CHAPTER LXXV

DOLEFUL AT SUIT BRANTINGHAME

Mr. Jorrocks’s early, but unseen friend, Sir Archy Depecarde, had a sister, one Mrs. Brantinghame, for whom he was anxious to do something at somebody else’s expense, and hearing of Doleful’s disappointment, he bethought him it was the very time to fix a wife upon him, knowing that when a man has made up his mind to commit matrimony, he will often take up with the next best chance that offers, rather than go without a wife. Accordingly, Sir Archy despatched the following laconie to Droppingfall Wells, where Mrs. Brantinghame was staying:—

“Try Miser^s. Doleful, at Handley Cross.”

And as soon as ever her week was up at the Wells, she flew on the wings of steam to our renowned Spa, accompanied by her only remaining unmarried daughter, Louisa Letitia Carolina Jemima, for Mrs. Brantinghame had been most particular in loading all her daughters with names, well knowing the agreeable expectations such repletion engenders.

To Captain Doleful, Sir Archy wrote as follows:—

“Pluckwelle Park.

“Dear Captain Doleful,

“My sister, Mrs. Brantinghame, purposes paying a visit to your Spa, to consult our friend, Dr. Mello, and any attention you can show her will be gratefully acknowledged by,

And the captain, albeit out of humour with the sex, on receipt of the note, began perking and simpering himself up, and when he heard of the widow’s arrival at her nice six-guinea-a-week house, in Acacia Crescent, having given her time to shake out her feathers and get settled, he put on his best grin, and went mincing and picking his way, taking care of his Molière shoes, to pay his respects.

We may here mention that Sir Archy had furthered the design by lending Mrs. Brantinghame his butler and footman, who were out at grass on board wages, at his expense, while he reconnoitred some minor watering-places, incog., in the west, a country that he knew the wise men did not come from, so that, what with the six-guinea-a-week house, the butler, the footman, the powder, the plate, Mrs. Brantinghame’s three hundred a year looked like as many thousands. We say plate, for Sir Archy lent a becoming quantity of that too, together with some most unimpeachable looking linen and glass, for a gambler always has the best of everything, everything at least that contributes to outward show and adornment. We will now suppose our innocent captain approaching the well-set snare.

His resolute ring at the visitors’ bell was speedily answered by a smart, well powdered, well put on footman, in brown and black plush, who was quickly seconded by a portly £50-a-year-at-least looking butler, who politely bowing an admission that his mistress was at home, proceeded to conduct our hero up the gaudily carpetted staircase, to the presence chamber.

“Capting Doleful, I b’live,” smiled the obsequious butler, who had taken in and let out many a gambling victim for his master. “Capting Doleful, I b’live,” repeated he, in the most deferential tone, as he paused upon the flossy pink sheepskin mat, on the landing outside the door, that as yet shut out the view of the terra incognita, upon which our adventurous traveller was about to enter. What a region is that same matrimonial wilderness of undiscovered connection, of which no man’s imagination has ever depicted the reality!

“Captain Doleful!” assented our visitor, as the man opened the cream-coloured door by its flowered handle.

“Capting Doleful, miss,” announced he, softly, over the swelling bust of a lady, apparently engaged at her writing-desk, but in reality arranged so as to show the luxuriant rolls of her double-banded brown hair, and the delicate whiteness of her swan-like neck, before her face and general features. All women have some point on which they more particularly pride themselves, and Miss Brantinghame went on her figure and complexion. She had carried Rapin’s quarto edition of the History of England, with Marco Polo’s travels atop, on her head, till she was as straight and erect as a dairymaid, or a Fulham strawberry-carrying woman.

Having kept her position sufficiently long to enable her to finish the sentence she was writing, she now arose and turned round, when, in lieu of a crumby old lady, in a cap and false hair, Doleful found himself confronted with a pleasant-looking woman, if not an exact beauty, or in the full freshness of youth, at all events one good to look at, who, with a sweet smile, and a stick-out-behind curtsey, begged him to be seated, while she intimated her connection with the house, by an aside, “Tell mamma,” to the butler.

Doleful was dumbfoundered, and wished he had put on his best Poulson and Co. suit, instead of the second-best one he had come in. He required a second smile, and a second stick-out-behind curtsey, to induce him to venture on an Elizabethan India japanned chair, that stood appropriately near where the fair lady sat. Miss then put up her papers, glanced at the opposite mirror, felt her side hair, elongated her nose, and arranged her features generally to what she considered captivating pitch, as she turned in her Jenny Lind chair to do the agreeable to the caller.

The captain noted a pretty foot, a taper hand, and saw a delicately white well-turned arm up the accommodating width of her sky-blue jacket sleeve. He didn’t care if mamma didn’t come for an hour. Miss, on her part, though she thought the captain older and more wrinkly than she expected, and not to be compared, in point of looks, either to Peter Bullock, to whom she was then engaged, or Captain Capers, whom she had jilted in Peter’s favour, felt that Doleful was infinitely their superior in point of wealth and station, and that a pair of proudly-stepping greys would amply compensate for the few envious grey streaks she saw scattered through his straggling hair. She therefore pointed a toe, arranged the heavy manacles on her arms, and placing her pretty hands becomingly on her smart blue spotted muslin dress, opened volubly upon him about the weather. The captain chimed in, and having speedily exhausted that interesting subject, they adjourned to the Crystal Palace, at Sydenham, whose magic wonders soon afforded our fair friend an opportunity of expressing a regret that she had not a brother to take her there, adding, with a half-suppressed sigh, something about “only children,” which fell very gratefully on the grinning captain’s ear. She would like to go to Sydenham every day—Oh! she should so like to go to Sydenham every day—She would like to go through all the Courts, and all the galleries, and all the walks, and all the lobster-salad places, and she soon talked herself into a perfect glow of animation. The captain sat in ecstasies, thinking how much pleasanter it was to be courted than to have the up-hill game he had had with Belinda—Belinda be hanged, thought he. Here was a lady infinitely her superior, and not much behind her in looks, at least, not when the looks were directed at him. She was more of a woman, too. Her figure was fuller and more developed, her hair as bright and glossy, her teeth as pearly, while her animated conversation soon imparted a lustre to her greyish blue eyes, and threw a gentle flush o’er her otherwise pallid cheeks, that chased away what illnatured people would call lines. Altogether Doleful soon began to think he had lit on his legs. The sears of his old heart began to heal. Miss Brantinghame for ever! chuckled he. Now for mamma.

That experienced and judicious old lady, always easy at the outset, but most urgent towards the end, was busy with her only maid, Martha, in the dining-room, putting away groceries, when the captain came, and receiving for answer to her inquiry, as the maid peeped through the green trellis blinds, whether the ring proceeded from “petticoats or legs,” that it proceeded from “legs,” she had little difficulty in appropriating them, and, like a prudent matron, deliberately finished her work ere she adjourned to her bedroom, to make those little adjustments, or perhaps additions to her dress, that we will leave to the imagination of the reader.

And now, as our grinning friend sat lost in ecstasies, listening to the silvery notes of the siren, the door gently opened, and in sidled mamma, the smiling autumn of her voluble daughter.

“My dear Captain Doleful,” said she, advancing and extending her hand as she spoke, “My dear Captain Doleful,” repeated she, in a tone of mournful resignation, “this is indeed most kind—most considerate—my dear brother, Sir Archy, will be deeply grateful when he hears of your early compliance with his wishes.” And thereupon she shook the captain heartily by the hand, not a fine forefinger shake, but a genuine confiding greeting, that spoke of confidence of the most substantial and inexhaustible order.

The captain, who was up on the instant, to make one of his most elaborate bows, was now invited to occupy a berth by mamma, on the spring-cushioned sofa, instead of the ricketty fabric on which he had been getting mesmerized. Having subsided by her side, he harked back upon the weather, which he reviewed under various aspects, Harvest-ically—Turnip-ically—Potatoe-ically—Promenade-ically—Invalid-ically, and Handley Cross-ically.

They then went to the war, and just as Mrs. Brantinghame was making the unfortunate inquiry if the captain was at Waterloo, the noiseless butler announced luncheon (in reality dinner, the servants dining after), which saved our hero the humiliation of stating that he was only a militia captain, and had never been out of England. The announcement, however, stopped all this, and even if the captain had been inclined to confess, we dare say the answer would have been lost upon Mrs. Brantinghame, so intent was she in hoping that Partridge, the butler, and Frederick, the footman, and Martha, the maid, had arranged everything, comme il faut, in the dining-room. After the lapse of a few seconds, for Mrs. Brantinghame was now quite on the “take it easy tack,” she hoped the dear captain would come downstairs and take a little luncheon with them, whatever there was, for she feared it would only be of the scrambling order, not having either her cook or her housekeeper, and only one footman with her, but she was sure he would excuse any little deficiency. So saying, she arose, and, taking the grinning captain’s arm, conducted him downstairs, leaving his eight-and-sixpenny hat and twopenny cane to take care of themselves. The captain went hugging himself, thinking he would save a dinner at home, for he had one of those convenient appetites that could be made to bear upon a dinner, whenever one came in the way. Thus they reached the lower apartment.

Upon the snowy, well got up cloth, of an elegantly set out table, stood a couple of beautiful cold Dorking fowls, a tongue, mashed potatoes, and greens, an uncut apricot tart, a shape of pastrycook’s blanc-mange, a bottle of pale sherry (brown, watered), and as much of a bottle of Malmsey Madeira as Partridge could spare in the decanting, while the sideboard exhibited seltzer water, a bottle of Allsopp, and a quart of “Dobbs and Co.,” which Partridge intended for himself. Mamma took the top of the table, Miss the bottom, and Doleful the side opposite the fire. Partridge carved the fowls from the sideboard, Frederick handed them round, and the party were soon in the enjoyment of eating made easy. As Doleful sat munching away, he made a mental inventory of what he saw; bright plate, beautiful creaseless linen, crystal-like glass, noiseless butler, powdered footman, everything quite genteel; couldn’t be done under two thousand a year—no, not for a half-penny under two thousand a year—and he contrasted it with old Jorrocks’s rough and ready style, his bustling Batsay, bubbly Binjimin, and duplicate dishes. Then Partridge was so attentive, so anxious to draw the “Allsopp,” so discouraging in his offer of the “Dobbs,” that Doleful was quite taken with him, and after the third glass of wine, felt as if he could give him half-a-crown. Partridge, we are sorry to say, did not reciprocate Doleful’s admiration, for on getting downstairs, he declared to Martha that Miss must be desperately in want of a husband, to take up such a death’s head looking man, and thinking that Mrs. Markham, Sir Archy’s housekeeper, to whom he was privately married, would not have had him if he had been such a “guy.” The appetites of the parlour party being at length appeased, they return to the drawing-room, where Miss enchanted Doleful with her execution of “Vilikins” on her harp, an instrument she never travelled without, being admirably adapted for showing off her fine swelling figure. And after a long protracted sit, Doleful at length took his departure, feeling that Sir Archy was not half a bad fellow, and vowing that he would return without fail on the morrow.

Mamma and Miss then talked him over, Mamma observing that she thought he “would do”; Miss, who always liked to run counter, replying, she “didn’t know.”