Tancred

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'I have no wish to see Paris,' said Lord Montacute, evidently
embarrassed, and making a great effort to relieve his mind of some
burthen. 'I have no wish to see Paris.'

'I am very glad to hear that,' said his father, eagerly.

'Nor do I wish either to go to Rome,' continued his son.

'Well, well, you have taken a load off my mind, my dear boy. I would not
confess it, because I wish to save you pain; but really, I believe
the idea of your going to Rome would have been a serious shock to your
mother. It is not so much the distance, though that is great, nor the
climate, which has its dangers, but, you understand, with her peculiar
views, her very strict----' The duke did not care to finish his
sentence.

'Nor, my dear father,' continued Lord Montacute, 'though I did not like
to interrupt you when you were speaking with so much solicitude and
consideration for me, is it exactly travel, in the common acceptation of
the term, that I feel the need of. I wish, indeed, to leave England; I
wish to make an expedition; a progress to a particular point; without
wandering, without any intervening residence. In a word, it is the Holy
Land that occupies my thought, and I propose to make a pilgrimage to the
sepulchre of my Saviour.'

The duke started, and sank again into his chair. 'The Holy Land! The
Holy Sepulchre!' he exclaimed, and repeated to himself, staring at his
son.

'Yes, sir, the Holy Sepulchre,' repeated Lord Mon-tacute, and now
speaking with his accustomed repose. 'When I remember that the Creator,
since light sprang out of darkness, has deigned to reveal Himself to His
creature only in one land, that in that land He assumed a manly form,
and met a human death, I feel persuaded that the country sanctified by
such intercourse and such events must be endowed with marvellous and
peculiar qualities, which man may not in all ages be competent
to penetrate, but which, nevertheless, at all times exercise an
irresistible influence upon his destiny. It is these qualities that many
times drew Europe to Asia during the middle centuries. Our castle has
before this sent forth a De Montacute to Palestine. For three days and
three nights he knelt at the tomb of his Redeemer. Six centuries and
more have elapsed since that great enterprise. It is time to restore and
renovate our communications with the Most High. I, too, would kneel at
that tomb; I, too, surrounded by the holy hills and sacred groves of
Jerusalem, would relieve my spirit from the bale that bows it down;
would lift up my voice to heaven, and ask, What is duty, and what is
faith? What ought I to do, and what ought I to believe?'

The Duke of Bellamont rose from his seat, and walked up and down the
room for some minutes, in silence and in deep thought. At length,
stopping and leaning against the cabinet, he said, 'What has occurred
to-day between us, my beloved child, is, you may easily believe, as
strange to me as it is agitating. I will think of all you have said;
I will try to comprehend all you mean and wish. I will endeavour to do
that which is best and wisest; placing above all things your happiness,
and not our own. At this moment I am not competent to the task: I need
quiet, and to be alone. Your mother, I know, wishes to walk with you
this morning. She may be speaking to you of many things. Be silent upon
this subject, until I have communicated with her. At present I will ride
over to Bellamont. I must go; and, besides, it will do me good. I never
can think very well except in the saddle. If Brace comes, make him dine
here. God bless you.'

The duke left the room; his son remained in meditation. The first step
was taken. He had poured into the interview of an hour the results of
three years of solitary thought. A sound roused him; it was his mother.
She had only learnt casually that the duke was gone; she was surprised
he had not come into her room before he went; it seemed the first time
since their marriage that the duke had gone out without first coming to
speak to her. So she went to seek her son, to congratulate him on being
a member of Parliament, on representing the county of which they were
so fond, and of breaking to him a proposition which she doubted not he
would find not less interesting and charming. Happy mother, with her
only son, on whom she doted and of whom she was so justly proud, about
to enter public life in which he was sure to distinguish himself, and to
marry a woman who was sure to make him happy! With a bounding heart the
duchess opened the library door, where she had been informed she should
find Lord Montacute. She had her bonnet on, ready for the walk of
confidence, and, her face flushed with delight, she looked even
beautiful. 'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'I have been looking for you, Tancred!'

[Illustration: frontis-p72]

CHAPTER VIII.

_The Decision_

THE duke returned rather late from Bellamont, and went immediately to
his dressing-room. A few minutes before dinner the duchess knocked at
his door and entered. She seemed disconcerted, and reminded him, though
with great gentleness, that he had gone out to-day without first bidding
her adieu; she really believed it was the only time he had done so since
their marriage. The duke, who, when she entered, anticipated something
about their son, was relieved by her remark, embraced her, and would
have affected a gaiety which he did not really feel.

'I am glad to hear that Brace dines here to-day, Kate, for I
particularly wanted to see him.'

The duchess did not reply, and seemed absent; the duke, to say
something, tying his cravat, kept harping upon Brace.

'Never mind Brace, George,' said the duchess; 'tell me what is this
about Tancred? Why is his coming into Parliament put off?'

The duke was perplexed; he wished to know how far at this moment his
wife was informed upon the matter; the feminine frankness of the
duchess put him out of suspense. 'I have been walking with Tancred,'
she continued, 'and intimated, but with great caution, all our plans and
hopes. I asked him what he thought of his cousin; he agrees with us
she is by far the most charming girl he knows, and one of the
most agreeable. I impressed upon him how good she was. I wished to
precipitate nothing. I never dreamed of their marrying until late in the
autumn. I wished him to become acquainted with his new life, which would
not prevent him seeing a great deal of Katherine in London, and then to
visit them in Ireland, as you visited us, George; and then, when I was
settling everything in the most delightful manner, what he was to do
when he was kept up very late at the House, which is the only part I
don't like, and begging him to be very strict in making his servant
always have coffee ready for him, very hot, and a cold fowl too, or
something of the sort, he tells me, to my infinite astonishment, that
the vacancy will not immediately occur, that he is not sorry for it, as
he thinks it may be as well that he should go abroad. What can all this
mean? Pray tell me; for Tancred has told me nothing, and, when I pressed
him, waived the subject, and said we would all of us consult together.'

'And so we will, Kate,' said the duke, 'but hardly at this moment, for
dinner must be almost served. To be brief,' he added, speaking in a
light tone, 'there are reasons which perhaps may make it expedient that
Hungerford should not resign at the present moment; and as Tancred has a
fancy to travel a little, it may be as well that we should take it into
consideration whether he might not profitably occupy the interval in
this manner.'

'Profitably!' said the duchess. 'I never can understand how going
to Paris and Rome, which young men always mean when they talk of
travelling, can be profitable to him; it is the very thing which, all my
life, I have been endeavouring to prevent. His body and his soul will be
both imperilled; Paris will destroy his constitution, and Rome, perhaps,
change his faith.'

'I have more confidence in his physical power and his religious
principle than you, Kate,' said the duke, smiling. 'But make yourself
easy on these heads; Tancred told me this morning that he had no wish to
visit either Rome or Paris.'

'Well!' exclaimed the duchess, somewhat relieved, 'if he wants to make
a little tour in Holland, I think I could bear it; it is a Protestant
country, and there are no vermin. And then those dear Disbrowes, I am
sure, would take care of him at The Hague.'

'We will talk of all this to-night, my love,' said the duke; and
offering his arm to his wife, who was more composed, if not more
cheerful, they descended to their guests.

Colonel Brace was there, to the duke's great satisfaction. The colonel
had served as a cornet in a dragoon regiment in the last campaign of
the Peninsular war, and had marched into Paris. Such an event makes an
indelible impression on the memory of a handsome lad of seventeen, and
the colonel had not yet finished recounting his strange and fortunate
adventures.

He was tall, robust, a little portly, but, well buckled, still presented
a grand military figure. He was what you call a fine man; florid, with
still a good head of hair though touched with grey, splendid moustaches,
large fat hands, and a courtly demeanour not unmixed with a slight
swagger. The colonel was a Montacute man, and had inherited a large
house in the town and a small estate in the neighbourhood. Having
sold out, he had retired to his native place, where he had become a
considerable personage. The duke had put him in the commission, and
he was the active magistrate of the district; he had reorganised the
Bellamont regiment of yeomanry cavalry, which had fallen into sad
decay during the late duke's time, but which now, with Brace for its
lieutenant-colonel, was second to none in the kingdom. Colonel Brace was
one of the best shots in the county; certainly the boldest rider among
the heavy weights; and bore the palm from all with the rod, in a county
famous for its feats in lake and river.

The colonel was a man of great energy, of good temper, of ready
resource, frank, a little coarse, but hearty and honest. He adored the
Duke and Duchess of Bellamont. He was sincere; he was not a parasite;
he really believed that they were the best people in the world, and I am
not sure that he had not some foundation for his faith. On the whole,
he might be esteemed the duke's right-hand man. His Grace generally
consulted the colonel on county affairs; the command of the yeomanry
alone gave him a considerable position; he was the chief also of the
militia staff; could give his opinion whether a person was to be made a
magistrate or not; and had even been called into council when there was
a question of appointing a deputy-lieutenant. The colonel, who was a
leading member of the corporation of Montacute, had taken care to be
chosen mayor this year; he had been also chairman of the Committee of
Management during the celebration of Tancred's majority; had had the
entire ordering of the fireworks, and was generally supposed to have
given the design, or at least the leading idea, for the transparency.

We should notice also Mr. Bernard, a clergyman, and recently the private
tutor of Lord Montacute, a good scholar; in ecclesiastical opinions,
what is called high and dry. He was about five-and-thirty; well-looking,
bashful. The duke intended to prefer him to a living when one was
vacant; in the meantime he remained in the family, and at present
discharged the duties of chaplain and librarian at Montacute, and
occasionally assisted the duke as private secretary. Of his life, one
third had been passed at a rural home, and the rest might be nearly
divided between school and college.

These gentlemen, the distinguished and numerous family of the Montacute
Mountjoys, young Hunger-ford, whom the duke had good-naturedly brought
over from Bellamont for the sake of the young ladies, the duke and
duchess, and their son, formed the party, which presented rather a
contrast, not only in its numbers, to the series of recent banquets.
They dined in the Montacute chamber. The party, without intending
it, was rather dull and silent. The duchess was brooding over the
disappointment of the morning; the duke trembled for the disclosures
of the morrow. The Misses Mountjoy sang better than they talked; their
mother, who was more lively, was seated by the duke, and confined her
powers of pleasing to him. The Honourable and Reverend Montacute himself
was an epicure, and disliked conversation during dinner. Lord Montacute
spoke to Mr. Hungerford across the table, but Mr. Hungerford was
whispering despairing nothings in the ear of Arabella Mountjoy, and
replied to his question without originating any in return, which of
course terminates talk.

When the second course had arrived, the duke, who wanted a little more
noise and distraction, fired off in despair a shot at Colonel Brace,
who was on the left hand of the duchess, and set him on his yeomanry
charger. From this moment affairs improved. The colonel made continual
charges, and carried all before him. Nothing could be more noisy in a
genteel way. His voice sounded like the bray of a trumpet amid the din
of arms; it seemed that the moment he began, everybody and everything
became animated and inspired by his example. All talked; the duke set
them the fashion of taking wine with each other; Lord Montacute managed
to entrap Arminta Mountjoy into a narrative in detail of her morning's
ride and adventures; and, affecting scepticism as to some of the
incidents, and wonder at some of the feats, produced a considerable
addition to the general hubbub, which he instinctively felt that his
father wished to encourage.

'I don't know whether it was the Great Western or the South Eastern,'
continued Colonel Brace; 'but I know his leg is broken.'

'God bless me!' said the duke; 'and only think of my not hearing of it
at Bellamont to-day!'

'I don't suppose they know anything about it,' replied the colonel. 'The
way I know it is this: I was with Roby to-day, when the post came in,
and he said to me, "Here is a letter from Lady Malpas; I hope nothing
is the matter with Sir Russell or any of the children." And then it all
came out. The train was blown up behind; Sir Russell was in a centre
carriage, and was pitched right into a field. They took him into an inn,
put him to bed, and sent for some of the top-sawyers from London, Sir
Benjamin Brodie, and that sort of thing; and the moment Sir Russell came
to himself, he said, "I must have Roby, send for Roby, Roby knows my
constitution." And they sent for Roby. And I think he was right. The
quantity of young officers I have seen sent rightabout in the Peninsula,
because they were attended by a parcel of men who knew nothing of their
constitution! Why, I might have lost my own leg once, if I had not been
sharp. I got a scratch in a little affair at Almeidas, charging the
enemy a little too briskly; but we really ought not to speak of these
things before the ladies----'

'My dear colonel,' said Lord Montacute, 'on the contrary, there
is nothing more interesting to them. Miss Mountjoy was saying only
yesterday, that there was nothing she found so difficult to understand
as the account of a battle, and how much she wished to comprehend it.'

'That is because, in general, they are not written by soldiers,' said
the colonel; 'but Napier's battles are very clear. I could fight every
one of them on this table. That's a great book, that history of Napier;
it has faults, but they are rather omissions than mistakes. Now that
affair of Almeidas of which I was just speaking, and which nearly cost
me my leg, it is very odd, but he has omitted mentioning it altogether.'

'But you saved your leg, colonel,' said the duke.

'Yes, I had the honour of marching into Paris, and that is an event
not very easy to be forgotten, let me tell your Grace. I saved my leg
because I knew my constitution. For the very same reason by which I hope
Sir Russell Malpas will save his leg. Because he will be attended by
a person who knows his constitution. He never did a wiser thing than
sending for Roby. For my part, if I were in garrison at Gibraltar
to-morrow, and laid up, I would do the same; I would send for Roby. In
all these things, depend upon it, knowing the constitution is half the
battle.'

All this time, while Colonel Brace was indulging in his garrulous
comments, the Duke of Bellamont was drawing his moral. He had a great
opinion of Mr. Roby, who was the medical attendant of the castle, and an
able man. Mr. Roby was perfectly acquainted with the constitution of
his son; Mr. Roby must go to the Holy Sepulchre. Cost what it might, Mr.
Roby must be sent to Jerusalem. The duke was calculating all this time
the income that Mr. Roby made. He would not put it down at more than
five hundred pounds per annum, and a third of that was certainly
afforded by the castle. The duke determined to offer Roby a thousand and
his expenses to attend Lord Montacute. He would not be more than a
year absent, and his practice could hardly seriously suffer while away,
backed as he would be, when he returned, by the castle. And if it did,
the duke must guarantee Roby against loss; it was a necessity, absolute
and of the first class, that Tancred should be attended by a medical man
who knew his constitution. The duke agreed with Colonel Brace that it
was half the battle.

CHAPTER IX.

_Tancred, the New Crusader_

'MISERABLE mother that I am!' exclaimed the duchess, and she clasped her
hands in anguish.

'My dearest Katherine!' said the duke, 'calm yourself.'

'You ought to have prevented this, George; you ought never to have let
things come to this pass.'

'But, my dearest Katherine, the blow was as unlooked-for by me as by
yourself. I had not, how could I have, a remote suspicion of what was
passing through his mind?'

'What, then, is the use of your boasted confidence with your child,
which you tell me you have always cultivated? Had I been his father, I
would have discovered his secret thoughts.'

'Very possibly, my dear Katherine; but you are at least his mother,
tenderly loving him, and tenderly loved by him. The intercourse between
you has ever been of an extreme intimacy, and especially on the subjects
connected with this fancy of his, and yet, you see, even you are
completely taken by surprise.' 'I once had a suspicion he was inclined
to the Puseyite heresy, and I spoke to Mr. Bernard on the subject, and
afterwards to him, but I was convinced that I was in error. I am sure,'
added the duchess, in a mournful tone, 'I have lost no opportunity of
instilling into him the principles of religious truth. It was only
last year, on his birthday, that I sent him a complete set of the
publications of the Parker Society, my own copy of Jewel, full of
notes, and my grandfather, the primate's, manuscript commentary on
Chillingworth; a copy made purposely by myself.'

'I well know,' said the duke, 'that you have done everything for his
spiritual welfare which ability and affection combined could suggest.'

'And it ends in this!' exclaimed the duchess. 'The Holy Land! Why, if he
even reach it, the climate is certain death. The curse of the Almighty,
for more than eighteen centuries, has been on that land. Every year
it has become more sterile, more savage, more unwholesome, and more
unearthly. It is the abomination of desolation. And now my son is to go
there! Oh! he is lost to us for ever!'

'But, my dear Katherine, let us consult a little.' 'Consult! Why should
I consult? You have settled everything, you have agreed to everything.
You do not come here to consult me; I understand all that; you come here
to break a foregone conclusion to a weak and miserable woman.'

'Do not say such things, Katherine!' 'What should I say? What can I
say?' 'Anything but that. I hope that nothing will be ever done in this
family without your full sanction.' I Rest assured, then, that I will
never sanction the departure of Tancred on this crusade.'

'Then he will never go, at least, with my consent,' said the duke; 'but
Katherine, assist me, my dear wife. All shall be, shall ever be, as
you wish; but I shrink from being placed, from our being placed, in
collision with our child. The mere exercise of parental authority is a
last resource; I would appeal first, rather to his reason, to his heart;
your arguments, his affection for us, may yet influence him.' 'You tell
me you have argued with him,' said the duchess in a melancholy tone.

'Yes, but you know so much more on these subjects than I do, indeed,
upon all subjects; you are so clever, that I do not despair, my dear
Katherine, of your producing an impression on him.'

'I would tell him at once,' said the duchess, firmly, 'that the
proposition cannot be listened to.'

The duke looked very distressed. After a momentary pause, he said, 'If,
indeed, you think that the best; but let us consult before we take that
step, because it would seem to terminate all discussion, and discussion
may yet do good. Besides, I cannot conceal from myself that Tancred in
this affair is acting under the influence of very powerful motives; his
feelings are highly strung; you have no idea, you can have no idea from
what we have seen of him hitherto, how excited he is. I had no idea of
his being capable of such excitement. I always thought him so very calm,
and of such a quiet turn. And so, in short, my dear Katherine, were we
to be abrupt at this moment, peremptory, you understand, I--I should not
be surprised, were Tancred to go without our permission.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed the duchess, starting in her chair, but with
as much consternation as confidence in her countenance. 'Throughout his
life he has never disobeyed us.'

'And that is an additional reason,' said the duke, quietly, but in his
sweetest tone, 'why we should not treat as a light ebullition this
first instance of his preferring his own will to that of his father and
mother.'

'He has been so much away from us these last three years,' said the
duchess in a tone of great depression, 'and they are such important
years in the formation of character! But Mr. Bernard, he ought to have
been aware of all this; he ought to have known what was passing through
his pupil's mind; he ought to have warned us. Let us speak to him;
let us speak to him at once. Ring, my dear George, and request the
attendance of Mr. Bernard.'

That gentleman, who was in the library, kept them waiting but a few
minutes. As he entered the room, he perceived, by the countenances
of his noble patrons, that something remarkable, and probably not
agreeable, had occurred. The duke opened the case to Mr. Bernard with
calmness; he gave an outline of the great catastrophe; the duchess
filled up the parts, and invested the whole with a rich and even
terrible colouring.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the late private tutor of
Lord Montacute. He was fairly overcome; the communication itself was
startling, the accessories overwhelmed him. The unspoken reproaches
that beamed from the duke's mild eye; the withering glance of maternal
desolation that met him from the duchess; the rapidity of her anxious
and agitated questions; all were too much for the simple, though
correct, mind of one unused to those passionate developments which are
commonly called scenes. All that Mr. Bernard for some time could do
was to sit with his eyes staring and mouth open, and repeat, with a
bewildered air, 'The Holy Land, the Holy Sepulchre!' No, most certainly
not; most assuredly; never in any way, by any word or deed, had Lord
Montacute ever given him reason to suppose or imagine that his lordship
intended to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, or that he was
influenced by any of those views and opinions which he had so strangely
and so uncompromisingly expressed to his father.

'But, Mr. Bernard, you have been his companion, his instructor, for many
years,' continued the duchess, 'for the last three years especially,
years so important in the formation of character. You have seen much
more of Montacute than we have. Surely you must have had some idea of
what was passing in his mind; you could not help knowing it; you ought
to have known it; you ought to have warned, to have prepared us.'

'Madam,' at length said Mr. Bernard, more collected, and feeling the
necessity and excitement of self-vindication, 'Madam, your noble son,
under my poor tuition, has taken the highest honours of his university;
his moral behaviour during that period has been immaculate; and as for
his religious sentiments, even this strange scheme proves that they are,
at any rate, of no light and equivocal character.'

'To lose such a son!' exclaimed the duchess, in a tone of anguish, and
with streaming eyes.

The duke took her hand, and would have soothed her; and then, turning to
Mr. Bernard, he said, in a lowered tone, 'We are very sensible how much
we owe you; the duchess equally with myself. All we regret is, that some
of us had not obtained a more intimate acquaintance with the character
of my son than it appears we have acquired.'

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