"My Novel" — Complete

With that Richard turned on his heel, and in a few moments his voice was heard loud in objurgation with some of his people.

About the fourth week of Leonard’s residence at Mr. Avenel’s, his host began to evince a certain change of manner. He was no longer quite so cordial with Leonard, nor did he take the same interest in his progress. About the same period he was frequently caught by the London butler before the looking-glass. He had always been a smart man in his dress, but he was now more particular. He would spoil three white cravats when he went out of an evening, before he could satisfy himself as to the tie. He also bought a ‘Peerage,’ and it became his favourite study at odd quarters of an hour. All these symptoms proceeded from a cause, and that cause was—woman.

CHAPTER VIII

The first people at Screwstown were indisputably the Pompleys. Colonel Pompley was grand, but Mrs. Pompley was grander. The colonel was stately in right of his military rank and his services in India; Mrs. Pompley was majestic in right of her connections. Indeed, Colonel Pompley himself would have been crushed under the weight of the dignities which his lady heaped upon him, if he had not been enabled to prop his position with a “connection” of his own. He would never have held his own, nor been permitted to have an independent opinion on matters aristocratic, but for the well-sounding name of his relations, “the Digbies.” Perhaps on the principle that obscurity increases the natural size of objects and is an element of the sublime, the colonel did not too accurately define his relations “the Digbies:” he let it be casually understood that they were the Digbies to be found in Debrett. But if some indiscreet Vulgarian (a favourite word with both the Pompleys) asked point-blank if he meant “my Lord Digby,” the colonel, with a lofty air, answered, “The elder branch, sir.” No one at Screwstown had ever seen these Digbies: they lay amidst the Far, the Recondite,—even to the wife of Colonel Pompley’s bosom. Now and then, when the colonel referred to the lapse of years, and the uncertainty of human affections, he would say, “When young Digby and I were boys together,” and then add with a sigh, “but we shall never meet again in this world. His family interests secured him a valuable appointment in a distant part of the British dominions.” Mrs. Pompley was always rather cowed by the Digbies. She could not be sceptical as to this connection, for the colonel’s mother was certainly a Digby, and the colonel impaled the Digby arms. En revanche, as the French say, for these marital connections, Mrs. Pompley had her own favourite affinity, which she specially selected from all others when she most desired to produce effect; nay, even upon ordinary occasions the name rose spontaneously to her lips,—the name of the Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. Was the fashion of a gown or cap admired, her cousin, Mrs. M’Catchley, had just sent to her the pattern from Paris. Was it a question whether the Ministry would stand, Mrs. M’Catchley was in the secret, but Mrs. Pompley had been requested not to say. Did it freeze, “My cousin, Mrs. M’Catchley, had written word that the icebergs at the Pole were supposed to be coming this way.” Did the sun glow with more than usual fervour, Mrs. M’Catchley had informed her “that it was Sir Henry Halford’s decided opinion that it was on account of the cholera.” The good people knew all that was doing at London, at court, in this world—nay, almost in the other—through the medium of the Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. Mrs. M’Catchley was, moreover, the most elegant of women, the wittiest creature, the dearest. King George the Fourth had presumed to admire Mrs. M’Catehley; but Mrs. M’Catchley, though no prude, let him see that she was proof against the corruptions of a throne. So long had the ears of Mrs. Pompley’s friends been filled with the renown of Mrs. M’Catchley, that at last Mrs. M’Catchley was secretly supposed to be a myth, a creature of the elements, a poetic fiction of Mrs. Pompley’s. Richard Avenel, however, though by no means a credulous man, was an implicit believer in Mrs. M’Catchley. He had learned that she was a widow, and honourable by birth, and honourable by marriage, living on her handsome jointure, and refusing offers every day that she so lived. Somehow or other, whenever Richard Avenel thought of a wife, he thought of the Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. Perhaps that romantic attachment to the fair invisible preserved him heart-whole amongst the temptations of Screwstown. Suddenly, to the astonishment of the Abbey Gardens, Mrs. M’Catchley proved her identity, and arrived at Colonel Pompley’s in a handsome travelling-carriage, attended by her maid and footman. She had come to stay some weeks; a tea-party was given in her honour. Mr. Avenel and his nephew were invited. Colonel Pompley, who kept his head clear in the midst of the greatest excitement, had a desire to get from the Corporation a lease of a piece of ground adjoining his garden, and he no sooner saw Richard Avenel enter than he caught him by the button, and drew him into a quiet corner, in order to secure his interest. Leonard, meanwhile, was borne on by the stream, till his progress was arrested by a sofa-table at which sat Mrs. M’Catchley herself, with Mrs. Pompley by her side. For on this great occasion the hostess had abandoned her proper post at the entrance, and, whether to show her respect to Mrs. M’Catchley, or to show Mrs. M’Catchley her well-bred contempt for the people of Screwstown, remained in state by her friend, honouring only the elite of the town with introductions to the illustrious visitor.

Mrs. M’Catchley was a very fine woman,—a woman who justified Mrs. Pompley’s pride in her. Her cheek-bones were rather high, it is true but that proved the purity of her Caledonian descent; for the rest, she had a brilliant complexion, heightened by a soupcon of rouge, good eyes and teeth, a showy figure, and all the ladies of Screwstown pronounced her dress to be perfect. She might have arrived at that age at which one intends to stop for the next ten years, but even a Frenchman would not have called her passee,—that is, for a widow. For a spinster it would have been different.

Looking round her with a glass, which Mrs. Pompley was in the habit of declaring that “Mrs. M’Catchley used like an angel,” this lady suddenly perceived Leonard Fairfield; and his quiet, simple, thoughtful air and look so contrasted with the stiff beaux to whom she had been presented, that, experienced in fashion as so fine a personage must be supposed to be, she was nevertheless deceived into whispering to Mrs. Pompley,

“That young man has really an air distingue; who is he?”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Pompley, in unaffected surprise, “that is the nephew of the rich Vulgarian I was telling you of this morning.”

“Ah! and you say that he is Mr. Arundel’s heir?”

“Avenel—not Arundel—my sweet friend.”

“Avenel is not a bad name,” said Mrs. M’Catchley. “But is the uncle really so rich?”

“The colonel was trying this very day to guess what he is worth; but he says it is impossible to guess it.”

“And the young man is his heir?”

“It is thought so; and reading for College, I hear. They say he is clever.”

“Present him, my love; I like clever people,” said Mrs. M’Catchley, falling back languidly.

About ten minutes afterwards, Richard Avenel having effected his escape from the colonel, and his gaze being attracted towards the sofa-table by the buzz of the admiring crowd, beheld his nephew in animated conversation with the long cherished idol of his dreams. A fierce pang of jealousy shot through his breast. His nephew had never looked so handsome and so intelligent; in fact, poor Leonard had never before been drawn out by a woman of the world, who had learned how to make the most of what little she knew. And as jealousy operates like a pair of bellows on incipient flames, so, at first sight of the smile which the fair widow bestowed upon Leonard, the heart of Mr. Avenel felt in a blaze.

He approached with a step less assured than usual, and, overhearing Leonard’s talk, marvelled much at the boy’s audacity. Mrs. M’Catchley had been speaking of Scotland and the Waverley Novels, about which Leonard knew nothing. But he knew Burns, and on Burns he grew artlessly eloquent. Burns the poet and peasant—Leonard might well be eloquent on him. Mrs. M’Catchley was amused and pleased with his freshness and naivete, so unlike anything she had ever heard or seen, and she drew him on and on till Leonard fell to quoting. And Richard heard, with less respect for the sentiment than might be supposed, that

          “Rank is but the guinea’s stamp,           The man’s the gowd for a’ that.”

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Avenel. “Pretty piece of politeness to tell that to a lady like the Honourable Mrs. M’Catch ley! You’ll excuse him, ma’am.”

“Sir!” said Mrs. M’Catchley, startled, and lifting her glass. Leonard, rather confused, rose and offered his chair to Richard, who dropped into it. The lady, without waiting for formal introduction, guessed that she saw the rich uncle. “Such a sweet poet-Burns!” said she, dropping her glass. “And it is so refreshing to find so much youthful enthusiasm,” she added, pointing her fan towards Leonard, who was receding fast among the crowd.

“Well, he is youthful, my nephew,—rather green!”

“Don’t say green!” said Mrs. M’Catchley. Richard blushed scarlet. He was afraid he had committed himself to some expression low and shocking. The lady resumed, “Say unsophisticated.”

“A tarnation long word,” thought Richard; but he prudently bowed and held his tongue.

“Young men nowadays,” continued Mrs. M’Catchley, resettling herself on the sofa, “affect to be so old. They don’t dance, and they don’t read, and they don’t talk much! and a great many of them wear toupets before they are two-and-twenty!”

Richard mechanically passed his hand through his thick curls. But he was still mute; he was still ruefully chewing the cud of the epithet “green.” What occult horrid meaning did the word convey to ears polite? Why should he not say “green”?

“A very fine young man your nephew, sir,” resumed Mrs. M’ Catchley.

Richard grunted.

“And seems full of talent. Not yet at the University? Will he go to Oxford or Cambridge?”

“I have not made up my mind yet if I shall send him to the University at all.”

“A young man of his expectations!” exclaimed Mrs. M’Catchley, artfully.

“Expectations!” repeated Richard, firing up. “Has he been talking to you of his expectations?”

“No, indeed, sir. But the nephew of the rich Mr. Avenel! Ah, one hears a great deal, you know, of rich people; it is the penalty of wealth, Mr. Avenel!”

Richard was very much flattered. His crest rose.

“And they say,” continued Mrs. M’Catchley, dropping out her words very slowly, as she adjusted her blonde scarf, “that Mr. Avenel has resolved not to marry.”

“The devil they do, ma’am!” bolted out Richard, gruffly; and then, ashamed of his lapsus linguae, screwed up his lips firmly, and glared on the company with an eye of indignant fire.

Mrs. M’Catchley observed him over her fan. Richard turned abruptly, and she withdrew her eyes modestly, and raised the fan.

“She’s a real beauty,” said Richard, between his teeth. The fan fluttered.

Five minutes afterwards, the widow and the bachelor seemed so much at their ease that Mrs. Pompley, who had been forced to leave her friend, in order to receive the dean’s lady, could scarcely believe her eyes when she returned to the sofa.

Now, it was from that evening that Mr. Richard Avenel exhibited the change of mood which I have described; and from that evening he abstained from taking Leonard with him to any of the parties in the Abbey Gardens.

CHAPTER IX

Some days after this memorable soiree, Colonel Pompley sat alone in his study (which opened pleasantly on an old-fashioned garden), absorbed in the house bills. For Colonel Pompley did not leave that domestic care to his lady,—perhaps she was too grand for it. Colonel Pompley with his own sonorous voice ordered the joints, and with his own heroic hands dispensed the stores. In justice to the colonel, I must add—at whatever risk of offence to the fair sex—that there was not a house at Screwstown so well managed as the Pompleys’; none which so successfully achieved the difficult art of uniting economy with show. I should despair of conveying to you an idea of the extent to which Colonel Pompley made his income go. It was but seven hundred a year; and many a family contrived to do less upon three thousand. To be sure, the Pompleys had no children to sponge upon them. What they had they spent all on themselves. Neither, if the Pompleys never exceeded their income, did they pretend to live much within it. The two ends of the year met at Christmas,—just met, and no more.

Colonel Pompley sat at his desk. He was in his well-brushed blue coat, buttoned across his breast, his gray trousers fitted tight to his limbs, and fastened under his boots with a link chain. He saved a great deal of money in straps. No one ever saw Colonel Pompley in dressing-gown and slippers. He and his house were alike in order—always fit to be seen

        “From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve.”

The colonel was a short compact man, inclined to be stout,—with a very red face, that seemed not only shaved, but rasped. He wore his hair cropped close, except just in front, where it formed what the hairdresser called a feather, but it seemed a feather of iron, so stiff and so strong was it. Firmness and precision were emphatically marked on the colonel’s countenance. There was a resolute strain on his features, as if he was always employed in making the two ends meet!

So he sat before his house-book, with his steel-pen in his hand, and making crosses here and notes of interrogation there.

“Mrs. M’Catchley’s maid,” said the colonel to himself, “must be put upon rations. The tea that she drinks! Good heavens!—tea again!”

There was a modest ring at the outer door. “Too early for a visitor!” thought the colonel. “Perhaps it is the water-rates.”

The neat man-servant—never seen beyond the offices, save in grande tenue, plushed and powdered-entered and bowed. “A gentleman, sir, wishes to see you.”

“A gentleman,” repeated the colonel, glancing towards the clock. “Are you sure it is a gentleman?”

The man hesitated. “Why, sir, I ben’t exactly sure; but he speaks like a gentleman. He do say he comes from London to see you, sir.”

A long and interesting correspondence was then being held between the colonel and one of his wife’s trustees touching the investment of Mrs. Pompley’s fortune. It might be the trustee,—nay, it must be. The trustee had talked of running down to see him.

“Let him come in,” said the colonel, “and when I ring—sandwiches and sherry.”

“Beef, sir?”

“Ham.”

The colonel put aside his house-book, and wiped his pen. In another minute the door opened and the servant announced—

“MR. DIGBY.”

The colonel’s face fell, and he staggered back.

The door closed, and Mr. Digby stood in the middle of the room, leaning on the great writing-table for support. The poor soldier looked sicklier and shabbier, and nearer the end of all things in life and fortune, than when Lord L’Estrange had thrust the pocket-book into his hands. But still the servant showed knowledge of the world in calling him gentleman; there was no other word to apply to him.

“Sir,” began Colonel Pompley, recovering himself, and with great solemnity, “I did not expect this pleasure.”

The poor visitor stared round him dizzily, and sank into a chair, breathing hard. The colonel looked as a man only looks upon a poor relation, and buttoned up first one trouser pocket and then the other.

“I thought you were in Canada,” said the colonel, at last. Mr. Digby had now got breath to speak, and he said meekly, “The climate would have killed my child, and it is two years since I returned.”

“You ought to have found a very good place in England to make it worth your while to leave Canada.”

“She could not have lived through another winter in Canada,—the doctor said so.”

“Pooh,” quoth the colonel.

Mr. Digby drew a long breath. “I would not come to you, Colonel Pompley, while you could think that I came as a beggar for myself.”

The colonel’s brow relaxed. “A very honourable sentiment, Mr. Digby.”

“No: I have gone through a great deal; but you see, Colonel,” added the poor relation, with a faint smile, “the campaign is well-nigh over, and peace is at hand.”

The colonel seemed touched.

“Don’t talk so, Digby,—I don’t like it. You are younger than I am—nothing more disagreeable than these gloomy views of things. You have got enough to live upon, you say,—at least so I understand you. I am very glad to hear it; and, indeed, I could not assist you—so many claims on me. So it is all very well, Digby.”

“Oh, Colonel Pompley,” cried the soldier, clasping his hands, and with feverish energy, “I am a suppliant, not for myself, but my child! I have but one,—only one, a girl. She has been so good to me! She will cost you little. Take her when I die; promise her a shelter, a home. I ask no more. You are my nearest relative. I have no other to look to. You have no children of your own. She will be a blessing to you, as she has been all upon earth to me!”

If Colonel Pompley’s face was red in ordinary hours, no epithet sufficiently rubicund or sanguineous can express its colour at this appeal. “The man’s mad,” he said, at last, with a tone of astonishment that almost concealed his wrath,—“stark mad! I take his child!—lodge and board a great, positive, hungry child! Why, sir, many and many a time have I said to Mrs. Pompley, ‘‘T is a mercy we have no children. We could never live in this style if we had children,—never make both ends meet.’ Child—the most expensive, ravenous, ruinous thing in the world—a child.”

“She has been accustomed to starve,” said Mr. Digby, plaintively. “Oh, Colonel, let me see your wife. Her heart I can touch,—she is a woman.”

Unlucky father! A more untoward, unseasonable request the Fates could not have put into his lips.

Mrs. Pompley see the Digbies! Mrs. Pompley learn the condition of the colonel’s grand connections! The colonel would never have been his own man again. At the bare idea, he felt as if he could have sunk into the earth with shame. In his alarm he made a stride to the door, with the intention of locking it. Good heavens, if Mrs. Pompley should come in! And the man, too, had been announced by name. Mrs. Pompley might have learned already that a Digby was with her husband,—she might be actually dressing to receive him worthily; there was not a moment to lose.

The colonel exploded. “Sir, I wonder at your impudence. See Mrs. Pompley! Hush, sir, hush!—hold your tongue. I have disowned your connection. I will not have my wife—a woman, sir, of the first family—disgraced by it. Yes; you need not fire up. John Pompley is not a man to be bullied in his own house. I say disgraced. Did not you run into debt, and spend your fortune? Did not you marry a low creature,—a vulgarian, a tradesman’s daughter?—and your poor father such a respectable man,—a benefited clergyman! Did not you sell your commission? Heaven knows what became of the money! Did not you turn (I shudder to say it) a common stage-player, sir? And then, when you were on your last legs, did I not give you L200 out of my own purse to go to Canada? And now here you are again,—and ask me, with a coolness that—that takes away my breath—takes away-my breath, sir—to provide for the child you have thought proper to have,—a child whose connections on the mother’s side are of the most abject and discreditable condition. Leave my house, leave it! good heavens, sir, not that way!—this.” And the colonel opened the glass-door that led into the garden. “I will let you out this way. If Mrs. Pompley should see you!” And with that thought the colonel absolutely hooked his arm into his poor relation’s, and hurried him into the garden.

Mr. Digby said not a word, but he struggled ineffectually to escape from the colonel’s arm; and his colour went and came, came and went, with a quickness that showed that in those shrunken veins there were still some drops of a soldier’s blood.

But the colonel had now reached a little postern-door in the garden-wall. He opened the latch, and thrust out his poor cousin. Then looking down the lane, which was long, straight, and narrow, and seeing it was quite solitary, his eye fell upon the forlorn man, and remorse shot through his heart. For a moment the hardest of all kinds of avarice, that of the genteel, relaxed its gripe. For a moment the most intolerant of all forms of pride, that which is based upon false pretences, hushed its voice, and the colonel hastily drew out his purse. “There,” said he, “that is all I can do for you. Do leave the town as quick as you can, and don’t mention your name to any one. Your father was such a respectable man,—beneficed clergyman!”

“And paid for your commission, Mr. Pompley. My name! I am not ashamed of it. But do not fear I shall claim your relationship. No; I am ashamed of you!”

The poor cousin put aside the purse, still stretched towards him, with a scornful hand, and walked firmly down the lane. Colonel Pompley stood irresolute. At that moment a window in his house was thrown open. He heard the noise, turned round, and saw his wife looking out.

Colonel Pompley sneaked back through the shrubbery, hiding himself amongst the trees.

CHAPTER X

“Ill-luck is a betise,” said the great Cardinal Richelieu; and in the long run, I fear, his Eminence was right. If you could drop Dick Avenel and Mr. Digby in the middle of Oxford Street,—Dick in a fustian jacket, Digby in a suit of superfine; Dick with five shillings in his pocket, Digby with L1000,—and if, at the end of ten years, you looked up your two men, Dick would be on his road to a fortune, Digby—what we have seen him! Yet Digby had no vice; he did not drink nor gamble. What was he, then? Helpless. He had been an only son,—a spoiled child, brought up as “a gentleman;” that is, as a man who was not expected to be able to turn his hand to anything. He entered, as we have seen, a very expensive regiment, wherein he found himself, at his father’s death, with L4000 and the incapacity to say “No.” Not naturally extravagant, but without an idea of the value of money,—the easiest, gentlest, best-tempered man whom example ever led astray. This part of his career comprised a very common history,—the poor man living on equal terms with the rich. Debt; recourse to usurers; bills signed sometimes for others, renewed at twenty per cent; the L4000 melted like snow; pathetic appeal to relations; relations have children of their own; small help given grudgingly, eked out by much advice, and coupled with conditions. Amongst the conditions there was a very proper and prudent one,—exchange into a less expensive regiment. Exchange effected; peace; obscure country quarters; ennui, flute-playing, and idleness. Mr. Digby had no resources on a rainy day—except flute-playing; pretty girl of inferior rank; all the officers after her; Digby smitten; pretty girl very virtuous; Digby forms honourable intentions; excellent sentiments; imprudent marriage. Digby falls in life; colonel’s lady will not associate with Mrs. Digby; Digby cut by his whole kith and kin; many disagreeable circumstances in regimental life; Digby sells out; love in a cottage; execution in ditto. Digby had been much applauded as an amateur actor; thinks of the stage; genteel comedy,—a gentlemanlike profession. Tries in a provincial town, under another name; unhappily succeeds; life of an actor; hand-to-mouth life; illness; chest affected; Digby’s voice becomes hoarse and feeble; not aware of it; attributes failing success to ignorant provincial public; appears in London; is hissed; returns to the provinces; sinks into very small parts; prison; despair; wife dies; appeal again to relations; a subscription made to get rid of him; send him out of the country; place in Canada,—superintendent to an estate, L150 a year; pursued by ill-luck; never before fit for business, not fit now; honest as the day, but keeps slovenly accounts; child cannot bear the winter of Canada; Digby wrapped up in the child; return home; mysterious life for two years; child patient, thoughtful, loving; has learned to work; manages for father; often supports him; constitution rapidly breaking; thought of what will become of his child,—worst disease of all. Poor Digby! never did a base, cruel, unkind thing in his life; and here he is, walking down the lane from Colonel Pompley’s house! Now, if Digby had but learned a little of the world’s cunning, I think he would have succeeded even with Colonel Pompley. Had he spent the L100 received from Lord L’Estrange with a view to effect; had he bestowed a fitting wardrobe on himself and his pretty Helen; had he stopped at the last stage, taken thence a smart chaise and pair, and presented himself at Colonel Pompley’s in a way that would not have discredited the colonel’s connection, and then, instead of praying for home and shelter, asked the colonel to become guardian to his child in case of his death, I have a strong notion that the colonel, in spite of his avarice, would have stretched both ends so as to take in Helen Digby. But our poor friend had no such arts. Indeed, of the L100 he had already very little left, for before leaving town he had committed what Sheridan considered the extreme of extravagance,—frittered away his money in paying his debts; and as for dressing up Helen and himself—if that thought had ever occurred to him, he would have rejected it as foolish. He would have thought that the more he showed his poverty, the more he would be pitied,—the worst mistake a poor cousin can commit. According to Theophrastus, the partridge of Paphlagonia has two hearts: so have most men; it is the common mistake of the unlucky to knock at the wrong one.