‘Watch Cadurcis,’ said Mr. Horace Pole to a fine lady. ‘Does not he look sublime?’
‘Show me him,’ said the lady, eagerly. ‘I have never seen him yet; I am actually dying to know him. You know we have just come to town.’
‘And have caught the raging epidemic, I see,’ said Mr. Pole, with a sneer. ‘However, there is the marvellous young gentleman! “Alone in a crowd,” as he says in his last poem. Very interesting!’
‘Wonderful creature!’ exclaimed the dame.
‘Charming!’ said Mr. Pole. ‘If you ask Lady Monteagle, she will introduce him to you, and then, perhaps, you will be fortunate enough to be handed to dinner by him.’
‘Oh! how I should like it!’
‘You must take care, however, not to eat; he cannot endure a woman who eats.’
‘I never do,’ said the lady, simply; ‘at least at dinner.’
‘Ah! then you will quite suit him; I dare say he will write a sonnet to you, and call you Thyrza.’
‘I wish I could get him to write some lines in my book, said the lady; ‘Charles Fox has written some; he was staying with us in the autumn, and he has written an ode to my little dog.’
‘How amiable!’ said Mr. Pole; ‘I dare say they are as good as his elegy on Mrs. Crewe’s cat. But you must not talk of cats and dogs to Cadurcis. He is too exalted to commemorate any animal less sublime than a tiger or a barb.’
‘You forget his beautiful lines on his Newfoundland,’ said the lady.
‘Very complimentary to us all,’ said Mr. Horace Pole. ‘The interesting misanthrope!’
‘He looks unhappy.’
‘Very,’ said Mr. Pole. ‘Evidently something on his conscience.’
‘They do whisper very odd things,’ said the lady, with great curiosity. ‘Do you think there is anything in them?’
‘Oh! no doubt,’ said Mr. Pole; ‘look at him; you can detect crime in every glance.’
‘Dear me, how shocking! I think he must be the most interesting person that ever lived. I should so like to know him! They say he is so very odd.’
‘Very,’ said Mr. Pole. ‘He must be a man of genius; he is so unlike everybody; the very tie of his cravat proves it. And his hair, so savage and dishevelled; none but a man of genius would not wear powder. Watch him today, and you will observe that he will not condescend to perform the slightest act like an ordinary mortal. I met him at dinner yesterday at Fanshawe’s, and he touched nothing but biscuits and soda-water. Fanshawe, you know, is famous for his cook. Complimentary and gratifying, was it not?’
‘Dear me!’ said the lady, ‘I am delighted to see him; and yet I hope I shall not sit by him at dinner. I am quite afraid of him.’
‘He is really awful!’ said Mr. Pole.
In the meantime the subject of these observations slowly withdrew to the further end of the saloon, apart from every one, and threw himself upon a couch with a somewhat discontented air. Lady Monteagle, whose eye had never left him for a moment, although her attentions had been necessarily commanded by her guests, and who dreaded the silent rages in which Cadurcis constantly indulged, and which, when once assumed for the day, were with difficulty dissipated, seized the first opportunity to join and soothe him.
‘Dear Cadurcis,’ she said, ‘why do you sit here? You know I am obliged to speak to all these odious people, and it is very cruel of you.’
‘You seemed to me to be extremely happy,’ replied his lordship, in a sarcastic tone.
‘Now, Cadurcis, for Heaven’s sake do not play with my feelings,’ exclaimed Lady Monteagle, in a deprecating tone. ‘Pray be amiable. If I think you are in one of your dark humours, it is quite impossible for me to attend to these people; and you know it is the only point on which Monteagle ever has an opinion; he insists upon my attending to his guests.’
‘If you prefer his guests to me, attend to them.’
‘Now, Cadurcis! I ask you as a favour, a favour to me, only for today. Be kind, be amiable, you can if you like; no person can be more amiable; now, do!’
‘I am amiable,’ said his lordship; ‘I am perfectly satisfied, if you are. You made me dine here.’
‘Now, Cadurcis!’
‘Have I not dined here to satisfy you?’
‘Yes! It was very kind.’
‘But, really, that I should be wearied with all the common-places of these creatures who come to eat your husband’s cutlets, is too much,’ said his lordship. ‘And you, Gertrude, what necessity can there be in your troubling yourself to amuse people whom you meet every day of your life, and who, from the vulgar perversity of society, value you in exact proportion as you neglect them?’
‘Yes, but today I must be attentive; for Henry, with his usual thoughtlessness, has asked this new bishop to dine with us.’
‘The Bishop of ——?’ inquired Lord Cadurcis, eagerly. ‘Is he coming?’
‘He has been in the room this quarter of an hour?’
‘What, Masham! Doctor Masham!’ continued Lord Cadurcis.
‘Assuredly.’
Lord Cadurcis changed colour, and even sighed. He rose rather quickly, and said, ‘I must go and speak to him.’
So, quitting Lady Monteagle, he crossed the room, and with all the simplicity of old days, which instantly returned on him, those melancholy eyes sparkling with animation, and that languid form quick with excitement, he caught the Doctor’s glance, and shook his extended hand with a heartiness which astonished the surrounding spectators, accustomed to the elaborate listlessness of his usual manner.
‘My dear Doctor! my dear Lord! I am glad to say,’ said Cadurcis, ‘this is the greatest and the most unexpected pleasure I ever received. Of all persons in the world, you are the one whom I was most anxious to meet.’
The good Bishop appeared not less gratified with the rencounter than Cadurcis himself; but, in the midst of their mutual congratulations, dinner was announced and served; and, in due order, Lord Cadurcis found himself attending that fine lady, whom Mr. Horace Pole had, in jest, suggested should be the object of his services; while Mr. Pole himself was seated opposite to him at table.
The lady, remembering all Mr. Pole’s intimations, was really much frightened; she at first could scarcely reply to the casual observations of her neighbour, and quite resolved not to eat anything. But his lively and voluble conversation, his perfectly unaffected manner, and the nonchalance with which he helped himself to every dish that was offered him, soon reassured her. Her voice became a little firmer, her manner less embarrassed, and she even began meditating a delicate assault upon a fricassee.
‘Are you going to Ranelagh to-night?’ inquired Lord Cadurcis; ‘I think I shall take a round. There is nothing like amusement; it is the only thing worth living for; and I thank my destiny I am easily amused. We must persuade Lady Monteagle to go with us. Let us make a party, and return and sup. I like a supper; nothing in the world more charming than a supper,
A lobster salad, and champagne and chat.
That is life, and delightful. Why, really, my dear madam, you eat nothing. You will never be able to endure the fatigues of a Ranelagh campaign on the sustenance of a paté. Pole, my good fellow, will you take a glass of wine? We had a pleasant party yesterday at Fanshawe’s, and apparently a capital dinner. I was sorry that I could not play my part; but I have led rather a raking life lately. We must go and dine with him again.’
Lord Cadurcis’ neighbour and Mr. Pole exchanged looks; and the lady, emboldened by the unexpected conduct of her cavalier and the exceeding good friends which he seemed resolved to be with her and every one else, began to flatter herself that she might yet obtain the much-desired inscription in her volume. So, after making the usual approaches, of having a great favour to request, which, however, she could not flatter herself would be granted, and which she even was afraid to mention; encouraged by the ready declaration of Lord Cadurcis, that he should think it would be quite impossible for any one to deny her anything, the lady ventured to state, that Mr. Fox had written something in her book, and she should be the most honoured and happiest lady in the land if —’
‘Oh! I shall be most happy,’ said Lord Cadurcis; ‘I really esteem your request quite an honour: you know I am only a literary amateur, and cannot pretend to vie with your real authors. If you want them, you must go to Mrs. Montagu. I would not write a line for her, and no the blues have quite excommunicated me. Never mind; I leave them to Miss Hannah More; but you, you are quite a different sort of person. What shall I write?’
‘I must leave the subject to you,’ said his gratified friend.
‘Well, then,’ said his lordship, ‘I dare say you have got a lapdog or a broken fan; I don’t think I could soar above them. I think that is about my tether.’
This lady, though a great person, was not a beauty, and very little of a wit, and not calculated in any respect to excite the jealousy of Lady Monteagle. In the meantime that lady was quite delighted with the unusual animation of Lord Cadurcis, who was much the most entertaining member of the party. Every one present would circulate throughout the world that it was only at the Monteagle’s that Lord Cadurcis condescended to be amusing. As the Bishop was seated on her right hand, Lady Monteagle seized the opportunity of making inquiries as to their acquaintance; but she only obtained from the good Masham that he had once resided in his lordship’s neighbourhood, and had known him as a child, and was greatly attached to him. Her ladyship was anxious to obtain some juvenile anecdotes of her hero; but the Bishop contrived to be amusing without degenerating into gossip. She did not glean much, except that all his early friends were more astonished at his present career than the Bishop himself, who was about to add, that he always had some misgivings, but, recollecting where he was, he converted the word into a more gracious term. But if Lady Monteagle were not so successful as she could wish in her inquiries, she contrived still to speak on the, to her, ever-interesting subject, and consoled herself by the communications which she poured into a guarded yet not unwilling ear, respecting the present life and conduct of the Bishop’s former pupil. The worthy dignitary had been prepared by public fame for much that was dazzling and eccentric; but it must be confessed he was not a little astonished by a great deal to which he listened. One thing, however, was clear that whatever might be the demeanour of Cadurcis to the circle in which he now moved, time, and the strange revolutions of his life, had not affected his carriage to his old friend. It gratified the Bishop while he listened to Lady Monteagle’s details of the haughty, reserved, and melancholy demeanour of Cadurcis, which impressed every one with an idea that some superior being had, as a punishment, been obliged to visit their humble globe, to recall the apparently heartfelt cordiality with which he had resumed his old acquaintance with the former rector of Marringhurst.
And indeed, to speak truth, the amiable and unpretending behaviour of Cadurcis this day was entirely attributable to the unexpected meeting with this old friend. In the hurry of society he could scarcely dwell upon the associations which it was calculated to call up; yet more than once he found himself quite absent, dwelling on sweet recollections of that Cherbury that he had so loved. And ever and anon the tones of a familiar voice caught his ear, so that they almost made him start: they were not the less striking, because, as Masham was seated on the same side of the table as Cadurcis, his eye had not become habituated to the Bishop’s presence, which sometimes he almost doubted.
He seized the first opportunity after dinner of engaging his old tutor in conversation. He took him affectionately by the arm, and led him, as if unintentionally, to a sofa apart from the rest of the company, and seated himself by his side. Cadurcis was agitated, for he was about to inquire of some whom he could not mention without emotion.
‘Is it long since you have seen our friends?’ said his lordship, ‘if indeed I may call them mine.’
‘Lady Annabel Herbert?’ said the Bishop.
Cadurcis bowed.
‘I parted from her about two months back,’ continued the Bishop.
‘And Cherbury, dear Cherbury, is it unchanged?’
‘They have not resided there for more than two years.’
‘Indeed!’
‘They have lived, of late, at Weymouth, for the benefit of the sea air.’
‘I hope neither Lady Annabel nor her daughter needs it?’ said Lord Cadurcis, in a tone of much feeling.
‘Neither now, God be praised!’ replied Masham; ‘but Miss Herbert has been a great invalid.’
There was a rather awkward silence. At length Lord Cadurcis said, ‘We meet rather unexpectedly, my dear sir.’
‘Why, you have become a great man,’ said the Bishop, with a smile; ‘and one must expect to meet you.’
‘Ah! my dear friend,’ exclaimed Lord Cadurcis, with a sigh, ‘I would willingly give a whole existence of a life like this for one year of happiness at Cherbury.’
‘Nay!’ said the Bishop, with a look of good-natured mockery, ‘this melancholy is all very well in poetry; but I always half-suspected, and I am quite sure now, that Cherbury was not particularly adapted to you.’
‘You mistake me,’ said Cadurcis, mournfully shaking his head.
‘Hitherto I have not been so very wrong in my judgment respecting Lord Cadurcis, that I am inclined very easily to give up my opinion,’ replied the Bishop.
‘I have often thought of the conversation to which you allude,’ replied Lord Cadurcis; ‘nevertheless, there is one opinion I never changed, one sentiment that still reigns paramount in my heart.’
‘You think so,’ said his companion; but, perhaps, were it more than a sentiment, it would cease to flourish.’
‘No,’ said Lord Cadurcis firmly; ‘the only circumstance in the world of which I venture to feel certain is my love for Venetia.’
‘It raged certainly during your last visit to Cherbury,’ said the Bishop, ‘after an interval of five years; it has been revived slightly today, after an interval of three more, by the sight of a mutual acquaintance, who has reminded you of her. But what have been your feelings in the meantime? Confess the truth, and admit you have very rarely spared a thought to the person to whom you fancy yourself at this moment so passionately devoted.’
‘You do not do me justice,’ said Lord Cadurcis; ‘you are prejudiced against me.’
‘Nay! prejudice is not my humour, my good lord. I decide only from what I myself observe; I give my opinion to you at this moment as freely as I did when you last conversed with me at the abbey, and when I a little displeased you by speaking what you will acknowledge has since turned out to be the truth.’
‘You mean, then, to say,’ said his lordship, with some excitement, ‘that you do not believe that I love Venetia?’
‘I think you do, at this moment,’ replied Masham; ‘and I think,’ he continued, smiling, ‘that you may probably continue very much in love with her, even during the rest of the week.’
‘You mock me!’
‘Nay! I am sincerely serious.’
‘What, then, do you mean?’
‘I mean that your imagination, my lord, dwelling for the moment with great power upon the idea of Venetia, becomes inflamed, and your whole mind is filled with her image.’
‘A metaphysical description of being in love,’ said Lord Cadurcis, rather dryly.
‘Nay!’ said Masham, ‘I think the heart has something to do with that.’
‘But the imagination acts upon the heart,’ rejoined his companion.
‘But it is in the nature of its influence not to endure. At this moment, I repeat, your lordship may perhaps love Miss Herbert; you may go home and muse over her memory, and even deplore in passionate verses your misery in being separated from her; but, in the course of a few days, she will be again forgotten.’
‘But were she mine?’ urged Lord Cadurcis, eagerly.
‘Why, you would probably part from her in a year, as her father parted from Lady Annabel.’
‘Impossible! for my imagination could not conceive anything more exquisite than she is.’
‘Then it would conceive something less exquisite,’ said the Bishop. ‘It is a restless quality, and is ever creative, either of good or of evil.’
‘Ah! my dear Doctor, excuse me for again calling you Doctor, it is so natural,’ said Cadurcis, in a tone of affection.
‘Call me what you will, my dear lord,’ said the good Bishop, whose heart was moved; ‘I can never forget old days.’
‘Believe me, then,’ continued Cadurcis, ‘that you misjudge me in respect of Venetia. I feel assured that, had we married three years ago, I should have been a much happier man.’
‘Why, you have everything to make you happy,’ said the Bishop; ‘if you are not happy, who should be? You are young, and you are famous: all that is now wanted is to be wise.’
Lord Cadurcis shrugged his shoulders. I am tired of this life,’ he said; ‘I am wearied of the same hollow bustle, and the same false glitter day after day. Ah! my dear friend, when I remember the happy hours when I used to roam through the woods of Cherbury with Venetia, and ramble in that delicious park, both young, both innocent, lit by the sunset and guided by the stars; and then remember that it has all ended in this, and that this is success, glory, fame, or whatever be the proper title to baptize the bubble, the burthen of existence is too great for me.’
‘Hush, hush!’ said his friend, rising from the sofa; ‘you will be happy if you be wise.’
‘But what is wisdom?’ said Lord Cadurcis.
‘One quality of it, in your situation, my lord, is to keep your head as calm as you can. Now, I must bid you good night.’
The Bishop disappeared, and Lord Cadurcis was immediately surrounded by several fine ladies, who were encouraged by the flattering bulletin that his neighbour at dinner, who was among them, had given of his lordship’s temper. They were rather disappointed to find him sullen, sarcastic, and even morose. As for going to Ranelagh, he declared that, if he had the power of awarding the punishment of his bitterest enemy, it would be to consign him for an hour to the barbarous infliction of a promenade in that temple of ennui; and as for the owner of the album, who, anxious about her verses, ventured to express a hope that his lordship would call upon her, the contemptuous bard gave her what he was in the habit of styling ‘a look,’ and quitted the room, without deigning otherwise to acknowledge her hopes and her courtesy.
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