Dream. Let me but see her, dear Leontins.
Humorous Lieutenant.
Hempskirke. It was the fellow, sure.
Wolfort. What are you, sirrah?
Beggar's Bush.
O thou divine spirit that burnest in every breast, inciting each with
the sublime desire to be fine; that stirrest up the great to become
little in order to seem greater, and that makest a duchess woo insult
for a voucher,--thou that delightest in so many shapes, multifarious yet
the same; spirit that makest the high despicable, and the lord meaner
than his valet; equally great whether thou cheatest a friend or cuttest
a father; lacquering all thou touchest with a bright vulgarity that thy
votaries imagine to be gold,--thou that sendest the few to fashionable
balls and the many to fashionable novels; that smitest even Genius as
well as Folly, making the favourites of the gods boast an acquaintance
they have not with the graces of a mushroom peerage rather than the
knowledge they have of the Muses of an eternal Helicon,--thou that
leavest in the great ocean of our manners no dry spot for the foot of
independence; that pallest on the jaded eye with a moving and girdling
panorama of daubed vilenesses, and fritterest away the souls of
free-born Britons into a powder smaller than the angels which dance
in myriads on a pin's point,--whether, O spirit! thou callest thyself
Fashion or Ton, or Ambition or Vanity or Cringing or Cant or any title
equally lofty and sublime,--would that from thy wings we could gain
but a single plume! Fain would we, in fitting strain, describe the
festivities of that memorable day when the benevolent Lord Mauleverer
received and blessed the admiring universe of Bath.
But to be less poetical, as certain writers say, when they have been
writing nonsense,--but to be less poetical and more exact, the morning,
though in the depth of winter, was bright and clear, and Lord Mauleverer
found himself in particularly good health. Nothing could be better
planned than the whole of his arrangements. Unlike those which are
ordinarily chosen for the express reason of being as foreign as possible
to the nature of our climate, all at Lord Mauleverer's were made
suitable to a Greenland atmosphere. The temples and summer-houses,
interspersed through the grounds, were fitted up, some as Esquimaux
huts, others as Russian pavilions; fires were carefully kept up; the
musicians Mauleverer took care should have as much wine as they pleased;
they were set skilfully in places where they were unseen, but where they
could be heard. One or two temporary buildings were erected for those
who loved dancing; and as Mauleverer, miscalculating on the principles
of human nature, thought gentlemen might be averse from ostentatious
exhibition, he had hired persons to skate minuets and figures of eight
upon his lakes, for the amusement of those who were fond of skating. All
people who would be kind enough to dress in strange costumes and make
odd noises, which they called singing, the earl had carefully engaged,
and planted in the best places for making them look still stranger than
they were.
There was also plenty to eat, and more than plenty to drink. Mauleverer
knew well that our countrymen and countrywomen, whatever be their rank,
like to have their spirits exalted. In short, the whole dejeuner was so
admirably contrived that it was probable the guests would not look much
more melancholy during the amusements than they would have done had they
been otherwise engaged at a funeral.
Lucy and the squire were among the first arrivals. Mauleverer,
approaching the father and daughter with his most courtly manner,
insisted on taking the latter under his own escort, and being her
cicerone through the round of preparations.
As the crowd thickened, and it was observed how gallant were the
attentions testified towards Lucy by the host, many and envious were
the whispers of the guests! Those good people, naturally angry at the
thought that two individuals should be married, divided themselves into
two parties: one abused Lucy, and the other Lord Mauleverer; the former
vituperated her art, the latter his folly. “I thought she would play
her cards well, deceitful creature!” said the one. “January and May,”
muttered the other; “the man's sixty!” It was noticeable that the party
against Lucy was chiefly composed of ladies, that against Mauleverer
of men; that conduct must indeed be heinous which draws down the
indignation of one's own sex!
Unconscious of her crimes, Lucy moved along, leaning on the arm of the
gallant earl, and languidly smiling, with her heart far away, at his
endeavours to amuse her. There was something interesting in the mere
contrast of the pair; so touching seemed the beauty of the young
girl, with her delicate cheek, maiden form, drooping eyelid, and
quiet simplicity of air, in comparison to the worldly countenance and
artificial grace of her companion.
After some time, when they were in a sequestered part of the grounds,
Mauleverer, observing that none were near, entered a rude hut; and so
fascinated was he at that moment by the beauty of his guest, and so meet
to him seemed the opportunity of his confession, that he with difficulty
suppressed the avowal rising to his lips, and took the more prudent plan
of first sounding and preparing as it were the way.
“I cannot tell you, my dear Miss Brandon,” said he, slightly pressing
the beautiful hand leaning on his arm, “how happy I am to see you the
guest--the queen, rather--of my house! Ah! could the bloom of youth
return with its feelings! Time is never so cruel as when, while stealing
from us the power to please, he leaves us in full vigour the unhappy
privilege to be charmed!”
Mauleverer expected at least a blushing contradiction to the
implied application of a sentiment so affectingly expressed: he was
disappointed. Lucy, less alive than usual to the sentimental, or its
reverse, scarcely perceived his meaning, and answered simply that it was
very true. “This comes of being, like my friend Burke, too refined
for one's audience,” thought Mauleverer, wincing a little from the
unexpected reply. “And yet!” he resumed, “I would not forego my power to
admire, futile, nay, painful as it is. Even now, while I gaze on you, my
heart tells me that the pleasure I enjoy, it is at your command at once
and forever to blight into misery; but while it tells me, I gaze on!”
Lucy raised her eyes, and something of her natural archness played in
their expression.
“I believe, my lord,” said she, moving from the hut, “that it would be
better to join your guests: walls have ears; and what would be the
gay Lord Mauleverer's self-reproach if he heard again of his fine
compliments to--”
“The most charming person in Europe!” cried Mauleverer, vehemently; and
the hand which he before touched he now clasped. At that instant Lucy
saw opposite to her, half hid by a copse of evergreens, the figure of
Clifford. His face, which seemed pale and wan, was not directed towards
the place where she stood, and he evidently did not perceive Mauleverer
or herself; yet so great was the effect that this glimpse of him
produced on Lucy, that she trembled violently, and, unconsciously
uttering a faint cry, snatched her hand from Mauleverer.
The earl started, and catching the expression of her eyes, turned
instantly towards the spot to which her gaze seemed riveted. He had
not heard the rustling of the boughs, but he saw, with his habitual
quickness of remark, that they still trembled, as if lately displaced;
and he caught through their interstices the glimpse of a receding
figure. He sprang forward with an agility very uncommon to his usual
movements; but before he gained the copse, every vestige of the intruder
had vanished.
What slaves we are to the moment! As Mauleverer turned back to rejoin
Lucy, who, agitated almost to fainting, leaned against the rude wall
of the hut, he would as soon have thought of flying as of making that
generous offer of self, etc., which the instant before he had been
burning to render Lucy. The vain are always sensitively jealous; and
Mauleverer, remembering Clifford, and Lucy's blushes in dancing with
him, instantly accounted for her agitation and its cause. With a very
grave air he approached the object of his late adoration, and requested
to know if it were not some abrupt intruder that had occasioned her
alarm. Lucy, scarcely knowing what she said, answered in a low voice
that it was, indeed, and begged instantly to rejoin her father.
Mauleverer offered his arm with great dignity; and the pair passed
into the frequented part of the grounds, where Mauleverer once more
brightened into smiles and courtesy to all around him.
“He is certainly accepted!” said Mr. Shrewd to Lady Simper.
“What an immense match for the girl!” was Lady Simper's reply.
Amidst the music, the dancing, the throng, the noise, Lucy found it easy
to recover herself; and disengaging her arm from Lord Mauleverer, as she
perceived her father, she rejoined the squire, and remained a patient
listener to his remarks till late in the noon it became an understood
matter that people were expected to go into a long room in order to eat
and drink. Mauleverer, now alive to the duties of his situation,
and feeling exceedingly angry with Lucy, was more reconciled than he
otherwise might have been to the etiquette which obliged him to select
for the object of his hospitable cares an old dowager duchess instead of
the beauty of the fete; but he took care to point out to the squire the
places appointed for himself and daughter, which were, though at some
distance from the earl, under the providence of his vigilant survey.
While Mauleverer was deifying the dowager duchess, and refreshing
his spirits with a chicken and a medicinal glass of madeira, the
conversation near Lucy turned, to her infinite dismay, upon Clifford.
Some one had seen him in the grounds, booted and in a riding undress
(in that day people seldom rode and danced in the same conformation of
coat); and as Mauleverer was a precise person about those little matters
of etiquette, this negligence of Clifford's made quite a subject of
discussion. By degrees the conversation changed into the old inquiry as
to who this Captain Clifford was; and just as it had reached that point,
it reached also the gently deafened ears of Lord Mauleverer.
“Pray, my lord,” said the old duchess, “since he is one of your guests,
you, who know who and what every one is, can possibly inform us of the
real family of this beautiful Mr. Clifford?”
“One of my guests, did you say?” answered Mauleverer, irritated greatly
beyond his usual quietness of manner. “Really, your grace does me wrong.
He may be a guest of my valet, but he assuredly is not mine; and should
I encounter him, I shall leave it to my valet to give him his conge as
well as his invitation!”
Mauleverer, heightening his voice as he observed athwart the table
an alternate paleness and flush upon Lucy's face, which stung all the
angrier passions, generally torpid in him, into venom, looked round, on
concluding, with a haughty and sarcastic air. So loud had been his tone,
so pointed the insult, and so dead the silence at the table while
he spoke, that every one felt the affront must be carried at once to
Clifford's hearing, should he be in the room. And after Mauleverer had
ceased, there was a universal nervous and indistinct expectation of
an answer and a scene; all was still, and it soon became certain that
Clifford was not in the apartment. When Mr. Shrewd had fully convinced
himself of this fact,--for there was a daring spirit about Clifford
which few wished to draw upon themselves,--that personage broke the
pause by observing that no man who pretended to be a gentleman
would intrude himself, unasked and unwelcome, into any society; and
Mauleverer, catching up the observation, said (drinking wine at the same
time with Mr. Shrewd) that undoubtedly such conduct fully justified the
rumours respecting Mr. Clifford, and utterly excluded him from that rank
to which it was before more than suspected he had no claim.
So luminous and satisfactory an opinion from such an authority, once
broached, was immediately and universally echoed; and long before the
repast was over, it seemed to be tacitly agreed that Captain Clifford
should be sent to Coventry, and if he murmured at the exile, he would
have no right to insist upon being sent thence to the devil.
The good old squire, mindful of his former friendship for Clifford, and
not apt to veer, was about to begin a speech on the occasion, when Lucy,
touching his arm, implored him to be silent; and so ghastly was the
paleness of her cheek while she spoke, that the squire's eyes, obtuse
as he generally was, opened at once to the real secret of her heart. As
soon as the truth flashed upon him, he wondered, recalling Clifford's
great personal beauty and marked attentions, that it had not flashed
upon him sooner; and leaning back on his chair, he sank into one of the
most unpleasant reveries he had ever conceived.
At a given signal the music for the dancers recommenced, and at a hint
to that effect from the host, persons rose without ceremony to repair to
other amusements, and suffer such guests as had hitherto been excluded
from eating to occupy the place of the relinquishers. Lucy, glad to
escape, was one of the first to resign her situation, and with the
squire she returned to the grounds. During the banquet, evening had
closed in, and the scene now really became fairy-like and picturesque;
lamps hung from many a tree, reflecting the light through the richest
and softest hues; the music itself sounded more musically than during
the day; gipsy-tents were pitched at wild corners and copses, and the
bright wood-fires burning in them blazed merrily upon the cold yet
cheerful air of the increasing night. The view was really novel and
inviting; and as it had been an understood matter that ladies were to
bring furs, cloaks, and boots, all those who thought they looked well
in such array made little groups, and scattered themselves about the
grounds and in the tents. They, on the contrary, in whom “the purple
light of love” was apt by the frost to be propelled from the cheeks to
the central ornament of the face, or who thought a fire in a room quite
as agreeable as a fire in a tent, remained within, and contemplated the
scene through the open windows.
Lucy longed to return home, nor was the squire reluctant; but,
unhappily, it wanted an hour to the time at which the carriage had been
ordered, and she mechanically joined a group of guests who had persuaded
the good-natured squire to forget his gout and venture forth to look at
the illuminations. Her party was soon joined by others, and the group
gradually thickened into a crowd; the throng was stationary for a few
minutes before a little temple in which fireworks had just commenced an
additional attraction to the scene. Opposite to this temple, as well as
in its rear, the walks and trees had been purposely left in comparative
darkness, in order to heighten the effect of the fireworks.
“I declare,” said Lady Simper, glancing down one of the alleys which
seemed to stretch away into blackness,--“I declare it seems quite a
lovers' walk. How kind in Lord Mauleverer!--such a delicate attention--”
“To your ladyship!” added Mr. Shrewd, with a bow. While, one of this
crowd, Lucy was vacantly eying the long trains of light which ever and
anon shot against the sky, she felt her hand suddenly seized, and at the
same time a voice whispered, “For God's sake, read this now and grant my
request!”
The voice, which seemed to rise from the very heart of the speaker, Lucy
knew at once; she trembled violently, and remained for some minutes with
eyes which did not dare to look from the ground. A note she felt had
been left in her hand; and the agonized and earnest tone of that
voice, which was dearer to her than the fulness of all music, made her
impatient yet afraid to read it. As she recovered courage, she
looked around, and seeing that the attention of all was bent upon the
fireworks, and that her father in particular, leaning on his cane,
seemed to enjoy the spectacle with a child's engrossed delight, she
glided softly away, and entering unperceived one of the alleys, she
read, by a solitary lamp that burned at its entrance, the following
lines, written in pencil and in a hurried hand, apparently upon a leaf
torn from a pocket-book:--
I implore, I entreat you, Miss Brandon, to see me, if but for a
moment. I purpose to tear myself away from the place in which you
reside, to go abroad, to leave even the spot hallowed by your
footstep. After this night my presence, my presumption, will
degrade you no more. But this night, for mercy's sake, see me, or I
shall go mad! I will but speak to you one instant: this is all I
ask. If you grant me this prayer, the walk to the left where you
stand, at the entrance to which there is one purple lamp, will
afford an opportunity to your mercy. A few yards down that walk I
will meet you,--none can see or hear us. Will you grant this? I
know not, I dare not think; but under any case, your name shall be
the last upon my lips.
P. C.
As Lucy read this hurried scrawl, she glanced towards the lamp above
her, and saw that she had accidentally entered the very walk indicated
in the note. She paused, she hesitated; the impropriety, the singularity
of the request, darted upon her at once; on the other hand, the anxious
voice still ringing in her ear, the incoherent vehemence of the note,
the risk, the opprobrium Clifford had incurred solely--her heart
whispered--to see her, all aided her simple temper, her kind feelings,
and her love for the petitioner, in inducing her to consent. She cast
one glance behind,--all seemed occupied with far other thoughts than
that of notice towards her; she looked anxiously before,--all looked
gloomy and indistinct; but suddenly, at some little distance, she
descried a dark figure in motion. She felt her knees shake under her,
her heart beat violently; she moved onward a few paces, again paused,
and looked back. The figure before her moved as in approach; she resumed
courage, and advanced,--the figure was by her side.
“How generous, how condescending, is this goodness in Miss Brandon!”
said the voice, which so struggled with secret and strong emotion that
Lucy scarcely recognized it as Clifford's. “I did not dare to expect it;
and now--now that I meet you--” Clifford paused, as if seeking words;
and Lucy, even through the dark, perceived that her strange companion
was powerfully excited; she waited for him to continue, but observing
that he walked on in silence, she said, though with a trembling voice,
“Indeed, Mr. Clifford, I fear that it is very, very improper in me
to meet you thus; nothing but the strong expressions in your
letter--and--and--in short, my fear that you meditated some desperate
design, at which I could not guess, caused me to yield to your wish for
an interview.” She paused, and Clifford still preserving silence, she
added, with some little coldness in her tone: “If you have really aught
to say to me, you must allow me to request that you speak it quickly.
This interview, you must be sensible, ought to end almost as soon as it
begins.”
“Hear me, then!” said Clifford, mastering his embarrassment and
speaking in a firm and clear voice; “is that true which I have but just
heard,--is it true that I have been spoken of in your presence in terms
of insult and affront?”
It was now for Lucy to feel embarrassed; fearful to give pain, and yet
anxious that Clifford should know, in order that he might disprove,
the slight and the suspicion which the mystery around him drew upon his
name, she faltered between the two feelings, and without satisfying the
latter, succeeded in realizing the fear of the former.
“Enough!” said Clifford, in a tone of deep mortification, as his quick
ear caught and interpreted, yet more humiliatingly than the truth, the
meaning of her stammered and confused reply,--“enough! I see that it is
true, and that the only human being in the world to whose good opinion
I am not indifferent has been a witness of the insulting manner in which
others have dared to speak of me!”
“But,” said Lucy, eagerly, “why give the envious or the idle any excuse?
Why not suffer your parentage and family to be publicly known? Why are
you here”--and her voice sank into a lower key--“this very day,
unasked, and therefore subject to the cavils of all who think the
poor distinction of an invitation an honour? Forgive me, Mr. Clifford;
perhaps I offend. I hurt you by speaking thus frankly; but your good
name rests with yourself, and your friends cannot but feel angry that
you should trifle with it.”
“Madam,” said Clifford; and Lucy's eyes, now growing accustomed to the
darkness, perceived a bitter smile upon his lips, “my name, good or ill,
is an object of little care to me. I have read of philosophers who pride
themselves in placing no value in the opinions of the world. Rank me
among that sect. But I am--I own I am--anxious that you alone, of all
the world, should not despise me; and now that I feel you do, that you
must, everything worth living or hoping for is past!”
“Despise you!” said Lucy, and her eyes filled with tears; “indeed you
wrong me and yourself. But listen to me, Mr. Clifford. I have seen, it
is true, but little of the world, yet I have seen enough to make me
wish I could have lived in retirement forever. The rarest quality among
either sex, though it is the simplest, seems to me good-nature; and the
only occupation of what are termed 'fashionable people' appears to be
speaking ill of one another. Nothing gives such a scope to scandal as
mystery; nothing disarms it like openness. I know, your friends know,
Mr. Clifford, that your character can bear inspection; and I believe,
for my own part, the same of your family. Why not, then, declare who and
what you are?”
“That candour would indeed be my best defender,” said Clifford, in a
tone which ran displeasingly through Lucy's ear; “but in truth, madam, I
repeat, I care not one drop of this worthless blood what men say of me:
that time has passed, and forever; perhaps it never keenly existed for
me,--no matter. I came hither, Miss Brandon, not wasting a thought on
these sickening fooleries, or on the hoary idler by whom they are given.
I came hither only once more to see you, to hear you speak, to watch
you move, to tell you”--and the speaker's voice trembled, so as to be
scarcely audible--“to tell you, if any reason for the disclosure offered
itself, that I have had the boldness, the crime, to love--to love--O
God! to adore you; and then to leave you forever!”
Pale, trembling, scarcely preserved from falling by the tree against
which she leaned, Lucy listened to this abrupt avowal. “Dare I touch
this hand?” continued Clifford, as he knelt and took it timidly and
reverently. “You know not, you cannot dream, how unworthy is he who thus
presumes; yet not all unworthy, while he is sensible of so deep, so
holy a feeling as that which he bears to you. God bless you, Miss
Brandon!--Lucy, God bless you! And if hereafter you hear me subjected
to still blacker suspicion or severer scrutiny than that which I now
sustain; if even your charity and goodness can find no defence for
me; if the suspicion become certainty, and the scrutiny end in
condemnation,--believe at least that circumstances have carried me
beyond my nature, and that under fairer auspices I might have been other
than I am!”
Lucy's tear dropped upon Clifford's hand as he spoke; and while his
heart melted within him as he felt it and knew his own desperate and
unredeemed condition, he added,--
“Every one courts you,--the proud, the rich, the young, the
high-born,--all are at your feet! You will select one of that number for
your husband; may he watch over you as I would have done!--love you as
I do he cannot! Yes, I repeat it,” continued Clifford, vehemently,--“he
cannot! None amidst the gay, happy, silken crowd of your equals and
followers can feel for you that single and overruling passion which
makes you to me what all combined--country, power, wealth, reputation,
an honest name, peace, common safety, the quiet of the common air, alike
the least blessing and the greatest-are to all others! Once more, may
God in heaven watch over you and preserve you! I tear myself, on leaving
you, from all that cheers or blesses or raises or might have saved me!
Farewell!”
The hand which Lucy had relinquished to her strange suitor was pressed
ardently to his lips, dropped in the same instant, and she knew that she
was once more alone.
But Clifford, hurrying rapidly through the trees, made his way towards
the nearest gate which led from Lord Mauleverer's domain; when he
reached it, a crowd of the more elderly guests occupied the entrance,
and one of these was a lady of such distinction that Mauleverer, in
spite of his aversion to any superfluous exposure to the night air, had
obliged himself to conduct her to her carriage. He was in a very ill
humour with this constrained politeness, especially as the carriage was
very slow in relieving him of his charge, when he saw, by the lamplight,
Clifford passing near him, and winning his way to the gate. Quite
forgetting his worldly prudence, which should have made him averse to
scenes with any one, especially with a flying enemy, and a man with
whom, if he believed aright, little glory was to be gained in conquest,
much less in contest; and only remembering Clifford's rivalship, and
his own hatred towards him for the presumption, Mauleverer, uttering a
hurried apology to the lady on his arm, stepped forward, and opposing
Clifford's progress, said, with a bow of tranquil insult, “Pardon me,
sir, but is it at my invitation or that of one of my servants that you
have honoured me with your company this day?”
Clifford's thoughts at the time of this interruption were of that nature
before which all petty misfortunes shrink into nothing; if, therefore,
he started for a moment at the earl's address, he betrayed no
embarrassment in reply, but bowing with an air of respect, and taking no
notice of the affront implied in Mauleverer's speech, he answered,--
“Your lordship has only to deign a glance at my dress to see that I have
not intruded myself on your grounds with the intention of claiming your
hospitality. The fact is, and I trust to your lordship's courtesy to
admit the excuse, that I leave this neighbourhood to-morrow, and for
some length of time. A person whom I was very anxious to see before I
left was one of your lordship's guests; I heard this, and knew that
I should have no other opportunity of meeting the person in question
before my departure; and I must now throw myself on the well-known
politeness of Lord Mauleverer to pardon a freedom originating in a
business very much approaching to a necessity.”
Lord Mauleverer's address to Clifford had congregated an immediate crowd
of eager and expectant listeners; but so quietly respectful and really
gentlemanlike were Clifford's air and tone in excusing himself, that the
whole throng were smitten with a sudden disappointment.
Lord Mauleverer himself, surprised by the temper and deportment of the
unbidden guest, was at a loss for one moment; and Clifford was about to
take advantage of that moment and glide away, when Mauleverer, with a
second bow, more civil than the former one, said,--
“I cannot but be happy, sir, that my poor place has afforded you any
convenience; but if I am not very impertinent, will you allow me to
inquire the name of my guest with whom you required a meeting?”
“My lord,” said Clifford, drawing himself up and speaking gravely and
sternly, though still with a certain deference, “I need not surely
point out to your lordship's good sense and good feeling that your very
question implies a doubt, and consequently an affront, and that the tone
of it is not such as to justify that concession on my part which the
further explanation you require would imply!”
Few spoken sarcasms could be so bitter as that silent one which
Mauleverer could command by a smile, and with this complimentary
expression on his thin lips and raised brow, the earl answered: “Sir,
I honour the skill testified by your reply; it must be the result of
a profound experience in these affairs. I wish you, sir, a very good
night; and the next time you favour me with a visit, I am quite sure
that your motives for so indulging me will be no less creditable to you
than at present.”
With these words Mauleverer turned to rejoin his fair charge. But
Clifford was a man who had seen in a short time a great deal of the
world, and knew tolerably well the theories of society, if not the
practice of its minutiae; moreover, he was of an acute and resolute
temper, and these properties of mind, natural and acquired, told him
that he was now in a situation in which it had become more necessary
to defy than to conciliate. Instead therefore of retiring he walked
deliberately up to Mauleverer, and said,--
“My lord, I shall leave it to the judgment of your guests to decide
whether you have acted the part of a nobleman and a gentleman in thus,
in your domains, insulting one who has given you such explanation of
his trespass as would fully excuse him in the eyes of all considerate or
courteous persons. I shall also leave it to them to decide whether the
tone of your inquiry allowed me to give you any further apology. But
I shall take it upon myself, my lord, to demand from you an immediate
explanation of your last speech.”
“Insolent!” cried Mauleverer, colouring with indignation, and almost for
the first time in his life losing absolute command over his temper; “do
you bandy words with me? Begone, or I shall order my servants to thrust
you forth!”
“Begone, sir! begone!” cried several voices in echo to Mauleverer,
from those persons who deemed it now high time to take part with the
powerful.
Clifford stood his ground, gazing around with a look of angry and
defying contempt, which, joined to his athletic frame, his dark and
fierce eye, and a heavy riding-whip, which, as if mechanically, he half
raised, effectually kept the murmurers from proceeding to violence.
“Poor pretender to breeding and to sense!” said he, disdainfully turning
to Mauleverer; “with one touch of this whip I could shame you forever,
or compel you to descend from the level of your rank to that of mine,
and the action would be but a mild return to your language. But I love
rather to teach you than to correct. According to my creed, my lord, he
conquers most in good breeding who forbears the most,--scorn enables me
to forbear! Adieu!”
With this, Clifford turned on his heel and strode away. A murmur,
approaching to a groan, from the younger or sillier part of the
parasites (the mature and the sensible have no extra emotion to throw
away), followed him as he disappeared.