CHAPTER LIV

THE RENDEZVOUS

ESIDES other eccentric freaks that the great “Golden-goose” railway played, it changed the Duke of Tergiversation’s grand carriage drive from the south side of the Castle to the north. We don’t mean to say, that the railway directors rolled it up and carried it away bodily, by running the line up the valley of the Dart, instead of winding round the Scars of the Shire, they practically extinguished it. Wherever the station is there will have to be the road, regardless of groves, grottoes, temples, terraces, or what not. The exigencies of the ’Bus knows nothing of scenery. The consequence of this was, that a very fine triumphal arch, surmounting Gothic lodges, holding massive iron gates of splendid structure, was nearly lost to society; for these are short cut days, and none but an owner cares to go round for the ride. The Duke, however, not being the man to put his candle under a bushel, always took care to air his guests in that direction, and had now fixed upon the “Arch” as the rendezvous for the battue. And, as Bagwell,

“With careless steps and slow,”

came over Cherryburn hill,

“The mingled notes came soften’d from below.”

If not,

“The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,”

at all events,

“The playful children just let loose from school,”

for old Dame Dunkerley had hurried her brats, through their three R’s. (Reading, Riting, and ’Rithmatic), in order that they might bear a hand at the battue. And now a curious medley of small boys, armed with scarecrows and hedge-stakes, nearly as tall as themselves, crowd round Mr. Ranger, who, attired in all the pomp of green plush, stands towering in imposing altitude above them. He presently succumbs to the swaggering Mr. Bagwell, and no sooner has the change in command been effected, than a four-wheeled chaise, containing two little haystack-looking men, one topped with a pigeon-pie hat, the other with a drab wide-awake turned up with green, appear outside the imposing gates which, revolving on their easy hinges, the tramp, tramp, tramp, of a good old family horse, sounds on the pavement beneath the massive arch, and is again lost on the gravel of the drive.

The carriage contains Captain Cambo, R.N., and Mr. Humphrey Cheadle, of Lambswool Hill, who though plumpers in person, had split their votes at the last election, a proceeding that the Duke wishes to rectify in future. This he thinks to accomplish by giving them a dinner and a day’s shooting; and though the Captain was at first disposed to accept the latter only, yet Mrs. Cambo, or Mrs. Captain Cambo as she calls herself, being, as the Duke says, an “ambitious woman,” has persuaded him to go in for both. They are both good shooters, but bad hitters, and Bagwell is not sorry to see them.

And now the fatties having descended from their vehicle and given themselves probationary shakes on reaching the ground, as if to ascertain that they have not left any of their limbs behind them, proceed to unhook and unclasp the integuments that conceal their sporting habiliments, to uncoil their shawl cravats, and discard their Inverness and Hippopotamus Inverness cloaks.

In this metamorphose the shooter is greatly in arrear of the fox-hunter; for as the latter proceeds to dismiss his exterior he reveals improved and becoming apparel, while the shooter too often strips to a mere figure of fun.

Captain Cambo, the gentleman in the pigeon-pie hat, with his scrimpy bright-buttoned green coat, flattening on his puffy peg-top trousers, thrust into old round-toed Hessian boots, is the exact image of our much-respected friend, Paul Pry; and Mr. Humphrey Cheadle has a sort of half-butcher, half-poacher like appearance.

But whom have we in the Whitechapel, drawn by the good-looking roan pony, with a gun popping out, like an ear at either side of the vehicle? Ah, these are Mr. Brown White and Colonel Nettlestead, both out-and-out Tergiversation men, who do what they are told and ask no questions. They are shooters, and will most likely get a brace of pheasants, and perhaps a hare, to take home with them at the end of the day; but no dinner. They are safe without. Cambo and Cheadle nod to them in a sort of patronising way, as much as to say, we are not one of you yet. Mr. Black White, Mr. Brown White’s brother, is not asked; because having ratted from the other side, the Duke thinks there is no fear of his going back again, so he is on the neck of venison list—the lowest of the political feeders.

But the consequence increases. Up trots a pair of horse-registered dog-cart, with smart lamps, shining aprons, coloured sheep-skins, and all complete. In it we have Mr. Tommy, alias Mr. Tonguey Thomson of Airyholme, Mr. George Wheeler of Riverdale, and Mr. Daintry of Swellacres Hall. Tonguey Thomson’s tongue never rests, it goes morning, noon, and night, and being of the light falsetto order, is not to be mistaken. It is generally heard before the owner heaves in sight. Tonguey is a good shot, Wheeler a middling one, and Daintry a bad one. Daintry is here, because the Duke understands he has lately been dining at Lavender Tower, and he thinks a day and a dinner may keep him steady. He voted right last time. This new arrival makes seven guns in all which, with the three expected from the Castle, give a tottle of ten, as many as Bagwell would like to find pheasants for.

And now, when the great sportsmen have all got out of their vehicles, and out of their husks, they present a most miscellaneous incongruous assortment, no two of them being in any way alike. If our gallant, and, we believe, unjustly suspected neighbours, the French, were to attempt an invasion and meet such a force on landing, they would never get further for laughing. The scene is like that of a Bal Masqué, where each man laughs at his neighbour, without recollecting what an object he is himself. Paul Pry Cambo struts about, staring first at Tonguey Thomson’s Glengarry cap and knickerbockers, then at Wheeler’s duck trowsers and rusty Napoleons, and wondering where Mr. Daintry got his very fine pea-green jacket and white moleskins from. Thinks he must have been expecting to breakfast at the Castle, and intended to captivate the Lady Honoria.

Then as the carriages wheeled off, and the chattering cigar-smoking group lounged about at their ease, Bagwell conned them quietly over, thinking how he should place them, with an eye to his own interest, and the advantage of the bag. And as the cigars of the smokers gradually approached the tips of their noses, watches began to be looked at, and eyes turned towards the distant Castle, where the crimson flag fluttered lazily on the breeze, and the bright sun illuminated the windows, and burnished up the gilt vanes and pinnacles of the towers.

Then Captain Cambo, feeling the chill, began to strut to and fro, as if he were walking the quarter-deck, while Tonguey Thomson cocked his Glengarry cap, and chattered on the beauties of punctuality, while Mr. Brown White, who did not like giving his tongue much licence, asked if it was possible they had mistaken the day? “Oh no,” “Oh no,” was the ready response, whereon some growled, and others looked out for fresh cigars. Bagwell too lighted his pipe, and the smoking became pretty general—for it is safer to smoke than to talk when you are not quite sure of your company.