Quick, hackneycoach steeds, and bear George Warrington through Strand
and Fleet Street to his imprisoned brother's rescue! Any one who
remembers Hogarth's picture of a London hackneycoach and a London street
road at that period, may fancy how weary the quick time was, and how
long seemed the journey:--scarce any lights, save those carried by
link-boys; badly hung coaches; bad pavements; great holes in the road,
and vast quagmires of winter mud. That drive from Piccadilly to Fleet
Street seemed almost as long to our young man, as the journey from
Marlborough to London which he had performed in the morning.
He had written to Harry, announcing his arrival at Bristol. He had
previously written to his brother, giving the great news of his
existence and his return from captivity. There was war between England
and France at that time; the French privateers were for ever on the
look-out for British merchant-ships, and seized them often within sight
of port. The letter bearing the intelligence of George's restoration
must have been on board one of the many American ships of which the
French took possession. The letter telling of George's arrival in
England was never opened by poor Harry; it was lying at the latter's
apartments, which it reached on the third morning after Harry's
captivity, when the angry Mr. Ruff had refused to give up any single
item more of his lodger's property.
To these apartments George first went on his arrival in London,
and asked for his brother. Scared at the likeness between them, the
maid-servant who opened the door screamed, and ran back to her mistress.
The mistress not liking to tell the truth, or to own that poor Harry was
actually a prisoner at her husband's suit, said Mr. Warrington had left
his lodgings; she did not know where Mr. Warrington was. George knew
that Clarges Street was close to Bond Street. Often and often had he
looked over the London map. Aunt Bernstein would tell him where Harry
was. He might be with her at that very moment. George had read in
Harry's letters to Virginia about Aunt Bernstein's kindness to Harry.
Even Madam Esmond was softened by it (and especially touched by a letter
which the Baroness wrote--the letter which caused George to pack off
post-haste for Europe, indeed). She heartily hoped and trusted that
Madam Beatrix had found occasion to repent of her former bad ways. It
was time, indeed, at her age; and Heaven knows that she had plenty
to repent of! I have known a harmless, good old soul of eighty, still
bepommelled and stoned by irreproachable ladies of the straitest sect of
the Pharisees, for a little slip which occurred long before the present
century was born, or she herself was twenty years old. Rachel Esmond
never mentioned her eldest daughter: Madam Esmond Warrington never
mentioned her sister. No. In spite of the order for remission of the
sentence--in spite of the handwriting on the floor of the Temple--there
is a crime which some folks never will pardon, and regarding which
female virtue, especially, is inexorable.
I suppose the Virginians' agent at Bristol had told George fearful
stories of his brother's doings. Gumbo, whom he met at his aunt's door,
as soon as the lad recovered from his terror at the sudden reappearance
of the master whom he supposed dead, had leisure to stammer out a word
or two respecting his young master's whereabouts, and present pitiable
condition; and hence Mr. George's sternness of demeanour when he
presented himself to the old lady. It seemed to him a matter of course
that his brother in difficulty should be rescued by his relations. Oh,
George, how little you know about London and London ways! Whenever you
take your walks abroad how many poor you meet--if a philanthropist were
for rescuing all of them, not all the wealth of all the provinces of
America would suffice him!
But the feeling and agitation displayed by the old lady touched her
nephew's heart when, jolting through the dark streets towards the
house of his brother's captivity, George came to think of his aunt's
behaviour. “She does feel my poor Harry's misfortune,” he thought to
himself, “I have been too hasty in judging her.” Again and again, in the
course of his life, Mr. George had to rebuke himself with the same crime
of being too hasty. How many of us have not? And, alas, the mischief
done, there's no repentance will mend it. Quick, coachman! We are almost
as slow as you are in getting from Clarges Street to the Temple. Poor
Gumbo knows the way to the bailiff's house well enough. Again the bell
is set ringing. The first door is opened to George and his negro; then
that first door is locked warily upon them, and they find themselves
in a little passage with a little Jewish janitor; then a second door is
unlocked, and they enter into the house. The Jewish janitor stares, as
by his flaring tallow-torch he sees a second Mr. Warrington before
him. Come to see that gentleman? Yes. But wait a moment. This is Mr.
Warrington's brother from America. Gumbo must go and prepare his master
first. Step into this room. There's a gentleman already there about
Mr. W.'s business (the porter says), and another upstairs with him now.
There's no end of people have been about him.
The room into which George was introduced was a small apartment which
went by the name of Mr. Amos's office, and where, by a guttering candle,
and talking to the bailiff, sat a stout gentleman in a cloak and a laced
hat. The young porter carried his candle, too, preceding Mr. George, so
there was a sufficiency of light in the apartment.
“We are not angry any more, Harry!” says the stout gentleman, in a
cheery voice, getting up and advancing with an outstretched hand to
the new-comer. “Thank God, my boy! Mr. Amos here says, there will be
no difficulty about James and me being your bail, and we will do your
business by breakfast-time in the morning. Why... Angels and ministers
of grace! who are you?” And he started back as the other had hold of his
hand.
But the stranger grasped it only the more strongly. “God bless you,
sir!” he said, “I know who you are. You must be Colonel Lambert, of
whose kindness to him my poor Harry wrote. And I am the brother whom you
have heard of, sir; and who was left for dead in Mr. Braddock's action;
and came to life again after eighteen months amongst the French;
and live to thank God and thank you for your kindness to my Harry,”
continued the lad with a faltering voice.
“James! James! Here is news!” cries Mr. Lambert to a gentleman in red,
who now entered the room. “Here are the dead come alive! Here is Harry
Scapegrace's brother come back, and with his scalp on his head, too!”
(George had taken his hat off, and was standing by the light.) “This is
my brother-bail, Mr. Warrington! This is Lieutenant-Colonel James
Wolfe, at your service. You must know there has been a little difference
between Harry and me, Mr. George. He is pacified, is he, James?”
“He is full of gratitude,” says Mr. Wolfe, after making his bow to Mr.
Warrington.
“Harry wrote home about Mr. Wolfe, too, sir,” said the young man, “and I
hope my brother's friends will be so kind as to be mine.”
“I wish he had none other but us, Mr. Warrington. Poor Harry's fine
folks have been too fine for him, and have ended by landing him here.”
“Nay, your honours, I have done my best to make the young gentleman
comfortable; and, knowing your honour before, when you came to bail
Captain Watkins, and that your security is perfectly good,--if your
honour wishes, the young gentleman can go out this very night, and I
will make it all right with the lawyer in the morning,” says Harry's
landlord, who knew the rank and respectability of the two gentlemen who
had come to offer bail for his young prisoner.
“The debt is five hundred and odd pounds, I think?” said Mr. Warrington.
“With a hundred thanks to these gentlemen, I can pay the amount at this
moment into the officers' hands, taking the usual acknowledgment and
caution. But I can never forget, gentlemen, that you helped my brother
at his need, and, for doing so, I say thank you, and God bless you, in
my mother's name and mine.”
Gumbo had, meanwhile, gone upstairs to his master's apartment, where
Harry would probably have scolded the negro for returning that night,
but that the young gentleman was very much soothed and touched by the
conversation he had had with the friend who had just left him. He was
sitting over his pipe of Virginia in a sad mood (for, somehow, even
Maria's goodness and affection, as she had just exhibited them, had not
altogether consoled him; and he had thought, with a little dismay, of
certain consequences to which that very kindness and fidelity bound
him), when Mr. Wolfe's homely features and eager outstretched hand came
to cheer the prisoner, and he heard how Mr. Lambert was below, and
the errand upon which the two officers had come. In spite of himself,
Lambert would be kind to him. In spite of Harry's ill-temper, and
needless suspicion and anger, the good gentleman was determined to help
him if he might--to help him even against Mr. Wolfe's own advice, as the
latter frankly told Harry, “For you were wrong, Mr. Warrington,” said
the Colonel, “and you wouldn't be set right; and you, a young man, used
hard words and unkind behaviour to your senior, and what is more, one of
the best gentlemen who walks God's earth. You see, sir, what his answer
hath been to your wayward temper. You will bear with a friend who speaks
frankly with you? Martin Lambert hath acted in this as he always doth,
as the best Christian, the best friend, the most kind and generous of
men. Nay, if you want another proof of his goodness, here it is: He has
converted me, who, as I don't care to disguise, was angry with you for
your treatment of him, and has absolutely brought me down here to be
your bail. Let us both cry Peccavimus! Harry, and shake our friend by
the hand! He is sitting in the room below. He would not come here till
he knew how you would receive him.”
“I think he is a good man!” groaned out Harry. “I was very angry and
wild at the time when he and I met last, Colonel Wolfe. Nay, perhaps he
was right in sending back those trinkets, hurt as I was at his doing so.
Go down to him, will you be so kind, sir? and tell him I am sorry, and
ask his pardon, and--and, God bless him for his generous behaviour.”
And here the young gentleman turned his head away, and rubbed his hand
across his eyes.
“Tell him all this thyself, Harry!” cries the Colonel, taking the young
fellow's hand. “No deputy will ever say it half so well. Come with me
now.”
“You go first, and I'll--I'll follow,--on my word I will. See! I am in
my morning-gown! I will but put on a coat and come to him. Give him my
message first. Just--just prepare him for me!” says poor Harry, who
knew he must do it, but yet did not much like that process of eating of
humble-pie.
Wolfe went out smiling--understanding the lad's scruples well enough,
perhaps. As he opened the door, Mr. Gumbo entered it; almost forgetting
to bow to the gentleman, profusely courteous as he was on ordinary
occasions,--his eyes glaring round, his great mouth grinning--himself in
a state of such high excitement and delight that his master remarked his
condition.
“What, Gum? What has happened to thee? Hast thou got a new sweetheart?”
No, Gum had not got no new sweetheart, master.
“Give me my coat. What has brought thee back?”
Gum grinned prodigiously. “I have seen a ghost, mas'r!” he said.
“A ghost! and whose, and where?”
“Whar? Saw him at Madame Bernstein's house. Come with him here in
the coach! He downstairs now with Colonel Lambert!” Whilst Gumbo is
speaking, as he is putting on his master's coat, his eyes are rolling,
his head is wagging, his hands are trembling, his lips are grinning.
“Ghost--what ghost?” says Harry, in a strange agitation. Is
anybody--is--my mother come?”
“No, sir; no, Master Harry!” Gumbo's head rolls nearly off its violent
convolutions, and his master, looking oddly at him, flings the door
open, and goes rapidly down the stair.
He is at the foot of it, just as a voice within the little office, of
which the door is open, is saying, “and for doing so, I say thank you,
and God bless you, in my mother's name and mine.”
“Whose voice is that?” calls out Harry Warrington, with a strange cry in
his own voice.
“It's the ghost's, mas'r!” says Gumbo, from behind; and Harry runs
forward to the room,--where, if you please, we will pause a little
minute before we enter. The two gentlemen who were there, turned their
heads away. The lost was found again. The dead was alive. The
prodigal was on his brother's heart,--his own full of love, gratitude,
repentance.
“Come away, James! I think we are not wanted any more here,” says the
Colonel. “Good-night, boys. Some ladies in Hill Street won't be able to
sleep for this strange news. Or will you go home and sup with 'em, and
tell them the story?”
No, with many thanks, the boys would not go and sup to-night. They had
stories of their own to tell. “Quick, Gumbo, with the trunks! Good-bye,
Mr. Amos!” Harry felt almost unhappy when he went away.