Her chief resource was in her own high spirit,
Which judged mankind at their due estimation;
And for coquetry she disdained to wear it,
Secure of admiration; its impression
Was faint as if an every-day possession.
BYRON.
But then her face
So lovely, yet so arch; so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart.
It will be equally impossible, I fear, to give the reader of these
pages an idea of the charm of Lady Gayland’s character, whether he
is allowed to guess his way to its developement through the mazes of
contradictory traits which the events themselves may incidentally
present, and so be left puzzled and perplexed, as Lord Castleton
himself was in his former acquaintance with her; or whether the more
arduous task shall be undertaken of giving him a clue through the
medium of introductory description. Yet, how to tie down to terms of
fixed description, that which, if it was as brilliant, was also as
changeful as the sun-beam! How to exemplify that which, at all times,
was unlike any thing else, or how to describe that which was often
most unlike itself! I might, it is true, vaunt the undeniable beauty
of her fine features, expatiate on the brilliancy of her full dark
eye; or detail the form of that noble brow which seemed the chosen
throne of thought. Yet how, even by this means, to give any idea of
that strength of varied expression, which, as the occasion required,
even before the ready words had risen to her lips, stamped upon her
countenance the perfect prototype of indignation, ridicule, or
sympathy! If I were even to recall some of the sallies of her playful
wit, they might, thus stiffly recorded, no longer be the same as
when flowing forth the spontaneous burst of high spirits and buoyant
fancy; and seem, perhaps, abrupt and harsh when deprived of the
accompanying sweet smile and soft tone, which could even blunt the
sting of satire.
On the other hand, it might be difficult to persuade those who felt
not that her movements were the result of some higher impulse, which
spurned the usual rules of drawing-room refinement--how impossible it
was that under any circumstances she could ever be ungraceful; and
such as she was, when most unlike every one else, she seemed least
aware of it herself. Her’s was the singularity of genius; not the
genius of singularity. If she was often in word and deed what some
might say they would not imitate, still oftener was she what others
owned they could not emulate. And whilst many who knew her slightly,
thought it was well for the world that there was no _second_ Lady
Gayland; all who knew her well, thought there was nothing which the
world could not better spare than that one.
The morning after the events, described in the last Chapter, had
happened at Morden Bay, a large party was assembled round the
breakfast-table at Sir North’s, and in the full enjoyment of the
social meal; for though, contrary to his usual custom, their host
had not yet appeared, his authority had been put in commission, as
amongst the guests there were many who considered themselves quite at
liberty to treat his servants as if they were their own.
“How I envy you your spirits, Lady Gayland!” drawled out that
beshawled and draperied anatomy, Mrs. M‘Angle, as she sat coiled up
in one corner of the easy _fauteuil_, which, as an invalid, had been
provided for her. “I shan’t be half awake these three hours yet; and
you talk as gaily as if it was after midnight, instead of before
noon.”
“For my part,” said Lady Gayland, “I never feel more alive than with
the freshness of the morning dew upon my thoughts; I enjoy, above all
the other _agrémens_ of a country party, a social breakfast-table.
But where is he ‘_who is the cause of mirth in others_?’”
“Our host has undertaken the part of Banquo,” rejoined his humble
friend, Mr. Spencer, pointing to the vacant chair of Sir North.
“Perhaps we are too noisy for him; he is accustomed ten months in the
year to a solitary meal, dividing his attention between his sodden
muffin, and newspaper done dry at a quick fire; but, after all, I
believe here he is.”
But it was not Sir North, but an individual whose entrance was
likely to produce, amongst the other guests, a much stronger
sensation than “one so common hacknied in the eyes of men,” as their
much despised host. The person in question was equipped, as to his
lower man, in the most correct shooting costume; but the jacket had
not as yet replaced the accustomed blue coat with royal buttons,
crossed up to his chin, many loops for sundry stars being seen on
his left breast. He was well known to all the half-fed placemen, who
now _officiously_, perhaps _officially_, cleared him his place at
the breakfast-table, and who, though they would gladly have picked
up HIS crumbs, brushed THEIR OWN out of his way. Indeed, though
all there might not previously have come in personal contact with
him, who did not know, by name, The Right Honourable the Earl of
Stayinmore, K.G., G.C.B., G.G.C., the proprietor of the three snug
little boroughs of Singlecot, Bankcumwall, and Old Summertemple,
and one of the confidential advisers of the Crown at that day? His
Lordship had, through life, observed great judgment in establishing
the reputation of his wisdom by his silence--and of his consequence,
by his civility. But he contrived by his silence often to place more
restraint upon opinion than others by a direct negative, looking
the while as “if I could contradict if it was worth my while;” and
his civility was so ostentatiously condescending, that to some it
was more offensive than would have been the actual assumption of
superiority. One of those who saw it in this light was Lady Gayland;
and it was evident to the blindest of bystanders, even whilst
the diplomatic assurances, &c. of the morning acknowledgements,
were going on between them, that there would very soon be a “war
of opinion.” The serviles formed a royalist militia round Lord
S. whilst all the unquiet spirits looked to Lady Gayland for
encouragement.
Lord Stayinmore was, however, determined if possible to propitiate
his beautiful antagonist by the studied courtesy of his morning
address to her; and disregarding the attempts of his satellites to
fix him in their system by offering vacant chairs as he bowed his way
up the table, he at last deposited himself in one just opposite Lady
Gayland, saying, with a curvature of the body and an inflexion of the
voice, which became so substantial an impersonation of the shade of
Chesterfield, “Here’s metal more attractive.”
“New and true,” muttered Lady Gayland; adding more loudly, and in a
manner it was impossible to say positively was meant for ridicule:
“‘I kiss thy hand, but not flattery, Cæsar,’” “There,” said she,
turning to her neighbour Mr. Spencer; “there is a quotation repaid
in kind, as original, and more sincere.”
As there was nothing in the world, next to the loss of his three
Boroughs of Singlecot, Bankcumwall, and Old Summertemple, which Lord
Stayinmore so particularly dreaded as the idea of being laughed
at, warned by a certain “lurking devil in her eye,” he did not
again address Lady Gayland, but confined himself for some time to
condescending commonplaces amongst his other neighbours. But this
prolonged armistice was, as other prolonged armistices may (not a
thousand years ago) have been, displeasing to these bystanders, who
thought they might gain, and could not lose, by the actual conflict
of the contending parties. And Mr. Spencer, who was sitting next her,
viewed it peculiarly in this light.
Peter Alexander Spencer was rather, in his way, a character: he
had been ever since he left school a “rising young man,” in every
other respect except bodily height, which had remained stationary
at _five feet one_; but like many little men, he had a most exalted
idea of his own importance, though with great power of bending
to the weaknesses of others, when it suited his object. He was
remarkable for another thing; not only always using the longest
words, but adding still more to their natural length by protracted
pronunciation. He had arrived there the day before, unable to resist
Sir North’s offer of an opportunity to try his double-barrelled
gun, though very proud of the career that had just opened to him,
by being called to the Bar. His arrival had much exhilarated Lady
Gayland. I am afraid it must be owned, that she dearly loved a butt,
and there was in the assumed importance, and natural insignificance
of Mr. Spencer, much, that irresistibly cried out to any one with
the slightest sense of the ridiculous. “Even if you love me, laugh
at me!” She was constantly, in the effervescence of her merry
mood, venting forth many bad jokes about “short Spencers,” and
“long robes,” which she would have been very sorry to have heard
repeated, and which would have been as soon forgotten by every one
else as by herself, but for the intervention of Spencer’s friend,
Mr. Middleman, who shared Spencer’s britscha down, at the allotted
cost of one _post-horse_, and half a post-boy. Middleman was one
of those persons who make their way in the world by constantly
repeating such sentences as “Did you hear what Lady Gayland said of
Spencer! Capital! eh?” Thus storing up the superabundant produce of
more fertile imaginations, and retailing it forth, at moments of
conversational scarcity, thereby gaining his own little percentage
of attention; which he achieved in this instance by repeating,
whenever he thought it would entail most ridicule on his friend and
fellow-traveller, what Lady Gayland had only lightly uttered in a
moment of thoughtlessness.