Endymion - Benjamin Disraeli
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After a short period, Lady Roehampton saw Adriana, and not very long
after, Lady Montfort. They both of them, from that time, were her
frequent, if not constant, companions, but she saw no one else. Once
only, since the terrible event, was she seen by the world, and that was
when a tall figure, shrouded in the darkest attire, attended as chief
mourner at the burial of her lord in Westminster Abbey. She remained
permanently in London, not only because she had no country house,
but because she wished to be with her brother. As time advanced, she
frequently saw Mr. Sidney Wilton, who, being chief executor of the
will, and charged with all her affairs, had necessarily much on which to
consult her. One of the greatest difficulties was to provide her with a
suitable residence, for of course, she was not to remain in the family
mansion in St. James' Square. That difficulty was ultimately overcome
in a manner highly interesting to her feelings. Her father's mansion in
Hill Street, where she had passed her prosperous and gorgeous childhood,
was in the market, and she was most desirous to occupy it. "It will seem
like a great step towards the restoration," she said to Endymion. "My
plans are, that you should give up the Albany, and that we should live
together. I should like to live together in Hill Street; I should like
to see our nursery once more. The past then will be a dream, or at least
all the past that is disagreeable. My fortune is yours; as we are twins,
it is likely that I may live as long as you do. But I wish you to be
the master of the house, and in time receive your friends in a manner
becoming your position. I do not think that I shall ever much care to go
out again, but I may help you at home, and then you can invite women; a
mere bachelor's house is always dull."
There was one difficulty still in this arrangement. The mansion in Hill
Street was not to be let, it was for sale, and the price naturally for
such a mansion in such a situation, was considerable; quite beyond the
means of Lady Roehampton who had a very ample income, but no capital.
This difficulty, however, vanished in a moment. Mr. Sidney Wilton
purchased the house; he wanted an investment, and this was an excellent
one; so Lady Roehampton became his tenant.
The change was great in the life of Myra, and she felt it. She loved her
lord, and had cut off her beautiful hair, which reached almost to
her feet, and had tied it round his neck in his coffin. But Myra,
notwithstanding she was a woman, and a woman of transcendent beauty, had
never had a romance of the heart. Until she married, her pride and love
for her brother, which was part of her pride, had absorbed her being.
When she married, and particularly as time advanced, she felt all the
misery of her existence had been removed, and nothing could exceed the
tenderness and affectionate gratitude, and truly unceasing devotion,
which she extended to the gifted being to who she owed this deliverance.
But it was not in the nature of things that she could experience those
feelings which still echo in the heights of Meilleraie, and compared
with which all the glittering accidents of fortune sink into
insignificance.
The year rolled on, an agitated year of general revolution. Endymion
himself was rarely in society, for all the time which the House of
Commons spared to him he wished chiefly to dedicate to his sister. His
brougham was always ready to take him up to Hill Street for one of those
somewhat hurried, but amusing little dinners, which break the monotony
of parliamentary life. And sometimes he brought a companion, generally
Mr. Wilton, and sometimes they met Lady Montfort or Adriana, now
ennobled as the daughter of Lord Hainault. There was much to talk about,
even if they did not talk about themselves and their friends, for
every day brought great events, fresh insurrections, new constitutions,
changes of dynasties, assassinations of ministers, states of siege,
evanescent empires, and premature republics.
On one occasion, having previously prepared his sister, who seemed not
uninterested by the suggestion, Endymion brought Thornberry to dine in
Hill Street. There was no one else present except Adriana. Job was a
great admirer of Lady Roehampton, but was a little awestruck by her. He
remembered her in her childhood, a beautiful being who never smiled. She
received him very graciously, and after dinner, inviting him to sit by
her on the sofa, referred with delicacy to old times.
"Your ladyship," said Thornberry, "would not know that I live myself now
at Hurstley."
"Indeed!" said Myra, unaffectedly surprised.
"Well, it happened in this way; my father now is in years, and can no
longer visit us as he occasionally did in Lancashire; so wishing to see
us all, at least once more, we agreed to pay him a visit. I do not
know how it exactly came about, but my wife took a violent fancy to the
place. They all received us very kindly. The good rector and his dear
kind wife made it very pleasant, and the archbishop was there--whom we
used to call Mr. Nigel--only think! That is a wonderful affair. He is
not at all high and mighty, but talked with us, and walked with us, just
the same as in old days. He took a great fancy to my boy, John Hampden,
and, after all, my boy is to go to Oxford, and not to Owens College, as
I had first intended."
"That is a great change."
"Well, I wanted him to go to Owens College, I confess, but I did not
care so much about Mill Hill. That was his mother's fancy; she was
very strong about that. It is a Nonconformist school, but I am not a
Nonconformist. I do not much admire dogmas, but I am a Churchman as my
fathers were. However, John Hampden is not to go to Mill Hill. He has
gone to a sort of college near Oxford, which the archbishop recommended
to us; the principal, and all the tutors are clergyman--of course of our
Church. My wife was quite delighted with it all."
"Well, that is a good thing."
"And so," continued Thornberry, "she got it into her head she should
like to live at Hurstley, and I took the place. I am afraid I have been
foolish enough to lay out a great deal of money there--for a place not
my own. Your ladyship would not know the old hall. I have, what
they call, restored it, and upon my word, except the new hall of the
Clothworkers' Company, where I dined the other day, I do not know
anything of the kind that is prettier."
"The dear old hall!" murmured Lady Roehampton.
In time, though no one mentioned it, everybody thought that if an
alliance ultimately took place between Lady Roehampton and Mr. Sidney
Wilton, it would be the most natural thing in the world, and everybody
would approve it. True, he was her father's friend, and much her senior,
but then he was still good-looking, very clever, very much considered,
and lord of a large estate, and at any rate he was a younger man than
her late husband.
When these thoughts became more rife in society, and began to take
the form of speech, the year was getting old, and this reminds us of
a little incident which took place many months previously, at the
beginning of the year, and which we ought to record.
Shortly after the death of Lord Roehampton, Prince Florestan called one
morning in St. James' Square. He said he would not ask Lady Roehampton
to see him, but he was obliged suddenly to leave England, and he did not
like to depart without personally inquiring after her. He left a letter
and a little packet. And the letter ran thus:
"I am obliged, madam, to leave England suddenly, and it is probable that
we shall never meet again. I should be happy if I had your prayers! This
little jewel enclosed belonged to my mother, the Queen Agrippina. She
told me that I was never to part with it, except to somebody I loved
as much as herself. There is only one person in the world to whom I owe
affection. It is to her who from the first was always kind to me, and
who, through dreary years of danger and anxiety, has been the charm and
consolation of the life of
"Florestan."
CHAPTER LXXXVI
On the evening of the day on which Prince Florestan personally left
the letter with Lady Roehampton, he quitted London with the Duke of St.
Angelo and his aides-de-camp, and, embarking in his steam yacht, which
was lying at Southampton, quitted England. They pursued a prosperous
course for about a week, when they passed through the Straits of
Gibraltar, and, not long afterwards, cast anchor in a small and solitary
bay. There the prince and his companions, and half-a-dozen servants,
well armed and in military attire, left the yacht, and proceeded on
foot into the country for a short distance, when they arrived at a large
farmhouse. Here, it was evident, they were expected. Men came forward
with many horses, and mounted, and accompanied the party which had
arrived. They advanced about ten miles, and halted as they were
approaching a small but fortified town.
The prince sent the Duke of St. Angelo forward to announce his arrival
to the governor, and to require him to surrender. The governor, however,
refused, and ordered the garrison to fire on the invaders. This they
declined to do; the governor, with many ejaculations, and stamping with
rage, broke his sword, and the prince entered the town. He was warmly
received, and the troops, amounting to about twelve hundred men, placed
themselves at his disposal. The prince remained at this town only
a couple of hours, and at the head of his forces advanced into the
country. At a range of hills he halted, sent out reconnoitring parties,
and pitched his camp. In the morning, the Marquis of Vallombrosa, with a
large party of gentlemen well mounted, arrived, and were warmly greeted.
The prince learnt from them that the news of his invasion had reached
the governor of the province, who was at one of the most considerable
cities of the kingdom, with a population exceeding two hundred thousand,
and with a military division for its garrison. "They will not wait for
our arrival," said Vallombrosa, "but, trusting to their numbers, will
come out and attack us."
The news of the scouts being that the mountain passes were quite
unoccupied by the enemy, the prince determined instantly to continue his
advance, and take up a strong position on the other side of the range,
and await his fate. The passage was well effected, and on the fourth
day of the invasion the advanced guard of the enemy were in sight. The
prince commanded that no one should attend him, but alone and tying a
white handkerchief round his sword, he galloped up to the hostile
lines, and said in a clear, loud voice, "My men, this is the sword of my
father!"
"Florestan for ever!" was the only and universal reply. The cheers of
the advanced guard reached and were re-echoed by the main body. The
commander-in-chief, bareheaded, came up to give in his allegiance and
receive his majesty's orders. They were for immediate progress, and at
the head of the army which had been sent out to destroy him, Florestan
in due course entered the enthusiastic city which recognised him as its
sovereign. The city was illuminated, and he went to the opera in the
evening. The singing was not confined to the theatre. During the whole
night the city itself was one song of joy and triumph, and that night no
one slept.
After this there was no trouble and no delay. It was a triumphal march.
Every town opened its gates, and devoted municipalities proffered
golden keys. Every village sent forth its troop of beautiful maidens,
scattering roses, and singing the national anthem which had been
composed by Queen Agrippina. On the tenth day of the invasion King
Florestan, utterly unopposed, entered the magnificent capital of his
realm, and slept in the purple bed which had witnessed his princely
birth.
Among all the strange revolutions of this year, this adventure of
Florestan was not the least interesting to the English people. Although
society had not smiled on him, he had always been rather a favourite
with the bulk of the population. His fine countenance, his capital
horsemanship, his graceful bow that always won a heart, his youth, and
love of sport, his English education, and the belief that he was sincere
in his regard for the country where he had been so long a guest, were
elements of popularity that, particularly now he was successful, were
unmistakable. And certainly Lady Roehampton, in her solitude, did
not disregard his career or conduct. They were naturally often in her
thoughts, for there was scarcely a day in which his name did not figure
in the newspapers, and always in connection with matters of general
interest and concern. The government he established was liberal, but it
was discreet, and, though conciliatory, firm. "If he declares for the
English alliance," said Waldershare, "he is safe;" and he did declare
for the English alliance, and the English people were very pleased by
his declaration, which in their apprehension meant national progress,
the amelioration of society, and increased exports.
The main point, however, which interested his subjects was his marriage.
That was both a difficult and a delicate matter to decide. The great
continental dynasties looked with some jealousy and suspicion on him,
and the small reigning houses, who were all allied with the great
continental dynasties, thought it prudent to copy their example. All
these reigning families, whether large or small, were themselves in
a perplexed and alarmed position at this period, very disturbed about
their present, and very doubtful about their future. At last it was
understood that a Princess of Saxe-Babel, though allied with royal and
imperial houses, might share the diadem of a successful adventurer, and
then in time, and when it had been sufficiently reiterated, paragraphs
appeared unequivocally contradicting the statement, followed with
agreeable assurances that it was unlikely that a Princess of Saxe-Babel,
allied with royal and imperial houses, should unite herself to a parvenu
monarch, however powerful. Then in turn these articles were stigmatised
as libels, and entirely unauthorised, and no less a personage than a
princess of the house of Saxe-Genesis was talked of as the future queen;
but on referring to the "Almanach de Gotha," it was discovered that
family had been extinct since the first French Revolution. So it seemed
at last that nothing was certain, except that his subjects were very
anxious that King Florestan should present them with a queen.
CHAPTER LXXXVII
As time flew on, the friends of Lady Roehampton thought and spoke, with
anxiety about her re-entrance into society. Mr. Sidney Wilton had lent
Gaydene to her for the autumn, when he always visited Scotland, and the
winter had passed away uninterruptedly, at a charming and almost unknown
watering-place, where she seemed the only visitant, and where she
wandered about in silence on the sands. The time was fast approaching
when the inevitable year of seclusion would expire, and Lady Roehampton
gave no indication of any change in her life and habits. At length,
after many appeals, and expostulations, and entreaties, and little
scenes, the second year of the widowhood having advanced some months,
it was decided that Lady Roehampton should re-enter society, and the
occasion on which this was to take place was no mean one.
Lady Montfort was to give a ball early in June, and Royalty itself
was to be her guests. The entertainments at Montfort House were always
magnificent, but this was to exceed accustomed splendour. All the world
was to be there, and all the world, who were not invited, were in as
much despair as if they had lost their fortune or their character.
Lady Roehampton had a passion for light, provided the light was not
supplied by gas or oil. Her saloons, even when alone, were always
brilliantly illuminated. She held that the moral effect of such a
circumstance on her temperament was beneficial, and not slight. It is
a rare, but by no means a singular, belief. When she descended into
her drawing-room on the critical night, its resplendence was some
preparation for the scene which awaited her. She stood for a moment
before the tall mirror which reflected her whole person. What were her
thoughts? What was the impression that the fair vision conveyed?
Her countenance was grave, but it was not sad. Myra had now completed,
or was on the point of completing, her thirtieth year. She was a woman
of transcendent beauty; perhaps she might justly be described as the
most beautiful woman then alive. Time had even improved her commanding
mien, the graceful sweep of her figure and the voluptuous undulation
of her shoulders; but time also had spared those charms which are
more incidental to early youth, the splendour of her complexion, the
whiteness of her teeth, and the lustre of her violet eyes. She had cut
off in her grief the profusion of her dark chestnut locks, that once
reached to her feet, and she wore her hair as, what was then and perhaps
is now called, a crop, but it was luxuriant in natural quantity and rich
in colour, and most effectively set off her arched brow, and the oval
of her fresh and beauteous cheek. The crop was crowned to-night by a
coronet of brilliants.
"Your carriage is ready, my lady," said a servant; "but there is a
gentleman below who has brought a letter for your ladyship, and which,
he says, he must personally deliver to you, madam. I told him your
ladyship was going out and could not see him, but he put his card in
this envelope, and requested that I would hand it to you, madam. He says
he will only deliver the letter to your ladyship, and not detain you a
moment."
Lady Roehampton opened the envelope, and read the card, "The Duke of St.
Angelo."
"The Duke of St. Angelo!" she murmured to herself, and looked for a
moment abstracted. Then turning to the servant, she said, "He must be
shown up."
"Madam," said the duke as he entered, and bowed with much ceremony,
"I am ashamed of appearing to be an intruder, but my commands were to
deliver this letter to your ladyship immediately on my arrival, whatever
the hour. I have only this instant arrived. We had a bad passage. I know
your ladyship's carriage is at the door. I will redeem my pledge and not
trespass on your time for one instant. If your ladyship requires me, I
am ever at your command."
"At Carlton Gardens?"
"No; at our embassy."
"His Majesty, I hope, is well?"
"In every sense, my lady," and bowing to the ground the duke withdrew.
She broke the seal of the letter while still standing, and held it to a
sconce that was on the mantel-piece, and then she read:
"You were the only person I called upon when I suddenly left England.
I had no hope of seeing you, but it was the homage of gratitude and
adoration. Great events have happened since we last met. I have realised
my dreams, dreams which I sometimes fancied you, and you alone, did not
depreciate or discredit, and, in the sweetness of your charity, would
not have been sorry were they accomplished.
"I have established what I believe to be a strong and just government in
a great kingdom. I have not been uninfluenced by the lessons of wisdom I
gained in your illustrious land. I have done some things which it was a
solace for me to believe you would not altogether disapprove.
"My subjects are anxious that the dynasty I have re-established should
not be evanescent. Is it too bold to hope that I may find a companion
in you to charm and to counsel me? I can offer you nothing equal to your
transcendent merit, but I can offer you the heart and the throne of
"Florestan."
Still holding the letter in one hand, she looked around as if some one
might be present. Her cheek was scarlet, and there was for a moment an
expression of wildness in her glance. Then she paced the saloon with an
agitated step, and then she read the letter again and again, and still
she paced the saloon. The whole history of her life revolved before her;
every scene, every character, every thought, and sentiment, and passion.
The brightness of her nursery days, and Hurstley with all its miseries,
and Hainault with its gardens, and the critical hour, which had opened
to her a future of such unexpected lustre and happiness.
The clock had struck more than once during this long and terrible
soliloquy, wherein she had to search and penetrate her inmost heart, and
now it struck two. She started, and hurriedly rang the bell.
"I shall not want the carriage to-night," she said, and when again
alone, she sat down and, burying her face in her alabaster arms, for a
long time remained motionless.
CHAPTER LXXXVIII
Had he been a youth about to make a _debut_ in the great world, Sidney
Wilton could not have been more agitated than he felt at the prospect of
the fete at Montfort House. Lady Roehampton, after nearly two years of
retirement, was about to re-enter society. During this interval she had
not been estranged from him. On the contrary, he had been her frequent
and customary companion. Except Adriana, and Lady Montfort, and
her brother, it might almost be said, her only one. Why then was he
agitated? He had been living in a dream for two years, cherishing wild
thoughts of exquisite happiness. He would have been content, had the
dream never been disturbed; but this return to hard and practical life
of her whose unconscious witchery had thrown a spell over his existence,
roused him to the reality of his position, and it was one of terrible
emotion.
During the life of her husband, Sidney Wilton had been the silent adorer
of Myra. With every accomplishment and every advantage that are supposed
to make life delightful--a fine countenance, a noble mien, a manner
natural and attractive, an ancient lineage, and a vast estate--he was
the favourite of society, who did more than justice to his talents,
which, though not brilliant, were considerable, and who could not too
much appreciate the high tone of his mind; his generosity and courage,
and true patrician spirit which inspired all his conduct, and guided him
ever to do that which was liberal, and gracious, and just.
There was only one fault which society found in Sidney Wilton; he would
not marry. This was provoking, because he was the man of all others who
ought to marry, and make a heroine happy. Society did not give it
up till he was forty, about the time he became acquainted with Lady
Roehampton; and that incident threw no light on his purposes or
motives, for he was as discreet as he was devoted, and Myra herself was
unconscious of his being anything to her save the dearest friend of her
father, and the most cherished companion of her husband.
When one feels deeply, one is apt to act suddenly, perhaps rashly. There
are moments in life when suspense can be borne no longer. And Sidney
Wilton, who had been a silent votary for more than ten years, now felt
that the slightest delay in his fate would be intolerable. It was the
ball at Montfort House that should be the scene of this decision of
destiny.
She was about to re-enter society, radiant as the morn, amid flowers and
music, and all the accidents of social splendour. His sympathetic heart
had been some solace to her in her sorrow and her solitude. Now, in
the joyous blaze of life, he was resolved to ask her whether it were
impossible that they should never again separate, and in the crowd, as
well as when alone, feel their mutual devotion.
Mr. Wilton was among those who went early to Montfort House, which was
not his wont; but he was restless and disquieted. She could hardly have
arrived; but there would be some there who would speak of her. That was
a great thing. Sidney Wilton had arrived at that state when conversation
can only interest on one subject. When a man is really in love, he is
disposed to believe that, like himself, everybody is thinking of the
person who engrosses his brain and heart.
The magnificent saloons, which in half an hour would be almost
impassable, were only sprinkled with guests, who, however, were
constantly arriving. Mr. Wilton looked about him in vain for the person
who, he was quite sure, could not then be present. He lingered by the
side of Lady Montfort, who bowed to those who came, but who could spare
few consecutive words, even to Mr. Wilton, for her watchful eye expected
every moment to be summoned to descend her marble staircase and receive
her royal guests.
The royal guests arrived; there was a grand stir, and many gracious
bows, and some cordial, but dignified, shake-hands. The rooms were
crowded; yet space in the ball-room was well preserved, so that the
royal vision might range with facility from its golden chairs to the
beauteous beings, and still more beautiful costumes, displaying with
fervent loyalty their fascinating charms.
There was a new band to-night, that had come from some distant but
celebrated capital; musicians known by fame to everybody, but whom
nobody had ever heard. They played wonderfully on instruments of new
invention, and divinely upon old ones. It was impossible that anything
could be more gay and inspiring than their silver bugles, and their
carillons of tinkling bells.