CHAPTER L. Contains a Great deal of the Finest Morality
When first we had the honour to be presented to Sir Miles Warrington atthe King's drawing-room, in St. James's Palace, I confess that I, forone--looking at his jolly round face, his broad round waistcoat, hishearty country manner,--expected that I had lighted upon a most eligibleand agreeable acquaintance at last, and was about to become intimatewith that noblest specimen of the human race, the bepraised of songs andmen, the good old English country gentleman. In fact, to be a good oldcountry gentleman is to hold a position nearest the gods, and at thesummit of earthly felicity. To have a large unencumbered rent-roll, andthe rents regularly paid by adoring farmers, who bless their stars athaving such a landlord as his honour; to have no tenant holding backwith his money, excepting just one, perhaps, who does so in order togive occasion to Good Old Country Gentleman to show his sublime charityand universal benevolence of soul; to hunt three days a week, love thesport of all things, and have perfect good health and good appetite inconsequence; to have not only good appetite, but a good dinner; to sitdown at church in the midst of a chorus of blessings from the villagers,the first man in the parish, the benefactor of the parish, with aconsciousness of consummate desert, saying, "Have mercy upon us,miserable sinners," to be sure, but only for form's sake, because thewords are written in the book, and to give other folks an example--a G.O. C. G. a miserable sinner! So healthy, so wealthy, so jolly, so muchrespected by the vicar, so much honoured by the tenants, so much belovedand admired by his family, amongst whom his story of grouse in thegunroom causes laughter from generation to generation;--this perfectbeing a miserable sinner! Allons donc! Give any man good health andtemper, five thousand a year, the adoration of his parish, and the loveand worship of his family, and I'll defy you to make him so heartilydissatisfied with his spiritual condition as to set himself down amiserable anything. If you were a Royal Highness, and went to churchin the most perfect health and comfort, the parson waiting to begin theservice until your R. H. came in, would you believe yourself to be amiserable, etc.? You might when racked with gout, in solitude, the fearof death before your eyes, the doctor having cut off your bottle ofclaret, and ordered arrowroot and a little sherry,--you might then behumiliated, and acknowledge your own shortcomings, and the vanity ofthings in general; but, in high health, sunshine, spirits, that wordmiserable is only a form. You can't think in your heart that you areto be pitied much for the present. If you are to be miserable, what isColin Ploughman, with the ague, seven children, two pounds a year rentto pay for his cottage, and eight shillings a week? No: a healthy, rich,jolly, country gentleman, if miserable, has a very supportable misery:if a sinner, has very few people to tell him so.
It may be he becomes somewhat selfish; but at least he is satisfied withhimself. Except my lord at the castle, there is nobody for miles andmiles round so good or so great. His admirable wife ministers to him,and to the whole parish, indeed: his children bow before him: the vicarof the parish reverences him: he is respected at quarter-sessions: hecauses poachers to tremble: off go all hats before him at market: andround about his great coach, in which his spotless daughters and sublimelady sit, all the country-town tradesmen cringe, bareheaded, and thefarmeers' women drop innumerable curtseys. From their cushions in thegreat coach the ladies look down beneficently, and smile on the poorerfolk. They buy a yard of ribbon with affability; they condescend topurchase an ounce of salts, or a packet of flower-seeds: they deign tocheapen a goose: their drive is like a royal progress; a happy peopleis supposed to press round them and bless them. Tradesmen bow, farmers'wives bob, town-boys, waving their ragged hats, cheer the red-facedcoachman as he drives the fat bays, and cry, "Sir Miles for ever! Throwus a halfpenny, my lady!"
But suppose the market-woman should hide her fat goose when Sir Miles'scoach comes, out of terror lest my lady, spying the bird, should insiston purchasing it a bargain? Suppose no coppers ever were known to comeout of the royal coach window? Suppose Sir Miles regaled his tenantswith notoriously small beer, and his poor with especially thin broth?This may be our fine old English gentleman's way. There have been not afew fine English gentlemen and ladies of this sort; who patronised thepoor without ever relieving them, who called out "Amen!" at churchas loud as the clerk; who went through all the forms of piety, anddischarged all the etiquette of old English gentlemanhood; who boughtvirtue a bargain, as it were, and had no doubt they were honouringher by the purchase. Poor Harry in his distress asked help from hisrelations: his aunt sent him a tract and her blessing; his uncle hadbusiness out of town, and could not, of course, answer the poor boy'spetition. How much of this behaviour goes on daily in respectable life,think you? You can fancy Lord and Lady Macbeth concocting a murder,and coming together with some little awkwardness, perhaps, when thetransaction was done and over; but my Lord and Lady Skinflint, when theyconsult in their bedroom about giving their luckless nephew a helpinghand, and determine to refuse, and go down to family prayers, and meettheir children and domestics, and discourse virtuously before them, andthen remain together, and talk nose to nose,--what can they think of oneanother? and of the poor kinsman fallen among the thieves, and groaningfor help unheeded? How can they go on with those virtuous airs? How canthey dare look each other in the face?
Dare? Do you suppose they think they have done wrong? Do you supposeSkinflint is tortured with remorse at the idea of the distress whichcalled to him in vain, and of the hunger which he sent empty away? Nothe. He is indignant with Prodigal for being a fool: he is not ashamedof himself for being a curmudgeon. What? a young man with suchopportunities throw them away? A fortune spent amongst gamblers andspendthrifts? Horrible, horrible! Take warning, my child, by thisunfortunate young man's behaviour, and see the consequences ofextravagance. According to the great and always Established Church ofthe Pharisees, here is an admirable opportunity for a moral discourse,and an assertion of virtue. "And to think of his deceiving us so!" criesout Lady Warrington.
"Very sad, very sad, my dear!" says Sir Miles, wagging his head.
"To think of so much extravagance in one so young!" cries LadyWarrington. "Cards, bets, feasts at taverns of the most wickedprofusion, carriage and riding horses, the company of the wealthy andprofligate of his own sex, and, I fear, of the most iniquitous personsof ours."
"Hush, my Lady Warrington!" cries her husband, glancing towards thespotless Dora and Flora, who held down their blushing heads, at themention of the last naughty persons.
"No wonder my poor children hide their faces!" mamma continues. "Mydears, I wish even the existence of such creatures could be kept fromyou!"
"They can't go to an opera, or the park, without seeing 'em, to besure," says Sir Miles.
"To think we should have introduced such a young serpent into thebosom of our family! and have left him in the company of that guilelessdarling!" and she points to Master Miles.
"Who's a serpent, mamma?" inquires that youth. "First you said cousinHarry was bad: then he was good: now he is bad again. Which is he, SirMiles?"
"He has faults, like all of us, Miley, my dear. Your cousin has beenwild, and you must take warning by him."
"Was not my elder brother, who died--my naughty brother--was not he wildtoo? He was not kind to me when I was quite a little boy. He never gaveme money, nor toys, nor rode with me, nor--why do you cry, mamma? Sure Iremember how Hugh and you were always fight----"
"Silence, sir!" cry out papa and the girls in a breath. "Don't you knowyou are never to mention that name?"
"I know I love Harry, and I didn't love Hugh," says the sturdy littlerebel. "And if cousin Harry is in prison, I'll give him my half-guineathat my godpapa gave me, and anything I have--yes, anything,except--except my little horse--and my silver waistcoat--and--andSnowball and Sweetlips at home--and--and, yes, my custard after dinner."This was in reply to a hint of sister Dora. "But I'd give him some ofit," continues Miles, after a pause.
"Shut thy mouth with it, child, and then go about thy business," sayspapa, am
used. Sir Miles Warrington had a considerable fund of easyhumour.
"Who would have thought he should ever be so wild?" mamma goes on.
"Nay. Youth is the season for wild oats, my dear."
"That we should be so misled in him!" sighed the girls.
"That he should kiss us both!" cries papa.
"Sir Miles Warrington, I have no patience with that sort of vulgarity!"says the majestic matron.
"Which of you was the favourite yesterday, girls?" continues the father.
"Favourite, indeed! I told him over and over again of my engagementto dear Tom--I did, Dora--why do you sneer, if you please?" says thehandsome sister.
"Nay, to do her justice, so did Dora too," said papa.
"Because Flora seemed to wish to forget her engagement with dear Tomsometimes," remarks the sister.
"I never, never, never wished to break with Tom! It's wicked of you tosay so, Dora! It is you who were for ever sneering at him: it is you whoare always envious because I happen--at least, because gentlemen imaginethat I am not ill-looking, and prefer me to some folks, in spite ofall their learning and wit!" cries Flora, tossing her head over hershoulder, and looking at the glass.
"Why are you always looking there, sister?" says the artless Milesjunior. "Sure, you must know your face well enough!"
"Some people look at it just as often, child, who haven't near such goodreason," says papa, gallantly.
"If you mean me, Sir Miles, I thank you," cries Dora. "My face is asHeaven made it, and my father and mother gave it me. 'Tis not my faultif I resemble my papa's family. If my head is homely, at least I havegot some brains in it. I envious of Flora, indeed, because she has foundfavour in the sight of poor Tom Claypool! I should as soon be proud ofcaptivating a ploughboy!"
"Pray, miss, was your Mr. Harry, of Virginia, much wiser than TomClaypool? You would have had him for the asking!" exclaims Flora.
"And so would you, miss, and have dropped Tom Claypool into the sea!"cries Dora.
"I wouldn't."
"You would."
"I wouldn't;"--and da capo goes the conversation--the shuttlecock ofwrath being briskly battled from one sister to another.
"Oh, my children! Is this the way you dwell together in unity?" exclaimstheir excellent female parent, laying down her embroidery. "What anexample you set to this Innocent!"
"Like to see 'em fight, my lady!" cries the Innocent, rubbing his hands.
"At her, Flora! Worry her, Dora! To it again, you little rogues!" saysfacetious papa. 'Tis good sport, ain't it, Miley?"
"Oh, Sir Miles! Oh, my children! These disputes are unseemly. They teara fond mother's heart," says mamma, with majestic action, though bearingthe laceration of her bosom with much seeming equanimity. "What causefor thankfulness ought we to have that watchful parents have preventedany idle engagements between you and your misguided cousin. If we havebeen mistaken in him, is it not a mercy that we have found out our errorin time? If either of you had any preference for him, your excellentgood sense, my loves, will teach you to overcome, to eradicate, the vainfeeling. That we cherished and were kind to him can never be a source ofregret. 'Tis a proof of our good-nature. What we have to regret, I fear,is, that your cousin should have proved unworthy of our kindness, and,coming away from the society of gamblers, play-actors, and the like,should have brought contamination--pollution, I had almost said--intothis pure family!"
"Oh, bother mamma's sermons!" says Flora, as my lady pursues a harangueof which we only give the commencement here, but during which papa,whistling, gently quits the room on tiptoe, whilst the artless Milesjunior winds his top and pegs it under the robes of his sisters. It hasdone humming, and staggered and tumbled over, and expired in its usualtipsy manner, long ere Lady Warrington has finished her sermon.
"Were you listening to me, my child?" she asks, laying her hand on herdarling's head.
"Yes, mother," says he, with the whipcord in his mouth, and proceedingto wind up his sportive engine. "You was a-saying that Harry was verypoor now, and that we oughtn't to help him. That's what you was saying;wasn't it, madam?"
"My poor child, thou wilt understand me better when thou art older!"says mamma, turning towards that ceiling to which her eyes always haverecourse.
"Get out, you little wretch!" cries one of the sisters. The artless onehas pegged his top at Dora's toes, and laughs with the glee of merryboyhood at his sister's discomfiture.
But what is this? Who comes here? Why does Sir Miles return to thedrawing-room, and why does Tom Claypool, who strides after the Baronet,wear a countenance so disturbed?
"Here's a pretty business, my Lady Warrington!" cries Sir Miles. "Here'sa wonderful wonder of wonders, girls!"
"For goodness' sake, gentlemen, what is your intelligence?" asks thevirtuous matron.
"The whole town's talking about it, my lady!" says Tom Claypool puffingfor breath.
"Tom has seen him," continued Sir Miles.
"Seen both of them, my Lady Warrington. They were at Ranelagh lastnight, with a regular mob after 'em. And so like, that but for theirdifferent ribbons you would hardly have told one from the other. One wasin blue, the other in brown; but I'm certain he has worn both the suitshere."
"What suits?"
"What one,--what other?" call the girls.
"Why, your fortunate youth, to be sure."
"Our precious Virginian, and heir to the principality!" says Sir Miles.
"Is my nephew, then, released from his incarceration?" asks herladyship. "And is he again plunged in the vortex of dissip----"
"Confound him!" roars out the Baronet, with an expression which I fearwas even stronger. "What should you think, my Lady Warrington, if thisprecious nephew of mine should turn out to be an impostor; by George! nobetter than an adventurer?"
"An inward monitor whispered me as much!" cried the lady; "but Idashed from me the unworthy suspicion. Speak, Sir Miles, we burn withimpatience to listen to your intelligence."
"I'll--speak, my love, when you've done," says Sir Miles. "Well, what doyou think of my gentleman, who comes into my house, dines at my table,is treated as one of this family, kisses my--"
"What?" asks Tom Claypool, firing as red as his waistcoat.
"--Hem! Kisses my wife's hand, and is treated in the fondest manner, byGeorge! What do you think of this fellow, who talks of his property andhis principality, by Jupiter!--turning out to be a beggarly SECOND SON!A beggar, my Lady Warrington, by----"
"Sir Miles Warrington, no violence of language before these dear ones!I sink to the earth, confounded by this unutterable hypocrisy. And didI entrust thee to a pretender, my blessed boy? Did I leave thee with animpostor, my innocent one?" the matron cries, fondling her son.
"Who's an impostor, my lady?" asks the child.
"That confounded young scamp of a Harry Warrington!" bawls out papa; onwhich the little Miles, after wearing a puzzled look for a moment, andyielding to I know not what hidden emotion, bursts out crying.
His admirable mother proposes to clutch him to her heart, but he rejectsthe pure caress, bawling only the louder, and kicking frantically aboutthe maternal gremium, as the butler announces "Mr. George Warrington,Mr. Henry Warrington!" Miles is dropped from his mother's lap. SirMiles's face emulates Mr. Claypool's waistcoat. The three ladies riseup, and make three most frigid curtseys, as our two young men enter theroom.
Little Miles runs towards them. He holds out a little hand. "Oh, Harry!No! which is Harry? You're my Harry," and he chooses rightly this time."Oh, you dear Harry! I'm so glad you are come! and they've been abusingyou so!"
"I am come to pay my duty to my uncle," says the dark-haired Mr.Warrington; "and to thank him for his hospitalities to my brotherHenry."
"What, nephew George? My brother's face and eyes! Boys both, I amdelighted to see you!" cries their uncle, grasping affectionately a handof each, as his honest face radiates with pleasure.
"This indeed hath been a most mysterious and a most providentialresuscitation," says Lady War
rington. "Only I wonder that my nephewHenry concealed the circumstance until now," she adds, with a sidelongglance at both young gentlemen.
"He knew it no more than your ladyship," says Mr. Warrington. The youngladies looked at each other with downcast eyes.
"Indeed, sir! a most singular circumstance," says mamma, with anothercurtsey. "We had heard of it, sir; and Mr. Claypool, our countyneighbour, had just brought us the intelligence, and it even now formedthe subject of my conversation with my daughters."
"Yes," cries out a little voice, "and do you know, Harry, father andmother said you was a--a imp----"
"Silence, my child! Screwby, convey Master Warrington to his ownapartment! These, Mr. Warrington--or, I suppose I should say nephewGeorge--are your cousins." Two curtseys--two cheeses are made--two handsare held out. Mr. Esmond Warrington makes a profound low bow, whichembraces (and it is the only embrace which the gentleman offers) allthree ladies. He lays his hat to his heart. He says, "It is my duty,madam, to pay my respects to my uncle and cousins, and to thank yourladyship for such hospitality as you have been enabled to show to mybrother."
"It was not much, nephew, but it was our best. Ods bobs!" cries thehearty Sir Miles, "it was our best!"
"And I appreciate it, sir," says Mr. Warrington, looking gravely roundat the family.
"Give us thy hand. Not a word more," says Sir Miles "What? do you thinkI'm a cannibal, and won't extend the hand of hospitality to my dearbrother's son? What say you, lads? Will you eat our mutton at three?This is my neighbour, Tom Claypool, son to Sir Thomas Claypool, Baronet,and my very good friend. Hey, Tom! Thou wilt be of the party, Tom? Thouknowest our brew, hey, my boy?"
"Yes, I know it, Sir Miles," replies Tom, with no peculiar expression ofrapture on his face.
"And thou shalt taste it, my boy," thou shalt taste it! What isthere for dinner, my Lady Warrington? Our food is plain, but plenty,lads--plain, but plenty!"
"We cannot partake of it to-day, sir. We dine with a friend who occupiesmy Lord Wrotham's house, your neighbour. Colonel Lambert--Major-GeneralLambert he has just been made."
"With two daughters, I think--countrified-looking girls--are they not?"asks Flora.
"I think I have remarked two little rather dowdy things," says Dora.
"They are as good girls as any in England!" breaks out Harry, to whom noone had thought of saying a single word. His reign was over, you see. Hewas nobody. What wonder, then, that he should not be visible?
"Oh, indeed, cousin!" says Dora, with a glance at the young man, whosate with burning cheeks, chafing at the humiliation put upon him, butnot knowing how or whether he should notice it. "Oh, indeed, cousin! Youare very charitable--or very lucky, I'm sure! You see angels where weonly see ordinary little persons. I'm sure I could not imagine who werethose odd-looking people in Lord Wrotham's coach, with his handsomeliveries. But if they were three angels, I have nothing to say."
"My brother is an enthusiast," interposes George. "He is often mistakenabout women."
"Oh, really!" says Dora, looking a little uneasy.
"I fear my nephew Henry has indeed met with some unfavourable specimensof our sex," the matron remarks, with a groan.
"We are so easily taken in, madam--we are both very young yet--we shallgrow older and learn better."
"Most sincerely, nephew George, I trust you may. You have my bestwishes, my prayers, for your brother's welfare and your own. No effortsof ours have been wanting. At a painful moment, to which I will notfurther allude--"
"And when my uncle Sir Miles was out of town," says George, lookingtowards the Baronet, who smiles at him with affectionate approval.
"--I sent your brother a work which I thought might comfort him, and Iknow might improve him. Nay, do not thank me; I claim no credit; I didbut my duty--a humble woman's duty--for what are this world's goods,nephew, compared to the welfare of a soul? If I did good, I am thankful;if I was useful, I rejoice. If, through my means, you have been brought,Harry, to consider----"
"Oh! the sermon, is it?" breaks in downright Harry. "I hadn't time toread a single syllable of it, aunt--thank you. You see I don't care muchabout that kind of thing--but thank you all the same."
"The intention is everything," says Mr. Warrington, "and we are bothgrateful. Our dear friend, General Lambert, intended to give bail forHarry; but, happily, I had funds of Harry's with me to meet any demandsupon us. But the kindness is the same, and I am grateful to the friendwho hastened to my brother's rescue when he had most need of aid, andwhen his own relations happened--so unfortunately--to be out of town."
"Anything I could do, my dear boy, I'm sure--my brother's son--my ownnephew--ods bobs! you know--that is, anything--anything, you know!"cries Sir Miles, bringing his own hand into George's with a generoussmack. "You can't stay and dine with us? Put off the Colonel--theGeneral--do, now! Or name a day. My Lady Warrington, make my nephew namea day when he will sit under his grandfather's picture, and drink someof his wine!"
"His intellectual faculties seem more developed than those of hisunlucky younger brother," remarked my lady, when the young gentlemen hadtaken their leave. "The younger must be reckless and extravagant aboutmoney indeed, for did you remark, Sir Miles, the loss of hisreversion in Virginia--the amount of which has, no doubt, been grosslyexaggerated, but, nevertheless, must be something considerable--didyou, I say, remark that the ruin of Harry's prospects scarcely seemed toaffect him?"
"I shouldn't be at all surprised that the elder turns out to be as pooras the young one," says Dora, tossing her head.
"He! he! Did you see that cousin George had one of cousin Harry's suitsof clothes on--the brown and gold--that one he wore when he went withyou to the oratorio, Flora?"
"Did he take Flora to an oratorio?" asks Mr. Claypool, fiercely.
"I was ill and couldn't go, and my cousin went with her," says Dora.
"Far be it from me to object to any innocent amusement, much less to themusic of Mr. Handel, dear Mr. Claypool," says mamma. "Music refines thesoul, elevates the understanding, is heard in our churches, and'tis well known was practised by King David. Your operas I shun asdeleterious; your ballets I would forbid to my children as mostimmoral; but music, my dears! May we enjoy it, like everything else inreason--may we----"
"There's the music of the dinner-bell," says papa, rubbing his hands."Come, girls. Screwby, go and fetch Master Miley. Tom take down mylady."
"Nay, dear Thomas, I walk but slowly. Go you with dearest Floradownstairs," says Virtue.
But Dora took care to make the evening pleasant by talking of Handel andoratorios constantly during dinner.