We expose our life to a quotidian ague of frigid
impertinences, which would make a wise man tremble to think
of.--COWLEY.
We must suppose a lapse of four years from the date of those events
which concluded the last chapter; and, to recompence the reader, who I
know has a little penchant for “High Life,” even in the last century,
for having hitherto shown him human beings in a state of society
not wholly artificial, I beg him to picture to himself a large room,
brilliantly illuminated, and crowded “with the magnates of the land.”
Here, some in saltatory motion, some in sedentary rest, are dispersed
various groups of young ladies and attendant swains, talking upon the
subject of Lord Rochester’s celebrated poem,--namely, “Nothing!”--and
lounging around the doors, meditating probably upon the same subject,
stand those unhappy victims of dancing daughters, denominated “Papas.”
The music has ceased; the dancers have broken up; and there is a general
but gentle sweep towards the refreshment-room. In the crowd--having
just entered--there glided a young man of an air more distinguished and
somewhat more joyous than the rest.
“How do you do, Mr. Linden?” said a tall and (though somewhat passe)
very handsome woman, blazing with diamonds; “are you just come?”
And, here, by the way, I cannot resist pausing to observe that a friend
of mine, meditating a novel, submitted a part of the manuscript to
a friendly publisher. “Sir,” said the bookseller, “your book is very
clever, but it wants dialogue.”
“Dialogue!” cried my friend: “you mistake; it is all dialogue.”
“Ay, sir, but not what we call dialogue; we want a little conversation
in fashionable life,--a little elegant chit-chat or so: and, as you must
have seen so much of the beau monde, you could do it to the life: we
must have something light and witty and entertaining.”
“Light, witty, and entertaining!” said our poor friend; “and how the
deuce, then, is it to be like conversation in ‘fashionable life’? When
the very best conversation one can get is so insufferably dull, how do
you think people will be amused by reading a copy of the very worst?”
“They are amused, sir,” said the publisher; “and works of this kind
sell!”
“I am convinced,” said my friend; for he was a man of a placid temper:
he took the hint, and his book did sell!
Now this anecdote rushed into my mind after the penning of the little
address of the lady in diamonds,--“How do you do, Mr. Linden? Are
you just come?”--and it received an additional weight from my utter
inability to put into the mouth of Mr. Linden--notwithstanding my desire
of representing him in the most brilliant colours--any more happy and
eloquent answer than, “Only this instant!”
However, as this is in the true spirit of elegant dialogue, I trust my
readers find it as light, witty, and entertaining as, according to the
said publisher, the said dialogue is always found by the public.
While Clarence was engaged in talking with this lady, a very pretty,
lively, animated girl, with laughing blue eyes, which, joined to the
dazzling fairness of her complexion, gave a Hebe-like youth to her
features and expression, was led up to the said lady by a tall young
man, and consigned, with the ceremonious bow of the vieille tour, to her
protection.
“Ah, Mr. Linden,” cried the young lady, “I am very glad to see
you,--such a beautiful ball!--Everybody here that I most like. Have you
had any refreshments, Mamma? But I need not ask, for I am sure you have
not; do come, Mr. Linden will be our cavalier.”
“Well, Flora, as you please,” said the elderly lady, with a proud
and fond look at her beautiful daughter; and they proceeded to the
refreshment-room.
No sooner were they seated at one of the tables, than they were accosted
by Lord St. George, a nobleman whom Clarence, before he left England,
had met more than once at Mr. Talbot’s.
“London,” said his lordship to her of the diamonds, “has not seemed like
the same place since Lady Westborough arrived; your presence brings
out all the other luminaries: and therefore a young acquaintance of
mine--God bless me, there he is, seated by Lady Flora--very justly
called you the ‘evening star.’”
“Was that Mr. Linden’s pretty saying?” said Lady Westborough, smiling.
“It was,” answered Lord St. George; “and, by the by, he is a very
sensible, pleasant person, and greatly improved since he left England
last.”
“What!” said Lady Westborough, in a low tone (for Clarence, though in
earnest conversation with Lady Flora, was within hearing), and making
room for Lord St. George beside her, “what! did you know him before he
went to ----? You can probably tell me, then, who--that is to say--what
family he is exactly of--the Lindens of Devonshire, or--or--”
“Why, really,” said Lord St. George, a little confused, for no man likes
to be acquainted with persons whose pedigree he cannot explain, “I don’t
know what may be his family: I met him at Talbot’s four or five years
ago; he was then a mere boy, but he struck me as being very clever, and
Talbot since told me that he was a nephew of his own.”
“Talbot,” said Lady Westborough, musingly, “what Talbot?”
“Oh! the Talbot--the ci-devant jeune homme!”
“What, that charming, clever, animated old gentleman, who used to dress
so oddly, and had been so celebrated a beau garcon in his day?”
“Exactly so,” said Lord St. George, taking snuff, and delighted to find
he had set his young acquaintance on so honourable a footing.
“I did not know he was still alive,” said Lady Westborough, and
then, turning her eyes towards Clarence and her daughter, she added
carelessly, “Mr. Talbot is very rich, is he not?”
“Rich as Croesus,” replied Lord St. George, with a sigh.
“And Mr. Linden is his heir, I suppose?”
“In all probability,” answered Lord St. George; “though I believe I can
boast a distant relationship to Talbot. However, I could not make him
fully understand it the other day, though I took particular pains to
explain it.”
While this conversation was going on between the Marchioness of
Westborough and Lord St. George, a dialogue equally interesting to the
parties concerned, and I hope, equally light, witty, and entertaining to
readers in general, was sustained between Clarence and Lady Flora.
“How long shall you stay in England?” asked the latter, looking down.
“I have not yet been able to decide,” replied Clarence, “for it rests
with the ministers, not me. Directly Lord Aspeden obtains another
appointment, I am promised the office of Secretary of Legation; but till
then, I am--
“‘A captive in Augusta’s towers
To beauty and her train.’”
“Oh!” cried Lady Flora, laughing, “you mean Mrs. Desborough and her
train: see where they sweep! Pray go and render her homage.”
“It is rendered,” said Linden, in a low voice, “without so long a
pilgrimage, but perhaps despised.”
Lady Flora’s laugh was hushed; the deepest blushes suffused her cheeks,
and the whole character of that face, before so playful and joyous,
seemed changed, as by a spell, into a grave, subdued, and even timid
look.
Linden resumed, and his voice scarcely rose above a whisper. A whisper!
O delicate and fairy sound! music that speaketh to the heart, as if loth
to break the spell that binds it while it listens! Sigh breathed into
words, and freighting love in tones languid, like homeward bees, by the
very sweets with which they are charged! “Do you remember,” said he,
“that evening at ---- when we last parted? and the boldness which at
that time you were gentle enough to forgive?”
Lady Flora replied not.
“And do you remember,” continued Clarence, “that I told you that it was
not as an unknown and obscure adventurer that I would claim the hand of
her whose heart as an adventurer I had won?”
Lady Flora raised her eyes for one moment, and encountering the ardent
gaze of Clarence, as instantly dropped them.
“The time is not yet come,” said Linden, “for the fulfilment of this
promise; but may I--dare I hope, that when it does, I shall not be--”
“Flora, my love,” said Lady Westborough, “let me introduce to you Lord
Borodaile.”
Lady Flora turned: the spell was broken; and the lovers were instantly
transformed into ordinary mortals. But, as Flora, after returning Lord
Borodaile’s address, glanced her eye towards Clarence, she was struck
with the sudden and singular change of his countenance; the flush of
youth and passion was fled, his complexion was deadly pale, and his eyes
were fixed with a searching and unaccountable meaning upon the face of
the young nobleman, who was alternately addressing, with a quiet and
somewhat haughty fluency, the beautiful mother, and the more lovely
though less commanding daughter. Directly Linden perceived that he was
observed, he rose, turned away, and was soon lost among the crowd.
Lord Borodaile, the son and heir of the powerful Earl of Ulswater,
was about the age of thirty, small, slight, and rather handsome than
otherwise, though his complexion was dark and sallow; and a very
aquiline nose gave a stern and somewhat severe air to his countenance.
He had been for several years abroad, in various parts of the Continent,
and (no other field for an adventurous and fierce spirit presenting
itself) had served with the gallant Earl of Effingham, in the war
between the Turks and Russians, as a volunteer in the armies of the
latter. In this service he had been highly distinguished for courage and
conduct; and, on his return to England about a twelvemonth since, had
obtained the command of a cavalry regiment. Passionately fond of his
profession, he entered into its minutest duties with a zeal not exceeded
by the youngest and poorest subaltern in the army.
His manners were very cold, haughty, collected, and self-possessed, and
his conversation that of a man who has cultivated his intellect rather
in the world than the closet. I mean, that, perfectly ignorant of
things, he was driven to converse solely upon persons, and, having
imbibed no other philosophy than that which worldly deceits and
disappointments bestow, his remarks, though shrewd, were bitterly
sarcastic, and partook of all the ill-nature for which a very scanty
knowledge of the world gives a sour and malevolent mind so ready an
excuse.
“How very disagreeable Lord Borodaile is!” said Lady Flora, when the
object of the remark turned away and rejoined some idlers of his corps.
“Disagreeable!” said Lady Westborough. “I think him charming: he is so
sensible. How true his remarks on the world are!”
Thus is it always; the young judge harshly of those who undeceive or
revolt their enthusiasm; and the more advanced in years, who have not
learned by a diviner wisdom to look upon the human follies and errors by
which they have suffered with a pitying and lenient eye, consider
every maxim of severity on those frailties as the proof of a superior
knowledge, and praise that as a profundity of thought which in reality
is but an infirmity of temper.
Clarence is now engaged in a minuet de la tour with the beautiful
Countess of ----, the best dancer of the day in England. Lady Flora is
flirting with half a dozen beaux, the more violently in proportion as
she observes the animation with which Clarence converses, and the grace
with which his partner moves; and, having thus left our two principal
personages occupied and engaged, let us turn for a moment to a room
which we have not entered.
This is a forlorn, deserted chamber, destined to cards, which are never
played in this temple of Terpsichore. At the far end of this room,
opposite to the fireplace, are seated four men, engaged in earnest
conversation.
The tallest of these was Lord Quintown, a nobleman remarkable at that
day for his personal advantages, his good fortune with the beau sexe,
his attempts at parliamentary eloquence, in which he was lamentably
unsuccessful, and his adherence to Lord North. Next to him sat Mr. St.
George, the younger brother of Lord St. George, a gentleman to whom
power and place seemed married without hope of divorce; for, whatever
had been the changes of ministry for the last twelve years, he,
secure in a lucrative though subordinate situation, had “smiled at
the whirlwind and defied the storm,” and, while all things shifted and
vanished round him, like clouds and vapours, had remained fixed and
stationary as a star. “Solid St. George,” was his appellative by his
friends, and his enemies did not grudge him the title. The third was the
minister for ----; and the fourth was Clarence’s friend, Lord Aspeden.
Now this nobleman, blessed with a benevolent, smooth, calm countenance,
valued himself especially upon his diplomatic elegance in turning a
compliment.
Having a great taste for literature as well as diplomacy, this respected
and respectable peer also possessed a curious felicity for applying
quotation; and nothing rejoiced him so much as when, in the same phrase,
he was enabled to set the two jewels of his courtliness of flattery
and his profundity of erudition. Unhappily enough, his compliments
were seldom as well taken as they were meant; and, whether from the
ingratitude of the persons complimented or the ill fortune of the noble
adulator, seemed sometimes to produce indignation in place of delight.
It has been said that his civilities had cost Lord Aspeden four duels
and one beating; but these reports were probably the malicious invention
of those who had never tasted the delicacies of his flattery.
Now these four persons being all members of the Privy Council, and being
thus engaged in close and earnest conference were, you will suppose,
employed in discussing their gravities and secrets of state: no such
thing; that whisper from Lord Quintown, the handsome nobleman, to Mr.
St. George, is no hoarded and valuable information which would rejoice
the heart of the editor of an Opposition paper, no direful murmur,
“perplexing monarchs with the dread of change;” it is only a recent
piece of scandal, touching the virtue of a lady of the court, which
(albeit the sage listener seems to pay so devout an attention to the
news) is far more interesting to the gallant and handsome informant than
to his brother statesman; and that emphatic and vehement tone with which
Lord Aspeden is assuring the minister for ---- of some fact, is merely
an angry denunciation of the chicanery practised at the last Newmarket.
“By the by, Aspeden,” said Lord Quintown, “who is that good-looking
fellow always flirting with Lady Flora Ardenne,--an attache of yours, is
he not?”
“Oh! Linden, I suppose you mean. A very sensible, clever young fellow,
who has a great genius for business and plays the flute admirably. I
must have him for my secretary, my dear lord, mind that.”
“With such a recommendation, Lord Aspeden,” said the minister, with a
bow, “the state would be a great loser did it not elect your attache,
who plays so admirably on the flute, to the office of your secretary.
Let us join the dancers.”
“I shall go and talk with Count B----,” quoth Mr. St. George.
“And I shall make my court to his beautiful wife,” said the minister,
sauntering into the ballroom, to which his fine person and graceful
manners were much better adapted than was his genius to the cabinet or
his eloquence to the senate.
The morning had long dawned, and Clarence, for whose mind pleasure was
more fatiguing than business, lingered near the door, to catch one last
look of Lady Flora before he retired. He saw her leaning on the arm of
Lord Borodaile, and hastening to join the dancers with her usual light
step and laughing air; for Clarence’s short conference with her had, in
spite of his subsequent flirtations, rendered her happier than she had
ever felt before. Again a change passed over Clarence’s countenance,--a
change which I find it difficult to express without borrowing from those
celebrated German dramatists who could portray in such exact colours “a
look of mingled joy, sorrow, hope, passion, rapture, and despair;” for
the look was not that of jealousy alone, although it certainly partook
of its nature, but a little also of interest, and a little of sorrow;
and when he turned away, and slowly descended the stairs, his eyes were
full of tears, and his thoughts far--far away;--whither?