by R S Surtees
L
MR FIZZER, CONFECTIONER TO THE QUEEN
IT WAS A GOOD ARRANGEMENT of Mrs Somerville’s pitching her party to the key-note of an “At home,” they are at once such elastic and compressible entertainments. If nobody came, she was still “At home;” if half the county came, she was there also. An “At home” may mean anything—anything except a dinner. It may be merely a conjuror, it may be a magic lantern, it may be tea and turn out, it may be tea and Terpsichore, it may be a carpet dance, it may be a quiet evening and a little music, or it may be a ball and supper. It pledges itself to nothing. Still, it has this inconvenience, that unless an answer is specifically requested through the medium of those talismanic letters “R.S.V.P.,” half the recipients of cards don’t answer them, thinking it just a sort of open thing to be gone to or not as they feel inclined on the evening of the day. The absence of the letters is rather indicative of its not making much matter whether the guest comes or not. Mrs Somerville, therefore, obviated this by having the “R.S.V.P.” on her invitations, which, coupled with the novelty of anything being given at Beldon Hall, caused a great sensation throughout the country. There was no fear of any refusals, or of the invitations not being responded to. There was no hunting in Burke or Hart’s Army List, to see who Mrs Somerville was—everything was taken for granted. As soon as the first surprise had subsided, the note-paper was produced, and the answers becomingly arranged. Mr and Mrs Joseph Large, and Mr J. Bolingbroke Large, had the honour of accepting Mrs Somerville’s polite invitation, &c. Mr and Mrs Hazey, Miss Hazey, and Mr William Hazey, had much pleasure, &c., Miss Hazey thinking the party was made for her. Mr and Mrs Watkins, and Miss Watkins, had great pleasure, &c., Miss nothing doubting that the party was made for her.
Others followed quickly, the Blantons, the Pyefinches, the Cramberledges, the Ellerbys, the Baker-Bensons, the Brogdales, the Bigmores, all coming, and some asking to be allowed to bring friends, Mrs Dust pleading for a nephew, Mrs Lolly asking for the addition of a lady. Then out went more cards, and more cards still, in such numbers that if Mrs Somerville had not done old Ten-and-a-half-per-Cent. out of a hundred pounds’ worth of shares in the Half-Guinea Hat Company, the outlay for postage stamps would have been rather inconvenient. Then came the consideration of feeding the multitude.
Old Dirty could roast and boil, but as to anything like ornamental dishes, still less confectionery, it was wholly and totally out of the question. She candidly said she couldn’t do it. She, however, half solved the difficulty by suggesting that her friend Mrs Carraway, the confectioner of Hardingford, could be had over for a few days, who would be able to set out a supper fit for a prince to partake of.
“That old thing,” said Betsey to Mrs Somerville, “may be all very well in her way, but I should doubt very much her being able to set out anything superior, and in all probability she will charge you quite as much for a tenth-rate thing as a good confectioner would for a first; so why not have a first-rate one, and enjoy the credit of it?”
“Well,” replied Mrs Somerville, “there’s something in that only,” added she, after a pause, “where is one to get the superior article?”
“London, to be sure,” rejoined Betsey; “London’s the place to get everything. Get lions, tigers, unicorns, elephants, temples, pagodas, palaces,—all the skill and beauty of the most practised hands in each department of the sugary art.”
“Ah, but how about Mr Romford?” sighed Mrs Somerville.
“Ah, Mr Romford, indeed!” ejaculated Betsey, recollecting his rabbit-pie-and-cheese proposal. “Well, that is a difficulty,” added she. “Couldn’t make him believe that old Dirty had made them, could we?” asked she, after a pause.
“Oh, no; he’s far too sharp for that,” replied Mrs Somerville. “Knows every ounce of everything that comes into the house, and everything that goes out of it, too. One would think he had nothing a year, paid quarterly, instead of thirty thousand from land, and I don’t know what from other sources.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Betsey, who hadn’t heard of such money. “Well, but if it didn’t cost him anything he wouldn’t mind, perhaps, would he?” suggested Miss Shannon.
“Well, I don’t know that he would,” replied Mrs Somerville “but the thing is how to do it.”
“I think I have it,” replied Miss Shannon.
“How?” asked Mrs Somerville.
“Well, then, you see, as we are only lodgers, as the Irishman said when they told him the house was on fire, I think we may as well make hay while the sun shines; and with my fine new name and aristocratic connections, there can be no difficulty in my ordering whatever we like, and telling Mr Romford that I stand Sam for the occasion.”
“No more there will!” exclaimed Mrs Somerville, delighted at the proposal.
“Have the things directed to me, you know—‘Miss Hamilton Howard, or Mrs Hamilton Howard, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire.’”
“Capital!” exclaimed Mrs Somerville, clapping her pretty taper-fingered hands; “excellent, indeed. But we had better have in the Lovetin title, or they may take us for some of the smaller fry, and hesitate to execute the order.”
“Well, I’d have it in mildly, then,” replied Miss Shannon. “Say, ‘at the Lord Lovetin’s, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire;’ not ‘at the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Lovetin’s, Beldon Hall, Doubleimupshire,’ or they may think we are vulgar people unaccustomed to the nobility. They’ll soon refer to the Peerage, if they have any doubts, and give him all his honours themselves.”
“Then who should we give our valuable custom to?” asked Mrs Somerville.
“Oh, Fizzer, by all means. Fizzer has unlimited means, and can execute the largest order off-hand with the greatest ease. I know one of his genteel young people, who says they do business in the most liberal, confiding way,—never suspecting anybody with a handle to his name, or seeming to think it possible to be imposed upon.”
“That’s the man for us!” exclaimed Mrs Somerville.
They then discussed the form of the Fizzer order.
“‘Miss Hamilton Howard presents her compliments to Mr Fizzer,’” suggested Lucy.
“No, I wouldn’t compliment him,” replied Miss Shannon. “Too polite; might make him suspicious. Just write as you would to your milliner, in a scrawly-sprawly sort of way, saying what you want, and nothing more; leaving him a little margin for the imagination to play upon, and to enable him to suggest something himself. He may propose to supply wine too; in which case you would take him at his word, and save Mr Romford’s, who, you know, only agreed to give sherry.”
And Lucy, who was a much better writer than Betsey, whose forte lay more in her toes than her fingers, then proceeded to order a champagne supper for eighty or ninety ladies and gentlemen, to be sent to Miss Hamilton Howard, at Beldon Hall, in Doubleimupshire, on the 11th, by the train that arrived at the Firfield station at 1.30 p.m.
The next post brought down a gilt-edged extra superfine note with the words, “Fizzer, Confectioner to the Queen,” on the pink stamp of the envelope, informing Miss Hamilton Howard that her esteemed favour had come to hand and should be duly attended to, adding, that if there was any extra plate, or waiters, or anything else required, perhaps Miss Hamilton Howard would have the goodness to communicate her wishes to Mr Fizzer; thus showing how grateful London tradespeople are for being handsomely imposed upon. And the note concluded by requesting a continuance of Miss Hamilton Howard’s favours, which should at all times command Fizzer’s best attention.
So far so good. They had now got supper, plate, and extra servants if they wanted them. The minor adjuncts only remained. Lucy was now in her glory.
LI
MRS SOMERVILLE “AT HOME”
FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE; AND the ladies at Beldon Hall seemed to be particularly lucky, for a bright sunny day went down with a blood-red sky, giving goodly promise for the coming frosty night. And indeed, before Mr Romford reached his kennel, after a fairish run in the lower
part of Doubleimupshire, the ice began to crumble beneath his horse’s hoofs, and the air assumed a crisp consistency that as good as said, “Mr Francis Romford, my good friend, your invincible hounds will not be out again in a hurry.” Nor in truth did our Master care much if he stopped for a while and took stock, for several of his subscribers paid the usual convenient tribute of respect to his great riches by withholding their subscriptions, and Facey would like to have them collected. How could he ever build his hospital if they didn’t pay? In addition to this, he had two or three lame horses, besides some that were getting rather light in the girth; and as Mr Goodhearted Green had expressed his intention of being in Mr Romford’s “shire,” as he called it, towards Christmas, Facey would like to have them plumped out a little before Goodheart came. So he resigned his horse to the strong persevering man, and fed his hounds without note or comment on the future. Two things Facey eschewed—hunting in wind and a frost; and he saw plainly enough that he was in for the latter. He therefore resolved to succumb without contending with the elements—a step that it would be well if other masters were to adopt. With feelings such as these, he now waddled down to the house at a sort of half-running-half-walking kind of gait.
The first thing that struck our Master as he approached the Hall, was the disordered state of the gravelled ring before the door. When he left home in the morning it was nicely raked, but now there were the marks of two if not three carriages upon it. “Rot it!” exclaimed he, “they’ll never be done with their callers continually battledoring and shuttlecocking the cards,” thinking what a consumption of sherry and captains there would have been. “Straw, too!” added he, as he advanced farther and found a few blades, also some paper shavings. “What the deuce are they doing with straw?” Facey little thinking what two cargoes of goods Independent Jimmy had brought from the Firfield station, from Mr Fizzer’s. But when he opened the door, and found a fire blazing on either side of the great entrance-hall, his consternation knew no bounds, and he thought the quiet evening and a little music had indeed assumed vast proportions. There are, however, people who will attempt to carry off anything with a matter-of-course air, and by going boldly in they oftentimes parry, or at all events break, the force of a blow. When, therefore, Mr Romford came striding into the breakfast-room, nursing his wrath as he walked, Miss Betsey Shannon essayed to take the wind out of his sails by exclaiming, “Oh, Mr Romford! Oh, Mr Romford! haven’t we made an improvement in the hatmosphere of the ’ouse?
“Made two great blazing fires, I see,” replied Facey, gruffly adding, “but I don’t know that that will be any improvement in my pocket.”
“Oh, but it’s worth all the money,” rejoined Miss Shannon, “especially on a cold frosty night like this; and when, too, you have a few friends coming to take tea and spend the evening with you.”
“Well, well,” rejoined Mr Romford; “but there’s reason in all things—reason in all things. No use making two fires when one would do. Folks can warm themselves just as well at one fire as at two. And who’s been at the biscuits?” demanded he, reverting to his original gravel grievance.
“Nobody,” replied Lucy, boldly.
“Nobody!” retorted Facey. “Coom, that won’t do; bin two, if not three carriages here, oi’ll swear.”
“Oh, that’s Independent Jimmy with—with—” faltered Mrs Somerville.
“With what?” demanded Facey.
“Oh, just some things for Miss Shannon,” replied the lady, recollecting herself.
“Things for Miss Shannon!” retorted Facey. “Why, he must have brought half creation.”
“You see, now,” interposed Betsey, playfully taking him by the button of his red coat as she spoke,—“you see I’ve a cousin in the confectionery line, and he has lent us some little sugar ornaments and things to set the supper table out with.
Facey.—“Supper table! Why, I thought we settled there was to be a rabbit-pie and some cheese—I mean sherry and sandwiches?”
Miss Shannon.—“Oh, yes—sherry and sandwiches, too; but you know these are just ornamental things, not meant to eat, you know; and as my cousin offered them, why, we thought we might as well have them, specially as they cost nothing.”
“Cost Independent Jimmy’s journeys, at all events,” replied Mr Romford, thinking what a lot of rabbit-pies the money would have bought. However, as he couldn’t say Miss Shannon might not do as she liked with her own, he turned the conversation by exclaiming to Lucy, “And what’s there for dinner, lass?”
“Resurrection pie and roast apples,” replied Lucy.
“Resurrection pie and roast apples,” repeated Facey, adding, “well, let’s be at it as soon as you like, for oi’m very hungry and ready to be doing.”
“They’ll be ready as soon as you are,” replied Lucy, glad to see he was inclined to expedite matters, adding, “p’raps you won’t mind taking your pipe in the bedroom?”
“What for?” demanded Facey.
“Oh, only because we should like to have this room for a cloakroom.”
“Cloak-room!” replied Facey; “why the deuce can’t they put off their cloaks in the hall? What are the two great rousing fires for, I wonder?” asked he, reverting to the old grievance.
“Oh, but then the ladies must have combs and pins and looking-glasses, to arrange their hair and simpers,” observed Miss Shannon, coming to the rescue.
“Dash them! they surely don’t mean to dress their hair here?” replied Facey.
“No; but then to see it’s all right after the jolt of the road, you know.”
“Gentlemen don’t understand these things, you see,” added Miss Shannon.
“Don’t oi?” growled Facey, as if he understood a good deal more than she thought. He then rolled out of the room, wondering what the deuce the women were after—why they couldn’t have a few friends to tea without all that kick up.
It was only an uncomfortable meal as far as Lucy and Betsey were concerned, for they were anxious to expedite matters, and durst not open their mouths on the subject of the coming entertainment; while Facey seemed to dawdle over his dinner, a most unusual circumstance with him, who generally gobbled it up like a hound. If he only knew how anxious they were to get rid of him, he surely would be good enough to go. Oh dear, what a deal they had to do! And there! he was taking another slice of cheese. At length he gave his great mouth such a sounding smack as indicated he was done, and, turning short round to the fire, he stuck out his legs as if preparing for his pipe. Lucy then rang the bell for Dirtiest of the Dirty, and as she cleared the things away, Lucy took advantage of a lull in the noise to ask if Mr Romford’s fire was burning.
“Yes, mum,” replied Dirty.
“Hang these ‘at homes,’” growled Facey; “they seem to make a man not at home. Light me a candle,” added he, seeing there was no help for it. He then rose and slouched off in his slippers, muttering something as he went about “women and the price of coals.”
“Thank goodness, he’s gone!” exclaimed Betsey, almost as soon as he had closed the door.
“Hush!” rejoined Lucy; “you don’t know what quick ears he has. Now he is away,” added she, as she heard him turn up the passage leading to his bedroom. The ladies then laid their heads together to expedite matters—so much to do, and so little time to do it in. The fact was, Facey should not have had any dinner at home that day. And to aggravate matters, there came notes from parties begging, as the greatest possible favour, to be allowed to bring others, or exchange samples, with the weary bearers waiting for answers, and of course retarding matters down below.
Eight o’clock now struck—quicker, if possible, and more impulsively than usual—and it wanted but an hour, one short hour, until the grand company would be entitled to come; and there is always some stupid gawk who arrives at the exact moment, doing as much mischief as a score of people would do. But, thanks to Mr Percival Pattycake, Mr Fizzer’s head man, things were well forward, which they would have had little chance of being if the Dir
ties had been in command, for they all so bent on admiring themselves in their well-distended white muslin dresses, with cherry-colour sashes and little jaunty caps, as to be perfectly forgetful of the fact that they were meant to do anything but giggle and amuse themselves.
Very pretty they all were, though Dirtiest of the Dirty was decidedly the belle of the party, with her sylph-like figure, large languishing eyes, pearly teeth, and beautiful hands. She, however, felt rather hurt that, as a lady’s maid, she was not allowed to wear a low-necked dress. “There should be a distinction made,” she said, “in favour of upper servants.”
Billy Balsam and Bob Short, too, got into their shorts in good time; and Billy was so disguised by his powdered head and gaudy livery, that none of the Lonnergan family—not even old “Rent should-never-rise” himself—recognised him.
But the great metamorphosis of the evening was that of our gigantic friend Proudlock, the keeper, whom Lucy had induced to put on a splendid green-and-gold French chasseur’s uniform that Betsey had got down from the same unhappy hook-nose who supplied the liveries. There, with defiant false moustaches and a lofty feather-plumed cocked hat, Proudlock stood at the front door, receiving the carriages as they came up, striking awe and astonishment into the minds of the beholders.
One thing, to be sure, had been omitted in the arrangements, namely, to provide stable-room for the horses and refreshments for the servants. And as carriage after carriage set down, with the usual inquiry of the giant where they were to put up, the coachmen were told that he didn’t know anything about putting up. Indeed, it never seemed to have occurred to the ladies that they would want anything of the sort. “As strong as a horse,” is a familiar phrase; and what did it mean but the power of resisting hunger and cold. Besides, how did the cab-horses and things do in London? Who, in the midst of preparations like these, could think of such things? “Drive on!” was therefore the order of the day. And now let us look at matters inside the house.