by R S Surtees
The fiddlers next began scraping their instruments in the orchestra of the ball-room like horses anxious to be off, and divers puffs of the horn and bassoon sounded through the building, but still the doors remained closed, and Doleful cast many a longing anxious eye towards the folding doors. Need we say for whom he looked? — Mrs. Barnington had not arrived. The music at length burst forth in good earnest, and Doleful, after numerous inquiries being made of him why the ball did not commence, at length asked Barnington if he thought his good lady was coming; when most opportunely, a buzz and noise were heard outside — the folding doors flew open, and in Mrs. Barnington sailed, with her niece, Miss Rider, on her arm.
Mrs. Barnington was a fine, tall, languishing-looking woman, somewhat getting on in years, but with marked remains of beauty, “sicklied o’er with the pale cast” of listlessness, produced by a mind unoccupied, and bodily strength unexercised. Her features were full-sized, good, and regular, her complexion clear, with dark eyes that sparkled when lighted with animation, but more generally reposed in a vacant stare whether she was engaged in conversation or not. She wore a splendid tiara of diamonds, with costly necklace and ear-rings of the same. Her dress of the richest and palest pink satin, was girdled with a diamond stomacher, and a lengthening train swept majestically along the floor. Across her beautifully moulded neck and shoulders, in graceful folds, was thrown a white Cachmere shawl, and her ungloved arm exhibited a profusion of massive jewellery. Her entrance caused a buzz followed by silence throughout the room, and she sailed gracefully up an avenue formed by the separation of the company,— “A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.” Doleful and the managers came forward to receive her, and she inclined herself slightly towards them and the few people whom she deigned to recognise.
Having, after infinite persuasion, consented to open the ball with Dumpling, and having looked round the company with a vacant stare, and ascertained that there was no one who could vie with her in splendour, she resignedly took his arm, and the ball-room door being at length thrown open, she sailed up to the top of the room, followed by countless sky-blue coated and canary-legged gentry, escorting their wives, daughters, or partners, with here and there a naval or military uniform mingling among the gay throng of sportsmen and variously clad visitors. Most brilliant was the scene! The room was a perfect blaze of light, and luckless were the wearers of second-hand shoes or ball-stained gloves. There was Dennis O’Brian, towering over the head of every body else, with his luxuriant whiskers projecting from his cheeks, like cherubs’ wings on church corners, with an open shirt collar, confined by a simple blue ribbon and a superabundant display of silk stocking and calf from below his well-filled canary-coloured shorts, — for smalls would be a libel on the articles that held his middle man. His dark eyes sparkled with vivacity and keenness — not the keenness of pleasure, but the keenness of plunder, for Dennis had dined off chicken broth and lemonade to be ready to “Cut the light pack or call the rattling main,” as occasion might offer towards the morning. Snorem, too, had decked himself out in the uniform of the hunt, and this being his usual bed-time, he walked about the room like a man in a dream, or a tired dog looking where to lie down. Then there was Romeo Simpkins, who had just arrived by the last Lily-white-sand train, and had all his friends and acquaintances to greet, and to admire his own legs for the first time protruding through a pair of buff shorts. Fleeceall stood conspicuous with a blue patch on his eye, pointing out his new friends to his wife, who was lost in admiration at the smartness of her spouse, and her own ingenuity in applying the rose-coloured lining of an old bonnet to the laps of his sky-blue coat.
Now the music strikes up in full chorus, and Doleful walks about the room, clapping his hands like a farmer’s boy frightening crows, to get the company to take their places in a country dance; and Mrs. Barnington, having stationed herself at the top, very complacently leads off with “hands across, down the middle, and up again,” with Stephen Dumpling, who foots it away to the utmost of his ability, followed by Round-the-corner Smith with her niece, Barnington with Miss Somebody-else, Romeo Simpkins, with Miss Trollope, Dennis O’Brian, who looks like a capering light-house, with little old Miss Mordecai, the rich money-lender’s daughter, and some thirty or forty couples after them. Mrs. Barnington’s train being inconvenient for dancing, and having been twice trodden upon, upon reaching the bottom on the third time down the middle, she very coolly takes Dumpling’s arm, and walks off to the sofa in the bay window, where, having deposited herself, she dispatches Dumpling to desire her husband not to exert himself too much, and to come to her the moment the dance is done. The country dance being at length finished, a quadrille quickly followed; after which came a waltz, then a galop, then another quadrille, then another waltz, then a reel; until the jaded musicians began to repent having been so anxious for the start.
Towards one o’clock, the supper-room door was heard to close with a gentle flap, and Doleful was seen stealing out, with a self-satisfied grin on his countenance, and immediately to proceed round the room, informing such of the company as he was acquainted with, from having seen their names in his subscription book at the library, that the next would be the “supper dance;” a dance that all persons who have “serious intentions” avail themselves of, for the interesting purpose of seeing each other eat. Accordingly Dennis O’Brian went striding about the ball-room in search of little Miss Mordecai; Captain Doleful usurped Stephen Dumpling’s place with Mrs. Barnington; Round-the-corner Smith started after the niece, and each man invested his person, in the way of a “pair-off,” to the best of his ability. Barnington, was under orders for Dowager Lady Turnabout, who toadied Mrs. Barnington, and got divers dinners and pineapples for her trouble; and Stephen Dumpling, being now fairly “let into the thing,” was left to lug in the two Miss Dobbses on one arm, and old mother Dobbs on the other.
The simple-minded couples then stand up to dance, and as soon as the quadrilles are in full activity, Doleful offers his arm to Mrs. Barnington and proceeds into the supper-room, followed by all the knowing-ones in waiting. But what a splendid supper it is! A cross table with two long ones down the centre, all set out with turkeys, chickens, hams, tongues, lobster salads, spun sugar pyramids, towers, temples, grottoes, jellies, tarts, creams, custards, pineapples, grapes, peaches, nectarines, ices, plovers’ eggs, prawns, and four-and-twenty sponge-cake foxes, with blue, red, and canary-coloured rosettes for tags to their brushes! Green bottles with card labels, and champagne bottles without labels, with sherry, &c., are placed at proper intervals down the table, — the champagne yielding a stronger crop upon the more fruitful soil of the cross table. Who ordered it, nobody knows, but there it is, and it is no time for asking.
Shortly after the first detachment have got comfortably settled in their places, the music stops, and the dancers come crowding in with their panting partners, all anxious for lemonade or anything better. Then plates, knives, and forks are in request; the “far gone” ones eating with the same fork or spoon, those only “half gone” contenting themselves with using one plate. Barnington is in the chair at the cross table, with a fine sporting device of a fox, that looks very like a wolf, at his back, on a white ground with “Floreat Scientia” on a scroll below, the whole tastefully decorated with ribbons and rosettes. Dumpling and Smith are Vice-Presidents. Hark to the clatter! “Miss Thompson, some turkey? allow me to send you a little ham with it?” “Mrs. Jenkins, here’s a delicious lobster salad.” “Now, Fanny, my dear, see you’re dropping the preserve over your dress!” “Oh dear! there goes my knife!” “Never mind, ma’am, I’ll get you another.” “Waiter! bring a clean glass — two of them!” “What will you take?” “Champagne, if you please.” “Delightful ball, isn’t it?” “How’s your sister?” “Who’ll take some pineapple punch?” “I will, with pleasure.” “I’ve burst my sandal, and my shoe will come off.” “Dear, that great awkward man has knocked the comb out of my head,” “Go to see the hounds in the morning!” “Susan, mind, there
’s mamma looking.” “Waiter! get me some jelly.” “Bachelors’ balls always the pleasantest.” “Barnington is married.” “Oh, he’s nobody!” “Dumpling does it and stuttering Smith, there’s no Mister Barnington.” “There’s the captain — I wonder if he sees us.” “Oh the stoopid! he won’t look this way. Should like to break his provoking head!” “How’s your horse? Has it learned to canter?” “Take some tongue.” “Champagne, if you please.”
Thus went the rattle, prattle, jabber, and tattle, until Mr. Barnington, who had long been looking very uneasy, being unable to bear the further frowns of his wife, at length rose from his seat for the most awful of all purposes, that of monopolising all the noise of the room, — a moment that can only be appreciated by those who have filled the unhappy situation of chairman in a company of ladies and gentlemen, when every eye is pointed at the unfortunate victim, and all ears are open to catch and criticise what he says. “Barnington! Barnington! chair! chair! order! order! silence!” cried a hundred voices, in the midst of which Mr. Barnington tried to steal away with his speech, but had to “whip back” and begin again.
“Gentlemen and ladies (order! order!), I mean to say, Mr. Vice-Presidents, ladies, and gentlemen (hear, hear), I beg to propose the health of the Queen — I mean to say, the ladies who have honoured us with their presence this evening.” Great applause, and every man drank to his sweetheart.
Mrs. Barnington looked unutterable things at her spouse as he sat down, for women are all orators or judges of oratory, and well poor Barnington knew the vigour of her eloquence. Beckoning Doleful to her side, she desired him to tell Barnington not to look so like a sheepish schoolboy, but to hold himself straight, and speak out as if he were somebody. This Doleful interpreted into a handsome compliment, which so elated our unfortunate, that he immediately plucked up courage, and rising again, gave the table a hearty thump, and begged the company would fill a bumper to the health of the strangers who had honoured the Handley Cross hunt ball with their company. The strangers then began fidgetting and looking out an orator among themselves, but were put out of suspense by the rising of Dennis O’Brian, who returned thanks in one of his usual felicitous and appropriate speeches, and concluded by proposing the health of the chairman. Barnington was again on his legs, thanking them and giving “Success to fox-hunting,” which was acknowledged by Snorem, who, being half asleep, mistook it for the time when he had to propose the healths of Smith and Dumpling, to whom he paid such lengthy compliments that the ladies cut him short by leaving the room. All restraint now being removed, the gentlemen crowded up to the cross table, when those who had been laying back for supper until they got rid of the women, went at it with vigorous determination, — corks flew, dishes disappeared, song, speech, and sentiment, were huddled in together, and in a very short time the majority of the company were surprised to find themselves amazingly funny.
CHAPTER V. THE HUNT COMMITTEE.
“IT IS OUR opening day.”
HANDLEY CROSS had a very debauched look the morning after the hunt ball. The Ongar rooms being lighted with windows round the top, with covered galleries outside, for the accommodation of milliners, ladies’ maids, and such as wish to criticise their masters and mistresses, had no protecting blinds; and a strong party having settled themselves into “threesome” reels — the gentlemen for the purpose of dancing themselves sober, the ladies, like Goldsmith’s clown, to try and tire out the orchestra — the ball seemed well calculated to last for ever, when the appearance of day-light in the room made the wax-lights look foolish, and caused all the old chaperons to rush to their charges and hurry them off, before bright Phoebus exposed the forced complexions of the night. All then was hurry-skurry; carriages were called up, and hurried off as though the plague had broken out, and Johns and Jehus were astonished at the bustle of their “mississes.”
The last fly at length drove off; the variegated lamps round the festooned porch began glimmering and dying in succession, as Doleful and the remaining gentlemen stood bowing, grinning, and kissing their hands to their departing partners, while their blue coats and canary-coloured shorts exhibited every variety of shade and complexion that the colours are capable of. Doleful’s hair, too, assumed a vermilion hue. The town was clear, bright, and tranquil; no sound disturbed the quiet streets, and there was a balmy freshness in the morning air that breathed gratefully on the feverish frames of the heated dancers. The cock, “the trumpet of the morn,” had just given his opening crow, in farmer Haycock’s yard behind the rooms, and the tinkling bells of the oxen’s yoke came softened on the air like the echoing cymbals of the orchestra.
St. George’s chapel clock strikes! Its clear silvery notes fall full upon the listeners’ ears. “One! two! three! four! five! six! — six o’clock!” and youths say it is not worth while going to bed, while men of sense set off without a doubt on the matter. Some few return to the supper-room to share the ends of champagne bottles and lobster salads with the waiters.
Morning brought no rest to the jaded horses and helpers of the town. No sooner were the Rosinantes released from the harness of the flys, than they were led to the stable-doors and wisped and cleaned in a manner that plainly showed it was for coming service, and not for that performed. Bill Gibbon, the club-footed ostler of the “Swan Hotel and Livery Stables,” had eight dirty fly-horses to polish into hunters before eleven o’clock, and Tom Turnbinn, and his deaf and dumb boy, had seven hunters and two flys ordered for the same hour. There was not a horse of any description but what was ordered for the coming day, and the donkeys were bespoke three deep.
If Duncan Nevin had had a dozen Bull-dogs and Sontags, they would all have been engaged, and on his own terms too.
“Oh sir!” he would say to inquirers, “that Bull-dog’s a smart horse — far too good for our work — he should be in a gentleman’s stable — Did you ever see a horse so like the field, now? I’m only axin thirty pound for him, and it’s really givin’ of him away — I couldn’t let him go out under two guineas a day, and then only with a very careful rider, like yourself. Cost me near what I ax for him, in the summer, and have had to put him into condition myself. Oats is very dear, I assure you. Perhaps you’d have the kindness not to say that he’s hired, and save me the duty?”
A little before eleven the bustle commenced; the first thing seen was Peter leaving the kennel with the hounds, Abelard, the black poodle, and “Mr. Fleeceall,” the white terrier with a black eye. Peter was dressed in a new scarlet frock-coat with a sky-blue collar, buff striped toilanette waistcoat, black cap, new leathers and boots. His whip, spurs, gloves, bridle, and saddle were also new, and he was riding a new white horse. Barnington’s groom followed, similarly attired; and this being his first appearance in the character of a whipper-in, he acted fully up to the designation by flopping and cracking the hounds with his whip, and crying “Co’p, co’p, hounds! — Go on, hounds — go on! — Drop it! — Leave it! To him, to him!” and making sundry other orthodox noises.
Lamp-black was that morning in great request. Broken knees, collar, and crupper marks had to be effaced, and some required a touch of lampblack on their heads, where they had knocked the hair off in their falls. The saddling and bridling were unique! No matter what sort of a mouth the horse had, the first bridle that came to hand was put into it.
Stephen Dumpling’s horse, having travelled from home, was the first of the regulars to make his appearance in the street. He was a great, raking, sixteen hands chesnut, with “white stockings,” and a bang tail down to the hocks. He was decorated with a new bridle with a blue silk front, and a new saddle with a hunting horn. Stephen’s lad, dressed in an old blue dress-coat of his master’s, with a blue and white striped livery waistcoat, top-boots, and drab cords, and having a cockade in his hat, kept walking the horse up and down before the Dragon Hotel, while Stephen, with a feverish pulse and aching head, kept sipping his coffee, endeavouring to make himself believe he was eating his breakfast. At last he lighted a cigar, and appeared,
whip in hand, under the arched gate-way. He had on a new scarlet coat with a blue collar, the same old red-ended neck-cloth he had worn at the ball, and an infinity of studs down an ill-fitting, badly-washed shirt, a buff waistcoat, and a pair of make-believe leathers — a sort of white flannel, that after the roughings of many washings give gentlemen the appearance of hunting in their drawers. His boots had not been “put straight” after the crumpling and creasing they had got in his “bags;” consequently there were divers patches of blacking transferred to the tops, while sundry scrapings of putty, or of some other white and greasy matter, appeared on the legs. Independently of this, the tops retained lively evidence of their recent scouring in the shape of sundry up and down strokes, like the first coat of white-washing, or what house-painters call “priming,” on a new door.
Dumpling’s appearance in the street was the signal for many who were still at their breakfasts to bolt the last bits of muffin, drink up their tea, and straddle into the passage to look for hats, gloves, and whips. Doors opened, and sportsmen emerged from every house. Round-the-corner Smith’s roan mare, with a hunting horn at the saddle-bow, had been making the turn of Hookem’s library for ten minutes and more; and the stud of Lieutenant Wheeler, the flash riding-master — seven “perfect broke horses for road or field,” with two unrivalled ponies — had passed the Dragon for the eight Miss Mercers, and their brother Tom to go out upon to “see the hounds.” Then sorry steeds, with sorrier equipments, in the charge of very sorry-looking servants, paced up and down High Street, Paradise Row, and the Crescent; and a yellow fly, No. 34, with red wheels, drove off with Dumpling’s nondescript servant on the box, and the three Miss Dobbses, and Mother Dobbs, in scarlet silk pelisses, with sky-blue ribbons and handkerchiefs, inside. Jaded young ladies, whose looks belie their assertions, assure their mammas that they are not in the “least tired,” step into flys and drive away through High Street, kissing their hands, bowing and smiling, right and left, as they go.