Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  The home inspection over, then came the light dust-protecting coverings, and the passage to the carriages, with the gathering of crinoline, and squeezing sideways through the narrow doors to the amusement of the bystanders, who wonder how such dresses are ever ‘o be pushed in. Careful butlers who have delegated their authority o the footmen for the day, aid in the cram; and then as the carriages drive off, stand straddling, hands in trousers’ pockets, on the door-steps, with upturned chins, half wondering if it is going to rain. “Might as well have put an umbrella into the rumble,” thinks one. “Very odd if it should come rain to-day, the only one on which I’ve let ‘our people’ go without their umbrellas,” mutters another. “Might as well have put the cloaks and Macintoshes in,” thinks a third, as he gets a whiff of an unsavoury sewer, with which reflections they turn on their heels, close the doors, and retire to their respective apartments. Rosa and Mamma went away about the same time as before, Miss, munificent in white muslin, with cherry-coloured ribbons, and the prettiest of French chip bonnets, trimmed with bouquets formed of the blossom of the cherry intermingled with the fruit. We are happy to add, that it set more over the forehead than these apparently useless articles have lately done.

  Away the light-hearted ladies all went, full of the gaiety of coming pleasure, never dimming their happiness with the dulness of doubt. If the still radiant sun was occasionally more scorching than usual, it only raised a pretty parasol, and though the eddying whirl of dust that arose like a drab spectre on Airy Hill might have conjured up fears in the minds of the men, it never does for them to exclaim, when the thinly-clad ladies face danger so gallantly. So all went rolling and riding on in merry serene unconcern, toiling up the same hills, creaking over the same downs, gliding down the same collar easing slopes and descents, over which the reader accompanied us on the former occasion.

  At length Bendlaw Hill is reached, and the Priory-flag is seen flaunting on the now slightly-stirring breeze in the distance. The foremost carriages shoot down the incline, and Baccoman’s looking-glass is again in demand.

  All is much the same as before — buns, baskets, cigar-boxes, bottles, save that a slight murmuring moan resounds through the leaf-ruffled trees. Mrs. Fothergill who has just got herself and daughters revised and shook out, wishes it mayn’t be going to rain.

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” asserts Baccoman, “there’s no fear of that — never saw weather more settled for fine.”

  And just as he spoke a large leech-like drop broke on his rubicund nose, as if to contradict him. Another followed, kissing Miss Spinner’s fair cheek.

  “Only a heat-drop, ma’m — only a heat-drop,” asserts Baccoman, with the greatest effrontery, though he is going on his heels, with slit shoes, for his corns are shooting most painfully.

  Carriage after carriage then set down their fair occupants in quick succession, and the hilarity of the scene seems to increase with the evident decline of the day. It is fast approaching four o’clock, the most critical hour of the whole, and the water-logged sun presents are appearance that is now quite unmistakeable. Still no one likes to give the alarm, and the gaiety continues. Presently a cold blast drives through the ruins, lifting and shaking the ivy, whistling, and losing itself in the towers, in the midst of which the sun retires altogether, and the fast-gathering clouds denote a complete change in the scene. A sort of sullen silence reigns throughout, broken only by occasional laughter, or the letting down of the steps of the carriages bringing company. Still Baccoman persists that there is “nothin’ to be afeared on” — and the suited young ladies titter and giggle, and think there is not either. It is those who pay the milliners’ bills that are generally the most alarmed.

  “There’s lightning!” at length shriek a dozen voices, as a bright blue and yellow flash illumines the scene, and before the fair alarmists can raise their fingers to their ears, a cannonading peal of thunder bursts right over-head, re-echoes, and reiterates itself, and then rolls away into the far-distant hills. There is then a grand rush and scramble to get down into the crypt, and the damp dungeon-like vault is quickly filled with fair prisoners, who go paddling about in their thin shoes, feeling for dry places to stand upon. Ladies’ shoes somehow “never let in wet.”

  “Candles! candles! candles!” is then the cry, but as these are things that nobody ever thinks of bringing to a pic-nic, our visitors are thrown on Baccoman’s scanty stock of dips, who deals them out as if they were gold.

  These they stick in their own grease against the massive pillars and groins of the building, just as reckless grooms stick them against their stable-walls, the dips giving a sort of uncertain light that enables the chaperons to detect the whereabouts of ineligible couples, and yet not to see those that were more appropriately provided. Trust a lady for not seeing when it suits her. But where in this terrible crash is the lovely cherry ribbons, with her faithful admirer Mr. Bunting? Having ambled carelessly over the downs, drawing down the observation, if not the animadversion of the carriage-company, our friend gave his horse to his smart groom to take back just as Mamma and Miss emerged from unwrapping, and as the day left no doubt of what was coming. Fortunately the persevering Mr. Edmiston having succeeded in advertising one of his pocket-siphonias into him, which the prudent, groom had brought, our Mend hurried the ladies down-stairs, and spread it on the floor for them to stand upon, so they were then protected both above and below.

  Meanwhile, crash, hang, crash, goes the roaring reverberating thunder, w-h-i-s-h follows the heavy rain, beating perpendicularly, diagonally, all ways at once, deluging the refectory, and at length causing the accumulated body of bubbling water to find vent down the stairs of the crypt. Then there was a rush of gallant-young gentlemen to stem the coming torrent, and Baccoman’s coat, and Baccoman’s boots, and Baccoman’s body are engaged to resist the intruder. At length they succeed in turning the current across the court-yard, and the fear of drowning is succeeded by a dread of suffocation. Still the storm rages, the wind howls, and the searching rain drives the unprotected servants from buttress to buttress, and from pillar to post, while the unhappy horses stand drooping and ducking under their saturated awning, shaking their heads as if they had all got the megrims. But it is a grand day for Baccoman, who deals out whiskey, rum, gin, hollands, in a way that looks very like imperilling the heads of the drinkers, and with them the safety of those in their Jehu-itical charge. What a drenched sight some of the gaudy footmen present: liquid powder pouring down over their ears on to their laced collars, coat-laps remitting the rain like peacocks’ tails, and the pride of polish wholly obliterated from their puffing shoes. Still, if they were to strip and start home naked, there would be a hue-and-cry after them, because the line would be over the Downs — contra, if the race took place along the shore. However, as few of them find their own clothes, and the clothes of those who do will be none the worse for a washing, they stand it out bravely, laughing at each other, and wondering what their respective “Butlers” would have said if they had been caught in such a storm.

  At length there is a sudden lull. The powder of heaven’s artillery seems exhausted, and a rattling rain descends as if to quench any fallen fire. It beats upon the hard-baked ground with the vigour of fifty thousand shower-baths. The half-drowned rats of servants then surrender themselves to inevitable fate, and no longer court the succour of unsheltering places. The bright green ivy and they get well washed together. The prisoners down in the crypt now breathe more freely, and there is presently a returning anxiety to know how the dresses are — if Miss Merryville’s bonnet is straight, and whether Miss Witchfield has got any of the green damp off the walls, with which she sees other ladies plentifully smeared, on to her new lavender-coloured silk. A sad day it has been for the garments, but worse for the feet, only as pride feels no pain, so ladies never feel damp, and would be dry after walking through a river — provided the road led to a ball. But the extent of the mischief cannot be ascertained until they get unpacked — brought out of the hamper of
the crypt, as it were — and at the first report of a gleam of sunshine being visible, there is the usual hurrying out, that always ends by being caught in the tail-shower. Few people have patience enough to wait till the whole thing is over. This then puts the finishing stroke to the fête, save for those who, like Bunting, could whisper —

  “With thee convening, I,” &c, of whom, of course, there were not enough to keep the thing open. So, after divers twistings and turnings, and wipings and rubbings, and advisings to let it “dry on,” it is determined to give in, and hazy-eyed footmen began to call to drowsy-looking coachmen; and after much confusion of horses, and mistaking of cushions, well-washed but undried carriages began to take up, into which the compressed crinolines pass with much greater ease than they got out. As each succeeding vehicle whips off, Baccoman, like the dying-man’s doctor,

  “Takes his leave with signs of sorrow,

  Despairing of a fête to-morrow.’’

  Meanwhile our friend Mr. Bunting’s pocket siphonia underfoot, and careful protection of Miss Rosa’s generous amplitude from the green of the insidious walls, returning her to-day quite as dry and almost as smart as she descended, and John Thomas having early ensconced himself among the beer and the buns in Baccoman’s shop, there was little anxiety about looking up the pair-of-horse job vehicle that had brought them to the scene. So they stand eyeing each other and the departing company, Miss, looking at Bunting —

  “In side-long glances from her downcast eye,”

  Mr. Bunting thinking she was the greatest beauty he had ever beheld, and wishing his oak-trees might grow to a hundred feet high, and bark be fifty pounds a ton for her sake. At length, and in order not to be last, Mrs. McDermott orders the carriage, intimating that they can take Mr Bunting home if he likes, which of course he does like. So he steps in after Mamma and Miss, amidst knowing nods and winks, and “that’s a case, I think,” from the remaining bystanders. Away they start up the hill.

  “All is now serene,” as the street urchins used to say, or as Mr. Bunting observed,

  “The son has lost his rage: his downward orb

  Shoots nothing now but animating warmth

  And vital lustre; that with various ray

  Lights up the clouds, those beauteous robes of

  Heaven Incessant roll’d into romantic shapes

  The dream of waking fancy!”

  The dull glazy landscape looks as fresh as a newly-varnished picture; the herds and flocks return to their renovated bite, and the birds shake out their plumage and carol to the returning warmth. The cabman alone seems insensible alike to situation and scenery, for he whips and jags his horses along, gathering impetus down one hill to shoot up another, in anything but an accommodating way to his passengers. These gentlemen always think the greatest kindness they can do a person is to drive fast. The consequence of all this unwonted speed is, that our friends are at home long before they could wish; but Mrs. McDermott accommodates matters by proposing that our hero should pic-nic with them. So there is an extemporised dinner, partly hot, partly cold; partly home-made, partly got from Isinglass’s the neighbouring confectioner’s; to all of which Mr. Bunting did ample justice, thinking it was much more rational and comfortable to sit quietly on a chair, with his charmer by his side, than to squeeze into a spidercrawling, sky-canopied recess, with a host of people he did not want to see. And Rosa, being free from the restraint of observing eyes, becomes much more smiling and confiding, so much so, indeed, that when at length Mr. Bunting took his departure, he felt he had nothing to do but propose. And as Perker peeped at him through the area railings, she said he was a deal smarter man than Spink, as she called our other friend — of whom perhaps it is time we were taking some more notice.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

  AMONG THE GRADUAL decline of good old English customs — asking to wine — calling to see instead of to card — keeping birth-days — sending wedding-cake, and so on, we know of none more regrettable than the omission of the old annual haunch of venison. The others may be looked upon as the

  —” world’s regards,

  That soothes though half untrue but there is a fine substantial reality about the haunch that admits of no mistake. You either get a haunch of venison or you don’t; if you do, it promotes conviviality, just as a pack of fox-hounds promotes sport, and you look backward and forward to it as a sort of mile-stone on the highway of pleasure. People remember how jolly they all were at Heartycourt Park, and look forward to being so again when the next haunch comes. Guests will respond to a haunch who will sneer at a “saddle,” though the saddle may be the better eating of the two.

  Among the keepers up of the good old venison-sending custom was His Grace the Puke of Tergiversation, whose better acquaintance the reader will presently make, as the old schoolmaster used to say when ne got a new boy. The Duke had a noble park — fourteen hundred acres of varied grasses — and made a great annual distribution of its produce. For this purpose his Grace’s keeper, Mr. Bagwell, kept a regular table of precedence among men, so that the people — those who gave Bag the proper tip at least — could calculate pretty accurately when the accustomed haunch would come. This enabled them to make their preparations accordingly, see who they owed a dinner to, who was absent that usually came, and consider what new guest should fill the vacant place.

  Among the earliest recipients of the Ducal haunch, we need scarcely say, was his Grace’s banker, Mr. Goldspink; for though no one really wanted or coveted it less, yet, for reasons already indicated, it was deemed good policy to propitiate him. Accordingly one day as our friend was sitting in his little back den of a sweating-room at the bank, now conning his interest-tables, calculating money by the clock, now peeping through a hole he had scratched off the white paint in the lower part of the window, speculating on the means of the various passers-by, those he would trust — those he would not — he saw Mr. Bagwell’s green-and-gold deputy, Mr. Banger, ride into the marketplace on the familiar white pony, with something sticking out of the distended panniers, that immediately struck our banker as destined for him. “Sivin and four’s elivin and sivin’s eighteen, and nine’s twenty-sivin — do believe that’s a haunch of venison a comin’ for me — and fifteen’s forty-two — if it is there’ll be a deuce of an overdraw next — and sivin’s forty-nine — was just going to write to Mr. Acreage to draw his ‘tention to His Grace’s ‘count — and forty-four is ninety-three — its comin’ here, however.” So saying, Mr. Goldspink tinkled his little hand-bell, and told Mr. Scorer, the cashier, to take what was coming, but by no manner of means to let the bearer know he was in.

  So he sat securely in his little retreat, and heard the bump of delivery on the counter and the loitering heels of the purveyor waiting to know if there was anything to go back.

  Having had the satisfaction of seeing him off, he then had the haunch brought into his room, where he held an inquest upon it as it lay on his table. There it was, all right and proper, the orthodox foot attached to show it wasn’t donkey, and a clean parchment label, with his own name regularly esquired, as we all are now-a-days, and the Duke of Tergiversation’s compliments, with the day on which the buck was killed, so that he mightn’t keep it till it was able to walk back of itself. He then took the haunch up by the shank, and found it was heavy, and poked his finger into the fat and approved of that too. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and sixteen’s twenty-sivin,” continued he, drawing back to survey it; “don’t know what to do with it now that I’ve got it,” dry-shaving his double chin with his hand as he spoke; “and fifty-four is eighty-one — would rather he’d paid summut on account — and sivin is eighty-eight — got nobody that I want to give a dinner to — and ninety-nine is a hundred and eighty-si vin — no use makin’ a party on purpose — and fourteen is two hundred and one — better sell it or give it away than do that.”

  When he got the haunch home there was another discussion between Mrs. Goldspink and himself as to what should b
e done with it, both opposing a party on purpose to eat it on account of the expense. “Sivin and four’s elivin, and four’s fifteen — would cost four or fi’ pun, at least — and sivin is twenty-two — what with sweet sauce, puffs, puddins, wine, and what not — and fourteen is thirty-six — besides all our best customers are away — and sivin is forty-three — no use asking a set of second-raters to come — who might think it was a hint they might have ‘commodation — and five is forty-eight — better give it away nor that.” In this view Mrs. Goldspink agreed, and the weather being intensely hot, and their larder none of the coolest, it became a matter of consideration who to pawn it off upon quickly. The Gaythoms of Foxberry Green would be the best people, but then they were in Scotland; and the Wedderbums of Harbinger House always got their haunch about the same time. The Bolters, the Ashcrofts, the Skirvings, the Holleydales, and the Sewells, were severally canvassed, but some exception or other taken to each, and the discussion about came to a period or full stop.