A DOVE OF THE SAME
I THINK it is the observant author of “Soapy Sponge,” who makes that
sporting tourist declare that “women never look so well as when you come
home from hunting.” Certainly the contrast between a cold cheerless day
out-of-doors and the luxurious atmosphere of a well-warmed,
well-ventilated house, inclines a man to view everything through a
complimentary medium, even without taking into consideration the
delightful exchange of a hard slippery saddle for the cushions of a
comfortable arm-chair, or the warmth of a blazing fire. The inside of
the Rectory was as pretty and as snug as it was possible for any house
to be. Parson Dove was one of those men in whom the bump of _comfort_ is
strongly developed, and whether he bought a warming-pan or a
wine-cooler, he was sure to get the best, and the best-looking, article
that was to be had for money.
As the three sportsmen clanked along the carpeted passage to the
drawing-room, they heard the notes of a pianoforte sounding from that
apartment, and Mr. Sawyer had barely time to summon all his fortitude,
for the subversion of his constitutional shyness, ere he found himself
ushered into that sanctuary, in the wake of the Honourable Crasher,
whom, truth to tell, just at that moment, he felt he would have followed
with less apprehension over another locked gate, or treacherous “oxer.”
It was not so formidable an undertaking, after all. There were but two
ladies, and both seemed delighted at the acquisition of visitors on so
dull a morning. The introductions were got over, none the worse that
nobody knew the stranger’s name; and both Mrs. Dove, an ample lady, with
the remains of considerable beauty, and “My daughter Cecilia,” of whom
more anon, seemed resolved to make themselves agreeable to their
guests—Mamma rather inclining to the Honourable Crasher, who was an old
friend, and had often dropped in to luncheon before; whilst the siren
Cecilia, fresh from the execution of that “sweet thing” they had heard
on the pianoforte, seemed willing to devote herself to the amusement and
possible subjugation of the stranger.
There are some men on whom young ladies feel instinctively they are but
wasting their time, and it is curious how seldom their perceptions
deceive them on this point. Of such was the Honourable C. Good-looking,
amiable, to all appearance well-off, and not over-burdened with brains,
he possessed all the attributes of an “eligible _parti_” and yet somehow
the most match-making of mothers, and the most enterprising of
daughters, always gave him up as a bad job, after the first ten minutes.
There was something about him that betrayed to female shrewdness he was
not “a marrying man,” and as they judiciously abstain from playing a
game in which the loss is not exclusively on the side of the adversary,
they let him alone accordingly.
Now, it was otherwise with Mr. Sawyer. Although you and I would have
voted him a confirmed bachelor, might even have judged him uncharitably
as somewhat rough and unpolished and unrefined, might have scouted the
idea of his being in any respect “a ladies’ man,” and laughed outright
at his competing with such a double-distilled dandy as the Honourable
C., we should thus have only exposed our ignorance of the secret springs
and impulses that move that mysterious piece of mechanism—the female
mind. Miss Dove, in the absence of any other and nobler game, had not
the slightest objection to exercise the different weapons in her armoury
on her Mamma’s friend’s friend.
These were of a sufficiently deadly character. Miss Cecilia—or “Cissy,”
as they called her at home—without being strictly pretty, was a very
attractive young lady. She had a pair of wicked black eyes, with rather
thick eyebrows; a high colour; white teeth, which she did not scruple to
display on all available occasions; and a laugh so clear and ringing and
inspiriting, that it put a man in good-humour in spite of himself. Even
in the bitterest of frosts, Papa could not be cross for five minutes
together, when “Cissy” set to work to tease him into affability. Also,
Miss Dove’s figure was exceedingly round and symmetrical; not an angle
nor a corner in those graceful, flowing lines. Her foot and ankle were
undeniable, and her hands white and well-shaped. Altogether, she would
have passed muster as good-looking in London: it is needless, therefore,
to say that she ought to have been placarded “dangerous” in
Leicestershire. Nor had this young woman neglected such opportunities of
improving her natural advantages as had come in her way. She could play
and sing with much taste and tolerable skill; she could waltz down a
strong man in pretty good training, without drawing her breath quicker
for the exertion; she could ride with a degree of nerve and judgment
seldom enjoyed by the softer sex; and, finally, she had a way of looking
down, to show her long eyelashes, which in many instances had been
productive of much loss and confusion to the adversary.
It was, you see, scarcely a fair match to pit all these qualities
against honest John Standish Sawyer, with his coarse hands and feet, his
short, square-tailed coat, ill-made boots and breeches, red whiskers,
and general diffidence.
As he sat before her, with his cap between his feet (I need hardly
observe that, like the other ornaments of the Old Country, he wore a
velvet hunting-cap), and the horn handle of his whip in his mouth, she
took the lead in the conversation; indeed, I am prepared to lay my
reader considerable odds, that, whenever he meets a lady and gentleman
together, the former is talking, and the latter listening.
Miss Dove began at him without delay:
“You’ve only just arrived, I hear; and, indeed, what unpromising weather
you find us with! I told Papa, this morning, I was sure we shouldn’t be
able to hunt; and I went and took my habit off directly after breakfast.
If there’s one thing I abominate more than another, it’s a fog; and at
Tilton Wood, too, of all places in the world! I’ve no idea of leaving a
good fire, to go and sit there with the others, like a lot of crows in a
mist; and this weather always lasts three days; and to-morrow they meet
at the best place they have; and I hope you like our country?”
Mr. Sawyer could not conscientiously affirm that he had yet _seen_ it;
so he mumbled out an unintelligible answer, and the young lady went off
again at score:
“Harborough’s getting quite a gay place, I declare. So many gentlemen
come there now, to hunt; and it’s so convenient for the railroad; and I
dare say you know Mr. Savage, and Captain Struggles, and Major Brush;
and _are_ you going to give us a Harborough ball?”
Mr. Sawyer was sufficiently experienced to take heart of grace at this
juncture, and reply, “Oh, certainly—certainly! I’m sure it will be a
capital ball. May we hope, Miss Dove, that you will come to it?”
The eyelashes went down immediately; and Miss D. was, no doubt, on the
eve of making an appropriate reply, when the announcement of luncheon,
and the simultaneous return of _Paterfamilias_, broke up the pair of
_tête-à-têtes_, and the party adjourned to the dining-room, all,
apparently, on pretty good terms with themselves—Mr. Sawyer inwardly
proud of having got so well out of the ball difficulty; “Cissy” a little
elevated with the conviction that she had made a fresh conquest (not
that it was any novelty, but the feeling is always more or less
agreeable); Papa ready for luncheon, and sanguine about the
four-year-old; Mamma enchanted to have caught a good listener; and the
Honourable Crasher in his usual state of easy and affable _nonchalance_.
It is only right to observe that the Rev. had exchanged his hunting
costume for a suit of more clerical attire, yet, somehow, had failed to
put off with his leathers an atom of his equestrian air. Even in the
fullest canonicals, you never could have taken Mr. Dove for anything but
a sportsman.
Why are people always so much pleasanter at luncheon than at dinner?
Notwithstanding John Bull’s predilection for the latter meal, as a mode
of testifying his regard, his civility, and his own respectability, I
cannot help thinking that foreigners are right to ignore that heavy
system of dinner-giving which we islanders regard as the very framework
of our social system. There is always more or less of pomposity, and
consequent restraint, attendant upon a regular set dinner in the
country. A few thorough people of the world, “worldly,” know how to ask
exactly the right three couple or so, and put them down to a hot dinner
at a round table, such as is the very acme of all festive boards; but
this is a rare quality in host and hostess. Usually, you are placed next
to a guest you don’t know, and opposite to one you don’t like. Your soup
is cold, your venison underdone; and the eyes of three or four servants
intently watching every mouthful you swallow is destruction to a
delicate appetite. In some old-fashioned houses, you may even recognise
the burly coachman assisting his fellow-domestics to wait upon the
company; and although, for my own part, I confess to a liking for “the
smell of the stables,” I cannot but admit that the flavour is somewhat
spoilt by being mixed with that of a “_salmi de gibier_,” or a
sweetbread plastered round with spinach.
But luncheon, on the contrary, is a light, exhilarating, free-and-easy
meal. Even Mr. Sawyer, as he finished his leg of pheasant and glass of
brown sherry, felt wonderfully restored by his repast. “Cissy” was a
good “doer” (ladies generally are, about two o’clock), and, till she had
disposed of her meal, gave her neighbour a little breathing-time, and
leisure to look about him.
I have often thought, although I am by no means the first person who has
made the observation, both in and out of print, how true it is that it
may be a huge disadvantage to a girl to be seen in company with her
mother. It is sometimes discouraging enough to reflect that the coveted
treasure must eventually expand into a facsimile of the dragon on guard.
Fancy, if the fruit in the Gardens of the Hesperides had been eggs
instead of apples, each golden shell enclosing the germ of just such a
monster as was grinning at the gate! To be sure, the resemblance may cut
the other way as well. I _have_ seen mammas whom the fairest of Eve’s
daughters might be proud to resemble; but it is sometimes hard upon the
young Phœbe to have perpetually at her side the shapeless Mother Bunch,
into the facsimile of which she must eventually grow. Mr. Sawyer, gazing
intently on his hostess discussing her cutlet and glass of port-wine
with considerable relish, _acknowledged_, though he would not _accept_,
the warning.
Miss Dove took after Mamma rather than Papa. The matron’s red face was a
brilliant colour in the girl; and the exuberant proportions of the one,
suggestive of good-humour, good-living, and motherly content, were but
the full, flowing outlines of perfect symmetry in the other.
However, they all got on remarkably well. Even the Honourable Crasher
made a feeble joke, of which the point somehow escaped his
listeners—without, however, destroying his own enjoyment in its
delivery. By the time Papa proposed an adjournment to the stables, to
inspect the four-year-old—“Cissy” pleading for two minutes’ law, to put
her hat on—they were all in high good-humour. If “one spur in the head”
be “worth two in the heel,” I think it is equally true that a slight
stimulant about 1.30 is twice as effectual as a feast at 7.45.
The four-year-old was a fine, lengthy, _lashing_-looking young horse, to
use a graphic expression, more akin to the kennel than the stable. He
had all that thickness of outline and _coarseness_ of particular points
which sportsmen so like to see, when pedigrees are unimpeachable, and
which are sure to grow out into eventual strength and symmetry. Mr.
Sawyer would perhaps have admired him more, had his attention not been
distracted by the apparition in the young one’s box of the following
choice assortment: viz. one pair of Balmoral-boots (arched instep and
pointed heels, after Leech); one scarlet _jupe_, short and full; one
morning-gown, very rich and voluminous, tucked and girt up all about
ditto; one pair of neat little gloved hands, with tight-fitting bust and
arms to match; and one rosy, smiling, happy face; the whole crowned by
_such_ a hat and feather as said “_Suivez moi!_” far more peremptorily
than ever did Henri Quatre’s great white _panache_. After that, he
looked very little at the four-year-old.
Poor Mr. Sawyer! When his horse was led out, to take him back to
Harborough, she patted its grey nose, and called it “_a darling_.” “A
darling!” and the ungrateful brute snorted all over her pretty face and
hands! Well, he patted its neck himself, as he rode out of the yard.
The day seemed to have improved somehow, though the fog was equally
dense, and twilight—or rather no-light—had set in. That cigar, too,
which the Honourable gave him just under Langton, he thought, was the
best he had ever smoked in his life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------