"When I said ordinary, every-day people, don't mistake me; I meant only those who, from cla.s.s and condition, follow a peculiar ritual, and live after a certain rubric of fashion; and who, hiding themselves under a common garment, whose cut, colour, and mode are the same, are really undistinguishable, save on great and trying occasions.

"Kings, for instance! whom great diplomatic folks are supposed to see a great deal of, and know in all the terms of an easy intimacy.

"But how do we see them? In an armour of reserve and caution, never a.s.sumed to any one else. The ease you speak of is all a.s.sumed. It is the conventional politeness accorded to a certain station. Kings, so far as I have seen, are never really engaging, save to a great minister out of power. Then their manner a.s.sumes all its attractiveness; on the principle, perhaps, that Curran paid his homage to the antique Hercules,--that _his_ day might yet come uppermost, and he would not forget the friend who visited him in adversity."

"Well, to come back, tell us a story. Let it be what you will, or of where and whom you please, so that it last while we are rowing homeward.

Monologue is always better than conversation by moonlight.

"But stay; what are the lights we see yonder, glancing from amid the trees? And there, now, see the bright blaze that has sprung up, and is reflected red and lurid on the lake below. It is a 'Festa' of the Church; for hear, the bells are ringing merrily from the mountain-top, and there go the people in procession, climbing the steep path towards the summit."

Wonderful superst.i.tion! that has fashioned itself to every phase and form of human nature--now, sending its aid to the darkest impulses of pa.s.sion, as we see in Ireland--now, conforming to the most simple tastes of an unthinking people; for these peasants here are not imbued with the piety of the Church--they only love its gauds. It is to the Tyrol you must go to witness the real devotional feeling of a people.

"Well, shall I tell you a story?"

"No; I am weaving one, now, for myself!"

CHAPTER VI. _Villa Cimarosa, Lake of Como_

Gilbert reminds me that I had arranged my departure hence for to-morrow: this was some weeks back, and now I have no intention of leaving. I cling to this "Happy Valley," as one clings to life. To me it is indeed such. These days of sunshine and nights of starry brilliancy--this calm, delicious water--these purpled mountains, glowing with richer tints as day wears on, till at sunset they are one blaze of gorgeous splendour,--the very plash of those tiny waves upon the rocky sh.o.r.e are become to me like friendly sights and sounds, from which I cannot tear myself. And Lucy, too, she is to me as a sister, so full of kind, of watchful consideration about me; since her own health is so much restored, all her anxiety would seem for mine. How puzzling is the tone a.s.sumed by Sir Gordon towards me! It was only yesterday that, in speaking of his granddaughter, he expressed himself in such terms of grat.i.tude to me for the improvement manifest in her health, as though I had really been the main agent in effecting it. I, whose power has never been greater than a heart-cherished wish that one so fair, so beautiful, and so good, should live to grace and adorn the world she moves in! What a strange race, what a hard-fought struggle, has been going on within me for some time back! Ebbing life contesting with budding affection; the calm aspect of coming death dashed by feelings and thoughts--ay, even hopes I had believed long since at rest. I feel less that I love than that I should love, if life were to be granted to me.

I believe it is the pursuit that in most cases suggests the pa.s.sion; that the effort we may make to win exalts the object we wish to gain. Not so here, however. _If I do love_, it has been without any consciousness. It is so seldom that one who has never had a sister learns to know, in real intimacy, the whole heart and nature of a young and lovely girl, with all its emotions of ever-changing hue, its thousand caprices, its weakness, and its pride. To me this study--it has been a study--has given an inexpressible interest to my life here.

And then to watch how gradually, almost imperceptibly to herself, the discipline of her mind has been accomplished--checking wild flights of fancy here, restraining rash impulses there, encouraging reflection, conquering prejudices,--all these done without my bidding, and yet palpably through my influence; What pleasant flattery!

One distressing thought never leaves me. It is this,--how will a nature so attuned as hers stand the rude jars and discords of "the world?"

for, do how we will, screen the object of affection how we may from its shocks and concussions, the stern realities of life will make themselves felt. Hers is too impa.s.sioned a nature to bear such reverses, as the most even current sustains, without injury. The very consciousness of being mistaken in our opinions of people is a sore lesson; it is the beginning of scepticism, to end--who can tell where?

She smiles whenever I lecture her upon any eccentricity of manner, and evidently deems my formalism, as she calls it, a relic of my early teaching. So, perhaps, it may be. No cla.s.s of people are so unforgiving to any thing like a peculiarity as your _Diplomates_. They know the value of the impa.s.sive bearing that reveals nothing, and they carry the reserve of office into all the relations of private life. She even quizzes me about this, and says that I remind her of the old Austrian envoy at Naples, who never ventured upon any thing more explicit than the two phrases--_C'est dure_, or _C'est sure_, ringing the changes of these upon every piece of news that reached him. How altered am I, if this judgment be correct! I, that was headstrong even to rashness, led by every impulse, precipitate in every thing, ready to resign all, and with one chance my favour to dare nine full against me!

But why wonder if I be so changed? How has life and every living object changed its aspect to my eyes, rendering distasteful a thousand things wherein I once took pleasure, and making of others that I deemed flat, stale, and unprofitable, the greatest charms of my existence? What close and searching scrutiny of motives creeps on with years! what distrust, and what suspicion! It is this same sentiment--the fruit of a hundred self-deceptions and disappointments--makes so many men, as they advance in life, abjure Liberalism in politics, and lean to the side of Absolute Rule. The "Practical" exercises the only influence on the mind tempered by long experience; and the glorious tyranny of St. Peter's is infinitely preferable to the miscalled freedom of Popular Government.

The present Pope, however our Radical friends think of it, is no unworthy successor of Hildebrand; and however plausible be the a.s.sumed reforms in his States, the real thraldom, the great slavery, remains untouched! "Hands Free, Souls Fettered," is strange heraldry.

Why have these thoughts crept over me? I would rather dwell on very different themes; but already, far over the mountains westward, comes the distant sound of strife. The dark clouds that are hurrying over the lofty summit of Monte Brisbone are wafted from regions where armed hosts are gathering, and the cry of battle is heard; and Switzerland, whose war-trophies have been won from the invader, is about to be torn by civil strife. Even in my ride to-day towards Lugano, I met parties of peasants armed, and wearing the c.o.c.kade of Ticino in their hats, hastening towards Capo di Lago. The spectacle was a sad one; the field labours of the year, just begun, are already arrested; the plough is seen standing in the unfinished furrow, and the team is away to share the fortunes of its owners in the panoply of battle. These new-made soldiers, too, with all the loutish indifference of the peasant in their air, have none of the swaggering effrontery of regular troops, and consequently present more palpably to the eye the sufferings of a population given up to conscription and torn from their peaceful homes to scenes of carnage and bloodshed, and for what?--for an opinion? for even less than an opinion: for a suspicion--a mere doubt.

Who will be eager in this cause on either side? None, save those that never are to mingle in the contest. The firebrand Journalist of Geneva--the dark-intentioned Jesuit of Lucerne; these are they who will accept of no quarter, nor listen to one cry of mercy: such, at least, is the present aspect of the struggle. Lukewarmness, if not actual repugnance, among the soldiery; hatred supplying all the enthusiasm of those who hound them on.

The Howards are already uneasy at their vicinity to the seat of war, and speak of proceeding southward; yet they will not hear of my leaving them. I feel spell-bound, not only to them but to the very place itself; a presentiment is upon me, that, after this, life will have no pleasure left for me--that I go hence to solitude, to suffering, and to death!

A restless night, neither waking nor sleeping, but pa.s.sed in wild, strange fancies, of reality and fiction commingled; and now, I am feverish and ill. The struggle against failing health is at last become torture; for I feel--alas that I must say it!--the longing desire to live. Towards daybreak I did sleep, and soundly; but I dreamed too--and how happily! I fancied that I was suddenly restored to health, with all the light-heartedness and spring of former days, and returning with my bride to Walcott.

We were driving rapidly up the approach, catching glimpses at times of the old abbey--now a gable--now some richly traceried pinnacle--some quaint old chimney--some trellised porch. She was wild with delight, in ecstasy at the sylvan beauty of the scene: the dark and silent wood--the brown, clear river, beside the road--the cooing note of the wood-pigeon, all telling of our own rural England. "Is not this better than ambition, love?" said I. "Are not leafy groves, these moss-grown paths, more peaceful than the high-roads of fame?" I felt her hand grasp mine more closely, and I awoke--awoke to know that I was dreaming--that my happiness was but a vision--my future a mere mockery.

Why should not Lucy see these scenes? She will return well and in strength. I would that she would dwell, sometimes, at least, among the places I have loved so much. I have often thought of making her my heir.

I have none to claim from me--none who need it. There is one clause, however, she might object to, nay, perhaps, would certainly refuse. My grand-uncle's will makes it imperative that the property should always descend to a Templeton.

What if she rejected the condition? It would fall heavily on me were she to say "No."

I will speak to Sir Gordon about this. I must choose my time, however, and do it gravely and considerately, that he may not treat it as a mere sick man's fancy. Of course, I only intend that she should a.s.sume the name and arms; but this branch of the Howards are strong about pedigree, and call themselves older than the Norfolks.

So there is no time to be lost in execution of my plan. The Favancourts are expected here to-morrow, on their way to Naples. The very thought of their coming is misery to me. How I dread the _persiflage_ of the beauty "_en vogue;_" the heartless raillery that is warmed by no genial trait; the spiritless levity that smacks neither of wit nor buoyant youth, but is the mere coinage of the salons! How I dread, too, lest Lucy should imitate her! she so p.r.o.ne to catch up a trait of manner, or a trick of gesture! And Lady Blanche can make herself fascinating enough to be a model. To hear once more the dull recital of that world's follies that I have left, its endless round of tiresome vice, would be a heavy infliction. Alas, that I should have gained no more by my experience than to despise it! But stay--I see Sir Howard yonder, near the lake.

Now for my project!

CHAPTER VII. _La Spezzia_

Another month, or nearly so, has elapsed since last I opened this book; and now, as I look back, I feel like a convict who has slept soundly during the night before his doom, and pa.s.sed in forgetful-ness the hours he had vowed to thought and reflection. I was reading Victor Hugo's "Dernier Jour d'un Cond.a.m.ne" last evening, and falling asleep with it in my hand, traced out in my dreams a strange a.n.a.logy between my own fate and that of the convicted felon. The seductions and attractions of life crowding faster and faster round one as we near the gate of death--the redoubled anxieties of friends, their kinder sympathies--how delightful would these be if they did not suggest the wish to live! But, alas!

the sunbeam lights not only the road before us, but that we have been travelling also, and one is so often tempted to look back and linger! To understand this love of life, one must stand as I do now; and yet, who would deem that one so lonely and so desolate, so friendless and alone, would care to live? It is so, however: sorrow attaches us more strongly than joy; and the world becomes dearer to us in affliction as violets give out their sweetest odours when pressed.

Let me recall something of the last few weeks, and remember, if I can, why and how I am here alone. My last written sentence was dated "Como, the 29th October," and then comes a blank--now to fill it up.

Sir Gordon Howard was standing near the lake as I came up with him, nor was he aware of my approach till I had my hand on his arm. Whether that I had disturbed him in a moment of deep thought, or that something in my own sad and sickly face impressed him, I know not, but he did not speak, and merely drawing my arm within his own, we wandered along the waters edge. We sauntered slowly on till we came to a little moss-house, with stone benches, where, still in silence, we sat down. It belonged to the Villa d'Este, and was one of those many little ornamental buildings that were erected by that most unhappy Princess, whose broken heart would seem inscribed on every tree and rock around.

To me the aspect of the spot, lovely as it is, has ever been a.s.sociated with deep gloom. I never could tread the walks, nor sit to gaze upon the lake from chosen points of view, without my memory full of her who, in her exile, pined and suffered there. I know nothing of her history, save what all others know; I am neither defender nor apologist--too humble and too weak for either. I would but utter one cry for mercy on a memory that still is dearly cherished by the poor who dwelt around her, and by whom she is yet beloved.

Whatever were Sir Gordon's thoughts, it was clear the few efforts he made to converse were not in accordance with them. The rumours of disturbance in Switzerland--the increasing watchfulness on the Lombard frontier--the growing feeling of uncertainty where and how far this new discord might extend--these he spoke of, but rather as it seemed to mask other themes, than because they were uppermost in his mind.

"We must think of leaving this," said he, after a brief pause. "'Where to?' is the question. How would Genoa agree with _you?_"

"With _me!_ Let there be no question of _me_."

"Nay, but there must," said he, eagerly. "Remember, first of all, that we are now independent of Climate, at least of all that this side of the Alps possesses; and, secondly, bethink you that _you_ are the pilot that weathered the storm for us."

"Happily, then," said I, laughing, or endeavouring to laugh, "I may sing,--

'The waves are laid, My duties paid.'

I must seek out some harbour of refuge and be at rest.'"

"But with us, Templeton--always with us," said the old man, affectionately.

"Upon one condition, Sir Gordon--short of that I refuse."

I fear me, that in my anxiety to subdue a rising emotion I threw into these words an accent of almost stern and obstinate resolution; for as he replied, "Name your condition," his own voice a.s.sumed a tone of cold reserve.

It was full a minute before I could resume; not only was the subject one that I dreaded to approach from fear of failure, but I felt that I had already endangered my chance of success by the inopportune moment of its introduction. Retreat was out of the question, and I went on. As much to give myself time for a little forethought, as to provide myself with a certain impulse for the coming effort, as leapers take a run before they spring, I threw out a hasty sketch of the late events of my life before leaving England, and the reasons that induced me to come abroad. "I knew well," said I, "better far than all the skill of physicians could teach, that no chance of recovery remained for me; Science had done its utmost: the machine had, however, been wound up for the last time--its wheels and springs would bear no more. Nothing remained, then, but to economise the hours, and let them glide by with as little restriction as might be.

There was but one alloy to this plan--its selfishness; but when may a man practise egotism so pardonably as when about to part with what comprises it?

"I came away from England, then, with that same sentiment that made the condemned captain beg he might be bled to death rather than fall beneath the axe. I would, if possible, have my last days and hours calm and unruffled, even by fear--little dreaming how vain are all such devices to cheat one's destiny, and that death is never so terrible as when life becomes dear. Yes, my friend, such has been my fate; in the calm happiness of home here--the first time I ever knew the word's true meaning--I learned to wish for life, for days of that peaceful happiness where the present is tempered by the past, and hope has fewer checks, because it comes more chastened by experience. You little thought, that in making my days thus blissful my sorrow to part with them would be a heavy recompense.... Nay, hear me out; words of encouragement only increase my misery--they give not hope, they only awaken fresh feelings of affection, so soon to be cold for ever."

How I approached the subject on which my heart was set I cannot now remember--abruptly, I fear; imperfectly and dubiously I know: because Sir Gordon, one of the most patient and forbearing of men, suddenly interrupted me by a violent exclamation, "Hold! stay! not a word more!

Templeton, this cannot be; once for all, never recur to this again!"

Shocked, almost terrified by the agitation in his looks, I was unable to speak for some seconds; and while I saw that some misconception of my meaning had occurred, yet, in the face of his prohibition, I could scarcely dare an attempt to rectify it. While I remained thus in painful uncertainty, he seemed, by a strong effort, to have subdued his emotion, and at length said, "Not even to you, my dear friend--to you, to whom I owe the hope that has sustained me for many a day past, can I reveal the secret source of this sorrow, nor say why what you propose is impossible. I dreaded something like this--I foresaw how it might be; nay, my selfishness was such that I rejoiced at it, for her sake.

There--there, I will not trust myself with more. Leave me, Templeton; whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine."

I left him, and, hastening towards the lake side, soon lost myself in the dark groves of chestnut and olive, the last words still ringing in my ears--"Whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to mine."