by R S Surtees
The Marquis rather hesitated. He would have preferred being a hussar, or a light dragoon, or something in the military line; but fancy dresses not being procurable at a moment’s notice in the country, he at length consented, and with the aid of Mrs. Jorrocks, accomplished a very becoming attire. White silk bonnet with a blue feather, blue and white striped dress, with his own Wellington boots.
Mr. Jorrocks was rotundity itself. The thick, well-puckered plaid stood from his plump person, while his corpulent calves loomed magnificent above his striped hose.
“There’s an Tghlander for you!” exclaimed he, bounding into the apartment where Mrs. Jorrocks was dressing the Marquis, balancing himself on one leg like an opera-dancer, extending his arms with a lighted candle in the right hand.
“‘Ighlands gay, foots away,
‘Appy on the weddin’ day,”
continued he, whizzing himself round, teetotum-like, which had the effect of inflating his kilts and blowing out his candle.
“I wonders now,” continued he, “if there really are people wot dress in this style,” looking at his bare legs, “or if it’s jest one o’ Walter Scott’s wagaries. My vig, but you makes an uncommon pretty gal,” added he, getting in front of the Marquis, and eyeing his bright ringlets and fair complexion.
“werry pretty gal indeed. Mr.’Eayytail ‘ill wonder who the deuce it is — real lady! — swan’s-down muff and tippet, and a feather in her ‘at, I do declare,” continued he, eyeing the whole attira “Well now,” continued he, adjusting his peacock-feathered cap before the mirror, “we’ll jest steal quietly out at the back door, and you, Mrs. J., must see that it’s left open when Batsay goes to bed, and I’ll jest put the spirit-stand key in my filly-bag, and you must put glasses and vater in the closet for us again’ we come ‘ome, for we shall most likely be drinkey for dry; so now let’s mizzle, or we shall be losin”alf the fun.”
Oar friends then set off. The night air had assumed an autumnal coolness, and our Cockney Highlander felt the want of his stockings before he had got across the second field, on his way by the back of the village. The young moon shone brightly in the sky, occasionally obscured by a passing cloud. Mr. Jorrocks strode hastily on, followed by the Marquis, laughing ever and anon at the grotesque shadow his fat friend cast on the fields. Thus they proceeded for a mile or so, the Marquis still keeping in the rear.
Presently lights appeared on the hill-top, and the sound of revelry fell on the country round.
“That’s the place,” observed Mr. Jorrocks to his friend, as they halted at a stone stile and looked towards the lights. “You’re not tired, are you?”
“Oh no,” replied the Marquis. “My petticoats are rather inconvenient, and catch the briars as I pass along, otherwise I could manage well enough.”
“‘Old them up,” replied Mr. Jorrocks. “My kilts are werry cool, I know, and expose my legs desperate to the gnats.”
Presently the lights became more apparent, and seemed to move about in greater numbers; and as they reached the foot of the hill, music and the clattering of the dancers sounded more distinctly.
“The game’s begun,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, pretending to listen, but in reality drawing breath before commencing the steep ascent.
“We’ll soon be there now,” continued he, making a fresh start.
They then commenced the climb.
As they neared the summit of the hill, the noise of voices, the clapping of hands, the stamping of heels, the twang of the music, with here and there a rustic couple loitering about making love, announced a numerous gathering.
“There’s a precious sight o’ company,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, turning round to the Marquis, when a man with his face blacked, and a pair of horns on his head, trod on Mr. Jorrocks’s foot.
“Oh, you great clown!” roared Mr. Jorrocks; “you’ve trod on my toe — my corney toe!” added he, catching his foot up in his hand.
“Why don’t you look where you’re going, you great woolpack?” replied the man, pushing past.
“Voolpack!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, letting down his leg, adding, in a lower tone—” I’ll lick you within a barleycorn o’ your life. Stop a bit ’ere,” said he to the Marquis, “till I gets my mask on, or they’ll be twiggin’ on me.”
Having got this adjusted, the Cockney Sawney took the arm of his fair friend, and, drawing a faded green-baize curtain aside, they passed at once from the open air into the barn ball-room.
The game was in full play. Amid clouds of smoke the dim, tallow candles shed an indistinct light upon a most miscellaneous collection of maskers and mummers. Here might be seen a man with an ass’s head, coquetting with the tapster for another jug of barleycorn; there a sailor footing it with a ram, or a haymaker with a billy-goat, many of the characters being from animal and agricultural life.
Our friends were some time after entering before they could discriminate objects. —
Not so with those already in, for the appearance of our Squire and his fair friend caused an instantaneous outburst of exclamations, some not very complimentary to Mr. Jorrocks’s proportions and his country, others in approbation of the fair companion of his travels. “Here’s a Scot!” exclaimed-one, pushing Mr. Jorrocks forward to show himself. “A real fat ‘un,” added a butcher, poking him in the ribs. “A bare-legged ‘un, too!” exclaimed a horse-jobber, feeling Mr. Jorrocks down like a purchaser. “Take care, he’ll maybe give you the itch!” observed a fourth, dressed as a sailor. “I once got it from a chap at Arbroath very like him.”
“Hang him, he’s no Scot!” observed another, dressed as a woman; “are you, old joggle-belly?” continued he, giving Mr. Jorrocks a crack across the stomach. “Is he your dad, my bonny lass?” asked another half-drunken clown, taking a pipe from his mouth, and giving the Marquis a chuck under the chin, and a face full of smoke at the same time.
Mr. Jorrocks was rather abashed by their rudeness at first, but having often taken his own part among the frolicsome maskers in the days of the immortal Charley Wright, of gooseberry champagne celebrity, and in later times at the “Crown and Anchor,” and Lowther Rooms, he soon began to pick up and move freely about the barn. Not so the Marquis, who was sadly disconcerted at the rude liberties of the clowns, who pinched him and pulled him about, and made all sorts of observations upon his figure and appearance. At last, having got separated from his bulky protector, he could no longer put up with the tender advances of a liquorish young husbandman, who, with his arm round his waist, insisted upon kissing him, so getting to the door, he made his escape, and ran away as hard as ever his petticoats would let him lay legs to the ground. Meanwhile our gay-hearted Squire rolled joyfully about, thrusting his uncouth mask under the bonnet of every pretty girl, and replying in most Cockneyfied Scotch to the numerous inquiries that were hazarded as to his country and kindred—” Oh, he was from Inverness! Would they gan to Inverness? &c. He could eat nothin’ but oatmeal! he could drink nothin’ but whisky! He was all for the mountain hair!” The fiddlers, as if in compliment to his country, presently struck up a reel, but Mr. Jorrocks did not regard the invitation, until a very gaunt-looking figure, in a very old white mask, with large red spots on the cheek-bones, dressed in a soldier’s coat, with nankeen shorts and gaiters, and a regular bulge of shirt round his waist, appeared with a buxom wench on the floor, and with a youth dressed as a barn-door cock, commenced a three reel. The woman was masked, but her figure was tall and plump, and finely formed. She tripped lightly through the figure, and set to the soldier, whose toe and heel work and lanky lugubrious appearance contrasted with the nimble jollity or his partner. Still the soldier seemed to have some notion of the dance, for he snapped his fingers and stamped with his heel, and screamed eu heu! at every period for changing the figure. Chanticleer, however, made very poor work or it, and seeing the Scotchman standing by, he said, “Here, you dance it,” and giving Mr. Jorrocks a shove forward, left him to fill up his place in the reel.
Our lumpy Squire then commenced
frolicking with a very clumsy cow-like sort of action, imitating, however, to the best of his ability, the stamps and yells of the soldier. The fair masker seemed to prefer the fat Scotchman, and turned and set to him much oftener and with more grace than the equity of the dance required. In vain the soldier cut and shuffled, and snapped his fingers, and cried eu heu! — Mr. Jorrocks bumped and jumped, and cried eu heu! also.
At last the soldier began to get angry. “D — n it,” said he, “if that great muckle Scotch thief isn’t a takin’ mar pairtner from me. Sink him, ar’ll fell him,” continued he, cutting and shuffling, in hopes that he might reclaim her by superior activity.
Still she set to the Scotchman.
“Ye stand up here,” said he to a youth dressed as a duck, “and tak mar place whilst ar gan and get a neif full o’ nettles for you lubber. Sink, ar’ll gar him loup!” added he, eyeing one of Mr. Jorrocks’s awkward bounds.
The dance gained converts, and ere the soldier returned several more reels were formed. Still the Highlander frolicked with the fine-figured masker, and the admiring crowd pressed round to look at them.
The duck, too, danced much better than the cock. The soldier having provided himself with a handful of nettles, took a position behind Willey Goodheart and a group of unmasked countrymen, and, as Mr. Jorrocks came rolling round, he very quietly drew the nettles across the inside of his knees.
Mr. Jorrocks bounded across the floor.
The soldier then changed his position, and wiped him across the front of his legs; but an extra bound was all the acknowledgment Mr. Jorrocks made.
“Sink, ar’ll stuff them up bodily,” observed the soldier, shortening the stalk of the nettles, and changing his position again.
Presently Mr. Jorrocks was frolicking before him, and up went the nettles.
“BE’AVE!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, with a tremendous bound; an exclamation that caused the soldier to start, and the fair masker to fly.
CHAPTER XXVI.
O MAY THE silver lamp from heaven’s high bower
Direct my footsteps in the midnight hour!” — GAY.
THE Marquis of Bray went like a lamplighter down the pet farm kill, after escaping from Mr. Heavytail’s harvest home ball, inwardly resolving never to assume female attire, or expose himself to such undignified rudeness again. It was his first appearance in any other character than that of a lord, and as he went he thought there was none so convenient. The night had changed for the worse, and the flitting clouds that had occasionally obscured the young moon’s brightness had become heavy rolling masses. On the Marquis went, stumbling, tripping, and tearing his petticoats, following the first path he struck into, without considering whether it was the one he came by or not.
At length a narrow plank of a foot-bridge across a rushing rivulet startled him into the conviction that he was not returning by the way he came. When a man once loses himself, no matter how well he knows the country, it is wonderful how soon he gets confused. Everything looks different. The Marquis was bewildered. He had lost all idea where he was, if indeed he ever had any, for not being used to take lines of his own, he had most likely relied on Mr. Jorrocks bringing him safe home again. Still over the plank, and on he went, in the delusive hope of being right, until a dark wood stood full before him. The moon at that moment gleamed bright upon it, and a driving gust whistled through the leaves. The wood was a poser. The Marquis was sure he was wrong. The awkwardness of his situation now flashed upon him. Dressed as a girl, and lost in a strange country. The night was getting darker — the wind whisked his petticoats about, and the scared screech-owl fluttered about, hooping clear shrill full hoops upon the surrounding country.
“The weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shrieks, flitted on leathern wing.”
“I must try to find my way back,” observed the Marquis to himself, “or I shall be getting benighted;” adding, as he turned and tripped over a boundary stone, “confounded mess this is, to be sure; I wish I hadn’t been so foolish as to accompany Mr. Jorrocks. Oh dear! I do believe there’s a toad!” added he, jumping off the foot-path, as a sudden gleam of moonshine flashed upon a slimy-looking gentleman, jumping leisurely before him. “Two! three! four!” added he, as they successively hopped in view. “Oh dear, the place is alive with them — horrible beasts!”
The foot-way now became more indistinct, and on arriving at the next field, from which the corn had been led, the Marquis stood doubting whether to take the track to the right or to the left. “Which he had come by he had no idea, nor was that material, as he did not wish to get back to Mr. Heavytail’s, if he could find his way to Hillingdon without. At length he took the track to the left. He had not proceeded many paces before, with a sniff, grunt, and snort, up jumped a sow with a litter of pigs, giving him such a start as to drive the idea of following the path out of his mind. On he went, lost in meditation and fear, walking, as it were, involuntarily, for he could not but feel that he was just as likely to be going wrong as right, while the fear of meeting any one in his present disguise almost overcame the desire to do so, for the purpose of getting put right.
Another loud sniff, grunt, and snort, again disturbed his reflections, causing him to start and think there must be a sow with a litter of pigs at each corner of the field, until, getting to the stile by which he had entered, he found he had made a circuit of the enclosure. That was a clencher, and stuffing his hands into his muff, he leant against the rough railing next the stile, in a state of despondency. Ho had never known difficulty before. His had been a bed of roses, instead of which he seemed in a fair way of getting into one of nettles. The night was bitter cold — the wind howled, and a drizzling rain began to threaten saturation to his flimsy garments. “Well, it’s no use stopping here,” said he to himself, as he eyed the fleeting clouds driving before the dull moon; “ I must walk, if it’s only to keep myself warm.” So saying, muff in hand, he proceeded at a half-walk, half-run, along the path he had before rejected.
“I’ve a great mind to holla,” said he to himself, stopping and resting against a stile, after crossing three or four more fields, at the same time undoing the belt of his gown to get at his diminutive gold watch, which he long held up, in hopes of a moon’s ray enabling him to see what o’clock it was. He could make nothing of it. A gold face was all that was visible; the tiny ticking all he could hear. “Oh dear, Mr. Jorrocks is a stupid old man,” said he, returning it to his waistcoat pocket; “I really think my pa was right about his being a vulgar old fellow. Who but a clown could find pleasure in such revelry as that? Well, I wish I was home again — I wouldn’t be caught at another, I know.” So saying, the Marquis again set off at a sort of amble, brushing his silk gown against the protruding thorn-hedge as he went.
A hare’s meanders are not more curious than the Marquis’s wanderings on this unlucky night. The ground he covered and the little progress he made were truly ridiculous. At the end of two hours he was not more than two miles from where he started, though he was fully of opinion that he had walked ten. The time, too, seemed equally long, and by eleven o’clock he began to expect daybreak. Though not boisterous, the wind was noisy, and blowing the contrary way to the pet farm; no sounds of mirth or music reached the low country about which the Marquis wandered; while the festivities, being confined to the back of the house, and the window shutters being closed in front, no indications appeared from that side. Cold and fatigue had so tamed his lordship that he would have made for them if there had, even, at the risk of a second hugging from the clown.
If the Marquis lived to a thousand years, he would never forget the horrors of that night. It would have been bad enough to have been lost in his own clothes; but to be lost without daring to holla, because he was dressed as a woman, was something vexatiously ludicrous. What would his ma say, if she could see him? — O Jorrocks! Jorrocks! you had a deal to answer for, old cock.
Still the Marquis moved about till cold and fatigue almost overcame him. The heir of Donkeyton Castle would have b
een thankful for the shelter of the meanest cottage on the estate. At last, when almost sinking under his difficulties, a sudden gleam of moonshine disclosed a stack of chimneys, between clumps of tall trees. The Marquis darted towards them. Another gleam showed some common railing round the trees, and just at the same moment a melancholy-looking candle flickered past a lattice window high in the roof. A few seconds, and he was over the rails.
“Holloa!” exclaimed he, as loud as he could shout, immediately below where he saw the light, when out rushed a dog with such force as to throw himself over with the check of his chain, as he darted to within a few feet of where the Marquis stood.
“Get away, you beast!” exclaimed he, bounding away with such a spring as made him assume a similar position on the ground.
The rattle of the chain grating at full tension against the wooden dog-box sounded like music to the Marquis, as he gathered himself up from his dirty fall, and prepared for a fresh attempt below the window.
“Holloa!” repeated he, amid the whistling of the wind, the bow-wow-wow-wowing of the dog, and the rattling of the chain.
“Who’s there?” at length exclaimed a voice from below a white cotton nightcap, out of the little window.
“Me! me!” exclaimed the Marquis, delighted at the sound.
“Me, me” mimicked the voice; “who’s me, I wonder?”
A fitful gleam passed over where the Marquis stood, displaying his dress, and the draggled state of his clothes.
“Stand back!” holloaed the voice from above, “or I’ll shoot you.”
“For God’s sake don’t!” exclaimed the Marquis, holding up his muff like a shield, amid the increased baying of the dog.
