Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Where’s the bell! where’s the ostler’s hell!” exclaimed Crop, looking wistfully round at the wretched, unspouted, red-tiled buildings, so unlike what he had left in the morning.

  “I he the ostler, I be the ostler,” replied Sam, shuffling up to Crop’s knee, adding, “What may you please to want?”

  “Horses put up to he sure,” Replied Crop, wondering at anybody asking such a question.

  “Put up,” repeated Sam, scratching his uncombed head; “put up — whoy he ye goin to stop here?”

  “Why, yes — till my master comes at all events,” replied Crop, muttering “I don’t think we’ll stop long after that.”

  The wretched creature then rubbed his red eyelids, thinking how he could best shuffle through the matter. He was not prepared for anything of the sort — he had a cow and a donkey in the two-stall stable, a Crosskill roller, a sow and pigs, and half a ton of hay in the three-stall one, and the old mare occupied as much of the long stable as was water-tight.

  “If you’d ha’ corn’d yesterday,” said Sam, staring, “I could ha’ done for you nicely.”

  “Well, but I’ve come to-day, so stir yourself and get things ready, for my master will be here in no time,” replied Crop, alighting from the now dejected-looking Owen Ashford, and jumping and shaking the wet out of his clothes as he spoke.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what to do,” continued Sam, looking quite bewildered.

  “Well, you get the osses under cover, and don’t stand staring there like a stuck pig,” rejoined Crop, thinking what a contrast the wretch was to Mr le Measurer, the orthodox head of the Haycock Mews, May Pair. “What have you here?” continued Crop, advancing and opening the door of the two-stall stable—” a cow and a donkey!” exclaimed he, adding, “turn them out and put my osses in ere.” —

  “Well, but where can I put the cow and the ass?” asked Sam.

  “Put them where you please,” replied Crop, entering and turning them out himself. He then led Owen Ashford is, and the Exquisite followed of his own accord. It was a sad, dirty, cob-webby place, but anything was better than the door on such a day as this. So Crop got them into their stalls, and fastened them up by the heads. “Now where’s the man of the house — the Markis of Cornwallis — to be found?” inquired he, returning to the door and dashing the wet from his hat on to the ground.

  “The man o’ the house is a woman,” replied Sam, grinning at his own wit.

  “What, a Marchioness is it?” rejoined Crop, equally sharp.

  “You can call her what you like,” replied Sam, “I calls her the Missus.”

  “Well, let’s have a sight of her,” said Crop, “I’ve got a good many orders to give.”

  “There she’s!” said Sam, nodding to where a little roundabout woman was making darkness visible by stirring the fire of a bay-windowed little back room, answering the double purpose of parlour and bar. There were the “Old Tom” and the “Old Rum” and the “Old Gin” casks ranged on a shelf against the wall, and there was the old cask of a husband sitting in a semicircular chair, with his pipe, by the now-refreshened fire.

  The Marquis had about got to the time of day when he became

  “O’er all the ills of life victorious,”

  for he had imbibed his own bottle of brandy and several eleemosynary glasses from parties who had looked in “quite promiscuous,” as they say, to have glasses themselves. He was now on the free list with Jack Calcot the cobbler, who had ordered two shilling glasses of “hot with;” and just as Crop opened the sash-door, the Marquis was endeavouring to impress upon Calcot the “great ‘spect and ‘steem” he had for him, and how Calcot was welcome to the loan of his donkey any day or any hour — the Marquis nearly melting himself into tears, and blinking severely at the beaker of brandy as he spoke.

  Crop’s appearance at the door rather interrupted the protestations of friendship, and drew all eyes to where he stood.

  “Rooms for a gentleman and his valet,” now announced Crop from the door, in the usual style of London laconics.

  “Heigh day!” exclaimed the Marchioness of Cornwallis, starting and bustling up, as if touched with a reminiscence of former times. “What was it you said?” exclaimed she, hurrying up to where Crop stood with the door in his hand, surveying the cheerful scene — good fire, round table, and glasses all round.

  “Rooms for a gentleman and his valet,” repeated Crop, adding, “and a fly to meet him by the Express.”

  “Fly!” ejaculated the Marchioness— “Fly! there’s not such a thing in the place.”

  “Well, a covered conveyance of some sort,” rejoined Crop, supposing he must do the best he could under the circumstances.

  “Covered conveyance of some sort,” repeated the Marchioness, sticking her hands in her fat sides and thinking matters over. She then pulled the string of the ostler’s bell outside, which presently brought dirty-shirted Sam to the presence, to whom she communicated the stranger’s behests. Sam, like a good many people, would rather be doing any work than his own, and after giving his red eyelids and snub nose an upward rub with his sleeve, he suggested that they might borrow Dr. Catcbeyside’s little carriage, which he could drive, and then they might get old Tommy Lee to come into the yard to look arter the osses.

  This suggestion being approved of, Sam was despatched on the double mission, while the Marchioness summoned her pretty maid-of-all-work, Rebecca Mary, to consult her about carrying out the domestic arrangements. Rebecca Mary was the belle of Burton St. Leger, a pretty smiling, blue-eyed, fair-haired maid, who, notwithstanding a host of other suitors, had to undergo the persecution of Sore-eyed Sam. No sooner did Crop see her smart little clean-aproned figure than, with the susceptibility of his master, he almost became reconciled to the discomforts of the place — this, too, in spite of auburn-ringlets and the other attractions of the Coach and Horses. So he withdrew with the ladies into the kitchen, leaving Old Muldoon to renew his protestations of “‘spect and ‘steem” for Mr. Calcot, and offer the loan of his donkey “any day or any hour” as before.

  The adjourned debate was then resumed before the kitchen fire, away from the observations and running commentary of the drunkards. Most women have some peculiar ideas of their own about comfort; some think half-roasting people alive is comfort, some that a fine teapot is comfort, others that a fine row of chimney-ornaments — shells, spars, and fossils — is comfort, while Mrs. Muldoon went altogether upon fine linen. If there were only fine sheets and pillow-cases to the bed, and a handsome toilette-cover to the dressing-table, she thought it made no matter what other things were like. The fowl might be stringy, the ham hard, pale, and indigestible, the eggs limey, and the toast tough; but if the linen was snowy all the rest would do.

  So, having learnt all she could from Mr. Crop about his master’s greatness and intentions, she produced the key of the beloved linen-chest to make the necessary selection, while Rebecca Mary lighted the fires, and Crop returned to his neglected horses in the sorry stable, there to see old Tommy Lee fumbling and dribbling at the dressing.

  CHAPTER LXIV.

  MR. BUNTING ARRIVES AT BURTON ST. LEGER.

  IT WAS A great boon to the sporting world when railways enabled them to follow their callings in distant countries, — the shooter to fly down to the Highlands, the fox-hunter to move about with his horses, taking a hunt wherever he liked, instead of the old weary five-and-twenty or thirty miles a-day trail by the road, with the rest required at the end of the journey. Then when the groom’s tardy letter arrived, saying the horses were safe, and the hounds at so-and-so, there was the clear day necessary for giving him his orders, with the uncertainty of getting a seat by the coach, and the withdrawal from all the occupations of life for the one pursuit, that a change of the weather might prevent. As the long looked for day approached, how anxiously the weather was studied, and references made to former seasons. What was so mortifying to a packed-up Londoner rushing out of town at night, as seeing the ominous champagne-glas
s-like rind on the shop windows, as he hurried along to the coach office, Hatchett’s or the White Horse Cellar, say, and finding as he got off the stones the first freezing breath of a frost spread over the road that gradually ripened into blackness as they proceeded, stopping the up-shot of the wheels as the coach rolled noisily over the hard surface, the guard aggravating his discomfiture by apparently superfluous twang, twang, twangs of the horn. Or, again, our friend having got to his journey’s end, with a few hours left for a thaw between the sheets prior to dressing for hunting, to be aroused to the fact that the country was half-a-foot under snow! No help for it but to stay on in hopes of a change, or undergo the toil and trouble of a return journey. Now, if a sportsman is stopped by the weather he just shoots back again, with as much ease as the sporting cockney of old used to make the return journey from Croydon. But we are receding in our progress, and must be getting our hero down into the country.

  If Mr. Bunting had been bent solely on hunting he would have felt as many a man has felt who goes from home for that purpose, that the trouble was greater than the pleasure — that in fact there is nothing like hunting from home. The little station he stopped at, the little carriage he got into, the deep jolting cross roads he had to encounter, above all, the gloomy aspect of Burton St. Leger, and the dismal desertion of the Lord Cornwallis Inn, would have brought his sporting ardour down quickly to zero, and made him wish himself back at the Polyanthus Club. As it was, however, the near approach to the land of the fair lady, invested each scene with a charm, just as gallant Don Quixote turned all his troubles and disasters into glory.

  The Cornwallis Inn was really very nice, the rooms were really very good, the tablecloth was very clean, the castors, those excellent criterions of comfort, were well supplied, and if the old landlord did smoke bad tobacco, that might be easily remedied by getting him some good. Fortunately, too, Rebecca Mary had somewhat reconciled Crop to his quarters, so there was no one to grumble but Bonville the valet, who received the usual attention that a man does who speaks broken English.

  A sportsman of the old school on arriving at his quarters would have repaired to the stable to see how his horses were lodged, but that sort-of-thing has exploded, and the poor creatures are now left a good deal to chance and the care of the groom.

  Now that is all very well where a groom is a groom, but as not one in ten calling himself so, really is one, the personal inspection cannot be safely dispensed with. However, Mr. Bunting did dispense with it, and busied himself with his own delectable self, and in speculating on his charmer, and the probable success of his trip. He wondered where he would meet with her first — he wondered how she would receive him — he wondered how Mamma would receive him — he wondered how they would look. He wondered if the fat boy was still in attendance — he wondered whether the fat boy’s father was rich — he wondered whether Privett Grove was the McDermott’s own — he wondered how they got it — he wondered whether it was a pretty place. He thought ho would ride Owen Ashford over the next day and see. And so amidst a world of musing pleasant meditations, he sat at a very white-ash-burning fire, and sipped the best part of a pint of earthy sherry, ere he retired to the heavy tapestried low four-post bed, and the enjoyment of the fine linen. Thus, amidst pleasant dreams and anticipations of the morrow, our too susceptible hero passed a very tranquil night. Even in the morning when he arose, and a too truthful sun revealed the real poverty and dilapidation of the place, the grass growing on the road, almost up to the inn door, the ghosts of trees haunting the spacious green, he took courage, and thought of the summer glories of Roseberry Rocks, the mysteries of muslin and gossamer dresses. Then, when after breakfast Mrs. Muldoon, arrayed in a dyed-brown silk dress, came, smoothing her black satin machinery-laced apron, in at the door, to hope he had “slept” well, and to inquire what he would like to have for dinner; he availed himself of the opportunity, of having a word with her on the locality of Burton St. Leger generally. And a better person he could not have applied to, for in addition to good local knowledge, she had great powers of gossip, and knew the history of every house in the neighbourhood, as well as any register-office keeper. How there was company at the Castle, how there was a great Prince with an immense retinue of servants staying there, how they had had a great gunning match, where they had killed three hundred brace of pheasants, and two hundred hares, and how there were to be other great doings. Then descending to more ordinary mortals, she informed him that the large stone house he saw on the opposite hill was Preeland’s Lawn, Squire Springfield’s, that two of the young ladies there were going to be married; then from Freeland’s Lawn she got to Somerville Tower on the other side of the river where she said there were three beautiful girls with very large fortunes; thence, by a skilful manœuvre, Mr. Bunting brought her round to Mayfield, and managed to draw up to Miss Rosa through the medium of Goldspink’s bank.

  “Did she know Goldspink’s bank?” he asked as though he had some of its notes, or a letter of credit upon it.

  “Know Goldspink’s bank!” repeated Mr. Muldoon in a tone of astonishment at the idea of any one asking such a question, “Know Goldspink’s bank! I should think everybody knew Goldspink’s bank with its fi-pun notes.”

  “What, it’s a good bank is it?” asked Mr. Bunting, with apparent unconcern.

  “Good enough, I dare say,” replied the hostess, “Good enough,” as if she had no great opinion of it either. Sivin and four had charged ten and a-half per cent, for discounting one of old Matty’s bills, during the hard times, hence her displeasure.

  “Rich?” asked Mr. Bunting in a tone of indifference.

  “Oh rich aye, rich enough my w — o — r — d, they know how to make money there; but if I mistake not, the young ‘un will spend some of it for them one of these days.”

  “What, there’s a son is there?” asked Mr. Bunting, as if he had never heard of him before. “Is he a partner?” added he.

  No, partner, no!” sneered Mrs. Muldoon, “they hadn’t need take such bodies as him into hanks. He’s just a young wild ne’er-do-well sort of a body.”

  What does he do?” asked our hero, wanning with his subject.

  “Do!” sneered Mrs. Muldoon, “Do! he’s always doing some foolish act or another; they say he’s lost a vast of money by gambling, and now he’s taken up with a low fellow to go upon the turf. My w — o — r — rd, but they’ll clear him out there. He’d better let that alone.”

  “Who has he taken up with?” asked Mr. Bunting.

  “Oh, you’ll know nothing about him, you’ll know nothing about him,” replied Mrs. Muldoon. “He was a dirty ragged boy only the other day, and now he’s dressed out in finger rings, and an Albert chain, and calls for hock and sober water.” —

  “What fun!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, seeing who the gentleman was she was imitating.

  “Fun! I see no fun in it,” replied Mrs. Muldoon. “I like to see people ‘sociate with their equals, and not with such rubbish as this boy does.”

  “Why don’t they get him married?” asked Mr. Bunting, well knowing that the ladies consider matrimony a cure for everything.

  “Well, they did talk about that too,” replied Mrs. Muldoon, smoothing her apron, and gathering her recollections, “they did talk about that too, and to a very pretty girl; but somehow I think he’s not a-going to make anything of it.” —

  “Why not?” inquired our now anxious friend.

  “Why not!” replied Mrs. Muldoon, “Why not! Well, in the first place, he’s been such a long time about it; in the second place they have been brought up too much together like; and in the third — though this is strictly confidential, having had it from her maid — Miss has been away from home this summer, and picked up another beau — a fine gentleman, with large—”

  Just as the conversation got to this interesting point, Crop, after a tap at the thin back door, popped his sleek head into the room to ask if his master had any orders for him, whereupon Mrs. Muldoon withdrew, leaving them to arra
nge matters together; and Crop’s report of the horses being somewhat favourable — at all events not prohibitory — our friend determined to sally out in quest of adventure as soon as they could be got ready. Who knows, thought he, but kind fortune might lead him in Miss Rosa’s way, at all events he would reconnoitre the country, and be better prepared for the coining campaign.

  So with the aid of Bonville, he accomplished a radiant costume, and with palpitating heart took his place before the fire, there to await the trampling of the horses to call him away. As ill luck however would have it, the too brilliant morning sun had suddenly become obscured with dull leadeny clouds, and just as Mr. Bunting was consulting his diminutive watch to see what time it was, a sudden cash of sleet dashed across the window, as if some idle boy had thrown a handful of peas against it. And when our Mend went into the bay to see what it really was, such a driving storm rebounded from the ground, as gave little hopes of amendment. Here then was a pretty predicament for a club gentleman from town, with nothing to amuse him but the inscriptions on the panes — the “Martha Bakers’” and “Betsey Jones’” of former service, or the fervid effusion of poetical bagman. No books, no papers, no billiards, nothing but the old paste and scissors Mayfield Mercury parading its list of agents, and “enormous circulation,” with price currents, and an elegant assortment of quack doctors’ advertisements.

  However, there was no mistake about the day — it was final and conclusive. Not the most sanguine young lady, bent on her first ball, could see any hopes in that heavy horizon. The atmosphere looked as if it might be wrung out like a wet sheet. So, with a sigh, Mr. Bunting cast his hat peevishly on the horse-hair sofa, inwardly wishing that Crop had kept out of the room. And it is a remarkable fact, that though he presently sought another interview with his landlady, and tried her in a variety of ways, he could not get her to resume the interrupted conversation. Whether her womanly wit had suggested that this stranger might be the young banker’s rival, or Mrs. Muldoon was indebted to Bonville or to Crop for the information, or whether Miss Perker’s confidential communication had returned more vividly to her recollection on getting down-stairs is immaterial, she would go to any place rather than Mayfield, and talk of any person rather than either young or old Goldspink. So our friend had to discuss the mutton chop beef steak, beef steak mutton chop question, without the piquant sauce that subject would have given the object of his choice. One thing however consoled him, namely, that Miss Perker had spoken well of him, which showed that the pink satin scarf had not been misapplied. So having got all the information he could out of Mrs. Muldoon, he at length let her withdraw to carry out his orders and respond to the repeated tap, tap, taps, of her drunken husband on the round table. Meanwhile the wind blew, the rain beat, and the whole aspect of the firmament denoted a hopelessly wet afternoon. So our friend was thrown on his own resources, aided by Pattesorn’s Itinerary, and a very old copy of Cary’s Cross Roads. But stay! we did the old Mayfield Mercury injustice with regard to its contents, for, in addition to the leading articles before-mentioned, it gave the meets of the hounds, from which Mr. Bunting gleaned that the Duke of Tergiversation was not the lord paramount of the country, for while his Grace’s pack only figured as a two days a-week one, the hounds of another gentleman, namely, those of Mr. Jovey Jessop hunted four; and though Jovey’s meets were generally wide of Burton St. Leger, yet when the Duke was at home and wanted his guests well galloped, Jovey hunted the east side of his county, in return for Baxterley “Woods and other covers that the Duke gave him, — that is to say, let him draw, — for the Duke, early in life, had promised his mother never to give anything away, and most rigidly adhered to his word. And now, as, we are sorry to say, the tempestuous weather that greeted our hero continued unremittingly during the whole of the first, and also of the following day, we will here take advantage of the opportunity of introducing Mr. Jessop with a certain peculiar appendage of his to our readers.