CHAPTER LIX.—DESCRIBES THAT INDESCRIBABLE SCENE, “THE DERBY DAY.”
“Fair laughed the morn, and soft the zephyr played,” as Lord Bellefield, having held an interview with his trainer, which had served in great measure to set his mind at ease, cantered back to the inn at Epsom, shaved the small portion of his chin which he saw fit to denude of hair, made an elaborate toilet in the best style of sporting dandyism, and then lounged down to breakfast, of which meal he had invited some dozen of his intimates to partake. Amongst the last comers was a tall, dark-whiskered man, who might be two or three years Lord Bellefield’s senior. Pointing to a seat on his right hand, his entertainer began—
“Well, Philips, how is it with you this morning? You’ve been wandering about as usual, picking up the latest news, I suppose? what say the prophets?”
“There is nothing original hazarded, my lord,” was the reply.
“Oracle is as much in favour as ever; Phosphorus is looking up slightly, and the Tartuffe party are backing their horse to a high figure; they seem to be in earnest, and mean to win if they can.”
“Ay, if they can,” returned Lord Bellefield, smiling ironically; “I confess, for my own part, I do not see that animal’s good points.”
“He has wonderful power in the loins, and his deep girth gives plenty of room for the lungs to play; no fear of ‘bellows to mend’ in that quarter,” was the reply.
“Very excellent points in a hunter or steeplechase horse, but misplaced in a racer, and by no means calculated to make up for a want of fleetness. Tartuffe, in my opinion, has not the true racehorse stride, as Austerlitz will find to his cost, if he really is laying money on him.”
“He may not cover so much ground in his stride as Oracle, but he is unusually quick in his gallop, and takes two strokes while another horse is taking one. Still black and yellow (Lord Bellefield’s colours) will give him the go-by, and that is all we have to look to,” was the reply.
In converse such as this, diversified by the interchange of bets of more or less magnitude, the breakfast (if a meal consisting of every delicacy that could please the palate or pamper the appetite, including meats, fish, etc., etc., can be legitimately so called) passed off. When liqueurs had been handed round, Lord Bellefield’s drag was announced, and the company dispersed, first to admire and criticise the turn-out, and then to dispose of themselves on and about it. The equipage was in perfect taste, and although not so showy as many others on which less care had been bestowed, or money expended, yet the drag, with its panels of the darkest possible cinnamon brown, picked out with a lighter shade of the same colour; the four blood bays, faultless in symmetry; the two outriders on horses so exactly matching those in harness, that any one unaccustomed to such matters might have been puzzled to conjecture how the grooms could distinguish one from another; the harness perfectly free from ornament of any kind, save black and yellow rosettes in the horses’ heads; the two grooms in dark, well-fitting, pepper-and-salt liveries, and irreproachable top-boots and leathers; the coronet on the doors, the cockades in the hats; every trifle down to the gold-mounted whip-handle, excellent of its kind, and in harmonious keeping with the whole, presented to the eye of a connoisseur a tout ensemble calculated to excite his highest admiration.
Seating himself firmly on his box, and controlling his fiery horses with an easy confidence which proved him a skilful whip, Lord Belle-field drove to the Downs, apparently impassable obstacles seeming to melt before him as if by magic (one of the surest tests of a good coachman), and arrived on the course exactly at the “correct” moment. As he drew up to take his place by the ropes, a showy britska, drawn by four splendid greys, the postilions’ bright green jackets and velvet caps blazing with gold, dashed in before him. The carriage contained two persons—a singularly handsome young man with a foreign cast of features, and a girl with black, flashing eyes and a brilliant complexion, dressed not only in, but considerably beyond the height of the fashion. These were the Duc d’Austerlitz and Mademoiselle Angélique, the fascinating danseuse.
As Lord Bellefield, with curling lip, passed them to take up his station farther on, the Frenchman, catching his eye, nodded carelessly, and turning to his companion said a few words in a low tone, and they both laughed. Had Lord Bellefield been living at a period when the state of society allowed the hand to act out the feelings of the heart, he would at that moment have sprung upon the Due d’Austerlitz, and seizing him by the throat, have held on remorselessly till life became extinct. As it was, he merely returned the nod by a bow, smiled, kissed the tips of his gloves to Angélique, and drove on; so that, after all, civilisation has its advantages.
Having chosen his station, the bays were unharnessed and led away, and a mounted groom approached, leading his master’s hack.
“I am going down to the ring, and then to the Warren, to see them saddle,” began Lord Bellefield, “so I must leave you to take care of yourselves; but any one disposed for luncheon will find something to that effect going on here after the race. If I am not back, Robson will take good care of you.” So saying, he gave an order to one of the servants, who remained with the drag, then, mounting his horse, cantered away.
“He carries it off boldly enough, but they say if he loses the race he is a ruined man,” observed one of the friends he had left behind him.
“Oh, Lord Ashford will clear him,” remarked another; “his grandfather was one of the leading counsel of the day, and the old boy feathered his nest well before he gave up his wig and gown. He was one of the old school of lawyers, and worked in the days when a barrister’s professional income was a great fact, whereas now it is a great fiction.”
“Come, Briefless, no grumbling; back Oracle for a cool £500, and then you may cut chambers till the season’s over. But you are wrong about Bellefield. Lord Ashford has paid his debts three times, and has taken an oath on the family Bible never to do so again; but I don’t believe Bellefield’s anything like hard-up. You know he won £30,000 of poor Mellerton before he blew his brains out. Here’s Philips can tell us all about it; eh, what do you say, man?”
“Nothing,” was the cautious reply; “and I would not recommend you to let Bellefield find out exactly all you’ve been mentioning, my dear Chatterby; I’ve known him shoot a man for less.” So saying, Mr. Philips joined in the laugh he had raised against the voluble Chatterby, and then swinging himself down from the box, left them in order to take his place in the betting ring.
We must now change the venue to the Warren, a small but picturesque spot of ground encircled by a wall, within which enclosure the horses for the Derby and Oaks are saddled and mounted. Here jockeys and gentlemen, lords, blacklegs, trainers, and pickpockets, mix and jostle with one another indiscriminately. Assuredly Epsom, on the Derby day, in exclusive, aristocratic England, is the only true Utopia wherein those chimeras of French folly, Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, exist and prosper. Let the reader imagine from twenty to five-and-twenty blood-horses, each led by its attendant groom and followed by an anxious trainer, while the jockey who is to ride it, and on whose skill and courage thousands of pounds are depending, carefully inspects the buckling of girths, regulates the length of stirrup-leathers, and as far as human foresight will permit, provides against any accident which may embarrass him in the coming struggle. Then the horse-clothing is removed, and the shining coat and carefully-plaited mane of the racehorse are revealed to the eyes of the admiring spectators; an attendant satellite at the same moment assists the jockey to divest himself of his greatcoat, and he emerges from his chrysalis state in all the butterfly splendour of racing dandyism. Then the trainer, or the satellite before alluded to, “gives him a leg up,” and with this slight assistance he vaults lightly into the saddle and becomes as it were incorporate with the animal he bestrides. Quietly gathering up the reins, he presses his cap firmly on his head, slants the point of his whip towards the right flank, exchanges a few last words with the trainer, and then walks his horse up and down till his competitors are all equally prepared. On this occasion the cynosure of every eye was the first favourite, Oracle, and when his clothing was removed, and one of the cleverest jockeys of the day seated gracefully on his back, he certainly did look, to quote the enthusiastic language of his trainer, “a reg’lur pictur,” the perfection of a racehorse. Turnbull’s last words to the jockey were—
“Save him as much as you safely can till the distance, and if the pace has been anything like reasonable, it will be your own fault if the race is not your own.”
A slight contraction of the eyelid proved that the advice was understood and appreciated, and man and horse passed on.
“How is it Tartuffe does not show?” inquired Lord Bellefield of Turnbull in a whisper. “The dose can’t have been given too strong, eh?”
“No fear of that, my lud,” was the reply; “but they’ve probably discovered ere this that there is a screw loose somewhere, and they will keep him out of sight as long as they can, lest other people should become as wise as they are themselves.”
As he spoke the object of his remarks appeared; his rider was already mounted, and the horse-clothing removed. Tartuffe was a complete contrast to his rival in appearance. The Dodona Colt was a bright bay, with black mane, tail, and legs; his head was small, almost to a fault, and shaped like that of a deer, his neck longer and more arched than is usually the case in thorough-bred horses; while his graceful, slender limbs seemed to embody the very ideal of swiftness. Tartuffe was altogether a smaller and more compact animal, his colour a rich, dark chestnut, his head larger in proportion, and so placed on as to give him the appearance of being slightly ewe-necked, his forelegs were shorter, and the arm more muscular than those of his graceful rival; but the sloping shoulder, the depth of the girth, the breadth and unusual muscular development of the loins and haunches, together with a quick, springy step and a general compactness of form, afforded to the practised eye evidence of his possessing very uncommon powers both of speed and endurance.
“He looks fresh and lively enough,” remarked Lord Bellefield, after observing the horse narrowly. “What do you think about it?”
“It’s all right, my lud,” was Turnbull’s confident answer; “things speaks for themselves, the ’orse ain’t allowed to show till the last minute, and then he comes out with his jockey ready mounted. Now the logic of that dodge lies in a nutshell: finding the hanimal sleepy and out of sorts, they keeps him snug till they’re forced to purduce him, and then shows him with the jockey on him, when a touch with the spur and a pull or two at his mouth with a sharp bit makes him look alive again.” Approaching his lips almost to his employer’s ear, he continued, “Do you see that patch of black grease on his nose? that’s where the twitch has cut him. Beverley was obliged to twitch him to give him the ball—so now your ludship may bet away without any fear of Tartuffe,” and exchanging a significant glance, this well-matched pair parted.
“Ah! Bellefield, mon cher! how lovely your colt looks this morning—I suppose he is to win; for myself I am preparing to be martyrised with a resignation the most touching,” and as he spoke Armand Duc d’Austerlitz stroked his silky moustaches and admired his glossy boot with an air of the most innocently graceful self-satisfaction possible.
“You don’t really believe that which you say, Monsieur le Duc,” replied Lord Bellefield; “I never saw a horse in better racing condition than Tartuffe.”
“Ah! c’est un bon petit cheval, and I have betted, ah!—bah!—I cannot tell you what sums of money upon him, more than half my estates in Languedoc; positively I shall have to go through what you call the Bench of your Queen, if I lose.”
“In that case it is useless for me to inquire whether you are disposed to back Tartuffe against my bay colt,” insinuated Lord Bellefield.
“No, not if you have a fancy that way, mon cher ami,” replied Armand, smiling to show his white teeth; “what shall we say?—an even bet of £3000 shall it be, or £5000?”
“Five is the more comfortable sum of the two,” returned Lord Bellefield quickly. “I always like to bet fives or tens; it simplifies one’s book amazingly, and I never had a taste for intricate arithmetic.”
“Comme il vous plaira—say ten, if you like it better.” And as he spoke Armand drew out a miniature betting-book and a gold pencil-case blazing with jewels. Lord Bellefield paused for a moment; certain as he believed himself to be of the race, it was a great temptation. But, on the other hand, if he appeared too eager, might not suspicion attach to him in the event of any clue being gained to the poisoning affair? The idea was so alarming to him that prudence overcame avarice.
“I have unfortunately no estates in Languedoc,” he said laughingly; “and thousands are not so entirely a matter of indifference to me as to your Grace; so we will book the bet at five.”
The wager was accordingly so entered; and with friendly smiles and courteous words upon their lips these two men parted, one hating the successful rival, the other despising the detected swindler! Alas! for the shams and deceptions of society! pasteboard and tinsel are more real than its hollow-hearted seemings.
“Now you see your game,” were Slangsby’s last words to the jockey who was to ride Tartuffe. “Make running early in the race, so as to render the pace as severe as possible throughout: your horse will live to the end, and theirs won’t; but if he is not well blown before he gets to the distance, it will be a very close thing, and the length of his stride may beat you.”
“I’m awake,” was the concise reply; but Slangsby was quite satisfied therewith.
Racing may be very cruel, and it may lead to gambling and various other immoralities, major and minor; and being thus proved contrary to the precepts of Christianity, good people may be quite right in using their best efforts to discourage it. Nevertheless, it is a manly and exciting sport; and although the evils to which we have alluded may (and, we fear, do) attend it, we cannot see that the amusement in itself necessitates them. On the contrary, we conceive that they are added to it by the proneness to evil inherent in human nature, rather than as the natural consequence of the sport itself. However this may be, a finer sight than the start for the Derby we cannot easily imagine. Let the reader picture to himself some twenty three-year-old colts, their proud, expanded nostrils snuffing the wind, and their glossy coats glistening in the sunshine, ridden by the crack jockeys of England, and therefore of the world, drawn up in a line, preparatory to starting; let him reflect, in order fully to realise the earnest nature of the scene, that on the fact of which may prove the better horse depend many thousands—perhaps, in the aggregate, more than a million of pounds sterling; that the ruin of hundreds may be involved in the event of the race; that on the chances of that whirlwind course have been expended the anxious thought, the careful calculation of days and weeks and months; that the weighing and reducing these calculations to a theoretic system, by which some certainty may be attained, is the business of many men’s lives,—and he will then have some faint idea of the deep, overpowering interest that is excited by witnessing the start for the Derby.
On the occasion which we are describing two false starts occurred. Twice as the word “Go!” was pronounced by the stentorian lungs of the starter did one queer-tempered animal choose pertinaciously to turn its tail where its head should have been; and twice did the same “voice of power” vociferate the command “Come back!” and deep, if not loud, were the anathemas breathed by those jockeys who, having manoeuvred themselves into a good position, had contrived to “get away” well. However, “ ’tis an ill wind which blows good to nobody;” and these delays, annoying as they were to most of the parties concerned, were as much in favour of the supporters of Oracle as they were prejudicial to the interests of those who had backed Tartuffe.
Oracle, amongst other gifts of fortune, chanced to be blessed with a most amiable and placid temper, while Tartuffe, not possessing so philosophical a turn of mind, was apt to get excited in a crowd, and the first false start completely unsettling him, he availed himself of the second to bolt half-way to Tattenham Corner before his rider could pull him in; and even when that feat was accomplished he showed a decided preference for using his hind-legs only in progression on his return to the starting-post; by his riotous and unmanageable conduct taking a great deal more out of himself than was by any means prudent.
Once more, however, they are all in their places—the word is again given, and they are off—Tartuffe springing away with a bound like that of a lion, and half dislocating his rider’s arms by a furious effort to “get his head.” As it happened that there were two or three other “queer” tempered horses besides that of the Duc d’Austerlitz which required careful handling, the pace at first was by no means so “good” as Slangsby had wished it to be; nor could the jockey riding Tartuffe venture to improve it, for two reasons: in the first place, his horse was so excited that it required all his skill to prevent his running away with him; in the second, his former attempt to bolt had sufficed to puff him, and he required “saving” to enable him to regain wind. In the meantime Oracle was going sweetly and easily, keeping up with his horses in what appeared scarcely beyond a canter. When past the “Corner,” however, Tartuffe had decidedly improved, and his rider, remembering his instructions, began to make play. As the pace increased, the “first flight” became considerably more select, the “tender-hearted” ones gradually dropping in the rear.
Up to this point Phosphorus had been leading, followed by Advance, Whisker, The Lynx, Gossip, and Challenger; but down the next slope Tartuffe came up, passed the other horses, and after running neck to neck with Phosphorus for about a quarter of a mile, took the lead, and kept it by about half a length, Oracle lying well up on the near side. This order they preserved till near the distance, when Lynx and Challenger put on the steam to dispute the leadership with Tartuffe, who appeared by no means disposed to relinquish the post of honour, and the pace grew decidedly severe, in spite of which Oracle continued insensibly to creep up to the others.
At the distance Lynx found it “no go,” and fell back beaten; Gossip taking his place, closely waited on by Phosphorus and Oracle; a few strides more, in which Oracle improved his position, and then the final struggle begins, whips and spurs go to work in earnest—the pace is actually terrific—Gossip shuts up, Phosphorus is extinguished, Oracle and Tartuffe run neck and neck, dust flies, handkerchiefs wave, the spectators shout, when, just at the critical moment, the Frenchman’s horse shoots forward, as if propelled by some invisible power, the favourite is beaten by rather more than a head, and Tartuffe remains winner of the Derby.
CHAPTER LX.—CONTAINS SOME “NOVEL” REMARKS UPON THE ROMANTIC CEREMONY OF MATRIMONY.
“Frere, old fellow, have you prepared your wedding garments?” inquired Bracy, meeting his friend accidentally one fine day, about a week after the occurrence of the events described in the last chapter.
“Ay, I hear that your machinations have succeeded,” returned Frere gruffly, “and that De Grandeville is about to marry Lady Lombard. I’ll tell you what it is, Bracy; it strikes me that in assisting people to make fools of themselves and each other, you are just wasting your time and perverting your talents: depend upon it you may very safely leave folks to perform that operation on their own account, they are not likely to class that amongst their sins of omission.”
“Make fools of themselves!” repeated Bracy. “My dear Frere, it’s nothing of the sort, that was an ‘opus operatum,’ a deed done for our friends by beneficent Nature, long before I had the pleasure of their acquaintance. Moreover, in the present case, I am seeking to diminish, rather than to increase, the standing amount of folly—man and wife are one, you know; ergo, by uniting Lady Lombard and the mighty De Grandeville, the ranks of the feeble-minded are one fool minus.”
“Well, that certainly is an ingenious way of putting it,” rejoined Frere, laughing in spite of himself; “and pray how have you contrived to bring about this delectable affair; for I conclude the match is your handiwork?”
“Oh! the thing was easy enough to accomplish,” replied Bracy. “I invented pretty speeches, which I declared to each that the other had made about them; I exaggerated De Grandeville’s position to Lady Lombard, and Lady Lombard’s wealth to De Grandeville; in short, I lied perseveringly and judiciously until I fancied I had got the affair thoroughly en train. But I soon found out there was a hitch somewhere; it was clearly not on the lady’s side, for she was so far gone as to believe in De Grandeville to the extent of estimating him at his own valuation, which I take to be the ne plus ultra of credulity; so I set steadily to work to investigate him, and if possible find out what was the matter. I tried various schemes, but none of them would act, his reserve was impenetrable; at last, in despair, I gave him a champagne dinner at the Polysnobion, taking care to ply him well with wine, and to walk home with him afterwards. That did the business—he must have been most transcendently drunk and no mistake, for before we reached his lodgings, having confessed to me that his grandfather had been a tallow chandler, he went on to relate that the bar to his union with Lady Lombard was his inability to discover that she possessed any pedigree.”
“Well, for that matter,” interrupted Frere, “having admitted the tallow chandler, I don’t see that he need have been so very particular as to the aristocratic tendencies of Lady Lombard’s ancestry.”
“De Grandeville did not think so,” resumed Bracy; “he argued that no amount of chandlery could infuse vulgarity into the blood of one of his illustrious house; external circumstances, he declared, were powerless to affect the innate nobility of a De Grandeville: whole years of melting days would fail to drop a spot upon that illustrious name. But for a man, the founder of whose family came over with the Norman William, to marry a woman without a pedigree, one who probably never had so much as a grandfather belonging to her, was impossible: he had a warm regard for Lady Lombard; he considered that his name and influence, supported by her wealth, would place him in one of the proudest positions to which a mortal could aspire; but even for this he could not sacrifice his leading principle, he could not ally himself to any one without a pedigree.
“Seeing that he was in earnest, I forbore to laugh at him; and merely throwing out hints that I had reason to believe he was in error, and that although Lady Lombard’s father (an amiable soap-boiler, whose virtues simmered for sixty years in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch) had been engaged in commerce (he paraphrased the tallow chandler into a Russian merchant), as well as his grandfather, still the arguments which applied to the one case would hold good in the other, and at all events I begged him to take no rash or precipitate step in the matter till I had applied to a friend of mine (of course invented for the occasion) who was a genealogist, and used my best endeavours to clear up the difficulty—for which disinterested offer he, being still more or less inebriated, blessed me reiteratedly and fervently, and so, having seen him safely home, we parted. The next morning I visited Lady Lombard, led her on sweetly and easily to talk of her family, gained some information, and learned where to obtain more, and in less than two days had the satisfaction of proving her fiftieth cousin sixteen times removed to Edward the Third. De Grandeville was introduced to my friend in the Heralds’ Office——.”
“Whom you declared a minute ago to be invented for the occasion,” interrupted Frere.
“For which reason he was the more easily personated by Tom Edgehill of the Fusileers,” resumed the unblushing Bracy. “De Grandeville was allowed, as a great favour, to peruse the pedigree, believed in it——”
“Or pretended to do so,” suggested Frere.
“To the fullest extent!” continued Bracy, not heeding the interruption, “and the next thing I heard was that the parties were engaged.”
“So he is actually going to marry a woman without an idea, properly so called, in her head, and half as old again as he is, for the sake of her money. Well! that’s an abyss of degradation I’ll never sink to while there is a crossing to be swept in London,” was Frere’s disgusted comment.
“Chacun à son gout—for my own part I should prefer involuntary emigration at the expense and for the good of my country, vulgarly denominated transportation, to being married at all, even were the opposing party (my hypothetical wife, I mean) the most thorough-bred angel that ever wore a bustle,” returned Bracy. “By the way,” he continued, “I saw your little friend, Miss Arundel, the other day; she and her mother are staying with the ‘Lombardie Character,’ I find, but of course you know all this better than I do. Really that girl writes exceedingly good sense for a woman. Now if I were a marrying man, I don’t know any quarter in which I’d sooner throw the handkerchief.”
“You might pick it up again for your pains, for she wouldn’t have you, I’m sure,” growled Frere.
“Do you really believe so?” asked Bracy, with an incredulous smile. “Ahem! now I flatter myself the little Arundel has better taste.”
“Better sense than to do any such thing, you mean,” returned Frere more crossly than before. “Depend upon it, whenever Rose Arundel marries, she will choose a man who can respect and love her, and not a—well, I don’t mean to insult you, my good fellow, but truth will out—a self-conceited young puppy, whose head has been turned by foolish people, by whom his cleverness has been overrated and his vanity fostered.”
Bracy drew himself up, and for a minute pretended to look very fierce—then bursting into a hearty laugh, he patted his companion on the back affectionately, exclaiming, “Poor old Frere! did I put him in a rage? never mind, old boy, I only wanted to know whether there was any truth in the report that you were engaged to Miss Arundel—and now let me congratulate you. You have no doubt good cause for thinking the young lady would have shown her wisdom by selecting a sensible man such as you are, rather than a vaurien like myself, even if I were a marrying man and had placed such a temptation before her.”
Frere looked at him for a moment in utter astonishment, then muttered, “A vaurien, indeed! I always prophesied that foot-boy of yours would die with a rope round his neck, but I begin to think the complaint which will necessitate such an operation runs in the family, and that servant and master are alike affected by it.”
“And what may be the name of this alarming epidemic which you consider likely to terminate so fatally?” asked Bracy.
“A most unmitigated and virulent form of chronic impudence,” returned Frere, laughing; then shaking hands most cordially, these two oddly assorted friends parted.
After having left Bracy, Frere bent his steps towards the dwelling of Lady Lombard, with whom Mrs. Arundel and Rose were spending a few days for the avowed purpose of assisting to prepare her wedding paraphernalia, though (as the most skilful dressmaker and the most expensive tradesmen in London were at work in the good cause) their duties were merely nominal. Mrs. Arundel having explained to her hostess the nature of the engagement between Frere and her daughter, that excellent bear was allowed to run tame about the house. Lady Lombard, who was at first impressed by a vague sense of his awful amount of learning, and decidedly alarmed at his snapping and growling, had become reconciled to his presence on perceiving that Rose could tame him by a word or a smile, and committing him to her care and management, troubled herself no further about him.
“Rose, who do you think has gone to Venice?” inquired Frere, after having disburdened his pockets of a little library of heavy books, two cold, uncomfortable fossils, and the very hard handle of a Roman sword, all highly prized and newly acquired treasures, which he had brought that Rose might appreciate them and sympathise with him in his delight at having obtained them.
“To Venice,” returned Rose—“oh! who? do tell me.”
“Why, lots of people, it seems,” replied Frere. “I called upon my uncle, Lord Ashford, this morning, and found him in what is vulgarly termed a regular stew. Bellefield it seems had a horse which everybody fancied was to win the Derby, but what everybody fancied did not come to pass, for the said horse was beaten, consequently his owner has lost no end of money, for which same I for one do not pity him: I have no sympathy with your ruined gamester—and ruined he is, by the way, horse, foot, and artillery, as the military De Grandeville would say. Well, poor uncle Ashford showed me a note he had just received from his dutiful first-born, telling him that he had not a farthing of ready money in the world, except £50 to pay for his journey; that he was quite unable to meet his engagements, and that before the settling day for the Derby he must put the British Channel between him and those to whom he owed sums so large that he neither desired nor expected his father to pay them; that he would feel obliged if his lordship would increase his yearly allowance, and that he wished letters of credit to be forwarded to him at Venice, to which place he proposed immediately to follow General Grant and his daughter, who it appears left England only three weeks ago; that it was his intention to marry the young lady forthwith, and live abroad upon her fortune, until something to his advantage should turn up; and he adds in a postscript, that if his father should attempt to prevent his marriage by informing General Grant of what he is pleased to call his misfortunes, that minute he will blow his brains out. Well, poor uncle, who is a high-minded, honourable man, though he is rather proud and cold in his manner, could not bear the idea of his son marrying Annie Grant without informing the General of his loss of fortune, and at length he resolved to meet the difficulty by selling the H——shire estate, and by that means increasing Lord Bellefield’s allowance till it would amount to £3000 a year, in which case General Grant might be informed of the truth without the match being broken off, or Bellefield driven to desperation. Whereupon I observed innocently enough that the success of the scheme would in great measure depend on the tact of the person sent out to manage the negotiation: Lord Ashford agreed in this most cordially, and then saying how grateful he should feel to any one who would assist him in this strait, looked hard at me——”
“And you instantly undertook the commission; I know it as well as if I had been present and had heard all that passed,” interposed Rose with a smile, in which, though affection predominated, a slight shade of regret might have been traced.
“Why, you see, Rose, as I am one of the family, there seemed a kind of obligation upon me to do something to help them; and poor uncle Ashford did look so pitiful; and really if I had not undertaken it, I don’t know who could have been found to do so, for Bellefield quarrelled with their family solicitor because he refused to allow him to make ducks and drakes of some of the entailed property three years ago; and I shall not be gone long. Besides, I did not quite forget you, Rosey, for, do you comprehend, I shall be able to see Lewis without his fancying that I have been sent out expressly to look after him, and perhaps I may be able to persuade him to come home and live in England like a reasonable being and a Christian; at all events, I shall find out how he is going on there; and I’ve another thing to talk to Lewis about—I don’t mean to remain for ever without a wife, Miss Rose—you need not turn your head away—that’s sheer silliness—you know we are to be married some day, we expect matrimony will increase our happiness, and we have sounder grounds for our expectations than most of the fools who yoke themselves together for life; those who do so, for instance, in order to obtain rank or riches—our next-door neighbours to wit,” and he pointed with his thumb in the direction of the drawing-room, wherein were seated the mighty De Grandeville and his lady-love. “As, therefore, my reasoning is good, sound reasoning, and matrimony proved to be a desirable thing, why the sooner we get the ceremony over the better; so, as I said before, don’t turn away your head like a little goose, seeing that you’re nothing of the kind!”
“Poor Lewis,” murmured Rose; “he will scarcely rejoice to see you when he learns that the object of your mission is to hasten the marriage of Annie Grant with Lord Bellefield. Oh, Richard,” she continued eagerly, clasping her hands, “it will make him hate you—do not go!”
“Well, now, I never thought of that,” muttered Frere, thoroughly perplexed. “Why will people go and fall in love with one another that didn’t ought to?” He paused, rubbed his hair back from his forehead till it stood on end like the crest of a cockatoo, played with Rose’s workbox till he overturned it, and in his abstraction committed so many gaucheries that his companion was on the point of calling him to order when he suddenly returned to his senses, and taking Rose’s hand in his, began, “Now listen to me, my child: in the first place, as this matter nearly concerns Lewis, and therefore you, I will do nothing in it of which you do not approve; premising this, I will give you my own ideas on the subject. Touching Lewis’s interest in the affair, the question seems to hinge upon this point: does Annie Grant care for him or not? If she does not, it can’t signify to him who she marries; and as in that case she is probably attached to her cousin (women don’t always love wisely, you know), I should feel able to carry out uncle Ashford’s wishes with a clear conscience, and trust to Lewis’s good sense and kind heart not to incur his displeasure by so doing. If, on the other hand, Annie by any chance loves him, and has been bullied or persuaded into this engagement, I for one will have nothing to do with promoting the match, but, on the contrary, will exert myself to the utmost to prevent it; and now what say you?”
“That by doing as you propose you will act rightly, kindly, and judiciously, and that come what may of it, your interference must be for good,” returned Rose, gazing with looks of proud affection upon the simple-hearted, high-principled “honest man” (indeed “the noblest work of God”) who sat beside her. “But,” she continued after a moment’s thought, “there is one difficulty which I scarcely see how you will get over—how are you to find out whom Annie Grant really loves?”
“Ask her myself,” was the straightforward reply. Rose looked at him to see if he were joking, but his face was earnest and resolved.
“Oh, Richard, you will never be able to do that,” she remonstrated; “remember how such a question must distress her.”
“Which do you think will distress her most—to be asked abruptly to give her confidence to a person who is anxious to befriend her, or to spend her life with one man, when all the time she loves another?” inquired Frere almost sternly. Then laying his hand on Rose’s head and stroking her glossy hair, he continued, “No! no! Rosey, away with all such sophistries; they are the devil’s emissaries to render people first miserable, and then reckless and wicked. Marriages, properly so termed, may be made in Heaven, but depend upon it, the spurious articles too often foisted upon the public under that name—alliances in which this world’s goods are everything, and the treasures of the next world nothing—come from quite another manufactory.”
Then there was a pause, and then Rose inquired when he proposed to set out.
“Why, there is no good in procrastinating,” was the reply; “the sooner I start the sooner I shall be back again, so to-morrow the lawyer gets the necessary papers ready; the next day good Lady Goosecap here is to be married, and I mean to attend the ceremony in order to learn how to behave on such an occasion; and the day after that, if nothing unforeseen occurs to prevent me, I’m off!”
“You will write very often—every——” (Frere raised his eyebrows) “well then, every other day, will you not?” urged Rose appealingly.
“What queer things women are!” soliloquised Frere. “Now, if you had been going to the North Pole,” he continued, addressing Rose, “it would never have occurred to me to ask you to write—I should have taken it for granted that if you had discovered the northwest passage, or done anything else worth mentioning, you would have let one know; and why people write if they have nothing to say I can’t think.”
“At all events, it is a satisfaction when we are parted from those who are dear to us to be assured that they are well,” suggested Rose.
“Oh, nothing ever ails me,” replied Frere, quietly appropriating the remark; “there is not a doctor in the country who has ever received one farthing of my money; and as to physic—throw physic to the dogs, always supposing you to have any such abomination to dispose of, and any dogs at hand to throw it to: it’s a thing I don’t know the taste of, and where ignorance is bliss—well, never mind, I’ll write to you all the same, if you have a weakness that way, whenever I can find pens, paper, and a post-office; only if my letters should happen to be rather prosy, somewhat in the much-ado-about-nothing style, small blame to me, that’s all.” Thus the expedition was agreed upon, and Rose having told Frere some hundred things which he was to say to and inquire of Lewis, sat down to write a few more “notes and queries,” winding up with a pathetic appeal to her brother to bring his self-imposed exile to a conclusion.
So the silver-footed hours turned round the treadmill of time, till the dewy morn appeared which was to witness the celebration of the nuptials of Lady Lombard and the mighty Marmaduke De Grande-ville. Oh, the ardour and bustle of that devoted household! As for the servants, so late did they sit up and so early did they rise, that going to bed at all became rather a superstitious observance than a beneficial practice. Then everybody had to dress, first themselves and then somebody else; and the amount of white muslin concentrated in that happy family rendered space crisp, and gave a look of pastoral simplicity to the most iniquitously gorgeous arrangements of modern upholstery.
The bride’s dress was wonderful—words are powerless to describe it—happy those women who, favoured beyond all other daughters of Eve, were permitted to behold it. One very young lady, rash in her ignorance, ventured to ask how much the lace cost a yard. The French artiste, Mademoiselle Melanie Amandine Celestine Seraphine Belledentelles, piously invoked six authorised female saints, besides the deceased Madame Tournour, at whose flounces she had sat to acquire her art, and whom, on her lamented removal to Père la Chaise, she had privately canonised for her own especial use and behoof, and thus supported did not faint. The “mistress of the robes,” a black-eyed, brown-cheeked grisette, turned as pale as her complexion permitted her and sank upon a chair, but being unprovided with a smelling-bottle, thought it advisable not to proceed to extremities, and the mother of the culprit hurried forward, and with great presence of mind led her from the room—such mysteries are not for the profane.
Then occurred a tremendous episode—the dress was disposed in graceful folds over the ample person of its fortunate possessor, and fitted seraphically; only the bottom hook and eye, situated in the region round about the waist, would by no means permit themselves to be united, and a lucid interval, hiatus valde lachrymabilis, was the fearful consequence. The grisette did her very utmost, but her strength was inadequate to command the success her zeal deserved, and with flushed cheeks and tearful eyes she glanced appealingly to Mademoiselle Melanie Amandine, etc., etc.
That ardent foreigner stepped forward to the rescue, all the noble self-confidence of her nation flashing in her coal-black eyes, and gallantly assumed the post of danger—she was a small woman, but her frame was compact and wiry, and Tydeus-like—
“Her little body held a mighty mind.”
Setting to work with spirit, she devoted all her energies to the task before her, aged Lady Lombard winced palpably, unconsciously echoing Hamlet’s well-known aspiration—but that good lady’s melting moods were unfortunately mental, not bodily, and in this attempt “to take her in” even the French dressmaker was foiled; the “too solid” substance was not compressible beyond a certain point, and with a sigh which had a marvellous resemblance to the word sacr-r-r-e, Mademoiselle Melanie Amandine, etc., etc., desisted.
“Ah! qu’ils sont difficiles ces agraffes!” she exclaimed, rubbing her little hands with a theatrical gesture. “I have not to myself force in les poignets, vot you call oncles.”
“Wrists,” mildly suggested Mrs. Arundel, who was assisting to attire the bride—“mine are very strong, let me try”—and suiting the action to the word, she, Curtius-like, endeavoured to close the yawning gulf, but in vain.
“Ah non! c’est impossible—you shall only hurt your hands too motch, chère Madame Hirondelle,” resumed Mademoiselle—“permit me to ring zie bell, we shall make approach le maître d’hôtel, vot you call zie coachman of zie chambaire, who shall have much of force, et ce sera un fait accompli.”
“Stop, Madurmoysel,” exclaimed Lady Lombard aghast, as the energetic Frenchwoman laid her hand upon the bell-rope—“Stop, if you please, I should not like—that is, it is not exactly the custom to admit the male domestics into one’s bedroom.”
For a moment the Frenchwoman appeared utterly puzzled as to the reason of the objection, then a light broke in upon her, and she began, “Ah, je comprends! it ees not etiquette; que je suis bête! how I am stupide! mais qu’ils sont drôles ces petits scandales Anglais! Vraiment c’est comme la comédie. A Paris nous ne remarquons pas ces petits riens; et en Allemagne, zie schneider, vat you call tailor, ils font toutes les robes—mais comment faire donc?”
“Why really, Madurmoysel, je nur par—I mean, I don’t think I could bear it, if it was got to,” remonstrated Lady Lombard; “don’t you think the hook and eye might be moved a little? it’s unfortunate I am so stout—mais je nur—can’t help it.”
“Oh, mille pardons, miladi. Your lady sheep shall not be too stout; après la première jeunesse l’embonpoint is a great beauty; but zie hook and ee, à est dommage; cependant, nous verrons, ve shall see vot vill be done.” And so saying, Mademoiselle Melanie etc.‘s nimble fingers went to work, and a quarter of an inch was graciously accorded; by which means the impossible became possible, and the crisis was safely got over.
As to breakfast (not the wedding-breakfast, but the breakfast before the wedding, two very different matters), that was a regular, or rather an irregular scramble: people ate and drank standing, like horses, but in a general way feelings were stronger than appetites, and with the exception of one middle-aged lady, blessed with a powerful intellect and a weak digestion, who having medical authority never to allow herself to feel hungry, breakfasted three times that morning with three different divisions of the party, little justice was done to the viands.
Rose made herself generally useful, helping all the neglected ones, and bringing comforts to the uncomfortable, until she scarcely left herself time to dress, and yet appearing the most charming little bridesmaid of the lot, although her five companions did not disgrace their uniform of white muslin with pink embellishments (the white symbolising their maiden innocence, and the pink suggesting the cheerfulness with which they would be willing to exchange it for the honourable estate of matrimony).
Then the carriages came to take up, and Mrs. Arundel and the fair Susannah, relict of Col. Brahmin, H.E.I.C.S., had the greatest difficulty in sustaining the weak nerves and fluttered spirits of the bride elect, who, as she herself expressed it, “borne down by two such agitating sets of recollections,” might well be overcome. However, by the assistance of a rich male Lombard relation (whose wealth gilded his vulgarity till Mammon worshippers believed this calf a deity) she was safely conveyed to the church, where De Grandeville awaited her, accompanied by a splendid old ancestor, who might by a very slight stretch of imagination have been taken for the identical De Grandeville who had come over with the Conqueror, and been carefully preserved (in port wine) ever since. Bracy was there, looking preternaturally solemn, all but his eyes, in which, for the time being, the whole mischief of his nature appeared concentrated, and Frere with him, serving his apprenticeship, as Bracy phrased it.
In solemn procession they approached the altar, where the priest awaited them, and opening his book, read to them an account of the true nature of the ceremony they were about to celebrate—how it was “instituted by God in the time of man’s innocency,” and was symbolical of high and holy things, and being ordained to assist us in fulfilling the various duties for which we are placed in this world, and on the due performance of which will greatly depend our weal or woe for everlasting, it should not be undertaken lightly or unadvisedly; then De Grandeville, having learned the theory of the matter, proceeded to afford a practical commentary on the text by solemnly promising to love and honour Lady Lombard till death them should part, while she, in return, pledged herself (with less chance of perjury) to serve, obey, and keep him during the term of her natural life; then he, Marmaduke, took her, Sarah, from the hands of the wealthy Lombard relation, and declared that he did so “for richer, for poorer,” though we much fear, if he had foreseen the smallest probability of the realisation of this latter proviso, the ceremony would have been then and there interrupted, instead of proceeding as it did, sweetly and edifyingly, till it wound up with “any amazement.” And everybody being much pleased and thoroughly satisfied, there was, of course, a great deal of crying, though why they cried, unless it was to see so solemn an institution thus wantonly profaned, and to hear people use words of prayer and praise, and worship God with their lips, while in their hearts they were sacrificing all the bitter feelings of their nature before the altar of Mammon, we cannot tell.
Amongst the rest Mrs. Arundel wept most meritoriously, until catching sight of Bracy sobbing aloud into a very large pocket-handkerchief, her weeping became somewhat hysterical, and ended in a sound suspiciously like laughter. Then people crowded into the vestry, which was about the size of a good four-post bedstead, and names were signed, and fees paid, and small jokes made, and then the whole party took coach and returned to the house, where the wedding-breakfast awaited them. The humours of a wedding-breakfast have been described so often and so well, that we shall merely give a very faint outline of the leading idiosyncrasies of the affair in question.
In the first place, people were very hungry, Nature having asserted her rights and promoted Appetite, vice Feeling sold (or rather starved) out. Even the lady with the weak digestion (which made up by increased velocity for want of stamina) adding a very substantial fourth to her three previous breakfasts. Then, as mouths grew disengaged, tongues found room to wag, healths were drunk, and the speechifying began. First uprose the De Grandeville ancestor, who was a tall, thin, not to say shadowy old gentleman, with a hooked nose and a weak voice, who whispered to the company that “he rose to”—here his face twitched violently and he paused, in evident distress,—“he rose to”—here a tremendous sneeze accounted for the previous spasm, and the patient, evidently relieved, proceeded, “he rose to”—once again he paused, struggling furiously with the tails of his coat—“he begged to call the attention of the company to—he had”—still the struggles with the coat-tail continued—“he had a toast to propose;” here, amidst breathless attention, he whispered to his nephew in an aside, audible throughout the whole room, “Marmaduke, I’ve left it in my great-coat—the left-hand pocket, you know;” “the toast was this”—“Thank you, Jenkins,” to the butler, who brought the missing handkerchief on a silver waiter, sticky with the overflowings of champagne—“this was his toast—he hoped that the company would do it justice—Health and happiness to the bride and bridegroom.”
And the company did it justice; so much so, that if the health and happiness of the newly-married pair depended on the amount of champagne their friends appeared willing to drink at their expense, sickness and sorrow were evils against which they might consider themselves amply secured. Silence being restored, the bridegoom rose to return thanks, his inborn greatness manifesting itself in every look and gesture, and dignified condescension adding a new grace to his sonorous voice and grandiloquent delivery. Having glanced round the table with the air of a monarch (in a fairy extravaganza) about to address his parliament, he cleared his noble throat and began—
“In rising to—ar—return thanks for the honour you have done us, in so cordially assenting to the toast proposed by a man whose presence might confer a favour upon the most aristocratic assembly in the land—a man whom—ar—even at this moment, which I have no hesitation—ar—in—ar”—(hear, hear, and question from Bracy)—“I repeat, no hesitation in—in—no hesitation in—ar—declaring to be at once the proudest and happiest moment of my life—a man who, even in this season of felicity, I yet distinctly—ar—yes, distinctly say, I envy; for he has the honour to represent the elder branch of that ancient and illustrious house of which I am a comparatively insignificant” (a groan of indignant denial from Bracy, which procured him a gracious smile from the speaker), “yes, I—ar—repeat it, a comparatively insignificant, but I hope not an entirely unworthy descendant.” Here Bracy, after a slight struggle with Frere, who sought to prevent him, rose, and speaking apparently under feelings of the greatest excitement, said, “He was sorry to interrupt the flow of eloquence which was so much delighting the company, but he was certain every one would agree with him in saying that Mr. de Grandeville’s last observation, however creditable it might be to him, as evincing his unparalleled and super-Christian (if he might be allowed the term) humility, could not be allowed to pass unchallenged. He put it to them collectively, as intellectual beings; he put it to them individually, as gallant men and lovely women (immense sensation)—if his noble friend, the illustrious man to whose burning eloquence they had just been listening, were allowed to set himself forth to the world as ‘comparatively insignificant’ and ‘not entirely unworthy,’—he asked them if such terms as these were allowed to be applied to such a character as that, where was society to seek its true ‘monarchs of mind’? where should it look for those heaven-gifted soul-heroes—those giants of thought, those ‘Noblers’ and ‘that Noblest,’ to quote the glowing words of one of the leading writers of the age, by whom its evils were to be remedied, its abuses reformed, and its whole nature purified and regenerated?—he put it to them to declare whether Mr. de Grandeville must not be entreated to recall his words?”
Deafening applause followed Bracy’s harangue, and the amendment was carried nem. con. Thus fooled to the top of his bent, De Grandeville resumed his speech, and after making a very absurd display of egotistic nonsense, family pride, and personal pretensions, gave the health of the company generally, and of his ancient ancestor and the vulgar Lombard relation in particular. Then more healths were drunk and more speeches made, and a great amount of stupidity elicited, interspersed with some drollery, when Bracy was called upon to return thanks for the bridesmaids, which he did in an affected falsetto, smiling, blushing, coquetting, and screwing up imaginary ringlets, much after the fashion of the inimitable John Parry, when it pleases him to enact one of the young ladies of England in the nineteenth century. Then the female portion of the company retired to relieve their feelings by a little amateur crying and kissing, champagne and susceptibility being mysteriously united in the tender bosoms of the softer sex; then the miraculous robe was taken off and the bride re-attired for travelling; then the gentlemen came upstairs, all more or less “peculiar” from drinking wine at that unaccustomed hour in the morning, and some little business was transacted; one spirited bridesmaid, who had had a shy young man nibbling for some time, actually harpooning her fish, and landing him skilfully beyond all chance of floundering out of an engagement, by referring him on the spot to mamma. Mrs. Arundel, who by this time had learned to entertain a most lady-like and unchristian hatred against the fair Susannah, maliciously laid herself out to captivate the limp and unstable affections of Mr. Dackerell Dace, and succeeded so well, that she actually began to deliberate whether opulence and triumph over her rival might not render Dace endurable as a permanency. Then the travelling carriage with Newman’s four greys drew up to the door, and the stereotyped adieus were spoken, the stereotyped smiles smiled, and tears shed, and all the necessary nonsense rehearsed with most painstaking diligence, the only original feature in the whole affair being Frere’s remark to Bracy as the happy pair drove off—
“You were about right, old fellow, when you compared marrying to hanging. I tell you what it is—sooner than undergo all this parade of folly, absurdity, and bad taste, I’ll be spliced at the pier-head at Dover, and set sail for Calais as soon as the ring is on the bride’s finger; better be sea-sick than sick at heart with such rubbish as we’ve been witness to.”