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.