“You can make him a handsome allowance now, and leave him a good fortune when you die!” says the nephew, in a noble and courageous manner,—and as if he said Twelve times twelve are a hundred and forty-four and you have Sir Barnes Newcome’s authority—Sir Barnes Newcome’s, mind you—to say so.
“Not when I die, Barnes,” the uncle goes on. “I will give him every shilling I am worth to-morrow morning, if he marries as I wish him.”
“Tant mieux pour lui!” cries the nephew; and thought to himself, “Lady Clara must ask Clive to dinner instantly. Confound the fellow. I hate him—always have; but what luck he has!”
“A man with that property may pretend to a good wife, as the French say; hey Barnes?” asks the Colonel, rather eagerly looking up in his nephew’s face.
That countenance was lighted up with a generous enthusiasm. “To any woman, in any rank—to a nobleman’s daughter, my dear sir!” exclaims Sir Barnes.
“I want your sister; I want dear Ethel for him, Barnes,” cries Thomas Newcome, with a trembling voice, and a twinkle in his eyes. “That was the hope I always had till my talk with your poor father stopped it. Your sister was engaged to my Lord Kew then; and my wishes of course were impossible. The poor boy is very much cut up, and his whole heart is bent upon possessing her. She is not, she can’t be, indifferent to him. I am sure she would not be, if her family in the least encouraged him. Can either of these young folks have a better chance of happiness again offered to them in life? There’s youth, there’s mutual liking, there’s wealth for them almost—only saddled with the encumbrance of an old dragoon, who won’t be much in their way. Give us your good word, Barnes, and let them come together; and upon my word the rest of my days will be made happy if I can eat my meal at their table.”
Whilst the poor Colonel was making his appeal, Barnes had time to collect his answer; which, since in our character of historians we take leave to explain gentlemen’s motives as well as record their speeches and actions, we may thus interpret. “Confound the young beggar!” thinks Barnes, then. “He will have three or four thousand a year, will he? Hang him, but it’s a good sum of money. What a fool his father is to give it away! Is he joking? No, he was always half crazy—the Colonel. Highgate seemed uncommonly sweet on her, and was always hanging about our house. Farintosh has not been brought to book yet; and perhaps neither of them will propose for her. My grandmother, I should think, won’t hear of her making a low marriage, as this certainly is: but it’s a pity to throw away four thousand a year, ain’t it?” All these natural calculations passed briskly through Barnes Newcome’s mind, as his uncle, from the opposite side of the fireplace, implored him in the above little speech.
“My dear Colonel,” said Barnes, “my dear, kind Colonel! I needn’t tell you that your proposal flatters us, as much as your extraordinary generosity surprises me. I never heard anything like it—never. Could I consult my own wishes I would at once—I would, permit me to say, from sheer admiration of your noble character, say yes, with all my heart, to your proposal. But, alas, I haven’t that power.”
“Is—is she engaged?” asks the Colonel, looking as blank and sad as Clive himself when Ethel had conversed with him.
“No—I cannot say engaged—though a person of the very highest rank has paid her the most marked attention. But my sister has, in a way, gone from our family, and from my influence as the head of it—an influence which I, I am sure, had most gladly exercised in your favour. My grandmother, Lady Kew, has adopted her; purposes, I believe, to leave Ethel the greater part of her fortune, upon certain conditions; and, of course, expects the—the obedience, and so forth, which is customary in such cases. By the way, Colonel, is our young soupirant aware that papa is pleading his cause for him?”