Chapter V: The Lady’s Boudoir.—a Declaration

THIS way, sir,—please, sir,—yes, sir,” bowed the now obsequious
Ben, guiding Billy by the light of a chamber candle through the
intricacies of the half-lit inner entrance. “Take care, sir,
there’s a step, sir,” continued he, stopping and showing where
the first stumbling-block resided. Billy then commenced the
gradual accent of the broad, gently-rising staircase, each step
increasing his conviction of the magnitude of the venture, and
making him feel that his was not the biggest house in town. As he
proceeded he wondered what Nothin’-but-what’s-right Jerry, or
Half-a-yard-of-the-table Joe, above all Mrs.
Half-a-yard-of-the-table, would say if they could see him thus
visiting at a nobleman’s house, it seemed more like summut in a
book or a play than downright reality. Still there was no reason
why a fine lady should not take a fancy to him—many deuced deal
uglier fellows than he had married fine ladies, and he would take
his chance along with the rest of them—so he laboured up after
Ben, hoping he might not come down stairs quicker than he went
up.

The top landing being gained, they passed through lofty
folding-doors into the suite of magnificent but now put-away
drawing-rooms, whose spectral half collapsed canvas bags, and
covered statues and sofas, threw a Kensal-Green-Cemetery sort of
gloom over Billy’s spirits; speedily, however, to be dispelled by
the radiance of the boudoir into which he was now passed through
an invisible door in the gilt-papered wall. “Mr. William Pringle,
ma’m,” whispered Ben, in a tone that one could hardly reconcile
to the size of the monster: and Miss Willing having risen at the
sound of the voice, bowing, Billy and she were presently locked
hand in hand, smiling and teeth-showing most extravagantly. “I’ll
ring for tea presently,” observed she to Ben, who seemed disposed
to fuss and loiter about the room. “If you please, my lady,”
replied Ben, bowing himself backwards through the panel. Happy
Billy was then left alone with his charmer, save that
beetroot-coloured Ben was now listening at one door on his own
account, and Pheasant-feathers at the other on Miss Willing’s.

Billy was quite taken aback. If he had been captivated in the
coach what chance had he now, with all the aid of dress, scenery,
and decorations. He thought he had never seen such a beauty—he
thought he had never seen such a bust—he thought he had never
seen such an arm! Miss Titterton—pooh!—wasn’t to be mentioned in
the same century—hadn’t half such a waist. “Won’t you be seated?”
at length asked Miss Willing, as Billy still stood staring and
making a mental inventory of her charms. “Seat”—(puff)—“seat”
(wheeze), gasped Billy, looking around at the shining
amber-coloured magnificence by which he was surrounded, as if
afraid to venture, even in his nice salmon-coloured shorts. At
length he got squatted on a gilt chair by his charmer’s side,
when taking to look at his toes, she led off the ball of
conversation. She had had enough of the billing and cooing or
gammon and spinach of matrimony, and knew if she could not bring
him to book at once, time would not assist her. She soon probed
his family circle, and was glad to find there was no “mamma” to
“ask,” that dread parent having more than once been too many for
her. She took in the whole range of connection with the precision
of an auctioneer or an equity draftsman.

There was no occasion for much diplomacy on her part, for Billy
came into the trap just like a fly to a “Ketch-’em-alive O!” The
conversation soon waxed so warm that she quite forgot to ring for
the tea; and Ben, who affected early hours in the winter, being
slightly asthmatical, as a hall-porter ought to be, at length
brought it in of his own accord. Most polite he was; “My lady”
and “Your ladyship-ing” Miss Willing with accidental intention
every now and then, which raised Billy’s opinion of her
consequence very considerably. And so he sat, and sipped and
sipped, and thought what a beauty she would be to transfer to
Doughty Street. Tea, in due time, was followed by the tray—Melton
pie, oysters, sandwiches, anchovy toast, bottled stout, sherry
and Seltzer water, for which latter there was no demand.

A profane medicine-chest-looking mahogany case then made its
appearance, which, being opened, proved to contain four cut-glass
spirit-bottles, labelled respectively, “Rum,” “Brandy,”
“Whiskey,” “Gin,” though they were not true inscriptions, for
there were two whiskey’s and two brandy’s. A good old-fashioned
black-bottomed kettle having next mounted a stand placed on the
top bar, Miss intimated to Ben that if they had a few more coals,
he need not “trouble to sit up;” and these being obtained, our
friends made a brew, and then drew their chairs together to enjoy
the feast of reason and the flow of soul; Miss slightly raising
Alderman Boozey’s son’s bran-new wife’s bran-new emerald-green
velvet dress to show her beautiful white-satin slippered foot, as
it now rested on the polished steel fender.

The awkwardness of resuming the interrupted addresses being at
length overcome by sundry gulphs of the inspiring fluid, our
friend Mr. Pringle was soon in full fervour again. He
anathematised the lawyers and settlements, and delay, and was all
for being married off-hand at the moment.

Miss, on her part, was dignified and prudent. All she would say
was that Mr. William Pringle was not indifferent to her,—“No,”
sighed she, “he wasn’t”—but there were many, many considerations,
and many, many points to be discussed, and many, many questions
to be asked of each other, before they could even begin to _talk_
of such a thing as immediate—“hem”—(she wouldn’t say the word)
turning away her pretty head.

“_Ask away, then!_” exclaimed Billy, helping himself to another
beaker of brandy—for he saw he was approaching the
“Ketch-’em-alive O.” Miss then put the home-question whether his
family knew what he was about, and finding they did not, she saw
there was no time to lose; so knocking off the expletives, she
talked of many considerations and points, the main one being to
know how she was likely to be kept,—whether she was to have a
full-sized footman, or an under-sized stripling, or a buttony boy
of a page, or be waited upon by that greatest aversion to all
female minds, one of her own sex. Not that she had the slightest
idea of saying “No,” but her experience of life teaching her that
all early grandeur may be mastered by footmen, she could very
soon calculate what sort of a set down she was likely to have by
knowing the style of her attendant. “Show me your footman, and I
will tell you what you are,” was one of her maxims. Moreover, it
is well for all young ladies to have a sort of rough estimate, at
all events, of what they are likely to have,—which, we will
venture to say, unlike estimates in general, will fall very far
short of the reality. Our friend Billy, however, was quite in the
promising mood, and if she had asked for half-a-dozen Big Bens he
would have promised her them, canes, powder, and all.

“Oh! she should have anything, everything she wanted! A tall man
with good legs, and all right about the mouth,—an Arab horse, an
Erard harp, a royal pianoforte, a silver tea-urn, a gold
coffee-pot, a service of gold—_eat gold_, if she liked,” and as
he declared she might eat gold if she liked, he dropped upon his
salmon-coloured knees, and with his glass of brandy in one hand,
and hers in the other, looked imploringly up at her, a beautiful
specimen of heavy sentimentality; and Miss, thinking she had got
him far enough, and seeing it was nearly twelve o’clock, now
urged him to rise, and allow her maid to go and get him a coach.
Saying which, she disengaged her hand, and slipping through the
invisible door, was presently whispering her behests to the
giggling Pheasant-feathers, on the other side of the folding
ones. A good half-hour, however, elapsed before one of those
drowsy vehicles could be found, during which time our suitor
obtained the fair lady’s consent to allow him to meet her at her
friend Mrs. Freemantle’s, as she called her, in Cowslip Street,
May Fair, at three o’clock in the following afternoon; and the
coach having at length arrived, Miss Willing graciously allowed
Mr. Pringle to kiss her hand, and then accompanied him to the
second landing of the staircase, which commanded the hall, in
order to check any communication between Pheasant-feathers and
him.

The reader will now perhaps accompany us to this famed milliner,
dress and mantle-maker’s, who will be happy to execute any orders
our fair ones may choose to favour her with.

Despite the anathemas of a certain law lord, match-forwarding is
quite the natural prerogative and instinct of women. They all
like it, from the duchess downwards, and you might as well try to
restrain a cat from mousing as a woman from match-making. Miss
Freemantle (who acted Mrs. on this occasion) was as fond of the
pursuit as any one. She looked Billy over with a searching,
scrutinising glance, thinking what a flat he was, and wondered
what he would think of himself that time twelvemonths. Billy, on
his part, was rather dumb-foundered. Talking before two women was
not so easy as talking to one; and he did not get on with the
immediate matrimony story half so well as he had done over-night.
The ladies saw his dilemma, and Miss Willing quickly essayed to
relieve him. She put him through his pleadings with all the skill
of the great Serjeant Silvertougue, making Billy commit himself
most irretrievably.

“Mamma” (Miss Freemantle that is to say) then had her innings.

She was much afraid it couldn’t be done off-hand—indeed she was.
There was a place on the Border—Gretna Green—she dare say’d he’d
heard of it; but then it was a tremendous distance, and would
take half a lifetime to get to it. Besides, Miss p’raps mightn’t
like taking such a journey at that time of year.

Miss looked neither yes nor no. Mamma was more against it than
her, Mamma feeling for the countess’s coming contest and her
future favours. Other difficulties were then discussed,
particularly that of publicity, which Miss dreaded more than the
journey to Gretna. It must be kept secret, whatever was done.
Billy must be sworn to secrecy, or Miss would have nothing to say
to him. Billy was sworn accordingly.

Mamma then thought the best plan was to have the banns put up in
some quiet church, where no questions would be asked as to where
they lived, and it would be assumed that they resided within the
parish, and when they had been called out, they could just go
quietly and get married, which would keep things square with the
countess and everybody else. And this arrangement being
perfected, and liberty given to Billy to write to his bride,
whose name and address were now furnished him, he at length took
his departure; and the ladies having talked him over, then
resolved themselves into a committee of taste, to further the
forthcoming tournament. And by dint of keeping all hands at work
all night, Miss Willing was enabled to return to the countess
with the first instalment of such a series of lady-killing
garments as mollified her heart, and enabled her to sustain the
blow that followed, which however was mitigated by the assurance
that Mr. and Mrs. William Pringle were going to live in London,
and that Madam’s taste would always be at her ladyship’s command.

We wish we could gratify our lady readers with a description of
the brilliant attire that so completely took the shine out of the
Countess of Honiton as has caused her to hide her diminished head
ever since, but our pen is unequal to the occasion, and even if
we had had a John Leech to supply our deficiencies, the dresses
of those days would look as nothing compared to the rotatory
haystacks of the present one.

What fair lady can bear the sight of her face painted in one of
the old poke bonnets of former days? To keep things right, the
bonnet ought to be painted to the face every year or two.

But to the lovers.

In due time “Mamma” (Miss Freemantle) presented her blooming
daughter to the happy Billy, who was attended to the hymeneal
alter by his confidential clerk, Head-and-shoulders Smith. Big
Ben, who was dressed in a blue frock coat with a velvet collar,
white kerseymere trousers, and varnished boots, looking very like
one of the old royal dukes, was the only other person present at
the interesting ceremony, save Pheasant-feathers, who lurked in
one of the pews.

The secret had been well kept, for the evening papers of that day
and the morning ones of the next first proclaimed to the “great
world,” that sphere of one’s own acquaintance, that William
Pringle, Esquire, of Doughty Street, Russell Square, was married
to Miss Emma Willing, of—the papers did not say where.