The real business of life, I fancy, can form but little portion of the novelist’s budget. When he is speaking of the profession of arms, in which men can show courage or the reverse, and in treating of which the writer naturally has to deal with interesting circumstances, actions, and characters, introducing recitals of danger, devotedness, heroic deaths, and the like, the novelist may perhaps venture to deal with actual affairs of life: but otherwise, they scarcely can enter into our stories. The main part of Ficulnus’s life, for instance, is spent in selling sugar, spices and cheese; of Causidicus’s in poring over musty volumes of black-letter law; of Sartorius’s in sitting, cross-legged, on a board after measuring gentlemen for coats and breeches. What can a story-teller say about the professional existence of these men? Would a real rustical history of hobnails and eighteenpence a day be endurable? In the days whereof we are writing, the poets of the time chose to represent a shepherd in pink breeches and a chintz waistcoat, dancing before his flocks, and playing a flageolet tied up with a blue satin ribbon. I say, in reply to some objections which have been urged by potent and friendly critics, that of the actual affairs of life the novelist cannot be expected to treat — with the almost single exception of war before named. But law, stockbroking, polemical theology, linen-drapery, apothecary-business, and the like, how can writers manage fully to develop these in their stories? All authors can do, is to depict men out of their business — in their passions, loves, laughters, amusements, hatreds, and what not — and describe these as well as they can, taking the business part for granted, and leaving it as it were for subaudition.
Thus, in talking of the present or the past world, I know I am only dangling about the theatre-lobbies, coffee-houses, ridottos, pleasure-haunts, fair-booths, and feasting — and fiddling-rooms of life; that, meanwhile, the great serious past or present world is plodding in its chambers, toiling at its humdrum looms, or jogging on its accustomed labours, and we are only seeing our characters away from their work. Corydon has to cart the litter and thresh the barley, as well as to make love to Phillis; Ancillula has to dress and wash the nursery, to wait at breakfast and on her misses, to take the children out, etc., before she can have her brief sweet interview through the area-railings with Boopis, the policeman. All day long have his heels to beat the stale pavement before he has the opportunity to snatch the hasty kiss or the furtive cold pie. It is only at moments, and away from these labours, that we can light upon one character or the other; and hence, though most of the persons of whom we are writing have doubtless their grave employments and avocations, it is only when they are disengaged and away from their work, that we can bring them and the equally disengaged reader together.
The macaronis and fine gentlemen at White’s and Arthur’s continued to show poor Harry Warrington such a very cold shoulder, that he sought their society less and less, and the Ring and the Mall and the gaming-table knew him no more. Madame de Bernstein was for her nephew’s braving the indifference of the world, and vowed that it would be conquered, if he would but have courage to face it; but the young man was too honest to wear a smiling face when he was discontented; to disguise mortification or anger; to parry slights by adroit flatteries or cunning impudence; as many gentlemen and gentlewomen must and do who wish to succeed in society.
“You pull a long face, Harry, and complain of the world’s treatment of you,” the old lady said. “Fiddlededee, sir! Everybody has to put up with impertinences: and if you get a box on the ear now you are poor and cast down, you must say nothing about it, bear it with a smile, and if you can, revenge it ten years after. Moi qui vous parle, sir! — do you suppose I have had no humble-pie to eat? All of us in our turn are called upon to swallow it: and, now you are no longer the Fortunate Youth, be the Clever Youth, and win back the place you have lost by your ill luck. Go about more than ever. Go to all the routs and parties to which you are asked, and to more still. Be civil to everybody — to all women especially. Only of course take care to show your spirit, of which you have plenty. With economy, and by your brother’s, I must say, admirable generosity, you can still make a genteel figure. With your handsome person, sir, you can’t fail to get a rich heiress. Tenez! You should go amongst the merchants in the City, and look out there. They won’t know that you are out of fashion at the Court end of the town. With a little management, there is not the least reason, sir, why you should not make a good position for yourself still. When did you go to see my Lady Yarmouth, pray? Why did you not improve that connexion? She took a great fancy to you. I desire you will be constant at her ladyship’s evenings, and lose no opportunity of paying court to her.”
Thus the old woman who had loved Harry so on his first appearance in England, who had been so eager for his company, and pleased with his artless conversation, was taking the side of the world, and turning against him. Instead of the smiles and kisses with which the fickle old creature used once to greet him, she received him with coldness; she became peevish and patronising; she cast gibes and scorn at him before her guests, making his honest face flush with humiliation, and awaking the keenest pangs of grief and amazement in his gentle, manly heart. Madame de Bernstein’s servants, who used to treat him with such eager respect, scarcely paid him now any attention. My lady was often indisposed or engaged when he called on her; her people did not press him to wait; did not volunteer to ask whether he would stay and dine, as they used in the days when he was the Fortunate Youth and companion of the wealthy and great. Harry carried his woes to Mrs. Lambert. In a passion of sorrow he told her of his aunt’s cruel behaviour to him. He was stricken down and dismayed by the fickleness and heartlessness of the world in its treatment of him. While the good lady and her daughters would move to and fro, and busy themselves with the cares of the house, our poor lad would sit glum in a window-seat, heart-sick and silent.
“I know you are the best people alive,” he would say to the ladies, “and the kindest, and that I must be the dullest company in the world — yes, that I am.”
“Well, you are not very lively, Harry,” says Miss Hetty, who began to command him, and perhaps to ask herself, “What? Is this the gentleman whom I took to be such a hero?”
“If he is unhappy, why should he be lively?” asks Theo, gently. “He has a good heart, and is pained at his friends’ desertion of him. Sure there is no harm in that?”
“I would have too much spirit to show I was hurt, though,” cries Hetty, clenching her little fists. “And I would smile, though that horrible old painted woman boxed my ears. She is horrible, mamma. You think so yourself, Theo! Own, now, you think so yourself! You said so last night, and acted her coming in on her crutch, and grinning round to the company.”
“I mayn’t like her,” said Theo, turning very red. “But there is no reason why I should call Harry’s aunt names before Harry’s face.”
“You provoking thing; you are always right!” cries Hetty, “and that’s what makes me so angry. Indeed, Harry, it was very wrong of me to make rude remarks about any of your relations.”
“I don’t care about the others, Hetty; but it seems hard that this one should turn upon me. I had got to be very fond of her; and you see, it makes me mad, somehow, when people I’m very fond of turn away from me, or act unkind to me.”
“Suppose George were to do so?” asks Hetty. You see, it was George and Hetty, and Theo and Harry, amongst them now.
“You are very clever and very lively, and you may suppose a number of things; but not that, Hetty, if you please,” cried Harry, standing up and looking very resolute and angry. “You don’t know my brother as I know him — or you wouldn’t take — such a — liberty as to suppose — my brother George could do anything unkind or unworthy!” Mr. Harry was quite in a flush as he spoke.
Hetty turned very white. Then she looked up at Harry, and then she did not say a single word.
Then Harry said, in his simple way, before taking leave, “I’m very sorry, and I beg your pardon, Hetty, if I said anything rough, or that seemed unkind; but I always fight up if anybody says anything against George.”
Hetty did not answer a word out of her pale lips, but gave him her hand, and dropped a prim little curtsey.
When she and Theo were together at night, making curl-paper confidences, “Oh!” said Hetty, “I thought it would be so happy to see him every day, and was so glad when papa said we were to stay in London! And now I do see him, you see, I go on offending him. I can’t help offending him; and I know he is not clever, Theo. But oh! isn’t he good, and kind, and brave? Didn’t he look handsome when he was angry?”
“You silly little thing, you are always trying to make him look handsome,” Theo replied.
It was Theo and Hetty, and Harry and George, among these young people, then; and I dare say the reason why General Lambert chose to apply the monosyllable “Bo” to the mother of his daughters, was as a rebuke to that good woman for the inveterate love of sentiment and propensity to match-making which belonged to her (and every other woman in the world whose heart is worth a fig); and as a hint that Madam Lambert was a goose if she fancied the two Virginian lads were going to fall in love with the young women of the Lambert house. Little Het might have her fancy; little girls will; but they get it over: “and you know, Molly” (which dear, soft-hearted Mrs. Lambert could not deny), “you fancied somebody else before you fancied me,” says the General; but Harry had evidently not been smitten by Hetty; and now he was superseded, as it were, by having an elder brother over him, and could not even call the coat upon his back his own, Master Harry was no great catch.
“Oh yes: now he is poor we will show him the door, as all the rest of the world does, I suppose,” says Mrs. Lambert.
“That is what I always do, isn’t it, Molly? turn my back on my friends in distress?” asks the General.
“No, my dear! I am a goose, now, and that I own, Martin!” says the wife, having recourse to the usual pocket-handkerchief.
“Let the poor boy come to us and welcome: ours is almost the only house in this selfish place where so much can be said for him. He is unhappy, and to be with us puts him at ease; in God’s name let him be with us!” says the kind-hearted officer. Accordingly, whenever poor crestfallen Hal wanted a dinner, or an evening’s entertainment, Mr. Lambert’s table had a corner for him. So was George welcome, too. He went among the Lamberts, not at first with the cordiality which Harry felt for these people, and inspired among them: for George was colder in his manner, and more mistrustful of himself and others than his twin-brother: but there was a goodness and friendliness about the family which touched almost all people who came into frequent contact with them; and George soon learned to love them for their own sake, as well as for their constant regard and kindness to his brother. He could not but see and own how sad Harry was, and pity his brother’s depression. In his sarcastic way, George would often take himself to task before his brother for coming to life again, and say, “Dear Harry, I am George the Unlucky, though you have ceased to be Harry the Fortunate. Florac would have done much better not to pass his sword through that Indian’s body, and to have left my scalp as an ornament for the fellow’s belt. I say he would, sir! At White’s the people would have respected you. Our mother would have wept over me, as a defunct angel, instead of being angry with me for again supplanting her favourite — you are her favourite, you deserve to be her favourite: everybody’s favourite: only, if I had not come back, your favourite, Maria, would have insisted on marrying you; and that is how the gods would have revenged themselves upon you for your prosperity.”
“I never know whether you are laughing at me or yourself, George” says the brother. I never know whether you are serious or jesting.
“Precisely my own case, Harry, my dear!” says George.
“But this I know, that there never was a better brother in the world; and never better people than the Lamberts.”
“Never was truer word said!” cries George, taking his brother’s hand.
“And if I’m unhappy, ’tis not your fault — nor their fault — nor perhaps mine, George,” continues the younger. ’Tis fate, you see, ’tis the having nothing to do. I must work; and how, George? that is the question.”
“We will see what our mother says. We must wait till we hear from her,” says George.
“I say, George! Do you know, I don’t think I should much like going back to Virginia?” says Harry, in a low, alarmed voice.
“What! in love with one of the lasses here?”
“Love ’em like sisters — with all my heart, of course, dearest, best girls! but, having come out of that business, thanks to you, I don’t want to go back, you know. No! no! It is not for that I fancy staying in Europe better than going home. But, you see, I don’t fancy hunting, duck-shooting, tobacco-planting, whist-playing, and going to sermon, over and over and over again, for all my life, George. And what else is there to do at home? What on earth is there for me to do at all, I say? That’s what makes me miserable. It would not matter for you to be a younger son you are so clever you would make your way anywhere; but, for a poor fellow like me, what chance is there? Until I do something, George, I shall be miserable, that’s what I shall!”
“Have I not always said so? Art thou not coming round to my opinion?”
“What opinion, George? You know pretty much whatever you think, I think, George!” says the dutiful junior.
“That Florac had best have left the Indian to take my scalp, my dear!”
At which Harry bursts away with an angry exclamation; and they continue to puff their pipes in friendly union.
They lived together, each going his own ga............