“Very well, thank you, sir. It’s some time since we saw you.”
“Yes, my dear, and I think you’ve grown. Will you take some of these parcels, while I take the others, and put them in the drawing-room?”
“It looks as if it held good things, sir.”
“You’re a knowing young creature, my dear. Just go and tell your mistress I am here.”
Bromley knew it would be a long time before mistress would make her appearance. As he sat in the little sitting-room, 12 feet by 8, he heard cries for warm water. “Jane, where’s the soap?—My brush, Jane, quick!—Where are them pins?” which told how the lady was occupied.
Half an hour at least must elapse before the appearance of Mrs Magens, and this period Bromley divided between reading the ‘Era,’ which lay on the table, and drumming thereon.
Mr Angelo Magens was the natural son of a rackety Irish peer; at least so report said, and there was circumstantial evidence in support of the theory. Angelo had brothers, but they were not a bit like himself. Lord Rattlecormick had never taken any notice of them as he had of Angelo. The cast of Angelo’s face was decidedly Rattlecormick, and so was his character—quiet in manner, but reckless and thoughtless, a mixture of good nature, common sense, loose principle, and imprudence. From his childhood Angelo had lived exclusively with Lord Rattlecormick, with the exception of a short interval, during which his patron had managed to thrust him into the Navy. The life did not suit young Angelo, accustomed as he was to the rough luxury of Castle Rattlecormick, the good-natured and reckless liberality of the peer, who acted in loco parentis, and boon companions, who enlivened that patrician hearth.
So young Magens one morning left H.M.S. Bruiser in Cork Roads without leave, and betook himself without invitation to the House of Rattlecormick, to pass his time in warbling songs to the crowd of guests, to perform odd jobs on the premises, and to unfit himself for doing his duty in that state of life to which it might please Providence to call him.
Thus days and years passed, till Angelo was about twenty. He had picked up a certain knowledge of music. The village priest, skilled in thorough bass, had taught him the mysteries of counterpoint. Nature had blessed him with an agreeable tenor voice, and a rather agreeable manner, and a very decided taste for alcohol. Just at this particular juncture, Lord Rattlecormick died. As might have been expected, no will was found. Angelo was thrown on his own resources—viz., one hundred pounds, the remnant of divers tips from his patron, a suit of clothes or two, and such expectations as might be warranted by the extensive acquaintance and clientela of his late father or patron.
He set up as a music-master. He composed pretty little songs, popular from their melodies. He even aspired to an opera, and was not wholly unsuccessful. Once he hired a theatre for himself, and was wholly unsuccessful. At one time he was poor, at another time he was not rich; but one day he would have nothing, the next a considerable sum of money. He was like those figures one sees in a bottle, which go dancing up and down according to the pressure on the cover. The accidents of his fortune were abrupt and immoderate. Now at the bottom of the bottle with a sudden fall—now at the top with as unexpected a rebound—seldom in the centre, but when there wriggling and twisting and curveting,—discontented for mediocrity, and burning to risk great success or great disaster on the turn of the nearest die. But with increasing years the taste of Angelo for alcohol increased, specially with reference to sherry. He had a mania for that particular beverage, and he passed but few hours of the day without appealing to that cherished friend. He was well known at the public-houses of the metropolis,—at some of them, I fear, too well known to insure the gratification of his tastes. He was always convivial, however; always hospitable, always willing to accept hospitality. When in funds he would volunteer a glass of sherry at his own expense; when not in the best plight, he would volunteer it at yours. In early days Augustus’s friends often declared that Angelo had led him into expenses and extravagance. It may be so; but in justice to his memory, Augustus often declared his belief that not a sixpence more was spent for Angelo than Angelo ever spent for him.