PRINCE’S MANSION.
WHEN any man has once got into a racing state of mind, it is not fair
to his bodily health to keep him in a wheatfield. Sam Henderson had
been expected, by his bride and her female relatives, to walk about in
country places, and sit on stiles, and admire the moon; like a young
man from Whitechapel coming to feel his way to be a teacher. Sam had
borne it pretty well, as a thing not likely to come twice, till he
found it too much to come once. For he was not of my quiet nature; and
still less could it be supposed that his Sally was like my Kitty.
He went off to some races at York, I think, or somewhere nicely
convenient, for they were on the eastern coast; and he offered, as
fairly as a man could do, to let his bride come with him. But she said
she saw too much of horses at home, and preferred to remain with her
landlady. He thought that she was too independent, and she thought the
same of him; but they soon made up that little matter, and came home to
Halliford as affectionate as need be.
Sam was beginning to boast about his condition prematurely. If any
friend of his replied to his sudden invitations—“Sam, I should be
most delighted; but it might be inconvenient, you know, to Mrs.
Henderson”—Sam would look at him with a laugh, and say—“The best soul
living, my dear boy. Always proud to welcome any friend of mine, at any
time. We pull together, and no mistake. You may come with your coat on
inside out, and she won’t say a word, till I do.”
To this I listened very gravely, knowing what a good wife is, but
doubting whether it can be wise to take such liberties with her. And I
knew that Sam was a pleasant fellow, partly because of his bounce and
brag. Whatever belonged to him became pure gold or glittering jewel; as
there are Oriental gems, which glow at the touch of the owner. Nobody
had such dogs or horses, nobody had such clever men; and now we were to
believe that no one had ever owned such a wonder of a wife.
“Let us go and see how they get on,” I said to my Uncle Corny, when
a grand invitation on gilt paper was brought by a man in a pink silk
jacket, riding a horse full of ringlets; “‘Mr. and Mrs. Henderson beg
to be favoured with the company of Mr. Orchardson, and his nephew Mr.
Christopher Orchardson, at dinner at half-past six o’clock on Tuesday,
the 12th instant.’ And look at the top in gold letters, uncle—‘Prince’s
Mansion, Halliford!’”
“Prince’s Mansion!” cried my uncle; “get my specs, or I won’t believe
it. Well, there are fools in this world! I knew they had got into that
old ramshackle house, that was let to some foreign fellow, who bolted
from his creditors. Prince’s Mansion! Oh my goodness! Why don’t they
say—Windsor Castle? You may go, if you like. But you don’t catch me.
And half-past six! I couldn’t wait till then. It’s too late for dinner,
and too early for supper. You go and see them, and say I won’t come.”
“But it must be answered on paper, uncle. And you must never say you
won’t come, you must say you can’t.”
“I am not going to tell any lie about it. I can go well enough, if I
choose; but I don’t. You suppose that I don’t know how to behave. I can
behave as well as the best of them.”
“You have got a blue coat with brass buttons,” I said on purpose to
irritate him; “it was all the fashion twenty years ago; but I am afraid
you have got too fat for it.”
“You are getting horribly cheeky, Kit. You are catching it from that
Henderson. What would Kitty say, if she were here? There, I never meant
to vex you, lad. I’ll go, if that will please you.”
When the great day came, my uncle looked as well as the very best
of them. He had an old Sunday coat let out, for he would not buy a
new one, and he wore his big watch with three gold seals, and black
silk stockings, and knee-breeches. Also he had a velvet waistcoat,
double-breasted with coral buttons, which he had bought for my
wedding-day, and a frilled shirt, and his white curls brushed in
a very becoming frizzle. “A’ look’th like a bishop,” old Tabby
pronounced, though perhaps she had never seen one; “but no bishop han’t
got such legs as thiccy.”
Aunt Parslow, as an old friend of Sally Chalker, was invited specially,
and came over in style with a pair of horses, and her dinner-dress
done up in a long silken package. She called at my uncle’s on her way
to Prince’s Mansion, and they laughed so that I was surprised at their
manners, considering who was to feed them that day. But perhaps they
felt no gratitude before they got it.
It was a good step to Sam’s house, for Prince’s Mansion stood in the
upper part of his grounds, nearly half a mile from his “Doctor’s Shop,”
as he called the place where he had feasted me, and where he had been
content to live. Though the days were now getting short again, and our
road led away from the village, it was likely enough that we might come
across neighbours, who would be astonished at my uncle’s appearance,
and could hardly fail to run home, and publish throughout the village
that the grower was out of his right mind at last.
To save any difficulty about this, we sent for Sims and his ancient
fly, and putting up the windows, went in state to the dinner at
Prince’s Mansion.
My uncle had been positive and almost snappish, in asserting his
knowledge of the world; and I had given him credit on the strength of
that for knowing almost everything. But now he showed signs of some
anxiety and doubt, as we passed through the gate at the beginning of
the drive, and he glanced at his nails, which were of a steady brown,
and his knuckles, which resembled door-knobs.
“There won’t be any ladies, of course,” he said, “besides Mrs. Sam and
Aunt Parslow. Just look to my collar, this side, Kit. It seems to cut
uncommon hard.”
“Ladies?” I replied; “why, there’ll be a dozen, according to what Sam
said yesterday. There are three Miss Chalkers, Sally’s aunts, and three
Miss Kempes, her cousins, and Mrs. Spry from Tonbridge Wells, and three
or four racing ladies, and a very fashionable one, and very beautiful I
believe, whose name is Lady Kickloose. So you see your velvet waistcoat
won’t be wasted, Uncle Corny.”
“If I had known this, I would have stopped at home. Why I shall have
one on each arm! I like people to talk with that I know all about.
By-the-bye, I forget—which arm is considered the most polite to walk
with?”
“It does not matter much. But you will do very well, if you don’t begin
to tell any of your long stories. People won’t have them now. All they
care for is what they call general conversation.”
“If I am not allowed to tell my old stories,” my uncle replied
indignantly, “all I can do is to hold my tongue. What is the good of
bits and splinters? You can’t make anybody laugh like that. You must
take your time, and let them think what’s coming. It’s just the same as
carrying a pint of beer. If you are jogged on the elbow all the froth
runs over. I give a man his time, and I like to have my own.”
“To be sure, and they’ll be glad enough to listen to you, when
they have had their own talk out. But one thing I want you to do
particularly. You are so sharp in seeing everything. You observe so
much better than I do.”
“Well, you can’t expect to be equal to me yet. Though you are not a
fool, Kit; not half so much a fool as some who think they are mighty
clever. What is it you want me to notice, my boy?”
“Why, I want you to notice particularly how Sally behaves to her
husband. To hear him talk, one would suppose that he had got a perfect
jewel—a model of a wife that worships him, and would crawl on her knees
to please him. In fact, you would think she was fifty times the wonder
that my Kitty was. But from what I know of Sally Chalker, I don’t
believe a word of it.”
“Ha, ha! Jealous, is it?” he answered most absurdly. “I’ll keep my eyes
wide open, Kit, and report accordingly.”
Sam Henderson was a most hospitable fellow, and not a single word
shall pass my lips which might be twisted by captious persons into a
reflection upon him. He sat at the bottom of his table, and he never
took his eyes from the plates on the right hand and the left, except
when he was calling Tom, his groom to change them, or to fetch them
that he might put more on each. Even Lady Kickloose, who was a very
lovely woman, could not make demand keep pace with the quick abundance
of supply. Hence it was the more unreasonable, and I might even say
despotic, on the part of the new Mrs. Henderson, that she kept on
calling down the table—“Sam, look at father’s plate, he never will mind
himself, you know;” or—“Sam, can’t you see that Aunt Maggy has not got
a morsel?” or—“Mr. Henderson, Lady Kickloose has never had one drop of
gravy!”
“All right, my love. Beg pardon, I am sure. Tom, why don’t you move a
little quicker?”—poor Sam Henderson would reply. But I thought it was
not “all right, my love,” that a man who was doing his best for us all,
and getting but a snap or two for his own mouth, should be hurried and
flurried in this sort of way, and almost accused of inattention to his
guests. I could scarcely help saying—“Do let him alone;” but I knew the
proprieties too well for that.
“You are right, ma’am; she does look beautiful,” I heard my uncle say
to one of the three unmarried aunts; and then he gazed at her with as
much admiration, as if she had been—no matter who, but some one very
different.
And I was pleased to see a large piece of greens drop from his mouth
into his grand breast-frill, which put him out of countenance for half
an hour. In my poor opinion, his admiration was as much out of place as
that piece of greens, though I will not deny that our hostess was what
is called a very fine young woman. She wore a dress of green satin,
which I never could endure any more than Kitty could; and the way it
was cut below the neck and shoulders filled me with surprise that Sam
allowed it; but perhaps he could not help himself. I was glad to see
Miss Parslow looking shocked, and I glanced at her and then at it, but
she did not think fit to comprehend. Uncle Corny on the other hand
surprised me by treating it as a joke rather than a scandal; gentlemen
wore cut-away coats, he said, and why should not ladies wear cut-away
gowns?
Presently I happened to catch some words from the lower end of the
table, which drew my attention from Sam’s wife, and brought it back to
my own affairs. The dinner was a very good and solid one; not fifty
varieties of unknown substance, such as we too often meet with; and
yet quite enough of change for the most inconstant person. There was
very nice white soup, and mock turtle—not the real, such as my Aunt
Parslow gave, but quite as good, if not better—then a cod of great size
and high character, with oysters as fat as mushrooms; and after that
a saddle of mutton at one end, and an aitch-bone, not over-boiled, at
the other; one lying down, and the other standing up. Foreigners may
disguise their stuff, which by their own confession requires it. But an
Englishman likes to know what he is at, that his conscience may go with
his stomach.
These things are trifles, in a way of speaking; but if they lead up to
a pleasant state of mind, it is not friendly to neglect them; and my
Uncle Corny, who had kept himself to bread and cheese at his proper
dinner-time, was rejoicing, as a just man does, in the victory of his
merits. Such joy is generally premature; if he had only known what was
to come, he would have thrown down knife and fork, and waited.
For as if by magic, there appeared, in front of Sam himself, and almost
making him look trivial, the most magnificent bird that ever alighted
on any table. I asked a young lady what it was; and she said—“The swan
of the Romans.” It did not become me to contradict her; but I thought
that the Romans must have owned a breed of swans superior to ours, for
this one had a peacock’s tail spread out. Everybody looked at everybody
else, while Sam turned his cuffs up, and sharpened a new knife.
“Round with the champagne, Tom! We will drink my wife’s health.” As he
spoke, he had his eyes upon the peacock’s tail; and rude as it was, all
the company laughed.
A pair of large tongues had been put before me, and as I began to carve
them, I heard a lady say—“No fear. Downy will be flush of money now. Be
down on him sharp; that’s the way to do it.”
“Are you sure it will come off?” asked the gentleman she was talking
to; and I saw that it was Mr. Welch, a great man of the ring, speaking
earnestly to Lady Kickloose.
“What is to prevent it? The fatal day is named. It is too good for him,
as everybody says. But you know where marriages are made.”
“And where they end, with a fellow of that sort. But I can’t take it
down—even now I can’t. Such a lot of brass, you know, my lady! And what
has he got to show for it?”
“Brass—and his mother;” replied the lady, who had picked up the pithy
style of the turf. “The old Earl is a duffer. Mother Bull can walk
round him any Saturday.”
“Yes; but young ladies have wills of their own. It is out of my line,
but I have always heard that Lady Clara could have the pick of England.
What can there be in Downy, to fetch her so?”
“How can I tell you, Mr. Welch! Such things happen continually. All we
have to do is to follow them up. I never liked the man; but that is no
reason why she shouldn’t. Bread-sauce, I suppose goes with peacock.”
Sam was in his glory all this time, and the dinner went on very
merrily, with plenty of laughing, and glasses clinking, and even the
most demure ladies smiling. My uncle, who had cherished a pure contempt
for sporting men, began to think better of them, and more and more as
his opinion was asked, delivered it on subjects he had never heard
of. Aunt Parslow also was exceedingly good-natured, and held a very
interesting talk with a lady who had heard of her father. And I took
the opportunity, before we went away, to remind Mrs. Henderson of our
old doings, when she was the belle of Leatherhead; and I thought that
she looked at me very nicely, and felt very deeply for my present sad
condition; and after all I could not contradict my uncle, when he
said—with five and sixpence in his pocket, which he had won by very
fine play at whist—that we had been treated most handsomely and kindly,
and if he should be asked to their Christmas dinner, he meant to make a
point of going.