CHAPTER XLII
Iago.—Virtue; a fig!—‘t is in ourselves that we are thus
and thus.
—Othello.
“So, so, my little one, don’t let me disturb you. Madam, dare I venture to hope your acceptance of this fruit? I chose it myself, and I am somewhat of a judge. Oh! Glendower, here is the pamphlet you wished to see.”
With this salutation, Crauford drew his chair to the table by which Glendower sat, and entered into conversation with his purposed victim. A comely and a pleasing countenance had Richard Crauford! the lonely light of the room fell upon a face which, though forty years of guile had gone over it, was as fair and unwrinkled as a boy’s. Small, well-cut features; a blooming complexion; eyes of the lightest blue; a forehead high, though narrow; and a mouth from which the smile was never absent,—these, joined to a manner at once soft and confident, and an elegant though unaffected study of dress, gave to Crauford a personal appearance well suited to aid the effect of his hypocritical and dissembling mind.
“Well, my friend,” said he, “always at your books, eh? Ah! it is a happy taste; would that I had cultivated it more; but we who are condemned to business have little leisure to follow our own inclinations. It is only on Sundays that I have time to read; and then (to say truth) I am an old-fashioned man, whom the gayer part of the world laughs at, and then I am too occupied with the Book of Books to think of any less important study.”
Not deeming that a peculiar reply was required to this pious speech, Glendower did not take that advantage of Crauford’s pause which it was evidently intended that he should. With a glance towards the student’s wife, our mercantile friend continued: “I did once—once in my young dreams—intend that whenever I married I would relinquish a profession for which, after all, I am but little calculated. I pictured to myself a country retreat, well stored with books; and having concentrated in one home all the attractions which would have tempted my thoughts abroad, I had designed to surrender myself solely to those studies which, I lament to say, were but ill attended to in my earlier education. But—but” (here Mr. Crauford sighed deeply, and averted his face) “fate willed it otherwise!”
Whatever reply of sympathetic admiration or condolence Glendower might have made was interrupted by one of those sudden and overpowering attacks of faintness which had of late seized the delicate and declining health of his wife. He rose, and leaned over her with a fondness and alarm which curled the lip of his visitor.
“Thus it is,” said Crauford to himself, “with weak minds, under the influence of habit. The love of lust becomes the love of custom, and the last is as strong as the first.”
When—she had recovered, she rose, and (with her child) retired to rest, the only restorative she ever found effectual for her complaint. Glendower went with her, and, after having seen her eyes, which swam with tears of gratitude at his love, close in the seeming slumber she affected in order to release him from his watch, he returned to Crauford. He found that gentleman leaning against the chimney-piece with folded arms, and apparently immersed in thought. A very good opportunity had Glendower’s absence afforded to a man whose boast it was never to lose one. Looking over the papers on the table, he had seen and possessed himself of the address of the bookseller the student dealt with. “So much for business, now for philanthropy,” said Mr. Crauford, in his favorite antithetical phrase, throwing himself in his attitude against the chimney-piece.
As Glendower entered, Crauford started from his revery, and with a melancholy air and pensive voice said,—
“Alas, my friend, when I look upon this humble apartment, the weak health of your unequalled wife, your obscurity, your misfortunes; when I look upon these, and contrast them with your mind, your talents, and all that you were born and fitted for, I cannot but feel tempted to believe with those who imagine the pursuit of virtue a chimera, and who justify their own worldly policy by the example of all their kind.”
“Virtue,” said Glendower, “would indeed be a chimera, did it require support from those whom you have cited.”
“True,—most true,” answered Crauford, somewhat disconcerted in reality, though not in appearance; “and yet, strange as it may seem, I have known some of those persons very good, admirably good men. They were extremely moral and religious: they only played the great game for worldly advantage upon the same terms as the other players; nay, they never made a move in it without most fervently and sincerely praying for divine assistance.”
“I readily believe you,” said Glendower, who always, if possible, avoided a controversy: “the easiest person to deceive is one’s own self.”
“Admirably said,” answered Crauford, who thought it nevertheless one of the most foolish observations he had ever heard, “admirably said! and yet my heart does grieve bitterly for the trials and distresses it surveys. One must make excuses for poor human frailty; and one is often placed in such circumstances as to render it scarcely possible without the grace of God” (here Crauford lifted up his eyes) “not to be urged, as it were, into the reasonings and actions of the world.”
Not exactly comprehending this observation, and not very closely attending to it, Glendower merely bowed, as in assent, and Crauford continued,—
“I remember a remarkable instance of this truth. One of my partner’s clerks had, through misfortune or imprudence, fallen into the greatest distress. His wife, his children (he had a numerous family), were on the literal and absolute verge of starvation. Another clerk, taking advantage of these circumstances, communicated to the distressed man a plan for defrauding his employer. The poor fellow yielded to the temptation, and was at last discovered. I spoke to him myself, for I was interested in his fate, and had always esteemed him. ‘What,’ said I, ‘was your motive for this fraud?’ ‘My duty!’ answered the man, fervently; ‘my duty! Was I to suffer my wife, my children, to starve before my face, when I could save them at a little personal risk? No: my duty forbade it!’ and in truth, Glendower, there was something very plausible in this manner of putting the question.”
“You might, in answering it,” said Glendower, “have put the point in a manner equally plausible and more true: was he to commit a great crime against the millions connected by social order, for the sake of serving a single family, and that his own?”
“Quite right,” answered Crauford: “that was just the point of view in which I did put it; but the man, who was something of a reasoner, replied, ‘Public law is instituted for public happiness. Now if mine and my children’s happiness is infinitely and immeasurably more served by this comparatively petty fraud than my employer’s is advanced by my abstaining from, or injured by my committing it, why, the origin of law itself allows me to do it.’ What say you to that, Glendower? It is something in your Utilitarian, or, as you term it, Epicurean [See the article on Mr. Moore’s “Epicurean” in the “Westminster Review.” Though the strictures on that work are harsh and unjust, yet the part relating to the real philosophy of Epicurus is one of the most masterly things in criticism.] principle; is it not?” and Crauford, shading his eyes, as if from the light, watched narrowly Glendower’s countenance, while he concealed his own.
“Poor fool!” said Glendower; “the man was ignorant of the first lesson in his moral primer. Did he not know that no rule is to be applied to a peculiar instance, but extended to its most general bearings? Is it necessary even to observe that the particular consequence of fraud in this man might, it is true, be but the ridding his employer of superfluities, scarcely missed, for the relief of most urgent want in two or three individuals; but the general consequences of fraud and treachery would be the disorganization of all society? Do not think, therefore, that this man was a disciple of my, or of any, system of morality.”
“It is very just, very,” said Mr. Crauford, with a benevolent sigh; “but you will own that want seldom allows great nicety in moral distinctions, and that when those whom you love most in the world are starving, you may be pitied, if not forgiven, for losing sight of the after laws of Nature and recurring to her first ordinance, self-preservation.”
“We should be harsh, indeed,” answered Glendower, “if we did not pity; or, even while the law condemned, if the individual did not forgive.”
“So I said, so I said,” cried Crauford; “and in interceding for the poor fellow, whose pardon I am happy to say I procured, I could not help declaring that, if I were placed in the same circumstances, I am not sure that my crime would not have been the same.”
“No man could feel sure!” said Glendower, dejectedly. Delighted and surprised with this confession, Crauford continued: “I believe,—I fear not; thank God, our virtue can never be so tried: but even you, Glendower, even you, philosopher, moralist as you are,—just, good, wise, religious,—even you might be tempted, if you saw your angel wife dying for want of the aid, the very sustenance, necessary to existence, and your innocent and beautiful daughter stretch her little hands to you and cry in the accents of famine for bread.”
The student made no reply for a few moments, but averted his countenance, and then in a slow tone said, “Let us drop this subject: none know their strength till they are tried; self-confidence should accompany virtue, but not precede it.”
A momentary flash broke from the usually calm, cold eye of Richard Crauford. “He is mine,” thought he: “the very name of want abases his pride: what will the reality do? O human nature, how I know and mock thee!”
“You are right,” said Crauford, aloud; “let us talk of the pamphlet.”
And after a short conversation upon indifferent subjects, the visitor departed. Early the next morning was Mr. Crauford seen on foot, taking his way to the bookseller whose address he had learnt. The bookseller was known as a man of a strongly evangelical bias. “We must insinuate a lie or two,” said Crauford, inly, “about Glendower’s principles. He! he! it will be a fine stroke of genius to make the upright tradesman suffer Glendower to starve out of a principle of religion. But who would have thought my prey had been so easily snared? why, if I had proposed the matter last night, I verily think he would have agreed to it.”
Amusing himself with these thoughts, Crauford arrived at the bookseller’s. There he found Fate had saved him from one crime at least. The whole house was in confusion: the bookseller had that morning died of an apoplectic fit.
“Good God! how shocking!” said Crauford to the foreman; “but he was a most worthy man, and Providence could no longer spare him. The ways of Heaven are inscrutable! Oblige me with three copies of that precious tract termed the ‘Divine Call.’ I should like to be allowed permission to attend the funeral of so excellent a man. Good morning, sir. Alas! alas!” and, shaking his head piteously, Mr. Crauford left the shop.
“Hurra!” said he, almost audibly, when he was once more in the street, “hurra! my victim is made; my game is won: death or the devil fights for me. But, hold: there are other booksellers in this monstrous city!—ay, but not above two or three in our philosopher’s way. I must forestall him there,—so, so,—that is soon settled. Now, then, I must leave him a little while, undisturbed, to his fate. Perhaps my next visit may be to him in jail: your debtor’s side of the Fleet is almost as good a pleader as an empty stomach,—he! he! He!—but the stroke must be made soon, for time presses, and this d—d business spreads so fast that if I don’t have a speedy help, it will be too much for my hands, griping as they are. However, if it holds on a year longer, I will change my seat in the Lower House for one in the Upper; twenty thousand pounds to the minister may make a merchant a very pretty peer. O brave Richard Crauford, wise Richard Crauford, fortunate Richard Crauford, noble Richard Crauford! Why, if thou art ever hanged, it will be by a jury of peers. ‘Gad, the rope would then have a dignity in it, instead of disgrace. But stay, here comes the Dean of ——; not orthodox, it is said,—rigid Calvinist! out with the ‘Divine Call’!”
When Mr. Richard Crauford repaired next to Glendower, what was his astonishment and dismay at hearing he had left his home, none knew whither nor could give the inquirer the slightest clew.
“How long has he left?” said Crauford to the landlady.
“Five days, sir.”
“And will he not return to settle any little debts he may have incurred?” said Crauford.
“Oh, no, sir: he paid them all before he went. Poor gentleman,—for though he was poor, he was the finest and most thorough gentleman I ever saw!—my heart bled for him. They parted with all their valuables to discharge their debts: the books and instruments and busts,—all went; and what I saw, though he spoke so indifferently about it, hurt him the most,—he sold even the lady’s picture. ‘Mrs. Croftson,’ said he, ‘Mr. ——, the painter, will send for that picture the day after I leave you. See that he has it, and that the greatest care is taken of it in delivery.’”
“And you cannot even guess where he has gone to?”
“No, sir; a single porter was sufficient to convey his remaining goods, and he took him from some distant part of the town.”
“Ten thousand devils!” muttered Crauford, as he turned away; “I should have foreseen this! He is lost now. Of course he will again change his name; and in the d—d holes and corners of this gigantic puzzle of houses, how shall I ever find him out? and time presses too! Well, well, well! there is a fine prize for being cleverer, or, as fools would say, more rascally than others; but there is a world of trouble in winning it. But come; I will go home, lock myself up, and get drunk! I am as melancholy as a cat in love, and about as stupid; and, faith, one must get spirits in order to hit on a new invention. But if there be consistency in fortune, or success in perseverance, or wit in Richard Crauford, that man shall yet be my victim—and preserver!”
CHAPTER XLIII
Revenge is now the cud
That I do chew.—I’ll challenge him.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
We return to “the world of fashion,” as the admirers of the polite novel of would say. The noon-day sun broke hot and sultry through half-closed curtains of roseate silk, playing in broken beams upon rare and fragrant exotics, which cast the perfumes of southern summers over a chamber, moderate, indeed, as to its dimensions, but decorated with a splendour rather gaudy than graceful, and indicating much more a passion for luxury than a refinement of taste.
At a small writing-table sat the beautiful La Meronville. She had just finished a note, written (how Jean Jacques would have been enchanted) upon paper couleur de rose, with a mother-of-pearl pen, formed as one of Cupid’s darts, dipped into an ink-stand of the same material, which was shaped as a quiver, and placed at the back of a little Love, exquisitely wrought. She was folding this billet when a page, fantastically dressed, entered, and, announcing Lord Borodaile, was immediately followed by that nobleman. Eagerly and almost blushingly did La Meronville thrust the note into her bosom, and hasten to greet and to embrace her adorer. Lord Borodaile flung himself on one of the sofas with a listless and discontented air. The experienced Frenchwoman saw that there was a cloud on his brow.
“My dear friend,” said she, in her own tongue, “you seem vexed: has anything annoyed you?”
“No, Cecile, no. By the by, who supped with you last night?”
“Oh! the Duke of Haverfield, your friend.”
“My friend!” interrupted Borodaile, haughtily: “he’s no friend of mine; a vulgar, talkative fellow; my friend, indeed!”
“Well, I beg your pardon: then there was Mademoiselle Caumartin, and the Prince Pietro del Orbino, and Mr. Trevanion, and Mr. Lin—Lin—Linten, or Linden.”
“And pray, will you allow me to ask how you became acquainted with Mr. Lin—Lin—Linten, or Linden?”
“Assuredly; through the Duke of Haverfield.”
“Humph! Cecile, my love, that young man is not fit to be the acquaintance of my friend: allow me to strike him from your list.”
“Certainly, certainly!” said La Meronville, hastily; and stooping as if to pick up a fallen glove, though, in reality, to hide her face from Lord Borodaile’s searching eye, the letter she had written fell from her bosom. Lord Borodaile’s glance detected the superscription, and before La Meronville could regain the note he had possessed himself of it.
“A Monsieur, Monsieur Linden!” said he, coldly, reading the address; “and, pray, how long have you corresponded with that gentleman?”
Now La Meronville’s situation at that moment was by no means agreeable. She saw at one glance that no falsehood or artifice could avail her; for Lord Borodaile might deem himself fully justified in reading the note, which would contradict any glossing statement she might make. She saw this. She was a woman of independence; cared not a straw for Lord Borodaile at present, though she had had a caprice for him; knew that she might choose her bon ami out of all London, and replied,—
“That is the first letter I ever wrote to him; but I own that it will not be the last.”
Lord Borodaile turned pale.
“And will you suffer me to read it?” said he; for even in these cases he was punctiliously honourable.
La Meronville hesitated. She did not know him. “If I do not consent,” thought she, “he will do it without the consent: better submit with a good grace.—Certainly!” she answered, with an air of indifference.
Borodaile opened and read the note; it was as follows:—
You have inspired me with a feeling for you which astonishes myself. Ah, why should that love be the strongest which is the swiftest in its growth? I used to love Lord Borodaile: I now only esteem him; the love has flown to you. If I judge rightly from your words and your eyes, this avowal will not be unwelcome to you. Come and assure me, in person, of a persuasion so dear to my heart. C. L. M.
“A very pretty effusion!” said Lord Borodaile, sarcastically, and only showing his inward rage by the increasing paleness of his complexion and a slight compression of his lip. “I thank you for your confidence in me. All I ask is that you will not send this note till to-morrow. Allow me to take my leave of you first, and to find in Mr. Linden a successor rather than a rival.”
“Your request, my friend,” said La Meronville, adjusting her hair, “is but reasonable. I see that you understand these arrangements; and, for my part, I think that the end of love should always be the beginning of friendship: let it be so with us!”
“You do me too much honour,” said Borodaile, bowing profoundly. “Meanwhile I depend upon your promise, and bid you, as a lover, farewell forever.”
With his usual slow step Lord Borodaile descended the stairs, and walked towards the central quartier of town. His meditations were of no soothing nature. “To be seen by that man in a ridiculous and degrading situation; to be pestered with his d—d civility; to be rivalled by him with Lady Flora; to be duped and outdone by him with my mistress! Ay, all this have I been; but vengeance shall come yet. As for La Meronville, the loss is a gain; and, thank Heaven, I did not betray myself by venting my passion and making a scene. But it was I. who ought to have discarded her, not the reverse; and—death and confusion—for that upstart, above all men! And she talked in her letter about his eyes and words. Insolent coxcomb, to dare to have eyes and words for one who belonged to me. Well, well, he shall smart for this. But let me consider: I must not play the jealous fool, must not fight for a ——, must not show the world that a man, nobody knows who, could really outwit and outdo me,—me,—Francis Borodaile! No, no: I must throw the insult upon him, must myself be the aggressor and the challenged; then, too, I shall have the choice of weapons,—pistols of course. Where shall I hit him, by the by? I wish I shot as well as I used to do at Naples. I was in full practice then. Cursed place, where there was nothing else to do but to practise!”
Immersed in these or somewhat similar reflections did Lord Borodaile enter Pall Mall.
“Ah, Borodaile!” said Lord St. George, suddenly emerging from a shop. “This is really fortunate: you are going my way exactly; allow me to join you.”
Now Lord Borodaile, to say nothing of his happening at that time to be in a mood more than usually unsocial, could never at any time bear the thought of being made an instrument of convenience, pleasure, or good fortune to another. He therefore, with a little resentment at Lord St. George’s familiarity, coldly replied, “I am sorry that I cannot avail myself of your offer. I am sure my way is not the same as yours.”
“Then,” replied Lord St. George, who was a good-natured, indolent man, who imagined everybody was as averse to walking alone as he was, “then I will make mine the same as yours.”
Borodaile coloured: though always uncivil, he did not like to be excelled in good manners; and therefore replied, that nothing but extreme business at White’s could have induced him to prefer his own way to that of Lord St. George.
The good-natured peer took Lord Borodaile’s arm. It was a natural incident, but it vexed the punctilious viscount that any man should take, not offer, the support.
“So, they say,” observed Lord St. George, “that young Linden is to marry Lady Flora Ardenne.”
“Les on-dits font la gazette des fous,” rejoined Borodaile with a sneer. “I believe that Lady Flora is little likely to contract such a misalliance.”
“Misalliance!” replied Lord St. George. “I thought Linden was of a very old family; which you know the Westboroughs are not, and he has great expectations—”
“Which are never to be realized,” interrupted Borodaile, laughing scornfully.
“Ah, indeed!” said Lord St. George, seriously. “Well, at all events he is a very agreeable, unaffected young man: and, by the by, Borodaile, you will meet him chez moi to-day; you know you dine with me?”
“Meet Mr. Linden! I shall be proud to have that honour,” said Borodaile, with sparkling eyes; “will Lady Westborough be also of the party?”
“No, poor Lady St. George is very ill, and I have taken the opportunity to ask only men.”
“You have done wisely, my lord,” said Borodaile, secum multa revolvens; “and I assure you I wanted no hint to remind me of your invitation.”
Here the Duke of Haverfield joined them. The duke never bowed to any one of the male sex; he therefore nodded to Borodaile, who, with a very supercilious formality, took off his hat in returning the salutation. The viscount had at least this merit in his pride,—that if it was reserved to the humble, it was contemptuous to the high: his inferiors he wished to remain where they were; his equals he longed to lower.
“So I dine with you, Lord St. George, to-day,” said the duke; “whom shall I meet?”
“Lord Borodaile, for one,” answered St. George; “my brother, Aspeden, Findlater, Orbino, and Linden.”
“Linden!” cried the duke; “I’m very glad to hear it, c’est un homme fait expres pour moi. He is very clever, and not above playing the fool; has humour without setting up for a wit, and is a good fellow without being a bad man. I like him excessively.”
“Lord St. George;” said Borodaile, who seemed that day to be the very martyr of the unconscious Clarence, “I wish you good morning. I have only just remembered an engagement which I must keep before I go to White’s.”
And with a bow to the duke, and a remonstrance from Lord St. George, Borodaile effected his escape. His complexion was, insensibly to himself, more raised than usual, his step more stately; his mind, for the first time for years, was fully excited and engrossed. Ah, what a delightful thing it is for an idle man, who has been dying of ennui, to find an enemy!