A GARDEN-PARTY AT UPLANDS.
Although it was only in the first days of July, it had become
thoroughly evident that the London season was on the wane. After a
lengthened period of inaction, there had been a fierce parliamentary
struggle brought about by that rising young gladiator Mr. Hope
Ennythink, who had impeached the Prime Minister, brought the gravest
charges against the Foreign Secretary, accused the Chancellor of the
Exchequer of crass ignorance, and riddled with ridicule the
incompetence of the First Lord of the Admiralty. As Mr. Hope
Ennythink spoke with a certain amount of cleverness and a great
amount of brass, as he was thoroughly up in all the facts which he
adduced,--having devoted his life to the study of Hansard, and being a
walking edition of that popular work,--and as he was warmly supported
by the Opposition, whose great leaders thought highly of the young
man, he ran the Government very hard, and gave the Treasury-whips a
great deal of trouble to secure even the slight majority which pulled
them through. But immediately the fight was over, it was evident that
the session was on the point of closing. There was no more excitement;
it was very hot weather; and the session and the season were
simultaneously doomed. However, the wives and daughters of the members
were determined to die hard; there would be at least a fortnight
before the prorogation of Parliament, and during that fortnight
dinners, balls, fêtes, and opera-visitings were carried on with
redoubled activity. To a good many, condemned to autumnal pinchings
and scrapings in a dull country-house, it was the last taste of
pleasure until next spring.
Upon the gentlemen attached to the room No. 120, in the Tin-Tax
Office, the general state of affairs was not without its effect. Mr.
Kinchenton was away for his holiday--he generally chose July as the
best month for little Percy's sea-bathing--and he rung the changes
between Worthing, Bognor, and Littlehampton, in one of which places he
would be found in an entire suit of shepherd's-plaid, and always with
a telescope slung round him. Mr. Dibb, his liver in a worse state than
ever with the hot weather, had felt himself compelled to quit the
pleasant environs of Clapton, where he ordinarily resided, and had
taken a bedroom at Windmill-Hill, Gravesend, whence he came up to his
office every morning, having immediately established sworn animosity
with every guard and regular passenger on the North-Kent Railway, and
having regular hand-to-hand combats with the man who sat opposite to
him, as to whether the window should be up or down--combats commencing
at Gravesend and finishing at New Cross. Upon Mr. Boppy had come a new
phase of existence, he having persuaded Mrs. Boppy, for the first time
since their marriage, to go on a visit to some country friends, thus
leaving him his own master _pro tem_. And Mr. Boppy availed himself of
this opportunity to give a bachelor-party, cards and supper, at which
Mr. Pringle was the master of the revels, and they all enjoyed
themselves very much, and talked about it afterwards to Mr. Boppy;
little thinking of the unrevealed misery that wretched convivialist
was enduring on account of his being unable to rid the window-curtains
of the smell of tobacco-smoke, by which Mrs. B. would learn of the
past symposium, and would "warm" her husband accordingly. Mr. Prescott
and Mr. Pringle had been going on much the same as usual; and Mr.
Crump never went out of town because his pay was stopped when he was
absent from his office, and he never had any friends who wished to see
him.
It was a very hot morning, the sun blazed in through the windows of
No. 120, aid upon the head of Mr. Pringle, who was copying items of
account on to a large ruled sheet of paper.
"Item, every horse for draught or burden--item, each dog, sheep,
swine--I'll be blowed if I'll do any more of it," said Mr. Pringle,
casting down his pen and rubbing his head. "I must have some
soda-water! Prescott, James, was there too much lemon in
Quartermaine's punch last night, or was it that the whitebait are
growing too large to be wholesome? Something was wrong, I know! Crump,
my boy, you're nearest the cellar; just hand me a bottle of the
corrective."
Mr. Crump certainly was nearest the cellar, which was in fact the
cupboard which should have been his property, but which had been
appropriated by Messrs. Pringle and Prescott as a soda-water store.
"That's a good fellow; now you're up, would you mind just handing me a
bit of ice out of the basin? Thanks! What a good Crumpy it is! What's
the matter, Mr. Dibb?"
"Can't you be silent for an instant, Mr. Pringle? You are perpetually
gabbling. Can't you let us have a moment's peace?"
"I can generally," said Mr. Pringle, with an affectation of great
frankness; "but, somehow, not this morning. I seem to be inspired by
this delicious fluid. I think I shall write a book called Songs of
Soda-water, or Lays of the Morning after. That wouldn't be a bad
title, would it, Dibb?"
Mr. Dibb took no notice of this beyond glaring at Mr. Boppy, who had
laughed; and there was silence for a few minutes, broken by Mr.
Prescott, who said, "When do you go on leave, George?"
"In September, sir," replied Pringle. "That's the genial month when
the leaves come off."
"Where are you going?"
"That depends upon how much tin I've got. It strikes me, from the
present look-out, that the foreign watering-place of Holloway is
about as far as I shall be able to get. There's a tightness in the
money-market that's most infernal."
"Why don't you apply to your godfather, old Townshend? He's always
treated you with kindness."
"Yes; with un-remitting kindness! wouldn't send me a fiver to save me
from gaol. Oh, no! I'll manage somehow. When are you going?"
"Well, I wanted a few days in September myself, if I could get away.
I've some shooting offered me at Murray's."
"Murray's? Oh, ah! the parent of that nice little girl! je twig. And
the Paterfamilias is a jolly old bird, isn't he, and likes his drink,
and has plenty of money? in which case pater-familiarity does not
breed contempt."
"They are old friends of my people, you know; and the old gentleman's
been very civil to me."
"Ah! and the young lady hasn't been rude, has she?--at least I judged
not, from 'what I saw. She rides deuced well; but what a long time she
takes to mount! and when you had swung her to the saddle, I noticed
that her reins took an immense deal of arranging!"
"Don't be an idiot, George! you're always fancying things."
"And you're always fancying girls, and my life's passed in keeping you
out of scrapes."
"By the way, do you ever see any thing of--"
"Of _the other?_ Ah, base deceiver! fickle as the wind, or the what's
his name! Yes, I've met poor Kitty once or twice, and, without any
nonsense, she looked thoroughly seedy and worn."
"Poor dear Kitty, I'm so sorry! I--"
"Oh, yes, we know all about it; 'he loves and he rides away,' and all
the rest of it. But, joking apart, Master Jim, it's a very good thing
that business is over. I was really 'afraid at one time you were going
to grief. But--hollo! for me?" These last words thrown off at a
tangent to a messenger who entered the room with a letter.
"No, sir; for Mr. Prescott."
"Ah! I don't like letters generally; but that's not a blue one, and
looks tolerably healthy. What's it about, James?"
"Read for yourself;" and Mr. Prescott tossed the letter over to him.
"Mrs. Schröder--garden fête--Uplands," said Pringle, reading. "Oh, ah!
I knew all about that, but I didn't mention it, because I wasn't sure
that you'd be asked; and as a certing persing is going, you'd have
been as mad as a hatter at losing the chance of meeting her."
"What's Uplands?" asked Prescott.
"Uplands is no end of a jolly place which Schröder has taken for the
summer and autumn. He has got some tremendous operation in the mines,
or the funds, or some of those things that those City fellows get so
brutally rich with; and he must be in town two or three times a week.
So instead of going to Switzerland, as he intended, he has rented
Uplands, which is about seven miles from town, and might be seventy.
Out north way, through Whittington; stunning Italian villa, fitted up
no end, with conservatories, and big grounds, and a lake, and all
sorts of fun. Belonged to another City buffer, who's over-speculated
himself and gone to Boulogne. That _is_ a comfort; they do go to smash
sometimes; but even then they've generally settled as much as the
Chief Commissioner's income on their wives. Schröder heard of this;
pounced upon it at once; and this is to be Mrs. Schröder's first
garden-party."
"I'm very glad I'm asked, if--"
"Glad you're asked! I should think so; it'll be a first-rate party.
There'll be no shy ices or Cape cup; Gunter does the commissariat; the
Foreign Office has been instructed to send a lot of eligible Counts;
and Edgington will supply the marquee."
"I was going to say, when you were kind enough to interrupt me, that
I'm glad I'm asked, if Miss Murray is to be there."
"She'll be there, sir, fast enough; and you shall devote yourself to
her, and be the Murray's Guide; and I'll be your courier, and go
before you to see that all is square. I mean to enjoy myself that day,
and no mistake."
"This is the place, Jim!" said Mr. Pringle, as on the day of the party
they drove in a hansom along a meadow-bordered road some two miles the
country side of the little village of Whittington. "That's the house,
that white building with the high tower; no end of a smoke-room that
tower makes! it's fitted up with lounges and Indian matting; all the
windows hook outwards, and there's a view all over every where! What a
lot of traps, too!--like the outside of the Star and Garter on a
Sunday afternoon. That's the Guards' drag, I suppose; I know there was
a lot of them coming down--"
"And there's old Murray's carriage; I'd know that any where,"
interrupted Prescott.
"Is it? well, then, you'll be all right. Easy, cabby; we don't want to
be thrown into the very midst of the aristocracy; we'll get out here,
and walk quietly up."
Mr. Pringle had by no means given an exaggerated description of the
beauties of Uplands. The house stood on the brow of the hill, under
which nestled the little village of Whittington, the only cluster of
buildings within a couple of miles' range. All round it lay large
meadows, through which flowed, in tiny silver thread, the river Brent;
while far away on the horizon lay a thick heavy cloud betokening the
position of Babylon the Great. In the house the rooms, though somewhat
low, were large and cheerful, and the grounds were laid out in every
variety of exquisite taste. There were broad lawns, whereon the
croquet-players loved to linger; and noble terraces where the elderly
people sat, sheltered alike from the sun and the wind; and dark
winding shady walks, down which, at the close of evening, couples
would be seen stealing, and being questioned on their return, would
declare that they had been to see the syringa,--a statement which was
invariably received with derision, or, as the poet hath it, "Doubts
would be muttered around, and the name be suggested of Walker." And
there was a large lake with a real Venetian gondola upon it, very
black and gloomy, and thoroughly realising the notion of a "coffin
clapt in a canoe," and a large light shallop with an awning, and a
couple of outriggers and a water-quintain for those people who
preferred athletics to ease, and sunstrokes to comfort.
"This is the right sort of thing, isn't it, my boy?" said Mr. Pringle,
as they passed along. "I suppose you could put up with a crib like
this, couldn't you? What a lot of people! every body in London here!
How do, doctor? Dr. Prater, very good little party; took me behind the
scenes at the Opera once, and gave me a certificate when I wanted
sick-leave. See that tall man in the fluffy white hat? Mincing-Lane
fellow merchant; named Hill; capital fellow, but drops his _h_'s
awfully. They call him the _Malade Imaginaire_, because he calls
himself 'ill when he isn't. That's his wife in the black dress with
white spots on it, like change for a sovereign. Those two tall fellows
are in the Second Life-Guards. Look at the nearest one to us, that's
Punch Croker; don't he look like an ape? I always long to give him a
nut: the other man's Charley Greville, a very good fellow; they tell a
capital story about him. His uncle was a tremendous old screw, who
left Charley his heir. When the will was read, the first clause
contained the expression of a hope that his debts would not be paid.
Charley had a copy of this clause sent round to all the creditors,
with an indorsement that he, as executor, would religiously fulfil the
desire of the deceased. There was a terrible scrimmage about it, and
the lawyers are at it now, I believe."
"Isn't this our man--Beresford?"
"Of course it is, and there's Mr. Schröder close by him. We'll go up
and make our salaams."
So the young men wound through the crowd, and were very cordially
received by Mrs. Schröder, and indeed by Mr. Beresford. For the
Commissioner knew his popularity in the Office and was pleased at it,
and was always glad to meet decent-looking men belonging to it in
society. "It improved the tone of the confounded place," he used to
say. Talking to Mrs. Schröder was Mr. Sergeant Shivers, one of the
ornaments of the Old-Bailey bar; a tremendously eloquent man in the
florid and ornate style, with a power of cross-examination calculated
to turn a witness inside out, and a power of address able to frighten
the jury into fits; but who scorned all these advantages, and was
never so happy as when talking of and to great people. He was on his
favourite topic when Prescott and Pringle arrived.
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Schröder," he was saying, "isn't it sad? The duchess
herself sent for me, and said, 'Now, Mr. Sergeant, speak to him
yourself. You have experience of life; above all, you have experience
of our order. Tell Philip what will be the result of this marriage
with Lady Di!' I promised her grace I would; and I did. I spoke not
only to Lord Philip, but to Lord Ronald and Lord Alberic, his
brothers. But it was no good; the marriage has come off, and now the
poor duchess is in despair. Ah! there's Lady Nettleford! I must go and
condole with her on the affair;" and the learned sergeant bowed
himself off.
"Ah! 'Good-by to the bar and its moaning,' as Kingsley says,"
remarked Mr. Pringle. "What a dreary bird! Now I see you're fidgetting
to be off, Jim; and I know perfectly well why; so we'll go and look
after the Murray. What a pity she's not got up in red, like her
namesakes! then we could recognise her a mile off."
"There she is!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Prescott. "There! just crossing
the end of the croquet-ground. I'm off, George. I shall find you in
plenty of time to go together;" and Mr. Prescott strode away in great
haste.
"Very good," said Mr. Pringle; "'and she was left lamenting.' I
believe I am in the position of the daughter of the Earl of Ellin; if
not, why not? There's no fair young form to hang upon me; man delights
me not nor woman either; so I'll see if there's any moselle-cup
handy."
Among those present at the Uplands _fête_ were Frank Churchill and
Barbara. Alice Schröder had made a great point of their coming; and
though at first Barbara refused, yet her husband so strongly seconded
the invitation, that she at length gave way and consented. It was a
trying time for Barbara: she knew she would there be compelled to meet
many of the members of that old set amongst which her youth had been
passed, and which she had so sedulously avoided since her marriage,
and she was doubtful of her reception by them. Not that that would
have distressed Barbara one jot; she would have swept past the great
Duchess of Merionethshire herself with uplift eyebrows and extended
nostrils; but she knew that Frank was horribly sensitive, and she
feared lest any of his sympathies should be jarred. Moreover, she felt
certain that Captain Lyster would be at the Uplands; and though since
the day of the little outbreak his name had not been mentioned, and
all having been made up with a kiss had gone smoothly since, Barbara
had an inward dread that the sight of him would arouse Frank's wrath
and lead to mischief. However, they came. Barbara was very charmingly
dressed; and if her face were a little pale and her expression
somewhat anxious, her eye was as bright and her bearing as proud as
ever. Alice Schröder received her in the warmest manner, kissed her
affectionately, and immediately afterwards without the slightest
intention planted a dagger in her breast, by expressing delight at
"seeing her among her old friends again." "These old friends"--_i.e_.
persons whom she had been in the habit of constantly meeting in
society, and who had envied and hated her--were gathered together in
numbers at Uplands, and all said civil things to Barbara; indeed, the
great Duchess of Merionethshire actually stepped forward a few
paces--a condescension which she very rarely granted,--and after
welcoming Barbara, begged that Mr. Churchill might be presented to
her, "as a gentleman of whom she had heard so much." Barbara rather
opened her eyes at this; but after the presentation it was explained
by the duchess saying, "My son-in-law, Lord Halley, has often
expressed his recognition of the services rendered to him by your pen,
Mr. Churchill." For Lord Halley was Foreign Secretary at that time,
and certainly gave Churchill plenty of opportunities of defending
him. And as they moved away, Barbara heard the duchess say, "What a
fine-looking man!" and Mr. Sergeant Shivers, who was thoroughly
good-natured, began loudly blowing the trumpet of Frank's abilities.
So that Barbara was happier than she had been for some time; and her
happiness was certainly not decreased by seeing that the cloud had
left Frank's brow, and that he looked in every way his former self.
"Now, Barbara," said Alice Schröder, approaching them, "we are getting
up two new croquet sets, and want members for each. You'll play, of
course? I recollect how you used to send me spinning at Bissett--oh,
by the way, have you heard? poor dear Sir Marmaduke, so ill at Pau, or
somewhere--"
"Ill? Sir Marmaduke ill?"
"Yes, poor dear! isn't it sad? And Mr. Churchill will play too; but
not on the same side. I can't have you on the same side; you're old
married people now; and both such good players too! Let me see;
Captain Lyster, will you take Mrs. Churchill on your side?"
Captain Lyster bowed, shook hands, and expressed his delight. Frank
Churchill shook hands with Lyster; but as he did so, a flush passed
over his face.
"Now, then, that set is full," said Mrs. Schröder; "who is the captain
of the other set, playing at the other ground? oh, you, Mr. Pringle!
Will you take Mr. Churchill away with you; you only want one, I
think?"
"No, madam," said Pringle, with a serio-comic sigh; "I only want one;
but I shall want that one all my life. Come along, Mr. Churchill." And
he and Frank started off to the lower lawn together.
Barbara had always been very fond of croquet. She played well; relying
more upon the effectiveness of her aim than the result of her
calculations. She had a perfect little foot; and she croqueted her
adversaries far away with as much science as malice. She enjoyed the
game thoroughly, as, not having played for months, she rejoiced at
finding that she retained all her skill; but she could not help
perceiving that Captain Lyster was dull and preoccupied, and that he
attended so little to the game as to require perpetual reminding when
it was his turn to play. Indeed, despite all Barbara's exertions, they
might have lost the game--for their opponents were wary and
persevering--had it not been for the steady play of their coadjutors,
Mr. Prescott and Miss Murray, who evinced a really remarkable talent
for keeping close together, and nursing each other through all the
difficult hoops. At length they won with flying colours, and were
going to begin a new game, when Captain Lyster said, "Mrs. Churchill,
I should be so grateful for a few minutes' talk with you on a really
important subject. Please, don't play again, but let us stroll."
Barbara had all faith in Fred Lyster's truth and honour; she had known
him for years, and more than half-suspected the secret of his early
attachment to Alice; so that she had no hesitation in saying,
"Certainly, Captain Lyster, if you wish it;" then adding with a smile,
"You will not miss us much, will you, Mr. Prescott?" she and the
Captain strolled away.
Then, as they walked, Fred Lyster talked long and earnestly. He told
Barbara that he addressed her as one who, he knew, took the deepest
interest in Alice Schröder's welfare; indeed, as one who had been as
her sister in times past. He touched lightly on the disparity in age
between Alice and her husband, and upon the difference in all their
habits, tastes, and opinions; he said that she was thus doubtless
driven to her own resources for amusement, and that her utter
simplicity and childishness made her the easy prey of designing
people. Then, with the utmost delicacy, he went on to point out that
for some time Beresford's attentions to Mrs. Schröder had been most
marked; that his constant presence at their house, or in attendance on
her when she went out, had attracted attention, and that at length it
had become common club-gossip. Only on the previous night he had heard
that it had been publicly discussed in the smoke-room of the Minerva;
that an old gentleman, an old friend of the family, had announced his
intention of speaking to Mr. Schröder about it. What was to be done?
He (Lyster), deeply pained at it all, had no authority, no influence,
no right, to mix himself with the matter. Would not Mrs. Churchill, in
pity for her friend, talk seriously with Mrs. Schröder about it? She
was all-potential. Mrs. Schröder believed implicitly in her, and would
undoubtedly follow her advice. Would not Mrs. Churchill do this, for
pity's sake?
Barbara was very much astonished and very much shocked. She had always
known Alice to be weak and vain and silly; she knew that her marriage
with Mr. Schröder had been one made solely at her father's
instigation; but having lived entirely out of the set for the last few
months, she had no idea of the intimacy with Mr. Beresford, whose
acquaintance she considered was by no means desirable. She was
entirely at a loss what to do, being of opinion that her influence
over Alice had all died out. However, if Captain Lyster thought
otherwise, and if he counselled and urged her taking such a step, she
would not refuse; she would take an early opportunity of seeking an
interview with Alice, and giving that silly girl--silly, and nothing
more, she was certain--a very serious talking to; "and then, Captain
Lyster, let us trust that this horrible gossip will be put a stop to."
As Barbara said this, she smiled and put out her hand. Poor Fred bent
over it, and when he raised his head to say, "Mrs. Churchill, you will
have done an angel's work!" there were tears in his eyes.
Meantime Frank Churchill, with doubt and distrust at his heart,
engendered by having to leave Barbara in company with Captain Lyster,
went away with Pringle to the lower croquet-ground, where they and
others played a succession of games with varying success, in all of
which Frank distinguished himself by ferocious swiping, and Mr.
Pringle came to grief in an untimely manner. At length, when they were
tired, Frank and Pringle walked away together--the former on the
look-out for his wife, the latter listening with great deference to
such scraps of his companion's conversation as he was treated with;
for Mr. Pringle had a great reverence for "people who write books,"
and, in common with a great many, looked upon the production of a
something printable as an occult art. "It always seems such a rum
thing to me," said he ingenuously, "how you first think about it, and
then how you put it down! You write leaders, Mr. Churchill, eh? Oh
yes, we heard of you at our office, the Tin-Tax, you know! That
article in the _Statesman_ about old Maddox and his K.C.B.'ship, they
all declared it was you."
As Churchill only said "Indeed!" in an absent manner, and was still
looking about him, Pringle proceeded: "Oh, of course you won't let it
out it was your work--we understand that! but it must be jolly to be
able to give a fellow one for himself sometimes! a regular bad one,
enough to make him drink! I should think that was better fun than
novel-writing; though novel-writing must be easier, as you've only got
to describe what you see. I think I could do that--this afternoon, for
instance, and all the swells and queer people about. The worst of it
is, you must touch it up with a bit of love, and I'm not much of a
hand at that; but I suppose one could easily see plenty of it to study
from. For instance, do you see those two at the end of this walk,
under the tree? I suppose that's a spooning match, isn't it? How he is
laying down the law! and she gives him her hand, and he bends over
it--"
"Damnation!" exclaimed Churchill.
"Hollo!" said Pringle, "what's the matter?"
"Nothing!" said Churchill; "I twisted my foot, that was all!"
Barbara tried several times that evening to meet Frank; but he avoided
her; and it was not until they were in the fly, that she had an
opportunity of speaking to him.
"Where on earth have you been, Frank, all day? I hunted and hunted for
you, but never succeeded in finding you."
He looked up at her: her eyes were sparkling, her cheek flushed; she
was thoroughly happy. The escape from Mesopotamia and its dreariness,
the return to scenes similar to those which she had been accustomed
to, had worked immediate change. She looked so radiantly beautiful
that Frank was half-tempted to spare her; but after a second's pause,
he said,
"I walked all over the grounds. I was in the shrubbery close by you
when Captain Lyster kissed your hand."
"What!" exclaimed Barbara, with a start. "It is beneath me to repel
such a calumny; but to satisfy your absurd doubt, I tell you plainly
you were wrong."
"Will you tell me," asked Frank, in a sad voice, "that he did not walk
with yop and talk with you apart? Can you deny it?"
"No!" returned Barbara. "He did both walk and talk with me; he had
something very special to say to me, and he said it."
"And it was--?"
"I cannot tell you; it was told to me in confidence; it concerns the
reputation of a third person, and I cannot mention it, even to you."
"Then, by the Lord, I'll have an end to this!" said Frank, in a sudden
access of passion. "Listen here, Barbara; I'll have no captains, nor
any one else, coming to repose confidences with which I'm not to be
made acquainted, in my wife! I'll have no shrubbery-walks and
whisperings with you! Such things may be the fashion in the circles in
which you have lived; but I don't hold with them!"
He could have bitten his tongue out the next instant, when Barbara
said, in an icy voice, "It may be the fashion in the circles in which
_you_ have lived to swear at one's wife, and shout at her so that the
coachman hears you; but I don't hold with it, nor, what's more, will I
permit it!"
She never spoke again till they reached home, when she stepped
leisurely out of the carriage, ignoring Frank's proffered arm, and
went silently to bed.