Great as Lady Eleanor's objection was to subjecting herself or her
daughter to the contact of a boarding-house party, when the resolve
was once taken the matter cost her far less thought or anxiety than it
occasioned to the other inmates of the “Establishment.” It is only
in such segments of the great world that curiosity reaches its true
intensity, and the desire to know every circumstance of one's neighbor
becomes an absorbing passion. A distrustful impression that nobody
is playing on “the square “--that every one has some special cause
of concealment, some hidden shame--seems the presiding tone of these
places.
Mrs. Fumbally's was no exception to the rule, and now that the residents
had been so long acquainted that the personal character and fortune of
each was known to all, the announcement of a new arrival caused the most
lively sensations of anxiety.
Directories were ransacked for the name of Gwynne, and every separate
owner of the appellation canvassed and discussed. Army lists were
interrogated and conned over. Dempsey himself was examined for two hours
before a “Committee of the whole house;” and though his inventive
powers were no mean gifts, certain discrepancies, certain unexplained
difficulties, did not fail to strike the acute tribunal, and he was
dismissed as unworthy of credit. Baffled, not beaten, each retired to
dress for dinner,--a ceremony, be it remarked, only in use on great
occasions,--fully impressed with the conviction that the Gwynne case
was a legitimate object of search and discovery.
It is not necessary here to allude to the strange display of costume
that day called forth, nor what singular extravagances in dress each
drew from the armory of his fascinations. The collector closed the
Custom-house an hour earlier, that he might be properly powdered for the
occasion. Miss Boyle abandoned, “for the nonce,” her accustomed walk on
the Banside, where the officers used to lounge, and in the privacy of
her chamber prepared for the event. There is a tradition of her being
seen, with a formidable array of curl-papers, so late as four in the
afternoon. Mr. Dunlop was in a perpetual trot all day, between his
tailor and his bootmaker, sundry alterations being required at
a moment's notice. Mrs. Fumbally herself, however, eclipsed all
competitors, as, in a robe of yellow satin, spotted with red, she made
her appearance in the drawing-room; her head-dress being a turban of the
same prevailing colors, but ornamented by a drooping plume of feathers
and spangles so very umbrageous and pendent, that she looked like a
weeping-ash clad in tinsel. A crimson brooch of vast proportions--which,
on near inspection, turned out to be a portrait of the departed
Fumbally, but whose colors were, unhappily, not “fast ones”--confined
a scarf of green velvet, from which envious time had worn off all the
pile, and left a “sear and yellow” stubble everywhere perceptible.
Whether Mrs. Fum's robe had been devised at a period when dresses were
worn much shorter, or that, from being very tall, a sufficiency of the
material could not be obtained,--but true it is, her costume would have
been almost national in certain Scotch regiments, and necessitated,
for modesty's sake, a peculiar species of ducking trip, that, with the
nodding motion of her head, gave her the gait of a kangaroo.
Scarcely had the various individuals time to give a cursory glance
at their neighbors' finery, when Lady Eleanor appeared leaning on her
daughter's arm. Mr. Dempsey had waited for above half an hour outside
the door to offer his escort, which being coldly but civilly declined,
the ladies entered.
Mrs. Fumbally rose to meet her guests, and was about to proceed in due
form with a series of introducings, when Lady Eleanor cut her short by
a very slight but courteous salutation to the company collectively, and
then sat down.
The most insufferable assumption of superiority is never half so
chilling in its effect upon underbred people as the calm quietude of
good manners.
And thus the party were more repelled by Lady Eleanor and her daughter's
easy bearing than they would have felt at any outrageous pretension.
The elegant simplicity of their dress, too, seemed to rebuke the stage
finery of the others, and very uneasy glances met and were interchanged
at this new companionship. A few whispered words, an occasional
courageous effort to talk aloud, suddenly ending in a cough, and an
uneasy glance at the large silver watch over the chimney, were all that
took place, when the uncombed head of a waiter, hired specially for the
day, gave the announcement that dinner was served.
“Mr. Dempsey--Mr. Dunlop,” said Mrs. Fumbally, with a gesture towards
Lady Eleanor and her daughter. The gentlemen both advanced a step and
then stood stock still, as Lady Eleanor, drawing her shawl around her
with one hand, slipped the other within her daughter's arm. Every eye
was now turned towards Mr. Dunlop, who was a kind of recognized type
of high life; and he, feeling the urgency of the moment, made a step in
advance, and with extended arm, said, “May I have the honor to offer my
arm?”
“With your leave, I'll take my daughter's, sir,” said Lady Eleanor,
coldly; and without paying the least attention to the various
significant glances around her, she walked forward to the dinner-room.
The chilling reserve produced by the new arrivals had given an air of
decorous quietude to the dinner, which, if gratifying to Lady Eleanor
and Helen, was very far from being so to the others, and as the
meal proceeded, certain low mutterings--the ground swell of a coming
storm--announced the growing feeling of displeasure amongst them.
Lady Eleanor and Miss Darcy were too unconscious of having offered any
umbrage to the party to notice these indications of discontent; nor did
they remark that Mr.
Dempsey himself was becoming overwhelmed by the swelling waves of
popular indignation.
A very curt monosyllable had met Lady Eleanor in the two efforts she
had made at conversation with her neighbor, and she was perhaps not
very sorry to find that table-talk was not a regulation of the
“Establishment”.
Had Lady Eleanor or Helen been disposed to care for it, they might
have perceived that the dinner itself was not less anomalous than the
company, and like them suffered sorely from being over-dressed. They,
however, affected to eat, and seemed satisfied with everything, resolved
that, having encountered the ordeal, they would go through with it to
the last. The observances of the table had one merit in the Fumbally
household; they were conducted with no unnecessary tediousness. The
courses--if we dare so apply the name to an irregular skirmish of meats,
hot, cold, and _réchauffé_--followed rapidly, the guests ate equally so,
and the table presented a scene, if not of convivial enjoyment, at least
of bustle and animation, that supplied its place. This movement, so to
call it, was sufficiently new to amuse Helen Darcy, who, less pained
than her mother at their companionship, could not help relishing many
of the eccentric features of the scene; everything in the dress, manner,
tone of voice, and bearing of the company presenting such a striking
contrast to all she had been used to. This enjoyment on her part,
although regulated by the strictest good-breeding, was perceived, or
rather suspected, by some of the ladies present, and looks of very
unmistakable anger were darted towards her from the end of the table, so
that both mother and daughter felt the moment a very welcome one when a
regiment of small decanters were set down on the board, and the ladies
rose to withdraw.
If Lady Eleanor had consulted her own ardent wishes, she would at once
have retired to her room, but she had resolved on the whole sacrifice,
and took her place in the drawing-room, determined to follow in every
respect the usages around her. Mrs. Fumbally addressed a few civil words
to her, and then left the room to look after the cares of the household.
The group of seven ladies who remained, formed themselves into a coterie
apart, and producing from sundry bags and baskets little specimens of
female handiwork, began arranging their cottons and worsteds with a most
praiseworthy activity.
While Lady Eleanor sat with folded bands and half-closed lids, sunk in
her own meditations, Helen arose and walked towards a book-shelf, where
some well-thumbed volumes were lying. An odd volume of “Delphine,”
a “Treatise on Domestic Cookery,” and “Moore's Zeluco” were not
attractive, and she sauntered to the piano, on which were scattered
some of the songs from the “Siege of Belgrade,” the then popular piece;
certain comic melodies lay also among them, inscribed with the name of
Lawrence M'Farland, a gentleman whom they had heard addressed several
times during dinner. While Helen turned over the music pages, the eyes
of the others were riveted on her; and when she ran her fingers over the
keys of the cracked old instrument, and burst into an involuntary laugh
at its discordant tones, a burst of unequivocal indignation could no
longer be restrained.
“I declare, Miss M'Corde,” said an old lady with a paralytic shake in
her head, and a most villanous expression in her one eye,--“I declare I
would speak to her, if I was in your place.”
“Unquestionably,” exclaimed another, whose face was purple with
excitement; and thus encouraged, a very thin and very tall personage,
with a long, slender nose tipped with pink, and light red hair in
ringlets, arose from her seat, and approached where Helen was standing.
“You are perhaps not aware, ma'am,” said she, with a mincing, lisping
accent, the very essence of gentility, “that this instrument is not a
'house piano.'”
Helen blushed slightly at the address, but could not for her life guess
what the words meant. She had heard of grand pianos and square pianos,
of cottage pianos, but never of “house pianos,” and she answered in the
most simple of voices, “Indeed.”
“No, ma'am, it is not; it belongs to your very humble servant,”--here
she courtesied to the ground,-“who regrets deeply that its tone should
not have more of your approbation.”
“And I, ma'am,” said a fat old lady, waddling over, and wheezing
as though she should choke, “I have to express my sorrow that the
book-shelf, which you have just ransacked, should not present something
worthy of your notice. The volumes are mine.”
“And perhaps, ma'am,” cried a third, a little meagre figure, with a
voice like a nutmeg-grater, “you could persuade the old lady, who I
presume is your mother, to take her feet off that worked stool. When I
made it, I scarcely calculated on the honor it now enjoys!”
Lady Eleanor looked up at this instant, and although unconscious of what
was passing, seeing Helen, whose face was now crimson, standing in the
midst of a very excited group, she arose hastily, and said,--
“Helen, dearest, is there anything the matter?”
“I should say there was, ma'am,” interposed the very fat lady,--“I
should be disposed to say there was a great deal the matter. That to
make use of private articles as if they were for house use, to thump one
lady's piano, to toss another lady's books, to make oneself comfortable
in a chair specially provided for the oldest boarder, with one's feet
on another lady's footstool,--these are liberties, ma'am, which become
something more than freedoms when taken by unknown individuals.”
“I beg you will forgive my daughter and myself,” said Lady Eleanor, with
an air of real regret; “our total ignorance--”
“I thought as much, indeed,” muttered she of the shaking head; “there is
no other word for it.”
“You are quite correct, ma'am,” said Lady Eleanor, at once addressing
her in the most apologetic of voices,-“I cannot but repeat the word; our
very great ignorance of the usages observed here is our only excuse, and
I beg you to believe us incapable of taking such liberties in future.”
If anything could have disarmed the wrath of this Holy Alliance, the
manner in which these words were uttered might have done so. Far from
it, however. When the softer sex are deficient in breeding, mercy
is scarcely one of their social attributes. Had Lady Eleanor assumed
towards them the manner with which in other days she had repelled vulgar
attempts at familiarity, they would in all probability have shrunk
back, abashed and ashamed; but her yielding suggested boldness, and
they advanced, with something like what in Cossack warfare is termed a
“Hurra,” an indiscriminate clang of voices being raised in reprobation
of every supposed outrage the unhappy strangers had inflicted on the
company. Amid this Babel of accusation Lady Eleanor could distinguish
nothing, and while, overwhelmed by the torrent, she was preparing
to take her daughter's arm and withdraw, the door which led into the
dining-room was suddenly thrown open, and the convivial party entered
_en masse_.
[Illustration: 280]
“Here's a shindy, by George!” cried Mr. M'Farland,--the Pickle, and the
wit of the Establishment,--“I say, see how the new ones are getting it!”
While Mr. Dempsey hurried away to seek Mrs. Fumbally herself, the
confusion and uproar increased; the loud, coarse laughter of the
“Gentlemen” being added to the wrathful violence of the softer sex.
Lady Eleanor, how-ever, had drawn her daughter to her side, and
without uttering a word, proceeded to leave the room. To this course a
considerable obstacle presented itself in the shape of the Collector,
who, with expanded legs, and hands thrust deep into his side-pockets,
stood against the door.
“Against the ninth general rule, ma'am, which you may read in the frame
over the chimney!” exclaimed he, in a voice somewhat more faltering and
thicker than became a respectable official. “No lady or gentleman can
leave the room while any dispute in which they are concerned remains
unsettled. Isn't that it, M'Farland?” cried he, as the young gentleman
alluded to took down the law-table from its place.
“All right,” replied M'Farland; “the very best rule in the house.
Without it, all the rows would take place in private! Now for a court of
inquiry. Mr. Dunlop, you are for the prosecution, and can't sit.”
“May I beg, sir, you will permit us to pass out?” said Lady Eleanor, in
a voice whose composure was slightly shaken.
“Can't be, ma'am; in contravention of all law,” rejoined the Collector.
“Where is Mr. Dempsey?” whispered Helen, in her despair; and though the
words were uttered in a low voice, one of the ladies overheard them.
A general titter ran immediately around, only arrested by the fat lady
exclaiming aloud, “Shameless minx!”
A very loud hubbub of voices outside now rivalled the tumult within,
amid which one most welcome was distinguished by Helen.
“Oh, mamma, how fortunate! I hear Tate's voice.”
“It's me,--it's Mrs. Fumbally,” cried that lady, at the same moment
tapping sharply at the door.
“No matter, can't open the door now. Court is about to sit,” replied the
Collector. “Mrs. Gwynne stands arraigned for--for what is't? There 's no
use in making that clatter; the door shall not be opened.”
This speech was scarcely uttered, when a tremendous bang was heard, and
the worthy Collector, with the door over him, was hurled on his face in
the midst of the apartment, upsetting in his progress a round table and
a lamp over the assembled group of ladies.
Screams of terror, rage, pain, and laughter were now commingled; and
while some assisted the prostrate official to rise, and sprinkled his
temples with water, others bestowed their attentions on the discomfited
fair, whose lustre was sadly diminished by lamp-oil and bruises, while
a third section, of which M'Farland was chief, lay back in their chairs
and laughed vociferously. Meanwhile, how and when nobody could tell,
Lady Eleanor and her daughter had escaped and gained their apartments in
safety.
A more rueful scene than the room presented need not be imagined. The
Collector, whose nose bled profusely, sat pale, half fainting, in
one corner, while some kind friends labored to stop the bleeding, and
restore him to animation. Lamentations of the most poignant grief were
uttered over silks, satins, and tabinets irretrievably ruined; while
the paralytic lady having broken the ribbon of her cap, her head rolled
about fearfully, and even threatened to come clean off altogether. As
for poor Mrs. Fumbally, she flew from place to place, in a perfect agony
of affliction; now wringing her hands over the prostrate door, now over
the fragments of the lamp, and now endeavoring to restore the table,
which, despite all her efforts, would not stand upon two legs. But the
most miserable figure of all was Paul Dempsey, who saw no footing for
himself anywhere. Lady Eleanor and Helen must detest him to the day
of his death. The boarders could never forgive him. Mrs. Fum would as
certainly regard him as the author of all evil, and the Collector would
inevitably begin dunning him for an unsettled balance of fourteen and
ninepence, lost at “Spoiled five” two winters before.
Already, indeed, symptoms of his unpopularity began to show themselves.
Angry looks and spiteful glances were directed towards him, amidst
muttered expressions of displeasure. How far these manifestations might
have proceeded there is no saying, had not the attention of the company
been drawn to the sudden noise of a carriage stopping at the street
door.
“Going, flitting, evacuating the territory!” exclaimed M'Farland, as
from an open window he contemplated the process of packing a post-chaise
with several heavy trunks and portmanteaus.
“The Gwynnes!” muttered the Collector, with his handkerchief to his
face.
“Even so! flying with camp equipage and all. There stands your victor,
that little old fellow with the broad shoulders. I say, come here a
moment,” called he aloud, making a sign for Tate to approach. “The
Collector is not in the least angry for what's happened; he knew you did
n't mean anything serious. Pray, who are these ladies, your mistresses I
mean?”
“Lady Eleanor Darcy and Miss Darcy, of Gwynne Abbey,” replied Tate,
sturdily, as he gave the names with a most emphatic distinctness.
“The devil it was!” exclaimed M'Farland.
“By my conscience, ye may well wonder at being in such company, sir,”
said Tate, laughing, and resuming his place just in time to assist
Lady Eleanor to ascend the steps. Helen quickly followed, the door was
slammed to, and, Tate mounting with the alacrity of a town footman, the
chaise set out at a brisk pace down the street.