Endymion - Benjamin Disraeli
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It was difficult to bring her into a mood of mind capable of
comprehending a tithe of of what she had to learn; and yet the darkest
part of the tale she was never to know. Mrs. Ferrars, though singularly
intuitive, shrank from controversy, and settled everything by
contradiction and assertion. She maintained for a long time that what
her husband communicated to her could not be; that it was absurd and
even impossible. After a while, she talked of selling her diamonds
and reducing her equipage, sacrificing which she assumed would put
everything right. And when she found her husband still grave and still
intimating that the sacrifices must be beyond all this, and that they
must prepare for the life and habits of another social sphere, she
became violent, and wept and declared her wrongs; that she had been
deceived and outraged and infamously treated.
Remembering how long and with what apparent serenity in her presence he
had endured his secret woes, and how one of the principal objects of his
life had ever been to guard her even from a shade of solicitude, even
the restrained Ferrars was affected; his countenance changed and his
eyes became suffused. When she observed this, she suddenly threw her
arms round his neck and with many embraces, amid sighs and tears,
exclaimed, "O William! if we love each other, what does anything
signify?"
And what could anything signify under such circumstances and on such
conditions? As Ferrars pressed his beautiful wife to his heart, he
remembered only his early love, which seemed entirely to revive.
Unconsciously to himself, too, he was greatly relieved by this burst of
tenderness on her part, for the prospect of this interview had been most
distressful to him. "My darling," he said, "ours is not a case of common
imprudence or misfortune. We are the victims of a revolution, and we
must bear our lot as becomes us under such circumstances. Individual
misfortunes are merged in the greater catastrophe of the country."
"That is the true view," said his wife; "and, after all, the poor King
of France is much worse off than we are. However, I cannot now buy the
Duchesse of Sevres' lace, which I had promised her to do. It is rather
awkward. However, the best way always is to speak the truth. I must tell
the duchess I am powerless, and that we are the victims of a revolution,
like herself."
Then they began to talk quite cosily together over their prospects, he
sitting on the sofa by her side and holding her hand. Mrs. Ferrars would
not hear of retiring to the continent. "No," she said, with all her
sanguine vein returning, "you always used to say I brought you luck, and
I will bring you luck yet. There must be a reaction. The wheel will turn
and bring round our friends again. Do not let us then be out of the way.
Your claims are immense. They must do something for you. They ought to
give you India, and if we only set our mind upon it, we shall get it.
Depend upon it, things are not so bad as they seem. What appear to be
calamities are often the sources of fortune. I would much sooner that
you should be Governor-General than a cabinet minister. That odious
House of Commons is very wearisome. I am not sure any constitution
can bear it very long. I am not sure whether I would not prefer being
Governor-General of India even to being Prime-Minister."
CHAPTER X
In consequence of the registration under the Reform Act it was not
possible for parliament to be dissolved, and an appeal made to the new
constituency, until the end of the year. This was advantageous to Mr.
Ferrars, and afforded him six months of personal security to arrange his
affairs. Both husband and wife were proud, and were anxious to quit the
world with dignity. All were so busy about themselves at that period,
and the vicissitudes of life between continental revolutions and English
reform so various and extensive, that it was not difficult to avoid the
scrutiny of society. Mrs. Ferrars broke to Zenobia that, as her husband
was no longer to be in parliament, they had resolved to retire for some
time to a country life, though, as Mr. Ferrars had at length succeeded
in impressing on his wife that their future income was to be counted by
hundreds, rather than thousands, it was difficult for her to realise a
rural establishment that should combine dignity and economy. Without,
however, absolutely alleging the cause, she contrived to baffle the
various propositions of this kind which the energetic Zenobia made to
her, and while she listened with apparent interest to accounts of deer
parks, and extensive shooting, and delightful neighbourhoods, would just
exclaim, "Charming! but rather more, I fancy, than we require, for we
mean to be very quiet till my girl is presented."
That young lady was now thirteen, and though her parents were careful
to say nothing in her presence which would materially reveal their real
situation, for which they intended very gradually to prepare her, the
scrutinising powers with which nature had prodigally invested their
daughter were not easily baffled. She asked no questions, but nothing
seemed to escape the penetrative glance of that large dark blue eye,
calm amid all the mystery, and tolerating rather than sharing the
frequent embrace of her parents. After a while her brother came home
from Eton, to which he was never to return. A few days before this
event she became unusually restless, and even agitated. When he arrived,
neither Mr. nor Mrs. Ferrars was at home. He knocked gaily at the
door, a schoolboy's knock, and was hardly in the hall when his name
was called, and he caught the face of his sister, leaning over the
balustrade of the landing-place. He ran upstairs with wondrous speed,
and was in an instant locked in her arms. She kissed him and kissed him
again, and when he tried to speak, she stopped his mouth with kisses.
And then she said, "Something has happened. What it is I cannot make
out, but we are to have no more ponies."
CHAPTER XI
At the foot of the Berkshire downs, and itself on a gentle elevation,
there is an old hall with gable ends and lattice windows, standing in
grounds which once were stately, and where there are yet glade-like
terraces of yew trees, which give an air of dignity to a neglected
scene. In the front of the hall huge gates of iron, highly wrought, and
bearing an ancient date as well as the shield of a noble house, opened
on a village green, round which were clustered the cottages of the
parish with only one exception, and that was the vicarage house, a
modern building, not without taste, and surrounded by a small but
brilliant garden. The church was contiguous to the hall, and had been
raised by the lord on a portion of his domain. Behind the hall and its
enclosure, the country was common land but picturesque. It had once
been a beech forest, and though the timber had been greatly cleared,
the green land was still occasionally dotted, sometimes with groups and
sometimes with single trees, while the juniper which here abounded, and
rose to a great height, gave a rich wildness to the scene, and sustained
its forest character.
Hurstley had for many years been deserted by the family to which it
belonged. Indeed, it was rather difficult to say to whom it did belong.
A dreary fate had awaited an ancient, and, in its time, even not
immemorable home. It had fallen into chancery, and for the last
half-century had either been uninhabited or let to strangers. Mr.
Ferrars' lawyer was in the chancery suit, and knew all about it.
The difficulty of finding a tenant for such a place, never easy, was
increased by its remoteness from any railway communication, which was
now beginning to figure as an important element in such arrangements.
The Master in Chancery would be satisfied with a nominal rent, provided
only he could obtain a family of consideration to hold under him. Mr.
Ferrars was persuaded to go down alone to reconnoitre the place. It
pleased him. It was aristocratic, yet singularly inexpensive. The house
contained an immense hall, which reached the roof, and which would have
become a baronial mansion, and a vast staircase in keeping; but the
living rooms were moderate, even small, in dimensions, and not numerous.
The land he was expected to take consisted only of a few meadows,
which he could let if necessary, and a single labourer could manage the
garden.
Mrs. Ferrars was so delighted with the description of the galleried
hall, that she resolved on their taking Hurstley without even her
previously visiting it. The only things she cared for in the country
were a hall and a pony-chair.
All the carriages were sold, and all the servants discharged. Two or
three maid-servants and a man who must be found in the country, who
could attend them at table, and valet alike his master and the pony, was
the establishment which was to succeed the crowd of retainers who had
so long lounged away their lives in the saloons of Hill Street, and the
groves and gardens of Wimbledon.
Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars and their daughter travelled down to Hurstley in a
post-chaise; Endymion, with the servants, was sent by the stage-coach,
which accomplished the journey of sixty miles in ten hours. Myra said
little during the journey, but an expression of ineffable contempt and
disgust seemed permanent on her countenance. Sometimes she shrugged her
shoulders, sometimes she raised her eyebrows, and sometimes she turned
up her nose. And then she gave a sigh; but it was a sigh not of sorrow,
but of impatience. Her parents lavished attentions on her which she
accepted without recognition, only occasionally observing that she
wished she had gone with Endymion.
It was dusk when they arrived at Hurstley, and the melancholy hour did
not tend to raise their spirits. However, the gardener's wife had lit a
good fire of beechwood in the drawing-room, and threw as they entered
a pannier of cones upon the logs, which crackled and cheerfully blazed
away. Even Myra seemed interested by the novelty of the wood fire and
the iron dogs. She remained by their side, looking abstractedly on the
expiring logs, while her parents wandered about the house and examined
or prepared the requisite arrangements. While they were yet absent,
there was some noise and a considerable bustle in the hall. Endymion
and his retinue had arrived. Then Myra immediately roused herself, and
listened like a startled deer. But the moment she caught his voice, an
expression of rapture suffused her countenance. It beamed with vivacity
and delight. She rushed away, pushed through the servants and the
luggage, embraced him and said, "We will go over the house and see our
rooms together."
Wandering without a guide and making many mistakes, fortunately they
soon met their parents. Mrs. Ferrars good-naturedly recommenced her
labours of inspection, and explained all her plans. There was a very
pretty room for Endymion, and to-morrow it was to be very comfortable.
He was quite pleased. Then they were shown Myra's room, but she said
nothing, standing by with a sweet scoff, as it were, lingering on her
lips, while her mother disserted on all the excellences of the chamber.
Then they were summoned to tea. The gardener's wife was quite a leading
spirit, and had prepared everything; the curtains were drawn, and the
room lighted; an urn hissed; there were piles of bread and butter and a
pyramid of buttered toast. It was wonderful what an air of comfort had
been conjured up in this dreary mansion, and it was impossible for
the travellers, however wearied or chagrined, to be insensible to the
convenience and cheerfulness of all around them.
When the meal was over, the children sate together in whispering tattle.
Mrs. Ferrars had left the room to see if all was ready for their hour of
retirement, and Mr. Ferrars was walking up and down the room, absorbed
in thought.
"What do you think of it all, Endymion?" whispered Myra to her twin.
"I rather like it," he said.
She looked at him with a glance of blended love and mockery, and then
she said in his ear, "I feel as if we had fallen from some star."
CHAPTER XII
The morrow brought a bright autumnal morn, and every one woke, if not
happy, interested. There was much to see and much to do. The dew was so
heavy that the children were not allowed to quit the broad gravel walk
that bounded one side of the old house, but they caught enticing vistas
of the gleamy glades, and the abounding light and shade softened and
adorned everything. Every sight and sound too was novel, and from
the rabbit that started out of the grove, stared at them and then
disappeared, to the jays chattering in the more distant woods, all was
wonderment at least for a week. They saw squirrels for the first time,
and for the first time beheld a hedgehog. Their parents were busy in
the house; Mr. Ferrars unpacking and settling his books, and his wife
arranging some few articles of ornamental furniture that had been saved
from the London wreck, and rendering their usual room of residence as
refined as was in her power. It is astonishing how much effect a woman
of taste can produce with a pretty chair or two full of fancy and
colour, a table clothed with a few books, some family miniatures, a
workbag of rich material, and some toys that we never desert. "I have
not much to work with," said Mrs. Ferrars, with a sigh, "but I think the
colouring is pretty."
On the second day after their arrival, the rector and his wife made them
a visit. Mr. Penruddock was a naturalist, and had written the history of
his parish. He had escaped being an Oxford don by being preferred early
to this college living, but he had married the daughter of a don, who
appreciated the grand manners of their new acquaintances, and who, when
she had overcome their first rather awe-inspiring impression, became
communicative and amused them much with her details respecting the
little world in which they were now to live. She could not conceal
her wonderment at the beauty of the twins, though they were no longer
habited in those dresses which had once astonished even Mayfair.
Part of the scheme of the new life was the education of the children
by their parents. Mr. Ferrars had been a distinguished scholar, and was
still a good one. He was patient and methodical, and deeply interested
in his contemplated task. So far as disposition was concerned the pupil
was not disappointing. Endymion was of an affectionate disposition and
inclined to treat his father with deference. He was gentle and docile;
but he did not acquire knowledge with facility, and was remarkably
deficient in that previous information on which his father counted. The
other pupil was of a different temperament. She learned with a glance,
and remembered with extraordinary tenacity everything she had acquired.
But she was neither tender nor deferential, and to induce her to study
you could not depend on the affections, but only on her intelligence.
So she was often fitful, capricious, or provoking, and her mother,
who, though accomplished and eager, had neither the method nor the
self-restraint of Mr. Ferrars, was often annoyed and irritable. Then
there were scenes, or rather ebullitions on one side, for Myra was
always unmoved and enraging from her total want of sensibility.
Sometimes it became necessary to appeal to Mr. Ferrars, and her manner
to her father, though devoid of feeling, was at least not contemptuous.
Nevertheless, on the whole the scheme, as time went on, promised to be
not unsuccessful. Endymion, though not rapidly, advanced surely, and
made some amends for the years that had been wasted in fashionable
private schools and the then frivolity of Eton. Myra, who,
notwithstanding her early days of indulgence, had enjoyed the advantage
of admirable governesses, was well grounded in more than one modern
language, and she soon mastered them. And in due time, though much after
the period on which we are now touching, she announced her desire to
become acquainted with German, in those days a much rarer acquirement
than at present. Her mother could not help her in this respect, and that
was perhaps an additional reason for the study of this tongue, for Myra
was impatient of tuition, and not unjustly full of self-confidence.
She took also the keenest interest in the progress of her brother, made
herself acquainted with all his lessons, and sometimes helped him in
their achievement.
Though they had absolutely no acquaintance of any kind except the rector
and his family, life was not dull. Mr. Ferrars was always employed, for
besides the education of his children, he had systematically resumed
a habit in which he had before occasionally indulged, and that was
political composition. He had in his lofty days been the author of more
than one essay, in the most celebrated political publication of the
Tories, which had commanded attention and obtained celebrity. Many a
public man of high rank and reputation, and even more than one Prime
Minister, had contributed in their time to its famous pages, but never
without being paid. It was the organic law of this publication, that
gratuitous contributions should never be admitted. And in this principle
there was as much wisdom as pride. Celebrated statesmen would point with
complacency to the snuff-box or the picture which had been purchased by
their literary labour, and there was more than one bracelet on the arm
of Mrs. Ferrars, and more than one genet in her stable, which had been
the reward of a profound or a slashing article by William.
What had been the occasional diversion of political life was now to
be the source of regular income. Though living in profound solitude,
Ferrars had a vast sum of political experience to draw upon, and though
his training and general intelligence were in reality too exclusive and
academical for the stirring age which had now opened, and on which he
had unhappily fallen, they nevertheless suited the audience to which
they were particularly addressed. His Corinthian style, in which the
Maenad of Mr. Burke was habited in the last mode of Almack's, his
sarcasms against the illiterate and his invectives against the low, his
descriptions of the country life of the aristocracy contrasted with
the horrors of the guillotine, his Horatian allusions and his Virgilian
passages, combined to produce a whole which equally fascinated and
alarmed his readers.
These contributions occasioned some communications with the editor or
publisher of the Review, which were not without interest. Parcels came
down by the coach, enclosing not merely proof sheets, but frequently new
books--the pamphlet of the hour before it was published, or a volume
of discoveries in unknown lands. It was a link to the world they had
quitted without any painful associations. Otherwise their communications
with the outside world were slight and rare. It is difficult for us,
who live in an age of railroads, telegraphs, penny posts and penny
newspapers, to realise how uneventful, how limited in thought and
feeling, as well as in incident, was the life of an English family of
retired habits and limited means, only forty years ago. The whole world
seemed to be morally, as well as materially, "adscripti glebae."
Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars did not wish to move, but had they so wished, it
would have been under any circumstances for them a laborious and costly
affair. The only newspaper they saw was the "Evening Mail," which
arrived three times a week, and was the "Times" newspaper with all its
contents except its advertisements. As the "Times" newspaper had the
credit of mainly contributing to the passing of Lord Grey's Reform Bill,
and was then whispered to enjoy the incredible sale of twelve thousand
copies daily, Mr. Ferrars assumed that in its columns he would trace
the most authentic intimations of coming events. The cost of postage
was then so heavy, that domestic correspondence was necessarily very
restricted. But this vexatious limitation hardly applied to the Ferrars.
They had never paid postage. They were born and had always lived in
the franking world, and although Mr. Ferrars had now himself lost
the privilege, both official and parliamentary, still all their
correspondents were frankers, and they addressed their replies without
compunction to those who were free. Nevertheless, it was astonishing
how little in their new life they cared to avail themselves of this
correspondence. At first Zenobia wrote every week, almost every day, to
Mrs. Ferrars, but after a time Mrs. Ferrars, though at first pleased
by the attention, felt its recognition a burthen. Then Zenobia, who
at length, for the first time in her life, had taken a gloomy view of
affairs, relapsed into a long silence, and in fact had nearly forgotten
the Ferrars, for as she herself used to say, "How can one recollect
people whom one never meets?"
In the meantime, for we have been a little anticipating in our last
remarks, the family at Hurstley were much pleased with the country they
now inhabited. They made excursions of discovery into the interior of
their world, Mrs. Ferrars and Myra in the pony-chair, her husband
and Endymion walking by their side, and Endymion sometimes taking his
sister's seat against his wish, but in deference to her irresistible
will. Even Myra could hardly be insensible to the sylvan wildness of the
old chase, and the romantic villages in the wooded clefts of the downs.
As for Endymion he was delighted, and it seemed to him, perhaps he
unconsciously felt it, that this larger and more frequent experience of
nature was a compensation for much which they had lost.
After a time, when they had become a little acquainted with simple
neighbourhood, and the first impression of wildness and novelty had
worn out, the twins were permitted to walk together alone, though within
certain limits. The village and its vicinity was quite free, but they
were not permitted to enter the woods, and not to wander on the chase
out of sight of the mansion. These walks alone with Endymion were the
greatest pleasure of his sister. She delighted to make him tell her of
his life at Eton, and if she ever sighed it was when she lamented that
his residence there had been so short. Then they found an inexhaustible
fund of interest and sympathy in the past. They wondered if they ever
should have ponies again. "I think not," said Myra, "and yet how merry
to scamper together over this chase!"
"But they would not let us go," said Endymion, "without a groom."
"A groom!" exclaimed Myra, with an elfish laugh; "I believe, if the
truth were really known, we ought to be making our own beds and washing
our own dinner plates."
"And are you sorry, Myra, for all that has happened?" asked Endymion.
"I hardly know what has happened. They keep it very close. But I am too
astonished to be sorry. Besides, what is the use of whimpering?"
"I cried very much one day," said Endymion.
"Ah, you are soft, dear darling. I never cried in my life, except once
with rage."
At Christmas a new character appeared on the stage, the rector's son,
Nigel. He had completed a year with a private tutor, and was on the
eve of commencing his first term at Oxford, being eighteen, nearly
five years older than the twins. He was tall, with a countenance
of remarkable intelligence and power, though still softened by the
innocence and bloom of boyhood. He was destined to be a clergyman. The
twins were often thrown into his society, for though too old to be their
mere companion, his presence was an excuse for Mrs. Penruddock more
frequently joining them in their strolls, and under her auspices their
wanderings had no limit, except the shortness of the days; but they
found some compensation for this in their frequent visits to the
rectory, which was a cheerful and agreeable home, full of stuffed birds,
and dried plants, and marvellous fishes, and other innocent trophies and
triumphs over nature.
CHAPTER XIII
The tenant of the Manor Farm was a good specimen of his class; a
thorough Saxon, ruddy and bright visaged, with an athletic though rather
bulky frame, hardened by exposure to the seasons and constant exercise.
Although he was the tenant of several hundred acres, he had an eye to
the main chance in little things, which is a characteristic of farmers,
but he was good-natured and obliging, and while he foraged their pony,
furnished their woodyard with logs and faggots, and supplied them from
his dairy, he gratuitously performed for the family at the hall many
other offices which tended to their comfort and convenience, but which
cost him nothing.
Mr. Ferrars liked to have a chat every now and then with Farmer
Thornberry, who had a shrewd and idiomatic style of expressing his
limited, but in its way complete, experience of men and things, which
was amusing and interesting to a man of the world whose knowledge of
rural life was mainly derived from grand shooting parties at great
houses.
The pride and torment of Farmer Thornberry's life was his only child,
Job.
"I gave him the best of educations," said the farmer; "he had a much
better chance than I had myself, for I do not pretend to be a scholar,
and never was; and yet I cannot make head or tail of him. I wish you
would speak to him some day, sir. He goes against the land, and yet we
have been on it for three generations, and have nothing to complain of;
and he is a good farmer, too, is Job, none better; a little too fond of
experimenting, but then he is young. But I am very much afraid he will
leave me. I think it is this new thing the big-wigs have set up in
London that has put him wrong, for he is always reading their papers."