The Countess of Verner had also sprung of a stock not by any means of small celebrity. Her parentage might be said to have represented the aristocracy of birth and commercial enterprise. Her father, the late Christopher Tallant, Esq., had ranked high amongst the merchant princes of Great Britain, and had come of an old Yorkshire family. Her mother, a lady of the noble house of Petherington, was a descendant of the Petheringtons of Fife. The Lord Petherington of that ilk it was who distinguished himself in Egypt in 1800, and who fell fighting the battles of his country in Spain. Celebrated for their beauty, the daughters of the house of Petherington would be familiar to those admirers of “female loveliness” who had studied “Garton’s Beauties of the Court.”
The “Mercury” grew quite eloquent in its historical revelations, and Severntown resolved, in accordance with the editorial hint, that the Earl and Countess should be “received” at the station, and escorted to the junction in right royal fashion. So, when the day came, there was quite a crowd of people at the station. A troop of the Yeomanry Cavalry were there, and their horses pranced and curvetted, and stood upon two legs, in the most approved military fashion; a number of ladies who had seats upon the platform, presented the Countess with a handsome bracelet and a charming bouquet of flowers; the mayor came forward, and made a pretty little speech to the newly-married pair; and the Earl replied in a hearty address. Then his lordship conducted his wife to a carriage, and drove off to the junction, amidst great cheering, in company with the gallant Yeomanry on their prancing steeds.
But it was at Brazencrook where the greatest demonstration was made. Severntown was somewhat proud and dignified; but Brazencrook was full of rejoicing. Nearly the whole of the longest street in Brazencrook belonged to Earl Verner, and the people had always been warmly attached to the noble proprietors of the Castle of Montem. Brazencrook was the nearest station to the castle, and Brazencrook determined to make the return home something not to be forgotten. The Town-clerk had been instructed to prepare an address for the occasion. The cordwainers of the place had made the Countess a pair of dainty slippers; the glass-cutters had manufactured and made wonderful toilet-bottles for her; the ladies of the town had subscribed for a gold casket; and the civic authorities had ordered the town to be decorated, and the bells to be rung in honour of their distinguished friends and neighbours.
The old Guildhall was carpeted, and a daïs erected in the ancient assembly-room. The earl had consented to bring his wife here to receive the civic congratulations and the big town’s presents. Brazencrook had always been celebrated for doing things well; it was one of the leading mottoes of the local newspaper, that “if it was worth while to do anything it was worth while to do it well.” Thus the welcoming home of the earl and countess grew and grew out of the first proposals into a demonstration worthy of royalty. If our friend Asmodeus had taken you there on the morning of the celebration of this return-home, you might have fancied that you had been transported back to the “good old times” of provincial display. The visit of a queen, the close of a three weeks’ election, the termination of a great war, the inauguration of some old-world revels, or something on an ancient scale of grandeur, would have seemed to be manifested in those fluttering flags and banners; those half-military men in the streets; that ox roasting in the market-place; those great casks of ale ready tapped under the ancient piazzas of the market-house. Bands playing, bells ringing, shops closed, triumphal arches receiving the last-finishing touches, old gabled houses with devices painted up between the windows, Odd-Fellows in sashes and aprons, gentlemen with white rosettes on their breasts, women with babies in their arms, boys climbing lamp-posts, and again Yeomanry Cavalry with brass helmets and unmanageable horses, Brazencrook had never presented such a scene of jubilation and bustle. The fine old town seemed to rub its jolly big hands, and say, “How do you do, everybody—glad to see you. Have a drink—we are going to enjoy ourself to-day. It is a little foolish to make such a tremendous fuss, we know; but never mind;—better to do a thing well, if you do it at all, you know.”
Somebody had drawn an allegorical figure of the town, and it had been sculptured by a famous artist. It was a brawny athletic man, with a hammer in his hand, leaning upon a rock from which water was supposed to be bursting forth—the source of the river upon which the town was built. If the figure could have spoken it would have said something like what we have just written, and it might have laid down its hammer and smiled pleasantly at the Brazencrookians as they bustled about on that memorable morning.
There was a glow of pride and delight upon the rosy cheeks of the Countess as she sat by her lord in that pretty open brougham which conveyed them to the Guildhall. It was like the reception of a prince and princess. Lord Verner bowed like a king to his bending subjects, and the Countess smiled and bowed with a gracious condescension that was quite charming to see. The people cheered and shouted and threw up their hats, and “Welcome Home,” “Long Life and Happiness,” and good wishes of all kinds greeted them from nearly every banner and triumphal arch.
Meanwhile a dense crowd congregated at the Guildhall, and a fashionable throng was congregated within. There had been many local feuds about places. The town-councillors had to be accommodated first, and their wives next, and we regret to say that quarrels which time will never heal arose out of the preference shown to some ladies over others in the selection of the committee to represent the ladies who had subscribed for the casket. It was quite grand to see the aldermen in their blue cloaks and chains, the councillors in their gowns, the mayor in his cocked hat, the sword-bearers with their fur helmets on and their beavers up. Then there were the mayor’s officers in their new liveries, and his Worship’s own footman with a bouquet in his waistcoat as big and as round as his own rubicund face. The military pensioners with their shining accoutrements were drawn up in line ready to present arms. Even Earl Verner was struck with surprise and amazement as his coachman pulled up opposite the hall. What a scene it was, to be sure! “Eyes front—fix bayonets—present a-r-r-r-rms!” could be heard half way down the street, as a fierce old officer, on a plunging horse and half pay, thundered out these commands to the pensioners; and then, oh, how his stentorian voice was drowned with drums and fifes and “hip-hip-hip-hurrahs!”
The Countess began to feel terribly nervous as his lordship handed her out and introduced her to the mayor, who offered his arm and marched magnificently into the Guildhall along the crowded corridor and into the great assembly-room, where a thousand well-dressed persons rose to receive the noble visitors. Onward through the smiling throng, with his head in the air and the Countess by his side, went the Mayor of Brazencrook, up to the daïs of crimson cloth, where the Countess sat down in a gilded chair of state, and the Earl stood beside her, his lordship looking almost as proud as his Worship the Mayor himself.
Suddenly the Countess recognised Phœbe, Arthur Phillips and the bailiff sitting close by. She rose instantly, advanced towards them, and the next moment had kissed her friend with a heartiness that made the tears come into Phœbe’s eyes, and quite electrified everybody. Who was the lady whom she had kissed? Everybody asked everybody else, and nobody knew. Who was that strange looking little man with long black hair? And who was that fine-looking country gentleman? Nobody knew, and everybody made a guess in reply, so that there was quite a buzz of conversation. Then the Mayor introduced the aldermen, who had all promised to introduce their wives and didn’t; then the Mayoress was introduced, and the Countess shook hands with her, and so did the Earl; whereupon several friends of the chief magistrate’s wife said the Mayoress was “stuck up,” and a score of other ladies said the whole affair was a perfect farce, and they certainly would not have sanctioned it if they had known there was going to be so much nonsense. Who was the Countess, they would like to know? Nobody but a merchant’s daughter, and her husband old enough to be her father. And who was the Mayoress?—a seedsman’s wife,—and what a bonnet! It was a pity people should make themselves so ridiculous! And the Countess too; there were women in the room quite as handsome and quite as graceful. Fine feathers made fine birds!
The Countess might fairly have disputed the prize for beauty with all Severnshire, nevertheless; her chiefest competitor, to our mind, would have been the artist’s fiancée, but the two styles of beauty were entirely different, as our readers know.