Cotillion

Shortly before seven o’clock that evening, at about the moment when Miss Charing entered the Saloon to receive the proposals of two of her cousins, a hired post-chaise and pair drew up before the Blue Boar, a small but excellent hostelry situated rather more than a mile from Arnside House, where four roads joined. The young gentleman who alighted from the chaise must have been recognized at sight by the discerning as a Pink of the Ton, for although his judgment, which, in all matters of Fashion, was extremely nice, had forbidden him to travel into the country arrayed in the long-tailed coat of blue superfine, the pantaloons of delicate yellow, and the tasselled Hessian boots which marked him in the Metropolis as a veritable Tulip, or Bond Street Beau, none but a regular Dash, patronizing the most exclusive of tailors, could have presented himself in so exquisitely moulded a riding-coat, such peerless breeches, or such effulgent top-boots. The white tops of these, which incontrovertibly proclaimed his dandyism, were hidden by the folds of a very long and voluminous driving-coat, lined with silk, embellished with several shoulder-capes, and secured across his chest by a double row of very large buttons of mother of pearl. Upon his brown locks, carefully anointed with Russian oil, and cropped à la Titus, he wore a high-crowned beaver-hat, set at an exact angle between the rakish and the precise; on his hands were gloves of York tan; under one arm he carried a malacca cane. When he strolled into the inn, and shed the somewhat deceptive driving-coat, he was seen to be a slender young gentleman, of average height and graceful carriage. His countenance was unarresting, but amiable; and a certain vagueness characterized his demeanour. When he relinquished his coat, his hat, his cane, and his gloves into the landlord’s hands, a slight look of anxiety was in his face, but as soon as a penetrating glance at the mirror had satisfied him that the high points of his shirt-collar were uncrumpled, and the intricacies of a virgin cravat no more disarranged than a touch would set to rights, the anxious look disappeared, and he was able to turn his attention to other matters.

The landlord, who had greeted him with a mixture of the deference due to a wealthy man of fashion, and the tolerant affection of one who, having been acquainted with him since the days when he wore nankeens and frilled shirts, knew all his failings, said for the second time: ‘Well, sir, this is a pleasant surprise, I’m sure! Quite a period it is since we’ve seen you in these parts! You’ll be on your way to Arnside, I don’t doubt.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged the traveller. ‘Dashed nearly dished myself up, what’s more! Devilish early hours my great-uncle keeps, Pluckley. Fortunate thing: remembered it a mile back! Better dine here.’

The Blue Boar was not much in the habit of catering for the Polite World, but the landlord, secure in the knowledge that his helpmate, a north-country woman, was a notable housewife, received this announcement with unruffled equanimity. ‘Well, sir, I won’t say you’re wrong,’ he remarked, with the wink of the privileged. ‘A most respected gentleman, Mr Penicuik, I’m sure, but they do say as he don’t keep what I’d call a liberal table, nor, by what I hear from Mr Stobhill, he don’t let the bottle go round like it should. Now, if you’ll step into the coffee-room, sir, you’ll find a good fire, and no one but yourself likely to come in. I’ll just make so bold as to fetch you in a glass of as soft a sherry as you’ll find this side of London-town, and while you’re drinking it my rib shall toss you up some mushroom fritters, by way of a relish—for you know we don’t have any call for French kickshawses here, not in the ordinary way, and aside from the fritters there’s only a serpent of mutton, and one of our goose-and-turkey-pies, which I’ll be bound you’ve not forgot, and a bit of crimped cod, and a curd pudding, if you should fancy it.’

This modest repast being approved, Mr Pluckley then withdrew; and within a short space of time the covers were laid in the coffee-room, and the guest sat down to an excellent dinner, the bare skeleton, which had been described by the landlord, being reinforced by oysters in batter, some Flemish soup, and, as side-dishes, some calf’s fry, and a boiled tongue with turnips. A bottle of burgundy, which had formed part of a particularly successful run, washed the meal down; and the whole was rounded off by some cognac, the young gentleman of fashion waving aside, with a horrified shudder, an offer of port.

It was while he was sipping this revivifying cordial that the landlord, who had lingered in the coffee-room to regale him with various items of local gossip, was drawn from his side by the sound of an opening door. Informing his guest that he would take care no ungenteel person intruded upon him, Mr Pluckley departed. A murmur of voices penetrated confusedly to the coffee-room, and in another minute Mr Pluckley reappeared, looking very much astonished, and saying: ‘Well, sir, and little did I think who it might be, at this hour of the evening, and the snow beginning to fall, and her coming on foot, without a servant nor nothing! It’s Miss Charing, sir!’

‘Eh?’ said the willowy gentleman, slightly startled.

The landlord held the door wide, and Miss Charing, a serviceable if not beautiful cloak huddled about her form, appeared on the threshold, and there halted. The strings of her hood were tied tightly under her chin, and the resulting frill of drab woollen-cloth unbecomingly framed a face whose nose was pink-tipped with cold. There was nothing romantic about Miss Charing’s appearance, but her entrance would not have shamed a Siddons. ‘You!’ she uttered, in accents of loathing. ‘I might have known it!’

The Honourable Frederick Standen was faintly puzzled. It seemed to

him that Miss Charing was both surprised and displeased to see him. He expostulated. ‘Dash it, Kitty, I was invited!’

‘I thought better of you!’ said Miss Charing tragically.

‘You did?’ said Mr Standen, sparring for wind. His gaze, not wholly unlike that of a startled hare, alighted on the table; he fancied he could perceive a glimmer of light. ‘Yes, but you know what my uncle is!’ he said. ‘Dines at five, or he did when I was last down here! Nothing for it but to snatch a mouthful on the way.’

‘That!’ said Miss Charing, with withering scorn. ‘I don’t care where you dine, Freddy, but that you should have come to Arnside gives me a very poor notion of you, let me tell you! Not that I ever had anything else, for you’re as bad as Dolph—worse!’

Mr Standen, considering the matter, was moved to expostulate again. ‘No, really, Kitty! Pitching it too strong!’ he said. ‘The poor fellow’s queer in his attic!’ It occurred to him that Mr Pluckley’s interested presence might with advantage be dispensed with. He indicated this briefly and simply, and Mr Pluckley regretfully withdrew.

Miss Charing, who shared with her governess a taste for romantic fiction, toyed with the idea of remaining (a statue of persecuted virtue) by the door, but succumbed to the lure of a fire. Seating herself on the settle beside it, she untied the strings of her cloak, pushed back the hood from her ruffled curls, and stretched benumbed hands to the blaze.

‘I’ll tell you what it is!’ offered Mr Standen. ‘You’re cold! Put you in a miff! Have some brandy!’

Miss Charing declined the invitation contemptuously. She added: ‘You need not have put yourself to the trouble of travelling all the way from London. You have quite wasted your time, I assure you!’

‘Well, that don’t surprise me,’ returned Freddy. ‘I rather thought it was a hum. Uncle Matthew pretty stout?’

‘No, he is not! Dr Fenwick said he could be cured of his stomach trouble by magnetism and warm ale, but it only did him a great deal of harm. At least, he said it did, and also that we were all in a plot to kill him.’

‘Gout bad too?’ enquired Mr Standen anxiously.

‘Very bad!’

‘You know, I think I made a mistake to come,’ confided Mr Standen. ‘Not at all sure I won’t rack up for the night here, and go back to London in the morning. The thing is, the old gentleman don’t like me above half, and if his gout’s plaguing him I’d as lief not meet him. Besides, he won’t let me bring my man, and I find it devilish awkward! It ain’t my neckcloths, of course: never let Icklesham do more than hand ’em to me! It’s my boots. The last time I stayed here the fellow who cleaned ’em left a dashed great thumb-mark on one of them! I’m not bamming, Kitty! Gave me a nasty turn, I can tell you.’

‘You might as well go back to London now,’ said Kitty. ‘You made a great mistake to come! In fact, when I think of your circumstances I am quite shocked that you should have done so!’

‘That’s all very well,’ objected Mr Standen, ‘but I don’t like travelling at night. Besides, this ain’t a posting-house, and I need a change. Yes, and now I come to think of it, what have my circumstances to say to anything?’

‘You are as rich as—as—I can’t remember the name!’ said Miss Charing crossly.

‘I expect you mean Golden Ball,’ said Freddy. ‘And I ain’t.’

‘No, I do not! I mean somebody out of history—at least, I think he was, because when you wish to signify that a person is excessively wealthy you say he is as rich as—as him!’

‘Well, I don’t!’ said Freddy. ‘Never heard of the fellow! Nice cake I should make of myself if I went around talking about people out of history! Anyone would think you’d been in the sun, Kitty!’

‘Sun? It is snowing!’ cried Miss Charing.

‘In that case, I’ll be dashed if I go back to London tonight,’ said Freddy. ‘Not that that’s what I meant, but never mind! What’s more, I ain’t as wealthy as all that.’