Thomas had risen again. Now he slipped his arm in his brother’s.
“If it comes to prevention, old sobersides, I’m game. I’ll make an uproar in the church and carry off the bride. Gad, but ’twould be amusing! Carry off one’s brother’s bride, under his stern nose. Devil take it, Maurry, that’s just what your nose is! I never thought on’t before-stern, grim old-now, steady, Tom, my boy, or you’ll be laughing again with the old gentleman not yet under ground!”
Maurice waited for his brother’s mirth to abate.
“But, Tom, ’tis very well for you to counsel me not to wed without love! I must marry, for ’tis certain you’ll not, and we must have heirs. What’s to be done, I’d like to know?” “Wait, lad, wait! You’re not so old that you can’t afford to hold back yet awhile.” “I’m thirty-five, Tom.”
“Then you have fifteen years to run before you need settle down. Take my advice, and wait!” The end of it was that Maurice did wait. For four years he continued to rove through Europe, amusing himself in the usual way of gentlemen of his day, but in 1729 he wrote a long letter from Paris to his brother in London, declaring himself in love, and the lady an angel of goodness, sweetness, amiability, and affection. He said much more in this vein, all of which Tom had to read, yawning and chuckling by turns. The lady was one Maria Marchant. She brought with her a fair dowry and a placid disposition. So Tom wrote off to Maurice at once, congratulating him, and bestowing his blessing on the alliance. He desired his dear old Maurry to quit travelling, and to come home to his affectionate brother Tom. In a postscript he added that he dropped 500 guineas at Newmarket, only to win 1500 at dice the very next week, so that had it not been for his plaguey ill-luck in the matter of a small wager with Harry Besham, he would today be the most carefree of mortals, instead of a jaded creature, creeping about in terror of the bailiffs from hour to hour. After that there was no more correspondence. Neither brother felt that there was anything further to be said, and they were not men to waste their time in writing to one another for no urgent matter. Thomas thought very little more about Maurice’s marriage. He supposed that the wedding would take place in England before many months had gone by; possibly Maurice would see fit to return at once, as he, Tom, had suggested. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done. Tom laid his brother’s letter aside, and went on with his ordinary occupations.
He lived in Half-Moon Street. His house was ruled by his cook, the wife of Moggat, his valet-footman. She also ruled the hapless Moggat. Moggat retaliated by ruling his jovial master as far as he was able, so one might really say Mrs. Moggat ruled them all. As Tom was quite unaware of this fact, it troubled him not a whit.
A month after he had answered his brother’s letter, Tom was disturbed one morning while
he sipped his chocolate with the news that a gentleman wished to speak to him. Tom was in his bedchamber, his round person swathed in a silken wrapper of astonishing brightness. He had not yet doffed his nightcap, and his wig lay on the dressing-table. The lean, long Moggat crept in at the door, which he seemed hardly to open, and ahem’d directly behind his master.
Tom was in the act of swallowing his chocolate, and as he had not heard Moggat’s slithering approach, the violent clearing of that worthy’s throat startled him not a little, and he choked. Tenderly solicitous, Moggat patted him on the back until the coughs and splutters had abated. Tom bounced round in his chair to face the man.
“Damn and curse it, Moggat! What d’ye mean by it? What d’ye mean by it, I say? Crawling into a room to make a noise at me just as I’m drinking! Yes, sir! Just as I’m drinking! Devil take you! D’ye hear me? Devil take you!”
Moggat listened in mournful silence. When Tom ceased for want of breath, he bowed, and continued as though there had been no interruption.
“There is a gentleman below, sir, as desires to have speech with you.” “A gentleman? Don’t you know that gentlemen don’t come calling at this hour, ye ninny-pated jackass? Bring me some more chocolate!”
“Yes, sir, a gentleman.”
“I tell you no gentleman would disturb another at this hour! Have done now, Moggat!” “And although I told the gentleman, sir, as how my master was not yet robed and accordingly could not see any visitors, he said it was of no consequence to him whatsoever, and he would be obliged to you to ask him upstairs at once, sir. So I-”
“Confound his impudence!” growled Tom. “What’s his name?”
“The gentleman, sir, on my asking what name I was to tell you, gave me to understand that it was of no matter.”
“Devil take him! Show him out, Moggat! Like as not ’tis one of those cursed bailiffs. Why, you fool, what d’ye mean by letting him in?”
Moggat sighed in patient resignation.
“If you will allow me to say so, sir, this gentleman is not a bailiff.” “Well, who is he?”
“I regret, sir, I do not know.”
“You’re a fool! What’s this fellow like?”
“The gentleman”-Moggat laid ever so little stress on the word-“is tall, sir, and-er-slim. He is somewhat dark as regards eyes and brows, and he is dressed, if I may say so, exceedingly modishly, with a point-edged hat, and very full-skirted puce coat, laced, French fashion, with-”
Tom snatched his nightcap off and threw it at Moggat.
“Numskull! D’ye think I want a list of his clothes? Show him out, the swarthy rogue! Show him out!”
Moggat picked up the nightcap, and smoothed it sadly. “The gentleman seems anxious to see you, sir.”
“Ay! Trying to dun me, the rascal! Don’t I know it! Blustering and-”
“No, sir,” said Moggat firmly. “I could not truthfully say that the gentleman blustered. Indeed, sir, if I may say so, I think him a singularly quiet, cool gentleman. Very soft-spoken, sir-oh, very soft-spoken!”
“Take him away!” shouted Tom. “I tell you I’ll not be pestered at this hour! I might be asleep, damme! Tell the fellow to come again at a godly time-not at dawn. Now, don’t try to argue, Moggat! I tell you, if it were my brother himself, I’d not see him!”
Moggat bowed again.
“I will hinform the gentleman, sir.”
When the door closed behind Moggat, Tom leant back in his chair and picked up one of his letters. Not five minutes later the door creaked again, Tom turned, to find Moggat at his elbow.
“Eh? What d’ye want?”
“Hif you please, sir, the gentleman says as how he is your brother,” said Moggat gently. Tom jumped as though he had been shot
“What? My brother? What d’ye mean? My brother?” “Sir Maurice, sir.”
Up flew Tom, catching at his wig and cramming it on his head all awry. “Thunder an’ turf! Maurry! Here, you raving wooden-pate! How dare you leave my brother downstairs? How dare you, I say?” He wrapped himself more tightly in his robe than ever, and dashed headlong out of the room, down the stairs to where Maurice awaited him. Sir Maurice was standing by the window in the library, drumming his fingers on the sill. At his brother’s tempestuous entrance he turned and bowed.
“A nice welcome you give me, Tom! Tell him to come again at a godly time-I’d not see him if ’twere my brother himself, forsooth!”
Thomas hopped across the room and seized both Maurice’s long, thin hands in his plump, chubby ones.
“My dear Maurry! My dear old fellow! I’d no notion ’twas you! My dolt of a lackey-but there! When did you arrive in England?”
“A week ago. I have been at the Pride.”
“A week? What a plague d’mean by not coming to me till now, ye rogue?” As he spoke, Tom thrust Maurice into a chair, and himself sat down opposite him, beaming with pleasure. Maurice leant back, crossing his legs. A little smile flickered across his mouth, but his eyes were solemn as he answered: