by R S Surtees
Bowker eyed Charles intently. Anguish had bleached his cheek, and there was a subdued melancholy in his dark eye that told of intense suffering.
“Rot it, Bill!” exclaimed the smoker, taking the cigar from his mouth, “what’s that rakish old nigger got his fisherman’s boots on for?”
“They’re not boots, they’re his black legs,” replied Mr. Bowker, snappishly. “Don’t you know that a nigger has black legs?” inquired he, in a tone of contempt.
“They look uncommon like boots by this light” replied the smoker, “I wonder you don’t gild his toes to let people see what they are.”
“He’s not a candle-light beauty,” replied Mr. Bowker, carelessly. The smoker threw open his cloak, and jumping up, seated himself on the counter.
“You’re flat old chap!” observed he to Bill, after a long puff— “no jump in you to-night — what’s the matter?”
“Bad tooth-ache,” replied Mr. Bowker, putting his hand to his cheek.
“Poor beggar!” replied the customer, “why don’t you smoke one of your own cigars? It’ll either cure you or make you sick — come, accept the Chiltern Hundreds, and let’s off for the night — Coal Hole, Cider Cellar, Offley’s, or somewhere.”
“I think not, shall return myself for Bedfordshire before long,” replied Mr. Bowker, yawning and stretching his arms — most heartily wishing his customer gone.
In vain Mr. Bowker tried to get rid of him; the smoker was evidently one of those who consider tobacconists public property — bound to find conversation and house-room.
At length he went.
“Mr. Stobbs,” said Bowker hurriedly, as he passed round the counter where Charles sat. and laid his hand upon his arm. “Lend me your ear — I mean, let me have a word with you. You’ll think me a scoundrel, I dare say,” said he, his utterance almost choked, “but if you knew my necessities you’d pity me: I can’t bear to see the misery I’m creating. I know the story about Susan’s all my eye.”
Bill burst into tears.
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Charles, brightening up; “what’s the meaning of it, then?”
Bowker, more composed, proceeded to tell him all. When he came to the end he got so excited, that seizing a wooden roll of pigtail of the counter, he aimed such a blow at Prince Le Boo’s head, as sent it flying through the milkman’s window on the opposite side of the street.
CHAPTER LXXIV. MR. JORROCKS TAKING HIS OTIUM CUM DIGGING A TATY.
NEXT DAY SAW Mr. Bowker and charley Hansoming it to Hoxton to see Mr. Jorrocks, for it was the unanimous opinion of all the common law clerks with whom Bowker associated, that the verdict could not be sustained. Indeed, Mr. Shoestring, Serjeant Mustymug’s clerk, contended that all people were more or less mad on some subject or other, and that it would be quite as consistent to shop Mr. Catchball for constant cricketing, or Mr. Troller for fishing, as Mr. Jorrocks for hunting. Altogether, this great legal luminary, a far greater man than his master, was of opinion that the verdict would not hold water. An application to the Chancellor was recommended.
After much parleying and bullying from Mr. Bowker, and liberal allusion to Mr. Perceval, and the Lunatics’ Friend Society, they at length got admission, and found our old friend much as a pent-up fox-hunter might be expected to be. He had been digging potatoes in the garden, and as they had deprived him of his wig, he had supplied its place with a red pocket-handkerchief.
“Now this is werry kind o’ you!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, running to receive them, “werry kind indeed,” continued he, jumping about on one leg, exhibiting a pair of clogs in which he had been digging; “these are most comfortless quarters. I’ve had nobody to talk to,” continued he, “since I came here, except you poor booby among the cabbages, and a most uneasy companion he is. Thinks he’s made o’ glass, and that the buoys are shyin’ stones at him. I tells him, he’d better be mad upon ‘unting than mad upon such nonsense as that — haw! haw! haw! But come, sit down — make yourselves at ‘ome, in fact, and tell me the news o’ the willage. — Trade brisk or only middlin’?”
Thus Mr. Jorrocks rattled on in his usual strain, first on one subject, then on another, and not always waiting for an answer to his questions.
Of course Dr. — maintained he was mad. He had lucid intervals certainly, but as soon as ever the subject of hunting was mentioned, off he went at a tangent. Charles said he had seen many men that way, and the doctor’s eyes glistened, for he thought he’d like to fill his house with them: call it the “United Fox-hunters’ Asylum,” or some such name.
Mr. Bowker rather disconcerted him, when he hinted that he would like the Chancellor to see Mr. Jorrocks; and when he proclaimed himself to be a gentleman of the law, and talked about a “habeas corpus,” the doctor’s countenance fell amazingly.
After much shuffling backwards and forwards work, many protestations from the mad doctor, that the indiscretion of his friends would very materially retard, if not altogether prevent, Mr. Jorrocks’s recovery, the solicitors at length agreed upon requesting a private examination by the Chancellor, which was kindly vouchsafed, his lordship having been struck by the perusal of the proceedings as published in the newspapers, and having, moreover, some little curiosity to see the distinguished subject of the inquiry.
Accordingly it was arranged that Mr. Jorrocks should wait in his lordship’s private room for the rising of his court. Thither our friend went, accompanied only by his partner, Mr. Simpkins, and Charley Stobbs. Mr. Bowker presented them with great dignity to the usher, and returned to old Twister. The court sat late. His lordship’s trainbearer lent them a newspaper, and, stirring the fire, advised them to sit round, and make themselves comfortable.
Accordingly they did.
Several people looked in upon them; — a footman, an usher, a laundress, but nobody seemed inclined to stay.
Towards dusk a gentleman, with a singularly pleasing expression of countenance, who seemed more at home in the apartment than any of his predecessors had been, entered the room.
“Is Mr. Jorrocks here?” asked he, after surveying the party by the fire.
“Mr. Jorrocks is here!” replied our hero, getting up.
“Don’t let me disturb you, pray,” rejoined the gentleman, bowing, and motioning Mr. Jorrocks to be seated. Our friend, however, being up, took a coat-lap over each arm, and turning his back to the fire confronted the enterer.
“Coolish evening, this, Mr. Jorrocks,” observed the gentleman, rubbing his hands as he approached the fire; “I hope your accommodation is comfortable at Hoxton?”
“Any thing but,” replied Mr. Jorrocks; “at least I shall be werry glad to let you have it if you like. Can’t even get a seidletz-pooder without an order from the Chancellor.”
The gentleman smiled. “Rather be in the City, perhaps, among your bills and your books; — do you know how the funds are?”
“Indeed I don’t, replied Mr. Jorrocks; “consols were at ninety-two and a quarter when they shopped me; don’t know what they may be now, wot with the weather and Nicholas Rumenough’s wagaries,” adding half to himself and half to his interrogator, “wish I could send Pigg over to fight him.”
“You understand money matters, I suppose.” observed the gentleman.
“Can you tell me the difference between discount and interest?”
“I should think so,” replied Mr. Jorrocks. “Catch a merchant not understandin’ that. Discount’s a premium paid in ‘and for the loan of money for a time yet to come, and the chap wot gets the discount can lend the discount out again, while the chap wot gets the interest has to wait his time afore he has it to lend.”
“They feed you pretty well where you are, I suppose?”
Mr. Jorrocks.— “Tol-lol — mutton! mutton! — toujours mutton, as we say in France.”
“What! mutton every day? Can you tell me how many legs a sheep has?”
“Dead or alive?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks.
“They say you are mad about hunting, I underst
and,” observed the gentleman after a laugh at Mr. Jorrocks’s acuteness.
“Ah,— ‘unting’s the thing” — exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks— “the sport of kings — but, however, never mind, we won’t talk about that,” added he, checking himself, and saying, “I wish the old gentleman would come.”
“I suppose hunting’s a fine amusement,” observed the gentleman, after a pause. “Did you ever hunt with the stag-hounds?”
“Once,” replied Mr. Jorrocks. “Once, I should think, would be enough for any body.”
“How so? I thought they were popular.”
“They may, but I thinks nothin’ of them. The fox is the thing! Confound it! There goes,” observed Mr. Jorrocks aloud to himself.— “Well, never mind, I’ll tell you something,” continued he, after a pause—”’Unting exemplifies wot the grammarians call the three degrees of comparison: — stag-unting is positively bad, ‘are-’unting is comparatively good, and fox-’unting superlatively so. There’s a wrinkle for ye! Haw, haw, haw. I’ll give ye another,” continued he, “as you seem a goodish sort o’ chap. If ever you keep ‘ounds,” said he putting his forefinger to his nose, and winking his right eye, “if ever you keep ‘ounds, always ‘ave a year’s meal in advance. Old goes ‘alf as far again as new.”
“Your lordship’s carriage is at the door,” announced a footman in undress livery.
“My vig!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, starting; “have I been talking all this nonsense to the Chancellor? Oh, dear! oh, dear!” countinued he, wringing his hands and stamping, “wot a confounded old jackass I am! Dash my vig!” I don’t think I shall ever grow wiser.”
“Don’t alarm yourself, my good friend,” observed the Chancellor, mildly; “I am glad to have seen you in this way, for it has given me an opportunity of judging how you are. You may be an enthusiast; but I think, sir,” turning to the doctor, “Mr. Jorrocks seems perfectly able to do without your assistance, and I should recommend your letting him go home quietly from here,” so saying, his lordship bowed and retired.
“Dash my vig! but that’s somethin’ like a Chancellor!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, as his lordship got out of hearing; and seizing the mad doctor with one hand, and desiring Charley to take him by the other, they danced three reels with him till the mad doctor could dance no longer. Mr. Jorrocks then having kicked out the mad doctor’s hat-crown, politely placed the remains on his head and shoved him out of the door. Joining arms with Bowker, who had now returned, and Stobbs, he then strutted away most consequentially for Great Coram Street — just as they did on the first night of Charles’s introduction.
“Now,” said he, when he got to the Hunter Street turn, producing his sneck-key as he spoke, “we’ll give ’em an agreeable surprise.”
Having arrived at the Great Coram Street door, he gently opened the latch, and motioning them to enter on tiptoe, as quietly closed the door after him.
There was a solitary candle in the passage, and a strong smell of dinner below. Knives and forks were going in the parlour.
He gently opened the door. There sat Mrs. Jorrocks, in a fine red and gold turban, at the top of the table, Belinda with her back to the door, and Captain Doleful in the host’s chair, in the act of diving a fork into the breast of a boiled turkey.— “Holloa! you old bald-faced baboon!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, an exclamation that caused Captain Doleful to drop his fork, his whiskers to fall from his face, and Mrs. Jorrocks to swoon on the floor.
Jorrocks then installed himself in his rightful position, and insisted on Doleful staying to see “ow ‘appy they would all be.” And werry ‘appy J. got, so ‘appy that he didn’t know when Doleful went away, or how he got to bed himself.
Doleful was desperately dejected and took to his bed at Handley Cross as if he would never leave it again. At last he got up, but only to fall into another snare. Let us take a fresh chapter to detail it in.
CHAPTER LXXV. DOLEFUL AT SUIT BRANTINGHAME.
MR. JORROCKS’S EARLY, but unseen friend, Sir Archy Depecarde, had a sister, one Mrs. Brantinghame, for whom he was anxious to do something at somebody-else’s expense, and hearing of Doleful’s disappointment, he bethought him it was the very time to fix a wife upon him, knowing that when a man has made up his mind to commit matrimony, he will often take up with the next best chance that offers, rather than go without a wife. Accordingly, Sir Archy despatched the following laconic to Droppingfall Wells, where Mrs. Brantinghame was staying:
“Try Misers. Doleful, at Handley Cross.”
And as soon as ever her week was up at the Wells, she flew on the wings of steam to our renowned Spa, accompanied by her only remaining unmarried daughter, Louisa Letitia Carolina Jemima, for Mrs. Brantinghame had been most particular in loading all her daughters with names, well knowing the agreeable expectations such repletion engenders.
To Captain Doleful, Sir Archy wrote as follows: —
“Pluckwelle Park.
“Dear Captain Doleful,
“My sister, Mrs. Brantinghame, purposes paying a visit to your Spa, to consult our friend, Dr. Mello, and any attention you can show her will be gratefully acknowledged by
“Dear Captain Doleful,
“Your’s, very truly,
“Archibald Depecarde.”
And the captain, albeit out of humour with the sex, on receipt of the note, began perking and simpering himself up, and when he heard of the widow’s arrival at her nice six guinea a-week house, in Acacia Crescent, having given her time to shake out her feathers and get settled, he put on his best grin, and went mincing and picking his way, taking care of his Molière shoes, to pay his respects.
We may here mention that Sir Archy had furthered the design, by lending Mrs. Brantinghame his butler and footman, who were out at grass on board wages, at his expense, while he reconnoitered some minor watering-places, incog., in the west, a country that he knew the wise men did not come from, so that, what with the six guinea a-week house, the butler, the footman, the powder, the plate, Mrs. Brantinghame’s three hundred a year, looked like as many thousands. We say plate, for Sir Archy lent a becoming quantity of that too, together with some most unimpeachable looking linen and glass, for a gambler always has the best of everything, everything at least that contributes to outward show and adornment. We will now suppose our innocent captain approaching the well-set snare.
His resolute ring at the visitors’ bell, was speedily answered by a smart well powdered, well put on footman, in brown and black plush, who was quickly seconded by a portly £50-a-year-at-least looking butler, who politely bowing an admission that his mistress was at home, proceeded to conduct our hero up the gaudily carpetted stair-case, to the presence chamber.
“Capting Doleful, I b’live,” smiled the obsequious butler, who had taken in and let out many a gambling victim for his master. “Capting Doleful, I b’live,” repeated he, in the most deferential tone, as he paused upon the flossy pink sheepskin mat, on the landing outside the door, that as yet shut out the view of the terra incognita, upon which our adventurous traveller was about to enter. What a region is that same matrimonial wilderness of undiscovered connection, of which no man’s imagination has ever depicted the reality!
“Captain Doleful,” assented our visitor, as the man opened the cream-coloured door by its flowered handle.
“Capting Doleful, Miss,” announced he, softly, over the swelling bust of a lady, apparently engaged at her writing-desk; but in reality arranged so as to show the luxuriant rolls of her double-banded brown hair, and the delicate whiteness of her swan-like neck, before her face and general features. All women have some point on which they more particularly pride themselves, and Miss Brantinghame went on her figure and complexion. She had carried Rapin’s quarto edition of the History of England, with Marco Polo’s travels atop, on her head, till she was as straight and erect as a dairymaid, or a Fulham strawberry-carrying woman.
Having kept her position sufficiently long to enable her to finish the sentence she was writing, she now arose and turned
round, when, in lien of a crumbey old lady, in a cap and false hair, Doleful found himself confronted with a pleasant looking woman, if not an exact beauty, or in the full freshness of youth, at all events one good to look at, who, with a sweet smile, and a stick-out-behind curtsey, begged him to be seated, while she intimated her connection with the house, by an aside, “Tell mamma,” to the butler.
Doleful was dumbfoundered, and wished he had put on his best Poulson and Co. suit, instead of the second-best one he had come in. He required a second smile, and a second stick-out behind curtsey, to induce him to venture on an Elizabethan India japanned chair, that stood appropriately near where the fair lady sat. Miss then put up her papers, glanced at the opposite mirror, felt her side hair, elongated her nose, and arranged her features generally to what she considered captivating pitch, as she turned in her Jenny Lind chair, to do the agreeable to the caller.
The captain noted a pretty foot, a taper hand, and saw a delicately white well-turned arm up the accommodating width of her sky-blue jacket sleeve. He didn’t care if mamma didn’t come for an hour. Miss, on her part, though she thought the captain older and more wrinkly than she expected, and not to be compared, in point of looks, either to Peter Bullock, to whom she was then engaged, or Captain Capers, whom she had jilted in Peter’s favour, felt that Doleful was infinitely their superior in point of wealth and station, and that a pair of proudly-stepping greys would amply compensate for the few envious gray streaks she saw scattered through his straggling hair. She therefore pointed a toe, arranged the heavy manacles on her arms, and placing her pretty hands becomingly on her smart blue spotted muslin dress, opened volubly upon him about the weather. The captain chimed in, and having speedily exhausted that interesting subject, they adjourned to the Crystal Palace, at Sydenham, whose magic wonders soon afforded our fair friend an opportunity of expressing a regret that she had not a brother to take her there, adding, with a half suppressed sigh, something about “only children,” which fell very gratefully on the grinning captain’s ear. She would like to go to Sydenham every day — Oh! she should so like to go to Sydenham every day — She would like to go through all the Courts, and all the galleries, and all the walks, and all the lobster-salad places, and she soon talked herself into a perfect glow of animation. The captain sat in ecstasies, thinking how much pleasanter it was to be courted than to have the up-hill game he had had with Belinda — Belinda be banged, thought he. Here was a lady infinitely her superior, and not much behind her in looks, at least, not when the looks were directed at him. She was more of a woman, too. Her figure was fuller and more developed, her hair as bright and glossy, her teeth as pearly, while her animated conversation soon imparted a lustre to her greyish blue eyes, and threw a gentle flush o’er her otherwise pallid cheeks, that chased away what ill-natured people would call lines. Altogether Doleful soon began to think he had lit on his legs. The sears of his old heart began to heal. Miss Brantinghame for ever! chuckled he. Now for mamma.