next morning after millard’s hop, several of our acquaintance met on the piazza.
“what happened at the subscription party last night?” asked peter skerrett of gyas, who looked blue and slumbrous as a night policeman.
“they didn’t do a very heavy business,” responded guy. “lob lolly subscribed three hundred. hobble de hoy collected two-fifty. belden lost like leaking. de châteaunéant was collecting pretty well, till sir com ambient came in and sat down opposite; then he seemed to get flustrated, subscribed once or twice, and went away.”
“what an astonishing feller that belden is!” said cloanthus. “there he comes in on knockknees, and we’ve only just grubbed.”
belden gave his horse to figgins and lounged up the steps. he affected a dignified indifference with the younger men generally, but this morning he was quite gracious. they were discussing the preliminaries of the race. they had talked of a steeple-chase, but the riders did not come forward very freely, and they had determined to have a formal[185] race; mile heats on the second beach, best two in three, free to all ages, no handicap—in short, a kind of scrub race.
while they were talking it over, chin chin brought up pallid. mr. waddy was going for a morning ride with clara and diana. there were divers opinions on pallid’s merits. some of them said he was too handsome to make time—“a good un to go should always be a bad un to look at,” and there were instances enough on this side. there were also abundant instances on the other. in short, no one had seen him put to his speed, and none could do more than conjecture how low he would go down in the seconds. a very few seconds make the great differences in horses, as the minor, imperceptible charms distinguish between the few beautiful and the many pretty among women. it was conceded that it was a sin to race on the beach. “the horses’ feet will be ruined; the beach is as hard as macadam.” but they had determined to do it. there was an éclat about the beach that no other place could have.
belden said that pallid was a very fine animal—the handsomest horse he knew—very fast, too; very fast. he was surprised that mr. waddy had not entered him. perhaps mr. waddy did not want to win their money—very likely! he couldn’t know, of course, anything about the comparative powers of the two horses, but if pallid were in the race, he[186] wouldn’t fear to back his horse against him for a thousand.
“do you mean that for an offer?” asked major granby, joining the group.
“i would make it one if the horse were in the race,” answered belden.
“this is getting interesting,” said peter skerrett; “and just in time here comes dunstan, and mr. waddy to speak for himself.”
the boys crowded round mr. waddy to persuade him to enter his horse. guy and clo wished to see belden beat; he had scoffed at them for being imberb.
“of course,” said mr. waddy, “anything to please the children; but i can’t ride him myself. i carry too much weight for a race. pallid’s only five. i say, dunstan, don’t you want to ride him? you are just my height—five feet ten—but then i outweigh you fifteen pounds—two pounds a year for the difference in our ages.”
“i shall be delighted,” said dunstan, “if you’ll trust me. is there anything on it besides the stakes?”
“that is as mr. belden pleases,” said granby. “do you hold to the offer?”
“certainly,” responded belden, and the bet was booked.
“if i were betting with belden,” said gyas, aside to peter skerrett, “i should want stakes up.”
[187]“you would behave with your usual asinine indecorum, guy, my boy, if you hinted such a thing. belden is not a man to back down. he’d rather murder somebody and get the money. if he loses, he’ll pay. but he don’t intend to lose. he knows his horse, and i’d advise you not to bet against him. in fact, the best thing you and clo can do is to stop betting entirely and put your money in your old boots. i’ve been talking like a father to you two for years, and you don’t improve.”
“why, what do you want us to do, peter?” asked they penitently, by gyas, principal spokesman. “everybody is down on us. we try to do the fair thing. we pay our tailor’s bills and don’t smoke over five cigars a day. we don’t know what to do. miss sullivan, up at the island this summer, used to pitch into us and say we ought to have ambition. well, i did try politics once and went to the polls to vote. there was an irish beggar who swore he’d seen me vote twice before. that rather knocked my politics. i’ve read all thackeray, and buck on the ‘sublime,’ and tennyson’s ‘sacred memories,’ and the ‘pickwick club.’ then about religion—i’ll be blowed if i can keep awake in church. it’s no go. i try every sunday. the doctor can’t do it, and he’s allowed to be the best preacher in the world. i get asleep and have bustin’ nightmares on account of the painted windows.”
“well, try to be good boys. don’t bet, and i’ll[188] see if i can think of something for you,” said peter.
the season was drawing to a close. there had been no earthquakes of excitement, no avalanches of clean or dirty scandal. indeed, since the pithwitch oration, there had been no event at newport. people actually began to talk of going away too soon. the race, then, was the right thing at the right time. people began to talk of it astonishingly. major granby had, people said, ten thousand dollars bet with mr. belden. major granby was, so report alleged, a younger son of the marquis of grimilkin, and had made an enormous fortune on the turf. rev. theo. logge said that he disapproved very much of betting, but that he should ask the winner to contribute to the cause—he did not say whether the lee scuppernong cause or not. he hoped that his sister in the faith, mrs. grognon, would not interrupt her drive to the beach for these carnal excitements. perhaps it was as well that she should see the race, to know for the future what to avoid. he would escort her and gain experience, which would be valuable to him in warning young men not to go to such scenes of temptation.
all the ladies became partisans. miss milly center asked mr. dulger if he should ride.
“i’ve no horse,” said billy, safe in that negation.
“but,” said miss millicent, “sir com ambient[189] has none, and he says he intends to hire one just for the fun of the start.”
unhappy billy dulger, whom nature did not shape to fit a saddle, must not be outdone by sir com, whom milly quoted constantly. billy consulted a livery-stable man. this personage provided billy with a four-legged quadruped.
“he won’t win the first heat,” said the man, “nor perhaps the second; but git him through those, and i shouldn’t be surprised at anything.”
bob o’link entered his horse. miss anthrope, her nature seemingly changed with her proximate change of name, hung about him tenderly, praying him not to ride. she preferred that he should not be killed, for with his death would die mrs. o’link in posse.
blinders entered a headlong steed. he generally rode him with two snaffles, one around his waist, the other in his two hands. blinders did not talk about his horse. he was a fellow who always went slap at anything without a word; but he looked at all the horses and thought his own chance was good. his horse was called nosegay, on account of the gayness of his nose.
little skibbereen besieged his mamma to let him enter with gossoon, but mamma had prejudices against the breaking of skibby’s neck. scalper, the artist, arrived in time. he would ride gossoon, who was one of the favourites. unfortunately,[190] scalper was too amusing a fellow not to be fat, and he outweighted gossoon.
guy and clo, though fortes ambo in a buggy, were not accustomed to bestride the prancing steed. paulding reserved himself to drive diana and clara.
there was question between tim budlong and de châteaunéant which should bounce upon drummer. when the gaul discovered that sir comeguys was to contend, he remembered that drummer seemed to have unreasonable prejudices against him, and if he should endeavour to subdue that very priceless steed with spiteful whip and spur, some displeasure might arise on the part of mr. budlong. tim therefore proposed himself and drummer for victory, and the fair saccharissa mellasys bestowed upon him a lovely jockey cap of blue and white satin gores. tim’s face was by this time pale and flabby, and he did not look the handsomer for his fresh head-piece.
thus, a field of eight was entered, as many as could conveniently start on the beach. peter skerrett, by common consent, became the impresario of the occasion. interest rather centred upon pallid and knockknees on account of the bet pending. some of the knowing ones backed blinders and nosegay for the purse. a few trusted to bob o’link’s personal reputation for luck, and one or two backed drummer, thinking tim could not possibly persuade him to be beaten.
while the gentlemen were thus ardently preparing[191] for their olympic games, the ladies also had their scheme of festivity.
“what shall we do for milly center on her birthday?” asked mrs. wilkes, that unwearied chaperon.
miss millicent was not too old to have a birthday on the day before the race. mr. dulger was aware of this epoch and had written to bridgeman for a barrel of flowers. dulger’s clerkly salary—for his stern papa kept him on a salary much too exiguous for his exigencies—his salary hardly sufficed for his systematic floral tributes. he had been obliged to write to the bookkeeper in front street for another temporary loan. billy had presentiments that the crisis of his fate was at hand. he would not fail at the last for want of sufficient investment. a flower barrel was a grandiose gift. he was confident that no one else had thought of it. true love makes a dulger a genius. if the wooed could not be won by a barrel of flowers, he would forever fly her false toleration and among the flour barrels toilsomely regain his wasted bouquet money. poor billy dulger! so long a tolerated, he was weary of this “longing much, hoping little, asking naught.”
“how shall milly’s birthday be honoured?” was, however, still a question for the generality. each suggested other things and a picnic.
“a picnic, of course,” said the masterly mrs. wilkes.
[192]“to the dumplings, of course.”
“yes, of course.”
“why, yes; how could we think of anything else?”
“with a band,” said julia, “and dancing on the grass.”
“with a boatload of champagne,” said cloanthus.
“no flirtations allowed,” suggested peter skerrett.
“no? well, then, flirtations compulsory; first, with miss milly, queen of the day, afterwards with our private queens of hearts,” and he chanted,
“the queen of hearts she brought some tarts
unto a picnic gay;
the king of hearts he ate the tarts
and gave his heart away.”
it is not very important, but be it hereby known unto thee, o outsider of kenosha, stamboul, fond du lac, paris, natchez under the hill, london, lecompton, or jerusalem! that the dumplings of newport is an old stone fort, not are certain apples enclosed in certain unwholesome strata of dough.
picnics go to the dumplings as a shad to fresh water in spring, as a moth to a candle, as a swain to a nymph. they go there in boats over the smooth bay, across the strait, where a soft, lulling prolongation[193] of the distant ocean swell reaches the navigator with sweet reminder motion. when picnics arrive at the dumplings, they stroll about; their better halves are handed over the rocks by their worse halves; they view that crumbling, cheese-shaped object, the fort, and say sweet things of salt water and sunshine. they chat. they romp. then comes the climax—to eat the picnic. picnics are properly eaten with the fingers. the idea is to return to arcadian manners.
picnics being well known by all the fair and brave, who deserve each other, as so charming and offering such charming opportunities for attaining their deserts, there is no wonder that everyone was delighted with mrs. wilkes’s scheme. miss millicent, as the heroine of the occasion, gave deep thought to her toilet. she was resolved to be captivating as miss millicent, that is for herself; not as miss center, that is for her fortune. she had always adorers enough, besides the inevitable dulger, but he was her thrall and the others she had flirted through. she had been observed to be dissatisfied of late. was it that she had failed with sir comeguys? or did some other novelty refuse to enter her toils? or was there some escaped one whom she wished to beguile back again with penitential wiles? or was she a little ashamed of her exacting, not immoral, cicisbeism with poor billy? for whatever reason, miss milly seemed a little disappointed, and mrs.[194] wilkes, not thinking it proper that any of her protégées should be out of spirits, hoped well of the picnic, that it would restore the heiress to amiability. so mrs. wilkes shopped extravagantly with miss milly and the girls.
clara and diana were of course to be of the party. they were really the belles. the men who fell in love with diana that summer, and some of them were stanch old belle-ringers, say that she was the culmination; that there never was and never will be another like her. and then, some stanchest old member of the pack gives tongue and says “except clara,” and the whole pack cry “except clara”—clara not second in order, but only subsequent in thought.
everybody, in a word, was to be at the picnic. everybody means thirty or forty people. good mrs. wilkes had a moment’s hesitation about mrs. budlong, and privately consulted peter skerrett, her grand vizier. peter, with his usual thoughtfulness, pointed out that miss arabella couldn’t go without her mother; so mrs. b. was invited. mrs. aquiline, née retroussée, had recently begun a dead set at mr. waddy. she engaged ardently in the project. there would be a band and a boatload of champagne and a sail home by moonlight.
in short, miss milly center’s birthday picnic was to be the event of the season. her spirits rose as she beheld her most becoming dress, and she prognosticated[195] for herself no solemn epoch of repentance and reform, but an auroral dawn of new flirtations with full recovery of all the old, an annus mirabilis of social success and scores of manly hearts trampled under foot.
