DANIEL POLLITT, ESQ., AND FAMILY.
The grand dinner-party at 500, Princes Gate, was over, the last silken
train had swept down the steps, the last brougham had bowled away,
and a somewhat bored-looking young man indulged in a stretch and a
prodigious yawn, and strolled slowly back to the library, where the
master of the house, a spruce little person of sixty, with a rosy cheek
and active eye, stood before the empty fireplace (the month was June)
with his coat-tails under his arms, engaged in chewing a tooth-pick.
Wealthy he may be, judging from his surroundings, but he is certainly
not distinguished in appearance; his scanty locks are brushed out into
two sharp horns over his large ears. In spite of his blazing solitaire
stud and faultless claw-hammer coat, he is plebeian; yes, from the
points of his patent leather shoes to the crown of his bald head. It
is difficult to believe that he is the uncle of the aristocratic young
fellow who has just entered and cast himself into a deep armchair.
What the French call “the look of race,” is the principal thing that
strikes one about Mark Jervis. It is afterwards--possibly some time
afterwards--that you realize the fact that he is remarkably handsome,
and considerably older than you took him to be at the first glance. His
smooth face and sunny hazel eyes are misleading: young Jervis is more
than nineteen, he is five and twenty.
“Well, Mark, that’s over, thank God,” exclaimed Mr. Pollitt. “I hate
these big dinners; but your aunt will have them. She says we owe them;
women are never backward in paying _those_ sort of debts. It was well
done, hey? That new _chef_ is a success. Did you taste the Perdreaux
aux Chartreuse--or the Bouchée à la financière, or that cold _entrée_?”
“No, Uncle Dan,” strangling another great yawn.
“Ah, you sly dog! You were too much taken up with Lady Boadicea! She is
considered a beauty--at least her picture made rather a stir. What do
you think? How does she strike _you_?”
“To me--she looks like a wax doll that has been held too close to the
fire--and she is about as animated.”
“Well, you can’t say that of the American girl, Miss Clapper--there’s a
complexion!--there’s animation!--there’s a stunner for you!”
“A stunner, indeed! She thrust her money down my throat in such
enormous quantities that I could scarcely swallow anything else!”
“Then why the deuce did you not stuff some of _mine_ down hers, hey?”
chuckling. “I saw you at Hurlingham this afternoon.”
“Did you, sir? I had no idea you were there.”
“It was a frightful squash--hardly a chair to be had; the Royalties, a
fine day and a popular match, brought ’em. I suppose that was the new
pony you were trying, brown with white legs. How do you like him?”
“He is not handy, and he is a bit slow. He is not in the same class
with Pipe-clay, or the chestnut Arab; I don’t think we will buy him,
sir.”
“Lord Greenleg was very anxious to hear what I thought of him. He only
wants a hundred and thirty--asked me to give him an answer there and
then, as he had another customer, but I thought I had better wait till
I heard your opinion. Is the pony worth one hundred and thirty guineas?
What do you say?”
“I say, cut off the first figure, and that is about his value,”
rejoined his nephew shortly.
Mr. Pollitt looked blank. He rather liked buying ponies from lords,
even at a high figure, but a hundred guineas too much was a stiff sum.
He knew that he could rely on the young fellow’s opinion, for lazy as
he seemed, lounging there in an easy chair, he could both buy a horse
and ride a horse--which does not always follow. The languid-looking
youth was a hard rider to hounds, and a finished polo player.
“Then I suppose we shan’t mind the brown, eh, Mark?” said his uncle
rather dolefully. “After all, it is getting late in the season, and his
lordship has another offer.”
“_Has_ he!” expressively. “Oh, then, that is all right.”
“Your side played up well to-day, my boy!”
“And were well beaten--two goals to four. Johnny Brind is no good as a
back. He sits doubled up in his saddle, like an angry cat, and lets the
ball roll out between his pony’s fore legs--and his language!”
“That did not come as far as my ears. I saw you speaking to Lord Robert
Tedcastle. You were at Eton with him--you might bring him home to
lunch some Sunday; and that Italian prince, did you come across him?”
anxiously.
“No; I did not see him.”
“I noticed you having a long talk with that young Torrens; what was
he yarning about? He was nodding his head and waving his hands like a
cheap toy.”
“He was telling me of his plans. He and his brother are off to America
next week, they are going on to Japan, Australia, and India. I say,
Uncle Dan,” suddenly sitting erect, “I wish you would let _me_ travel
for a couple of years and see the world.”
A silence of nearly a minute, and then Mr. Pollitt burst out--
“Now, this is some stuff that young ass Torrens has been putting into
your head. To see the world! What world? You see it at home. England is
the world. You have the best of everything here--the handsomest women,
finest horses, best food and drink, best----” he paused, and his
nephew, who was nursing his leg, blandly suggested “climate.”
“Climate be hanged! best society,” bawled Mr. Pollitt. “The fact of
the matter is, you young chaps don’t know when you are well off.
Travel--see the world--skittles!”
“I know that I am exceedingly well off, thanks to you, Uncle Dan,”
rejoined his nephew, quietly. “I have capital polo ponies, a first-rate
stud of hunters, a splendid allowance--but a fellow can’t play polo,
and hunt, and go to balls and theatres all his life; at least, that’s
not _my_ idea of life. I have nothing to do, no profession, you know;
you would not hear of my going into the service.”
“No--I hate the army--what prospect does it offer the young idiots who
are slaving to get into it--to live vagabonds, and die beggars!”
“There was the diplomatic corps; but I’ve not brains enough for that.”
“Bosh! You don’t want a profession, taking bread out of other people’s
mouths. You are my heir--_that’s_ your profession. As to intellect,
there is a great deal too much intellect in these days; the world would
be far easier to govern if there was less! You have brains enough, my
boy, you did very well at Oxford.”
“I know that I am very fortunate,” repeated the young man, “and that
thousands of fellows would give anything to stand in my shoes.”
“Clarence for one,” interrupted his uncle, with a loud chuckle.
“But I’m sick of the eternal treadmill round of the London
season--Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes, Scotland. Then back to London, and we
begin the whole business over again. We see the same people, and do the
same things.”
“How old are you, Mark?” broke in Mr. Pollitt, excitedly.
“Five and twenty.”
“One would think you were eighty-five! But it is all the rage to be
bored and _blasé_, and to give out that life is not worth living.
You are in the height of the fashion, my boy! The fact of the matter
is--that you are too prosperous. A blow of real trouble, cutting to the
very bone, would do you no harm.”
“Perhaps so. Properly speaking, I believe I ought to have been a poor
man’s son, and had to work my way. I feel that I could do it. I would
not have minded being a soldier, a sailor, an explorer, or even a
stock-rider.”
“In fact, to put the matter in a nutshell, anything but what you _are_.”
“Well, Uncle Dan, you have fought your way up to the front, step by
step, and won your spurs, and enjoyed the battle. I should like to
take some weapon, and strike into the fray.” Here he suddenly got up,
and came over to his uncle, and, putting his hand affectionately on
his shoulder said, “I would like to do something to make you”--with a
nervous laugh--“proud of me;” and as he looked into his uncle’s shrewd
little face, his eyes shone with repressed excitement.
“I’m proud enough. You are my own flesh and blood--a good-looking chap,
a capital rider, and a gentleman; a bit too fond of dabbling with your
nasty, dirty oil paints, a bit dreamy and Quixotic, but----”
At this juncture the door was gently pushed open, and a long, hooked
nose came slowly into the room, followed by a tall, thin, elderly lady,
attired in a clinging mist-coloured robe, and blazing with diamonds. A
sallow, discontented-looking person, with a high-bred air, despite her
touzled fringe.
“So you are _both_ here!” she murmured sweetly.
“Yes,” assented Mr. Pollitt; “and here is Mark,” waving a short square
hand towards him. “What do you think is his last craze, Selina? He
wants to travel for a couple of years, in order to see the world. Just
like the hero of a fairy tale.”
Mark hastened to place a chair for his aunt, into which she gently
sank, keeping her eyes steadily fixed on his as she did so, and
gradually narrowing her gaze to a cat-like glint.
“Do you know that I rather _like_ the idea!” she remarked, after a
momentary silence. “I think it is a shocking thing for a young man to
waste his life, lounging in clubs gossipping and gambling, or playing a
game on the back of a pony. Travelling improves the mind and enlarges
the ideas.” Here, catching sight of Mr. Pollitt’s face of angry scorn,
she lost no time in adding, “You know, it is all the fashion to travel,
it’s only the second-rate people and nobodies who stay at home. Lady
Grace and Lord Kenneth are going out to India this cold weather, so is
the Duke of Saltminster, the Marquis and Marchioness of Tordale, and
crowds of other smart people.”
Smart people were to Mr. Pollitt, as his crafty wife knew, the very
salt of the earth; and his expression changed from that of repressed
fury to grave attention.
“India! Perhaps I would not mind so much,” he admitted, after a
pause. “The boy was born there, and he could look up his father. Yes,
and he might have some shooting, and pick up a few tigers, and nice
acquaintances and companions.”
“Oh, but, of course, Mark could not travel alone, dear. He must have a
pleasant and experienced----”
“Bear-leader or keeper; or what would you say to a chaperon?” broke in
her husband.
“My dearest!” she gravely expostulated. “You know perfectly well that
it would be frightfully dull for the poor boy roaming about the country
with no one to keep him company, not knowing where to go, or what to
say. Now Clarence,” and she hesitated.
“Yes--now Clarence. What now?” sharply.
“Clarence,” speaking very distinctly, “was stationed in India for eight
years. He is an experienced Anglo-Indian, has hundreds of friends,
talks Hindostani fluently, and could get no end of shooting and
introductions to native _princes_” (great emphasis on princes). “He
would be a capital guide for Mark.”
“Umph!” with a short laugh. “I’m not so sure of that, Mrs. Pollitt.”
“Oh, my dear Dan, he is perfectly steady now. Why, he is thirty-five,
and has sown his wild oats. I never quite believe in these wonderfully
good young men,” and she shot a swift glance at Mark. “Except Mark, of
course, and he ought to have been a parson, and,” with a little sneer,
“he may yet become a missionary.”
“But India is no novelty to Clarence,” protested Mr. Pollitt; “and,
by all accounts, he made it too hot to hold him. Mark can easily tack
himself on to some party of friends, and do the tour with them. You say
that the Rothmores----”
“Oh yes,” impatiently; “and they have made their arrangements months
ago. Mark cannot tack himself on to people, as you express it; it
would not do at all. On the contrary, he must have some one tacked on
to _him_. The trip will be a boon to my brother, as well as to your
nephew. Poor Clarence loves India. He is frightfully hard up; he would
be an ideal companion for Mark,” turning to him. “What do you say,
Mark? Answer us quite frankly.”
And under these circumstances what could Mark say but, “Yes; oh,
certainly. Clarence is a good sort.”
“And at any rate, _he_ can well be spared from home,” added Mr.
Pollitt, dryly.
“Then you will consent to Mark’s request, darling?” said his wife,
rising and tapping him playfully with her big feather fan. “Think of
all he will have to tell you, and of all the pretty things he will
bring us.”
“As long as he does not bring a _wife_!” growled the old gentleman.
“Well, well, well, it is not often that you and Mark are on the same
side in a debate, or that you second the resolution. When you combine,
you are too strong for me. I’ll think it over.”
Mrs. Pollitt gave her nephew by marriage a quick significant glance,
for this speech distinctly showed that the bill before the (head of
the) house had passed, and that it now only remained to go into a
committee of ways and means.