dismissed his learned men, and after some further examination, began to
think what we told him might be true. A convenient apartment was
provided for Glumdalclitch, a governess to attend to her education, a
maid to dress her, and two other servants; but the care of me was wholly
appropriated to herself. I soon became a great favourite with the King;
my little chair and table were placed at his left hand, before the
salt-cellar, and he took pleasure in conversing with me, inquiring into
the laws, government, and learning of Europe. He made very wise
observations upon all I said, but once when I had been a little too
copious in talking of my beloved country, he took me up in his hand, and
in a hearty fit of laughter asked me if I were a Whig or a Tory? Then,
turning to his first minister, observed how contemptible a thing was
human grandeur, which could be mimicked by such diminutive insects as I.
But as I was not in a condition to resent injuries, so upon mature
thoughts I began to doubt whether I was injured or no. For after being
accustomed to the sight of these people for some time, I really began to
imagine myself dwindled many degrees below my usual size. My littleness
exposed me to many ridiculous and troublesome accidents, which
determined Glumdalclitch never to let me go abroad out of her sight. I
was, indeed, treated with much kindness, the favourite of the King and
Queen, and the delight of the whole Court. But I could never forget the
domestic pledges I had left behind me, and longed to be again with
people with whom I could converse on equal terms.
About the beginning of the third year of my stay in this country,
Glumdalclitch and I attended the King and Queen in a progress round the
south coast. I was carried as usual in my travelling box, a very
convenient closet about twelve feet wide. I longed to see the ocean,
which must be the only scene of my escape, and desired leave to take the
air of the sea with a page who sometimes took charge of me.
I shall never forget with what unwillingness Glumdalclitch consented; we
were both much tired with our journey, and the poor girl was so ill as
to be confined to her chamber. The boy took me out in my box towards the
seashore, when ordering him to set me down, I cast many a wistful glance
toward the sea.
I found myself not very well, and hoping a nap would do me good soon
fell asleep. I conjecture as I slept the page went off to look for
birds' eggs, for I was awakened by finding myself raised high in the air
and borne forward with prodigious speed. I called out, I looked out, but
could see nothing but clouds and sky. I heard a great flapping of
wings--they increased very fast, and my box was tossed up and down, and
I felt myself falling with incredible swiftness. My fall was stopped by
a terrible squash, I was quite in the dark for a minute, then I could
see light from the tops of my windows. I had fallen into the sea. I did
then, and do now, suppose that the eagle, that had flown away with me,
was pursued by two or three others, and forced to let me drop. I was for
four hours, under these circumstances, expecting, and, indeed, hoping,
every moment to be my last.
I heard a grating sound on the side of my box, and soon felt I was being
towed along the sea, and called for help until I was hoarse. In return I
heard a great shout, giving me transports of joy, and somebody called in
the English tongue that I was safe, for my box was fastened to their
ship. The carpenter came, in a few minutes, and sawed a hole, through
which I was taken into the ship in a very weak condition.
The Captain, a worthy Shropshire man, was returning to England, and we
came into the Downs on the 3rd of June, 1706, about nine months after my
escape.
When I came to my own house my wife protested I should never go to sea
any more.
* * * * *
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The Newcomes
William Makepeace Thackeray was born on July 18, 1811, at
Calcutta, where his father was in the service of the East
India Company. He was educated at Charterhouse School, then
situated in Smithfield, and spent two years at Trinity
College, Cambridge. After travelling on the continent as an
artist, he returned to London, and wrote for the "Examiner"
and "Fraser's Magazine," subsequently joining the staff of
"Punch." "The Newcomes," finished by Thackeray at Paris in
1855, was the fourth of his great novels. Without being in any
real sense a sequel to "Pendennis," it reintroduces us to
several characters of the earlier work, and is told in the
first person by Arthur Pendennis himself. The Gray Friars
School is the Charterhouse where Thackeray was at school. In
1859 Thackeray started the "Cornhill Magazine," and on
December 23, 1863, he died at Kensington. Besides his five
great novels, a large number of shorter stories and sketches
came from Thackeray's pen.
-I.--The "Cave of Harmony"-
It was in the days of my youth, when, having been to the play with some
young fellows of my own age, we became naturally hungry at twelve
o'clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rarebits and good old glee
singing led us to the "Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated
Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count.
It happened that there was a very small attendance at the "cave" that
night, and we were all more sociable and friendly because the company
was select. The songs were chiefly of the sentimental class; such
ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I speak.
There came into the "cave" a gentleman with a lean brown face and long
black mustachios, and evidently a stranger to the place. At least he had
not visited it for a long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who
was in his company; and, calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to
the music and twirled his mustachios with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, ran to
me with his hands out, and, blushing, said, "Don't you know me?"
It was little Newcome, my schoolfellow, whom I had not seen for six
years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blue
eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy.
"What the deuce brings you here?" said I.
He laughed and looked roguish. "My father--that's my father--would come.
He's just come back from India. He says all the wits used to come here.
I told him your name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I
first went to Smithfield. I've left now: I'm to have a private tutor."
Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, strode across the room
to the table where we sat, and held out his hand to me.
"I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to my boy. And whoever
is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down by you? and
may I beg of you to try my cheroots."
We were friends in a minute--young Newcome snuggling by my side, and his
father opposite.
It was worth a guinea to see the simple Colonel, and his delight at the
music. He became quite excited over his sherry-and-water. He joined in
all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice; and when Hoskins sang
(as he did admirably) "The Old English Gentleman," and described the
death of that venerable aristocrat, tears trickled down the honest
warrior's cheek.
And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volunteer a song, what
was our amazement when the simple Colonel offered to sing himself. Poor
Clive Newcome blushed as red as a peony, and I thought what my own
sensations would have been if, in that place, my own uncle Major
Pendennis had suddenly proposed to exert his lyrical powers.
The Colonel selected the ditty of "Wapping Old Stairs," and gave his
heart and soul to the simple ballad. When the song was over, Clive held
up his head too, and looked round with surprise and pleasure in his
eyes. The Colonel bowed and smiled with good nature at our plaudits. "I
learnt that song forty years ago," he said, turning round to his boy. "I
used to slip out from Grey Friars to hear it. Lord! Lord! how the time
passes!"
Whilst he was singing his ballad, there had reeled into the room my
friend Captain Costizan, in his usual condition at this hour of the
night.
"Captain Costizan, will you take something to drink?"
"Bedad I will," says the Captain, "and I'll sing ye a song too."
Having procured a glass of whisky and water, the unlucky wretch, who
scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, selected one of the most
outrageous of what he called his prime songs, and began his music. At
the end of the second verse, the Colonel started up, and looking as
ferocious as though he had been going to do battle with a Pindaree,
roared out "Silence!"
"Do you dare, sir," cries the Colonel, trembling with anger, "to call
yourself a gentleman, and to say that you hold the king's commission,
and to sit down amongst Christians and men of honour, and defile the
ears of young boys with this wicked balderdash?"
"Why do you bring young boys here, old man?" cries a malcontent.
"Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of gentlemen. I never
could have believed that Englishmen could meet together and allow an old
man so to disgrace himself. For shame! Go home to your bed, you hoary
old sinner! And for my part, I'm not sorry that my son should see for
once in his life to what degradation, drunkenness, and whisky may bring
a man. Never mind the change, sir!" says the Colonel, to the amazed
waiter. "Keep it till you see me in this place again, which will be
never--by George, never!" And shouldering his stick, and scowling round
at the company, the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the company
looked still more foolish.
-II.--Clive Newman in Love-
The Colonel, in conjunction with an Indian friend of his, Mr. Binnie,
took a house in London, No. 120, Fitzroy Square, and there was fine
amusement for Clive and his father and Mr. Binnie in the purchase of
furniture for the new mansion. It was like nobody else's house. What
cosy pipes did we not smoke in the dining room, in the drawing room, or
where we would!
Clive had a tutor, whom we recommended to him, and with whom the young
gentleman did not fatigue his brains very much; but his great -forte-
decidedly lay in drawing. He sketched the horses, he drew the dogs. He
drew his father in all postures--asleep, on foot, on horseback; and
jolly little Mr. Binnie, with his plump legs on a chair, or jumping
briskly on the back of a cob which he rode.
"Oh," says Clive, if you talk to him now about those early days, "it was
a jolly time! I do not believe there was any young fellow in London so
happy." And there hangs up in his painting-room now a head, with hair
touched with grey, with a large moustache, and melancholy eyes. And
Clive shows that portrait of their grandfather to his children, and
tells them that the whole world never saw a nobler gentleman.
Of course our young man commenced as an historical painter, deeming that
the highest branch of art. He painted a prodigious battle-piece of
Assaye, and will it be believed that the Royal Academicians rejected
this masterpiece? Clive himself, after a month's trip to Paris with his
father, declared the thing was rubbish.
It was during this time, when Clive and his father were in Paris, that
Mr. Binnie, laid up with a wrenched ankle, was consoled by a visit from
his sister, Mrs. Mackenzie, a brisk, plump little widow, and her
daughter, Miss Rosey, a blue-eyed, fair-haired lass, with a very sweet
voice.
Of course the most hospitable and polite of colonels would not hear of
Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter quitting his house when he returned to
it, after the pleasant sojourn in Paris; nor indeed, did his fair guest
show the least anxiety or intention to go away. Certainly, the house was
a great deal more cheerful for the presence of the two pleasant ladies.
Everybody liked them. Binnie received their caresses very
good-humouredly. The Colonel liked every woman under the sun. Clive
laughed and joked and waltzed alternately with Rosey and her mamma. None
of us could avoid seeing that Mrs. Mackenzie was, as the phrase is,
"setting her cap" openly at Clive; and Clive laughed at her simple
manoeuvres as merrily as the rest.
Some months after the arrival of Mr. Binnie's niece and sister in
Fitzroy Square, Mrs. Newcome, wife of Hobson Newcome, banker, the
Colonel's brother, gave a dinner party at her house in Bryanstone
Square. "It is quite a family party," whispered the happy Mrs. Newcome,
when we recognised Lady Ann Newcome's carriage, and saw her ladyship,
her mother--old Lady Kew, her daughter, Ethel, and her husband, Sir
Brian, (Hobson's twin brother and partner in the banking firm of Hobson
Brothers and Newcome), descend from the vehicle. The whole party from
St. Pancras were already assembled--Mr. Binnie, the Colonel and his son,
Mrs. Mackenzie and Miss Rosey.
Everybody was bent upon being happy and gracious. Miss Newcome ran up to
the Colonel with both hands out, and with no eyes for anyone else, until
Clive advancing, those bright eyes become brighter still with surprise
and pleasure as she beholds him. And, as she looks, Miss Ethel sees a
very handsome fellow, while the blushing youth casts down his eyes
before hers.
"Upon my word, my dear Colonel," says old Lady Kew, nodding her head
shrewdly, "I think we were right."
"No doubt right in everything your ladyship does, but in what
particularly?" asks the Colonel.
"Right to keep him out of the way. Ethel has been disposed of these ten
years. Did not Ann tell you? How foolish of her! But all mothers like to
have young men dying for their daughters. Your son is really the
handsomest boy in London. Ethel, my dear! Colonel Newcome must present
us to Mrs. Mackenzie and Miss Mackenzie;" and Ethel, giving a nod to
Clive, with whom she had talked for a minute or two, again puts her hand
into her uncle's and walks towards Mrs. Mackenzie.
Let the artist give us a likeness of Ethel. She is seventeen years old,
rather taller than the majority of women. Youth looks out of her bright
eyes and flashes scorn or denial, perhaps too readily, when she
encounters flattery or meanness. Her smile, when it lights up her face
and eyes, is as beautiful as spring sunshine. Her countenance somewhat
grave and haughty, on occasion brightens with humour or beams with
kindliness and affection.
That night in the drawing room we found the two young ladies engaged
over an album, containing a number of Clive's drawings made in the time
of his very early youth, and Miss Ethel seemed to be very much pleased
with these performances.
Old Major Pendennis, whom I met earlier in the day, made some
confidential remarks concerning Miss Ethel and her relatives, which I
set down here. "Your Indian Colonel," says he, "seems a worthy man. He
don't seem to know much of the world and we are not very intimate. They
say he wanted to marry your friend Clive to Lady Ann's daughter, an
exceedingly fine girl; one of the prettiest girls come out this season.
And that shows how monstrous ignorant of the world Colonel Newcome is.
His son could no more get that girl than he could marry one of the royal
princesses. These banker fellows are wild after grand marriages. Mark my
words, they intend Miss Newcome for some man of high rank. Old Lady Kew
is a monstrous clever woman. Nothing could show a more deplorable
ignorance of the world than poor Newcome supposing his son could make
such a match as that with his cousin. Is it true that he is going to
make his son an artist? I don't know what the deuce the world is coming
to. An artist! By Gad, in my time a fellow would as soon have thought of
making his son a hairdresser, or a pastrycook, by Gad."
Lady Kew carried off her granddaughter Ethel, the Colonel returned to
India, and Clive, endowed with a considerable annual sum from his
father, went abroad with an apparatus of easels and painting boxes.
Clive found Lady Ann, with Ethel and her other children, at Bount on
their way to Baden Baden, and the old Countess being away for the time,
it seemed to Clive that the barrier between himself and the family was
withdrawn. He was glad enough to go with his cousins, and travel in the
orbit of Ethel Newcome--who is now grown up and has been presented at
Court.
At Baden Baden was Lady Kew; and Clive learning that Ethel was about to
be betrothed, and that his suit was hopeless, retreated, with his paint
boxes across the Alps to Rome.
-III.--Clive is Married-
It was announced that Miss Newcome was engaged to the Marquis Fairntosh,
but for all that no marriage took place. First the death of Lady Kew
made an inevitable postponement, and then Ethel herself shrunk from the
loveless match, and, in spite of Lord Fairntosh's protests, dismissed
the noble marquis.
But the announcement drove Clive to marry pretty little Rose Mackenzie.
The Colonel was back in England again, and for good--a rich man, thanks
to the success of the Bundeleund Bank, Bengal, in which his savings were
invested, and heavily displeased with Ethel's treatment of his son.
Clive's marriage was performed in Brussels, where Mr. James Binnie, who
longed to see Rosey wedded, and his sister, whom we flippantly ventured
to call the Campaigner, had been staying that summer. After the marriage
they went off to Scotland, and the Colonel and his son and
daughter-in-law came to London--not to the old bachelor quarters in
Fitzroy Square, but to a sumptuous mansion in the Tyburnian
district--and one which became people of their station. To this house
came Mrs. Mackenzie when the baby was born, and there she stayed.
In a pique with the woman he loved, and from that generous weakness
which led him to acquiesce in most wishes of his good father, the young
man had gratified the darling wish of the Colonel's heart, and taken the
wife whom his old friends brought to him. Rosey, who was also of a very
obedient and docile nature, had acquiesced gladly enough in her mamma's
opinion, that she was in love with the rich and handsome young Clive,
and accepted him for better or worse.
If Clive was gloomy and discontented even when the honeymoon had scarce
waned, what was the young man's condition in poverty, when they had no
love along with a silent dinner of herbs; when his mother-in-law grudged
each morsel which his poor old father ate--when a vulgar, coarse-minded
woman--as Mrs. Mackenzie was--pursued with brutal sarcasm one of the
tenderest and noblest gentlemen in the world; when an ailing wife,
always under some one's domination, received him with helpless
hysterical cries and reproaches!
For a ghastly bankruptcy overwhelmed the Bundeleund Bank, and with its
failure went all Colonel Newcome's savings, and all Mrs. Mackenzie's
money and her daughter's. Even the Colonel's pension and annuities were
swallowed up in the general ruin, for the old man would pay every
shilling of his debts.
When I ventured to ask the Colonel why Mrs. Mackenzie should continue to
live with them--"She has a right to live in the house," he said, "it is
I who have no right in it. I am a poor old pensioner, don't you see,
subsisting on Rosey's bounty. We live on the hundred a year secured to
her at her marriage, and Mrs. Mackenzie has her forty pounds of pension
which she adds to the common stock. They put their little means
together, and they keep us--me and Clive. What can we do for a living?
Great God! What can we do?"
But Clive was getting on tolerably well, at his painting, and many
sitters came to him from amongst his old friends; he had work, scantily
paid it is true, but work sufficient. "I am pretty easy in my mind,
since I have become acquainted with a virtuous dealer," the painter
assured me one day. "I sell myself to him, body and soul, for some half
dozen pounds a week. I know I can get my money, and he is regularly
supplied with his pictures. But for Rosey's illness we might carry on
well enough."
Rosey's illness? I was sorry to hear of that; and poor Clive, entering
into particulars, told me how he had spent upon doctors rather more than
a fourth of his year's earnings.
-IV.--The Colonel Says "Adsum" When His Name is Called-
Mention has been made of the Grey Friars school--where the Colonel and
Clive and I had been brought up, an ancient foundation still subsisting
at Smithfield.
On the 12th of December, the Founder's Day, a goodly company of old
Cistercians is generally brought together, to hear a sermon in chapel;
after which we adjourn to a great dinner, where old condisciples meet,
and speeches are made. In the chapel sit some three-score old gentlemen
pensioners of the hospital, listening to the prayers and the psalms.
The service for Founder's Day is a special one, and we hear--
The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth in
his way.
Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for the Lord
upholdeth him with his hand.
I have been young, and now am old, yet have I not seen the
righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.
As we came to this verse in the psalms I chanced to look up from my book
towards the black-coated pensioners, and amongst them--amongst them--sat
Thomas Newcome.
There was no mistaking him. He wore the black gown of the pensioners of
the Hospital of Grey Friars. The steps of this good man had been ordered
hither by heaven's decree to this alms-house!
The organ played us out of chapel, and I waited until the pensioners
took their turn to quit it. The wan face of my dear old friend flushed
up when he saw me, and his hand shook in mine, "I have found a home,
Arthur," said he. "My good friend Lord H., who is a Cistercian like
ourselves, and has just been appointed a governor, gave me his first
nomination. Don't be agitated, Arthur, my boy; I am very happy. I have
good quarters, good food, good light and fire, and good friends. Why,
sir, I am as happy as the day is long."
We walked through the courts of the building towards his room, which in
truth I found neat and comfortable, with a brisk fire on the hearth, a
little tea-table laid out, and over the mantelpiece a drawing of his
grandson by Clive.
"You may come and see me here, sir, whenever you like--but you must not
stay now. You must go back to your dinner."
Of course I came to him on the very next day, and I had the happiness of
bringing Clive and his little boy to Thomas Newcome that evening. Clive
thought his father was in Scotland with Lord H.
It was at Xmas that Miss Ethel found an old unposted letter of her
grandmother's, Mrs. Newcome, asking her lawyer to add a codicil to her
will leaving a legacy of £6000 to Clive. The letter, of course, had no
legal value, but Ethel was a rich woman, and insisted that the money
should be sent, as from the family.
The old Colonel seemed hardly to comprehend it, and when Clive told him
the story of the legacy, and said they could now pay Mrs. Mackenzie,
"Quite right, quite right; of course we shall pay her, Clivy, when we
can!" was all he said.
So it was, that when happier days seemed to be dawning for the good man,
that reprieve came too late. Grief and years, and humiliation and care,
had been too strong for him, and Thomas Newcome was stricken down. Our
Colonel was no more our friend of old days. After some days the fever
which had attacked him left him, but left him so weak and enfeebled that
he could only go from his bed to the chair by his fireside.
Two more days and I had to take two advertisements to the -Times- on the
part of poor Clive. Among the announcements of births was printed, "On
the 28th in Howland street, Mrs. Clive Newcome of a son, still born."
And a little lower, in the third division of the same column, appeared
the words, "On the 29th, in Howland street, aged 26, Rosaline, wife of
Clive Newcome, Esq." So this poor little flower had bloomed for its
little day, and pined and withered.
The days went on, and our hopes for the Colonel's recovery, raised
sometimes, began to flicker and fail. One evening the Colonel left his
chair for his bed in pretty good spirits, but passed a disturbed night,
and the next morning was too weak to rise. Then he remained in his bed
and his friends visited him there.
Weeks passed away. Our old friend's mind was gone at intervals, but
would rally feebly; and with his consciousness returned his love, his
simplicity, his sweetness. The circumstances of Clive's legacy he never
understood, but Ethel was almost always with him.
One afternoon in early spring, Thomas Newcome began to wander more and
more. He talked louder; he gave the word of command, spoke Hindustanee
as if to his men. Ethel and Clive were with him, and presently his voice
sank into faint murmurs.
At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas
Newcome's hands feebly beat time. And just as the last bell struck a
peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up his head a
little, and quickly said "Adsum!" and fell back. It was the word we used
at school, when names were called; and lo, he, whose heart was as that
of a little child, had answered his name, and stood in the presence of
The Master.
* * * * *
The Virginians
"The Virginians" was published in 1859, and ranks as one of
its author's five great novels. It contains some excellent
description of fashionable life in England in the middle of
the eighteenth century. The "Lamberts" rank among Thackeray's
best character sketches.
-I.--Harry Warrington Comes Home-
One summer morning in the year 1756, and in the reign of his Majesty
King George the Second, the -Young Rachel-, Virginian ship, Edward
Franks, master, came up the Avon river on her happy return from her
annual voyage to the Potomac. She proceeded to Bristol with the tide,
and moored in the stream as near as possible to Frail's wharf, and Mr.
Frail, her part owner, who could survey his ship from his counting-house
windows, straightway took boat and came up her side.
While the master was in conversation with Mr. Frail a young man of some
nineteen years of age came up the hatchway. He was dressed in deep
mourning and called out, "Gumbo, you idiot, why don't you fetch the
baggage out of the cabin? Well, shipmate, our journey is ended. I
thought yesterday the voyage would never be done, and now I am almost
sorry it is over."
"This is Mr. Warrington, Madam Esmond Warrington's son of Castlewood,"
said Captain Franks to Mr. Frail. The British merchant's hat was
instantly off his head, and its owner was bowing, as if a crown prince
were before him.
"Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight indeed! Let me
cordially and respectfully welcome you to England; let me shake your
hand as the son of my benefactress and patroness, Mrs. Esmond
Warrington, whose name is known and honoured on Bristol 'Change, I
warrant you, my dear Mr. George."
"My name is not George; my name is Henry," said the young man as he
turned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Gracious powers, what do you mean, sir? Are you not my lady's heir? and
is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq--"
"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Mr. Franks.
"Don't you see the young gentleman's black clothes? Mr. George is
there," pointing with his finger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond.
"He is dead a year sir, come next July. He would go out with General
Braddock, and he and a thousand more never came back again. Every man of
them was murdered as he fell. You know the Indian way, Mr. Frail?
Horrible! Ain't it, sir? He was a fine young man, the very picture of
this one; only his hair was black, which is now hanging in a bloody
Indian wigwam. He was often on board on the -Young Rachel-, with his
chest of books,--a shy and silent young gent, not like this one, which
was the merriest, wildest young fellow full of his songs and fun. He
took on dreadful at the news, but he's got better on the voyage; and, in
course, the young gentleman can't be for ever a-crying after a brother
who dies and leaves him a great fortune. Ever since we sighted Ireland
he has been quite gay and happy, only he would go off at times, when he
was most merry, saying, 'I wish my dearest Georgie could enjoy this here
sight along with me,' and when you mentioned t'other's name, you see, he
couldn't stand it."
Again and again Harry Warrington and his brother had poured over the
English map, and determined upon the course which they should take upon
arriving at Home. The sacred point in their pilgrimage was that old
Castlewood in Hampshire, the home of their family, whence had come their
grandparents. From Bristol to Bath, to Salisbury, to Winchester, to
-Home-; they had mapped the journey many and many a time. Without
stopping in Bristol, Harry Warrington was whirled away in a postchaise
and at last drew up at the rustic inn on Castlewood Green. Then with a
beating heart he walked towards the house where his grandsire Colonel
Esmond's youth had been passed.
The family was away, and the housekeeper was busy getting ready for my
lord and my lady who were expected that evening. Harry wrote down his
name on a paper from his own pocket and laid it on a table in the hall;
and then walked away, not caring to own how disappointed he was. No one
had known him. Had any of his relatives ridden up to his house in
Virginia, whether the master were present or absent, the guests would
have been made welcome. Harry felt terribly alone. The inn folks did not
know the name of Warrington. They told him before he went to bed that my
lord Castlewood and his sister Lady Maria, and their stepmother the
Countess, and her son Mr. William, had arrived at the Castle, and two
hours later the Baroness Bernstein, my lord's aunt. Harry remembered
that the Baroness Bernstein was his mother's half-sister, for Colonel
Esmond's wife was the mother of Beatrice Bernstein who had married a
German baron, after marrying Bishop Tusher.
The Castlewoods were for letting their young American kinsman stay at
his inn, but Madam Bernstein, of whom all the family stood in awe, at
once insisted that Harry Warrington should be sent for, and on his
arrival made much of him. As for the boy, he felt very grateful towards
the lady who had received him so warmly.
Within six months Harry had fallen in love with Lady Maria, who was over
forty. He was wealthy and, thanks to Gumbo, his servant, the extent of
his estate had been greatly magnified by that cheerfullest of negroes.
The Castlewoods professed themselves indifferent to the love-making that
seemed to be going on between Harry and Maria, but Madam Bernstein was
indignant.
"Do you remember," she cried, with energy, "who the poor boy is, and
what your house owes to its family? His grandfather gave up this estate,
this title, this very castle, that you and yours might profit by it. And
the reward for all this is that you talk of marrying him to a silly
elderly creature, who might be his mother. He -shan't- marry her."
So Madam Bernstein, having tired of Castlewood, decided that Maria must
accompany her to Tunbridge Wells and Harry was invited to act as escort,
and to stay a day or two at the Wells. At the end of the first day's
travel, when they had just reached Farnham, poor Maria was ill, and her
cheeks were yellow when she retired for the night.
"That absurd Maria!" says Madam Bernstein, playing piquet with Harry.
"She never had a good constitution. I hope she intends to be well
to-morrow morning. She was forty-one years old. All her upper teeth are
false, and she can't eat with them. How clumsily you deal, child!"
The next morning Lady Maria's indisposition was over, but Harry was
wretched. Then in the evening the horse Harry was riding, in the matter
of which he had been cheated by his cousin Will, at Castlewood, came
down on his knees and sent the rider over his head. Mr. Harry was picked
up insensible and carried home into a house called Oakhurst that stood
hard by the road.
-II.--Samaritans-
That Mr. Warrington is still alive can be proved by the following
letter, sent from the lady into whose house he was taken after his fall
from Mr. Will's broken-kneed horse, to Mrs. Esmond Warrington. "If Mrs.
Esmond Warrington of Virginia can call to mind twenty-three years ago,
she may perhaps remember Miss Molly Benson, her classmate, at Kensington
boarding school. Yesterday evening, as we were at tea there came a great
ringing at our gate, and the servants, running out returned with the
news that a young gentleman was lying lifeless on the road. At this, my
dear husband, Colonel Lambert (who is sure the most Samaritan of men)
hastens away, and presently, with the aid of the servants, and followed
by two ladies,--one of whom is your cousin, Lady Maria Esmond and the
other Baroness of Bernstein,--brings into the house such a pale,
beautiful young man! The ladies went on to Tunbridge when Mr. Warrington
was restored to consciousness and this morning the patient is very
comfortable and the Colonel, who has had plenty of practice in accidents
of this nature during his campaigns, pronounces that in two days more
Mr. Warrington will be ready to take the road.
"Madam, Your affectionate, humble servant,
"MARY LAMBERT."
Harry Warrington's dislocated shoulder having been set, he was well
enough to rise the following day, and Colonel Lambert lead his young
guest into the parlour and introduced him to his two daughters, Miss
Hester and Miss Theo. Three days later Mr. Warrington's health was
entirely restored and he was out walking with Mrs. Lambert and the young
ladies. What business had he to be walking with anybody but Lady Maria
Esmond on the Pantiles, Tunbridge Wells? Why did he stay behind, unless
he was in love with either of the young ladies? (and we say he wasn't).
Could it be that he did not want to go? Only a week ago he was
whispering in Castlewood shrubberies, and was he now ashamed of the
nonsense he had talked there? What if his fell aunt's purpose is
answered, and if his late love is killed by her communications? Surely
kind hearts must pity Lady Maria, for she is having no very pleasant
time of it at Tunbridge Wells. There is no one to protect her. Madam
Beatrix has her all to herself. Lady Maria is poor, and hopes for money
for her aunt, and Lady Maria has a secret or two which the old woman
knows and brandishes over her.
Meanwhile Harry Warrington remained day after day contentedly at
Oakhurst, with each day finding the kindly folks who welcomed him more
to his liking. Never, since his grandfather's death, had he been in such
good company. His lot had lain among fox hunting Virginian squires, and
until he left his home he did not know how narrow and confined his life
had been there.
Here the lad found himself in the midst of a circle where everything
about him was incomparably gayer, brighter and more free. He was living
with a man and woman who had seen the world, though they lived retired
from it, and one of the benefits which Harry Warrington received from
this family was to begin to learn that he was a profoundly ignorant
young fellow. He admired his brother at home faithfully, of his kinsman
at Castlewood he had felt himself at least the equal. In Colonel Lambert
he found a man who had read far more books than Harry could pretend to
judge of, and who had goodness and honesty written on his face and
breathing from his lips.
As for the women, they were the kindest, merriest, most agreeable he had
ever known. Here was a tranquil, sunshiny day of a life that was to be
agitated and stormy. He was not in love, either with saucy Hetty or
generous Theodosia: but when the time came for going away, he fastened
on both their hands, and felt an immense regard for them.
"He is very kind and honest," said Theo gravely as they watched him and
their father riding away.
"I am glad he has got papa to ride with him to Westerham," said little
Hetty. "I don't like his going to those Castlewood people. I am sure
that Madam Bernstein is a wicked old woman. I expected to see her ride
away on her crooked stick. The other old woman seemed fond of him. She
looked very melancholy when she went away, but Madam Bernstein whisked
her off with her crutch, and she was obliged to go."
-III.--Harry Warrington is Disinherited-
Our young Virginian found himself after a few days at Tunbridge Wells by
far the most important personage in the place. The story of his wealth
had been magnified, and his winnings at play, which were considerable,
were told and calculated at every tea-table. The old aunt Bernstein
enjoyed his triumphs, and bade him pursue his enjoyments. As for Lady
Maria, though Harry Warrington knew she was as old as his mother, he had
given her his word to marry her at Castlewood, and, as he said, "A
Virginian Esmond has but his word!"
Madam Bernstein offered her niece £5,000 to free Mr. Warrington of his
engagement but the offer was declined, and a few weeks later Lady Maria
returned to Castlewood, while Harry went to London. He knew that his
mother, who was mistress for life of the Virginian property, would
refuse her consent to his marriage, and the thought of it was put off to
a late period. Meanwhile it hung like a weight round the young man's
neck.
No wonder that his spirits rose more gaily as he came near London. He
took lodgings in Bond Street and lived upon the fat of the land. His
title of Fortunate Youth, bestowed upon him because of his luck at
cards, was prettily recognised. But after a few weeks of lavish success,
the luck turned and he lost heavily: the last blow was after a private
game at piquet with his kinsman Lord Castlewood. Harry Warrington had
now drawn and spent all his patrimony, and one evening when he was
leaving the house of his uncle Sir Miles Warrington,--his dead father's
elder brother,--two bailiffs took him for a debt of £500 and the
Fortunate Youth was lodged in a sponging house in Chancery Lane.
Madam Bernstein was willing to pay her nephew's debts at once if he
would break off his engagement with Lady Maria, but this the
high-spirited youth declined to do.
Castlewood wrote frankly and said he had not got enough money for the
purpose, and Lady Warrington sent a tract and said Sir Miles was away
from home. But for his faithful servant Gumbo, Harry would have wanted
ready money for his food.
It was Colonel Lambert, of whom Harry had seen little since he left
Oakhurst, who came to his young friend's assistance. But the same night
which saw Colonel Lambert at the sponging house saw the reappearance of
his brother George.
"I am the brother whom you have heard of, sir," he said, addressing
Colonel Lambert; "and who was left for dead in Mr. Braddock's action:
and came to life again after eighteen months amongst the French; and
live to thank God, and thank you for your kindness to my Harry. I can
never forget that you helped my brother at his need."
While the two brothers were rejoicing over their meeting, "the whole
town" was soon busy talking over the news that Mr. Harry Warrington was
but a second son, and no longer the heir to a principality and untold
wealth.
George loved his brother too well to have any desire for the union with
Lady Maria, and lost no time in explaining to Lord Castlewood that Harry
had no resources save dependence,--"and I know no worse lot than to be
dependent on a self-willed woman like our mother. The means my brother
had to make himself respected at home he hath squandered away here."
To Harry himself George repeated these words and added:
"My dear, I think one day you will say I have done my duty."
That night after the two brothers had dined together Harry went out, and
did not return for three hours.
"It was shabby to say I would not aid him, and God help me, it was not
true. I won't leave him, though he marries a blackamoor," thought George
as he sat alone.
Presently Harry came in, looking ghastly pale. He came up and took his
brother's hand.
"Perhaps what you did was right," he said, "though I, for one, will
never believe that you would throw your brother off in distress. At
dinner I thought suddenly, I'll say to her, 'Maria, poor as I am, I am
yours to take or to leave. If you will have me, here I am: I will
enlist: I will work: I will try and make a livelihood for myself
somehow, and my bro--my relations will relent, and give us enough to
live on.' That's what I determined to tell her; and I did, George. I
found them all at dinner, all except Will; that is, I spoke out that
very moment to them all, sitting round the table over their wine.
'Maria,' says I, 'a poor fellow wants to redeem his promise which he
made when he fancied he was rich. Will you take him?' I found I had
plenty of words, and I ended by saying 'I would do my best and my duty
by her, so help me God!'
"When I had done, she came up to me quite kind. She took my hand, and
kissed it before the rest. 'My dear,' she said, 'I have long seen it was
only duty and a foolish promise made by a young man to an old woman,
that has held you to your engagement. To keep it would make you
miserable, and I absolve you from it, thanking you with all my heart for
your fidelity, and blessing my dear cousin always.' And she came up to
me and kissed me before them all, and went out of the room quite
stately, and without a single tear. Oh, George, isn't she a noble
creature?"
"Here's her health," cries George, filling a glass.
"Hip, hip, huzzay!" says Harry. He was wild with delight at being free.
Madame Bernstein was scarcely less pleased than her Virginian nephews at
the result of Harry's final interview with Lady Maria.
-IV.--From the Warrington MSS.-
My brother Harry Warrington went to Canada to serve tinder General
Wolfe, and remained with the army after the death of his glorious
commander. And I, George Warrington, stayed in London, read law in the
Temple, and wrote plays which were performed at Covent Garden, and was
in love with Miss Theodosia Lambert. Madame Esmond Warrington, however,
refused her consent to the match, and Major General Lambert declared an
engagement impossible under the circumstances.
Then in 1760, when George II. was dead, and George III. was king,
General Lambert was appointed to be governor and commander-in-chief of
the Island of Jamaica. His speedy departure was announced, he would have
a frigate given him, and -take his family with him.- Merciful powers!
and were we to be parted?
At last, one day, almost the last of his stay, when the General's
preparations for departure were all made, the good man (His Excellency
we call him now) canoe home to his dinner and sighed out to his wife:
"I wish, Molly, George was here. I may go away and never see him again,
and take his foolish little sweetheart along with me. I suppose you will
write to each other, children? I can't prevent that, you know."
"George is in the drawing-room," says mamma, quietly.
"Is he? my dearest boy!" cries the general. "Come to me--come in!" And
when I entered he held me to his heart and kissed me.
"Always loved you as a son--haven't I, Molly?" he mutters hurriedly.
"Broke my heart nearly when I quarrelled with you about this
little--What, all down on your knees! In heaven's name, tell me what has
happened!"
What had happened was, that George Esmond Warrington and Theodosia
Lambert had been married in Southwark Church that morning.
I pass over the scenes of forgiveness, of reconciliation, of final
separation when the ship sailed away before us, leaving me and Theo on
the shore. And there is no need to recall her expressions of maternal
indignation when my mother was informed of the step I had taken. On the
pacification of Canada, my dear Harry dutifully paid a visit to
Virginia, and wrote describing his reception at home.
Many were the doubts and anxieties which, for my last play had been a
failure, now beset us, and plan after plan I tried for procuring work
and adding to our dwindling stock of money. By a hard day's labour at
translating from foreign languages for the booksellers, I could earn a
few shillings--so few that a week's work would hardly bring me a guinea.
Hard times were not over with us till some time after the Baroness
Bernstein's death (she left everything she had to her dear nephew, Henry
Esmond Warrington), when my uncle Sir Miles procured me a post as one of
his Majesty's commissioners for licensing hackney coaches. His only
child was dead, and I was now heir to the Baronetcy.
Then one morning, before almost I had heard of my uncle's illness, a
lawyer waits upon me at my lodgings in Bloomsbury, and salutes me by the
name of Sir George Warrington.
The records of a prosperous country life are easily told. Obedient
tenants bowed and curtsied as we went to church, and we drove to visit
our neighbours in the great family coach.
Shall I ever see the old mother again, I wonder! When Hal was in
England, we sent her pictures of both her sons painted by the admirable
Sir Joshua Reynolds. We never let Harry rest until he had asked Hetty in
marriage. He obeyed, and it was she who declined. "She had always," she
wrote, "the truest regard for him from the dear old time when they had
met almost children together. But she would never leave her father. When
it pleased God to take him, she hoped she would be too old to think of
bearing any other name but her own."
My brother Hal is still a young man, being little more than 50, and
Hetty is now a staid little lady. There are days when she looks
surprisingly young and blooming. Why should Theo and I have been so
happy, and thou so lonely?
* * * * *
Vanity Fair
"Vanity Fair" was published in 1848, and at once placed its
author in the front rank of novelists. It was followed by
"Pendennis" in 1850, "Esmond" in 1852, "The Newcomes" in 1855,
and "The Virginians" in 1859. Some critics profess to see
manifested in "Vanity Fair" a certain sharpness and sarcasm in
Thackeray's character which does not appear in his later
works, but however much the author may have mellowed in his
later novels, "Vanity Fair" continues to be his acknowledged
masterpiece, and of all the characters he drew, Becky Sharp is
the best known.
-I.--Miss Sharp Opens Her Campaign-
One sunshiny morning in June there drove up to the great iron gate of
Miss Pinkerton's academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large
family coach with two fat horses in blazing harness.
"It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister," said Miss Jemima. The day of
departure had come, and Miss Amelia Sedley, an amiable young lady, was
glad to go home, and yet woefully sad at leaving school. Miss Rebecca
Sharp, whose father had been an artist, accompanied Amelia, to pass a
week with her friend in Russell Square before she entered upon her
duties as governess in Sir Pitt Crawley's family.
Thus the world began for these two young ladies. For Amelia it was quite
a new, fresh, brilliant world, with all the bloom upon it. It was not
quite a new one for Rebecca, who, before she came to the Mall, as a
governess-pupil, had turned many a dun away from her father's door. She
had never been a girl, she said: she had been a woman since she was
eight years old.
At Russell Square Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls which
Joseph Sedley of the East India Company's Civil Service had brought home
to his sister, said with perfect truth that it must be delightful to
have a brother, and easily got the pity of the tender-hearted Amelia for
being alone in the world. A series of queries, addressed to her friend,
brought Rebecca, who was but nineteen, to the following conclusion:--"As
Mr. Joseph Sedley is rich and unmarried, why should I not marry him? I
have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no harm in trying." I
don't think we have any right to blame her, if Rebecca did not set her
heart upon the conquest of this beau, for she had no kind parents to
arrange these delicate matters for her.
But Mr. Joseph Sedley, greedy, vain, and cowardly, would not be brought
up to the sticking point. Young George Osborne, Captain of the --th, old
Sedley's godson, and the accepted lover of Amelia, thought Joseph was a
milksop. He turned over in his mind, as the Sedleys did, the possibility
of marriage between Joseph and Rebecca, and was not over well pleased
that a member of a family into which he, George Osborne, was going to
marry, should make a mesalliance with a little nobody--a little upstart
governess. "Hang it, the family's low enough already without -her-,"
Osborne said to his friend Captain Dobbin. "A governess is all very
well, but I'd rather have a lady for my sister-in-law. I'm a liberal
man; but I've proper pride, and know my own station: let her know hers.
And I'll take down that hectoring Nabob, and prevent him from being made
a greater fool than he is. That's why I told him to look out, lest she
brought an action against him."
Joseph Sedley fled to Cheltenham, and Rebecca said in her heart, "It was
George Osborne who prevented my marriage." And she loved George Osborne
accordingly.
Miss Amelia would have been delighted that Joseph should carry back a
wife to India. Old Mr. Sedley was neutral. "Let Joseph marry whom he
likes," he said to his wife. "It's no affair of mine. This girl has no
fortune; no more had Mrs. Sedley. She seems good-humoured and clever,
and will keep him in order, perhaps. Better she, my dear, than a black
Mrs. Sedley, and a dozen of mahogany grandchildren. As I am perfectly
sure that if you and I and his sister were to die to-morrow, he would
say 'Good Gad!' and eat his dinner just as well as usual, I am not going
to make myself anxious about him. Let him marry whom he likes. It's no
affair of mine."
If he had had the courage, Joseph Sedley's bachelorhood would have been
at an end. He did not lie awake all night thinking whether or not he was
in love with Miss Sharp; the passion of love never interfered with the
appetite or the slumber of Mr. Joseph Sedley; but he thought to himself
how delightful it would be to hear such songs as Miss Sharp could sing
in India--what a -distinguée- girl she was--how she could speak French
better than the governor-general's lady herself--and what a sensation
she would make at the Calcutta balls. "It's evident the poor devil's in
love with me" thought he. "She is just as rich as most of the girls who
come out to India. I might go further and fare worse, egad!"
Then came an evening at Vauxhall, on which occasion Dobbin, George
Osborne, and Joseph Sedley escorted Amelia and Rebecca, and the Indian
civilian got hopelessly tipsy on a bowl of rack punch. The next morning,
which Rebecca thought was to dawn upon her fortune, found Sedley
groaning in agonies, soothing the fever of his previous night's potation
with small beer--for soda water was not invented yet. George Osborne,
calling upon him, so frightened the unhappy Joseph with stories of his
overnight performance, that instead of proposing marriage Joseph Sedley
hastened away to Cheltenham that day, sending a note to Amelia praying
her to excuse him to Miss Sharp for his conduct.
It was now clear to every soul in the house, except poor Amelia, that
Rebecca should take her departure, and accordingly she set out for the
residence of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet, of Queen's Crawley, Hants. Sir
Pitt had two sons by his first wife, Pitt and Rawdon; and by his second
wife, two daughters,--for whose benefit Miss Rebecca Sharp was now
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