Esmond on the Pantiles, Tunbridge Wells? His shoulder
was set: his health was entirely restored: he had not even a change of
coats, as we have seen, and was obliged to the Colonel for his raiment.
Surely a young man in such a condition had no right to be lingering
on at Oakhurst, and was bound by every tie of duty and convenience,
by love, by relationship, by a gentle heart waiting for him, by the
washerwoman finally, to go to Tunbridge. Why did he stay behind, unless
he was in love with either of the young ladies (and we say he wasn't)?
Could it be that he did not want to go? Hath the gracious reader
understood the meaning of the mystic S with which the last chapter
commences, and in which the designer has feebly endeavoured to depict
the notorious Sinbad the Sailor, surmounted by that odious old man of
the sea? What if Harry Warrington should be that sailor, and his fate
that choking, deadening, inevitable old man? What if for two days past
he has felt those knees throttling him round the neck? if his fell
aunt's purpose is answered, and if his late love is killed as dead
by her poisonous communications as fair Rosamond was by her royal and
legitimate rival? Is Hero then lighting the lamp up, and getting ready
the supper, whilst Leander is sitting comfortably with some other party,
and never in the least thinking of taking to the water? Ever since
that coward's blow was struck in Lady Maria's back by her own relative,
surely kind hearts must pity her ladyship. I know she has faults--ay,
and wears false hair and false never mind what. But a woman in distress,
shall we not pity her--a lady of a certain age, are we going to laugh at
her because of her years? Between her old aunt and her unhappy delusion,
be sure my Lady Maria Esmond is having no very pleasant time of it at
Tunbridge Wells. There is no one to protect her. Madam Beatrix has her
all to herself. Lady Maria is poor, and hopes for money from her aunt.
Lady Maria has a secret or two which the old woman knows, and brandishes
over her. I for one am quite melted and grow soft-hearted as I think
of her. Imagine her alone, and a victim to that old woman! Paint to
yourself that antique Andromeda (if you please we will allow that rich
flowing head of hair to fall over her shoulders) chained to a rock
on Mount Ephraim, and given up to that dragon of a Baroness! Succour,
Perseus! Come quickly with thy winged feet and flashing falchion!
Perseus is not in the least hurry. T