“His disposition is bright, and mine is dark,” he continued; “Harry is cheerful, and I am otherwise, perhaps. He knows how to make himself beloved by every one, and it has been my lot to find but few friends.”
“My sister and you have pretty little quarrels. There were such in old days in our family,” the Baroness said; “and if Madam Esmond takes after our mother——”
“My mother has always described hers as an angel upon earth,” interposed George.
“Eh! That is a common character for people when they are dead!” cried the Baroness; “and Rachel Castlewood was an angel, if you like—at least your grandfather thought so. But let me tell you, sir, that angels are sometimes not very commodes a vivre. It may be they are too good to live with us sinners, and the air down below here don't agree with them. My poor mother was so perfect that she never could forgive me for being otherwise. Ah, mon Dieu! how she used to oppress me with those angelical airs!”
George cast down his eyes, and thought of his own melancholy youth. He did not care to submit more of his family secrets to the cynical inquisition of this old worldling, who seemed, however, to understand him in spite of his reticence.
“I quite comprehend you, sir, though you hold your tongue,” the Baroness continued. “A sermon in the morning: a sermon at night: and two or three of a Sunday. That is what people call being good. Every pleasure cried fie upon; all us worldly people excommunicated; a ball an abomination of desolation; a play a forbidden pastime; and a game of cards perdition! What a life! Mon Dieu, what a life!”
“We played at cards every night, if we were so inclined,” said George, smiling; “and my grandfather loved Shakspeare so much, that my mother had not a word to say against her father's favourite author.”
“I remember. He could say whole pages by heart; though, for my part, I like Mr. Congreve a great deal better. And then, there was that dreadful, dreary Milton, whom he and Mr. Addison pretended to admire!” cried the old lady, tapping her fan.
“If your ladyship does not like Shakspeare, you will not quarrel with my mother for being indifferent to him, too,” said George. “And indeed I think, and I am sure, that you don't do her justice. Wherever there are any poor she relieves them; wherever there are any sick she——”
“She doses them with her horrible purges and boluses!” cried the Baroness. “Of course, just as my mother did!”