by R S Surtees
Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, of Ninian Green, were also successfully angled for and caught; indeed, Mrs. Larkspur would have been much disappointed if they had not been invited, for she had heard of Billy’s elegant appearance from her maid, and being an aspiring lady, had a great desire to cultivate an acquaintance with high life, in which Billy evidently moved. Rocket was a good slow sort of gentleman-farmer, quite a contrast to his fast wife, who was all fire, bustle, and animation, wanting to manage everybody’s house and affairs for them. He had married her, it was supposed, out of sheer submission, because she had made a dead set at him, and would not apparently be said “nay” to. It is a difficult thing to manouvre a determined woman in the country, where your habits are known, and they can assail you at all points — church, streets, fields, roads, lanes, all are open to them; or they can even get into your house under plea of a charity subscription, if needs be. Mrs. and Miss Dotherington, of Goney Garth, were invited to do the Morning Post department, and because there was no fear of Miss Dotherington, who was “very amiable,” interfering with our Billy. Mrs. Dotherington’s other forte, besides propagating parties, consisted in angling for legacies, and she was continually on the trot looking after or killing people from whom she had, or fancied she had, expectations. “I’ve just been to see poor Mrs. Snuff,” she would say, drawing a long face; “she’s looking wretchedly ill, poor thing; fear she’s not long for this world;” or, with a grin, “I suppose you’ve heard old Mr. Wheezington has had another attack in the night, which nearly carried him off.” Nothing pleased her so much as being told that any one from whom she had expectations was on the wane. She could ill conceal her satisfaction.
So far so good; the party now numbered twelve, six of themselves and six strangers, and nobody to interfere with Fine Billy. The question then arose, whether to ask the Blurkinses, or the Faireys, or the Crickletons, and this caused an anxious deliberation. Blurkins was a landowner, over whose property the Major frequently hunted; but then on the other hand, he was a most disagreeable person, who would be sure to tread upon every body’s corns before the evening was over. Indeed, the Blurkins’ family, like noxious vermin, would seem to have been sent into the world for some inscrutable purpose, their mission apparently being to take the conceit out of people by telling them home truths. “Lor’ bless us! how old you have got! why you’ve lost a front tooth! declare I shouldn’t have known you!” or “Your nose and your chin have got into fearful proximity,” was the sort of salute Blurkins would give an acquaintance after an absence. Or if the “Featherbedfordshire Gazette,” or the “Hit-im and Hold-im shire Herald” had an unflattering paragraph respecting a party’s interference at the recent elections, or on any other subject, Blurkins was the man who would bring it under his notice. “There, sir, there; see what they say about you!” he would say, coming up in the news-room, with the paper neatly folded to the paragraph, and presenting it to him.
The Faireys of Yarrow Court were the most producible people, but then Miss was a beauty, who had even presumed to vie with the Yammertons, and they could not ask the old people without her. Besides which, it had transpired that a large deal box, carefully covered with glazed canvas, had recently arrived at the Rosedale station, which it was strongly suspected contained a new dinner dress from Madame Glace’s in Hanover Street; and it would never do to let her sport it at Yammerton Grange against their girl’s rather soiled — but still by candle-light extremely passable — watered silk ones. So, after due deliberation, the Faireys were rejected.
The Crickletons’ claims were then taken into consideration.
Crick was the son of Crickleton, the late eminent chiropodist of Bolton Row, whom many of our readers will remember parading about London on his piebald pony, with a groom in a yellow coat, red plush breeches, and boots; and the present Crickleton was now what he called “seeking repose” in the country, which, in his opinion, consisted in setting all his neighbours by the ears. He rented Lavender Lodge and farm, and being a thorough Cockney, with a great inclination for exposing his ignorance both in the sporting and farming way, our knowing Major was making rather a good thing of him. At first there was a little rivalry between them, as to which was the greater man: Crickleton affirming that his father might have been knighted; the Major replying, that as long as he wasn’t knighted it made no matter. The Major, however, finding it his interest to humour his consequence, compromised matters, by always taking in Mrs. Crickleton, a compliment that Crick returned by taking in Mrs. Yammerton. Though the Major used, when in the running-down tack, to laugh at the idea of a knight’s son claiming precedence, yet, when on the running-up one, he used to intimate that his friend’s lather might have been knighted, and even sometimes assigned the honour to his friend himself. So he talked of him to our Billy.
The usual preponderating influence setting in in favour of acceptances, our host and hostess were obliged to play their remaining card with caution. There were two sets of people with equal claims — the Impelows of Buckup Hill, and the Baskyfields of Lingworth Lawn; the Impelows, if anything, having the prior claim, inasmuch as the Yammertons had dined with them last; but then, on the other hand, there was a very forward young Impelow whom they couldn’t accommodate, that is to say, didn’t want to have; while, as regarded the Baskyfields, old Basky and Crickleton were at daggers drawn about a sow Basky had sold him, and they would very likely get to loggerheads about it during the evening. A plan of the table was drawn up, to see if it was possible to separate them sufficiently, supposing people would only have the sense to go to their right places, but it was found to be impracticable to do justice to their consequence, and preserve the peace as well; so the idea of having the Baskyfields was obliged to be relinquished. This delay was fatal to the Impelows, for John Giles, their man-of-all-work, having seen Solomon scouring the country on horseback with a basket, in search of superfluous poultry, had reported the forthcoming grand spread at the Grange to his “Missis”; and after waiting patiently for an invitation, it at length came so late as to be an evident convenience, which they wouldn’t submit to; so after taking a liberal allowance of time to answer, in order to prevent the Yammertons from playing the same base trick upon any one else, they declined in a stiff, non-reason-assigning note. This was the first check to the hitherto prosperous current of events, and showed our sagacious friends that the time was past for stopping gaps with family people, and threw them on the other resources of the district.
The usual bachelor stop-gaps of the neighbourhood were Tom Hetherington, of Bearbinder Park, and Jimmy Jarperson, of Fothergill Burn, both of whom had their disqualifications; Jarperson’s being an acute nerve-shaking sort of laugh, that set every one’s teeth on edge who heard it, and earned for him the title of the Laughing Hyæna; the other’s misfortune being, that he was only what may be called an intermediate gentleman, that is to say, he could act the gentleman up to a pint of wine or so, after which quantity nature gradually asserted her supremacy, and he became himself again.
Our friend Paul Straddler, of Hinton, at one time had had the call of them both, but the Major, considering that Straddler had not used due diligence in the matter of Golden-drop, was not inclined to have him. Besides which, Straddler required a bed, which the Major was not disposed to yield, a bed involving a breakfast, and perhaps a stall for his horse, to say nothing of an out-of-place groom Straddler occasionally adopted, and who could eat as much as any two men. So the Laughing Hyæna and Hetherington were selected.
And now, gentle reader, if you will have the kindness to tell them off on your fingers as we call them over, we will see if we have got country, and as many as ever the Major can cram into his diningroom. Please count: —
Major, Mrs., three Misses Yammerton and Fine Billy...6
The Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Tightlace......................2
Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur.........................2
Mrs. and Miss Dotherington...........................2
Mr. and Mrs. Bl
urkins................................2
Mr. and Mrs. Crickleton..............................2
The Hyæna, and Hetherington..........................2
18
All right! eighteen; fourteen for dining-room chairs, and four for bedroom ones. There are but twelve Champagne needle-cases, but the deficiency is supplied by half-a-dozen ale glasses at the low end of the table, which the Major says will “never be seen.”
So now, if you please, we will go and dress — dinner being sharp six, recollect.
CHAPTER XXI. THE GATHERING. — THE GRAND SPREAD ITSELF.
IF A DINNER-PARTY in town, with all the aids and appliances of sham-butlers, job-cooks, area-sneak-entrés, and extraneous confectionary, causes confusion in an establishment, how much more so must a party in the country, where, in addition to the guests, their servants, their horses, and their carriages, are to be accommodated. What a turning-out, and putting-up, and make-shifting, is there! What a grumbling and growling at not getting into the best stable, or at not having the state-vehicle put into the coach-house. If Solomon had not combined the wisdom of his namesake, with the patience of Job, he would have succumbed to the pressure from without. As it was, he kept persevering on until having got the last shandry-dan deposited under the hay house, he had just time to slip up-stairs to “clean himself,” and be ready to wait at dinner.
But what a commotion the party makes in the kitchen! Everybody is in a state of stew, from the gallant Betty Bone down to the hind’s little girl from Bonnyriggs Farm, whom they have “got in” for the occasion.
Nor do their anxieties end with the dishing-up of the dinner; for no sooner is it despatched, than that scarcely less onerous entertainment, the supper for the servants, has to be provided.
Then comes the coffee, then the tea, then the tray, and then the carriages wanted, then good night, good night, good night; most agreeable evening; no idea it was so late; and getting away. But the heat, and steam, and vapour of the kitchen overpowers us, and we gladly seek refuge in the newly “done-up” drawingroom.
In it behold the Major! — the Major in all the glory of the Yammerton harrier uniform, a myrtle-green coat, with a gold embroidered hare on the myrtle-green velvet collar, and puss with her ears well back, striding away over a dead gold surface, with a raised burnished rim of a button, a nicely-washed, stiffly-starched, white vest, with a yellow silk one underneath, black shorts, black silk stockings, and patent leather pumps. He has told off his very rare and singularly fine port wine, his prime old Madeira, matured in the West Indies; his nutty sherry, and excellently flavoured claret, all recently bought at the auction mart, not forgetting the ginger-pop-like champagne, — allowing the liberal measure of a pint for each person of the latter, and he is now trying to cool himself down into the easy-minded, unconcerned, every-day-dinner-giving host.
Mrs. Yammerton too, on whom devolves the care of the wax and the modérateurs, is here superintending her department — seeing that the hearth is properly swept, and distributing the Punches, and Posts, and “Ask Mamma’s” judiciously over the fine variegated table-cover. She is dressed in a rich silvery grey — with a sort of thing like a silver cow tie, with full tassels, twisted and twined serpent-like into her full, slightly streaked, dark hair.
The illumination being complete, she seats herself fan in hand on the sofa, and a solemn pause then ensues, broken only by Billy’s and Monsieur’s meanderings over-head, and the keen whistle of the November wind careering among the hollies and evergreens which the Major keeps interpreting into wheels.
Then his wife and he seek to relieve the suspense of the moment by speculating on who will come first.
“Those nasty Tightlaces for a guinea,” observed the Major, polishing his nails, while Mrs. Yammerton predicted the Larkspurs.
“No, the Tights,” reiterated the Major, jingling his silver; “Tights always comes first — thinks to catch one unprepared—”
At length the furious bark of the inhospitable terrier, who really seemed as if he would eat horses, vehicle, visitors, and all, was followed by a quick grind up to the door, and such a pull at the bell as made the Major fear would cause it to suspend payment for good — ring-ring-ring-ring-ring it went, as if it was never going to stop.
“Pulled the bell out of the socket, for a guinea,” exclaimed the Major, listening for the letting down of steps, iron or recessed — recessed had it.
“Mrs. D.” said the Major — figuring her old Landaulet in his mind.
“Ladies evidently,” assented Mrs. Yammerton, as the rustle of silks on their way to the put-to-rights Sanctum, sounded past the drawing-room door. The Major then began speculating as to whether they would get announced before another arrival took place, or not.
* * * *
Presently a renewed rustle was succeeded by the now yellow-logged, brown-backed Bumbler, throwing open the door and exclaiming in a stentorian voice, as if he thought his master and mistress had turned suddenly deaf, “Mrs. and Miss Dothering-ton!” and in an instant the four were hugging, and grinning, and pump-handling each other’s arms as if they were going into ecstacies, Mrs. Dotherington interlarding her gymnastics with Mrs. Yammerton, with sly squeezes of the hand, suited to soto voce observations not intended for the Major’s ears, of “so ‘appy to ear it! so glad to congratulate you! So nice!” with an inquisitive whisper of— “which is it? which is it? Do tell me!”
* * * *
Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow went the clamorous Fury again; Ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring went the aggravated bell, half drowning Mrs. Yammerton’s impressive “O dear! nothin’ of the sort — nothin’ of the sort, only a fox-hunting acquaintance of the Major’s — only a fox-hunting acquaintance of the Major’s.” And then the Major came to renew his affectionate embraces, with inquiries about the night, and the looks of the moon — was it hazy, or was it clear, or how was it?
“Mr. and Mrs. Rocket Larkspur!” exclaimed the Bumbler, following up the key-note in which he had pitched his first announcement and forthwith the hugging and grinning was resumed with the new comers, Mrs. Larkspur presently leading Mrs. Yammerton off sofawards, in order to poke her inquiries unheard by the Major, who was now opening a turnip dialogue with Mr. Rocket — yellow bullocks, purple tops, and so on. “Well, tell me — which is it ‘?” ejaculated Mrs. Rocket Larkspur, looking earnestly, in Mrs. Yammerton’s expressive eyes— “which is it repeated she, in a determined sort of take-no-denial tone.
“Oh dear! nothin’ of the sort — nothin’ of the sort, I assure you!” whispered Mrs. Yammerton anxiously, well knowing the danger of holloaing before you are out of the wood.
“Oh, tell me — tell me,” whispered Mrs. Rocket, coaxingly; “I’m not like Mrs. —— —— um there, looking at Mrs. Dotherington, who would blab it all over the country.”
“Really I have nothing to tell,” replied Mrs. Yammerton serenely.
“Why, do you mean to say he’s not after one of the —— —— um’s?” demanded Mrs. Rocket eagerly.
“I don’t know what you mean,” laughed Mrs. Yammerton.
Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow went the terrier again, giving Mrs. Yammerton an excuse for sidling off to Mrs. “um,” who with her daughter were lost in admiration at a floss silk cockatoo, perched on an orange tree, the production of Miss Flora. “Oh, it was so beautiful! Oh, what a love of a screen it would make; what would she give if her Margaret could do such work,” inwardly thinking how much better Margaret was employed making her own — we will not say what.
Bow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow went Fury again, the proceeds of this bark being Mr. and Mrs. Tightlace, who now entered, the former “‘oping they weren’t late,” as he smirked, and smiled, and looked round for the youth on whom he had to vent his “British Sportsman” knowledge — the latter speedily drawing Mrs. Yammerton aside — to the ladies know what. But it was “no go” again. Mrs. Yammerton really didn’t know what Mrs. Tightlace meant. No; she really didn’t. Nor did Mrs. Tightlace’s assu
rance that it was “the talk of the country,” afford any clue to her meaning — but Mrs. Tightlace’s large miniature brooch being luckily loose, Mrs. Yammerton essayed to fasten it, which afforded her an opportunity of bursting into transports of delight at its beauty, mingled with exclamations as to its “wonderful likeness to Mr. T.,” though in reality she was looking at Mrs. Tightlace’s berthe, to see whether it was machinery lace, or real.
Then the grand rush took place; and Fury’s throat seemed wholly inadequate to the occasion, as first Blurkins’s Brougham, then Jarperson’s Gig, next the corn-cutter’s calèche, and lastly, Hetherington’s Dog-cart whisked up to the door, causing a meeting of the highly decorated watered silks of the house, and the hooded enveloped visitors hurrying through the passage to the cloak-room.
By the time the young ladies had made their obeisances and got congratulated on their looks, the now metamorphosed visitors came trooping in, flourishing their laced kerchiefs, and flattening their chapeaux mèchaniques as they entered. Then the full chorus of conversation was established; moon, hounds, turnips, horses.
Parliament, with the usual— “Oi see by the papers that Her is gone to Osborne,” or, “Oi see by the papers that the Comet is coming;” while Mrs. Rocket Larkspur draws Miss Yammerton aside to try what she can fish out of her. But here comes Fine Billy, and if ever hero realised an author’s description of him. assuredly it is our friend, for he sidles as unconcernedly into the room as he would into a Club or Casino, with all the dreamy listlessness of a thorough exquisite, apparently unconscious of any change having taken place in the part. But if Billy is unconscious of the presence of strangers, his host is not, and forthwith he inducts him into their acquaintance — Hetherington’s, Hyæna’s, and all.
