by R S Surtees
“O lauk l” exclaimed Mrs Hall, in dismay. “I’m not fit to be seen! I’ve got my old gown and a dirty cap on,” glancing at herself in the eagle-topped mirror, as she hurried out of the room. “Not at home, Sarey! — not at home!” exclaimed she, leaning over the banisters to the maid, who, startled over the remains of a currant dumpling, was rushing pale and frightened to the door. “Not at home, Sarey! — not at home,” repeated Mrs Hall, almost loud enough to be heard outside.
“Not at home!” blurted out Sarah, before the question was put at the half-opened door; and forthwith the lady in colours produced an elegant mother-o’-pearl card-case, and handed the footman an assortment of various sized cards for the not-at-homeites to help themselves to when they returned.
“Master’s at home,” observed Sarah, in a tremulous voice, with a laudable regard for the honour and credit of the bank.
“I THOUGHT YOU SAID NOT AT HOME,” roared the officer, in a voice of thunder.
“Master is, missis is not,” replied the maid, timidly.
“AH — WELL, I’LL JUST GO IN AND SEE WHAT SORT OF A TIGER HE is,” observed the officer in the same tone after a pause; and, depositing the whip in its case, he handed the pipeclayed reins to the lady, and descended with a swag that shot her up in her seat like a pea.
He was indeed a fat man, and his crimson-and-gold belt was lost in the folds of fat at his sides. Having alighted on terra firma, he shook himself to see that he was all there, and then proceeded to labour in on his heels, paddling as it were with his short fat fins of arms.
The tiger had got himself into his lair ready for a pounce before the heavy man got creaked upstairs to the door which Sarey had left wide open, after a hurried half-frightened exclamation of “The gentleman, sir,” hoping she was right in letting him in — fearing she was wrong.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and forty-five is fifty-six — what the deuce can the feller want with me?” muttered old Hall to himself. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and ninety-five’s a ‘under’d and six — he’ll stand a dooced bad chance of gettin’ a bill done after that impittence,” thinking of his calling him a tiger. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and a ‘under’d and fifteen is a ‘under’d and twenty-six — what a time he is in gettin’ up,” thought he, as the ponderous heavy-breathing man still laboured at the ascent. At length he appeared at the door.
“Mr Hall (puff), I believe (wheeze),” gasped the officer, snatching his gold-laced foraging-cap off his great round head, and giving an uncouth bow with a kick out behind.
The banker acknowledged the impeachment without rising from his seat.
“I’ve called (puff),” roared he, “that’s to say, Mrs Colonel (wheeze) Blunt and (puff) I have done Mrs (wheeze) Hall the (gasp) honour to call. I mean to say,” continued he, waddling across the room to an easy-chair as he spoke, “I mean to say, Mrs Colonel Blunt and (wheeze) I have done our (gasp) selves the honour to call on Mrs (puff) What’s-her-name,” sousing himself into the chair as he spoke, “to ask you to come to a little (puff) entertainment — music — mornin’ hop, the dansante, as she calls it, or earache and stomach-ache, as I call it; and your (puff) son — how’s your (puff) son? James, that’s to say — fine young man (wheeze), great favourite of mine (puff); great (wheeze) pleasure in making his (gasp) ‘quaintance. And your daughter; oh! I beg (puff) pardon, you haven’t a daughter. It’s Mr Buss who has the daughter (puff); you townspeople are all so (puff) alike, you puzzle one. It’s Mr Buss who has the daughter — (puff) — dev’lish ugly girl she is too (wheeze); ugliest girl I ever saw — nasty-looking girl, I should say. — He — he — he!
Haw — haw — haw! Ho — ho — ho!”
Hall accompanied this speech, or rather parts of a speech, with the following mental commentary —
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and forty-nine’s sixty (what a fat man he is), and sixty’s a ‘under’d and twenty, and ninety’s two ‘under’d and ten (I wonder whether he’ll be asking me to do a bill), and twenty-nine’s two ‘under’d and thirty-nine” (that’s a piece of impittence callin’ Tummus, James — knows his name’s Tummus as well as I do), and forty-five’s two ‘under’d and ninety-four (Miss Buss is an ugly girl);” and as Hall hated old Buss, the censure of the daughter rather expiated the offence of calling Tummus, James.
“Thank you, sir, — that’s to say, colonel — that’s to say, sir — that’s to say, Colonel Blunt,” replied Hall, after the monster had exhausted himself. “Mrs H. and I are much obliged by the compliment of this call. Tummus, not James,” continued Hall, eyeing the monster intently,’
‘Tummus, not James,” repeated he, “will have much pleasure in accepting your note, — that’s to say, your invitation,” continued he, with an emphasis, lest the inadvertency should lead to the production of a bill-stamp.
“Oh, but you must come too,” roared the now recruited colonel; “you must come too — you and Mrs What’s-her-Name, and all — hear my daughter play — finest performer in the world! — quite divine!”
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and forty-eight’s fifty-nine — there’s a darter in the case, is there?” mused Hall. “Thank you, sir — that’s to say, colonel,” replied he, aloud. “You’re very good; but music’s not much in my way.”
“Why, as to that,” replied the colonel, with a shrug of his great shoulders—” why, as to that, I’ve no great eye for music myself; but the women like these sort of fandangoes, and we must knock under to them sometimes, you know — he, he, he! — haw, haw, haw! — ho, ho, ho!” his fat sides shaking like a shape of blancmange.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and eighty-three’s ninety-four — my black shorts wouldn’t show well by daylight,” mused Hall, “and Mrs H. would be sure to want a new gown to go in. No, I thank you, Mister Colonel,” resumed Hall, aloud; “you’re very good, but it’s really quite out of my line, and Mrs H., though very well at home, won’t do to take abrooad.”
Just as Mr Hall made this unfortunate declaration, the lady who “didn’t do to take abrooad” made her appearance, a splendidly revised edition of the one that had fled. A fine fly-away cap, with full forty yards of pink ribbon, graced the back of her silvery-streaked head, while an elaborately-worked collar drooped over a shot-silk dress that assumed a variety of colours according to the light.
“Oh, here’s Mrs Buss!” exclaimed the colonel, as she entered; “here’s Mrs Buss herself!”
“I say, Mrs Buss, what d’ye think your husband says?” roared the military monster, treating her just as he would a barmaid—” what d’ye think your husband says? He says, by Jove! that you’re very well at home, but you don’t do to take abroad — he, he, he! Now I should say,” continued he, eyeing her intently—” I should say that you’re a devilish deal better-looking woman than he is a man — haw, haw, haw! — ho, ho, ho! But, however, never mind,” continued he, checking his guffaw; “I’ll tell you what I’ve come about — I’ll tell you for what I’ve come about. Mistress Colonel Blunt and I have called to ask you to come to a the dansante, or dancing tea, as she calls it; or ear-ache and stomach-ache, as I call it — you and your husband, and my friend Charles — so now you must come.”
He rose and rolled out of the room, leaving old Hall and his wife to settle the question of looks between them at their leisure as soon as they recovered from the petrifaction of astonishment into which his condescending visit had thrown them. The Colonel then stumped downstairs, and climbing up into the phaeton, resumed the whip and reins, roaring out as he squashed himself into his seat, “RUMMEST COUPLE I EVER SAW!” He then flourished the whip over the Hanoverians, the tall footman clambered up behind, and the rickety vehicle went jingling, like a tambourine, over the uneven pavement, to the delight of the children and the admiration of the country folks, who thought it a most splendid turn-out.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE THÉ DANSANTE.
NOT HAVING THE Fleecyborough census-paper at hand, we are unable to say what age the lovely Angelena — Miss Blunt — re
turned herself at, but her mamma admitted she was out of her teens, while a rival mamma would very likely set her down at thirty or more. Be that, however, as it may, she had all the worldly experience of a woman of thirty. She had flirted with and jilted half the young men during their passage through the regiment: Comets Cubley, Disher, Dazzler, Dibs, and Shaver; Lieutenants Dancewell, Wildblood, Bouquet, and Gape, courting as a soldier’s daughter ought to court — by the word of command — making up to this man when told he was a “catch” — chopping over to that when advised he was “better.” Her present liaison was with our little pig-eyed friend, Comet Jug, a beardless boy, equally enamoured of his bottle and her. He would be an honourable when his grandpapa, old Lord Pitcher, went to the “well.” Invincible Tom was now coming to cut him out.
Singularly enough, the band struck up “See the conquering hero comes” as Tom dashed up to the door of the colonel’s barrack-house in a Fleecyborough fly on the day of the the dansante.
“Mr Hall!”
“Mr Hoar!”
“Mr Horn!” announced three consecutive Heavysteed Dragoon footmen, as our fat friend elbowed his way upstairs into the colonel’s little rooms, now looking less by the profusion of hairy heavies simpering their vapid inanities over the perspiring, and therefore thoroughly happy, rank, beauty, and fashion of Fleecy borough. Dancing teas not being much in vogue in that neighbourhood, some were attired in evening, some in morning, dresses. Miss Blunt being of the slim, not to say scraggy order, capable of improvement by millinery, was in an elegant Turkish trouser-sleeved tarlatan double-skirted muslin dress, that seemed undecided whether it would be a morning or an evening one. It was made as a tunic, both skirts trimmed all round with plaited pink ribbon and very broad machinery lace. She also wore a black lace jacket with most voluminous sleeves, showing her arms well up to the elbows. These were heavily laden with jewellery, for though her well-disciplined mind would not allow of her thinking for “one moment” of a man without her “beloved parents’ approval,” she nevertheless exercised a sound discretion of her own with regard to keeping their presents, and her hands and arms were perfect trophy-bearers of her eyes. There, in the shape of rings and lockets and chains and bracelets and armlets, glittered the spoils of war — the honours of many sieges. She could have furnished a conquest department in the Crystal Palace. One might almost read the characters of her lovers in their presents. In the mild, fairy-like web of that turquoise-studded Venetian chain breathes the soft languishing notes of Lieutenant Wildblood; in that plain gold armlet with the sparkling diamond heart we read the cruel case of Cornet Dibs; that showy, never-going armlet watch tells the deception that was practised upon honest Gape; the bacchanalian-grouped cameo proclaims the taste of little Jug. But to our dashing Tom.
There was a general lull and stare, and nudging and putting up of eye-glasses, as, red-faced and hot, our friend forced his way into the room, the officers eyeing him with pity as the next victim, the ladies feeling somewhat hurt at Mrs Blunt trenching, as it were, on their preserve. “Not that they, &c., — but, &c.”
“How ARE YE, HALL?” roared the colonel, who was standing in full uniform, looking like a red-hot globe in the centre of the little room, the perspiration standing on his bald but still darkly-fringed head. “How ARE YE, HALL?” repeated he, extending an enormous fin of an arm. And drawing Tom towards him, he shot him forward with a force that cannon’d him against his wife and daughter.
“Let me introduce my darter,” observed the former, on recovering her equilibrium.
The happy couple made their obeisances like combatants entering the arena, and again the surging roar of conversation rose and overwhelmed what followed. The small room was crammed to suffocation; and the gallant men were so intent on guarding the fair, that they seemed to have put on all their accoutrements, and brought everything, except their horses, into the room.
“Oh, my toe!” squeaked little Miss Smiley, as Captain Dash came down upon it with his spur. “That’s my foot, sir!” exclaimed Mr Benson, as Captain Pippin began to drum upon it with his sword. “Would you have the kindness to move a little that way?” asked Mrs Makepiece mildly; “the peak of your helmet is piercing my back.” But we must leave these minor casualties in favour of the greater actors in this our drama.
Most regular flirts have a set form of attack, and Angelena’s was of the most direct and positive order. She always advised young men to have their pictures taken. “Oh, dear! she thought it such a pity for men not to be ‘pinted,’” as she called it, for she had an elegant way of making her a’s into i’s, and committing other extravagances with the English language. “She thought it such a pity for men not to be ‘pinted’ when they were young and handsome. Wouldn’t he now — wouldn’t he have his portrait ‘pinted?’” and she would look in the goose’s grinning face in the most winning, beseeching way possible. She had sent a dozen fools to the “pinter’s,” and was just advising little Jug to have his unmeaning mug taken when the new conquering hero arrived. She went at Tom most vigorously — eyes, nose, mouth, ears, hands, and all. After an icebreaker about the weather, she diverged at once into the army. “So he was going into Lord Lavender’s Hussars! Well,” continued she, clasping her hands, and turning her eyes up to the ceiling. “Ah! she had heard — she had hoped — but no matter — Lord Lavender’s was a lovely corps — the finest out of the line. Such uniforms! Heavies in the morning, and Hussars at night! Wouldn’t he now — wouldn’t he have his portrait pinted? In the hussar uniform, with his busby on? Nothing so becoming as a busby. It was such a pity for men not to be pinted when they were young and handsome,” dropping her voice as she uttered the word handsome, and looking at Tom as if she was utterly annihilated by his beauty.
“I SAY, HALL! I’VE MADE THE MATCH WITH OLD HIDE,” roared the colonel, at this interesting period. “You KNOW WHAT I MEAN, GRIPER AND HOLDFAST! IT’S FOR
FRIDAY — TEN SOVS. — P.P.; so YOU COME AND SEE IT, AND DINE WITH US AFTER; AND NOW, ANGELENA, MY
DEAR,” continued he, at a signal from his wife, “SING US ‘MARBLE HALLS,’
‘THE SOLDIER TIRED,’ OR SOMETHING TO KEEP us WARM. — He — he — he! haw — haw — haw! ho — ho — ho!” the colonel mopping the perspiration from his head with a great snuff-coloured bandana.
And Fibs and Stalker and Pippin, and all the jolly subs, “he — he — he’d” and “haw — haw — haw’d,” as if he said the wittiest thing in the world. Wondrous are the pleasantries of the powerful!
“How tiresome!” muttered Angelena, aside, to our Tom; adding, in an undertone, as the intelligent youth stood with his mouth open, “well, come, you must hand me to the piano, and turn over my music for me;” so saying, she ran her arm through Tom’s, and went pushing and pardoning and excusing her way through the crowd, the lady making way for Tom, instead of Tom making way for her. Arrived at the piano, she ungloved her little white hands, and holding up her arms to shuffle her manacles into their places, she again cast an imploring glance at our hero, and whispered, “Now, don’t forget about the pinting.”
All this was done in full sight of little Jug, who stood biting his lips, his right hand clutching his sword while he kept thinking what a subject Tom would be to exercise it upon.
Then Miss ran her taper fingers gaily along the accustomed notes of the old tingling instrument. Her mamma cried “H-u-s-s-sh!” the colonel rapped with his sword against the floor; Major Fibs clapped his red hands; Mrs Makepiece whispered Mrs Jenkinson, “What a bore!” Mrs Jenkinson observed, it was “just a show off for themselves;” while Mrs Loveington looked at her three charming daughters, and thought how much better any one of them would look at the piano: above all which envy, hatred, malice, and other uncharitableness, the rich clear notes of the syren arose, gradually prevailing o’er the noise. As for Tom, he stood pilloried, looking as sensible as young gentlemen in similar circumstances generally do. He was now on show like a “lively turtle” before dressing.
When the
song — an Italian one — was over, loud and vehement was the applause, the stamping, the clapping, and thumping. Captain Spillman, who wanted a month’s leave of absence to go and have a turn with Sir Richard in Leicestershire, cried, “Bravo, bravo, bravo, bravissimo!” and clapped his hands till he burst the seams of his eighteenpenny kids. Jug, too, squeaked his best, though he couldn’t but feel that Angelena was playing him false. Still he thought she would never take such a lout as Tom Hall in preference to him. It must just be because Hall was a stranger; and he doubted not all her former affection would return as soon as they were together again. So Jug squeaked a good squeak, and belaboured his hands as well. The ladies, too — dear, truthful creatures — applauded, and some drew nigh, complimenting the corpulent colonel on his daughter’s extraordinary execution, others flattering his wife; while Mrs Makepiece, who had just passed it as her private opinion to Mr Mackintosh that “the girl had no more voice than a peacock,” rushed up to Angelena, and, seizing both her hands, swung them like pump-handles, declaring she reminded her of Catalani in her best days. The artless girl gave a deprecatory shake of her prettily-shaped head, now dressed in the madonna style, and replied, “If she sang well enough to please her perhaps too partial friends, it was all she desired; “and our Tom, who was still hard by, thought he never heard a more angelic speech.
The band outside then struck up another tune, giving freedom of speech to the lately suppressed voices; and little Jug, having been primed by Captain Dazzler that he oughtn’t to let that d — d civilian cut him out, advanced, with a noisy, free-and-easy, arm-squaring air, and thrusting his little person before our fat Tom, exclaimed —
“Now, Angelena, give us ‘Drops of Brandy!’”
Angelena, who had now resumed her seat at the piano, took no notice of him, but turning her die-away eyes up to our Tom, said —
“What’s your fivorite tune, Mr Hall?”
