The Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly

“It’s all as well as settled, George. We ‘ll be cantering over that swelling prairie before the spring ends,” said she. Quietly rising and going over to the piano, she began one of those little popular Italian ballads which they call “Stornelli,” – those light effusions of national life which blend up love and flowers and sunshine together so pleasantly, and seem to emblematize the people who sing them.

“Thither, oh, thither, George! as the girl sings in Goethe’s ballad. Won’t it be delightful?”

“First let us see if it be possible.”

And then they began one of those discussions of ways and means which, however, as we grow old in life, are tinged with all the hard and stern characters of sordid self-interest, are in our younger days blended so thoroughly with hope and trustfulness that they are amongst the most attractive of all the themes we can turn to. There were so many things to be done, and so little to do them with, that it was marvellous to hear of the cunning and ingenious devices by which poverty was to be cheated out of its meanness, and actually imagine itself picturesque. George was not a very imaginative creature; but it was strange to see to what flights he rose as the sportive fancy of the high-spirited girl carried him away to the region of the speculative and the hopeful.

“It’s just as well, after all, perhaps,” said he, after some moments of thought, “that we had not invested your money in the mine.”

“Of course, George, we shall want it to buy vines and orange-trees. Oh, I shall grow mad with impatience if I talk of this much longer! Do you know,” said she, in a more collected and serious tone, “I have just built a little villa on the lake-side of Albano? And I’m doubting whether I ‘ll have my ‘pergolato’ of vines next to the water, or facing the mountain. I incline to the mountain.”

“We mustn’t dream of building,” said he, gravely.

“We must dream of everything, George. It is in dreamland I am going to live. Why is this gift of fancy bestowed upon us if not to conjure up allies that will help us to fight the stern evils of life? Without imagination, hope is a poor, weary, plodding foot-traveller, painfully lagging behind us. Give him but speculation, and he soars aloft on wings and rises towards heaven.”

“Do be reasonable, Julia, and let us decide what steps we shall take.”

“Let me just finish my boat-house; I ‘m putting an aviary on the top of it. Well, don’t look so pitifully; I am not going mad. Now, then, for the practical. We are to go over to Castello to-morrow, early, I suppose?”

“Yes; I should say in the morning, before Colonel Bramleigh goes into his study. After that he dislikes being disturbed. I mean to speak to him myself. You must address yourself to Marion.”

“The forlorn hope always falls to my share,” said she, poutingly.

“Why, you were the best friends in the world till a few days back!”

“You men can understand nothing of these things. You neither know the nice conditions nor the delicate reserves of young lady friendships; nor have you the slightest conception of how boundless we can be in admiration of each other in the imagined consciousness of something very superior in ourselves, and which makes all our love a very generous impulse. There is so much coarseness in male friendships, that you understand none of these subtle distinctions.”

“I was going to say, thank Heaven we don’t.”

“You are grateful for very little, George. I assure you there is a great charm in these fine affinities, and remember, you men are not necessarily always rivals. Your roads in life are so numerous and so varied, that you need not jostle. We women have but one path, and one goal at the end of it; and there is no small generosity in the kindliness we extend to each other.”

They talked away late into the night of the future. Once or twice the thought flashed across Julia whether she ought not to tell of what had passed between Lord Culduff and herself. She was not quite sure but that George ought to hear it; but then a sense of delicacy restrained her – a delicacy that extended to that old man who had made her the offer of his hand, and who would not for worlds have it known that his offer had been rejected. “No,” thought she, “his secret shall be respected. As he deemed me worthy to be his wife, he shall know that so far as regards respect for his feelings he had not over-estimated me.”

It was all essential, however, that her brother should not think of enlisting Lord Culduff in his cause, or asking his Lordship’s aid or influence in any way; and when L’Estrange carelessly said, “Could not our distinguished friend and guest be of use here?” she hastened to reply, “Do not think of that, George. These men are so victimized by appeals of this sort that they either flatly refuse their assistance, or give some flippant promise of an aid they never think of according. It would actually fret me if I thought we were to owe anything to such intervention. In fact,” said she, laughingly, “it’s quite an honor to be his acquaintance. It would be something very like a humiliation to have him for a friend. And now good-night. You won’t believe it, perhaps; but it wants but a few minutes to two o’clock.”

“People, I believe, never go to bed in Italy,” said he, yawning; “or only in the day-time. So that we are in training already, Julia.”

“How I hope the match may come off,” said she, as she gave him her hand at parting. “I ‘ll go and dream over it.”

CHAPTER XXII. IN THE LIBRARY AT CASTELLO

When L’Estrange and his sister arrived at Castello, on the morning after the scene of our last chapter, it was to discover that the family had gone off early to visit the mine of Lisconnor, where they were to dine, and not return till late in the evening.

Colonel Bramleigh alone remained behind. A number of important letters which had come by that morning’s post detained him; but he had pledged himself to follow the party, and join them at dinner, if he could finish his correspondence in time.

George and Julia turned away from the door, and were slowly retracing their road homeward, when a servant came running after them to say that Colonel Bramleigh begged Mr. L’Estrange would come back for a moment; that he had something of consequence to say to him.

“I’ll stroll about the shrubberies, George, till you join me,” said Julia. “Who knows it may not be a farewell look I may be taking of these dear old scenes.”

George nodded, half mournfully, and followed the servant towards the library.

In his ordinary and every-day look, no man ever seemed a more perfect representative of worldly success and prosperity than Colonel Bramleigh. He was personally what would be called handsome, had a high bold forehead, and large gray eyes, well set and shaded by strong full eyebrows, so regular in outline and so correctly defined as to give a half-suspicion that art had been called to the assistance of nature. He was ruddy and fresh-looking, with an erect carriage, and that air of general confidence that seemed to declare he knew himself to be a favorite of fortune, and gloried in the distinction.

“I can do scores of things others must not venture upon,” was a common saying of his. “I can trust to my luck,” was almost a maxim with him. And in reality, if the boast was somewhat vainglorious, it was not without foundation; a marvellous, almost unerring, success attended him through life. Enterprises that were menaced with ruin and bankruptcy would rally from the hour that he joined them, and schemes of fortune that men deemed half desperate would, under his guidance, grow into safe and profitable speculations. Others might equal him in intelligence, in skill, in ready resource and sudden expedient; but he had not one to rival him in luck. It is strange enough that the hard business mind, the men of realism par excellence, can recognize such a thing as fortune; but so it is, there are none so prone to believe in this quality as the people of finance. The spirit of the gambler is, in fact, the spirit of commercial enterprise, and the “odds” are as carefully calculated in the counting-house as in the betting-ring. Seen as he came into the breakfast room of a morning, with the fresh flush of exercise on his cheek, or as he appeared in the drawing-room, before dinner, with that air of ease and enjoyment that marked all his courtesy, one would have said, “There is one certainly with whom the world goes well.” There were caustic, invidious people, who hinted that Bramleigh deserved but little credit for that happy equanimity and that buoyant spirit which sustained him. They said, “He has never had a reverse; wait till he be tried.” And the world had waited and waited, and to all seeming the eventful hour had not come; for there he was, a little balder, perhaps, a stray gray hair in his whiskers, and somewhat portlier in his presence, but, on the whole, pretty much what men had known him to be for fifteen or twenty years back.

Upon none did the well-to-do, blooming, and prosperous rich man produce a more powerful impression than on the young curate, who, young, vigorous, handsome as he was, could yet never sufficiently emerge from the res angusto domi to feel the ease and confidence that come of affluence.

What a shock was it then to L’Estrange, as he entered the library, to see the man whom he had ever beheld as the type of till that was happy and healthful and prosperous, haggard and careworn, his hand tremulous, and his manner abrupt and uncertain, with a certain furtive dread at moments, followed by outbursts of passionate defiance, as though he were addressing himself to others besides him who was then before him.

Though on terms of cordial intimacy with the curate, and always accustomed to call him by his name, he received him as he entered the room with a cold and formal politeness, apologized for having taken the liberty to send after and recall him, and ceremoniously requested him to be seated.

“We were sorry you and Miss L’Estrange could not join the picnic to-day,” said Bramleigh; “though, to be sure, it is scarcely the season yet for such diversions.”

L’Estrange felt the awkwardness of saying that they had not been invited, and muttered something not very intelligible about the uncertainty of the weather.

“I meant to have gone over myself,” said Bramleigh, hurriedly; “but all these,” – and he swept his hand, as he spoke, through a mass of letters on the table, – “all these have come since morning, and I am not half through them yet. What ‘s that the moralist says about calling no man happy till he dies? I often think one cannot speculate upon a pleasant day till after the post-hour.”

“I know very little of either the pains or pleasures of the letter-bag. I have almost no correspondence.”

“How I envy you!” cried he, fervently.

“I don’t imagine that mine is a lot many would be found to envy,” said L’Estrange, with a gentle smile.

“The old story, of course. ‘Qui fit, Maecenas, ut Nemo’ – I forget my Horace – ‘ut Nemo; how does it go?”

“Yes, sir. But I never said I was discontented with my lot in my life. I only remarked that I did n’t think that others would envy it.”

“I have it, – I have it,” continued Bramleigh, following out his own train of thought, – “I have it. ‘Ut Nemo, quam sibi sortem sit coutentus.’ It’s a matter of thirty odd years since I saw that passage, L’Estrange, and I can’t imagine what could have brought it so forcibly before me to-day.”

“Certainly it could not have been any application to yourself,” said the curate, politely.

“How do you mean, sir?” cried Bramleigh, almost fiercely. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, sir, that few men have less cause for discontent with fortune.”

“How can you– how can any man, presume to say that of another!” said Bramleigh, in a loud and defiant tone, as he arose and paced the room. “Who can tell what passes in his neighbor’s house, still less in his heart or his head? What do I know, as I listen to your discourse on a Sunday, of the terrible conflict of doubts that have beset you during the week – heresies that have swarmed around you like the vipers and hideous reptiles that gathered around St. Anthony, and that, banished in one shape, came back in another? How do I know what compromises you may have made with your conscience before you come to utter to me your eternal truths; and how you may have said, ‘If he can believe all this, so much the better for him’ – eh?”

He turned fiercely round, as if to demand an answer; and the curate modestly said, “I hope it is not so that men preach the gospel.”

“And yet many must preach in that fashion,” said Bramleigh, with a deep but subdued earnestness. “I take it that no man’s convictions are without a flaw somewhere, and it is not by parading that flaw he will make converts.”

L’Estrange did not feel disposed to follow him into this thesis, and sat silent and motionless.

“I suppose,” muttered Bramleigh, as he folded his arms and walked the room with slow steps, “it’s all expediency, – all! We do the best we can, and hope it may be enough. You are a good man, L’Estrange – ”

“Far from it, sir. I feel, and feel very bitterly, too, my own unworthiness,” said the curate, with an intense sincerity of voice.

“I think you so far good that you are not worldly. You would not do a mean thing, an ignoble, a dishonest thing; you would n’t take what was not your own, nor defraud another of what was his, – would you?”

“Perhaps not; I hope not.”

“And yet that is saying a great deal. I may have my doubts whether that penknife be mine or not. Some one may come to-morrow or next day to claim it as his, and describe it, Heaven knows how rightly or wrongly. No matter, he ‘ll say he owns it. Would you, sir, – I ask you now simply as a Christian man, I am not speaking to a casuist or a lawyer, – would you, sir, at once, just as a measure of peace to your own conscience, say, ‘Let him take,’ rather than burden your heart with a discussion for which you had no temper nor taste? That’s the question I ‘d like to ask you. Can you answer it? I see you cannot,” cried he, rapidly. “I see at once how you want to go off into a thousand subtleties, and instead of resolving my one doubt, surround me with a legion of others.”

“If I know anything about myself I ‘m not much of a casuist; I haven’t the brains for it,” said L’Estrange, with a sad smile.

“Ay, there it is. That ‘s the humility of Satan’s own making; that’s the humility that exclaims, ‘I’m only honest. I ‘m no genius. Heaven has not made me great or gifted. I ‘m simply a poor creature, right-minded and pure-hearted.’ As if there was anything, – as if there could be anything so exalted as this same purity.”

“But I never said that; I never presumed to say so,” said the other, modestly.

“And if you rail against riches, and tell me that wealth is a snare and a pitfall, what do you mean by telling me that my reverse of fortune is a chastisement? Why, sir, by your own theory it ought to be a blessing, – a positive blessing; so that if I were turned out of this princely house to-morrow, branded as a pretender and an impostor, I should go forth better, – not only better, but happier. Ay, that’s the point; happier than I ever was as the lord of these broad acres!” As he spoke he tore his cravat from his throat, as though it were strangling him by its pressure, and now walked the room, carrying the neckcloth in his hand, while the veins in his throat stood out full and swollen like a tangled cordage.

L’Estrange was so much frightened by the wild voice and wilder gesture of the man, that he could not utter a word in reply.

Bramleigh now came over, and leaning his hand on the other’s shoulder, in a tone of kind and gentle meaning, said, —

“It is not your fault, my dear friend, that you are illogical and unreasonable. You are obliged to defend a thesis you do not understand, by arguments you cannot measure. The armory of the Church has not a weapon that has not figured in the Middle Ages; and what are you to do with halberds and cross-bows in a time of rifles and revolvers! If a man, like myself, burdened with a heavy weight on his heart, had gone to his confessor in olden times, he would probably have heard, if not words of comfort, something to enlighten, to instruct, and to guide him. Now what can you give me? tell me that? I want to hear by what subtleties the Church can reconcile me not to do what I ought to do, and yet not quarrel with my own conscience. Can you help me to that?”

L’Estrange shook his head in dissent.

“I suppose it is out of some such troubles as mine that men come to change their religion.” He paused; and then bursting into a laugh, said, “You hear that the other bank deals more liberally, – asks a smaller commission, and gives you a handsomer interest, – and you accordingly transfer your account. I believe that’s the whole of it.”

“I will not say you have stated the case fairly,” said. L’Estrange; but so faintly as to show that he was far from eager to continue the discussion, and he arose to take his leave.

“You are going already? and I have not spoken to you one word about, – what was it? Can you remember what it was? Something that related personally to yourself.”

“Perhaps I can guess, sir. It was the mine at Liscon-nor, probably? You were kind enough the other day to arrange my securing some shares in the undertaking. Since that, however, I have heard a piece of news which may affect my whole future career. There has been some report made by the Commissioner about the parish.”

“That’s it, that ‘s it. They ‘re going to send you off, L’Estrange. They ‘re going to draft you to a cathedral, and make a prebendary of you. You are to be on the staff of an archbishop, – a sort of Christian unattached. Do you like the prospect?”

“Not at all, sir. To begin, I am a very poor man, and could ill bear the cost of life this might entail.”

“Your sister would probably be pleased with the change; a gayer place, more life, more movement.”

“I suspect my sister reconciles herself to dulness even better than myself.”

“Girls do that occasionally; patience is a female virtue.”

There was a slight pause; and now L’Estrange, drawing a long breath, as if preparing himself for a great effort, said, —

“It was to speak to you, sir, about that very matter, and to ask your assistance, that I came up here this day.”

“I wish I were a bishop, for your sake, my dear friend.”

“I know well, sir, I can count upon your kind interest in me, and I believe that an opportunity now offers – ”

“What is it? where is it?”

“At Rome, sir; or rather near Rome, – a place called Albano. They want a chaplain there.”

“But you’re not a Catholic priest, L’Estrange.”

“No, sir. It is an English community that wants a parson.”

“I see; and you think this would suit you?”

“There are some great attractions about it; the country, the climate, and the sort of life, all have a certain fascination for me, and Julia is most eager about it.”

“The young lady has ambition,” muttered Bramleigh to himself. “But what can I do, L’Estrange? I don’t own a rood of land at Albano. I have n’t a villa, – not even a fig-tree there. I could subscribe to the church fund, if there be such a thing; I could qualify for the franchise, and give you a vote, if that would be of service.”

“You could do better, sir. You could give me a letter to Lady Augusta, whose influence, I believe, is all powerful.”

For a moment Bramleigh stared at him fixedly, and then sinking slowly into a chair, he leaned his head on his hand, and seemed lost in thought. The name of Lady Augusta had brought up before him a long train of events and possible consequences, which soon led him far away from the parson and all his cares. From her debts, her extravagances, her change of religion, and her suggestion of separation, he went back to his marriage with her, and even to his first meeting. Strange chain of disasters from beginning to end. A bad investment in every way. It paid nothing. It led to nothing.

“I hope, sir,” said L’Estrange, as he gazed at the strange expression of preoccupation in the other’s face, – “I hope, sir, I have not been indiscreet in my request?”

“What was your request?” asked Colonel Bramleigh, bluntly, and with a look of almost sternness.

“I had asked you, sir, for a letter to Lady Augusta,” said the curate, half offended at the manner of the last question.

“A letter to Lady Augusta?” repeated Bramleigh, dwelling on each word, as though by the effort he could recall to his mind something that had escaped him.

“I mean, sir, with reference to this appointment, – the chaplaincy,” interposed L’Estrange; for he was offended at the hesitation, which he thought implied reluctance or disinclination on Colonel Bramleigh’s part, and he hastened to show that it was not any claim he was preferring to her ladyship’s acquaintance, but simply his desire to obtain her interest in his behalf.

“Influence! influence!” repeated Bramleigh to himself. “I have no doubt she has influence; such persons generally have. It is one of the baits that catch them. This little glimpse of power has a marvellous attraction – and these churchmen know so well how to display all their seductive arts before the eager eyes of the newly won convert. Yes, I am sure you are right, sir; Lady Augusta is one most likely to have influence – you shall have the letter you wish for. I do not say I will write it to-day, for I have a heavy press of correspondence before me; but if you will come up to-morrow, by luncheon time, or to dinner – why not dine here?”

“I think I ‘d rather come up early, sir.”

“Well, then, early be it. I ‘ll have the letter for you. I wish I could remember something I know I had to say to you. What was it? What was it? Nothing of much consequence, perhaps; but still I feel as if – eh – don’t you feel so too?”

“I have not the slightest clew, sir, to what you mean.”

“It wasn’t about the mine, – no. I think you see your way there clearly enough. It may be a good thing, or it may not. Cutbill is like the rest of them; not a greater rogue, perhaps, nor need he be. They are such shrewd fellows; and as the money is your sister’s, – trust money, too, – I declare, I’d be cautious.”

L’Estrange mumbled some words of assent; he saw that Bramleigh’s manner betokened exhaustion and weariness, and he was eager to be gone. “Till to-morrow, then, sir,” said he, moving to the door.

“You ‘ll not dine with us? I think you might, though,” muttered Bramleigh, half to himself. “I’m sure Culduff would make no show of awkwardness, nor would your sister, either – women never do. But do just what you like; my head is aching so, I believe I must lie down for an hour or two. Do you pass Belton’s?”

“I could without any inconvenience. Do you want him?”

“I fancy I ‘d do well to see him; he said something of cupping me the last day he was here, – would you mind telling him to give me a call?”

“May I come up in the evening, sir, and see how you are?”

“In the evening? this evening?” cried Bramleigh, in a harsh, discordant voice. “Why, good heavens, sir! have a little, a very little discretion. You have been here since eleven. I marked the clock. It was not full five minutes after eleven, when you came in, – it’s now past one. Two mortal hours, and you ask me if you may return this evening; and I reply, sir, distinctly – No! Is that intelligible? I say no!” As he spoke he turned away, and the curate, covered with shame and confusion, hastened out of the room, and down the stairs, and out into the open air, dreading lest he should meet any one, and actually terrified at the thought of being seen. He plunged into the thickest of the shrubberies, and it was with a sense of relief he heard from a child that his sister had gone home some time before, and left word for him to follow her.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE CURATE CROSS-EXAMINED

When the party returned from the picnic, it was to find Colonel Bramleigh very ill. Some sort of fit the doctor called it, – not apoplexy nor epilepsy, but something that seemed to combine features of both. It had, he thought, been produced by a shock of some sort, and L’Estrange, who had last been with him before his seizure, was summoned to impart the condition in which he had found him, and whatever might serve to throw light on the attack.

If the curate was nervous and excited by the tidings that reached him of the Colonel’s state, the examination to which he was submitted served little to restore calm to his system. Question after question poured in. Sometimes two or three would speak together, and all – except Ellen – accosted him in a tone that seemed half to make him chargeable with the whole calamity. When asked to tell of what they had been conversing, and that he mentioned how Colonel Bramleigh had adverted to matters of faith and belief, Marion, in a whisper loud enough to be overheard, exclaimed, “I was sure of it. It was one of those priestly indiscretions; he would come talking to papa about what he calls his soul’s health, and in this way brought on the excitement.”