Pelham, Volume 6.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Pelham, Volume 6.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

This eBook was produced by David Widger

VOLUME VI.

CHAPTER LXVI.

And now I'm the world alone,
. . . . . . . . . . . .
But why for others should I groan,
When none will sigh for me?
--Byron.

The whole country was in confusion at the news of the murder. All the
myrmidons of justice were employed in the most active research for the
murderers. Some few persons were taken up on suspicion, but were as
instantly discharged. Thornton and Dawson underwent a long and rigorous
examination; but no single tittle of evidence against them appeared: they
were consequently dismissed. The only suspicious circumstance against
them, was their delay on the road; but the cause given, the same as
Thornton had at first assigned to me, was probable and natural. The shed
was indicated, and, as if to confirm Thornton's account, a glove
belonging to that person was found there. To crown all, my own evidence,
in which I was constrained to mention the circumstance of the muffled
horseman having passed me on the road, and being found by me on the spot
itself, threw the whole weight of suspicion upon that man, whoever he
might be.

All attempts, however, to discover him were in vain. It was ascertained
that a man, muffled in a cloak, was seen at Newmarket, but not remarkably
observed; it was also discovered, that a person so habited had put up a
grey horse to bait in one of the inns at Newmarket; but in the throng of
strangers, neither the horse nor its owner had drawn down any particular
remark.

On further inquiry, testimony differed; four or five men, in cloaks, had
left their horses at the stables; one ostler changed the colour of the
steed to brown, a second to black, a third deposed that the gentleman was
remarkably tall, and the waite swore solemnly he had given a glass of
brandy and water to an unked looking gentleman, in a cloak, who was
remarkably short. In fine, no material point could be proved, and though
the officers were still employed in active search, they could trace
nothing that promised a speedy discovery.

As for myself, as soon as I decently could, I left Chester Park, with a
most satisfactory dispatch in my pocket, from its possessor to Lord
Dawton, and found myself once more on the road to London!

Alas! how different were my thoughts! How changed the temper of my mind,
since I had last travelled that road. Then I was full of hope, energy,
ambition--of interest for Reginald Glanville--of adoration for his
sister; and now, I leaned back listless and dispirited, without a single
feeling to gladden the restless and feverish despair which, ever since
that night, had possessed me. What was ambition henceforth to me? The
most selfish amongst us must have some human being to whom to refer--with
whom to connect--to associate--to treasure the triumphs and
gratifications of self. Where now was such a being to me? My earliest
friend, for whom my esteem was the greater for his sorrows, my interest
the keener for his mystery, Reginald Glanville, was a murderer! a
dastardly, a barbarous felon, whom the chance of an instant might
convict!--and she--she, the only woman in the world I had ever really
loved--who had ever pierced the thousand folds of my ambitious and
scheming heart--she was the sister of the assassin!

Then came over my mind the savage and exulting eye of Thornton, when it
read the damning record of Glanville's guilt; and in spite of my horror
at the crime of my former friend, I trembled for his safety: nor was I
satisfied with myself at my prevarication as a witness. It is true, that
I had told the truth, but I had concealed all the truth; and my heart
swelled proudly and bitterly against the miniature which I still
concealed in my bosom.

Light as I may seem to the reader, bent upon the pleasures and the
honours of the great world, as I really was, there had never, since I had
recognized and formed a decided code of principles, been a single moment
in which I had transgressed it; and perhaps I was sterner and more
inflexible in the tenets of my morality, such as they were, than even the
most zealous worshipper of the letter, as well as the spirit of the law
and the prophets, would require. Certainly there were many pangs within
me, when I reflected, that to save a criminal, in whose safety I was
selfishly concerned, I had tampered with my honour, paltered with the
truth, and broken what I felt to be a peremptory and inviolable duty. Let
it be for ever remembered, that once acknowledge and ascertain that a
principle is publicly good, and no possible private motive should ever
induce you to depart from it.

It was with a heightened pulse, and a burning cheek, that I entered
London; before midnight I was in a high fever; they sent for the vultures
of physic--I was bled copiously--I was kept quiet in bed for six days, at
the end of that time, my constitution and youth restored me. I took up
one of the newspapers listlessly: Glanville's name struck me; I read the
paragraph which contained it--it was a high-flown and fustian panegyric
on his genius and promise. I turned to another column, it contained a
long speech he had the night before made in the House of Commons.

"Can such things be?" thought I; yea, and thereby hangs a secret and an
anomaly in the human heart. A man may commit the greatest of crimes, and
(if no other succeed to it,) it changes not the current of his being--to
all the world--to all intents--for all objects, he may be the same. He
may equally serve his country--equally benefit his friends--be generous--
brave--benevolent, all that he was before. One crime, however heinous,
makes no revolution in the system--it is only the perpetual course of
sins, vices, follies, however insignificant they may seem, which alters
the nature and hardens the heart.

My mother was out of town when I returned there. They had written to her
during my illness, and while I was yet musing over the day's journal, a
letter from her was put into my hand. I transcribe it.

"My Dearest Henry,

"How dreadfully uneasy I am about you: write to me directly. I would come
to town myself, but am staying with dear Lady Dawton, who wont hear of my
going; and I cannot offend her for your sake. By the by, why have you not
called upon Lord Dawton? but, I forgot, you have been ill. My dear, dear
child, I am wretched about you, and now pale your illness will make you
look! just too, as the best part of the season is coming on. How unlucky!
Pray, don't wear a black cravat when you next call on Lady Roseville; but
choose a very fine baptiste one--it will make you look rather delicate
than ill. What physician do you have? I hope, in God, that it is Sir
Henry Halford. I shall be too miserable if it is not. I am sure no one
can conceive the anguish I suffer. Your father, too, poor man, has been
laid up with the gout for the last three days. Keep up your spirits, my
dearest child, and get some light books to entertain you; but, pray, as
soon as you are well, do go to Lord Dawton's--he is dying to see you; but
be sure not to catch cold. How did you like Lady Chester? Pray take the
greatest care of yourself, and write soon to

"Your wretched, and most

"Affectionate Mother,

"F. P.

"P.S. How dreadfully shocking about that poor Sir John Tyrrell!"

I tossed the letter from me. Heaven pardon me if the misanthropy of my
mood made me less grateful for the maternal solicitude than I should
otherwise have been.

I took up one of the numerous books with which my table was covered; it
was a worldly work of one of the French reasoners; it gave a new turn to
my thoughts--my mind reverted to its former projects of ambition. Who
does not know what active citizens private misfortune makes us? The
public is like the pools of Bethesda--we all hasten there, to plunge in
and rid ourselves of our afflictions.

I drew my portfeuille to me, and wrote to Lord Dawton. Three hours after
I had sent the note, he called upon me. I gave him Lord Chester's letter,
but he had already received from that nobleman a notification of my
success. He was profuse in his compliments and thanks.

"And, do you know," added the statesman, "that you have quite made a
conquest of Lord Guloseton? He speaks of you publicly in the highest
terms: I wish we could get him and his votes. We must be strengthened, my
dear Pelham; every thing depends on the crisis."

"Are you certain of the cabinet?" I asked.

"Yes; it is not yet publicly announced, but it is fully known amongst us,
who comes in, and who stays out. I am to have the place of--."

"I congratulate your lordship from my heart. What post do you design for
me?"

Lord Dawton changed countenance. "Why--really--Pelham, we have not yet
filled up the lesser appointments, but you shall be well remembered--
well, my dear Pelham, be sure of it."

I looked at the noble speaker with a glance which, I flatter myself, is
peculiar to me. If, thought I, the embryo minister is playing upon me as
upon one of his dependant characters; if he dares forget what he owes to
my birth and zeal, I will grind myself to powder but I will shake him out
of his seat. The anger of the moment passed away.

"Lord Dawton," said I, "one word, and I have done discussing my claims
for the present. Do you mean to place me in Parliament as soon as you are
in the cabinet? What else you intend for me, I question not."

"Yes, assuredly, Pelham. How can you doubt it?"

"Enough!--and now read this letter from France."

Two days after my interview with Lord Dawton, as I was riding leisurely
through the Green Park, in no very bright and social mood, one of the
favoured carriages, whose owners are permitted to say, "Hic iter est
nobis," overtook me. A sweet voice ordered the coachman to stop, and then
addressed itself to me.

"What, the hero of Chester Park returned, without having once narrated
his adventures tome?"

"Beautiful Lady Roseville," said I, "I plead guilty of negligence--not
treason. I forgot, it is true, to appear before you, but I forget not the
devotion of my duty now that I behold you. Command, and I obey."

"See, Ellen," said Lady Roseville, turning to a bending and blushing
countenance beside her, which I then first perceived--"See what it is to
be a knight errant; even his language, is worthy of Amadis of Gaul--but--
(again addressing me) your adventures are really too shocking a subject
to treat lightly. We lay our serious orders on you to come to our castle
this night: we shall be alone."

"Willingly shall I repair to your bower, fayre ladie; but tell me, I
beseech you, how many persons are signified in the world 'alone?'"

"Why," answered Lady Roseville, "I fear we may have two or three people
with us; but I think, Ellen, we may promise our chevalier, that the
number shall not exceed twelve."

I bowed and rode on. What worlds would I not have given to have touched
the hand of the countess's companion, though only for an instant. But--
and that fearful but, chilled me, like an ice- bolt. I put spurs to my
horse, and dashed fiercely onwards. There was rather a high wind
stirring, and I bent my face from it, so as scarcely to see the course of
my spirited and impatient horse.

"What ho, Sir!--what ho!" cried a shrill voice--"for God's sake, don't
ride over me before dinner, whatever you do after it!"

I pulled up. "Ah, Lord Guloseton! how happy I am to see you; pray forgive
my blindness, and my horse's stupidity."

"'Tis an ill wind," answered the noble gourmand, "which blows nobody
good. An excellent proverb, the veracity of which is daily attested; for,
however unpleasant a keen wind may be, there is no doubt of its being a
marvellous whetter of that greatest of Heaven's blessings--an appetite.
Little, however, did I expect, that besides blowing me a relish for my
saute de foie gras, it would also blow me one who might, probably, be a
partaker of my enjoyment. Honour me with your company at dinner to-day."

"What saloon will you dine in, my Lord Lucullus?" said I, in allusion to
the custom of the epicure, by whose name I addressed him.

"The saloon of Diana," replied Guloseton--"for she must certainly have
shot the fine buck of which Lord H. sent me the haunch that we shall have
to-day. It is the true old Meynell breed. I ask you not to meet Mr. So-
and-so, and Lord What-dye-call-him: I ask you to meet a saute de foie
gras, and a haunch of venison."

"I will most certainly pay them my respects. Never did I know before how
far things were better company than persons. Your lordship has taught me
that great truth."

"God bless me," cried Guloseton, with an air of vexation, "here comes the
Duke of Stilton, a horrid person, who told me the other day, at my petit
diner, when I apologized to him for some strange error of my artiste's,
by which common vinegar had been substituted for Chili--who told me--what
think you he told me? You cannot guess; he told me, forsooth, that he did
not care what he eat; and, for his part, he could make a very good dinner
off a beef-steak! Why the deuce, then, did he come and dine with me?
Could he have said any thing more cutting? Imagine my indignation, when I
looked round my table and saw so many good things thrown away upon such
an idiot."

Scarcely was the last word out of the gourmand's mouth before the noble
personage so designated, joined us. It amused me to see Guloseton's
contempt (which he scarcely took the pains to suppress) of a person whom
all Europe honoured, and his evident weariness of a companion, whose
society every one else would have coveted as the summum bonum of worldly
distinction. As for me, feeling any thing but social, I soon left the
ill-matched pair, and rode into the other park.

Just as I entered it, I perceived, on a dull, yet cross-looking pony, Mr.
Wormwood, of bitter memory. Although we had not met since our mutual
sojourn at Sir Lionel Garratt's, and were then upon very cool terms of
acquaintance, he seemed resolved to recognize and claim me.

"My dear Sir," said he, with a ghastly smile, "I am rejoiced once more to
see you; bless me, how pale you look. I heard you had been very ill. Pray
have you been yet to that man who professes to cure consumption in the
worst stages?"

"Yes," said I, "he read me two or three letters of reference from the
patients he had cured. His last, he said, was a gentleman very far gone;
a Mr. Wormwood."

"Oh, you are pleased to be facetious," said the cynic, coldly--"but pray
do tell me about that horrid affair at Chester Park. How disagreeable it
must have been to you to be taken up on suspicion of the murder."

"Sir," said I, haughtily, "what do you mean?"

"Oh, you were not--wern't you? Well, I always thought it unlikely; but
every one says so--"

"My dear Sir," I rejoined, "how long is it since you have minded what
every body says? If I were so foolish, I should not be riding with you
now; but I have always said, in contradiction to every body, and even in
spite of being universally laughed at for my singular opinion, that you,
my dear Mr. Wormwood, were by no means silly, nor ignorant, nor insolent,
nor intrusive; that you were, on the contrary, a very decent author, and
a very good sort of man; and that you were so benevolent, that you daily
granted to some one or other, the greatest happiness in your power: it is
a happiness I am now about to enjoy, and it consists in wishing you 'good
bye!'" And without waiting for Mr. Wormwood's answer, I gave the rein to
my horse, and was soon lost among the crowd, which had now began to
assemble.

Hyde Park is a stupid place; the English make business an enjoyment, and
enjoyment a business--they are born without a smile--they rove about
public places like so many easterly winds--cold, sharp, and cutting; or
like a group of fogs on a frosty day, sent out of his hall by Boreas for
the express purpose of looking black at one another. When they ask you,
"how you do," you would think they were measuring the length of your
coffin. They are ever, it is true, labouring to be agreeable; but they
are like Sisyphus, the stone they roll up the hill with so much toil,
runs down again, and hits you a thump on the legs. They are sometimes
polite, but invariably uncivil; their warmth is always artificial--their
cold never, they are stiff without dignity, and cringing without manners.
They offer you an affront, and call it "plain truth;" they wound your
feelings, and tell you it is manly "to speak their minds;" at the same
time, while they have neglected all the graces and charities of artifice,
they have adopted all its falsehood and deceit. While they profess to
abhor servility, they adulate the peerage--while they tell you they care
not a rush for the minister, they move heaven and earth for an invitation
from the minister's wife. There is not another court in Europe where such
systematized meanness is carried on,--where they will even believe you,
when you assert that it exists. Abroad, you can smile at the vanity of
one class, and the flattery of another: the first, is too well bred to
affront, the latter, too graceful to disgust; but here, the pride of a
noblesse, (by the way, the most mushroom in Europe,) knocks you down in a
hail-storm, and the fawning of the bourgeois makes you sick with hot
water. Then their amusements--the heat--the dust--the sameness--the
slowness of that odious park in the morning; and the same exquisite scene
repeated in the evening, on the condensed stage of a rout-room, where one
has more heat, with less air, and a narrower dungeon, with diminished
possibility of escape!--we wander about like the damned in the story of
Vathek, and we pass our lives, like the royal philosopher of Prussia, in
conjugating the verb, Je m'ennuie.

CHAPTER LXVII.

In solo vivendi causa palato est.
--Juvenal.

They would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived
company; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures,
taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses.
--Vicar of Wakefield.

The reflections which closed the last chapter, will serve to show that I
was in no very amiable or convivial temper, when I drove to Lord
Guloseton's dinner. However, in the world, it matters little what may be
our real mood, the mask hides the bent brow and the writhing lip.

Guloseton was stretched on his sofa, gazing with upward eye at the
beautiful Venus which hung above his hearth. "You are welcome, Pelham; I
am worshipping my household divinity!"

I prostrated myself on the opposite sofa, and made some answer to the
classical epicure, which made us both laugh heartily. We then talked of
pictures, painters, poets, the ancients, and Dr. Henderson on Wines; we
gave ourselves up, without restraint, to the enchanting fascination of
the last-named subject, and our mutual enthusiasm confirming our
cordiality, we went down stairs to our dinner, as charmed with each other
as boon companions always should be.

"This is comme il faut," said I, looking round at the well filled table,
and the sparkling spirits immersed in the ice-pails, "a genuine friendly
dinner. It is very rarely that I dare entrust myself to such extempore
hospitality--miserum est aliena vivere quadra;--a friendly dinner, a
family meal, are things from which I fly with undisguised aversion. It is
very hard, that in England, one cannot have a friend on pain of being
shot or poisoned; if you refuse his familiar invitations, he thinks you
mean to affront him, and says something rude, for which you are forced to
challenge him; if you accept them, you perish beneath the weight of
boiled mutton and turnips, or--"

"My dear friend," interrupted Guloseton, with his mouth full, "it is very
true; but this is no time for talking, let us eat."

I acknowledged the justice of the rebuke, and we did not interchange
another word beyond the exclamations of surprise, pleasure, admiration,
or dissatisfaction, called up by the objects which engrossed our
attention, till we found ourselves alone with our dessert.

When I thought my host had imbibed a sufficient quantity of wine, I once
more renewed my attack. I had tried him before upon that point of vanity
which is centered in power, and political consideration, but in vain; I
now bethought me of another.

"How few persons there are," said I, "capable of giving even a tolerable
dinner--how many capable of admiring one worthy of estimation. I could
imagine no greater triumph for the ambitious epicure, than to see at his
board the first and most honoured persons of the state, all lost in
wonder at the depth, the variety, the purity, the munificence of his
taste; all forgetting, in the extorted respect which a gratified palate
never fails to produce, the more visionary schemes and projects which
usually occupy their thoughts;--to find those whom all England are
soliciting for posts and power, become, in their turn, eager and craving
aspirants for places--at his table;--to know that all the grand movements
of the ministerial body are planned and agitated over the inspirations of
his viands and the excitement of his wine--from a haunch of venison, like
the one of which we have partaken to-day, what noble and substantial
measures might arise? From a saute de foie, what delicate subtleties of
finesse might have their origin? from a ragout a la financiere, what
godlike improvements in taxation? Oh, could such a lot be mine, I would
envy neither Napoleon for the goodness of his fortune, nor S--for the
grandeur of his genius."

Guloseton laughed. "The ardour of your enthusiasm blinds your philosophy,
my dear Pelham; like Montesquieu, the liveliness of your fancy often
makes you advance paradoxes which the consideration of your judgment
would afterwards condemn. For instance, you must allow, that if one had
all those fine persons at one's table, one would be forced to talk more,
and consequently to eat less; moreover, you would either be excited by
your triumph, or you would not, that is indisputable; if you are not
excited you have the bore for nothing; if you are excited you spoil your
digestion: nothing is so detrimental to the stomach as the feverish
inquietude of the passions. All philosophies recommend calm as the to
kalon of their code; and you must perceive, that if, in the course you
advise, one has occasional opportunities of pride, one also has those of
mortification. Mortification! terrible word; how many apoplexies have
arisen from its source! No, Pelham, away with ambition; fill your glass,
and learn, at last, the secret of real philosophy."

"Confound the man!" was my mental anathema.--"Long life to the Solomon of
sautes," was my audible exclamation.

"There is something," resumed Guloseton, "in your countenance and manner,
at once so frank, lively, and ingenuous, that one is not only
prepossessed in your favour, but desirous of your friendship. I tell you,
therefore, in confidence, that nothing more amuses me than to see the
courtship I receive from each party. I laugh at all the unwise and
passionate contests in which others are engaged, and I would as soon
think of entering into the chivalry of Don Quixote, or attacking the
visionary enemies of the Bedlamite, as of taking part in the fury of
politicians. At present, looking afar off at their delirium, I can
ridicule it; were I to engage in it, I should be hurt by it. I have no
wish to become the weeping, instead of the laughing, philosopher. I sleep
well now--I have no desire to sleep ill. I eat well--why should I lose my
appetite? I am undisturbed and unattacked in the enjoyments best suited
to my taste--for what purpose should I be hurried into the abuse of the
journalists and the witticisms of pamphleteers? I can ask those whom I
like to my house--why should I be forced into asking those whom I do not
like? In fine, my good Pelham, why should I sour my temper and shorten my
life, put my green old age into flannel and physic, and become, from the
happiest of sages, the most miserable of fools? Ambition reminds me of
what Bacon says of anger--'It is like rain, it breaks itself upon that
which it falls on.' Pelham, my boy, taste the Chateau Margot."

However hurt my vanity might be in having so ill succeeded in my object,
I could not help smiling with satisfaction at my entertainer's principles
of wisdom. My diplomatic honour, however, was concerned, and I resolved
yet to gain him. If, hereafter, I succeeded, it was by a very different
method than I had yet taken; meanwhile, I departed from the house of this
modern Apicius with a new insight into the great book of mankind, and a
new conclusion from its pages; viz. that no virtue can make so perfect a
philosopher as the senses; there is no content like that of the epicure--
no active code of morals so difficult to conquer as the inertness of his
indolence; he is the only being in the world for whom the present has a
supremer gratification than the future.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5