JACK BRAG.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
JACK BRAG.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“SAYINGS AND DOINGS,”--“MAXWELL,” &c.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1837.
JACK BRAG.
CHAPTER I.
When Jack rose from his bed--in which, thanks to the mumbo-jum of Sir
Stumpy Dubs, he had slept soundly--his “head ached consumedly,” as
Farquhar says, and not only his head but his limbs; for the potent
potion which had been administered to him during the evening by his
patrician friend, produced in all the joints of the patient that sense
of dislocation, of which the reader has previously been apprised, a
recovery from which was generally the work of two or three days.
Jack looked out of the window of his room: the sun shone bright in
a cloudless sky, and the sea sparkled and glittered in the breeze.
Its surface was dotted with small boats hovering near the shore, on
the horizon, larger vessels were gliding up channel, laden with the
produce of other climes. Around him the flowers of the hotel’s small
garden threw their fragrance, and the birds made the air ring with
their melody; but Jack gazed and saw not, listened, and heard not. The
events of the preceding afternoon and night were all that he could
think of;--the marriage of his mother--the exposure of himself--the
subsequent loss of his money--He went to the table upon which he had
left his pocket-book, counted the remaining notes which it contained,
in order to satisfy himself, most unsatisfactorily, that the defeat he
had sustained was real, and not
“The baseless fabric of a vision.”
The evidence was too clear to leave a doubt upon his mind; Jack,
however, still consoled himself for the loss, by setting it down as a
compromise with the colonel for the maintenance of secrecy with regard
to the domestic disclosures to which he had been made a party.
Jack indeed had a confused recollection of having enjoined the colonel
to the observance of this negative kind of obligation; but none of
the circumstances of the past night were very clearly defined in
his memory, which had occurred after their return from the library;
the general impression upon his mind was, that _écarté_ was a very
different game from what it had appeared to be to him when he had
last played at it; and there did rest a very powerful conviction in
what might be called his memory, that the colonel certainly had had
prodigious luck in regard to turning up kings, or holding them, which,
except at certain points of the game, everybody knows, is much the same
thing: never mind, thought Jack, he cannot in justice to himself admit
that he continued to associate and play cards with me till two in the
morning if the disclosures which he had heard before ten were in any
way derogatory to my character; so, said Jack, rubbing up his hair,
“it’s as broad as it’s long,--six one way, and half-a-dozen the other;
so there’s no mistake.”
But then, putting it thus, as regarded the past, to what had Jack
to look forward for the future,--the “immediate future,” if that
expression may be permitted. _There_ he _was_ still; domesticated in
the house with his detestable father-in-law, whose odious and most
unsuitable attentions to his mother seemed likely to fix him as her
inseparable companion during their stay. Jack, was most anxious for
some “family” conversation, when there were no indifferent auditors of
the party. Then came the embarrassment over his mind as to where the
people of the house would lay breakfast,--and for how many; whether, in
consequence of the unlooked-for association of the previous evening,
they would establish a sort of joint-stock tea-and-coffee-company,
including the colonel and himself amongst the share-holders, and spread
out a table for them all, or find a separate room for Mr. and Mrs.
Salmon.
Then how was he to act with regard to the rest of the day? His mother
had made a great exertion, for _her_, to run down and see him; and
although “before company,” her disclosures of private matters was
in the highest degree disagreeable, he could not leave her; indeed,
self-interest contributed to induce his stay where he was, until he had
ascertained from herself how she considered him to stand with regard
to the business, which Jack began to remember, somewhat, as it should
seem too late, was left by his father entirely at _her_ command, and
under her control, in consideration of his having paid large sums for
his favourite son during his life-time, and having left him extremely
well off at his death; and these considerations were floating in his
mind, and his brain, which being very much damaged by the last night’s
revelry, were scarcely competent to their arrangement.
It was while he was pondering these, to him, important matters, that he
rang his bell to summon the chambermaid, in order to repeat, as usual,
his enquiries after his servant and phaeton, &c. &c. “No Monsieur
Tonson lived there.”--None of his suite had arrived, and his clothes
were again consigned to the rubbing of the lout who officiated in the
capacity of “boots.”
When this essential officer returned with Jack’s “things,” he enquired
of _him_, as being the first authority, if not in rank, at least in
priority of appearance, whether colonel Stiffkey was up, and received
an answer that sounded sweeter to his ears than the music of the
spheres. The colonel had been up and gone two hours at least--he had
ordered horses to his britzska, and had proceeded to Hastings.
“For this relief much thanks,” breathed Jack, not in these words, for
he perhaps, had never heard them, but in his own pet phrase which
I have before noticed, “What an appy release.” It was, indeed, the
removal of a mountain’s weight of care and anxiety from his mind;
and he was even the more pleased with it, as it seemed to him a sort
of attention on the part of his aristocratic friend, that he should
leave the only disengaged sitting-room in the hotel for the special
occupation of _his_ family. Whatever the combination of feelings by
which he was actuated might have been, he certainly felt a great deal
more at his ease than he was when he rose.
While he was dressing, Jack, who though perfectly qualified to ride
a winning horse, and although brisk and lively while things went
smoothly, was, when a reverse of fortune came, for a short time, and
until a fresh change for the better arrived, “right down, and no
mistake,”--was, as he would have said, “regularly floored.” It was true
the colonel had relieved him from the embarrassment of his society; but
it was also true that his mother had formed a connexion which was _not_
to be gotten rid of; a connexion which, besides its unsuitableness and
the degradation it entailed upon _her_, and necessarily upon _him_,
might, and perhaps would, most seriously interfere with his ulterior
financial arrangements. If, as it was but too clearly the case, the
young shopman had married his old mistress for the sake of what he
could get, there could be little or no doubt that he had contrived to
secure to himself the power over the premises, stock, and good-will
of the business, which his father had exclusively bequeathed to _her_
without either bar or limitation.
The question then with Jack during the operation of shaving, was,
whether to ride the high horse, treat Mr. Salmon _de haut en bas_, and
talk largely and loudly to his mother, or to do what many greater men
than _he_, have done upon similar occasions, make the best of a bad
bargain, and conciliate all parties by endeavouring to “put up” his
youthful father-in-law, instead of running him down, and so obtain by
fair means and honeyed words, that which, he apprehended, he might not
so certainly secure by violence or bluster.
It was quite clear from his mother’s manner, that she was determined
not only to stand up “for her dear J. S.” but to justify the course of
proceeding she herself had adopted; for long before Jack had retired
in disgust, in the evening, the old gentlewoman’s conversation had
assumed a very equivocal tone and character--it professed to be
extremely good-natured, and even playful, but Jack’s long-felt neglect,
and the events of the bridge lay smouldering in her mind ready to blaze
up on the first breeze that might spring up in the family. Jack was
alive to all this, and so, after a debate with himself of some half
hour, he determined upon doing the amiable, apologizing for the warmth
of the anger he had expressed at Salmon’s impudent imitation of him,
and of adopting a system of conciliation, which, however unsuccessful
in the great world of politics, might prove excellent policy in a
tallow-chandler’s shop.
Jack, having dressed himself, dressed his face in smiles, and, resolved
to be gay and think no more of his defeats, or indeed of any of the
numerous unpleasant incidents of the last few days, skipped down stairs
to the sitting-room, where he found breakfast all prepared.
On the table lay a note, addressed “----Brag, Esq.” the writing was
unknown to him, but without long poring over it, in order to ascertain
the author,--which by opening it at once, he was certain to know--he
broke the seal and read.
“DEAR SIR,
“I passed so bad a night, and suffered so much from head-ache in
the morning, that I resolved upon trying what a drive to Hastings
would do for me. I have therefore to offer my apologies for not
making one of your party at breakfast. I shall return to the hotel to
dinner, and bring with me my friend Gunnersbury, whom, as you know, I
expected here, and hope to catch him on the road to Hastings. Yours,
faithfully,
“HERBERT STIFFKEY.”
“There goes again,” said Jack, “civil note enough, and, as I
said before, deuced glad he is gone; but the rest of the letter
is no go whatever--coming back to dinner, and with that infernal
Gunnersbury--all charged and loaded with Dover news; the moment
he hears my name, which the colonel in course will mention to him,
out it will all come. We must manage something--cut and run before
_that_. If all goes smooth in the domestic line, I shall do--go along
easy--straight up, right down, and no mistake.--Waiter, where is the
lady--Mrs. Salmon--and Mr. Salmon?”
“The lady is gone to bathe, sir,” said the waiter, “and the gentleman
is walking up and down in front of the garden.”
“He is, is he?” said Jack; “look sharp and be ready to send in
breakfast when we come back. I’ll go join him--I say, slavey, get
plenty of fish--eggs--ham--eh?--coffee--tea--eh? and all the etceteras,
and no mistake?”
“You got the note, sir?” said the waiter enquiringly.
“All right,” said Jack; and out he marched to join his horror, J. S.
When he got within a few yards of him, he hailed him with a “Good
morning!” just to try the temper of his mind, as a captain fires a gun
to bring a strange sail to.
“Good morning! sir,” said Salmon coldly, touching his hat.
“Salmon,” said Jack, “give us your hand; don’t be ill-natured. I’m
deuced sorry for having flown in that stupid passion last night. I
meant nothing, only my blood was up, and no man likes to be mimicked.
I spoke sharply; the colonel was there; and--however, I tell you I
am deuced sorry, more particularly, you know, considering how we are
connected; so let us be friends.”
“Well, John,” said Salmon, in a patronizing tone, “I’m deuced glad
to hear this. Titsy and I had a long talk over about last night,
and I didn’t think I should have got her even to stop to breakfast
this morning; however, now, she’ll be as pleased as I am: I wants no
quarrelling I’m sure; what _is_, is always for the best. The business
was all going at sixes and sevens, and she all day fretting and
fussing--just miserable: and I’m certain we shall do very well. She is
a few years older than _me_; but I shall be as old as _she_ some day,
if I live long enough; so it’s all one in the end.”
The conclusiveness of Mr. Salmon’s reasoning was not quite evident
to his son-in-law, whose real hatred of him seemed to increase in
proportion to the civility he felt it politic to bestow upon him.
“I’m sure I’m glad to shake hands,” added Salmon, suiting the action
to the word, “and have everything go easy;--and now, if you’ll give me
leave, I’ll go down towards the bathing machines, where Titsy has been
washing herself, and walk up with her; we two by ourselves; in which
case I can tell her what has passed between us now, so that she may
come up to you all right and ready to be pleased and goodnatured, and
so have no squabbling or bother about what’s past.”
“Do, do,” said Jack--“there’s a good fellow--and I’ll go into the
house, and get all things snug and tidy.”
They separated, each to fulfil his intentions--Salmon well pleased
with the course Jack seemed to have adopted, and Jack satisfied at
having soothed the “animal” into the belief that he was sincere in his
amicable professions. How long the game could be played, or whether
Jack could play it better than he played _écarté_, remains yet to be
seen. It is easy to wear smiles, and look smoothly for a short time;
but to continue seeming to love that, which one hates, or respect
that which we despise, is a most arduous undertaking:--as Tillotson
says--“It is hard to act a part long; for where truth is not at the
bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to return, and will peep out
and betray itself at one time or other.”
By the time Jack had made his arrangements, he beheld the affectionate
J. S. and his dear Titsy advancing arm-in-arm from the shore towards
the garden-gate of the hotel; and although he had made up his mind to
“peace and concord,” there was something so excessively ridiculous in
the appearance of his mother so associated with Jem Salmon,--connected
too, as they both were in his mind, with the absurdity of the
nicknames which they had endearingly conferred upon each other,
that he--_he_, the object of ridicule in every society with which
he mixed, could scarcely restrain a burst of laughter as he watched
their progress homeward, marked as it was by numerous little flirting
attentions on the part of J. S. and the playful acceptance of them by
Titsy. Jack’s disposition to mirth, however, was checked by regret that
if she had chosen to follow his advice and marry, she had not united
herself to somebody who might have seemed to the world, to have married
her for something besides her money. J. S. he could not consider in
any other light than that of a fortune-hunter; and so blind is vanity,
or rather, it should be said, so blind is human nature even without
vanity, that although his own object for the last four years had been
an alliance with a rich wife--he shrank with disgust from a man who had
acted precisely upon the same principle, and who only differed from
_him_ in his pursuit by having succeeded in it. To be sure, Jack had
the presumption to look for youth and beauty into the bargain, neither
of which certainly had fallen to the lot of Mr. Salmon. However,
_chacun à son goût_, J. S. had “eyes, and chose her” as being perhaps,
in the words of Butler,
----fitter for his turn,
(For fat is wondrous apt to burn;)
Who at his flames would soon take fire,
Relent and melt to his desire,
_And, like a candle in the socket_,
Dissolve her graces int’ his pocket.
The quotation is somewhat apt, but smelling so dreadfully of the shop,
that even if Jack had ever heard of Hudibras, he would not have thought
of using it.
“Johnny, my dear,” said Mrs. Salmon, as they entered the house, “now
you _are_ my son. J. S. has told me all; and we shall live snug and
comfortable, and happy. It’s never no use raking up old grievances, as
I always says,--so give me a kiss, and let us be friends.”
Jack did as he was desired, and was bussed accordingly.
“I’m quite refreshed by the washing,” said the lady. “The old woman had
the deuce and all to do to hold me when the great wave came all over
me: I feel it singing in my ears now.”
“Rely upon it,” said Jack, “it’s uncommon healthy.”
“I want J. S. to have a dip before we go,” said Mrs. Salmon, “but
he says he’s afraid of the cold. Eh!--where’s your friend the
colonel--doesn’t he breakfast with us?”
“No,” said Jack, “he wrote a note to say he was afraid of intruding
upon us, and so has gone over to Hastings.”
“Well then now, John,” said Mrs. Salmon, “after breakfast you must
show us all the sights--that is, if there are any; and we must go
to the library, and go down to the shore and see if we can pick up
shells,--Kitty, poor girl, was always a bit of a cocklologist--and so
make a day of it; for we _must_ be off to-morrow morning.”
Yes, thought Jack, and a little sooner than _that_, I promise you.
At this moment commenced the “_civil_” war in the family, which was
not destined to cease and determine much before midnight. Jack had to
conceal his unconquerable detestation of Salmon for twelve or fourteen
hours, for the sake of securing the influence which it was but too
clear he had obtained over his mother, for the purpose of carrying the
point now become doubly important, of obtaining a financial supply from
home.
Salmon, who was by no means deficient in cunning, was perfectly aware
of the hollowness of the treaty of peace into which his son-in-law and
senior had volunteered to enter. The violence of Jack’s manner, and the
strength of the language which he had used the night before, in the
presence of the colonel, and his subsequent retirement, accompanied
by that gentleman, until he and his bride had gone to rest, were
all convincing evidences of the real feeling which the little man
entertained towards him. Nor were his suspicions of the character of
his present conduct in any degree weakened by the fact that Mrs. Salmon
had communicated to him the contents of Jack’s letter from Deal, which
concluded with a gentle hint as to the want of funds. These things Mr.
Salmon put together in _his_ little mind; so that never did Angelo and
St. George equip themselves with masque and foil with a more sincere
determination of showing their skill and dexterity, than did these two
small creatures after _their_ kind.
The odds, however, were two to one against Jack in this game of
finesse, inasmuch as while he was fencing with his direct opponent,
he had also to keep his mother in perfect good humour: he was to
be affectionate, dutiful, and attentive to _her_; gratify all her
inclinations of seeing and being seen, show her all about the place,
and, above all, get her away from it, voluntarily, before the return
of Stiffkey and his hateful companion. It was in truth, as dear Sandy
says, a difficult game, but Jack always felt himself invincible where
women were to be won, or men to be managed; nor, strange to say, did
the frequently-repeated failures which he experienced in both pursuits
either damp his ardour, or render him suspicious of his qualifications
for one and the other.
Jack’s first object of course now, was, to soothe his two guests;
then, if he could, to get his mother alone, try her, on the subject of
his own relative position as regarded the shop; and then on the most
immediately interesting topic of all, ready money--then to get Salmon
into council, already prepossessed by the kindness and civility he had
shown him, and which he proposed to observe towards him during the
morning, and so, having kept them within doors until the few visiters
at the place should have separated in pursuit of their different
amusements, then to take them to see all the things which were to be
seen, which unless friendship, and affection provide them, are not
numerous, and then subsequently, by some stratagem yet undesigned, get
them away altogether before sunset.
“The fish,” said Salmon, “is uncommon good here--so fresh coming right
out of the sea.”
“Oh! all correct,” said Jack. “I take care to have a fellow ready to
grab them the moment they are caught. Nice place, a’n’t it, mother?”
“Why, Jack,” said the lady, “I can’t say I have seen much of it yet.”
“There isn’t much more to look at,” said Brag, “than you see out of
one of these windows; it only reaches just beyond that row of houses;
however, we’ll go out and have a toddle, as soon as the fashionable
time arrives, and no mistake.”
“Yes,” said Salmon, “one may as well be out of the world, as out of the
fashion--eh? Titsy--twig?”
“You are quite right, J. S.” said the lady; “and upon my word, now
I look at you, I _do_ think you seem better for your little trip,
already.”
“I’m sure of one thing,” said Jack, who most certainly did not care if
his newly acquired relation was at the bottom of the sea; “a warm bath
would do him a world of good.”
“So I think,” said Mrs. Salmon.
“I shouldn’t mind,” said Jem, “but it seems so strange; I--never _was_
in a bath, and--eh?--twig?”
“--That makes no difference,” said Jack; “there’s no great art in
jumping into a tub of hot water. Let me ring the bell, and order one
for you in an hour or so?”
“Do J. S., there’s a dear,” said Mrs. Salmon.
“Well, anything to make myself agreeable,” said the half-relenting
tallow-chandler.
Up jumped Jack, to ring the bell, and in less than five minutes the
enquiries whether a bath could be had, were made, the affirmative
answer given, and the whole thing arranged to be ready at twelve
o’clock.
As for the particular hour at which Salmon was to be pickled, or
the peculiar advantages derivable to his health or comfort, from
the operation, _they_ formed no part of Jack’s anxiety or even
consideration; anything else that would have kept his father-in-law
away from his mother for half an hour or so, would have been seized by
our hero with equal avidity: and however ready the said father-in-law
might be to oblige “Titsy,” he was quite cunning enough to be sure that
Jack’s civility was the effect of some hidden cause. The difference
between the sharpness and indignation of the previous evening, and the
solicitude and civility of the morning, was too glaring to deceive
even J. S. but as _he_ had his own game to play, and as his temporary
absence from his bride would, as he fancied, forward his schemes, he
readily acceded to the proposition and seemed quite delighted with
Jack’s suggestion, that he and his mother should accompany him to the
bath and walk about, until he had finished his ablutions.
It was a rare treat to see these two worthies at work, either spinning
a web to catch the other; all, however, was smiles and good humour,
jest and jollity, and to look at the superficial inches of their
countenances a man would not have imagined that anything was going on
under the surface but that which was really apparent.
“Well,” said Mrs. Salmon, “thank Bogie I have made a capital
breakfast,--two whitings--a plate of shrimps--two eggs--three slices of
ham--three rounds of toast, and one of bread and marmalade--one cup of
coffee, and two of tea--shan’t be bad, Jim--this dipping does give one
a sharpish appetite.”
“Better than dipping in the tallow, Titsy?” said Salmon,--“twig?”
“True! my dear,” said Titsy, “but always recollect--as I used to say to
John, if it wasn’t for _that_, we should not have a dip _here_. Keep
the shop and the shop will keep you. I know Johnny, you don’t like
talking of it, but I am sure, even now, if you were to turn to, and be
steady, we might still increase our connexion and do capitally.”
“And I am sure, my dear mother,” said Jack; “I would do anything in
_my_ power--you have only to point out what; I’m your man--all I want
is, to see you and James happy and comfortable.”
“Hem!” said Jem, who could not stifle a sort of cough, which sounded
awfully artificial.
“In the way of travelling, now,” said Mrs. Salmon; “you who go about
so much--if you would only just circulate a few of our cards, or even
speak to your friends.”
“Oh!” said Salmon, “don’t worry Mr. Brag, Titsy; he don’t like
business,--_I_ do. I’m sure whatever we can do to make things agreeable
to him, _we_ shall: I dare say we shall have enough, and a little to
spare,--eh?--twig?”
“Bravo! Jim,” said Brag; “you are a capital fellow, straight up, right
down, and no mistake; give us your hand--I see we shall all pull
together.”
“I hope so, dear John,” said Mrs. Salmon, whose happiness at being
freed for a few hours from the trammels of business was made complete
by witnessing the cordiality which existed between her two companions,
of the maintenance of which, the scene of the preceding evening had
rendered her extremely suspicious.
“Come, shall we have a walk?” said Salmon; “we may as well be jogging
towards this bath, eh?--twig?”
“To be sure,” said Jack; “I’m ready for anything you like, all one to
me--nice as nip;--come, mother--on with your things--let’s be alive!”
“Jump about, Titsy,” said Mr. Salmon.
“Oh! you rogue,” said his lady, feigning playfully to smack his face,
and wheeling out of the door-way (which was rather too small for her
pirouette,) in order to get herself ready.
“Fine old girl!” said Jack, “that I must say.”
“About the best-natured soul as ever trod shoe-leather,” said Salmon;
“rely upon it, Mr. John, we shall be very happy with each other. I’m so
used to her ways--and she has known me so long--twig?”
“Well,” said Jack, “you have _my_ good wishes, and no mistake.”
This dialogue, which was extended a little farther with similar
protestations of mutual good-will, was at length broken in upon by the
return of the lady, with whom the two beaux proceeded to walk to Miss
West’s baths, one of them on either side of her. The conversation by
the way, was of the common-place order. James Salmon expressed as much
delight at seeing a plough at work in a field, as Pepys experienced at
beholding a flock of sheep on Epsom Downs, to him “the most innocent
sight he ever beheld;” all the surrounding objects, whether marine or
agricultural, were to Salmon matters of surprise and interest, the
sphere of his previous travels never having been extended beyond the
range of hills which environ the metropolis, and to which he had been
in the habit of looking from a distance, as to the boundaries of the
civilized world.
When they reached the baths, Salmon was a little startled, and his wife
somewhat shocked, at finding that he was to be consigned to the care of
two virgin sisters. Had Mr. Salmon visited that romantic watering-place
Aberystwyth some twenty years since, he would have been more startled
still; for at that period not only did a fair female prepare the bath
for the male visiter, but after he had nearly concluded his ablutions,
pop her head into the room, and with the most perfect business-like
gravity, and all the purity of Cambrian innocence, ask “would hur like
to be rub-bed?”
The moment the doors of the classical building which now contained
Jack’s father-in-law were closed, Jack began to draw the dialogue
between himself and his parent towards the desired point. His mother
unconsciously fell into the snare, and after a few remarks upon second
marriages, made hypothetically by Brag, she asked him whether she had
not greatly surprised him by what she had done.
“Why, yes,” said Jack, “I didn’t expect it; but I don’t think you could
have done better.”
“Nor I,” said Mrs. Salmon. “As for marrying again, recollect you
pressed it upon me; and it was lonesome for me in the house by
myself where I had been so long used to a family; all my neighbours
too were dropping off, one way or other:--the Jenningses, at the
corner, have retired from business, and taken a house near Guilford;
Martin, the cutler, is gone to live at Brighton; Old South is dead,
and his daughter married: and so what you said about my getting a
second husband laid hold on me, and then I certainly did put that
advertisement into the paper; and then you answered it,--and--”
“Not I, upon my life!” said Jack; “no,--the trick wasn’t mine.”
“Well, never mind _now_, who did it,” said Mrs. Salmon; “it was
done;--and I was exposed, and by _you_, John. I don’t believe you
meant it. However, I was in a passion, my blood was up, and when I
went home I couldn’t bear myself, I was so vexed; and Jim, who was
at home, was so civil, and so attentive, and all that, that I told
him how I had been treated; and I did so for another reason,--to see
how he looked,--for I thought, as I told you at the time, that he had
found out what I had done, and had told _you_; and so, when I saw he
knew nothing of it, I felt easier; and then we talked it over, and so
I asked him to sup with me after shutting up; and he did; and then,
from what he said, I saw I needn’t go husband-hunting any more; and
then recollecting how clever he was in the trade, and all that, and
thinking, as I wasn’t over-young myself, I had best marry a man who
wouldn’t grow old in a hurry, why, I made up my mind; and before twelve
o’clock that very night the affair was settled.”
“Despatch is the soul of business,” said Jack, “and no mistake.”
“So you see,” continued Mrs. Salmon, “there’s nobody to blame but
yourself,--if blame there is; but I see none. That poor unfortunate
creature, Kitty, is gone, and I have nobody to look to but you; and you
may rely upon it, Jack, if there should be any little additions to the
family, it shan’t be no disparagement to my eldest.”
Jack thanked his mother most earnestly for her kind consideration.
“I had a long letter from Brown,” said Mrs. Salmon, “which I meant to
have brought down to show you: he writes very reasonable, and tells
me how his agent had run away, and his letters had not been properly
delivered, or we should have known of Kitty’s death in due course: he
don’t write in no ways reproachful; doesn’t explain all about it quite
so clear as I could have wished; and talks of dropping a veil over her
indiscretion, which, I suppose, is some Indy fashion; but he does not
mention _your_ name,--neither good nor bad.”
“Don’t like me,” said Jack, “not one of _his_ sort. It wouldn’t have
been so bad a spec after all, if I had married Nance, as things have
turned out; but who could have fancied _that_,--eh? Had the whole story
out at Hastings. Never mind--what’s done can’t be undone, and what was
left undone _then_, can’t be done _now_; so we must make the best of
it, and no mistake. Now, as to the future, how do I stand in the money
line?”
“Why, that you must talk to Jemes about,” said the old lady, “he has
got the key of the till. I have given him up everything, just as your
poor dear father left it to _me_; and you’ll find him, if you treat
him--as I am glad to see you are doing to-day--well and kindly, a very
liberal young chap. I was afraid last night----”
“Last night, my dear mother,” said Jack, “I did not know half so much
of him as I know now; and, besides, before company, I didn’t like----”
“No,” interrupted Mrs. Salmon, “that’s it, Johnny; you are as proud
as a pig with two tails; and that’s what I blame you for, or rather,
perhaps, your poor dear father is most to blame after all, for cocking
you up upon stilts in his life-time. Never mind that now; you’ll find,
as Jemes has told you, that everything will go smooth and comfortable
for the future.”
“But, mother,” said Jack,--“I don’t mean to say a word against what
you have done,--only don’t you think,--I am sure I have the greatest
reliance upon Jim,--but don’t you think you should have kept some
better hold over the concern and over him, for your own sake?”
“My dear John,” said Mrs. Salmon, “in what I have done, I have been all
governed by what you have said: you have told me over and over again,
that nothing would induce you to take to the business,--I couldn’t
suffer it to go to ruin; and as for securing any thing for _you_, you
told me in the very last letter I ever got from you, except the one
from Deal the other day, that you were going to marry a widow with I
don’t know how many thousands a year;--that very Mrs. Dallington, I
suppose, who kicked----”
“----I know, my dear mother,” said Jack; “that’s all a fib. Never mind,
I’ll settle that Mrs. Cropper when I go back to town; she shall hop the
twig--and no mistake.”
“Well, but hear me, John,” continued the matron; “whether the lady
turned you off, or you turn off the housekeeper, is nothing to the
business. You did not marry the widow,--which you told me was a settled
thing.”
“True, mother,” said Jack; “but you wouldn’t, surely, have had me take
up with--a--mum,--you understand?--not all right,--eh?--screw loose,
and no mistake.”
“But, Mrs. Cropper----?”
“Never mind Mrs. C.,” said Jack; “the housekeeper’s room is not the
place to get the secrets of such a family as _that_, out of. Leave _me_
alone,--I’ll do yet.”
“Well, then, that’s all as it should be,” said his mother.
“What I want is something just at present,” said Jack.
“I told Jemes,” said Mrs. Salmon, “that something ought to be done for
you in _that_ way; and I’m sure, by his manner, you won’t have anything
to complain of. You had better speak to him yourself.”
“Perhaps you might open the business,” said Jack, “when he joins us.
I will leave you for a little: we can meet at luncheon, in the hotel.
I must just step to South, to call on a friend: take that opportunity
of saying what you think,--you know I like to do it handsome, and no
mistake, and--I can arrange all,--repay any advance; although the
rents from those Fleet-market houses _do_ come in, slow;--and then we
shall be as easy together as a leg in an old boot,--and no mistake
neither.”
“I love to hear you talk so reasonably, John,” said the old lady. “I
thought you would rail, and gibe, and jeer at me; and as I said before,
what happened last night didn’t go to make me the least easy; however,
now I am satisfied, and you shall be satisfied too, John.”
Saying which, she pressed his arm maternally, and Jack felt himself
winking his off-eye in self-approbation of his admirable skill and
manœuvring, which had been evinced not only in carrying, as he felt
certain he had, everything he wished, from the great point of raising
the supplies down to the contrivance of getting rid of his two
unfashionable-looking companions during the hour or two before the
time when, according to his previously-mentioned calculation, the good
company would be scattered.
When Mr. Salmon came forth “refreshed,” Mrs. Salmon looked at him
with an expression of countenance in which strangely mingled the
satisfaction of a matron, and the approbation of a bride. As the reader
has been already informed, Jim was not a bad-looking cockney,--he had
plenty of hair on his head, encouraged in its growth, no doubt, by
his professional pursuits: and a profusion of fawn-coloured whiskers,
skirting his cheeks and fringing his chin; in which adornment, as
Nature has not limited the advantages of curiosity to the aristocracy,
the tallow-chandler’s shop-boy was quite upon a par with the best
tigers of the day, who, as Salmon himself would have said, “move in the
upper circles at the West end.”
“Well, my dear J. S.” said his lady, “was it pleasant?”
“Wasn’t it?” said Mr. Salmon. “I never felt nothing more agreeable in
all my life, and now I’m all in a glow. I wish we could stop here two
or three days longer, Titsy--twig?”
“Well,” said Jack to his mother, “then I tell you what,--I’ll go
and make my call at South, and be back as soon as I can. I will
order them to get luncheon at one, and after luncheon, the gay part
of the day here, we’ll make a tour,--good-b’ye!--and while I am
gone, remember.--If you like walking--it’s all open--all free--fine
air--great deal of water, and sometimes a ship--eh?--it’s what I call
Liberty Hall, and no mistake.”--And away he went to the place of his
destination, first touching at the hotel; his ulterior point being
another visit to the inns at South, upon his continued fruitless search
after his servant, which, better than anything else, suited his purpose
of getting away, for a short time, from J. S. and his bride.
When Jack was alone, as we have already seen before, he could not help
“thinking,” as well as feeling. All that his mother had said came
seriously home to him; every untoward incident which had occurred in
his own proper sphere, every movement that had been made in that, which
was literally his own domestic circle, had originated in his own
vanity and vain-gloriousness. His mother had unconsciously set a mirror
before him, in which he saw his own absurdities and emptiness; but
such reflections were not likely long to affect him: the marriage, the
exclusion from the business, his original loss of the exemplary Anne,
his perpetual exposures in society, his final rejection by his noble
friend, were all the results of the same unconquerable disposition for
talking big;--and unconquerable it was,--it was, indeed, his “ruling
passion.”
The reader will easily conceive what the conversation between Mr. and
Mrs. Salmon turned upon, during their Paradisaical walk about the
neighbourhood: she expressed to him her conviction that John was by no
means displeased with the marriage; that he was not dissatisfied at any
of the arrangements that had been made; that his prospects were good,
his connexions excellent; that Mrs. Cropper’s story was all a fiction,
that there was no relying upon housekeepers,--to which last dictum Mr.
Salmon did not, with special reference to Mrs. Cropper, appear entirely
to agree,--and that, in fact, he would delight _her_, and nail the
affectionate regards of John, by doing all he could to put him in funds.
Judge her delight when, instead of any difficulty or doubt expressed by
J. S., she heard him declare his anxiety to do anything and everything
he could, to accommodate him, and regret that _he_ had gone off on
his visit without something agreeable to him having been definitively
arranged.
After this discussion, poor Mrs. Salmon felt her heart at rest: her
natural affection for her son was strong, his follies were but foibles
in _her_ eyes; and although, when excited either by imaginary neglect
or ridicule, or by anything hot, strong, and sweet, she could not
resist the exhibition of her feelings, still she already repented that
she had acted so hastily upon the impulse of the moment as to put Jack
so entirely in the power of his young father-in-law, and was therefore
the more gratified by finding how liberally he was inclined to deal by
him.
At luncheon they were to re-assemble, and circumstances had, as we
know, conspired to promise that it should be a pleasant repast. The
reader shall, therefore, have the re-union in a separate chapter.