Whilst the good old Bishop of Cambray, in his romance lately mentioned,
described the disconsolate condition of Calypso at the departure of
Ulysses, I forget whether he mentioned the grief of Calypso's lady's
maid on taking leave of Odysseus's own gentleman. The menials must have
wept together in the kitchen precincts whilst the master and mistress
took a last wild embrace in the drawing-room; they must have hung round
each other in the fore-cabin, whilst their principals broke their hearts
in the grand saloon. When the bell rang for the last time, and Ulysses's
mate bawled, “Now! any one for shore!” Calypso and her female attendant
must have both walked over the same plank, with beating hearts and
streaming eyes; both must have waved pocket-handkerchiefs (of far
different value and texture), as they stood on the quay, to their
friends on the departing vessel, whilst the people on the land, and the
crew crowding in the ship's bows, shouted hip, hip, huzzay (or whatever
may be the equivalent Greek for the salutation) to all engaged on that
voyage. But the point to be remembered is, that if Calypso ne pouvait
se consoler, Calypso's maid ne pouvait se consoler non plus. They had to
walk the same plank of grief, and feel the same pang of separation; on
their return home, they might not use pocket-handkerchiefs of the same
texture and value, but the tears, no doubt, were as salt and plentiful
which one shed in her marble halls, and the other poured forth in the
servants' ditto.
Not only did Harry Warrington leave Castlewood a victim to love, but
Gumbo quitted the same premises a prey to the same delightful passion.
His wit, accomplishments, good-humour, his skill in dancing, cookery,
and music, had endeared him to the whole female domestic circle. More
than one of the men might be jealous of him, but the ladies all were
with him. There was no such objection to the poor black men then in
England as has obtained since among white-skinned people. Theirs was
a condition not perhaps of equality, but they had a sufferance and
a certain grotesque sympathy from all; and from women, no doubt, a
kindness much more generous. When Ledyard and Parke, in Blackmansland,
were persecuted by the men, did they not find the black women pitiful
and kind to them? Women are always kind towards our sex. What (mental)
negroes do they not cherish? what (moral) hunchbacks do they not adore?
what lepers, what idiots, what dull drivellers, what misshapen monsters
(I speak figuratively) do they not fondle and cuddle? Gumbo was treated
by the women as kindly as many people no better than himself: it was
only the men in the servants'-hall who rejoiced at the Virginian lad's
departure. I should like to see him taking leave. I should like to see
Molly housemaid stealing to the terrace-gardens in the grey dawning to
cull a wistful posy. I should like to see Betty kitchenmaid cutting off
a thick lock of her chestnut ringlets which she proposed to exchange for
a woolly token from young Gumbo's pate. Of course he said he was regum
progenies, a descendant of Ashantee kings. In Caffraria, Connaught and
other places now inhabited by hereditary bondsmen, there must have been
vast numbers of these potent sovereigns in former times, to judge from
their descendants now extant.
At the morning announced for Madame de Bernstein's departure, all the
numerous domestics of Castlewood crowded about the doors and passages,
some to have a last glimpse of her ladyship's men and the fascinating
Gumbo, some to take leave of her ladyship's maid, all to waylay the
Baroness and her nephew for parting fees, which it was the custom of
that day largely to distribute among household servants. One and the
other gave liberal gratuities to the liveried society, to the gentlemen
in black and ruffles, and to the swarm of female attendants. Castlewood
was the home of the Baroness's youth; and as for her honest Harry, who
had not only lived at free charges in the house, but had won horses and
money--or promises of money--from his cousin and the unlucky chaplain,
he was naturally of a generous turn, and felt that at this moment he
ought not to stint his benevolent disposition. “My mother, I know,” he
thought, “will wish me to be liberal to all the retainers of the Esmond
family.” So he scattered about his gold pieces to right and left, and
as if he had been as rich as Gumbo announced him to be. There was no one
who came near him but had a share in his bounty. From the major-domo to
the shoeblack, Mr. Harry had a peace-offering for them all. To the grim
housekeeper in her still-room, to the feeble old porter in his lodge,
he distributed some token of his remembrance. When a man is in love with
one woman in a family, it is astonishing how fond he becomes of every
person connected with it. He ingratiates himself with the maids; he is
bland with the butler; he interests himself about the footman; he runs
on errands for the daughters; he gives advice and lends money to the
young son at college; he pats little dogs which he would kick otherwise;
he smiles at old stories which would make him break out in yawns, were
they uttered by any one but papa; he drinks sweet port wine for which he
would curse the steward and the whole committee of a club; he bears even
with the cantankerous old maiden aunt; he beats time when darling little
Fanny performs her piece on the piano; and smiles when wicked, lively
little Bobby upsets the coffee over his shirt.
Harry Warrington, in his way, and according to the customs of that age,
had for a brief time past (by which I conclude that only for a brief
time had his love been declared and accepted) given to the Castlewood
family all these artless testimonies of his affection for one of them.
Cousin Will should have won back his money and welcome, or have won
as much of Harry's own as the lad could spare. Nevertheless, the lad,
though a lover, was shrewd, keen, and fond of sport and fair play, and a
judge of a good horse when he saw one. Having played for and won all the
money which Will had, besides a great number of Mr. Esmond's valuable
autographs, Harry was very well pleased to win Will's brown horse--that
very quadruped which had nearly pushed him into the water on the
first evening of his arrival at Castlewood. He had seen the horse's
performance often, and in the midst of all his passion and romance, was
not sorry to be possessed of such a sound, swift, well-bred hunter and
roadster. When he had gazed at the stars sufficiently as they shone over
his mistress's window, and put her candle to bed, he repaired to his own
dormitory, and there, no doubt, thought of his Maria and his horse with
youthful satisfaction, and how sweet it would be to have one pillioned
on the other, and to make the tour of all the island on such an
animal with such a pair of white arms round his waist. He fell asleep
ruminating on these things, and meditating a million of blessings on his
Maria, in whose company he was to luxuriate at least for a week more.
In the early morning poor Chaplain Sampson sent over his little black
mare by the hands of his groom, footman, and gardener, who wept and
bestowed a great number of kisses on the beast's white nose as he
handed him over to Gumbo. Gumbo and his master were both affected by the
fellow's sensibility; the negro servant showing his sympathy by weeping,
and Harry by producing a couple of guineas, with which he astonished and
speedily comforted the chaplain's boy. Then Gumbo and the late groom led
the beast away to the stable, having commands to bring him round with
Mr. William's horse after breakfast, at the hour when Madam Bernstein's
carriages were ordered.
So courteous was he to his aunt, or so grateful for her departure, that
the master of the house even made his appearance at the morning meal,
in order to take leave of his guests. The ladies and the chaplain were
present--the only member of the family absent was Will: who, however,
left a note for his cousin, in which Will stated, in exceedingly
bad spelling, that he was obliged to go away to Salisbury Races that
morning, but that he had left the horse which his cousin won last night,
and which Tom, Mr. Will's groom, would hand over to Mr. Warrington's
servant. Will's absence did not prevent the rest of the party from
drinking a dish of tea amicably, and in due time the carriages rolled
into the courtyard, the servants packed them with the Baroness's
multiplied luggage, and the moment of departure arrived.
A large open landau contained the stout Baroness and her niece; a
couple of men-servants mounting on the box before them with pistols and
blunderbusses ready in event of a meeting with highwaymen. In another
carriage were their ladyships' maids, and another servant in guard
of the trunks, which, vast and numerous as they were, were as nothing
compared to the enormous baggage-train accompanying a lady of the
present time. Mr. Warrington's modest valises were placed in this second
carriage under the maid's guardianship, and Mr. Gumbo proposed to ride
by the window for the chief part of the journey.
My lord, with his stepmother and Lady Fanny, accompanied their kinswoman
to the carriage steps, and bade her farewell with many dutiful embraces.
Her Lady Maria followed in a riding-dress, which Harry Warrington
thought the most becoming costume in the world. A host of servants stood
around, and begged Heaven bless her ladyship. The Baroness's departure
was known in the village, and scores of the folks there stood waiting
under the trees outside the gates, and huzzayed and waved their hats as
the ponderous vehicles rolled away.
Gumbo was gone for Mr. Warrington's horses, as my lord, with his arm
under his young guest's, paced up and down the court. “I hear you carry
away some of our horses out of Castlewood?” my lord said.
Harry blushed. “A gentleman cannot refuse a fair game at the cards,” he
said. “I never wanted to play, nor would have played for money had not
my cousin William forced me. As for the chaplain, it went to my heart to
win from him, but he was as eager as my cousin.”
“I know--I know! There is no blame to you, my boy. At Rome you can't
help doing as Rome does; and I am very glad that you have been able to
give Will a lesson. He is mad about play--would gamble his coat off his
back--and I and the family have had to pay his debts ever so many times.
May I ask how much you have won of him?”
“Well, some eighteen pieces the first day or two, and his note for a
hundred and twenty more, and the brown horse, sixty--that makes nigh
upon two hundred. But, you know, cousin, all was fair, and it was even
against my will that we played at all. Will ain't a match for me, my
lord--that is the fact. Indeed he is not.”
“He is a match for most people, though,” said my lord. “His brown horse,
I think you said?”
“Yes. His brown horse--Prince William, out of Constitution. You don't
suppose I would set him sixty against his bay, my lord?”
“Oh, I didn't know. I saw Will riding out this morning; most likely I
did not remark what horse he was on. And you won the black mare from the
parson?”
“For fourteen. He will mount Gumbo very well. Why does not the rascal
come round with the horses?” Harry's mind was away to lovely Maria. He
longed to be trotting by her side.
“When you get to Tunbridge, cousin Harry, you must be on the look-out
against sharper players than the chaplain and Will. There is all sorts
of queer company at the Wells.”
“A Virginian learns pretty well to take care of himself, my lord, says
Harry, with a knowing nod.
“So it seems! I recommend my sister to thee, Harry. Although she is not
a baby in years, she is as innocent as one. Thou wilt see that she comes
to no mischief?”
“I will guard her with my life, my lord!” cries Harry.
“Thou art a brave fellow. By the way, cousin, unless you are very fond
of Castlewood, I would in your case not be in a great hurry to return to
this lonely, tumble-down old house. I want myself to go to another place
I have, and shall scarce be back here till the partridge-shooting. Go
you and take charge of the women, of my sister and the Baroness, will
you?”
“Indeed I will,” said Harry, his heart beating with happiness at the
thought.
“And I will write thee word when you shall bring my sister back to me.
Here come the horses. Have you bid adieu to the Countess and Lady Fanny?
They are kissing their hands to you from the music-room balcony.”
Harry ran up to bid these ladies a farewell. He made that ceremony very
brief, for he was anxious to be off to the charmer of his heart; and
came downstairs to mount his newly-gotten steed, which Gumbo, himself
astride on the parson's black mare, held by the rein.
There was Gumbo on the black mare, indeed, and holding another horse.
But it was a bay horse, not a brown--a bay horse with broken knees--an
aged, worn-out quadruped.
“What is this?” cries Harry.
“Your honour's new horse,” says the groom, touching his cap.
“This brute?” exclaims the young gentleman, with one or more of those
expressions then in use in England and Virginia. “Go and bring me round
Prince William, Mr. William's horse, the brown horse.”
“Mr. William have rode Prince William this morning away to Salisbury
Races. His last words was, 'Sam, saddle my bay horse, Cato, for Mr.
Warrington this morning. He is Mr. Warrington's horse now. I sold him to
him last night.' And I know your honour is bountiful: you will consider
the groom.”
My lord could not help breaking into a laugh at these words of Sam the
groom, whilst Harry, for his part, indulged in a number more of those
remarks which politeness does not admit of our inserting here.
“Mr. William said he never could think of parting with the Prince under
a hundred and twenty,” said the groom, looking at the young man.
Lord Castlewood only laughed the more. “Will has been too much for thee,
Harry Warrington.”
“Too much for me, my lord! So may a fellow with loaded dice throw sixes,
and be too much for me. I do not call this betting, I call it ch----”
“Mr. Warrington! Spare me bad words about my brother, if you please.
Depend on it, I will take care that you are righted. Farewell. Ride
quickly, or your coaches will be at Farnham before you;” and waving him
an adieu, my lord entered into the house, whilst Harry and his companion
rode out of the courtyard. The young Virginian was much too eager to
rejoin the carriages and his charmer, to remark the unutterable love and
affection which Gumbo shot from his fine eyes towards a young creature
in the porter's lodge.
When the youth was gone, the chaplain and my lord sate down to finish
their breakfast in peace and comfort. The two ladies did not return to
this meal.
“That was one of Will's confounded rascally tricks,” says my lord. “If
our cousin breaks Will's head I should not wonder.”
“He is used to the operation, my lord, and yet,” adds the chaplain, with
a grin, “when we were playing last night, the colour of the horse was
not mentioned. I could not escape, having but one: and the black boy
has ridden off on him. The young Virginian plays like a man, to do him
justice.”
“He wins because he does not care about losing. I think there can be
little doubt but that he is very well to do. His mother's law-agents are
my lawyers, and they write that the property is quite a principality,
and grows richer every year.”
“If it were a kingdom I know whom Mr. Warrington would make queen of
it,” said the obsequious chaplain.
“Who can account for taste, parson?” asks his lordship, with a sneer.
“All men are so. The first woman I was in love with myself was forty;
and as jealous as if she had been fifteen. It runs in the family.
Colonel Esmond (he in scarlet and the breastplate yonder) married my
grandmother, who was almost old enough to be his. If this lad chooses to
take out an elderly princess to Virginia, we must not balk him.”
“'Twere a consummation devoutly to be wished!” cries the chaplain. “Had
I not best go to Tunbridge Wells myself, my lord, and be on the spot,
and ready to exercise my sacred function in behalf of the young couple?”
“You shall have a pair of new nags, parson, if you do,” said my lord.
And with this we leave them peaceable over a pipe of tobacco after
breakfast.
Harry was in such a haste to join the carriages that he almost forgot
to take off his hat, and acknowledge the cheers of the Castlewood
villagers: they all liked the lad, whose frank cordial ways and honest
face got him a welcome in most places. Legends were still extant in
Castlewood, of his grandparents, and how his grandfather, Colonel
Esmond, might have been Lord Castlewood, but would not. Old Lockwood at
the gate often told of the Colonel's gallantry in Queen Anne's wars.
His feats were exaggerated, the behaviour of the present family was
contrasted with that of the old lord and lady: who might not have been
very popular in their time, but were better folks than those now in
possession. Lord Castlewood was a hard landlord: perhaps more disliked
because he was known to be poor and embarrassed than because he was
severe. As for Mr. Will, nobody was fond of him. The young gentleman had
had many brawls and quarrels about the village, had received and given
broken heads, had bills in the neighbouring towns which he could not or
would not pay; had been arraigned before the magistrates for tampering
with village girls, and waylaid and cudgelled by injured husbands,
fathers, sweethearts. A hundred years ago his character and actions
might have been described at length by the painter of manners; but the
Comic Muse, nowadays, does not lift up Molly Seagrim's curtain; she only
indicates the presence of some one behind it, and passes on primly, with
expressions of horror, and a fan before her eyes. The village had
heard how the young Virginian squire had beaten Mr. Will at riding, at
jumping, at shooting, and finally at card-playing, for everything is
known; and they respected Harry all the more for this superiority. Above
all, they admired him on account of the reputation of enormous wealth
which Gumbo had made for his master. This fame had travelled over the
whole county, and was preceding him at this moment on the boxes of
Madame Bernstein's carriages, from which the valets, as they descended
at the inns to bait, spread astounding reports of the young Virginian's
rank and splendour. He was a prince in his own country. He had gold
mines, diamond mines, furs, tobaccos, who knew what, or how much?
No wonder the honest Britons cheered him and respected him for his
prosperity, as the noble-hearted fellows always do. I am surprised city
corporations did not address him, and offer gold boxes with the freedom
of the city--he was so rich. Ah, a proud thing it is to be a Briton, and
think that there is no country where prosperity is so much respected as
in ours; and where success receives such constant affecting testimonials
of loyalty!
So, leaving the villagers bawling, and their hats tossing in the air,
Harry spurred his sorry beast, and galloped, with Gumbo behind him,
until he came up with the cloud of dust in the midst of which his
charmer's chariot was enveloped. Penetrating into this cloud, he found
himself at the window of the carriage. The Lady Maria had the back seat
to herself; by keeping a little behind the wheels, he could have the
delight of seeing her divine eyes and smiles. She held a finger to her
lip. Madame Bernstein was already dozing on her cushions. Harry did not
care to disturb the old lady. To look at his cousin was bliss enough for
him. The landscape around him might be beautiful, but what did he heed
it? All the skies and trees of summer were as nothing compared to
yonder face; the hedgerow birds sang no such sweet music as her sweet
monosyllables.
The Baroness's fat horses were accustomed to short journeys, easy paces,
and plenty of feeding; so that, ill as Harry Warrington was mounted, he
could, without much difficulty, keep pace with his elderly kinswoman. At
two o'clock they baited for a couple of hours for dinner. Mr. Warrington
paid the landlord generously. What price could be too great for the
pleasure which he enjoyed in being near his adored Maria, and having the
blissful chance of a conversation with her, scarce interrupted by the
soft breathing of Madame de Bernstein, who, after a comfortable meal,
indulged in an agreeable half-hour's slumber? In voices soft and low,
Maria and her young gentleman talked over and over again those delicious
nonsenses which people in Harry's condition never tire of hearing and
uttering.
They were going to a crowded watering-place, where all sorts of beauty
and fashion would be assembled; timid Maria was certain that amongst the
young beauties, Harry would discover some, whose charms were far more
worthy to occupy his attention, than any her homely face and figure
could boast of. By all the gods, Harry vowed that Venus herself could
not tempt him from her side. It was he who for his part had occasion to
fear. When the young men of fashion beheld his peerless Maria they would
crowd round her car; they would cause her to forget the rough and humble
American lad who knew nothing of fashion or wit, who had only a faithful
heart at her service.
Maria smiles, she casts her eyes to heaven, she vows that Harry knows
nothing of the truth and fidelity of women; it is his sex, on the
contrary, which proverbially is faithless, and which delights to play
with poor female hearts. A scuffle ensues; a clatter is heard among the
knives and forks of the dessert; a glass tumbles over and breaks. An
“Oh!” escapes from the innocent lips of Maria, The disturbance has
been caused by the broad cuff of Mr. Warrington's coat, which has been
stretched across the table to seize Lady Maria's hand, and has upset the
wine-glass in so doing. Surely nothing could be more natural, or indeed
necessary, than that Harry, upon hearing his sex's honour impeached,
should seize upon his fair accuser's hand, and vow eternal fidelity upon
those charming fingers?
What a part they play, or used to play, in love-making, those hands! How
quaintly they are squeezed at that period of life! How they are pushed
into conversation! what absurd vows and protests are palmed off by their
aid! What good can there be in pulling and pressing a thumb and four
fingers? I fancy I see Alexis laugh, who is haply reading this page by
the side of Araminta. To talk about thumbs indeed!... Maria looks round,
for her part, to see if Madame Bernstein has been awakened by the crash
of glass; but the old lady slumbers quite calmly in her arm-chair, so
her niece thinks there can be no harm in yielding to Harry's gentle
pressure.
The horses are put to: Paradise is over--at least until the next
occasion. When my landlord enters with the bill, Harry is standing quite
at a distance from his cousin, looking from the window at the cavalcade
gathering below. Madame Bernstein wakes up from her slumber, smiling and
quite unconscious. With what profound care and reverential politeness
Mr. Warrington hands his aunt to her carriage! how demure and simple
looks Lady Maria as she follows! Away go the carriages, in the midst
of a profoundly bowing landlord and waiters; of country-folks gathered
round the blazing inn-sign; of shopmen gazing from their homely
little doors; of boys and market-folks under the colonnade of the
old town-hall; of loungers along the gabled street. “It is the famous
Baroness Bernstein. That is she, the old lady in the capuchin. It is
the rich young American who is just come from Virginia, and is worth
millions and millions. Well, sure, he might have a better horse.” The
cavalcade disappears, and the little town lapses into its usual quiet.
The landlord goes back to his friends at the club, to tell how the great
folks are going to sleep at The Bush, at Farnham, to-night.
The inn dinner had been plentiful, and all the three guests of the inn
had done justice to the good cheer. Harry had the appetite natural to
his period of life. Maria and her aunt were also not indifferent to
a good dinner: Madame Bernstein had had a comfortable nap after hers,
which had no doubt helped her to bear all the good things of the
meal--the meat pies, and the fruit pies, and the strong ale, and the
heady port wine. She reclined at ease on her seat of the landau, and
looked back affably, and smiled at Harry and exchanged a little talk
with him as he rode by the carriage side. But what ailed the beloved
being who sate with her back to the horses? Her complexion, which was
exceedingly fair, was further ornamented with a pair of red cheeks,
which Harry took to be natural roses. (You see, madam, that your
surmises regarding the Lady Maria's conduct with her cousin are
quite wrong and uncharitable, and that the timid lad had made no such
experiments as you suppose, in order to ascertain whether the roses were
real or artificial. A kiss, indeed! I blush to think you should imagine
that the present writer could indicate anything so shocking!) Maria's
bright red cheeks, I say still, continued to blush as it seemed with
a strange metallic bloom: but the rest of her face, which had used to
rival the lily in whiteness, became of a jonquil colour. Her eyes stared
round with a ghastly expression. Harry was alarmed at the agony depicted
in the charmer's countenance; which not only exhibited pain, but was
exceedingly unbecoming. Madame Bernstein also at length remarked
her niece's indisposition, and asked her if sitting backwards in the
carriage made her ill, which poor Maria confessed to be the fact. On
this, the elder lady was forced to make room for her niece on her own
side, and, in the course of the drive to Farnham, uttered many gruff,
disagreeable, sarcastic remarks to her fellow-traveller, indicating her
great displeasure that Maria should be so impertinent as to be ill on
the first day of a journey.
When they reached the Bush Inn at Farnham, under which name a famous
inn has stood in Farnham town for these three hundred years--the dear
invalid retired with her maid to her bedroom: scarcely glancing a
piteous look at Harry as she retreated, and leaving the lad's mind in a
strange confusion of dismay and sympathy. Those yellow, yellow cheeks,
those livid wrinkled eyelids, that ghastly red--how ill his blessed
Maria looked! And not only how ill, but how--away, horrible thought,
unmanly suspicion! He tried to shut the idea out from his mind. He had
little appetite for supper, though the jolly Baroness partook of that
repast as if she had had no dinner; and certainly as if she had no
sympathy with her invalid niece.
She sent her major-domo to see if Lady Maria would have anything from
the table. The servant brought back word that her ladyship was still
very unwell, and declined any refreshment.
“I hope she intends to be well to-morrow morning,” cried Madame
Bernstein, rapping her little hand on the table. “I hate people to be
ill in an inn, or on a journey. Will you play piquet with me, Harry?”
Harry was happy to be able to play piquet with his aunt. “That absurd
Maria!” says Madame Bernstein, drinking from a great glass of negus,
“she takes liberties with herself. She never had a good constitution.
She is forty-one years old. All her upper teeth are false, and she can't
eat with them. Thank Heaven, I have still got every tooth in my head.
How clumsily you deal, child!”
Deal clumsily indeed! Had a dentist been extracting Harry's own grinders
at that moment, would he have been expected to mind his cards and deal
them neatly? When a man is laid on the rack at the Inquisition, is it
natural that he should smile and speak politely and coherently to the
grave, quiet Inquisitor? Beyond that little question regarding the
cards, Harry's Inquisitor did not show the smallest disturbance. Her
face indicated neither surprise, nor triumph, nor cruelty. Madame
Bernstein did not give one more stab to her niece that night: but she
played at cards, and prattled with Harry, indulging in her favourite
talk about old times, and parting from him with great cordiality and
good-humour. Very likely he did not heed her stories. Very likely other
thoughts occupied his mind. Maria is forty-one years old, Maria has
false ----. Oh, horrible, horrible! Has she a false eye? Has she false
hair? Has she a wooden leg? I envy not that boy's dreams that night.
Madame Bernstein, in the morning, said she had slept as sound as a top.
She had no remorse, that was clear. (Some folks are happy and easy in
mind when their victim is stabbed and done for.) Lady Maria made her
appearance at the breakfast-table, too. Her ladyship's indisposition was
fortunately over: her aunt congratulated her affectionately on her good
looks. She sate down to her breakfast. She looked appealingly in Harry's
face. He remarked, with his usual brilliancy and originality, that he
was very glad her ladyship was better. Why, at the tone of his voice,
did she start, and again gaze at him with frightened eyes? There sate
the Chief Inquisitor, smiling, perfectly calm, eating ham and muffins.
O poor writhing, rack-rent victim! O stony Inquisitor! O Baroness
Bernstein! It was cruel! cruel!
Round about Farnham the hops were gloriously green in the sunshine, and
the carriages drove through the richest, most beautiful country. Maria
insisted upon taking her old seat. She thanked her dear aunt. It
would not in the least incommode her now. She gazed, as she had done
yesterday, in the face of the young knight riding by the carriage side.
She looked for those answering signals which used to be lighted up in
yonder two windows, and told that love was burning within. She smiled
gently at him, to which token of regard he tried to answer with a sickly
grin of recognition. Miserable youth! Those were not false teeth he saw
when she smiled. He thought they were, and they tore and lacerated him.
And so the day sped on--sunshiny and brilliant overhead, but all over
clouds for Harry and Maria. He saw nothing: he thought of Virginia: he
remembered how he had been in love with Parson Broadbent's daughter at
Jamestown, and how quickly that business had ended. He longed vaguely to
be at home again. A plague on all these cold-hearted English relations!
Did they not all mean to trick him? Were they not all scheming against
him? Had not that confounded Will cheated him about the horse?
At this very juncture, Maria gave a scream so loud and shrill that
Madame Bernstein woke, that the coachman pulled his horses up, and the
footman beside him sprang down from his box in a panic.
“Let me out! let me out!” screamed Maria. “Let me go to him! let me go
to him!”
“What is it?” asked the Baroness.
It was that Will's horse had come down on his knees and nose, had sent
his rider over his head, and Mr. Harry, who ought to have known better,
was lying on his own face quite motionless.
Gumbo, who had been dallying with the maids of the second carriage,
clattered up, and mingled his howls with Lady Maria's lamentations.
Madame Bernstein descended from her landau, and came slowly up,
trembling a good deal.
“He is dead--he is dead!” sobbed Maria.
“Don't be a goose, Maria!” her aunt said. “Ring at that gate, some one!”
Will's horse had gathered himself up and stood perfectly quiet after his
feat: but his late rider gave not the slightest sign of life.