Cousin Maria made her appearance, attended by a couple of gardener's
boys bearing baskets of flowers, with which it was proposed to decorate
Madame de Bernstein's drawing-room against the arrival of her ladyship's
company. Three footmen in livery, gorgeously laced with worsted, set out
twice as many card-tables. A major-domo in black and a bag, with fine
laced ruffles; and looking as if he ought to have a sword by his side,
followed the lacqueys bearing fasces of wax candles, which he placed
a pair on each card-table, and in the silver sconces on the wainscoted
wall that was now gilt with the slanting rays of the sun, as was the
prospect of the green common beyond, with its rocks and clumps of trees
and houses twinkling in the sunshine. Groups of many-coloured figures in
hoops and powder and brocade sauntered over the green, and dappled the
plain with their shadows. On the other side from the Baroness's windows
you saw the Pantiles, where a perpetual fair was held, and heard the
clatter and buzzing of the company. A band of music was here performing
for the benefit of the visitors to the Wells. Madame Bernstein's chief
sitting-room might not suit a recluse or a student, but for those who
liked bustle, gaiety, a bright cross light, and a view of all that was
going on in the cheery busy place, no lodging could be pleasanter. And
when the windows were lighted up, the passengers walking below were
aware that her ladyship was at home and holding a card-assembly, to
which an introduction was easy enough. By the way, in speaking of the
past, I think the night-life of society a hundred years since was rather
a dark life. There was not one wax-candle for ten which we now see in a
lady's drawing-room: let alone gas and the wondrous new illuminations
of clubs. Horrible guttering tallow smoked and stunk in passages. The
candle-snuffer was a notorious officer in the theatre. See Hogarth's
pictures: how dark they are, and how his feasts are, as it were,
begrimed with tallow! In “Marriage a la Mode,” in Lord Viscount
Squanderfield's grand saloons, where he and his wife are sitting yawning
before the horror-stricken steward when their party is over--there are
but eight candles--one on each card-table, and half a dozen in a brass
chandelier. If Jack Briefless convoked his friends to oysters and beer
in his chambers, Pump Court, he would have twice as many. Let us comfort
ourselves by thinking that Louis Quatorze in all his glory held his
revels in the dark, and bless Mr. Price and other Luciferous benefactors
of mankind, for banishing the abominable mutton of our youth.
So Maria with her flowers (herself the fairest flower), popped her
roses, sweet-williams, and so forth, in vases here and there, and
adorned the apartment to the best of her art. She lingered fondly over
this bowl and that dragon jar, casting but sly timid glances the while
at young cousin Harry, whose own blush would have become any young
woman, and you might have thought that she possibly intended to outstay
her aunt; but that Baroness, seated in her arm-chair, her crooked
tortoiseshell stick in her hand, pointed the servants imperiously to
their duty; rated one and the other soundly: Tom for having a darn in
his stocking; John for having greased his locks too profusely out of the
candle-box; and so forth--keeping a stern domination over them. Another
remark concerning poor Jeames of a hundred years ago: Jeames slept two
in a bed, four in a room, and that room a cellar very likely, and he
washed in a trough such as you would hardly see anywhere in London now
out of the barracks of her Majesty's Foot Guards.
If Maria hoped a present interview, her fond heart was disappointed.
“Where are you going to dine, Harry?” asks Madame de Bernstein. “My
niece Maria and I shall have a chicken in the little parlour--I think
you should go to the best ordinary. There is one at the White Horse
at three, we shall hear his bell in a minute or two. And you will
understand, sir, that you ought not to spare expense, but behave like
Princess Pocahontas's son. Your trunks have been taken over to the
lodging I have engaged for you. It is not good for a lad to be always
hanging about the aprons of two old women. Is it, Maria?”
“No,” says her ladyship, dropping her meek eyes; whilst the other lady's
glared in triumph. I think Andromeda had been a good deal exposed to the
Dragon in the course of the last five or six days: and if Perseus
had cut the latter's cruel head off he would have committed not
unjustifiable monstricide. But he did not bare sword or shield; he only
looked mechanically at the lacqueys in tawny and blue as they creaked
about the room.
“And there are good mercers and tailors from London always here to wait
on the company at the Wells. You had better see them, my dear, for your
suit is not of the very last fashion--a little lace----”
“I can't go out of mourning, ma'am,” said the young man, looking down at
his sables.
“Ho, sir,” cried the lady, rustling up from her chair and rising on her
cane, “wear black for your brother till you are as old as Methuselah,
if you like. I am sure I don't want to prevent you. I only want you to
dress, and to do like other people, and make a figure worthy of your
name.”
“Madam,” said Mr. Warrington with great state, “I have not done anything
to disgrace it that I know.”
Why did the old Woman stop and give a little start as if she had been
struck? Let bygones be bygones. She and the boy had a score of little
passages of this kind in which swords were crossed and thrusts rapidly
dealt or parried. She liked Harry none the worse for his courage in
facing her. “Sure a little finer linen than that shirt you wear will not
be a disgrace to you, sir,” she said, with rather a forced laugh.
Harry bowed and blushed. It was one of the homely gifts of his Oakhurst
friends. He felt pleased somehow to think he wore it; thought of the
new friends, so good, so pure, so simple, so kindly, with immense
tenderness, and felt, while invested in this garment, as if evil could
not touch him. He said he would go to his lodging, and make a point of
returning arrayed in the best linen he had.
“Come back here, sir,” said Madame Bernstein, “and if our company has
not arrived, Maria and I will find some ruffles for you!” And herewith,
under a footman's guidance, the young fellow walked off to his new
lodgings.
Harry found not only handsome and spacious apartments provided for him,
but a groom in attendance waiting to be engaged by his honour, and a
second valet, if he was inclined to hire one to wait upon Mr. Gumbo. Ere
he had been many minutes in his rooms, emissaries from a London tailor
and bootmaker waited him with the cards and compliments of their
employers, Messrs. Regnier and Tull; the best articles in his modest
wardrobe were laid out by Gumbo, and the finest linen with which
his thrifty Virginian mother had provided him. Visions of the
snow-surrounded home in his own country, of the crackling logs and the
trim quiet ladies working by the fire, rose up before him. For the
first time a little thought that the homely clothes were not quite smart
enough, the home-worked linen not so fine as it might be, crossed the
young man's mind. That he should be ashamed of anything belonging to him
or to Castlewood! That was strange. The simple folks there were only too
well satisfied with all things that were done, or said, or produced
at Castlewood; and Madam Esmond, when she sent her son forth on his
travels, thought no young nobleman need be better provided. The clothes
might have fitted better and been of a later fashion, to be sure--but
still the young fellow presented a comely figure enough when he issued
from his apartments, his toilet over; and Gumbo calling a chair, marched
beside it, until they reached the ordinary where the young gentleman was
to dine.
Here he expected to find the beau whose acquaintance he had made a few
hours before at his aunt's lodging, and who had indicated to Harry that
the White Horse was the most modish place for dining at the Wells, and
he mentioned his friend's name to the host: but the landlord and waiters
leading him into the room with many smiles and bows assured his honour
that his honour did not need any other introduction than his own, helped
him to hang up his coat and sword on a peg, asked him whether he would
drink Burgundy, Pontac, or champagne to his dinner, and led him to a
table.
Though the most fashionable ordinary in the village, the White Horse did
not happen to be crowded on this day. Monsieur Barbeau, the landlord,
informed Harry that there was a great entertainment at Summer Hill,
which had taken away most of the company; indeed, when Harry entered
the room, there were but four other gentlemen in it. Two of these guests
were drinking wine, and had finished their dinner: the other two were
young men in the midst of their meal, to whom the landlord, as he
passed, must have whispered the name of the new-comer, for they looked
at him with some appearance of interest, and made him a slight bow
across the table as the smiling host bustled away for Harry's dinner.
Mr. Warrington returned the salute of the two gentlemen, who bade him
welcome to Tunbridge, and hoped he would like the place upon better
acquaintance. Then they smiled and exchanged waggish looks with each
other, of which Harry did not understand the meaning, nor why they cast
knowing glances at the two other guests over their wine.
One of these persons was in a somewhat tarnished velvet coat with a huge
queue and bag, and voluminous ruffles and embroidery. The other was a
little beetle-browed, hook-nosed, high-shouldered gentleman, whom his
opposite companion addressed as milor, or my lord, in a very high voice.
My lord, who was sipping the wine before him, barely glanced at the
new-comer, and then addressed himself to his own companion.
“And so you know the nephew of the old woman--the Croesus who comes to
arrive?”
“You're thrown out there, Jack!” says one young gentleman to the other.
“Never could manage the lingo,” said Jack. The two elders had begun to
speak in the French language.
“But assuredly, my dear lord!” says the gentleman with the long queue.
“You have shown energy, my dear Baron! He has been here but two hours.
My people told me of him only as I came to dinner.”
“I knew him before!--I have met him often in London with the Baroness
and my lord, his cousin,” said the Baron.
A smoking soup for Harry here came in, borne by the smiling host.
“Behold, sir! Behold a potage of my fashion!” says my landlord, laying
down the dish and whispering to Harry the celebrated name of the
nobleman opposite. Harry thanked Monsieur Barbeau in his own language,
upon which the foreign gentleman, turning round, grinned most graciously
at Harry, and said, “Fous bossedez notre langue barfaidement, monsieur.”
Mr. Warrington had never heard the French language pronounced in that
manner in Canada. He bowed in return to the foreign gentleman.
“Tell me more about the Croesus, my good Baron,” continued his lordship,
speaking rather superciliously to his companion, and taking no notice of
Harry, which perhaps somewhat nettled the young man.
“What will you, that I tell you, my dear lord? Croesus is a youth like
other youths; he is tall, like other youths; he is awkward, like other
youths; he has black hair, as they all have who come from the Indies.
Lodgings have been taken for him at Mrs. Rose's toy-shop.”
“I have lodgings there too,” thought Mr. Warrington. “Who is Croesus
they are talking of? How good the soup is!”
“He travels with a large retinue,” the Baron continued, “four servants,
two postchaises, and a pair of outriders. His chief attendant is a black
man who saved his life from the savages in America, and who will
not hear, on any account, of being made free. He persists in wearing
mourning for his elder brother from whom he inherits his principality.”
“Could anything console you for the death of yours, Chevalier?” cried
out the elder gentleman.
“Milor! his property might,” said the Chevalier, “which you know is not
small.”
“Your brother lives on his patrimony--which you have told me is
immense--you by your industry, my dear Chevalier.”
“Milor!” cries the individual addressed as Chevalier.
“By your industry or your esprit,--how much more noble! Shall you be
at the Baroness's to-night? She ought to be a little of your parents,
Chevalier?”
“Again I fail to comprehend your lordship,” said the other gentleman,
rather sulkily.
“Why, she is a woman of great wit--she is of noble birth--she has
undergone strange adventures--she has but little principle (there you
happily have the advantage of her). But what care we men of the world?
You intend to go and play with the young Creole, no doubt, and get as
much money from him as you can. By the way, Baron, suppose he should
be a guet-apens, that young Creole? Suppose our excellent friend has
invented him up in London, and brings him down with his character for
wealth to prey upon the innocent folks here?”
“J'y ai souvent pense, milor,” says the little Baron, placing his finger
to his nose very knowingly, “that Baroness is capable of anything.”
“A Baron--a Baroness, que voulez-vous, my friend? I mean the late
lamented husband. Do you know who he was?”
“Intimately. A more notorious villain never dealt a card. At Venice, at
Brussels, at Spa, at Vienna--the gaols of every one of which places he
knew. I knew the man, my lord.”
“I thought you would. I saw him at the Hague, where I first had the
honour of meeting you, and a more disreputable rogue never entered my
doors. A minister must open them to all sorts of people, Baron,--spies,
sharpers, ruffians of every sort.”
“Parbleu, milor, how you treat them!” says my lord's companion.
“A man of my rank, my friend--of the rank I held then--of course, must
see all sorts of people--entre autres your acquaintance. What his wife
could want with such a name as his I can't conceive.”
“Apparently, it was better than the lady's own.”
“Effectively! So I have heard of my friend Paddy changing clothes with
the scarecrow. I don't know which name is the most distinguished, that
of the English bishop or the German baron.”
“My lord,” cried the other gentleman, rising and laying his hand on
a large star on his coat, “you forget that I, too, am a Baron and a
Chevalier of the Holy Roman----”
“--Order of the Spur!--not in the least, my dear knight and baron!
You will have no more wine? We shall meet at Madame de Bernstein's
to-night.” The knight and baron quitted the table, felt in his
embroidered pockets, as if for money to give the waiter, who brought him
his great laced hat, and waving that menial off with a hand surrounded
by large ruffles and blazing rings, he stalked away from the room.
It was only when the person addressed as my lord had begun to speak of
the bishop's widow and the German baron's wife that Harry Warrington
was aware how his aunt and himself had been the subject of the two
gentlemen's conversation. Ere the conviction had settled itself on his
mind, one of the speakers had quitted the room, and the other, turning
to a table at which two gentlemen sate, said, “What a little sharper it
is! Everything I said about Bernstein relates mutato nomine to him. I
knew the fellow to be a spy and a rogue. He has changed his religion I
don't know how many times. I had him turned out of the Hague myself when
I was ambassador, and I know he was caned in Vienna.”
“I wonder my Lord Chesterfield associates with such a villain!” called
out Harry from his table. The other couple of diners looked at him. To
his surprise the nobleman so addressed went on talking.
“There cannot be a more fieffe coquin than this Poellnitz. Why, Heaven
be thanked, he has actually left me my snuff-box! You laugh?--the fellow
is capable of taking it.” And my lord thought it was his own satire at
which the young men were laughing.
“You are quite right, sir,” said one of the two diners, turning to Mr.
Warrington, “though, saving your presence, I don't know what business it
is of yours. My lord will play with anybody who will set him. Don't be
alarmed, he is as deaf as a post, and did not hear a word that you said;
and that's why my lord will play with anybody who will put a pack of
cards before him, and that is the reason why he consorts with this
rogue.”
“Faith, I know other noblemen who are not particular as to their
company,” says Mr. Jack.
“Do you mean because I associate with you? I know my company, my good
friend, and I defy most men to have the better of me.”
Not having paid the least attention to Mr. Warrington's angry
interruption, my lord opposite was talking in his favourite French with
Monsieur Barbeau, the landlord, and graciously complimenting him on
his dinner. The host bowed again and again; was enchanted that his
Excellency was satisfied: had not forgotten the art which he had learned
when he was a young man in his Excellency's kingdom of Ireland. The
salmi was to my lord's liking? He had just served a dish to the young
American seigneur who sate opposite, the gentleman from Virginia.
“To whom?” My lord's pale face became red for a moment, as he asked this
question, and looked towards Harry Warrington, opposite to him.
“To the young gentleman from Virginia who has just arrived, and who
perfectly possesses our beautiful language!” says Mr. Barbeau, thinking
to kill two birds, as it were, with this one stone of a compliment.
“And to whom your lordship will be answerable for language reflecting
upon my family, and uttered in the presence of these gentlemen,”
cried out Mr. Warrington, at the top of his voice, determined that his
opponent should hear.
“You must go and call into his ear, and then he may perchance hear you,”
said one of the younger guests.
“I will take care that his lordship shall understand my meaning, one way
or other,” Mr. Warrington said, with much dignity; “and will not suffer
calumnies regarding my relatives to be uttered by him or any other man!”
Whilst Harry was speaking, the little nobleman opposite to him did
not hear him, but had time sufficient to arrange his own reply. He had
risen, passing his handkerchief once or twice across his mouth, and
laying his slim fingers on the table. “Sir,” said he, “you will believe,
on the word of a gentleman, that I had no idea before whom I was
speaking, and it seems that my acquaintance, Monsieur de Poellnitz, knew
you no better than myself. Had I known you, believe me that I should
have been the last man in the world to utter a syllable that should give
you annoyance; and I tender you my regrets and apologies, before my Lord
March and Mr. Morris here present.”
To these words, Mr. Warrington could only make a bow, and mumble out a
few words of acknowledgment: which speech having made believe to hear,
my lord made Harry another very profound bow, and saying he should have
the honour of waiting upon Mr. Warrington at his lodgings, saluted the
company, and went away.