Vanity Fair (81 page)

Besides his town palace, the Marquis had castles and palaces in
various quarters of the three kingdoms, whereof the descriptions may
be found in the road-books—Castle Strongbow, with its woods, on the
Shannon shore; Gaunt Castle, in Carmarthenshire, where Richard II
was taken prisoner—Gauntly Hall in Yorkshire, where I have been
informed there were two hundred silver teapots for the breakfasts of
the guests of the house, with everything to correspond in splendour;
and Stillbrook in Hampshire, which was my lord's farm, an humble
place of residence, of which we all remember the wonderful furniture
which was sold at my lord's demise by a late celebrated auctioneer.

The Marchioness of Steyne was of the renowned and ancient family of
the Caerlyons, Marquises of Camelot, who have preserved the old
faith ever since the conversion of the venerable Druid, their first
ancestor, and whose pedigree goes far beyond the date of the arrival
of King Brute in these islands. Pendragon is the title of the
eldest son of the house. The sons have been called Arthurs, Uthers,
and Caradocs, from immemorial time. Their heads have fallen in many
a loyal conspiracy. Elizabeth chopped off the head of the Arthur of
her day, who had been Chamberlain to Philip and Mary, and carried
letters between the Queen of Scots and her uncles the Guises. A
cadet of the house was an officer of the great Duke and
distinguished in the famous Saint Bartholomew conspiracy. During
the whole of Mary's confinement, the house of Camelot conspired in
her behalf. It was as much injured by its charges in fitting out an
armament against the Spaniards, during the time of the Armada, as by
the fines and confiscations levied on it by Elizabeth for harbouring
of priests, obstinate recusancy, and popish misdoings. A recreant
of James's time was momentarily perverted from his religion by the
arguments of that great theologian, and the fortunes of the family
somewhat restored by his timely weakness. But the Earl of Camelot,
of the reign of Charles, returned to the old creed of his family,
and they continued to fight for it, and ruin themselves for it, as
long as there was a Stuart left to head or to instigate a rebellion.

Lady Mary Caerlyon was brought up at a Parisian convent; the
Dauphiness Marie Antoinette was her godmother. In the pride of her
beauty she had been married—sold, it was said—to Lord Gaunt, then
at Paris, who won vast sums from the lady's brother at some of
Philip of Orleans's banquets. The Earl of Gaunt's famous duel with
the Count de la Marche, of the Grey Musqueteers, was attributed by
common report to the pretensions of that officer (who had been a
page, and remained a favourite of the Queen) to the hand of the
beautiful Lady Mary Caerlyon. She was married to Lord Gaunt while
the Count lay ill of his wound, and came to dwell at Gaunt House,
and to figure for a short time in the splendid Court of the Prince
of Wales. Fox had toasted her. Morris and Sheridan had written
songs about her. Malmesbury had made her his best bow; Walpole had
pronounced her charming; Devonshire had been almost jealous of her;
but she was scared by the wild pleasures and gaieties of the society
into which she was flung, and after she had borne a couple of sons,
shrank away into a life of devout seclusion. No wonder that my Lord
Steyne, who liked pleasure and cheerfulness, was not often seen
after their marriage by the side of this trembling, silent,
superstitious, unhappy lady.

The before-mentioned Tom Eaves (who has no part in this history,
except that he knew all the great folks in London, and the stories
and mysteries of each family) had further information regarding my
Lady Steyne, which may or may not be true. "The humiliations," Tom
used to say, "which that woman has been made to undergo, in her own
house, have been frightful; Lord Steyne has made her sit down to
table with women with whom I would rather die than allow Mrs. Eaves
to associate—with Lady Crackenbury, with Mrs. Chippenham, with
Madame de la Cruchecassee, the French secretary's wife (from every
one of which ladies Tom Eaves—who would have sacrificed his wife
for knowing them—was too glad to get a bow or a dinner) with the
REIGNING FAVOURITE in a word. And do you suppose that that woman,
of that family, who are as proud as the Bourbons, and to whom the
Steynes are but lackeys, mushrooms of yesterday (for after all, they
are not of the Old Gaunts, but of a minor and doubtful branch of the
house); do you suppose, I say (the reader must bear in mind that it
is always Tom Eaves who speaks) that the Marchioness of Steyne, the
haughtiest woman in England, would bend down to her husband so
submissively if there were not some cause? Pooh! I tell you there
are secret reasons. I tell you that, in the emigration, the Abbe de
la Marche who was here and was employed in the Quiberoon business
with Puisaye and Tinteniac, was the same Colonel of Mousquetaires
Gris with whom Steyne fought in the year '86—that he and the
Marchioness met again—that it was after the Reverend Colonel was
shot in Brittany that Lady Steyne took to those extreme practices of
devotion which she carries on now; for she is closeted with her
director every day—she is at service at Spanish Place, every
morning, I've watched her there—that is, I've happened to be
passing there—and depend on it, there's a mystery in her case.
People are not so unhappy unless they have something to repent of,"
added Tom Eaves with a knowing wag of his head; "and depend on it,
that woman would not be so submissive as she is if the Marquis had
not some sword to hold over her."

So, if Mr. Eaves's information be correct, it is very likely that
this lady, in her high station, had to submit to many a private
indignity and to hide many secret griefs under a calm face. And let
us, my brethren who have not our names in the Red Book, console
ourselves by thinking comfortably how miserable our betters may be,
and that Damocles, who sits on satin cushions and is served on gold
plate, has an awful sword hanging over his head in the shape of a
bailiff, or an hereditary disease, or a family secret, which peeps
out every now and then from the embroidered arras in a ghastly
manner, and will be sure to drop one day or the other in the right
place.

In comparing, too, the poor man's situation with that of the great,
there is (always according to Mr. Eaves) another source of comfort
for the former. You who have little or no patrimony to bequeath or
to inherit, may be on good terms with your father or your son,
whereas the heir of a great prince, such as my Lord Steyne, must
naturally be angry at being kept out of his kingdom, and eye the
occupant of it with no very agreeable glances. "Take it as a rule,"
this sardonic old Laves would say, "the fathers and elder sons of
all great families hate each other. The Crown Prince is always in
opposition to the crown or hankering after it. Shakespeare knew the
world, my good sir, and when he describes Prince Hal (from whose
family the Gaunts pretend to be descended, though they are no more
related to John of Gaunt than you are) trying on his father's
coronet, he gives you a natural description of all heirs apparent.
If you were heir to a dukedom and a thousand pounds a day, do you
mean to say you would not wish for possession? Pooh! And it stands
to reason that every great man, having experienced this feeling
towards his father, must be aware that his son entertains it towards
himself; and so they can't but be suspicious and hostile.

"Then again, as to the feeling of elder towards younger sons. My
dear sir, you ought to know that every elder brother looks upon the
cadets of the house as his natural enemies, who deprive him of so
much ready money which ought to be his by right. I have often heard
George Mac Turk, Lord Bajazet's eldest son, say that if he had his
will when he came to the title, he would do what the sultans do, and
clear the estate by chopping off all his younger brothers' heads at
once; and so the case is, more or less, with them all. I tell you
they are all Turks in their hearts. Pooh! sir, they know the
world." And here, haply, a great man coming up, Tom Eaves's hat
would drop off his head, and he would rush forward with a bow and a
grin, which showed that he knew the world too—in the Tomeavesian
way, that is. And having laid out every shilling of his fortune on
an annuity, Tom could afford to bear no malice to his nephews and
nieces, and to have no other feeling with regard to his betters but
a constant and generous desire to dine with them.

Between the Marchioness and the natural and tender regard of mother
for children, there was that cruel barrier placed of difference of
faith. The very love which she might feel for her sons only served
to render the timid and pious lady more fearful and unhappy. The
gulf which separated them was fatal and impassable. She could not
stretch her weak arms across it, or draw her children over to that
side away from which her belief told her there was no safety.
During the youth of his sons, Lord Steyne, who was a good scholar
and amateur casuist, had no better sport in the evening after dinner
in the country than in setting the boys' tutor, the Reverend Mr.
Trail (now my Lord Bishop of Ealing) on her ladyship's director,
Father Mole, over their wine, and in pitting Oxford against St.
Acheul. He cried "Bravo, Latimer! Well said, Loyola!" alternately;
he promised Mole a bishopric if he would come over, and vowed he
would use all his influence to get Trail a cardinal's hat if he
would secede. Neither divine allowed himself to be conquered, and
though the fond mother hoped that her youngest and favourite son
would be reconciled to her church—his mother church—a sad and
awful disappointment awaited the devout lady—a disappointment which
seemed to be a judgement upon her for the sin of her marriage.

My Lord Gaunt married, as every person who frequents the Peerage
knows, the Lady Blanche Thistlewood, a daughter of the noble house
of Bareacres, before mentioned in this veracious history. A wing of
Gaunt House was assigned to this couple; for the head of the family
chose to govern it, and while he reigned to reign supreme; his son
and heir, however, living little at home, disagreeing with his wife,
and borrowing upon post-obits such moneys as he required beyond the
very moderate sums which his father was disposed to allow him. The
Marquis knew every shilling of his son's debts. At his lamented
demise, he was found himself to be possessor of many of his heir's
bonds, purchased for their benefit, and devised by his Lordship to
the children of his younger son.

As, to my Lord Gaunt's dismay, and the chuckling delight of his
natural enemy and father, the Lady Gaunt had no children—the Lord
George Gaunt was desired to return from Vienna, where he was engaged
in waltzing and diplomacy, and to contract a matrimonial alliance
with the Honourable Joan, only daughter of John Johnes, First Baron
Helvellyn, and head of the firm of Jones, Brown, and Robinson, of
Threadneedle Street, Bankers; from which union sprang several sons
and daughters, whose doings do not appertain to this story.

The marriage at first was a happy and prosperous one. My Lord George
Gaunt could not only read, but write pretty correctly. He spoke
French with considerable fluency; and was one of the finest waltzers
in Europe. With these talents, and his interest at home, there was
little doubt that his lordship would rise to the highest dignities
in his profession. The lady, his wife, felt that courts were her
sphere, and her wealth enabled her to receive splendidly in those
continental towns whither her husband's diplomatic duties led him.
There was talk of appointing him minister, and bets were laid at the
Travellers' that he would be ambassador ere long, when of a sudden,
rumours arrived of the secretary's extraordinary behaviour. At a
grand diplomatic dinner given by his chief, he had started up and
declared that a pate de foie gras was poisoned. He went to a ball
at the hotel of the Bavarian envoy, the Count de Springbock-
Hohenlaufen, with his head shaved and dressed as a Capuchin friar.
It was not a masked ball, as some folks wanted to persuade you. It
was something queer, people whispered. His grandfather was so. It
was in the family.

His wife and family returned to this country and took up their abode
at Gaunt House. Lord George gave up his post on the European
continent, and was gazetted to Brazil. But people knew better; he
never returned from that Brazil expedition—never died there—never
lived there—never was there at all. He was nowhere; he was gone
out altogether. "Brazil," said one gossip to another, with a grin—
"Brazil is St. John's Wood. Rio de Janeiro is a cottage surrounded
by four walls, and George Gaunt is accredited to a keeper, who has
invested him with the order of the Strait-Waistcoat." These are the
kinds of epitaphs which men pass over one another in Vanity Fair.

Twice or thrice in a week, in the earliest morning, the poor mother
went for her sins and saw the poor invalid. Sometimes he laughed at
her (and his laughter was more pitiful than to hear him cry);
sometimes she found the brilliant dandy diplomatist of the Congress
of Vienna dragging about a child's toy, or nursing the keeper's
baby's doll. Sometimes he knew her and Father Mole, her director
and companion; oftener he forgot her, as he had done wife, children,
love, ambition, vanity. But he remembered his dinner-hour, and used
to cry if his wine-and-water was not strong enough.

It was the mysterious taint of the blood; the poor mother had
brought it from her own ancient race. The evil had broken out once
or twice in the father's family, long before Lady Steyne's sins had
begun, or her fasts and tears and penances had been offered in their
expiation. The pride of the race was struck down as the first-born
of Pharaoh. The dark mark of fate and doom was on the threshold—
the tall old threshold surmounted by coronets and caned heraldry.