by R S Surtees
“Good morning, Miss Constantia,” exclaimed the old knight, gaily. “Good morning, Miss Constantia. So you’ve got an aide-de-camp here, have you? No wonder you’re so smart,” added he, looking her over.
“A what, Sir Thomas?” asked the Bloomer, not exactly catching what he said.
“Ah, you know, you naughty one!” exclaimed the major-general, archly; adding, “Tell me, my dear, is Mr. Heveland at home?”
“He’s not come yet, Sir Thomas,” replied the fair lady, now putting that and that together, and reckoning she had done well to order the best bedroom to be got ready.
“Not come yet!” replied Sir Thomas. “Not come yet!” adding, after a pause, “Well, I must notice him — I must notice him. Tell him, when he comes, that Major-General Sir Thomas Trout has called upon him — or stay,” added he, “Jeremiah,” appealing again to the coach-horse footman, “give Miss Constantia a card out of my case. Where-upon Jeremiah dived into the pocket of the coat of many colours, and fishing up the mother-of-pearl card-case, handed the all-important pasteboard to the Bloomer, who placed it above the “A.D.C.” letters in the box.
Sir Thomas’s card clenched the business. There was no further speculation or inquiry as to who or what the stranger was. The thing now was to get a sight of the great A.D.C. In this our friends were doomed to a good deal of tantalisation; for, though the next day brought two more letters “On Her Majesty’s Service,” and several others sealed with crests and many-quartered coats of arms, all of which were duly paraded in the letter-cage, yet neither the Bloomer nor any one about the place could give any information as to the man himself. Sir Thomas Trout shook his head mysteriously when appealed to, and said he was “not at liberty to mention” — a course the knight generally adopted when he wanted to conceal his ignorance.
Great excitement was the consequence; the title “aide-de-camp” representing to most minds a dashing young officer, full of giggle and conversation, with a great aptitude for love-making, dancing, and singing. We don’t know how many young ladies were set out for him; half the town, in short; for women like playing at appropriation, let the chance of success be ever so remote. It is their castle-building in the air in fact.
However time and the hour against the longest day, and excitement like other things comes to an end.
The shades of evening were drawing on, lady parties were settling to their tea, and gentlemen to their wine, when the tit-tupping tramp of a horse’s hoofs drew all eyes to the street, and a déshabilleishly dressed gentleman, looking like a man going to bathe or shoot wild ducks, was seen cantering in an easy toe-in-the-stirrup way, with a slack rein and a smart silvermounted whip under his arm. It struck almost everybody who saw him that it was the A.D.C. Nor were they wrong in their conjecture, for pulling up at the door of the Turtle Doves Hotel, he threw himself carelessly off the half cover-hack, half shooting-pony’s back, and leaving it to stand by itself, swung into the hall with a noisy flourish.
“Any letters for me? (haw),” exclaimed he, in a throaty, consequential sort of way— “any letters for me? (haw),” cracking his whip jockeywise down his very loud-striped brown trousers’ side, as he straddled to the still open window.
“Oh, yes, sir!” exclaimed the beautiful Bloomer, not behind the rest in sagacity— “oh, yes, sir — a great many, sir,” continued she, unlocking the cage, gathering together all the documents, great and small, and placing them in his hand.
“Haw!” continued he, pompously, from his throat, as he sorted them like a hand at cards, placing “Her Majesty’s Service” ones unopened in the little outside pockets of his queer pepper-and-salt-coloured jacket, along with Sir Thomas Trout’s card, and tearing open the seals of those he was not acquainted with, scattering the crumpled envelopes freely about the floor. “Haw!” repeated he again, having mastered their contents. “Now,” continued he, feeling his sky-blue ariel tie, “send the (haw) ostler to take moy (haw) hack, and order me a (haw) bedroom with a (haw) sitting-room adjoining, or near at hand (haw); and let me have some (haw) dinner. What (haw) soup have you? (haw),” pulling away at his painted gills as he spoke.
“I’m afraid we’ve no hare soup, sir,” replied the Bloomer, modestly.
“(Haw) I don’t mean haw soup — but what (haw) soup have ye?” said he, fumbling at his shirt front.
The Bloomer then, better comprehending his dialect, recited the usual inn varieties — giblet, ox-tail, mulligatawny, and so on; and the great man, having chosen ox-tail with a sole, and a rump-steak with oyster-sauce to follow, swaggered across the hall, and up the light corkscrew staircase after the waiter, to inspect his rooms and prepare for the repast.
“(Haw) that will do (haw),” said he, glancing at the dimensions and furniture of the Mitre; adding, “Now let me see the (haw) bedroom (haw).”
That he also said would “do,” but he said it as if it was not the sort of thing he was accustomed to; but having made up his mind to put up with it, he forthwith proceeded to unpack himself. From his drab felt wide-awake he drew out half a quire of clean dickeys and a front; from the breast-pocket of his jacket he produced three pair of socks, a razor, a toothbrush, and a comb; while out of the back pockets came a shirt, a dark blue Joinville, some pocket-handkerchiefs, no end of letters and papers, with a cigar-case and a case of instruments. Having deposited the clothes and dressing things on the table, he bundled the letters, papers, and cases back into his pockets, and finding that dinner would not be ready for half an hour, descended to make the better acquaintance of the Bloomer, whose appearance had struck him greatly as he entered, and in whose agreeable society he spent the greater part of the evening. Our business at present, however, is more with his out-of-door conquests, and to them we will now devote our attention.
The “A.D.C.” letters appended to his name, coupled with the extreme commonness, not to say vulgarity, of our present style of morning dress, caused what in other days would have been thought “queer” to be overlooked, or attributed to fashion or the whim of travelling incognito. Military men like making “guys” of themselves out of harness, some said; others made no doubt he would be a great swell in the evening. Great were the hopes entertained for the morrow. Here, however, our friends were doomed to disappointment, for our hero studiously kept to his room; nor could all the giggle and chatter of high ’Change, or the important rumbling of Sir Thomas’s wheels, or the audible tone in which the great man inquired if the Bloomer had given Mr. Heveland his card, induce him to show himself. Sir Thomas, indeed, looked rather disconcerted when, in reply to his inquiry, what the A.D.C. said when she gave him it, the Bloomer replied that “he just put it in his pocket.” Sir Thomas had hoped he would have made such a demonstration of gratitude as, when told, would have enhanced Sir Thomas’s consequence in the eyes of the company.
Nor could Timothy, the waiter — a genius possessed of all the easy inquisitive impudence of the brotherhood — throw any light upon our friend’s movements, beyond that he seemed very busy, whenever he went into the room, with compasses and pencils and tracing-paper, which being communicated from one person to another, at length resolved itself into a very plausible story — namely, that he was aide-de-camp to the inspector-general of fortifications, down on a secret mission from the government in connection with the war. Some said the inspector-general was coming too. This idea seemed to receive confirmation from Sir Thomas Trout, who, being questioned about it, replied, with a solemn shake of the head, that he was “not at liberty to mention.” The interest greatly increased with the mystery. It became all-absorbing.
Next day brought partial relief. Towards noon the great man was seen sauntering along, cigar in mouth, staring idly at horses and carriages, and into shop-windows, giving both ladies and gentlemen ample opportunity of looking him over — a privilege that he seemed equally disposed to partake of himself.
We may candidly admit that there was a difference of opinion with regard to his looks; but what young gentleman ever appeared on the stage
of public life without raising adverse opinions as to his appearance? It does not, however, follow, that because young ladies proclaim a man a fright, an object, a horror, or anything of that sort, that they really think so. They have a useful way of running men down, in hopes of preventing each other from entering for them; a trick that we should think they are all too well up in, ever to impose on each other with.
As praise, however, is always more agreeable to a well-disposed Bramah pen than censure, we may commence by stating that both the Miss Sheepshanks and their mamma thought our friend very handsome. They admired the rich jet-black luxuriance of his hair, also the stiff inward curl of his regular all-round-the-chin whiskers, above all, his beautiful billy-goat imperial. Their sagacious eyes, too, saw in the deep-blue outline of his upper lip evidence of his self-denial in not growing the now degraded shop-lad appendage of a moustache. Altogether they thought him very, very handsome; and miss it was who christened him “the Conqueror!”
The Miss Trypperleys, too, thought him good-looking — rather more colour, perhaps, than was strictly aristocratic, but that looked as if he kept better hours than the generality of young men, and as if that “nasty smoking” didn’t disagree with him as it did with many.
The Miss D’Oyleys thought he would have been better if he had been a little taller, though, to be sure, he would look different in uniform; and wondered whether he was in the lights or the heavies, or the artillery or what. The Miss Bowerbanks, too, liked his looks; and the Softeners were as enamoured of him as the Sheepsbanks. Mrs. Flummocks passed no opinion in public, priding herself upon her discretion; she, however, thought well of him in private. The Miss Sowerbys (oldish) couldn’t bear him; they thought they never saw such a great, staring, impudent, vulgar-looking fellow, and only wished they had a brother to horsewhip him; while the poor Conqueror had never looked at either of them. He furnished abundant conversation for the town that day.
Meanwhile, the A.D.C. letters poured in apace; not a post arrived but some came, either “On Her Majesty’s Service,” or in the smaller form used by ordinary mortals; and the importance of the Conqueror’s mission swelled with the exclusiveness of his retirement. Though many people called, all anxious for an interview, the unvarying answer was, “Not at home,” though the waiter, on his cross-examination, could not but admit that our friend was up-stairs. Indeed, we may observe that the A.D.C. had completely overpowered the otherwise communicative waiter’s loquacity, and from having nothing to tell, he assumed a sort of mysterious gravity that greatly assisted the A.D.C. interest. The Conqueror was so throaty and important, so peremptory in his orders, so stern in his censures, that Timothy, who is rather free and easy, given to the persiflage of matrimony, pretending to get heiresses for young gentlemen, and so on, stood awed in his presence, and bowed lowly and reverentially before him. Moreover, as Timothy afterwards said, he was satisfied the Conqueror was a gent, because he always took a glass of sherry before he began his port after dinner. But though the Conqueror evidently did not court — nay, rather seemed to avoid society, he was not above conforming to the ordinary rules that regulate its dealings; and having got the fair Bloomer to sort his callers’ cards, and tell him where each lived, so that he might not go over the same ground twice, he shot meteor-like through the place, knocking at this door, ringing at that, putting in his pasteboard, “Mr. William Heveland, A.D.C.,” but firmly resisting all the reiterated assurances of both Johns and Janes that their mistresses or the young ladies were at home.
“Dear me, Mary!” exclaimed the Crusher, taking the card off the silver salver on which it was brought up, “how stoopid! Didn’t I tell you we were at home!”
“Please, mum, the gen’I’ man didn’t ask;” or “Please, mum, I told him so, and he just gave me that.”
“Oh, don’t tell me! It’s one of your stoopid mistakes; you are the stoopidest girl I ever saw in my life.”
Nor did the Conqueror make any exception in favour of the great Sir Thomas Trout, though the man of the coat of many colours insisted that his master was at home to him — as if a special exception had been made in his favour.
“Then, give him that,” said the Conqueror, presenting his card, and blowing a great cloud of smoke right past the man’s face into the antitobacconist major-general’s very entrance-hall.
This disgusted the great man. The ladies, however, are not so easily put off a scent as the men, and the preliminaries to an acquaintance being now accomplished, they proceeded to clench it with invitations to dine. Cards came pouring in from all quarters, some in envelopes, some open, some printed, some written, some embossed, some plain, requesting the honour of Mr. William Heveland’s company to dinner on Monday the 10th, or Tuesday the 11th, or Wednesday the 12th, just as their larders or previous engagements favoured the speculation.
The Crusher, thinking to steal a march on the rest, drew a short bill upon him for a tea, which the Bloomer, who had firmly established herself in the A.D.C.’s confidence, had great pleasure in recommending him to put in the fire, which he did accordingly. The rest of the cards he just bundled into his queer jacket-pocket, to answer at his leisure.
One great beauty of Handley Cross — indeed, of all small idle places is, that everybody knows what you are about. It isn’t like London, where you may die and be buried without your next-door neighbour being any the wiser; but at a watering-place, all your in-comings and out-goings are watched and accurately noted — where you dine, who there is to meet you — may, what you have for dinner — and you feel as if you didn’t stand quite alone in the world.
Some people — generally those who take plenty of time themselves — are often desperately anxious to get answers to their invitations, and wonder others don’t answer — so idle not answering — what can they be about they don’t answer; and so it was on the present occasion. Our friend, not intending to accept of any of the invitations, just let them remain in his jacket pocket, along with “Her Majesty’s” and other letters, until it suited his convenience to have a general clearance; and as cards and crested notes still kept dropping in, he kept putting off and putting off till he had all the senders in a state of excitement. Great were the gatherings in the hall of the Turtle Doves, and numerous the whispering inquiries that were made of the Bloomer, if there was anything for Mrs. Softener or Mrs. Sheepshanks, or Mrs. Bowerbank; and then if the Bloomer was quite sure Mr. Heveland had got a certain card or a certain note, or whatever it was. Little satisfaction, however, was to be obtained from the Bloomer, who seemed rather to take pleasure in their mortification, and in increasing the mystery that enveloped our hero.
All things, however, must have an end: and on the fifth day, as the crowd was at the greatest, and Major-General Sir Thomas Trout was indulging in his usual ominous shakes of the head, and “not-at-liberties-to-mention,” a stentorian voice, proceeding from a dirty dog-cart, with the name, “John Gollarfield, Farmer, Hardpye Hill” painted in honest legible letters behind, was heard roaring,
“Timothy! Timothy! Timothy!” drawing all eyes to the vehicle.
In it was seated a little round-about red-faced man, whose figure might have been drawn with a box of wafers — a red wafer for the face, a brown one for the body, four drab ones for legs, and so on; the little man being then in a terrible state of perturbation, appearing as well by the red wafer as by the white lather in which he had brought his rough-headed, curlycoated brown horse.
Timothy at length appearing, napkin, or rather duster in hand, the man of the dog-cart thus addressed him, speaking as before at the top of his voice,
“Is Mr. Heavyland in?”
“Heavyland, Heavyland,” repeated Timothy, quickly: “no such gen’l’ man here, sir.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” roared the voice, confidently.
“There’s a Mr. Heveland here, sir — a Mr. Heveland, sir — aide-de-camp to the Right Honourable the Inspector-General of Fortifications,” thinking to flabbergaster Gollarfield with his greatness.
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p; “No! no!” roared the little man, peevishly; “it’s Heavyland I want. I know he’s here. Had a letter from him yesterday, sayin’ he’d be at my place, Hardpye Hill, at ten o’clock this mornin’, and he’s never come.”
It then struck Timothy that he had posted a letter headed “On Her Majesty’s Service,” for Mr. Gollarfield, Hardpye Hill; and he began to think whether Heavyland and Heveland could be one and the same person.
“What’un a lookin’ gen’l’man is he, please, sir?” asked Timothy.
“Oh, a queer black-and-red-lookin’ beggar — all teeth and hair, like a rat-catcher’s dog,” replied Gollarfield, shaking with vexation.
“What is he, sir, please, sir?” asked Timothy.
“An Assistant Drainage Commissioner!” roared Gollarfield. “Puts A.D.C. on his cards, like an ass as he is. Promised to be at my house, Hardpye Hill, at ten this mornin’, to pass my drains, and he’s never come;” adding, “if he thinks to get three guineas out o’ me, he’s Deucedly mistaken.”
If a hand-grenade had fallen among the assembled company, it could not have caused greater consternation than this proclamation. There was such shrugging of shoulders, such bateings of breath, such frowning from those who had invited our friend, and such giggling and laughing from those who had not; while the unfortunate Conqueror, who now came bounding down stairs three steps at a time to appease the choleric Gollarfield, was regarded with very different eyes to what he had been before. However, there was no harm done; for, on returning from Mr. Gollarfield’s, who now carried him off in his dog-cart, he placed his invitations in the hands of the Bloomer, who set all minds at rest by politely declining the whole of them.
And our fair friends at Handley Cross speedily relapsed into their former state of anxious excitement, ready to be hoaxed by any body who would be at the trouble of doing it.
