Amongst all the curious changes that have taken place in the
world--by which expression I mean, upon the world, for the great
round ball on which we roll through space is the only part of the
whole that remains but little altered--amongst all the changes, then,
which have taken place in the world, moral, political, and social,
there has been none more extraordinary, perhaps, than the rise,
progress, extension, and dominion of that strong power called
Decorum. I have heard it asserted by a very clever man, that there
was nothing of the kind known in England before the commencement of
the reign of George III., and that decorum was, in fact, a mere
decent cloak to cover the nakedness of vice. I think he was mistaken:
the word was known long before; and there has been at all times a
feeling of decorum in the English nation, which has shown itself in
gradually rooting out from the ordinary commerce of society
everything that is coarse in expression, or doubtful in conduct. The
natural tendency of this is to mark more strongly the limits of the
realms of vice and virtue; and vice, as a matter of course, in order
to obviate the detrimental effect which such a clear definition of
her boundaries must produce, loses no opportunity of travelling over
into the marches or debateable land which is left under the warden
ship of decorum.
The name was not, perhaps, applied as now it is, in former years, but
still the spirit existed, as may be seen by any one who takes up and
reads the works of one of our purest but coldest of writers, Addison,
who, about the time of the peace, which took place in the beginning
of the eighteenth century, laments the loss of much of the delicacy
(or, in other terns, decorum) of English society which was likely to
ensue from a free intercourse with France. It must, indeed, be
admitted that at that period the reign of decorum had not made nearly
so great a progress as it has at present. It was then a constitutional
monarchy, where it is now a despotism, but was probably not a bit
less powerful from being decidedly more free. People in those days
did certainly speak of things that we now speak not of at all. They
called things by their plain straightforward names, for which we have
since invented terms perhaps less definite and not more decent. But
people of refined minds and tastes were refined then as now, and
loved and cultivated all those amenities, graces, and proprieties,
which form not alone the greatest safeguards, but also the greatest
charms of human existence. Perhaps the difference was more in the
thoughts than in the expressions, and that the refined of those days
bound themselves to think more purely in the first place, so that
there was less need of guarding their words so strictly.
We shall not pause to investigate whether it was that greater purity
of thought, or any other cause, which produced a far more extensive
liberty of action, especially in the female part of society, than
that which is admitted at present. It is certain, however, that it
was so, and that there was something in virtue and innocence which in
those days was a very strong safeguard against the attacks of
scandal, calumny, and malice. In the present day, even the servants
of virtue are found to be the absolute slaves of decorum; but in
those days, so long as they obeyed the high commands of their
rightful mistress, they had but little occasion to apprehend that the
scourge of calumny, or the fear thereof, would drive them continually
back into one narrow and beaten path.
It is, indeed, the greatest satire upon human nature which the world
has ever produced, that acts perfectly innocent, high, and pure as
God's holy light, cannot be permitted to persons even of tried
virtue, simply because they would afford the opportunity of doing
ill. It is, in fact, to say, that no one is to be trusted; that there
is nothing which keeps man or woman virtuous but want of opportunity.
It is a terrible satire; it is more than a satire; it is a foul
libel, aimed by the vicious against those who are better than
themselves.
Such things did not exist in the days whereof I write, or existed in
a very, very small degree. It is true, from time to time, a woman's
reputation might suffer falsely; but it was in general from her
having approached very near the confines of evil, and the punishment
that ensued, though perhaps even then disproportioned to the fault,
had no tendency whatever to diminish the innocent liberty of others.
We find from all the writers who painted the manners of those
days--Addison, Swift, Steele, and others--that a lady, especially an
unmarried lady, feared no risk to her reputation in going hither or
thither, either perfectly alone, or with any friend with whom she was
known to be intimate. She might venture upon an excursion into the
country, a party of pleasure, nay, a journey itself in many
instances, with any gentleman of honour and reputation, without
either friends or enemies casting an imputation upon her character,
or the world immediately giving her over to him in marriage.
It was left indeed to her own judgment whom she would choose for her
companion, and the most innocent girl might have gone anywhere
unreproved with a man of known honour and virtue, who would have
ruined her own character had she placed herself in the power of a
Rochester or a Bucking ham. These were rational boundaries; but
perhaps the liberty of those days went somewhat beyond even that. In
the early part of the eighteenth century, many of the habits of the
Continent were introduced into England at a time that continental
society was so corrupt as to require licence instead of liberty, and
so far from attending to propriety, to give way to indecency itself.
It became common in the highest circles of society for ladies,
married and single alike, to dispense almost entirely with a female
attendant, and following that most indecent and beastly of all
continental habits, to permit all the offices of a waiting woman to
be performed for them by men. The visits of male acquaintances were
continually received in their bed-rooms, and that, also, before they
had risen in the morning. This, perhaps, was too much, though
certainly far less indecent than the other most revolting of all
immodest practices which I have just mentioned. Others, again,
admitted no visitors further than their dressing-room, and thought
themselves very scrupulous; but there were others, as there must be
at all times, who, with feelings of true modesty and perfect
delicacy, hesitated not to use all proper and rational liberty, yet
shrunk instinctively from the least coarseness of thought or
language, and never yielded to aught that was immodest in custom or
demeanour.
Of these was Lady Laura Gaveston; and though she had no fear of
becoming the talk of the town, or losing the slightest particle of a
bright and pure reputation, by treating one who had rendered her
important services in all respects as she would a brother, by being
seen with him often and often alone, by showing herself with him in
public places, or by any other act of the kind that her heart
prompted her to, she in no way gave in to the evil practices which
the English had learned from their continental neighbours, and,
indeed, never thought or reasoned upon the subject, feeling that
decency as well as morality is a matter of sentiment and not of
custom.
The peculiar situation in which the Duke and Wilton were placed
towards each other; the Duke's repeated entreaties that Wilton would
see him every day, if possible; the intimacy that had arisen from
services rendered and received, produced that constant and continual
intercourse which was necessary to the happiness of two people who
loved as Wilton and Laura did; not a day passed without their seeing
each other, scarcely a day passed without their being alone together,
sometimes even for hours; and every moment that they thus spent in
each other's society increased their feelings of love and tenderness
for each other, their hopes, their confidence, their esteem.
Not a secret of Laura's bosom was now concealed from him she loved,
not a thought, not a feeling. She delighted to tell him all: with
whatever subject her mind was employed, with whatever bright thing
her fancy sported, Wilton was always made the sharer; and it was the
same with him. The course that their thoughts pursued was certainly
not always alike, but they generally arrived at the same conclusion,
she by a longer and a softer way, he by a more rapid, vigorous, and
direct one. It was like the passing of a hill by two different roads;
the one, for the bold climber, over the steepest brow; the other, for
gentler steps, more easy round the side.
In the meantime, the Duke proceeded with his young friend even as he
had commenced. He treated him as his most intimate and dearest
confidant; he gradually went on to consult and trust him, not alone
with regard to the immediate subject of his situation, as affected by
the conspiracy, but upon a thousand other matters; and as Wilton's
advice, clear-sighted and vigorous, was always judicious, and
generally successful, the Duke, one of whose greatest weaknesses was
the habit of putting his own judgment under the guidance of others,
learned to lean upon his young companion, as he had at first done
upon his wife, and then upon his daughter.
The various changes and events of the day, as they kept the Duke's
mind in a state of frequent suspense and anxiety, made him more often
recur to Wilton than otherwise would have been the case. London was
filled with rumours of every kind regarding the discovery of the
plot, and the persons implicated. The report of Lady Laura's having
been carried off by the Jacobites, for the purpose of inducing her
father to join in their schemes, spread far and wide, and filled
Beaufort House, during a great part of the morning, with a crowd of
visitors, all anxious to hear the facts, and to retail them with what
colouring they thought fit.
Some argued, that though the Duke had always been thought somewhat of
a Jacobite, at least he had now proved his adherence to the existing
dynasty, beyond all manner of dispute, by what he and his daughter
had suffered from their resistance to the Jacobites. Others, again,
curled the malicious lip, and declared that the Duke must have given
the conspirators some encouragement, or they would never have
ventured upon such deeds. All, however, to the Duke himself, affected
to look upon him and his family as marked by the enmity of the other
faction; and he, on his part, perhaps, did feel his importance in a
little degree increased by the sort of notoriety which he had
acquired.
If there was any pleasure in this--and when is not increased
importance pleasurable?--it was speedily brought to an end, as soon
as the trials of the conspirators began, and intelligence of more and
more traitors being arrested in different parts, and increased
rumours of the number suspected, or actually implicated, reaching the
ears of the Duke. Persons who one day appeared perfectly free and
stainless, were the next marked out as having a share in the
conspiracy. Fear fell upon all men: the times of Titus Oates and his
famous plot presented themselves to everybody's imagination, and the
Duke's head lay more and more uneasy on his pillow every night.
Sir John Fenwick, however, was not yet taken: Sir William Parkyns and
Sir John Friend died with firmness and with honour, compromising no
man. Sir George Barkley had escaped; the Earl of Aylesbury, though
implicated by the testimony of several witnesses in the lesser
offences of the conspiracy, was not arrested; and not a word had yet
been spoken of the Duke's name.
It was about this period, however, that Laura's father suddenly
received a note from Lord Aylesbury to the following effect:--
"Your grace and I being somewhat similarly situated in
several respects, I think fit to give you intimation of my
views at the present moment. While gentlemen, and men of
honour, were the only individuals made to suffer in
consequence of the late lamentable events, people, who knew
themselves to be innocent of any bloody or treasonable
designs, might feel themselves tolerably safe, even though
they were well acquainted with some of the persons accused.
I hear now, however, that there is a certain Rookwood,
together with men named Cranburne, Lowick, Knightly, and
others, some of them small gentry of no repute, and others
merely vulgar and inferior persons, who are about to be
brought to immediate trial; and I have it from a sure hand,
that some of these persons, for the purpose of saving their
own miserable lives, intend to charge men of much higher
rank than themselves with crimes of which they never had
any thought, simply because they were acquainted with
some of the unfortunate gentlemen by whom these evil and
foolish things were designed. Such being the case, and
knowing myself to be somewhat obnoxious to many persons
in power, I have determined to remove from London for the
time, that my presence may not excite attention, and perhaps
call upon my head an accusation which may be levelled at
any other if I should not be here. I by no means purpose
to quit the kingdom, and would rather, indeed, surrender
myself, and endeavour to prove my innocence, even against
the torrent of prejudice, and all the wild and raging outcry
which this business has produced, both in the parliament
and in the nation. At the same time, I think it best to
inform you of these facts, as an old friend, well knowing that
your grace has a house ready to receive you in Hampshire,
within thirty-five miles of the city of London, in case your
presence should be wanted, and about the same distance
from the sea-coast. I will beg your grace to read this, and
then instantly to burn it, believing that it comes with a very
good intent, from
"Your humble servant,
"AYLESBURY."
This letter once more excited all the apprehensions of the Duke, who
well knew that Lord Aylesbury would never have written such an
epistle without intending to imply much more than he directly said.
His recourse was immediately to Wilton, who was engaged to dine with
him on that day, together with a large party. As Wilton's
engagements, however, were always made with a proviso, that his
official duties under the Earl of Byerdale permitted his fulfilling
them, the Duke sent off a special messenger with a note beseeching
him not to fail. The dinner hour, however, arrived; the various
guests made their appearance; the cook began to fret, and to declare
to his understrappers that the Duke always spoilt the dinner; but
Wilton had not yet come, and the Duke was anxious, if but to obtain
five words with him.
At length, however, the young gentleman arrived; and it was not a
little to the surprise of all the guests, and to the indignation of
some, that they saw who was the person for whom the meal had been
delayed. Wilton, though always well dressed, and in any circumstances
bearing the aspect of a gentleman, had evidently made his toilet
hastily and imperfectly; and notwithstanding the distance he had
come, bore about his person distinct traces of heat and excitement.
"I have not failed to obey your summons, my lord," he said, following
the Duke into the opening of one of the windows, "though it was
scarcely possible for me to do so. But I have much that I wish to
say to you."
"And I to you," replied the Duke; and he told him the contents of the
letter he had received from Lord Aylesbury that morning.
"The Earl says true, my lord," replied Wilton. "But I have this very
day seen Cook myself--I mean Peter Cook, the person that it is
supposed will be permitted to turn king's evidence. He did certainly
slightly glance at your grace; but I believe that the orders of Lord
Byerdale will prevent him from implicating any persons but those who
were actually engaged in the worst designs of the conspirators."
"Had I not better go into the country at once?" demanded the Duke,
eagerly.
"Far from it, far from it, my lord," replied Wilton: "the way, of all
others, I should think, to cause yourself to be arrested. On the
contrary, if you would take my advice, you would immediately sit down
and write a note to Lord Byerdale, saying that I had told you--for he
did not forbid me to mention it--that Cook had made some allusion to
you. Tell him that it was, and is, your intention to go out of town
within a few days, but that knowing your own innocence of every
design against the government, you will put off your journey, or even
surrender yourself at the Tower, should he judge, from any
information that he possesses, that even a shade of suspicion is
likely to be cast upon you by any of the persons about to be tried. I
will answer for the success, if your grace follows my advice. A bold
step of this kind disarms suspicion. Lord Byerdale will, in all
probability, intimate to Cook, that nothing at all is to be said in
regard to you, feeling sure that you are innocent of any great
offence; whereas, if the charge were once brought forward, the set of
low-minded villains concerned in this business might think it
absolutely necessary to work it up into a serious affair, from which
your grace would find a difficulty in extricating yourself."
"You are right, Wilton, you are right," replied the Duke: "I see you
are right, although I judged it hazardous at first. You shall see
what confidence I have in you. I will write the letter directly;" and
he turned away with him from the window.
Laura had watched the conference with some anxiety, and the Duke's
guests with some surprise; but when the Duke ended by saying aloud,
"I fear I must beg your pardon, ladies, for two minutes, but I must
write a short note of immediate importance; Wilton, my dear young
friend, be kind enough to order dinner, and help Laura to entertain
my friends here till I return, which will be before they have covered
the table," every one looked in the face of the other; and they all
mentally said, "The matter is clearly settled, and the hand of this
rich and beautiful heiress is promised to an unknown man of no rank
whatever."
Knowing the feelings that were in his own heart, being quite sure of
the interpretation that would be put upon the Duke's words, and yet
having some doubts still whether the Duke himself had the slightest
intention of giving them such a meaning, Wilton cast down his eyes
and coloured slightly. But Laura, to whom those words were anything
but painful--though she blushed a little too, which but confirmed
the opinion of those who remarked it--could not restrain altogether
the smile of pleasure that played upon her lips, as she turned her
happy eyes for a moment to the countenance of the man she loved.
There was not an old lady or gentleman, of high rank, in the room,
possessed of a marriageable son, who would not at that moment have
willingly raised Wilton to the final elevation of Haman, by the same
process which that envious person underwent; and yet it is wonderful
how courteous and cordial, and even affectionate, they all were
towards the young gentleman whom, for the time, they mortally hated.
Wilton felt himself awkwardly situated for the next few minutes, not
choosing fully to assume the position in which the Duke's words had
placed him. He well knew that if he did enact to the full the part of
that nobleman's representative, every one would charge him with gross
and shameful presumption, and would most likely talk of it, each in
his separate circle, during the whole of the following day.
He was soon relieved, however, by the return of the Duke, who had
sent the letter, but who continued evidently anxious and thoughtful
during the whole of dinner. Wilton was also a little disturbed, and
showed himself rather silent and retiring than otherwise. But before
dinner was over--for such meals were long protracted in those
days--one of the servants brought a note to the Duke, who, begging
pardon for so far violating all proprieties, opened, read it, and,
while the cloud vanished from his countenance, placed it on the
salver again, saying to the servant, "Take that to Mr. Brown."
The note was in the hand of Lord Byerdale, and to the following
effect:--
"MY DEAR LORD DUKE,
"Your grace's attachment to the government is far too
well known to be affected by anything that such a person as
Peter Cook could say. I permitted our dear young friend
Wilton to tell you what the man had mentioned, more as a
mark of our full confidence than anything else. But I doubt
not that he will forbear to repeat the calumny in court; and
if he does, it will receive no attention. Go out of town, then,
whenever you think fit, and to whatsoever place you please,
feeling quite sure that in Wilton you have a strenuous
advocate, and a sincere friend in
"Your grace's most humble and
"most obedient servant,
"BYERDALE."