I felt pleased and flattered by the whole events of the day; especially by the beauty, the charming frankness of Aurora, and the decided preference she showed for me; the more so that she was an object of no little attraction to the powdered beaux who crowded the court of the young king. And to think that my poor red coat eclipsed all their finery.
Betimes next day I had my hair dressed by a fashionable perruquier; I took a promenade in Pall Mall, and left a card for a friend at White's Chocolate House. He was a brother of Douglas of ours, and belonged to the Scots Foot Guards, but was absent recruiting in Edinburgh. About mid-day, I presented myself at my cousin's mansion, old Sir Basil Gauntlet's town residence, in Piccadilly. It was one of the largest and best style of houses in that fashionable quarter. Master John Trot appeared at the door in answer to my summons, and opened it wide enough and with a sufficiently low bow, as I had exchanged my old, weather-beaten and bloodstained fighting-jacket, for a fashionable suit of French grey velvet, laced with silver.
I found Aurora in the drawing-room, with her companion, a pleasing old gentlewoman in a towering toupée, high red-heeled shoes and black lace mittens—Madam Blythe (as she was named in the old Scoto-French fashion) a widow of the captain-lieutenant of Lord Ancrum's dragoons, who had been killed in action, so the poor woman's heart warmed towards me as a gentleman of the cloth.
After a few of the ordinary remarks about the weather, followed by a few more about the ceremony of yesterday, luncheon was announced by John Trot, and we descended by a splendid staircase, hung with effigies of departed Gauntlets, depicted by Lely and Kneller, in wigs and corslets, to the dining-room, past a line of servants in livery, aiguiletted and covered with braid, like state trumpeters.
Over the carved marble mantelpiece hung a portrait of an old gentleman, in a square-skirted coat, corded with gold, a voluminous wig and wide riding-boots, in the act of grasping the reins of a roan charger.
"'Tis dear old grandpapa's portrait, painted by Mr. Joshua Reynolds." (He had not been knighted yet.)
"One of the most rising artists in London," added Madame Blythe, in an explanatory tone.
"'Tis very like you, Basil," said Aurora, laying kindly on my shoulders a plump white hand that glittered with turquoise and diamond rings.
I did not feel flattered, as "dear old grandpapa's" Bardolph's snout was somewhat like an over-ripe peach; but altogether, in his jolly obesity he in no way resembled the old ursa-major I had pictured him—perhaps Mr. Reynolds flattered. However, I could scarcely refrain from frowning at it when Aurora did not observe me, and when I thought of the will which he and old Nathan Wylie had concocted between them; and then of the handsome legacy—one shilling sterling coin of this realm—bequeathed to me when quartered at Portsmouth.
"My brother Tony—poor unfortunate Tony!—hangs opposite in his green hunting dress—another of Mr. Reynolds' efforts," said Aurora.
"Ah, indeed!" said I, attending to my ham and chicken, and turning my back upon the portraiture of Cousin Tony, who looked out of the gilded frame very much as he did on that afternoon when he and his grooms Dick and Tom laid their whips across my shoulders near Netherwood Hall.
"What length of time do you mean to spend in London?" asked Aurora, amid our desultory conversation. "Your health, cousin, and welcome home," she added, as John Trot filled my glass.
"I shall spend my six months' leave. I have no friends to visit, and nowhere to go, cousin, unless back to my regiment."
"Six months—delightful! Now, Basil, with your figure and pretensions, I am sure we shall find a charming if not a rich wife for you. Shall we not, Madame Blythe?"
"Thanks, Aurora. A rich one I would need, with my poor sub's pay," said I, with a smile.
I glanced involuntarily round me, and the splendour and luxury, the evidence of ample wealth—wealth of which I had cruelly been deprived—galled and fretted me. Furtive though the glance, it was so expressive that Aurora coloured, and but said, smiling—
"What think you of the Lady Louisa Kerr, the Countess of Ancrum's eldest daughter? She spoke much about you, and was at the drawing-room, in blue, flowered with silver."
"Nay, I have no idea of casting my eyes so high."
"Or so far off," added Madame Blythe, archly.
"Perhaps you have left your heart in Germany?"
"On the contrary, I have brought it back safe and sound, cousin. More wine—thank you, yes."
"'Tis some of the last of dear old grandpapa's favourite port," said Aurora, making a sign to Mr. Trot.
"But there is time enough yet for me to think of marrying, Aurora."
"Perhaps you agree with Shakespeare, that
"'A young man married, is a man marrèd,'"
"Nay, dear cousin; I am not so ungallant; but àpropos of Shakespeare, shall we go to the play to-night?"
"In that I am your servant; but you shall dine with us; a drive in the park, and then the play after."
Aurora was charming; and it was impossible not to be guided by her wishes in everything.
At that time I was in excellent funds. I had my pay as lieutenant of dragoons (not that it was much, Heaven knows! to cut a figure upon); but I had a good share of prize-money, and a share in brass guns taken in the affairs of Emsdorff and Zierenberg, with a fair slice of a military chest that found its way quietly, sans report, into the pockets of the Scots Greys, all enabled me to take Aurora and Madame Blythe to Vauxhall, Ranelagh, the tea-gardens, the opera, the play, and always with a fair escort of flambeaux to dine with his Grace of Argyle, or to a drum at my Lady Ancrum's; to turn a card at White's when I felt so disposed, and to throw vails to those greedy vultures—the servants—a folly at that time in excess.
As we issued from the house to the carriage for our drive in the park, Aurora responded to the profound bow of a gentleman who rode past.
"That is a young Irishman who was known about town as the Penniless Adventurer," said she; "yet he wrote a charming book on 'The Sublime and Beautiful.'"
"Edmund Burke," I exclaimed, looking after him with admiration; "is that the great Edmund Burke?"
"Even so, with his hair all frizzed up. How oddly he wears it," said Aurora, as we seated ourselves, and Mr. Trot, after shutting the door, perched himself on the footboard behind.
At night Drury Lane Theatre presented a scene of brilliance and splendour to which I had long been unaccustomed. Aurora was exceedingly gay and sparkling with youth, beauty, and jewels—bowing to people of good fashion in almost every box—always happy and with considerable readiness of wit, remarking several turns of the play and peculiarities of personages who were present, and in whom, she thought, I might feel interested.
The first piece, I grieve, my prudish friends, to state was Howe's tragedy of "The Fair Penitent," which drew tears from all the brocaded dames in the boxes.
Mr. David Garrick, the manager, appeared as Lothario in a full-bottomed perriwig, square-cut blue coat with buttons in size like saucers, white rolled stockings and square toed shoes. Mrs. Pritchard was the frail Lavinia; and sarcastic old Macklin, who hated the Scots so much, made up by pads and paint as a youth, played the part of Horatio to the great admiration of the pit, and particularly of one group, among whom Aurora pointed out to me a poet named Churchill and Dr. Johnson the great Lexicographer.
Mr. Garrick's laughable farce of the "Lying Valet" followed. A sentinel of the Foot Guards, with bayonet fixed and musket shouldered, stood at the end of the proscenium during the whole performance, at the conclusion of which, the manager and pretty Mrs. Pritchard, were called before the curtain amid a storm of applause.
At the door of the box-lobby we had some confusion; a hundred voices were shouting "Chair! chair!—coach, coach!" at once, and an irritable old gentleman with a very red face, drew his sword to clear the way before his party of ladies.
"Who is this passionate personage?" I inquired.
"'Tis Admiral Forbes," said Madame Blythe, "the only Lord of the Admiralty who refused to sign poor Admiral Byng's death warrant."
"A Scotsman, like yourself, Basil," said Aurora smiling.
I escorted the ladies home to Piccadilly, and assisted them to alight from their sedan chairs. As the links were extinguished, and Aurora's cheek was very near mine, I—but as it is wrong to kiss and tell, I shall close this chapter, and with it my third day in London.