by R S Surtees
The following was the captain’s ultimatum: —
“Sir, — When I opened the negotiation with you respecting your rubbishing good-for-nothing horse, I thought that in dealing with the Master of the Handley Cross Foxhounds, I had some guarantee that I was dealing with a gentleman. I grieve to find I was mistaken in my conjecture. I now demand a return of the money I paid for your nasty diseased horse, which an honest English jury will award me in the event of a refusal. Waiting your answer, I remain, sir,
“Yours obediently,
“Miserrimus Doleful, M.C.,
“Captain, Half-pay.
“Mr. Jorrocks, Grocer,
“Great Coram-street, London.”
Mr. Jorrocks’s answer was very short: —
“Dear Doleful, — I doesn’t know nothin’ wot an honest English jury may do for you, but this I knows, I’ll do nothin’. Zounds, man! you must be mad — mad as a hatter!
“Yours to serve,
“John Jorrocks, M.F.H.
“Great Coram Street.
“To Captain Doleful, M.C.,
“Handley Cross Spa.
“P.S. — Let’s have no more nonsense.”
And Doleful, seeing that all negotiation was hopeless, rushed off to that last consolation of the injured — a lawyer, — who advised that he had a capital case if he took it to the superior courts; and Doleful assenting, he immediately prepared for having a pop at friend Jorrocks.
While all this was going on, Handley Cross became quite a different place. The winter legion of semi-sporting invalids passed away, and were replaced by a spring detacment from the various seats of unhealthiness — pimply aldermen, plethoric and purse-plethoric millowners with their radiant ladies, anxious mammas with their interesting daughters making the grand round of the matrimonial watering-place markets.
Still we regret to say that our famous Spa, though abundantly supplied with every thing else, was but indifferently well off for eligible young men. Not but that there were plenty of idle, cane-sucking, widesleeved, flagrant neckclothed youths, but the real woodcocks of life if we may so term them — men who could say to a lady, “I can keep you as you ought to be,” were scarce — very scarce indeed. Most of the youths were mere hobbledehoys — hanging about home till they got something to do — hopeless for anything but flirtation, and even then they could only be worked on the reciprocity system; Miss de Glancey favouring her brother’s “appreciation” of Miss Glow on the understanding that Miss Glow encouraged their Tom to “think well” of Miss de Glancey. Under these circumstances, it will be readily imagined how welcome, how exciting was the advent of a gentleman unfettered with females, and unencumbered with the protection of all friends and relations of this life — an occurrence so unusual, that we should ill evince our gratitude for the dispensation were we not to devote a separate chapter to the announcement.
CHAPTER LXII. WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR; OR, THE A.D.C.
EVERY ONE WHO has visited — and few there are, we take it, who have not — our delightful watering-place, must have observed the fine giltwired letter-cage in the entrance-hall of the Turtle Doves Hotel, in which are arranged the letters of expected visitors, proclaiming as well the coming greatness, as acting as advertisements of the house’s custom. Here, as regular as swallows in the spring, or as the horse in the little roundabout at a fair, have appeared, year after year, the letters of Major-General Sir Thomas Trout, the letters of Captain Hely Hobkirk Smith, the letters of Lady Maria and Miss Muff, the letters of John Brown and Mr. Lamb, the letters of Mrs. Sharp and Miss Flint, the letters of we don’t know who besides. It is from this and similar sources that our respected “we” of the “Pry” compiles his weekly bulletin of the rank, fashion, and beauty that visit this most celestial of all sublunary scenes.
The entrance-hall is well adapted for a watering-place lounge, being a fine, lofty, airy apartment, flagged with black and white diamond-patterned marble flags; while the walls are done in such good imitation of various marbles, that many a one feels them, to be satisfied that they are not in the real marble halls of the song. On the south, the hall opens into a public billiard-room; on the right is the spacious coffee-room, where wax-lights are supplied without charge — or “free gratis,” as the waiter says; while on the left are the private apartments of the hostess, Mrs. Mendlove; through the large plate-glass window of which, commanding the aforesaid letter-cage and hall, her lovely daughter Constantia, may afternoonly be seen reclining elegantly on a rose-coloured sofa, in the full-blown costume of a Bloomer. The sash of the window is then up, and while the sill forms an agreeable resting-place for the arms of an admiring lounger, the letter-box below is a convenient excuse for being there if any one happens to come in unawares. Then Constantia goes on with her knitting or needlework, and the swain drops upon his light reading of “Major-General Sir Thomas Trout,” “Captain Hely Hobkirk Smith,” or whoever happens to be in the “lock-up,” just as if the improvement of his mind was his sole and whole object.
The hall of the Turtle Doves Hotel forms a sort of centre of attraction for the visitors at either end of the town; and, being on a level with the street flags, invalids having the entrée can be wheeled in in their gardenchairs through the bright-folding mahogany sash-doors, where, in addition to the benefit of a well-framed railway time-table and the sight of a weather-glass, they have the run of the letter-cage, of a couple of country papers, a second-hand copy of the “Post,” a guide to the Wells, and the use of a hat-brush — all very attractive things in their way. High ’Change is generally about noon, when the Bloomer, having got herself becomingly up, and the letter-box arranged, throws up her window, and subsides in easy elegant attitude on her sofa. Sir Thomas Trout, who always arrives with the punctuality of the soldier, is the self-elected great gun of the place, and to him are referred all matters of pedigree, etiquette, points of honour — of warfare and military discipline generally. What he says is law. Sir Thomas, who is a peripatetic gourmand, always feeds into a severe fit of the gout towards spring, and comes to Handley Cross to be cured — than which, we need scarcely say, there is no better place.
Last summer, however, we grieve to add — for we have a share in it on the sly — the Turtle Doves had not its fair share of company. Whether this was owing to undue and, perhaps, unfair competition, or to the Boniface castigation by the “Times,” or to whim, or to fashion, or to caprice, we know not; but such was the case, as we know to our cost. That it was not owing to any falling-off in the management of the hotel, we are in a condition to speak; for we were there the greater part of the autumn, and never saw better management, better cookery, better wine, better beer, better tea, better butter, better anything, or a more beautiful Bloomer; and, despite what the “Times” may say as to hotels generally, the charges were by no means exorbitant. Not, of course, that we paid anything, but we saw and helped to inflame the bills of those who did. That, however, is not the point, and is only thrown in by way of giving the house a lift. Our business is with a guest.
It was just as the spring was setting in with its usual serenity that the drooping spirits of the Bloomer were cheered by the arrival of three portentous-looking letters, headed,
“On Her Majesty’s Service,” and addressed —
“To William Heveland, Esq., A.D.C., &c., &c., &c., “Turtle Doves Hotel,
“Handley Cross Spa.”
“My wor — rod!” exclaimed the Bloomer, clutching them, and admiring the great seals — the royal arms; and then turning to the directions— “my wor — rod,” repeated she, “but this is something like,” reading —
“‘On her Majesty’s Service,
“‘William Heveland, Esq., A.D.C.’
“A.D.C.” repeated she— “A.D.C. — what’s A.D.C., postman?”
“A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. J.,” replied the postman, hurrying off, saying the alphabet.
“Well,” said the Bloomer, turning one of the letters upside down, “he’s somebody, that’s quite clear —
on Her Majesty’s Service — well, I think! If this isn’t the making of the house, I don’t know what will.”
She then turned it upright again, as if in hopes that a fresh view would help her to decipher it, but with no better success. The A.D.C. fairly puzzled her. She would like to know what it meant. K.C.B.’s, LL. D.’s, F.R.S.’s, D.C.L.’s she had severally caged, but had never had an A.D.C. through her hands before. “What could A.D.C. mean,” thought she, as she run her eye over the bed-room book, considering where she should put so important a personage. “It must be a good room — low down, too. Ah, there was No. 3 — nice airy room, three windows, two looking to the street, and the other to the Buttermead meadows.”
“Mary!” exclaimed she, ringing the housemaid’s bell, and applying her lips to the ivory-mouthed communicating pipe in the wall.
“Mary!” repeated she upwards.
“Mem?” answered a voice downwards.
“No. 3 ready?” replied the Bloomer, upwards.
“Yes, mem,” answered the voice downwards.
“Put on the pink toilet-cover, clean muslin curtains, and the new counterpane, and I’ll give you some fine towels when I come up-stairs,” said the Bloomer.
“Yes, mem,” replied the voice.
The Bloomer then had another look at the letters, in hope of inspiration; but none coming, she took down the key of the lock-up, and proceeded to place them in custody. Very conspicuously she arranged them, too, one above the other in the very centre of the long gilt-wired box, keeping all the insignificant Browns, Jones, and Robinsons, at a respectful distance from them. After taking a lingering look, she resumed her place on the sofa, “Punch” in hand, to watch the impression the large letters made upon the comers.
The first to visit the gay scene on this auspicious day were the three Miss D’Oyleys. They generally accompanied their brother to the billiardroom and after conning the fashionable column in the “Post,” informing themselves what was doing in high life, they glanced their lustrous eyes through the letter-box, and then proceeded on their travels. They were all struck with the important A.D.C. letters, but made no demonstration in the presence of the Bloomer. When they got outside, however, it was different.
“Who can Mr. Heavytree be?” “What’s A.D.C.?” exclaimed Anna Maria and Jane Sophia in the same breath.
“Heavytree! it’s not Heavytree,” replied Miss D’Oyley, who had taken a more deliberate read than her sisters.
“Who is it then?” asked Anna Maria.
“Heveland, I read it,” replied the elder sister.
“Well, but what’s A.D.C.?” asked Jane Sophia.
“Don’t know,” replied Miss D’Oyley.
Next came Mrs. and the Miss Bowerbanks. They lived at Raspberry Tart Lodge, but having seriously damaged a ten-pound note at the Turtle Doves on their coming, had arranged with Timothy, the head waiter, to have their letters directed to the Turtle Doves, instead of to the less aristocratic mansion they occupied. Great talk, too, it made in the little country town from whence they came, that they should be sojouring so long at such a first-rate hotel, accompanied with the usual significant shrugs and wishes that they “mightn’t be going it.” Mrs. Bowerbank, however, not coming up to the Bloomer’s idea of a lady — chiefly, we believe, because she gave her cast-off clothes to the poor of her village, instead of to her maid — the Bloomer just contented herself with exclaiming from the back of “Punch,” as she contemplated the party over the top,
“Nothing for you to-day, mem.”
“Oh, indeed!” replied Mrs. Bowerbank, who had brought her goldchained eye-glass to bear on the all-absorbing letters: “William Heveland, Esq., A.D.C. Who can he be, I wonder? On her Majesty’s Service, too;” and thereupon she turned into the hall to take up the “Post,” in hopes that some one would come in to expound.
Little old Miss Gaby followed, but being a lady who professed to be quite destitute of curiosity, she never looked into the letter-box while there was any one there to see her; so she immediately entered into a most cordial disquisition with Mrs. Bowerbank about the weather, expressing the most sanguine hopes as to the result, just as if she had three hundred acres of wheat, and two hundred acres of barley, to say nothing of green crops, dependent upon its caprice, though all the soil she possessed was what she had brought in on her dirty thick shoes.
The overpowering Mrs. Flummocks, known in the matrimonial market as “the Crusher,” from the summary way she settles little gentlemen’s pretensions who make up to her towering daughters, then forced the barrier of both doors, and sailed into the hall like a tragedy queen, leaving the folding-doors flopping like condor’s wings behind her. Mrs. Flummocks held herself high, and only vouchsafed a gentle inclination of the head to the Bowerbanks, while she honoured Miss Gaby, who could in no ways interfere with her daughters, with the tips of her fore-fingers. This done, she sailed majestically round to the letter-box, and was soon struck with the imposing-looking documents in the middle. “On Her Majesty’s Service. “William Heveland, Esq., A.D.C.” read she, slowly and deliberately. “William Heveland,” repeated she, looking up. “Wonder if he’s any relation of the Hevelands, of Heveland Hall — very old friend of our family’s if he is. Oh, good morning, Miss Mendlove,” continued she, addressing the Bloomer, as if she now saw her for the first time; “good morning, Miss Mendlove. Pray can you tell me what county this Mr. Heveland, whose letters I see in the case, is from?”
“Are there any letters in the case for that name?” asked the Bloomer, with an air of the utmost innocence, for she hated Mrs. Flummocks, whose maid gave the worst possible description of her meanness, particularly in the tea-and-sugar department. Moreover, though Mrs. Flummocks “Miss Mendlove’d” her to her face, she knew that she “young person’d” her behind her back, and laughed at her “ridiculous costume,” as she called the Bloomer attire. “Are there any letters in the case for that name?” replied the Bloomer, in answer to Mrs. Flummocks’s inquiry.
“Yes, three,” replied Mrs. Flummocks, looking them over. “Can you tell me who he is?”
“No, mem, I can’t,” snapped the Bloomer, returning to her “Punch.”
“What does A.D.C. mean, Martha?” asked the Crusher, turning to her eldest daughter, who, with her two strapping sisters, had now entered the hall, while mamma was looking into the letter-box, and making her attempts on the Bloomer.
“A.D.C., A.D.C.,” repeated the gigantic Martha; “I’m sure I don’t know, mamma. A B C one understands, but I don’t know what A.D.C. means.”
“It’s on a letter — something Heveland, Esq., A.D.C.” observed the Crusher, adjusting her front.
“Can it have anything to do with the Company’s service?” suggested the second strapper, whose name was Sarah.
“Company’s service,” repeated the Crusher, who had had one or two of that breed of suitors through hands— “Company’s service — no — that is H.E.I.C., Honourable East India Company, isn’t it?”
“The Geographical Society, perhaps,” suggested the youngest, Miss Margaret, who, being last from school, might be reasonably supposed to have her learning fresher than the others.
“No; that’s F.R.G.S., Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society,” mouthed the eldest, in her usual knock-me-down way, silencing the sister, and settling the disquisition.
The hall now began to fill. Mr., Mrs., and three Miss Softeners, came stealing in, and before the door closed on their entry, Mrs. and the Miss Holloways followed. Then came Mr. Biddle and Mr. Dawes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Hat, Mr. Rap and Master Paine, Mr. Slade and Miss Corner, Mrs. Corner following judiciously with old Mrs. Fisk, whom she had assisted last year to capture the slippery Mr. Prance. Ladies, however much they may dislike each other, and which, by-the-by, they almost all do, will always combine to catch a man. They don’t know how soon they may require similar assistance themselves. That, however, by way of parenthesis.
Well, as the hall filled, the box was visited, and fresh inquiries arose wha
t A.D.C. meant. “What does A.D.C. mean?” superseded the state of the weather, or “What do you hear of the war?” One said it meant one thing, another another, but each fresh suggestion was disposed of almost as quickly as it was made. At length, as ingenuity was about exhausted, a cockaded footman, in a coat of many colours, was seen manoeuvring a garden-chair outside, and a rush being made to either folding-door, the great Major-General Sir Thomas Trout was wheeled into the hall. The usual salutations over, and inquiries made as to the state of his dear hand, and his dear arm, and his dear foot, and so on, the question was soon put,
“What does A.D.C. mean, Sir Thomas?”
“A.D.C.,” replied he, with a mingled smile of pity and contempt —
“A.D.C. Why, don’t you know? Aide-de-camp to be sure — what I was to my Lord Bullywell.”
“Oh, to be sure!” exclaimed half a dozen voices; “how stoopid not to know it! Aide-de-camp, to be sure! so it is.”
“Why do you ask?” inquired the great man, as the exclamations subsided.
“Oh! only there are some letters directed so to a gentleman here, or coming here.”
“Indeed!” replied the major-general, raising his eyebrows; adding, “I have no information on the subject.”
Just as if no military man had any business at Handley Cross without consulting him.
“Indeed!” repeated Sir Thomas. “What’s his name?”
“Heveland, Sir Thomas,” replied the Crusher, who was very ambitious of the great man’s notice; indeed, at one time, fancied she was to be Lady Trout.
“Heveland — Heveland — Heveland,” repeated Sir Thomas. “Know the name — know the name;” adding to his coach-horse footman, “Jeremiah, tell Miss Mendlove I want to speak to her.”
“Yes, Sir Thomas,” replied Jeremiah, touching his hat most obsequiously, and moving away to inform the Bloomer through the window.
This brought the fair lady, in her silver-buttoned light-blue silk vest, with a flowing jacket of a darker blue above a lavender-coloured tunic and white trousers, fingering her cambric collarette and crimson silk necktie above her richly-figured shirt, with mock-diamond buttons scattered freely down the front.
