CHAPTER XVIII.
INTRODUCTION.
In the ancestral presence of the dead
Sits a lone power; a veil upon the head,
Stern with the terror of an unseen dread.
It sitteth cold, immutable, and still,
Girt with eternal consciousness of ill,
And strong and silent as its own dark will.
We are the victims of its iron rule,
The warm and beating human heart its tool,
And man immortal, godlike, but its fool.
The church clock struck two, an example followed, during the next quarter of an hour, by half a dozen timepieces, as Courtenaye and his companion entered the room where Sir George Kingston, half dressed, half lounged, the morning away. The walls were hung with damask, of a rich Indian red; he used to contend, that pale colours were a mistake in a sombre atmosphere like that of England.
"Very well to subdue the glowing noon of Italy with your cold sea-green, but here we need a little interior crimson, to remind us that there is such a thing as warmth in the world."
Several pictures, all representing human and beautiful life, hung round; and china and toys, that a lady might have envied, were scattered about. The windows looked over the park, and were filled with exotics; while panes of coloured glass threw rainbow gleams of coloured light over the alabaster vases, and one or two exquisite statues. The breakfast table was drawn to the open casement; and, in the large arm-chair beside was Lavinia, dressed fancifully, somewhat over richly for the morning, but looking both picturesque and handsome. Sir George was thrown, at full length, on the sofa; a small table, covered with books, drawn close towards him; among which, the plays, poems, and pamphlets of Maynard were conspicuous.
"Punctual to the moment!" exclaimed he: "what a bad heart, Courtenaye, you must have! I can understand no other motive for a man's being punctual, but a desire of putting all the rest of the world to shame."
"I had no such magnificent motive," replied Norbourne, smiling: "my only one was to introduce Mr. Maynard to you."
"I can forgive punctuality in such a cause," said Sir George, with his most courteous manner; "but I rather feel," glancing at the table, "as if I were renewing my acquaintance with an old friend, than making a new one."
Walter could not but feel gratified by such a reception.
"I need not," continued his host, "present you to Lavinia, she being your own especial creation. Pray, did you make your 'Coquette' for her?"
"Say, rather," interrupted the actress, "that I made it for him. But that reminds me that our parts are to be cast in the new opera to-day: mine is to he all sweetness and simplicity!"
"Nay," said Mr. Courtenaye, "do not leave us so soon!"
"I cannot afford," said she, laughing, "to lose a single air or grace on your account. What is the homage of three cavaliers, compared with that of half the town?" and, rising from her seat, she left the room, humming one of those delicious airs, which afterward made the Beggars' Opera so popular.
"That last speech," exclaimed Sir George,
'Might serve as motto to all womankind;'
it is the much and the many for which they care!"
"I am amazed," interrupted Norbourne, "to hear you say so; you, who have so many devoted to you, and you only!"
"That is the very reason they are devoted; if I had only myself to offer, who would care for that? but when the triumph is over half a dozen rivals, even my unworthy self becomes an object of consideration! It is not," continued Kingston, "that they wish so much to have me themselves, as to take me away from others!"
"Do you never," asked Walter, "fear the fate of Orpheus?"
"Oh! that," replied Sir George, languidly, "was merely an allegory of my actual existence. I, literally, am torn to pieces; I shall be obliged to marry some day, by way of protection!
'Ay, there are moments when my thoughts disclose
A dreadful moment, dark with future woes!"
at present, however, I have no intention of allowing any woman to carry so selfish a design into execution!"
"'Bold were her deed who sought in chains to bind
The great destroyer of half womankind!'"
replied Courtenaye.
"Really, we ought not to broach such melancholy subjects," exclaimed Sir George, "my spirits are not equal to them of a morning. Here, La Fleu! bring some champagne, and do let us talk of something less alarming! Have you read Pope's last three books of the 'Odyssey?'"
"Yes," answered Maynard, to whom the question was addressed: "Pope reverses the former system of writing: the ancients traced their characters in wax, but his are transcribed in honey!"
"What diverts me the most," continued Sir George, " is, Ulysses being always called 'the much enduring man.' After all his ten years of wandering are past, pleasantly enough, the greater portion of them being spent with Circe and Calypso—to be sure, it was rather tiresome staying so long with the last—how he must have enjoyed his flirtation with the Phœnician princess!"
"Certainly, this is a new view to take of Ulysses!" replied Courtenaye.
"The truth is always a novelty," returned Kingston; "but I have always considered the patient Ulysses, the model of a classical coquette: you may get many useful hints from his career."
"I shall go home at once," said Norbourne, rising, "and begin to study the 'Odyssey' on new principles!"
"The blue-eyed goddess forbid that I should interfere with any such laudable intention! but you must return to dinner," said Sir George, "and then Mr. Maynard and I will tell you how we like each other; not but what I have quite made up my mind on the subject."
The next hour was devoted to making a favourable impression on his secretary during their tête-à-tête, and in this he completely succeeded. Walter could scarcely help being pleased with the graceful flattery of his host, which, to him, seemed to be so wholly without motive; but, to be popular, was Sir George's passion; moreover, he fully intended to use Maynard's talents to the utmost, and he knew enough of human nature to know, that when we serve those we like, the service is well performed. He showed the stranger to his rooms, attended to several minute arrangements for his comfort, and ended by shewing him into the library, where every luxury of literature was lavished.
"And now," said he, balancing himself on one of the tables, "as I intend we are to be friends, I must tell you my faults; or, rather, my fault. Do you remember what some one wrote over the grave of Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans? 'Ci-gît l'oisiveté' idleness being the mother of all the vices, these said vices being all very accurately represented by her daughters. I do not know whether idleness has been quite so productive with me, but I know that it is my besetting sin; I hate being obliged to do any thing; I want you to do every thing that I ought; to write for me, think for me, feel for me!"
"I perceive," exclaimed Maynard, laughing, "that mine is not to be a sinecure office!"
"Oh," returned the other, "you may always leave, at least, half undone of whatever I ask you to do; I only make an exception in favour of my love-letters; there you may do a little more: in those sort of affairs, it is always safe to exaggerate!"
"You do not mean to say," exclaimed the secretary, looking the surprise he felt, "that I am to write your love-letters?"
"Indeed I do!" answered Sir George: "you will find it a great deal more amusing than if I wanted you to write either pamphlets or speeches. The fact is, that I am too good an actor to succeed as an author. I do assure you, that when en scene, I am often surprised at my own readiness of resource, but I need stimulus. I cannot sit down by myself, and fill four sides of paper, which said time might be so much more amusingly employed; no, life is not long enough to write letters!"
"But how," cried Walter, "can I possibly know what to say?"
"You must invent!" replied the other: "fancy that you are in love with the lady yourself!"
"But what I might like to say, may or may not suit the circumstances."
"Oh," said Sir George, "I shall give you the outline, but the filling up must rest with yourself. There, sit down in that arm-chair; love-letters should always be written in a comfortable position!"
Walter obeyed; and, drawing towards him the mother-of-pearl inkstand, prepared to begin.
"I have only three affairs," continued Kingston,"on my hands at present, of sufficient importance to warrant my committing pen, ink, and paper, which always appears to me an expedient to be reserved for the last extremity of une grande passion. To one only of these do I propose drawing your attention this morning."
He opened an embroidered portfolio; and, from its perfumed depths, took out a letter, which he began to read aloud. Involuntarily, Walter became interested; there was an earnest sadness, and a poetry about it, which spoke no common writer.
"You see," said Sir George, throwing it down on the table for Walter to see if he liked it, though it never even entered into Maynard's head to look at it, "there is scope for your genius. She is romantic—clever—needs excitement; and, therefore, flavours her affection with a handsome seasoning of remorse. I shall expect a master-piece from you to-night; till then adieu, and pray feel as much at home with me as I do with you. By the by," added he, turning back from the door, "be sure you fill the paper; women judge of the strength of your attachment by the length of your letters!"
Walter drew the papers towards him; at first he hesitated, but the pride of art gradually arose. The letter soon became mere matter of composition; it was written, the writer fully satisfied with his own impassioned eloquence, and then put aside for Sir George's approval. This completed, Walter leant back in his chair, and gave way to a pleasant wonder at the change in his own situation. In the morning he had scarcely known which way to turn;—poor, harassed, overworked. Now, he had a luxurious home, a certain salary, and might work little or much, as he pleased.
"What a folly," exclaimed he, "are our own exertions; every thing depends upon a lucky chance in this world!"
Walter was wrong; but I own I tremble at the fatality which sometimes seems to hang over our slightest actions. How often do we find ourselves involved in sudden misery and unhappiness, by circumstances over which we have no control! and we ask bitterly; "What have I done to deserve this?" Not in this world will be the answer!