Paul Clifford — Complete
“Truth, sincerity, independence, and honesty of mind.”
“My dear Lucy, it has been the professional study of my life to discover
a man's character, especially so far as truth is concerned, in as short
a time as possible; but you excel me in intuition, if you can tell
whether there be sincerity in a courtier's character at the first
interview you have with him.”
“Nevertheless, I am sure of my opinion,” said Lucy, laughing; “and I
will tell you one instance I observed among a hundred. Lord Mauleverer
is rather deaf, and he imagined, in conversation, that my father said
one thing--it was upon a very trifling subject, the speech of some
member of parliament [the lawyer smiled],--when in reality he meant to
say another. Lord Mauleverer, in the warmest manner in the world,
chimed in with him, appeared thoroughly of his opinion, applauded his
sentiments, and wished the whole country of his mind. Suddenly my father
spoke; Lord Mauleverer bent down his ear, and found that the sentiments
he had so lauded were exactly those my father the least favoured.
No sooner did he make this discovery than he wheeled round
again,--dexterously and gracefully, I allow; condemned all that he had
before extolled, and extolled all that he had before abused!”
“And is that all, Lucy?” said Brandon, with a keener sneer on his lip
than the occasion warranted. “Why, that is what every one does; only
some more gravely than others. Mauleverer in society, I at the bar, the
minister in parliament, friend to friend, lover to mistress, mistress to
lover,--half of us are employed in saying white is black, and the other
half in swearing that black is white. There is only one difference, my
pretty niece, between the clever man and the fool: the fool says what is
false while the colours stare in his face and give him the lie; but the
clever man takes as it were a brush and literally turns the black into
white and the white into black before he makes the assertion, which is
then true. The fool changes, and is a liar; the clever man makes the
colours change, and is a genius. But this is not for your young years
yet, Lucy.”
“But I can't see the necessity of seeming to agree with people,” said
Lucy, simply; “surely they would be just as well pleased if you differed
from them civilly and with respect?”
“No, Lucy,” said Brandon, still sneering; “to be liked, it is not
necessary to be anything but compliant. Lie, cheat, make every word a
snare, and every act a forgery; but never contradict. Agree with people,
and they make a couch for you in their hearts. You know the story of
Dante and the buffoon. Both were entertained at the court of the vain
pedant, who called himself Prince Scaliger,--the former poorly, the
latter sumptuously. 'How comes it,' said the buffoon to the poet, 'that
I am so rich and you so poor?' 'I shall be as rich as you,' was the
stinging and true reply, 'whenever I can find a patron as like myself as
Prince Scaliger is like you!'”
“Yet my birds,” said Lucy, caressing the goldfinch, which nestled to
her bosom, “are not like me, and I love them. Nay, I often think I
could love those better who differ from me the most. I feel it so in
books,--when, for instance, I read a novel or a play; and you, uncle, I
like almost in proportion to my perceiving in myself nothing in common
with you.”
“Yes,” said Brandon, “you have in common with me a love for old stories
of Sir Hugo and Sir Rupert, and all the other 'Sirs' of our mouldered
and bygone race. So you shall sing me the ballad about Sir John de
Brandon, and the dragon he slew in the Holy Land. We will adjourn to the
drawing-room, not to disturb your father.”
Lucy agreed, took her uncle's arm, repaired to the drawing-room, and
seating herself at the harpsichord, sang to an inspiriting yet somewhat
rude air the family ballad her uncle had demanded.
It would have been amusing to note in the rigid face of the hardened and
habitual man of peace and parchments a certain enthusiasm which ever
and anon crossed his cheek, as the verses of the ballad rested on some
allusion to the knightly House of Brandon and its old renown. It was an
early prejudice, breaking out despite of himself,--a flash of character,
stricken from the hard fossil in which it was imbedded. One would have
supposed that the silliest of all prides (for the pride of money, though
meaner, is less senseless), family pride, was the last weakness which
at that time the callous and astute lawyer would have confessed, even to
himself.
“Lucy,” said Brandon, as the song ceased, and he gazed on his beautiful
niece with a certain pride in his aspect, “I long to witness your first
appearance in the world. This lodging, my dear, is not fit--But pardon
me! what I was about to say is this: your father and yourself are here
at my invitation, and in my house you must dwell; you are my guests, not
mine host and hostess. I have therefore already directed my servant to
secure me a house and provide the necessary establishment; and I make
no doubt, as he is a quick fellow, that within three days all will be
ready. You must then be the magnet of my abode, Lucy; and meanwhile
you must explain this to my brother, and--for you know his jealous
hospitality--obtain his acquiescence.”
“But--” began Lucy.
“But me no buts,” said Brandon, quickly, but with an affectionate tone
of wilfulness; “and now, as I feel very much fatigued with my journey,
you must allow me to seek my own room.”
“I will conduct you to it myself,” said Lucy, for she was anxious
to show her father's brother the care and forethought which she had
lavished on her arrangements for his comfort. Brandon followed her into
an apartment which his eye knew at a glance had been subjected to that
female superintendence which makes such uses from what men reject as
insignificant; and he thanked her with more than his usual amenity, for
the grace which had presided over, and the kindness which had dictated
her preparations. As soon as he was left alone, he wheeled his armchair
near the clear, bright fire, and resting his face upon his hand, in the
attitude of a man who prepares himself as it were for the indulgence of
meditation, he muttered,--
“Yes! these women are, first, what Nature makes them, and that is good;
next, what use make them, and that is evil! Now, could I persuade myself
that we ought to be nice as to the use we put these poor puppets to, I
should shrink from enforcing the destiny which I have marked for this
girl. But that is a pitiful consideration, and he is but a silly player
who loses his money for the sake of preserving his counters. So the
young lady must go as another score to the fortunes of William Brandon.
After all, who suffers? Not she. She will have wealth, rank, honour.
I shall suffer, to yield so pretty and pure a gem to the coronet
of--Faugh! How I despise that dog; but how I could hate, crush, mangle
him, could I believe that he despised me! Could he do so? Umph! No,
I have resolved myself that is impossible. Well, let me hope that
matrimonial point will be settled; and now let me consider what next
step I shall take for myself,--myself, ay, only myself! With me perishes
the last male of Brandon; but the light shall not go out under a
bushel.”
As he said this, the soliloquist sunk into a more absorbed and silent
revery, from which he was disturbed by the entrance of his servant.
Brandon, who was never a dreamer save when alone, broke at once from his
reflections.
“You have obeyed my orders, Barlow?” said he.
“Yes, sir,” answered the domestic. “I have taken the best house yet
unoccupied; and when Mrs. Roberts [Brandon's housekeeper] arrives from
London, everything will, I trust, be exactly to your wishes.”
“Good! And you gave my note to Lord Mauleverer?”
“With my own hands, sir; his lordship will await you at home all
to-morrow.”
“Very well! and now, Barlow, see that your room is within call [bells,
though known, were not common at that day], and give out that I am gone
to bed, and must not be disturbed. What's the hour?”
“Just on the stroke of ten, sir.”
“Place on that table my letter-case and the inkstand. Look in, to
help me to undress, at half-past one; I shall go to bed at that hour.
And--stay--be sure, Barlow, that my brother believes me retired for the
night. He does not know my habits, and will vex himself if he thinks I
sit up so late in my present state of health.”
Drawing the table with its writing appurtenances near to his master, the
servant left Brandon once more to his thoughts or his occupations.
CHAPTER XIV.
Servant. Get away, I say, wid dat nasty bell.
Punch. Do you call this a bell? (patting it.) It is an
organ.
Servant. I say it is a bell,--a nasty bell!
Punch. I say it is an organ (striking him with it). What do
you say it is now?
Servant. An organ, Mr. Punch!
The Tragical Comedy of Punch and Judy.
The next morning, before Lucy and her father had left their apartments,
Brandon, who was a remarkably early riser, had disturbed the luxurious
Mauleverer in his first slumber. Although the courtier possessed a villa
some miles from Bath, he preferred a lodging in the town, both as
being warmer than a rarely inhabited country-house, and as being to an
indolent man more immediately convenient for the gayeties and the
waters of the medicinal city. As soon as the earl had rubbed his eyes,
stretched himself, and prepared himself for the untimeous colloquy,
Brandon poured forth his excuses for the hour he had chosen for a visit.
“Mention it not, my dear Brandon,” said the good-natured nobleman, with
a sigh; “I am glad at any hour to see you, and I am very sure that what
you have to communicate is always worth listening to.”
“It was only upon public business, though of rather a more important
description than usual, that I ventured to disturb you,” answered
Brandon, seating himself on a chair by the bedside. “This morning, an
hour ago, I received by private express a letter from London, stating
that a new arrangement will positively be made in the Cabinet,--nay,
naming the very promotions and changes. I confess that as my name
occurred, as also your own, in these nominations, I was anxious to have
the benefit of your necessarily accurate knowledge on the subject, as
well as of your advice.”
“Really, Brandon,” said Mauleverer, with a half-peevish smile, “any
other hour in the day would have done for 'the business of the nation,'
as the newspapers call that troublesome farce we go through; and I
had imagined you would not have broken my nightly slumbers except for
something of real importance,--the discovery of a new beauty or the
invention of a new dish.”
“Neither the one nor the other could you have expected from me, my dear
lord,” rejoined Brandon. “You know the dry trifles in which a lawyer's
life wastes itself away; and beauties and dishes have no attraction
for us, except the former be damsels deserted, and the latter patents
invaded. But my news, after all, is worth hearing, unless you have heard
it before.”
“Not I! but I suppose I shall hear it in the course of the day. Pray
Heaven I be not sent for to attend some plague of a council. Begin!”
“In the first place Lord Duberly resolves to resign, unless this
negotiation for peace be made a Cabinet question.”
“Pshaw! let him resign. I have opposed the peace so long that it is out
of the question. Of course, Lord Wansted will not think of it, and he
may count on my boroughs. A peace!--shameful, disgraceful, dastardly
proposition!”
“But, my dear lord, my letter says that this unexpected firmness on the
part of Lord Daberly has produced so great a sensation that, seeing the