“Show him up,” said Lothair, “and bring me the dispatch-box which is in my dressing-room.”
Mr. Ruby was deeply gratified to be again in the presence of a nobleman so eminently2 distinguished4, both for his property and his taste, as Lothair. He was profuse5 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 destined6 to adorn7 the fortunate and the fair. “This is lovely, my lord, quite new, for the Queen of Madagascar; for the empress this, her majesty8’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 reset9 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 brass10, 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 costly11 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 slit12 diamond. Do you understand?”
“I follow you, my lord,” said Mr. Ruby, with glistening13 eyes. “It will be a rare jewel. Is there to be a limit as to the cost?”
“None but such as taste and propriety14 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 retired15, 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 conceal16 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 peevishly17.
“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 luncheon18, and begged that he would come on the morrow.
“I have had many pleasant luncheons19 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 affected20 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, grumbling21 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 impending22 balls and assemblies, for Lothair; and there seemed little prospect23 of his again being forced to dine with his faithful solicitor24 as a refuge from melancholy25.
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 agitated26, never harassed27, no palpitations of the heart, no dread28 suspense29. There was repose30 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 exalted31 and ennobling.
He stood for a moment in the great hall at Crecy House, and the groom32 of the chambers33 in vain solicited34 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 solitude35 in some scene, where either the majesty of Nature was overwhelming, or its moral associations were equally sublime36, must be his only refuge. In the meditation37 of the Cosmos38, 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 ushered39 into the gay, and festive40, and cordial scene. The number of the self-invited guests alone saved him. His confusion was absolute, and the duchess remarked afterward41 that Lothair seemed to have regained42 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 conversational43 powers deserted44 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; discourse45 about Suez Canal, and Arab horses, and pipes, and pachas, can be carried on without any psychological effort, and, by degrees, banishes46 all sensibility. And yet he was rather dreamy, talked better than he listened, did not look his companion in the face, as the duke spoke47, which was his custom, and his eye was wandering. Suddenly, Bertram having joined them, and speaking to his father, Lothair darted48 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 deigned49 to bestow50 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 displeased51, 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 hesitation52.
“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 consolation53 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 moody54, but less despondent55.
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 eminent3 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 forefathers56 might afford to travel—the world was then stereotyped57. 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 exquisite58 costume that happily displayed her splendid figure, and, radiant with many charms, swept by a lady of commanding mien59 and stature60, self-possessed, and even grave, when, suddenly turning her head, her pretty face broke into enchanting61 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 immediate62 as it was complete and sustained. “Well, this is stranger than all!” said Lothair to Hugo Bohun when Lady Flora63 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 idol64 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 fixed65. I wonder, when he marries, whether Brecon will keep on his theatre?”
“His theatre!”
“Yes; the high mode now for a real swell66 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 atone67 for some of your eccentricities68.”
“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 swells69 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 ballroom70. The first forms he recognized were Lady Corisande waltzing with the Duke of Brecon, who was renowned71 for this accomplishment72. 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 acceded73 to, how different would have been his lot! And it was not his fault that they had been rejected. And yet, had they been accomplished74, 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 bent75 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 sufficiently76 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 gliding77 forms of elegance78 and brilliancy, his heart was full of anguish79 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 commemorate80 alike her wondrous81 life and wondrous mind.
A beautiful hand was extended to him, and a fair face, animated82 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 entirely83 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 apprehend84, 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 esteem85. 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 tapers86, the consecrated87 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 cardinal88 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 alluded89 to the subject; but I know how deeply devoted90 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 contingency91 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.”
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1
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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reset
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| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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14
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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banishes
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的第三人称单数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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48
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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54
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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56
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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57
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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58
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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68
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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69
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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70
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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88
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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