All the world knows that Lord Steyne's town palace stands in GauntSquare, out of which Great Gaunt Street leads, whither we firstconducted Rebecca, in the time of the departed Sir Pitt Crawley.Peering over the railings and through the black trees into the gardenof the Square, you see a few miserable governesses with wan-facedpupils wandering round and round it, and round the dreary grass-plot inthe centre of which rises the statue of Lord Gaunt, who fought atMinden, in a three-tailed wig, and otherwise habited like a RomanEmperor. Gaunt House occupies nearly a side of the Square. Theremaining three sides are composed of mansions that have passed awayinto dowagerism--tall, dark houses, with window-frames of stone, orpicked out of a lighter red. Little light seems to be behind thoselean, comfortless casements now, and hospitality to have passed awayfrom those doors as much as the laced lacqueys and link-boys of oldtimes, who used to put out their torches in the blank ironextinguishers that still flank the lamps over the steps. Brass plateshave penetrated into the square--Doctors, the Diddlesex Bank WesternBranch--the English and European Reunion, &c.--it has a drearylook--nor is my Lord Steyne's palace less dreary. All I have ever seenof it is the vast wall in front, with the rustic columns at the greatgate, through which an old porter peers sometimes with a fat and gloomyred face--and over the wall the garret and bedroom windows, and thechimneys, out of which there seldom comes any smoke now. For thepresent Lord Steyne lives at Naples, preferring the view of the Bay andCapri and Vesuvius to the dreary aspect of the wall in Gaunt Square.

A few score yards down New Gaunt Street, and leading into Gaunt Mewsindeed, is a little modest back door, which you would not remark fromthat of any of the other stables. But many a little close carriage hasstopped at that door, as my informant (little Tom Eaves, who knowseverything, and who showed me the place) told me. "The Prince andPerdita 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 tothe famous petits appartements of Lord Steyne--one, sir, fitted up allin ivory and white satin, another in ebony and black velvet; there is alittle banqueting-room taken from Sallust's house at Pompeii, andpainted by Cosway--a little private kitchen, in which every saucepanwas silver and all the spits were gold. It was there that EgaliteOrleans roasted partridges on the night when he and the Marquis ofSteyne won a hundred thousand from a great personage at ombre. Half ofthe money went to the French Revolution, half to purchase Lord Gaunt'sMarquisate and Garter--and the remainder--" but it forms no part of ourscheme to tell what became of the remainder, for every shilling ofwhich, and a great deal more, little Tom Eaves, who knows everybody'saffairs, is ready to account.

Besides his town palace, the Marquis had castles and palaces in variousquarters of the three kingdoms, whereof the descriptions may be foundin the road-books--Castle Strongbow, with its woods, on the Shannonshore; Gaunt Castle, in Carmarthenshire, where Richard II was takenprisoner--Gauntly Hall in Yorkshire, where I have been informed therewere two hundred silver teapots for the breakfasts of the guests of thehouse, with everything to correspond in splendour; and Stillbrook inHampshire, which was my lord's farm, an humble place of residence, ofwhich we all remember the wonderful furniture which was sold at mylord's demise by a late celebrated auctioneer.

The Marchioness of Steyne was of the renowned and ancient family of theCaerlyons, Marquises of Camelot, who have preserved the old faith eversince the conversion of the venerable Druid, their first ancestor, andwhose pedigree goes far beyond the date of the arrival of King Brute inthese islands. Pendragon is the title of the eldest son of the house.The sons have been called Arthurs, Uthers, and Caradocs, fromimmemorial time. Their heads have fallen in many a loyal conspiracy.Elizabeth chopped off the head of the Arthur of her day, who had beenChamberlain to Philip and Mary, and carried letters between the Queenof Scots and her uncles the Guises. A cadet of the house was anofficer of the great Duke and distinguished in the famous SaintBartholomew conspiracy. During the whole of Mary's confinement, thehouse of Camelot conspired in her behalf. It was as much injured by itscharges in fitting out an armament against the Spaniards, during thetime of the Armada, as by the fines and confiscations levied on it byElizabeth for harbouring of priests, obstinate recusancy, and popishmisdoings. A recreant of James's time was momentarily perverted fromhis religion by the arguments of that great theologian, and thefortunes of the family somewhat restored by his timely weakness. Butthe Earl of Camelot, of the reign of Charles, returned to the old creedof his family, and they continued to fight for it, and ruin themselvesfor it, as long as there was a Stuart left to head or to instigate arebellion.

Lady Mary Caerlyon was brought up at a Parisian convent; the DauphinessMarie Antoinette was her godmother. In the pride of her beauty she hadbeen married--sold, it was said--to Lord Gaunt, then at Paris, who wonvast sums from the lady's brother at some of Philip of Orleans'sbanquets. The Earl of Gaunt's famous duel with the Count de la Marche,of the Grey Musqueteers, was attributed by common report to thepretensions of that officer (who had been a page, and remained afavourite of the Queen) to the hand of the beautiful Lady MaryCaerlyon. She was married to Lord Gaunt while the Count lay ill of hiswound, and came to dwell at Gaunt House, and to figure for a short timein the splendid Court of the Prince of Wales. Fox had toasted her.Morris and Sheridan had written songs about her. Malmesbury had madeher his best bow; Walpole had pronounced her charming; Devonshire hadbeen almost jealous of her; but she was scared by the wild pleasuresand gaieties of the society into which she was flung, and after she hadborne a couple of sons, shrank away into a life of devout seclusion.No wonder that my Lord Steyne, who liked pleasure and cheerfulness, wasnot 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, exceptthat he knew all the great folks in London, and the stories andmysteries of each family) had further information regarding my LadySteyne, which may or may not be true. "The humiliations," Tom used tosay, "which that woman has been made to undergo, in her own house, havebeen frightful; Lord Steyne has made her sit down to table with womenwith whom I would rather die than allow Mrs. Eaves to associate--withLady Crackenbury, with Mrs. Chippenham, with Madame de la Cruchecassee,the French secretary's wife (from every one of which ladies TomEaves--who would have sacrificed his wife for knowing them--was tooglad 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 asthe Bourbons, and to whom the Steynes are but lackeys, mushrooms ofyesterday (for after all, they are not of the Old Gaunts, but of aminor and doubtful branch of the house); do you suppose, I say (thereader must bear in mind that it is always Tom Eaves who speaks) thatthe Marchioness of Steyne, the haughtiest woman in England, would benddown to her husband so submissively if there were not some cause? Pooh!I tell you there are secret reasons. I tell you that, in theemigration, the Abbe de la Marche who was here and was employed in theQuiberoon business with Puisaye and Tinteniac, was the same Colonel ofMousquetaires Gris with whom Steyne fought in the year '86--that he andthe Marchioness met again--that it was after the Reverend Colonel wasshot in Brittany that Lady Steyne took to those extreme practices ofdevotion which she carries on now; for she is closeted with herdirector 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--anddepend on it, there's a mystery in her case. People are not so unhappyunless they have something to repent of," added Tom Eaves with aknowing wag of his head; "and depend on it, that woman would not be sosubmissive as she is if the Marquis had not some sword to hold overher."

So, if Mr. Eaves's information be correct, it is very likely that thislady, in her high station, had to submit to many a private indignityand to hide many secret griefs under a calm face. And let us, mybrethren who have not our names in the Red Book, console ourselves bythinking comfortably how miserable our betters may be, and thatDamocles, who sits on satin cushions and is served on gold plate, hasan awful sword hanging over his head in the shape of a bailiff, or anhereditary disease, or a family secret, which peeps out every now andthen from the embroidered arras in a ghastly manner, and will be sureto 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 forthe former. You who have little or no patrimony to bequeath or toinherit, may be on good terms with your father or your son, whereas theheir of a great prince, such as my Lord Steyne, must naturally be angryat being kept out of his kingdom, and eye the occupant of it with novery agreeable glances. "Take it as a rule," this sardonic old Laveswould say, "the fathers and elder sons of all great families hate eachother. The Crown Prince is always in opposition to the crown orhankering after it. Shakespeare knew the world, my good sir, and whenhe describes Prince Hal (from whose family the Gaunts pretend to bedescended, though they are no more related to John of Gaunt than youare) trying on his father's coronet, he gives you a natural descriptionof all heirs apparent. If you were heir to a dukedom and a thousandpounds a day, do you mean to say you would not wish for possession?Pooh! And it stands to reason that every great man, having experiencedthis feeling towards his father, must be aware that his son entertainsit towards himself; and so they can't but be suspicious and hostile.

"Then again, as to the feeling of elder towards younger sons. My dearsir, you ought to know that every elder brother looks upon the cadetsof the house as his natural enemies, who deprive him of so much readymoney which ought to be his by right. I have often heard George MacTurk, Lord Bajazet's eldest son, say that if he had his will when hecame to the title, he would do what the sultans do, and clear theestate by chopping off all his younger brothers' heads at once; and sothe case is, more or less, with them all. I tell you they are allTurks 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 heknew the world too--in the Tomeavesian way, that is. And having laidout every shilling of his fortune on an annuity, Tom could afford tobear no malice to his nephews and nieces, and to have no other feelingwith regard to his betters but a constant and generous desire to dinewith them.

Between the Marchioness and the natural and tender regard of mother forchildren, there was that cruel barrier placed of difference of faith.The very love which she might feel for her sons only served to renderthe timid and pious lady more fearful and unhappy. The gulf whichseparated them was fatal and impassable. She could not stretch herweak arms across it, or draw her children over to that side away fromwhich her belief told her there was no safety. During the youth of hissons, Lord Steyne, who was a good scholar and amateur casuist, had nobetter sport in the evening after dinner in the country than in settingthe boys' tutor, the Reverend Mr. Trail (now my Lord Bishop of Ealing)on her ladyship's director, Father Mole, over their wine, and inpitting Oxford against St. Acheul. He cried "Bravo, Latimer! Wellsaid, Loyola!" alternately; he promised Mole a bishopric if he wouldcome over, and vowed he would use all his influence to get Trail acardinal's hat if he would secede. Neither divine allowed himself tobe conquered, and though the fond mother hoped that her youngest andfavourite son would be reconciled to her church--his mother church--asad and awful disappointment awaited the devout lady--a disappointmentwhich 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 ofBareacres, before mentioned in this veracious history. A wing of GauntHouse was assigned to this couple; for the head of the family chose togovern it, and while he reigned to reign supreme; his son and heir,however, living little at home, disagreeing with his wife, andborrowing upon post-obits such moneys as he required beyond the verymoderate sums which his father was disposed to allow him. The Marquisknew every shilling of his son's debts. At his lamented demise, he wasfound himself to be possessor of many of his heir's bonds, purchasedfor their benefit, and devised by his Lordship to the children of hisyounger son.

As, to my Lord Gaunt's dismay, and the chuckling delight of his naturalenemy and father, the Lady Gaunt had no children--the Lord George Gauntwas desired to return from Vienna, where he was engaged in waltzing anddiplomacy, and to contract a matrimonial alliance with the HonourableJoan, only daughter of John Johnes, First Baron Helvellyn, and head ofthe firm of Jones, Brown, and Robinson, of Threadneedle Street,Bankers; from which union sprang several sons and daughters, whosedoings do not appertain to this story.

The marriage at first was a happy and prosperous one. My Lord GeorgeGaunt could not only read, but write pretty correctly. He spoke Frenchwith considerable fluency; and was one of the finest waltzers inEurope. With these talents, and his interest at home, there was littledoubt that his lordship would rise to the highest dignities in hisprofession. The lady, his wife, felt that courts were her sphere, andher wealth enabled her to receive splendidly in those continental townswhither her husband's diplomatic duties led him. There was talk ofappointing him minister, and bets were laid at the Travellers' that hewould be ambassador ere long, when of a sudden, rumours arrived of thesecretary's extraordinary behaviour. At a grand diplomatic dinner givenby his chief, he had started up and declared that a pate de foie graswas poisoned. He went to a ball at the hotel of the Bavarian envoy,the Count de Springbock-Hohenlaufen, with his head shaved and dressedas a Capuchin friar. It was not a masked ball, as some folks wanted topersuade you. It was something queer, people whispered. Hisgrandfather was so. It was in the family.

His wife and family returned to this country and took up their abode atGaunt House. Lord George gave up his post on the European continent,and was gazetted to Brazil. But people knew better; he never returnedfrom that Brazil expedition--never died there--never lived there--neverwas 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, andGeorge Gaunt is accredited to a keeper, who has invested him with theorder of the Strait-Waistcoat." These are the kinds of epitaphs whichmen pass over one another in Vanity Fair.

Twice or thrice in a week, in the earliest morning, the poor motherwent 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 shefound the brilliant dandy diplomatist of the Congress of Viennadragging 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 hiswine-and-water was not strong enough.

It was the mysterious taint of the blood; the poor mother had broughtit from her own ancient race. The evil had broken out once or twice inthe father's family, long before Lady Steyne's sins had begun, or herfasts and tears and penances had been offered in their expiation. Thepride of the race was struck down as the first-born of Pharaoh. Thedark mark of fate and doom was on the threshold--the tall oldthreshold surmounted by coronets and caned heraldry.

The absent lord's children meanwhile prattled and grew on quiteunconscious that the doom was over them too. First they talked oftheir father and devised plans against his return. Then the name ofthe living dead man was less frequently in their mouth--then notmentioned at all. But the stricken old grandmother trembled to thinkthat these too were the inheritors of their father's shame as well asof his honours, and watched sickening for the day when the awfulancestral curse should come down on them.

This dark presentiment also haunted Lord Steyne. He tried to lay thehorrid bedside ghost in Red Seas of wine and jollity, and lost sight ofit sometimes in the crowd and rout of his pleasures. But it alwayscame back to him when alone, and seemed to grow more threatening withyears. "I have taken your son," it said, "why not you? I may shut youup in a prison some day like your son George. I may tap you on thehead to-morrow, and away go pleasure and honours, feasts and beauty,friends, flatterers, French cooks, fine horses and houses--in exchangefor a prison, a keeper, and a straw mattress like George Gaunt's." Andthen my lord would defy the ghost which threatened him, for he knew ofa 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 coronetsand ciphers. The feasts there were of the grandest in London, butthere was not overmuch content therewith, except among the guests whosat at my lord's table. Had he not been so great a Prince very fewpossibly would have visited him; but in Vanity Fair the sins of verygreat personages are looked at indulgently. "Nous regardons a deuxfois" (as the French lady said) before we condemn a person of my lord'sundoubted quality. Some notorious carpers and squeamish moralistsmight be sulky with Lord Steyne, but they were glad enough to come whenhe asked them.

"Lord Steyne is really too bad," Lady Slingstone said, "but everybodygoes, and of course I shall see that my girls come to no harm." "Hislordship is a man to whom I owe much, everything in life," said theRight Reverend Doctor Trail, thinking that the Archbishop was rathershaky, and Mrs. Trail and the young ladies would as soon have missedgoing to church as to one of his lordship's parties. "His morals arebad," said little Lord Southdown to his sister, who meeklyexpostulated, having heard terrific legends from her mamma with respectto the doings at Gaunt House; "but hang it, he's got the best drySillery in Europe!" And as for Sir Pitt Crawley, Bart.--Sir Pitt thatpattern of decorum, Sir Pitt who had led off at missionary meetings--henever for one moment thought of not going too. "Where you see suchpersons as the Bishop of Ealing and the Countess of Slingstone, you maybe 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 tocommand people in our station in life. The Lord Lieutenant of aCounty, my dear, is a respectable man. Besides, George Gaunt and Iwere intimate in early life; he was my junior when we were attaches atPumpernickel together."

In a word everybody went to wait upon this great man--everybody who wasasked, as you the reader (do not say nay) or I the writer hereof wouldgo if we had an invitation.