CHAPTER LXXXV

MR. ARCHEY ELLENGER’S DINNER

OUR hero, Mr. Bunting, did not prosecute the chase in Chippendale Woods. True, he went there, but it was only for the purpose of slipping away without the disagreeable leave-taking that we all dislike so. Greetings are pleasant, but adieus are melancholy. So when Mr. Jovey Jessop began yoicking and cheering his hounds on the high side of the extensive wood, Mr. Bunting struck up the middle ride, and, by aid of certain land-marks he had previously established, succeeded in finding his way into the Rookery lane, from whence he presently diverged upon the Buckworth and Badger field road. He then, by dint of copious inquiries and sundry deviations that he would have avoided if piloted by the Jug, came upon the more familiar landscape surrounding Appleton Hall. The house gained, he surrendered his horse, and committed himself to the care of the St. Leger pill-box on his return to Lord Cornwallis. The day was Saturday, and he was engaged to dine with Mr. Archey Ellenger on the following one.

Sunday was a dies non at Appleton Hall, both in the eating, drinking, and dressing way. There were neither sea-side coats nor tweeds, nor deer-stalker hats, nor turbans with tassels, nor any of the complications of modern ingenuity to be seen; but, on the contrary, very sedate Sunday clothes of the plain orthodox order. The Jug always inaugurated a pair of clean nankins, in which, regardless of the weather, with a large Boyston Park prayer-book, wrapped up in a red cotton kerchief, he stumped perseveringly to church, accompanied by Mr. Jessop, and such of the servants as liked his leading. The clergyman dined at the Hall, and there was a sermon for the establishment and neighbourhood in the evening. So Mr. Jessop commenced the week well, and prospered in the course of it, as he deserved to do. But we must follow our friend Mr. Bunting to his uncomfortable quarters at Burton St. Leger.

“Oh, I shall not dine at home to-day,” exclaimed our hero to Mrs. Muldoon, as she appeared after breakfast at the door of his sitting-room to know what he would like to have for dinner, just as if he could have anything he called for. “I shall not dine at home to-day,” repeated he, wishing to get rid of her, for he had stuck fast in the middle of a sonnet to Miss Rosa’s ringlets, which he now thought he could hit off if she would go away.

“Oh, indeed,” replied Mrs. Muldoon, looking somewhat disconcerted, adding, “I’d got a goose, thinking you might like a little change.”

“Had you,” replied Mr. Bunting, “had you; well, it will do for another day—it will do for another day;” adding, “I’m going to dine with Mr. Archey Ellenger to-day.”

“Indeed!” mused Mrs. Muldoon, who, having now mastered the whole Privett Grove mystery, thought he might be going there.

“I shall want a conveyance of some sort!” exclaimed our friend, as she was about to withdraw; “I shall want a conveyance of some sort—I s’pose I can have the thing I had yesterday?”

“Well, sir, I dare say you can,” replied Mrs. Muldoon, who had a convenient arrangement with the owner. “I’ll send along and see.” She then withdrew, and desired Sore-eyed Sam to slip up and see if they could have Dr. Catcheyside’s carriage, which, as usual, was much at Mrs. Muldoon’s service.

Our hero, however, being still unable to extricate the muse, after a series of stumbles and flounders, at length shut up his desk, deciding that ringlets did not become Rosa, and presently obeyed the summons of the bells to church. In the afternoon he took a stroll about the place, met pretty Rebecca Mary dressed like a duchess, and Sore-eyed Sam in all the glaring impotence of satin. There is nothing like a sloven for getting up smart on a Sunday. Mr. Bunting then had a look at his good-for-nothing horses, and wondered what he should do with them at the end. And, having exhausted the resources of the place, as the shades of evening drew on, he retired to his room, where Rebecca Mary, having put off her fine beaded bonnet and laid aside her parasol, was deranging her hoops by making up a white-ash burning fire.

Just as our friend was thinking of retiring to his bedroom to put on a dress-coat and vest and a pair of japanned Wellington boots with red morocco legs, the roll of a carriage was heard driving rapidly up to the inn door, which Mr. Bunting would have thought was coming for him, had not a voice immediately been heard exclaiming, “Is Mr. Bunting gone? Is Mr. Bunting gone?”

“No, sir,” replied Sore-eyed Sam, who had been attracted to the archway by the sound of the wheels; “but I expect Dr. Catcheyside’s carriage coming for him every minute.”

“Oh, that’s all right!” exclaimed the voice, cheerfully, “that’s all right!” adding, “then stand by my horse while I slip up stairs;” so saying, the speaker alighted and proceeded to grope his way towards an eight-in-the-pound mould-candle flickering in a glass cracked lantern placed against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

“Vot name shall I enounce?” asked Monsieur Bonville of the stranger, Monsieur, too, having been attracted to the stairs by the sound of the wheels.

“Mr. Ellenger—Mr. Archibald Ellenger,” replied the arriver, making the most of his name.

“Ellenger, Ellenger, why that’s the man I’m going to dine with,” muttered Mr. Bunting, as the familiar sound came up the little staircase leading to his room.

Mr. Ellenger then ran a dead heat with his name. “Ah, my dear fellow!” exclaimed he, tripping gaily into the apartment, seizing Mr. Bunting’s right hand with both his, and pressing it fervently. “Ah, my dear fellow! I’m so glad I’ve got in time to stop you—I’m so glad I’ve got in time to stop you; I’ve had a desperate misfortune at home—I’ve had a desperate misfortune at home. My cook’s got so scandalously drunk that she is utterly incompetent—put the cod-fish on to the spit, and wanted to boil the goose with the lobster sauce!”

“What fun!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, not sorry to be off the engagement.

“Fun to her, but death to us,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, releasing Mr. Bunting’s hand. “I’d got the nicest little dinner and the nicest little party that ever were arranged; and then the cruel catamaran goes and spoils all by her confounded intemperance.”

“Well, better luck next time,” replied Mr. Bunting, soothingly; “better luck next time.”

“Ah, that’s very kind of you,” rejoined Mr. Ellenger, again seizing Mr. Bunting’s hand and pressing it warmly; “that’s very kind of you, but I assure you I feel the disappointment exceedingly.”

“Misfortunes will happen in the best regulated families —misfortunes will happen in the best regulated families,” rejoined Mr. Bunting.

“So they will,” said Mr. Ellenger, “so they will; and we must just make the best of it,” adding adroitly, “there’s nothing like a lady for keeping matters right. I wouldn’t have cared so much if it had been any day but Sunday,” observed Mr. Ellenger; “only when a man loses his Sunday dinner, he has no place to fall back upon.”

“Oh, yes, I have,” rejoined our hero, “I’ve a goose in the house.”

“Goose in the house! have you,” exclaimed Mr. Ellenger, brightening up; “goose in the house! well, that’s a good hearing.”

“At least, there was,” observed Mr. Bunting, “and I’ve not smelt its disappearance. A goose, you know, leaves a strong scent.”

“So it does,” said Mr. Ellenger, “so it does; and by the way I’ll tell you what,” as if a bright thought had just struck him, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll just go down stairs and see if it is in existence still, and tell them to put it down, and I will dine with you, and you shall dine with me some other day.”

“Do,” replied Mr. Bunting, rather chagrined at the proposal.

“Dine as soon as it is ready, I suppose?” asked Mr. Ellenger.

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Bunting, “I shall be ready when it is.”

“That’s a bargain!” exclaimed our brisk old friend, wheeling about and leaving the room. He then proceeded down stairs, making straight for the street, where Sore-eyed Sam stood in charge of the horse. “Sam,” said he, “put up that horse; give him two feeds of corn and hay, and have him ready to put to about nine o’clock; but don’t put him to till I tell you.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Sam, surprised at the magnificence of the order; for Archey was generally a pail of water, and “I’ll remember you next time,” man.

The horse thus disposed of, Mr. Ellenger next made for the bar, to see what he could do for himself. “Ah, Matty!” exclaimed he, going gaily into the little room just as he had done to Mr. Bunting; “ah, Matty! how goes it?” advancing up to the sot as he sat with his glass and his pipe by the fire.

“Who is it?” asked Mr. Muldoon, not recognising Archey in his dark non-hunting dress.

“Who is it?” repeated Archey, “why, me to be sure, Mr. Ellenger!”

“Ellenger—Ellenger,” growled Muldoon, knocking the ashes out of his pipe on the floor. “Ellenger— Ellenger,” repeated he, looking intently at his own toes for an idea, “why, you owe me three and ninepence,” said he, blinking intently at Archey.

“No, I don’t,” replied Mr. Ellenger.

“Yes, you do,” asserted Matty, confidently.

“How do you make it out?” demanded Mr. Ellenger.

“Make it out,” replied Matty, “make it out—the missis makes it out; but I know you do.”

“Hut, fiddle man; you’re drunk man,” replied Mr. Ellenger, turning carelessly away.

“Drunk!” retorted Matty, “drunk! there’s not a soberer respectabler man in Her Majesty’s domin— minions than (hiccup) I. What do you (hiccup) mean by saying I’m (hiccup)?” demanded he, blinking and shaking his head angrily at our fox-hunter.

“What’s the matter, now?” asked fat Mrs. Muldoon, bustling in with her keys.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Archey; “nothing, only your good man’s made a mistake. Tell me,” continued he, drawing Mrs. Muldoon aside, “what can Mr. Bunting and I have for dinner?”

“Mr. Bunting is going to dine out,” observed Mrs. Muldoon.

“No, he was going to dine with me,” replied Mr. Ellenger, “but I have had a misfortune in my kitchen— cook taken ill—and so I am going to take a little dinner with him here instead.”

“Oh, indeed,” replied Mrs. Muldoon, thinking matters over. “Well, sir, what would you like to have?”

“What have you got?” asked Archey, taking a short cut to the point; adding, “not mutton-chops, beef-steaks —beef-steaks, mutton-chops, mind.”

“Well, there’s a goose,” said Mrs. Muldoon, complacently.

“Goose! is there?” exclaimed Archey, adding, “well, that will do. No fish, I suppose?”

“Fish,” said Mrs. Muldoon, “fish; yes, there are some haddocks.”

“Capital!” rejoined Archey; “a couple of haddocks —or say three—egg sauce, you know: and now about sweets—what have you got in the way of sweets?”

“What would you like?” asked Mrs. Muldoon, in the usual provoking style of inn answers.

“Oh, like! I should like an omelette au confiture, or some little delicacy of that sort; but what I am likely to get is the thing.”

“Well, sir, would you like a damson tart, or an apple pudding?”

“Damson tart, apple pudding?” replied Archey, “well, apple pudding’s very good with goose. Yes, we’ll have an apple pudding. And now about wine—what wine have you?”

“We have all sorts of wine,” replied Mrs. Muldoon; “port, sherry, Madeira, cowslip, tent, grape, and elder.”

“Bother your grape and elder!” retorted Archey; “have you any champagne?”

“Well, yes, we just have one bottle,” replied Mrs. Muldoon; “one bottle that we kept for old Lord Lush-borough, who used to sleep here on his way up and down.”

“Lord Lushborough! Lord Lushborough’s been dead these twenty years!” exclaimed Archey.

“Well, not so long as that,” rejoined Mrs. Muldoon; “it was shortly after the opening of the railway, which ruined our calling, and we have never been asked for a bottle since.”

“Ah, well, it will be good for nothing; but, however, you may send it up, and if it’s drinkable we’ll drink it, if not you’ll get it back.” So saying, and after urging Mrs. Muldoon to activity, Mr. Ellenger retired, followed by a heavy growl from Matty about the three and nine-pence he owed him. Having reported to Mr. Bunting what he had done, Mr. Ellenger then excused himself for half and hour while he went to visit his good friend Mr. Buckwheat, and see if he could arrange a billet with him for some future occasion. The half-hour was somehow protracted into an hour; and when Archey came blundering down the street in the dark, the smell of the goose would have arrested his progress even if the economical candle had not been flickering an equivocal light in the archway. Mr. Ellenger stopped like a pointer crossing a scent, and, turning short in, regaled his olfactory nerves with the smell as he proceeded leisurely up stairs to Mr. Bunting’s apartment. Here he found our friend making another attempt at the impracticable sonnet, which he whipped away with his rhyming dictionary into his desk. Mr. Ellenger then hung up his hat and proceeded to make himself at home. He was so sorry about the cook—nasty drunken creature—but he would give her up in the morning. However, things might have been worse if they could not have got any dinner; and while they were discussing the matter, the increased clatter of plates below was followed by the bump of a tray against the turn of the staircase, and Bonville presently appeared with the fish. The haddocks were good, the goose was good, and though the champagne was dead and ropy, the sherry was passable, and so was the port. Mr. Ellenger did ample justice to all. The leathery cheese being at length removed, the cloth drawn, and some red hard-featured apples and lemon-coloured oranges placed on the table, Monsieur Bonville having arranged the composites, presently withdrew, shutting our friends up for a confab.

Mr. Ellenger was one of those accommodating gentlemen who will tell people anything they see they want told. Of course he knew all about our friend and Miss Rosa, and after a cursory glance at some of the other beauties—the Springfields, the Beauchamps, the Bedfords —he turned the conversation upon her. Like Mrs. Tom Trattles, he knew, or professed to know, everything— how much there was in the funds, how much in railways, how much in canal shares. Altogether he made out a very encouraging report. He only hoped Miss Rosa would marry some producible person, and not that young cub of a banker. Archey did not like “sivin and four,” who had hitherto successfully resisted all attempts on his larder. He had never been able to get even as much as a water-biscuit out of him.

To Mr. Bunting’s inquiry if he really thought there was anything between Miss Rosa and young Goldspink, Mr. Ellenger replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, that he really couldn’t say, he only knew he was frequently there; and when a young man went to a house where there was a young lady, of course there was always the usual inference. And Mr. Bunting, not wishing to appear too inquisitive, did not press the inquiry, but, tapping the now nearly-emptied port-wine decanter with his dessert-knife, asked Mr. Ellenger if he would take a little more of that, or try what the claret was like? but Mr. Ellenger, having a stout British stomach, little addicted to vinegar, declared for the port; whereupon another bottle, or as much of a bottle as the decanter would hold, was produced, the greater part of which Mr. Ellenger succeeded in placing under his waistcoat. And the moon having at length risen, and Mr. Ellenger having had tea, coffee, and chasse, presently ordered his vehicle; and after an affectionate leave-taking, and making Mr. Bunting promise faithfully to dine with him “some day,” he tucked himself carefully in, and, telling Sore-eyed Sam he had no silver, went lilting and tilting away back to Kids Hill, extremely well pleased with the result of his ruse. The cook was no more drunk than we are.