Tancred

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The carriages were announced; Lady Bertie and Bellair placed her arm in
his.

CHAPTER XXII.

_The Crusader Receives a Shock_

TANCRED passed a night of great disquiet. His mind was agitated, his
purposes indefinite; his confidence in himself seemed to falter. Where
was that strong will that had always sustained him? that faculty of
instant decision which had given such vigour to his imaginary deeds?
A shadowy haze had suffused his heroic idol, duty, and he could not
clearly distinguish either its form or its proportions. Did he wish to
go to the Holy Land or not? What a question? Had it come to that? Was
it possible that he could whisper such an enquiry, even to his midnight
soul? He did wish to go to the Holy Land; his purpose was not in the
least faltering; he most decidedly wished to go to the Holy Land, but he
wished also to go thither in the company of Lady Bertie and Bellair.

Tancred could not bring himself to desert the only being perhaps in
England, excepting himself, whose heart was at Jerusalem; and that
being a woman! There seemed something about it unknightly, unkind and
cowardly, almost base. Lady Bertie was a heroine worthy of ancient
Christendom rather than of enlightened Europe. In the old days, truly
the good old days, when the magnetic power of Western Asia on the Gothic
races had been more puissant, her noble yet delicate spirit might have
been found beneath the walls of Ascalon or by the purple waters of
Tyre. When Tancred first met her, she was dreaming of Palestine amid her
frequent sadness; he could not, utterly void of all self-conceit as
he was, be insensible to the fact that his sympathy, founded on such
a divine congeniality, had often chased the cloud from her brow and
lightened the burthen of her drooping spirit. If she were sad before,
what would she be now, deprived of the society of the only being to whom
she could unfold the spiritual mysteries of her romantic soul? Was such
a character to be left alone in this world of slang and scrip; of coarse
motives and coarser words? Then, too, she was so intelligent and so
gentle; the only person who understood him, and never grated for an
instant on his high ideal. Her temper also was the sweetest in the
world, eminent as her generous spirit. She spoke of others with so much
kindness, and never indulged in that spirit of detraction or that love
of personal gossip which Tancred had frankly told her he abhorred.
Somehow or other it seemed that their tastes agreed on everything.

The agitated Tancred rose from the bed where the hope of slumber was
vain. The fire in his dressing-room was nearly extinguished; wrapped in
his chamber robe, he threw himself into a chair, which he drew near the
expiring embers, and sighed.

Unhappy youth! For you commences that great hallucination, which all
must prove, but which fortunately can never be repeated, and which,
in mockery, we call first love. The physical frame has its infantile
disorders; the cough which it must not escape, the burning skin which it
must encounter. The heart has also its childish and cradle malady, which
may be fatal, but which, if once surmounted, enables the patient to meet
with becoming power all the real convulsions and fevers of passion that
are the heirloom of our after-life. They, too, may bring destruction;
but, in their case, the cause and the effect are more proportioned.
The heroine is real, the sympathy is wild but at least genuine, the
catastrophe is that of a ship at sea which sinks with a rich cargo in a
noble venture.

In our relations with the softer sex it cannot be maintained that
ignorance is bliss. On the contrary, experience is the best security
for enduring love. Love at first sight is often a genial and genuine
sentiment, but first love at first sight is ever eventually branded as
spurious. Still more so is that first love which suffuses less rapidly
the spirit of the ecstatic votary, when he finds that by degrees his
feelings, as the phrase runs, have become engaged. Fondness is so new
to him that he has repaid it with exaggerated idolatry, and become
intoxicated by the novel gratification of his vanity. Little does he
suspect that all this time his seventh heaven is but the crapulence
of self-love. In these cases, it is not merely that everything is
exaggerated, but everything is factitious. Simultaneously, the imaginary
attributes of the idol disappearing, and vanity being satiated, all ends
in a crash of iconoclastic surfeit.

The embers became black, the night air had cooled the turbulent blood of
Lord Montacute, he shivered, returned to his couch, and found a deep and
invigorating repose.

The next morning, about two hours after noon, Tancred called on Lady
Bertie. As he drove up to the door, there came forth from it the
foreigner who was her companion in the city fray when Tancred first saw
her and went to her rescue. He recognised Lord Montacute, and bowed with
much ceremony, though with a certain grace and bearing. He was a man
whose wrinkled visage strangely contrasted with his still gallant
figure, scrupulously attired; a blue frock-coat with a ribboned
button-hole, a well-turned boot, hat a little too hidalgoish, but
quite new. There was something respectable and substantial about him,
notwithstanding his moustaches, and a carriage a degree too debonair for
his years. He did not look like a carbonaro or a refugee. Who could he
be?

Tancred had asked himself this question before. This was not the first
time that he had encountered this distinguished foreigner since their
first meeting. Tancred had seen him before this, quitting the door of
Lord Bertie and Bellair; had stumbled over him before this, more than
once, on the staircase; once, to his surprise, had met him as he entered
the personal saloon of Lady Bertie. As it was evident, on that occasion,
that his visit had been to the lady, it was thought necessary to say
something, and he had been called the Baron, and described, though in a
somewhat flurried and excited manner, as a particular friend, a person
in whom they had the most entire confidence, who had been most kind to
them at Paris, putting them in the way of buying the rarest china for
nothing, and who was now over here on some private business of his own,
of great importance. The Bertie and Bellairs felt immense interest in
his exertions, and wished him every success; Lord Bertie particularly.
It was not at all surprising, considering the innumerable kindnesses
they had experienced at his hands, was it?

'Nothing more natural,' replied Tancred; and he turned the conversation.

Lady Bertie was much depressed this morning, so much so that it was
impossible for Tancred not to notice her unequal demeanour. Her hand
trembled as he touched it; her face, flushed when he entered, became
deadly pale.

'You are not well,' he said. 'I fear the open carriage last night has
made you already repent our expedition.'

She shook her head. It was not the open carriage, which was delightful,
nor the expedition, which was enchanting, that had affected her. Would
that life consisted only of such incidents, of barouches and whitebait
banquets! Alas! no, it was not these. But she was nervous, her slumbers
had been disquieted, she had encountered alarming dreams; she had a
profound conviction that something terrible was impending over her.
And Tancred took her hand, to prevent, if possible, what appeared to be
inevitable hysterics. But Lady Bertie and Bellair was a strong-minded
woman, and she commanded herself.

'I can bear anything,' said Tancred, in a trembling voice, 'but to see
you unhappy.' And he drew his chair nearer to hers.

Her face was hid, her beautiful face in her beautiful hand. There was
silence and then a sigh.

'Dear lady,' said Lord Montacute.

'What is it?' murmured Lady Bertie and Bellair.

'Why do you sigh?'

'Because I am miserable.'

'No, no, no, don't use such words,' said the distracted Tancred. 'You
must not be miserable; you shall not be.'

'Can I help it? Are we not about to part?'

'We need not part,' he said, in a low voice.

'Then you will remain?' she said, looking up, and her dark brown eyes
were fixed with all their fascination on the tortured Tancred.

'Till we all go,' he said, in a soothing voice.

'That can never be,' said Lady Bertie; 'Augustus will never hear of it;
he never could be absent more than six weeks from London, he misses his
clubs so. If Jerusalem were only a place one could get at, something
might be done; if there were a railroad to it for example.'

'A railroad!' exclaimed Tancred, with a look of horror. 'A railroad to
Jerusalem!'

'No, I suppose there never can be one,' continued Lady Bertie, in a
musing tone. 'There is no traffic. And I am the victim,' she added, in
a thrilling voice; I am left here among people who do not comprehend me,
and among circumstances with which I can have no sympathy. But go, Lord
Montacute, go, and be happy, alone. I ought to have been prepared for
all this; you have not deceived me. You told me from the first you were
a pilgrim, but I indulged in a dream. I believe that I should not only
visit Palestine, but even visit it with you.' And she leant back in her
chair and covered her face with her hands.

Tancred rose from his seat, and paced the chamber. His heart seemed to
burst.

'What is all this?' he thought. 'How came all this to occur? How has
arisen this singular combination of unforeseen causes and undreamed-of
circumstances, which baffles all my plans and resolutions, and seems, as
it were, without my sanction and my agency, to be taking possession of
my destiny and life? I am bewildered, confounded, incapable of thought
or deed.'

His tumultuous reverie was broken by the sobs of Lady Bertie.

'By heaven, I cannot endure this!' said Tancred, advancing. 'Death seems
to me preferable to her un-happiness. Dearest of women!'

'Do not call me that,' she murmured. 'I can bear anything from your lips
but words of fondness. And pardon all this; I am not myself to-day.
I had thought that I had steeled myself to all, to our inevitable
separation; but I have mistaken myself, at least miscalculated my
strength. It is weak; it is very weak and very foolish, but you must
pardon it. I am too much interested in your career to wish you to delay
your departure a moment for my sake. I can bear our separation, at least
I think I can. I shall quit the world, for ever. I should have done so
had we not met. I was on the point of doing so when we did meet, when,
when my dream was at length realised. Go, go; do not stay. Bless you,
and write to me, if I be alive to receive your letters.'

'I cannot leave her,' thought the harrowed Tancred. 'It never shall be
said of me that I could blight a woman's life, or break her heart.' But,
just as he was advancing, the door opened, and a servant brought in a
note, and, without looking at Tancred, who had turned to the window,
disappeared. The desolation and despair which had been impressed on the
countenance of Lady Bertie and Bellair vanished in an instant, as she
recognised the handwriting of her correspondent. They were succeeded by
an expression of singular excitement. She tore open the note; a stupor
seemed to spread over her features, and, giving a faint shriek, she fell
into a swoon.

Tancred rushed to her side; she was quite insensible, and pale as
alabaster. The note, which was only two lines, was open and extended
in her hands. It was from no idle curiosity, but it was impossible for
Tancred not to read it. He had one of those eagle visions that nothing
could escape, and, himself extremely alarmed, it was the first object
at which he unconsciously glanced in his agitation to discover the cause
and the remedy for this crisis. The note ran thus:

_'3 o'clock.' The Narrow Gauge has won. We are utterly done; and
Snicks tells me you bought five hundred more yesterday, at ten. Is it
possible?_

'_f._'

'Is it possible?' echoed Tancred, as, entrusting Lady Bertie to her
maid, he rapidly descended the staircase of her mansion. He almost ran
to Davies Street, where he jumped into a cab, not permitting the driver
to descend to let him in.

'Where to?' asked the driver.

'The city.'

'What part?'

'Never mind; near the Bank.'

Alighting from the cab, Tancred hurried to Sequin Court and sent in his
card to Sidonia, who in a few moments received him. As he entered the
great financier's room, there came out of it the man called in Brook
Street the Baron.

'Well, how did your dinner go off?' said Sidonia, looking with some
surprise at the disturbed countenance of Tancred.

'It seems very ridiculous, very impertinent I fear you will think it,'
said Tancred, in a hesitating confused manner, 'but that person, that
person who has just left the room; I have a particular reason, I have
the greatest desire, to know who that person is.'

'That is a French capitalist,' replied Sidonia, with a slight smile,
'an eminent French capitalist, the Baron Villebecque de Chateau Neuf. He
wants me to support him in a great railroad enterprise in his country:
a new line to Strasbourg, and looks to a great traffic, I suppose, in
pasties. But this cannot much interest you. What do you want really to
know about him? I can tell you everything. I have been acquainted with
him for years. He was the intendant of Lord Monmouth, who left
him thirty thousand pounds, and he set up upon this at Paris as a
millionaire. He is in the way of becoming one, has bought lands, is a
deputy and a baron. He is rather a favourite of mine,' added Sidonia,
'and I have been able, perhaps, to assist him, for I knew him long
before Lord Monmouth did, in a very different position from that which
he now fills, though not one for which I have less respect. He was a
fine comic actor in the courtly parts, and the most celebrated manager
in Europe; always a fearful speculator, but he is an honest fellow, and
has a good heart.'

'He is a great friend of Lady Bertie and Bellair,' said Tancred, rather
hesitatingly.

'Naturally,' said Sidonia.

'She also,' said Tancred, with a becalmed countenance, but a palpitating
heart, 'is, I believe, much interested in railroads?'

'She is the most inveterate female gambler in Europe,' said Sidonia,
'whatever shape her speculations take. Villebecque is a great ally
of hers. He always had a weakness for the English aristocracy, and
remembers that he owed his fortune to one of them. Lady Bertie was in
great tribulation this year at Paris: that was the reason she did not
come over before Easter; and Villebecque extricated her from a scrape.
He would assist her now if he could. By-the-bye, the day that I had the
pleasure of making your acquaintance, she was here with Villebecque, an
hour at my door, but I could not see her; she pesters me, too, with her
letters. But I do not like feminine finance. I hope the worthy baron
will be discreet in his alliance with her, for her affairs, which I
know, as I am obliged to know every one's, happen to be at this moment
most critical.'

'I am trespassing on you,' said Tancred, after a painful pause, 'but I
am about to set sail.'

'When?'

'To-morrow; to-day, if I could; and you were so kind as to promise
me----'

'A letter of introduction and a letter of credit. I have not forgotten,
and I will write them for you at once.' And Sidonia took up his pen and
wrote:

A Letter of Introduction.

To Alonzo Lara, Spanish Prior, at the Convent of Terra Santa at
Jerusalem.

'Most holy Father: The youth who will deliver to you this is a pilgrim
who aspires to penetrate the great Asian mystery. Be to him what you
were to me; and may the God of Sinai, in whom we all believe, guard over
you, and prosper his enterprise!

'Sidonia. 'London, May, 1845.'

'You can read Spanish,' said Sidonia, giving him the letter. 'The other
I shall write in Hebrew, which you will soon read.'

A Letter of Credit.

To Adam Besso at Jerusalem.

'London, May, 1845. 'My good Adam: If the youth who bears this require
advances, let him have as much gold as would make the right-hand lion on
the first step of the throne of Solomon the king; and if he want more,
let him have as much as would form the lion that is on the left; and
so on, through every stair of the royal seat. For all which will be
responsible to you the child of Israel, who among the Gentiles is called

'Sidonia.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

_Jerusalem by Moonlight_

THE broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam has
long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, the waters
of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full falls its splendour,
however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A
lofty wall, with turrets and towers and frequent gates, undulates with
the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of
Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous than those of Rome:
for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while the Arab and
the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are as ignorant of
the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts as they are of the Malvern or the
Chiltern Hills.

The broad steep of Sion crowned with the tower of David; nearer still,
Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built,
alas! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one; close to
its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the
moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; further on, entered by the gate
of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease
the Street of Grief, a long winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that
now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief because there the most
illustrious of the human, as well as of the Hebrew, race, the descendant
of King David, and the divine Son of the most favoured of women, twice
sank under that burden of suffering and shame which is now throughout
all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honour; passing over groups
and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted
with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built
his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus
gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed
the temple. The religion of Judaea has in turn subverted the fanes which
were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial capital;
and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob is now worshipped before
every altar in Rome.

Jerusalem by moonlight! 'Tis a fine spectacle, apart from all its
indissoluble associations of awe and beauty. The mitigating hour softens
the austerity of a mountain landscape magnificent in outline, however
harsh and severe in detail; and, while it retains all its sublimity,
removes much of the savage sternness of the strange and unrivalled
scene. A fortified city, almost surrounded by ravines, and rising in the
centre of chains of far-spreading hills, occasionally offering, through
their rocky glens, the gleams of a distant and richer land!

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the
darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading
stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have travelled over the
plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among
the cypress groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as if it were
a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze that has travelled over the plain of
Sharon from the sea?

Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that
they could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on the land
where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate
Omnipotence had shed human tears. From this Mount! Who can but believe
that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great
departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic
city? There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from
no rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands; but the
lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed; the
monarch, whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, but whose
wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth; the teacher, whose
doctrines have modelled civilised Europe; the greatest of legislators,
the greatest of administrators, and the greatest of reformers; what
race, extinct or living, can produce three such men as these?

The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing
breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads over the purple
sky; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid; all becomes as dark as
the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehosha-phat. The tower of David
merges into obscurity; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque
of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street
of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas can no
longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very
line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre is a beacon light.

And why is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre a beacon light? Why, when
is it already past the noon of darkness, when every soul slumbers in
Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep repose, except the howl
of the wild dog crying to the wilder wind; why is the cupola of the
sanctuary illumined, though the hour has long since been numbered when
pilgrims there kneel and monks pray?

An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the court of the Church; within
the Church itself, two brethren of the convent of Terra Santa keep holy
watch and ward; while, at the tomb beneath, there kneels a solitary
youth, who prostrated himself at sunset, and who will there pass unmoved
the whole of the sacred night.

Yet the pilgrim is not in communion with the Latin Church; neither is
he of the Church Armenian, or the Church Greek; Maronite, Coptic, or
Abyssinian; these also are Christian churches which cannot call him
child.

He comes from a distant and a northern isle to bow before the tomb of
a descendant of the kings of Israel, because he, in common with all the
people of that isle, recognises in that sublime Hebrew incarnation the
presence of a Divine Redeemer. Then why does he come alone? It is not
that he has availed himself of the inventions of modern science to
repair first to a spot which all his countrymen may equally desire to
visit, and thus anticipate their hurrying arrival. Before the inventions
of modern science, all his countrymen used to flock hither. Then why do
they not now? Is the Holy Land no longer hallowed? Is it not the land of
sacred and mysterious truths? The land of heavenly messages and earthly
miracles? The land of prophets and apostles? Is it not the land upon
whose mountains the Creator of the Universe parleyed with man, and the
flesh of whose anointed race He mystically assumed, when He struck the
last blow at the powers of evil? Is it to be believed that there are no
peculiar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited, which distinguish
it from all others? That Palestine is like Normandy or Yorkshire, or
even Attica or Rome.

There may be some who maintain this; there have been some, and those,
too, among the wisest and the wittiest of the northern and western
races, who, touched by a presumptuous jealousy of the long predominance
of that oriental intellect to which they owed their civilisation, would
have persuaded themselves and the world that the traditions of Sinai
and Calvary were fables. Half a century ago, Europe made a violent and
apparently successful effort to disembarrass itself of its Asian faith.
The most powerful and the most civilised of its kingdoms, about to
conquer the rest, shut up its churches, desecrated its altars, massacred
and persecuted their sacred servants, and announced that the Hebrew
creeds which Simon Peter brought from Palestine, and which his
successors revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and a fiction. What has
been the result? In every city, town, village, and hamlet of that great
kingdom, the divine image of the most illustrious of Hebrews has been
again raised amid the homage of kneeling millions; while, in the
heart of its bright and witty capital, the nation has erected the most
gorgeous'' of modern temples, and consecrated its marble and golden
walls to the name, and memory, and celestial efficacy of a Hebrew woman.

The country of which the solitary pilgrim, kneeling at this moment
at the Holy Sepulchre, was a native, had not actively shared in that
insurrection against the first and second Testament which distinguished
the end of the eighteenth century. But, more than six hundred years
before, it had sent its king, and the flower of its peers and people,
to rescue Jerusalem from those whom they considered infidels! and now,
instead of the third crusade, they expend their superfluous energies in
the construction of railroads.

The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusalem, on which such vast
treasure, such prodigies of valour, and such ardent belief had been
wasted, has been one of those circumstances which have tended to disturb
the faith of Europe, although it should have carried convictions of
a very different character. The Crusaders looked upon the Saracens as
infidels, whereas the children of the desert bore a much nearer affinity
to the sacred corpse that had, for a brief space, consecrated the Holy
Sepulchre, than any of the invading host of Europe. The same blood
flowed in their veins, and they recognised the divine missions both
of Moses and of his great successor. In an age so deficient in
physiological learning as the twelfth century, the mysteries of race
were unknown. Jerusalem, it cannot be doubted, will ever remain the
appanage either of Israel or of Ishmael; and if, in the course of those
great vicissitudes which are no doubt impending for the East, there be
any attempt to place upon the throne of David a prince of the House of
Coburg or Deuxponts, the same fate will doubtless await him as, with all
their brilliant qualities and all the sympathy of Europe, was the final
doom of the Godfreys, the Baldwins, and the Lusignans.

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