Unconscious of the anxieties which had been aroused respecting him at
his tranquil home, Louis found himself engaged in scenes he little
expected in the dull routine of his uncle's castle.
The first day of his present visit to Bamborough, passed according to
the usual journal of the whole year; a plenteous dinner, with abundance
of wine, and three or four country squires around the table. After
the feast, Louis played at backgammon with his uncle; while three of
the other guests, with the assistance of Dumby, dozed through half a
dozen rubbers of whist. The senses of the fourth had not sufficiently
survived the dinner's last potation, to be even a silent spectator.
He took his station in an easy chair, near some snoring dogs on the
hearth-rug, and soon shewed audible fellowship with their slumbers. At
ten o'clock the butler announced supper. The whole party started from
their chairs; and rubbing their eyes and hands in the joy of renewed
impulse, crowded into the eating-room. Louis, who could say no with as
much good humour as most people say yes, declined accompanying them,
and went to his own apartments; where he passed the moon-light hours in
making a drawing of their effect on the opposite tower of Lindisfarne,
and the misty ruins of its abbey.
The next morning being ushered in by a fierce equinoctial tempest, the
guests of the castle gazed despairingly at the floods of rain which
swept before the furious wind; and when they found it impossible to
animate the drowsy hours by lingering out a breakfast they had already
prolonged to loathing, they dashed through the pouring torrents,
to kill time amongst horses and grooms, dogs and whippers-in. But
these employments too found satiety; and at the first blast of the
letter-carrier's horn, the whole party rushed into the house, to see
what his bag contained, and to snatch the welcome newspapers. The
sleeper of the night before, who was also high-sheriff of the county,
in right of his dignity, mumbled The Postman to himself; while Sir
Anthony, with many bursts of applause, read The True Briton aloud to
the rest of the company.
As soon as Louis found the badness of the weather likely to prevent
his uncle's guests from taking their usual excursions, he retreated
from their noisy pastimes to the large solitary library. There he knew
he should be as safe from invasion, as if he had hid himself in the
vaults of the chapel. A few minutes absorbed his whole attention in
the black-letter annalists of Great Britain; comparing their details
with the chronicles of France; and losing himself in admiration of
the Condés and Montmorencies of the one country, and the Talbots and
Percies of the other. He dwelt with particular delight on the chivalric
characters of Froissart, feeling as if he conversed with them as
friends; while the heroes of Cressy and Poictiers divided his heart
between the triumph of conquest, and the god-like moderation of their
victories. While thus engaged, he was at times wrested from his fancied
presence in the scenes he read, by the smacking of whips, and the
halloos of his uncle's guests as they passed through the hall in their
visits to the stables.
"What descendants of the Mowbrays, the Percies, and the Nevilles!"
cried Louis to himself. The uproar rose and fell in gusts, like the
tempest; and at last dying away behind the friendly interposition of
long passages and distant rooms, he forgot the existence of the noisy
rout; and again found himself in the pavilions of heroes.
Towards four o'clock the clouds had exhausted themselves; and a bright
sun, tempering the chilly freshness of the air, he looked from the
library window over the woods and glades of his uncle's park; and felt
inclined to steal out unobserved, and take an exhilarating race towards
its boundary. The deer were coming from their covert, to enjoy the
beam; and the rooks, speeding home in glad multitudes, were cooing and
wheeling, and flapping their wings, as they hovered over or settled on
the tall elms of the ancient avenue. These sounds of grateful nature,
rather soothed than disturbed the tranquillity of the scene; and Louis
lingered at the window, reciprocating the happiness of these creatures,
free, careless, innocent, and full of blameless enjoyment.
In the midst of these musings, a new, and an uncommon noise in his
uncle's house, startled his ear; opening and banging doors along the
adjoining gallery, the rumbling of trunks, the calling of servants,
and a variety of female voices in constant command. Louis stood amazed.
He had not heard that his uncle expected any unusual company, and least
of all women; for owing to the convivial character of Sir Anthony's
meetings, none of the country ladies had honoured the Castle with a
visit, since the departure of Mrs. Coningsby.
In a few minutes Louis heard his name loudly vociferated by Sir Anthony
himself.—"Louis—Louis de Montemar!—Where the devil have you hid
yourself?"—and with the boisterous interrogation the baronet burst
into the library.—His eyes sparkled with jovial intelligence, as
he advanced to his nephew: "Come Louis, my boy! Here is metal more
attractive to your taste than chess and backgammon!—Leave this musty
place, and I will introduce you to lillies and roses!"
Louis guessed, from these extraordinary transports, that some accident
had brought ladies to the Castle; and while he allowed Sir Anthony to
hurry him down a back-stair to the drawing-room, he tried to learn
something of the matter. But the Baronet was in too great an ecstacy to
speak common sense:—he broke into extravagant thanks to the storm, and
eulogies on fine eyes and blooming complexions; and did not give Louis
time to ask another question before he ushered him into the presence
of several elegantly dressed women. With manifest pride in the fine
person of his nephew, Sir Anthony introduced him to the fair group; and
they received him with compliments to the uncle, which, being new to
the young man from female lips, deepened to crimson the colour on his
glowing complexion.
A little observation convinced him that these were neither his
county ladies, nor the ladies of any other county in England. They
were handsome, their habits costly; and their deportment something
like high fashion, though it wanted that ineffable grace of delicate
reserve, which is the indispensable mark of a true English gentlewoman.
As he looked on their careless movements and familiar ease, he could
not but think how like the last harmonizing hue which a skilful painter
casts over his picture, is the veil of modesty to a lovely woman. In
short, he soon gathered from the rapid discourse of these unexpected
visitors, that they were natives of different countries, and belonging
to the stage; which profession, he thought, might necessarily free
their manners from the usual restraints of their sex, without in
reality impairing their virtue.[A]
Two of the
party were of the opera, the one, an Italian primadona, with a
singularly beautiful figure; the other, a French dancer, young, pretty
and full of life: the rest, English actresses of various degrees of
personal charms.
It was the voices of these ladies' respective maids, which had
surprized Louis from the gallery; and he now stood contemplating the
persons and manners of their mistresses, with the amused curiosity of
youth.—The pretty French dancer had just enquired whether he spoke
her language; and was expressing her delight at being answered in the
affirmative, when Sir Anthony (who had quitted the room soon after the
introduction of his nephew,) re-entered with
the Duke of Wharton and the remainder of his guests.
Louis started at sight of the Duke, instantly remembering his promise
to his guardian. Wharton wore the same careless, animated air, as when
he first fascinated the imagination of his young admirer; and springing
directly from the dull mass which surrounded him, seemed to Louis like
a sun-beam shot from a heavy cloud. The next moment he found himself in
the Duke's arms.
"My dear de Montemar! This is unexpected pleasure! I thought only of
refreshing my horses, little dreaming your uncle had provided this
feast for their master!"
Louis trembled and was silent. He wished his guardian had not exacted
the promise, which, even at this moment, whispered he must not hearken
to the captivating Wharton, but tear himself away. Louis did not reply;
for he felt unable to say (what he was determined to do:) that he must
instantly return to Lindisfarne.
The Duke took his arm, and drew him to a distant part of the room.
"De Montemar, I could sacrifice a hecatomb of my best Cumberland
steers, for this blessed meeting! I have not seen any thing so after
my own heart, since we parted; and yet I have been lamp in hand, day
and night, in search of one of your stamp. I know you have a brave
soul; and that it spurns a sleepy life, though your dreams should be
of paradise!—When all are gone to bed, meet me to-night in the old
library.—I have that to say to you, I would not have even a listening
spider whisper to some of this herd."
"Not even myself must listen to it!" replied Louis, making a strong
effort to declare at once his intention; "Your Grace must pardon me,
but I am this instant leaving the Castle."
"Impossible!" cried the Duke, "you would not go for the wealth of
Mexico, if you knew the matter I have to communicate."
"No temptation must detain me!" replied Louis, with a smile that spoke
of sacrifice; "I am under an engagement that cannot be broken."
"That countenance," returned Wharton, laughing; "tells a different
story!—You know the old proverb! where there is a will, &c.; and I
cannot doubt yours, since we pledged ourselves heart to heart on the
bonnie braes of Glen Rannock!—Besides, I am here accidentally, and
only for a short time. Under these circumstances, what engagement can
be so serious, as ought to separate us at such a moment?"
The Duke paused, and Louis blushed. It was almost for his
venerable uncle; for he thought him severe against this resistless
pleader.—Wharton resumed. "Come, de Montemar; let me write man upon
that candid brow. Not as your uncle Anthony would stamp it, in lees;
nor as another uncle, perhaps, would mark it, with Saint Cuthbert's
tonsure! My signet is of other impression."
"Your signet is too true a one," returned Louis, "to obliterate a word
of honour! and I have given mine to my uncle of Lindisfarne to——,"
he hesitated.—Could he tell the noble Wharton, that he had solemnly
promised never to remain willingly under the same roof with him?
Wharton observed the painful confusion of his too well-inclined friend.
"To what," said he, "have you pledged yourself to Mr. Athelstone?—To
return to him to-night?—But the promise was given under ordinary
circumstances. I know your uncle does not like the usual orgies of Sir
Anthony. And as neither you, nor the good old gentleman, could guess
that my happy stars would bring me to Bamborough to-day, you must
allow me, as a good knight, and grand-master in the courts of
honour, to give both of you acquittal on this head; and to pronounce,
that change of circumstances releases you from your engagement, and him
from the necessity of demanding its fulfilment!"
Louis's heightening colour overspread his face, as the Duke concluded;
but collecting all his powers of self-denial, "My Lord," said he, "You
are very good; but I must go!—The tide now serves, and delay——"
Wharton released his arm with an air of pique.—The resolution of Louis
to depart, and without assigning his guardian's reason for insisting on
his return, was enough for the ready apprehension of the Duke. He at
once comprehended that Mr. Athelstone foresaw a change in his nephew's
moral and political principles, should he be permitted to cultivate an
intimacy, which, it was evident, was the secret wish of that nephew's
heart.—The Duke saw the struggle between inclination and duty. He saw,
that persuasions to stay, by causing Louis to summon more of his moral
strength to oppose his own desire to stay, only ensured his departure;
and therefore the moment Wharton perceived the real position of the
enemy, he made a russe de guerre, and drew off.
"I shall not withstand your own inclination, Mr. de Montemar," said
he, as he turned away with assumed coldness. The words smote on the
heart of Louis. Sir Anthony, who had caught their unusual tone, looked
towards the Duke and his nephew. He saw the former walk with a grave
demeanor towards a window, and the latter gaze after him with an
agitated countenance. The baronet approached Louis, and in a whisper
asked what had happened.
"I must obey my uncle's command to return to Lindisfarne."
This reply re-called to Sir Anthony his own promise to the same
effect. He reddened angrily: "and you have told the Duke, Mr.
Athelstone's monkish antipathy to his gaiety and good humour?"
"No, dear Sir, but I have told him, I must go; that I am pledged to go.
And though he injures me by supposing that I am such an Insensible as
to obey without reluctance; yet I respect my word too much, and hold my
uncle's command too sacred, to hesitate about what I ought to do."
With a hurrying step, he was moving towards the door; when the baronet
made one angry stride, and stretching forth his athletic arm, grasped
his nephew's; and with an enraged countenance drew him into an
anti-room, waving his other hand to the Duke to follow. Wharton was too
good a general to comply immediately; and Sir Anthony, as soon as he
could speak without the observation of strangers, burst into a loud
and violent invective on his uncle's unjustifiable prejudices against
the Duke.
"What can he charge him with?" cried the baronet,—"That he is young?
The fitter to be your companion!—That he is gay? And if a man be
not gay in his youth, when is he to be gay?—That he is married,
and does not live with his wife? What man of spirit would keep any
terms with a woman, who wheedled him into wedlock, before he was out
of his teens!—That he is fond of wine? His thirst does not make
you drink!—That he is liked by women; and not ungrateful to their
kindness? Why Louis, your old uncle had best shut you up at once with
the dead bones in the abbey vaults! And then he calls him a rebel to
his King! What of that? If the King himself does not fear him, but
lets him go at large amongst his subjects; why should the Pastor of
Lindisfarne take more care for His Majesty, than His Majesty thinks
proper to take for himself! I tell you, Louis, the cloven-foot is
under the surplice. It is resentment of an old affront, that excites
all this animosity in the mind of Mr. Athelstone."
There was much in this speech, and more in the manner of it, that
offended the best feelings of Louis. "Sir," said he, "I thank you for
having recalled to me my uncle's arguments on this subject. He may be
mistaken as to the extent of the facts; but till he is so far convinced
of his error, as to release me from the promise I gave him, to avoid
the Duke; I must consider myself bound to abide by it."
The baronet's face now became purple. "Louis! am not I your uncle, as
well as this domineering priest? I am your mother's brother; and from
her, I have rights, he cannot claim. You respect his commands! By what
authority will you disobey mine? I therefore order you, on your peril,
not to stir from this house, till it is my pleasure to let you go."
He turned, with a look of defiance, to leave the room; but the voice
of Louis arrested him. "Sir Anthony," cried he, "when you command me
as becomes my mother's brother, I have ever been eager to shew you
obedience; but there is no authority on earth shall compel me to stay
where I am to hear words of disrespect coupled with the name of my most
revered guardian."
"We will look to that!" said the baronet fiercely; and opening an
opposite door, he disappeared, banging it furiously after him. The Duke
entered at the same instant, by the one from the drawing-room. He stood
for a moment, observing the countenance of Louis; then approaching him
with his usual frank air: "De Montemar," said he, "unintentionally, I
have overheard something of what has passed between you and your uncle;
and I have learnt enough, to be ashamed of the fool's part I have
played just now, when I turned from you like a jealous girl!"
Wharton laid his hand on the arm of Louis, and with a gay smile, which
was rendered enchanting by the affectionate seriousness of his eyes, he
gently added, "but friendship being the sister of love, we must forgive
her sharing a little of her brother's infirmities."
Louis could not guess how much of the recent offensive discussion had
been overheard by its subject; but he was glad to be cleared in the
mind of the Duke from the implied charge of quitting him capriciously.
"Chance," said he, "has communicated to your Grace, what I could never
have brought myself to utter."
"And therefore," returned the Duke, "I suppose you leave me to guess
the good Pastor's reason for excluding me from his fold? I see it in
the sin of my youth. You have forgotten it; but in my beardless days, I
offended Mr. Athelstone in a way that deserved a cat-o-nine-tails. Had
he laid his horse-whip over my shoulders at that time, it would have
been wholesome chastisement: but this interdict—"
"It is not for that!" exclaimed Louis, "but could my guardian know
the generous character he so misjudges; I feel he would court that
friendship for me, he now so fearfully deprecates."
The Duke shook his head: "thanks, dear Montemar, for that profession of
your faith! But when prejudice gets possession of an old head, neither
argument nor auto de fé can dislodge the evil spirit."
"Indeed," cried Louis, "my excellent uncle is not fuller of years than
of candour! It is not one prejudice, but reports—slanders—"
"Aye," interrupted the Duke, "Dan Bacon warns us that Envy, like the
sun, beats hottest on the highest grounds! But I could have spared
this proof of my merit.—de Montemar," added he, in a graver and more
earnest tone; "shall I tell you, that you;—with that guileless heart,
that ingenuous soul, that maiden reputation; will one day be reported!
slandered! made a pest, as I am, to be avoided!"
Clouds collected over the Duke's brow as he proceeded. He walked a few
paces towards the opposite side of the room, and then turned round with
his usual bright countenance.—"De Montemar, my life has been a comet's
track; and therefore may astonish and alarm. It is not given to every
man to know whither my eccentric course tends:—but I tell you, its aim
is to the sun!"
Louis's heart glowed, as the Duke thus animatedly delivered himself.
"Oh, my Lord," cried he, "why are you thus misapprehended? Or rather,
why will that noble spirit give any licence to slander, by stooping to
such associates as——" he paused.
"We will not name them!" replied Wharton laughing; "But such things
are my toys, or my tools. Did men of our sort keep only with our likes,
we should prove but useless animals. The world is a multitude, where
every creature must partake the fellowship of poor dependent human
nature; or at once claim kindred with the gods by doffing his clay, and
ascending post-haste to the regions above!"
The castle bell rang for dinner; and with its last peal, Sir Anthony
presented himself at the drawing-room door.—He came haughtily
forward. "My Lord Duke, the ladies await your hand to lead them down
stairs.—Louis, you are come to your senses, I see, and will follow his
Grace."
The manner with which the baronet said this, shewed he rather expected
to intimidate his nephew into compliance; than really thought he had
made up his mind to obey. Louis answered with firmness, "I cannot,
Sir, transgress what I know to be my duty."
Sir Anthony's eyes flashed fire: "That is to say," cried he, "you know
it is your duty to obey me!—and you will obey me!—or abide by the
consequence." "Nay, Athelstone," interrupted the Duke, "this is shot
and bounce with a vengeance! What man, with the spirit of a weazel,
but would grub through your very towers, to shew you he despised such
threatenings? Open your gates to the uncontrouled egress and regress of
your nephew; or my free pinions will spurn them in a moment!" "I am no
jailor, Duke Wharton," replied the angry baronet, "But that boy should
know his uncle is not to be insulted with impunity. He presumes on my
avowed affection for him, to affront my company before my face; and
then mocks me with an apology still more galling, by declaring that he
must prefer the caprices of a selfish old priest, to all the gratitude
he owes an uncle who indulges his every wish; and has already made him
heir to this castle and its estates."
"Athelstone! Athelstone!" exclaimed the Duke, "am I to tell you that
boy is one exception to Walpole's theory of mankind? You cannot bribe
Louis de Montemar to act against his conscience. Open your gates, and
let him go."
Sir Anthony looked from the playful remonstrance of the Duke, to the
perturbed countenance of his nephew.—"Louis," said he, in a more
temperate tone, "You know how this has been wrung from me. Is there
no terms to be kept with my affection for you? No middle way between
outraging all respect to me, and breaking your extorted promise to this
lord of penance?"
"How can I listen, Sir, to such epithets attached to the idea of the
most venerable of men?"
"He may indulge the boy's-play!" cried the Duke, "Ill names stick only
to such sorry fellows as I."
"Oh, Sir," rejoined Louis, "I have only to represent to my guardian the
candour with which the Duke of Wharton has just treated his unhappy
prejudice; and I am sure he will instantly permit me to return to the
castle."
"Then you persist in going to-night?"
"Now, Sir," replied Louis, "the tide serves: and if I delay, I must
remain till midnight."
Sir Anthony walked the room in great agitation. Wharton looked at his
young friend with a persuasion in his eyes, to which he did not give
words; and their beset object, unable to give a favourable answer to
such pleading, bent his to the ground.
At last the baronet stopped opposite to him. "Louis, you are not a
generous adversary. You deal hardly with the heart you so well know
is all your own. And there you stand, so silent, so stern, to compel
your uncle—the man whose life you saved,—to beg your pardon for his
violence; and to entreat you, even with prayers, not to leave his
roof in anger!" Sir Anthony caught his nephew's hand, and sobbed out
the last words. Louis threw himself on his uncle's neck; and quite
overcome, hardly articulated, "I will stay to-night, but to-morrow
morning—Oh, my dear Sir, do not urge me to forfeit my own esteem!"
Wharton took the arm of the baronet, who covered his face with his
handkerchief, while he obeyed the impulse which drew him away through
the gallery-door. The Duke bent back, and whispered to Louis, "You will
follow us to the dining-room?" He bowed his head in troubled silence;
and the baronet and his friend turned down the gallery.
"A few hours yielded to my uncle's feelings," said Louis to himself,
"will, I trust, make no essential difference in the performance of my
word to Mr. Athelstone. And indeed I am true to its spirit, for I stay
not willingly. And yet, were it not for my pledged word, what delight
should I have in the society of this amiable, this ingenuous, this
generous Wharton!"
When Louis joined the party at dinner, the flush of his hardly-subsided
agitation was still on his cheek; but his manner was composed, and his
looks cheerful. The company were all seated; and the place left for him
was between the lively Frenchwoman and the Earl of Warwick. The ruddy
face of the baronet was burnished with smiles from his recent victory,
which he hoped was a final one over the future influence of the Pastor
with his nephew: and the pride of triumph did not a little inspirit the
vivacity with which he did the honours of his table; challenging Louis
to pledge the ladies in sparkling Champagne, while he drank to their
ruby lips in glowing Burgundy.
For a little time the Duke appeared thoughtful; and frequently turned
his eyes upon Louis, rather as if he were the object of his thoughts,
than of his sight: but the actress who sat next him, rallying him once
or twice on his portentous abstraction, he suddenly shook off a mood
so little according with the company; and replying with answering
badinage, warned her dramatic majesty to beware of forcing Eneas from
his cloud. The lady dared his threats; and a dialogue of wit, and
playful gallantry, passed between the two, that delighted the sportive
fancy of Louis, and set the grosser spirits of the party in a roar.
In the first pause of this noisy mirth, the black-eyed Italian
challenged the Duke to bear his part with her in a new duetto of
Apostola Zero. It was from the opera of Sappho and Phaon, and
described the lover's last interview in the Lesbian shades. Louis
loved music; and always listened with pleasure to his cousins chanting
their border-legends, or giving utterance to the sweeter ballads of
Scotland: but he had never heard Italian singing until now; and he was
in so wrapt an ecstacy, that, lost to the objects around him, he sat
during the performance with his hands clasped, and his eyes rivetted
alternately on the Duke and on the Signora, as they severally took
up the thrilling melody; but when their voices mingled at the close
with all the harmonious interchange of height, and depth, faultless
execution, and exquisite pathos, the heart of Louis seemed dissolving
within him; and as the last notes trembled, and died on his ear, he
leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hand.
The momentary pause that followed, and which his throbbing heart would
fain have prolonged, was rudely broken by an universal clapping of
hands, and cries of bravo! By a side glance, Wharton had observed
Louis's attention to the singing; and now seeing the disgust with
which he pushed his chair back from the discordant uproar, he bent
behind the Frenchwoman, and tapping his young friend on the shoulder,
whispered—
"This universal shout, and shrill applause,
Seem to the outraged ear of listening Silence,
Strange as the hiss of hell, whose sound perverse
Went forth to hail its sovereign's victory!"
As the Duke spoke, the cadence with which he repeated the lines
recalled the strains which yet vibrated on the entranced sense of his
auditor; and Louis, turning his eyes on him who had charmed him out of
himself, expressed, in broken but energetic language, the delight he
had felt, the wonder that such powers could belong to the human voice:
"I have heard fine singing, before;" said he, "but this is more than
singing!—It is the voice of the soul—or, shall I say, it is the very
ineffable language which love breathed into the heart of Psyché?"
"Say what you please, my own De Montemar!" cried the Duke, his face
radiant with animation; "you have the soul I want!—meet me to-night in
the old library."
His friend the actress heard the last words; and gaily protesting
against any appointment which tended to break up the present festivity;
the rest of the ladies rapturously seconded her motion to close the
night with a dance. Sir Anthony rubbed his hands with glee at the
proposal: and when the ladies soon after ascended to their tea-table,
he ordered the band, which usually travelled in the retinue of the
magnificent Duke, to take its station in the great drawing-room.
The healths of the fair dames being drank on their departure,
the native topics of the chace, races, justice-meetings, and
county-politics, gradually gave way before the ascendancy of high
spirits in men of wit and genius. Louis had insensibly drank more wine
at dinner, than was his custom. Its fumes, and the entrancing power of
the music, united with the charms of the Duke's ever-varying discourse,
had thrown his faculties into a kind of enchanted mist, where all that
is pleasurable played on the surface; all that was alarming, remained
behind the cloud.
At a late hour they joined the ladies, who were seated at ombre and
piquet; but the moment the men appeared, the tables were pushed aside;
and the leading actress, rising from her chair, invited the Duke to a
minuet. He presented her his hand, while the violins obeyed the nod of
his head; and then moved through the elegant evolvements of the dance,
with a grace the more charming from the air of gay indifference with
which he approached, and retreated from her gliding steps.
The pretty Frenchwoman shewed the agile varieties of her art, in a pas
seul, which filled the northern squires with a wonder and satisfaction
more level to their apprehensions, than had been the science of the
fair Italian. Louis stood, leaning over the back of a chair, smiling,
and nodding his approbation to the exhilarating time of the music.
As soon as Mam'selle Violante had made her concluding whirl in the
air, she tripped lightly forward, and gaily demanded his hand for the
country-dance. He bowed delightedly; and obeyed her volant motion, as
she bounded with him down the room to join Wharton and his fair partner
at the head of the set. The ball became general; and the jouissance
so intoxicating; that the whole scene swam in delicious, delirious
pleasure, with the newly-initiated sons of rough Northumberland.
When the party broke up as the sun rose, and Louis retired to his
chamber, he hardly knew himself to be the same man who had left it the
morning before. In that very chamber, four centuries ago, the gay and
profligate Piers Gaveston had been a prisoner! and Louis had issued
from it, only the preceding day, censuring in his mind the vices of its
ancient possessor; and marvelling how any temptation addressed to the
mere senses of rational man, could betray his virtue.
With a whirling brain he now threw himself upon his pillow.—The music
still sounded in his ears; he yet wound with airy step through the
mazes of the dance; the familiar pressure of the laughing Violante was
still warm on his hand; and he yet thrilled under the soft glances
of the fair Italian. Till that day, he had never seen the manners of
women so unzoned. He had never thought it possible, that any behaviour,
freer than what he saw in the behaviour of his aunt and cousins, could
excite other emotions in him, than those of dislike and disgust. He
had admired the magic painting of Homer, Tasso, and Spenser, in their
Circé, Armida, and Adessa; and he had trembled for the constancy of
their respective heroes, before the allurements of such sorcery:—but
he never expected to find similar trials in real life. He believed the
fair tempters in romance, were indebted for the beautiful mask with
which they concealed their mental deformity, entirely to the spells of
the poet's genius. Vice, in living woman, he expected to find as odious
in outward shape, as it is loathsome within.
In short, in meditation, nothing is beautiful without goodness.
The unbiassed heart, speculating upon these subjects, never unites
admiration with any thing foreign to that character; and mistaking
taste for principle, when it comes to the proof, too often substitutes
the approbation of virtue for virtue itself. The discourses of Mrs.
Coningsby fostered in the mind of her nephew this natural idea of the
indivisibility of goodness and beauty. She described the empire of
vice to be absolute, when it takes possession of a woman; and that
its immediate effects were to obliterate every feminine grace, and
transmute her at once into a monster of sin and disgust. Believing
this, Louis was not prepared for the scene he had just witnessed. The
pit, he expected to behold yawning like the mouth of hell, and so
warning him from its approach, he saw overlaid with a verdure, brighter
than all around: and no wonder his unwary feet trod the tempting spot,
and found it treacherous.
