“I can read the signature in your face,” says the other; “and I could almost tell the contents of the note. Why have you such a tell-tale face, Clive?”
“It is over; but when a man has once, you know, gone through an affair like that,” says Clive, looking very grave, “he—he’s anxious to hear of Alice Grey, and how she’s getting on, you see, my good friend.” And he began to shout out as of old—
“Her heart it is another’s, she—never—can—be—mine;”
and to laugh at the end of the song. “Well, well,” says he; “it is a very kind note, a very proper little note; the expression elegant, J. J., the sentiment is most correct. All the little t’s most properly crossed, and all the little i’s have dots over their little heads. It’s a sort of a prize note, don’t you see; and one such, as in the old spelling-book story, the good boy received a plum-cake for writing. Perhaps you weren’t educated on the old spelling-book, J. J.? My good old father taught me to read out of his—I say, I think it was a shame to keep the old boy waiting whilst I have been giving an audience to this young lady. Dear old father!” and he apostrophised the letter. “I beg your pardon, sir; Miss Newcome requested five minutes’ conversation, and I was obliged, from politeness, you know, to receive. There’s nothing between us; nothing but what’s most correct, upon my honour and conscience.” And he kissed his father’s letter, and calling out again, “Dear old father!” proceeded to read as follows:—
“‘Your letters, my dearest Clive, have been the greatest comfort to me. I seem to hear you as I read them. I can’t but think that this, the modern and natural style, is a great progress upon the old-fashioned manner of my day, when we used to begin to our fathers, ‘Honoured Father,’ or even ‘Honoured Sir’ some precisians used to write still from Mr. Lord’s Academy, at Tooting, where I went before Grey Friars—though I suspect parents were no more honoured in those days than nowadays. I know one who had rather be trusted than honoured; and you may call me what you please, so as you do that.
“‘It is not only to me your letters give pleasure. Last week I took yours from Baden Baden, No. 3, September 15, into Calcutta, and could not help showing it at Government House, where I dined. Your sketch of the old Russian Princess and her little boy, gambling, was capital. Colonel Buckmaster, Lord Bagwig’s private secretary, knew her, and says it is to a T. And I read out to some of my young fellows what you said about play, and how you had given it over. I very much fear some of the young rogues are at dice and brandy-pawnee before tiffin. What you say of young Ridley, I take cum grano. His sketches I thought very agreeable; but to compare them to a certain gentleman’s——Never mind, I shall not try to make him think too well of himself. I kissed dear Ethel’s hand in your letter. I write her a long letter by this mail.
“‘If Paul de Florac in any way resembles his mother, between you and him there ought to be a very warm regard. I knew her when I was a boy, long before you were born or thought of; and in wandering forty years through the world since, I have seen no woman in my eyes so good or so beautiful. Your cousin Ethel reminded me of her; as handsome, but not so lovely. Yes, it was that pale lady you saw at Paris, with eyes full of care, and hair streaked with grey. So it will be the turn of you young folks, come eight more lustres, and your heads will be bald like mine, or grey like Madame de Florac’s, and bending over the ground where we are lying in quiet. I understand from you that young Paul is not in very flourishing circumstances. If he still is in need, mind and be his banker, and I will be yours. Any child of hers must never want when I have a spare guinea. I do not mind telling you, sir, that I cared for her more than millions of guineas once; and half broke my heart about her when I went to India, as a young chap. So, if any such misfortunes happen to you, consider, my boy, you are not the only one.
“‘Binnie writes me word that he has been ailing. I hope you are a good correspondent with him. What made me turn to him just after speaking of unlucky love affairs? Could I be thinking about little Rosie Mackenzie? She is a sweet little lass, and James will leave her a pretty piece of money. Verbum sap. I should like you to marry; but God forbid you should marry for a million of gold mohurs.
“‘And gold mohurs bring me to another subject. Do you know I narrowly missed losing half a lakh of rupees which I had at an agent’s here? And who do you think warned me about him? Our friend Rummun Loll, who has lately been in England, and with whom I made the voyage from Southampton. He is a man of wonderful tact and observation. I used to think meanly of the honesty of natives and treat them haughtily, as I recollect doing this very gentleman at your Uncle Newcome’s in Bryanstone Square. He heaped coals of fire on my head by saving my money for me; and I have placed it with interest in his house. If I would but listen to him, my capital might be trebled in a year, he says, and the interest immensely increased. He enjoys the greatest esteem among the moneyed men here; keeps a splendid establishment and house here in Barrackpore; is princely in his benefactions. He talks to me about the establishment of a bank, of which the profits are so enormous and the scheme so (seemingly) clear, that I don’t know whether I mayn’t be tempted to take a few shares. Nous verrons. Several of my friends are longing to have a finger in it; but be sure this, I shall do nothing rashly and without the very best advice.
“‘I have not been frightened yet by your draughts upon me. Draw as many of these as you please. You know I don’t half like the other kind of drawing, except as a délassement: but if you chose to be a weaver, like my grandfather, I should not say you nay. Don’t stint yourself of money or of honest pleasure. Of what good is money, unless we can make those we love happy with it? There would be no need for me to save, if you were to save too. So, and as you know as well as I what our means are, in every honest way use them. I should like you not to pass the whole of next year in Italy, but to come home and pay a visit to honest James Binnie. I wonder how the old barrack in Fitzroy Square looks without me? Try and go round by Paris on your way home, and pay your visit, and carry your father’s fond remembrances to Madame la Comtesse de Florac. I don’t say remember me to my brother, as I write Brian by this mail. Adieu, mon fils! je t’embrasse!—and am always my Clive’s affectionate father, T. N.’”