Mr. Wilton expressed his deep interest in her wishes, and promised to consider how they might best be accomplished, and then the conversation took a more general tone.
“This change of government in your country,” said the lady, “so unexpected, so utterly unforeseen, disturbs me; in fact, it decided my hesitating movements. I cannot but believe that the accession of the Duke of Wellington to power must be bad, at least, for us. It is essentially reactionary. They are triumphing at Vienna.”
“Have they cause?” said Mr. Wilton. “I am an impartial witness, for I have no post in the new administration; but the leading colleagues of Mr. Canning form part of it, and the conduct of foreign affairs remains in the same hands.”
“That is consoling,” said the lady. “I wonder if Lord Dudley would see me. Perhaps not. Ministers do not love pretenders. I knew him when I was not a pretender,” added the lady, with the sweetest of smiles, “and thought him agreeable. He was witty. Ah! Sidney, those were happy days. I look back to the past with regret, but without remorse. One might have done more good, but one did some;” and she sighed.
“You seemed to me,” said Sidney with emotion, “to diffuse benefit and blessings among all around you.”
“And I read,” said the lady, a little indignant, “in some memoirs the other day, that our court was a corrupt and dissolute court. It was a court of pleasure, if you like; but of pleasure that animated and refined, and put the world in good humour, which, after all, is good government. The most corrupt and dissolute courts on the continent of Europe that I have known,” said the lady, “have been outwardly the dullest and most decorous.”
“My memory of those days,” said Mr. Wilton, “is of ceaseless grace and inexhaustible charm.”
“Well,” said the lady, “if I sinned I have at least suffered. And I hope they were only sins of omission. I wanted to see everybody happy, and tried to make them so. But let us talk no more of ourselves. The unfortunate are always egotistical. Tell me something of Mr. Wilton; and, above all, tell me why you are not in the new government.”
“I have not been invited,” said Mr. Wilton. “There are more claimants than can be satisfied, and my claims are not very strong. It is scarcely a disappointment to me. I shall continue in public life; but, so far as political responsibility is concerned, I would rather wait. I have some fancies on that head, but I will not trouble you with them. My time, therefore, is at my command; and so,” he added smilingly, “I can attend to the education of Prince Florestan.”
“Do you hear that, Florestan?” said the lady to her son; “I told you we had a friend. Thank Mr. Wilton.”
And the young Prince bowed as before, but with a more serious expression. He, however, said nothing.
“I see you have not forgotten your most delightful pursuit,” said Mr. Wilton, and he looked towards the musical instruments.
“No,” said the lady; “throned or discrowned, music has ever been the charm or consolation of my life.”
“Pleasure should follow business,” said Mr. Wilton, “and we have transacted ours. Would it be too bold if I asked again to hear those tones which have so often enchanted me?”
“My voice has not fallen off,” said the lady, “for you know it was never first-rate. But they were kind enough to say it had some expression, probably because I generally sang my own words to my own music. I will sing you my farewell to Florestan,” she added gaily, and took up her guitar, and then in tones of melancholy sweetness, breaking at last into a gushing burst of long-controlled affection, she expressed the agony and devotion of a mother’s heart. Mr. Wilton was a little agitated; her son left the room. The mother turned round with a smiling face, and said, “The darling cannot bear to hear it, but I sing it on purpose, to prepare him for the inevitable.”
“He is soft-hearted,” said Mr. Wilton.
“He is the most affectionate of beings,” replied the mother. “Affectionate and mysterious. I can say no more. I ought to tell you his character. I cannot. You may say he may have none. I do not know. He has abilities, for he acquires knowledge with facility, and knows a great deal for a boy. But he never gives an opinion. He is silent and solitary. Poor darling! he has rarely had companions, and that may be the cause. He seems to me always to be thinking.”
“Well, a public school will rouse him from his reveries,” said Mr. Wilton.
“As he is away at this moment, I will say that which I should not care to say before his face,” said the lady. “You are about to do me a great service, not the first; and before I leave this, we may—we must—meet again more than once, but there is no time like the present. The separation between Florestan and myself may be final. It is sad to think of such things, but they must be thought of, for they are probable. I still look in a mirror, Sidney; I am not so frightened by what has occurred since we first met, to be afraid of that—but I never deceive myself. I do not know what may be the magical effect of the raisins of Malaga, but if it saves my life the grape cure will indeed achieve a miracle. Do not look gloomy. Those who have known real grief seldom seem sad. I have been struggling with sorrow for ten years, but I have got through it with music and singing, and my boy. See now—he will be a source of expense, and it will not do for you to be looking to a woman for supplies. Women are generous, but not precise in money matters. I have some excuse, for the world has treated me not very well. I never got my pension regularly; now I never get it at all. So much for the treaties, but everybody laughs at them. Here is the fortune of Florestan, and I wish it all to be spent on his education,” and she took a case from her bosom. “They are not the crown jewels, though. The memoirs I was reading the other day say I ran away with them. That is false, like most things said of me. But these are gems of Golconda, which I wish you to realise and expend for his service. They were the gift of love, and they were worn in love.”
“It is unnecessary,” said Mr. Wilton, deprecating the offer by his attitude.
“Hush!” said the lady. “I am still a sovereign to you, and I must be obeyed.”
Mr. Wilton took the case of jewels, pressed it to his lips, and then placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. He was about to retire, when the lady added, “I must give you this copy of my song.”
“And you will write my name on it?”
“Certainly,” replied the lady, as she went to the table and wrote, “For Mr. Sidney Wilton, from AGRIPPINA.”
CHAPTER V
In the meantime, power and prosperity clustered round the roof and family of Ferrars. He himself was in the prime of manhood, with an exalted position in the world of politics, and with a prospect of the highest. The Government of which he was a member was not only deemed strong, but eternal. The favour of the Court and the confidence of the country were alike lavished upon it. The government of the Duke could only be measured by his life, and his influence was irresistible. It was a dictatorship of patriotism. The country, long accustomed to a strong and undisturbed administration, and frightened by the changes and catastrophes which had followed the retirement of Lord Liverpool, took refuge in the powerful will and splendid reputation of a real hero.
Mrs. Ferrars was as ambitious of social distinction as her husband was of political power. She was a woman of taste, but of luxurious taste. She had a passion for splendour, which, though ever regulated by a fine perception of the fitness of things, was still costly. Though her mien was in general haughty, she flattered Zenobia, and consummately. Zenobia, who liked handsome people, even handsome women, and persons who were dressed beautifully, was quite won by Mrs. Ferrars, against whom at first she was inclined to be a little prejudiced. There was an entire alliance between them, and though Mrs. Ferrars greatly influenced and almost ruled Zenobia, the wife of the minister was careful always