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<h2>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> About the time that Henry and William quitted college, and had arrived at their twentieth year, the dean purchased a small estate in a village near to the country residence of Lord and Lady Bendham; and, in the total want of society, the dean’s family were frequently honoured with invitations from the great house. Lord Bendham, besides a good estate, possessed the office of a lord of the bed-chamber to his Majesty.  Historians do not ascribe much importance to the situation, or to the talents of nobles in this department, nor shall this little history.  A lord of the bed-chamber is a personage well known in courts, and in all capitals where courts reside; with this advantage to the inquirer, that in becoming acquainted with one of those noble characters, he becomes acquainted with all the remainder; not only with those of the same kingdom, but those of foreign nations; for, in whatever land, in whatever climate, a lord of the bed-chamber must necessarily be the self-same creature: one wholly made up of observance, of obedience, of dependence, and of imitation—a borrowed character—a character formed by reflection. The wife of this illustrious peer, as well as himself, took her hue, like the chameleon, from surrounding objects: her manners were not governed by her mind but were solely directed by external circumstances.  At court, humble, resigned, patient, attentive: at balls, masquerades, gaming-tables, and routs, gay, sprightly, and flippant; at her country seat, reserved, austere, arrogant, and gloomy. Though in town her timid eye in presence of certain personages would scarcely uplift its trembling lid, so much she felt her own insignificance, yet, in the country, till Lady Clementina arrived, there was not one being of consequence enough to share in her acquaintance; and she paid back to her inferiors there all the humiliating slights, all the mortifications, which in London she received from those to whom she was inferior. Whether in town or country, it is but justice to acknowledge that in her own person she was strictly chaste; but in the country she extended that chastity even to the persons of others; and the young woman who lost her virtue in the village of Anfield had better have lost her life.  Some few were now and then found hanging or drowned, while no other cause could be assigned for their despair than an imputation on the discretion of their character, and dread of the harsh purity of Lady Bendham.  She would remind the parish priest of the punishment allotted for female dishonour, and by her influence had caused many an unhappy girl to do public penance in their own or the neighbouring churches. But this country rigour in town she could dispense withal; and, like other ladies of virtue, she there visited and received into her house the acknowledged mistresses of any man in elevated life.  It was not, therefore, the crime, but the rank which the criminal held in society, that drew down Lady Bendham’s vengeance.  She even carried her distinction of classes in female error to such a very nice point that the adulterous concubine of an elder brother was her most intimate acquaintance, whilst the less guilty unmarried mistress of the younger she would not sully her lips to exchange a word with. Lord and Lady Bendham’s birth, education, talents, and propensities, being much on the same scale of eminence, they would have been a very happy pair, had not one great misfortune intervened—the lady never bore her lord a child, while every cottage of the village was crammed with half-starved children, whose father from week to week, from year to year, exerted his manly youth, and wasted his strength in vain, to protect them from hunger; whose mother mourned over her new-born infant as a little wretch, sent into the world to deprive the rest of what already was too scanty for them; in the castle, which owned every cottage and all the surrounding land, and where one single day of feasting would have nourished for a mouth all the poor inhabitants of the parish, not one child was given to partake of the plenty.  The curse of barrenness was on the family of the lord of the manor, the curse of fruitfulness upon the famished poor. This lord and lady, with an ample fortune, both by inheritance and their sovereign’s favour, had never yet the economy to be exempt from debts; still, over their splendid, their profuse table, they could contrive and plan excellent schemes “how the poor might live most comfortably with a little better management.” The wages of a labouring man, with a wife and half a dozen small children, Lady Bendham thought quite sufficient if they would only learn a little economy. “You know, my lord, those people never want to dress—shoes and stockings, a coat and waistcoat, a gown and a cap, a petticoat and a handkerchief, are all they want—fire, to be sure, in winter—then all the rest is merely for provision.” “I’ll get a pen and ink,” said young Henry, one day, when he had the honour of being at their table, “and see what the rest amounts to.” “No, no accounts,” cried my lord, “no summing up; but if you were to calculate, you must add to the receipts of the poor my gift at Christmas—last year, during the frost, no less than a hundred pounds.” “How benevolent!” exclaimed the dean. “How prudent!” exclaimed Henry. “What do you mean by prudent?” asked Lord Bendham.  “Explain your meaning.” “No, my lord,” replied the dean, “do not ask for an explanation: this youth is wholly unacquainted with our customs, and, though a man in stature, is but a child in intellects.  Henry, have I not often cautioned you—” “Whatever his thoughts are upon the subject,” cried Lord Bendham, “I desire to know them.” “Why, then, my lord,” answered Henry, “I thought it was prudent in you to give a little, lest the poor, driven to despair, should take all.” “And if they had, they would have been hanged.” “Hanging, my lord, our history, or some tradition, says, was formerly adopted as a mild punishment, in place of starving.” “I am sure,” cried Lady Bendham (who seldom spoke directly to the argument before her), “I am sure they ought to think themselves much obliged to us.” “That is the greatest hardship of all,” cried Henry. “What, sir?” exclaimed the earl. “I beg your pardon—my uncle looks displeased—I am very ignorant—I did not receive my first education in this country—and I find I think so differently from every one else, that I am ashamed to utter my sentiments.” “Never mind, young man,” answered Lord Bendham; “we shall excuse your ignorance for once.  Only inform us what it was you just now called the greatest hardship of all.” “It was, my lord, that what the poor receive to keep them from perishing should pass under the name of gifts and bounty.  Health, strength, and the will to earn a moderate subsistence, ought to be every man’s security from obligation.” “I think a hundred pounds a great deal of money,” cried Lady Bendham; “and I hope my lord will never give it again.” “I hope so too,” cried Henry; “for if my lord would only be so good as to speak a few words for the poor as a senator, he might possibly for the future keep his hundred pounds, and yet they never want it.” Lord Bendham had the good nature only to smile at Henry’s simplicity, whispering to himself, “I had rather keep my—” his last word was lost in the whisper. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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