Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Then make yourself scarce, and don’t be after disturbing a respectable family at this time of night.”

  “Don’t be silly!” exclaimed the Marquis, “I don’t want to hurt anybody; I want shelter,” added he, advancing a few paces.

  “Stand bach!” repeated the voice, “or I’ll shoot!” the speaker at the same time popping a mop-handle out of the window. —

  “Hold!” screamed the Marquis, couching to avoid the discharge, “I’m not a robber.”

  “I know what you are well enough,” replied he of the cotton nightcap, “but we don’t want such cattle as you here.” —

  “What’s the matter? Who’s there? Thieves! murder! fire! help!” exclaimed a voice from below a frilled nightcap, out of a larger window a little lower down.

  “It’s nobody that will hurt you,” exclaimed the Marquis, waving his muff in a supplicating way towards the house.

  “Only hear me!” —

  “But who are you?” inquired the frilled night-capped voice. “What do you mean by disturbing the, house at this time of night?”

  “I’ve lost my way,” exclaimed the Marquis, “and am perishing with cold. Do let me in, and I’ll tell you all about it,” added he, pulling up his wet petticoats. —

  “I dare say!” replied voice number two. “We don’t harbour such people as you here, this is not a lodging-house.

  ~ If you don’t go quietly away I’ll rouse the house; call the coachman, butler, groom, and all the footmen; have you taken up, taken before a magistrate.”

  “Pray don’t!” exclaimed the Marquis, “pray don’t; I really won’t hurt anybody; just let me sit by the kitchen fire till morning; I assure you I’ll go quietly away, and be most thankful.”

  “Who can it be?” inquired another female voice, now joining the first one. “She doesn’t speak like a common person, somehow. How many are there of you?” asked she, now looking out of the window.

  “Only myself!” exclaimed the Marquis, “only myself!” repeated he, with upraised muff.

  “She’s got an ermine muff and tippet, I see,” said the second female voice, drawing back, “and appears well dressed. We can hardly let her stand shivering there.”

  “If I was sure there was no one else, I’d let her in, but it may be a plan to rob and murder us,” observed the other; “we can’t be too careful.”

  “Oh dear!” exclaimed the Marquis, “don’t keep me shivering here; I shall get my death of cold,” added he, his teeth chattering as he spoke.

  A long consultation ensued in the lower room, to which the cotton cap of the upper one was summoned. At length slipshod footsteps were heard descending an uncarpeted staircase, and presently the rattling of bolts and loosening of chains denoted the withdrawal of the barricade.

  “There’s none but herself,” exclaimed the cotton-capped hero, after an inspection from the upper window, whereupon the key turned in the lock, and the last bolt flew back. The door then partially opened.

  “Come in, young woman!” exclaimed a female voice through the aperture, through which no sooner had the Marquis squeezed, than clap the door went to again, and the lock was quickly turned. A dim swealing candle, in a block-tin candlestick, in the hand of a figure a little further in the passage, threw an indistinct light along it, enabling the Marquis to see two frilled nightcapped figures, muffled up in white flannel dressing-gowns, with thick red worsted shawls about their shoulders; and a short figure in dark trousers, with a white cotton night-cap sticking off his head, like a cardinal’s hat. They were evidently the people he had held communion sweet with outside. The walls of the cold flagged passage showed symptoms of decay in the plastering; and the unpainted rails of the staircase at the end had the appearance of belonging either to the front of a very bad house, or the back of a very middling one.

  “Come this way,” said the figure who had let him in, retreating till she got the candle from the one near the staircase, which she flourished up and down, so as to throw as much light as possible on our friend.

  He certainly was a most forlorn figure. The smart blue and white ‘feather that Mr. Jorrocks had admired, now drooped like a wet cock’s tail over his ear, his hair hung in wet, dishevelled ringlets about his face, and his blue and white dress was torn and covered with mud stains.

  “You’re a pretty creature,” said the figure with the candle, retreating and beckoning the Marquis to follow her into the kitchen. —

  A poke of the fire threw additional light on the subject — a light that removed all doubt as to what the wearer was.

  “And pray, young woman,” said she, with upturned nose, and most contemptuous sneer, “and pray, young woman, what do you mean by disturbing respectable people at this time of night?”

  “Oh, I assure you I’m not to blame,” exclaimed the Marquis. “It’s not from choice I’m this way!” said he, looking at his dress.

  “I dare say” sneered the figure with the candle, “I dare say,” repeated she. “The old story, I suppose. But Til put you to rights in the morning.”

  “Hear me!” exclaimed the Marquis.

  “I won’t hear a word you’ve got to say,” interrupted the figure, starting and stamping with her foot. “Til have you taken before a magistrate! I’ll have you taken before Mr. Jorrocks!”

  “Oh, Mr. Jorrocks is a friend of mine,” exclaimed the Marquis, delighted to hear a name he recognised.

  “The more shame for you!” screamed the threatener. “The more shame for you, you bold — impudent hussy. I’ll tell Mrs. Jorrocks of you!”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed the Marquis, “nonsense! — I’m not a woman — I’m a man — Lord Bray, in fact.”

  Scream! screech! scream! went both the dressing-gowned figures, followed by a hurried exclamation—” Run, Emma, and change your cap!”

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  SWEET AUBURN! LOVELIEST village of the plain,

  Where health and plenty cheered the lab’ring swain;

  Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

  And parting summer’s ling’ring blooms delayed.”

  THERE’S gannin to be a grand beast show hereabouts,” observed Pigg to his master (for the sagacious reader will have conjectured from Mr. Jorrocks’s parting observation, as Pigg left him with the cattle, that the relationship of master and servant was likely to be re-established between them) “there’s gannin to be a grand beast show hereabouts,” observed Pigg, entering his master’s sanctum, with one of the usual autumnal-issuing handbills, offering such a premium for the best bull, such a premium for the second best — such a premium for the biggest boar, and such another for the best pig; with the usual intimation at the bottom, that dinner would be on the table at two o’clock precisely, with a band in attendance.

  “Is there?” observed Mr. Jorrocks, taking the proffered bill, headed in great letters: —

  ST. BOSWELL

  AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY.

  GRAND CATTLE SHOW ON THE FAIR DAY.

  “Humph!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, “I s’pose we must be after sendin’ the Marquis. Wot do they give for the best ball?” added he, glancing at the prizes. “Here it is. ‘For the best ball of any age, ten punds; for the second best, five punds; for the best yearling ball, six punds.’ I thinks we’ll send the Marquis.’Ow far is it from here do you suppose?” for Mr. Jorrocks had not learnt the country as yet. —

  “Why, they say it’s a gay step frae here,” replied Pigg, “ maybe fourteen or fifteen mile; yean should set off the day afore, se as to travel the maist o’ the distance, and get the boole there in good order.”

  “Jest so,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “jest so; but that’ll ran up expense. If I shouldn’t get a prize, I should be out o’ pocket.”

  “Ne doot,” replied Pigg, “ne doot; but he’d stite stay at heam as gan in i’ bad order. Lose his caracter, ye ken.”

  “Yell,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “there’s summut in that, to be sure; nothin’ wentur, nothin’ gain.” Thereupon our friend jingl
ed his money in his pocket as if he was counting the premium.

  St. Boswell, though little more than a village, was a place of some note, from its cattle shows and fairs. To this it was indebted for its locality, being midway between several larger places, to which it acted as a centre of attraction. Moreover, it was a place of surpassing beauty; not that we mean to insinuate that its beauty would be any attraction to a cattle-drover, it being merely mentioned here as a lure to the reader to go on. Situate deep in a narrow valley in a wild moorland region, sheltered with lofty hills, whose grey rock-studded summits were barely sprinkled with the hardy larch or stunted fir, growing ranker and stronger down below until they mingled with beech, oak, elm, and other forest trees in the bottom, St. Boswell was placed in the prettiest part of the narrowing valley, where the mountain’s base was swept by a clear, sparkling stream, hardly to be called a river in summer, but when swelled with the mountain torrents of the thunderstorm or wintry falls, it rushed and foamed in terrible and almost irresistible velocity; each mountain chasm showed its tributary streamlet, now rippling noiselessly down, or gliding over the well-worn rock, from whence in winter it flowed a noisy brawling cataract.

  Everything about St. Boswell was sunshiny and pretty. The little fields on either side of the river looked fresher and greener than anywhere else. The hedgerow and other trees looked larger, healthier, and fuller of foliage, while the pine tribe clustered on the mountain side with an air of naturalisation. Many of the larches were of great size; some full of cones, and covered with the grey moss of age, while here and there a broken top or shattered branch showed the effects of resistance to the hurricane. The river, too, bore marks of wildness and devastation. The wide bed was scattered with enormous fragments of rock, breaking the stream into minor channels, while wearing jetties on either side showed the efforts of the landowners to keep the torrent in its course.

  Over this river was a sloping bridge of many arches, down which the unsuspecting traveller shot, losing half the beauties of the place. From the high end of the bridge a complete view of the little square forming the town might be obtained. The old grey-roofed houses were irregularly built; but the battlemented edifice, under whose Gothic arch the road passed to the north, gave the place the appearance of some little fortified Swiss capital. On the right of the square was a large inn, with a tinge of Gothic architecture in its doorway and mullioned windows; while here and there similar windows might be seen scattered about the square, some brightening with smart shawls, or particoloured ribbons, others exhibiting the more humble stores of flour or groceries. The church was a large square-towered, stone-roofed building, standing aloof from the square, and forming a beautiful feature as the traveller progressed up the valley; while a neat-looking little parsonage-house was stuck into the hillside, overlooking the place from its shelving, garden - laid - out terraces. Luxuriant evergreens were trained against its white walls, while a world of forest trees clustered round, sheltering it alike from summer’s heats and winter’s storms.

  The fair was the great event of the year, and the visitor on that day saw the village attired in its best — the capital of moorland life. At other times it presented a pleasant picture of quietude and primitive simplicity.

  James Pigg having thoroughly identified himself with his master’s interest, did all he could to set the Marquis off to advantage. He cleaned him, and rubbed him, and fed him with oil-cake, and made his coat shine like a horse’s. James soon persuaded himself that he was the finest boole that ever was seen, and took it as a personal insult when any one attempted to disparage him. Mr. Jorrocks encountered Pigg early in the morning on the day previous to the show, in marching order, just as we found him in the lane with the cattle. The eagle feather stood from his Highland bonnet, and the plaide, divested of its wardrobe, was thrown over his chest, with the fringed end across his back. He had given the sporting buttons an extra polish, and had made the alterations he spoke of between the knees and the gaiters. Altogether he was uncommon smart. —

  “Yell, James, then you’re off,” said Mr. Jorrocks, as he met him in the passage.

  “Ay, ar’s gannin,” replied Pigg, taking his oak staff down from the rafters of the kitchen ceiling. “A boole taks a vast o’ travellin’ — ye’ll be comin’ yourself ar’s warn’d!”

  “Not till to-morrow, James,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, “not till to-morrow — but howsomever you see and get me the prize — and don’t you get drunk.”

  “Ar niver gets drunk!” replied Pigg, with a growl, bundling past his master.

  Off then James set; and Mr. Jorrocks having seen him and the bull away, returned to his study, where he had a very important scheme in hand — the establishment of a periodical to combine the features of the Justice of the Peace, The Farmer’s Magazine, The Sporting Magazine, and the Quarterly Review, to be called Jorrocks’s Journal of General Genius, with which he purposed knocking all those periodicals out of the water.

  For the present, however, we must request our readers will accompany Pigg.

  James did wise in starting early, for an extremely powerful sun dissipated the coolness of the autumnal air; and long before noon it was excessively hot. The flies too teased the Marquis, and rendered him very fractious: indeed, none but an experienced drover, like Pigg, could have got him along. Sometimes his lordship would stand stock-still, and bellow till he made the surrounding country echo. At other times, when he came within sight of a stream or river, he would rush at it as hard as ever he could go, pulling Pigg along like a straw; then again he would charge a stiff bullfinch into a field when he saw a cow, riddling Pigg’s face, and nearly scratching his eyes out, as, grinning like grim death, he held on by the chain. At length, towards evening, Pigg had accomplished his journey, and had the satisfaction of housing the Marquis in good order, whatever he might be himself. This was at a small village a few miles off St. Boswell, a distance that left him little to do next day.

  A country fair being a great event in rural regions, the little place was astir at an early hour in the morning. The servant lads and lasses had their work to do, or arrangements to make for taking each other’s places, and the varied countenances plainly showed who were for the fair and who were not. A crowd collected to see Pigg start. “What a fine bull!” exclaimed one. “What a beauty!” exclaimed another. “He’ll come from Scotland,” observed a third, eyeing Pigg’s habiliments. The urchins gave three cheers as he passed before them.

  A turnpike gate stood across the road, about half-a-mile from the village, and presented the unusual sight of a country tollkeeper ready for his money — not that they are averse to taking it, but they are never on the lookout for it. Perhaps this one’s activity was caused by its being the fair day. At all events, it is an unusual sight, as unusual as a country servant being ready with his money when he gets to one. There, however, stood Tommy Sacker, with his friend Jacky Green, and as Pigg and the bull approached, Tommy seemed more intent on the animal than the toll.

  “Here’s a fine day,” observed Pigg, as he approached the gate. —

  “Deed is it, master,” replied Tommy, “and you’ve got a fine bull with you.”

  “Grand boole,” said Pigg, rubbing the animal’s curly pow, “grand boole — get the prize this yean ar guess.”

  “Whose is he?” asked the gatekeeper.

  “Dinnut ye ken him?” asked Pigg, thinking how he could “do” him.

  “No, I don’t,” replied Tommy, examining the bull attentively all round.

  “Ah, come, ye de?” replied Pigg inquiringly.

  “No,” replied the man decidedly, with a shake of the head.

  “Why, it’s Sir Robert Peel’s grand boole,” observed Pigg.

  “Sir Robert Peel’s grand bull!” exclaimed the man. “Bless us, you don’t say so! Come here, Mary,” cried he to his wife, “come here, woman, and see Sir Robert Peel’s grand bull.” —

  “Ye dinnut tak pay frae Sir Robert, ar’s warn’d,” observed Pigg, driving the Marquis
through the gate.

  Scarcely had the turn of the road, as it wound round the heathery mountain-side, screened Pigg from sight, than up came Goliah, the crack bull of the country — a great red and white animal, that moved like an elephant. He was towed along as usual by the nose by a countryman, while his master, Farmer Cheesecake, followed on his grey pony behind, giving the bull a crack on the hind-quarters every now and then with his stick to keep him going.

  A country turnpike-gate being as unlike a London one as possible, Farmer Cheesecake pulled up to have a little talk with Tommy Sacker, as he paid him the toll.

  “Well, Tommy,” said he, “here’s a fine mornin’ for the fair.”

  “Fine mornin’, sir,” said Tommy, “fine mornin’.”

  “Many cattle gone through?” asked Cheesecake.

  “Only one bull, as yet,” replied Tommy, “but he’s a fine ‘un: I doubt Goliah won’t gain the prize to-day.”

  “I don’t know that,” replied Cheesecake, with a smile, as much as to say, “what do you know about bulls?”

  “Well, but you may depend on’t he’ll be an awkward customer,” replied Tommy Sacker.

  “Why, it will be Harry Tugwell’s bull — a strawberry roan,” observed Cheesecake.

  “No, it’s not,” said the gatekeeper. “So you’re wrong for once.”

  “It’s Mr. Chub’s, then.”

  “No, nor Mr. Chub’s.”

  “Whose is it, then?” demanded Cheesecake, at the same time tendering his toll.

  “Why, what do you think of Sir Robert Peel’s grand bull?” inquired Tommy, with an air of exultation.

  “Sir Robert Reel’s grand bull!” exclaimed Cheesecake at the top of his voice, in horrified amazement. “Sir Robert Peel’s grand bull! What the deuce business has Sir Robert Peel to send his d — d bulls here? We want none of Sir Robert Peel’s bulls. No, nor none of Sir Robert himself,” growled he. “Had enough both of him and his bulls, and his tariffs too — ruined the country — done it on purpose that he might come and sweep up what’s left. D — n him! Til Sir Robert him!” added Cheesecake, clutching his stick and laying it into his pony, as if he saw Sir Robert in the distance, and was going to ride at him.