Our young Virginian found himself, after two or three days at Tunbridge
Wells, by far the most important personage in that merry little
watering-place. No nobleman in the place inspired so much curiosity. My
Lord Bishop of Salisbury himself was scarce treated with more respect.
People turned round to look after Harry as he passed, and country-folks
stared at him as they came into market. At the rooms, matrons encouraged
him to come round to them, and found means to leave him alone with their
daughters, most of whom smiled upon him. Everybody knew, to an acre and
a shilling, the extent of his Virginian property, and the amount of his
income. At every tea-table in the Wells, his winnings at play were told
and calculated. Wonderful is the knowledge which our neighbours have
of our affairs! So great was the interest and curiosity which Harry
inspired, that people even smiled upon his servant, and took Gumbo aside
and treated him with ale and cold meat, in order to get news of the
young Virginian. Mr. Gumbo fattened under the diet, became a leading
member of the Society of Valets in the place, and lied more enormously
than ever. No party was complete unless Mr. Warrington attended it. The
lad was not a little amused and astonished by this prosperity, and bore
his new honours pretty well. He had been bred at home to think too well
of himself, and his present good fortune no doubt tended to confirm his
self-satisfaction. But he was not too much elated. He did not brag about
his victories or give himself any particular airs. In engaging in play
with the gentlemen who challenged him, he had acted up to his queer code
of honour. He felt as if he was bound to meet them when they summoned
him, and that if they invited him to a horse-race, or a drinking-bout,
or a match at cards, for the sake of Old Virginia he must not draw back.
Mr. Harry found his new acquaintances ready to try him at all these
sports and contests. He had a strong head, a skilful hand, a firm seat,
an unflinching nerve. The representative of Old Virginia came off very
well in his friendly rivalry with the mother-country.
Madame de Bernstein, who got her fill of cards every night, and, no
doubt, repaired the ill-fortune of which we heard in the last chapter,
was delighted with her nephew's victories and reputation. He had shot
with Jack Morris and beat him; he had ridden a match with Mr. Scamper
and won it. He played tennis with Captain Batts, and, though the boy had
never tried the game before, in a few days he held his own uncommonly
well. He had engaged in play with those celebrated gamesters, my Lords
of Chesterfield and March; and they both bore testimony to his coolness,
gallantry, and good breeding. At his books Harry was not brilliant
certainly; but he could write as well as a great number of men of
fashion; and the naivete of his ignorance amused the old lady. She had
read books in her time, and could talk very well about them with bookish
people: she had a relish for humour and delighted in Moliere and Mr.
Fielding, but she loved the world far better than the library, and was
never so interested in any novel but that she would leave it for a
game of cards. She superintended with fond pleasure the improvements of
Harry's toilette: rummaged out fine laces for his ruffles and shirt,
and found a pretty diamond-brooch for his frill. He attained the post of
prime favourite of all her nephews and kinsfolk. I fear Lady Maria was
only too well pleased at the lad's successes, and did not grudge him his
superiority over her brothers; but those gentlemen must have quaked with
fear and envy when they heard of Mr. Warrington's prodigious successes,
and the advance which he had made in their wealthy aunt's favour.
After a fortnight of Tunbridge, Mr. Harry had become quite a personage.
He knew all the good company in the place. Was it his fault if he became
acquainted with the bad likewise? Was he very wrong in taking the world
as he found it, and drinking from that sweet sparkling pleasure-cup,
which was filled for him to the brim? The old aunt enjoyed his triumphs,
and for her part only bade him pursue his enjoyments. She was not a
rigorous old moralist, nor, perhaps, a very wholesome preceptress for
youth. If the Cattarina wrote him billets-doux, I fear Aunt Bernstein
would have bade him accept the invitations: but the lad had brought with
him from his colonial home a stock of modesty which he still wore
along with the honest homespun linen. Libertinism was rare in those
thinly-peopled regions from which he came. The vices of great cities
were scarce known or practised in the rough towns of the American
continent. Harry Warrington blushed like a girl at the daring talk of
his new European associates: even Aunt Bernstein's conversation and
jokes astounded the young Virginian, so that the worldly old woman would
call him Joseph, or simpleton.
But, however innocent he was, the world gave him credit for being as
bad as other folks. How was he to know that he was not to associate with
that saucy Cattarina? He had seen my Lord March driving her about in his
lordship's phaeton. Harry thought there was no harm in giving her his
arm, and parading openly with her in the public walks. She took a fancy
to a trinket at the toy-shop; and, as his pockets were full of money,
he was delighted to make her a present of the locket, which she coveted.
The next day it was a piece of lace: again Harry gratified her. The
next day it was something else: there was no end to Madame Cattarina's
fancies: but here the young gentleman stopped, turning off her request
with a joke and a laugh. He was shrewd enough, and not reckless or
prodigal, though generous. He had no idea of purchasing diamond drops
for the petulant little lady's pretty ears.
But who was to give him credit for his Modesty? Old Bernstein insisted
upon believing that her nephew was playing Don Juan's part, and
supplanting my Lord March. She insisted the more when poor Maria was
by; loving to stab the tender heart of that spinster, and enjoying her
niece's piteous silence and discomfiture.
“Why, my dear,” says the Baroness, “boys will be boys, and I don't want
Harry to be the first milksop in his family!” The bread which Maria
ate at her aunt's expense choked her sometimes. O me, how hard and
indigestible some women know how to make it!
Mr. Wolfe was for ever coming over from Westerham to pay court to the
lady of his love; and, knowing that the Colonel was entirely engaged
in that pursuit, Mr. Warrington scarcely expected to see much of him,
however much he liked that officer's conversation and society. It was
different from the talk of the ribald people round about Harry. Mr.
Wolfe never spoke of cards, or horses' pedigrees; or bragged of his
performances in the hunting-field; or boasted of the favours of women;
or retailed any of the innumerable scandals of the time. It was not a
good time. That old world was more dissolute than ours. There was an old
king with mistresses openly in his train, to whom the great folks of
the land did honour. There was a nobility, many of whom were mad and
reckless in the pursuit of pleasure; there was a looseness of words
and acts which we must note, as faithful historians, without going into
particulars, and needlessly shocking honest readers. Our young gentleman
had lighted upon some of the wildest of these wild people, and had found
an old relative who lived in the very midst of the rout.
Harry then did not remark how Colonel Wolfe avoided him, or when they
casually met, at first, notice the Colonel's cold and altered demeanour.
He did not know the stories that were told of him. Who does know the
stories that are told of him? Who makes them? Who are the fathers of
those wondrous lies? Poor Harry did not know the reputation he was
getting; and that, whilst he was riding his horse and playing his game
and taking his frolic, he was passing amongst many respectable persons
for being the most abandoned and profligate and godless of young men.
Alas, and alas! to think that the lad whom we liked so, and who was so
gentle and quiet when with us, so simple and so easily pleased, should
be a hardened profligate, a spendthrift, a confirmed gamester, a
frequenter of abandoned women! These stories came to honest Colonel
Lambert at Oakhurst: first one bad story, then another, then crowds of
them, till the good man's kind heart was quite filled with grief and
care, so that his family saw that something annoyed him. At first he
would not speak on the matter at all, and put aside the wife's fond
queries. Mrs. Lambert thought a great misfortune had happened; that
her husband had been ruined; that he had been ordered on a dangerous
service; that one of the boys was ill, disgraced, dead; who can resist
an anxious woman, or escape the cross-examination of the conjugal
pillow? Lambert was obliged to tell a part of what he knew about Harry
Warrington. The wife was as much grieved and amazed as her husband had
been. From papa's and mamma's bedroom the grief, after being stifled for
a while under the bed-pillows there, came downstairs. Theo and Hester
took the complaint after their parents, and had it very bad. O kind,
little, wounded hearts! At first Hester turned red, flew into a great
passion, clenched her little fists, and vowed she would not believe a
word of the wicked stories; but she ended by believing them. Scandal
almost always does master people; especially good and innocent people.
Oh, the serpent they had nursed by their fire! Oh, the wretched,
wretched boy! To think of his walking about with that horrible painted
Frenchwoman, and giving her diamond necklaces, and parading his shame
before all the society at the Wells! The three ladies having cried over
the story, and the father being deeply moved by it, took the parson
into their confidence. In vain he preached at church next Sunday his
favourite sermon about scandal, and inveighed against our propensity to
think evil. We repent we promise to do so no more; but when the next
bad story comes about our neighbour we believe it. So did those kind,
wretched Oakhurst folks believe what they heard about poor Harry
Warrington.
Harry Warrington meanwhile was a great deal too well pleased with
himself to know how ill his friends were thinking of him, and was
pursuing a very idle and pleasant, if unprofitable, life, without having
the least notion of the hubbub he was creating, and the dreadful repute
in which he was held by many good men. Coming out from a match at tennis
with Mr. Batts, and pleased with his play and all the world, Harry
overtook Colonel Wolfe, who had been on one of his visits to the lady
of his heart. Harry held out his hand, which the Colonel took, but
the latter's salutation was so cold, that the young man could not help
remarking it, and especially noting how Mr. Wolfe, in return for a fine
bow from Mr. Batts's hat, scarcely touched his own with his forefinger.
The tennis Captain walked away looking somewhat disconcerted, Harry
remaining behind to talk with his friend of Westerham. Mr. Wolfe walked
by him for a while, very erect, silent, and cold.
“I have not seen you these many days,” says Harry.
“You have had other companions,” remarks Mr. Wolfe, curtly.
“But I had rather be with you than any of them,” cries the young man.
“Indeed I might be better company for you than some of them,” says the
other.
“Is it Captain Batts you mean?” asked Harry.
“He is no favourite of mine, I own; he bore a rascally reputation when
he was in the army, and I doubt has not mended it since he was turned
out. You certainly might find a better friend than Captain Batts. Pardon
the freedom which I take in saying so,” says Mr. Wolfe, grimly.
“Friend! he is no friend: he only teaches me to play tennis: he is
hand-in-glove with my lord, and all the people of fashion here who
play.”
“I am not a man of fashion,” says Mr. Wolfe.
“My dear Colonel, what is the matter? Have I angered you in any way? You
speak almost as if I had, and I am not conscious of having done anything
to forfeit your regard,” said Mr. Warrington.
“I will be free with you, Mr. Warrington,” said the Colonel, gravely,
“and tell you with frankness that I don't like some of your friends!”
“Why, sure, they are men of the first rank and fashion in England,”
cries Harry, not choosing to be offended with his companion's bluntness.
“Exactly, they are men of too high rank and too great fashion for a
hard-working poor soldier like me; and if you continue to live with
such, believe me, you will find numbers of us humdrum people can't
afford to keep such company. I am here, Mr. Warrington, paying my
addresses to an honourable lady. I met you yesterday openly walking with
a French ballet-dancer, and you took off your hat. I must frankly tell
you, that I had rather you would not take off your hat when you go out
in such company.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Warrington, growing very red, “do you mean that I am to
forgo the honour of Colonel Wolfe's acquaintance altogether?”
“I certainly shall request you to do so when you are in company with
that person,” said Colonel Wolfe, angrily; but he used a word not to be
written at present, though Shakespeare puts it in the mouth of Othello.
“Great heavens! what a shame it is to speak so of any woman!” cries
Mr. Warrington. “How dare any man say that that poor creature is not
honest?”
“You ought to know best, sir,” says the other, looking at Harry with
some surprise, “or the world belies you very much.”
“What ought I to know best? I see a poor little French dancer who is
come hither with her mother, and is ordered by the doctors to drink the
waters. I know that a person of my rank in life does not ordinarily
keep company with people of hers; but really, Colonel Wolfe, are you so
squeamish? Have I not heard you say that you did not value birth, and
that all honest people ought to be equal? Why should I not give this
little unprotected woman my arm? there are scarce half a dozen people
here who can speak a word of her language. I can talk a little French,
and she is welcome to it; and if Colonel Wolfe does not choose to touch
his hat to me, when I am walking with her, by George he may leave it
alone,” cried Harry, flushing up.
“You don't mean to say,” says Mr. Wolfe, eyeing him, “that you don't
know the woman's character?”
“Of course, sir, she is a dancer, and, I suppose, no better or worse
than her neighbours. But I mean to say that, had she been a duchess, or
your grandmother, I couldn't have respected her more.”
“You don't mean to say that you did not win her at dice, from Lord
March?”
“At what?”
“At dice, from Lord March. Everybody knows the story. Not a person at
the Wells is ignorant of it. I heard it but now, in the company of that
good old Mr. Richardson, and the ladies were saying that you would be a
character for a colonial Lovelace.”
“What on earth else have they said about me?” asked Harry Warrington;
and such stories as he knew the Colonel told. The most alarming accounts
of his own wickedness and profligacy were laid before him. He was a
corrupter of virtue, an habitual drunkard and gamester, a notorious
blasphemer and freethinker, a fitting companion for my Lord March,
finally, and the company into whose society he had fallen. “I tell you
these things,” said Mr. Wolfe, “because it is fair that you should know
what is said of you, and because I do heartily believe, from your manner
of meeting the last charge brought against you, that you are innocent of
most of the other counts. I feel, Mr. Warrington, that I, for one, have
been doing you a wrong; and sincerely ask you to pardon me.”
Of course, Harry was eager to accept his friend's apology, and they
shook hands with sincere cordiality this time. In respect of most of the
charges brought against him, Harry rebutted them easily enough: as for
the play, he owned to it. He thought that a gentleman should not refuse
a fair challenge from other gentlemen, if his means allowed him: and he
never would play beyond his means. After winning considerably at first,
he could afford to play large stakes, for he was playing with other
people's money. Play, he thought, was fair,--it certainly was pleasant.
Why, did not all England, except the Methodists, play? Had he not seen
the best company at the Wells over the cards--his aunt amongst them?
Mr. Wolfe made no immediate comment upon Harry's opinion as to the
persons who formed the best company at the Wells, but he frankly talked
with the young man, whose own frankness had won him, and warned him that
the life he was leading might be the pleasantest, but surely was not the
most profitable of lives. “It can't be, sir,” said the Colonel, “that
a man is to pass his days at horse-racing and tennis, and his nights
carousing or at cards. Sure, every man was made to do some work: and a
gentleman, if he has none, must make some. Do you know the laws of your
country, Mr. Warrington? Being a great proprietor, you will doubtless
one day be a magistrate at home. Have you travelled over the country,
and made yourself acquainted with its trades and manufactures? These
are fit things for a gentleman to study, and may occupy him as well as
a cock-fight or a cricket-match. Do you know anything of our profession?
That, at least, you will allow, is a noble one; and, believe me, there
is plenty in it to learn, and suited, I should think, to you. I speak of
it rather than of books and the learned professions, because, as far as
I can judge, your genius does not lie that way. But honour is the aim of
life,” cried Mr. Wolfe, “and every man can serve his country one way or
the other. Be sure, sir, that idle bread is the most dangerous of all
that is eaten; that cards and pleasure may be taken by way of pastime
after work, but not instead of work, and all day. And do you know, Mr.
Warrington, instead of being the Fortunate Youth, as all the world calls
you, I think you are rather Warrington the Unlucky, for you are followed
by daily idleness, daily flattery, daily temptation, and the Lord, I
say, send you a good, deliverance out of your good fortune.”
But Harry did not like to tell his aunt that afternoon why it was he
looked so grave. He thought he would not drink, but there were some
jolly fellows at the ordinary who passed the bottle round; and he meant
not to play in the evening, but a fourth was wanted at his aunt's table,
and how could he resist? He was the old lady's partner several times
during the night, and he had Somebody's own luck to be sure; and once
more he saw the dawn, and feasted on chickens and champagne at sunrise.