Harry Coverdale's Courtship, and All That Came of It

by Frank E. Smedley

CHAPTER XXXVIII.—SOME OF THE JOYS OF OUR DANCING DAYS.

Lady Tattersall Trottemout lived in the Brompton and Kensington region, and knew everybody. Her deceased papa had walked into Manchester some fifty years since, with a good head on his shoulders, and fourpence-halfpenny in his breeches-pocket. Being tired with his walk, he sat down in Manchester, and rested there for the space of forty years, during which time, by a process peculiar to that city, his fourpence-halfpenny grew into an hundred and forty thousand pounds. Unto him was born, in lawful wedlock, one only daughter, the subject of the present brief memoir, who, on his retirement to “t’ Oud Churchyard” (as, in his Lancashire dialect, he was accustomed to denominate his final resting-place in the burial-ground of the Collegiate Church), inherited the fourpence-halfpenny and its compound interest; with which, when her mourning for her father was ended, she purchased Sir Tattersall Trottemout. This noble baronet, who was by no means worth the price she gave for him, had been essentially a fast man, and had run through everything he could lay his “blood-red hand” upon—his own fortune and the fortunes of several of his relations included—and when they were all gone and spent, he ran through his reputation; which last “rapid act” did not take him long, as that “bubble” was not as “wide as a church-door, nor deep as a draw-well,” when he began upon it. Thus, finding himself under a cloud and in difficulties—the only things he had yet encountered which he could not run through (the good old days of “pinking” one’s tailor instead of paying him being unfortunately past)—Sir T. T. felt that his time was come, and that he must prepare his mind for another—that is, a married—life. So, ætatis forty-five, he went into dock, dyed his hair and whiskers, purchased a new set of teeth, laid in a stock of patent leather boots, and ran down to Manchester to captivate an heiress. The respectable owner of the enlarged and embellished fourpence-halfpenny had, at that epoch, been about one year under the turf which his future son-in-law had been on for above twenty; and his orphan daughter, of sweet nineteen, was immediately smitten and wounded by the aristocratic appearance and distinguished manners of the broken-down titled blackleg who sought her... fortune. She, being then a simple-minded, honest girl, absurd as it may appear, loved the creature; and, despite the advice of several kind-hearted, strong-headed, fearfully vulgar old men, who were her trustees, guardians, legal advisers, &c. &c. (policemen, so to speak, appointed by the lamented deceased to prevent his developed fourpence-halfpenny being prematurely reduced to its pristine elements), this young lady vowed she would marry Sir Tattersall Trottemout—and did so. But, as the baronet’s talent for running through any amount of cash was rumoured even at Manchester, the ancient policemen tied up the fourpence-halfpenny so tightly that nobody could manufacture ducks and drakes with it—not even Sir Tat. Trott.: so, after a few abortive attempts, that ornament to his order gave up his evil courses, and settled down quietly on cigars, brandy and water, and whist with half-crown points—a notable example of the reformatory powers of matrimony. His lady-wife went through the usual agreeable process of awaking from “Love’s young dream,” and discovering that, after the manner of Caliban, she had, in her simplicity,—

“Made a wonder of a poor drunkard,”

she, like a sensible woman, resolved to put up with her bad bargain, keep her husband in respectable order, and create or discover some fresh interest in life for herself. In accordance with this determination, she restricted the marital cigars and brandy and water to certain definite limits; tested several phases of London society; and then took her line, and chose her associates accordingly. Being an intellectual woman, and having literary taste up to a certain point, she affected the society of artists of all classes, and in every department of art. Thus, at her soirees, you might meet literary men of various species: historians, novelists, journalists, critics, et hoc genus omne; painters, sculptors, musicians; the leading actors of the day, male and female,—in fact, all the celebrities whom the London season delighteth to honour. But, knowing that talent requires an intelligent audience, Lady Tattersall Trottemout associated a certain proportion of the profanum vulgus to worship her collected divinities. Her parties, therefore, soon became noted as the most agreeable of their kind; and to one of these meetings, in which dancing was to be the chief feature of the evening, were our friends in Park Lane invited. Harry had promised Alice that, if it were possible, he would return to escort her to this notable gathering; however, on the appointed evening, ten o’clock arrived, but no Coverdale. Alice was rather frightened and considerably annoyed, but Kate persuaded her that there was no just cause for alarm; and so, leaving a note for Harry, begging him to join them, if he should arrive in time to make it worth while to do so, they proceeded to the “spacious mansion” of Lady Tattersall Trottemout.

For some time, little Mrs. Coverdale was sufficiently amused by observing the appearance, manners, and customs of the various notabilities, as they were pointed out to her by no less a personage than her hostess, who, attracted by the simple beauty of her new acquaintance, and the evident pleasure and interest she took in all that was going on around her, actually devoted to her ten minutes of the valuable time in which, on such occasions, a clever mistress of the house is expected, and actually contrives, to say and do something civil to an hundred and fifty human beings, all prepared to magnify any accidental neglect into an intended slight, and to resent it accordingly. But, ere ten minutes had well elapsed, an illustrious stranger arrived, who was so intensely foreign that he could not be prevailed upon to speak or understand any language of which the deepest philologists present were able to make head or tail, and who, in his consequent bewilderment, had seated himself on the music-stool, with his back towards the key-board of the pianoforte—thereby establishing a complete blockade of that harmonious and indispensable instrument, which no representations in French, German, or Italian, could induce him to relinquish: so a breathless female aide-de-camp, in flaxen ringlets and white muslin, hurried up to report this frightful dilemma to the commandress-in-chief, who, with the greatest presence of mind, dispatched her to summon Count Cacklewitz, the young Hungarian patriot, who, it was generally believed, could speak everything, even his own language, and then hastened in person to raise the siege of the piano-forte. Alice, thus deserted, fell into the hands of a tall, gaunt, blue woman, rejoicing in a red nose and a long fluent tongue, who began to talk high art to her, and confused her about transcendentalism and Carlyle,—the Oxford Graduate (viz., Turner’s single and singular disciple, wonderful Mr. Buskin), and pre-Raphaelism,—the meaning of Tennyson, when he condescends to be obscure (for he can write real poetry, which “he who runs may read” and feel),—and of the dark Brownings, and Macaulay and the romance of history, and many other hackneyed pseudo-literary topics of the day, until our unlucky little heroine lapsed into that state of mental incapacity usually described as not knowing whether one is standing on one’s head or one’s heels. Then began vocal music, which mercifully silenced Alice’s strong-minded persecutor; and a rather raffish baritone gentleman, who wanted shearing dreadfully, and was all voice, eyes, and feathers, like a lean bird, accosted a singularly hard-featured, middle-aged German lady, as “Oh! thou beloved one!” to which she made an appropriately tender soprano reply; and the company listened with much forbearance, for quite ten minutes, to the united affections of this interesting couple, detailed to an accompaniment now rapturous, now pathetic, at the end of which period they both suddenly exalted their voices, bellowed their love at each other in one final outburst of sympathetic insanity, and subsided into a refreshing silence. Then a young lady in a pink sash informed the company that her brain was on fire, her heart consuming, and her digestive organs generally in a state of spontaneous combustion, because her fatherland writhed in the grasp of tyrants—“tra la, tra lira la!”—which unpleasant state of affairs was much applauded by hairy exiles, with microscopic washing bills, which they never paid, and a monomania in regard to freedom, which they never obtained, but which had kept them in hot water (the only water they patronized) from their youth upwards. Lastly, a very mild young gentleman of England excited himself about some “Rivar! rivar! shining rivar!” into which pellucid stream he kept putting his foot “deeper and deeper still,” until every one was so sorry for him, that the whole party appeared on the verge of hysterics, and were forced to conceal their emotion behind fans, flounced pocket-handkerchiefs, and white-gloved hands. Then the votaries of Terpsichore stood at ease upon their light fantastic toes (except in the cases of tightly-shod martyrs), and polking was the order of the night—at which period Alice looked about and wondered what had become of Lord Alfred Courtland, who had said a great deal on the subject of the delight he expected in dancing with her, and had engaged her hand for the first polka.

Now, whether any strictly moral reader, with that bad opinion of poor human nature which very strict morality usually induces, has decided that “every woman is at heart a rake,” and believed our little heroine about to prove herself a “dreadful creature,” and transfer her affections from her lawful husband to her unlawful admirer, we do not know; but if any reader has set his (or her) heart on such a consummation, we are sorry to be obliged to inform him that he is mistaken. Alice considered Lord Alfred a good-natured agreeable boy, whose conversation served to amuse her, and to whose society she had become accustomed; she would a thousand times rather have talked to Harry at any time, but Harry was not always attainable—indeed, the chances were generally against her seeing anything of him from breakfast till dinner-time, and then Lord Alfred became a very good and safe substitute.

But the first polka was over, and a valse à deux temps followed it, neither of which Alice danced, and still no Harry, no Lord Alfred appeared; and in despair she was obliged to say Yes to a heavy cornet in the Life-Guards, who was big enough to eat her, and polked like a polite young elephant. Glad to escape without being squeezed to death or trampled under foot by this ponderous young warrior, Alice had just found a seat, when D’Almayne and Lord Alfred lounged in; the latter immediately joined her, and claimed her promise to dance with him; but Alice was tired and bored, and feeling that it was in some degree owing to him that she had become so, and that he ought to have been there sooner, she replied coldly—

“I promised to reserve the first dance for you, my lord, but the first dance has been over some time, and several others have followed; I do not feel disposed to dance at present.”

Of course, Lord Alfred endeavoured to excuse himself, and when Alice declined dancing, said, “Very well, then he should sit still too—all the night, if she pleased, for he certainly should not dance with any one else.” So, after she had teased him until he very nearly lost the little good temper which the events of the earlier part of the evening had left him, she took compassion on him, and danced with him twice consecutively; but when he urged her to do so a third time, she refused; and on his pressing her, told him plainly, that as her husband was away she felt bound to be more than usually particular, and that it was not étiquette to dance the whole evening with one gentleman; at which rebuff his lordship was pleased to take offence, and leading her to a seat, he bowed and left her. Deserted by his lady-love, and swindled out of his money by his pseudo-friends, this victimised young nobleman looked about for his protector and adviser—at once patron and parasite—Horace D’Almayne, but for some time without success; when at length he did discover him, he was engaged in such an earnest private conversation with some gentleman unknown, that Lord Alfred felt it would be ill-bred to interrupt them; accordingly, he lounged through the rooms, resisting several introductions to “great heiresses” and “loveliest girls in London,” all declared to be dying to dance with him, wandered listlessly into the refreshment-room, drank a tumbler of Champagne and sodawater, and was thinking seriously of turning sulky and going home to bed, when D’Almayne seized him by the arm, exclaiming—

“Alfred, mon cher, where have you hidden yourself? I’ve been hunting for you for the last half hour. Why have you left la belle Coverdale?”