“Oh, do not be talking of it for ever, Judith! Worth tore up my vowels, and that is all there is to it.”
She was conscious of a feeling of relief out of proportion to the event. The loss of four thousand pounds would not be likely to cause Peregrine embarrassment, but that Worth should win considerable sums of money from him shocked her. She had not believed him capable of such impropriety: she was happy to think that he had not been capable of it.
The visit to Osterley Park passed very pleasantly, and the Taverners returned to London again midway through February with the intention of remaining there until the Brighton season commenced. Nothing was much changed in town; no new diversions were offered; no startling scandal had cropped up to provide a topic for conversation. It was the same round of balls, assemblies, card-parties, theatres; with concerts of Ancient Music in Hanover Square, or a visit to Bullock’s Museum, just opened in Piccadilly, for those of a more serious turn of mind. The only novelty was supplied by Mr. Brummell, who created a slight stir by the announcement that he was reforming his way of life. Various were the conjectures as to what drastic changes this might mean, but when he was asked frankly what his reforms were he replied in his most ingenuous manner: “My reforms—ah, yes! For instance, I sup early; I take a—a little lobster, an apricot puff, or so, and some burnt champagne about twelve, and my man gets me to bed by three.”
The Duke of Clarence, after one more attempt to win Miss Taverner, returned to the siege of Miss Tylney Long, but in the clubs his chances of success were held to be slim, the lady having begun to show signs of favouring Mr. Wellesley Poole’s suit.
At the beginning of March all other subjects of interest faded before a new and scintillating one. One name was on everybody’s lips, and no drawing-room could be found without a copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage lying upon the table. Only two cantos of this work had been published, but over these two everyone was in raptures. Lord Byron, sprung suddenly into fame, was held to have eclipsed all other poets, and happy was the hostess who could secure him to add distinction to her evening party. He had been taken up by the Melbourne House set; Lady Caroline Lamb was known to be madly in love with him, as well she might, for surely never had such beauty, such romantic mystery clung to a poet before.
“Confound this fellow Byron!” said Captain Audley humorously. “Since Childe Harold came out none of you ladies will so much as spare a glance for the rest of us less gifted mortals!”
“Do not level that accusation at my head, if you please,” replied Miss Taverner, smiling.
“I am sure if I have heard you murmur raptly: ‘ Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o’er the waters blue ’ once, I must have heard you murmur it a dozen times! Do you know that we are all of us growing white-haired in the endeavour to be poets too?”
“Ah, his poetry! I could listen to that for ever, but pray do not confuse my admiration for that with a partiality for his lordship. I have met him at Almack’s. I will allow him to be as handsome as you please, but he has such an air of pride and puts on so much melancholy grandeur that it gave me quite a disgust of him. He fixes his brilliant gaze upon one, bows, speaks two words in a cold voice, and that is all! It put me out of patience to see everyone flock about him, flattering, admiring, hanging on his lips. Only fancy! he was asked to dine in St. James’s Place with Mr. Rogers himself, came late, refused every course that was offered, and ended by dining on potatoes mashed up with vinegar, to the astonishment, as you may imagine, of all. I heard it from one who was present, and who seemed to be much struck. For my part I think it a piece of studied affectation, and cannot smile at it.”
“Excellent! I am delighted,” said the Captain. “I need not try to emulate his lordship, I see.”