Indeed, if Harry Warrington had a passion for military pursuits and
studies, there was enough of war stirring in Europe, and enough talk in
all societies which he frequented in London, to excite and inflame him.
Though our own gracious Prince of the house of Hanover had been beaten,
the Protestant Hero, the King of Prussia, was filling the world with
his glory, and winning those astonishing victories in which I deem it
fortunate on my own account that my poor Harry took no part; for
then his veracious biographer would have had to narrate battles the
description whereof has been undertaken by another pen. I am glad, I
say, that Harry Warrington was not at Rossbach on that famous Gunpowder
Fete-day, on the 5th of November, in the year 1757; nor at that
tremendous slaughtering-match of Leuthen, which the Prussian king played
a month afterwards; for these prodigious actions will presently be
narrated in other volumes, which I and all the world are eager to
behold. Would you have this history compete with yonder book? Could
my jaunty, yellow park-phaeton run counter to that grim chariot of
thundering war? Could my meek little jog-trot Pegasus meet the shock of
yon steed of foaming bit and flaming nostril? Dear, kind reader (with
whom I love to talk from time to time, stepping down from the stage
where our figures are performing, attired in the habits and using the
parlance of past ages),--my kind, patient reader! it is a mercy for both
of us that Harry Warrington did not follow the King of the Borussians,
as he was minded to do, for then I should have had to describe battles
which Carlyle is going to paint; and I don't wish you should make odious
comparisons between me and that master.
Harry Warrington not only did not join the King of the Borussians, but
he pined and chafed at not going. He led a sulky useless life, that is
the fact. He dangled about the military coffee-houses. He did not care
for reading anything save a newspaper. His turn was not literary. He
even thought novels were stupid; and, as for the ladies crying their
eyes out over Mr. Richardson, he could not imagine how they could be
moved by any such nonsense. He used to laugh in a very hearty jolly
way, but a little late, and some time after the joke was over. Pray, why
should all gentlemen have a literary turn? And do we like some of our
friends the worse because they never turned a couplet in their lives?
Ruined, perforce idle, dependent on his brother for supplies, if he read
a book falling asleep over it, with no fitting work for his great strong
hands to do--how lucky it is that he did not get into more trouble! Why,
in the case of Achilles himself, when he was sent by his mamma to the
court of King What-d'ye-call-'em in order to be put out of harm's reach,
what happened to him amongst a parcel of women with whom he was made to
idle his life away? And how did Pyrrhus come into the world? A powerful
mettlesome young Achilles ought not to be leading-stringed by women too
much; is out of his place dawdling by distaffs or handing coffee-cups;
and when he is not fighting, depend on it, is likely to fall into much
worse mischief.
Those soft-hearted women, the two elder ladies of the Lambert family,
with whom he mainly consorted, had an untiring pity and kindness for
Harry, such as women only--and only a few of those--can give. If a man
is in grief, who cheers him; in trouble, who consoles him; in wrath,
who soothes him; in joy, who makes him doubly happy; in prosperity, who
rejoices; in disgrace, who backs him against the world, and dresses
with gentle unguents and warm poultices the rankling wounds made by the
slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune? Who but woman, if you please?
You who are ill and sore from the buffets of Fate, have you one or two
of these sweet physicians? Return thanks to the gods that they have
left you so much of consolation. What gentleman is not more or less a
Prometheus? Who has not his rock (ai, ai), his chain (ea, ea), and his
liver in a deuce of a condition? But the sea-nymphs come--the gentle,
the sympathising; they kiss our writhing feet; they moisten our parched
lips with their tears; they do their blessed best to console us Titans;
they don't turn their backs upon us after our overthrow.
Now Theo and her mother were full of pity for Harry; but Hetty's heart
was rather hard and seemingly savage towards him. She chafed that
his position was not more glorious; she was angry that he was still
dependent and idle. The whole world was in arms, and could he not carry
a musket? It was harvest-time, and hundreds of thousands of reapers were
out with their flashing sickles; could he not use his, and cut down his
sheaf or two of glory?
“Why, how savage the little thing is with him!” says papa, after a scene
in which, according to her wont, Miss Hetty had been firing little
shots into that quivering target which came and set itself up in Mrs.
Lambert's drawing-room every day.
“Her conduct is perfectly abominable!” cries mamma; “she deserves to be
whipped, and sent to bed.”
“Perhaps, mother, it is because she likes him better than any of us do,”
says Theo, “and it is for his sake that Hetty is angry. If I were fond
of--of some one, I should like to be able to admire and respect him
always--to think everything he did right--and my gentleman better than
all the gentlemen in the world.”
“The truth is, my dear,” answers Mrs. Lambert, “that your father is so
much better than all the world, he has spoiled us. Did you ever see any
one to compare with him?”
“Very few, indeed,” owns Theo, with a blush.
“Very few. Who is so good-tempered?”
“I think nobody, mamma,” Theo acknowledges.
“Or so brave?”
“Why, I dare say Mr. Wolfe, or Harry, or Mr. George, are very brave.”
“Or so learned and witty?”
“I am sure Mr. George seems very learned, and witty too, in his way,”
says Theo; “and his manners are very fine--you own they are. Madame de
Bernstein says they are, and she hath seen the world. Indeed, Mr. George
has a lofty way with him, which I don't see in other people; and, in
reading books, I find he chooses the fine noble things always, and loves
them in spite of all his satire. He certainly is of a satirical turn,
but then he is only bitter against mean things and people. No gentleman
hath a more tender heart I am sure; and but yesterday, after he had been
talking so bitterly as you said, I happened to look out of window, and
saw him stop and treat a whole crowd of little children to apples at the
stall at the corner. And the day before yesterday, when he was coming
and brought me the Moliere, he stopped and gave money to a beggar, and
how charmingly, sure, he reads the French! I agree with him though about
Tartuffe, though 'tis so wonderfully clever and lively, that a mere
villain and hypocrite is a figure too mean to be made the chief of a
great piece. Iago, Mr. George said, is near as great a villain; but then
he is not the first character of the tragedy, which is Othello, with
his noble weakness. But what fine ladies and gentlemen Moliere
represents--so Mr. George thinks--and--but oh, I don't dare to repeat
the verses after him.”
“But you know them by heart, my dear?” asks Mrs. Lambert.
And Theo replies, “Oh yes, mamma! I know them by... Nonsense!”
I here fancy osculations, palpitations, and exit Miss Theo, blushing
like a rose. Why had she stopped in her sentence? Because mamma was
looking at her so oddly. And why was mamma looking at her so oddly? And
why had she looked after Mr. George when he was going away, and looked
for him when he was coming? Ah, and why do cheeks blush, and why do
roses bloom? Old Time is still a-flying. Old spring and bud time; old
summer and bloom time; old autumn and seed time; old winter time, when
the cracking, shivering old tree-tops are bald or covered with snow.
A few minutes after George arrived, Theo would come downstairs with
a fluttering heart, may be, and a sweet nosegay in her cheeks, just
culled, as it were, fresh in his honour; and I suppose she must have
been constantly at that window which commanded the street, and whence
she could espy his generosity to the sweep, or his purchases from the
apple-woman. But if it was Harry who knocked, she remained in her own
apartment with her work or her books, sending her sister to receive
the young gentleman, or her brothers when the elder was at home from
college, or Doctor Crusius from the Chartreux gave the younger leave
to go home. And what good eyes Theo must have had--and often in the
evening, too--to note the difference between Harry's yellow hair and
George's dark locks--and between their figures, though they were so like
that people continually were mistaking one for the other brother. Now it
is certain that Theo never mistook one or t'other; and that Hetty, for
her part, was not in the least excited, or rude, or pert, when she found
the black-haired gentleman in her mother's drawing-room.
Our friends could come when they liked to Mr. Lambert's house, and stay
as long as they chose; and, one day, he of the golden locks was sitting
on a couch there, in an attitude of more than ordinary idleness and
despondency, when who should come down to him but Miss Hetty? I say it
was a most curious thing (though the girls would have gone to the rack
rather than own any collusion), that when Harry called, Hetty appeared;
when George arrived, Theo somehow came; and so, according to the usual
dispensation, it was Miss Lambert, junior, who now arrived to entertain
the younger Virginian.
After usual ceremonies and compliments we may imagine that the lady says
to the gentleman:
“And pray, sir, what makes your honour look so glum this morning?”
“Ah, Hetty!” says he, “I have nothing else to do but to look glum. I
remember when we were boys--and I a rare idle one, you may be sure--I
would always be asking my tutor for a holiday, which I would pass very
likely swinging on a gate, or making ducks and drakes over the pond, and
those do-nothing days were always the most melancholy. What have I got
to do now from morning till night?”
“Breakfast, walk--dinner, walk--tea, supper, I suppose; and a pipe of
your Virginia,” says Miss Hetty, tossing her head.
“I tell you what, when I went back with Charley to the Chartreux,
t'other night, I had a mind to say to the master, 'Teach me, sir. Here's
a boy knows a deal more Latin and Greek, at thirteen, than I do, who
am ten years older. I have nothing to do from morning till night, and I
might as well go to my books again, and see if I can repair my idleness
as a boy.' Why do you laugh, Hetty?”
“I laugh to fancy you at the head of a class, and called up by the
master!” cries Hetty.
“I shouldn't be at the head of the class,” Harry says, humbly. “George
might be at the head of any class, but I am not a bookman, you see; and
when I was young neglected myself, and was very idle. We would not let
our tutors cane us much at home, but, if we had, it might have done me
good.”
Hetty drubbed with her little foot, and looked at the young man sitting
before her--strong, idle, melancholy.
“Upon my word, it might do you good now!” she was minded to say. “What
does Tom say about the caning at school? Does his account of it set you
longing for it, pray?” she asked.
“His account of his school,” Harry answered simply, “makes me see that I
have been idle when I ought to have worked, and that I have not a genius
for books, and for what am I good? Only to spend my patrimony when I
come abroad, or to lounge at coffee-houses or racecourses, or to gallop
behind dogs when I am at home. I am good for nothing, I am.”
“What, such a great, brave, strong fellow as you good for nothing?”
cries Het. “I would not confess as much to any woman, if I were twice as
good for nothing!”
“What am I to do? I ask for leave to go into the army, and Madam Esmond
does not answer me. 'Tis the only thing I am fit for. I have no money to
buy. Having spent all my own, and so much of my brother's, I cannot and
won't ask for more. If my mother would but send me to the army, you know
I would jump to go.”
“Eh! A gentleman of spirit does not want a woman to buckle his sword on
for him or to clean his firelock! What was that our papa told us of the
young gentleman at court yesterday?--Sir John Armytage----”
“Sir John Armytage? I used to know him when I frequented White's and
the club-houses--a fine, noble young gentleman, of a great estate in the
North.”
“And engaged to be married to a famous beauty, too--Miss Howe, my Lord
Howe's sister--but that, I suppose, is not an obstacle to gentlemen?”
“An obstacle to what?” asks the gentleman.
“An obstacle to glory!” says Miss Hetty. “I think no woman of spirit
would say 'Stay!' though she adored her lover ever so much, when his
country said 'Go!' Sir John had volunteered for the expedition which is
preparing, and being at court yesterday his Majesty asked him when he
would be ready to go? 'Tomorrow, please your Majesty,' replies Sir John,
and the king said, that was a soldier's answer. My father himself is
longing to go, though he has mamma and all us brats at home. Oh dear,
oh dear! Why wasn't I a man myself? Both my brothers are for the Church;
but, as for me, I know I should have made a famous little soldier!” And,
so speaking, this young person strode about the room, wearing a most
courageous military aspect, and looking as bold as Joan of Arc.
Harry beheld her with a tender admiration. “I think,” says he, “I would
hardly like to see a musket on that little shoulder, nor a wound on that
pretty face, Hetty.”
“Wounds! who fears wounds?” cries the little maid. “Muskets? If I could
carry one, I would use it. You men fancy that we women are good for
nothing but to make puddings or stitch samplers. Why wasn't I a man, I
say? George was reading to us yesterday out of Tasso--look, here it is,
and I thought the verses applied to me. See! Here is the book, with the
mark in it where we left off.”
“With the mark in it?” says Harry dutifully.
“Yes! it is about a woman who is disappointed because--because her
brother does not go to war, and she says of herself--
“'Alas! why did not Heaven these members frail
With lively force and vigour strengthen, so
That I this silken gown...'”
“Silken gown?” says downright Harry, with a look of inquiry.
“Well, sir, I know 'tis but Calimanco;--but so it is in the book--
“'... this silken gown and slender veil
Might for a breastplate and a helm forgo;
Then should not heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor hail,
Nor storms that fall, nor blust'ring winds that blow,
Withhold me; but I would, both day and night,
In pitched field or private combat, fight--'
“Fight? Yes, that I would! Why are both my brothers to be parsons, I
say? One of my papa's children ought to be a soldier!”
Harry laughed, a very gentle, kind laugh, as he looked at her. He felt
that he would not like much to hit such a tender little warrior as that.
“Why,” says he, holding a finger out, “I think here is a finger nigh as
big as your arm. How would you stand up before a great, strong man? I
should like to see a man try and injure you, though; I should just like
to see him! You little, delicate, tender creature! Do you suppose any
scoundrel would dare to do anything unkind to you?” And, excited by this
flight of his imagination, Harry fell to walking up and down the room,
too, chafing at the idea of any rogue of a Frenchman daring to be rude
to Miss Hester Lambert.
It was a belief in this silent courage of his which subjugated Hetty,
and this quality which she supposed him to possess, which caused her
specially to admire him. Miss Hetty was no more bold, in reality, than
Madam Erminia, whose speech she had been reading out of the book, and
about whom Mr. Harry Warrington never heard one single word. He may have
been in the room when brother George was reading his poetry out to the
ladies, but his thoughts were busy with his own affairs, and he was
entirely bewildered with your Clotildas and Erminias, and giants, and
enchanters, and nonsense. No, Miss Hetty, I say and believe, had nothing
of the virago in her composition; else, no doubt, she would have taken
a fancy to a soft young fellow with a literary turn, or a genius for
playing the flute, according to the laws of contrast and nature provided
in those cases; and who has not heard how great, strong men have an
affinity for frail, tender little women; how tender little women are
attracted by great, honest, strong men; and how your burly heroes and
champions of war are constantly henpecked? If Mr. Harry Warrington falls
in love with a woman who is like Miss Lambert in disposition, and if he
marries her--without being conjurers, I think we may all see what the
end will be.
So, whilst Hetty was firing her little sarcasms into Harry, he for a
while scarcely felt that they were stinging him, and let her shoot on
without so much as taking the trouble to shake the little arrows out of
his hide. Did she mean by her sneers and innuendoes to rouse him into
action? He was too magnanimous to understand such small hints. Did she
mean to shame him by saying that she, a weak woman, would don the casque
and breastplate? The simple fellow either melted at the idea of her
being in danger, or at the notion of her fighting fell a-laughing.
“Pray what is the use of having a strong hand if you only use it to hold
a skein of silk for my mother?” cries Miss Hester; “and what is the good
of being ever so strong in a drawing-room? Nobody wants you to throw
anybody out of window, Harry! A strong man, indeed! I suppose there's a
stronger at Bartholomew Fair. James Wolfe is not a strong man. He seems
quite weakly and ill. When he was here last he was coughing the whole
time, and as pale as if he had seen a ghost.”
“I never could understand why a man should be frightened at a ghost,”
says Harry.
“Pray, have you seen one, sir?” asks the pert young lady.
“No. I thought I did once at home--when we were boys; but it was only
Nathan in his night-shirt; but I wasn't frightened when I thought he
was a ghost. I believe there's no such things. Our nurses tell a pack of
lies about 'em,” says Harry, gravely. “George was a little frightened;
but then he's----” Here he paused.
“Then George is what?” asked Hetty.
“George is different from me, that's all. Our mother's a bold woman as
ever you saw, but she screams at seeing a mouse--always does--can't help
it. It's her nature. So, you see, perhaps my brother can't bear ghosts.
I don't mind 'em.”
“George always says you would have made a better soldier than he.”
“So I think I should, if I had been allowed to try. But he can do a
thousand things better than me, or anybody else in the world. Why didn't
he let me volunteer on Braddock's expedition? I might have got knocked
on the head, and then I should have been pretty much as useful as I
am now, and then I shouldn't have ruined myself, and brought people to
point at me and say that I had disgraced the name of Warrington. Why
mayn't I go on this expedition, and volunteer like Sir John Armytage?
Oh, Hetty! I'm a miserable fellow--that's what I am,” and the miserable
fellow paced the room at double quick time. “I wish I had never come to
Europe,” he groaned out.
“What a compliment to us! Thank you, Harry!” But presently, on an
appealing look from the gentleman, she added, “Are you--are you thinking
of going home?”
“And have all Virginia jeering at me! There's not a gentleman there
that wouldn't, except one, and him my mother doesn't like. I should
be ashamed to go home now, I think. You don't know my mother, Hetty. I
ain't afraid of most things; but, somehow, I am of her. What shall I say
to her, when she says, 'Harry, where's your patrimony?' 'Spent, mother,'
I shall have to say. 'What have you done with it?' 'Wasted it, mother,
and went to prison after.' 'Who took you out of prison?' 'Brother
George, ma'am, he took me out of prison; and now I'm come back,
having done no good for myself, with no profession, no prospects, no
nothing--only to look after negroes, and be scolded at home; or to go to
sleep at sermons; or to play at cards, and drink, and fight cocks at the
taverns about.' How can I look the gentlemen of the country in the face?
I'm ashamed to go home in this way, I say. I must and will do something!
What shall I do, Hetty? Ah! what shall I do?”
“Do? What did Mr. Wolfe do at Louisbourg? Ill as he was, and in love as
we knew him to be, he didn't stop to be nursed by his mother, Harry, or
to dawdle with his sweetheart. He went on the King's service, and hath
come back covered with honour. If there is to be another great campaign
in America, papa says he is sure of a great command.”
“I wish he would take me with him, and that a ball would knock me on the
head and finish me,” groaned Harry. “You speak to me, Hetty, as though
it were my fault that I am not in the army, when you know I would
give--give, forsooth, what have I to give?--yes! my life to go on
service!”
“Life indeed!” says Miss Hetty, with a shrug of her shoulders.
“You don't seem to think that of much value, Hetty,” remarked Harry,
sadly. “No more it is--to anybody. I'm a poor useless fellow. I'm not
even free to throw it away as I would like, being under orders here and
at home.”
“Orders indeed! Why under orders?” cries Miss Hetty. “Aren't you tall
enough, and old enough, to act for yourself, and must you have George
for a master here, and your mother for a schoolmistress at home? If
I were a man, I would do something famous before I was two-and-twenty
years old, that I would! I would have the world speak of me. I wouldn't
dawdle at apron-strings. I wouldn't curse my fortune--I'd make it. I vow
and declare I would!”
Now, for the first time, Harry began to wince at the words of his young
lecturer.
“No negro on our estate is more a slave than I am, Hetty,” he said,
turning very red as he addressed her; “but then, Miss Lambert, we don't
reproach the poor fellow for not being free. That isn't generous. At
least, that isn't the way I understand honour. Perhaps with women it's
different, or I may be wrong, and have no right to be hurt at a young
girl telling me what my faults are. Perhaps my faults are not my
faults--only my cursed luck. You have been talking ever so long about
this gentleman volunteering, and that man winning glory, and cracking up
their courage as if I had none of my own. I suppose, for the matter of
that, I'm as well provided as other gentlemen. I don't brag but I'm not
afraid of Mr. Wolfe, nor of Sir John Armytage, nor of anybody else that
ever I saw. How can I buy a commission when I've spent my last shilling,
or ask my brother for more who has already halved with me? A gentleman
of my rank can't go a common soldier--else, by Jupiter, I would! And if
a ball finished me, I suppose Miss Hetty Lambert wouldn't be very sorry.
It isn't kind, Hetty--I didn't think it of you.”
“What is it I have said?” asks the young lady. “I have only said Sir
John Armytage has volunteered, and Mr. Wolfe has covered himself with
honour, and you begin to scold me! How can I help it if Mr. Wolfe is
brave and famous? Is that any reason you should be angry, pray?”
“I didn't say angry,” said Harry, gravely. “I said I was hurt.”
“Oh, indeed! I thought such a little creature as I am couldn't hurt
anybody! I'm sure 'tis mighty complimentary to me to say that a young
lady whose arm is no bigger than your little finger can hurt such a
great strong man as you!”
“I scarce thought you would try, Hetty,” the young man said. You see,
I'm not used to this kind of welcome in this house.”
“What is it, my poor boy?” asks kind Mrs. Lambert, looking in at
the door at this juncture, and finding the youth with a very woeworn
countenance.
“Oh, we have heard the story before, mamma!” says Hetty, hurriedly.
“Harry is making his old complaint of having nothing to do. And he is
quite unhappy; and he is telling us so over and over again, that's all.”
“So are you hungry over and over again, my dear! Is that a reason why
your papa and I should leave off giving you dinner?” cries mamma, with
some emotion. “Will you stay and have ours, Harry? 'Tis just three
o'clock!” Harry agreed to stay, after a few faint negations. “My husband
dines abroad. We are but three women, so you will have a dull dinner,”
remarks Mrs. Lambert.
“We shall have a gentleman to enliven us, mamma, I dare say!” says Madam
Pert, and then looked in mamma's face with that admirable gaze of
blank innocence which Madam Pert knows how to assume when she has been
specially and successfully wicked.
When the dinner appeared. Miss Hetty came downstairs, and was
exceedingly chatty, lively, and entertaining. Theo did not know that any
little difference had occurred (such, alas, my Christian friends,
will happen in the most charming families), did not know, I say, that
anything had happened until Hetty's uncommon sprightliness and
gaiety roused her suspicions. Hetty would start a dozen subjects of
conversation--the King of Prussia, and the news from America; the last
masquerade, and the highwayman shot near Barnet; and when her sister,
admiring this volubility, inquired the reason of it, with her eyes,--
“Oh, my dear, you need not nod and wink at me!” cries Hetty. “Mamma
asked Harry on purpose to enliven us, and I am talking until he begins,
just like the fiddles at the playhouse, you know, Theo! First the
fiddles. Then the play. Pray begin, Harry!”
“Hester!” cries mamma.
“I merely asked Harry to entertain us. You said yourself, mother, that
we were only three women, and the dinner would be dull for a gentleman;
unless, indeed, he chose to be very lively.”
“I'm not that on most days--and, Heaven knows, on this day less than
most,” says poor Harry.
“Why on this day less than another? Tuesday is as good a day to be
lively as Wednesday. The only day when we mustn't be lively is Sunday.
Well, you know it is, ma'am! We mustn't sing, nor dance, nor do anything
on Sunday.”
And in this naughty way the young woman went on for the rest of the
evening, and was complimented by her mother and sister when poor Harry
took his leave. He was not ready of wit, and could not fling back the
taunts which Hetty cast against him. Nay, had he been able to retort, he
would have been silent. He was too generous to engage in that small war,
and chose to take all Hester's sarcasms without an attempt to parry
or evade them. Very likely the young lady watched and admired that
magnanimity, while she tried it so cruelly. And after one of her fits of
ill-behaviour, her parents and friends had not the least need to scold
her, as she candidly told them, because she suffered a great deal more
than they would ever have had her, and her conscience punished her a
great deal more severely than her kind elders would have thought of
doing. I suppose she lies awake all that night, and tosses and tumbles
in her bed. I suppose she wets her pillow with tears, and should not
mind about her sobbing: unless it kept her sister awake; unless she was
unwell the next day, and the doctor had to be fetched; unless the whole
family is to be put to discomfort; mother to choke over her dinner in
flurry and indignation; father to eat his roast-beef in silence and with
bitter sauce; everybody to look at the door each time it opens, with a
vague hope that Harry is coming in. If Harry does not come, why at least
does not George come? thinks Miss Theo.
Some time in the course of the evening comes a billet from George
Warrington, with a large nosegay of lilacs, per Mr. Gumbo. “'I send my
best duty and regards to Mrs. Lambert and the ladies,'” George says,
“'and humbly beg to present to Miss Theo this nosegay of lilacs, which
she says she loves in the early spring. You must not thank me for them,
please, but the gardener of Bedford House, with whom I have made great
friends by presenting him with some dried specimens of a Virginian plant
which some ladies don't think as fragrant as lilacs.
“'I have been in the garden almost all the day. It is alive with
sunshine and spring; and I have been composing two scenes of you know
what, and polishing the verses which the Page sings in the fourth act,
under Sybilla's window, which she cannot hear, poor thing, because she
has just had her head off.'”
“Provoking! I wish he would not always sneer and laugh! The verses are
beautiful,” says Theo.
“You really think so, my dear? How very odd!” remarks papa.
Little Het looks up from her dismal corner with a faint smile of humour.
Theo's secret is a secret for nobody in the house, it seems. Can any
young people guess what it is? Our young lady continues to read:
“'Spencer has asked the famous Mr. Johnson to breakfast to-morrow,
who condescends to hear the play, and who won't, I hope, be too angry
because my heroine undergoes the fate of his in Irene. I have heard he
came up to London himself as a young man with only his tragedy in his
wallet. Shall I ever be able to get mine played? Can you fancy the
catcall music beginning, and the pit hissing at that perilous part of
the fourth act, where my executioner comes out from the closet with his
great sword, at the awful moment when he is called upon to amputate?
They say Mr. Fielding, when the pit hissed at a part of one of his
pieces, about which Mr. Garrick had warned him, said, 'Hang them, they
have found it out, have they?' and finished his punch in tranquillity.
I suppose his wife was not in the boxes. There are some women to whom I
would be very unwilling to give pain, and there are some to whom I would
give the best I have.'”
“Whom can he mean? The letter is to you, my dear. I protest he is making
love to your mother before my face!” cries papa to Hetty, who only gives
a little sigh, puts her hand in her father's hand, and then withdraws
it.
“'To whom I would give the best I have. To-day it is only a bunch of
lilacs. To-morrow it may be what?--a branch of rue--a sprig of bays,
perhaps--anything, so it be my best and my all.
“'I have had a fine long day, and all to myself. What do you think of
Harry playing truant?'” (Here we may imagine, what they call in France,
or what they used to call, when men dared to speak or citizens to hear,
sensation dans l'auditoire.)
“'I suppose Carpezan wearied the poor fellow's existence out. Certain it
is he has been miserable for weeks past; and a change of air and scene
may do him good. This morning, quite early, he came to my room, and told
me he had taken a seat in the Portsmouth machine, and proposed to go to
the Isle of Wight, to the army there.'”
The army! Hetty looks very pale at this announcement, and her mother
continues:
“'And a little portion of it, namely, the thirty-second regiment, is
commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Richmond Webb--the nephew of the famous
old General under whom my grandfather Esmond served in the great wars of
Marlborough. Mr. Webb met us at our uncle's, accosting us very politely,
and giving us an invitation to visit him at his regiment. Let my poor
brother go and listen to his darling music of fife and drum! He bade me
tell the ladies that they should hear from him. I kiss their hands, and
go to dress for dinner, at the Star and Garter, in Pall Mall. We are to
have Mr. Soame Jenyns, Mr. Cambridge, Mr. Walpole, possibly, if he is
not too fine to dine in a tavern; a young Irishman, a Mr. Bourke, who
they say is a wonder of eloquence and learning--in fine, all the wits of
Mr. Dodsley's shop. Quick, Gumbo, a coach, and my French grey suit! And
if gentlemen ask me, 'Who gave you that sprig of lilac you wear on your
heart-side?' I shall call a bumper, and give Lilac for a toast.'”
I fear there is no more rest for Hetty on this night than on the
previous one, when she had behaved so mutinously to poor Harry
Warrington. Some secret resolution must have inspired that gentleman,
for, after leaving Mr. Lambert's table, he paced the streets for
a while, and appeared at a late hour in the evening at Madame de
Bernstein's house in Clarges Street. Her ladyship's health had been
somewhat ailing of late, so that even her favourite routs were denied
her, and she was sitting over a quiet game of ecarte, with a divine of
whom our last news were from a lock-up house hard by that in which Harry
Warrington had been himself confined. George, at Harry's request, had
paid the little debt under which Mr. Sampson had suffered temporarily.
He had been at his living for a year. He may have paid and contracted
ever so many debts, have been in and out of jail many times since we saw
him. For some time past he had been back in London stout and hearty
as usual, and ready for any invitation to cards or claret. Madame de
Bernstein did not care to have her game interrupted by her nephew, whose
conversation had little interest now for the fickle old woman. Next to
the very young, I suppose the very old are the most selfish. Alas, the
heart hardens as the blood ceases to run. The cold snow strikes down
from the head, and checks the glow of feeling. Who wants to survive
into old age after abdicating all his faculties one by one, and be sans
teeth, sans eyes, sans memory, sans hope, sans sympathy? How fared it
with those patriarchs of old who lived for their nine centuries, and
when were life's conditions so changed that, after threescore years and
ten, it became but a vexation and a burden?
Getting no reply but Yes and No to his brief speeches, poor Harry sat a
while on a couch opposite his aunt, who shrugged her shoulders, had her
back to her nephew, and continued her game with the chaplain. Sampson
sat opposite Mr. Warrington, and could see that something disturbed him.
His face was very pale, and his countenance disturbed and full of gloom.
“Something has happened to him, ma'am,” he whispered to the Baroness.
“Bah!” She shrugged her shoulders again, and continued to deal her
cards. “What is the matter with you, sir,” she at last said, at a pause
in the game, “that you have such a dismal countenance? Chaplain, that
last game makes us even, I think!”
Harry got up from his place. “I am going on a journey: I am come to bid
you good-bye, aunt,” he said, in a very tragical voice.
“On a journey! Are you going home to America? I mark the king, Chaplain,
and play him.”
No, Harry said: he was not going to America yet going to the Isle of
Wight for the present.
“Indeed!--a lovely spot!” says the Baroness. “Bon jour, mon ami, et bon
voyage!” And she kissed a hand to her nephew.
“I mayn't come back for some time, aunt,” he groaned out.
“Indeed! We shall be inconsolable without you! Unless you have a spade,
Mr. Sampson, the game is mine. Good-bye, my child! No more about your
journey at present: tell us about it when you come back!” And she gaily
bade him farewell. He looked for a moment piteously at her, and was
gone.
“Something grave has happened, madam,” says the chaplain.
“Oh! The boy is always getting into scrapes! I suppose he has been
falling in love with one of those country girls--what are their names,
Lamberts?--with whom he is ever dawdling about. He has been doing no
good here for some time. I am disappointed in him, really quite grieved
about him--I will take two cards, if you please--again?--quite grieved.
What do you think they say of his cousin--the Miss Warrington who made
eyes at him when she thought he was a prize--they say the King has
remarked her, and the Yarmouth is creving with rage. He, be!--those
methodistical Warringtons! They are not a bit less worldly than
their neighbours; and, old as he is, if the Grand Seignior throws his
pocket-handkerchief, they will jump to catch it!”
“Ah, madam; how your ladyship knows the world!” sighs the chaplain. “I
propose, if you please!”
“I have lived long enough in it, Mr. Sampson, to know something of
it. 'Tis sadly selfish, my dear sir, sadly selfish; and everybody is
struggling to pass his neighbour! No, I can't give you any more cards.
You haven't the king? I play queen, knave, and a ten,--a sadly selfish
world, indeed. And here comes my chocolate!”
The more immediate interest of the cards entirely absorbs the old woman.
The door shuts out her nephew and his cares. Under his hat, he bears
them into the street, and paces the dark town for a while.
“Good God!” he thinks, “what a miserable fellow I am, and what a
spendthrift of my life I have been! I sit silent with George and his
friends. I am not clever and witty as he is. I am only a burthen to
him; and, if I would help him ever so much, don't know how. My dear Aunt
Lambert's kindness never tires, but I begin to be ashamed of trying it.
Why, even Hetty can't help turning on me; and when she tells me I am
idle and should be doing something, ought I to be angry? The rest have
left me. There's my cousins and uncle and my lady my aunt, they have
shown me the cold shoulder this long time. They didn't even ask me to
Norfolk when they went down to the country, and offer me so much as
a day's partridge-shooting. I can't go to Castlewood--after what has
happened; I should break that scoundrel William's bones; and, faith, am
well out of the place altogether.”
He laughs a fierce laugh as he recalls his adventures since he has been
in Europe. Money, friends, pleasure, all have passed away, and he feels
the past like a dream. He strolls into White's Chocolate-House, where
the waiters have scarce seen him for a year. The parliament is up.
Gentlemen are away; there is not even any play going on:--not that he
would join it, if there were.
He has but a few pieces in his pocket; George's drawer is open, and he
may take what money he likes thence; but very, very sparingly will he
avail himself of his brother's repeated invitation. He sits and drinks
his glass in moody silence. Two or three officers of the Guards enter
from St. James's. He knew them in former days, and the young men, who
have been already dining and drinking on guard, insist on more drink at
the club. The other battalion of their regiment is at Winchester: it is
going on this great expedition, no one knows whither, which everybody
is talking about. Cursed fate that they do not belong to the other
battalion; and must stay and do duty in London and at Kensington! There
is Webb, who was of their regiment: he did well to exchange his company
in the Coldstreams for the lieutenant-colonelcy of the thirty-second.
He will be of the expedition. Why, everybody is going; and the young
gentlemen mention a score of names of men of the first birth and fashion
who have volunteered. “It ain't Hanoverians this time, commanded by the
big Prince,” says one young gentleman (whose relatives may have been
Tories forty years ago)--“it's Englishmen, with the Guards at the head
of 'em, and a Marlborough for a leader! Will the Frenchmen ever stand
against them? No, by George, they are irresistible.” And a fresh bowl is
called, and loud toasts are drunk to the success of the expedition.
Mr. Warrington, who is a cup too low, the young Guardsmen say, walks
away when they are not steady enough to be able to follow him, thinks
over the matter on his way to his lodgings, and lies thinking of it all
through the night.
“What is it, my boy?” asks George Warrington of his brother, when the
latter enters his chamber very early on a blushing May morning.
“I want a little money out of the drawer,” says Harry, looking at his
brother. “I am sick and tired of London.”
“Good heavens! Can anybody be tired of London?” George asks, who has
reasons for thinking it the most delightful place in the world.
“I am for one. I am sick and ill,” says Harry.
“You and Hetty have been quarrelling?”
“She don't care a penny-piece about me, nor I for her neither,” says
Harry, nodding his head. “But I am ill, and a little country air will
do me good,” and he mentions how he thinks of going to visit Mr. Webb in
the Isle of Wight, and how a Portsmouth coach starts from Holborn.
“There's the till, Harry,” says George, pointing from his bed. “Put your
hand in, and take what you will. What a lovely morning, and how fresh
the Bedford House garden looks!”
“God bless you, brother!” Harry says.
“Have a good time, Harry!” and down goes George's head on the pillow
again, and he takes his pencil and notebook from under his bolster,
and falls to polishing his verses, as Harry, with his cloak over his
shoulder and a little valise in his hand, walks to the inn in Holborn
whence the Portsmouth machine starts.