Brave Talbot, we will follow thee.--Henry the Sixth.
“My letter insultingly returned--myself refused admittance; not a
single inquiry made during my illness; indifference joined to positive
contempt. By Heaven, it is insupportable!”
“My dear Clarence,” said Talbot to his young friend, who, fretful from
pain and writhing beneath his mortification, walked to and fro his
chamber with an impatient stride; “my dear Clarence, do sit down, and
not irritate your wound by such violent exercise. I am as much enraged
as yourself at the treatment you have received, and no less at a loss to
account for it. Your duel, however unfortunate the event, must have
done you credit, and obtained you a reputation both for generosity
and spirit; so that it cannot be to that occurrence that you are to
attribute the change. Let us rather suppose that Lady Flora’s attachment
to you has become evident to her father and mother; that they naturally
think it would be very undesirable to marry their daughter to a man
whose family nobody knows, and whose respectability he is forced
into fighting in order to support. Suffer me then to call upon Lady
Westborough, whom I knew many years ago, and explain your origin, as
well as your relationship to me.”
Linden paused irresolutely.
“Were I sure that Lady Flora was not utterly influenced by her mother’s
worldly views, I would gladly consent to your proposal, but--”
“Forgive me, Clarence,” cried Talbot; “but you really argue much more
like a very young man than I ever heard you do before,--even four years
ago. To be sure Lady Flora is influenced by her mother’s views.
Would you have her otherwise? Would you have her, in defiance of all
propriety, modesty, obedience to her parents, and right feeling for
herself, encourage an attachment to a person not only unknown, but who
does not even condescend to throw off the incognito to the woman he
addresses? Come, Clarence, give me your instructions, and let me act as
your ambassador to-morrow.”
Clarence was silent.
“I may consider it settled then,” replied Talbot: “meanwhile you shall
come home and stay with me; the pure air of the country, even so
near town, will do you more good than all the doctors in London; and,
besides, you will thus be enabled to escape from that persecuting
Frenchwoman.”
“In what manner?” said Clarence.
“Why, when you are in my house, she cannot well take up her abode with
you; and you shall, while I am forwarding your suit with Lady Flora,
write a very flattering, very grateful letter of excuses to Madame la
Meronville. But leave me alone to draw it up for you: meanwhile, let
Harrison pack up your clothes and medicines; and we will effect our
escape while Madame la Meronville yet sleeps.”
Clarence rang the bell; the orders were given, executed, and in less
than an hour he and his friends were on their road to Talbot’s villa.
As they drove slowly through the grounds to the house, Clarence was
sensibly struck with the quiet and stillness which breathed around. On
either side of the road the honeysuckle and rose cast their sweet scents
to the summer wind, which, though it was scarcely noon, stirred freshly
among the trees, and waved as if it breathed a second youth over the wan
cheek of the convalescent. The old servant’s ear had caught the sound of
wheels, and he came to the door, with an expression of quiet delight on
his dry countenance, to welcome in his master. They had lived together
for so many years that they were grown like one another. Indeed, the
veteran valet prided himself on his happy adoption of his master’s dress
and manner. A proud man, we ween, was that domestic, whenever he had
time and listeners for the indulgence of his honest loquacity; many an
ancient tale of his master’s former glories was then poured from his
unburdening remembrance. With what a glow, with what a racy enjoyment,
did he expand upon the triumphs of the past; how eloquently did he
particularize the exact grace with which young Mr. Talbot was wont to
enter the room, in which he instantly became the cynosure of ladies’
eyes; how faithfully did he minute the courtly dress, the exquisite
choice of colour, the costly splendour of material, which were the envy
of gentles, and the despairing wonder of their valets; and then the zest
with which the good old man would cry, “I dressed the boy!” Even still,
this modern Scipio (Le Sage’s Scipio, not Rome’s) would not believe that
his master’s sun was utterly set: he was only in a temporary retirement,
and would, one day or other, reappear and reastonish the London world.
“I would give my right arm,” Jasper was wont to say, “to see Master at
court. How fond the King would be of him! Ah! well, well; I wish he
was not so melancholy-like with his books, but would go out like other
people!”
Poor Jasper! Time is, in general, a harsh wizard in his transformations;
but the change which thou didst lament so bitterly was happier for thy
master than all his former “palmy state” of admiration and homage. “Nous
avons recherche le plaisir,” says Rousseau, in one of his own inimitable
antitheses, “et le bonheur a fui loin de nous.” [“We have pursued
pleasure, and happiness has fled far from our reach.”] But in the
pursuit of Pleasure we sometimes chance on Wisdom, and Wisdom leads us
to the right track, which, if it take us not so far as Happiness, is
sure at least of the shelter of Content.
Talbot leaned kindly upon Jasper’s arm as he descended from the
carriage, and inquired into his servant’s rheumatism with the anxiety
of a friend. The old housekeeper, waiting in the hall, next received his
attention; and in entering the drawing-room, with that consideration,
even to animals, which his worldly benevolence had taught him, he paused
to notice and caress a large gray cat which rubbed herself against his
legs. Doubtless there is some pleasure in making even a gray cat happy!
Clarence having patiently undergone all the shrugs, and sighs, and
exclamations of compassion at his reduced and wan appearance, which are
the especial prerogatives of ancient domestics, followed the old man
into the room. Papers and books, though carefully dusted, were left
scrupulously in the places in which Talbot had last deposited them
(incomparable good fortune! what would we not give for such chamber
handmaidens!); fresh flowers were in all the stands and vases; the large
library chair was jealously set in its accustomed place, and all
wore, to Talbot’s eyes, that cheerful yet sober look of welcome and
familiarity which makes a friend of our house. The old man was in high
spirits.
“I know not how it is,” said he, “but I feel younger than ever! You
have often expressed a wish to see my family seat at Scarsdale: it
is certainly a great distance hence; but as you will be my travelling
companion, I think I will try and crawl there before the summer is over;
or, what say you, Clarence, shall I lend it to you and Lady Flora for
the honeymoon? You blush! A diplomatist blush! Ah, how the world has
changed since my time! But come, Clarence, suppose you write to La
Meronville?”
“Not to-day, sir, if you please,” said Linden: “I feel so very weak.”
“As you please, Clarence; but some years hence you will learn the value
of the present. Youth is always a procrastinator, and, consequently,
always a penitent.” And thus Talbot ran on into a strain of
conversation, half serious, half gay, which lasted till Clarence went
upstairs to lie down and muse on Lady Flora Ardenne.