Lothair, Benjamin Disraeli [crime books to read TXT] 📗

is a reserve about pearls which I like--something soft and dim. But they are all gone, and I ought not to regret them, for they went in a good cause. I kept the star, because it was given to me by a hero; and once we flattered ourselves it was a symbol."

"I wish I were a hero!" said Lothair.

"You may yet prove one."

"And if I do, may I give you a star?"

"If it be symbolical."

"But of what?"

"Of an heroic purpose."

"But what is an heroic purpose?" exclaimed Lothair. "Instead of being here to-night, I ought, perhaps, to have been present at a religious function of the highest and deepest import, which might have influenced my destiny, and led to something heroic. But my mind is uncertain and unsettled. I speak to you without reserve, for my heart always entirely opens to you, and I have a sort of unlimited confidence in your judgment. Besides, I have never forgotten what you said at Oxford about religion--that you could not conceive society without religion. It is what I feel myself, and most strongly; and yet there never was a period when religion was so assailed. There is no doubt the atheists are bolder, are more completely organized, both as to intellectual and even physical force, than ever was known. I have heard that from the highest authority. For my own part, I think I am prepared to die for Divine truth. I have examined myself severely, but I do not think I should falter. Indeed, can there be for man a nobler duty than to be the champion of God? But then the question of the churches interferes. If there were only one church, I could see my way. Without a church, there can be no true religion, because otherwise you have no security for the truth. I am a member of the Church of England, and when I was at Oxford I thought the Anglican view might be sustained. But, of late, I have given ray mind deeply to these matters, for, after all, they are the only matters a man should think of; and, I confess to you, the claim of Rome to orthodoxy seems to me irresistible."

"You make no distinction, then, between religion and orthodoxy?" said Theodora.

"Certainly I make no difference."

"And yet, what is orthodox at Dover is not orthodox at Calais or Ostend. I should be sorry to think that, because there was no orthodoxy in Belgium or France, there was no religion."

"Yes," said Lothair, "I think I see what you mean."

"Then again, if we go further," continued Theodora, "there is the whole of the East; that certainly is not orthodox, according to your views. You may not agree with all or any of their opinions, but you could scarcely maintain that, as communities, they are irreligious."

"Well, you could not, certainly," said Lothair.

"So you see," said Theodora, "what is called orthodoxy has very little to do with religion; and a person may be very religious without holding the same dogmas as yourself, or, as some think, without holding any."

"According to you, then," said Lothair, "the Anglican view might be maintained."

"I do not know what the Anglican view is," said Theodora. "I do not belong to the Roman or to the Anglican Church."

"And yet, you are very religious," said Lothair.

"I hope so; I try to be so; and, when I fail in any duty, it is not the fault of my religion. I never deceive myself into that; I know it is my own fault."

There was a pause; but they walked on. The soft splendor of the scene and all its accessories, the moonlight, and the fragrance, and the falling waters, wonderfully bewitched the spirit of the young Lothair.

"There is nothing I would not tell you," he suddenly exclaimed, turning to Theodora, "and sometimes I think there is nothing you would not tell me. Tell me, then, I entreat you, what is your religion?"

"The true religion, I think," said Theodora. "I worship in a church where I believe God dwells, and dwells for my guidance and my good--my conscience."

"Your conscience may be divine," said Lothair, "and I believe it is; but the consciences of other persons are not divine, and what is to guide them, and what is to prevent or to mitigate the evil they would perpetrate?"

"I have never heard from priests," said Theodora, "any truth which my conscience had not revealed to me. They use different language from what I use, but I find, after a time, that we mean the thing. What I call time they call eternity; when they describe heaven, they give a picture of earth; and beings whom they style divine, they invest with all the attributes of humanity."

"And yet is it not true," said Lothair, "that--"

But, at this moment, there were the sounds of merriment and of approaching footsteps; the form of Mr. Phoebus appeared ascending the steps of the terrace, followed by others. The smokers had fulfilled their task. There were farewells, and bows, and good-nights. Lothair had to retire with the others, and, as he threw himself into his brougham, he exclaimed: "I perceive that life is not so simple an affair as I once supposed."


CHAPTER 32

When the stranger, who had proved so opportune an ally to Lothair at the Fenian meeting, separated from his companion, he proceeded in the direction of Pentonville, and, after pursuing his way through a number of obscure streets, but quiet, decent, and monotonous, he stopped at a small house in a row of many residences, yet all of them, in, form, size, color, and general character, so identical, that the number on the door could alone assure the visitor that he was not in error when he sounded the knocker.

"Ah! is it you, Captain Bruges?" said the smiling and blushing maiden who answered to his summons. "We have not seen you for a long time."

"Well, you look as kind and as pretty as ever, Jenny," said the captain, "and how is my friend?"

"Well," said the damsel, and she shrugged her shoulders, "he mopes. I'm very glad you have come back, captain, for he sees very few now, and is always writing. I cannot bear that writing; if he would only go and take a good walk, I am sure he would be better."

"There is something in that," said Captain Bruges. "And is he at home, and will he see me?"

"Oh! he is always at home to you, captain; but I will just run up and tell him you are here. You know it is long since we have seen you, captain--coming on half a year, I think."

"Time flies, Jenny. Go, my good girl, and I will wait below."

"In the parlor, if you please, Captain Bruges. It is to let now. It is more than a mouth since the doctor left us. That was a loss, for, as long as the doctor was here, he always had some one to speak with."

So Captain Bruges entered the little dining-room with its mahogany table, and half a dozen chairs, and cellaret, and over the fireplace a portrait of Garibaldi, which had been left as a legacy to the landlady by her late lodger, Dr. Tresorio.

The captain threw a quick glance at the print, and then, falling into reverie, with his hands crossed behind him, paced the little chamber, and was soon lost in thoughts which made him unconscious how long had elapsed when the maiden summoned him.

Following her, and ascending the stair-case, he was ushered into the front room of the first floor, and there came forward to meet him a man rather below the middle height, but of a symmetrical and imposing mien. His face was grave, not to say sad; thought, not time, had partially silvered the clustering of his raven hair; but intellectual power reigned in his wide brow, while determination was the character of the rest of his countenance, under great control, yet apparently, from the dark flashing of his eye, not incompatible with fanaticism.

"General," he exclaimed, "your presence always reanimates me. I shall at least have some news on which I rely. Your visit is sudden--sudden things are often happy ones. Is there any thing stirring in the promised land? Speak, speak! You have a thousand things to say, and I have a thousand ears."

"My dear Mirandola," replied the visitor, "I will take leave to call into council a friend whose presence is always profitable."

So saying, he took out a cigar-case, and offered it to his companion.

"We have smoked together in palaces," said Mirandola, accepting the proffer with a delicate white hand.

"But not these cigars," replied the general. "They are superb, my only reward for all my transatlantic work, and sometimes I think a sufficient one."

"And Jenny shall give us a capital cup of coffee," said Mirandola; "it is the only hospitality that I can offer my friends. Give me a light, my general; and now, how are things?"

"Well, at the first glance, very bad; the French have left Rome, and we are not in it."

"Well, that is an infamy not of today or yesterday," replied Mirandola, "though not less an infamy. We talked over this six months ago, when you were over here about something else, and from that moment unto the present I have with unceasing effort labored to erase this stigma from the human consciousness, but with no success. Men are changed; public spirit is extinct; the deeds of '48 are to the present generations as incomprehensible as the Punic wars, or the feats of Marius against the Cimbri. What we want are the most natural things in the world, and easy of attainment because they are natural. We want our metropolis, our native frontiers, and true liberty. Instead of these, we have compromises, conventions, provincial jealousies, and French prefects. It is disgusting, heart-rending; sometimes I fear my own energies are waning. My health is wretched; writing and speaking are decidedly bad for me, and I pass my life in writing and speaking. Toward evening I feel utterly exhausted, and am sometimes, which I thought I never could be, the victim of despondency. The loss of the doctor was a severe blow, but they hurried him out of the place. The man of Paris would never rest till he was gone. I was myself thinking of once more trying Switzerland, but the obstacles are great; and, in truth, I was at the darkest moment when Jenny brought me the light of your name."

The general, who had bivouacked on a group of small chairs, his leg on one, his elbow on another, took his cigar from his mouth and delivered himself of a volume of smoke, and then said dryly: "Things may not be so bad as they seem, comrade. Your efforts have not been without fruit. I have traced them in many quarters, and, indeed, it is about their possible consequences that I have come over to consult with you."

"Idle words, I know, never escape those lips," said Mirandola; "speak on."

"Well," said the general, "you see that people are a little exhausted by the efforts of last year; and it must be confessed that no slight results were accomplished. The freedom of Venice--"

"A French intrigue," exclaimed Mirandola. "The freedom of Venice is the price of the slavery of Rome. I heard of it with disgust."

"Well, we do not differ much on that head," said the general. "I am not