Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One. Fenn George Manville

anville

      Thereby Hangs a Tale. Volume One

      A Peep at Tolcarne

      “Ed – Ward!”

      “Yes, mum.”

      A stiff, high-shouldered footman turned round as he reached the breakfast-room door.

      “Are you sure Sir Hampton has been called?”

      “Yes, mum.”

      “And did Smith take up her ladyship’s hot water?”

      “Yes, mum.”

      “Are the young ladies coming down?”

      “They went out for a walk nearly an hour ago, mum.”

      “Dear me! and such a damp morning, too! Did they take their waterproofs?”

      “Please, ’m, I didn’t see them go.”

      “Look if they’re hanging in the hall, Edward.”

      “Yes, mum.”

      Edward walked stiffly out, closed the door, “made a face” at it, and returned at the end of a minute.

      “Waterproofs hanging on the pegs, mum.”

      “Dear, dear, dear, dear! Then of course they put on their goloshes! Go and see if they’re in the lobby, Edward.”

      “Did see, mum,” said Edward, who was wise in his generation, and had learned the art of making his head save his heels – “goloshes is in the lobby.”

      “Goloshes is in the plural, Edward, and should be are– mind that: goloshes are.”

      “Yes, mum – galoshes are,” said Edward; “and the letter-bag are just come into the kitchen. Shall I fetch it?”

      “Is, Edward, is. Now do, pray, be careful. Nothing is more annoying to visitors than to hear servants make grammatical mistakes.”

      “Yes, mum,” said Edward.

      “Is the heater very hot?”

      “Yes, mum – white ’ot.”

      “White what, Edward?”

      “’Ot, mum! white ’ot!”

      Miss Matilda Rea, a rather compressed, squeezy lady of forty-five, shuddered, and rearranged her black net mittens.

      “Go and fetch the letter-bag, Ed-ward.”

      The footman made the best of his way out, and Miss Matilda inspected the well-spread breakfast table through a large, square, gold-rimmed eyeglass; walked to the sideboard, upon which were sundry cold meats; and finished with a glance round the handsomely furnished room, ready to be down upon a speck of dust. But the place was scrupulously well kept; even the great bay window, looking out upon sloping green lawn, flower beds, and clumps of evergreens, backed up by a wall of firs, was perfectly clean. So Miss Matilda preened her feathers, frowned, and waited the return of Edward with a locked wallet of leather, bearing the Rea crest – a peacock with expanded tail, the motto “Floreat majestas” – and, in large letters on the brass plate, the words, “Sir Hampton Rea, Tolcarne.”

      “Place it beside Sir Hampton’s chair, Edward,” said Miss Matilda.

      The wallet was duly deposited in the indicated place.

      “Now bring in the urn, Edward.”

      “Please, ’m, Sir Hampton said it was to come in at nine punctually, and it wants a quarter.”

      “Then go and be quite ready to fill it, Edward,” said Miss Matilda, not daring to interfere with the Mede-like laws of the master of the house.

      And Edward departed to finish his own breakfast, and confide to the cook his determination that if that old tabby was to be always worriting him to death, he would give warning.

      Miss Matilda gave another look round, and then going to the end of the hearthrug, she very delicately lifted up the corner of a thick wool antimacassar, when a little, sharp, black nose peeped up, and a pair of full black eyes stared at her.

      “A little darling!” said Miss Matilda, soothingly. “It was very ill, it was; and it should have some medicine to-day, it should.”

      The little toy terrier pointed its nose at the ceiling, and uttered a wretched, attenuated howl, cut short by Miss Matilda, who popped the antimacassar down; for at that moment there was heard upon the stairs a sonorous “Er-rum! Er-rum!” – a reverberating, awe-inspiring sound, as of a mighty orator clearing his voice before sending verbal thunder through an opposing crowd. Then came steps across the marble hall, the door handle rattled very loudly, the door was thrown open very widely, and entered Sir Hampton Rea.

      The sounds indicated bigness – grandeur; but Sir Hampton Rea was not a big man – saving his head, which was so large that it had sunk a little down between his shoulders, where it looked massive and shiny, being very bald and surrounded by a frizzle of grizzly hair.

      Sir Hampton came in stiffly, for his buff vest was as starchy as his shirt front and sprigged cravat, which acted like a garrote, though its wearer suffered it, on account of its imposing aspect, and now walked with long strides to the fire, to which he turned his back, threw up his chin, and made his bald crown double in the glass.

      “Matilda, have the goodness to close the door.”

      “Yes, dear,” and the door was closed.

      “Matilda, have the goodness to ring for the urn. Oh, it is here!”

      In effect, hissing and steaming, the urn was brought in by Edward, and the tea-caddy placed upon the table.

      “Edward!”

      “Yes, Sir Hampton.”

      “Tell Miss Smith to inform her ladyship that we are waiting breakfast.”

      “Yes, Sir Hampton.”

      The footman hurried out, and Sir Hampton took up yesterday’s Times, which arrived so late on the day of issue that it was not perused by the good knight till breakfast-hour the next morning, his seat, Tolcarne, being three hundred and twenty miles from town, and some distance off the West Cornwall Railway.

      Sir Hampton – tell it not in the far West – had made his money by tea; had been made alderman by his fellow-citizens, and made a knight by his sovereign, upon the occasion of a visit to the City, when the turtle provided was extra good, and pleased the royal palate.

      While waiting the coming of her ladyship, Sir Hampton, a staunch Conservative, skimmed the cream of a tremendously Liberal leader, grew redder in the face, punched the paper in its Liberal wind to double it up, and then went on with it, shaking his head fiercely, as his sister smoothed her mittens and watched him furtively, till the door opened with a snatch, and a little round, plump body, very badly dressed, and, so to speak, walking beneath a ribbon and lace structure, which she bore upon her head as if it were something to sell, bobbed into the room.

      Description of people is absolutely necessary on the first introduction, so a few words must be said about Lady Frances Rea. She was what vulgar people would have termed “crumby;” but, literally, she was a plump little body of forty, who, born a baby, seemed to have remained unaltered save as to size. She was pink, and fair, and creamy, and soft, and had dimples in every place where a dimple was possible; her eyes were bright, teeth good, her hair a nice brown, and in short she seemed as if she had always lived on milk, and was brimming with the milk of human kindness still.

      “Ten minutes past nine, Fanny,” said Sir Hampton, pompously, after a struggle with a watch that did not want to be consulted.

      “Never mind, dear,” said her ladyship, going at him like a soft ball, and giving him a loud kiss. “Matty, where’s my keys?”

      “In your basket, dear,” said Miss Matilda, pecking her sister-in-law softly on the forehead.

      “So they are, dear,” said her ladyship, rattling open the tea-caddy, and shovelling the tea into the silver pot.

      “Er-rum, er-rum!” coughed Sir Hampton, clearing his throat.

      His sister fell into an attitude of attention, with one thin finger pressed into her yellow cheek.

      “Er-rum,”