Of course our young men had had their private talk about home, and all
the people and doings there, and each had imparted to the other full
particulars of his history since their last meeting. How were Harry's
dogs, and little Dempster, and good old Nathan, and the rest of the
household? Was Mountain well, and Fanny grown to be a pretty girl? So
Parson Broadbent's daughter was engaged to marry Tom Barker of Savannah,
and they were to go and live in Georgia! Harry owns that at one period
he was very sweet upon Parson Broadbent's daughter, and lost a
great deal of pocket-money at cards, and drank a great quantity of
strong-waters with the father, in order to have a pretext for being near
the girl. But, Heaven help us! Madam Esmond would never have consented
to his throwing himself away upon Polly Broadbent. So Colonel G.
Washington's wife was a pretty woman, very good-natured and pleasant,
and with a good fortune? He had brought her into Richmond, and paid a
visit of state to Madam Esmond. George described, with much humour, the
awful ceremonials at the interview between these two personages, and the
killing politeness of his mother to Mr. Washington's young wife. “Never
mind, George, my dear!” says Mrs. Mountain. “The Colonel has taken
another wife, but I feel certain that at one time two young gentlemen I
know of ran a very near chance of having a tall stepfather six feet two
in his boots.” To be sure, Mountain was for ever match-making in her
mind. Two people could not play a game at cards together, or sit down
to a dish of tea, but she fancied their conjunction was for life. It was
she--the foolish tattler--who had set the report abroad regarding the
poor Indian woman. As for Madam Esmond, she had repelled the insinuation
with scorn when Parson Stack brought it to her, and said, “I should as
soon fancy Mr. Esmond stealing the spoons, or marrying a negro woman
out of the kitchen.” But, though she disdained to find the poor Biche
guilty, and even thanked her for attending her son in his illness, she
treated her with such a chilling haughtiness of demeanour, that the
Indian slunk away into the servants' quarters, and there tried to drown
her disappointments with drink. It was not a cheerful picture that which
George gave of his two months at home. “The birthright is mine, Harry,”
he said, “but thou art the favourite, and God help me! I think my mother
almost grudges it to me. Why should I have taken the pas, and preceded
your worship into the world? Had you been the eider, you would have had
the best cellar, and ridden the best nag, and been the most popular
man in the country, whereas I have not a word to say for myself, and
frighten people by my glum face: I should have been second son, and set
up as lawyer, or come to England and got my degrees, and turned parson,
and said grace at your honour's table. The time is out of joint, sir. O
cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!”
“Why, Georgy, you are talking verses, I protest you are!” says Harry.
“I think, my dear, some one else talked those verses before me,” says
George, with a smile.
“It's out of one of your books. You know every book that ever was wrote,
that I do believe!” cries Harry, and then told his brother how he had
seen the two authors at Tunbridge, and how he had taken off his hat to
them. “Not that I cared much about their books, not being clever enough.
But I remembered how my dear old George used to speak of 'em,” says
Harry, with a choke in his voice, “and that's why I liked to see them. I
say, dear, it's like a dream seeing you over again. Think of that bloody
Indian with his knife at my George's head! I should like to give that
Monsieur de Florac something for saving you--but I haven't got much now,
only my little gold knee-buckles, and they ain't worth two guineas.”
“You have got the half of what I have, child, and we'll divide as soon
as I have paid the Frenchman,” George said.
On which Harry broke out not merely into blessings but actual
imprecations, indicating his intense love and satisfaction; and he swore
that there never was such a brother in the world as his brother George.
Indeed, for some days after his brother's arrival his eyes followed
George about: he would lay down his knife and fork, or his newspaper,
when they were sitting together, and begin to laugh to himself. When he
walked with George on the Mall or in Hyde Park, he would gaze round at
the company, as much as to say, “Look here, gentlemen! This is he.
This is my brother, that was dead and is alive again! Can any man in
Christendom produce such a brother as this?”
Of course he was of opinion that George should pay to Museau's heirs
the sum which he had promised for his ransom. This question had been the
cause of no small unhappiness to poor George at home. Museau dead, Madam
Esmond argued with much eagerness, and not a little rancour, the bargain
fell to the ground, and her son was free. The man was a rogue in the
first instance. She would not pay the wages of iniquity. Mr. Esmond had
a small independence from his father, and might squander his patrimony
if he chose. He was of age, and the money was in his power; but she
would be no party to such extravagance, as giving twelve thousand livres
to a parcel of peasants in Normandy with whom we were at war, and who
would very likely give it all to the priests and the pope. She would not
subscribe to any such wickedness. If George wanted to squander away his
father's money (she must say that formerly he had not been so eager,
and when Harry's benefit was in question had refused to touch a penny of
it!)--if he wished to spend it now, why not give it to his own flesh and
blood, to poor Harry, who was suddenly deprived of his inheritance, and
not to a set of priest-ridden peasants in France? This dispute had raged
between mother and son during the whole of the latter's last days
in Virginia. It had never been settled. On the morning of George's
departure, Madam Esmond had come to his bedside after a sleepless night,
and asked him whether he still persisted in his intention to fling away
his father's property?
He replied in a depth of grief and perplexity, that his word was passed,
and he must do as his honour bade him. She answered that she would
continue to pray that Heaven might soften his proud heart, and enable
her to bear her heavy trials: and the last view George had of his
mother's face was as she stood yet a moment by his bedside, pale and
with tearless eyes, before she turned away and slowly left his chamber.
“Where didst thou learn the art of winning over everybody to thy side,
Harry?” continued George; “and how is it that you and all the world
begin by being friends? Teach me a few lessons in popularity, nay,
I don't know that I will have them; and when I find and hear certain
people hate me, I think I am rather pleased than angry. At first, at
Richmond, Mr. Esmond Warrington, the only prisoner who had escaped from
Braddock's field--the victim of so much illness and hardship--was a
favourite with the town-folks, and received privately and publicly with
no little kindness. The parson glorified my escape in a sermon; the
neighbours came to visit the fugitive; the family coach was ordered out,
and Madam Esmond and I paid our visits in return. I think some pretty
little caps were set at me. But these our mother routed off, and
frightened with the prodigious haughtiness of her demeanour; and my
popularity was already at the decrease before the event occurred which
put the last finishing stroke to it. I was not jolly enough for the
officers, and didn't care for their drinking-bouts, dice-boxes, and
swearing. I was too sarcastic for the ladies, and their tea and tattle
stupefied me almost as much as the men's blustering and horse-talk. I
cannot tell thee, Harry, how lonely I felt in that place, amidst the
scandal and squabbles: I regretted my prison almost, and found myself
more than once wishing for the freedom of thought, and the silent ease
of Duquesne. I am very shy, I suppose: I can speak unreservedly to very
few people. Before most, I sit utterly silent. When we two were at home,
it was thou who used to talk at table, and get a smile now and then from
our mother. When she and I were together we had no subject in common,
and we scarce spoke at all until we began to dispute about law and
divinity.
“So the gentlemen had determined I was supercilious, and a dull
companion (and, indeed, I think their opinion was right), and the ladies
thought I was cold and sarcastic,--could never make out whether I was
in earnest or no, and, I think, generally voted I was a disagreeable
fellow, before my character was gone quite away; and that went with the
appearance of the poor Biche. Oh, a nice character they made for me, my
dear!” cried George, in a transport of wrath, “and a pretty life they
led me after Museau's unlucky messenger had appeared amongst us! The
boys hooted the poor woman if she appeared in the street; the ladies
dropped me half-curtseys, and walked over to the other side. That
precious clergyman went from one tea-table to another preaching on the
horrors of seduction, and the lax principles which young men learned in
popish countries and brought back thence. The poor Fawn's appearance
at home a few weeks after my return home, was declared to be a scheme
between her and me; and the best informed agreed that she had waited on
the other side of the river until I gave her the signal to come and
join me in Richmond. The officers bantered me at the coffee-house, and
cracked their clumsy jokes about the woman I had selected. Oh, the world
is a nice charitable world! I was so enraged that I thought of going to
Castlewood and living alone there,--for our mother finds the place dull,
and the greatest consolation in precious Mr. Stack's ministry,--when
the news arrived of your female perplexity, and I think we were all glad
that I should have a pretext for coming to Europe.”
“I should like to see any of the infernal scoundrels who said word
against you, and break their rascally bones,” roars out Harry, striding
up and down the room.
“I had to do something like it for Bob Clubber.”
“What! that little sneaking, backbiting, toad-eating wretch, who is
always hanging about my lord at Greenway Court, and spunging on every
gentleman in the country? If you whipped him, I hope you whipped him
well, George?”
“We were bound over to keep the peace; and I offered to go into Maryland
with him and settle our difference there, and of course the good folk
said, that having made free with the seventh commandment I was inclined
to break the sixth. So, by this and by that--and being as innocent of
the crime imputed to me as you are--I left home, my dear Harry, with as
awful a reputation as ever a young gentleman earned.”
Ah, what an opportunity is there here to moralise! If the esteemed
reader and his humble servant could but know--could but write down in
a book--could but publish, with illustrations, a collection of the
lies which have been told regarding each of us since we came to man's
estate,--what a harrowing and thrilling work of fiction that romance
would be! Not only is the world informed of everything about you, but
of a great deal more. Not long since the kind postman brought a paper
containing a valuable piece of criticism, which stated--“This author
states he was born in such and such a year. It is a lie. He was born in
the year so and so.” The critic knew better: of course he did. Another
(and both came from the country which gave MULLIGAN birth) warned some
friend, saying, “Don't speak of New South Wales to him. He has a brother
there, and the family never mention his name.” But this subject is too
vast and noble for a mere paragraph. I shall prepare a memoir, or let
us have rather, par une societe de gens de lettres, a series of
biographies, of lives of gentlemen, as told by their dear friends whom
they don't know.
George having related his exploits as champion and martyr, of course
Harry had to unbosom himself to his brother, and lay before his elder
an account of his private affairs. He gave up all the family of
Castlewood--my lord, not for getting the better of him at play; for
Harry was a sporting man, and expected to pay when he lost, and receive
when he won; but for refusing to aid the chaplain in his necessity, and
dismissing him with such false and heartless pretexts. About Mr. Will he
had made up his mind, after the horse-dealing matter, and freely
marked his sense of the latter's conduct upon Mr. Will's eyes and nose.
Respecting the Countess and Lady Fanny, Harry spoke in a manner more
guarded, but not very favourable. He had heard all sorts of stories
about them. The Countess was a card-playing old cat; Lady Fanny was a
desperate flirt. Who told him? Well, he had heard the stories from a
person who knew them both very well indeed. In fact, in those days
of confidence, of which we made mention in the last volume, Maria had
freely imparted to her cousin a number of anecdotes respecting her
stepmother and her half-sister, which were by no means in favour of
those ladies.
But in respect to Lady Maria herself, the young man was staunch and
hearty. “It may be imprudent: I don't say no, George. I may be a fool:
I think I am. I know there will be a dreadful piece of work at home, and
that Madam and she will fight. Well! we must live apart. Our estate is
big enough to live on without quarrelling, and I can go elsewhere than
to Richmond or Castlewood. When you come to the property, you'll give me
a bit--at any rate, Madam will let me off at an easy rent--or I'll make
a famous farmer or factor. I can't and won't part from Maria. She has
acted so nobly by me, that I should be a rascal to turn my back on her.
Think of her bringing me every jewel she had in the world, dear
brave creature! and flinging them into my lap with her last
guineas,--and--and--God bless her!” Here Harry dashed his sleeve across
his eyes, with a stamp of his foot, and said, “No, brother, I won't part
with her--not to be made Governor of Virginia tomorrow; and my dearest
old George would never advise me to do so, I know that.”
“I am sent here to advise you,” George replied. “I am sent to break the
marriage off, if I can: and a more unhappy one I can't imagine. But I
can't counsel you to break your word, my boy.”
“I knew you couldn't! What's said is said, George. I have made my bed,
and must lie on it,” says Mr. Harry, gloomily.
Such had been the settlement between our two young worthies, when
they first talked over Mr. Harry's love affair. But after George's
conversation with his aunt, and the further knowledge of his family,
which he acquired through the information of that keen old woman of the
world, Mr. Warrington, who was naturally of a sceptical turn, began to
doubt about Lady Maria, as well as regarding her brothers and sister,
and looked at Harry's engagement with increased distrust and alarm. Was
it for his wealth that Maria wanted Harry? Was it his handsome young
person that she longed after? Were those stories true which Aunt
Bernstein had told of her? Certainly he could not advise Harry to
break his word; but he might cast about in his mind for some scheme for
putting Maria's affection to the trial; and his ensuing conduct, which
appeared not very amiable, I suppose resulted from this deliberation.