Kind friends, neighbours hospitable, cordial, even respectful,--an
ancient name, a large estate and a sufficient fortune, a comfortable
home, supplied with all the necessaries and many of the luxuries
of life, and a troop of servants, black and white, eager to do your
bidding; good health, affectionate children, and, let us humbly add, a
good cook, cellar, and library--ought not a person in the possession of
all these benefits to be considered very decently happy? Madam Esmond
Warrington possessed all these causes for happiness; she reminded
herself of them daily in her morning and evening prayers. She was
scrupulous in her devotions, good to the poor, never knowingly did
anybody a wrong. Yonder I fancy her enthroned in her principality of
Castlewood, the country gentlefolks paying her court, the sons dutiful
to her, the domestics tumbling over each other's black heels to do her
bidding, the poor whites grateful for her bounty and implicitly taking
her doses when they were ill, the smaller gentry always acquiescing in
her remarks, and for ever letting her win at backgammon--well, with all
these benefits, which are more sure than fate allots to most mortals, I
don't think the little Princess Pocahontas, as she was called, was to
be envied in the midst of her dominions. The Princess's husband, who
was cut off in early life, was as well perhaps out of the way. Had
he survived his marriage by many years, they would have quarrelled
fiercely, or, he would infallibly have been a henpecked husband, of
which sort there were a few specimens still extant a hundred years ago.
The truth is, little Madam Esmond never came near man or woman, but she
tried to domineer over them. If people obeyed, she was their very good
friend; if they resisted, she fought and fought until she or they gave
in. We are all miserable sinners that's a fact we acknowledge in public
every Sunday--no one announced it in a more clear resolute voice than
the little lady. As a mortal, she may have been in the wrong, of course;
only she very seldom acknowledged the circumstance to herself, and to
others never. Her father, in his old age, used to watch her freaks of
despotism, haughtiness, and stubbornness, and amuse himself with them.
She felt that his eye was upon her; his humour, of which quality she
possessed little herself, subdued and bewildered her. But, the Colonel
gone, there was nobody else whom she was disposed to obey,--and so I
am rather glad for my part that I did not live a hundred years ago at
Castlewood in Westmorland County in Virginia. I fancy, one would not
have been too happy there. Happy, who is happy? Was not there a serpent
in Paradise itself? and if Eve had been perfectly happy beforehand,
would she have listened to him?
The management of the house of Castlewood had been in the hands of the
active little lady long before the Colonel slept the sleep of the just.
She now exercised a rigid supervision over the estate; dismissed
Colonel Esmond's English factor and employed a new one; built, improved,
planted, grew tobacco, appointed a new overseer, and imported a new
tutor. Much as she loved her father, there were some of his maxims by
which she was not inclined to abide. Had she not obeyed her papa and
mamma during all their lives, as a dutiful daughter should? So ought
all children to obey their parents, that their days might be long in
the land. The little Queen domineered over her little dominion, and the
Princes her sons were only her first subjects. Ere long she discontinued
her husband's name of Warrington and went by the name of Madam Esmond
in the country. Her family pretensions were known there. She had no
objection to talk of the Marquis's title which King James had given to
her father and grandfather. Her papa's enormous magnanimity might induce
him to give up his titles and rank to the younger branch of the family,
and to her half-brother, my Lord Castlewood and his children; but she
and her sons were of the elder branch of the Esmonds, and she expected
that they should be treated accordingly. Lord Fairfax was the only
gentleman in the colony of Virginia to whom she would allow precedence
over her. She insisted on the pas before all Lieutenant-Governors' and
Judges' ladies; before the wife of the Governor of a colony she would,
of course, yield as to the representative of the Sovereign. Accounts
are extant, in the family papers and letters, of one or two tremendous
battles which Madam fought with the wives of colonial dignitaries upon
these questions of etiquette. As for her husband's family of Warrington,
they were as naught in her eyes. She married an English baronet's
younger son out of Norfolk to please her parents, whom she was always
bound to obey. At the early age at which she married--a chit out of
a boarding-school--she would have jumped overboard if her papa had
ordered. “And that is always the way with the Esmonds,” she said.
The English Warringtons were not over-much flattered by the little
American Princess's behaviour to them, and her manner of speaking about
them. Once a year a solemn letter used to be addressed to the Warrington
family, and to her noble kinsmen the Hampshire Esmonds; but a Judge's
lady with whom Madam Esmond had quarrelled returning to England out of
Virginia chanced to meet Lady Warrington, who was in London with
Sir Miles attending Parliament, and this person repeated some of the
speeches which the Princess Pocahontas was in the habit of making
regarding her own and her husband's English relatives, and my Lady
Warrington, I suppose, carried the story to my Lady Castlewood; after
which the letters from Virginia were not answered, to the surprise and
wrath of Madam Esmond, who speedily left off writing also.
So this good woman fell out with her neighbours, with her relatives,
and, as it must be owned, with her sons also.
A very early difference which occurred between the Queen and Crown
Prince arose out of the dismissal of Mr. Dempster, the lad's tutor and
the late Colonel's secretary. In her father's life Madam Esmond bore him
with difficulty, or it should be rather said Mr. Dempster could scarce
put up with her. She was jealous of books somehow, and thought your
bookworms dangerous folks, insinuating bad principles. She had heard
that Dempster was a Jesuit in disguise, and the poor fellow was obliged
to go build himself a cabin in a clearing, and teach school and practise
medicine where he could find customers among the sparse inhabitants of
the province. Master George vowed he never would forsake his old tutor,
and kept his promise. Harry had always loved fishing and sporting better
than books, and he and the poor Dominie had never been on terms of close
intimacy. Another cause of dispute presently ensued.
By the death of an aunt, and at his father's demise, the heir of Mr.
George Warrington became entitled to a sum of six thousand pounds, of
which their mother was one of the trustees. She never could be made to
understand that she was not the proprietor, and not merely the trustee
of this money; and was furious with the London lawyer, the other
trustee, who refused to send it over at her order. “Is not all I have
my sons'?” she cried, “and would I not cut myself into little pieces
to serve them? With the six thousand pounds I would have bought Mr.
Boulter's estate and negroes, which would have given us a good thousand
pounds a year, and made a handsome provision for my Harry.” Her young
friend and neighbour, Mr. Washington of Mount Vernon, could not convince
her that the London agent was right, and must not give up his trust
except to those for whom he held it. Madam Esmond gave the London lawyer
a piece of her mind, and, I am sorry to say, informed Mr. Draper that
he was an insolent pettifogger, and deserved to be punished for
doubting the honour of a mother and an Esmond. It must be owned that the
Virginian Princess had a temper of her own.
George Esmond, her firstborn, when this little matter was referred to
him, and his mother vehemently insisted that he should declare himself,
was of the opinion of Mr. Washington, and Mr. Draper, the London lawyer.
The boy said he could not help himself. He did not want the money: he
would be very glad to think otherwise, and to give the money to his
mother, if he had the power. But Madam Esmond would not hear any of
these reasons. Feelings were her reasons. Here was a chance of making
Harry's fortune--dear Harry, who was left with such a slender younger
brother's; pittance--and the wretches in London would not help him; his
own brother, who inherited all her papa's estate, would not help him.
To think of a child of hers being so mean at fourteen year of age! etc.
etc. Add tears, scorn, frequent innuendo, long estrangement, bitter
outbreak, passionate appeals to Heaven, and the like, and we may fancy
the widow's state of mind. Are there not beloved beings of the gentler
sex who argue in the same way nowadays? The book of female logic is
blotted all over with tears, and Justice in their courts is for ever in
a passion.
This occurrence set the widow resolutely saving for her younger son,
for whom, as in duty bound, she was eager to make a portion. The fine
buildings were stopped which the Colonel had commenced at Castlewood,
who had freighted ships from New York with Dutch bricks, and imported,
at great charges, mantelpieces, carved cornice-work, sashes and glass,
carpets and costly upholstery from home. No more books were bought.
The agent had orders to discontinue sending wine. Madam Esmond deeply
regretted the expense of a fine carriage which she had had from England,
and only rode in it to church groaning in spirit, and crying to the sons
opposite her, “Harry, Harry! I wish I had put by the money for thee, my
poor portionless child--three hundred and eighty guineas of ready money
to Messieurs Hatchett!”
“You will give me plenty while you live, and George will give me plenty
when you die,” says Harry, gaily.
“Not unless he changes in spirit, my dear,” says the lady, with a
grim glance at her elder boy. “Not unless Heaven softens his heart and
teaches him charity, for which I pray day and night; as Mountain knows;
do you not, Mountain?”
Mrs. Mountain, Ensign Mountain's widow, Madam Esmond's companion and
manager, who took the fourth seat in the family coach on these Sundays,
said, “Humph! I know you are always disturbing yourself and crying out
about this legacy, and I don't see that there is any need.”
“Oh no! no need!” cries the widow, rustling in her silks; “of course I
have no need to be disturbed, because my eldest born is a disobedient
son and an unkind brother--because he has an estate, and my poor Harry,
bless him, but a mess of pottage.”
George looked despairingly at his mother until he could see her no more
for eyes welled up with tears. “I wish you would bless me, too, O my
mother!” he said, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Harry's
arms were in a moment round his brother's neck, and he kissed George a
score of times.
“Never mind, George. I know whether you are a good brother or not. Don't
mind what she says. She don't mean it.”
“I do mean it, child,” cries the mother. Would to Heaven----”
“HOLD YOUR TONGUE, I SAY” roars out Harry. “It's a shame to speak so to
him, ma'am.”
“And so it is, Harry,” says Mrs. Mountain, shaking his hand. “You never
said a truer word in your life.”
“Mrs. Mountain, do you dare to set my children against me?” cries the
widow. “From this very day, madam----”
“Turn me and my child into the street? Do,” says Mrs. Mountain. “That
will be a fine revenge because the English lawyer won't give you the
boy's money. Find another companion who will tell you black is white,
and flatter you: it is not my way, madam. When shall I go? I shan't be
long a-packing. I did not bring much into Castlewood House, and I shall
not take much out.”
“Hush! the bells are ringing for church, Mountain. Let us try, if you
please, and compose ourselves,” said the widow, and she looked with eyes
of extreme affection, certainly at one--perhap at both--of her children.
George kept his head down, and Harry, who was near, got quite close to
him during the sermon, and sat with his arm round his brother's neck.
Harry had proceeded in his narrative after his own fashion,
interspersing it with many youthful ejaculations, and answering a number
of incidental questions asked by his listener. The old lady seemed never
tired of hearing him. Her amiable hostess and her daughters came more
than once, to ask if she would ride, or walk, or take a dish of tea, or
play a game at cards; but all these amusements Madam Bernstein declined,
saying that she found infinite amusement in Harry's conversation.
Especially when any of the Castlewood family were present, she redoubled
her caresses, insisted upon the lad speaking close to her ear, and would
call out to the others, “Hush, my dears! I can't hear our cousin speak.”
And they would quit the room, striving still to look pleased.
“Are you my cousin, too?” asked the honest boy. “You see kinder than my
other cousins.”
Their talk took place in the wainscoted parlour, where the family had
taken their meals in ordinary for at least two centuries past, and
which, as we have said, was hung with portraits of the race. Over
Madam Bernstein's great chair was a Kneller, one of the most brilliant
pictures of the gallery, representing a young lady of three or four
and twenty, in the easy flowing dress and loose robes of Queen Anne's
time--a hand on a cushion near her, a quantity of auburn hair parted off
a fair forehead, and flowing over pearly shoulders and a lovely neck.
Under this sprightly picture the lady sate with her knitting-needles.
When Harry asked, “Are you my cousin, too?” she said, “That picture is
by Sir Godfrey, who thought himself the greatest painter in the world.
But he was not so good as Lely, who painted your grandmother--my--my
Lady Castlewood, Colonel Esmond's wife; nor he so good as Sir Anthony
Van Dyck, who painted your great-grandfather, yonder--and who looks,
Harry, a much finer gentleman than he was. Some of us are painted
blacker than we are. Did you recognise your grandmother in that picture?
She had the loveliest fair hair and shape of any woman of her time.”
“I fancied I knew the portrait from instinct, perhaps, and a certain
likeness to my mother.”
“Did Mrs. Warrington--I beg her pardon, I think she calls herself Madam
or my Lady Esmond now----?”
“They call my mother so in our province,” said the boy.
“Did she never tell you of another daughter her mother had in England,
before she married your grandfather?”
“She never spoke of one.”
“Nor your grandfather?”
“Never. But in his picture-books, which he constantly made for us
children, he used to draw a head very like that above your ladyship.
That, and Viscount Francis, and King James III., he drew a score of
times, I am sure.”
“And the picture over me reminds you of no one, Harry?”
“No, indeed.”
“Ah! Here is a sermon!” says the lady, with a sigh. “Harry, that was my
face once--yes, it was--and then I was called Beatrix Esmond. And your
mother is my half-sister, child, and she has never even mentioned my
name!”