by R S Surtees
Mrs. Flather and he then mounted the front seat of the fire-engine, Benjamin lett the old cob’s stupid head to jump in behind; and yielding the pas to the chaise, they fell in behind just at a sufficient distance to avoid the dust. At the first turn of the road they met Mrs. Trotter; glorious encounter. Mrs. Jorrocks kissed her hand at her, as if she would never see her more. Mr. Jorrocks pulled up for the double purpose of a little chat, and of letting the chaise get out of sight, for he had a wholesome dread of those little nasty back windows, that coachmakers will stick in behind. —
“Yell, Mrs. Trotter,” said he, after mutual salutations were over, “this is summut like summer — the real unadulterated article, I guess — and where are you a travellin’ to?” —
Mrs. Trotter was bustling about trying for subscriptions for the “Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariner’s Benevolent Society; annual subscription, two and sixpence — donations ad libitum;” and liking Mrs. Flather as little as Mrs.
Flatter liked ter, and, moreover, objecting to let ter “Donkeyton Castle” ter, ste turned away, vowing ste tadn’t a minute to spare, commenting in ter own mind on tte abandonment of Mrs. Flatter in riding about publicly witt another woman’s husband.
Mr. Jorrocks, who always did everything like a workman — or at least what he thought like one — having folded a natty new zephyr across his thighs, so as to leave the upper part of his well-filled drab stockingette pantaloons visible between the laps of the Jorrockian jacket, turned a little to his left, and commenced a voluble battery — not to say love-making — with his fair friend. Our young readers, we dare say, will turn up their noses at this, just as the boarding-school miss did, when she begged her mamma not to marry her to an old man of thirty; but as we get older we get wonderfully lenient in the matter of age, and see no reason why two old fools should not amuse themselves as well as two young ones. Besides, if our accommodating friends will refer to the first portion of this tale, or whatever they please to call it, they will find that we expressly stated, that Mrs. Flather was an undespairing widow — as indeed all widows are, that have anything — so there is nothing improbable, though it may be a little improper, in a steady old gentleman, like Mr. J., doing as we have described. Well, right or wrong, J. did it, and but for the encumbrance of Benjamin, we fear he would have been far worse. First he flopped the nag— “There was a goer, neat, clean, straightforward, dartin’ action, none o’ your lumberin’, rollin’, dishin’ beggars, wot go like crabs, all vays at once, and none in particular. Took to his collar like a tramp (trump), didn’t run arter it all day, never tryin’ for to ketch it.” Then he gave old Roman-nose another flop—” Nice nag! all over right, he did believe. He called him Dickey Cobden, not out o’ compliment to him o’ the League, but simply because he was wot is called a cob ‘oss — a useful, underbred nag. If he’d been a dun ‘un now, he’d ha’ called him Tom Duncombe, but he should have had a trifle more breedin’. Finsbury’s pride was werry well bred. Howsomever, all things considered, Dickey did werry well.. Some might think him a trifle too old; but be thought nothin’ o’ that, age was nothin’ either in ‘osses or women. Fat, fair, and forty, wos his motto. Binjimin!” exclaimed he, turning short round as he heard the boy snicker at hearing this oft-repeated assertion, “take the drivin’-seat out from an under me, and make me a comfey place for my back. I’m far too ‘igh; nothin’ to rest agin, — there, take cushion and all out, and I shall get a nice nest.”
This arrangement had the desired effect. It brought Mr. Jorrocks a few inches below the level of Mrs. Flather, and enabled his lower notes to ascend to her bonnet without travelling over the back to Benjamin. At least so Mr. J. thought. He then began afresh—” Nice day for a drive,” observed he aloud, flourishing his whip over his head like a French postillion; adding, in an undertone, “and rare weather for billin’ and cooin’. I’m dashed if a day o’ this sort don’t rejuvenate one — knocks full five-and-twenty per cent, off one’s age. I feels like a four-year-old. Binjimin!” exclaimed he, “jamp out and see if Dickey hasn’t picked up a stone.”
On Mr. J. drove, keeping the boy running after the carriage, vociferating that Dickey “hadn’t done nothin’ o’ the sort.” Mr. J. availing himself of the opportunity to sweetheart Mrs. Flather. “Stones,” said he casually, as if he really thought the cob had taken up one, “are bad for the feet — and talkin’ o’ feet,” continued he, “wot beautiful feet and ankles your daughter ‘as. Now, if I was a young ‘un — that’s to say, a little younger than I am” —
“There ain’t no stone in Ms foot!” roared Benjamin.
“Five-and-thirty or so,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, without noticing the interruption, “I’d have a shy at her. She’s jest the sort o’ figure I fancy — clean, full-limb’d, up-standin’ sort o’ gal; with as fine a figur-’ead as ever!” —
“I tells you there ain’t no stone in his foot!” screamed Benjamin, toiling after the dust-raising vehicle, Mr. Jorrocks jerking the old cob’s mouth to keep him going, and prevent Benjamin overtaking them.
“Your boy’s left behind,” observed Mrs. Flather, not exactly comprehending Mr. Jorrocks’s manoeuvre.
“Oh! never mind the bouy,” replied Mr. J., “he finds his own shoes.”
“It’s the ‘ind foot, Binjimin, I think, the stone’s in,” holloaed Mr. Jorrocks over his left shoulder; adding to Mrs. Flather with a wink, a nod, and an emphasis, “Emma’s her mother’s own child, I calculate — like as two peas.”
“I tells you there ain’t no stone in his foot!” screamed Benjamin again, relaxing from his run into a walk; and Mr. Jorrocks, guessing he had had about enough, pulled up under the shade of a roadside tree to wait his coming. Meanwhile he busied himself tucking Mrs. Flather into her cloak, and arranging the rug for her feet.
“Dear me!” said he, lifting her gown a little, “them’s Emma’s feet all over. Werry rum,” continued he, half to himself, and half to the tree, “but ‘oss maxims often ‘old good with women too. No fut no ‘oss, no fut no ankle. Never troubles to look at a woman’s face if she’s clumsy and beefey about the pins. Confound them long pettikits! There’s never no say in’ wot’s an under them. I wonders G — y B — y, or some o’ them ‘ emollit mores’ ladylike legislators, don’t bring in a bill to make draggle-tails felony. I declares they drives me perfectly mad. Unless a man spends ‘alf his time at’Owell & James’s, or Swan & Hedgar’s, or some o’ them man-milliner sort o’ shop doors, waitin’ for to see the gals get into their chays, he has no possible chance o’ knowin’ wot sort o’ undërstandin’s they have.”
“Come up, Dickey!” said he to the cob, as Benjamin soused himself sulkily into his seat, and leaned forward, to hear what was going forward. —
On they went.
Women in general have no idea about roads, or distances, or places, and will travel the same way over and over again, without making an observation or a landmark of any description on the line. Indeed, some men — fox-hunters too — are not much better; and will ride over a country, season after season, without getting a bit better acquainted with it. No wonder Mrs. Flather was not of much assistance in directing the route or timing the journey, when the natural indifference of the sex on these matters, and the exciting nature of her companion’s conversation, are taken into consideration. The day was fine and pleasant, and the road picturesque. Not that the latter was any great recommendation, for Mrs. Flather was own cousin to the ladies Lord Byron met sleeping in the Char-à-banc between Porte St. Martin and Chillon, while Mr. Jorrocks’s eye for a country was chiefly directed to the nature of the soil, the quality of the crops, and the advantages it exhibited, either in an agricultural or fox-hunting point of view. “That’s nice turnip land!” he would exclaim in a loud voice for Benjamin to hear, pointing to a field on the right, after indulging in a long murmur of amatory sentiments; or observing, on looking at another, that he’d “be bund with a good dustin o’ nitrate o’ sober to make it grow ten quarters a hacre. There’s a Balfin
ch!” he would say, pointing to a high quickset fence next the road. “ Stop Hashton Smith and Craven Smith, and all the Smiths wotever were foal’d. Lord! ’ow I used to show them the way with the immortal old Surrey. Would lip anything a’most — anything that my ‘oss could lay his nose on.” Then in an undertone he would indulge in a strong panegyric on fox-’unters, ascribing to them every desirable matrimonial quality under the sun, which, by a dexterous adaptation of his subject, he contrived to bend into an exemplification of himself — Mr. J. was tolerably vain. “There’s lazy farmin’!” then he would exclaim—” see ’ow the beggar’s shirked the fences, as if he thought they’d set fire to the plough. Be bund I’d grow as much grain on the land he’s wasted, as would pay a quarter the rint o’ the farm. My vig, but that chap wants a lector on agricultur.”
“That’s Donkeyton Castle!” at length exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, breaking off in a long tirade about ladies’ legs and the advantages of lime as a manure.
“Good,” we fancy we hear some cavilling critic, who has dogged us thus far on our path, exclaim, “Mr. Jorrocks, who has never seen Donkeyton Castle, pointing it out to Mrs. Flather who has.”
It was so nevertheless, for no sooner did his eye catch the flag floating on the keep, rising above the octagonal towers among the trees in the distance, as a sudden Derbyshire or Dorsetshire twist of the road brought them full on the valley of Borrowdale, with the broad Dart swelling in the middle, than he immediately pointed with his whip, and exclaimed, “That’s Donkeyton Castle!” as aforesaid. Mrs. Flather thought it was too, and, looking at her watch, expressed her surprise at the hour — and astonishment, mingled with something like regret, at the apparent shortness of the distance.
Mr. Jorrocks, ever “wide awake,” gave her a gentle nudge with his elbow, and pretending to arrange the apron strap on the splashboard, whispered, sotto voce, “You and Til ride ‘ome together.”
A change now came over the spirit of their dream.
Their minds became occupied with anticipations about their visit, the ceremony of presentation, and the necessary palaverment. The vision of the ducal coronet gracing Emma’s brow again returned in full force, as Mrs. Flather looked with an eye of ownership on the proud scarlet flag floating lazily on the evening’s breeze. It was a lovely scene. The road wound gently round the lofty river banks, fringed with stately trees in all the luxuriance of full summer foliage, reflecting their gigantic shapes in the crystal-like clearness of the water; while Donkeyton Castle rose tower above tower in the distance, in all the massive grandeur of feudal pomp and unconquerable strength.
The road now bent into the valley, and it required all Mr. Jorrocks’s coachmanship to prevent the fire-engine running the old cob off his legs, which began to fail just at the time the hill was steepest. At length they accomplished the descent, and a short piece of level road brought them to the massive, deeply-ribbed, many-arched bridge across the smoothly gliding Dart; and a few paces further on, and they were at the castellated gates, forming a triumphal arch into Donkeyton Castle Park. The great black-nailed oak doors were closed, and the rattle and jingle of the fire-engine died out on the pavement, without procuring the attendance of any one.
“Now then!” cried Mr. Jorrocks, in the orthodox London twang, putting his whip in the case, preparatory to making his final arrangements.
“Come, Mr. Slowman!”. squeaked Benjamin, as he stood up behind with all the importance of a grenadier; “look alive!” added he, without moving his station.
“Jest get out, Binjimin,” said Mr. Jorrocks quietly, “and give a leetle ‘tinctum nabulum sonat’ to that ’ere bell I sees perched i’ the corner.”
Out Benjamin got, and seizing the chain, rung a peal that made the old entrance echo, and scared the owls out of the ivied battlements.
“What’s happen’d now?” inquired a big-bellied, brandynosed porter, bustling out of a side-door, dressed in green plush, with a yellow waistcoat, and lace-bedaubed hat; “no one’s allowed to pass through our park.”
“Pass through our park!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, “vy, I’m a-goin’ to dine with the Duke — I’m Mr. Jorrocks the grocer — Mr. Jorrocks of Hillingdon ‘All, that’s to say” —
“Beg pardon, sir,” replied the porter, all humility, taking off his laced hat and throwing back the massive doors with an ease non-com portant with their heavy appearance.
Mr. Jorrocks then passed on a few paces, and drew up under the arch.
“Patch me a lookin’-glass,” said he, pulling off his gloves, and putting them into his hat, at the same time diving into one of the lower Jorrockian jacket pockets, and pulling out a hair-brush and comb.
Mr. Jorrocks then made a formal arrangement of his wig and whiskers; and having, by the aid of the glass, wiped the dust from his face and green tie, he handed it to Mrs. Plather, who made a hasty review of her features, while Mr.
J. flopped the dust off his Hessians with his handkerchief.
“There, old bouy,” said Mr. Jorrocks, handing back the looking-glass to the owner, “there’s your mirror, and see you learn to know a genl’man agin I come this way again;” so saying, he put Dickey Cobden in motion, and commenced the ascent to the castle. —
It was a noble place. On a lofty hill in the centre of a large, well-stocked deer park, exhibiting almost every variety of grass on its undulating surface, and profusely dotted with gigantic trees, stood the moss-grey towers and terraces of the ancient castle, forming a feature in the country for many miles around. The clustering trees around its base seemed unable to cope with the towering altitude of the castle. Centuries upon centuries had rolled on since the first part of it was built, but succeeding additions had adhered to the Gothic architecture of the original.
“I do believe Dickey Cobden’s a-goin’ to knock up,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, with a shake of the head, as the old nag relaxed into a walk on feeling the collar against the now approaching hill. “Binjimin, jemp out and ease the beggar a bit, or we shall be planted, and then there’ll be a pretty kettle o’ fish.” —
“That’s the worst o’ these underbred beggars,” observed Mr. Jorrocks confidentially to Mrs. Flather, “they’re all werry well so long as the road’s ‘ard and smooth, but, confound them, as soon as ever they get into a difficulty, or the collar begins to pinch, they shut up. Come, Dickey, old bony,” continued Mr. Jorrocks, rubbing the colt’s back with the crop of the whip, “be o’ good cheer, and sink the old Sussex ploughman for once.”
Dickey stood still.
“Nay, then!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, “it’s all U P with us. Ease his bearin’ rein, Binjimin — ease his bearin’ rein, or loose it altogether, and turn his ‘ead to the hair — block the wheel, or he’ll run back with us, and we’ll lose wot he’s done.”
“Come, old bouy,” resumed Mr. Jorrocks, after a few seconds’ pause, during which he sat eyeing the old nag intently, “I vouldn’t expose myself afore all these deer, and other signs o’ genteelety;” Mr. J. looking at a herd of deer watching them from a neighbouring clump of trees on a gently swelling hill on the right; “rouse the spirit o’ the cobs, and at it like a man.” —
Dickey shook his head. —
“Vell, it arn’t no use argufyin’ with such a muff,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, throwing the reins to Benjamin, and sticking the whip in the case; “he’s jest von o’ your — if he mil, he mil, and if he writ, he writ — sort o’ beggars, and he played me jest the same trick a-goin’ up the ‘ill to Mr.’Eavytail’s pet farm t’other day, and neither coaxin’ nor quiltin’ had the slightest effect upon him — so vot do you say, my dear Mrs. Flather; s’pose you and I get out and valk, and leave Binjimin to follow ven he gets his quadruped out o’ the sulks?”
Mrs. Flather readily assented, and divesting themselves of cloaks, shawls, and outer habiliments, Mr. J. handed her out of the fire-engine, and off they set arm in arm for the castle.
“It’s a deal plisanter walkin’ nor ridin’,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, kicking his leg
s out before him on the grass—” at least plisanter nor ridin’ curled up like a cod-fish as I was. Not but the hutch is a good ‘un, comfey hutch I may say, but it don’t do, when a lady and gen’lman want to be a leetle confidential, to have a servant stuck in behind, listenin’ to all what they say. Lord, I should like nothin’ better than to be cast on a barren land, a sort o’ Heel-pie island on a large scale, with an agreeable companion — female one, in course,” added Mr. Jorrocks in an undertone, squeezing Mrs. Flather’s arm, “with no bother o’ servants, or nothin’ o’ that sort. Jest a maid to milk the cows, and another to make the beds and lay the cloth, with a silvery sailin’ boat, with a blue streamer at its mast’ead, to come every Saturday night, with poultry, and pastry, and preserved fruit, and bottled stout, hoysters, marmeylad, eggs, and wermacelli, and may be a few yards o’ bombazeen; not that dress would be any object, for beauty, says I, when unadorned’s adorn’d the most,” Mr. J. giving Mrs. Flather’s arm another hearty squeeze; “but I’m sick o’ the hartificial state o’ society — the cards, and the compliments, the so glads, and so sorrys, the grinnin’, and the gammon and spinnage o’ the thing, and my wiggorous ‘eart yearns for natur’ unalloy’d, and the habolition o’ bustles and ‘oss-’air pettikits. Cuss me if here arn’t Dickey Cobden a comin’ again!”
