University of Virginia Library

MISS JONES'S SON.

One night, toward the close of the London season
—the last week in August, or thereabouts—the Deptford
omnibus set down a gentleman at one of the small
brick-block cottages on the Kent road. He was a
very quietly disposed person, with a face rather inscrutable
to a common eye, and might, or might not,
pass for what he was—a man of mark. His age was
perhaps thirty, and his manners and movements had
that cool security which can come only from conversance
with a class of society that is beyond being
laughed at. He was handsome—but when the style
of a man is well pronounced, that is an unobserved
trifle.

Perhaps the reader will step in to No. 10, Verandah
Row, without further ceremony.

The room—scarce more than a squirrel-box from
back to front—was divided by folding doors, and the
furniture was fanciful and neatly kept. The canary-bird,
in a very small cage, in the corner, seemed rather
an intruder on such small quarters. You could scarce
give a guess what style of lady was the tenant of such
miniature gentility.

The omnibus passenger sat down in one of the little
cane-bottomed and straight backed chairs, and presently
the door opened and a stout elderly woman, whose
skirts really filled up the remaining void of the little
parior, entered with a cordial exclamation, and an
affectionate embrace was exchanged between them.

“Well, my dear mother!” said the visiter, “I am
off to-morrow to Warwickshire to pass the shooting
season, and I came to wind up your household clockwork,
to go for a month—(ticking, I am sorry to say!)
What do you want? How is the tea-caddy?”

“Out of green, James, but the black will do till you
come back. La! don't talk of such matters when you
are just going to leave me. I'll step up stairs and
make you out a list of my wants presently. Tell me
—where are you going in Warwickshire? I went to
school in Warwickshire. Dear me! the lovers I had
there! Well, well! Where did you say you were
going?”

“To the marquis of Headfort—Headfort court, I
think his place is called—a post and a half from Stratford.
Were you ever there, mother?”

“I there, indeed! no, my son! But I had a lover
near Stratford—young Sir Humphrey Fencher, he
was then—old Sir Humphrey now! I'm sure he re
members me, long as it is since I saw him—and, James,
I'll give you a letter to him. Yes—I should like to
know how he looks, and what he will say to my grown-up
boy. I'll go and write it now, and I'll look over
the groceries at the same time. If you move your
chair, James, don't crush the canary-bird!”

The mention of the letter of introduction lingered
in the ear of the gentleman left in the parlor, and
smiling to himself with a look of covert humor, he
drew from his pocket a letter of which it reminded
him—the letter of introduction, on the strength of
which he was going to Warwickshire. As this and
the one which was being written up stairs, were the
two pieces of ordance destined to propel the incidents
of our story, the reader will excuse us for presenting
them as a “make ready.”

And here follows the letter of Mrs. S— to her
ancient lover, the baronet of Warwickshire:—

“No. 10, Verandah Row, Kent Road.

“Dear Sir Humphrey: Perhaps you will scarce
remember Jane Jones, to whom you presented the

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51

brush of your first fox. This was thirty years ago.
I was then at school in the little village near Tally-ho
hall. Dear me! how well I remember it! On hearing
of your marriage, I accepted an offer from my late
husband, Mr. S—, and our union was blessed
with one boy, who, I must say, is an angel of goodness.
Out of his small income, my dear James furnished
and rented this very genteel house, and he
tells me I shall have it for life, and provides me one
servant, and everything I could possibly want. Thrice
a week he comes out to spend the day and dine with
me, and, in short, he is the pattern of good sons. As
this dear boy is going down to Warwickshire, I can not
resist the desire I have that you should know him,
and that he should bring me back an account of my
lover in days gone by. Any attention to him, dear
Sir Humphrey, will very much oblige one whom you
once was happy to oblige, and still

“Your sincere friend,

Jane S—,
“Formerly Jones.”

It was a morning astray from paradise when S—
awoke at Stratford. Ringing for his breakfast, he requested
that the famous hostess of the red horse
would grace him so far as to join him over a muffin
and a cup of coffee, and between the pauses of his
toilet, he indited a note, enclosing his mother's letter
of introduction to Sir Humphrey.

Enter dame hostess, prim and respectful, and as
breakfast proceeded, S— easily informed himself
of the geography of Tally-ho hall, and the existing
branch and foliage of the family tree. Sir Humphrey's
domestic circle consisted of a daughter and a neice
(his only son having gone with his regiment to the
Canada wars), and the hall lay half way to Headfort
court—the Fenchers his lordship's nearest neighbors,
Mrs. Boniface was inclined to think.

S— divided his morning very delightfully between
the banks of the Avon, and the be-scribbled
localities of Shakspere's birth and residence, and by
two o'clock the messenger had returned with this note
from Sir Humphrey:—

As the crack wit and diner-out of his time, S—
was as well known to the brilliant society of London
as the face of the “gold stick in waiting” at St.
James's, and, with his very common name, he was a
little likely to be recognised out of his peculiar sphere
as the noble lord, when walking in Cheapside, to be
recognised as the “stick,” so often mentioned in the
Court Journal. He had delayed his visit to Headfort
court for a day, and undertaken to deliver his mother's
letter, and look up her lang-syne lover, very much as
he would stop in the Strand to purchase her a parcel
of snuff—purely from the filial habit of always doing
her bidding, even in whims. He had very little curiosity
to see a Warwickshire Nimrod, and, till his postchaise
stopped at the lodge-gate of Tally-ho hall, it
had never entered his head to speculate upon the
ground of his introduction to Sir Humphrey, nor to
anticipate the nature of his reception. His name had
been so long to him an “open sesame,” that he had
no doubt of its potency, and least of all when he pronounced
it at an inferior gate in the barriers of society.

The dressing-bell had rang, and S— was shown
into the vacant drawing-room, where he buried himself
in the deepest chair he could find, and sat looking
at the wall with the composure of a barber's customer
waiting to be shaved. There presently entered two
young ladies, very showily dressed, who called him
Mr. “Jones,” in replying to his salutation, and im
mediately fell to promenading between the two old
mirrors at the extremities of the room, discoursing
upon topics evidently chosen to exclude the newcomer
from the conversation. With rather a feeling
that it was their loss, not his, S— recomposed
himself in the leathern chair and resumed the perusal
of the oaken ceiling. The neglect sat upon him a
little uncomfortable withal.

“How d'ye do, young man! What! you are Miss
Jones's son, eh?” was the salutation of a burly old
gentleman, who now entered and shook hands with
the great incognito. “Here, 'Bel! Fan! Mr. Jones,
My daughter and my niece, Mr. Jones!”

S— was too indignant for a moment to explain
that Miss Jones had changed her name before his
birth, and on second thought, finding that this real
character was not suspected, and that he represented
to Sir Humphrey simply the obscure son of an obscure
girl, pretty, thirty years ago, he fell quietly into the
role expected of him, and walked patiently in to dinner
with Miss Fencher, who accepted his arm for that
purpose, but forgot to take it!

It was hard to be witty as a Mr. Jones, but the habit
was strong and the opportunities were good, and
S—, warming with his first glass of sherry, struck
out some sparks that would have passed for gems of
the first water, with choicer listeners; but wit is slowly
recognised when not expected, and though now and
then the young ladies stared, and now and then the
old baronet chuckled and said “egad! very well!'
there was evidently no material rise in the value of
Mr. Jones, and he at last confined his social talents
exclusively to his wine-glass and nut-picker, feeling.
spite of himself, as stupid as he seemed.

Relieved of the burden of replying to their guess,
the young ladies now took up a subject which evidently
lay nearest their hearts—a series of dejeuners, the
first of which was to come off the following morning
at Headfort court. As if by way of caveat, in case
Mr. Jones should fancy that he could be invited to
accompany Sir Humphrey, Miss Fencher took the
trouble to explain that these were, by no means, common
country entertainments, but exclusive and select
parties, under the patronage of the beautiful and witty
Lady Imogen Bellasys, now a guest at Headfort.
Her ladyship had not only stipulated for societé choisie,
but had invited down a celebrated London wit, a great
friend of her own, to do the mottoes and keep up the
spirit of the masques and tableaux. Indeed, Miss
Fencher considered herself as more particularly the
guest and ally of Lady Imogen, never having been
permitted during her mother's life to visit Headfort
(though she did not see what the marquis's private
character had to do with his visiting list), and she expected
to be called upon to serve as a sort of maid of
honor, or in some way to assist Lady Imogen, who
had invited her very affectionately, after church, on
Sunday. She thought, perhaps, she had better wake
up Sir Humphrey while she thought of it (and while
papa was good natured, as he always was after dinner),
and exact of him a promise that the great London
Mr., what d'ye call 'im, should be invited to pass a
week at Tally-ho hall—for, of course, as mutual
allies of Lady Imogen, Miss Fencher and he would
become rather well acquainted.

To this enlightenment, of which we have given only
a brief resumér, Mr. Jones listened attentively, as he
was expected to do, and was very graciously answered,
when by way of feeling one of the remote pulses of
his celebrity, he ventured to ask for some further particulars
about the London wit aforementioned. He
learned, somewhat to his disgust, that his name was
either Brown or Simpson, some very common name,
however, but that he had a wonderful talent for writing
impromptuepigrams on people and singing them afterward
to impromptu music on the piano, and that he

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52

At this crisis of the conversation Sir Humphrey
roused from his post-prandial snooze, and begged Mr.
Jones to pass the port and open the door for the
ladies. By the time the gloves were rescued from
under the table, the worthy baronet had drained a
bumper, and, with his descending glass, dropped his
eyes to the level of his daughter's face, where they
rested with paternal admiration. Miss Fencher was
far from ill-looking, and she well knew that her father
waxed affectionate over his wine.

“Papa!” said she, coming behind him, and looking
down his throat, as he strained his head backward,
leaving his reluctant double chin resting on his cravat.
“I have a favor to ask, my dear papa!”

“He shall go, my dear! he shall go! I have been
thinking of it—I'll arrange it, Bel, I'll arrange it! Go
your ways, chick, and send me my slippers!” gurgled
the baronet, with his usual rapid brevity, when slightly
elevated.

Miss Fencher turned quite pale.

“Pa—pa!” she exclaimed, with horror in her voice,
coming round front, “pa—pa!—good gracious! Do
you know it is the most exclusive—however, papa!
let us talk that over in the other room. What I wish
to ask is quite another matter. You know that
Mr.— Mr.—”

“The gentleman you mean is probably James
S—,” interrupted Mr. Jones.

“Thank you, sir, so it is!” continued Miss Fencher,
putting her hand upon the Baronet's mouth, who was
about to speak—“It is Mr. James S—; and
what I wish, papa, is, to have Mr. James S— invited
to pass a week with us. You know, papa, we
shall be very intimate—James S— and I—both
of us assisting Lady Imogen, you know, papa! and
—and—stay till I get some note-paper—will you,
dear papa?”

“You will have your way, chick, you will have
your way,” sighed Sir Humphrey, getting his spectacles
out of a very tight pocket on his hip. “But,
bless me, I can't write in the evening. Mr. Jones—
perhaps Mr. Jones will write the note for me—just
present my compliments to Mr. S—, and request
the honor, and all that—can you do it, Mr. Jones?”

S— rapidly indited a polite note to himself,
which he handed to Miss Fencher for her approbation,
and meantime entered the butler with the coffee.

“Stuggins!” cried Sir Humphrey—“I wish Mr.
Jones—”

“Good Heavens! papa!” exclaimed Miss Fencher,
ending the remainder of her objurgation in a whisper
in her father's ear. But the baronet was not in a
mood to be controlled.

“My love!—Bel, I say!—he shall go. You d-d-d-diddedent
see Miss Jones's letter. He's a p-p-p-pattern
of filial duty!—he gives his mother a house, and all
she wants!—he's a good son, I tell you! St-Stuggins,
come here! Pass the port, Jones, my good fellow!”

Stuggins stepped forward a pace, and presented his
white waistcoat, and Miss Fencher flounced out of the
room in a passion.

“Stuggins!” said the old man, a little more tranquilly,
since he had no fear now of being interrupted,
“I wish my friend, Mr. Jones, here, to see this cock-a-hoop
business to-morrow. It'll be a fine sight, they
tell me. I want him to see it, Stuggins! You understand
me. His mother, Miss Jones, was a pretty girl,
Stuggins! And she'll be very glad to hear that her
boy has seen such a fine show—eh, Jones? eh, Stuggins?
Well, you know what I want. The Headfort
tenants will have a place provided for them, of course
—some shrubbery, eh?—some gallery—some place
behind the musicians, where they are out of the way,
but can see—isn't it so? eh? eh?”

“Yes, Sir Humphrey—no doubt, Sir Humphrey!”
acceded Stuggins, with his ears still open to know how
the details were to be managed.

“Well—very well—and you'll take Jones with you
in the dickey—eh?—Thomas will go on the box—eh?
Will that do?—and Mr. Jones will stay with us
to-night, and perhaps you'll show him his room, now,
and talk it over, eh, Stuggins?—good night, Mr.
Jones!—good night, Jones, my good fellow!”

And Sir Humphrey, having done this act of grateful
reminiscence for his old sweetheart, managed to
find his way into the next room unaided.

S— had begun, by this time, to see “straw for
his bricks,” in the course matters were taking; and
instead of throwing a decanter after Sir Humphrey,
and knocking down the butler for calling him Mr.
Jones, he accepted Stuggins's convoy to the housekeeper's
room, and with his droll stories and funny
ways, kept the maids and footmen in convulsions of
laughter till break of day. Such a merry time had
not come off in servants' hall for many a day, and of
many a precious morsel of the high life below stairs
of Tally-ho hall did he pick the brains of the delighted
Abigails.

The ladies, busied with their toilets, had their
breakfasts in their own rooms, and Mr. Jones did not
make his appearance till after the baronet had achieved
his red herring and seltzer. The carriage came round
at twelve, and the ladies stepped in, dressed for triumph,
tumbled after by burly Sir Humphrey, who required
one side of the vehicle to himself—Mr. Jones outside,
on the dickey with Stuggins, as previously arranged.

Half way up the long avenue of Headfort court,
Stuggins relinquished the dickey to its rightful occupant,
Thomas, and, with Mr. Jones, turned off by
a side path that led to the dairy and offices—the latter
barely saving his legs, however, for the manœuvre
was performed servant fashion, while the carriage kept
its way.

Lord Headfort was a widower, and his niece, Lady
Imogen Bellasys, the wittiest and loveliest girl in
England, stood upon the lawn for the mistress of the
festivities. She had occasion for a petticoat aid-de-camp,
and she knew that Lord Headfort wished to
propitiate his Warwickshire neighbors; and as Miss
Fencher was a fine grenadier looking girl, she promoted
her to that office immediately on her arrival,
decking her for the nonce with a broad blue riband of
authority. Miss Fencher made the best use of her
powers of self congratulation, and thanked God privately
besides, that Sir Humphrey had provided an eclipse
for Mr. Jones; for with the drawback of presenting
such a superfluous acquaintance of their own to the
fastidious eyes of Lady Imogen, she felt assured that
her new honors would never have arrived to her.
She had had a hint, moreover, from her dressing-maid,
of Mr. Jones' comicalities below stairs; and
the fact that he was a person who could be funny in
a kitchen, was quite enough to confirm the aristocratic
instinct by which she had at once pronounced upon
his condition. If her papa had been gay in his youth,
there was no reason why every Miss Jones should
send her child to him to be made a gentleman of!
“Filial pattern,” indeed!

The gayeties began. The French figurante, despatched
by Lord Vaurien from the opera, made up
her tableaux from the beauties, and those who had
ugly faces, but good figures, tried their attitudes on
the archery-lawn, and those whose complexions would
stand the aggravation, tripped to the dancing tents,
and the falcon was flown, and the greyhounds were
coursed, and a few couple of Warwickshire lads tried

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53

“I will never forgive that James S—, never!”
pettishly vowed her ladyship, as Miss Fencher came
back for the fiftieth time with no news of his arrival.

“Better feed your menagerie at once!” whispered
Lord Headfort to his niece, as he caught a glance at
her vexed face in passing.

The decision with which the order was given to
serve breakfast, seemed to hurry the very heat of the
kitchen fires, for in an incredibly short time, the hot
soups and delicate entremets of Monsieur Dupres
were on the tables, and breakfast was announced. The
band played a march, the games were abandoned, Miss
Fencher followed close upon the heels of her chef, to
secure a seat in her neighborhood, and in ten minutes
a hundred questions of precedence were settled, and
Sir Humphrey, somewhat to his surprise, and as much
to his delight, was called to the left hand of the marquis.
Tally-ho hall was in the ascendant.

During the first assault upon the soups, the band
played a delicious set of waltzes, terminating with the
clatter of changing plates. But at the same moment,
above all the ring of impinging china, arose a shout
of laughter from a party somewhere without the
pavilion, and so sustained and hearty was the peal,
that the servants stood petrified with their dishes,
and the guests sat in wondering silence. The steward
was instantly despatched to enforce order, and Lord
Headfort explained, that the tenants were feasted on
beef and ale, in the thicket beyond, though he could
scarce imagine what should amuse them so uncommonly.

“They have promised to maintain order, my lord!”
said the steward, returning, and stooping to his master's
ear, “but there is a droll gentleman among them, my
lord!”

“Then I dare swear it's better fun than this!”
mumbled his lordship for the steward's hearing, as
he looked round upon the unamused faces in his
neighborhood.

“Headfort,” cried Lady Imogen, presently, from
the other end of the table, “did you send to Stratford
for S—, or did you not? Let us know whether
there is a chance of his coming!”

“Upon my honor, Lady Imogen, my own chariot
has been at the Stratford inn, waiting for him since
morning,” was the marquis's answer. “Vaurien wrote
that he had booked him by the mail of the night before!
I'd give a thousand pounds if he were here!”

Bursts of laughter, breaking through all efforts to
suppress them, again rose from the offending quarter.

“It's a Mr. Jones, my lord,” said the steward,
speaking between the marquis and Sir Humphrey;
“he's a friend of Sir Humphrey's butler—and—if you
will excuse me, my lord—Stuggins says he is the son
of a Miss Jones, formerly an acquaintance of Sir
Humphrey's!”

Red as a turkey-cock grew the old baronet in a
moment. “I beg ten thousand pardons for having
intruded him here, my lord!” said Sir Humphrey;
“it's a poor lad that brought me a letter from his
mother, and I told Stuggins—”

But here Stuggins approached with a couple of
notes for his master, and, begging permission of the
marquis, Sir Humphrey put on his spectacles to read.
The guests at the table, meantime, were passing the
wine very slowly, and conversation more slowly still,
and, with the tranquillity that reigned in the pavilion,
the continued though half-smothered merriment of
the other party was provokingly audible.

“Can't we borrow a little fun from those merry
people?” cried Lady Imogen, throwing up her eyes
despairingly as the marquis exchanged looks with her.

“If we could persuade Sir Humphrey to introduce
his friend, Jones, to us—”

“I introduce him!” exclaimed the fuming baronet,
tearing off his spectacles in a rage, “read that before
you condescend to talk of noticing such a varlet!
Faith! I think he's the clown from a theatre, or the
waiter from a pot-house!”

The marquis read:—

The excitement of Sir Humphrey, and the amused
face of the marquis as he read, had drawn Lady Imogen
from her seat, and as he read aloud, at her request, the
urgent epistle of Mr. Jones, she clapped her hands
with delight, and insisted on having him in. Sir
Humphrey declared he should take it as an affront if
the thing was insisted on, and Miss Fencher, who had
followed to her father's chair, and heard the reading
of the note, looked the picture of surprised indignation.
“Insolent! vulgar! abominable!” was all the compliment
she ventured upon, however.

“Will you let me look at Mr. Jones's note?” said
Lady Imogen.

“Good Heavens!” she exclaimed, after glancing at
it an instant, “I was sure it must be he!”

And out ran the beautiful queen of the festivities,
and the next moment, to Sir Humphrey's amazement,
and Miss Fencher's utter dismay, she returned, dragging
in, with her own scarf around his body, and her
own wreath of roses around his head, the friend of
Stuggins—the abominable Jones! Up jumped the
marquis, and called him by name (not Jones), and
seized him by both hands, and up jumped with delighted
acclamation half a dozen other of the more
distinguished guests at table, and the merriment was
now on the other side of the thicket.

It was five or ten minutes before they were again
seated at table, S— on Lady Imogen's right hand,
but there were two vacant chairs, for Sir Humphrey
and his daughter had taken advantage of the confusion
to disappear, and the field was open, therefore, for a
full account of Mr. Jones's adventures above and below
stairs at Tally-ho hall. A better subject never fell
into the hand of that inimitable humorist, and gloriously
he made use of it.

As he concluded, amid convulsions of laughter, the
butler brought in a note addressed to James S—,
Esq., which had been given him by Stuggins early
in the day—his own autograph invitation to the hospitalities
of Tally-ho hall!