“Here’s something got amongst us!”--Knight of Malta.
Two or three nights after his memorable conversation with Robert
Beaufort, as Lord Lilburne was undressing, he said to his valet:
“Dykeman, I am getting well.”
“Indeed, my lord, I never saw your lordship look better.”
“There you lie. I looked better last year--I looked better the year
before--and I looked better and better every year back to the age of
twenty-one! But I’m not talking of looks, no man with money wants looks.
I am talking of feelings. I feel better. The gout is almost gone. I have
been quiet now for a month--that’s a long time--time wasted when, at
my age, I have so little time to waste. Besides, as you know, I am very
much in love!”
“In love, my lord? I thought that you told me never to speak of--”
“Blockhead! what the deuce was the good of speaking about it when I was
wrapped in flannels! I am never in love when I am ill--who is? I am well
now, or nearly so; and I’ve had things to vex me--things to make this
place very disagreeable; I shall go to town, and before this day week,
perhaps, that charming face may enliven the solitude of Fernside. I
shall look to it myself now. I see you’re going to say something. Spare
yourself the trouble! nothing ever goes wrong if I myself take it in
hand.”
The next day Lord Lilburne, who, in truth, felt himself uncomfortable
and _gene_ in the presence of Vaudemont; who had won as much as the
guests at Beaufort Court seemed inclined to lose; and who made it
the rule of his life to consult his own pleasure and amusement before
anything else, sent for his post-horses, and informed his brother-in-law
of his departure.
“And you leave me alone with this man just when I am convinced that he
is the person we suspected! My dear Lilburne, do stay till he goes.”
“Impossible! I am between fifty and sixty--every moment is precious at
that time of life. Besides, I’ve said all I can say; rest quiet--act on
the defensive--entangle this cursed Vaudemont, or Morton, or whoever he
be, in the mesh of your daughter’s charms, and then get rid of him, not
before. This can do no harm, let the matter turn out how it will.
Read the papers; and send for Blackwell if you want advice on any new
advertisements. I don’t see that anything more is to be done at present.
You can write to me; I shall be at Park Lane or Fernside. Take care of
yourself. You’re a lucky fellow--you never have the gout! Good-bye.”
And in half an hour Lord Lilburne was on the road to London.
The departure of Lilburne was a signal to many others, especially and
naturally to those he himself had invited. He had not announced to such
visitors his intention of going till his carriage was at the door. This
might be delicacy or carelessness, just as people chose to take it: and
how they did take it, Lord Lilburne, much too selfish to be well-bred,
did not care a rush. The next day half at least of the guests were
gone; and even Mr. Marsden, who had been specially invited on Arthur’s
account, announced that he should go after dinner! he always travelled
by night--he slept well on the road--a day was not lost by it.
“And it is so long since you saw Arthur,” said Mr. Beaufort, in
remonstrance, “and I expect him every day.”
“Very sorry--best fellow in the world--but the fact is, that I am
not very well myself. I want a little sea air; I shall go to Dover
or Brighton. But I suppose you will have the house full again about
Christmas; in that case I shall be delighted to repeat my visit.”
The fact was, that Mr. Marsden, without Lilburne’s intellect on the one
hand, or vices on the other, was, like that noble sensualist, one of
the broken pieces of the great looking-glass “SELF.” He was noticed in
society as always haunting the places where Lilburne played at cards,
carefully choosing some other table, and as carefully betting upon
Lilburne’s side. The card-tables were now broken up; Vaudemont’s
superiority in shooting, and the manner in which he engrossed the talk
of the sportsmen, displeased him. He was bored--he wanted to be off--and
off he went. Vaudemont felt that the time was come for him to depart,
too; Robert Beaufort--who felt in his society the painful fascination
of the bird with the boa, who hated to see him there, and dreaded to
see him depart, who had not yet extracted all the confirmation of his
persuasions that he required, for Vaudemont easily enough parried
the artless questions of Camilla--pressed him to stay with so eager a
hospitality, and made Camilla herself falter out, against her will,
and even against her remonstrances--(she never before had dared to
remonstrate with either father or mother),--“Could not you stay a few
days longer?”--that Vaudemont was too contented to yield to his own
inclinations; and so for some little time longer he continued to
move before the eyes of Mr. Beaufort--stern, sinister, silent,
mysterious--like one of the family pictures stepped down from its frame.
Vaudemont wrote, however, to Fanny, to excuse his delay; and anxious
to hear from her as to her own and Simon’s health, bade her direct her
letter to his lodging in London (of which he gave her the address),
whence, if he still continued to defer his departure, it would be
forwarded to him. He did not do this, however, till he had been at
Beaufort Court several days after Lilburne’s departure, and till, in
fact, two days before the eventful one which closed his visit.
The party, now greatly diminished; were at breakfast, when the servant
entered, as usual, with the letter-bag. Mr. Beaufort, who was always
important and pompous in the small ceremonials of life, unlocked the
precious deposit with slow dignity, drew forth the newspapers, which he
threw on the table, and which the gentlemen of the party eagerly seized;
then, diving out one by one, jerked first a letter to Camilla, next a
letter to Vaudemont, and, thirdly, seized a letter for himself.
“I beg that there may be no ceremony, Monsieur de Vaudemont: pray excuse
me and follow my example: I see this letter is from my son;” and he
broke the seal.
The letter ran thus:
“MY DEAR FATHER,--Almost as soon as you receive this, I shall be with
you. Ill as I am, I can have no peace till I see and consult you. The
most startling--the most painful intelligence has just been conveyed to
me. It is of a nature not to bear any but personal communication.
“Your affectionate son,
“ARTHUR BEAUFORT.
“Boulogne.
“P.S.--This will go by the same packet-boat that I shall take myself,
and can only reach you a few hours before I arrive.”
Mr. Beaufort’s trembling hand dropped the letter--he grasped the elbow
of the chair to save himself from falling. It was clear!--the same
visitor who had persecuted himself had now sought his son! He grew
sick, his son might have heard the witness--might be convinced. His son
himself now appeared to him as a foe--for the father dreaded the son’s
honour! He glanced furtively round the table, till his eye rested on
Vaudemont, and his terror was redoubled, for Vaudemont’s face, usually
so calm, was animated to an extraordinary degree, as he now lifted it
from the letter he had just read. Their eyes met. Robert Beaufort looked
on him as a prisoner at the bar looks on the accusing counsel, when he
first commences his harangue.
“Mr. Beaufort,” said the guest, “the letter you have given me summons me
to London on important business, and immediately. Suffer me to send for
horses at your earliest convenience.”
“What’s the matter?” said the feeble and seldom heard voice of Mrs.
Beaufort. “What’s the matter, Robert?--is Arthur coming?”
“He comes to-day,” said the father, with a deep sigh; and Vaudemont,
at that moment rising from his half-finished breakfast, with a bow that
included the group, and with a glance that lingered on Camilla, as she
bent over her own unopened letter (a letter from Winandermere, the seal
of which she dared not yet to break), quitted the room. He hastened to
his own chamber, and strode to and fro with a stately step--the step
of the Master--then, taking forth the letter, he again hurried over its
contents. They ran thus:
DEAR, Sir,--At last the missing witness has applied to me. He proves
to be, as you conjectured, the same person who had called on Mr. Roger
Morton; but as there are some circumstances on which I wish to take your
instructions without a moment’s delay, I shall leave London by the mail,
and wait you at D---- (at the principal inn), which is, I understand,
twenty miles on the high road from Beaufort Court.
“I have the honor to be, sir,
“Yours, &c.,
“JOHN BARLOW.
Vaudemont was yet lost in the emotions that this letter aroused, when
they came to announce that his chaise was arrived. As he went down the
stairs he met Camilla, who was on the way to her own room.
“Miss Beaufort,” said he, in a low and tremulous voice, “in wishing you
farewell I may not now say more. I leave you, and, strange to say, I
do not regret it, for I go upon an errand that may entitle me to return
again, and speak those thoughts which are uppermost in my soul even at
this moment.”
He raised her hand to his lips as he spoke, and at that moment Mr.
Beaufort looked from the door of his own room, and cried, “Camilla.”
She was too glad to escape. Philip gazed after her light form for an
instant, and then hurried down the stairs.