The Virginians

  CHAPTER XXI. Samaritans

  Lest any tender-hearted reader should be in alarm for Mr. HarryWarrington's safety, and fancy that his broken-kneed horse had carriedhim altogether out of this life and history, let us set her mind easy atthe beginning of this chapter by assuring her that nothing very serioushas happened. How can we afford to kill off our heroes, when they arescarcely out of their teens, and we have not reached the age of manhoodof the story? We are in mourning already for one of our Virginians, whohas come to grief in America; surely we cannot kill off the other inEngland? No, no. Heroes are not despatched with such hurry and violenceunless there is a cogent reason for making away with them. Were agentleman to perish every time a horse came down with him, not only thehero, but the author of this chronicle would have gone under ground,whereas the former is but sprawling outside it, and will be brought tolife again as soon as he has been carried into the house where Madame deBernstein's servants have rung the bell.

  And to convince you that at least this youngest of the Virginians isstill alive, here is an authentic copy of a letter from the lady intowhose house he was taken after his fall from Mr. Will's brute of abroken-kneed horse, and in whom he appears to have found a kind friend:

  "TO MRS. ESMOND WARRINGTON, OF CASTLEWOOD

  "At her House at Richmond, in Virginia

  "If Mrs. Esmond Warrington of Virginia can call to mind twenty-threeyears ago, when Miss Rachel Esmond was at Kensington Boarding School,she may perhaps remember Miss Molly Benson, her class-mate, who hasforgotten all the little quarrels which they used to have together (inwhich Miss Molly was very often in the wrong), and only remembersthe generous, high-spirited, sprightly, Miss Esmond, the PrincessPocahontas, to whom so many of our school-fellows paid court.

  "Dear madam! I cannot forget that you were dear Rachel once upon a time,as I was your dearest Molly. Though we parted not very good friends whenyou went home to Virginia, yet you know how fond we once were. Istill, Rachel, have the gold etui your papa gave me when he came to ourspeech-day at Kensington, and we two performed the quarrel of Brutusand Cassius out of Shakspeare; and 'twas only yesterday morning I wasdreaming that we were both called up to say our lesson before the awfulMiss Hardwood, and that I did not know it, and that as usual Miss RachelEsmond went above me. How well remembered those old days are! How youngwe grow as we think of them! I remember our walks and our exercises,our good King and Queen as they walked in Kensington Gardens, and theircourt following them, whilst we of Miss Hardwood's school curtseyed ina row. I can tell still what we had for dinner on each day of the week,and point to the place where your garden was, which was always so muchbetter kept than mine. So was Miss Esmond's chest of drawers a model ofneatness, whilst mine were in a sad condition. Do you remember how weused to tell stories in the dormitory, and Madame Hibou, the Frenchgoverness, would come out of bed and interrupt us with her hooting? Haveyou forgot the poor dancing-master, who told us he had been waylaid byassassins, but who was beaten, it appears, by my lord your brother'sfootmen? My dear, your cousin, the Lady Maria Esmond (her papa was, Ithink, but Viscount Castlewood in those times), has just been on a visitto this house, where you may be sure I did not recall those sad times toher remembrance, about which I am now chattering to Mrs. Esmond.

  "Her ladyship has been staying here, and another relative of yours, theBaroness of Bernstein, and the two ladies are both gone on to TunbridgeWells; but another and dearer relative still remains in my house, andis sound asleep, I trust, in the very next room, and the name of thisgentleman is Mr. Henry Esmond Warrington. Now, do you understand how youcome to hear from an old friend? Do not be alarmed, dear madam! I knowyou are thinking at this moment, 'My boy is ill. That is why Miss MollyBenson writes to me.' No, my dear; Mr. Warrington was ill yesterday, butto-day he is very comfortable; and our doctor, who is no less a personthan my dear husband, Colonel Lambert, has blooded him, has set hisshoulder, which was dislocated, and pronounces that in two days more Mr.Warrington will be quite ready to take the road.

  "I fear I and my girls are sorry that he is so soon to be well.Yesterday evening, as we were at tea, there came a great ringing at ourgate, which disturbed us all, as the bell very seldom sounds in thisquiet place, unless a passing beggar pulls it for charity; and theservants, running out, returned with the news, that a young gentleman,who had a fall from his horse, was lying lifeless on the road,surrounded by the friends in whose company he was travelling. At this,my Colonel (who is sure the most Samaritan of men!) hastens away, to seehow he can serve the fallen traveller, and presently, with the aid ofthe servants, and followed by two ladies, brings into the house sucha pale, lifeless, beautiful, young man! Ah, my dear, how I rejoice tothink that your child has found shelter and succour under my roof! thatmy husband has saved him from pain and fever, and has been the means ofrestoring him to you and health! We shall be friends again now, shall wenot? I was very ill last year, and 'twas even thought I should die. Doyou know, that I often thought of you then, and how you had parted fromme in anger so many years ago? I began then a foolish note to you, whichI was too sick to finish, to tell you that if I went the way appointedfor us all, I should wish to leave the world in charity with everysingle being I had known in it.

  "Your cousin, the Right Honourable Lady Maria Esmond, showed a greatdeal of maternal tenderness and concern for her young kinsman after hisaccident. I am sure she hath a kind heart. The Baroness de Bernstein,who is of an advanced age, could not be expected to feel so keenly aswe young people; but was, nevertheless, very much moved and interesteduntil Mr. Warrington was restored to consciousness, when she said shewas anxious to get on towards Tunbridge, whither she was bound, andwas afraid of all things to lie in a place where there was no doctor athand. My Aesculapius laughingly said, he would not offer to attend upona lady of quality, though he would answer for his young patient.Indeed, the Colonel, during his campaigns, has had plenty of practice inaccidents of this nature, and I am certain, were we to call in allthe faculty for twenty miles round, Mr. Warrington could get no bettertreatment. So, leaving the young gentleman to the care of me and mydaughters, the Baroness and her ladyship took their leave of us, thelatter very loth to go. When he is well enough, my Colonel will ridewith him as far as Westerham, but on his own horses, where an oldarmy-comrade of Mr. Lambert's resides. And, as this letter will not takethe post for Falmouth until, by God's blessing, your son is well andperfectly restored, you need be under no sort of alarm for him whilstunder the roof of, madam, your affectionate, humble servant, MARYLAMBERT.

  "P.S. Thursday.

  "I am glad to hear (Mr. Warrington's coloured gentleman hath informedour people of the gratifying circumstance) that Providence hath blessedMrs. Esmond with such vast wealth, and with an heir so likely to docredit to it. Our present means are amply sufficient, but will be smallwhen divided amongst our survivors. Ah, dear madam! I have heard ofyour calamity of last year. Though the Colonel and I have reared manychildren (five), we have lost two, and a mother's heart can feel foryours! I own to you, mine yearned to your boy to-day, when (in a mannerinexpressibly affecting to me and Mr. Lambert) he mentioned his dearbrother. 'Tis impossible to see your son, and not to love and regardhim. I am thankful that it has been our lot to succour him in histrouble, and that in receiving the stranger within our gates we shouldbe giving hospitality to the son of an old friend."

  Nature has written a letter of credit upon some men's faces, which ishonoured almost wherever presented. Harry Warrington's countenance wasso stamped in his youth. His eyes were so bright, his cheek so red andhealthy, his look so frank and open, that almost all who beheld him,nay, even those who cheated him, trusted him. Nevertheless, as we havehinted, the lad was by no means the artless stripling he seemed to be.He was knowing enough with all his blushing cheeks; perhaps more wilyand wary than he grew to be in after-age. Sure, a shrewd and generousman (who has led an honest life and has no secret blushes for hisconscience) grows simpler as he grows older; arrives at his sum ofright by more rapid proc
esses of calculation; learns to eliminate falsearguments more readily, and hits the mark of truth with less previoustrouble of aiming, and disturbance of mind. Or is it only a seniledelusion, that some of our vanities are cured with our growing years,and that we become more just in our perceptions of our own and ourneighbour's shortcomings? ... I would humbly suggest that young people,though they look prettier, have larger eyes, and not near so manywrinkles about their eyelids, are often as artful as some of theirelders. What little monsters of cunning your frank schoolboys are!How they cheat mamma! how they hoodwink papa! how they humbug thehousekeeper! how they cringe to the big boy for whom they fag at school!what a long lie and five years' hypocrisy and flattery is their conducttowards Dr. Birch! And the little boys' sisters? Are they any better,and is it only after they come out in the world that the little darlingslearn a trick or two?

  You may see, by the above letter of Mrs. Lambert, that she, like allgood women (and, indeed, almost all bad women), was a sentimentalperson; and, as she looked at Harry Warrington laid in her best bed,after the Colonel had bled him and clapped in his shoulder, as holdingby her husband's hand she beheld the lad in a sweet slumber, murmuring afaint inarticulate word or two in his sleep, a faint blush quivering onhis cheek, she owned he was a pretty lad indeed, and confessed witha sort of compunction that neither of her two boys--Jack who wasat Oxford, and Charles who was just gone back to school after theBartlemytide holidays--was half so handsome as the Virginian. What agood figure the boy had! and when papa bled him, his arm was as white asany lady's!

  "Yes, as you say, Jack might have been as handsome but for thesmall-pox: and as for Charley----" "Always took after his papa, my dearMolly," said the Colonel, looking at his own honest face in a littlelooking-glass with a cut border and a japanned frame, by which the chiefguests of the worthy gentleman and lady had surveyed their patches andpowder, or shaved their hospitable beards.

  "Did I say so, my love?" whispered Mrs. Lambert, looking rather scared.

  "No; but you thought so, Mrs. Lambert."

  "How can you tell one's thoughts so, Martin?" asks the lady.

  "Because I am a conjurer, and because you tell them yourself, my dear,"answered her husband. "Don't be frightened: he won't wake after thatdraught I gave him. Because you never see a young fellow but you arecomparing him with your own. Because you never hear of one but you arethinking which of our girls he shall fall in love with and marry."

  "Don't be foolish, sir," says the lady, putting a hand up to theColonel's lips. They have softly trodden out of their guest's bedchamberby this time, and are in the adjoining dressing-closet, a snug littlewainscoted room looking over gardens, with India curtains, more Japanchests and cabinets, a treasure of china, and a most refreshing odour offresh lavender.

  "You can't deny it, Mrs. Lambert," the Colonel resumes; "as you werelooking at the young gentleman just now, you were thinking to yourselfwhich of my girls will he marry? Shall it be Theo, or shall it beHester? And then you thought of Lucy who was at boarding-school."

  "There is no keeping anything from you, Martin Lambert," sighs the wife.

  "There is no keeping it out of your eyes, my dear. What is this burningdesire all you women have for selling and marrying your daughters? Wemen don't wish to part with 'em. I am sure, for my part, I should notlike yonder young fellow half as well if I thought he intended to carryone of my darlings away with him."

  "Sure, Martin, I have been so happy myself," says the fond wife andmother, looking at her husband with her very best eyes, "that I mustwish my girls to do as I have done, and be happy, too!"

  "Then you think good husbands are common, Mrs. Lambert, and that you maywalk any day into the road before the house and find one shot out at thegate like a sack of coals?"

  "Wasn't it providential, sir, that this young gentleman should be thrownover his horse's head at our very gate, and that he should turn out tobe the son of my old schoolfellow and friend?" asked the wife. "Thereis something more than accident in such cases, depend upon that, Mr.Lambert!"

  "And this was the stranger you saw in the candle three nights running, Isuppose?"

  "And in the fire, too, sir; twice a coal jumped out close by Theo. Youmay sneer, sir, but these things are not to be despised. Did I not seeyou distinctly coming back from Minorca, and dream of you at the veryday and hour when you were wounded in Scotland?"

  "How many times have you seen me wounded, when I had not a scratch, mydear? How many times have you seen me ill when I had no sort of hurt?You are always prophesying, and 'twere very hard on you if you were notsometimes right. Come! Let us leave our guest asleep comfortably, and godown and give the girls their French lesson."

  So saying, the honest gentleman put his wife's arm under his, and theydescended together the broad oak staircase of the comfortable oldhall, round which hung the effigies of many foregone Lamberts, worthymagistrates, soldiers, country gentlemen, as was the Colonel whoseacquaintance we have just made. The Colonel was a gentleman of pleasant,waggish humour. The French lesson which he and his daughters connedtogether was a scene out of Monsieur Moliere's comedy of "Tartuffe,"and papa was pleased to be very facetious with Miss Theo, by callingher Madam, and by treating her with a great deal of mock respect andceremony. The girls read together with their father a scene or two ofhis favourite author (nor were they less modest in those days, thoughtheir tongues were a little more free), and papa was particularly archand funny as he read from Orgon's part in that celebrated play:

  "ORGON. Or sus, nous voila bien. J'ai, Mariane, en vous Reconnu de tout temps un esprit assez doux, Et de tout temps aussi vous m'avez ete chere.

  MARIANE. Je suis fort redevable a cet amour de pere.

  ORGON. Fort bien. Que dites-vous de Tartuffe notre hote?

  MARIANE. Qui? Moi?

  ORGON. Vous. Voyez bien comme vous repondrez.

  MARIANE. Helas! J'en dirai, moi, tout ce que vous voudrez!

  (Mademoiselle Mariane laughs and blushes in spite of herself, whilstreading this line.)

  ORGON. C'est parler sagement. Dites-moi donc, ma fille, Qu'en toute sa personne un haut merite brille, Qu'il touche votre coeur, et qu'il vous seroit doux De le voir par men choix devenir votre epoux!"

  "Have we not read the scene prettily, Elmire?" says the Colonel,laughing, and turning round to his wife.

  Elmira prodigiously admired Orgon's reading, and so did his daughters,and almost everything besides which Mr. Lambert said or did. Canst thou,O friendly reader, count upon the fidelity of an artless and tenderheart or two, and reckon among the blessings which Heaven hath bestowedon thee the love of faithful women! Purify thine own heart, and try tomake it worthy theirs. On thy knees, on thy knees, give thanks for theblessing awarded thee! All the prizes of life are nothing compared tothat one. All the rewards of ambition, wealth, pleasure, only vanity anddisappointment--grasped at greedily and fought for fiercely, and, overand over again, found worthless by the weary winners. But love seems tosurvive life, and to reach beyond it. I think we take it with us pastthe grave. Do we not still give it to those who have left us? May we nothope that they feel it for us, and that we shall leave it here in one ortwo fond bosoms, when we also are gone?

  And whence, or how, or why, pray, this sermon? You see I know more aboutthis Lambert family than you do to whom I am just presenting them:as how should you who never heard of them before! You may not like myfriends; very few people do like strangers to whom they are presentedwith an outrageous flourish of praises on the part of the introducer.You say (quite naturally), What? Is this all? Are these the people heis so fond of? Why, the girl's not a beauty--the mother is good-natured,and may have been good-looking once, but she has no trace of itnow--and, as for the father, he is quite an ordinary man. Granted butdon't you acknowledge that the sight of an honest man, with an honest,loving wife by his side, and surrounded by loving and obedient children,presents something very sweet and affecting to you? If you are madeacquainted with such a person, and see t
he eager kindness of the fondfaces round about him, and that pleasant confidence and affectionwhich beams from his own, do you mean to say you are not touched andgratified? If you happen to stay in such a man's house, and at morningor evening see him and his children and domestics gathered together in acertain name, do you not join humbly in the petitions of those servants,and close them with a reverent Amen? That first night of his stay atOakhurst, Harry Warrington, who had had a sleeping potion, and was awakesometimes rather feverish, thought he heard the Evening Hymn, and thathis dearest brother George was singing it at home, in which delusion thepatient went off again to sleep.