CHAPTER XCIII

THE DUCHESS OF TERGIVERSATION’S BALL

THE Duchess of Tergiversation of course had fixed her ball for the full moon, relying upon that kindly planet keeping matters right; and certainly up to the afternoon of the day things wore a very promising appearance. But the moon had scarcely gained her ascendancy, ere that encircling haze, so popular with sportsmen—so inimical to dresses, indicated a change; and ere the melon-frames, the turbot-tubs, and the various vehicles chartered for the occasion came round to their respective doors, a very decided rain was established. Then the ladies, with much the air of peacocks striving for a port on a windy day, having at length encircled themselves into their carriages, the gentlemen dived in at random, execrating the weather and the capacious crinolines, and objurgating the Duchess for her confounded condescension—wished she had kept her cards to herself. And the whole country was then presently alive with the rumbling of wheels, the shining lights of carriages—apparently stationary, but in reality moving—surprising the country and pike people, many of which latter came to open their gates in very light attire. So the approaching forces neared the Castle just like sportsmen proceeding to a meet—some parties waxing nervous the nearer they got to it. Great people have very little idea what awe they inspire.

Fair reader, were you ever the first to arrive at a ball or other place of public entertainment? seen the wild hurry consequent on the finishing stroke—the getting into place of the various actors—the bewigged and broad-backed coachman at the door, the powdered footmen within, the out-of-livery gentlemen further back? If so we are inclined to suspect you have not repeated the experiment a second time. And yet somebody must come first; but still there is no occasion to arrive before you are asked. It is generally observable at London balls that the first persons to come are those whom the mistress least wishes to see, namely, some unfortunate country cousins whom it has been seriously debated whether to have or not, and who now show their gratitude by making themselves as conspicuous as possible, in all the eccentricity of bygone fashions. For though they have got new clothes, they are husbanding them to take back into the country—nobody, as they say, knowing them in London.

The first to arrive at the Castle on this auspicious night were our friends the Bowderoukinses, though they had had a desperate dispute about the propriety of punctuality—Mr. Bowderoukins insisting that it was only a proper mark of respect to attend punctually upon a first invitation, Mrs. Bowderoukins maintaining that a ball was not like a dinner, and that people might go to a ball any time they liked, provided they did not go before the hour fixed.

However, Bowderoukins being master of his own horse, had the steady family nag in the vehicle at a minute to the time he fixed, and not being a man to rest quiet under impulsive circumstances, Mrs. Bowderoukins thought it best to have herself in her rich rustling red moire antique dress too. And considering the horse was but a slow one, to whom the heavy roads were anything but familiar, it said something for Jonathan’s jehuship that he brought them up under the grand portico within a quarter of an hour of his estimate. Then, the leathern appliances being loosened, the oven door was opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Bowderoukins turned out as best they could, just as another horse’s head poked up behind to claim the honour of second place. The ports were then opened, and from a dribbling stream of carriages the line gradually became closer and more connected, until a slowly moving procession was formed, reaching from the Castle to the centre gates.

But for the gleam of lights and the profusion of gaudy servants lining the spacious armour-decked entrance hall, Mrs. Bowderoukins would have admonished Bowdey on the impropriety of their early coming; as it was she submitted to the almost mute guidance of sundry white-kidded hands, all delicately indicating the way to the cloak and tea room; while Bowdey followed on, blinking like an owl suddenly turned out of his ivy bush against the radiance of the mid-day sun. Even here our friends were too soon, for only one pretty maid had got herself into her white muslin with cherry-coloured ribbons, and though the tea apparatus was on the counter-like table, the Bohea was not even put into the pots.

The fact was the Duchess was behind-hand with her toilette, having scolded her French maid well for putting her out the wrong dress, and the backwardness of the main-spring had communicated itself to the rest of the works of the Castle. Mrs. Bowderoukins, therefore, finding that she could give herself “pause,” deliberately sat down, determined to “tea” for half an hour if necessary.

She had not long to wait, for first one young group of maidens and then another came trooping in, all fuss and flowers, and gig umbrellas, chattering and wondering and wanting their beaux. Then the ladies began shaking hands, asking after the absent, and expressing their pleasure at seeing each other—some inwardly wishing their rivals were further. And they got so chatty and agreeable, and reinforcements poured in so quickly that they seemed to have forgotten all about the ball, so much so indeed, that her Grace having at length descended, magnificently radiant of course, wanted people to admire her freshness, so she converted Mr. Cucumber into a gentleman usher of the black rod, and sent him to summon the guests. Whereupon, there was a great drawing on of gloves, arranging of lace, twirling of hoops, making way for each other to go first—for as it has often been observed, there is more trouble in marshalling a party of justices’ wives than a bevy of duchesses.

Then the rustling commenced amid the guidance of voluminous garments, and names were passed on from footman to footman placed at intervals on the stairs, until the guests reached the elegant groom of the chamber, whose attire far eclipsed that of most of the visitors. The Duchess was standing in state, the centre of a semicircle, formed of the Duke, Lord Marchhare, and Lady Honoria Hopkins, all splendidly attired—the Duke and his Lordship after the manner of the cocktails, wearing the full dress uniform of the hunt—orange coloured coats, with cherry coloured linings collars and cuffs, white shorts, and white silk stockings. The Duchess dressed in a splendid new double pink satin dress with rich bouillons of tulle and point lace, a magnificent diamond stomacher, and a tiara of diamonds on her head—the light of a neighbouring cut-glass chandelier being enlisted to perfect the radiance of the group.

The Duchess was a capital hand at measuring affability, and could do the smiling and freezing, almost with the same face. She could also apportion her politeness with all the accuracy of a letter weigher—an ounce to Mrs. Young, two to Miss Springfield, three to Mr. Addleton, none to Brown White. It was as good as a play and a farce put together to stand aside and mark the trepidation depicted on the countenances of the comers, and the look of joy that prevailed after they had passed the dread ordeal.

This sort of thing, however, is not peculiar to the country. Most people have some donnish acquaintance, who patronise them in the country and shy them in town; and in these days of general locomotion it is as well to ascertain who they are, so as to avoid a rebuff. There is never much difficulty in doing so, for they are always pretty notorious—indeed you see by a certain stately gathering as they approach, and a sort of semicircular movement that they do not “wish to detain you.” If you chance to meet them in society they accord you a very stiff bow, as much as to say, “no shaking hands here, if you please,” or, “I think, sir, your place might have been better filled in this house.” These are the charmers of society to whom literary people who draw from the life are so much indebted for character and incident. Perhaps, however, there is no more valuable acquirement than that of knowing when to use the hat and when the hand.

The Duchess meanwhile continues her reception; bows, and smiles, and curtsies, and shakes of the hand, with here and there a convenient obliviousness. The Smiths, the Fields, the Swineys, the Dockets, and the Dunns pass unseen, but the Beauchamps, and the Bedfords, are detained for a hug. Then the Langdales, the Holleydales, the Netherwoods, the Wheelers, the Cambos, the Cheadles, and the Thomsons come trooping in and pass rapidly on, while the Dingwalls and Woodroses, who are tall and good looking, are kept for a while in the neighbourhood of the select circle.

The flow of company now becomes unbroken and continuous, names get mixed and greetings misappropriated; but the large apartments with the noble picture-gallery in aid are far more than sufficient to accommodate all comers. The guests disperse and range the rooms, wandering about like cattle entering a strange field. Lord Marchhare is now beauing the beautiful Miss Rebecca Isaacs, who has come down from town with uncle Joseph Samuel to try to get pay for that new Swaneveldt his Grace pressed so much on the admiration of his banker when he called about his little balance. But where is that worthy gentleman with his sivin and four troublesome calculations? Oh, there he is, shorts and all, yawning already, with Mrs. Goldspink in a red and yellow dress with a portentous turban on her head. Sivin-and-four can’t make out why people turn night into day for the pleasure of dancing, while Mrs. Sivin-and-four, who is full of furnishing, goes prying about looking at and feeling everything, thinking and wondering what will do for their new house at Garlandale.

And now, after a few prefatory twangs, a perfect crash of music, such as only a stout country band can produce, bursts forth, drawing all the ambulatory guests into the beautiful octagon ball-room, whose white and gold walls are lit up in a style extremely inimical to dirty dresses. In the company pour at all the four doors, and the thing immediately assumes the proportions of a grand ball. Not flat at all. And as the vigorous band ply the overture to the Traviata Quadrille, the grinning Prince Pirouetteza pilots in the Duchess, looking a very different prince to what he was when getting bumped on the unruly Timour the Tartar. The Duke, as we said before, had had about enough of his Highness, and meant the ball to be the grand concluding event of the visit. The ladies, however, pulled the other way, especially the Lady Honoria Hopkins, who would rather be the wife of a dirty prince than the widow of a clean Englishman. So whenever the Duke asked Cucumber in the ladies’ presence if he knew anything about his Highness’s movements, the Duchess would exclaim,

“Oh, dear Duke, never mind about that! never mind about that! I’m sure he’s no trouble to any one.”

The Prince is now a tremendous swell, with his stiff wrist-bands turned half way up to his elbows, and his broad chest glittering with jewelry and orders, real or imaginary. He had consumed five wax candles, to say nothing of a blazing fire, in getting himself up to his satisfaction, and in capering and attitudinising before the cheval glass in his bedroom. And now the various quadrilles being arranged, and the anxious musicians having taken breath, at a clap of the Prince’s well-gloved hands, a start is effected; and away the ladies dart and glide, and the gentlemen dive and duck amid the masses of tulle and crinoline to the sound. The ball is then established, and the late timid ones are astonished that they should have thought there was anything to be afraid of. A galop follows the quadrilles, and introduces fresh comers.

Who is this pleasant looking man in a black coat with a white waistcoat and white cravat, with whom everybody shakes hands as he advances quietly up the room, with his Gibus hat in his hand? Jovey Jessop! so it is—Jovey without his Jug. What has got the old boy? Oh, yonder he is, beauing Mrs. McDermott, who really looks quite handsome in her new light gray moire antique with broad black lace flounces, and a white feather wreath around her head. And what a swell old Tom is himself, fine new blue coat with a velvet collar and bright buttons, white vest, new nankins with shiny shoes, and open clocked gauze silk stockings. We will be bound to say, the old fellow thinks they will serve a double purpose, do for the ball to-night, and to be married in, if Mrs. McDermott is agreeable. He looks quite respectable and really by no means ugly. The Duchess vouchsafed him a hand as he came in, and said she was glad to see him at the Castle, quite a different reception to the one he got when he had been down on his knees. And really when we look at Mrs. McDermott and Tom we think we see a similarity between them— a sort of Mr. and Mrs. Jug-ishness.

But see! who have we here? Who is this velvety Tom-cat-looking man, all silk, satin, and jewelry, with a pink shirt front worked with festoons of flowers and humming birds? We have seen him before, heard that sardonic laugh, watched that tortuous twirl. It can’t be O’Dicey? Yet O’Dicey we believe it is. O’Dicey it is, as we live! Well, who would have thought of seeing O’Dicey at a Duke’s! How came he here? We will tell you, gentle reader. The great capitalist Mr. Wanless, is going to lend his Grace three hundred and fifty thousand pounds, to relieve him from the Insurance Offices, and other troublesome people. Meanwhile the Duke is going to put his name to a little paper for the great British merchant to manipulate, and O’Dicey is down with the proper stamps for the purpose. We wish his Grace may get the proceeds.

That, however, is no business of ours. But watch O’Dicey, watch the charming impudence with which he approaches and greets the victim of the mutton chop dinner. One would think their positions had been reversed, and that O’Dicey was the loser instead of the winner.

“Holloa, old boy!” exclaims he, thrusting his hand vehemently into our hero’s, “holloa, old boy! how goes it? Dash it, I’ve been thinking of you this I don’t know how long, wondering when you were coming to have your revenge.” And thereupon O’Dicey shook our friend’s hand so severely as almost made him doubt whether O’Dicey was the rogue the world gave him credit, or rather, discredit for being.

“Well, and have they got you spliced yet?” asks O’Dicey, with a significant glance at our friend; “have they got you spliced yet?”

“No, not yet,” replies Jasper, in a tone that as good as said, “I am going to be, though.”

“Why, what a slow coach you are!” exclaimed O’Dicey, tickling Jasper in the ribs with his fore-finger; “I thought you’d have been old father Caudle by this time. Where’s the lady?” continued he, glancing hastily round the room.

“There,” replied Jasper, nodding promiscuously at a group of sprightly waltzers.

“Where?” retorted O’Dicey, not being able to recognise her.

“Here!” replied Jasper, as our fair heroine now whisked past in the scarcely-board-touching Violante Valse.

“So it is!” replied O’Dicey, now watching the floating of the triple-skirted tulle dress looped up with flowers, adding, “but she’s got her hair in ringlets! What’s that for?”

“Because I please,” replied Jasper.

“All right,” rejoined O’Dicey; adding, “glad you’ve cut out that man-coquette, who is only fit for a dancing-master,” alluding to Mr. Bunting, in whose grasp the lovely Rosa was then revolving, her bright eyes flashing dangerously through the fluttering graces of her curls.

There was some truth in what Jasper said about the ringlets, for we may mention that Mr. Ballivant had been over to Privett Grove again, and his report of the Scotch property had turned the scales again in Jasper’s favour. Otherwise there is no saying but Rosa might have had her hair plain, which Mr. Bunting always told her she looked much the best in. And here a word about the property.

Our friend Jock Haggish says that if ever he wants to get acquainted with any gentleman’s private affairs, he either gans to the “Vawlet what’s a coourtin’ of the lady’s maid, or else to yen o’ them Writer Deavils i’ the next toon,” and it so happened that Mr. Ballivant applied to the same “Writer Deavil” who had been similarly employed by another party (Biter and Co., we believe) on a previous occasion, who wrote word back that though he would not say Mr. Bunting was a liar, yet he would say that he was a very great “economist of the truth,” for that he (the W. D.) had had this property through his hands before, and there was nothing wherewith to make a settlement, and altogether, the W. D. said, a sovereign would satisfy the trouble he had been put to in the matter, for which he requested a P. O. O.

This, however, Mr. Bunting did not know; and now, the music of the valse having ceased, Jasper went up in a sort of you-be-off way to Mr. Bunting, and claimed Miss Rosa for the coming quadrille (Jasper couldn’t waltz, at least only went round like a cart-wheel, and even that made him sick), and the fair lady and he were presently promenading together, the lady now smiling and smirking, and looking as if it was a regular case of Perish Savoy! with regard to Mr. Bunting’s feelings. Admiration Jack, however, was on too good terms with himself to imagine it was anything but Rosa’s natural kindness of disposition, especially as her great love for waltzing always made her gladly respond to his invitation to become his partner for them, to say nothing of the occasional interpolation of a quadrille—when the figure, the Lancers for instance, was more than the other genius could manage.

And as gentlemen have not the same taste for cutting each other out that ladies have, Miss Rosa passed from one to the other throughout the evening, to the great amusement of the lookers on, who speculated largely on the result—O’Dicey backing Jasper heavily whenever he could get an opportunity; Miss Flintoff saying Rosa was a little whalebone-hearted thing, who did not deserve to have either; and many other ladies conspiring to run her down. Even in ringlets, however, she was decidedly the belle of the evening, and for dancing none of them could come near her, though Captain Ambrose Lightfoot did essay to spin his betrothed, Miss Laura Springfield, against her; yet Rosa held fast, and, guided by Mr. Bunting, distanced them immeasurably.

And now, we declare, here is old Sir Felix Flexible! Sir Felix, with his star and all complete, bowing and scraping, and acknowledging the marked attention he receives from everybody. Now O’Dicey steps familiarly up to him and slapping him on the shoulder, exclaims, “Holloa, old boy! how goes it? How are Philip of Macedon and all our friends in Greece?” O’Dicey tendering the baronet his hand, who almost involuntarily takes it, before he recognises his speech-stealing friend at the “Rocks,” who, however, the baronet supposes, must be a proper acquaintance as he meets him at a Duke’s. So Sir Felix vouchsafes him a little notice, and O’Dicey looks about in hopes that people see it.

First love valse and supper dance! Who shall describe the commotion caused by that announcement? The rushing for partners—the claiming of partners—the evasion of partners. Miss Beauchamp is so sorry, she really thought it was number eleven dance,—would Mr. James Green Foozle kindly excuse her? and then she goes off laughing with Captain Winfield. Now the Jug, who has been nursing a leg very carefully beside Mrs. McDermott, on a magnificent yellow and gold ottoman in the ante-room, suddenly lets it down, and rising offers her his arm, and Miss Rosa is only permitted to valse with Mr. Bunting on condition of surrendering to Jasper the moment it is over. Captain Ambrose Lightfoot claims one Miss Springfield, and young Mr. Netherwood the other; and all the engaged and semi-engaged ones, whom it is needless to enumerate, presently coalesce, and go spinning about like teetotums.

Courtship is something like stag hunting, of which few care to see the finish. The indifferent spectator knows that after the offer comes the church, just as the sportsman knows that the stag will be taken sooner or later—in a pond, a barn, a brickfield, any place that comes uppermost. It is the beginning—the uncarting— that people want to see. Neither is it perhaps necessary for us to follow the guests to the demolition of all the viands we described as getting gathered together, seeing that the whole affair was chronicled in the county papers in a far more accurate form than we can pretend to— Mr. Cucumber sketched it out, the Duke filled it in, and the Duchess polished it off.

There used to be a funny fellow in the north of England some time ago, called Billy Purvis, a sort of half conjuror, half play-actor, who found it his interest to occasionally give a performance for the benefit of some charity; and one day, after exhibiting on behalf of the Newcastle Infirmary, he presented himself to pay over the proceeds to the credit of the institution. The treasurer having counted the cash and thanked Billy for it, chanced to observe, as he was going away, “Perhaps, Mr. Purvis, you would like this to appear in the papers?” whereupon, Billy turning sharp round and spread-eagleing himself, exclaimed with astonishment, “Papors! aye to be shu-er. Why, whaat would be the use o’ mar givin’ it if it wasn’t put i’ the papors?” We often think honest Billy’s answer accounts for a good deal of the philanthropy of this world. Where would be the use of people doing this or that, if it wasn’t put “i’ the papors”?

And so that there might be no mistake about the matter, the Duke always did his own reporting himself, letting the public know when he had a dinner, when he had a dance, when he had a battue, when he went from home, when he came back, and when, as in this instance, he had a grand ball. Of course the newspaper people did not sell him, as some of them occasionally do the quack medicine mongers, by putting “Advertisement” at the top of the paragraph; on the contrary, they let him have the full swing of the paper, as if he was really great “We” himself, a deception that was aided by occasional affectation of ignorance; as for instance, in giving a list of the guests, his Grace would write “as far as we have been able to learn,” or in reporting his own speech, the paper would have it, “the noble Duke spoke nearly as follows,” as if the reporter had not been able to catch all he said.

Still, with a little allowance for a certain couleur de rose style, the accounts were very accurate, and on an occasion like the present embraced the variety of topics other than the splendour of the ball, such as the pedigree of the Prince, who “We” were sorry to hear was going away; also the cordiality of the Duke; the beauty and affability of the Duchess; the magnificence of the place; the success of the late battue; the staunchness of the hounds—winding up with a well-turned eulogium on the advantages of having such an exemplary family resident in the country, and the expression of the decided conviction of great “We,” that such enlarged liberality would be duly remembered at the coming crisis— meaning of course the general election.

“That’s diplomacy,” said the Duke, as, having received the revised account from the Duchess and interpolated the passage about the departure of the Prince, he sealed the missive and dropped it into the letter-box for transmission by post.