A local habitation and a NAME.”
Of the value of a NAME no one could be more sensible than Mr. Soho.
“Your la’ship sees — this is merely a scratch of my pencil. Your la’ship’s sensible — just to give you an idea of the shape, the form of the thing. You fill up your angles here with encoinières — round your walls with the Turkish tent drapery — a fancy of my own — in apricot cloth, or crimson velvet, suppose, or, en flute, in crimson satin draperies, fanned and riched with gold fringes, en suite — intermediate spaces, Apollo’s head with gold rays — and here, ma’am, you place four chancelières, with chimeras at the corners, covered with blue silk and silver fringe, elegantly fanciful — with my STATIRA CANOPY here — light blue silk draperies — aërial tint, with silver balls — and for seats here, the SERAGLIO OTTOMANS, superfine scarlet — your paws — griffin — golden — and golden tripods, here, with antique cranes — and oriental alabaster tables here and there — quite appropriate, your la’ship feels.
“And let me reflect. For the next apartment, it strikes me — as your la’ship don’t value expense — the Alhambra hangings — my own thought entirely — Now, before I unrol them, Lady Clonbrony, I must beg you’ll not mention I’ve shown them. I give you my sacred honour, not a soul has set eye upon the Alhambra hangings except Mrs. Dareville, who stole a peep; I refused, absolutely refused, the Duchess of Torcaster — but I can’t refuse your la’ship — So see, ma’am — (unrolling them) — scagliola porphyry columns supporting the grand dome — entablature, silvered and decorated with imitative bronze ornaments: under the entablature, a valence in pelmets, of puffed scarlet silk, would have an unparalleled grand effect, seen through the arches — with the TREBISOND TRELLICE PAPER, Would make a tout ensemble, novel beyond example. On that trebisond trellice paper, I confess, ladies, I do pique myself.
“Then, for the little room, I recommend turning it temporarily into a Chinese pagoda, with this Chinese pagoda paper, with the porcelain border, and josses, and jars, and beakers, to match; and I can venture to promise one vase of pre-eminent size and beauty. — Oh, indubitably! if your la’ship prefers it, you can have the Egyptian hieroglyphic paper, with the ibis border to match! — The only objection is, one sees it every where — quite antediluvian — gone to the hotels even; but, to be sure, if your la’ship has a fancy — at all events, I humbly recommend, what her grace of Torcaster longs to patronise, my MOON CURTAINS, with candlelight draperies. A demi-saison elegance this — I hit off yesterday — and — True, your la’ship’s quite correct — out of the common completely. And, of course, you’d have the sphynx candelabras, and the phoenix argands — Oh! nothing else lights now, ma’am! — Expense! — Expense of the whole! — Impossible to calculate here on the spot! — but nothing at all worth your ladyship’s consideration!”
At another moment, Lord Colambre might have been amused with all this rhodomontade, and with the airs and voluble conceit of the orator; but, after what he had heard at Mr. Mordicai’s, this whole scene struck him more with melancholy than with mirth. He was alarmed by the prospect of new and unbounded expense; provoked, almost past enduring, by the jargon and impertinence of this upholsterer; mortified and vexed to the heart, to see his mother the dupe, the sport of such a coxcomb.
“Prince of puppies! — Insufferable! — My own mother!” Lord Colambre repeated to himself, as he walked hastily up and down the room.
“Colambre, won’t you let us have your judgment — your teeste?” said his mother.
“Excuse me, ma’am — I have no taste, no judgment in these things.”
He sometimes paused, and looked at Mr. Soho, with a strong inclination to — . But knowing that he should say too much if he said any thing, he was silent; never dared to approach the council table — but continued walking up and down the room, till he heard a voice which at once arrested his attention and soothed his ire. He approached the table instantly, and listened, whilst Miss Nugent said every thing he wished to have said, and with all the propriety and delicacy with which he thought he could not have spoken. He leaned on the table, and fixed his eyes upon her — years ago he had seen his cousin — last night he had thought her handsome, pleasing, graceful — but now he saw a new person, or he saw her in a new light. He marked the superior intelligence, the animation, the eloquence of her countenance, its variety, whilst alternately, with arch raillery, or grave humour, she played off Mr. Soho, and made him magnify the ridicule, till it was apparent even to Lady Clonbrony. He observed the anxiety lest his mother should expose her own foibles; he was touched by the respectful, earnest kindness — the soft tones of persuasion with which she addressed her — the care not to presume upon her own influence — the good sense, the taste, she showed, yet not displaying her superiority — the address, temper, and patience, with which she at last accomplished her purpose, and prevented Lady Clonbrony from doing any thing preposterously absurd, or exorbitantly extravagant.
Lord Colambre was actually sorry when the business was ended — when Mr. Soho departed — for Miss Nugent was then silent; and it was necessary to remove his eyes from that countenance on which he had gazed unobserved. Beautiful and graceful, yet so unconscious was she of her charms, that the eye of admiration could rest upon her without her perceiving it — she seemed so intent upon others as totally to forget herself. The whole train of Lord Colambre’s thoughts was so completely deranged, that, although he was sensible there was something of importance he had to say to his mother, yet when Mr. Soho’s departure left him opportunity to speak, he stood silent, unable to recollect any thing but — Grace Nugent.
When Miss Nugent left the room, after some minutes’ silence, and some effort, Lord Colambre said to his mother, “Pray, madam, do you know any thing of Sir Terence O’Fay?”
“I!” said Lady Clonbrony, drawing up her head proudly; “I know he is a person I cannot endure. He is no friend of mine, I can assure you — nor any such sort of person.”
“I thought it was impossible!” cried Lord Colambre, with exultation.
“I only wish your father, Colambre, could say as much,” added Lady Clonbrony.
Lord Colambre’s countenance fell again; and again he was silent for some time.
“Does my father dine at home, ma’am?”
“I suppose not; he seldom dines at home.”
“Perhaps, ma’am, my father may have some cause to be uneasy about—”
“About?” said Lady Clonbrony, in a tone, and with a look of curiosity, which convinced her son that she knew nothing of his debts or distresses, if he had any. “About what?” repeated her ladyship.
Here was no receding, and Lord Colambre never had recourse to artifice.
“About his affairs, I was going to say, madam. But, since you know nothing of any difficulties or embarrassments, I am persuaded that none exist.”
“Nay, I cawnt tell you that, Colambre. There are difficulties for ready money, I confess, when I ask for it, which surprise me often. I know nothing of affairs — ladies of a certain rank seldom do, you know. But, considering your father’s estate, and the fortune I brought him,” added her ladyship, proudly, “I cawnt conceive it at all. Grace Nugent, indeed, often talks to me of embarrassments and economy; but that, poor thing! is very natural for her, because her fortune is not particularly large, and she has left it all, or almost all, in her uncle and guardian’s hands. I know she’s often distressed for odd money to lend me, and that makes her anxious.”
“Is not Miss Nugent very much admired, ma’am, in London?”
“Of course — in the company she is in, you know, she has every advantage. And she has a natural family air of fashion — Not but what she would have got on much better, if, when she first appeared in Lon’on, she had taken my advice, and wrote herself on her cards Miss de Nogent, which would have taken off the prejudice against the Iricism of Nugent, you know; and there is a Count de Nogent.”
“I did not know there was any such prejudice, ma’am. There may b
e among a certain set; but, I should think, not among well-informed, well-bred people.”
“I big your pawdon, Colambre; surely I, that was born in England, an Henglishwoman bawn, must be well infawmed on this pint, any way.”
Lord Colambre was respectfully silent.
“Mother,” resumed he, “I wonder that Miss Nugent is not married.”
“That is her own fau’t entirely; she has refused very good offers — establishments that I own I think, as Lady Langdale says, I was to blame to allow her to let pass: but young ledies, till they are twenty, always think they can do better. Mr. Martingale, of Martingale, proposed for her, but she objected to him on account of he’es being on the turf; and Mr. St. Albans’ 7000l. a-year, because — I reelly forget what — I believe only because she did not like him — and something about principles. Now there is Colonel Heathcock, one of the most fashionable young men you see, always with the Duchess of Torcaster and that set — Heathcock takes a vast deal of notice of her, for him; and yet, I’m persuaded, she would not have him to-morrow if he came to the pint, and for no reason, reelly now, that she can give me, but because she says he’s a coxcomb. Grace has a tincture of Irish pride. But, for my part, I rejoice that she is so difficult; for I don’t know what I should do without her.”
“Miss Nugent is indeed — very much attached to you, mother, I am convinced,” said Lord Colambre, beginning his sentence with great enthusiasm, and ending it with great sobriety.
“Indeed, then, she’s a sweet girl, and I am very partial to her, there’s the truth,” cried Lady Clonbrony, in an undisguised Irish accent, and with her natural warm manner. But, a moment afterwards, her features and whole form resumed their constrained stillness and stiffness, and in her English accent she continued, “Before you put my idears out of my head, Colambre, I had something to say to you — Oh! I know what it was — we were talking of embarrassments — and I wish to do your father the justice to mention to you, that he has been uncommon liberal to me about this gala, and has reelly given me carte blanche; and I’ve a notion — indeed I know, — that it is you, Colambre, I am to thank for this.”
“Me, ma’am!”
“Yes: did not your father give you any hint?”
“No, ma’am; I have seen my father but for half an hour since I came to town, and in that time he said nothing to me — of his affairs.”
“But what I allude to is more your affair.”
“He did not speak to me of any affairs, ma’am — he spoke only of my horses.”
“Then I suppose my lord leaves it to me to open the matter to you. I have the pleasure to tell you, that we have in view for you — and, I think I may say, with more than the approbation of all her family — an alliance—”
“Oh, my dear mother! you cannot be serious,” cried Lord Colambre; “you know I am not of years of discretion yet — I shall not think of marrying these ten years, at least.”
“Why not? Nay, my dear Colambre, don’t go, I beg — I am serious, I assure you — and, to convince you of it, I shall tell you candidly, at once, all your father told me: that now you’ve done with Cambridge, and are come to Lon’on, he agrees with me in wishing that you should make the figure you ought to make, Colambre, as sole heir apparent to the Clonbrony estate, and all that sort of thing; but, on the other hand, living in Lon’on, and making you the handsome allowance you ought to have, are, both together, more than your father can afford, without inconvenience, he tells me.”
“I assure you, mother, I shall be content—”
“No, no; you must not be content, child, and you must hear me: you must live in a becoming style, and make a proper appearance. I could not present you to my friends here, nor be happy, if you did not, Colambre. Now the way is clear before you: you have birth and title, here is fortune ready made — you will have a noble estate of your own when old Quin dies, and you will not be any encumbrance or inconvenience to your father or any body. Marrying an heiress accomplishes all this at once — and the young lady is every thing we could wish besides — you will meet again at the gala. Indeed, between ourselves, she is the grand object of the gala — all her friends will come en masse, and one should wish that they should see things in proper style. You have seen the young lady in question, Colambre — Miss Broadhurst — Don’t you recollect the young lady I introduced you to last night after the opera?”
“The little plain girl, covered with diamonds, who was standing beside Miss Nugent?”
“In di’monds, yes — But you won’t think her plain when you see more of her — that wears off — I thought her plain, at first — I hope—”
“I hope,” said Lord Colambre, “that you will not take it unkindly of me, my dear mother, if I tell you, at once, that I have no thoughts of marrying at present — and that I never will marry for money: marrying an heiress is not even a new way of paying old debts — at all events, it is one to which no distress could persuade me to have recourse; and as I must, if I outlive old Mr. Quin, have an independent fortune, there is no occasion to purchase one by marriage.”
“There is no distress that I know of in the case,” cried Lady Clonbrony. “Where is your imagination running, Colambre? But merely for your establishment, your independence.”
“Establishment, I want none — independence I do desire, and will preserve. Assure my father, my dear mother, that I will not be an expense to him — I will live within the allowance he made me at Cambridge — I will give up half of it — I will do any thing for his convenience — but marry for money, that I cannot do.”
“Then, Colambre, you are very disobliging,” said Lady Clonbrony, with an expression of disappointment and displeasure; “for your father says if you don’t marry Miss Broadhurst, we can’t live in Lon’on another winter.”
This said — which had she been at the moment mistress of herself, she would not have betrayed — Lady Clonbrony abruptly quitted the room. Her son stood motionless, saying to himself, “Is this my mother? — How altered!”
The next morning he seized an opportunity of speaking to his father, whom he caught with difficulty just when he was going out, as usual, for the day. Lord Colambre, with all the respect due to his father, and with that affectionate manner by which he always knew how to soften the strength of his expressions, made nearly the same declarations of his resolution, by which his mother had been so much surprised and offended. Lord Clonbrony seemed more embarrassed, but not so much displeased. When Lord Colambre adverted, as delicately as he could, to the selfishness of desiring from him the sacrifice of liberty for life, to say nothing of his affections, merely to enable his family to make a splendid figure in London, Lord Clonbrony exclaimed, “That’s all nonsense! — cursed nonsense! That’s the way we are obliged to state the thing to your mother, my dear boy, because I might talk her deaf before she would understand or listen to any thing else; but, for my own share, I don’t care a rush if London was sunk in the salt sea. Little Dublin for my money, as Sir Terence O’Fay says.”
“Who is Sir Terence O’Fay, may I ask, sir?”
“Why, don’t you know Terry? — Ay, you’ve been so long at Cambridge — I forgot. And did you never see Terry?”
“I have seen him, sir. — I met him yesterday at Mr. Mordicai’s, the coachmaker’s.”
“Mordicai’s!” exclaimed Lord Clonbrony, with a sudden blush, which he endeavoured to hide, by taking snuff. “He is a damned rascal, that Mordicai! I hope you didn’t believe a word he said — nobody does that knows him.”
“I am glad, sir, that you seem to know him so well, and to be upon your guard against him,” replied Lord Colambre; “for, from what I heard of his conversation, when he was not aware who I was, I am convinced he would do you any injury in his power.”
“He shall never have me in his power, I promise him. We shall take care of that — But what did he say?”
Lord Colambre repeated the substance of what Mordicai had said, and Lord Clonbrony reiterated, “Damned rascal! — damned rascal! —
I’ll get out of his hands — I’ll have no more to do with him.” But, as he spoke, he exhibited evident symptoms of uneasiness, moving continually, and shifting from leg to leg, like a foundered horse.
He could not bring himself positively to deny that he had debts and difficulties; but he would by no means open the state of his affairs to his son: “No father is called upon to do that,” said he to himself; “none but a fool would do it.”
Lord Colambre, perceiving his father’s embarrassment, withdrew his eyes, respectfully refrained from all further inquiries, and simply repeated the assurance he had made to his mother, that he would put his family to no additional expense; and that, if it was necessary, he would willingly give up half his allowance.
“Not at all, not at all, my dear boy,” said his father: “I would rather cramp myself than that you should be cramped, a thousand times over. But it is all my Lady Clonbrony’s nonsense. If people would but, as they ought, stay in their own country, live on their own estates, and kill their own mutton, money need never be wanting.”
For killing their own mutton, Lord Colambre did not see the indispensable necessity; but he rejoiced to hear his father assert that people should reside in their own country.
“Ay,” cried Lord Clonbrony, to strengthen his assertion, as he always thought it necessary to do, by quoting some other person’s opinion—”so Sir Terence O’Fay always says, and that’s the reason your mother can’t endure poor Terry — You don’t know Terry? No, you have only seen him; but, indeed, to see him is to know him; for he is the most off-hand, good fellow in Europe.”
“I don’t pretend to know him yet,” said Lord Colambre. “I am not so presumptuous as to form my opinion at first sight.”
“Oh, curse your modesty!” interrupted Lord Clonbrony; “you mean, you don’t pretend to like him yet; but Terry will make you like him. I defy you not — I’ll introduce you to him — him to you, I mean — most warm-hearted, generous dog upon earth — convivial — jovial — with wit and humour enough, in his own way, to split you — split me if he has not. You need not cast down your eyes, Colambre. What’s your objection?”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 538