Quae fert adolescentia
Ea ne me celet consuefeci filium.--TERENCE.
[“The things which youth proposes I accustomed
my son that he should never conceal from me.”]
The next morning Clarence was lounging over his breakfast, and glancing
listlessly now at the pages of the newspapers, now at the various
engagements for the week, which lay confusedly upon his table, when he
received a note from Talbot, requesting to see him as soon as possible.
“Had it not been for that man,” said Clarence to himself, “what should
I have been now? But, at least, I have not disgraced his friendship. I
have already ascended the roughest because the lowest steps on the hill
where Fortune builds her temple. I have already won for the name I have
chosen some ‘golden opinions’ to gild its obscurity. One year more
may confirm my destiny and ripen hope into success: then--then, I may
perhaps throw off a disguise that, while it befriended, has not degraded
me, and avow myself to her! Yet how much better to dignify the name
I have assumed than to owe respect only to that which I have not been
deemed worthy to inherit! Well, well, these are bitter thoughts; let me
turn to others. How beautiful Flora looked last night! and, he--he--but
enough of this: I must dress, and then to Talbot.”
Muttering these wayward fancies, Clarence rose, completed his toilet,
sent for his horses, and repaired to a village about seven miles
from London, where Talbot, having yielded to Clarence’s fears and
solicitations, and left his former insecure tenement, now resided under
the guard and care of an especial and private watchman.
It was a pretty, quiet villa, surrounded by a plantation and
pleasure-ground of some extent for a suburban residence, in which the
old philosopher (for though in some respects still frail and prejudiced,
Talbot deserved that name) held his home. The ancient servant, on
whom four years had passed lightly and favouringly, opened the door to
Clarence, with his usual smile of greeting and familiar yet respectful
salutation, and ushered our hero into a room, furnished with the usual
fastidious and rather feminine luxury which characterized Talbot’s
tastes. Sitting with his back turned to the light, in a large
easy-chair, Clarence found the wreck of the once gallant, gay Lothario.
There was not much alteration in his countenance since we last saw him;
the lines, it is true, were a little more decided, and the cheeks
a little more sunken; but the dark eye beamed with all its wonted
vivacity, and the delicate contour of the mouth preserved all its
physiognomical characteristics of the inward man. He rose with somewhat
more difficulty than he was formerly wont to do, and his limbs had lost
much of their symmetrical proportions; yet the kind clasp of his hand
was as firm and warm as when it had pressed that of the boyish attache
four years since; and the voice which expressed his salutation yet
breathed its unconquered suavity and distinctness of modulation. After
the customary greetings and inquiries were given and returned, the young
man drew his chair near to Talbot’s, and said,--
“You sent for me, dear sir; have you anything more important than usual
to impart to me?--or--and I hope this is the case--have you at last
thought of any commission, however trifling, in the execution of which I
can be of use?”
“Yes, Clarence, I wish your judgment to select me some
strawberries,--you know that I am a great epicure in fruit,--and get me
the new work Dr. Johnson has just published. There, are you contented?
And now, tell me all about your horse; does he step well? Has he the
true English head and shoulder? Are his legs fine, yet strong? Is he
full of spirit and devoid of vice?”
“He is all this, sir, thanks to you for him.”
“Ah!” cried Talbot,--
“‘Old as I am, for riding feats unfit,
The shape of horses I remember yet’”
“And now let us hear how you like Ranelagh; and above all how you liked
the ball last night.”
And the vivacious old man listened with the profoundest appearance
of interest to all the particulars of Clarence’s animated detail. His
vanity, which made him wish to be loved, had long since taught him the
surest method of becoming so; and with him, every visitor, old, young,
the man of books, or the disciple of the world, was sure to find the
readiest and even eagerest sympathy in every amusement or occupation.
But for Clarence, this interest lay deeper than in the surface of
courtly breeding. Gratitude had first bound to him his adopted son,
then a tie yet unexplained, and lastly, but not least, the pride of
protection. He was vain of the personal and mental attractions of his
protege, and eager for the success of one whose honours would reflect
credit on himself.
But there was one part of Clarence’s account of the last night to which
the philosopher paid a still deeper attention, and on which he was more
minute in his advice; what this was, I cannot, as yet, reveal to the
reader.
The conversation then turned on light and general matters,--the scandal,
the literature, the politics, the on dits of the day; and lastly upon
women; thence Talbot dropped into his office of Mentor.
“A celebrated cardinal said, very wisely, that few ever did anything
among men until women were no longer an object to them. That is the
reason, by the by, why I never succeeded with the former, and why people
seldom acquire any reputation, except for a hat, or a horse, till they
marry. Look round at the various occupations of life. How few bachelors
are eminent in any of them! So you see, Clarence, you will have my leave
to marry Lady Flora as soon as you please.”
Clarence coloured, and rose to depart. Talbot followed him to the door,
and then said, in a careless way, “By the by, I had almost forgotten
to tell you that, as you have now many new expenses, you will find
the yearly sum you have hitherto received doubled. To give you this
information is the chief reason why I sent for you this morning. God
bless you, my dear boy.”
And Talbot shut the door, despite his politeness, in the face and thanks
of his adopted son.