Chapter II

Her chief resource was in her own high spirit,
Which judged mankind at their due estimation;
And for coquetry she disdained to wear it,
Secure of admiration; its impression
Was faint as if an every-day possession.
BYRON.

But then her face
So lovely, yet so arch; so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart.

It will be equally impossible, I fear, to give the reader of these pages an idea of the charm of Lady Gayland’s character, whether he is allowed to guess his way to its developement through the mazes of contradictory traits which the events themselves may incidentally present, and so be left puzzled and perplexed, as Lord Castleton himself was in his former acquaintance with her; or whether the more arduous task shall be undertaken of giving him a clue through the medium of introductory description. Yet, how to tie down to terms of fixed description, that which, if it was as brilliant, was also as changeful as the sun-beam! How to exemplify that which, at all times, was unlike any thing else, or how to describe that which was often most unlike itself! I might, it is true, vaunt the undeniable beauty of her fine features, expatiate on the brilliancy of her full dark eye; or detail the form of that noble brow which seemed the chosen throne of thought. Yet how, even by this means, to give any idea of that strength of varied expression, which, as the occasion required, even before the ready words had risen to her lips, stamped upon her countenance the perfect prototype of indignation, ridicule, or sympathy! If I were even to recall some of the sallies of her playful wit, they might, thus stiffly recorded, no longer be the same as when flowing forth the spontaneous burst of high spirits and buoyant fancy; and seem, perhaps, abrupt and harsh when deprived of the accompanying sweet smile and soft tone, which could even blunt the sting of satire.

On the other hand, it might be difficult to persuade those who felt not that her movements were the result of some higher impulse, which spurned the usual rules of drawing-room refinement--how impossible it was that under any circumstances she could ever be ungraceful; and such as she was, when most unlike every one else, she seemed least aware of it herself. Her’s was the singularity of genius; not the genius of singularity. If she was often in word and deed what some might say they would not imitate, still oftener was she what others owned they could not emulate. And whilst many who knew her slightly, thought it was well for the world that there was no _second_ Lady Gayland; all who knew her well, thought there was nothing which the world could not better spare than that one.

The morning after the events, described in the last Chapter, had happened at Morden Bay, a large party was assembled round the breakfast-table at Sir North’s, and in the full enjoyment of the social meal; for though, contrary to his usual custom, their host had not yet appeared, his authority had been put in commission, as amongst the guests there were many who considered themselves quite at liberty to treat his servants as if they were their own.

“How I envy you your spirits, Lady Gayland!” drawled out that beshawled and draperied anatomy, Mrs. M‘Angle, as she sat coiled up in one corner of the easy _fauteuil_, which, as an invalid, had been provided for her. “I shan’t be half awake these three hours yet; and you talk as gaily as if it was after midnight, instead of before noon.”

“For my part,” said Lady Gayland, “I never feel more alive than with the freshness of the morning dew upon my thoughts; I enjoy, above all the other _agrémens_ of a country party, a social breakfast-table. But where is he ‘_who is the cause of mirth in others_?’”

“Our host has undertaken the part of Banquo,” rejoined his humble friend, Mr. Spencer, pointing to the vacant chair of Sir North.

“Perhaps we are too noisy for him; he is accustomed ten months in the year to a solitary meal, dividing his attention between his sodden muffin, and newspaper done dry at a quick fire; but, after all, I believe here he is.”

But it was not Sir North, but an individual whose entrance was likely to produce, amongst the other guests, a much stronger sensation than “one so common hacknied in the eyes of men,” as their much despised host. The person in question was equipped, as to his lower man, in the most correct shooting costume; but the jacket had not as yet replaced the accustomed blue coat with royal buttons, crossed up to his chin, many loops for sundry stars being seen on his left breast. He was well known to all the half-fed placemen, who now _officiously_, perhaps _officially_, cleared him his place at the breakfast-table, and who, though they would gladly have picked up HIS crumbs, brushed THEIR OWN out of his way. Indeed, though all there might not previously have come in personal contact with him, who did not know, by name, The Right Honourable the Earl of Stayinmore, K.G., G.C.B., G.G.C., the proprietor of the three snug little boroughs of Singlecot, Bankcumwall, and Old Summertemple, and one of the confidential advisers of the Crown at that day? His Lordship had, through life, observed great judgment in establishing the reputation of his wisdom by his silence--and of his consequence, by his civility. But he contrived by his silence often to place more restraint upon opinion than others by a direct negative, looking the while as “if I could contradict if it was worth my while;” and his civility was so ostentatiously condescending, that to some it was more offensive than would have been the actual assumption of superiority. One of those who saw it in this light was Lady Gayland; and it was evident to the blindest of bystanders, even whilst the diplomatic assurances, &c. of the morning acknowledgements, were going on between them, that there would very soon be a “war of opinion.” The serviles formed a royalist militia round Lord S. whilst all the unquiet spirits looked to Lady Gayland for encouragement.

Lord Stayinmore was, however, determined if possible to propitiate his beautiful antagonist by the studied courtesy of his morning address to her; and disregarding the attempts of his satellites to fix him in their system by offering vacant chairs as he bowed his way up the table, he at last deposited himself in one just opposite Lady Gayland, saying, with a curvature of the body and an inflexion of the voice, which became so substantial an impersonation of the shade of Chesterfield, “Here’s metal more attractive.”

“New and true,” muttered Lady Gayland; adding more loudly, and in a manner it was impossible to say positively was meant for ridicule: “‘I kiss thy hand, but not flattery, Cæsar,’” “There,” said she, turning to her neighbour Mr. Spencer; “there is a quotation repaid in kind, as original, and more sincere.”

As there was nothing in the world, next to the loss of his three Boroughs of Singlecot, Bankcumwall, and Old Summertemple, which Lord Stayinmore so particularly dreaded as the idea of being laughed at, warned by a certain “lurking devil in her eye,” he did not again address Lady Gayland, but confined himself for some time to condescending commonplaces amongst his other neighbours. But this prolonged armistice was, as other prolonged armistices may (not a thousand years ago) have been, displeasing to these bystanders, who thought they might gain, and could not lose, by the actual conflict of the contending parties. And Mr. Spencer, who was sitting next her, viewed it peculiarly in this light.

Peter Alexander Spencer was rather, in his way, a character: he had been ever since he left school a “rising young man,” in every other respect except bodily height, which had remained stationary at _five feet one_; but like many little men, he had a most exalted idea of his own importance, though with great power of bending to the weaknesses of others, when it suited his object. He was remarkable for another thing; not only always using the longest words, but adding still more to their natural length by protracted pronunciation. He had arrived there the day before, unable to resist Sir North’s offer of an opportunity to try his double-barrelled gun, though very proud of the career that had just opened to him, by being called to the Bar. His arrival had much exhilarated Lady Gayland. I am afraid it must be owned, that she dearly loved a butt, and there was in the assumed importance, and natural insignificance of Mr. Spencer, much, that irresistibly cried out to any one with the slightest sense of the ridiculous. “Even if you love me, laugh at me!” She was constantly, in the effervescence of her merry mood, venting forth many bad jokes about “short Spencers,” and “long robes,” which she would have been very sorry to have heard repeated, and which would have been as soon forgotten by every one else as by herself, but for the intervention of Spencer’s friend, Mr. Middleman, who shared Spencer’s britscha down, at the allotted cost of one _post-horse_, and half a post-boy. Middleman was one of those persons who make their way in the world by constantly repeating such sentences as “Did you hear what Lady Gayland said of Spencer! Capital! eh?” Thus storing up the superabundant produce of more fertile imaginations, and retailing it forth, at moments of conversational scarcity, thereby gaining his own little percentage of attention; which he achieved in this instance by repeating, whenever he thought it would entail most ridicule on his friend and fellow-traveller, what Lady Gayland had only lightly uttered in a moment of thoughtlessness.