My happy chance in early life led me to become intimate with a
respectable person who was born in a certain island, which is pronounced
to be the first gem of the ocean by, no doubt, impartial judges of
maritime jewellery. The stories which that person imparted to me
regarding his relatives who inhabited the gem above-mentioned, were such
as used to make my young blood curdle with horror to think there should
be so much wickedness in the world. Every crime which you can think of;
the entire Ten Commandments broken in a general smash; such rogueries
and knaveries as no storyteller could invent; such murders and robberies
as Thurtell or Turpin scarce ever perpetrated;--were by my informant
accurately remembered, and freely related, respecting his nearest
kindred, to any one who chose to hear him. It was a wonder how any of
the family still lived out of the hulks. Me brother Tim had brought
his fawther's gree hairs with sorrow to the greeve; me brother Mick had
robbed the par'sh church repaytedly; me sisther Annamaroia had jilted
the Captain and run off with the Ensign, forged her grandmother's will,
and stole the spoons, which Larry the knife-boy was hanged for.
The family of Atreus was as nothing compared to the race of
O'What-d'ye-call-'em, from which my friend sprung; but no power on earth
would, of course, induce me to name the country whence he came.
How great then used to be my naif astonishment to find these murderers,
rogues, parricides, habitual forgers of bills of exchange, and so forth,
every now and then writing to each other as “my dearest brother,” “my
dearest sister,” and for months at a time living on the most amicable
terms! With hands reeking with the blood of his murdered parents, Tim
would mix a screeching tumbler, and give Maria a glass from it. With
lips black with the perjuries he had sworn in court respecting his
grandmother's abstracted testament, or the murder of his poor brother
Thady's helpless orphans, Mick would kiss his sister Julia's bonny
cheek, and they would have a jolly night, and cry as they talked about
old times, and the dear old Castle What-d'ye-call-'em, where they were
born, and the fighting Onetyoneth being quarthered there, and the Major
proposing for Cyaroloine, and the tomb of their seented mother (who had
chayted them out of the propertee). Heaven bless her soul! They used to
weep and kiss so profusely at meeting and parting, that it was touching
to behold them. At the sight of their embraces one forgot those painful
little stories, and those repeated previous assurances that, did they
tell all, they could hang each other all round.
What can there be finer than forgiveness? What more rational than, after
calling a man by every bad name under the sun, to apologise, regret
hasty expressions, and so forth, withdraw the decanter (say) which you
have flung at your enemy's head, and be friends as before? Some folks
possess this admirable, this angellike gift of forgiveness. It was
beautiful, for instance, to see our two ladies at Tunbridge Wells
forgiving one another, smiling, joking, fondling almost in spite of
the hard words of yesterday--yes, and forgetting bygones, though they
couldn't help remembering them perfectly well. I wonder, can you and I
do as much? Let us strive, my friend, to acquire this pacable, Christian
spirit. My belief is that you may learn to forgive bad language employed
to you; but, then, you must have a deal of practice, and be accustomed
to hear and use it. You embrace after a quarrel and mutual bad language.
Heaven bless us! Bad words are nothing when one is accustomed to them,
and scarce need ruffle the temper on either side.
So the aunt and niece played cards very amicably together, and drank to
each other's health, and each took a wing of the chicken, and pulled
a bone of the merry-thought, and (in conversation) scratched their
neighbours', not each other's, eyes out. Thus we have read how the
Peninsular warriors, when the bugles sang truce, fraternised and
exchanged tobacco-pouches and wine, ready to seize their firelocks and
knock each other's heads off when the truce was over; and thus our old
soldiers, skilful in war, but knowing the charms of a quiet life, laid
their weapons down for the nonce, and hob-and-nobbed gaily together. Of
course, whilst drinking with Jack Frenchman, you have your piece handy
to blow his brains out if he makes a hostile move: but, meanwhile, it is
A votre sante, mon camarade! Here's to you, mounseer! and everything is
as pleasant as possible. Regarding Aunt Bernstein's threatened gout? The
twinges had gone off. Maria was so glad! Maria's fainting fits? She had
no return of them. A slight recurrence last night. The Baroness was so
sorry! Her niece must see the best doctor, take everything to fortify
her, continue to take the steel, even after she left Tunbridge. How kind
of Aunt Bernstein to offer to send some of the bottled waters after her!
Suppose Madame Bernstein says in confidence to her own woman, “Fainting
fits!--pooh!--epilepsy! inherited from that horrible scrofulous German
mother!” What means have we of knowing the private conversation of the
old lady and her attendant? Suppose Lady Maria orders Mrs. Betty,
her ladyship's maid, to taste every glass of medicinal water, first
declaring that her aunt is capable of poisoning her? Very likely such
conversations take place. These are but precautions--these are the
firelocks which our old soldiers have at their sides, loaded and cocked,
but at present lying quiet on the grass.
Having Harry's bond in her pocket, the veteran Maria did not choose to
press for payment. She knew the world too well for that. He was bound
to her, but she gave him plenty of day-rule, and leave of absence on
parole. It was not her object needlessly to chafe and anger her young
slave. She knew the difference of ages, and that Harry must have his
pleasures and diversions. “Take your ease and amusement, cousin,” says
Lady Maria. “Frisk about, pretty little mousekin,” says grey Grimalkin,
purring in the corner, and keeping watch with her green eyes. About all
that Harry was to see and do on his first visit to London, his female
relatives had of course talked and joked. Both of the ladies knew
perfectly what were a young gentleman's ordinary amusements in those
days, and spoke of them with the frankness which characterised those
easy times.
Our wily Calypso consoled herself, then, perfectly, in the absence of
her young wanderer, and took any diversion which came to hand. Mr. Jack
Morris, the gentleman whom we have mentioned as rejoicing in the company
of Lord March and Mr. Warrington, was one of these diversions. To live
with titled personages was the delight of Jack Morris's life; and to
lose money at cards to an earl's daughter was almost a pleasure to him.
Now, the Lady Maria Esmond was an earl's daughter who was very glad to
win money. She obtained permission to take Mr. Morris to the Countess
of Yarmouth's assembly, and played cards with him--and so everybody was
pleased.
Thus the first eight-and-forty hours after Mr. Warrington's departure
passed pretty cheerily at Tunbridge Wells, and Friday arrived, when the
sermon was to be delivered which we have seen Mr. Sampson preparing. The
company at the Wells were ready enough to listen to it. Sampson had a
reputation for being a most amusing and eloquent preacher; and if there
were no breakfast, conjurer, dancing bears, concert going on, the good
Wells folk would put up with a sermon. He knew Lady Yarmouth was coming,
and what a power she had in the giving of livings and the dispensing of
bishoprics, the Defender of the Faith of that day having a remarkable
confidence in her ladyship's opinion upon these matters;--and so we
may be sure that Mr. Sampson prepared his very best discourse for her
hearing. When the Great Man is at home at the Castle, and walks over to
the little country church, in the park, bringing the Duke, the Marquis,
and a couple of Cabinet Ministers with him, has it ever been your lot
to sit among the congregation, and watch Mr. Trotter the curate and his
sermon? He looks anxiously at the Great Pew; he falters as he gives out
his text, and thinks, “Ah! perhaps his lordship may give me a living!”
Mrs. Trotter and the girls look anxiously at the Great Pew too,
and watch the effects of papa's discourse--the well-known favourite
discourse--upon the big-wigs assembled. Papa's first nervousness is
over: his noble voice clears, warms to his sermon: he kindles: he takes
his pocket-handkerchief out: he is coming to that exquisite passage
which has made them all cry at the parsonage: he has begun it! Ah! What
is that humming noise, which fills the edifice, and causes hob-nailed
Melibaeus to grin at smock-frocked Tityrus? It is the Right Honourable
Lord Naseby snoring in the pew by the fire! And poor Trotter's visionary
mitre disappears with the music.
Sampson was the domestic chaplain of Madame Bernstein's nephew. The two
ladies of the Esmond family patronised the preacher. On the day of the
sermon, the Baroness had a little breakfast in his honour, at which
Sampson made his appearance, rosy and handsome, with a fresh-flowered
wig, and a smart, rustling, new cassock, which he had on credit
from some church-admiring mercer at the Wells. By the side of his
patronesses, their ladyships' lacqueys walking behind them with their
great gilt prayer-books, Mr. Sampson marched from breakfast to church.
Every one remarked how well the Baroness Bernstein looked; she laughed,
and was particularly friendly with her niece; she had a bow and a
stately smile for all, as she moved on, with her tortoiseshell cane. At
the door there was a dazzling conflux of rank and fashion--all the
fine company of the Wells trooping in; and her ladyship of Yarmouth,
conspicuous with vermilion cheeks, and a robe of flame-coloured taffeta.
There were shabby people present, besides the fine company, though these
latter were by far the most numerous. What an odd-looking pair, for
instance, were those in ragged coats, one of them with his carroty hair
appearing under his scratch-wig, and who entered the church just as
the organ stopped! Nay, he could not have been a Protestant, for he
mechanically crossed himself as he entered the place, saying to
his comrade, “Bedad, Tim, I forgawt!” by which I conclude that
the individual came from an island which has been mentioned at the
commencement of this chapter. Wherever they go a rich fragrance of
whisky spreads itself. A man may be a heretic, but possess genius: these
Catholic gentlemen have come to pay homage to Mr. Sampson.
Nay, there are not only members of the old religion present, but
disciples of a creed still older. Who are those two individuals with
hooked noses and sallow countenances, who worked into the church in
spite of some little opposition on the part of the beadle? Seeing the
greasy appearance of these Hebrew strangers, Mr. Beadle was for
denying them admission. But one whispered into his ear, “We wants to
be conwerted, gov'nor!” another slips money into his hand,--Mr. Beadle
lifts up the mace with which he was barring the doorway, and the Hebrew
gentlemen enter. There goes the organ! the doors have closed. Shall we
go in, and listen to Mr. Sampson's sermon, or lie on the grass without?
Preceded by that beadle in gold lace, Sampson walked up to the pulpit,
as rosy and jolly a man as you could wish to see. Presently, when he
surged up out of his plump pulpit cushion, why did his Reverence turn as
pale as death? He looked to the western church-door--there, on each
side of it, were those horrible Hebrew caryatides. He then looked to the
vestry-door, which was hard by the rector's pew, in which Sampson
had been sitting during the service, alongside of their ladyships his
patronesses. Suddenly a couple of perfumed Hibernian gentlemen slipped
out of an adjacent seat, and placed themselves on a bench close by that
vestry-door and rector's pew, and so sate till the conclusion of the
sermon, with eyes meekly cast down to the ground. How can we describe
that sermon, if the preacher himself never knew how it came to an end?
Nevertheless, it was considered an excellent sermon. When it was over,
the fine ladies buzzed into one another's ears over their pews, and
uttered their praise and comments. Madame Walmoden, who was in the next
pew to our friends, said it was bewdiful, and made her dremble all over.
Madame Bernstein said it was excellent. Lady Maria was pleased to think
that the family chaplain should so distinguish himself. She looked up
at him, and strove to catch his reverence's eye, as he still sate in his
pulpit; she greeted him with a little wave of the hand and flutter of
her handkerchief. He scarcely seemed to note the compliment; his face
was pale, his eyes were looking yonder, towards the font, where those
Hebrews still remained. The stream of people passed by them--in a rush,
when they were lost to sight,--in a throng--in a march of twos and
threes--in a dribble of one at a time. Everybody was gone. The two
Hebrews were still there by the door.
The Baroness de Bernstein and her niece still lingered in the rector's
pew, where the old lady was deep in conversation with that gentleman.
“Who are those horrible men at the door? and what a smell of spirits
there is!” cries Lady Maria, to Mrs. Brett, her aunt's woman, who had
attended the two ladies.
“Farewell, doctor; you have a darling little boy: is he to be a
clergyman, too?” asks Madame de Bernstein. “Are you ready, my dear?” And
the pew is thrown open, and Madame Bernstein, whose father was only
a viscount, insists that her niece, Lady Maria, who was an earl's
daughter, should go first out of the pew.
As she steps forward, those individuals whom her ladyship designated as
two horrible men, advance. One of them pulls a long strip of paper out
of his pocket, and her ladyship starts and turns pale. She makes for the
vestry, in a vague hope that she can clear the door and close it behind
her. The two whiskified gentlemen are up with her, however; one of them
actually lays his hand on her shoulder, and says:
“At the shuit of Misthress Pincott, of Kinsington, mercer, I have the
honour of arresting your leedyship. Me neem is Costigan, madam, a poor
gentleman of Oireland, binding to circumstances and forced to follow a
disagrayable profession. Will your leedyship walk, or shall me man go
fetch a cheer?”
For reply Lady Maria Esmond gives three shrieks, and falls swooning to
the ground. “Keep the door, Mick!” shouts Mr. Costigan. “Best let in no
one else, madam,” he says, very politely, to Madame de Bernstein. “Her
ladyship has fallen in a feenting fit, and will recover here, at her
aise.”
“Unlace her, Brett!” cries the old lady, whose eyes twinkle oddly; and
as soon as that operation is performed, Madame Bernstein seizes a little
bag suspended by a hair chain, which Lady Maria wears round her neck,
and snips the necklace in twain. “Dash some cold water over her face, it
always recovers her!” says the Baroness. “You stay with her, Brett. How
much is your suit gentlemen?”
Mr. Costigan says, “The deem we have against her leedyship for one
hundred and thirty-two pounds, in which she is indebted to Misthress
Eliza Pincott”
Meanwhile, where is the Reverend Mr. Sampson? Like the fabled opossum we
have read of, who, when he spied the unerring gunner from his gum-tree,
said: “It's no use Major, I will come down,” so Sampson gave himself up
to his pursuers. “At whose suit, Simons?” he sadly asked. Sampson knew
Simons: they had met many a time before.
“Buckleby Cordwainer,” says Mr. Simons.
“Forty-eight pound and charges, I know,” says Mr. Sampson, with a sigh.
“I haven't got the money. What officer is there here?” Mr. Simons's
companion, Mr. Lyons, here stepped forward, and said his house was most
convenient, and often used by gentlemen, and he should be most happy and
proud to accommodate his reverence.
Two chairs happened to be in waiting outside the chapel. In those two
chairs my Lady Maria Esmond and Mr. Sampson placed themselves, and went
to Mr. Lyons's residence, escorted by the gentlemen to whom we have just
been introduced.
Very soon after the capture the Baroness Bernstein sent Mr. Case, her
confidential servant, with a note to her niece, full of expressions of
the most ardent affection: but regretting that her heavy losses at cards
rendered the payment of such a sum as that in which Lady Maria stood
indebted quite impossible. She had written off to Mrs. Pincott, by that
very post, however, to entreat her to grant time, and as soon as ever
she had an answer, would not fail to acquaint her dear unhappy niece.
Mrs. Betty came over to console her mistress: and the two poor women
cast about for money enough to provide a horse and chaise for Mrs.
Betty, who had very nearly come to misfortune, too. Both my Lady Maria
and her maid had been unlucky at cards, and could not muster more than
eighteen shillings between them: so it was agreed that Betty should sell
a gold chain belonging to her lady, and with the money travel to London.
Now, Betty took the chain to the very toy-shop man who had sold it to
Mr. Warrington, who had given it to his cousin; and the toy-shop man,
supposing that she had stolen the chain, was for bringing in a constable
to Betty. Hence, she had to make explanations, and to say how her
mistress was in durance; and, ere the night closed, all Tunbridge Wells
knew that my Lady Maria Esmond was in the hands of bailiffs. Meanwhile,
however, the money was found, and Mrs. Betty whisked up to London in
search of the champion in whom the poor prisoner confided.
“Don't say anything about that paper being gone! Oh, the wretch, the
wretch! She shall pay it me!” I presume that Lady Maria meant her aunt
by the word “wretch.” Mr. Sampson read a sermon to her ladyship, and
they passed the evening over revenge and backgammon; with well-grounded
hopes that Harry Warrington would rush to their rescue as soon as ever
he heard of their mishap.
Though, ere the evening was over, every soul at the Wells knew what had
happened to Lady Maria, and a great deal more; though they knew she was
taken in execution, the house where she lay, the amount--nay, ten times
the amount--for which she was captured, and that she was obliged to pawn
her trinkets to get a little money to keep her in jail; though everybody
said that old fiend of a Bernstein was at the bottom of the business,
of course they were all civil and bland in society; and, at my Lady
Trumpington's cards that night, where Madame Bernstein appeared, and
as long as she was within hearing, not a word was said regarding the
morning's transactions. Lady Yarmouth asked the Baroness news of her
breddy nephew, and heard Mr. Warrington was in London. My Lady Maria
was not coming to Lady Trumpington's that evening? My Lady Maria was
indisposed, had fainted at church that morning, and was obliged to keep
her room. The cards were dealt, the fiddles sang, the wine went round,
the gentlefolks talked, laughed, yawned, chattered, the footmen waylaid
the supper, the chairmen drank and swore, the stars climbed the sky,
just as though no Lady Maria was imprisoned, and no poor Sampson
arrested. 'Tis certain, dearly beloved brethren, that the little griefs,
stings, annoyances, which you and I feel acutely in our own persons,
don't prevent our neighbours from sleeping; and that when we slip out of
the world the world does not miss us. Is this humiliating to our vanity?
So much the better. But, on the other hand, is it not a comfortable and
consoling truth? And mayn't we be thankful for our humble condition? If
we were not selfish--passez-moi le mot, s.v.p.--and if we had to care
for other people's griefs as much as our own, how intolerable human life
would be! If my neighbour's tight boot pinched my corn; if the calumny
uttered against Jones set Brown into fury; if Mrs. A's death plunged
Messrs. B, C, D, E, F, into distraction, would there be any bearing of
the world's burthen? Do not let us be in the least angry or surprised if
all the company played on, and were happy, although Lady Maria had come
to grief. Countess, the deal is with you! Are you going to Stubblefield
to shoot as usual, Sir John? Captain, we shall have you running off to
the Bath after the widow! So the clatter goes on; the lights burns; the
beaux and the ladies flirt, laugh, ogle; the prisoner rages in his cell;
the sick man tosses on his bed.
Perhaps Madame de Bernstein stayed at the assembly until the very last,
not willing to allow the company the chance of speaking of her as soon
as her back should be turned. Ah, what a comfort it is, I say again,
that we have backs, and that our ears don't grow on them! He that has
ears to hear, let him stuff them with cotton. Madame Bernstein might
have heard folks say it was heartless of her to come abroad, and play
at cards, and make merry when her niece was in trouble. As if she could
help Maria by staying at home, indeed! At her age, it is dangerous to
disturb an old lady's tranquillity. “Don't tell me!” says Lady Yarmouth.
“The Bernstein would play at cards over her niece's coffin. Talk about
her heart! who ever said she had one? That old spy lost it to the
Chevalier a thousand years ago, and has lived ever since perfectly well
without one. For how much is the Maria put in prison? If it were only a
small sum we would pay it, it would vex her aunt so. Find out, Fuchs, in
the morning, for how much Lady Maria Esmond is put in prison.” And the
faithful Fuchs bowed, and promised to do her Excellency's will.
Meanwhile, about midnight, Madame de Bernstein went home, and presently
fell into a sound sleep, from which she did not wake up until a late
hour of the morning, when she summoned her usual attendant, who arrived
with her ladyship's morning dish of tea. If I told you she took a dram
with it, you would be shocked. Some of our great-grandmothers used to
have cordials in their “closets.” Have you not read of the fine lady in
Walpole, who said, “If I drink more, I shall be 'muckibus!'?” As surely
as Mr. Gough is alive now, our ancestresses were accustomed to partake
pretty freely of strong waters.
So, having tipped off the cordial, Madame Bernstein rouses and asks Mrs.
Brett the news.
“He can give it you,” says the waiting-woman, sulkily.
“He? Who?”
Mrs. Brett names Harry, and says Mr. Warrington arrived about midnight
yesterday--and Betty, my Lady Maria's maid, was with him. “And my Lady
Maria sends your ladyship her love and duty, and hopes you slept well,”
says Brett.
“Excellently, poor thing! Is Betty gone to her?”
“No; she is here,” says Mrs. Brett.
“Let me see her directly,” cries the old lady.
“I'll tell her,” replies the obsequious Brett, and goes away upon
her mistress's errand, leaving the old lady placidly reposing on her
pillows. Presently, two pairs of high-heeled shoes are heard pattering
over the deal floor of the bedchamber. Carpets were luxuries scarcely
known in bedrooms of those days.
“So, Mrs. Betty, you were in London yesterday?” calls Bernstein from her
curtains.
“It is not Betty--it is I! Good morning, dear aunt! I hope you slept
well?” cries a voice which made old Bernstein start on her pillow. It
was the voice of Lady Maria, who drew the curtains aside, and dropped
her aunt a low curtsey. Lady Maria looked very pretty, rosy, and happy.
And with the little surprise incident at her appearance through Madame
Bernstein's curtains, I think we may bring this chapter to a close.