by R S Surtees
Eight o’clock now struck — quicker, if possible, and more impulsively than usual — and it wanted but an hour, one short hour, until the grand company would be entitled to come; and there is always some stupid gawk who arrives at the exact moment, doing as much mischief as a score of people would do. But, thanks to Mr Percival Pattycake, Mr Fizzer’s head man, things were well forward, which they would have had little chance of being if the Dirties had been in command, for they all so bent on admiring themselves in their well-distended white muslin dresses, with cherry-colour sashes and little jaunty caps, as to be perfectly forgetful of the fact that they were meant to do anything but giggle and amuse themselves.
Very pretty they all were, though Dirtiest of the Dirty was decidedly the belle of the party, with her sylph-like figure, large languishing eyes, pearly teeth, and beautiful hands. She, however, felt rather hurt that, as a lady’s maid, she was not allowed to wear a low-necked dress. “There should be a distinction made,” she said, “in favour of upper servants.”
Billy Balsam and Bob Short, too, got into their shorts in good time; and Billy was so disguised by his powdered head and gaudy livery, that none of the Lonnergan family — not even old “Rent should-never-rise” himself — recognised him.
But the great metamorphosis of the evening was that of our gigantic friend Proudlock, the keeper, whom Lucy had induced to put on a splendid green-and-gold French chasseur’s uniform that Betsey had got down from the same unhappy hook-nose who supplied the liveries. There, with defiant false moustaches and a lofty feather-plumed cocked hat, Proudlock stood at the front door, receiving the carriages as they came up, striking awe and astonishment into the minds of the beholders.
One thing, to be sure, had been omitted in the arrangements, namely, to provide stable-room for the horses and refreshments for the servants. And as carriage after carriage set down, with the usual inquiry of the giant where they were to put up, the coachmen were told that he didn’t know anything about putting up. Indeed, it never seemed to have occurred to the ladies that they would want anything of the sort. “As strong as a horse,” is a familiar phrase; and what did it mean but the power of resisting hunger and cold. Besides, how did the cab-horses and things do in London? Who, in the midst of preparations like these, could think of such things? “Drive on!” was therefore the order of the day. And now let us look at matters inside the house.
The two ladies dressed together, taking an hour and a half for the operation, at the end of which time they severally appeared in very chaste and elegant costume.
Let us now suppose them down-stairs, all ready for the ring-up of the curtain of company.
Hark! it’s evidently a frosty night, for the notes of the stable clock reverberate through the house as though it were inside the mansion. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine o’clock! Mrs Somerville “at home” at nine o’clock, and now she’s due! Then, having snatched a parting glance at herself in the mirror, and feeling comfortable on the score of looks, she takes her delicate white kid gloves and richly embroidered feathered fan off the mantelpiece, and approaches the door of the reception-room, accompanied by Miss Hamilton Howard, each inwardly hoping that Mr Romford will be pacific under the violent surprise that awaits him, — the blaze of light, the great gathering, the gorgeous supper, the — we don’t know what else besides.
Hark, again! Carriage-wheels sound on the now frozen gravel, and yet it’s only five minutes past nine. The noise ceases, but the momentary calm is only the prelude to a most boisterous ring.
A country footboy has got the brass bell-knob in his hand, and pulls as if he were going to pocket it for his trouble. A tremendous peal is the result. It shakes the nerves of everybody in the house, — Dirties, Lucy, Facey, and all.
“There! there’s somebody!” ejaculated Lucy and Betsey, as they both got into position, Lucy before the door, Betsey a leetle behind, ready to advance as soon as Mrs Somerville’s smiling demands were satisfied in full.
“Dash my buttons, here they come!” exclaimed Facey aloud to himself, now in the last throes of his neckcloth. “Dash my buttons, here they come! and I not half dressed yet. Shouldn’t wonder if it’s Cass herself,” said he, thinking how she would pout if he was not ready to “Bob Ridley” her.
But he is all out in his reckoning. Cassandra Cleopatra, at this identical moment, is getting laced into a most elegant toilette of straw-coloured Chambéry gauze with six flounces of white tulle; and Spanker’s man is just putting the harness on to the carriage-horses, to convey them to Beldon Hall.
No; it is the noble family of Lonnergan, — Lord Lonnergan of Flush House, accompanied by his amiable wife and accomplished daughters, who, however, have not been able to persuade papa that there is no occasion to come to the exact moment they are asked for. His lordship insists upon the contrary; adding, that he once missed the mail train in consequence of being half a minute behind time, and he has always made a point of being punctual ever since. So he confronts the gigantic Proudlock, who passes the party on to the figure-footmen, who in turn conduct the ladies to the breakfast-room door, where the sylph-like form of Dirtiest of the Dirty, now arrayed in white muslin with bright cherry-coloured ribbons, receives them; and his blue coated, short-breeched lordship is ushered into the library, where the other Miss Dirties, similarly attired, preside behind a well-garnished tea and coffee table. These beautiful girls his innocent lordship surveys with all the respect that old Don Quixote regarded the muleteer’s wenches; thinking, if not princesses, that at all events they were Mrs Somerville’s servants. But he declines both tea and coffee, having had both before.
And now the Honourable Lovetin Lonnergan, who had come on the box of the carriage, having got out of his wraps and joined the ladies, summoning the old lord from his survey, advances up the passage to the radiant music-room, preceded by both Balsam and Short.
“Mr and Mrs Lonnergan and the Misses Lonnergan — Mr Lovetin Lonnergan,” announces Billy Balsam in the orthodox way he had been taught; and forthwith there was a great bending and bobbing and showing of teeth, with introductions to “my friend, Miss Hamilton Howard.” And both his lordship and the honourable were much struck with the ladies’ beauty.
Ring, ring, ring, went the door-bell, and the giant was again astonishing the arrivals: Mr and Mrs Brogdale and Miss Brogdale this time, closely followed by Romford’s suspicious friend Miss Mouser, who did not let any doubts she had upon our Master’s genuineness prevent her begging Mrs Watkins to get her an invitation to his house. Then came the Blantons and Mr Finch, the gentleman our Master called Mr Felt.
And now, Mr Romford having descended from his bedroom, arrayed in all the magnificence of purple and fine linen, with a smart cambric kerchief in his hand in lieu of his old snuff-coloured bandana, found a cluster of ladies and gentlemen around our fair friends, quite as many as, with a slight addition perhaps, Facey thought would constitute a party — quite as many, at least, as he expected to be asked when he gave his consent to have one. Who the deuce was going to find sherry and sandwiches for the whole county? But still Billy Balsam kept piloting in more, mangling their names, and sometimes exchanging them altogether when he had two sets in hand, calling Mr Tuckwell Mr Brotherton, and Mr Brotherton Mr Brown, in the most arbitrary and uncharitable way. The carriages now came so quickly that the bell ceased ringing, and Billy had hardly time to receive one consignment from Bob Short and pass them to the Dirties, ere another party wanted to be passed from the Dirties to the music-room. Not so our fat friend from Pickering Nook, who seemed to think he had got among the fair damsels at the refreshment-room there, and kept laughing and talking, or rather squeaking first with one Dirty and then with another, as though he were going to stay there.
But here comes the weaselly-looking chairman of the Half-Guinea Hat Company, with his yellow-and-white beard carefully combed out, and his failing crop of sandy hair made the most of towards the top. He grins as though he has quite recovered from his “cat”-spell
ing loss at Tarring Neville, and was easy about the hundred pounds’ worth of hat-shares Lucy had got. The fact is, he has just made a great hit in buying a piece of land with a favourite clump of trees upon it, which he threatened to cut down unless certain parties paid for their standing, and amongst them he has got three times as much as he gave.
“MISTER, MISTRESS, and MISS WATKINS!” now announced the Dalberry Lees’ figure-footman in a loud authoritative tone at the front door, as though he were telling the giant something he didn’t know. Mister, Mistress, and Miss Watkins had indeed come at last; and now, getting out of their opossum and black bear-skin wrappers, they descend slowly and deliberately from the well-appointed carriage, as though they did not care who they kept waiting behind. Having seen them into the middle of the entrance-hall, the coachman then further procrastinates matters by demanding to know where he is to put up his ‘osses. On being told by the giant that he knows nothin’ about ‘osses, he indulges in some coarse invectives against the ‘ouse generally, and with a vindictive cut of his whip at length moves on from the door. Mr Lolly’s one-’oss-shay then crawls up. Then came the Kickons, the Bigmores, and a gentleman in a gig. Meanwhile the ladies, having dropped Willy at the tea-room door, proceed under the guidance of the two figure-footmen to the cloakroom, where they remove the last wrap that conceals the artistic triumph of Madame La Modiste. Miss, indeed, looks well.
The Watkinses declining tea, which indeed they had taken before they left Dalberry Lees, proceeded, duly heralded by Balsam and Short, to the reception-room, about the centre of which, and as nearly under the richly cut glass chandelier as would escape any wax-drops falling on her dress or beautifully rounded shoulders, stood Mrs Somerville in the full blaze of light and admiration, receiving the compliments of the men, and undergoing the scrutiny of the ladies.
There too, a little on her left, was Betsey Shannon, now, of course, Miss Hamilton Howard, the centre of attraction to three young gentlemen at once, viz., Bolingbroke Large, Sick-mouth, and the Honourable Lovetin Lonnergan. But Betsey had esprit, or what she called chaff, for them all, and played her cards so well that each fancied himself the favourite, and wondered why the others didn’t go away. She had held six men in tow at Highbury Barn before now, to say nothing of a fiddler and the cornet-à-piston in the orchestra. So she smiled and laughed and twisted and turned to show herself off to the greatest advantage.
And now the concentrated gaze of the room is diverted from the newcomers towards our great Master, Mr Romford, to see how he greets the reputed new mistress of Beldon Hall. Miss Mouser up with her glass, for hers was the eye that never missed the shadow of an ogle or the echo of a sigh. Mrs Brogdale put on her spectacles, and Mrs Bigmore her nose-glasses. On Romford comes like a great wave of the sea, until he reaches the reef of the family party. Then Mrs, then Miss, then Mr have him alternately by the hand. Miss is very smiling, for she now feels assured that the whole affair is in honour of her. He wants to show her the house to advantage, before he asks her to share it with him. Miss Mouser says, with a dig of her sharp elbow into Mr Blanton’s ribs, “There’s something in it, I’m sure.” She then shifts her place and proceeds to take a sidelong survey— “Clearly something in it,” she says to herself, as she watches the sparkle of the lisper’s eye. But her triumph was of short duration.
“MR, MRS, AND MISS HAZEY, AND MR WILLIAM HAZEY!” now announces Mr William Balsam, piloting the party well up to the mistress. Then there was a fresh ebullition of feeling, more smiles, more bows, more curtsies, more shakes of the hand. Miss looks lovely, quite eclipsing Miss Watkins both in beauty and dress.
Miss Mouser is at her with her formidable glass, for she doesn’t like her mother — Mrs Bigmore is at her with her double ones, for she doesn’t like her father; and Miss Watkins is at her with her supercilious eyes, for she doesn’t like herself. A good many others, too, gave her saucy stares, for she was far too pretty to be popular, and Mr Hazey himself was not much liked either. Mr Romford, however, consoles her for all the curling lips by the fervour of his greeting, quite satisfying Miss Hazey that the party was for her, and her only. If Cassandra Cleopatra could have felt the pressure of his great hand, she would have thought little of her own chance of preferment. But our lisping friend is not going to surrender without a struggle, and watching her opportunity, she sidles up to our host, and asks, with a glance at the piano, if they are not going to have a little music.
“Oh, to be sure!” exclaimed Facey, now recollecting what the party was for— “oh, to be sure! Oi’ll get moy flute, and we will ‘stonish the natives together.”
“Your flute is in the music-stand,” now exclaimed Mrs Somerville, who had been listening to the rivals, and feared lest Facey might go out of the room and upset all the other arrangements.
“Is it?” said Romford, “then let us be doing,” offering as he spoke his red arm to Cassandra, who joyfully accepted it, flaunting her dress at Miss Hazey just as a peacock flaunts his tail when he’s not upon over good terms with the hen.
Then there was fresh nudging and looking and hushing, and whispering of “What’s up now?” Going to have a little music, are we? What, a concert, is it?” with mutterings of “Oh, she can’t play a bit, nor he either,” as the two approached the piano.
Miss Cassandra now draws off her closely-fitting white kid gloves, and depositing them with her fine lace and ciphered kerchief at the corner of the instrument, takes her voluminous seat on the stool, while Mr Romford screws his old flute together, and amid hishing and hushing the audience form a semicircle behind, preparing for the punishment; and Mrs Somerville stands on guard near the door to receive the fresh comers, closely attended by Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent., chairman of the Hall-Guinea Hat Company, with Betsey and her beaux for a vanguard behind.
And now Mr Romford, having got his greasy old instrument licked and sucked and put together, proceeds to blow a few discordant puffs and squeaks, while the fair lady runs her light hand up and down the notes of the piano, as if to test the quality of her consignment. All being at length ready, with renewed cries of “hish, hush,” the sound of voices gradually subsides, and as the now attracted company are expecting some fine Italian air, away the musicians go with Facey’s favourite tune of “Old Bob Ridley.”
“Why, what tune’s that?” whispers one.
“Don’t know,” mutters another.
“Surely it’s not ‘Old Bob Ridley,’” says a third.
“Believe it is,” adds a fourth.
“Hush!” cries a fifth.
If Facey’s Oncle Gilroy really damaged his wind by making him play the flute to him when a boy, he had a great deal to answer for, as we make no doubt the assembled company thought, for a more impotent exhibition was perhaps never heard, even though Cassandra Cleopatra did halt and help him along over the weak places, instead of hurrying on and showing off on her own account.
Still the lameness of the performance did not prevent the assiduous toadies expressing their gratification and thanks to them both when they were done, even though they inwardly hoped they might not have to undergo any more of such music.
But Facey, who had a firm conviction that he had mistaken his calling and ought to have been a flutist, received it all as well-merited laudation, and as soon as he had sufficiently recovered his wind, whispered to Cassandra, “Now let’s ‘stonish them with ‘Dixey’s Land.’”
And Miss gladly obeyed, much to the comfort of some and the disquietude of others; and away they went more briskly than before.
During all this time the guests still kept arriving, Mr Telford, Mr Stoddart, Mr and Mrs Pinker bringing Miss Reevey, and Mr Baxton his two daughters and a gawky nephew, and when Facey turned round he was astonished to find such an assemblage. There could not be less than sixty or seventy people in the room, and Sweet William still kept piloting in more. Bowman and Barker and Lightfoot and Lorington, and we don’t know who else besides.
“Well, the ways of the women are wonderful,” muttered
Romford, surveying the gathering, thinking he would not be caught giving his consent for another quiet evening with a little music. Then the question where the sandwiches were to come from struck like a dagger to his heart. “Where, indeed,” thought he. “A ‘underd and fifty people at least,” mused he, glancing round the room. “Terrible field, indeed.”
But Cassandra did not give him much time for reflection, for, knowing the power of her rival, she arose, and placing her delicate white arm within his red one, she lisped in his ear, “Now take me to the tea-room,” determined that he should not be charmed by her music, at all events.
“Tea-room!” muttered Facey; adding, “I don’t think there is one.”
“Oh yes, there is,” rejoined Miss Cassandra; piloting him into the thick of the crowd,— “Oh, yes, there is;” adding, “your people offered us some when we came.”
And as she worked him on, they came upon the breakwater formed before the door, now shored up behind by the substantial figures of “Rent-should-never-rise,” Mrs and the Miss Rents, Fatty Stotfold, and other stout ones.
Then, having at length penetrated this apparently impervious phalanx, they came upon where the enterprising ladies were receiving at once their guests and the homage due to their own distinguished beauty; and Mrs Somerville, looking round, confronted the tall figure of her brother shouldering his way, with Cassandra Cleopatra clinging affectionately to his side.
“Oh, where are you going, my dear?” exclaimed she, anxiously, laying her hand on his arm.
“Tea! Where’s the tea?” muttered Facey.
“Tea! — there’ll be—” Here Mrs Somerville faltered; she would have said sandwiches, but she felt it was of no use further disguising the matter, so she substituted the word “refreshment;” adding, “and I want you to take in a lady.”
“Humph!” growled Romford, wondering what was up; muttering down his arm to his fair friend, “you’ll get some gruel presently.”
