Chapter III

A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream
Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest.
BYRON.

Great things were now to be achieved at table.
* * *

But oh, the scenes mid which they met and parted--
The thoughts, the recollections, sweet and bitter--
Th’ Elysian dreams of lovers when they loved--
Who shall restore them?
* * *

In the mean time, Mr. Spencer, whose general _toadying_ turn was regulated in its particular application by the accidental propinquity of the moment, now drawled out, making as usual a prolonged note of each vowel, or a sort of appogiatura between it and its succeeding consonant,

“D--_o_--_o_ pray t--_o_rture him a l--_ee_tle. There’s nothing so del--_i_ghtful as your persifl_a_--_a_--_ge_.”

“But I’m not so sanguinary an amazon as to declare unprovoked war,” replied she, “still, ‘sotto voce,’ his silence leaves me no pretence: he is determined to avail himself of the most literal application of the Italian proverb,

‘In bocca chiusa non entran’ mosche.’”

But even whilst she was thus declining any wanton act of hostility, a subject was fixed upon Lord Stayinmore, by one of his satellites, which was almost the only one on which he could then have been provoked so far to commit his opinion as to risk a contradiction.

The topic introduced was the conduct which ought to be pursued by the government of that day, upon one of those “bit by bit” measures of reform which then excited curiosity, and, if not interest in itself, had, at least, divided opinion as to the effect the treatment of it might have upon the constantly recurring cry for parliamentary reform. Lord Stayinmore felt more deeply than he thought on this subject, and always expressed himself strongly upon it.

“It is the bounden duty,” said he, “of every man who has been bred up in due estimation of the unparalleled blessings of our invaluable constitution, to make his immovable stand at once, arresting these erratic changes on the very threshold of their progress, nipping in the bud these flowery projects of alteration, choking and damming up, as I may say, this mischievous current of public opinion, even at its fountain head.”

Lady Gayland, for the sake of herself as well as her hearers, had much rather have met her antagonist on some field where her wit might have given her more vantage ground of position, than on the wide and level plains of political discussion, and here she was, therefore, determined not to be forced into a general action; but as she retired, she could not avoid a skirmishing diversion; and taking up his last words, “Stop, indeed, the current of public opinion at its fountain head!” she continued. “That puts me in mind of an incident I remember hearing last year amongst the _Yuoddling_ hills of Switzerland. Shall I begin, ‘Once upon a time----’”

“Oh, pray do,” exclaimed simultaneously half the breakfast-table.

“You have, most of you, seen those German _Stu_--dents in the _U_--_niversities_ who are sedentary in the winter, but peripatetic all the summer, with waists like wasps, and faces like sheep, all lank locks and learning. One of these was taken to see the source of the Danube, when, whilst he pressed his palm against the bubbling spring as it oozed through the cleft of the rock, he exclaimed, in a fit of geographical grandiloquence, ‘I wonder what they’ll think of that at Vienna?’ What do you think they did think of that at Vienna, Lord Stayinmore?”

“Amusing! but how applicable?” condescendingly notified Lord Stayinmore, avoiding the question himself by interposing another.

“Oh, my dear Lord,” replied Lady Gayland, “if it is mine to adorn the tale, it is not mine to point the moral; but, however, if you will make a Cassandra of me in spite of myself, and insist upon my ‘laying bare my prophetic soul,’ I should say that, if whilst you think you have the power, you attempt to impede the natural flow of popular feeling with those political bungs, Singlecot and Bankcumwall, which you now have at your fingers’ ends, they will only be the more inevitably borne down with its headlong career; and that the majestic stream of public opinion, swollen on all sides by tributary springs, will flow resistlessly onward, bearing on its triumphant waves the united wishes of a liberal government and a grateful people; and any such opposition as you now threaten, will then no more be felt, than was the impression of the pigmy fingers of the German student in the diminished waters of the Danube at Vienna!”

Lady Gayland had warmed with her subject, and had rattled on more than she had intended; but she had tact enough, in the midst of her rhapsody, to perceive evident intimations on the part of Lord Stayinmore, that the impression she was making was far from agreeable. He made, first, a nondescript sort of a noise, between a short cough and a long groan; his chin sunk within the loose folds of his ample neckcloth, and his broad chest swelled against the closely-buttoned breast of his well-padded coat. Suddenly checking herself, she therefore added, in a more playful tone, “But, as Beatrice says, _I pray your Grace, pardon me, I was born to speak all mirth, and no matter_.”

“No matter, indeed, Ma’am,” said Lord Stayinmore, with a forced effort to maintain his courtesy--“I can sincerely affirm that it is no matter. Could any one oblige me with the evening paper?” he added, anxious to escape.

“Here it is,” said she, handing it over to him with equal _empressement_; then turning to Mr. Spencer, “‘A nemico che fugge fa un ponte d’oro,’ as the prudent Italians say; and in default of gold, I pay in paper currency.”

“How little they can have to fill the papers with,” said his Lordship, “when they are reduced to such extracts from the country journals as this. ‘Lord Castleton has been some time expected at his seat, Somersby Park, in this neighbourhood, but has not yet arrived. Report says, that being in a delicate state of health, he still lingers amongst the sea-breezes at Brighton, but none of the late notices from that fashionable watering-place mention his Lordship as amongst its distinguished visitants.’ Who cares?”

“Indeed, I never knew any body care at all about Lord Castleton’s movements; he is one of those persons in whose case universal popularity is synonymous with general indifference,” drawled out Mrs. MacAngle, who had, in former days, made as much of an effort as was consistent with her listless nature to detach him from his allegiance to Lady Madelina Manfred.

“Castleton will never make any figure in public life. He cannot keep his object in view with the proper uniformity of purpose,” ejaculated Lord Stayinmore. “He has no steady political consistency, still harping on the threatened dangers of Bankcumwall, Singlecot, and Summertemple.”

“For my part, I reckon him an intolerable _bore_,” said Mr. Spencer, to whom he never addressed half-a-dozen words in his life; “and it’s quite a mistake to _ca-al_ him ha-andsome: a fair man a-always wants expression,” added he, casting, as he rose from the table, an approving glance at his own enormous black head, which, being stuck upon the shortest of persons’ was only just seen trunkless in the mirror above the sideboard.

“You have, some of you,” said Lady Gayland, “hit upon the greatest of all possible faults under which he at present labours, if not in all your eyes, on all your tongues; he is the absent one. How lucky it is that all the sins which absence from such a society as this comprehends, all its atrocities, imperfections, ridicules, (that is not in this case so much an anti-climax as you think,) can never be perpetuated on one devoted head; that we are all in turn subject to its influence, and that, if _la moitié du monde prend plaisir à médire, et l’autre moitié à croire les médisances_, in our turn _we_ must all be comprised in one or other of these two divisions.”

“Dear Lady Gayland, what a tirade!” said Mrs. MacAngle; “I was not aware, when I ventured to assert that nobody cared about Lord Castleton, that you were prepared to give me so immediate and convincing a contradiction of my assertion.”

How many distant and scattered images will the reference but of a moment collect, when the heart points the index of the memory. Even whilst Mrs. MacAngle was drawling forth her half-hinted insinuation, there passed over in the mirror of Lady Gayland’s mind the reflection of many a brilliant fête, and many a meeting in sculptured hall, and the softer shade of many a social promenade, beneath the soothing influence of an Italian summer. But whatever she felt, she hesitated not to reply, “You are now quite mistaken!” blushing slightly, perhaps, at her generous warmth being so misinterpreted, and speaking, consequently, in a more hurried manner. “You are now quite mistaken! my observations were merely general. It is true, I did know Lord Castleton well in Italy; but our exotic acquaintance, which the warm south had ripened into intimacy, has not borne transplanting into this northern clime, and I have seen but little of him since my return. Certainly, I will acknowledge that my recollection of him does not confirm the opinions of this meeting, that he is all these,--ill-looking--dull--weak, and uninteresting, but _n’importe_. Do I think the worse of him for all this? or, in point of fact, do any of you? And which of you would not say as much of his present neighbour, if afflicted with that first of faults, absence? The only cure would be, if B. instead of C. could some day hear what A. meant C. should hear of B. how much less agreeable a companion that first of wits A. would be thought by his butt B. I have often longed that there could be cross-hearings as well as cross-readings; but the misfortune is, that though libellous letters might be mis-sent, mis-directed, a social sarcasm never miscarries, but goes straight to its mark.”

“But really, for you of all people,” said Mrs. Mac Angle, “to complain of one’s occasionally saying a severe thing!”

“I am as aware as any one can be, how much too freely I often speak my mind to those that are present, for which, of those _here_ whom I have thus offended, I humbly sue for pardon,” clasping her hands together, and looking at Lord Stayinmore with an expression of contrition, which, though slightly burlesqued, it was impossible to resent, and difficult to resist. “But, _en revanche_, I never do speak ill of the absent; perhaps, for no better reason than that my soul pants for nobler game. Had my friend Peter the Great there,” pointing to Mr. Spencer, who was seen equipped for sport starting from the front-door; “had he, like his northern namesake, ever known other fields than those of stubble, and popped at what could pop at him again, he would not be so keen after the partridges.”

Above a quarter of an hour had elapsed after this conversation, and the last lingering sipper of tea and crumbler of roll had brought to conclusion his most carefully elongated meal, when at length Sir North made his appearance, and, with a jerking bow, to be divided amongst all present, began, in that sort of disjointed colloquy and string of clipped sentences for which, it was before mentioned, he was famous:--“I beg a thousand pardons--quite shocked; but the fact is--a most unpleasant occurrence that--Lady Gayland, I need not ask how your Ladyship has rested--evident--Aurora--rather Hebe;--but as breakfast’s over--somewhat late for that simile--Jupiter’s jug, and all that--I am never late, only the fact is, this morning--a most unpleasant occurrence that--Lord Stayinmore, it has prevented my reading the papers,--only looked at the Gazette--Delighted to see the judicious use your Lordship has made of the vacancy caused by the death of our late excellent friend. You could not have chosen better; no steadier voter than Montague Mumchance;--won’t speak often,--so much the better. Talk of rising young men, indeed; we don’t care for their rising, so long as they are good sitters. Apropos to rising, though you will not think that that is my forte--but the fact is, a most unpleasant occurrence, involving a little legal business--only just come down, not got into Burn yet--as fresh at it as my friend Peter Spencer. By the bye, where is he?--just the game for him to smell out--like a young pointer--break him in--”

“But Peter Spencer is just now smelling out game by the means of his proxy pointer,” said his friend Mr. Middleman, “and he’s applying his own nose to the stock of his gun in a turnip field.”

“Peter the Great,” added Lady Gayland, “is probably, like his imperial namesake, by this time, if not _overthrown_, fairly _beat_ by the _Swedes_. But, my dear Sir North, now you have sufficiently informed us both that the fact is an unpleasant occurrence, and that the unpleasant occurrence is a fact, do let us judge of their reciprocal qualities ourselves, and tell us what has happened?”

Sir North then informed his hearers, as clearly as the confused and contradictory notions he had as yet imbibed on the subject enabled him, of some of the occurrences of the preceding night; how a daring gang of smugglers had been captured by a revenue cutter, after having landed and concealed somewhere a valuable cargo, and how it was found on this occasion a barbarous murder had been added to their former misdeeds. All the information they had as yet collected was vague, and amounted merely to inference. It was principally derived from the captain of the revenue cutter, whom even Sir North had had penetration enough to discover to be a shrewd and sensible man; though this opinion, which he had correctly formed, he did not himself confirm to his present hearers in its full extent, by the more confused and interpolated version which he gave of the information he had thus obtained.

No one of the smugglers had as yet seemed the least inclined to turn King’s evidence; no corpse had been found on board the vessel; but the open boat or coble belonging to the lugger had several stains of blood at the bottom, and on its gunnel the stamp of a bloody hand was distinctly traced, the ends of the finger marks being inside, and as if they had been strongly pressed against the inward ledge, seeming to indicate that a person mortally hurt had been thrown overboard, and had struggled for life to the last by clinging to the side of the boat.

The part which was quite unintelligible to them to whom Sir North endeavoured to explain it, and which had rather puzzled the captain of the cutter himself, was how to connect these appearances with the exclamations, when first found, of the girl, who had been discovered on the beach; and who appeared to have some connection with, or at least, previous knowledge of the transactions of the gang, as involved in the last night’s adventure. Her first wild inquiry had been, “Where is the body?” which would lead one to conclude, that the act of violence had been committed ashore, and under her observation; and yet the appearances in the boat would seem to indicate that the mortal struggle had been after they had put out to sea.

“As it is,” said Sir North, “it is impossible, at present, to extract any coherent account from her; she is either decidedly _non compos_, or, though far be it from me to suspect any thing harsh of one so young, who ought not yet to be hardened, and who, I am bound to add, is of rather an interesting appearance; yet I fear all this unwillingness to give any account arises from wilful stubbornness.”

“Poor wretch! stubbornness!” exclaimed Lady Gayland, compassionately; “is there no more charitable way to account for such unwillingness? She would not, probably, young as you describe her, have been even casually involved in such a transaction, unless under circumstances which would lead one to believe her at this moment labouring under the overwhelming affliction of either the untimely loss, or impending shame, of some one she loves. Where is she?”

“Why, I saw I could make nothing of her at present,” answered Sir North, “so I turned her over to Jones, telling her to keep her apart from her companions, and lock her up a bit by herself, in a darkish, lonely room, where, I’ll warrant, reflection will bring her about, and she will understand her duty, and learn how to make her peace with the offended majesty of injured justice.”

Sir North attempted to look grand, under the consciousness that he was himself to personify his own peroration. Lady Gayland made no reply, but shortly after left the room.

Sir North, with all his vanity, did not feel himself quite up to understanding, much less expounding and administering, the most complicated section of the most intricate portion of our penal code, which comprises the revenue laws; with which, in this instance, there was but too much reason to fear an accusation of murder would be involved. He therefore postponed the examination till late in the day, when he hoped for the arrival of an able solicitor from Mayton; one whose well-tried merits had prevented our poor friend Pounce, in his probationary lifetime, from dividing any business with him: and this Mr. Asklaw, Sir North meant on this occasion should act as his clerk: his butler, who usually doubled that part, being, in point of fact, not up to much more besides executing warrants himself to take up the oldest offenders from the cellar, and making out “permits” to transfer poachers to the House of Correction.

By thus postponing the examination, Sir North calculated that, even should Mr. Asklaw not come upon his summons, Peter Spencer would then be returned with his bagfull, not of briefs, but of birds, and ready to act as his assessor.