The Virginians

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XXXV. Entanglements

  Our good Colonel had, no doubt, taken counsel with his good wife, andthey had determined to remove their little Hetty as speedily as possibleout of the reach of the charmer. In complaints such as that under whichthe poor little maiden was supposed to be suffering, the remedy ofabsence and distance often acts effectually with men; but I believewomen are not so easily cured by the alibi treatment. Some of them willgo away ever so far, and forever so long, and the obstinate diseasehangs by them, spite of distance or climate. You may whip, abuse,torture, insult them, and still the little deluded creatures willpersist in their fidelity. Nay, if I may speak, after profound andextensive study and observation, there are few better ways of securingthe faithfulness and admiration of the beautiful partners of ourexistence than a little judicious ill-treatment, a brisk dose ofoccasional violence as an alterative, and, for general and wholesomediet, a cooling but pretty constant neglect. At sparing intervalsadminister small quantities of love and kindness; but not every day, ortoo often, as this medicine, much taken, loses its effect. Those dearcreatures who are the most indifferent to their husbands, are those whoare cloyed by too much surfeiting of the sugar-plums and lollipops ofLove. I have known a young being, with every wish gratified, yawn in heradoring husband's face, and prefer the conversation and petits soinsof the merest booby and idiot; whilst, on the other hand, I have seenChloe,--at whom Strephon has flung his bootjack in the morning, or whomhe has cursed before the servants at dinner,--come creeping and fondlingto his knee at tea-time, when he is comfortable after his little nap andhis good wine; and pat his head and play him his favourite tunes; and,when old John, the butler, or old Mary, the maid, comes in with thebed-candles, look round proudly, as much as to say, Now, John, look howgood my dearest Henry is! Make your game, gentlemen, then! There is thecoaxing, fondling, adoring line, when you are henpecked, and Louisais indifferent, and bored out of her existence. There is the manly,selfish, effectual system, where she answers to the whistle and comes inat "Down Charge;" and knows her master; and frisks and fawns about him;and nuzzles at his knees; and "licks the hand that's raised"--that'sraised to do her good, as (I quote from memory) Mr. Pope finelyobserves. What used the late lamented O'Connell to say, over whom agrateful country has raised such a magnificent testimonial? "Hereditarybondsmen," he used to remark, "know ye not, who would be free,themselves must strike the blow?" Of course you must, in political as indomestic circles. So up with your cudgels, my enslaved, injured boys!

  Women will be pleased with these remarks, because they have such a tastefor humour and understand irony; and I should not be surprised if youngGrubstreet, who corresponds with three penny papers and describes thepersons and conversation of gentlemen whom he meets at his "clubs,"will say, "I told you so! He advocates the thrashing of women! He hasno nobility of soul! He has no heart!" Nor have I, my eminent youngGrubstreet! any more than you have ears. Dear ladies! I assure you I amonly joking in the above remarks,--I do not advocate the thrashing ofyour sex at all,--and, as you can't understand the commonest bit of fun,beg leave flatly to tell you, that I consider your sex a hundred timesmore loving and faithful than ours.

  So, what is the use of Hetty's parents taking her home, if the littlemaid intends to be just as fond of Harry absent as of Harry present?Why not let her see him before Ball and Dobbin are put to, and say,"Good-bye, Harry! I was very wilful and fractious last night, and youwere very kind: but good-bye, Harry!" She will show no special emotion:she is so ashamed of her secret, that she will not betray it. Harry istoo much preoccupied to discover it for himself. He does not know whatgrief is lying behind Hetty's glances, or hidden under the artifice ofher innocent young smiles. He has, perhaps, a care of his own. He willpart from her calmly, and fancy she is happy to get back to her musicand her poultry and her flower-garden.

  He did not even ride part of the way homewards by the side of hisfriend's carriage. He had some other party arranged for, that afternoon,and when he returned thence, the good Lamberts were gone from TunbridgeWells. There were their windows open, and the card in one of themsignifying that the apartments were once more to let. A little passingsorrow at the blank aspect of the rooms lately enlivened by countenancesso frank and friendly, may have crossed the young gentleman's mind; buthe dines at the White Horse at four o'clock, and eats his dinner andcalls fiercely for his bottle. Poor little Hester will choke over hertea about the same hour when the Lamberts arrive to sleep at the houseof their friends at Westerham. The young roses will be wan in her cheeksin the morning, and there will be black circles round her eyes. It wasthe thunder: the night was hot: she could not sleep: she will be betterwhen she gets home again the next day. And home they come. There is thegate where he fell. There is the bed he lay in, the chair in which heused to sit--what ages seem to have passed! What a gulf between to-dayand yesterday! Who is that little child calling her chickens, orwatering her roses yonder? Are she and that girl the same HesterLambert? Why, she is ever so much older than Theo now--Theo, who hasalways been so composed, and so clever, and so old for her age. But ina night or two Hester has lived--oh, long, long years! So have manybesides: and poppy and mandragora will never medicine them to the sweetsleep they tasted yesterday.

  Maria Esmond saw the Lambert cavalcade drive away, and felt a grimrelief. She looks with hot eyes at Harry when he comes into his aunt'scard-tables, flushed with Barbeau's good wine. He laughs, rattles inreply to his aunt, who asks him which of the girls is his sweetheart? Hegaily says he loves them both like sisters. He has never seen a bettergentleman, nor better people, than the Lamberts. Why is Lambert not ageneral? He has been a most distinguished officer: his Royal Highnessthe Duke is very fond of him. Madame Bernstein says that Harry must makeinterest with Lady Yarmouth for his protege.

  "Elle ravvole de fous, cher bedid anche!" says Madame Bernstein,mimicking the Countess's German accent. The Baroness is delighted withher boy's success. "You carry off the hearts of all the old women,doesn't he, Maria?" she says, with a sneer at her niece, who quiversunder the stab.

  "You were quite right, my dear, not to perceive that she cheatedat cards, and you play like a grand seigneur," continues Madame deBernstein.

  "Did she cheat?" cries Harry, astonished. "I am sure, ma'am, I saw nounfair play."

  "No more did I, my dear, but I am sure she cheated. Bah! every womancheats, I and Maria included, when we can get a chance. But when youplay with the Walmoden, you don't do wrong to lose in moderation; andmany men cheat in that way. Cultivate her. She has taken a fancy to yourbeaux yeux. Why should your Excellency not be Governor of Virginia,sir? You must go and pay your respects to the Duke and his Majesty atKensington. The Countess of Yarmouth will be your best friend at court."

  "Why should you not introduce me, aunt?" asked Harry.

  The old lady's rouged cheek grew a little redder. "I am not in favour atKensington," she said. "I may have been once; and there are no facesso unwelcome to kings as those they wish to forget. All of us want toforget something or somebody. I dare say our ingenu here would like towipe a sum or two off the slate. Wouldst thou not, Harry?"

  Harry turned red, too, and so did Maria, and his aunt laughed one ofthose wicked laughs which are not altogether pleasant to hear. Whatmeant those guilty signals on the cheeks of her nephew and niece? Whataccount was scored upon the memory of either, which they were desirousto efface? I fear Madame Bernstein was right, and that most folks havesome ugly reckonings written up on their consciences, which we were gladto be quit of.

  Had Maria known one of the causes of Harry's disquiet, the middle-agedspinster would have been more unquiet still. For some days he had misseda pocket-book. He had remembered it in his possession on that day whenhe drank so much claret at the White Horse, and Gumbo carried him tobed. He sought for it in the morning, but none of his servants had seenit. He had inquired for it at the White Horse, but there were no tracesof it. He could not cry the book, and could only make very cautiousinquiries respecting it. He must not hav
e it known that the book waslost. A pretty condition of mind Lady Maria Esmond would be in, if sheknew that the outpourings of her heart were in the hands of the public!The letters contained all sorts of disclosures: a hundred family secretswere narrated by the artless correspondent: there were ever so muchsatire and abuse of persons with whom she and Mr. Warrington came incontact. There were expostulations about his attentions to other ladies.There was scorn, scandal, jokes, appeals, protests of eternal fidelity;the usual farrago, dear madam, which you may remember you wrote to yourEdward, when you were engaged to him, and before you became Mrs.Jones. Would you like those letters to be read by any one else? Do yourecollect what you said about the Miss Browns in two or three of thoseletters, and the unfavourable opinion you expressed of Mrs. Thompson'scharacter? Do you happen to recall the words which you used regardingJones himself, whom you subsequently married (for in consequence ofdisputes about the settlements your engagement with Edward was brokenoff)? and would you like Mr. J. to see those remarks? You know youwouldn't. Then be pleased to withdraw that imputation which you havealready cast in your mind upon Lady Maria Esmond. No doubt her letterswere very foolish, as most love-letters are, but it does not follow thatthere was anything wrong in them. They are foolish when written by youngfolks to one another, and how much more foolish when written by an oldman to a young lass, or by an old lass to a young lad! No wonderLady Maria should not like her letters to be read. Why, the veryspelling--but that didn't matter so much in her ladyship's days, andpeople are just as foolish now, though they spell better. No, it is notthe spelling which matters so much; it is the writing at all. I for one,and for the future, am determined never to speak or write my mind outregarding anything or anybody. I intend to say of every woman that sheis chaste and handsome; of every man that he is handsome, clever, andrich; of every book that it is delightfully interesting; of Snobmore'smanners that they are gentlemanlike; of Screwby's dinners that they areluxurious; of Jawkins's conversation that it is lively and amusing; ofXantippe, that she has a sweet temper; of Jezebel, that her colour isnatural; of Bluebeard, that he really was most indulgent to his wives,and that very likely they died of bronchitis. What? a word against thespotless Messalina? What an unfavourable view of human nature! What?King Cheops was not a perfect monarch? Oh, you railer at royalty andslanderer of all that is noble and good! When this book is concluded, Ishall change the jaundiced livery which my books have worn since I beganto lisp in numbers, have rose-coloured coats for them with cherubs onthe cover, and all the characters within shall be perfect angels.

  Meanwhile we are in a society of men and women, from whose shouldersno sort of wings have sprouted as yet, and who, without any manner ofdoubt, have their little failings. There is Madame Bernstein: she hasfallen asleep after dinner, and eating and drinking too much,--those areher ladyship's little failings. Mr. Harry Warrington has gone to playa match at billiards with Count Caramboli: I suspect idleness is hisfailing. That is what Mr. Chaplain Sampson remarks to Lady Maria, asthey are talking together in a low tone, so as not to interrupt AuntBernstein's doze in the neighbouring room.

  "A gentleman of Mr. Warrington's means can afford to be idle," says LadyMaria. "Why, sure you love cards and billiards yourself, my good Mr.Sampson?"

  "I don't say, madam, my practice is good, only my doctrine is sound,"says Mr. Chaplain with a sigh. "This young gentleman should have someemployment. He should appear at court, and enter the service of hiscountry, as befits a man of his station. He should settle down, andchoose a woman of a suitable rank as his wife." Sampson looks in herladyship's face as he speaks.

  "Indeed, my cousin is wasting his time," says Lady Maria, blushingslightly.

  "Mr. Warrington might see his relatives of his father's family,"suggests Mr. Chaplain.

  "Suffolk country boobies drinking beer and hallooing after foxes! Idon't see anything to be gained by his frequenting them, Mr. Sampson!"

  "They are of an ancient family, of which the chief has been knight ofthe shire these hundred years," says the chaplain. "I have heard SirMiles hath a daughter of Mr. Harry's age--and beauty, too."

  "I know nothing, sir, about Sir Miles Warrington, and his daughters, andhis beauties!" cries Maria, in a fluster.

  "The Baroness stirred--no--her ladyship is in a sweet sleep," says thechaplain, in a very soft voice. "I fear, madam, for your ladyship'scousin, Mr. Warrington. I fear for his youth; for designing persons whomay get about him; for extravagances, follies, intrigues even into whichhe will be led, and into which everybody will try to tempt him. Hislordship, my kind patron, bade me to come and watch over him, and I amhere accordingly, as your ladyship knoweth. I know the follies of youngmen. Perhaps I have practised them myself. I own it with a blush," addsMr. Sampson with much unction--not, however, bringing the promised blushforward to corroborate the asserted repentance.

  "Between ourselves, I fear Mr. Warrington is in some trouble now,madam," continues the chaplain, steadily looking at Lady Maria.

  "What, again?" shrieks the lady.

  "Hush! Your ladyship's dear invalid!" whispers the chaplain againpointing towards Madame Bernstein. "Do you think your cousin has anypartiality for any--any member of Mr. Lambert's family? for example,Miss Lambert?"

  "There is nothing between him and Miss Lambert," says Lady Maria.

  "Your ladyship is certain?"

  "Women are said to have good eyes in such matters, my good Sampson,"says my lady, with an easy air. "I thought the little girl seemed to befollowing him."

  "Then I am at fault once more," the frank chaplain said. "Mr. Warringtonsaid of the young lady, that she ought to go back to her doll, andcalled her a pert, stuck-up little hussy."

  "Ah!" sighed Lady Maria, as if relieved by the news.

  "Then, madam, there must be somebody else," said the chaplain. Has heconfided nothing to your ladyship?"

  "To me, Mr. Sampson? What? Where? How?" exclaims Maria.

  "Some six days ago, after we had been dining at the White Horse, anddrinking too freely, Mr. Warrington lost a pocket-book containingletters."

  "Letters?" gasps Lady Maria.

  "And probably more money than he likes to own," continues Mr. Sampson,with a grave nod of the head. "He is very much disturbed about thebook. We have both made cautious inquiries about it. We have----Graciouspowers, is your ladyship ill?"

  Here my Lady Maria gave three remarkably shrill screams, and tumbled offher chair.

  "I will see the Prince. I have a right to see him. What's this?--Wheream I?--What's the matter?" cries Madame Bernstein, waking up from hersleep. She had been dreaming of old days, no doubt. The old lady shookin all her limbs--her face was very much flushed. She stared aboutwildly a moment, and then tottered forward on her tortoiseshell cane."What--what's the matter?" she asked again. "Have you killed her, sir?"

  "Some sudden qualm must have come over her ladyship. Shall I cut herlaces, madam? or send for a doctor?" cries the chaplain, with every lookof innocence and alarm.

  "What has passed between you, sir?" asked the old lady, fiercely.

  "I give you my honour, madam, I have done I don't know what. I butmentioned that Mr. Warrington had lost a pocket-book containing letters,and my lady swooned, as you see."

  Madame Bernstein dashed water on her niece's face. A feeble moan toldpresently that the lady was coming to herself.

  The Baroness looked sternly after Mr. Sampson, as she sent him away onhis errand for the doctor. Her aunt's grim countenance was of littlecomfort to poor Maria when she saw it on waking up from her swoon.

  "What has happened?" asked the younger lady, bewildered and gasping.

  "H'm! You know best what has happened, madam, I suppose. What hathhappened before in our family?" cried the old Baroness, glaring at herniece with savage eyes.

  "Ah, yes! the letters have been lost--ach lieber Himmel!" And Maria, asshe would sometimes do, when much moved, began to speak in the languageof her mother.

  "Yes! the seal has been broken, and the letters have been l
ost, 'tis theold story of the Esmonds," cried the elder, bitterly.

  "Seal broken, letters lost? What do you mean,--aunt?" asked Maria,faintly.

  "I mean that my mother was the only honest woman that ever entered thefamily!" cried the Baroness, stamping her foot. "And she was a parson'sdaughter of no family in particular, or she would have gone wrong, too.Good heavens! is it decreed that we are all to be...?"

  "To be what, madam?" cried Maria.

  "To be what my Lady Queensberry said we were last night. To be what weare! You know the word for it!" cried the indignant old woman. "I say,what has come to the whole race? Your father's mother was an honestwoman, Maria. Why did I leave her? Why couldn't you remain so?"

  "Madam!" exclaims Maria, "I declare, before Heaven, I am as----"

  "Bah! Don't madam me! Don't call heaven to witness--there's nobody by!And if you swore to your innocence till the rest of your teeth droppedout of your mouth, my Lady Maria Esmond, I would not believe you!"

  "Ah! it was you told him!" gasped Maria. She recognised an arrow out ofher aunt's quiver.

  "I saw some folly going on between you and the boy, and I told him thatyou were as old as his mother. Yes, I did! Do you suppose I am goingto let Henry Esmond's boy fling himself and his wealth away upon sucha battered old rock as you? The boy shan't be robbed and cheated in ourfamily. Not a shilling of mine shall any of you have if he comes to anyharm amongst you.

  "Ah! you told him!" cried Maria, with a sudden burst of rebellion."Well, then! I'd have you to know that I don't care a penny, madam,for your paltry money! I have Mr. Harry Warrington's word--yes, and hisletters--and I know he will die rather than break it."

  "He will die if he keeps it!" (Maria shrugged her shoulders.)

  "But you don't care for that--you've no more heart----"

  "Than my father's sister, madam!" cries Maria again. The younger woman,ordinarily submissive, had turned upon here persecutor.

  "Ah! Why did not I marry an honest man?" said the of lady, shaking herhead sadly. "Henry Esmond was noble and good, and perhaps might havemade me so. But no, no--we have all got the taint in us--all! You don'tmean to sacrifice this boy, Maria?"

  "Madame ma tante, do you take me for a fool at my age?" asks Maria.

  "Set him free! I'll give you five thousand pounds--in my--in my will,Maria. I will, on my honour!"

  "When you were young, and you liked Colonel Esmond, you threw him asidefor an earl, and the earl for a duke?"

  "Yes."

  "Eh! Bon sang ne peut mentir! I have no money, I have no friends.My father was a spendthrift, my brother is a beggar. I have Mr.Warrington's word, and I know, madam, he will keep it. And that's what Itell your ladyship!" cries Lady Maria with a wave of her hand. "Supposemy letters are published to all the world to-morrow? Apres? I know theycontain things I would as lieve not tell. Things not about me alone.Comment! Do you suppose there are no stories but mine in the family?It is not my letters that I am afraid of, so long as I have his, madam.Yes, his and his word, and I trust them both."

  "I will send to my merchant, and give you the money now, Maria," pleadedthe old lady.

  "No, I shall have my pretty Harry, and ten times five thousand pounds!"cries Maria.

  "Not till his mother's death, madam, who is just your age!"

  "We can afford to wait, aunt. At my age, as you say, I am not so eageras young chits for a husband."

  "But to wait my sister's death, at least, is a drawback?"

  "Offer me ten thousand pounds, Madam Tusher, and then we will see!"cries Maria.

  "I have not so much money in the world, Maria," said the old lady.

  "Then, madam, let me make what I can for myself!" says Maria.

  "Ah, if he heard you?"

  "Apres? I have his word. I know he will keep it. I can afford to wait,madam," and she flung out of the room, just as the chaplain returned.It was Madame Bernstein who wanted cordials now. She was immensely movedand shocked by the news which had been thus suddenly brought to her.