by R S Surtees
“A, why, the house is full; and arre got to go for the Dobbinsons after ar set ye doon, and then for aud Mowser and the Dusts. Arm sure ar don’t know when ar shall get them all there.” Saying which, Jimmy gave each of his old nags a refresher with his whip, as if to say, “Let us get ye set doon as quick as ar can.” So they bowled along at a somewhat amended pace.
There was indeed a great to-do at Dalberry Lees. It was so long since the Watkinses had had a great spread, that many things had “gone to pieces quite cliver” in the hands of the servants since the event. The late butler, for instance, had imposed upon ingenuous Willy by showing him a shelf full of lamp-glasses when he left, saying he “’Sposed he needn’t take them all down,” and when they came to be wanted taken down they were all found to be broken, the whole sides having been placed outside for show. Many other departments were in a similar state of dilapidation, so that the energies of the family were by no means confined to the acquisition of fish, soups, or poultry. Besides, a dinner party and a house full of company are very different things. A dinner party can combine the united services of the whole establishment; whereas a house full of company scatters the forces to the different departments, thus depriving the commander-in-chief of any extra assistance.
Then, what with men who come without valets, men who come without grooms, coachmen who won’t wash their masters’ carriages, to say nothing of the requirements of those most elegant and sensitive creatures, the ladies’ maids—who are often much more difficult to please than their mistresses,—the house is regularly turned up-side down. The servants considering their characters for hospitality quite as much involved as those of their masters, the only wonder is that anything gets into the dining-room at all. On the last occasion, when Willy thought to have a nice dish of hashed venison for his dinner after the company were gone, he found some lingering grooms had eaten it all for their luncheons! Very different are the toils of town hospitality to those of the country.
But we are now approaching those magnificent crest-decorated lodges that aroused Independent Jimmy’s wrath on the occasion of the Romfords’ arrival, and the leafless trees show the glittering sun lighting up the many-windowed house as if for a complimentary illumination. A rather winding approach through a few flat iron-fenced fields discloses its further proportions; not so fine as Pippin Priory, not so large as Beldon Hall, but still very good and comfortable. Facey, however, wished himself going away from it instead of coming. A few jip-jips and jerk-jerks from Independent Jimmy lays the vehicle well alongside the blue pipe clayed steps of the sash-windowed front-door, and Jimmy’s ring immediately conjures up a tableau of livery footmen with a portly butler in the background. The melon-frame compartments then began to fold, slide, and recede, and the iron steps being clattered down, first Lucy and then Dirty, being extricated from their confinement, began to shake themselves out to their natural, or rather unnatural, proportions. Mr Romford, too, alights, and stamps and flops himself generally—thinking that life would be very pleasant if it were not for its enjoyments.
“Ar’ll tac the luggage roond,” now said Independent Jimmy, regaining his box, whereupon Lucy took Mr Romford’s arm, while Dirtiest of the Dirty sheered off for the back settlements under convoy of a passing page. The procession then proceeded.
“Mr Romford and Mrs Somerville,” announced Lucy, slowly and distinctly to Mr Burlinson, the portly butler, who now duly received them at the hands of his subalterns the footmen, and forthwith proceeded to pilot them along the passages just as he used to pilot the great guests at his late master’s, Lord Omnibus, until the exigencies of Burlinson’s betting-book compelled him to pawn his lordship’s plate. Burlinson, like Bob Short, had undergone captivity; but we will draw a veil over all that. We are now going to raise the curtain for the domestic tableau of “reception”—or, perhaps, “deception.”
Although when the Romford-Somerville alarm-bell rang, Mrs Watkins was half choked with anger at Priscilla Pallister, the housemaid, for not having the best lace-fringed toilet-cover on to Mrs Somerville’s dressing-table, she yet managed to smother the remainder of her rage, and had subsided into a luxurious cabriole frame chair in burnished gold, covered in needlework, with a copy of the “Cornhill Magazine” in her hand, when her visitors were heralded into her splendid drawing-room by her obsequious butler. Miss, too, who had been busy examining the fit and folds of her new dress in her own cheval glass, had rushed down the back stairs and got herself settled to her harp, the exertion of running imparting a slight glow to her naturally pale cheek. Mrs Watkins was so absorbed with her book that Burlinson had opened the door and got his guests piloted half up the room ere she awoke to a consciousness of the presence of strangers, when, laying down the number on the table, she hastily arose and advanced to meet them. Standing on her own territory, surrounded with elegance and splendour, she felt that now was her time to patronise; so, meeting Mrs Somerville, she seized her eagerly with both hands and imprinted a kiss on her right cheek. Facey stood transfixed, for he was not sure but he ought to reciprocate the compliment; but Lucy, anticipating the dilemma, just drew him a little forward, saying, with a pressure on his arm, “My brother, Mr Romford;” and the gobby girl then entering the room and joining the group, they got through the presentations without further confusion. Chairs were then the order of the day.
If the half-hour before a London dinner party is a bore, pity, oh pity—the sorrows of a man—a poor young man—condemned to two mortal hours in the country before that interesting period. Tea has somewhat come in to the relief of the ladies, but it does nothing for men—especially those unaccustomed to take the bloom off their appetites. Indeed it was rather a stumbling-block to friend Facey; for Mrs Watkins, having proposed some to Lucy, who declined it, said she supposed it was no use offering any to Mr Romford, whereupon our master replied “No; he’d come to dine, and not to tea,” an observation that the gobby girl giggled at, thinking it was meant to be funny.
And here let us say a little more about our heroine—heroine No.2, at least, for we mean to be so extravagant as to indulge in two. If Miss Cassandra Cleopatra would not have been picked out as a beauty in a crowd, she would nevertheless have passed muster as an exceedingly showy, handsomely-dressed girl, being well set up and set out, with a calm, cool, self-possession, betokening either perfect ease or perfect indifference. Taken however singly, as we have her this evening, without any competitor, surrounded by all the luxuries and elegancies of life, she was calculated to make a speedy impression, and as she lithped and talked—and lithped and talked, now about horthes, now about houthes, Facey gradually and insensibly began to be attracted by her. At first he thought her lisp was affected, and that she ought to be whipped, but he soon got used to it, and then thought it rather pretty indeed. He presently summed up his observations by a mental repetition of the opinion he delivered as he saw her getting into the carriage at Beldon Hall, namely, that she was a good-like lass.
While all this was going on, Mr Willy Watkins, whose whole soul, as we said before, was centered in dressing and dinner giving, was taking his last survey of the dining-room, preparatory to handing it over to Lieutenant-Colonel Burlinson. It was, indeed, a grand display. There wasn’t an article of plate in the house, except perhaps Willy’s silver shaving-box, but what was enlisted into the service, either on the table or sideboards.
At length, having got everything most tastefully arranged on the usual principle of appearing to have twice as much money as they had, Willy took a last lingering look, and then, passing noiselessly into the passage, crowned himself with a drab wide-awake, with an eagle’s feather in the parti-coloured band, and came whistling along into the drawing-room, as if unaware of any arrival.
“Ah, my dear Mrs Somerville!” exclaimed he, with well-feigned surprise, advancing gaily towards her with extended hand, “I didn’t know you were come. Pray, ’scuese my not being in to receive you,” continued he, as he squeezed the pretty widow’s little hand with considerable
empressement. Mrs W. couldn’t see that, he knew.
Then, without waiting for an introduction, he turned short upon Facey, with his puddingy paw, and said,
“Most happy to see you, sir,” shaking his hand as he said it. “I hope you are quite well, Mr Romford? I hope your hounds are quite well? I hope your horses are quite well?” Just as if they formed part of the family.
Romford assured him they were all quite well, and would be ready to bucket a fox for him in the mornin’. Whereupon the dreadful word fox shot through Willy’s heart like a dagger, and almost deprived him of utterance.
“Why were foxes ever made?” thought he. “Confound their nasty aroma! Confound their nasty precipitation!”
Then Facey, ever anxious to do business, began sounding him about the game at Dalberry Lees: whether there were any pheasants, whether there were many hares; if there would be any harm in his looking over the place occasionally with his dog and his gun, meaning of course, might he shoot there. And while the photographer in vain endeavoured to read his wife’s meaning by her looks, the waning day was suddenly extinguished by the entry of the servants with lights—lights—more lights.
This gave Mrs Watkins an opportunity of saying, that perhaps Mrs Somerville might like to see her room; which offer being joyfully accepted, the drop-scene presently fell on the first act of the Dalberry Lees drama, by Mr Watkins leading Facey off to his apartment.
It must be a great relief to a lady getting away from the forced conversation of the overture to the tranquillity of her own bedroom, there to economise and rearrange her small talk, and contemplate the coming glory—perhaps victory of dress.
On a spacious sofa, between the magnificent bed and the sparkling wood and coal fire, lay a most voluminous coloured ribboned and twilled and flounced and flowered robe, so puffy and distended that a little distance would have made it look like a lady reclining at her ease.
On a richly inlaid Indian work-table on the right, lay a splendid wreath of pearls, with three important pendants.
“Oh, what loves of pearls!” ejaculated Mrs Watkins, clasping her hands, thinking how she would cut Mrs Somerville down with her diamonds.
Meanwhile, Mr Watkins having got Mr Romford into the state bedroom, looked round with an air of complacency, hoping there was everything our master wanted, adding, that there was plenty of time to dress, the first gong not having sounded, and there would be half an hour after that. And, having withdrawn, Facey, who could jump into his clothes in ten minutes, thought, that as he might not get his pipe after dinner, he had better have it before. So drawing a lounging chair to the fire, he dived into his side-pocket for the material, and was presently blowing a cloud, with a grand illumination going on all around. He didn’t care for the candles—not he. A most scientific roll of thunder then presently proceeded from the gong, reminding Lucy of the cavern scene in Der Freischutz, and noting the lapse of time to friend Facey. Having finished his pipe, he then inducted himself into his new clothes—so handsomely furnished on credit.
After a satisfactory contemplation of himself in the mirror, he at length left the elegant room; and, following the richly-patterned crimson stair-carpet down below, he presently found himself in a confluence of corners and stayers, all making for the drawing-room door. There was Mr Burlinson receiving the candle of one guest and the name of another, while a couple of footmen stood bowing and motioning the ladies to Mr Watkins’s study, now made into a cloak-room for them. Mr Romford then walked into the drawing-room with the consequence of a master of hounds, combined with the air of a man having a billet for the night. The man who sleeps where he dines always has a sort of crow over the pumps and pocket-comb one, who has to turn out in the cold—snow, blow, wind, or rain, whatever may have chanced to come in the meantime. What a bore, turning out and finding the country half a foot under snow—getting a shoeful of it at starting by way of convincing one of the fact!
XXXIII
THE DALBERRY LEES UPROAR IN HONOUR OF MR ROMFORD
PEOPLE WILL TALK TO EACH other even up to the last moment—while some even begin before a quick-eared departing listener is well out of hearing. Mr Romford, on entering the drawing-room, now disturbed a covey of male and female inquisitives all clustered around Burke’s bulky book of the Landed Gentry, as it lay open on the richly-covered side-table. We need scarcely say they were down on the letter “R”—R, for Romford—Romford, here it is!—“Romford, Francis, Abbeyfield Park, J.P., D.L., patron of three livings”—that’s your man.
It seems that old Miss Mowser, who knew, or pretended to know, everything, had raised a doubt as to the identity of our hero, Miss Mowser contending that the Abbeyfield Romford was a little man with dark hair, whereas this Mr Romford was said to be a big one with red or gingery hair. Not that she had ever seen either Mr Romford, but—and here her narrative was interrupted by the entry of the big Mr Romford himself. Hush! was then the word. The book closed, and parties shied away from the table as if they had not been looking at it, but at “Ye Manners and Customs of the English” instead. Mr Watkins then advanced to do the duties of induction by presenting some of the non-hunting portion of his patrons—Mr Romford, Mr Lolley; Mr Romford, Mrs Dobbinson; Mr Romford, Mr Dust; and one gave him a bow, and another a hand, and a third both bow and hand. Then some sportsmen came wriggling up; men whom he ought to know, but, somehow, could not identify without their coats and their caps; and Facey addressed one man as Silver, who he ought to have called Salver; and another, whose grandfather had been a hatter, by his nickname of Mr Felt, instead of that of Mr Finch. Altogether he was very uncomfortable, and felt he was making a mull of it. Why the deuce did he come? He had plenty to eat at home—drink too. He didn’t know what to do; whether to stand by the fire or sit on the sofa, or take up a paper and pretend to read.
Lucy, on her part, was as cool and collected as a handsome, well-dressed woman who has received the unanimous plaudits of the gods of the Victoria Theatre might be expected to be, conscious that the ladies must admire her new dress, whatever they thought of her figure and complexion. The gentlemen, she knew, would admire those and her figure not the less for being finely developed. So she twisted and turned, and smiled, and showed her fine shoulders and her fine teeth, and laid herself out for general admiration. And a good deal of admiration she got, much to Miss Watkins’s mortification, who did not fancy being cut out in that way in her papa’s own house. But she would try if she couldn’t upset Mrs Somerville from Beldon Hall. So she quietly bided her time.
At length Mr Burlinson the butler’s large white waistcoat was seen looming up the room, without the customary convoy of guests, and Mr Watkins, who had previously requested friend Facey to take his wife into dinner, having finished a platitude he was enunciating about the state of the moon, now presented his great red arm to Mrs Somerville and led her off to the radiant apartment illuminated with the joint efforts of fire, candles, and oil. It was a perfect blaze of light. Mrs Somerville having trod the passage, entered the dining-room with measured step, like a Tragedy Queen, and subsided in her seat on Mr Watkins’s right.
Then Dirtiest of the Dirties’ lessons operated favourably; for Facey, having seen Lolley, and Dobbinson, and Dust, the man whom he called Silver (but Salver), Felt, and all duly passed off, brought up the rear with Mrs Watkins: our master inwardly hoping, as he crossed what he called the vale of the entrance-hall, that—in schoolboy parlance—her meat might presently stop her mouth. So they sailed majestically up the spacious dining-room to the top of the table, where, by one of those masterly manœuvres that ladies understand so much better than men, Facey found Cassandra Cleopatra spreading her napkin over her voluminous dress on his right, just as Mrs Watkins subsided in her great arm-chair on the left. “Rot it,” thought Romford, “but I shall be talked to death between you.” He then picked the bun out of his napkin, and spreading as much of the latter over his legs as his fair friend’s dress allowed him to do, he took a glance down the table to see what there was in
the way of what he called “grub.”
“Humph! I thought it had been a dinner,” observed he, in tone of disappointment, to his hostess; “but there seems nothin’ but fruit and things, like a flower-show.”
“Dinner à la Russe,” replied Mrs Watkins, thinking he was joking, at the same time handing him a finely-embroidered French bill of fare.
“Ah, there’s nothin’ like a good cut at a round of beef when one’s hungry,” observed Facey, laying it down again.
A servant, with two plates of soup, then asked him whether he would take thick or clear turtle?
“Thick,” replied Facey, thinking it would be the most substantial of the two.
The servant then set it down before him.
“Here! give us both!” exclaimed he, seeing how little there was in the plate he had got. He then took the other and placed it in front of him until he was done with the first. And he supped and slushed just like one of his own hounds.
“What’s this stuff?” now demanded Facey, as servant offered him a green glass of something.
“Punch, sir,” replied the man.
“Set it down,” replied Romford, continuing his soup. Having finished both plates of turtle, he quaffed off the glass, and was balancing himself on his chair, raking the guests fore and aft, and considering whether mock-turtle or real turtle was best, when his lisping friend on his right interrupted his reverie by asking him if he was fond of flowers.
“Whoy, yes,” replied Facey, carelessly, “they are well enough in their way,” adding, “and I’m fond of hounds, but I don’t like havin’ them in the dinner-room.”
Miss saw she had made a wrong cast, so did not follow up the inquiry by pointing out the beauty of the heaths and geraniums in the blue and silver vase before her, as she intended doing.