The maternal grandfather of our Virginians, the Colonel Esmond of whom frequent mention has been made, and who had quitted England to reside in the New World, had devoted some portion of his long American leisure to the composition of the memoirs of his early life. In these volumes, Madame de Bernstein (Mrs. Beatrice Esmond was her name as a spinster) played a very considerable part; and as George had read his grandfather’s manuscript many times over, he had learned to know his kinswoman long before he saw her — to know, at least, the lady, young, beautiful, and wilful, of half a century since, with whom he now became acquainted in the decline of her days. When cheeks are faded and eyes are dim, is it sad or pleasant, I wonder, for the woman who is a beauty no more, to recall the period of her bloom! When the heart is withered, do the old love to remember how it once was fresh and beat with warm emotions? When the spirits are languid and weary, do we like to think how bright they were in other days, the hope how buoyant, the sympathies how ready, the enjoyment of life how keen and eager? So they fall — the buds of prime, the roses of beauty, the florid harvests of summer — fall and wither, and the naked branches shiver in the winter.
“And that was a beauty once!” thinks George Warrington, as his aunt, in her rouge and diamonds, comes in from her rout, “and that ruin was a splendid palace. Crowds of lovers have sighed before those decrepit feet, and been bewildered by the brightness of those eyes.” He remembered a firework at home, at Williamsburg, on the King’s birthday, and afterwards looking at the skeleton-wheel and the sockets of the exploded Roman candles. The dazzle and brilliancy of Aunt Beatrice’s early career passed before him, as he thought over his grandsire’s journals. Honest Harry had seen them, too, but Harry was no bookman, and had not read the manuscript very carefully: nay, if he had, he would probably not have reasoned about it as his brother did, being by no means so much inclined to moralising as his melancholy senior.
Mr. Warrington thought that there was no cause why he should tell his aunt how intimate he was with her early history, and accordingly held his peace upon that point. When their meal was over, she pointed with her cane to her escritoire, and bade her attendant bring the letter which lay under the inkstand there; and George, recognising the superscription, of course knew the letter to be that of which he had been the bearer from home.
“It would appear by this letter,” said the old lady, looking hard at her nephew, “that ever since your return, there have been some differences between you and my sister.”
“Indeed? I did not know that Madam Esmond had alluded to them,” George said.
The Baroness puts a great pair of glasses upon eyes which shot fire and kindled who knows how many passions in old days, and, after glancing over the letter, hands it to George, who reads as follows:—
“RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, December 26th, 1756.
“HONOURED MADAM! AND SISTER! — I have received, and thankfully acknowledge, your ladyship’s favour, per Rose packet, of October 23 ult.; and straightway answer you at a season which should be one of goodwill and peace to all men: but in which Heaven hath nevertheless decreed we should still bear our portion of earthly sorrow and trouble. My reply will be brought to you by my eldest son, Mr. Esmond Warrington, who returned to us so miraculously out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death (as our previous letters have informed my poor Henry), and who is desirous, not without my consent to his wish, to visit Europe, though he has been amongst us so short a while. I grieve to think that my dearest Harry should have appeared at home — I mean in England — under false colours, as it were; and should have been presented to his Majesty, to our family, and his own, as his father’s heir, whilst my dear son George was still alive, though dead to us. Ah, madam! During the eighteen months of his captivity, what anguish have his mother’s, his brother’s, hearts undergone! My Harry’s is the tenderest of any man’s now alive. In the joy of seeing Mr. Esmond Warrington returned to life, he will forget the worldly misfortune which befalls him. He will return to (comparative) poverty without a pang. The most generous, the most obedient of human beings, of sons, he will gladly give up to his elder brother that inheritance which had been his own but for the accident of birth, and for the providential return of my son George.
“Your beneficent intentions towards dearest Harry will be more than ever welcome, now he is reduced to a younger brother’s slender portion! Many years since, an advantageous opportunity occurred of providing for him in this province, and he would by this time have been master of a noble estate and negroes, and have been enabled to make a figure with most here, could his mother’s wishes have been complied with, and his father’s small portion, now lying at small interest in the British funds, have been invested in this most excellent purchase. But the forms of the law, and, I grieve to own, my elder son’s scruples, prevailed, and this admirable opportunity was lost to me! Harry will find the savings of his income have been carefully accumulated — long, long may he live to enjoy them! May Heaven bless you, dear sister, for what your ladyship may add to his little store! As I gather from your letter, that the sum which has been allowed to him has not been sufficient for his expenses in the fine company which he has kept (and the grandson of the Marquis of Esmond — one who had so nearly been his lordship’s heir — may sure claim equality with any other nobleman in Great Britain), and having a sum by me which I had always intended for the poor child’s establishment, I entrust it to my eldest son, who, to do him justice, hath a most sincere regard for his brother, to lay it out for Harry’s best advantage.”
“It took him out of prison yesterday, madam. I think that was the best use to which we could put it,” interposed George, at this stage of his mother’s letter.
“Nay, sir, I don’t know any such thing! Why not have kept it to buy a pair of colours for him, or to help towards another estate and some negroes, if he has a fancy for home?” cried the old lady. “Besides, I had a fancy to pay that debt myself.”
“I hope you will let his brother do that. I ask leave to be my brother’s banker in this matter, and consider I have borrowed so much from my mother, to be paid back to my dear Harry.”
“Do you say so, sir? Give me a glass of wine! You are an extravagant fellow! Read on, and you will see your mother thinks so. I drink to your health, nephew George! ’Tis good Burgundy. Your grandfather never loved Burgundy. He loved claret, the little he drank.”
And George proceeded with the letter:
“This remittance will, I trust, amply cover any expenses which, owing to the mistake respecting his position, dearest Harry may have incurred. I wish I could trust his elder brother’s prudence as confidently as my Harry’s! But I fear that, even in his captivity, Mr. Esmond W. has learned little of that humility which becomes all Christians, and which I have ever endeavoured to teach to my children. Should you by chance show him these lines, when, by the blessing of Heaven on those who go down to the sea in ships, the Great Ocean divides us! he will know that a fond mother’s blessing and prayers follow both her children, and that there is no act I have ever done, no desire I have ever expressed (however little he may have been inclined to obey it!) but hath been dictated by the fondest wishes for my dearest boys’ welfare.”
“There is a scratch with a penknife, and a great blot upon the letter there, as if water had fallen on it. Your mother writes well, George. I suppose you and she had a difference?” said George’s aunt, not unkindly.
“Yes, ma’am, many,” answered the young man, sadly. “The last was about a question of money — of ransom which I promised to the old lieutenant of the fort who aided me to make my escape. I told you he had a mistress, a poor Indian woman, who helped me, and was kind to me. Six weeks after my arrival at home, the poor thing made her appearance at Richmond, having found her way through the wood by pretty much the same track which I had followed, and bringing me the token which Museau had promised to send me when he connived to my flight. A commanding officer and a considerable reinforcement had arrived at Duquesne. Charges, I don’t know of what peculation (for his messenger could not express herself very clearly), had been brought against this Museau. He had been put under arrest, and had tried to escape; but, less fortunate than myself, he had been shot on the rampart, and he sent the Indian woman to me, with my grandfather’s watch, and a line scrawled in his prison on his deathbed, begging me to send ce que je scavais to a notary at Havre de Grace in France to be transmitted to his relatives at Caen in Normandy. My friend Silverheels, the hunter, had helped my poor Indian on her way. I don’t know how she would have escaped scalping else. But at home they received the poor thing sternly. They hardly gave her a welcome. I won’t say what suspicions they had regarding her and me. The poor wretch fell to drinking whenever she could find means. I ordered that she should have food and shelter, and she became the jest of our negroes, and formed the subject of the scandal and tittle-tattle of the old fools in our little town. Our Governor was, luckily, a man of sense, and I made interest with him, and procured a pass to send her back to her people. Her very grief at parting with me only served to confirm the suspicions against her. A fellow preached against me from the pulpit, I believe; I had to treat another with a cane. And I had a violent dispute with Madam Esmond — a difference which is not healed yet — because I insisted upon paying to the heirs Museau pointed out the money I had promised for my deliverance. You see that scandal flourishes at the borders of the wilderness, and in the New World as well as the Old.”
“I have suffered from it myself, my dear!” said Madame Bernstein, demurely. “Fill thy glass, child! A little tass of cherry-brandy! ’Twill do thee all the good in the world.”
“As for my poor Harry’s marriage,” Madam Esmond’s letter went on, “though I know too well, from sad experience, the dangers to which youth is subject, and would keep my boy, at any price, from them, though I should wish him to marry a person of rank, as becomes his birth, yet my Lady Maria Esmond is out of the question. Her age is almost the same as mine; and I know my brother Castlewood left his daughters with the very smallest portions. My Harry is so obedient that I know a desire from me will be sufficient to cause him to give up this imprudent match. Some foolish people once supposed that I myself once thought of a second union, and with a person of rank very different from ours. No! I knew what was due to my children. As succeeding to this estate after me, Mr. Esmond W. is amply provided for. Let my task now be to save for his less fortunate younger brother: and, as I do not love to live quite alone, let him return without delay to his fond and loving mother.
“The report which your ladyship hath given of my Harry fills my heart with warmest gratitude. He is all indeed a mother may wish. A year in Europe will have given him a polish and refinement which he could not acquire in our homely Virginia............