Volume I Part 2 (1/2)
”Who is Mr Simpson?” asked my wife, tossing a letter across the breakfast-table. This same little lady opens my correspondence with the _sang-froid_ of a private secretary.
”Who is Mr Simpson?” she repeated. ”If he is as big as his monogram, we shall have to widen all the doors, and raise the ceilings, in order to let him in.”
The monogram referred to resembled a pyrotechnic device. It blazed in all the colours of the rainbow, and twisted itself like the coloured worsted in a young lady's first sampler.
”Simpson,” I replied, in, I must confess, a tremulous sort of way, ”is a very nice fellow, and a capital shot.”
”I perceive that you have asked him to shoot.”
”Only for a day and a night, my dear.”
”Only for a day and a night! And where is Willie to sleep, and where is Blossie to sleep? You know the dear children are in the strangers'
rooms for change of air, and really I _must_ say it is very thoughtless of you;” and my wife's _nez retrousse_ went up at a very acute angle, whilst a general hardness of expression settled itself upon her countenance, like a plaster cast.
I had a bad case. I had been dining with a friend, my friend Captain de Britska. I had taken sherry with my soup, hock with my fish, champagne with my entree, and a nip of brandy before my claret. What I imbibed after the Lafitte I scarcely remember. Mr Simpson was of the party, and sat next to me. He forced a succession of cigars into my mouth, and subsequently a mixture of tobacco, a special thing. (What smoker, by the way, hasn't a special thing in the shape of a mixture? what _gourmet_ has no special tip as regards salad-dressing?) We spoke of shooting. He asked me if I had any. I replied in the affirmative, expressing a hope that he would at some time or other practically discuss that fact. Somehow I was led into a direct invitation, and this was the outcome. I had committed myself beneath my friend's mahogany, and under the influence of my friend's generous wine. I was in a corner; and now, ye G.o.ds! I had to face Mrs Smithe. There are moments when a man's wife is simply awful. Snugly entrenched behind the una.s.sailable line of defence, duty, and with such ”Woolwich Infants” as her children to hurl against you, which she does in a persistent remorseless way, she is a terror. No man, be he as brave as Leonidas or as cool as Sir Charles Coldstream, is proof against the partner of his bosom when she is on the rampage; and, as I have already observed, Mrs S. was ”end on.”
”Another change will do the children good, Maria,” I observed.
”Yes, I suppose so. It will do Willie's cold good to sleep in your dressing-room without a fire, won't it? and Blossie can have a bed made up in the bath. Is this Mr Simpson married or single?”
_Hinc illae lachrymae._ I couldn't say. I never asked him.
”What does it matter?” I commenced, with a view to diplomatising.
”Yes, but it does,” she interposed. ”If he is a respectable married man, which I very much doubt, he must have dear Willie's room.”
”I am very sorry that I asked him at all, Maria; but as he has been asked, and as I must drive over to meet him in a few minutes, for Heaven's sake make the best of it.”
”Oh, of course; I receive my instructions, and am to carry them out.
All the trouble falls upon me, while you drive off to the station smoking a s.h.i.+lling cigar, when you know that every penny will be wanted to send Willie to Eton.”
I got out of it somehow. Not that Mrs S. was entirely pacified. She still preserved an armed neutrality; yet even this concession was very much to be coveted. She's a dear good little creature, but she has fiery moods occasionally; and I ask you, my dear sir, is she one whit the worse for it? How often does your good lady fly at _you_ during the twenty-four hours? How often! The theme is painful. _Pa.s.sons._
My stained-wood trap was brought round by my man-of-all-work, Billy Doyle. Billy is a tight little ”boy,” over whose unusually large skull some fifty summers' suns have pa.s.sed, scorching away his shock hair, and leaving only a few streaks, which he carefully plasters across his bald pate till they resemble so many cracks upon the bottom of an inverted china bowl. Billy is my factotum. He looks after my horse, dogs, gun, rod, pipes, and clothes, with a view to the reversion of the latter. He was reared, ”man an' boy,” on the estate, and is upon the most familiar yet respectful terms with the whole family. Billy continually lectures me, imparting his opinions upon all matters appertaining to my affairs, as though he were some rich uncle whose will in my favour was safely deposited with the family solicitor.
”We've twenty minutes to meet the train, Billy,” I observed, giving the reins a jerk.
”Is it for to ketch the tin-o'clock thrain from Dublin?” he asked.
”Yes.”
”Begorra, ye've an hour! She's like yourself--she's always late.”
”There's a gentleman coming down to spend the day and shoot,” I said, without noticing Billy's sarcasm.
”Shoot! Arrah, shoot what?”
”Why, snipe, plover--anything that may turn up.”
”Be jabers, he'll have for to poach, thin.”