Our pleasing duty now is to divulge the secret which Mr. Lambert
whispered in his wife's ear at the close of the antepenultimate chapter,
and the publication of which caused such great pleasure to the whole of
the Oakhurst family. As the hay was in, the corn not ready for cutting,
and by consequence the farm horses disengaged, why, asked Colonel
Lambert, should they not be put into the coach, and should we not all
pay a visit to Tunbridge Wells, taking friend Wolfe at Westerham on our
way?
Mamma embraced this proposal, and I dare say the honest gentleman who
made it. All the children jumped for joy. The girls went off straightway
to get together their best calamancoes, paduasoys, falbalas, furbelows,
capes, cardinals, sacks, negligees, solitaires, caps, ribbons, mantuas,
clocked stockings, and high-heeled shoes, and I know not what articles
of toilet. Mamma's best robes were taken from the presses, whence they
only issued on rare, solemn occasions, retiring immediately afterwards
to lavender and seclusion; the brave Colonel produced his laced hat and
waistcoat and silver-hilted hanger; Charley rejoiced in a rasee holiday
suit of his father's, in which the Colonel had been married, and which
Mrs. Lambert cut up, not without a pang. Ball and Dumpling had their
tails and manes tied with ribbon, and Chump, the old white cart-horse,
went as unicorn leader, to help the carriage-horses up the first hilly
five miles of the road from Oakhurst to Westerham. The carriage was an
ancient vehicle, and was believed to have served in the procession which
had brought George I. from Greenwich to London, on his first arrival to
assume the sovereignty of these realms. It had belonged to Mr. Lambert's
father, and the family had been in the habit of regarding it, ever since
they could remember anything, as one of the most splendid coaches in the
three kingdoms. Brian, coachman, and--must it also be owned?--ploughman,
of the Oakhurst family, had a place on the box, with Mr. Charley by his
side. The precious clothes were packed in imperials on the roof. The
Colonel's pistols were put in the pockets of the carriage, and the
blunderbuss hung behind the box, in reach of Brian, who was an old
soldier. No highwayman, however, molested the convoy; not even an
innkeeper levied contributions on Colonel Lambert, who, with a slender
purse and a large family, was not to be plundered by those or any other
depredators on the king's highway; and a reasonable cheap modest lodging
had been engaged for them by young Colonel Wolfe, at the house where he
was in the habit of putting up, and whither he himself accompanied them
on horseback.
It happened that these lodgings were opposite Madame Bernstein's; and as
the Oakhurst family reached their quarters on a Saturday evening, they
could see chair after chair discharging powdered beaux and patched and
brocaded beauties at the Baroness's door, who was holding one of her
many card-parties. The sun was not yet down (for our ancestors began
their dissipations at early hours, and were at meat, drink, or cards,
any time after three o'clock in the afternoon until any time in the
night or morning), and the young country ladies and their mother from
their window could see the various personages as they passed into the
Bernstein rout. Colonel Wolfe told the ladies who most of the characters
were. 'Twas almost as delightful as going to the party themselves, Hetty
and Theo thought, for they not only could see the guests arriving, but
look into the Baroness's open casements and watch many of them there. Of
a few of the personages we have before had a glimpse. When the Duchess
of Queensberry passed, and Mr. Wolfe explained who she was, Martin
Lambert was ready with a score of lines about “Kitty, beautiful and
young,” from his favourite Mat Prior.
“Think that that old lady was once like you, girls!” cries the Colonel.
“Like us, papa? Well, certainly we never set up for being beauties!”
says Miss Hetty, tossing up her little head.
“Yes, like you, you little baggage; like you at this moment, who want to
go to that drum yonder:--
'Inflamed with rage at sad restraint
Which wise mamma ordained,
And sorely vexed to play the saint
Whilst wit and beauty reigned.'”
“We were never invited, papa; and I am sure if there's no beauty more
worth seeing than that, the wit can't be much worth the hearing,” again
says the satirist of the family.
“Oh, but he's a rare poet, Mat Prior!” continues the Colonel; “though,
mind you, girls, you'll skip over all the poems I have marked with a
cross. A rare poet! and to think you should see one of his heroines!
'Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way' (she always will, Mrs. Lambert!)--
'Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way,
Kitty at heart's desire
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire!'”
“I am sure it must have been very inflammable,” says mamma.
“So it was, my dear, twenty years ago, much more inflammable than it is
now,” remarks the Colonel.
“Nonsense, Mr. Lambert,” is mamma's answer.
“Look, look!” cries Hetty, running forward and pointing to the little
square, and the covered gallery, where was the door leading to Madame
Bernstein's apartments, and round which stood a crowd of street urchins,
idlers, and yokels, watching the company.
“It's Harry Warrington!” exclaims Theo, waving a handkerchief to the
young Virginian: but Warrington did not see Miss Lambert. The Virginian
was walking arm-in-arm with a portly clergyman in a crisp rustling silk
gown, and the two went into Madame de Bernstein's door.
“I heard him preach a most admirable sermon here last Sunday,” says Mr.
Wolfe; “a little theatrical, but most striking and eloquent.”
“You seem to be here most Sundays, James,” says Mrs. Lambert.
“And Monday, and soon till Saturday,” adds the Colonel. “See, Harry has
beautified himself already, hath his hair in buckle, and I have no doubt
is going to the drum too.”
“I had rather sit quiet generally of a Saturday evening,” says sober Mr.
Wolfe; “at any rate, away from card-playing and scandal; but I own, dear
Mrs. Lambert, I am under orders. Shall I go across the way and send Mr.
Warrington to you?”
“No, let him have his sport. We shall see him to-morrow. He won't care
to be disturbed amidst his fine folks by us country-people,” said meek
Mrs. Lambert.
“I am glad he is with a clergyman who preaches so well,” says Theo,
softly; and her eyes seemed to say, You see, good people, he is not so
bad as you thought him, and as I, for my part, never believed him to be.
“The clergyman has a very kind, handsome face.”
“Here comes a greater clergyman,” cries Mr. Wolfe. “It is my Lord of
Salisbury, with his blue ribbon, and a chaplain behind him.”
“And whom a mercy's name have we here?” breaks in Mrs. Lambert, as a
sedan-chair, covered with gilding, topped with no less than five earl's
coronets, carried by bearers in richly laced clothes, and preceded by
three footmen in the same splendid livery, now came up to Madame de
Bernstein's door. The Bishop, who had been about to enter, stopped, and
ran back with the most respectful bows and curtseys to the sedan-chair,
giving his hand to the lady who stepped thence.
“Who on earth is this?” asks Mrs. Lambert.
“Sprechen sie Deutsch? Ja, meinherr. Nichts verstand,” says the waggish
Colonel.
“Pooh, Martin.”
“Well, if you can't understand High Dutch, my love, how can I help it?
Your education was neglected at school. Can you understand heraldry?--I
know you can.”
“I make.” cries Charley, reciting the shield, “three merions on a field
or, with an earl's coronet.”
“A countess's coronet, my son. The Countess of Yarmouth, my son.”
“And pray who is she?”
“It hath ever been the custom of our sovereigns to advance persons
of distinction to honour,” continues the Colonel, gravely, “and this
eminent lady hath been so promoted by our gracious monarch, to the rank
of Countess of this kingdom.”
“But why, papa?” asked the daughters together.
“Never mind, girls!” said mamma.
But that incorrigible Colonel would go on.
“Y, my children, is one of the last and the most awkward letters of the
whole alphabet. When I tell you stories, you are always saying Why. Why
should my Lord Bishop be cringing to that lady? Look at him rubbing his
fat hands together, and smiling into her face! It's not a handsome face
any longer. It is all painted red and white like Scaramouch's in the
pantomime. See, there comes another blue-riband, as I live. My Lord
Bamborough. The descendant of the Hotspurs. The proudest man in England.
He stops, he bows, he smiles; he is hat in hand, too. See, she taps him
with her fan. Get away, you crowd of little blackguard boys, and don't
tread on the robe of the lady whom the King delights to honour.”
“But why does the King honour her?” ask the girls once more.
“There goes that odious last letter but one! Did you ever hear of her
Grace the Duchess of Kendal? No. Of the Duchess of Portsmouth? Non plus.
Of the Duchess of La Valliore? Of Fair Rosamond, then?”
“Hush, papa! There is no need to bring blushes on the cheeks of my
dear ones, Martin Lambert!” said the mother, putting her finger to her
husband's lips.
“'Tis not I; it is their sacred Majesties who are the cause of the
shame,” cries the son of the old republican. “Think of the bishops of
the Church and the proudest nobility of the world cringing and bowing
before that painted High Dutch Jezebel. Oh, it's a shame! a shame!”
“Confusion!” here broke out Colonel Wolfe, and making a dash at his hat,
ran from the room. He had seen the young lady whom he admired and her
guardian walking across the Pantiles on foot to the Baroness's party,
and they came up whilst the Countess of Yarmouth-Walmoden was engaged
in conversation with the two lords spiritual and temporal, and these two
made the lowest reverences and bows to the Countess, and waited until
she had passed in at the door on the Bishop's arm.
Theo turned away from the window with a sad, almost awestricken face.
Hetty still remained there, looking from it with indignation in her
eyes, and a little red spot on each cheek.
“A penny for little Hetty's thoughts,” says mamma, coming to the window
to lead the child away.
“I am thinking what I should do if I saw papa bowing to that woman,”
says Hetty.
Tea and a hissing kettle here made their appearance, and the family sate
down to partake of their evening meal,--leaving, however, Miss Hetty,
from her place, command of the window, which she begged her brother
not to close. That young gentleman had been down amongst the crowd to
inspect the armorial bearings of the Countess's and other sedans, no
doubt, and also to invest sixpence in a cheese-cake, by mamma's order
and his own desire, and he returned presently with this delicacy wrapped
up in a paper.
“Look, mother,” he comes back and says, “do you see that big man in
brown beating all the pillars with a stick? That is the learned Mr.
Johnson. He comes to the Friars sometimes to see our master. He was
sitting with some friends just now at the tea-table before Mrs. Brown's
tart-shop. They have tea there, twopence a cup; I heard Mr. Johnson say
he had had seventeen cups--that makes two-and-tenpence--what a sight of
money for tea!”
“What would you have, Charley?” asks Theo.
“I think I would have cheese-cakes,” says Charley, sighing, as his teeth
closed on a large slice, “and the gentleman whom Mr. Johnson was with,”
continues Charley, with his mouth quite full, “was Mr. Richardson who
wrote----”
“Clarissa!” cry all the women in a breath, and run to the window to see
their favourite writer. By this time the sun was sunk, the stars were
twinkling overhead, and the footman came and lighted the candles in the
Baroness's room opposite our spies.
Theo and her mother were standing together looking from their place of
observation. There was a small illumination at Mrs. Brown's tart-
and tea-shop, by which our friends could see one lady getting Mr.
Richardson's hat and stick, and another tying a shawl round his neck,
after which he walked home.
“Oh dear me! he does not look like Grandison!” cries Theo.
“I rather think I wish we had not seen him, my dear,” says mamma, who
has been described as a most sentimental woman and eager novel-reader;
and here again they were interrupted by Miss Hetty, who cried:
“Never mind that little fat man, but look yonder, mamma.”
And they looked yonder. And they saw, in the first place, Mr. Warrington
undergoing the honour of a presentation to the Countess of Yarmouth, who
was still followed by the obsequious peer and prelate with blue ribands.
And now the Countess graciously sate down to a card-table, the Bishop
and the Earl and a fourth person being her partners. And now Mr.
Warrington came into the embrasure of the window with a lady whom they
recognised as the lady whom they had seen for a few minutes at Oakhurst.
“How much finer he is!” remarks mamma.
“How he is improved in his looks! What has he done to himself?” asks
Theo.
“Look at his grand lace frills and rules! My dear, he has not got on our
shirts any more,” cries the matron.
“What are you talking about, girls?” asks papa, reclining on his sofa,
where, perhaps, he was dozing after the fashion of honest house-fathers.
The girls said how Harry Warrington was in the window, talking with his
cousin Lady Maria Esmond.
“Come away!” cries papa. “You have no right to be spying the young
fellow. Down with the curtains, I say!”
And down the curtains went, so that the girls saw no more of Madame
Bernstein's guests or doings for that night.
I pray you be not angry at my remarking, if only by way of contrast
between these two opposite houses, that while Madame Bernstein and her
guests--bishop, dignitaries, noblemen, and what not--were gambling or
talking scandal, or devouring champagne and chickens (which I hold to be
venial sin), or doing honour to her ladyship the king's favourite, the
Countess of Yarmouth-Walmoden, our country friends in their lodgings
knelt round their table, whither Mr. Brian the coachman came as silently
as his creaking shoes would let him, whilst Mr. Lambert, standing up,
read in a low voice, a prayer that Heaven would lighten their darkness
and defend them from the perils of that night, and a supplication that
it would grant the request of those two or three gathered together.
Our young folks were up betimes on Sunday morning, and arrayed
themselves in those smart new dresses which were to fascinate the
Tunbridge folks, and, with the escort of brother Charley, paced the
little town, and the quaint Pantiles, and the pretty common, long ere
the company was at breakfast, or the bells had rung to church. It
was Hester who found out where Harry Warrington's lodging must be, by
remarking Mr. Gumbo in an undress, with his lovely hair in curl-papers,
drawing a pair of red curtains aside, and opening a window-sash, whence
he thrust his head and inhaled the sweet morning breeze. Mr. Gumbo did
not happen to see the young people from Oakhurst, though they beheld him
clearly enough. He leaned gracefully from the window; he waved a large
feather brush, with which he condescended to dust the furniture of
the apartment within; he affably engaged in conversation with a
cherry-cheeked milkmaid, who was lingering under the casement, and
kissed his lily hand to her. Gumbo's hand sparkled with rings, and his
person was decorated with a profusion of jewellery--gifts, no doubt, of
the fair who appreciated the young African. Once or twice more before
breakfast-time the girls passed near that window. It remained opened,
but the room behind it was blank. No face of Harry Warrington appeared
there. Neither spoke to the other of the subject on which both were
brooding. Hetty was a little provoked with Charley, who was clamorous
about breakfast, and told him he was always thinking of eating. In reply
to her sarcastic inquiry, he artlessly owned he should like another
cheese-cake, and good-natured Theo, laughing, said she had a sixpence,
and if the cake-shop were open of a Sunday morning Charley should have
one. The cake-shop was open: and Theo took out her little purse, netted
by her dearest friend at school, and containing her pocket-piece, her
grandmother's guinea, her slender little store of shillings--nay, some
copper money at one end; and she treated Charley to the meal which he
loved.
A great deal of fine company was at church. There was that funny old
Duchess, and old Madame Bernstein, with Lady Maria at her side; and Mr.
Wolfe, of course, by the side of Miss Lowther, and singing with her out
of the same psalm-book; and Mr. Richardson with a bevy of ladies. One
of them is Miss Fielding, papa tells them after church, Harry Fielding's
sister. “Oh, girls, what good company he was! And his books are worth
a dozen of your milksop Pamelas and Clarissas, Mrs. Lambert: but what
woman ever loved true humour? And there was Mr. Johnson sitting amongst
the charity children. Did you see how he turned round to the altar
at the Belief, and upset two or three of the scared little urchins in
leather breeches? And what a famous sermon Harry's parson gave, didn't
he? A sermon about scandal. How, he touched up some of the old harridans
who were seated round! Why wasn't Mr. Warrington at church? It was a
shame he wasn't at church.”
“I really did not remark whether he was there or not,” says Miss Hetty,
tossing her head up.
But Theo, who was all truth, said, “Yes, I thought of him, and was sorry
he was not there; and so did you think of him, Hetty.”
“I did no such thing, miss,” persists Hetty.
“Then why did you whisper to me it was Harry's clergyman who preached?”
“To think of Mr. Warrington's clergyman is not to think of Mr.
Warrington. It was a most excellent sermon, certainly, and the children
sang most dreadfully out of tune. And there is Lady Maria at the window
opposite, smelling at the roses; and that is Mr. Wolfe's step, I know
his great military tramp. Right left--right left! How do you do, Colonel
Wolfe?”
“Why do you look so glum, James?” asks Colonel Lambert, good-naturedly.
“Has the charmer been scolding thee, or is thy conscience pricked by the
sermon. Mr. Sampson, isn't the parson's name? A famous preacher, on my
word!”
“A pretty preacher, and a pretty practitioner!” says Mr. Wolfe, with a
shrug of his shoulders.
“Why, I thought the discourse did not last ten minutes, and madam did
not sleep one single wink during the sermon, didst thou, Molly?”
“Did you see when the fellow came into church?” asked the indignant
Colonel Wolfe. “He came in at the open door of the common, just in time,
and as the psalm was over.”
“Well, he had been reading the service probably to some sick person;
there are many here,” remarks Mrs. Lambert.
“Reading the service! Oh, my good Mrs. Lambert! Do you know where I
found him? I went to look for your young scapegrace of a Virginian.”
“His own name is a very pretty name, I'm sure,” cries out Hetty. “It
isn't Scapegrace! It is Henry Esmond Warrington, Esquire.”
“Miss Hester, I found the parson in his cassock, and Henry Esmond
Warrington, Esquire, in his bedgown, at a quarter before eleven o'clock
in the morning, when all the Sunday bells were ringing, and they were
playing over a game of piquet they had had the night before!”
“Well, numbers of good people play at cards of a Sunday. The King plays
at cards of a Sunday.”
“Hush, my dear!”
“I know he does,” says Hetty, “with that painted person we saw
yesterday--that Countess what-d'you-call-her?”
“I think, my dear Miss Hester, a clergyman had best take to God's books
instead of the Devil's books on that day--and so I took the liberty of
telling your parson.” Hetty looked as if she thought it was a liberty
which Mr. Wolfe had taken. “And I told our young friend that I thought
he had better have been on his way to church than there in his bedgown.”
“You wouldn't have Harry go to church in a dressing-gown and nightcap,
Colonel Wolfe? That would be a pretty sight, indeed!” again says Hetty,
fiercely.
“I would have my little girl's tongue not wag quite so fast,” remarks
papa, patting the girl's flushed little cheek.
“Not speak when a friend is attacked, and nobody says a word in his
favour? No; nobody!”
Here the two lips of the little mouth closed on each other: the whole
little frame shook: the child flung a parting look of defiance at Mr.
Wolfe, and went out of the room, just in time to close the door, and
burst out crying on the stair.
Mr. Wolfe looked very much discomfited. “I am sure, Aunt Lambert, I did
not intend to hurt Hester's feelings.”
“No, James,” she said, very kindly--the young officer used to call her
Aunt Lambert in quite early days--and she gave him her hand.
Mr. Lambert whistled his favourite tune of “Over the hills and far
away,” with a drum accompaniment performed by his fingers on the window.
“I say, you mustn't whistle on Sunday, papa!” cries the artless young
gown-boy from Grey Friars; and then suggested that it was three hours
from breakfast, and he should like to finish Theo's cheese-cake.
“Oh, you greedy child!” cries Theo. But here, hearing a little
exclamatory noise outside, she ran out of the room, closing the door
behind her. And we will not pursue her. The noise was that sob which
broke from Hester's panting, overloaded heart; and, though we cannot
see, I am sure the little maid flung herself on her sister's neck, and
wept upon Theo's kind bosom.
Hetty did not walk out in the afternoon when the family took the air
on the common, but had a headache and lay on her bed, where her mother
watched her. Charley had discovered a comrade from Grey Friars: Mr.
Wolfe of course paired off with Miss Lowther: and Theo and her father,
taking their sober walk in the Sabbath sunshine, found Madame Bernstein
basking on a bench under a tree, her niece and nephew in attendance.
Harry ran up to greet his dear friends: he was radiant with pleasure at
beholding them--the elder ladies were most gracious to the Colonel and
his wife, who had so kindly welcomed their Harry.
How noble and handsome he looked! Theo thought: she called him by his
Christian name, as if he were really her brother. “Why did we not see
you sooner to-day, Harry?” she asked.
“I never thought you were here, Theo.”
“But you might have seen us if you wished.”
“Where?” asked Harry.
“There, sir,” she said, pointing to the church. And she held her hand
up as if in reproof; but a sweet kindness beamed in her honest face.
Ah, friendly young reader, wandering on the world and struggling with
temptation, may you also have one or two pure hearts to love and pray
for you!