The day after the dinner at the “Regent Club,” Mr. Walker stepped over to the shop of his friend the perfumer, where, as usual, the young man, Mr. Mossrose, was established in the front premises.
For some reason or other, the Captain was particularly good-humoured; and, quite forgetful of the words which had passed between him and Mr. Eglantine's lieutenant the day before, began addressing the latter with extreme cordiality.
“A good morning to you, Mr. Mossrose,” said Captain Walker. “Why, sir, you look as fresh as your namesake—you do, indeed, now, Mossrose.”
“You look ash yellow ash a guinea,” responded Mr. Mossrose, sulkily. He thought the Captain was hoaxing him.
“My good sir,” replies the other, nothing cast down, “I drank rather too freely last night.”
“The more beast you!” said Mr. Mossrose.
“Thank you, Mossrose; the same to you,” answered the Captain.
“If you call me a beast, I'll punch your head off!” answered the young man, who had much skill in the art which many of his brethren practise.
“I didn't, my fine fellow,” replied Walker. “On the contrary, you—”
“Do you mean to give me the lie?” broke out the indignant Mossrose, who hated the agent fiercely, and did not in the least care to conceal his hate.
In fact, it was his fixed purpose to pick a quarrel with Walker, and to drive him, if possible, from Mr. Eglantine's shop. “Do you mean to give me the lie, I say, Mr. Hooker Walker?”
“For Heaven's sake, Amos, hold your tongue!” exclaimed the Captain, to whom the name of Hooker was as poison; but at this moment a customer stepping in, Mr. Amos exchanged his ferocious aspect for a bland grin, and Mr. Walker walked into the studio.
When in Mr. Eglantine's presence, Walker, too, was all smiles in a minute, sank down on a settee, held out his hand to the perfumer, and began confidentially discoursing with him.
“SUCH a dinner, Tiny my boy,” said he; “such prime fellows to eat it, too! Billingsgate, Vauxhall, Cinqbars, Buff of the Blues, and half-a-dozen more of the best fellows in town. And what do you think the dinner cost a head? I'll wager you'll never guess.”
“Was it two guineas a head?—In course I mean without wine,” said the genteel perfumer.
“Guess again!”
“Well, was it ten guineas a head? I'll guess any sum you please,” replied Mr. Eglantine: “for I know that when you NOBS are together, you don't spare your money. I myself, at the “Star and Garter” at Richmond, once paid—”
“Eighteenpence?”
“Heighteenpence, sir!—I paid five-and-thirty shillings per 'ead. I'd have you to know that I can act as a gentleman as well as any other gentleman, sir,” answered the perfumer with much dignity.
“Well, eighteenpence was what WE paid, and not a rap more, upon my honour.”
“Nonsense, you're joking. The Marquess of Billinsgate dine for eighteenpence! Why, hang it, if I was a marquess, I'd pay a five-pound note for my lunch.”
“You little know the person, Master Eglantine,” replied the Captain, with a smile of contemptuous superiority; “you little know the real man of fashion, my good fellow. Simplicity, sir—simplicity's the characteristic of the real gentleman, and so I'll tell you what we had for dinner.”
“Turtle and venison, of course:—no nob dines without THEM.”
“Psha! we're sick of 'em! We had pea soup and boiled tripe! What do you think of THAT? We had sprats and herrings, a bullock's heart, a baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes, pig's-fry and Irish stew. I ordered the dinner, sir, and got more credit for inventing it than they ever gave to Ude or Soyer. The Marquess was in ecstasies, the Earl devoured half a bushel of sprats, and if the Viscount is not laid up with a surfeit of bullock's heart, my name's not Howard Walker. Billy, as I call him, was in the chair, and gave my health; and what do you think the rascal proposed?”
“What DID his Lordship propose?”
“That every man present should subscribe twopence, and pay for my share of the dinner. By Jove! it is true, and the money was handed to me in a pewter-pot, of which they also begged to make me a present. We afterwards went to Tom Spring's, from Tom's to the 'Finish,' from the 'Finish' to the watch-house—that is, THEY did—and sent for me, just as I was getting into bed, to bail them all out.”
“They're happy dogs, those young noblemen,” said Mr Eglantine; “nothing but pleasure from morning till night; no affectation neither—no HOTURE; but manly downright straightforward good fellows.”
“Should you like to meet them, Tiny my boy?” said the Captain.
“If I did sir, I hope I should show myself to be gentleman,” answered Mr. Eglantine.
“Well, you SHALL meet them, and Lady Billingsgate shall order her perfumes at your shop. We are going to dine, next week, all our set, at Mealy-faced Bob's, and you shall be my guest,” cried the Captain, slapping the delighted artist on the back. “And now, my boy, tell me how YOU spent the evening.”
“At my club, sir,” answered Mr. Eglantine, blushing rather.
“What! not at the play with the lovely black-eyed Miss—What is her name, Eglantine?
“Never mind her name, Captain,” replied Eglantine, partly from prudence and partly from shame. He had not the heart to own it was Crump, and he did not care that the Captain should know more of his destined bride.
“You wish to keep the five thousand to yourself—eh, you rogue?” responded the Captain, with a good-humoured air, although exceedingly mortified; for, to say the truth, he had put himself to the trouble of telling the above long story of the dinner, and of promising to introduce Eglantine to the lords, solely that he might elicit from that gentleman's good-humour some further particulars regarding the young lady with the billiard-ball eyes. It was for the very same reason, too, that he had made the attempt at reconciliation with Mr. Mossrose which had just so signally failed. Nor would the reader, did he know Mr. W. better, at all require to have the above explanation; but as yet we are only at the first chapter of his history, and who is to know what the hero's motives can be unless we take the trouble to explain?
Well, the little dignified answer of the worthy dealer in bergamot, “NEVER MIND HER NAME, CAPTAIN!” threw the gallant Captain quite aback; and though he sat for a quarter of an hour longer, and was exceedingly kind; and though he threw out some skilful hints, yet the perfumer was quite unconquerable; or, rather, he was too frightened to tell: the poor fat timid easy good-natured gentleman was always the prey of rogues,—panting and floundering in one rascal's snare or another's. He had the dissimulation, too, which timid men have; and felt the presence of a victimiser as a hare does of a greyhound. Now he would be quite still, now he would double, and now he would run, and then came the end. He knew, by his sure instinct of fear, that the Captain had, in asking these questions, a scheme against him, and so he was cautious, and trembled, and doubted. And oh! how he thanked his stars when Lady Grogmore's chariot drove up, with the Misses Grogmore, who wanted their hair dressed, and were going to a breakfast at three o'clock!
“I'll look in again, Tiny,” said the Captain, on hearing the summons.
“DO, Captain,” said the other: “THANK YOU;” and went into the lady's studio with a heavy heart.
“Get out of the way, you infernal villain!” roared the Captain, with many oaths, to Lady Grogmore's large footman, with ruby-coloured tights, who was standing inhaling the ten thousand perfumes of the shop; and the latter, moving away in great terror, the gallant agent passed out, quite heedless of the grin of Mr. Mossrose.
Walker was in a fury at his want of success, and walked down Bond Street in a fury. “I WILL know where the girl lives!” swore he. “I'll spend a five-pound note, by Jove! rather than not know where she lives!”
“THAT YOU WOULD—I KNOW YOU WOULD!” said a little grave low voice, all of a sudden, by his side. “Pooh! what's money to you?”
Walker looked down: it was Tom Dale.
Who in London did not know little Tom Dale? He had cheeks like an apple, and his hair curled every morning, and a little blue stock, and always two new magazines under his arm, and an umbrella and a little brown frock-coat, and big square-toed shoes with which he went PAPPING down the street. He was everywhere at once. Everybody met him every day, and he knew everything that everybody ever did; though nobody ever knew what HE did. He was, they say, a hundred years old, and had never dined at his own charge once in those hundred years. He looked like a figure out of a waxwork, with glassy clear meaningless eyes: he always spoke with a grin; he knew what you had for dinner the day before he met you, and what everybody had had for dinner for a century back almost. He was the receptacle of all the scandal of all the world, from Bond Street to Bread Street; he knew all the authors, all the actors, all the “notorieties” of the town, and the private histories of each. That is, he never knew anything really, but supplied deficiencies of truth and memory with ready-coined, never-failing lies. He was the most benevolent man in the universe, and never saw you without telling you everything most cruel of your neighbour, and when he left you he went to do the same kind turn by yourself.
“Pooh! what's money to you, my dear boy?” said little Tom Dale, who had just come out of Ebers's, where he had been filching an opera-ticket. “You make it in bushels in the City, you know you do—-in thousands. I saw you go into Eglantine's. Fine business that; finest in London. Five-shilling cakes of soap, my dear boy. I can't wash with such. Thousands a year that man has made—hasn't he?”
“Upon my word, Tom, I don't know,” says the Captain.
“YOU not know? Don't tell me. You know everything—you agents. You KNOW he makes five thousand a year—ay, and might make ten, but you know why he don't.”
“Indeed I don't.”
“Nonsense. Don't humbug a poor old fellow like me. Jews—Amos—fifty per cent., ay? Why can't he get his money from a good Christian?”
“I HAVE heard something of that sort,” said Walker, laughing. “Why, by Jove, Tom, you know everything!”
“YOU know everything, my dear boy. You know what a rascally trick that opera creature served him, poor fellow. Cashmere shawls—Storr and Mortimer's—'Star and Garter.' Much better dine quiet off pea-soup and sprats—ay? His betters have, as you know very well.”
“Pea-soup and sprats! What! have you heard of that already?”
“Who bailed Lord Billingsgate, hey, you rogue?” and here Tom gave a knowing and almost demoniacal grin. “Who wouldn't go to the 'Finish'? Who had the piece of plate presented to him filled with sovereigns? And you deserved it, my dear boy—you deserved it. They said it was only halfpence, but I know better!” and here Tom went off in a cough.
“I say, Tom,” cried Walker, inspired with a sudden thought, “you, who know everything, and are a theatrical man, did you ever know a Miss Delancy, an actress?”
“At 'Sadler's Wells' in '16? Of course I did. Real name was Budge. Lord Slapper admired her very much, my dear boy. She married a man by the name of Crump, his Lordship's black footman, and brought him five thousand pounds; and they keep the 'Bootjack' public-house in Bunker's Buildings, and they've got fourteen children. Is one of them handsome, eh, you sly rogue—and is it that which you will give five pounds to know? God bless you, my dear dear boy. Jones, my dear friend, how are you?”
And now, seizing on Jones, Tom Dale left Mr. Walker alone, and proceeded to pour into Mr. Jones's ear an account of the individual whom he had just quitted; how he was the best fellow in the world, and Jones KNEW it; how he was in a fine way of making his fortune; how he had been in the Fleet many times, and how he was at this moment employed in looking out for a young lady of whom a certain great marquess (whom Jones knew very well, too) had expressed an admiration.
But for these observations, which he did not hear, Captain Walker, it may be pronounced, did not care. His eyes brightened up, he marched quickly and gaily away; and turning into his own chambers opposite Eglantine's, shop, saluted that establishment with a grin of triumph. “You wouldn't tell me her name, wouldn't you?” said Mr. Walker. “Well, the luck's with me now, and here goes.”
Two days after, as Mr. Eglantine, with white gloves and a case of eau-de-Cologne as a present in his pocket, arrived at the “Bootjack Hotel,” Little Bunker's Buildings, Berkeley Square (for it must out—that was the place in which Mr. Crump's inn was situated), he paused for a moment at the threshold of the little house of entertainment, and listened, with beating heart, to the sound of delicious music that a well-known voice was uttering within.
The moon was playing in silvery brightness down the gutter of the humble street. A “helper,” rubbing down one of Lady Smigsmag's carriage-horses, even paused in his whistle to listen to the strain. Mr. Tressle's man, who had been professionally occupied, ceased his tap-tap upon the coffin which he was getting in readiness. The greengrocer (there is always a greengrocer in those narrow streets, and he goes out in white Berlin gloves as a supernumerary footman) was standing charmed at his little green gate; the cobbler (there is always a cobbler too) was drunk, as usual, of evenings, but, with unusual subordination, never sang except when the refrain of the ditty arrived, when he hiccupped it forth with tipsy loyalty; and Eglantine leaned against the chequers painted on the door-side under the name of Crump, and looked at the red illumined curtain of the bar, and the vast well-known shadow of Mrs. Crump's turban within. Now and again the shadow of that worthy matron's hand would be seen to grasp the shadow of a bottle; then the shadow of a cup would rise towards the turban, and still the strain proceeded. Eglantine, I say, took out his yellow bandanna, and brushed the beady drops from his brow, and laid the contents of his white kids on his heart, and sighed with ecstatic sympathy. The song began,—
(Drunken Cobbler without) O my-y love!”
“Beast!” says Eglantine.
(Cobbler, as usual)— Let us ro-o-ove,” etc.
“YOU here?” says another individual, coming clinking up the street, in a military-cut dress-coat, the buttons whereof shone very bright in the moonlight. “YOU here, Eglantine?—You're always here.”
“Hush, Woolsey,” said Mr. Eglantine to his rival the tailor (for he was the individual in question); and Woolsey, accordingly, put his back against the opposite door-post and chequers, so that (with poor Eglantine's bulk) nothing much thicker than a sheet of paper could pass out or in. And thus these two amorous caryatides kept guard as the song continued:—
Eglantine's fine eyes were filled with tears as Morgiana passionately uttered the above beautiful words. Little Woolsey's eyes glistened, as he clenched his fist with an oath, and said, “Show me any singing that can beat THAT. Cobbler, shut your mouth, or I'll break your head!”
But the cobbler, regardless of the threat, continued to perform the “Lurlurliety” with great accuracy; and when that was ended, both on his part and Morgiana's, a rapturous knocking of glasses was heard in the little bar, then a great clapping of hands, and finally somebody shouted “Brava!”
“Brava!”
At that word Eglantine turned deadly pale, then gave a start, then a rush forward, which pinned, or rather cushioned, the tailor against the wall; then twisting himself abruptly round, he sprang to the door of the bar, and bounced into that apartment.
“HOW ARE YOU, MY NOSEGAY?” exclaimed the same voice which had shouted “Brava!” It was that of Captain Walker.
At ten o'clock the next morning, a gentleman, with the King's button on his military coat, walked abruptly into Mr. Eglantine's shop, and, turning on Mr. Mossrose, said, “Tell your master I want to see him.”
“He's in his studio,” said Mr. Mossrose.
“Well, then, fellow, go and fetch him!”
And Mossrose, thinking it must be the Lord Chamberlain, or Doctor Praetorius at least, walked into the studio, where the perfumer was seated in a very glossy old silk dressing-gown, his fair hair hanging over his white face, his double chin over his flaccid whity-brown shirt-collar, his pea-green slippers on the hob, and on the fire the pot of chocolate which was simmering for his breakfast. A lazier fellow than poor Eglantine it would be hard to find; whereas, on the contrary, Woolsey was always up and brushed, spick-and-span, at seven o'clock; and had gone through his books, and given out the work for the journeymen, and eaten a hearty breakfast of rashers of bacon, before Eglantine had put the usual pound of grease to his hair (his fingers were always as damp and shiny as if he had them in a pomatum-pot), and arranged his figure for the day.
“Here's a gent wants you in the shop,” says Mr. Mossrose, leaving the door of communication wide open.
“Say I'm in bed, Mr. Mossrose; I'm out of sperrets, and really can see nobody.”
“It's someone from Vindsor, I think; he's got the royal button,” says Mossrose.
“It's me—Woolsey,” shouted the little man from the shop.
Mr. Eglantine at this jumped up, made a rush to the door leading to his private apartment, and disappeared in a twinkling. But it must not be imagined that he fled in order to avoid Mr. Woolsey. He only went away for one minute just to put on his belt, for he was ashamed to be seen without it by his rival.
This being assumed, and his toilet somewhat arranged, Mr. Woolsey was admitted into his private room. And Mossrose would have heard every word of the conversation between those two gentlemen, had not Woolsey, opening the door, suddenly pounced on the assistant, taken him by the collar, and told him to disappear altogether into the shop: which Mossrose did; vowing he would have his revenge.
The subject on which Woolsey had come to treat was an important one. “Mr. Eglantine,” says he, “there's no use disguising from one another that we are both of us in love with Miss Morgiana, and that our chances up to this time have been pretty equal. But that Captain whom you introduced, like an ass as you were—”
“An ass, Mr. Woolsey! I'd have you to know, sir, that I'm no more a hass than you are, sir; and as for introducing the Captain, I did no such thing.”
“Well, well, he's got a-poaching into our preserves somehow. He's evidently sweet upon the young woman, and is a more fashionable chap than either of us two. We must get him out of the house, sir—we must circumwent him; and THEN, Mr. Eglantine, will be time enough for you and me to try which is the best man.”
“HE the best man?” thought Eglantine; “the little bald unsightly tailor-creature! A man with no more soul than his smoothing-hiron!” The perfumer, as may be imagined, did not utter this sentiment aloud, but expressed himself quite willing to enter into any HAMICABLE arrangement by which the new candidate for Miss Crump's favour must be thrown over. It was accordingly agreed between the two gentlemen that they should coalesce against the common enemy; that they should, by reciting many perfectly well-founded stories in the Captain's disfavour, influence the minds of Miss Crump's parents, and of herself, if possible, against this wolf in sheep's clothing; and that, when they were once fairly rid of him, each should be at liberty, as before, to prefer his own claim.
“I have thought of a subject,” said the little tailor, turning very red, and hemming and hawing a great deal. “I've thought, I say, of a pint, which may be resorted to with advantage at the present juncture, and in which each of us may be useful to the other. An exchange, Mr. Eglantine: do you take?”
“Do you mean an accommodation-bill?” said Eglantine, whose mind ran a good deal on that species of exchange.
“Pooh, nonsense, sir! The name of OUR firm is, I flatter myself, a little more up in the market than some other people's names.”
“Do you mean to insult the name of Archibald Eglantine, sir? I'd have you to know that at three months—”
“Nonsense!” says Mr. Woolsey, mastering his emotion. “There's no use a-quarrelling, Mr. E.: we're not in love with each other, I know that. You wish me hanged, or as good, I know that!”
“Indeed I don't, sir!”
“You do, sir; I tell you, you do! and what's more, I wish the same to you—transported, at any rate! But as two sailors, when a boat's a-sinking, though they hate each other ever so much, will help and bale the boat out; so, sir, let US act: let us be the two sailors.”
“Bail, sir?” said Eglantine, as usual mistaking the drift of the argument. “I'll bail no man! If you're in difficulties, I think you had better go to your senior partner, Mr Woolsey.” And Eglantine's cowardly little soul was filled with a savage satisfaction to think that his enemy was in distress, and actually obliged to come to HIM for succour.
“You're enough to make Job swear, you great fat stupid lazy old barber!” roared Mr. Woolsey, in a fury.
Eglantine jumped up and made for the bell-rope. The gallant little tailor laughed.
“There's no need to call in Betsy,” said he. “I'm not a-going to eat you, Eglantine; you're a bigger man than me: if you were just to fall on me, you'd smother me! Just sit still on the sofa and listen to reason.”
“Well, sir, pro-ceed,” said the barber with a gasp.
“Now, listen! What's the darling wish of your heart? I know it, sir! you've told it to Mr. Tressle, sir, and other gents at the club. The darling wish of your heart, sir, is to have a slap-up coat turned out of the ateliers of Messrs. Linsey, Woolsey and Company. You said you'd give twenty guineas for one of our coats, you know you did! Lord Bolsterton's a fatter man than you, and look what a figure we turn HIM out. Can any firm in England dress Lord Bolsterton but us, so as to make his Lordship look decent? I defy 'em, sir! We could have given Daniel Lambert a figure!”
“If I want a coat, sir,” said Mr. Eglantine, “and I don't deny it, there's some people want a HEAD OF HAIR!”
“That's the very point I was coming to,” said the tailor, resuming the violent blush which was mentioned as having suffused his countenance at the beginning of the conversation. “Let us have terms of mutual accommodation. Make me a wig, Mr. Eglantine, and though I never yet cut a yard of cloth except for a gentleman, I'll pledge you my word I'll make you a coat.”
“WILL you, honour bright?” says Eglantine.
“Honour bright,” says the tailor. “Look!” and in an instant he drew from his pocket one of those slips of parchment which gentlemen of his profession carry, and putting Eglantine into the proper position, began to take the preliminary observations. He felt Eglantine's heart thump with happiness as his measure passed over that soft part of the perfumer's person.
Then pulling down the window-blind, and looking that the door was locked, and blushing still more deeply than ever, the tailor seated himself in an arm-chair towards which Mr. Eglantine beckoned him, and, taking off his black wig, exposed his head to the great perruquier's gaze. Mr. Eglantine looked at it, measured it, manipulated it, sat for three minutes with his head in his hand and his elbow on his knee, gazing at the tailor's cranium with all his might, walked round it twice or thrice, and then said, “It's enough, Mr. Woolsey. Consider the job as done. And now, sir,” said he, with a greatly relieved air—“and now, Woolsey, let us 'ave a glass of curacoa to celebrate this hauspicious meeting.”
The tailor, however, stiffly replied that he never drank in a morning, and left the room without offering to shake Mr. Eglantine by the hand: for he despised that gentleman very heartily, and himself, too, for coming to any compromise with him, and for so far demeaning himself as to make a coat for a barber.
Looking from his chambers on the other side of the street, that inevitable Mr. Walker saw the tailor issuing from the perfumer's shop, and was at no loss to guess that something extraordinary must be in progress when two such bitter enemies met together.
It is very easy to state how the Captain came to take up that proud position at the “Bootjack” which we have seen him occupy on the evening when the sound of the fatal “Brava!” so astonished Mr. Eglantine.
The mere entry into the establishment was, of course, not difficult. Any person by simply uttering the words “A pint of beer,” was free of the “Bootjack;” and it was some such watchword that Howard Walker employed when he made his first appearance. He requested to be shown into a parlour, where he might repose himself for a while, and was ushered into that very sanctum where the “Kidney Club” met. Then he stated that the beer was the best he had ever tasted, except in Bavaria, and in some parts of Spain, he added; and professing to be extremely “peckish,” requested to know if there were any cold meat in the house whereof he could make a dinner.
“I don't usually dine at this hour, landlord,” said he, flinging down a half-sovereign for payment of the beer; “but your parlour looks so comfortable, and the Windsor chairs are so snug, that I'm sure I could not dine better at the first club in London.”
“ONE of the first clubs in London is held in this very room,” said Mr. Crump, very well pleased; “and attended by some of the best gents in town, too. We call it the 'Kidney Club'.”
“Why, bless my soul! it is the very club my friend Eglantine has so often talked to me about, and attended by some of the tip-top tradesmen of the metropolis!”
“There's better men here than Mr. Eglantine,” replied Mr. Crump, “though he's a good man—I don't say he's not a good man—but there's better. Mr. Clinker, sir; Mr. Woolsey, of the house of Linsey, Woolsey and Co—”
“The great army-clothiers!” cried Walker; “the first house in town!” and so continued, with exceeding urbanity, holding conversation with Mr. Crump, until the honest landlord retired delighted, and told Mrs. Crump in the bar that there was a tip-top swell in the “Kidney” parlour, who was a-going to have his dinner there.
Fortune favoured the brave Captain in every way. It was just Mr. Crump's own dinner-hour; and on Mrs. Crump stepping into the parlour to ask the guest whether he would like a slice of the joint to which the family were about to sit down, fancy that lady's start of astonishment at recognising Mr. Eglantine's facetious friend of the day before. The Captain at once demanded permission to partake of the joint at the family table; the lady could not with any great reason deny this request; the Captain was inducted into the bar; and Miss Crump, who always came down late for dinner, was even more astonished than her mamma, on beholding the occupier of the fourth place at the table. Had she expected to see the fascinating stranger so soon again? I think she had. Her big eyes said as much, as, furtively looking up at Mr. Walker's face, they caught his looks; and then bouncing down again towards her plate, pretended to be very busy in looking at the boiled beef and carrots there displayed. She blushed far redder than those carrots, but her shining ringlets hid her confusion together with her lovely face.
Sweet Morgiana! the billiard-ball eyes had a tremendous effect on the Captain. They fell plump, as it were, into the pocket of his heart; and he gallantly proposed to treat the company to a bottle of champagne, which was accepted without much difficulty.
Mr. Crump, under pretence of going to the cellar (where he said he had some cases of the finest champagne in Europe), called Dick, the boy, to him, and despatched him with all speed to a wine merchant's, where a couple of bottles of the liquor were procured.
“Bring up two bottles, Mr. C.,” Captain Walker gallantly said when Crump made his move, as it were, to the cellar and it may be imagined after the two bottles were drunk (of which Mrs. Crump took at least nine glasses to her share), how happy, merry, and confidential the whole party had become. Crump told his story of the “Bootjack,” and whose boot it had drawn; the former Miss Delancy expatiated on her past theatrical life, and the pictures hanging round the room. Miss was equally communicative; and, in short, the Captain had all the secrets of the little family in his possession ere sunset. He knew that Miss cared little for either of her suitors, about whom mamma and papa had a little quarrel. He heard Mrs. Crump talk of Morgiana's property, and fell more in love with her than ever. Then came tea, the luscious crumpet, the quiet game at cribbage, and the song—the song which poor Eglantine heard, and which caused Woolsey's rage and his despair.
At the close of the evening the tailor was in a greater rage, and the perfumer in greater despair than ever. He had made his little present of eau-de-Cologne. “Oh fie!” says the Captain, with a horse-laugh, “it SMELLS OF THE SHOP!” He taunted the tailor about his wig, and the honest fellow had only an oath to give by way of repartee. He told his stories about his club and his lordly friends. What chance had either against the all-accomplished Howard Walker?
Old Crump, with a good innate sense of right and wrong, hated the man; Mrs. Crump did not feel quite at her ease regarding him; but Morgiana thought him the most delightful person the world ever produced.
Eglantine's usual morning costume was a blue satin neck-cloth embroidered with butterflies and ornamented with a brandy-ball brooch, a light shawl waistcoat, and a rhubarb-coloured coat of the sort which, I believe, are called Taglionis, and which have no waist-buttons, and made a pretence, as it were, to have no waists, but are in reality adopted by the fat in order to give them a waist. Nothing easier for an obese man than to have a waist; he has but to pinch his middle part a little, and the very fat on either side pushed violently forward MAKES a waist, as it were, and our worthy perfumer's figure was that of a bolster cut almost in two with a string.
Walker presently saw him at his shop-door grinning in this costume, twiddling his ringlets with his dumpy greasy fingers, glittering with oil and rings, and looking so exceedingly contented and happy that the estate-agent felt assured some very satisfactory conspiracy had been planned between the tailor and him. How was Mr. Walker to learn what the scheme was? Alas! the poor fellow's vanity and delight were such, that he could not keep silent as to the cause of his satisfaction; and rather than not mention it at all, in the fulness of his heart he would have told his secret to Mr. Mossrose himself.
“When I get my coat,” thought the Bond Street Alnaschar, “I'll hire of Snaffle that easy-going cream-coloured 'oss that he bought from Astley's, and I'll canter through the Park, and WON'T I pass through Little Bunker's Buildings, that's all? I'll wear my grey trousers with the velvet stripe down the side, and get my spurs lacquered up, and a French polish to my boot; and if I don't DO for the Captain, and the tailor too, my name's not Archibald. And I know what I'll do: I'll hire the small clarence, and invite the Crumps to dinner at the 'Gar and Starter'” (this was his facetious way of calling the “Star and Garter”), “and I'll ride by them all the way to Richmond. It's rather a long ride, but with Snaffle's soft saddle I can do it pretty easy, I dare say.” And so the honest fellow built castles upon castles in the air; and the last most beautiful vision of all was Miss Crump “in white satting, with a horange flower in her 'air,” putting him in possession of “her lovely 'and before the haltar of St. George's, 'Anover Square.” As for Woolsey, Eglantine determined that he should have the best wig his art could produce; for he had not the least fear of his rival.
These points then being arranged to the poor fellow's satisfaction, what does he do but send out for half a quire of pink note-paper, and in a filagree envelope despatch a note of invitation to the ladies at the “Bootjack”:—
“BOWER OF BLOOM, BOND STREET:
“Thursday.
“MR. ARCHIBALD EGLANTINE presents his compliments to Mrs. and Miss Crump, and requests the HONOUR AND PLEASURE of their company at the 'Star and Garter' at Richmond to an early dinner on Sunday next.
“IF AGREEABLE, Mr. Eglantine's carriage will be at your door at three o'clock, and I propose to accompany them on horseback, if agreeable likewise.”
This note was sealed with yellow wax, and sent to its destination; and of course Mr. Eglantine went himself for the answer in the evening: and of course he told the ladies to look out for a certain new coat he was going to sport on Sunday; and of course Mr. Walker happens to call the next day with spare tickets for Mrs. Crump and her daughter, when the whole secret was laid bare to him—how the ladies were going to Richmond on Sunday in Mr. Snaffle's clarence, and how Mr. Eglantine was to ride by their side.
Mr. Walker did not keep horses of his own; his magnificent friends at the “Regent” had plenty in their stables, and some of these were at livery at the establishment of the Captain's old “college” companion, Mr. Snaffle. It was easy, therefore, for the Captain to renew his acquaintance with that individual. So, hanging on the arm of my Lord Vauxhall, Captain Walker next day made his appearance at Snaffle's livery-stables, and looked at the various horses there for sale or at bait, and soon managed, by putting some facetious questions to Mr. Snaffle regarding the “Kidney Club,” etc. to place himself on a friendly footing with that gentleman, and to learn from him what horse Mr. Eglantine was to ride on Sunday.
The monster Walker had fully determined in his mind that Eglantine should FALL off that horse in the course of his Sunday's ride.
“That sing'lar hanimal,” said Mr. Snaffle, pointing to the old horse, “is the celebrated Hemperor that was the wonder of Hastley's some years back, and was parted with by Mr. Ducrow honly because his feelin's wouldn't allow him to keep him no longer after the death of the first Mrs. D., who invariably rode him. I bought him, thinking that p'raps ladies and Cockney bucks might like to ride him (for his haction is wonderful, and he canters like a harm-chair); but he's not safe on any day except Sundays.”
“And why's that?” asked Captain Walker. “Why is he safer on Sundays than other days?”
“BECAUSE THERE'S NO MUSIC in the streets on Sundays. The first gent that rode him found himself dancing a quadrille in Hupper Brook Street to an 'urdy-gurdy that was playing 'Cherry Ripe,' such is the natur of the hanimal. And if you reklect the play of the 'Battle of Hoysterlitz,' in which Mrs. D. hacted 'the female hussar,' you may remember how she and the horse died in the third act to the toon of 'God preserve the Emperor,' from which this horse took his name. Only play that toon to him, and he rears hisself up, beats the hair in time with his forelegs, and then sinks gently to the ground as though he were carried off by a cannon-ball. He served a lady hopposite Hapsley 'Ouse so one day, and since then I've never let him out to a friend except on Sunday, when, in course, there's no danger. Heglantine IS a friend of mine, and of course I wouldn't put the poor fellow on a hanimal I couldn't trust.”
After a little more conversation, my lord and his friend quitted Mr. Snaffle's, and as they walked away towards the “Regent,” his Lordship might be heard shrieking with laughter, crying, “Capital, by jingo! exthlent! Dwive down in the dwag! Take Lungly. Worth a thousand pound, by Jove!” and similar ejaculations, indicative of exceeding delight.
On Saturday morning, at ten o'clock to a moment, Mr. Woolsey called at Mr. Eglantine's with a yellow handkerchief under his arm. It contained the best and handsomest body-coat that ever gentleman put on. It fitted Eglantine to a nicety—it did not pinch him in the least, and yet it was of so exquisite a cut that the perfumer found, as he gazed delighted in the glass, that he looked like a manly portly high-bred gentleman—a lieutenant-colonel in the army, at the very least.
“You're a full man, Eglantine,” said the tailor, delighted, too, with his own work; “but that can't be helped. You look more like Hercules than Falstaff now, sir, and if a coat can make a gentleman, a gentleman you are. Let me recommend you to sink the blue cravat, and take the stripes off your trousers. Dress quiet, sir; draw it mild. Plain waistcoat, dark trousers, black neckcloth, black hat, and if there's a better-dressed man in Europe to-morrow, I'm a Dutchman.”
“Thank you, Woolsey—thank you, my dear sir,” said the charmed perfumer. “And now I'll just trouble you to try on this here.”
The wig had been made with equal skill; it was not in the florid style which Mr. Eglantine loved in his own person, but, as the perfumer said, a simple straightforward head of hair. “It seems as if it had grown there all your life, Mr. Woolsey; nobody would tell that it was not your nat'ral colour” (Mr. Woolsey blushed)—“it makes you look ten year younger; and as for that scarecrow yonder, you'll never, I think, want to wear that again.”
Woolsey looked in the glass, and was delighted too. The two rivals shook hands and straightway became friends, and in the overflowing of his heart the perfumer mentioned to the tailor the party which he had arranged for the next day, and offered him a seat in the carriage and at the dinner at the “Star and Garter.” “Would you like to ride?” said Eglantine, with rather a consequential air. “Snaffle will mount you, and we can go one on each side of the ladies, if you like.”
But Woolsey humbly said he was not a riding man, and gladly consented to take a place in the clarence carriage, provided he was allowed to bear half the expenses of the entertainment. This proposal was agreed to by Mr. Eglantine, and the two gentlemen parted to meet once more at the “Kidneys” that night, when everybody was edified by the friendly tone adopted between them.
Mr. Snaffle, at the club meeting, made the very same proposal to Mr. Woolsey that the perfumer had made; and stated that as Eglantine was going to ride Hemperor, Woolsey, at least, ought to mount too. But he was met by the same modest refusal on the tailor's part, who stated that he had never mounted a horse yet, and preferred greatly the use of a coach.
Eglantine's character as a “swell” rose greatly with the club that evening.
Two o'clock on Sunday came: the two beaux arrived punctually at the door to receive the two smiling ladies.
“Bless us, Mr. Eglantine!” said Miss Crump, quite struck by him, “I never saw you look so handsome in your life.” He could have flung his arms around her neck at the compliment. “And law, Ma! what has happened to Mr. Woolsey? doesn't he look ten years younger than yesterday?” Mamma assented, and Woolsey bowed gallantly, and the two gentlemen exchanged a nod of hearty friendship.
The day was delightful. Eglantine pranced along magnificently on his cantering armchair, with his hat on one ear, his left hand on his side, and his head flung over his shoulder, and throwing under-glances at Morgiana whenever the “Emperor” was in advance of the clarence. The “Emperor” pricked up his ears a little uneasily passing the Ebenezer chapel in Richmond, where the congregation were singing a hymn, but beyond this no accident occurred; nor was Mr. Eglantine in the least stiff or fatigued by the time the party reached Richmond, where he arrived time enough to give his steed into the charge of an ostler, and to present his elbow to the ladies as they alighted from the clarence carriage.
What this jovial party ate for dinner at the “Star and Garter” need not here be set down. If they did not drink champagne I am very much mistaken. They were as merry as any four people in Christendom; and between the bewildering attentions of the perfumer, and the manly courtesy of the tailor, Morgiana very likely forgot the gallant Captain, or, at least, was very happy in his absence.
At eight o'clock they began to drive homewards. “WON'T you come into the carriage?” said Morgiana to Eglantine, with one of her tenderest looks; “Dick can ride the horse.” But Archibald was too great a lover of equestrian exercise. “I'm afraid to trust anybody on this horse,” said he with a knowing look; and so he pranced away by the side of the little carriage. The moon was brilliant, and, with the aid of the gas-lamps, illuminated the whole face of the country in a way inexpressibly lovely.
Presently, in the distance, the sweet and plaintive notes of a bugle were heard, and the performer, with great delicacy, executed a religious air. “Music, too! heavenly!” said Morgiana, throwing up her eyes to the stars. The music came nearer and nearer, and the delight of the company was only more intense. The fly was going at about four miles an hour, and the “Emperor” began cantering to time at the same rapid pace.
“This must be some gallantry of yours, Mr. Woolsey,” said the romantic Morgiana, turning upon that gentleman. “Mr. Eglantine treated us to the dinner, and you have provided us with the music.”
Now Woolsey had been a little, a very little, dissatisfied during the course of the evening's entertainment, by fancying that Eglantine, a much more voluble person than himself, had obtained rather an undue share of the ladies' favour; and as he himself paid half of the expenses, he felt very much vexed to think that the perfumer should take all the credit of the business to himself. So when Miss Crump asked if he had provided the music, he foolishly made an evasive reply to her query, and rather wished her to imagine that he HAD performed that piece of gallantry. “If it pleases YOU, Miss Morgiana,” said this artful Schneider, “what more need any man ask? wouldn't I have all Drury Lane orchestra to please you?”
The bugle had by this time arrived quite close to the clarence carriage, and if Morgiana had looked round she might have seen whence the music came. Behind her came slowly a drag, or private stage-coach, with four horses. Two grooms with cockades and folded arms were behind; and driving on the box, a little gentleman, with a blue bird's-eye neckcloth, and a white coat. A bugleman was by his side, who performed the melodies which so delighted Miss Crump. He played very gently and sweetly, and “God save the King” trembled so softly out of the brazen orifice of his bugle, that the Crumps, the tailor, and Eglantine himself, who was riding close by the carriage, were quite charmed and subdued.
“Thank you, DEAR Mr. Woolsey,” said the grateful Morgiana; which made Eglantine stare, and Woolsey was just saying, “Really, upon my word, I've nothing to do with it,” when the man on the drag-box said to the bugleman, “Now!”
The bugleman began the tune of—