The upholsterer's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Glances from ceiling to floor, from floor to ceiling;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The form of things unknown, th' upholsterer's pencil
Turns to shape and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a NAME.
Of the value of a NAME no one could be more sensible than Mr. Soho.
'Your la'ship sees—this is merely a scratch of my pencil—your la'ship's sensible—just to give you an idea of the shape, the form of the thing. You fill up your angles here with ECOINIERES—round your walls with the TURKISH TENT DRAPERY—a fancy of my own—in apricot cloth, or crimson velvet, suppose, or EN FLUTE, in crimson satin draperies, fanned and riched with gold fringes, EN SUITE—intermediate spaces, Apollo's heads with gold rays—and here, ma'am, you place four CHANCELIERES, with chimeras at the corners, covered with blue silk and silver fringe, elegantly fanciful—with my STATIRA CANOPY here—light blue silk draperies—aerial tint, with silver balls—and for seats here, the SERAGLIO OTTOMANS, superfine scarlet—your paws—griffin—golden—and golden tripods, here, with antique cranes—and oriental alabaster tables here and there—quite appropriate, your la'ship feels.
'And—let me reflect. For the next apartment, it strikes me—as your la'ship don't value expense—THE ALHAMBRA HANGINGS—my own thought entirely. Now, before I unroll them, Lady Clonbrony, I must beg you'll not mention I've shown them. I give you my sacred honour, not a soul has set eye upon the Alhambra hangings, except Mrs. Dareville, who stole a peep; I refused, absolutely refused, the Duchess of Torcaster—but I can't refuse your la'ship. So see, ma'am—(unrolling them)—scagliola porphyry columns supporting the grand dome—entablature, silvered and decorated with imitative bronze ornaments; under the entablature, A VALANCE IN PELMETS, of puffed scarlet silk, would have an unparalleled grand effect, seen through the arches—with the TREBISOND TRELLICE PAPER, would make a TOUT ENSEMBLE, novel beyond example. On that Trebisond trellice paper, I confess, ladies, I do pique myself.
'Then, for the little room, I recommend turning it temporarily into a Chinese pagoda, with this CHINESE PAGODA PAPER, with the PORCELAIN border, and josses, and jars, and beakers to match; and I can venture to promise one vase of pre-eminent size and beauty. Oh, indubitably! if your la'ship prefers it, you can have the EGYPTIAN HIEROGLYPHIC PAPER, with the IBIS BORDER to match! The only objection is, one sees it everywhere—quite antediluvian—gone to the hotels even; but, to be sure, if your la'ship has a fancy—At all events, I humbly recommend, what her Grace of Torcaster longs to patronise, my MOON CURTAINS, with candlelight draperies. A demisaison elegance this—I hit off yesterday—and—true, your la'ship's quite correct—out of the common, completely. And, of course, you'd have the SPHYNX CANDELABRAS, and the Phoenix argands. Oh! nothing else lights now, ma'am! Expense! Expense of the whole! Impossible to calculate here on the spot!—but nothing at all worth your ladyship's consideration!'
At another moment, Lord Colambre might have been amused with all this rhodomontade, and with the airs and voluble conceit of the orator; but, after what he had heard at Mr. Mordicai's, this whole scene struck him more with melancholy than with mirth. He was alarmed by the prospect of new and unbounded expense; provoked, almost past enduring, by the jargon and impertinence of this upholsterer; mortified and vexed to the heart to see his mother the dupe, the sport of such a coxcomb.
'Prince of puppies!—insufferable!—My own mother!' Lord Colambre repeated to himself, as he walked hastily up and down the room.
'Colambre, won't you let us have your judgment—your TEESTE' said his mother.
'Excuse me, ma'am. I have no taste, no judgment, in these things.'
He sometimes paused, and looked at Mr. Soho with a strong inclination to—But knowing that he should say too much, if he said anything, he was silent never dared to approach the council table—but continued walking up and down the room, till he heard a voice, which at once arrested his attention, and soothed his ire. He approached the table instantly, and listened, whilst Grace Nugent said everything he wished to have said, and with all the propriety and delicacy with which he thought he could not have spoken. He leaned on the table, and fixed his eyes upon her—years ago, he had seen his cousin—last night, he had thought her handsome, pleasing, graceful—but now, he saw a new person, or he saw her in a new light. He marked the superior intelligence, the animation, the eloquence of her countenance, its variety, whilst alternately, with arch raillery or grave humour, she played off Mr. Soho, and made him magnify the ridicule, till it was apparent even to Lady Clonbrony. He observed the anxiety, lest his mother should expose her own foibles—he was touched by the respectful, earnest kindness—the soft tones of persuasion, with which she addressed his mother—the care not to presume upon her own influence—the good sense, the taste she showed, yet not displaying her superiority—the address, temper, and patience, with which she at last accomplished her purpose, and prevented Lady Clonbrony from doing anything preposterously absurd, or exorbitantly extravagant.
Lord Colambre was actually sorry when the business was ended—when Mr. Soho departed—for Grace Nugent was then silent; and it was necessary to remove his eyes from that countenance, on which he had gazed unobserved. Beautiful and graceful, yet so unconscious was she of her charms, that the eye of admiration could rest upon her without her perceiving it—she seemed so intent upon others as totally to forget herself. The whole train of Lord Colambre's thoughts was so completely deranged that, although he was sensible there was something of importance he had to say to his mother, yet, when Mr. Soho's departure left him opportunity to speak, he stood silent, unable to recollect anything but—Grace Nugent.
When Grace Nugent left the room, after some minutes' silence, and some effort, Lord Colambre said to his mother, 'Pray, madam, do you know anything of Sir Terence O'Fay?'
'I!' Said Lady Clonbrony, drawing up her head proudly; 'I know he is a person I cannot endure. He is no friend of mine, I can assure you—nor any such sort of person.'
'I thought it was impossible!' cried Colambre, with exultation.
'I only wish your father, Colambre, could say as much,' added Lady Clonbrony.
Lord Colambre's countenance fell again; and again he was silent for some time.
'Does my father dine at home, ma'am?'
'I suppose not; he seldom dines at home.'
'Perhaps, ma'am, my father may have some cause to be uneasy about—'
'About?' said Lady Clonbrony, in a tone, and with a look of curiosity which convinced her son that she knew nothing of his debts or distresses, if he had any. 'About what?' repeated her ladyship.
Here was no receding, and Lord Colambre never had recourse to artifice.
'About his affairs, I was going to say, madam. But, since you know nothing of any difficulties or embarrassments, I am persuaded that none exist.'
Nay, I CAWNT tell you that, Colambre. There are difficulties for ready money, I confess, when I ask for it, which surprise me often. I know nothing of affairs—ladies of a certain rank seldom do, you know. But, considering your father's estate, and the fortune I brought him,' added her ladyship, proudly, 'I CAWNT conceive it at all. Grace Nugent, indeed, often talks to me of embarrassments and economy; but that, poor thing, is very natural for her, because her fortune is not particularly large, and she has left it all, or almost all, in her uncle and guardian's hands. I know she's often distressed for odd money to lend me, and that makes her anxious.'
'Is not Miss Nugent very much admired, ma'am, in London?'
'Of course—in the company she is in, you know, she has every advantage. And she has a natural family air of fashion—not