CHAPTER LXII

WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR; OR, THE A.D.C.

Every one who has visited—and few there are, we take it, who have not—our delightful watering-place, must have observed the fine gilt-wired letter-cage in the entrance-hall of the Turtle Doves Hotel, in which are arranged the letters of expected visitors, proclaiming as well the coming greatness, as acting as advertisements of the house’s custom. Here, as regular as swallows in the spring, or as the horse in the little roundabout at a fair, have appeared, year after year, the letters of Major-General Sir Thomas Trout, the letters of Captain Hely Hobkirk Smith, the letters of Lady Maria and Miss Muff, the letters of John Brown and Mr. Lamb, the letters of Mrs. Sharp and Miss Flint, the letters of we don’t know who besides. It is from this and similar sources that our respected “we” of the “Pry” compiles his weekly bulletin of the rank, fashion, and beauty that visit this most celestial of all sublunary scenes.

The entrance-hall is well adapted for a watering-place lounge, being a fine, lofty, airy apartment, flagged with black and white diamond-patterned marble flags; while the walls are done in such good imitation of various marbles, that many a one feels them, to be satisfied that they are not in the real marble halls of the song. On the south, the hall opens into a public billiard-room; on the right is the spacious coffee-room, where wax-lights are supplied without charge—or “free gratis,” as the waiter says; while on the left are the private apartments of the hostess, Mrs. Mendlove; through the large plate-glass window of which, commanding the aforesaid letter-cage and hall, her lovely daughter Constantia may afternoonly be seen reclining elegantly on a rose-coloured sofa, in the full-blown costume of a Bloomer. The sash of the window is then up, and while the sill forms an agreeable resting-place for the arms of an admiring lounger, the letter-box below is a convenient excuse for being there if any one happens to come in unawares. Then Constantia goes on with her knitting or needlework, and the swain drops upon his light reading of “Major-General Sir Thomas Trout,” “Captain Hely Hobkirk Smith,” or whoever happens to be in the “lock-up,” just as if the improvement of his mind was his sole and whole object.

The hall of the Turtle Doves Hotel forms a sort of centre of attraction for the visitors at either end of the town; and being on a level with the street flags, invalids having the entree can be wheeled in in their garden-chairs through the bright folding mahogany sash-doors, where, in addition to the benefit of a well-framed railway time-table and the sight of a weather-glass, they have the run of the letter-cage, of a couple of country papers, a second-hand copy of the “Post,” a guide to the Wells, and the use of a hat-brush—all very attractive things in their way. High ’Change is generally about noon, when the Bloomer, having got herself becomingly up, and the letter-box arranged, throws up her window, and subsides in easy, elegant attitude on her sofa. Sir Thomas Trout, who always arrives with the punctuality of the soldier, is the self-elected great gun of the place, and to him are referred all matters of pedigree, etiquette, points of honour—of warfare and military discipline generally. What he says is law. Sir Thomas, who is a peripatetic gourmand, always feeds into a severe fit of the gout towards spring, and comes to Handley Cross to be cured—than which we need scarcely say there is no better place.

Last summer, however, we grieve to add—for we have a share in it on the sly—the Turtle Doves had not its fair share of company. Whether this was owing to undue and, perhaps, unfair competition, or to the Boniface castigation by the Times or to whim, or to fashion, or to caprice, we know not; but such was the case, as we know to our cost. That it was not owing to any falling-off in the management of the hotel we are in a condition to speak; for we were there the greater part of the autumn, and never saw better management, better cookery, better wine, better beer, better tea, better butter, better anything, or a more beautiful Bloomer; and, despite what the Times may say as to hotels generally, the charges were by no means exorbitant. Not, of course, that we paid anything, but we saw and helped to inflame the bills of those who did. That, however, is not the point, and is only thrown in by way of giving the house a lift. Our business is with a guest.

It was just as the spring was setting in with its usual serenity that the drooping spirits of the Bloomer were cheered by the arrival of three portentous-looking letters, headed,

“On Her Majesty’s Service,”

and addressed—

“My wor—rod!” exclaimed the Bloomer, clutching them, and admiring the great seals—the royal arms; and then turning to the directions—“my wor—rod,” repeated she, “but this is something like,” reading—

“A.D.C.,” repeated she—“A.D.C.—what’s A.D.C., postman?”

“A. B. C. D. E. F. G. H. I. J.,” replied the postman, hurrying off, saying the alphabet.

“Well,” said the Bloomer, turning one of the letters upside down, “he’s somebody, that’s quite clear—on Her Majesty’s Service—well, I think! If this isn’t the making of the house, I don’t know what will.”

She then turned it upright again, as if in hopes that a fresh view would help her to decipher it, but with no better success. The A.D.C. fairly puzzled her. She would like to know what it meant. K.C.B.’s, L.L.D.’s, F.R.S.’s, D.C.L.’s, she had severally caged, but had never had an A.D.C. through her hands before. “What could A.D.C. mean?” thought she, as she run her eye over the bedroom book, considering where she should put so important a personage. “It must be a good room—low down too. Ah, there was, No. 3,—nice airy room, three windows, two looking to the street, and the other to the Buttermead meadows.”

“Mary!” exclaimed she, ringing the housemaid’s bell, and applying her lips to the ivory-mouthed communicating pipe in the wall.

“Mary!” repeated she upwards.

“Mem?” answered a voice downwards.

“No. 3 ready?” replied the Bloomer upwards.

“Yes, mem,” answered the voice downwards.

“Put on the pink toilet-cover, clean muslin curtains, and the new counterpane, and I’ll give you some fine towels when I come upstairs,” said the Bloomer.

“Yes, mem,” replied the voice.

The Bloomer then had another look at the letters, in hope of inspiration; but none coming, she took down the key of the lock-up, and proceeded to place them in custody. Very conspicuously she arranged them, too, one above the other in the very centre of the long gilt-wired box, keeping all the insignificant Browns, Jones, and Robinsons at a respectful distance from them. After taking a lingering look, she resumed her place on the sofa, “Punch” in hand, to watch the impression the large letters made upon the comers.

The first to visit the gay scene on this auspicious day were the three Miss D’Oyleys. They generally accompanied their brother to the billiard-room, and after conning the fashionable column in the “Post,” informing themselves what was doing in high life, they glanced their lustrous eyes through the letter-box, and then proceeded on their travels. They were all struck with the important A.D.C. letters, but made no demonstration in the presence of the Bloomer. When they got outside, however, it was different.

“Who can Mr. Heavytree be?” “What’s A.D.C.?” exclaimed Anna Maria and Jane Sophia in the same breath.

“Heavytree! it’s not Heavytree,” replied Miss D’Oyley, who had taken a more deliberate read than her sisters.

“Who is it then?” asked Anna Maria.

“Heveland, I read it,” replied the elder sister.

“Well, but what’s A.D.C.?” asked Jane Sophia.

“Don’t know,” replied Miss D’Oyley.

Next came Mrs. and the Miss Bowerbanks. They lived at Raspberry Tart Lodge, but having seriously damaged a ten-pound note at the Turtle Doves on their coming, had arranged with Timothy, the head waiter, to have their letters directed to the Turtle Doves, instead of to the less aristocratic mansion they occupied. Great talk, too, it made in the little country town from whence they came, that they should be sojourning so long at such a first-rate hotel, accompanied with the usual significant shrugs and wishes that they “mightn’t be going it.” Mrs. Bowerbank, however, not coming up to the Bloomer’s idea of a lady—chiefly, we believe, because she gave her cast-off clothes to the poor of her village, instead of to her maid—the Bloomer just contented herself with exclaiming from the back of “Punch,” as she contemplated the party over the top,—

“Nothing for you to-day, mem.”

“Oh, indeed!” replied Mrs. Bowerbank, who had brought her gold-chained eye-glass to bear on the all-absorbing letters: “William Heveland, Esq., A.D.C. Who can he be, I wonder? On Her Majesty’s Service, too;” and thereupon she turned into the hall to take up the “Post,” in hopes that some one would come in to expound.

Little old Miss Gaby followed, but being a lady who professed to be quite destitute of curiosity, she never looked into the letter-box while there was any one there to see her; so she immediately entered into a most cordial disquisition with Mrs. Bowerbank about the weather, expressing the most sanguine hopes as to the result, just as if she had three hundred acres of wheat, and two hundred acres of barley, to say nothing of green crops, dependent upon its caprice, though all the soil she possessed was what she had brought in on her dirty thick shoes.

The overpowering Mrs. Flummocks, known in the matrimonial market as “the Crusher,” from the summary way she settles little gentlemen’s pretensions who make up to her towering daughters, then forced the barrier of both doors, and sailed into the hall like a tragedy queen, leaving the folding-doors flopping like condor’s wings behind her. Mrs. Flummocks held herself high, and only vouchsafed a gentle inclination of the head to the Bowerbanks, while she honoured Miss Gaby, who could in no ways interfere with her daughters, with the tips of her fore-fingers. This done, she sailed majestically round to the letter-box, and was soon struck with the imposing-looking documents in the middle.

read she, slowly and deliberately. “William Heveland,” repeated she, looking up. “Wonder if he’s any relation of the Hevelands, of Heveland Hall—very old friend of our family’s if he is. Oh, good morning, Miss Mend-love,” continued she, addressing the Bloomer, as if she now saw her for the first time; “good morning, Miss

Mendlove. Pray can you tell me what county this Mr. Heveland, whose letters I see in the case, is from?”

“Are there any letters in the case for that name?” asked the Bloomer, with an air of the utmost innocence, for she hated Mrs. Flummocks, whose maid gave the worst possible description of her meanness, particularly in the tea-and-sugar department. Moreover, though Mrs. Flummocks “Miss Mendloved” her to her face, she knew that she “young person’d” her behind her back, and laughed at her “ridiculous costume,” as she called the Bloomer attire. “Are there any letters in the case for that name?” replied the Bloomer, in answer to Mrs. Flummocks’s inquiry.

“Yes, three,” replied Mrs. Flummocks, looking them over. “Can you tell me who he is?”

“No. mem, I can’t,” snapped the Bloomer, returning to her “Punch.”

“What does A.D.C. mean, Martha?” asked the Crusher, turning to her eldest daughter, who, with her two strapping sisters, had now entered the hall, while mamma was looking into the letter-box, and making her attempts on the Bloomer.

“A.D.C., A.D.C.,” repeated the gigantic Martha; “I’m sure I don’t know, mamma. A. B. C one understands, but I don’t know what A.D.C. means.”

“It’s on a letter—something Heveland, Esq., A.D.C.,” observed the Crusher, adjusting her front.

“Can it have anything to do with the Company’s service?” suggested the second strapper, whose name was Sarah.

“Company’s service,” repeated the Crusher, who had had one or two of that breed of suitors through her hands—“Company’s service—no—that is H.E.I.C., Honourable East India Company, isn’t it?”

“The Geographical Society, perhaps,” suggested the youngest, Miss Margaret, who, being last from school, might be reasonably supposed to have her learning fresher than the others.

“No; that’s F.R.G.S., Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society,” mouthed the eldest, in her usual knock-medown way, silencing the sister, and settling the disquisition.

The hall now began to fill. Mr., Mrs., and three Miss Softeners came stealing in, and before the door closed on their entry, Mrs. and the Miss Holloways followed. Then came Mr. Biddle and Mr. Dawes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Hat, Mr. Rap and Master Paine, Mr. Slade and Miss Corner, Mrs. Corner following judiciously with old Mrs. Fisk, whom she had assisted last year to capture the slippery Mr. Prance. Ladies, however much they may dislike each other, and which, by-the-bye, they almost all do, will always combine to catch a man. They don’t know how soon they may require similar assistance themselves. That, however, by way of parenthesis.

Well, as the hall filled, the box was visited, and fresh inquiries arose what A.D.C. meant. “What does A.D.C. mean?” superseded the state of the weather, or “What do you hear of the war?” One said it meant one thing, another another, but each fresh suggestion was disposed of almost as quickly as it was made. At length, as ingenuity was about exhausted, a cockaded footman, in a coat of many colours, was seen manœuvring a garden chair outside, and a rush being made to either folding-door, the great Major-General Sir Thomas Trout was wheeled into the hall. The usual salutations over, and inquiries made as to the state of his dear hand, and his dear arm, and his dear foot, and so on, the question was soon put,—

“What does A.D.C. mean, Sir Thomas?”

“A.D.C.,” replied he, with a mingled smile of pity and contempt—“A.D.C. Why, don’t you know? Aide-de-camp, to be sure—what I was to my Lord Bullywell.”

“Oh, to be sure!” exclaimed half-a-dozen voices; “how stoopid not to know it! Aide-de-camp, to be sure! so it is.”

“Why do you ask?” inquired the great man, as the exclamations subsided.

“Oh! only there are some letters directed so to a gentleman here, or coming here.”

“Indeed!” replied the major-general, raising his eyebrows; adding, “I have no information on the subject.”

Just as if no military man had any business at Handley Cross without consulting him.

“Indeed!” repeated Sir Thomas. “What’s his name?”

“Heveland, Sir Thomas,” replied the Crusher, who was very ambitious of the great man’s notice; indeed, at one time, fancied she was to be Lady Trout.

“Heveland — Heveland — Heveland,” repeated Sir Thomas “Know the name—know the name;” adding to his coach-horse footman, “Jeremiah, tell Miss Mendlove I want to speak to her.”

“Yes, Sir Thomas,” replied Jeremiah, touching his hat most obsequiously, and moving away to inform the Bloomer through the window.

This brought the fair lady, in her silver-buttoned light-blue silk vest, with a flowing jacket of a darker blue above a lavender-coloured tunic and white trousers, fingering her cambric collarette and crimson silk necktie above her richly-figured shirt, with mock-diamond buttons scattered freely down the front.

“Good morning, Miss Constantia,” exclaimed the old knight, gaily. “Good morning, Miss Constantia. So you’ve got an aide-de-camp here, have you? No wonder you’re so smart,” added he, looking her over.

“A what, Sir Thomas?” asked the Bloomer, not exactly catching what he said.

“Ah, you know, you naughty one!” exclaimed the major-general, archly; adding, “Tell me, my dear, is Mr. Heveland at home?”

“He’s not come yet, Sir Thomas,” replied the fair lady, now putting that and that together, and reckoning she had done well to order the best bedroom to be got ready.

“Not come yet!” replied Sir Thomas. “Not come yet!” adding, after a pause, “Well, I must notice him— I must notice him. Tell him when he comes, that Major-General Sir Thomas Trout has called upon him—or stay,” added he, “Jeremiah,” appealing again to the coach-horse footman, “give Miss Constantia a card out of my case.” Whereupon Jeremiah dived into the pocket of the coat of many colours, and fishing up the mother-of-pearl card-case, handed the all-important pasteboard to the Bloomer, who placed it above the “A.D.C.” letters in the box.

Sir Thomas’s card clenched the business. There was no further speculation or inquiry as to who or what the stranger was. The thing now was to get a sight of the great A.D.C. In this our friends were doomed to a good deal of tantalization; for, though the next day brought two more letters “On Her Majesty’s Service,” and several others sealed with crests and many-quartered coats of arms, all of which were duly paraded in the letter-cage, yet neither the Bloomer nor any one about the place could give any information as to the man himself. Sir Thomas Trout shook his head mysteriously when appealed to, and said he was “not at liberty to mention”—a course the knight generally adopted when we wanted to conceal his ignorance.

Great excitement was the consequence; the title “aide-de-camp” representing to most minds a dashing young officer, full of giggle and conversation, with a great aptitude for love-making, dancing, and singing. We don’t know how many young ladies were set out for him; half the town, in short; for women like playing at appropriation, let the chance of success be ever so remote. It is their castle-building in the air, in fact.

However, time and the hour against the longest day, and excitement like other things comes to an end.

The shades of evening were drawing on, lady parties were settling to their tea, and gentlemen to their wine, when the tip-tupping tramp of a horse’s hoofs drew all eyes to the street, and a déshabilleishly dressed gentleman, looking like a man going to bathe or shoot wild ducks, was seen cantering in an easy toe-in-the-stirrup way, with a slack rein and a smart silver-mounted whip under his arm. It struck almost everybody who saw him that it was the A.D.C. Nor were they wrong in their conjecture, for pulling up at the door of the Turtle Doves Hotel, he threw himself carelessly off the half cover-hack, half shooting-pony’s back, and leaving it to stand by itself, swung into the hall with a noisy flourish.

“Any letters for me? (haw),” exclaimed he, in a throaty, consequential sort of way—“any letters for me? (haw),” cracking his whip jockeywise down his very loud-striped brown trousers’ side, as he straddled to the still open window.

“Oh, yes, sir!” exclaimed the beautiful Bloomer, not behind the rest in sagacity—“oh, yes, sir—a great many, sir,” continued she, unlocking the cage, gathering together all the documents, great and small, and placing them in his hand.

“Haw!” continued he, pompously, from his throat, as he sorted them like a hand at cards, placing “Her Majesty’s Service” ones unopened in the little outside pockets of his queer pepper-and-salt-coloured jacket, along with Sir Thomas Trout’s card, and tearing open the seals of those he was not acquainted with, scattering the crumpled envelopes freely about the floor. “Haw!” repeated he again, having mastered their contents. “Now,” continued he, feeling his sky-blue ariel tie, “send the (haw) ostler to take moy (haw) hack, and order me a (haw) bedroom with a (haw) sitting-room adjoining, or near at hand (haw); and let me have some (haw) dinner. What (haw) soup have you? (haw),” pulling away at his painted gills as he spoke.

“I’m afraid we’ve no hare soup, sir,” replied the Bloomer, modestly.

“(Haw) I don’t mean haw soup—but what (haw) soup have ye?” said he, fumbling at his shirt front.

The Bloomer then, better comprehending his dialect, recited the usual inn varieties—giblet, ox-tail, mulligatawny, and so on; and the great man, having chosen ox-tail with a sole, and a rump-steak with oyster-sauce to follow, swaggered across the hall, and up the light corkscrew staircase after the waiter, to inspect his rooms and prepare for the repast.

“(Haw) that will do (haw),” said he, glancing at the dimensions and furniture of the Mitre; adding, “Now let me see the (haw) bedroom (haw).”

That he also said would “do,” but he said it as if it was not the sort of thing he was accustomed to; but having made up his mind to put up with it, he forth-with proceeded to unpack himself. From his drab felt wide-awake he drew out half a quire of clean dickeys and a front; from the breast-pocket of his jacket he produced three pair of socks, a razor, a toothbrush, and a comb; while out of the back pockets came a shirt, a dark-blue Joinville, some pocket-handkerchiefs, no end of letters and papers, with a cigar-case and a case of instruments. Having deposited the clothes and dressing things on the table, he bundled the letters, papers, and cases back into his pockets, and finding that dinner would not be ready for half an hour, descended to make the better acquaintance of the Bloomer, whose appearance had struck him greatly as he entered, and in whose agreeable society he spent the greater part of the evening. Our business at present, however, is more with his out-of-door conquests, and to them we will now devote our attention.

The “A.D.C.” letters appended to his name coupled with the extreme commonness, not to say vulgarity, of our present style of morning dress, caused what in other days would have been thought “queer” to be overlooked, or attributed to fashion or the whim of travelling incognito. Military men like making “guys” of themselves out of harness, some said; others made no doubt he would be a great swell in the evening. Great were the hopes entertained for the morrow. Here, however our friends were doomed to disappointment, for our hero studiously kept to his room; nor could all the giggle and chatter of high ’Change, or the important rumbling of Sir Thomas’s wheels, or the audible tone in which the great man inquired if the Bloomer had given Mr. Heveland his card, induce him to show himself. Sir Thomas, indeed, looked rather disconcerted when, in reply to his inquiry what the A.D.C. said when she gave him it, the Bloomer replied that “he just put it in his pocket.” Sir Thomas had hoped he would have made such a demonstration of gratitude as, when told, would have enhanced Sir Thomas’s consequence in the eyes of the company.

Nor could Timothy, the waiter—a genius possessed of all the easy inquisitive impudence of the brotherhood —throw any light upon our friend’s movements, beyond that he seemed very busy, whenever he went into the room, with compasses and pencils and tracing-paper, which being communicated from one person to another, at length resolved itself into a very plausible story— namely, that he was aide-de-camp to the inspector-general of fortifications, down on a secret mission from the government in connection with the war. Some said the inspector-general was coming too. This idea seemed to receive confirmation from Sir Thomas Trout, who, being questioned about it, replied, with a solemn shake of the head, that he was “not at liberty to mention.” The interest greatly increased with the mystery. It became all-absorbing.

Next day brought partial relief. Towards noon the great man was seen sauntering along, cigar in mouth, staring idly at horses and carriages, and into shop-windows, giving both ladies and gentlemen ample opportunity of looking him over—a privilege that he seemed equally disposed to partake of himself.

We may candidly admit that there was a difference of opinion with regard to his looks; but what young gentleman ever appeared on the stage of public life without raising adverse opinions as to his appearance? It does not, however, follow, that because young ladies proclaim a man a fright, an object, a horror, or anything of that sort, that they really think so. They have a useful way of running men down, in hopes of preventing each other from entering for them; a trick that we should think they are all too well up in, ever to impose on each other with.

As praise, however, is always more agreeable to a well-disposed Bramah pen than censure, we may commence by stating that both the Miss Sheepshanks and their mamma thought our friend very handsome. They admired the rich jet black luxuriance of his hair, also the stiff inward curl of his regular all-round-the-chin whiskers, above all, his beautiful biliy goat imperial. Their sagacious eyes, too, saw in the deep-blue outline of his upper lip evidence of his self-denial in not growing the now degraded shop-lad appendage of a moustache. Altogether they thought him very, very handsome; and miss it was who christened him “the Conqueror!”

The Miss Trypperleys, too, thought him good-looking —rather more colour, perhaps, than was strictly aristocratic, but that looked as if he kept better hours than the generality of young men, and as if that “nasty smoking” didn’t disagree with him as it did with many.

The Miss D’Oyleys thought he would have been better if he had been a little taller, though, to be sure, he would look different in uniform; and wondered whether he was in the lights or the heavies, or the artillery or what. The Miss Bowerbanks, too, liked his looks; and the Softeners were as enamoured of him as the Sheepshanks. Mrs. Flummocks passed no opinion in public, priding herself upon her discretion; she, however, thought well of him in private. The Miss Sowerbys (oldish) couldn’t bear him; they thought they never saw such a great, staring, impudent, vulgar-looking fellow, and only wished they had a brother to horsewhip him; while the poor Conqueror had never looked at either of them. He furnished abundant conversation for the town that day.

Meanwhile, A.D.C. letters poured in apace; not a post arrived but some came, either “On Her Majesty’s Service,” or in the smaller form used by ordinary mortals; and the importance of the Conqueror’s mission swelled with the exclusiveness of his retirement. Though many people called, all anxious for an interview, the unvarying answer was, “Not at home,” though the waiter, on his cross-examination, could not but admit that our friend was upstairs. Indeed, we may observe that the A.D.C. had completely overpowered the otherwise communicative waiter’s loquacity, and from having nothing to tell he assumed a sort of mysterious gravity that greatly assisted the A.D.C. interest. The Conqueror was so throaty and important, so peremptory in his orders, so stern in his censures, that Timothy, who is rather free and easy, given to the persiflage of matrimony, pretending to get heiresses for young gentlemen, and so on, stood awed in his presence, and bowed lowly and reverentially before him. Moreover, as Timothy afterwards said, he was satisfied the Conqueror was a gent, because he always took a glass of sherry before he began his port after dinner. But though the Conqueror evidently did not court—nay, rather seemed to avoid society, he was not above conforming to the ordinary rules that regulate its dealings; and having got the fair Bloomer to sort his callers’ cards, and tell him where each lived, so that he might not go over the same ground twice, he shot meteor-like through the place, knocking at this door, ringing at that, putting in his pasteboard. “Mr. William Heveland, A.D.C.,” but firmly resisting all the reiterated assurances of both Johns and Janes that their mistresses or the young ladies were at home.

“Dear me, Mary!” exclaimed the Crusher, taking the card off the silver salver on which it was brought up, “how stoopid! Didn’t I tell you we were at home!”

“Please, mum, the gen’l’man didn’t ask;” or “Please, mum, I told him so, and he just gave me that.”

“Oh! don’t tell me! It’s one of your stoopid mistakes; you are the stoopidest girl I ever saw in my life.”

Nor did the Conqueror make any exception in favour of the great Sir Thomas Trout, though the man of the coat of many colours insisted that his master was at home to him—as if a special exception had been made in his favour.

“Then, give him that,” said the Conqueror, presenting his card, and blowing a great cloud of smoke right past the man’s face into the anti-tobacconist major-general’s very entrance-hall.

This disgusted the great man. The ladies, however, are not so easily put off a scent as the men, and the preliminaries to an acquaintance being now accomplished, they proceeded to clench it with invitations to dine. Cards came pouring in from all quarters, some in envelopes, some open, some printed, some written, some embossed, some plain, requesting the honour of Mr. William Heveland’s company to dinner on Monday the 10th, or Tuesday the 11th, or Wednesday the 12th, just as their larders or previous engagements favoured the speculation.

The Crusher, thinking to steal a march on the rest, drew a short bill upon him for a tea, which the Bloomer, who had firmly established herself in the A.D.C.’s confidence, had great pleasure in recommending him to put in the fire, which he did accordingly. The rest of the cards he just bundled into his queer jacket-pocket, to answer at his leisure.

One great beauty of Handley Cross—indeed, of all small idle places is, that everybody knows what you are about. It isn’t like London, where you may die and be buried without your next-door neighbour being any the wiser; but at a watering-place, all your in-comings and out-goings are watched and accurately noted—where you dine, who there is to meet you—nay, what you have for dinner—and you feel as if you didn’t stand quite alone in the world.

Some people—generally those who take plenty of time themselves—are often desperately anxious to get answers to their invitations, and wonder others don’t answer—so idle not answering—what can they be about they don’t answer; and so it was on the present occasion. Our friend, not intending to accept of any of the invitations, just let them remain in his jacket-pocket, along with “Her Majesty’s” and other letters, until it suited his convenience to have a general clearance; and as cards and crested notes still kept dropping in, he kept putting off and putting off till he had all the senders in a state of excitement. Great were the gatherings in the hall of the Turtle Doves, and numerous the whispering inquiries that were made of the Bloomer, if there was anything for Mrs. Softener or Mrs. Sheepshanks, or Mrs. Bowerbank; and then if the Bloomer was quite sure Mr. Heveland had got a certain card or a certain note, or whatever it was. Little satisfaction, however, was to be obtained from the Bloomer, who seemed rather to take pleasure in their mortification, and in increasing the mystery that enveloped our hero.

All things, however, must have an end: and on the fifth day, as the crowd was at the greatest, the Major-General Sir Thomas Trout was indulging in his usual ominous shakes of the head, and “not-at-liberties-to-mention,” a stentorian voice, proceeding from a dirty dog-cart, with the name, “John Gollarfield, Farmer, Hardpye Hill,” painted in honest legible letters behind, was heard roaring,—

“Timothy! Timothy! Timothy!” drawing all eyes to the vehicle.

In it was seated a little round-about red-faced man, whose figure might have been drawn with a box of wafers —a red wafer for the face, a brown one for the body, four drab ones for legs, and so on: the little man being then in a terrible state of perturbation, appearing as well by the red wafer as by the white lather in which he had brought his rough-headed, curly-coated brown horse.

Timothy at length appearing, napkin, or rather duster, in hand, the man of the dog-cart thus addressed him, speaking as before at the top of his voice,—

“Is Mr. Heavyland in?”

“Heavyland, Heavyland,” repeated Timothy, quickly: “no such gen’l’man here, sir.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” roared the voice, confidently.

“There’s a Mr. Heveland here, sir—a Mr. Heveland, sir—aide-de-camp to the Right Honourable the Inspector-General of Fortifications,” thinking to flabbergaster Gollarfield with his greatness.

“No! no!” roared the little man, peevishly, “it’s Heavyland I want. I know he’s here. Had a letter from him yesterday, sayin’ he’d be at my place, Hardpye Hill, at ten o’clock this mornin’, and he’s never come.”

It then struck Timothy that he had posted a letter headed “On Her Majesty’s Service,” for Mr. Gollarfield, Hardpye Hill; and he began to think whether Heavyland and Heveland could be one and the same person.

“What ’un a lookin’ gen’l’man is he, please, sir?’ asked Timothy.

“Oh, a queer black-and-red-lookin’ beggar—all teeth and hair, like a rat-catcher’s dog,” replied Gollarfield, shaking with vexation.

“What is he, sir, please, sir?” asked Timothy.

“An Assistant Drainage Commissioner!” roared Gollarfield. “Puts A.D.C. on his cards, like an ass as he is. Promised to be at my house, Hardpye Hill, at ten this mornin’, to pass my drains, and he’s never come;” adding, “if he thinks to get three guineas out o’ me, he’s deucedly mistaken.”

If a hand-grenade had fallen among the assembled company, it could not have caused greater consternation than this proclamation. There was such shrugging of shoulders, such batings of breath, such frowning from those who had invited our friend, and such giggling and laughing from those who had not; while the unfortunate Conqueror, who now came bounding downstairs three steps at a time to appease the choleric Gollarfield, was regarded with very different eyes to what he had been before. However, there was no harm done; for, on returning from Mr. Gollarfield’s, who now carried him off in his dog-cart, he placed his invitations in the hands of the Bloomer, who set all minds at rest by politely declining the whole of them.

And our fair friends at Handley Cross speedily relapsed into their former state of anxious excitement, ready to be hoaxed by anybody who would be at the trouble of doing it.