Young Harry Warrington's act of revolt came so suddenly upon Madame
de Bernstein, that she had no other way of replying to it, than by the
prompt outbreak of anger with which we left her in the last chapter. She
darted two fierce glances at Lady Fanny and her mother as she quitted
the room. Lady Maria over her tambour-frame escaped without the least
notice, and scarcely lifted up her head from her embroidery, to watch
the aunt retreating, or the looks which mamma-in-law and sister threw at
one another.
“So, in spite of all, you have, madam?” the maternal looks seemed to
say.
“Have what?” asked Lady Fanny's eyes. But what good in looking innocent?
She looked puzzled. She did not look one-tenth part as innocent as
Maria. Had she been guilty, she would have looked not guilty much more
cleverly; and would have taken care to study and compose a face so as to
be ready to suit the plea. Whatever was the expression of Fanny's eyes,
mamma glared on her as if she would have liked to tear them out.
But Lady Castlewood could not operate upon the said eyes then and there,
like the barbarous monsters in the stage-direction in King Lear. When
her ladyship was going to tear out her daughter's eyes, she would retire
smiling, with an arm round her dear child's waist, and then gouge her in
private.
“So you don't fancy going with the old lady to Tunbridge Wells?” was
all she said to Cousin Warrington, wearing at the same time a perfectly
well-bred simper on her face.
“And small blame to our cousin!” interposed my lord. (The face over the
tambour-frame looked up for one instant.) “A young fellow must not have
it all idling and holiday. Let him mix up something useful with his
pleasures, and go to the fiddles and pump-rooms at Tunbridge or the Bath
later. Mr. Warrington has to conduct a great estate in America: let him
see how ours in England are carried on. Will hath shown him the kennel
and the stables; and the games in vogue, which I think, cousin, you
seem to play as well as your teachers. After harvest we will show him
a little English fowling and shooting: in winter we will take him
out a-hunting. Though there has been a coolness between us and our
aunt-kinswoman in Virginia, yet we are of the same blood. Ere we
send our cousin back to his mother, let us show him what an English
gentleman's life at home is. I should like to read with him as well as
sport with him, and that is why I have been pressing him of late to stay
and bear me company.”
My lord spoke with such perfect frankness that his mother-in-law and
half-brother and sister could not help wondering what his meaning
could be. The three last-named persons often held little conspiracies
together, and caballed or grumbled against the head of the house. When
he adopted that frank tone, there was no fathoming his meaning: often it
would not be discovered until months had passed. He did not say, “This
is true,” but, “I mean that this statement should be accepted and
believed in my family.” It was then a thing convenue, that my Lord
Castlewood had a laudable desire to cultivate the domestic affections,
and to educate, amuse, and improve his young relative; and that he had
taken a great fancy to the lad, and wished that Harry should stay for
some time near his lordship.
“What is Castlewood's game now?” asked William of his mother and sister
as they disappeared into the corridors. “Stop! By George, I have it!”
“What, William?”
“He intends to get him to play, and to win the Virginia estate back from
him. That's what it is!”
“But the lad has not got the Virginia estate to pay, if he loses,”
remarks mamma.
“If my brother has not some scheme in view, may I be----.”
“Hush! Of course he has a scheme in view. But what is it?”
“He can't mean Maria--Maria is as old as Harry's mother,” muses Mr.
William.
“Pooh! with her old face and sandy hair and freckled skin! Impossible!”
cries Lady Fanny, with somewhat of a sigh.
“Of course, your ladyship had a fancy for the Iroquois, too!” cried
mamma.
“I trust I know my station and duty better, madam! If I had liked him,
that is no reason why I should marry him. Your ladyship hath taught me
as much as that.”
“My Lady Fanny!”
“I am sure you married our papa without liking him. You have told me so
a thousand times!”
“And if you did not love our father before marriage, you certainly did
not fall in love with him afterwards,” broke in Mr. William, with a
laugh. “Fan and I remember how our honoured parents used to fight. Don't
us, Fan? And our brother Esmond kept the peace.”
“Don't recall those dreadful low scenes, William!” cries mamma. “When
your father took too much drink, he was like a madman; and his conduct
should be a warning to you, sir, who are fond of the same horrid
practice.”
“I am sure, madam, you were not much the happier for marrying the man
you did not like, and your ladyship's title hath brought very little
along with it,” whimpered out Lady Fanny. “What is the use of a coronet
with the jointure of a tradesman's wife?--how many of them are richer
than we are? There is come lately to live in our Square, at Kensington,
a grocer's widow from London Bridge, whose daughters have three gowns
where I have one; and who, though they are waited on but by a man and a
couple of maids, I know eat and drink a thousand times better than we
do with our scraps of cold meat on our plate, and our great flaunting,
trapesing, impudent, lazy lacqueys!”
“He! he! glad I dine at the palace, and not at home!” said Mr. Will.
(Mr. Will, through his aunt's interest with Count Puffendorff, Groom
of the Royal {and Serene Electoral} Powder-Closet, had one of the many
small places at Court, that of Deputy Powder.)
“Why should I not be happy without any title except my own?” continued
Lady Frances. “Many people are. I dare say they are even happy in
America.”
“Yes!--with a mother-in-law who is a perfect Turk and Tartar, for all I
hear--with Indian war-whoops howling all around you and with a danger
of losing your scalp, or of being eat up by a wild beast every time you
went to church.”
“I wouldn't go to church,” said Lady Fanny.
“You'd go with anybody who asked you, Fan!” roared out Mr. Will: “and
so would old Maria, and so would any woman, that's the fact.” And Will
laughed at his own wit.
“Pray, good folks, what is all your merriment about?” here asked Madame
Bernstein, peeping in on her relatives from the tapestried door which
led into the gallery where their conversation was held.
Will told her that his mother and sister had been having a fight (which
was not a novelty, as Madame Bernstein knew), because Fanny wanted to
marry their cousin, the wild Indian, and my lady Countess would not let
her. Fanny protested against this statement. Since the very first day
when her mother had told her not to speak to the young gentleman, she
had scarcely exchanged two words with him. She knew her station better.
She did not want to be scalped by wild Indians, or eat up by bears.
Madame de Bernstein looked puzzled. “If he is not staying for you, for
whom is he staying?” she asked. “At the houses to which he has been
carried, you have taken care not to show him a woman that is not a
fright or in the nursery; and I think the boy is too proud to fall in
love with a dairymaid, Will.”
“Humph! That is a matter of taste, ma'am,” says Mr. William, with a
shrug of his shoulders.
“Of Mr. William Esmond's taste, as you say; but not of yonder boy's. The
Esmonds of his grandfather's nurture, sir, would not go a-courting in
the kitchen.”
“Well, ma'am, every man to his taste, I say again. A fellow might go
farther and fare worse than my brother's servants'-hall, and besides
Fan, there's only the maids or old Maria to choose from.”
“Maria! Impossible!” And yet, as she spoke the very words, a sudden
thought crossed Madame Bernstein's mind, that this elderly Calypso might
have captivated her young Telemachus. She called to mind half a dozen
instances in her own experience of young men who had been infatuated by
old women. She remembered how frequent Harry Warrington's absences
had been of late--absences which she attributed to his love for field
sports. She remembered how often, when he was absent, Maria Esmond
was away too. Walks in cool avenues, whisperings in garden temples, or
behind clipt hedges, casual squeezes of the hand in twilight corridors,
or sweet glances and ogles in meetings on the stairs,--a lively fancy,
an intimate knowledge of the world, very likely a considerable personal
experience in early days, suggested all these possibilities and
chances to Madame de Bernstein, just as she was saying that they were
impossible.
“Impossible, ma'am! I don't know,” Will continued. “My mother warned Fan
off him.”
“Oh, your mother did warn Fanny off?”
“Certainly, my dear Baroness!”
“Didn't she? Didn't she pinch Fanny's arm black-and-blue? Didn't they
fight about it?”
“Nonsense, William! For shame, William!” cry both the implicated ladies
in a breath.
“And now, since we have heard how rich he is, perhaps it is sour grapes,
that is all. And now, since he is warned off the young bird, perhaps he
is hunting the old one, that's all. Impossible why impossible? You know
old Lady Suffolk, ma'am?”
“William, how can you speak about Lady Suffolk to your aunt?”
A grin passed over the countenance of the young gentleman. “Because
Lady Suffolk was a special favourite at Court? Well, other folks have
succeeded her.”
“Sir!” cries Madame de Bernstein, who may have had her reasons to take
offence.
“So they have, I say; or who, pray, is my Lady Yarmouth now? And didn't
old Lady Suffolk go and fall in love with George Berkeley, and marry him
when she was ever so old? Nay, ma'am, if I remember right--and we hear
a deal of town-talk at our table--Harry Estridge went mad about your
ladyship when you were somewhat rising twenty; and would have changed
your name a third time if you would but have let him.”
This allusion to an adventure of her own later days, which was, indeed,
pretty notorious to all the world, did not anger Madame de Bernstein,
like Will's former hint about his aunt having been a favourite at George
the Second's Court; but, on the contrary, set her in good-humour.
“Au fait,” she said, musing, as she played a pretty little hand on the
table, and no doubt thinking about mad young Harry Estridge; 'tis not
impossible, William, that old folks, and young folks, too, should play
the fool.”
“But I can't understand a young fellow being in love with Maria,”
continued Mr. William, “however he might be with you, ma'am. That's oter
shose, as our French tutor used to say. You remember the Count, ma'am;
he! he!--and so does Maria!”
“William!”
“And I dare say the Count remembers the bastinado Castlewood had given
to him. A confounded French dancing-master calling himself a count, and
daring to fall in love in our family! Whenever I want to make myself
uncommonly agreeable to old Maria, I just say a few words of parly voo
to her. She knows what I mean.”
“Have you abused her to your cousin, Harry Warrington?” asked Madame de
Bernstein.
“Well--I know she is always abusing me--and I have said my mind about
her,” said Will.
“Oh, you idiot!” cried the old lady. “Who but a gaby ever spoke ill of a
woman to her sweetheart? He will tell her everything, and they both will
hate you.”
“The very thing, ma'am!” cried Will, bursting into a great laugh. “I
had a sort of a suspicion, you see, and two days ago, as we were riding
together, I told Harry Warrington a bit of my mind about Maria;--why
shouldn't I, I say? She is always abusing me, ain't she, Fan? And your
favourite turned as red as my plush waistcoat--wondered how a gentleman
could malign his own flesh and blood, and, trembling all over with rage,
said I was no true Esmond.”
“Why didn't you chastise him, sir, as my lord did the dancing-master?”
cried Lady Castlewood.
“Well, mother,--you see that at quarter-staff there's two sticks used,”
replied Mr. William; “and my opinion is, that Harry Warrington can guard
his own head uncommonly well. Perhaps that is one of the reasons why I
did not offer to treat my cousin to a caning. And now you say so, ma'am,
I know he has told Maria. She has been looking battle, murder, and
sudden death at me ever since. All which shows----” and here he turned
to his aunt.
“All which shows what?”
“That I think we are on the right scent; and that we've found Maria--the
old fox!” And the ingenuous youth here clapped his hand to his mouth,
and gave a loud halloo.
How far had this pretty intrigue gone? now was the question. Mr. Will
said, that at her age, Maria would be for conducting matters as rapidly
as possible, not having much time to lose. There was not a great deal of
love lost between Will and his half-sister.
“Who would sift the matter to the bottom? Scolding one party or the
other was of no avail. Threats only serve to aggravate people in such
cases. I never was in danger but once, young people,” said Madame de
Bernstein, “and I think that was because my poor mother contradicted me.
If this boy is like others of his family, the more we oppose him, the
more entete he will be; and we shall never get him out of his scrape.”
“Faith, ma'am, suppose we leave him in it?” grumbled Will. “Old Maria
and I don't love each other too much, I grant you; but an English earl's
daughter is good enough for an American tobacco-planter, when all is
said and done.”
Here his mother and sister broke out. They would not hear of such a
union. To which Will answered, “You are like the dog in the manger. You
don't want the man yourself, Fanny”
“I want him, indeed!” cries Lady Fanny, with a toss of her head.
“Then why grudge him to Maria? I think Castlewood wants her to have
him.”
“Why grudge him to Maria, sir?” cried Madame de Bernstein, with great
energy. “Do you remember who the poor boy is, and what your house owes
to his family? His grandfather was the best friend your father ever had,
and gave up this estate, this title, this very castle, in which you
are conspiring against the friendless Virginian lad, that you and yours
might profit by it. And the reward for all this kindness is, that you
all but shut the door on the child when he knocks at it, and talk of
marrying him to a silly elderly creature who might be his mother! He
shan't marry her.”
“The very thing we were saying and thinking, my dear Baroness!”
interposes Lady Castlewood. “Our part of the family is not eager about
the match, though my lord and Maria may be.”
“You would like him for yourself, now that you hear he is rich--and may
be richer, young people, mind you that,” cried Madam Beatrix, turning
upon the other women.
“Mr. Warrington may be ever so rich, madam, but there is no need why
your ladyship should perpetually remind us that we are poor,” broke
in Lady Castlewood, with some spirit. “At least there is very little
disparity in Fanny's age and Mr. Harry's; and you surely will be the
last to say that a lady of our name and family is not good enough for
any gentleman born in Virginia or elsewhere.”
“Let Fanny take an English gentleman, Countess, not an American. With
such a name and such a mother to help her, and with all her good looks
and accomplishments, sure, she can't fail of finding a man worthy of
her. But from what I know about the daughters of this house, and what I
imagine about our young cousin, I am certain that no happy match could
be made between them.”
“What does my aunt know about me?” asked Lady Fanny, turning very red.
“Only your temper, my dear. You don't suppose that I believe all the
tittle-tattle and scandal which one cannot help hearing in town? But
the temper and early education are sufficient. Only fancy one of you
condemned to leave St. James's and the Mall, and live in a plantation
surrounded by savages! You would die of ennui, or worry your husband's
life out with your ill-humour. You are born, ladies, to ornament
courts--not wigwams. Let this lad go back to his wilderness with a wife
who is suited to him.”
The other two ladies declared in a breath that, for their parts, they
desired no better, and, after a few more words, went on their way, while
Madame de Bernstein, lifting up her tapestried door, retired into her
own chamber. She saw all the scheme now; she admired the ways of women,
calling a score of little circumstances back to mind. She wondered at
her own blindness during the last few days, and that she should not have
perceived the rise and progress of this queer little intrigue. How far
had it gone? was now the question. Was Harry's passion of the serious
and tragical sort, or a mere fire of straw which a day or two would burn
out? How deeply was he committed? She dreaded the strength of Harry's
passion, and the weakness of Maria's. A woman of her age is so
desperate, Madame Bernstein may have thought, that she will make any
efforts to secure a lover. Scandal, bah! She will retire and be a
princess in Virginia, and leave the folks in England to talk as much
scandal as they choose.
Is there always, then, one thing which women do not tell to one another,
and about which they agree to deceive each other? Does the concealment
arise from deceit or modesty? A man, as soon as he feels an inclination
for one of the other sex, seeks for a friend of his own to whom he may
impart the delightful intelligence. A woman (with more or less skill)
buries her secret away from her kind. For days and weeks past, had not
this old Maria made fools of the whole house,--Maria, the butt of the
family?
I forbear to go into too curious inquiries regarding the Lady Maria's
antecedents. I have my own opinion about Madame Bernstein's. A hundred
years ago people of the great world were not so straitlaced as they
are now, when everybody is good, pure, moral, modest; when there is no
skeleton in anybody's closet; when there is no scheming; no slurring
over old stories; when no girl tries to sell herself for wealth, and no
mother abets her. Suppose my Lady Maria tries to make her little game,
wherein is her ladyship's great eccentricity?
On these points no doubt the Baroness de Bernstein thought, as she
communed with herself in her private apartment.