CHAPTER LIX
Change and time take together their flight.--Golden Violet.
One evening in autumn, about three years after the date of our last
chapter, a stranger on horseback, in deep mourning, dismounted at the
door of the Golden Fleece, in the memorable town of W----. He walked
into the taproom, and asked for a private apartment and accommodation
for the night. The landlady, grown considerably plumper than when we
first made her acquaintance, just lifted up her eyes to the stranger's
face, and summoning a short stout man (formerly the waiter, now the
second helpmate of the comely hostess), desired him, in a tone which
partook somewhat more of the authority indicative of their former
relative situations than of the obedience which should have
characterized their present, "to show the gentleman to the Griffin,
No. 4."
The stranger smiled as the sound greeted his ears, and he followed not
so much the host as the hostess's spouse into the apartment thus
designated. A young lady, who some eight years ago little thought
that she should still be in a state of single blessedness, and who
always honoured with an attentive eye the stray travellers who, from
their youth, loneliness, or that ineffable air which usually
designates the unmarried man, might be in the same solitary state of
life, turned to the landlady and said,--
"Mother, did you observe what a handsome gentleman that was?"
"No," replied the landlady; "I only observed that he brought no
servant"
"I wonder," said the daughter, "if he is in the army? he has a
military air!"
"I suppose he has dined," muttered the landlady to herself, looking
towards the larder.
"Have you seen Squire Mordaunt within a short period of time?" asked,
somewhat abruptly, a little thick-set man, who was enjoying his pipe
and negus in a sociable way at the window-seat. The characteristics
of this personage were, a spruce wig, a bottle nose, an elevated
eyebrow, a snuff-coloured skin and coat, and an air of that
consequential self-respect which distinguishes the philosopher who
agrees with the French sage, and sees "no reason in the world why a
man should not esteem himself."
"No, indeed, Mr. Bossolton," returned the landlady; "but I suppose
that, as he is now in the Parliament House, he will live less retired.
It is a pity that the inside of that noble old Hall of his should not
be more seen; and after all the old gentleman's improvements too!
They say that the estate now, since the mortgages were paid off, is
above 10,000 pounds a year, clear!"
"And if I am not induced into an error," rejoined Mr. Bossolton,
refilling his pipe, "old Vavasour left a great sum of ready money
besides, which must have been an aid, and an assistance, and an
advantage, mark me, Mistress Merrylack, to the owner of Mordaunt Hall,
that has escaped the calculation of your faculty,--and the--and the--
faculty of your calculation!"
"You mistake, Mr. Boss," as, in the friendliness of diminutives, Mrs.
Merrylack sometimes styled the grandiloquent practitioner, "you
mistake: the old gentleman left all his ready money in two bequests,--
the one to the College of ----, in the University of Cambridge, and
the other to an hospital in London. I remember the very words of the
will; they ran thus, Mr. Boss. 'And whereas my beloved son, had he
lived, would have been a member of the College of ---- in the
University of Cambridge, which he would have adorned by his genius,
learning, youthful virtue, and the various qualities which did equal
honour to his head and heart, and would have rendered him alike
distinguished as the scholar and the Christian, I do devise and
bequeath the sum of thirty-seven thousand pounds sterling, now in the
English Funds,' etc; and then follows the manner in which he will have
his charity vested and bestowed, and all about the prize which shall
be forever designated and termed 'The Vavasour Prize,' and what shall
be the words of the Latin speech which shall be spoken when the said
prize be delivered, and a great deal more to that effect: so, then, he
passes to the other legacy, of exactly the same sum, to the hospital,
usually called and styled ----, in the city of London, and says, 'And
whereas we are assured by the Holy Scriptures, which, in these days of
blasphemy and sedition, it becomes every true Briton and member of the
Established Church to support, that "charity doth cover a multitude of
sins," so I do give and devise,' etc., 'to be forever termed in the
deeds,' etc., 'of the said hospital, "The Vavasour Charity;" and
always provided that on the anniversary of the day of my death a
sermon shall be preached in the chapel attached to the said hospital
by a clergyman of the Established Church, on any text appropriate to
the day and deed so commemorated.' But the conclusion is most
beautiful, Mr. Bossolton: 'And now having discharged my duties, to the
best of my humble ability, to my God, my king, and my country, and
dying in the full belief of the Protestant Church, as by law
established, I do set my hand and seal,' etc."
"A very pleasing and charitable and devout and virtuous testament or
will, Mistress Merrylack," said Mr. Bossolton; "and in a time when
anarchy with gigantic strides does devastate and devour and harm the
good old customs of our ancestors and forefathers, and tramples with
its poisonous breath the Magna Charta and the glorious revolution, it
is beautiful, ay, and sweet, mark you, Mrs. Merrylack, to behold a
gentleman of the aristocratic classes or grades supporting the
institutions of his country with such remarkable energy of sentiments
and with--and with, Mistress Merrylack, with sentiments of such
remarkable energy."
"Pray," said the daughter, adjusting her ringlets by a little glass
which hung over the tap, "how long has Mr. Mordaunt's lady been dead?"
"Oh! she died just before the squire came to the property," quoth the
mother. "Poor thing! she was so pretty! I am sure I cried for a
whole hour when I heard it! I think it was three years last month
when it happened. Old Mr. Vavasour died about two months afterwards."
"The afflicted husband" (said Mr. Bossolton, who was the victim of a
most fiery Mrs. Boss at home) "went into foreign lands or parts, or,
as it is vulgarly termed, the Continent, immediately after an event or
occurrence so fatal to the cup of his prosperity and the sunshine of
his enjoyment, did he not, Mrs. Merrylack?"
"He did. And you know, Mr. Boss, he only returned about six months
ago."
"And of what borough or burgh or town or city is he the member and
representative?" asked Mr. Jeremiah Bossolton, putting another lump of
sugar into his negus. "I have heard, it is true, but my memory is
short; and, in the multitude and multifariousness of my professional
engagements, I am often led into a forgetfulness of matters less
important in their variety, and less--less various in their
importance."
"Why," answered Mrs. Merrylack, "somehow or other, I quite forget too;
but it is some distant borough. The gentleman wanted him to stand for
the county, but he would not hear of it; perhaps he did not like the
publicity of the thing, for he is mighty reserved."
"Proud, haughty, arrogant, and assumptious!" said Mr. Bossolton, with
a puff of unusual length.
"Nay, nay," said the daughter (young people are always the first to
defend), "I'm sure he's not proud: he does a mort of good, and has the
sweetest smile possible! I wonder if he'll marry again! He is very
young yet, not above two or three and thirty." (The kind damsel would
not have thought two or three and thirty very young some years ago;
but we grow wonderfully indulgent to the age of other people as we
grow older ourselves!)
"And what an eye he has!" said the landlady. "Well, for my part,--
but, bless me. Here, John, John, John, waiter, husband I mean,--
here's a carriage and four at the door. Lizzy, dear, is my cap
right?"
And mother, daughter, and husband all flocked, charged with simper,
courtesy, and bow, to receive their expected guests. With a
disappointment which we who keep not inns can but very imperfectly
conceive, the trio beheld a single personage,--a valet, descend from
the box, open the carriage door, and take out--a desk! Of all things
human, male or female, the said carriage was utterly empty.
The valet bustled up to the landlady: "My master's here, ma'am, I
think; rode on before!"
"And who is your master?" asked Mrs. Merrylack, a thrill of alarm, and
the thought of No. 4, coming across her at the same time.
"Who!" said the valet, rubbing his hands; "who!--why, Clarence Talbot
Linden, Esq., of Scarsdale Park, county of York, late Secretary of
Legation at the court of ----, now M.P., and one of his Majesty's
Under Secretaries of State."
"Mercy upon us!" cried the astounded landlady, "and No. 4! only think
of it. Run, John,--John,--run, light a fire (the night's cold, I
think) in the Elephant, No. 16; beg the gentleman's pardon; say it was
occupied till now; ask what he'll have for dinner,--fish, flesh, fowl,
steaks, joints, chops, tarts; or, if it's too late (but it's quite
early yet; you may put back the day an hour or so), ask what he'll
have for supper; run, John, run: what's the oaf staying for? run, I
tell you! Pray, sir, walk in (to the valet, our old friend Mr.
Harrison)--you'll be hungry after your journey, I think; no ceremony,
I beg."
"He's not so handsome as his master," said Miss Elizabeth, glancing at
Harrison discontentedly; "but he does not look like a married man,
somehow. I'll just step up stairs and change my cap: it would be but
civil if the gentleman's gentleman sups with us."
Meanwhile Clarence, having been left alone in the quiet enjoyment of
No. 4, had examined the little apartment with an interest not
altogether unmingled with painful reflections. There are few persons,
however fortunate, who can look back to eight years of their life, and
not feel somewhat of disappointment in the retrospect; few persons,
whose fortunes the world envy, to whom the token of past time suddenly
obtruded on their remembrance does not awaken hopes destroyed and
wishes deceived which that world has never known. We tell our
triumphs to the crowd, but our own hearts are the sole confidants of
our sorrows. "Twice," said Clarence to himself, "twice before have I
been in this humble room; the first was when, at the age of eighteen,
I was just launched into the world,--a vessel which had for its only
hope the motto of the chivalrous Sidney,--
'Aut viam inveniam, aut--faciam;'
["I will either find my way, or--make it.]
yet, humble and nameless as I was, how well I can recall the
exaggerated ambition, nay, the certainty of success, as well as its
desire, which then burned within me. I smile now at the overweening
vanity of those hopes,--some, indeed, realized, but how many nipped
and withered forever! seeds, of which a few fell upon rich ground and
prospered, but of which how far the greater number were scattered:
some upon the wayside, and were devoured by immediate cares; some on
stony places, and when the sun of manhood was up they were scorched,
and because they had no root withered away; and some among thorns, and
the thorns sprang up and choked them. I am now rich, honoured, high
in the favour of courts, and not altogether unknown or unesteemed
arbitrio popularis aurae: and yet I almost think I was happier when,
in that flush of youth and inexperience, I looked forth into the wide
world, and imagined that from every corner would spring up a triumph
for my vanity or an object for my affections. The next time I stood
in this little spot, I was no longer the dependant of a precarious
charity, or the idle adventurer who had no stepping-stone but his
ambition. I was then just declared the heir of wealth, which I could
not rationally have hoped for five years before, and which was in
itself sufficient to satisfy the aspirings of ordinary men. But I was
corroded with anxieties for the object of my love, and regret for the
friend whom I had lost: perhaps the eagerness of my heart for the one
rendered me, for the moment, too little mindful of the other; but, in
after years, memory took ample atonement for that temporary suspension
of her duties. How often have I recalled, in this world of cold ties
and false hearts, that true and generous friend, from whose lessons my
mind took improvement, and from whose warnings example; who was to me,
living, a father, and from whose generosity whatever worldly
advantages I have enjoyed or distinctions I have gained are derived!
Then I was going, with a torn yet credulous heart, to pour forth my
secret and my passion to her, and, within one little week thence, how
shipwrecked of all hope, object, and future happiness I was! Perhaps,
at that time, I did not sufficiently consider the excusable cautions
of the world: I should not have taken such umbrage at her father's
letter; I should have revealed to him my birth and accession of
fortune; nor bartered the truth of certain happiness for the trials
and manoeuvres of romance. But it is too late to repent now. By this
time my image must be wholly obliterated from her heart: she has seen
me in the crowd, and passed me coldly by; her cheek is pale, but not
for me; and in a little, little while, she will be another's, and lost
to me forever! Yet have I never forgotten her through change or time,
the hard and harsh projects of ambition, the labours of business, or
the engrossing schemes of political intrigue. Never! but this is a
vain and foolish subject of reflection now."
And not the less reflecting upon it for that sage and veracious
recollection, Clarence turned from the window, against which he had
been leaning, and drawing one of the four chairs to the solitary
table, he sat down, moody and disconsolate, and leaning his face upon
his hands, pursued the confused yet not disconnected thread of his
meditations.
The door abruptly opened, and Mr. Merrylack appeared.
"Dear me, sir!" cried he, "a thousand pities you should have been put
here, sir! Pray step upstairs, sir; the front drawing-room is just
vacant, sir; what will you please to have for dinner, sir?" etc.,
according to the instructions of his wife. To Mr. Merrylack's great
dismay, Clarence, however, resolutely refused all attempts at
locomotion, and contenting himself with entrusting the dinner to the
discretion of the landlady, desired to be left alone till it was
prepared.
Now, when Mr. John Merrylack returned to the taproom, and communicated
the stubborn adherence to No. 4 manifested by its occupier, our good
hostess felt exceedingly discomposed. "You are so stupid, John," said
she: "I'll go and expostulate like with him;" and she was rising for
that purpose when Harrison, who was taking particularly good care of
himself, drew her back; "I know my master's temper better than you do,
ma'am," said he; "and when he is in the humour to be stubborn, the
very devil himself could not get him out of it. I dare say he wants
to be left to himself: he is very fond of being alone now and then;
state affairs, you know" (added the valet, mysteriously touching his
forehead), "and even I dare not disturb him for the world; so make
yourself easy, and I'll go to him when he has dined, and I supped.
There is time enough for No. 4 when we have taken care of number one.
Miss, your health!"
The landlady, reluctantly overruled in her design, reseated herself.
"Mr. Clarence Linden, M. P., did you say, sir?" said the learned
Jeremiah: "surely, I have had that name or appellation in my books,
but I cannot, at this instant of time, recall to my recollection the
exact date and circumstance of my professional services to the
gentleman so designated, styled, or, I may say, termed."
"Can't say, I am sure, sir," said Harrison; "lived with my master many
years; never had the pleasure of seeing you before, nor of travelling
this road,--a very hilly road it is, sir. Miss, this negus is as
bright as your eyes and as warm as my admiration."
"Oh, sir!"
"Pray," said Mr. Merrylack, who like most of his tribe was a bit of a
politician; "is it the Mr. Linden who made that long speech in the
House the other day?"
"Precisely, sir. He is a very eloquent gentleman, indeed: pity he
speaks so little; never made but that one long speech since he has
been in the House, and a capital one it was too. You saw how the
prime minister complimented him upon it. 'A speech,' said his
lordship, 'which had united the graces of youthful genius with the
sound calculations of matured experience."'
"Did the prime minister really so speak?" said Jeremiah "what a
beautiful, and noble, and sensible compliment! I will examine my
books when I go home,--'the graces of youthful genius with the sound
calculations of matured experience'!"
"If he is in the Parliament House," quoth the landlady, "I suppose he
will know our Mr. Mordaunt, when the squire takes his seat next--what
do you call it--sessions?"
"Know Mr. Mordaunt!" said the valet. "It is to see him that we have
come down here. We intended to have gone there to-night, but Master
thought it too late, and I saw he was in a melancholy humour: we
therefore resolved to come here; and so Master took one of the horses
from the groom, whom we have left behind with the other, and came on
alone. I take it, he must have been in this town before, for he
described the inn so well.--Capital cheese this! as mild,--as mild as
your sweet smile, miss."
"Oh, sir!"
"Pray, Mistress Merrylack," said Mr. Jeremiah Bossolton, depositing
his pipe on the table, and awakening from a profound revery, in which
for the last five minutes his senses had been buried, "pray, Mistress
Merrylack, do you not call to your mind or your reminiscence or your--
your recollection, a young gentleman, equally comely in his aspect and
blandiloquent (ehem!) in his address, who had the misfortune to have
his arm severely contused and afflicted by a violent kick from Mr.
Mordaunt's horse, even in the yard in which your stables are situated,
and who remained for two or three days in your house or tavern or
hotel? I do remember that you were grievously perplexed because of
his name, the initials of which only he gave or entrusted or
communicated to you, until you did exam--"
"I remember," interrupted Miss Elizabeth, "I remember well,--a very
beautiful young gentleman, who had a letter directed to be left here,
addressed to him by the letters C. L., and who was afterwards kicked,
and who admired your cap, Mother, and whose name was Clarence Linden.
You remember it well enough, Mother, surely?"
"I think I do, Lizzy," said the landlady, slowly; for her memory, not
so much occupied as her daughter's by beautiful young gentlemen,
struggled slowly amidst dim ideas of the various travellers and
visitors with whom her house had been honoured, before she came, at
last, to the reminiscence of Clarence Linden, "I think I do; and
Squire Mordaunt was very attentive to him; and he broke one of the
panes of glass in No. 8 and gave me half a guinea to pay for it. I do
remember perfectly, Lizzy. So that is the Mr. Linden now here?--only
think!"
"I should not have known him, certainly," said Miss Elizabeth; "he is
grown so much taller, and his hair looks quite dark now, and his face
is much thinner than it was; but he's very handsome still; is he not,
sir?" turning to the valet.
"Ah! ah! well enough," said Mr. Harrison, stretching out his right
leg, and falling away a little to the left, in the manner adopted by
the renowned Gil Blas, in his address to the fair Laura, "well enough;
but he's a little too tall and thin, I think."
Mr. Harrison's faults in shape were certainly not those of being too
tall and thin.
"Perhaps so!" said Miss Elizabeth, who scented the vanity by a kindred
instinct, and had her own reasons for pampering it, "perhaps so!"
"But he is a great favourite with the ladies all the same; however, he
only loves one lady. Ah, but I must not say who, though I know.
However, she is so handsome: such eyes, they would go through you like
a skewer; but not like yours,--yours, miss, which I vow and protest
are as bright as a service of plate."
"Oh, sir!"
And amidst these graceful compliments the time slipped away, till
Clarence's dinner and his valet's supper being fairly over, Mr.
Harrison presented himself to his master, a perfectly different being
in attendance to what he was in companionship: flippancy,
impertinence, forwardness, all merged in the steady, sober, serious
demeanour which characterize the respectful and well-bred domestic.
Clarence's orders were soon given. They were limited to the
appurtenances of writing; and as soon as Harrison reappeared with his
master's writing-desk, he was dismissed for the night.
Very slowly did Clarence settle himself to his task, and attempt to
escape the ennui of his solitude, or the restlessness of thought
feeding upon itself, by inditing the following epistle:--
TO THE DUKE OF HAVERFIELD.
I was very unfortunate, my dear Duke, to miss seeing you, when I
called in Arlington Street the evening before last, for I had a great
deal to say to you,--something upon public and a little upon private
affairs. I will reserve the latter, since I only am the person
concerned, for a future opportunity. With respect to the former--
. . . . . . . . .
And now, having finished the political part of my letter, let me
congratulate you most sincerely upon your approaching marriage with
Miss Trevanion. I do not know her myself; but I remember that she was
the bosom friend of Lady Flora Ardenne, whom I have often heard speak
of her in the highest and most affectionate terms, so that I imagine
her brother could not better atone to you for dishonestly carrying off
the fair Julia some three years ago, than by giving you his sister in
honourable and orthodox exchange,--the gold amour for the brazen.
As for my lot, though I ought not, at this moment, to dim yours by
dwelling upon it, you know how long, how constantly, how ardently I
have loved Lady Flora Ardenne; how, for her sake, I have refused
opportunities of alliance which might have gratified to the utmost
that worldliness of heart which so many who saw me only in the crowd
have been pleased to impute to me. You know that neither pleasure,
nor change, nor the insult I received from her parents, nor the sudden
indifference which I so little deserved from herself, has been able to
obliterate her image. You will therefore sympathize with me, when I
inform you that there is no longer any doubt of her marriage with
Borodaile (or rather Lord Ulswater, since his father's death), as soon
as the sixth month of his mourning expires; to this period only two
months remain.
Heavens! when one thinks over the past, how incredulous one could
become to the future: when I recall all the tokens of love I received.
from that woman, I cannot persuade myself that they are now all
forgotten, or rather, all lavished upon another.
But I do not blame her: may she be happier with him than she could
have been with me! and that hope shall whisper peace to regrets which
I have been foolish to indulge so long, and it is perhaps well for me
that they are about to be rendered forever unavailing.
I am staying at an inn, without books, companions, or anything to
beguile time and thought, but this pen, ink, and paper. You will see,
therefore, a reason and an excuse for my scribbling on to you, till my
two sheets are filled, and the hour of ten (one can't well go to bed
earlier) arrived.
You remember having often heard me speak of a very extraordinary man
whom I met in Italy, and with whom I became intimate. He returned to
England some months ago; and on hearing it my desire of renewing our
acquaintance was so great that I wrote to invite myself to his house.
He gave me what is termed a very obliging answer, and left the choice
of time to myself. You see now, most noble Festus, the reason of my
journey hitherwards.
His house, a fine old mansion, is situated about five or six miles
from this town: and as I arrived here late in the evening, and knew
that his habits were reserved and peculiar, I thought it better to
take "mine ease in my inn" for this night, and defer my visit to
Mordaunt Court till to-morrow morning. In truth, I was not averse to
renewing an old acquaintance,--not, as you in your malice would
suspect, with my hostess, but with her house. Some years ago, when I
was eighteen, I first made a slight acquaintance with Mordaunt at this
very inn, and now, at twenty-six, I am glad to have one evening to
myself on the same spot, and retrace here all that has since happened
to me.
Now do not be alarmed: I am not going to inflict upon you the unquiet
retrospect with which I have just been vexing myself; no, I will
rather speak to you of my acquaintance and host to be. I have said
that I first met Mordaunt some years since at this inn,--an accident,
for which his horse was to blame, brought us acquainted,--I spent a
day at his house, and was much interested in his conversation; since
then, we did not meet till about two years and a half ago, when we
were in Italy together. During the intermediate interval Mordaunt had
married; lost his property by a lawsuit; disappeared from the world
(whither none knew) for some years; recovered the estate he had lost
by the death of his kinsman's heir, and shortly afterwards by that of
the kinsman himself; and had become a widower, with one only child, a
beautiful little girl of about four years old. He lived in perfect
seclusion, avoided all intercourse with society, and seemed so
perfectly unconscious of having ever seen me before, whenever in our
rides or walks we met, that I could not venture to intrude myself on a
reserve so rigid and unbroken as that which characterized his habits
and life.
The gloom and loneliness, however, in which Mordaunt's days were
spent, were far from partaking of that selfishness so common, almost
so necessarily common, to recluses. Wherever he had gone in his
travels through Italy, he had left light and rejoicing behind him. In
his residence at ----, while unknown to the great and gay, he was
familiar with the outcast and the destitute. The prison, the
hospital, the sordid cabins of want, the abodes (so frequent in Italy,
that emporium of artists and poets) where genius struggled against
poverty and its own improvidence,--all these were the spots to which
his visits were paid, and in which "the very stones prated of his
whereabout." It was a strange and striking contrast to compare the
sickly enthusiasm of those who flocked to Italy to lavish their
sentiments on statues, and their wealth on the modern impositions
palmed upon their taste as the masterpieces of ancient art,--it was a
noble contrast, I say, to compare that ludicrous and idle enthusiasm
with the quiet and wholesome energy of mind and heart which led
Mordaunt, not to pour forth worship and homage to the unconscious
monuments of the dead but to console, to relieve, and to sustain the
woes, the wants, the feebleness of the living.
Yet while he was thus employed in reducing the miseries and enlarging
the happiness of others, the most settled melancholy seemed to mark
himself "as her own." Clad in the deepest mourning, a stern and un
broken gloom sat forever upon his countenance. I have observed, that
if in his walks or rides any one, especially of the better classes,
appeared to approach, he would strike into a new path. He could not
bear even the scrutiny of a glance or the fellowship of a moment: and
his mien, high and haughty, seemed not only to repel others, but to
contradict the meekness and charity which his own actions so
invariably and unequivocally displayed. It must, indeed, have been a
powerful exertion of principle over feeling which induced him
voluntarily to seek the abodes and intercourse of the rude beings he
blessed and relieved.
We met at two or three places to which my weak and imperfect charity
had led me, especially at the house of a sickly and distressed artist:
for in former life I had intimately known one of that profession; and
I have since attempted to transfer to his brethren that debt of
kindness which an early death forbade me to discharge to himself. It
was thus that I first became acquainted with Mordaunt's occupations
and pursuits; for what ennobled his benevolence was the remarkable
obscurity in which it was veiled. It was in disguise and in secret
that his generosity flowed; and so studiously did he conceal his name,
and hide even his features, during his brief visits to "the house of
mourning," that only one like myself, a close and minute investigator
of whatever has once become an object of interest, could have traced
his hand in the various works of happiness it had aided or created.
One day, among some old ruins, I met him with his young daughter. By
great good-fortune I preserved the latter, who had wandered away from
her father, from a fall of loose stones, which would inevitably have
crushed her. I was myself much hurt by my effort, having received
upon my shoulder a fragment of the falling stones; and thus our old
acquaintance was renewed, and gradually ripened into intimacy; not, I
must own, without great patience and constant endeavour on my part;
for his gloom and lonely habits rendered him utterly impracticable of
access to any (as Lord Aspeden would say) but a diplomatist. I saw a
great deal of him during the six months I remained in Italy, and--but
you know already how warmly I admire his extraordinary powers and
venerate his character--Lord Aspeden's recall to England separated us.
A general election ensued. I was returned for ----. I entered
eagerly into domestic politics; your friendship, Lord Aspeden's
kindness, my own wealth and industry, made my success almost
unprecedentedly rapid. Engaged heart and hand in those minute yet
engrossing labours for which the aspirant in parliamentary and state
intrigue must unhappily forego the more enlarged though abstruser
speculations of general philosophy, and of that morality which may be
termed universal, politics, I have necessarily been employed in very
different pursuits from those to which Mordaunt's contemplations are
devoted, yet have I often recalled his maxims, with admiration at
their depth, and obtained applause for opinions which were only
imperfectly filtered from the pure springs of his own.
It is about six months since he has returned to England, and he has
very lately obtained a seat in Parliament: so that we may trust soon
to see his talents displayed upon a more public and enlarged theatre
than they hitherto have been; and though I fear his politics will be
opposed to ours, I anticipate his public debut with that interest
which genius, even when adverse to one's self, always inspires. Yet I
confess that I am desirous to see and converse with him once more in
the familiarity and kindness of private intercourse. The rage of
party, the narrowness of sectarian zeal, soon exclude from our
friendship all those who differ from our opinions; and it is like
sailors holding commune for the last time with each other, before
their several vessels are divided by the perilous and uncertain sea,
to confer in peace and retirement for a little while with those who
are about to be launched with us on that same unquiet ocean where any
momentary caprice of the winds may disjoin us forever, and where our
very union is only a sympathy in toil and a fellowship in danger.
Adieu, my dear duke! it is fortunate for me that our public opinions
are so closely allied, and that I may so reasonably calculate in
private upon the happiness and honour of subscribing myself your
affectionate friend, C. L.
Such was the letter to which we shall leave the explanation of much
that has taken place within the last three years of our tale, and
which, in its tone, will serve to show the kindness and generosity of
heart and feeling that mingled (rather increased than abated by the
time which brought wisdom) with the hardy activity and resolute
ambition that characterized the mind of our "Disowned." We now
consign him to such repose as the best bedroom in the Golden Fleece
can afford, and conclude the chapter.
