by R S Surtees
The Duchess followed.
“And how are you all at home?” asked the Duke, as he helped Mrs. Flather to a wing and a piece of the breast of one of his own high-fed Dorkings. “Fine fowl that; monstrous fine fowl,” said he; “reared at my own farm, great farmer, monstrous great farmer. Potatoes of my own growing too,” said he, as a footman handed a dish of fine white mealy ones to the appetiteless Mrs. Flather. “And how is Mr. Jorrocks? neighbour of yours, isn’t he? good neighbour, monstrous good neighbour, I should think.”
“Very good neighbour indeed, your Grace,” replied Mrs. Flather, with an emphasis, seeing which way the wind blew.
“Clever man,” said his Grace, putting the first mouthful of the delicate white meat, with the nicely browned outside, into his mouth. “Monstrous clever man,” continued he, chewing away. “And how’s his bull?”
“Quite well, I believe, your Grace,” replied Mrs. Flather.
“Fine bull,” said his Grace; “monstrous fine bull — got premium I saw in the papers.”
“Take a glass of sherry with me — there’s Madeira if you prefer it,” said his Grace, seeing Mrs. Flather played with her luncheon. “Your good health,” said his Grace, bowing, and drinking off his wine at two gulps.
“And how’s your daughter?” asked his Grace, after a pause, as he worked away at the chicken, and considered whether the daughter belonged to Mrs. Flather or to Mr. Jorrocks. His Grace knew there was a daughter between them, but he had never been able to get the confusion of the chaise arrangement set right in his head.
“Quite well, I’m much obliged to your Grace,” replied Mrs. Flather, with fervour.
“Fine girl,” said his Grace; “monstrous fine girl,” added he, cutting again at the chicken. —
That observation determined Mrs. Flather to make one effort with the Duke ere she gave up all hopes. Accordingly she recollected all her scattered energies, and prepared for the first opening she saw after they left the luncheon room. It was some time before the Duke gave her a chance. He jabbered and talked so fast about flowers, fruits, pheasants, footstools, farming, that she could hardly get a word in sideways. At last he got back to Jorrocks and Hillingdon. —
“And how does Mr. Jorrocks acquit himself on the bench?” asked the Duke. “Good magistrate, monstrous good magistrate, I should think,” added he, answering himself—” keeps the country quiet, I dare say; peaceable, respectable; good thing to have an active magistrate in your neighbourhood, monstrous good thing.”
“Oh, Mr. Jorrocks is an excellent magistrate!” exclaimed Mrs. Flather, as soon as she was allowed an opportunity.
“And a good neighbour, I make no doubt,” added the Duke; “sociable, agreeable, sensible,” thinking Mr. Jorrocks would be like himself.
“Most agreeable man!” exclaimed Mrs. Flather.
“Great farmer, I suppose?” observed the Duke; “talented farmer, monstrous talented farmer; disciple of Smith of Deanston’s? Smith is the greatest benefactor the world ever saw; monstrous benefactor!”
“The Marquis of Bray is a great farmer, isn’t he?” asked Mrs. Flather, seizing the opportunity.
“Oh, Jeems is a great farmer — monstrous great farmer,” replied his Grace, with a series of nods of the head—” fond of guinea-pigs — monstrous fond of guinea-pigs — has a whole drove up at Mrs. Jobson’s.”
“His lordship was kind enough to express his partiality for my daughter,” observed Mrs. Flather, with desperate resolution.
“Did he indeed,” exclaimed his Grace, not exactly catching the sentence Mrs. Flather’s hurried articulation rendered doubtful. “Good judge — monstrous good judge,” added the Duke, thinking he would beat a retreat to his country paper, The Dozey Independent, which was published that day.
“I am glad it meets your Grace’s approbation,” observed the emboldened Mrs. Flather.
“Quite, I assure you,” said his Grace—” good thing — monstrous good thing indeed.”
“Well, I think there is nothing like young people settling early in life,” rejoined Mrs. Flather.
“Nothing like it!” said his Grace; “nothing like it,” repeated he, looking at his watch. “However, I am sorry I must bid you good morning,” added he, with a feigned start, as if he had discovered he was behind time. “I have a despatch from the Home Office: the Duchess will be glad to take a walk with you — show you the aviary — the goold fish — Jeems’s rabbits — her Italian greyhounds.” So saying, with a wave of the hand towards where the now horrified Duchess stood, his Grace sidled and backed out of the drawing-room.
Mrs. Flather was not a great hand at reading physiognomies, or she would have seen astonishment and indignation mantling on the Duchess’s brow. As it was, she thought she had rather got a “crow” over her — the Duke having so eagerly ratified what her Grace had so lately derided.
“The Duke, you see, is quite in favour of the match,” observed she, advancing towards the Duchess, with a smile on her vacant countenance.
Her Grace deigned no reply.
“I’m sure,” continued she, rather taken aback by the Duchess’s manner, “it will be our study to please and make ourselves agreeable — and — and — to your Grace” —
The Duchess bowed slightly.
“It is an honour we had no right perhaps to aspire to,” simpered Mrs. Flather; “but I hope we shall conduct ourselves becomingly. I’m sure,” added she, “I hope it may be many years before my daughter occupies your Grace’s place.” The Duchess bridled up, but still held her peace. “The Duke too, I’m sure I hope he may live à long time,” simpered Mrs. Flather; “no two people, I can assure you, your Grace, can be less desirous of an early change than my daughter and myself.” The same provoking silence greeted this handsome announcement.
“Titles are nothing compared to happiness,” simpered Mrs. Flather; “I wouldn’t my daughter should marry a prince if he were not a man of good principles.”
“Really, Mrs. Flather,” said her Grace, unable any longer to contain herself, “you must allow me to tell you that you are labouring under a strong delusion.”
“How so, your Grace?” and Mrs. Flather stared.
“In the first place, in supposing that our son would ever think of marrying your daughter; and in the second place, in supposing that the Duke and myself would ever sanction such a thing.”
“But he stated his positive delight at the prospect of it not two minutes ago,” exclaimed Mrs. Flather, with the most determined confidence. —
“You quite misunderstood him,” said the Duchess; “you quite misunderstood him,” repeated she; “the Duke is the last man in the world to approve — nay, hear of an unequal match. What!” exclaimed the Duchess, her eyes flashing as she spoke, “the representative of twenty generations throwing himself away in such a manner!”
Mrs. Flather was dumfoundered.
“No, my dear Mrs. Flather,” continued her Grace, her features softening as she proceeded, “let me advise you to get rid of the idea — dismiss it from your mind — it can only make your daughter and every one concerned ridiculous.”
“I couldn’t use the Duke so badly, so ungratefully,” replied Mrs. Flather, now fully impressed with the idea that the Duchess was deceiving her.
“I again assure you, you misunderstood the Duke,” observed her Grace, “or the Duke misunderstood you. He is rather deaf, and perhaps did not hear what you said.” Mrs. Flather looked incredulous.
“I assure you it is the case.”
Mrs. Flather was silent. She still doubted. The Duchess, she thought, must be deceiving her. The Duke seemed to expect the observation, and to jump at it. His manner, too, was most impressive when she arrived — most affectionate. The Duchess saw the turn things were taking in Mrs. Flather’s mind, and gave her time to think them over.
“Would you like to see the Duke again?” at length said she, “and ask him the question yourself?”
Mrs. Flather muttered something about “Mistake somewhere. Th
e Duchess might be mistaken, perhaps.”
“But is it likely,” inquired her Grace, “that on a subject so deeply affecting the interests — nay, the happiness — of our son, that there should be any mystery or misconception between the Duke and myself?”
Mrs. Flather was silent; she thought it more evident that the Duchess wanted to get rid of her and try and dissuade the Duke from it.
“Nay, you are a mother yourself,” observed the Duchess; “would you, if your husband was alive, have any concealments from him on such a subject?”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Flather, who had always prided herself upon being a pattern wife. “But your Grace and the Duke may differ on the point,” boldly observed the aspiring mother.
“Nothing of the sort, I assure you,” rejoined the Duchess most emphatically; “nothing of the sort, I assure you. The Duke and I have no secrets, no disagreements on any subject.” Mrs. Flather didn’t know what to say.
“Let us take a turn on the terrace,” at length said the Duchess, really feeling for Mrs. Flather’s situation. “Forget what has passed,” said she, rising, “and it shall never be mentioned or referred to by me.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Flather, in a tone of despair, still thinking it was a ruse, of the Duchess’s to get her away.
“But don’t let me take you if you would like to see the Duke again on the subject,” observed her Grace, reading reluctance in Mrs. Flather’s countenance.
“Well,” said she, after a pause, during which she thought of the enormous stake she was playing for — a coronet and coach and six — the distinction of strawberry leaves not being much understood, a coronet being a coronet in the country; when she thought, we say, of the stake she was playing for, she resolved not to lose a chance. “Well,” said she, “in so important and delicate an affair, an affair involving the happiness of my daughter, perhaps her life — for I will not deny that her affections are deeply engaged — I really think I should not be acting right were I not to avail myself of your Grace’s proposition; not that I in the slightest degree doubt the — the — the accuracy of your Grace’s assertion — at least not the — the — the accuracy of your Grace’s belief that the Duke is — is — is — I dare say your Grace knows what I mean; but still, in so delicate a matter, I’m sure you’ll forgive the feelings of a mother, and” — here she applied her cambric to her eyes.
The Duchess assured her she could make every allowance for her. If seeing the Duke again would satisfy her, she would advise her by all means to do so. She would find him in the library, and she would either accompany her or not as she liked; meanwhile Mrs. Flather had better compose herself, and thereupon the Duchess urged her to sit down, knowing, as she well did, that the Duke abominated a scene. Perhaps the Duchess thought that a little reflection might make Mrs. Flather think better of it, but there she was mistaken, an old woman being as bad to turn as a sheep.
Mrs. Flather sat counting the silk fringe on her shawl, giving herself a certain length, and settling that if the bunches came even it should be a sign of luck; and if odd, the reverse. She had got through her task, and declared for even, when the radiance the circumstance threw into her countenance made the Duchess think she was ready for something, and accordingly she addressed her by inquiring what she would like to do.
“Oh, to see the Duke, by all means,” observed Mrs. Flather, now more than ever convinced that the Duchess was deceiving her.
“He is in the library,” observed her Grace; “would you like me to go in and tell him what you want to speak to him about, or shall I accompany you, and leave you to broach the subject yourself?”
Mrs. Flather would rather have gone by herself, but she had no notion of letting the Duchess have the first word, very likely prejudicing, or may be intimidating, the Duke. However, as she could not well tell her Grace she would rather have nothing to do with her, she very politely begged she would not give herself the trouble of going; if she would just show her where his Grace was, she would not trouble her Grace any further.
The Duchess assented, and led the way to the library.
CHAPTER XXXV.
SLEEPING WITHIN MINE orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon,
Upon my secure hour Mrs. Flather stole.”
THE Duke of Donkeyton, on retiring to the library after the exertions of the luncheon table, Dozey Independent in hand, had thrown himself into the deep recesses of the easiest of the many easy chairs with which the apartment was supplied. In truth, it was a noble chair — a chair well becoming a Duke. The curiously carved, black oak frame-work glided on the highest finished castors; while the back, sides, and arms were stuffed with puffy, rich-cut velvet cushions, with invisible springs. Though copied from the antique, it had none of the inconvenient height or inverse propensities of the original. On the contrary, the Duke’s head just rubbed above the back cushion, as in the abandon of his easy hour he stuck his legs out before him, straight as a deal-board, or a lay figure in a studio.
Here, in one of the deep recesses formed by the windows in the massive walls, the Duke was in the habit of wheeling himself just sufficiently far to enable him to enjoy the perfume of the flowers wafting from the terrace, and the scenery of the distant hills, without being visible to those below.
A little more luncheon than he usually ate, with a little more talk than he usually indulged in, together with the extreme heat of the day, aided perhaps by the autumnal dulness of his newspaper and the seductive qualities of the easy-chair, had sent his Grace off in a nap sooner than usual; and when the Duchess and Mrs. Mather entered the room, his shining bald head appeared above the crimson, bullion-fringed cushion in such a position as, without the deep snore he every now and then emitted, clearly proclaimed that his Grace slept.
He was quite comfortable. His mouth was wide open, his legs were stretched out before him, his eye-glasses hung on his unbuttoned buff-waistcoat as they had fallen from his nose, and the well-ironed Dozey Independent stood from the carpet just touching his right hand, as it hung negligently over the chair side. A large “blue-bottle” fly buzzed and bumped and noised about the room, now exploring the Duke’s bald head, now settling on his nose, now apparently determining to enter his noble mouth. The impudence of a blue-bottle passes all comprehension.
“Perhaps we had better not disturb his Grace,” observed Mrs. Flather, in a whisper.
Mr. Flather used not to like being disturbed when making his sermons, and Mrs. Flather recollected this.
“Oh, he’ll not mind,” replied the Duchess, in her usual tone, thinking to awake him by the noise.
A loud snore.
The blue-bottle buzzed away, making a small circuit in the air — scared perhaps by the intruders. They proceeded slowly and noiselessly over the soft Turkey carpet, Mrs. Flather half inclined to stop the Duchess, lest awaking the Duke should have a prejudicial effect. Before she could make up her mind to do so, however, the Duchess had reached the occupant of the easy-chair, and placing her hand on his shoulder, gave him a half sort of shake, with—” Jeems, my dear, here is Mrs. Flather wishes to speak to you.” Just then the blue-bottle, after buzzing round about the Duke’s nose, had paid a visit to his nostril, and his Grace started in his chair with a perfect cannon of a sneeze.
“Ah-whitz!” sneezed the Duke again, as if he would blow himself to pieces. “Ah-whitz,” repeated he, getting up and diving into his pocket for his handkerchief. “Ah-whitz!” he went again, with the water streaming from his eyes.
Mrs. Flatter trembled for her mission.
“Ah-whitz! ah-whitz! ah-whitz!” sneezed the Duke in succession.— “Cold — monstrous bad cold,” said he, mopping his eyes. —
“Mrs. Flather wishes to see you, my dear,” observed the Duchess, amidst a tremendous “ah-whitz” from his Grace.
“Me!” exclaimed the Duke, in astonishment, “ah-whitz!. What can she want with me? ah-whitz,” said he, smothering his face in his handkerchief.
The Duchess
, fearing his Grace might say something he ought not, here drew Mrs. Flather forward, and when the Duke took his face out of its bandanna bed, his would-be relative was full before him.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Flather, how do you do?” asked his Grace, offering one hand, while he mopped his face with the other; “glad to see you — very glad to see you.” His Grace could not say “monstrous,” for where is the man who likes to be interrupted in a sneeze. “Hope you are all well at home?” asked his Grace, running on in the usual form.
“Quite well, I’m much obliged to your Grace,” replied Mrs. Flather, nothing disconcerted at his apparent forgetfulness of her. “I wish to speak a few words to your Grace respecting my daughter,” faltered Mrs. Flather, amid a long protracted ah-whitz from his Grace.
“She’s quite well, I hope?” observed his Grace. “Ah-whitz — oh, I beg your pardon — ah-whitz — I saw you before,” he added, giving his nose a final blow, and returning his handkerchief to his pocket. “Got a bad cold — monstrous bad cold,” said he, shutting back the window. “Susan, my dear, what time have you ordered the carriage?” The Duke thought to give Mrs. Flather a hint, but she was not the person to take one.
“Mrs. Flather wishes to have a little conversation with you, my love,” observed the Duchess.
“Pray sit down,” said the Duke, wheeling Mrs. Flather in a chair as he buttoned up his waistcoat. “Wants a commission for a son, I suppose,” thought he to himself, forgetting she had just told him it was her daughter she wanted to speak about. Mrs. Flather looked at the Duchess, and was silent. Her Grace then withdrew. Mrs. Flather seated herself.
“It is a very delicate subject I’ve come to speak to your Grace about,” observed Mrs. Flather, arranging the fringe of her shawl on her knee, and dressing it out as she spoke; “but I’m sure your Grace will excuse the freedom I have taken.”
“Make no apology,” observed his Grace. “Make no apology,” repeated he encouragingly.