Don Jer. “I’ll let them see how merry an old man can be.”—The Duenna.

I may value myself upon one quality, which, when I was young, was in a great measure due to the high opinion I had of myself; I was always fond of keeping my promises, and being regarded as a man of my word.

I had informed Mr. Curling, shortly after I joined the bank, that I should apply to my uncle for an increase of salary for Mr. Spratling. I did so that same Sunday evening I had passed in making love to Conny, and pleaded Spratling’s case so well, dwelt so pathetically upon his affection for his mother, and on the effect produced on me when I witnessed the care he took of her as they walked, that my uncle told me he would raise the young man’s salary ten pounds next day. He seemed much pleased to find I could take any interest in a matter of this kind, as his notion was that I looked down upon both my fellow-clerks with huge contempt. At supper that night, he spoke of the favour I had requested, and my aunt was pleased to make me a very handsome compliment, though I was much more gratified by the smile Conny gave me, and the quite new expression of interest in her face with which I caught her regarding me.

Next morning I had the pleasure of telling Mr. Spratling what I had done for him; and the way in which he slipped off his stool and pressed my hand, looking wistfully into my face, as if he were made sad by the want of language to express his feelings, quite affected me. Mr. Curling was immensely polite and officiously instructive. “You have made two worthy people very happy to-day,” he whispered. I smiled rather coldly, for my unaccountable prejudice against this gentleman was daily increasing, and I wanted nothing from him but the bare instruction he was capable of giving me.

I was leaning with my hands behind me against the empty fireplace in the bank, thinking, I daresay, of Conny, when the swinging doors were pushed rather violently open, and a tall, stout man, dressed in a frock-coat and a broad-brimmed hat, the felt of which appeared to be brushed the wrong way, came in.

“Is Mr. Hargrave within?” he inquired in a loud voice, pulling off his hat, and wiping his forehead with a huge pocket-handkerchief, at the same time staring at me in a manner, I thought, uncommonly rude. I returned his stare with a great deal of assurance, not even changing my posture, having no doubt that he was some old farmer who wanted to open an account at the bank.

Mr. Spratling went to tell my uncle he was wanted. Meanwhile, my tall, stout friend, never removed his eyes from my face. Presently my uncle came out of his little back office, and had no sooner caught sight of the individual who wanted him, than he shouted out,“What! Dick! why, my dear boy, who on earth would have expected to see you!”

“How are you? how are you, Tom?” replied the other, looking at my uncle for a moment, and immediately reverting to me. Then, throwing his handkerchief violently into his hat, which he had placed on the counter, he called out, pointing to me, “Tom, if that isn’t Charlie’s son, hang, draw, and quarter me!”

“Why, of course it is,” replied my uncle. “Here, Charlie, let me introduce you to your uncle Richard.”

I went up to the counter, and my uncle Richard gripped my hand with a squeeze, that left my fingers bloodless.

“It is Charlie as he was at five-and-twenty—but better-looking!” he roared, pulling me hard against the counter, and examining my face with a broad grin on his own.

“Come in, come in, this way, both of you!” called out my uncle Tom; and then shutting the door, he made us sit down. I looked at this fresh uncle of mine with unmixed curiosity. He was as unlike Tom as Tom was unlike my father. He had a fat, broad, English face, with immense double-chins, little strips of whiskers, sharp black eyes, and a head very nearly bald. He was as tall as my father, and about three times as big. Indeed, he only wanted a pair of top-boots, and a bottle-coloured cut-away coat, to have figured as a living reproduction of the picture of the traditional Mr. John Bull.

“Of course you told me he was with you,” said he, addressing his brother, and by the “he” meaning me, “but I should never have remembered it had I not caught the likeness. And how’s the major? and what is he doing? Why, he deserves to be changed into a frog, for living all his life out of England, and never coming to see a man. How is he? how is he?”

“Very well indeed,” said I.

“Does he ever talk of his brother Dick?”

“Oh yes.”

I should have been nearer the truth had I said “Oh no.”

“I’m his brother Dick. Gad take me! you stared, young ’un, as if I were a witch. Do I look as if I could ride a broomstick? hey? hey?” And he burst into a roar of laughter, so loud that I was almost stunned.“And what’s brought you here, Dick?” said my uncle Tom.

“Why, I’m thinking of breeding some nags, Tom, and have come to look at ‘Young Sidney,’ belonging to Dixon, of the Three Geese; a good horse, my lad, rising four years old, sixteen and a quarter high: his dam, Tom, a Yorkshire mare, by ‘Slipslop,’ a splendid brute I wanted to buy, but that fellow Solomons wouldn’t part with her at my price. That’s some years since. So I told Teazer I’d run over here and see the animal, and have a look at the wife and Conny. How are they?”

“Very well. You’ll sleep at Grove End?”

“Yes; but I shall want to be away early. Wednesday’s settling-day on the Stock Exchange, and I must be in town to-morrow night.”“Why didn’t you bring Teazer with you?”

“Oh, somebody must be left to look after the plate. Young ’un,” said he to me, “are you any judge of horses?”

“No, I know nothing of horses, nor of clothes’ horses either,” I replied, hardly relishing his freedom before my uncle Tom, whose behaviour to me was uniformly courteous and even deferential; and yet not choosing to resent it, for fear of being made to cut a ridiculous figure.

“Hullo! he’s a wag, Tom. Is that a French pun, nephew?” he asked, with a droll wink at his brother.

“What are you going to do now?” said uncle Tom, coming to my rescue.

“Why, I shall go and get a basin of soup at Dixon’s, and then drive over to Grove End?”“Lunch with my wife—you’ll be in time.”

“Thank you; now that I’m here, I’ll have a talk with Philpotts, your nursery-man, about some seed he’s advertising.”

“The phaeton will be here at four; join us. We’ll drive you to Grove End.”

“All right,” answered my stout uncle, rising laboriously. “Good-bye for the present, Tom; good-bye, young ’un.”

And he strode out of the bank, making the whole place shake with his heavy tread.

“He’s one of the best-hearted fellows in existence,” said uncle Tom, looking at me with a humorous twinkle in his eye. “I’m very glad he’s come. I’ve been wanting an opportunity to introduce you.”

“Who’s Teazer? his dog?” I asked.

“His daughter. It’s his pet name for Theresa—as handsome a girl as ever you saw.”

“Not so bluff as her papa, perhaps?”

“Not she. I rather think Dick assumes that manner with strangers. He has an idea that it makes people see he is a man of the world—a practical, plain-spoken man who is not to be humbugged. In reality, any child could trick him. A big, honest heart beats in that stout form, Charlie. Don’t let his manner prejudice you.”

“I am not easily prejudiced.”

Uncle Dick returned to the bank punctually at four, and came in, roaring out, “What ho! House here, I say! Not ready yet! ’Sdeath, but I’ll be revenged!” making at the same time so horrible a face at me, that Mr. Spratling had to squeeze his mouth into his coat-sleeves, with his hands locked over the nape of his neck, to save the explosion of an incontrollable yell.

“That was Braham’s style in his recititavos,” said the old gentleman. “Did you ever hear of Braham?”

“Oh, yes,” I answered, thinking he was joking me, “and of Isaac and Jacob too.”

“Tom,” said he to his brother, who at that moment came out of his private room, “here’s a young gentleman who imagines that Braham lived in the time of Isaac and Jacob.”

“If he didn’t, his forefathers did,” replied Uncle Tom; at which retort, from the head of the firm, both Mr. Curling and Mr. Spratling laughed loudly, the smaller salary being more boisterous than the larger.

“Braham,” said uncle Dick, addressing me, “was a great singer, who composed the ‘Death of Nelson,’ worthy, sir, of Charles Dibdin. He was, besides, the best Isaac Mendoza the world will ever see.”

“Here comes the phaeton,” cried uncle Tom.

“I thought you asked me if I had ever heard of Abraham,” I said.

“Fudge! Abraham, indeed! I am talking of little Braham who used to sing—” and to my infinite amusement, and to his brother’s great concern, he struck an attitude, clapped his hand on his heart, and frowning at a framed advertisement of the British Imperial Marine Insurance Company, sang in a small clear tenor, the first bars of “’Twas in Trafalgar’s bay!” This done, he called out, “Now then, gentlemen, let none of you pretend never to have heard of Braham,” marched to the phaeton and climbed into the front seat.

“Braham is one of his heroes,” uncle Tom whispered to me as we followed. “They were friends, I believe, twenty-five years ago. Dick was a good deal among the players and literary men of those days, and when he is in the vein, his conversation is very amusing.”

We jumped into the phaeton, and drove to Grove End.

My aunt and Conny gave uncle Dick a hearty greeting. I confess I was surprised to see how completely he altered his manners when with the ladies; how courteous, how affable he was, how agreeably he talked. He tried to get up a laugh against me, by telling them how I had mistaken Braham the singer for Abraham the patriarch; but whether it was that I had my aunt’s and cousin’s sympathy, or that they had never heard of Braham, my big uncle’s well-meant attempt missed fire. I gave him a look to let him know that what laugh there was, was on my side. Conny asked very affectionately after Theresa.

“She wants to be tamed,” was the answer. “She’s growing desperately wild. Her latest amusement is pistol-shooting, and I give you my word she is the neatest shot that can be imagined. She hangs a ball to a branch, and cuts the thread eight times out of ten, at twenty paces.”

“What a very singular pastime for a young lady to indulge in,” exclaimed my aunt.

“You should get her married,” said uncle Tom. “I wish you had brought her with you. Here’s a cousin who would be glad to know her.”

I tried to catch Conny’s eye, to let her know that this suggestion of her papa’s was entirely gratuitous, but she wouldn’t look at me. It seemed to me, however, that Mrs. Hargrave stared at her husband somewhat more severely than his innocent observation merited.

“Well, when are you coming to see us?” said uncle Dick, turning round and facing me.

“I shall be proud to make Theresa’s acquaintance,” I answered, the idea suddenly occurring to me that by feigning to take an interest in my unknown relative, I might arouse Conny’s jealousy.

“Name your day, my boy.”

“We’ll settle that this evening,” interrupted uncle Tom, who then offered to take his brother to his bed-room, and afterwards show him some singular roots he had in his hothouses. So they left the room. Conny followed them, “to wait upon her uncle,” she said, and my aunt and I were left alone.

“Theresa,” she observed, “is a handsome, dashing girl, but I don’t think you’ll admire her.”

“She seems to have a very manly disposition.”

“Oh, very; she’s all day long on horseback.”

“She should join a circus.”

“I confess,” said my aunt, “I should not care for Conny to possess her accomplishments.”

“Oh, Conny is a thorough woman, all sweetness and tenderness.”“And I daresay,” replied the gratified mother, “would be thought by many quite as pretty as her cousin.”

“I couldn’t conceive any girl prettier than Conny. I hope I shan’t frighten you,” I continued, carried away by my feelings, “if I tell you that I am in love with her.”

“Are you really?” she exclaimed, opening her eyes.

“Deeply in love with her, and I told her so last night.”

“And what did she say?” inquired my aunt eagerly.

“Why, she told me that I had not given her time to fall in love with me.”

“But did she seem pleased? did she seem gratified?”

“I hardly know. Sometimes I thought she was, and sometimes I thought she wasn’t.”

“Well, speaking for myself, Charlie,” said my aunt, inclining her head forward, and addressing me in her most confidential manner, “I may tell you, you are welcome to my consent, if you can succeed in making her love you.”

Delighted as I was, I couldn’t be amazed; for you must remember that Conny had told me of her mother’s wishes the evening before.

“I have not yet expressed my wishes to my husband,” she continued, “as I prefer to wait until you and Conny have settled it between you. But I do not doubt that he would be as gratified as myself by the union of his child with the son of his favourite brother.”

“He’s amiable and good enough to consent to anything that would give happiness,” said I.

“He is, indeed.”

“As to my father,” I continued, “it would delight him to hear that I was to be married to Conny. He is a great advocate for marriages between cousins. He considers that the dignity of a family can only be sustained and transmitted by the union of relations.”

“Providing there is no madness.”

“Oh, of course. Don’t you agree with him?”

“Entirely. But what do you yourself think of Conny? does she seem fond of you?”

“She gave me leave to hope.”

“I am glad to hear that. And now, as you are in love, you can be jealous; and will therefore be able to tell me if you think her affections are engaged elsewhere.”

“That is a most uncomfortable suggestion,” I answered, uneasily.

“Do you think she cares about Mr. Curling?”

“I have tried to find out—and were I not in love with her, I should say, No. But the mere idea makes me jealous, and suspicious.”

“I used to think that she was attached to that man,” said my aunt, “and so took the bull by the horns, by ceasing to invite him to see us. But I really believe now, that what little nonsense there was between them, is at an end. It is impossible to suppose that a child of mine could continue to care about so insignificant a person; and certainly, since your arrival, I have had no cause whatever to suspect that she any longer thinks about him. If she has given you encouragement, I am satisfied. Conny is an honest girl, and would not dream of accepting one man’s attention, while her heart was secretly given to another.”

Here the subject of our conversation entered the room, and drove us to talk of something else.

Considering Conny knew I loved her, considering, indeed, that I had as good as proposed to her, I had rather expected that she would manifest some little degree of embarrassment on meeting my eyes, that she would colour up, perhaps, when I looked at her; in a word, that she would have exhibited by her manner a thorough consciousness of the tender experience we shared. Do you understand me, Eugenio? When you met Dorothea, after you had squeezed her hand, and muttered the statements you desired to make in her ear, you were quite satisfied to find her shy and even reserved, peeping at you askance when she thought you were not noticing, and receiving your observations—uttered in a very distant and polite tone of course, before company—with a peculiar smile and a remarkable little blush, both which your heart opened to receive, as the flower opens to the delicate dew, and both which were inexpressibly delicious, because they were unintelligible to all but you. Now Conny thrilled me with no such subtle and touching manifestations. She made no difference in her treatment of me. When my uncles returned, I got her into a corner near the piano, and talked cynicism. I was dreadfully sarcastic; sneered at everything; asked satirical questions with acidulated grins; quoted “Vanity Fair,” and was altogether fearfully bitter. She appeared sometimes amused and sometimes disconcerted by my remarks; but I won’t be sure that she heard everything I said. At last she asked me if I didn’t feel well?

“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, “what a dreadful question! Of course I am well.”

“You are bilious,” she said: “you don’t take enough exercise.”

“I am not bilious. As to exercise, I hate walking.”

“Then why don’t you talk cheerfully?”

“Because you hate me,” I replied, giving her a ghastly look.

“I thought I told you last night that I liked you?”“Liked!” I cried with immense contempt. “I had rather be hated than liked. I want to be loved,” I muttered in a voice resembling that with which Hamlet pÈre is used to address his son from under the stage.

“You promised you would not revert to—to—that subject, until I gave you leave,” she exclaimed, reproachfully.

“I can’t help it. I must speak.”

“Do try to be patient, dear Charlie,” she whispered in her most winning voice, with her sweetest smile.

“I will,” I gasped. “But oh, don’t treat me as if I were only a nice young man.”

She made me no answer, but letting slip her little hand, caught hold of my wrist, and gave it a squeeze. Eugenio, ’twas like taking chloroform. All heaven opened upon me.“Dinner is served,” said a servant at the door.

I gave Conny my arm, and followed the others into the dining-room.

END OF VOL I.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.