The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Galaxy, March, 1877This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Galaxy, March, 1877Author: VariousRelease date: January 29, 2011 [eBook #35112]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Carol Ann Brown, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozierand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GALAXY, MARCH, 1877 ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Galaxy, March, 1877Author: VariousRelease date: January 29, 2011 [eBook #35112]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Carol Ann Brown, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozierand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net.
Title: The Galaxy, March, 1877
Author: Various
Author: Various
Release date: January 29, 2011 [eBook #35112]Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Carol Ann Brown, Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozierand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GALAXY, MARCH, 1877 ***
More than one reader must have felt impatient with Milton for spoiling the fine epitaph on the Marchioness of Winchester with such unfortunate lines as "A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir," and "No Marchioness, but now a queen." Probably the expressions sounded less absurd to his contemporaries than they do to us, for titles of nobility, however unworthily conferred, had more significance in the reign of James I. than they bear in the reign of Queen Victoria. The memorable despatch in which Collingwood announced the victory of Trafalgar, and which has been described by great writers as a masterpiece of simple narration began with these words: "Sir: The ever to be lamented death of Vice Admiral Lord Viscount Nelson, in the moment of victory," etc. Now peers of all ranks, except the highest, are commonly spoken of under the general designation of "Lord So-and-So," and are rarely accorded in conversation the honors of "my lord," or "your lordship." Generally speaking, it may be said that in England titles, like decorations, are still greedily sought after, but when won are not openly displayed. They are felt by their bearers to be an anachronism, though no doubt a sufficiently agreeable one to those most immediately concerned.
Successive governments give as large a share of patronage to the peers and baronets, and their kinsfolk, as they reasonably can; while the Premier is only too glad to select men of rank as his colleagues in the Cabinet, if they are only possessed of decent abilities, and will work—for a minister must be a hard worker in these days. Thus, Mr. Gladstone's administration, the first which was ever designated as "Radical," contained a large proportion of the aristocratic element in its ranks, though it was even made a charge against Mr. Gladstone by conservative and pseudo-liberal papers, that he unjustly deprived the peerage of its due representation in the Cabinet.
As a matter of fact, when the Cabinet resigned it consisted of sixteen members. Of these, eight were peers or sons of peers. Of the remaining thirty-six Parliamentary members of the administration, fourteen were peers or sons of peers. Mr. Disraeli's Cabinet numbers but twelve ministers. Of these six are peers, another is heir presumptive to a dukedom; while an eighth is a baronet; and of the remaining members of the administration, nineteen out of thirty-eight are peers, baronets, or sons of peers. In the army and navy, in the diplomatic service, the peerage equally secures its full share of prizes; and even in the legal profession it is far from being a disadvantage to a young barrister that his name figures in the pages of Burke. In the Church a large proportion of the best livings are held by members of the same privileged class, and even the Stock Exchange lately showed itself eager to confer such honors as were in its gift on a duke's son, who had been courageous enough to "go into trade."
The British aristocracy is still, therefore, "a fact," if a favorite term of Mr. Carlyle's may be permitted in such a connexion, as it probably may, for the author of "The French Revolution" has himself been one of the latest eulogists of the governing families of England, and perhaps a few notes on the origin and history of some of the principal houses may not be unacceptable to American readers.
The House of Lords, as at present constituted, consists of something less than five hundred temporal peers. The first in order of hereditary precedence, after the princes of the blood royal, is the Duke of Norfolk, a blameless young gentleman of eight-and-twenty years, and a zealous Catholic, as it is generally supposed that a Howard is compelled to be by a mysterious law of his nature. As a matter of fact, however, no family in England has changed its religion so often. Henry Charles, thirteenth duke, seceded from the Church of Rome on the occasion of the papal aggression. He declared himself convinced that "ultramontane opinions were totally incompatible with allegiance to the sovereign and the Constitution." The Duke's expression of opinion might have had more weight with his coreligionists had his own reputation for wisdom stood higher. But it stood very low. His Grace had made himself very conspicuous during the agitation for the repeal of the corn laws by recommending a curry powder of his own manufacture as a substitute for bread, which singular piece of advice to a starving people earned him the sobriquet of "Curry Norfolk." Charles, eleventh duke, also renounced the old faith about the year 1780. He had not yet succeeded to his title, but was known as the Earl of Surrey; was immediately returned to Parliament for one of his father's boroughs. (The dukes of Norfolk had eleven boroughs at their disposition before the passing of the reform bill.) He was a notable personage in his day, and acted in concert with the party of Fox. For giving the toast of "The people, our Sovereign," at a public dinner he was deprived of his lord-lieutenancy and of his colonelcy of militia. He was remarkable, too, for a dislike of clean linen, which his friends were grieved to see him carry to excess.[A]Three other Howards of the same stock are more honorably distinguished in their country's annals. They are the victor of Flodden and two of his grandsons; the one the Surrey of history and romance, the other, Charles Lord Howard of Effingham, the conqueror of the Spanish Armada. The origin of the family is involved in obscurity, some maintaining that it sprung from the famous Hereward, the Wake, of whose name they affirm Howard to be a corruption; while others assert that the word Howard is neither more nor less than a euphonious form of Hogward, and that the premier duke and hereditary Earl Marshal of England might ultimately trace his descent to a swineherd if he were disposed so to do. The first Howard of whom genealogists can take serious cognizance was a respectable judge of the court of common pleas in the reigns of Edward I. and Edward II. (1297-1308). His descendant was ennobled in the reign of Edward IV.
Next on the roll of the Lords to the Duke of Norfolk is Edward St. Maur, the Duke of Somerset, an extremely clever man, "with a passion for saying disagreeable things." He recently published a smart attack on the evidences of Christianity, which occasioned not a little difficulty to some worthy editors. They were sincere Christians, but it jarred against their feelings to speak harshly of a duke. The St. Maurs (or Seymours) are of genuine Norman descent, and began to be heard of in the thirteenth century. They apparently remained estimable till the time of Henry VIII., when that uxorious monarch married Jane, the daughter of Sir John Seymour, by whom he became the father of Edward VI. Strangely enough, Jane's brother, Lord Seymour of Sudeley, afterward married Henry's widow, and the knot of family relationships becomes a little complicated in consequence. More inauspicious unions were never contracted. Lord Seymour was executed by order of his brother, the Protector (and first Duke of Somerset), and three years later the Protector's death-warrant was signed by his own nephew. From the close of this short chronicle of blood, the Seymours practically disappear from the pages of English history, though Macaulay has left a graphic picture of that Sir Edward Seymour who was Speaker of the House of Commons under Charles II., and who proudly replied to William III., when asked if he belonged to the Duke of Somerset's family, that "the Duke of Somerset belonged to his family." Francis, fifth duke, was the occasion of a few days' gossip and much scandal. During his travels in Italy he visited the convent of the Augustinians at Lerice, where he was foolish enough to offer an impertinence to some ladies of the family of Botti, and was shot by an angry Signor Botti a few hours later. His brother Charles, who succeeded him, is the hero of a less tragic story. His second wife, Lady Charlotte Finch, once tapped him with her fan, when he is said to have rebuked her in these terms: "Madam, my first wife was a Percy, and she never ventured to take such a liberty." He was known among his contemporaries as "the proud Duke of Somerset."
The next of the ducal houses in order of precedence traces its descent from Charles II. and Louisa de Querouaille, "whom our rude ancestors called Madam Carwell." The Dukes of Richmond have always been known as honorable gentlemen, but they have left no mark on the political history of England. The present Duke is perhaps the most distinguished man of his family, being leader of the Conservative party in the House of Lords, and, as is generally thought, Mr. Disraeli's destined successor in the Premiership. The third Duke held high office in the early part of the reign of George III.; while his nephew, Colonel Lennox, who afterward succeeded him in the title, had the honor of fighting a duel with a son of George III. Neither of the combatants suffered any hurt, and Colonel Lennox was reserved for the most melancholy of deaths; falling, thirty years after, a victim to hydrophobia, caused by the bite of a dog. His royal antagonist was Frederic, Duke of York, who subsequently became Commander-in-Chief of the British army in the most inglorious period of its annals. Indeed, so disgraceful was his Royal Highness's conduct of the campaign of 1794, that Pitt demanded one of two things from the King; viz., either that the Prince should be brought before a court-martial, or that the Prime Minister should in future have the right of appointing to great military commands. It must have cost George III. a bitter pang to accept the latter alternative.
The Duke of Grafton, who holds the fourth place on Garter's Roll, is equally descended from his Majesty, King Charles II., of happy memory. Henry Fitzroy, son of Barbara Villiers (created Duchess of Cleveland), was raised to the highest rank in the peerage, as Duke of Grafton, in 1675. He was one of the first to desert his uncle's cause in 1688, and two years later he died a soldier's death under the walls of Cork, fighting for William III. and the liberties of England. His great grandson was Augustus Henry, third Duke of Grafton, who may still be seen gibbeted in the pages of Junius. His Grace was a member of Chatham's second ministry, and succeeded his chief in the Premiership. Of other Dukes of Grafton history makes no special mention.
The fifth of the dukes in order of precedence quarters the royal arms of France and England, but without the bâton sinister. Henry Charles Fitzroy Somerset, Duke of Beaufort, is lineally descended from "oldJohn of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster" (third son of Edward III.) and Catherine Swinford. John of Gaunt's children by this union were afterward legitimatized by act of Parliament. Henry, the second son, took holy orders, and became Bishop of Lincoln, and afterward of Winchester, as well as Cardinal and Lord Chancellor. He is the Cardinal Beaufort who figures in the stately Gallery of Shakespeare. He and his brothers took the name they bore from the Castle of Beaufort, in Anjou, the place of their nativity. The Cardinal's elder brother was created Earl and afterward Marquis of Somerset. His descendant, Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, fell into the hands of the Yorkists, at the battle of Hexham, and was succeeded in the family honors by his brother Edmund, who was soon to share the same fate. With him the legitimate male line of John of Gaunt became extinct. Duke Henry, however, had left a natural son, who was called Charles Somerset, and who, to use the appropriate language of chronological dictionaries, "flourished" in the reigns of Henry VII. and Henry VIII. He was a brave soldier and a skilful diplomatist; having been chosen a Knight of the Garter; he was also appointed captain of the King's Guards for his services. Sir Charles Somerset obtained in marriage Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of William Herbert, Earl of Huntingdon, and Lord Herbert of Rayland, Chepston, and Gower; and, in his wife's right, was summoned to Parliament as Lord Herbert, in the first year of Henry VIII. In 1514 he was advanced to the Earldom of Worcester, having previously been constituted Lord Chamberlain for life, as a reward for the distinguished part he had in the taking of Terouenne and Tournay. He died in 1526, and was succeeded by his son. Little is heard of the Somersets—Earls of Worcester—during the sixteenth century, though the marriage of two ladies of that house called forth the well-known Epithalamium of Spenser. Henry, the fifth earl, created Marquis of Worcester by Charles I., is celebrated in English history for his defence of Rayland castle against the forces of the Parliament, under Sir Thomas Fairfax. On this subject, Mr. George MacDonald's last novel of "St. George and St. Michael" may be consulted with advantage.
The brave old cavalier did not long survive the surrender and destruction of his ancestral home. The same year he died, and was succeeded in his title by his son Edward, the famous author of the "Century of Inventions." It is scarcely too much to say that had this man been divested of rank and fortune, and had he been furnished with the requisite motive for exertion, he might have anticipated the work of Watt and Stephenson. As it was, the discoveries he made served but to amuse his leisure hours. The Marquis of Worcester was well-nigh the last of his race about whose doings his countrymen would much care to be informed. His son was created Duke of Beaufort in 1682, and with the attainment of the highest rank in the peerage came a cessation of mental activity in the family. One more Somerset, however, deserves honorable mention—Fitzroy, who was aide-de-camp to Wellington, and lost an arm at Waterloo. Raised to the peerage in 1852 as Lord Raglan, he was named two years later to the command of the English army in the Crimea. What he did, and what he did not, in that post, is still remembered. In truth he was a gallant soldier, distracted by contradictory instructions, feeling keenly the criticisms of newspaper writers, who complained that one of the strongest fortresses in the world was not taken in a few weeks. The siege had lasted eight months, when Lord Raglan resolved to make one desperate effort to carry the place by assault on the 18th of June, the fortieth anniversary of Waterloo. The attack failed, and the allies were repulsed with severe loss. Ten days later the English general succumbed to sickness and chagrin.
The Dukes of St. Albans enjoy precedence after the Dukes of Beaufort. William Amelius Aubrey De Vere Beauclerk, present and tenth duke, is lineally descended from the Merry Monarch and Nell Gwynn, and through the marriage of the first duke, from the De Veres, Earls of Oxford. His Grace is Hereditary Grand Falconer, a pleasant little sinecure of some $6,000 a year. Of the Dukes of Saint Albans history has nothing to say. The ninth duke married the widow of Mr. Thomas Coutts, of banking renown.
Next on Garter's roll comes the Duke of Leeds, lineally descended from Thomas Osborne, Earl of Danby and Lord High Treasurer under Charles II., whom Dutch William afterward made Duke of Leeds. Danby (for he is better known by this title than by the one which he dishonored) must be considered to have been an average statesman, and even a patriot, as public spirit then went. He steadily opposed French influence under Charles II., and afterward contributed to the success of the Revolution. He was subsequently impeached by the Commons for taking bribes, but the principal witness on whom the House relied to substantiate the charge mysteriously disappeared when most wanted. From that day, however, the Duke of Leeds was morally extinguished. The subsequent Dukes led worthy and honorable lives, but were not otherwise notable. The seventh married (24th of April, 1828) an American lady, Louisa Catharine, third daughter of Mr. Richard Caton of Maryland, and widow of Sir Felton Bathurst Hervey.
The two next of the ducal houses, those of Bedford and Devonshire, are invested by Whig writers with almost a halo of glory, though in truth they have produced respectable rather than great men. The beginnings of the house of Russell are somewhat curious. One of the earliest ancestors of the family of whom anything is accurately known was Speaker of the House of Commons in the second and tenth years of Henry VI. His grandson, John Russell, a gentleman of property, resided at Berwick, about four miles from Bridport, in the county of Dorset. He was a bookish man, and would probably never have gone to seek out fortune; but fortune, as is her wont, came to him in the person of the Archduke Philip of Austria. This Prince, the son of the reckless Maximilian, having encountered a violent hurricane in his passage from Flanders to Spain, was driven into Weymouth, where he landed, and was hospitably received by a Sir Thomas Trenchard, who immediately wrote to court for instructions. Meanwhile he deputed his first cousin, Mr. Russell, to wait upon the Prince. His Highness was so fascinated by the conversation of Mr. Russell, that he begged that gentleman to accompany him to Windsor, where he spoke of him in such high terms to the King (Henry VII.), that the monarch at once took him into his favor. He subsequently accompanied Henry VIII. in his French wars, and afterward becoming a supple instrument of his master's ecclesiastical policy, was rewarded with a peerage and a grant of the Abbey of Tavistock, and the extensive lands thereto belonging. To these possessions the Protector Somerset added the monastery of Woburn and the Earldom of Bedford. Nor did the star of John Russell grow dim under the reign of the Catholic Mary, who named him Lord Privy Seal, and Ambassador to Spain, to conduct Philip II. to England. He died in 1555. From him were descended various Russells who enjoyed as many of the good things of this life as they could decently lay hands upon, and two of whom were famous men in their day. William, Lord Russell, is best known to posterity as the husband of the admirable Rachael Wriothesley, daughter of Thomas, Earl of Southampton, and widow of Francis, Lord Vaughan. With respect to his execution there has been some difference of opinion; but the probability is that it was a judicial murder of the worst kind. Immediately after the Revolution, Lord Russell's attainder was reversed by Parliament. His widow survived him forty years, and lived to see George I. on the throne and the Protestant succession firmly established. What is not so generally known, perhaps, is that the mother of Lord Russell was the daughter of Carr, Earl of Somerset, by the divorced wife of Essex. She was herself a virtuous lady, and is said to have fallen down in a fit when she first learned the horrible details of her family history.
Lord Russell's cousin was the victor of La Hogue, created Earl of Orford in 1697. He died in 1727 without issue, when the title became extinct—to be renewed fifteen years later in favor of Sir Robert Walpole.
Lord Russell's father was created Duke of Bedford by William III., May 11, 1694. He was succeeded by his grandson, Wriothesley, who was married at the ripe age of fourteen and elevated to a separate peerage the same year. He had previously been requested to come forward as a candidate for the county of Middlesex; but the prudent Lady Russell refused to allow him. In the then state of public opinion he would have been elected without opposition.
The eighteenth century was the golden age of Whig families, at least till George III. became king, and the house of Russell continued to provide the country with a succession of dignified placemen. John IV., Duke of Bedford, was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in 1756. In 1762 his Grace, as the plenipotentiary of England, signed the preliminaries of peace at Fontainebleau with France and Spain—a work on which he can scarcely be congratulated, seeing that by it England was juggled out of nearly every advantage she had won by seven years of victory. The Duke's son, Francis, called by courtesy Marquis of Tavistock, married Lady Elizabeth Keppel, who literally died of grief when her husband was killed by a fall from his horse. Dr. Johnson's characteristic comment on this event was that if her ladyship had been a poor washerwoman with twelve children to mind, she would have had no time to die of grief. Lord Tavistock left three sons, Francis and John, successively fifth and sixth Dukes of Bedford, and William (posthumous), the unfortunate nobleman who, within living memory, was murdered by his French valet Courvoisier.
John, Earl Russell, the distinguished statesman who "upset the coach," is a son of the sixth duke, Lord Odo Russell, one of the ablest of modern diplomatists, a grandson of the same peer.
On the day after the head of the house of Russell was raised to ducal rank, the head of the Cavendishes received the same honor, being created Marquis of Hartington and Duke of Devonshire. This family claims descent from Sir John Cavendish, Lord Chief Justice of England in 1366, 1373, and 1377. "In the fourth year of Richard II. his lordship was elected chancellor of the university of Cambridge, and was next year commissioned, with Robert de Hales, treasurer of England, to suppress the insurrection raised in the city of York, in which year the mob, having risen to the number of fifty thousand, made it a point, particularly in the county of Suffolk, to plunder and murder the lawyers; and being incensed in a more than ordinary degree against the Chief Justice Cavendish, his son John having killed the notorious Wat Tyler, they seized upon and dragged him, with Sir John of Cambridge, prior of Bury, into the marketplace of that town, and there caused both to be beheaded." Thus far Burke, who has small sympathy to bestow on Wat Tyler, albeit that reformer was murdered in a cowardly way, whether it were Walworth or Cavendish who struck the blow. "For William Walworth, mayor of London, having arrested him (Wat Tyler), he furiously struck the mayor with his dagger, but being armed [i.e.the mayor being in armor], hurt him not; whereupon the mayor, drawing his baselard, grievously wounded Wat in the neck; in which conflict an esquire of the King's house, called John Cavendish, drew his sword and wounded him twice or thrice, even unto death. For which service Cavendish was knighted in Smithfield, and had a grant of £40 per annum from the King." The great-great-grandson of this Sir John Cavendish was gentleman usher to Cardinal Wolsey; after the death of his master King Henry took him into his own employment, to reward him for the fidelity with which he had served his former patron. His elder brother William was in 1530 appointed one of the commissioners for visiting and taking the surrenders of divers religious houses. Needless to add that from that day Mr. Cavendish had but to do as the King told him and make his fortune. Before his death he had begun to build the noble seat of Chatsworth, in Derbyshire, which his descendants still possess. His second son, and eventual heir, was created Earl of Devonshire by King James I. in 1618. The first earl's nephew was the renowned cavalier general created Marquis and subsequently Duke of Newcastle. He was at one time governor of the Prince of Wales (afterward Charles II.), and there is a touching epistle extant in which his youthful charge entreats the Marquis that he may not be compelled to take physic, which he feels sure would do him no good.
William, fourth earl of Devonshire, although raised to a dukedom by William III., distinguished himself, as did his son, the Marquis of Hartington, in the House of Commons, by vehement opposition to the King's retention of his Dutch guards after the conclusion of peace in 1697; and for this uncourtly conduct the country owes them a deep debt of gratitude. The Dutch guards were not likely to do much harm, but foreign troops have no business in a free state.
Henry Cavendish, the eminent chemist and philosopher, was grandson to the second duke (who married Rachel, daughter of William, Lord Russell). The present duke was senior wrangler of his year; his eldest son is leader of the Liberal party in the House of Commons.
Of the dukes of Marlborough, who are next on the list, it is unnecessary to say much. All the world knows the strange history of John Churchill, the noblest and the meanest of mankind. The great duke's only son died of the smallpox while yet a boy; but his honors were made perpetual in the female as well as the male line. The present duke is lineally descended on the father's side from a most worthy country gentleman, Sir Robert Spencer, of Althorp, raised to the peerage as Lord Spencer by James I. Lord Spencer's name should be dear to every American for the friendship he showed his neighbors the Washingtons. The Washingtons had at one time rather a severe struggle to make both ends meet, but they saw better days. John Washington, the heir of the house, was knighted and fought for Charles I. in the civil war. Disgusted with the commonwealth, he emigrated to America, hearing that men were more loyal on the other side of the Atlantic. He is commonly believed to have been the ancestor of George Washington. Such is the irony of fate.
The second Duke of Marlborough who, when unwell, would limit himself to a bottle of brandy a day, proved a real source of danger to his country. When he succeeded to his grandfather's honors in 1733, the faults of the victor of Blenheim were forgotten and only his surpassing military achievements remembered. King and people were alike determined to honor the man who bore his name, and, it was fondly deemed, inherited his qualities. He was made lord lieutenant of two counties, a knight of the garter, and promoted to high military command. Having conducted himself without discredit at Dettingen, he was thought equal to anything, and in the year 1758 Pitt, who felt kindly toward the Churchills, and who had been left £10,000 by Duchess Sarah, was so rash as to name him commander-in-chief of all the British forces in Germany destined to act under Prince Ferdinand. After all, the appointment did no harm, for the Duke died the same year.Exeuntthe Dukes of Marlborough into infinite space. Henceforth they and their doings have no more human interest.
The Dukes of Rutland are another family dating their greatness from a share in the spoil of the monasteries. Thomas Manners, first Earl of Rutland, drew one of the best repartees ever made from Sir Thomas More, then Lord Chancellor. "Honores mutant mores," said the Earl to Sir Thomas in resent for some fancied affront. "Nay, my lord," replied More; "the pun is better translated into English—Honors change Manners." Among the descendants of this nobleman two are worthy a passing notice; viz., John, Marquis of Granby, the most dashing of cavalry officers, whose bluff features may still be seen on the signboards of many taverns in England; and Lord John Manners, heir-presumptive to the Dukedom of Rutland, and a member of the present Cabinet. Lord John is chiefly famous as the author of a poem in which occur the oft-quoted lines:
Let arts and learning, laws and commerce die,But keep us still our old nobility—
perhaps the most remarkable sentiment ever uttered even by a young man. It is fair to Lord John Manners to add that he was a fairly successful Minister of Public Works under two administrations, showing indeed a good deal of taste and no contempt at all for the arts. Another Manners was Archbishop of Canterbury from 1805 to 1828; but beyond having an income of something like $130,000 punctually during nearly a quarter of a century, this prelate cannot be considered to have done anything noteworthy. The Archbishop's son was Speaker of the House of Commons from 1817 to 1834, and was raised to the peerage in 1835 as Viscount Canterbury—a peerage being the invariable termination of a modern Speaker's career. The present Lord Canterbury (his son) has been Governor of Victoria and two or three other colonies; for men do not belong to a ducal family for nothing.
There are but eleven Dukes of England properly so called; that is, Dukes sitting in the House of Lords as such, and deriving their titles from creations before the union with Scotland. The Duke of Norfolk, as before stated, is the first of these, and the Duke of Rutland the last in order of precedence. The patent of the latter as Duke bears date March 29, 1703. There are also Dukes of Great Britain and of the United Kingdom, as well as of Scotland and Ireland; but those of the two sister kingdoms sit by inferior titles among their peers, and all the Dukes not of England take precedence among each other by somewhat intricate rules of precedence, into which it is not worth while to enter. The dukedoms are twenty-eight in all, exclusive of those held by princes of the blood royal. The honor has been very sparingly bestowed in late years. The last conferred by George III. was that of Northumberland, the King refusing to make any more creations, except in favor of his own descendants. The Prince Regent made Lord Wellington a duke, and after his accession to the throne raised Lord Buckingham to the same dignity. William IV. made two more, and her present Majesty has added an equal number to the list.
The history of one ducal family is the history of all. They generally boast a founder of some abilities, and produce one or two men, seldom more, who leave their mark on the annals of their country. It would be strange if it were otherwise, considering the enormous opportunities which a title, joined to fair means, gives to its possessor in England. The privileges with which acts of Parliament and courtly lawyers in bygone ages invested the nobility have long since become nominal. A peer has now no right as such to tender advice to the Queen. If libelled, he can no more terrify the offender with the penalties ofscandalum magnatum, but must content himself with the same remedies as do other folk; if he cannot be arrested for debt, he shares that privilege with all the Queen's subjects; and if he continues to be a hereditary member of the Legislature, it is because the chamber in which he sits has been reduced to a moderating committee of the sovereign assembly. But the nameless privileges of persons of rank are great indeed. The army, the navy, the Church are filled with them or their dependents. Till within the last few years, the diplomatic service was regarded as their peculiar property. In the present House of Commons, the second elected by household suffrage, fully one-third of the members are sons of peers, baronets, or closely allied by marriage, or otherwise, to the titled classes. A fair proportion of these are Liberals; the Queen's son-in-law, Lord Lorne, member for Argyllshire, being a professor of "Liberal" opinions, as also Lord Stafford, son of the Duke of Sutherland, and Lord de Gray, son of the Marquis of Ripon. Such Liberals serve the useful function of "watering" the creed of their party, which might otherwise prove too strong for the Constitution. Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Bright would doubtless have gone much further in the path of reform if unfettered by ducal retainers.
And yet, though England is still very far from the realization of that political equality which American citizens enjoy among themselves, and which is perhaps one of the few ascertainable benefits Frenchmen have derived from the revolution, there can be no doubt as to the direction in which England is advancing. Democracy is the goal of the future, and it is even in sight, though a long way off. For instance, considerable as is the parliamentary influence of certain noblemen in the present day, it is influence and no more. Before the Reform act of 1832, the parliamentary "influence" of a peer, as it was euphemistically termed, meant that he had the absolute disposal of one or more seats in the House of Commons. The Duke of Norfolk, as before mentioned, returned eleven members, the Duke of Richmond three, Lord Buckingham six, the Duke of Newcastle seven. In the year 1820, out of the twenty-six prelates sitting in the House of Lords, only six were not directly or indirectly connected with the peerage; while the value of some of the sees was enormous. Now public opinion is too formidable to allow of jobbery that is not very discreetly managed, and a great deal no doubt is thus managed. But appearances must be kept up.
E. C. Grenville Murray.
[A]"Did your Grace ever try a clean shirt?" Abernethy is said to have asked the Duke, who had consulted him on some ailment.
[A]"Did your Grace ever try a clean shirt?" Abernethy is said to have asked the Duke, who had consulted him on some ailment.
By Justin McCarthy.
The summer had gone and much even of the autumn, and Miss Grey and her companion were settled in London. Minola had had everything planned out in her mind before they left Dukes-Keeton, and little Miss Blanchet was positively awed by her leader's energy, knowledge, and fearlessness. The first night of their arrival in town they went to a quiet, respectable, old-fashioned hotel, well known of Keeton folk, where Miss Grey's father used to stay during his visits to London for many years, and where his name was still well remembered. Then the two strangers from the country set out to look for lodgings, and Miss Grey was able to test her knowledge of London, and satisfy her pride of learning, by conducting her friend straightway to the region in which she had resolved to make a home for herself. She had been greatly divided in mind for a while between Kensington and the West Centre; between the neighborhood of the South Kensington Museum, the glades of the gardens, and all the charms of the old court suburb, and the temptations of the National Gallery, the British Museum, and the old-fashioned squares and houses around the latter. She decided for the British Museum quarter. Miss Blanchet would have preferred the brightness and air of fashion which belonged to Kensington, but Miss Grey ruled that to live somewhere near the British Museum was more like living in London, and she energetically declared that she would rather live in Seven Dials than out of London.
To find a pleasant and suitable lodging would ordinarily have been a difficulty; for the regular London lodging-house keeper detests the sight of women, and only likes the gentleman who disappears in the morning and returns late at night. But luckily there are Keeton folk everywhere. As a rule nobody is born in London, "except children," as a lady once remarked. Come up to London from whatever little Keeton you will, you can find your compatriots settled everywhere in the metropolis. Miss Grey obtained from the kindly landlady of the hotel—who had herself been born in Keeton, and was married to a Glasgow man—a choice of Keeton folk willing to receive respectable and well-recommended lodgers—"real ladies" especially. Miss Grey, being cordially vouched for by the landlady as a real lady, found out a Keeton woman in the West Centre who had a drawing-room and two bedrooms to let.
Had Miss Grey invented the place it could not have suited her better. It was an old-fashioned street, running out of a handsome old-fashioned square. The street was no thoroughfare. Its other end was closed by a solemn, sombre structure with a portico, and over the portico a plaster bust of Pallas. This was an institution or foundation of some kind which had long outlived the uses whereto it had been devoted by its pious founder. It now had nothing but a library, a lecture hall, an enclosed garden (into which, happily for her, the windows of Miss Grey's bedroom looked), an old fountain in the garden, considerable funds, a board of trustees, and an annual dinner. This place lent an air of severe dignity to the street, and furthermore kept the street secluded and quiet by blocking up one of its ends and inviting no traffic. The house in which our pair of wanderers was lodging was itself old-fashioned, and in a manner picturesque. It had broad old staircases of stone, and a large hall and fine rooms. It had once been a noble mansion, and the legend was that its owner had entertained Dr. Johnson there and Sir Joshua Reynolds, and that Mrs. Thrale had often been handed up and down that staircase. Minola loved association with such good company, and it may be confessed went up and down the stairs several times for no other purpose whatever than the pleasure of fancying herself following in the footsteps of bright Mrs. Thrale, with whose wrongs Miss Grey, as a misanthrope, was especially bound to sympathize.
The drawing-room happily looked at least aslant over the grass and the trees of the square. Minola's bedroom, as has been said, looked into the garden of the institution, with its well-kept walks, its shrubs, and its old-fashioned fountain, whose quiet plash was always heard in the seclusion of the back of the house. Had the trunks of the trees been just a little less blackened by smoke our heroine might well have fancied, as she looked from her bedroom window of nights, that she was in some quaint old abode in a quiet country town. But in truth she did not desire to encourage any such delusion. To feel that she was in the heart of London was her especial delight. This feeling would have brightened and glorified a far less attractive place. She used to sit down alone in her bedroom of nights in order to think quietly to herself, "Now I am at last really in London; not visiting London, but living in it." There at least was one dream made real. There was one ambition crowned. "Come what will," she said to herself, "I am living in London." In London and freedom she grew more and more healthy and happy. As a wearied Londoner might have sought out say Keeton, and found new strength and spirits there, so our Keeton girl, who was somewhat pale and thin when she sat on the steps of the ducal mausoleum, grew stronger and brighter every day in the West Centre regions of London.
A happier, quieter, freer life could hardly be imagined, at least for her. She spent hours in the National Gallery and the Museum; she walked with Mary Blanchet in Regent's Park, and delighted to find out new vistas and glimpses of beauty among the trees there, and to insist that it was ever so much better than any place in the country. As autumn came on and the trees grew barer and the skies became of a heavier silver gray, Minola found greater charms in their softened half tones than the brighter lights of summer could give. Even when it rained—and it did rain sometimes—who could fail to see the beauty, all its own, of the green of grass, and the darker stems and branches of trees, showing faintly through the veil of the mist and the soft descending shower? It was, indeed, a delightful Arcadian life. Its simplicity can hardly be better illustrated than by the fact that our adventurous pair of women always dined at one o'clock—when they dined at all—off a chop, except on Sundays, when they invariably had a cold fowl.
Much as Miss Grey loved London, however, it was still a place made up of men whom she considered herself bound to dislike, and of women who depended far too much on these men. Therefore she made studies of scraps of London life, and amused herself by satirizing them to her friend.
"I have accomplished a chapter of London, Mary," she said one evening before their reading had set in. "I have completed my social studies of our neighbors in Gainsborough Place"—a little street of shops near at hand. "I am prepared to give you a complete court guide as to the grades of society there, Mary, so that you may know at once how to demean yourself to each and all."
"Do tell me all about it; I should very much like to know."
"Shall we begin with the highest or the lowest?"
"I think," Miss Blanchet said with a gentle sigh, expressive of no great delight in the story of the lower classes, "I would rather you begin low down, dear, and get done with them first."
"Very well; now listen. The lowest of all is the butcher. He is a wealthy man, I am sure, and his daughter, who sits in the little office in the shop, is a good-looking girl, I think. But in private life nobody in Gainsborough Place mixes with them on really cordial terms. Their friends come from other places; from butchers' shops in other streets. They do occasionally interchange a few courtesies with the family of the baker; but the baker's wife, though not nearly so rich, rather patronizes and looks down upon Mrs. Butcher."
"Dear me!" said the poetess. "What odd people!"
"Well, the pastry-cook's family will have nothing to do, except in the way of business, with butcher or baker; but they are very friendly with the grocer, and they have evenings together. Now the two little old maids, who keep the stationer's shop where the post-office is, are very genteel, and have explained to me more than once that they don't feel at home in this quarter, and that their friends are in the West End. But they are not well off, poor things, I fear, and they like to spend an evening now and then with the family of the grocer and the pastry-cook, who are rather proud to receive them, and can give them the best tea and Madeira cake; and both the little ladies assure me that nothing can be more respectable than the families of the pastry-cook and the grocer—for their station in life, they always add."
"Oh, of course," Miss Blanchet said, who was listening with great interest as to a story, having that order of mind to which anything is welcome that offers itself in narrative form, but not having any perception of a satirical purpose in the whole explanation. Minola appreciated the "of course," and somehow became discouraged.
"Well," she said, "that's nearly all, except for the family of the chemist, who live next to the little ladies of the post-office, and who only know even them by sufferance, and would not for all the world have any social intercourse with any of the others. It's delightful, I think, to find that London is not one place at all, but only a cluster of little Keetons. This one street is Keeton to the life, Mary. I want to pursue my studies deeper though; I want to find out how the gradations of society go between the mothers of the boy who drives the butcher's cart, the baker's boy, and pastry-cook's boy."
"Oh, Minola dear!"
"You think all this very unpoetic, Mary, and you are shocked at my interest in these prosaic and lowly details. But it is a study of life, my dear poetess, and it amuses and instructs me. Only for chance, you know, I might have been likethat, and it is a grand thing to learn one's own superiority."
"You never could have been like that, Minola; you belong to a different class."
"Yes, yes, dear, that is quite true. I belong to the higher classes entirely; my father was a country architect, my stepfather is a Nonconformist minister—these are of the aristocracy everywhere."
"You are a lady—a woman of education, Minola," the poetess said almost severely. She could not understand how even Miss Grey herself could disparage Miss Grey and her parentage in jest.
"I can assure you, dear, that one of the pastry-cook's daughters, whom I talked with to-day, is a much better educated girl than I am. You should hear her talk French, Mary. She has been taught in Paris, dear, and speaks so well that I found it very hard to understand her. She plays the harp, and knows all about Wagner. I don't. I like her very much, and she is coming here to take tea with us."
The poetess was not delighted with this kind of society, but she never ventured to contradict her leader.
"You can talk to every one I do really believe," she said. "I find it so hard to get on with people—with some people."
"I feel so happy and so free here. I can say all the cynical things that please me—youdon't mind—and I can like or dislike as I choose."
"I am afraid you dislike more than you like, Minola."
"I think I could like any one who had some strong purpose in life; not the getting of money, or making a way in society. There are such, I suppose; I don't know."
"When you meet my brother I am sure you will acknowledge that he has a purpose in life which is not the getting of money," said Miss Blanchet. "But you don't like men."
Minola made no reply. Poor little Miss Blanchet felt so kindly to all the race of men that she did not understand how any woman could really dislike them.
"I am going to do something that will please you to-morrow," Miss Grey said, feeling that she owed her companion some atonement for not warming to the mention of her brother. "I am positively going to hunt out Lucy Money. They must have returned by this time."
This was really very pleasant news for Miss Blanchet. She had been longing for her friend to renew heracquaintancewith Miss Lucy Money, about whom she had many dreams. It did not occur to Mary Blanchet to question directly even in her own mind the decrees of Miss Grey, or to say to herself that the course of life which they were leading was not the most delightful that could be devised. But, if the little poetess could have ventured to translate vague yearnings into definite thoughts, she would, perhaps, have acknowledged to herself a faint desire that the brilliant passages of the London career she had marked out for herself in anticipation should come rather more quickly than they just now seemed likely to do. At present there was not much difference perceptible to her between London and Duke's-Keeton. Nobody came to see them. Even her brother had not yet presented himself. Her poem did not make much progress; there was no great incentive to poetic work. Minola and she did not know any poets, or artists, or publishers. Mary Blanchet's poetic tastes were of a somewhat old-fashioned school, and did not include any particular care for looking at trees, and fields, and water, and skies, although these objects of natural beauty were made to figure in the poems a good deal in connection with, and illustrative of, the emotions of the poetess. Therefore the rambles in the park were not so delightful to her as to her leader; and when the evening set in, and Minola and she read to each other, Mary Blanchet was always rather pleased if an opportunity occurred for interrupting the reading by a talk. She was particularly anxious that Minola should renew her acquaintance with her old schoolfellow, Miss Lucy Money, whose father she understood to be somehow a great sort of person, and through whom she saw dimly opening up a vista, perhaps the only one for her, into society and literature. But the Money family were out of town when our friends came to London, and Miss Blanchet had to wait; and, even when it was probable that they had returned, Miss Grey did not seem very eager to renew the acquaintance. Indeed, her resolve to visit Miss Money now was entirely a good-natured concession to the evident desire of Mary Blanchet. Minola saw her friend's little ways and weaknesses clearly, and smiled now and then as she thought of them, and liked her none the less for them—rather, indeed, felt her breast swell with kindliness and pity. It pleased her generous heart to gratify her companion in every way, to find out things that she liked and bring them to her, to study her little innocent vanities, that she might gratify them. What little dainties Mary Blanchet liked to have with her tea, what pretty ribbons she thought it became her to wear—these Miss Grey was always perplexing herself about. When she found that she liked to be alone sometimes, that she must have a long walk unaccompanied, that she must have thoughts which Mary would not care to hear, then she felt a pang of remorse, as if she were guilty of a breach of truecamaraderie, and she could not rest until she had relieved her soul by some special mark of attention to her friend. On the other hand, Mary Blanchet, for all her dreams and aspirations, was a sensible and managing little person, who got for Miss Grey about twice the value that she herself could have obtained out of her money. This was a fact which Minola always took care to impress upon her companion, for she dreaded lest Miss Blanchet should feel herself a dependent. Miss Blanchet, however, in a modest way, knew her value, and had besides one of the temperaments to which dependence on some really loved being comes natural, and is inevitable.
So Minola set out next day, about three o'clock, to look up her schoolfellow, Miss Lucy Money. She went forth on her mission with some unwillingness, and with a feeling as if she were abandoning some purpose or giving up a little of a principle in doing so. "I came to London to live alone and independent," she said to herself sometimes, "and already I am going out to seek for acquaintances. Why do I do that? I want strength of purpose. I am just like everybody else"; and she began, as was her wont, to scrutinize her own weaknesses, and bear heavily on them. For, absurd as it may seem, this odd young woman really did propose to live alone—herself and Mary Blanchet—in London until they died—alone, that is, so far as social life and acquaintanceships in society were concerned. Vast and vague schemes for doing good to her neighbors, and for striving in especial to give a helping hand to troubled women, were in Miss Grey's plans of life; but society, so called, was to have no part in them. It did not occur to her that she was far too handsome a girl to be allowed to put herself thus under an extinguisher or behind a screen. When people looked after her as she passed through the streets, she assumed that they noticed some rustic peculiarity in her dress or her hat, and she felt a contempt for them. Her love of London did not imply a love of Londoners, whom in general she thought rude and given to staring. But even if she had thought people were looking at her because of her figure, her face, her eyes, her superb hair, she would have felt a contempt for them all the same. She had a proud indifference to personal beauty, and looked down upon men whose judgment could be affected by the fact that a woman had finer eyes, or brighter hair, or a more shapely mould than other women.
Once Minola was positively on the point of turning back, and renouncing all claim on the acquaintanceship of her former school companion. She suddenly remembered, however, that in condemning her own fancied weakness she had forgotten that her visit was undertaken to oblige Mary Blanchet. "Poor Mary! I have only one little acquaintanceship that has anything to do with society, and am I to deny her that chance if she likes it?" She went on rapidly and resolutely. Sometimes she felt inclined to blame herself for bringing Mary Blanchet away from Keeton, although Mary had for years been complaining of her life and her work there, and beseeching Miss Grey not to leave her behind when she went to live in London.
It was a beautiful autumn day. London looks to great advantage on one of these rare days, and Miss Grey felt her heart swell with mere delight as she looked from the streets to the sky and from the sky to the streets. She passed through one or two squares, and stopped to see the sun, already going down, send its light through the bare branches of the trees. The western sky was covered with gray, silver-edged clouds, which brightened into blots of golden fire as they came closer in the track of the sun. The air was mild, soft, and almost warm. All poets and painters are full of the autumnal charms of the country; but to certain oddly constituted minds some street views in London on a fine autumn day have an unspeakable witchery. Miss Grey walked round and round one of the squares, and had to remind herself of her purpose on Mary Blanchet's behalf in order to impel herself on.
The best of the day had gone, and the early evening was looking somewhat chill and gloomy between the huge ramparts of the Victoria street houses by the time that Miss Grey stood in that solemn thoroughfare, and her heart sank a little as she reached the house where her old school friend lived.
"Perhaps Lucy Money is altogether changed," Miss Grey said to herself as she came up to the door. "Perhaps she won't care about me; perhaps I shan't like her any more; and perhaps her mamma will think me a dreadful person for not honoring my stepfather and stepmother. Perhaps there are brothers—odious, slangy young men, who think girls fall in love with them. Oh, yes, here is one of them."
For just as she had rung the bell a hansom cab drove up to the door, and a tall, dark-complexioned young man leaped out. He raised his hat with what seemed to Miss Grey something the manner of a foreigner when he saw her standing at the door, and she felt a momentary thrill of relief, because, if he was a foreigner, he could not be Lucy Money's brother. Besides, she knew very well that the great houses in Victoria street were occupied by several tenants, and there was good hope that the young man might have business with the upper story, and she with the ground floor.
The young man was about to ring the bell, when he stopped and said:
"Perhaps you have rung already?"
"Yes, I have rung," Miss Grey coldly replied.
"This is Mr. Money's, I suppose?"
"Mr. Money lives here," she answered, with the manner of one resolute to close the conversation. The young man did not seem in the least impressed by her tone.
"Perhaps I have the honor of speaking to Miss Money?" he began, with delighted eagerness.
"No. I am not Miss Money," she answered, still in her clear monotone.
No words could say more distinctly than the young man's expression did, "I am sorry to hear it." Indeed, no young man in the world going to visit Mr. Money could have avoided wishing that the young lady then standing at the door might prove to be Miss Money.
The door opened, and the young man drew politely back to give Miss Grey the first chance. She asked for Miss Lucy Money, and the porter rang a bell for one of Mr. Money's servants. Miss Grey had brought a card with her, on which she had written over her engraved name, "For Lucy Money," and beneath it, "Nola," the short rendering of "Minola," which they used to adopt at school.
Then the porter looked inquiringly at the other visitor.
"If Mr. Money is at home," said the latter, "I should be glad to see him. I find I have forgotten my card case, but my name is Heron—Mr. Victor Heron; and do, please, try to remember it, and to say it rightly."
Mr. Money's home, like Mr. Money himself, conveyed to the intelligent observer an idea of quiet, self-satisfied strength. Mr. Money had one of the finest and most expensive suites of rooms to be had in the great Victoria street buildings, and his rooms were furnished handsomely and richly. He had servants in sober livery, and a carriage for his wife and daughters, and a little brougham for himself. He made no pretence at being fashionable; rather indeed seemed to say deliberately, "I am a plain man and don't care twopence about fashion, and I despise making a show of being rich; but I am rich enough for all I want, and whatever money can buy for me I can buy." He would not allow his wife and daughters to aim at being persons of fashion had they been so inclined, but they might spend as much money as ever they pleased. He never made a boast of his original poverty, or the humbleness of his bringing up, nor put on any vulgar show of rugged independence. The impression he made upon everybody was that of a completely self-sufficing—we do not say self-sufficient—man. It was not very clear how he had made his money. He had been at the head of one of the working departments under the Government, had somehow fancied himself ill treated, resigned his place, and, it was understood, had entered into various contracts to do work for the governments of foreign States. It was certain that Mr. Money was not a speculator. His name never appeared in the directors' list of any new company. He could not be called a city man. But it was certain that he was rich.
Mr. Money was in Parliament. He was a strong radical in theory, and was believed to have much stronger opinions than he troubled himself to express. There was a rough, scornful way about him, as of one who dearly considered all our existing arrangements merely provisional, and who in the mean time did not care to occupy himself overmuch with the small differences between this legislative proposition and that. It was not on political subjects that he usually spoke. He was a very good speaker, clear, direct, and expressive in his language, always using plain, effective words, and always showing a perfect ease in the finishing of his sentences. There was a savor of literature about him, and it was evident in many indirect ways that he knew Greek and Latin much better than most of the university men. The impression he produced was that of a man who on most subjects knew more than he troubled himself to display. It seemed as if it would take a very ready speaker indeed to enter into personal contest with Mr. Money and not get the worst of it.
He was believed to be very shrewd and clever, and was known to be liberal of his money. People consulted him about many things, and to some extent admired him; some were a little afraid of him, and, in homely phrase, fought shy of him. Perhaps he was thought to be unscrupulous; perhaps his blunt way of going at the very heart of a scruple in others made them fancy that he rather despised all moral conventionalities. Whatever the reason was, a certain class of persons always rather distrusted Mr. Money, and held aloof even while asking his advice. No one who had come in his way even for a moment forgot him, or was confused as to his identity, or failed to form some opinion about or could have put clearly into words an exact statement of the opinion he had formed.
On this particular day of autumn Mr. Money was in his study reading letters. He was talking to himself in short, blunt sentences over each letter as he read it, and put it into a pigeonhole, or tore it and threw it into the waste-paper basket. His sentences were generally concise judgments pronounced on each correspondent. "Fool." "Blockhead." "Just so; I expected that of you!" "Yes, yes, he's all right." "That will do." Sometimes a comment, begun rather gruffly, ended in a good-natured smile, and sometimes Mr. Money, having read a letter to the close with a pleased and satisfied expression, suddenly became thoughtful, and leaned upon his desk, drumming with the finger tips of one hand upon his teeth.
A servant interrupted his work by bringing him a message and a name. Mr. Money looked up, said quickly, "Yes, yes; show him in!" and Mr. Victor Heron was introduced.
Mr. Money advanced to meet his visitor with an air of cordial welcome. One peculiarity of Mr. Money's strong, homely face was the singular sweetness of the smile which it sometimes wore. The full lips parted so pleasantly, the white teeth shone, and the eyes, that usually seemed heavy, beamed with so kindly an air, that to youth at least the influence was for the moment irresistible. Victor Heron's emotional face sparkled with responsive expression.
"Well, well; glad to see you, glad to see you. Knew you would come. Shove away those blue books and sit down. We haven't long got back; but I tried to find you, and couldn't get at your address. They didn't know at the Colonial Institute even. And how are you, and what have you been doing with yourself?"
"Not much good," Heron replied, thinking as usual of his grievance. "I couldn't succeed in seeing anybody."
"Of course not, of course not. I could have told you so. People are not yet coming back to town, except hard working fellows like me. Have you been cooling your heels in the antechambers of the Colonial office?"
"Yes, I have been there a little; not much. I saw it was no use just yet, and that isn't a kind of occupation I delight in." The young man's face reddened with the bare memory of his vexation. "I hate that sort of thing."
"To go where you know people don't want to see you? Yes, it tries young and sensitive people a good deal. They've put you off?"
"As I told you, I have seen nobody yet. But I mean to persevere. They shall find I am not a man to be got rid of in that way."
Mr. Money made no observation on this, but went to a drawer in his desk and took out a little book with pages alphabetically arranged.
"I have been making inquiries about you," he said, "of various people who know all about the colonies. Would you like to hear a summary description of your personal character? Don't be offended—this is a way I have; the moment a person interests me and seems worth thinking about, I enter him in my little book here, and sum up his character from my own observation and from what people tell me. Shall I read it for you? I wouldn't, you may be sure, if I thought you were anything of a fool."
This compliment, of course, conquered Heron, who was otherwise a good deal puzzled. But there was something in Mr. Money's manner with those in whom he took any interest, that prevented their feeling hurt by his occasional bluntness.
"I don't know myself," Heron said.
"Of course you don't. What busy man, who has to know other people, could have time to study himself? That work might do for philosophers. I may teach you something now, and save you the trouble."
"I suppose I ought to make my own acquaintance," said Heron resignedly, while much preferring to talk of his grievance.
"Very good. Now listen.
"Heron, Victor.—Formerly in administration of St. Xavier's settlements. Got into difficulty; dropped down. Education good, but literary rather than businesslike. Plenty of pluck, but wants coolness. Egotistic, but unselfish. Good deal of talent and go. Very honest, but impracticable. A good weapon in good hands, but must take care not to be made a plaything."
Heron laughed. "It's a little like the sort of thing phrenologists give people," he said, "but I think it's very flattering. I can assure you, however, no one shall make a plaything ofme," he added with emphasis.
"So we all think, so we all think," Mr. Money said, putting away his book. "Well, you are going on with this then?"
"I am going to vindicate my conduct, and compel them to grant me an inquiry, if you mean that. Nothing on earth shall keep me from that."
"So, so. Very well. We'll talk about that another time—many other times; and I may give you some advice, which you needn't take if you don't like, and I shan't be offended. Now, I want to introduce you to my wife and my girls, and you must have a cup of tea. Odd, isn't it, to find men drinking tea at five o'clock in the afternoon? Up at the club, any day about that hour, you might think we were a drawing-room full of old spinsters, to hear the rattling of teacups that goes on all around."
He took Heron's arm in a friendly, dictatorial way, and conducted him to the drawing-room on the same floor.
The drawing-room was entered, not by opening a door, but by withdrawing some folds of a great, heavy, dark-green curtain. Mr. Money drew aside part of the curtain to make way for his friend; and they both stopped a moment on the threshold. A peculiar, sweet, half melancholy smile gave a strange dignity for the moment to Mr. Money's somewhat rough face, and he gently let the curtain fall.
"Wasn't there some great person, Mr. Heron—Burke, was it?—who used to say that whatever troubles he had outside all ceased as he stood at his own door? Well, I always feel like that when I lift this curtain."
It was a pretty sight, as he again raised the curtain and led Heron in. The drawing-room was very large, and was richly, and, as it seemed to Heron, somewhat oddly furnished. The light in the lower part was faint and dim, a sort of yellowish twilight, procured by softened lamps. The upper extremity was steeped in a far brighter light, and displayed to Heron, almost as on a stage, a little group of women, among whom his quick eye at once saw the girl who had come up to the door at the same time with him. She was, indeed, a very conspicuous figure, for she was seated on a sofa, and one girl sat at her feet, while another stood at the arm of the sofa and bent over her. An elderly lady, with voluminous draperies that floated over the floor, was reclining on a low arm-chair, with her profile turned to Heron. On a fancy table near, a silver tea-tray glittered. A daintily dressed waiting-maid was serving tea.
"Take care of the floors as you come along," said Money. "We like to put rugs, and rolls of carpet, and stools now in all sorts of wrong places, to trip people up. That shows how artistic we are! Theresa, dear, this is my friend, Mr. Heron."
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Heron," said a full, deep, melancholy voice, and a tall, slender lady partly rose from her chair, then sank again amid her draperies, bowed a head topped by a tiny lace cap, and held out to Heron a thin hand covered with rings, and having such bracelets and dependent chainlets that when Heron gave it even the gentlest pressure, they rattled like the manacles of a captive.
"We saw you in Paris, Mr. Heron," the lady graciously said, "but I think you hardly saw us."
"These are my daughters, Mr. Heron, Theresa and Lucy. I think them good girls, though full of nonsense," said Mr. Money.
Lucy, who had been on a footstool at Miss Grey's feet, gathered herself up, blushing. She was a pretty girl, with brown, frizzy hair, and wore a dress which fitted her so closely from neck to hip that she might really have been, to all seeming, melted or moulded into it. The other young lady, Theresa, slightly and gravely inclined her head to Mr. Heron, who at once thought the whole group most delightful and beautiful, and found his breast filled with a new pride in the loved old England that produced such homes and furnished them with such women.
"Dear, darling papa," exclaimed the enthusiastic little Lucy, swooping at her father, and throwing both arms round his neck, "we have had such a joy to-day, such a surprise! Don't you see anybody here? Oh, come now, do use your eyes."
"I see a young lady whom I have not yet the pleasure of knowing, but whom I hope you will help me to know, Lucelet."
Mr. Money turned to Miss Grey with his genial smile. She rose from the sofa and bowed and waited. She did not as yet quite understand the Money family, and was not sure whether she ought to like them or not. They impressed her at first as being far too rich for her taste, and odd and affected, and she hated affectation.
"But this is Nola Grey, papa—my dearest old schoolfellow when I was at Keeton; you must have heard me talk of Nola Grey a thousand times."
So she dragged her papa up to Nola Grey, whose color grew a little at this tempestuous kind of welcome.
"Dare say I did, Lucelet, but Miss Grey, I am sure will excuse me if I have forgotten; I am very glad to see you, Miss Grey—glad to see any friend of Lucelet's. So you come from Keeton? That's another reason why I should be glad to see you, for I just now want to ask a question or two about Keeton. Sit down."
Miss Grey allowed herself to be led to a sofa a little distance from where she had been sitting. Mr. Money sat beside her.
"Now, Lucelet, I want to ask Miss Grey a sensible question or two, which I don't think you would care twopence about. Just you go and help our two Theresas to talk to Mr. Heron."
"But, papa darling, Miss Grey won't care about what you call sensible subjects any more than I. She won't know anything about them."
"Yes, dear, she will; look at her forehead."
"Oh, I have looked at it! Isn't it beautiful?"
"I didn't mean that," Mr. Money said with a smile; "I meant that it looked sensible and thoughtful. Now, go away, Lucelet, like a dear little girl."
Miss Grey sat quietly through all this. She was not in the least offended. Mr. Money seemed to her to be just what a man ought to be—uncouth, rough, and domineering. She was amused meanwhile to observe the kind of devotion and enthusiasm with which Mr. Heron was entering into conversation with Mrs. Money and her elder daughter. That, too, was just what a man ought to be—a young man—silly in his devotion to women, unless, perhaps, where the devotion was to be accounted for otherwise than by silliness, as in a case like the present, where the unmarried women might be presumed to have large fortunes. So Miss Grey liked the whole scene. It was as good as a play to her, especially as good as a play which confirms all one's own theories of life.
"England, Mr. Heron," said Mrs. Money in her melancholy voice, "is near her fall."
"Oh, Mrs. Money, pray pardon me—England! you amaze me—Iamsurprised—do forgive me—to hear an Englishwoman say so; our England with her glorious destiny!" The young man blushed and grew confused. One might have thought his mother had been called in question or his sweetheart.
Mrs. Money shook her head and twirled one of her bracelets.
"She is near her fall, Mr. Heron! You cannot know. You have lived far away, and do not see whatwesee. She has proved faithless to her mission."
"Something—yes—there I agree," Mr. Heron eagerly interposed, thinking of the St. Xavier's settlements.
"She was the cradle of freedom," Mrs. Money went on. "She ought to have been always its nursery and home. What have we now, Mr. Heron? A people absolutely in servitude, the principle of caste everywhere triumphant—corruption in the aristocracy—corruption in the city. No man now dares to serve his country except at the penalty of suffering the blackest ingratitude!"
Mr. Heron was startled. He did not know that Mrs. Money was arguing only from the assumption that her husband was a very great man, who would have done wonderful things for England if a perverse and base ruling class had not thwarted him, and treated him badly.
"England," Theresa Money said, smiling sweetly, but with a suffusion of melancholy, "can hardly be regenerated until she is once more dipped in the holy well."
"You see we all think differently, Mr. Heron," said the eager Lucy. "Mamma thinks we want a republic. Tessy is a saint, and would like to see roadside shrines."
"And you?" Heron asked, pleased with the girl's bright eyes and winning ways.
"Oh—I only believe in the regeneration of England through the renaissance of art. So we all have our different theories, you see, but we all agree to differ, and we don't quarrel much. Papa laughs at us all when he has time. But just now I am taken up with Nola Grey. If I were a man, I should make an idol of her. That lovely, statuesque face, that figure—like the Diana of the Louvre!"
Mr. Heron looked and admired, but one person's raptures about man or woman seldom awaken corresponding raptures in impartial breasts. He saw, however, a handsome, ladylike girl, who conveyed to him a sort of chilling impression.
"She was my schoolfellow at Keeton," Lucy went on, "and she was so good and clever that I adored her then, and I do now again. She has come to London to live alone, and I am sure she must have some strange and romantic story."
Meanwhile Mr. Money, who prefaced his inquiries by telling Miss Grey that he was always asking information about something, began to put several questions to her concerning the local magnates, politics, and parties of Keeton. Minola was rather pleased to be talked to by a man as if she were a rational creature. Like most girls brought up in a Nonconformist household in a country town, she had been surrounded by political talk from her infancy, but unlike most girls, she had sometimes listened to it and learned to know what it was all about. So she gave Mr. Money a good deal of information, which he received with an approbatory "Yes, yes" or an inquiring "So, so" every now and then.
"You know that there's likely to be a vacancy soon in the representation-member of Parliament," he added by way of explanation.
"I know what a vacancy in the representation means," Miss Grey answered demurely, "but I didn't know there was likely to be one just now. I don't keep up much correspondence with Keeton. I don't love it."