The Disowned — Complete

“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!

CHAPTER XLIV

You must challenge him
There’s no avoiding; one or both must drop.

                     BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

“Ha! ha! ha! bravo, Linden!” cried Lord St. George, from the head of his splendid board, in approbation of some witticism of Clarence’s; and ha! ha! ha! or he! he! he! according to the cachinnatory intonations of the guests rang around.

“Your lordship seems unwell,” said Lord Aspeden to Borodaile; “allow me to take wine with you.”

Lord Borodaile bowed his assent.

“Pray,” said Mr. St. George to Clarence, “have you seen my friend Talbot lately?”

“This very morning,” replied Linden: “indeed, I generally visit him three or four times a week; he often asks after you.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. St. George, rather flattered; “he does me much honour; but he is a distant connection of mine, and I suppose I must attribute his recollection of me to that cause. He is a near relation of yours, too, I think: is he not?”

“I am related to him,” answered Clarence, colouring.

Lord Borodaile leaned forward, and his lip curled. Though, in some respects, a very unamiable man, he had, as we have said, his good points. He hated a lie as much as Achilles did; and he believed in his heart of hearts that Clarence had just uttered one.

“Why,” observed Lord Aspeden, “why, Lord Borodaile, the Talbots of Scarsdale are branches of your genealogical tree; therefore your lordship must be related to Linden; ‘you are two cherries on one stalk’!”

“We are by no means related,” said Lord Borodaile, with a distinct and clear voice, intended expressly for Clarence; “that is an honour which I must beg leave most positively to disclaim.”

There was a dead silence; the eyes of all who heard a remark so intentionally rude were turned immediately towards Clarence. His cheek burned like fire; he hesitated a moment, and then said, in the same key, though with a little trembling in his intonation,—

“Lord Borodaile cannot be more anxious to disclaim it than I am.”

“And yet,” returned the viscount, stung to the soul, “they who advance false pretensions ought at least to support them!”

“I do not understand you, my lord,” said Clarence.

“Possibly not,” answered Borodaile, carelessly: “there is a maxim which says that people not accustomed to speak truth cannot comprehend it in others.”