CHAPTER VI.
"Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections."--/Tempest/.
MEANWHILE the betrothed were on their road to London. The balmy and
serene beauty of the day had induced them to perform the short journey
on horseback. It is somewhere said, that lovers are never so handsome
as in each other's company, and neither Florence nor Ernest ever looked
so well as on horseback. There was something in the stateliness and
grace of both, something even in the aquiline outline of their features
and the haughty bend of the neck, that made a sort of likeness between
these young persons, although there was no comparison as to their
relative degrees of personal advantage: the beauty of Florence defied
all comparison. And as they rode from Cleveland's porch, where the
other guests yet lingering were assembled to give the farewell greeting,
there was a general conviction of the happiness destined to the
affianced ones,--a general impression that both in mind and person they
were eminently suited to each other. Their position was that which is
ever interesting, even in more ordinary people, and at that moment they
were absolutely popular with all who gazed on them; and when the good
old Cleveland turned away with tears in his eyes and murmured "Bless
them!" there was not one of the party who would have hesitated to join
the prayer.
Florence felt a nameless dejection as she quitted a spot so consecrated
by grateful recollections.
"When shall we be again so happy?" said she, softly, as she turned back
to gaze upon the landscape, which, gay with flowers and shrubs, and the
bright English verdure, smiled behind them like a garden.
"We will try and make my old hall, and its gloomy shades, remind us of
these fairer scenes, my Florence."
"Ah! describe to me the character of your place. We shall live there
principally, shall we not? I am sure I shall like it much better than
Marsden Court, which is the name of that huge pile of arches and columns
in Vanbrugh's heaviest taste, which will soon be yours."
"I fear we shall never dispose of all your mighty retinue, grooms of the
chamber, and Patagonian footmen, and Heaven knows who besides, in the
holes and corners of Burleigh," said Ernest smiling. And then he went
on to describe the old place with something of a well-born country
gentleman's not displeasing pride; and Florence listened, and they
planned, and altered, and added, and improved, and laid out a map for
the future. From that topic they turned to another, equally interesting
to Florence. The work in which Maltravers had been engaged was
completed, was in the hands of the printer, and Florence amused herself
with conjectures as to the criticisms it would provoke. She was certain
that all that had most pleased her would be /caviare/ to the multitude.
She never would believe that any one could understand Maltravers but
herself. Thus time flew on till they passed that part of the road in
which had occurred Ernest's adventure with Mrs. Templeton's daughter.
Maltravers paused abruptly in the midst of his glowing periods, as the
spot awakened its associations and reminiscences, and looked round
anxiously and inquiringly. But the fair apparition was not again
visible; and whatever impression the place produced, it gradually died
away as they entered the suburbs of the great metropolis. Two other
gentlemen and a young lady of thirty-three (I had almost forgotten them)
were of the party, but they had the tact to linger a little behind
during the greater part of the road, and the young lady, who was a wit
and a flirt, found gossip and sentiment for both the cavaliers.
"Will you come to us this evening?" asked Florence, timidly.
"I fear I shall not be able. I have several matters to arrange before I
leave town for Burleigh, which I must do next week. Three months,
dearest Florence, will scarcely suffice to make Burleigh put on its best
looks to greet its new mistress; and I have already appointed the great
modern magicians of draperies and ormolu to consult how we may make
Aladdin's palace fit for the reception of the new princess. Lawyers,
too!--in short, I expect to be fully occupied. But to-morrow, at three,
I shall be with you, and we can ride out, if the day be fine."
"Surely," said Florence, "yonder is Signor Cesarini--how haggard and
altered he appears!"
Maltravers, turning his eyes towards the spot to which Florence pointed,
saw Cesarini emerging from a lane, with a porter behind him carrying
some books and a trunk. The Italian, who was talking and gesticulating
as to himself, did not perceive them.
"Poor Castruccio! he seems leaving his lodging," thought Maltravers.
"By this time I fear he will have spent the last sum I conveyed to
him--I must remember to find him out and replenish his stores.--Do not
forget," said he aloud, "to see Cesarini, and urge him to accept the
appointment we spoke of."
"I will not forget it--I will see him to-morrow before we meet. Yet it
is a painful task, Ernest."
"I allow it. Alas! Florence, you owe him some reparation. He
undoubtedly once conceived himself entitled to form hopes the vanity of
which his ignorance of our English world and his foreign birth prevented
him from suspecting."
"Believe me, I did not give him the right to form such expectations."
"But you did not sufficiently discourage them. Ah, Florence, never
underrate the pangs of hope crushed, of love contemned."
"Dreadful!" said Florence, almost shuddering. "It is strange, but my
conscience never so smote me before. It is since I loved that I feel,
for the first time, how guilty a creature is--"
"A coquette!" interrupted Maltravers. "Well, let us think of the past
no more; but if we can restore a gifted man, whose youth promised much,
to an honourable independence and a healthful mind, let us do so. Me,
Cesarini never can forgive; he will think I have robbed him of you. But
we men--the woman we have once loved, even after she rejects us, ever
has some power over us, and your eloquence, which has so often roused
me, cannot fail to impress a nature yet more excitable."
Maltravers, on quitting Florence at her own door, went home, summoned
his favourite servant, gave him Cesarini's address at Chelsea, bade him
find out where he was, if he had left his lodgings; and leave at his
present home, or (failing its discovery) at the "Travellers," a cover,
which he made his servant address, inclosing a bank-note of some amount.
If the reader wonder why Maltravers thus constituted himself the unknown
benefactor of the Italian, I must tell him that he does not understand
Maltravers. Cesarini was not the only man of letters whose faults he
pitied, whose wants he relieved. Though his name seldom shone in the
pompous list of public subscriptions--though he disdained to affect the
Maecenas and the patron, he felt the brotherhood of mankind, and a kind
of gratitude for those who aspired to rise or to delight their species.
An author himself, he could appreciate the vast debt which the world
owes to authors, and pays but by calumny in life and barren laurels
after death. He whose profession is the Beautiful succeeds only through
the Sympathies. Charity and compassion are virtues taught with
difficulty to ordinary men; to true genius they are but the instincts
which direct it to the destiny it is born to fulfil-viz., the discovery
and redemption of new tracts in our common nature. Genius--the Sublime
Missionary--goes forth from the serene Intellect of the Author to live
in the wants, the griefs, the infirmities of others, in order that it
may learn their language; and as its highest achievement is Pathos, so
its most absolute requisite is Pity!
