enjoyment of the princely disposition that had dictated that patriotic order.
“Oh!—there!” Kilne emphasized, pushing out his arm across the bar, as much as to say, that in anything of that kind, the great Mel never had a rival.
“That ‘Marquis’ affair changed him a bit,” said Barnes.
“Perhaps it did, for a time,” said Kilne. “What’s in the grain, you know. He couldn’t change. He would be a gentleman, and nothing’d stop him.”
“And I shouldn’t wonder but what that young chap out in Portugal’ll want to be one, too; though he didn’t bid fair to be so fine a man as his father.”
“More of a scholar,” remarked Kilne. “That I call his worst fault—shilly-shallying about that young chap. I mean his.” Kilne stretched a finger towards the dead man’s house. “First, the young chap’s to be sent into the navy; then it’s the army; then he’s to be a judge, and sit on criminals; then he goes out to his aunt in Portugal; and now there’s nothing but a tailor open to him, as I see, if we’re to get our money.”
“Ah! and he hasn’t got too much spirit to work to pay his father’s debts,” added Barnes. “There’s a business there to make any man’s fortune—properly directed, I say. But, I suppose, like father like son, he’ll be coming the Marquis, too. He went to a gentleman’s school, and he’s had foreign training. I don’t know what to think about it. His sister’s over there—she’s a fine woman.”
“Oh! a fine family, every one of ’em! and married well!” exclaimed the publican.
“I never had the exact rights of that ‘Marquis’ affair,” said Grossby; and, remembering that he had previously laughed knowingly when it was alluded to, pursued; “Of course I heard of it at the time, but how did he behave when he was blown upon?”
Barnes undertook to explain; but Kilne, who relished the narrative quite as well, and was readier, said:
“Look here! I’ll tell you. I had it from his own mouth one night when he wasn’t—not quite himself. He was coming down King William Street, where he stabled his horse, you know, and I met him. He’d been dining out—somewhere out over Fallowfield, I think it was; and he sings out to me, ‘Ah! Kilne, my good fellow!’ and I, wishing to be equal with him, says, ‘A fine night, my lord!’ and he draws himself up—he smelt of good company—says he, ‘Kilne! I’m not a lord, as you know, and you have no excuse for mistaking me for one, sir!’ So I pretended I had mistaken him, and then he tucked his arm under mine, and said, ‘You’re no worse than your betters, Kilne. They took me for one at Squire Uploft’s to-night, but a man who wishes to pass off for more than he is, Kilne, and impose upon people,’ he says, ‘he’s contemptible, Kilne! contemptible!’ So that, you know, set me thinking about ‘Bath’ and the ‘Marquis,’ and I couldn’t help smiling to myself, and just let slip a question whether he had enlightened them a bit. ‘Kilne,’ said he, ‘you’re an honest man, and a neighbour, and I’ll tell you what happened. The Squire,’ he says, ‘likes my company, and I like his table. Now the Squire’d never do a dirty action, but the Squire’s nephew, Mr. George Uploft, he can’t forget that I earn my money, and once or twice I have had to correct him.’ And I’ll wager Mel did it, too! Well, he goes on: ‘There was Admiral Sir Jackson Roseley and his lady, at dinner, Squire Foulke of Hursted, Lady Barrington, Admiral Combleman’—our admiral, that was; Mr. This and That, I forget their names—‘and other ladies and gentlemen whose acquaintance I was not honoured with.’ You know his way of talking. ‘And there was a goose on the table,’ he says; and, looking stern at me, ‘Don’t laugh yet!’ says he, like thunder. Well, he goes on: ‘Mr. George caught my eye across the table, and said, so as not to be heard by his uncle, “If that bird was rampant, you would see your own arms, Marquis.”’ And Mel replied, quietly for him to hear, ‘And, as that bird is couchant, Mr. George, you had better look to your sauce.’ Couchant means squatting, you know. That’s ’eraldy! Well, that wasn’t bad sparring of Mel’s. But, bless you! he was never taken aback, and the gentlefolks was glad enough to get him to sit down amongst ’em. So, says Mr. George, ‘I know you’re a fire-eater, Marquis,’ and his dander was up, for he began marquising Mel, and doing the mock-polite at such a rate, that, by-and-by, one of the ladies who didn’t know Mel called him ‘my lord’ and ‘his lordship.’ ‘And,’ says Mel, ‘I merely bowed to her, and took no notice.’ So that passed off: and there sits Mel, telling his anecdotes, as grand as a king. And, by-and-by, young Mr. George, who hadn’t forgiven Mel, and had been pulling at the bottle pretty well, he sings out, ‘It’s Michaelmas! the death of the goose! and I should like to drink the Marquis’s health!’ and he drank it solemn. But, as far as I can make out, the women part of the company was a little in the dark. So Mel waited till there was a sort of a pause, and then speaks rather loud to the Admiral, ‘By the way, Sir Jackson, may I ask you, has the title of Marquis anything to do with tailoring?’ Now Mel was a great favourite with the Admiral, and with his lady, too,—they say—and the Admiral played into his hands, you see, and, says he, ‘I’m not aware that it has, Mr. Harrington.’ And he begged for to know why he asked the question—called him, ‘Mister,’ you understand. So Mel said, and I can see him now—right out from his chest he spoke, with his head up—‘When I was a younger man, I had the good taste to be fond of good society, and the bad taste to wish to appear different from what I was in it.’ That’s Mel speaking; everybody was listening; so he goes on. ‘I was in the habit of going to Bath in the season, and consorting with the gentlemen I met there on terms of equality; and for some reason that I am quite guiltless of,’ says Mel, ‘the hotel people gave out that I was a Marquis in disguise; and, upon my honour, ladies and gentlemen—I was young then, and a fool—I could not help imagining I looked the thing. At all events, I took upon myself to act the part, and with some success, and considerable gratification: for, in my