Paul Clifford — Complete
to prosecute; on the contrary, they always talked of the event as one
of the most agreeable remembrances in their lives, and seemed to bear a
provoking gratitude to the comely offender, rather than resentment. All
the gentlemen were not, however, of so placable a temper; and two sturdy
farmers, with a grazier to boot, were ready to swear, “through thick and
thin,” to the identity of the prisoner with a horseman who had civilly
borne each of them company for an hour in their several homeward rides
from certain fairs, and had carried the pleasure of his society, they
very gravely asserted, considerably beyond a joke; so that the state of
the prisoner's affairs took a very sombre aspect, and the counsel--an
old hand--intrusted with his cause declared confidentially that there
was not a chance. But a yet more weighty accusation, because it came
from a much nobler quarter, awaited Clifford. In the robbers' cavern
were found several articles answering exactly to the description
of those valuables feloniously abstracted from the person of Lord
Mauleverer. That nobleman attended to inspect the articles, and to view
the prisoner. The former he found himself able to swear to, with a very
tranquillized conscience; the latter he beheld feverish, attenuated, and
in a moment of delirium, on the sick-bed to which his wound had brought
him. He was at no loss, however, to recognize in the imprisoned felon
the gay and conquering Clifford, whom he had once even honoured with his
envy. Although his former dim and vague suspicions of Clifford were
thus confirmed, the good-natured peer felt some slight compunction at
appearing as his prosecutor. This compunction, however, vanished the
moment he left the sick man's apartment; and after a little patriotic
conversation with the magistrates about the necessity of public duty,--a
theme which brought virtuous tears into the eyes of those respectable
functionaries,--he re-entered his carriage, returned to town, and after
a lively dinner tete-a-tete with an old chere amie, who, of all her
charms, had preserved only the attraction of conversation and the
capacity of relishing a salami, Mauleverer, the very evening of his
return, betook himself to the house of Sir William Brandon.
When he entered the hall, Barlow, the judge's favourite servant, met
him, with rather a confused and mysterious air, and arresting him as he
was sauntering into Brandon's library, informed him that Sir William was
particularly engaged, but would join his lordship in the drawing-room.
While Barlow was yet speaking, and Mauleverer was bending his right ear
(with which he heard the best) towards him, the library door opened, and
a man in a very coarse and ruffianly garb awkwardly bowed himself out.
“So this is the particular engagement,” thought Mauleverer,--“a strange
Sir Pandarus; but those old fellows have droll tastes.”
“I may go in now, my good fellow, I suppose?” said his lordship to
Barlow; and without waiting an answer, he entered the library. He found
Brandon alone, and bending earnestly over some letters which strewed
his table. Mauleverer carelessly approached, and threw himself into an
opposite chair. Sir William lifted his head, as he heard the movement;
and Mauleverer, reckless as was that personage, was chilled and almost
awed by the expression of his friend's countenance. Brandon's face
was one which, however pliant, nearly always wore one pervading
character,--calmness; whether in the smoothness of social courtesy,
or the austerity of his official station, or the bitter sarcasm which
escaped him at no unfrequent intervals, still a certain hard and
inflexible dryness stamped both his features and his air. But at this
time a variety of feelings not ordinarily eloquent in the outward man
struggled in his dark face, expressive of all the energy and passion
of his powerful and masculine nature; there seemed to speak from his
features and eyes something of shame and anger and triumph and regret
and scorn. All these various emotions, which it appears almost a paradox
to assert met in the same expression, nevertheless were so individually
and almost fearfully stamped as to convey at once their signification
to the mind of Mauleverer. He glanced towards the letters, in which the
writing seemed faint and discoloured by time or damp; and then once more
regarding the face of Brandon, said in rather an anxious and subdued
tone,--
“Heavens, Brandon! are you ill; or has anything happened? You alarm me!”
“Do you recognize these locks?” said Brandon, in a hollow voice; and
from under the letters he drew some ringlets of an auburn hue, and
pushed them with an averted face towards Mauleverer.
The earl took them up, regarded them for a few moments, changed colour,
but shook his head with a negative gesture, as he laid them once more on
the table.
“This handwriting, then?” renewed the judge, in a yet more impressive
and painful voice; and he pointed to the letters.
Mauleverer raised one of them, and held it between his face and the
lamp, so that whatever his features might have betrayed was hidden
from his companion. At length he dropped the letter with an affected
nonchalance, and said,--
“Ah, I know the writing even at this distance of time; this letter is
directed to you!”
“It is; so are all these,” said Brandon, with the same voice of
preternatural and strained composure. “They have come back to me after
an absence of nearly twenty-five years; they are the letters she
wrote to me in the days of our courtship” (here Brandon laughed
scornfully),--“she carried them away with her, you know when; and (a
pretty clod of consistency is woman!) she kept them, it seems, to her
dying day.”
The subject in discussion, whatever it might be, appeared a sore one to
Mauleverer; he turned uneasily on his chair, and said at length,--
“Well, poor creature! these are painful remembrances, since it turned
out so unhappily; but it was not our fault, dear Brandon. We were men
of the world; we knew the value of--of women, and treated them
accordingly!”
“Right! right! right!” cried Brandon, vehemently, laughing in a wild and
loud disdain, the intense force of which it would be in vain to attempt
expressing. “Right! and, faith, my lord, I repine not, nor repent.”
“So, so, that's well!” said Mauleverer, still not at his ease, and
hastening to change the conversation. “But, my dear Brandon, I have
strange news for you! You remember that fellow Clifford, who had the
insolence to address himself to your adorable niece? I told you I
suspected that long friend of his of having made my acquaintance
somewhat unpleasantly, and I therefore doubted of Clifford himself.
Well, my dear friend, this Clifford is--whom do you think?--no other
than Mr. Lovett of Newgate celebrity!”
“You do not say so!” rejoined Brandon, apathetically, as he slowly
gathered his papers together and deposited them in a drawer.
“Indeed it is true; and what is more, Brandon, this fellow is one of the
very identical highwaymen who robbed me on my road from Bath. No doubt
he did me the same kind office on my road to Mauleverer Park.”
“Possibly,” said Brandon, who appeared absorbed in a revery.
“Ay!” answered Mauleverer, piqued at this indifference. “But do you not
see the consequences to your niece?”
“My niece!” repeated Brandon, rousing himself.
“Certainly. I grieve to say it, my dear friend,--but she was young, very
young, when at Bath. She suffered this fellow to address her too openly.
Nay,--for I will be frank,--she was suspected of being in love with
him!”
“She was in love with him,” said Brandon, dryly, and fixing the
malignant coldness of his eye upon the suitor. “And, for aught I know,”
added he, “she is so at this moment.”
“You are cruel!” said Mauleverer, disconcerted. “I trust not, for the
sake of my continued addresses.”
“My dear lord,” said Brandon, urbanely taking the courtier's hand, while
the anguis in herba of his sneer played around his compressed lips,--“my
dear lord, we are old friends, and need not deceive each other. You wish
to marry my niece because she is an heiress of great fortune, and you
suppose that my wealth will in all probability swell her own. Moreover,
she is more beautiful than any other young lady of your acquaintance,
and, polished by your example, may do honour to your taste as well as
your prudence. Under these circumstances, you will, I am quite sure,
look with lenity on her girlish errors, and not love her the less
because her foolish fancy persuades her that she is in love with
another.”
“Ahem!” said Mauleverer, “you view the matter with more sense than
sentiment; but look you, Brandon, we must try, for both our sakes, if
possible, to keep the identity of Lovett with Clifford from being
known. I do not see why it should be. No doubt he was on his guard while
playing the gallant, and committed no atrocity at Bath. The name of
Clifford is hitherto perfectly unsullied. No fraud, no violence are
attached to the appellation; and if the rogue will but keep his own
counsel, we may hang him out of the way without the secret transpiring.”
“But if I remember right,” said Brandon, “the newspapers say that this
Lovett will be tried some seventy or eighty miles only from Bath, and
that gives a chance of recognition.”
“Ay, but he will be devilishly altered, I imagine; for his wound has
already been but a bad beautifier to his face. Moreover, if the dog has
any delicacy, he will naturally dislike to be known as the gallant of
that gay city where he shone so successfully, and will disguise
himself as well as he is able. I hear wonders of his powers of
self-transformation.”
“But he may commit himself on the point between this and his trial,”
said Brandon.
“I think of ascertaining how far that is likely, by sending my valet
down to him (you know one treats these gentlemen highwaymen with a
certain consideration, and hangs them with all due respect to their
feelings), to hint that it will be doubtless very unpleasant to him,
under his 'present unfortunate circumstances' (is not that the phrase?),
to be known as the gentleman who enjoyed so deserved a popularity at
Bath, and that, though 'the laws of my country compel me' to prosecute
him, yet, should he desire it, he may be certain that I will preserve
his secret. Come, Brandon, what say you to that manoeuvre? It will
answer my purpose, and make the gentleman--for doubtless he is all
sensibility--shed tears at my generous forbearance!”
“It is no bad idea,” said Brandon. “I commend you for it. At all events,
it is necessary that my niece should not know the situation of her
lover. She is a girl of a singular turn of mind, and fortune has made
her independent. Who knows but that she might commit some folly or
another, write petitions to the king, and beg me to present them, or
go--for she has a world of romance in her--to prison, to console him;
or, at all events, she would beg my kind offices on his behalf,--a
request peculiarly awkward, as in all probability I shall have the
honour of trying him.”
“Ay, by the by, so you will. And I fancy the poor rogue's audacity
will not cause you to be less severe than you usually are. They say you
promise to make more human pendulums than any of your brethren.”
“They do say that, do they?” said Brandon. “Well, I own I have a bile
against my species; I loathe their folly and their half vices. 'Ridet et
odit'--[“He laughs and hates”]--is my motto; and I allow that it is not
the philosophy that makes men merciful!”
“Well, Juvenal's wisdom be yours, mine be Horace's!” rejoined
Mauleverer, as he picked his teeth; “but I am glad you see the absolute
necessity of keeping this secret from Lucy's suspicion. She never reads
the papers, I suppose? Girls never do!”