A man made of money

by Douglas William Jerrold

For three hours at least the children and the younger villagers had been prepared, arranged in seemly rows, to confront the fine, the awful folks from London. “They’re coming now, Jenny,” said a young fellow, “take care of yourself;” and familiarly pressing the arm of a fair, slim, country girl, who stood in the doorway of White, the schoolmaster—a place where she had the best claim to be, for in truth she was the schoolmaster’s daughter—the earnest adviser, Robert Topps by name, ran at his best speed back to the Hall. And now, on one side of the road, the boys’ school, with old White at their head, and his daughter at the threshold, with her fair pink face a little flustered by expectation, and, perhaps, by the counsel of Bob Topps,—on one side, the boys’ school, with flowers and green boughs, is on tiptoe with the first cheer; and immediately opposite, the girls’ school of Marigolds, under the firm and temperate direction of Mrs. Blanket, schoolmistress, duly prepared with a flourish of handkerchiefs; one or two of the more impulsive threatening to shout and flourish very much out of season.

At this turn of the road, reader,—this one whereby the carriages must sweep to the Hall, receiving, as they pass, the fire of either scholarhood—we have an excellent view of the guests. How the ladies—spick and span from the mint of fashion—bring in their caps, and bonnets, and hoods, and gowns, the most delightful wonders to the folks of Marigolds! It is London splendour, in all its mystery, brought to their doorways. If hats and caps were new stars, they would not be stared at with half so much wonderment. And now—there is a very narrow turning further up the road—the carriages go so slowly, that the young scholars, boys as well as girls, feel abashed to cheer in the fixed presence of the fine people. It is only when the line loosens, and the carriages roll quicklier on, that the children take new courage and shout and pipe their welcome.

We do not propose to introduce every guest to the reader,—merely two or three of the folks; and for this reason. As the reader will never again meet with the great body of the gathering, we shall suffer whole clouds of lace and muslin to drive on, like the lovely clouds over our head, with passing admiration, but with no hope of further knowledge of their lustre. The few persons whom we propose to make known will form part of the acquaintance of the traveller through this book, should he gird his loins to journey to the end.

That lady ripening in the sun beneath a pink parasol, is the Hon. Miss Candituft. You will be kind enough to look very attentively, yet withal deferentially, at that lady; and for this reason: it is to her enlarged knowledge of the true elements of society—as she has been known to call them—that you are indebted for the condescending attendance of the distinguished people who will this day eat, drink, and make merry at Jogtrot Hall. It was the good fortune of Miss Carraways to meet Miss Candituft abroad, travelling with her brother, the Hon. Cesar Candituft, whose baggage—with a large sum of money—had been secretly cut from his vehicle by the guilty hands of a demoralized banditti! The Carraways were then making a tour; they were very serviceable to the Canditufts, and a friendship began between the two young women that grew fast and close as ivy. Miss Candituft is called a fine woman; has been so called for some years. Her face, you perceive, is large and classical; very pale, and very full of intellect. There is only one reason why she is not married—the men are afraid of her. We think it only right to give this fact the widest publicity: to proclaim it with the most significant emphasis; it is so frequent a calamity, and yet so unsuspected by the principal sufferers. They know not—they who have eaten so much of the tree of knowledge, swallowing fruit, pips, leaves, twigs, bark and all—they know not how terrible they make themselves to a bachelor man. He may be six feet high, with shoulders broad as a table, and yet—we have known it—before such a woman his heart has melted into water. He has held his hand to her, with all the old feeling that he held forth his palm to the school ferula. Let Minerva take this axiom to her cool crystal breast—If she would condescend to marry, she must consent to leave her owl at home. Now, Miss Candituft would always carry the pet to parties with her; and, we have given the result; the men—poor birds!—were alarmed, and fluttered away from her. Nevertheless, she had a fine look: a very white skin, a large—a little icy, perhaps—full, blue eye; a close, controlled mouth; a well-cut, very high-bred nose; and large long twists of amber-coloured ringlets, dancing in her lap, like burnished snakes. For all this, men walked about her as though her very beauties were combustible—destructive. And knowing their fears, at length she never spared them.

The Hon. Cesar Candituft sits beside his sister. Could we get behind those scenes that every man carries in his brain—(acting, with his tongue and eyes, just so much of the play as seems fit to him)—it is not improbable that we should behold the gentleman levelling this hedge—widening this road—pulling down that scrubby row of cottages—and making many other improvements, by anticipation, in his property of Marigolds. His property, when he shall marry Bessy Carraways; and her father—finally put aside from the mildew of the city—shall sleep in the village church beneath a substantial covering of very handsome marble. With the hopes, nay the certainty of marrying old Carraways’ heiress, it was not Mr. Candituft’s fault if these very natural thoughts would present themselves. Certainly not. Who can control thought? Who can dismiss it, like an insolent servant? Who, too, can prophesy, what thought the dial finger on the next minute will bring him? We are thus earnest in common-place, that we may attempt to excuse Cesar Candituft; of all men—all men say it of him—the most kind, the most obliging; nay, the most forgiving. Let Candituft have an enemy seeking him with a drawn sword; and Candituft, with no more than a rose in his hand, will strike away the blade; and in a quarter of an hour make the wicked fellow ashamed of himself, that he could feel a moment’s anger against so good, so calm, so generous a creature as Candituft. Good, noble, sagacious Candituft! They who know him best, call him the Man-Tamer.

That old tall man, with a very big head on a thin stalk of neck, is Colonel Bones. He goes everywhere. He looks vulgar and grubby; yet is he accounted as costly clay among a certain number of very worthy Christians; as precious as is Jerusalem earth to exiled Hebrews. He gives himself out as prodigiously poor; but people, in these times, are not to be gulled. The world—(that is, the kernel of the world—for the world is as a cocoa-nut; there is the vulgar outside fibre, to be made into door-mats and ropes; the hard shell, good for beer-cups; and the white, delicate kernel, the real worth, food for the gods)—the world knows the secret of Colonel Bones. Ingenuous old soul! He believes the world will take him at his word; will receive him as the pauper he declares himself. Sly Colonel! The world knows better. The world, in its winding sagacity, has worked out the truth; and therefore, with a good-tempered smile, gives a very pleasant reason for all the oddities of the good, dear, old Colonel. He will not afford himself the luxury of a carriage; therefore, a carriage is always sent for him. He will not take care of himself at his own table; and therefore he must always dine with one of his best friends. Why, it was only last winter that, having bound himself by previous promise to grant the request of a petitioner, he consented to become godfather, with the enforced proviso that he should not give his godson a single ounce of plate. Up to this moment, the child—Bones Mizzlemist, eldest son of Mizzlemist of Doctors’ Commons—is without a mug. Colonel Bones—he served somewhere in some regiment at some date in the militia—Colonel Bones insists upon playing the pauper on an annuity of fifty pounds, and the world lets the poor old fellow have his feeble whim, his little joke. Very right; an old man, and to be humoured.

That slight young man, with the handsome face of blank meaning (a fine lamp with no light in it) is Sir Arthur Hodmadod. He is scarcely cool in his baronetcy, having only succeeded to the title in the spring. He bows to Miss Candituft a little timidly; for even yet he does not feel himself altogether safe. He looks at her as though he still beheld in her the dread possibility of Lady Hodmadod. However, he takes heart, and rides up to the carriage.—Only hear him.

“That’s a nice thing there;” and Hodmadod points towards Jenny White, the schoolmaster’s daughter.

“Where?” asks Miss Candituft, opening her eyes to take in everybody.

“There; that thing with the—what is it?—the silver bee; isn’t it a bee? buttoning the black riband at her throat.”