The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  * * *

  CHAPTER IV. MR. KNEEBONE AND HIS FRIENDS.

  Mrs. Wood was scarcely seated before Mr. Kneebone made his appearance. To her great surprise and mortification he was not alone; but brought with him a couple of friends, whom he begged to introduce as Mr. Jeremiah Jackson, and Mr. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. Neither the manners, the looks, nor the attire of these gentlemen prepossessed Mrs. Wood in their favour. Accordingly, on their presentation, Mr. Jeremiah Jackson and Mr. Solomon Smith received something very like a rebuff. Luckily, they were not easily discomposed. Two persons possessing a more comfortable stock of assurance could not be readily found. Imitating the example of Mr. Kneebone, who did not appear in the slightest degree disconcerted by his cool reception, each sank carelessly into a chair, and made himself at home in a moment. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. Besides this, each had a large black patch over his right eye, and a very queer twist at the left side of his mouth, so that if their object had been disguise, they could not have adopted better precautions. Mrs. Wood thought them both remarkably plain, but Mr. Smith decidedly the plainest of the two. His complexion was as blue as a sailor’s jacket, and though Mr. Jackson had one of the ugliest countenances imaginable, he had a very fine set of teeth. That was something in his favour. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. They were both dressed in every respect alike. In fact, Mr. Solomon Smith seemed to be Mr. Jeremiah Jackson’s double. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. If Mr. Jackson took an accurate survey of the room with his one eye, Mr. Smith’s solitary orb followed in the same direction. When Jeremiah admired the Compasses in the arms of the Carpenter’s Company over the chimney-piece, or the portraits of the two eminent masters of the rule and plane, William Portington, and John Scott, Esquires, on either side of it, Solomon was lost in wonder. When Mr. Jackson noticed a fine service of old blue china in an open japan closet, Mr. Smith had never seen anything like it. And finally, when Jeremiah, having bestowed upon Mrs. Wood a very free-and-easy sort of stare, winked at Mr. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon. All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. Mrs. Wood’s astonishment and displeasure momentarily increased. Such freedoms from such people were not to be endured. Her patience was waning fast. Still, in spite of her glances and gestures, Mr. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. So Mrs. Wood went on fuming, and the trio went on laughing for some minutes, nobody knew why or wherefore, until the party was increased by Mr. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. Without stopping to inquire into the cause of their mirth, or even to ask the names of his guests, the worthy carpenter shook hands with the one-eyed chapmen, slapped Mr. Kneebone cordially on the shoulder, and began to laugh as heartily as any of them.

  Mrs. Wood could stand it no longer.

  “I think you’re all bewitched,” she cried.

  “So we are, Ma’am, by your charms,” returned Mr. Jackson, gallantly.

  “Quite captivated, Ma’am,” added Mr. Smith, placing his hand on his breast.

  Mr. Kneebone and Mr. Wood laughed louder than ever.

  “Mr. Wood,” said the lady bridling up, “my request may, perhaps, have some weight with you. I desire, Sir, you’ll recollect yourself. Mr. Kneebone,” she added, with a glance at that gentleman, which was meant to speak daggers, “will do as he pleases.”

  Here the chapmen set up another boisterous peal.

  “No offence, I hope, my dear Mrs. W,” said Mr. Kneebone in a conciliatory tone. “My friends, Mr. Jackson and Mr. Smith, may have rather odd ways with them; but—”

  “They have very odd ways,” interrupted Mrs. Wood, disdainfully.

  “Our worthy friend was going to observe, Ma’am, that we never fail in our devotion to the fair sex,” said Mr. Jackson.

  “Never, Ma’am!” echoed Mr. Smith, “upon my conscience.”

  “My dear,” said the hospitable carpenter, “I dare say Mr. Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment.”

  “They shall have it, then,” replied his better half, rising. “You base ingrate,” she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. Kneebone on her way to the door, “how could you bring such creatures with you, especially on an occasion like this, when we haven’t met for a fortnight!”

  “Couldn’t help it, my life,” returned the gentleman addressed, in the same tone; “but you little know who those individuals are.”

  “Lord bless us! you alarm me. Who are they?”

  Mr. Kneebone assumed a mysterious air; and bringing his lips close to Mrs. Wood’s ear, whispered, “secret agents from France — you understand — friends to the cause — hem!”

  “I see, — persons of rank!”

  Mr. Kneebone nodded.

  “Noblemen.”

  Mr. Kneebone smiled assent.

  “Mercy on us! Well, I thought their manners quite out o’ the common. And so, the invasion really is to take place after all; and the Chevalier de Saint George is to land at the Tower with fifty thousand Frenchmen; and the Hanoverian usurper’s to be beheaded; and Doctor Sacheverel’s to be made a bishop, and we’re all to be — eh?”

  “All in good time,” returned Kneebone, putting his finger to his lips; “don’t let your imagination run away with you, my charmer. That boy,” he added, looking at Thames, “has his eye upon us.”

  Mrs. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution.

  “O, lud!” she cried; “French noblemen in disguise! and so rude as I was! I shall never recover it!”

  “A good supper will set all to rights,” insinuated Kneebone. “But be prudent, my angel.”

  “Never fear,” replied the lady. “I’m prudence personified. You might trust me with the Chevalier himself, — I’d never betray him. But why didn’t you let me know they were coming. I’d have got something nice. As it is, we’ve only a couple of ducks — and they were intended for you. Winny, my love, come with me. I shall want you. — Sorry to quit your lord — worships, I mean, — I don’t know what I mean,” she added, a little confused, and dropping a profound curtsey to the disguised noblemen, each of whom replied by a bow, worthy, in her opinion, of a prince of the blood at the least,— “but I’ve a few necessary orders to give below.”

  “Don’t mind us, Ma’am,” said Mr. Jackson: “ha! ha!”

  “Not in the least, Ma’am,” echoed Mr. Smith: “ho! ho!”

  “How condescending!” thought Mrs. Wood. “Not proud in the least, I declare. Well, I’d no idea,” she continued, pursuing her ruminations as she left the room, “that people of quality laughed so. But it’s French manners, I suppose.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER V. HAWK AND BUZZARD.

  Mrs. Wood’s anxiety to please her distinguished guests speedily displayed itself in a very plentiful, if not very dainty repast. To the duckling, peas, and other delicacies, intended for Mr. Kneebone’s special consumption, she added a few impromptu dishes, tossed off in her best style; such as lamb chops, broiled kidneys, fried ham and eggs, and toasted cheese. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter’s board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie — the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth’
s delectable print — the Modern Midnight Conversation.

  Mrs. Wood now re-appeared with a very red face; and, followed by Winifred, took her seat at the table. Operations then commenced. Mr. Wood carved the ducks; Mr. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. The woollen-draper was no despicable trencherman in a general way; but his feats with the knife and fork were child’s sport compared with those of Mr. Smith. The leg and wing of a duck were disposed of by this gentleman in a twinkling; a brace of pigeons and a pound of steak followed with equal celerity; and he had just begun to make a fierce assault upon the eggs and ham. His appetite was perfectly Gargantuan. Nor must it be imagined, that while he thus exercised his teeth, he neglected the flagon. On the contrary, his glass was never idle, and finding it not filled quite so frequently as he desired, he applied himself, notwithstanding the expressive looks and muttered remonstrances of Mr. Jackson, to the swig. The latter gentleman did full justice to the good things before him; but he drank sparingly, and was visibly annoyed by his companion’s intemperance. As to Mr. Kneebone, what with flirting with Mrs. Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the carpenter, he had his hands full. At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm.

  “I was in the right, you see, father,” observed Thames, smiling; “Jack has done his task.”

  “So I perceive,” replied Wood.

  “Where am I to take it to?” asked Sheppard.

  “I told you that before,” rejoined Wood, testily. “You must take it to Sir Rowland Trenchard’s in Southampton Fields. And, mind, it’s for his sister, Lady Trafford.”

  “Very well, Sir,” replied Sheppard.

  “Wet your whistle before you start, Jack,” said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. “What’s that you’re taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard’s?”

  “Only a box, Sir,” answered Sheppard, emptying the glass.

  “It’s an odd-shaped one,” rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. “But I can guess what it’s for. Sir Rowland is one of us,” he added, winking at his companions, “and so was his brother-in-law, Sir Cecil Trafford. Old Lancashire families both. Strict Catholics, and loyal to the backbone. Fine woman, Lady Trafford — a little on the wane though.”

  “Ah! you’re so very particular,” sighed Mrs. Wood.

  “Not in the least,” returned Kneebone, slyly, “not in the least. Another glass, Jack.”

  “Thank’ee, Sir,” grinned Sheppard.

  “Off with it to the health of King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!”

  “Hold!” interposed Wood; “that is treason. I’ll have no such toast drunk at my table!”

  “It’s the king’s birthday,” urged the woollen draper.

  “Not my king’s,” returned Wood. “I quarrel with no man’s political opinions, but I will have my own respected!”

  “Eh day!” exclaimed Mrs. Wood; “here’s a pretty to-do about nothing. Marry, come up! I’ll see who’s to be obeyed. Drink the toast, Jack.”

  “At your peril, sirrah!” cried Wood.

  “He was hanged that left his drink behind, you know, master,” rejoined Sheppard. “Here’s King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!”

  “Very well,” said the carpenter, sitting down amid the laughter of the company.

  “Jack!” cried Thames, in a loud voice, “you deserve to be hanged for a rebel as you are to your lawful king and your lawful master. But since we must have toasts,” he added, snatching up a glass, “listen to mine: Here’s King George the First! a long reign to him! and confusion to the Popish Pretender and his adherents!”

  “Bravely done!” said Wood, with tears in his eyes.

  “That’s the kinchin as was to try the dub for us, ain’t it?” muttered Smith to his companion as he stole a glance at Jack Sheppard.

  “Silence!” returned Jackson, in a deep whisper; “and don’t muddle your brains with any more of that Pharaoh. You’ll need all your strength to grab him.”

  “What’s the matter?” remarked Kneebone, addressing Sheppard, who, as he caught the single but piercing eye of Jackson fixed upon him, started and trembled.

  “What’s the matter?” repeated Mrs. Wood in a sharp tone.

  “Ay, what’s the matter, boy!” reiterated Jackson sternly. “Did you never see two gentlemen with only a couple of peepers between them before!”

  “Never, I’ll be sworn!” said Smith, taking the opportunity of filling his glass while his comrade’s back was turned; “we’re a nat’ral cur’osity.”

  “Can I have a word with you, master?” said Sheppard, approaching Wood.

  “Not a syllable!” answered the carpenter, angrily. “Get about your business!”

  “Thames!” cried Jack, beckoning to his friend.

  But Darrell averted his head.

  “Mistress!” said the apprentice, making a final appeal to Mrs. Wood.

  “Leave the room instantly, sirrah!” rejoined the lady, bouncing up, and giving him a slap on the cheek that made his eyes flash fire.

  “May I be cursed,” muttered Sheppard, as he slunk away with (as the woollen-draper pleasantly observed) ‘a couple of boxes in charge,’ “if ever I try to be honest again!”

  * * *

  “Take a little toasted cheese with the swig, Mr. Smith,” observed Wood. “That’s an incorrigible rascal,” he added, as Sheppard closed the door; “it’s only to-day that I discovered—”

  “What?” asked Jackson, pricking up his ears.

  “Don’t speak ill of him behind his back, father,” interposed Thames.

  “If I were your father, young gentleman,” returned Jackson, enraged at the interruption, “I’d teach you not to speak till you were spoken to.”

  Thames was about to reply, but a glance from Wood checked him.

  “The rebuke is just,” said the carpenter; “at the same time, I’m not sorry to find you’re a friend to fair play, which, as you seem to know, is a jewel. Open that bottle with a blue seal, my dear. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal.”

  This proposal giving general satisfaction, the bottle circulated swiftly; and Smith found the liquor so much to his taste, that he made it pay double toll on its passage.

  “Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. Wood,” observed Jackson, in a slightly-sarcastic tone.

  “He’s not my son,” rejoined the carpenter.

  “How, Sir?”

  “Except by adoption. Thames Darrell is—”

  “My husband nicknames him Thames,” interrupted Mrs. Wood, “because he found him in the river! — ha! ha!”

  “Ha! ha!” echoed Smith, taking another bumper of brandy; “he’ll set the Thames on fire one of these days, I’ll warrant him!”

  “That’s more than you’ll ever do, you drunken fool!” growled Jackson, in an under tone: “be cautious, or you’ll spoil all!”

  “Suppose we send for a bowl of punch,” said Kneebone.

  “With all my heart!” replied Wood. And, turning to his daughter, he gave the necessary directions in a low tone.

  Winifred, accordingly, left the room, and a servant being despatched to the nearest tavern, soon afterwards returned with a crown bowl of the ambrosian fluid. The tables were then cleared. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. Pipes were lighted; and Mr. Kneebone began to dispense the fragrant fluid; begging Mrs. Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George — a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud.

  “The Chevalier shall hear of this,” whispered the woollen-draper.

  “You don’t say so!” replied Mrs. Wood, delighted at the idea.

  Mr. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table.

  Mr. Smith, now, b
eing more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following

  DRINKING SONG.

  I. Jolly nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip

  Are dug from the mines of canary;

  And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip

  With hogsheads of claret and sherry.

  II. Jolly nose! he who sees thee across a broad glass

  Beholds thee in all thy perfection;

  And to the pale snout of a temperate ass

  Entertains the profoundest objection.

  III. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,

  And the choicest of wine is my colour;

  And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues

  The fuller I fill it — the fuller!

  IV. Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight;

  Such dullards know nothing about it.

  ‘T is better, with wine, to extinguish the light,

  Than live always, in darkness, without it!

  “How long may it be since that boy was found in the way Mrs. Wood mentions?” inquired Jackson, as soon as the clatter that succeeded Mr. Smith’s melody had subsided.

  “Let me see,” replied Wood; “exactly twelve years ago last November.”

  “Why, that must be about the time of the Great Storm,” rejoined Jackson.

  “Egad!” exclaimed Wood, “you’ve hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him.”

  “I should like to hear all particulars of the affair,” said Jackson, “if it wouldn’t be troubling you too much.”

  Mr. Wood required little pressing. He took a sip of punch and commenced his relation. Though meant to produce a totally different effect, the narrative seemed to excite the risible propensities rather than the commiseration of his auditor; and when Mr. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment.