Thus, though the conversation began with ordinary subjects, touched but upon matters of taste and amusement, and approached deeper feelings only as a deviation from its regular course, yet at every turn it took, Wilton's mind displayed its richness and its power; till the Duke, who had considerable taste and natural feeling, as well as high cultivation of mind, looked with surprise and admiration towards his daughter; and every now and then Laura herself, almost breathless with mingled feelings of pleasure, pride, and affection, turned her eyes upon her father, and marked his sensations with a happy smile.
And yet it was all so natural, so easy, so unaffected, that one felt there was neither effort nor presumption. There was nothing of what the vulgar mass of common society call eloquence about it; but there was the true eloquence, which by a single touch wakes the sound that we desire to produce in the heart of another: which by one bright instantaneous flash lights up, to the perception of every one around, each point that we wish them to behold. Eloquence consists not in many words, but in few words: the thoughts, the associations, the images, may be many, but the acme of eloquence is in the rapidity of their expression.
Wilton, then, did not in any degree presume. He discoursed upon nothing; he did not even attempt to lead. The Duke led the conversation, and he followed: but it was like that famous entry of the Roman emperor, where an eagle was seen hovering round and round his head: the royal bird followed, indeed, the monarch; but in his flight took ten times a wider scope: the people hailed with loud gratulations the approach of Caesar, but in the attendant bird they recognised Jove. The Duke, however, who had taste, as we have said, and feeling, and who, in regard to conversational powers, was not a vain roan, was delighted with his guest, and laid himself out to lead Wilton on towards subjects on which he thought he would shine: but there was one very extraordinary thing in the history of that afternoon. There was not a servant in the hall—no, neither the laced and ribanded lackey lately hired in London, the old blue bottles from the country mansion, the stately butler and his understrapper of the cellaret, nor the Duke's own French gentleman, who stood very close to his master's elbow during the whole of dinner time—there was not one that did not clearly and perfectly perceive that their young lady was in love with her handsome deliverer, and did not comment upon it in their several spheres, when they quitted the room. Every one felt positive that the matter was all arranged, and the wedding was soon to take place; and, to say the truth, so much had Wilton in general won upon their esteem by one means or another, that the only objection urged against him, in the various councils which were held upon the subject, was, that his name was Brown, that he had not a vis-a-vis, and that he kept only two horses.
The two or three last sentences, it must be owned, are lamentable digressions; for we have not yet stated what the extraordinary thing was. It was not in the least degree extraordinary that the servants should all find out the secret of Laura's heart; for her eyes told it every time that she looked at Wilton; but it is very extraordinary, indeed, that her father should never find it out, when every one else that was present did. Is it that there is a magic haze which surrounds love, that can never be penetrated by the eyes of parents or guardians, till some particular allotted moment is arrived? I cannot tell; so, however, has it always proved, and so in all probability it ever will.
Such was the case with the Duke at the present moment. Although there was every opportunity for his daughter and Wilton falling in love with each other; although there was every reasonable cause thereunto them moving—youth, and beauty, and warm hearts, and gratitude, and interesting situations: although there was every probability that time, place, and circumstance could afford; although there was every indication, sign, symptom, and appearance, that it was absolutely the case at that very moment, yet the Duke saw nothing of it, did not believe it existed, did not imagine that it was likely ever to exist, and was quite prepared to be astonished, surprised, and mortified, at whatever period the fact, by the will of fate, should be forced upon his understanding.
Such was the state of all parties at the time when Laura rose from the table, and left her father and Wilton alone. Now the bad custom of men sitting together and drinking immense and detrimental quantities of various kinds of wine, was at that time at its very acme; so much so, indeed, that there is more than one recorded instance, in the years 1695 and 1696, of gentlemen—yes, reader; actually gentlemen, that is to say, persons who had had every advantage of birth, for time, and education—killing themselves with intoxication, exactly in the manner which a noble but most unhappy bard of our own days has described, in—
—"the Irish peer Who kill'd himself for love, with wine, last year."
On this subject, however, we shall not dwell, as we may be fated, perhaps, in the very beginning of the next chapter, to touch upon some of the other peculiar habits of those days.
Now neither Wilton nor the Duke were at all addicted to the vice we have mentioned; and Wilton had certainly much stronger attractions in another room of that house than any that the Duke's cellar could afford him. The Duke, too, had small inclination usually to sit long at table; but on the present occasion he had an object in detaining his young friend in the dining-room after Lady Laura had departed. Wilton's eyes saw him turn towards him several times, while the servants were busy about the table, and had, indeed, even during dinner, remarked a certain sort of restlessness, which he attributed, and rightly, to an anxiety regarding the plots of the Jacobites, in which the peer had so nearly involved himself.
At length, when the room was cleared and the door closed, the Duke drew round his chair towards the fire, begging his young friend to do the same, and mingling the matter of alarm even with his invitation to the first glass of wine, "My dear Wilton," he said—"you must permit me to call you so, for I can now look upon you as little less than a son—I wish you to give me a fuller account of all this business than poor Laura can, for there is news current about the town to-day which somewhat alarms me, though I do not think there is any need of alarm either. But surely, Wilton, they could not bring me in as at all accessory to a plot which I would have nothing to do with."