CHAPTER LVII. In which Mr. Harry's Nose continues to be put out of joint
Madame de Bernstein was scarcely less pleased than her Virginiannephews at the result of Harry's final interview with Lady Maria. Georgeinformed the Baroness of what had passed, in a billet which he sentto her the same evening; and shortly afterwards her nephew Castlewood,whose visits to his aunt were very rare, came to pay his respects toher, and frankly spoke about the circumstances which had taken place;for no man knew better than my Lord Castlewood how to be frank uponoccasion, and now that the business between Maria and Harry was endedwhat need was there of reticence or hypocrisy? The game had been played,and was over: he had no objection now to speak of its variousmoves, stratagems, finesses. "She is my own sister," said my lord,affectionately; "she won't have many more chances--many more suchchances of marrying and establishing herself. I might not approve of thematch in all respects, and I might pity your ladyship's young Virginianfavourite: but of course such a piece of good fortune was not to bethrown away, and I was bound to stand by my own flesh and blood."
"Your candour does your lordship honour," says Madame de Bernstein, "andyour love for your sister is quite edifying!"
"Nay, we have lost the game, and I am speaking sans rancune. It is notfor you, who have won, to bear malice," says my lord, with a bow.
Madame de Bernstein protested she was never in her life in betterhumour. "Confess, now, Eugene, that visit of Maria to Harry at thespunging-house--that touching giving up of all his presents to her, wasa stroke of thy invention?"
"Pity for the young man, and a sense of what was due from Maria to herfriend--her affianced lover--in misfortune, sure these were motivessufficient to make her act as she did," replies Lord Castlewood,demurely.
"But 'twas you advised her, my good nephew?"
Castlewood, with a shrug of his shoulders, owned that he did advise hissister to see Mr. Henry Warrington. "But we should have won, in spiteof your ladyship," he continued, "had not the elder brother made hisappearance. And I have been trying to console my poor Maria by showingher what a piece of good fortune it is after all, that we lost."
"Suppose she had married Harry, and then cousin George had made hisappearance?" remarks the Baroness.
"Effectivement," cries Eugene, taking snuff. "As the grave was to giveup its dead, let us be thankful to the grave for disgorging in time! Iam bound to say, that Mr. George Warrington seems to be a man of sense,and not more selfish than other elder sons and men of the world. My poorMolly fancied that he might be a--what shall I say?--a greenhorn perhapsis the term--like his younger brother. She fondly hoped that he might beinclined to go share and share alike with Twin junior; in which case, soinfatuated was she about the young fellow, that I believe she would havetaken him. 'Harry Warrington, with half a loaf, might do very well,'says I, 'but Harry Warrington with no bread, my dear!'"
"How no bread?" asks the Baroness.
"Well, no bread except at his brother's side-table. The elder said asmuch."
"What a hard-hearted wretch!" cries Madame de Bernstein.
"Ah, bah! I play with you, aunt, cartes sur table! Mr. George only didwhat everybody else would do; and we have no right to be angry with him,really we haven't. Molly herself acknowledged as much, after her firstburst of grief was over, and I brought her to listen to reason. Thesilly old creature! to be so wild about a young lad at her time oflife!"
"'Twas a real passion, I almost do believe," said Madame de Bernstein.
"You should have heard her take leave of him. C'etait touchant, maparole d'honneur! I cried. Before George, I could not help myself. Theyoung fellow with muddy stockings, and his hair about his eyes, flingshimself amongst us when we were at dinner; makes his offer to Molly in avery frank and noble manner, and in good language too; and she replies.Begad, it put me in mind of Mrs. Woffington in the new Scotch play, thatLord Bute's man has wrote--Douglas--what d'ye call it? She clings roundthe lad: she bids him adieu in heartrending accents. She steps out ofthe room in a stately despair--no more chocolate, thank you. If she hadmade a mauvais pas no one could retire from it with more dignity. 'Twasa masterly retreat after a defeat. We were starved out of our position,but we retired with all the honours of war."
"Molly won't die of the disappointment!" said my lord's aunt, sippingher cup.
My lord snarled a grin, and showed his yellow teeth. "He, he!" hesaid, "she hath once or twice before had the malady very severely, andrecovered perfectly. It don't kill, as your ladyship knows, at Molly'sage."
How should her ladyship know? She did not marry Doctor Tusher until shewas advanced in life. She did not become Madame de Bernstein until stilllater. Old Dido, a poet remarks, was not ignorant of misfortune, andhence learned to have compassion on the wretched.
People in the little world, as I have been told, quarrel and fight, andgo on abusing each other, and are not reconciled for ever so long. Butpeople in the great world are surely wiser in their generation. Theyhave differences; they cease seeing each other. They make it up and cometogether again, and no questions are asked. A stray prodigal, or a straypuppy-dog, is thus brought in under the benefit of an amnesty, thoughyou know he has been away in ugly company. For six months past, eversince the Castlewoods and Madame de Bernstein had been battling forpossession of poor Harry Warrington, these two branches of the Esmondfamily had remained apart. Now, the question being settled, they werefree to meet again, as though no difference ever had separated them: andMadame de Bernstein drove in her great coach to Lady Castlewood's rout,and the Esmond ladies appeared smiling at Madame de Bernstein's drums,and loved each other just as much as they previously had done.
"So, sir, I hear you have acted like a hard-hearted monster about yourpoor brother Harry!" says the Baroness, delighted, and menacing Georgewith her stick.
"I acted but upon your ladyship's hint, and desired to see whether itwas for himself or his reputed money that his kinsfolk wanted to havehim," replies George, turning rather red.
"Nay, Maria could not marry a poor fellow who was utterly penniless, andwhose elder brother said he would give him nothing!"
"I did it for the best, madam," says George, still blushing.
"And so thou didst, O thou hypocrite!" cries the old lady.
"Hypocrite, madam! and why?" asks Mr. Warrington, drawing himself up inmuch state.
"I know all, my infant!" says the Baroness in French. "Thou art verylike thy grandfather. Come, that I embrace thee! Harry has told me all,and that thou hast divided thy little patrimony with him!"
"It was but natural, madam. We have had common hearts and purses sincewe were born. I but feigned hard-heartedness in order to try thosepeople yonder," says George, with filling eyes.
"And thou wilt divide Virginia with him too?" asks the Bernstein.
"I don't say so. It were not just," replied Mr. Warrington. "The landmust go to the eldest born, and Harry would not have it otherwise: andit may be I shall die, or my mother outlive the pair of us. But half ofwhat is mine is his: and he, it must be remembered, only was extravagantbecause he was mistaken as to his position."
"But it is a knight of old, it is a Bayard, it is the grandfathercome to life!" cried Madame de Bernstein to her attendant, as she wasretiring for the night. And that evening, when the lads left her, it wasto poor Harry she gave the two fingers, and to George the rouged cheek,who blushed, for his part, almost as deep as that often-dyed rose, atsuch a mark of his old kinswoman's favour.
Although Harry Warrington was the least envious of men, and did honourto his brother as in all respects his chief, guide, and superior, yet nowonder a certain feeling of humiliation and disappointment oppressed theyoung man after his deposition from his eminence as Fortunate Youth andheir to boundless Virginian territories. Our friends at Kensington mightpromise and vow that they would love him all the better after his fall;Harry made a low bow and professed himself very thankful; but hecould not help perceiving, when he went with his brother to the stateentertainment with which my Lord
Castlewood regaled his new-foundkinsman, that George was all in all to his cousins: had all the talk,compliments, and petits soins for himself, whilst of Harry no one tookany notice save poor Maria, who followed him with wistful looks, pursuedhim with eyes conveying dismal reproaches, and, as it were, blamed himbecause she had left him. "Ah!" the eyes seemed to say, "'tis mightywell of you, Harry, to have accepted the freedom which I gave you; but Ihad no intention, sir, that you should be so pleased at being let off."She gave him up, but yet she did not quite forgive him for taking herat her word. She would not have him, and yet she would. Oh, my youngfriends, how delightful is the beginning of a love-business, and howundignified, sometimes, the end! What a romantic vista is before youngDamon and young Phillis (or middle-aged ditto ditto) when, their artlessloves made known to each other, they twine their arms round each other'swaists and survey that charming pays du tendre which lies at their feet!Into that country, so linked together, they will wander from now untilextreme old age. There may be rocks and roaring rivers, but will notDamon's strong true love enable him to carry Sweetheart over them? Theremay be dragons and dangers in the path, but shall not his courageoussword cut them down? Then at eve, how they will rest cuddled together,like two pretty babes in the wood, the moss their couch, the stars theircanopy, their arms their mutual pillows! This is the wise plan youngfolks make when they set out on the love journey; and--O me!--they havenot got a mile when they come to a great wall and find they must walkback again. They are squabbling with the post-boy at Barnet (the firststage on the Gretna Road, I mean), and, behold, perhaps Strephon has notgot any money, or here is papa with a whacking horsewhip, who takes Missback again, and locks her up crying in the schoolroom. The partingis heart-breaking; but, when she has married the banker and had eightchildren, and he has become, it may be, a prosperous barrister,--it maybe, a seedy raff who has gone twice or thrice into the Gazette; when,I say, in after years Strephon and Delia meet again, is not the meetingridiculous? Nevertheless, I hope no young man will fall in love, havingany doubt in his mind as to the eternity of his passion. 'Tis when aman has had a second or third amorous attack that he begins to growdoubtful; but some women are romantic to the end, and from eighteen toeight-and-fifty (for what I know) are always expecting their hearts tobreak. In fine, when you have been in love and are so no more, when theKing of France, with twenty thousand men, with colours flying, musicplaying, and all the pomp of war, having marched up the hill, thenproceeds to march down again, he and you are in an absurd position.
This is what Harry Warrington, no doubt, felt when he went to Kensingtonand encountered the melancholy, reproachful eyes of his cousin. Yes! itis a foolish position to be in; but it is also melancholy to look intoa house you have once lived in, and see black casements and emptinesswhere once shone the fires of welcome. Melancholy? Yes; but, ha! howbitter, how melancholy, how absurd to look up as you pass sentimentallyby No. 13, and see somebody else grinning out of window, and evidentlyon the best terms with the landlady. I always feel hurt, even at an innwhich I frequent, if I see other folks' trunks and boots at the doorsof the rooms which were once mine. Have those boots lolled on the sofawhich once I reclined on? I kick you from before me, you muddy, vulgarhighlows!
So considering that his period of occupation was over, and Maria'srooms, if not given up to a new tenant, were, at any rate, to let, Harrydid not feel very easy in his cousin's company, nor she possibly in his.He found either that he had nothing to say to her, or that what she hadto say to him was rather dull and commonplace, and that the red lip ofa white-necked pipe of Virginia was decidedly more agreeable to him nowthan Maria's softest accents and most melancholy moue. When George wentto Kensington, then, Harry did not care much about going, and pleadedother engagements.
At his uncle's house in Hill Street the poor lad was no better amused,and, indeed, was treated by the virtuous people there with scarce anyattention at all. The ladies did not scruple to deny themselves whenhe came; he could scarce have believed in such insincerity after theircaresses, their welcome, their repeated vows of affection; but happeningto sit with the Lamberts for an hour after he had called upon his aunt,he saw her ladyship's chairmen arrive with an empty chair, and his auntstep out and enter the vehicle, and not even blush when he made her abow from the opposite window. To be denied by his own relations--to havethat door which had opened to him so kindly, slammed in his face! Hewould not have believed such a thing possible, poor simple Harry said.Perhaps he thought the door-knocker had a tender heart, and was not madeof brass; not more changed than the head of that knocker was my LadyWarrington's virtuous face when she passed her nephew.
"My father's own brother's wife! What have I done to offend her? Oh,Aunt Lambert, Aunt Lambert, did you ever see such cold-heartedness?"cries out Harry, with his usual impetuosity.
"Do we make any difference to you, my dear Harry?" says Aunt Lambert,with a side look at her youngest daughter. "The world may look coldly atyou, but we don't belong to it: so you may come to us in safety."
"In this house you are different from other people," replies Harry. "Idon't know how, but I always feel quiet and happy somehow when I come toyou."
"Quis me uno vivit felicior? aut magis hac est Optandum vita dicere quis potuit?"
calls out General Lambert. "Do you know where I got these verses, Mr.Gownsman?" and he addresses his son from college, who is come to passan Easter holiday with his parents. "You got them out of Catullus, sir,"says the scholar.
"I got them out of no such thing, sir. I got them out of my favouriteDemocritus Junior--out of old Burton, who has provided many indifferentscholars with learning;" and who and Montaigne, were favourite authorswith the good General.
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