Endymion - Benjamin Disraeli
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39
"Yes," she replied; "he is very clever and very good-looking. It is a
pity he is going into the Church. I do not like clergymen."
On the third day of the visit, Mrs. Ferrars was announced to be unwell,
and in the evening very unwell; and Mr. Ferrars sent to the nearest
medical man, and he was distant, to attend her. The medical man did
not arrive until past midnight, and, after visiting his patient, looked
grave. She had fever, but of what character it was difficult to decide.
The medical man had brought some remedies with him, and he stayed
the night at the hall. It was a night of anxiety and alarm, and the
household did not retire until nearly the break of dawn.
The next day it seemed that the whole of the Penruddock family were in
the house. Mrs. Penruddock insisted on nursing Mrs. Ferrars, and her
husband looked as if he thought he might be wanted. It was unreasonable
that Nigel should be left alone. His presence, always pleasing, was a
relief to an anxious family, and who were beginning to get alarmed. The
fever did not subside. On the contrary, it increased, and there were
other dangerous symptoms. There was a physician of fame at Oxford, whom
Nigel wished they would call in. Matters were too pressing to wait for
the posts, and too complicated to trust to an ordinary messenger. Nigel,
who was always well mounted, was in his saddle in an instant. He seemed
to be all resource, consolation, and energy: "If I am fortunate, he will
be here in four hours; at all events, I will not return alone."
Four terrible hours were these: Mr. Ferrars, restless and sad, and
listening with a vacant air or an absent look to the kind and unceasing
talk of the rector; Myra, silent in her mother's chamber; and Endymion,
wandering about alone with his eyes full of tears. This was the Merrie
Christmas he had talked of, and this his long-looked-for holiday. He
could think of nothing but his mother's kindness; and the days gone
by, when she was so bright and happy, came back to him with painful
vividness. It seemed to him that he belonged to a doomed and unhappy
family. Youth and its unconscious mood had hitherto driven this thought
from his mind; but it occurred to him now, and would not be driven away.
Nigel was fortunate. Before sunset he returned to Hurstley in a
postchaise with the Oxford physician, whom he had furnished with an able
and accurate diagnosis of the case. All that art could devise, and all
that devotion could suggest, were lavished on the sufferer, but in
vain; and four days afterwards, the last day of Endymion's long-awaited
holiday, Mr. Ferrars closed for ever the eyes of that brilliant being,
who, with some weaknesses, but many noble qualities, had shared with no
unequal spirit the splendour and the adversity of his existence.
CHAPTER XXVI
Nigel took a high degree and obtained first-class honours. He was
ordained by the bishop of the diocese as soon after as possible. His
companions, who looked up to him with every expectation of his eminence
and influence, were disappointed, however, in the course of life on
which he decided. It was different from that which he had led them to
suppose it would be. They had counted on his becoming a resident light
of the University, filling its highest offices, and ultimately reaching
the loftiest stations in the Church. Instead of that he announced that
he had resolved to become a curate to his father, and that he was about
to bury himself in the solitude of Hurstley.
It was in the early summer following the death of Mrs. Ferrars that he
settled there. He was frequently at the hall, and became intimate with
Mr. Ferrars. Notwithstanding the difference of age, there was between
them a sympathy of knowledge and thought. In spite of his decided mind,
Nigel listened to Mr. Ferrars with deference, soliciting his judgment,
and hanging, as it were, on his accents of wise experience and refined
taste. So Nigel became a favourite with Mr. Ferrars; for there are few
things more flattering than the graceful submission of an accomplished
intellect, and, when accompanied by youth, the spell is sometimes
fascinating.
The death of his wife seemed to have been a great blow to Mr. Ferrars.
The expression of his careworn, yet still handsome, countenance became,
if possible, more saddened. It was with difficulty that his daughter
could induce him to take exercise, and he had lost altogether that
seeming interest in their outer world which once at least he affected to
feel. Myra, though ever content to be alone, had given up herself much
to her father since his great sorrow; but she felt that her efforts to
distract him from his broodings were not eminently successful, and
she hailed with a feeling of relief the establishment of Nigel in the
parish, and the consequent intimacy that arose between him and her
father.
Nigel and Myra were necessarily under these circumstances thrown much
together. As time advanced he passed his evenings generally at the hall,
for he was a proficient in the only game which interested Mr. Ferrars,
and that was chess. Reading and writing all day, Mr. Ferrars required
some remission of attention, and his relaxation was chess. Before the
games, and between the games, and during delightful tea-time, and for
the happy quarter of an hour which ensued when the chief employment of
the evening ceased, Nigel appealed much to Myra, and endeavoured to draw
out her mind and feelings. He lent her books, and books that favoured,
indirectly at least, his own peculiar views--volumes of divine poesy
that had none of the twang of psalmody, tales of tender and sometimes
wild and brilliant fancy, but ever full of symbolic truth.
Chess-playing requires complete abstraction, and Nigel, though he was
a double first, occasionally lost a game from a lapse in that condensed
attention that secures triumph. The fact is, he was too frequently
thinking of something else besides the moves on the board, and his ear
was engaged while his eye wandered, if Myra chanced to rise from her
seat or make the slightest observation.
The woods were beginning to assume the first fair livery of autumn,
when it is beautiful without decay. The lime and the larch had not yet
dropped a golden leaf, and the burnished beeches flamed in the sun.
Every now and then an occasional oak or elm rose, still as full of deep
green foliage as if it were midsummer; while the dark verdure of
the pines sprang up with effective contrast amid the gleaming and
resplendent chestnuts.
There was a glade at Hurstley, bounded on each side with masses of
yew, their dark green forms now studded with crimson berries. Myra was
walking one morning in this glade when she met Nigel, who was on one of
his daily pilgrimages, and he turned round and walked by her side.
"I am sure I cannot give you news of your brother," he said, "but I have
had a letter this morning from Endymion. He seems to take great interest
in his debating club."
"I am so glad he has become a member of it," said Myra. "That kind Mr.
Trenchard, whom I shall never see to thank him for all his goodness to
Endymion, proposed him. It occupies his evenings twice a week, and then
it gives him subjects to think of and read up in the interval."
"Yes; it is a good thing," said Nigel moodily; "and if he is destined
for public life, which perhaps he may be, no contemptible discipline."
"Dear boy!" said Myra, with a sigh. "I do not see what public life he is
destined to, except slaving at a desk. But sometimes one has dreams."
"Yes; we all have dreams," said Nigel, with an air of abstraction.
"It is impossible to resist the fascination of a fine autumnal morn,"
said Myra; "but give me the long days of summer and its rich leafy joys.
I like to wander about, and dine at nine o'clock."
"Delightful, doubtless, with a sympathising companion."
"Endymion was such a charming companion," said Myra.
"But he has left us," said Nigel; "and you are alone."
"I am alone," said Myra; "but I am used to solitude, and I can think of
him."
"Would I were Endymion," said Nigel, "to be thought of by you!"
Myra looked at him with something of a stare; but he continued--
"All seasons would be to me fascination, were I only by your side. Yes;
I can no longer repress the irresistible confusion of my love. I am
here, and I am here only, because I love you. I quitted Oxford and
all its pride that I might have the occasional delight of being your
companion. I was not presumptuous in my thoughts, and believed that
would content me; but I can no longer resist the consummate spell, and I
offer you my heart and my life."
"I am amazed; I am a little overwhelmed," said Myra. "Pardon me, dear
Mr. Penruddock--dear Nigel--you speak of things of which I have not
thought."
"Think of them! I implore you to think of them, and now!"
"We are a fallen family," said Myra, "perhaps a doomed one. We are not
people to connect yourself with. You have witnessed some of our sorrows,
and soothed them. I shall be ever grateful to you for the past. But I
sometimes feel our cup is not yet full, and I have long resolved to bear
my cross alone. But, irrespective of all other considerations, I can
never leave my father."
"I have spoken to your father," said Nigel, "and he approved my suit."
"While my father lives I shall not quit him," said Myra; "but, let me
not mislead you, I do not live for my father--I live for another."
"For another?" inquired Nigel, with anxiety.
"For one you know. My life is devoted to Endymion. There is a mystic
bond between us, originating, perhaps, in the circumstance of our birth;
for we are twins. I never mean to embarrass him with a sister's love,
and perhaps hereafter may see less of him even than I see now; but I
shall be in the world, whatever be my lot, high or low--the active,
stirring world--working for him, thinking only of him. Yes; moulding
events and circumstances in his favour;" and she spoke with fiery
animation. "I have brought myself, by long meditation, to the conviction
that a human being with a settled purpose must accomplish it, and
that nothing can resist a will that will stake even existence for its
fulfilment."
CHAPTER XXVII
Endymion had returned to his labours, after the death of his mother,
much dispirited. Though young and hopeful, his tender heart could not be
insensible to the tragic end. There is anguish in the recollection that
we have not adequately appreciated the affection of those whom we have
loved and lost. It tortured him to feel that he had often accepted with
carelessness or indifference the homage of a heart that had been to him
ever faithful in its multiplied devotion. Then, though he was not of a
melancholy and brooding nature, in this moment of bereavement he could
not drive from his mind the consciousness that there had long been
hanging over his home a dark lot, as it were, of progressive adversity.
His family seemed always sinking, and he felt conscious how the sanguine
spirit of his mother had sustained them in their trials. His father had
already made him the depositary of his hopeless cares; and if anything
happened to that father, old and worn out before his time, what would
become of Myra?
Nigel, who in their great calamity seemed to have thought of everything,
and to have done everything, had written to the chief of his office, and
also to Mr. Trenchard, explaining the cause of the absence of Endymion
from his duties. There were no explanations, therefore, necessary when
he reappeared; no complaints, but only sympathy and general kindness.
In Warwick Street there was unaffected sorrow; Sylvia wept and went into
the prettiest mourning for her patroness, and Mr. Rodney wore a crape
on his hat. "I never saw her," said Imogene, "but I am told she was
heavenly."
Waldershare was very kind to Endymion, and used to take him to the House
of Commons on interesting evenings, and, if he succeeded in getting
Endymion a place under the gallery, would come and talk to him in the
course of the night, and sometimes introduce him to the mysteries of
Bellamy's, where Endymion had the satisfaction of partaking of a steak
in the presence of statesmen and senators.
"You are in the precincts of public life," said Waldershare; "and if you
ever enter it, which I think you will," he would add thoughtfully,
"it will be interesting for you to remember that you have seen these
characters, many of whom will then have passed away. Like the shades of
a magic lantern," he added, with something between a sigh and a smile.
"One of my constituents send me a homily this morning, the burthen
of which was, I never thought of death. The idiot! I never think of
anything else. It is my weakness. One should never think of death. One
should think of life. That is real piety."
This spring and summer were passed tranquilly by Endymion, but not
unprofitably. He never went to any place of public amusement, and,
cherishing his sorrow, declined those slight openings to social life
which occasionally offered themselves even to him; but he attended his
debating club with regularity, and, though silent, studied every subject
which was brought before it. It interested him to compare their sayings
and doings with those of the House of Commons, and he found advantage in
the critical comparison. Though not in what is styled society, his
mind did not rust from the want of intelligent companions. The clear
perception, accurate knowledge, and unerring judgment of Trenchard, the
fantastic cynicism of St. Barbe, and all the stores of the exuberant
and imaginative Waldershare, were brought to bear on a young and plastic
intelligence, gifted with a quick though not a too profound sensibility
which soon ripened into tact, and which, after due discrimination, was
tenacious of beneficial impressions.
In the autumn, Endymion returned home for a long visit and a happy one.
He found Nigel settled at Hurstley, and almost domesticated at the hall;
his father more cheerful than his sister's earlier letters had led him
to suppose; and she herself so delighted by the constant companionship
of her brother that she seemed to have resumed all her original pride of
life.
Nearly two years' acquaintance, however limited, with the world,
had already exercised a ripening influence over Endymion. Nigel soon
perceived this, though, with a native tact which circumstances had
developed, Endymion avoided obtruding his new conclusions upon his
former instructor. But that deep and eager spirit, unwilling ever to let
a votary escape, and absorbed intellectually by one vast idea, would not
be baffled. Nigel had not renounced the early view of Endymion taking
orders, and spoke of his London life as an incident which, with his
youth, he might in time only look upon as an episode in his existence.
"I trust I shall ever be a devoted son of the Church," said Endymion;
"but I confess I feel no predisposition to take orders, even if I had
the opportunity, which probably I never shall have. If I were to choose
my career it would be public life. I am on the last step of the ladder,
and I do not suppose that I can ever be anything but a drudge. But even
that would interest me. It brings one in contact with those who are
playing the great game. One at least fancies one comprehends something
of the government of mankind. Mr. Waldershare takes me often to the
House of Commons, and I must say, I am passionately fond of it."
After Endymion's return to London that scene occurred between Nigel and
Myra, in the glade at Hurstley, which we have noticed in the preceding
chapter. In the evening of that day Nigel did not pay his accustomed
visit to the hall, and the father and the daughter were alone. Then it
was, notwithstanding evident agitation, and even with some degree of
solemnity, that Mr. Ferrars broke to his daughter that there was a
subject on which he wished seriously to confer with her.
"Is it about Nigel?" she inquired with calmness.
"It is about Nigel."
"I have seen him, and he has spoken to me."
"And what have you replied?"
"What I fear will not be satisfactory to you, sir, but what is
irrevocable."
"Your union would give me life and hope," said Mr. Ferrars; and then,
as she remained silent, he continued after a pause: "For its happiness
there seems every security. He is of good family, and with adequate
means, and, I firmly believe, no inconsiderable future. His abilities
are already recognised; his disposition is noble. As for his personal
qualities, you are a better judge than I am; but, for my part, I never
saw a countenance that more became the beauty and nobility of his
character."
"I think him very good-looking," said Myra, "and there is no doubt he is
clever, and he has shown himself, on more than one occasion, amiable."
"Then what more can you require?" said Mr. Ferrars.
"I require nothing; I do not wish to marry."
"But, my daughter, my dearest daughter," said Mr. Ferrars, "bear with
the anxiety of a parent who is at least devoted to you. Our separation
would be my last and severest sorrow, and I have had many; but there is
no necessity to consider that case, for Nigel is content, is more than
content, to live as your husband under this roof."
"So he told me."
"And that removed one objection that you might naturally feel?"
"I certainly should never leave you, sir," said Myra, "and I told Nigel
so; but that contingency had nothing to do with my decision. I declined
his offer, because I have no wish to marry."
"Women are born to be married," said Mr. Ferrars.
"And yet I believe most marriages are unhappy," said Myra.
"Oh! if your objection to marry Nigel arises from an abstract objection
to marriage itself," said Mr. Ferrars, "it is a subject which we might
talk over calmly, and perhaps remove your prejudices."
"I have no objection against marriage," rejoined Myra. "It is likely
enough that I may marry some day, and probably make an unhappy marriage;
but that is not the question before us. It is whether I should marry
Nigel. That cannot be, my dear father, and he knows it. I have assured
him so in a manner which cannot be mistaken."
"We are a doomed family!" exclaimed the unhappy Mr. Ferrars, clasping
his hands.
"So I have long felt," said Myra. "I can bear our lot; but I want no
strangers to be introduced to share its bitterness, and soothe us with
their sympathy."
"You speak like a girl," said Mr. Ferrars, "and a headstrong girl, which
you always have been. You know not what you are talking about. It is a
matter of life or death. Your decorous marriage would have saved us from
absolute ruin."
"Alone, I can meet absolute ruin," said Myra. "I have long contemplated
such a contingency, and am prepared for it. My marriage with Nigel could
hardly save you, sir, from such a visitation, if it be impending. But
I trust in that respect, if in no other, you have used a little of
the language of exaggeration. I have never received, and I have never
presumed to seek, any knowledge of your affairs; but I have assumed,
that for your life, somehow or other, you would be permitted to exist
without disgrace. If I survive you, I have neither care nor fear."
CHAPTER XXVIII
In the following spring a vexatious incident occurred in Warwick Street.
The highly-considered county member, who was the yearly tenant of Mr.
Rodney's first floor, and had been always a valuable patron, suddenly
died. An adjourned debate, a tough beefsteak, a select committee still
harder, and an influenza caught at three o'clock in the morning in an
imprudent but irresistible walk home with a confidential Lord of the
Treasury, had combined very sensibly to affect the income of Mr. Rodney.
At first he was sanguine that such a desirable dwelling would soon find
a suitable inhabitant, especially as Mr. Waldershare assured him that he
would mention the matter to all his friends. But time rolled on, and the
rooms were still vacant; and the fastidious Rodneys, who at first would
only listen to a yearly tenant, began to reduce their expectations.
Matters had arrived at such a pass in May, that, for the first time in
their experience, they actually condescended to hoist an announcement of
furnished apartments.
In this state of affairs a cab rattled up to the house one morning, out
of which a young gentleman jumped briskly, and, knocking at the
door, asked, of the servant who opened it, whether he might see the
apartments. He was a young man, apparently not more than one or two and
twenty, of a graceful figure, somewhat above the middle height, fair,
with a countenance not absolutely regular, but calm and high-bred. His
dress was in the best taste, but to a practised eye had something of a
foreign cut, and he wore a slight moustache.
"The rooms will suit me," he said, "and I have no doubt the price you
ask for them is a just one;" and he bowed with high-bred courtesy to
Sylvia, who was now in attendance on him, and who stood with her pretty
hands in the pretty pockets of her pretty apron.
"I am glad to hear that," said Sylvia. "We have never let them before,
except to a yearly tenant."
"And if we suit each other," said the gentleman, "I should have no great
objection to becoming such."
"In these matters," said Sylvia, after a little hesitation, "we give and
receive references. Mr. Rodney is well known in this neighbourhood and
in Westminster generally; but I dare say," she adroitly added, "he has
many acquaintances known to you, sir."
"Not very likely," replied the young gentleman; "for I am a foreigner,
and only arrived in England this morning;" though he spoke English
without the slightest accent.
Sylvia looked a little perplexed; but he continued: "It is quite just
that you should be assured to whom you are letting your lodgings. The
only reference I can give you is to my banker, but he is almost too
great a man for such matters. Perhaps," he added, pulling out a case
from his breast pocket, and taking out of it a note, which he handed to
Sylvia, "this may assure you that your rent will be paid."
Sylvia took a rapid glance at the hundred-pound-note, and twisting it
into her little pocket with apparent _sangfroid_, though she held it
with a tight grasp, murmured that it was quite unnecessary, and then
offered to give her new lodger an acknowledgment of it.
"That is really unnecessary," he replied. "Your appearance commands from
me that entire confidence which on your part you very properly refuse to
a stranger and a foreigner like myself."
"What a charming young man!" thought Sylvia, pressing with emotion her
hundred-pound-note.
"Now," continued the young gentleman, "I will return to the station to
release my servant, who is a prisoner there with my luggage. Be pleased
to make him at home. I shall myself not return probably till the
evening; and in the meantime," he added, giving Sylvia his card, "you
will admit anything that arrives here addressed to Colonel Albert."
The settlement of Colonel Albert in Warwick Street was an event of
no slight importance. It superseded for a time all other topics of
conversation, and was discussed at length in the evenings, especially
with Mr. Vigo. Who was he? And in what service was he colonel? Mr.
Rodney, like a man of the world, assumed that all necessary information
would in time be obtained from the colonel's servant; but even men of
the world sometimes miscalculate. The servant, who was a Belgian, had
only been engaged by the colonel at Brussels a few days before his
departure for England, and absolutely knew nothing of his master, except
that he was a gentleman with plenty of money and sufficient luggage.
Sylvia, who was the only person who had seen the colonel, was strongly
in his favour. Mr. Rodney looked doubtful, and avoided any definite
opinion until he had had the advantage of an interview with his new
lodger. But this was not easy to obtain. Colonel Albert had no wish
to see the master of the house, and, if he ever had that desire, his
servant would accordingly communicate it in the proper quarter. At
present he was satisfied with all the arrangements, and wished neither
to make nor to receive remarks. The habits of the new lodger were
somewhat of a recluse. He was generally engaged in his rooms the whole
day, and seldom left them till the evening, and nobody, as yet, had
called upon him. Under these circumstances, Imogene was instructed
to open the matter to Mr. Waldershare when she presided over his
breakfast-table; and that gentleman said he would make inquiries about
the colonel at the Travellers' Club, where Waldershare passed a great
deal of his time. "If he be anybody," said Mr. Waldershare, "he is sure
in time to be known there, for he will be introduced as a visitor." At
present, however, it turned out that the "Travellers'" knew nothing of
Colonel Albert; and time went on, and Colonel Albert was not introduced
as a visitor there.
After a little while there was a change in the habits of the colonel.
One morning, about noon, a groom, extremely well appointed, and having
under his charge a couple of steeds of breed and beauty, called at
Warwick Street, and the colonel rode out, and was long absent, and after
that, every day, and generally at the same hour, mounted his horse.
Mr. Rodney was never wearied of catching a glimpse of his distinguished
lodger over the blinds of the ground-floor room, and of admiring the
colonel's commanding presence in his saddle, distinguished as his seat
was alike by its grace and vigour.