by R S Surtees
“Your things, and my things, and the stable things are somewhere,” observed Tom, whose fly-load of luggage had not been all for himself, though he had certainly brought as many clothes as would serve a moderate man a month.
“All is serene,” repeated Tights, lurching up to the horse’s head.
Tom, puzzled at the phrase, then returned to the family circle in the parlour, where his quantity of luggage was undergoing discussion, raising the important speculation how long he was going to stay.
“I hope you find everything right and comfortable for your horse,” observed Guineafowle, as Tom entered, adding, “I wish, though, you had brought a couple with you, as then we might have hoped for the favour of a longer visit; for really it’s due to oneself to get as much hunting as ever one can before Christmas.”
“It is,” assented Tom, who had just as much taste for the thing as Guineafowle. “However,” said he, “I have a very excellent groom — a Melton man — who tells me he has a most wonderful recipe, by means of which he can bring a horse out every day in the week.”
“Indeed,” stared Guineafowle, observing, “it must be a very valuable recipe; he must be a very surprising man.”
“It’s an invention of his own,” continued Tom in an offhand sort of way. “The Melton men offered him no end of money for it, but he wouldn’t sell — preferred dispensing it himself.”
“Indeed!” said Guineafowle. “What is the principle of it?”
“Don’t know,” replied Tom—” don’t know; it’s some decoction of herbs, mixed with spirit — rum, I think. But he makes it at midnight, and won’t let any one come near, let alone see what it is.”
Tights kept bad hours, and when found fault with used to declare that he was busy with his chemistry.
After some more forced discussion about the wonderful discovery, during which Mrs Guineafowle re-entered, showing by her anxious face that there was something wrong, our host proposed showing Tom his room — the best lofty four-poster, of course, with the usual indications of a lady’s eye — where the redoubtable Tights was laying out such a multifarious wardrobe — such coats, such waistcoats, such cravats, such trousers, so many pairs of boots — that the major thought any deficiency of horse-flesh was amply compensated by the quantity of clothes. Having stirred the fire, lighted the composites, and told Tom dinner would be ready in half an hour or so, the major retired to hear of the soup calamity, and indulge in the denunciations against Shell and Tortoise we have already mentioned. Our gallant friend then proceeded to release himself from the bondage of his tight uniform, and instal himself in his green dress hunt-coat with bright buttons, velvet collar, and silk facings, and a roll-collared white waistcoat, with a yellow silk under one. Dressing was the order of the day throughout the house. Tinkle, tinkle went the bells; hot water here, hot water there. One miss wanted her shoes, another wanted her comb; and the whisking commotion of petticoats sounded up and downstairs and throughout the little house. Our Tom went to work anxiously, and, after no end of tryings-on and takings-off, alterings, and changings, and pinchings, and tyings, and twistings, he at length accomplished a toilet that stood the test of the mirror; for, being an ugly dog, of course he was correspondingly vain — that is to say, in the inverse ratio, ugly dog, great vanity.
And Tights, as he now retired from valeting him, met Harriet, the joint-stock lady’s-maid, as she emerged from her young mistress’s room, and in reply to her inquiry what all the crumpled cravats dangling over his arm were about, answered, with the most pompous throatiness —
“F-a-i-l-yars! f-a-i-l-yars!”
The sound of Pantile’s phaeton wheels grinding under his window aroused Tom from admiration of himself, and caused him to put the finishing stroke to the performance by a copious dash of essence of Rondeletia into his cambric pocket-handkerchief. He then gave his ivory-backed brushes a final flourish through his light hair, and, descending the little staircase, he re-entered the parlour just as the Pantiles were subsiding into seats, after the grinnings, and smirkings, and bowings, and curtseyings of coming were over. They then resumed the operation, and Mrs Pantile’s quick eye now seeing at a glance what Laura’s beautiful blue silk, chain-stitch embroidered, flounced dress was for, by a skilful manoeuvre took a chair nearer the fire, leaving a vacant one between the pretty blue and the silver-grey silk of mamma for our Tom.
The major, seeing the petticoat movement, observed, as he finished introducing Tom, that Mr Hall was a brother sportsman who had come to have a little hunting with his hounds; and Mrs Pantile, who was a tolerably skilled mouser, said to herself, as she eyed Laura, glancing alternately at our Tom and then at her own pink tulle drappé, “Believe as much of that as we like”; and as she was talking earnestly to Mrs Guineafowle about the weather, thinking all the time what a shame it was dressing Laura out in that way instead of in a neat book-muslin, like her sisters, the door opened, and, to Pantile’s horror, the great Billy Bedlington came sweeping the ceiling with his head. Pan hated Billy, and Billy didn’t like Pan. Moreover, Pan thought Billy wasn’t exactly the sort of man to have to meet them, and therefore gave Billy a very cool reception, and closed in, instead of making room for him, at the fire.
Nor did matters mend when, on the announcement of dinner, Tom stuck to Laura instead of offering his arm to Miss Pantile, who consequently fell a prey to the giant; and Pantile, who was watching how things went as he took Mrs Guineafowle out, doubted, if he had known, whether even the turtle-soup could have induced him to come. Judge then of his dismay when, after enunciating an elaborate grace, Joshua Cramlington gave the orthodox flourish to the tureen-cover, and the major began apologising for the substitution of mutton-broth! Pantile inwardly didn’t believe a word about the turtle-soup. It was just one of the major’s cheap flashes that he was always indulging in; and he began cross-questioning him most severely how the thing could have happened? — who wrote? — who took the letter to the post? — whether it was legibly directed? — and, as a climax, who he sent to?
This was rather a clencher, for if the major answered “Shell and Tortoise,” the murder would be out, and his splendour thought nothing of; so, after a moment’s hesitation — recollecting where Lord Heartycheer got his — he boldly answered, “Painter, in Leadenhall-street.”
“Indeed,” replied Pantile, thinking he had heard the name.
“Have dealt with him for twenty years,” asserted the major, “and this is the first time he ever disappointed me.”
“Very unfortunate,” observed Pantile, wondering he had never heard of the major’s turtle-soup parties before; and presently Joshua Cramlington, as if by way of adding insult to injury, placed a green glass of punch under Pantile’s nose, when an exclamation from the major of “No! no! you stupid dog!” so startled Jos that he spilt the contents over his mistress’s turban and silver-grey silk. Great then was the hubbub, and mopping, and napkining, and declaring that it wasn’t of the slightest consequence, though Jos knew it would be a very different story on the morrow. However, that stopped the further supply of the punch; and when he got the tray into the kitchen, Tights, who was making himself agreeable to the cook, moved that, as they couldn’t drink it in the parlour, they should have it in the hall; and filling glasses round, he tossed off a bumper to a better acquaintance with them all.
Mrs Hogslard and he had been speculating whether the fine London dresses would be likely to catch his young master, and affording each other such insights into their respective families as servants are in the habit of doing. There is very little that servants don’t know, as any master or mistress will find if they make an unexpected descent into their receiving-rooms at meal or unexpected times. But to our story.
Cramlington’s glass of punch, hastily swallowed after sundry bottle ends, coupled with the hurry of waiting and the anxieties of office, got into his head, and he nearly let the best chain-bordered porcelain down as he entered with the second course, giving Mrs Guineafowle and all parties interested in its
welfare the creeps. The major looked unutterable things; but the drink was more potent than the major’s eye, and our host sat trembling as he saw the lad blinking and winking at the candles, and every now and then making a false dart at the dishes. The major always insisting upon having everything handed round by the servants, the dinner made very little progress, and Jonathan Falconer, never having “led,” was of little or no use. The major sighed for the days of Clearwell, who made all things go as if of themselves. The lad presently got stupid.
The sherry signal and the champagne signal were equally disregarded, and as the major, of course, could not be so unfashionable as ask any one to take wine, the guests were soon high and dry. The boy had been round once with the sherry, making some very bad shots at the glasses, then filling bumpers, and dribbling the wine plentifully over people’s hands. “Get some champagne!” at length snapped the major, as the guests being now helped to the contents of the dishes, Joshua stood winking and blinking, and disregarding the signal.
Jos then disappeared, and finding Tights in his old quarters in the kitchen, they took another glass of punch together; then diving into the foot-bath in the sink, where he had the wine cooling, he hurried away with a bottle. It being the finest sparkling, not to say frisky, 42s a dozen stuff, made at the well-known champagne and foreign liqueur distillery in Lambeth, the major had especially charged Jos on no account whatever to cut the string until he had the wine in the room, well knowing that if it once got away there would be no stopping it; and this injunction suiting the laches of which Jos had just been guilty, he now frantically seized a knife off the sideboard, and cutting the string as he stood behind his master’s chair, pop! bang! went the cork against the opposite wall, and w-h-i-s-h went the foaming fluid right into the major’s hair! What a commotion there was! If the major had been played upon by a fire-engine, he couldn’t have been wetter, while Jos, in the agony of the moment, put his thumb over the bottle-top, causing it to spirt sideways into Mrs Pantile’s face.
“Get out of my sight! Get out of the room! Get out of the house!” screamed the little major, rising from his chair, seizing the still fizzing bubbling bottle with one hand and Joshua with the other, whom he kicked and cuffed into the passage, while the remanents rose and offered such consolation to Mrs Pantile as a lady in a new black-watered — now, alas! champagned — silk required. Great was the mopping and rubbing and patting and drying again.
At length, having done all they could, the guests resumed their seats, and Mrs Guineafowle sent Jonathan Falconer to get Harriet to come in and wait. This she did so ably that when the major returned, after locking Cramlington up in his bedroom and changing his own wet upper garments, he found Pantile leading the charge against men-servants in general, vowing they were nothing like women for waiting — an opinion in which Billy Bedlington heartily concurred, adding that he would match his Mary against any two men that ever were seen. But though the major wouldn’t admit this, attributing Pantile’s preference a good deal to jealousy because he only kept a tea-tray groom himself, he candidly admitted that Cramlington was not quite the thing, muttering something about his “old butler, Clearwell — never used to have any trouble” — observations that were meant more for Tom Hall’s ear than Pantile’s, who was evidently on the alert for a cavil.
However, now that they had got rid of the chill of etiquette, and people began to reach and ask each other for what they wanted, dinner progressed more pleasantly. They got what they wanted to eat at the time they wanted and not after, while Harriet subdued a bottle of champagne very skilfully, and doled it out to Guinea-fowle’s satisfaction. As yet he could not accord his guests the privilege of helping themselves. The “Duke” had had the wine handed round, and so must he. By the time the second — but what ought to have been the third — bottle was disposed of, and the chopped cheese had circulated, people began to be more at their ease, especially as they heard, by Cramlington’s kickings and roarings at the door, that the dangerous boy was in safe custody. So the cloth was drawn, the wine and dessert set on, and the room presently vacated by the servants. Our friends then began to be more sociable, and to take the events of the evening more philosophically. Pantile was the least agreeable of the party. In the first place, he didn’t fancy being made a cat’s-paw of, helping Guinea to capture Hall; in the second place, he had been done out of a day’s coal-leading with his horse by having to come there to serve, as he thought, on a turtle-soup jury; and in the third place, he thought they had no business to ask Billy Bedlington to meet them. Thinking to have a cut at his pretentious host through Billy, he attacked the latter about his hunting as soon as the ladies withdrew.
“Well, Mr William Bedlington,” drawled he — for he did not care to come the familiar “Billy”—” well, Mr William Bedlington, I see you still pursue the chase.”
“Whiles, Mr Pantile, whiles,” replied Billy, sucking away at an orange.
“Well, but don’t you think you might employ your time more profitably, more beneficially, than scampering about the country after a poor timid hare?”
“No, I don’t, Mr Pantile,” replied Billy firmly.
“Life was given us for a nobler purpose, surely!” exclaimed Pantile.
“P’r’aps it may,” replied Billy carelessly.
“Besides,” added Pantile, “a man of your size and weight can never hope to ride up to hounds as he ought.”
“P’r’aps not,” replied Billy; “but ar can glower at ’em all the same.”
“Glower at ’em all the same,” snapped Pantile, as Hall and Guineafowle began tittering at Billy’s cool treatment of the classic. “But where’s the pleasure — where’s the excitement of glowering? I thought the great enjoyment of hunting consisted in braving and surmounting the dangers and obstacles of nature.”
“Ah,” said Billy, “that’ll be your steeplechase gents, and chaps wot want to break their necks. I go to see hounds work, not to crack my crown.”
The major here tried to turn the conversation by passing the wine, and engaging Tom Hall on the military tack, expatiating on the splendour of Lord Lavender’s Hussars, and hoping their regiments might be embodied together; but Pantile, who had got up a petition against the militia, would not chime in, and, the first opportunity, was nagging at Billy Bedlington again.
“Well now, Mr William Bedlington,” resumed he in his usual sneering, drawling tone, “I don’t understand the pleasure of a man who can’t follow the hounds going out to hunt.”
“Well, Mr Pantile, that’s possible enough,” replied Billy, taking a back hand at the port—” that’s possible enough; but you might as well say that no one has any business at a race that can’t ride one, as that no one has any business at a hunt unless he can ride to tread on the hounds’ tails.”
“I don’t see that, Mr William Bedlington,” replied Pantile, rubbing his hook nose for an idea.
“I do,” replied Billy, now taking a back hand at the sherry.
“I don’t,” rejoined Pantile, looking very irate.
The major then again tried to turn the conversation by inquiring if Mr Pantile had succeeded in getting the old land hay he wanted, which led to a discussion on the price of straw, and the difficulty of getting any, all the tenants being restricted from selling, which Pan thought a foolish rule, and Guinea a wise one; and finding that they had got on a disputed point, the major made another effort to turn the conversation by dilating on the unpunctuality of their foot-messenger with the letters, but Pantile, who had been meditating another cut on Billy, availed himself of the break to make it.
“You still have your great brown horse, I see, Mr William Bedlington,” observed he.
“I have,” replied Billy, with an emphasis, adding, “You did wrong not to buy him.” Billy and the parson had had a hard deal, and only parted for fifty shillings.
“Well, but they say he’s spavined,” observed Pantile.
“Do they?” replied Billy, adding, “As much spavined as I am.”
> “They say he’s not good in the shafts,” observed Pantile.
“Good in anything!” exclaimed Billy, adding, “That horse can draw anything.”
“Can he draw an inference?” asked Pantile.
“He can draw a ton and a half,” replied Bedlington, with a shake of his head, drawing his acre of buff waistcoat from under the table as he rose to depart. And the major, who accompanied him to the door, in order to have a few words with him about the next morning’s meet, reported on his return that it was a fine starlight night, which induced the Pantiles to stay, in order that the fine hand and arm might do a little execution on the harp; the consequence of which delay was, that it rained dogs and cats the greater part of their way home.
And Pantile declared that no power on earth should ever induce him to dine with that humbug again, and the Guineafowles unanimously agreed that the Pantiles were the most disagreeable people under the sun.
CHAPTER XXXV.
A NEW IDOL.
OUR TOM WENT to bed with a desperate heart-ache; he thought he had never seen such a beauty as Laura, and how he should ever get on without her he couldn’t for the life of him imagine. Angelena wasn’t to be compared to her, and already he began to regard that volatile lady with other than feelings of affection.
Then the fifty thousand pounds flashed across his mind and caused him to ponder. Pooh! he didn’t believe she had it; at all events, it wouldn’t be hers for nobody knew when, and Laura was worth half a hundred of her without a halfpenny. Then it occurred to him that Laura would have money — that the major wouldn’t keep hounds if he wasn’t rich; and as to his father’s objection about Longwind’s bill, Tom didn’t see any reason why the major should take up Longwind’s bill, so long as there was any chance of Longwind taking it up himself. Tom thought it showed caution rather than poverty, and liked the major the better for it.
Then it occurred to Tom that his friend Padder, who was learned in the law, being in the second year of his clerkship with Mr Habendum, had told him that heiresses’ fortunes always went to their own children; and if that was the case, Laura would be a catch, if not as great, at all events — beauty and all taken into consideration — as desirable as Angelena. Then the name of Squashington and Slumpington occurred to Tom’s mind in the accommodating way that things do turn up in aid of Cupid’s endeavours, and Tom began to doubt whether Laura mightn’t be a better spec than Angelena. He now recollected to have heard old Trueboy, the cashier, and his father discussing a city article of the ‘Times,’ stating that it would take little more than fifteen years of the existing production of gold to cause an alteration in the relations of property of 50 per cent; and if Angelena’s fifty thousand solid substantial sovereigns, as Major Fibs described them, went down one-half, and Squashington and Slumpington went up in like manner, why, then, Laura would be the best chance of the two. Of course, Tom, in these speculations, made no allowance for Laura’s sisters’ shares, who were still at Miss Birchtwig’s. Indeed, how could he, seeing he did not know of their existence? though Tights had been fully informed by Mrs Hogslard, if the punch had not driven the information out of his head. Mrs Lard — as Tights called her — and he had not quite made up their minds whether they should favour the Guineafowle speculation or not, and Tights thought he had got the length of his master’s foot to a nicety.