Paul Clifford — Complete
with a sudden and light dive into his friend's pocket, and effectually
repulsed the forwardness of the intrusive lining. The supercilious
stranger no sooner felt the touch than he started back, and whispered to
his officious companion,--
“What! among friends, Ned! Fie now; curb the nature of thee for one
night at least.”
Before he of the flowing locks had time to answer, the master of the
ceremonies, who had for the last three minutes been eying the strangers
through his glass, stepped forward with a sliding bow; and the handsome
gentleman, taking upon himself the superiority and precedence over his
comrades, was the first to return the courtesy. He did this with so good
a grace and so pleasing an expression of countenance that the censor of
bows was charmed at once, and with a second and more profound salutation
announced himself and his office. “You would like to dance probably,
gentlemen?” he asked, glancing at each, but directing his words to the
one who had prepossessed him.
“You are very good,” said the comely stranger; “and, for my part, I
shall be extremely indebted to you for the exercise of your powers in
my behalf. Allow me to return with you to the ball-room, and I can there
point out to you the objects of my especial admiration.”
The master of the ceremonies bowed as before, and he and his new
acquaintance strolled into the ball-room, followed by the two comrades
of the latter.
“Have you been long in Bath, sir?” inquired the monarch of the rooms.
“No, indeed! we only arrived this evening.”
“From London?”
“No; we made a little tour across the country.”
“Ah! very pleasant, this fine weather.”
“Yes; especially in the evenings.”
“Oho! romantic!” thought the man of balls, as he rejoined aloud, “Why,
the nights are agreeable, and the moon is particularly favourable to
us.”
“Not always!” quoth the stranger.
“True, true, the night before last was dark; but, in general, surely the
moon has been very bright.”
The stranger was about to answer, but checked himself, and simply bowed
his head as in assent.
“I wonder who they are!” thought the master of the ceremonies. “Pray,
sir,” said he, in a low tone, “is that gentle man, that tall gentleman,
any way related to Lord ----------? I cannot but think I see a family
likeness.”
“Not in the least related to his lordship,” answered the stranger; “but
he is of a family that have made a noise in the world; though he, as
well as my other friend, is merely a commoner!” laying a stress on the
last word.
“Nothing, sir, can be more respectable than a commoner of family,”
returned the polite Mr. -------, with a bow.
“I agree with you, sir,” answered the stranger, with another. “But,
heavens!”--and the stranger started; for at that moment his eye caught
for the first time, at the far end of the room, the youthful and
brilliant countenance of Lucy Brandon,--“do I see rightly, or is that
Miss Brandon?”
“It is indeed that lovely young lady,” said Mr. -------. “I congratulate
you on knowing one so admired. I suppose that you, being blessed with
her acquaintance, do not need the formality of my introduction?”
“Umph!” said the stranger, rather shortly and uncourteously. “No!
Perhaps you had better present me!”
“By what name shall I have that honour, sir?” discreetly inquired the
nomenclator.
“Clifford!” answered the stranger; “Captain Clifford!” Upon this the
prim master of the ceremonies, threading his path through the now
fast-filling room, approached towards Lucy to obey Mr. Clifford's
request. Meanwhile that gentleman, before he followed the steps of the
tutelary spirit of the place, paused and said to his friends, in a tone
careless yet not without command, “Hark ye, gentlemen; oblige me by
being as civil and silent as ye are able; and don't thrust yourselves
upon me, as you are accustomed to do, whenever you see no opportunity
of indulging me with that honour with the least show of propriety!” So
saying, and waiting no reply, Mr. Clifford hastened after the master of
the ceremonies.
“Our friend grows mighty imperious!” said Long Ned, whom our readers
have already recognized in the tall stranger.
“'T is the way with your rising geniuses,” answered the moralizing
Augustus Tomlinson. “Suppose we go to the cardroom and get up a rubber!”
“Well thought of,” said Ned, yawning,--a thing he was very apt to do
in society; “and I wish nothing worse to those who try our rubbers than
that they may be well cleaned by them.” Upon this witticism the Colossus
of Roads, glancing towards the glass, strutted off, arm-in-arm with his
companion, to the card-room.
During this short conversation the re-introduction of Mr. Clifford (the
stranger of the Rectory and deliverer of Dr. Slopperton) to Lucy Brandon
had been effected, and the hand of the heiress was already engaged,
according to the custom of that time, for the two ensuing dances.
It was about twenty minutes after the above presentation had taken place
that Lord Mauleverer and William Brandon entered the rooms; and the buzz
created by the appearance of the noted peer and the distinguished lawyer
had scarcely subsided, before the royal personage expected to grace the
“festive scene” (as the newspapers say of a great room with plenty of
miserable-looking people in it) arrived. The most attractive persons
in Europe may be found among the royal family of England, and the great
personage then at Bath, in consequence of certain political intrigues,
wished, at that time especially, to make himself as popular as possible.
Having gone the round of the old ladies, and assured them, as the “Court
Journal” assures the old ladies at this day, that they were “morning
stars” and “swan-like wonders,” the prince espied Brandon, and
immediately beckoned to him with a familiar gesture. The smooth but
saturnine lawyer approached the royal presence with the manner that
peculiarly distinguished him, and which blended in no ungraceful
mixture a species of stiffness that passed with the crowd for native
independence, with a supple insinuation that was usually deemed the
token of latent benevolence of heart. There was something, indeed, in
Brandon's address that always pleased the great; and they liked him
the better because, though he stood on no idle political points, mere
differences in the view taken of a hairbreadth,--such as a corn-law or a
Catholic bill, alteration in the Church or a reform in parliament,--yet
he invariably talked so like a man of honour (except when with
Mauleverer) that his urbanity seemed attachment to individuals, and
his concessions to power sacrifices of private opinion for the sake of
obliging his friends.
“I am very glad indeed,” said the royal personage, “to see Mr. Brandon
looking so much better. Never was the crown in greater want of his
services; and if rumour speak true, they will soon be required in
another department of his profession.”
Brandon bowed, and answered,--
“So please your royal highness, they will always be at the command of
a king from whom I have experienced such kindness, in any capacity for
which his Majesty may deem them fitting.”
“It is true, then!” said his royal highness, significantly. “I
congratulate you! The quiet dignity of the bench must seem to you a
great change after a career so busy and restless.”
“I fear I shall feel it so at first, your royal highness,” answered
Brandon, “for I like even the toil of my profession; and at this moment,
when I am in full practice, it more than ever--But” (checking himself at
once) “his Majesty's wishes, and my satisfaction in complying with
them, are more than sufficient to remove any momentary regret I might
otherwise have felt in quitting those toils which have now become to me
a second nature.”
“It is possible,” rejoined the prince, “that his Majesty took into
consideration the delicate state of health which, in common with the
whole public, I grieve to see the papers have attributed to one of the
most distinguished ornaments of the bar.”
“So please your royal highness,” answered Brandon, coolly, and with a
smile which the most piercing eye could not have believed the mask to
the agony then gnawing at his nerves, “it is the interest of my rivals
to exaggerate the little ailments of a weak constitution. I thank
Providence that I am now entirely recovered; and at no time of my life
have I been less unable to discharge--so far as my native and mental,
incapacities will allow--the duties of any occupation, however arduous.
Nay, as the brute grows accustomed to the mill, so have I grown wedded
to business; and even the brief relaxation I have now allowed myself
seems to me rather irksome than pleasurable.”
“I rejoice to hear you speak thus,” answered his royal highness, warmly;
“and I trust for many years, and,” added he, in a lower tone, “in the
highest chamber of the senate, that we may profit by your talents.
The times are those in which many occasions occur that oblige all true
friends of the Constitution to quit minor employment for that great
constitutional one that concerns us all, the highest and the meanest;
and” (the royal voice sank still lower) “I feel justified in assuring
you that the office of chief-justice alone is not considered by his
Majesty as a sufficient reward for your generous sacrifice of present
ambition to the difficulties of government.”
Brandon's proud heart swelled, and that moment the veriest pains of hell
would scarcely have been felt.
While the aspiring schemer was thus agreeably engaged, Mauleverer,
sliding through the crowd with that grace which charmed every one, old
and young, and addressing to all he knew some lively or affectionate
remark, made his way to the dancers, among whom he had just caught a
glimpse of Lucy. “I wonder,” he thought, “whom she is dancing with.
I hope it is that ridiculous fellow, Mossop, who tells a good story
against himself; or that handsome ass, Belmont, who looks at his own
legs, instead of seeming to have eyes for no one but his partner. Ah! if
Tarquin had but known women as well as I do, he would have had no reason
to be rough with Lucretia. 'T is a thousand pities that experience
comes, in women as in the world, just when it begins to be no longer of
use to us!”
As he made these moral reflections, Mauleverer gained the dancers, and
beheld Lucy listening, with downcast eyes and cheeks that evidently
blushed, to a young man whom Mauleverer acknowledged at once to be
one of the best-looking fellows he had ever seen. The stranger's
countenance, despite an extreme darkness of complexion, was, to be sure,
from the great regularity of the features, rather effeminate; but, on
the other hand, his figure, though slender and graceful, betrayed to
an experienced eye an extraordinary proportion of sinew and muscle; and
even the dash of effeminacy in the countenance was accompanied by so
manly and frank an air, and was so perfectly free from all coxcombry or
self-conceit, that it did not in the least decrease the prepossessing
effect of his appearance. An angry and bitter pang shot across that
portion of Mauleverer's frame which the earl thought fit, for want
of another name, to call his heart. “How cursedly pleased she looks!”
muttered he. “By Heaven! that stolen glance under the left eyelid,
dropped as suddenly as it is raised; and he--ha! how firmly he holds
that little hand! I think I see him paddle with it; and then the dog's
earnest, intent look,--and she all blushes, though she dare not look
up to meet his gaze, feeling it by intuition. Oh, the demure, modest,
shamefaced hypocrite! How silent she is! She can prate enough to me! I
would give my promised garter if she would but talk to him. Talk, talk,
laugh, prattle, only simper, in God's name, and I shall be happy. But