“No, not by any means—there’s room for all! I shall not always be here, you know. Well, Mrs. Hogben,” rising, “I hope you will forgive me for intruding into your family affairs, but just think over what I have said to you; you know I mean well, and I’m Tom’s friend,” and with this declaration her lodger bade her good-night, and climbed up the creaking stairs into his crooked chamber.
The immediate result of the chauffeur’s interference was the transformation of Tom into a smart, clean-shaven young man—who openly neglected his lady-love, actually escorted her hated rival from evening church, and remained to share the family supper of pig’s cheek and pickles. Owen’s prescription had a marvellous effect; for, three weeks after this too notorious entertainment, it was officially given out at the Drum that Tom and Dilly Topham were to be wed at Christmas—and to make their home with Sally Hogben. On hearing this, so to speak, postscript, various maids and matrons were pleased to be sarcastic respecting the two Mrs. Hogbens, and wished them both “joy.”
CHAPTER XX
SUDDEN DEATH
There had been an outbreak of festivities in the neighbourhood of lethargic Ottinge; the climax of these was a grand ball given by Mrs. Woolcock at Westmere, to celebrate her youngest daughter’s engagement to Lord Lowestoff. Every one who was any one—and indeed not a few nobodies—were bidden as guests; Mrs. Woolcock liked to see her rooms crammed to suffocation. No expense was spared—the arrangements were made on a lavish scale. On this occasion the extra waiters and other luxuries were imported from London by special train, and a carefully selected house-party provided the bride-elect with a ready-made court that intervened between the future peeress and the vulgar herd. Dancing took place in the great drawing-room (in old days it was called the White Saloon), and through its wide, open windows humble spectators—such as coachmen and chauffeurs—were at liberty to look on, to wonder, and to criticise.
The Misses Parrett and their niece were present. Miss Parrett—who had nerved herself for the ordeal with a glass and a half of port—had motored to Westmere through the darkness, with great, flaring lamps—a truly heart-shaking experience! but she was determined to exhibit her new velvet gown and her new diamonds. Her satisfaction with her own appearance was such that, before she embarked on her venture into the night and the motor, her household were summoned to a private view—precisely as if she were a young beauty or a bride!
The old lady, who bore an absurd resemblance to a black velvet penwiper, enjoyed the ball immensely, and took a number of mental photographs; she also “took the wall” of various obnoxious people who had dared to patronise her in her days of poverty. Her particular satellites, stout widows and anxious-looking spinsters, rallied around her, ardently admiring her toilette, and listened patiently to her boring recollections of the balls she had attended years ago; but, in point of fact, they were more keenly interested in the ball of to-night and their prospects respecting escorts to the supper-table.
Much as she was engrossed in herself and her own importance, Miss Parrett could not help noticing that her niece was singled out for special attention by Bertie Woolcock. This, though a genuine satisfaction to her, was no pleasure to her chauffeur, who, from a coign of vantage on the lawn, commanded a capital view of the gay scene—the illuminated room, the constant circulation of black and white, and sometimes coloured, figures. Among these Miss Morven was pre-eminent—the undisputed beauty of the evening—wearing a filmy white gown, with a sparkling ornament glittering in her dark hair; she looked radiantly lovely and radiantly happy, as she floated lightly by.
The chauffeur’s watchful eyes noted that she had (quite unnecessarily) bestowed three waltzes on that blundering elephant, Bertie Woolcock; how red and hot he looked—more as if he were threshing than dancing! What would he not give for just a couple of turns with the belle of the ball! The band was “Iffs” and the floor seemed to be ripping! Well, there was nothing for it but to wait as an outsider, and to hold on to his patience with both hands.
After the great ball—its glories, shortcomings, surprises, and failures—had died away into a nine days’ wonder, there were several cricket matches, and Ottinge discovered, to its supreme elation, that they had a notable man in Miss Parrett’s chauffeur! (This became evident when the local eleven assembled for their evening practice in the Manor fields.) The fame of Owen’s batting actually brought old Thunder on the scene; for he, too, had been a fine cricketer, long before gout had seized upon him and he had subsided into carpet slippers.
“Ottinge v. Westmere” was a two days’ match, and the last day at the park included a garden-party, arranged, as Mrs. Woolcock murderously expressed it, “to kill off all the neighbours!”