The Disowned — Complete

“Hush, hush, hush!” said the baronet; “he was a great rogue to be sure: but, poor fellow, he came to me yesterday with tears in his eyes, and said he should starve if I would not give him a character; so what could I do?”

“At least, tell Lord St. George the truth,” observed Clarence.

“But then Lord St. George would not take him!” rejoined the good-hearted Sir Christopher, with forcible naivete. “No, no, Linden, we must not be so hard-hearted; we must forgive and forget;” and so saying, the baronet threw out his chest, with the conscious exultation of a man who has uttered a noble sentiment. The moral of this little history is that Lord St. George, having been pillaged “through thick and thin,” as the proverb has it, for two years, at last missed a gold watch, and Monsieur Collard finished his career as his exemplary tutor, Mr. John Jefferies, had done before him. Ah! what a fine thing it is to have a good heart!

But to return. Just as our wanderers had arrived at the farther end of the park, Lady Westborough and her daughter passed them. Clarence, excusing himself to his friend, hastened towards them, and was soon occupied in saying the prettiest things in the world to the prettiest person, at least in his eyes; while Sir Christopher, having done as much mischief as a good heart well can do in a walk of an hour, returned home to write a long letter to his mother, against “learning and all such nonsense, which only served to blunt the affections and harden the heart.”

“Admirable young man!” cried the mother, with tears in her eyes. “A good heart is better than all the heads in the world.”

Amen!

CHAPTER XXXIV

“Make way, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, or you will compel me to do that I may be sorry for!”

“You shall make no way here but at your peril,” said Sir Geoffrey; “this is my ground.”—Peveril of the Peak.

One night on returning home from a party at Lady Westborough’s in Hanover Square, Clarence observed a man before him walking with an uneven and agitated step. His right hand was clenched, and he frequently raised it as with a sudden impulse, and struck fiercely as if at some imagined enemy.

The stranger slackened his pace. Clarence passed him, and, turning round to satisfy the idle curiosity which the man’s eccentric gestures had provoked, his eye met a dark, lowering, iron countenance, which, despite the lapse of four years, he recognized on the moment: it was Wolfe, the republican.

Clarence moved, involuntarily, with a quicker step; but in a few minutes, Wolfe, who was vehemently talking to himself, once more passed him; the direction he took was also Clarence’s way homeward, and he therefore followed the republican, though at some slight distance, and on the opposite side of the way. A gentleman on foot, apparently returning from a party, met Wolfe, and, with an air half haughty, half unconscious, took the wall; though, according to old-fashioned rules of street courtesy, he was on the wrong side for asserting the claim. The stern republican started, drew himself up to his full height, and sturdily and doggedly placed himself directly in the way of the unjust claimant. Clarence was now nearly opposite to the two, and saw all that was going on.

With a motion a little rude and very contemptuous, the passenger attempted to put Wolfe aside, and win his path. Little did he know of the unyielding nature he had to do with; the next instant the republican, with a strong hand, forced him from the pavement into the very kennel, and silently and coldly continued his way.

The wrath of the discomfited passenger was vehemently kindled.

“Insolent dog!” cried he, in a loud and arrogant tone, “your baseness is your protection.” Wolfe turned rapidly, and made but two strides before he was once more by the side of his defeated opponent.

“What did you say?” he asked, in his low, deep, hoarse voice.

Clarence stopped. “There will be mischief done here,” thought he, as he called to mind the stern temper of the republican.

“Merely,” said the other, struggling with his rage, “that it is not for men of my rank to avenge the insults offered us by those of yours!”

“Your rank!” said Wolfe, bitterly retorting the contempt of the stranger, in a tone of the loftiest disdain; “your rank! poor changeling! And what are you, that you should lord it over me? Are your limbs stronger? your muscles firmer? your proportions juster? your mind acuter? your conscience clearer? Fool! fool! go home and measure yourself with lackeys!”

The republican ceased, and pushing the stranger aside, turned slowly away. But this last insult enraged the passenger beyond all prudence. Before Wolfe had proceeded two paces, he muttered a desperate but brief oath, and struck the reformer with a strength so much beyond what his figure (which was small and slight) appeared to possess, that the powerful and gaunt frame of Wolfe recoiled backward several steps, and, had it not been for the iron railing of the neighbouring area, would have fallen to the ground.

Clarence pressed forward: the face of the rash aggressor was turned towards him; the features were Lord Borodaile’s. He had scarcely time to make this discovery, before Wolfe had recovered himself. With a wild and savage cry, rather than exclamation, he threw himself upon his antagonist, twined his sinewy arms round the frame of the struggling but powerless nobleman, raised him in the air with the easy strength of a man lifting a child, held him aloft for one moment with a bitter and scornful laugh of wrathful derision, and then dashed him to the ground, and planting his foot upon Borodaile’s breast said,—

“So shall it be with all of you: there shall be but one instant between your last offence and your first but final debasement. Lie there! it is your proper place! By the only law which you yourself acknowledge, the law which gives the right divine to the strongest; if you stir limb or muscle, I will crush the breath from your body.”

But Clarence was now by the side of Wolfe, a new and more powerful opponent.

“Look you,” said he: “you have received an insult, and you have done justice yourself. I condemn the offence, and quarrel not with you for the punishment; but that punishment is now past: remove your foot, or—”

“What?” shouted Wolfe, fiercely, his lurid and vindictive eye flashing with the released fire of long-pent and cherished passions.

“Or,” answered Clarence, calmly, “I will hinder you from committing murder.”

At that instant the watchman’s voice was heard, and the night’s guardian himself was seen hastening from the far end of the street towards the place of contest. Whether this circumstance, or Clarence’s answer, somewhat changed the current of the republican’s thoughts, or whether his anger, suddenly raised, was now as suddenly subsiding, it is not easy to decide; but he slowly and deliberately moved his foot from the breast of his baffled foe, and bending down seemed endeavouring to ascertain the mischief he had done. Lord Borodaile was perfectly insensible.

“You have killed him!” cried Clarence in a voice of horror, “but you shall not escape;” and he placed a desperate and nervous hand on the republican.

“Stand off,” said Wolfe, “my blood is up! I would not do more violence to-night than I have done. Stand off! the man moves; see!”

And Lord Borodaile, uttering a long sigh, and attempting to rise, Clarence released his hold of the republican, and bent down to assist the fallen nobleman. Meanwhile, Wolfe, muttering to himself, turned from the spot, and strode haughtily away.

The watchman now came up, and, with his aid, Clarence raised Lord Borodaile. Bruised, stunned, half insensible as he was, that personage lost none of his characteristic stateliness; he shook off the watchman’s arm, as if there was contamination in the touch; and his countenance, still menacing and defying in its expression, turned abruptly towards Clarence, as if he yet expected to meet and struggle with a foe.

“How are you, my lord?” said Linden; “not severely hurt, I trust?”

“Well, quite well,” cried Borodaile. “Mr. Linden, I think?—I thank you cordially for your assistance; but the dog, the rascal, where is he?”

“Gone,” said Clarence.

“Gone! Where—where?” cried Borodaile; “that living man should insult me, and yet escape!”

“Which way did the fellow go?” said the watchman, anticipative of half-a-crown. “I will run after him in a trice, your honour: I warrant I nab him.”

“No—no—” said Borodaile, haughtily, “I leave my quarrels to no man; if I could not master him myself, no one else shall do it for me. Mr. Linden, excuse me, but I am perfectly recovered, and can walk very well without your polite assistance. Mr. Watchman, I am obliged to you: there is a guinea to reward your trouble.”

With these words, intended as a farewell, the proud patrician, smothering his pain, bowed with extreme courtesy to Clarence, again thanked him, and walked on unaided and alone.

“He is a game blood,” said the watchman, pocketing the guinea.

“He is worthy his name,” thought Clarence; “though he was in the wrong, my heart yearns to him.”

CHAPTER XXXV

Things wear a vizard which I think to like not.

    —Tanner of Tyburn.

Clarence, from that night, appeared to have formed a sudden attachment to Lord Borodaile. He took every opportunity of cultivating his intimacy, and invariably treated him with a degree of consideration which his knowledge of the world told him was well calculated to gain the good will of his haughty and arrogant acquaintance; but all this was in effectual in conquering Borodaile’s coldness and reserve. To have been once seen in a humiliating and degrading situation is quite sufficient to make a proud man hate the spectator, and, with the confusion of all prejudiced minds, to transfer the sore remembrance of the event to the association of the witness. Lord Borodaile, though always ceremoniously civil, was immovably distant; and avoided as well as he was able Clarence’s insinuating approaches and address. To add to his indisposition to increase his acquaintance with Linden, a friend of his, a captain in the Guards, once asked him who that Mr. Linden was? and, on his lordship’s replying that he did not know, Mr. Percy Bobus, the son of a wine-merchant, though the nephew of a duke, rejoined, “Nobody does know.”

“Insolent intruder!” thought Lord Borodaile: “a man whom nobody knows to make such advances to me!”

A still greater cause of dislike to Clarence arose from jealousy. Ever since the first night of his acquaintance with Lady Flora, Lord Borodaile had paid her unceasing attention. In good earnest, he was greatly struck by her beauty, and had for the last year meditated the necessity of presenting the world with a Lady Borodaile. Now, though his lordship did look upon himself in as favourable a light as a man well can do, yet he could not but own that Clarence was very handsome, had a devilish gentlemanlike air, talked with a better grace than the generality of young men, and danced to perfection. “I detest that fellow!” said Lord Borodaile, involuntarily and aloud, as these unwilling truths forced themselves upon his mind.

“Whom do you detest?” asked Mr. Percy Bobus, who was lying on the sofa in Lord Borodaile’s drawing-room, and admiring a pair of red-heeled shoes which decorated his feet.

“That puppy Linden!” said Lord Borodaile, adjusting his cravat.

“He is a deuced puppy, certainly!” rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus, turning round in order to contemplate more exactly the shape of his right shoe. “I can’t bear conceit, Borodaile.”

“Nor I: I abhor it; it is so d—d disgusting!” replied Lord Borodaile, leaning his chin upon his two hands, and looking full into the glass. “Do you use MacNeile’s divine pomatum?”