Soon after eleven, the time appointed, there was quite a goodly muster of vehicles in front of Lady Inskip’s residence. Tom Hartshorne drove down in a bright new dog-cart, and being immediately pounced upon by the campaigner, was made or inveigled into taking Carry with him. Not that Tom objected personally to that young lady, who was very agreeable and naturally glib of tongue, but he sorely wished and had indeed planned that our little friend Lizzie should be his companion.
In order to prevent this the campaigner had specially called at the parsonage and taken Miss Lizzie in her own pony chaise with her: the Reverend Herbert and the languid Laura completed the quartette. Tom sadly deplored the absence of Markworth, for he was so well used to the campaigner, and had such nerve and sang froid that he was capable of even turning her out of her own carriage. Lieutenant Harrowby and Captain Miles, too, of Tom’s regiment, who had come over from Brighton that morning for the fête, and who hoped to have complete possession of the Inskip “girls,” as military men usually dub the young ladies of families, did not seem satisfied with the arrangements for the procession; and as for Captain Curry Cucumber—who had arrived on the scene of action dressed in a new pair of nankeen trowsers and a solar hat, not to mention a blue coat with brass buttons and other portions of a perfectly gorgeous toilet—he was simply enraged at the want of deference paid him by Lady Inskip, and had serious thoughts of turning back at first, although he afterwards suffered himself to be soothed over by Miss Blandish (spinster, aetat 45-60), and promised to remain with the company until at least “tiffin” should be over.
At last, however, all things were settled, and “barring” a few contretemps and heartburnings the whole party started off in great spirit to drive towards Dingle Dell.
The road was a very pretty one, all through the romantic scenery to be found in the valley of the swift-running and widening river Biggle, at the mouth of which, as has been described in its proper place, the watering place of Bigton, formerly called Biggleton (vide County Archaeology), was situated.
The day was fine—as fine as a bright August day can be in the country. Ergo all went merry as the proverbial marriage bell. The only trouble Lady Inskip had was with her darling pride—that horrible boy, the young Sir Mortimer. He would insist on carrying a wretched old single-barrel gun with him for the purpose of shooting small birds when they got to the wood, and of course, as he always managed, he had his own way. “Such a darling boy,” as he was, “but so rash!” Mortimer persisted in practising along the road as they drove on, frightening the horses every now and then, and making everybody feel in terror for their lives.
It was no use that Lady Inskip called out in a half-entreating, half-commanding voice at intervals, “Oh! Morti-mer! Mortimer!” the young imp would continue his detonating sport, and everyone was heartily glad when after passing the steep incline which led down from the old castle of archaeological renown, they crossed the pretty rustic bridge over the Biggle, and arrived at length at Dingle Dell.
Considering that it was a good two hours’ drive or more from Bigton, and that it was “getting on” in the afternoon, no one was averse to preparations being at once made for the substantial and real part of the pic-nic. All helped with good will to lay the cloth on the smooth green turf, and unpack the hampers. Even a smile irradiated the choleric and saffronised face of the Indian warrior, who was much disgusted when they sat down to the al fresco banquet that no one had remembered to bring mango, chutney, or Cayenne pepper, without which he assured Lady Inskip that even “the best victuals” were not worth the salt that accompanied them.
The old campaigner very judiciously arranged the various members of her company around the tablecloth—one cannot exactly say table. She placed Tom by the side of Carry, at the extreme opposite end of the “board,” away from Lizzie, whom she quartered with the gallant lieutenant, Harrowby, by herself. Pringle, of course, was placed next Laura; and although Lady Inskip had been obliged to invite the Rev. Jabez Heavieman, of Bigton, for appearance’s sake, she took very good care that he should not run foul of our Ritualistic young incumbent, whom he regarded in much the same light as the devil is supposed to look upon holy water.
Everything passed off well, and Lady Inskip was in ecstasies; Carry was apparently having it all her own way with Tom Hartshorne, and Pringle was most devoted to Laura. As for Lizzie, she was hopelessly put on one side, and the campaigner considered “that artful little minx” as done for and out of her way: nothing could be better.
The banquet was at length finished.