by R S Surtees
“I rayther think not,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, with a grin and a wink, pointing downwards with his forefinger.
“Ah, true!” replied his Grace, with a shrug and solemn look— “I remember now he died of the” —— any more of their dear friends had arrived, and relieved the trio from their embarrassment “Susan, my dear, here are our good friends, the Jorrockses,” exclaimed the Duke, seeing the Duchess making her way up behind them.
“Mr. Jorrocks and Mrs. Flather” observed Mr. Jorrocks with an emphasis, turning short round and making a very low bow—” nothin’ wrong, my lady, I assure you, only Mrs. Flather likes an open chay, and Mrs. J. don’t — a little stomach, you understand,” added Mr. Jorrocks, tapping his own with his forefinger.
Her Grace was delighted to see them of course, and, after a few commonplaces, proposed showing Mrs. Flather her room. The Duke volunteered the same office by Mr. Jorrocks, notwithstanding his assertion that if Mrs. Jorrocks “wasn’t long gone he be bund to say he’d run her to ground by her scent, she musked herself so uncommon ‘igh when she went to fine places.”
CHAPTER XI.
I’LL MAKE MY heaven in a lady’s lap,
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.”
— SHAKSPEARE.
BATSAY, Binjimin, and Mrs. Flatter’s boy in buttons, not being much used to company making, thought the visit to Donkeyton was quite as much for their amusement as for that of their master and mistresses; accordingly, instead of unpacking and laying out the things for the latters’ dressing, they contented themselves with carrying the boxes upstairs, and leaving the parties who were to wear the clothes to unpack and sort them out at their leisure, while they, trustworthy individuals, underwent the ceremony of introduction and acquaintance-making among the servants of the Castle.
The consequence was, that what with the time consumed in pulling at bells — the confusion attendant upon the influx of a houseful of strangers and the difficulty of appropriating each peal to the proper servant, our fair friends were hard run in the matter of dressing. Mrs. Flather was in a desperate state of excitement, for, independently of only having Batsay’s services at second-hand, that rascal Binjimin had smelt the buns and carried them away bodily; and the model of propriety, whose naturally good appetite was greatly heightened by the ride, was really ravenous for want of food. Like many home-made arm-chair projects, the possibility of accomplishing the coronet seemed suddenly to dissolve as they came within sight of it. Still, like a man with a middling race-horse, Mrs. Flather determined to run, and take the chances of luck in the tussle; she had paid her stakes, in fact, in the shape of dresses. The buns, however, were a desperate blow, and the worst of it was, Mrs. Flather durst not ask point-blank about them for fear of exciting Mrs. Jorrocks’s curiosity, and much time was consumed in Batsay’s running between Mrs. Jorrocks’s room and Mrs. Flather’s, inquiring for a “brown paper parcel tied up with blue ribbon.”
“No, there was nothing of the sort.”
“Then, perhaps, the blue ribbon had slipped off, and it would just be a brown paper parcel.”
“No, there was no such thing.”
Binjimin had taken better care of them than that. The buns were under the cushion of the carriage, and bag in the harness-room fire. —
The Duke and Duchess of Donkeyton had had weary work all the morning of this important day marshalling the order of their guests according to their ideas of each visitor’s importance, and the service they could be of in the event of a contested election. As usual on such occasions, their Graces’ ideas, and the ideas of the parties themselves, were greatly at variance; and the more trouble they gave themselves to please everybody, the further they were from attaining their object. Each guest had an accurate idea of his own consequence, but unfortunately no two tables of ideas tallied.
The ingredients of an electioneering “Whig party of this description are rather curious. The “don” Whigs, of course, are not asked; or, at all events, only those who from similar necessities are able to tolerate the nuisance of such gatherings. The guests are generally the exception to the general order of guests. The politics of middle life are chiefly personal. The first great man that is civil to a person generally gets his interest, and Whig or Tory is just a toss up which comes first. We admit, however, there has been a change within these twenty years — we might almost say within the last dozen — since the passing of “the Bill,” in fact. Men that never thought of anything but their shops, now talk of their politics just as their fathers used to talk of their wives, their horses, or their watches. Times are changed indeed. Whether for the better is another matter not important to this dinner. We leave it to Young England.
The guests mustered strong. Their Graces had taken a pair of compasses and drawn a circle of seven miles round the Castle, within which radius the parties were only asked to dine, while those beyond were accommodated with beds. The consequence was, that great anxiety had prevailed relative to the accuracy of the different village clocks and hall timepieces, so as to nick the juste milieu of time, each visitor being duly impressed with the conviction that the eyes of that inquisitive and observant gentleman, “all England,” were turned upon him; and that upon his individual accuracy depended the success or failure of this great party. Indeed, though there was scarcely an appetite amongst them, and though they were all most horribly frightened, there wasn’t one who would not have taken it seriously amiss if he or she had been omitted. It is wonderful what pain people will undergo for pride or (what ought to be) pleasure. A tight boot is nothing to it. There was a great stir of one-horse chaises within the seven miles’ circle towards the hour of six.
Of course the host and hostess were anxious to show every honour to their guests — make real company of them in short; and the best of everything was put in requisition — state liveries, first-class china and plate in profusion; the whole brilliantly illumined with wax and oil. His Grace didn’t use gas — the only piece of sense he was known to be guilty of.
A little before seven the Duke and Duchess of Donkeyton had planted themselves on a sumptuous rug, before a brightly burning wood fire, in a glittering, profusely-mirrored drawing room, fitted up with fawn-coloured satin, with gold coronets worked on the chairs, sofa-cushions, ottomans, screens, and so on. His Grace was in full dress. His star glittered on a richly-buttoned blue coat with velvet collar; waistcoat and cravat vying with the whiteness of his hair and whiskers; the broad blue ribbon of his “order” crossing gracefully over his chest; the garter relieving the monotony of his breeches and black silk stockings. —
The visitors then began to arrive. Those who were all nighting in the Castle, walked into the drawing-room with an “at-home” sort of air; while the dinner guests passed into the presence with an anxious, hurried, sidelong-glance sort of walk, that looked very like wishing themselves back again. Each looked as if he were playing a part. The Duke — who was a very loquacious old gentleman, though terribly given to making mistakes — received his guests with the easy dignity of high life, and asked each a question or two that he thought would show a familiarity with the parties, and an interest in their concerns; — just as he asked Mrs. Flather after his “good friend, Flather,” who had been dead some years. For instance, Mr. Tugwell and the Rev. Mr. Webb having come together, and his Grace recollecting that one was a great farmer, shook hands with Mr. Tugwell, observing it was delightful weather; and hurriedly turning to the parson said, “Well, Webb, how are you? How’s your bull?”
“Please your Grace, the bull belongs to” —
“Ah! dead, I suppose,” replied his Grace, shaking his head with a look of concern— “sorry for it, indeed; very sorry — excellent man.”
“By the way, how’s your daughter, Mr. Tomkins?” he asked another almost in the same breath.
Mr. Tomkins stared.
“Dangerous attack, I heard?” observed the Duke, shaking his head.
“Be
g pardon, your Greece; it was the other Mr. Tomkins’s daughter” — at length replied Mr. Tomkins— “Mr. Tommy Tomkins’s.”
“Ah, true! you are Mr. Jeems Tomkins — glad to hear she’s better — fine girl! — monstrous fine girl!” and so he turned away to say something civil to some one else.
Our Hillingdon friends having been nearly the last in arriving at the Castle, and having had the difficulties we mentioned to contend with, were the latest of the late, and the Duke had twice taken his repeater out of his waistcoat pocket to compare it with the French clock on the mantelpiece, when Mr and Mrs. Jorrocks made their appearance. Mrs. Jorrocks was magnificent. On her head she wore a yellow and gold turban, with a full plume of black ostrich feathers, such as one sees on a mute’s head before a great funeral, while long full ringlets (false, of course) streamed down the sides of her fat red cheeks, and rested on her shoulders. Her gown was crimson brocade, stiff and rustling, with many flounces of black lace; and her arms and neck were decorated with a profusion of mosaic jewellery in the shape of bracelets, armlets, chains, brooches, and lockets.
Our “Cockney Squire” was in the full-dress uniform of the Handley Cross Hunt — sky-blue coat, lined with pink silk; canary-coloured shorts, and white silk stockings. A good large frill protruded through the stand-up collar of a white waistcoat, and a roll puddingy white neckcloth replaced the sea-green silk one of the morning. Altogether they were a most striking couple. Mr. Jorrocks’s big-calved, well-shaped legs — the feet encased in large gold-buckled, patent leather pumps — and the general brightness of his colours, rendered him quite the object of attraction in the room, and threw the “star and garter” of the Duke rather into the shade — moreover, most of the guests had seen the “star and garter” before, but they had only heard of Mr and Mrs. Jorrocks, the new opulent owners of Hillingdon Hall. Accordingly, there was a grand stare and nudging as they made their way up the spacious drawing-room, Mr. Jorrocks strutting with his usual bantam-cock air, as much as to say, “There’s a pair o’ legs for you — find fault with them if you can.”
“Well, Mr. Jorrocks,” said his Grace, not exactly knowing what question to hazard to him, “I hope you feel hungry after your ride?”
“Tol-lol — thank ye, your Greece,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, squaring himself before the fire, taking a coat lap over each arm, and turning full upon the company— “feedin’ time’s near at ‘and, I s’pose — wot o’clock may it be by your Greece’s gold watch?” continued he, eyeing the awe-struck company around— “you’re uncommon well lodged here,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, staring about without waiting for an answer—” excellently, I may say — dare say this room is fefty feet if it’s a hinch — doors o”hoggany too,” added he, looking at them. “Put up afore Bob Peel’s new Tariff came in, I guess. Gilt cornices! superb mirrors! and satin damask, I s’pose,” added Mr. J., stooping down and nipping one of the sofa cushions. “I likes this room a deal better nor the first one I was in — more glitter, more sparkle about it. If I was you now, I’d furnish t’other same way — that’s to say if you have the tin — but don’t go tick whatever you do; things cost jest double when you buy on credit. Tick’s the werry divil certainlie,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, turning his eyes up to the splendid cut-glass chandelier sparkling from the centre of the ceiling, and jingling a handful of half-crowns in his breeches pocket. “I minds, my Lord Duke, when I was in the tea-trade — indeed I’m in it still, only I doesn’t attend the shop — when your swell ‘ouse-stewards or powder-monkey Peters used to come axing the price o’ tea, pekoe, hyson-skin, twankay, gunpooder, and so on; I always used to ax whether they were purchasers or buyers. Purchasers, you see, my Lord Dukeship, are chalkers up; buyers are money down and discount coves. Well, if they were purchasers I jest doubled the price — to cover long credit and the risk o’ not gettin’ the money at all; besides which, these confounded fine gen’lemen always expect a compliment for the horder, and a compliment when they pay the tin, that’s to say, if the ‘appy day occurs in their reign, for great folks in general don’t keep their flunkies long; but, howsomever, never mind,” added Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing the opening door at the’ end of the room. —
Mrs. Flather and Emma then entered; Emma in a wellfitting, pale pink satin, made drapée at the breast. She was a decidedly fine-looking girl, held herself up, and walked with an air. The composition of the party was in her favour, there being nothing but country dowdies; no London-milliner-turned-out lady to eclipse her, as we have seen too many country belles eclipsed in London. Lord, what a place London is! How it takes the shine out of the country conceit — girls, horses, equipages, men, and all. We met a friend t’other day at a country fair, who didn’t seem much in his element; accordingly, we asked him what brought him there. “I’ve got a pony to sell,” said he — — “and by the way,” now added he, “as you understand these sort of things, I should like you to see it, for it is, without exception, the neatest and most perfect animal I ever set eyes on — a perfect model. If you had it in London now, and rode it up and down the park, every dealer in the town would be after it. There it comes!” cried he, pointing to a shuffling, ginger-coloured chestnut (of all colours the most detestable) looking thing, with a full tail and a hog mane, and a great white ratch down its face, — a sort of animal that none but Van Butchel, Claudius Hunter, or some such appearance-defying genius, would be guilty of riding. So it is with girls. If a girl has a tolerable figure, and a face not amiss, they immediately set her down for London — for the Duke of Devonshire, in fact. “Indeed, Mister Brown,” says his amiable spouse, “I don’t consider we should be doing Jemima justice if we didn’t give her a season in London.”
“Nonsense, my dear, you know I can’t afford it — can hardly pay my way as it is.”
“Then you must just give up your hunters, Mister Brown.”
“I’ll be d — d if I do, though!” says Mister Brown.
But suppose Mister Brown is of the “genus Jerry,” as Linnaeus would say, and gives in (poor Brown), what does he see when he gets to London? Why, that every other girl he meets with is quite as good, and many a deuced deal better-looking than Jemima.
Take an author’s advice, Brown, and stay at home.
But let us on to the Duke of Donkeyton’s dinner.
“Now, Bray, don’t you make yourself such a swell,” said young Lord Aubrey, entering the Marquis’s room, who, with the aid of his valet, was settling himself into one of Jackson’s particulars, blue coat, velvet collar and cuffs, silk facings and linings, with Windsor buttons. Nature meant the Marquis for a girl, and a very pretty one he would have made. He had a beautiful pink and white complexion, hair parted down the middle of his head, and falling in ringlets about his ears, blue eyes, Grecian nose, simpering mouth, with a dimple on each side, very regular pearly teeth, and incipient moustache on his upper lip, and a very incipient imperial on a very pretty unshaved chin. In stature he was about the middle height, five feet ten or so, thin, with a deal of action in his legs and backbone; indeed, he had a considerable cross of the dancing-master in him, and was considered one of the best “goers” at Almack’s or the Palace. In short, he was a pretty Jemmy Jessamy sort of fellow.
Now, this sort of man is generally desperately disliked by their own sex, particularly by the hirsute, rasping, bull-finching breed of fox-hunters; and just in proportion as men are abused by each other, they are petted and praised by the women — particularly if they are marquises, and in the market.
Accordingly, our hero stood as an “A l” lady-killer in London; and that being the case, our readers may imagine what a desperate man he would be in the country. Indeed, these sort of fellows ought not to be allowed to go about unmuzzled (that is to say, without a wife), for country girls are monstrous inflammatory, and having little choice beyond the curate and the apothecary’s apprentice, are ready to worry anything in the shape of a man — to say nothing of a lord — a handsome Marquis beyond all conception. Then the greasy novels put such notions
into their heads. We really believe they think the great people go into the country for wives, just as the Cockneys go to Kensington for strawberries and cabbages; and that there is nothing of the sort to be had in London. Unfortunately for rural belles, London beaux look upon them in quite a different light. They consider them a sort of strop to keep the razor of their palaverment fresh against the return of another London season, and think they may go any length short of absolutely offering; and that the girls wash the slates of their memories just as they wash their own on passing Hyde Park, down Portland Place, or by the Elephant and Castle, on their way back to town. The Marquis of Bray was just one of this sort. He knew perfectly well the Duke would no more think of letting him marry anything below a Duke’s daughter, than he would think of sending him off for a trip in one of Mr. Henson’s air carriages; and being well assured of that fact, he thought the girls must know it also, and would just take his small talk for what it was meant. Moreover, the Marquis having had the unspeakable misfortune of being brought up at home, had conceived the not at all unnatural idea that the world was chiefly made for him, and that he might do whatever he liked with impunity. No greater misfortune surely can befall a young man than such an education; and lucky it is that so few of them get it. Eton knocks and Eton kicks save many a “terrible high-bred” lad (as the Epsom race-list sellers describe the horses) from ruin.
But we must get the Marquis downstairs. Behold him, then, in his blue coat aforesaid, with a delicate bouquet in the button-hole — a most elaborately-tied white cravat, the folds of the tie nestling among six small point-lace frills of an exquisitely embroidered lawn shirt front over a pink silk under-waistcoat, and diamond studs of immense value, chained with Lilliputian chains — his waistcoat of cerulean blue satin, worked with heart’s-ease, buttoned with buttons of enormous bloodstones, the surface of the waistcoat traversed with Venetian chains and diminutive seals — pink silk stockings, and pumps — gliding into the drawing-room, with an airy noiseless tread, and a highly scented, much-embroidered, lace-trimmed handkerchief in his hand. How he bowed! how he smiled! how he showed his teeth! He was so d — d polite, you’d have thought he’d got among a party of emperors, instead of among all the John Browns of the neighbourhood. Then the old Duke, like all blunderheaded men, being monstrously afraid lest his son should make mistakes, must needs take him in hand, and introduce him to those he didn’t know. “Jeems, my dear!” cried he, as the elastic back began to slacken in its salaams round the awe-stricken circle, “come here, and let me introduce you to our excellent friend, Mr. Jorrocks, who’s been kind enough to come all the way from — from — from — to dine with us.” —
