Paul Clifford

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton

  ‘Hear me, then!’ said Clifford, mastering his embarrassment, and speaking in a firm and clear voice. ‘Is that true, which I have but just heard, – is it true that I have been spoken of in your presence in terms of insult and affront?’

  It was now for Lucy to feel embarrassed; fearful to give pain, and yet anxious that Clifford should know, in order that he might disprove, the slight and the suspicion which the mystery around him drew upon his name, she faltered between the two feelings, and, without satisfying the latter, succeeded in realizing the fear of the former.

  ‘Enough!’ said Clifford, in a tone of deep mortification, as his quick ear caught and interpreted, yet more humiliatingly than the truth, the meaning of her stammered and confused reply. ‘Enough! I see that it is true, and that the only human being in the world to whose good opinion I am not indifferent has been a witness of the insulting manner in which others have dared to speak of me!’

  ‘But,’ said Lucy, eagerly, ‘why give the envious or the idle any excuse? Why not suffer your parentage and family to be publicly known? Why are you here’ – and her voice sunk into a lower key – ‘this very day, unasked, and therefore subject to the cavils of all who think the poor distinction of an invitation an honour? Forgive me, Mr Clifford, perhaps I offend, – I hurt you by speaking thus frankly; but your good name rests with yourself, and your friends cannot but feel angry that you should trifle with it.’

  ‘Madam!’ said Clifford, and Lucy’s eyes, now growing accustomed to the darkness, perceived a bitter smile upon his lips, ‘my name, good or ill, is an object of little care to me. I have read of philosophers who pride themselves in placing no value in the opinions of the world. Rank me among that sect – but I am, I own I am, anxious that you alone, of all the world, should not despise me; – and now that I feel you do – that you must – everything worth living or hoping for is past!’

  ‘Despise you!’ said Lucy, and her eyes filled with tears – ‘Indeed you wrong me and yourself. But listen to me, Mr Clifford: I have seen, it is true, but little of the world, yet I have seen enough to make me wish I could have lived in retirement for ever; the rarest quality among either sex, though it is the simplest, seems to me, good-nature; and the only occupation of what are termed fashionable people appears to be speaking ill of one another: nothing gives such a scope to scandal as mystery; nothing disarms it like openness. I know – your friends know, Mr Clifford, that your character can bear inspection; and I believe, for my own part, the same of your family. Why not, then, declare who and what you are?’

  ‘That candour would indeed be my best defender,’ said Clifford, in a tone which ran displeasingly through Lucy’s ear; ‘but in truth, madam, I repeat, I care not one drop of this worthless blood what men say of me; that time has passed and for ever: perhaps it never keenly existed for me – no matter. I came hither, Miss Brandon, not wasting a thought on these sickening fooleries, or on the hoary idler by whom they are given! I came hither only once more to see you – to hear you speak – to watch you move – to tell you’ – and the speaker’s voice trembled, so as to be scarcely audible – ‘to tell you, if any reason for the disclosure offered itself, that I have had the boldness – the crime to love – to love – O God! to adore you! And then to leave you for ever!’

  Pale, trembling, scarcely preserved from falling by the tree against which she leaned, Lucy listened to this abrupt avowal.

  ‘Dare I touch this hand,’ continued Clifford, as he knelt and took it, timidly and reverently. ‘You know not, you cannot dream, how unworthy is he who thus presumes – yet, not all unworthy, while he is sensible of so deep, so holy a feeling as that which he bears to you. God bless you, Miss Brandon! – Lucy, God bless you! – And if, hereafter, you hear me subjected to still blacker suspicion, or severer scrutiny, than that which I now sustain – if even your charity and goodness can find no defence for me, – if the suspicion become certainty, and the scrutiny end in condemnation, believe, at least, that circumstances have carried me beyond my nature; and that under fairer auspices I might have been other than I am!’

  Lucy’s tear dropped upon Clifford’s hand, as he spoke; and while his heart melted within him as he felt it, and knew his own desperate and unredeemed condition, he added, – ‘Every one courts you – the proud, the rich, the young, the high-born, all are at your feet! You will select one of that number for your husband: may he watch over you as I would have done! – Love you as I do he cannot! Yes, I repeat it!’ continued Clifford, vehemently, ‘he cannot! None amidst the gay, happy, silken crowd of your equals and followers can feel for you that single and overruling passion, which makes you to me what all combined – country, power, wealth, reputation, an honest name, peace, common safety, the quiet of the common air, alike the least blessing and the greatest – are to all others! Once more, may God in heaven watch over you and preserve you! I tear myself, on leaving you, from all that cheers, or blesses, or raises, or might have saved me! – Farewell!’

  The hand which Lucy had relinquished to her strange suitor was pressed ardently to his lips, dropped in the same instant, and she knew that she was once more alone.

  But Clifford, hurrying rapidly through the trees, made his way towards the nearest gate which led from Lord Mauleverer’s domain; when he reached it, a crowd of the more elderly guests occupied the entrance, and one of these was a lady of such distinction, that Mauleverer, in spite of his aversion to any superfluous exposure to the night air, had obliged himself to conduct her to her carriage. He was in a very ill humour with this constrained politeness, especially as the carriage was very slow in relieving him of his charge, when he saw, by the lamplight, Clifford passing near him, and winning his way to the gate. Quite forgetting his worldly prudence which should have made him averse to scenes with anyone, especially with a flying enemy, and a man with whom, if he believed aright, little glory was to be gained in conquest, much less in contest; and only remembering Clifford’s rivalship, and his own hatred towards him for the presumption, Mauleverer, uttering a hurried apology to the lady on his arm, stepped forward, and opposing Clifford’s progress, said, with a bow of tranquil insult, ‘Pardon me, sir, but is it at my invitation, or that of one of my servants, that you have honoured me with your company this day?’

  Clifford’s thoughts at the time of this interruption were of that nature before which all petty misfortunes shrink into nothing; if, therefore, he started for a moment at the earl’s address, he betrayed no embarrassment in reply, but bowing with an air of respect, and taking no notice of the affront implied in Mauleverer’s speech, he answered: –

  ‘Your lordship has only to deign a glance at my dress, to see that I have not intruded myself on your grounds, with the intention of claiming your hospitality. The fact is, and I trust to your lordship’s courtesy to admit the excuse, that I leave this neighbourhood tomorrow, and for some length of time. A person whom I was very anxious to see before I left was one of your lordship’s guests; I heard this, and knew that I should have no other opportunity of meeting the person in question before my departure; and I must now throw myself on the well-known politeness of Lord Mauleverer, to pardon a freedom originating in a business very much approaching to a necessity.’

  Lord Mauleverer’s address to Clifford had congregated an immediate crowd of eager and expectant listeners, but so quietly respectful and really gentlemanlike were Clifford’s air and tone in excusing himself, that the whole throng were smitten with a sudden disappointment.

  Lord Mauleverer himself, surprised by the temper and deportment of the unbidden guest, was at a loss for one moment; and Clifford was about to take advantage of that moment and glide away, when Mauleverer, with a second bow, more civil than the former one, said: –

  ‘I cannot but be happy, sir, that my poor place has afforded you any convenience; but, if I am not very impertinent, will you allow me to inquire the name of my guest with whom you required a meeting?’

  ‘My lord,’ said Clifford, drawing himself up, a
nd speaking gravely and sternly, though still with a certain deference, ‘I need not surely point out to your lordship’s good sense and good feeling, that your very question implies a doubt, and, consequently, an affront, and that the tone of it is not such as to justify that concession on my part which the farther explanation you require would imply!’

  Few spoken sarcasms could be so bitter as that silent one which Mauleverer could command by a smile, and, with this complimentary expression on his thin lips and raised brow, the earl answered: ‘Sir, I honour the skill testified by your reply; it must be the result of a profound experience in these affairs. I wish you, sir, a very good night; and the next time you favour me with a visit, I am quite sure that your motives for so indulging me will be no less creditable to you than at present.’

  With these words, Mauleverer turned to rejoin his fair charge. But Clifford was a man who had seen in a short time a great deal of the world, and knew tolerably well the theories of society, if not the practice of its minutiæ; moreover, he was of an acute and resolute temper, and these properties of mind, natural and acquired, told him that he was now in a situation in which it had become more necessary to defy than to conciliate.

  Instead therefore of retiring he walked deliberately up to Mauleverer, and said: ‘My lord, I shall leave it to the judgement of your guests to decide whether you have acted the part of a nobleman and a gentleman in thus, in your domains, insulting one who has given you such explanation of his trespass as would fully excuse him in the eyes of all considerate or courteous persons. I shall also leave it to them to decide whether the tone of your inquiry allowed me to give you any farther apology. But I shall take it upon myself, my lord, to demand from you an immediate explanation of your last speech.’

  ‘Insolent!’ cried Mauleverer, colouring with indignation, and almost for the first time in his life losing absolute command over his temper. ‘Do you bandy words with me? – Begone, or I shall order my servants to thrust you forth!’

  ‘Begone, sir! – Begone!’ cried several voices in echo to Mauleverer, from those persons who deemed it now high time to take part with the powerful.

  Clifford stood his ground, gazing around with a look of angry and defying contempt, which, joined to his athletic frame, his dark and fierce eye, and a heavy riding-whip, which, as if mechanically, he half raised, effectually kept the murmurers from proceeding to violence.

  ‘Poor pretender to breeding and to sense!’ said he, disdainfully turning to Mauleverer. ‘With one touch of this whip I could shame you for ever, or compel you to descend from the level of your rank to that of mine, and the action would be but a mild return to your language. But I love rather to teach you than to correct. According to my creed, my lord, he conquers most in good breeding who forbears the most – scorn enables me to forbear! – Adieu!’

  With this, Clifford turned on his heel and strode away. A murmur, approaching to a groan, from the younger or sillier part of the parasites (the mature and the sensible have no extra emotion to throw away), followed him as he disappeared.

  Chapter XXII

  Outlaw: Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you!

  Val: Ruffians, forego that rude, uncivil touch!

  The Two Gentlemen of Verona

  On leaving the scene in which he had been so unwelcome a guest, Clifford hastened to the little inn where he had left his horse. He mounted and returned to Bath. His thoughts were absent, and he unconsciously suffered the horse to direct its course whither it pleased. This was naturally towards the nearest halting-place which the animal remembered; and this halting-place was at that illustrious tavern, in the suburbs of the town, in which we have before commemorated Clifford’s re-election to the dignity of chief. It was a house of long-established reputation; and here news of any of the absent confederates was always to be obtained. This circumstance, added to the excellence of its drink, its ease, and the electric chain of early habits, rendered it a favourite haunt, even despite their present gay and modish pursuits, with Tomlinson and Pepper; and here, when Clifford sought the pair at unseasonable hours, was he for the most part sure to find them. As his meditations were interrupted by the sudden stopping of his horse beneath the well-known sign, Clifford, muttering an angry malediction on the animal, spurred it onward in the direction of his own home. He had already reached the end of the street, when his resolution seemed to change, and muttering to himself, ‘Ay, I might as well arrange this very night for our departure!’ he turned his horse’s head backward, and was once more at the tavern door. He threw the bridle over an iron railing, and knocking with a peculiar sound at the door, was soon admitted.

  ‘Are — and — here?’ asked he of the old woman, as he entered, mentioning the cant words by which, among friends, Tomlinson and Pepper were usually known. ‘They are both gone on the sharps tonight,’ replied the old lady, lifting her unsnuffed candle to the face of the speaker with an intelligent look; ‘Oliver* is sleepy, and the lads will take advantage of his nap.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ answered Clifford, replying in the same key, which we take the liberty to paraphrase, ‘that they are out on any actual expedition?’

  ‘To be sure,’ rejoined the dame. ‘They who lag late on the road may want money for supper!’

  ‘Ha! Which road?’

  ‘You are a pretty fellow for captain!’ rejoined the dame, with a good-natured sarcasm in her tone. ‘Why, Captain Gloak, poor fellow! knew every turn of his men to a hair, and never needed to ask what they were about. Ah, he was a fellow! None of your girl-faced mudgers, who make love to ladies, forsooth – a pretty woman need not look far for a kiss when he was in the room, I warrant, however coarse her duds might be; and lauk! But the captain was a sensible man, and liked a cow as well as a calf.’

  ‘So, so! On the road are they?’ cried Clifford, musingly, and without heeding the insinuated attack on his decorum. ‘But answer me, what is the plan? – Be quick.’

  ‘Why,’ replied the dame, ‘there’s some swell cove of a lord gives a blow-out today, and the lads, dear souls, think to play the queer on some straggler!’

  Without uttering a word, Clifford darted from the house, and was remounted before the old lady had time to recover her surprise.

  ‘If you want to see them,’ cried she, as he put spurs to his horse, ‘they ordered me to have supper ready at – ’ The horse’s hoofs drowned the last words of the dame, and carefully rebolting the door, and muttering an invidious comparison between Captain Clifford and Captain Gloak, the good landlady returned to those culinary operations destined to rejoice the hearts of Tomlinson and Pepper.

  Return we ourselves to Lucy. It so happened that the squire’s carriage was the last to arrive; for the coachman, long uninitiated among the shades of Warlock into the dissipation of fashionable life, entered on his début at Bath, with all the vigorous heat of matured passions for the first time released, into the festivities of the ale-house, and having a milder master than most of his comrades, the fear of displeasure was less strong in his aurigal bosom than the love of companionship; so that during the time this gentleman was amusing himself, Lucy had ample leisure for enjoying all the thousand-and-one reports of the scene between Mauleverer and Clifford, which regaled her ears. Nevertheless, whatever might have been her feelings at these pleasing recitals, a certain vague joy predominated over all. A man feels but slight comparative happiness in being loved, if he know that it is in vain. But to a woman that simple knowledge is sufficient to destroy the memory of a thousand distresses, and it is not till she has told her heart again and again that she is loved, that she will even begin to ask if it be in vain.

  It was a partially starlit, yet a dim and obscure night, for the moon had for the last hour or two been surrounded by mist and cloud, when at length the carriage arrived; and Mauleverer, for the second time that evening playing the escort, conducted Lucy to the vehicle. Anxious to learn if she had seen or been addressed by Clifford, the subtle earl, as he led her to the gate, dwelt particula
rly on the intrusion of that person, and by the trembling of the hand which rested on his arm, he drew no delicious omen for his own hopes. ‘However,’ thought he, ‘the man goes tomorrow, and then the field will be clear; the girl’s a child yet, and I forgive her folly.’ And with an air of chivalric veneration, Mauleverer bowed the object of his pardon into her carriage.

  As soon as Lucy felt herself alone with her father, the emotions so long pent within her forced themselves into vent, and leaning back against the carriage, she wept, though in silence, tears, burning tears, of sorrow, comfort, agitation, anxiety.

  The good old squire was slow in perceiving his daughter’s emotion; it would have escaped him altogether, if, actuated by a kindly warming of the heart towards her, originating in his new suspicion of her love for Clifford, he had not put his arm round her neck; and this unexpected caress so entirely unstrung her nerves, that Lucy at once threw herself upon her father’s breast, and her weeping, hitherto so quiet, became distinct and audible.

  ‘Be comforted, my dear, dear child!’ said the squire, almost affected to tears himself; and his emotion, arousing him from his usual mental confusion, rendered his words less involved and equivocal than they were wont to be. ‘And now I do hope that you won’t vex yourself; the young man is indeed – and, I do assure you, I always thought so – a very charming gentleman, there’s no denying it. But what can we do? You see what they all say of him, and it really was – we must allow that – very improper in him to come without being asked. Moreover, my dearest child, it is very wrong, very wrong, indeed, to love anyone, and not know who he is; and – and – but don’t cry, my dear love, don’t cry so; all will be very well, I am sure – quite sure!’

  As he said this, the kind old man drew his daughter nearer him, and feeling his hand hurt by something she wore unseen which pressed against it, he inquired, with some suspicion that the love might have proceeded to love-gifts, what it was.