CHAPTER LIV.

PRINCE’S MANSION.

WHEN any man has once got into a racing state of mind, it is not fair to his bodily health to keep him in a wheatfield. Sam Henderson had been expected, by his bride and her female relatives, to walk about in country places, and sit on stiles, and admire the moon; like a young man from Whitechapel coming to feel his way to be a teacher. Sam had borne it pretty well, as a thing not likely to come twice, till he found it too much to come once. For he was not of my quiet nature; and still less could it be supposed that his Sally was like my Kitty.

He went off to some races at York, I think, or somewhere nicely convenient, for they were on the eastern coast; and he offered, as fairly as a man could do, to let his bride come with him. But she said she saw too much of horses at home, and preferred to remain with her landlady. He thought that she was too independent, and she thought the same of him; but they soon made up that little matter, and came home to Halliford as affectionate as need be.

Sam was beginning to boast about his condition prematurely. If any friend of his replied to his sudden invitations—“Sam, I should be most delighted; but it might be inconvenient, you know, to Mrs. Henderson”—Sam would look at him with a laugh, and say—“The best soul living, my dear boy. Always proud to welcome any friend of mine, at any time. We pull together, and no mistake. You may come with your coat on inside out, and she won’t say a word, till I do.”

To this I listened very gravely, knowing what a good wife is, but doubting whether it can be wise to take such liberties with her. And I knew that Sam was a pleasant fellow, partly because of his bounce and brag. Whatever belonged to him became pure gold or glittering jewel; as there are Oriental gems, which glow at the touch of the owner. Nobody had such dogs or horses, nobody had such clever men; and now we were to believe that no one had ever owned such a wonder of a wife.

“Let us go and see how they get on,” I said to my Uncle Corny, when a grand invitation on gilt paper was brought by a man in a pink silk jacket, riding a horse full of ringlets; “‘Mr. and Mrs. Henderson beg to be favoured with the company of Mr. Orchardson, and his nephew Mr. Christopher Orchardson, at dinner at half-past six o’clock on Tuesday, the 12th instant.’ And look at the top in gold letters, uncle—‘Prince’s Mansion, Halliford!’”

“Prince’s Mansion!” cried my uncle; “get my specs, or I won’t believe it. Well, there are fools in this world! I knew they had got into that old ramshackle house, that was let to some foreign fellow, who bolted from his creditors. Prince’s Mansion! Oh my goodness! Why don’t they say—Windsor Castle? You may go, if you like. But you don’t catch me. And half-past six! I couldn’t wait till then. It’s too late for dinner, and too early for supper. You go and see them, and say I won’t come.”

“But it must be answered on paper, uncle. And you must never say you won’t come, you must say you can’t.”

“I am not going to tell any lie about it. I can go well enough, if I choose; but I don’t. You suppose that I don’t know how to behave. I can behave as well as the best of them.”

“You have got a blue coat with brass buttons,” I said on purpose to irritate him; “it was all the fashion twenty years ago; but I am afraid you have got too fat for it.”

“You are getting horribly cheeky, Kit. You are catching it from that Henderson. What would Kitty say, if she were here? There, I never meant to vex you, lad. I’ll go, if that will please you.”

When the great day came, my uncle looked as well as the very best of them. He had an old Sunday coat let out, for he would not buy a new one, and he wore his big watch with three gold seals, and black silk stockings, and knee-breeches. Also he had a velvet waistcoat, double-breasted with coral buttons, which he had bought for my wedding-day, and a frilled shirt, and his white curls brushed in a very becoming frizzle. “A’ look’th like a bishop,” old Tabby pronounced, though perhaps she had never seen one; “but no bishop han’t got such legs as thiccy.”

Aunt Parslow, as an old friend of Sally Chalker, was invited specially, and came over in style with a pair of horses, and her dinner-dress done up in a long silken package. She called at my uncle’s on her way to Prince’s Mansion, and they laughed so that I was surprised at their manners, considering who was to feed them that day. But perhaps they felt no gratitude before they got it.

It was a good step to Sam’s house, for Prince’s Mansion stood in the upper part of his grounds, nearly half a mile from his “Doctor’s Shop,” as he called the place where he had feasted me, and where he had been content to live. Though the days were now getting short again, and our road led away from the village, it was likely enough that we might come across neighbours, who would be astonished at my uncle’s appearance, and could hardly fail to run home, and publish throughout the village that the grower was out of his right mind at last.

To save any difficulty about this, we sent for Sims and his ancient fly, and putting up the windows, went in state to the dinner at Prince’s Mansion.

My uncle had been positive and almost snappish, in asserting his knowledge of the world; and I had given him credit on the strength of that for knowing almost everything. But now he showed signs of some anxiety and doubt, as we passed through the gate at the beginning of the drive, and he glanced at his nails, which were of a steady brown, and his knuckles, which resembled door-knobs.

“There won’t be any ladies, of course,” he said, “besides Mrs. Sam and Aunt Parslow. Just look to my collar, this side, Kit. It seems to cut uncommon hard.”

“Ladies?” I replied; “why, there’ll be a dozen, according to what Sam said yesterday. There are three Miss Chalkers, Sally’s aunts, and three Miss Kempes, her cousins, and Mrs. Spry from Tonbridge Wells, and three or four racing ladies, and a very fashionable one, and very beautiful I believe, whose name is Lady Kickloose. So you see your velvet waistcoat won’t be wasted, Uncle Corny.”

“If I had known this, I would have stopped at home. Why I shall have one on each arm! I like people to talk with that I know all about. By-the-bye, I forget—which arm is considered the most polite to walk with?”

“It does not matter much. But you will do very well, if you don’t begin to tell any of your long stories. People won’t have them now. All they care for is what they call general conversation.”

“If I am not allowed to tell my old stories,” my uncle replied indignantly, “all I can do is to hold my tongue. What is the good of bits and splinters? You can’t make anybody laugh like that. You must take your time, and let them think what’s coming. It’s just the same as carrying a pint of beer. If you are jogged on the elbow all the froth runs over. I give a man his time, and I like to have my own.”

“To be sure, and they’ll be glad enough to listen to you, when they have had their own talk out. But one thing I want you to do particularly. You are so sharp in seeing everything. You observe so much better than I do.”

“Well, you can’t expect to be equal to me yet. Though you are not a fool, Kit; not half so much a fool as some who think they are mighty clever. What is it you want me to notice, my boy?”

“Why, I want you to notice particularly how Sally behaves to her husband. To hear him talk, one would suppose that he had got a perfect jewel—a model of a wife that worships him, and would crawl on her knees to please him. In fact, you would think she was fifty times the wonder that my Kitty was. But from what I know of Sally Chalker, I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Ha, ha! Jealous, is it?” he answered most absurdly. “I’ll keep my eyes wide open, Kit, and report accordingly.”

Sam Henderson was a most hospitable fellow, and not a single word shall pass my lips which might be twisted by captious persons into a reflection upon him. He sat at the bottom of his table, and he never took his eyes from the plates on the right hand and the left, except when he was calling Tom, his groom to change them, or to fetch them that he might put more on each. Even Lady Kickloose, who was a very lovely woman, could not make demand keep pace with the quick abundance of supply. Hence it was the more unreasonable, and I might even say despotic, on the part of the new Mrs. Henderson, that she kept on calling down the table—“Sam, look at father’s plate, he never will mind himself, you know;” or—“Sam, can’t you see that Aunt Maggy has not got a morsel?” or—“Mr. Henderson, Lady Kickloose has never had one drop of gravy!”

“All right, my love. Beg pardon, I am sure. Tom, why don’t you move a little quicker?”—poor Sam Henderson would reply. But I thought it was not “all right, my love,” that a man who was doing his best for us all, and getting but a snap or two for his own mouth, should be hurried and flurried in this sort of way, and almost accused of inattention to his guests. I could scarcely help saying—“Do let him alone;” but I knew the proprieties too well for that.

“You are right, ma’am; she does look beautiful,” I heard my uncle say to one of the three unmarried aunts; and then he gazed at her with as much admiration, as if she had been—no matter who, but some one very different.

And I was pleased to see a large piece of greens drop from his mouth into his grand breast-frill, which put him out of countenance for half an hour. In my poor opinion, his admiration was as much out of place as that piece of greens, though I will not deny that our hostess was what is called a very fine young woman. She wore a dress of green satin, which I never could endure any more than Kitty could; and the way it was cut below the neck and shoulders filled me with surprise that Sam allowed it; but perhaps he could not help himself. I was glad to see Miss Parslow looking shocked, and I glanced at her and then at it, but she did not think fit to comprehend. Uncle Corny on the other hand surprised me by treating it as a joke rather than a scandal; gentlemen wore cut-away coats, he said, and why should not ladies wear cut-away gowns?

Presently I happened to catch some words from the lower end of the table, which drew my attention from Sam’s wife, and brought it back to my own affairs. The dinner was a very good and solid one; not fifty varieties of unknown substance, such as we too often meet with; and yet quite enough of change for the most inconstant person. There was very nice white soup, and mock turtle—not the real, such as my Aunt Parslow gave, but quite as good, if not better—then a cod of great size and high character, with oysters as fat as mushrooms; and after that a saddle of mutton at one end, and an aitch-bone, not over-boiled, at the other; one lying down, and the other standing up. Foreigners may disguise their stuff, which by their own confession requires it. But an Englishman likes to know what he is at, that his conscience may go with his stomach.

These things are trifles, in a way of speaking; but if they lead up to a pleasant state of mind, it is not friendly to neglect them; and my Uncle Corny, who had kept himself to bread and cheese at his proper dinner-time, was rejoicing, as a just man does, in the victory of his merits. Such joy is generally premature; if he had only known what was to come, he would have thrown down knife and fork, and waited.

For as if by magic, there appeared, in front of Sam himself, and almost making him look trivial, the most magnificent bird that ever alighted on any table. I asked a young lady what it was; and she said—“The swan of the Romans.” It did not become me to contradict her; but I thought that the Romans must have owned a breed of swans superior to ours, for this one had a peacock’s tail spread out. Everybody looked at everybody else, while Sam turned his cuffs up, and sharpened a new knife.

“Round with the champagne, Tom! We will drink my wife’s health.” As he spoke, he had his eyes upon the peacock’s tail; and rude as it was, all the company laughed.

A pair of large tongues had been put before me, and as I began to carve them, I heard a lady say—“No fear. Downy will be flush of money now. Be down on him sharp; that’s the way to do it.”

“Are you sure it will come off?” asked the gentleman she was talking to; and I saw that it was Mr. Welch, a great man of the ring, speaking earnestly to Lady Kickloose.

“What is to prevent it? The fatal day is named. It is too good for him, as everybody says. But you know where marriages are made.”

“And where they end, with a fellow of that sort. But I can’t take it down—even now I can’t. Such a lot of brass, you know, my lady! And what has he got to show for it?”

“Brass—and his mother;” replied the lady, who had picked up the pithy style of the turf. “The old Earl is a duffer. Mother Bull can walk round him any Saturday.”

“Yes; but young ladies have wills of their own. It is out of my line, but I have always heard that Lady Clara could have the pick of England. What can there be in Downy, to fetch her so?”

“How can I tell you, Mr. Welch! Such things happen continually. All we have to do is to follow them up. I never liked the man; but that is no reason why she shouldn’t. Bread-sauce, I suppose goes with peacock.”

Sam was in his glory all this time, and the dinner went on very merrily, with plenty of laughing, and glasses clinking, and even the most demure ladies smiling. My uncle, who had cherished a pure contempt for sporting men, began to think better of them, and more and more as his opinion was asked, delivered it on subjects he had never heard of. Aunt Parslow also was exceedingly good-natured, and held a very interesting talk with a lady who had heard of her father. And I took the opportunity, before we went away, to remind Mrs. Henderson of our old doings, when she was the belle of Leatherhead; and I thought that she looked at me very nicely, and felt very deeply for my present sad condition; and after all I could not contradict my uncle, when he said—with five and sixpence in his pocket, which he had won by very fine play at whist—that we had been treated most handsomely and kindly, and if he should be asked to their Christmas dinner, he meant to make a point of going.