“_There_
Thy uncle--_this_ thy first cousin, and _these_
Are all thy near relations.”
_The Critic._
I had breakfasted by nine the next morning, and after a conversation
with my landlady respecting matters of much too mean a nature to figure
in this fastidious narrative, I filled my pipe, put on my hat, and went
out.
The morning was lovely; I never drew breath with a keener enjoyment
of life; the garden in front of Mrs. Reeves’ house was small, but
plentifully stocked; the wall-flowers made the air delicious, and I
could have very well passed a whole hour standing at the gate smoking
my pipe, and watching the quiet interests with which the long street
was peopled.
Whilst I lingered, debating which way I should go, I beheld a smart
vehicle approaching, and recognised my uncle’s phaeton. He was in it,
and waved his hand to me.
“Up already!” he cried, springing briskly into the road. “Conny has
lost a pair of gloves. She bet me that I should find you in bed.”
“She deserves to lose,” said I, laughing, “for having such a bad
opinion of me.”
“How did you sleep? Did you like your rooms? Is Mrs. Reeves obliging?
Is your bed comfortable?” were some among the many questions my
uncle asked me in his cheery, cordial manner; and hearing that I was
perfectly satisfied and happy, he asked me what I meant to do? I told
him that I was about to take a walk and see the town.
“Come, first, and let me show you the bank. We open at half-past nine.”
I put my pipe in my pocket, and scrambled up into the back seat, and
away we clattered down the High Street, through the ancient gateway,
and round the corner, stopping before a new building over which the
word “Bank” was engraved. My uncle led the way in. The office was clean
and new, and made fearfully business-like by a counter and high stools
and advertisement-charts of insurance offices. A young man stepped from
behind a ground-glass front, and my uncle introduced him to me as Mr.
Curling. I bowed loftily, and fixed a scrutinising eye upon the young
gentleman. He was more cordial, and offered me his hand.
“Glad to know you, Mr. Hargrave,” said he.
“I am much obliged to you,” I replied.
“Yonder is Mr. Spratling,” said my uncle, smiling at the youth who
had turned his head on hearing his name pronounced. I nodded, and Mr.
Spratling stared. My uncle then went round the counter, calling to me
to follow, and going up to a desk behind the ground-glass front, said,
“This will be your place, Charlie,” and watched my face; but I said
nothing, though I _could_ have commented in very forcible terms upon
the immense inconvenience it would be to me--a lounger born--of having
to sit on a high stool all day and write down dry bucolic names and
rows of figures in a huge book called a ledger. My uncle then conducted
me into his private office at the back, and leaning against the table,
asked me, with a rather humorous twinkle in his eye, “How my look-out
struck me?”
“I’ll tell you what,” I answered, seating myself, for it was always
my opinion that you can’t make a greater mistake than to stand when
you can sit; “I’ll tell you what, uncle; you are such a thoroughly
good fellow, with so nice a sense of what is due to a gentleman, that
I believe, after a little, I shall be able to endure this life. But
in any other office than yours, with any other man but you over me, I
could no more submit to have a counter placed between me and society,
than I could submit to cleaning boots.”
He laughed heartily, and clapping me on the shoulder, exclaimed,
“I don’t mean you to be a clerk; all that I want you to do is to learn
the business. I have plans for you, which both you and your father
will like, I believe. But you _must_ learn the business. I don’t mean
you to do any dry or mean work, such as collecting bills. Look over
young Spratling’s shoulder now and then, and observe what he is about.
Pump Mr. Curling--he is good-natured and a smart hand--and get all the
information you can out of him.”
“Oh, I will, with pleasure.”
“You needn’t fear any ill-feeling. They know you are my nephew, and I
have told them that your father has sent you to me to learn business
habits, and to qualify you for becoming--well, I shall have more to say
to you about the future before long. I have a good scheme in my head.”
“You are all kindness,” I answered. “Every moment I am with you makes
me think of Longueville with less regret.”
“All right,” he exclaimed, looking immensely gratified and amiable.
“And now, as I told you last night, I don’t want you to formally
join us until Monday. You are under an engagement to my wife--who, I
can assure you, has fallen in love with you!--to dine with us every
day--that is, if you like; and she takes you under her protection until
Monday morning, when she will consign you to me. She has ordered the
carriage at eleven, and means, I believe, to take you a drive round the
town, and show you what there is to be seen. The phaeton will convey
you to Grove End.”
Here Mr. Spratling came in, and said Mr. Clover wanted an audience.
I took my hat, but before I went out, my uncle called me back to
whisper, “You’ll find a box of cigars in the library,” and dismissed
me with a cheerful push. Mr. Curling bowed as I passed out, and I
returned his salute politely. I felt more at my ease now that my uncle
had told me that these young men were to regard me as a gentleman who
had condescended to join the bank merely for the purpose of acquiring
business habits. I cannot say that I thought Mr. Curling good-looking.
His eyes indeed were not bad; but he didn’t look a manly sort of
fellow. He was narrow and thin-breasted, and had curly black hair,
which I detest. His teeth were good, and his smile so-so, but his dress
was _outré_, ill-fitting, and he wore a ring on the first finger of his
right hand--the hand he wrote with, the finger he pointed with--which
affected me more disagreeably than had he said “You was,” and dropped
his h’s and g’s. It was ridiculous to suppose that golden-haired Conny
could see anything in such a man as that. As to Spratling, he looked
a harmless little fellow; his head and hands were immense, and his
shoulders broad enough for a man of my father’s height; yet he might
have walked under my arm.
I cocked my hat as I strolled past the counter with a slow and indolent
step; and stopped, when on the pavement, full in the sight of Mr.
Curling, to light a cigar, though I should have preferred a pipe. I
then got into the phaeton, and was driven to Grove End.
My aunt received me in the most gracious manner. The first question
she asked me was, if I had breakfasted: and, on my replying in the
affirmative, eagerly questioned me about my lodgings. Was I quite sure
I was comfortable, she wanted to know; because, if I was not, there
was a delightful bed-room, entirely at my service, at the back of the
house, and she would give orders at once for it to be got ready. I hope
I showed her that my gratitude was equal to her kindness. Indeed I was
almost embarrassed by the extraordinary civilities I had met with;
and, though I believe there was not another man in England, at that
time, who had a better opinion of himself than I had, yet I must do
myself the justice to declare that I did not conscientiously believe I
deserved the kindness I received.
Presently the door opened and in came Conny. She gave me her hand,
which I raised to my lips.
“That is a German fashion,” said I, rather dismayed by her extravagant
blush.
“Is it?” she answered, turning her head aside and looking half angry
and half pleased. “I thought it wasn’t English.”
“The French kiss each other on both cheeks, don’t they?” inquired my
aunt with naïve interest.
“The men do, and I also believe it is customary among lovers. But I
fancy that the custom does not prevail amongst the married folks, from
the story that is told of a Frenchman, who, hearing that a friend of
his had kissed his wife, cried ‘_Quoi! sans y etre obligé!_’”
You see, I meant to mingle sarcasm with humour, and to shine as a
wit; but to crack a joke with my aunt was like pulling a cracker at a
supper-table with your partner, who gets only a piece of the paper, and
leaves the sweetmeat and the motto with you.
“Dear me!” said she. “Now I should have thought such a custom would
have been entirely confined to the married people.”
I looked at Conny. How was she dressed? Now you want to puzzle me. Was
it black silk? I believe it was. Whatever the material, it was dark
enough to set off the transporting whiteness of her throat, and to
make the curl that gleamed down her back shine (to use the language
of an imitator of Ossian) like the lustrous wake of a meteor upon the
midnight sky. What pearly teeth! What a surprisingly dainty complexion!
Where did this girl learn to dress her hair? Never did I see hair
so becomingly dressed. Is she to be my heroine? _Nous verrons_; but
I rather fear, if she is to be my heroine, that hair of hers won’t
serve any dramatic exigencies. How _could_ it flow, as all heroines’
gold-coloured hair ought to flow, at an instant’s notice, in a bright
cloud over a pillar of a man’s throat, if it is dressed so well and
firmly? All we dare hope is that we shall meet with no pillars (columns
I think they call them) for Conny’s hair to flow over. But if a column
or a pillar of a throat _will_ interfere, in spite of our earnest
remonstrances, let us at least trust that the hair-pins will do their
duty, and maintain the respectability of passion by holding the pads
and puffs and frizettes in their proper places.
“I hope,” said I, following her to the window, “that my foreign manners
haven’t ruined me in your good opinion?”
“I told you last night that cousins are privileged.”
“They ought to be.”
“Are you going for a drive with us?”
“Yes, if I may.”
“Oh, mamma ordered the carriage expressly for you.”
I turned to mamma, who sat smiling at us, behind our backs, and thanked
her.
“I thought you would like to see the town, Mr. Charles.”
“Pray call me Charlie,” said I, “or your example will give Conny an
excuse to treat me with reserve. You see how familiarly I name her. But
I got her leave to do so.”
“Oh, cousins ought always to be on the very best terms! Aren’t they
made of the same flesh and blood?” said my aunt.
“Of course they are,” I replied.
“Conny,” said her mamma, “will you go and get ready for the drive, so
that you can show Mr. ----, I mean Charlie, over the grounds, while I
put on my things?”
“Yes,” answered Conny, and went out.
My aunt chatted about a variety of commonplaces; and my sense of
self-complacency, which, God knows, was already impertinent enough, was
not a little heightened by the marked deference and laboured urbanity
of her manner to me. Had I been a prince of the blood royal, I don’t
think she could have shown herself more flattered by my conversation,
and more obliged by my condescension. There could be no doubt that
her husband had inspired her with the most extravagant conceptions of
the importance and splendour of his brother, the major. The pride of
relationship, when there is anything to be proud of, is a sentiment,
Eugenio, which springs eternal in all human breasts; it enables wives
to snub their husbands with applause, and husbands to humiliate their
wives with impunity; it gives importance to poverty and dignity to
vulgarity; it embroiders the rags of the beggar, and justifies the
impertinencies of unresisting imbecility. No, Eugenio, I am not
quoting from “Rasselas.” This is all my own thunder.
When Conny came in my aunt left the room.
“Pray forgive me,” said I, “but, really, that is a lovely little hat
you have on.”
“I am glad you like it,” answered my cousin, looking at herself in the
glass.
“All feminine attire is becoming that looks saucy. Don’t you think so?”
“Is this hat saucy?”
“Very. There is a knowing expression about the feather, as though it
has just been pulled out of a peacock’s tail, and the eye hasn’t had
time to stop winking.”
“What an odd idea! but this isn’t a peacock’s feather!”
What! was _she_ going to prove as literal as her mamma? Defend it, ye
Nine!
“And then,” I went on, “there is an audacity about the curve of the
brim, that fills me with irrepressible delight. Let me assure you, dear
cousin, that it is the very hat of all the hats that ever were made,
which you ought to wear.”
“It was my choice,” said she, looking at me as though she were a little
afraid. “But the carriage will soon be ready, and mamma wanted me to
show you over the grounds before we drove out.”
“I would much rather sit here with you,” I replied. “I can look at the
grounds this afternoon.”
“As you please,” said she prettily, seating herself in her mamma’s
chair.
She fronted the window, in consequence the light was full upon her
face, and I was able to see every expression that rose and faded in it.
“Your father introduced me to the bank this morning,” said I, fixing my
eye upon her.
“Yes?”
“I had the honour of making the acquaintance of Mr. Curling.”
I expected to see her wince and change colour. On the contrary, she
remained perfectly impassive. She did not even ask me what I thought
of him, or if I liked him, or anything about him. All she said was,
“I hope you and he will get on together. He seems a very nice sort of
young man.”
Love prompts a thousand absurdities; but never in all my experience of
life could I conceive a girl calling the object of her affection “a
nice young man.” The phrase smote me as the death-knell of Curling’s
hopes, if he had any.
“I don’t very much care about nice young men,” I answered. “I have been
bred in a land of piquant sauces and thickly peppered dishes, and like
things well flavoured. A nice person is a boiled character which you
have to discuss without salt.”
“I know what you mean,” she exclaimed gaily. “Mr. Meek, our doctor
here, is a boiled character, full of what papa calls negative
excellence, which means thorough insipidity.”
I was much gratified to find her capable of appreciating my jokes. It
_did_ seem impossible that such demure, sweet, intelligent eyes as hers
should be the windows of a sluggish, dull nature. I was resolved to try
her a little more on the subject of the cashier.
“Your father gave me to understand that Mr. Curling was good-looking.
How people differ in their tastes? Now I think Mr. Curling anything but
good looking.”
“He is very thin.”
“Very; one thing I noticed, the cockneyfication of his person by a big
ring on his first finger. These fellows ought to go abroad now and
then. ‘Home keeping youths have ever homely wits.’”
“But don’t you know what another poet says?
‘What learn our youth abroad but to refine
The homely vices of their native land?
Give me an honest, home-spun country clown
Of our own growth; his dullness is but plain,
But their’s embroidered; they are sent out fools
But come back fops!’”
“God bless me!” said I uncomfortably; “what a memory you have! Who
wrote that rubbish?”
“I forget. It was a school exercise, and that is how I happen to know
it.”
“I hope you have no more pat quotations at your finger ends.”
“No. What other poetry I know is all sentimental.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “I am very fond of sentimental poetry--Moore’s for
instance.”
“I wonder, with your refined taste, that you could ever tolerate the
notion of settling into a banker’s clerk.”
Was she ironical? Was she sarcastic? Her eyes were all innocence; her
face all candour.
“It is not the choice of my will, but of my poverty. Nature made me a
gentleman, but forgot to endow me. Therefore there is nothing for me to
do, but to forget her good intentions and learn book-keeping.”
Here she looked at the clock, and as she did so her mamma came rustling
and swelling in, decked out in a fine bonnet, new gloves, and a stiff
blue silk gown.
“Haven’t you been to see the grounds, Charlie?” she asked.
“I have been very well entertained,” I replied with a smile at Conny.
“There’s the carriage!” exclaimed my cousin, and a barouche with two
horses, driven by my friend James in silver livery, swept along the
avenue and stopped at the door.
“We have lost our footman,” said my aunt, apologetically, as we passed
out, “but I hope to replace him next week.” I begged her not to
mention it; we got in, and off we went.
I faced Conny, and was thus able to alternate luxuriously between
the beauties of nature and the beauties of human nature. When we
reached Updown, James was requested to drive slowly, in order that I
might “view” the town. It turned out that my aunt was a native of the
place, and knew a good deal of its history, social and otherwise. The
carriage was stopped at the huge gateway at the bottom of the High
Street, that I might decipher the inscription, and admire the carvings.
Unfortunately the inscription was in Latin, with v’s for u’s. I did
not understand it, but as I had always been given to believe that a
knowledge of the dead tongues was esteemed a very essential ingredient
in the composition of a gentleman’s character, I looked wise, and
talked much nonsense about the unintelligibility of mediæval Latin.
“They say,” observed my aunt, “that this gate was built by the Romans.”
“Oh, that must be a mistake,” I answered, “for don’t you see the date
MDCLI?” which was the only part of the inscription I could read.
“The writing says that the gateway was restored in that year,” said
Conny, quietly.
“What! do you understand Latin?” I asked.
“No. Mr. Curling told me.”
My aunt tossed her head, and exclaimed, “I am sure Mr. Curling can’t
read Latin.”
“Indeed he can!” returned Conny, looking for an instant with her deep,
deep eyes, at her mamma, and then letting them drop with a little smile.
“James, drive on!” cried Mrs. Hargrave.
Had Mr. Curling’s head been under our wheels, I believe at that moment
I should have sat through the jump of the carriage unmoved. Was my
aunt’s suspicion right? did Conny care about that lean young man at
the bank? Suppose he _could_ read Latin--what then? I daresay he
had bragged of this solitary achievement to my cousin, and she had
mentioned it first to pique her mother.
I looked at her, and then at my aunt, and then pretended to fall into
a rapture over an old gable-peaked house with latticed windows, and a
porch surmounted by an effigy of Time. The town abounded in venerable
structures of this kind; but the builders were busy in the suburbs, and
the country outside was dotted with little stucco residences, squares
of plaster, coloured like gingerbread--advertised as charming homes for
newly-married couples--poor wretches! My relations received several
bows during our progress through the streets, and--I say this without
vanity--I was a good deal stared at. I know nothing more ludicrous than
bucolic curiosity. I was incessantly laughing to see some old man or
woman turn slowly to look after us, as if our carriage were a magnet,
and their noses were steel, and gaze until we were out of sight.
“How do the people amuse themselves all day long?” I asked.
Conny had no idea.
“Are any balls or dinner-parties ever given?”
“No,” answered my aunt, emphatically. “Society here is very mean and
close. The only parties that are given are by new-comers. But they soon
find out that it is a one-sided amusement, and drop it. A call is all
the return people think of making.”
“At Longueville,” said I, “we are dancing all the year round. What with
_fêtes champêtres_, and balls at _l’Institution de Bienfaisance_, and
private parties, one never has an evening to one’s self.”
This was stretching a small truth into colossal dimensions; but as
Dr. Primrose says, “I was never much displeased with those harmless
delusions that tend to make us more happy.” And it certainly made me
happy to increase my importance in my aunt’s and Conny’s eyes.
We got out of the town into the country, and I was not sorry for the
change. My aunt had so much to say about Updown, that I got bored with
her recollections before we reached the top of High Street. Now carrots
and corn-fields have no social and historical associations; and when we
got among the trees, her memory slackened, and enabled me to talk with
Conny.
Considering I had met her for the first time in my life only on the
afternoon of the previous day, I don’t know what right I had to possess
an intense longing to ask her if she was in love with Mr. Curling. Her
sentiments ought to have been nothing to me. But they were. Indeed, I
discovered at this very early stage, that I took a profound interest
in them. I noticed one thing; my aunt seemed thoroughly well pleased
with the attention I paid her daughter, and with the unaffected
admiration that overspread my face when I looked at her. My conceit
made it a mere matter-of-course, that both Mr. and Mrs. Hargrave would
be transported with joy, and rendered giddy with emotions of pride,
were I to give them to understand that Conny was agreeable to me, and
that I would not mind marrying her. But I was not so sure that Conny
herself would share in their delirium. She rather puzzled me. Sometimes
I thought her shy and simple. Sometimes she confounded me with a sudden
sally--a smart retort--a pat allusion, apt, shrewd and well-timed
enough to reverse my judgment, and set me speculating on her real
character. If she meant me to fall in love with her, she was going
the right way to work. Pique your man, Clorinda, before you angle for
him. The cleverest fishers among you always summon the sentiments with
ground-bait before they throw the hook in.