CHAPTER XLVII

Gaunt House

All the world knows that Lord Steyne's town palace stands in Gaunt

Square, out of which Great Gaunt Street leads, whither we first

conducted Rebecca, in the time of the departed Sir Pitt Crawley.

Peering over the railings and through the black trees into the garden

of the Square, you see a few miserable governesses with wan-faced

pupils wandering round and round it, and round the dreary grass-plot in

the centre of which rises the statue of Lord Gaunt, who fought at

Minden, in a three-tailed wig, and otherwise habited like a Roman

Emperor. Gaunt House occupies nearly a side of the Square. The

remaining three sides are composed of mansions that have passed away

into dowagerism--tall, dark houses, with window-frames of stone, or

picked out of a lighter red. Little light seems to be behind those

lean, comfortless casements now, and hospitality to have passed away

from those doors as much as the laced lacqueys and link-boys of old

times, who used to put out their torches in the blank iron

extinguishers that still flank the lamps over the steps. Brass plates

have penetrated into the square--Doctors, the Diddlesex Bank Western

Branch--the English and European Reunion, &c.--it has a dreary

look--nor is my Lord Steyne's palace less dreary. All I have ever seen

of it is the vast wall in front, with the rustic columns at the great

gate, through which an old porter peers sometimes with a fat and gloomy

red face--and over the wall the garret and bedroom windows, and the

chimneys, out of which there seldom comes any smoke now. For the

present Lord Steyne lives at Naples, preferring the view of the Bay and

Capri and Vesuvius to the dreary aspect of the wall in Gaunt Square.

A few score yards down New Gaunt Street, and leading into Gaunt Mews

indeed, is a little modest back door, which you would not remark from

that of any of the other stables. But many a little close carriage has

stopped at that door, as my informant (little Tom Eaves, who knows

everything, and who showed me the place) told me. "The Prince and

Perdita have been in and out of that door, sir," he had often told me;

"Marianne Clarke has entered it with the Duke of ------. It conducts to

the famous petits appartements of Lord Steyne--one, sir, fitted up all

in ivory and white satin, another in ebony and black velvet; there is a

little banqueting-room taken from Sallust's house at Pompeii, and

painted by Cosway--a little private kitchen, in which every saucepan

was silver and all the spits were gold. It was there that Egalite

Orleans roasted partridges on the night when he and the Marquis of

Steyne won a hundred thousand from a great personage at ombre. Half of

the money went to the French Revolution, half to purchase Lord Gaunt's

Marquisate and Garter--and the remainder--" but it forms no part of our

scheme to tell what became of the remainder, for every shilling of

which, and a great deal more, little Tom Eaves, who knows everybody's

affairs, is ready to account.

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 Eaves

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.

The absent lord's children meanwhile prattled and grew on quite

unconscious that the doom was over them too. First they talked of

their father and devised plans against his return. Then the name of

the living dead man was less frequently in their mouth--then not

mentioned at all. But the stricken old grandmother trembled to think

that these too were the inheritors of their father's shame as well as

of his honours, and watched sickening for the day when the awful

ancestral curse should come down on them.

This dark presentiment also haunted Lord Steyne. He tried to lay the

horrid bedside ghost in Red Seas of wine and jollity, and lost sight of

it sometimes in the crowd and rout of his pleasures. But it always

came back to him when alone, and seemed to grow more threatening with

years. "I have taken your son," it said, "why not you? I may shut you

up in a prison some day like your son George. I may tap you on the

head to-morrow, and away go pleasure and honours, feasts and beauty,

friends, flatterers, French cooks, fine horses and houses--in exchange

for a prison, a keeper, and a straw mattress like George Gaunt's." And

then my lord would defy the ghost which threatened him, for he knew of

a remedy by which he could baulk his enemy.

So there was splendour and wealth, but no great happiness perchance,

behind the tall caned portals of Gaunt House with its smoky coronets

and ciphers. The feasts there were of the grandest in London, but

there was not overmuch content therewith, except among the guests who

sat at my lord's table. Had he not been so great a Prince very few

possibly would have visited him; but in Vanity Fair the sins of very

great personages are looked at indulgently. "Nous regardons a deux

fois" (as the French lady said) before we condemn a person of my lord's

undoubted quality. Some notorious carpers and squeamish moralists

might be sulky with Lord Steyne, but they were glad enough to come when

he asked them.

"Lord Steyne is really too bad," Lady Slingstone said, "but everybody

goes, and of course I shall see that my girls come to no harm." "His

lordship is a man to whom I owe much, everything in life," said the

Right Reverend Doctor Trail, thinking that the Archbishop was rather

shaky, and Mrs. Trail and the young ladies would as soon have missed

going to church as to one of his lordship's parties. "His morals are

bad," said little Lord Southdown to his sister, who meekly

expostulated, having heard terrific legends from her mamma with respect

to the doings at Gaunt House; "but hang it, he's got the best dry

Sillery in Europe!" And as for Sir Pitt Crawley, Bart.--Sir Pitt that

pattern of decorum, Sir Pitt who had led off at missionary meetings--he

never for one moment thought of not going too. "Where you see such

persons as the Bishop of Ealing and the Countess of Slingstone, you may

be pretty sure, Jane," the Baronet would say, "that we cannot be wrong.

The great rank and station of Lord Steyne put him in a position to

command people in our station in life. The Lord Lieutenant of a

County, my dear, is a respectable man. Besides, George Gaunt and I

were intimate in early life; he was my junior when we were attaches at

Pumpernickel together."

In a word everybody went to wait upon this great man--everybody who was

asked, as you the reader (do not say nay) or I the writer hereof would

go if we had an invitation.