Ernest Maltravers, Book 8

m nolle, ea demum f

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t to will the same thing, that

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Oh, I shall die. R

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have passed their grand climacteric. Ernest, in ordinary life, like most men of warm emotions and strong imagination, if not taciturn, was at least guarded. It was as if a weight were taken from his breast, when he found one person who

he motives of those around her-an imperious and obstinate vehemence of will, were visible to Maltravers, and served, perhaps, to keep him heart-whole. He regarded her through the eyes of the intellect, not those of the passions-he thought not of her as a woman-her very talents, her very grandeur of idea and power of purpose, while they de

ss than a duke; as for flirtations, he thought them natural and innocent amusements. Besides, he was very little at Temple Grove. He went to London every morning, after breakfasting in his own room-came back to dine, play at whist, and talk good-humoured nonsense to Florence in his dressing-room, for the three minutes that took place between his sipping his wine-and-water and the appearance of his valet. As for the other guests, it was not their business to do more than gossip with eac

imed empire over his heart; and whether or not he loved her, still for the present they seemed

e their nest. The communication of thought to man is implanted as an instinct in those breasts to which Heaven has intrusted the solemn agencies of genius. In the work which Maltravers now composed he consulted Florence: his confidence delighted her-it was a compliment she could appreciate. Wild, fervid, impassioned, was that work-a brief and holiday creation-the youngest and most beloved of the children of his brain. And as day by day the bright design grew into shape, and thought and imagination found themselves "local habitations,"

Saxingham's account than her own; for he punctiliously exacted from her the most scrupulous attention to cousins fifty times removed, provided they were rich, clever, well off, or in any way of consequence:-it was one afternoon that,

cies of literature, which joins with the interest of a novel the truth of a history-the French m

heart itself. Those pretty sentiments, those delicate gallantries, of Madame de Sevigne to her daughter, how amiable they are; but, somehow or other, I can never fancy them the least motherly. What an ending for a maternal e

ou reign, there is not one in which your em

h addicted to compliment; but I confess I like preserving a sort of gallantry even in our

rather of the old school. If I had a daughter, and asked her to get my slippers, I am afraid I shou

ted to an arm of the stream which ornamented the grounds, and by its quiet and shadowy gloom was meant to give a contrast to the livelier f

nd's arm, that induced him to stop short in an animated commentar

he; "and what new moral hast thou be

rambles have not been wholly fruitless, and that I could not walk from Dan to Beersheba and find all barren, accept my offerin

vers, I am /de trop/

matters; for there are two to be discussed. In the first place, Lady

as in recollection of a

e Montaigne, his brother-in-law, who seems seriously uneasy about Castruccio. He wishes him to leave England at once, as the sole means of restoring his broken fortunes. De Montaigne has the opportu

d Cleveland. "No, I am an author, too. Come, I t

; "he wants nothing but time and experience to wean him fr

ee him when I go to town. It is like you, M

ratitude. In his weaker qualities I have seen many which all literary men might incur, without

heart, and in the integrity of his

these must be, the rede

er, which had at first been high, but which his own presumption had latterly shaken. She had seen him three or four times in the interval between the receipt

travers, "for my second

ical; will it wea

spire me with contempt or admiration, according to the moti

me, for I see my guests coming across the lawn, and I may as well m

ers and Florence was of so frank a nature that there wa

tion. I have received a letter from Mr. ---. That statesman, whom none but those acquainted with the chivalrous beauty of his nature can understand or appreciate, sees before him the most brilliant career that ever opened in this country to a public man not born an aristocrat. He has asked me to form o

ept the

me inconsistent, for, in public life, to agree with another on a party question is all that is required; the thousand questions not yet ripened, and lying dark and concealed in the future, are not inquired into and divined; but I own I shall deem myself worse than inconsistent. For this is my dilemma,-i

your time, confident that it must come, when conscience and ambition can go hand-in-hand-when the broad objects of a luminous and enlarged policy lie before you like a chart, and you can calculate every step of the way without peril of being lost. Ah, let them still call loftiness of purpose and whiteness of soul the dreams of a theorist,-even if they be so, the Ideal in this case is better than the Practical. Meanwhile your posi

, that Florence Lascelles suddenly acquired in Ernest's ey

ur in which you gave me your friendship! These are the thoughts I have longed to hear from l

changed,-she was no longer the majestic sibyl

In so doing, a letter fell from her bosom-and Maltravers, as he bent forwards to forestall her own movement, saw that the direction was to himself, and in the handwriting of his unknown correspondent. H

know-not to have felt that there were not two Florences in the world! B

orence; "leave me,

, in emotion scarcely less deep than he

ion had been made-deep vows interchanged, and Ernest M