A Lady of England: The Life and Letters of Charlotte Maria Tucker. Agnes Giberne
Not the Prince! Then he is concealed in the house! I see all; follow me, Guards … [Sophy throws herself at his feet; Horatia and Barbara rush to the door.]
Horatia. You shall pass over my corpse! I am desperate! [The door suddenly opens. Enter Charles guarded by O’Shannon and the Corporal.]
All the Young Ladies. The Prince! horrors! the Prince!
Daresby. My chum, Charles Stumply!
Charles. My Father!
Col. Ah, Scapegrace! dare you present yourself before me? Under what false and shameful pretences have you entered this house?
O’Shan. Charles Stumply! hang the fellow, he’s only a man after all.
Daresby. I cannot contain my surprise.
Mrs. Jud. The ungrateful vagabond! he has stolen my best gown and hood.
Horatia. I shall sink to the cellar.
Sophia. O Daresby, how comical!
Col. Speak, you scamp! What has induced you to dress yourself like—a—speak! nor add a falsehood to your other faults and follies.
Charles. My dear Father, I have used no deception except that of changing my name. I am the deceived, not the deceiver. No one present is as much surprised at seeing me, as I myself am at finding myself thus. These fair Ladies kindly and willingly took me in, and I see that, quite unwittingly, I have taken them in also! I own that I merit your displeasure, but I will do so no longer. I have received a lesson which I will not soon forget. I will no longer run counter to your wishes, but return to the counter for which you destined me. I have long devoted myself to a-muse, but now I will learn to obey. I own that I too fondly sought the giddy cheer of an applauding audience. Romance and her knights had taken possession of my fancy, but I have found the nights too cold, and the cheer too indifferent. I return with humble regret to my loving Sire, and if he will receive me a-gain, he may perhaps be able to make a-gain of me yet!
Col. Ah, you Rogue, you little merit that I should look at you again. The Pretender, indeed! so farewell to my dreams of fortune! I always thought it too good to be true. Ladies, I have to beg a thousand pardons for my rudeness in breaking in. …
Charles. I must bear that blame, my Father. Had I not broken out, you would not have broken in.
Horatia. Deceiving Wretch! could I for a moment. …
Charles. No anger, fair Miss Ratty, we had enough of this indignation at the brink of the vault, when you were near falling out with me because I would not fall in with your ideas, and fall into the vault.
Daresby. Ah, Sophy, how you treated me!
Sophia. I thought it my duty, dearest.
Daresby. I can pardon you anything; but that deceiving Ratty, whose word I can never again believe. …
Charles. No more of that, Daresby. The farce is ended, the mists of mistake are clearing up, the reign of Folly must fall, let not Anger survive its cause!
Now that we have ended all this War of Words,
And fall to drawing corks instead of swords,
Now the Pretender may his Captors mock,
And view with glee a match without the lock,
Let each resentful thought and feeling cease,
And General Harmony conclude the Piece!
CHAPTER V
A.D. 1847–1849
HOME LIFE
In 1847 a new interest entered the life of Charlotte Tucker. The three little ones of her brother Robert and his wife—Louis, Charley, and Letitia—came to live at No. 3, and were made her especial charge. All of them, but particularly the pretty little dark-eyed Letitia, then only two years old, were thenceforward as her own; first in her thoughts, and among the first in her love. She taught them, trained them, devoted herself to them; and their names will often be found in her letters. The death of Letitia, nearly twenty years later, was one of the heaviest sorrows she ever had to endure. One is disposed to think that the care and responsibility of three little ones, undertaken in the midst of a full and busy family life, and in addition to all the duties of that life, could have been no sinecure, and must have been fraught with many a difficulty.
The Tuckers were much in society, as may indeed have been already gathered. Mr. Tucker was a man greatly sought after, alike on account of his position and influence, and because of his personal attractiveness. Open house was kept; and the large circle of friends and acquaintances never failed to find a welcome. So many indeed would drop in and out, that three lunches in succession were occasionally known to take place at No. 3; and so frequent were the ‘parties’ to which the family was invited, that sometimes they would appear at three different houses in the course of one evening. ‘Party’ in those days was a wide term, embracing divers kinds of entertainment, from a simple musical gathering to a large ball.
Dinner-parties also were numerous. In reference to these, Charlotte Tucker wrote rather drolly to her sister late in life, speaking of—‘those formal affairs, which you and I remember in our earlier days. We must ask So-and-so; and how shall we find gentlemen to counterbalance Mrs. and Miss out of one house? Slow concerns those great dinner-parties were; a kind of social duty, which cost much trouble and expense, and gave not much pleasure. A kind of very stiff jelly, with not many strawberries in it.’
An amusing story is told about these large dinners. In those days the custom of ‘drinking healths’ had gained sway to an absurd and objectionable extent; gentlemen being expected to respond to every toast, and not only to sip their wine, but very often to empty their glasses, under pain of giving serious offence. Mr. Tucker always had by his side a decanter of toast and water, from which his glass was filled for the various toasts; and probably those not in the secret counted him a marvellously hard-headed man. One day a guest requested leave to taste this especial wine, which was kept for the host alone, supposing it to be of some very rare and choice vintage. His request was immediately complied with; and the face of the bon-vivant may be imagined when he discovered himself to be drinking toast-and-water.
No doubt these dinners were a ‘social duty’; and no doubt some of them may have been extremely dull. Yet it must not be supposed that Charlotte did not thoroughly enjoy London society, and did not fully appreciate intercourse with polished and intellectual minds. That which in her old age would have been a mere weariness to her, was no weariness in youth and early middle age. One of her brothers remarks: ‘She was very sociable, lively, and threw her whole heart into the kindly entertaining of guests of all ages.’ Such powers of entertaining as she possessed could not but have gone with enjoyment in the use of those powers.
Moreover, the study of different characters, the drawing out of other people’s thoughts, the gaining of new ideas for herself, must have had some fascination. And, despite all her kindness, all her readiness to see the best in everybody, she could not, with her keen sense of humour, have failed to be a good deal amused with the various foibles and absurdities which certain people are wont to display, even in the best society, and when upon their most circumspect behaviour.
Ever merry, and ever making others merry, she could, as one friend says, ‘keep a whole tableful laughing and talking,’ without difficulty. In fact, whatever the dinner-parties may have seemed to herself, her own presence, her bright smile and sparkling conversation, effectually prevented sensations of dulness on the part of others who were there.
Whether Charlotte ever had what, in the language of fifty or sixty years ago, was delicately termed a ‘preference’ for anybody, cannot be known. Her hand was at least once sought in marriage, while she was still a girl; and some signs seem to have been visible that she was disposed to ‘like’ the gentleman in