MY DEAR JOSEPH,—You know my numerous avocations, and, amid the
press of business which surrounds me, will, I am sure, forgive me
for being a very negligent and remiss correspondent. Nevertheless,
I assure you, no one can more sincerely sympathize in that good
fortune which has befallen my charming niece, and of which your last
letter informed me, than I do. Pray give my best love to her, and
tell her how complacently I look forward to the brilliant sensation
she will create, when her beauty is enthroned upon that rank which,
I am quite sure, it will one day or other command.
You are not aware, perhaps, my dear Joseph, that I have for some
time been in a very weak and declining state of health. The old
nervous complaint in my face has of late attacked me grievously, and
the anguish is sometimes so great that I am scarcely able to bear
it. I believe the great demand which my profession makes upon a
frame of body never strong, and now beginning prematurely to feel
the infirmities of time, is the real cause of my maladies. At last,
however, I must absolutely punish my pocket, and indulge my
inclinations by a short respite from toil. The doctors—sworn
friends, you know, to the lawyers, since they make common cause
against mankind—have peremptorily ordered me to lie by, and to try
a short course of air, exercise, social amusements, and the waters
of Bath. Fortunately this is vacation time, and I can afford to
lose a few weeks of emolument, in order, perhaps, to secure many
years of life. I purpose, then, early next week, repairing to that
melancholy reservoir of the gay, where persons dance out of life and
are fiddled across the Styx. In a word, I shall make one of the
adventurers after health who seek the goddess at King Bladud's pump-
room. Will you and dear Lucy join me there? I ask it of your
friendship, and I am quite sure that neither of you will shrink
aghast at the proposal of solacing your invalid relation. At the
same time that I am recovering health, my pretty niece will be
avenging Pluto, by consigning to his dominions many a better and
younger hero in my stead. And it will be a double pleasure to me to
see all the hearts, etc.—I break off, for what can I say on that
subject which the little coquette does not anticipate? It is high
time that Lucy should see the world; and though there are many—at
Bath, above all places, to whom the heiress will be an object of
interested attentions, yet there are also many in that crowded city
by no means undeserving her notice. What say you, dear Joseph? But
I know already: you will not refuse to keep company with me in my
little holiday; and Lucy's eyes are already sparkling at the idea of
new bonnets, Milsom Street, a thousand adorers, and the pump-room.
Ever, dear Joseph, yours affectionately,
WILLIAM BRANDON.
P. S. I find that my friend Lord Mauleverer is at Bath; I own that
is an additional reason to take me thither; by a letter from him,
received the other day, I see that he has paid you a visit, and he
now raves about his host and the heiress. Ah, Miss Lucy, Miss Lucy!
are you going to conquer him whom all London has, for years more
than I care to tell (yet not many, for Mauleverer is still young),
assailed in vain? Answer me!
This letter created a considerable excitement in Warlock House. The old squire was extremely fond of his brother, and grieved to the heart to find that he spoke so discouragingly of his health. Nor did the squire for a moment hesitate at accepting the proposal to join his distinguished relative at Bath. Lucy also—who had for her uncle, possibly from his profuse yet not indelicate flattery, a very great regard and interest, though she had seen but little of him—urged the squire to lose no time in arranging matters for their departure, so as to precede the barrister, and prepare everything for his arrival. The father and daughter being thus agreed, there was little occasion for delay; an answer to the invalid's letter was sent by return of post, and on the fourth day from their receipt of the said epistle, the good old squire, his daughter, a country girl by way of abigail, the gray-headed butler, and two or three live pets, of the size and habits most convenient for travelling, were on their way to a city which at that time was gayer at least, if somewhat less splendid, than the metropolis.
On the second day of their arrival at Bath, Brandon (as in future, to avoid confusion, we shall call the younger brother, giving to the elder his patriarchal title of squire) joined them.
He was a man seemingly rather fond of parade, though at heart he disrelished and despised it. He came to their lodging, which had not been selected in the very best part of the town, in a carriage and six, but attended only by one favourite servant.
They found him in better looks and better spirits than they had anticipated. Few persons, when he liked it, could be more agreeable than William Brandon; but at times there mixed with his conversation a bitter sarcasm, probably a habit acquired in his profession, or an occasional tinge of morose and haughty sadness, possibly the consequence of his ill-health. Yet his disorder, which was somewhat approaching to that painful affliction the tic douloureux, though of fits more rare in occurrence than those of that complaint ordinarily are, never seemed even for an instant to operate upon his mood, whatever that might be. That disease worked unseen; not a muscle of his face appeared to quiver; the smile never vanished from his mouth, the blandness of his voice never grew faint as with pain, and, in the midst of intense torture, his resolute and stern mind conquered every external indication; nor could the most observant stranger have noted the moment when the fit attacked or released him. There was something inscrutable about the man. You felt that you took his character upon trust, and not on your own knowledge. The acquaintance of years would have left you equally dark as to his vices or his virtues. He varied often, yet in each variation he was equally undiscoverable. Was he performing a series of parts, or was it the ordinary changes of a man's true temperament that you beheld in him? Commonly smooth, quiet, attentive, flattering in social intercourse, he was known in the senate and courts of law for a cold asperity, and a caustic venom,—scarcely rivalled even in those arenas of contention. It seemed as if the bitterer feelings he checked in private life, he delighted to indulge in public. Yet even there he gave not way to momentary petulance or gushing passion; all seemed with him systematic sarcasm or habitual sternness. He outraged no form of ceremonial or of society. He stung, without appearing conscious of the sting; and his antagonist writhed not more beneath the torture of his satire than the crushing contempt of his self-command. Cool, ready, armed and defended on all points, sound in knowledge, unfailing in observation, equally consummate in sophistry when needed by himself, and instantaneous in detecting sophistry in another; scorning no art, however painful; begrudging no labour, however weighty; minute in detail, yet not the less comprehending the whole subject in a grasp,—such was the legal and public character William Brandon had established, and such was the fame he joined to the unsullied purity of his moral reputation. But to his friends he seemed only the agreeable, clever, lively, and, if we may use the phrase innocently, the worldly man,—never affecting a superior sanctity, or an over-anxiety to forms, except upon great occasions; and rendering his austerity of manners the more admired, because he made it seem so unaccompanied by hypocrisy.
“Well,” said Brandon, as he sat after dinner alone with his relations, and had seen the eyes of his brother close in diurnal slumber, “tell me, Miss Lucy, what you think of Lord Mauleverer; do you find him agreeable?”
“Very; too much so, indeed!”
“Too much so! That is an uncommon fault, Lucy, unless you mean to insinuate that you find him too agreeable for your peace of mind.”
“Oh, no! there is little fear of that. All that I meant to express was that he seems to make it the sole business of his life to be agreeable, and that one imagines he had gained that end by the loss of certain qualities which one would have liked better.”
“Umph! and what are they?”