“I have breakfasted,” says he, “with James Wolfe this morning, and our

friend Harry was of the party. When he and the other guests were gone, I

remained and talked with James about the great expedition on which he is

going to sail. Would that his brave father had lived a few months longer

to see him come back covered with honours from Louisbourg, and knowing

that all England was looking to him to achieve still greater glory!

James is dreadfully ill in body--so ill that I am frightened for

him--and not a little depressed in mind at having to part from the young

lady whom he has loved so long. A little rest, he thinks, might have set

his shattered frame up; and to call her his has been the object of his

life. But, great as his love is (and he is as romantic as one of you

young folks of seventeen), honour and duty are greater, and he leaves

home, and wife, and ease, and health, at their bidding. Every man of

honour would do the like; every woman who loves him truly would buckle

on his armour for him. James goes to take leave of his mother to-night;

and though she loves him devotedly, and is one of the tenderest women

in the world, I am sure she will show no sign of weakness at his going

away.”

“When does he sail, papa?” the girl asked.

“He will be on board in five days.” And Hetty knew quite well who sailed

with him.

CHAPTER LXVIII. In which Harry goes westward

Our tender hearts are averse to all ideas and descriptions of parting;

and I shall therefore say nothing of Harry Warrington's feelings at

taking leave of his brother and friends. Were not thousands of men in

the same plight? Had not Mr. Wolfe his mother to kiss (his brave father

had quitted life during his son's absence on the glorious Louisbourg

campaign), and his sweetheart to clasp in a farewell embrace? Had not

stout Admiral Holmes, before sailing westward with his squadron, The

Somerset, The Terrible, The Northumberland, The Royal William, The

Trident, The Diana, The Seahorse--his own flag being hoisted on board

The Dublin--to take leave of Mrs. and the Misses Holmes? Was Admiral

Saunders, who sailed the day after him, exempt from human feeling?

Away go William and his crew of jovial sailors, ploughing through the

tumbling waves, and poor Black-eyed Susan on shore watches the ship as

it dwindles in the sunset.

It dwindles in the West. The night falls darkling over the ocean. They

are gone: but their hearts are at home yet a while. In silence, with a

heart inexpressibly soft and tender, how each man thinks of those he has

left! What a chorus of pitiful prayer rises up to the Father, at sea and

on shore, on that parting night at home by the vacant bedside, where

the wife kneels in tears; round the fire, where the mother and children

together pour out their supplications: or on deck, where the seafarer

looks up to the stars of heaven, as the ship cleaves through the roaring

midnight waters! To-morrow the sun rises upon our common life again, and

we commence our daily task of toil and duty.

George accompanies his brother, and stays a while with him at Portsmouth

whilst they are waiting for a wind. He shakes Mr. Wolfe's hand, looks

at his pale face for the last time, and sees the vessels depart amid the

clangour of bells, and the thunder of cannon from the shore. Next day he

is back at his home, and at that business which is sure one of the most

selfish and absorbing of the world's occupations, to which almost every

man who is thirty years old has served ere this his apprenticeship. He

has a pang of sadness, as he looks in at the lodgings to the little room

which Harry used to occupy, and sees his half-burned papers still in

the grate. In a few minutes he is on his way to Dean Street again,

and whispering by the fitful firelight in the ear of the clinging

sweetheart. She is very happy--oh, so happy! at his return. She is

ashamed of being so. Is it not heartless to be so, when poor Hetty is so

melancholy? Poor little Hetty! Indeed, it is selfish to be glad when she

is in such a sad way. It makes one quite wretched to see her. “Don't,

sir! Well, I ought to be wretched, and it's very, very wicked of me if

I'm not,” says Theo; and one can understand her soft-hearted repentance.

What she means by “Don't” who can tell? I have said the room was dark,

and the fire burned fitfully--and “Don't” is no doubt uttered in one

of the dark fits. Enter servants with supper and lights. The family

arrives; the conversation becomes general. The destination of the fleet

is known everywhere now. The force on board is sufficient to beat all

the French in Canada; and, under such an officer as Wolfe, to repair the

blunders and disasters of previous campaigns. He looked dreadfully ill,

indeed. But he has a great soul in a feeble body. The ministers, the

country hope the utmost from him. After supper, according to custom, Mr.

Lambert assembles his modest household, of whom George Warrington may

be said quite to form a part; and as he prays for all travellers by land

and water, Theo and her sister are kneeling together. And so, as the

ship speeds farther and farther into the West, the fond thoughts pursue

it; and the night passes, and the sun rises.

A day or two more, and everybody is at his books or his usual work. As

for George Warrington, that celebrated dramatist is busy about another

composition. When the tragedy of Carpezan had run some thirty or

twoscore nights, other persons of genius took possession of the theatre.

There may have been persons who wondered how the town could be so fickle

as ever to tire of such a masterpiece as the Tragedy--who could not bear

to see the actors dressed in other habits, reciting other men's verses;

but George, of a sceptical turn of mind, took the fate of his Tragedy

very philosophically, and pocketed the proceeds with much quiet

satisfaction. From Mr. Dodsley, the bookseller, he had the usual

complement of a hundred pounds; from the manager of the theatre two

hundred or more; and such praises from the critics and his friends, that

he set to work to prepare another piece, with which he hoped to achieve

even greater successes than by his first performance.

Over these studies, and the other charming business which occupies him,

months pass away. Happy business! Happiest time of youth and life,

when love is first spoken and returned; when the dearest eyes are daily

shining welcome, and the fondest lips never tire of whispering their

sweet secrets; when the parting look that accompanies “Good night!”

gives delightful warning of to-morrow; when the heart is so overflowing

with love and happiness, that it has to spare for all the world; when

the day closes with glad prayers, and opens with joyful hopes; when

doubt seems cowardice, misfortune impossible, poverty only a sweet trial

of constancy! Theo's elders, thankfully remembering their own prime,

sit softly by and witness this pretty comedy performed by their young

people. And in one of his later letters, dutifully written to his wife

during a temporary absence from home, George Warrington records how he

had been to look up at the windows of the dear old house in Dean Street,

and wondered who was sitting in the chamber where he and Theo had been

so happy.

Meanwhile we can learn how the time passes, and our friends are engaged,

by some extracts from George's letters to his brother.

“From the old window opposite Bedford Gardens, this 20th August 1759.

“Why are you gone back to rugged rocks, bleak shores, burning summers,

nipping winters, at home, when you might have been cropping ever so many

laurels in Germany? Kingsley's are coming back as covered with 'em as

Jack-a-Green on May-day. Our six regiments did wonders; and our horse

would have done if my Lord George Sackville only had let them. But when

Prince Ferdinand said 'Charge!' his lordship could not hear, or could

not translate the German word for 'Forward;' and so we only beat the

French, without utterly annihilating them, as we might, had Lord Granby

or Mr. Warrington had the command. My lord is come back to town, and

is shouting for a Court-Martial. He held his head high enough in

prosperity: in misfortune he shows such a constancy of arrogance that

one almost admires him. He looks as if he rather envied poor Mr. Byng,

and the not shooting him were a manque d'egards towards him.

“The Duke has had notice to get himself in readiness for departing

from this world of grandeurs and victories, and downfalls and

disappointments. An attack of palsy has visited his Royal Highness; and

pallida mors has just peeped in at his door, as it were, and said,

'I will call again.' Tyrant as he was, this prince has been noble in

disgrace; and no king has ever had a truer servant than ours has found

in his son. Why do I like the losing side always, and am I disposed to

revolt against the winners? Your famous Mr. P----, your chief's patron

and discoverer, I have been to hear in the House of Commons twice or

thrice. I revolt against his magniloquence. I wish some little David

would topple over that swelling giant. His thoughts and his language are

always attitudinising. I like Barry's manner best, though the other is

the more awful actor.

“Pocahontas gets on apace. Barry likes his part of Captain Smith; and,

though he will have him wear a red coat and blue facings and an epaulet,

I have a fancy to dress him exactly like one of the pictures of Queen

Elizabeth's gentlemen at Hampton Court: with a ruff and a square beard

and square shoes. 'And Pocahontas--would you like her to be tattooed?'

asks Uncle Lambert. Hagan's part as the warrior who is in love with

her, and, seeing her partiality for the captain, nobly rescues him from

death, I trust will prove a hit. A strange fish is this Hagan: his mouth

full of stage-plays and rant, but good, honest, and brave, if I don't

err. He is angry at having been cast lately for Sir O'Brallaghan, in Mr.

Macklin's new farce of Love A-la-mode. He says that he does not keer to

disgreece his tongue with imiteetions of that rascal brogue. As if there

was any call for imiteetions, when he has such an admirable twang of his

own!

“Shall I tell you? Shall I hide the circumstance? Shall I hurt your

feelings? Shall I set you in a rage of jealousy, and cause you to ask

for leave to return to Europe? Know, then, that though Carpezan is

long since dead, cousin Maria is for ever coming to the playhouse. Tom

Spencer has spied her out night after night in the gallery, and

she comes on the nights when Hagan performs. Quick, Burroughs, Mr.

Warrington's boots and portmanteau! Order a chaise and four for

Portsmouth immediately! The letter which I burned one morning when we

were at breakfast (I may let the cat out of the bag, now puss has such a

prodigious way to run) was from cousin M., hinting that she wished me

to tell no tales about her: but I can't help just whispering to you

that Maria at this moment is busy consoling herself as fast as possible.

Shall I spoil sport? Shall I tell her brother? Is the affair any

business of mine? What have the Esmonds done for you and me but win

our money at cards? Yet I like our noble cousin. It seems to me that he

would be good if he could--or rather, he would have been once. He has

been set on a wrong way of life, from which 'tis now probably too late

to rescue him. O beati agricolae! Our Virginia was dull, but let us

thank Heaven we were bred there. We were made little slaves, but not

slaves to wickedness, gambling, bad male and female company. It was not

until my poor Harry left home that he fell among thieves. I mean thieves

en grand, such as waylaid him and stripped him on English highroads. I

consider you none the worse because you were the unlucky one, and had

to deliver your purse up. And now you are going to retrieve, and make

a good name for yourself; and kill more 'French dragons,' and become a

great commander. And our mother will talk of her son the Captain, the

Colonel, the General, and have his picture painted with all his stars

and epaulets, when poor I shall be but a dawdling poetaster, or, if we

may hope for the best, a snug placeman, with a little box at Richmond

or Kew, and a half-score of little picaninnies, that will come and bob

curtseys at the garden-gate when their uncle the General rides up on his

great charger, with his aide-de-camp's pockets filled with gingerbread

for the nephews and nieces. 'Tis for you to brandish the sword of Mars.

As for me, I look forward to a quiet life: a quiet little home, a quiet

little library full of books, and a little Some one dulce ridentem,

dulce loquentem, on t'other side of the fire, as I scribble away at my

papers. I am so pleased with this prospect, so utterly contented and

happy, that I feel afraid as I think of it, lest it should escape me;

and, even to my dearest Hal, am shy of speaking of my happiness. What is

ambition to me, with this certainty? What do I care for wars, with this

beatific peace smiling near?

“Our mother's friend, Mynheer Van den Bosch, has been away on a tour to

discover his family in Holland, and, strange to say, has found one. Miss

(who was intended by maternal solicitude to be a wife for your worship)

has had six months at Kensington School, and is coming out with a

hundred pretty accomplishments, which are to complete her a perfect

fine lady. Her papa brought her to make a curtsey in Dean Street, and

a mighty elegant curtsey she made. Though she is scarce seventeen,

no dowager of sixty can be more at her ease. She conversed with Aunt

Lambert on an equal footing; she treated the girls as chits--to Hetty's

wrath and Theo's amusement. She talked politics with the General, and

the last routs, dresses, operas, fashions, scandal, with such perfect

ease that, but for a blunder or two, you might have fancied Miss Lydia

was born in Mayfair. At the Court end of the town she will live, she

says; and has no patience with her father, who has a lodging in Monument

Yard. For those who love a brown beauty, a prettier little mignonne

creature cannot be seen. But my taste, you know, dearest brother,

and...”

Here follows a page of raptures and quotations of verse, which, out of

a regard for the reader, and the writer's memory, the editor of the

present pages declines to reprint. Gentlemen and ladies of a certain age

may remember the time when they indulged in these rapturous follies

on their own accounts; when the praises of the charmer were for ever

warbling from their lips or trickling from their pens; when the flowers

of life were in full bloom, and all the birds of spring were singing.

The twigs are now bare, perhaps, and the leaves have fallen; but, for

all that, shall we not,--remember the vernal time? As for you, young

people, whose May (or April, is it?) has not commenced yet, you need not

be detained over other folks' love-rhapsodies; depend on it, when your

spring-season arrives, kindly Nature will warm all your flowers into

bloom, and rouse your glad bosoms to pour out their full song.

CHAPTER LXIX. A Little Innocent

George Warrington has mentioned in the letter just quoted, that in spite

of my Lord Castlewood's previous play transactions with Harry, my lord

and George remained friends, and met on terms of good kinsmanship. Did

George want franks, or an introduction at court, or a place in the House

of Lords to hear a debate, his cousin was always ready to serve him,

was a pleasant and witty companion, and would do anything which might

promote his relative's interests, provided his own were not prejudiced.

Now he even went so far as to promise that he would do his best with the

people in power to provide a place for Mr. George Warrington, who daily

showed a greater disinclination to return to his native country, and

place himself once more under the maternal servitude. George had not

merely a sentimental motive for remaining in England: the pursuits and

society of London pleased him infinitely better than any which he could

have at home. A planter's life of idleness might have suited him, could

he have enjoyed independence with it. But in Virginia he was only the

first, and, as he thought, the worst treated, of his mother's subjects.

He dreaded to think of returning with his young bride to his home, and

of the life which she would be destined to lead there. Better freedom

and poverty in England, with congenial society, and a hope perchance of

future distinction, than the wearisome routine of home life, the tedious

subordination, the frequent bickerings, the certain jealousies and

differences of opinion, to which he must subject his wife so soon as

they turned their faces homeward.

So Lord Castlewood's promise to provide for George was very eagerly

accepted by the Virginian. My lord had not provided very well for

his own brother to be sure, and his own position, peer as he was, was

anything but enviable; but we believe what we wish to believe, and

George Warrington chose to put great stress upon his kinsman's offer

of patronage. Unlike the Warrington family, Lord Castlewood was quite

gracious when he was made acquainted with George's engagement to Miss

Lambert; came to wait upon her parents; praised George to them and the

young lady to George, and made himself so prodigiously agreeable in

their company that these charitable folk forgot his bad reputation, and

thought it must be a very wicked and scandalous world which maligned

him. He said, indeed, that he was improved in their society, as every

man must be who came into it. Among them he was witty, lively, good for

the time being. He left his wickedness and worldliness with his cloak

in the hall, and only put them on again when he stepped into his chair.

What worldling on life's voyage does not know of some such harbour of

rest and calm, some haven where he puts in out of the storm? Very likely

Lord Castlewood was actually better whilst he stayed with those good

people, and for the time being at least no hypocrite.

And, I dare say, the Lambert elders thought no worse of his lordship for

openly proclaiming his admiration for Miss Theo. It was quite genuine,

and he did not profess it was very deep.

“It don't affect my sleep, and I am not going to break my heart because

Miss Lambert prefers somebody else,” he remarked. Only I wish when I was

a young man, madam, I had had the good fortune to meet with somebody so

innocent and good as your daughter. I might have been kept out of a deal

of harm's way: but innocent and good young women did not fall into mine,

or they would have made me better than I am.”

“Sure, my lord, it is not too late!” says Mrs. Lambert, very softly.

Castlewood started back, misunderstanding her.

“Not too late, madam?” he inquired.

She blushed. “It is too late to court my dear daughter, my lord, but not

too late to repent. We read, 'tis never too late to do that. If others

have been received at the eleventh hour, is there any reason why you

should give up hope?”

“Perhaps I know my own heart better than you,” he says in a plaintive

tone. “I can speak French and German very well, and why? because I was

taught both in the nursery. A man who learns them late can never get the

practice of them on his tongue. And so 'tis the case with goodness, I

can't learn it at my age. I can only see others practise it, and admire

them. When I am on--on the side opposite to Lazarus, will Miss Theo give

me a drop of water? Don't frown! I know I shall be there, Mrs. Lambert.

Some folks are doomed so; and I think some of our family are amongst

these. Some people are vacillating, and one hardly knows which way

the scale will turn. Whereas some are predestined angels, and fly

Heavenwards naturally, and do what they will.”

“Oh, my lord, and why should you not be of the predestined? Whilst there

is a day left--whilst there is an hour--there is hope!” says the fond

matron.

“I know what is passing in your mind, my dear madam--nay, I read your

prayers in your looks; but how can they avail?” Lord Castlewood asked

sadly. “You don't know all, my good lady. You don't know what a life

ours is of the world; how early it began; how selfish Nature, and then

necessity and education, have made us. It is Fate holds the reins of

the chariot, and we can't escape our doom. I know better: I see better

people: I go my own way. My own? No, not mine--Fate's: and it is not

altogether without pity for us, since it allows us, from time to time,

to see such people as you.” And he took her hand and looked her full

in the face, and bowed with a melancholy grace. Every word he said

was true. No greater error than to suppose that weak and bad men are

strangers to good feelings, or deficient of sensibility. Only the

good feeling does not last--nay, the tears are a kind of debauch of

sentiment, as old libertines are said to find that the tears and grief

of their victims add a zest to their pleasure. But Mrs. Lambert knew

little of what was passing in this man's mind (how should she?), and

so prayed for him with the fond persistence of woman. He was much

better--yes, much better than he was supposed to be. He was a most

interesting man. There were hopes, why should there not be the most

precious hopes for him still?

It remains to be seen which of the two speakers formed the correct

estimate of my lord's character. Meanwhile, if the gentleman was

right, the lady was mollified, and her kind wishes and prayers for

this experienced sinner's repentance, if they were of no avail for his

amendment, at least could do him no harm. Kind-souled doctors (and what

good woman is not of the faculty?) look after a reprobate as physicians

after a perilous case. When the patient is converted to health their

interest ceases in him, and they drive to feel pulses and prescribe

medicines elsewhere.

But, while the malady was under treatment, our kind lady could not see

too much of her sick man. Quite an intimacy sprung up between my Lord

Castlewood and the Lamberts. I am not sure that some worldly views might

not suit even with good Mrs. Lambert's spiritual plans (for who

knows into what pure Eden, though guarded by flaming-sworded angels,

worldliness will not creep?). Her son was about to take orders. My Lord

Castlewood feared very much that his present chaplain's, Mr. Sampson's,

careless life and heterodox conversations might lead him to give up his

chaplaincy: in which case, my lord hinted the little modest cure would

be vacant, and at the service of some young divine of good principles

and good manners, who would be content with a small stipend, and a small

but friendly congregation.

Thus an acquaintance was established between the two families, and the

ladies of Castlewood, always on their good behaviour, came more than

once to make their curtseys in Mrs. Lambert's drawing-room. They were

civil to the parents and the young ladies. My Lady Castlewood's card

assemblies were open to Mrs. Lambert and her family. There was play,

certainly--all the world played--his Majesty, the Bishops, every Peer

and Peeress in the land. But nobody need play who did not like; and

surely nobody need have scruples regarding the practice, when such

august and venerable personages were daily found to abet it. More than

once Mrs. Lambert made her appearance at her ladyship's routs, and

was grateful for the welcome which she received, and pleased with the

admiration which her daughters excited.

Mention has been made, in a foregoing page and letter, of an American

family of Dutch extraction, who had come to England very strongly

recommended by Madam Esmond, their Virginian neighbour, to her sons in

Europe. The views expressed in Madam Esmond's letter were so clear, that

that arch match-maker, Mrs. Lambert, could not but understand them. As

for George, he was engaged already; as for poor Hetty's flame, Harry, he

was gone on service, for which circumstance Hetty's mother was not very

sorry perhaps. She laughingly told George that he ought to obey his

mamma's injunctions, break off his engagement with Theo, and make up to

Miss Lydia, who was ten times--ten times! a hundred times as rich as

her poor girl, and certainly much handsomer. “Yes, indeed,” says George,

“that I own: she is handsomer, and she is richer, and perhaps even

cleverer.” (All which praises Mrs. Lambert but half liked.) “But say

she is all these? So is Mr. Johnson much cleverer than I am: so is, whom

shall we say?--so is Mr. Hagan the actor much taller and handsomer: so

is Sir James Lowther much richer: yet pray, ma'am, do you suppose I am

going to be jealous of any one of these three, or think my Theo would

jilt me for their sakes? Why should I not allow that Miss Lydia is

handsomer, then? and richer, and clever, too, and lively, and well bred,

if you insist on it, and an angel if you will have it so? Theo is not

afraid: art thou, child?”

“No, George,” says Theo, with such an honest look of the eyes as would

convince any scepticism, or shame any jealousy. And if, after this pair

of speeches, mamma takes occasion to leave the room for a minute to

fetch her scissors, or her thimble, or a bootjack and slippers, or the

cross and ball on the top of St. Paul's, or her pocket-handkerchief

which she has forgotten in the parlour--if, I say, Mrs. Lambert quits

the room on any errand or pretext, natural or preposterous, I shall not

be in the least surprised, if, at her return in a couple of minutes, she

finds George in near proximity to Theo, who has a heightened colour, and

whose hand George is just dropping--I shall not have the least idea of

what they have been doing. Have you, madam? Have you any remembrance of

what used to happen when Mr. Grundy came a-courting? Are you, who, after

all, were not in the room with our young people, going to cry out fie

and for shame? Then fie and for shame upon you, Mrs. Grundy!

Well, Harry being away, and Theo and George irrevocably engaged, so

that there was no possibility of bringing Madam Esmond's little plans to

bear, why should not Mrs. Lambert have plans of her own; and if a rich,

handsome, beautiful little wife should fall in his way, why should

not Jack Lambert from Oxford have her? So thinks mamma, who was always

thinking of marrying and giving in marriage, and so she prattles to

General Lambert, who, as usual, calls her a goose for her pains. At any

rate, Mrs. Lambert says beauty and riches are no objection; at any rate,

Madam Esmond desired that this family should be hospitably entertained,

and it was not her fault that Harry was gone away to Canada. Would

the General wish him to come back; leave the army and his reputation,

perhaps; yes, and come to England and marry this American, and break

poor Hetty's heart--would her father wish that? Let us spare further

arguments, and not be so rude as to hint that Mr. Lambert was in the

right in calling a fond wife by the name of that absurd splay-footed

bird, annually sacrificed at the Feast of St. Michael.

In those early days, there were vast distinctions of rank drawn between

the court and city people: and Mr. Van den Bosch, when he first came

to London, scarcely associated with any but the latter sort. He had a

lodging near his agent's in the city. When his pretty girl came from

school for a holiday, he took her an airing to Islington or Highgate, or

an occasional promenade in the Artillery Ground in Bunhill Fields. They

went to that Baptist meeting-house in Finsbury Fields, and on the sly

to see Mr. Garrick once or twice, or that funny rogue Mr. Foote, at

the Little Theatre. To go to a Lord Mayor's feast was a treat to the

gentleman of the highest order: and to dance with a young mercer at

Hampstead Assembly. gave the utmost delight to the young lady. When

George first went to wait upon his mother's friends, he found our old

acquaintance, Mr. Draper, of the Temple, sedulous in his attentions to

her; and the lawyer, who was married, told Mr. Warrington to look out,

as the young lady had a plumb to her fortune. Mr. Drabshaw, a young

Quaker gentleman, and nephew of Mr. Trail, Madam Esmond's Bristol agent,

was also in constant attendance upon the young lady, and in dreadful

alarm and suspicion when Mr. Warrington first made his appearance.

Wishing to do honour to his mother's neighbours, Mr. Warrington invited

them to an entertainment at his own apartments; and who should so

naturally meet them as his friends from Soho? Not one of them but was

forced to own little Miss Lydia's beauty. She had the foot of a fairy:

the arms, neck, flashing eyes of a little brown huntress of Diana. She

had brought a little plaintive accent from home with her--of which I,

moi qui vous parle, have heard a hundred gross Cockney imitations, and

watched as many absurd disguises, and which I say (in moderation)

is charming in the mouth of a charming woman. Who sets up to say No,

forsooth? You dear Miss Whittington, with whose h's fate has dealt so

unkindly?--you lovely Miss Nicol Jarvie, with your northern burr?--you

beautiful Miss Molony, with your Dame Street warble? All accents are

pretty from pretty lips, and who shall set the standard up? Shall it be

a rose, or a thistle, or a shamrock, or a star and stripe? As for Miss

Lydia's accent, I have no doubt it was not odious even from the first

day when she set foot on these polite shores, otherwise Mr. Warrington,

as a man of taste, had certainly disapproved of her manner of talking,

and her schoolmistress at Kensington had not done her duty by her pupil.

After the six months were over, during which, according to her father's

calculation, she was to learn all the accomplishments procurable at the

Kensington Academy, Miss Lydia returned nothing loth to her grandfather,

and took her place in the world. A narrow world at first it was to her;

but she was a resolute little person, and resolved to enlarge her

sphere in society; and whither she chose to lead the way, the obedient

grandfather followed her. He had been thwarted himself in early life, he

said, and little good came of the severity he underwent. He had thwarted

his own son, who had turned out but ill. As for little Lyddy, he was

determined she should have as pleasant a life as was possible. Did not

Mr. George think he was right? 'Twas said in Virginia--he did not

know with what reason--that the young gentlemen of Castlewood had been

happier if Madam Esmond had allowed them a little of their own way.

George could not gainsay this public rumour, or think of inducing

the benevolent old gentleman to alter his plans respecting his

granddaughter. As for the Lambert family, how could they do otherwise

than welcome the kind old man, the parent so tender and liberal, Madam

Esmond's good friend?

When Miss came from school, grandpapa removed from Monument Yard to

an elegant house in Bloomsbury; whither they were followed at first by

their city friends. There were merchants from Virginia Walk; there were

worthy tradesmen, with whom the worthy old merchant had dealings; there

were their ladies and daughters and sons, who were all highly gracious

to Miss Lyddy. It would be a long task to describe how these disappeared

one by one--how there were no more junketings at Belsize, or trips

to Highgate, or Saturday jaunts to Deputy Higgs' villa, Highbury, or

country-dances at honest Mr. Lutestring's house at Hackney. Even the

Sunday practice was changed; and, oh, abomination of abominations! Mr.

Van den Bosch left Bethesda Chapel in Bunhill Row, and actually took a

pew in Queen Square Church!

Queen Square Church, and Mr. George Warrington lived hard by in

Southampton Row! 'Twas easy to see at whom Miss Lyddy was setting her

cap, and Mr. Draper, who had been full of her and her grandfather's

praises before, now took occasion to warn Mr. George, and gave him very

different reports regarding Mr. Van den Bosch to those which had

first been current. Mr. Van d. B., for all he bragged so of his Dutch

parentage, came from Albany, and was nobody's son at all. He had made

his money by land speculation, or by privateering (which was uncommonly

like piracy), and by the Guinea trade. His son had married--if marriage

it could be called, which was very doubtful--an assigned servant, and

had been cut off by his father, and had taken to bad courses, and had

died, luckily for himself, in his own bed.

“Mr. Draper has told you bad tales about me,” said the placid old

gentleman to George. “Very likely we are all sinners, and some evil may

be truly said of all of us, with a great deal more that is untrue. Did

he tell you that my son was unhappy with me? I told you so too. Did he

bring you wicked stories about my family? He liked it so well that he

wanted to marry my Lyddy to his brother. Heaven bless her! I have had a

many offers for her. And you are the young gentleman I should have chose

for her, and I like you none the worse because you prefer somebody else;

though what you can see in your Miss, as compared to my Lyddy, begging

your honour's pardon, I am at a loss to understand.”

“There is no accounting for tastes, my good sir,” said Mr. George, with

his most superb air.

“No, sir; 'tis a wonder of nature, and daily happens. When I kept store

to Albany, there was one of your tiptop gentry there that might have

married my dear daughter that was alive then, and with a pretty piece

of money, whereby--for her father and I had quarrelled--Miss Lyddy would

have been a pauper, you see: and in place of my beautiful Bella, my

gentleman chooses a little homely creature, no prettier than your Miss,

and without a dollar to her fortune. The more fool he, saving your

presence, Mr. George.”

“Pray don't save my presence, my good sir,” says George, laughing. “I

suppose the gentleman's word was given to the other lady, and he had

seen her first, and hence was indifferent to your charming daughter.”

“I suppose when a young fellow gives his word to perform a cursed piece

of folly, he always sticks to it, my dear sir, begging your pardon. But

Lord, Lord, what am I speaking of? I am aspeaking of twenty year ago. I

was well-to-do then, but I may say Heaven has blessed my store, and I am

three times as well off now. Ask my agents how much they will give for

Joseph Van den Bosch's bill at six months on New York--or at sight may

be for forty thousand pound? I warrant they will discount the paper.”

“Happy he who has the bill, sir!” says George, with a bow, not a little

amused with the candour of the old gentleman.

“Lord, Lord, how mercenary you young men are!” cries the elder, simply.

“Always thinking about money nowadays! Happy he who has the girl, I

should say--the money ain't the question, my dear sir, when it goes

along with such a lovely young thing as that--though I humbly say it,

who oughtn't, and who am her fond silly old grandfather. We were talking

about you, Lyddy darling--come, give me a kiss, my blessing! We were

talking about you, and Mr. George said he wouldn't take you with all the

money your poor old grandfather can give you.”

“Nay, sir,” says George.

“Well, you are right to say nay, for I didn't say all, that's the truth.

My Blessing will have a deal more than that trifle I spoke of, when it

shall please Heaven to remove me out of this world to a better--when

poor old Gappy is gone, Lyddy will be a rich little Lyddy, that she

will. But she don't wish me to go yet, does she?”

“Oh, you darling dear grandpapa!” says Lyddy.

“This young gentleman won't have you.” (Lyddy looks an arch “Thank you,

sir,” from her brown eyes.) “But at any rate he is honest, and that

is more than we can say of some folks in this wicked London. Oh, Lord,

Lord, how mercenary they are! Do you know that yonder, in Monument Yard,

they were all at my poor little Blessing for her money? There was

Tom Lutestring; there was Mr. Draper, your precious lawyer; there was

actually Mr. Tubbs, of Bethesda Chapel; and they must all come buzzing

like flies round the honey-pot. That is why we came out of the quarter

where my brother-tradesmen live.”

“To avoid the flies,--to be sure!” says Miss Lydia, tossing up her

little head.

“Where my brother-tradesmen live,” continues the old gentleman. “Else

who am I to think of consorting with your grandees and fine folk? I

don't care for the fashions, Mr. George; I don't care for plays and

poetry, begging your honour's pardon; I never went to a play in my life,

but to please this little minx.”

“Oh, sir, 'twas lovely! and I cried so, didn't I, grandpapa?” says the

child.

“At what, my dear?”

“At--at Mr. Warrington's play, grandpapa.”

“Did you, my dear? I dare say; I dare say! It was mail day: and my

letters had come in: and my ship the Lovely Lyddy had just come into

Falmouth; and Captain Joyce reported how he had mercifully escaped a

French privateer; and my head was so full of thanks for that escape,

which saved me a deal of money, Mr. George--for the rate at which ships

is underwrote this war-time is so scandalous that I often prefer to

venture than to insure--that I confess I didn't listen much to the play,

sir, and only went to please this little Lyddy.”

“And you did please me, dearest Gappy!” cries the young lady.

“Bless you! then it's all I want. What does a man want more here below

than to please his children, Mr. George? especially me, who knew what

was to be unhappy when I was young, and to repent of having treated this

darling's father too hard.”

“Oh, grandpapa!” cries the child, with more caresses.

“Yes, I was too hard with him, dear; and that's why I spoil my little

Lydkin so!”

More kisses ensue between Lyddy and Gappy. The little creature flings

the pretty polished arms round the old man's neck, presses the dark red

lips on his withered cheek, surrounds the venerable head with a halo of

powder beaten out of his wig by her caresses; and eyes Mr. George the

while, as much as to say, There, sir! should you not like me to do as

much for you?

We confess;--but do we confess all? George certainly told the story of

his interview with Lyddy and Gappy, and the old man's news regarding his

granddaughter's wealth; but I don't think he told everything; else Theo

would scarce have been so much interested, or so entirely amused and

good-humoured with Lyddy when next the two young ladies met.

They met now pretty frequently, especially after the old American

gentleman took up his residence in Bloomsbury. Mr. Van den Bosch was

in the city for the most part of the day, attending to his affairs, and

appearing at his place upon 'Change. During his absence Lyddy had the

command of the house, and received her guests there like a lady, or rode

abroad in a fine coach, which she ordered her grandpapa to keep for her,

and into which he could very seldom be induced to set his foot. Before

long Miss Lyddy was as easy in the coach as if she had ridden in one

all her life. She ordered the domestics here and there; she drove to the

mercer's and the jeweller's, and she called upon her friends with the

utmost stateliness, or rode abroad with them to take the air. Theo and

Hetty were both greatly diverted with her: but would the elder have been

quite as well pleased had she known all Miss Lyddy's doings? Not that

Theo was of a jealous disposition,--far otherwise; but there are cases

when a lady has a right to a little jealousy, as I maintain, whatever my

fair readers may say to the contrary.

It was because she knew he was engaged, very likely, that Miss Lyddy

permitted herself to speak so frankly in Mr. George's praise. When they

were alone--and this blessed chance occurred pretty often at Mr. Van den

Bosch's house, for we have said he was constantly absent on one errand

or the other--it was wonderful how artlessly the little creature would

show her enthusiasm, asking him all sorts of simple questions about

himself, his genius, his way of life at home and in London, his projects

of marriage, and so forth.

“I am glad you are going to be married, oh, so glad!” she would say,

heaving the most piteous sigh the while; “for I can talk to you frankly,

quite frankly as a brother, and not be afraid of that odious politeness

about which they were always scolding me at boarding-school. I may speak

to you frankly; and if I like you, I may say so, mayn't I, Mr. George?”

“Pray, say so,” says George, with a bow and a smile. “That is a kind of

talk which most men delight to hear, especially from such pretty lips as

Miss Lydia's.”

“What do you know about my lips?” says the girl, with a pout and an

innocent look into his face.

“What, indeed?” asks George. “Perhaps I should like to know a great deal

more.”

“They don't tell nothin' but truth, anyhow!” says the girl; “that's why

some people don't like them! If I have anything on my mind, it must

come out. I am a country-bred girl, I am--with my heart in my mouth--all

honesty and simplicity; not like your English girls, who have learned I

don't know what at their boarding-schools, and from the men afterwards.”

“Our girls are monstrous little hypocrites, indeed!” cries George.

“You are thinking of Miss Lamberts? and I might have thought of them;

but I declare I did not then. They have been at boarding-school; they

have been in the world a great deal--so much the greater pity for them,

for be certain they learned no good there. And now I have said so, of

course you will go and tell Miss Theo, won't you, sir?”

“That she has learned no good in the world? She has scarce spoken to men

at all, except her father, her brother, and me. Which of us would teach

her any wrong, think you?”

“Oh, not you! Though I can understand its being very dangerous to be

with you!” says the girl, with a sigh.

“Indeed there is no danger, and I don't bite!” says George, laughing.

“I didn't say bite,” says the girl, softly. “There's other things

dangerous besides biting, I should think. Aren't you very witty? Yes,

and sarcastic, and clever, and always laughing at people? Haven't you

a coaxing tongue? If you was to look at me in that kind of way, I don't

know what would come to me. Was your brother like you, as I was to have

married? Was he as clever and witty as you? I have heard he was like

you: but he hadn't your coaxing tongue. Heigho! 'Tis well you are

engaged, Master George, that is all. Do you think if you had seen me

first, you would have liked Miss Theo best?”

“They say marriages were made in Heaven, my dear, and let us trust that

mine has been arranged there,” says George.

“I suppose there was no such thing never known, as a man having two

sweethearts?” asks the artless little maiden. “Guess it's a pity. O me!

What nonsense I'm a-talking; there now! I'm like the little girl who

cried for the moon; and I can't have it. 'Tis too high for me--too

high and splendid and shining: can't reach up to it nohow. Well, what

a foolish, wayward, little spoilt thing I am now! But one thing you

promise.-on your word and your honour, now, Mr. George?”

“And what is that?”

“That you won't tell Miss Theo, else she'll hate me.”

“Why should she hate you?”

“Because I hate her, and wish she was dead!” breaks out the young lady.

And the eyes that were looking so gentle and lachrymose but now, flame

with sudden wrath, and her cheeks flush up. “For shame!” she adds, after

a pause. “I'm a little fool to speak! But whatever is in my heart must

come out. I am a girl of the woods, I am. I was bred where the sun is

hotter than in this foggy climate. And I am not like your cold English

girls; who, before they speak, or think, or feel, must wait for mamma to

give leave. There, there! I may be a little fool for saying what I have.

I know you'll go and tell Miss Lambert. Well, do!”

But, as we have said, George didn't tell Miss Lambert. Even from the

beloved person there must be some things kept secret; even to himself,

perhaps, he did not quite acknowledge what was the meaning of the little

girl's confession; or, if he acknowledged it, did not act on it; except

in so far as this, perhaps, that my gentleman, in Miss Lydia's presence,

was particularly courteous and tender; and in her absence thought of her

very kindly, and always with a certain pleasure. It were hard, indeed,

if a man might not repay by a little kindness and gratitude the artless

affection of such a warm young heart.

What was that story meanwhile which came round to our friends, of young

Mr. Lutestring and young Mr. Drabshaw the Quaker having a boxing-match

at a tavern in the city, and all about this young lady? They fell

out over their cups, and fought probably. Why did Mr. Draper, who had

praised her so at first, tell such stories now against her grandfather?

“I suspect,” says Madame de Bernstein, “that he wants the girl for some

client or relation of his own; and that he tells these tales in order to

frighten all suitors from her. When she and her grandfather came to me,

she behaved perfectly well; and I confess, sir, I thought it was a great

pity that you should prefer yonder red-cheeked countrified little chit,

without a halfpenny, to this pretty, wild, artless girl, with such a

fortune as I hear she has.”

“Oh, she has been with you, has she, aunt?” asks George of his relative.

“Of course she has been with me,” the other replies, curtly. “Unless

your brother has been so silly as to fall in love with that other little

Lambert girl----”

“Indeed, ma'am, I think I can say he has not,” George remarks.

“Why, then, when he comes back with Mr. Wolfe, should he not take

a fancy to this little person, as his mamma wishes--only, to do us

justice, we Esmonds care very little for what our mammas wish--and marry

her, and set up beside you in Virginia? She is to have a great fortune,

which you won't touch. Pray, why should it go out of the family?”

George now learned that Mr. Van den Bosch and his granddaughter had been

often at Madame de Bernstein's house. Taking his favourite walk with his

favourite companion to Kensington Gardens, he saw Mr. Van den Bosch's

chariot turning into Kensington Square. The Americans were going to

visit Lady Castlewood, then? He found, on some little inquiry, that they

had been more than once with her ladyship. It was, perhaps, strange

that they should have said nothing of their visits to George; but, being

little curious of other people's affairs, and having no intrigues or

mysteries of his own, George was quite slow to imagine them in

other people. What mattered to him how often Kensington entertained

Bloomsbury, or Bloomsbury made its bow at Kensington?

A number of things were happening at both places, of which our Virginian

had not the slightest idea. Indeed, do not things happen under our eyes,

and we not see them? Are not comedies and tragedies daily performed

before us of which we understand neither the fun nor the pathos? Very

likely George goes home thinking to himself, “I have made an impression

on the heart of this young creature. She has almost confessed as much.

Poor artless little maiden! I wonder what there is in me that she should

like me?” Can he be angry with her for this unlucky preference? Was ever

a man angry at such a reason? He would not have been so well pleased,

perhaps, had he known all; and that he was only one of the performers

in the comedy, not the principal character by any means; Rosencrantz and

Guildenstern in the Tragedy, the part of Hamlet by a gentleman unknown.

How often are our little vanities shocked in this way, and subjected to

wholesome humiliation! Have you not fancied that Lucinda's eyes beamed

on you with a special tenderness, and presently become aware that she

ogles your neighbour with the very same killing glances? Have you not

exchanged exquisite whispers with Lalage at the dinner-table (sweet

murmurs heard through the hum of the guests, and clatter of the

banquet!) and then overheard her whispering the very same delicious

phrases to old Surdus in the drawing-room? The sun shines for everybody;

the flowers smell sweet for all noses; and the nightingale and Lalage

warble for all ears--not your long ones only, good Brother!

CHAPTER LXX. In which Cupid plays a Considerable Part

We must now, however, and before we proceed with the history of Miss

Lydia and her doings, perform the duty of explaining that sentence

in Mr. Warrington's letter to his brother which refers to Lady Maria

Esmond, and which, to some simple readers, may be still mysterious.

For how, indeed, could well-regulated persons divine such a secret?

How could innocent and respectable young people suppose that a woman of

noble birth, of ancient family, of mature experience,--a woman whom we

have seen exceedingly in love only a score of months ago,--should so

far forget herself as (oh, my very finger-tips blush as I write the

sentence!)--as not only to fall in love with a person of low origin, and

very many years her junior, but actually to marry him in the face of

the world? That is, not exactly in the face, but behind the back of the

world, so to speak; for Parson Sampson privily tied the indissoluble

knot for the pair at his chapel in Mayfair.

Now stop before you condemn her utterly. Because Lady Maria had had, and

overcome, a foolish partiality for her young cousin, was that any reason

why she should never fall in love with anybody else? Are men to have

the sole privilege of change, and are women to be rebuked for availing

themselves now and again of their little chance of consolation? No

invectives can be more rude, gross, and unphilosophical than, for

instance, Hamlet's to his mother about her second marriage. The truth,

very likely, is, that that tender, parasitic creature wanted a something

to cling to, and, Hamlet senior out of the way, twined herself round

Claudius. Nay, we have known females so bent on attaching themselves,

that they can twine round two gentlemen at once. Why, forsooth, shall

there not be marriage-tables after funeral baked-meats? If you said

grace for your feast yesterday, is that any reason why you shall not be

hungry to-day? Your natural fine appetite and relish for this evening's

feast, shows that to-morrow evening at eight o'clock you will most

probably be in want of your dinner. I, for my part, when Flirtilla or

Jiltissa were partial to me (the kind reader will please to fancy that

I am alluding here to persons of the most ravishing beauty and lofty

rank), always used to bear in mind that a time would come when they

would be fond of somebody else. We are served a la Russe, and gobbled up

a dish at a time, like the folks in Polyphemus's cave. 'Tis hodie mihi,

cras tibi: there are some Anthropophagi who devour dozens of us, the

old, the young, the tender, the tough, the plump, the lean, the ugly,

the beautiful: there's no escape, and one after another, as our fate is,

we disappear down their omnivorous maws. Look at Lady Ogresham! We all

remember, last year, how she served poor Tom Kydd: seized upon him,

devoured him, picked his bones, and flung them away. Now it is Ned

Suckling she has got into her den. He lies under her great eyes,

quivering and fascinated. Look at the poor little trepid creature,

panting and helpless under the great eyes! She trails towards him nearer

and nearer; he draws to her, closer and closer. Presently there will

be one or two feeble squeaks for pity, and--hobblegobble--he will

disappear! Ah me! it is pity, too. I knew, for instance, that Maria

Esmond had lost her heart ever so many times before Harry Warrington

found it; but I like to fancy that he was going to keep it; that,

bewailing mischance and times out of joint, she would yet have preserved

her love, and fondled it in decorous celibacy. If, in some paroxysm of

senile folly, I should fall in love to-morrow, I shall still try and

think I have acquired the fee-simple of my charmer's heart;--not that

I am only a tenant, on a short lease, of an old battered furnished

apartment, where the dingy old wine-glasses have been clouded by scores

of pairs of lips, and the tumbled old sofas are muddy with the last

lodger's boots. Dear, dear nymph! Being beloved and beautiful! Suppose I

had a little passing passion for Glycera (and her complexion really

was as pure as splendent Parian marble); suppose you had a fancy for

Telephus, and his low collars and absurd neck;--those follies are all

over now, aren't they? We love each other for good now, don't we? Yes,

for ever; and Glycera may go to Bath, and Telephus take his cervicem

roseam to Jack Ketch, n'est-ce pas?

No. We never think of changing, my dear. However winds blow, or time

flies, or spoons stir, our potage, which is now so piping hot, will

never get cold. Passing fancies we may have allowed ourselves in former

days; and really your infatuation for Telephus (don't frown so, my

darling creature! and make the wrinkles in your forehead worse)--I

say, really it was the talk of the whole town; and as for Glycera, she

behaved confoundedly ill to me. Well, well, now that we understand each

other, it is for ever that our hearts are united, and we can look at Sir

Cresswell Cresswell, and snap our fingers at his wig. But this Maria of

the last century was a woman of an ill-regulated mind. You, my love, who

know the world, know that in the course of this lady's career a great

deal must have passed that would not bear the light, or edify in the

telling. You know (not, my dear creature, that I mean you have any

experience; but you have heard people say--you have heard your mother

say) that an old flirt, when she has done playing the fool with

one passion, will play the fool with another; that flirting is like

drinking; and the brandy being drunk up, you--no, not you--Glycera--the

brandy being drunk up, Glycera, who has taken to drinking, will fall

upon the gin. So, if Maria Esmond has found a successor for Harry

Warrington, and set up a new sultan in the precious empire of her heart,

what, after all, could you expect from her? That territory was like

the Low Countries, accustomed to being conquered, and for ever open to

invasion.

And Maria's present enslaver was no other than Mr. Geoghegan or Hagan,

the young actor who had performed in George's tragedy. His tones were so

thrilling, his eye so bright, his mien so noble, he looked so beautiful

in his gilt leather armour and large buckled periwig, giving utterance

to the poet's glowing verses, that the lady's heart was yielded up to

him, even as Ariadne's to Bacchus when her affair with Theseus was over.

The young Irishman was not a little touched and elated by the highborn

damsel's partiality for him. He might have preferred a Lady Maria

Hagan more tender in years, but one more tender in disposition it were

difficult to discover. She clung to him closely, indeed. She retired to

his humble lodgings in Westminster with him, when it became necessary to

disclose their marriage, and when her furious relatives disowned her.

General Lambert brought the news home from his office in Whitehall one

day, and made merry over it with his family. In those homely times a

joke was none the worse for being a little broad; and a fine lady would

laugh at a jolly page of Fielding, and weep over a letter of Clarissa,

which would make your present ladyship's eyes start out of your head

with horror. He uttered all sorts of waggeries, did the merry General,

upon the subject of this marriage; upon George's share in bringing it

about; upon Barry's jealousy when he should hear of it, He vowed it was

cruel that cousin Hagan had not selected George as groomsman; that the

first child should be called Carpezan or Sybilla, after the tragedy, and

so forth. They would not quite be able to keep a coach, but they might

get a chariot and pasteboard dragons from Mr. Rich's theatre. The baby

might be christened in Macbeth's caldron; and Harry and harlequin ought

certainly to be godfathers.

“Why shouldn't she marry him if she likes him?” asked little Hetty. “Why

should he not love her because she is a little old? Mamma is a little

old, and you love her none the worse. When you married my mamma, sir, I

have heard you say you were very poor; and yet you were very happy, and

nobody laughed at you!” Thus this impudent little person spoke by reason

of her tender age, not being aware of Lady Maria Esmond's previous

follies.

So her family has deserted her? George described what wrath they were

in; how Lady Castlewood had gone into mourning; how Mr. Will swore he

would have the rascal's ears; how furious Madame de Bernstein was, the

most angry of all. “It is an insult to the family,” says haughty little

Miss Hett; “and I can fancy how ladies of that rank must be indignant at

their relative's marriage with a person of Mr. Hagan's condition; but to

desert her is a very different matter.”

“Indeed, my dear child,” cries mamma, “you are talking of what you don't

understand. After my Lady Maria's conduct, no respectable person can go

to see her.”

“What conduct, mamma?”

“Never mind,” cries mamma. “Little girls can't be expected to know, and

ought not to be too curious to inquire, what Lady Maria's conduct has

been! Suffice it, miss, that I am shocked her ladyship should ever have

been here; and I say again, no honest person should associate with her!”

“Then, Aunt Lambert, I must be whipped and sent to bed,” says George,

with mock gravity. “I own to you (though I did not confess sooner,

seeing that the affair was not mine) that I have been to see my cousin

the player, and her ladyship his wife. I found them in very dirty

lodgings in Westminster, where the wretch has the shabbiness to keep not

only his wife, but his old mother, and a little brother, whom he puts

to school. I found Mr. Hagan, and came away with a liking, and almost a

respect for him, although I own he has made a very improvident marriage.

But how improvident some folks are about marriage, aren't they, Theo?”

“Improvident, if they marry such spendthrifts as you,” says the General.

“Master George found his relations, and I'll be bound to say he left his

purse behind him.”

“No, not the purse, sir,” says George, smiling very tenderly. “Theo made

that. But I am bound to own it came empty away. Mr. Rich is in great

dudgeon. He says he hardly dares have Hagan on his stage, and is afraid

of a riot, such as Mr. Garrick had about the foreign dancers. This is to

be a fine gentleman's riot. The macaronis are furious, and vow they will

pelt Mr. Hagan, and have him cudgelled afterwards. My cousin Will, at

Arthur's, has taken his oath he will have the actor's ears. Meanwhile,

as the poor man does not play, they have cut off his salary; and without

his salary, this luckless pair of lovers have no means to buy bread and

cheese.”

“And you took it to them, sir? It was like you, George!” says Theo,

worshipping him with her eyes.

“It was your purse took it, dear Theo!” replies George.

“Mamma, I hope you will go and see them to-morrow!” prays Theo.

“If she doesn't, I shall get a divorce, my dear!” cries papa. “Come and

kiss me, you little wench--that is, avec la bonne permission de monsieur

mon beau-fils.”

“Monsieur mon beau fiddlestick, papa!” says Miss Lambert, and I have

no doubt complies with the paternal orders. And this was the first time

George Esmond Warrington, Esquire, was ever called a fiddlestick.

Any man, even in our time, who makes an imprudent marriage, knows how he

has to run the gauntlet of the family, and undergo the abuse, the scorn,

the wrath, the pity of his relations. If your respectable family cry out

because you marry the curate's daughter, one in ten, let us say, of his

charming children; or because you engage yourself to the young barrister

whose only present pecuniary resources come from the court which he

reports, and who will have to pay his Oxford bills out of your slender

little fortune;--if your friends cry out for making such engagements as

these, fancy the feelings of Lady Maria Hagan's friends, and even those

of Mr. Hagan's, on the announcement of this marriage.

There is old Mrs. Hagan, in the first instance. Her son has kept her

dutifully and in tolerable comfort, ever since he left Trinity College

at his father's death, and appeared as Romeo at Crow Street Theatre. His

salary has sufficed of late years to keep the brother at school, to help

the sister who has gone out as companion, and to provide fire, clothing,

tea, dinner, and comfort for the old clergyman's widow. And now,

forsooth, a fine lady, with all sorts of extravagant habits, must come

and take possession of the humble home, and share the scanty loaf and

mutton! Were Hagan not a high-spirited fellow, and the old mother very

much afraid of him, I doubt whether my lady's life at the Westminster

lodgings would be very comfortable. It was very selfish perhaps to take

a place at that small table, and in poor Hagan's narrow bed. But Love in

some passionate and romantic dispositions never regards consequences, or

measures accommodation. Who has not experienced that frame of mind; what

thrifty wife has not seen and lamented her husband in that condition;

when, with rather a heightened colour and a deuce-may-care smile on his

face, he comes home and announces that he has asked twenty people to

dinner next Saturday? He doesn't know whom exactly; and he does know

the dining-room will only hold sixteen. Never mind! Two of the prettiest

girls can sit upon young gentlemen's knees: others won't come: there's

sure to be plenty! In the intoxication of love people venture upon this

dangerous sort of housekeeping; they don't calculate the resources of

their dining-table, or those inevitable butchers' and fishmongers' bills

which will be brought to the ghastly housekeeper at the beginning of the

month.

Yes: it was rather selfish of my Lady Maria to seat herself at Hagan's

table and take the cream off the milk, and the wings of the chickens,

and the best half of everything where there was only enough before; and

no wonder the poor old mamma-in-law was disposed to grumble. But what

was her outcry compared to the clamour at Kensington among Lady Maria's

noble family? Think of the talk and scandal all over the town! Think of

the titters and whispers of the ladies in attendance at the Princess's

court, where Lady Fanny had a place; of the jokes of Mr. Will's

brother-officers at the usher's table; of the waggeries in the daily

prints and magazines; of the comments of outraged prudes; of the

laughter of the clubs and the sneers of the ungodly! At the receipt of

the news Madame Bernstein had fits and ran off to the solitude of her

dear rocks at Tunbridge Wells, where she did not see above forty people

of a night at cards. My lord refused to see his sister; and the Countess

in mourning, as we have said, waited upon one of her patronesses, a

gracious Princess, who was pleased to condole with her upon the disgrace

and calamity which had befallen her house. For one, two, three whole

days the town was excited and amused by the scandal; then there came

other news--a victory in Germany; doubtful accounts from America; a

general officer coming home to take his trial; an exquisite new soprano

singer from Italy; and the public forgot Lady Maria in her garret,

eating the hard-earned meal of the actor's family.

This is an extract from Mr. George Warrington's letter to his brother,

in which he describes other personal matters, as well as a visit he had

paid to the newly married pair:--

“My dearest little Theo,” he writes, “was eager to accompany her mamma

upon this errand of charity; but I thought Aunt Lambert's visit would be

best under the circumstances, and without the attendance of her little

spinster aide-de-camp. Cousin Hagan was out when we called; we found

her ladyship in a loose undress, and with her hair in not the neatest

papers, playing at cribbage with a neighbour from the second floor,

while good Mrs. Hagan sate on the other side of the fire with a glass of

punch, and the Whole Duty of Man.

“Maria, your Maria once, cried a little when she saw us; and Aunt

Lambert, you may be sure, was ready with her sympathy. While she

bestowed it on Lady Maria, I paid the best compliments I could invent to

the old lady. When the conversation between Aunt L. and the bride began

to flag, I turned to the latter, and between us we did our best to make

a dreary interview pleasant. Our talk was about you, about Wolfe, about

war; you must be engaged face to face with the Frenchmen by this time,

and God send my dearest brother safe and victorious out of the battle!

Be sure we follow your steps anxiously--we fancy you at Cape Breton.

We have plans of Quebec, and charts of the St. Lawrence. Shall I ever

forget your face of joy that day when you saw me return safe and sound

from the little combat with the little Frenchman? So will my Harry, I

know, return from his battle. I feel quite assured of it; elated somehow

with the prospect of your certain success and safety. And I have made

all here share my cheerfulness. We talk of the campaign as over, and

Captain Warrington's promotion as secure. Pray Heaven, all our hopes may

be fulfilled one day ere long.

“How strange it is that you who are the mettlesome fellow (you know you

are) should escape quarrels hitherto, and I, who am a peaceful youth,

wishing no harm to anybody, should have battles thrust upon me! What do

you think actually of my having had another affair upon my wicked hands,

and with whom, think you? With no less a personage than your old enemy,

our kinsman, Mr. Will.

“What or who set him to quarrel with me, I cannot think. Spencer

(who acted as second for me, for matters actually have gone this

length;--don't be frightened; it is all over, and nobody is a scratch

the worse) thinks some one set Will on me, but who, I say? His conduct

has been most singular; his behaviour quite unbearable. We have met

pretty frequently lately at the house of good Mr. Van den Bosch, whose

pretty granddaughter was consigned to both of us by our good mother. Oh,

dear mother! did you know that the little thing was to be such a

causa belli, and to cause swords to be drawn, and precious lives to

be menaced? But so it has been. To show his own spirit, I suppose, or

having some reasonable doubt about mine, whenever Will and I have met

at Mynheer's house--and he is for ever going there--he has shown such

downright rudeness to me, that I have required more than ordinary

patience to keep my temper. He has contradicted me once, twice, thrice

in the presence of the family, and out of sheer spite and rage, as

it appeared to me. Is he paying his addresses to Miss Lydia, and her

father's ships, negroes, and forty thousand pounds? I should guess so.

The old gentleman is for ever talking about his money, and adores his

granddaughter, and as she is a beautiful little creature, numbers of

folk here are ready to adore her too. Was Will rascal enough to fancy

that I would give up my Theo for a million of guineas, and negroes, and

Venus to boot? Could the thought of such baseness enter into the man's

mind? I don't know that he has accused me of stealing Van den Bosch's

spoons and tankards when we dine there, or of robbing on the highway.

But for one reason or the other he has chosen to be jealous of me,

and as I have parried his impertinences with little sarcastic speeches

(though perfectly civil before company), perhaps I have once or twice

made him angry. Our little Miss Lydia has unwittingly added fuel to the

fire on more than one occasion, especially yesterday, when there was

talk about your worship.

“'Ah!' says the heedless little thing, as we sat over our dessert, ''tis

lucky for you, Mr. Esmond, that Captain Harry is not here.'

“'Why, miss?' asks he, with one of his usual conversational ornaments.

He must have offended some fairy in his youth, who has caused him to

drop curses for ever out of his mouth, as she did the girl to spit out

toads and serpents. (I know some one from whose gentle lips there only

fall pure pearls and diamonds.) 'Why?' says Will, with a cannonade of

oaths.

“'O fie!' says she, putting up the prettiest little fingers to the

prettiest little rosy ears in the world. 'O fie, sir! to use such

naughty words. 'Tis lucky the Captain is not here, because he might

quarrel with you; and Mr. George is so peaceable and quiet, that he

won't. Have you heard from the Captain, Mr. George?'

“'From Cape Breton,' says I. 'He is very well, thank you; that is----'

I couldn't finish the sentence, for I was in such a rage that I scarce

could contain myself.

“'From the Captain, as you call him, Miss Lyddy,' says Will. 'He'll

distinguish himself as he did at Saint Cas! Ho, ho!'

“'So I apprehend he did, sir,' says Will's brother.

“'Did he?' says our dear cousin; 'always thought he ran away; took to

his legs; got a ducking, and ran away as if a bailiff was after him.'

“'La!' says Miss, 'did the Captain ever have a bailiff after him?'

“'Didn't he? Ho, ho!' laughs Mr. Will.

“I suppose I must have looked very savage, for Spencer, who was dining

with us, trod on my foot under the table. 'Don't laugh so loud, cousin,'

I said, very gently; 'you may wake good old Mr. Van den Bosch.' The good

old gentleman was asleep in his arm-chair, to which he commonly retires

for a nap after dinner.

“'Oh, indeed, cousin,' says Will, and he turns and winks at a friend of

his, Captain Deuceace, whose own and whose wife's reputation I dare say

you heard of when you frequented the clubs, and whom Will has introduced

into this simple family as a man of the highest fashion. 'Don't be

afraid, miss,' says Mr. Will, 'nor my cousin needn't be.'

“'Oh, what a comfort!' cries Miss Lyddy. 'Keep quite quiet, gentlemen,

and don't quarrel, and come up to me when I send to say the tea is

ready.' And with this she makes a sweet little curtsey, and disappears.

“'Hang it, Jack, pass the bottle, and don't wake the old gentleman!'

continues Mr. Will. 'Won't you help yourself, cousin?' he continues;

being particularly facetious in the tone of that word cousin.

“'I am going to help myself,' I said; 'but I am not going to drink the

glass; and I'll tell you what I am going to do with it, if you will be

quite quiet, cousin.' (Desperate kicks from Spencer all this time.)

“'And what the deuce do I care what you are going to do with it?' asks

Will, looking rather white.

“'I am going to fling it into your face, cousin,' says I, very rapidly

performing that feat.

“'By Jove, and no mistake!' cries Mr. Deuceace; and as he and William

roared out an oath together, good old Van den Bosch woke up, and, taking

the pocket-handkerchief off his face, asked what was the matter.

“I remarked it was only a glass of wine gone the wrong way and the

old man said; 'Well, well, there is more where that came from! Let the

butler bring you what you please, young gentlemen!' and he sank back in

his great chair, and began to sleep again.

“'From the back of Montagu House Gardens there is a beautiful view of

Hampstead at six o'clock in the morning; and the statue of the King on

St. George's Church is reckoned elegant, cousin!' says I, resuming the

conversation.

“'D---- the statue!' begins Will; but I said, 'Don't, cousin! or you

will wake up the old gentleman. Had we not best go upstairs to Miss

Lyddy's tea-table?'

“We arranged a little meeting for the next morning; and a coroner

might have been sitting upon one or other, or both, of our bodies this

afternoon; but, would you believe it? just as our engagement was about

to take place, we were interrupted by three of Sir John Fielding's men,

and carried to Bow Street, and ignominiously bound over to keep the

peace.

“Who gave the information? Not I, or Spencer, I can vow. Though I own

I was pleased when the constables came running to us; bludgeon in hand:

for I had no wish to take Will's blood, or sacrifice my own to such a

rascal. Now, sir, have you such a battle as this to describe to me?--a

battle of powder and no shot?--a battle of swords as bloody as any on

the stage? I have filled my paper, without finishing the story of Maria

and her Hagan. You must have it by the next ship. You see, the quarrel

with Will took place yesterday, very soon after I had written the first

sentence or two of my letter. I had been dawdling till dinner-time (I

looked at the paper last night, when I was grimly making certain little

accounts up, and wondered shall I ever finish this letter?), and now

the quarrel has been so much more interesting to me than poor Molly's

love-adventures, that behold my paper is full to the brim! Wherever my

dearest Harry reads it, I know that there will be a heart full of love

for--His loving brother, G. E. W.”

CHAPTER LXXI. White Favours

The little quarrel between George and his cousin caused the former to

discontinue his visits to Bloomsbury in a great measure; for Mr. Will

was more than ever assiduous in his attentions; and, now that both were

bound over to peace, so outrageous in his behaviour, that George found

the greatest difficulty in keeping his hands from his cousin. The

artless little Lydia had certainly a queer way of receiving her friends.

But six weeks before madly jealous of George's preference for another,

she now took occasion repeatedly to compliment Theo in her conversation.

Miss Theo was such a quiet, gentle creature, Lyddy was sure George was

just the husband for her. How fortunate that horrible quarrel had been

prevented! The constables had come up just in time; and it was quite

ridiculous to hear Mr. Esmond cursing and swearing, and the rage he was

in at being disappointed of his duel! “But the arrival of the constables

saved your valuable life, dear Mr. George, and I am sure Miss Theo ought

to bless them forever,” says Lyddy, with a soft smile. “You won't

stop and meet Mr. Esmond at dinner to-day? You don't like being in his

company? He can't do you any harm; and I am sure you will do him none.”

Kind speeches like these addressed by a little girl to a gentleman, and

spoken by a strange inadvertency in company, and when other gentlemen

and ladies were present, were not likely to render Mr. Warrington very

eager for the society of the young American lady.

George's meeting with Mr. Will was not known for some days in Dean

Street, for he did not wish to disturb those kind folks with his

quarrel; but when the ladies were made aware of it, you may be sure

there was a great flurry and to-do. “You were actually going to take a

fellow-creature's life, and you came to see us, and said not a word! Oh,

George, it was shocking!” said Theo.

“My dear, he had insulted me and my brother,” pleaded George. “Could I

let him call us both cowards, and sit by and say, Thank you?”

The General sate by and looked very grave.

“You know you think, papa, it is a wicked and un-Christian practice; and

have often said you wished gentlemen would have the courage to refuse!”

“To refuse? Yes,” says Mr. Lambert, still very glum.

“It must require a prodigious strength of mind to refuse,” says Jack

Lambert, looking as gloomy as his father; “and I think if any man were

to call me a coward, I should be apt to forget my orders.”

“You see brother Jack is with me!” cries George.

“I must not be against you, Mr. Warrington,” says Jack Lambert.

“Mr. Warrington!” cries George, turning very red.

“Would you, a clergyman, have George break the Commandments, and commit

murder, John?” asks Theo, aghast.

“I am a soldier's son, sister,” says the young divine, drily. “Besides,

Mr. Warrington has committed no murder at all. We must soon be hearing

from Canada, father. The great question of the supremacy of the two

races must be tried there ere long!” He turned his back on George as he

spoke, and the latter eyed him with wonder.

Hetty, looking rather pale at this original remark of brother Jack,

is called out of the room by some artful pretext of her sister. George

started up and followed the retreating girls to the door.

“Great powers, gentlemen!” says he, coming back, “I believe, on my

honour, you are giving me the credit of shirking this affair with Mr.

Esmond!” The clergyman and his father looked at one another.

“A man's nearest and dearest are always the first to insult him,” says

George, flashing out.

“You mean to say, 'Not guilty?' God bless thee, my boy!” cries the

General. “I told thee so, Jack.” And he rubbed his hand across his eyes,

and blushed, and wrung George's hand with all his might.

“Not guilty of what, in heaven's name?” asks Mr. Warrington.

“Nay,” said the General, “Mr. Jack, here, brought the story. Let him

tell it. I believe 'tis a ------ lie, with all my heart.” And uttering

this wicked expression, the General fairly walked out of the room.

The Rev. J. Lambert looked uncommonly foolish.

“And what is this--this d----d lie, sir, that somebody has been telling

of me?” asked George, grinning at the young clergyman.

“To question the courage of any man is always an offence to him,” says

Mr. Lambert, “and I rejoice that yours has been belied.”

“Who told the falsehood, sir, which you repeated?” bawls out Mr.

Warrington. “I insist on the man's name!”

“You forget you are bound over to keep the peace,” says Jack.

“Curse the peace, sir! We can go and fight in Holland. Tell me the man's

name, I say!”

“Fair and softly, Mr. Warrington!” cries the young parson; “my hearing

is perfectly good. It was not a man who told me the story which, I

confess, I imparted to my father.”

“What?” asks George, the truth suddenly occurring. “Was it that artful,

wicked little vixen in Bloomsbury Square?”

“Vixen is not the word to apply to any young lady, George Warrington!”

exclaims Lambert, “much less to the charming Miss Lydia. She artful--the

most innocent of Heaven's creatures! She wicked--that angel! With

unfeigned delight that the quarrel should be over--with devout gratitude

to think that blood consanguineous should not be shed--she spoke in

terms of the highest praise of you for declining this quarrel, and of

the deepest sympathy with you for taking the painful but only method of

averting it.”

“What method?” demands George, stamping his foot.

“Why, of laying an information, to be sure!” says Mr. Jack; on which

George burst forth into language much too violent for us to repeat here,

and highly uncomplimentary to Miss Lydia.

“Don't utter such words, sir!” cried the parson, who, as it seemed,

now took his turn to be angry. “Do not insult, in my hearing, the most

charming, the most innocent of her sex! If she has been mistaken in her

information regarding you, and doubted your willingness to commit what,

after all, is a crime--for a crime homicide is, and of the most awful

description--you, sir, have no right to blacken that angel's character

with foul words: and, innocent yourself, should respect the most

innocent as she is the most lovely of women! Oh, George, are you to be

my brother?”

“I hope to have that honour,” answered George, smiling. He began to

perceive the other's drift.

“What, then, what--though 'tis too much bliss to be hoped for by sinful

man--what, if she should one day be your sister? Who could see her

charms without being subjugated by them? I own that I am a slave. I own

that those Latin Sapphics in the September number of the Gentleman's

Magazine, beginning Lydicae quondam cecinit venustae (with an English

version by my friend Hickson of Corpus), were mine. I have told my

mother what hath passed between us, and Mrs. Lambert also thinks that

the most lovely of her sex has deigned to look favourably on me. I have

composed a letter--she another. She proposes to wait on Miss Lydia's

grandpapa this very day, and to bring me the answer, which shall make

me the happiest or the most wretched of men! It was in the unrestrained

intercourse of family conversation that I chanced to impart to my

father the sentiments which my dear girl had uttered. Perhaps I spoke

slightingly of your courage, which I don't doubt--by Heaven, I don't

doubt: it may be, she has erred, too, regarding you. It may be that

the fiend jealousy has been gnawing at my bosom, and--horrible

suspicion!--that I thought my sister's lover found too much favour with

her I would have all my own. Ah, dear George, who knows his faults? I am

as one distracted with passion. Confound it, sir! What right have you to

laugh at me? I would have you to know that risu inepto”

“What, have you two boys made it up?” cries the General, entering at

this moment, in the midst of a roar of laughter from George.

“I was giving my opinion to Mr. Warrington upon laughter, and upon his

laughter in particular,” says Jack Lambert, in a fume.

“George is bound over to keep the peace, Jack! Thou canst not fight him

for two years; and between now and then, let us trust you will have made

up your quarrel. Here is dinner, boys! We will drink absent friends, and

an end to the war, and no fighting out of the profession!”

George pleaded an engagement, as a reason for running away early from

his dinner; and Jack must have speedily followed him, for when the

former, after transacting some brief business at his own lodgings, came

to Mr. Van den Bosch's door, in Bloomsbury Square, he found the young

parson already in parley with a servant there. “His master and mistress

had left town yesterday,” the servant said.

“Poor Jack! And you had the decisive letter in your pocket?” George

asked of his future brother-in-law.

“Well, yes,”--Jack owned he had the document--“and my mother has ordered

a chair, and was coming to wait on Miss Lyddy,” he whispered piteously,

as the young men lingered on the steps.

George had a note, too, in his pocket for the young lady, which he had

not cared to mention to Jack. In truth, his business at home had been to

write a smart note to Miss Lyddy, with a message for the gentleman who

had brought her that funny story of his giving information regarding the

duel! The family being absent, George, too, did not choose to leave his

note. “If cousin Will has been the slander-bearer, I will go and make

him recant,” thought George. “Will the family soon be back?” he blandly

asked.

“They are gone to visit the quality,” the servant replied. “Here is the

address on this paper;” and George read, in Miss Lydia's hand, “The box

from Madam Hocquet's to be sent by the Farnham Flying Coach; addressed

to Miss Van den Bosch, at the Right Honourable the Earl of Castlewood's,

Castlewood, Hants.”

“Where?” cried poor Jack, aghast.

“His lordship and their ladyships have been here often,” the servant

said, with much importance. “The families is quite intimate.”

This was very strange; for, in the course of their conversation, Lyddy

had owned but to one single visit from Lady Castlewood.

“And they must be a-going to stay there some time, for Miss have took

a power of boxes and gowns with her!” the man added. And the young men

walked away, each crumpling his letter in his pocket.

“What was that remark you made?” asks George of Jack, at some

exclamation of the latter. “I think you said----”

“Distraction! I am beside myself, George! I--I scarce know what I am

saying,” groans the clergyman. “She is gone to Hampshire, and Mr. Esmond

is gone with her!”

“Othello could not have spoken better! and she has a pretty scoundrel

in her company!” says Mr. George. “Ha! here is your mother's chair!”

Indeed, at this moment poor Aunt Lambert came swinging down Great

Russell Street, preceded by her footman. “'Tis no use going farther,

Aunt Lambert!” cries George. “Our little bird has flown.”

“What little bird?”

“The bird Jack wished to pair with:--the Lyddy bird, aunt. Why, Jack, I

protest you are swearing again! This morning 'twas the Sixth Commandment

you wanted to break; and now----”

“Confound it! leave me alone, Mr. Warrington, do you hear?” growls Jack,

looking very savage; and away he strides far out of the reach of his

mother's bearers.

“What is the matter, George?” asks the lady.

George, who has not been very well pleased with brother Jack's behaviour

all day, says: “Brother Jack has not a fine temper, Aunt Lambert. He

informs you all that I am a coward, and remonstrates with me for being

angry. He finds his mistress gone to the country, and he bawls, and

stamps, and swears. O fie! Oh, Aunt Lambert, beware of jealousy! Did the

General ever make you jealous?”

“You will make me very angry if you speak to me in this way,” says poor

Aunt Lambert from her chair.

“I am respectfully dumb. I make my bow. I withdraw,” says George, with

a low bow, and turns towards Holborn. His soul was wrath within him.

He was bent on quarrelling with somebody. Had he met cousin Will that

night, it had gone ill with his sureties.

He sought Will at all his haunts, at Arthur's, at his own house. There

Lady Castlewood's servants informed him that they believed Mr. Esmond

had gone to join the family in Hants. He wrote a letter to his cousin:

“My dear, kind cousin William,” he said, “you know I am bound over, and

would not quarrel with any one, much less with a dear, truth-telling,

affectionate kinsman, whom my brother insulted by caning. But if you can

find any one who says that I prevented a meeting the other day by giving

information, will you tell your informant that I think it is not I but

somebody else is the coward? And I write to Mr. Van den Bosch by the

same post, to inform him and Miss Lyddy that I find some rascal has been

telling them lies to my discredit, and to beg them to have a care of

such persons.” And, these neat letters being despatched, Mr. Warrington

dressed himself, showed himself at the play, and took supper cheerfully

at the Bedford.

In a few days George found a letter on his breakfast-table franked

“Castlewood,” and, indeed, written by that nobleman.

“Dear Cousin,” my lord wrote, “there has been so much annoyance in our

family of late, that I am sure 'tis time our quarrels should cease. Two

days since my brother William brought me a very angry letter, signed G.

Warrington, and at the same time, to my great grief and pain, acquainted

me with a quarrel that had taken place between you, in which, to say

the least, your conduct was violent. 'Tis an ill use to put good wine

to--that to which you applied good Mr. Van den Bosch's. Sure, before an

old man, young ones should be more respectful. I do not deny that Wm.'s

language and behaviour are often irritating. I know he has often tried

my temper, and that within the 24 hours.

“Ah! why should we not all live happily together? You know, cousin,

I have ever professed a sincere regard for you--that I am a sincere

admirer of the admirable young lady to whom you are engaged, and to whom

I offer my most cordial compliments and remembrances. I would live in

harmony with all my family where 'tis possible--the more because I hope

to introduce to it a Countess of Castlewood.

“At my mature age, 'tis not uncommon for a man to choose a young wife.

My Lydia (you will divine that I am happy in being able to call mine the

elegant Miss Van den Bosch) will naturally survive me. After soothing

my declining years, I shall not be jealous if at their close she

should select some happy man to succeed me; though I shall envy him the

possession of so much perfection and beauty. Though of a noble Dutch

family, her rank, the dear girl declares, is not equal to mine, which

she confesses that she is pleased to share. I, on the other hand, shall

not be sorry to see descendants to my house, and to have it, through my

Lady Castlewood's means, restored to something of the splendour which it

knew before two or three improvident predecessors impaired it. My Lydia,

who is by my side, sends you and the charming Lambert family her warmest

remembrances.

“The marriage will take place very speedily here. May I hope to see you

at church? My brother will not be present to quarrel with you. When

I and dear Lydia announced the match to him yesterday, he took the

intelligence in bad part, uttered language that I know he will one day

regret, and is at present on a visit to some neighbours. The Dowager

Lady Castlewood retains the house at Kensington; we having our own

establishment, where you will ever be welcomed, dear cousin, by your

affectionate humble servant, CASTLEWOOD.”

From the London Magazine of November 1759:

“Saturday, October 13th, married, at his seat, Castlewood, Hants, the

Right Honourable Eugene, Earl of Castlewood, to the beautiful Miss Van

den Bosch, of Virginia. 70,000 pounds.”

CHAPTER LXXII. (From the Warrington MS.) In which My Lady is on the Top

of the Ladder

Looking across the fire, towards her accustomed chair, who has been the

beloved partner of my hearth during the last half of my life, I often

ask (for middle aged gentlemen have the privilege of repeating their

jokes, their questions, their stories) whether two young people ever

were more foolish and imprudent than we were when we married, as we

did, in the year of the old King's death? My son, who has taken some

prodigious leaps in the heat of his fox-hunting, says he surveys the

gaps and rivers which he crossed so safely over with terror afterwards,

and astonishment at his own foolhardiness in making such desperate

ventures; and yet there is no more eager sportsman in the two counties

than Miles. He loves his amusement so much that he cares for no other.

He has broken his collar-bone, and had a hundred tumbles (to his

mother's terror); but so has his father (thinking, perhaps, of a copy

of verse, or his speech at Quarter Sessions) been thrown over his old

mare's head, who has slipped on a stone as they were both dreaming along

a park road at four miles an hour; and Miles's reckless sport has been

the delight of his life, as my marriage has been the blessing of mine;

and I never think of it but to thank Heaven. Mind, I don't set up my

worship as an example. I don't say to all young folks, “Go and marry

upon twopence a year;” or people would look very black at me at our

vestry-meetings; but my wife is known to be a desperate match-maker; and

when Hodge and Susan appear in my justice-room with a talk of allowance,

we urge them to spend their half-crown a week at home, add a little

contribution of our own, and send for the vicar.

Now, when I ask a question of my dear oracle, I know what the answer

will be; and hence, no doubt, the reason why I so often consult her. I

have but to wear a particular expression of face and my Diana takes her

reflection from it. Suppose I say, “My dear, don't you think the moon

was made of cream cheese to-night?” She will say, “Well, papa, it did

look very like cream cheese, indeed--there's nobody like you for droll

similes.” Or, suppose I say, “My love, Mr. Pitt's speech was very fine,

but I don't think he is equal to what I remember his father.” “Nobody

was equal to my Lord Chatham,” says my wife. And then one of the

girls cries, “Why, I have often heard our papa say Lord Chatham was a

charlatan!” On which mamma says, “How like she is to her Aunt Hetty!”

As for Miles, Tros Tyriusve is all one to him. He only reads the

sporting announcements in the Norwich paper. So long as there is good

scent, he does not care about the state of the country. I believe the

rascal has never read my poems, much more my tragedies (for I mentioned

Pocahontas to him the other day, and the dunce thought she was a river

in Virginia); and with respect to my Latin verses, how can he understand

them when I know he can't construe Corderius? Why, this notebook lies

publicly on the little table at my corner of the fireside, and any one

may read in it who will take the trouble of lifting my spectacles off

the cover: but Miles never hath. I insert in the loose pages caricatures

of Miles: jokes against him: but he never knows nor heeds them. Only

once, in place of a neat drawing of mine, in China-ink, representing

Miles asleep after dinner, and which my friend Bunbury would not disown,

I found a rude picture of myself going over my mare Sultana's head, and

entitled “The Squire on Horseback, or Fish out of Water.” And the fellow

to roar with laughter, and all the girls to titter, when I came upon the

page! My wife said she never was in such a fright as when I went to my

book: but I can bear a joke against myself, and have heard many, though

(strange to say, for one who has lived among some of the chief wits of

the age) I never heard a good one in my life. Never mind, Miles, though

thou art not a wit, I love thee none the worse (there never was any love

lost between two wits in a family); though thou hast no great beauty,

thy mother thinks thee as handsome as Apollo, or his Royal Highness the

Prince of Wales, who was born in the very same year with thee. Indeed,

she always think Coates's picture of the Prince is very like her eldest

boy, and has the print in her dressing-room to this very day.

[Note, in a female hand: “My son is not a spendthrift, nor a breaker of

women's hearts, as some gentlemen are; but that he was exceeding like

H.R.H. when they were both babies, is most certain, the Duchess of

Aneaster having herself remarked him in St. James's Park, where Gumbo

and my poor Molly used often to take him for an airing. Th. W.”]

In that same year, with what different prospects! my Lord Esmond, Lord

Castlewood's son, likewise appeared to adorn the world. My Lord C. and

his humble servant had already come to a coolness at that time, and,

heaven knows! my honest Miles's godmother, at his entrance into life,

brought no gold pap-boats to his christening! Matters have mended since,

laus Deo--laus Deo, indeed! for I suspect neither Miles nor his father

would ever have been able to do much for themselves, and by their own

wits.

Castlewood House has quite a different face now from that venerable

one which it wore in the days of my youth, when it was covered with the

wrinkles of time, the scars of old wars, the cracks and blemishes which

years had marked on its hoary features. I love best to remember it in

its old shape, as I saw it when young Mr. George Warrington went down

at the owner's invitation, to be present at his lordship's marriage with

Miss Lydia Van den Bosch--“an American lady of noble family of Holland,”

as the county paper announced her ladyship to be. Then the towers stood

as Warrington's grandfather the Colonel (the Marquis, as Madam Esmond

would like to call her father) had seen them. The woods (thinned not

a little to be sure) stood, nay, some of the self-same rooks may have

cawed over them, which the Colonel had seen threescore years back. His

picture hung in the hall which might have been his, had he not preferred

love and gratitude to wealth and worldly honour; and Mr. George Esmond

Warrington (that is, Egomet Ipse who write this page down), as he

walked the old place, pacing the long corridors, the smooth dew-spangled

terraces and cool darkling avenues, felt a while as if he was one of Mr.

Walpole's cavaliers with ruff, rapier, buff-coat, and gorget, and as if

an Old Pretender, or a Jesuit emissary in disguise, might appear from

behind any tall tree-trunk round about the mansion, or antique carved

cupboard within it. I had the strangest, saddest, pleasantest, old-world

fancies as I walked the place; I imagined tragedies, intrigues,

serenades, escaladoes, Oliver's Roundheads battering the towers, or

bluff Hal's Beefeaters pricking over the plain before the castle. I was

then courting a certain young lady (madam, your ladyship's eyes had no

need of spectacles then, and on the brow above them there was never a

wrinkle or a silver hair), and I remember I wrote a ream of romantic

description, under my Lord Castlewood's franks, to the lady who never

tired of reading my letters then. She says I only send her three lines

now, when I am away in London or elsewhere. 'Tis that I may not fatigue

your old eyes, my dear!

Mr. Warrington thought himself authorised to order a genteel new suit of

clothes for my lord's marriage, and with Mons. Gumbo in attendance,

made his appearance at Castlewood a few days before the ceremony. I may

mention that it had been found expedient to send my faithful Sady home

on board a Virginia ship. A great inflammation attacking the throat and

lungs, and proving fatal in very many cases, in that year of Wolfe's

expedition, had seized and well-nigh killed my poor lad, for whom

his native air was pronounced to be the best cure. We parted with an

abundance of tears, and Gumbo shed as many when his master went to

Quebec: but he had attractions in this country and none for the military

life, so he remained attached to my service. We found Castlewood House

full of friends, relations, and visitors. Lady Fanny was there upon

compulsion, a sulky bridesmaid. Some of the virgins of the neighbourhood

also attended the young Countess. A bishop's widow herself, the Baroness

Beatrix brought a holy brother-in-law of the bench from London to tie

the holy knot of matrimony between Eugene Earl of Castlewood and Lydia

Van den Bosch, spinster; and for some time before and after the nuptials

the old house in Hampshire wore an appearance of gaiety to which it had

long been unaccustomed. The country families came gladly to pay their

compliments to the newly married couple. The lady's wealth was the

subject of everybody's talk, and no doubt did not decrease in the

telling. Those naughty stories which were rife in town, and spread by

her disappointed suitors there, took some little time to travel into

Hampshire; and when they reached the country found it disposed to treat

Lord Castlewood's wife with civility, and not inclined to be too curious

about her behaviour in town. Suppose she had jilted this man, and

laughed at the other? It was her money they were anxious about, and she

was no more mercenary than they. The Hampshire folks were determined

that it was a great benefit to the country to have Castlewood House once

more open, with beer in the cellars, horses in the stables, and spits

turning before the kitchen fires. The new lady took her place with great

dignity, and 'twas certain she had uncommon accomplishments and wit.

Was it not written, in the marriage advertisements, that her ladyship

brought her noble husband seventy thousand pounds? On a beaucoup

d'esprit with seventy thousand pounds. The Hampshire people said this

was only a small portion of her wealth. When the grandfather should

fall, ever so many plums would be found on that old tree.

That quiet old man, and keen reckoner, began quickly to put the

dilapidated Castlewood accounts in order, of which long neglect,

poverty, and improvidence had hastened the ruin. The business of the

old gentleman's life now, and for some time henceforth, was to

advance, improve, mend my lord's finances; to screw the rents up where

practicable, to pare the expenses of the establishment down. He could,

somehow, look to every yard of worsted lace on the footmen's coats, and

every pound of beef that went to their dinner. A watchful old eye noted

every flagon of beer which was fetched from the buttery, and marked

that no waste occurred in the larder. The people were fewer, but more

regularly paid; the liveries were not so ragged, and yet the tailor had

no need to dun for his money; the gardeners and grooms grumbled, though

their wages were no longer overdue: but the horses fattened on less

corn, and the fruit and vegetables were ever so much more plentiful--so

keenly did my lady's old grandfather keep a watch over the household

affairs, from his lonely little chamber in the turret.

These improvements, though here told in a paragraph or two, were the

affairs of months and years at Castlewood; where, with thrift, order,

and judicious outlay of money (however, upon some pressing occasions,

my lord might say he had none), the estate and household increased in

prosperity. That it was a flourishing and economical household no one

could deny: not even the dowager lady and her two children, who now

seldom entered within Castlewood gates, my lady considering them in the

light of enemies--for who, indeed, would like a stepmother-in-law? The

little reigning Countess gave the dowager battle, and routed her utterly

and speedily. Though educated in the colonies, and ignorant of polite

life during her early years, the Countess Lydia had a power of language

and a strength of will that all had to acknowledge who quarrelled with

her. The dowager and my Lady Fanny were no match for the young American:

they fled from before her to their jointure house in Kensington, and no

wonder their absence was not regretted by my lord, who was in the habit

of regretting no one whose back was turned. Could cousin Warrington,

whose hand his lordship pressed so affectionately on coming and parting,

with whom cousin Eugene was so gay and frank and pleasant when they

were together, expect or hope that his lordship would grieve at his

departure, at his death, at any misfortune which could happen to him,

or any souls alive? Cousin Warrington knew better. Always of a sceptical

turn, Mr. W. took a grim delight in watching the peculiarities of his

neighbours, and could like this one even though he had no courage and no

heart. Courage? Heart? What are these to you and me in the world? A man

may have private virtues as he may have half a million in the funds.

What we du monde expect is, that he should be lively, agreeable, keep a

decent figure, and pay his way. Colonel Esmond Warrington's grandfather

(in whose history and dwelling-place Mr. W. took an extraordinary

interest), might once have been owner of this house of Castlewood,

and of the titles which belonged to its possessor. The gentleman often

looked at the Colonel's grave picture as it still hung in the saloon,

a copy or replica of which piece Mr. Warrington fondly remembered in

Virginia.

“He must have been a little touched here,” my lord said, tapping his own

tall, placid forehead.

There are certain actions, simple and common with some men, which others

cannot understand, and deny as utter lies, or deride as acts of madness.

“I do you the justice to think, cousin,” says Mr. Warrington to his

lordship, “that you would not give up any advantage for any friend in

the world.”

“Eh! I am selfish: but am I more selfish than the rest of the world?”

asks my lord, with a French shrug of his shoulders, and a pinch out of

his box. Once, in their walks in the fields, his lordship happening

to wear a fine scarlet coat, a cow ran towards him; and the ordinarily

languid nobleman sprang over a stile with the agility of a schoolboy. He

did not conceal his tremor, or his natural want of courage. “I dare say

you respect me no more than I respect myself, George,” he would say, in

his candid way, and begin a very pleasant sardonical discourse upon the

fall of man, and his faults, and shortcomings; and wonder why Heaven

had not made us all brave and tall, and handsome and rich? As for Mr.

Warrington, who very likely loved to be king of his company (as some

people do), he could not help liking this kinsman of his, so witty,

graceful, polished, high-placed in the world--so utterly his inferior.

Like the animal in Mr. Sterne's famous book, “Do not beat me,” his

lordship's look seemed to say, “but, if you will, you may.” No man, save

a bully and coward himself, deals hardly with a creature so spiritless.

CHAPTER LXXIII. We keep Christmas at Castlewood. 1759

We know, my dear children, from our favourite fairy story-books, how at

all christenings and marriages some one is invariably disappointed,

and vows vengeance; and so need not wonder that good cousin Will should

curse and rage energetically at the news of his brother's engagement

with the colonial heiress. At first, Will fled the house, in his wrath,

swearing he would never return. But nobody, including the swearer,

believed much in Master Will's oaths; and this unrepentant prodigal,

after a day or two, came back to the paternal house. The fumes of the

marriage-feast allured him: he could not afford to resign his knife and

fork at Castlewood table. He returned, and drank and ate there in token

of revenge. He pledged the young bride in a bumper, and drank perdition

to her under his breath. He made responses of smothered maledictions

as her father gave her away in the chapel, and my lord vowed to love,

honour and cherish her. He was not the only grumbler respecting that

marriage, as Mr. Warrington knew: he heard, then and afterwards, no

end of abuse of my lady and her grandfather. The old gentleman's City

friends, his legal adviser, the Dissenting clergyman at whose chapel

they attended on their first arrival in England, and poor Jack Lambert,

the orthodox young divine, whose eloquence he had fondly hoped had

been exerted over her in private, were bitter against the little lady's

treachery, and each had a story to tell of his having been enslaved,

encouraged, jilted, by the young American. The lawyer, who had had such

an accurate list of all her properties, estates, moneys, slaves, ships,

expectations, was ready to vow and swear that he believed the whole

account was false; that there was no such place as New York or Virginia;

or at any rate, that Mr. Van den Bosch had no land there; that there was

no such thing as a Guinea trade, and that the negroes were so many

black falsehoods invented by the wily old planter. The Dissenting pastor

moaned over his stray lambling--if such a little, wily, mischievous

monster could be called a lamb at all. Poor Jack Lambert ruefully

acknowledged to his mamma the possession of a lock of black hair, which

he bedewed with tears and apostrophised in quite unclerical language:

and, as for Mr. William Esmond, he, with the shrieks and curses in which

he always freely indulged, even at Castlewood, under his sister-in-law's

own pretty little nose, when under any strong emotion, called Acheron

to witness, that out of that region there did not exist such an artful

young devil as Miss Lydia. He swore that she was an infernal female

Cerberus, and called down all the wrath of this world and the next upon

his swindling rascal of a brother, who had cajoled him with fair words,

and filched his prize from him.

“Why,” says Mr. Warrington (when Will expatiated on these matters with

him), “if the girl is such a she-devil as you describe her, you are all

the better for losing her. If she intends to deceive her husband, and

to give him a dose of poison, as you say, how lucky for you, you are not

the man! You ought to thank the gods, Will, instead of cursing them, for

robbing you of such a fury, and can't be better revenged on Castlewood

than by allowing him her sole possession.”

“All this was very well,” Will Esmond said; but--not unjustly,

perhaps,--remarked that his brother was not the less a scoundrel for

having cheated him out of the fortune which he expected to get, and

which he had risked his life to win, too.

George Warrington was at a loss to know how his cousin had been made

so to risk his precious existence (for which, perhaps, a rope's end

had been a fitting termination), on which Will Esmond, with the utmost

candour, told his kinsman how the little Cerbera had actually caused

the meeting between them, which was interrupted somehow by Sir John

Fielding's men; how she was always saying that George Warrington was a

coward for ever sneering at Mr. Will, and the latter doubly a poltroon

for not taking notice of his kinsman's taunts; how George had run away

and nearly died of fright in Braddock's expedition; and “Deuce take me,”

says Will, “I never was more surprised, cousin, than when you stood to

your ground so coolly in Tottenham Court Fields yonder, for me and my

second offered to wager that you would never come!”

Mr. Warrington laughed, and thanked Mr. Will for this opinion of him.

“Though,” says he, “cousin, 'twas lucky for me the constables came up,

or you would have whipped your sword through my body in another minute.

Didn't you see how clumsy I was as I stood before you? And you actually

turned white and shook with anger!”

“Yes, curse me,” says Mr. Will (who turned very red this time), “that's

my way of showing my rage; and I was confoundedly angry with you,

cousin! But now 'tis my brother I hate, and that little devil of a

Countess--a countess! a pretty countess, indeed!” And with another

rumbling cannonade of oaths, Will saluted the reigning member of his

family.

“Well, cousin,” says George, looking him queerly in the face, “you let

me off easily, and I dare say I owe my life to you, or at any rate a

whole waistcoat, and I admire your forbearance and spirit. What a pity

that a courage like yours should be wasted as a mere court usher! You

are a loss to his Majesty's army. You positively are!”

“I never know whether you are joking or serious, Mr. Warrington,” growls

Will.

“I should think very few gentlemen would dare to joke with you, cousin,

if they had a regard for their own lives or ears! cries Mr. Warrington,

who loved this grave way of dealing with his noble kinsman, and used to

watch, with a droll interest, the other choking his curses, grinding his

teeth because afraid to bite, and smothering his cowardly anger.

“And you should moderate your expressions, cousin, regarding the dear

Countess and my lord your brother,” Mr. Warrington resumed. “Of you they

always speak most tenderly. Her ladyship has told me everything.”

“What everything?” cries Will, aghast.

“As much as women ever do tell, cousin. She owned that she thought you

had been a little epris with her. What woman can help liking a man who

has admired her?”

“Why, she hates you, and says you were wild about her, Mr. Warrington!”

says Mr. Esmond.

“Spretae injuria formae, cousin!”

“For me--what's for me?” asks the other.

“I never did care for her, and hence, perhaps, she does not love me.

Don't you remember that case of the wife of the Captain of the Guard?”

“Which Guard?” asks Will.

“My Lord Potiphar,” says Mr. Warrington.

“Lord Who? My Lord Falmouth is Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard,

and my Lord Berkeley of the Pensioners. My Lord Hobart had 'em before.

Suppose you haven't been long enough in England to know who's who,

cousin!” remarks Mr. William.

But Mr. Warrington explained that he was speaking of a Captain of the

Guard of the King of Egypt, whose wife had persecuted one Joseph for not

returning her affection for him. On which Will said that, as for

Egypt, he believed it was a confounded long way off; and that if Lord

What-d'ye-call's wife told lies about him, it was like her sex, who he

supposed were the same everywhere.

Now the truth is, that when he paid his marriage-visit to Castlewood,

Mr. Warrington had heard from the little Countess her version of the

story of differences between Will Esmond and herself. And this tale

differed, in some respects, though he is far from saying it is more

authentic than the ingenuous narrative of Mr. Will. The lady was grieved

to think how she had been deceived in her brother-in-law. She feared

that his life about the court and town had injured those high principles

which all the Esmonds are known to be born with; that Mr. Will's words

were not altogether to be trusted; that a loose life and pecuniary

difficulties had made him mercenary, blunted his honour, perhaps even

impaired the high chivalrous courage “which we Esmonds, cousin,” the

little lady said, tossing her head, “which we Esmonds must always

possess--leastways, you and me, and my lord, and my cousin Harry have

it, I know!” says the Countess. “Oh, cousin George! and must I confess

that I was led to doubt of yours, without which a man of ancient and

noble family like ours isn't worthy to be called a man! I shall try,

George, as a Christian lady, and the head of one of the first families

in this kingdom and the whole world, to forgive my brother William for

having spoke ill of a member of our family, though a younger branch and

by the female side, and made me for a moment doubt of you. He did so.

Perhaps he told me ever so many bad things you had said of me.”

“I, my dear lady!” cries Mr. Warrington.