Things wear a vizard which I think to like not.--Tanner of
Tyburn.
Clarence, from that night, appeared to have formed a sudden attachment
to Lord Borodaile. He took every opportunity of cultivating his
intimacy, and invariably treated him with a degree of consideration
which his knowledge of the world told him was well calculated to gain
the good will of his haughty and arrogant acquaintance; but all this
was in effectual in conquering Borodaile’s coldness and reserve. To
have been once seen in a humiliating and degrading situation is quite
sufficient to make a proud man hate the spectator, and, with the
confusion of all prejudiced minds, to transfer the sore remembrance
of the event to the association of the witness. Lord Borodaile, though
always ceremoniously civil, was immovably distant; and avoided as well
as he was able Clarence’s insinuating approaches and address. To add to
his indisposition to increase his acquaintance with Linden, a friend of
his, a captain in the Guards, once asked him who that Mr. Linden was?
and, on his lordship’s replying that he did not know, Mr. Percy Bobus,
the son of a wine-merchant, though the nephew of a duke, rejoined,
“Nobody does know.”
“Insolent intruder!” thought Lord Borodaile: “a man whom nobody knows to
make such advances to me!”
A still greater cause of dislike to Clarence arose from jealousy.
Ever since the first night of his acquaintance with Lady Flora, Lord
Borodaile had paid her unceasing attention. In good earnest, he was
greatly struck by her beauty, and had for the last year meditated the
necessity of presenting the world with a Lady Borodaile. Now, though his
lordship did look upon himself in as favourable a light as a man well
can do, yet he could not but own that Clarence was very handsome, had
a devilish gentlemanlike air, talked with a better grace than the
generality of young men, and danced to perfection. “I detest that
fellow!” said Lord Borodaile, involuntarily and aloud, as these
unwilling truths forced themselves upon his mind.
“Whom do you detest?” asked Mr. Percy Bobus, who was lying on the sofa
in Lord Borodaile’s drawing-room, and admiring a pair of red-heeled
shoes which decorated his feet.
“That puppy Linden!” said Lord Borodaile, adjusting his cravat.
“He is a deuced puppy, certainly!” rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus, turning
round in order to contemplate more exactly the shape of his right shoe.
“I can’t bear conceit, Borodaile.”
“Nor I: I abhor it; it is so d--d disgusting!” replied Lord Borodaile,
leaning his chin upon his two hands, and looking full into the glass.
“Do you use MacNeile’s divine pomatum?”
“No, it’s too hard; I get mine from Paris: shall I send you some?”
“Do,” said Lord Borodaile.
“Mr. Linden, my lord,” said the servant, throwing open the door; and
Clarence entered.
“I am very fortunate,” said he, with that smile which so few ever
resisted, “to find you at home, Lord Borodaile; but as the day was
wet, I thought I should have some chance of that pleasure; I therefore
wrapped myself up in my roquelaure, and here I am.”
Now, nothing could be more diplomatic than the compliment of choosing a
wet day for a visit, and exposing one’s self to “the pitiless shower,”
for the greater probability of finding the person visited at home. Not
so thought Lord Borodaile; he drew himself up, bowed very solemnly, and
said, with cold gravity,--
“You are very obliging, Mr. Linden.”
Clarence coloured, and bit his lip as he seated himself. Mr. Percy
Bobus, with true insular breeding, took up the newspaper.
“I think I saw you at Lady C.’s last night,” said Clarence; “did you
stay there long?”
“No, indeed,” answered Borodaile; “I hate her parties.”
“One does meet such odd people there,” observed Mr. Percy Bobus;
“creatures one never sees anywhere else:”
“I hear,” said Clarence, who never abused any one, even the givers of
stupid parties, if he could help it, and therefore thought it best to
change the conversation,--“I hear, Lord Borodaile, that some hunters of
yours are to be sold. I purpose being a bidder for Thunderbolt.”
“I have a horse to sell you, Mr. Linden,” cried Mr. Percy Bobus,
springing from the sofa into civility; “a superb creature.”
“Thank you,” said Clarence, laughing; “but I can only afford to buy one,
and I have taken a great fancy to Thunderbolt.”
Lord Borodaile, whose manners were very antiquated in their affability,
bowed. Mr. Bobus sank back into his sofa, and resumed the paper.
A pause ensued. Clarence was chilled in spite of himself. Lord Borodaile
played with a paper-cutter.
“Have you been to Lady Westborough’s lately?” said Clarence, breaking
silence.
“I was there last night,” replied Lord Borodaile.
“Indeed!” cried Clarence. “I wonder I did not see you there, for I dined
with them.”
Lord Borodaile’s hair curled of itself. “He dined there, and I only
asked in the evening!” thought he; but his sarcastic temper suggested a
very different reply.
“Ah,” said he, elevating his eyebrows, “Lady Westborough told me she had
had some people to dinner whom she had been obliged to ask. Bobus, is
that the ‘Public Advertiser’? See whether that d--d fellow Junius has
been writing any more of his venomous letters.”
Clarence was not a man apt to take offence, but he felt his bile rise.
“It will not do to show it,” thought he; so he made some further remark
in a jesting vein; and, after a very ill-sustained conversation of
some minutes longer, rose, apparently in the best humour possible, and
departed, with a solemn intention never again to enter the house. Thence
he went to Lady Westborough’s.
The marchioness was in her boudoir: Clarence was as usual admitted;
for Lady Westborough loved amusement above all things in the world, and
Clarence had the art of affording it better than any young man of her
acquaintance. On entering, he saw Lady Flora hastily retreating through
an opposite door. She turned her face towards him for one moment: that
moment was sufficient to freeze his blood: the large tears were rolling
down her cheeks, which were as white as death, and the expression of
those features, usually so laughing and joyous, was that of utter and
ineffable despair.
Lady Westborough was as lively, as bland, and as agreeable as ever:
but Clarence thought he detected something restrained and embarrassed
lurking beneath all the graces of her exterior manner; and the single
glance he had caught of the pale and altered face of Lady Flora was not
calculated to reassure his mind or animate his spirits. His visit was
short; when he left the room, he lingered for a few moments in the
ante-chamber in the hope of again seeing Lady Flora. While thus
loitering, his ear caught the sound of Lady Westborough’s voice: “When
Mr. Linden calls again, you have my orders never to admit him into this
room; he will be shown into the drawing-room.”
With a hasty step and a burning cheek Clarence quitted the house, and
hurried, first to his solitary apartments, and thence, impatient of
loneliness, to the peaceful retreat of his benefactor.