Day after day I went to Arlington Street, each time to be turned away
with the same answer: that Miss Manners was a shade better, but still
confined to her bed. You will scarce believe me, my dears, when I say
that Mr. Marmaduke had gone at this crisis with his Grace to the York
races. On the fourth morning, I think, I saw Mrs. Manners. She was much
worn with the vigil she had kept, and received me with an apathy to
frighten me. Her way with me had hitherto always been one of kindness
and warmth. In answer to the dozen questions I showered upon her, she
replied that Dorothy's malady was in no wise dangerous, so Dr. James had
said, and undoubtedly arose out of the excitement of a London season. As
I knew, Dorothy was of the kind that must run and run until she dropped.
She had no notion of the measure of her own strength. Mrs. Manners hoped
that, in a fortnight, she would be recovered sufficiently to be removed
to one of the baths.
“She wishes me to thank you for the flowers, Richard. She has them
constantly by her. And bids me tell you how sorry she is that she is
compelled to miss so much of your visit to England. Are you enjoying
London, Richard? I hear that you are well liked by the best of company.”
I left, prodigiously cast down, and went directly to Mr. Wedgwood's, to
choose the prettiest set of tea-cups and dishes I could find there. I
pitied Mrs. Manners from my heart, and made every allowance for her talk
with me, knowing the sorrow of her life. Here was yet another link
in the chain of the Chartersea evidence. And I made no doubt that
Mr. Manner's brutal desertion at such a time must be hard to bear. I
continued my visits of inquiry, nearly always meeting some person of
consequence, or the footman of such, come on the same errand as myself.
And once I encountered the young man she had championed against his
Grace at Lady Tankerville's.
Rather than face the array of anxieties that beset me, I plunged
recklessly into the gayeties--nay, the excesses--of Mr. Charles Fox and
his associates. I paid, in truth, a very high price for my friendship
with Mr. Fox. But, since it did not quite ruin me, I look back upon
it as cheaply bought. To know the man well, to be the subject of his
regard, was to feel an infatuation in common with the little band of
worshippers which had come with him from Eton. They remained faithful to
him all his days, nor adversity nor change of opinion could shake their
attachment. They knew his faults, deplored them, and paid for them. And
this was not beyond my comprehension, tho' many have wondered at it. Did
he ask me for five hundred pounds,--which he did,--I gave it freely, and
would gladly have given more, tho' I saw it all wasted in a night when
the dice rolled against him. For those honoured few of whom I speak
likewise knew his virtues, which were quite as large as the faults,
albeit so mingled with them that all might not distinguish.
I attended some of the routs and parties, to all of which, as a young
colonial gentleman of wealth and family, I was made welcome. I went to
a ball at Lord Stanley's, a mixture of French horns and clarionets and
coloured glass lanthorns and candles in gilt vases, and young ladies
pouring tea in white, and musicians in red, and draperies and flowers ad
libitum. There I met Mr. Walpole, looking on very critically. He was
the essence of friendliness, asked after my equerry, and said I had
done well to ship him to America. At the opera, with Lord Ossory and
Mr. Fitzpatrick, I talked through the round of the boxes, from Lady
Pembroke's on the right to Lady Hervey's on the left, where Dolly's
illness and Lady Harrington's snuffing gabble were the topics rather
than Giardini's fiddling. Mr. Storer took me to Foote's dressing-room
at the Haymarket, where we found the Duke of Cumberland lounging. I was
presented, and thought his Royal Highness had far less dignity than the
monkey-comedian we had come to see.
I must not forget the visit I made to Drury Lane Playhouse with my Lords
Carlisle and Grantham and Comyn. The great actor received me graciously
in such a company, you may be sure. He appeared much smaller off the
boards than on, and his actions and speech were quick and nervous. Gast,
his hairdresser, was making him up for the character of Richard III.
“'Ods!” said Mr. Garrick, “your Lordships come five minutes too late.
Goldsmith is but just gone hence, fresh from his tailor, Filby, of Water
Lane. The most gorgeous creature in London, gentlemen, I'll be sworn.
He is even now, so he would have me know, gone by invitation to my Lord
Denbigh's box, to ogle the ladies.”
“And have you seen your latest lampoon, Mr. Garrick?” asks Comyn,
winking at me.
Up leaps Mr. Garrick, so suddenly as to knock the paint-pot from Gast's
hand.
“Nay, your Lordship jests, surely!” he cried, his voice shaking.
“Jests!” says my Lord, very serious; “do I jest, Carlisle?” And turning
to Mr. Cross, the prompter, who stood by, “Fetch me the St. James's
Evening Post,” says he.
“'Ods my life!” continues poor Garrick, almost in tears; “I have loaned
Foote upwards of two thousand pounds. And last year, as your Lordship
remembers, took charge of his theatre when his leg was cut off. 'Pon my
soul, I cannot account for his ingratitude.”
“'Tis not Foote,” says Carlisle, biting his lip; “I know Foote's mark.”
“Then Johnson,” says the actor, “because I would not let him have my
fine books in his dirty den to be kicked about the floor, but put my
library at his disposal--”
“Nay, nor Johnson. Nor yet Macklin nor Murphy.”
“Surely not--” cries Mr. Garrick, turning white under the rouge. The
name remained unpronounced.
“Ay, ay, Junius, in the Evening Post. He has fastened upon you at last,”
answers Comyn, taking the paper.
“'Sdeath! Garrick,” Carlisle puts in, very solemn, “what have you
done to offend the Terrible Unknown? Talebearing to his Majesty, I'll
warrant! I gave you credit for more discretion.”
At these words Mr. Garrick seized the chair for support, and swung
heavily into it. Whereat the young lords burst into such a tempest of
laughter that I could not refrain from joining them. As for Mr. Garrick,
he was so pleased to have escaped that he laughed too, though with a
palpable nervousness.
[Note by the editor. It was not long after this that Mr. Garrick's
punishment came, and for the self-same offence.]
“By the bye, Garrick,” Carlisle remarked slyly, when he had recovered,
“Mrs. Crewe was vastly taken with the last 'vers' you left on her
dressing-table.”
“Was she, now, my Lord?” said the great actor, delighted, but scarce
over his fright. “You must know that I have writ one to my Lady
Carlisle, on the occasion of her dropping her fan in Piccadilly.”
Whereupon he proceeded to recite it, and my Lord Carlisle, being
something of a poet himself, pronounced it excellent.
Mr. Garrick asked me many questions concerning American life and
manners, having a play in his repertory the scene of which was laid in
New York. In the midst of this we were interrupted by a dirty fellow who
ran in, crying excitedly:
“Sir, the Archbishop of York is getting drunk at the Bear, and swears
he'll be d--d if he'll act to-night.”
“The archbishop may go to the devil!” snapped Mr. Garrick. “I do not
know a greater rascal, except yourself.”
I was little short of thunderstruck. But presently Mr. Garrick added
complainingly:
“I paid a guinea for the archbishop, but the fellow got me three
murderers to-day and the best alderman I ever clapped eyes upon. So we
are square.”
After the play we supped with him at his new house in Adelphi Terrace,
next Topham Beauclerk's. 'Twas handsomely built in the Italian style,
and newly furnished throughout, for Mr. Garrick travelled now with a
coach and six and four menservants, forsooth. And amongst other things
he took pride in showing us that night was a handsome snuffbox which the
King of Denmark had given him the year before, his Majesty's portrait
set in jewels thereon.
Presently the news of the trial of Lord Baltimore's horse began to be
noised about, and was followed by a deluge of wagers at Brooks's and
White's and elsewhere. Comyn and Fox, my chief supporters, laid large
sums upon me, despite all my persuasion. But the most unpleasant part
of the publicity was the rumour that the match was connected with the
struggle for Miss Manners's hand. I was pressed with invitations to
go into the country to ride this or that horse. His Grace the Duke of
Grafton had a mount he would have me try at Wakefield Lodge, and was far
from pleasant over my refusal of his invitation. I was besieged by young
noblemen like Lord Derby and Lord Foley, until I was heartily sick of
notoriety, and cursed the indiscretion of the person who let out the
news, and my own likewise. My Lord March, who did me the honour to lay
one hundred pounds upon my skill, insisted that I should make one of a
party to the famous amphitheatre near Lambeth. Mr. Astley, the showman,
being informed of his Lordship's intention, met us on Westminster Bridge
dressed in his uniform as sergeant major of the Royal Light Dragoons
and mounted on a white charger. He escorted us to one of the large boxes
under the pent-house reserved for the gentry. And when the show was over
and the place cleared, begged, that I would ride his Indian Chief. I
refused; but March pressed me, and Comyn declared he had staked his
reputation upon my horsemanship. Astley was a large man, about my build,
and I donned a pair of his leather breeches and boots, and put Indian
Chief to his paces around the ring. I found him no more restive, nor as
much so, as Firefly. The gentlemen were good enough to clap me roundly,
and Astley vowed (no doubt because of the noble patrons present) that he
had never seen a better seat.
We all repaired afterwards for supper to Don Saltero's Coffee House and
Museum in Chelsea. And I remembered having heard my grandfather speak of
the place, and tell how he had seen Sir Richard Steele there, listening
to the Don scraping away at the “Merry Christ Church Bells” on his
fiddle. The Don was since dead, but King James's coronation sword and
King Henry VIII.'s coat of mail still hung on the walls.
The remembrance of that fortnight has ever been an appalling one.
Mr. Carvel had never attempted to teach me the value of money. My
grandfather, indeed, held but four things essential to the conduct of
life; namely, to fear God, love the King, pay your debts, and pursue
your enemies. There was no one in London to advise me, Comyn being but a
wild lad like myself. But my Lord Carlisle gave me a friendly warning:
“Have a care, Carvel,” said he, kindly, “or you will run your
grandfather through, and all your relations beside. I little realized
the danger of it when I first came up.” (He was not above two and twenty
then.) “And now I have a wife, am more crippled than I care to be,
thanks to this devilish high play. Will you dine with Lady Carlisle in
St. James's Place next Friday?”
My heart went out to this young nobleman. Handsome he was, as a picture.
And he knew better than most of your fine gentlemen how to put a check
on his inclinations. As a friend he had few equals, his purse being ever
at the command of those he loved. And his privations on Fox's account
were already greater than many knew.
I had a call, too, from Mr. Dix. I found him in my parlour one morning,
cringing and smiling, and, as usual, half an hour away from his point.
“I warrant you, Mr. Carvel,” says he, “there are few young gentlemen not
born among the elect that make the great friends you are blessed with.”
“I have been fortunate, Mr. Dix,” I replied dryly.
“Fortunate!” he cried; “good Lord, sir! I hear of you everywhere with
Mr. Fox, and you have been to Astley's with my Lord March. And I have a
draft from you at Ampthill.”
“Vastly well manoeuvred, Mr. Dix,” I said, laughing at the guilty change
in his pink complexion. “And hence you are here.”
He fidgeted, and seeing that I paid him no attention, but went on with
my chocolate, he drew a paper from his pocket and opened it.
“You have spent a prodigious sum, sir, for so short a time,” said he,
unsteadily. “'Tis very well for you, Mr. Carvel, but I have to remember
that you are heir only. I am advancing you money without advices from
his Worship, your grandfather. A most irregular proceeding, sir, and one
likely to lead me to trouble. I know not what your allowance may be.”
“Nor I, Mr. Dix,” I replied, unreasonably enough. “To speak truth, I
have never had one. You have my Lord Comyn's signature to protect you,”
I went on ill-naturedly, for I had not had enough sleep. “And in case
Mr. Carvel protests, which is unlikely and preposterous, you shall have
ten percentum on your money until I can pay you. That should be no poor
investment.”
He apologized. But he smoothed out the paper on his knee.
“It is only right to tell you, Mr. Carvel, that you have spent one
thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven odd pounds, in home money, which
is worth more than your colonial. Your grandfather's balance with me
was something less than one thousand five hundred, as I made him a
remittance in December last. I have advanced the rest. And yesterday,”
he went on, resolutely for him, “yesterday I got an order for five
hundred more.”
And he handed me the paper. I must own that the figures startled me. I
laid it down with a fine show of indifference.
“And so you wish me to stop drawing? Very good, Mr. Dix.”
He must have seen some threat implied, though I meant none. He was my
very humble servant at once, and declared he had called only to let me
know where I stood. Then he bowed himself out, wishing me luck with the
horse he had heard of, and I lighted my pipe with his accompt.