CHAPTER XI

MRS. BOLSTERWORTH’S SPOON

A PIC-NIC is one of those good, useful, indefinite sort of entertainments that may be turned to account in a variety of ways. It can either be made the foundation of future friendships, or the basis for further negotiation, or resolve itself into a bow and a drop altogether. To the pushing and enterprising there is no saying what opportunities they afterwards afford in the way of settling for flys, restoring found property, or inquiring for lost—or never lost—articles. There are people who, if they make up their minds to be into your house, there is no keeping out. Our friend Mrs. Bolsterworth was one of these. She had an obstinate, dogged perseverance that knew no rebuff, and brought her back to the charge as easy and unconcerned as if she had been before received with open arms. She was a sort of cast-iron countenanced woman, that there is no such thing as abashing. She always had a sort of running account variance with Mrs. Thomas Trattles, not only as an opposition caterer, match-maker, and general provider, but because she suspected Mrs. Trattles had interfered in a very promising flirtation between Captain Ganderton, of the Goose-green Fencibles, and Miss Marwood, out of which Mrs. Bolsterworth thought she saw her way to something very handsome—a silver tea-service, perhaps an urn, or a massive centrepiece. Moreover, our somewhat independent friend, Mr. Bunting, had not been so judiciously courteous to her as the too tardy growth of his oak-trees rendered prudent; so that altogether, what with Mrs. Trattles’ and his own offences, Mrs. Bolsterworth felt that she owed him “one.”

Accordingly, having thought the thing well over in her mind during the morning after our pic-nic, when the card-shedding time of day arrived, she got her best blue moire-antique amplified over her hoops and repellent crinoline, and, new bonnet on head, passed herself before the cheval glass as fit company for any one. The question then was, who she should go to first, and what excuse she should make for going to anybody.

Now Mrs. Bolsterworth had a venerable old spoon— a tablespoon—that looked as if it might belong to half the world, for the initials were almost obliterated, and it was difficult to say whether the indistinct crest was a griffin, an eagle, an owl, or a unicorn. However, it made no matter what it was, because its indistinctness was its merit; and this old spoon Mrs. Bolsterworth proposed making the open sesame of people’s houses. To this end, having wrapped it carefully up in silver tissue paper, she went forth on her travels, with the pertinent inquiry, “Do you know anybody who lost a spoon yesterday?” on her tongue’s-end, instead of the usual hackneyed observations about the charms of the party, the beauty of the weather, or the calmness of the sea. So she meandered along Cockleshell Terrace, Crabfish Court, all round Hallibut Square, and past Floater’s Baths into Neptune Place, where the great guns of the world began to congregate. Our yesterday’s friend, Mrs. Tartarman, lived here—No. 18—who, estimated by her worldly enjoyments, ought to be extremely happy, for she had both a barouche and a chariot, with other appurtenances. With her Mrs. Bolsterworth had long wished to establish a footing, as well on account of what she had, as because she suspected Mrs. Tartarman, like herself, had a grievance against Mrs. Trattles. So, on coming to Mrs. Tartarman’s door, she determined to try the effect of her spoon. A gentle turn of the ivory-knobbed visitor’s bell instantly disclosed not only a very superior-looking footman in green and gold, but a bulky butler in the background, who, newspaper in hand, advanced a few paces, with an imperious “not at ’ome” for the footman to pass on to the ignoble pedestrian inquirer at the door.

“Not at ’ome, mem,” bowed Black Plush, with the deferential tone of a man aspiring to the woolsack of butlership, and not knowing who may promote his object.

“O, not at home, isn’t she,” replied Mrs. Bolsterworth, opening her tortoiseshell card-case, as if she was just going to do the usual and pass on. “Not at home,” repeated she, half presenting a glazed card to the footman; “yet stay,” continued she, withdrawing it from his proffered hand, “do you think Mrs. Tartarman or any of the young ladies lost anything at the pic-nic yesterday?”

“Don’t know, I’m sure, mem,” replied the footman.

“Do you know, Mr. Tapp?” addressing the butler.

“Can’t say, I’m sure,” replied Mr. Tapp, advancing a little further, thinking there might be something in it. ‘Can’t say, I’m sure, mem,” repeated he; “but if you’ll ’blege me with your card, mem, I’ll step up-stairs and inquire.”

Mrs. Bolsterworth then presented him with the card; and while Mr. Tapp retired, conning it as he went, Mrs. Bolsterworth came into the passage, and took a seat on a double-crested mahogany entrance hall-chair, to wait his return—inwardly speculating upon whether she would get any further or not, depending, she thought, upon how far the ladies had advanced in their company toilettes.

The science of calling has certainly got into very convenient compass of late, and little now remains to be done save to make a transmission of visiting cards by post a legal tender. As it is, nobody ever expects to get into a house; and half the air of the thing is lost by the substitution of visitors’ bells for the hearty poundings the gigantic footmen used to give the knockers. By Jove, but some of them knocked as if there were no such things as nerves or headaches in the world. If it was not for the drive, the whole calling custom would collapse, and yet people would perhaps remain quite as good friends as before. It’s the beef and mutton that does the business—not the pasteboard. People all know where their friends live without being continually reminded by their calls.

Now, though Mrs. Tartarman was by no means in her at-home attire, having only one of those loosely flowing robes on that look so cool and comfortable as they stand variously ticketed at from eighteen shillings to twenty-five on the figure-stands at the puffing tradesmen’s doors, yet the sight of Mrs. Bolsterworth’s card, coupled with the inquiry about lost goods, made her send her deshabille daughters off to see if they had got all their trinkets, while she desired Mr. Tapp to show Mrs. Bolsterworth up, thinking to take soundings of her while the girls were adorning. Accordingly the rustle of the staircase-ascending petticoats of the young ladies had scarcely subsided, ere the rotundity of clothes, of which Mrs. Bolsterworth formed the nucleus, was looming up into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Tartarman, though very great in a general way, could condescend when it suited her; and this being one of her unbending days, she rose from her ottoman throne as Mrs. Bolsterworth advanced, and tendering her the two fore-fingers of her gloved hand, motioned her to be seated in an easy chair hard by.

“Oh,” Mrs. Bolsterworth “wouldn’t intrude for one moment, indeed she wouldn’t—she had merely called at the door in passing, to ask if——

But Mrs. Tartarman would have her down before she would let her go any further.

Mrs. Bolsterworth having then accomplished the apparent impossibility of getting into the easy—or to her uneasy—chair, gave her hoops an outward sweep, and, clearing her voice, again commenced her story. “She had just called in passing to ask if Mrs. Tartarman had got all her things right from their expedition yesterday, for in counting her spoons, she (Mrs. Bolsterworth) had found one that did not belong to her, and she thought perhaps it was Mrs. Tartarman’s.” Mrs. Bolsterworth unfolding the piece of antiquity as she spoke.

“Oh,” Mrs. Tartarman “was so much obliged—she couldn’t say how much obliged she was; but it wouldn’t be hers, because she hadn’t taken any spoons—only forks—Mrs. Maloney having agreed to take spoons for two, on condition of Mrs. Tartarman taking forks;” and then Mrs. Tartarman took the proffered article, and after looking at it attentively, said “she thought it wouldn’t be Mrs. Maloney’s either, for their crest was a greyhound, and this was a bird or a harp, or she didn’t know what. Mrs. Bolsterworth knew Mrs. Maloney she thought,” and Mrs. Bolsterworth said she did; but knowing there was nothing to be got out of her, she received back her spoon without proposing to proffer it to her.

While this was going on, the three young ladies, Miss, Millicent, and Matilda Mary, having searched their jewel trays, that is to say, exchanged their limp dresses for well-distended muslin ones, came sailing in one after another, and having made their obeisance to the intrepid caller, aided in directing the conversation to their yesterday’s adventures. Having been very unsuccessful in getting partners, and those they did get not being at all to their liking, of course they had not much to say in its favour, and were well disposed to run those young ladies down who had been more lucky in the great dancing lottery of life.

First and foremost among the offenders was our fair friend Miss Rosa, who was pronounced to be a self-sufficient little flirt, and anything but pretty. Mrs. Bolsterworth, seeing which way the wind blew, pursed up her hard-featured mouth, and with divers significant nods and gestures gave them to understand that Miss Mc-what’s-her-name had better mind what she was about with that Mr. Bunting, who Mrs. Bolsterworth happened to know something of; whereupon, with very little pressing, she proceeded, in “strict confidence” of course, to reduce our friend from his castellated dimensions to his cottage proportions, making a very different hero of him to what he had before appeared.

“What a thing!” “Only think!” “Well, I never!” were the ejaculations freely emitted by the up-turned eyed mother and daughters.

“Why, that’s the man that Mrs. Trattles makes such a talk about,” observed Mrs. Tartarman, after a pause.

“To be sure it is,” assented Mrs. Bolsterworth; “but if you knew Mrs. Trattles as well as I do, you would not place much reliance upon what she says.”

“What, she’s not one to speak after, isn’t she?” asked Mrs. Tartarman.

“Anything but that,” replied the oppositionist, with upraised eyebrows and a significant smile.

A short pause then ensued.

“How anybody can call that man handsome, I can’t imagine,” observed Miss Tartarman, breaking silence.

“Pooh, nobody calls him handsome,” sneered Miss Millicent.

“Dressy, conceited man,” observed Mamma, “never see him dressed twice alike.”

Whereupon a good wholesome round of abuse was raised against our friend that would not have made him at all proud to hear; and after a protracted sitting, that greatly astonished Mr. Tapp, Mrs. Bolsterworth at length arose and took leave amid a host of fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind shakes of the hands and adieus.

She then circled off to work her spoon somewhere else.