by R S Surtees
And, most fortunately for Tom’s musical reputation, the lovely Jane Daisyfield had been much addicted to “Jim Crow,” which enabled Tom to cap “Drops of Brandy” by asking for that lively air. Thereupon Angelena struck it up most vigorously, setting all the heads a-bobbing, and even the ponderous colonel’s feet a-shuffling. Great applause followed the execution, and Tom felt that he had performed quite a feat in calling for it.
After this there was an evident signalling and signmaking going on in the room, and presently the band struck up “The Roast Beef of Old England;” whereupon two tawdrily-dressed dragoon footmen — much such looking gentlemen as we see rush upon a stage to clear it of chairs or other properties — commenced an assault upon the wooden partition at the back of the piano, and presently succeeded in exposing the colonel’s bedroom, now fitted up with blue-and-white calico as a tent, with a table of refreshments in the centre. At one end of the table were tea and coffee — the the dansante that the colonel spoke of when he called to ask the Halls — while the other was occupied with red and white wine negus-jugs, cut decanters, and glasses. On the centre of the table stood a thing like a glass dumb-waiter, surmounted by three tiers of calves’-foot jelly glasses, and flanked on either side by the mess epergnes, tastefully piled with fruits and flowers, the handiwork of the lovely Angelena. Between the epergnes and the silver trays at the ends of the table were wine-coolers, with nothing in them. Both Mrs and Miss had tried hard for a few bottles of cheap champagne, but the colonel had most resolutely resisted any such extravagance, observing, that if they once began to give champagne, there was no saying how much a mob of that sort would mop up, and that they would abuse them far more, if they didn’t get enough, than praise them for giving any. Indeed, the colonel had been bent upon giving as cheap an entertainment as possible, having first of all calculated that twenty or five-and-twenty shillings, judiciously expended in fruit and confectionery, aided by the great attractions of “our band — finest in the service,” of course — would give such an ear-ache and stomach-ache as would amply requite any attentions they had received at the hands of their Fleecyborough friends.
As usual, however, with such undertakings, the programme extended as the arrangements proceeded, and long before the appointed day the five-and-twenty shillings had grown into a five-pound note. This was, perhaps, caused a good deal by the lithping major going about the town talking of the “great preparathons they were making for the ball at the barrackth — the e-nor-moth ecthpenth the old colonel wath going to;” darkly hinting that “it wathn’t impothible the old Dook might be down.” This had the desired effect, and many people who gave good dinners, but not to the military, began to think they would make an exception in favour of the Heavysteed Dragoons. They didn’t say, point-blank, let’s go and card the colonel, and see if we can get an invite, but Mrs Freebody said casually to her husband, as he was smacking his lips after his fourth glass of port wine, “F., my dear, don’t you think you might as well (hem) call (hem) at the (hem) barracks?”
“Call at the barracks!” retorted Freebody (a substantial brewer), firing up. “What the deuce should I call at the barracks for? Barracks indeed! Why these people get their beer at the Jerry-shop; what should I call at the barracks for?” he repeated, fixing his bloodshot eyes on his astonished wife.
“Oh, just to be civil to the military,” replied his wife.
“Civil to the military!” exclaimed Freebody. “Will they be civil to me? — eat my dinners — drink my wine — and call me a base mechanic behind my back. Just as they do old Jack Gooseman. No — no — no barracks for me, I thank’ee;” and thereupon he filled himself an overflowing bumper.
“Oh, that was those saucy hussars,” replied his wife. “It was just like their impittance — thought there was nobody in the town good enough for them to ‘sociate with; but these gents seem quite different sort of gents; amiable agreeable young people; dance with all the girls at the balls — at least, all those whose houses they dine at; and the colonel’s daughter seems a most genteel young person — quite a desirable ‘quaintance for our girls. Besides, they’re going to give a ball. The Busses are asked, and the Chinneys are asked, and the Plummeys are asked, and the Halls are asked, and it would be such a thing if our girls were not there.”
And Freebody, who hated the Halls more than there is any occasion to describe, principally because old Hall had “sivin-and-four’d” one of his bills at a time when Freebody was not thought so “highly respectable” as he had since become; Freebody, we say, hating the Halls, and other considerations him thereunto moving, was at length induced to card the colonel. And many others being similarly instigated, the five-and-twenty shillings soon stood a very poor chance of satisfying the requirements of the occasion. However, the colonel consoled himself under the increased expenditure by thinking that he had good six months to eat his returns out in before the regiment was moved, and that it might not be impolitic to endeavour to enlist the townspeople in aid of his designs upon Hall. Accordingly, he saw the calves’-feet jelly, and porcupine sponge cakes, and finger cakes and fruit — above all, the job calico for the tent — arrive without kicking up any of those tremendous shindies that he was in the habit of doing when things went contrary to his wishes. And this reminds us that, having got so far in the entertainment as the opening of the banqueting bedroom for the stomach-ache part of the the dansante, it may be as well for the reader and guests to enter together.
Looking at the coup d’œil, it did not seem as if the colonel had misnamed the entertainment; for hard-featured apples, harder - featured pears, sour - looking plums, and bunches of questionable-looking black things, that Angelena not inaptly called “gripes,” formed the principal feature of the feast. However, they were well set on, tastefully decorated with flowers and evergreens, and a pleasantly-disposed public accorded the usual indulgence granted to bachelor and barrack efforts. Old Miss Fozington, to be sure, with her accustomed curiosity, went prying about with her eye-glass, guessing that this was borrowed, that hired, the fruit a cheap bargain, pinching the table-cloth to test its quality, and even fishing for the mark to see that it was their own. But even she, with all her talent for detraction, could not but admit that the entertainment was “not so bad,” and much better than anything that Mrs Lovington, or even the Empress of Morocco — as they called Mrs Halfhide, the tanner’s wife, who essayed to lead the Fleecyborough fashion — ever gave. Indeed the whole thing — the name, the dansante — the unwonted hour — the mixed and uncertain dress, the tent-like room, the boisterous band — above all, the dear delightful barracks, with sentries and real soldiers, and simpering officers in all the pomp and circumstance of war — led the imaginations of the excitable ones into the airy regions of romantic flight. From these pleasant excursions, just as the thing was in full swing — the band uproarious, and all hands settled to their game, Miss Spencer at Mr Fielding, Miss Weathertit at Mr White Brown, Miss Tinney at Mr Thompson, and Angelena languishing at our Tom, as she offered him some more “gripes” — a loud tapping was heard at the top of the table, and presently Sir Thomas Thimbleton rose, and gave indications of eloquence. Sir Thomas, whose father had been a great army tailor, was a Dublin Castle knight, but, like all truly great men, condescending withal — and no feast or fête, or wedding, or christening, in Fleecyborough, or within a radius of three miles, was considered perfect without Sir Thomas Thimbleton of Thimbleton Park (so he called his villa with twenty acres of land). He always took the palavering department as of right, and, though a man of few words, he contrived to stretch them over an extraordinary space of time, always, if possible, making a mess of the thing. He was a terrible man for treading on peoples’ corns. Anxious mammas trembled when they saw his vacant visage rise on its substantial star-bedecorated pedestal, lest he should nip a rising liaison in the bud, or connect a couple in a toast who hated the sight of each other. The most unimaginative listener knew what he was going to say long before his dwelling tongue came up to the w
ords. On this occasion he began, as usual, with “Ladies and gentlemen,” and having got so far, placed his right hand in his richly-buttoned velvet-collared blue coat, and pondered a little, as if he was going to say something original this time. Then, having raised the expectations of his audience, he gave a loud cough, and again said “Ladies and gentlemen,” which produced renewed tapping and a dead pause.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, for the third time, “I consider it one of the proudest privileges of rank and station” — (“Old story over again,” whispered Miss Tinney to Mr Thompson. “Old fool! his father was a tailor,” muttered Mr White Brown to Mrs White Brown that was to be)—” I consider it one of the proudest privileges of rank and station to be permitted on this occasion” — a pause, while he considered whether it was a birth, death, marriage, or meeting of the Conservative Club, where he had a lease of the toast, “The health of the Duchess of Fleecyborough,” the Lord-Lieutenant’s lady; finding it was none of these, he backed the train of his thoughts a little, repeating the words, “to be permitted, on this occasion — this festive occasion” — applause from those who thought he had got himself into a fix—” this most festive occasion,” repeated he, cheered by the encouragement, “to propose the health of the distinguished — illustrious, I should say — givers — donors of this sumptuous — this most sumptuous — this most elegant and sumptuous—” (dead pause) —
“EAR-ACHE AND STOMACH-ACHE!” roared the old colonel, coming to the rescue.
The old knight, nothing disconcerted at the outburst of laughter that followed, stood, taking impressions of his inverted wine-glass on the table-cloth, till the noise had somewhat subsided, an interval that enabled him to consider how he should wind up his oration. Child’s health there was none to propose; “married couple” were equally out of the question; but a quick-minded world often setting parties out for each other before they are aware of it themselves, it now occurred to Sir Thomas that he had heard something about Tom Hall and Miss Blunt, and seeing the interesting couple looking sweet at each other, with his usual propensity for blundering, he jumped to the conclusion that they were betrothed, and proceeded to announce it as follows, being his usual form of speech for wedding breakfasts —
“This sumptuous entertainment,” continued he, with an emphasis on the word that had brought him up short, “an entertainment ushering an event that he hoped would be as conducive to the happiness of the interesting young couple,” looking at Tom and Angelena, “as he was sure it would be pleasing to their respective parents and friends.” Applause from the mischievous, with “Poohs!”
“Pshaws!”
“No, noes!”
“Stuff and nonsense!”— “What’s the man about?” from the colonel and Mrs Blunt.
Nothing daunted, the doughty knight turned up his glass, and filling it with hot elder wine, called on the company for an overflowing bumper to the healths of Colonel and Mrs Blunt, Mr and Mrs Hall, and Mr and Mrs THOMAS HALL, the last names being received with the most uproarious laughter and applause. The knight was quite cock-a-hoop; he thought he had done it wonderfully well — everybody else thought he was mad. The fair Angelena blushed a real blush, and hung her head; Tom Hall gaped with astonishment; Jug looked as if he would eat Tom; and there was such a battering and clattering on the table that three-and-sixpenceworth of glass was demolished in no time; the dumb-waiter-looking jelly-stand quaked, the Ripstone pippins, pears, and grapes came rolling from their places, and great was the relief when the colonel, clapping his great mutton fists, announced that the late concert-room was ready for dancing.
“What a man it is!” (meaning Sir Thomas) exclaimed Angelena, running her arm through Tom’s, clasping her hands like a bracelet on the top of it, as she led him away to the head of the quadrille, already forming by the obsequious heavies, all anxious to do honour in the colonel’s fête.
Now Tom’s education had been neglected in the dancing as in other lines, but having no option given him, he just took his place, and went rolling and bumping about, getting in everybody’s way, and getting smart tastes of the spurs of the soldiery. Angelena did her best to keep him right, but before the quadrille was over, the happy couple had monopolised the attention of the whole room. However, Angelena was not easily put out of her way — at least, when it was her interest not to be — though she could read the “riot act” as loudly as anybody when she had no interest in being amiable.
Having at length worked the fat and now profusely perspiring youth through the intricacies of the dance, she gladly led him back to the refreshment-room, where she began to make the most of her time in a series of pertinent questions, beginning with, “Was he going to stay altogether at Fleecyborough? Was he going to dine at the Emperor of Morocco’s on Monday? Would he be at Mrs Moneytin’s party on Tuesday? Was he acquainted with the Fergusons of Thorneyfield? — Well now he ought to know them — indeed he ought — most agreeable people — Sophy Fergey was a particular friend of hers — such a nice girl! so unaffected!” And as she was explaining how Sophy and she met every other Friday when Sophy’s father was justice-ising at Fleecyborough, at the cottage by the windmill on Heatherblow Heath (Mr Mattyfat of the Heavysteeds, we are concerned to say, making a third, to meet the fair Sophy), little Jug, nothing daunted by his former rebuff, again swaggered up and claimed Angelena’s hand for a waltz. The fair lady pretended not to hear him, and flaunting her handkerchief, went on expatiating on the merits of Sophy, who she was sure our Tom would like to know, suggesting that the heath was such a charming place to ride upon, asking if our Tom was fond of riding? — declaring, without waiting for an answer, that she delighted in it herself, asserting that she had the sweetest lady’s horse in the world, that the queen had sent to buy it, and her father wouldn’t let her have it. When little Jug tired of admiring her back, he got round to the front, and said, in an angry tone, “Well, Angelena, are you going to dance with me or not?”
“To be sure I am!” replied the fair lady, starting as if she had never heard the previous question, and looking most lovingly at our Tom, she suffered herself to be led away by the now triumphant Jug, who whisked her and twirled her, and twisted her and jumped her, till Tom, in his turn, was troubled with jealousy. As they every now and then swept past his nose, he determined, if he laboured all night, that he would learn to waltz. In the midst of this resolution, and certain imaginary arrangements for licking Jug, the band suddenly struck up “God save the Queen” — the the dansante was over. Adieux, hunting for hats, shawls, and cloaks quickly followed, mingled with protestations that of all agreeable parties that was the most so; and when at length it came to our hero’s turn to take leave, Angelena, looking archly in his face, as she held his fat hand, whispered —
“Now, don’t forget to be pinted.”
And Tom went home with a desperate heart-ache.
CHAPTER IX.
“CONSIDERING” A HORSE.
MAJOR FIBS PRETENDED to be thorry that Tom Hall had got a commithon in Lord Lavender’s Hussars, observing that the colonel had written to old Wellington to give him one in the Heavysteed Dragoons, and he was sure old Wellington would only be too happy to have it in his power to oblige their old boy.
The fat colonel, on his part, patronised our friend extensively, and when he read that Thomas Hall, gent., was appointed to a cornetcy in the Royal Lavender Dragoons and Hyacinth Hussars, vice Lord Shockingdog retired, he bethought him of mounting Tom becomingly. Now Captain Smallbeere of the Heavysteeds (then absent on leave) had a second charger, a horse that, without speaking too disparagingly of it, “might have been better,” and the colonel’s sagacity suggested some good might be done with it. Accordingly he bought him — a time bargain — forty pounds, with liberty to return him at the end of a week if he didn’t like him — that is to say, if he couldn’t make anything of him. He was a nice-looking horse; indeed, his looks were the best part about him. He had two good ends, as the horse-dealers say: a nice light, well set-on head, a
n arched neck with a flowing mane, and a full, well set-on, life guards tail. He was not deficient in middle-piece either, being round in the barrel, well ribbed up, and altogether a taking-looking animal. Indeed, he had taken many people in. He had taken young Mr Simpkins in, he had taken middle-aged Mr Gooseman in, and he had taken old Mr Gammon in. He had been twice unsaddled for dead in the hunting-field, and only escaped repetition of the scene by knocking up before he got to the meet. He was a washy, weak, good-looking, good-for-nothing animal, that with coddling and pampering and linseed-teaing and hand-rubbing could come out of the stable a very fine showy creature. Colour, a dark brown, with tan muzzle, four black legs, and a star.
“I know a horse that would suit you to a T,” observed the colonel, the first time he met our friend after the above-mentioned arrangement with Smallbeere. “Just the thing for the yeomanry — used to troops — such a one to salute the general upon at a review;” the colonel performing the evolution with a great, baggy, brown alpaca umbrella as he spoke.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and twenty-four’s thirty-five — I don’t know that soldiers are good folks to buy horses of,” observed old Hall, filing away at his chin, when his son told him what the colonel said. “Should say, if they had a good ‘un, they’d keep him among ’em — at least, I think — I take it so — I apprehend so.”
“I think so too,” replied our Tom, who had no more fancy for being “done” than his father, “only,” added he, considering the instability of his seat — indeed, his utter inexperience in the saddle—” it might be as well, perhaps, to have a horse that knows his business, and that wouldn’t unship me.”
“True,” replied old Hall, after a pause, and a little more mental arithmetic. “True, and therefore I’d look at him; but I’d be cautious about buyin’ — buy in haste, repent at leasure — buy a good ‘un when you do buy. A good horse costs no more keeping than a bad ‘un; a bad ‘un ‘ill eat as much as a good ‘un, perhaps more, because he’s got more time.”