Chapter III

“Rather put your foot into it last night, Jack,” said Lord Tom to the tiger when they met at breakfast.

“R-ā-ther,” said Jack. “How the deuce should I know that that greyheaded gig was the chap who took the flying-leap in the Vale of Blackmore half a century ago?”

“You got off deuced well,” said Lord Tom; “for although Dullingham is too old to fight, there might have been a bother if it had not been for the brig.”

“Never saw a finer sight!” said Jack, “Told you I’d soon be aboard: the minute I got down, saw two females waving white handkerchiefs--signals of distress: off I went--caught hold of the rope--clung like a cat--splash through the surf--up the side--seized hold of them, held on by my teeth, and slipped along the hawser: put one girl under each arm, for all the world like a fowl with the gizzard under one wing and the liver under the other, and landed them in less than a quarter of an hour, safe and sound, smack, smooth, and no mistake.”

“Their gratitude, I suppose, was unbounded,” said Lord Tom, whose doubts of his friend’s strict adherence to truth began hourly to increase.

“Gratitude!” said Jack--“they are females;--when did you ever hear of an ungrateful female?”

“Did you make yourself known to them?” said Lord Tom.

“Not I,” said Jack--“leave that for to-day. I hate boasting and puffing: if I had said who I was, the chances are, it would have been stuck in the newspapers. I can’t stand notoriety: don’t mind it in my own line--sporting, and all that sort of thing; but else, all quiet and snug--mum’s the word, and no mistake.”

“I admire your modesty,” said Lord Tom; “and your coming home here and going quietly to bed, without saying a syllable of the matter to the master of the house, or any of the waiters, shows your desire to be unknown and unnoticed. Didn’t they see the condition in which you were when you came back?”

“Condition!” said Jack--“I was in no condition.”

“Not wet?” said Lord Tom.

“On the contrary,” said Jack, “I was uncommon dry. Sir Gunnersbury’s port was what I call regular black-strap--Day and Martin--eh!--and no mistake.”

“Why didn’t you drink his claret?” said Lord Tom.

“Red pickled-cabbage juice bottled,” said Jack:--“no--I had two glasses of hot ‘with’ when I came home, and then turned in.”

“But did you sit in your wet clothes?” said Lord Tom.

“Wet clothes!” said Jack. “Oh!--wet clothes--eh!--oh! in getting aboard the brig:--pshaw! my dear lord--nothing--a mere flea-bite--salt water never gives cold--I blew myself dry, running home.”

“Pleasant, gentlemanly man, young Gunnersbury,” said Lord Tom, swallowing the explanation without any apparent effort.

“I never sighted such a fellow in the whole course of my run,” said Jack. “You saw how I treated him--cut him dead--never so much as looked at him after the first glance: no--life’s too short to waste upon such a scarecrow as that. Eliza’s not bad--has eyes, eh!--and knows how to use them. Mother’s a droll woman.”

“Droll!--a polyglot,” said Lord Tom.

“Oh! her name was Glot?” said Jack:--“rather old to be called Polly now. That Mrs. Carnaby looks lively, I take it. _She_ has eyes too, and _she_ knows how to use them. Carnaby seems a steady, respectable sort of man; I suppose, it wouldn’t be straight up and right down to disturb his domestic happiness,--else, my lord----eh! I say nothing--only----I know the sex, and no mistake.”

“I know nothing of either of them,” said Lord Tom. “We must call on the Gunnersburys, however, to-day.”

“When we are sure they are out,” said Jack, who had scarcely uttered the words before he astonished Lord Tom by thrusting his head out of the window, and exclaiming--“By Job! it _is_, and no mistake!”

“Who?--what?” cried his lordship, half frightened at the energetic manner of his companion.

“George Brown,” replied Jack: “if ever I saw George Brown in my life, he has just this minute gone out of this house with another gentleman.”

“And who is George Brown?” said Lord Tom; “and where’s the wonder?”

“Wonder enough, my lord,” said Jack, “if you knew all: why, he is the major you have heard me talk of so often.”

“Oh!” said Lord Tom, “the brother of your deserted damsel?--hadn’t you better brush up your pistols, and make your will.”

“No, no,” said Jack, “not exactly that; but I’ll just ask the question. I know I can’t be deceived in my man, although he looks older and browner than he did when I saw him last.” Saying which, he rang the bell.

Of the waiter who obeyed the summons he made his inquiries, and found, according to his anticipation, that it _was_ the identical George Brown himself. In a moment Jack, who had always hitherto slurred over his connexion with this said George in his communings with Lord Tom, being convinced by the waiter’s account that he had by some means become rich and prosperous, immediately altered his tone.

“Mr. Brown and his lady are going off to-morrow for Calais,” said the man. “They would have gone to-day, but they were too late to get their carriages on board.”

“Is Mrs. Brown here?” said Jack.

“Yes, sir,” said the man; and being asked no more questions, retired.

“That’s a lucky chance,” said Jack. “I’ll go to her this moment--find out all, how, and about it: can’t make it out just yet.”

“What! do you know the lady?” said Lord Tom.

“Know her!” said Jack; “shouldn’t wonder: why, she’s my sister, that’s all.”

“Your sister!” said his lordship; “I never understood you that the major was your brother-in-law. You always said that he was a distant connexion.”

“So he was,” said Jack, “when he was in India; he is nearer now. So up I go, smack smooth, and no mistake. Come along, my lord, I’ll introduce you to Kitty; it will be a regular surprise upon her; and when George comes back he’ll stare like a stuck pig. I like a surprise.”

“I’m your man,” said Lord Tom. “I shall enjoy the sight of your meeting.”

“Here, waiter,” said Jack; “which room is Mrs. Brown in?”

“That room, sir,” said the waiter. “Do you wish to--”

“No, no,” said Brag, in a half whisper; “don’t say anything--I’m her brother. Want to astonish her; she don’t know I’m here: haven’t seen her for years. Hush!--now, my lord--” At this period of his conversation, the dexterous gentleman gently opened the door, and stepping softly up to the lady, exclaimed in a voice sweet as the music of the spheres--“Kitty!--I say, Kitty, my Kit!”

The noise roused the lady, who was sitting with her back to the door, reading: she turned round, started from her seat, and presented to the eyes of the astonished Jack, and his much-mystified companion, a beautiful countenance, in which an expression of alarm and surprise was predominant, but which, as the reader has, no doubt, anticipated, was not that of the _ci-devant_ Kitty Brag.

The group were at what Sheridan, in “The Critic,” calls a “dead lock.”

“Why, it isn’t Kitty!” said Jack.

“I believe there is some mistake,” said Mrs. Brown, at the same moment extending her hand towards the bell-rope.

“Your name is Brown, ma’am, isn’t it?” said Jack.

“It is,” said the lady.

“Wife of George Brown, from India?” said Jack.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can’t make it out,” said Jack.

“If you have any commands for Mr. Brown, sir,” said the lady, “he will be here in a few minutes.”

“You had better return _then_,” said Lord Tom, who saw that his expert friend had somehow got into a new scrape, and that the lady was extremely desirous of getting rid of his society.

“It’s all right, by Job!” said Jack; “there’s some kink or caddle somewhere, but in the main it’s all straight up, right down, and no mistake,--for here’s Nancy, as nice as Nip.”

These words were uttered, accompanied with a caper such as would not have disgraced a dancing-master, and followed by a scream of horror from Anne, who at that moment entered the room, and who, as Jack advanced to take her hand, fell senseless into a chair.

The changes which had taken place in Jack’s views and intentions during a shorter period than the relation of this event requires, were most particularly characteristic. That Brown was Brown, browner than he was, Jack was convinced; that his wife was not Kitty at once pointed out to him that his sister must be dead, and that George had remarried: hence, like lightning, it darted into his mind that it must have been through _her_ that he had acquired the means of living as it too manifestly appeared he did; inasmuch as, besides the waiter’s previous representation of the difficulty of “embarking the carriages,” the sudden appearance of a valet, two lady’s maids, and a strapping livery servant, jacketed, topped, and leathered for travelling, who rushed into the apartment at the tintinnabulary summons of Mrs. Brown, confirmed him in the opinion that his now readily acknowledged brother-in-law had become wealthy, and consequently important, and was therefore much to be cherished and toadied.

These momentarily excited feelings were, as it were, electrically driven into another channel the instant he beheld Anne Brown. There she was,--she who had confessed her affection for him,--the sister of the rich and prosperous George, now, in his own opinion, a suitable match for him: and in less than a second more he had resolved that the meek, the mild, the modest unoffending creature whom he had neglected, slighted, and traduced for years, should still be his; and that they would somehow, in the end, make a snug family circle, all right, and no mistake.

“What on earth does all this mean?” said a gentleman entering the room in the midst of the confusion:--“what has happened?”

By this time Anne had been led, or rather carried, from the sitting-room by Mrs. Brown and her maid. For a moment the last-arrived gentleman was absent, and the two intruders were left alone in the apartment.

“Missed your tip, somehow, Jack,” said Lord Tom.

“All right in the end,” said Jack. “Don’t you remember our little friend in Regent Street?--that’s Nancy.”

“Oh!” said my lord, looking uncommonly wise.

“Exactly so,” said Jack, looking particularly cunning.

“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, re-entering the room, “I am yet to learn the cause of your abrupt visit to these apartments.”

“It’s all right,” said Jack--“all fair and above board. George Brown married my sister--that’s the mistake. This lady is not my sister--that’s clear as light. I never heard of poor Kitty’s death!--but she’s gone, no doubt, and George will tell us all about it. But George has a sister too: Nancy;--and if I flurried her at first seeing me after so long a parting, I’m deuced sorry for that. However, it’s all natural: and so I’ll call in by-and-by, when George comes back. Sunshine after rain, and no mistake. This, sir, is my friend, Lord Thomas Towzle--so that’s all right.”

“I believe,” said the gentleman, “if you are the brother of the former Mrs. Brown, I have heard your name mentioned as a very particular friend of Mr. Brown’s sister.”

“R-ā-ther so,” said Jack, “but circumstances occurred to keep us apart. Never had but one feeling towards her--I believe it is what you call reciprocal; and I am deuced sorry I took her so aback: however, by-and-by, as I say----”

“Sir,” said the gentleman, “what course Mr. Brown may choose to pursue towards you I am at a loss to conjecture; but with respect to his sister, it becomes _my_ duty to act for myself--I am her husband, sir: although I assumed that character only three days since, it is my province to protect her from insult and alarm. Permit me to say, sir, that your absence is what we all most particularly desire: indeed, that we should have been favoured by your presence did not enter into our calculations, although we were accidentally made aware of your residence in this house shortly after our arrival.”

“Married to _my_ Nancy!” said Jack; “oh, that _is_ a go!”

“Yes, sir,” said Dr. Mead, for it was he who spoke; “and not married to her, until, in the candour and ingenuousness of her heart and mind, she had informed me of all the circumstances of your early acquaintance;--nay, more, sir, of the preference for you which she at that time acknowledged. If you will take the trouble to cast a retrospective glance over your conduct during a period when you might have properly evinced the sincerity of your professions--and the total neglect of a being whom you fancied your victim, you will perhaps perceive through the gloom a glimmering of light sufficient to show you the indelicacy and impropriety of your remaining one minute longer in this room.”

“What! did she tell you _all_?” said Jack, quite at sea, and scarcely knowing what he said.

“All, sir,” said the doctor; “but perhaps not _quite_ all that you have permitted your licentious tongue to utter.”

“I--sir--I?” said Jack.

“Come,” said Lord Tom, “you had better come away.”

“But my sister--” said Jack.

“Delicacy, sir,” said Dr. Mead, “seals my lips with regard to that unfortunate person. She is in her grave, to which she was borne, unfollowed by an injured, outraged husband. It is fit you should know this; and it is fortunate that the duty of telling you the bitter truth devolves rather upon _me_ than on my brother-in-law himself.”

“By Job!” said Jack, scratching his head.

“Indeed, I would venture to suggest your retiring,” said the doctor, “before his return from his walk. His affection for his mother and sister is ardent and strong; and if he found you here, something perhaps might occur which, for all our sakes, had better be avoided.”

“Oh,” said Jack, “in course I’ll not stop a minute--no:--as you say, there’s no use in that kind of thing. It is all very surprising, and particularly unpleasant: but you, sir, are a gentleman, and act as such; not that I have the pleasure of knowing your name, but----”

“My name is Mead,” said the doctor; “and I feel the greatest satisfaction in announcing it to you, in order that you may be good enough for the future to avoid any communication with the humble individual who bears it. I wish you a very good morning, sir!”

“Good morning, sir!” said Jack. “I certainly should have liked to shake hands with Anne.”

“I assure you, sir, she is not well enough to risk any further interview,” said the doctor.

“Well then, in course there’s an end,” said Jack. “Come, my lord--we’ll go. Good morning, sir!”

Saying which, infallible Jack crawled out of the room, followed by Lord Tom, who made a slight bow to the doctor.

“Hadn’t we better go down the back-stairs,” said Jack; “it’s no use running the risk of meeting that fellow, Brown: one can’t fight a serjeant.”

“Fight whom?” said Lord Tom.

“Why,” said Jack, “he never was anything but a serjeant.”

“What!--learned in the law?” said his lordship.

“Club law, if any,” said Jack. “No--a serjeant in a marching regiment.”

“Why, I thought you told me he was a major in the army!” said Lord Tom.

“So he was--serjeant-major,” said Jack, who, the moment he found himself despised and kicked out of his brother-in-law’s society, suddenly changed his ground, and tried to run down the man and his connexions whom, ten minutes before, he was ready to eulogize to the skies.

“I should like very much to belong to his corps,” said Lord Tom: “it must be deuced good pay for a serjeant to enable him to do what _he_ does in the way of living. But--Jack--what do you mean to do next? Do you mean to take any notice of what that Mr. Mead, or whatever his name is, said?--it was not over-courteous, you know.”

“No,” said Jack, “but then I make allowances. I certainly did tantalize his poor little wife. I _am_ a sad dog in that way. ’Pon my life! it is more my misfortune than my fault.”

“Yes,” said Lord Tom; “but then--somehow----however, it all depends upon feeling--only he decidedly turned you out of the room.”

“Well, you know, my lord,” said Jack, “he had a right to do that, because they pay for separate apartments, and in course I had no business there. If it had been really my sister, instead of another wife, you would have seen how I should have acted: but, you see, she’s gone;--and--eh!”

“Yes,” said Lord Tom, “the gentleman was good enough to mention that fact.”

“I didn’t like to ask further particulars,” said Jack; “but it seems deuced strange that one shouldn’t have heard of her death.”

“Perhaps your mother has heard of it,” said Lord Tom; “only I suspect you are not a very constant correspondent of that worthy lady’s.”

“Maybe she has,” said Jack, evidently thinking as much as he could.

“Do you mean to stay here?” said Lord Tom. “I intended to have crossed to-morrow; but I suppose it wouldn’t be agreeable for you to go afloat with your newly-recovered connexions.”

“Not exactly,” said Jack. “Oh, in course, I shall stay here till you go: but I couldn’t well have gone to-morrow anyhow, because I have engaged myself to pass one day, before we went over, with a friend at Walmer.”

“What! at the Castle?” said Lord Tom, making a face, invisible to Jack, whose real character began to develope itself rapidly.

“No, no,” said Jack archly, “nothing of that sort: all snug--fellow-passenger in the ‘Union’--promises not to be broken:--mum!--that’s all right, and no mistake. I shall go over directly, and stay till to-morrow after--”

“--After ‘The Ferret’ starts for Calais,” said Lord Tom. “You are right--peaceably disposed, and averse from collision. I’ll wait for you; only keep yourself all right for the Champ de Mars.”

“Deuced odd name for a race-course, isn’t it?” said Jack.

“‘What’s in a name?’” said Lord Tom.

“Not much,” said Jack. “One would never fancy that pleasant gentleman up-stairs to be called Mead, from the sour way in which he talks.”

“Oh, hang him!” said Lord Tom, who, foreseeing that if there was anything like a fight, he must inevitably be Jack’s friend upon the occasion, lent himself entirely to his views of the subject, and acceded completely to his notion of terminating the affair peaceably. “I should have nothing to do with any of them; it is all what I call a tangle, and would take a deuced sight of trouble to unravel it: so start for Walmer, and I’ll wait your return.”

It is impossible to describe the delight which Brag felt at this acquiescence on the part of his lordship in all his propositions; nor was it long before he put his scheme in execution: and two o’clock found him strolling about upon the beach at Deal, having secured a bed-room at one of the worst inns in the place, the whole history of his promise and assignation with his “Fanny of Timmol” being, as the reader will naturally believe, a bright fiction of his own particular school.

It is scarcely necessary now to mention, that in the case of Dr. and Mrs. Mead “the course of true love _did_ run smooth,” since the doctor himself announced his marriage with Anne to Jack Brag; nor is it more necessary to eulogize the candour and single-mindedness on her part, to which he also referred, and which determined her to relate to her intended husband every circumstance connected with her intimacy with her early lover. They were united at St. George’s, Hanover Square;--not because it is _the_ church for matrimony _par excellence_, but because it happened to be the church of the parish in which Mead’s house was located. They had started from town three days before, and were joined at Sittingbourne by the Browns, who, reducing the prescribed “treacle period,” proposed, as we have already seen, accompanying them to Paris.

The evil star of Jack, however, was just now in the ascendant. It is true that his skilful and timely retreat to Walmer saved him from any inconvenience likely to arise from a meeting with Mr. George Brown; but it occasioned another calamity, which to him, even with all his prudence, was worse than the chance of being wounded in a rencounter with his injured brother-in-law:--but of this no more at present.

When Jack had finished his solitary dinner, and sipped his glass of grog--for in the house he had selected for his abode wine was wholly out of the question, he fell into a lengthened reflection upon his family affairs: he felt anxious to ascertain the real history of his sister’s defection and fall, and to discover how the long-despised George had attained to wealth and importance such as he evidently possessed. The fortunate marriage of the neglected Anne equally puzzled him, and he resolved to while away the dull evening by writing his mother a letter, in which, giving a modified account of his discovery of the Browns, he might, as delicately as he could, ascertain the extent of his mother’s knowledge touching Kitty. Of course, he could get no answer until he was in Paris, his desire of going to which place was by no means increased by the fact that the Meads and Browns were going thither also. It was, however, impossible to disappoint Lord Tom, who so entirely reckoned upon his riding, and he therefore consoled himself with the reflection that Paris was a large city, and that they should not stay there long; and that it was by no means impossible that he might not fall in with any of his connexions during his stay.

Then there came into his head a sort of question whether he ought to assume mourning for his departed relative; but, after a discussion with himself, he decided, that as she must have been dead for a considerable time, it would be ridiculous to begin to weep then; besides which, his appearance in a “suit of sables” would naturally lead to questions which it would be neither agreeable nor convenient for him to answer. He accordingly resolved upon saying nothing upon the subject, but upon writing, to hear the extent of the evil, from his respectable parent.

While all this was going on, a storm was brewing at Dover calculated to swamp the pretender upon his return and which was a splendid illustration of the saying, that “misfortunes never come alone.” The reader will recollect the infelicitous _tête-à-tête_ which Jack enjoyed at the sign of “The Duke of Marlborough” with the Earl of Ilfracombe: the sociable mutton-chop; the social glass of punch; with the pleasing episodes of Mr. Figg’s horses, and the red-elbowed Rachel.

The reader will also recollect that the said Earl of Ilfracombe, the denounced “Kill-joy,” was uncle to Lord Tom Towzle, his sister being Duchess of Ditchwater. It was quite clear that the event, and the statements of Jack of his great intimacy with Lord Tom, must form the special subject of conversation between the uncle and nephew whenever they met. It so happened that they had not met since this curious _rencontre_ at “The Duke of Marlborough.” Lord Ilfracombe, his wife and family, had gone to Brussels three or four days after that event; and, as if Old Nick had really set his cloven foot in it, actually arrived from the Continent on the morning following Jack’s departure to Walmer, and before his return thence; a calamity--for such it proved to him--which would not have occurred, if he had not induced Lord Tom to postpone his passage until the next day, to suit his convenience and security as regarded other matters.

One of the principal morning recreations of Dover is the inspection of the passengers who land in the bay behind the pier, after the rolling and pitching which are so peculiarly the attributes of a voyage across the Channel from Calais: women pale and wan, (with their long ringlets all uncurled and limp, hanging adown their cheeks, enveloped in plaid cloaks,) brown cloaks, green cloaks, and sometimes soaked in fine silks and ermines, which their love of appearance has induced them to retain.--Men, with caps, and straps, and jerkins, and pea jackets, and Welsh wigs in every variety of deformity, scarce able to endure the tiresome assiduities of the “commissioners” from the different inns; some laden with leather hat-boxes, others with bags of sundry descriptions, and all looking sad, wan, and miserable. All these objects excite an interest, and often afford amusement; and, of course, when people can be amused and interested at so cheap a rate, the _spectacle_ is always well attended.

To the scene of action strolled Lord Tom, after having witnessed the early departure of “The Ferret,” with all Jack’s tormentors; and as each boat-load left the newly arrived steamer, his eye vainly roamed in search of somebody he knew. At length, however, his surprise and gratification were simultaneously excited by the appearance of Lord and Lady Ilfracombe, Lord and Lady Dawlish, and Lady Fanny Smartly, his lordship’s cousin. The recognition and meeting were exceedingly agreeable, for Lord Tom, who was always on his best behaviour in the society of his maternal uncle, was a considerable favourite with his aunt and cousin. One of the most striking proofs of his desire to stand well with this branch of his family was the fact, that he had never thought proper to present or introduce his tiger Brag to any member of it; and although Jack, to whose ear their names and probably attributes, had grown familiar by hearing a great deal of them from Lord Tom, his practical and personal knowledge of them was--_nil_.

Lady Fanny was the first to recognise her cousin; and in a moment afterwards, pale, sick, and sad as Lady Ilfracombe and Lady Dawlish were, they “rallied all life’s energies” to wave their hands in token of kind acknowledgment, looking more like a party under the care of Charon than of the jolly mortal boatmen, who cared no more for the wabbling of the waters than a fine lady does for an undisturbed rumble over a macadamized road.

They had intended to proceed direct to town, but the fatigue of the ladies, joined to the opportunity of passing a pleasant day with Lord Tom, induced them to change their design. The greetings and welcomings of the party were really true and genuine, for never was there a happier family, nor one whose whole delight centred more completely in the domestic pleasures of home. Lord Tom escorted Lady Ilfracombe and Lady Fanny; Lord Ilfracombe and his son were the supporters of Lady Dawlish; and so they ground their way, instep-deep, over the shingles--a walk said by experienced persons to be infinitely more tremendous than the tread-mill for an equal space of time,--until they reached the wonted “Ship,” and whither Lord Tom insisted upon their going, in opposition to Lord Ilfracombe, who, being the “sickest” of the party, was all for its rival, because it was nearer the landing-place, and because the landlord was most civil and obliging,--all of which character he deserves. But Lord Tom was to have his way, and so the party were as speedily as possible deposited at “The Ship,” which, with all its splendour and all its gaiety, does not half so much cheer our hearts as it did when it was an humbler-looking house, full of comforts afforded in a different style--an attempt at splendour which never can reach the scale to which it pretends, is always a mistake. Take “The Fountains” at Canterbury as an example of perfect snugness without pretension. Recollect that a late noble earl, and prime minister, in his journeys to Walmer, always stopped to dine and sleep at “The Rose” at Sittingbourne, because it was excellent in its way, and perfectly different from the ordinary routine of his life; and recollect that in all its appointments and accessories, innkeepers who deal in tinsel and tawdry, in the hope of making their houses something like what their noble customers are used to, fail entirely: neat and clean are the qualities of an inn--grand and great, must be ridiculous.

Into “The Ship” scarcely had the Ilfracombe party been ushered, before breakfast was prepared for the voyagers, who, after the refreshments of the dressing-room, recovered themselves entirely, and proceeded to make up for any loss of appetite which they might have sustained on the water. Never did aristocratic party more revel in the _dejeuner à la fourchette_ put down before them than these; and Lord Tom, who had already done breakfast the first, particularly well delighted at the opportunity afforded for the reunion, managed breakfast the second with infinite glee.

They were a family of love--Lord Tom avowedly the _roué_,--but still never betraying any of those symptoms which were likely either to excite the anxiety or displeasure of those members now present. They laughed, and talked; Lord Ilfracombe related many anecdotes of the _liberality_ of the King of the Belgians--and some extraordinary traits of the _liberalism_ of the King of the French;--discussed, in _his_ way, the anomalous position of a monarch raised to a throne not his own by the clamour of a people, whose liberties he was subsequently obliged to restrain with greater rigour than had ever been attempted even in the time of their idol and tyrant Buonaparte; and the curious fact of his denunciation even unto the death, of the contrivers of barricades, by which barricades alone he had himself obtained the crown.

From these, and similar general subjects, his lordship glanced to the more domestic topics of Dover; and Lord Tom explained precisely his position there--his connexion with a gentleman whom they would see at dinner, Mr. Brag, and who was to be his lordship’s companion to Paris for the purpose of riding his race.

“Why, then, you really _do_ know Mr. Brag!” said Lord Ilfracombe.

“I do,” said Lord Tom;--“but do _you_?”

The train was fired;--the fatal evil had occurred. Then it was that Lord Ilfracombe first had the opportunity of relating all that the reader already knows, about their meeting, &c.;--then it was that Lord Tom first became “wide awake” to the character of the tiger he had so long patronized:--and then it was he was resolved to give him a reception upon his return,

“More honoured in the breach than the observance,”

and kick him soundly for the insolent falsehoods he had dared to utter even to the face of their object. One thing alone interfered to prevent this obvious manifestation of his contempt--and that was, the debt, which he could not but acknowledge, but which, alas! he could not pay.

Lord Ilfracombe, instead of being the “Kill-joy” described by Brag, was a remarkably agreeable person, and, more than most people, ready to enter into a joke. Before Brag’s arrival, he entreated Lord Tom, instead of taking the matter up seriously, to punish the pretender by allowing him to join the party as usual, to permit him gradually to become acquainted with the ladies, whom he might not remember, and conclude the evening by making a matter of jest of that which could produce no satisfactory result if treated in any grave manner.

“At the same time, Tom,” said the earl, “I honestly confess, for your own sake,--let him down as you may--the easier the better,--I _do_ think you ought to get rid of him,--if after the Paris races, well and good: but you have no idea how ready the world is to attribute motives. This little man is of use to _you_, because he _is_ little, and rides light; but--_le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle_. Pay a jockey, and let him ride--but do not make him an associate; do not give him the power of gossiping about your relations, as this little man did to me. You cannot pay _him_, and therefore he must, if he ride, take it out ‘in kind,’ as the clergy have it.”

Lord Tom agreed with every word said by his noble uncle, even to the assertion that he could not pay Jack. This was the crisis fatal to Brag.

“My dear uncle,” said Lord Tom, “will you forgive what I am going to tell you?”

“Anything, Tom,” said his lordship. “I am not hard-hearted.”

“I admit to you,” said Lord Tom, “that recent events have opened my eyes to the character of this man. Last night he exposed himself in a house to which I had the credit of taking him. I have got a letter from town this morning, which gives me the whole account of his incalculable insolence in making offers to two ladies, sisters, who, both in joke, accepted him.”

“Mrs. Dallington and Miss Englefield,” said Lord Ilfracombe, “I presume.”

“My dear uncle, how in the name of wonder, do you know anything about it?” said Lord Tom.

“Your exemplary friend himself,” replied the earl, “told me the whole story of their devotion to him, with their names and places of residence, at the very moment in which he was spanning the by no means taper waist of the barmaid of the alehouse.”

“You don’t mean _that_!” said Lord Tom.

“How else could I possibly have known it?” said the earl. “Rely upon it, he is to be discarded.”

“Well then,” said Lord Tom, “I must come to the fact:--I owe the fellow four hundred pounds. The law of primogeniture, my dear uncle, makes us, Lord Toms, Lord Johns, and Lord Bobs, anything but rich; and we _are_ consequently run sometimes to do things of which, upon sober reflection, we are seriously ashamed:--now there’s the truth--he volunteered upon all occasions, and I, like a fool, accepted his proffered accommodation.”

“The city men say,” said Lord Ilfracombe, “‘accept anything, except a bill:’ however, Tom, I have been young myself. I will get you out of the difficulty. Mr. Brag may ride your horses; but although you may be saddled by others, he shall not ride _you_. You shall have the money; you shall Fectorize him this very day. But I’ll have no quarrelling--I will have it all my own way. I dined with him at the small inn--he shall dine with us at a large one; and if I have not my revenge out of him, I shall be astonished. If he had denounced me as a seducer, a murderer, or even a Whig, I could have borne it all; but when he called me to my face a “Kill-joy,” and a “wet blanket,” it was too bad. Let him come; let us have him to dine, and I will instruct the other members of our little family community to play their parts. But not one word of those whom he is to meet, till we have him in our meshes.”

“My dear uncle, you are too good to me,” said Lord Tom.

“Not a bit of it,” said the earl. “There are a set of underbred fellows in the world, who swagger and strut about, because by some accident, sometimes as little honourable or decent to themselves as may be, they have got hold of money, which they as little deserve as they had any right to expect--who fancy, because, from their very insignificance, they have shuffled, screwed, or pushed themselves into society to which they ought not to belong, they are to mount upon their money-bags into yet higher places; and who, exactly in proportion to their natural meanness and original insignificance, perk up their noses and toss their heads, to give them a consequence, which makes them insufferably odious to the people with whom they really _do_ live, and incalculably ridiculous to those with whom they never can live, let them try as much as they may. This man Brag is one of that class, and it will be a very slight punishment for his immeasurable insolence to get rid of him after our own fashion. So, come along; we’ll to Fector’s: you shall have the money, and we will eject your familiar in the civilest and most amiable imaginable manner: _that_ part of the affair you will leave to _me_; the discharge of the debt remains with _you_.”

The letter which Lord Tom had received from Rushton himself, describing the outrageous conduct of Jack, and its merited results, went so far to convince him that Brag was neither more nor less than a disgrace, that his first impulse, on his return to Dover, would no doubt have been to put him on his defence, as far as that affair went; but clogged as he had hitherto been with the debt, it would have ended in a laugh-off or a qualification; and however much convinced he might have been of the unworthiness, not to call it insanity, of his conduct, they would have continued their route to Paris, and their subsequent connexion. Now, armed with the means of vindicating his character by the abandonment of such an associate, Lord Tom felt himself doubly braced by the breeze, as he and his uncle left the door of the bank, his lordship having the amount of his debt to Jack safely lodged in the sinister pocket of his lordship’s trowsers.

The events of the day remain to be told.