George Warrington had related the same story, which we have just heard, to Madame de Bernstein on the previous evening — a portion, that is, of the history; for the old lady nodded off to sleep many times during the narration, only waking up when George paused, saying it was most interesting, and ordering him to continue. The young gentleman hem’d and ha’d, and stuttered, and blushed, and went on, much against his will, and did not speak half so well as he did to his friendly little auditory in Hill Street, where Hetty’s eyes of wonder and Theo’s sympathising looks, and mamma’s kind face, and papa’s funny looks, were applause sufficient to cheer any modest youth who required encouragement for his eloquence. As for mamma’s behaviour, the General said, ’twas as good as Mr. Addison’s trunk-maker, and she would make the fortune of any tragedy by simply being engaged to cry in the front boxes. That is why we chose my Lord Wrotham’s house as the theatre where George’s first piece should be performed, wishing that he should speak to advantage, and not as when he was heard by that sleepy, cynical old lady, to whom he had to narrate his adventures.
“Very good and most interesting, I am sure, my dear sir,” says Madame Bernstein, putting up three pretty little fingers covered with a lace mitten, to hide a convulsive movement of her mouth. “And your mother must have been delighted to see you.”
George shrugged his shoulders ever so little, and made a low bow, as his aunt looked up at him for a moment with her keen old eyes.
“Have been delighted to see you” she continued drily, “and killed the fatted calf, and — and that kind of thing. Though why I say calf, I don’t know, nephew George, for you never were the prodigal. I may say calf to thee, my poor Harry! Thou hast been amongst the swine sure enough. And evil companions have robbed the money out of thy pocket and the coat off thy back.
“He came to his family in England, madam,” says George, with some heat, “and his friends were your ladyship’s.”
“He could not have come to worse advisers, nephew Warrington, and so I should have told my sister earlier, had she condescended to write to me by him, as she has done by you,” said the old lady, tossing up her head. “Hey! hey!” she said, at night, as she arranged herself for the rout to which she was going, to her waiting-maid: “this young gentleman’s mother is half sorry that he has come to life again, I could see that in his face. She is half sorry, and I am perfectly furious! Why didn’t he lie still when he dropped there under the tree, and why did that young Florac carry him to the fort? I knew those Floracs when I was at Paris, in the time of Monsieur le Regent. They were of the Floracs of Ivry. No great house before Henri IV. His ancestor was the king’s favourite. His ancestor — he! he! — his ancestress! Brett! entendez-vous? Give me my card-purse. I don’t like the grand airs of this Monsieur George; and yet he resembles, very much, his grandfather — the same look and sometimes the same tones. You have heard of Colonel Esmond when I was young? This boy has his eyes. I suppose I liked the Colonel’s because he loved me.”
Being engaged, then, to a card-party — an amusement which she never missed, week-day or Sabbath, as long as she had strength to hold trumps or sit in a chair — very soon after George had ended his narration the old lady dismissed her two nephews, giving to the elder a couple of fingers and a very stately curtsey; but to Harry two hands and a kindly pat on the cheek.
“My poor child, now thou art disinherited, thou wilt see how differently the world will use thee!” she said. “There is only, in all London, a wicked, heartless old woman who will treat thee as before. Here is a pocket-book for you, child! Do not lose it at Ranelagh to-night. That suit of yours does not become your brother half so well as it sat upon you! You will present your brother to everybody, and walk up and down the room for two hours at least, child. Were I you, I would then go to the Chocolate-House, and play as if nothing had happened. Whilst you are there, your brother may come back to me and eat a bit of chicken with me. My Lady Flint gives wretched suppers, and I want to talk his mother’s letter over with him. Au revoir, gentlemen!” and she went away to her toilette. Her chairmen and flambeaux were already waiting at the door.
The gentlemen went to Ranelagh, where but a few of Mr. Harry’s acquaintances chanced to be present. They paced the round, and met Mr. Tom Claypool with some of his country friends; they heard the music; they drank tea in a box; Harry was master of ceremonies, and introduced his brother to the curiosities of the place; and George was even more excited than his brother had been on his first introduction to this palace of delight. George loved music much more than Harry ever did; he heard a full orchestra for the first time, and a piece of Mr. Handel satisfactorily performed; and a not unpleasing instance of Harry’s humility and regard for his elder brother was, that he could even hold George’s love of music in respect at a time when fiddling was voted effeminate and unmanly in England, and Britons were, every day, called upon by the patriotic prints to sneer at the frivolous accomplishments of your Squallinis, Monsieurs, and the like. Nobody in Britain is proud of his ignorance now. There is no conceit left among us. There is no such thing as dulness. Arrogance is entirely unknown . . . Well, at any rate, Art has obtained her letters of naturalisation, and lives here on terms of almost equality. If Mrs. Thrale chose to marry a music-master now, I don’t think her friends would shudder at the mention of her name. If she had a good fortune and kept a good cook, people would even go and dine with her in spite of the misalliance, and actually treat Mr. Piozzi with civility.
After Ranelagh, and pursuant to Madam Bernstein’s advice, George returned to her ladyship’s house, whilst Harry showed himself at the club, where gentlemen were accustomed to assemble at night to sup, and then to gamble. No one, of course, alluded to Mr. Warrington’s little temporary absence, and Mr. Ruff, his ex-landlord, waited upon him with the utmost gravity and civility, and as if there had never been any difference between them. Mr. Warrington had caused his trunks and habiliments to be conveyed away from Bond Street in the morning, and he and his brother were now established in apartments elsewhere.
But when the supper was done, and the gentlemen, as usual, were about to seek the macco-table upstairs, Harry said he was not going to play any more. He had burned his fingers already, and could afford no more extravagance.
“Why,” says Mr. Morris, in a rather flippant manner, “you must have won more than you have lost, Mr. Warrington, after all is said and done.”
“And of course I don’t know my own business as well as you do, Mr. Morris............