Brown returned, with a large bandbox, carefully enveloped in a blue handkerchief. “You come from ——, sir?” said Mr. Brown, quietly seating himself at the same table as Linden.
“No, sir, I do not.”
“From ——, then?”
“No, sir,—from W——.”
“W——?—ay—well. I knew a lady with a name very like W—— (the late Lady Waddilove) extremely well. I made her some valuable presents: her ladyship was very sensible of it.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir,” replied Clarence; “such instances of general beneficence rarely occur!”
“I have some magnificent relics of her ladyship in this box,” returned Mr. Brown.
“Really! then she was no less generous than yourself, I presume?”
“Yes, her ladyship was remarkably generous. About a week before she died (the late Lady Waddilove was quite sensible of her danger), she called me to her,—‘Brown,’ said she, ‘you are a good creature; I have had my most valuable things from you. I am not ungrateful: I will leave you—my maid! She is as clever as you are and as good.’ I took the hint, sir, and married. It was an excellent bargain. My wife is a charming woman; she entirely fitted up Mrs. Minden’s wardrobe and I furnished the house. Mrs. Minden was greatly indebted to us.”
“Heaven help me!” thought Clarence, “the man is certainly mad.”
The waiter entered with the dinner; and Mr. Brown, who seemed to have a delicate aversion to any conversation in the presence of the Ganymede of the Holborn tavern, immediately ceased his communications; meanwhile, Clarence took the opportunity to survey him more minutely than he had hitherto done.
His new acquaintance was in age about forty-eight; in stature, rather under the middle height; and thin, dried, withered, yet muscular withal, like a man who, in stinting his stomach for the sake of economy, does not the less enjoy the power of undergoing any fatigue or exertion that an object of adequate importance may demand. We have said already that he was attired, like twilight, “in a suit of sober brown;” and there was a formality, a precision, and a cat-like sort of cleanliness in his garb, which savoured strongly of the respectable coxcombry of the counting-house. His face was lean, it is true, but not emaciated; and his complexion, sallow and adust, harmonized well with the colours of his clothing. An eye of the darkest hazel, sharp, shrewd, and flashing at times, especially at the mention of the euphonious name of Lady Waddilove,—a name frequently upon the lips of the inheritor of her abigail,—with a fire that might be called brilliant, was of that modest species which can seldom encounter the straightforward glance of another; on the contrary, it seemed restlessly uneasy in any settled place, and wandered from ceiling to floor, and corner to corner, with an inquisitive though apparently careless glance, as if seeking for something to admire or haply to appropriate; it also seemed to be the especial care of Mr. Brown to veil, as far as he was able, the vivacity of his looks beneath an expression of open and unheeding good-nature, an expression strangely enough contrasting with the closeness and sagacity which Nature had indelibly stamped upon features pointed, aquiline, and impressed with a strong mixture of the Judaical physiognomy. The manner and bearing of this gentleman partook of the same undecided character as his countenance: they seemed to be struggling between civility and importance; a real eagerness to make the acquaintance of the person he addressed, and an assumed recklessness of the advantages which that acquaintance could bestow;—it was like the behaviour of a man who is desirous of having the best possible motives imputed to him, but is fearful lest that desire should not be utterly fulfilled. At the first glance you would have pledged yourself for his respectability; at the second, you would have half suspected him to be a rogue; and, after you had been half an hour in his company, you would confess yourself in the obscurest doubt which was the better guess, the first or the last.
“Waiter!” said Mr. Brown, looking enviously at the viands upon which Linden, having satisfied his curiosity, was now with all the appetite of youth regaling himself. “Waiter!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Bring me a sandwich—and—and, waiter, see that I have plenty of—plenty of—”
“What, sir?”
“Plenty of mustard, waiter.”
“Mustard” (and here Mr. Brown addressed himself to Clarence) “is a very wonderful assistance to the digestion. By the by, sir, if you want any curiously fine mustard, I can procure you some pots quite capital,—a great favour, though,—they were smuggled from France, especially for the use of the late Lady Waddilove.”
“Thank you,” said Linden, dryly; “I shall be very happy to accept anything you may wish to offer me.”
Mr. Brown took a pocket-book from his pouch. “Six pots of mustard, sir,—shall I say six?”
“As many as you please,” replied Clarence; and Mr. Brown wrote down “Six pots of French mustard.”
“You are a very young gentleman, sir,” said Mr. Brown, “probably intended for some profession: I don’t mean to be impertinent, but if I can be of any assistance—”
“You can, sir,” replied Linden, “and immediately—have the kindness to ring the bell.”
Mr. Brown, with a grave smile, did as he was desired; the waiter re-entered, and, receiving a whispered order from Clarence, again disappeared.
“What profession did you say, sir?” renewed Mr. Brown, artfully.
“None!” replied Linden.
“Oh, very well,—very well indeed. Then as an idle, independent gentleman, you will of course be a bit of a beau; want some shirts, possibly; fine cravats, too; gentlemen wear a particular pattern now; gloves, gold, or shall I say gilt chain, watch and seals, a ring or two, and a snuff-box?”
“Sir, you are vastly obliging,” said Clarence, in undisguised surprise.
“Not at all, I would do anything for a relation of Mrs. Minden.”
The waiter re-entered; “Sir,” said he to Linden, “your room is quite ready.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Clarence, rising. “Mr. Brown, I have the honour of wishing you a good evening.”
“Stay, sir—stay; you have not looked into these things belonging to the late Lady Waddilove.”
“Another time,” said Clarence, hastily.
“To-morrow, at ten o’clock,” muttered Mr. Brown.
“I am exceedingly glad I have got rid of that fellow,” said Linden to himself, as he stretched his limbs in his easy-chair, and drank off the last glass of his pint of port. “If I have not already seen, I have already guessed, enough of the world, to know that you are to look to your pockets when a man offers you a present; they who ‘give,’ also ‘take away.’ So here I am in London, with an order for 1000 pounds in my purse, the wisdom of Dr. Latinas in my head, and the health of eighteen in my veins; will it not be my own fault if I do not both enjoy and make myself—”
And then, yielding to meditations of future success, partaking strongly of the inexperienced and sanguine temperament of the soliloquist, Clarence passed the hours till his pillow summoned him to dreams no less ardent and perhaps no less unreal.
CHAPTER VIII
“Oh, how I long to be employed!” —Every Man in his Humour.
Clarence was sitting the next morning over the very unsatisfactory breakfast which tea made out of broomsticks, and cream out of chalk (adulteration thrived even in 17—) afforded, when the waiter threw open the door and announced Mr. Brown.
“Just