CHAPTER III.
"The pride too of her step, as light
Along the unconscious earth she went,
Seemed that of one born with a right
To walk some heavenlier element."
/Loves of the Angels./
"Can it be
That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts
Burning with their own beauty, are but given
To make me the low slave of vanity?"--/Erinna./
"Is she not too fair
Even to think of maiden's sweetest care?
The mouth and brow are contrasts."--/Ibid./
IT was two or three evenings after the date of the last chapter, and
there was what the newspapers call "a select party" in one of the
noblest mansions in London. A young lady, on whom all eyes were bent,
and whose beauty might have served the painter for a model of Semiramis
or Zenobia, more majestic than became her years, and so classically
faultless as to have something cold and statue-like in its haughty
lineaments, was moving through the crowd that murmured applauses as she
passed. This lady was Florence Lascelles, the daughter of Lumley's
great relation, the Earl of Saxingham, and supposed to be the richest
heiress in England. Lord Saxingham himself drew aside his daughter as
she swept along.
"Florence," said he in a whisper, "the Duke of ------ is greatly struck
with you--be civil to him--I am about to present him."
So saying, the earl turned to a small, dark, stiff-looking man, of about
twenty-eight years of age, at his left, and introduced the Duke of
------ to Lady Florence Lascelles. The duke was unmarried; it was an
introduction between the greatest match and the wealthiest heiress in
the peerage.
"Lady Florence," said Lord Saxingham, "is as fond of horses as yourself,
duke, though not quite so good a judge."
"I confess I /do/ like horses," said the duke, with an ingenuous air.
Lord Saxingham moved away.
Lady Florence stood mute--one glance of bright contempt shot from her
large eyes; her lip slightly curled, and she then half turned aside, and
seemed to forget that her new acquaintance was in existence.
His grace, like most great personages, was not apt to take offence; nor
could he, indeed, ever suppose that any slight towards the Duke of
------ could be intended; still he thought it would be proper in Lady
Florence to begin the conversation; for he himself, though not shy, was
habitually silent, and accustomed to be saved the fatigue of defraying
the small charges of society. After a pause, seeing, however, that Lady
Florence remained speechless, he began:
"You ride sometimes in the Park, Lady Florence?"
"Very seldom."
"It is, indeed, too warm for riding at present."
"I did not say so."
"Hem--I thought you did."
Another pause.
"Did you speak, Lady Florence?"
"No."
"Oh, I beg pardon--Lord Saxingham is looking very well."
"I am glad you think so."
"Your picture in the exhibition scarcely does you justice, Lady
Florence; yet Lawrence is usually happy."
"You are very flattering," said Lady Florence, with a lively and
perceptible impatience in her tone and manner. The young beauty was
thoroughly spoilt--and now all the scorn of a scornful nature was drawn
forth, by observing the envious eyes of the crowd were bent upon one
whom the Duke of ------ was actually talking to. Brilliant as were her
own powers of conversation, she would not deign to exert them--she was
an aristocrat of intellect rather than birth, and she took it into her
head that the duke was an idiot. She was very much mistaken. If she
had but broken up the ice, she would have found that the water below was
not shallow. The duke, in fact, like many other Englishmen, though he
did not like the trouble of showing forth, and had an ungainly manner,
was a man who had read a good deal, possessed a sound head and an
honourable mind, though he did not know what it was to love anybody, to
care much for anything, and was at once perfectly sated and yet
perfectly contented; for apathy is the combination of satiety and
content.
Still Florence judged of him as lively persons are apt to judge of the
sedate; besides, she wanted to proclaim to him and to everybody else,
how little she cared for dukes and great matches; she, therefore, with a
slight inclination of her head, turned away, and extended her hand to a
dark young man, who was gazing on her with that respectful but
unmistakable admiration which proud women are never proud enough to
despise.
"Ah, signor," said she, in Italian, "I am so glad to see you; it is a
relief, indeed, to find genius in a crowd of nothings."
So saying, the heiress seated herself on one of those convenient couches
which hold but two, and beckoned the Italian to her side. Oh, how the
vain heart of Castruccio Cesarini beat!--what visions of love, rank,
wealth, already flitted before him!
"I almost fancy," said Castruccio, "that the old days of romance are
returned, when a queen could turn from princes and warriors to listen to
a troubadour."
"Troubadours are now more rare than warriors and princes," replied
Florence, with gay animation, which contrasted strongly with the
coldness she had manifested to the Duke of ------, "and therefore it
would not now be a very great merit in a queen to fly from dulness and
insipidity to poetry and wit."
"Ah, say not wit," said Cesarini; "wit is incompatible with the grave
character of deep feelings;--incompatible with enthusiasm, with
worship;--incompatible with the thoughts that wait upon Lady Florence
Lascelles."
Florence coloured and slightly frowned; but the immense distinction
between her position and that of the young foreigner, with her own
inexperience, both of real life and the presumption of vain hearts, made
her presently forget the flattery that would have offended her in
another. She turned the conversation, however, into general channels,
and she talked of Italian poetry with a warmth and eloquence worthy of
the theme. While they thus conversed, a new guest had arrived, who,
from the spot where he stood, engaged with Lord Saxingham, fixed a
steady and scrutinising gaze upon the pair.
"Lady Florence has indeed improved," said this new guest. "I could not
have conceived that England boasted any one half so beautiful."
"She certainly is handsome, my dear Lumley,--the Lascelles cast of
countenance," replied Lord Saxingham," and so gifted! She is positively
learned--quite a /bas bleu/. I tremble to think of the crowd of poets
and painters who will make a fortune out of her enthusiasm. /Entre
nous/, Lumley, I could wish her married to a man of sober sense, like
the Duke of ------; for sober sense is exactly what she wants. Do
observe, she has been sitting just half an hour flirting with that
odd-looking adventurer, a Signor Cesarini, merely because he writes
sonnets and wears a dress like a stage-player!"
"It is the weakness of the sex, my dear lord," said Lumley; "they like
to patronise, and they dote upon all oddities, from China monsters to
cracked poets. But I fancy, by a restless glance cast every now and
then around the room, that my beautiful cousin has in her something of
the coquette."
"There you are quite right, Lumley," returned Lord Saxingham, laughing;
"but I will not quarrel with her for breaking hearts and refusing hands,
if she do but grow steady at last, and settle into the Duchess of
------."
"Duchess of ------!" repeated Lumley, absently; "well, I will go and
present myself. I see she is growing tired of the signor. I will sound
her as to the ducal impressions, my dear lord."
"Do--I dare not," replied the father; "she is an excellent girl, but
heiresses are always contradictory. It was very foolish to deprive me
of all control over her fortune. Come and see me again soon, Lumley. I
suppose you are going abroad?"
"No, I shall settle in England; but of my prospects and plans more
hereafter."
With this, Lumley quietly glided away to Florence. There was something
in Ferrers that was remarkable from its very simplicity. His clear,
sharp features, with the short hair and high brow--the absolute
plainness of his dress, and the noiseless, easy, self-collected calm of
all his motions, made a strong contrast to the showy Italian, by whose
side he now stood. Florence looked up at him with some little surprise
at his intrusion.
"Ah, you don't recollect me!" said Lumley, with his pleasant laugh.
"Faithless Imogen, after all your vows of constancy! Behold your
Alonzo!
'The worms they crept in and the worms they crept out.'
"Don't you remember how you trembled when I told you that true story, as
we
'Conversed as we sat on the green"?
"Oh!" cried Florence, "it is indeed you, my dear cousin--my dear Lumley!
What an age since we parted!"
"Don't talk of age--it is an ugly word to a man of my years. Pardon,
signor, if I disturb you."
And here Lumley, with a low bow, slid coolly into the place which
Cesarini, who had shyly risen, left vacant for him. Castruccio looked
disconcerted; but Florence had forgotten him in her delight at seeing
Lumley, and Cesarini moved discontentedly away, and seated himself at a
distance.
"And I come back," continued Lumley, "to find you a confirmed beauty and
a professional coquette--don't blush!"
"Do they, indeed, call me a coquette?"
"Oh, yes,--for once the world is just."
"Perhaps I do deserve the reproach. Oh, Lumley, how I despise all that
I see and hear!"
"What, even the Duke of ------?"
"Yes, I fear even the Duke of ------ is no exception!"
"Your father will go mad if he hear you."
"My father!--my poor father!--yes, he thinks the utmost that I, Florence
Lascelles, am made for, is to wear a ducal coronet, and give the best
balls in London."
"And pray what was Florence Lascelles made for?"
"Ah! I cannot answer the question. I fear for Discontent and Disdain."
"You are an enigma--but I will take pains and not rest till I solve
you."
"I defy you."
"Thanks--better defy than despise.
"Oh, you must be strangely altered, if I can despise you."
"Indeed! what do you remember of me?"
"That you were frank, bold, and therefore, I suppose, true!--that you
shocked my aunts and my father by your contempt for the vulgar
hypocrisies of our conventional life. Oh, no! I cannot despise you."
Lumley raised his eyes to those of Florence--he gazed on her long and
earnestly--ambitious hopes rose high within him.
"My fair cousin," said he, in an altered and serious tone, "I see
something in your spirit kindred to mine; and I am glad that yours is
one of the earliest voices which confirm my new resolves on my return to
busy England!"
"And those resolves?"
"Are an Englishman's--energetic and ambitious."
"Alas, ambition! How many false portraits are there of the great
original!"
Lumley thought he had found a clue to the heart of his cousin, and he
began to expatiate, with unusual eloquence, on the nobleness of that
daring sin which "lost angels heaven." Florence listened to him with
attention, but not with sympathy. Lumley was deceived. His was not an
ambition that could attract the fastidious but high-souled Idealist.
The selfishness of his nature broke out in all the sentiments that he
fancied would seem to her most elevated. Place--power--titles--all
these objects were low and vulgar to one who saw them daily at her feet.
At a distance the Duke of ------ continued from time to time to direct
his cold gaze at Florence. He did not like her the less for not seeming
to court him. He had something generous within him, and could
understand her. He went away at last, and thought seriously of Florence
as a wife. Not a wife for companionship, for friendship, for love; but
a wife who could take the trouble of rank off his hands--do him honour,
and raise him an heir, whom he might flatter himself would be his own.
From his corner also, with dreams yet more vain and daring, Castruccio
Cesarini cast his eyes upon the queen-like brow of the great heiress.
Oh, yes, she had a soul--she could disdain rank and revere genius! What
a triumph over De Montaigne--Maltravers--all the world, if he, the
neglected poet, could win the hand for which the magnates of the earth
sighed in vain! Pure and lofty as he thought himself, it was her birth
and her wealth which Cesarini adored in Florence. And Lumley, nearer
perhaps to the prize than either--yet still far off--went on conversing,
with eloquent lips and sparkling eyes, while his cold heart was planning
every word, dictating every glance, and laying out (for the most worldly
are often the most visionary) the chart for a royal road to fortune.
And Florence Lascelles, when the crowd had dispersed and she sought her
chamber, forgot all three; and with that morbid romance often peculiar
to those for whom Fate smiles the most, mused over the ideal image of
the one she /could/ love--"in maiden meditation /not/ fancy-free!"
