CHAPTER XLIV. Contains what might, perhaps, have been expected
On the rejection of his peace-offerings, our warlike young Americanchief chose to be in great wrath not only against Colonel Lambert, butthe whole of that gentleman's family. "He has humiliated me beforethe girls!" thought the young man. "He and Mr. Wolfe, who were foreverpreaching morality to me, and giving themselves airs of superiority andprotection, have again been holding me up to the family as a scapegraceand prodigal. They are so virtuous that they won't shake me by the hand,forsooth; and when I want to show them a little common gratitude, theyfling my presents in my face!"
"Why, sir, the things must be worth a little fortune!" says ParsonSampson, casting an eye of covetousness on the two morocco boxes,in which, on their white satin cushions, reposed Mr. Sparks's goldengewgaws.
"They cost some money, Sampson," says the young man. "Not that I wouldgrudge ten times the amount to people who have been kind to me."
"No, faith, sir, not if I know your honour!" interjects Sampson, whonever lost a chance of praising his young patron to his face.
"The repeater, they told me, was a great bargain, and worth a hundredpounds at Paris. Little Miss Hetty I remember saying that she longed tohave a repeating watch."
"Oh, what a love!" cries the chaplain, "with a little circle of pearlson the back, and a diamond knob for the handle! Why, 'twould win anywoman's heart, Sir!"
"There passes an apple-woman with a basket. I have a mind to fling thething out to her!" cries Mr. Warrington, fiercely.
When Harry went out upon business, which took him to the City and theTemple, his parasite did not follow him very far into the Strand;but turned away, owning that he had a terror of Chancery Lane, itsinhabitants, and precincts. Mr. Warrington went then to his broker, andthey walked to the Bank together, where they did some little business,at the end of which, and after the signing of a trifling signature ortwo, Harry departed with a certain number of crisp bank-notes in hispocket. The broker took Mr. Warrington to one of the great dining-housesfor which the City was famous then as now; and afterwards showed Mr.Warrington the Virginian walk upon 'Change, through which Harry passedrather shamefacedly. What would a certain lady in Virginia say, hethought, if she knew that he was carrying off in that bottomlessgambler's pocket a great portion of his father's patrimony? Those areall Virginia merchants, thinks he, and they are all talking to oneanother about me, and all saying, "That is young Esmond, of Castlewood,on the Potomac, Madam Esmond's son; and he has been losing his money atplay, and he has been selling out so much, and so much, and so much."
His spirits did not rise until he had passed under the traitors' headsof Temple Bar, and was fairly out of the City. From the Strand Mr. Harrywalked home, looking in at St. James's Street by the way; but there wasnobody there as yet, the company not coming to the Chocolate-House tilla later hour.
Arrived at home, Mr. Harry pulls out his bundle of bank-notes; putsthree of them into a sheet of paper, which he seals carefully, havingpreviously written within the sheet the words, "Much good may theydo you. H. E. W." And this packet he directs to the Reverend Mr.Sampson,--leaving it on the chimney-glass, with directions to hisservants to give it to that divine when he should come in.
And now his honour's phaeton is brought to the door, and he steps in,thinking to drive round the park; but the rain coming on, or the eastwind blowing, or some other reason arising, his honour turns his horses'heads down St. James's Street, and is back at White's at about threeo'clock. Scarce anybody has come in yet. It is the hour when folks areat dinner. There, however, is my cousin Castlewood, lounging over thePublic Advertiser, having just come off from his duty at Court hard by.
Lord Castlewood is yawning over the Public Advertiser. What shall theydo? Shall they have a little piquet? Harry has no objections to a littlepiquet. "Just for an hour," says Lord Castlewood. "I dine at ArlingtonStreet at four." "Just for an hour," says Mr. Warrington; and they callfor cards.
"Or shall we have 'em in upstairs?" says my lord. "Out of the noise?"
"Certainly, out of the noise," says Harry.
At five o'clock a half-dozen of gentlemen have come in after theirdinner, and are at cards, or coffee, or talk. The folks from theordinary have not left the table yet. There the gentlemen of White'swill often sit till past midnight.
One toothpick points over the coffee-house blinds into the street."Whose phaeton?" asks Toothpick 1 of Toothpick 2.
"The Fortunate Youth's," says No. 2.
"Not so fortunate the last three nights. Luck confoundedly against him.Lost, last night, thirteen hundred to the table. Mr. Warrington beenhere to-day, John?"
"Mr. Warrington is in the house now, sir. In the little tea-room withLord Castlewood since three o'clock. They are playing at piquet," saysJohn.
"What fun for Castlewood!" says No. 1, with a shrug.
The second gentleman growls out an execration. "Curse the fellow!" hesays. "He has no right to be in this club at all. He doesn't pay if heloses. Gentlemen ought not to play with him. Sir Miles Warrington toldme at court the other day, that Castlewood has owed him money on a betthese three years."
"Castlewood," says No. 1, "don't lose if he plays alone. A large companyflurries him, you see--that's why he doesn't come to the table." And thefacetious gentleman grins, and shows all his teeth, polished perfectlyclean.
"Let's go up and stop 'em," growls No. 2.
"Why?" asks the other. "Much better look out a-window. Lamplighter goingup the ladder--famous sport. Look at that old putt in the chair: did youever see such an old quiz?"
"Who is that just gone out of the house? As I live, it's Fortunatus! Heseems to have forgotten that his phaeton has been here, waiting all thetime. I bet you two to one he has been losing to Castlewood."
"Jack, do you take me to be a fool?" asks the one gentleman of theother. "Pretty pair of horses the youth has got. How he is flogging'em!" And they see Mr. Warrington galloping up the street, and scaredcoachmen and chairmen clearing before him: presently my Lord Castlewoodis seen to enter a chair, and go his way.
Harry drives up to his own door. It was but a few yards, and those poorhorses have been beating the pavement all this while in the rain. Mr.Gumbo is engaged at the door in conversation with a countrified-lookinglass, who trips off with a curtsey. Mr. Gumbo is always engaged withsome pretty maid or other.
"Gumbo, has Mr. Sampson been here?" asks Gumbo's master from hisdriving-seat.
"No, sar. Mr. Sampson have not been here!" answers Mr. Warrington'sgentleman. Harry bids him to go upstairs and bring down a letteraddressed to Mr. Sampson.
"Addressed to Mr. Sampson? Oh yes, sir," says Mr. Gumbo, who can't read.
"A sealed letter, stupid! on the mantelpiece, in the glass!" says Harry;and Gumbo leisurely retires to fetch that document. As soon as Harry hasit, he turns his horses' heads towards St. James's Street, and thetwo gentlemen, still yawning out of the window at White's, behold theFortunate Youth, in an instant, back again.
As they passed out of the little tea-room where he and Lord Castlewoodhad had their piquet together, Mr. Warrington had seen that severalgentlemen had entered the play-room, and that there was a bank there.Some were already steadily at work, and had their gaming jackets on:they kept such coats at the club, which they put on when they had a mindto sit down to a regular night's play.
Mr. Warrington goes to the clerk's desk, pays his account of theprevious night, and, sitting down at the table, calls for freshcounters. This has been decidedly an unlucky week with the FortunateYouth, and to-night is no more fortunate than previous nights have been.He calls for more counters, and more presently. He is a little pale andsilent, though very easy and polite when talked to. But he cannot win.
At last he gets up. "Hang it! stay and mend your luck!" says Lord March,who is sitting by his side with a heap of counters before him, green andwhite. "Take a hundred of mine, and go on!"
"I have had enough for to-night, my lord," says Harry, and rises andgoes away, and
eats a broiled bone in the coffee-room, and walks back tohis lodgings some time about midnight. A man after a great catastrophecommonly sleeps pretty well. It is the waking in the morning which issometimes queer and unpleasant. Last night you proposed to Miss Brown:you quarrelled over your cups with Captain Jones, and valorously pulledhis nose: you played at cards with Colonel Robinson, and gave him--oh,how many I O U's! These thoughts, with a fine headache, assail youin the morning watches. What a dreary, dreary gulf between to-day andyesterday! It seems as if you are years older. Can't you leap back overthat chasm again, and is it not possible that Yesterday is but a dream?There you are, in bed. No daylight in at the windows yet. Pull yournightcap over your eyes, the blankets over your nose, and sleep awayYesterday. Psha, man, it was but a dream! Oh no, no! The sleep won'tcome. The watchman bawls some hour--what hour? Harry minds him that hehas got the repeating watch under his pillow which he had bought forHester. Ting, ting, ting! the repeating watch sings out six times inthe darkness, with a little supplementary performance indicating thehalf-hour. Poor dear little Hester!--so bright, so gay, so innocent! hewould have liked her to have that watch. What will Maria say? (Oh, thatold Maria! what a bore she is beginning to be! he thinks.) What willMadam Esmond at home say when she hears that he has lost every shillingof his ready money--of his patrimony? All his winnings, and fivethousand pounds besides, in three nights. Castlewood could not haveplayed him false? No. My lord knows piquet better than Harry does, buthe would not deal unfairly with his own flesh and blood. No, no. Harryis glad his kinsman, who wanted the money, has got it. And for not onemore shilling than he possessed, would he play. It was when he countedup his losses at the gaming-table, and found they would cover all theremainder of his patrimony, that he passed the box and left the table.But, O cursed bad company! O extravagance and folly! O humiliation andremorse! "Will my mother at home forgive me?" thinks the young prodigal."Oh, that I were there, and had never left it!"
The dreary London dawn peeps at length through shutters and curtains.The housemaid enters to light his honour's fire and admit the dunmorning into his windows. Her Mr. Gumbo presently follows, who warms hismaster's dressing-gown and sets out his shaving-plate and linen. Thenarrives the hairdresser to curl and powder his honour, whilst he readshis morning's letters; and at breakfast-time comes that inevitableParson Sampson, with eager looks and servile smiles, to wait on hispatron. The parson would have returned yesterday according to mutualagreement, but some jolly fellows kept him to dinner at the St. Alban's,and, faith, they made a night of it.
"Oh, Parson!" groans Harry, "'twas the worst night you ever made in yourlife! Look here, sir!"
"Here is a broken envelope with the words, 'Much good may it do you,'written within," says the chaplain, glancing at the paper.
"Look on the outside, sir!" cries Mr. Warrington. "The paper wasdirected to you." The poor chaplain's countenance exhibited great alarm."Has some one broke it open, sir?" he asks.
"Some one, yes. I broke it open, Sampson. Had you come here as youproposed yesterday afternoon, you would have found that envelope full ofbank-notes. As it is, they were all dropped at the infernal macco-tablelast night."
"What, all?" says Sampson.
"Yes, all, with all the money I brought away from the city, and all theready money I have left in the world. In the afternoon I played piquetwith my cous--with a gentleman at White's--and he eased me of all themoney I had about me. Remembering that there was still some money lefthere, unless you had fetched it, I came home and carried it back andleft it at the macco-table, with every shilling besides that belongs tome--and--great heaven, Sampson, what's the matter, man?"
"It's my luck, it's my usual luck," cries out the unfortunate chaplain,and fairly burst into tears.
"What! You are not whimpering like a baby at the loss of a loan of acouple of hundred pounds?" cries out Mr. Warrington, very fierce andangry. "Leave the room, Gumbo! Confound you! why are you always pokingyour woolly head in at that door!"
"Some one below wants to see master with a little bill," says Mr. Gumbo.
"Tell him to go to Jericho!" roars out Mr. Warrington. "Let me seenobody! I am not at home, sir, at this hour of the morning!"
A murmur or two, a scuffle is heard on the landing-place, and silencefinally ensues. Mr. Warrington's scorn and anger are not diminished bythis altercation. He turns round savagely upon unhappy Sampson, who sitswith his head buried in his breast.
"Hadn't you better take a bumper of brandy to keep your spirits up, Mr.Sampson?" he asks. "Hang it, man! don't be snivelling like a woman!"
"Oh, it's not me!" says Sampson, tossing his head. "I am used to it,sir."
"Not you! Who, then? Are you crying because somebody else is hurt,pray?" asks Mr. Warrington.
"Yes, sir!" says the chaplain, with some spirit; "because somebody elseis hurt, and through my fault. I have lodged for many years in Londonwith a bootmaker, a very honest man: and, a few days since, having aperfect reliance upon--upon a friend who had promised to accommodate mewith a loan--I borrowed sixty pounds from my landlord which he was aboutto pay to his own. I can't get the money. My poor landlord's goods willbe seized for rent; his wife and dear young children will be turned intothe street; and this honest family will be ruined through my fault. But,as you say, Mr. Warrington, I ought not to snivel like a woman. I willremember that you helped me once, and will bid you farewell, sir."
And, taking his broad-leafed hat, Mr. Chaplain walked out of the room.
An execration and a savage laugh, I am sorry to say, burst out ofHarry's lips at this sudden movement of the chaplain's. He was in sucha passion with himself, with circumstances, with all people round abouthim, that he scarce knew where to turn, or what he said. Sampson heardthe savage laughter, and then the voice of Harry calling from thestairs, "Sampson, Sampson! hang you! come back! It's a mistake! I begyour pardon!" But the chaplain was cut to the soul, and walked on. Harryheard the door of the street as the parson slammed it. It thumped on hisown breast. He entered his room, and sank back on his luxurious chairthere. He was Prodigal, amongst the swine--his foul remorses; they hadtripped him up, and were wallowing over him. Gambling, extravagance,debauchery, dissolute life, reckless companions, dangerous women--theywere all upon him in a herd, and were trampling upon the prostrate youngsinner.
Prodigal was not, however, yet utterly overcome, and had some fight leftin him. Dashing the filthy importunate brutes aside, and, as it were,kicking his ugly remembrances away from him, Mr. Warrington seizeda great glass of that fire-water which he had recommended to poorhumiliated Parson Sampson, and, flinging off his fine damask robe, rangfor the trembling Gumbo, and ordered his coat. "Not that!" roars he, asGumbo brings him a fine green coat with plated buttons and a gold cord."A plain suit--the plainer the better! The black clothes." And Gumbobrings the mourning-coat which his master had discarded for some monthspast.
Mr. Harry then takes:--1, his fine new gold watch; 2, his repeater (thatwhich he had bought for Hetty), which he puts into his other fob; 3,his necklace, which he had purchased for Theo; 4, his rings, of whichmy gentleman must have half a dozen at least (with the exception ofhis grandfather's old seal ring, which he kisses and lays down on thepincushion again); 5, his three gold snuff boxes: and 6, his purse,knitted by his mother, and containing three shillings and sixpence and apocket-piece brought from Virginia: and, putting on his hat, issues fromhis door.
At the landing he is met by Mr. Ruff, his landlord, who bows and cringesand puts into his honour's hand a strip of paper a yard long. "Muchobliged if Mr. Warrington will settle. Mrs. Ruff has a large accountto make up to-day." Mrs. Ruff is a milliner. Mr. Ruff is one of thehead-waiters and aides-de-camp of Mr. Mackreth, the proprietor ofWhite's Club. The sight of the landlord does not add to the lodger'sgood-humour.
"Perhaps his honour will have the kindness to settle the littleaccount?" asks Mr. Ruff.
"Of course I will settle the account," says Harry, glumly looking downover Mr. Ruffs head from the stair above h
im.
"Perhaps Mr. Warrington will settle it now?"
"No, Sir, I will not settle it now!" says Mr. Warrington, bullyingforward.
"I'm very--very much in want of money, sir," pleads the voice under him."Mrs. Ruff is----"
"Hang you, sir, get out of the way!" cries Mr. Warrington, ferociously,and driving Mr. Ruff backward to the wall, sending him almosttopsy-turvy down his own landing, he tramps down the stair, and walksforth into Bond Street.
The Guards were at exercise at the King's Mews at Charing Cross, asHarry passed, and he heard their drums and fifes, and looked in at thegate, and saw them at drill. "I can shoulder a musket at any rate,"thought he to himself gloomily, as he strode on. He crossed St. Martin'sLane (where he transacted some business), and so made his way into LongAcre, and to the bootmaker's house where friend Sampson lodged. Thewoman of the house said Mr. Sampson was not at home, but had promised tobe at home at one; and, as she knew Mr. Warrington, showed him up to theparson's apartments, where he sate down, and, for want of occupation,tried to read an unfinished sermon of the chaplain's. The subject wasthe Prodigal Son. Mr. Harry did not take very accurate cognisance of thesermon.
Presently he heard the landlady's shrill voice on the stair, pursuingsomebody who ascended, and Sampson rushed into the room, followed by thesobbing woman.
At seeing Harry, Sampson started, and the landlady stopped. Absorbedin her own domestic cares, she had doubtless forgot that a visitor wasawaiting her lodger. "There's only thirteen pound in the house, and hewill be here at one, I tell you!" she was bawling out, as she pursuedher victim.
"Hush, hush! my good creature!" cries the gasping chaplain, pointingto Harry, who rose from the window-seat. "Don't you see Mr. Warrington?I've business with him--most important business. It will be all right, Itell you!" And he soothed and coaxed Mrs. Landlady out of the room, withthe crowd of anxious little ones hanging at her coats.
"Sampson, I have come to ask your pardon again," says Mr. Warrington,rising up. "What I said to-day to you was very cruel and unjust, andunlike a gentleman."
"Not a word more, sir," says the other, coldly and sadly, bowing andscarcely pressing the hand which Harry offered him.
"I see you are still angry with me," Harry continues.
"Nay, sir, an apology is an apology. A man of my station can ask for nomore from one of yours. No doubt you did not mean to give me pain. Andwhat if you did? And you are not the only one of the family who has," hesaid, as he looked piteously round the room. "I wish I had never knownthe name of Esmond or Castlewood," he continues, "or that place yonderof which the picture hangs over my fireplace, and where I have buriedmyself these long, long years. My lord, your cousin, took a fancy to me,said he would make my fortune, has kept me as his dependant till fortunehas passed by me, and now refuses me my due."
"How do you mean your due, Mr. Sampson?" asks Harry.
"I mean three years' salary which he owes me as chaplain of Castlewood.Seeing you could give me no money, I went to his lordship this morningand asked him. I fell on my knees, and asked him, sir. But his lordshiphad none. He gave me civil words, at least (saving your presence, Mr.Warrington), but no money--that is, five guineas, which he declared wasall he had and which I took. But what are five guineas amongst so manyOh, those poor little children! those poor little children!"
"Lord Castlewood said he had no money?" cries out Harry. "He won elevenhundred pounds, yesterday, of me at piquet--which I paid him out of thispocket-book."
"I dare say, sir, I dare say, sir. One can't believe a word his lordshipsays, sir," says Mr. Sampson; "but I am thinking of execution in thishouse, and ruin upon these poor folks to-morrow."
"That need not happen," says Mr. Warrington. "Here are eighty guineas,Sampson. As far as they go, God help you! 'Tis all I have to give you.I wish to my heart I could give more as I promised; but you did not comeat the right time, and I am a poor devil now until I get my remittancesfrom Virginia."
The chaplain gave a wild look of surprise, and turned quite white. Heflung himself down on his knees and seized Harry's hand.
"Great powers, sir!" says he, "are you a guardian angel that Heaven hathsent me? You quarrelled with my tears this morning, Mr. Warrington. Ican't help them now. They burst, sir, from a grateful heart. A rock ofstone would pour them forth, sir, before such goodness as yours! MayHeaven eternally bless you, and give you prosperity! May my unworthyprayers be heard in your behalf, my friend, my best benefactor! May----"
"Nay, nay! get up, friend--get up, Sampson!" says Harry, whom thechaplain's adulation and fine phrases rather annoyed.
"I am glad to have been able to do you a service--sincerely glad.There--there! Don't be on your knees to me!"
"To Heaven who sent you to me, sir!" cries the chaplain. Mrs. Weston!Mrs. Weston!"
"What is it, sir?" says the landlady, instantly, who, indeed, had beenat the door the whole time. "We are saved, Mrs. Weston! We are saved!"cries the chaplain. "Kneel, kneel, woman, and thank our benefactor!Raise your innocent voices, children, and bless him!" A universalwhimper arose round Harry, which the chaplain led off, whilst theyoung Virginian stood, simpering and well pleased, in the midst of thiscongregation. They would worship, do what he might. One of the children,not understanding the kneeling order, and standing up, the motherfetched her a slap on the ear, crying, "Drat it, Jane, kneel down, andbless the gentleman, I tell 'ee!"... We leave them performing this sweetbenedictory service. Mr. Harry walks off from Long Acre, forgettingalmost the griefs of the former four or five days, and tingling with theconsciousness of having done a good action.
The young woman with whom Gumbo had been conversing on that eveningwhen Harry drove up from White's to his lodging, was Mrs. Molly, fromOakhurst, the attendant of the ladies there. Wherever that fascinatingGumbo went, he left friends and admirers in the servants'-hall. I thinkwe said it was on a Wednesday evening he and Mrs. Molly had fetched awalk together, and they were performing the amiable courtesies incidentupon parting, when Gumbo's master came up, and put an end to theirtwilight whisperings and what not.
For many hours on Wednesday, on Thursday, on Friday, a pale littlemaiden sate at a window in Lord Wrotham's house, in Hill Street, hermother and sister wistfully watching her. She would not go out. Theyknew whom she was expecting. He passed the door once, and she mighthave thought he was coming, but he did not. He went into a neighbouringhouse. Papa had never told the girls of the presents which Harry hadsent, and only whispered a word or two to their mother regarding hisquarrel with the young Virginian.
On Saturday night there was an opera of Mr. Handel's, and papa broughthome tickets for the gallery. Hetty went this evening. The change woulddo her good, Theo thought, and--and, perhaps there might be Somebodyamongst the fine company; but Somebody was not there; and Mr. Handel'sfine music fell blank upon the poor child. It might have been SignorBononcini's, and she would have scarce known the difference.
As the children are undressing and taking off those smart new satinsacks in which they appeared at the Opera, looking so fresh and sopretty amongst all the tawdry rouged folks, Theo remarks how very sadand woebegone Mrs. Molly their maid appears. Theo is always anxious whenother people seem in trouble; not so Hetty, now, who is suffering, poorthing, one of the most selfish maladies which ever visits mortals. Haveyou ever been amongst insane people, and remarked how they never, neverthink of any but themselves?
"What is the matter, Molly?" asks kind Theo: and indeed, Molly has beenlonging to tell her young ladies. "Oh, Miss Theo! Oh, Miss Hetty!"she says. "How ever can I tell you? Mr. Gumbo have been here, Mr.Warrington's coloured gentleman, miss; and he says Mr. Warrington havebeen took by two bailiffs this evening, as he comes out of Sir MilesWarrington's house three doors off."
"Silence!" cries Theo, quite sternly. Who is it that gives those threeshrieks? It is Mrs. Molly, who chooses to scream, because Miss Hetty hasfallen fainting from her chair.