In the meantime, the news flies in every direction. Brentford is full of it. Mr T had been living too fast — is done up — had been had up at Bow Street — creditors had poured in with bills — servants discharged — carriage and horses seized. Mrs T, poor creature, in hysterics, and nobody surprised at it; indeed, everybody expected it. The Peters of Petercumb Hall heard it, and shook their heads at the many upstarts there were in the world. Mr Smith requested the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Babbleton never to mention to his father the Right Honourable Marquis of Spring-guns, that he had ever been taken to see the Turnbulls or that he, Mr Smith, would infallibly lose his situation in esse, and his living in posse: and Monsieur and Madame Tagliabue were even more astounded; but they felt deeply, and resolved to pay a visit the next morning, at least Monsieur Tagliabue did, and Madame acknowledged to the propriety of it.

  The next morning some little order had been restored; the footman hired had been given in charge of a sufficient quantity of plate, the rest had been locked up. The cook was to stay her month; the housemaid had no wish to leave; and as for the lady’s maid, she would remain as long as she could to console her poor mistress, and accept what she was inclined to give her in return, in any way of clothes, dresses, etcetera, although, of course, she could not hurt her character by remaining too long in a family where there was no carriage, or gentlemen out of livery. Still Mr T did obtain some breakfast, and had just finished when Monsieur Tagliabue was announced, and was received.

  “Ah! Monsieur T, I hope madame is better. Madame Tagliabue did nothing but cry all last night when she heard the very bad news about de debt, and all dat.”

  “Very much obliged to Madame,” replied Turnbull, gruffly; “and now, pray sir, what may be your pleasure?”

  “Ah! Monsieur Turnbull, I feel very much for you; but suppose a gentleman no lose his honour, what matter de money?” (Mr Turnbull stared.) “You see, Monsieur Turnbull, honour be everything to a gentleman. If a gentleman owe money to one rascally tradesfellow, and not pay him, dat no great matter; but he always pay de debt of honour. Every gentleman pay dat. Here, Monsieur Turnbull,” (and the little Frenchman pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket), “be a leetle note of Madame Turnbull, which she gave to Madame Tagliabue, in which she acknowledged she owe two hundred pounds for money lost at écarté. Dat you see, Monsieur Turnbull, be what gentlemen call debt of honour, which every gentleman pay, or else he lose de character, and be called one blackguard by all the world. Madame Tagliabue and I too much fond of you and Madame Turnbull not to save your character, and so I come by her wish to beg you to settle this leetle note — this leetle debt of honour;” and Monsieur Tagliabue laid the note on the table, with a very polite bow.

  Mr Turnbull examined the note; it was as described by Monsieur Tagliabue. So, thought he, now the whole story’s out; she has been swindled out of her money by this rascally French couple. “Now, Monsieur Tagliabue,” said he, “allow me to put a question or two before I pay this money; and if you answer me sincerely, I shall raise no objection. I think Mrs T has already lost about six hundred pounds at écarté before?” (Monsieur T, who presumed that Mrs Turnbull had made him acquainted with the fact, answered in the affirmative.) “And I think that two months ago she never knew what écarté was.”

  “Dat is true; but the ladies are very quick to learn.”

  “Well, but now, do you think that, as she knew nothing about the game, and you and your wife are well acquainted with it, it was honourable on your part to allow her to lose so much money!”

  “Ah! Monsieur, when a lady say she will play comment faire, what can you do?”

  “But why did you never play at this house, Monsieur?”

  “Ah! Monsieur Turnbull, it is for de lady of de house to propose de game.”

  “Very true,” replied Mr Turnbull, writing a cheque for the two hundred pounds; “there is your money, Mr Tagliabue; and now that you are paid, allow me to observe that I consider you and your wife a couple of swindlers; and beg that you will never enter my doors again.”

  “Vat you say, sir! Swind-lare! God dam! Sar, I will have satisfaction.”

  “You’ve got your money — is that sufficient, or do you want anything else?” replied Mr T, rising from his chair.

  “Yes, sar, I do want more — I will have more.”

  “So you shall, then,” replied Mr Turnbull, kicking him out of the room along the passage, and out of the front door.

  Monsieur Tagliabue turned round every now and then, and threatened, and then tried to escape, as he perceived the upraised boot of Mr Turnbull. When fairly out of the house he turned round, “Monsieur Turnbull, I will have de satisfaction, de terrible satisfaction, for this. You shall pay. By God, sar, you shall pay — de money for this.”

  That evening Mr Turnbull was summoned to appear at Bow Street on the following morning for the assault. He met Monsieur Tagliabue with his lawyer, and acknowledged that he had kicked him out of his house for swindling his wife, refused all accommodation, and was prepared with his bail. Monsieur Tagliabue stormed and blustered, talked about his acquaintance with the nobility; but the magistrate had seen too much of foreigners to place much reliance on their asseverations. “Who are you, monsieur?”

  “Sar, I am a gentleman.”

  “What profession are you of, sir?”

  “Sar, a gentleman has no profession.”

  “But how do you live, Monsieur Tagliabue?”

  “As a gentleman always does, sar.”

  “You mentioned Lord Scrope just now as your particular friend, I think?”

  “Yes, sar, me very intimate with Lord Scrope; me spend three months at Scrope Castle with mi Lady Scrope; mi Lady Scrope very fond of Madame Tagliabue.”

  “Very well, Monsieur Tagliabue; we must proceed with another case until Mr Turnbull’s bail arrives. Sit down for a little while, if you please.”

  Another case was then heard, which lasted about half-an-hour; but previous to hearing it, the magistrate, who knew that Lord Scrope was in town, had despatched a runner with a note to his lordship, and the answer was now brought back. The magistrate read it, and smiled; went on with the other case, and when it was finished, said, “Now, M. Tagliabue, you have said that you were intimate with Lord Scrope.”

  “Yes, sar, very intimate.”

  “Well, Lord Scrope I have the pleasure of knowing: and, as he is in town, I wrote a note to him and here is his answer. I will read it.”

  M. Tagliabue turned pale as the magistrate read the following: —

  “Dear Sir — A fellow of the name you mention came from Russia with me as my valet. I discharged him with dishonesty; after he left, Lady Scrope’s attendant, who it appeared was, unknown to us, married to him, left also, and then I discovered the peculations to have been so extensive that had we known where to have laid hold of him, I should certainly have brought them before you. Now the affair is forgotten; but a greater scoundrel never existed; — Yours, Scrope.”

  “Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?” continued the magistrate in a severe tone. M. Tagliabue fell on his knees and begged for mercy from the magistrate, from Lord Scrope, and lastly, from Mr Turnbull, to whom he proffered the draft for 200 pounds. The magistrate, seeing that Mr Turnbull did not take it, said to him, “Make no ceremony of taking your money back again, Mr Turnbull; the very offer of it proves that he has gained it dishonestly; and 600 pounds is quite enough to have lost.” Mr Turnbull then took the cheque and tore it in pieces, and the magistrate ordered M. Tagliabue to be taken to the alien office, and he was sent to the other side of the Channel, in company with his wife, to play écarté with whomsoever he pleased. Thus ended the episode of Monsieur Tagliabue.

  Chapter Thirty.

  Mr Turnbull finds out that money, though a necessary evil, is not a source of happiness — The Dominie finds out that a little calumny is more effectual than Ovid’s remedy for love; and I find out that walking gives one a good appetite for fillet of veal and bacon — I set an example to the clergy in refusing to take money for a seat in church.

  “And now you see, Jacob, what a revolution has taken place; not very pleasant, I grant, but still it was very necessary. I have since been paying all my bills, for the report of my being in difficulty has brought them in fast enough; and I find that in these last five months my wife has spent a whole year’s income; so it was quite time to stop.”

  “I agree with you, sir; but what does Mrs Turnbull say now — has she come to her senses?”

  “Pretty well, I expect, although she does not quite choose to acknowledge it. I have told her that she must dispense with a carriage in future; and so she shall, till I think she deserves it. She knows that she must either have my company in the house, or none at all. She knows that the Peters of Petercumb Hall have cut her, for they did not answer a note of hers, sent by the gardener; and Mr Smith has written a very violent answer to another of her notes, wondering at her attempting to push herself into the company of the aristocracy. But what has brought her to her senses more than all is the affair of Monsieur Tagliabue. The magistrate, at my request, gave me the note of Lord Scrope, and I have taken good care that she could read the police report as well; but the fact is, she is so much mortified that I say nothing to her. She has been following the advice of these French swindlers, who have led her wrong, to be able to cheat her of her money. I expect she will ask me to sell this place, and go elsewhere; but at present we hardly exchange a word during the whole day.”

  “I feel very sorry for her, sir; for I really believe her to be a very good kind-hearted person.”

  “That’s like you, Jacob — and so she is. At present she is in a state to be pitied. She would throw a share of the blame upon other people, and cannot — she feels it is all herself. All her bubbles of grandeur have burst, and she finds herself not half so respectable as she was before her vanity induced her to cut her former acquaintance, and try to get into the society of those who laughed at her, and at the same time were not half so creditable. But it’s that cursed money which has proved her unhappiness — and, I may add, mine.”

  “Well, sir, I see no chance of its ever adding to my misfortunes, at all events.”

  “Perhaps not, Jacob, even if you ever should get any; but, at all events, you may take a little to-morrow, if you please. I cannot ask you to dine here; it would not be pleasant to you, and show a want of feeling to my wife; but I should like you to come up with the wherry to-morrow, and we’ll take a cruise.”

  “Very well, I shall be at your orders — at what time?”

  “Say ten o’clock if the weather is fine; if not the next day.”

  “Then, sir, I’ll now wish you good-bye, as I must go and see the Dominie.”

  Mr Turnbull took my hand, and we parted. I was soon at Brentford, and was continuing my course through the long, main street, when I met Mr and Mrs Tomkins, the former head clerk who had charge of the Brentford Wharf. “I was intending to call upon you, sir, after I had paid a visit to my old master.”

  “Very well, Jacob; and recollect we dine at half-past three — fillet of veal and bacon — don’t be late for dinner.”

  I promised that I would not, and in a few minutes more arrived at the Grammar School. I looked at its peaked, antiquated front, and called to mind my feelings when, years back, I had first entered its porch. What a difference between the little uncouth, ignorant, savage, tricked out like a harlequin, and now the tall, athletic, well-dressed youth, happy in his independence, and conscious, although not vain, of his acquirements! and I mentally blessed the founders. But I had to talk to the Dominie, and to keep my appointment with the veal and bacon at half-past three, so I could not spare any time for meditation. I, therefore, unfolded my arms, and making use of my legs, entered the wicket, and proceeded to the Dominie’s room. The door was ajar, and I entered without being perceived. I have often been reminded, by Flemish paintings which I have seen since, of the picture which then presented itself. The room was not large, but lofty. It had but one window, fitted with small diamond-shaped panes in heavy wood-work, through which poured a broad, but subdued, stream of light. On one side of the window was an ancient armoire, containing the Dominie’s library, not gilt and lettered but well thumbed and worn. On the other his huge chest of drawers, on which lay, alas! for the benefit of the rising generations, a new birch rod, of large dimensions. The table was in the centre of the room, and the Dominie sat at it, with his back to the window, in a dressing-gown, once black, having been a cassock, but now brown with age. He was on his high and narrow-backed chair, leaning forwards, with both elbows on the table, his spectacles on his luxuriant nose, and his hands nearly meeting on the top of his bald crown, earnestly poring over the contents of a book. A large Bible, which he constantly made use of, was also on the table, and had apparently been shoved from him to give place to the present object of his meditations. His pipe lay on the floor in two pieces, having been thrown off without his perceiving it. On one side of him was a sheet of paper, on which he evidently had been writing extracts. I passed by him without his perceiving me, and gaining the back of his chair, looked over his shoulder. The work he was so intent upon was “Ovid’s Remedy of Love.”

  It appeared that he had nearly finished reading through the whole, for in less than a minute he closed the book, and laying his spectacles down, threw himself back in his chair. “Strange,” soliloquised the Dominie; “Yet, verily, is some of his advice important, and I should imagine commendable, yet I do not find my remedy therein. ‘Avoid idleness’ — yes, that is sage counsel — and employment to one that hath not employed himself may drive away thought; but I have never been idle, and mine hath not been love in idleness; ‘Avoid her presence’ — that I must do; yet doth she still present herself to mine imagination, and I doubt whether the tangible reality could be more clearly perceptible. Even now doth she stand before me in all her beauty. ‘Read not Propertius and Tibullus’ — that is easily refrained from; but read what I will, in a minute the type passeth from my eyes, and I see but her face beaming from the page. Nay, cast my eyes in what direction I may wist, it is the same. If I looked at the stained wall, the indistinct lines gradually form themselves into her profile; if I look at the clouds, they will assume some of the redundant outlines of her form; if I cast mine eyes upon the fire in the kitchen-grate, the coals will glow and cool until I see her face; nay, but yesterday, the shoulder of mutton upon the spit gyrated until it at last assumed the decapitated head of Mary. ‘Think of her faults and magnify them’ — nay, that were unjust and unchristian. Let me rather correct mine own. I fear me that when Ovid wrote his picture he intended it for the use of young men, and not for an old fool like me. Behold! I have again broken my pipe — the fourth pipe that I have destroyed this week. What will the dame say? already hath she declared me demented, and God knows she is not very far from the truth;” and the Dominie covered up his face in his hands. I took this opportunity to step to the door, and appear to enter it, dropping the latch, and rousing the Dominie by the noise, who extended to me his hand. “Welcome, my son — welcome to thine old preceptor; and to the walls which first received thee, when thou wert cast on shore as a tangle weed from the river. Sit, Jacob; I was thinking of thee and thine.”

  “What, sir? of old Stapleton and his daughter, I suppose.”

  “Even so; ye were all in my thoughts at the moment that thou madest thy appearance. They are well?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied I. “I see but little of them; the old man is always smoking, and as for the girl — why, the less one sees of her the better, I should say.”

  “Nay, Jacob, this is new to me; yet is she most pleasant.”

  I knew the Dominie’s character, and that if anything could cure his unfortunate passion, it would be a supposition on his part that the girl was not correct. I determined at all events to depreciate her, as I knew that what I said would never be mentioned by him, and would therefore do her no harm. Still, I felt that I had to play a difficult game, as I was determined not to state what was not the fact. “Pleasant, sir; yes, pleasant to everybody; the fact is; I don’t like such girls as she is.”

  “Indeed, Jacob; what, is she light?” I smiled and made no answer. “Yet I perceived it not,” replied the Dominie.