Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Most likely all talk,” suggested Mr. Bunting.

  “Most likely,” assented Mr. Ballivant, casting back in his mind for something he felt he had forgot. He could not hit it off — he had milked his man clean as to his means, and could not think of any other topic. He was sure Mr. Bunting was desperately in love, and would do anything unreasonable in the way of a settlement, which is always a most desirable state of mind in which to have a young man. Ballivant then restored his little stumpy pen to its case, and after again conning his notes, arose and held them to the fire to dry the great cesspools of ink of which they were composed. Mr. Bunting, feeling like a man retiring from a witness-box, arose too, saying, “then I suppose that will be all you’ll want with me?”

  “I think so,” replied Mr. Ballivant, tardily, “I think so; all at present at least — stay! — save the name of your solicitor;” which Mr. Bunting having given him, our hero then shook hands with his executioner, and gladly retired to his charmer. She was all smiles, radiance, and affability; and Mamma, under pretence of seeing about luncheon, presently hurried away to the scene of the inquisition. Mr. Ballivant was just unlimbering his great tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles and pocketing his implements of torture as she entered.

  “Well, what have you made out?” exclaimed Mrs. McDermott, with bated breath hastening up to him.

  “Well, mum, I think he’ll do,” replied Mr. Ballivant, slowly and sententiously, “I think he’ll do.” —

  “You do, do you!” exclaimed Mrs. McDermott.

  “Yes, mum, I think he will — he has a purty fortune.”

  “How much?” asked she, coming at once to the point.

  “Well, that I can’t exactly say, mum, until I make further inquiries; but I should say he has a purty fortune — yes, a purty fortune. And Miss Rosa, I told him, would have a purty fortune too.”

  “Yes, when I’m done with it,” rejoined Mrs. McDermott.

  “Certainly,” assented Mr. Ballivant, who suspected as much.

  “It’s not a case of necessity, you know,” whispered Mrs. McDermott; “Rosa has another string to her bow, and a good one.”

  “Perhaps so, mum,” assented Mr. Ballivant, “perhaps so, mum; but there’s an old saying, you know, mum, about the two stools, that you’ll perhaps remember, mum.”

  “There’s no fear of that in this case,” asserted Mamma.

  “Well, as far as this gentleman is concerned I should say not,” replied Mr. Ballivant.

  “Nor the other either,” rejoined Mrs. McDermott.

  “Then Miss Rosa is well laid in, and no doubt something will come of it; meanwhile I will make some inquiries and report progress to you as quickly as I can.” So saying, Mr. Ballivant made a sort of crab-like movement towards the door, in which he was checked by the following exclamation from Mamma:

  “But how about the Castle, is there a keep and a dungeon, and everything proper?”

  “Oh, the Castle!” exclaimed Mr. Ballivant, stamping as he recollected himself; “I knew there was something I’d forgotten. It teas the Castle! How provoking! Had a flag-staff in my mind all the time, and somehow it got carried quite away to sea.”

  “Oh yes, there should be a flag-staff too! you know,” replied Mamma, “else how would people know when they are at home?”

  “Well then, mum, I really quite forgot all about it,” said Mr. Ballivant, honestly. “I really forgot all about it, thinking of the more important points. Shall I make an excuse for seeing Mr. Bunting again?”

  “I hardly know,” mused Mrs. McDermott, “I hardly know. Perhaps we could manage an opportunity after luncheon.”

  “Luncheon I never take, mum, thank’ee,” replied Mr. Ballivant, hauling up a great gold watch by its new blue ribbon from his fob. “I dine at three, and it will take me that time to get home; but I’ll tell you what I can do, mum, I can make the inquiries by letter along with the others I have to institute.”

  “Well, that may do perhaps,” observed Mrs. McDermott, “or Rosa might make them herself of Mr. Bunting.”

  “Certainly,” assented Mr. Ballivant; “or we might both make them, and then we could see how the stories agreed.”

  “That would do,” said Mrs. McDermott, apparently satisfied, and now leading the way to the door. “Rosa!” exclaimed she, as she got into the passage, “Rosa! Mr. Ballivant is going away, dear!” whereupon our fair heroine broke off her tête-a-tête with our friend, and came out of the drawing-room at once to greet and bid Mr. Ballivant good-bye.

  Ballivant bowed low to our beauty, who graciously tendered him her hand, which encouraged the grand inquisitor to repeat the opinion to her he had previously expressed to Mamma, namely, that he thought Mr. Bunting would do; adding, that “he hoped he would make her a good husband, which he was sure she deserved to have;” and that being about as much gallantry as he could muster at the moment, he turned to Mamma, saying, “Still you know, mum, it is well to be prudent, and I would advise you to keep Miss back a little for the present.” Whereupon Rosa, forgetting she had left the drawing-room door open, replied gaily, “Oh, you needn’t be afraid of me, Mr. Ballivant! You needn’t be afraid of me, I’m not one of the sentimental sort,” a bearing that was anything but agreeable to our hero, who thought himself quite irresistible.

  The old cast-iron-like cab-horse, having waited at the door for his cargo, Mr. Ballivant was presently in the fetid vehicle, and the harsh steps being raised, the dirty driver whipped lazily away, quite unconscious of the sensation the appearance of his passenger was creating in the country. “What’s up?” was the question at many a dinner and tea-table that day as Ballivant’s vehicle was traced to Privett Grove. Was it the Jug? or was it Miss Rosa? or was it the young Banker? or who? They would like uncommonly to know. Meanwhile, Mr. Ballivant having driven away from the door, Miss Rosa tripped gaily back to our friend and embraced him, as if she was the most loving, affectionate lady in the world — as if it was a regular case of Perish Savoy! with regard to the gentleman’s feelings. And Puffing Billy, late Owen Ashford, having at length got Mr. Bunting home, he packed up his grandfather’s Daftun and sent it by book-post to Mr. Ballivant, in corroboration of what he had said about the capabilities of his forest. And Rosa, reviewing the past, really thought that the gipsey’s prophecy was going to come true. And considering that Ballivant was satisfied, we really see no reason for forbidding the banns.

  Let us now return to other parties who will be instrumental in unravelling the mystery.

  CHAPTER LXXXIX.

  THE DUKE OF TERGIVERSATION’S VISITING LIST.

  THE JUVENILE DAY will have prepared our readers for the approach of that festive season, when bitter frosts, and tradesmen’s bills, are supposed to promote hilarity, and when those who have anything to give away think that now is the time for doing it. Christmas, in short, was coming; though it is but justice to the Comet year to say, that it was a very different winter to the one that succeeded it. Indeed, the Comet year had no winter at all. Be it remembered, that with its successor (1859 — 60) the first fall of snow was on the 21st of October, and the last on the 28th of May — the week after Epsom.

  Among those who were anxious to increase their difficulties in this our Comet year was our noble friend, the Duke of Tergiversation, who thought to propitiate tradesmen, and smooth all parties over with a ball and supper. Perhaps he was moved to this end by a desire to get rid of our fox-shooting friend, the Prince Pirouetteza, who, independently of being always in the way, was not quite so cleanly in his habits as the Duke could wish. And though his Grace had no objection to helping Lady Honoria Hopkins to a husband, he did not want to be the victim of a procrastinated courtship. So he determined to try what a ball and supper would do in the way of acceleration.

  We often think it must be a difficult thing for a great man to find the exact equator of his visiting list — the broad line of demarcation that admits happy Brown and yet excludes poor pouting Jones and Robinson. The Duke and Duchess of Tergiversation m
anaged their popularity matters upon a sort of debtor and creditor principle, those from whom they expected to get anything being sure to be asked, while those who had been used were postponed for further consideration, or until it was seen what the first shower of cards produced.

  The process of filtration somewhat resembled the passing of a bill through Parliament, the measure originating in the Lower House, viz., in that of Mr. Cucumber, who, with the aid of his old visiting lists, arranged a new one of all the producible people in the country, with such observations as occurred to him in the course of his references to poll-books, and the notes he kept of the conversations he heard or what other people told him. To this he added a supplementary list of officers and parties who might be brought from a distance, a ball at a Castle being always very attractive. The list was then presented to his Grace, who went through the names seriatim, hearing Die pros and cons on each party, and finally handing it to the Duchess, who went through it in her own fashion, perhaps restoring names that the Duke had struck out, and striking out names that the Duke had retained. A dissolution of Parliament appearing probable, and the Duke having certain ambitious views on the county, the list was now scanned with more than ordinary care and attention, his Grace and Mr. Cucumber devoting a whole morning to the subject. The A’s were disposed of without any difficulty.

  His Grace then turned over the page and got among the B’s. — Berrys, Beauchamps, Bedfords, Binks, Browns, Brews, Bushells, Butterwells, Bedingfields, Beningboroughs, Bowderoukins, Mr and Mrs. “Well, now, what are the Bowderonkin’s queried for?” asked the Duke.

  “Bowderonkins, Bowderonkins— ‘scuse me — but I think the name will be Roukins, Bowderoukins,” replied Mr. Cucumber glancing at the list as he spoke.

  “Bowderoukins it is,” assented his Grace, looking at it again. “Well, what is the objection to the Bowderoukins?”

  “Ho objection whatever, your Grace, that I know of; only they have not been here before.”

  “Haven’t they. There will be some reason for that then. Turn to the poll-book, and see how he voted.”

  “He was not on the Register at the last election, your Grace,” replied Mr. Cucumber.

  “Is he now?”

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  And nothing against him?”

  “Nothing whatever, your Grace.”

  “Have them by all means,” replied the Duke. “Secure him against another time, you know;” so saying, the Duke struck his pen through the query, and proceeded with the list.

  Boyston,” presently read his Grace. “Boyston, Boyston; is that the gentleman they call the Jug?”

  “It is, your Grace,” smiled Mr. Cucumber. —

  What is there a query to his name for?” asked the Duke.

  “Oh, that is for the Duchess,” replied Mr. Cucumber.

  “Her Grace objected to his nankin trowsers on a former occasion, and that is merely to draw her Grace’s attention to the name.”

  “Well, we will leave the Duchess to settle the point herself,” said the Duke, passing on, aiding, he “Musn’t come without something of the sort at all events.”

  “Certainly not, your Grace,” replied Mr. Cucumber with an emphasis. —

  “Bunting, — who is Mr. Bunting?” now asked the Duke.

  “Mr. Bunting is a very genteel young gentleman, who is down suitoring Miss McDermott of Privett Grove.”

  “Ah, the little blue-eyed girl, who comes out hunting?” observed the Duke.

  “The same,” replied Mr. Cucumber.

  “I thought she was going to marry the banker’s son,” observed his Grace. —

  “Well, its between the two,” rejoined Mr. Cucumber; “even Getting I believe which gets her.”

  “You are sure Mr. Bunting is all right?” said the Duke, adding, ‘I shouldn’t like to have any convict captains down here.”

  ‘Oh, all right, all right,” replied Mr. Cucumber, confidently. “I’ve ascertained all that — quite the gentleman, quite the gentleman.”

  So Mr. Bunting was passed for a ticket, subject of course to the approval of the Duchess.

  The B’s being disposed of with Mr. Bunting, the C’s came next The Crofts, the Cranes, the Cambos, the Churchhills, the Cheadles the Cutlers, the Coopers, the Cottons, the Chatterleys.

  “Well, what are Chatterleys queried for?” asked the Duke.

  “The Chatterleys are queried, your Grace, because you struck them off after the last fête. Mr. Chatterley voted wrong.”

  “Then if they were struck off before, what occasion is there to put them on this list?” asked the Duke.

  “They have been presented at Court since,” replied Mr. Cucumber.

  “Have they?” replied the Duke; “so much the worse; shows they don’t know their places — shan’t come here.” His Grace striking his pen through their names, saying, “Every pig-jobber goes to Court now-a-days.”

  The unhappy Chatterleys, Mr., Mrs., and two Misses, being thus summarily disposed of, the Duke proceeded with the list, retaining of course the names of our friends the Goldspinks, Mr., Mrs., and Mr. Junior; also the McDermotts, Mrs and Miss, Mr. Jovey Jessop, and many others in whom the reader will take no interest.

  When his Grace at length arrived at the W’s, and found the name of Mr. Brown White alone, he paused, for he recollected Black White’s gallant riding with Mr. Jovey Jessop’s hounds, and thought he ought to be rewarded.

  “Mr. Black White’s name not down,” observed his Grace, looking up at Mr. Cucumber.

  “Mr. Black White, — Mr. Black White; no, your Grace. Mr. Black White’s name is not down. Your Grace said none of the neck-of-venison gentlemen need be put on to the ball list.”

  “Well,” said the Duke, “I suppose there would be some reason for it. However,

  ‘To err is human, to forgive divine.’

  We will advance Black White this time;” so saying, his Grace added Mr. Black White’s name to the list of guests.

  “Mrs. Black White, then — would your Grace put Mrs. Black White on?”

  “Mrs. Black White? No, certainly not,” replied the Duke; “got a brandy nose and wears a bad front. Can’t bear a woman with a brandy nose and a bad front.” So Mrs. Black White was rejected.

  The important document was then ready for the Duchess’ inspection, upon whom Mr. Cucumber waited, and went through it again, explaining the additions and objections — Bowderoukins, Chatterleys, Nankins, Black White, and all. When the Duchess inquired for Mrs. Black White, and heard the reason why she had been rejected, her Grace placed her name on the list, saying, “What has the Duke to do with her bad front?” adding, “she may not always wear the same one, you know.” So Mrs. Black White was rescued at the last stage. The list being thus duly passed, a suitable number of imposing-looking cards were then produced, and the process of filling up the invitations commenced, and proceeded to the usual postal conclusion. Great was the emptying of the Castle bag into the country post-office, it being no longer thought derogatory, as it once was, to send invitations by other than a special messenger.

  CHAPTER XC.

  CARDS FOR A BALL.

  WHAT A COMMOTION it caused in the country when the great ducal cards with butter-pat-like seals permeated through the post office. How, when it transpired, as most things do transpire, that they were coming, the doubtful ones chucked up their chins, and pretended they would not go if invited; how the sure not to be invited said there was no fear of their being asked; and how the safe ones speculated upon whether Mrs. So-and-So would be there.

  It spoils some people’s pleasure to find others at parties who they think would be better away. The exclusiveness of the thing is half the enjoyment to many. If the Duchess had submitted her list to the revision of the country at large it would have been extremely select at the end of the operation — reduced to something like a fox and goose board at the end of a game. Her Grace’s boudoir would have held the party.

  Now there was a great to-do in all the country houses
, Mr. Cucumber, having told a dozen people — all in strict confidence, of course — who in their turns told a dozen more, till there was not a milliner’s girl or a seamstress in the district who did not know what was going to happen. Indeed it is these poor creatures who are mainly interested in such events, for their services are all wanted by everybody at once, and there is little rest for them until the ball is over. But we have not got to their miseries yet, the spasms and convulsions of the country having yet to be undergone. Let us endeavour to describe them.

  Mrs. Chatterley, who was what the Duke would call an “ambitious woman,” said in reply to the expression of a doubt on the part of Miss Mary, that “Of course they would be asked. How was a ball to be made up if it wasn’t from people like themselves, the court set.” And she opened the letter-bag at breakfast the next morning with as much confidence of finding a card as a fisherman puts his hand into the landing-net, who has seen his trout flickering in it the minute before. What ho! no card!

  The Times, three tradesmen’s bills, and a wine merchant’s circular. Mrs. Chatterley said nothing, showed no symptom of disappointment, nor did the young ladies, but all had their unpleasant misgivings. Mr. Chatterley chuckled to think he would escape the terrible balloonlike ball dresses.

  Next day was the same, no card, but an increased supply of Christmas medicine. Still there was no public demonstration, though the young ladies confided their worst fears to each other in private. On the third morning, however, it being known that the Nether woods and others had received their invitations, Mrs. Chatterley on emptying the bag carefully, observed that the Castle ball must be a tradesmen’s one as they had not sent them cards. And this view, being adopted by the ladies, and endorsed by Mr. Chatterley, who observed it was most likely a new way the Duke had adopted for paying his old Christmas bills, the ladies ordered the barouche, and went driving about, tossing up their heads, when asked if they were going, as if they were many cuts above such an assembly.