by R S Surtees
And Tom felt cheered by the assurance, and thought he saw his way through the Granitenob and other difficulties. If excitement was all the old boy wanted, he could accommodate him with that to any extent; and though aspiring to so great an heiress might appear presumptuous, Tom was not prepared to say but he was ready for the attempt.
“Is she pretty?” asked Tom, flourishing a cane whip-stick in an off-hand sort of way.
“Beeau-tiful!” drawled the major. “The most beeau-tiful figure and complexthon you ever thaw.”
“Indeed,” replied Tom. “I’ll have a look at her.”
“Do,” replied the major. “I athure you, as a friend, she’s well worth it.”
“Hum!” mused Tom, wishing he hadn’t given Jinny Daiseyfield the brooch, and wondering how he could get it back.
“The colonel’s an ecthellent cretur,” observed the major as they sauntered along.
“He seems so,” replied Tom.
“Ecthellent cretur,” replied the major, with an emphasis and a twist of the points of his ferocious moustachios; “quite a father to all the young men in the regiment — far too good for some of them, indeed.”
“What sort of chaps are they?” asked Tom.
“Why, between ourselves,” replied the major in an undertone, and hugging Tom’s arm as he spoke—” between ourselves — in strict confidence in course, for one doesn’t like to speak ill of one’s brother-offithers — there are some queerish blades among ’em; that Dathler, for instance, and Whopper” (both of whom the colonel and major had recently cheated in horses), “and Pippin, is no great things; but you’ve no occasion to trouble yourself about any of them; the colonel’s the boy for you — stick to him. It’s a far finer thing to be thick with field-offithers and colonels of regiments than with little whelps of boys like that little Mithter Jug, and Shuffler, and so on.”
And Tom thought so, and fancied that he, too, might come to have a bed at Apsley House. The major interrupted the reverie by entering upon the more immediate object of his mission — namely, that of ascertaining how far the youth’s memory retained the recollection of the overnight’s transaction; and finding that he was pretty well “up” in them, he next sounded him as to his means of carrying them out, particularly as regarded the race for the Warrior Stakes. Hearing that his hunting-cane then constituted his whole equestrian stock-in-trade, the major hinted at the desirableness of getting horthes directly, so as to get them into condithon before the season, observing that condithon was half the battle with a hunter — a fact that Tom was wholly unconscious of, being of opinion that a horse, like a carriage or a steam-engine, was always ready to go when wanted. In short, Tom knew nothing at all about horses, and in more ways than one seemed to have been sent for the especial benefit of the gallant Colonel Blunt and his able and indefatigable coadjutor, Major Fibs. The major then proceeded to show how, if Tom got a nice orth or two, thummer’d à la Nimrod, which the major pronounced to be the most orthodox thystem, Tom might do a little cocktail rathin, and perhaps win a goodith sthake, all of which was extremely comfortable to our young friend’s comprehension. The major even hinted that he knew a very likely nag to do the trick; but he just mentioned this in a casual incidental sort of way, addressing himself as much to the wall as to Tom Hall; and after a protracted saunter, the major at length parted with his amiable young friend, assuring him of his distinguished consideration, and returned to the barracks to report to the colonel; while Tom turned in for a four o’clock dinner at his father’s, his head still harping on the army, and aching with the fine military port of the previous day.
CHAPTER V.
MRS HALL’S AMBITION.
“SIVIN AND FOUR’S elivin, and ninety-four’s a ‘under’d and five,” exclaimed old Hall in astonishment, planting his knife and fork erect with a thump of each on the table when our Tom broached the subject of soldiering. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and ninety-nine’s a ‘under’d and ten — wot the doose should you go into the army for?” gasped he.
“Serve one’s queen and country,” stammered Tom, blushing, not expecting such a note of exclamation.
“Serve one’s queen and fiddlestick!” replied old Hall, who, like Mr Cobden, was all for peace and politeness.
Mrs Hall was equally opposed, though on a different principle. She couldn’t bear the idea of her dear boy being cut up by the Caffres, or burnt by the Indians, or peppered by the Irish, or prodded by the French. “No, no, Tummus mustn’t be a soldier. He must stay at home and comfort his father and mother.”
But Tom was obdurate; and having always got what he wanted by standing out, he worked the subject morning, noon, and night. The old people took counsel together. Many were the expedients and diversions they suggested.
“It’s a pity, but we could get him into Lord Lavender’s army,” at length observed Mrs Hall to her husband one night after Tom had been unusually persecuting. “He would look uncommonly nice in marmalade-coloured tights, and it’s just the sort of company Tummus ought to be in.”
Now Lord Lavender was the preterpluperfect tense of dandies; his hussars were the pink of the yeomanry cavalry of England, and officered by noblemen and swells of the first water. The facilities of railways enabled many listless, lounging, London bucks to bebeard and bespur themselves, and take up their quarters at his noble mansion for fourteen days, eating and drinking and playing at soldiers in the park. His lordship, who had the soul of an army tailor in the body of a nobleman, spent endless time and countless cash in the advancement of this his favourite hobby; and though in reality commanding but one regiment, it was as good as having two, for they were heavies in the morning and hussars at night. Red coats and horse-haired helmets, with leather tights and jack-boots were the marching order, while richly silver-braided, ermine-trimmed, lavender-coloured jackets and pelisses, and the aforesaid marmalade-coloured tights, with silver-tassel’d Hessian boots, annihilated the ladies of an evening.
None but the wealthy, or men with good credit, could go into the corps, for all the appointments were studiedly expensive, no German silver allowed, and the lace was laid on as if it was impossible to get it thick enough. Into this “Heaven of Heavens” Mrs Hall was desirous of intruding our Tom, or rather her Tom. We diverged at the point where she introduced the idea.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and sivin’s eighteen — there wouldn’t be much difficulty about that,” replied old Hall.
“D’ye think not?” exclaimed Mrs Hall in delight.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and eighteen’s twenty-nine — I think not,” replied her husband cautiously; “at least I take it not — I apprehend not.”
Old Hall had been recently reading that great work of information his bank-ledger, wherein he had a concise view, not only of his lordship’s affairs but of the affairs of many other great men of the county, and finding that his lordship had what he called “overdrood most desprate,” he had very little doubt that he could have whatever he chose to ask for.
His wife, of course, urged him to ask for a commission for our Tom; and our Tom, though he had been desperate about the Heavysteed Dragoons, yet feeling, on reflection, that all the splendour in the world would be little worth if he hadn’t dear Fleecyborough to exhibit it in, with becoming reluctance at length came into the arrangement. Old Hall, after duly considering whether he should address his lordship on the subject of the overdrawn account, and allude to the commission in a postscript — or address him on the subject of the commission, and allude to the overdrawn account in the postscript, at length chose the latter, and finally despatched a very business-like letter, beginning as high up the page as if he meant to fill the whole sheet, though, in reality, he only got through a third of a page, stating that his son, a very promising young man, who had just finished his education, was desirous of joining his lordship’s regiment, and that he (the father) would esteem it a favour if his lordship would appoint him, for which he would be ready to pay whatever was required, adding that he was
his lordship’s obedient humble servant to command; and, as if by way of showing how little he was his servant in reality, he added this: —
“P.S. — My cashier has just drawn my attention to your book, which he would like to have a little more evenly balanced before Christmas.”
CHAPTER VI.
LORD LAVENDER AT HOME.
WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS the rage Lord Lavender was in when he received the foregoing missive, which he did as he sat at breakfast with his family, who, as they will occupy a somewhat prominent position in our story, it may be well for the reader to become at once acquainted with.
His Lordship, though past the heyday of youth, had not been able to persuade himself of that fact. Indeed, he laboured the other way, and, by dint of belts, bands, washes, cosmetics, and dyes, managed to set half a century at defiance as successfully as any made-up gentleman we ever saw; and but for three full-grown buxom-looking girls, to say nothing of a son or two out of sight, might have passed for a gentleman a little turned of thirty. The girls, unfortunately, looked older than they were, and, instead of the father’s high-bred air and Italian-like complexion, took after their mother, who was fair, and now somewhat dumpy. Lady Lavender, though painfully aristocratic, now that she had scrambled into the peerage, might have been a little higher bred without disadvantage. Indeed, it was not exactly known whence she came, the stud-books of humanity merely entering her as daughter of John Smith, Esq., thus offering a wide field for the speculations of the curious. Be that, however, as it may, she was very highty-tighty, fully appreciating the advantages of position, and entering into the outraged feelings of her husband at such overtures as Hall’s.
“Such impudence! Such presumption! What next, I wonder? Passes all comprehension. Will be offering to one of the girls next,” observed her ladyship, throwing the wide-unenveloped letter from her with disdain.
“Who is it?” inquired Miss Maria Henrietta Jane.
“Oh, nobody — only your pa’s banker writing about a cub of a boy of his,” replied her ladyship.
“What, old fat-throat!” exclaimed Maria, whose other two names we will now take the liberty of merging.
“What do you know about fat-throats?” demanded his lordship with a frown, which might be caused either by the familiarity of the expression or the inconvenient postscript to the banker’s letter.
“Oh, nothing,” replied Maria, with a blush; “only we see a great porpoise of a boy in all the colours of the rainbow hanging about the streets and shop doors at Fleecyborough, and — and — and — somebody christened him old fat-throat.”
“I dare say the somebody was yourself,” snapped her ladyship; “you are always demeaning yourself with undue familiarity.”
“Always!” exclaimed his lordship, who wanted some one to be angry with.
“Indeed I know nothing about him,” replied Maria quite innocently.
“I should hope not!” replied the lady-mother. “I should hope not!” repeated she, with great dignity. “I should hope no daughter of mine would demean herself by a plebeian connection.” So saying, she rose from the table and sailed out of the room, with as much stateliness as a dumpy lady all stomach up to the chin can assume, followed by her daughters, giggling at the idea of our Tom forming one of their select family circle.
Although his lordship had made use of at least a bushel of bad words in declaring his fixed determination not to sully his corps by admitting such a snob as our Tom, and had mentally consigned him to all manner of out-of-the-way and uncomfortable places, yet when he found himself in the solitude of his own room, with the ill-omened document before him, and a strong file of last year’s unpaid bills at his elbow — some, indeed, beginning with the ominous words, “To bill delivered” so much — he thought better of writing in the indignant strain to old Hall that he at first contemplated; indeed, he believed it was best to be civil; most likely it was ignorance; the man mightn’t mean to be rude — didn’t know the regulations of his corps, and so on; so he would write him a polite put-off note, beginning, “Lord Lavender presents his compliments to Mr Hall, and regrets exceedingly,” &c.
Before he had got an answer combed out to his mind, a servant announced that Mr Drearyman, the land-agent, was waiting for an audience, and that dread functionary being admitted, and at length induced to take a seat, proceeded to pour out such a catalogue of grievances, such wants, such distress and poverty among the tenants, aggravated by the tedious prolixity with which Drearyman dwelt upon each item, that, before he was done, his lordship felt he would be fortunate if the estates did not bring him debtor instead of his having anything to receive.
Mr Drearyman, indeed, drew a lamentable picture of the state of the country — a striking contrast to the pen-and-ink prosperity of some of the newspaper press. But there are no people so confident of the capabilities of land as those who have none.
When Drearyman at length took his departure, his lordship saw things in a different light. So far from gratifying Mr Trueboy with an adjustment of his account, he felt satisfied that he would have to increase his obligations; and after a strong struggle between pride and pocket, pocket at length gained the mastery, and the haughty lord humbled himself before the griping banker, and, sinking all notice of Hall’s postscript, wrote that he would have great pleasure in appointing Mr Thomas Hall to a cometcy in the Royal Lavender Dragoons and Hyacinth Hussars. By the same post he increased the weight of his obligations to the bank, by sending Madame Dentelle a cheque for her ladyship and daughter’s longstanding account, for which he had had innumerable applications and assurances that the money was wanted to enable madame to meet a heavy bill coming due the then next week.
CHAPTER VII.
COLONEL BLUNT CALLS.
OLD HALL’S HOUSE was in the heart of the town of Fleecyborough, in Newbold-street, and, though substantial and well-built, could not vie with the more modern plate-glass - windowed mansions that had sprung up in the outskirts and newer streets. It was a dingy brick mansion, with heavy woodwork windows, a massive green door, and an old iron railing enclosing nothing. Newbold-street at this part was rather narrow, and only flagged on Hall’s side, but some fifty yards to the west was an airy market-place, and the bank, forming part of the house, was what was called extremely “used” for business, the farmers popping in and out like rabbits in a warren. Though the bank was as dark and as dirty as a place could be, and the little partitioned-off nook, wherein we introduced the banker to our readers, was all the “sweating room” he possessed, it was wonderful the amount of business he did, and the agonies parties underwent in that nook. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and nineteen’s thirty — I’m afeard this bill won’t do,” Hall would say to a ponderous farmer who wanted a little accommodation, or perhaps a good deal, to enable him to meet his rent. “Couldn’t you get some ‘un to join in a note?” or, to another, “Sivin and four’s elivin, and fifteen’s twenty-six — it’s not convenient just now,” returning the gaping goose his hopeless paper. “Ay — w-h-o-y — ar’ll call again in haafe an hour,” perhaps replies the innocent, not understanding the delicacy of the refusal.
But we are entering into the mysteries of Hall’s calling, whereas our object is only to introduce his residence to our readers, preparatory to receiving company. We will now suppose our worthy friends in receipt of Lord Lavender’s letter, and, the first transports of joy over, Mrs Hall castle-building — imagining a match between our Tom and one of the Miss Myrtles, his lordship’s daughters.
“Our Tom shall have an honourable for a wife!” exclaimed she.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and forty-one is fifty-two — I don’t know that that would do him any good,” replied Hall.
“Not do him any good!” retorted his wife; “why, it’s the very thing that Tom ought to have — a high-bred lady for a wife, who’ll take him to court, and into distinguished society, and make a first-rate man of him.”
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and eighty-three is ninety-four — I don’t k
now that he’d be any better of that,” replied the imperturbable banker.
“Not any better of that!” retorted his wife, who was all for advancement, and saw no reason why our Tummus should not marry a lord’s daughter as well as Miss Nobody-knew-who Smith marry Lord Lavender; and so Hall and she got into a discussion on the point.
Their dialogue was interrupted by the most violent pounding of their hitherto peaceable, brass, lion-headed knocker, and before the astonished couple had recovered from the surprise, or speculated whether the bank was broke, or the house on fire, a second assault, if possible more furious than the first, thundered through the mansion, and caused a simultaneous rush to the drawing-room windows to see what was “oop,” as old Hall said. A tall, gold-laced hatted, moustachioed footman, in a dirty drab greatcoat, was in the act of returning to a high mail phaeton, yellow picked out with red, drawn by a pair of silver duns, in which was seated an enormous Daniel Lambert-looking man in undress uniform, and a little shrimp of a woman in a mixed costume of faded finery, in the shape of summer and winter clothes. A green terry - velvet bonnet with a yellow feather, a large ermine tippet over a light-blue muslin gown, with a machinery-lace-covered pink parasol, bright yellow-ochre-coloured gloves, and black velvet bands, with long ends and bright buckles round her wrists, as if she had sprained them. Altogether — man, woman, vehicle, horses — a very remarkable turn-out. The servant is now waiting for orders.
“ASK IF MISTRESS WHAT-HER-NAME’S AT HOME,” bellowed the monster, in a tone that sounded right into the house, and was heard by the curious on either side of the street, who had been attracted to their windows by the unwonted pounding of the door—” ASK IF MISTRESS WHAT’S-HER-NAME — HALL’S AT HOME,” repeated he, catching the name, and flourishing his whip triumphantly over his stout Hanoverians.
