CHAPTER XV

PIC-NIC NO. II

IT is a good thing to be able to leave well alone—to finish with a pleasant reminiscence instead of the recollection of a failure. But as it is easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue the right, the difficulty is to say when is the right time to stop. Our former pic-nic had given such general satisfaction—had been so much talked about—praised by those who were present to those who were absent—and the weather, despite Baccoman’s daily prognostications to the contrary, seemed so determinedly settled, that little blame could attach to any one for wishing to have another. Indeed, the atmosphere was so clear, and calm, and pure, that it would almost have looked like ingratitude to hint a suspicion that fogs, and storms, and vapours would ever return. It looked as if Alpacas and Silks and Siphonias might be banished with over-shoes altogether. So thought everybody, ladies included, who, by the bye, are not in general the best judges of weather. Did any of our fox-hunting friends ever hazard the inquiry, what sort of a morning it is to the lady’s maid, “in reply to the early knock,” without being answered with a shivering “v-a-a-ry c-o-old.” It’s always “v-a-a-ry c-o-old” with them. If, however, they want to get the “Missus” away, then it is always going to be very fine. Never mind what the glass says, even though it be down to much rain. If it comes and dashes the fair dresses, so much the better for them. Ladies shouldn’t wear their clothes too long —we mean too long a time, for, of course, sweeping the streets with them is a luxury which they must not be denied, to say nothing of its promoting the same desirable end as the rain.

Well, as we said before, it is a good thing to be able to leave well alone, but the thing is to know when to stop. Our former pic-nic had been eminently successful, and there was no reason why another should not be equally fortunate. The weather—the weather—was the chief consideration, and that was settled for good.—No fear about the weather. There was nothing to do but beat up for recruits. So said Mrs. Maloney to Mr. Lounger Hall, who repeated it to Mr. Kenworthy, who mentioned it at the full tide of Lipscombe’s library, and the thing began to move. The ladies all declared there was nothing so nice as a pic-nic, where every one did what they liked without ceremony or obligation. Names poured in apace; then came the contribution of effects, the assignment of pie, and apportionment of hams, and demands on the cellars, and injunctions for salt, of which latter article there is always either a great abundance, or else a total deficiency.

We dare say it has occurred to many of our readers, in the over-confidence of fine weather security, to postpone their excursions until the very day on which the weather breaks, and such, we regret to say, was the case on the present occasion. Not that it broke in a downright unmistakeable storm, but what is far worse for the fine bonnets, went down in a flickering light of delusion so difficult to realise when we wish the contrary. We know the signs, and we know what they have led to before; but we hope they won’t be the true prophets this time. It is true the rays of the sun fall like watered silk on the passage walls; it is true that the cattle go roaming discontentedly about the parched glazy pastures, and we predict rain ere long, but not to-day, the next day perhaps, or the one after that.

Country people are far wiser than town ones in the matter of weather. Town people go solely by their smells and their Aneroids, while an intelligent countryman has his signs and his land marks that never deceive him. There isn’t a shepherd on the Cheviot hills but sees the coming storm, and takes measures accordingly. The ladies, however, have never any fear about the matter so long as the sun shines. A drop of rain is no warning to them; indeed, they generally pocket the affront, lest noticing it, should bring down some more.

On this occasion, the weather, we are sorry to say, was more than ordinarily deceptive. The sun rose with such resplendent glory, as almost to pull people out of bed, causing the lazy ones to listen to the ticking of their watches, to see that it wasn’t eight o’clock instead of six. Then, as the slugs

the dazzling rays shot into the rooms as much as to say, if you won’t get up, we’ll make your bed too hot to hold you. And as day advanced, and the buff-slippered prawn-eaters turned out of doors, to lay the foundation of appetites for dinner, and the blue and white clad seanymphs began dancing and splashing and disporting themselves in the water, appearances still kept up, and though the sun was not quite so indignant at being looked at, as usual, yet none but the churlish would ever have predicted a change in the weather, let alone rain. One o’clock came, and with it the concomitant tinkling and ringing of bells, and the usual transference of John Thomas from trousers into plush shorts, after which came the sending up of luncheon, and then the exchange of easy morning robes for the rotundity of discomfort, when the inflated ladies became “at home,” and sat looming on their chairs, like hens upon broods of chickens.

But it is with the pic-nicers that our more immediate business lies, and as they are supposed (though erroneously) to take this meal out of doors, we must get them underway to the scene as soon as we can. Formerly these sorts of excursions were called “gipsyings,” and people dressed themselves accordingly; but since the glorious days of “nothing-to-wear,” they come as smart as they can make themselves. Ladies are always very obliging to each other in the matter of attire, always begging each other not to think of dressing—to come just as they are—they will not dress they can assure them, and so on; but somehow they always do dress, and the unfortunate believers are left in the lurch. It is a hard thing for a young lady to find herself a “guy” in the midst of splendour. All our Rocks’ friends, however, were well up to the “come as you are” injunction, and treated it accordingly. “A delusion and a snare” Mrs. Thomas Trattles called it. As a popular German Baron once said when remonstrated with by his valet on the extravagance of hunting in a rich cut velvet waistcoat with steel buttons, “By my vord, there is nothing too good for foxing in!” so our fair friends seemed to think there was nothing too good for pic-nic-ing in. The best of everything was produced for the occasion, and tender-hearted beauties who would rush to the rescue of a fly in a cream jug, kept the poor sickly milliner girls sewing all night, in order that they might be gay and smart on the morrow. And very gay, and very smart, and very beautiful many of them were, each ambitious maid predicting as she remitted her young lady to the gaze and admiration of the assembled household down below, that she would be the greatest beauty there. It is wonderful how competition destroys this delusion, and how difficult it is to pick out the real belle when a large party of English ladies are assembled. One thinks one is, another another, but few two men agree upon the same one.

The home inspection over, then came the light dust-protecting coverings, and the passage to the carriages, with the gathering of crinoline, and squeezing sideways through the narrow doors to the amusement of the bystanders, who wonder how such dresses are ever to be pushed in. Careful butlers who have delegated their authority to the footmen for the day, aid in the cram; and then as the carriages drive off, stand straddling, hands in trousers’ pockets, on the door-steps, with upturned chins, half wondering if it is going to rain. “Might as well have put an umbrella into the rumble,” thinks one. “Very odd if it should come rain to-day, the only one on which I’ve let ‘our people’ go without their numbrellas,” mutters another. “Might as well have put the cloaks and McIntoshes in,” thinks a third, as he gets a whiff of an unsavoury sewer, with which reflections they turn on their heels, close the doors, and retire to their respective apartments. Rosa and Mamma went away about the same time as before, Miss, munificent in white muslin, with cherry-coloured ribbons, and the prettiest of French chip bonnets, trimmed with bouquets formed of the blossom of the cherry intermingled with the fruit. We are happy to add, that it set more over the forehead than these apparently useless articles have lately done.

Away the light-hearted ladies all went, full of the gaiety of coming pleasure, never dimming their happiness with the dulness of doubt. If the still radiant sun was occasionally more scorching than usual, it only raised a pretty parasol, and though the eddying whirl of dust that arose like a drab spectre on Airy Hill might have conjured up fears in the minds of the men, it never does for them to exclaim, when the thinly-clad ladies face danger so gallantly. So all went rolling and riding on in merry serene unconcern, toiling up the same hills, creaking over the same downs, gliding down the same collar-easing slopes and descents, over which the reader accompanied us on the former occasion.

At length Bendlaw Hill is reached, and the Priory-flag is seen flaunting on the now slightly-stirring breeze in the distance. The foremost carriages shoot down the incline, and Baccoman’s looking-glass is again in demand.

All is much the same as before—buns, baskets, cigar-boxes, bottles, save that a slight murmuring moan resounds through the leaf-ruffled trees. Mrs. Fothergill, who has just got herself and daughters revised and shook out, wishes it mayn’t be going to rain.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” asserts Baccoman, “there’s no fear of that—never saw weather more settled for fine.”

And just as he spoke a large leech-like drop broke on his rubicund nose, as if to contradict him. Another followed, kissing Miss Spinner’s fair cheek.

“Only a heat-drop, ma’am—only a heat-drop,” asserts Baccoman, with the greatest effrontery, though he is going on his heels, with slit shoes, for his corns are shooting most painfully.

Carriage after carriage then set down their fair occupants in quick succession, and the hilarity of the scene seems to increase with the evident decline of the day. It is fast approaching four o’clock, the most critical hour of the whole, and the water-logged sun presents an appearance that is now quite unmistakeable. Still no one likes to give the alarm, and the gaiety continues. Presently a cold blast drives through the ruins, lifting and shaking the ivy, whistling, and losing itself in the towers, in the midst of which the sun retires altogether, and the fast-gathering clouds denote a complete change in the scene. A sort of sullen silence reigns throughout, broken only by occasional laughter, or the letting down of the steps of the carriages bringing company. Still Baccoman persists that there is “nothin’ to be afeared on”—and the suited young ladies titter and giggle, and think there is not either. It is those who pay the milliners’ bills that are generally the most alarmed.

“There’s lightning!” at length shriek a dozen voices, as a bright blue and yellow flash illumines the scene, and before the fair alarmists can raise their fingers to their ears, a cannonading peal of thunder bursts right over-head, re-echoes, and reiterates itself, and then rolls away into the far-distant hills. There is then a grand rush and scramble to get down into the crypt, and the damp dungeon-like vault is quickly filled with fair prisoners, who go paddling about in their thin shoes, feeling for dry places to stand upon. Ladies’ shoes somehow “never let in wet.” “Candles! candles! candles!” is then the cry, but as these are things that nobody ever thinks of bringing to a pic-nic, our visitors are thrown on Baccoman’s scanty stock of dips, who deals them out as if they were gold.

These they stick in their own grease against the massive pillars and groins of the building, just as reckless grooms stick them against their stable-walls, the dips giving a sort of uncertain light that enables the chaperons to detect the whereabouts of ineligible couples, and yet not to see those that were more appropriately provided. Trust a lady for not seeing when it suits her. But where in this terrible crash is the lovely cherry ribbons, with her faithful admirer Mr. Bunting? Having ambled carelessly over the downs, drawing down the observation, if not the animadversion of the carriage-company, our friend gave his horse to his smart groom to take back just as Mamma and Miss emerged from unwrapping, and as the day left no doubt of what was coming. Fortunately the persevering Mr. Edmiston having succeeded in advertising one of his pocket-siphonias into him, which the prudent groom had brought, our friend hurried the ladies down-stairs, and spread it on the floor for them to stand upon, so they were then protected both above and below.

Meanwhile, crash, bang, crash, goes the roaring reverberating thunder, w-h-i-s-h follows the heavy rain, beating perpendicularly, diagonally, all ways at once, deluging the refectory, and at length causing the accumulated body of bubbling water to find vent down the stairs of the crypt. Then there was a rush of gallant-young gentlemen to stem the coming torrent, and Baccoman’s coat, and Baccoman’s boots, and Baccoman’s body are engaged to resist the intruder. At length they succeed in turning the current across the court-yard, and the fear of drowning is succeeded by a dread of suffocation. Still the storm rages, the wind howls, and the searching rain drives the unprotected servants from buttress to buttress, and from pillar to post, while the unhappy horses stand drooping and ducking under their saturated awning, shaking their heads as if they had all got the megrims. But it is a grand day for Baccoman, who deals out whiskey, rum, gin, hollands, in a way that looks very like imperilling the heads of the drinkers, and with them the safety of those in their Jehu-itical charge. What a drenched sight some of the gaudy footmen present: liquid powder pouring down over their ears on to their laced collars coat-laps remitting the rain like peacocks’ tails, and the pride of polish wholly obliterated from their puffing shoes Still, if they were to strip and start home naked, there would be a hue-and-cry after them, because the line would be over the Downs—contra, if the race took place along the shore. However, as few of them find their own clothes, and the clothes of those who do will be none the worse for a washing, they stand it out bravely, laughing at each other, and wondering what their respective “Butlers” would have said if they had been caught in such a storm.

At length there is a sudden lull. The powder of heaven’s artillery seems exhausted, and a rattling rain descends as if to quench any fallen fire. It beats upon the hard-baked ground with the vigour of fifty thousand shower-baths. The half-drowned rats of servants then surrender themselves to inevitable fate, and no longer court the succour of unsheltering places. The bright green ivy and they get well washed together. The prisoners down in the crypt now breathe more freely, and there is presently a returning anxiety to know how the dresses are—if Miss Merryville’s bonnet is straight, and whether Miss Witchfield has got any of the green damp off the walls, with which she sees other ladies plentifully smeared, on to her new lavender-coloured silk. A sad day it has been for the garments, but worse for the feet, only as pride feels no pain, so ladies never feel damp, and would be dry after walking through a river—provided the road led to a ball. But the extent of the mischief cannot be ascertained until they get unpacked—brought out of the hamper of the crypt, as it were—and at the first report of a gleam of sunshine being visible, there is the usual hurrying out, that always ends by being caught in the tail-shower. Few people have patience enough to wait till the whole thing is over. This then puts the finishing stroke to the fête, save for those who, like Bunting, could whisper—

“With thee conversing, I,” &c.,

of whom, of course, there were not enough to keep the thing open. So, after divers twistings and turnings, and wipings and rubbings, and advisings to let it “dry on,” it is determined to give in, and hazy-eyed footmen began to call to drowsy-looking coachmen; and after much confusion of horses, and mistaking of cushions, well-washed but undried carriages began to take up, into which the compressed crinolines pass with much greater ease than they got out. As each succeeding vehicle whips off, Baccoman, like the dying man’s doctor,

Meanwhile our friend Mr. Bunting’s pocket-siphonia underfoot, and careful protection of Miss Rosa’s generous amplitude from the green of the insidious walls, returning her to-day quite as dry and almost as smart as she descended, and John Thomas having early ensconced himself among the beer and the buns in Baccoman’s shop, there was little anxiety about looking up the pair-of-horse job vehicle that had brought them to the scene. So they stand eyeing each other and the departing company, Miss, looking at Bunting—

“In side-long glances from her downcast eye,”

Mr. Bunting thinking she was the greatest beauty he had ever beheld, and wishing his oak-trees might grow to a hundred feet high, and bark be fifty pounds a ton for her sake. At length, and in order not to be last, Mrs. McDermott orders the carriage, intimating that they can take Mr. Bunting home if he likes, which of course he does like. So he steps in after Mamma and Miss, amidst knowing nods and winks, and “that’s a case, I think,” from the remaining bystanders. Away they start up the hill.

“All is now serene,” as the street urchins used to say, or as Mr. Bunting observed,

The dull glazy landscape looks as fresh as a newly-varnished picture; the herds and flocks return to their renovated bite, and the birds shake out their plumage and carol to the returning warmth. The cabman alone seems insensible alike to situation and scenery, for he whips and jags his horses along, gathering impetus down one hill to shoot up another, in anything but an accommodating way to his passengers. These gentlemen always think the greatest kindness they can do a person is to drive fast. The consequence of all this unwonted speed is, that our friends are at home long before they could wish; but Mrs. McDermott accommodates matters by proposing that our hero should pic-nic with them. So there is an extemporised dinner, partly hot, partly cold; partly home-made, partly got from Isinglass’s the neighbouring confectioner’s; to all of which Mr. Bunting did ample justice, thinking it was much more rational and comfortable to sit quietly on a chair, with his charmer by his side, than to squeeze into a spider-crawling, sky-canopied recess, with a host of people he did not want to see. And Rosa, being free from the restraint of observing eyes, becomes much more smiling and confiding, so much so, indeed, that when at length Mr. Bunting took his departure, he felt he had nothing to do but propose. And as Perker peeped at him through the area railings, she said he was a deal smarter man than Spink, as she called our other friend—of whom perhaps it is time we were taking some more notice.