Books: Lothair

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"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, be
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 d but.
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.

The performance only lasted half an hour, and then the ladies began to
think of their bowers. Lady St. Aldegonde, before she quit the room,
was in earnest conversation with her lord.

"I have arranged all that you wished, Granville," she said, speaking
rapidly and holding a candlestick. "We are to see the castle to-morrow,
and the gardens and the parks and every thing else, but you are not to
be bored at all, and not to lose your shooting. The moors are sixteen
miles off, but our host says, with an omnibus and a good team -- and he
will give you a first-rate one -- you can do it in an hour and ten
minutes, certainly an hour and a quarter; and you are to make your own
party in the smoking-room to-night, and take a capital luncheon with
you."

"All right: I shall ask the Yankee; and I should like to take that
Hungarian girl too, if she would only fiddle to us at luncheon."

CHAPTER 42

Next day the cardinal, with his secretary and his chaplain, arrived.
Monsignore Catesby received his eminence at the station and knelt and
kissed his hand as he stepped from the carriage. The monsignore had
wonderfully manoeuvred that the whole of the household should have been
marshalled to receive this prince of the Church, and perhaps have
performed the same ceremony: no religious recognition, he assured them,
in the least degree involved, only an act of not unusual respect to a
foreign prince; but considering that the bishop of the diocese and his
suite were that day expected, to say nothing of the Presbyterian
guardian, probably arriving by the same train, Lothair would not be
persuaded to sanction any ceremony whatever. Lady St. Jerome and Miss
Arundel, however, did their best to compensate for this omission with
reverences which a posture-master might have envied, and certainly would
not have surpassed. They seemed to sink into the earth, and then slowly
and supernaturally to emerge. The bishop had been at college with the
cardinal and intimate with him, though they now met for the first time
since his secession -- a not uninteresting rencounter. The bishop was
high-church, and would not himself have made a bad cardinal, being
polished and plausible, well-lettered, yet quite a man of the world. He
was fond of society, and justified his taste in this respect by the
flattering belief that by his presence he was extending the power of the
Church; certainly favoring an ambition which could not be described as
being moderate. The bishop had no abstract prejudice against gentlemen
who wore red hats, and under ordinary circumstances would have welcomed
his brother churchman with unaffected cordiality, not to say sympathy;
but in the present instance, however gracious his mien and honeyed his
expressions, he only looked upon the cardinal as a dangerous rival,
intent upon clutching from his fold the most precious of his flock, and
he had long looked to this occasion as the one which might decide the
spiritual welfare and career of Lothair. The odds were not to be
despised. There were two monsignores in the room besides the cardinal,
but the bishop was a man of contrivance and resolution, not easily
disheartened or defeated. Nor was he without allies. He did not count
much on the university don, who was to arrive on the morrow in the shape
of the head of an Oxford house, though he was a don of magnitude. This
eminent personage had already let Lothair slip from his influence. But
the bishop had a subtle counsellor in his chaplain, who wore as good a
cassock as any monsignore, and he brought with him also a trusty
archdeacon in a purple coat, whose countenance was quite entitled to a
place in the Acta Sanctorum.

It was amusing to observe the elaborate courtesy and more than Christian
kindness which the rival prelates and their official followers extended
to each other. But under all this unction on both sides were unceasing
observation, and a vigilance that never flagged; and on both sides there
was an uneasy but irresistible conviction that they were on the eve of
one of the decisive battles of the social world. Lord Culloden also at
length appeared with his daughters, Ladies Flora and Grizell. They were
quite as tall as Mr. Putney Giles had reported, but very pretty, with
radiant complexions, sunny blue eyes, and flaxen looks. Their dimples
and white shoulders and small feet and hands were much admired. Mr.
Giles also returned with Apollonia, and, at length, also appeared the
rival of Lord Carisbrooke, his grace of Brecon.

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