by R S Surtees
Our party on this occasion was of the well-supplied order — plenty of everything, and plenty of servants to hand things about. Some brought their butlers, because the butlers chose to come; some brought their footmen to show their new liveries; some their pages to keep them out of mischief. And though there were a few of the usual casualties of moving, such as the salt coalescing with the sugar, and the pickles bursting into the pie, the servants had the rectification of matters, and there was no scrambling for plates, no begging for forks, no two people eating with one spoon. All was orderly and orthodox, plenty of provisions with the usual preponderance of hams, tongues, and chickens. None of the ladies having lunched, no, not even had a bun, there was a very sensible difference between their performances on this occasion, and when they come in their gorgeous attire at halfpast seven for eight o’clock in the evening, to criticise each other’s dresses, and interrupt the hungry men in the middle of their mouthfuls. So they competed very fairly with the ruder sex in their performances. Presently a battue of corks proceeded from the curtained corner where the warm water jug for the knives was concealed from public view, and at the glad sound all sorts of glasses were enlisted, from the satisfactory open bell-shaped ones, down to the little narrow froth-catchers, out of which a man gets a taste of the grateful beverage at the bottom. A second salute, if possible more vehement than the first, then set people quite at their ease, and made the shy young gentlemen turn confidently to their partners, instead of looking sheepish, and wondering who was watching them. Captain Langnisher looked sweet on Miss Snowball, and Miss Nettle worth hung on Mr de Breezey’s every word. Our friend, Mr. Bunting, having soon satisfied the requirements of an unripe appetite, proceeded to study the profile of our fair Mend, under the favourable auspices of the saucy little hat, so different to the coal-skuttle bonnets of former days, that required a telescope to see to the far end of them. Very fair and beautiful he found her. A high smooth ivory forehead, arched with beautiful light hair, calm pensive blue eyes, with long lashes and regular brows, a straight well-formed nose, with playing dimples hovering round an exquisitely formed mouth, full of regular pearly teeth. The slightest possible flush now suffused her naturally pale face, and gave brightness and animation to the whole. Mr. Bunting looked and looked, till at length
“Beauty’s pensive eye Ask’d from his heart the homage of a sigh.’’
And he most handsomely accorded beauty’s request. “She’s very pretty” quoth he to himself, as he quaffed off the remains of his third glass of champagne, and held it out for another supply, “very pretty indeed; prettier than Laura Blanc, prettier than Charlotte Hawthorn, and quite as pretty as Lavinia Barnett; and he felt as if he didn’t care for all his crosses and misfortunes, or for the recapitulation of Biter and Co’s bill. And now seeing Mrs. Harriman’s piercing little grey eyes fixed intently upon him from the opposite side of the table, he immediately asked her to take a glass of champagne in the hopes of drowning what he knew she could tell, an example that was speedily followed by some one else, who perhaps had similar qualms of conscience, thus drawing off her attention, and enabling Mr. Bunting to resume his “sotto voce” conversation undisturbed.
Amid the interchange of sweets, jellies, and simpers, he proceeded on a sort of Dr. Livingstone-like exploration of our fair friend’s forthcomings, belongings, and intended stayings; a wide and fertile field of research that lasted through all the iced champagne, and saw the company well into the warmer supply.
Mamma meanwhile sat complacently by, occasionally helping her daughter out where her information was defective, and wondering what Mrs. Goldspink would say if she could see her smart beau — a gentle man with a splendid castle, and sixteen thousand a-year. “Pro — o — digious!” as Dominie Samson would say. No such catches in the country. At length the last lingering plate tapper ceased nibbling, the chopped cheese followed the remains of the more substantial viands, and grace being again said, there was a great inundation of pines, melons, grapes, peaches, all the more costly and luxurious produce, for it was a great fruit year, and though it was dear enough to buy, yet the fruiterers gave little or nothing for it, a shilling a dozen for peaches; the same for nectarines, a shilling a pound for grapes, and so on, that it was hardly worth the trouble of packing and sending ta them. So those who had gardens could afford to be generous at very small cost. The table was abundantly supplied; the producers and the consumers being speedily distinguished by the abstemiousness of the one, and the vigorous enjoyment of the other. The pines were sliced, the melons divided, the pyramids of grapes reduced amidst hearty mirth, and the languid circulation of the long-necked light claret bottles, varied by an occasional wasp hunt, until the “twang, twang, twang,” of the fiddle tuners outside reminded them that the jumping enjoyment of the evening had yet to commence. At a look then from Mrs. Campbell de Jenkins at Mrs. Ambrose Brown cannon’d off upon Mrs. Bolsterworth, the crinoline bearers rose, and with much ingenuity of steerswomanship, and many apologies, succeeded in effecting a retreat. —
CHAPTER X.
THE DANCE.
THE WITHDRAWAL OF the voluminous ladies made great voids in the hitherto well-crowded table, and the gentlemen had now to commence the process of amalgamation among themselves amid the remnants of fruit and the remains of the wine. But the air was hot and oppressive — the superfluous awning kept the fumes of dinner down, and there seemed to be a general opinion that it would be better to pollute the fresh air outside with cigars than undergo any more of the impure atmosphere within. Accordingly there was soon a general fishing up of hats, a diving for cigars, and a running to Baccomon’s by those who had forgotten to bring their cases. Young gentlemen must smoke now-a-days, whether they like it or not. Presently the puffers were seen straggling away in all directions, and, considering that they carried the scent and not the ladies, it was wonderful with what accuracy they found them out, some down in the crypt, some up the ivy-tower, some along at Bamdale burn, others listening to the gipsy under the wide-spreading Hartland oak.
The extreme heat of the day was now over, the country people were returning from their work, and Dobbin, and Smiler, and Farmer, and Jessey stood deep in the pond, imbibing the pure stream from its source. Groups of satchel-slung children come loitering along, forgetful of their bows and their drops at the sight of so many fine ladies of such unwonted rotundity. Very odd, they thought, their thin shoes and silk stockings looked compared to their own stout worsteds and clogs. The country was now in the full meridian of beauty.
The hill-sheltered trees were loaded with leaf, whose rich and varied green contrasted with the golden-headed corn, full ready for the sickle, interspersed here and there with the picturesque but rather unpopular poppy. A farmer prefers a good downy thistle to one of these scarlet landscape lighters. One, they say, shows strength, the other poverty.
But it is time to return from our rural ramble, and already the chaperones whose charges have not got eligibly mated, are beginning to fidget and look about, wondering where Mrs. Thomas Trattles, or Mrs. Brown, or Mrs. Campbell de Jenkins can be, while those whose young ladies are better suited saunter unconcernedly along, apparently without, but in reality just within ear-shot, gazing complacently this way or that, admiring the lovely scenery, looking for Tenbury Hills, or trying to make out Springwell Park, or Staunton spire in the distance. Of all the varied accomplishments of life, there are few more useful than that of being conveniently blind and not hearing everything. It saves many a quarrel and much cash.
Our friend Mr. Bunting, who knows the locality well, — indeed it was down the glen, in the violet banks that he managed to slip the twenty guinea diamond ring so adroitly on to the fair, or rather unfair, Miss Wingfield’s taper finger, — our friend, we say, manœuvres Rosa and Mamma by a series of tree-screening walks out of sight as well of the curious as of the more mar-plot ladies, from whom he expected no favour; and after a most delightful chat — far surpassing in interest anything she had ever had with our friend i
n the country — Mr. Bunting wheeled round on the east of the Priory and brought them back in the rear of the capacious Miss Foldingleys, who were too busy turning attentive deaf ears to the gipsy to heed who was coming behind them. So the trio sauntered listlessly into the again-forming group, looking about as unconcernedly as if they had never been away.
The scene had now changed. After a vigorous onslaught upon the remains of the feast, as well by the Baccomans as the servants, the heat-condensing cover had been removed, and the beautiful refectory stood forth in its noble proportions, the rich clustering ivy folding gracefully over the walls, or creeping fantastically up the pillars and about the finely-carved gothic work of the windows. The rough deal table had been removed to one side, and coveys of white cups, clustering about brown hens of tea-pots, denoted that Mrs. Baccoman’s privilege of finding hot-water was about to commence. The composite floor had been cleanly swept and sprinkled with water, and half-a-dozen seedy musicians sat patiently in a corner ready to enliven the scene when required. After successive pop visits by the fair ladies to Mrs. Baccoman’s looking-glass, there was a general drawing on of clean white, primrose, or lavender-coloured kid-gloves, and then a taking up of positions, with the comfortable confidence of all being right. So at the proper time, the ladies pointed their taper toes and started off gaily with the first quadrille of the evening. Great was the wheeling, and circling, and spreading, and guiding of crinoline, and divers the apologies of the fair obstructionists for stopping each other’s ways. But with a little patience and mutual concession, each fair lady at length got through her portion of the figure. Better have been stopped altogether than not have carried her full complement of crinoline. Wonderful fashion! We suppose we shall have the other extreme next, and dresses as scant as they are now inflatedly full.
At the sound of music the outsiders came trooping in, and then the formidable corps des observations of chaperones and dowagers was formed, each intent on watching the glances and movements of some particular party. Our friend Mr. Bunting, who felt his lacerated heart greatly relieved by the soft embrocation of Miss McDermott’s smiles, devoted himself heart and soul to his partner, little thinking how Mrs. Bolsterworth was watching him through her double eyeglasses at a convenient aperture between Mr. Malcolm Midwinter and Miss Spinner, who stood before her.
“Just the way he went on with Miss Hawthorn,” thought she, nibbing her glasses on the corner of Miss Spinner’s light blue scarf; just the way he went on with Miss Hawthorn; “and Mrs. Bolsterworth felt how her “duty” would compel her to caution Mrs. McDermott against his insidious advances. Duty is a capital cloak for officiousness.
Miss Rosa, who dearly loved dancing, was equally pleased with her partner, and not a little flattered when, at the close of the quadrille, he claimed her for the succeeding valse, and then spun her about in a style very different to the cartwheel evolutions of the young gentlemen she had been accustomed to dance with in the town-hall of Mayfield.
Admiration Jack was a capital performer, and there are few things more prizeable in society than a willing, working, good looking, good dancer. They are the parties who keep the balls alive, and shame the listless young gentlemen lolling against doors, looking as if they had smoked all their energies away. And though the sour grapes chaperones might abuse our active friend Mr. Bunting, and say he was nothing but a flirt, or a man-coquette, there wasn’t one of them but what would have been well pleased to have seen him wheeling one of their fair charges about. But Mr. Bunting, if a lawyer-unsatisfying suitor, was, nevertheless, a constant swain, and stuck to his newly-acquired flame with marked perseverance, only introducing her to particular friends — generally young gentlemen in love like himself — always having her for a vis-à-vis in the quadrilles, and watching her well in the valses. And the more he looked at her, the more he admired her,. and he inwardly resolved to send Mrs. Trattles two dozen of Nectar and Foamer’s best sparkling champagne for the introduction.
So the gay ball progressed amid occasional coolings and cups of tea, and peeps at the looking-glass; and the sun having again set with undiminished splendour, the shades of a long delayed summer’s evening at length began to draw on, causing the discontented ones to feel chilly and talk about cloaks, and ask about carriages, while the well-suited ones danced, if possible, with greater vigour than before. The seedy musicians seemed inspired with fresh spirit, and worked away at their instruments to the surprise of the bats and the inconvenience of the ivy-nestling sparrows, now kept out of their berths by the noise. At length, at the close of an apparently interminable Violente valse, when the most patient and accommodating of the chaperones were hinting the necessity of bringing the delightful day to a close, a cry of “the Comet! the Comet!” drew all parties to the door with a rush, and interrupted the progressing arrangements by mixing all parties up in inextricable confusion. There was no saying where to find anybody. The cares and watchings and guardings or the day seemed likely to be lost in a moment. As fast as Mrs. Motley rescued Susan Ann from Captain Engleheart, she lost Sarah Jane, while Mrs. Sterne was deserted by her flock altogether. Then there was such star-gazing, such science, such talking of Dr. Donati — the parabolic elements, and the inclination of the planes, in the midst of which the poor seedy musicians struck up “God save the Queen,” and then hurried away with their instruments for fear of being impressed into further service. So ended the gay out-of-door party. Carriage after carriage then took up their departing company, and the refreshed horses went cheerfully away in the cool of the evening, with their heads towards home, bringing the glowworm like lamps of the distance into full reality ere many of the travellers had recounted half their adventures, or repeated half the compliments that had been paid them.
CHAPTER XI.
MRS. BOLSTERWORTH’S SPOON.
A PIC-NIC IS one of those good, useful, indefinite sort of entertainments that may be turned to account in a variety of ways. It can either be made the foundation of future friendships, or the basis for further negotiation, or resolve itself into a bow and a drop altogether. To the pushing and enterprising there is no saying what opportunities they afterwards afford in the way of settling for flys, restoring found property, or inquiring for lost — or never lost — articles. There are people who, if they make up their minds to be into your house, there is no keeping out. Our friend Mrs. Bolsterworth was one of these. She had an obstinate, dogged perseverance that knew no rebuff, and brought her back to the charge as easy and unconcerned as if she had been before received with open arms. She was a sort of cast-iron countenanced woman, that there is no such thing as abashing. She always had a sort of running account variance with Mrs. Thomas Trattles, not only as an opposition caterer, match-maker, and general provider, but because she suspected Mrs. Trattles had interfered in a very promising flirtation between Captain Ganderton, of the Goose-green Fencibles, and Miss Marwood, out of which Mrs. Bolsterworth thought she saw her way to something very handsome — a silver tea-service, perhaps an urn, or a massive centrepiece. Moreover, our somewhat independent friend, Mr. Bunting, had not been so judiciously courteous to her as the too tardy growth of his oak-trees rendered prudent; so that altogether, what with Mrs. Trattles’ and his own offences, Mrs. Bolsterworth felt that she owed him “one.”
Accordingly, having thought the thing well over in her mind during the morning after our pic-nic, when the card-shedding time of day arrived, she got her best blue moire-antique amplified over her hoops and repellent crinoline, and, new bonnet on head, passed herself before the cheval glass as fit company for any one. The question then was who she should go to first, and what excuse she should make for going to anybody.
Now Mrs. Bolsterworth had a venerable old spoon — a tablespoon — that looked as if it might belong to half the world, for the initials were almost obliterated, and it was difficult to say whether the indistinct crest was a griffin, an eagle, an owl, or a unicorn. However, it made no matter what it was, because its indistinctness was its merit; and this old
spoon Mrs. Bolsterworth proposed making the open sesame of people’s houses. To this end, having wrapped it carefully up in silver tissue paper, she went forth on her travels, with the pertinent inquiry, “Do you know anybody who lost a spoon yesterday?” on her tongue’s-end, instead of the usual hackneyed observations about the charms of the party, the beauty of the weather, or the calmness of the sea. So she meandered along Cockleshell Terrace, Crabfish Court, all round Hallibut Square, and past Floater’s Baths into Neptune Place, where the great guns of the world began to congregate. Our yesterday’s friend, Mrs. Tartarman, lived here — No. 18 — who, estimated by her worldly enjoyments, ought to be extremely happy, for she had both a barouche and a chariot, with other appurtenances. With her Mrs. Bolsterworth had long wished to establish a footing, as well on account of what she had, as because she suspected Mrs. Tartarman, like herself, had a grievance against Mrs. Trattles. So, on coming to Mrs. Tartarman’s door, she determined to try the effect of her spoon. A gentle turn of the ivory-knobbed visitor’s bell instantly disclosed not only a very superior-looking footman in green and gold, but a bulky butler in the background, who, newspaper in hand, advanced a few paces, with an imperious “not at ‘ome” for the footman to pass on to the ignoble pedestrian inquirer at the door.
“Not at ‘ome, mem,” bowed Black Plush, with the deferential tone of a man aspiring to the woolsack of butlership, and not knowing who may promote his object.
“O, not at home, isn’t she,” replied Mrs. Bolsterworth, opening her tortoiseshell card-case, as if she was just going to do the usual and pass on. “Not at home,” repeated she, half presenting a glazed card to the footman; “yet stay,” continued she, withdrawing it from his proffered hand, “do you think Mrs. Tartarman or any of the young ladies lost anything at the pic-nic yesterday?”