Mr. Ruby was deeply gratified to be again in the presence of a nobleman so eminently distinguished, both for his property and his taste, as Lothair. He was profuse in his congratulations to his lordship on his return to his native land, while at the same time he was opening a bag, from which he extracted a variety of beautiful objects, none of them for sale, all executed commissions, which were destined to adorn the fortunate and the fair. “This is lovely, my lord, quite new, for the Queen of Madagascar; for the empress this, her majesty’s own design, at least almost. Lady Melton’s bridal necklace, and my lord’s George, the last given by King James II.; broken up during the revolution, but reset by us from an old drawing with picked stones.”

“Very pretty,” said Lothair; “but it is not exactly this sort of thing that I want. See,” and he opened the dispatch-box, and took from out of it a crucifix. It was made of some Eastern wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; the figure carved in brass, though not without power, and at the end of each of the four terminations of the cross was a small cavity, enclosing something, and covered with glass.

“See,” continued Lothair, “this is the crucifix, given with a carved shell to each pilgrim who visits the Holy Sepulchre. Within these four cavities is earth from the four holy places: Calvary, Sion, Bethlehem, and Gethsemane. Now, what I want is a crucifix, something of this dimension, but made of the most costly materials; the figure must be of pure gold; I should like the cross to be of choice emeralds, which I am told are now more precious even than brilliants, and I wish the earth of the sacred places to be removed from this crucifix, and introduced in a similar manner into the one which you are to make; and each cavity must be covered with a slit diamond. Do you understand?”

“I follow you, my lord,” said Mr. Ruby, with glistening eyes. “It will be a rare jewel. Is there to be a limit as to the cost?”

“None but such as taste and propriety suggest,” said Lothair. “You will of course make a drawing and an estimate, and send them to me; but I desire dispatch.”

When Mr. Ruby had retired, Lothair took from the dispatch-box a sealed packet, and looked at it for some moments, and then pressed it to his lips.

In the afternoon, Lothair found himself again in the saddle, and was riding about London, as if he had never quitted it. He left his cards at Crecy House, and many other houses, and he called at the St. Jeromes’ late, but asked if they were at home. He had reckoned that they would not be, and his reckoning was right. It was impossible to conceal from himself that it was a relief. Mr. Putney Giles dined alone with Lothair this evening, and they talked over many things; among others the approaching marriage of Lady Corisande with the Duke of Brecon.

“Everybody marries except myself,” said Lothair, rather peevishly.

“But your lordship is too young to think of that yet,” said Mr. Putney Giles.

“I feel very old,” said Lothair.

At this moment there arrived a note from Bertram, saying his mother was quite surprised and disappointed that Lothair had not asked to see her in the morning. She had expected him, as a matter of course, at luncheon, and begged that he would come on the morrow.

“I have had many pleasant luncheons in that house,” said Lothair, “but this will be the last. When all the daughters are married, nobody eats luncheon.”

“That would hardly apply to this family,” said Mr. Putney Giles, who always affected to know every thing, and generally did. “They are so united, that I fancy the famous luncheons at Crecy House will always go on, and be a popular mode of their all meeting.”

“I half agree with St. Aldegonde,” said Lothair, grumbling to himself, “that if one is to meet that Duke of Brecon every day at luncheon, for my part I had rather stay away.”

In the course of the evening there also arrived invitations to all the impending balls and assemblies, for Lothair; and there seemed little prospect of his again being forced to dine with his faithful solicitor as a refuge from melancholy.

On the morrow he went in his brougham to Crecy House, and he had such a palpitation of the heart when he arrived, that, for a moment, he absolutely thought he must retire. His mind was full of Jerusalem, the Mount of Olives, and the Sea of Galilee. He was never nervous there, never agitated, never harassed, no palpitations of the heart, no dread suspense. There was repose alike of body and soul. Why did he ever leave Palestine and Paraclete? He should have remained in Syria forever, cherishing, in a hallowed scene, a hallowed sorrow, of which even the bitterness was exalted and ennobling.

He stood for a moment in the great hall at Crecy House, and the groom of the chambers in vain solicited his attention. It was astonishing how much passed through his mind while the great clock hardly described sixty seconds. But in that space he had reviewed his life, arrived at the conclusion that all was vanity and bitterness, that he had failed in every thing, was misplaced, had no object and no hope, and that a distant and unbroken solitude in some scene, where either the majesty of Nature was overwhelming, or its moral associations were equally sublime, must be his only refuge. In the meditation of the Cosmos, or in the divine reverie of sacred lands, the burden of existence might be endured.

“Her grace is at luncheon, my lord,” at length said the groom of the chamber—and Lothair was ushered into the gay, and festive, and cordial scene. The number of the self-invited guests alone saved him. His confusion was absolute, and the duchess remarked afterward that Lothair seemed to have regained all his shyness.

When Lothair had rallied and could survey the scene, he found he was sitting by his hostess; that the duke, not a luncheon man, was present, and, as it turned out afterward, for the pleasure of meeting Lothair. Bertram also was present, and several married daughters, and Lord Montairy, and Captain Mildmay, and one or two others; and next to Lady Corisande was the Duke of Brecon.

So far as Lothair was concerned, the luncheon was unsuccessful. His conversational powers deserted him. He answered in monosyllables, and never originated a remark. He was greatly relieved when they rose and returned to the gallery, in which they seemed all disposed to linger. The duke approached him, and, in his mood, he found it easier to talk to men than to women. Male conversation is of a coarser grain, and does not require so much play of thought and manner; discourse about Suez Canal, and Arab horses, and pipes, and pachas, can be carried on without any psychological effort, and, by degrees, banishes all sensibility. And yet he was rather dreamy, talked better than he listened, did not look his companion in the face, as the duke spoke, which was his custom, and his eye was wandering. Suddenly, Bertram having joined them, and speaking to his father, Lothair darted away and approached Lady Corisande, whom Lady Montairy had just quitted.

“As I may never have the opportunity again,” said Lothair, “let me thank you, Lady Corisande, for some kind thoughts which you deigned to bestow on me in my absence.”

His look was serious; his tone almost sad. Neither were in keeping with the scene and the apparent occasion; and Lady Corisande, not displeased, but troubled, murmured: “Since I last met you, I heard you had seen much and suffered much.”

“And that makes the kind thoughts of friends more precious,” said Lothair. “I have few; your brother is the chief, but even he never did me any kindness so great as when he told me that you had spoken of me with sympathy.”

“Bertram’s friends are mine,” said Lady Corisande; “but, otherwise, it would be impossible for us all not to feel an interest in—, one of whom we had seen so much,” she added, with some hesitation.

“Ah, Brentham!” said Lothair; “dear Brentham! Do you remember once saying to me that you hoped you should never leave Brentham?”

“Did I say so?” said Lady Corisande.

“I wish I had never left Brentham,” said Lothair; “it was the happiest time of my life. I had not then a sorrow or a care.”

“But everybody has sorrows and cares,” said Lady Corisande; “you have, however, a great many things which ought to make you happy.”

“I do not deserve to be happy,” said Lothair, “for I have made so many mistakes. My only consolation is that one great error, which you most deprecated, I have escaped.”

“Take a brighter and a nobler view of your life,” said Lady Corisande; “feel rather you have been tried and not found wanting.”

At this moment the duchess approached them, and interrupted their conversation; and, soon after this, Lothair left Crecy House, still moody, but less despondent.

There was a ball at Lady Clanmorne’s in the evening, and Lothair was present. He was astonished at the number of new faces he saw, the new phrases he heard, the new fashions alike in dress and manner. He could not believe it was the same world that he had quitted only a year ago. He was glad to take refuge with Hugo Bohun as with an old friend, and could not refrain from expressing to that eminent person his surprise at the novelty of all around him.

“It is you, my dear Lothair,” replied Hugo, “that is surprising, not the world—that has only developed in your absence. What could have induced a man like you to be away for a whole season from the scene? Our forefathers might afford to travel—the world was then stereotyped. It will not do to be out of sight now. It is very well for St. Aldegonde to do these things, for the great object of St. Aldegonde is not to be in society, and he has never succeeded in his object. But here is the new beauty.”

There was a stir and a sensation. Men made way, and even women retreated—and, leaning on the arm of Lord Carisbrooke, in an exquisite costume that happily displayed her splendid figure, and, radiant with many charms, swept by a lady of commanding mien and stature, self-possessed, and even grave, when, suddenly turning her head, her pretty face broke into enchanting dimples, as she exclaimed: “Oh, cousin Lothair!”

Yes, the beautiful giantesses of Muriel Towers had become the beauties of the season. Their success had been as sudden and immediate as it was complete and sustained. “Well, this is stranger than all!” said Lothair to Hugo Bohun when Lady Flora had passed on.

“The only persons talked of,” said Hugo. “I am proud of my previous acquaintance with them. I think Carisbrooke has serious thoughts; but there are some who prefer Lady Grizell.”

“Lady Corisande was your idol last season,” said Lothair.

“Oh, she is out of the running,” said Hugo; “she is finished. But I have not heard yet of any day being fixed. I wonder, when he marries, whether Brecon will keep on his theatre?”

“His theatre!”

“Yes; the high mode now for a real swell is to have a theatre. Brecon has the Frolic; Kate Simmons is his manager, who calls herself Athalie de Montfort. You ought to have a theatre, Lothair; and, if there is not one to hire, you should build one. It would show that you are alive again and had the spirit of an English noble, and atone for some of your eccentricities.”

“But I have no Kate Simmons who calls herself Athalie de Montfort,” said Lothair. “I am not so favored, Hugo. However, I might succeed Brecon, as I hardly suppose he will maintain such an establishment when he is married.”

“I beg your pardon,” rejoined Hugo. “It is the thing. Several of our greatest swells have theatres and are married. In fact, a first-rate man should have every thing, and therefore he ought to have both a theatre and a wife.”

“Well, I do not think your manners have improved since, last year, or your words,” said Lothair. “I have half a mind to go down to Muriel, and shut myself up there.”

He walked away and sauntered into the ballroom. The first forms he recognized were Lady Corisande waltzing with the Duke of Brecon, who was renowned for this accomplishment. The heart of Lothair felt bitter. He remembered his stroll to the dairy with the Duchess at Brentham, and their conversation. Had his views then been acceded to, how different would have been his lot! And it was not his fault that they had been rejected. And yet, had they been accomplished, would they have been happy? The character of Corisande, according to her mother, was not then formed, nor easily scrutable. Was it formed now? and what were its bent and genius? And his own character? It could not be denied that his mind was somewhat crude then, and his general conclusions on life and duty hardly sufficiently matured and developed to offer a basis for domestic happiness on which one might confidently depend.

And Theodora? Had he married then, he should never have known Theodora. In this bright saloon, amid the gayety of festive music, and surrounded by gliding forms of elegance and brilliancy, his heart was full of anguish when he thought of Theodora. To have known such a woman and to have lost her! Why should a man live after this? Yes; he would retire to Muriel, once hallowed by her presence, and he would raise to her memory some monumental fane, beyond the dreams ever of Artemisia, and which should commemorate alike her wondrous life and wondrous mind.

A beautiful hand was extended to him, and a fair face, animated with intelligence, welcomed him without a word. It was Lady St. Jerome. Lothair bowed lowly and touched her hand with his lip.

“I was sorry to have missed you yesterday. We had gone down to Vauxe for the day, but I heard of you from my lord with great pleasure. We are all of us so happy that you have entirely recovered your health.”

“I owe that to you, dearest lady,” said Lothair, “and to those under your roof. I can never forget your goodness to me. Had it not been for you, I should not have been here or anywhere else.”

“No, no; we did our best for the moment. But I quite agree with my lord, now, that you stayed too long at Rome under the circumstances. It was a good move—that going to Sicily, and so wise of you to travel in Egypt. Men should travel.”

“I have not been to Egypt,” said Lothair; “I have been to the Holy Land, and am a pilgrim. I wish you would tell Miss Arundel that I shall ask her permission to present her with my crucifix, which contains the earth of the holy places. I should have told her this myself, if I had seen her yesterday. Is she here?”

“She is at Vauxe; she could not tear herself away from the roses.”

“But she might have brought them with her as companions,” said Lothair, “as you have, I apprehend, yourself.”

“I will give you this in Clare’s name,” said Lady St. Jerome, as she selected a beautiful flower and presented it to Lothair. “It is in return for your crucifix, which I am sure she will highly esteem. I only wish it were a rose of Jericho.”

Lothair started. The name brought up strange and disturbing associations: the procession in the Jesuits’ church, the lighted tapers, the consecrated children, one of whom had been supernaturally presented with the flower in question. There was an awkward silence, until Lothair, almost without intending it, expressed a hope that the cardinal was well.

“Immersed in affairs, but I hope well,” replied Lady St. Jerome. “You know what has happened? But you will see him. He will speak to you of these matters himself.”

“But I should like also to hear from you.”

“Well, they are scarcely yet to be spoken of,” said Lady St. Jerome. “I ought not perhaps even to have alluded to the subject; but I know how deeply devoted you are to religion. We are on the eve of the greatest event of this century. When I wake in the morning, I always fancy that I have heard of it only in dreams. And many—all this room—will not believe in the possibility of its happening. They smile when the contingency is alluded to, and if I were not present they would mock. But it will happen—I am assured it will happen,” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome, speaking with earnestness, though in a hushed voice. “And no human imagination can calculate or conceive what may be its effect on the destiny of the human race.”

“You excite my utmost curiosity,” said Lothair.

“Hush! there are listeners. But we shall soon meet again. You will come and see us, and soon. Come down to Vauxe on Saturday; the cardinal will be there. And the place is so lovely now. I always say Vauxe at Whitsuntide, or a little later, is a scene for Shakespeare. You know you always liked Vauxe.”

“More than liked it,” said Lothair; “I have passed at Vauxe some of the happiest hours of my life.”

CHAPTER 83

On the morning of the very Saturday on which Lothair was to pay his visit to Vauxe, riding in the park, he was joined by that polished and venerable nobleman who presides over the destinies of art in Great Britain. This distinguished person had taken rather a fancy to Lothair, and liked to talk to him about the Phoebus family; about the great artist himself, and all his theories and styles; but especially about the fascinating Madame Phoebus and the captivating Euphrosyne.

“You have not found time, I dare say,” said the nobleman, “to visit the exhibition of the Royal Academy?”

“Well, I have only been here a week,” said Lothair, “and have had so many things to think of, and so many persons to see.”

“Naturally,” said the nobleman; “but I recommend you to go. I am now about to make my fifth visit there; but it is only to a single picture, and I envy its owner.”

“Indeed!” said Lothair. “Pray tell me its subject, that I may not fail to see it.”

“It is a portrait,” said the nobleman, “only a portrait, some would say, as if the finest pictures in the world were not only portraits. The masterpieces of the English school are portraits, and some day when you have leisure and inclination, and visit Italy, you will see portraits by Titian and Raffaelle and others, which are the masterpieces of art. Well, the picture in question is a portrait by a young English painter at Rome and of an English lady. I doubt not the subject was equal to the genius of the artist, but I do not think that the modern pencil has produced any thing equal to it, both, in design and color and expression. You should see it, by all means, and I have that opinion of your taste that I do not think you will be content by seeing it once. The real taste for fine art in this country is proved by the crowd that always surrounds that picture; and yet only a portrait of an English lady, a Miss Arundel.”

“A Miss Arundel?” said Lothair.

“Yes, of a Roman Catholic family; I believe a relative of the St. Jeromes. They were at Rome last year, when this portrait was executed.”

“If you will permit me,” said Lothair, “I should like to accompany you to the Academy. I am going out of town this afternoon, but not far, and could manage it.”

So they went together. It was the last exhibition of the Academy in Trafalgar Square. The portrait in question was in the large room, and hung on the eye line; so, as the throng about it was great, it was not easy immediately to inspect it. But one or two R. A’s who were gliding about, and who looked upon the noble patron of art as a sort of divinity, insensibly controlled the crowd, and secured for their friend and his companion the opportunity which they desired.

“It is the finest thing since the portrait of the Cenci,” said the noble patron.

The painter had represented Miss Arundel in her robe of a sister of mercy, but with uncovered head. A wallet was at her side, and she held a crucifix. Her beautiful eyes, full of mystic devotions met those of the spectator with a fascinating power that kept many spell-bound. In the background of the picture was a masterly glimpse of the papal gardens and the wondrous dome.

“That must be a great woman,” said the noble patron of art.

Lothair nodded assent in silence.

The crowd about the picture seemed breathless and awe-struck. There were many women, and in some eyes there were tears.

“I shall go home,” said one of the spectators; “I do not wish to see any thing else.”

“That is religion,” murmured her companion. “They may say what they like, but it would be well for us if we were all like her.”

It was a short half-hour by the railroad to Vauxe, and the station was close to the park gates. The sun was in its last hour when Lothair arrived, but he was captivated by the beauty of the scene, which he had never witnessed in its summer splendor. The rich foliage of the great avenues, the immense oaks that stood alone, the deer glancing in the golden light, and the quaint and stately edifice itself, so finished and so fair, with its freestone pinnacles and its gilded vanes glistening and sparkling in the warm and lucid sky, contrasted with the chilly hours when the cardinal and himself had first strolled together in that park, and when they tried to flatter themselves that the morning mist clinging to the skeleton trees was perhaps the burst of spring.

Lothair found himself again in his old rooms, and, as his valet unpacked his toilet, he fell into one of his reveries.

“What,” he thought to himself, “if life after all be only a dream? I can scarcely realize what is going on. It seems to me; I have passed through a year of visions. That I should be at Vauxe again! A roof I once thought rife with my destiny. And perhaps it may prove so. And, were it not for the memory of one event, I should be a ship without a rudder.”

There were several guests in the house, and, when Lothair entered the drawing-room, he was glad to find that it was rather full. The cardinal was by the side of Lady St. Jerome when Lothair entered, and immediately after saluting his hostess it was his duty to address his late guardian. Lothair had looked forward to this meeting with apprehension. It seemed impossible that it should not to a certain degree be annoying. Nothing of the kind. It was impossible to greet him more cordially, more affectionately than did Cardinal Grandison.

“You have seen a great deal since we parted,” said the cardinal. “Nothing could be wiser than your travelling. You remember that at Muriel I recommended you to go to Egypt, but I thought it better that you should see Rome first. And it answered: you made the acquaintance of its eminent men, men whose names will be soon in everybody’s mouth, for before another year elapses Rome will be the cynosure of the world. Then, when the great questions come on which will decide the fate of the human race for centuries, you will feel the inestimable advantage of being master of the situation, and that you are familiar with every place and every individual. I think you were not very well at Rome; but next time you must choose your season. However, I may congratulate you on your present looks. The air of the Levant seems to have agreed with you.”

Dinner was announced almost at this moment, and Lothair, who had to take out Lady Clanmorne, had no opportunity before dinner of addressing any one else except his hostess and the cardinal. The dinner-party was large, and it took some time to reconnoitre all the guests. Lothair observed Miss Arundel, who was distant from him and on the same side of the table, but neither Monsignore Capel nor Father Coleman were present.

Lady Clanmorne chatted agreeably. She was content to talk, and did not insist on conversational reciprocity. She was a pure free-trader in gossip. This rather suited Lothair. It pleased Lady Clanmorne to-day to dilate upon marriage and the married state, but especially on all her acquaintances, male and female, who were meditating the surrender of their liberty and about to secure the happiness of their lives.

“I suppose the wedding of the season—the wedding of weddings—will be the Duke of Brecon’s,” she said. “But I do not hear of any day being fixed.”

“Ah!” said Lothair, “I have been abroad and am very deficient in these matters. But I was travelling with the lady’s brother, and he has never yet told me that his sister was going to be married.”

“There is no doubt about that,” said Lady Clanmorne. “The duchess said to a friend of mine the other day, who congratulated her, that there was no person in whom she should have more confidence as a son-in-law than the duke.”

“But most marriages turn out unhappy,” said Lothair, rather morosely.

“Oh! my dear lord, what can you mean?”

“Well I think so,” he said doggedly. “Among the lower orders, if we may judge from the newspapers, they are always killing their wives, and in our class we get rid of them in a more polished way, or they get rid of us.”

“You quite astonish me with such sentiments,” said Lady Clanmorne. “What would Lady St. Jerome think if she heard you, who told me the other day that she believed you to be a faultless character? And the duchess too, your friend’s mamma, who thinks you so good, and that it is so fortunate for her son to have such a companion?”

“As for Lady St. Jerome, she believes in every thing,” said Lothair; “and it is no compliment that she believes in me. As for my friend’s mamma, her ideal character, according to you, is the Duke of Brecon, and I cannot pretend to compete with him. He may please the duchess, but I cannot say the Duke of Brecon is a sort of man I admire.”

“Well, he is no great favorite of mine,” said Lady Clanmorne; “I think him overbearing and selfish, and I should not like at all to be his wife.”

“What do you think of Lady Corisande?” said Lothair.

“I admire her more than any girl in society, and I think she will be thrown away on the Duke of Brecon. She is clever and she has strong character, and, I am told, is capable of great affections. Her manners are good, finished, and natural; and she is beloved by her young friends, which I always think a test.”

“Do you think her handsome?”

“There can be no question about that: she is beautiful, and her beauty is of a high class. I admire her much more than all her sisters. She has a grander mien.”

“Have you seen Miss Arundel’s picture at the Academy?”

“Everybody has seen that: it has made a fury.”

“I heard an eminent judge say to-day, that it was the portrait of one who must be a great woman.”

“Well, Miss Arundel is a remarkable person.”

“Do you admire her?”

“I have heard first-rate critics say that there was no person to be compared to Miss Arundel. And unquestionably it is a most striking countenance: that profound brow and those large deep eyes—and then her figure is so fine; but, to tell you the truth, Miss Arundel is a person I never could make out.”

“I wonder she does not marry,” said Lothair.

“She is very difficult,” said Lady Clanmorne. “Perhaps, too, she is of your opinion about marriage.”

“I have a good mind to ask her after dinner whether she is,” said Lothair. “I fancy she would not marry a Protestant?”

“I am no judge of such matters,” said Lady Clanmorne; “only I cannot help thinking that there would be more chance of a happy marriage when both were of the same religion.”

“I wish we were all of the same religion. Do not you?”

“Well, that depends a little on what the religion might be.”

“Ah!” sighed Lothair, “what between religion and marriage and some other things, it appears to me one never has a tranquil moment. I wonder what religious school the Duke of Brecon belongs to? Very high and dry, I should think.”

The moment the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, Lothair singled out Miss Arundel, and attached himself to her.

“I have been to see your portrait today,” he said. She changed color.

“I think it,” he continued, “the triumph of modern art, and I could not easily fix on any production of the old masters that excels it.”

“It was painted at Rome,” she said, in a low voice.

“So I understood. I regret that, when I was at Rome, I saw so little of its art. But my health, you know, was wretched. Indeed, if it had not been for some friends—I might say for one friend—I should not have been here or in this world. I can never express to that person my gratitude, and it increases every day. All that I have dreamed of angels was then realized.”

“You think too kindly of us.”

“Did Lady St. Jerome give you my message about the earth from the holy places which I had placed in a crucifix, and which I hope you will accept from me, in remembrance of the past and your Christian kindness to me? I should have left it at St. James’s Square before this, but it required some little arrangement after its travels.”

“I shall prize it most dearly, both on account of its consecrated character and for the donor’s sake, whom I have ever wished to see the champion of our Master.”

“You never had a wish, I am sure,” said Lothair, “that was not sublime and pure.”