Paul Clifford — Complete
requires no man's companionship against his liking; and if the noble
spark of ambition be not in your bosom, 't is no use spending my breath
in blowing at what only existed in my too flattering opinion of your
qualities. So then, you propose to return to MacGrawler (the scurvy old
cheat!), and pass the inglorious remainder of your life in the mangling
of authors and the murder of grammar? Go, my good fellow, go! scribble
again and forever for MacGrawler, and let him live upon thy brains
instead of suffering thy brains to--”
“Hold!” cried Paul. “Although I may have some scruples which prevent my
adoption of that rising line of life you have proposed to me, yet you
are very much mistaken if you imagine me so spiritless as any longer to
subject myself to the frauds of that rascal MacGrawler. No! My present
intention is to pay my old nurse a visit. It appears to me passing
strange that though I have left her so many weeks, she has never
relented enough to track me out, which one would think would have been
no difficult matter; and now, you see, that I am pretty well off, having
five guineas and four shillings all my own, and she can scarcely think I
want her money, my heart melts to her, and I shall go and ask pardon for
my haste!”
“Pshaw! sentimental,” cried Long Ned, a little alarmed at the thought
of Paul's gliding from those clutches which he thought had now so firmly
closed upon him. “Why, you surely don't mean, after having once tasted
the joys of independence, to go back to the boozing-ken, and bear all
Mother Lobkins's drunken tantrums! Better have stayed with MacGrawler,
of the two!”
“You mistake me,” answered Paul; “I mean solely to make it up with her,
and get her permission to see the world. My ultimate intention is--to
travel.”
“Right,” cried Ned, “on the high-road,--and on horseback, I hope.”
“No, my Colossus of Roads! no. I am in doubt whether or not I shall
enlist in a marching regiment, or--Give me your advice on it! I fancy I
have a great turn for the stage, ever since I saw Garrick in 'Richard.'
Shall I turn stroller? It must be a merry life.”
“Oh, the devil!” cried Ned. “I myself once did Cassio in a barn, and
every one swore I enacted the drunken scene to perfection; but you have
no notion what a lamentable life it is to a man of any susceptibility.
No, my friend, no! There is only one line in all the old plays worthy
thy attention,--
“'Toby [The highway] or not toby, that is the question.'
“I forget the rest!”
“Well,” said our hero, answering in the same jocular vein, “I confess
I have 'the actor's high ambition.' It is astonishing how my heart beat
when Richard cried out, 'Come bustle, bustle!' Yes, Pepper, avaunt!--
“'A thousand hearts are great within my bosom.'”
“Well, well,” said Long Ned, stretching himself, “since you are so fond
of the play, what say you to an excursion thither to-night? Garrick
acts.”
“Done!” cried Paul.
“Done!” echoed lazily Long Ned, rising with that blase air which
distinguishes the matured man of the world from the enthusiastic
tyro,-“done! and we will adjourn afterwards to the White Horse.”
“But stay a moment,” said Paul; “if you remember, I owed you a guinea
when I last saw you,--here it is!”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed Long Ned, refusing the money,--“nonsense! You
want the money at present; pay me when you are richer. Nay, never be coy
about it; debts of honour are not paid now as they used to be. We lads
of the Fish Lane Club have changed all that. Well, well, if I must!”
And Long Ned, seeing that Paul insisted, pocketed the guinea. When this
delicate matter had been arranged,--“Come,” said Pepper, “come, get your
hat; but, bless me! I have forgotten one thing.”
“What?”
“Why, my fine Paul, consider. The play is a bang-up sort of a place;
look at your coat and your waistcoat, that's all!”
Our hero was struck dumb with this argumentum ad hominem. But Long Ned,
after enjoying his perplexity, relieved him of it by telling him that
he knew of an honest tradesman who kept a ready-made shop just by the
theatre, and who could fit him out in a moment.
In fact, Long Ned was as good as his word; he carried Paul to a tailor,
who gave him for the sum of thirty shillings--half ready money, half
on credit-a green coat with a tarnished gold lace, a pair of red
inexpressibles, and a pepper-and-salt waistcoat. It is true, they were
somewhat of the largest, for they had once belonged to no less a person
than Long Ned himself; but Paul did not then regard those niceties of
apparel, as he was subsequently taught to do by Gentleman George (a
personage hereafter to be introduced to our reader), and he went to the
theatre as well satisfied with himself as if he had been Mr. T---- or
the Count de ----.
Our adventurers are now quietly seated in the theatre; and we shall
not think it necessary to detail the performances they saw, or the
observations they made. Long Ned was one of those superior beings of the
road who would not for the world have condescended to appear anywhere
but in the boxes; and, accordingly, the friends procured a couple of
places in the dress-tier. In the next box to the one our adventurers
adorned they remarked, more especially than the rest of the audience, a
gentleman and a young lady seated next each other; the latter, who was
about thirteen years old, was so uncommonly beautiful that Paul,
despite his dramatic enthusiasm, could scarcely divert his eyes from her
countenance to the stage. Her hair, of a bright and fair auburn, hung
in profuse ringlets about her neck, shedding a softer shade upon a
complexion in which the roses seemed just budding as it were into blush.
Her eyes, large, blue, and rather languishing than brilliant, were
curtained by the darkest lashes; her mouth seemed literally girt with
smiles, so numberless were the dimples that every time the full, ripe,
dewy lips were parted rose into sight; and the enchantment of the
dimples was aided by two rows of teeth more dazzling than the richest
pearls that ever glittered on a bride. But the chief charm of the face
was its exceeding and touching air of innocence and girlish softness;
you might have gazed forever upon that first unspeakable bloom, that all
untouched and stainless down, which seemed as if a very breath could mar
it. Perhaps the face might have wanted animation; but perhaps, also, it
borrowed from that want an attraction. The repose of the features was so
soft and gentle that the eye wandered there with the same delight, and
left it with the same reluctance, which it experiences in dwelling on
or in quitting those hues which are found to harmonize the most with its
vision. But while Paul was feeding his gaze on this young beauty, the
keen glances of Long Ned had found an object no less fascinating in a
large gold watch which the gentleman who accompanied the damsel ever
and anon brought to his eye, as if he were waxing a little weary of the
length of the pieces or the lingering progression of time.
“What a beautiful face!” whispered Paul.
“Is the face gold, then, as well as the back?” whispered Long Ned, in
return.
Our hero started, frowned, and despite the gigantic stature of his
comrade, told him, very angrily, to find some other subject for jesting.
Ned in his turn stared, but made no reply.
Meanwhile Paul, though the lady was rather too young to fall in love
with, began wondering what relationship her companion bore to her.
Though the gentleman altogether was handsome, yet his features and the
whole character of his face were widely different from those on
which Paul gazed with such delight. He was not, seemingly, above
five-and-forty, but his forehead was knit into many a line and furrow;
and in his eyes the light, though searching, was more sober and staid
than became his years. A disagreeable expression played about the
mouth; and the shape of the face, which was long and thin, considerably
detracted from the prepossessing effect of a handsome aquiline nose,
fine teeth, and a dark, manly, though sallow complexion. There was a
mingled air of shrewdness and distraction in the expression of his face.
He seemed to pay very little attention to the play, or to anything about
him; but he testified very considerable alacrity, when the play was
over, in putting her cloak around his young companion, and in threading
their way through the thick crowd that the boxes were now pouring forth.
Paul and his companion silently, and each with very different motives
from the other, followed them. They were now at the door of the theatre.
A servant stepped forward and informed the gentleman that his carriage
was a few paces distant, but that it might be some time before it could
drive up to the theatre.
“Can you walk to the carriage, my dear?” said the gentleman to his young
charge; and she answering in the affirmative, they both left the house,
preceded by the servant.
“Come on!” said Long Ned, hastily, and walking in the same direction
which the strangers had taken. Paul readily agreed. They soon overtook
the strangers. Long Ned walked the nearest to the gentleman, and brushed
by him in passing. Presently a voice cried, “Stop thief!” and Long Ned,
saying to Paul, “Shift for yourself, run!” darted from our hero's side
into the crowd, and vanished in a twinkling. Before Paul could recover
his amaze, he found himself suddenly seized by the collar; he turned
abruptly, and saw the dark face of the young lady's companion.
“Rascal!” cried the gentleman, “my watch!”
“Watch!” repeated Paul, bewildered, and only for the sake of the young
lady refraining from knocking down his arrester,--“watch!”
“Ay, young man!” cried a fellow in a great-coat, who now suddenly
appeared on the other side of Paul; “this gentleman's watch. Please your
honour,” addressing the complainant, “I be a watch too; shall I take up
this chap?”
“By all means,” cried the gentleman; “I would not have lost my watch
for twice its value. I can swear I saw this fellow's companion snatch
it from my fob. The thief's gone; but we have at least the accomplice. I
give him in strict charge to you, watchman; take the consequences if you
let him escape.” The watchman answered, sullenly, that he did not want
to be threatened, and he knew how to discharge his duty.
“Don't answer me, fellow!” said the gentleman, haughtily; “do as I tell
you!” And after a little colloquy, Paul found himself suddenly marched
off between two tall fellows, who looked prodigiously inclined to eat
him. By this time he had recovered his surprise and dismay. He did not
want the penetration to see that his companion had really committed
the offence for which he was charged; and he also foresaw that the
circumstance might be attended with disagreeable consequences to
himself. Under all the features of the case, he thought that an attempt
to escape would not be an imprudent proceeding on his part; accordingly,
after moving a few paces very quietly and very passively, he watched
his opportunity, wrenched himself from the gripe of the gentleman on
his left, and brought the hand thus released against the cheek of the
gentleman on his right with so hearty a good will as to cause him to
relinquish his hold, and retreat several paces towards the areas in a
slanting position. But that roundabout sort of blow with the left fist
is very unfavourable towards the preservation of a firm balance; and
before Paul had recovered sufficiently to make an effectual bolt, he was
prostrated to the earth by a blow from the other and undamaged watchman,
which utterly deprived him of his senses; and when he recovered those
useful possessions (which a man may reasonably boast of losing, since it
is only the minority who have them to lose), he found himself stretched
on a bench in the watchhouse.
CHAPTER VII.