CHAPTER XIII

A FAMILY DINNER

Just as Mrs. Barnington was desiring Doleful to ring the bell to see why dinner was not ready, Mr. Mountford, with great state, and an air of the most profound respect, walked into the centre of the room, and announced that it was on the table, when, backing out, and leaving the page in charge of the door, he returned to the parlour to twist a napkin round his thumb, and place himself before the centre of the side-board to be ready to raise the silver cover from the soup tureen, and hand it to John Trot, to pass to Sam, to place on the tray the instant the party were seated. Mrs. Barnington, with an air of languid absence, mechanically placed her hand on Doleful’s arm, and sailed down the thickly-carpeted staircase, past the footmen in the entrance, and dropt into a many-cushioned chair at the head of the table. Doleful seated himself at the side opposite the fire, and Barnington of course took his place at the foot of the table. Soup and a glass of sherry passed round amid the stares and anxious watchings of the servants, before anything like a conversation was commenced, for Barnington was not a man of many words at any time, and fear of his wife and dislike of Doleful now sealed his lips entirely. Several indifferent topics were tried during the fish, alternately by Mrs. Barnington and Doleful.—The weather—the Morning Post—the last elopement—somebody’s band—the new French milliner, when, gathering up her napkin, and giving her head a toss in the air, she observed, in a careless, easy sort of way, “By the by, Captain Doleful, I forgot to ask you if those Horrocks people arrived to-day?”

“Oh yes, marm, they came,” replied the Captain, with uneasiness on his brow, for he saw “Mountford & Co.” were all eyes and ears to catch what he said.—“A little malt liquor, if you please. Do you get your malt of Dobbs?” inquired he of Barnington, making a desperate effort to turn the conversation at the outset, the only chance of effecting it; “if you don’t,” observed he, “there’s a capital fellow come from Mortlake in Surrey, to establish an agency here for the sale of the same sort of beer the Queen drinks, and apropos of that, Mrs. Barnington, perhaps you are not aware that her Majesty is so truly patriotic as to indulge in the juice of the hop—takes it at luncheon, I understand, in a small silver cup, a present from the Prince, with the lion and the unicorn fighting for the crown, beautifully raised in dead gold upon it, made by Hunt and Roskill, who certainly have more taste in trinkets, and articles of vertu, than all the rest of London put together, but this beer is very good—clear—amber and hoppy,” added he, drinking it off, hoping to drown old Jorrocks, wife, niece, and all, in the draught.

“Who is Horrocks, that you were asking about, my dear?” inquired Barnington of his wife, for the purpose of letting Doleful see he didn’t consider him worth answering, and not from any motives of curiosity,—an infirmity from which he was perfectly free.

“Only some people the Captain and I were talking about this morning, my love, that were expected from London. They are not come, you say?” added she turning to the Captain.

“Oh yes, marm, I said they were come. Allow me the honour of taking wine with you? Do you take champagne? Champagne to your mistress,” looking at Mr. Mountford. Mountford helped them accordingly giving the Captain as little as possible.

“Well, and what sort of people are they?” resumed Mrs. Barnington, setting down her glass, and looking at Doleful as much as to say, “Come, no nonsense, out with it.”

“Upon my word I can hardly give an opinion, for I saw so little of them; but I should say from what little I did see, that they are very respectable—that’s to say (haw, ha, hem), people well-to-do in the world (hem). He seems an uncommonly good-natured old fellow—rattles and talks at a tremendous rate; but really I can hardly fairly give an opinion upon their other qualifications from the very little I saw.”

“How many carriages had they?” inquired Mrs. Barnington.

“One, with a pair, but they came by the train; they will probably have more coming by the road.”

“Many servants?”

“Not many, I think. Perhaps they are coming by the road too.”

“What are the women like?”

“The old lady seems a monstrous good-natured, round-about, motherly sort of body, neither very genteel nor yet altogether vulgar—a fair average woman in fact—charitable, flannel-petticoat, soup-kitchen sort of woman.—This is capital mutton—never tasted better. By the way, Mr. Barnington, did you ever eat any Dartmoor mutton? it certainly is the best and sweetest in the world, and this is as like it as anything can possibly be.”

“No,” was all the answer Mr. Barnington vouchsafed our hero, who, bent on turning the conversation, and nothing disconcerted, immediately addressed himself to his hostess, with, “Beautiful part of the country—fine scenery—should like to live there—people so unaffected and hospitable—ask you to dine and sleep—no puddling your way home through dirty lanes in dark nights. The view from Æther rocks on the edge of Dunmore, most magnificent—there’s a fine one also on the road between Exeter and Tiverton—and near Honiton too—what food that country would afford your splendid pencil, Mrs. Barnington. I know no one so competent to do justice to the scenery as yourself,” and thereupon the Captain puckered his face into one of his most insinuating grins. Mrs. Barnington went on eating her “vol au vent,” inwardly resolving to know all about the Jorrocks’s without compromising one jot of her dignity.

The conversation then took a brisk and rapid range over many topics and to divers places—Bath, Cheltenham, Brighton, Tunbridge Wells, were all visited in succession, but at last Mrs. Barnington fairly landed the Captain back at Handley Cross. “I suppose we shall be having a ball here soon, sharn’t we, Captain?” inquired she.

“That depends upon Mrs. Barnington,” replied the obsequious M.C. in the humblest tone. “If you are so disposed there’s no doubt of our having one. My ball at present stands first on the list, and that will take place to-morrow fortnight.”

“Oh, I forgot your ball entirely—true—oh dear, no! I shouldn’t wish for one before that—it might interfere with yours. Of course you will send me five tickets.”

The Captain bowed profoundly, for this as much as said there would be a five-pound note coming. “I hope you will have a good one,” added she. “There will most probably be some new comers by that time to amuse one with their strange faces and queer ways.—I wonder if the Horrocks’s will go?”

The idea at that moment flashed across the Captain’s mind too, and a prophetic thought assuring him they would, he determined to grapple with the subject instead of fighting shy, and ventured boldly to predict they would, and once more essayed to smooth their passage to Mrs. Barnington’s patronage.

“Oh, I have no earthly objection to them, I assure you, I can have none to people I never either saw or heard of. Of course, if they have letters of introduction I shall call upon them—if not, and you assure me, or rather convince me, of their respectability, I shall notice them the same as I do other people who come here as strangers.”

“Very much obliged indeed,” replied the Captain, feeling all the time that he was “thanking her for nothing.”—“They are, I believe, highly respectable. She, I understand, is the daughter of a gentleman who was about the court of King George the Third. The young lady is very pretty, and Jorrocks himself really seems a very excellent old fellow.”

“What, you are talking about Mr. Jorrocks, are you?” inquired Mr. Barnington, looking up from his “omelette” with an air of sudden enlightenment on his countenance.

“Why yes, Solomon!” replied his loving spouse, “who did you think we were talking about?”

“Why you called them Horrocks! how was I to know who you meant?”

“How were you to know who we meant? why what matter does it make whether you know or not? Take the cheese away, Mountford, and don’t make this room smell like a beer-shop.”

“Stay! I want some,” interposed Mr. Barnington.

“Then take it into your master’s room,” replied Mrs Barnington. “Go and stuff yourself there as much as you like; and send for your friend Horrocks, or Jorrocks, or whatever you call him, to keep you company.”

And after an evening of this agreeable dog and cat-ing, varied with occasional intercessions for the Jorrocks family, the gallant Captain at length made his adieus and retired to his confectioners’.

We will now see what our newly arrived friends are about.