Lothair

And the philosophers and distinguished men of science with whom of late he had frequently enjoyed the opportunity of becoming acquainted, what were their views? They differed among themselves: did any of them agree with him? How they accounted for every thing except the only point on which man requires revelation! Chance, necessity, atomic theories, nebular hypotheses, development, evolution, the origin of worlds, human ancestry—here were high topics, on none of which was there lack of argument; and, in a certain sense, of evidence; and what then? There must be design. The reasoning and the research of all philosophy could not be valid against that conviction. If there were no design, why, it would all be nonsense; and he could not believe in nonsense. And if there were design, there must be intelligence; and if intelligence, pure intelligence; and pure intelligence was inconsistent with any disposition but perfect good. But between the all-wise and the all-benevolent and man, according to the new philosophers, no relations were to be any longer acknowledged. They renounce in despair the possibility of bringing man into connection with that First Cause which they can neither explain nor deny. But man requires that there shall be direct relations between the created and the Creator; and that in those relations he should find a solution of the perplexities of existence. The brain that teems with illimitable thought, will never recognize as his creator any power of Nature, however irresistible, that is not gifted with consciousness. Atheism may be consistent with fine taste, and fine taste under certain conditions may for a time regulate a polished society; but ethics with atheism are impossible; and without ethics no human order can be strong or permanent.

The Church comes forward, and, without equivocation, offers to establish direct relations between God and man. Philosophy denies its title, and disputes its power. Why? Because they are founded on the supernatural. What is the supernatural? Can there be any thing more miraculous than the existence of man and the world?—any thing more literally supernatural than the origin of things? The Church explains what no one else pretends to explain, and which, every one agrees, it is of first moment should be made clear.

The clouds of a summer eve were glowing in the creative and flickering blaze of the vanished sun, that had passed like a monarch from the admiring sight, yet left his pomp behind. The golden and amber vapors fell into forms that to the eye of the musing Lothair depicted the objects of his frequent meditation. There seemed to rise in the horizon the dome and campaniles and lofty aisles of some celestial fane, such as he had often more than dreamed of raising to the revealed author of life and death. Altars arose and sacred shrines, and delicate chantries and fretted spires; now the flashing phantom of heavenly choirs, and then the dim response of cowled and earthly cenobites:

“These are black Vesper’s pageants!”

CHAPTER 39

Lothair was quite glad to see Mr. Putney Giles. That gentleman indeed was a universal favorite. He was intelligent, acquainted with every thing except theology and metaphysics, to oblige, a little to patronize, never made difficulties, and always overcame them. His bright blue eyes, open forehead, and sunny face, indicated a man fall of resources, and with a temper of natural sweetness.

The lawyer and his noble client had a great deal of business to transact. Lothair was to know his position in detail preparatory to releasing his guardians from their responsibilities, and assuming the management of his own affairs. Mr. Putney Giles was a first-rate man of business. With all his pleasant, easy manner, he was precise and methodical, and was not content that his client should be less master of his own affairs than his lawyer. The mornings passed over a table covered with dispatch boxes and piles of ticketed and banded papers, and then they looked after the workmen who were preparing for the impending festivals, or rode over the estate.

“That is our weak point,” said Mr. Putney Giles, pointing to a distant part of the valley. “We ought to have both sides of the valley. Your lordship will have to consider whether you can devote the two hundred thousand pounds of the second and extinct trust to a better purpose than in obtaining that estate.”

Lothair had always destined that particular sum for the cathedral, the raising of which was to have been the first achievement of his majority; but he did not reply.

In a few days the guests began to arrive, but gradually. The duke and duchess and Lady Corisande came the first, and were one day alone with Lothair, for Mr. Putney Giles had departed to fetch Apollonia.

Lothair was unaffectedly gratified at not only receiving his friends at his own castle, but under these circumstances of intimacy. They had been the first persons who had been kind to him, and he really loved the whole family. They arrived rather late, but he would show them to their rooms—and they were choice ones—himself, and then they dined together in the small green dining-room. Nothing could be more graceful or more cordial than the whole affair. The duchess seemed to beam with affectionate pleasure as Lothair fulfilled his duties as their host; the duke praised the claret, and he seldom praised any thing; while Lady Corisande only regretted that the impending twilight had prevented her from seeing the beautiful country, and expressed lively interest in the morrow’s inspection of the castle and domain. Sometimes her eyes met those of Lothair, and she was so happy that she unconsciously smiled.

“And-to-morrow,” said Lothair, “I am delighted to say, we shall have to ourselves; at least all the morning. We will see the castle first, and then, after luncheon, we will drive about everywhere.”

“Everywhere,” said Corisande.

“It was very nice your asking us first, and alone,” said the duchess.

“It was very nice in your coming, dear duchess,” said Lothair, “and most kind—as you ever are to me.”

“Duke of Brecon is coming to you on Thursday,” said the duke; “he told me so at White’s.”

“Perhaps you would like to know, duchess, whom you are going to meet,” said Lothair.

“I should much like to hear. Pray tell us.”

“It is a rather formidable array,” said Lothair, and he took out a paper. “First, there are all the notables of the county. I do not know any of them personally, so I wrote to each of them a letter, as well as sending them a formal invitation. I thought that was right.”

“Quite right,” said the duchess. “Nothing could be more proper.”

“Well, the first person, of course, is the lord-lieutenant. He is coming.”

“By-the-by, let me see, who is your lord-lieutenant?” said the duke.

“Lord Agramont.”

“To be sure. I was at college with him; a very good fellow; but I have never met him since, except once at Boodle’s; and I never saw a man so red and gray, and I remember him such a good-looking fellow! He must have lived immensely in the country, and never thought of his person,” said the duke in a tone of pity, and playing with his mustache.

“Is there a Lady Agramont?” inquired the duchess.

“Oh, yes! and she also honors me with her presence,” said Lothair.

“And who was Lady Agramont?”

“Oh! his cousin,” said the duke. “The Agramonts always marry their cousins. His father did the same thing. They are so shy. It is a family that never was in society, and never will be. I was at Agramont Castle once when I was at college, and I never shall forget it. We used to sit down forty or fifty every day to dinner, entirely maiden aunts and clergymen, and that sort of thing. However, I shall be truly glad to see Agramont again, for, notwithstanding all these disadvantages, he is a thoroughly good fellow.”

“Then there is the high-sheriff,” continued Lothair; “and both the county members and their wives; and Mrs. High-Sheriff too. I believe there is some tremendous question respecting the precedency of this lady. There is no doubt that, in the county, the high-sheriff takes precedence of every one, even of the lord-lieutenant; but how about his wife? Perhaps your grace could aid me? Mr. Putney Giles said he would write about it to the Heralds’ College.”

“I should give her the benefit of any doubt,” said the duchess.

“And then our bishop is coming;” said Lothair.

“Oh! I am so glad you have asked the bishop,” said Lady Corisande.

“There could be no doubt about it,” said Lothair.

“I do not know how his lordship will get on with one of my guardians, the cardinal; but his eminence is not here in a priestly character; and, as for that, there is less chance of his differing with the cardinal than with my other guardian Lord Culloden, who is a member of the Free Kirk.”

“Is Lord Culloden coming?” said the duchess.

“Yes, and with two daughters, Flora and Grizell. I remember my cousins, good-natured little girls; but Mr. Putney Giles tells me that the shortest is six feet high.”

“I think we shall have a very amusing party,” said the duchess.

“You know all the others,” said Lothair. “No, by-the-by, there is the dean of my college coming, and Monsignore Catesby, a great friend of the St. Jeromes.”

Lady Corisande looked grave.

“The St. Jeromes will be here to-morrow,” continued Lothair, “and the Montairys and the St. Aldegondes. I have half an idea that Bertram and Carisbrooke and Hugo Bohun will be here to-night—Duke of Brecon on Thursday; and that, I think, is all, except an American lady and gentleman, whom, I think, you will like—great friends of mine; I knew them this year at Oxford, and the were very kind to me. He is a man of considerable fortune; they have lived at Paris a good deal.”

“I have known Americans who lived at Paris,” said the duke; “very good sort of people, and no end of money some of them.”

“I believe Colonel Campian has large estates in the South,” said Lothair; “but, though really I have no right to speak of his affairs, he must have suffered very much.”

“Well, he has the consolation of suffering in a good cause,” said the duke. “I shall be happy to make his acquaintance. I look upon an American gentleman with large estates in the South as a real aristocrat; and; whether he gets his rents, or whatever his returns may be, or not, I should always treat him with respect.”

“I have heard the American women are very pretty,” said Lady Corisande.

“Mrs. Campian is very distinguished,” said Lothair; “but I think she was an Italian.”

“They promise to be an interesting addition to our party,” said the duchess, and she rose.

CHAPTER 40

There never was any thing so successful as the arrangements of the next day. After breakfast they inspected the castle, and in the easiest manner, without form and without hurry, resting occasionally in a gallery or a saloon, never examining a cabinet, and only looking at a picture now and then. Generally speaking, nothing is more fatiguing than the survey of a great house; but this enterprise was conducted with so much tact and consideration, and much which they had to see was so beautiful and novel, that every one was interested, and remained quite fresh for their subsequent exertions. “And then the duke is so much amused,” said the duchess to her daughter, delighted at the unusual excitement of the handsome, but somewhat too serene, partner of her life.

After luncheon they visited the gardens, which had been formed in a sylvan valley, enclosed with gilded gates. The creator of this, paradise had been favored by Nature, and had availed himself of this opportunity. The contrast between the parterres, blazing with color, and the sylvan background, the undulating paths over romantic heights, the fanes and the fountains, the glittering statues, and the Babylonian terraces, formed a whole, much of which was beautiful, and all of which was striking and singular.

“Perhaps too many temples,” said Lothair; “but this ancestor of mine had some imagination.”

A carriage met them on the other side of the valley, and then they soon entered the park.

“I am almost as much a stranger here as yourself, dear duchess,” said Lothair; “but I have seen some parts which, I think, will please you.” And they commenced a drive of varying, but unceasing, beauty.

“I hope I see the wild-cattle,” said Lady Corisande.

Lady Corisande saw the wild-cattle, and many other things, which gratified and charmed her. It was a long drive, even of hours, and yet no one was, for a moment, wearied.

“What a delightful day!” Lady Corisande exclaimed in her mother’s dressing-room. “I have never seen any place so beautiful.”

“I agree with you,” said the duchess; “but what pleases me most are his manners. They were always kind and natural; but they are so polished—so exactly what they ought to be; and he always says the right thing. I never knew any one who had so matured.”

“Yes; it is very little more than a year since he came to us at Brentham,” said Lady Corisande, thoughtfully. “Certainly he has greatly changed. I remember he could hardly open his lips; and now I think him very agreeable.”

“He is more than that,” said the duchess; “he is interesting.”

“Yes,” said Lady Corisande; “he is interesting.”

“What delights me,” said the duchess, “is to see his enjoyment of his position. He seems to take such an interest in every thing. It makes me happy to see him so happy.”

“Well, I hardly know,” said Lady Corisande, “about that. There is something occasionally about his expression which I should hardly describe as indicative of happiness or content. It would be ungrateful to describe one as distrait, who seems to watch all one wants, and hangs on every word; and yet—especially as we returned, and when we were all of us a little silent—there was a remarkable abstraction about him; I caught it once or twice before, earlier in the day; his mind seemed in another place, and anxiously.”

“He has a great deal to think of,” said the duchess.

“I fear it is that dreadful Monsignore Catesby,” said Lady Corisande, with a sigh.

CHAPTER 41

The arrival of the guests was arranged with judgment. The personal friends came first; the formal visitors were invited only for the day before the public ceremonies commenced. No more dinners in small green dining-rooms. While the duchess was dressing, Bertha St. Aldegonde and Victoria Montairy, who had just arrived, came in to give her a rapid embrace while their own toilets were unpacking.

“Granville, has come, mamma; I did not think that he would till the last moment. He said he was so afraid of being bored. There is a large party by this train; the St. Jeromes, Bertram, Mr. Bohun, Lord Carisbrooke, and some others we do not know.”

The cardinal had been expected to-day, but he had telegraphed that his arrival must be postponed in consequence: of business until the morrow, which day had been previously fixed for the arrival of his fellow guardian and trustee, the Earl of Culloden, and his daughters, the Ladies Flora and Grizell Falkirk. Monsignore Catesby had, however, arrived by this train, and the persons “whom they did not know,” the Campians.

Lothair waited on Colonel Campian immediately and welcomed him, but he did not see Theodora. Still he had inquired after her, and left her a message, and hoped that she would take some tea; and thus, as he flattered himself, broken a little the strangeness of their meeting under his roof; but, notwithstanding all this, when she really entered the drawing-room he was seized with such a palpitation of the heart that for a moment he thought he should be unequal to the situation. But the serenity of Theodora reassured him. The Campians came in late, and all eyes were upon them. Lothair presented Theodora to the duchess, who, being prepared for the occasion, said exactly the right thing in the best manner, and invited Mrs. Campian to sit by her, and then, Theodora being launched, Lothair whispered something to the duke, who nodded, and the colonel was introduced to his grace. The duke, always polite but generally cold, was more than courteous—he was cordial; he seemed to enjoy the opportunity of expressing his high consideration for a gentleman of the Southern States.

So the first step was over; Lothair recovered himself; the palpitation subsided; and the world still went on. The Campians had made a good start, and the favorable impression hourly increased. At dinner Theodora sat between Lord St. Jerome and Bertram, and talked more to the middle-aged peer than to the distinguished youth, who would willingly have engrossed her attention. All mothers admire such discretion, especially in a young and beautiful married woman, so the verdict of the evening among the great ladies was, that Theodora was distinguished, and that all she said or did was in good taste. On the plea of her being a foreigner, she was at once admitted into a certain degree of social intimacy. Had she had the misfortune of being native-born and had flirted with Bertram, she would probably, particularly with so much beauty, have been looked upon as “a horrid woman,” and have been relegated for amusement, during her visit, to the attentions of the dark sex. But, strange to say, the social success of Colonel Campian was not less eminent than that of his distinguished wife. The character which the duke gave of him commanded universal sympathy. “You know he is a gentleman,” said the duke; “he is not a Yankee. People make the greatest mistakes about these things. He is a gentleman of the South; they have no property, but land; and I am told his territory was immense. He always lived at Paris, and in the highest style—disgusted, of course, with his own country. It is not unlikely he may have lost his estates now; but that makes no difference to me. I shall treat him, and all Southern gentlemen, as our fathers treated the emigrant nobility of France.”

“Hugo,” said St. Aldegonde to Mr. Bohun, “I wish you would tell Bertha to come to me. I want her. She is talking to a lot of women at the other end of the room, and, if I go to her, I am afraid they will get hold of me.”

The future duchess, who lived only to humor her lord, was at his side in an instant. “You wanted me, Granville?”

“Yes; you know I was afraid, Bertha, I should be bored here. I am not bored. I like this American fellow. He understands the only two subjects which interest me; horses and tobacco.”

“I am charmed, Granville, that you are not bored; I told mamma that you were very much afraid you would be.”

“Yes; but I tell you what, Bertha, I cannot stand any of the ceremonies. I shall go before they begin. Why cannot Lothair be content with receiving his friends in a quiet way? It is all humbug about the county. If he wants to do something for the county, he can build a wing to the infirmary, or something of that sort, and not bore us with speeches and fireworks. It is a sort of thing I cannot stand.”

“And you shall not, dear Granville. The moment you are bored, you shall go. Only you are not bored at present.”

“Not at present; but I expected to be.”

“Yes; so I told mamma; but that makes the present more delightful.”

The St. Jeromes were going to Italy and immediately. Their departure had only been postponed in order that they might be present at the majority of Lothair. Miss Arundel had at length succeeded in her great object. They were to pass the winter at Rome. Lord St. Jerome was quite pleased at having made the acquaintance at dinner of a Roman lady, who spoke English so perfectly; and Lady St. Jerome, who in consequence fastened upon Theodora, was getting into ecstasies, which would have been embarrassing had not her new acquaintance skilfully checked her.

“We must be satisfied that we both admire Rome,” said Mrs. Campian, “though we admire it for different reasons. Although a Roman, I am not a Roman Catholic; and Colonel Campian’s views on Italian affairs generally would, I fear, not entirely agree with Lord St. Jerome’s.”

“Naturally,” said Lady St. Jerome, gracefully dropping the subject, and remembering that Colonel Campian was a citizen of the United States, which accounted in her apprehension for his peculiar opinions.

Lothair, who had been watching his opportunity the whole evening, approached Theodora. He meant to have expressed his hope that she was not wearied by her journey, but instead of that he said, “Your presence here makes me inexpressibly happy.”

“I think everybody seems happy to be your guest,” she replied, parrying, as was her custom, with a slight kind smile, and a low, sweet, unembarrassed voice, any personal allusion from Lothair of unusual energy or ardor.

“I wanted to meet you at the station to-day,” he continued, “but there were so many people coming, that—” and he hesitated.

“It would really have been more embarrassing to us than to yourself,” she said. “Nothing could be better than all the arrangements.”

“I sent my own brougham to you,” said Lothair. “I hope there was no mistake about it.”

“None: your servant gave us your kind message; and as for the carriage, it was too delightful. Colonel Campian was so; pleased with it, that he has promised to give me one, with your permission, exactly the same.”

“I wish you would accept the one you used to-day.”

“You are too magnificent; you really must try to forget, with us, that you are the lord of Muriel Towers. But I will willingly use your carriages as much as you please, for I caught glimpses of beauty to-day in our progress from the station that made me anxious to explore your delightful domain.”

There was a slight burst of merriment from a distant part of the room, and everybody looked around. Colonel Campian had been telling a story to a group formed of the duke, St. Aldegonde, and Mr. Bohun.

“Best story I ever heard In my life,” exclaimed St. Aldegonde, who prided himself, when he did laugh, which was rare, on laughing loud. But even the duke tittered, and Hugo Bohun smiled.

“I am glad to see the colonel get on so well with every one,” said Lothair; “I was afraid he might have been bored.”

“He does not know what that means,” said Theodora; “and he is so natural and so sweet-tempered, and so intelligent, that it seems to me he always is popular.”

“Do you think that will be a match?” said Monsignore Catesby to Miss Arundel.

“Well, I rather believe in the Duke of Brecon,” she replied. They were referring to Lord Carisbrooke, who appeared to be devoted to Lady Corisande. “Do you admire the American lady?”

“Who is an Italian, they tell me, though she does not look like one. What do you think of her?” said the monsignore, evading, as was his custom, a direct reply.

“Well, I think she is very distinguished: unusual. I wonder where our host became acquainted with them? Do you know?”

“Not yet: but I dare say Mr. Bohun can tell us;” and he addressed that gentleman accordingly as he was passing by.

“Not the most remote idea,” said Mr. Bohun. “You know the colonel is not a Yankee; he is a tremendous swell. The duke says, with more land than he has.”

“He seems an agreeable person,” said Miss Arundel.

“Well, he tell anecdotes; he has just been telling one; Granville likes anecdotes; they amuse him, and he likes to be amused: that is all he cares about. I hate anecdotes, and I always get away when conversation falls into, what Pinto calls, its anecdotage.”

“You do not like to be amused?”

“Not too much; I like to be interested.”

“Well,” said Miss Arundel, “so long as a person can talk agreeably, I am satisfied. I think to talk well a rare gift; quite as rare as singing; and yet you expect every one to be able to talk, and very few to be able to sing.”

“There are amusing people who do not interest,” said the monsignore, “and interesting people who do not amuse. What I like is an agreeable person.”

“My idea of an agreeable person,” said Hugo Bohun, “is a person who agrees with me.”

“Talking of singing, something is going to happen,” said Miss Arundel.

A note was heard; a celebrated professor had entered the room and was seated at the piano, which he had just touched. There was a general and unconscious hush, and the countenance of Lord St. Aldegonde wore a rueful expression. But affairs turned out better than could be anticipated. A young and pretty girl, dressed in white, with a gigantic sash of dazzling beauty, played upon the violin with a grace, and sentimental and marvellous skill, and passionate expression, worthy of St. Cecilia. She was a Hungarian lady, and this was her English debut. Everybody praised her, and every body was pleased; and Lord St. Aldegonde, instead of being bored, took a wondrous rose out of his button-hole and presented it to her.