Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  Mrs Guineafowle, too, knowing the influence that the first daughter marrying well has on the fortunes of her sisters, was most anxious that Laura should have every advantage; so, step-mother-like, she intimated to the fair-haired daughters of the first marriage that, having had their “opportunities,” they must not interfere with Laura.

  Well knowing, too, how even the greatest beauty may be improved by dress, Mrs Guineafowle spared no expense in getting Laura up becomingly. Miss Birchtwig, of course, had a first-rate London milliner — namely, her cousin, Miss Freemantle, calling herself Mademoiselle de Freemantle, of the Rue de la Paix, Paris, and South Audley-street, London — with whom she always recommended her young friends to leave their measures, in case they chanced to want anything smart when they got into the country; and from this eminent artist was procured, at the usual short notice of ladies, a beautiful light-blue silk dress, with trimming en tablier down the front, composed of a dozen very narrow silk flounces, embroidered in chain stitch. The body was made tight, setting off to advantage Laura’s beautiful figure, with, of course, amply fly-away sleeves for sweeping things off tables and draggling into teacups and soup-plates.

  Dresses being at length arranged, dinners occupied their united attention. The major and Mrs Guineafowle were most anxious that they should be of the most elegant description, partaking as much of the character of one recently given by the Duke of Gormanstone as Miss Nettleworth, the Gormanstone Castle toady, had been able to recollect and narrate to Mrs Guineafowle.

  Gormanstone Castle, we may observe, was the stronghold of the Tory — a heaven from which our major was expelled when he ratted over to the Whigs.

  After due deliberation and counting of the cost, it was determined that the major should write off to Shell and Tortoise for as much of their turtle-soup as would serve two parties of ten, which the major did, promising to send a post-office order for the amount, but omitting to furnish a reference, thinking, perhaps, his signature, with “Major, Mangelwurzelshire Militia,” attached, would be sufficient; but Shell and Tortoise, not reverencing military rank as they undoubtedly ought, after the lapse of some days sent a bill, intimating that the soup would be forwarded when the money came. This threw our friends completely out; for, independently of the fine dashing style of leading off a dinner with turtle-soup, the Shell-and-Tortoise procrastination prevented their making other arrangements, and in lieu thereof they were obliged to put up with mutton-broth — a much better thing, by the way, when well made, than spurious turtle-soup.

  Misfortunes, however, never come singly; and Mr Clearwell, the stupendous landlord of the Duke’s Head at Rattlinghope, who had always acted butler at Carol Hill Green on state occasions, having become afflicted with the usual innkeepers’ malady, delirium tremens, wrote, or rather scratched, to say he couldn’t possibly come; so that the execution of affairs devolved on Joshua Cramlington, assisted by Jonathan Falconer.

  The major used to have an arrangement with Clearwell, who was a fine, stately, important-looking personage, for enacting the character of butler, whereby he flattered himself he not only imposed upon strangers but got his raw lads a little useful drilling. When on his high horse, especially at watering-places, he used to talk of “moy butler getting fat,” and “moy butler having nothing to do,” and “moy butler acting the gentleman.”

  Clearwell’s defection greatly afflicted our friend, for, independently of the imposing appearance of this magnificent man, revolving noiselessly about the little diningroom, scarcely elevating his voice above a whisper, Cramlington was so totally undrilled that even among themselves he was continually making the stupidest mistakes, which made the major dread his appearance in public.

  However, there was no help for it; so the major just ordered a rehearsal, making Joshua arrange the table for a party of ten, with the Italian-patterned T. Cox Savory electro-plated covers and corner-dishes, showing him how to raise the former, without giving the next sitter a shower-bath, and how to hand the latter about on the palm of his hand, without upsetting them into a helper’s lap. The major, too, established a code of signals — a forefinger to his nose indicating when Cramlington was to bring in the champagne, a piece of bread stuck up on end when he was to hand round the sherry. There had been no asking to take wine at the duke’s, and, of course, our friends must follow the fashion, be it ever so absurd and unsociable. That observation, however, reminds us that we may say a few words about the Carol Hill Green guests.

  Deep and anxious were the deliberations who they should have to meet our distinguished friend. They must be people whom Tom would think stylish, and yet people who would not interfere with their plans. As it was a dead set at our Tom, of course they were most anxious to make it appear otherwise. The major, indeed, would shudder at the idea of asking young men to his house in the hopes of getting them for his daughters, while Mrs Guineafowle was equally disinterested in theory, only determined not to lose a chance in reality. They hugged themselves with the reflection of having such an excellent excuse as the hounds for asking Tom over.

  Well, who should they have to meet him? Sir George and Lady Happyhit were their cock acquaintance, and had no daughter old enough to interfere with their plans; but they were hitey-titey, prior-engagement, or “expecting-a-friend-from-London” sort of people, who never came if they could help it. Still, asking them enabled the major to say, in his usual offhand way, “We asked the Happyhits to come, but unfortunately they were engaged,” and so on. Accordingly they sent a hunt-embossed note, requesting the honour of Sir George and Lady Happyhit’s company at dinner, and enclosing a hunt-embossed card of two days’ meets of Major Guinea-fowle’s, the Carol Hill Green hounds — one at Hestercombe House, the other at Loxley Mount, each morning at half-past ten. They also asked Mr and Mrs Dominic Smith, and Mr, Mrs, and Miss Brandenburg Brown, thinking that out of so large a venture they were sure to get as many, if not more, than they wanted. Indeed, they made so sure of the Browns that they asked young Smoothley, the curate, who was supposed to be looking after Miss Brown, to meet them. Here, however, they were all wrong again; for the Browns expected company at home, and had booked Mr Smoothley themselves, the Smiths were going away, while Sir George and Lady Happyhit merely presented their compliments, and were sorry they were prevented the honour, &c. What a nuisance! what a bore! It surely was the most unsociable neighbourhood in the world; and then they had to set to and cast over their acquaintance again. The Carboys had no carriage, and would not like to hire one; the Owens were hardly good enough for a state occasion; and Mrs Manfield was so disagreeable, with her great staring daughters, that they had firmly resolved never to have them any more. Worse than all, time was running short, and people who heard that others had been asked would not be likely now to accept, and so book themselves as second-class guests. They thought over several people, both far and near — the Fieldings, the Thompsons, the Passmores, the Lockseys, the Braceys, the Flappers, and the Figginses; but there were objections of some sort or another to the whole of them. Instead of having two parties of ten, they did not seem likely to get one. Billy Bedlington was always to be had at short notice, but turtle-soup would be wasted on such a monster as that. It then occurred to Mrs Guineafowle that the mention of turtle-soup, so unusual a thing in their quiet circle, might have a beneficial effect in drawing company, and the major forthwith penned a “Dear sir” epistle to the Rev. Mr Pantile, saying he would esteen it a favour if he would come and give his opinion on some he expected from London, adding that he hoped Mrs and Miss Pantile would accompany him.

  Pantile was a learned man, full of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Demosthenes, who thoroughly despised hunting and all belonging to it. But for the mention of the turtle-soup, he would have refused to dine with such a harehunting squireen as Guineafowle. As it was, he pretended to yield, at the suggestion of Mrs Pantile, that it was his duty as a Christian minister to go and endeavour to reclaim Guineafowle from the wild atrocities and inhumanities of the chase, and implant nobler
and loftier principles in his bosom. Mrs Pantile liked a run out as well as anybody, and knew how to tickle her Solomon into going. Miss Pantile, too, was all for going from home whenever she could, and strongly supported her mother’s views; for though plain, she had an irreproachable hand and arm, and played beautifully on the harp.

  After so many refusals, it was a god-send to Guineafowle to get an acceptance, and he followed up his luck by asking another divine, the Rev. Arthur Pinkerton, to come and pass judgment on the soup also. Pinkerton, however, hearing that Pantile, whom he hated, was coming, declined; and, as a last resource, Guineafowle summoned the great Billy Bedlington, intimating that as Mr Pantile was coming, it would be well to avoid the subject of hunting. And Billy, who could talk of little else, wondered that there should be such a creature in the world as a man who didn’t like to hear about hunting, and inwardly promised himself considerable amusement from the interview. So he told his hind to give “t’ard meer” an easy day in the plough, as he should be wanting her in the Whitechapel at night.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  THE HERO ARRIVES.

  TERRIBLE IS THE trouble of unaccustomed party-making — desperate when you want to make a dash with inefficient forces. Our gallant friend felt the full force of the situation, and never appreciated Clearwell at his full value before. Our major could have raised a regiment of militia with less trouble than this party gave him, and drilled and trained them with more ease than he could drill and train Joshua Cramlington.

  Though they had had three rehearsals, he could not get the stupid boy to understand that the punch was only to be handed round after the turtle-soup. Jos would have it in at all intervals, thinking, no doubt, that it was much better stuff than wine. Our host never despaired of the turtle-soup until the Shell and Tortoise bill arrived, which it did close upon dinner, having taken a jaunt to some other town beginning with an R. Then, indeed, he was horrified. Pantile, too, coming expressly to eat it! He denounced Shell and Tortoise from the bottom of his heart.

  But to our spread. The major having finished the third rehearsal, and especially charged Joshua Cramlington to be on the alert, and not to forget any of the injunctions he had laid upon him, dismissed him to run his arms and legs through his green-and-yellow livery, while he went and got himself up for the reception.

  Resolved upon doing the thing in style, and having read in the papers how the Duke of Wellington received Prince Albert at the door of Apsley House on the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, he went and squeezed his little pot-belly into the now very tight militia uniform in which he achieved his great victory over the beautiful Miss Longmaide, inwardly hoping that it would lead to a similar beneficial result in Tom Hall’s case.

  Then as he stood before the glass, examining first one grizzly cheek and then the other, his hair now partaking more of the silver-grey than the ginger-heckle, a luggage-loaded fly was seen crawling up the avenue, and, girding on his sword, our friend nearly broke his neck by tripping over it as he hurried downstairs. Fortunately, the nearly exhausted horse gave him time to recover his equilibrium, and as the door opened responsive to the porch bell-pull, our flexible-backed major, chapeau bras in hand, stepped courteously forward, making a series of those remarkable salaams that never were equalled save by old Vauxhall Simpson of glorious memory.

  Our Tom, who was gaping out of the fly-window at the white-winged, white-bodied, little house, in the manner of an appraiser, or a person with a design upon it, was startled at the apparition that suddenly disclosed itself; while the fly-man stood with his hand on the door, unable to make out what it meant.

  The flexible-back having at length subsided, and the major having motioned the man to open the door, out rolled Tom, in a pair of the widest red-checked, snuff-brown, tweed trousers that ever were seen, a light grey jacket, with scarcely any laps, a stout, double-breasted, white corduroy vest, and a wide-extending, once-round, buff joinville — looking as if his stomach was sensible of cold, but his fat throat impervious to it.

  “Proud of the honour of seeing you at my humble hunting-box,” bowed the major, tendering Tom a hand. “Hope, if I can’t put you up as sumptuously as I could wish, I shall be able to make amends by the sport I shall show you with my hounds; and if you will honour us with a visit at either Slumpington or Squashington, in the county of Somerset, we shall be able to do by you as we could wish.”

  Whereat our Tom grinned, being partly struck by the magnificence of the major, and partly occupied in thinking what the gates had been in coming, so that he might not be imposed upon by the fly-man.

  The clatter of the major’s sword in the passage and the pompous prosiness of his greetings acted as warnings to the inmates of the little drawing-room on the right, causing them to hurry their aprons and things out of sight, and arrange themselves in company postures; Mrs Guineafowle in the centre, supported by Laura, in her beautiful Freemantle dress, on her right, with the three other girls, in various coloured rather shabby merinos, on the left.

  The major, lord-chamberlain like, then appeared, backing and bowing our Tom into the presence, introducing him to his intended and the family circle generally. And if the truth must be told, Laura thought Tom rather stout; while the sour-grapes sisters declared they never saw such a man, and they pitied poor Laura excessively. However, they all chimed into a forced conversation, chiefly about the weather, which was unusually open, leading into speculation as to its probable features at Christmas. The major helped the cry on by expatiating on the splendid season his hounds had had; something quite unusual, as indeed all his seasons were. “Never had a better season,” he said, “and he had kept hounds now five-and-twenty years — five-and-twenty years — a long time — very long time — though not so long as his brother master, Heartycheer, had done,” the memory of man not running to the time when Heartycheer took them.

  Then the major asked if Tom’s horses were come, and was glad to find he had only one, which he thought would save the bin; and then he asked whether Tom would take anything before dinner, observing “that they dined at six, which he thought was a better hour than seven in winter. After a hard day’s hunting he was always quite ready for his dinner at six, for he never took anything out with him, except it might be a biscuit, or a bun, cr something of the sort, which he often brought back, the excitement of the chase completely absorbing his faculties, and making him insensible of hunger, thirst, danger, everything,” kicking his sword behind him as he spoke, to prevent its tripping him up again.

  The gallant man was proceeding in this strain when Cramlington came sneaking into the room, announcing to Mrs Guineafowle, in such an undertone as enabled every one to hear, that “cook wanted her”; whereupon Mrs Guineafowle knit her brow and disappeared, wondering whether the cat had got the fish, or the soot had come down the chimney, or the cook was overcome with the heat of the fire or the strength of the brandy, or which of the hundred-and-one ills of party-making had befallen her. The Amphitryon reader will readily conjecture that the non-arrival of the turtle-soup was the cause: Jonathan Falconer had returned for the third time from the station without it, and the mis-sent Shell and Tortoise letter arriving simultaneously with Jonathan, extinguished the last ray of hope. “What a go!” as the major said when he read it. There was nothing for it but to substitute the mutton-broth; and then, oh dear! what would Pantile say? There surely never was anything so unlucky. If the major could have got at Shell and Tortoise, he would have run his sword down the throat of one and his scabbard down the other.

  The fly-man then sent to say he was “ready to go” (Guineafowle’s house not affording entertainment either for man or horse); and just as Tom had settled his demands, his newly caught groom, Jack Tights, arrived with his horse. John was a slangy, saucy Londoner, who could dress himself, or dress his master, or dress a hook, or dress a mutton-chop — indeed, dress anything except a horse. He called himself “groom and valet,” and was up to all the bad practices of both services. He had been in many good plac
es, but, like all these characterless fellows, the experience of adversity was totally lost upon him, and no sooner did he get a fresh place than he seemed to be trying how soon he could get out of it again. His last master had dismissed him for making his horses’ corn into brandy-and-water. His real name was Branfoote — John Branfoote — but he had ridden several steeplechases—” Aristocraties,” of course — as Captain de Roseville. He had acquired the name of “Tights” from having his clothes made so tight that it was a marvel how he ever got into them. He was a nephew of Greedy Sam’s, the ostler at the Salutation Inn, who had strongly recommended him to our Tom as the “very man for him”; and Tights, being hard upon starvation, had not let the chance slip. He had now got himself into a complete new rig-out at Tom’s expense — a flat, indeed a rather retroussé brimmed hat with a cockade, a tremendously long-backed, short-lapped, tight, grey coat, with an equally long-striped waistcoat, leathers that would do nothing for his legs after their accompanying stomach had had the run of old Hall’s kitchen for a month, and roast-chestnut-coloured topboots, with very long-necked spurs. Such was the gentleman who came working his arms into the little Guineafowle stableyard, with his horse knee-capped and head-stalled, in proper marching order.

  “Ah, that’s you, is it?” observed Tom, recognising them through the gathering gloom of a winter’s evening. “How’s the horse?” asked he.

  “All is serene, sir!” replied Tights, with a sort of military salute, throwing himself jockeyways off his horse.

  “All is what?” muttered Tom, who had not got the last London phrase.

  “Well,” said Tom, following Tights into the stable, “I shall want you to dress me in half an hour or so.”

  “By all means, sir,” replied Tights, who had been imbibing on the road, and was obligingly drunk.