"Quite well; I saw her before I left Hill Street. She wished me to come alone, as she would not be here early.

"I hope she will be in time for the royal supper table; I quite count on her."

"She is sure to be here."

Lord Hainault was in earnest conversation with Baron Sergius, now the minister of King Florestan at the Court of St. James'. It was a wise appointment, for Sergius knew intimately all the English statesmen of eminence, and had known them for many years. They did not look upon him as the mere representative of a revolutionary and parvenu sovereign; he was quite one of themselves, had graduated at the Congress of Vienna, and, it was believed, had softened many subsequent difficulties by his sagacity. He had always been a cherished guest at Apsley House, and it was known the great duke often consulted him. "As long as Sergius sways his councils, He will indulge in no adventures," said Europe. "As long as Sergius remains here, the English alliance is safe," said England.

After Europe and England, the most important confidence to obtain was that of Lord Hainault, and Baron Sergius had not been unsuccessful in that respect.

"Your master has only to be liberal and steady," said Lord Hainault, with his accustomed genial yet half-sarcastic smile, "and he may have anything he likes. But we do not want any wars; they are not liked in the City."

"Our policy is peace," said Sergius.

"I think we ought to congratulate Sir Peter," said Mr. Waldershare to Adriana, with whom he had been dancing, and whom he was leading back to Lady Hainault. "Sir Peter, here is a lady who wishes to congratulate you on your deserved elevation."

"Well, I do not know what to say about it," said the former Mr. Vigo, highly gratified, but a little confused; "my friends would have it."

"Ay, ay," said Waldershare, "'at the request of friends;' the excuse I gave for publishing my sonnets." And then, advancing, he delivered his charge to her _chaperon_, who looked dreamy, abstracted, and uninterested.

"We have just been congratulating the new baronet, Sir Peter Vigo," said Waldershare.

"Ah!" said Lady Hainault with a contemptuous sigh, "he is, at any rate, not obliged to change his name. The desire to change one's name does indeed appear to me to be a singular folly. If your name had been disgraced, I could understand it, as I could understand a man then going about in a mask. But the odd thing is, the persons who always want to change their names are those whose names are the most honoured."

"Oh, you are here!" said Mr. St. Barbe acidly to Mr. Seymour Hicks. "I think you are everywhere. I suppose they will make you a baronet next.

Have you seen the batch? I could not believe my eyes when I read it.

I believe the government is demented. Not a single literary man among them. Not that I wanted their baronetcy. Nothing would have tempted me to accept one. But there is Gushy; he, I know, would have liked it. I must say I feel for Gushy; his works only selling half what they did, and then thrown over in this insolent manner!"

"Gushy is not in society," said Mr. Seymour Hicks in a solemn tone of contemptuous pity.

"That is society," said St. Barbe, as he received a bow of haughty grace from Mrs. Rodney, who, fascinating and fascinated, was listening to the enamoured murmurs of an individual with a very bright star and a very red ribbon.

"I dined with the Rodneys yesterday," said Mr. Seymour Hicks; "they do the thing well."

"You dined there!" exclaimed St. Barbe. "It is very odd, they have never asked me. Not that I would have accepted their invitation. I avoid parvenus. They are too fidgety for my taste. I require repose, and only dine with the old n.o.bility."

CHAPTER Lx.x.xXIX

The Right Honourable Job Thornberry and Mrs. Thornberry had received an invitation to the Montfort ball. Job took up the card, and turned it over more than once, and looked at it as if it were some strange animal, with an air of pleased and yet cynical perplexity; then he shrugged his shoulders and murmured to himself, "No, I don't think that will do.

Besides, I must be at Hurstley by that time."

Going to Hurstley now was not so formidable an affair as it was in Endymion's boyhood. Then the journey occupied a whole and wearisome day. Little Hurstley had become a busy station of the great Slap-Bang railway, and a despatch train landed you at the bustling and flourishing hostelry, our old and humble friend, the Horse Shoe, within the two hours. It was a rate that satisfied even Thornberry, and almost reconciled him to the too frequent presence of his wife and family at Hurstley, a place to which Mrs. Thornberry had, it would seem, become pa.s.sionately attached.

"There is a charm about the place, I must say," said Job to himself, as he reached his picturesque home on a rich summer evening; "and yet I hated it as a boy. To be sure, I was then discontented and unhappy, and now I have every reason to be much the reverse. Our feelings affect even scenery. It certainly is a pretty place; I really think one of the prettiest places in England."

Job was cordially welcomed. His wife embraced him, and the younger children clung to him with an affection which was not diminished by the remembrance that their father never visited them with empty hands. His eldest son, a good-looking and well-grown stripling, just home for the holidays, stood apart, determined to show he was a man of the world, and superior to the weakness of domestic sensibility. When the hubbub was a little over, he advanced and shook hands with his father with a certain dignity.

"And when did you arrive, my boy? I was looking up your train in Bradshaw as I came along. I made out you should get the branch at Culvers Gate."

"I drove over," replied the son; "I and a friend of mine drove tandem, and I'll bet we got here sooner than we should have done by the branch."

"Hem!" said Job Thornberry.

"Job," said Mrs. Thornberry, "I have made two engagements for you this evening. First, we will go and see your father, and then we are to drink tea at the rectory."

"Hem!" said Job Thornberry; "well, I would rather the first evening should have been a quiet one; but let it be so."

The visit to the father was kind, dutiful, and wearisome. There was not a single subject on which the father and son had thoughts in common. The conversation of the father took various forms of expressing his wonder that his son had become what he was, and the son could only smile, and turn the subject, by asking after the produce of some particular field that had been prolific or obstinate in the old days. Mrs. Thornberry looked absent, and was thinking of the rectory; the grandson who had accompanied them was silent and supercilious; and everybody felt relieved when Mrs. Thornberry, veiling her impatience by her fear of keeping her father-in-law up late, made a determined move and concluded the domestic ceremony.

The rectory afforded a lively contrast to the late scene. Mr. and Mrs.

Penruddock were full of intelligence and animation. Their welcome of Mr. Thornberry was exactly what it ought to have been; respectful, even somewhat differential, but cordial and unaffected. They conversed on all subjects, public and private, and on both seemed equally well informed, for they not only read more than one newspaper, but Mrs. Penruddock had an extensive correspondence, the conduct of which was one of the chief pleasures and excitements of her life. Their tea-equipage, too, was a picture of abundance and refinement. Such pretty china, and such various and delicious cakes! White bread, and brown bread, and plum cakes, and seed cakes, and no end of cracknels, and toasts, dry or b.u.t.tered. Mrs.

Thornberry seemed enchanted and gushing with affection,--everybody was dear or dearest. Even the face of John Hampden beamed with condescending delight as he devoured a pyramid of dainties.

Just before the tea-equipage was introduced Mrs. Penruddock rose from her seat and whispered something to Mrs. Thornberry, who seemed pleased and agitated and a little blushing, and then their hostess addressed Job and said, "I was mentioning to your wife that the archbishop was here, and that I hope you would not dislike meeting him."

And very shortly after this, the archbishop, who had been taking a village walk, entered the room. It was evident that he was intimate with the occupiers of Hurstley Hall. He addressed Mrs. Thornberry with the ease of habitual acquaintance, while John Hampden seemed almost to rush into his arms. Job himself had seen his Grace in London, though he had never had the opportunity of speaking to him, but yielded to his cordiality, when the archbishop, on his being named, said, "It is a pleasure to meet an old friend, and in times past a kind one."

It was a most agreeable evening. The archbishop talked to every one, but never seemed to engross the conversation. He talked to the ladies of gardens, and cottages, and a little of books, seemed deeply interested in the studies and progress of the grandson Thornberry, who evidently idolised him; and in due course his Grace was engaged in economical speculations with Job himself, who was quite pleased to find a priest as liberal and enlightened as he was able and thoroughly informed. An hour before midnight they separated, though the archbishop attended them to the hall.

Mrs. Thornberry's birthday was near at hand, which Job always commemorated with a gift. It had commenced with some severe offering, like "Paradise Lost," then it fell into the gentler form of Tennyson, and, of late, unconsciously under the influence of his wife, it had taken the shape of a bracelet or a shawl.

This evening, as he was rather feeling his way as to what might please her most, Mrs. Thornberry embracing him, and hiding her face on his breast, murmured, "Do not give me any jewel, dear Job. What I should like would be that you should restore the chapel here."

"Restore the chapel here! oh, oh!" said Job Thornberry.

CHAPTER XC

The archbishop called at Hurstley House the next day. It was a visit to Mr. Thornberry, but all the family were soon present, and cl.u.s.tered round the visitor. Then they walked together in the gardens, which had become radiant under the taste and unlimited expenditure of Mrs.

Thornberry; beds glowing with colour or rivalling mosaics, choice conifers with their green or purple fruit, and rare roses with their fanciful and beauteous names; one, by the by, named "Mrs. Penruddock,"

and a very gorgeous one, "The Archbishop."

As they swept along the terraces, restored to their pristine comeliness, and down the green avenues bounded by copper beeches and ancient yews, where men were sweeping away every leaf and twig that had fallen in the night and marred the consummate order, it must have been difficult for the Archbishop of Tyre not to recall the days gone by, when this brilliant and finished scene, then desolate and neglected, the abode of beauty and genius, yet almost of penury, had been to him a world of deep and familiar interest. Yes, he was walking in the same glade where he had once pleaded his own cause with an eloquence which none of his most celebrated sermons had excelled. Did he think of this? If he did, it was only to wrench the thought from his memory. Archbishops who are yet young, who are resolved to be cardinals, and who may be popes, are superior to all human weakness.

"I should like to look at your chapel," said his Grace to Mr.

Thornberry; "I remember it a lumber room, and used to mourn over its desecration."

"I never was in it," said Job, "and cannot understand why my wife is so anxious about it as she seems to be. When we first went to London, she always sate under the Reverend Socinus Frost, and seemed very satisfied.

I have heard him; a sensible man--but sermons are not much in my way, and I do not belong to his sect, or indeed any other."

However, they went to the chapel all the same, for Mrs. Thornberry was resolved on the visit. It was a small chamber but beautifully proportioned, like the mansion itself--of a blended Italian and Gothic style. The roof was flat, but had been richly gilt and painted, and was sustained by corbels of angels, divinely carved. There had been some pews in the building; some had fallen to pieces, and some remained, but these were not in the original design. The sacred table had disappeared, but two saintly statues, sculptured in black oak, seemed still to guard the spot which it had consecrated.

"I wonder what became of the communion table?" said Job.

"Oh! my dear father, do not call it a communion table," exclaimed John Hampden pettishly.

"Why, what should I call it, my boy?"