Endymion

“These are very different views from those which, I had understood, were to guide us in opposition,” said Endymion, amazed.

“There is no opposition,” rejoined Lady Montfort, somewhat tartly. “For a real opposition there must be a great policy. If your friend, Lord Roehampton, when he was settling the Levant, had only seized upon Egypt, we should have been somewhere. Now, we are the party who wanted to give, not even cheap bread to the people, but only cheaper bread. Faugh!”

“Well, I do not think the occupation of Egypt in the present state of our finances”–

“Do not talk to me about ‘the present state of our finances.’ You are worse than Mr. Sidney Wilton. The Count of Ferroll says that a ministry which is upset by its finances must be essentially imbecile. And that, too, in England—the richest country in the world!”

“Well, I think the state of the finances had something to do with the French Revolution,” observed Endymion quietly.

“The French Revolution! You might as well talk of the fall of the Roman Empire. The French Revolution was founded on nonsense—on the rights of man; when all sensible people in every country are now agreed, that man has no rights whatever.”

“But, dearest Lady Montfort,” said Endymion, in a somewhat deprecating tone, “about my returning; for that is the real subject on which I wished to trouble you.”

“You have made up your mind to return,” she replied. “What is the use of consulting me with a foregone conclusion? I suppose you think it a compliment.”

“I should be very sorry to do anything without consulting you,” said Endymion.

“The worst person in the world to consult,” said Lady Montfort impatiently. “If you want advice, you had better go to your sister. Men who are guided by their sisters seldom make very great mistakes. They are generally so prudent; and, I must say, I think a prudent man quite detestable.”

Endymion turned pale, his lips quivered. What might have been the winged words they sent forth it is now impossible to record, for at that moment the door opened, and the servant announced that her ladyship’s horse was at the door. Lady Montfort jumped up quickly, and saying, “Well, I suppose I shall see you before you go,” disappeared.

CHAPTER LXXV

In the meantime, Lady Roehampton was paying her farewell visit to her former pupil. They were alone, and Adriana was hanging on her neck and weeping.

“We were so happy,” she murmured.

“And are so happy, and will be,” said Myra.

“I feel I shall never be happy again,” sighed Adriana.

“You deserve to be the happiest of human beings, and you will be.”

“Never, never!”

Lady Roehampton could say no more; she pressed her friend to her heart, and left the room in silence.

When she arrived at her hotel, her brother was leaving the house. His countenance was disquieted; he did not greet her with that mantling sunniness of aspect which was natural to him when they met.

“I have made all my farewells,” she said; “and how have you been getting on?” And she invited him to re-enter the hotel.

“I am ready to depart at this moment,” he said somewhat fiercely, “and was only thinking how I could extricate myself from that horrible dinner to-day at the Count of Ferroll’s.”

“Well, that is not difficult,” said Myra; “you can write a note here if you like, at once. I think you must have seen quite enough of the Count of Ferroll and his friends.”

Endymion sat down at the table, and announced his intended non-appearance at the Count’s dinner, for it could not be called an excuse. When he had finished, his sister said—

“Do you know, we were nearly having a travelling companion to-morrow?”

He looked up with a blush, for he fancied she was alluding to some previous scheme of Lady Montfort. “Indeed!” he said, “and who?”

“Adriana.”

“Adriana!” he repeated, somewhat relieved; “would she leave her family?”

“She had a fancy, and I am sure I do not know any companion I could prefer to her. She is the only person of whom I could truly say, that every time I see her, I love her more.”

“She seemed to like Paris very much,” said Endymion a little embarrassed.

“The first part of her visit,” said Lady Roehampton, “she liked it amazingly. But my arrival and Lady Montfort’s, I fear, broke up their little parties. You were a great deal with the Neuchatels before we came?”

“They are such a good family,” said Endymion; “so kind, so hospitable, such true friends. And Mr. Neuchatel himself is one of the shrewdest men that probably ever lived. I like talking with him, or rather, I like to hear him talk.”

“O Endymion,” said Lady Roehampton, “if you were to marry Adriana, my happiness would be complete.”

“Adriana will never marry,” said Endymion; “she is afraid of being married for her money. I know twenty men who would marry her, if they thought there was a chance of being accepted; and the best man, Eusford, did make her an offer—that I know. And where could she find a match more suitable?—high rank, and large estate, and a man that everybody speaks well of.”

“Adriana will never marry except for the affections; there you are right, Endymion; she must love and she must be loved; but that is not very unreasonable in a person who is young, pretty, accomplished, and intelligent.”

“She is all that,” said Endymion moodily.

“And she loves you,” said Lady Roehampton.

Endymion rather started, looked up for a moment at his sister, and then withdrew as hastily an agitated glance, and then with his eyes on the ground said, in a voice half murmuring, and yet scoffingly: “I should like to see Mr. Neuchatel’s face were I to ask permission to marry his daughter. I suppose he would not kick me downstairs; that is out of fashion; but he certainly would never ask me to dinner again, and that would be a sacrifice.”

“You jest, Endymion; I am not jesting.”

“There are some matters that can only be treated as a jest; and my marriage with Miss Neuchatel is one.”

“It would make you one of the most powerful men in England,” said his sister.

“Other impossible events would do the same.”

“It is not impossible; it is very possible,” said his sister, “believe me, trust in me. The happiness of their daughter is more precious to the Neuchatels even than their fortune.”

“I do not see why, at my age, I should be in such a hurry to marry,” said Endymion.

“You cannot marry too soon, if by so doing you obtain the great object of life. Early marriages are to be deprecated, especially for men, because they are too frequently imprudent; but when a man can marry while he is young, and at once realise, by so doing, all the results which successful time may bring to him, he should not hesitate.”

“I hesitate very much,” said Endymion. “I should hesitate very much, even if affairs were as promising as I think you may erroneously assume.”

“But you must not hesitate, Endymion. We must never forget the great object for which we two live, for which, I believe, we were born twins—to rebuild our house; to raise it from poverty, and ignominy, and misery and squalid shame, to the rank and position which we demand, and which we believe we deserve. Did I hesitate when an offer of marriage was made to me, and the most unexpected that could have occurred? True it is, I married the best and greatest of men, but I did not know that when I accepted his hand. I married him for your sake, I married him for my own sake, for the sake of the house of Ferrars, which I wished to release and raise from its pit of desolation. I married him to secure for us both that opportunity for our qualities which they had lost, and which I believed, if enjoyed, would render us powerful and great.”

Endymion rose from his seat and kissed his sister. “So long as you live,” he said, “we shall never be ignominious.”

“Yes, but I am nothing; I am not a man, I am not a Ferrars. The best of me is that I may be a transient help to you. It is you who must do the deed. I am wearied of hearing you described as Lady Roehampton’s brother, or Lord Roehampton’s brother-in-law. I shall never be content till you are greater than we are, and there is but one and only one immediate way of accomplishing it, it is by this marriage—and a marriage with whom? with an angelic being!”

“You take me somewhat by surprise, Myra. My thoughts have not been upon this matter. I cannot fairly describe myself at this moment as a marrying man.”

“I know what you mean. You have female friendships, and I approve of them. They are invaluable to youth, and you have been greatly favoured in this respect. They have been a great assistance to you; beware lest they become a hindrance. A few years of such feelings in a woman’s life are a blazoned page, and when it is turned she has many other chapters, though they may not be as brilliant or adorned. But these few years in a man’s life may be, and in your case certainly would be, the very marrow of his destiny. During the last five or six years, ever since our emancipation, there has been a gradual but continuous development in your life. All has been preparatory for a position which you have acquired. That position may lead to anything—in your case, I will still believe, to everything—but there must be no faltering. Having crossed the Alps, you must not find a Capua. I speak to you as I have not spoken to you of late, because it was not necessary. But here is an opportunity which must not be lost. I feel half inspired, as when we parted in our misery at Hurstley, and I bade you, poor and obscure, go forth and conquer the world.”

Late on the night of the day, their last day at Paris, on which this conversation took place, Endymion received a note in well-known handwriting, and it ran thus:

“If it be any satisfaction to you to know that you made me very unhappy by not dining here to-day, you may be gratified. I am very unhappy. I know that I was unkind this morning, and rude, but as my anger was occasioned by your leaving me, my conduct might annoy but surely could not mortify you. I shall see you to-morrow, however early you may depart, as I cannot let your dear sister leave Paris without my embracing her.

“Your faithful friend,

“Berengaria.”

CHAPTER LXXVI

In old days, it was the habit to think and say that the House of Commons was an essentially “queer place,” which no one could understand until he was a member of it. It may, perhaps, be doubted whether that somewhat mysterious quality still altogether attaches to that assembly. “Our own Reporter,” has invaded it in all its purlieus. No longer content with giving an account of the speeches of its members, he is not satisfied unless he describes their persons, their dress, and their characteristic mannerisms. He tells us how they dine, even the wines and dishes which they favour, and follows them into the very mysteries of their smoking-room. And yet there is perhaps a certain fine sense of the feelings, and opinions, and humours of this assembly, which cannot be acquired by hasty notions and necessarily superficial remarks, but must be the result of long and patient observation, and of that quick sympathy with human sentiment, in all its classes, which is involved in the possession of that inestimable quality styled tact.

When Endymion Ferrars first took his seat in the House of Commons, it still fully possessed its character of enigmatic tradition. It had been thought that this, in a great degree, would have been dissipated by the Reform Act of 1832, which suddenly introduced into the hallowed precinct a number of individuals whose education, manners, modes of thought, were different from those of the previous inhabitants, and in some instances, and in some respects, quite contrary to them. But this was not so. After a short time it was observed that the old material, though at first much less in quantity, had leavened the new mass; that the tone of the former House was imitated and adopted, and that at the end of five years, about the time Endymion was returned to Parliament, much of its serene, and refined, and even classical character had been recovered.

For himself, he entered the chamber with a certain degree of awe, which, with use, diminished, but never entirely disappeared. The scene was one over which his boyhood even had long mused, and it was associated with all those traditions of genius, eloquence, and power that charm and inspire youth. His practical acquaintance with the forms and habits of the House from his customary attendance on their debates as private secretary to a cabinet minister, was of great advantage to him, and restrained that excitement which dangerously accompanies us when we enter into a new life, and especially a life of such deep and thrilling interests and such large proportions. This result was also assisted by his knowledge, at least by sight, of a large proportion of the old members, and by his personal and sometimes intimate acquaintance with those of his own party. There was much in his position, therefore, to soften that awkward feeling of being a freshman, which is always embarrassing.

He took his place on the second bench of the opposition side of the House, and nearly behind Lord Roehampton. Mr. Bertie Tremaine, whom Endymion encountered in the lobby as he was escaping to dinner, highly disapproved of this step. He had greeted Endymion with affable condescension. “You made your first mistake to-night, my dear Ferrars. You should have taken your seat below the gangway and near me, on the Mountain. You, like myself, are a man of the future.”

“I am a member of the opposition. I do not suppose it signifies much where I sit.”

“On the contrary, it signifies everything. After this great Tory reaction there is nothing to be done now by speeches, and, in all probability, very little that can be effectually opposed. Much, therefore, depends upon where you sit. If you sit on the Mountain, the public imagination will be attracted to you, and when they are aggrieved, which they will be in good time, the public passion, which is called opinion, will look to you for representation. My advice to my friends now is to sit together and say nothing, but to profess through the press the most advanced opinions. We sit on the back bench of the gangway, and we call ourselves the Mountain.”

Notwithstanding Mr. Bertie Tremaine’s oracular revelations, Endymion was very glad to find his old friend Trenchard generally his neighbour. He had a high opinion both of Trenchard’s judgment and acquirements, and he liked the man. In time they always managed to sit together. Job Thornberry took his seat below the gangway, on the opposition side, and on the floor of the House. Mr. Bertie Tremaine had sent his brother, Mr. Tremaine Bertie, to look after this new star, who he was anxious should ascend the Mountain; but Job Thornberry wishing to know whether the Mountain were going for “total and immediate,” and not obtaining a sufficiently distinct reply, declined the proffered intimation. Mr. Bertie Tremaine, being a landed proprietor as well as leader of the Mountain, was too much devoted to the rights of labour to sanction such middle-class madness.

“Peel with have to do it,” said Job. “You will see.”

“Peel now occupies the position of Necker,” said Mr. Bertie Tremaine, “and will make the same fiasco. Then you will at last have a popular government.”

“And the rights of labour?” asked Job. “All I hope is, I may have got safe to the States before that day.”

“There will be no danger,” said Mr. Bertie Tremaine. “There is this difference between the English Mountain and the French. The English Mountain has its government prepared. And my brother spoke to you because, when the hour arrives, I wished to see you a member of it.”

“My dear Endymion,” said Waldershare, “let us dine together before we meet in mortal conflict, which I suppose will be soon. I really think your Mr. Bertie Tremaine the most absurd being out of Colney Hatch.”

“Well, he has a purpose,” said Endymion; “and they say that a man with a purpose generally sees it realised.’

“What I do like in him,” said Waldershare, “is this revival of the Pythagorean system, and a leading party of silence. That is rich.”

One of the most interesting members of the House of Commons was Sir Fraunceys Scrope. He was the father of the House, though it was difficult to believe that from his appearance. He was tall, and had kept his distinguished figure; a handsome man, with a musical voice, and a countenance now benignant, though very bright, and once haughty. He still retained the same fashion of costume in which he had ridden up to Westminster more than half a century ago, from his seat in Derbyshire, to support his dear friend Charles Fox; real top-boots, and a blue coat and buff waistcoat. He was a great friend of Lord Roehampton, had a large estate in the same county, and had refused an earldom. Knowing Endymion, he came and sate by him one day in the House, and asked him, good-naturedly, how he liked his new life.

“It is very different from what it was when I was your age. Up to Easter we rarely had a regular debate, never a party division; very few people came up indeed. But there was a good deal of speaking on all subjects before dinner. We had the privilege then of speaking on the presentation of petitions at any length, and we seldom spoke on any other occasion. After Easter there was always at least one great party fight. This was a mighty affair, talked of for weeks before it came off, and then rarely an adjourned debate. We were gentlemen, used to sit up late, and should have been sitting up somewhere else had we not been in the House of Commons. After this party fight, the House for the rest of the session was a mere club.”

“There was not much business doing then,” said Endymion.

“There was not much business in the country then. The House of Commons was very much like what the House of Lords is now. You went home to dine, and now and then came back for an important division.”

“But you must always have had the estimates here,” said Endymion.

“Yes, but they ran through very easily. Hume was the first man who attacked the estimates. What are you going to do with yourself to-day? Will you take your mutton with me? You must come in boots, for it is now dinner-time, and you must return, I fancy. Twenty years ago, no man would think of coming down to the House except in evening dress. I remember so late as Mr. Canning, the minister always came down in silk stockings and pantaloons, or knee breeches. All things change, and quoting Virgil, as that young gentleman has just done, will be the next thing to disappear. In the last parliament we often had Latin quotations, but never from a member with a new constituency. I have heard Greek quoted here, but that was long ago, and a great mistake. The House was quite alarmed. Charles Fox used to say as to quotation—‘No Greek; as much Latin as you like; and never French under any circumstances. No English poet unless he had completed his century.’ These were like some other good rules, the unwritten orders of the House of Commons.”

CHAPTER LXXVII

While parliaments were dissolving and ministries forming, the disappointed seeking consolation and the successful enjoying their triumph, Simon, Earl of Montfort, who just missed being a great philosopher, was reading “Topsy Turvy,” which infinitely amused him; the style so picturesque and lambent! the tone so divertingly cynical! And if the knowledge of society in its pages was not so distinguished as that of human nature generally, this was a deficiency obvious only to a comparatively limited circle of its readers.

Lord Montfort had reminded Endymion of his promise to introduce the distinguished author to him, and accordingly, after due researches as to his dwelling-place, Mr. Ferrars called in Jermyn Street and sent up his card, to know whether Mr. St. Barbe would receive him. This was evidently not a matter-of-course affair, and some little time had elapsed when the maid-servant appeared, and beckoned to Endymion to follow her upstairs.

In the front drawing-room of the first floor, robed in a flaming dressing-gown, and standing with his back to the fire and to the looking-glass, the frame of which was encrusted with cards of invitation, the former colleague of Endymion received his visitor with a somewhat haughty and reserved air.

“Well, I am delighted to see you again,” said Endymion.

No reply but a ceremonious bow.

“And to congratulate you,” Endymion added after a moment’s pause. “I hear of nothing but of your book; I suppose one of the most successful that have appeared for a long time.”

“Its success is not owing to your friends,” said Mr. St. Barbe tartly.

“My friends!” said Endymion; “what could they have done to prevent it?”

“They need not have dissolved parliament,” said Mr. St. Barbe with irritation. “It was nearly fatal to me; it would have been to anybody else. I was selling forty thousand a month; I believe more than Gushy ever reached; and so they dissolved parliament. The sale went down half at once—and now you expect me to support your party!”

“Well, it was unfortunate, but the dissolution could hardly have done you any permanent injury, and you could scarcely expect that such an event could be postponed even for the advantage of an individual so distinguished as yourself.”

“Perhaps not,” said St. Barbe, apparently a little mollified, “but they might have done something to show their regret at it.”

“Something!” said Endymion, “what sort of thing?”

“The prime minister might have called on me, or at least written to me a letter. I want none of their honours; I have scores of letters every day, suggesting that some high distinction should be conferred on me. I believe the nation expects me to be made a baronet. By the by, I heard the other day you had got into parliament. I know nothing of these matters; they do not interest me. Is it the fact?”

“Well, I was so fortunate, and there are others of your old friends, Trenchard, for example.”

“You do not mean to say that Trenchard is in parliament!” said St. Barbe, throwing off all his affected reserve. “Well, it is too disgusting! Trenchard in parliament, and I obliged to think it a great favour if a man gives me a frank! Well, representative institutions have seen their day. That is something.”

“I have come here on a social mission,” said Endymion in a soothing tone. “There is a great admirer of yours who much wishes to make your acquaintance. Trusting to our old intimacy, of which of course I am very proud, it was even hoped that you might waive ceremony, and come and dine.”

“Quite impossible!” exclaimed St. Barbe, and turning round, he pointed to the legion of invitations before him. “You see, the world is at my feet. I remember that fellow Seymour Hicks taking me to his rooms to show me a card he had from a countess. What would he say to this?”

“Well, but you cannot be engaged to dinner every day,” said Endymion; “and you really may choose any day you like.”

“Well, there are not many dinners among them, to be sure,” said St. Barbe. “Small and earlies. How I hate a ‘small and early’! Shown into a room where you meet a select few who have been asked to dinner, and who are chewing the cud like a herd of kine, and you are expected to tumble before them to assist their digestion! Faugh! No, sir; we only dine out now, and we think twice, I can tell you, before we accept even an invitation to dinner. Who’s your friend?”

“Well, my friend is Lord Montfort.”

“You do not mean to say that! And he is an admirer of mine?”

“An enthusiastic admirer.”

“I will dine with Lord Montfort. There is no one who appreciates so completely and so highly the old nobility of England as myself. They are a real aristocracy. None of the pinchbeck pedigrees and ormolu titles of the continent. Lord Montfort is, I think, an earl. A splendid title, earl! an English earl; count goes for nothing. The Earl of Montfort! An enthusiastic admirer of mine! The aristocracy of England, especially the old aristocracy, are highly cultivated. Sympathy from such a class is to be valued. I care for no other—I have always despised the million of vulgar. They have come to me, not I to them, and I have always told them the truth about themselves, that they are a race of snobs, and they rather like being told so. And now for your day?”

“Why not this day if you be free? I will call for you about eight, and take you in my brougham to Montfort House.”