by R S Surtees
‘‘Deed you can’t,’ replied the dame— ‘ye can see nebody but me,’ added she, fixing her twinkling eyes intently upon him as she spoke.
‘Well, that’s a pretty go,’ observed Mr. Sponge aloud to himself, ringing his spurs against his stirrup-irons.
‘Pretty go or ugly go,’ snapped the woman, thinking it was a reflection on herself, ‘it’s all you’ll get’; and thereupon she gave the back of the chair a hearty bastinadoing as if in exemplification of the way she would like to serve Mr. Sponge out for the observation.
‘I came here thinking to get some breakfast,’ observed Mr. Sponge, casting an eye upon the disordered table, and reconnoitring the bottles and the remains of the dessert.
‘Did you?’ said the woman; ‘I wish you may get it.’
‘I wish I may,’ replied he. ‘If you would manage that for me, just some coffee and a mutton chop or two, I’d remember you,’ said he, still tantalizing her with the sound of the silver in his pocket.
‘Me manish it!’ exclaimed the woman, her hopes again rising at the sound; ‘me manish it! how d’ye think I’m to manish sich things?’ asked she.
‘Why, get at the cook, or the housekeeper, or somebody,’ replied Mr. Sponge.
‘Cook or housekeeper!’ exclaimed she. ‘There’ll be no cook or housekeeper astir here these many hours yet; I question,’ added she, ‘they get up to-day.’
‘What! they’ve been put to bed too, have they?’ asked he.
‘W-h-y no — not zactly that,’ drawled the woman; ‘but when sarvants are kept up three nights out of four, they must make up for lost time when they can.’
‘Well,’ mused Mr. Sponge, ‘this is a bother, at all events; get no breakfast, lose my hunt, and perhaps a billet into the bargain. Well, there’s sixpence for you, my good woman,’ said he at length, drawing his hand out of his pocket and handing her the contents through the window; adding, ‘don’t make a beast of yourself with it.’
‘It’s nabbut fourpence,’ observed the woman, holding it out on the palm of her hand.
‘Ah, well, you’re welcome to it whatever it is,’ replied our friend, turning his horse to go away. A thought then struck him. ‘Could you get me a pen and ink, think you?’ asked he; ‘I want to write a line to Sir Harry.’
‘Pen and ink!’ replied the woman, who had pocketed the groat and resumed her dusting; ‘I don’t know where they keep no such things as penses and inkses.’
‘Most likely in the drawing-room or the sitting-room, or perhaps in the butler’s pantry,’ observed Mr. Sponge.
‘Well, you can come in and see,’ replied the woman, thinking there was no occasion to give herself any more trouble for the fourpenny-piece.
Our worthy friend sat on his horse a few seconds staring intently into the dining-room window, thinking that lapse of time might cause the fourpenny-piece to be sufficiently respected to procure him something like directions how to proceed as well to get rid of his horse, as to procure access to the house, the door of which stood frowningly shut. In this, however, he was mistaken, for no sooner had the woman uttered the words, ‘Well, you can come in and see,’ than she flaunted into the interior of the room, and commenced a regular series of assaults upon the furniture, throwing the hearth-rug over one chair back, depositing the fire-irons in another, rearing the steel fender up against the Carrara marble chimney-piece, and knocking things about in the independent way that servants treat unoffending furniture, when master and mistress are comfortably esconced in bed. ‘Flop’ went the duster again; ‘bang’ went the furniture; ‘knock’ this chair went against that, and she seemed bent upon putting all things into that happy state of sixes and sevens that characterizes a sale of household furniture, when chairs mount tables, and the whole system of domestic economy is revolutionized. Seeing that he was not going to get anything more for his money, our friend at length turned his horse and found his way to the stables by the unerring drag of carriage-wheels. All things there being as matters were in the house, he put the redoubtable nag into a stall, and helped him to a liberal measure of oats out of the well-stored unlocked corn-bin. He then sought the back of the house by the worn flagged-way that connected it with the stables. The back yard was in the admired confusion that might be expected from the woman’s account. Empty casks and hampers were piled and stowed away in all directions, while regiments of champagne and other bottles stood and lay about among blacking bottles, Seltzer-water bottles, boot-trees, bath-bricks, old brushes, and stumpt-up besoms. Several pair of dirty top-boots, most of them with the spurs on, were chucked into the shoe-house just as they had been taken off. The kitchen, into which our friend now entered, was in the same disorderly state. Numerous copper pans stood simmering on the charcoal stoves, and the jointless jack still revolved on the spit. A dirty slip-shod girl sat sleeping, with her apron thrown over her head, which rested on the end of a table. The open door of the servants’ hall hard by disclosed a pile of dress and other clothes, which, after mopping up the ale and other slops, would be carefully folded and taken back to the rooms of their respective owners.
DOMESTIC ECONOMY OF NONSUCH HOUSE
‘Halloo!’ cried Mr. Sponge, shaking the sleeping girl by the shoulder, which caused her to start up, stare, and rub her eyes in wild affright. ‘Halloo!’ repeated he, ‘what’s happened you?’
‘Oh, beg pardon, sir!’ exclaimed she; ‘beg pardon,’ continued she, clasping her hands; ‘I’ll never do so again, sir; no, sir, I’ll never do so again, indeed I won’t.’
She had just stolen a shape of blanc-mange, and thought she was caught.
‘Then show me where I’ll find pen and ink and paper,’ replied our friend.
‘Oh, sir, I don’t know nothin’ about them,’ replied the girl; ‘indeed, sir, I don’t’; thinking it was some other petty larceny he was inquiring about.
‘Well, but you can tell me where to find a sheet of paper, surely?’ rejoined he.
‘Oh, indeed, sir, I can’t,’ replied she; ‘I know nothin’ about nothin’ of the sort.’ Servants never do.
‘What sort?’ asked Mr. Sponge, wondering at her vehemence.
‘Well, sir, about what you said,’ sobbed the girl, applying the corner of her dirty apron to her eyes.
‘Hang it, the girl’s mad,’ rejoined our friend, brushing by, and making for the passage beyond. This brought him past the still-room, the steward’s room, the housekeeper’s room, and the butler’s pantry. All were in most glorious confusion; in the latter, Captain Cutitfat’s lacquer-toed, lavender-coloured dress-boots were reposing in the silver soup tureen, and Captain Bouncey’s varnished pumps were stuffed into a wine-cooler. The last detachment of empty bottles stood or lay about the floor, commingling with boot-jacks, knife-trays, bath-bricks, coat-brushes, candle-end boxes, plates, lanterns, lamp-glasses, oil bottles, corkscrews, wine-strainers — the usual miscellaneous appendages of a butler’s pantry. All was still and quiet; not a sound, save the loud ticking of a timepiece, or the occasional creak of a jarring door, disturbed the solemn silence of the house. A nimble-handed mugger or tramp might have carried off whatever he liked.
Passing onward, Mr. Sponge came to a red-baized, brass-nailed door, which, opening freely on a patent spring, revealed the fine proportions of a light picture-gallery with which the bright mahogany doors of the entertaining rooms communicated. Opening the first door he came to, our friend found himself in the elegant drawing-room, on whose round bird’s-eye-maple table, in the centre, were huddled all the unequal-lengthed candles of the previous night’s illumination. It was a handsome apartment, fitted up in the most costly style; with rose-colour brocaded satin damask, the curtains trimmed with silk tassel fringe, and ornamented with massive bullion tassels on cornices, Cupids supporting wreaths under an arch, with open carved-work and enrichments in burnished gold. The room, save the muster of the candles, was just as it had been left; and the richly gilt sofa still retained the indentations of the sitters, with the luxurious down pillows, left
as they had been supporting their backs.
The room reeked of tobacco, and the ends and ashes of cigars dotted the tables and white marble chimney-piece, and the gilt slabs and the finely flowered Tournay carpet, just as the fires of gipsies dot and disfigure the fair face of a country. Costly china and nick-nacks of all sorts were scattered about in profusion. Altogether, it was a beautiful room.
‘No want of money here,’ said Mr. Sponge to himself, as he eyed it, and thought what havoc Gustavus James would make among the ornaments if he had a chance.
He then looked about for pen, ink, and paper. These were distributed so wide apart as to show the little request they were in. Having at length succeeded in getting what he wanted gathered together, Mr. Sponge sat down on the luxurious sofa, considering how he should address his host, as he hoped. Mr. Sponge was not a shy man, but, considering the circumstances under which he made Sir Harry Scattercash’s acquaintance, together with his design upon his hospitality — above all, considering the crew by whom Sir Harry was surrounded — it required some little tact to pave the way without raising the present inmates of the house against him. There are no people so anxious to protect others from robbery as those who are robbing them themselves. Mr. Sponge thought, and thought, and thought. At last he resolved to write on the subject of the hounds. After sundry attempts on pink, blue, and green-tinted paper, he at last succeeded in hitting off the following, on yellow:
‘NONSUCH HOUSE.
‘Dear sir harry, — I rode over this morning, hearing you were to hunt, and am sorry to find you indisposed. I wish you would drop me a line to Mr. Crowdey’s, Puddingpote Bower, saying when next you go out, as I should much like to have another look at your splendid pack before I leave this country, which I fear will have to be soon. — Yours in haste,
‘H. SPONGE.
‘P.S. — I hope you all got safe home the other night from Mr. Peastraw’s.’
Having put this into a richly gilt and embossed envelope, our friend directed it conspicuously to Sir Harry Scattercash, Bart., and stuck it in the centre of the mantelpiece. He then retraced his steps through the back regions, informing the sleeping beauty he had before disturbed, and who was now busy scouring a pan, that he had left a letter in the drawing-room for Sir Harry, and if she would see that he got it, he (Mr. Sponge) would remember her the next time he came, which he inwardly hoped would be soon. He then made for the stable, and got his horse, to go home, sauntering more leisurely along than one would expect of a man who had not got his breakfast, especially one riding a hack hunter.
The truth was, Mr. Sponge did not much like the aspect of affairs. Sir Harry’s was evidently a desperately ‘fast’ house; added to which, the guests by whom he was surrounded were clearly of the wide-awake order, who could not spare any pickings for a stranger. Indeed, Mr. Sponge felt that they rather cold-shouldered him at Farmer Peastraw’s, and were in a greater hurry to be off when the drag came, than the mere difference between inside and outside seats required. He much questioned whether he got into Sir Harry’s at all. If it came to a vote, he thought he should not. Then, what was he to do? Old Jog was clearly tired of him; and he had nowhere else to go to. The thought made him stick spurs into the chestnut, and hurry home to Puddingpote Bower, where he endeavoured to soothe his host by more than insinuating that he was going on a visit to Nonsuch House. Jog inwardly prayed that he might.
CHAPTER LVII
THE DEBATE
IT WAS JUST as Mr. Sponge predicted with regard to his admission to Nonsuch House. The first person who spied his note to Sir Harry Scattercash was Captain Seedeybuck, who, going into the drawing-room, the day after Mr. Sponge’s visit, to look for the top of his cigar-case, saw it occupying the centre of the mantelpiece. Having mastered its contents, the Captain refolded and placed it where he found it, with the simple observation to himself of— ‘That cock won’t fight.’
Captain Quod saw it next, then Captain Bouncey, who told Captain Cutitfat what was in it, who agreed with Bouncey that it wouldn’t do to have Mr. Sponge there.
Indeed, it seemed agreed on all hands that their party rather wanted weeding than increasing.
Thus, in due time, everybody in the house knew the contents of the note save Sir Harry, though none of them thought it worth while telling him of it. On the third morning, however, as the party were assembling for breakfast, he came into the room reading it.
‘This (hiccup) note ought to have been delivered before,’ observed he, holding it up.
‘Indeed, my dear,’ replied Lady Scattercash, who was sitting gloriously fine and very beautiful at the head of the table, ‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Who is it from?’ asked brother Bob Spangles.
‘Mr. (hiccup) Sponge,’ replied Sir Harry.
‘What a name!’ exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck.
‘Who is he?’ asked Captain Quod.
‘Don’t know,’ replied Sir Harry; ‘he writes to (hiccup) about the hounds.’ ‘Oh, it’ll be that brown-booted buffer,’ observed Captain Bouncey, ‘that we left at old Peastraw’s.’
‘No doubt,’ assented Captain Cutitfat, adding, ‘what business has he with the hounds?’
‘He wants to know when we are going to (hiccup) again,’ observed Sir Harry.
‘Does he?’ replied Captain Seedeybuck. ‘That, I suppose, will depend upon Watchorn.’
The party now got settled to breakfast, and as soon as the first burst of appetite was appeased, the conversation again turned upon our friend Mr. Sponge.
‘Who is this Mr. Sponge?’ asked Captain Bouncey, the billiard-marker, with the air of a thorough exclusive.
Nobody answered.
‘Who’s your friend?’ asked he of Sir Harry direct.
‘Don’t know,’ replied Sir Harry, from between the mouthfuls of a highly cayenned grill.
‘P’raps a bolting betting-office keeper,’ suggested Captain Ladofwax, who hated Captain Bouncey.
‘He looks more like a glazier, I think,’ retorted Captain Bouncey, with a look of defiance at the speaker.
‘Lucky if he is one,’ retorted Captain Ladofwax, reddening up to the eyes; ‘he may have a chance of repairing somebody’s daylights.’ The captain raising his saucer, to discharge it at his opponent’s head.
‘Gently with the cheney!’ exclaimed Lady Scattercash, who was too much used to such scenes to care about the belligerents. Bob Spangles caught Ladofwax’s arm at the nick of time, and saved the saucer.
‘Hout! you (hiccup) fellows are always (hiccup)ing,’ exclaimed Sir Harry. ‘I declare I’ll have you both (hiccup)ed over to keep the peace.’
They then broke out into wordy recrimination and abuse, each declaring that he wouldn’t stay a day longer in the house if the other remained; but as they had often said so before, and still gave no symptoms of going, their assertion produced little effect upon anybody. Sir Harry would not have cared if all his guests had gone together. Peace and order being at length restored, the conversation again turned upon Mr. Sponge.
‘I suppose we must have another (hiccup) hunt soon,’ observed Sir Harry.
‘In course,’ replied Bob Spangles; ‘it’s no use keeping the hungry brutes unless you work them.’
‘You’ll have a bagman, I presume,’ observed Captain Seedeybuck, who did not like the trouble of travelling about the country to draw for a fox.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Sir Harry; ‘Watchorn will manage all that. He’s always (hiccup) in that line. We’d better have a hunt soon, and then, Mr. (hiccup) Bugles, you can see it.’ Sir Harry addressing himself to a gentleman he was as anxious to get rid of as Mr. Jogglebury Crowdey was to get rid of Mr. Sponge.’
‘No; Mr. Bugles won’t go out any more,’ replied Lady Scattercash peremptorily. ‘He was nearly killed last time’; her ladyship casting an angry glance at her husband, and a very loving one on the object of her solicitude.
‘Oh, nought’s never in danger!’ observed Bob Spangles.
‘Then you can
go, Bob,’ snapped his sister.
‘I intend,’ replied Bob.
‘Then (hiccup), gentlemen, I think I’ll just write this Mr. (hiccup) What’s-his-name to (hiccup) over here,’ observed Sir Harry, ‘and then he’ll be ready for the (hiccup) hunt whenever we choose to (hiccup) one.’
The proposition fell still-born among the party.
‘Don’t you think we can do without him?’ at last suggested Captain Seedeybuck.
‘I think so,’ observed the elder Spangles, without looking up from his plate.
‘Who is it?’ asked Lady Scattercash.
‘The man that was here the other morning — the man in the queer chestnut-coloured boots,’ replied Mr. Orlando Bugles.
‘Oh, I think he’s rather good-looking; I vote we have him,’ replied her ladyship.
That was rather a damper for Sir Harry; but upon reflection, he thought he could not be worse off with Mr. Sponge and Mr. Bugles than he was with Mr. Bugles alone; so, having finished a poor appetiteless breakfast, he repaired to what he called his ‘study,’ and with a feeble, shaky hand, scrawled an invitation to Mr. Sponge to come over to Nonsuch House, and take his chance of a run with his hounds. He then sealed and posted the letter without further to do.
CHAPTER LVIII
FACEY ROMFORD
FOUR DAYS HAD now elapsed since Mr. Sponge penned his overture to Sir Harry, and each succeeding day satisfied him more of the utter impossibility of holding on much longer in his then billet at Puddingpote Bower. Not only was Jog coarse and incessant in his hints to him to be off, but Jawleyford-like he had lowered the standard of entertainment so greatly, that if it hadn’t been that Mr. Sponge had his servant and horses kept also, he might as well have been living at his own expense. The company lights were all extinguished; great, strong-smelling, cauliflower-headed moulds, that were always wanting snuffing, usurped the place of Belmont wax; napkins were withdrawn; second-hand table-cloths introduced; marsala did duty for sherry; and the stickjaw pudding assumed a consistency that was almost incompatible with articulation.