The Virginians

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER LXXII. (From the Warrington MS.) In which My Lady is on the Topof the Ladder

  Looking across the fire, towards her accustomed chair, who has been thebeloved partner of my hearth during the last half of my life, I oftenask (for middle aged gentlemen have the privilege of repeating theirjokes, their questions, their stories) whether two young people everwere more foolish and imprudent than we were when we married, as wedid, in the year of the old King's death? My son, who has taken someprodigious leaps in the heat of his fox-hunting, says he surveys thegaps and rivers which he crossed so safely over with terror afterwards,and astonishment at his own foolhardiness in making such desperateventures; and yet there is no more eager sportsman in the two countiesthan 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 hismother's terror); but so has his father (thinking, perhaps, of a copyof verse, or his speech at Quarter Sessions) been thrown over his oldmare's head, who has slipped on a stone as they were both dreaming alonga park road at four miles an hour; and Miles's reckless sport has beenthe 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 myworship as an example. I don't say to all young folks, "Go and marryupon twopence a year;" or people would look very black at me at ourvestry-meetings; but my wife is known to be a desperate match-maker; andwhen 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 littlecontribution of our own, and send for the vicar.

  Now, when I ask a question of my dear oracle, I know what the answerwill be; and hence, no doubt, the reason why I so often consult her. Ihave but to wear a particular expression of face and my Diana takes herreflection from it. Suppose I say, "My dear, don't you think the moonwas made of cream cheese to-night?" She will say, "Well, papa, it didlook very like cream cheese, indeed--there's nobody like you for drollsimiles." 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." "Nobodywas equal to my Lord Chatham," says my wife. And then one of thegirls cries, "Why, I have often heard our papa say Lord Chatham was acharlatan!" 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 thesporting announcements in the Norwich paper. So long as there is goodscent, he does not care about the state of the country. I believe therascal has never read my poems, much more my tragedies (for I mentionedPocahontas to him the other day, and the dunce thought she was a riverin Virginia); and with respect to my Latin verses, how can he understandthem when I know he can't construe Corderius? Why, this notebook liespublicly on the little table at my corner of the fireside, and any onemay read in it who will take the trouble of lifting my spectacles offthe cover: but Miles never hath. I insert in the loose pages caricaturesof Miles: jokes against him: but he never knows nor heeds them. Onlyonce, in place of a neat drawing of mine, in China-ink, representingMiles 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, andentitled "The Squire on Horseback, or Fish out of Water." And the fellowto roar with laughter, and all the girls to titter, when I came upon thepage! My wife said she never was in such a fright as when I went to mybook: 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 ofthe age) I never heard a good one in my life. Never mind, Miles, thoughthou art not a wit, I love thee none the worse (there never was any lovelost between two wits in a family); though thou hast no great beauty,thy mother thinks thee as handsome as Apollo, or his Royal Highness thePrince 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 eldestboy, 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 ofwomen's hearts, as some gentlemen are; but that he was exceeding likeH.R.H. when they were both babies, is most certain, the Duchess ofAneaster having herself remarked him in St. James's Park, where Gumboand my poor Molly used often to take him for an airing. Th. W."]

  In that same year, with what different prospects! my Lord Esmond, LordCastlewood's son, likewise appeared to adorn the world. My Lord C. andhis 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 fatherwould ever have been able to do much for themselves, and by their ownwits.

  Castlewood House has quite a different face now from that venerableone which it wore in the days of my youth, when it was covered with thewrinkles of time, the scars of old wars, the cracks and blemishes whichyears had marked on its hoary features. I love best to remember it inits old shape, as I saw it when young Mr. George Warrington went downat the owner's invitation, to be present at his lordship's marriage withMiss Lydia Van den Bosch--"an American lady of noble family of Holland,"as the county paper announced her ladyship to be. Then the towers stoodas Warrington's grandfather the Colonel (the Marquis, as Madam Esmondwould like to call her father) had seen them. The woods (thinned nota little to be sure) stood, nay, some of the self-same rooks may havecawed over them, which the Colonel had seen threescore years back. Hispicture hung in the hall which might have been his, had he not preferredlove and gratitude to wealth and worldly honour; and Mr. George EsmondWarrington (that is, Egomet Ipse who write this page down), as hewalked the old place, pacing the long corridors, the smooth dew-spangledterraces 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 ifan Old Pretender, or a Jesuit emissary in disguise, might appear frombehind any tall tree-trunk round about the mansion, or antique carvedcupboard within it. I had the strangest, saddest, pleasantest, old-worldfancies as I walked the place; I imagined tragedies, intrigues,serenades, escaladoes, Oliver's Roundheads battering the towers, orbluff Hal's Beefeaters pricking over the plain before the castle. I wasthen courting a certain young lady (madam, your ladyship's eyes had noneed of spectacles then, and on the brow above them there was never awrinkle or a silver hair), and I remember I wrote a ream of romanticdescription, under my Lord Castlewood's franks, to the lady who nevertired of reading my letters then. She says I only send her three linesnow, when I am away in London or elsewhere. 'Tis that I may not fatigueyour old eyes, my dear!

  Mr. Warrington thought himself authorised to order a genteel new suit ofclothes for my lord's marriage, and with Mons. Gumbo in attendance,made his appearance at Castlewood a few days before the ceremony. I maymention that it had been found expedient to send my faithful Sady homeon board a Virginia ship. A great inflammation attacking the throat andlungs, and proving fatal in very many cases, in that year of Wolfe'sexpedition, had seized and well-nigh killed my poor lad, for whomhis native air was pronounced to be the best cure. We parted with anabundance of tears, and Gumbo shed as many when his master went toQuebec: but he had attractions in this country and none for the militarylife, so he remained attached to my service. We found Castlewood Housefull of friends, relations, and visitors. Lady Fanny was there uponcompulsion, a sulky bridesmaid. Some of the virgins of the neighbourhoodalso attended the young Countess. A bishop's widow herself, the BaronessBeatrix brought a holy brother-in-law of the bench from London to tiethe holy knot of matrimony between Eugene Earl of Castlewood and LydiaVan den Bosch, spinster; and for some time before and after the nuptialsthe old house in Hampshire wore an appearance of gaiety to which it hadlong been unaccustomed. The country families came gladly to pay theircompliments to the newly married couple. The lady's wealth was thesubject of everybody's talk, and no doubt did not decrease in thetelling. Those naughty stories which were rife in town, and spread byher disappointed suitors there, took some little time to travel intoHampshire; and whe
n they reached the country found it disposed to treatLord Castlewood's wife with civility, and not inclined to be too curiousabout her behaviour in town. Suppose she had jilted this man, andlaughed at the other? It was her money they were anxious about, and shewas no more mercenary than they. The Hampshire folks were determinedthat it was a great benefit to the country to have Castlewood House oncemore open, with beer in the cellars, horses in the stables, and spitsturning before the kitchen fires. The new lady took her place with greatdignity, and 'twas certain she had uncommon accomplishments and wit.Was it not written, in the marriage advertisements, that her ladyshipbrought her noble husband seventy thousand pounds? On a beaucoupd'esprit with seventy thousand pounds. The Hampshire people said thiswas only a small portion of her wealth. When the grandfather shouldfall, ever so many plums would be found on that old tree.

  That quiet old man, and keen reckoner, began quickly to put thedilapidated Castlewood accounts in order, of which long neglect,poverty, and improvidence had hastened the ruin. The business of theold gentleman's life now, and for some time henceforth, was toadvance, improve, mend my lord's finances; to screw the rents up wherepracticable, to pare the expenses of the establishment down. He could,somehow, look to every yard of worsted lace on the footmen's coats, andevery pound of beef that went to their dinner. A watchful old eye notedevery flagon of beer which was fetched from the buttery, and markedthat no waste occurred in the larder. The people were fewer, but moreregularly paid; the liveries were not so ragged, and yet the tailor hadno need to dun for his money; the gardeners and grooms grumbled, thoughtheir wages were no longer overdue: but the horses fattened on lesscorn, and the fruit and vegetables were ever so much more plentiful--sokeenly did my lady's old grandfather keep a watch over the householdaffairs, from his lonely little chamber in the turret.

  These improvements, though here told in a paragraph or two, were theaffairs 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 inprosperity. That it was a flourishing and economical household no onecould deny: not even the dowager lady and her two children, who nowseldom entered within Castlewood gates, my lady considering them in thelight of enemies--for who, indeed, would like a stepmother-in-law? Thelittle reigning Countess gave the dowager battle, and routed her utterlyand speedily. Though educated in the colonies, and ignorant of politelife during her early years, the Countess Lydia had a power of languageand a strength of will that all had to acknowledge who quarrelled withher. 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 nowonder their absence was not regretted by my lord, who was in the habitof 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 theywere together, expect or hope that his lordship would grieve at hisdeparture, at his death, at any misfortune which could happen to him,or any souls alive? Cousin Warrington knew better. Always of a scepticalturn, Mr. W. took a grim delight in watching the peculiarities of hisneighbours, and could like this one even though he had no courage and noheart. Courage? Heart? What are these to you and me in the world? A manmay 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 adecent figure, and pay his way. Colonel Esmond Warrington's grandfather(in whose history and dwelling-place Mr. W. took an extraordinaryinterest), might once have been owner of this house of Castlewood,and of the titles which belonged to its possessor. The gentleman oftenlooked at the Colonel's grave picture as it still hung in the saloon,a copy or replica of which piece Mr. Warrington fondly remembered inVirginia.

  "He must have been a little touched here," my lord said, tapping his owntall, placid forehead.

  There are certain actions, simple and common with some men, which otherscannot understand, and deny as utter lies, or deride as acts of madness.

  "I do you the justice to think, cousin," says Mr. Warrington to hislordship, "that you would not give up any advantage for any friend inthe 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 ofhis box. Once, in their walks in the fields, his lordship happeningto wear a fine scarlet coat, a cow ran towards him; and the ordinarilylanguid nobleman sprang over a stile with the agility of a schoolboy. Hedid not conceal his tremor, or his natural want of courage. "I dare sayyou respect me no more than I respect myself, George," he would say, inhis candid way, and begin a very pleasant sardonical discourse upon thefall of man, and his faults, and shortcomings; and wonder why Heavenhad 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 somepeople 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," hislordship's look seemed to say, "but, if you will, you may." No man, savea bully and coward himself, deals hardly with a creature so spiritless.