Our good Colonel had, no doubt, taken counsel with his good wife, and
they had determined to remove their little Hetty as speedily as possible
out of the reach of the charmer. In complaints such as that under which
the poor little maiden was supposed to be suffering, the remedy of
absence and distance often acts effectually with men; but I believe
women are not so easily cured by the alibi treatment. Some of them will
go away ever so far, and forever so long, and the obstinate disease
hangs by them, spite of distance or climate. You may whip, abuse,
torture, insult them, and still the little deluded creatures will
persist in their fidelity. Nay, if I may speak, after profound and
extensive study and observation, there are few better ways of securing
the faithfulness and admiration of the beautiful partners of our
existence than a little judicious ill-treatment, a brisk dose of
occasional violence as an alterative, and, for general and wholesome
diet, a cooling but pretty constant neglect. At sparing intervals
administer small quantities of love and kindness; but not every day, or
too often, as this medicine, much taken, loses its effect. Those dear
creatures who are the most indifferent to their husbands, are those who
are cloyed by too much surfeiting of the sugar-plums and lollipops of
Love. I have known a young being, with every wish gratified, yawn in her
adoring husband's face, and prefer the conversation and petits soins
of the merest booby and idiot; whilst, on the other hand, I have seen
Chloe,--at whom Strephon has flung his bootjack in the morning, or whom
he has cursed before the servants at dinner,--come creeping and fondling
to his knee at tea-time, when he is comfortable after his little nap and
his good wine; and pat his head and play him his favourite tunes; and,
when old John, the butler, or old Mary, the maid, comes in with the
bed-candles, look round proudly, as much as to say, Now, John, look how
good my dearest Henry is! Make your game, gentlemen, then! There is the
coaxing, fondling, adoring line, when you are henpecked, and Louisa
is indifferent, and bored out of her existence. There is the manly,
selfish, effectual system, where she answers to the whistle and comes in
at “Down Charge;” and knows her master; and frisks and fawns about him;
and nuzzles at his knees; and “licks the hand that's raised”--that's
raised to do her good, as (I quote from memory) Mr. Pope finely
observes. What used the late lamented O'Connell to say, over whom a
grateful country has raised such a magnificent testimonial? “Hereditary
bondsmen,” he used to remark, “know ye not, who would be free,
themselves must strike the blow?” Of course you must, in political as in
domestic circles. So up with your cudgels, my enslaved, injured boys!
Women will be pleased with these remarks, because they have such a taste
for humour and understand irony; and I should not be surprised if young
Grubstreet, who corresponds with three penny papers and describes the
persons and conversation of gentlemen whom he meets at his “clubs,”
will say, “I told you so! He advocates the thrashing of women! He has
no nobility of soul! He has no heart!” Nor have I, my eminent young
Grubstreet! any more than you have ears. Dear ladies! I assure you I am
only joking in the above remarks,--I do not advocate the thrashing of
your sex at all,--and, as you can't understand the commonest bit of fun,
beg leave flatly to tell you, that I consider your sex a hundred times
more loving and faithful than ours.
So, what is the use of Hetty's parents taking her home, if the little
maid intends to be just as fond of Harry absent as of Harry present?
Why not let her see him before Ball and Dobbin are put to, and say,
“Good-bye, Harry! I was very wilful and fractious last night, and you
were very kind: but good-bye, Harry!” She will show no special emotion:
she is so ashamed of her secret, that she will not betray it. Harry is
too much preoccupied to discover it for himself. He does not know what
grief is lying behind Hetty's glances, or hidden under the artifice of
her innocent young smiles. He has, perhaps, a care of his own. He will
part from her calmly, and fancy she is happy to get back to her music
and her poultry and her flower-garden.
He did not even ride part of the way homewards by the side of his
friend's carriage. He had some other party arranged for, that afternoon,
and when he returned thence, the good Lamberts were gone from Tunbridge
Wells. There were their windows open, and the card in one of them
signifying that the apartments were once more to let. A little passing
sorrow at the blank aspect of the rooms lately enlivened by countenances
so frank and friendly, may have crossed the young gentleman's mind; but
he dines at the White Horse at four o'clock, and eats his dinner and
calls fiercely for his bottle. Poor little Hester will choke over her
tea about the same hour when the Lamberts arrive to sleep at the house
of their friends at Westerham. The young roses will be wan in her cheeks
in the morning, and there will be black circles round her eyes. It was
the thunder: the night was hot: she could not sleep: she will be better
when she gets home again the next day. And home they come. There is the
gate where he fell. There is the bed he lay in, the chair in which he
used to sit--what ages seem to have passed! What a gulf between to-day
and yesterday! Who is that little child calling her chickens, or
watering her roses yonder? Are she and that girl the same Hester
Lambert? Why, she is ever so much older than Theo now--Theo, who has
always been so composed, and so clever, and so old for her age. But in
a night or two Hester has lived--oh, long, long years! So have many
besides: and poppy and mandragora will never medicine them to the sweet
sleep they tasted yesterday.
Maria Esmond saw the Lambert cavalcade drive away, and felt a grim
relief. She looks with hot eyes at Harry when he comes into his aunt's
card-tables, flushed with Barbeau's good wine. He laughs, rattles in
reply to his aunt, who asks him which of the girls is his sweetheart? He
gaily says he loves them both like sisters. He has never seen a better
gentleman, nor better people, than the Lamberts. Why is Lambert not a
general? He has been a most distinguished officer: his Royal Highness
the Duke is very fond of him. Madame Bernstein says that Harry must make
interest with Lady Yarmouth for his protege.
“Elle ravvole de fous, cher bedid anche!” says Madame Bernstein,
mimicking the Countess's German accent. The Baroness is delighted with
her boy's success. “You carry off the hearts of all the old women,
doesn't he, Maria?” she says, with a sneer at her niece, who quivers
under the stab.
“You were quite right, my dear, not to perceive that she cheated
at cards, and you play like a grand seigneur,” continues Madame de
Bernstein.
“Did she cheat?” cries Harry, astonished. “I am sure, ma'am, I saw no
unfair play.”
“No more did I, my dear, but I am sure she cheated. Bah! every woman
cheats, I and Maria included, when we can get a chance. But when you
play with the Walmoden, you don't do wrong to lose in moderation; and
many men cheat in that way. Cultivate her. She has taken a fancy to your
beaux yeux. Why should your Excellency not be Governor of Virginia,
sir? You must go and pay your respects to the Duke and his Majesty at
Kensington. The Countess of Yarmouth will be your best friend at court.”
“Why should you not introduce me, aunt?” asked Harry.
The old lady's rouged cheek grew a little redder. “I am not in favour at
Kensington,” she said. “I may have been once; and there are no faces
so unwelcome to kings as those they wish to forget. All of us want to
forget something or somebody. I dare say our ingenu here would like to
wipe a sum or two off the slate. Wouldst thou not, Harry?”
Harry turned red, too, and so did Maria, and his aunt laughed one of
those wicked laughs which are not altogether pleasant to hear. What
meant those guilty signals on the cheeks of her nephew and niece? What
account was scored upon the memory of either, which they were desirous
to efface? I fear Madame Bernstein was right, and that most folks have
some ugly reckonings written up on their consciences, which we were glad
to be quit of.
Had Maria known one of the causes of Harry's disquiet, the middle-aged
spinster would have been more unquiet still. For some days he had missed
a pocket-book. He had remembered it in his possession on that day when
he drank so much claret at the White Horse, and Gumbo carried him to
bed. He sought for it in the morning, but none of his servants had seen
it. He had inquired for it at the White Horse, but there were no traces
of it. He could not cry the book, and could only make very cautious
inquiries respecting it. He must not have it known that the book was
lost. A pretty condition of mind Lady Maria Esmond would be in, if she
knew that the outpourings of her heart were in the hands of the public!
The letters contained all sorts of disclosures: a hundred family secrets
were narrated by the artless correspondent: there were ever so much
satire and abuse of persons with whom she and Mr. Warrington came in
contact. There were expostulations about his attentions to other ladies.
There was scorn, scandal, jokes, appeals, protests of eternal fidelity;
the usual farrago, dear madam, which you may remember you wrote to your
Edward, when you were engaged to him, and before you became Mrs.
Jones. Would you like those letters to be read by any one else? Do you
recollect what you said about the Miss Browns in two or three of those
letters, and the unfavourable opinion you expressed of Mrs. Thompson's
character? Do you happen to recall the words which you used regarding
Jones himself, whom you subsequently married (for in consequence of
disputes about the settlements your engagement with Edward was broken
off)? and would you like Mr. J. to see those remarks? You know you
wouldn't. Then be pleased to withdraw that imputation which you have
already cast in your mind upon Lady Maria Esmond. No doubt her letters
were very foolish, as most love-letters are, but it does not follow that
there was anything wrong in them. They are foolish when written by young
folks to one another, and how much more foolish when written by an old
man to a young lass, or by an old lass to a young lad! No wonder
Lady Maria should not like her letters to be read. Why, the very
spelling--but that didn't matter so much in her ladyship's days, and
people are just as foolish now, though they spell better. No, it is not
the spelling which matters so much; it is the writing at all. I for one,
and for the future, am determined never to speak or write my mind out
regarding anything or anybody. I intend to say of every woman that she
is chaste and handsome; of every man that he is handsome, clever, and
rich; of every book that it is delightfully interesting; of Snobmore's
manners that they are gentlemanlike; of Screwby's dinners that they are
luxurious; of Jawkins's conversation that it is lively and amusing; of
Xantippe, that she has a sweet temper; of Jezebel, that her colour is
natural; of Bluebeard, that he really was most indulgent to his wives,
and that very likely they died of bronchitis. What? a word against the
spotless Messalina? What an unfavourable view of human nature! What?
King Cheops was not a perfect monarch? Oh, you railer at royalty and
slanderer of all that is noble and good! When this book is concluded, I
shall change the jaundiced livery which my books have worn since I began
to lisp in numbers, have rose-coloured coats for them with cherubs on
the cover, and all the characters within shall be perfect angels.
Meanwhile we are in a society of men and women, from whose shoulders
no sort of wings have sprouted as yet, and who, without any manner of
doubt, have their little failings. There is Madame Bernstein: she has
fallen asleep after dinner, and eating and drinking too much,--those are
her ladyship's little failings. Mr. Harry Warrington has gone to play
a match at billiards with Count Caramboli: I suspect idleness is his
failing. That is what Mr. Chaplain Sampson remarks to Lady Maria, as
they are talking together in a low tone, so as not to interrupt Aunt
Bernstein's doze in the neighbouring room.
“A gentleman of Mr. Warrington's means can afford to be idle,” says Lady
Maria. “Why, sure you love cards and billiards yourself, my good Mr.
Sampson?”
“I don't say, madam, my practice is good, only my doctrine is sound,”
says Mr. Chaplain with a sigh. “This young gentleman should have some
employment. He should appear at court, and enter the service of his
country, as befits a man of his station. He should settle down, and
choose a woman of a suitable rank as his wife.” Sampson looks in her
ladyship's face as he speaks.
“Indeed, my cousin is wasting his time,” says Lady Maria, blushing
slightly.
“Mr. Warrington might see his relatives of his father's family,”
suggests Mr. Chaplain.
“Suffolk country boobies drinking beer and hallooing after foxes! I
don't see anything to be gained by his frequenting them, Mr. Sampson!”
“They are of an ancient family, of which the chief has been knight of
the shire these hundred years,” says the chaplain. “I have heard Sir
Miles hath a daughter of Mr. Harry's age--and beauty, too.”
“I know nothing, sir, about Sir Miles Warrington, and his daughters, and
his beauties!” cries Maria, in a fluster.
“The Baroness stirred--no--her ladyship is in a sweet sleep,” says the
chaplain, in a very soft voice. “I fear, madam, for your ladyship's
cousin, Mr. Warrington. I fear for his youth; for designing persons who
may get about him; for extravagances, follies, intrigues even into which
he will be led, and into which everybody will try to tempt him. His
lordship, my kind patron, bade me to come and watch over him, and I am
here accordingly, as your ladyship knoweth. I know the follies of young
men. Perhaps I have practised them myself. I own it with a blush,” adds
Mr. Sampson with much unction--not, however, bringing the promised blush
forward to corroborate the asserted repentance.
“Between ourselves, I fear Mr. Warrington is in some trouble now,
madam,” continues the chaplain, steadily looking at Lady Maria.
“What, again?” shrieks the lady.
“Hush! Your ladyship's dear invalid!” whispers the chaplain again
pointing towards Madame Bernstein. “Do you think your cousin has any
partiality for any--any member of Mr. Lambert's family? for example,
Miss Lambert?”
“There is nothing between him and Miss Lambert,” says Lady Maria.
“Your ladyship is certain?”
“Women are said to have good eyes in such matters, my good Sampson,”
says my lady, with an easy air. “I thought the little girl seemed to be
following him.”
“Then I am at fault once more,” the frank chaplain said. “Mr. Warrington
said of the young lady, that she ought to go back to her doll, and
called her a pert, stuck-up little hussy.”
“Ah!” sighed Lady Maria, as if relieved by the news.
“Then, madam, there must be somebody else,” said the chaplain. Has he
confided nothing to your ladyship?”
“To me, Mr. Sampson? What? Where? How?” exclaims Maria.
“Some six days ago, after we had been dining at the White Horse, and
drinking too freely, Mr. Warrington lost a pocket-book containing
letters.”
“Letters?” gasps Lady Maria.
“And probably more money than he likes to own,” continues Mr. Sampson,
with a grave nod of the head. “He is very much disturbed about the
book. We have both made cautious inquiries about it. We have----Gracious
powers, is your ladyship ill?”
Here my Lady Maria gave three remarkably shrill screams, and tumbled off
her chair.
“I will see the Prince. I have a right to see him. What's this?--Where
am I?--What's the matter?” cries Madame Bernstein, waking up from her
sleep. She had been dreaming of old days, no doubt. The old lady shook
in all her limbs--her face was very much flushed. She stared about
wildly a moment, and then tottered forward on her tortoiseshell cane.
“What--what's the matter?” she asked again. “Have you killed her, sir?”
“Some sudden qualm must have come over her ladyship. Shall I cut her
laces, madam? or send for a doctor?” cries the chaplain, with every look
of innocence and alarm.
“What has passed between you, sir?” asked the old lady, fiercely.
“I give you my honour, madam, I have done I don't know what. I but
mentioned that Mr. Warrington had lost a pocket-book containing letters,
and my lady swooned, as you see.”
Madame Bernstein dashed water on her niece's face. A feeble moan told
presently that the lady was coming to herself.
The Baroness looked sternly after Mr. Sampson, as she sent him away on
his errand for the doctor. Her aunt's grim countenance was of little
comfort to poor Maria when she saw it on waking up from her swoon.
“What has happened?” asked the younger lady, bewildered and gasping.
“H'm! You know best what has happened, madam, I suppose. What hath
happened before in our family?” cried the old Baroness, glaring at her
niece with savage eyes.
“Ah, yes! the letters have been lost--ach lieber Himmel!” And Maria, as
she would sometimes do, when much moved, began to speak in the language
of her mother.
“Yes! the seal has been broken, and the letters have been lost, 'tis the
old story of the Esmonds,” cried the elder, bitterly.
“Seal broken, letters lost? What do you mean,--aunt?” asked Maria,
faintly.
“I mean that my mother was the only honest woman that ever entered the
family!” cried the Baroness, stamping her foot. “And she was a parson's
daughter of no family in particular, or she would have gone wrong, too.
Good heavens! is it decreed that we are all to be...?”
“To be what, madam?” cried Maria.
“To be what my Lady Queensberry said we were last night. To be what we
are! You know the word for it!” cried the indignant old woman. “I say,
what has come to the whole race? Your father's mother was an honest
woman, Maria. Why did I leave her? Why couldn't you remain so?”
“Madam!” exclaims Maria, “I declare, before Heaven, I am as----”
“Bah! Don't madam me! Don't call heaven to witness--there's nobody by!
And if you swore to your innocence till the rest of your teeth dropped
out of your mouth, my Lady Maria Esmond, I would not believe you!”
“Ah! it was you told him!” gasped Maria. She recognised an arrow out of
her aunt's quiver.
“I saw some folly going on between you and the boy, and I told him that
you were as old as his mother. Yes, I did! Do you suppose I am going
to let Henry Esmond's boy fling himself and his wealth away upon such
a battered old rock as you? The boy shan't be robbed and cheated in our
family. Not a shilling of mine shall any of you have if he comes to any
harm amongst you.
“Ah! you told him!” cried Maria, with a sudden burst of rebellion.
“Well, then! I'd have you to know that I don't care a penny, madam,
for your paltry money! I have Mr. Harry Warrington's word--yes, and his
letters--and I know he will die rather than break it.”
“He will die if he keeps it!” (Maria shrugged her shoulders.)
“But you don't care for that--you've no more heart----”
“Than my father's sister, madam!” cries Maria again. The younger woman,
ordinarily submissive, had turned upon here persecutor.
“Ah! Why did not I marry an honest man?” said the of lady, shaking her
head sadly. “Henry Esmond was noble and good, and perhaps might have
made me so. But no, no--we have all got the taint in us--all! You don't
mean to sacrifice this boy, Maria?”
“Madame ma tante, do you take me for a fool at my age?” asks Maria.
“Set him free! I'll give you five thousand pounds--in my--in my will,
Maria. I will, on my honour!”
“When you were young, and you liked Colonel Esmond, you threw him aside
for an earl, and the earl for a duke?”
“Yes.”
“Eh! Bon sang ne peut mentir! I have no money, I have no friends.
My father was a spendthrift, my brother is a beggar. I have Mr.
Warrington's word, and I know, madam, he will keep it. And that's what I
tell your ladyship!” cries Lady Maria with a wave of her hand. “Suppose
my letters are published to all the world to-morrow? Apres? I know they
contain things I would as lieve not tell. Things not about me alone.
Comment! Do you suppose there are no stories but mine in the family?
It is not my letters that I am afraid of, so long as I have his, madam.
Yes, his and his word, and I trust them both.”
“I will send to my merchant, and give you the money now, Maria,” pleaded
the old lady.
“No, I shall have my pretty Harry, and ten times five thousand pounds!”
cries Maria.
“Not till his mother's death, madam, who is just your age!”
“We can afford to wait, aunt. At my age, as you say, I am not so eager
as young chits for a husband.”
“But to wait my sister's death, at least, is a drawback?”
“Offer me ten thousand pounds, Madam Tusher, and then we will see!”
cries Maria.
“I have not so much money in the world, Maria,” said the old lady.
“Then, madam, let me make what I can for myself!” says Maria.
“Ah, if he heard you?”
“Apres? I have his word. I know he will keep it. I can afford to wait,
madam,” and she flung out of the room, just as the chaplain returned.
It was Madame Bernstein who wanted cordials now. She was immensely moved
and shocked by the news which had been thus suddenly brought to her.