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 II E> ^AHY 
 
 OF THE 
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 Of ILLI NOIS 
 
 
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 if* Wf^7 
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1849.
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED MY T. R. BAMtlSOfl 
 
 ST. MARTIN'" I.ANE.
 
 f;?3 
 
 v. I 
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 In the 12th chapter of Sale's Koran, I 
 met with the text, " sorrow begetteth 
 mercy." 
 
 I write in the hope that this text enun- 
 ciates a great truth; my object in recalling 
 my past life, is to give to others the 
 benefit of my own sad experience. 
 
 I have seen it so frequently and beautifully 
 exemplified, " that sorrow begetteth mercy," 
 in the little kindnesses of the poor to one 
 
 VOL. I. b 

 
 2 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 another; in the utter absence of selfishness 
 on the part of those who are most des- 
 titute; even in the keen love of sisters in 
 misfortune; when the earnings of sin in its 
 beauty and youth, are shared with the less 
 gracefully endowed companion of guilt and 
 infamy. So is it. The community of mis- 
 fortune is the warmest and most earnest 
 communism: it was the community of the 
 early Christians, when they loved and wept 
 together; for, as Gibbon tells us, our faith 
 spread, because it was long suffering; and 
 Paganism fell, because it possessed all 
 things, save indeed tolerance. Prosperity 
 isolates men. They stand proud and lone, 
 like Eastern columns; ruins, broken and cast 
 down, are all thrown and tossed together; 
 and the very weeds of corruption and decay 
 only serve to bind them the more closely 
 to one another. So the idols of the an- 
 cients, when whole, were rude and mis-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 3 
 
 shapen to view; but once hurled to the 
 ground, the riches which superstition con- 
 cealed within them poured forth. 
 
 I was brought up in the Western High- 
 lands ; and left to my wild untutored fancy, 
 my mind grew rapidly. I occupied so much 
 time in reading, I lived so much with the 
 heroic men and the heroic ages, that I too 
 thought myself heroic : but, alas ! I mis- 
 took my impressions for convictions. Cer- 
 tainly, nothing could be so magnificent as 
 my theories; and, on the other hand, no- 
 thing so weak as my performance. 
 
 I was but a vain day dreamer then, and 
 am even now much the same. I am almost 
 ashamed of my own individuality, my own 
 fears for the future, and regrets for the 
 past; for while I am writing, and en- 
 deavouring to recall my sensations — which, 
 strange to say, is of all efforts the most 
 painful and difficult, — even now the roar of 
 
 b2
 
 4 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 the wheels of the great city attracts me to 
 the world; the quick pulse of material life 
 beats rapidly in my bosom. I am calling 
 aloud for sensation, and the echo of society 
 replies action, action! I am wandering in 
 imagination among the dead, as in the 
 East, on feast days, the burial-ground is 
 the spot where families meet together, and 
 when I turn to the window there is the 
 reality of the world — that reality so soon 
 to sweep into the vale of memory — that 
 glorious golden sunny present, so soon to 
 become the sad, pale, and cloudy past. 
 But the colouring of this life is so rich, 
 gorgeous, and lustrous, that I cannot 
 realize its ever fading. Surely this is the 
 actual incorporated life, which it will 
 always be permitted to me to love and 
 cherish. 
 
 And then, at the moment I feel myself 
 to be a living man — one who can enjoy this
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 5 
 
 world — with a bold, actual, still undeveloped 
 existence in him — a being of faculties, 
 comprehensions, and senses — a form of 
 exquisite loveliness rises before me; but 
 her cheek is pale as in death, her lips 
 are colourless, and the glory of life has 
 departed from her; and she wears a look 
 of tender sorrow and reproach, such as 
 her countenance bore when I last 
 saw her, of whom I am now about to 
 write. 
 
 I had been at Christ Church two years, 
 when the dean received a letter from my 
 father, telling him that it was his intention 
 to remove me from the university; and at 
 the same time he informed me, that I was 
 appointed attache to the mission at 
 Florence. 
 
 I was almost as ignorant as Rousseau's
 
 6 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Emile when I went up to Christ Church. 
 It so happened, that my father had at one 
 time been Minister at Florence, and I 
 had, when quite a child, passed two years 
 there with him; but since that period I 
 had lived almost entirely at Glenira, a 
 small shooting lodge in Argyleshire, where 
 my society was limited to a young and 
 intelligent tutor, and a few country lairds; 
 where the deference involuntarily paid to 
 the son of a Cabinet Minister, prevented 
 even this society proving so beneficial as it 
 otherwise might have been: but my life 
 was very happy, a succession of joyous 
 expeditions; there was not a neighbour- 
 ing mountain top with which I was unac- 
 quainted. In a beautiful little schooner, I 
 explored every creek and inlet of the coast. 
 A sense of delicious independence grew up 
 within me; and I almost dreaded the mo- 
 ment when this life of retirement was to be
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 7 
 
 exchanged for the excitement and bustle of 
 the world. 
 
 Of my father I knew very little. Twice 
 a year he paid us a visit, but he never 
 seemed to perceive that I was growing into 
 manhood; indeed, if he had ever turned his 
 attention seriously to the lapse of time, he 
 would scarcely have left me so entirely 
 uncontrolled at this late period of life, for, 
 as far as regarded Mr. Milton, my tutor, he 
 might have been my pupil, for the slight 
 influence and control that he exercised over 
 me. The consequence was, that my father, 
 although kind and gentle and attentive to 
 all my wishes, never treated me in any 
 other way than as a mere child ; he never 
 addressed me as a man rising in years, and 
 full of ideas, ambitious hopes and aspirations 
 like himself. If I ever spoke to him on 
 public affairs, of which it must be admit- 
 ted I was lamentably ignorant, his reply
 
 8 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 always drove my heart back to its inmost 
 recesses; if I told him of any adventure 
 he kindly smiled; but it was the smile, 
 not of interest and sympathy, but of 
 simple good nature: it was always an 
 official smile. 
 
 Such was my father towards me. Of 
 the confidence which warms the affections 
 — of that fond interest which makes a 
 man become a child with children, and 
 which permits them to twine their ten- 
 drils round him — of all this he knew 
 nothing; but then, if I had expressed this 
 feeling, this want which was always gnaw- 
 ing at my heart — if I had expressed this 
 to other persons, they would never have 
 understood me. 
 
 For I was told then, and have since 
 heard it repeated, that, next to Mr. Can- 
 ning, he was the most popular minister the 
 country had possessed for many years.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 9 
 
 When he came down in August he gene- 
 rally brought a large party with him. The 
 younger men used to call him a first-rate 
 man. He was a crack shot, and, in his 
 early days, the best rider across country. 
 Convivial at table, yet never condescend- 
 ing to buffoonery — to low, dining-out wit, 
 his conversation was one succession of 
 anecdote; and I have heard him afford 
 equal amusement to a mixed party of 
 country bumpkins and select officials. Then 
 in his address he was thoroughly aristo- 
 cratic. Whatever the keenness of his im- 
 pression, or the accuracy of his observation, 
 his manner never betrayed him. He was 
 considerate to every one whom he ad- 
 dressed and who addressed themselves to 
 him. 
 
 I was very proud to hear all the visitors 
 praise him so; and remember one day, 
 when yet a mere child, running to him, and
 
 10 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 asking him whether I should ever be a 
 great man like him. 
 
 "Who told you," he replied, " that I am 
 a great man ?" 
 
 " Everyone says so who comes here, 5 ' 
 was my answer; "and Mr. Milton thinks 
 you are greater than Mr. Canning." 
 
 He took me in his arms with a gush of 
 affection which I had never before expe- 
 rienced. The man of the world was grati- 
 fied at the flattery of the child — it was the 
 first time he had shown so much feeling ; 
 and I remember wondering how he could 
 care so much for my repeating such a 
 simple phrase. 
 
 At that time I was ignorant of the power 
 of vanity, — that this vanity — this self-love, 
 is the one moving and exciting principle 
 of mankind ; that even in analyzing the 
 conduct of the best men, we shall find, 
 after having taken off the upper surface,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 11 
 
 the seed of vanity lurking below. Perhaps 
 a certain amount of vanity is essential to 
 greatness. 
 
 But if my father did not make great 
 sacrifices to win the finer part of my feelings, 
 he was quite superior to any low motives, or 
 small, meddling interference. He did not 
 act upon the shallow, heartless principle of 
 those who think it incumbent on them to 
 cut off all the buds and flowers of youth, in 
 order to strengthen the stem. 
 
 My tutor had particular instructions not 
 to interfere with the native bent of my dis- 
 position ; in addition to this, my father had 
 a perfect contempt for detail; he could 
 not understand men passing their lives in 
 mean calculations, attorney-like, wasting 
 every precious moment in adding up the 
 cost of every sensation. So far from check- 
 ing any disposition towards extravagance, 
 he yielded to every one of my fancies,
 
 12 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 passionate at moments, he never irritated 
 others, or allowed his happier judgment to 
 be carried away by angry, excited feel- 
 ings. 
 
 I valued his opinion because I felt it was 
 at all times a true and unselfish one. It 
 would have required so little to have made 
 me doat upon him ; a few words of confiden- 
 tial intercourse — a little flattering belief in 
 my improvement of character; but there 
 was nothing of this. He seemed always to 
 be checked in the indulgence of his affec- 
 tions by some strange arriere pensee. It 
 appeared that there were some associations 
 connected with me which drove back his 
 feelings whenever they were on the point of 
 expressing themselves. 
 
 Later in life, when my mother's name 
 became to me, in spite of the regrets which 
 attached themselves to it, a sweet, household 
 word, and I learnt that some years after
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 13 
 
 her marriage she had left my father's house, 
 not from love for another, but simply be- 
 cause her life was burdensome to her, and 
 her tastes did not assimilate with his, 
 I began to comprehend that the asso- 
 ciation of my name might have pained and 
 distressed him ; that I was, as it were, the 
 living reproach to him, of her, who only 
 survived the separation one year; and these 
 conjectures I gained from scattered sen- 
 tences and expressions half muttered as I 
 approached. 
 
 I learnt then, that his present mastery of 
 temper was the result of past suffering, of 
 great mental struggles. His youth, as it 
 had been distinguished by superior capacity, 
 so was it distinguished by more than the 
 usual dissipation, arrogance, and presump- 
 tion of youth. As a young man, handsome 
 and intellectual, all London society was at 
 his feet, at a time when the term London
 
 14 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 society did express all that was most cele- 
 brated in the land for beauty, wit, and 
 accomplishment: to fall in love with my 
 mother, and to marry her, was with him, 
 the man of sensation, the work of a few 
 days. Her awakening was terrible; she 
 had placed her ambition too high. She 
 thought she could have led him from the 
 wild life of excitement to which he was 
 wedded; but the result was far contrary. 
 Repeated successes only served to make his 
 attachment to public life take still deeper 
 root in his heart. 
 
 Nights and days, one absorbing idea filled 
 her soul. She was lonely, deserted, and 
 neglected ; for the men who crowded at her 
 feet to pay her homage, she cared nothing; 
 but she could not lead the life of solitary sen- 
 sation to which she seemed to be doomed. 
 Irritation led to misunderstanding, and 
 misunderstanding to still more grievous
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 15 
 
 complaints. The consequence was, that in 
 an unlucky, evil moment, she proposed a 
 separation. 
 
 Then my father's strongest feelings came 
 to light. His vanity and self-love had been 
 rudely trampled on. Disregarding all ex- 
 postulations, within a few hours the case 
 was placed in the hands of the family 
 lawyer, who recounted these occurrences 
 to me. All the efforts of his friends were 
 unavailing — his wounded pride and insulted 
 dignity prevented any possibility of com- 
 promise. 
 
 The separation was completed ; and, as I 
 have mentioned, my mother only survived 
 it one year. The blow came upon my father 
 suddenly, and the result was fearful. I can 
 just remember his sobbing like a child for 
 hours— his sitting on the sofa with piles of 
 letters round him, which he used to weep 
 over ; but the reaction came, and left him
 
 16 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 with his usually elastic spirits very much 
 broken, but with all the sterner qualities of 
 his character greatly developed. 
 
 After the first few weeks the great acces 
 of his grief had swept by, and he plunged 
 into his public career with redoubled 
 energy. I was entirely forgotten, and 
 might have passed my whole life in my 
 room in Park Lane, had not some one of 
 my mother's relatives suggested to him 
 the idea of sending me to the country with 
 a tutor. 
 
 If my education there was ill-adapted for 
 practical life, for the tumult and bustle of the 
 world, it was admirably calculated to store 
 my mind with ideas. I became passionately 
 devoted to reading and composition, and 
 then the life I led, the rambles through the 
 bright blue mountain scenery taught me 
 self-confidence; but one misfortune at- 
 tended this isolated existence, that my sen-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 17 
 
 sations became too exquisitely refined, and 
 all the finer qualities of the imagination 
 were prematurely developed; in the harder 
 branches of study, those which after all 
 form and train the mind, I was lamentably 
 deficient. 
 
 JSTor was Mr. Milton a person calculated 
 to supply the want. He had travelled much, 
 was singularly well informed and amusing, 
 but a thorough poet. If we were reading 
 Tacitus, he would break off after the first 
 three or four passages with glowing des- 
 criptions of the wondrous beauty of the 
 Eternal City, and then we would find our- 
 selves under sail talking of the far East, 
 with its gorgeous palaces and its purple 
 mountains, where even the clouds are 
 fringed with gold. 
 
 But then what the imagination gained 
 the mind lost in strength and capacity. 
 I was wasting whole days on Tasso and 
 Ariosto, when, according to the life I pro- 
 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 posed to myself, I should have been study- 
 ing Vattel, and the Diplomatic history of 
 Europe. 
 
 How rapidly my mind developed may 
 be judged by the passion which I felt, 
 when only sixteen, for a little cousin, who 
 resided in the neighbourhood. She was 
 three years younger than I was, and her 
 mother's house was situated on the op- 
 posite side of the bay, some four or five 
 miles distant; as I have said, sailing was 
 my constant amusement, but my chief 
 source of pleasure was to sail over to 
 Solecombe, and to take my cousin Ada on 
 board. 
 
 Although in after life the difference of 
 three years is very slight, yet at that age 
 it entitled me to afford her protection. 
 Her mother, who was entirely wrapped up in 
 her, was only too happy to see her amused. 
 The old weather-beaten master of the 
 cutter would take the sweet child in his
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 19 
 
 arms and lay her, carefully wrapped in 
 cloaks, upon the deck, where she would lie, 
 watching the dark black massive clouds 
 and bending masts, with the spray dashing 
 round and sometimes even over us, but the 
 cutter was a sound stout vessel, and when we 
 lurched more heavily than usual, Ada would 
 tell the swarthy sun-burnt pilot that she 
 had no confidence unless I assisted at the 
 helm. Fortunately perhaps for the freight, 
 I had less reliance in my seamanship, but 
 I would kiss her eyelids and her cheeks, 
 damp with the drops of spray, and then put 
 my hand to the tiller to pretend that I was 
 steering. 
 
 She was one of those singularly prepos- 
 sessing children around whom not even the 
 pencil of a Chalon could cast any additional 
 grace, and which, like a beautiful master- 
 piece, makes amends, if anything can 
 make amends, for the mass of cross-grained, 
 ill-conditioned, misshapen prodigies and 
 
 c2
 
 20 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 progenies which our social condition com- 
 pels us to flatter and to notice. 
 
 Her temper gentle as her blue eye, and 
 truthful as the bloom upon her cheek, the 
 beautiful foot and instep of her mother 
 race, and bright sunny waving rippling 
 hair, such as Georgione loved to paint, 
 and there was a pensive and gentle 
 thoughtfulness which one even felt disposed 
 to prefer to her more joyous mood, until 
 her silvery clear and happy laugh fell upon 
 the ear, and then one loved the joyous 
 mood the best. Mrs. Norton, " the Byron 
 of our modern poets," has so beautifully 
 described such a child — 
 
 " Mingling with every little playful wile 
 A mimic majesty that made us smile." 
 
 She was quite the little lady of the glen, 
 and the pet of the wild untutored High- 
 landers far and wide. Many a glass of 
 whiskey was tossed off in her honour, and 
 many a prayer breathed for her.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 21 
 
 At sixteen I was old enough to know 
 that the passion of twelve years was not 
 very enduring. I intuitively felt that the 
 world and the things of this world would 
 rush in to destroy the airy fabric of hap- 
 piness which I was erecting, but I asked 
 myself why is this untrue? why should not 
 the feelings which were then growing up 
 within me last for life ? But, alas ! convic- 
 tion. Oh, that fatal conviction told me 
 that nothing could be more evanescent, more 
 transitory; then I determined not to think 
 of the future, but to enjoy the present. 
 
 Ada used, when she saw my yacht in the 
 offing, to run down to the mimic pier-head, 
 and hold out her tiny handkerchief, with her 
 bright hair entangled round her; and then, 
 when I jumped on shore, in spite of the in- 
 junction to care and caution, she ran off to 
 the garden like a little antelope, and there, 
 on the bank of a most delicious sparkling 
 stream, she would sit down by my side, tell
 
 22 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 me to tie flowers in her hair; and then I 
 used to twine my fingers in those long 
 bright locks and we thought no other two 
 could ever love so dearly. 
 
 It was not for some time that the truth 
 dawned upon me, how much her little heart 
 was wrapped up in mine. She was kissing 
 my forehead and cheeks when I unthink- 
 ingly exclaimed, "Why not kiss my lips, 
 Ada?" Immediately her whole face be- 
 came crimson; I asked her what was the 
 matter, and she burst into a flood of tears, 
 and before I could stop her she ran away 
 into the house, her hair still full of some 
 rose leaves which I had been sprinkling 
 upon her head. When I arrived at the 
 house she had already gone to bed, but I 
 found her mother there. 
 
 Ada has been crying," she said. 
 What about? I only asked her why she 
 did not kiss me." 
 
 " I am afraid, Cecil, the poor child will 
 
 a 
 
 tc
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 23 
 
 be very unhappy whenever you leave. I 
 have not wished to interfere with her 
 amusement, but when once you are away 
 she will find this solitude very dull and 
 oppressive." 
 
 " But I sha'n't go for a long time/' I said, 
 with my eyes full of tears; "what makes 
 you think I am to go?" 
 
 " Because I cannot imagine that Lord 
 Graham will leave you, w T ho will one day 
 have to play a great part in public life, to 
 waste your time any longer here; for it 
 really is waste of time, and I fear that Mr. 
 Milton does not do much towards teaching 
 you to appreciate its value." 
 
 "If the world and experience," I said, 
 " only makes people grumble at public life, 
 as my father and his friends do when they 
 come down here, then I am better and 
 happier here." 
 
 "No, my dear Cecil, you must not say 
 so," she continued, "you should not talk
 
 24 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 like that; Mr. Milton will tell you that a 
 man has duties to perform, especially when 
 he is thrown, from accidental circumstances, 
 into a great public career. You possess ad- 
 vantages from birth, and after your father's 
 long connection with the government, it 
 would, I can assure you, make him very un- 
 happy if he were to imagine for a moment 
 that you would never rise to the height of 
 the position he has filled. You will have 
 a great part to play in life, and much more 
 important matter to occupy your mind than 
 your boyish and generous love for my poor 
 little Ada." 
 
 Four days after this conversation, and 
 Ada had forgotten all her wounded suscepti- 
 bilities, we were again skimming blithely 
 over the bay ; and beautiful indeed that bay 
 was. I have travelled over the greater 
 part of the Continent, and have seldom 
 lived amid scenery that was at once so 
 striking and, at the same time, richly cul-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 25 
 
 tivated; even the climate in winter was, 
 strange to say, mild as the South of 
 England. 
 
 My father's house was near the sea — the 
 view extended to the Itforth far beyond 
 Isla — the flowers grew down to the very 
 water's edge. The only fault was, that the 
 bay was only five miles wide, and so with a 
 fair wind we were across almost too soon; 
 but then it was to see Ada and Solecombe, 
 and this reconciled me to the shortness of 
 the sail. 
 
 These were glorious, joyous days, but un- 
 happily the dark night was at hand. I was 
 paying a visit to Mac Something, it was a 
 wild, savage, unpronouncable clan name. 
 He resided some forty miles from us, and, 
 as usual, Ada had promised to write to me 
 daily. Her usual letters contained but a 
 few lines, but these were the best of round 
 text sweetly-scented little notes, which I 
 during my short absences waited for im-
 
 26 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 patiently as ever did mature lover for his 
 mistress. The first day was a great disap- 
 pointment, there was no note from Ada, 
 although the post duly arrived; the next I 
 rushed down to meet the old Gillie, but he 
 only brought me a long formal letter from 
 my father, full of London and politics. 
 
 This was a great anxiety to me, and I 
 really began to think that her mother was 
 serious in her intention of not allowing me, 
 for the future, to see so much of Ada ; but 
 my anxiety was changed into intense sorrow 
 when the wild old chieftain entered with 
 real concern expressed in his countenance, 
 and told me that he had heard from Sole- 
 combe — that poor Ada had been seized 
 with shivering fits the very night of my 
 departure, these had been succeeded by 
 fever, and there was but little hope of her 
 recovery. 
 
 My heart sickened at the intelligence, it 
 was so astounding and overwhelming. She
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 27 
 
 whom I had seen so lately in her budding 
 beauty and grace now dying. My only 
 happiness, if such a term can be applied to 
 a frame of mind of perfect agony, arose 
 from the circumstance of her having ex- 
 pressed a wish to see me immediately. 
 
 I lost no time in preparing for the journey. 
 Mr. Milton felt for me, and did not attempt 
 to check the violence of my grief by absurd 
 exhortations to patience. We had forty 
 miles of Highland road to traverse, and I 
 shall never forget my sensations as we 
 jolted over the ruts, when all my impor- 
 tunities and entreaties could only elicit a 
 somewhat louder grunt from the lankey 
 red-haired postboy. 
 
 About half way, one of the wheels caught 
 fire, and then my impatience and anxiety 
 amounted almost to frenzy. At last, after 
 nine hours' painful travelling, we arrived at 
 the cottage. The sails of the yacht had 
 been already loosened, and we lost no
 
 28 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 time in getting under weigh. There was 
 no longer any tiny white signal flying 
 from the pier-head, the whole aspect of 
 the place seemed to me changed, for the 
 state of our own mind casts its colouring 
 over all things; if the sun shines on the 
 heart it seems to be reflected in the 
 face of nature, but sunshine round the 
 chamber of death grows pale and colour- 
 less. At last we reached the house, her 
 mother was below, convulsed with tears; 
 the poor child was in the drawing-room on a 
 sofa drawn next the window, for she had 
 told them that she wished to see the blue 
 dancing waves of the bay on which she had 
 floated so often and so happily. 
 
 " I fear," said the Doctor, " you come 
 in too late, but creep in quietly." 
 
 I did so, and she turned her little head 
 round, and through the palor of death a 
 deep flush suffused her cheek. I sank down 
 on my knees, overwhelmed with grief.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 29 
 
 "Have you anything to say to me 
 Ada, darling ?" I exclaimed, " for I am so 
 wretched." 
 
 She took her small bible, which was lying 
 by her side, with a rose between the leaves, 
 and placed it in my hand. 
 
 "Kiss me, Cecil," she moaned; and 
 before her mamma could be aroused from 
 the stupour into which she had fallen, the 
 poor Ada was dead. I approached her 
 sofa, and took her poor thin pale hand in 
 my own, but it was already chill and damp, 
 involuntarily I let it drop, and sank fainting 
 on the floor. 
 
 I soon came to myself, and was put on 
 board the yacht, and taken home; but it 
 was long before even my youth and strength 
 could overcome the shock. The rose 
 I put carefully by, and the bible she gave 
 me was ever on the table — it was my first 
 terrible acquaintance with death. For some 
 time I could not imagine how any person
 
 30 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 could take an interest in all the little mani- 
 fold events of life. The bent of my thoughts 
 seemed so entirely entombed with the dead, 
 that I childishly imagined all others must 
 sympathize with me. Alas! there is no 
 affinity between the sounds of life and the 
 agonies of death. 
 
 When my spirits recovered some small 
 portion of their tone, I began to feel 
 that I was a child, who really felt nothing 
 and knew nothing; it was not merely 
 mental suffering I passed through. The 
 continued action of grief produced at last 
 from constant excitement physical pain; 
 a strange languor fell upon me. My 
 yacht was neglected. The mountains were 
 forsaken. I was in a state of complete 
 indifference to all events. 
 
 If I held a book in my hand I never 
 read, when I spoke my thoughts were far 
 distant. God knows what would have been 
 the result, but providentially a, brain-fever
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 31 
 
 brought me to the brink of the grave. 
 When I awoke to life again, I found my 
 father sitting by my bedside, and I learnt 
 that Solecombe had lost its last inmate, 
 that the mother was buried with the child: 
 but this did not much affect me, I was 
 becoming hardened to death. 
 
 They tell us that water dropping con- 
 stantly upon the head will petrify the brain ; 
 but of this I am sure, that grief dropping 
 continually upon the heart will petrify the 
 feelings.
 
 32 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was a glorious morning when I left 
 Christ Church, still, bright, and clear, the 
 horses' tramp rang upon the hard road. 
 There was excitement in the movement 
 of the coach, in the rapid progress through 
 the air, in the keen sense of independence, 
 and above all in those hopes of youth, which 
 are its golden attributes. I felt really and 
 truly happy, my head was full of the 
 most vague and confused ambitions. To be 
 an attache seemed to me then a great step 
 in life, and in my ardour, I permitted
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 33 
 
 myself to imagine that the next were as 
 easily obtained. 
 
 I had a book in my hand, but did not 
 read, for after every line I plunged again 
 into these reveries. There were others 
 besides myself, setting forth on their lives' 
 journey, and we laughed, from pure animal 
 enjoyment: everything was new to me, at 
 twenty, the impressions pour so vividly 
 upon the mind, and so rapidly become con- 
 victions, I felt convinced that my career 
 was peculiarly favoured; that I was destined 
 to perform some great part in life. 
 
 It is very true that I had as yet done 
 literally nothing, that is to say, I had 
 miserably squandered away my time; but 
 to the favourite of Providence what did that 
 matter, and thus I reposed in that state of 
 delightful insouciance, resolved to cast 
 whatever cares I might have in this world 
 upon any one who would undertake to bear 
 them, and fully confident that by some 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 wonderful dispensation of Providence I was 
 to be relieved from that store of annoyances 
 which generally falls to the lot of mortals. 
 I thought that my ideas were quite peculiar 
 to myself. Yet probably, if I had taken 
 the trouble to inquire, I should have found 
 that they were shared in by all my neigh- 
 bours, for men of the same age always 
 repeat the same ideas. 
 
 My acquaintance with London had 
 hitherto been limited to a few casual 
 visits as I passed through on my way to 
 Cambridgeshire, where my vacations were 
 spent; but now I approached it under feel- 
 ings of almost awe and apprehension. I 
 was about in its full and perfect sense 
 to enter life; the life I had dreamt of, the 
 life of varied and boundless ambitions, of 
 angel looks and soft voices, — what an Iliad 
 of happiness was in store for me. 
 
 Oh supreme moments, when standing 
 as it were on the pinnacle of happiness, we
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 35 
 
 see tranquil and beautiful at our feet, 
 the kingdoms of this world's enjoyment and 
 the glory thereof; when the sky is of the 
 deepest blue, and no cloud interferes to 
 darken the prospect; alas, that it should 
 often be the case as we descend, that what 
 in the distance seemed a green level plain, 
 then appears rugged and arid. 
 
 And it is ever thus. The transition from 
 the rich plains watered by the Mle, and 
 the parched sandy desert, is startling and 
 abrupt. The green plenteousness and arid 
 barrenness kiss each other. But before we 
 reach this treeless land, let ns at least 
 enjoy for some moments, the fresh springs, 
 the gushing fountains, by which we are 
 passing; let us tarry while we may and 
 drink of them. 
 
 Happy are they who have never arrived 
 thirsting and way-worn, and found the 
 sparkling crystal waters, which they saw at 
 a distance, nothing but beautiful delusions. 
 
 d 2
 
 36 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 For while we are indulging all our 
 poetical sensations, and can even extract 
 happiness from the soft melancholy which 
 falls around us, alas, we are surrounded 
 by youth, which knows no such charm; 
 a youth passed in the dull, dreary, void 
 of daily routine ; a youth so hopeless that 
 life becomes a burthen, and even old age 
 does not envy such youth. How many 
 young, ardent, and noble spirits are 
 crushed by the cold material world; let the 
 sun shine never so brightly, confined in a 
 small, dark, back room the whole blue day, 
 when even the Sunday only brings a sensa- 
 tion of toil, and affords a few hours' repose 
 to enable them to undergo the weary suffer- 
 ings of another week. Can custom and 
 habit reconcile people to such a fate? alas, 
 it is to be feared not; and yet how little 
 do we think of such classes of men. 
 
 For every man represents his own circle 
 of ideas and believes in nothing beyond
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 37 
 
 it; his world is in himself, and nowhere 
 else. 
 
 I arrived early in Park Lane and lost 
 no time in going to Downing Street. I 
 had passed the Admiralty, Horse Guards, 
 and Treasury several times before, but now 
 every building bore to me a greater signifi- 
 cation. All places look so different, ac- 
 cording to the frame of mind which we 
 are in. I had a vague, and, by no means, 
 an uncomfortable feeling, that every one 
 must be sympathising with me. I trod 
 the pavement with a light step, and the 
 movement and bustle of the great city ani- 
 mated me, and its pulse beat in unison with 
 my own sensations. 
 
 Certainly if anything could have damped 
 my spirits and checked the brilliant antici- 
 pations in which I was indulging; if any- 
 thing could have destroyed the delusion 
 under which I was labouring as to the vast 
 importance of a cabinet minister, it would
 
 38 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 have been the appearance of the ill-fur- 
 nished, moth-eaten, melancholy, dust-worn 
 room into which I was ushered. I had 
 never imagined Downing Street an Alham- 
 bra, or the Palace of the Senses, yet I sat 
 down, disappointed at the apparent dullness 
 of the place, and with the absence of all the 
 bustle or excitement which were associated 
 in my mind with the conduct of the various 
 branches of the public service. 
 
 The only master of the ceremonies I 
 could find was a very venerable, misshapen, 
 old man, who was endeavouring to wile 
 away the time by struggling through 
 the columns of a newspaper, covered with 
 sundry stains of porter. Upon my men- 
 tioning my name he beckoned to a dapper, 
 pert, official looking young man, whose 
 manner became marvellously civil when I 
 told him I was the son of the Secretary of 
 State. 
 
 My father was at the moment engaged
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 39 
 
 vi ith the first lord, and the interview seemed 
 to me quite interminable. I went through 
 all the mechanical operations which men 
 are prone to in moments of nervous excite- 
 ment, I fixed the squares of the carpet in 
 my memory; took up the Commercial Di- 
 rectory which was the only book lying on 
 the table ; counted the steps of the solitary 
 sentinel as he paced up and down, and mar- 
 velled who the keen-eyed, and wiry, middle- 
 aged, hook-nosed man could be to whom 
 every one took off his hat so respect- 
 fully, as he drove off from the Foreign 
 Secretary's in a most extraordinary, crazy, 
 one-horse vehicle. 
 
 At last even ministerial interviews must 
 come to a conclusion, and I was ushered 
 into a spacious, airy room, overlooking St. 
 James's Park, where my father was standing 
 at his writing-desk. 
 
 He spoke to me most kindly, told me how 
 anxiously he had always watched my progress.
 
 40 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 His whole manner towards me had changed. 
 I was now treated like a man with grave 
 responsibilities, with a new career before 
 me. I felt as happy in the expression of 
 his confidence as in the prospect which he 
 sketched forth with his accustomed clear 
 and brilliant apprehension. 
 
 But I was surprised to find him looking 
 care-worn, and his hair appeared greyer 
 than when I last saw him. I told him that 
 I thought he looked harassed. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " office palls, the excite- 
 ment wears off, but unhappily the work 
 remains, when there is no disposition to 
 continue it. * Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' 
 entrate/ should be written over the cabinet 
 of every minister ; it is, believe me, the 
 dusty tomb of every ambition." 
 
 It is easy to retire," was my logical reply. 
 
 JSTo," said he, " not at all ; it is by no 
 means so easy, obligations spring up around 
 you and choak up your path. Some day or 

 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 41 
 
 another you will discover the truth of the 
 politician's aphorism, that there are two 
 happy days in his life, the one when he ob- 
 tains, the other when he leaves office. !No 
 man, believe me, Cecil, can pass through a 
 long official career without seeing so much 
 that is mean, low, vulgar, or sordid, that the 
 mind revolts at it; but," he continued, smil- 
 ing, " I do not wish to damp your ardour." 
 
 "It would be tlifficult to damp my ar- 
 dour," I replied. 
 
 " You are right to be sanguine ; nothing 
 great was ever accomplished by men who 
 have not been in earnest ; besides," he 
 said, " to tell you the truth I think you are 
 a young gentleman very much to be envied; 
 you embark under most favourable circum- 
 stances in a noble profession; and who 
 would not exchange the foggy, leaden, 
 gray covering of this huge workshop for the 
 clear blue sky of Florence? You see I have 
 some poetry left in me."
 
 42 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 "Yes/' said I, "I shall delight in see- 
 ing Florence, and then Rome." 
 
 "Lord Monson, you will find an admirable 
 man/' said my father; "kind and courteous 
 to all. Your duties will be light, but pray 
 let those be attended to. The smallest act 
 is of importance when it once comes under 
 the head of obligation; young men too often 
 forget this — and old ones too occasionally. 
 
 "You shall have a liberal allowance/* he 
 continued after a pause. " I have no wish 
 to curb the mind and actions of a young 
 man. You will do me this justice, Cecil. 
 ]STo one will labour more anxiously for your 
 success. I have every reason to be satis- 
 fied with your conduct at college. Your 
 tutor has written me a very good ac- 
 count of you : all you require is a greater 
 knowledge of the world, and fixedness of 
 purpose, but that will come in time. Re- 
 member, if you do not succeed it will be 
 your own fault, for no young diplomat e
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 43 
 
 ever started with greater advantages. 
 Lord Monson, as you know, is your mo- 
 ther's half brother, besides, entre nous, he 
 owed his appointment to my influence. 
 He is a most straightforward, agreeable, 
 but well-informed man, perhaps somewhat 
 rococo for an Italian Court; but that will 
 give you a still greater opening for achiev- 
 ing a position at Florence. You will not 
 start for two or three months, but mean- 
 while, as I wrote to you, you had better 
 leave Christ Church; a little London air 
 will be of use to you, before you are en- 
 tirely thrown upon your own responsibili- 
 ties; but I have no more time to give 
 you now. Pull that bell, my dear boy. I 
 have a cabinet council at four, and my 
 carriage ought to be here. 
 
 * Have you any where to dine ? I sup- 
 pose not. Well, then, we dine at home at 
 half-past 8. You will meet Lord Monson 
 and Mr. Vavasour, one of the best of the
 
 44 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 b 2(Lux esprits about town ; and it will be a good 
 opportunity to make you acquainted with 
 your new chief. So, God bless you, Cecil!" 
 
 I left Downing Street in the fulness of 
 glee. To my ardent imagination it was but 
 a slight step from the unpaid attache to the 
 Minister Plenipotentiary. 1 felt confidence 
 in my own powers, should the opportunity 
 for exertion present itself. I jumped into 
 a hackney coach, and drove as fast as 
 the jaded steeds of the creaking vehicle 
 could bear me to Park Lane. The driver 
 had no cause to grumble when he left 
 me. I was very liberal, because I felt 
 very happy. Happiness must, indeed, be a 
 divine blessing, for few men feel joyous and 
 light-hearted, and remain utterly selfish; 
 they must communicate their feelings. 
 
 I pondered over my father's words; but 
 how was it possible to believe, that a public 
 life could be otherwise than agreeable — to 
 exchange ideas with great men — to listen
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 45 
 
 to commanding eloquence — to lead a senate 
 — to be the one pointed at in all societies — 
 to enact history, instead of reading it? 
 How could it be explained, that all this ex- 
 citement was not indeed enjoyment, and 
 did not amply compensate for any adven- 
 titious annoyances? 
 
 When I came down to dinner my father 
 had not yet returned; we did not meet 
 in the drawing-room, but in the library. 
 The table was covered with Parliamentary 
 Papers, despatches, and a pile of unopened 
 letters. It conveyed to me a great idea of 
 the occupation and importance of a minis- 
 ter. Lord Monson had already arrived. The 
 first glance prepossessed me in his favour. 
 
 His manner was cordial and frank, and 
 after that awkward pause which even those, 
 the most practised in the world, find it so 
 difficult to break, he said, "he was delighted 
 to understand that I was appointed to his 
 mission; that my father was one of his
 
 46 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 greatest college friends. You/' he con- 
 tinued, " who are so fresh from college, 
 know the value of that word; it is a trite 
 but so true a remark that there are no 
 friends like those we make at college, it 
 approaches to a brotherhood, and frequently 
 much dearer to us." 
 
 It is indeed a bond of union, for here was 
 I, in ten minutes, talking as familiarly to 
 Lord Monson as if our acquaintance dated 
 by years. He had preserved all his old 
 sympathies and affections, was familiar with 
 Gainsford and all the tutors, and listened 
 to my anecdotes with as much interest as 
 Dudley and Belmont. 
 
 "I see we shall understand each other 
 excellently, Graham," said he to my father, 
 he entered. "We have been taking: a 
 
 as 
 
 stroll together in Christ Church Meadows. 
 
 There is enough of the boy still left in me 
 to make these recollections delightful." 
 It was a party of six. There was an in-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 47 
 
 telligent middle-aged traveller, who had ne- 
 gotiated I do not know how many treaties 
 of commerce, without having brought one 
 to a successful issue — knew every language 
 in civilized Europe — and had translated 
 whole folios of barbaric rhapsodies into Eng- 
 lish sonnets ; but in which, as no one was ac- 
 quainted with the original, a fine field was 
 open for the exercise of a vivid imagination ; 
 he had, however, lived with all the great 
 men of the several foreign courts; been 
 sent on half a dozen special missions; and 
 published volumes of blue books and re- 
 ports. Although pompous and full of the 
 eternal I, he was by no means unamusing, 
 and my father seemed to treat him with a 
 great deal of consideration. Then there 
 was a thoroughly white secretary to some 
 mission; that is to say, he had white hair, 
 white cheeks, white neckcloth; a gentle- 
 man that never spoke above a whisper, 
 from the habits of mystery which he had
 
 48 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 acquired, that first accomplishment of diplo- 
 matic life. The " I could, an if I would/' 
 his pompous abstracted replies, were very 
 entertaining. 
 
 I lost something of my impressions of 
 the dignity of an attacheship, when I saw 
 with what complete indifference my father 
 treated this young Secretary. Once even 
 he caught himself asking him to ring the 
 bell, instead of addressing himself to me. 
 
 Then came Mr. Vavasour, whom my 
 father had mentioned in the morning, and 
 who Lord Monson whispered to me was the 
 great protege of Lord Castlereagh, sup- 
 posed to be in his intimate confidence, and 
 a very distinguished member of the House. 
 He had spoken twice, and with brilliant 
 effect, Canning had risen after him, and 
 paid him all those compliments which no 
 one could time so well. 
 
 He was dark, and of a most intellectual 
 countenance, reserved, but his face lit up
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 49 
 
 when any interesting topic of discussion 
 was introduced. There was that gentle 
 courtesy in his manner which is always 
 associated with refinement of intellect. And 
 I was prepossessed in his favour as soon as 
 I saw him. 
 
 I had expected to hear nothing but 
 politics, to have been initiated into cabinet 
 secrets and state projects; on the contrary, 
 to my astonishment, the conversation turned 
 not on Canning's speeches but on Canning's 
 mots and aphorisms, and towards the end 
 of dinner, on operas and actresses. These 
 men, with the whole weight of European 
 policy in their minds and desks, were as 
 conversant with the topics of the day, the 
 last facetiae at White's, and the historiettes 
 of the coulisse's, as any habitue of Eotten 
 Row or the omnibus box. I believe I must 
 have expressed my involuntary surprise at 
 some particular anecdote, for Lord Monson 
 turned suddenly to me and said, "You are 
 
 VOL. I. e
 
 50 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 astonished to find us aged diplomatists such 
 mere garcons." 
 
 " I should have thought," I replied, " that 
 your whole time must have been devoted to 
 politics." 
 
 "I will tell you," said my father, "the 
 secret of leisure is occupation. Have eight 
 hours a day entirely devoted to business, 
 and you will then find you have time for 
 other pursuits; this, for some time to come, 
 will seem to you a paradox; but you will 
 one day be convinced of the truth of what 
 I tell you, that the man who is the most 
 engaged has always the most leisure. And 
 remember, it is only Brahmins and Rajahs 
 who think that thev must move with head 
 
 %J 
 
 erect and uplifted gaze in order to govern 
 men. To be a man above the world you 
 must, in every signification of the word, 
 begin by being a man of the world; to 
 have weight and influence with the people 
 you must understand them; to understand
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 51 
 
 them you must mix with them; we hear so 
 much of la haute politique, of the dignity 
 of history, that the individual traits of 
 character are lost sight of. A perfect sim- 
 plicity is often the greatest refinement of 
 diplomacy." 
 
 "All youth is arrogant, but arrogant 
 above all youth is political or diplomatic 
 youth." And the white Secretary nodded 
 his head in approbation of all my father's 
 opinions, but he scarcely ventured a re- 
 mark. Vavasour was very silent, but even 
 his look of assent was the expression of 
 intellect. 
 
 "Are you going to Clifford House?" at 
 last said the pale Secretary to me, ad- 
 justing his cravat. 
 
 I replied that I had not the honour of 
 knowing his Grace. 
 
 * That is a pity, for they are excellent 
 balls," said my entertaining companion, 
 " indeed I have made it a rule never to go 
 
 e2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVEKSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 to any balls except in the great houses. 
 One gets spoiled for the wretched oblongs 
 called drawing-rooms, in moderate English 
 houses; Genoa, Venice, there are palaces 
 and ball-rooms." 
 
 " I know as little," I said, " of a London 
 ball-room as I do of Genoa or Venice. 
 Both equally inspire my imagination, but I 
 should like to see Clifford House, I hear 
 it is so magnificent." 
 
 "If you would like to go?" said Vava- 
 sour, who overheard my observation as he 
 joined us, "I shall be delighted to introduce 
 you to the duke. I have known him so 
 long, and he told me to bring as many 
 young men as I could find; besides, he is a 
 great friend of your father's, I am sure he 
 will be really glad to see you." 
 
 There was something very earnest and 
 truthful in Vavasour when he spoke : 3011 felt 
 that he was sincere, that there was a great 
 abstraction of self; the interest which his
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 53 
 
 voice and manner conveyed to the person 
 whom he addressed, was returned two-fold, 
 you liked him for himself and for liking you. 
 Possibly he had the same manner to all, 
 that it was a species of benevolent habit; 
 but that did not matter, it was the kind- 
 ness of the heart flowing from the lips. 
 
 I accepted Vavasour's offer; his cab was 
 at the door, he took the reins with the easy 
 self-possessed air of a man whose mind is 
 quite independent of all external circum- 
 stances, and commonly occupied with deep 
 and earnest thoughts. The horse stepped 
 out proudly down Piccadilly; the bright 
 lamps dazzled me as we dashed by them, 
 carriage after carriage we passed, probably 
 going to the same ball. It was a world 
 of pleasure and sensation. I felt my heart 
 bound within me, there was enjoyment 
 in the cool fresh air, the rapid movement, 
 the chafing and fretting of the horse, 
 if, for a moment, he was checked in his 
 pace.
 
 54 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 I congratulated myself on my good for- 
 tune; it was delicious to lean back in 
 dreamy consciousness, while in every car- 
 riage we could just see the outline of some 
 fair form, whose heart was perhaps beating 
 with the same excitement and hope ; a few- 
 broken sentences were all that had passed 
 between Vavasour and myself. 
 
 " Well, after all, I am becoming tired of 
 this movement and bustle," he said, as we 
 entered into the line at the gateway, u but 
 as your father told us, if we are to remain 
 in the world, ' II faut heurler avec les loups,' 
 but 'get back, my good woman,'" he cried 
 out, to one of those poor wandering broken 
 creatures who crowd round the portals at 
 night, wherever there is a fete, as though 
 they could steel their own hearts to suffer- 
 ing, by gazing on the luxury and pomp of 
 others — she was almost under the horse's 
 feet. 
 
 "Back," echoed the Bow Street officer,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 55 
 
 and he pushed her rudely on to the pave- 
 ment. 
 
 "See," she exclaimed, "here's a great 
 lord, who runs over a poor woman and then 
 has her struck; never mind, we will have 
 our dance some day — time enough for all. 
 If I could only just wet my lips with some 
 drops of what these great lords throw away. 
 Yes, you do, you proud devils," she yelled 
 out, as, at a touch of the whip, the horse 
 sprang forward and took us out of hearing. 
 
 "We heard a bustle, and a still wilder cry, 
 as one of Townsend's myrmidons seized 
 her by the shoulder, amid the jeers of the 
 people around: fallen angels have no mercy 
 on the falling. 
 
 Even by that light, I could perceive 
 that Vavasour coloured deeply. " I am so 
 grieved," he said, "for the poor creature. 
 The contrast is so fearful." 
 
 " Fearful, indeed !" 
 
 There was little time for reflection as we
 
 56 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 drove up to the door. This was the first 
 occasion I had ever entered one of these 
 great palaces, and I was silent from admi- 
 ration. The band of some regiment was 
 playing in the outer hall, and when the 
 door opened, the air full of rich notes, and 
 the perfume of beauty and choicest flowers 
 gushed forth. Amid the columns of the 
 hall groups of ladies, bright haired and 
 sweetly braided, were clustered together. 
 The pavement was of marble, pure as Parian, 
 and at intervals, banks and beds of flowers 
 had been formed of every gorgeous and 
 varied colour. 
 
 The double flight of the marble staircase 
 was thronged with graceful bending bud- 
 ding forms, and as they leaned over the 
 balustrade, the soft light streamed down 
 the warm cheek, and round the beautiful 
 bosom; there was the gentle rustling of 
 light and fairy forms, that inexpressible 
 harmony of woman's movement; the bril-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 57 
 
 liant lighting, the buzz of low confiding 
 voices, while from the ball-room happy 
 joyous strains gushed forth. 
 
 I was quite bewildered. For one moment 
 the recollection of the scene I had witnessed 
 outside crossed my mind. It was as if an 
 icy finger had been laid upon my heart; 
 but it was only for a moment. I had lost 
 Vavasour in the crowd, but presently I saw 
 him talking to a tall aristocratic- looking 
 man, with a riband and a star; and while 
 I was marvelling whether he was our host, 
 he came towards me through the maze of 
 beauty and grace, which opened to give 
 him passage, and proffered the homage of 
 pearly smiles and blushing glances, as he 
 bowed to each. He was the Duke of D. 
 
 u Vavasour," he said, l( has done me a 
 great favour, Mr. Graham, in giving me 
 this opportunity of making your acquaint- 
 ance. I am a very old friend of your father's, 
 and I ought to be offended with him for
 
 58 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 not coming himself; but I suppose he is 
 very busy." 
 
 I acknowledged the courtesy as tyros are 
 wont to do, with sincerity, but some em- 
 barrassment, for even I, the uninitiated, 
 could perceive the anxious curious glances 
 cast towards us. I had in a moment become 
 the object of remark and speculation; for it 
 so chanced, that at that instant the Mar- 
 chioness of Rochfort was announced, a 
 portly waddling old dowager, who crumpled 
 through the throng up to his Grace, fol- 
 lowed by two gaunt bedecked overgrown 
 daughters, whose proportions might have 
 vied with Gulliver's nurse Grlumdalclitch. 
 The Duke bowed down to the marble pave- 
 ment, but allowed them to pass on, and 
 then continued his conversation witli me. 
 I saw the Marchioness's indignant toss of 
 the head. u Vavasour tells me it is your 
 debut in London," continued the Duke, 
 "and I hope you will be amused, but
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 59 
 
 it requires a little connaissance de pays, 
 which is only to be acquired through 
 some of les fleurs des belles, to whom I 
 shall be charmed to present you. So you 
 are going to Florence. I envy you your 
 destination, but let me assure you, you will 
 find very few of the Italian ladies to vie 
 with our own fair countrywomen. Is it not 
 so, Lady Mary?" and he turned to a sweet- 
 faced gently-rounded bright-eyed girl. "I 
 am telling Mr. Graham that our English 
 women won't yield to those of any other 
 country. You have been so much abroad 
 that you must let me present Mr. Graham 
 to you, and I shall leave you to convince 
 him on this point." 
 
 She was the most exquisite illustration 
 of the truth of the opinion, for although in 
 any other country she would have been 
 deified, here I observed that many passed 
 her by without notice. 
 
 My companion, however, soon went to
 
 CO LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 dance, and I was left standing within the 
 door-way. Some of the aristocratic halo 
 must have still clung to me, for I overheard 
 a dandy say, "Who the deuce is that 
 fellow, who was speaking to the Duke?" 
 
 " I don't know, indeed," was the reply. 
 " How should one know all the men and boys 
 who come out now ? Dieu m'en garde, 
 such a pale and stunted set never were seen. 
 I am sure it arises from the women visiting 
 all those idiots and dwarfs. We shall soon 
 be peopled by a race of Bushiemen." 
 
 " He is not stunted, and he looks any- 
 thing but an idiot," said another. " But he 
 is with that damned puppy Vavasour, the 
 beau Vavasour, as the women call him. I 
 think him devilish conceited; he is what 
 they call a rising man, who I always think 
 is a risen bore." It was, I afterwards 
 learned, young Lord Lewis who spoke; one 
 of those men who start with immense repu- 
 tation and dwindle down to nothing; he
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 61 
 
 was made Lord of the Treasury at twenty- 
 one; did admirably well in Parliament, 
 gave it up in disgust, and was now, at 
 twenty- six, living on the reputation of 
 having been once in office, and despising 
 success. 
 
 I turned round, the censurers were all 
 leaning with their backs against the gilded 
 glittering balustrade, totally unmindful of 
 the side-glances of soft voluptuous eyes, 
 which were turned towards them, by the 
 partnerless sylphs who thronged the top of 
 the staircase, while the portly dowagers 
 compressing themselves into the door-way, 
 tossed their garnished heads with indigna- 
 tion at the insouciance of the young men 
 of the present day. 
 
 "How are you, Vavasour?" exclaimed 
 Lord Lewis, as, just then, my cicerone 
 approached. " By Jove, my dear fellow, 
 one never sees you now. Voila la vie, voila 
 la vie des homines d'etat."
 
 62 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 « 
 
 And you have given it all up ?" replied 
 Vavasour. 
 
 " Aye, to be sure. I soon found out my 
 calibre, and that I should never carry half 
 so far as I wished. Pourquoi vouloir que 
 la dentelle pese autant que l'or. Depend 
 upon it, D'Epremesnil was right when he 
 said c II n'y a lien qui brule sitot que les 
 lanriers sees.' Meanwhile I lead a regular 
 Bohemian existence, see life, my dear 
 Vavasour, and not a bad life either is it." 
 
 " Can imagine a worse !" lisped a tight- 
 laced dandy, with a slight down on his 
 upper lip, and his hair coiffed a la Joan 
 d'Arc ; * but tell me, my dear fellow, who 
 is that graceful creature there on the arm 
 of that tall yahoo?" 
 
 " I think it's Miss Tilney ; she is very 
 pretty, is she not ? By-the-by, I hear she 
 is going to marry old Lord Scale ; if she 
 does, she will be the queen of the elegantes. 
 She is ambitious, and so young ; why she is
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 63 
 
 just sixteen. I will tell you who she is very 
 like." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "La Petite Florence, who danced last 
 year. She was perfection ; she put me to 
 the expense of a box for the season. By- 
 the-by, you heard she married ?" 
 
 " I heard something about it." 
 
 " She married that millionaire Earcissus, 
 Long Leslie; he settled God knows what 
 upon her. It was such a betise. He came 
 and told me what he intended doing, upon 
 which I told him, c 3e n'en vois pas la 
 necessiteV '' 
 
 Iwas tired of these specimens of exquisit- 
 ism, and forced my way into the dancing- 
 room; there crowded, squeezed, jammed 
 together were Princes of the Blood, ambas- 
 sadors, grand-crosses, the great and noble 
 in London — those whom in my imagination 
 I had idealized. It seemed so strange to see 
 them all moving about in the most ordinary
 
 64 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 manner, without attracting, except from 
 novices like myself, any particular degree of 
 attention. There were the finest master- 
 pieces of art on the walls, but none could 
 stay to see them ; even the living master- 
 pieces could scarcely be selected from such 
 a crowd. Eound and round it bustled, rus- 
 tled, and whirled ; and then the Babel of 
 conversation — the loud voice, and the soft 
 whisper! Beautiful girls waltzing, with their 
 heads languishingly thrown back, and their 
 eyes half closed, the forms gently pressed 
 to one another ; the deep glow on the cheek 
 — sure index of the pulsation of the heart ; 
 but as in the midst of the din of battle the 
 most secret prayer is uttered, so amid the 
 noisiest of the crowd, I could hear many 
 soft and low voices, with the soft " to-mor- 
 row" — " don't forget," and then a flower 
 given or taken in remembrance. Once 
 when I turned hastily round, I saw such 
 flowers thrust hurriedly into the bosom;
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 65 
 
 and as my eye rested upon the fair girl, the 
 deepest flush suffused her face. How glo- 
 rious must be an affection which wears such 
 a beauteous livery. 
 
 Vavasour seemed everywhere to be 
 courted. There was nothing very remark- 
 able in his appearance — nothing from 
 which to fashion a hero of romance; his 
 manner was simple as his dress, "no giant 
 frame set forth his common height;" but 
 an air of still, quiet repose in the strict 
 sense of the word, proved that he entirely 
 possessed himself. At the same time he 
 was evidently quickly animated, the eye 
 was constantly roving, but always with an 
 intense and earnest expression, the only 
 thing that detracted from his appearance 
 was a slight contraction of the brow, the 
 result of much thought. 
 
 I by no means pretend he was one of 
 those admirable Rodolphs, who excite the 
 interest of finishing schools, and are the 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 GO LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 heroes of watering-places. He was per- 
 fectly unpretending in his address, but so 
 evidently a man who thought much and felt 
 deeply, that I soon discovered there were 
 few who often met him and knew him well, 
 without feeling a secret interest in his 
 career. 
 
 I observed that Vavasour never affected 
 the least superiority. He was standing on 
 the stair, talking to Mr. Canning, as I 
 passed by leading a pretty, rattling, specu- 
 lative young lady down to supper. Vava- 
 sour touched my arm, and told me he 
 would walk home with me when I was tired. 
 I heard Mr. Canning ask my name, but the 
 badinage of my partner precluded my 
 catching his reply. 
 
 " Do you know Mr. Vavasour well?" said 
 my partner. 
 
 I told her the extent of my acquaintance. 
 
 "He is the enfant gate of society, she 
 continued ; " he used to come and see us
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 67 
 
 often, but latterly they say he has been 
 quite, preoccupied with his cousin, Miss 
 Belmont ; he is constantly riding with her; 
 but it has gone on so long that I think it is 
 merely a sentiment de famille." 
 - I inquired whether this Miss Belmont 
 was related to Belmont, my great friend at 
 Christ Church. She told me he was her 
 brother, and was perfectly au courant of 
 his whole career. 
 
 "I should like to see her," I re- 
 marked. 
 
 "Well, she is here to-night/' she said; 
 " and there is Mr. Yavasour in the crowd, 
 so go and speak to him — he is her greatest 
 ally; so you had better leave me here 
 near Lady B., she is anything but agree- 
 able, but useful on these emergencies. I 
 won't ask you to be introduced to her, for 
 you would never speak to me again; but 
 pray remember, Mr. Graham, that I was 
 your first partner, and that Mr. Vavasour 
 
 f2
 
 68 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 is my friend; wherever you see him, de- 
 pend upon it Lucille is not far distant. 
 
 " Oh, you need not hesitate to leave me," 
 she continued, observing my awkward inde- 
 cision ; " this is a capital corner for waltzers. 
 and here comes a little sentimental guards- 
 man, I will engage him for the next dance." 
 
 Before I could expostulate, she had left 
 my arm, and in a few moments had forced 
 her way to the top of the staircase, drag- 
 ging her victim after her; but Vavasour 
 was out of sight before I could catch him. 
 
 Two or three hours had elapsed and I 
 began to feel rather solitary; the excite- 
 ment and action on my mind had been so 
 great that the reaction was very rapid. I 
 remember to have once been at a play 
 during the summer season, and in the mid- 
 dle of the principal tableau of the first act, 
 which represented a fete in Asia, the gas 
 went out and a flood of daylight poured in 
 upon the scene, and revealed the wretched
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 69 
 
 tinsel, the moist paint on the cheeks of 
 the actors, the streaks of green, purple, and 
 patches of blue and yellow which formed 
 the scene I had but a moment before so 
 greatly admired; and I mourned over the 
 destruction of my delusion. 
 
 Well, something of the same feeling 
 now crept over me; true, the faces were still 
 smiling, although more languidly; the whis- 
 pers were as low, the perfumes as fragrant; 
 here, again, the change was in myself, in 
 my own heart. In the beautiful language of 
 Washington Irving, " I stood in the land of 
 my forefathers and felt myself a stranger." 
 All appeared to have their confidences, 
 their soft-voiced secrets ; I saw hands 
 gently touching each other, Every corner 
 had its occupants, and its treasury of oft- 
 repeated and ever-grateful words. 
 
 Nunc et latentis proditor intimo 
 Gratus puellce risus ab angulo. 
 
 Every one was interested in some other
 
 70 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 except myself, and I prepared heart- sad- 
 dened to leave. It was growing late, car- 
 riage after carriage had been called, crowds 
 were waiting in the ante-rooms and hall, just 
 at that moment Vavasour came up to me. 
 
 " Wait a few minutes," said he, " I have 
 to take a pretty cousin of mine to her car- 
 riage, and afterwards we will walk home 
 together." 
 
 Just then "Lady Belmont's carriage 
 stops the way,'' was repeated to the top of 
 the stairs. 
 
 * There/' said Vavasour, u run like a 
 good fellow and tell them not to drive off, 
 for I am going to fetch Lucille." 
 
 I gave the order as he desired me, to 
 the infinite indignation of an elderly gen- 
 tleman with a polished pumice-stoned fore- 
 head, and with two huge mediaeval young 
 ladies on his arms, who were waiting for 
 their carriage, and standing immediately in 
 the draught.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 71 
 
 Vavasour did not make his appearance 
 for some time, and I really began to think 
 that the coachman would not be able to 
 maintain his place amid the storm of indig- 
 nation which his pertinacity caused, when 
 Yavasour approached escorting a person 
 whom I assumed to be Lady Belmont, and 
 followed by a girl of whom I had only time 
 to observe that she possessed the softest, 
 most child-like bloom of countenance, with 
 a figure of exquisite proportions, rounded 
 into the perfection of womanhood. 
 
 I stood by the carriage ; — how gently Ya- 
 vasour assisted her. I could see that she 
 pressed his hand. He said a few words, 
 but all that I could catch was the name of 
 Lucille. The servant slammed the door to, 
 and Vavasour stood beside me with the 
 gentle smile which had broken over his 
 countenance still lingering upon it. 
 
 After the heated rooms, the cool air was 
 delicious; for a few paces the bustling of
 
 72 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 servants, the last notes of the waltz, the 
 roll of bedizened carriages, kept my mind 
 in the same circle of ideas; but once be- 
 yond the whirl and noise, the peculiar still- 
 ness of morning twilight stole over my 
 mind, the streaks of pale, lurid light were 
 broken by the huge masses of the Abbey 
 towers, lofty and proud as the faith which 
 they once represented. The Parks, the 
 dark trees, the leagues of light, stretching 
 in each direction; nature in repose, but 
 civilization still awake. I felt almost dis- 
 gusted at finding myself in the streets 
 at this hour. Still the carriages rattled 
 by us, beauty lying in the corner in vo- 
 luptuous dreamings, languishing from the 
 last waltz, or, pale and disappointed in 
 this May dawn, looking vacantly upon 
 the streets, deserted except by some poor 
 wretches who, in tatters and with colour- 
 less cheeks, save where the old paint had 
 left its stain upon them, were still lurking 
 near the corners.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 73 
 
 Perhaps among these unfortunate beings 
 there may have been one who once passed 
 her life in making those very dresses which 
 undulated with every passionate movement ; 
 she may have worked at them night and 
 day; but then some night or some day even 
 the privilege of work may have been denied 
 her; for beauty must curtail the silk, and 
 can no longer afford the rich and costly 
 mantille, and the poor child has no food 
 that day, although a sister may be dying, 
 or a mother groaning in poverty. So when 
 the night is dark she steps forth; stretches 
 out her hand to God, when it is caught by 
 some one passing by; but the touch is at 
 least friendly, and the voice is the voice of 
 affection, and the heart is so sad and 
 breaking. The next morning the sister's 
 life is saved, and a mother is fed; but a 
 conscience is lost and a heart is starving. 
 
 Even the night guardians were peculiarly 
 silent in the gray dawn. They then left
 
 74 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 the safety of the town to nature and 
 housemaids. These were the glorious old 
 days of watchmen, broken heads, burglaries, 
 street rows, shaggy coats, and horn lan- 
 terns. 
 
 I was at that age when every idea be- 
 comes a sensation, when the heart knows its 
 own burthen, and can still feel for others. 
 I walked on with Vavasour, and scarcely 
 proffered a word. I was thinking on all 
 that had passed that night, and my heart 
 was quite full of sensations so various, and 
 some so painful, that even the society of 
 one who had been so kind to me, checked 
 and pained me. I thought to myself at 
 that moment, u Have all men passed 
 through this frame of mind? Is this 
 painful hard-breathing sensation the natu- 
 ral result of excitement and pleasure, or 
 am I the exception ? If the former, then 
 how sad life is; if the latter, then a 
 curse is upon me. The paleness of this 

 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 75 
 
 morning falls upon my heart. But a few 
 hours since existence seemed so richly 
 coloured, now it is all livid and cold. Is it 
 my fault?" 
 
 Vavasour asked me why I was low spirited, 
 and I told him. 
 
 " All men/' said he, " have passed 
 through this. When I say all men, I do 
 not speak of those now on the opposite side 
 of the street. They are going to Lim- 
 ner's, and then probably to some low hell. 
 They will steep themselves in wine and 
 tobacco, and roll to bed ; breathe heavily 
 on awaking ; and the next day repeat the 
 same animal existence. — Let them pass, 
 But of men that feel, think, and speak, 
 believe me, these all represent one another ; 
 for to such men life is a faith, a necessity, 
 an obligation. They enter life as they 
 enter a church, — to mourn, to love, and to 
 believe. Others enter it as though it were 
 a tennis-court, — to throw a ball about, and
 
 76 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 make a score more or less favourable 
 to themselves. You are sad and melan- 
 choly to-night ; but you should cherish this 
 feeling. The dreariest of all feelings is — 
 
 When the heart doth weep, 
 Because the soul doth sleep, 
 
 Too readily here ; 
 Because we feel no more, 
 As we have felt before, 
 
 Darkness and fear*. 
 
 Or, as it is expressed in those admirable 
 lines, attributed to Bulwer: — 
 
 When the curse 
 Of stagnor falls upon the universe. 
 
 As long as you have sensation there is 
 life, and as long as there is life there is 
 hope; but even for such as these men, who 
 have passed by us, and whom you will meet 
 so frequently in your career, oh ! even for 
 these there is an awakening. Let a man 
 beware of satiety, for it is the darkest of 
 
 :: From " The Drawing Room Scrap Book." Edited 
 by the Honourable Mrs. Norton.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 77 
 
 evils, and death is preferable to life, when 
 once it is satiated.'' 
 
 " It must take a long time to satiate one 
 with life," I replied. 
 
 " That is true, for men who really do live, 
 and enrich their minds," said Vavasour ; 
 "but how few do so ? The majority merely 
 vegetate; they pass through life almost 
 without a sensation, except for self; and 
 then when they are deserted by themselves, 
 they are without hope. Nor have such men 
 any right to complain, if, having lived 
 entirely for themselves, they find them- 
 selves stranded ; for it is extraordinary how 
 accurate public opinion is. A man gives 
 splendid feasts. Does he do it from a 
 feeling of hospitality? Or that he likes 
 diversion? Or that he wishes to have such 
 and such titles paraded at his table, and 
 their names in his visiting book? The 
 world will judge him, and with very re- 
 markable truth.
 
 78 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 " Suppose him to be influenced solely by 
 the last of these motives; if he goes to the 
 elub and overhears some of those friends, 
 who have just left his table, indulging in 
 the coarse bitter joke at his expense; or 
 in the sneer, cold as the marble col Limn 
 which conceals him; he cannot and ought 
 not to be dissatisfied. He gave the dinner, 
 they gave the society, or their names. 
 There is no gratitude due on either side. 
 
 " But," he continued, after a long pause, 
 " in our society, so artificial and vain, its 
 most melancholy tendency is to make us 
 doubt. I have learnt this in bitterness and 
 sorrow. Do you love in silence, in holiness, 
 in the fulness of your blood and youth; the 
 circle in which you move bids you mistrust. 
 Innumerable instances are quoted to prove 
 to you, that virtue is a mere idea; that, to 
 use the dreadful upas language of society, 
 a woman only wants opportunity to sin. 
 Even Canning has suggested one fearful
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 79 
 
 notion; that of the candid friend. Have 
 you confidence in yourself? Instead of 
 strengthening and invigorating that confi- 
 dence, the defeated, the unsuccessful will 
 tell you how much he, with greater oppor- 
 tunities, perhaps with infinitely greater sa- 
 crifice has failed: qu'il a passe par la. 
 Have you confidence in .God? the ma- 
 terialist starts forth, to prove that the law 
 of God is the law of nature, and the law of 
 nature is only the law of common sense." 
 
 " One ought to be very unhappy," I said, 
 " if the world is like this." 
 
 "Perhaps it is very absurd," he con- 
 tinued, " my speaking in this strain, but I 
 have felt so entirely what you expressed to- 
 night, that it recalls all my old sensations ; 
 and then, although I have only had the 
 pleasure of knowing you personally for a 
 few hours, yet I am a very old friend of 
 your father's. He spoke to me a great deal 
 about you, and, for my part, I would do all
 
 80 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 in my power to prevent one of your charac- 
 ter and temperament from being dragged 
 into the cold vortex, where so many are 
 engulphed. I am not indulging in the cant 
 of the Low Church. To ninety men out of 
 a hundred it matters not with what know- 
 ledge or what experience they enter London 
 or any other life. It is merely a question, 
 as to what particular place they fatten and 
 rot in ; but the hearts of others are so finely 
 strung, that no breath can blow across 
 them without producing some sound. 
 
 " I have told you something of the truth, 
 and you would say, that the woman who de- 
 serts her lover in his need — that the friend 
 who dines and feasts, and then goes out to a 
 club and turns into ridicule his host — that 
 the man who, because he has himself failed 
 in life, would destroy your confidence in 
 yourself, and be entirely indifferent to 
 your failure; you would naturally say that 
 all these are thoroughly heartless and bad ;
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 81 
 
 but it is not exactly this — none are all evil; 
 The woman knows, that in her old age she 
 will be cast off; that as the bloom leaves 
 her cheeks her lover's visits will become 
 rarer and rarer. The man w T ho is feasted, 
 and ridicules all sensation, is the mere 
 creature of worldly habit; it is the fashion 
 to ridicule, to persifler, and so he falls into 
 the general custom. If the fashion were 
 the other way, he would bedaub with 
 praise; but in his heart he is disgusted 
 with himself afterwards, and would be, per- 
 haps, really grieved if his Amphitryon were 
 to die. 
 
 "The fault of society, as it is consti- 
 tuted, is its utter want of character, its 
 entire imitativeness ; if each man had some 
 strongly developed bent of mind the one 
 would correct the other. As it is I am 
 disheartened." 
 
 "I have spoken," he continued, "of an 
 awakening which comes to all, sooner or 
 
 VOL. i. g
 
 82 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 later, but soonest to vour soi-disant man of 
 fashion. See a Brummel expiring in a 
 mad-house, or the man of ton stricken by 
 his own hand, but this is not more terrible 
 than in the awakening to him who, rising 
 some morning, finds age has crept upon 
 him, when all his lost opportunities, his 
 glorious resolutions, are so many tomb- 
 stones around his bed. When he looks in 
 the glass and sees his temples are very 
 bald, or the child which he takes on his 
 knee points to the first gray hair, and then 
 he remembers all his day dreams of success, 
 his ambitions, his proud imaginings, and oh, 
 how far above all, his sense of duty; and 
 he opens the desk to take out some record, 
 some memorial of his early feelings, but 
 it is buried under a confused mass of small 
 delicately penned notes, stray locks of hair, 
 or ashes of flowers. 
 
 "Oh! how he loathes the chaos of past 
 sensations. Some may have loved him
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 83 
 
 fondly, and so loving have perished. But 
 they are then amply revenged. They, 
 mouldering in their coffins, are not more 
 dead than the heart of that man then 
 becomes. Their punishment cannot be 
 more severe than his, for his hell has begun 
 on earth. 
 
 "You must forgive me, Graham," said 
 he, checking himself; "but I, too, have 
 suffered so much. You can avoid all this 
 bitterness; and, indeed, I ought not to 
 check your feelings, who are just entering 
 life at such a happy age." 
 
 "But you cannot be unhappy," said I, 
 half timidly, for so susceptible are my own 
 sensations, that of the two, I prefer making 
 an indifferent observation to using an ex- 
 pression, however true, which may be 
 misconstrued into flattery. "But you," 
 I said, "so courted and feted, must be 
 happy. Some people say, that vanity is 
 the greatest stimulant in life; if so, your's 
 
 g2
 
 u 
 
 84 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 must be gratified. Every one is hanging 
 upon your words, and looking at you as you 
 pass." 
 
 " If that were even as you say, I do not 
 think it would affect me much. Byron has 
 well said — 
 
 " The days of our youth are the days of our glory; 
 And the kiss and the smile of sweet two-and-twenty 
 Are worth all the laurels, however so plenty." 
 
 "But you enjoy both," said I. "That 
 beautiful girl, Miss Belmont, whom you 
 handed to the carriage, and in whose be- 
 half I was nearly crushed among the foot- 
 men." 
 
 Vavasour did not for a moment answer. 
 I turned to look at him — whether it was 
 the light of the morning, or the effect of 
 my sudden mentioning of the name I know 
 not, but his face was pale. He recovered 
 himself quickly. "She is, indeed, very 
 beautiful," he said, in a quiet and subdued, 
 but somewhat broken voice. "People are
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 85 
 
 always enthusiastic when they speak of her. 
 I told you she is my cousin, and I have been 
 on long habits of intimacy with her. Every 
 one who knows must love — I mean to say, 
 must be interested in her. By-the-by, as I 
 was leading her to the carriage, she asked 
 me your name; she said she remembered 
 her brother saying that you were his great- 
 est friend. I have seen very little of Henry 
 since he went to college, but he was then a 
 very fine boy." 
 
 " He is very popular," I replied, " but 
 a curious kind of fellow. Sometimes he 
 will fall into a state of the most intense 
 melancholy which will last for days. At 
 one moment he is the most lively and 
 entertaining companion; but at all times, 
 grave or gay, so fascinating, so agreeable, 
 so beloved. I am sure you would like him 
 so if you knew him." 
 
 "I did," said Vavasour, "very well; but 
 I have been abroad so much lately."
 
 86 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 "Where did Sir "William Belmont die?" 
 said I ; " Henry never speaks of his father 
 —rarely of any of his family." 
 
 Again there was a pause, and I felt 
 Vavasour's arm tremble in mine. 
 
 " He died in Germany four years since ; 
 but we have talked enough on melancholy 
 subjects." 
 
 He evidently wished to turn the conver- 
 sation. Henley, where I had passed such 
 happy days with Belmont, presented 
 itself to my mind. " It is a beautiful spot, 
 Henley," I said. 
 
 "What! you have been there?" ex- 
 claimed Vavasour. " I thought you told 
 me that you knew nothing of Lady or Miss 
 Belmont, and Miss Belmont asked to 
 be introduced to you; what does this 
 mean ?" 
 
 There was a rapidity of utterance — an 
 excitement in his voice, which I had not 
 perceived before ; it seemed to me that the
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 87 
 
 subject scarcely merited it, only he had 
 evidently been disconcerted by some previ- 
 ous question. 
 
 ■ 
 
 " It was during the vacation time," I 
 replied in an indifferent tone. "You re- 
 member you yourself told me that the 
 family had been a long time absent ; we 
 passed a delightful time there. I certainly 
 ought to have remembered that Henry had 
 so beautiful a sister, for he showed me a 
 picture of her, and it struck me exces- 
 sively." 
 
 Yavasour affected a laugh, as he said, 
 " Well, you must take care that the original 
 has not the same magic effect; car elle 
 est toute puissant e. But I may at once 
 tell you that she is no flirt. When you 
 know Lucille — I mean Miss Belmont, you 
 will find how superior she is to the majority 
 of young ladies who crowd these ball-rooms 
 every night ; so full of feeling and affection 
 — just as you describe her brother to be."
 
 88 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 " I have no pretensions/' I said, " to be 
 numbered amongst her admirers ; mine 
 never can be a life of ease and repose. I 
 know my father's position well; he has a 
 moderate income, and spends it liberally. I 
 shall have a small fortune, but then it mat- 
 ters not. It will, however, oblige me to work, 
 and this I do not shrink from. I really 
 see the absolute necessity that my career 
 should consist of the mortar and the trowel 
 — toil, toil, toil. I embrace labour cor- 
 dially, and ask for no other bride." 
 
 (i You are right," said Yavasour, with a 
 smile which only more deeply saddened his 
 countenance ; " so to-morrow, if you will, at 
 two o'clock, I will call for you, and take you 
 to Lady Belmont's. I am afraid my con- 
 versation may have made you melancholy, 
 it has made me so; but melancholy which 
 teaches a man to think is to be cherished 
 rather than neglected — you will learn this 
 in time. Good night, Graham, I think this 
 is your door."
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 89 
 
 I went up into my room ; it overlooked 
 the whole of Hyde Park. I laid down on 
 the sofa near the window, to meditate on 
 the events of the day. My first entrance 
 into society — its brightness — its glittering 
 fancy, and then the dark and mournful 
 ideas which Vavasour had instilled into my 
 mind — were they true or exaggerated ? 
 Was I even, and at this moment, happy or 
 spirit-stricken ? I thought of Vavasour 
 and Miss Belmont; she was perfectly 
 lovely ; did he love her ? certainly not, to 
 judge from his voice and. manner; and 
 theirs was a kind of confidence subsisting 
 between them which did not appear like the 
 outpourings of passion. 
 
 And then how his voice had changed — 
 how pale he became, when I mentioned the 
 name of her family ; what could be the con- 
 nection that bound him to them ? who was 
 Mr. Vavasour ? I regretted that I had not 
 asked my father further particulars about
 
 90 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 him ; even in Scotland, however, I had seen 
 his name frequently cited as the most 
 rising among our young orators ; evidently, 
 whoever he might be, he was a man of 
 great distinction, from the deference paid 
 to him. 
 
 But now that this friend of six hours' 
 date had left me I felt a gnawing, dissatis- 
 fied feeling; I regretted having expressed 
 myself so frankly and unreservedly to a 
 man with whom I had little or no tie, and 
 who, at the very moment, might have been 
 only making a study of my sensations. Now 
 appeared the worst feature in my charac- 
 ter, doubt, doubt, that never left me, doubt 
 of myself, doubt of others. 
 
 I strove to check a thought so ungene- 
 rous, so mean; what interest could Vava- 
 sour have except a feeling of real kindness 
 and regard towards me? AVhat object save 
 to give me this most valuable of all know- 
 ledge, a knowledge of life ? In my con-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 91 
 
 science I was ungrateful; oh, if I had been 
 skilled deeply in reading my own heart, I 
 might have learnt that there was a secret, 
 lurking feeling of jealousy and envy; but 
 still, as I thought over the whole day, a 
 dark and sad feeling, the shadow of my 
 destiny, crept over my spirit until I fell 
 asleep.
 
 92 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 1 was quite worn out by fatigue, and was 
 awoke the next morning by a message from 
 Vavasour, who sent to say that he was 
 waiting for me in the drawing-room. 
 
 It was past two o'clock, a most extraor- 
 dinary circumstance for me, for, in general, 
 I was accustomed to very early hours; but 
 the sun shone merrily upon the green trees, 
 the Park was full of blithesome, joyous 
 children, it was altogether too bright, too 
 happy a day to indulge in vain regrets : so
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 93 
 
 I dressed as quickly as possible to join 
 ■Vavasour. My father, I found, had left for 
 his office at eleven o'clock; this sounded 
 rather like drudgery, but it was the career 
 of ambition. 
 
 The park, even at that early hour, was 
 somewhat crowded. With the lightness of 
 a woman's hand Vavasour threaded his way 
 through the maze of carriages, cabs, and 
 gigs, which quite bewildered me. My heart 
 bounded at the motion of the horse, and 
 the fresh air exhilarated me. Lady Bel- 
 mont lived in Berkeley Square. Vava- 
 sour spoke very little during the drive ; he 
 seemed melancholy and pre-occupied, but 
 his was one of those countenances which 
 always appear full of thought. I was 
 ■naturally nervous like all novices when 
 they make their debut in London. A 
 morning visit is an operation which, at 
 twenty, men are always anxious to avoid. 
 I had heard also very little of Lady
 
 94 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Belmont, and that little had not in any 
 way prepossessed me in her favour. The 
 two or three men I had known, who were 
 acquainted with her, said she was cold, 
 formal, and apparently devoid of all feeling. 
 Vavasour seemed to shrink from entering 
 into any discussion on her merits. In 
 answer to one question I put to him he 
 said, 
 
 "I am so intimate with the whole 
 family that I really am not a fit judge on 
 such a subject. I ought to like her if it 
 were only for being connected with so 
 charming a girl." 
 
 " Her connection, indeed," I exclaimed, 
 " why, she is her mother?" 
 
 "Not at all," he replied; "her mother 
 died a long time since, I think somewhere 
 abroad, I rather believe in Venice. This is 
 her stepmother; her name was Staunton, 
 Grace Staunton, I think. My poor friend 
 Belmont married her soon after the death
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 95 
 
 of his first wife, and Henry is the child 
 of the present lady. Did not Henry men- 
 tion her to you?" 
 
 "!N"o," I replied, "he very seldom spoke 
 to me about his relations, nor do I re- 
 member that he mentioned his sister more 
 than once or twice." 
 
 It was a large house. A train of ser- 
 vants were waiting in the hall, and rose as 
 we passed through; it was evidently the 
 abode of the highest degree of luxury and 
 order. The drawing-room into which we 
 were shown was furnished with great ele- 
 gance, and every object showed the taste 
 and superiority of a cultivated and refined 
 mind. After a short time the servant 
 returned with a message from Lady 
 Belmont, requesting Vavasour to speak to 
 her in another room. 
 
 While I was waiting I took up a small 
 water-colour drawing, which was lying on a 
 table near the window. It was a sketch of
 
 96 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 the Doge's Palace at Venice, and admira- 
 bly executed, and I had not time to put it 
 down when Miss Belmont entered. She 
 at first hesitated a little, but then told me 
 that Lady Belmont had sent her to apo- 
 logise for her absence, but as Mr. Vavasour 
 was going to leave town she had several 
 things to talk to him about. We possessed 
 one admirable common topic of conversa- 
 tion to break the surface of a formal London 
 introduction, and that was her brother. 
 Although he had so seldom spoken of her 
 to me she entered on the topic immedi- 
 ately. Her eyes glistened as I told her of 
 joyous Eton days, and that my chief regret 
 at leaving college was parting from him, 
 and one or two others. 
 
 "You are going to leave? 5 ' said she, in a 
 voice of surprise. " Vavasour did not men- 
 tion that." 
 
 Vavasour, — the familiar expression 
 caught my ear; she perceived this and
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 97 
 
 slightly coloured, and pretended to be 
 examining- her unfinished drawing. 
 
 " Yes/' said I, " I am going to Florence ; 
 I hope to find it as beautiful and bright as 
 that sketch. 
 
 " Were you ever at Yenice, Miss Bel- 
 mont ? " 
 
 "As a child/' she replied with a sigh, 
 "but you must not judge of an Italian 
 sky by my colouring. It seems to me 
 always as if the grey in our climate mixed 
 itself with the colours on the palette; I 
 copied it from my masters. I should like 
 to see Venice;" and her voice became 
 hurried and her utterance rapid, as she 
 whispered: " My mother died there." 
 
 Beautiful, I thought to myself, must have 
 been the mother who bore thee so lovely. 
 Then there was another awkward pause; 
 Miss Belmont looked out of window, 
 remarked that London was very full, spoke 
 to me about the opera, balls : but on all 
 
 VOL. I. h
 
 98 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 these subjects I seemed to be very ignorant. 
 She must have had a very mean opinion of 
 my intellect. At last I confessed that I 
 literally knew nothing of London, that this 
 was the first morning visit I ever paid, and 
 she was the first London acquaintance I 
 had made. 
 
 She smiled at this, and assumed a kind 
 of protection of manner. My confession 
 of ignorance put us at once on a kind of 
 familiar footing, which set me quite at my 
 ease. 
 
 At that moment Lady Belmont en- 
 tered, and the conversation dropped. I only 
 caught a glimpse of her on the previous 
 evening, but now I thought I had never 
 seen so forbidding a countenance. She was 
 tall and thin, with a cold grey glassy eye, 
 a short upper lip, which gave to her face 
 an expression of resolute will, anything 
 but agreeable to a female face; her voice 
 was weak, wiry, and left an impression of
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 09 
 
 resolution, calculation, and deep cunning. 
 Her manner was constrained and formal: 
 her cheeks drawn in, and the lines of the 
 forehead were strongly defined. The brow 
 was low, — not that * lowness which the 
 Greeks loved to pourtray, — but it conveyed 
 an idea of narrow-minded and confined 
 views. What particularly struck me was 
 the change which was immediately per- 
 ceptible in Miss Belmont's manner, the 
 moment her step-mother appeared. I 
 turned, and the bright glance, and sweet 
 happy smile had vanished; there was a 
 look of awe when Lady Belmont spoke, a 
 kind of dread of some scene, and although 
 there was no particular expression made 
 use of, yet the least observing person must 
 at once have remarked an absence of all 
 cordiality towards her step- daughter. Her 
 manner to myself was courteous, but 
 nothing more, there was no desire apparent 
 to win any one's regard; if Queen Elizabeth 
 
 ii 2
 
 100 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 had walked out of a picture she could 
 not have appeared more stately, cold and 
 formal. 
 
 And what a contrast to Lucille, who was 
 sitting near her, in the rich full glow of 
 early womanhood; there was softness in 
 her smile which vindicated the truth and 
 unselfishness of her heart; and yet at 
 moments a pensiveness in the eyes which, 
 soft and blue, were fringed by the lom>- 
 dark silken lash, and then the cheek was 
 so rounded, and the bloom was so delicate. 
 The hair, closely braided round the fore- 
 head, was tied in a knot behind the head, 
 and fell in rich clusters on the neck. You 
 might have called it an original style, but 
 must have wished that there were many 
 imitators. It was a form of classic beautv, 
 such as Athens in her palmiest days glori- 
 fied : the Samian fulness, with the Attic 
 feature, endowed with the inspiration of the 
 East.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 101 
 
 As soon as Lady Belmont was engaged 
 in conversation with me, Yavasour beckoned 
 the young lady into a small boudoir, and I 
 was left alone to freeze in her ladyship's 
 atmosphere; I observed that she looked 
 anxiously, and even angrily, at the door of 
 the room to which Vavasour and Miss Bel- 
 had retired, and whence we could scarcely 
 catch the sound of their voices. 
 
 "You have not known Mr. Yavasour 
 long, Mr. Graham?" 
 
 Since yesterday," I replied. 
 Do you like him?" and a quiet sneer 
 settled on her face. 
 
 Strange question I thought to ask a man 
 on a first introduction, of another sitting 
 a few yards from him; had I bated him 
 there was but one answer, " Extremely." 
 
 "He was a great friend of Lucille's 
 mother. As you see, he is quite l'enfant du 
 famille," she continued, " I believe Lord 
 Graham has a great opinion of him." 

 
 102 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 " I met him at my father's last night/' 
 I replied, w and what I have seen of him 
 I like excessively; he seems to me very 
 popular; he knows Henry, Lady Le Bel- 
 mont?" 
 
 "]STot much," she said, while a slight 
 tinge of colour, if a bluish tint could be 
 thus named, rose in her pale cheek. u [Not 
 much; by the by, Mr. Graham, Henry is 
 a great friend of yours." 
 
 "One of the greatest; we live almost 
 entirely together." 
 
 She appeared determined to carry out 
 this course of examination. 
 
 "And Mr. Dudley, he is another of your 
 set, I hear a great deal of him, he is said to 
 be very clever." 
 
 "Yes, he is indeed, very," I replied; "in 
 that respect he is very different from Henry, 
 who is very idle, but such an excellent 
 fellow." 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Dudley has more reason
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 103 
 
 to work/' said she, craftily, " Henry may, 
 if he chooses, pass his time in utter idle- 
 ness but the idlers is a mauvais metier. I 
 think all young men should have a profe- 
 ssion ; but I know nothing of Mr. Dudley. 1 ' 
 
 "Oh !" said I, "Dudley; why he has an 
 immense fortune, and will be ultimately 
 Lord Winfield; you have never seen 
 Dudley, Lady Belmont ?" and in this fami- 
 liar conversation I lost my sense of her 
 Ladyship's designing disagreeable coun- 
 tenance. I talked to her about our college 
 life, with all single-heartedness of youth, 
 and she enticed me to rattle on. 
 
 But what I particularly remarked, was 
 her anxiety to learn whether Henry 
 spoke much of her and his sister. At 
 the risk of making him appear unnatural, 
 I was forced to confess that, up to that 
 day, I was entirely ignorant who Lady 
 Belmont was, and, except on rare oc- 
 casions, I had never heard him mention
 
 J 04 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 liis sister's name ; this was indeed very 
 strange ; but stranger still, it seemed rather 
 to gratify her ladyship, and her stern fea- 
 tures somewhat relaxed when she heard 
 this. 
 
 I was becoming heartily tired of this 
 conversation, when I observed that Yava- 
 sour and Miss Belmont had risen, and 
 were standing near the door: she had just 
 given him a small packet. I looked up and 
 saw that he had become very pale; he put 
 it rapidly in his pocket, and then took her 
 hand affectionately. I glanced at Lady 
 Belmont, and could see that there were 
 evident signs of her being seriously an- 
 noyed at this manifestation of feeling on 
 the part of Vavasour. She made a violent 
 effort to control her temper, but got up 
 hastily, and in a quick sharp voice desired 
 Miss Belmont to prepare to go out driving 
 with her. 
 
 I must confess that I almost sympathized
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 105 
 
 with her irritation, more especially when I 
 saw another glance interchanged between 
 them; nothing, however, could be kinder 
 than Miss Belmont's manner on taking; 
 leave of me, but still there was an assump- 
 tion of interest in Vavasour's conduct, and 
 a kind of sympathy between them, which 
 made me feel that my presence was intru- 
 sive. So keen is our amour propre, so 
 susceptible our vanity. I had only been 
 introduced to Miss Belmont a few minutes, 
 and already my heart began to swell with a 
 kind of jealous anxious feeling. 
 
 Vavasour, however, remained there with- 
 out changing a feature. The conversa- 
 tion he had had with Miss Belmont, must 
 have painfully affected him, for there was 
 a certain inflection in the voice as he left 
 her. The parting was for a very short time, 
 for I understood he was invited to dine 
 there that day. 
 
 I was, however, in no humour to drive with
 
 106 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 him as he had proposed to me. I found it 
 difficult to explain the feeling of hostility 
 towards him, which had taken possession 
 of me, but it existed. I admired and 
 envied him, but from one of those 
 undefinable and inexpressible sentiments, 
 to which the sensitive are liable, I felt 
 that he had crossed my path, and that 
 he was the one person upon whom my 
 fate would depend* How I envied him 
 that confiding delicious intercourse with so 
 lovely a creature. I never stopped to con- 
 sider, that mine was only an acquaintance 
 of an hour; that she could not after all feel 
 any interest in one who was only known 
 to her as her brother's college friend. But 
 then the truly susceptible never stop to 
 think or calculate; when once the passions 
 are let loose, they no longer flow in a 
 regular channel, but overspread the whole 
 mind, sweeping away all consideration in 
 their course.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. lu, 
 
 Vavasour looked slightly mortified as I 
 turned away. " Then I shall not^ meet you 
 again/' he said, "as you go down to Oxford 
 to-morrow." I felt half ashamed of myself 
 as I gave him my hand, but having once 
 pleaded an engagement, I thought myself 
 bound to adhere to my excuse. 
 
 " I shall," said he, " at all events see you 
 frequently before you leave for Florence. 
 You will be in town again, of course; tell 
 Henry to take care and not get into 
 scrapes." Another shake of the hand, and 
 then, at a touch of the lash, the horse gave 
 a spring, and in a moment had turned the 
 corner. 
 
 I would have gladly recalled him to have 
 told him my whole feelings, and yet there 
 was something so excessively absurd in my 
 becoming piqued at his intimacy with a 
 pretty girl, whom I had only seen for the 
 second time, I was ashamed to avow a dis- 
 position so egregiously vain. Here was an
 
 108 LUCILLE BELMCOT. 
 
 admired man of the world, with so much 
 of public fame achieved, and so much ex- 
 pected from him, who had shown me every 
 kindness and attention, — so flattering, from 
 a man of his mature age to a mere novice 
 in life, — and instead of gratitude, I had 
 treated him with rudeness, which he had 
 evidently remarked. So experienced an eye 
 could not fail to have penetrated through 
 my shallow excuse; to have read in my 
 heart, the cause of my declining to accom- 
 pany him ; to feel contempt for one so un- 
 reasonable and utterly selfish. 
 
 But where now were all my plans, my 
 ambitions, my aspirations; but yesterday 
 nothing could have taken off my thoughts 
 from Florence. Oh dreams, so soon 
 melted away; oh frost-work of the imagi- 
 nation, breathed upon by beauty, and its 
 glory has vanished. As I walked along my 
 mind was with the living in Berkley Square 
 instead of Florence with the shades of the
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 109 
 
 Medici. I recalled every look, every glance 
 which she had given Vavasour; I could not 
 have believed that a few hours could by any 
 possibility have wrought such a change in 
 me, and it was then I first commenced to 
 doubt mvself. 
 
 Since that hour how often have I thought 
 over it, it is hard to mistrust a friend, to 
 doubt an affection on which we have re- 
 posed, and the language of lips which have 
 pronounced our name in their sleep; but of 
 all distrust most painful, where all is pain- 
 ful, is the mistrust of one's own powers, one's 
 own convictions, one's own capacity for 
 duty, one's own energy. The doubt of 
 others may not be fed by circumstance, it 
 may be diminished by absence, or out- 
 grown by time; but the doubt of oneself 
 every hour ministers to it, every scene of 
 life confirms it; when to know thyself, is to 
 know only thine own weakness ; while the 
 water is still smooth, and not a ripple on
 
 110 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 the surface, floating idly and quietly 
 enough, but in moments of difficulty and 
 danger, when every energy must be roused 
 and every nerve strained, to feel we shall 
 either be borne away or perish in our 
 weakness; it has been the curse of my 
 life, but never until that moment had the 
 painful truth flashed upon me in all its 
 force ; a sad and dull feeling fell upon 
 me. I was tempted at once to go to my 
 father, and to say that I had mistaken 
 my career, that I was wholly unfitted for 
 public life, destitute of proper spirit, of 
 action, of enterprise, and of self-denial. 
 
 I wandered about in a lonely indifferent 
 mood; the glorious visions, the bright 
 colouring with which but yesterday my 
 brain had teemed, had yielded place to the 
 lowest melancholy and most abject self- 
 abandonment. In love I assuredly was not, 
 but an idea had been presented to me, and 
 with the fond impatience of youth, it
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. Ill 
 
 absorbed every emotion of my mind; of my 
 heart. It was the first glimpse of the most 
 beautiful, but one, which burst upon me from 
 the height of the mountain peak, where I had 
 been long ascending, and now stood alone. 
 
 Strange indeed to reflect on the progress 
 of the mind, and the growth of sensation ; 
 each heart has seeds sown in it, which it 
 requires only one shower or one sun-gleam 
 to produce. The music is in the chords, and 
 in the notes of the flute; only let the skilful 
 hand touch the one, or the cunning lip the 
 other. And who shall pretend to say what 
 lie might have been in circumstances dif- 
 ferent to those in which he has been placed; 
 who shall say what temptation would have 
 overcome, what passion would have blasted 
 him ? The root of such affection was in my 
 heart, and like Aaron's rod it budded forth, 
 in one preordained moment, and swallowed 
 up every other feeling. 
 
 I dined alone, and went that night to the
 
 112 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Opera ; it was my first presence there, and 
 the size of the vast amphitheatre, the magni- 
 ficent decorations, the atmosphere of beauty, 
 struck me with enchantment. The boxes 
 were all full, it was the first night of a new 
 dancer; and as I looked on the graceful 
 voluptuous movement of each beautiful girl, 
 and heard the echoes of the applause which 
 rung through the building, I felt what a 
 new career mine had become, that 1 was 
 rapidly leaving the regions of the mind's 
 visionary romance for the life of sensation ; 
 the figures leaning over the front of the 
 boxes looked so beautiful, and as my eyes 
 wandered from one to another, they fixed 
 upon a head which I felt sure was that of 
 Miss Belmont's. 
 
 She turned suddenly round, her counte- 
 nance glowing with animation ; something 
 she whispered to a person sitting behind, 
 and when he bent forward, I saw that it 
 was Vavasour; it seemed to me that no
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 11 
 
 o 
 
 two persons ever looked happier. Imme- 
 diately the ballet, its scenery, its music, all 
 passed away: this one object absorbed all 
 my senses. Presently she rose, I could see 
 Vavasour, at the back of the box, place her 
 shawl gently over her shoulders; her com- 
 panion was a pale insipid-looking girl, who 
 slowly followed them out of the box. 
 
 In my impatience I seized my hat; only 
 a moment before I had resolved to over- 
 come these feelings, and not again to throw 
 myself in her way; in an instant all my 
 good resolutions had vanished. I was 
 struggling, elbowing, and jostling my way 
 out of the pit. By dint of great exertions 
 I at last reached the door ; but, ignorant of 
 the crush-room, was standing at the foot 
 of the grand staircase, when Lady Bel- 
 mont's carriage was announced. Some one 
 touched my arm, I started. 
 
 " T ou here ! " exclaimed Vavasour, " why 
 did you not tell me you were coming to the 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Opera ? I would have given you an ivory for 
 my box, and saved you half a guinea." 
 
 I murmured out something about un- 
 certain and impulse. 
 
 " It is surely not fair on new friends/' 
 said Miss Belmont, " to avoid them without 
 even knowing if you can ever like them." 
 
 Vavasour had gone for a moment to look 
 where the carriage was standing ; he 
 beckoned to us, and she put her arm in 
 mine. For the first time the mystic sen- 
 sation of the union of two separate selves 
 crept through my veins, I did not utter a 
 word, but as I helped her into the carriage 
 my arm trembled. 
 
 " Don't forget my messages to Henry," 
 she said. 
 
 In one moment the dream had been 
 dreamt, and I awoke to find myself alone. 
 
 Vavasour had gone ; something he had 
 said to me, but I did not catch it; the 
 crowd was dispersing, and I strolled along
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 115 
 
 I scarcely knew where ; but the lights, the 
 atmosphere, the harmony of the theatre, still 
 filled my senses, and among all the sen- 
 sations, one, like a key-note of a song, 
 occupied my heart above all others, and 
 the cherished touch of that arm, the warmth 
 of that moment's pressure, encircled me in 
 my slumber that night. 
 
 i2
 
 116 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On my arrival next afternoon at Ox- 
 ford, I .found Dudley and Belmont wait- 
 ing for me, I was delighted to see them 
 again; London had been very bright. My 
 imagination had swept over sunny and 
 unknown regions during my short absence ; 
 I was, in some respects, a new man, or 
 rather a man with a new idea ; but of all 
 feelings, perhaps the friendship of youth is 
 the strongest. London, Miss Belmont, 
 Vavasour, were all forgotten, as I jumped 
 down and shook my friends warmly by the 
 hand.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 117 
 
 "Never mind your luggage/' said 
 Dudley, "the guard will look after that: 
 come along here ; Belmont, don't go away, 
 we have plenty of time, let us take a 
 stroll down the street ; it is two hours to 
 hall, and then you know we go to Stanley's 
 for wine." 
 
 I took Dudley's arm, and we walked 
 on, forgetting every one but ourselves ; 
 with heads bent in that earnest overflow- 
 ing confidence which is the charm of that 
 age. 
 
 " Oh, you saw my sister, did you not, 
 Graham?" asked Belmont. "She wrote 
 me one line yesterday and told me she 
 would send a parcel for me by you." There 
 was an effort in his voice as he spoke. 
 
 "I have it in my portmanteau," I re- 
 plied, with much confusion, at the unex- 
 pected question, for I had intended speaking 
 to him quietly on the subject. I had 
 already commenced enshrining my idea in
 
 118 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 the holiest of holies of my mind; the first 
 indication of love. 
 
 The High Street was full. The dandy of 
 Christchurch, the bon vivant of Baliol, the 
 rusty student of Magdalen, parties of five 
 or six, were cantering up and down. The 
 pavement was thronged with strollers. It 
 was Oxford in one of those bright days, 
 remembered by all who love their college 
 life, when even the slight restraint only 
 serves to convey the delicious sense of 
 irresponsibility, and to leave a hope of still 
 their greater independence. 
 
 Oxford and Eton have this advantage 
 over every other scholastic residence; that 
 from their extreme beauty the heart be- 
 comes attached to every spire, and the 
 religious shade of every cloister, and the 
 arches enriched with their beautiful fret- 
 work, to the solemn aisle, and the thoughts 
 which they suggest, some indeed dark at 
 times, but rich and binding as the ivy
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 119 
 
 which clusters round the columns. All this 
 struck me much more forcibly, now that 
 I was about to leave; my sad feelings 
 communicated themselves to my com- 
 panions. 
 
 But Belmont soon recovered his spirits. 
 "Well,, it is no use being hipped/' said 
 he, "if I must be a philosopher, let me, 
 at all events, be a laughing one; che 
 sara, sara; it is a sad thing losing you, 
 dear Graham, but one's life is not finished 
 because we leave college; for my part I 
 envy you. I am getting satiated with 
 this life, and require more movement and 
 excitement, more than High Street can 
 furnish, although Stanley is capering away 
 and splashing every one with mud. Stan- 
 ley, we wine with you." 
 
 "'And I am coming also, Stanley," I said, 
 "although you never asked me." 
 
 " I thought you were away, my dear 
 fellow," he answered, " it is surely not true
 
 120 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 that you are going to leave for good, is it ? 
 What shall we do without Graham?" 
 
 " It does not do to think of/' said Dud- 
 ley. "Never mind, we will have one jolly 
 night before he goes. What were you 
 saying, Belmont, when Stanley rode up? 
 oh, that you wished to leave college ; for my 
 part I can imagine nothing so melancholy. 
 I should hate to be my own master." 
 
 "It is all very well for you, Dudley," said 
 Stanley, who had dismounted and joined us, 
 "who have 20,000 a-year, to talk senti- 
 ment about " lord of himself an heritage of 
 Avoe," and the delights of dependence. Be 
 assured there is nothing like doing what 
 you like, and having loads of money ; but 
 you must not have too much sentiment, 
 that's fatal. I would sooner lead my jolly, 
 indifferent life than have all your money, 
 Dudley, if it only makes you think and 
 meditate. After all the world is a great 
 arena in which nine cases out of ten the
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 121 
 
 race is to the swift and the battle is to the 
 strong, whatever men may say to the con- 
 trary, it is, I am sure, a great enjoyment in 
 life to contend and wrestle, even though you 
 may be beaten and thrown down. So long 
 as illusion lasts there is happiness ; I would 
 indulge mine with 20,000 a-year." 
 
 " Let's see, I would have such a splendid 
 garni in Paris; such a yacht; such a stud at 
 Melton; such a chef at — " 
 
 "How you do rattle," said Dudley; "I 
 really am in no spirits to joke, but I am 
 sure Belmont does not say what he thinks, 
 that he would be sorry to leave us." 
 
 ""Well, I believe you are right," said 
 Belmont, "I was only trying to put you 
 fellows into good spirits." 
 
 And then we talked on more serious sub- 
 jects ; on all our hopes, of those sweet 
 memories which cling round the heart of 
 youth like tendrils round the root of a tree, 
 and so cover it with blossom that it seems
 
 122 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 as though the root itself must perish when 
 the flowers die ; but they do die like these 
 memories, and still the root survives. Alas, 
 that it should be so ! And we formed plans 
 never to be realised, and spoke of joyous 
 days yet in store for us. In the winter 
 Belmont and Dudley would come out to see 
 me at Florence. Then we would make such 
 rides and excursions to the shades of VaU 
 lombrosa, to the sweet campagnia that lays 
 in leagues of light round modest Florence, 
 and we forgot all the present sadness and 
 separation in the various anticipations of 
 the future. Never were men farther from 
 Christ Church than we were when we entered 
 Peck Water and heard the bell for hall. 
 
 At nine we went to the wine party at 
 Stanley's rooms. Stanley, that most amia- 
 ble of all Crichtons. The Alcibiades and 
 Bolingbroke of our circle. The man who 
 ran through everv mode of life, and was 
 master of all; hard reader, hard rider, hard
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 123 
 
 drinker; first at the feast or fray whichever 
 it might be. The heart and soul of college 
 life, the fons et origo of all college riot. 
 
 His acquaintance miscellaneous as his 
 character; he was friends with Dudley, the 
 high moral and intellectual Dudley, and 
 Tom Dawney, the hero of the small college 
 fighting men. ' One day pulling in a four- 
 oar down to Kichmond, and there the Me- 
 csenas of a rowing dinner, of the play, and 
 supper table ; the next at wine with the 
 Dons, and arguing questions of economical 
 and ecclesiastical polity ; one of those who 
 commanded the good opinion and will of all 
 classes in the university, and strange to say 
 deservedly so, for it rarely happens that a 
 man who is universally popular, is not at 
 the same time a universal sycophant. But 
 he was nothing of the kind ; simple good 
 nature, and entire unselfishness, a perfect 
 absence of all disguise, were the marked 
 features of his character. I remember he
 
 124 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 used frequently to say that no man could 
 ever conceal his character from his friends, 
 and he had better therefore openly show it, 
 with all its imperfections on its head, 
 adopting the advice of Yoltaire : — 
 
 " Quittez le vain projet de tromper ses humains; 
 On ne les trompe point la malice envieuse 
 Porte sur votre masque un coup-d'ceil penetrant. 
 On vous devine mieux que v t ous ne savez peindre, 
 Et le sterile honneurde toujoursvous contraindre, 
 Ne vaut pas le plaisir de vivre librement." 
 
 Certainly he carried out this principle to 
 its fullest extent; this habit of following 
 every impulse, led him into numberless ap- 
 parent inconsistencies; but in all his actions 
 the same warm generous mind might be 
 traced throughout. He possessed the same 
 strong will, the same unmixed popularity 
 at Eton. In truth the character never 
 thoroughly changes ; in old age, after the 
 exposure to storms and blasts of life, and 
 the still greater intluence of time, we can
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 125 
 
 trace the same features in the mind as in 
 the countenance of youth. 
 
 What a melange of a party it was. A 
 boat's crew which had pulled up from 
 Windsor; one man who attended to mixed 
 sciences, and all the philosophical and geo- 
 logical lectures which were given in the 
 University. Two hard-reading pale-faced 
 cousins of Stanley; another man with pre- 
 tensions to love and poetry. Leslie with the 
 sweetest of voices, with Belmont, Dudley, 
 and myself: how glorious and jovial it was, 
 the snug room with its strange mixture of 
 furniture divine and profane; boxing 
 gloves and the last new white tie, Paley, 
 and the Sporting Magazine; Greek plays 
 and Faublas; the Stud Book and Hallam; 
 the last note of some college flirtation, 
 were all paired off. 
 
 Neither was the decoration of the walls 
 less miscellaneous. The most facile dan- 
 seuses, sporting pictures, venerable friends,
 
 126 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 and prints from the cartoons, were huddled 
 promiscuously together. 
 
 The bottle was passed rapidly. The bright 
 glasses were well plied, joke followed joke, 
 and historiette to historiette, and even the 
 bland cousins could not refrain smiling at 
 some of Stanley's extravagant tales, won- 
 drous as that of Alroy. Belmont was in 
 famous spirits, he invented every variety 
 of piquant scandal, and related it with 
 his usual admirable humour. Oh noctes 
 coenaque! the clear happy laugh, the tale 
 that required no listener, the buoyancy 
 which dreaded no wakening; but when 
 Leslie sang, the merriment died away — 
 how touchingly he repeated those beautiful 
 lines of the greatest of our Lyrics, Morris : 
 
 " Then many a lad I loved is dead, 
 And many a lass grown old; 
 And when that lesson strikes my heart, 
 My weary mind grows cold." 
 
 It was during the pause which followed
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 127 
 
 upon one of those songs, that Stanley pro- 
 posed my health. His jovial humour had 
 vanished, the tears stood in his eyes, as he 
 recalled to us bygone days, the playing 
 fields at Eton, the Brocas, the boats and 
 the eleven, the succession of departure and 
 return, the pledge of friendship, given at 
 each parting and renewed at each meeting; 
 he told us how his own heart had expanded 
 at the idea of meeting true and loving 
 friends. 
 
 " That the human heart is found to be 
 Dependant much on sympathy*." 
 
 And then he alluded to slight and unin- 
 tentional ground of offence, forgiven as 
 soon as given; of light words quickly 
 spoken, and crude thoughts too hastily ex- 
 pressed. He ended by proposing to drink 
 my health, as the first to leave them, and 
 the last to be forgotten. 
 
 * From « The Fountain of Trevi." By Lord Maidstone.
 
 128 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Those who are accustomed to reflection, 
 must frequently have experienced that 
 strange kind of foresight, by which at 
 certain moments, events which are actually 
 in progress, and which in that particular 
 succession never can have occurred pre- 
 viously, flash across the mind, as though 
 they were perfectly familiar to it. The 
 effect is so transitory and vague, that it 
 can scarcely be termed a sensation. So 
 evanescent, that like the shapes of colours 
 in a kaleidoscope, the least movement of the 
 instrument and the whole combination has 
 vanished, not to be recalled J 
 
 We listen to a person talking ; of a sud- 
 den it seems to us that we must have heard 
 it all before in the same spot, under pre- 
 cisely the same circumstances, and yet such 
 a combination may have been entirely out 
 of the question ; so it was with me upon the 
 present occasion. So soon as Stanley rose 
 to speak, all the fumes of the wine I had
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 129 
 
 drank passed away. I who had previously 
 been so much excited became calm and 
 imperturbable ; every word that I listened to 
 fell upon my heart, but, like snow, it did 
 not melt there; it seemed to me that I had 
 listened to it all before. I could almost 
 have told every sentence before it was 
 uttered. 
 
 I was aware that my health would be 
 drank, but this did not make me nervous, 
 although, at any other time, my pulse 
 would have beat quicker. This passed away, 
 and as he continued speaking strange sensa- 
 tions crowded upon me. It was the last 
 time we were to meet; "my youth was left 
 behind for some one else to find." A dread- 
 ful feeling crossed my mind that it was the 
 last day of calm, uninterrupted friendship. 
 The weaknesses of my own character stood 
 forth so prominently that I felt almost 
 assured the day would come when my best 
 friend would leave me, and yet, as I looked 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 round, there were hearty and joyous, loyal 
 friends tossing off brimmers, and even 
 breaking" glasses to my health. 
 
 What, then, did this mean? was my 
 brain excited, or was it a foreshadowing of 
 the future? I cannot explain it, but every 
 cheer sounded to me like a hollow echo, 
 and when they had ceased, and each one 
 had drank my health, I, who was so rarely 
 at a loss for language, could scarcely find 
 words in which to express myself. All my 
 sentences were commonplace. It was not 
 feeling that was wanting, but I was endea- 
 vouring to decypher my own heart instead 
 of giving vent to its expression. 
 
 I sat down, it is true, amid such cheers 
 as only young and generous hearts can 
 give, but my feelings had, by that strange, 
 magnetic influence, impressed themselves 
 on others, and I overheard Stanley saying, 
 "Poor Graham, he is quite gone." They 
 mistook my unimpassioncd utterance for
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 131 
 
 the effect of wine ; but I was never more 
 sober. Gradually my melancholy seemed 
 to seize upon others; the laugh died away; 
 a chill had fallen upon the whole circle, and 
 when Leslie again sang, there was scarcely 
 an eye undimmed. Even Stanley, the 
 buoyant, joyous Stanley, was silent and 
 pensive; and yet what had passed? one 
 farewell toast proposed and responded to. 
 
 I was not vain enough to suppose for one 
 moment that such melancholy was occa- 
 sioned by my leaving them. No, it was 
 the strange perversity of human nature 
 which turns gladness to sadness. We had 
 met determined to be gay, and no meeting 
 could be less lively at the end. Is it not 
 ever so? the very intention is fatal to the 
 conclusion. All excitement, all happiness, 
 all pleasure must be involuntary. The mo- 
 ment we say we will be happy and pleased 
 the charm is at an end. Each season when 
 we predicate enjoyment conies round, and 
 
 k2
 
 132 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 all our prognostications are at fault; to 
 calculate enjoyment, to seek for pleasure, is 
 to calculate our loss and to seek after a 
 phantom. Happiness is a dream which 
 appears to those who sleep without a fore- 
 thought. Eo one can lay his head upon 
 his pillow and say he will dream happily. 
 
 So it was this evening with me. I had 
 fully intended to enjoy myself to the ut- 
 most, and now, in the midst of all this 
 boisterous hilarity which commenced the 
 evening, I felt alone: no hilarity could 
 cheer, no wine exhilarate ; and in my heart 
 1 cursed myself for the mournful feeling 
 which had fallen upon the remainder of the 
 party; at last it gradually broke up. 
 
 Dudley took my arm, and we strolled 
 into the great court ; the coolness and the 
 stillness were quite delicious. The foot- 
 steps of one or two men returning home 
 alone broke the silence. There was not a 
 cloud in the sky ; and the moon floated in
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 133 
 
 the deep blue atmosphere. It was beautiful 
 to see all the spires and domes in their 
 clear outline, towering heavenward — it was 
 Oxford in its most glorious moonlight ; 
 and as we walked in the shadow of the 
 Quadrangle, for, alas ! it must be so, 
 all light must cast a shadow ! we saw 
 many a window open, and men contem- 
 plating the scene ; but there is an awe 
 in the mysterious silence of night, for 
 not one word was spoken — not one saluta- 
 tion exchanged ; our own voices rang clearly 
 through the air as we almost whispered — it 
 would have been sacrilege to have spoken 
 loudly. 
 
 " You were in bad spirits to-night," said 
 Dudley. 
 
 He had touched the chord — my heart 
 gave vent to its burden. " I imagined all 
 this,'' I said. " Dear Dudley, you will 
 scarcely believe that I foresaw it, still less 
 will you believe that I was wretched in
 
 134 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 town, or that I am so at this moment. I do 
 not know whether other men resemble me, 
 but sometimes I feel that I am the mere 
 instrument of sensations over which I have 
 not the slightest control; and then my 
 mind becomes exactly like the wing of a 
 bird, which is subject to every impulse and 
 movement of the body. You do not know, 
 Dudley, what I suffer sometimes." 
 
 * But why to-night — the last night, 
 Cecil ?" 
 
 "Simply/' I replied, "because it is the 
 last night, as you said, Dudley, so truly to- 
 day, I am the creature of impulse, because 
 my very affections are so strong that they 
 resemble the hail which beats down, instead 
 of the moisture which nurtures ; because I 
 begin to think I am thoroughly selfish, as 
 to-night my own feelings, sorrows, and 
 apprehensions filling all my heart, instead 
 of thinking what is agreeable to others; — I 
 sometimes despise myself. "
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 135 
 
 " No, dear Cecil/' said Dudley ; " in this, 
 as in every other case, you exaggerate 
 everything, you are only too single-hearted. 
 Believe rue, all here love, and all will miss 
 you." 
 
 As he spoke, he turned his head towards 
 me; and the full light fell upon his face, 
 and the smile of confiding friendship 
 beamed on his lip. I pressed his hand in 
 gratitude, and so we parted for the night.
 
 136 LUCILLE BELMOTsT. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 We had agreed to ride the next morning 
 to Blenheim; the party was to consist of 
 Stanley, Dudley, Belmont, and myself. 
 As usual, we breakfasted in Stanley's room, 
 that centre of all expeditions. All my 
 melancholy had left me when I awoke; the 
 re-action of such feelings always made 
 me more than usually happy. When I 
 stepped forth into the bright clear air I 
 never felt more susceptible of pleasure. 
 
 The whole party were in equally good 
 spirits, and if any momentary pain had 
 resulted from the melancholy character of
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 137 
 
 the former it had been entirely dissipated 
 by sleep. We eat and drank as though we 
 had never eaten and drank before, and I 
 talked of my own departure that evening, 
 after the return from our ride, in a hopeful 
 tone, which, in the minds of calculating 
 middle age, would have left the impression 
 that all I had said the previous night had 
 been mere acting; but the young can 
 always sympathise with and comprehend 
 such mixed sensations. At last, after an 
 infinite variety of arrangements, we finally 
 started; Dudley, Stanley, and myself were 
 riding on horseback, Belmont and two 
 Trinity friends of his in a britschka. We 
 saw Blenheim, lunched at a small inn in the 
 neighbourhood; as we were mounting our 
 horses to return, I observed that the post- 
 boy was quite tipsy, and pointed it out to 
 Belmont. 
 
 " So much the better, old fellow, we shall 
 show you what going is," was his reply.
 
 138 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 About two miles from Blenheim there is 
 a rapid descent ; Dudley and I were riding in 
 advance, when, of a sudden, we heard a loud 
 cry from the post-boy. We had scarcely 
 time to get out of the way when the carriage 
 swept by us at an awful pace : it was too 
 evident that the horses were beyond all con- 
 trol, I caught the expression of Belmont's 
 face as he passed, it was but a pulse of 
 time, but that expression I shall never 
 forget; one of the Trinity men climbed 
 over behind and was hurled to the ground, 
 but rose unhurt. 
 
 Our first impulse was to press after the 
 carriage, but I saw that the noise of our 
 horses only gave fresh impetus to the 
 carriage. 
 
 " For God's sake, Dudley, Stanley, pull 
 up!" I cried. 
 
 We reined in, meanwhile the carriage 
 had turned the corner : I looked at my 
 companions, they were deadly pale.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 139 
 
 
 It will be all right/' said Dudley. 
 God grant it !" we murmured. 
 
 When we again caught sight of the car- 
 riage, we could see Belmont standing up 
 and calling loudly to the post-boy; but 
 even the steadiest lad would have found it 
 impracticable to have managed the infu- 
 riated animals; we were near enough to 
 see that one of the horses stumbled, he 
 recovered himself, but the post-boy was 
 thrown into the hedge. 
 
 "It is of no use/' I cried, "we must 
 gallop on and seize the reins." 
 
 As we approached we saw Belmont climb- 
 ing over the front seat to the pole. He 
 stood there for a moment, snatched at 
 the reins and caught them; an irrepres- 
 sible exclamation of delight escaped us all ; 
 when, at that very moment the carriage 
 came to a corner, and the sudden jerk 
 threw Le Strange off the pole : he had still 
 hold of the reins, and the body dragging 

 
 140 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 checked the horses, and gave ua time to 
 seize their heads ; but of what avail was it 
 to stop them then, for the mangled body 
 of our friend lay there. 
 
 It was then for the first time I could 
 comprehend the effect of detail upon the 
 human mind ; it was a most awful horrible 
 reality. Strange to say, so soon it seems we 
 become familiarized with the terrible, that 
 it appeared to me as though I had seen all 
 this fearful scene before. I could mecha- 
 nically recall each of these last moments, 
 and trace the sweet smile which not even 
 such agony could destroy, but it was a 
 ghastly smile, and the lips were almost as 
 bloodless as the cheek. Strange contrast to 
 the gash in the forehead, from which the 
 blood oozed heavily. Horror prevented us 
 weeping, or even appreciating the amount 
 of the loss. The darkness had fallen so 
 heavily upon the brightness of the morn- 
 ing.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 141 
 
 Never to my last day, and yet T. have now 
 lived long, and for my faults, bitterly, never 
 shall I forget the broken heart with which 
 I returned to Oxford. Some men came up 
 and carried the body: it was the saddest 
 progress. Half a mile distant there was a 
 small inn where we remembered to have 
 passed an empty chaise; I desired one of 
 the small crowd which, even in such a 
 retired spot, immediately collects so soon 
 as an accident occurs, to run and order it, 
 and meanwhile Dudley and myself endea- 
 voured to staunch the blood; we raised him 
 insensible as he was, into the chaise, when 
 the rough motion restored him to a terrible 
 consciousness of anguish and dread. As we 
 passed we met joyful parties riding out, like 
 ourselves a few hours before, full of life and 
 hope, I could scarcely realize to myself the 
 reality of the change, but the convulsive 
 writhings, and the iron grasp of poor Bel- 
 mont's hand, proved it was no dream.
 
 142 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Many of those we had met who had seen 
 the maddened horses tearing down the road, 
 turned back with us to know the worst. By 
 the time we reached the High Street, we 
 found it thronged with kind anxious faces, 
 for Belmont was well known, and beloved 
 by all who knew him; we carried him to 
 his room, and my coat was quite moist with 
 the tears which fell upon it as he pressed 
 his head against my shoulder. From the 
 first moment that he came to his senses, he 
 seemed to feel that there was no hope. 
 Peck Water was crowded with the under- 
 graduates, waiting in anxiety for Dr. David- 
 son's opinion; at last he only confirmed the 
 general impression, that unless some favour- 
 able turn took place during the night, there 
 was little or no hope. 
 
 But how popular he was — how beloved ; 
 it was almost well to die so young, to be so 
 much lamented in this spring-tide of youth. 
 " Pourquoi me regretter, mon ami," writes
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 143 
 
 Charlotte Corday to her beloved young Bar- 
 baroux, " car je suis bien heureuse de mourir 
 si jeune;" at least we should avoid feeling the 
 young affections running to waste, listening 
 to the cold lessons of conscience, which 
 prides itself upon its own heartlessness, or 
 becoming converts, to the dictates of sound 
 reason, practical philosophy, and prudential 
 calculations. For, alas ! also herein is the 
 greatest bitterness, that we know and feel 
 we shall become that which in our youth we 
 despise. We should avoid seeing the dark 
 ring of necessity closing rapidly around us 
 — the remembrance of past joys now wan 
 and pallid as ghosts, for 
 
 Nessun maggior dolore 
 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 
 Nella miseria. 
 
 We should avoid the grey age of the heart, 
 the keen perception of others' faults, the 
 forgetfulness of our own, the entire, and 
 untiring, and undeviating selfishness, the
 
 144 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 absorption of all our faculties in the pursuit 
 of our own interests ; we should never 
 learn how sadder than parting itself is the 
 conviction that we even cannot long suf- 
 ficiently regret, that we must forget, and 
 that a softened and subdued memory is a 
 graceful phrase and apology for entire 
 oblivion; to feel that pleasure can no 
 longer please, or the mysterious awe. But 
 it may be that even nineteen is too old ; it 
 were still better to die as a blue- eyed 
 child, in that stage in which nothing in 
 life is permitted to remain, out of the bud, 
 but scarcely blossoming into flower. To 
 die in youth is to believe that nature will 
 mourn at our death, that we shall leave a 
 vacuum that can never be supplied. That 
 this is a delusion, who can doubt? but still 
 let us cling to it while we can, it consoles 
 for much evil; for imagination contains the 
 seed of all happiness. AY hat ever our 
 imagination believes, is our faith for the
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 145 
 
 time; it is only in after life we find that 
 the fondest memory will scarcely survive 
 the chaplets which we throw upon the 
 grave. 
 
 What a mournful awakening! — the next 
 morning I was fast asleep, quite worn out 
 with the anxiety of the preceding evening, 
 when a note written in pencil, and almost 
 illegible, was brought to me from Dr. 
 Davidson, praying me to see poor Bel- 
 mont immediately, for there was no longer 
 any hope. A cold clammy sensation, as 
 of the grave, fell over me ; bnt I did not 
 pause to think. All the events of the last 
 few days presented themselves in a con- 
 fused manner to my mind. I hurried on 
 my clothes, and was, in a few moments, at 
 the door — that door which I had so often 
 approached with feelings of tumultuous 
 joy; I now stood pale and trembling out- 
 side. 
 
 I entered the room gently; the two doc- 
 
 VOL. I. l
 
 146' LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 tors with whom I was acquainted were 
 standing at the window and speaking in a 
 whisper; a third, whom I had never pre- 
 viously seen, was feeling his pulse, and as 
 he glanced from time to time at the watch, 
 he appeared to be calculating the probable 
 duration of life ; Belmont thought so, for 
 he opened his eyes and murmured so low 
 that it was scarcely possible to catch his 
 words. 
 
 " Will it be much longer, Dr. Davidson ? 
 tell me the truth, Doctor," continued he, 
 "for I feel my strength sinking rapidly." 
 
 "My poor boy, be calm," said the kind 
 old man, with the tears furrowing his 
 cheeks; he turned aside, and then, for the 
 first time, Belmont remarked me and his 
 tutor who had followed me into the room. 
 
 "Thank you, Graham, thank you, Mr. 
 Long ; I have often given you cause for 
 annoyance, but now you will remember 
 nothing but my affection/'
 
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 147 
 
 "I hope," said Mr. Long, "that your 
 fears exaggerate the danger — that there 
 still is hope." 
 
 "Oh! no," sobbed Belmont, "for mine 
 are not fears, they are mysterious warn- 
 ings which God has vouchsafed to me. Do 
 you remember, Mr. Long, the passage 
 we met with the other day, giving an ac- 
 count of Sir Philip Sidney's death, when he 
 said in his last moments that he felt the 
 circle drawn close round his heart, and 
 smelt the damp earthy smell of death ? It 
 struck me as awful at the time; but now 
 the oppression of this sensation appals me." 
 
 Then he turned and took my hands ; his 
 own were quite damp, and cold as clay. 
 
 "Bear up, Graham," he said, "give me 
 strength for this sad parting. "Where is 
 Dudley?" 
 
 Mr. Long left the room in search of him, 
 and Belmont beckoned me to place my head 
 to his lips — "You see that box/' he said, 
 
 l 2
 
 148 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 " it is full of letters, some that my heart has 
 clung to; many most foolish, but do not 
 read them, burn them all, all, all; and my 
 father's, so important'' — here his voice be- 
 came inaudible. 
 
 "What is it you say, dear Belmont? 
 speak slowly, I cannot hear." 
 
 " You know," he muttered, u my father — 
 letters — burn — you have heard." 
 
 "Oh, no," I said, "I have not, can you 
 not speak clearer?" but I saw that his 
 glance was fast becoming unsettled; the 
 ashy hue of death crept like the tint of 
 pestilence over his features. 
 
 "Where is Dudley," he exclaimed, in a 
 loud voice, writhing in such agony that he 
 almost threw himself from the bed; "where 
 is his horse? crash, what a thundering row 
 it made ; now, my fine fellows^ over the 
 fence— Cecil in the first flight; well done, 
 Cecil." He sank back but rallied one 
 moment as Dudley entered.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 149 
 
 " Thank God!" he said, as he took his 
 hand. 
 
 There was a rattle in the throat, then an 
 appearance of strangulation, followed by 
 convulsions, and I fell back senseless. 
 
 When I awoke I found myself on a sofa 
 in my own room. It was a bright, blue 
 morning. Through the open window its 
 freshness and glory streamed. I could 
 hear the fountain as it played in the sun- 
 shine. There was the voice of laughter in 
 the court. But all this youth, joy, and 
 glory only served to make the desolation of 
 my own heart more palpable; it was my 
 second acquaintance with death: but now I 
 thought that for the first time I learnt 
 what was meant by its bitterness. It was 
 not fear, but a cold, icy sensation fell upon 
 my heart; the gulf separating the dead 
 from the living was filled by the body of 
 my friend. I rose and shut out the sun, 
 for its brightness mocked my sorrow.
 
 150 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 My departure was necessarily delayed, but 
 five days afterwards I was on the point of 
 leaving when a letter arrived from Lady 
 Belmont, saying that she had understood it 
 was Henry's last desire that Dudley and 
 myself should attend the funeral. I did 
 not remember Henry expressing any such 
 wish, but it was quite sufficient for me that 
 his words had been so interpreted for me at 
 once to assent and gratefully to accept the 
 solemn duty. Dudley expressed the same 
 readiness, and we left that afternoon for 
 Devonshire.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 151 
 
 The family residence was on the south 
 coast, and beautifully situated. Ours was a 
 most melancholy journey. All our conver- 
 sation turned upon the good qualities of 
 Belmont. We lived over again all the 
 scenes we had so much enjoyed; all our 
 boyish affections and sympathies were asso- 
 ciated with his name; each spot as we 
 passed recalled some anecdote of boyish, 
 noble, and generous impulse, for we had 
 travelled the same road with him only two 
 years before. It was a glorious evening 
 when we sprung the hill which overlooked 
 the Priory. Filled as our hearts were 
 with such painful impressions our exclama- 
 tion of admiration at the view was simul- 
 taneous, but we checked ourselves immedi- 
 ately, for grief like love is truly selfish, and 
 clings to the exclusive possession of the 
 heart. Around and far below us lay the 
 broken, rough ground of Stanwell Forest, 
 covered with the wild flower and heather,
 
 152 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 which peeped out in purple richness from 
 amid the thick masses of luxuriant oak and 
 chestnut. Far and far down to the sea- 
 shore the green turf undulated, and from 
 the deep shade of the most picturesque of 
 these dales the pinnacles of the Abbey rose. 
 
 It was an old Eoman Catholic residence, 
 worthy of the family who, through centu- 
 ries of evil report, had adhered to their 
 honoured faith, and like too many of the 
 Abbeys of the date of Henry YII. situated 
 too low; but it was a magnificent specimen 
 of the architecture of that period. 
 
 As the carriage turned into the long 
 avenue I began to fear that I could scarcely 
 sustain my spirits sufficiently to pass 
 through the trying ordeal, but there was 
 then little time for reflection, for we rolled 
 rapidly up to the door, and the next moment 
 the hall bell rung. 
 
 The servants were, of course, in the 
 deepest mourning. AVe were ushered into
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 153 
 
 a large hall hung with family portraits, and 
 then into a library with those deep recesses 
 at the windows, which, while they diminish 
 the light, give a truly religious, sombre cha- 
 racter to an apartment. There the glorious 
 portraits of Charles I. and Strafford arrested 
 our attention by their melancholy gaze. 
 
 I know nothing more subduing at any 
 time and under the most favourable circum- 
 stances than the first introduction to a new 
 house ; but the distressing occurrence which 
 permitted us at that time to claim kindred 
 there was of so painful a character that I 
 felt more than usually anxious and nervous. 
 Extraordinary as it may seem, my mind had 
 been so entirely occupied with one idea, that 
 I had scarcely given one thought to Lucille ; 
 so certain is it that two all-engrossing sen- 
 sations will rarely subsist, at the same 
 moment, in one mind. 
 
 " Take thou some new affection to thine eye, 
 And the rank poison of the old will die."
 
 154 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 But sensations and affections depend 
 upon slight incidents, on the merest trifles. 
 In the middle of the reverie into which I 
 had fallen, my eye was attracted to one 
 of the small cabinets or recesses formed 
 out of the thickness of the wall. In it 
 w r as a table covered with drawings, and 
 among them I recognized the sketch of 
 Venice which I had seen in London. Im- 
 mediately my mind was borne back to the 
 two days I had passed in London, to the 
 cold puritanical sleek-spoken stepmother, 
 and the warm and graceful beauty of the 
 daughter; and when at that moment the 
 door opened, and Lady Belmont entered, 
 I could feel all the blood reddening my 
 forehead ; but if she had not been too 
 much occupied to notice my confusion, she 
 was assuredly too cold and apathetic to 
 comprehend it ; even the extreme agitation 
 and sorrow which were visible in her coun- 
 tenance could not relax the rigid muscles
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 155 
 
 of her face, or give a deeper expression to 
 that glassy sunken eye. 
 
 And yet grief and watchings had done 
 their work; there was the same cold livid 
 smile, the same expression of pain about 
 the eyelids, and in the contractions of the 
 forehead, but her hair was touched by an 
 additional drift of grey, and the rigid lines 
 of the features were more visibly drawn 
 towards the lips. She could be scarcely 
 said to step towards you, it was something 
 of an uneasy kind of shuffle, fit emblem of 
 her low unsettled mind. After a few preli- 
 minary remarks, she at once spoke about 
 Henry's death, and that without one tear. 
 There was a Miss Mayne, a near relation 
 of hers, who had entered soon after, and 
 talked enough for all ; she was very gaunt, 
 fidgetty, and nervous, and I afterwards 
 learned, had lately been a regular at- 
 tendant at Exeter Hall. Within the last 
 three years she had joined a dissenting
 
 156 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 congregation in her neighbourhood. Like 
 most dissenting ladies she devoted her time 
 to the preparations for, or her purse for 
 purchases at bazaars. She founded Dorcas 
 societies, and had prayer meetings in the 
 vestries. She was sufficiently versed in the 
 cant of her sect, to find it of service on 
 the present occasion. Turning from Lady 
 Belmont, Dudley remarked to Miss Mayne, 
 how deeply Henry was lamented at Christ- 
 church even by the lowest Servants. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Dudley," she replied, " ought 
 we not rather to rejoice that he is taken 
 from a world of sin and woe, into a blessed 
 eternity ? " 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Dudley, you will be able 
 to assure me," she continued, " that Henry 
 had entirely deserted that superstitious and 
 idolatrous worship, in which it had pleased 
 his father to educate him. I assure you I 
 did all I could to lead him in the right 
 way, and no one has more sedulously la-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 157 
 
 boured for Miss Belmont's conversion. I 
 used to send him several excellent tracts, 
 published by my friend Mr. Proudhead: 
 one was called ' The Negro Convert; or, 
 Religion made easy.' Another was 'The 
 Proudhead Guide, or the Travellers through 
 the Yale of Tears' Road Book;' beauti- 
 fully written they are, and they prove 
 to the entire satisfaction of all those who 
 have the blessing to know Mr. Proud- 
 head, and hear him preach, (and what 
 a privilege that is, for he is so full of 
 grace !) they prove that all who differ 
 from him will be punished hereafter. Oh, 
 I hope Henry read these books, Mr. 
 Dudley." 
 
 Dudley became very pale and disturbed, 
 for if there was one set of opinions he 
 abhorred, they were those of the Low 
 Church. And then Lady Belmont said 
 something, but there was no soft gentle 
 loving regret, no mourning as mothers
 
 158 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 mourn over their children's grave; no kind 
 words to soothe the broken spirits, no burst 
 of affection, no sorrowing as one without 
 hope. That she felt something, is true, but 
 that something was very vague, very dif- 
 ferent to Eachel weeping for her offspring. 
 It rather seemed that there was some other 
 cause for regret besides the loss of her son, 
 for there was much of worldly matter mixed 
 up with the fearful topic she was so rudely 
 handling. Surely the Lord could not dwell 
 in such language, for there was no still small 
 voice, such as spake in the solitude of the 
 prophet Elisha, when the Lord passed by, 
 when a great strong wind rent the moun- 
 tains and brake in pieces the rocks before 
 the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; 
 and after the wind an earthquake, but the 
 Lord was not in the earthquake ; and after 
 the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not 
 in the fire; and after the lire a still small 
 voice, " and the Lord was in that voice."
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 159 
 
 As for Dudley and myself, we sat by mute 
 and sorrowful. 
 
 At length to our inexpressible relief, 
 they both rose and left us, and it was 
 an additional comfort to us, when Lady 
 Belmont sent down to say that we were to 
 dine alone. 
 
 Perhaps one of the most melancholly sen- 
 sations to those who are in grief, is to 
 observe with what regularity all the com- 
 mon routine duties of the establishment are 
 performed, even at a time when every indi- 
 vidual in it is absorbed in the recollection 
 of some great calamity; reflection will tell 
 us that it could not and should not be 
 otherwise, and that the fulfilment of obli- 
 gation is the best antidote for grief; but it 
 struck me forcibly on this evening, for 
 while our hearts were quite full, the formal 
 dinner was placed on the table, the wine 
 handed round, the servants duly attended, 
 and but for the blank sad countenances, it
 
 160 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 might have been taken rather for a house 
 of feasting than one of mourning. The 
 mechanism of worldly routine, like the me- 
 chanical functions of the body, are never 
 arrested by sensation. 
 
 And yet it has always seemed to me, that 
 he who is at the point of death, can scarcely 
 realize to himself the possibility after he 
 had gone, of the world rolling on in the 
 same circle of promise, engagement, dis- 
 appointment, or fulfilment. Reason would 
 tell him that it must be even so, but his 
 heart rebels against it, he cannot believe 
 that the sun shines equally on the roses in 
 the cheeks and hearts, and on the flowers 
 which grow round the tomb; that there is 
 one morning and night to the just as to the 
 unjust. 
 
 I have never left, even for one week, a 
 house in which the interests of my heart 
 w r ere garnered up, without imagining some 
 change to have taken place ; this feeling has
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 161 
 
 always increased with distance, and it has 
 been with a sensation of almost astonish- 
 ment that I have returned after a short 
 absence to find the same circle of occupa- 
 pation, and every spot unchanged. 
 
 The room we dined in had once been an 
 old hall; the large mullioned windows 
 were full of the richest painted glass; 
 a screen was drawn across the centre, 
 and made it a comfortable dining-room; 
 the large compartments into which the 
 ceiling was divided were full of armorial 
 bearings of the different noble families 
 into which the Belmonts had married. 
 There was an air of grandeur and solem- 
 nity in the interior architectural decoration 
 which oppressed the heart, but, at the same 
 time, there was nothing fantastic or mere- 
 tricious in the ornament. 
 
 The sensation of sitting in that long lofty 
 hall was one rather of awe. We both of 
 us sat silent as the pictures of the great 
 
 VOL. I. m
 
 162 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 men which decorated the walls, and when 
 the servants had left the room we drew our 
 chairs near to each other, and spoke in a 
 low dread voice, as men should speak who 
 have touched the lips of death, and sleep 
 beneath its roof. 
 
 The evening passed slowly. On our way 
 to our bed-rooms we saw a small door, 
 which led from the drawing-room to the 
 terrace; it was a cold and stormy night, 
 mass after mass of dark clouds rolled round 
 the mountain which stood at the back of 
 the Abbey, and as they swept over the 
 woodland the dark branches waved and 
 rustled, bent to the storm, and then shook 
 their lofty heads as though they despised 
 the danger, if 
 
 Old trees by niglit are like men in thought 
 To poetry by silence wrought. 
 
 There were like men with the imagination 
 working within their hearts. So the ancient
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 163 
 
 Greek sought the oracle of Dodona, and 
 heard a voice from the oak as it shook 
 between the storm. At intervals a peaceful 
 lake of light would appear, in which the 
 pale moon floated, it was the blue heaven 
 beyond the reach of the stormy world. It was 
 just such a night as makes the humane pray 
 for the houseless, and the selfish thank 
 God they have a good bed to sleep in. The 
 old walls, covered with ivy, could scarcely 
 be defined through the deep shade which 
 the huge timber cast around. A waving 
 and scarcely perceptible outline enabled us 
 to sketch out each turret and pinnacle; but 
 for a light in one tower it might have ever 
 been what it too truly was that night, the 
 abode of the dead. 
 
 Is there a sympathy between the ele- 
 ments and the material world ? 'twere hard 
 to be believed, and yet the mind is never 
 impressed with the influence of great and 
 important events but it finds an omen and 
 
 m2
 
 164 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 hears a prophecy in every gust that blows, 
 and sees a warning in every shadow. 
 
 The fact is, that no man can ever escape 
 from himself; he forgets that the gale which 
 drives one vessel on the shore, when the 
 roar of the breakers mingles with the agony 
 of the strong swimmer, the same gale bears 
 another vessel to its harbour ; the one sees 
 the finger of God pointed at him in his 
 wrath, the other the extended hand of his 
 mercy. 
 
 I have always been what the world calls, 
 in its irony, superstitious ; that is, I have 
 always believed in first great causes. To the 
 mere worldling the notion of mysterious 
 agencies appears ridiculous; but even unto 
 these, some day will the awfullest and 
 greatest of all mysteries be unfolded; we 
 are accustomed to ridicule superstition; 
 to explain away all that is solemn and 
 mysterious in the dispensation of God 
 on earth, and his wonders in the heavens,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 165 
 
 is the characteristic of the present day; 
 as though the whole of life were not one 
 great marvel, and men begin to think, 
 because, from the beautiful harmony of 
 the heavens, morning succeeds morning, 
 and the very moment of sunrise may be 
 calculated, that the marvel is in the al- 
 manac which registers these movements of 
 the heavenly system, rather than in its 
 creation. Observe it well; wherever there 
 is the least possibility of doubt, wherever 
 the smallest opening is given for the pro- 
 mulgation of philosophical theories, the 
 present generation avails itself of it. 
 
 And so with us, a church is a building 
 with four walls and a certain amount of 
 masonic decoration; no senses are to be 
 appealed to, no affections are to be studied; 
 religion is to be of the head and not of the 
 heart; we are to separate ourselves from 
 all that is noblest in our sensations, before 
 we are fit to receive the doctrines of a
 
 166 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 faith which is sublime, awful, and mys- 
 terious. 
 
 And even our own household feelings, 
 
 in other affections small as they are com- 
 pared with those to which we have alluded, 
 yet so infinite in their variety and beauty, 
 the glory and the holiness has greatly 
 departed from them. We have no longer 
 the chivalrous feelings of the Middle Ages, 
 when a glance and a word was a sufficient 
 recompense for the greatest sacrifice. Alas, 
 when we say that the age of romance has 
 passed by, we are passing a terrible censure 
 on our own day, for, — 
 
 " Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
 Man's life is cheap as beasts." 
 
 Always to appeal to the lower feelings, 
 to argue and reason down the overflowing 
 emotions of the young and generous, is a 
 very questionable conduct, but it is the 
 education of the hour and of the world. 
 That man is presumed to be the happiest
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 167 
 
 who has nothing to fear, nothing to lose, 
 nothing to hope. 
 
 Dudley continued walking up and down 
 the terrace for some time ; we scarcely 
 interchanged one word, but there was a 
 sympathy between us which replaced con- 
 versation. 
 
 At last the light we had observed in the 
 tower was put out, and Dudley suggested 
 we should go to bed, for his mind was so 
 worn that he required sleep. 
 
 "I, too," I said, "for my eye-balls are 
 hot and heavy." 
 
 We returned to the large hall, where our 
 candles had been left; the servants had 
 retired. To reach our rooms we had to 
 pass through a long corridor, which 
 branched from the main gallery. At the 
 end were two pair of large folding-doors, 
 one of which led to the bed -rooms and the 
 other to the chapel. We opened the door 
 gently, and, to our astonishment, saw two
 
 168 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 candles at the end of a room ; from its 
 being hung with black we could not at 
 first discern that it was the chapel. 
 
 We immediately turned back, for by 
 the coffin which stood in the centre a per- 
 son was kneeling. She did not move, 
 but I could see, at a glance, it was Miss 
 Belmont. There was something inexpres- 
 sibly mournful in this pale, wan light, 
 almost swallowed up by the darkness of 
 the cloth ; and the attitude of that young 
 and beautiful figure as it leant over the 
 dead. But as we endeavoured to close the 
 door gently, the noise disturbed Miss 
 Belmont, and she gave a slight start. We 
 retreated as rapidly as possible into our 
 own passage, but we could catch her sob- 
 bings as she walked across the gallery, 
 and heard Lady Belmont's voice as 
 the door closed, in harsh and angry re- 
 monstrance. 
 
 I went to my room ; the events of the
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 169 
 
 evening had completely unsettled my mind. 
 I sat down to write, but every noise made 
 me start from my seat. A cold, clammy, in- 
 comprehensible, and to me unusual ner- 
 vousness crept over me; involuntarily I 
 kept my eyes glancing from window to 
 door, from the door to the bed, where the 
 heavy folds of the curtains were slightly 
 agitated by the wind which blew in strong 
 gusts under the door. 
 
 At one moment a louder blast blew the 
 door open. I could feel the blood as it 
 gushed violently through my heart, and sat 
 like one rooted to the chair. I thought of 
 Sir Walter Scott's saying that he did not 
 believe in ghosts, but he feared them. At 
 last I went to the door and looked down 
 the passage, all was dark and still, but a 
 window at the end showed a glimpse of the 
 moon which still fringed the black masses 
 of heavy, sullen clouds. Large drops of 
 rain pattered against the windows. I shut
 
 170 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 the door and put a chair against it, with the 
 feelings of one — 
 
 Wbo in a dream by night 
 
 Doth walk in fear of dread; 
 And having once turned round, walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head, 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 It was not until the morning broke that I 
 fell into a heavy, leaden sleep.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 17.1 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 We had proposed to leave three days after 
 the funeral, but to my surprise, Lady Bel- 
 mont pressed us to remain; rather she 
 pressed Dudley, and apparently invited me 
 as his friend more than for my own sake. 
 Miss Belmont was in the room when we 
 received the invitation: it was the first 
 time she had appeared. I turned to her 
 before I replied, but her head was bent 
 over her work, and she seemed absorbed in 
 thought. 
 
 Dudley, to whom the question was first
 
 172 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 put, having accepted, I as usual concurred 
 with him. We both felt that this was not 
 the precise moment which two comparative 
 strangers would have selected for a visit, 
 but it was not possible to suggest the pro- 
 priety of our taking our departure without 
 indirectly accusing the state of mind which 
 prompted the invitation. 
 
 Lady Belmont heard Dudley's reply 
 with marked satisfaction, but I observed a 
 slight flush upon her cheek when I pro- 
 mised to avail myself of her offer. 
 
 " Lucille," she said, "will show you about 
 the country; she has a beautiful little pony 
 which,'- she was about to say, " Henry gave 
 her," but she checked herself quickly. 
 
 I remembered his purchasing the pony at 
 Oxford, and also my remarking that it was 
 one of the few occasions on which he had 
 ever spoken of his sister, and that he 
 coloured deeply when I remarked that cir- 
 cumstance to him.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 173 
 
 "Mr. Vavasour/' she continued, with 
 some hesitation, " is coming in a few days, 
 Mr. Dudley; he is a great friend of Mr. 
 Graham's, and will be an agreeable com- 
 panion to you both. I do not wish," said 
 she, and dropping her voice, although Miss 
 Belmont had left the room some minutes, 
 " I do not wish Lucille to be left quite 
 alone for the present; I fear this sad event 
 may try her constitution, and think it will 
 be a comfort for her to see any friend of 
 Henry's." 
 
 Even had our decision not been already 
 taken, this appeal would have been un- 
 answerable, but I was puzzled at the time, 
 and still more so when I reflected, bv 
 myself, at this sudden friendship for Dudley, 
 whom Lady Belmont had never seen 
 until this sad event. Perhaps my vanity 
 was piqued on the occasion; I was the 
 older friend of her stepson, had been intro- 
 duced to her in London, and charged with
 
 174 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 sundry commissions to poor Belmont when 
 I left town. 
 
 It was quite impossible to imagine for 
 one moment that Dudley's immense fortune 
 could influence his reception, for Miss Bel- 
 mont was now possessor of entailed estates 
 to the value of about nine thousand a-year. 
 Had she been better acquainted with Dud- 
 ley, then I could well have understood it, for 
 he was one of those men whom once to see 
 is ever to remember, so thoroughly courteous 
 and kind, his only fault a rather cold, 
 abstracted air. But even in the small cir- 
 cumstances of life which afford, after all, 
 the truest indication of character, his first 
 feeling was always one of self-denial; he 
 used to say it was the only virtue, and 
 assuredly he possessed that virtue in its 
 fullest extent. Many a young man whom I 
 see now high on the steps of fame, owe 
 their power and distinction entirely to 
 Dudley. Many an anonymous gift assisted
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 175 
 
 the poor and broken student at the moment 
 of his deepest depression. 
 
 Dudley never alluded directly or in- 
 directly to any one of these acts of noble 
 charity; but there is a strange virtue in 
 truth, which penetrates through all dis- 
 guises; and his character was as well known 
 and highly appreciated as though his friends 
 had blazoned all his virtues in the highest 
 places. This, however, could not influence 
 Lady Belmont, for I remember that when 
 I mentioned his name, during the morning 
 visit in London, she professed herself en- 
 tirely ignorant about him. 
 
 For the first three days, except at rare 
 moments, Miss Belmont never appeared. 
 Her ladyship and Miss Mayne dined at 
 table, but retired to their own rooms soon 
 after, leaving Dudley and myself to occupy 
 ourselves just as we pleased. We had fine 
 weather, consequently our life was most 
 enjoyable. In the morning we took long
 
 176 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 rides in the forest, and lost ourselves 
 among the beautiful oak glades, for the 
 wood here and there extended to the very 
 edge of the downs, and there we gal- 
 lopped, with the keen blue sea breeze 
 freshening and invigorating both horse and 
 rider. 
 
 There was a small cutter, belonging to a 
 man in the neighbourhood, which we en- 
 gaged, so our whole time was spent in the 
 open air. Dudley for a time gave up those 
 studies in which he took so much delight, 
 and as months were to elapse before I 
 joined the mission at Florence, I thought 
 that a part of the time might as well be 
 spent here as anywhere else. And was there 
 no other reason? At that moment I think 
 there certainly was not; by one of those 
 curious contradictions which I must leave 
 sophists and schoolmen to explain, the very 
 circumstance which in most cases would 
 have heightened and brought a passion to
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 177 
 
 maturity, the half confidential position in 
 which I was thrown with the family, had 
 diminished the romantic interest which 
 when I left London was fast taking root 
 in my heart. It is true I had seen but 
 little of Miss Belmont, and at those 
 times she had appeared so abstracted and 
 unhappy, that it seemed an intrusion to 
 speak to her on any other subject than that 
 on which her affections were centered. 
 But was it a coincidence or arrangement, 
 on the very day Vavasour arrived, she for 
 the first time came down to dinner. 
 
 He took her in to dinner, and sat by her; 
 he was an admirable talker, and had that 
 graceful and rare art of what is called 
 drawing men out. Dudley, who had read 
 much, and was a deep thinker, was soon at 
 his ease, and the conversation flowed rapidly 
 and even brilliantly. Miss Belmont for 
 the moment seemed to forget her grief, her 
 eyes sparkled, the dimples again played 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 round her lips, the bloom returned to the 
 cheek ; so sudden was the change from what 
 I had seen her the day before, that I could 
 scarcely believe it to be the same person. 
 
 But it was a beautiful picture, fit subject 
 for an artist's reverie; the low black dress 
 set off the richness of her complexion. 
 The hair was braided, as I saw it the first 
 night at Clifford House. She wore no or- 
 nament whatever; but the brightest would 
 have been passed by unnoticed in contem- 
 plating the rich and beautiful symmetry of 
 her figure, 
 
 I remained silent while this conversation 
 was carried on. One of my moody melan- 
 choly fits had fallen upon me, all my old 
 feelings returned with tenfold force. I 
 began to hate Vavasour, to think him 
 assuming, and in the present instance to 
 accuse him of want of feeling for talking so 
 lightly, while the mourning was yet fresh, and 
 the funeral baked meats were still warm.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 179 
 
 But I was unjust, I mistook selfishness 
 for feeling, and egotism and vanity for 
 affection. It was but that very morning I 
 had been laughing heartily with Dudley, on 
 the ineffectual endeavours of one of our 
 crew to catch his hat which had fallen into 
 the water. The fact is, I ought to have 
 known, and indeed had sufficiently studied 
 sensation to know well, that grief like joy 
 has its moments of reaction. That a fixed 
 standard of sorrow is never long maintained, 
 that strong passion is always subject to 
 lapses, and that do what we may, feel 
 deeply as we may, it is quite impossible 
 entirely to shut out the world; and although 
 we may go to sleep with a burning brow 
 and feverish hand, yet that the morning's 
 light brings hope and consolation. 
 
 It is a merciful dispensation of Provi- 
 dence, that such is the case, that while in 
 the world we can never entirely cease to be 
 of the world; it is not want of feeling, 
 
 n2
 
 180 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 therefore, that prevents some people from 
 using set expressions of grief, assuming a 
 puritanical formal rigid countenance, and 
 all conventional shapes and appearances of 
 mourning, but simply that every one must 
 bear his own burthen in his own way. 
 Some will so carry it as to break under it; 
 but others will let it rest lightly upon their 
 shoulders, but not the less bear it with 
 them, in long and toilsome journeys. 
 
 Besides, we are ever judging others by 
 our own sensations. I should have remem- 
 bered that Vavasour had told me when in 
 London, that he had rarely seen young 
 Belmont, consequently it was not surprising 
 that, apart from the general interest in 
 the family, he should not judge it necessary 
 to affect any particular sorrow for his 
 death. Dudley was lively, for he was one 
 of those light graceful temperaments, which 
 take their colour at the moment from any 
 particular society into which they may be
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 181 
 
 thrown, without in the least affecting the 
 under current of his feelings. 
 
 Even Lady Belmont relaxed that evening 
 of Vavasour's arrival. The pleasure which 
 Miss Belmont evinced might, if I had only 
 chosen to explain it, have heen readily ac- 
 counted for by the increased kindness of 
 her mother. In Vavasour's presence, her 
 voice when addressing her step- daughter 
 became softened, and her whole manner 
 much subdued. 
 
 I could not shake off the savage melan- 
 choly sensations which clung to me; what 
 stung me more than all was that Miss Bel- 
 mont did not seem to notice it. She sat 
 after dinner upon the terrace with Vavasour 
 and Dudley. I took a book and pretended 
 to read, but envy was gnawing at my heart; 
 I was jealous even of Dudley, although no 
 laugh could be so free, no conversation less 
 premeditated ; it was the elasticity of youth. 
 And why was I not gay? The curse of my
 
 182 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 education had been its loneliness. I in- 
 dulged, in my lamentable ignorance, the 
 habit of cherishing every sensation and never 
 controlling any emotion; while these sensa- 
 tions, these emotions were represented by 
 the foolishnesses, the recklessnesses, the un- 
 calculated impulses of a college life, they in 
 general obtained me the love of my friends, 
 for they gave me the appearance of a frank, 
 free-hearted disposition; but now, when the 
 whole heart was brought upon the scene, 
 when passion, in its strongest sense, was 
 aroused, then the abuse of self-indulgence, 
 the want of all control, became apparent, 
 and I became disgusted even with myself. 
 I felt the intense weakness of my character. 
 With an effort I threw aside the book, which 
 I had been holding upside down, and ap- 
 proached the group. 
 
 u How silent you are to-night," said 
 Dudley. 
 
 " I do not think we have any of us any
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 183 
 
 reason to be very gay," I replied ; it was a 
 false and heartless observation, but I ob- 
 served a flower in Vavasour's hand, which 
 Miss Belmont had given him, and the 
 devil was roused within me. 
 
 "La parole est toujours reprimee 
 Quand le sujet surmonte le disant/' 
 
 murmured Vavasour. 
 
 But the tears fell fast down Lucille 's 
 cheeks, and she rose suddenly and left us. 
 There was an awkward pause ; Vavasour 
 looked annoyed. Dudley whispered to me, 
 " It was a pity you made that remark, for 
 this is the first moment the poor girl had 
 shown any glimpse of animation since the 
 melancholy event, and now you have 
 checked it ; but it is all your deep feeling 
 for poor Henry." 
 
 The colour came to my cheeks, I felt 
 ashamed to take the credit for a sen- 
 sation which I did not feel with half the 
 intensity I ought, and to have my jealous,
 
 184 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 nervous, irritable temper mistaken for an 
 unselfish and pure attachment; but all 
 explanation was out of the question. Va- 
 vasour had turned away, and was now walk- 
 ing at the foot of the terrace ; like all men 
 much occupied with their thoughts, he took 
 short turns. 
 
 When he returned I endeavoured to 
 commence a conversation with him, but 
 found him short and sententious in his 
 reply; however, he was too courteous to 
 remain long out of temper, and I took 
 the earliest opportunity of apparently 
 casually expressing my sorrow at having 
 made any observation which could give 
 pain to Miss Belmont, "but I thought/' 
 I said, " she seemed so unusually gay." 
 
 " Perhaps my arrival," said Vavasour, 
 "had something to do with it." 
 
 I turned round quite astonished at the 
 vanity of the remark; my eyes must have 
 expressed my feelings, for he continued,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 185 
 
 " You think my observation a very strange 
 and vain one ; but when I tell you, as indeed 
 you know, how much Miss Belmont has 
 suffered living with her step-mother, how 
 lonely her life has been, for, as you are 
 aware, her brother was very seldom here^ 
 and she only passed six weeks in London, 
 during the season, you will, if you consider a 
 little, not be very much surprised at her ex- 
 pressing so much pleasure at seeing an old 
 friend, one who has known her from ten 
 years of age, and who — " here he checked 
 himself; " you see I have not all the fatuite 
 you imagined, and Miss Belmont's unusual 
 spirits are easily accounted for." 
 
 "It is very natural, indeed," I said, "and 
 I can only repeat my annoyance and regret; 
 will you say as much to her when you have 
 an opportunity." 
 
 "As for that," said Vavasour, "I am not 
 quite sure that I was not in error in talking 
 so long on light and trifling subjects, for
 
 186 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 death, which Eobespierre used to call le 
 supreme acte de la vie, is too awful a pre- 
 sence to be treated for a moment with 
 levity. But of one thing I am certain, that 
 Miss Belmont feels Henry's death most 
 acutely. I quite agree with you, however, 
 that people should be guarded in their 
 manner ; but it is a matter scarcely worth 
 a discussion. I can assure vou that from 
 what Miss Belmont wrote me, she is very 
 sensible of your kindness towards her bro- 
 ther, and it will not, therefore, be a difficult 
 thing to persuade her that you intended 
 nothing less than to say an unkind thing of 
 her and in her presence." 
 
 There was a frankness and perfect sin- 
 cerity in every word uttered by Vavasour 
 which went directly to my heart ; it was 
 impossible not to attach implicit faith to 
 that clear voice, that firm and steady man- 
 ner, that fixed and truthful countenance. 
 
 From that day we became great friends,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 187 
 
 we never spoke of Miss Belmont, except 
 on one occasion, when I accidentally asked 
 him some question about her fortune ; it was 
 assuredly unintentionally, for I never was 
 in the habit of entering into all that gossip, 
 which forms the daily food of some people's 
 minds and occupation ; but he then told me 
 that, as far as he knew, the whole estates 
 were entailed on Miss Belmont, subject to 
 a jointure of twenty-five hundred a-year for 
 Lady Belmont. 
 
 " For Lucille," he said, "I am, of course, 
 delighted; but still there is a hardship in 
 leaving an old title, although only a baro- 
 netcy, so poor." 
 
 " Who does it go to ? " I asked. 
 
 " To some distant cousin," he said ; " I 
 saw him once ; he seemed a vulgar, swear- 
 ing, coarse kind of man. Some one told me 
 that he was totally ruined and retired to 
 the Continent ; he will scarcely be grateful 
 for a title without an acre of land."
 
 188 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 From that time Vavasour seemed to 
 renew all his former kind consideration for 
 me, and there was so little of the lover in his 
 manner of approaching Miss Belmont, that 
 I entirely lost the sense of personal jealousy 
 which had previously agitated me. After a 
 few days even Lady Belmont appeared to 
 regard me in a more favourable light, or, as 
 the world would phrase it, in a more eligible 
 point of view; it seemed that she began to 
 think I had some influence over Dudley, he 
 so entirely subscribed to all my opinions, and 
 expressed his intention of remaining at 
 Henley as long as I did, but not after my 
 departure. He was at that time employed 
 in writing some work in which he seemed 
 to take great interest, and therefore many 
 of our rides with Miss Belmont were taken 
 without him. 
 
 Thus some weeks passed by, and oh! 
 what weeks those were. Twenty years of 
 age, and the society of the most beautiful
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 189 
 
 young girl my imagination ever pictured; I 
 have frequently endeavoured to recall every 
 green glade and forest clump, for with each 
 I have some sweet and holy association. To 
 tell how this passion grew upon me is to 
 tell the history of all hearts that have loved, 
 and yet, as in all such cases, I seemed to 
 think that my affection was an exception to 
 the general rule in its intensity. 
 
 I could not venture to say that my love 
 was returned; Lucille's mind was far too 
 occupied with the melancholy event which 
 had occurred and the grave responsibility 
 thrown upon her ; neither was I so wholly 
 forgetful of the feelings of the world as not 
 to know that my attentions would be mis- 
 interpreted, and as is ever the case, men 
 would select the lowest motive for my con- 
 duct among all that presented themselves ; 
 all these various sensations militated against 
 my complete happiness. 
 
 And so at moments I was far more re-
 
 190 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 served than I was ever accustomed to be, 
 but when, at some kind smile or observation 
 my spirits rose, and I indulged in a flow of 
 feeling and imagination, I would turn on a 
 sudden and see her gaze intently fixed upon 
 me. The good opinion also which I am 
 sure Vavasour had expressed of me, raised 
 me in her consideration. It appeared to 
 me that sometimes he intentionally rode a 
 little way behind to talk to some poor per- 
 sons, and left us for a few minutes alone. 
 These were, indeed, moments of real hap- 
 piness; for to be in the presence of one we 
 really love; to meditate near her; to speak 
 to her even "on the most indifferent subjects, 
 is sufficient to make life glorious.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 191 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Love — by heathen nations worshipped 
 as a god, even by our revealed religion 
 united with God, for God is love! even 
 though the being we love is unworthy, the 
 phantom of our own imaginings, endowed 
 with no inspiration save that of our own 
 hearts, still while we believe in this ex- 
 istence is not our happiness complete, if 
 the love which we feel be only within our- 
 selves; still the heart knows its own joy 
 and lives in its own circle of bliss. 
 
 To feel that one is a man and God-created,
 
 192 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 here is the first blessing of love. It is, 
 indeed, an inexplicable mystery; but, al- 
 though the world has desecrated the holiest 
 of holies, has applied brutal and uncouth 
 terms to the noblest passion of our nature; 
 although ridicule has shot its shaft, and the 
 shallow, broken, selfish, suicide-meditating 
 man of fashion has approached the mystery 
 without reverence, without awe, without 
 truth, yet still the divine and too often fatal 
 power exists, as great in its origin, as 
 mighty in its consequence as when Antony 
 sacrificed a kingdom, and Pericles a faith, 
 for their love. 
 
 Is it not passing strange to meet, whether 
 in a crowd or in some lone spot, a being 
 with certain limbs and organs, a being like 
 ourselves corruptible, with the seed of death 
 implanted in her, and immediately to feel that 
 our life is bound up in hers, to turn away 
 but never to forget, through space and eter- 
 nity, to see the same glance, to recall the
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 193 
 
 very inflection of the voice, and if we have 
 pressed her arm to feel all the blood gush 
 towards the heart as by an electric shock ? 
 Is it not wonderful this sweet sympathy? 
 and for those who have felt what a subtle 
 essence love is, can we be surprised if such 
 give credit to the wondrous tales of mag- 
 netic influence ? 
 
 But mine was not quite love at first sight; 
 it grew like the flower unseen but crescent 
 in its faculty. Miss Belmont's presence had 
 surprised me in London, but, like all such 
 rapid impressions, mine was quickly weak- 
 ened; and a short absence would infallibly 
 have cured it. But now, without any effort 
 on my part, accident had thrown me in 
 her way, and after the first few days when 
 the shock of grief had swept by, I found 
 her like the flower after the storm, still 
 beautiful, and just with that amount of 
 subdued grief which gave an additional in- 
 terest to her, and then most excellent quali- 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 ties appeared in her, with which, through 
 years of an ordinary London existence, I 
 might never have been acquainted. She 
 used to say, with Madame de Rambouillet, 
 " On nous dit que donner est un plaisir des 
 rois; je pretends que c'est un plaisir des 
 dieux." 
 
 Her charities were only bounded by the ex- 
 tent of her power; she was adored through- 
 out her neighbourhood. The little children 
 would run after her with fresh flowers; the 
 old women blessed her as she passed. But 
 her charity was not the mere effervescence 
 of imagination, made up of prettinesses, of 
 laying out plots of gardens for poor people 
 who scarcely possess a cabbage -stalk, build- 
 ing arbours when the roof of the cottage 
 wants repairing, and planting creepers or 
 roses to hide cracked and gaping walls; it 
 was not the charity which finds food and 
 exercise in building picturesque gables and 
 Gothic chimneys; but a fresh, wholesome,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 195 
 
 imple charity, the charity of self-devotion, 
 which took her to the bedside of the sick, 
 and made her the comfort of the dying. 
 
 And near the bed of parting life to bide, 
 
 And mourn and pray where none would mourn beside. 
 
 And then she was so wholly simple and 
 unaffected, there was not the conception of 
 mannerism; few could have passed through 
 two London seasons — if, indeed, two months 
 in Town for two successive years can be 
 called London seasons — with a mind so per- 
 fectly untouched, and a heart so guileless. 
 
 In using the term London season, I 
 would by no means be supposed to sub- 
 scribe to that most vulgar of all opinions, 
 that there is more vice or corruption in 
 London than in any other large town in 
 England. The fact is, I believe, rather the 
 contrary, that in London there is a check 
 upon licence, which exists in no other 
 society. Whatever of refinement and grace 
 exists in England is to be found in the 
 
 o2
 
 196 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 aristocratic circles in the great city; this is 
 not a mere class opinion, but it is founded 
 on our national habits, and education, all 
 tending to a supervision to which the upper 
 classes are more than any other in Eng- 
 land, and in England above all other coun- 
 tries, constantly subjected. 
 
 That there are a number of vulgar fami- 
 lies who make an effort to give their chil- 
 dren what they term, "the benefit of London 
 society," and the children have heard so 
 much of this London from the first days 
 of their education, of its temptations, its 
 luxuries, its gay glittering existence, that 
 they come prepared to act any part on the 
 great stage, and imagine that a perfect 
 abandonment of all principle and truth, is 
 the first characteristic of fashionable life. It 
 is the opinion learnt at finishing schools, and 
 taught by vulgar fashionable novels, written 
 by men who knew no more of London life, 
 than the Parias who sit at the gateways.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 197 
 
 But London society in its legitimate 
 sense, means those persons of similar rank, 
 connection and pursuits, who naturally feel 
 as much pleasure in the company of those 
 with whom they have been brought up, as 
 any other class of the nation. If people with 
 exaggerated views on these points, strug- 
 gling for notoriety, push their way among 
 those with whom they have no associations, 
 simply because they choose to consider 
 that society exclusive, and then seize upon 
 the worst features which that society pre- 
 sents, those frivolities and vanities which 
 like bubbles on the water, all rise to the 
 surface, but never take into consideration 
 the depth, and are unable to estimate the real 
 force of the current which bears them along; 
 if such persons fall into error and misfor- 
 tune, the circumstance must be ascribed to 
 that vaulting ambition which o'er-leaps 
 itself, and not to the society into which 
 they have so blindly and ignorantly thrust 
 themselves.
 
 198 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 The same ignorance exists with respect to 
 the lives and habits of London men, by those 
 who take their opinions of men of fashion 
 and ton from Crockford's or Life in the West, 
 The Man about Town, and other novels of 
 a similar stamp; there are not wanting 
 people who really believe that no sooner 
 does any young man of rank and fortune 
 make his appearance in a St. James's Street 
 Club, than the vultures of society, its old 
 hoary tempters, lay a plot to entrap him into 
 play and every other description of vice. 
 They really credit it, that the rising aris- 
 tocracy lead the life so ably depicted in 
 Pelham, pass their existence in rose-water 
 baths, rise at four, possess lace pocket- 
 handkerchiefs, and have their apartments 
 carpeted with the softest d'Aubusson, that 
 even their valet's footsteps may not jar 
 their senses. 
 
 The consequence is, that some country 
 boobies come up to town, under the imprcs
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 199 
 
 sion that affectation, folly, selfishness, and 
 lisping assurance are the qualities they 
 must possess, or affect, to ensure them- 
 selves a position in the London world. It 
 is this wretched fatuite which is the ruin of 
 many. The evil is in the imagination of 
 the imitator, not in the original. 
 
 I have seen men pass through London 
 life without the slightest attempt made to 
 entrap them, without being surrounded by 
 plots, and treading upon mines. I have 
 seen men the leaders of what is called 
 fashion cultivating their intellects, ably and 
 fully discharging whatever duties may have 
 devolved upon them. It may possibly be 
 that on the outskirts of society, there are 
 a few rare instances of such sickly kid-glove 
 sentimentalists, but these certainly are the 
 mere exceptions to the universal law; and 
 to form our judgment of society by them 
 would be like taking a denizen of Leicester 
 Square as a specimen of the French nation,
 
 200 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 or drawing our opinion of English art from 
 Turner's paintings. 
 
 But Miss Belmont did not possess that 
 small amount of mannerism which we 
 admit is in general inseparable from all 
 large societies, whether collected together 
 in London or elsewhere. Whatever situa- 
 tion she might have been thrown into, she 
 must have graced it, and could never have 
 been misplaced. And now, for the first 
 time, I understood the full charm of 
 woman's society, the days passed so hap- 
 pily. We lived so much together; in the 
 morning she sang, then we sat out of doors, 
 and either Vavasour or I read to her. In 
 the afternoon we rode; perhaps the even- 
 ings were the moments which I enjoyed the 
 least, for then Lady Belmont was there, 
 and her cold glassy manner cast a gloom 
 over all who came within its inliuence — and 
 Dudley 
 
 So naturally selfish are we all, that I
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 201 
 
 really had forgotten to interest myself 
 much in his occupation. And a whole 
 week had passed in excursions, which he 
 always declined joining, alledging some 
 good reason or another for not doing so, 
 before I remarked his continued absence. 
 But one day we had been scampering 
 over the heath, leaving forest glade, bright 
 green turf, and swelling copse far far be- 
 hind us, crushing the heather blossom 
 in our reckless course, when Miss Belmont 
 reined in her horse, the rich colour in 
 her cheek, and the joyous light in her eye, 
 reminding me of Tennyson's beautiful 
 lines : 
 
 " The light wind chased her on the wing, 
 And in the chase grew wild; 
 As close as might he did he cling 
 About the darling child." 
 
 She was so surpassingly lovely. 
 " Where can Mr. Dudley be ? " she asked, 
 turning suddenly to Vavasour; "I thought
 
 202 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 he promised you to come with us to-day. 
 What can he be about ? " 
 
 "If you and Graham/' said Vavasour, 
 "have not influence enough with him to 
 make him join us, I cannot possibly have 
 any; he is quite a new acquaintance of 
 mine." 
 
 " Yes, but I wished him to come," she 
 continued, in her playfully spoilt manner; 
 "he really seems quite to avoid us. Do 
 you see much of him, Mr. Graham?" 
 
 She turned quickly towards me as she 
 asked the question; had I answered the 
 truth, I should have said I almost preferred 
 his being absent ; the fact is, that where the 
 heart is engaged, one dreads the possible 
 approach of a rival near the throne. 
 
 Whether it was that this slight remark 
 excited my jealousy, or that I could not 
 avoid feeling the difference of my position 
 to Dudley's, he the possessor of a princely 
 fortune, and I having to carve my own
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 203 
 
 fortune, but I became very thoughtful. 
 Miss Belmont also was reserved, and 
 occupied herself with patting her horse's 
 arched neck, and lavishing upon him terms 
 of endearment, the least of which would 
 have made my heart leap with hope and 
 
 joy- 
 In this frame of mind, it may easily be 
 
 imagined with how great astonishment and 
 pleasure I received a letter from my father 
 the next morning, in which, after alluding 
 to my long visit, he continued, "I hear 
 that Miss Belmont is a great heiress; 
 nine thousand a-year is better than an 
 attacheship ; seriously, if she is as beautiful 
 and amiable as we are informed here, it 
 is a valuable occasion which has thrown 
 you into her society; but, at the same 
 time, I will fairly tell you that I think 
 a marriage must combine very great ad- 
 vantages before I can advise any very 
 young man to tie himself up so early in
 
 204 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 life. Always remember this; that money 
 is only of value as representing the ful- 
 filment of wants or desires, or the means 
 of doing good. Burns tells us he was 
 anxious for riches, 
 
 " Not for to hide them in a hedge; 
 
 Not for a train attendant; 
 But for one glorious privilege, 
 Of being independent." 
 
 Kow, if by marriage this independence is to 
 be sacrificed before it has been enjoyed, 
 why then you will be little the better for 
 the change. I write in a very unselfish 
 spirit, as you may perceive, for it is quite 
 unnecessary for me to inform you that our 
 family estates (partly owing to the extra- 
 vagance of your grandfather, and partly, 
 it is only fair to add, to my incessant occu- 
 pation and want of management,) are sadly 
 crippled ; but although I am far from ad- 
 vising you or any one in whom I take an 
 interest, to become a fortune-hunter, than
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 205 
 
 which nothing can be more contemptible, 
 still you must not keep entirely out of con- 
 sideration in any matrimonial project, the 
 necessity of your wife possessing a sufficient 
 income to support her properly ; but, after 
 all, probably this matter has never crossed 
 your mind, and you are fulfilling my desire 
 and expectation by preparing yourself, as 
 you best may, for the career in which you 
 are about to enter. 
 
 "You have quite enlisted Vavasour's 
 friendship. I can assure you that you should 
 do everything to cultivate and preserve it ; 
 I have known him long and intimately; he 
 is what Archbishop Laud would have called 
 a thorough man, one to be depended upon in 
 the event of any emergency; he is so much 
 older than yourself that his experience and 
 advice will be of great use to you, and J 
 am sure, for the sake of our long continued 
 friendship, it will never be denied to you. 
 Remember me warmly to him, and recal
 
 206 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 me to your friend, Mr. Dudley; he has 
 probably forgotten coming to the House 
 with his father, on a night I spoke. I had 
 a long conversation with him under the 
 gallery, and he struck me as a very fine 
 specimen of an Eton boy." 
 
 I sat some time after reading this letter, 
 without being able to connect or arrange 
 my thoughts. I had never ventured, ex- 
 cept in day dreams or reveries, to imagine 
 myself engaged to Miss Belmont; the 
 possibility had never presented itself in 
 that plain simple manner, yet here, evi- 
 dently, my father had contemplated such an 
 event, and would clearly approve of it. 
 There was something also in the idea of 
 restoring the position of an old family that 
 flattered my vanity, and gave an heroic and 
 romantic interest to my position. 
 
 But then, Lucille herself, what were her 
 feelings? I had no means of judging whether 
 she took any interest in me; at times I
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 207 
 
 thought that I could distinguish a warmer 
 pressure of the hand than usual when she 
 bid us good night; sometimes, when she 
 was singing, her eyes would fill with tears, 
 and if she saw mine were fixed upon her, 
 her voice would drop, and a slight tinge, 
 like a rose gleam, cross her cheek ; but I 
 was too unskilled in human nature, in 
 woman's nature more particularly, to draw 
 any very satisfactory conclusion from these 
 signs. 
 
 They were, however, sufficient to buoy 
 me up with hope, to send me down to the 
 dining-room that morning radiant with 
 happiness; the very feeling that another 
 person had heard of her excellent beauty 
 and goodness, gave strength to my pre- 
 conceived convictions. And it was with a 
 light step and joyous heart that I met the 
 whole party, who were seated, more silent 
 than usual, round the breakfast table. 
 
 Yes, some event must have occurred to
 
 208 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 cast such a gloom over the whole company ; 
 Miss Belmont alone looked in high spirits; 
 was this sympathy? 
 
 I had heard of such strange sympathetic 
 intelligence, and almost began to believe 
 in it. 
 
 Vavasour, strange to say, for him, was 
 quite preoccupied, and did not even remark 
 my having entered the room. When Lady 
 Belmont did speak, she was even more 
 bitter than usual. I remember she became 
 very irritated about some most trifling 
 matter; Lucille had opened the window 
 behind her chair. 
 
 On a sudden Lady Belmont rose and rang 
 the bell; when the servant answered, she 
 asked him in her most angry tone, "whether 
 she had not desired him never to open the 
 window while she was at breakfast ?" 
 
 " Oh, I opened it," said Lucille, with 
 some slight confusion. 
 
 The servant left the room.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 209 
 
 " Perhaps, for the future/' said her lady- 
 ship, "I had better live in my own apart- 
 ment if my wishes are not attended to." 
 
 " But they are and will be, my dearest 
 mother, " said Lucille, rapidly; "it is 
 scarcely just to accuse me of not attending 
 to your wishes, I have no other thought, no 
 other occupation." 
 
 " Or amusement/' said Lady Belmont, 
 with a bitter sneer. 
 
 "I should, at any time," replied Lucille, 
 firmly, " sacrifice my amusements to your 
 desires. My amusements are very simple 
 ones, and I do not believe you will object 
 to them." 
 
 "You are your own mistress, now/' 
 continued Lady Belmont, with the same 
 sarcastic, bitter voice ; " it is not for me, or 
 for any one else, to interfere with you. It 
 will be, perhaps, for me rather to object to 
 interference, as I am, for the future, the 
 most likely to be subjected to it; I may 
 
 vol. i. p
 
 210 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 have to appeal from you to tout new 
 guardian, Mr. Vavasour. " 
 
 Here was a surprising announcement, 
 Vavasour her guardian; besides, why re- 
 quire a guardian? she was almost of age, 
 and the estate must have been left under 
 trust by her father; her brother could 
 have had no such power. 
 
 I waited anxiouslv until Ladv Belmont 
 left the room to ask Vavasour for some 
 information on this point. Lucille had 
 alreadv ^one awav crying, as, indeed, was 
 too often the case, as Lady Belmont - 
 temper had latterly become more ungovern- 
 able and irritable than ever. The moment 
 breakfast was over I took Vavasour aside, 
 and asked him what it meant. 
 
 " You could not," said he, u have been 
 more surprised than I was, but my 
 authority is very slight, and, as you are 
 aware, will cease in a few months; but 
 Henry, having a large >um of ready
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 211 
 
 money, amounting to G0,000Z., left it in 
 trust for his sister, and appointed me her 
 principal trustee. I am not fond of accept- 
 ing such responsibility, but, in the present 
 instance, as you see, I really have no 
 choice. What, however, annoys me is, that 
 Lady Belmont evidently expected some 
 portion of this money, and she is not even 
 mentioned in the will; so I am placed in a 
 position of quasi hostility and jealousy 
 towards her, which is far from desirable; 
 however, en revanche, I have the most 
 single-hearted and beautiful ward. Don ? t 
 you think so?" 
 
 And he fixed his look on me; I felt the 
 flush mounting to my cheek, and observed 
 him smile. 
 
 "She sustains all that you said of her 
 when we first met," I replied. "I have 
 never seen any one so lovely." 
 
 " So I am sure your father would think 
 if he saw her," said Vavasour. 
 
 p2
 
 212 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 This seemed to me the strangest remark. 
 It was evident that Vavasour had been in 
 some communication with my father. I 
 felt annoyed at the idea of any third party 
 having presumed to calculate or discuss my 
 sensations; but this feeling was quite coun- 
 terbalanced by the undeniable evidence 
 which the whole tenor of Vavasour's manner 
 and conversation afforded, that he himself 
 had no idea of entering into the lists for 
 Miss Belmont's hand. 
 
 Once confirmed in this conviction, my 
 impressions took quite another turn, and I 
 fancied I remarked various occasions in 
 which he endeavoured to impress me with 
 a deep sense of Lucille's excellence, but 
 this, it may be believed, required no great 
 exertion on his part.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 213 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I have spoken of Lady Belmont's man- 
 ner; from the moment when Mr. Vavasour's 
 appointment as guardian was known, she 
 showed a marked hostility to him, mingled 
 with an expression of fear, which could not 
 fail to excite observation. Every morning 
 she appeared she seemed to grow paler and 
 more care-worn. 
 
 "By-the-by," she exclaimed one morn- 
 ing, when Lucille was out of the room, 
 "have you heard anything of Henry's 
 writing-box, Mr. Vavasour; it has not been 
 sent here with all his books, &c."
 
 214 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 " His writing-box/' until that moment I 
 had quite forgotten it. " Oh, how strange 
 that I should have so overlooked it/" I 
 said; " one of the last things the poor 
 fellow did was to give it into my charge 
 with certain directions." 
 
 " With certain directions/' gasped Lady 
 Belmont, growing very pale. 
 
 " Merely about burning some letters/' I 
 said; "but I could not catch what he said, 
 in the agony of the moment. I left the 
 box — it is a very small tin one — at 
 Oxford." 
 
 "You can send for it?" said Lady 
 Belmont. 
 
 "Yes/' I answered, "but " 
 
 "But, Mr. Graham; what is the objec- 
 tion?" continued her Ladyship, in a very 
 angry voice. 
 
 I looked at Yavasour, who nodded 
 slightly to me, and, turning to her lady- 
 ship, said,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 215 
 
 " I scarcely think that Graham would be 
 quite justified in giving up any documents 
 which have been entrusted to him; such 
 deposits are always considered very sacred. 
 Indeed, I do not see it would be possible to 
 show them without violating a very solemn 
 trust." 
 
 "Not even to his nearest relatives?" 
 
 " ~No, not even to his nearest and dearest 
 relatives. It would lead to the destruction 
 of all confidence between the dying and the 
 living, and this would be a very fatal 
 result." 
 
 " My position as step-mother is entirely 
 overthrown," said her ladyship, rising 
 hastily; " I had thought, Mr. Vavasour, that 
 you at least would have considered that the 
 family had the first claim on the confidence 
 of any one of its members. Mr. Graham 
 may have been a great friend of Henry's, 
 but he is not in any way related to Sir 
 William Belmont's family, consequently I
 
 216 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 must say, that to keep back a box of 
 letters and papers, whatever they may be, 
 from those who are naturally most inte- 
 rested in their contents, seems to me a 
 most extraordinary proceeding." 
 
 " I ask your pardon," I said, " but they 
 are probably none of any great moment." 
 
 " You have not read them, you have not 
 opened the box?" asked Lady Belmont, 
 and she grew very pale. 
 
 " Certainly not," I replied, " I never would 
 dream of doing such an act; there was one 
 paper, however, to which, as I tell you, he 
 referred, but I could not catch what he 
 said." 
 
 "One paper!" said Lady Belmont, half 
 speaking to herself; she became paler and 
 paler, and the damp could be seen gather- 
 ing upon her forehead; "will you give me 
 this paper, Mr. Graham, I must have it?" 
 But I don't know which it is," I said, 
 I have never opened the box, and shall 

 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 217 
 
 certainly not do so; I shall keep it as a 
 sacred deposit confided to me." 
 
 " Will you rely upon me, Lady Bel- 
 mont?" said Vavasour, "I do not mean 
 to say that you should not place the most 
 perfect confidence in Mr. Graham, but still 
 as there may be important documents, will 
 you allow me to glance through them with 
 him before we come to any decision, if 
 indeed you think them of so grave a 
 nature?" 
 
 "Grave!" replied Lady Belmont, "I 
 never said they were grave; no, do what 
 you like with them; I have expressed my 
 opinions distinctly and clearly, you must 
 take what course you like;" and so saying 
 she left the room. 
 
 Vavasour looked at me and smiled. " You 
 were right," he said, "to refuse to give up 
 the writing-box; but there may be letters 
 of more importance than we are aware of; 
 so you would scarcely be justified in per-
 
 218 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 forming one of the ordinary duties of such 
 trusts, viz., that of examining them, until 
 we have some further information; and for 
 the same reason I think you had better 
 keep them by you for the present." 
 
 Why is it that there can be no sunshine 
 without a shadow, and that in our moments 
 of most perfect enjoyment, the fearful 
 sense of necessity will creep over us ? I 
 have learnt in life almost to distrust happi- 
 ness, to tremble at enjoyment, for fear of 
 some unexpected and terrible awakenings. 
 Among all the white days in my life, I 
 look back upon this one as the brightest 
 and clearest. We rode in the afternoon 
 to Cunliffe Castle. Dudley, for a wonder, 
 was of the party. A cart had been sent 
 on previously with luncheon. It was a 
 magnificent spot; one of those ruins which 
 make us marvel that a nation does not 
 subscribe to save such remains from des- 
 truction. It stood upon a crag which
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 219 
 
 beetled over the sea. The waves had 
 worked a cavern beneath, and in one of 
 the towers the rock had been perforated, 
 so that at high water the spray was in 
 rough weather dashed almost into one of 
 the rooms of the castle. It might be said 
 of it, as Mr. Wordsworth says of the Acro- 
 polis, "If so glorious in its ruins, what 
 must it have been in its perfection." 
 
 We were all in excellent spirits, Yavasour 
 the most boyish amongst us boys. We scram- 
 bled about for some time to find a suitable 
 place to lunch in, and there Ave gossipped 
 and read by turns. I threw off the senti- 
 ment which was sleeping in my heart, to 
 enter into the whole genius of the place, 
 for I intuitively learnt the great truth, that 
 there is nothing so utterly genant to gene- 
 ral society, as the company of a man with a 
 sentiment. 
 
 Miss Belmont appeared thoroughly to 
 enjoy herself; she took off her bonnet, and
 
 220 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 her beautiful hair fell down glowing to the 
 waist. Xever was sylvan scene so fitly pre- 
 sided over by fairy form. 
 
 " If this could but last for ever," I said. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Graham," cried Lucille, " pray 
 don't talk of the future; I enjoy the present. 
 I am quite sure that calculation does no 
 good; does it, Mr. Vavasour?" 
 
 " You know," said he, " I am your guar- 
 dian, and am therefore bound to give sober 
 advice; but I must agree with Graham, 
 that it is a pity such blue days should ever 
 set; but I see no great harm in such reflec- 
 tions; I think, on the contrary, they rather 
 tend to make us enjoy the present the 
 
 more." 
 
 .. 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine," 
 said I, filling a bumper of champagne ; " I 
 will take service with Miss Belmont, and 
 adopt all her opinions; let us enjoy the 
 present." 
 
 Dudley gave an involuntary sigh. I
 
 te 
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 221 
 
 turned round and was struck with the 
 sudden paleness which overspread his face. 
 You are ill, Dudley," I said. 
 No," he replied, "it is the sun; I am, 
 as you know, subject to sudden attacks of 
 the nerves." 
 
 I looked at Miss Belmont, and could 
 see that her countenance had entirely 
 changed; she was very grave, and fixed her 
 eyes on Dudley, with something very much 
 approaching a deep interest. 
 
 " You are melancholy, Mr. Dudley," she 
 said, "you must not run away so early 
 always; and if you will amend in this 
 respect, I will sing any one of your 
 favourite songs which you ask me, and 
 endeavour to enliven you." 
 
 Dudley looked up, and again their eyes 
 met. 
 
 But I thought to myself, this is one more 
 of my imaginations; I am the victim of a 
 diseased brain, but is it extraordinary that
 
 222 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 a young girl should take some interest in a 
 man in every way so worthy of it. 
 
 This evening will long be retained in my 
 remembrance. As we rode back, Vavasour 
 and Dudley were engaged in an ani- 
 mated conversation. I kept behind with 
 Lucille. There was a delicious stillness in 
 the hour. The smell of the wild thyme, the 
 fragrance of the forest flowers filled the air. 
 I did not speak to her, but my spirits 
 feasted upon her beauty ; it was like a May 
 evening softened by tenderness of thought ; 
 like the streaks of twilight broken, subdued, 
 but always beautiful. A tear glistened on 
 the long dark eye-lash, as she turned, and 
 said, 
 
 " How I wish such evenings would last 
 for ever, Mr. Graham." 
 
 I made no reply, but laid my hand upon 
 her horse's mane, and patted its Deck. Oh ! 
 the joy of riding by the side of one whom 
 we love.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 223 
 
 " I am afraid we shall have no more such 
 evenings/' I said, after a short pause. 
 
 "No more, Mr. Graham; why I was just 
 planning some other expedition." 
 
 "With whom?" I asked. 
 
 "Why with the same friends. I don't 
 think we can improve upon it," said she, 
 archly. 
 
 " Yes, but you forget," I said, " that my 
 days here are quite numbered. I have to 
 go abroad ; I had anticipated my journey 
 with so much pleasure, but now I look forward 
 to it with dread. I cannot bear the idea of 
 leaving England: les absens ont toujours 
 tort, one is soon forgotten." 
 
 "JSTot by those who are worth remem- 
 bering, or by whom it is worth while to be 
 remembered." 
 
 "You, you;" I said, hesitatingly, "will 
 you not forget me ? " 
 
 "Never!" she said with deep emphasis, 
 and then turned her head aside.
 
 224 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Oh, you who, in a fresh evening, have 
 ever ridden by the side of one whom you 
 have long secretly loved; who have wandered 
 on through woodland, moss, and heather, 
 scarcely knowing and not caring whither; 
 who have felt a sensation of lightness as 
 though all the cares of the world had 
 vanished from your heart; who have lost 
 all power of distinguishing the elements 
 of which your sensation of happiness is 
 composed; who have felt on your warm 
 cheek the sweet low and scented evening 
 breeze, have heard the hum of summer 
 insects, and seen the unspeakable glory of 
 the tinted sky; who have known the heart 
 swell, and with difficulty have restrained 
 the gushing tears; whose mind has sud- 
 denly possessed a faith, like the apostles 
 of old, that God is great and good, and his 
 works so manifold; who could, at one 
 moment, laugh without cause, and at 
 another, weep without sorrow; who raise
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 225 
 
 your head in glory, and move with a 
 secret pride; who feel the desire to pray, 
 for that love is the type of heaven; you and 
 you alone will understand the full force of 
 the first word of interest uttered by one 
 in whose heart you have garnered up your 
 own. 
 
 Strange to say, I did not renew the con- 
 versation, I did not press the subject, there 
 was something so delicious in this half 
 revelation; she too remained silent, and we 
 rode on, while the shades of evening fell 
 around us ; and then came the sweet sensa- 
 tion of being there to protect her whom I 
 loved, and as a lane, through which we 
 were passing, became narrower, I pressed 
 my horse nearer to hers, and when I turned 
 my head towards her I could feel her warm 
 soft breath upon my cheek. 
 
 We heard voices at the top of the hill 
 near a turnpike, I felt the blood mounting 
 to my cheek, already I began to regret 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 those delicious moments, to blame myself 
 for not having said more ; a thousand things 
 gushed to my lips, I had only time to utter 
 the word "Lucille/' when we heard Vava- 
 sour's voice. 
 
 " Here we are ! " I cried out, in answer 
 to a loud holloa which he gave, and pre- 
 sently we were at the gate. 
 
 "We were nearly sending these honest 
 people after you," said he, pointing to an 
 old man and his son, who stood gaping 
 and bowing ; " from the anxiety they dis- 
 played for Miss Belmont, I think, if they 
 at all represent the feeling in this neigh- 
 bourhood, the whole countv would have 
 been scoured for her, if we had only raised 
 the cry." 
 
 The good old man grinned a rustic 
 assent, but Lucille was silent ; I endeavoured 
 to frame some light playful speech, but it 
 was a miserable failure. 
 
 " And now we had better press on," said
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 227 
 
 Vavasour, " for we have still three miles to 
 go." We rode on together, and there was 
 no further opportunity of speaking to 
 her. 
 
 And that night, when I stood alone upon 
 the terrace, the atmosphere was not more 
 changed from that first evening in which, 
 after Henry's death, Dudley and I had 
 walked there, than were my present 
 thoughts from those which had then occupied 
 my heart ; now there was scarcely a breeze 
 to wave the petal of a flower, " not a breath 
 of wind to stir the curls upon a lady's 
 cheek;" the hills stood forth blue, clear, in 
 their long and waving beauty, the clumps 
 of dark thick greens cast their shade near 
 the shore ; the sky was star-spangled, and the 
 ripples gently broke upon the shingle, like 
 the murmur of voices in a dream; where 
 were the heavy wet clouds, and the rude 
 wind, the rushing, foaming, gambolling 
 waves ? 
 
 Q2
 
 228 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 And where were the black thoughts that 
 then filled my mind, where was the ambition 
 rushing through the solitude of my heart, 
 like the scirocco across the desert ? TV r as it 
 true that the darkest hour of night was 
 indeed next morning'? Was this sense of 
 happiness which I now enjoyed, the natural 
 reaction of the depression I had suffered? 
 or was it the first gleam of a long and glo- 
 rious day, of a new life, of fresh hopes, of 
 young green aspirations? I seemed to stand 
 upon a sunny shore, and far away around 
 me a wide, bright, and glorious horizon 
 stretched. 
 
 How little could I, at that moment, be- 
 lieve that the storm would so soon arise; 
 that in a short few hours the cloud of my 
 fate, now no bigger than a man's hand, 
 would spread and overshadow my existence.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 229 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I awoke the next morning in the same 
 joyous and happy frame of mind, and went 
 down early, in the hope of finding Lucille on 
 the terrace alone, which was generally her 
 morning's walk; but I met Dudley upon the 
 staircase, and he joined me. Lucille was 
 not there. We waited some time and then 
 went into the breakfast-room. While we 
 were waiting there a carriage drove up to 
 the door, and an elderly man with a large 
 box stepped out; in a few minutes after- 
 wards Lucille entered the room.
 
 230 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 "I must apologise," she said, "for being 
 late/' as she shook hands, and slightly 
 colouring as she took mine; "but Mr. Vava- 
 sour received a letter by the early post to tell 
 him that Mr. Musgrave, our family solicitor, 
 would arrive here this morning ; and as he 
 wished to be prepared for the discharge of 
 his very awful responsibilities, in taking 
 charge of one likely to prove so unworthy, 
 I had to give him some particulars of which 
 he was ignorant." 
 
 And Lady Belmont?" I asked. 
 Oh, she is, of course, there; Mr. Mus- 
 grave has been shown up to her room." 
 
 I was seized with one of those inexpressi- 
 ble presentiments which often possess the 
 mind, but which, thank God, are so fre- 
 quently belied by the event; would to 
 God it always were so! I felt a doubtful, 
 anxious, sensation at the idea of Mr. Mus- 
 grave's arrival; it was certainly without any 
 foundation; how could Mr. Musgrave, or 

 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 231 
 
 any other person in his position, affect my 
 interests and hopes? Still we had been so 
 happy; our life had latterly been so little 
 interrupted by any event of importance; 
 that the arrival of a lawyer, with blue bags 
 and deed boxes, really became a great event. 
 
 Dudley sat very silent, and, apparently, 
 fidl of thought. Altogether, the breakfast 
 passed off without much attempt at conver- 
 sation, and, as soon as it was over, Lucille 
 left the room to see Yavasour. 
 
 "What can Mr, Musgrave do here?'' 
 said Dudley to me. 
 
 "I can imagine there is a great deal to 
 do," I answered; "but I take little interest 
 in Mr. Musgrave. Do you know anything 
 ©flam*" 
 
 " I have heard my uncle speak of him," 
 replied Dudley, " as a clever, shrewd man; 
 but it would appear that he has great 
 success in his profession, for many say that 
 he makes a very large fortune ; but, I
 
 232 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 repeat, it is very odd he should come here 
 at this time of morning." 
 
 " Not at all," I said, * Mr. Vansittart is 
 constantly with my father. " 
 
 I was not at all satisfied with the view 
 Dudley took of this visit of Mr. Musgrave's ; 
 but such infinite value do we unknowingly 
 frequently set upon the opinions of others, 
 that I began to think he had not been 
 very foolish in attaching importance to 
 it. 
 
 I went out to take a stroll until Vavasour 
 or some one — why not, at once, say until 
 Lucille ?— should make her re-appearance. 
 Off a room on the ground-floor, which was 
 occupied, in general, by Vavasour as a sit- 
 ting-room, was a beautiful conservatory. I 
 passed round by the shrubbery and went 
 into the conservatory with the intention of 
 reading there. It was very large; there 
 was a fountain playing in the centre. It 
 was quite like wandering in labyrinths of
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 233 
 
 sweet scents, so densely were the plants 
 sown, and so wide was the place which the 
 grass covered. While there I was sur- 
 prised to hear loud voices in Vavasour's 
 room, and loud above all others, Lady 
 Belmont. 
 
 "You must be calm, Lady Belmont," 
 I heard Vavasour say. 
 
 Then there was a loud sob. "It is 
 false," she almost shrieked, "false, I say; 
 you know, Mr. Musgrave, that it is false." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be scarcely courteous 
 in me, Lady Belmont, to reply, that, 
 you must know, above all others, that what 
 I state is true," said Mr. Musgrave. 
 
 "You would insult me, Mr. Musgrave?" 
 
 " 'Not in the least, Madam," replied the 
 imperturbable lawyer; " I only came here 
 to point out to Mr. Vavasour facts, which 
 I feel he ought to be made acquainted 
 with, which, I may add, he must have 
 been acquainted with before, if you had
 
 234 LUCILLE BELMOXT. 
 
 not so carefully concealed them from 
 him." 
 
 At that moment the inner door opened, 
 and I could hear Lucille \s voice calling for 
 Mr. Vavasour. 
 
 "Shut the door; go out," shouted, or 
 rather shrieked Lady Belmont; " you have 
 no business here." 
 
 "Hush!" said Vavasour, in a voice of 
 almost authority to Lady Belmont ; " we 
 are much occupied at the present moment, 
 Miss Belmont, and I am sure you will 
 excuse my not joining you this morning." 
 
 Then I heard the door closed, and after- 
 wards the conversation was carried on in so 
 low a tone that it was impossible to catch 
 a word; nor did I endeavour to do so. I 
 was angry with myself at having been 
 thrown into so false a position, but once 
 there, the interest and the excitement pre- 
 vented my withdrawing so soon as I should 
 have done; but I now retreated rapidly,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 235 
 
 wondering what the nature of the commu- 
 nication could be to create so great a 
 sensation. Alas! I little thought how 
 greatly the interests of my life depended 
 upon it. 
 
 I returned in about an hour, and found 
 Vavasour walking on the terrace. 
 
 "I thought you had gone down to the 
 sea, and was waiting for you." 
 
 "For me?" I exclaimed, with a voice of 
 some surprise. 
 
 a Yes," he answered; "and my only fear 
 is that you will consider that I am taking a 
 great liberty in touching at all upon the 
 subject on which I am so anxious to speak 
 to you." 
 
 I felt my heart leap to my lips ; a cold, 
 clammy feeling as of death, and the death 
 of all hope crept over me. 
 
 " I can scarcely imagine/ ' I replied, after 
 a few moments' pause, " what you can have 
 to say to me, which can require so formal a
 
 236 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 preface. Of course, as you are in posses- 
 sion of this mystery, and I am as yet 
 uninitiated, I must leave you to judge as 
 to the propriety of communicating it to 
 me." 
 
 " I am convinced," said Vavasour, " it is 
 proper for me to do so, but this does not 
 prevent its being very painful." 
 
 " Is some relation dead ?" I asked. 
 
 "Not so," replied he; "I heard from 
 your father only yesterday, and it is in 
 fact his letter which compels me now to 
 speak to you." 
 
 "How is that? "I said. 
 
 " Because," he continued, " his heart has 
 evidently been set to a project which lie 
 had formed in his own mind, but which, 
 doubtless, he has not communicated to you. 
 You know to what I allude/' said he, with 
 a faltering voice. 
 
 " I fear I can guess," I said, " something 
 tells me it refers to Miss Belmont."
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 237 
 
 I looked at him; he seemed to be paler, 
 and even more concerned than I was. 
 These prefatory remarks had given me 
 time to collect my courage, like the man 
 who strings his nerves for a fearful neces- 
 sity. I felt there was to be some terrible 
 disclosure, and the mists of despair rose 
 gradually over all the sweet and joyous 
 thoughts on which my heart had dwelt for 
 the last two or three weeks. 
 
 "Tell me," I said, "Vavasour, tell me 
 anything you may know, anything that can 
 affect me; unveil this mystery, if there is 
 one, as my heart too sadly forebodes there 
 is." 
 
 "Oh, there is the worst!" cried, almost 
 sobbed, Vavasour, " I can explain nothing." 
 
 "Then a quoibon all this conversation?" 
 I said ; " really in a few words, may I ask 
 what it means?" 
 
 " It means," said he, " that if, as I too 
 truly believe, you are attached to Miss
 
 238 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Belmont, you will have need of all your 
 courage, what shall I say, of all your devo- 
 tion, of all your manhood upon this occa- 
 sion. Cecil, you know I can have no mean, 
 no personal object, you will do me the 
 justice to believe in the disinterestedness of 
 my conduct; well then, I tell you with the 
 earnestness of the deepest and saddest con- 
 viction, that you cannot marry Miss Bel- 
 mont, without bringing a great, a fearful 
 calamity upon all; that it is a marriage 
 which Lord Graham never can consent 
 to, but which, before that point could be 
 proved, would bring misery upon the person 
 to whom I believe you to be sincerely and 
 devotedly attached." 
 
 I had expected a terrible denouement, 
 but this clear and explicit statement pa- 
 ralyzed my mind. I felt that my doom 
 was pronounced, but at the same time my 
 whole nature rebelled against it. It is 
 true that Lucille had never told me that I
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 239 
 
 possessed her love, but, in the excitement 
 of the moment, I forgot all this, and began 
 to assume that I was robbed of a treasure 
 which had been ensured me. 
 
 "May I ask one question," said Vava- 
 sour, after a pause; "has anything passed 
 between you and Lucille?" 
 
 " Our relative positions seem to be so 
 strangely complicated," I replied, "that I 
 cannot refuse to answer you any question, 
 and you tell me nothing; then I may answer 
 this, that nothing distinct has passed be- 
 tween us. I need unsay nothing." 
 
 " Thank God," exclaimed Vavasour, as if 
 an immense load had been lifted off his mind. 
 
 "But now," I said, "having answered 
 your question, I expect you will be as frank 
 and communicative with me. Why have 
 you told me all this ; what is the reason of 
 this distressing communication?" 
 
 Vavasour was silent. 
 
 " I will be frank with you," I continued, 
 
 
 i
 
 240 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 my expression increasing in vehemence 
 as I spoke, " I will be frank with you, 
 Vavasour, nothing has been said that need 
 be unsaid. But are there no secret sym- 
 pathies, is it necessary that the roots which 
 entwine together, should always be exposed 
 to the curious, is it the mere fact of certain 
 words having been uttered, which can make 
 the diiference? Xo one knows better than 
 you do, that day by day my interest in Lucille 
 Belmont has been increasing; I am sure 
 you knew it, I am also sure you, in your 
 kindness, were pleased at it." 
 
 " I was," he said. 
 
 "Well then, the mildew now enters 
 where I have garnered up the most pre- 
 cious store of my affections. I am young 
 in the world, or might treat the whole 
 thing in a lighter manner, but now, with- 
 out a word in explanation, after being only 
 yesterday so happy, I am called aside and 
 told that these sympathies, this sacred
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 241 
 
 deposit, is to be thus wrested from me, 
 is to be shut out from me, and I am 
 to be plunged into solitude and dark- 
 ness. Can you expect this, Vavasour, can 
 you expect that any man with the least 
 pretension to feeling, will not require some 
 insight into the case, before he entertains 
 such views as you have suggested?" 
 
 " It is all too true/' said Vavasour, " but 
 you have the whole world before you." 
 
 " Oh, mockery ! so had our first parents 
 when they were both driven from Eden. 
 Did they sorrow the less? No, Vavasour, 
 no ; unless I can learn on what grounds this 
 appeal is made to me, I must decline to 
 accede to it." 
 
 "If that appeal will not suffice," said 
 Vavasour, "I will make another; I will 
 appeal to your generosity. I will tell 
 you so much, that LucihVs happiness, 
 at all events her material welfare in life, 
 depends on your decision. I am assuming 
 
 VOL. i. R
 
 242 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 that which I believe to be the truth of the 
 case; that if you continue to remain here, 
 all her affections will be bestowed upon you, 
 even if they are not in some measure 
 already in your possession. I warn you in 
 the most solemn manner, that to your 
 dream of happiness there will be a very 
 awful awakening; the more awful, that 
 it is perfectly out of the question that 
 Lucille can be informed on the matter; and 
 now I leave it to you, Cecil, to your gene- 
 rosity, to your affection; if you will still 
 press me for a disclosure of a confidence 
 which should die with me, which (while I 
 admit it would be a satisfaction to you, and 
 I may add also to myself, because it would 
 justify my conduct to you) would only com- 
 plicate your own position, by giving you 
 information which you could only withhold 
 by equivocation and deceit, and which to 
 explain, would compromise, perhaps, shall I 
 say it, the life of her you love."
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 243 
 
 "Would this apply to every one," I 
 said; "is Lucille never to marry?" 
 
 "I cannot answer that question," he 
 said, " do not, I entreat you, press it upon 
 me. Lord Graham is, as you know, a very 
 particular man of business; he leaves no 
 point unexamined: there are others more 
 indifferent to these matters, and whose 
 
 position admits of it, but he 1 cannot 
 
 continue in this strain. I have said quite 
 enough; Cecil, will you go?" 
 
 " I must consider what you have said," 
 was my reply, " it is so sudden, so unex- 
 pected. I am so broken by this conver- 
 sation, I require time." 
 
 "Yes, but," said Vavasour, "only one 
 word. If you do determine on taking 
 the noble, the spirited, the right course, 
 if you leave this, that step admits of 
 no delay, for I have already said, all ex- 
 planations must be avoided, they would 
 be fatal." 
 
 r2
 
 244 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 "And not see Lucille again?" I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "It were better not/' he answered; "I 
 would make any excuse for you, and in such 
 a manner that I can insure you against her 
 entertaining any unjust feeling. I would 
 also satisfy your father on the subject; 
 
 ■ 
 
 only will you go?" 
 
 "You don't know what you ask of me, 
 Vavasour; but I repeat, it is to me too 
 awful and solemn a matter to be so quickly 
 decided." 
 
 "As you will," said Vavasour, "will you 
 come to my room in an hour? " 
 
 And I consented. 
 
 It took me some time, after he had left 
 me, to collect my ideas. I felt my heart 
 sicken, I could not bring my mind to enter- 
 tain the full force of the blow which had 
 fallen upon me: and the change was so 
 rapid, so unexpected; yesterday had been 
 so full of enjoyment. Oh, had I thought at
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 245 
 
 all, I might have anticipated some such 
 catastrophe. AYhat had I done to be worthy 
 of so great a blessing? And now, I asked 
 myself, what is to become of me? It was 
 not so much what I had lost, as what I 
 expected to gain. 
 
 The worst of all farewells is to feel that 
 one leaves everything unsaid; singular 
 position; I was called upon to give up the 
 love of one who never declared that she 
 loved me. I had been playing with my 
 happiness, like a child with a piece of 
 painted glass, in whose hands it falls to 
 pieces; formerly my heart had been soli- 
 tary, but now it was depopulated. 
 
 What was the alternative presented to 
 me? On the one hand, to leave behind me 
 an unfavourable impression in the heart 
 which I worshipped; or, on the other, I was 
 told that my object could only be ap- 
 proached, my happiness only attained, by 
 Lucille's ruin.
 
 246 LUCTLLE BELMONT. 
 
 I never in all my life had felt so perfectly 
 abandoned of all my reasoning powers. I 
 walked up and down in an almost frantic 
 state. And then who was this man who 
 pretended to exercise this power over me? 
 I had known him but a few weeks; how 
 could I be sure that he had not some 
 sinister object in view. But then the truth 
 which exists in all men's consciences pro- 
 tested against this assumption. 
 
 ~No, it was too sadly true, there was some 
 terrible mystery hanging over Lucille ; yet I 
 could not warn her of it. I who would have 
 sacrificed everything for her protection, 
 was forbidden even to tell her that some 
 danger menaced the tranquillity which she 
 so loved and cherished. As I thought over 
 every moment I had passed there, how 
 happy I ought to have been a week or only 
 two days since, how I ought to have en- 
 joyed such golden days of youth ; and yet I 
 had almost allowed them to slip by only
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 247 
 
 partially or inadequately appreciated. 
 What would I not then have given to recall 
 them. Whatever secret passion I might 
 have felt now developed itself in a ten-fold 
 degree, by dwelling upon the subject. 
 
 I began to exaggerate the state of my 
 own feelings. Now that the attainment of 
 my object became almost impossible, I 
 doubly prized it. Such is our common 
 nature ; the prize is to be the unattainable. 
 Two weeks since I could have left compara- 
 tively without a pang; now, all nature was 
 covered with a black veil. 
 
 I kept pacing up and down, finding it 
 impossible to come to any fixed resolution, 
 when, on a sudden, a faintness overcame 
 me, and I lay down on the ground; 
 sob followed sob, and I burst into a flood 
 of tears, not silent tears, such as men shed 
 over passion's grave, but the burning gush- 
 ing tears from the heart. And then came 
 gentler feelings and less selfish thoughts;
 
 248 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 I reflected on the whole position of the 
 case, whether it would he nohle and gene- 
 rous in me to sacrifice what Vavasour 
 declared would eventually prove to he 
 Lucille's happiness, and that without any 
 chance of my ultimately succeeding* in 
 obtaining my object. True I could not 
 imagine any cause for this strange propo- 
 sition of Vavasour's, no solution could I 
 discover for this necessity? but the con- 
 versation, of which I had overheard some 
 scattered sentences, unhappily testified to 
 the truth of Vavasour's statement. 
 
 I had not mentioned to him the circum- 
 stance of my having been in the conser- 
 vatory that morning, for it would have 
 been like insisting upon a confidence which 
 it was clearly not in his power to make, and 
 I besides felt some hesitation and com- 
 punction in avowing that I remained and 
 overheard what was passing, even under 
 circumstances which I felt afforded a sufri-
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 249 
 
 cient excuse for my having done so ; but, 
 putting all these facts together, I could 
 not doubt that some revelation seriously 
 affecting Miss Belmont had been made by 
 Mr. Musgrave. But then there crossed my 
 mind another most important consideration ; 
 if such was the case, ought I not rather to 
 remain near to warn and protect her? 
 
 Again, I lost sight of the fact that 
 Lucille had never declared that she re- 
 turned my affection; after all, it might 
 only be the mere exertion of my own 
 imagination. When I came fairly to reflect, 
 I really had no valid ground to believe that 
 she took any greater interest in me than 
 would naturally be evinced towards any 
 friend of her brother, and yet, in spite of 
 this, a still small voice bid me (I was going 
 to write) hope, but how could I hope it, 
 that I was not indifferent to her, that my 
 first and freshest feelings had not been 
 entirely squandered?
 
 250 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 Again and again, the sense of my lone- 
 liness, the friendlessness of my position 
 overwhelmed me; I sat on the same spot, 
 like a man who has just left a bed of sick- 
 ness, only that my heart and not my body 
 was crushed.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 251 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mechanically I at last arose and proceeded 
 towards the house. The pain I had passed 
 through had been so severe that, like 
 physical suffering, my very weakness pro- 
 duced an anxiety for repose, and I mistook 
 prostration for calmness. I entered by a 
 small door to avoid meeting any one, and 
 found Yavasour in his room. 
 
 ■ Poor Cecil," he said, " I do feel for 
 you." 
 
 " I assure you," I answered, " I am quite 
 worn out, and have not strength to discuss
 
 252 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 the propriety of your views. I must adopt 
 them in implicit faith, for I am quite 
 ignorant upon what they are based; but I 
 am suffering, Vavasour, cruelly, intensely 
 suffering; my pain is greater than I can 
 hear." 
 
 " And yet," said Vavasour, " deeply as I 
 pity you, Carlyle says, 'there is some- 
 thing in life greater than happiness, it is 
 blessedness;' to suffer nobly and gallantly, 
 and, may I add it, for one one loves, is the 
 virtue of the really great; but look here, 
 Cecil," he turned round and I saw he was 
 very pale, and that his eyes were also swollen 
 with weeping; "look/' said he, as he 
 opened his waistcoat, and showed me the 
 miniature of a beautiful and youthful face. 
 "I grew up with this sweet object; it was 
 not an attachment like yours, of a few days, 
 but it dated by years. Well, she died, but 
 not suddenly, as the young mostly do, but 
 by a long, lingering and painful illness; and
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 253 
 
 I had to pray and to watch, and to watch 
 and to pray, but watches and prayers were 
 alike vain. 
 
 " Well, I have lived long since, and 
 many call me cold and indifferent; and, 
 indeed, for many years, I was so. I felt 
 like a man in a snow-drift, all my senses 
 benumbed; knowing not which way to turn, 
 and, like you, only praying that I might 
 fall asleep and let the world pass me. I 
 have lived within the circle of indifference, 
 and I will tell you, Cecil, as I told you the 
 first night we met, there is something worse 
 than even physical suffering, that is, satiety ; 
 never to suffer actively, never to feel, for, as 
 long as we possess sensations, we may rest 
 well assured that every sensation has its 
 reaction, whether from sorrow to joy, or 
 from joy to sorrow, they always move in the 
 same direction, with a trait-d'union be- 
 tween them. I have spoken to you about 
 myself, merely to give you the experience
 
 254 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 of one that has been tried; that active mis- 
 fortune is not the greatest of all evils. I 
 dread the dull, aching, constant pressure on 
 the mind and heart, more than the sharp, 
 acute agony which, when once passed away, 
 conveys, even to the sufferer himself, a sen- 
 sation of relief. 
 
 "'Aimer, souffrir le ciel et renfer: 
 voila ce que je voudrais,' writes Madame 
 de Stael. Look at the thousands of men 
 of education and refinement who drag on 
 an unbroken, monotonous existence, without 
 one charm of life's sunshine ; do you think 
 they would not prefer the tempest, aye, and 
 even the wreck, to their loathsome routine? 
 Believe me, to feel the energies of which 
 one is fully conscious gradually wasting 
 away, not in the roar of life's elements, but 
 like noble vessels rotting in the arsenal: 
 and that youth, so glorious in its attri- 
 butes, so vast in its conception and require- 
 ments, toiling, perhaps, for a sufficiency,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 255 
 
 which, when attained, the power of enjoy- 
 ment has passed away; to live on without 
 hope, without love, aye, even without fear; 
 this is worse than the worst sorrow." 
 
 After a long pause he continued, " You 
 have frequently been surprised at my 
 extreme intimacy with Lucille and her 
 family; I now consider it my duty to tell 
 you how it originated, although the subject 
 is a very painful one. I was her father's 
 bosom friend at college; I was, indeed, 
 several years his junior, for he had re- 
 mained long after he took his degree ; but 
 we were, like you and Dudley, quite inse- 
 parable. He went abroad when he was 
 about five-and-twenty, and I understood 
 that it was at Naples he fell in love with 
 the late Lady Belmont, Lucille's mother, 
 and she died during her confinement. 
 
 " I saw him soon after that event, for a 
 day or two, and his whole character had 
 changed; he had become harsh, morose,
 
 256 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 and impenetrable, as though a painful secret 
 were oppressing him, (would to God it had 
 never been revealed to me) ! He appeared 
 intensely devoted to his child, but seemed 
 to avoid all allusion to the mother's death. 
 He then resided at Genoa. Well, imagine 
 my surprise at learning from him the next 
 year that he had married again. His letter, 
 which announced this event, unlike his usual 
 letters, was very short and concise; he did 
 not even tell me the name of his new wife. 
 " At that time I was attached, through 
 your father's influence, to the Russian Em- 
 bassy, so our correspondence very much 
 slackened; but I was struck with the 
 bitterness which all his letters expressed; 
 he wrote like a soured and disappointed 
 man. On my return home I went down 
 to Henley for a week, and there I made the 
 acquaintance of the present lady. I need 
 scarcely tell you what I thought of her; 
 her manner was, if possible, still more
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 257 
 
 glacial and severe than it is now. To my 
 great surprise, Belmont, such a high- 
 minded, noble fellow, was quite afraid of 
 her. It was not so much what she said, 
 but her manner of saying it which affected 
 you so disagreeably. 
 
 ci At that time she seemed quite devoted 
 to her son ; he was then about two years of 
 age ; but it were impossible to describe to 
 you the antipathy which she appeared to 
 entertain for Lucille. I remember you re- 
 marked this in London. Well, it was, I can 
 assure you, far more apparent at this age. 
 What her secret influence over my friend was 
 I could not fathom ; and he, for some time, 
 carefully avoided the subject; at last, one 
 day, my heart sickened at her conduct. 
 
 " I was writing with him one day in his 
 study, when, without any remark, he put a mi- 
 niature into my hand ; it was the picture of 
 a lovely woman, in the prime of life. Around 
 the portrait and worked in hair was the 
 
 VOL. i. s
 
 258 LUCILLE BELMONT, 
 
 name Lucille. I only uttered the words 
 c most beautiful/ and returned it to him. 
 
 " ' Oh ! beautiful, indeed/ he said, and 
 then with unusual bitterness, he muttered, 
 1 1 may well say, look on this picture and 
 on this.' The words were scarcely out of 
 his mouth when the miniature was snatched 
 from his hand; I turned round. Lady 
 Belmont had overheard the observation, 
 the door of the library being open, she 
 had entered the room unperceived. 
 
 " She did not say one word, but, after 
 looking at poor Belmont steadily for a 
 minute, with the intense hatred of a woman 
 abandoned to despair, she threw it on the 
 ground, and trampled it under her foot. It 
 was a fearful scene ; Belmont rose slowly 
 from the seat into which he had fallen over- 
 come by his feelings; he did not speak one 
 word, neither did she move. Her lips were 
 firmly compressed; her eye fixed in its orbit, 
 and yet with the bold, brazened front — 
 
 " Of ono who docs not suffer wrong."
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 259 
 
 And Belmont himself, every muscle and 
 every nerve was shaking with suppressed 
 passion. I stood there completely para- 
 lyzed, when, with an effort, as though 
 nature was completely broken, and his 
 frame had been exhausted by suppressed 
 passion, he grasped her wrist. 
 
 u ' Incarnate fiend ! why have you done 
 this,' he muttered between his teeth, ' Ah, 
 if I dared ! ' 
 
 " ' Stay, William, I warn you,' she mur- 
 mured in a low whisper, and then in a still 
 lower tone, some words which I could not 
 catch; but they had such an effect upon 
 him, that he let go her arm, and sank into 
 the same chair from which he had risen, 
 burying his face in his hands. Not another 
 word passed between them, but she walked 
 boldly, almost majestically out of the room. 
 It was the majesty of evil, the power of 
 darkness. Meanwhile he remained in the 
 same place, and his whole frame quivered 
 
 s2
 
 260 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 either with rage or fear: but he picked up 
 the miniature, which was not much damaged. 
 
 " I was on the point of leaving the room, 
 when he made me a sign to remain, and 
 then made me promise never to allude to 
 this scene; a promise which I have solemnly 
 kept until this hour. But now the cir- 
 cumstances are changed, and I feel that I 
 owe you some kind of explanation. I left 
 Henley in utter disgust at the woman, and 
 mingled astonishment and pity at the suf- 
 ferings of my poor friend. 
 
 " It was long after when we met again. I 
 was then living in London, and on return- 
 ing home one night my servant told me that 
 a wild, strange gentleman had called upon 
 me; that at first he talked of waiting until 
 my return, but he soon became so rest- 
 less that he had taken his departure, pro- 
 mising to come back early next morning. 
 I had so entirely lost sight of Sir William, 
 since the time I have told you, that it never
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 261 
 
 once occurred to me who this stranger 
 was, and great was my surprise the next 
 morning to see my old friend entering the 
 room, and oh, how sadly changed ! His step 
 had lost all its elasticity, his eye all its 
 brightness, he seemed thoroughly care-worn; 
 after a short time I ventured to ask him 
 about his children. 
 
 * I was grieved to observe that he spoke 
 coldly enough about Henry. But when I 
 mentioned the darling Lucille, his eyes 
 rilled with tears; 'as for Henry/ he said, 
 ' his mother is obtaining far too great an 
 influence over him;' but Lucille is my pet, 
 and doats upon me. ( But why/ I asked, 
 s do you permit Lady Belmont to exercise 
 such a controul over your son's mind?' 
 
 " ' Permit her ! gracious heaven, Vavasour, 
 do you suppose I would not prevent it if 
 I could? I tell you, my friend, that woman 
 is an evil spirit, breathing wretchedness 
 and malice wherever she goes.'
 
 262 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 " ' Then/ I replied, c why, by all that is 
 sacred, not separate from her?' 
 
 " At this question the paleness of his 
 countenance turned to an ashy ghastly hue. 
 
 " ' No, it is impossible/ he murmured. 
 
 " ' Impossible/ I asked, ( and why so?' 
 
 " It was a long time before I could obtain 
 any reply, at length the flood-gates burst 
 open. 
 
 " ' Vavasour/ he exclaimed, ' Vavasour, 
 my dear fellow/ raising his head, and show- 
 ing a countenance in which the greatest 
 agitation was depicted, ' Oh, God, if I 
 could only but leave her. How comes it that 
 you do not ask me why I married her? 
 Curse it, do you think I would have married 
 such a she-wolf, that I would have linked 
 myself to such a creeping crawling reptile, 
 unless I had been forced to do it ?' 
 
 " ' Forced/ I repeated, i why, how could 
 you be forced into such a marriage ? ' 
 
 " i Fate, fate ! ' he exclaimed, i that fate
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 263 
 
 against the fulfilment of which no man can 
 rebel, however he may repine; how does 
 one perform fifty-and-one untoward acts, 
 upon any one of which your whole happi- 
 ness in life may depend, without being able 
 to make any other reply, if questioned why 
 you did so and so, than that it was your 
 wretched fate, your miserable destiny. 
 You have seen that woman ; now tell me, 
 Vavasour, can you imagine any one in his 
 senses marrying her ? ' 
 
 u I was forced to admit that it seemed to 
 me a bold experiment ; but, I added, ' I can 
 imagine fate doing much, but scarcely com- 
 pelling a man to marry a woman against 
 his will.' 
 
 " He did not notice this remark, but ap- 
 peared absorbed in an intense overwhelming 
 melancholy. 
 
 "'Oh!' he exclaimed, ' Vavasour, had 
 you but known Lucille, her voice was like 
 a young bird's call, an atmosphere of joy
 
 264 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 surrounded her, her cheek's bloom was so 
 soft, that love might nestle there as on the 
 tenderest flower. Oh, how I watched each 
 movement, till my heart grew too big for 
 utterance, and then I wept for love. Hea- 
 vens, what a change is now. It is true men 
 pay for every sensation, and I am paying a 
 heavy price for mine.' 
 
 " ' What can I do, dear Belmont, to com- 
 fort you,' I said. 
 
 " ' Oh, my Ood ! ' said or rather shrieked 
 the poor man, ' only think of my having 
 been such an egregious fool; but could I 
 have done otherwise,' muttered he to him- 
 self, but still so distinctly that I could catch 
 every word, ' what was the alternative, ruin, 
 ruin, ruin, for all I hold most dear, even to 
 separate was to be lost, I damned my own 
 happiness to save my child's.' 
 
 "'How do you mean, Belmont ? ' I said. 
 'surely you are mad.' 
 
 " ' Not quite mad yet/ he continued, in
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 265 
 
 that slow, solemn manner which is so much 
 more impressive than even wild, impas- 
 sioned utterance ; ' not quite mad yet, but 
 mark you, Vavasour, I soon shall be so, for 
 I feel as though my brain were sometimes 
 floating in liquid fire. I am utterly 
 wretched, Vavasour;' and he clasped my 
 arm with an iron and maniac grasp. * You 
 do not know what it is, Vavasour, to be 
 tied like a dog to an object you hate; to 
 hear a screeching, night-owl voice perpe- 
 tually ringing in your ears, — a hateful coun- 
 tenance perpetually blasting you with her 
 bitter presence and accursed smiles. Oh, 
 if you only knew what this, is but for 
 one week! I tell you what, Vavasour, I 
 never wish to meet her again, but once; 
 yes, but once, that is when we meet in 
 hell.' 
 
 "<Oh, this is terrible,' I said, ' Bel- 
 mont.' 
 
 " ' Kot so terrible as the reality,' he re-
 
 266 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 plied, 'but look here, Yavasour, tell me 
 honestly, do you not know who this Lady 
 Belmont/ he spoke the word with the most 
 bitter accent, 'was?' 
 
 " * 'No, indeed/ I said, i I heard her name 
 was Staunton.' 
 
 " ' Then you do know/ he said, with a 
 quick and irritable accent. 
 
 " ' This is precisely as much as I know/ 
 was my reply, * you have it all, neither more 
 nor less ; but of anything respecting her 
 family and antecedents I am quite igno- 
 rant.' 
 
 u ' Then you shall be enlightened/ he 
 exclaimed, ' she was my wife's maid.' 
 'It is not possible!' I exclaimed. 
 ' Not possible, and why not? why should 
 not a man marry his wife's maid ? Of course, 
 under the circumstances, it was a curious 
 marriage, but then those circumstances are 
 entirely unknown to you.' 
 
 " ' Then, of course/ I answered, ' I may 
 
 6i
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 267 
 
 assume what were the circumstances under 
 which you married her.' 
 
 u ' Pshaw, I know what you imagine, 
 Vavasour;' he replied, with a ghastly sneer, 
 <I know what you mean; look at the woman, 
 do you think I would touch her lips for 
 millions? She is leprous, Sir, she is leprous: 
 but you say nothing, Vavasour ! ' 
 
 "' Why, what am I to say?' I replied. 
 'You tell me such a sorrowful and mise- 
 rable tale, I can only mourn for and with 
 you; but I recommend you to separate.' 
 
 " ' I repeat once again, I dare not ; ' and 
 then, after a pause — 
 
 " ' You are my friend, Vavasour, my old, 
 my only friend, so I may whisper it to you. 
 Don't you think that I must have had 
 some overpowering reason to marry such 
 a wife ? ' 
 
 " * You told me your reason once, I re- 
 member ; you were wretched, and wished to 
 be distracted.'
 
 266 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 plied, ' but look here, Vavasour, tell me 
 honestly, do you not know who this Lady 
 Belmont,' he spoke the word with the most 
 bitter accent, 'was?' 
 
 " ' Hb, indeed,' I said, ' I heard her name 
 was Staunton.' 
 
 " * Then you do know,' he said, with a 
 quick and irritable accent. 
 
 " ' This is precisely as much as I know,' 
 was my reply, ' you have it all, neither more 
 nor less ; but of anything respecting* her 
 family and antecedents I am quite igno- 
 rant.' 
 
 u ' Then you shall be enlightened,' he 
 exclaimed, ' she was my wife's maid.' 
 'It is not possible!' I exclaimed. 
 * Not possible, and why not? why should 
 not a man marry his wife's maid? Of course, 
 under the circumstances, it was a curious 
 marriage, but then those circumstances are 
 entirely unknown to you.' 
 
 " ' Then, of course,' I answered, ( I may 

 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 267 
 
 assume what were the circumstances under 
 which you married her.' 
 
 " ' Pshaw, I know what you imagine, 
 Vavasour;' he replied, with a ghastly sneer, 
 'I know what you mean; look at the woman, 
 do you think I would touch her lips for 
 millions? She is leprous, Sir, she is leprous: 
 but you say nothing, Vavasour ! ' 
 
 "' Why, what am I to say?' I replied. 
 'You tell me such a sorrowful and mise- 
 rable tale, I can only mourn for and with 
 you; but I recommend you to separate.' 
 
 " ' I repeat once again, I dare not ; ' and 
 then, after a pause — 
 
 " £ You are my friend, Vavasour, my old, 
 my only friend, so I may whisper it to you. 
 Don't you think that I must have had 
 some overpowering reason to marry such 
 a wife ? ' 
 
 " ' You told me your reason once, I re- 
 member ; you were wretched, and wished to 
 be distracted.'
 
 270 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 " Then, after a pause, he turned suddenly 
 to me and said, 'It's quite a romance, 
 is'n't it ? ' 
 
 " e I would it were one,' I replied. 
 
 " ' Yes, but then, confound it, it's real 
 life,' he exclaimed, or rather shrieked out ; 
 6 it's real, burning, unquenchable existence ; 
 do you know, I have often contemplated 
 suicide ! ' 
 
 "And on he continued, in the same 
 wild and fearful strain; at last the expres- 
 sion of his misery and grief subdued it, and 
 he became a little calmer; and he left me, 
 promising to see me much more frequently 
 and to write constantly. 
 
 " You may imagine what an effect this 
 wretched man's disclosure had on me. 
 What this secret was, I could not possibly 
 imagine, nor did I choose to press the dis- 
 closure; yet it was quite evident that he 
 had told me nothing but the truth. Two 
 years after this conversation I heard of his
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 271 
 
 being at Henley very unwell ; and, although 
 it was quite repugnant to me to do so, I 
 determined on coining here again. To my 
 great surprise I found he was infinitely more 
 tranquil and reconciled to his fate. As, in 
 all great evils, a crisis had occurred when his 
 violence overcame her ladyship's audacity, 
 and, since then, he had enjoyed a compara- 
 tively quiet life. They inhabited different 
 apartments, Lucille was entirely with him, 
 and Henry was with his mother. 
 
 "Even to me, whenever we met, Lady 
 Belmont had become more complaisant, 
 and I began to hope that he had exagge- 
 rated in the statements he had made me; 
 but I observed that he never touched on 
 the topic again; and I thought I could 
 perceive he regretted having said so much. 
 I left with much more comfortable feelings 
 than I had done on the previous occasion. 
 
 "Well, time passed on; I was appointed 
 to a special embassy to South America, and
 
 272 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 what with travelling and public occupa- 
 tion I saw very little of Belmont until 
 within the last five years of his life, then we 
 became quite inseparable. He had come to 
 some kind of arrangement with her lady- 
 ship, and, although no public separation had 
 taken place, she always managed to be in 
 town when he was in the country, and when 
 he left Henley, she invariably arrived there. 
 " Lucille was, at that time, a most beau- 
 tiful child, and I cannot tell you, although 
 you can well imagine, how attached I 
 became to her. It was about a year pre- 
 vious to Henry's going to college that he 
 had some correspondence with his father, 
 which, I could see, affected him very deeply, 
 and he soon relapsed into that state of 
 melancholy from which there had previously 
 been such difficulty in arousing him. It 
 was then that he proposed we should go 
 abroad for six months, to which, to Lucille's 
 great delight, I gladly assented.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 273 
 
 " The movement and excitement of the 
 voyage had an excellent effect upon him, 
 and he was gradually improving in health, 
 when, one day at a small town on the 
 Rhine, we went together to visit a church 
 which had recently been renewed, and, we 
 were told, contained some very beautiful 
 monuments ; there was, in particular, one of 
 singular and admirable execution ; it was a 
 young lady in her shroud, but she had in 
 her hand what had been a bouquet of 
 flowers, but the leaves had fallen on the 
 bed and drapery, and nothing but the mere 
 stalks remained. 
 
 " I called his attention to it by an excla- 
 mation of admiration, when he stood like a 
 man transfixed. 
 
 "'Good God!' he exclaimed, 'it is her; 
 the same features; the same repose; the 
 same soft, gentle smile:' he rushed to the 
 monument and covered the marble with his 
 kisses. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 u Lucille was examining a picture in 
 another part of the church when she heard 
 a cry, and, turning round, saw her father in 
 this frantic and ungovernable state. He 
 sobbed quite like a child; fortunately, no 
 stranger was there to witness this extraor- 
 dinary scene. At last we managed to drag 
 him away; but that evening, after a hurried 
 dinner, he left the hotel, and had not 
 returned at ten o'clock at night. AVe 
 became alarmed; I immediately imagined 
 he had returned to the chapel, and, as I 
 thought, there he was found at the foot of 
 the monument. We used every effort to 
 induce him to return, but which he, at first, 
 absolutely refused; but, in consequence of 
 the terribly excited state in which he 
 remained, it was necessary to use something 
 approaching to compulsion. 
 
 "He became quieter when we got him 
 home; so we left him. We were awoke in 
 the middle of the night by a horrid shriek
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 275 
 
 and the report of a pistol. We rushed to 
 his room-door, it was locked; and, when we 
 burst it open, he was quite dead." 
 
 " What a shock for poor Lucille." 
 
 "Yes, indeed; for two months she 
 never left her bed. It was this illness and 
 the terrible mental suffering she endured 
 which has undermined her constitution ; for, 
 I must tell you, Cecil, a very sad truth, that 
 she is consumptive. Doctor H., who attends 
 the family, told me that she might, with 
 time and care, recover her strength; but 
 that any sudden shock might be fatal to 
 her. This is an additional reason for my 
 insisting so strongly, I hope you would 
 not add so impertinently, on the propriety 
 of your adopting such conduct towards her 
 on this occasion which may avert suffering 
 from her." 
 
 I made no comment on this observation. 
 
 "We returned to England," he con- 
 tinued, after a pause. " I found then, that, 
 
 t2
 
 27G LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 by the will, although I was not named 
 one of the guardians, Lady Belmont was, 
 under certain penalties, bound to consult 
 me on most arrangements relating to 
 Lucille: the consequence was, that I was 
 thrown necessarily a great deal into their 
 society. And Lady Belmont, finding that 
 it was absolutely essential to behave civilly 
 towards me, gradually became more and 
 more agreeable in her manners, and my 
 time passed far from unpleasantly. Lucille 
 had the most extraordinary, it might 
 almost have been called, the most extrava- 
 gant affection for her father's memory ; the 
 fearful death which he suffered; all the 
 circumstances of his wild, impassioned 
 career worked upon her imagination. 
 
 " You remember that the day we called 
 together in Berkeley Square, she gave me 
 a small packet; that was a miniature of 
 him which I have here," and unlocking a 
 small desk he took out the portrait of a
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 277 
 
 man in the prime of life, with that deep, 
 inexpressible melancholy in his countenance 
 which we trace in all the portraits of Van- 
 dyke, and especially in those of Strafford 
 and Charles I., which made the Spanish 
 Ambassador, at the time of Charles's coro- 
 nation, foretell that he would die a violent 
 death. 
 
 " If you remember," he continued, " she 
 gave me this very secretly, which, perhaps," 
 and he smiled as he said this, " suggested 
 certain doubts in your mind; but it was a 
 topic which led to so much irritation, Sir 
 William's very name was so odious to Lady 
 Belmont, that I thought it better on all 
 occasions to avoid pronouncing it; and now, 
 my dear Cecil, having given you this sketch 
 of the family, having assured you that, 
 independent of all this interest, all these 
 peculiar circumstances in Lucille 's case, 
 there is yet one point which has come to my 
 knowledge this day, but which I can never
 
 278 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 reveal to you. Tell me, have I not given 
 you sufficient reasons to satisfy your con- 
 fidence in me, and to enable me to ask you 
 to relieve that poor girl from the possibility 
 of a marriage, which I boldly assure you 
 may lead to her ruin, and from an attach- 
 ment which will insure her wretchedness?" 
 
 I waited for some minutes after he had 
 ceased speaking, and then with my head 
 buried in my hands, in a low voice ex- 
 pressed my resolution to depart from 
 Henley. It was my first conquest of 
 principle over passion. 
 
 He took my hand kindly. 
 
 " Yes, Vavasour," I said, " I will go. I 
 will place a perfect confidence in all you 
 tell me. I will root out this selfishness 
 from my heart. Oh, but the task is pain- 
 ful, so painful, that even now I must act on 
 impulse, or my strength will fail me." 
 Poor Cecil, how I feel for you." 
 Oh, you indeed well may," I said, "for 

 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 279 
 
 my sufferings are very great; who could 
 have imagined one day would have made 
 such a change in my position ? I was so 
 happy yesterday, Vavasour; it is true that 
 Lucille never told me that she loved me, but 
 I fondly imagined that she did so. Now 
 my whole career is crushed: would to G-od 
 I had never seen her !" 
 
 Yavasour was a man of the world, far 
 too much so to attempt to check such ex- 
 pressions. He well knew that there is no 
 argument against grief, against passion, 
 when it is so painfully expressed, the 
 only way is to bring another opposing 
 passion. 
 
 " It is a generous act," he whispered, 
 rather than expressed aloud, " it is some- 
 thing, Cecil, at your time of life to have 
 the opportunity of conferring, if not happi- 
 ness, at least repose upon another. You 
 will answer me, that you are robbed of the 
 same repose which you confer; surely this
 
 280 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 in itself should be no slight consolation to 
 you. Good done in secret, is like a lamp 
 in darkness, doubly to be prized. And oh, 
 remember, Cecil, that which has been bo 
 truly said, i the consequences of our actions 
 never die.' " 
 
 I was worked up into a fictitious state of 
 self-denial, almost of enthusiasm. The 
 heart has its sacrifices, which it sometimes 
 offers on the altar of self. My self-denial 
 was fast becoming egotism. 
 
 " God bless you, dear Graham, I was sure 
 you would decide this way," replied Vava- 
 sour ; " there can be but one course which, 
 under these circumstances, a man of honour 
 would adopt, and you have chosen it, but 
 be assured you will not regret having acted 
 so nobly. When do you go ? " 
 
 "I will ring for my servant," I said, 
 rising with painful effort, which I in vain 
 endeavour to repress, "and start in two 
 hours."
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 281 
 
 " You will not see Lucille I think you 
 said/' continued Vavasour, " it were better 
 not, believe me." 
 
 I nodded assent and left the room.
 
 282 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I went to my bed-room, and then, when 
 alone, I accused myself of intense weakness, 
 of weakly yielding to the suggestions of 
 Vavasour, but with his power of thought 
 and magic of the mind, whenever I was in 
 his presence, he subjected my will to his. I 
 sat down by the window, and feasted on 
 that glorious prospect which I was to see 
 for the last time. The clouds of the morn- 
 ing had all dispersed, and the sun shone 
 warmly and merrily on the blue sea and 
 hill side. As I sat in my accustomed
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 283 
 
 place, I could not believe in the scenes 
 which I had gone through, but my servant 
 coming into the room, and the variety of 
 questions which under such circumstances 
 all servants think it necessary to ask, as- 
 sured me that my departure was at hand. 
 
 I did not dare change my mind, and yet 
 would have given all I possessed to have 
 delayed it. At that moment Dudley en- 
 tered, " Why," said he, " Cecil, what is this 
 sudden move for? I was at the stable when 
 I heard one of the servants say that you 
 were going away: nothing has happened, 
 has there?" 
 
 " No," I replied, " dear Dudley, I cannot 
 quite explain to you the reason, but I am 
 obliged to go, I leave this place with the 
 deepest regret;" I continued, almost in 
 tears, u but you know, Dudley, I tell you 
 everything, and perhaps some day may ex- 
 plain this to you; at present you will 
 spare me."
 
 284 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 He looked quite disconcerted, and now, 
 for the first time, it flashed upon my mind, 
 it would be supposed that Lucille had 
 refused me ; well, better so. 
 
 " I wish," said he, " I had known this 
 sooner, for then we could have left to- 
 gether; now I am forced to remain here 
 for two or three days, as my uncle is com- 
 ing into the neighbourhood at that ♦time, 
 and I have promised to join him. 
 
 " I am so sorry you are going, dear 
 Cecil," and he took my hand. I endea- 
 voured to smile kindly, but it was a pain- 
 ful effort ; he saw it, and turned away. 
 
 " Will you explain to her, I mean to 
 Miss Belmont," I said, " that I was called 
 away very suddenly? AVill you tell her 
 how sorry I was to leave, and here is a 
 book, which I promised to lend her." It 
 was the beautiful romance of Picciola, but 
 my affections had grown more rapidly than 
 the flower.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 285 
 
 "Write to me, Dudley." 
 
 " That I will, every day," he exclaimed ; 
 " you are nearly the only person I ever do 
 write to. And Lady Belmont," he con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " I will go and see her," I said, " and say 
 good-bye to her while my things are pre- 
 
 paring." 
 
 I sent the servant to ask if I could 
 see her ladyship, and was immediately 
 shown into her room; she rose from her 
 writing-desk when I entered, and, suffering 
 as I was, I was quite surprised at the 
 change which had been worked in her coun- 
 tenance since the preceding evening; her 
 eyes were quite sunk in her head, her 
 cheeks were ghastly pale, the sneering 
 smile had given place to a look of such 
 intense sorrow, that even her worst enemy, 
 and she must have had no small number, 
 could not have failed to pity her; when she 
 spoke her voice quite failed, and she indi-
 
 286 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 cated, rather by a sign than by words, that 
 she wished me to sit down. 
 
 " I hear you are going, Mr. Graham/' 
 she said, after a pause. 
 
 I scarcely knew what to reply. She saw 
 my confusion, and must well have known 
 the cause, and she continued more rapidly: 
 
 " I never ask for reasons or explanations 
 when visitors leave me," she said ; " there 
 is nothing more inconvenient than to have 
 to enter into long histories, which are 
 frequently unintelligible to those to whom 
 they are related; but I have had great 
 pleasure in your company, and " 
 
 She would have continued, "wish you 
 may return," but she could not pronounce 
 the words. 
 
 No, it was too evident from her whole 
 manner, that, for some reason or another, 
 she wished me to leave. 
 
 "Miss Belmont," she continued, "is, 
 I am afraid, not at home to say good-bye
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 287 
 
 to you, she has driven over to ^Torthcote, 
 with a note to Mr. Foster." 
 
 I could almost have thanked her, cold, 
 ungracious, heartless, as I believed her in 
 my heart to be, for relieving me from the 
 distressing necessity of either bidding 
 Lucille farewell, or leaving her without one 
 word of kindness, while she was in the 
 house. It was quite evident, from what 
 Vavasour had said, that he was ignorant of 
 this visit to Mr. Foster; the arrangement 
 had evidently been made by Lady Bel- 
 mont, and with the express object of 
 keeping her out of the way. 
 
 In a few minutes I rose and left the 
 room; the dry, feverish, shrunken hand was 
 extended to me; the servant came to 
 announce the carriage. Yavasour and 
 Dudley were both present. 
 
 " Let us hope for better times," whispered 
 the former. 
 
 Dudley looked much distressed. " Come,"
 
 288 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 said he, "after all, is it absolutely essential 
 that you should leave? there is yet time to 
 change your mind." 
 
 Oh, worst of monitors! how eagerly I was 
 on the point of leaping at the suggestion. 
 The horses pawed the ground, the servant 
 had his hand upon the handle of the door, 
 but there was still time, it was not quite 
 too late, I might still be so happy. Men 
 who have been saved from drowning, tell 
 us that, in the two minutes of unconscious- 
 ness, all the circumstances of their past life 
 rush vividly through the brain; so, during 
 these seconds of hesitation and doubt, I 
 recalled all my happiness, I foresaw all the 
 misery I should feel the moment I was once 
 alone. Dudley, who remarked my uncer- 
 tainty, at once supposed he had been mis- 
 taken in his first supposition, and renewed 
 his entreaties. 
 
 I looked up and saw Vavasour's glance 
 fixed earnestly upon me, it said as clearly
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 289 
 
 as glance could speak, " Go, go." I sum- 
 moned all my courage, and approaching 
 Dudley, whispered to him : " No, my dear, 
 kind, good friend, do not ask me, I ought 
 to go; I must go." 
 
 "Well," said he; "I am sure you have 
 some excellent reason, I say no more. I 
 shall not, indeed, half enjoy the few re- 
 maining rides. But wherever you are, 
 Cecil, believe in my friendship ; God bless 
 you." 
 
 I shook his hand warmly. The servants 
 were all loitering about, as they will do 
 when any visitor is on the wing. I dared 
 not raise my eyes to theirs, but when in the 
 carriage I gave one look at Vavasour; the 
 door was slammed to; and not until then, I 
 laid my head in my hands, and wept bitterly. 
 
 There is excitement in the act of travel- 
 ling; there is something in the roll of a 
 carriage which calms the mind, while it 
 distracts the attention. For the first two 
 hours after the last God speed had been 
 
 vol. i. u 
 
 *
 
 290 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 uttered, I could not collect my thoughts; I 
 could not believe in the reality of my past 
 happiness and present sacrifice. Oh! the 
 power of the human voice. Oh! the spell 
 which one mind can exercise over another. 
 Could I, by my own unaided reflections, my 
 own convictions of the right, have attained 
 to this result? Alas! no. 
 
 And where, then, was the merit of my 
 conduct? The moment this idea crossed 
 my mind it redoubled the activity of my 
 grief, for, until that moment, I had been 
 buoyed up by the feeling that my own con- 
 science had been the guardian of my heart. 
 But now I was too truly aware that it was 
 to Vavasour and Vavasour alone the victory 
 was due. Meanwhile, on I rolled through 
 copse, wild moor, through village and ill- 
 paved town, but all passed unnoticed. I 
 had but one thought, namely, that every 
 roll of the wheel bore me further away 
 from Henley; and at last I reached Totness, 
 where I intended sleeping.
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 291 
 
 It was the assize week, so the hotel was 
 unusually full. I was forced to sit in the 
 public coffee- room, and my bed-room was 
 one of those small, wretched, cold, damp- 
 looking apartments, which chill the senses 
 to look at. People may say what they 
 please about the absorbing character of 
 grief, but I have always found that a man 
 is never more susceptible of physical dis- 
 comforts than when he is unhappy; when 
 the heart is light and gay, it overleaps, 
 with elastic bound, all the petty annoyances 
 and stumbling-blocks of material life; but 
 the senses become refined not subdued by 
 affliction, where the spirit is not utterly 
 broken and annihilated, the feverish and 
 restless state only serves to make it seek 
 the softest couch and most luxurious sanc- 
 tuary. 
 
 As it was, nothing brought so palpably 
 so practically before me the change which 
 had taken place in my fortunes and des- 
 tiny, as the contrast between the mullioned 
 
 u 2
 
 292 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 chastely-lighted hall and library of Henley, 
 and the low, gas-lit, close, crowded, stained 
 room in which it was proposed that I 
 should dine; between the low, silvery, 
 fountain-falling voice of Lucille, and the 
 loud, coarse, broad-aspirated expressions of 
 the bluff, well-conditioned farmers and com- 
 mercial travellers sitting around me. Those 
 men who, we are told, contain all the sound 
 practical sense of the country, and who are 
 only too disposed to depreciate all other 
 classes of their fellow men, and to shut 
 their eyes to all that is passing around 
 them. My heart sickened within me; as 
 for dining there, it was quite out of the 
 question; and, although it was still early, I 
 at once desired to be shown to my bed- 
 room. Then it was in the loneliness of my 
 soul that the struggle commenced; that I 
 had time to reflect on all the strange reve- 
 lations made to me by Vavasour; of the 
 still darker revelation which remained 
 behind; that Vavasour had, in nothing,
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 293 
 
 exaggerated, I believed; and my conscience 
 told me that he was justified in the advice 
 he gave me. But then came the uncon- 
 trolled sense of my own miserable disap- 
 pointment, and even, as I dwelt on that, all 
 the good and manly resolution to which I 
 had worked myself up, deserted me. 
 
 Eray man has two Arabias in his heart — 
 the one full of freshness, fertility, and odour; 
 the other sandy, arid, and desert; I had 
 within a few hours passed from the one to 
 the other. All the flowers, and fresh buds, 
 and verdure of my heart, had been swept 
 away before the breath of one man. Chal- 
 mers has so beautifully remarked, that when- 
 ever a human being possesses a faculty which 
 is unemployed, it becomes to him a source of 
 pain; but there I was with all my faculties, 
 all my capacities of love and devotion ; that 
 which is worse than unoccupied, occupied 
 entirely with the unattainable; and so I 
 went to bed quite worn out with my emo- 
 tions, and heaviness lay like lead upon my
 
 294 LUCILLE BELMONT. v 
 
 eye-lids; but as men over-fatigued, although 
 they are worn away with damp, watchings, 
 and privations, turn restlessly from side to 
 side in bed, but seek uselessly for repose ; 
 so the lacerated heart cannot be nursed to 
 sleep. Hour after hour passed by, and I 
 listened to the clock, as it struck the 
 quarters. 
 
 No, the greater effort I made to sleep, 
 the more sleep fled from me; and then it 
 was as if all the scenes of happiness I had 
 passed through, all the day-dreams which 
 replaced the dreams of night crowded upon 
 my brain, that I became excited almost to 
 madness. I raised myself in my bed, as if 
 all the muscles of my body had been turned 
 into iron; I cried aloud in desperation; I 
 thought what a weak-minded fool I had 
 been to give way to Vavasour; might he 
 not have had some sinister object in telling 
 me this tale. How could I trust any other 
 in the sacred secrets of my own heart ? and 
 then, was not love the holiest and noblest
 
 LUCILLE BELMONT. 295 
 
 of religions? What argument could pos- 
 sibly induce me to sacrifice the shrine at 
 which I had worshipped, and to desecrate 
 its sanctity. Had I not unveiled the mys- 
 tery, trod with my sandals on sacred ground? 
 And now I was separated. 
 
 And Yavasour with his sweet, melodious 
 voice, and earnest expression, could even 
 for a moment persuade me that such fever- 
 ish excitement and suffering as I endured 
 was preferable to a dull and monotonous 
 existence. "Oh, vain mockery!" I ex- 
 claimed, "give me months of the lotos- 
 eating life, rather than one night of the 
 bitterness I was enduring." I rose and 
 staggered to the window; it was a dull, 
 melancholy night, and a few heavy drops 
 of rain were falling on the pavement, the 
 ill-lit lamps reflected the pools of wet. 
 There was a sad silence, or rather every- 
 thing appeared sad like my own spirit; and 
 yet in that very street on that very night,
 
 296 LUCILLE BELMONT. 
 
 there was probably much love, truth, and 
 happiness. 
 
 I leaned out of the window, and the rain 
 fell unnoticed on my head. I no longer 
 reflected, I could only mourn, and, worst of 
 all, I mourned my last act of folly in leav- 
 ing. How long I remained there, I scarcely 
 know; I must have fallen asleep, for I was 
 aroused by the dampness and cold. The 
 wet was driving into the room, and yet I 
 had not noticed it; but this numbness of 
 my nerves had the effect of deadening the 
 sensations of my mind, when I dragged 
 myself to bed. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONMMI : 
 
 rntKTF.D T1Y T. II. HA11RISON, ST. MARTIN'S I.WS,