knaves." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 L'adresse et I'artifice ont passe dans mon cceur ; 
 
 Qu'on a sous cet habit et d'esprit et de ruse.^ — Regnard. 
 
 It "was a fine morning in July when a gentleman who had 
 arrived in town the night before, after an absence from Eng- 
 land of several years, walked slowly and musingly up the su- 
 perb thoroughfare which connects the Regent's Park with St. 
 James's. 
 
 He was a man who, with great powers of mind, had wasted 
 his youth in a wandering, vagabond kind of life, but who had 
 worn away the love of pleasure, and began to awaken to a 
 sense of ambition. 
 
 "It is astonishing how this city is improved," said he to 
 himself. "Everything gets on in this world with a little en- 
 ergy and bustle, and everybody as well as everything. My 
 
 1 " Subtility and craft have taken possession of my heart ; but under this 
 habit one exhibits both shrewdness and wit." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 233 
 
 old cronies, fellows not half so clever as I am, are all doing 
 well. There's Tom Stevens, my very fag at Eton, — snivel- 
 ling little dog he was too ! — just made Under-Secretary of 
 State. Pearson, whose longs and shorts I always wrote, is 
 now head-master to the human longs and shorts of a public 
 school, — editing Greek plays, and booked for a bishopric. 
 Collier, 1 see by the papers, is leading his circuit, and Ernest 
 Maltravers (but he had some talent) has made a name in the 
 world. Here am I, worth them all put together, who have 
 done nothing but spend half my little fortune in spite of all 
 my economy. Egad ! this must have an end. I must look to 
 the main chance; and yet, just when I want his help the 
 most, my worthy uncle thinks fit to marry again. Humph, 
 I 'm too good for this world. " 
 
 While thus musing, the soliloquist came in direct personal 
 contact with a tall gentleman who carried his head very high 
 in the air and did not appear to see that he had nearly thrown 
 our abstracted philosopher off his legs. 
 
 "Zounds, sir, what do you mean?" cried the latter. 
 
 " I beg your par — " began the other, meekly, when his arm 
 was seized, and the injured man exclaimed, — 
 
 "Bless me, sir, is it indeed you whom I see?" 
 
 "Ha! Lumley?" 
 
 "The same; and how fares it, my dear uncle? I did not 
 know you were in London. I only arrived last night. How 
 well you are looking! " 
 
 "Why, yes. Heaven be praised, I am pretty well." 
 
 "And happy in your new ties? You must present me to 
 Mrs. Templeton." 
 
 " Ehem ! " said Mr. Templeton, clearing his throat, and 
 with a slight but embarrassed smile, "I never thought I 
 should marry again." 
 
 "'L'homme propose, et Dieu dispose,'" observed Lumley 
 Ferrers, for it was he. 
 
 "Gently, my dear nephew," replied Mr. Templeton, gravely; 
 "those phrases are somewhat sacrilegious, — I am an old- 
 fashioned person, you know." 
 
 "Ten thousand apologies." 
 
234 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 " One apology will suffice ; these hyperboles of phrase are 
 almost sinful." 
 
 "Confounded old prig!" thought Ferrers j but he bowed 
 sanctimoniously. 
 
 " My dear uncle, I have been a wild fellow in my daj^, but 
 with years comes reflection; and under your guidance, if 1 
 may hope for it, I trust to grow a wiser and a better man." 
 
 "It is well, Lumley," returned the uncle; "and I am very 
 glad to see you returned to your own country. Will you dine 
 with me to-morrow? I am living near Fulham. You had 
 better bring your carpet-bag, and stay with me some days; 
 you will be heartily welcome, especially if you can shift 
 without a foreign servant. I have a great compassion for 
 papists, but — " 
 
 " Oh, my dear uncle, do not fear ! I am not rich enough to 
 have a foreign servant, and have not travelled over three 
 quarters of the globe without learning that it is possible to 
 dispense with a valet." 
 
 "As to being rich enough," observed Mr. Templeton, with 
 a calculating air, " seven hundred and ninety -five pounds ten 
 shillings a year will allow a man to keep two servants, if he 
 pleases; but I am glad to find you economical, at all events. 
 We meet to-morrow, then, at six o'clock." 
 
 "^M revoir, — I mean, God bless you." 
 
 "Tiresome old gentleman that," muttered Ferrers, "and 
 not so cordial as formerly; perhaps his wife is enceinte, and 
 he is going to do me the injustice of having another heir. I 
 must look to this; for without riches, I had better go back 
 and live cm clnquihne at Paris." 
 
 With this conclusion, Lumley quickened his pace, and soon 
 arrived at Seamore Place. In a few moments more he was in 
 the library, well stored with books, and decorated with mar- 
 ble busts and images from the studios of Canova and 
 Thorwaldsen. 
 
 "My master, sir, will be down immediately," said the ser- 
 vant who admitted him; and Ferrers threw himself on a sofa, 
 and contemplated the apartment with an air half envious and 
 half cynical. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 235 
 
 Presently the door opened, and " My dear Ferrers ! " 
 "Well, moii chei', how are you?" were the salutations hastily 
 exchanged. 
 
 After the first sentences of inquiry, gratulation, and wel- 
 come had cleared the way for more general conversation, 
 "Well, Maltravers," said Ferrers, "so here we are together 
 again, and after a lapse of so many years ! Both older, cer- 
 tainly; and you, I suppose, wiser. At all events, people 
 think you so, — and that 's all that's important in the ques- 
 tion. Why, man, you are looking as young as ever, only a 
 little paler and thinner; but look at me, — T am not very 
 viuch past thirty, and I am almost an old man: bald at the 
 temples, crows' feet too, eh! Idleness ages one damnably." 
 
 "Pooh! Lumley, I never saw you look better. And are 
 you really come to settle in England? " 
 
 "Yes, if I can afford it. But at my age, and after having 
 seen so much, the life of an idle, obscure garqon does not con- 
 tent me. I feel that the world's opinion, which I used to de- 
 spise, is growing necessary to me. I want to be something. 
 What can I be? Don't look alarmed, I won't rival you. I 
 dare say literary reputation is a fine thing, but I desire some 
 distinction more substantial and worldly. You know your 
 own county : give me a map of the roads to Power. " 
 
 "To Power! Oh, nothing but law, politics, and riches." 
 
 "For law I am too old; politics, perhaps, might suit me: 
 but riches, my dear Ernest, — ah, how I long for a good ac- 
 count with my banker ! " 
 
 "Well, patience and hope. Are you not a rich uncle's 
 heir?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Ferrers, very dolorously; "the old 
 gentleman has married again, and may have a family." 
 
 " Married ! To whom ? " 
 
 "A widow, I hear. I know nothing more, except that she 
 has a child already ; so you see she has got into a cursed way 
 of having children. And perhaps by the time I 'm forty, I 
 shall see a whole covey of cherubs flying away with the great 
 Templeton property ! " 
 
 "Ha, ha! Your despair sharpens your wit, Lumley. But 
 
236 ERNEST MALTHA VERS. 
 
 why not take a leaf out of your uncle's book, and marry 
 yourself? " 
 
 " So I will when I can find an heiress. If that is what you 
 meant to say, it is a more sensible suggestion than any I 
 could have supposed to come from a man who writes books, 
 especially poetry: and your advice is not to be despised. 
 For rich I will be; and as the fathers (I don't mean of the 
 Church, but in Horace) told of the rising generation, the first 
 thing is to resolve to be rich, — it is only the second thing to 
 consider how." 
 
 "Meanwhile, Ferrers, you will be my guest." 
 
 "I '11 dine with you to-day; but to-morrow I am off to Ful- 
 ham to be introduced to my aunt. Can't you fancy her? 
 Gray gros-de-Naples gown; gold chain with an eye-glass; 
 rather fat; two pugs and a parrot! 'Start not, this is fancy's 
 sketch!' I have not yet seen the respectable relative with 
 my physical optics. What shall we have for dinner? Let 
 'nie choose, — you were always a bad caterer." 
 
 As Ferrers thus rattled on, Maltravers felt himself growing 
 younger; old times and old adventures crowded fast upon 
 him, and the two friends spent a most agreeable day together. 
 It was only the next morning that Maltravers, in thinking 
 over the various conversations that had passed between them, 
 was forced reluctantly to acknowledge that the inert selfish- 
 ness of Lumley Ferrers seemed now to have hardened into a 
 resolute and systematic want of principle, which might, per- 
 haps, make him a dangerous and designing man, if urged by 
 circumstances into action. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 237 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Daupli. Sir, I must speak to you. I have been long your despised 
 kinsman. 
 
 Morose. Oh ! what thou wilt, nephew. — Epicene. 
 
 Her silence is dowry eno', — exceedingly soft spoken ; thrifty of her speech, 
 that spends but six words a day. — Epicene. 
 
 The coach dropped Mr. Ferrers at the gate of a villa about 
 three miles from town. The lodge-keeper charged himself 
 with the carpet-bag, and Ferrers strolled, with his hands be- 
 hind him (it was his favourite mode of disposing of them), 
 through the beautiful and elaborate pleasure-grounds. 
 
 " A very nice, snug little box (jointure-house, I suppose) ! 
 I would not grudge that, I 'm sure, if I had but the rest. 
 But here, I suspect, comes madam's first specimen of the art 
 of having a family." This last thought was extracted from 
 Mr. Ferrers's contemplative brain by a lovely little girl, who 
 came running up to him, fearless and spoilt as she was, and 
 after indulging a tolerable stare, exclaimed, "Are you come 
 to see Papa, sir?" 
 
 "Papa, — the deuce!" thought Lumley. "And who is 
 Papa, my dear? " 
 
 "Why, Mamma's husband. He is not my Papa by rights." 
 
 "Certainly not, my love; not by rights, — I comprehend." 
 
 "Eh!" 
 
 "Yes, I am going to see your Papa by wrongs, — Mr. 
 Templeton." 
 
 "Oh! this way, then." 
 
 "You are very fond of Mr. Templeton, my little angel?" 
 
 "To be sure I am. You have not seen the rocking-horse he 
 is going to give me." 
 
 "Not yet, sweet child! And how is Mamma?" 
 
 "Oh, poor dear Mamma!" said the child, with a sudden 
 change of voice, and tears in her eyes. " Ah, she is not well ! " 
 
238 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 " In the family way, to a dead certainty ! " muttered Ferrers, 
 with a groan; "but here is my uncle. Horrid name! Uncles 
 were always wicked fellows. Kichard the Third and the man 
 who did something or other to the babes in the wood were a 
 joke to my hard-hearted old relation, who has robbed me with 
 a widow ! The lustful, lickerish old — My dear sir, I 'm so 
 glad to see you! " 
 
 Mr. Tempi eton, who was a man very cold in his manners, 
 and always either looked over people's heads or down upon 
 the ground, just touched his nephew's outstretched hand, and 
 telling him he was welcome, observed that it was a very line 
 afternoon. 
 
 " Very, indeed. Sweet place, this ! You see, by the way, 
 that I have already made acquaintance with my fair cousin- 
 in-law. She is very pretty." 
 
 "I really think she is," said Mr. Templeton, with some 
 warmth, and gazing fondly at the child, who was now throw- 
 ing buttercups up in the air, and trying to catch them. Mr. 
 Ferrers wished in his heart that they had been brickbats ! 
 
 "Is she like her mother?" asked the nephew 
 
 "Like whom, sir?" 
 
 "Her mother,— Mrs. Templeton." 
 
 "No, not very; there is an air, perhaps, but the likeness is 
 not remarkably strong. Would you not like to go to your 
 room before dinner? " 
 
 "Thank you. Can I not first be presented to Mrs. Tem— " 
 
 "She is at her devotions, Mr. Lumley," interrupted Mr. 
 Templeton, grimly. 
 
 "The she-hypocrite!" thought Ferrers. "Oh, I am de- 
 lighted that your pious heart has found so congenial a help- 
 mate ! " 
 
 " It is a great blessing, and I am grateful for it. This is 
 the way to the house." 
 
 ^ Lumley, now formally installed in a grave bedroom, with 
 dimity curtains and dark-brown paper with light-brown stars 
 on it, threw himself into a large chair, and yawned and 
 stretched with as much fervour as if he could have yawned 
 and stretched himself into his uncle's property. He then 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 239 
 
 slowly exchanged his morning dress for a quiet suit of black, 
 and thanked his stars that, amidst all his sins, he had never 
 been a dandy, and had never rejoiced in a fine waistcoat, — a 
 criminal possession that he well knew would have entirely 
 hardened his uncle's conscience against him. He tarried in 
 his room till the second bell summoned him to descend; and 
 then, entering the drawing-room, which had a cold look even 
 in July, found his uncle standing by the mantelpiece, and a 
 young, slight, handsome woman half-buried in a huge but not 
 comfortable fauteuil. 
 
 "Your aunt, Mrs. Templeton, — madam, my nephew, Mr. 
 Lumley Ferrers, " said Templeton, with a wave of the hand. 
 ''John, dinner! " 
 
 " I hope I am not late ! " 
 
 "No," said Templeton, gently, for he had always liked his 
 nephew, and began now to thaw towards him a little on see- 
 ing that Lumley put a good face upon the new state of affairs. 
 
 "No, my dear boy, no; but I think order and punctuality 
 cardinal virtues in a well-regulated family." 
 
 "Dinner, sir," said the butler, opening the folding-doors at 
 the end of the room. 
 
 "Permit me," said Lumley, offering his arm to his aunt. 
 "What a lovely place this is! " 
 
 Mrs. Templeton said something in reply, but what it was, 
 Ferrers could not discover, so low and choked was the voice. 
 
 "Shy," thought he,— "odd for a widow! But that 's the 
 way those husband-buriers take us in! " 
 
 Plain as was the general furniture of the apartment, the 
 natural ostentation of Mr. Templeton broke out in the mas- 
 sive value of the plate and the number of the attendants. He 
 was a rich man, and he was proud of his riches; he knew it 
 was respectable to be rich, and he thought it was moral to be 
 respectable. As for the dinner, Lumley knew enough of his 
 uncle's tastes to be prepared for viands and wines that even 
 he (fastidious gourmand as he was) did not despise. 
 
 Between the intervals of eating, Mr. Ferrers endeavoured 
 to draw his aunt into conversation; but he found all his in- 
 genuity fail him. There was in the features of Mrs. Tern- 
 
240 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 pleton an expression of deep but calm melanclioly that would 
 have saddened most persons to look upon, especially in one 
 so young and lovely. It was evidently something beyond 
 shyness or reserve that made her so silent and subdued, 
 and even in her silence there was so much natural sweetness 
 that Ferrers could not ascribe her manner to haughtiness 
 or the desire to repel. He was rather puzzled. "For 
 though," thought he, sensibly enough, "my uncle is not a 
 youth, he is a very rich fellow; and how any widow who is 
 married again to a rich old fellow can be melancholy, passes 
 my understanding ! " 
 
 Templeton, as if to draw attention from his wife's taci- 
 turnity, talked more than usual. He entered largely into 
 politics, and regretted that in times so critical he was not in 
 parliament. 
 
 "Did I possess your youth and your health, Lumley, I 
 would not neglect my country. Popery is abroad." 
 
 "I myself should like very much to be in parliament," 
 said Lumley, boldly. 
 
 "I dare say you would," returned the uncle, dryly. "Parli- 
 ament is very expensive, — only fit for those who have a large 
 stake in the country. Champagne to Mr. Ferrers." 
 
 Lumley bit his lip, and spoke little during the rest of the 
 dinner. Mr. Templeton, however, waxed gracious by the 
 time the dessert was on the table, and began cutting up a 
 pineapple, with many assurances to Lumley that gardens 
 were nothing without pineries. "Whenever you settle in the 
 country, nephew, be sure you have a pinery." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Lumley, almost bitterly; "and a pack of 
 hounds, and a French cook, — they will all suit my fortune 
 very well." 
 
 "You are more choughtfnl on pecuniary matters than you 
 used to be," said the uncle. 
 
 "Sir," replied Ferrers, solemnly, "in a very short time I 
 shall be what is called a middle-aged man." 
 
 " Humph ! " said the host. 
 
 There was another silence. Lumley was a man, as we have 
 said or implied before, of great knowledge of human nature, 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 241 
 
 — at least the ordinary sort of it, — and he now revolved in his 
 mind the various courses it might be wise to pursue towards 
 his rich relation. He saw that, in delicate fencing, his uncle 
 had over him the same advantage that a tall man has over a 
 short one with the physical sword-play: by holding his 
 weapon in a proper position, he kept the other at arm's 
 length. There was a grand reserve and dignity about the 
 man who had something to give away, of which Ferrers, how- 
 ever actively he might shift his ground and flourish his 
 rapier, could not break the defence. He determined, there- 
 fore, upon a new game, for which his frankness of manner 
 admirably adapted him. Just as he formed this resolution, 
 Mrs. Templeton rose, and with a gentle bow and soft though 
 languid smile, glided from the room. The two gentlemen 
 resettled themselves, and Templeton pushed the bottle to 
 Ferrers. 
 
 "Help yourself, Lumley! Your travels seem to have de- 
 prived you of your high spirits, — you are pensive." 
 
 "Sir," said Ferrers, abruptly, "1 wish to consult you." 
 
 "Oh, young man! you have been guilty of some excess, you 
 have gambled, you have — " 
 
 " I have done nothing, sir, that should make me less worthy 
 your esteem. I repeat, I wish to consult you; I have out- 
 lived the hot days of my youth, — I am now alive to the 
 claims of the world. I have talents, I believe; and I have 
 application, I know. I wish to fill a position in the world 
 that may redeem my past indolence and do credit to my fam- 
 ily. Sir, I set your example before me, and I now ask your 
 counsel, with the determination to follow it." 
 
 Templeton was startled; he half shaded his face with his 
 hand, and gazed searchingly upon the high forehead and bold 
 eyes of his nephew. "I believe you are sincere," said he, 
 after a pause. 
 
 "You may well believe so, sir." 
 
 "Well, I will think of this. I like an honourable ambition, 
 not too extravagant a one, — that is sinful; but a respectable 
 station in the world is a proper object of desire, and wealth 
 is a blessing, because," added the rich man, taking another 
 
 16 
 
242 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 slice of the pineapple, "it enables us to be of use to our 
 fellow-creatures ! " 
 
 "Sir, tlien," said Ferrers, with daring animation, — "then 
 I avow that my ambition is precisely of the kind you speak 
 of. I am obscure, — I desire to be reputably known; my for- 
 tune is mediocre, — I desire it to be great. I ask you for noth- 
 ing, — I know your generous heart; but I wish independently 
 to work out my own career." 
 
 " Lumley," said Templeton, "I never esteemed you so much 
 as I do now. Listen to me, — I will confide in you; I think 
 the Government are under obligations to me." 
 
 "I know it," exclaimed Ferrers, whose eyes sparkled at the 
 thought of a sinecure; for sinecures then existed! 
 
 "And," pursued the uncle, "I intend to ask them a favour 
 in return." 
 
 "Oh, sir!" 
 
 " Yes ; I think — mark me — with management and address, 
 I may — " 
 
 " Well, my dear sir ! " 
 
 " Obtain a barony for myself and heirs ; I trust I shall soon 
 have a family! " 
 
 Had somebody given Lumley Ferrers a hearty cuff on the 
 ear, he would have thought less of it than of this wind-up of 
 his uncle's ambitious projects. His jaws fell, his ej^es grew 
 an inch larger, and he remained perfectly speechless. 
 
 "Ay," pursued Mr. Templeton, "I have long dreamed of 
 this ; my character is spotless, my fortune great. 1 have ever 
 exerted my parliamentary influence in favour of ministers, 
 and in this commercial country no man has higher claims 
 than Richard Templeton to the honours of a virtuous, loyal, 
 and religious State. Yes, my boy, I like your ambition, — 
 you see I have some of it myself: and since you are sincere in 
 your wish to tread in my footsteps, I think I can obtain you 
 a junior partnership in a highly respectable establishment. 
 Let me see; your capital now is — " 
 
 "Pardon me, sir," interrupted Lumley, colouring with in- 
 dignation despite himself, " T honour commerce much, but my 
 paternal relations are not such as would allow me to enter 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 243 
 
 into tr.ade. And permit me to add," continued he, seizing 
 with instant adroitness the new weakness presented to him, — 
 " permit me to add that those relations who have been ever 
 kind to me would, properly managed, be highly efficient in 
 promoting your own views of advancement; for your sake I 
 would not break with them. Lord Saxingham is still a min- 
 ister, — nay, he is in the Cabinet." 
 
 " Hem — Lumley — hem ! " said Templeton, thoughtfully ; 
 "we will consider, we will consider. Any more wine?" 
 
 "No, I thank you, sir." 
 
 "Then 1 '11 just take my evening stroll and think over mat- 
 ters. You can rejoin Mrs. Templeton. And I say, Lumley, 
 
 — I read prayers at nine o'clock. Never forget your Maker, 
 and He will not forget you. The barony will be an excellent 
 thing — eh? — an English peerage — yes — an English peer- 
 age ! Very different from your beggarly countships abroad ! " 
 
 So saying, Mr. Templeton rang for his hat and cane, and 
 stepped into the lawn from the window of the dining-room. 
 
 " 'The world 's mine oyster, which I with sword will open,' " 
 muttered Ferrers. "I would mould this selfish old man to 
 my purpose; for since I have neither genius to write, nor elo- 
 quence to declaim, I will at least see whether I have not cun- 
 ning to plot and courage to act. Conduct, conduct, conduct, 
 
 — there lies my talent; and what is conduct but a steady 
 walk from a design to its execution?" 
 
 With these thoughts Ferrers sought Mrs. Templeton. He 
 opened the folding-doors very gently, for all his habitual 
 movements were quick and noiseless, and perceived that Mrs. 
 Templeton sat by the window, and that she seemed engrossed 
 with a book which lay open on a little work-table before her. 
 
 "Fordyce's 'Advice to Young Married Women,' I suppose. 
 Sly jade! However, I must not have her against me." 
 
 He approached; still Mrs. Templeton did not note him, nor 
 was it till he stood facing her that he himself observed that 
 her tears were falling fast over the page. 
 
 He was a little embarrassed, and turning towards the win- 
 dow, affected to cough, and then said, without looking at 
 Mrs. Templeton, "I fear I have disturbed you." 
 
244 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "2To," ansTvered the same low, stifled voice that had before 
 replied to Lumley's vain attempts to provoke conversation; 
 " it was a melancholy employment, and perhaps it is not right 
 to indulge in it." 
 
 "May I inquire what author so affected you?" 
 
 " It is but a volume of poems, and I am no judge of poetry ; 
 but it contains thoughts which — which — " Mrs. Templeton 
 paused abruptly, and Lumley quietly took up the book. 
 
 "Ah! " said he, turning to the titlepage, "my friend ought 
 to be much flattered." 
 
 "Your friend?" 
 
 "Yes; this, I see, is by Ernest Maltravers, — a very inti- 
 mate ally of mine." 
 
 "I should like to see him," cried Mrs. Templeton, almost 
 with animation. " I read but little ; it was by chance that I 
 met with one of his books, and they are as if I heard a dear 
 friend speaking to me. Ah, I should like to see him! " 
 
 "I'm sure, madam," said the voice of a third person, in an 
 austere and rebuking accent, " I do not see what good it would 
 do your immortal soul to see a man who writes idle verses, 
 which appear to me, indeed, highly immoral. I just looked 
 into that volume this morning, and found nothing but trash, 
 
 — love-sonnets and such stuff." 
 
 . Mrs. Templeton made no reply, and Lumley, in order to 
 change the conversation, which seemed a little too matrimo- 
 nial for his taste, said, rather awkwardly, " You are returned 
 very soon, sir." 
 
 "Yes, I don't like walking in the rain! " 
 " Bless me, it rains, so it does ! I had not observed — " 
 "Are you wet, sir? Had you not better — " began the wife 
 timidly. 
 
 "Xo, ma'am, I'm not wet, I thank you. B3' the by, 
 nephew, this new author is a friend of yours. I wonder a 
 man 01 his family should condescend to turn author. He 
 can come to no good. I hope j'ou will drop his acquaintance, 
 
 — authors are very unprofitable associates, I 'm sure. I trust 
 I shall see no more of Mr. Maltravers's books in my house." 
 
 "Nevertheless, he is well thought of, sir, and makes no 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 245 
 
 mean figure in the world, " said Lumley, stoutly ; for he was 
 by no means disposed to give up a friend who might be as 
 useful to him as Mr. Templeton himself. 
 
 "Figure or no figure, I have not had many dealings with 
 authors in my day; and when I had I always repented it. 
 Not sound, sir, not sound, — all cracked somewhere. Mrs. 
 Templeton, have the kindness to get the Prayer-book. My 
 hassock must be fresh stuffed; it gives me quite a pain in my 
 knee. Lumley, will you ring the bell? Your aunt is very 
 melancholy. True religion is not gloomy: we will read a 
 sermon on Cheerfulness." 
 
 "So, so," said Mr. Ferrers to himself, as he undressed that 
 night; "I see that my uncle is a little displeased with my 
 aunt's pensive face, — a little jealous of her thinking of any- 
 thing but himself; tant mieux. I must work upon this dis- 
 covery; it will not do for them to live too happily with each 
 other. And what with that lever, and what with his ambi- 
 tious projects, I think I see a way to push the good things of 
 this world a few inches nearer to Lumley Ferrers." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The pride, too, of her step, as light 
 
 Along the unconscious earth she went, 
 Seemed that of one born with a right 
 
 To walk some heavenlier element. — Loves of the Angels. 
 
 Can it be 
 That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts 
 Burning with their own beauty, are but given 
 To make me the low slave of vanity ? — Erinna. 
 
 Is she not too fair 
 Even to think of maiden's sweetest care ? 
 The mouth and brow are contrasts. — Erinna. 
 
 It was two or three evenings after the date of the last chap- 
 ter, and there was what the newspapers call " a select party " 
 in one of the noblest mansions in London. A young lady, 
 
246 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 on whom all eyes were bent, and whose beauty might have 
 served the painter for a model of Semiramis or Zenobia, more 
 majestic than became her years, and so classically faultless as 
 to have something cold and statue-like in its haughty linea- 
 ments, was moving through the crowd that murmured ap- 
 plauses as she passed. This lady was Florence Lascelles, the 
 daughter of Lumley's great relation, the Earl of Saxingham, 
 and supposed to be the richest heiress in England. Lord 
 Saxingham himself drew aside his daughter as she swept 
 along. 
 
 "Elorence," said he in a whisper, "the Duke of is 
 
 greatly struck with you: be civil to him; I am about to 
 present him." 
 
 So saying, the earl turned to a small, dark, stiff-looking 
 man of about twenty-eight years of age, at his left, and in- 
 troduced the Duke of to Lady Florence Lascelles. The 
 
 duke was unmarried: it was an introduction between the 
 greatest match and the wealthiest heiress in the peerage. 
 
 "Lady Florence," said Lord Saxingham, "is as fond of 
 horses as yourself, Duke, though not quite so good a judge." 
 
 "I confess I do like horses," said the duke, with an ingenu- 
 ous air. 
 
 Lord Saxingham moved away. 
 
 Lady Florence stood mute; one glance of bright contempt 
 shot from her large eyes, her lip slightly curled, and she then 
 half turned aside, and seemed to forget that her new acquaint- 
 ance was in existence. 
 
 His Grace, like most great personages, was not apt to take 
 offence, nor could he, indeed, ever suppose that any slight 
 
 towards the Duke of could be intended; still, he thought 
 
 it would be proper in Lady Florence to begin the conversa- 
 tion, for he himself, though not shy, was habitually silent, 
 and accustomed to be saved the fatigue of defraying the small 
 charges of society. After a pause, seeing, however, that Lady 
 Florence remained speechless, he began, — 
 
 "You ride sometimes in the Park, Lady Florence?" 
 
 "Very seldom." 
 
 "It is, indeed, too warm for riding at present." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 247 
 
 "I did not. say so." 
 
 " Hem ! I thought you did." 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 "Did you speak, Lady Florence?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Oh, I beg pardon ! Lord Saxingham is looking very well." 
 
 "I am glad you think so." 
 
 "Your picture in the exhibition scarcely does you justice. 
 Lady Florence; yet Lawrence is usually happy." 
 
 "You are very flattering," said Lady Florence, with a lively 
 and perceptible impatience in her tone and manner. The 
 young beauty was thoroughly spoilt, and now all the scorn 
 of a scornful nature was drawn forth by observing the envious 
 
 eyes of the crowd were bent upon one whom the Duke of 
 
 was actually talking to. Brilliant as were her own powers of 
 conversation, she would not deign to exert them; she was an 
 aristocrat of intellect rather than birth, and she took it into 
 her head that the duke was an idiot. She was very much 
 mistaken. If she had but broken up the ice, she would have 
 found that the water below was not shallow. The duke, in 
 fact, like many other Englishmen, though he did not like the 
 trouble of showing forth, and had an ungainly manner, was a 
 man who had read a good deal, possessed a sound head and 
 an honourable mind, though he did not know what it was to 
 love anybody, to care much for anything, and was at once 
 perfectly sated and yet perfectly contented; for apathy is the 
 combinaton of satiety and content. 
 
 Still, Florence judged of him as lively persons are apt to 
 judge of the sedate, — besides, she wanted to proclaim to him 
 and to everybody else how little she cared for dukes and great 
 matches ; she therefore, with a slight inclination of her head, 
 turned away, and extended her hand to a dark young man, 
 who was gazing on her with that respectful but unmistakable 
 admiration which proud women are never proud enough to 
 despise. 
 
 "Ah, signor," said she, in Italian, " I am so glad to see 
 you! It is a relief indeed to find genius in a crowd of 
 nothings." 
 
248 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 So saying, the heiress seated herself on one of those con- 
 venient couches Avhich hold but two, and beckoned the Italian 
 to her side. Oh, how the vain heart of Castruccio Cesarini 
 beat; what visions of love, rank, wealth, already flitted be- 
 fore him! 
 
 "I almost fancy," said Castruccio, "that the old days of ro- 
 mance are returned, when a queen could turn from princes 
 and warriors to listen to a troubadour." 
 
 " Troubadours are now more rare than warriors and princes, " 
 replied Florence, with gay animation, which contrasted 
 strongly with the coldness she had manifested to the Duke of 
 
 , " and therefore it would not now be a very great merit 
 
 in a queen to fly from dulness and insipidity to poetry and 
 wit." 
 
 "Ah! say not wit," said Cesarini; "wit is incompatible 
 with the grave character of deep feelings, — incompatible with 
 enthusiasm, with worship; incompatible with the thoughts 
 that wait upon Lady Florence Lascelles." 
 
 Florence coloured and slightly frowned; but the immense 
 distinction between her position and that of the young for- 
 eigner, with her own inexperience both of real life and the 
 presumption of vain hearts, made her presently forget the 
 flattery that would have oifended her in another. She turned 
 the conversation, however, into general channels, and she 
 talked of Ita,lian poetry with a warmth and eloquence worthy 
 of the theme. While they thus conversed, a new guest had 
 arrived, who from the spot where he stood, engaged with Lord 
 Saxingham, fixed a steady and scrutinizing gaze upon the 
 pair. 
 
 "Lady Florence has indeed improved," said this new guest. 
 " I could not have conceived that England boasted any one 
 half so beautiful." 
 
 "She certainly is handsome, my dear Lumley, — the Las- 
 celles cast of countenance," replied Lord Saxingham; "and 
 so gifted! She is positively learned; quite a bas bleu. I 
 tremble to think of the crowd of poets and painters who will 
 make a fortune out of her enthusiasm. Entre nous, Lumley, 
 I could wish her married to a man of sober sense like the 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 249 
 
 Duke of ; for sober sense is exactly what she wants. 
 
 Do observe, she has been sitting just half an hour flirting 
 with that odd-looking adventurer, a Signor Cesarini, merely 
 because he writes sonnets and wears a dress like a stage- 
 player ! " 
 
 *'It is the weakness of the sex, my dear lord," said Lumley ; 
 " they like to patronize, and they dote upon all oddities, from 
 China monsters to cracked poets. But I fancy, by a restless 
 glance cast every now and then around the room, that my 
 beautiful cousin has in her something of the coquette." 
 
 " There you are quite right, Lumley, " returned Lord Sax- 
 ingliam, laughing; "but I will not quarrel Avith her for break- 
 ing hearts and refusing hands if she do but grow steady at 
 last and settle into the Duchess of ." 
 
 "Duchess of !" repeated Lumley, absently; "well, I 
 
 will go and present myself. I see she is growing tired of the 
 signor. I will sound her as to the ducal impressions, my 
 dear lord." 
 
 "Do, — /dare not," replied the father; "she is an excellent 
 girl, but heiresses are always contradictory. It was very 
 foolish to deprive me of all control over her fortune. Come 
 and see me again soon, Lumley. I suppose you are going 
 abroad?" 
 
 "No, I shall settle in England; but of my prospects and 
 plans more hereafter." 
 
 With this, Lumley quietly glided away to Florence. There 
 was something in Ferrers that was remarkable from its very 
 simplicity. His clear, sharp features, with the short hair 
 and high brow, the absolute plainness of his dress, and the 
 noiseless, easy, self-collected calm of all his motions, made a 
 strong contrast to the showy Italian by whose side he now 
 stood. Florence looked up at him with some little surprise 
 at his intrusion. 
 
 "Ah, you don't recollect me!" said Lumley, with his 
 pleasant laugh. "Faithless Imogen, after all your vows of 
 constancy! Behold your Alonzo! 
 
 " ' The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out.' 
 
250 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Don't you remember how you trembled when I told you that 
 true story as we — 
 
 " ' Conversed as we sat on the green ? ' " 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Florence, " it is indeed you, my dear cousin, 
 my dear Lumley! What an age since we parted! " 
 
 "Don't talk of age, — it is an ugly word to a man of my 
 years. Pardon, signer, if I disturb you." 
 
 And here Lumley, with a low bow, slid coolly into the place 
 which Cesarini, who had shyly risen, left vacant for him. 
 Castruccio looked disconcerted; but Florence had forgotten 
 h-im in her delight at seeing Lumley, and Cesarini moved 
 discontentedly away and seated himself at a distance. 
 
 "And I come back," continued Lumley, "to find you a con- 
 firmed beauty and a professional coquette. Don't blush! " 
 
 "Do they indeed call me a coquette? " 
 
 "Oh, yes! for once, the world is just." 
 
 "Perhaps I do deserve the reproach. Oh, Lumley, how I 
 despise all that I see and hear ! " 
 
 "What, even the Duke of ? " 
 
 " Yes, I fear even the Duke of is no exception ! " 
 
 " Your father will go mad if he hear you. " 
 
 "My father, my poor father! Yes, he thinks the utmost 
 that I, Florence Lascelles, am made for, is to wear a ducal 
 coronet and give the best balls in London." 
 
 "And pray what was Florence Lascelles made for?" 
 
 "Ah! I cannot answer the question. I fear for Discontent 
 and Disdain." 
 
 "You are an enigma; but I will take pains, and not rest 
 till I solve you." 
 
 " I defy you. " 
 
 "Thanks! Better defy than despise." 
 
 "Oh! you must be strangely altered if I can despise yoii." 
 
 "Indeed! what do you remember of me?" 
 
 " That you were frank, bold, and therefore, I suppose, true ; 
 that you shocked my avmts and my father by your contempt 
 for the vulgar hypocrisies of our conventional life. Oh, no ! 
 I cannot despise you." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 251 
 
 Lumley raised his eyes to those of Florence ; he gazed on 
 her long and earnestly: ambitious hopes rose high within 
 him. 
 
 "My fair cousin," said he, in an altered and serious tone, 
 "I see something in your spirit kindred to mine; and I am 
 glad that yours is one of the earliest voices which confirm 
 my new resolves on my return to busy England ! " 
 
 "And those resolves?" 
 
 "Are an Englishman's, — energetic and ambitious." 
 
 "Alas, ambition! How many false portraits are there of 
 the great original ! " 
 
 Lumley thought he had found a clew to the heart of his 
 cousin, and he began to expatiate, with unusual eloquence, 
 on the nobleness of that daring sin which "lost angels 
 heaven." Florence listened to him with attention, but not 
 with sympathy. Lumley was deceived. His was not an am- 
 bition that could attract the fastidious but high-souled Ideal- 
 ist. The selfishness of his nature broke out in all the 
 sentiments that he fancied would seem to her most elevated. 
 Place, power, titles, — all these objects were low and vulgar 
 to one who saw them daily at her feet. 
 
 At a distance the Duke of continued from time to time 
 
 to direct his cold gaze at Florence. He did not like her the 
 less for not seeming to court him. He had something gener- 
 ous within him, and could understand her. He went away 
 at last, and thought seriously of Florence as a wife. Not a 
 wife for companionship, for friendship, for love, but a wife 
 who could take the trouble of rank off his hands, do him hon- 
 our, and raise him an heir whom he might flatter himself 
 would be his own. 
 
 From his corner also, with dreams yet more vain and dar- 
 ing, Castruccio Cesarini cast his eyes upon the queen-like 
 brow of the great heiress. Oh, yes! she had a soul, — she 
 could disdain rank and revere genius ! What a triumph over 
 De Montaigne, ISIaltravers, all the world, if he, the neglected 
 poet, could win the hand for which the magnates of the earth 
 sighed in vain! Pure and lofty as he thought himself, it was 
 her birth and her wealth which Cesarini adored in. Florence. 
 
252 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 And Lumley, nearer perhaps to tlie prize than either, yet 
 still far off, went on conversing, with eloquent lips and spark- 
 ling eyes, while his cold heart was planning every word, dic- 
 tating every glance, and laying out (for the most worldly are 
 often the most visionary) the chart for a royal road to for- 
 tune. And Florence Lascelles, when the crowd had dispersed 
 and she sought her chamber, forgot all three, and with that 
 morbid romance often peculiar to those for whom Fate smiles 
 the most, mused over the ideal image of the one she could 
 love, — in maiden meditation, not fancy-free! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 In mea vesauas habui dispendia vires, 
 
 Et valui pcEnas fortis in ipse meas.^ — Ovid. 
 
 Then might my breast be read within, 
 
 A thousand volumes would be written there. 
 
 Earl of Stirling. 
 
 Ernest Maltraveks was at the height of his reputation ; 
 the work which he had deemed the crisis that was to make or 
 mar him was the most brilliantly successful of all he had yet 
 committed to the public. Certainly, chance did as much for 
 it as merit, as is usually the case with works that become in- 
 stantaneously popular. We may hammer away at the casket 
 with strong arm and good purpose, and all in vain; when 
 some morning a careless stroke hits the right nail on the 
 head, and we secure the treasure. 
 
 It was at this time, when in the prime of youth, rich, 
 courted, respected, run after, that Ernest Maltravers fell se- 
 riously ill. It was no active or visible disease, but a general 
 irritability of the nerves, and a languid sinking of the whole 
 frame. His labours began, perhaps, to tell against him. In 
 
 ^ " I had the strength of a madman to my own cost, and employed that 
 strength in my own punishment." 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 253 
 
 earlier life he had been as active as a hunter of the chamois, 
 and the hardy exercise of his frame counteracted the effects 
 of a restless and ardent mind. The change from an athletic 
 to a sedentary habit of life, the wear and tear of the brain, 
 the absorbing passion for knowledge which day and night kept 
 all his faculties in a stretch, made strange havoc in a consti- 
 tution naturally strong. The poor author, how few persons un- 
 derstand, and forbear with, and pity him! He sells his health 
 and youth to a rugged taskmaster. And, blind and selfish 
 world! you expect him to be as free of manner, and as pleas- 
 ant of cheer, and as equal of mood as if he were passing the 
 most agreeable and healthful existence that pleasure could 
 afford to smooth the wrinkles of the mind, or medicine invent 
 to regulate the nerves of the body. But there was, besides 
 all this, another cause that operated against the successful 
 man, — his heart was too solitary; he lived without the sweet 
 household ties. The connections and amities he formed, ex- 
 cited for a moment, but possessed no charm to comfort or to 
 soothe. Cleveland resided so much in the country, and was 
 of so much calmer a temperament, and so much more ad- 
 vanced in age, that, with all the friendship that subsisted 
 between them, there was none of that daily and familiar in- 
 terchange of confidence which affectionate natures demand as 
 the very food of life. Of his brother (as the reader will con- 
 jecture from never having been formally presented to him) 
 Ernest saw but little. Colonel Maltravers, one of the gayest 
 and handsomest men of his time, married to a fine lady, lived 
 principally at Paris, except when, for a few weeks in the 
 shooting season, he filled his countrj^ house with companions 
 who had nothing in common with Ernest. The brothers cor- 
 responded regularly every quarter, and saw each other once 
 a year, — this was all their intercourse. Ernest jVEaltravers 
 stood in the world alone with that cold but anxious spectre, 
 — Reputation. 
 
 It was late at night. Before a table covered with the mon- 
 uments of erudition and thought sat a young man with a pale 
 and worn countenance. The clock in the room told with a 
 fretting distinctness every moment that lessened the journey 
 
254 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 to the grave. There was an anxious and expectant expression 
 on the face of the student, and from time to time he glanced 
 to the clock and muttered to himself. Was it a letter from 
 some adored mistress, the soothing flattery from some mighty 
 arbiter of arts and letters, that the young man eagerly 
 awaited? No; the aspirer was forgotten in the valetudina- 
 rian. Ernest Maltravers was waiting the visit of his physi- 
 cian, whom at that late hour a sudden thought had induced 
 him to summon from his rest. At length the well-known 
 knock was heard, and in a few moments the physician en- 
 tered. He was one well versed in the peculiar pathology of 
 bookmen, and kindly as well as skilful. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Maltravers, what is this? How are we? Not 
 seriously ill, I hope, — no relapse. Pulse low and irregular, 
 I see, but no fever. You are nervous." 
 
 "Doctor," said the student, "I did not send for you at this 
 time of night from the idle fear or fretful caprice of an in- 
 valid. But when I saw you this morning, you dropped some 
 hints which have haunted me ever since. Much that it befits 
 the conscience and the soul to attend to without loss of time 
 depends upon my full knowledge of my real state. If I un- 
 derstand you rightly, I may have but a short time to live, — 
 is it so?" 
 
 "Indeed!" said the doctor, turning away his face, "you 
 have exaggerated my meaning. I did not say that you were 
 in what we technically call danger." 
 
 "Am I then likely to be a lonff-lived man?" 
 
 The doctor coughed. " That is uncertain, my dear young 
 friend," said he, after a pause. 
 
 "Be plain with me. The plans of life must be based upon 
 such calculations as we can reasonably form of its probable 
 duration. Do not fancy that I am weak enough or coward 
 enough to shrink from any abyss which I have approached 
 unconsciously; I desire, I adjure, — nay, I command, — you 
 to be explicit." 
 
 There was an earnest and solemn dignity in his patient^s 
 voice and manner which deeply touched and impressed the 
 good physician. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 255 
 
 "I will answer you frankly," said he: "you overwork the 
 nerves and the brain; if you do not relax, you will subject 
 yourself to confirmed disease and premature death. Yot sev- 
 eral months, perhaps for years to come, you should wholly 
 cease from literary labour. Is this a hard sentence? You 
 are rich and young, — enjoy yourself while you can." 
 
 Maltravers appeared satisfied, changed the conversation, 
 talked easily on other matters for a few minutes; nor was it 
 till he had dismissed his physician that he broke forth with 
 the thoughts that were burning in him. 
 
 "Oh! " cried he aloud, as he rose and paced the room with 
 rapid strides, " now, when I see before me the broad and lu- 
 minous path, am I to be condemned to halt and turn aside? 
 A vast empire rises on my view, greater than that of Caesars 
 and conquerors, — an empire durable and universal in the 
 souls of men, that time itself cannot overthrow; and Death 
 marches with me, side by side, and the skeleton hand waves 
 me back to the nothingness of common men." 
 
 He paused at the casement, he threw it open, and leaned 
 forth and gasped for air. Heaven was serene and still, as 
 morning came coldly forth amongst the waning stars; and 
 the haunts of men, in their thoroughfare of idleness and of 
 pleasure, were desolate and void. Nothing, save Kature, was 
 awake. 
 
 " And if, stars ! " murmured Maltravers, from the depth 
 of his excited heart, "if I have been insensible to your solemn 
 beauty ; if the Heaven and the Earth had been to me but as 
 air and clay; if I were one of a dull and dim-eyed herd, — I 
 might live on, and drop into the grave from the ripeness of 
 unprofitable years. It is because I yearn for the great objects 
 of an immortal being that life shrinks and shrivels up like a 
 scroll. Away! I will not listen to these human and material 
 monitors, and consider life as a thing greater than the things 
 that I would live for. My choice is made; glory is more 
 persuasive than the grave." 
 
 He turned impatiently from the casement; his eyes flashed, 
 his chest heaved, he trod the chamber with a monarch's air. 
 All the calculations of prudence, all the tame and methodical 
 
256 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 reasonings with which, from time to time, he had sought to 
 sober clown the impetuous man into the cahn machine, faded 
 away before tlie burst of awful and commanding passions that 
 swept over his soul. Tell a man, in the full tide of his tri- 
 umphs, that he bears death within him, and what crisis of 
 thought can be more startling and more terrible! 
 
 Maltravers had, as we have seen, cared little for fame till 
 fame had been brought within his reach; then, with every 
 step he took, new Alps had arisen. Each new conjecture 
 brought to light a new truth that demanded enforcement or 
 defence. Rivalry and competition chafed his blood and kept 
 his faculties at their full speed. He had the generous race- 
 horse spirit of emulation. Ever in action, ever in progress, 
 cheered on by the sarcasms of foes even more than by the 
 applause of friends, the desire of glory had become the habit 
 of existence. When we have commenced a career, what stop 
 is there till the grave? Where is the definite barrier of that 
 ambition which, like the eastern bird, seems ever on the wing, 
 and never rests upon the earth? Our names are not settled 
 till our death; the ghosts of what we have done are made our 
 haunting monitors, our scourging avengers, if ever we cease 
 to do, or fall short of the younger past. Repose is oblivion; 
 to pause is to unravel all the web that we have woven, — ' 
 until the tomb closes over us, and men, just when it is too 
 late, strike the fair balance between ourselves and our rivals, 
 and we are measured, not by the least but by the greatest tri- 
 umphs we have achieved. Oh, what a crushing sense of im- 
 potence comes over iis when we feel that our frame cannot 
 support our mind; when the hand can no longer execute what 
 the soul, actively as ever, conceives and desires ! The quick 
 life tied to the dead form; the ideas fresh as immortality, 
 gushing forth rich and golden, — and the broken nerves, and 
 the aching frame, and the weary eyes! The spirit athirst for 
 liberty and heaven, — and the damning, choking consciousness 
 that we are walled up and prisoned in a dungeon that must 
 be our burial-place! Talk not of freedom, — there is no such 
 thing as freedom to a man whose body is the jail, whose in- 
 firmities are the racks, of his genius ! 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 257 
 
 Maltravers paused at last, and threw himself on his sofa, 
 wearied and exhausted. Involuntarily, and as a half uncon- 
 scious means of escaping from his conflicting and profitless 
 emotions, he turned to several letters which had for hours 
 lain unopened on his table. Every one, the seal of which he 
 broke, seemed to mock his state ; every one seemed to attest 
 the felicity of his fortunes. Some bespoke the admiring sym- 
 pathy of the highest and wisest; one offered him a brilliant 
 opening into public life; another (it was from Cleveland) 
 was fraught with all the proud and rapturous approbation of 
 a prophet whose auguries are at last fulfilled. At that letter 
 Maltravers sighed deeply, and paused before he turned to the 
 others. The last he opened was in an unknown hand, nor 
 was any name a£Bjj.ed to it. Like all writers of some note, 
 Maltravers was in the habit of receiving anonymous letters 
 of praise, censure, warning, and exhortation, — especially 
 from young ladies at boarding-schools, and old ladies in the 
 country; but there was that in the first sentences of the let- 
 ter, which he now opened with a careless hand, that riveted 
 his attention. It was a small and beautiful handwriting; yet 
 the letters were more clear and bold than they usually are in 
 feminine calligraphy. 
 
 " Ernest Maltravers," began this singular effusion, " have you weighed 
 yourself ? Are you aware of your capacities ? Do you feel that for you 
 there may be a more dazzling reputation than that which appears to 
 content you ? You who seem to penetrate into the subtlest windings of 
 the human heart, and to have examined nature as through a glass ; you, 
 whose thoughts stand forth like armies marshalled in defence of truth, 
 bold and dauntless, and without a stain upon their glittering armour, — 
 are you, at your age and with your advantages, to bury yourself amidst 
 books and scrolls ? Do you forget that action is the grand career for 
 men who think as you do ? Will this word-weighing and picture- 
 writing, the cold eulogies of pedants, the listless praises of literary 
 idlers, content all the yearnings of your ambition ? You were not made 
 solely for the closet ; ' The Dreams of Pindus and the Aonian Maids ' 
 cannot endure through the noon of manhood. Y'ou are too practical for 
 the mere poet, and too poetical to sink into the dull tenor of a learned 
 life. I have never seen you, yet I know you, — I read your spirit in 
 your page ; that aspiration for something better and greater than the 
 
 17 
 
258 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 great and the good, which colours all your passionate revelations of 
 yourself and others, cannot be satisfied merely by ideal images. 
 You cannot be contented, as poets and historians mostly are, bv 
 becoming great only from delineating great men, or imagining great 
 events, or describing a great era. Is it not worthier of you to he 
 what you fancy or relate ? Awake, Maltravers, awake ! Look into 
 your heart, and feel your proper destinies. And who am I that thus 
 address you? A woman whose soul is filled with you, — a woman in 
 whom your eloquence has awakened, amidst frivolous and vain circles, 
 the sense of a new existence ; a woman who would make you, yourself, 
 the embodied ideal of your own thoughts and dreams, and who would 
 ask from earth no other lot than that of following you on the road of 
 fame with the eyes of her heart. Mistake me not ; I repeat that I have 
 never seen you, nor do I wish it ; you might be other than I imagine, 
 and I should lose an idol and be left without a worship. I am a kind of 
 visionary Rosicrucian : it is a spirit that I adore, and not a being like 
 myself. You imagine, perhaps, that I have some purpose to serve in 
 this : I have no object in administering to your vanity; and if I judge 
 you rightly, this letter is one that might make you vain without a blush. 
 Oh, the admiration that does not spring from holy and profound som'ces 
 of emotion, how it saddens us or disgusts ! I have had my share of 
 vulgar homage, and it only makes me feel doubly alone. I am richer 
 than you are ; I have youth, — I have what they call beauty. And 
 neither riches, youth, nor beauty ever gave me the silent and deep hap- 
 piness I experience when I think of you. This is a worship that might, 
 I repeat, well make even you vain. Think of these words, I implore 
 you. Be worthy, not of my thoughts, but of the shape in which they 
 represent you ; and every ray of glory that surrounds you will brighten 
 my own way, and inspire me with a kindred emulation. Farewell. I 
 may write to you again, but you will never discover me ; and in Me I 
 pray that we may never meet ! " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 259 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Our list of nobles uext let Amri grace. 
 
 Absalom and Achitopkel. 
 
 Sine me vacivum teinpus ne quod dem mihi 
 Laboris.i — Terence. 
 
 "I can't think," said one of a group of young men loiter- 
 ing by the steps of a club-house in St. James's Street, — "I 
 can't think what has chanced to Maltravers. Do you observe 
 (as he walks — there — the other side of the way) how much 
 he is altered? He stoops like an old man, and hardly ever 
 lifts his eyes from the ground. He certainly seems sick 
 and sad." 
 
 "Writing books, I suppose." 
 
 "Or privately married." 
 
 " Or growing too rich, — rich men are always unhappy 
 beings." 
 
 "Ha, Ferrers, how are you?" 
 
 "So-so. What's the news?" replied Lumley. 
 
 "Rattler pays forfeit." 
 
 "Oh! but in politics?" 
 
 "Hang politics! Are you turned politician? " 
 
 "At my age, what else is there left to do?" 
 
 "I thought so, by your hat; all politicians sport odd-look- 
 ing hats. It is very remarkable, but that is the great symp- 
 tom of the disease." 
 
 "My hat, — is it odd?" said Ferrers, taking off the com- 
 modity in question, and seriously regarding it. 
 
 "Wh}'^, who ever saw such a brim?" 
 
 " Glad you think so." 
 
 "Why, Ferrers?" 
 
 " Because it is a prudent policy in this country to surrender 
 something trifling up to ridicule. If people can abuse your 
 
 ^ " Suffer me to employ my spare time in some kind of labour." 
 
260 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 hat or your carriage, or the shape of your nose, or a wart on 
 your chin, they let slip a thousand more important matters. 
 'T is the wisdom of the camel-driver, who gives up his gown 
 for the camel to trample on, that he may escape himself." 
 
 "How droll you are, Ferrers! Well, I shall turn in, and 
 read the papers ; and you — '' 
 
 " Shall pay my visits and rejoice in my hat. " 
 
 " Good-day to you. By the by, your friend Maltravers has 
 just passed, looking thoughtful, and talking to himself. 
 What's the matter with him?'" 
 
 "Lamenting, perhaps, that he, too, does not wear an odd 
 hat for gentlemen like you to laugh at, and leave the rest of 
 him in peace. Good-day." 
 
 On went Ferrers, and soon found himself in the Mall of 
 the Park. Here he was joined by Mr. Templeton. 
 
 "Well, Lumley," said the latter (and it may be here re- 
 marked that Mr. Templeton now exhibited towards his 
 nephew a greater respect of manner and tone than he had 
 thought it necessary to observe before), — "well, Lumley, and 
 have you seen Lord Saxingham?" 
 
 " I have, sir; and I regret to say — " 
 
 "I thought so, I thought it," interrupted Templeton. "Xo 
 gratitude in public men, no wish, in high place, to honour 
 virtue ! " 
 
 "Pardon me. Lord Saxingham declares that he should be 
 delighted to forward your views, that no man more deserves 
 a jjeerage ; but that — " 
 
 "Oh, yes; always 'buts'!" 
 
 " But that there are so many claimants at present whom it 
 is impossible to satisfy; and — and — But I feel I ought not 
 to go on." 
 
 "Proceed, sir, I beg." 
 
 "Why, then. Lord Saxingham is (T must be frank) a man 
 who has a great regard for his own family. Your marriage 
 
 — a source, my dear uncle, of the greatest gratification to me 
 
 — cuts off the probable chance of your fortune and title, if 
 you acquire the latter, descending to — " 
 
 "Yourself!" put in Templeton, dryly. "Your relation 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 261 
 
 seems, for the first time, to have discovered how dear your 
 interests are to him." 
 
 "For rae, individually, sir, my relation does not care a rush; 
 but he cares a great deal for any member of his house being 
 rich and in high station. It increases the range and credit of 
 his connections ; and Lord Saxingham is a man whom connec- 
 tions help to keep great. To be plain with you, he will not 
 stir in this business because he does not see how his kinsman 
 is to be benefited or his house strengthened." 
 
 " Public virtue ! " exclaimed Templeton. 
 
 " Virtue, my dear uncle, is a female : as long as she is pri- 
 vate property, she is excellent; but public virtue, like any 
 other public lady, is a common prostitute." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " grunted Templeton, who was too much out of 
 humour to read his nephew the lecture he might otherwise 
 have done upon the impropriety of his simile; for Mr. Tem- 
 pleton was one of those men who hold it vicious to talk of 
 vice as existing in the world : he was very much shocked to 
 hear anything called by its proper name. 
 
 "Has not Mrs. Templeton some connections that may be 
 useful to you? " 
 
 "No, sir! " cried the uncle, in a voice of thunder. 
 
 " Sorry to hear it. But we cannot expect all things : you 
 have married for love, you have a happy home, a charming 
 wife, — this is better than a title and a fine lady." 
 
 "Mr. Lumley Ferrers, you may spare me your consolations. 
 My wife — " 
 
 "Loves you dearly, I dare say," said the imperturbable 
 nephew. " She has so much sentiment, is so fond of poetry. 
 Oh, yes ! she must love one who has done so much for her. " 
 
 " Done so much : what do you mean? " 
 
 " Why, with your fortune, your station, your just ambition, 
 — you, who might have married any one ; nay, by remaining 
 unmarried, have conciliated all my interested, selfish rela- 
 tions, hang them, — you have married a lady without connec- 
 tions, and what more could you do for her? " 
 
 "Pooh, pooh! 3'ou don't know all." 
 
 Here Templeton stopped short, as if about to say too much, 
 
262 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 and frowned; then, after a pause, he resumed, "Lumley, I 
 have married, it is true. You may not be my heir, but I will 
 make it up to you, — that is, if you deserve my affection." 
 
 " My dear unc — " 
 
 " Don't interrupt me : I have projects for you. Let our in- 
 terests be the same. The title may yet descend to you; I 
 may have no male offspring. Meanwhile, draw on me to any 
 reasonable amount,— young men have expenses; but be pru- 
 dent, and if you want to get on in the world, never let the 
 world detect you in a scrape. There, leave me now." 
 
 " My best, my heartfelt thanks ! " 
 
 "Hush! Sound Lord Saxingham again; I must and will 
 have this bauble,— I have set my heart on it." So saying, 
 Templeton waved away his nephew and musingly pursued his 
 path towards Hyde Park Corner, where his carriage awaited 
 him. As soon as he entered his demesnes, he saw his wife's 
 daughter running across the lawn to greet him. His heart 
 softened ; he checked the carnage and descended ; he caressed 
 her, he played with her, he laughed as she laughed. No 
 parent could be more fond. 
 
 "Lumley Ferrers has talent to do me honour," said he, 
 anxiously; "but his principles seem unstable. However, 
 surely that open manner is the sign of a good heart." 
 
 Meanwhile, Ferrers, in high spirits, took his way to Er- 
 nest's house. His friend was not at home ; but Ferrers never 
 wanted a host's presence in order to be at home himself. 
 Books were round him in abundance ; but Ferrers was not one 
 of those who read for amusement. He threw himself into an 
 easy-chair, and began weaving new meshes of ambition and 
 intrigue. At length the door opened, and Maltravers entered. 
 
 " Why, Ernest, how ill you are looking ! " 
 
 " I have not been well, but I am now recovering. As phy- 
 sicians recommend change of air to ordinary patients, so I am 
 about to try change of habit. Active I must be, — action is 
 the condition of my being; but I must have done with books 
 for the present. You see me in a new character." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "That of a public man, — I have entered parliament." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 263 
 
 "You astonish me! I have read the papers this morning; 
 I saw not even a vacancy, much less an election." 
 
 " It is all managed by the lawyer and the banker. In other 
 words, my seat is a close borough." 
 
 "No bore of constituents! 1 congratulate you, and envy. 
 I wish I were in parliament myself." 
 
 "You! I never fancied you bitten by the political mania." 
 
 "Political? No. But it is the most respectable way, with 
 luck, of living on the public; better than swindling." 
 
 " A candid way of viewing the question. But I thought at 
 one time you were half a Benthamite, and that your motto 
 was, 'The greatest happiness of the greatest number.' " 
 
 "The greatest number to me is number one. I agree with 
 the Pythagoreans, — unity is the perfect principle of creation! 
 Seriously, how can you mistake the principles of opinion for 
 the principles of conduct? I am a Benthamite, a benevolist, 
 as a logician ; but the moment I leave the closet for the world, 
 I lay aside speculation for others, and act for myself." 
 
 "You are at least more frank than prudent in these 
 confessions." 
 
 "There you are wrong. It is by affecting to be worse than 
 we are that we become popular, and we get credit for being 
 both honest and practical fellows. My uncle's mistake is to 
 be a hypocrite in words: it rarely answers. Be frank in 
 words, and nobody will suspect hypocrisy in your designs." 
 
 Maltravers gazed hard at Ferrers. Something revolted and 
 displeased his high-wrought Platonism in the easy wisdom of 
 his old friend; but he felt, almost for the first time, that 
 Ferrers was a man to get on in the world, and he sighed, — I 
 hope it was for the world's sake. 
 
 After a short conversation on indifferent matters, Cleveland 
 was announced; and Ferrers, who could make nothing out of 
 Cleveland, soon withdrew. Ferrers was now becoming an 
 economist in his time. 
 
 "My dear Maltravers," said Cleveland, when they were 
 alone, " I am so glad to see you ; for, in the first place, I re- 
 joice to find you are extending your career of usefulness." 
 
 "Usefulness, — ah, let me think so! Life is so uncertain 
 
264 ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 and so short that we cannot too soon bring the little it can 
 yield into the great commonwealth of the Beautiful or the 
 Honest; and both belong to and make up the Useful. But in 
 politics, and in a highly artificial state, what doubts beset us, 
 what darkness surrounds! If we connive at abuses, we juggle 
 with our own reason and integrity; if we attack them, how 
 much, how fatally, we may derange that solemn and conven- 
 tional ORDER which is the mainspring of the vast machine! 
 How little, too, can one man, whose talents may not be in 
 that coarse road, in that mephitic atmosphere, be enabled to 
 effect!" 
 
 " He may effect a vast deal, even without eloquence or la- 
 bour; he may effect a vast deal if he can set one example, 
 amidst a crowd of selfish aspirants and heated fanatics, of an 
 honest and dispassionate man. He may effect more if he may 
 serve among the representatives of that hitherto unrepresented 
 thing, Literature ; if he redeem, by an ambition above place 
 and emolument, the character for subservience that court- 
 poets have obtained for letters ; if he may prove that specula- 
 tive knowledge is not disjoined from the practical world, and 
 maintain the dignity of disinterestedness that should belong 
 to learning. But the end of a scientific morality is not to 
 serve others only, but also to perfect and accomplish our 
 individual selves: our own souls are a solemn trust to our 
 own lives. You are about to add to your experience of hu- 
 man motives and active men; and whatever additional wisdom 
 you acquire will become equally evident and equally useful, 
 no matter whether it be communicated through action or in 
 books. Enough of this, my dear Ernest. I have come to 
 dine with you, and make you accompany me to-night to a 
 house where you will be welcome, and I think interested. 
 Nay, no excuses. I have promised Lord Latimer that he 
 shall make your acquaintance, and he is one of the most emi- 
 nent men with whom political life will connect you." 
 
 And to this change of habits, from the closet to the senate, 
 had Maltravers been induced by a state of health, which, with 
 most men, would have been an excuse for indolence. Indo- 
 lent he could not be ; he had truly said to Ferrers that action 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 265 
 
 was the condition of his being. If thought, with its fever 
 and aching tension, had been too severe a taskmaster on the 
 nerves and brain, the coarse and homely pursuit of practical 
 politics would leave the imagination and intellect in repose, 
 while it would excite the hardier qualities and gifts which 
 animate without exhausting. So, at least, hoped Maltravers. 
 He remembered the profound saying in one of his favourite 
 German authors, " that to keep the mind and body in perfect 
 health, it is necessary to mix habitually and betimes in the 
 common affairs of men," And the anonymous correspond- 
 ent, — had her exhortations any influence on his decision? I 
 know not. But when Cleveland left him, Maltravers unlocked 
 his desk and re-perused the last letter he had received from 
 the Unknown. The last letter! Yes, those epistles had now 
 become frequent. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Le brillant de votre esprit donne un si grand eclat a votre teint et a vos 
 yeux que quoiqu'il semble que I'esprit ne doit toucher que les oreilles, il est 
 pourtaut certain que la votre e'blouit les yeux.* — Lettres de Madame de 
 Sevigne. 
 
 At Lord Latimer's house were assembled some hundreds of 
 those persons who are rarely found together in London so- 
 ciety; for business, politics, and literature draught off the 
 most eminent men, and usually leave to houses that receive 
 the world little better than indolent rank or ostentatious 
 wealth. Even the young men of pleasure turn up their noses 
 at parties nowadays, and find society a bore. But there are 
 some dozen or two of houses, the owners of which are both 
 apart from and above the fashion, in which a foreigner may 
 
 ^ "The brilliancy of your wit gives so great a lustre to your complexion 
 and your eyes, that, though it seems that wit should only reach the ears, it 
 is altogether certain that yours dazzles the eyes." 
 
266 EKXEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 see, collected under the same roof, many of the most remark- 
 able men of busy, thoughtful, majestic England. Lord Lati- 
 mer himself had been a Cabinet minister. He retired from 
 public life on pretence of ill-health, but in reality because its 
 anxious bustle was not congenial to a gentle and accomplished, 
 but somewhat feeble, mind. With a high reputation and an 
 excellent cook, he enjoyed a great popularity both with his 
 own party and the world in general ; and he was the centre of 
 a small, but distinguished circle of acquaintances, who drank 
 Latimer's wine, and quoted Latimer's sayings, and liked 
 Latimer much better because, not being author or minister, 
 he was not in their way. 
 
 Lord Latimer received Maltravers with marked courtesy, 
 and even deference, and invited him to join his own whist- 
 table, — which was one of the highest compliments his lord- 
 ship could pay to his intellect. But when his guest refused 
 the proffered honour, the earl turned him over to the count- 
 ess, as having become the property of the womankind; and 
 was soon immersed in his aspirations for the odd trick. 
 
 Whilst Maltravers was conversing with Lady Latimer, he 
 happened to raise his eyes, and saw opposite to him a young 
 lady of such remarkable beauty that he could scarcely refrain 
 from an admiring exclamation. "And who," he asked, re- 
 covering himself, "is that lady? It is strange that even I, 
 who go so little into the world, should be compelled to in- 
 quire the name of one whose beauty must already have made 
 her celebrated." 
 
 "Oh, Lady Florence Lascelles, — she came out last year. 
 She is indeed most brilliant, yet more so in mind and accom- 
 plishments than face. I must be allowed to introduce you." 
 
 At this offer a strange shyness, and as it were reluctant 
 distrust, seized Maltravers, — a kind of presentiment of danger 
 and evil. He drew back, and would have made some excuse, 
 but Lady Latimer did not heed his embarrassment, and was 
 already by the side of Lady Florence Lascelles. A moment 
 more, and beckoning to Maltravers, the countess presented 
 him to the lady. As he bowed and seated himself beside his 
 new acquaintance, he could not but observe that her cheeks 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 267 
 
 were suffused with the most lively blushes, and that she re- 
 ceived him with a confusion not common even in ladies just 
 brought out and just introduced to "a lion." He was rather 
 puzzled than flattered by these tokens of an embarrassment 
 somewhat akin to his own, and the first few sentences of their 
 conversation passed off with a certain awkwardness and re- 
 serve. At this moment, to the surprise, perhaps to the relief, 
 of Ernest, they were joined by Lumley Ferrers. 
 
 "Ah, Lady Florence, I kiss your hands! I am charmed 
 to find you acquainted with my friend Maltravers." 
 
 "And Mr. Ferrers, what makes him so late to-night?" 
 asked the fair Florence, with a sudden ease which rather star- 
 tled Maltravers. 
 
 "A dull dinner, — voila tout! I have no other excuse." 
 And Ferrers, sliding into a vacant chair on the other side of 
 Lady Florence, conversed volubly and unceasingly, as if seek- 
 ing to monopolize her attention. 
 
 Ernest had not been so much captivated with the manner of 
 Florence as he had been struck with her beauty; and now, 
 seeing her apparently engaged with another, he rose, and 
 quietly moved away. He was soon one of a knot of men who 
 were conversing on the absorbing topics of the day; and as 
 by degrees the exciting subject brought out his natural elo- 
 quence and masculine sense, the talkers became listeners, the 
 knot widened into a circle, and he himself was unconsciously 
 the object of general attention and respect. 
 
 "And what think you of Mr, Maltravers?" asked Ferrers, 
 carelessly. "Does he keep up your expectations? " 
 
 Lady Florence had sunk into a revery, and Ferrers repeated 
 his question. 
 
 " He is j^ounger than I imagined him, and — and — " 
 
 "Handsomer, I suppose, you mean." 
 
 "No! calmer, and less animated." 
 
 "He seems animated enough now," said Ferrers; "but your 
 ladylike conversation failed in striking the Promethean spark, 
 'Lay that flattering unction to your soul,' " 
 
 "Ah! you are right; he must have thought me very — " 
 
 "Beautiful, no doubt." 
 
268 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Beautiful! I hate the word, Lumley. I wish I were not 
 handsome; I might then get some credit for my intellect." 
 
 "Humph!" said Ferrers, significantly. 
 
 "Oh, you don't think so, sceptic?" said Florence, shaking 
 her head with a slight laugh and an altered manner. 
 
 "Does it matter what I think," said Ferrers, with an at- 
 tempted touch at the sentimental, "when Lord This, and 
 Lord That, and Mr. So-and-so, and Count What-d' ye-call- 
 him, are all making their way to you to dispossess me of my 
 envied monopoly? " 
 
 While Ferrers spoke, several of the scattered loungers 
 grouped around Florence, and the conversation, of which she 
 was the cynosure, became animated and gay. Oh, how bril- 
 liant she was, that peerless Florence! With what petulant 
 and sparkling grace came wit and wisdom, and even genius, 
 from those ruby lips ! Even the assured Ferrers felt his sub- 
 tle intellect as dull and coarse to hers, and shrank with a re- 
 luctant apprehension from the arrows of her careless and 
 prodigal repartees. For there was a scorn in the nature of 
 Florence Lascelles which made her wit pain more frequently 
 than it pleased. Educated even to learning, courageous even 
 to a want of feminacy, she delighted to sport with ignorance 
 and pretension, even in the highest places ; and the laugh that 
 she excited was like lightning, — no one could divine where 
 next it might fall. 
 
 But Florence, though dreaded and unloved, was yet courted, 
 flattered, and the rage. For this there were two reasons: 
 first, she was a coquette; and secondly, she was an heiress. 
 
 Thus the talkers in the room were divided into two princi- 
 pal groups, over one of which Maltravers may be said to have 
 presided; over the other, Florence. As the former broke up, 
 Ernest was joined by Cleveland. 
 
 "My dear cousin," said Florence, suddenly, and in a whis- 
 per, as she turned to Lumley, "your friend is speaking of me, 
 — I see it. Go, I implore you, and let me know what he 
 says ! " 
 
 "The commission is not flattering," said Ferrers, almost 
 sullenly. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 269 
 
 "Nay, a commission to gratify a woman's curiosity is ever 
 one of the most flattering embassies with which we can in- 
 vest an able negotiator." 
 
 "Well, I must do your bidding, though I disown the fa- 
 vour." Ferrers moved away, and joined Cleveland and 
 Maltravers. 
 
 "She is indeed beautiful; so perfect a contour I never be- 
 held : she is the only woman I ever saw in whom the aquiline 
 features seem more classical than even the Greek." 
 
 "So that is your opinion of my fair cousin! " cried Ferrers; 
 "you are caught." 
 
 "I wish he were," said Cleveland. "Ernest is now old 
 enough to settle, and there is not a more dazzling prize in 
 England, — rich, high-born, lovely, and accomplished." 
 
 "And what say you?" asked Lumley, almost impatiently, 
 to Maltravers. 
 
 "That I never saw one whom I admire more or could love 
 less," replied Ernest, as he quitted the rooms. 
 
 Ferrers looked after him, and muttered to himself; he then 
 rejoined Florence, who presently rose to depart, and taking 
 Lumley 's arm, said, "Well, I see my father is looking round 
 for me ; and so for once I will forestall him. Come, Lumley, 
 let us join him ; I know he wants to see you. 
 
 "Well? " said Florence, blushing deeply and almost breath- 
 less, as they crossed the now half -empty apartments. 
 
 "Well, my cousin?" 
 
 "You provoke me! Well, then, what said your friend?" 
 
 " That you deserved your reputation of beauty, but that you 
 were not his style. Maltravers is in love, you know." 
 
 "In love!" 
 
 "Yes, — a pretty Frenchwoman! Quite romantic, — an at- 
 tachment of some years' standing." 
 
 Florence turned away her face, and said no more. 
 
 "That's a good fellow, Lumley," said Lord Saxingham; 
 "Florence is never more welcome to my eyes than at half- 
 past one o'clock a. m., when I associate her with thoughts of 
 my natural rest and my unfortunate carriage-horses. By the 
 by, I wish you would dine with me next Saturday." 
 
270 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Saturday, — unfortunately I am engaged to my uncle." 
 
 "Oh! he has behaved handsomely to you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Mrs. Templeton pretty well?" 
 
 "I fancy so." 
 
 " As ladies wish to be, etc. ? " whispered his lordship. 
 
 "No, thank Heaven! " 
 
 "Well, if the old man could but make you his heir, we 
 might think twice about the title." 
 
 "My dear lord, stop, — one favour: write me a line to hint 
 that delicately." 
 
 "No, no letters; letters always get into the papers." 
 
 "But cautiously worded, — no danger of publication, on my 
 honour." 
 
 "I '11 think of it. Good-night." 
 
BOOK VII. 
 
 Xp^ ws optffTOV ix\v aitrhv ireipaadai, ytVfO-dat, fih l^ovov Se ahrhv uonl^nv 
 apL^TOf Svvaffdai -ytviaeai, etc. — Plotinus : En. 11, lib. ix. c. 9. 
 
 " Every man should strive to be as good as possible, but not suppose him- 
 self to be the ouly thing that is good." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Deceit is the strong but subtle chain which runs through all the members 
 of a society and links them together ; trick or be tricked is the alternative ; 
 'tis the way of the world, and without it intercourse would drop. — Anony- 
 mous WRITER OF 1722. 
 
 A lovely child she was, of looks serene, 
 
 And motions wliich o'er things indifferent shed 
 
 The grace and gentleness from whence they came. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shellet. 
 
 His years but young, but his experience old. — Shakspeare. 
 
 He after honour hunts, I after love. — Shakspeare. 
 
 LuMLEY Ferrers was one of the few men in tlie world who 
 act upon a profound, deliberate, and organized system; he 
 had done so even from a boy. When he was twenty-one, he 
 had said to himself, "Youth is the season for enjoyment: the 
 triumphs of manhood, the wealth of age, do not compensate 
 for a youth spent in unpleasurable toils." Agreeably to this 
 maxim, he had resolved not to adopt any profession; and be- 
 ing fond of travel, and of a restless temper, he had indulged 
 abroad in all the gratifications that his moderate income could 
 afford him. That income went further on the Continent than 
 at home, which was another reason for the prolongation of his 
 
272 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 travels. Now, wlien the wliims and passions of youth were 
 sated, and ripened by a consummate and various knowledge of 
 mankind, his harder capacities of mind became developed, 
 and centred into such ambition as it was his nature to con- 
 ceive, he acted no less upon a regular and methodical plan of 
 conduct, which he carried into details. He had little or 
 nothing within himself to cross his cold theories by contra- 
 dictory practice ; for he was curbed by no principles, and reg- 
 ulated but by few tastes, — and our tastes are often checks as 
 powerful as our principles. Looking round the English 
 world, Ferrers saw that at his age and with an equivocal posi- 
 tion, and no chances to throw away, it was necessary that he 
 should cast off all attributes of the character of the wanderer 
 and the (jargon. 
 
 "There is nothing respectable in lodgings and a cab," said 
 Ferrers to himself, — that "self" was his grand confidant! — 
 "nothing stationary. Such are the appliances of a here-to- 
 day-gone-to-morrow kind of life. One never looks substantial 
 till one pays rates and taxes and has a bill with one's 
 butcher ! " 
 
 Accordingly, without saying a word to anybody, Ferrers 
 took a long lease of a large house in one of those quiet streets 
 that proclaim the owners do not wish to be made by fashion- 
 able situations, — streets in which, if you have a large house, 
 it is supposed to be because you can afford one. He was very 
 particular in its being a respectable street: Great George 
 Street, "Westminster, was the one he selected. 
 
 No frippery or baubles common to the mansions of young 
 bachelors, no buhl and marquetry and Sevres china and cab- 
 inet pictures, distinguished the large, dingy drawing-rooms 
 of Lumley Ferrers. He bought all the old furniture a bargain 
 of the late tenant, — tea-coloured chintz curtains, and chairs 
 and sofas that were venerable and solemn with the accumu- 
 lated dust of twenty -five years. The only things about which 
 he was particular were a very long dining-table that would 
 hold four-and-twenty, and a new mahogany sideboard. Some- 
 body asked him why he cared about such articles. " I don't 
 know," said he; "but I observe all respectable family men do. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 273 
 
 There must be something in it; I shall discover the secret by 
 and by." 
 
 In this house did Mr. Ferrers ensconce himself, with two 
 middle-aged maidservants and a man out of livery, whom he 
 chose from a multitude of candidates because the man looked 
 especially well fed. 
 
 Having thus settled himself, and told every one that the 
 lease of his house was for sixty-three years, Lumley Ferrers 
 made a little calculation of his probable expenditure, which 
 he found, with good management, might amount to about one 
 fourth more than his income. 
 
 "I shall take the surplus out of my capital," said he, "and 
 try the experiment for five years; if it don't do, and pay me 
 profitably, why then either men are not to be lived upon, or 
 Lumley Ferrers is a much duller dog than he thinks himself! " 
 
 Mr. Ferrers had deeply studied the character of his uncle, 
 as a prudent speculator studies the qualities of a mine in 
 which he means to invest his capital, and much of his present 
 proceedings was intended to act upon the uncle as well as 
 upon the world. He saw that the more he could obtain for 
 himself, not a noisy, social, fashionable reputation, but a good, 
 sober, substantial one, the more highly Mr. Templeton would 
 consider him, and the more likely he was to be made his uncle's 
 heir, — that is, provided Mrs. Templeton did not supersede 
 the nepotal parasite by indigenous olive-branches. This last 
 apprehension died away as time passed and no signs of fer- 
 tility appeared. And, accordingly, Ferrers thought he might 
 prudently hazard more upon the game on which he now ven- 
 tured to rely. There was one thing, however, that greatly 
 disturbed his peace : Mr. Templeton, though harsh and austere 
 in his manner to bis wife, was evidently attached to her; and 
 above all, he cherished the fondest affection for his step- 
 daughter. He was as anxious for her health, her education, 
 her little childish enjoyments as if he had been, not only her 
 parent, but a very doting one. He could not bear her to be 
 crossed or thwarted. Mr. Templeton, who had never spoiled 
 anything before, not even an old pen (so careful and calculat- 
 ing and methodical was he), did his best to spoil this beauti- 
 
 18 
 
274 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 ful child, whom he could not even have the vain luxury of 
 thinking he had produced to the admiring world. Softly, 
 exquisitely lovely was that little girl; and every day she in- 
 creased in the charm of her person and in the caressing fas- 
 cination of her childish ways. Her temper was so sweet and 
 docile that fondness and petting, however injudiciously ex- 
 hibited, only seemed yet more to bring out the colours of a 
 grateful and tender nature. Perhaps the measured kindness 
 of more reserved affection might have been the true way of 
 spoiling one whose instincts were all for exacting and return- 
 ing love. She was a plant that suns less warm might have 
 nipped and chilled. But beneath an uncapricious and un- 
 clouded sunshine she sprang up in a luxurious bloom of heart 
 and sweetness of disposition. 
 
 Every one, even those who did not generall}^ like children, 
 delighted in this charming creature, excepting only Mr. 
 Lumley Ferrers. But that gentleman, less mild than Pope's 
 Narcissa, — 
 
 " To make a wash, had gladly stewed the child ! " 
 
 He had seen how very common it is for a rich man, married 
 late in life, *to leave everything to a young widow and her 
 children by her former marriage, when once attached to the 
 latter; and he sensibly felt that he himself had but a slight 
 hold over Templeton by the chain of the affections. He re- 
 solved, therefore, as much as possible to alienate his uncle 
 from his young wife, — trusting that as the influence of the 
 wife was weakened, that of the child would be lessened also, 
 — and to raise in Templeton 's vanity and ambition an ally 
 that might supply to himself the Avant of love. He pursued 
 his twofold scheme with masterly art and address. He first 
 sought to secure the confidence and regard of the melancholy 
 and gentle mother; and in this — for she Avas peculiarly un- 
 suspicious and inexperienced — he obtained signal and com- 
 plete success. His frankness of manner, his deferential 
 attention, the art with which he warded off from her the 
 spleen or ill-humour of Mr. Templeton, the cheerfulness that 
 his easy gayety threw over a very gloomy bouse, made the 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 275 
 
 poor lady hail his visits and trust in his friendship. Perhaps 
 she was glad of any interruption to tete-a-tetes with a severe 
 and ungenial husband, who had no sympathy for the sorrows, 
 of whatever nature they might be, which preyed upon her, 
 and who made it a point of morality to find fault wherever 
 he could. 
 
 The next step in Lumley's policy was to arm Templeton's 
 vanity against his wife, by constantly refreshing his con- 
 sciousness of the sacrifices he had made by marriage, and the 
 certainty that he would have attained all his wishes had 
 he chosen more prudently. By perpetually, but most judi- 
 ciously, rubbing this sore point, he, as it were, fixed the ir- 
 ritability into Templeton's constitution, and it reacted on all 
 his thoughts, aspiring or domestic. Still, however, to Lum- 
 ley's great surprise and resentment, while Templeton cooled 
 to his wife, he only warmed to her child. Lumley had not 
 calculated enough upon the thirst and craving for affection in 
 most human hearts; and Templeton, though not exactly an 
 amiable man, had some excellent qualities. If he had less 
 sensitively regarded the opinion of the world, he would neither 
 have contracted the vocabulary of cant, nor sickened for a 
 peerage; both his affectation of saintship, and his gnawing 
 desire of rank, arose from an extraordinary and morbid de- 
 ference to opinion, and a wish for worldly honours and respect, 
 which he felt that his mere talents could not secure to him. 
 But he was at bottom a kindly man, — charitable to the poor, 
 considerate to his servants, and had within him the want to 
 love and be loved, which is one of the desires wherewith the 
 atoms of the universe are cemented and harmonized. Had 
 Mrs. Templeton evinced love to him, he might have defied 
 all Lumley's diplomacy, been consoled for worldly disadvant- 
 ages, and been a good and even uxorious husband. But she 
 evidently did not love him, though an admirable, patient, 
 provident wife; and her daughter did love him, — love him as 
 well even as she loved her mother; and the hard worldling 
 would not have accepted a kingdom as the price of that little 
 fountain of pure and ever-refreshing tenderness. Wise and 
 penetrating as Lumley was, he never could thoroughly under- 
 
276 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 staud this weakness, as he called it; for we never know men 
 entirely, unless we have complete sympathies with men iu 
 all their natural emotions, — and Kature had left the work- 
 manship of Lumley Ferrers unfinished and incomplete, by 
 denying him the possibility of caring for anything but himself. 
 
 His plan for winning Templeton's esteem and deference 
 was, however, completely triumphant. He took care that 
 nothing in his menage should appear "extravagant;" all was 
 sober, quiet, and well-regulated. He declared that he had so 
 managed as to live within his income; and Templeton, receiv- 
 ing no hint for money, nor aware that Ferrers had on the 
 Continent consumed a considerable portion of his means, be- 
 lieved him. Ferrers gave a great many dinners, but he did 
 not go on that foolish plan, which has been laid down by per- 
 sons who pretend to know life, as a means of popularity, — he 
 did not profess to give dinners better than other people. He 
 knew that unless you are a very rich or a very great man, no 
 folly is equal to that of thinking that you soften the hearts of 
 your friends by soups a la bisque, and Johannisberg at a guinea 
 a bottle. They all go away saying, "What right has that 
 d — d fellow to give a better dinner than we do? What horrid 
 taste ! What ridiculous presumption ! " 
 
 No; though Ferrers himself was a most scientific epicure, 
 and held the luxury of the palate at the highest possible 
 price, he dieted his friends on what he termed ^^respectable 
 fare." His cook put plenty of flour into the oyster sauce; 
 cod's-head and shoulders made his invariable fish; and four 
 entrees, without flavour or pretence, were duly supplied by 
 the pastrycook, and carefully eschewed by the host. Neither 
 did Mr. Ferrers affect to bring about him gay wits and bril- 
 liant talkers. He confined himself to men of substantial con- 
 sideration, and generally took care to be himself the cleverest 
 person present; while he turned the conversation on serious 
 matters crammed for the occasion, — politics, stocks, com- 
 merce, and the criminal code. Pruning his gayety, though he 
 retained his frankness, he sought to be known as a highly-in- 
 formed, painstaking man, who would be sure to rise. His 
 connections and a certain nameless charm about him, consist- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 277 
 
 ing chiefly in a pleasant countenance, a bold yet winning 
 candour, and the absence of all hauteur or pretence, enabled 
 him to assemble round this plain table, which, if it gratified 
 no taste, wounded no self-love, a sufficient number of public 
 men of rank and eminent men of business to answer his pur- 
 pose. The situation he had chosen, so near the Houses of 
 Parliament, was convenient to politicians, and by degrees the 
 large, dingy drawing-rooms became a frequent resort for 
 public men to talk over those thousand underplots by which a 
 party is served or attacked. Thus, though not in parliament 
 himself, Ferrers became insensibly associated with parlia- 
 mentary men and things, and the ministerial party, whose 
 politics he espoused, praised him highly, made use of him, 
 and meant, some day or other, to do something for him. 
 
 While the career of this able and unprincipled man thus 
 opened, — and of course the opening was not made in a day, 
 — Ernest Maltravers was ascending by a rough, thorny, and 
 encumbered path to that eminence on which the monuments 
 of men are built. His success in public life was not brilliant 
 nor sudden; for though he had eloquence and knowledge, he 
 disdained all oratorical devices, and though he had passion 
 and energy, he could scarcely be called a warm partisan. He 
 met with much envy and many obstacles; and the gracious 
 and buoyant sociality of temper and manners that had in 
 early youth made him the idol of his contemporaries at school 
 or college, had long since faded away into a cold, settled, and 
 lofty, though gentle, reserve, which did not attract towards 
 him the animal spirits of the herd. But though he spoke sel- 
 dom, and heard many with half his powers more enthusias- 
 tically cheered, he did not fail of commanding attention and 
 respect; and though no darling of cliques and parties, yet in 
 that great body of the people who were ever the audience and 
 tribunal to which, in letters or in politics, Maltravers ap- 
 pealed, there was silently growing up, and spreading wide, a 
 belief in his upright intentions, his unpurchasable honour, 
 and his correct and well-considered views. He felt that his 
 name was safely invested, though the return for the capital 
 was slow and moderate. He was contented to abide his time. 
 
278 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Every day he grew more attached to that only true philoso- 
 phy which makes a man, as far as the world will permit, a 
 world to himself; and from the height of a tranquil and serene 
 self-esteem, he felt the sun shine above him, when malignant 
 clouds spread sullen and ungenial below. He did not despise 
 or wilfully shock opinion, neither did he fawn upon and flatter 
 it. Where he thought the world should be humoured, he hu- 
 moured; where contemned, he contemned it. There are many 
 cases in which an honest, well-educated, high-hearted individ- 
 ual is a much better judge than the multitude of what is right 
 and what is wrong; and in these matters he is not worth three 
 straws if he suffer the multitude to bully or coax him out of 
 his judgment. The Public, if you indulge it, is a most dam- 
 nable gossip, thrusting its nose into people's concerns, where 
 it has no right to make or meddle ; and in those things where 
 the Public is impertinent, Maltravers scorned and resisted its 
 interference as haughtily as he would the interference of any 
 insolent member of the insolent whole. It was this mixture 
 of deep love and profound respect for the eternal people, and 
 of calm, passionless disdain for that capricious charlatan, the 
 momentary public, which made Ernest Maltravers an original 
 and solitary thinker, and an actor in reality modest and be- 
 nevolent, in appearance arrogant and unsocial. "Pauperism, 
 in contradistinction to poverty," he was wont to say, "is the 
 dependence upon other people for existence, not on our own 
 exertions; there is a moral pauperism in the man who is de- 
 pendent on others for that support of moral life, self-respect." 
 
 Wrapped in this philosophy, he pursued his haughty and 
 lonesome way, and felt that in the deep heart of mankind, 
 when prejudices and envies should die off, there would be a 
 sympathy with his motives and his career. So far as his own 
 health was concerned, the experiment liad answered. No 
 mere drudgery of business, — late hours and dull speeches, — 
 can produce the dread exhaustion which follows the efforts of 
 the soul to mount into the higher air of severe thought or in- 
 tense imagination. Those faculties which had been over- 
 strained now lay fallow, and the frame rapidly regained its 
 tone. Of private comfort and inspiration Ernest knew but 
 
ERNEST MALTKAVERS. 279 
 
 little. He gradually grew estranged from his old friend Fer- 
 rers, as their habits became opposed. Cleveland lived more 
 and more in the country, and was too well satisfied with his 
 quondam pupil's course of life and progressive reputation to 
 ti'ouble him with exhortation or advice. Cesarini had grown 
 a literary lion, whose genius was vehemently lauded by all 
 the reviews, — on the same principle as that which induces us 
 to praise foreign singers or dead men : we must praise some- 
 thing, and we don't like to praise those who jostle ourselves. 
 Cesarini had therefore grown prodigiously conceited; swore 
 that England was the only country for true merit, and no 
 longer concealed his jealous anger at the wider celebrity of 
 Maltravers. Ernest saw him squandering away his sub- 
 stance, and prostituting his talents to drawing-room trifles, 
 Avith a compassionate sigh. He sought to Avarn him; but 
 Cesarini listened to him with such impatience that he re- 
 signed the office of monitor. He wrote to De IMontaigne, 
 who succeeded no better. Cesarini was bent on playing his 
 own game. And to one game, without a metaphor, he had at 
 last come. His craving for excitement vented itself at Haz- 
 ard, and his remaining guineas melted daily away. 
 
 But De Montaigne's letters to Maltravers consoled him for 
 the loss of less congenial friends. The Erenchman was now 
 an eminent and celebrated man, and his appreciation of Mal- 
 travers was sweeter to the latter than would have been the 
 huzzas of crowds. But all this while his vanity was pleased 
 and his curiosity roused by the continued correspondence of 
 his unseen Egeria. That correspondence (if so it may be 
 called, being all on one side) had now gone on for a consider- 
 able time, and he was still wholly unable to discover the au- 
 thor. Its tone had of late altered; it had become more sad 
 and subdued; it spoke of the hollowness as well as the re- 
 wards of fame ; and with a touch of true womanly sentiment, 
 often hinted more at the rapture of soothing dejection than of 
 sharing triumph. In all these letters there was the undenia- 
 ble evidence of high intellect and deep feeling; they excited 
 a strong and keen interest in ^laltravers, — yet the interest 
 was not that which made him wish to discover, in order that 
 
280 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 he might love, the writer. Tliey were for the most part too 
 full of the irony and bitterness of a Tnan's spirit to fascinate 
 one who considered that gentleness was the essence of a 
 woman's strength. Temper spoke in them, no less than mind 
 and heart; and it was not the sort of temper which a man 
 who loves women to be womanly could admire. 
 
 " I hear you often spoken of," ran one of these strange epistles, " and 
 I am ahnost equally angry whether fools presume to praise or to blame 
 you. This miserable world we live in, how I loathe and disdain it ! yet 
 I desire you to serve and to master it. Weak contradiction, effeminate 
 paradox. Oh, rather a thousand times that you would fly from its mean 
 temptations and poor rewards ! If the desert were your dwelling-place 
 and you wished one minister, I could renounce all — wealth, flattery, 
 repute, womanhood — to serve you. 
 
 " I once admired you for your genius. My disease has fastened on 
 me, and I now almost worship you for yourself. I have seen you, Ernest 
 Maltravers, — seen you often, — and when you never suspected that 
 these eyes were on you. Now that I have seen, I understand you better. 
 We cannot judge men by their books and deeds. Posterity can know 
 nothing of the beings of the past. A thousand books never written, a 
 thousand deeds never done, are in the eyes and lips of the few greater 
 than the herd. In that cold, abstracted gaze, that pale and haughty 
 brow, I read the disdain of obstacles wliich is worthy of one who is con- 
 fident of the goal. But my eyes fill with tears when I survey you ! 
 You are sad, you are alone ! If failures do not mortify you, success 
 does not elevate. Oh, Maltravers, I, woman as I am, and living in a 
 narrow circle, I, even I, know at last that to have desires nobler, and 
 ends more august, than others, is but to surrender waking life to morbid 
 and melancholy dreams. 
 
 "Go more into the world, INIaltravers, — go more into the world, or 
 quit it altogether. Your enemies must be met ; they accumulate, they 
 grow strong. You are too tranquil, too slow in your steps towards the 
 prize which should be yours, to satisfy my impatience, to satisfy your 
 friends. Be less refined in your ambition, that you may be more imme- 
 diately useful. The feet of clay, after all, are the swiftest in the race. 
 Even Lumley Ferrers will outstrip you if you do not take heed. 
 
 " Why do I run on thus ? You — you love another ; yet you are not 
 less the ideal that I could love, — if I ever loved any one. You love — 
 and yet — well, no matter." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 281 
 
 CHAPTER II, 
 
 Well, but this is being only an official nobleman. No matter, 't is still 
 being a nobleman, and that 's his aim. — Anonymous writer of 1772. 
 
 La musique est le seul des talents qui jouissent de lui-meme ; tous les autres 
 veulent des te'moins.i — Marmontel. 
 
 Thus the slow ox would gaudy trappings claim. — Hor.\ce. 
 
 Mr. Templetox had not obtained his peerage; and though 
 he had met with no direct refusal, nor made even a direct ap- 
 plication to headquarters, he was growing sullen. He had 
 great parliamentary influence, — not close borough, illegiti- 
 mate influence, but very proper orthodox influence of charac- 
 ter, wealth, and so forth. He could return one member at 
 least for a city, he could almost return one member for a 
 county, and in three boroughs any activity on his part could 
 turn the scale in a close contest. The ministers were strong, 
 but still they could not afford to lose supporters hitherto zeal- 
 ous, — the example of desertion is contagious. In the town 
 which Templeton had formerly represented, and which he 
 now almost commanded, a vacancy suddenly occurred : a can- 
 didate started on the Opposition side and commenced a canvass ; 
 to the astonishment and panic of the Secretary of the Treas- 
 ury, Templeton put forward no one, and his interest remained 
 dormant. Lord Saxingham hurried to Lumley. 
 
 "My dear fellow, what is this? What can your uncle be 
 about? We shall lose this place, — one of our strongholds. 
 Bets run even." 
 
 " Why, you see, you have all behaved very ill to my uncle. 
 I am really sorry for it, but T can do nothing." 
 
 "What, this confounded peerage! Will that content him, 
 and nothing short of it? " 
 
 1 " Music is the sole taleut which gives pleasure of itself ; all the others 
 require witnesses." 
 
282 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Notliing." 
 
 " He must have it, by Jove ! " 
 
 "And even tliat may come too late." 
 
 "Ha! do you tliinkso?" 
 
 "Will you leave the matter to me?" 
 
 " Certainly. You are a monstrous clever fellow, and we all 
 esteem you." 
 
 "Sit down and write as I dictate, my dear lord." 
 
 "Well," said Lord Saxingham, seating himself at Lumley's 
 enormous writing-table, "well, go on." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Templeton — " 
 
 "Too familiar," said Lord Saxingham. 
 "Not a. bit; go on. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Templetox, — We are anxious to secure your par- 
 liamentary influence in C to the proper quarter, — namely, to your 
 
 own family, as the best defenders of the Administration which you honour 
 by j^our support. We wish signally at the same time to express our con- 
 fidence in your principles, and our gratitude for your countenance." 
 
 "D — d sour countenance! " muttered Lord Saxingham. 
 
 " Accordingly," continued Ferrers, " as one whose connection with 
 you permits the liberty, allow me to request that you will suffer our joint 
 relation, Mr. Ferrers, to be put into immediate nomination." 
 
 Lord Saxingham threw down the pen and laughed for two 
 minutes without ceasing. "Capital, Lumley, capital! Very 
 odd I did not think of it before." 
 
 "Each man for himself, and God for us all," returned 
 Lumley, gravely; "pray go on, my dear lord. 
 
 " We are sure you could not have a representative that would more 
 faithfully reflect your own opinions and our interests. One word more. 
 A creation of peers will probably take place in the spring, among which 
 I am sure your name would be to his Majesty a gratifying addition. 
 The title will of course be secured to your sons, and failing the latter, to 
 your nephew. 
 
 " W ith great regard and respect, 
 
 " Truly yours, 
 
 " Saxingham." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 283 
 
 "There! inscribe that 'Private and confidential,' and send 
 it express to my uncle's villa." 
 
 *' It shall be done, my dear Lumley ; and this contents me 
 as much as it does you. You are really a man to do us credit. 
 You think it will be arranged?," 
 
 "No doubt of it." 
 
 "Well, good-day. Lumley, come to me when it is all set- 
 tled. Florence is always glad to see you,— she says no one 
 amuses her more ; and I am sure that is rare praise, for she is 
 a strange girl, — quite a Timon in petticoats." 
 
 Away went Lord Saxingham. 
 
 " Florence glad to see me ! " said Lumley, throwing his 
 arms behind him, and striding to and fro the room. "Scheme 
 the Second begins to smile upon me behind the advancing 
 shadow of Scheme One. If I can but succeed in keeping away 
 other suitors from my fair cousin until I am in a condition to 
 propose myself, why, I may carry oif the greatest match in the 
 three kingdoms. Courage, mon brave Ferrers, courage ! ''"' 
 
 It was late that evening when Ferrers arrived at his uncle's 
 villa. He found Mrs. Templeton in the drawing-room seated 
 at the piano. He entered gently; she did not hear him, and 
 continued at the instrument. Her voice was so sweet and 
 rich, her taste so pure, that Ferrers, who was a good judge of 
 music, stood in delighted surprise. Often as he had now 
 been a visitor, even an inmate, at the house, he had never be- 
 fore heard Mrs. Templeton play any but sacred airs; and this 
 Avas one of the popular songs of sentiment. He perceived 
 that her feeling at last overpowered her voice, and she paused 
 abruptly, and turning round, her face was so eloquent of 
 emotion that Ferrers was forcibly struck by its expression. 
 He was not a man apt to feel curiosity for anything not im- 
 mediately concerning himself; but he did feel curious about 
 this melancholy and beautiful woman. There was in her 
 usual aspect that inexpressible look of profound resignation 
 which betokens a lasting remembrance of a bitter past : a pre- 
 maturely blighted heart spoke in her eyes, in her smile, her 
 languid and joyless step. But she performed the routine of 
 her quiet duties vrith a calm and conscientious regularity 
 
284 ERXEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 which showed that grief rather depressed than disturbed her 
 thoughts. If her burden were heavy, custom seemed to have 
 reconciled her to bear it without repining; and the emotion 
 which Ferrers now traced in her soft and harmonious features 
 was of a nature he had only once witnessed before, — namely, 
 on the first night he had seen her, when poetry, which is the 
 key of memory, had evidently opened a chamber haunted by 
 mournful and troubled ghosts. 
 
 "Ah I dear madam," said Ferrers, advancing, as he found 
 himself discovered, "I trust I do not disturb you; my visit is 
 unseasonable. But my uncle, where is he?" 
 
 "He has been in town all the morning; he said he should 
 dine out, and I now expect him every minute." 
 
 "You have been endeavouring to charm away the sense of 
 his absence. Dare I ask you to continue to play? It is sel- 
 dom that I hear a voice so sweet and skill so consummate. 
 You must have been instructed by the best Italian masters." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Templeton, with a very slight colour in 
 her delicate cheek, "I learned young, and of one who loved 
 music and felt it, but who was not a foreigner." 
 
 "Will you sing me that song again? You give the words 
 a beauty I never discovered in them; yet they, as well as the 
 music itself, are by my poor friend whom Mr. Templeton does 
 not like, — Maltr avers. " 
 
 "Are they his also?" said Mrs. Templeton, with emotion. 
 "It is strange I did not know it. I heard the air in the 
 streets, and it struck me much; I inqviired the name of the 
 song and bought it. It is very strange ! " 
 
 "What is strange?" 
 
 "That there is a kind of language in jonv friend's music 
 and poetry which comes home to me like words I have heard 
 years ago! Is he young, this Mr. Maltravers?" 
 
 "Yes, he is still young." 
 
 "And, and — " 
 
 Here Mrs. Templeton was interrupted by the entrance of 
 her husband. He held the letter from Lord Saxingham; it 
 was yet unopened. He seemed moody ; but that was common 
 with him. He coldly shook hands with Lumley, nodded to 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 285 
 
 his wife, found fault with the fire, and throwing himself into 
 his easy -chair, said, "So, Lumley, I think I was a fool for 
 taking your advice and hanging back about this new election. 
 I see by the evening papers that there is shortly to be a crea- 
 tion of peers. If 1 had shown activity on behalf of the Gov- 
 ernment, I might have shamed them into gratitude." 
 
 "I think I was right, sir," replied Lumley; "public men 
 are often alarmed into gratitude, seldom shamed into it. 
 Firm votes, like old friends, are most valued when we think 
 we are about to lose them. But what is that letter in your 
 hand?," 
 
 "Oh! some begging petition, I suppose." 
 
 "Pardon me! it has an official look." 
 
 Templeton put on his spectacles, raised the letter, examined 
 the address and seal, hastily opened it, and broke into an ex- 
 clamation very like an oath. When he had concluded, — 
 "Give me your hand, nephew, — the thing is settled. I am 
 to have the peerage. You were right; ha, ha! My dear 
 wife, you will be my lady, — think of that! Are n't you glad? 
 Why doesn't your ladyship smile? Where's the child, — 
 where is she, I say?" 
 
 "Gone to bed, sir," said Mrs. Templeton, half frightened. 
 
 " Gone to bed ! I must go and kiss her. Gone to bed, has 
 she? Light that candle, Lumley." Here Mr. Templeton 
 rang the bell. "John," said he, as the servant entered, — 
 "John, tell James to go the first thing in the morning to 
 Baxter's and tell him not to paint my chariot till he hears 
 from me. I must go kiss the child, — I must, really." 
 
 " D — the child ! " muttered Lumley, as, after giving the 
 candle to his uncle, he turned to the fire. "What the deuce 
 has she got to do with the matter? — Charming little girl, 
 yours, madam! How I love her! My uncle dotes on her, — 
 no wonder! " 
 
 "He is, indeed, very, very fond of her," said Mrs. Temjile- 
 ton, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depth of her 
 heart. 
 
 "Did he take a fancy to her before you were married?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe — oh, yes, certainly ! " 
 
286 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Her own father could not be more fond of her." 
 
 Mrs. Templeton made no answer, but lighted her candle, 
 and wishing Lumley good-night, glided from the room. 
 
 "I wonder if my grave aunt and my grave uncle took a 
 bite at the apple before they bought the right of the tree. 
 It looks suspicious, — yet no, it can't be; there is nothing 
 of the seducer or the seductive about the old fellow. It is 
 not likely — Here he comes." 
 
 In came Templeton, and his eyes were moist and his brow 
 relaxed. 
 
 "And how is the little angel, sir?" asked Ferrers. 
 
 "She kissed me, though I woke her up, — children are usu- 
 ally cross when wakened." 
 
 "Are they? — little dears! Well, sir, so I was right, then; 
 may I see the letter? " 
 
 "There it is." 
 
 Ferrers drew his chair to the fire, and read his own produc- 
 tion with all the satisfaction of an anonymous author. 
 
 "How kind; how considerate; how delicately put! — a 
 double favour! But perhaps, after all, it does not express 
 your wishes." 
 
 "In what way? " 
 
 " Why — why — about myself. " 
 
 " You! Is there anything about you in it? I did not ob- 
 serve that, — let me see." 
 
 "Uncles never selfish! — mem. for commonplace book!" 
 thought Ferrers, 
 
 The uncle knit his brows as he re-perused the letter. " This 
 won't do, Lumley," said he, very shortly, when he had done. 
 
 "A seat in parliament is too much honour for a poor 
 nephew, then, sir?" said Lumley, very bitterly, though he 
 did not feel at all bitter; but it was the proper tone. "I have 
 done all in my power to advance your ambition, and you will 
 not even lend a hand to forward me one step in my career. 
 But forgive me, sir, I have no right to expect it." 
 
 "Lumley," replied Templeton, kindly, "you mistake me. 
 I think much more highly of you than I did, — much. There 
 is a steadiness, a sobriety about you most praiseworthy, and 
 
ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 287 
 
 you shall go into parliament if you wish it; but not for 
 
 C . I will give my interest there to some other friend of 
 
 the Government, and in return they can give you a Treasury 
 borough! That is the same thing to you." 
 
 Lumley was agreeably surprised; he pressed his uncle's 
 hand warmly, and thanked him cordially. Mr. Templeton 
 proceeded to explain to him that it was inconvenient and ex- 
 pensive sitting for places where one's family was known, and 
 Lumley fully subscribed to all. 
 
 "As for the settlement of the peerage, that is all right," 
 said Templeton; and then he sank into a re very from which 
 he broke joyously. " Yes, that is all right. I have projects, 
 objects, — this may unite them all; nothing can be better. 
 You will be the next lord, what — I say, what title shall we 
 have? " 
 
 "Oh, take a sounding one! You have very little landed 
 property, I think? " 
 
 "Two thousand a year in shire, — bought a bargain." 
 
 " What 's the name of the place? " 
 
 "Grubley." 
 
 "Lord Grubley! Baron Grubley of Grubley, — oh, atro- 
 cious! Who had the place before you? " 
 
 "Bought it of Mr. Sheepshanks, — very old family." 
 
 "But surely some old Norman once had the place?" 
 
 "Norman, yes! Henry the Second gave it to his barber, — 
 Bertram Courval." 
 
 "That's it! that 's it! Lord de Courval, — singular coinci- 
 dence; descent from the old line! Herald's College soon 
 settle all that. Lord de Courval, — nothing can sound better! 
 There must be a village or hamlet still called Courval about 
 the property." 
 
 "I am afraid not. There is Coddle End." 
 
 " Coddle End, Coddle End ! The very thing, sir, the very 
 thing, — clear corruption from Courval! Lord de Courval of 
 Courval! Superb! Ha, ha!" 
 
 "Ha, ha! " laughed Templeton; and he had hardly laughed 
 before since he was thirty. 
 
 The relations sat long and conversed familiarly. Ferrers 
 
288 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 slept at the villa, and his sleep was sound, for he thought 
 little of plans once formed and half executed ; it was the hunt 
 that kept him awake, and he slept like a hound when the prey 
 was down. Not so Templeton, who did not close his eyes all 
 night. "Yes, yes," thought he, "I must get the fortune and 
 the title in one line by a prudent management. Ferrers de- 
 serves what I mean to do for him. Steady, good-natured, 
 frank, and will get on, — yes, yes; I see it all. Meanwhile I 
 
 did well to prevent his standing for C ; might pick up 
 
 gossip about Mrs. T., and other things that might be un- 
 pleasant. Ah, I 'm a shrewd fellow ! " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Lauzun. There, Marquis, there, I 've done it. 
 Montespan. Done it ! yes ! Nice doings ! 
 
 La Duchesse de la Valllere. 
 
 LuMLEY hastened to strike while the iron was hot. The 
 next morning he went straight to the Treasury, saw the man- 
 aging secretary, — a clever, sharp man, who, like Ferrers, 
 carried oft" intrigue and manoeuvre by a blunt, careless, bluff 
 manner. 
 
 Ferrers announced that he was to stand for the free, re- 
 spectable, open city of C , with an electoral population 
 
 of twenty-five hundred. A very showy place it was for a 
 member in the old ante-reform times, and was considered a 
 thoroughly independent borough. The secretary congratu- 
 lated and complimented him. 
 
 "We have had losses lately in «?/?• elections among the 
 larger constituencies," said Lumley. 
 
 "We have indeed, — three towns lost in the last six months. 
 Members do die so very unseasonably." 
 
 "Is Lord Staunch yet provided for? " asked Lumley. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 289 
 
 Now, Lord Staunch was one of the popular show-fight great 
 guns of the Administration, — not in office, but that most use- 
 ful person to all Governments, an out-and-out supporter upon 
 the most independent principles; who was known to have re- 
 fused place, and to value himself on independence; a man 
 who helped the Government over the stile when it was seized 
 with a temporary lameness, and who carried "great weight 
 with him in the country," Lord Staunch had foolishly thrown 
 up a close borough in order to contest a large city, and had 
 failed in the attempt. His failure was everywhere cited as a 
 proof of the growing unpopularity of ministers. 
 
 " Is Lord Staunch yet provided for? " asked Lumley. 
 "Why, he must have his old seat, — Three-Oaks. Three- 
 Oaks is a nice quiet little place, — most respectable constitu- 
 ency; all Staunch's own family." 
 
 " Just the thing for him. Yet, 't is a pity that he did not 
 wait to stand for C ; my uncle's interest would have se- 
 cured him." 
 
 "Ay, I thought so the moment C was vacant. How- 
 ever, it is too late now." 
 
 "It would be a great triumph if Lord Staunch could show 
 that a large constituency volunteered to elect him without 
 expense." 
 
 " Without expense ! Ah, yes, indeed ! It would prove that 
 purity of election still exists, — that British institutions are 
 still upheld." 
 
 "It might be done, Mr. ." 
 
 " Why, I thought that you — " 
 
 "Were to stand, — that is true; and it will be difficult to 
 manage my uncle. But he loves me much, — you know I am 
 his heir, — I believe I could do it; that is, if you think it 
 would be a very great advantage to the party, and a very great 
 service to the Government." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Ferrers, it would indeed be both." 
 "And in that case I could have Three-Oaks." 
 "I see, — exactly so; but to give up so respectable a seat — 
 Really it is a sacrifice." 
 
 " Say no more ; it shall be done. A deputation shall wait 
 
 19 
 
290 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 on Lord Staunch directly. I will see my uncle, and a de- 
 spatch shall be sent down to C to-night, — at least, I hope 
 
 so. I must not be too confident. My uncle is an old man, 
 — nobody but myself can manage him; I'll go this instant." 
 
 "You may be sure your kindness will be duly appreciated." 
 
 Lumley shook hands cordially with the secretary and re- 
 tired. The secretary was not "humbugged," nor did Lumley 
 expect he should be. But the secretary noted this of Lum- 
 ley Ferrers (and that gentleman's object was gained), that 
 Lumley Ferrers was a man who looked out for office, and if 
 he did tolerably w^ell in parliament, that Lumley Ferrers was 
 a man who ought to be pushed. 
 
 Very shortly afterwards the Gazette announced the elec- 
 tion of Lord Staunch for C , after a sharp but decisive 
 
 contest. The ministerial journals rang with exulting paeans ; 
 
 the opposition ones called the electors of C all manner 
 
 of hard names, and declared that Mr. Stout, Lord Staunch's 
 opponent, would petition, — which he never did. In the 
 midst of the hubbub Mr. Lumley Ferrers quietly and unob- 
 servedly crept into the representation of Three-Oaks. 
 
 On the night of his election he went to Lord Saxingham's; 
 but what there happened deserves another chapter. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 291 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Je connais des princes du sang, des princes ctrangers, des grands seigneurs, 
 des ministres d'e'tat, des magistrals, et des philosophes qui fileraient pour 
 I'ainour de vous. En pouvez-vous demander davantage.' — Lettres de Madame 
 de Sevign^. 
 
 Lindore. I — I believe it will choke me ; I 'm in love. . , . 
 Now hold your tongue. Hold your tongue, I say. 
 Dalner. You in love ? Ha! ha! 
 Lind, There, he laughs ! 
 
 DaL. No; I am really sorry for you — German Play (False Delicacy). 
 . . . What is here 'i 
 
 Gold. — Shakspeare. 
 
 It happened that that evening Maltravers had, for the first 
 time, accepted one of many invitations with which Lord 
 Saxingham had honoured him. His lordship and Maltravers 
 were of different political parties, nor were they in other 
 respects adapted to each other. Lord Saxingham was a clever 
 man in his way, but worldly even to a proverb among worldly 
 people. That "man was born to walk erect, and look upon 
 the stars," is an eloquent fallacy that Lord Saxingham might 
 suffice to disprove. He seemed born to walk with a stoop; 
 and if he ever looked upon any stars, they were those which 
 go with a garter. Though of celebrated and historical ances- 
 try, great rank, and some personal reputation, he had all the 
 ambition of a parvenu. He had a strong regard for office, not 
 so much from the sublime affection for that sublime thing, — 
 power over the destinies of a glorious nation, — as because it 
 added to that vulgar thing, — importance in his own set. He 
 looked on his Cabinet uniform as a beadle looks on his gold 
 lace. He also liked patronage, secured good things to distant 
 
 ^ " I know princes of the blood, foreign princes, great lords, ministers of 
 state, magistrates, and philosophers who would even spin for love of you. 
 What can you ask more ^ " 
 
292 ERXEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 connections, got on his family to the remotest degree of rela- 
 tionship, — in short, he was of the earth, earthy. He did 
 not comprehend Maltravers ; and Maltravers, who every day 
 grew prouder and prouder, despised him. Still, Lord Sax- 
 ingham was told that Maltravers was a rising man, and he 
 thought it well to be civil to rising men, of whatever party ; 
 besides, his vanity was flattered by having men who are 
 talked of in his train. He was too busy and too great a per- 
 sonage to think Maltravers could be other than sincere when 
 he declared himself, in his notes "very sorry," or "much 
 concerned*," to forego the honour of dining with Lord Saxing- 
 ham on the, etc., etc., and therefore continued his invita- 
 tions till IVIaltravers, from that fatality which undoubtedly 
 regulates and controls us, at last accepted the proffered 
 distinction. 
 
 He arrived late. Most of the guests were assembled, and 
 after exchanging a few words with his host, Ernest fell back 
 into the general group, and found himself in the immediate 
 neighbourhood of Lady Florence Lascelles. This lady had 
 never much pleased Maltravers, for he was not fond of mas- 
 culine or coquettish heroines, and Lady Florence seemed to 
 him to merit both epithets ; therefore, though he had met her 
 often since the first day he had been introduced to her, he 
 had usually contented himself with a distant bow or a passing 
 salutation. But now, as he turned round and saw her, she 
 was, for a miracle, sitting alone; and in her most dazzling 
 and noble countenance there was so evident an appearance of 
 ill health that he was struck and touched by it. In fact, 
 beautiful as she was, both in face and form, there was some- 
 thing in the eye and the bloom of Lady Florence which a 
 skilful physician would have seen with prophetic pain ; and 
 whenever occasional illness paled the roses of the cheek and 
 sobered the play of the lips, ev-en an ordinary observer would 
 have thought of the old commonplace proverb, "That the 
 brightest beauty has the briefest life." It was some senti- 
 ment of this kind, perhaps, that now awakened the sympathy 
 of Maltravers. He addressed her with more marked courtesy 
 than usual, and took a seat by her side. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 293 
 
 "You have been to the House, I suppose, Mr. Maltravers?" 
 said Lady Florence. 
 
 "Yes, for a short time. It is not one of our field-nights, 
 — no division was expected ; and by this time, I dare say, the 
 House has been counted out." 
 
 "Do you like the life?" 
 
 " It has excitement, " said Maltravers, evasively. 
 
 "And the excitement is of a noble character? " 
 
 "Scarcely so, I fear, — it is so made up of mean and malig- 
 nant motives ; there is in it so much jealousy of our friends, 
 so much unfairness to our enemies; such readiness to attrib- 
 ute to others the basest objects, such willingness to avail our- 
 selves of the poorest stratagems ! The ends may be great, but 
 the means are very ambiguous." 
 
 "I knew you would feel this," exclaimed Lady Florence, 
 with a heightened colour. 
 
 "Did you?" said Maltravers, rather interested as well as 
 surprised. "I scarcely imagined it possible that you would 
 deign to divine secrets so insignificant." 
 
 "You did not do me justice, then," returned Lady Florence, 
 with an arch yet half painful smile; " for — But I was about 
 to be impertinent." 
 
 "Nay, say on." 
 
 " For — then — I do not imagine you to be one apt to do in- 
 justice to yourself." 
 
 "Oh, you consider me presumptuous and arrogant; but that 
 is common report, and you do right, perhaps, to believe it." 
 
 "Was there ever any one unconscious of his own merit?" 
 asked Lady Florence, proudly. "They who distrust them- 
 selves have good reason for it." 
 
 " You seek to cure the wound you inflicted, " returned Mal- 
 travers, smiling. 
 
 "No; what I said was an apology for myself, as well as for 
 3^ou. You need no words to vindicate you ; you are a man, 
 and can bear out all arrogance with the royal motto, — Dieri et 
 rnon droit. With you, deeds can support pretension; but 
 I am a woman, — it was a mistake of Nature." 
 
 " But what triumphs that man can achieve bring so imme- 
 
294 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 diate, so palpable, a reward as those won by a woman, beau- 
 tiful and admired, — who finds every room an empire, and 
 every class her subjects?" 
 
 "It is a despicable realm." 
 
 "What! to command, to win, to bow to your worship the 
 greatest and the highest and the sternest ; to own slaves in 
 those whom men recognize as their lords? Is such a power 
 despicable? If so, what power is to be envied?" 
 
 Lady Florence turned quickly round to Maltravers, and 
 fixed on him her large dark eyes, as if she would read into 
 his very heart. She turned away with a blush and a slight 
 frown. "There is mockery on your lip," said she. 
 
 Before Maltravers could answer, dinner was announced, 
 and a foreign ambassador claimed the hand of Lady Florence. 
 Maltravers saw a young lady, with gold oats in her very light 
 hair, fall to his lot, and descended to the dining-room, think- 
 ing more of Lady Florence Lascelles than he had ever done 
 before. 
 
 He happened to sit nearly opposite to the young mistress 
 of the house (Lord Saxingham, as the reader knows, was a 
 widower, and Lady Florence an only child) and Maltravers 
 was that day in one of those felicitous moods in which our 
 animal spirits search and carry up, as it were, to the surface, 
 our intellectual gifts and acquisitions. He conversed gener- 
 ally and happily; but once, when he turned his eyes to ap- 
 peal to Lady Florence for her opinion on some point in dis- 
 cussion, he caught her gaze fixed upon him with an expression 
 that checked the current of his gayety, and cast him into a 
 curious and bewildered revery. In that gaze there was earn- 
 est and cordial admiration ; but it was mixed with so much 
 mournfulness that the admiration lost its eloquence, and he 
 who noticed it was rather saddened than flattered. 
 
 After dinner, when Maltravers sought the drawing-rooms, 
 he found them filled with the customary mob of good society. 
 In one corner he discovered Castruccio Cesarini playing on a 
 guitar slung across his breast with a blue ribbon. The Ital- 
 ian sang well ; many young ladies were grouped round him, 
 amongst others Florence Lascelles. Maltravers, fond as he 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 295 
 
 was of music, looked upon Castruccio's performance as a dis- 
 agreeable exhibition. He had a Quixotic idea of the dignity 
 of talent; and though himself of a musical science and a mel- 
 ody of voice that would have thrown the room into ectasies, 
 he would as soon have turned juggler or tumbler for polite 
 amusement as contend for the bravoes of a drawing-room. It 
 was because he was one of the proudest men in the world that 
 Maltravers was one of the least vain ; he did not care a rush 
 for applause in small things. But Cesarini would have sum- 
 moned the whole world to see him play at push-pin, if he 
 thought he played it well. 
 
 "Beautiful! divine! charming!" cried the young ladies, 
 as Cesarini ceased; and Maltravers observed that Florence 
 praised more earnestly than the rest, and that Cesarini's dark 
 eyes sparkled, and his pale cheek flushed with unwonted bril- 
 liancy. Florence turned to Maltravers, and the Italian, fol- 
 lowing her eyes, frowned darkly. 
 
 "You know the Signor Cesarini," said Florence, joining 
 Maltravers. "He is an interesting and gifted person." 
 
 " Unquestionably. I grieve to see him wasting his talents 
 upon a soil that may yield a few short-lived flowers, without 
 one useful plant or productive fruit." 
 
 "He enjoys the passing hour, Mr. Maltravers; and some- 
 times when I see the mortifications that await sterner labour, 
 I think he is right." 
 
 "Hush! " said Maltravers; "his eyes are on us, — he is lis- 
 tening breathlessly for every word you utter. I fear that you 
 have made an unconscious conquest of a poet's heart; and if 
 so, he purchases the enjoyment of the passing hour at a 
 fearful price." 
 
 "Nay," said Lady Florence, indifferently, "he is one of 
 those to whom the fancy supplies the place of the heart. 
 And if I give him an inspiration, it will be an equal luxury 
 to him whether his lyre be strung to hope or disappointment. 
 The sweetness of his verses will compensate to him for any 
 bitterness in actual life." 
 
 "There are two kinds of love," answered Maltravers, — 
 "love, and self-love; the wounds of the last are often most 
 
296 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 incurable in those who appear least vulnerable to the first. 
 Ah, Lady Florence, were I privileged to play the monitor, I 
 would venture on one warning, however much it might offend 
 you." 
 
 " And that is — " 
 
 "To forbear coquetry," 
 
 Maltravers smiled as he spoke, but it was gravely, and at 
 the same time he moved gently away. But Lady Florence 
 laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Mr. Maltravers," said she, very softly, and with a kind 
 of faltering in her tone, "am I wrong to say that I am anx- 
 ious for your good opinion? Do not judge me harshly. I am 
 soured, discontented, unhappy. I have no sympathy with 
 the world. These men whom I see around me, what are they? 
 The mass of them unfeeling and silken egotists, — ill-judging, 
 ill-educated, well-dressed; the few who are called distin- 
 guished, — how selfish in their ambition, how passionless in 
 their pursuits! Am I to be blamed if I sometimes exert a 
 power over such as these which rather proves my scorn of 
 them than my own vanity?" 
 
 "I have no right to argue with you." 
 
 " Yes, argue with me, convince me, guide me. Heaven 
 knows that, impetuous and haughty as I am, I need a guide;" 
 — and Lady Florence's eyes swam with tears. Ernest's prej- 
 udices against her were greatly shaken; he was even some- 
 what dazzled by her beauty, and touched by her unexpected 
 gentleness. But still, his heart was not assailed, and he re- 
 plied almost coldly, after a short pause, — 
 
 " Dear Lady Florence, look round the world : who so much 
 to be envied as yourself? What sources of happiness and 
 pride are open to you! Why, then, make to yourself causes 
 of discontent? Why be scornful of those who cross not your 
 path? Why not look with charity upon God's less-endowed 
 children, beneath you as they may seem? What consolation 
 have you in hurting the hearts or the vanities of others? Do 
 you raise yourself even in your own estimation? You affect 
 to be above your sex ; yet what character do you despise more 
 in women than that which you assume? Semiramis should 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 297 
 
 not be a coquette. There, now, I have offended you; I con- 
 fess I am very rude." 
 
 "I am not offended," said Florence, almost struggling with 
 her tears ; and she added inly, " Ah, 1 am too happy ! " There 
 are some lips from which even the proudest women love to 
 hear the censure which appears to disprove indifference. 
 
 It was at this time that Lumley Ferrers, flushed with the 
 success of his schemes and projects, entered the room; and 
 his quick eye fell upon that corner, in which he detected 
 what appeared to him a very alarming flirtation between his 
 rich cousin and Ernest Maltravers. He advanced to the spot, 
 and with his customary frankness extended a hand to each. 
 
 "Ah, my dear and fair cousin! give me your congratula- 
 tions, and ask me for my first frank, — to be bound up in a 
 collection of autographs by distinguished senators ; it will sell 
 high one of these days. Your most obedient, Mr. Maltrav- 
 ers! How we shall laugh in our sleeves at the humbug of 
 politics when you and I, the best friends in the world, sit 
 vis-d-vis on opposite benches. But why, Lady Florence, have 
 you never introduced me to your pet Italian? Allans ! I am 
 his match in Alfieri, whom, of course, he swears by, and whose 
 verses, by the way, seem cut out of box-wood, — the hardest 
 material for turning oft' that sort of machinery that invention 
 ever hit on." 
 
 Thus saying, Ferrers contrived, as he thought, very cleverly, 
 to divide a pair that he much feared were justly formed to 
 meet by Nature; and to his great joy, Maltravers shortly 
 afterwards withdrew. 
 
 Ferrers, with the happy ease that belonged to his compla- 
 cent though plotting character soon made Cesarini at home 
 with him; and two or three slighting expressions which the 
 former dropped with respect to Maltravers, coupled with 
 some outrageous compliments to the Italian, completely won 
 the heart of the poet. The brilliant Florence was more silent 
 and subdued than usual, and her voice was softer, though 
 graver, when she replied to Castruccio's eloquent appeals. 
 Castruccio was one of those men who talk fine. By degrees, 
 Lumley lapsed into silence, and listened to what took place 
 
298 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 between Lady Florence and the Italian, while appearing to 
 be deep in "The Views of the Rhine," which lay on the table. 
 
 "Ah," said the latter, in his soft native tougue, "could 
 you know how I watch every shade of that countenance which 
 makes my heaven! Is it clouded, night is with mej is it 
 radiant, I am as the Persian gazing on the sun ! " 
 
 "Why do you speak thus to me? Were you not a poet, I 
 might be angry." 
 
 "You were not angry when the English poet, that cold 
 Maltravers, spoke to you perhaps as boldly." 
 
 Lady Florence drew up her haughty head. "Signor," said 
 she, checking, however, her first impulse, and with mildness, 
 "Mr. Maltravers neither flatters nor — " 
 
 "Presumes, you were about to say," said Cesarini, grinding 
 his teeth. " But it is well ! Once you were less chilling to 
 the utterance of my deep devotion." 
 
 "Never, Signor Cesarini, never, but when I thought it was 
 but the common gallantry of your nation; let me think so 
 still." 
 
 "No, proud woman," said Cesarini, fiercely; "no, — hear 
 the truth." 
 
 Lady Florence rose indignantly. 
 
 "Hear me," he continued. "I — I, the poor foreigner, the 
 despised minstrel, dare to lift up my eyes to you! I love 
 you!" 
 
 Never had Florence Lascelles been so humiliated and con- 
 founded. However she might have amused herself with the 
 vanity of Cesarini, she had not given him, as she thought, 
 the warrant to address her — the great Lady Florence, the 
 prize of dukes and princes — in this hardy manner; she al- 
 most fancied him insane. But the next moment she recalled 
 the warning of Maltravers, and felt as if her punishment had 
 commenced. 
 
 "You will think and speak more calmly, sir, when we meet 
 again; " and so saying she swept away. 
 
 Cesarini remained rooted to the spot, with his dark coun- 
 tenance expressing such passions as are rarely seen in the 
 aspects of civilized men. 
 
erxp:st maltravers. 299 
 
 "Where do you lodge, Signor Cesarini?" asked the bland, 
 familiar voice of Ferrers. " Let us walk part of the way to- 
 gether, — that is, when you are tired of these hot rooms." 
 
 Cesarini groaned. "You are ill," continued Ferrers; "the 
 air will revive you, — come." He glided from the room, and 
 the Italian mechanically followed him. They walked together 
 for some moments in silence side by side, in a clear, lovely 
 moonlight night. At length Ferrers said: "Pardon me, my 
 dear signor, but you may already have observed that I am a 
 very frank, odd sort of fellow. I see you are caught by the 
 charms of my cruel cousin. Can I serve you in any way? " 
 
 A man at all acquainted with the world in which we live 
 would have been suspicious of such cordiality in the cousin of 
 an heiress towards a very unsuitable aspirant. But Cesarini, 
 like many indifferent poets (but like few good ones), had no 
 common-sense. He thought it quite natural that a man who 
 admired his poetry so much as Lumley had declared he did, 
 should take a lively interest in his welfare; and he therefore 
 replied warmly, " Oh, sir, this is indeed a crushing blow ! I 
 dreamed she loved me. She was ever flattering and gentle 
 when she spoke to me, and in verse already I had told her of 
 my love, and met with no rebuke." 
 
 "Did your verses really and plainl}' declare love, and in 
 your own person?" 
 
 "Why, the sentiment was veiled, perhaps, — put into the 
 mouth of a fictitious character, or conveyed in au allegory." 
 
 " Oh ! " ejaculated Ferrers, thinking it very likely that the 
 gorgeous Florence, hymned by a thousand bards, had done 
 little more than cast a glance over the lines that had cost poor 
 Cesarini such anxious toil, and inspired him with such daring 
 hope. "Oh! and to-night she was more severe. She is a 
 terrible coquette, la belle Florence ! But perhaps you have a 
 rival?" 
 
 " I feel it — I saw it — I know it." 
 
 " Whom do you suspect? " 
 
 "That accursed Maltravers! He crosses me in every path; 
 my spirit quails beneath his whenever we encounter. I read 
 my doom." 
 
300 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "If it be Maltravers," said Ferrers, gravely, "the danger 
 cannot be great; Florence has seen but little of him, and he 
 does not admire her much. But she is a great match, and he 
 is ambitious. We must guard against this betimes, Cesarini ; 
 for know that I dislike Maltravers as much as you do, and 
 will cheerfully aid you in any plan to blight his hopes in that 
 quarter." 
 
 "Generous, noble friend! Yet he is richer, better-born 
 that I." 
 
 "That may be; but to one in Lady Florence's position, all 
 minor grades of rank in her aspirants seem pretty well lev- 
 elled. Come, I don't tell you that I would not sooner she 
 married a countryman and an equal, but I have taken a liking 
 to you, and I detest Maltravers. She is very romantic, — 
 fond of poetry to a passion; writes it herself, I fancy. Oh! 
 you '11 just suit her; but, alas! how will you see her?" 
 
 "See her! What mean you?" 
 
 "Why, have you not declared love to-night? I thought I 
 overheard you. Can you for a moment fancy that after such 
 an avowal Lady Florence will again receive you, — that is, 
 if she mean to reject your suit?" 
 
 "Fool that I was! But no, — she must, she shall." 
 
 "Be persuaded; in this country violence will not do. Take 
 my advice, — write an humble apology, confess your fault, in- 
 voke her pity; and declaring that you renounce forever the 
 character of a lover, implore still to be acknowledged as a 
 friend. Be quiet, now, hear me out, — I am older than you; I 
 know my cousin. This will pique her; your modesty will 
 soothe, while your coldness will arouse, her vanity. Mean- 
 while, you will watch the progress of Maltravers, — I will be 
 by your elbow ; and between us, to use a homely phrase, we 
 will do for him. Then you may have your opportunity, clear 
 stage, and fair play." 
 
 Cesarini was at first rebellious; but at length even he saw 
 the policy of the advice. But Lumley would not leave him 
 till the advice was adopted. He made Castruccio accompany 
 him to a club, dictated the letter to Florence, and undertook 
 its charge. This was not all. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 301 
 
 "It is also necessary," said Lumley, after a short but 
 thoughtful sileuce, "that you should write to Maltravers." 
 
 "And for what?" 
 
 "I have my reasons. Ask him, in a frank and friendly 
 spirit, his opinion of Lady Florence; state your belief that 
 she loves you, and inquire ingenuously what he thinks your 
 chances of happiness in such a union." 
 
 "But why this?" 
 
 "His answer may be useful," returned Lumley, musingly. 
 "Stay, I will dictate the letter." 
 
 Cesarini wondered and hesitated ; but there was that about 
 Lumley Ferrers which had already obtained command over 
 the weak and passionate poet. He wrote, therefore, as Lum- 
 ley dictated, beginning with some commonplace doubts as to 
 the happiness of marriage in general, excusing himself for 
 his recent coldness towards Maltravers, and asking him his 
 confidential opinion both as to Lady Florence's character and 
 his own chances of success. 
 
 This letter, like the former one, Lumley sealed and 
 despatched. 
 
 "You perceive," he then said briefly to Cesarini, "that it 
 is the object of this letter to entrap Maltravers into some 
 plain and honest avowal of his dislike to Lady Florence ; we 
 may make good use of such expressions hereafter, if he should 
 ever prove a rival. And now go home to rest ; you look ex- 
 hausted. Adieu, my new friend." 
 
 "I have long had a presentiment," said Lumley to his coun- 
 cillor, SELF, as he walked to Great George Street, " that that 
 wild girl has conceived a romantic fancy for Maltravers. But 
 I can easily prevent such an accident ripening into misfor- 
 tune. Meanwhile, I have secured a tool if I want one. By 
 Jove, what an ass that poet is! But so was Cassio; yet 
 lago made use of him. If lago had been born now, and 
 dropped that foolish fancy for revenge, what a glorious fel- 
 low he would have been! Prime minister at least! " 
 
 Pale, haggard, exhausted, Castruccio Cesarini, traversing a 
 length of way, arrived at last at a miserable lodging in the sub- 
 urb of Chelsea. His fortune was now gone, — gone in supply- 
 
302 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 ing the poorest food to a craving and imbecile vanity; gone, 
 that its owner might seem what Nature never meant him for, 
 — the elegant Lothario, the graceful man of pleasure, the 
 troubadour of modern life; gone in horses and jewels and 
 fine clothes and gaming and printing unsalable poems on 
 gilt-edged vellum ; gone, that he might not be a greater, but 
 a more fashionable man than Ernest Maltravers ! Such is the 
 common destiny of those poor adventurers who confine fame 
 to boudoirs and saloons. No matter whether they be poets or 
 dandies, wealthy parvenus or aristocratic cadets, all equally 
 prove the adage that the wrong paths to reputation are 
 strewed with the wrecks of peace, fortune, happiness, and 
 too often honour ! And yet this poor young man had dared 
 to hope for the hand of Florence Lascelles ! He had the com- 
 mon notion of foreigners that English girls marry for love, 
 are very romantic; that within the three seas heiresses are as 
 plentiful as blackberries; and for the rest, his vanity had 
 been so pampered that it now insinuated itself into every fibre 
 of his intellectual and moral system, 
 
 Cesarini looked cautiously round as he arrived at his door, 
 for he fancied that even in that obscure place persons might 
 be anxious to catch a glimpse of the celebrated poet, and he 
 concealed his residence from all, dined on a roll when he did 
 not dine out, and left his address at "The Travellers." He 
 looked round, I say, and he did observe a tall figure wrapped 
 in a cloak, that had indeed followed him from a distant and 
 more populous part of the town. But the figure turned round 
 and vanished instantly. Cesarini mounted to his second 
 floor. And about the middle of the next day a messenger left 
 a letter at his door, containing one hundred pounds in a blank 
 envelope. Cesarini knew not the writing of the address; his 
 pride was deeply wounded. Amidst all his penury, he had 
 not even applied to his own sister. Could it come from her, 
 from De Montaigne? He was lost in conjecture. He put the 
 remittance aside for a few days, for he had something fine in 
 him, the poor poet; but bills grew pressing, and necessity 
 hath no law. 
 
 Two days afterwards, Cesarini brought to Ferrers the an- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 303 
 
 swer he had received from Maltravers. Lumley had rightly 
 foreseen that the high spirit of Ernest woukl conceive some 
 indignation at the coquetry of Florence in beguiling the Italian 
 into hopes never to be realized, and that he would express 
 himself openly and warmly. He did so, however, with more 
 gentleness than Lumley had anticipated. 
 
 "This is not exactly the thing," said Ferrers, after twice 
 reading the letter ; " still, it may hereafter be a strong card 
 in our hands, — we will keep it." 
 
 So saying, he locked the letter up in his desk, and Cesarini 
 soon forgot its existence. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight, — 
 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament. — Wordsworth. 
 
 Maltravers did not see Lady Florence again for some 
 weeks; meanwhile, Lumley Ferrers made his debut in parlia- 
 ment. Rigidly adhering to his plan of acting on a deliberate 
 system, and not prone to overrate himself, Mr. Ferrers did 
 not, like most promising new members, try the hazardous 
 ordeal of a great first speech. Though bold, fluent, and 
 ready, he was not eloquent; and he knew that on great occa- 
 sions, when great speeches are wanted, great guns like to 
 have the fire to themselves. iSTeither did he split upon the 
 opposite rock of "promising young men," who stick to "the 
 business of the House" like leeches, and quibble on details; 
 in return for which labour they are generally voted bores, 
 who can never do anything remarkable. But he spoke fre- 
 quently, shortly, courageously, and with a strong dash of good- 
 humoured personality. He was the man whom a minister 
 could get to say something which other people did not like 
 to say ; and he did so with a frank fearlessness that carried 
 
304 ERNEST MALTRAVEES. 
 
 off any seeming violation of good taste. He soon became a 
 very popular speaker in the parliamentary clique, especially 
 vy'ith the gentlemen who crowd the bar, and never want to 
 hear the argument of the debate. Between him and Mal- 
 travers a visible coldness now existed; for the latter looked 
 upon his old friend (whose principles of logic led him even to 
 republicanism, and who had been accustomed to accuse Ernest 
 of temporizing with plain truths if he demurred to their ap- 
 plication to artificial states of society) as a cold-blooded and 
 hypocritical adventurer; while Ferrers, seeing that Ernest 
 could now be of no further use to him, was willing enough to 
 drop a profitless intimacy. Nay, he thought it would be wise 
 to pick a quarrel with him, if possible, as the best means of 
 banishing a supposed rival from the house of his noble rela- 
 tion. Lord Saxingham. But no opportunity for that step pre- 
 sented itself; so Lumley kept a fit of convenient rudeness, 
 or an impromptu sarcasm, in reserve, if ever it should be 
 wanted. 
 
 The season and the session were alike drawing to a close, 
 when Maltravers received a pressing invitation from Cleve- 
 land to spend a week at his villa, which he assured Ernest 
 would be full of agreeable people ; and as all business produc- 
 tive of debate or division was over, Maltravers was glad to 
 obtain fresh air and a chauge of scene. Accordingly, he sent 
 down his luggage and favourite books, and one afternoon in 
 early August rode alone towards Temple Grove. He was 
 much dissatisfied, perhaps disappointed, with his experience 
 of public life; and with his high-wrought and over-refining 
 views of the deficiencies of others more prominent, he was in 
 a humour to mingle also censure of himself for having yielded 
 too much to the doubts and scruples that often in the early 
 part of their career beset the honest and sincere in the turbu- 
 lent whirl of politics, and ever tend to make the robust hues 
 that should belong to action — 
 
 " Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." 
 
 His mind was working its way slowly towards those conclu- 
 sions which sometimes ripen the best practical men out of 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 305 
 
 the most exalted theorists; and perhaps he saw before liim 
 the pleasing prospect flatteringly exhibited to another when 
 he complained of being too honest for party, — namely, "of 
 becoming a very pretty rascal in time!" 
 
 For several weeks he had not heard from his unknown cor- 
 respondent, and the time was come when he missed those let- 
 ters, now continued for more than two years, and which, in 
 their eloquent mixture of complaint, exhortation, despondent 
 gloom, and declamatory enthusiasm, had often soothed him 
 in dejection, and made him more sensible of triumph. While 
 revolving in his mind thoughts connected with these sub- 
 jects, — and somehow or other, with his more ambitious rev- 
 eries were always mingled musings of curiosity respecting his 
 correspondent, — he was struck by the beauty of a little girl, 
 of about eleven years old, who was walking with a female 
 attendant on the footpath that skirted the road. I said that 
 he was struck by her beauty; but that is a wrong expression: 
 it was rather the charm of her countenance than the perfec- 
 tion of her features which arrested the gaze of Maltravers, — 
 a charm that might not have existed for others, but was inex- 
 pressibly attractive to him, and was so much apart from the 
 vulgar fascination of mere beauty that it would have equally 
 touched a chord at his heart if coupled with homely features 
 or a bloomless cheek. This charm was in a wonderful inno- 
 cent and dove-like softness of expression. We all form to 
 ourselves some beau-ideal of the "fair spirit" we desire as 
 our earthly "minister," and somewhat capriciously gauge and 
 proportion our admiration of living shapes according as the 
 beau-ideal is more or less embodied or approached. Beauty 
 of a stamp that is not familiar to the dreams of our fancy 
 may win the cold homage of our judgment, while a look, a 
 feature, a something that realizes and calls up a boyish vision, 
 and assimilates even distantly to the picture we wear within 
 us, has a loveliness peculiar to our eyes, and kindles an emo- 
 tion that almost seems to belong to memory. It is this which 
 the Platonists felt when they Avildly supposed that souls at- 
 tracted to each other on earth had been united in an earlier 
 being and a diviner sphere ; and there was in the young face 
 
 20 
 
306 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 on which Ernest gazed precisely this ineffable harmony with 
 his preconceived notions of the beautiful. Many a nightly and 
 noonday revery was realized in those mild yet smiling eyes 
 of the darkest blue ; in that ingenuous breadth of brow, with 
 its slightly pencilled arches, and the nose, not cut in that 
 sharp and clear symmetry which looks so lovely in marble, 
 but usually gives to flesh and blood a decided and hard char- 
 acter that better becomes the sterner than the gentler sex, — 
 no, not moulded in the pure Grecian, nor in the pure Eoman 
 cast, but small, delicate, with the least possible inclination 
 to turn upward, that was only to be detected in one position 
 of the head, and served to give a prettier archness to the 
 sweet, flexile lips, which, from the gentleness of their repose, 
 seemed to smile unconsciously, but rather from a happy con- 
 stitutional serenity than from the giddiness of mirth. Such 
 was the character of this fair child's countenance, on which 
 Maltravers turned and gazed involuntarily and reverently, 
 with something of the admiring delight with which we look 
 upon the Virgin of a Raphael, or the sunset landscape of a 
 Claude. The girl did not appear to feel any premature 
 coquetry at the evident, though respectful, admiration she 
 excited. She met the eyes bent upon her, brilliant and elo- 
 quent as they were, with a fearless and unsuspecting gaze, 
 and pointed out to her companion, with all a child's quick 
 and unrestrained impulse, the shining and raven gloss, the 
 arched and haughty neck, of Ernest's beautiful Arabian. 
 
 Now, there happened between Maltravers and the young 
 object of his admiration a little adventure, which served, per- 
 haps, to fix in her recollection this short encounter with a 
 stranger; for certain it is that, years after, she did remember 
 both the circumstances of the adventure and the features of 
 Maltravers. She wore one of those large straw-hats which 
 look so pretty upon children, and the warmth of the day made 
 her untie the strings which confined it. A gentle breeze arose, 
 as by a turn in the road the country became more open, and 
 suddenly wafted the hat from its proper post almost to the 
 hoofs of Ernest's horse. The child naturally made a spring 
 forward to arrest the deserter, and her foot slipped down the 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 307 
 
 bank, which was rather steeply raised above the road. She 
 uttered a low cry of pain. To dismount, to regain the prize, 
 and to restore it to its owner was with Ernest the work of a 
 moment; the poor girl had twisted her ankle, and was leaning 
 upon her servant for support. But when she saw the anxiety, 
 and almost the alarm, upon the stranger's face (and her ex- 
 clamation of pain had literally thrilled his heart, so much 
 and so unaccountably had she excited his interest), she made 
 an effort at self-control not common at her years, and with a 
 forced smile assured him she was not much hurt, that it was 
 nothing, that she was just at home. 
 
 " Oh, miss ! " said the servant, " I am sure you are very 
 bad. Dear heart, how angry master will be ! It was not my 
 fault, was it, sir? " 
 
 "Oh, no, it was not your fault, Margaret; don't be fright- 
 ened, — Papa sha'n't blame you. But I 'm much better now." 
 So saying, she tried to walk ; but the effort was in vain, she 
 turned yet more pale, and though she struggled to prevent a 
 shriek, the tears rolled down her cheeks. 
 
 It was very odd, but Maltravers had never felt more touched. 
 The tears stood in his own eyes; he longed to carry her in his 
 arms, but, child as she was, a strange kind of nervous timidity 
 forbade him. Margaret, perhaps, expected it of him; for 
 she looked hard in his face before she attempted a burden to 
 which, being a small, slight person, she was by no means 
 equal. However, after a pause she took up her charge, who, 
 ashamed of her tears, and almost overcome with pain, nestled 
 her head in the woman's bosom, and Maltravers walked by 
 her side, while his docile and well-trained horse followed at 
 a distance, every now and then putting its fore-legs on the 
 bank and cropping away a mouthful of leaves from the 
 hedgerow. 
 
 "Oh, Margaret! " said the little sufferer, "I cannot bear it, 
 indeed I cannot." And Maltravers observed that Margaret 
 had permitted the lame foot to hang down unsupported, so 
 that the pain must indeed have been scarcely bearable. He 
 could restrain himself no longer. 
 
 "You are not strong enough to carry her," said he, sharply. 
 
308 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 to the servant; and the next moment the child was in his 
 arms. Oh, with wliat anxious tenderness he bore her! and 
 he was so happy when she turned her face to him and smiled, 
 and told him she now scarcely felt the pain. If it were pos- 
 sible to be in love with a child of eleven years old, Maltravers 
 was almost in love. His pulses trembled as he felt her pure 
 breath on his cheek, and her rich, beautiful hair was waved 
 by the breeze across his lips. He hushed his voice to a whis- 
 per as he poured forth all the soothing and comforting ex- 
 pressions which give a natural eloquence to persons fond of 
 children, — and Ernest Maltravers was the idol of children; 
 he understood and sympathized with them; he had a great 
 deal of the child himself beneath the rough and cold husk of 
 his proud reserve. At length they came to a lodge, and Mar- 
 garet, eagerly inquiring "whether master and missus were at 
 home," seemed delighted to hear they were not. Ernest, 
 however, insisted on bearing his charge across the lawn to 
 the house, which, like most suburban villas, was but a stone's 
 throw from the lodge; and receiving the most positive prom- 
 ise that surgical advice should be immediately sent for, he 
 was forced to content himself with laying the sufferer on a 
 sofa in the drawing-room; and she thanked him so prettily, 
 and assured him she was so much easier, that he would have 
 given the world to kiss her. The child had completed her 
 conquest over him by being above the child's ordinary little- 
 ness of making the worst of things, in order to obtain the 
 consequence and dignity of being pitied, — she was evidently 
 unselfish, and considerate for others. He did kiss her, but it 
 was the hand that he kissed, and no cavalier ever kissed his 
 lady's hand with more respect; and then, for the first time, 
 the child blushed, — then, for the first time, she felt as if the 
 day would come when she should be a child no longer! Why 
 was this? Perhaps because it is an era in life, — the first 
 sign of a tenderness that inspires respect, not familiarity. 
 
 "If ever again I could be in love," said Maltravers, as he 
 spurred on his road, "I really think it would be with that 
 exquisite child. My feeling is more like that of love at first 
 sight than any emotion which beauty ever caused in me. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 309 
 
 Alice — Valerie — no; the first sight of them did not — But 
 what folly is this? A child of eleven, and I verging upon 
 thirty!" 
 
 Still, however, folly as it might be, the image of that 
 young girl haunted Maltravers for many days, till change of 
 scene, the distractions of society, the grave thoughts of man- 
 hood, and, above all, a series of exciting circumstances about 
 to be narrated, gradually obliterated a strange and most de- 
 lightful impression. He had learned, however, that Mr. 
 Templeton was the proprietor of the villa which was the 
 child's home. He wrote to Ferrers to narrate the incident 
 and to inquire after the sufferer. In due time he heard from 
 that gentleman that the child was recovered, and gone with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Templeton to Brighton for change of air and 
 sea-bathing. 
 
BOOK VIII. 
 
 'EvBa IToAXas e/xoXe Kot 
 
 Av\i6(t>pci)i' Kinrpis- — Euripides : Iphig. in Aul., 1, 1310. 
 
 " Whither come Wisdom's queen 
 And the snare-weaving Love ? " 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Notitiam primosque gradus viciuia fecit.^ — Ovid. 
 
 Cleveland's villa was full, and of persons usually called 
 agreeable. Amongst the rest was Lady Florence Lascelles. 
 The wise old man had ever counselled Maltravers not to marry 
 too young ; but neither did he wish him to put off that mo- 
 mentous epoch of life till all the bloom of heart and emotion 
 was passed away. He thought, with the old law-givers, that 
 thirty was the happy age for forming a connection, in the 
 choice of which, with the reason of manhood, ought perhaps 
 to be blended the passion of youth. And he saw that few 
 men were more capable than Maltravers of the true enjoy- 
 ments of domestic life. He had long thought, also, that none 
 were more calculated to sympathize with Ernest's views, and 
 appreciate his peculiar character, than the gifted and bril- 
 liant Florence Lascelles. Cleveland looked with toleration 
 on her many eccentricities of thought and conduct, — eccen- 
 tricities which he imagined would rapidly melt away beneath 
 the influence of that attachment which usually operates so 
 great a change in women, and where it is strongly and in- 
 
 1 " Neighbourhood caused the acquaintance and first introduction." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 311 
 
 tensely felt, monlds even those of the most obstinate char- 
 acter into compliance or similitude with the sentiments or 
 habits of its object. 
 
 The stately self-control of Maltravers was, he conceived, 
 precisely that quality that gives to men an unconscious com- 
 mand over the very thoughts of the woman whose affection 
 they win; while, on the other hand, he hoped that the fancy 
 and enthusiasm of Florence would tend to render sharper and 
 more practical an ambition which seemed to the sober man of 
 the world too apt to refine upon the means, and to cui-bono 
 the objects of worldly distinction. Besides, Cleveland was 
 one who thoroughly appreciated the advantages of wealth and 
 station ; and the rank and the dower of Florence were such as 
 would force Maltravers into a position in social life which 
 could not fail to make new exactions upon talents which 
 Cleveland fancied were precisely those adapted rather to com- 
 mand than to serve. In Ferrers he recognized a man to get 
 into power, — in Maltravers one by whom power, if ever at- 
 tained, would be wielded with dignity, and exerted for great 
 uses. Something, therefore, higher than mere covetousness 
 for the vulgar interests of Maltravers made Cleveland desire 
 to secure to him the heart and hand of the great heiress; and 
 he fancied that, whatever might be the obstacle, it would not 
 be in the will of Lady Florence herself. He prudently re- 
 solved, however, to leave matters to their natural course. He 
 hinted nothing to one party or the other. ISTo place for fall- 
 ing in love like a large country-house, and no time for it, 
 amongst the indolent well-born, like the close of a London 
 season, when, jaded by small cares, and sickened of hollow 
 intimacies, even the coldest may well yearn for the tones of 
 affection, — the excitement of an honest emotion. 
 
 Somehow or other, it happened that Florence and Ernest, 
 after the first day or two, were constantly thrown together. 
 She rode on horseback, and Maltravers was by her side; they 
 made excursions on the river, and they sat on the same bench 
 in the gliding pleasure-boat. In the evenings the younger 
 guests, with the assistance of the neighbouring families, often 
 got up a dance in a temporary pavilion built out of the dining- 
 
312 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 room, Ernest never danced. Florence did at first; but once, 
 as she was conversing with Maltravers when a gay guardsman 
 came to claim her promised hand in the waltz, she seemed 
 struck by a grave change in Ernest's face. 
 
 "Do you never waltz?" she asked, while the guardsman 
 was searching for a corner wherein safely to deposit his hat. 
 
 "No," said he; "yet there is no impropriety in my 
 waltzing. " 
 
 "And you mean that there is in mine? " 
 
 "Pardon me, — I did not say so." 
 
 "But you think it." 
 
 "jSTay, on consideration, I am glad, perhaps, that you do 
 waltz." 
 
 "You are mysterious." 
 
 "Well, then, I mean that you are precisely the woman I 
 would never fall in love with. And I feel the danger is 
 lessened when I see you destroy any one of my illusions, or, 
 I ought to say, attack any one of my prejudices." 
 
 Lady Florence coloured; but the guardsman and the music 
 left her no time for reply. However, after that night she 
 waltzed no more. She was unwell; she declared she was 
 ordered not to dance ; and so quadrilles were relinquished, as 
 well as the waltz. 
 
 Maltravers could not but be touched and flattered by this 
 regard for his opinion; but Florence contrived to testify it so 
 as to forbid acknowledgment, since another motive had been 
 found for it. The second evening after that commemorated 
 by Ernest's candid rudeness, they chanced to meet in the 
 conservatory, which was connected with the ballroom; and 
 Ernest, pausing to inquire after her health, was struck by the 
 listless and dejected sadness which spoke in her tone and 
 countenance as she replied to him. 
 
 "Dear Lady Florence," said he, "I fear you are worse than 
 you will confess. You should shun these draughts. You 
 owe it to your friends to be more careful of yourself." 
 
 "Friends," said Lady Florence, bitterly, — "I have no 
 friends! Even my poor father would not absent himself 
 from a Cabinet dinner a week after I was dead. But that is 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 313 
 
 the condition of public life, — its hot and searing blaze puts 
 out the lights of all lesser but not unholier affection. Friends! 
 Fate, that made Florence Lascelles the envied heiress, denied 
 her brothers, sisters; and the hour of her birth lost her even 
 the love of a mother! Friends! where shall I find them? " 
 
 As she ceased, she turned to the open casement and stepped 
 out into the veranda, and by the trembling of her voice Ernest 
 felt that she had done so to hide or to suppress her tears. 
 
 " Yet, " said he, following her, " there is one class of more 
 distant friends whose interest Lady Florence Lascelles cannot 
 fail to secure, however she may disdain it. Among the hum- 
 blest of that class suffer me to rank myself. Come, I assume 
 the privilege of advice : the night air is a luxury you must 
 not indulge." 
 
 "No, no; it refreshes me, it soothes. You misunderstand 
 me; I have no illness that still skies and sleeping flowers can 
 increase." 
 
 Maltravers, as is evident, was not in love with Florence, 
 but he could not fail, brought, as he had lately been, under 
 the direct influence of her rare and prodigal gifts, mental and 
 personal, to feel for her a strong and even affectionate inter- 
 est; the very frankness with which he was accustomed to 
 speak to her, and the many links of communion there neces- 
 sarily were between himself and a mind so naturally powerful 
 and so richly cultivated, had already established their ac- 
 quaintance upon an intimate footing. 
 
 "I cannot restrain you, Lady Florence," said he, half 
 smiling, " but my conscience will not let me be an accomplice. 
 I will turn king's evidence, and hunt out Lord Saxingham to 
 send him to you." 
 
 Lady Florence, whose face was averted from his, did not 
 appear to hear him. 
 
 "And you, Mr. Maltravers," turning quickly round, "you, 
 — have you friends? Do you feel that there are, I do not 
 say public, but private affections and duties, for which life is 
 made less a possession than a trust? " 
 
 "Lady Florence, no. I have friends, it is true, and Cleve- 
 land is of the nearest; but the life within life, — the second 
 
314 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 self, in whom we vest the right and mastery over our own 
 being, — I know it not. But is it," he added, after a pause, 
 "a rare privation? Perhaps it is a happy one. I have learned 
 to lean on my own soul, and not look elsewhere for the reeds 
 that a wind can break." 
 
 "Ah, it is a cold philosophy; you may reconcile yourself 
 to its wisdom in the world, in the hum and shock of men, but 
 in solitude, with Nature, ah, no! While the mind alone is 
 occupied, you may be contented with the pride of stoicism ; 
 but there are moments when the heart wakens as from a sleep, 
 — wakens like a frightened child, — to feel itself alone and in 
 the dark." 
 
 Ernest was silent, and Florence continued, in an altered 
 voice: "This is a strange conversation, and you must think 
 me indeed a wild, romance-reading person, as the world is 
 apt to call me. But if I live, I — Pshaw! life denies ambi- 
 tion to women." 
 
 " If a woman like you. Lady Florence, should ever love, it 
 will be one in whose career you may perhaps find that noblest 
 of all ambitions, the ambition women only feel, — the ambi- 
 tion for another." 
 
 " Ah, but I shall never love, " said Lady Florence, and her 
 cheek grew pale as the starlight shone on it. "Still, per- 
 haps," she added quickly, "I may at least know the blessing 
 of friendship. Why, now," and here, approaching Mal- 
 travers, she laid her hand with a winning frankness on his 
 arm, — "why, now, should not we be to each other as if love, 
 as you call it, were not a thing for earth, and friendship sup- 
 plied its place? There is no danger of our falling in love 
 with each other. You are not vain enough to expect it in 
 me, and I, you know, am a coquette ; let us be friends, con- 
 fidants, — at least till you marry, or I give another the riglit 
 to control my friendships and monopolize my secrets." 
 
 Maltravers was startled; the sentiment Florence addressed 
 to him, he, in words not dissimilar, had once addressed to 
 Valerie. 
 
 "The world," said he, kissing the hand that yet lay on his 
 arm, "the world will — " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 315 
 
 " Oh, you men ! The world, the world! Everything gentle, 
 everything pure, everything noble, high-wrought, and holy, 
 is to be squared and cribbed and maimed to the rule and 
 measure of the world! The world — are you too its slave? 
 Do you not despise its hollow cant, its methodical hypocrisy? " 
 
 "Heartily!" said Ernest Maltravers, almost with fierce- 
 ness. "No man ever so scorned its false gods and its miser- 
 able creeds, its war upon the weak, its fawning upon the 
 great, its ingratitude to benefactors, its sordid league with 
 mediocrity against excellence. Yes, in proportion as I love 
 mankind, I despise and detest that worse than Venetian oli- 
 garchy which mankind set over them and call 'the world.' " 
 
 And then it was, warmed by the excitement of released 
 feelings long and carefully shrouded, that this man, ordinarily 
 so calm and self-possessed, poured burningly and passionately 
 forth all those tumultuous and almost tremendous thoughts 
 which, however much we may regulate, control, or disguise 
 them, lurk deep within the souls of all of us, the seeds of 
 the eternal war between the natural man and the artificial, 
 between our wilder genius and our social conventionalities, — 
 thoughts that from time to time break forth into the har- 
 bingers of vain and fruitless revolutions, impotent struggles 
 against destiny ; thoughts that good and wise men would be 
 slow to promulge and propagate, for they are of a fire which 
 burns as well as brightens, and which spreads from heart to 
 heart as a spark spreads amidst flax; thoughts which are 
 rifest where natures are most high, but belong to truths that 
 virtue dare not tell aloud. And as Maltravers spoke, with 
 his eyes flashing almost intolerable light, his breast heaving, 
 his form dilated, never to the eyes of Florence Lascelles did 
 he seem so great; the chains that bound the strong limbs of 
 his spirit seemed snapped asunder, and all his soul was visi- 
 ble and towering, as a thing that has escaped slavery, and 
 lifts its crest to heaven and feels that it is free. 
 
 That evening saw a new bond of alliance between these two 
 persons : young, handsome, and of opposite sexes, they agreed 
 to be friends, and nothing more. Fools! 
 
316 ERNEST MALTRAVERS 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Idem velle, et idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est.i — Salldst. 
 
 Carlos. That letter. 
 
 Princess Eboli. Oh, I shall die. Return it instantly. 
 
 Schiller : Don Carlos. 
 
 It seemed as if the compact Maltravers and Lady Florence 
 had entered into removed whatever embarrassment and re- 
 serve had previously existed. They now conversed with an 
 ease and freedom not common in persons of different sexes 
 before they have passed their grand climateric. Ernest in 
 ordinary life, like most men of warm emotions and strong 
 imagination, if not taciturn, was at least guarded. It was as 
 if a weight were taken from his breast when he found one per- 
 son who could understand him best when he was most candid. 
 His eloquence, his poetry, his intense and concentrated en- 
 thusiasm, found a voice. He could talk to an individual as 
 he would have written to the public, — a rare happiness to the 
 men of books. 
 
 Florence seemed to recover her health and spirits as by a 
 miracle ; yet she was more gentle, more subdued, than of old, 
 — there was less effort to shine, less indifference whether she 
 shocked. Persons who had not met her before, wondered 
 why she was dreaded in society. But at times a great natural 
 irritability of temper, a quick suspicion of the motives of 
 those around her, an imperious and obstinate vehemence of 
 will, were visible to Maltravers, and served, perhaps, to keep 
 him heart-whole. He regarded her through the eyes of the 
 intellect, not those of the passions ; he thought not of her as 
 a woman; her very talents, her very grandeur of idea and 
 power of purpose, while they delighted him in conversation, 
 diverted his imagination from dwelling on her beauty. He 
 
 1 " To will the same thing and not to wiU the same thing, that at length 
 is firm friendship." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 317 
 
 looked on her as something apart from her sex, — a glorious 
 creature spoiled by being a woman. He once told her so, 
 laughing, and Florence considered it a compliment. Poor 
 Florence, her scorn of her sex avenged her sex, and robbed 
 her of her proper destiny ! 
 
 Cleveland silently observed their intimacy, and listened 
 with a quiet smile to the gossips who pointed out tete-a-tetes 
 by the terrace, and loiterings by the lawn, and predicted what 
 would come of it all. Lord Saxingham was blind. But his 
 daughter was of age, in possession of her princely fortune, 
 and had long made him sensible of her independence of tem- 
 per. His lordship, however, thoroughly misunderstood the 
 character of her pride, and felt fully convinced she would 
 marry no one less than a duke ; as for flirtations, he thought 
 them natural and innocent amusements. Besides, he was 
 very little at Temple Grove. He went to London every 
 morning after breakfasting in his own room, came back to 
 dine, play at whist, and talk good-humoured nonsense to 
 Florence in his dressing-room for the three minutes that took 
 place between his sipping his wine-and-water and the appear- 
 ance of his valet. As for the other guests, it was not their 
 business to do more than gossip with each other; and so 
 Florence and Maltravers went on their way unmolested, 
 though not unobserved. Maltravers, not being himself in 
 love, never fancied that Lady Florence loved him, or that 
 she would be in any danger of doing so. This is a mistake 
 a man often commits, — a woman never. A woman always 
 knows when she is loved, though she often imagines she is 
 loved when she is not. Florence was not happy, for happi- 
 ness is a calm feeling; but she was excited with a vague, 
 wild, intoxicating emotion. 
 
 She had learned from Maltravers that she had been misin- 
 formed by Ferrers, and that no other claimed empire over his 
 heart; and whether or not he loved her, still for the present 
 they seemed all in all to each other: she lived but for the 
 present day, — she would not think of the morrow. 
 
 Since that severe illness which had tended so much to alter 
 Ernest's mode of life, he had not come before the public as 
 
318 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 an author. Latterly, however, the old habit had broken out 
 again. With the comparative idleness of recent years, the 
 ideas and feelings which crowd so fast on the poetical tem- 
 perament, once indulged, had accumulated within him to an 
 excess that demanded vent. For with some, to write is not 
 a vague desire, but an imperious destiny. The fire is kindled 
 and must break forth; the wings are fledged, and the birds 
 must leave their nest. The communication of thought to man 
 is implanted as an instinct in those breasts to which Heaven 
 has intrusted the solemn agencies of genius. In the work 
 which Maltravers now composed he consulted Florence. His 
 confidence delighted her, — it was a compliment she could ap- 
 preciate. Wild, fervid, impassioned, was that work, — a brief 
 and holiday creation ; the youngest and most beloved of the 
 children of his brain. And as day by day the bright design 
 grew into shape, and thought and imagination found them- 
 selves "local habitations," Florence felt as if she were ad- 
 mitted into the palace of the genii, and made acquainted with 
 the mechanism of those spells and charms with which the 
 preternatural powers of mind design the witchery of the 
 world. Ah, how different in depth and majesty were those 
 intercommunications of idea between Ernest Maltravers and a 
 woman scarcely inferior to himself in capacity and acquire- 
 ment, from that bridge of shadowy and dim sympathies which 
 the enthusiastic boy had once built up between his own i:)oetry 
 of knowledge and Alice's poetry of love! 
 
 It was one late afternoon in September, when the sun was 
 slowly going down its western way, that Lady Florence, who 
 had been all that morning in her own room paying off, as she 
 said, the dull arrears of correspondence, rather on Lord Sax- 
 ingham's account than her own; for he punctiliously exacted 
 from her the most scrupulous attention to cousins fifty times 
 removed, provided they were rich, clever, well off, or in any 
 way of consequence, — it was one afternoon that, relieved 
 from these avocations. Lady Florence strolled through the 
 grounds with Cleveland. The gentlemen were still in the 
 stubble-fields, the ladies were out in barouches and pony 
 phaetons, and Cleveland and Lady Florence were alone. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 319 
 
 A propos of Florence's epistolary employment, their con- 
 versation fell upon that most charming species of literature, 
 which joins with the interest of a novel the truth of a his- 
 tor}', — the French memoir and letter writers. It was a part 
 of literature in which Cleveland was thoroughly at home. 
 
 "Those agreeable and polished gossips," said he, "how 
 well they contrived to introduce nature into art! Everything 
 artificial seemed so natural to them. They even feel by a 
 kind of clockwork, which seems to go better than the heart 
 itself. Those pretty sentiments, those delicate gallantries, 
 of Madame de S^vigne to her daughter, how amiable they 
 are ; but, somehow or other, I can never fancy them the least 
 motherly. What an ending for a maternal epistle is that 
 elegant compliment : ' Songez que de tons les coeurs oii vous 
 regnez, il n'y en a aucun oii votre empire soit si bien etabli 
 que dans le mien. ' ^ I can scarcely fancy Lord Saxingham 
 writing so to you, Lady Florence." 
 
 "No, indeed," replied Lady Florence, smiling. "Neither 
 papas nor mammas in England are much addicted to compli- 
 ment; but I confess I like preserving a sort of gallantry even 
 in our most familiar connections. Why should we not carry 
 the imagination into all the affections? " 
 
 "I can scarce answer the why," returned Cleveland; "but 
 I think it would destroy the reality. I am rather of the old 
 school. If I had a daughter, and asked her to get my slip- 
 pers, I am afraid I should think it a little wearisome if I 
 had, in receiving them, to make des belles phrases in return." 
 
 While they were thus talking, and Lady Florence con- 
 tinued to press her side of the question, they passed through 
 a little grove that conducted to an arm of the stream which 
 ornamented the grounds, and by its quiet and shadowy gloom 
 was meant to give a contrast to the livelier features of the 
 domain. Here they came suddenly upon Maltravers. He 
 was walking by the side of the brook, and evidently absorbed 
 in thought. 
 
 It was the trembling of Lady Florence's hand as it lay on 
 
 ' " Tliink that of all the hearts over which you reign, there is not one in 
 which your empire can be so well estahlished as in mine." 
 
320 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Cleveland's arm that induced liim to stop short in an ani- 
 mated commentary on Eochefoucauld's character of Cardinal 
 de Eetz, and look round. 
 
 "Ha, most meditative Jacques! " said he. "And what new 
 moral hast thou been conning in our Forest of Ardennes? " 
 
 "Oh, I am glad to see you; I wished to consult you, Cleve- 
 land. But first, Lady Florence, to convince you and our host 
 that my rambles have not been wholly fruitless, and that I 
 could not walk from Dan to Beersheba and find all barren, 
 accept my offering, — a wild rose that I discovered in the 
 thickest part of the wood, it is not a civilized rose. Now, 
 Cleveland, a word with you." 
 
 "And now, Mr. Maltravers, I am de trop,^^ said Lady 
 Florence. 
 
 "Pardon me, I have no secrets from you in this matter, — 
 or rather these matters ; for there are two to be discussed. In 
 the first place, Lady Florence, that poor Cesarini: you know 
 and like him — Nay, no blushes." 
 
 "Did I blush? Then it was in recollection of an old re- 
 proach of yours." 
 
 "At its justice? Well, no matter. He is one for whom I 
 always felt a lively interest. His very morbidity of tempera- 
 ment only increases my anxiety for his future fate. I have 
 received a letter from De Montaigne, his brother-in-law, who 
 seems seriously uneasy about Castruccio. He wishes him to 
 leave England at once, as the sole means of restoring his 
 broken fortunes. De Montaigne has the opportunity of pro- 
 curing him a diplomatic situation which may not again occur, 
 and — But you know the man: what shall we do? I am 
 sure he will not listen to me ; he looks on me as an interested 
 rival for fame." 
 
 "Do you think I have any subtler eloquence? " said Cleve- 
 land. " No, I am an author too. Come, I think your lady- 
 ship must be the arch-negotiator." 
 
 "He has genius, he has merit," said Maltravers, pleadingly; 
 "he wants nothing but time and experience to wean him from 
 his foibles. Will you try to save him. Lady Florence? " 
 "Why? Nay, I must not be obdurate; I will see him when 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVEUS. 321 
 
 I go to town. It is like you, Mr. Maltravers, to feel this in- 
 terest m one — " 
 
 "Who does not like me, you would say; but he will some 
 day or other. Besides, I owe him deep gratitude. In his 
 weaker qualities I have seen many which all literary men 
 might incur, without strict watch over themselves; and let 
 me add, also, that his family have great claims on me." 
 
 " You believe in the soundness of his heart and in the in- 
 tegrity of his honour? " said Cleveland, inquiringly. 
 
 "Indeed I do; these are, these must be, the redeeming 
 qualities of poets." 
 
 Maltravers spoke warmly; and such at that time was his 
 influence over Florence that his words formed — alas, too 
 fatally! — her estimate of Castruccio's character, which had 
 at first been high, but which his own presumption had latterly 
 shaken. She had seen him three or four times in the interval 
 between the receipt of his apologetic letter and her visit to 
 Cleveland, and he had seemed to her rather sullen than hum- 
 bled. But she felt for the vanity she herself had wounded. 
 
 " And now, " continued Maltravers, " for my second subject 
 of consultation. But that is political: will it weary Lady 
 Florence?" 
 
 "Oh, no; to politics I am never indifferent: they always 
 inspire me with contempt or admiration, according to the 
 motives of those who bring the science into action. Pray 
 say on." 
 
 "Well," said Cleveland, "one confidant at a time. You 
 will forgive me, for I see my guests coming across the lawn, 
 and I may as well make a diversion in your favour. Ernest 
 can consult vie at any time." 
 
 Cleveland walked away; but the intimacy between Mal- 
 travers and Florence was of so frank a nature that there was 
 nothing embarrassing in the thought of a tete-a-tete. 
 
 "Lady Florence," said Ernest, "there is no one in the 
 world with whom I can confer so cheerfully as with you. I 
 am almost glad of Cleveland's absence, for, with all his amia- 
 ble and fine qualities, * the world is too much with' him. and 
 we do not argue from the same data. Pardon my prelude; 
 
 21 
 
322 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 now to my position. I have received a letter from Mr. . 
 
 Tliat statesman, whom none but those acquainted with the 
 chivalrous beauty of his nature can understand or appreciate, 
 sees before him the most brilliant career that ever opened in 
 this country to a public man not born an aristocrat. He has 
 asked me to form one of the new Administration that he is 
 about to create; the place offered to me is above my merits, 
 nor suited to what I have yet done, though perhaps it be suited 
 to what I may yet do. I make that qualification, for you 
 know, " added Ernest, with a proud smile, " that I am sanguine 
 and self-confident." 
 
 "You accept the proposal? " 
 
 "Nay, — should I not reject it? Our politics are the same 
 only for the moment, our ultimate objects are widely differ- 
 ent. To serve with Mr. , I must make an unequal com- 
 promise, — abandon nine opinions to promote one. Is not this 
 a capitulation of that great citadel, one's own conscience? 
 No man will call me inconsistent, for in public life to agree 
 with another on a party question is all that is required; the 
 thousand questions not yet ripened, and l3'ing dark and con- 
 cealed in the future, are not inquired into and divined; but I 
 own I shall deem myself worse than inconsistent. For this 
 is my dilemma: if I use this noble spirit merely to advance 
 one object, and then desert him where he halts, I am treach- 
 erous to him ; if I halt with him, but one of my objects ef- 
 fected, I am treacherous to myself. Such are my views. It 
 is with pain I arrive at them, for, at first, my heart beat witli 
 a selfish ambition." 
 
 "You are right, you are right," exclaimed Florence, with 
 glowing cheeks: "how could I doubt you? I comprehend the 
 sacrifice you make ; for a proud thing is it to soar above the 
 predictions of foes in that palpable road to honour which 
 the world's hard eyes can see, and the world's cold heart can 
 measure; but prouder is it to feel that you have never ad- 
 vanced one step to the goal which remembrance would retract. 
 No, my friend, wait your time, confident that it must come, 
 when conscience and ambition can go hand in hand, when the 
 broad objects of a luminous and enlarged policy lie before you 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 323 
 
 like a chart, and you can calculate every step of the way with- 
 out peril of being lost. Ah, let them still call loftiness of 
 purpose and whiteness of soul the dreams of a theorist, — 
 even if they be so, the Ideal in this case is better than the 
 Practical. Meanwhile your position is not one to forfeit 
 lightly. Before you is that throne in literature which it re- 
 quires no doubtful step to win, if you have, as I believe, the 
 mental power to attain it, — an ambition that may indeed be 
 relinquished, if a more troubled career can better achieve 
 those public purposes at which both letters and policy should 
 aim, but which is not to be surrendered for the rewards of a 
 placeman, or the advancement of a courtier." 
 
 It was while uttering these noble and inspiring sentiments 
 that Florence Lascelles suddenly acquired in Ernest's eyes a 
 loveliness with which they had not before invested her. 
 
 "Oh," he said, as with a sudden impulse he lifted her hand 
 to his lips, "blessed be the hour in which you gave me your 
 friendship! These are the thoughts I have longed to hear 
 from living lips when I have been tempted to believe patriot- 
 ism a delusion, and virtue but a name." 
 
 Lady Florence heard, and her whole form seemed changed ; 
 she was no longer the majestic sibyl, but the attached, timo- 
 rous, delighted woman. 
 
 It so happened that in her confusion she dropped from her 
 hand the flower Maltravers had given her; and involuntarily 
 glad of a pretext to conceal her countenance, she stooped to 
 take it from the ground. In so doing, a letter fell from her 
 bosom ; and Maltravers, as he bent forwards to forestall her 
 own movement, saw that the direction was to himself, and in 
 the handwriting of his unknown correspondent. He seized 
 the letter and gazed in flattered and entranced astonishment, 
 first on the writing, next on the detected writer. Florence 
 grew deadly pale, and covering her face with her hands, burst 
 into tears. 
 
 "Oh, fool that I was," cried Ernest, in the passion of the 
 moment, " not to know, not to have felt, that there were not 
 two Florences in the world! But if the thought had crossed 
 me, I would not have dared to harbour it." 
 
324 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Go, go," sobbed Florence; "leave me, in mercy leave 
 me!" 
 
 "Not till you bid me rise," said Ernest, in emotion scarcely 
 less deep tban hers, as lie sank on his knee at her feet. 
 
 Need I go on? When they left that spot, a soft confes- 
 sion had been made, deep vows interchanged, and Ernest 
 Maltravers was the accepted suitor of Florence Lascelles. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A HUNDRED fathers would in my situation tell you that as you are of noble 
 extraction, you should marry a nobleman. But I do not say so. I will not 
 sacrifice my child to any prejudice. — Kotzebue : Lover's Vows. 
 
 Take heed, my lord ; the welfare of us aU 
 Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man. 
 
 Shakspeare : Henry VI. 
 
 Oh, how this spring of love resembleth , 
 
 Th' uncertain glory of an April day. 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away ! 
 
 Shakspeare : The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 When Maltravers was once more in his solitary apartment, 
 he felt as in a dream. He had obeyed an impulse, — irresis- 
 tible, perhaps, but one with which the conscience of his heart 
 was not satisfied. A voice whispered to him: "Thou hast 
 deceived her and thyself; thou dost not love her! " In vain 
 he recalled her beauty, her grace, her genius, her singular 
 and enthusiastic passion for himself; the voice still replied: 
 "Thou dost not love. Bid farewell forever to thy fond 
 dreams of a life more blessed than that of mortals. From 
 the stormy sea of the future are blotted out eternally for thee 
 Calypso and her Golden Isle. Thou canst no more paint on 
 the dim canvas of thy desires the form of her with whom thou 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 325 
 
 couldst dwell forever. Thou hast been unfaithful to thine 
 own ideal ; thou hast given thyself forever and forever to an- 
 other; thou hast renounced hope; thou must live as in a 
 prison, with a being with whom thou hast not the harmony 
 of love." 
 
 " No matter, " said Maltravers, almost alarmed, and starting 
 from these thoughts, "I am betrothed to one who loves me; 
 it is folly and dishonour to repent and to repine. I have gone 
 through the best years of youth without finding the Egeria 
 with whom the cavern would be sweeter than a throne. Why 
 live to the grave a vain and visionary nympholept? Out of 
 the real world could I have made a nobler choice?" 
 
 While Maltravers thus communed with himself. Lady Flor- 
 ence passed into her father's dressing-room, and there awaited 
 his return from London. She knew his worldly views; she 
 knew also the pride of her affianced, and she felt that she 
 alone could mediate between the two. 
 
 Lord Saxingham at last returned, — busy, bustling, impor- 
 tant, and good humoured as usual. "Well, Flory, well? 
 Glad to see you! Quite blooming, I declare, — never saw you 
 with such a colour. Monstrous like me, certainly. We al- 
 ways had fine complexions and fine eyes in our family. But 
 I'm rather late, — first bell rung; we ci-devant jeunes hommes 
 are rather long dressing, and you are not dressed yet, I see." 
 
 " My dearest Father, I wished to speak with you on a mat- 
 ter of much importance." 
 
 "Do you? What, immediately?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, what is it? Your Slingsby property, I suppose." 
 
 "No, my dear Father; pray sit down and hear me 
 patiently." 
 
 Lord Saxingham began to be both alarmed and curious ; he 
 seated himself in silence, and looked anxiously in the face of 
 his daughter. 
 
 " You have always been very indulgent to me, " commenced 
 Florence, with a half smile, "and I have had my own way 
 more than most young ladies. Believe me, my dear Father, 
 I am most grateful, not only for your affection, but your es- 
 
326 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 teem. I have been a strange, wild girl, but I am now about 
 to reform; and as the first step, I ask your consent to give 
 myself a preceptor and a guide — " 
 
 "A what? " cried Lord Saxingham. 
 
 " In other words, I am about to — to — Well, the truth 
 must out, — to marry." 
 
 "Has the Duke of been here to-day? " 
 
 " Not that I know of. But it is no duke to whom I have 
 promised my hand, — it is a nobler and rarer dignity that has 
 caught my ambition. Mr. Maltravers has — " 
 
 "Mr. Maltravers! Mr. Devil! The girl's mad! Don't 
 talk to me, child; I won't consent to any such nonsense. A 
 country gentleman, very respectable, very clever, and all that; 
 but it's no use talking, — my mind 's made up. With your 
 fortune, too ! " 
 
 " My dear Father, I will not marry without your consent, 
 though my fortune is settled on me, and I am of age." 
 
 "There's a good child; and now let me dress, — we shall 
 be late." 
 
 "No, not yet," said Lady Florence, throwing her arm care- 
 lessly round her father's neck. "I shall marry Mr. Mal- 
 travers, but it will be with your full approval. Just con- 
 sider, if I married the Duke of , he would expect all my 
 
 fortune, such as it is. Ten thousand a year is at my dis- 
 posal; if I marry Mr. Maltravers, it will be settled on you. 
 I always meant it, — it is a poor return for your kindness, 
 your indulgence ; but it will show that your own Flory is not 
 ungrateful." 
 
 "I won't hear." 
 
 "Stop! listen to reason. You are not rich, you are entitled 
 but to a small pension if you ever resign office, and your offi- 
 cial salary, I have often heard you say, does not prevent you 
 from being embarrassed. To whom should a daughter give 
 from her superfluities but to a parent; from whom should a 
 parent receive, but from a child, who can never repay his 
 love? Ah, this is nothing; but you — you who have never 
 crossed her lightest whim — do not you destroy all the hopes 
 of happiness your Florence can ever form." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 327 
 
 Florence wept, and Lord Saxingham, who was greatly 
 moved, let fall a few tears also. Perhaps it is too much to 
 say that the pecuniary part of the proffered arrangement en- 
 tirely won him over; but still the way it was introduced 
 softened his heart. He possibly thought that it was better to 
 have a good and grateful daughter in a country gentleman's 
 wife than a sullen and thankless one in a duchess. However 
 that may be, certain it is that before Lord Saxingham began 
 his toilet he promised to make no obstacle to the marriage, 
 and all he asked in return was that at least three months (but 
 that, indeed, the lawyers would require) should elapse before 
 it took place; and on this understanding Florence left him, 
 radiant and joyous as Flora herself when the sun of spring 
 makes the world a garden. Never had she thought so little 
 of her beauty, and never had it seemed so glorious, as that 
 happy evening. But Maltravers was pale and thoughtful, and 
 Florence in vain sought his eyes during the dinner, which 
 seemed to her insufferably long. Afterwards, however, they 
 met and conversed apart the rest of the evening, and the 
 beauty of Florence began to produce upon Ernest's heart its 
 natural effect; and that evening — ah, how Florence treas- 
 ured the remembrance of every hour, every minute of its 
 annals ! 
 
 It would have been amusing to witness the short conversa- 
 tion between Lord Saxingham and Maltravers when the latter 
 sought the earl at night in his lordship's room. To Lord 
 Saxingham's surprise, not a word did Maltravers utter of 
 his own subordinate pretensions to Lady Florence's hand. 
 Coldly, dryly, and almost haughtily, did he make the formal 
 proposals, "as if [as Lord Saxingham afterwards said to 
 Ferrers] the man were doing me the highest possible honour 
 in taking my daughter, the beauty of London, with fifty thou- 
 sand a year, oif my hands." But this was quite Maltravers! 
 Tf he had been proposing to the daughter of a country curate 
 without a sixpence, he would have been the humblest of the 
 humble. The earl was embarrassed and discomposed; he was 
 almost awed by the Siddons-like countenance and Coriolanus- 
 like air of his future son-in-law; he even hinted nothing of 
 
328 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 tlie compromise as to time which he had made with his 
 daughter; he thought it better to leave it to Lady Florence 
 to arrange that matter. They shook hands frigidly and 
 parted. Maltravers went next into Cleveland's room, and 
 communicated all to the delighted old man, whose congratu- 
 lations were so fervid that Maltravers felt it would be a sin 
 not to fancy himself the happiest man in the world. That 
 night he wrote his refusal of the appointment offered him. 
 
 The next day Lord Saxingham went to his office in Downing 
 Street as usual, and Lady Florence and Ernest found an op- 
 portunity to ramble through the grounds alone*. 
 
 There it was that occurred those confessions, sweet alike to 
 utter and to hear. Then did Florence speak of her early 
 years, of her self-formed and solitary mind, of her youthful 
 dreams and reveries. Nothing around her to excite interest 
 or admiration, or the more romantic, the higher, or the softer 
 qualities of her nature, she turned to contemplation and to 
 books. It is the combination of the faculties with the iaffec- 
 tions, exiled from action, and finding no worldly vent, which 
 produces Poetry, the child of passion and of thought. Hence, 
 before the real cares of existence claim them, the young who 
 are abler yet lonelier than their fellows, are nearly always 
 poets; and Florence was a poetess. In minds like this, the 
 first book that seems to embody and represent their own most 
 cherished and beloved trains of sentiment and ideas, ever 
 creates a reverential and deep enthusiasm. The lonely and 
 proud and melancholy soul of Maltravers, which made itself 
 visible in all his creations, became to Florence like a revealer 
 of the secrets of her own nature. She conceived an intense 
 and mysterious interest in the man whose mind exercised so 
 pervading a power over her own. She made herself ac- 
 quainted with his pursuits, his career; she fancied she found 
 a symmetry and harmony between the actual being and the 
 breathing genius; she imagined she understood what seemed 
 dark and obscure to others. He whom she had never seen, 
 grew to her a never-absent friend. His ambition, his repu- 
 tation, were to her like a possession of her own. So at 
 length, in the folly of her young romance, she wrote to him; 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 329 
 
 and dreaming of no discovery, anticipating no result, the 
 habit, once indulged, became to her that luxury which writ- 
 ing for the eye of the world is to an author oppressed with 
 the burden of his own thoughts. At length she saw him, and 
 he did not destroy her illusion. She might have recovered 
 from the spell if she had found him ready at once to worship 
 at her shrine. The mixture of reserve and frankness — frank- 
 ness of language, reserve of manner — which belonged to 
 Maltravers, piqued her. Her vanity became the auxiliary to 
 her imagination. At length they met at Cleveland's house; 
 their intercourse became more unrestrained, their friendship 
 was established, and she discovered that she had wilfully 
 implicated her happiness in indulging her dreams. Yet even 
 then she believed that Maltravers loved her, despite his 
 silence upon the subject of love. His manner, his words, be- 
 spoke his interest in her, and his voice was ever soft when 
 he spoke to women; for he had much of the old chivalric 
 respect and tenderness for the sex. What was general it was 
 natural that she should apply individually, — she who had 
 walked the world but to fascinate and to conquer. It was 
 probable that her great wealth and social position imposed 
 a check on the delicate pride of Maltravers, — she hoped so, 
 she believed it; yet she felt her danger, and her own pride 
 at last took alarm. In such a moment she had resumed the 
 character of the unknown correspondent; she had written to 
 Maltravers, — addressed her letter to his own house, and 
 meant the next day to have gone to London and posted it 
 there. In this letter she had spoken of his visit to Cleve- 
 land, of his position with herself. She exhorted him, if he 
 loved her, to confess, and if not, to fly. She had written 
 artfully and eloquently; she was desirous of expediting her 
 own fate; and then, with that letter in her bosom, she had 
 met Maltravers, and the reader has learned the rest. Some- 
 thing of all this the blushing and happy Florence now re- 
 vealed; and when she ended with uttering the woman's soft 
 fear that she had been too bold, is it wonderful that Mal- 
 travers, clasping her to his bosom, felt the gratitude and the 
 delighted vanity which seemed even to himself like love? 
 
330 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 And into love those feelings rapidly and deliciously will 
 merge, if fate and accident permit! 
 
 And now they were by the side of the water, and the sun 
 was gently setting, as on the eve before. It was about the 
 same hour, — the fairest of an autumn day; none were near, — 
 the slope of the hill hid the house from their view. Had they 
 been in the desert they could not have been more alone. It 
 was not silence that breathed around them as they sat on that 
 bench, with the broad beech spreading over them its trem- 
 bling canopy of leaves, but those murmurs of living nature 
 which are sweeter than silence itself, — the songs of birds; 
 the tinkling bell of the sheep on the opposite bank; the wind 
 sighing through the trees; and the gentle heaving of the glit- 
 tering waves that washed the odorous reed and water-lily at 
 their feet. They had both been for some moments silent, and 
 Florence now broke the pause, but in tones more low than 
 usual. 
 
 "Ah," said she, turning towards him, "these hours are 
 happier than we can find in that crowded world whither your 
 destiny must call us. For me, ambition seems forever at an 
 end. I have found all ; I am no longer haunted with the de- 
 sire of gaining a vague something, — a shadowy empire that 
 we call fame or power. The sole thought that disturbs the 
 calm current of my soul is the fear to lose a particle of the 
 rich possession I have gained." 
 
 " May your fears ever be as idle ! " 
 
 "And you really love me.! I repeat to myself ever and 
 ever that one phrase. I could once have borne to lose you; 
 now it would be mj^ death. I despaired of ever being loved 
 for myself: my wealth was a fatal dower; I suspected avarice 
 in every vow, and saw the base world lurk at the bottom of 
 every heart that offered itself at my shrine. But you, Ernest, 
 you, I feel, never could weigh gold in the balance, and you, 
 if you love, love me for myself." 
 
 "And I shall love thee more with every hour." 
 
 "I know not that; I dread that you will love me less when 
 you know me more. I fear I shall seem to you exacting, — I 
 am jealous already. I was jealous even of Lady T when 
 
h 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 331 
 
 I saw you by her side this morning. I would have your every 
 look, monopolize your every word." 
 
 This confession did not please Maltravers as it might have 
 done if he had been more deeply in love. Jealousy in a 
 woman of so vehement and imperious a nature was indeed a 
 passion to be dreaded. 
 
 "Do not say so, dear Florence," said he, with a very grave 
 ■smile ; " for love should have implicit confidence as its bond 
 and nature, — and jealousy is doubt, and doubt is the death of 
 love." 
 
 A shade passed over Florence's too expressive face, and 
 she sighed heavily. 
 
 It was at this time that Maltravers, raising his eyes, saw 
 the form of Lumley Ferrers approaching towards them from 
 the opposite end of the terrace. At the same instant a dark 
 cloud crept over the sky, the waters seemed overcast, and the 
 breeze fell; a chill and strange presentiment of evil shot 
 across Ernest's heart, and like many imaginative persons, he 
 was unconsciously superstitious as to presentiments. 
 
 "We are no longer alone," said he, rising; "your cousin 
 has doubtless learned our engagement, and comes to congratu- 
 late your suitor. 
 
 "Tell me," he continued musingly, as they walked on to 
 meet Ferrers, "are you very partial to Lumley? What think 
 you of his character? It is one that perplexes me : sometimes 
 I think it has changed since we parted in Italy; sometimes I 
 think it has not changed, but ripened." 
 
 "Lumley I have known from a child," replied Florence, 
 "and see much to admire and like in him. I admire his 
 boldness and candour, his scorn of the world's littleness and 
 falsehood; I like his good-nature, his gayety, and fancy his 
 heart better than it may seem to the superficial observer." 
 
 "Yet he appears to me selfish and unprincipled." 
 
 "It is from a fine contempt for the vices and follies of men 
 that he has contracted the habit of consulting his own reso- 
 lute will; and believing everything done in this noisy stage 
 of action a cheat, he has accommodated his ambition to the 
 fashion. Though without what is termed * prenius, ' he will 
 
332 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 obtain a distinction and power that few men of genius ar- 
 rive at." 
 
 "Because genius is essentially honest," said Maltravers. 
 "However, you teach me to look on him more indulgently. 
 I suspect the real frankness of men whom I know to be hypo- 
 crites in public life; but perhaps I judge by too harsh a 
 standard." 
 
 "Third persons," said Ferrers, as he now joined them, "are 
 seldom unwelcome in the country ; and I flatter myself that I 
 am the exact thing wanting to complete the charm of this 
 beautiful landscape." 
 
 "You are ever modest, my cousin." 
 
 "It is my weak side, I know; but I shall improve with 
 years and wisdom. What say you, Maltravers?" and Ferrers 
 passed his arm affectionately through Ernest's. "By the by, 
 I anl too familiar, — I am sunk in the world; I am a thing to 
 be sneered at by you old-family people. I am next heir 
 to a brand-new Brummagem peerage. Gad, I feel brassy 
 already ! " 
 
 "What, is Mr. Templeton— ?" 
 
 "Mr. Templeton is no more, — he is defunct, extinguished; 
 out of the ashes rises the phoenix Lord Vargrave. We had 
 thought of a more sounding title: De Courval has a nobler 
 sound ; but my good uncle has nothing of the Norman about 
 him, so we dropped the De as ridiculous. Vargrave is eupho- 
 nious and appropriate. My uncle has a manor of that name, — 
 Baron Vargrave of Vargrave." 
 
 " Ah, I congratulate you ! " 
 
 "Thank you. Lady Vargrave may destroy all my hopes 
 yet. But nothing venture, nothing have. My uncle will be 
 gazetted to-day. Poor man, he will be delighted; and as he 
 certainly owes it much to me, he will, I suppose, be very 
 grateful, — or hate me ever afterwards; that is a toss up. A 
 benefit conferred is a complete hazard between the thumb of 
 pride and the forefinger of affection. Heads gratitude, tails 
 hatred! There, that's a simile in the fashion of the old 
 writers; 'Well of English undefiled! ' humph!" 
 
 " So that beautiful child is Mrs. Templeton's, or rather 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 333 
 
 Lady Vargrave's, daughter by a former marriage?" said Mal- 
 travers, abstractedly. 
 
 " Yes, it is astonishing how fond he is of her. Pretty little 
 creature, — confoundedly artful, though. By the way, Mal- 
 travers, we had an unexpectedly stormy night the last of the 
 session, — strong division; ministers hard pressed. I made 
 quite a good speech for them. I suppose, however, there will 
 be some change, — the moderates will be taken in. Perhaps 
 by next session I may congratulate you," 
 
 Ferrers looked hard at Maltravers while he spoke; but 
 Ernest replied coldly and evasively, and they were now 
 joined by a party of idlers lounging along the lawn in ex- 
 pectation of the first dinner-bell. Cleveland was in high con- 
 sultation about the proper spot for a new fountain; and he 
 summoned Maltravers to give his opinion whether it should 
 spring from the centre of a flower-bed, or beneath the droop- 
 ing shade of a large willow. While this interesting discus- 
 sion was going on, Ferrers drew aside his cousin, and pressing 
 her hand affectionately, said, in a soft and tender voice, — 
 
 " My dear Florence — for in such a time permit me to be 
 familiar — I understand from Lord Saxingham, whom I met 
 in London, that you are engaged to Maltravers. Busy as I 
 was, I could not rest without coming hither to offer my best 
 and most earnest wish for your happiness. I may seem a 
 careless, I am considered a selfish person; but my heart is 
 warm to those who really interest it. And never did brother 
 offer up for the welfare of a beloved sister prayers more 
 anxious and fond than those that poor Lumley Ferrers breathes 
 for Florence Lascelles." 
 
 Florence was startled and melted, the whole tone and man- 
 ner of Lumley were so different from those he usually as- 
 sumed. She warmly returned the pressure of his hand, and 
 thanked him briefly, but with emotion. 
 
 " No one is great and good enough for you, Florence, " con- 
 tinued Ferrers, — "no one. But I admire your disinterested 
 and generous choice. Maltravers and I have not been friends 
 lately; but I respect him, as all must. He has noble quali- 
 ties and he has great ambition. In addition to the deep and 
 
334 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 ardent love that you cannot fail to inspire, he will owe you 
 eternal gratitude. In this aristocratic country, your hand 
 secures to him the most brilliant fortunes, the most proud 
 career. His talents will now be measured by a very different 
 standard. His merits will not pass through any subordinate 
 grades, but leap at once into the highest posts; and as he is 
 even more proud than ambitious, how he must bless one 
 who raises him, without effort, into positions of eminent 
 command! " 
 
 "Oh, he does not think of such worldly advantages,— he, 
 the too pure, the too refined! " said Florence, with trembling 
 eagerness. "He has no avarice, nothing mercenary in his 
 nature." 
 
 "No, there you indeed do him justice, — there is not a par- 
 ticle of baseness in his mind; I did not say there was. The 
 very greatness of his aspirations, his indignant and scornful 
 pride, lift him above the thought of your wealth, your rank,— 
 except as means to an end." 
 
 "You mistake still," said Florence, faintly smiling, but 
 turning pale. 
 
 "jSTo," resumed Ferrers, not appearing to hear her, and as 
 if pursuing his own thoughts. "I always predicted that Mal- 
 travers would make a distinguished connection in marriage. 
 He would not permit himself to love the low-born or the poor. 
 His affections are in his pride as much as in his heart. He 
 is a great creature ; you have judged wisely, and may Heaven 
 bless you! " 
 
 With these words Ferrers left her, and Florence, when she 
 descended to dinner, wore a moody and clouded brow. Fer- 
 rers stayed three days at the house. He was peculiarly cor- 
 dial to Maltravers, and spoke little to Florence. But that 
 little never failed to leave upon her mind a jealous and anx- 
 ious irritability, to which she yielded with morbid facility. 
 In order perfectly to understand Florence Lascelles, it must be 
 remembered that, with all her dazzling qualities, she was not 
 what is called a lovable person. A certain hardness in her 
 disposition, even as a child, had prevented her winding into 
 the hearts of those around her. Deprived of her mother's 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 335 
 
 care, having little or no intercourse with children of her own 
 age, brought up with a starched governess or female relations, 
 poor and proud, she never had contracted the softness of man- 
 ner which the reciprocation of household affections usually 
 produces. "With a haughty consciousness of her powers, her 
 birth, her position, advantages always dinned into her ear, 
 she grew up solitary, unsocial, and imperious. Her father 
 was rather proud than fond of her; her servants did not love 
 her, — she had too little consideration for others, too little 
 blandness and suavity, to be loved by inferiors; she was too 
 learned and too stern to find pleasure in the conversation and 
 society of young ladies of her own age: she had no friends. 
 Now, having really strong affections, she felt all this, but 
 rather with resentment than grief. She longed to be loved, 
 but did not seek to be so; she felt as if it was her fate not to 
 be loved, — she blamed Fate, not herself. 
 
 When, with all the proud, pure, and generous candour of 
 her nature, she avowed to Ernest her love for him, she natu- 
 rally expected the most ardent and passionate return; noth- 
 ing less could content her. But the habit and experience of 
 all the past made her eternally suspicious that she was not 
 loved; it was wormwood and poison to her to fancy that Mal- 
 travers had ever considered her advantages of fortune, except 
 as a bar to his pretensions and a check on his passion. It was 
 the same thing to her whether it was the pettiest avarice or 
 the loftiest aspirations that actuated her lover, if he had been 
 actuated in his heart by any sentiment hut love; and Ferrers, 
 to whose eye her foibles were familiar, knew well how to 
 make his praises of Ernest arouse against Ernest all her ex- 
 acting jealousies and irritable doubts. 
 
 "It is strange," said he, one evening, as he was conversing 
 with Florence, " how complete and triumphant a conquest you 
 have effected over Ernest! Will you believe it? He con- 
 ceived a prejudice against you when he first saw you, — he 
 even said that you were made to be admired, not to be 
 loved." 
 
 "Ha! Did he so? True, true; he has almost said the same 
 thing to me." 
 
336 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "But now how he must love you! Surely he has all the 
 signs." 
 
 "And what are the signs, most learned Lumley?" said 
 Florence, forcing a smile. 
 
 "Why, in the first place, you will doubtless observe that 
 he never takes his eyes from you ; with whomsoever he con- 
 verses, whatever his occupation, those eyes, restless and pin- 
 ing, wander around for one glance from you." 
 
 Florence sighed and looked up: at the other end of the 
 room her lover was conversing with Cleveland, and his eyes 
 never wandered in search of her. 
 
 Ferrers did not seem to notice this practical contradiction 
 of his theory, but went on, — 
 
 "Then surely his whole character is changed, — that brow 
 has lost its calm majesty, that deep voice its assured and 
 tranquil tone. Has he not become humble and embarrassed 
 and fretful, living only on your smile, reproachful if you look 
 upon another, sorrowful if your lip be less smiling, — a thing 
 of doubt and dread and trembling agitation; slave to a 
 shadow; no longer lord of the creation? Such is love, — such 
 is the love you should inspire, such is the love IMaltravers is 
 capable of; for I have seen him testify it to another. But," 
 added Lumley, quickly, and as if afraid he had said too much, 
 " Lord Saxingham is looking out for me to make up his whist- 
 table. I go to-morrow. When shall you be in town? " 
 
 "In the course of the week," said poor Florence, mechani- 
 cally ; and Lumley walked away. 
 
 In another moment, Maltravers, who had been more obser- 
 vant than he seemed, joined her where she sat. 
 
 " Dear Florence, " said he, tenderly, " you look pale ; I fear 
 you are not so well this evening." 
 
 "Xo affectation of an interest you do not feel, pray," said 
 Florence, with a scornful lip but swimming eyes. 
 
 "Do not feel, Florence! " 
 
 "It is the first time, at least, that you have observed 
 whether I am well or ill. But it is no matter," 
 
 " My dear Florence, why this tone? How have I offended 
 you? Has Lumley said — " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 337 
 
 "Nothing but in your praise. Oh, be not afraid; you are 
 one of those of whom all speak highly. But do not let me 
 detain you here; let us join our host, — you have left him 
 alone." 
 
 Lady Florence waited for no reply, nor did Maltravers 
 attempt to detain her. He looked pained, and when she 
 turned round to catch a glance that she hoped would be re- 
 proachful, he was gone. Lady Florence became nervous and 
 uneasy, talked she knew not what, and laughed hysterically; 
 she however deceived Cleveland into the notion that she was 
 in the best possible spirits. By and by she rose, and passed 
 through the suite of rooms; her heart was with Maltravers, — 
 still, he was not visible. At length she entered the conser- 
 vatory, and there she observed him, through the open case- 
 ments, walking slowl3^ with folded arms, upon the moonlit 
 lawn. There was a short struggle in her breast between 
 woman's pride and woman's love; the last conquered, and 
 she joined him. 
 
 "Forgive me, Ernest," she said, extending her hand; "I 
 was to blame." 
 
 Ernest kissed the fair hand, and answered touchingly, — 
 
 "Florence, you have the power to wound me, — be for- 
 bearing in its exercise. Heaven knows that I would not, 
 from the vain desire of showing command over you, inflict 
 upon you a single pang. Ah, do not fancy that in lovers' 
 quarrels there is any sweetness that compensates the sting." 
 
 "I told you I was too exacting, Ernest. I told you you 
 would not love me so well when you knew me better." 
 
 " And were a false prophetess. Florence, every day, every 
 hour I love you more, — better than I once thought I could." 
 
 "Then," cried this wayward girl, anxious to pain herself, 
 "then once you did not love me? " 
 
 "Florence, I will be candid, — I did not. You are now 
 rapidly obtaining an empire over me greater than my reason 
 should allow. But beware ; if my love be really a possession 
 you desire, beware how you arm my reason against you. 
 Florence, I am a proud man. My very consciousness of the 
 more splendid alliances you could form renders me less hum- 
 
 22 
 
338 , ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 ble a lover than you might find in others. I were not worthy 
 of you if I were not tenacious of my self-respect." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Florence, to whose heart these words went 
 home, "forgive me but this once: I shall not forgive myself 
 so soon." 
 
 And Ernest drew her to his heart, and felt that, with all 
 her faults, a woman whom he feared he could not render as 
 hapjoy as her sacrifices to him deserved was becoming very 
 dear to him. In his heart he knew that she was not formed 
 to render him happy; but that was not his thought, his fear. 
 Her love had rooted out all thought of self from that generous 
 breast; his only anxiety was to requite her. 
 
 They walked along the sward silent, thoughtful; and Flor- 
 ence melancholy, yet blessed. 
 
 "That serene heaven, those lovely stars," said Maltravers 
 at last, "do they not preach to us the Philosophy of Peace? 
 Do they not tell us how much of calm belongs to the dignity 
 of man and the sublime essence of the soul? Petty distrac- 
 tions and self-wrought cares are not congenial to our real 
 nature ; their very disturbance is a proof that they are at war 
 with our natures. Ah, sweet Florence, let us learn from yon 
 skies, over which, in the faith of the poets of old, brooded 
 the wings of primeval and serenest Love, Avhat earthly love 
 shoiild be, — a thing pure as light, and peaceful as immortal- 
 ity, watching over the stormy world that it shall survive, and 
 high above the clouds and vapours that roll below. Let little 
 minds introduce into the holiest of affections all the bitter- 
 ness and tumult of common life ! Let iis love as beings who 
 will one day be inhabitants of the stars ! " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 339 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A SLIPPERY and subtle knave; a finder out of occasions, that has an eye 
 can stamp and counterfeit advantages. — Othello. 
 
 Knavery's plain face is never seen till used. — Othello. 
 
 "You see, my dear Lumley," said Lord Saxingham, as the 
 next day the two kinsmen were on their way to London in the 
 earl's chariot, — "you see that at the best this marriage of 
 Flory's is a cursed bore." 
 
 "Why, indeed, it has its disadvantages. Maltravers is a 
 gentleman and a man of genius ; but gentlemen are plentiful, 
 and his genius only tells against us, since he is not even of 
 our politics." 
 
 "Exactly; my own son-in-law voting against me! " 
 
 "A practicable, reasonable man would change, — not so 
 Maltravers ; and all the estates and all the parliamentary in- 
 fluence and all the wealth that ought to go with the family 
 and with the party go out of the family and against the party. 
 You are quite right, my dear lord, it is a cursed bore." 
 
 " And she might have had the Duke of , — a man with 
 
 a rental of a hundred thousand pounds a year. It is too 
 ridiculous. This Maltravers, — d — d disagreeable fellow too, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Stiff and stately; much changed for the worse of late 
 years, — grown conceited and set up." 
 
 " Do you know, Lumley, I would rather, of the two, have 
 had you for my son-in-law ! " 
 
 Lumley half started. "Are you serious, my lord? I have 
 not Ernest's fortune, I cannot make such* settlements; my 
 lineage, too, at least on my mother's side, is less ancient." 
 
 "Oh, as to settlements, Flory's fortune ought to be settled 
 on herself; and as compared with that fortune, what could 
 Mr. Maltravers pretend to settle? Neither she nor any chil- 
 
340 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 dren she may have could want his four thousand pounds a 
 year, if he settled it all. As for family, connections tell 
 more nowadays than Norman descent; and for the rest, you 
 are likely to be old Templeton's heir, to have a peerage (a 
 large sum of ready money is always useful), are rising in the 
 House, one of our own set, will soon be in office, and, flat- 
 tery apart, a devilish good fellow into the bargain. Oh, I 
 would sooner a thousand times that Flory had taken a fancy 
 to you." 
 
 Lumley Ferrers bowed his head, but said nothing. He fell 
 into a re very ; and Lord Saxingham took up his official red 
 box, became deep in its contents, and forgot all about the 
 marriage of his daughter. 
 
 Lumley pulled the check-string as the carriage entered Pall 
 Mall, and desired to be set down at "The Travellers." While 
 Lord Saxingham was borne on to settle the affairs of the na- 
 tion, not being able to settle those of his own household, 
 Ferrers was inquiring the address of Castruccio Cesarini. 
 The porter was unable to give it him. The signor generally 
 called every day for his notes, but no one at the club knew 
 where he lodged. Ferrers wrote and left with the porter a 
 line requesting Cesarini to call on him as soon as possible, 
 and he bent his way to his house in Great George Street. He 
 went straight into his library, unlocked his escritoire, and 
 took out that letter which, the reader will remember, Mal- 
 travers had written to Cesarini, and which Lumley had se- 
 cured; carefully did he twice read over this effusion, and the 
 second time his face brightened and his eyes sparkled. It is 
 now time to lay this letter before the reader; it ran thus: — 
 
 Private and Confidential. 
 
 My DEAR Cesauini, — The assurance of your friendly feelings is 
 most welcome to me. In much of what you say of marriaf:;;e, I am in- 
 clined, though with reluctance, to agree. As to Lady Florence herself, 
 few persons are more calculated to dazzle, perhaps to fascinate. But is 
 she a person to make a home happy, to sympathize where she has been 
 accustomed to command, to comprehend and to yield to the wayward- 
 ness and irritability common to our fanciful and morbid race, to content 
 herself with the homasfe of a single heart ? I do not know her enough 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 341 
 
 to decide the question ; but I know Ler enough to feel deep soUcitudi- 
 and anxiety for your happiness, if centred in a nature so imperious and 
 so vain. But you will remind me of her fortune, her station. You will 
 say that such are the sources from which, to an ambitious mind, happi- 
 ness may well be drawn. Alas ! I fear that the man who marries Lady 
 Florence must indeed confine his dreams of felicity to those harsh and 
 disappointing realities. But, Cesarini, these are not words which, were 
 we more intimate, I would address to you. I doubt the reality of tho^^e 
 affections which you ascribe to her, and suppose devoted to youn^^eU. 
 She is evidently fond of conquest. She sports with the victims she 
 makes. Her vanity dupes others, — perhaps to be duped itself at last. 
 I will not say more to you. 
 
 Yours, E. Maltravers. 
 
 "Hurrah!" cried Ferrers, as he threw down the letter, and 
 rubbed his hands with delight. "I little thought, when I 
 schemed for this letter, that chance would make it so inesti- 
 mably serviceable. There is less to alter than I thought for; 
 the clumsiest botcher in the world could manage it. Let me 
 look again. Hem! hem! The first phrase to alter is this: 
 * I know her enough to feel deep solicitude and anxiety for 
 your happiness if centred in a nature so imperious and vain, ' 
 — scratch out 'your,' and put 'my.' All the rest good, 
 good, till we come to ' affections which you ascribe to her, 
 and suppose devoted to yourself,^ — for ' yourBeii ' writs ' my- 
 self ; ' the rest will do. Xow, then, the date: we must change 
 it to the present month, and the work is done. I wish that 
 Italian blockhead would come. If I can but once make an 
 irreparable breach between her and Maltravers, I think I can- 
 not fail of securing his place ; her pique, her resentment, will 
 hurry her into taking the first who offers, by way of revenge. 
 And by Jupiter, even if I fail (which I am sure I shall not), 
 it will be something to keep Flory as lady paramount for a 
 duke of our own party. I shall gain immensely by such a 
 connection; but I lose everything and gain nothing by her 
 marrying Maltravers, — of opposite politics too, — whom I be- 
 gin to hate like poison. But no duke shall have her. Flor- 
 ence Ferrers, — the only alliteration I ever liked; yet it would 
 sound rough in poetry." 
 
 Lumley then deliberately drew towards him his inkstand. 
 
342 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "I^To penknife! Ah, true, I never mend pens, — sad waste; 
 must send out for one." He rang the bell, ordered a pen- 
 knife to be purchased, and the servant was still out when a 
 knock at the door was heard, and in a minute more Cesarini 
 entered. 
 
 "Ah," said Lumley, assuming a melancholy air, "I am glad 
 that you are arrived; you will excuse my having written to 
 you so unceremoniously. You received my note. Sit down, 
 pray. And how are you? You look delicate. Can I offer 
 you anything? " 
 
 "Wine," said Cesarini, laconically, "wine; your climate 
 requires wine." 
 
 Here the servant entered with the penknife, and was or- 
 dered to bring wine and sandwiches. Lumley then conversed 
 lightly on different matters till the wine appeared; he was 
 rather surprised to observe Cesarini pour out and drink off 
 glass upon glass, with an evident craving for the excitement. 
 When he had satisfied himself, he turned his dark eyes to 
 Ferrers, and said, "You have news to communicate; I see it 
 in your brow. I am now ready to hear all." 
 
 "Well, then, listen to me. You were right in your sus- 
 picions; jealousy is ever a true diviner. I make no doubt 
 Othello was quite right, and Desdemona was no better than 
 she should be. Maltravers has proposed to my cousin, and 
 been accepted." 
 
 Cesarini's complexion grew perfectly ghastly; his whole 
 frame shook like a leaf; for a moment he seemed paralyzed. 
 
 "Curse him! " said he at last, drawing a deep breath, and 
 betwixt his grinded teeth, — "curse him from the depths of 
 the heart he has broken ! " 
 
 "And after such a letter to you! Do you remember it? 
 Here it is. He warns you against Lady Florence, and then 
 secures her to himself. Is this treachery? " 
 
 "Treachery black as hell! I am an Italian," cried Cesarini, 
 springing to his feet, and with all the passions of his climate 
 in his face, "and I will be avenged! Bankrupt in fortune, 
 ruined in hopes, blasted in heart, I have still the godlike con- 
 solation of the desperate, — I have revenge." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 343 
 
 "Will you call him out?" asked Lumley, musingly and 
 calmly. "Are you a dead shot? If so, it is worth thinking 
 about; if not, it is a mockery: your shot misses, his goes in 
 the air, seconds interpose, and you both walk away devilish 
 glad to get off so well. Duels are humbugs." 
 
 "Mr. Ferrers," said Cesarini, fiercely, "this is not a matter 
 of jest." 
 
 "I do not make it a jest; and what is more, Cesarini," said 
 Ferrers, with a concentrated energy far more commanding 
 than the Italian's fury, "what is more, I so detest Mal- 
 travers, I am so stung by his cold superiority, so wroth with 
 his success, so loathe the thought of his alliance, that I would 
 cut off this hand to frustrate that marriage ! I do not jest, 
 man, but I have method and sense in my hatred, — it is our 
 English way." 
 
 Cesarini stared at the speaker gloomily, clenched his hand, 
 and strode rapidly to and fro the room. 
 
 " You would be avenged, so would I. Now what shall be 
 the means?" said Ferrers. 
 
 "I will stab him to the heart; I will — " 
 
 "Cease these tragic flights. Nay, frown and stamp not, 
 but sit down and be reasonable, or leave me and act for 
 yourself." 
 
 "Sir," said Cesarini, with an eye that might have alarmed 
 a man less resolute than Ferrers, "have a care how you pre- 
 sume on my distress." 
 
 "You are in distress, and you refuse relief; you are bank- 
 rupt in fortune, and you rave like a poet when you should 
 be devising and plotting for the attainment of boundless 
 wealth. Revenge and ambition may both be yours ; but they 
 are prizes never won but by a cautious foot as well as a bold 
 hand." 
 
 "What would you have me do? And what but his life 
 would content me?" 
 
 "Take his life if you can, — I have no objection; go and 
 take it. Only just observe this, that if you miss your aim, 
 or he, being the stronger man, strike you down, you will be 
 locked up in a madhouse for the next year or two at least; 
 
344 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 and that is not the place in which I should like to pass the 
 winter. But as you will." 
 
 "You, you! But what are you to me? I will go. Good- 
 day, sir." 
 
 "Stay a moment," said Ferrers, when he saw Cesarini 
 about to leave the room, — "stay, take this chair, and listen 
 to me ; you had better — " 
 
 Cesarini hesitated, and then, as it were, mechanically 
 obeyed. 
 
 "Read that letter which Maltravers wrote to you. You 
 have finished. Well, now observe: if Florence sees that 
 letter, she will not and cannot marry the man who wrote it; 
 you must show it to her." 
 
 "Ah, my guardian angel, I see it all! Yes, there are 
 words in this letter no woman so proud could ever pardon. 
 Give me it again; I will go at once." 
 
 " Pshaw ! You are too quick ; you have not remarked that 
 this letter was written five months ago, before Maltravers knew 
 much of Lady Florence. He himself has confessed to her 
 that he did not then love her, — so much the more would she 
 value the conquest she has now achieved. Florence would smile 
 at this letter and say, ' Ah, he judges me differently now. ' " 
 
 "Are you seeking to madden me? What do you mean? 
 Did you not just now say that, did she see that letter, she 
 would never marry the writer? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but the letter must be altered. We must erase 
 the date; we must date it from to-day, — to-day: Maltravers 
 returns to-day. We must suppose it written, not in answer 
 to a letter from 3'ou demanding his advice and opinion as to 
 your marriage with Lady Florence, but in answer to a letter 
 of yours in which you congratulate liim on his approaching 
 marriage to her. By the substitution of one pronoun for an- 
 other in two places, the letter will read as well one way as 
 another. Eead it again, and see; or stop, — I will be the 
 lecturer." 
 
 Here Ferrers read over the letter, which, by the trifling 
 substitutions he proposed, might indeed bear the character he 
 wished to give it. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 345 
 
 "Does the light break in upon you now?" said Ferrers. 
 "Are you prepared to go through a part that requires sub- 
 tlety, delicacy, address, and, above all, self-control, — quali- 
 ties that are the common attributes of your countrymen? " 
 
 " I will do all, fear me not. It may be villanous, it may 
 be base; but I care not, Maltravers shall not rival, master, 
 eclipse me in all things." 
 
 "Where are you lodging? " 
 
 "Where? Out of town a little way." 
 
 "Take up your home with me for a few days. I cannot 
 trust you out of my sight. Send for your luggage; I have a 
 room at your service." 
 
 Cesarini at first refused; but a man who resolves on a crime 
 feels the awe of solitude and the necessity of a companion. 
 He went himself to bring his effects, and promised to return 
 to dinner. 
 
 "I must own," said Lumley, resettling himself at his desk, 
 "this is the dirtiest trick that ever I played; but the glorious 
 end sanctifies the paltry means. After all, it is the mere 
 prejudice of gentlemanlike education." 
 
 A very few seconds, and with the aid of the knife to erase, 
 and the pen to re-write, Ferrers completed his task, with the 
 exception of the change of date, which, on second thoughts, 
 he reserved as a matter to be regulated by circumstances. 
 
 "I think I have hit off his m's and y's tolerably," said he, 
 "considering I was not brought up to this sort of thing. But 
 the alteration would be visible on close inspection. Cesarini 
 must read the letter to her; then, if she glances over it her- 
 self, it will be with bewildered eyes and a dizzy brain. 
 Above all, he must not leave it with her, and must bind her 
 to the closest secrecy. She is honourable, and will keep her 
 word ; and so now that matter is settled. I have just time 
 before dinner to canter down to my uncle's and wish the old 
 fellow joy." 
 
346 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 And then my lord has much that he would state 
 All good to you. — Crabbe : Tales of the Heart. 
 
 Lord Vargrave was sitting alone in his library, with his 
 account-books before him. Carefully did he cast up the vari- 
 ous sums which, invested in various speculations, swelled his 
 income. The result seemed satisfactory, and the rich man 
 threw down his pen with an air of triumph. '' I will invest 
 a hundred and twenty thousand pounds in land, — only a 
 hundred and twenty thousand pounds. I will not be tempted 
 to sink more. I will have a fine house, a house fitting for a 
 nobleman, — a fine old Elizabethan house, a house of historical 
 interest. I must have woods and lakes, and a deer-park 
 above all. Deer are very gentlemanlike things, very. De 
 Clifford's place is to be sold, I know; they ask too much for 
 it, but ready money is tempting. I can bargain, bargain ; I 
 am a good hand at a bargain. Should I be now Lord Baron 
 Vargrave if I had always given people what they asked? I 
 will double my subscriptions to the Bible Society and the 
 Philanthropic and the building of new churches. The world 
 shall not say Richard Templeton does not deserve his great- 
 ness. I will — Come in. Who 's there? Come in." 
 
 The door gently opened; the meek face of the new peeress 
 appeared. " I disturb you ; I beg your pardon — I — " 
 
 "Come in, my dear, come in; I want to talk to you; I 
 want to talk to your ladyship. Sit down, pray." 
 
 Lady Vargrave obeyed. 
 
 "You see," said the peer, crossing his legs and caressing 
 his left foot with both hands, while he see-sawed his stately 
 person to and fro in his chair, — "you see that the honour 
 conferred upon me will make a great change in our ftiode of 
 life, Mrs. Temple — , I mean Lady Vargrave. This villa is 
 all very well, my country-house is not amiss for a country 
 
ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 347 
 
 gentleman; but now we must support our rank. The landed 
 estate I already possess will go with the title, — go to Lum- 
 ley ; I shall buy another at my own disposal, one that I can 
 feel thoroughly mine. It shall be a splendid place, Lady 
 Vargrave." 
 
 "This place is splendid to me," said Lady Vargrave, 
 timidly. 
 
 "This place, — nonsense! You must learn loftier ideas, 
 Lady Vargrave. You are young, you can easily contract new 
 habits, — more easily, perhaps, than myself. You are natur- 
 ally ladylike, though I say it; you have good taste, you don't 
 talk much, you don't show your ignorance, — quite right. 
 You must be presented at court, Lady Vargrave; we must 
 give great dinners, Lady Vargrave. Balls are sinful, so is 
 the opera, — at least I fear so; yet an opera-box would be 
 a proper appendage to your rank, Lady Vargrave." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Templeton — " 
 
 "Lord Vargrave, if your ladyship pleases." 
 
 "I beg pardon. May you live long to enjoy your honours! 
 But I, my dear lord, — I am not fit to share them; it is only 
 in our quiet life that I can forget what — what I was. You 
 terrify me when you talk of court — of — " 
 
 "Stuff, Lady Vargrave! stuff; we accustom ourselves to 
 these things. Do I look like a man who has stood behind a 
 counter? Bank is a glove that stretches to the hand that 
 wears it. And the child,— dear child, dear Evelyn, —she 
 shall be the admiration of London, the beauty, the heiress, 
 the — Oh, she will do me honour ! " 
 
 " She will, she will ! " said Lady Vargrave ; and the tears 
 gushed from her eyes. 
 
 Lord Vargrave was softened. 
 
 " No mother ever deserved more from a child than you from 
 Evelyn." 
 
 "I would hope I have done my duty," said Lady Vargrave, 
 drying her tears. 
 
 "Papa, Papa!" cried an impatient voice, tapping at the 
 window, "come and play, Papa; come and play at ball, 
 Papa! " 
 
348 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 And there, by the window, stood that beautiful child, 
 glowing with health and mirth, her light hair tossed from 
 her forehead, her sweet mouth dimpled with smiles. 
 
 "My darling, go on the lawn; don't over-exert yourself; 
 you have not quite recovered that horrid sprain. I will join 
 you immediately. Bless you! " 
 
 "Don't be long. Papa, — nobody plays so nicely as you do;" 
 and nodding and laughing from very glee, away scampered 
 the young fairy. Lord Vargrave turned to his wife. 
 
 "What think you of my nephew, — of Lumley? " said he, 
 abruptly. 
 
 "He seems all that is amiable, frank, and kind." 
 
 Lord Vargrave's brow became thoughtful. 
 
 "I think so too," he said, after a short pause; "and I hope 
 you Avill approve of what I mean to do. You see Lumley was 
 brought up to regard himself as my heir; I owe something 
 to him beyond the poor estate which goes with, but never 
 can adequately support, my title. Family honours, hereditary 
 rank, must be properly regarded. But that dear girl, I shall 
 leave her the bulk of my fortune. Could we not unite the 
 fortune and the title? It would secure the rank to her, it 
 would incorporate all my desires, all my duties." 
 
 "But," said Lady Vargrave, with evident surprise, "if I 
 understand you rightly, the disparity of years — " 
 
 "And what then, what then, Lady Vargrave? Is there no 
 disparity of years between us? — a greater disparity than be- 
 tween Lumley and that tall girl. Lumley is a mere youth, a 
 youth still, five-and-thirt}' ; he will be little more than forty 
 when they marry. I was between fifty and sixty when I mar- 
 ried you, Lady Vargrave. I don't like boy and girl mar- 
 riages; a man should be older than his wife. But you are 
 so romantic, Lady Vargrave. Besides, Lumley is so gay and 
 good-looking, and wears so well. He has been very nearly 
 forming another attachment; but that, I trust, is out of his 
 head now. They must like each other. You will not gainsay 
 me, Lady Vargrave, and if anything happens to me, — life is 
 uncertain — " 
 
 " Oh, do not speak so, my friend, my benefactor ! " 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 349 
 
 "Why, indeed," resumed his lordship, mildly, "thank 
 Heaven, I am very well, — feel younger than ever I did; but 
 still, life is uncertain, and if you survive me, you will not 
 throw obstacles in the way of my grand scheme?" 
 
 "I — no — no — Of course you have the right in all things 
 over her destiny ; but so young, so soft-hearted, if she should 
 love one of her own years — " 
 
 "Love, pooh! Love does not come into girls' heads unless 
 it is put there. We will bring her up to love Lumley, I 
 have another reason, a cogent one, — our secret ! To him it can 
 be confided ; it should not go out of our family. Even in my 
 grave I could not rest if a slur were cast on my respectabilit}', 
 my name." 
 
 Lord Vargrave spoke solemnly and warmly; then mutter- 
 ing to himself, "Yes, it is for the best," he took up his hat 
 and quitted the room. He joined his stepchild on the lawn. 
 He romped with her, he played with her, — that stiff, stately 
 man! he laughed louder than she did, and ran almost as fast. 
 And when she was fatigued and breathless, he made her sit 
 down beside him in a little summer-house, and fondly strok- 
 ing down her disordered tresses, said, "You tire me out, 
 child; I am growing too old to play with you. Lumley must 
 supply my place. You love Lumley? " 
 
 "Oh, dearly; he is so good-humoured, so kind, — he has 
 given me such a beautiful doll, with such eyes ! " 
 
 "You shall be his little wife. You would like to be his 
 little wife?" 
 
 "Wife! Why, poor mamma is a wife, and she is not so 
 happy as I am." 
 
 "Your mamma has bad health, my dear," said Lord Var- 
 grave, a little discomposed. " But it is a fine thing to be a 
 wife, and have a carriage of your own, and a fine house, and 
 jewels, and plenty of money, and be your own mistress; and 
 Lumley will love you dearly." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I should like all that." 
 
 "And you will have a protector, child, when I am no 
 more." 
 
 The tone rather than the words of her stepfather struck a 
 
350 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 damp into tliat childisli heart. Evelyn lifted her eyes, gazed 
 at him earnestly, and then, throwing her arms round him, 
 burst into tears. 
 
 Lord Vargrave wiped his own eyes and covered her with 
 kisses. 
 
 "Yes, you shall be Lumley's wife, — his honoured wife, 
 heiress to my rank as to my fortunes." 
 
 "I will do all that Papa wishes." 
 
 "You will be Lady Vargrave, then, and Lumley will be 
 your husband," said the stepfather, impressively. "Think 
 over what I have said. Now let us join Mamma. But, as I 
 live, here is Lumley himself! However, it is not yet the time 
 to sound him j I hope that he has no chance with that Lady 
 Florence." 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Fair encounter 
 Of two most rare affections. — Tempest. 
 
 Meanwhile the betrothed were on their road to London. 
 The balmy and serene beauty of the day had induced them to 
 perform the short journey on horseback. It is somewhere 
 said that lovers are never so handsome as in each other's 
 company, and neither Florence nor Ernest ever looked so well 
 as on horseback. There was something in the stateliness and 
 grace of both, something even in the aquiline outline of their 
 features and the haughty bend of the neck that made a sort 
 of likeness between these young persons, although there was 
 no comparison as to their relative degrees of personal advan- 
 tage; the beauty of Florence defied all comparison. And as 
 they rode from Cleveland's porch, where the other guests yet 
 lingering were assembled to give the farewell greeting, there 
 was a general conviction of the happiness destined to the affi- 
 anced ones, — a general impression that both in mind and 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 351 
 
 person they were eminently suited to each other. Their posi- 
 tion was that which is ever interesting, even in more ordinary 
 people, and at that moment they were absolutely popular witli 
 all who gazed on them; and when the good old Cleveland 
 turned away with tears in his eyes and murmured "Bless 
 them! " there was not one of the party who would have hesi- 
 tated to join the prayer. 
 
 Florence felt a nameless dejection as she quitted a spot so 
 consecrated by grateful recollections. 
 
 "When shall we be again so happy?" said she, softly, as 
 she turned back to gaze upon the landscape, which, gay with 
 flowers and shrubs and the bright English verdure, smiled 
 behind them like a garden. 
 
 " We will try and make my old hall and its gloomy shades 
 remind us of these fairer scenes, my Florence." 
 
 "Ah! describe to me the character of your place. We shall 
 live there principally, shall we not? I am sure I shall like 
 it much better than Marsden Court, which is the name of that 
 huge pile of arches and columns, in Yanbrugh's heaviest taste, 
 which will soon be yours." 
 
 "I fear we shall never dispose of all your mighty retinue, — 
 grooms of the chamber, and Patagonian footmen, and Heaven 
 knows who besides, in the holes and corners of Burleigh," 
 said Ernest, smiling. And then he went on to describe the 
 old place with something of a well-born country gentleman's 
 not displeasing pride ; and Florence listened, and they planned 
 and altered and added and improved, and laid out a map for 
 the future. From that topic they turned to another, equally 
 interesting to Florence. The work in which Maltravers had 
 been engaged was completed, was in the hands of the printer, 
 and Florence amused herself with conjectures as to the criti- 
 cisms it would provoke. She was certain that all that had 
 most pleased her would be caviare to the multitude. She 
 never would believe that any one could understand Maltravers 
 but herself. Thus time flew on till they passed that part of 
 the road in which had occurred Ernest's adventure with ]\Irs. 
 Templeton's daughter. ]\raltravers paused abruptly in the 
 midst of his glowing periods as the spot awakened its asso- 
 
352 ERXEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 ciations and reminiscences, and looked round anxiously and 
 inquiringly. But the fair apparition was not again visible; 
 and whatever impression the place produced, it gradually 
 died away as they entered the suburbs of the great metropolis. 
 Two other gentlemen and a young lady of thirty-three (I had 
 almost forgotten them) were of the party ; but they had the 
 tact to linger a little behind during the greater part of the 
 road, and the young lady, who was a wit and a flirt, found 
 gossip and sentiment for both the cavaliers. 
 
 "Will you come to us this evening?" asked Florence, 
 timidly. 
 
 " I fear I shall not be able. I have several matters to ar- 
 range before I leave town for Burleigh, which I must do next 
 week. Three months, dearest Florence, will scarcely suffice 
 to make Burleigh put on its best looks to greet its new mis- 
 tress ; and I have already appointed the great modern magi- 
 cians of draperies and ormolu to consult how we may make 
 Aladdin's palace fit for the reception of the new princess. 
 Lawyers too! — in short, I expect to be fully occupied. But 
 to-morrow, at three, I shall be with you, and we can ride out, 
 if the day be fine." 
 
 "Surely," said Florence, "yonder is Signor Cesarini. How 
 haggard and altered he appears! " 
 
 Maltravers, turning his eyes towards the spot to which 
 Florence pointed, saw Cesarini emerging from a lane, with a 
 porter behind him carrying some books and a trunk. The 
 Italian, who was talking and gesticulating as to himself, did 
 not perceive them. 
 
 "Poor Castruccio! he seems leaving his lodging," thought 
 Maltravers. " By this time I fear he will have spent the last 
 sum I conveyed to him. I must remember to find him out 
 and replenish his stores. — Do not forget," said he, aloud, "to 
 see Cesarini, and urge him to accept the appointment we 
 spoke of." 
 
 "I will not forget it; I will see him to-morrow before we 
 meet. Yet it is a painful task, Ernest." 
 
 "I allow it. Alas! Florence, you owe him some repara- 
 tion. He undoubtedly once conceived himself entitled to 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 353 
 
 form hopes, the vanity of which his ignorance of our English 
 world and his foreign birth prevented him from suspecting." 
 
 "Believe me, I did not give him the right to form such 
 expectations." 
 
 *' But you did not sufficiently discourage them. Ah, Flor- 
 ence, never underrate the j)angs of hope crushed, of love 
 contemned." 
 
 "Dreadful!" said Florence, almost shuddering. "It is 
 strange, but my conscience never so smote me before. It is 
 since I loved that I feel, for the first time, how guilty a 
 creature is — " 
 
 "A coquette!" interrupted Maltravers. "Well, let us 
 think of the past no more; but if we can restore a gifted 
 man, whose youth promised much, to an honourable inde- 
 pendence and a healthful mind, let us do so. Me, Cesarini 
 never can forgive ; he will think I have robbed him of you. 
 But we men, — the woman we have once loved, even after she 
 rejects us, ever has some power over us, and your eloquence, 
 which has so often roused me, cannot fail to impress a nature 
 yet more excitable." 
 
 Maltravers, on quitting Florence at her own door, went 
 home, summoned his favourite servant, gave him Cesarini's 
 address at Chelsea, bade him find out where he was, if he 
 had left his lodgings, and leave at his present home, or 
 (failing its discovery) at "The Travellers," a cover, which 
 he made his servant address, inclosing a bank-note of some 
 amount. If the reader wonder why Maltravers thus consti- 
 tuted himself the unknown benefactor of the Italian, I must 
 tell him that he does not understand Maltravers. Cesarini 
 was not the only man of letters whose faults he pitied, whose 
 wants he relieved. Though his name seldom shone in the 
 pompous list of public subscri})tions, though he disdained to 
 affect the Maecenas and the patron, he felt the brotherhood of 
 mankind, and a kind of gratitude for those who aspired to rise 
 or to delight their species. An author himself, he could ap- 
 preciate the vast debt which the world owes to authors, and 
 pays but by calumny in life, and barren laurels after death. 
 He whose profession is the Beautiful succeeds only through 
 
 23 
 
354 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 the Sympatliies. Charity and compassion are virtues taught 
 with difficulty to ordinary men; to true genius they are but 
 the instincts which direct it to the destiny it is born to fulfil, 
 — namely, the discovery and redemption of new tracts in our 
 common nature. Genius — the Sublime Missionary — goes 
 forth from the serene Intellect of the Author to live in the 
 wants, the griefs, the infirmities of others, in order that it 
 may learn their language; and as its highest achievement is 
 Pathos, so its most absolute requisite is Pity! 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Don John. How canst thou cross this marriage 1 
 
 Borachio. Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that no dishonesty shall 
 appear in me, my lord. — Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 Ferrers and Cesarini were both sitting over their wine, 
 and both had sunk into silence, for they had only one subject 
 in common, when a note was brought to Lumley from Lady 
 Florence. " This is lucky enough ! " said he, as he read it. 
 "Lady Florence wishes to see you, and incloses me a note for 
 you which she asks me to address and forward to you. There 
 it is." 
 
 Cesarini took the note with trembling hands. It was very 
 short, and merely expressed a desire to see him the next day 
 at two o'clock. 
 
 "What can it be?" he exclaimed. "Can she want to 
 apologize, to explain ? " 
 
 "Ko, no, no! Florence will not do that; but from certain 
 words she dropped in talking with me, I guess that she has 
 some offer to your worldly advantage to propose to jou. Ha! 
 by the way, a thought strikes me." 
 
 Lumley eagerly rang the bell. "Is Lady Florence's ser- 
 vant waiting for an answer? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Very well; detain him." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 355 
 
 "Now, Cesarini, assurance is made doubly sure. Come 
 into the next room. There, sit down at my desk, and write, 
 as I shall dictate, to Maltravers." 
 
 " I ! " 
 
 "Yes. 'Now do put yourself in my hands, — write, write. 
 "When you have finished, I will explain." 
 
 Cesarini obeyed, and the letter was as follows : — 
 
 Dear Maltravers, — I have learned your approaching marriage 
 with Lady Florence Lascelles. Permit me to congratulate you. For 
 myself, I have overcome a vain and foolish passion, and can contemplate 
 your happiness without a sigh. 
 
 I have reviewed all my old prejudices against marriage, and believe it 
 to be a state which nothing but the most perfect congeniality of temper, 
 pursuits, and minds can render bearal)le. How rare is such congeniality 1 
 In your case it may exist. The affections of that beautiful being are 
 doubtless ardent, and they are yours ! 
 
 Write me a line by the bearer to assure me of your belief in my 
 
 sincerity. Yours, 
 
 C. Cesarini. 
 
 "Copy out this letter, — I want its ditto; quick. Xow, seal 
 and direct the duplicate," continued Ferrers; "that's right. 
 Go into the hall, give it yourself to Lady Florence's servant, 
 and beg him to take it to Seamore Place, wait for an answer, 
 and bring it here; by which time you will have a note ready 
 for Lady Florence; Say I will mention this to her ladyship, 
 and give the man half-a-crown. There, begone." 
 
 " I do not understand a word of this, " said Cesarini, when 
 he returned; "will you explain? " 
 
 " Certainly ; the copy of the note you have despatched to 
 Maltravers I shall show to Lady Florence this evening as a 
 proof of your sobered and generous feelings. Observe, it is 
 so written that the old letter of your rival may seem an exact 
 reply to it. To-morrow a reference to this note of yours will 
 bring out our scheme more easily; and if you follow my in- 
 structions, you will not seem to vohmteer showing our handi- 
 work, as we at first intended, but rather to yield it to her eyes 
 from a generous impulse, from an irresistible desire to save 
 her from an unwortliy husband and a wretched fate. Fortune 
 
356 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 has been dealing our cards for us, and lias turned up the ace. 
 Three to one now on the odd trick. Maltravers, too, is at 
 home. I called at his house, on returning from my uncle's, 
 and learned that he would not stir out all the evening." 
 
 In due time came the answer from Ernest. It was Short 
 and hurried, but full of all the manly kindness of his nature ; 
 it expressed admiration and delight at the tone of Cesarini's 
 letter; it revoked all former expressions derogatory to Lady 
 Florence; it owned the harshness and error of his first im- 
 pressions; it used every delicate argument that could soothe 
 and reconcile Cesarini; and concluded by sentiments of 
 friendship and desire of service so cordial, so honest, so free 
 from the affectation of patronage that even Cesarini himself, 
 half insane as he was with passion, was almost softened. 
 Lumley saw the change in his countenance, snatched the 
 letter from his hand, read it, threw it into the fire, and 
 saying, "We must guard against accidents," clapped the 
 Italian affectionately on the shoulder and added : " Xow you 
 can have no remorse ; for a more Jesuitical piece of insult- 
 ing, hypocritical cant I never read. Where 's your note to 
 Lady Florence? Your compliments, you will be with her at 
 two. There, now the rehearsal's over, the scenes arranged, 
 and I '11 dress, and open the play for you with a prologue." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 iEsTUAT ingens 
 Imo iu corde pudor, mixtoque insania luctu, 
 Et furiis agitatus amor, et conscia virtus.^ — Virgil. 
 
 The next day, punctual to his appointment, Cesarini re- 
 paired to his critical interview with Lady Florence. Her 
 countenance, which, like that of most persons whose temper 
 is not under their command, ever too faithfully expressed 
 
 1 "Deep in her inmost heart is stirred the immense shame, and madness 
 with commingled grief, and love agitated by rage, and conscious virtue." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 357 
 
 what was witliin, was unusually flushed. Lumley had 
 dropped words and hints which had driven sleep from her 
 pillow and repose from her mind. 
 
 She rose from her seat with nervous agitation as Cesarini 
 entered and made his grave salutation. After a short and 
 embarrassed pause, she recovered, however, her self-posses- 
 sion, and with all a woman's delicate and dexterous tact 
 urged upon the Italian the expediency of accepting the offer 
 of honourable independence now extended to him. 
 
 "You have abilities," she said, in conclusion, "you have 
 friends, you have youth; take advantage of those gifts of 
 nature and fortune, and fultil such a career as," added Lady 
 Florence, with a smile, "Dante did not consider incompati- 
 ble with poetry." 
 
 "I cannot object to any career," said Cesarini, with an 
 effort, " that may serve to remove me from a country that has 
 no longer any charms for me. I thank you for your kind- 
 ness ; I will obey you. May you be happy ! And yet — no, 
 ah ! no — happy you must be ! Even he, sooner or later, must 
 see you with my eyes." 
 
 "I know," replied Florence, falteringly, "that you have 
 wisely and generously mastered a past illusion. Mr. Ferrers 
 allowed me to see the letter you wrote to Er — to Mr. Mal- 
 travers; it was worthy of you; it touched me deeply. But I 
 trust you will outlive your prejudices against — " 
 
 "Stay," interrupted Cesarini; "did Ferrers communicate 
 to you the answer to that letter? " 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 "I am glad of it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Oh, no matter. Heaven bless you! Farewell." 
 
 "No, I implore you, do not go yet. What was there in 
 that letter that it could pain me to see? Lumley hinted 
 darkly, but would not speak out; be more frank." 
 
 " I cannot ; it would be treachery to Maltravers, cruelty to 
 you. Yet would it be cruel? " 
 
 "No, it would not; it would be kindness and mercy. Show 
 me the letter, — you have it with you." 
 
358 ERNEST MALTR AVERS. 
 
 " You could not bear it ; you would hate me for the pain it 
 would give you. Let me depart." 
 
 " Man, you wrong Maltravers. I see it now. You would 
 darkly slander him whom you cannot openly defame. Go; I 
 was wrong to listen to you, — go I " 
 
 " Lady Florence, beware how you taunt me into undeceiving 
 you. Here is the letter, — it is his handwriting : will you 
 read it? I warn you not." 
 
 "I will believe nothing but the evidence of my own eyes; 
 give it me." 
 
 "Stay, then, — on two conditions. First, that you promise 
 me sacredly that you will not disclose to Maltravers, without 
 my consent, that you have seen this letter. Think not I fear 
 his anger. Xo ; but in the mortal encounter that must ensue, 
 if you thus betray me, your character would be lowered in 
 the world's eyes, and even I (my excuse unknown) might not 
 appear to have acted with honour in obeying your desire and 
 warning you, while there is yet time, of bartering love for 
 avarice. Promise me." 
 
 "I do, I do most solemnly." 
 
 "Secondly, assure me that you will not ask to keep the 
 letter, but will immediately restore it to me." 
 
 "I promise it. oSTow then." 
 
 "Take the letter." 
 
 Florence seized and rapidly read the fatal and garbled 
 document. Her brain was dizzy, her eyes clouded, her ears 
 rang as with the sound of water, she was sick and giddy with 
 emotion; but she read enough. This letter was written, 
 then, in answer to Castruccio's of last night; it avowed dis- 
 like of her character; it denied the sincerity of her love; it 
 more than hinted the mercenary nature of his own feelings. 
 Yes, even there, where she had garnered up her heart, she 
 was not Florence the lovely and beloved woman, but Florence 
 the wealthy and high-born heiress. The world which she had 
 built upon the faith and heart of Maltravers crumbled away 
 at her feet. The letter dropped from her hands; her whole 
 form seemed to shrink and shrivel up; her teeth were set, 
 and her cheek was as white as marble. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 359 
 
 "0 God! " cried Cesarini, stung with remorse. "Speak to 
 me, speak to me, Florence ! I did wrong ; forget tliat hateful 
 letter! I have been false, false! " 
 
 "Ah, false — say so again. No, no, I remember he told me 
 — he, so wise, so deep a judge of human character that he 
 would be sponsor for your faith — that your honour and heart 
 were incorruptible. It is true; I thank you, — you have saved 
 me from a terrible fate." 
 
 " Oh, Lady Florence, dear — too dear — yet, would that — 
 Alas! she does not listen to me," muttered Castruccio, as 
 Florence, pressing her hands to her temples, walked wildly 
 to and fro the room. At length she paused opposite to 
 Cesarini, looked him full in the face, returned him the letter 
 without a word, and pointed to the door. 
 
 "No, no, do not bid me leave you yet," said Cesarini, 
 trembling with repentant emotion, yet half beside himself 
 with jealous rage at her love for his rival. 
 
 "My friend, go," said Florence, in a tone of voice singu- 
 larly subdued and soft. "Do not fear me; I have more 
 pride in me than even affection : but there are certain struggles 
 in a woman's breast which she could never betray to any 
 one, — any one but a mother. God help me, I have none! 
 Go; when next we meet, I shall be calm." 
 
 She held out her hand as she spoke ; the Italian dropped 
 on his knee, kissed it convulsively, and fearful of trusting 
 himself further, vanished from the room. 
 
 He had not been long gone before Maltravers was seen 
 riding through the street. As he threw himself from his 
 horse, he looked up at the window and kissed his hand at 
 Lady Florence, who stood there watching his arrival with 
 feelings indeed far different from those he anticipated. He 
 entered the room lightly and gayly. 
 
 Florence stirred not to welcome him. He approached and 
 took her hand; she withdrew it with a shudder. 
 
 "Are you not well, Florence? " 
 
 "I am well, for I have recovered." 
 
 "What do you mean? Why do you turn from me? " 
 
 Lady Florence fixed her eyes on him, — eyes that literally 
 blazed; her lip quivered with scorn. 
 
360 EKNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 '' Mr. Maltravers, at length I know you. I understand the 
 feelings with which you have sought a union between us. 
 God! why, why was I thus cursed with riches; why made 
 a thing of barter and merchandise and avarice and low ambi- 
 tion? Take my wealth, take it, Mr. Maltravers, since that is 
 what you prize. Heaven knows I can cast it willingly away; 
 but leave the wretch whom you long deceived, and who now, 
 wretch though she be, renounces and despises you! " 
 
 "Lady Florence, do I hear aright? Who has accused me 
 to you? " 
 
 "None, sir, none; I would have believed none. Let it 
 suffice that I am convinced that our union can be happy to 
 neither. Question me no further; all intercourse between us 
 is forever over ! " 
 
 "Pause," said Maltravers, with cold and grave solemnity; 
 "another word, and the gulf will become impassable. Pause! " 
 
 " Do not, " exclaimed the unhappy lady, stung by what she 
 considered the assurance of a hardened hypocrisy, — "do not 
 affect this haughty superiority; it dupes me no longer. I 
 was your slave while I loved you: the tie is broken. I am 
 free, and I hate and scorn you! Mercenary and sordid as 
 you are, your baseness of spirit revives the differences of our 
 rank. Henceforth, Mr. Maltravers, I am Lady Florence 
 Lascelles, and by that title alone will you know me. Be- 
 gone, sir! " 
 
 As she spoke, with passion distorting every feature of her 
 face, all her beauty vanished away from the eyes of the proud 
 Maltravers as if by witchcraft, — the angel seemed trans- 
 formed into the fury ; and cold, bitter, and withering was the 
 eye which he fixed upon that altered countenance. 
 
 "Mark me, Lady Florence Lascelles," said he, very calmly, 
 " you have now said what you can never recall. Neither in 
 man nor in woman did Ernest Maltravers ever forget or for- 
 give a sentence which accused him of dishonour. I bid you 
 farewell forever; and with my last words I condemn you to 
 the darkest of all dooms, — the remorse that comes too late! " 
 Slowly he moved away; and as the door closed upon that 
 towering and haughty form, Florence already felt that his 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 361 
 
 curse was working to its fulfilment. She rushed to the win- 
 dow, she caught one last glimpse of him as his horse bore 
 him rapidly away. Ah ! when shall they meet again? 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 And now I live. Oh, wherefore do I live ? 
 
 And with that pang I prayed to be no more. — Wordsworth. 
 
 It was about nine o'clock that evening, and Maltravers 
 was alone in his room. His carriage was at the door, his 
 servants were arranging the luggage ; he was going that night 
 to Burleigh. London, society, the world, were grown hateful 
 to him; his galled and indignant spirit demanded solitude. 
 At this time Lumley Ferrers entered. 
 
 "You will pardon my intrusion," said the latter, with his 
 usual frankness, " but — " 
 
 ^'But what, sir? I am engaged." 
 
 " I shall be very brief. Maltravers, you are my old friend. 
 I retain regard and affection for you, though our different 
 habits have of late estranged us. I come to you from my 
 cousin, — from Florence; there has been some misunderstand- 
 ing between you. I called on her to-day after you left the 
 hoiise. Her grief affected me. I have only just quitted her. 
 She has been told by some gossip or other some story or 
 other, — women are credulous, foolish creatures; undeceive 
 her, and I dare say all may be settled." 
 
 " Ferrers, if a man had spoken to me as Lady Florence did, 
 his blood or mine must have flowed. And do you think that 
 words that might have plunged me into the guilt of homicide 
 if uttered by a man, I could ever pardon in one whom I had 
 dreamed of for a wife? Never! " 
 
 "Pooh, pooh, women's words are wind. Don't throw away 
 so splendid a match for such a trifle." 
 
362 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Do you too, sir, mean to impute mercenary motives to 
 me?" 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! You know I am no coward, but I really 
 don't want to fight you. Come, be reasonable." 
 
 "I dare say you mean well, but the breach is final, — all re- 
 currence to it is painful and superfluous. I must wish you 
 good evening." 
 
 "You have positively decided?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Even if Lady Florence made the amende honorable ? " 
 
 " jSTotliing on the part of Lady Florence could alter my reso- 
 lution. The woman whom an honourable man, an English 
 gentleman, makes the partner of his life, ought never to 
 listen to a syllable against his fair name. His honour is 
 hers; and if her lips, that should breathe comfort in calumny, 
 only serve to retail the lie, she may be beautiful, gifted, 
 wealthy, and high-born, but he takes a curse to his arms. 
 That curse I have escaped." 
 
 "And this I am to say to my cousin? " 
 
 "As you will. And now stay, Lumley Ferrers, and hear 
 me. I neither accuse nor suspect you; I desire not to pierce 
 your heart, and in this case I cannot fathom your motives: 
 but if it should so have happened that you have in any way 
 ministered to Lady Florence Lascelles injurious opinions of 
 my faith and honour, you will have much to answer for, and 
 sooner or later there will come a day of reckoning between 
 you and me." 
 
 " Mr. Maltravers, there can be no quarrel between us, with 
 my cousin's fair name at stake, or else we should not now 
 part without preparations for a more hostile meeting. I can 
 bear your language. I, too, though no philosopher, can for- 
 give. Come, man, you are heated, — it is very natural; let 
 us part friends. Your hand." 
 
 " If you can take my hand, Lumley, you are innocent, and 
 I have wronged you." 
 
 Lumley smiled, and cordially pressed the hand of his old 
 friend. 
 
 As he descended the stairs Maltravers followed, and just 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 363 
 
 as Lumley turned into Curzon Street, the carriage whirled 
 rapidly past him, and by the lamps he saw the pale and stern 
 face of Maltravers. 
 
 It was a slow, drizzling rain, — one of those unwholesome 
 nights frequent in London towards the end of autumn. Fer- 
 rers, however, insensible to the weather, walked slowly and 
 thoughtfully towards his cousin's house. He was playing for 
 a mighty stake, and hitherto the cast was in his favour; yet 
 he was uneasy and perturbed. His conscience was tolerably 
 proof to all compunction, as much from the levity as from 
 the strength of his nature; and, Maltravers removed, he 
 trusted in his knowledge of the human heart, and the smooth 
 speciousness of his manner, to win at last, in the hand of 
 Lady Florence, the object of his ambition. It was not on 
 her affection, it was on her pique, her resentment, that he 
 relied. " When a woman fancies herself slighted by the man 
 she loves, the first person who proposes must be a clumsy 
 wooer indeed if he does not carry her away." So reasoned 
 Ferrers, but yet he was ruffled and disquieted. The truth 
 must be spoken, — able, bold, sanguine, and scornful as he 
 was, his spirit quailed before that of Maltravers; he feared 
 the lion of that nature when fairly aroused. His own char- 
 acter had in it something of a woman's, — an unprincipled, 
 gifted, aspiring, and subtle woman's; and in Maltravers — 
 stern, simple, and masculine — he recognized the superior 
 dignity of the "lords of the creation." He was overawed by 
 the anticipation of a wrath and revenge which he felt he 
 merited, and which he feared might be deadly. 
 
 While gradually, however, his spirit recovered its usual 
 elasticity, he came in the vicinity of Lord Saxingham's house, 
 and suddenly, by a corner of the street, his arm was seized; 
 to his inexpressible astonishment he recognized in the muffled 
 figure that accosted him the form of Florence Lascelles. 
 
 "Good heavens," he cried, "is it possible? You, alone in 
 the streets at this hour, in such a night, too? How very 
 wrong; how very imprudent! " 
 
 "Do not talk to me; I am almost mad as it is. I could not 
 rest; I could npt brave quiet, solitude, still less the face of 
 
364 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 my father, — I could not! But quick, what says he? What 
 excuse has he? Tell me everything; I will cling to a 
 straw." 
 
 •'And is this the proud Florence Lascelles? " 
 
 "No, it is the humbled Florence Lascelles. I have done 
 with pride, — speak to me!" 
 
 " Ah, what a treasure is such a heart ! How can he throw 
 it away?" 
 
 "Does he deny? " 
 
 "He denies nothing; he expresses himself rejoiced to have 
 escaped — such was his expression — a marriage in which his 
 heart never was engaged. He is unworthy of you; forget 
 him," 
 
 Florence shivered, and as Ferrers drew her arm in his own, 
 her ungloved hand touched his, and the touch was like that 
 of ice. 
 
 "What will the servants think? What excuse can we 
 make? " said Ferrers, when they stood beneath the porch. 
 
 Florence did not reply; but as the door opened, she said 
 softly, — 
 
 "I am ill, ill," and clung to Ferrers with that unnerved 
 and heavy weight which betokens faintness. 
 
 The light glared on her, the faces of the lackeys betokened 
 their undisguised astonishment. With a violent effort Flor- 
 ence recovered herself, for she had not yet done with pride, 
 swept through the hall with her usual stately step, slowly 
 ascended the broad staircase, and gained the solitude of her 
 own room, to fall senseless on the floor. 
 
BOOK IX. 
 
 'AxfpovTi wfi(pe6(r(i>. — Sophocles : Antigone. 
 " I go, the bride of Acheron." 
 
 MeAAoj'Ta TapTo. — Ibid, 1333. 
 " These things are in the future." 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 There the action lies 
 In his tnie nature . . . 
 . . . What then ? What rests ? 
 Try what repentance can. — Hamlet. 
 
 I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. — King John. 
 
 It was a fine afternoon in December when Lumley Ferrers 
 turned from Lord Saxingham's door. The knockers were 
 muffled, the windows on the third story were partially closed. 
 There was sickness in that house. 
 
 Lumley's face was unusually grave; it was even sad. "So 
 young, so beautiful," he muttered. "If ever I loved woman, 
 I do believe I loved her; that love must be my excuse. I 
 repent of what I have done; but I could not foresee that a 
 mere lover's stratagem was to end in such effects. The meta- 
 physician was very right when he said, * We only sympathize 
 with feelings we know ourselves.' A little disappointment 
 in love could not have hurt me much; it is d — d odd it should 
 hurt her so. I am altogether out of luck; old Templeton — 
 I beg his pardon, Lord Vargrave (by the by he gets heartier 
 every day; what a constitution he has!) — seems cross with 
 
366 ERXEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 me. He did not like the idea tliat I should marry Lady 
 Florence; and when I thought that vision might have been 
 realized, hinted that I was disappointing some expectations 
 he had formed, — I can't make out what he means. Then, 
 too, the Government have offered that place to Maltravers 
 instead of to me. In fact, my star is not in the ascendant. 
 Poor Florence, though, I would really give a great deal to 
 know her restored to health! I have done a villanous thing, 
 but I thought it only a clever one. However, regret is a 
 fool's passion. By Jupiter! talking of fools, here comes 
 Cesarini." 
 
 Wan, haggard, almost spectral, his hat over his brows, his 
 dress neglected, his air reckless and fierce, Cesarini crossed 
 the way, and thus accosted Lumley : — 
 
 " We have murdered her, Ferrers ; and her ghost will haunt 
 us to our dying day 1 " 
 
 "Talk prose; you know I am no poet. What do you 
 mean? " 
 
 "She is worse to-day," groaned Cesarini, in a hollow voice. 
 "I wander like a lost spirit round the house; I question all 
 who come from it. Tell me, oh, tell me, is there hope? " 
 
 "I do indeed trust so," replied Ferrers, fervently. "The 
 illness has only of late assumed an alarming appearance. At 
 first it was merely a severe cold, caught by imprudent ex- 
 posure one rainy night. Now they fear it has settled on the 
 lungs; but if we could get her abroad, all might be well." 
 
 "You think so, honestly? " 
 
 "I do. Courage, my friend; do not reproach yourself: it 
 has nothing to do with us. She was taken ill of a cold, not 
 of a letter, man ! " 
 
 "Xo, no; I judge her heart by my own. Oh that I could 
 recall the past ! Look at me ; I am the wreck of what I was ; 
 day and night the recollection of my falsehood haunts me 
 with remorse." 
 
 "Pshaw! we will go to Italy together, and in your beau- 
 tiful land love will replace love." 
 
 "I am half resolved, Ferrers." 
 
 "Ha!— to do what?" 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 367 
 
 "To write, — to reveal all to her," 
 
 The hardy complexion of Ferrers grew livid ; his brow be- 
 came dark with a terrible expression. 
 
 "Do so, — and fall the next day by my hand; my aim in 
 slighter quarrel never erred." 
 
 "Do you dare to threaten me? " 
 
 "Do you dare to betray me? Betray one who, if he sinned, 
 sinned on your account, in your cause ; who would have se- 
 cured to you the loveliest bride and the most princely dower 
 in England; and whose only offence against you is that he 
 cannot command life and health? " 
 
 "Forgive me," said the Italian, with great emotion, — "for- 
 give me, and do not misunderstand; I would not have be- 
 trayed 3/0 ?r, — there is honour among villains. I would have 
 confessed only my own crime ; I would never have revealed 
 yours, — why should I? It is unnecessary." 
 
 "Are you in earnest, are you sincere?" 
 
 " By my soul ! " 
 
 "Then, indeed, you are worthy oE my friendship. You 
 will assume the whole forgery — an ugly word, but it avoids 
 circumlocution — to be your own?" 
 
 "I will." 
 
 Ferrers paused a moment, and then stopped suddenly 
 short. 
 
 "You will swear this! " 
 
 "By all that is holy." 
 
 " Then mark me, Cesarini ; if to-morrow Lady Florence be 
 worse, I will throw no obstacle in the way of your confes- 
 sion, should you resolve to make it, — I will even use that 
 influence which you leave me, to palliate your offence, to 
 win your pardon. And yet to resign your hopes, to surrender 
 one so loved to the arms of one so hated, — it is magnani- 
 mous, it is noble, — it is above my standard! Do as you 
 will." 
 
 Cesarini was about to reply, when a servant on liorscback 
 abruptly turned the corner, almost at full speed. He pulled 
 in; his eye fell upon Lumley; he dismounted. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ferrers," said the man, breathlessly, "I have 
 
368 ERNEST MALTR AVERS. 
 
 been to your house ; the}' told me I might find you at Lord 
 Saxingham's. I was just going there — " 
 
 "Well, well, what is the matter? " 
 
 "My poor master, sir, — my lord, I mean — " 
 
 "What of him?" 
 
 "Had a fit, sir; the doctors are with him. My mistress — 
 for my lord can't speak — sent me express for you." 
 
 "Lend me your horse. There, just lengthen the stirrups." 
 
 While the groom was engaged at the saddle, Ferrers turned 
 to Cesarini. "Do nothing rashly," said he, — "I would say, 
 if I might, nothing at all, without consulting me; but mind, 
 I rely at all events on your promise, your oath." 
 
 "You may," said Cesarini, gloomily. 
 
 "Farewell, then," said Lumley, as he mounted; and in a 
 few moments he was out of sight. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 WORLD ! thou wast the forest to this hart ; 
 Dost thou here lie 1 — Julius Ccesar. 
 
 As Lumley leaped from his horse at his uncle's door, the 
 disorder and bustle of those demesnes, in which the severe 
 eye of the master usually preserved a repose and silence as 
 complete as if the affairs of life were carried on by clock- 
 work, struck upon him sensibly. Upon the trim lawn the 
 old women employed in cleaning and weeding the walks were 
 all assembled in a cluster, shaking their heads ominously in 
 concert, and carrying on their comments in a confused whis- 
 per. In the hall the housemaid (and it was the first house- 
 maid whom Lumley had ever seen in that house, so invisibly 
 were the wheels of the domestic machine carried on) was 
 leaning on her broom, " swallowing with open mouth a foot- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 369 
 
 man's news." It was as if, with the first slackening of the 
 rigid rein, human nature broke loose from tlie conventual 
 stillness in which it had ever paced its peaceful path in that 
 formal mansion. 
 
 "How is he?" 
 
 "My lord is better, sir; he has spoken, I believe." 
 
 At this moment a young face, swollen and red with weep- 
 ing, looked down from the stairs; and presently Evelyn 
 rushed breathlessly into the hall. 
 
 "Oh, come up, come up. Cousin Lumley; he cannot, cannot 
 die in your presence, — you always seem so full of life! He 
 cannot die; you do not think he will die? Oh, take me with 
 you; they won't let me go to him! " 
 
 "Hush, my dear little girl, hush. Follow me lightly, — 
 that is right." 
 
 Lumley reached the door, tapped gently, entered; and the 
 child also stole in unobserved, or at least unprevented. Lum- 
 ley drew aside the curtains; the new lord was lying on his 
 bed, with his head propped by pillows, his eyes wide open, 
 with a glassy, but not insensible stare, and his countenance 
 fearfully changed. 
 
 Lady Vargrave was kneeling on the other side of the bed, 
 one hand clasped in her husband's, the other bathing his 
 temples, and her tears falling, without sob or sound, fast and 
 copiously down her pale fair cheeks. 
 
 Two doctors were conferring in the recess of the window, 
 an apothecary was mixing drugs at a table, and two of the 
 oldest female servants of the house were standing near the 
 physicians, trying to overhear what was said. 
 
 "My dear, dear uncle, how are you?" asked Lumley. 
 
 "Ah, you are come, then," said the dying man, in a feeble 
 yet distinct voice; "that is well, — I have much to say to 
 you." 
 
 "But not now, not now; you are not strong enough," said 
 the wife, imploringly. 
 
 The doctors moved to the bedside. Lord Vargrave waved 
 his hand and raised his head. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said he, "I feel as if death were hastening 
 
 24 
 
370 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 upon me; I have much need, while my senses remain, to con- 
 fer with my nephew. Is the present a fitting time? If I 
 delay, are you sure that I shall have another? " 
 
 The doctors looked at each other. 
 
 "My lord," said one, "it may perhaps settle and relieve 
 your mind to converse with your nephew; afterwards you may 
 more easily compose yourself to sleep." 
 
 " Take this cordial, then, " said the other doctor. 
 
 The sick man obeyed. One of the physicians approached 
 Lumley and beckoned him aside. 
 
 "Shall we send for his lordship's lawyer?" whispered the 
 leech. 
 
 "lam his heir-at-law," thought Lumley. "Why, 7io, my 
 dear sir, no, I think not, unless he expresses a desire to see 
 him ; doubtless my poor uncle has already settled his worldly 
 affairs. What is his state?" 
 
 The doctor shook his head. " I will speak to you, sir, after 
 you have left his lordship." 
 
 "What is the matter there ? " cried the patient, sharply and 
 querulously. "Clear the room; I would be alone with my 
 nephew." 
 
 The doctors disappeared; the old women reluctantly fol- 
 lowed; when suddenly the little Evelyn sprang forward and 
 threw herself on the breast of the dying man, sobbing as if 
 her heart would break. 
 
 "My poor child, my sweet child, my own, own darling! " 
 gasped out Lord Vargrave, folding his weak arms round her. 
 "Bless you, bless you! And God tvill bless you. My wife," 
 he added, with a voice far more tender than Lumley had ever 
 before heard him address to Lady Vargrave, " if these be the 
 last words I utter to you, let them express all the gratitude I 
 feel for you, for duties never more piously discharged. You 
 did not love me, it is true; and in health and pride that 
 knowledge often made me unjust to you. I have been severe, 
 — you have had much to bear; forgive me." 
 
 "Oh! do not talk thus; you have been nobler, kinder than 
 my deserts. How much I owe you, — how little I have done 
 in return! " 
 
ERNEST lAIALTRAVERS. S71 
 
 "I cannot bear this; leave nie, my dear, leave me. I may 
 live yet, — I hope I may; I do not want to die. The cup may 
 pass from me. Go, go, — and you, my child." 
 
 "Ah, let me stay." 
 
 Lord Vargrave kissed the little creature as she clung to his 
 neck with passionate affection, and then, placing her in her 
 mother's arms, fell back exhausted on his pillow. Lumley, 
 with handkerchief to his eyes, opened the door to Lady Var- 
 grave, who sobbed bitterly, and carefully closing it, resumed 
 his station by his uncle. 
 
 When Lumley Ferrers left the room, his countenance was 
 gloomy and excited rather than sad. He hurried to the room 
 which he usually occupied, and remained there for some hours 
 while his uncle slept, — a long and sound sleep. But the 
 mother and the stepchild (now restored to the sick-room) did 
 not desert their watch. 
 
 It wanted about an hour to midnight when the senior phy- 
 sician sought the nephew. 
 
 " Your uncle asks for you, Mr. Ferrers ; and I think it right 
 to say that his last moments approach. We have done all 
 that can be done." 
 
 "Is he fully aware of his danger? " 
 
 "He is, and has spent the last two hours in prayer; it is a 
 Christian's death-bed, sir." 
 
 "Humph! " said Ferrers, as he followed the physician. 
 
 The room was darkened, — a single lamp, carefully shaded, 
 burned on a table, on which lay the Book of Life in Death ; 
 and with awe and grief on their faces, the mother and the 
 child were kneeling beside the bed. 
 
 "Come here, Lumley," faltered forth the fast-dying man. 
 
 "There are none but you three, — nearest and dearest to 
 me? That is well. Lumley, then, you know all, — my wife, 
 he knows all. My child, give your hand to your cousin, — so 
 you are now plighted. When you grow up, Evelyn, you will 
 know that it is my last wish and prayer that you should be 
 the wife of Lumley Ferrers. In giving you this angel, Lum- 
 ley, I atone to you for all seeming injustice. And to you, 
 my child, I secure the rank and honours to which I have 
 
372 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 painfully climbed, and which. I am forbidden to enjoy. Be 
 kind to her, Lumley, — you have a good and frank heart ; let 
 it be her shelter; she has never known a harsh word. God 
 bless you all, and God forgive me! Pray for me. Lumley, 
 to-morrow you will be Lord Vargrave, and by and by " — here 
 a ghastly, but exultant smile flitted over the speaker's coun- 
 tenance — "you will be my Lady — Lady Vargrave. Lady — 
 so — so — Lady Var — " 
 
 The words died on his trembling lips; he turned round, 
 and though he continued to breathe for more than an hour, 
 Lord Vargrave never uttered another syllable. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Hopes and fears 
 Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge 
 Look down — On what ? A fathomless abyss. — Young. 
 
 Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu ! 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 The wound which Maltravers had received was peculiarly 
 severe and rankling. It is true that he had never been what 
 is called violently in love with Florence Lascelles ; but from 
 the moment in which he had been charmed and surprised into 
 the character of a declared suitor, it was consonant with his 
 scrupulous and loyal nature to view only the bright side of 
 Florence's gifts and qualities, and to seek to enamour his 
 grateful fancy with her beauty, her genius, and her tender- 
 ness for himself. He had thus forced and formed his 
 thoughts and hopes to centre all in one object; and Florence 
 and the Future had grown words which conveyed the same 
 meaning to his mind. Perhaps he felt more bitterly her 
 sudden and stunning accusations, couched as they were in 
 language so unqualified, because they fell upon his pride 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 373 
 
 rather than his affection, and were not softened away by the 
 thousand excuses and remembrances wliich a passionate love 
 would have invented and recalled. It was a deep, concen- 
 trated sense of injury and insult that hardened and soured 
 his whole nature, — wounded vanity, wounded pride, and 
 wounded honour. 
 
 And the blow, too, came upon him at a time when he was 
 most dissatisfied with all other prospects. He was disgusted 
 with the littleness of the agents and springs of political life ; 
 he had formed a weary contempt of the barrenness of literary 
 reputation. At thirty years of age he had necessarily out- 
 lived the sanguine elasticity of early youth, and he had 
 already broken up many of those later toys in business and 
 ambition which afford the rattle and the hobby-horse to our 
 maturer manhood. Always asking for something too refined 
 and too exalted for human life, every new proof of unworthi- 
 ness in men and things saddened or revolted a mind still too 
 fastidious for that quiet contentment with the world as it is 
 which we must all learn before we can make our philosophy 
 practical and our genius as fertile of the harvest as it may 
 be prodigal of the blossom. Haughty, solitary, and unsocial, 
 the ordinary resources of mortified and disappointed men 
 were not for Ernest Maltravers. Rigidly secluded in his 
 country retirement, he consumed the days in moody wander- 
 ings, and in the evenings he turned to books with a spirit dis- 
 dainful and fatigued. So much had he already learned, that 
 books taught him little that he did not already know. And 
 the biographies of authors, those ghost-like beings who seem 
 to have had no life but in the shadow of their own haunting 
 and imperishable thoughts, dimmed the inspiration he might 
 have caught from their pages. Those slaves of the Lamp, 
 those Silkworms of the Closet, how little had they enjoyed, 
 how little had they lived! Condemned to a mysterious fate 
 by the wholesale destinies of the world, they seemed born but 
 to toil and to spin thoughts for the common crowd, and, their 
 task performed in drudgery and in darkness, to die when no 
 further service could be wrung from their exhaustion. Xames 
 had they been in life, and as names they lived forever, — in 
 
374 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 life as in death, airy and unsubstantial phantoms. It pleased 
 Maltravers at this time to turn a curious eye towards the ob- 
 scure and half-extinct philosophies of the ancient world. He 
 compared the Stoics with the Epicureans, — those Epicureans 
 who had given their own version to the simple and abstemi- 
 ous utilitarianism of their master. He asked which was the 
 wiser, — to sharpen pain or to deaden pleasure; to bear all, or 
 to enjoy all; and, by a natural reaction which often happens 
 to us in life, this man, hitherto so earnest, active-spirited, 
 and resolved on great things, began to yearn for the drowsy 
 pleasures of indolence. The Garden grew more tempting than 
 the Porch. He seriously revolved the old alternative of the 
 Grecian demigod, — might it not be wiser to abandon the grave 
 pursuits to which he had been addicted, to dethrone the au- 
 gust but severe ideal in his heart, to cultivate the light loves 
 and voluptuous trifles of the herd, and to plant the brief space 
 of youth yet left to him with the myrtle and the rose? As 
 water flows over water, so new schemes rolled upon new — 
 sweeping away every momentary impression, and leaving the 
 surface facile equally to receive and to forget. Such is the 
 common state with men of imagination in those crises of life 
 when some great revolution of designs and hopes unsettles 
 elements too susceptible of every changing wind. And thus 
 the weak are destroyed, while the strong relapse, after terri- 
 ble but unknown convulsions, into that solemn harmony and 
 order from which destiny and God draw their uses to 
 mankind. 
 
 It was from this irresolute contest between antagonist prin- 
 ciples that Maltravers was aroused by the following letter 
 from Florence Lascelles : — 
 
 " For three days and three sleepless nights I have debated with ray- 
 self whether or not I ought to address you. Oh, Ernest, were I what 
 I was, in health, in pride, I might fear that, generous as you are, you 
 would misconstrue my appeal ; but that is now impossible. Our union 
 never can take place, and my hopes bound themselves to one sweet and 
 melancholy hope, — that you will remove from my last hours the cold 
 and dark shadow of your resentment. We have both been cruelly de- 
 ceived and betrayed. Three days ago I discovered the perfidy that has 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 375 
 
 been practised against us. And then, ah ! then, with all the weak human 
 anguish of discovering it too late (^your curse is fulfilled, Ernest !), I had 
 at least one moment of proud, of exquisite rapture. Ernest Maltravers, 
 the hero of my dreams, stood pure and lofty as of old, — a thing it was 
 not unworthy to love, to mourn, to die for. A letter in your handwriting 
 had been shown to me, garbled and altered, as it seems. But I detected 
 not the imposture, — it was yourself, yourself alone, brought in false and 
 horrible witness against yourself ! And could you think that any other 
 evidence, the words and oaths of others, would have convicted you in 
 my eyes ? There you wronged me. But I deserved it, — I had bound 
 myself to secrecy ; the seal is taken from my lips in order to be set upon 
 my tomb. Ernest, beloved Ernest, — beloved till the last breath is ex- 
 tinct, till the last throb of this heart is stilled, — write me one word of 
 comfort and of pardon. You will believe what I have imperfectly writ- 
 ten, for you ever trusted my faith, if you have blamed my faults. I am 
 now comparatively happy, — a word from you will make me blessed. 
 And Fate has perhaps been more merciful to both than in our short- 
 sighted and querulous human vision we might, perhaps, believe ; for now 
 that the frame is brought low, — and in the solitude of my chamber I 
 can duly and humbly commune with mine own heart, — I see the aspect 
 of those faults which I once mistook for virtues, and feel that had we 
 been united, T, loving you ever, might not have constituted your happi- 
 ness, and so have known the misery of losing your affection. May He 
 who formed you for glorious and yet all unaccomplished purposes 
 strengthen you when these eyes can no longer sparkle at your triumphs, 
 nor weep at your lightest sorrow. You will go on in your broad and 
 luminous career ; a few years, and my remembrance will have left but 
 the vestige of a dream behind. But, but — I can write no more. God 
 bless you ! " 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 Oh, stop this headlong current of your goodness ; 
 It comes too fast upon a feeble soul. 
 
 Drvden : Sebastian and Doras. 
 
 The smooth phj^sician had paid his evening visit. Lord 
 Saxingham had gone to a Cabinet dinner, — for Life must ever 
 walk side by side with Death, — and Lady Florence Lascelles 
 
376 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 was alone. It was a room adjoining her sleeping-apartment, 
 
 — a room in which, in the palmy days of the brilliant and 
 wayward heiress, she had loved to display her fanciful and 
 peculiar taste. There had she been accustomed to muse, to 
 write, to study; there had she first been dazzled by the novel 
 glow of Ernest's undiurnal and stately thoughts; there had 
 she first conceived the romance of girlhood, which had led her 
 to confer with him unknown; there had she first confessed 
 to herself that fancy had begotten love; there had she gone 
 through love's short and exhausting process of lone emotion, 
 
 — the doubt, the hope, the ecstasy; the reverse, the terror; 
 the inanimate despondency, the agonized despair! And there 
 now, sadly and patiently, she awaited the gradual march of 
 inevitable decay. And books and pictures and musical in- 
 struments and marble busts half-shadowed by classic drap- 
 eries, and all the delicate elegances of womanly refinement, 
 still invested the chamber with a grace as cheerful as if 
 youth and beauty were to be the occupants forever, and the 
 dark and noisome vault were not the only lasting residence 
 for the things of clay! 
 
 Florence Lascelles was dying, but not inSeed wholly of that 
 common, if mystic, malady, a broken heart. Her health, al- 
 ways delicate, because always preyed upon by a nervous, 
 irritable, and feverish spirit, had been gradually and invisi- 
 bly undermined even before Ernest confessed his love. In 
 the singular lustre of those large-pupilled eyes, in the luxu- 
 riant transparency of that glorious bloom, the experienced 
 might long since have traced the seeds which cradled death. 
 In the night when her restless and maddened heart so impru- 
 dently drove her forth to forestall the communication of 
 Lumley (whom she had sent to Maltravers, she scarce knew 
 for what object, or with what hope), in that night she was 
 already in a high state of fever. The rain and the chill 
 struck the growing disease within; her excitement gave it 
 food and fire; delirium succeeded; and in that most fearful 
 and fatal of all medical errors, which robs the frame, wlien 
 it most needs strength, of the very principle of life, they had 
 bled her into a temporary calm and into permanent and in- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 377 
 
 curable weakness. Consumption seized its victim. The phy- 
 sicians who attended her were the most renowned in London, 
 and Lord Saxingham was firmly persuaded that there was no 
 danger. It was not in his nature to think that death would 
 take so great a liberty with Lady Florence Lascelles when 
 there were so many poor people in the world whom there 
 would be no impropriety in removing from it. But Florence 
 knew her danger, and her high spirit did not quail before it. 
 Yet when Cesarini, stung beyond endurance by the horrors of 
 his remorse, wrote and confessed all his own share of the 
 fatal treason, though, faithful to his promise, he concealed 
 that of his accomplice, — then, ah, then she did indeed re- 
 pine at her doom, and long to look once more with the eyes 
 of love and joy upon the face of the beautiful world. But the 
 illness of the body usually brings out a latent power and 
 philosophy of the soul which health never knows; and God 
 has mercifully ordained it as the customary lot of nature 
 that in proportion as we decline into the grave, the sloping 
 path is made smooth and easy to our feet ; and every day, as 
 the films of clay are removed from our eyes, Death loses the 
 false aspect of the spectre, and we fall at last into its arms 
 as a wearied child upon the bosom of its mother. 
 
 It was with a heavy heart that Lady Florence listened to 
 the monotonous clicking oE the clock that announced the de- 
 parture of moments few, yet not precious, still spared to her. 
 Her face buried in her hands, she bent over the small table 
 beside her sofa, and indulged her melancholy thoughts. 
 Bowed was the haughty crest, unnerved the elastic shape 
 that had once seemed born for majesty and command. No 
 friends were near, for Florence had never made friends ; soli- 
 tary had been her youth, and solitary were her dying hours. 
 
 As she thus sat and mused, a sound of carriage-wheels in 
 the street below slightly shook the room; it ceased, — the 
 carriage stopped at the door. Florence looked up. "No, no, 
 it cannot be," she muttered; yet while she spoke, a faint 
 flush passed over her sunken and faded cheek, and the bosom 
 heaved beneath the robe, ''a world too wide for its shrunk" 
 proportions. There was a silence which to her seemed inter- 
 
378 ERXEST MALTR AVERS. 
 
 luinable, and she turned away with a deep sigh and a chill 
 sinking of the heart. 
 
 At this time her woman entered with a meaning and flur- 
 ried look. 
 
 " 1 beg your pardon, my lady, but — " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "Mr. Maltravers has called and asked for your ladyship; 
 so, my lady, Mr. Burton sent for me, and I said my lady is 
 too unwell to see any one ; but Mr. Maltravers would not be 
 denied; and he is waiting in my lord's library, and insisted 
 on my coming up and 'nouncing him, my lady." 
 
 Now, Mrs. Shinfield's words were not euphonistic, nor her 
 voice mellifluous; but never had eloquence seemed to Flor- 
 ence so effective. Youth, love, beauty, all rushed back upon 
 her at once, brightening her eyes, her cheek, and filling up 
 ruin with sudden and deceitful light. 
 
 "Well," she said, after a pause, "let Mr. Maltravers come 
 up." 
 
 "Come up, my lady? Bless me! Let me just 'range your 
 hair; your ladyship is really in such dish-a-bill." 
 
 "Best as it is, Shinfield; he will excuse all. Go." 
 
 Mrs. Shinfield shrugged her shoulders and departed. A 
 few moments more, a step on the stairs, the creaking of the 
 door, and Maltravers and Florence were again alone. He 
 stood motionless on the threshold. She had involuntarily 
 risen, and so they stood opposite to each other, and the lamp 
 fell full upon her face. O Heaven, when did that sight 
 cease to haunt the heart of Maltravers! When shall that 
 altered aspect not pass as a ghost before his eyes ! There it 
 is, faithful and reproachful alike in solitude and in crowds : 
 it is seen in the glare of noon; it passes dim and wan at 
 night beneath the stars and the earth; it looked into his 
 heart, and left its likeness there forever and forever! Those 
 cheeks, once so beautifully rounded, now sunken into lines 
 and hollows ; the livid darkness beneath the eyes ; the whit- 
 ened lip; the sharp, anxious, worn expression, which had 
 replaced that glorious and beaming rerjnrd from which all the 
 life of genius, all the sweet pride of womanhood, had glowed 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 379 
 
 forth, and in which not only the intelligence, but the eternity, 
 of the soul seemed visibly wrought! 
 
 There he stood, aghast and appalled. At length a low- 
 groan broke from his lips; he rushed forward, sank on his 
 knees beside her, and clasping both her hands, sobbed aloud 
 as he covered them with kisses. All the iron of his strong 
 nature was broken down, and his emotions, long silenced, and 
 now uncontrollable and resistless, were something terrible to 
 behold. 
 
 "Do not, do not weep so," murmured Lady Florence, 
 frightened by his vehemence ; " I am sadly changed, but the 
 fault is mine, — Ernest, it is mine. Best, kindest, gentlest, 
 how could I have been so mad? And you forgive me? I am 
 yours again, — a little while yours. Ah, do not grieve while 
 I am so blessed! " 
 
 As she spoke, her tears — tears from a source how different 
 from that whence broke the scorching and intolerable agony 
 of his own! — fell soft upon his bended head and the hands 
 that still convulsively strained hers. Maltravers looked 
 wildly up into her countenance, and shuddered as he saw her 
 attempt to smile. He rose abruptly, threw himself into a 
 chair, and covered his face. He was seeking by a violent 
 effort to master himself, and it was only by the heaving of 
 his chest, and now and then a gasp as for breath, that he be- 
 trayed the stormy struggle within. 
 
 Florence gazed at him a moment in bitter, in almost selfish 
 penitence. "And this was the man who seemed to me so 
 callous to the softer sympathies; this was the heart I tram- 
 pled upon; this the nature I distrusted! " 
 
 She came near him, trembling and with feeble stejis; she 
 laid her hand upon his shoulder; and the fondness of love 
 came over her, and she wound her arms around him. 
 
 "It is our fate, — it is my fate," said ]\Ialtravers at last, 
 awaking as from a hideous dream, and in a hollow but calm 
 voice; "we are the things of destiny, and the wheel has 
 crushed us. It is an awful state of being, this human life! 
 "What are wisdom, virtue, faith to men, piety to Heaven, all 
 the nurture we bestow on ourselves, all our desire to win a 
 
380 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 loftier sphere, — when we are thus the tools of the merest 
 chance, the victims of the pettiest villany; and our very ex- 
 istence — our very senses almost — at the mercy of every 
 traitor and every fool ! " 
 
 There was something in Ernest's voice, as well as in his 
 reflections, which appeared so unnaturally calm and deep that 
 it startled Florence with a fear more acute than his previous 
 violence had done. He rose, and muttering to himself, 
 walked to and fro, as if insensible of her presence; in fact 
 he was so. At length he stopped short, and fixing his eyes 
 upon Lady Florence, said in a whispered and thrilling 
 tone, — 
 
 "Now, then, the name of our undoer? " 
 
 " Ko, Ernest, no, never, unless you promise me to forego 
 the purpose which I read in your eyes. He has confessed, 
 he is penitent, — I have forgiven him; you will do so too! " 
 
 " His name ! " repeated Maltravers ; and his face, before 
 very flushed, was unnaturally pale. 
 
 "Forgive him, — promise me." 
 
 " His name, I say ; his name ! " 
 
 "Is this kind? You terrify me; you will kill me!" fal- 
 tered out Florence; and she sank on the sofa exhausted. Her 
 nerves, now so weakened, were perfectly unstrung by his 
 vehemence, and she wrung her hands and wept piteously. 
 
 "You will not tell me his name? " said Maltravers, softly. 
 "Be it so. I will ask no more; I can discover it myself. 
 Fate the Avenger will reveal it." 
 
 At the thought he grew more composed ; and as Florence 
 wept on, the unnatural concentration and fierceness of his 
 mind again gave way, and seating himself beside her, he 
 uttered all that could soothe and comfort and console. And 
 Florence was soon soothed! And there, while over their 
 heads the grim skeleton was holding the funeral pall, tliey 
 again exchanged their vows, and again, with feelings fonder 
 than of old, spoke of love. 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 381 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Erichtho, then, 
 Breathes her dire murmurs, which enforce him bear 
 Her baneful secrets to the spirits of horror. — Marlowe. 
 
 With a heavy step Maltravers ascended the stairs of his 
 lonely house that night, and heavily, with a suppressed 
 groan, did he sink upon the first chair that proffered rest. 
 
 It was intensely cold. During his long interview with 
 Lady Florence, his servant had taken the precaution to go to 
 Seamore Place and make some hasty preparations for the 
 owner's return. But the bedroom looked comfortless and 
 bare, the curtains were taken down, the carpets were taken 
 up, — a single man's housekeeper is wonderfully provident in 
 these matters; the moment his back is turned, she bustles, 
 she displaces, she exults: "Things can be put a little to 
 rights ! " Even the fire would not burn clear, but gleamed 
 sullen and fitful from the smothering fuel. It was a large 
 chamber, and the lights imperfectly filled it. On the table 
 lay parliamentary papers and pamphlets and bills and pres- 
 entation-books from younger authors, — evidences of the teem- 
 ing business of that restless machine the world. But of all 
 this Maltravers was not sensible; the winter frost numbed 
 not his feverish veins. His servant, who loved him, as all 
 who saw much of Maltravers did, fidgeted anxiously about 
 the room, and plied the sullen fire, and laid out the comfort- 
 able dressing-robe, and placed wine on the table, and asked 
 questions which were not answered, and pressed service 
 which was not heeded. The little wheels of life go on, even 
 when the great wheel is paralj'zed or broken. ^Maltravers 
 was, if I may so express it, in a kind of mental trance. His 
 emotions had left him thoroughly exhausted. He felt that 
 torpor which succeeds and is again the precursor of great 
 woe. At length he was alone, and the solitude half uncon- 
 
382 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 sciously restored him to the sense of his heavy misery; for 
 it may be observed that when misfortune has stricken us 
 home, the presence of any one seems to interfere between 
 the memory and the heart. Withdraw the intruder, and the 
 lifted hammer falls at once upon the anvil! He rose as the 
 door closed on his attendant, rose with a start, and pushed 
 the hat from his gathered brows. He walked for some mo- 
 ments to and fro, and the air of the room, freezing as it was, 
 oppressed him. 
 
 There are times when the arrow quivers within us, in which 
 all space seems too confined. Like the wounded hart, we 
 could fly on forever; there is a vague desire of escape, — a 
 yearning, almost insane, to get out from our own selves ; the 
 soul struggles to flee away, and take the wings of the 
 morning. 
 
 Impatiently, at last, did Maltravers throw open his window; 
 it communicated with a balcony built out to command the 
 wide view which, from a certain height, that part of the park 
 affords. He stepped into the balcony and bared his breast to 
 the keen air. The uncomfortable and icy heavens looked 
 down upon the hoar-rime that gathered over the grass and 
 the ghostly boughs of the deathlike trees. All things in the 
 world without brought the thought of the grave, and the pause 
 of being, and the withering up of beauty, closer and closer 
 to his soul. In the palpable and griping winter, death itself 
 seemed to wind around him its skeleton and joyless arms. 
 And as thus he stood, and wearied with contending against, 
 passively yielded to, the bitter passions that wrung and 
 gnawed his heart, he heard not a sound at the door, nor the 
 footsteps on the stairs, nor knew he that a visitor was in his 
 room, till he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turning 
 round, he beheld the white and livid countenance of Cas- 
 truccio Cesarini. 
 
 " It is a dreary night and a solemn hour, Maltravers, " said 
 the Italian, with a distorted smile, — *'a fitting night and 
 time for my interview with you." 
 
 "Away!" said Maltravers, in an impatient tone. "I am 
 not at leisure for these mock heroics." 
 
ERNEST MALTHA VERS. 383 
 
 "Ay, but you shall hear me to the end. I have watched 
 your arrival, I have counted the hours in which you remained 
 with her, I have followed you home. If you have human 
 passions, humanity itself must be dried up within you, and 
 the wild beast in his cavern is not more fearful to encounter. 
 Thus, then, I seek and brave you. Be still. Has Florence 
 revealed to you the name of him who belied you, and who 
 betrayed herself to the death? " 
 
 "Ha!" said Maltravers, growing very pale, and fixing his 
 eyes on Cesarini, "you are not the man, — my suspicions 
 lighted elsewhere." 
 
 "I am the man. Do thy worst." 
 
 Scarce were the words uttered, when, with a fierce cry, 
 Maltravers threw himself on the Italian; he tore him from 
 his footing, he grasped him in his arms as a child, he liter- 
 ally whirled him around and on high ; and in that maddening 
 paroxysm, it was, perhaps, but the balance of a feather, in 
 the conflicting elements of revenge and reason, which withheld 
 Maltravers from hurling the criminal from the fearful height 
 on which they stood. The temptation passed; Cesarini leaned 
 safe, unharmed, but half senseless with mingled rage and 
 fear, against the wall. 
 
 He was alone; IMaltravers had left him, had fled from him- 
 self, — fled into the chamber; fled for refuge from human 
 passions to the wing of the All-Seeing and All-Present. 
 "Father," he groaned, sinking on his knees, "support me, 
 save me; without Thee I am lost." 
 
 Slowly Cesarini recovered himself, and re-entered the npart- 
 ment. A string in his brain was already loosened, and, sullen 
 and ferocious, he returned again to goad the lion tliat had 
 spared him. Maltravers had already risen from his brief 
 prayer. With locked and rigid countenance, with arms 
 folded on his breast, he stood confronting the Italian, who 
 advanced towards him with a menacing brow and arm, but 
 halted involuntarily at the sight of that commanding aspect. 
 
 "Well, then," said Maltravers at last, with a tone preter- 
 naturally calm and low, " you then are the man. Speak on : 
 what arts did you employ? " 
 
384 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "Your own letter. When, many months ago, I -wrote to 
 tell you of the hopes it was mine to conceive, and to ask your 
 opinion of her I loved, how did you answer me? With 
 doubts, with depreciation, with covert and polished scorn, of 
 the very woman, whom, with a deliberate treachery, you 
 afterwards wrested from my worshipping and adoring love. 
 That letter I garbled. I made the doubts you expressed of 
 my happiness seem doubts of your own. I changed the dates ; 
 I made the letter itself appear written, not on your first ac- 
 quaintance with her, but subsequent to your plighted and ac- 
 cepted vows. Your own handwriting convicted you of mean 
 suspicions and of sordid motives. These were my arts." 
 
 "They were most noble. Do you abide by them, or 
 repent? " 
 
 " For what I have done to thee I have no repentance. Nay, 
 I regard thee still as the aggressor. Thou hast robbed me of 
 her who was all the world to me ; and be thine excuses what 
 they may, I hate thee with a hate that cannot slumber, — that 
 abjures the abject name of remorse! I exalt in the very 
 agonies thou endurest. But for her, — the stricken, the dy- 
 ing ! God, God ! The blow falls upon mine own head ! " 
 
 "Dying!" said Maltravers, slowly and with a shudder. 
 "No, no; not dying, — or what art thou? Her murderer! 
 And what must I be? Her avenger! " 
 
 Overpowered with his own passions, Cesarini sank down 
 and covered his face with his clasped hands. Maltravers 
 stalked gloomily to and fro the apartment. There was si- 
 lence for some moments. 
 
 At length Maltravers paused opposite Cesarini and thus 
 addressed him : — 
 
 " You have come hither not so much to confess the basest 
 crime of which man can be guilty, as to gloat over my anguish 
 and to brave me to revenge my wrongs. Go, man, go; for 
 the present you are safe. While she lives, my life is not 
 mine to hazard; if she recover, I can pity you and forgive. 
 To me your offence, foul though it be, sinks below contempt 
 itself. It is the consequences of that crime as they relate 
 to — to — that noble and suffering woman which can alone 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 385 
 
 raise the despicable into the tragic and make your lifo a 
 worthy and a necessary offering, — not to revenge, but justice. 
 Life for life, victim for victim! 'T is the old law, — 't is a 
 righteous one." 
 
 " You shall not, with your accursed coldness, thus dispose 
 of me as you will, and arrogate the option to smite or save! 
 No," continued Cesarini, stamping his foot, — "no; far from 
 seeking forbearance at your hands, I dare and defy you ! You 
 think I have injured you, — I, on the other hand, consider 
 that the wrong has come from yourself. But for you, she 
 might have loved me, — have been mine. Let that pass. 
 But for you, at least, it is certain that I should neither have 
 sullied my soul with a vile sin, nor brought the brightest of 
 human beings to the grave. If she dies, the murder may be 
 mine, but you were the cause, — the devil that tempted to the 
 offence. I defy and spit upon you; I have no softness left in 
 me; my veins are fire, — my heart thirsts for blood. You, 
 you have still the privilege to see, to bless, to tend her; and 
 I — I, who loved her so, who could have kissed the earth she 
 trod on — I — Well, well, no matter. I hate you; I insult 
 you; I call you villain and dastard; I throw myself on the 
 laws of honour, and I demand that conflict you defer or 
 deny ! " 
 
 "Home, doter, home; fall on thy knees and pray to 
 Heaven for pardon ; make up thy dread account; repine not 
 at the days yet thine to wash the black spot from thy soul. 
 For, while I speak, I foresee too well that her days are num- 
 bered, and with her thread of life is entwined thine own. 
 Within twelve hours from her last moment, we shall meet 
 again. But now I am as ice and stone; thou canst not move 
 me. Her closing life shall not be darkened by the aspect of 
 blood, by the thought of the sacrifice it demands. Begone, 
 or menials shall cast thee from my door; those lips are too 
 base to breathe the same air as honest men. Begone, I say, 
 begone ! " 
 
 Though scarce a muscle moved in the lofty countenance of 
 Maltravers, though no frown darkened the majestic brow, 
 though no fire broke from the steadfast and scornful eye, 
 
 25 
 
386 ERXEST MALTR AVERS. 
 
 there was a kingly authority in the aspect, in the extended 
 arm, the stately crest, and a power in the swell of the stern 
 voice, which awed and quelled the unhappy being whose own 
 passions exhausted and unmanned him. He strove to fling 
 back scorn to scorn; but his lips trembled, and his voice died 
 in hollow murmurs within his breast. Maltravers regarded 
 him with a crushing and intense disdain. The Italian, with 
 shame and wrath, wrestled against himself, but in vain; the 
 cold eye that was fixed upon him was as a spell which the 
 fiend within him could not rebel against or resist. Mechani- 
 cally he moved to the door; then, turning round, he shook his 
 clenched hand at Maltravers, and with a wild, maniacal laugh 
 rushed from the apartment. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Ok some fond breast tlie parting soul relies. — Gray. 
 
 Not a day passed in which Maltravers was absent from the 
 side of Florence. He came early, he went late. He subsided 
 into his former character of an accepted suitor without a word 
 of explanation with Lord Saxingham. That task was left to 
 Florence. She doubtless performed it well, for his lordship 
 seemed satisfied, though grave and, almost for the first time 
 in his life, sad. Maltravers never reverted to the cause of 
 their unhappy dissension, nor from that night did he once 
 give way to whatever might be his more agonized and fierce 
 emotions; he never affected to reproach himself, — he never 
 bewailed with a vain despair their approaching separation. 
 Whatever it cost him, he stood collected and stoical in the 
 intense power of his self-control. He had but one object, 
 one desire, one hope,— to save the last hours of Florence 
 Lascelles from every pang; to brighten and smooth the pas- 
 sage across the Solemn Bridge. His forethought, his presence 
 of mind, his care, his tenderness, never forsook him for an 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 387 
 
 instant; they went beyond the attributes of men, they went 
 into all the line, the indescribable minutiae by which woman 
 makes herself, "in pain and anguish," the "ministering 
 angel." It was as if he had nerved and braced his whole 
 nature to one duty ; as if that duty were more felt than affec- 
 tion itself; as if he were resolved that Florence should not 
 remember that she had no mother ! 
 
 And oh, then, how Florence loved him! How far more 
 luxurious, in its grateful and clinging fondness, was that love 
 than tlie wild and jealous fire of their earlier connection! 
 Her own character, as is often the case in lingering illness, 
 became incalculably more gentle and softened down as the 
 shadows closed around it. She loved to make him read and 
 talk to her; and her ancient poetry of thought now grew mel- 
 lowed, as it were, into religion, which is indeed poetry with 
 a stronger wing. There was a world beyond the grave ; there 
 was life out of the chrysalis sleep of death, — they would yet 
 be united. And Maltravers, who was a solemn and intense 
 believer in the Grkat Hope, did not neglect the purest and 
 highest of all the fountains of solace. 
 
 Often in that quiet room in that gorgeous mansion which 
 had been the scene of all vain or worldly schemes, of flirta- 
 tions and feastings and political meetings and Cabinet dinners 
 and all the bubbles of the passing wave, — often there did 
 these persons, whose position to each other had been so sud- 
 denly and so strangely changed, converse on those matters, 
 daring and divine, which " make the bridal of the earth and 
 sky." 
 
 "How fortunate am I," said Florence one day, "that my 
 choice fell on one who thinks as you do ! How your words 
 elevate and exalt me ! Yet once I never dreamed of asking 
 your creed on these questions. It is in sorrow or sickness 
 that we learn why Faith was given as a soother to man, — 
 Faith, which is Hope with a holier name; Hope that knows 
 neither deceit nor death. Ah, how wisely do j'ou speak of 
 the philosophij ot belief! It is indeed the telescope through 
 which the stars grow large upon our gaze. And to you, 
 Ernest, my beloved, — comprehended and known at last, — to 
 
388 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 you I leave, -when I am gone, that monitor, that friend; you 
 will know yourself what you teach to me. And when you 
 look, not on the heaven alone, but in all space, — on all the 
 illimitable creation, — you will know that I am there! For 
 the home of a spirit is wherever spreads the Universal Pres- 
 ence of God. And to what numerous stages of being, what 
 paths, what duties, what active and glorious tasks in other 
 worlds, may we not be reserved, — perhaps to know and share 
 them together, and mount age after age higher in the scale of 
 being. For surely in heaven there is no pause or torpor; we 
 do not lie down in calm and unimprovable repose. Movement 
 and progress will remain the law and condition of existence. 
 And there will be efforts and duties for us above, as there 
 have been below." 
 
 It was in this theory, which Maltravers shared, that the 
 character of Florence, her overflowing life and activity of 
 thought, her aspirations, her ambition, were still displayed. 
 It was not so much to the calm and rest of the grave that she 
 extended her unreluctant gaze, as to the light and glory of a 
 renewed and progressive existence. 
 
 It was while thus they sat, the low voice of Ernest, tran- 
 quil yet half trembling with the emotions he sought to re- 
 strain, sometimes sobering, sometimes yet more elevating, 
 the thoughts of Florence, that Lord Vargrave was announced; 
 and Lumley Ferrers, who had now succeeded to that title, 
 entered the room. It was the first time that Florence had 
 seen him since the death of his uncle, — the first time Mal- 
 travers had seen him since the evening so fatal to Florence. 
 Both started; Maltravers rose and jwalked to the window. 
 Lord Vargrave took the hand of his cousin and pressed it to 
 his lips in silence, while his looks betokened feelings that 
 for once were genuine. 
 
 "You see, Lumley, I am resigned," said Florence, with a 
 sweet smile; "I am resigned and happy." 
 
 Lumley glanced at Maltravers, and met a cold, scrutinizing, 
 piercing eye, from which he shrank with some confusion. 
 He recovered himself in an instant. 
 
 "I am rejoiced, my cousin, I am rejoiced," said he, very 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 389 
 
 earnestly, "to see Maltravers here again. Let us now hope 
 the best." 
 
 Maltravers walked deliberately up to Lumley. " Will you 
 take my hand now too? " said he, with deep meaning in his 
 tone. 
 
 "More willingly than ever," said Lumley; and he did not 
 shrink as he said it. 
 
 "I am satisfied," replied Maltravers, after a pause, and in 
 a voice that expressed more than his words. 
 
 There is in some natures so great a hoard of generosity that 
 it often dulls their acuteness. Maltravers could not believe 
 that frankness could be wholly a mask, — it was an hypocrisy 
 he knew not of. He himself was not incapable, had circum- 
 stances so urged him, of great crimes, — nay, the design of 
 one crime lay at that moment deadly and dark within his 
 heart; for he had some passions which in so resolute a char- 
 acter could produce, should the wind waken them into storm, 
 dire and terrible effects. Even at the age of thirty it was yet 
 uncertain whether Ernest Maltravers might become an ex- 
 emplary or an evil man. But he could sooner have strangled 
 a foe than taken the hand of a man whom he had once 
 betrayed. 
 
 "I love to think you friends," said Florence, gazing at 
 them affectionately, "and to you, at least, Lumley, such 
 friendship should be a blessing. I always loved you much 
 and dearly, Lumley, — loved you as a brother, though our 
 characters often jarred." 
 
 Lumley winced. "For Heaven's sake," he cried, "do not 
 speak thus tenderly to me; I cannot bear it, and look on you 
 and think — " 
 
 " That I am dying. Kind words become us best when our 
 words are approaching to the last. But enough of this. T 
 grieved for your loss." 
 
 " My poor uncle ! " said Lumley, eagerly changing the con- 
 versation, — "the shock was sudden; and melancholy duties 
 have absorbed me so till this day that I could not come even 
 to you. It soothed me, however, to learn, in answer to my 
 daily inquiries, that Ernest was here. For my part," he 
 
390 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 added, with a faint smile, "I have had duties as well as 
 honours devolved on me. I am left guardian to an heiress, 
 and betrothed to a child." 
 
 "How do you mean? " 
 
 "Why, my poor uncle was so fondly attached to his wife's 
 daughter that he has left her the bulk of his property ; a very 
 small estate, not two thousand pounds a year, goes with the 
 title, — a new title, too, which requires twice as much to 
 carry it off and make its pinchbeck pass for gold. In order, 
 however, to serve a double purpose, — secure to his protegee 
 his own beloved peerage, and atone to his nej)hew for the loss 
 of wealth, — he has left it a last request that I should marrj^ 
 the young lady, over whom I am appointed guardian, when 
 she is eighteen. Alas ! I shall then be at the other side of 
 forty! If she does not take to so mature a bridegroom, she 
 loses thirty — only thirty — of the two hundred thousand 
 pounds settled upon her, which goes to me as a sugar-plum 
 after the nauseous draught of the young lady's ' No.' Xow 
 you know all. His widow, really an exemplary young 
 woman, has a jointure of fifteen hundred pounds a year and 
 the villa. It is not much, but she is contented." 
 
 The lightness of the new peer's tone revolted Maltravers, 
 and he turned impatiently away. But Lord Vargrave, resol- 
 ving not to suffer the conversation to glide back to sorrowful 
 subjects, which he always hated, turned round to Ernest and 
 said : " Well, my dear Ernest, I see by the papers that you 
 
 are to have N 's late appointment: it is a very rising 
 
 office; I congratulate you." 
 
 "I have refused," said Maltravers, dryly. 
 
 "Bless me! Indeed, why?" 
 
 Ernest bit his lip and frowned ; but his glance wandering 
 unconsciously at Florence, Lumley thought he detected the 
 true reply to his question, and became mute. 
 
 The conversation was afterwards embarrassed and broken 
 up; Lumley went away as soon as he could, and Lady Flor- 
 ence that night had a severe fit, and could not leave her bed 
 the next day. That confinement she had struggled against 
 to the last; and now, day by day, it grew more frequent and 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 391 
 
 inevitable. Tlie steps of Death became accelerated, and Lord 
 Saxingham, wakened at last to the mournful truth, took his 
 place by his daughter's side, and forgot that he was a Cabinet 
 minister. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Away, my friends ; why take such paius to know 
 
 What some brave marble soon in church shall show 1 — Crabbe. 
 
 It may seem strange, but Maltravers had never loved Lady 
 Florence as he did now. Was it the perversity of human 
 nature, that makes the things of mortality dearer to us in 
 proportion as they fade from our hopes, like birds whose hues 
 are only unfolded when they take wing and vanish amidst the 
 skies ; or was it that he had ever doted more on loveliness of 
 mind than that of form, and the first bloomed out the more, 
 the more the last decayed? A thing to protect, to soothe, to 
 shelter, — oh, how dear it is to the pride of man! The 
 haughty woman who can stand alone and requires no leaning- 
 place in our heart, loses the spell of her sex. 
 
 I pass over those stages of decline gratuitously painful to 
 record, and which in this case mine cannot be the cold and 
 technical hand to trace. At length came that time when phy- 
 sicians could define within a few days the final hour of re- 
 lease. And latterly the mocking pruderies of rank had been 
 laid aside, and Maltravers had, for some hours at least in the 
 day, taken his watch beside the couch to which the admired 
 and brilliant Florence Lascelles was now almost constantly 
 reduced. But her high and heroic spirit was with her to the 
 last. To the last she could endure love and hope. One day, 
 when Maltravers left his post, she besought him, with more 
 solemnity than usual, to return that evening. She fixed the 
 precise hour, and she sighed heavily when he departed. Mal- 
 travers paused in the hall to speak to the physician, who was 
 
392 ERNEST MALTRAYERS. 
 
 just quitting Lord Saxingham's library. Ernest spoke to him 
 for some moments calmly, and when he heard the fiat, he be- 
 trayed no other emotion than a slight quiver of the lip. " I 
 must not weep for her yet," he muttered, as he turned from 
 the door. He went thence to the house of a gentleman of his 
 own age, with whom he had formed that kind of acquaintance 
 which never amounts to familiar friendship, but rests upon 
 mutual respect, and is often more ready than professed friend- 
 ship itself to confer mutual service. Colonel Danvers was a 
 man who usually sat next to Maltravers in parliament; they 
 voted together, and thought alike on principles both of poli- 
 tics and honour; they would have lent thousands to each 
 other without bond or memorandum; and neither ever wanted 
 a warm and indignant advocate when he was abused behind 
 his back in the presence of the other. Yet their tastes and 
 ordinary habits were not congenial, and when they met in the 
 streets, they never said, as they would to companions they 
 esteemed less, "Let us spend the day together." Such forms 
 of acquaintance are not uncommon among honorable men who 
 have already formed habits and pursuits of their own which 
 they cannot surrender even to friendship. Colonel Danvers 
 was not at home; they believed he was at his club, of which 
 Ernest also was a member. Thither Maltravers bent his way. 
 On arriving, he found that Danvers had been at the club an 
 hour ago, and left word that he should shortly return. Mal- 
 travers entered and quietly sat down. The room was full of 
 its daily loungers; but he did not shrink from, he did not 
 even heed, the crowd. He felt not the desire of solitude, — 
 there was solitude enough Avithin him. Several distinguished 
 public men were there, grouped around the fire, and many of 
 the hangers-on and satellites of political life; they were talk- 
 ing with eagerness and animation, for it was a season of great 
 party conflict. Strange as it may seem, though Maltravers 
 was then scarcely sensible of their conversation, it all came 
 back vividly and faithfully on him afterwards, in the first 
 hours of reflection on his own future plans, and served to 
 deepen and consolidate his disgust of the world. They were 
 discussing the character of a great statesman whom, warmed 
 
ERNEST JIALTRAVERS. 393 
 
 but by the loftiest and purest motives, they were unable to 
 understand. Their gross suspicions, their coarse jealousies, 
 their calculations of patriotism by place, all that strips the 
 varnish from the face of that fair harlot. Political Ambition, 
 sank like caustic into his spirit. A gentleman seeing him sit 
 silent, with his hat over his moody brows, civilly extended to 
 him the paper he was reading. 
 
 "It is the second edition; you will find the last French 
 express." 
 
 "Thank you," said Maltravers; and the civil man started 
 as he heard the brief answer, there was something so inex- 
 pressibly prostrate and broken-spirited in the voice that ut- 
 tered it. 
 
 Maltravers 's eyes fell mechanically on the columns, and 
 caught his own name. That work which, in the fair retire- 
 ment of Temple Grove, it had so pleased him to compose, — 
 in every page and every thought of which Florence had been 
 consulted, which was so inseparably associated with her im- 
 age, and glorified by the light of her kindred genius, was just 
 published. It had been completed long since; but the pub- 
 lisher had, for some excellent reason of the craft, hitherto 
 delayed its appearance. Maltravers knew nothing of its pub- 
 lication; he had meant, after his return to town, to send to 
 forbid its appearance; but his thoughts of late had crushed 
 everything else out of his memory, — he had forgotten its ex- 
 istence. And now, in all the pomp and parade of authorship, 
 it was sent into the world; note, noiv, when it was like an 
 indecent mockery of the Bed of Death, — a sacrilege, an im- 
 piety ! There is a terrible disconnection between the author 
 and the man, — the author's life and the man's life; the eras 
 of visible triumph may be those of the most intolerable, 
 though unrevealed and imconjectured, anguish. The book 
 that delighted us to compose may first appear in the hour 
 when all things under the sun are joyless. This had been 
 Ernest Maltravers 's most favoured work. It had been con- 
 ceived in a happy hour of great ambition; it had been exe- 
 cuted with that desire of truth which in the mind of genius 
 becomes Art. How little in the solitary hours stolen from 
 
394 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 sleep had he thought of self aud that labourer's hire called 
 "fame; " how had he dreamed that he was promulgating se- 
 crets to make his kind better and wiser and truer to the great 
 aims of life ! How had Florence, and Florence alone, under- 
 stood the beatings of his heart in every page ! And 7iow ! It 
 so chanced that the work was reviewed in the paper he read ; 
 it was not only a hostile criticism, it was a personally abusive 
 diatribe, a virulent invective. All the motives that can 
 darken or defile were ascribed to him. All the mean spite of 
 some mean mind was sputtered forth. Had the writer known 
 the awful blow that awaited Maltravers at that time, it is not 
 in man's nature but that he would have shrunk from this 
 petty gall upon the wrung withers ; but, as I have said, there 
 is a terrible disconnection between the author and the man. 
 The first is always at our mercy; of the last we know nothing. 
 At such an hour Maltravers could feel none of the contempt 
 that proud, none of the wrath that vain, minds feel at these 
 stings. He could feel nothing but an undefined abhorrence 
 of the world, and of the aims and objects he had pursued so 
 long. Yet that even he did not then feel. He was in a 
 dream ; but as men remember dreams, so when he awoke did 
 he loathe his own former aspirations, and sicken at their base 
 rewards. It was the first time since his first year of inexpe- 
 rienced authorship that abuse had had the power even to vex 
 him for a moment. But here, when the cup was already full, 
 was the drop that overflowed. The great column of his past 
 world was gone, and all else seemed crumbling away. 
 
 At length Colonel Danvers entered. Maltravers drew him 
 aside, and they left the club. 
 
 "Danvers," said the latter, "the time in which I told you 
 I should need your services is near at hand; let me see 3-ou, 
 if possible, to-night." 
 
 " Certainly ; I shall be at the House till eleven. After that 
 hour you will find me at home." 
 
 "I thank you." 
 
 "Cannot this matter be arranged amicably? " 
 
 "Xo, it is a qviarrel of life and death." 
 
 "Yet the world is really growing too enlightened for these 
 old mimicries of single combat." 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 395 
 
 " There are some cases in which human nature and its deep 
 wrongs will be ever stronger than the world and its philoso- 
 phy. Duels and wars belong to the same principle, — both 
 are sinful on light grounds and poor pretexts. But it is not 
 sinful for a soldier to defend his country from invasion, nor 
 for man, with a man's heart, to vindicate truth and honour 
 with his life. The robber that asks me for money I am al- 
 lowed to shoot. Is the robber that tears from me treasures 
 never to be replaced, to go free? These are the inconsisten- 
 cies of a pseudo-ethics, which, as long as we are made of flesh 
 and blood, we can never subscribe to." 
 
 "Yet the ancients," said Danvers, with a smile, ''were as 
 passionate as ourselves, and they dispensed with duels." 
 
 " Yes, because they resorted to assassination ! " answered 
 Maltravers, with a gloomy frown. "As in revolutions all 
 law is suspended, so are there stormy events and mighty in- 
 juries in life which are as revolutions to individuals. Enough 
 of this; it is no time to argue like the Schoolmen. When we 
 meet you shall know all, and you will judge like me. Good- 
 day!" 
 
 "What, are you going already? Maltravers, you look ill, 
 your hand is feverish; you should take advice." 
 
 Maltravers smiled, — but the smile was not like his own, — 
 shook his head, and strode rapidly away. 
 
 Three of the London clocks, one after the other, had told 
 the hour of nine as a tall and commanding figure passed up 
 the street towards Saxingham House. Five doors before you 
 reach that mansion there is a crossing, and at this spot stood 
 a young man, in whose face youth itself looked sapless and 
 blasted. It was then March, — the third of March ; the weather 
 was unusually severe and biting, even for that angry montli. 
 There had been snow in the morning, and it lay white and 
 dreary in various ridges along the street. But the wind was 
 not still in the keen but quiet sharpness of frost; on the con- 
 trary, it howled almost like a hurricane through the desolate 
 thoroughfares, and the lamps flickered unsteadily in the turbu- 
 lent gusts. Perhaps it was these blasts which increased the 
 haggardness of aspect in the young man I have mentioned. 
 
396 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 His hair, whicli was much longer than is commonly worn, 
 was tossed wildly from cheeks preternaturally shrunken, hol- 
 low, and livid; and the frail, thin form seemed scarcely able 
 to support itself against the rush of the winds. 
 
 As the tall figure, which, in its masculine stature and pro- 
 portions, and a peculiar and nameless grandeur of bearing, 
 strongly contrasted that of the younger man, now came to the 
 sjjot where the streets met, it paused abruptly. 
 
 " You are here once more, Castruccio Cesarini ; it is well ! " 
 said the low but ringing voice of Ernest Maltravers. " This, 
 I believe, will not be our last interview to-night." 
 
 "I ask you, sir," said Cesarini, in a tone in which pride 
 struggled with emotion, — "I ask you to tell me how she is; 
 whether you know — I cannot speak — " 
 
 "Your work is nearly done," answered Maltravers. "A 
 few hours more, and your victim — for she is yours — will 
 bear her tale to the Great Judgment-seat. Murderer as you 
 are, tremble, for your own hour approaches ! " 
 
 "She dies, and I cannot see her! And you are permitted 
 that last glimpse of human perfectness, — you, who never 
 loved her as I did; you, hated and detested; you — " 
 
 Cesarini paused, and his voice died away, choked in his 
 own convulsive gaspings for breath. 
 
 Maltravers looked at him from the height of his erect and 
 lofty form, with a merciless eye; for in this one quarter, 
 Maltravers had shut out pity from his soul. 
 
 " Weak criminal," said he, "hear me. You received at my 
 hands forbearance, friendship, fostering and anxious care. 
 When your own follies plunged you into penury, mine was 
 the unseen hand that plucked you from famine or the prison. 
 I strove to redeem and save and raise you, and endow your 
 miserable spirit with the thirst and the power of honour 
 and independence. The agent of that wish was Florence 
 Lascelles, You repaid us well! — a base and fraudulent for- 
 gery, attaching meanness to me, fraught with agony and death 
 to her. Your conscience at last smote you ; you revealed to 
 her your crime, — one spark of manhood made you reveal it 
 also to myself. Fresh as I was in that moment from the con- 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 397 
 
 templation of the ruin you had made, I curbed the impulse 
 that would have crushed the life from your bosom. I told 
 you to live on while life was left to her. If she recovered, 1 
 could forgive; if she died, I must avenge. We entered into 
 that solemn compact, and in a few hours the bond will need 
 the seal: it is the blood of one of us. Castruccio Cesarini, 
 there is justice in Heaven. Deceive yourself not; you will 
 fall by my hand. When the hour comes, you will hear from 
 me. Let me pass; I have no more now to say." 
 
 Every syllable of this speech was uttered with that thrill- 
 ing distinctness which seems as if the depth of the heart 
 spoke in the voice. But Cesarini did not appear to under- 
 stand its import. He seized Maltravers by the arm, and 
 looked in his face with a wild and menacing glare. 
 
 "Did you tell me she was dying?" he said. "I ask you 
 that question: why do you not answer me? Oh, by the way, 
 you threaten me with your vengeance! Know you not that 
 I long to meet you front to front, and to the death? Did I 
 not tell you so? Did I not try to move your slow blood, — 
 to insult you into a conflict in which I should have gloried? 
 Yet then you were marble." 
 
 "Because my wrong I could forgive; and hers — there was 
 then a hope that hers might not need the atonement. Away! " 
 
 Maltravers shook the hold of the Italian from his arm, and 
 passed on. A wild, sharp yell of despair rang after him and 
 echoed in his ear as he strode the long, dim, solitary stairs 
 that led to the death-bed of Florence Lascelles. 
 
 Maltravers entered the room adjoining that which contained 
 the sufferer, — the same room, still gay and cheerful, in 
 which had been his first interview with Florence since their 
 reconciliation. 
 
 Here he found the physician dozing in a fauteuU. Lady 
 Florence had fallen asleep during the last two or three hours. 
 Lord Saxingham was in his own apartment, deeply and 
 noisily affected; for it was not thought that Florence could 
 survive the night. 
 
 Maltravers sat himself quietly down. Before him, on a 
 table, lay several manuscript books, gayly and gorgeously 
 
398 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 bound; he meclianically opened them. Florence's fair, noble 
 Italian characters met his eye in every page. Her rich and 
 active mind, her love for poetry, her thirst for knowledge, 
 her indulgence of deep thought, spoke from those pages like 
 the ghosts of herself. Often, underscored with the marks 
 of her approbation, he chanced upon extracts from his own 
 works, sometimes upon reflections by the writer herself, not 
 inferior in truth and depth to his own ; snatches of wild verse 
 never completed, but of a power and energy beyond the deli- 
 cate grace of lady-poets; brief, vigorous criticisms on books, 
 above the common holiday studies of the sex; indignant and 
 sarcastic aphorisms on the real world, with high and sad 
 bursts of feeling upon the ideal one, — all, checkering and 
 enriching the various volumes, told of the rare gifts with 
 which this singular girl was endowed; a herbal, as it were, 
 of withered blossoms that might have borne Hesperian fruits. 
 And sometimes in these outpourings of the full mind and laden 
 heart were allusions to himself, so tender and so touching, — 
 the pencilled outline of his features, traced by memory in a 
 thousand aspects; the reference to former interviews and con- 
 versations, the dates and hours marked with a woman's minute 
 and treasuring care! All these tokens of genius and of love 
 spoke to him with a voice that said : " And this creature is 
 lost to you forever; you never appreciated her till the time 
 for her departure was irrevocably fixed ! " 
 
 Maltravers uttered a deep groan ; all the past rushed over 
 him, — her romantic passion for one yet unknown; her in- 
 terest in his glory; her zeal for his life of life, his spotless 
 and haughty name. It was as if with her, Fame and Ambi- 
 tion were dying also, and henceforth nothing but common clay 
 and sordid motives were to be left on earth. 
 
 How sudden, how aAvfully sudden, had been the blow! 
 True, there had been an absence of some months, in which 
 the change had operated. But absence is a blank, a nonen- 
 tity. He had left her in apparent health, in the tide of pros- 
 perity and pride. He saw her again, stricken down in body 
 and temper, chastened, humbled, dying. And this being, so 
 bright and lofty, how had she loved him! Never had he been 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 399 
 
 SO loved, except iu that morning dream, haunted by the vision 
 of the lost and dim-remembered Alice; never on earth could 
 he be so loved again. The air and aspect of the whole cham- 
 ber grew to him painful and oppressive. It was full of her, 
 the owner. There the harp, which so well became her muse- 
 like form that it was associated with her like a part of her- 
 self; there the pictures, fresh and glowing from her hand, — 
 the grace, the harmony, the classic and simple taste every- 
 Avhere displayed. 
 
 Rousseau has left to us an immortal portrait of the lover 
 waiting for the first embraces of his mistress. But to wait 
 with a pulse as feverish, a brain as dizzy, for her last look; 
 to await the moment of despair, not rapture; to feel the 
 slow and dull time as a palpable load upon the heart, yet to 
 shrink from your own impatience, and wish that the agony 
 of suspense might endure forever, — this, oh, this is a picture 
 of intense passion, of flesh-and-blood reality, of the rare and 
 solemn epochs of our mysterious life, which had been worthier 
 the genius of that " Apostle of Affliction " ! 
 
 At length the door opened; the favourite attendant of 
 Florence looked in. 
 
 "Is INIr. Maltravers there? Oh, sir, ni}^ lady is awake and 
 would see you." 
 
 Maltravers rose ; but his feet were glued to the ground, his 
 sinking heart stood still, — it was a mortal terror that pos- 
 sessed him. With a deep sigh he shook off the numbing 
 spell and passed to the bedside of Florence. 
 
 She sat up, propped by pillows, and as he sank beside her, 
 and clasped her wan, transparent hand, she looked at him 
 with a smile of pitying love. 
 
 "You have been very, very kind to me," she said, after a 
 pause, and with a voice which had altered even since the last 
 time he heard it. "You have made that part of life from 
 which human nature shrinks with dread, the happiest and the 
 brightest of all my short and vain existence. My own dear 
 Ernest, Heaven reward, you ! " 
 
 A few grateful tears dropped from her eyes, and they fell 
 on the hand which she bent her lips to kiss. 
 
400 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 "It was not here, nor amidst the streets and the noisy 
 abodes of anxious, worldly men, nor was it in this harsh and 
 dreary season of the year that I could have wished to look my 
 last on earth. Could I have seen the face of Nature ; could I 
 have watched once more with the summer sun amidst those 
 gentle scenes we loved so well, — Death would have had no 
 difference from sleep. But what matters it? With you there 
 are summer and Nature everywhere ! " 
 
 Maltravers raised his face, and their eyes met in silence; it 
 was a long, fixed gaze, which spoke more than all words could. 
 Her head dropped on his shoulder, and there it lay, passive 
 and motionless, for some moments. A soft step glided into 
 the room, — it was the unhappy father's. He came to the 
 other side of his daughter, and sobbed convulsively. 
 
 She then raised herself, and even in the shades of death, a 
 faint blush passed over her cheek. 
 
 "My good, dear Father, what comfort will it give you here- 
 after to think how fondly you spoiled your Florence ! " 
 
 Lord Saxingham could not answer; he clasped her in his 
 arms and wept over her. Then he broke away, looked on her 
 with a shudder, — 
 
 "O God! " he cried, "she is dead, she is dead! " 
 
 Maltravers started. The physician kindly approached, and 
 taking Lord Saxingham's hand, led him from the room; he 
 went mute and obedient like a child. 
 
 But the struggle was not yet past. Florence once more 
 opened her eyes, and Maltravers uttered a cry of joy. But 
 along those eyes the film was darkening rapidly, as still 
 through the mist and shadow they sought the beloved counte- 
 nance which hung over her, as if to breathe life into waning 
 life. Twice her lips moved, but her voice failed her; she 
 shook her head sadly. 
 
 Maltravers hastily held to her mouth a cordial which lay 
 ready on the table near her; but scarce had it moistened her 
 lips when her whole frame grew heavier and heavier in his 
 clasp. Her head once more sank upon his bosom ; she thrice 
 gasped wildly for breath; and at length, raising her hand on 
 high, life struggled into its expiring ray, — 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVEUS. 401 
 
 " There — above ! — Ernest — that name — Ernest ! " 
 Yes, that name was the last she uttered ; she was evidently 
 conscious of that thought, for a smile, as her voice again 
 faltered, — a smile sweet and serene; that smile never seen 
 but on the faces of the dying and the dead, borrowed from a 
 light that is not of this world, — settled slowly on her brow, 
 her lips, her whole countenance. Still she breathed, but the 
 breath grew fainter; at length, without murmur, sound, or 
 struggle, it passed away, the head dropped from his bosom, 
 the form fell from his arms ; all was over. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Is this tlie jiromi.scd ciitl '. — Lear. 
 
 It was two hours after that scene before Maltravers left 
 the house. It was then just on the stroke of the first hour 
 of morning. To him while he walked through the streets, 
 and the sharp winds howled on his path, it was as if a 
 strange and wizard life had passed into and supported him, — 
 a sort of drowsy, dull existence. He was like a sleep-walker, 
 unconscious of all around him, yet his steps went safe and free ; 
 and the one thought that possessed his being, into which all 
 intellect seemed shrunk, — the thought, not fiery nox vehement, 
 but calm, stern, and solemn, the thought of revenge, — seemed, 
 as it were, grown his soul itself. He arrived at the door of 
 Colonel Dan vers, mounted the stairs, and as his friend advanced 
 to meet him, said calmly, "Now, then, the hour has arrived.'' 
 
 "But what would you do now? " 
 
 "Come with me, and you shall learn." 
 
 "Very well, my carriage is below. Will you direct the 
 servants? " 
 
 Maltravers nodded, gave his orders to the careless footman, 
 and the two friends were soon driving through the less-known 
 and courtly regions of the giant city. It was then that Mal- 
 
 26 
 
402 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 travers concisely stated to Dan vers the fraud that had been 
 practised by Cesarini. 
 
 "You will go with me now," concluded Maltravers, "to his 
 house. To do him justice, he is no coward; he has not 
 shrunk from giving me his address, nor will he shrink from 
 the atonement I demand. I shall wait below while you ar- 
 range our meeting, — at daybreak for to-morrow." 
 
 Danvers was astonished and even appalled by the discovery 
 made to him. There was something so unusual and strange 
 in the whole affair. But neither his experience nor his prin- 
 ciples of honour could suggest any alternative to the plan 
 proposed; for though not regarding the cause of quarrel in 
 the same light as Maltravers, and putting aside all question 
 as to the right of the latter to constitute himself the champion 
 of the betrothed or the avenger of the dead, it seemed clear to 
 the soldier that a man whose confidential letter had been gar- 
 bled by another for the purpose of slandering his truth and 
 calumniating his name, had no option but contempt, or the 
 sole retribution (wretched though it be) which the customs of 
 the higher class permit to those who live within its pale. 
 But contempt for a wrong that a sorrow so tragic had fol- 
 lowed, — was that option in human philosophy? 
 
 The carriage stopped at a door in a narrow lane in an ob- 
 scure suburb. Yet dark as all the houses around were, lights 
 were seen in the upper windows of Cesarini's residence, pass- 
 ing to and fro; and scarce had the servant's loud knock echoed 
 through the dim thoroughfare, ere the door was opened. 
 Danvers descended and entered the passage: "Oh, sir, I am 
 so glad you are come!" said an old woman, pale and trem- 
 bling; "he do take on so! " 
 
 "There is no mistake," asked Danvers, halting, — "an Ital- 
 ian gentleman named Cesarini lodges here? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, poor cretur. I sent for you to come to him; for, 
 says I to my boy, says I — " 
 
 "Whom do you take me for? " 
 
 "Why, la, sir, you he's the doctor, be n't you? " 
 
 Danvers made no reply. He had a mean opinion of the 
 courage of one who could act dishonourably ; he thought there 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 403 
 
 was some design to cheat his friend out of his revenge; accor- 
 dingly, he ascended the stairs, motioning the woman to pre- 
 cede him. 
 
 He came back to the door of the carriage in a few minutes. 
 "Let us go home, Maltravers," said he; "this man is not in 
 a state to meet you." 
 
 "Ha! " cried Maltravers, frowning darkly, and all his long- 
 smothered indignation rushing like tire through every vein of 
 his body, " would he shrink from the atonement? " He jmslied 
 Danvers impatiently aside, leaped from the carriage, and 
 rushed upstairs. 
 
 Danvers followed. 
 
 Heated, wrought-up, furious, Ernest Maltravers burst into 
 a small and squalid chamber, from the closed doors of which, 
 through many chinks, had gleamed the light that told him 
 Cesarini was within. And Cesarini's eyes, blazing with hor- 
 rible fire, were the first object that met his gaze. Maltravers 
 stood still, as if frozen into stone. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed a shrill and shrieking voice, which 
 contrasted dreadly with the accents of the soft Tuscan in 
 which the wild words were strung, "who comes here with 
 garments dyed in blood? You cannot accuse me, for my 
 blow drew no blood, it went straight to the heart, it tore no 
 flesh by the way; we Italians poison our victims! Where art 
 thou, where art thou, Maltravers? I am ready. Coward, 
 you do not come! Oh, yes, yes, here you are! The pistols, — 
 I will not fight so. I am a wild beast. Let us rend each 
 other with our teeth and talons ! " 
 
 Huddled up like a heap of confused and jointless limbs in 
 the farthest corner of the room lay the wretch, a raving 
 maniac, — two men keeping their firm gripe on him, which 
 ever and anon, with the mighty strength of madness, he 
 shook off, to fall back senseless and exhausted ; his strained 
 and bloodshot eyes starting from their sockets, the slaver 
 gathering round his lips, his raven hair standing on end, his 
 delicate and symmetrical features distorted into a hideous and 
 Gorgon aspect. It was, indeed, an a})palling and sublime 
 spectacle, full of an awful moral, — the meeting of the foes! 
 
404 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 Here stood Maltravers, strong beyond the common strength 
 of men, in health, power, conscious superiority, premeditated 
 vengeance; wise, gifted; all his faculties ripe, developed, at 
 his command; the complete and all-armed man, prepared for 
 defence and offence against every foe, — a man who, once 
 roused in a righteous quarrel, would not have quailed before 
 an army ; and there and thus was his dark and fierce purpose 
 dashed from his soul, shivered into atoms at his feet. He 
 felt the nothingness of man and man's wrath in the presence 
 of the madman on whose head the thunderbolt of a greater 
 curse than human anger ever breathes had fallen. In his 
 horrible affliction the Criminal triumphed over the Avenger! 
 
 "Yes, yes," shouted Cesarini again, "they tell me she is 
 dying; but he is by her side. Pluck him thence; he shall 
 not touch her hand, — she shall not bless him; she is mine. 
 If I killed her, I have saved her from him; she is mine in 
 death. Let me in, I say; I will come in, — I will, I will see 
 her, and strangle him at her feet." With that, by a tremen- 
 dous effort he tore himself from the clutch of his holders, and 
 with a sudden and exultant bound sprang across the room and 
 stood face to face with Maltravers. The proud, brave man 
 turned pale and recoiled a step. " It is he, it is he ! " shrieked 
 the maniac, and he leaped like a tiger at the throat of his 
 rival. Maltravers quickly seized his arm, and whii-led him 
 round. Cesarini fell heavily on the floor, mute, senseless, 
 and in strong convulsions. 
 
 "Mysterious Providence," murmured Maltravers, "thou 
 hast justly rebuked the mortal for dreaming he might arrogate 
 to himself thy privilege of vengeance ! Forgive the sinner, O 
 God, as I do, — as thou teachest this stubborn heart to for- 
 give ; as she forgave who is now with thee, a blessed saint in 
 heaven ! " 
 
 When, some minutes afterwards, the doctor who had been 
 sent for arrived, the head of the stricken patient lay on the 
 lap of his foe, and it was the hand of Maltravers that wiped 
 the froth from the white li])s, and the voice of Maltravers 
 that strove to soothe, and the tears of Maltravers that were 
 falling on that fiery brow. 
 
ERNEST MALTHA VERS. 405 
 
 "Tend him, sir, tend him as my brother," said Maltravers, 
 hiding his face as he resigned the charge. " Let him have all 
 that can alleviate and cure. Remove him hence to some fitter 
 abode; send for the best advice, liestore him, and — and — " 
 He could say no more, but left the room abruptly. 
 
 It was afterwards ascertained that Cesarini had remained 
 in the streets after his short interview with Ernest; that at 
 length he had knocked at Lord Saxingham's door just in the 
 very hour when death had claimed its victim. He heard the 
 announcement, he sought to force his way upstairs; they 
 thrust him from the house, and nothing more of him was 
 known till he arrived at his own door, an hour before Danvers 
 and Maltravers came, in raging frenzy. Perhaps by one of 
 the dim, erratic gleams of light which always checker the 
 darkness of insanity, he retained some faint remembrance of 
 his compact and assignation with Maltravers, which had 
 happily guided his steps back to his abode. 
 
 It was two months after this scene, a lovely Sabbath morn- 
 ing, in the earliest May, as Lumley, Lord Vargrave, sat alone 
 by the window in his late uncle's villa, in his late uncle's 
 easy-chair; his eyes were resting musingly on the green lawn 
 on which the windows opened, or rather on two forms that 
 were seated upon a rustic bench in the middle of the sward. 
 One was the widow in her weeds, the other was that fair 
 and lovely child destined to be the bride of the new lord. 
 The hands of the mother and daughter were clasped each in 
 each. There was sadness in the faces of both, — deeper, if 
 more resigned, on that of the elder; for the child sought to 
 console her parent, and grief in childhood comes with a 
 butterfly's wing. 
 
 Lumley gazed on them both, and on the child more 
 earnestly. 
 
 "She is verjMovely," he said; "she wnll be very rich. After 
 all, I am not to be pitied. I am a peer, and I hare enough to 
 live upon at present. I am a rising man, — our party want 
 peers; and tliougli I could not liave had more than a subal- 
 tern's seat at the Treasury Board six mouths ago, when I was 
 
406 ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 
 
 an active, zealous, able commoner, now that I am a lord, with 
 what they call a stake in the country, I may open my mouth 
 and — bless me, I know not how many windfalls may drop in ! 
 My uncle was wiser than I thought in wrestling for this peer- 
 age which he won and I wear! Then, by and by, just at the 
 age when I want to marry and have an heir (and a pretty wife 
 saves one a vast deal of trouble), two hundred thousand pounds 
 and a young beauty! Come, come, I have strong cards in my 
 hands, if I play them tolerably. I must take care that she 
 falls desperately in love with me. Leave me alone for that; 
 I know the sex, and have never failed except in — Ah, that 
 poor Florence! Well, it is no use regretting! Like thrifty 
 artists, we must paint out the unmarketable picture, and call 
 luckier creations to fill up the same canvas! " 
 
 Here the servant interrupted Lord Vargrave's meditation 
 by bringing in the letters and the newspapers which had just 
 been forwarded from his town house. Lord Vargrave had 
 spoken in the Lords on the previous Friday, and he wished 
 to see what the Sunday newspapers said of his speech. So 
 he took up one of the leading papers before he opened the 
 letters. His eyes rested upon two paragraphs in close neigh- 
 bourhood with each other; the first ran thus: — 
 
 " The celebrated ^Ir. Maltravers has abruptly resigned his seat for 
 
 the of , and left town yesterday on an extended tour on the 
 
 Continent. Speculation is busy on the causes of the singular and unex- 
 pected self-exile of a gentleman so distinguished, in the very zenith of 
 his career." 
 
 "So, he has given up the game! " muttered Lord Vargrave; 
 "he was never a practical man, — I am glad he is out of the 
 way. But what 's this about myself? " 
 
 " We hear that important changes are to take place in the Govern- 
 ment. It is said that ministers are at last alive to the necessity of 
 strengthening themselves with new talent. Among other appointments 
 confidently spoken of in the best-informed circles, we learn that Lord 
 Vargrave is to have the place of . It will be a popular appoint- 
 ment. Lord Vargrave is not a holiday orator, a mere declamatory 
 rhetorician, but a man of clear, business-like views, and was highly 
 thought of in the House of Commons. lie has also the art of attaching 
 
ERNEST MALTRAVERS. 407 
 
 his friends ; and his frank, manly ciiaractor cannot fail to have its due 
 effect with the English public. In another column of our journal our 
 readers will see a full report of his excellent maiden speech in the 
 House of Lords on Friday last ; the sentiments there expressed do the 
 highest honour to his lordship's patriotism and sagacity." 
 
 "Very well, very well indeed! " said Lumloy, rubbing his 
 hands; and turning to liis letters, liis attention was drawn to 
 one with a enormous seal, marked "Private and confidential." 
 He knew before he opened it that it contained the offer of the 
 appointment alluded to in the newspaper. He read, and rose 
 exultantly; passing through the French windows, he joined 
 Lady Vargrave and Evelyn on the lawn, and as he smiled on 
 the mother and caressed the child, the scene and the group 
 made a pleasant picture of English domestic happiness. 
 
 Here ends the First Portion of this work ; it ends in the 
 view that bounds us when we look on the practical world 
 with the outward, unspiritual eye, and see life that dissatis- 
 fies justice, — for life is so seen but in fragments. The in- 
 fluence of Fate seems so small on the man who in erring but 
 errs as the egoist, and shapes out of ill some use that can 
 profit himself. But Fate hangs a shadow so vast on the heart 
 that errs but in venturing, and knows only in others the 
 sources of sorrow and joy. 
 
 Go alone, Maltravers, unfriended, remote, thy present a 
 waste, and thy past life a ruin, go forth to the future! Go, 
 Ferrers, light cynic, with the crowd take thy way, compla- 
 cent, elated, no cloud tipon conscience, for thou seest but 
 sunshine on fortune, go forth to the future! 
 
 Human life is compared to the circle. Is the simile just? 
 All lines that are drawn from the centre to touch the circum- 
 ference, by the law of the circle, are equal. But the lines 
 that are drawn from the heart of the man to the verge of his 
 destiny, — do they equal each other? Alas! some seem so 
 brief, and some lengthen on as forever. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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