Ernest Maltravers — Complete

“Ah! 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 seldom 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—Maltravers.”

“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 inquired the name of the song and bought it—it is very strange!”

“What is strange?”

“That there is a kind of language in your 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 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 creation of peers. If I had shown activity on behalf of the government 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 exclamation 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—aren’t you glad?—why don’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. Templeton, 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.”

“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 usually 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 production 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 observe 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 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 expensive 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 reverie, 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, atrocious! 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 coincidence!—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 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 deserves 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 unpleasant. Ah, I’m a shrewd fellow!”

CHAPTER III

“Lauzun.—There, Marquis, there, I’ve done it. Montespan.—Done it! yes! Nice doings!” The Duchess de la Valliere.

LUMLEY hastened to strike while the iron was hot. The next morning he went straight to the Treasury—saw the managing secretary, a clever, sharp man, who, like Ferrers, carried off intrigue and manoeuvre by a blunt, careless, bluff manner.

Ferrers announced that he was to stand for the free, respectable, open city of C———, with an electoral population of 2,500. A very showy place it was for a member in the old ante-reform times, and was considered a thoroughly independent borough. The secretary congratulated and complimented him.

“We have had losses lately in our 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. Now Lord Staunch was one of the popular show-fight great guns of the administration—not in office, but that most useful person to all governments, an out-and-out supporter upon the most independent principles—who was known to have refused 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 constituency—all Staunch’s own family.”

“Just the thing for him; yet, ‘tis a pity that he did not wait to stand for C———; my uncle’s interest would have secured him.”

“Ay, I thought so the moment C——— was vacant. However, 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 on Lord Staunch directly. I will see my uncle, and a despatch 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 retired. The secretary was not “humbugged,” nor did Lumley expect he should be. But the secretary noted this of Lumley Ferrers (and that gentleman’s object was gained), that Lumley Ferrers was a man who looked out for office, and if he did tolerably well in parliament, that Lumley Ferrers was a man who ought to be pushed.

Very shortly afterwards the Gazette announced the election 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 unobservedly 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.

CHAPTER IV

“Je connois des princes du sang, des princes etrangers, des grands seigneurs, des ministres d’etat, des magistrats, et des philosophes qui fileroient pour l’amour de vous. En pouvez-vous demander davantage?”21

Lettres de Madame de Sevigne

“Lindore. I—I believe it will choke me. I’m in love22 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). 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 ancestry, 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 connections, got on his family to the remotest degree of relationship; 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 Saxingham 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 personage 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 Saxingham on the, &c., &c.; and therefore continued his invitations, till Maltravers, 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 masculine 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 something 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, even an ordinary observer would have thought of the old commonplace proverb—“that the brightest beauty has the briefest life.” It was some sentiment 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.

“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 malignant motives,—there is in it so much jealousy of our friends, so much unfairness to our enemies;—such readiness to attribute to others the basest objects,—such willingness to avail ourselves 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 injustice 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 themselves have good reason for it.”

“You seek to cure the wound you inflicted,” returned Maltravers, smiling.

“No; what I said was an apology for myself, as well as for you. You need no words to vindicate you; you are a man, and can bear out all arrogance with the royal motto Dieu et mon 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 immediate, so palpable a reward as those won by a woman, beautiful 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 recognise 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, thinking 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 generally and happily; but once, when he turned his eyes to appeal to Lady Florence for her opinion on some point in discussion, he caught her gaze fixed upon him with an expression that checked the current of his gaiety, and cast him into a curious and bewildered reverie. In that gaze there was earnest 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 snob of good society. In one corner he discovered Castruccio Cesarini, playing on a guitar, slung across his breast with a blue riband. The Italian sang well; many young ladies were grouped round him, amongst others Florence Lascelles. Maltravers, fond as he was of music, looked upon Castruccio’s performance as a disagreeable exhibition. He had a Quixotic idea of the dignity of talent; and though himself of a musical science, and a melody of voice that would have thrown the room into ecstasies, he would as soon have turned juggler or tumbler for polite amusement, as contend for the bravos 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 summoned the whole world to see him play at push-pin, if he thought the 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 eye sparkled, and his pale cheek flushed with unwonted brilliancy. Florence turned to Maltravers, and the Italian, following 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 sometimes, when I see the mortifications that await sterner labour, I think he is right.”

“Hush!” said Maltravers; “his eyes are on us—he is listening 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 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 anxious 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 distinguished—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 prejudices against her were greatly shaken: he was even somewhat dazzled by her beauty, and touched by her unexpected gentleness; but still, his heart was not assailed, and he replied 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 not be a coquette. There now, I have offended you—I confess I am very rude.”