her graces; forgot her present career; forgot his present anger; and forgot even Clayton himself, in the emotions which this unobtrusive proof of recollection inspired. Soft! sacred! and happy moments! How soothing to the sharpest vexations of even disappointed ambition! How enviable, whenever enjoyed! but ah! how few and fleeting in the life of man! The effect of these tender sentiments did more for him than all his endeavours, from reason, to recover the tone of his mind. He dined by himself; was all the better for Clayton's retreat; and said he would give the rest of the day to deliberation; for which purpose he appointed Mellilot, and one or two others, to attend him. But he dined with Constance's billet open on the table, and pored over it more than upon the substantial fare that courted his appetite. 'Twas the month of May; the evening was serene and genial; and throwing up the window which opened upon the inn-garden, full of freshness from a gentle rain that had just fallen, his ear was caught by chirpings, and his eye by blossoms-the harbingers of Spring. The effect was calming to his nerves; and placing Constance's billet next his heart, he wandered out of doors, for a moment, as he thought; but pursuing the course of a little stream which led from the garden into the outskirts of the town, he insensibly commenced a long and devious walk, in which he thought only of Constance, and forgot that a committee of friends, appointed by himself, was at that moment awaiting his return. "Twas a strange absence of mind; but are we to blame the happy elasticity of heart which could expand itself with such soft and delightful feelings, the very instant after it had been contracted by a shock of passion? Assuredly not! The man who possesses it, is more enviable than he, who, without it, revels in thousands. Yet, it is not known at St. Stephen's nor St. James's; still less in the city, or Westminster Hall; seldom, indeed, in the business of life; never in its ambition. Let those, then, who enjoy, never stop to inquire where they found it, but hug it as a treasure, and never part with it. It will serve them as armour to prevent, or as a balsam to heal the lacerations which, in the warfare of life, the best of us are doomed to encounter. The evening overtook him in a small hamlet, about a mile from the town. Here he had lingered in the twilight, till the twilight itself was sunk. The dews rose fast, and the sound of the village doors closing for the night, and lamp after lamp lighting up in the cottages, informed him, almost to his surprise, that the day was gone. It was then only that he recollected how much too late he must be for his appointment, and turned his steps back to the borough. Yet, even then, he could not help stopping to inhale the perfume of the bean-flower, and to mark, with a painter's eye, the evening landscape before him. In truth, he loitered, spite of business, occupied with far other thoughts, nor minded the gaze of passing travellers, hastening to their shelter, or labourers going home from distant work, who wished him good-night, with respect mingled with curiosity. Perhaps of all the scenes made pleasing from association, there is not one more interesting than the approaching thus to a small town, at the coming on of night, when the inhabitants are retiring to their little domiciles, to forget in happy quiet the anxieties of the day. How often have I myself stopped to watch figures reposing in the dusk, with no seeming enjoyment but of rest after bodily fatigue. Yes! often have I stood to observe even children at play, till the very last tinge of light closed upon their sport; when I have still followed them through the open doors of their homes, and seen them and their families afterwards assembled at their simple supper, unconscious, or unmindful of being gazed at through their casements; alive only to their own little world, and careless of what might at that moment be agitating a greater. Then, indeed, is the time for reflection on the true value of things, and the little efficacy of the proudest lot to produce one spark of pleasure more than was designed by the Father of all, for the meanest of his children. But if this be the feeling of a mere casual observer, what must it be with the pilgrim who is wandering under a weight of care? He is peculiarly alive to it, and envies even the smallest appearance of quiet and shelter of which he feels he stands so much in need. At this moment, De Vere was such a pilgrim, and such were his reflections on re-entering his inn. How different those of Clayton, now far on his return to the scenes for which he had sacrificed for ever the very power of making any moral reflection at all! Escaped from the man he had betrayed, whose expected reproach he could not bear to think of, he was, on setting off, as happy, as relief from immediate danger makes the coward who dares not encounter it. But, like the coward, his terror continued long after the danger was over. He feared meeting De Vere in the town; he feared pursuit: he bribed the postilion to drive fast, and pressing his hat over his face, shrank into the corner of the chaise, and remained immoveable for at least a mile. Then recovering a little, he stretched his neck out of the window, and perceiving he was not followed, began to indulge in reflections of a very different kind, for "Ease will recant Vows made in pain." We do not know that Mr. Clayton made many vows, but he certainly was never more uncomfortable in his life, and almost wished he had never engaged in this work of treason. We have often stated that he had feeling, and that he was alive for the moment to what was reported of him in the world. We say the world, because we are by no means positive that this extended to the whisperings of his own heart. At any rate, where his advancement was concerned, he was an admirable sophist; and on this occasion his sophistry admirably served him. At first, indeed, his treatment of his benefactor gave him a few uncomfortable twinges which his heart did not like. But he reminded himself that it was now too late, as he had already felt and subdued those feelings, when first he had conceived and adopted his project, which it would be silliness now to abandon. He had paid the price of the odium of it, and it would be hard, indeed, to deprive himself of the profit. Then, as to the injury done to De Vere, it was but imaginary; for it was incontestible that he was not fit for parliament, and still less for office; and Mr. Clayton was therefore quite sure the time would come, when De Vere would thank him for having detached him so early from what was so little suited to his inclinations, in order to enable him to follow what was, we mean leisure, letters, and mental refinement. He wound up with his duty and gratitude to Lord Mowbray, whose power and consequence he was thus augmenting, and who deserved from him, he thought, every service he could render, at whatever price. The With these happy reasonings and consolations, Mr. Clayton resumed his firmness, as the distance increased between him and the friend he had deceived. borough he began now to consider as his own, perhaps for ever; and that thought brought on other visions of place and power, and a life passed among the great, (perhaps even an alliance with them,) all of which was so pleasingly contemplated, that he wondered at the compunctions which had at first assailed him. By the time, therefore, that he had reached London, he began to think himself one of the powerful of the land, and that he had repaid all his obligations to Lord Mowbray; if indeed the balance did not now incline to the other side. De Vere remained a day longer in the borough, concerting such measures as he thought most provident to restore his lost interest, during which he received strong hints from Blakeney, that, upon certain conditions and compliances, the task would not be difficult. To this he replied with such scornful rejection, that the affronted Blakeney (who was a son of ambition too, in his generation) gave him fair notice he would make him repent it. De Vere smiled in contempt, at a wretch, who, he said, was too despicable for chastisement; and perceiving he had no hope of the seat at present, sat down to acquaint Lady Eleanor with his disappointment. He remembered the allusion to Francis I. made some years before by his friend Her bert, when he defended the career of ambition against Harclai,* and thought the time was come, when he too, might say to his mother, "Madam, we have lost all except our honour.' CHAPTER XVI. SUCCESSFUL MACHINATION. How insolent of late he is become! We knew the time since he was mild and affable, SHAKSPEARE. ON quitting London two days before, Clayton had only time to acquaint his patron, by a short billet, with the intention, and the impetuosity of De Vere. It was breakfast-time at Lord Mowbray's when he returned, and he found the earl and his daughter at table. Both were surprised at the suddenness of his re-appearance, and Lord Mowbray was so anxious to know the result, as not to take the numerous hints given by his Secretary, that they had better be alone before he unburthened himself. Lady Constance understood these hints no better than her father, and Clayton was therefore forced to answer (directly, or indirectly, as he found it convenient,) all that was asked him, both by father and daughter. The questions of Constance were so clear and penetrating, particularly in regard to Mr. Blakeney, that Lord Mowbray was surprised, and his confidant a little dismayed, at her information. But when, with a very pointed look, she asked if he knew who had first kindled this spirit of revolt, and whether Mr. Blakeney had had no secret instigator, Mr. Clayton had nothing left for it but to deny all knowledge of * See vol. i. |