“He has made a fortune, a very considerable fortune for a man in that rank in life,” says Sir Barnes. “He cannot have less than sixty thousand pounds.”
“Is that much?” asks Ethel.
“Not in England, at our rate of interest; but his money is in India, where he gets a great percentage. His income must be five or six thousand pounds, ma’am,” says Barnes, turning to Lady Kew.
“A few of the Indians were in society in my time, my dear,” says Lady Kew, musingly. “My father has often talked to me about Barbell of Stanstead, and his house in St. James’s Square; the man who ordered more curricles when there were not carriages enough for his guests. I was taken to Mr. Hastings’s trial. It was very stupid and long. The young man, the painter, I suppose will leave his paint-pots now, and set up as a gentleman. I suppose they were very poor, or his father would not have put him to such a profession. Barnes, why did you not make him a clerk in the bank, and save him from the humiliation?”
“Humiliation! why, he is proud of it. My uncle is as proud as a Plantagenet; though he is as humble as—as what! Give me a simile Barnes. Do you know what my quarrel with Fanny Follington was about? She said we were not descended from the barber-surgeon, and laughed at the Battle of Bosworth. She says our great-grandfather was a weaver. Was he a weaver?”
“How should I know? and what on earth does it matter, my child? Except the Gaunts, the Howards, and one or two more, there is scarcely any good blood in England. You are lucky in sharing some of mine. My poor Lord Kew’s grandfather was an apothecary at Hampton Court, and founded the family by giving a dose of rhubarb to Queen Caroline. As a rule, nobody is of a good family. Didn’t that young man, that son of the Colonel’s, go about last year? How did he get in society? Where did we meet him? Oh! at Baden, yes; when Barnes was courting, and my grandson—yes, my grandson, acted so wickedly.” Here she began to cough, and to tremble so, that her old stick shook under her hand. “Ring the bell for Ross. Ross, I will go to bed. Go you too, Ethel. You have been travelling enough to-day.”
“Her memory seems to fail her a little,” Ethel whispered to her brother; “or she will only remember what she wishes. Don’t you see that she has grown very much older?”
“I will be with her in the morning. I have business with her,” said Barnes.
“Good night. Give my love to Clara, and kiss the little ones for me. Have you done what you promised me, Barnes?”
“What?”