by R S Surtees
“Ah, well,” rejoined the colonel, slightly disconcerted, “I don’t mean to say that the general wouldn’t pass them, I mean to say that I don’t mean to say they are not looking — healthy, wholesome, and so on — but I’ve seen them look better, I think — evener. I mean,” added he, with a jerk of his right fin.
“Evener!” replied his lordship; “evener!” repeated he; “show me an uneven hound in the pack” — his lordship waving his hand as he spoke.
“Why, there’s one!” roared the colonel, nettled at the challenge.
“Where?” asked his lordship.
“There!” roared the colonel, “under Billy’s horse’s nose.”
“Why, man! that’s the terrier!” exclaimed his lordship, to the infinite mirth of the meeting; and unable to bear with him any longer, he gave a nod to Dicky, who forthwith whistled the hounds together and moved briskly from the meet, leaving the colonel high and dry at the door.
CHAPTER XVII.
COLONEL BLUNT ENJOYS HIMSELF.
“WELL, THAT’S COOL,” growled the colonel, as the hunting cavalcade moved away from Heartycheer Castle door. “That’s cool,” repeated he, “treating the Lieutenant-Colonel of her Majesty’s Regiment of Heavysteed Dragoons as if he was a postboy, leavin’ him this way” — the colonel looking down on his smoking steeds as he spoke, with anything but a satisfied countenance.
“What are you going to do, colonel?” exclaimed a voice out of the coach window.
“Oh! that’s Jug,” replied the colonel, recollecting now that his coach was full inside and out — or, rather, had been full inside and out, the outsiders having fled and got their horses to join the hunt. “Oh! that’s Jug,” observed he.
“No, not Jug,” replied the voice—” Hall.”
“Oh! I meant Hall,” replied the colonel, with a chuck of his double chin, muttering to himself, “I knew it was one of you. Do!” continued he, raising his voice, and coiling his whip-thong round the stick, “why, I should say the best thing would be to go in and have some breakfast.”
“So say I,” replied Hall, who was in no great hurry for his first hunt.
“Stay, then, and I’ll drive you to the door becomingly,” continued the colonel, gathering up his reins, whipping his horses, and moving the coach slowly on to where a “gentleman’s gentleman,” and a couple of highly-powdered, white-coated, crimson-breeched footmen were lounging, and making their observations on the scene outside. Having seen his lordship’s reception of the colonel and his party, the servants of course took their cue from their master, and stood, with supercilious smiles, watching the dirty incongruous-looking vehicle.
“Now, Johnny! “exclaimed the colonel, as none of them seemed inclined to lend a hand—” now, Johnny,” repeated he, “open the door, and let the ladies out; and you,” continued he, addressing the gentleman out of livery, “slip round to the stables, and tell Colonel Blunt’s groom his master’s come” — the colonel thinking the announcement of his rank would be sure to have a beneficial influence in procuring attention.
The commanding tone of our man of war somewhat threw the flunkies off their guard, or rather off their impudence, for the man addressed as Johnny, but whose real name was Peter, ceased twirling his napkin and applied himself manfully to the coach door, while the other footman lounged away to fulfil the duty assigned to the hero of the gaudy plain clothes. Our fat friend, Greasy Tom, as Angelena had now christened him, from the profuse perspiration in which his tight tops kept him, then popped out, and was presently protecting the lavender-coloured flounces from the wheel. A confused mass of ermine and satin then followed as best it could, our Tom’s gallantry not extending itself to mamma.
Though the colonel’s munificence had not been misapplied, it had not exactly taken the direction he indicated, for instead of red and yellow bonnets, Angelena shone forth in a new brown and white glacé terry velvet, while mamma had invested her share of the plunder in a dark blue and white glacé, with coloured flowers in the cap. While Angelena was nice and smart, Mrs Blunt was a good deal of the twopenny head and farthing tail school, the glossy freshness of the terry velvet bonnet contrasting with the rather worn ermine tippet and cuffs, and the stains on the satin below. Besides the stains and frays on the dress, a critical eye might have detected some dams on the instep of her ribbed silk stockings; but Angelena’s were nice and well put on, showing her pretty feet and ankles to advantage.
Such was the party that now alighted from the coach, and stood at the castle door, on either side of our Tom; who stood easing first one foot, and then the other, looking as if his leathers were ready to burst.
The soldier-groom at length arriving, munching his last mouthful of cold round of beef, relieved the colonel of the reins, who, desiring the man to see and get the horses well taken care of, proceeded to alight from the box, and divest himself of a dirty old drab Grosjean greatcoat, with large plate-like mother-of-pearl buttons, with black emblematical devices, illustrating the Turf, the Chase, the Road, and the Ring.
“The hounds are just gone down to Thornington Spinney,” observed the pompous Mr Snuffertray, the butler, who had now got waddled to the door, and saw that the colonel’s under garments were significant of the chase—” the hounds are just gone down to Thornington Spinney,” repeated he, thinking thus to get rid of them.
“Ah, that may all be,” replied the colonel, with a nod of his bull-head—” that may all be; we’ve come to draw your larder, not the Spinney,” adding, as he put his overcoat into the coach, “which is the way to the cat-lap shop?”
“The w-h-a-t, sir?” drawled the astonished Mr Snuffertray.
“The cat-lap shop — the breakfast-room, to be sure,” replied the colonel.
“Oh, this way, if you please, sir,” replied the now enlightened Mr Snuffertray, extending his right arm, and motioning a gigantic footman, who was warming his pink silk calves at the hall fire, to take charge of the distinguished intruders.
The colonel then offered his right fin to Mrs Blunt, and went wad — wad — waddling across the stately hall, exclaiming over his left shoulder to Tom, who followed uneasily in his tight tops, with the tips of Angelena’s fingers resting on his arm —
“Good shop, isn’t it, Jug?”
Without waiting for an answer, he waddled on to the open door of the late mirth-echoing dining-room.
The apartment was in the full glow of banqueting disorder — napkins lying here, napkins lying there, napkins twisted into knots, napkins flaunting over chair-backs, like drooping drapery. The whole force of plate-linen and china had been brought to bear upon the entertainment, and very splendid everything was. The Hearty-cheer arms and crests and coronet glittered everywhere — on the chair-backs, on the picture-frames, on the plate, on the glass, on the china, and were even introduced into the pattern of the long sixty-cover tablecloth. Monsieur Crapaud, the cook, seemed to have vied with Monsieur Frappe, the Swiss confectioner, in the novelty and elegance of his dishes, while Brick, the baker, had tortured flour into every variety of form. Pines and grapes, the choicest fruits and flowers, mingled in elegant designs in the epergnes and vases, were profusely scattered down the centre of the table.
On the plate-loaded sideboard stood the splendid Heartycheer testimonial, value five hundred guineas, the spontaneous outburst of a country’s gratitude, slightly coerced by the tuft-hunting busybody who set it on foot.
“Well, this is somethin’ like!” exclaimed the colonel, with glistening eyes, as he surveyed the disorderly but still sumptuous banquet; “this is better than hunting a d — d stinking fox,” added he, making for a chair and sousing himself down. “Now, Hall, make yourself at home,” roared he; “I told ye you’d light on your legs comin’ here. Eat as much as ever you like, for there’s nothin’ to pay,” diving into the breast of the turkey before him with a carving-knife, and scoring himself many slices.
“Take tea — coffee — cocoa — chocolate?” asked a pert footman, who now entered, in obedienc
e to Mr Snuffertray’s orders to go and see “those tigers didn’t steal anything”— “take chocolate, cocoa, coffee, tea,” continued he, running heel and flourishing his right hand towards where the various beverages were encamped on different parts of the table.
“I’ll take chocolate, if it’s hot,” replied the colonel, munching away at his turkey; “only if it’s hot, mind!” repeated he, following the man with his eyes to see how it poured out. “Ah, that won’t do!” exclaimed he; “take it out and get it warmed; and here, man!” continued he, diving into a napkin full of eggs, “get some hot what-d’ye-call-’ems?” holding up an egg as he spoke.
“What will you take, Angelena?” asked Tom, who, with unabated assiduity to the daughter, had left the old lady to take care of herself.
“I’ll take tea,” replied Angelena, untying her new bonnet-strings, and passing them behind her back—” I’ll take tea,” repeated she, adding, “What will you take?”
“I’ll take tea, too,” replied the complaisant youth, though his usual beverage was coffee.
The fair lady then took off her primrose-coloured kid gloves, displaying a more than ordinary profusion of rings on her taper fingers, and proceeded to concentrate the scattered tea-service in the vicinity of where they sat. Tom completed the movement by handing down a massive silver kettle, from whose lukewarm contents he replenished the already exhausted teapot.
“Lauk! it’s nothing but water!” exclaimed Angelena, as she began to pour the slightly coloured beverage into a Sevres cup. What have we been about, Mister Tom, to make such a mess?”
“Oh! pour away,” replied Tom—” pour away,” repeated he, as Angelena stopped in her helping, adding, “I like it weak.”
“Well, so do I, do you know,” replied she. “Mr Hall and I won’t ruin ourselves in tea,” exclaimed she to mamma, showing her the light-coloured contents of the cup.
Mrs Blunt knit her brows, for she thought Angelena was going too fast.
Meanwhile, the colonel was “pegging away,” as he called it, at all the good things within reach, to the astonishment of the servants, who kept dropping in to see the man-monster, just as they would to see an elephant at a show. He “at” everything that came in his way; Bayonne ham, Bologna sausage, blackberry jam, Minorca honey, quince marmalade, anchovy toast, Yorkshire pie, diluted with copious draughts of chocolate, which the footman favoured him with in his own good time.
“Well, I’ll do!” at length exclaimed the colonel, throwing himself back in his chair; and, thrusting his fin ends into his corduroy breeches’ pockets, he proceeded to suck his teeth and reconnoitre the room. His eye at length rested on a hunting picture opposite—” The Meet of Hounds” — in which everything was made subservient to the white - horse - mounted master in the middle.
“Why, that’s old Heartycheer! “roared he, after a good stare, at length recognising the seat and scene of the morning. “Why, that’s old Heartycheer,” repeated he, adding, “What an old blockhead the man must be to stick himself up in that way.”
“H-u-s-h, colonel; the servants will hear!” exclaimed Mrs Blunt, looking about, shocked at the speech, or rather at the loudness in which it was delivered.
“I don’t care,” replied he, looking very foolish; “I say it is a devilish good-looking horse.” Then, turning to a group of footmen who were laughing at his fix, he exclaimed, pointing to the picture, “I say, isn’t that the Duke of Wellington?”
“No, it’s my lord,” at length one of them replied, indignant at the original exclamation.
“Oh! my lord, is it?” rejoined the colonel, pretending enlightment—” my lord, is it? Could have swore it was the duke. Well,” continued he, stretching for a glass, “have you any champagne in that bottle?” pointing towards one; “the ladies will be glad to drink his lordship’s health,” adding, in an undertone to his wife, “You may as well lunch, now that you are here.”
If it hadn’t been for the unfortunate speech about the picture, the colonel’s inquiry would have produced a fresh bottle, as well for the credit of the house as for the servants’ own rights as remainder men; as it was, however, they contented themselves with passing up a few bottle ends, and handing in some glasses, without any great regard to whether they had been used or not.
“Ah!” said the colonel, holding a bottle up to the fight, “there’s not much here — nor in this either,” added he, taking up another. “You drink champagne, Hall?” continued he, addressing our friend across the table, who was now busy pulling bon-bon crackers with Angelena—” you drink champagne, Hall?”
“When he can get it,” replied Angelena, answering for him.
“Oh! get it — we’ll get it fast enough,” replied the colonel; then turning to a footman, who was still sounding the bottles, he exclaimed, “I say, my man, tell the mess-man — tell Mr What’s-his-name, that Lieutenant-Colonel Blunt, of her Majesty’s Heavysteed Dragoons, and friends, wish to do Lord Heartycheer the honour — I mean to say, themselves the honour — of drinking his lordship’s health in a fresh bottle of champagne.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the man, walking deliberately away.
“Very old friend of mine, Lord Heartycheer,” continued the colonel, speaking at the top of his voice for the edification of the servants that were left—” knew him when I was quartered here twenty years ago — am sure he’d be quite shocked if he thought any friend of mine wasn’t made comfortable in his house.”
Whatever impression the colonel might make upon the remands, he would not appear to have produced much upon the one who had gone, for, lounging down into Mr Snuffertray’s room, who was reclining on a sofa, reading the ‘Post,’ he said, with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders —
“Those Daniel Lamberts upstairs want a fresh bottle of fizzey.”
“Do they,” observed Mr Snuffertray, deeply immersed in his paper—” do they,” repeated he, without looking off. “Just put your hand into the hamper in the lamp-closet, and take them up a bottle of the yellow seal.”
The man did as he was bid, and presently returned with the cork all ready for débouchement. Clean saucerlike glasses having been supplied, and all hands now grasping them, fiz — pop — bang went the cork, and up foamed the creaming fluid.
“Ah! thank ye — thank ye, that won’t do!” roared the colonel, as its pale ginger-pop-like complexion shone through the beautiful crystal. “Thank ye — thank ye,” repeated he, setting down his half-filled glass with a “none of your twopenny tipple here!”
“Moets,” replied the man, colouring brightly, lest the colonel should impound the bottle and show it to Lord Heartycheer.
“Moets be hanged!” responded the colonel; “reg’lar Vauxhall! British, every drop!”
“I assure you, sir, we get it from the very first merchants in London.”
“Don’t tell me — Lieutenant-Colonel Blunt of her Majesty’s Heavysteed Dragoons — any such stuff. If that isn’t gooseberry, real unadulterated gooseberry, I’ll eat my hat! — I’ll eat my coat! — I’ll eat my weskit! — I’ll eat your breeches, buckles and all. Look at it,” continued he, holding up the pale-faced contents of the glass to the light—” look at it, and tell me if that’s anything like any champagne — anything like what’s in the other glasses?” pointing to the golden contents of some unfinished ones on the table.
Just then Mr Snuffertray, having been apprised of the disturbance the colonel was making, arrived in breathless haste with a bottle of the “other sort,” this being some that Mr Snuffertray kept for the purpose of exchanging on occasions like the present. Motioning off the bottle and glass, and jerking his head for another glass to be supplied, Mr Snuffertray shot off the cork by the colonel’s ear, who stood fire remarkably well, and proceeded to pour out its amber-coloured contents into the rose-and-shamrock-entwined wreathed glass.
“Ah, that’s somethin’ like, now!” exclaimed the colonel, eyeing the full roseate hue of the new bottle—” that’s somethin’ like, now,” repeated he,
holding his glass till it was as full as possible. “Your good health, Hall,” said he, as the man stopped pouring. “Angelena,” continued he, nodding to his daughter, “your good health,” and with “my dear” to his wife, he drained off the contents. “That’s good, now,” said he, smacking his lips, and setting down the glass— “that’s good, now,” repeated he, eyeing the filling and gradual disappearance of the glasses of the rest of the party. “Stay!” roared he, as the man was walking away with the remainder of the bottle—” stay! we’ve omitted to drink his lordship’s health — an omission I wouldn’t be guilty of for all the world — a bumper it must be; and if you manage well,” continued he, addressing the butler, “you’ll get what’s left into these four glasses,” the colonel holding up his own to be filled till the wine was again level with the edge. He then quaffed it off at a draught. “[Undeniable stuff,” exclaimed he, smacking his lips, and striking his great stomach as it descended—” undeniable stuff, but requires a little corrective of some sort, p’r’aps, to keep it all right,” adding, “Have you any brandy?”
“Oh, colonel, you are much better without brandy,” exclaimed his wife, dreading the consequences.
“You be fiddled,” growled he— “you be fiddled; d’ye think I don’t know what agrees with me better than you?”
“He’ll be fuddled,” whispered Angelena to our Tom.
“What’s in that bottle, my man?” now asked the colonel, pointing with a dessert-fork to a queerly-shaped, highly-labelled black bottle a little way up the table.
“Huile de Venus,” replied the man, reading from the painted label on the side.
“And what’s that above that queer-looking thing like a mail-horn full of flowers?” pointing to a pink glass vase in a light frosted-silver stand.
