'You have to thank me, Ned, for being of good family; for your mother, charming person as she was, and almost broken-hearted, and so forth, as she left me, when she was prematurely compelled to become immortal--had nothing to boast of in that respect.'
'Her father was at least an eminent lawyer, sir,' said Edward.
'Quite right, Ned; perfectly so. He stood high at the bar, had a great name and great wealth, but having risen from nothing--I have always closed my eyes to the circumstance and steadily resisted its contemplation, but I fear his father dealt in pork, and that his business did once involve cow-heel and sausages--he wished to marry his daughter into a good family. He had his heart's desire, Ned.
I was a younger son's younger son, and I married her. We each had our object, and gained it. She stepped at once into the politest and best circles, and I stepped into a fortune which I assure you was very necessary to my comfort--quite indispensable. Now, my good fellow, that fortune is among the things that have been. It is gone, Ned, and has been gone--how old are you? I always forget.'
'Seven-and-twenty, sir.'
'Are you indeed?' cried his father, raising his eyelids in a languishing surprise. 'So much! Then I should say, Ned, that as nearly as I remember, its skirts vanished from human knowledge, about eighteen or nineteen years ago. It was about that time when I came to live in these chambers (once your grandfather's, and bequeathed by that extremely respectable person to me), and commenced to live upon an inconsiderable annuity and my past reputation.'
'You are jesting with me, sir,' said Edward.
'Not in the slightest degree, I assure you,' returned his father with great composure. 'These family topics are so extremely dry, that I am sorry to say they don't admit of any such relief. It is for that reason, and because they have an appearance of business, that I dislike them so very much. Well! You know the rest. A
son, Ned, unless he is old enough to be a companion--that is to say, unless he is some two or three and twenty--is not the kind of thing to have about one. He is a restraint upon his father, his father is a restraint upon him, and they make each other mutually uncomfortable. Therefore, until within the last four years or so--
I have a poor memory for dates, and if I mistake, you will correct me in your own mind--you pursued your studies at a distance, and picked up a great variety of accomplishments. Occasionally we passed a week or two together here, and disconcerted each other as only such near relations can. At last you came home. I candidly tell you, my dear boy, that if you had been awkward and overgrown, I should have exported you to some distant part of the world.'
'I wish with all my soul you had, sir,' said Edward.
'No you don't, Ned,' said his father coolly; 'you are mistaken, I
assure you. I found you a handsome, prepossessing, elegant fellow, and I threw you into the society I can still command.
Having done that, my dear fellow, I consider that I have provided for you in life, and rely upon your doing something to provide for me in return.'
'I do not understand your meaning, sir.'
'My meaning, Ned, is obvious--I observe another fly in the cream-
jug, but have the goodness not to take it out as you did the first, for their walk when their legs are milky, is extremely ungraceful and disagreeable--my meaning is, that you must do as I did; that you must marry well and make the most of yourself.'
'A mere fortune-hunter!' cried the son, indignantly.
'What in the devil's name, Ned, would you be!' returned the father.
'All men are fortune-hunters, are they not? The law, the church, the court, the camp--see how they are all crowded with fortune-
hunters, jostling each other in the pursuit. The stock-exchange, the pulpit, the counting-house, the royal drawing-room, the senate,--what but fortune-hunters are they filled with? A fortune-
