by R S Surtees
Mawley’s Hotel,
Wednesday.
“Dear Lucy.—I write to say we shant come home till after the turn of the week, as Lovetin and me am going for a couple of days to Fokestone to see a cousen of his.
You mustnt be dull, but keep your spirits up like a little brick as you are.
Now for some news, which will make your back hair stand out like a Chinese man’s pigtail. I were setting in our carrige at Caning’s the sighgur shop’s door in Regent Street, whiles Lovey had gone in to get some weeds, when who should I clap my eyes on but Bellville as ‘used to was’ with us you know afore he went to Orstralia—(is that right?—well, if isn’t, you know what it means).
Bellville went to lead in tragedy, you know, up at the diggins’, and a pretty tidy pike he has made on it. He was dressed quite like a swell—blue frock coat, with brade and frogs and a poodle collar, and his trowseys were tite, à la Charley Mathews, only they had brade down ’em too. Mustash, of course, and all that. Well, he stares at me and me at him, till he sees me smile, and then he offs with his tile and makes up to the carrige-door. After a short scene of surprise, he asks, ‘Commy foe?’—Quite correct, eh?
‘Of course,’ says I, with a frown; and then we both laughed, as you may fancy.
Well, B. told me what ‘tremendous success’ he had had—thought him Macready in disguise—gave him half share of the house, and a clear ‘Ben’1 every month—and he has made mopusses enuff to come back quite indiapendent.
‘What’s that to me?’ says you, ‘or to Betsey Shannon’ now she’s the bride of another?’
This is what it is. In course of conversashun he asked after you, and why you and Soapey had parted. I told him the truth—how Soapey had bolted and left you to shift for yourself. ‘Then,’ says B., ‘I can give her the cue to find him again, if she wishes it. He’s doing furst rate at Melburn; and if she’s short of rowdy to pay her passige out, Im ready, for “Awl Lang Sign,” to lend it her.’
There, my dear, that’s something for you to think about till me and Lovey come home again—and here he is, ready to take me to the Canterbury, where I have teased him to go this evening.
Bless you, dear, and please see that fires are kep in our bedroom and my bodore. Good-by.
Your affectionate friend,
Betsey Lonnergan.
Lucy did not long deliberate over the contents of her friend’s letter before she decided to share the success of her Sponge. She resolved to discard the assumed name of Somerville, and set out for the Antipodes in search of him; so, following in the wake of the Romfords, she presently found him, and both Facey and Soapey gave her a most cordial greeting.
The voyage out had agreed with her, and she was looking, if possible, handsomer than ever. Soapey took to her without hesitation, on the sensible principle of letting “bygones be bygones.” And Facey, who was a capital manager, so long as he hadn’t the old lady to contend with, had, with the aid of twins, got the lisper into such subjection and good order that Beldon Hall was all ignored—never mentioned.
Indeed, Mr. Romford didn’t see why, saving the elegance of the name, Lucy shouldn’t have called herself Mrs Sponge instead of Mrs Somerville.
And we are happy to say that old Granby Fitzgerald’s defalcations were not so utterly ruinous as were at first expected. There is something saved out of the fire for Willy, while Facey, with his natural aptitude for taking care of himself, has secured a trifle also; which, with what he took out with him, makes him up quite a purse. The last account heard of Soapey and him was that they were going to set up a bank in Collins Street East, under the firm of
Romford and Sponge.
Good luck attend their exertions, say we! We expect to hear of their setting up a pack of hounds together next.
1. i.e. half the receipts, and a benefit free of charge.