TURTLE-DOVE.
It was the important Thursday on which Lady Lombard’s chief
dinner-party of the season was to take place, and the mighty coming
event cast a proportionate shadow before. For a day or two previous
a gloom, as of an approaching tempest, hung over the devoted mansion.
Visitors were scarce; the invited would not call because they _were_
invited, and the non-invited avoided the place as though it were
plague-stricken, lest it should be supposed they wished to be invited,
which for the most part they did. As the event drew nearer signs
appeared heralding its approach: shoals of fishmongers, laden with the
treasures of the deep, poured down the area steps; the number of oysters
which entered that house would have surprised Neptune himself; squadrons
of poulterers’ men brought flocks of feathered fowls, and of fowls
unfeathered; there was not a single species of edible ornithology of
which Lady Lombard did not possess one or more specimens--she would have
ordered a _Podiceps Cornutus_ had she ever heard of such a creature. The
eighty-guinea advertisement-horse, with the plated harness, in Messrs.
Fortnum & Mason’s spring cart, began to think his masters must have
established a depot in the far west, and that he was engaged in
transporting thither the major portion of their seductive stock. In the
interior of that dwelling-house confusion reigned supreme. Upstairs
Mrs. Perquisite, the housekeeper, rendered life a burden to the female
servants, and tyrannised over her hapless mistress till free will became
a mockery mentioned in connection with that ever-thwarted widow. It was
enough for Lady Lombard to express a wish; Mrs. Perquisite, a living
embodiment of the antagonistic principle, was instantly in arms to
oppose it.
“What, your ladyship!” would she exclaim (and be it observed, her voice
was at least an octave higher than any good-tempered woman’s ever was,
and pitched in a most aggravating key); “what! not uncover the marble
table! I never heard of such a thing! Her Ladyship _will_ have it taken
off, Jane--not uncover that bootiful Paria marble! inlaid with Lappuss
Lazily. Why, your Ladyship must be a-dreaming!”
“I thought that the satin cover matching the chairs, and having poor
dear Sir Pinchbeck’s arms embroidered on it, perhaps it might have been
better to leave it on, Mrs. Perquisite,” pleaded Lady Lombard meekly.
“Of course your Ladyship can do as your Ladyship pleases; if your
Ladyship likes to demean yourself by looking after such things,
which was never the case when I lived with the Dowager Marchioness of
Doubledutch, now no more, having remembered all her faithful servants
handsomely on her death-bed, without a dry eye about her, in the
seventy-sixth year of her age. Perhaps I had better go downstairs, which
is only in the way, and your Ladyship can direct Jane to set out the
rooms according to your Ladyship’s fancy.”
Poor Lady Lombard, when once that defunct Dowager Marchioness was let
loose upon her, felt that her fate was sealed. It was not for her, the
widow of a man who had been knighted, to fly in the face of the peerage;
so she humbly authorised the removal of the Lombard arms, implored
Perquisite to arrange the rooms as she had been accustomed to set out
those of the poor dear Marchioness, and betook herself to the sanctity
of her own boudoir, leaving the field to the virago, to whom she paid
£60 per annum for keeping her in a continual state of moral bondage.
But while such scenes as the foregoing were enacting in the upper
portions of the establishment, the French _chef de cuisine_, Monsieur
Hector Achille Ulisse Abelard d’Haricots, was making a perfect
Pandemonium of the lower regions. The physical energy displayed by that
accomplished foreigner was truly admirable, his ubiquity was marvellous;
the tassel at the top of his white night-cap appeared to have been
multiplied infinitesimally and to pervade space, the sound of his
polyglot exhortations and reflections re-echoed through the lofty
servants’ offices. Wonderful were the strange oaths he poured forth,
when Antoine, a long, limp, shambling French lad, “_son élève_, zie son
of--_hélas! baigné des larmes_, he even till at present scarcely could
pronounce her name--his angelic sister, since some time entombed,
having espoused _un brave Anglais_, his long-lost Louise Amélie
Marie-Antoinette de Brownsmit, née d’Haricots,”--when this unworthy
offspring of international alliance committed some unpardonable artistic
error, and unlike “Polly” of lyrical celebrity, did _not_ “put the
kettle on,” or “take it off again,” exactly at the critical moment. Deep
and nasal were his ejaculations when some obtuse butcher’s boy would
not understand his “Anglishe,” which that somewhat apocryphal personage,
“_ce brave garçon_ Brownsmit” (who was Hector Achille’s Mrs. Harris,
and was consequently brought forward on all occasions), had declared he
spoke like a native.
“_Mais, que diable!_ vot is zies?” he would exclaim, raising his
eyeglass to examine with a face of deep disgust a shin of beef; “vot
is zies? Did I not ordaire _un gigot_, vot you call a leg of ship, and
’ere you ’ave transported to me--_ah, que c’est dégoutant!_--zie
stump of a cow: _qu’ils sont bêtes, ces Anglais_--takes ’im avay.”
But if there were earthquakes and tornadoes in the culinary and
decorative departments, difficulties hydra-headed had arisen in the
boudoir of Lady Lombard, where sat a council of three, Rose merely
acting as secretary and writing just what she was bidden. The third
privy councillor (besides the giver of the feast and Mrs. Arundel) was a
certain Mrs. Colonel Brahmin, relict of the late Colonel Brahmin, which
gallant officer had been cut off in the prime of life, together with 200
tawny privates of the----th native infantry, by falling into an ambush
of armed Sikhs, headed by Meer Ikan Chopimatoo at Choakumcurree. After
this afflicting event Mrs. Colonel Brahmin returned to England, in the
thirty-third year of her age, with a small pension, a very becoming
widow’s cap, and an earnest desire to replace the victim of Ikan
Chopimatoo’s scimitar without loss of time.
Now, in bygone hours the lamented Sir Pinchbeck Lombard, in his capacity
of East India director, had known and patronised the lamented Brahmin;
what, therefore, could be more natural than that their disconsolate
widows should desire to mingle their tears? And, indeed, Mrs. Colonel
Brahmin was so anxious to ensure the effectual working of this
Mutual-misery-mingling Association, that on her return to England she
was good enough to stay six months with Lady Lombard; and although,
during the whole of that period, she told every one she was anxiously
looking out for a house, so few edifices are there in London and its
vicinity, that she was unable to find one till the very week before her
hostess was about to start on a self-defensive tour to the Lakes. Since
then she had been vizier-in-chief to her wealthy sister in affliction,
riding in her carriage, eating her dinners, and entertaining her guests,
especially such eligible males as appeared likely to succeed to the
(nominal) command left vacant by the cut-off colonel; but up to the
present time these young eligibles had remained unattached, and the
appointment was still to be filled up. Mrs. Brahmin was not really
pretty, though, by dint of a pair of fine eyes, glossy hair, a telling
smile, and little white hands, she contrived to pass as such. In her
manner she affected the youthful and innocent; and very well she did
it, considering her natural astuteness, and the amount of experience and
_savoir vivre_ she had acquired when following the world-wide fortunes
of the cut-off one. Lady Lombard believed in her to a great extent, and
liked her better than she deserved. Perquisite saw at a glance, not
only through, but considerably _beyond_ her, and hated her with all
the rancour of a vulgar mind. But Mrs. Brahmin was too strong for
Perquisite, and with her soft voice and imperturbable simplicity put
her down more thoroughly than the veriest virago could have done--the
housekeeper’s most bitter speeches and cutting innuendos producing much
the same effect on the mild Susanna that a blow might have done upon an
air-cushion--viz., exhausting the aggressor’s strength without making
the slightest impression on her opponent.
Mrs. Brahmin had been prepared to find in Mrs. Arundel a dangerous
rival, and was ready to defend her position to the death, and to battle
_à l’outrance_ for her portion of the Lombard loaves and fishes. But her
courage was not destined to be put to the proof, the present being an
occasion on which an appeal to arms was unnecessary--diplomacy would
suit her purpose better, and on diplomacy, therefore, she fell back. She
had not been ten minutes in Mrs. Arundel’s company ere she discovered
her weak point--she was unmistakably vain. Accordingly, with artless
simplicity, Mrs. Brahmin indirectly praised everything Mrs. Arundel said
or did, and Mrs. Arundel straightway suffered her discrimination to be
tickled to sleep, took Mrs. Brahmin at her own price, and doted on
her from that time forth, until--but we will leave events to develop
themselves in their due course.
Rose and Mrs. Brahmin were mutual enigmas--neither could comprehend the
other. Rose had heard the details of the “Chopimatoo” affair, and all
her sympathies were ready to be enlisted in behalf of the interesting
widow; but the “sweet simplicity,” cleverly as it was done, did not
deceive her. With the instinct of a true nature she felt that it was
assumed, and that beneath it lay the real character. What that might
be remained to be discovered, and she suspended her judgment till
opportunity might afford her a glimpse of that which was so studiously
concealed. On the other hand, the character of Rose was one which Mrs.
Brahmin could by no means comprehend, perhaps because in its entireness
it was beyond and above her comprehension; but parts of it she discerned
clearly enough, and most particularly did they puzzle her. For instance,
she perceived that Rose had a mind, properly so called--that her ideas
and opinions were _bona fide_ the product of her own intellect, and not
like those of too many girls, a dim reflex of somebody else’s; but the
straightforward, earnest truthfulness of her nature she could by no
means fathom, such a quality being essentially foreign to her own
disposition; accordingly, she deemed it put on for a purpose, which
purpose it behoved her to find out. But her investigations did not
prosper well, from the simple fact that _ex nihilo nil fit_: Rose,
having nothing to conceal, concealed it effectually.
Many and important were the consultations held in the boudoir by this
council of three, as to who should, and who should not, be invited. Lady
Lombard’s smooth brow grew furrowed with the unwonted demand upon her
powers (?) of mind.
“Sir Benjamin and Lady Boucher regret exceedingly that a previous
engagement prevents their accepting Lady Lombard’s kind invitation for
Thursday, the--th.”
“Dear me, how _dreadfully_ provoking!” sighed the perplexed
“in-vitress.”
“My dear Susanna” (the Brahmin’s Christian name), “the Bouchers are
engaged, and there’ll be nobody fit to meet the General Gudgeons. What
are we to do?”
“Would you ask the Dackerels? They’re such very nice people, and live in
such very good style, dear Lady Lombard,” cooed Mrs. Brahmin (for, be it
observed, that bereaved one’s method of speaking, together with the
low, gentle, sleepy, caressing tones of her soft voice, involuntarily
reminded her hearers of the cooing of a dove or the purring of a cat).
“They’re only lieutenant-colonels, are they, my love?” inquired Lady
Lombard doubtingly.
“Oh! my dear Lady Lombard, surely you must recollect he has been a full
colonel, by purchase, these five years, _vice_ Rawbone Featherbed,
who sold out and married an heiress--at least,” murmured Innocence,
remembering herself, or rather her _part_, “she was said to be very
rich; but of course it must have been a love-match. I cannot believe
people are so--so horrid as to marry from any other motive.”
“Well, then, we’d better ask the Dackerels. Miss Arundel, my love, will
you request the pleasure of Colonel and Mrs. Dackerel’s company--with
one R, my dear--at seven o’clock. That shy son with the long legs, I
suppose we need not ask him, my dear?”
“He’s lately come into a large Yorkshire property from an uncle on the
mother’s side and has taken the surname of Dace, and perhaps, as he’s
so shy, he might feel hurt at not being asked. I feel such sympathy with
shyness, you know; besides, somebody said he was an author,”
rejoined Susanna, dropping her eyelids and looking as unconscious and
disinterested as if John Dace Dackerel Dace, Esq., barrister-at-law,
still depended upon that ghost of nothing, his professional income,
instead of the rent-roll of the manor of Roachpool, in the West Riding.
“If they come they’ll make--let me see,” mused Lady Lombard; “what did
I say the Fitzsimmons’s were? Yes, twelve; well, then, they’ll make
fifteen, and the table only holds three more, and that tiresome Mr. De
Grandeville hasn’t sent an answer yet, and I shall be so disappointed if
he does not come, for he knows everybody and moves in such high society,
and is such a tall, noble, military-looking creature.”
This eulogium recalling, probably by contrast (seeing that the lamented
Brahmin had been remarkably small of his age all through his boyhood,
and never outgrown it afterwards), sad recollections of the fair
Susanna’s killed and wounded, produced a little embroidered handkerchief
which just held the two tears its owner felt called upon to shed on such
occasions. The memory of the victim had, however, been so often before
embalmed by pearly drops in her presence that Lady Lombard had grown
rather callous on the subject, and she abruptly invaded the sanctity of
grief by exclaiming--
“It lies between the Lombard Browns and the Horace Hiccirys, my dear.
The Hiccirys live in better style, I know: Mrs. Hicciry was to have
been presented at Court last year, only little Curatius chose to be born
instead--the most lovely child! But the Lombard Browns are godsons, at
least _he_ is, of poor dear Sir Pinchbeck’s, and they’ve not dined here
this season.”
“I think, dear Lady Lombard, if I might venture to advise, the Horace
Hiccirys would do best. Mrs. General Gudgeon would get on so well with
Mrs. Hicciry, I’m sure; and I’m afraid Mrs. Dackerel,--you know she’s
very clever, writes poetry, those sweet things in the Bijou--all clever
people are sarcastic, you know,--I’m afraid Mrs. Dackerel might laugh at
poor dear Mr. Lombard Brown’s little eccentricity about his H’s.”
“Ah, yes, that’s true,” returned Lady Lombard; “yes, I forgot his H’s.”
“As he probably does himself,” whispered Mrs. Arundel aside to Rose.
“Then, my dear Miss Arundel, may I trouble you to write a note to the
Horace Hicciry’s--with two I’s, my love--15 Bellairs Terrace, Park
Village West. What a pretty hand you write, and so quick I Then if Mr.
De Grandeville will only come, the table will be filled properly.”
“And a dear, charming party it will be,” cooed the bereaved one, who
had manoeuvred herself into an invitation at an early stage of the
proceedings.
“Yes, my love, I hope it will,” replied the giver of the feast
anxiously. “And if I was quite sure that Perquisite and Haricot would
not quarrel, and that General Gudgeon would not take too much port wine
after dinner, and tell his gentlemen’s stories to the ladies up in the
drawing-room, more particularly since I hear Miss MacSalvo has taken an
extra serious turn lately, I should feel quite happy about it all.”
“You’d better add a postscript to the great Gudgeon’s note mentioning
the port wine and its alarming consequences, Rose,” whispered the
incorrigible Mrs. Arundel. Her daughter smiled reprovingly, and the
sitting concluded.
Exactly at the time when Lady Lombard had completely given him up, and
was revolving in her anxious mind how she might best supply his loss, De
Grandeville condescended graciously to vouchsafe a favourable answer.
On the afternoon of the eventful day, as Frere was returning from
his place of business, he met--of course accidentally--Tom Bracy, who
immediately took possession of his vacant arm and engaged him in a
disquisition on the use of formic acid as an anaesthetic agent, which
discussion proved so deeply interesting to his companion, that in less
than five minutes he was completely lost to all outward objects and
reduced (for all practical purposes) to the intellectual level of a
docile child of three years old.
“Well,” continued Frere eagerly, as Bracy paused before a hairdresser’s
shop, “well, supposing, for the sake of argument, I consent to waive
my objection; supposing I allow that by the process you describe you’ve
produced your acid----”
“Excuse my interrupting you one moment, but I was going in here to have
my hair cut. If you’re not in a particular hurry, perhaps you’ll come in
with me, and I think I can show you where you are wrong.”
“Yes--no, I’m not in a hurry; come along, I’m convinced there’s a
mistake in your theory which upsets your whole argument--merely subject
to the common analysing process----”
“By the way,” observed Bracy carelessly, “you’d be all the better for
a little judicious trimming yourself; besides, it’s more sociable. This
gentleman and I each want our hair cut. Sit down, Frere.”
“Eh? nonsense; I never have my hair cut except when the hot weather sets
in,” remonstrated that individual; but he was fairly in the toils. Bracy
set a garrulous hairdresser’s man at him, who deprived him of his
hat, popped him down in the appointed chair, and enveloped him in a
blue-striped wrapper before he very well knew where he was, or had
arrived at any kind of decision whatsoever on the subject. No sooner was
he seated than Bracy administered a fresh dose of his anaesthetic agent;
Frere resumed his argument, and long ere he had exhausted the catalogue
of chemical tests to which his opponent’s theory (invented for the
occasion) might be subjected, the hair-cutter (previously instructed)
had reduced his hair and whiskers to the latitude and longitude usually
assigned to such capillary attractions by the “manners and customs of ye
English in ye nineteenth century.” And thus Frere became, for the time
being, a reasonable looking mortal, and Bracy won a new hat, which he
had betted that morning with a mutual acquaintance, on the apparently
rash speculation that he would before the day was over administer an
anaesthetic agent to Richard Frere, under the influence of which he
should have his hair cut.