Lothair Part 17

"One accustomed to be obeyed," said the stranger.

"You may be a spy yourself," said the leader.

"I will not undertake to say that there are no spies in this room," said the stranger, "but this person is not one, and anybody who touches this person will touch this person at his peril. Stand off, men!" And they stood off. The wave retreated backward, leaving the two leaders in front. A couple of hundred men, a moment before apparently full of furious pa.s.sion and ready to take refuge in the violence of fear, were cowed by a single human being.

"Why, you are not afraid of one man?" said the leaders, ashamed of their following. "Whatever betides, no one unknown shall leave this room, or it will be Bow Street to-morrow morning."

"Nevertheless," said the stranger, "two unknown men will leave this room and with general a.s.sent. If any one touches this person or myself I will shoot him dead," and he drew out his revolver, "and as for the rest, look at that," he added, giving a paper to the leader of the Fenian Lodge, "and then give it me back again."

The leader of the Fenian Lodge glanced at the paper; he grew pale, then scarlet, folded the paper with great care and returned it reverentially to the stranger, then looking round to the a.s.sembly and waving his hand he said, "All right, the gentlemen are to go."

"Well, you have got out of a sc.r.a.pe, young air," said the stranger to Lothair when they had escaped from the hall.

"And how can I express my grat.i.tude to you?" Lothair replied.

"Poh!" said the stranger, "a mere affair of common duty. But what surprises me is how you got your pa.s.s-ticket."

Lothair told him all.

"They manage their affairs in general wonderfully close," said the stranger, "but I have no opinion of them. I have just returned from Ireland, where I thought I would go and see what they really are after.

No real business in them. Their treason is a fairy tale, and their sedition a child talking in its sleep."

They walked together about half a mile, and then the stranger said, "At the end of this we shall get into the City Road, and the land again of omnibus and public conveyances, and I shall wish you good night."

"But it is distressing to me to part thus," said Lothair. "Pray let me call and pay my respects to my benefactor."

"No claim to any such t.i.tle," said the stranger; "I am always glad to be of use. I will not trouble you to call on me, for, frankly, I have no wish to increase the circle of my acquaintance. So, good-night; and, as you seem to be fond of a little life, take my advice, and never go about unarmed."

CHAPTER 28

The Fenian adventure furnished the distraction which Lothair required It broke that absorbing spell of sentiment which is the delicious but enervating privilege of the youthful heart; yet, when Lothair woke in the morning from his well-earned slumbers, the charm returned, and he fell at once into a reverie of Belmont, and a speculation when he might really pay his first visit there. Not to-day--that was clearly out of the question. They had separated only yesterday, and yet it seemed an age, and the adventure of another world. There are moods of feeling which defy alike time and s.p.a.ce.

But on the morrow, Friday, he might venture to go. But, then, would to-morrow ever come? It seemed impossible. How were the intervening hours to pa.s.s? The world, however, was not so devoid of resources as himself, and had already appropriated his whole day. And, first, Monsignore Catesby came to breakfast with him, talking of every thing that was agreeable or interesting, but in reality bent on securing his presence at the impending ecclesiastical ceremony of high import, where his guardian was to officiate, and where the foundation was to be laid of the reconciliation of all churches in the bosom of the true one.

Then, in the afternoon, Lothair had been long engaged to a match of pigeon-shooting, in which pastime Bertram excelled. It seemed there was to be a most exciting sweepstakes to-day, in which the flower of England were to compete; Lothair among them, and for the first time.

This great exploit of arms was to be accomplished at the Castle in the Air, a fantastic villa near the banks of the Thames, belonging to the Duke of Brecon. His grace had been offended by the conduct or the comments of the outer world, which in his pastime had thwarted or displeased him in the free life of Battersea. The Duke of Brecon was a gentleman easily offended, but not one of those who ever confined their sense of injury to mere words. He prided himself on "putting down" any individual or body of men who chose to come into collision with him. And so in the present instance he formed a club of pigeon-shooters, and lent them his villa for their rendezvous and enjoyment. The society was exquisite, exclusive, and greatly sought after. And the fine ladies, tempted, of course, by the beauty of the scene, honored and inspired the competing confederates by their presence.

The Castle in the Air was a colossal thatched cottage, built by a favorite of, King George IV. It was full of mandarins and paG.o.das and green dragons, and papered with birds of many colors and with vast tails. The gardens were pretty, and the grounds park-like, with some n.o.ble cedars and some huge walnut-trees.

The Duke of Brecon was rather below the middle size, but he had a singularly athletic frame not devoid of symmetry. His head was well placed on his broad shoulders, and his mien was commanding. He was narrow-minded and prejudiced, but acute, and endowed with an unbending will. He was an eminent sportsman, and brave even to brutality. His boast was that he had succeeded in every thing he had attempted, and he would not admit the possibility of future failure. Though still a very young man, he had won the Derby, training his own horse; and he successfully managed a fine stud in defiance of the ring, whom it was one of the secret objects of his life to extirpate. Though his manner to men was peremptory, cold, and hard, he might be described as popular, for there existed a superst.i.tious belief in his judgment, and it was known that in some instances, when he had been consulted, he had given more than advice. It could not be said that he was beloved, but he was feared and highly considered. Parasites were necessary to him, though he despised them.

The Duke of Brecon was an avowed admirer, of Lady Corisande, and was intimate with her family. The d.u.c.h.ess liked him much, and was often seen at ball or a.s.sembly on his arm. He had such excellent principles, she said; was so straight-forward, so true and firm. It was whispered that even Lady Corisande had remarked that the Duke of Brecon was the only young man of the time who had "character." The truth is, the duke, though absolute and hard to men, could be soft and deferential to women, and such an exception to a general disposition has a charm. It was said, also, that he had, when requisite, a bewitching smile.

If there were any thing or any person in the world that St. Aldegonde hated more than another, it was the Duke of Brecon. Why St. Aldegonde hated him was not very clear, for they had never crossed each other, nor were the reasons for his detestation, which he occasionally gave, entirely satisfactory: sometimes it was because the duke drove piebalds; sometimes because he had a large sum in the funds, which St. Aldegonde thought disgraceful for a duke; sometimes because he wore a particular hat, though, with respect to this last allegation, it does not follow that St. Aldegonde was justified in his criticism, for in all these matters St. Aldegonde was himself very deficient, and had once strolled up St. James's Street with his dishevelled looks crowned with a wide-awake. Whatever might be the cause, St. Aldegonde generally wound up--"I tell you what, Bertha, if Corisande marries that follow, I have made up my mind to go to the Indian Ocean. It is a country I never have seen, and Pinto tells me you cannot do it well under five years."

"I hope you will take me, Grenville, with you," said Lady St. Aldegonde, "because it is highly probable Corisande will marry the duke; mamma, you know, likes him so much."

"Why cannot Corisande marry Carisbrooke?" said St. Aldegonde, pouting; "he is a really good fellow, much better-looking, and so far as land is concerned, which after all is the only thing, has as large an estate as the duke."

"Well, these things depend a little upon taste," said Lady St.

Aldegonde.

"No, no," said St. Aldegonde; "Corisande must marry Carisbrooke.

Your father would not like my going to the Indian Archipelago and not returning for five years, perhaps never returning. Why should Corisande break up our society?--why are people so selfish? I never could go to Brentham again if the Duke of Brecon is always to be there, giving his opinion, and being what your mother calls 'straightforward'--I hate a straightforward fellow. As Pinto says, if every man were straightforward in his opinions, there would be no conversation. The fun of talk is to find out what a man really thinks, then contrast it with the enormous lies he has been telling all dinner, and, perhaps, all his life."

It was a favorable day for the Castle in the Air; enough, but not too much sun, and a gentle breeze. Some pretty feet, not alone, were sauntering in the gardens, some pretty lips lingered in the rooms sipping tea; but the ma.s.s of the fair visitors, marvellously attired, were a.s.sembled at the scene of action, seated on chairs and in groups, which a.s.sumed something of the form of an amphitheatre. There were many gentlemen in attendance on them, or independent spectators of the sport.

The field was large, not less than forty compet.i.tors, and comprising many of the best shots in England. The struggle therefore, was long and ably maintained; but, as the end approached, it was evident that the contest would be between Bertram, Lothair, and the Duke of Brecon.

Lady St. Aldegonde and Lady Montairy were there and their unmarried sister. The married sisters were highly excited in favor of their brother, but Lady Corisande said nothing. At last Bertram missed a bird, or rather his bird, which he had hit, escaped, and fell beyond the enclosure. Lothair was more successful, and it seemed that it might be a tie between him and the duke. His grace, when called, advanced with confident composure, and apparently killed both his birds, when, at this moment, a dog rushed forward and chased one of the mortally-struck pigeons. The blue-rock, which was content to die by the hand of a duke, would not deign to be worried by a dog, and it frantically moved its expiring wings, scaled the paling, and died. So Lothair won the prize.

"Well," said Lady Montairy to Lothair, "as Bertram was not to win, I am glad it was you."

"And you will not congratulate me?" said Lothair to Lady Corisande.

She rather shook her head. "A tournament of doves," she said. "I would rather see you all in the lists of Ashby."

Lothair had to dine this day with one of the vanquished. This was Mr.

Brancepeth, celebrated for his dinners, still more for his guests. Mr.

Brancepeth was a grave young man. It was supposed that he was always meditating over the arrangement of his menus, or the skilful means by which he could a.s.semble together the right persons to partake of them.

Mr. Brancepeth had attained the highest celebrity in his peculiar career. To dine with Mr. Brancepeth was a social incident that was mentioned. Royalty had consecrated his banquets, and a youth of note was scarcely a graduate of society who had not been his guest. There was one person, however, who, in this respect, had not taken his degree, and, as always happens under such circ.u.mstances, he was the individual on whom Mr. Brancepeth was most desirous to confer it; and this was St.

Aldegonde. In vain Mr. Brancepeth had approached him with vast cards of invitation to hecatombs, and with insinuating little notes to dinners sans fa on; proposals which the presence of princes might almost construe into a command, or the presence of some one even more attractive than princes must invest with irresistible charm. It was all in vain. "Not that I dislike Brancepeth," said St. Aldegonde; "I rather like him: I like a man who can do only one thing, but does that well.

But then I hate dinners."

But the determined and the persevering need never despair of gaining their object in this world. And this very day, riding home from the Castle in the Air, Mr. Brancepeth overtook St. Aldegonde, who was lounging about on a rough Scandinavian cob, as dishevelled as himself, listless and groomless. After riding together for twenty minutes, St.

Aldegonde informed Mr. Brancepeth, as was his general custom with his companions, that he was bored to very extinction, and that he did not know what he should do with himself for the rest of the day. "If I could only get Pinto to go with me, I think I would run down to the Star and Garter, or perhaps to Hampton Court."

"You will not be able to get Pinto today," said Mr. Brancepeth, "for he dines with me."

"What an unlucky fellow I am!" exclaimed St. Aldegonde, entirely to himself. "I had made up my mind to dine with Pinto to-day."

"And why should you not? Why not meet Pinto at my house?"

"Well, that is not my way," said St. Aldegonde, but not in a decided tone. "You know I do not like strangers, and crowds of wine-gla.s.ses, and what is called all the delicacies of the season."

"You will meet no one that you do not know and like. It is a little dinner I made for--" and he mentioned Lothair.

"I like Lothair," said St. Aldegonde, dreamily. "He is a nice boy."

"Well, you will have him and Pinto to yourself."

The large fish languidly rose and swallowed the bait, and the exulting Mr. Brancepeth cantered off to Hill Street to give the necessary instructions.

Mr. Pinto was one of the marvels of English society; the most sought after of all its members, though no one could tell you exactly why. He was a little oily Portuguese, middle-aged, corpulent, and somewhat bald, with dark eyes of sympathy, not unmixed with humor. No one knew who he was, and in a country the most scrutinizing as to personal details, no one inquired or cared to know. A quarter of a century ago an English n.o.ble had caught him in his travels, and brought him young to England, where he had always remained. From the favorite of an individual, he had become the oracle of a circle, and then the idol of society. All this time his manner remained unchanged. He was never at any time either humble or pretentious. Instead of being a parasite, everybody flattered him; and instead of being a hanger-on of society, society hung on Pinto.

It must have been the combination of many pleasing qualities, rather than the possession of any commanding one, that created his influence.