Paul Clifford — Complete
The Alchemist.
As when some rural citizen-retired for a fleeting holiday, far from the
cares of the world strepitumque Romae,--[“And the roar of
Rome.”]--to the sweet shades of Pentonville or the remoter plains of
Clapham--conducts some delighted visitor over the intricacies of that
Daedalian masterpiece which he is pleased to call his labyrinth or
maze,--now smiling furtively at his guest's perplexity, now listening
with calm superiority to his futile and erring conjectures, now
maliciously accompanying him through a flattering path in which the
baffled adventurer is suddenly checked by the blank features of a
thoroughfareless hedge, now trembling as he sees the guest stumbling
unawares into the right track, and now relieved as he beholds him
after a pause of deliberation wind into the wrong,--even so, O pleasant
reader! doth the sage novelist conduct thee through the labyrinth of
his tale, amusing himself with thy self-deceits, and spinning forth,
in prolix pleasure, the quiet yarn of his entertainment from the
involutions which occasion thy fretting eagerness and perplexity. But as
when, thanks to the host's good-nature or fatigue, the mystery is once
unravelled, and the guest permitted to penetrate even into the concealed
end of the leafy maze, the honest cit, satisfied with the pleasant pains
he has already bestowed upon his visitor, puts him not to the labour of
retracing the steps he hath so erratically trod, but leads him in three
strides, and through a simpler path, at once to the mouth of the maze,
and dismisseth him elsewhere for entertainment; even so will the prudent
narrator, when the intricacies of his plot are once unfolded, occasion
no stale and profitless delays to his wearied reader, but conduct him,
with as much brevity as convenient, without the labyrinth which has
ceased to retain the interest of a secret.
We shall therefore, in pursuance of the tit's policy, relate as rapidly
as possible that part of our narrative which yet remains untold. On
Brandon's person was found the paper which had contained so fatal an
intelligence of his son; and when brought to Lord Mauleverer, the words
struck that person (who knew Brandon had been in search of his lost
son, whom we have seen that he had been taught however to suppose
illegitimate, though it is probable that many doubts whether he had
not been deceived must have occurred to his natural sagacity) as
sufficiently important to be worth an inquiry after the writer. Dummie
was easily found, for he had not yet turned his back on the town when
the news of the judge's sudden death was brought back to it; and
taking advantage of that circumstance, the friendly Dunnaker remained
altogether in the town (albeit his long companion deserted it as hastily
as might be), and whiled the time by presenting himself at the jail,
and after some ineffectual efforts winning his way to Clifford. Easily
tracked by the name he had given to the governor of the jail, he was
conducted the same day to Lord Mauleverer; and his narrative, confused
as it was, and proceeding even from so suspicious a quarter, thrilled
those digestive organs, which in Mauleverer stood proxy for a heart,
with feelings as much resembling awe and horror as our good peer was
capable of experiencing. Already shocked from his worldly philosophy
of indifference by the death of Brandon, he was more susceptible to a
remorseful and salutary impression at this moment than he might have
been at any other; and he could not, without some twinges of conscience,
think of the ruin he had brought on the mother of the being he had but
just prosecuted to the death. He dismissed Dummie, and after a
little consideration he ordered his carriage, and leaving the funeral
preparations for his friend to the care of his man of business, he set
off for London, and the house, in particular, of the Secretary of the
Home Department. We would not willingly wrong the noble penitent; but
we venture a suspicion that he might not have preferred a personal
application for mercy to the prisoner to a written one, had he not felt
certain unpleasant qualms in remaining in a country-house overshadowed
by ceremonies so gloomy as those of death. The letter of Brandon and
the application of Mauleverer obtained for Clifford a relaxation of his
sentence. He was left for perpetual transportation. A ship was already
about to sail; and Mauleverer, content with having saved his life,
was by no means anxious that his departure from the country should be
saddled with any superfluous delay.
Meanwhile the first rumour that reached London respecting Brandon's fate
was that he had been found in a fit, and was lying dangerously ill
at Mauleverer's; and before the second and more fatally sure report
arrived, Lucy had gathered from the visible dismay of Barlow, whom
she anxiously cross-questioned, and who, really loving his master,
was easily affected into communication, the first and more flattering
intelligence. To Barlow's secret delight, she insisted instantly on
setting off to the supposed sick man; and accompanied by Barlow and
her woman, the affectionate girl hastened to Mauleverer's house on
the evening after the day the earl left it. Lucy had not proceeded far
before Barlow learned, from the gossip of the road, the real state
of the case. Indeed, it was at the first stage that with a mournful
countenance he approached the door of the carriage, and announcing the
inutility of proceeding farther, begged of Lucy to turn back. So soon as
Miss Brandon had overcome the first shock which this intelligence gave
her, she said with calmness,--
“Well, Barlow, if it be so, we have still a duty to perform. Tell the
postboys to drive on!”
“Indeed, madam, I cannot see what use it can be fretting yourself,--and
you so poorly. If you will let me go, I will see every attention paid to
the remains of my poor master.”
“When my father lay dead,” said Lucy, with a grave and sad sternness
in her manner, “he who is now no more sent no proxy to perform the last
duties of a brother; neither will I send one to discharge those of a
niece, and prove that I have forgotten the gratitude of a daughter.
Drive on!”
We have said that there were times when a spirit was stricken from Lucy
little common to her in general; and now the command of her uncle sat
upon her brow. On sped the horses, and for several minutes Lucy remained
silent. Her woman did not dare to speak. At length Miss Brandon turned,
and, covering her face with her hands, burst into tears so violent that
they alarmed her attendant even more than her previous stillness. “My
poor, poor uncle!” she sobbed; and those were all her words.
We must pass over Lucy's arrival at Lord Mauleverer's house; we must
pass over the weary days which elapsed till that unconscious body was
consigned to dust with which, could it have retained yet one spark of
its haughty spirit, it would have refused to blend its atoms. She had
loved the deceased incomparably beyond his merits, and resisting all
remonstrance to the contrary and all the forms of ordinary custom, she
witnessed herself the dreary ceremony which bequeathed the human remains
of William Brandon to repose and to the worm. On that same day Clifford
received the mitigation of his sentence, and on that day another trial
awaited Lucy. We think briefly to convey to the reader what that scene
was; we need only observe that Dummie Dunnaker, decoyed by his great
love for little Paul, whom he delightedly said he found not the least
“stuck up by his great fame and helewation,” still lingered in the
town, and was not only aware of the relationship of the cousins, but had
gleaned from Long Ned, as they journeyed down to ------, the
affection entertained by Clifford for Lucy. Of the manner in which the
communication reached Lucy, we need not speak; suffice it to say, that
on the day in which she had performed the last duty to her uncle, she
learned for the first time her lover's situation.
On that evening, in the convict's cell, the cousins met.
Their conference was low, for the jailer stood within hearing; and it
was broken by Lucy's convulsive sobs. But the voice of one whose iron
nerves were not unworthy of the offspring of William Brandon, was clear
and audible to her ear, even though uttered in a whisper that scarcely
stirred his lips. It seemed as if Lucy, smitten to the inmost heart by
the generosity with which her lover had torn himself from her at the
time that her wealth might have raised him in any other country far
above the perils and the crimes of his career in this; perceiving now,
for the first time, and in all their force, the causes of his mysterious
conduct; melted by their relationship, and forgetting herself utterly in
the desolation and dark situation in which she beheld one who, whatever
his crimes, had not been criminal towards her;--it seemed as if, carried
away by these emotions, she had yielded altogether to the fondness and
devotion of her nature,--that she had wished to leave home and friends
and fortune, and share with him his punishment and his shame.
“Why,” she faltered,--“why--why not? We are all that is left to each
other in the world! Your father and mine were brothers; let me be to you
as a sister. What is there left for me here? Not one being whom I love,
or who cares for me,--not one!”
It was then that Clifford summoned all his courage, as he answered.
Perhaps, now that he felt (though here his knowledge was necessarily
confused and imperfect) his birth was not unequal to hers; now that he
read, or believed he read, in her wan cheek and attenuated frame that
desertion to her was death, and that generosity and self-sacrifice had
become too late,--perhaps these thoughts, concurring with a love in
himself beyond all words, and a love in her which it was above humanity
to resist, altogether conquered and subdued him. Yet, as we have said,
his voice breathed calmly in her ear; and his eye only, which brightened
with a steady and resolute hope, betrayed his mind. “Live, then!” said
he, as he concluded. “My sister, my mistress, my bride, live! In one
year from this day--I repeat--I promise it thee!”
The interview was over, and Lucy returned home with a firm step. She was
on foot. The rain fell in torrents, yet even in her precarious state her
health suffered not; and when within a week from that time she read that
Clifford had departed to the bourne of his punishment, she read the news
with a steady eye and a lip that, if it grew paler, did not quiver.
Shortly after that time Miss Brandon departed to an obscure town by the
seaside; and there, refusing all society, she continued to reside.
As the birth of Clifford was known but to few, and his legitimacy was
unsuspected by all except, perhaps, by Mauleverer, Lucy succeeded to the
great wealth of her uncle; and this circumstance made her more than ever
an object of attraction in the eyes of her noble adorer. Finding himself
unable to see her, he wrote to her more than one moving epistle; but as
Lucy continued inflexible, he at length, disgusted by her want of taste,
ceased his pursuit, and resigned himself to the continued sterility of
unwedded life. As the months waned, Miss Brandon seemed to grow weary
of her retreat; and immediately on attaining her majority, which she did
about eight months after Brandon's death, she transferred the bulk of
her wealth to France, where it was understood (for it was impossible
that rumour should sleep upon an heiress and a beauty) that she intended
in future to reside. Even Warlock (that spell to the proud heart of her
uncle) she ceased to retain. It was offered to the nearest relation of
the family at a sum which he did not hesitate to close with; and by the