Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  It was a posting-house, though not exactly a first-rate one, inasmuch as the stage on either side was short, and four-horse people generally went through; but it was a favourite resort for newly-married couples, and was equally esteemed by stage-coachmen, who always made an excuse for pulling up at its honeysuckled porch. Its charges too were quite within comfortable compass, and one set of visitors recommended another set, instead of flying to the columns of the “Times” for consolation under the infliction of spurious, unrequired wax, and other enormities. Venerable elms sheltered the ends of the house, and the side from the road opened into a spacious garden overlooking rich meadows, sloping away to a smoothly gliding stream, while distant hills closed the scene in circling greyness of romantic form.

  That was its summer aspect. On this eventful day things wore a different garb. As the hounds approached, Flash Jim’s swell Talliho coach was seen resting against the bank, while the purple stream of life was fast flowing from a dying horse. The huge elms at the east end of the house were all uprooted, while one on the west had fallen with destructive crash upon the house, bearing down a whole stack of chimneys, and stripping the ivy off the wall.

  The blue and gold sign creaked and flapped in the wind, while the pride of the road, a yew-tree equestrian, was torn up by the roots, and dashed against the railing beyond.

  “Bliss my ‘eart!” exclaimed Jorrocks, eyeing the fallen horseman, “that’s too bad! Those great helms I wouldn’t care about, but to ruin such a triumph of the h’art is too bad — cruel in the extreme.” A cutting sleet came on, and a passer-by put up an umbrella, which was immediately turned inside out, and carried over the house-top. Mr. Jorrocks’s horse swerved, and nearly capsized him.

  “Let’s get shelter,” said he, making for the yard, “or ther’ll be mischief, I’m blow’d if there won’t.”

  “Mine host,” Jemmy Lush, or the “Old World,” — as he was familiarly termed — was almost frantic. He, poor man, had retired to rest early, and almost the last thing he did, was to arrange some twigs in the yewtree horse-tail, and train a couple of shoots at the rider’s heels for spurs. For twenty years the Old World had loved and nursed that tree; it was the pride of the country! Not a stage-coachman passed, but jerked his elbow at it; and its image was engraven on the minds of hundreds of husbands and wives, now cultivating little olive-branches of their own, who had admired its symmetry in connexion with each other.

  “Oh, Mr. Jorrocks!” exclaimed Jemmy, waddling out of the house in his shirt-sleeves, his tapster’s apron flying up to his bottle nose, displaying the substantial form of his garterless legs, and his breeches open at the knee; “Oh, Mr. Jorrocks, I’m ruined, sir! — I’m ruined! — I’ve lost my bush!” and the poor man put his hand before his eyes to avert the sad calamity.

  “Never mind, old cock!” replied Mr. Jorrocks, cheeringly grasping his hand as he spoke, “plant another, and I’ll warrant you’ll see it grow.”

  “Never! never!” responded the Old World, sobbing as he spoke. “That man and hoss—” and here his feelings choked his utterance. He would have siad that Mrs. Jemmy and he planted it on their wedding-day, and had long regarded it as their first-born.

  The wind blew, the hail beat, the trees creaked, and seemed inclined to follow their leaders, and our party, half benumbed, gladly sought the shelter of the Old World’s barn. The poor hounds shivered, as if in the last stage of distemper; and the horses’ coats stared like Friesland hens’ feathers.

  “Surely no man in his senses will come to ‘unt such a day as this,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, slackening his horse’s girths as he spoke; “would deserve to have a commission of lunacy taken out again him for his pains if he did.”

  Leaving Benjamin in the barn, Mr. Jorrocks and Pigg sought the shelter of the house. The wind had stove in the back door, and a venerable elm was prostrate before it. Scrambling through the branches, they at length gained admission, but the inside was almost as cheerless as the out. No fire — no singing kettle, for hot stopping, as was wont, and the elder wine-bottle remained in the cupboard. Bricks, soot, lime, dust, and broken furniture, strewed the house, and the “little Worlds” were huddled together in a corner, not knowing whether to be frightened or pleased.

  The “Old World” had thrown himself into an easy chair in the parlour, having taken the precaution of wrapping his wife’s red petticoat about his shoulders to prevent his catching cold. “I shall never get over it,” exclaimed he, as Mr. Jorrocks entered, whip in hand: “ruined, sir! — beggared! — nothing left for me but the onion — the bastille!”

  “Vy the vind has certainlie paid you a hawful wisit,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, looking at the trees lying across each other outside; “but it would have been worser if it had broke them.”

  “Oh, it’s not them I cares about,” exclaimed Jemmy, pulling the petticoat about his ears; “it’s not them, nor the great oak at the bottom of the field — kept the sun off the grass; those are my landlord’s. It’s my bush I’m bad about;” and thereupon he pulled the petticoat up to his bottle nose, and burst into tears.

  “What ails the cull man?” inquired Pigg, with a fine stream of tobacco, all clotted with dust, running from his mouth.

  “It’s his beautiful bush,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, in a whisper. “Didn’t you see that the yew-tree ‘oss and rider were torn up by the roots? The Old World loved that bush.”

  Pigg.— “Ord sink! what’s the use o’ blubberin’ about that? there are plenty o’ bushes left. There be twe fine hollins, he may cut into what he likes, shot towers, steeples, or ought;” saying which, Pigg left the room.

  “Come, cheer up, old buoy,” said Mr. Jorrocks, soothingly, “and let’s have a drop o’ comfort. I declare I’m perfectly perished. Let’s have bottoms of brandy. ‘Ot with—”

  At the word brandy, the Old World brightened up. He dived into his apron pocket, and ringing the bell, ordered his misses to bring glasses and the bottle.

  Drink brings comfort to some minds, and Jemmy Lush’s mind was of that description. With the first glass he said little; the second, not much more, but the petticoat began to droop from his ears; and at the third, he had it upon his shoulders.

  “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good,” at length observed he, with a sigh. “That great oak at the bottom of my meadow has been an eye-sore to me these twenty years. Its great ugly branches covered half an acre of land, and our squire never would have it lopped or cut down. Said he, ‘There’s the finest view in the country from it — you see the river, and the ruins of the abbey, and the Gayhurst hills in the distance,’ and I don’t know what; the silly man forgetting, all the time, that he would see just the same things whether the tree was there or not; and it spoiled as much grass as would have kept me a calf.”

  “Great humbrageous beggar!” observed Mr. Jorrocks; adding, “I s’pose the tree would be worth summut?”

  “No doubt,” replied Jemmy. “But nothing like so valuable as my bush;” and thereupon he heaved a sigh, and pulled the petticoat about his ears.

  Just then a man passed the window, with a couple of horses, and Mr. Jorrocks ran to look at him. He was dressed in a very old hat, with a new cockade in it, a faded green neckcloth, a stained red waistcoat, a fustian frock and trousers, with thick shoes and worsted stockings, and wore moustachios. He rode a weedy chesnut, and led an unhappy-looking grey, the latter decorated with a running martingale and a noseband, and sundry rings and contrivances.

  “Whose be those?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks, with great importance.

  “Captain Smith and Lieutenant Brown,” replied the soldier-groom saluting him.

  “Foot-captins, I presume?” replied our master, looking at their horses.

  “Grenadier company,” replied the man.

  “It’s all the same to me,” replied Mr. Jorrocks. “They don’t expect I’m agoin’ to ‘unt sich a day as this — do they?”

  “Don’t know,” replied the man; “got my orders last night, and in course I
came on.”

  “Then you’d better cut away and meet them, and say that unless good payin’ subscribers, to the amount of thirty pounds, cast up, I shallnt’ cast off;” adding, as he wheeled about, “Don’t think any man with thirty pence he could call his own would turn out such a day as this.”

  Mr. Jorrocks returned to the parlour, and was beginning a dissertation upon hunting, when Pigg entered the room, with a spade over his shoulder, and addressed Jemmy Lush with —

  “Now gan and water your buss with your tears, ‘ars gettin’ it oop again.”

  “No!” exclaimed Jemmy, running to the window; sure enough it was up, and two horse-keepers were busy securing it with ropes and strong posts.

  Jemmy Lush was half-frantic. He threw the petticoat into the corner, and ran to the garden to embrace his old friend. Little mischief had ensued from its excursion. The rider’s hat had got a cast on one side, and the bit of the horse’s bridle was broken; but there was nothing that Jemmy’s fatherly care would not easily rectify.

  Great was Jemmy’s gratitude. He placed all the cold meat in his larder at Pigg’s disposal, and as the storm abated and the party were about to set off, he insisted upon putting a bottle of brandy into each of Pigg’s pockets. One of them, we are sorry to say, was broken on its journey home, by bumping against the back of his saddle.

  The “Paul Pry” of that week contained a long list of damage and disasters, and Mr. Jorrocks learnt from the heading of the article that he had been out in a “terrible hurricane.”

  In his mem. of the day’s doings in his Journal, he adds this passage from his friend Beckford: —

  “Take not out your ‘ounds on a werry windy day.”

  CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. MARMADUKE MULEYGRUBS.

  TOWARDS THE CLOSE of a winter’s day, a dirty old dog-cart, with “John Jorrocks, M.F.H.” painted up behind, whisked from the turnpike up the well-laurelled drive of Cockolorum Hall.

  The hounds were to meet there in the morning, and Mr. Jorrocks had written to apprise his unknown host of his coming. Being rather late, and having a hack, Mr. Jorrocks had driven a turn faster than usual, and as he cut along the sound drive, the Hall was soon before him.

  It had originally been a large red-fronted farm-house, converted by a second owner into a villa! increased by a third into a hall; while under the auspiees of its present more aspiring master it was fast assuming the appearance of a castle. Massive stone towers, with loop-holed battlements, guarded the corners — imitation guns peered through a heavy iron palisade along the top — while a stone proch, with massive black nailed folding oak doors, stood out from the red walls of the centre. A richly-emblazoned flag, containing the quarterings of many families, floated from the roof.

  Mr. Marmaduke Muleygrubs had been a great stay-maker on Ludgate Hill, and, in addition to his own earnings (by no means inconsiderable), had inherited a large fortune from a great drysalting uncle in Bermondsey. On getting this he cut the shop, bought Cockolorum Hall, and having been a rampant Radical in the City, was rewarded by a J. P.-ship in the country. Mr. Jorrocks knew all about him, though Mr. Muleygrubs did not know he did.

  “Quite genteel, I declare,” said Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing the mansion as he pulled up at the door, and clambered down his vehicle to give the massive bronze helmet-handled bell a pull. “Perfect castle,” added he; “‘opes I shalln’t get soused,” recollecting his last adventure in one.

  The spacious folding-doors were presently opened by an ill-shaped, clumsy-looking youth, in a gorgeous suit of state livery, and a starched neck-cloth, so broad and so stiff as perfectly to pillorise him. A quantity of flour concealed the natural colour of his wild matted hair, while the ruddiness of a healthy complexion was heightened by a bright orange-coloured coat, with a white worsted shoulder-knot dangling at the side. His waistcoat was a broad blue and white stripe, breeches of scarlet plush, and white silk stockings, rather the worse for wear, as appeared by the darning up the calf; stoutish shoes, with leather strings, completed the costume of this figure footman.

  “Now, young man!” said Mr. Jorrocks in his usual free-and-easy way, “Now, young man! jest stand by my nag while I takes out my traps, for I harn’t brought no grum. — See, now,” continued he, pulling out the gig-seat, “put that i’ my bed-room, and jest give them ’ere tops a rub over for the mornin’,” producing a pair of mud-stained boots that he had worn the last day’s hunting; “it wern’t no use bringin’ a clean pair,” observed he, half to himself and half to the servant, “for they’d a’ got crumpled i’ the comin’ and those won’t take no more cleanin’. Now, where’s the stable? Love me, love my ‘oss,” continued he, adjusting the reins in the territs, and preparing to lead round.

  “That way,” said stiff-neck, extending his left arm like the wand of a telegraph, as he stood with the dirty top-boots in the other, saying which he wheeled about, and re-entered the house, leaving Mr. Jorrocks to find his way as he could.

  “Ah, never mind,” said the worthy man to himself, seeing he was gone, “if I could find the ‘ouse, be bund I can find the stable;” saying which he turned his vehicle round, and following the old wheelmarks on the gravel, was very soon in the stable-yard at the back of the castle.

  Here he found another youth in red plush breeches and white silk stockings, washing his face at the cistern, purifying himself from the stable preparatory to appearing in the parlour.

  “Here, young man,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “jest put up my ‘oss afore ever you start to adorn yourself; and if you take well care of him, I’ll give you ‘alf-a-crown i’ the mornin’. He’s a clipped ‘un, and won’t take no cleanin’,” continued he, eyeing the smoking, curly-coated brute, and wondering whether the chap would believe him or not.

  This matter being arranged, Mr. Jorrocks ferreted his way back to the front, and, opening the door, passed through the green folding ones of the porch, and entered a hall beyond. This was fitted up in the baronial style. Above a spacious mantel-piece, occupying about a third of the apartment, branched an enormous stag’s head, hung round with pistols, swords, cutlasses, and warlike weapons of various kinds, and the walls were covered with grim-visaged warriors, knights in armour, and ladies of bygone days. Many had their names painted in white at the bottom of the pictures, or done in black on the various patterned frames: there was Sir Martin Muleygrubs, and Dame Juliana Muleygrubs, and Darius Muleygrubs, and Erasmus Muleygrubs, and Memnon Muleygrubs, and Pericles Muleygrubs, and Demosthenes Muleygrubs, and John Thomas Muleygrubs.

  “Such a lot of stay-makers!” as Mr. Jorrocks observed.

  A full-length figure of Nemesis, the goddess of justice with her balance in one hand and whip in the other, hung over a richly-carved, high-back, old oak chair; and on a table near were ranged Burns’s “Justice,” “Statutes at Large,” Archbold’s “Magistrate’s Pocket-book,” and other emblems of the law.

  “The chap must be a beak!” said Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself, as be glanced them over.

  The fire threw a cheerful gleam over the baronial hall, and our master, having hung his hat on the stag’s horns, and deposited his Siphonia on the table, took a coat-lap over each arm, and, establishing himself with his back to the fire, proceeded to hum what he considered a tune. His melody was interrupted by the partial opening and closing of a door on the right, followed by a lisping exclamation of— “Oh, ma! here’s Kitey come again!” A “Hush, my dear,” and scuttling along the passage, reminded Mr. Jorrocks that he was not at home, so, dropping his tails; and pulling his wig straight, he made for the recently opened door.

  This let him into a passage, lighted with flickering, ill-established lamps, along which he kept till he came to a pink sheep-skin mat before a door, at which he paused, and presently turning off, he entered a room, in which he found a lady and a bunch of excited children. The former rose, and concluding she would be the “missis,” Mr. Jorrocks tendered the hand of fellowship, and then gave each child a chuck under the chin; nor was he wrong in his conjecture, fo
r Mrs. Marmaduke Muleygrubs immediately began apologising for the absence of her lord.

  “Duke,” she said, “was unfortunately engaged at that moment with some important justice business” — (decanting the wine).

  Mr. Jorrocks “‘Oped his grace wouldn’t ‘urry himself.”

  “It was very provoking,” she continued, without regarding Mr. Jorrocks’s observation; “but the whole country came to him for justice, and Duke could hardly be said to have a moment to himself. Every Saturday he was engaged the whole day on the bench, and at the Poor-Law Guardians, but she hoped before long they would find some more people fit to make magistrates of, for really it was taxing ability rather too highly. Not but that Duke’s affection for the Queen would prompt him to serve her as long as he could, but—” Just as she had got so far, the door opened, and Duke himself appeared, smoothing down his cuffs after the exercise of his magisterial functions.

  He was a little, round-about, pot-bellied, red-faced, bald-headed, snub-nosed, chattering chap, who, at first sight, would give one the idea of being very good-natured, if it were not notorious that he was the most meddling, officious, ill-conditioned little beggar in the county.

  He was dressed in one of the little nondescript jackets of the day, with a “ditto” waistcoat, drab kerseymeres, and leather leggings. Over his waistcoat he sported a broad mosaic gold chain, made to resemble a country mayor’s as much as possible.

  “Mr. Jorrocks, I presume,” said he, rubbing his fat hands as he advanced up the room.

  “Right!” replied our Master, extending his hand.