Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  “Indeed,” said Mrs. Flather, imagining it was part of the equipage of a Marchioness.

  “Been a Lady Patroness of Almack’s,” added Mrs. Jorrocks, considering whether they were all duchesses or marchionesses, or how.

  “Well, for all that,” sighed Mrs. Flather, anxious to put an end to Mrs. Jorrocks’s tantalising catalogue, “I cannot but think I did right in putting an end to the thing.”

  “Then was it a reg’lar engagement?” asked Mrs. Jorrocks incredulously. —

  “Decidedly so” replied Mrs. Flather. “What made you ever doubt it?”

  “Because our friend over there,” said she, nodding towards where Mrs. Trotter sat hard at work trying to coax Mr. Jorrocks out of a subscription, “thought she had got him for Eliza.”

  “Eliza!” sneered Mrs. Flather—” Eliza had just as much chance with him as you have.” —

  “Emma had booked him before, then, had she?” asked Mrs. Jorrocks. —

  “The Marquis had booked Emma rather,” whispered Mrs. Flather. “Emma’s not a girl that everybody can gain,” added she.

  “Not unless they are well gilt,” thought Mrs. Jorrocks.

  “It don’t do for women to be too easily caught,” observed she. “Men think nothin’ on them. Jun sutored me amost three years afore I would ‘ave him.”

  “That was a long time,” replied Mrs. Flather, who had heard Jun say it was only three weeks.

  “I had a many grand offers,” observed Mrs. Jorrocks, with a shake of the head, as if she ought to have done better.

  “So has Emma,” rejoined Mrs. Flather, anxious to keep to the subject of her daughter and the Marquis.

  “Emma will do well yet,” observed Mrs. Jorrocks, looking at the model of propriety, who was now pretending, to talk to little Trotter, but in reality was cocking her ears to catch what she could of the dialogue between Mrs. Jorrocks and her mamma. ‘ —

  “No fear of that,” responded Mrs. Flather. “She’s in no hurry, and has plenty of time to look about her.”

  “There are as good fish in the sea as ever came out on’t,” observed Mrs. Jorrocks. “She’ll get a markis yet, or at all events a baronet.” —

  “Oh, I don’t wish for any such thing,” sighed Mrs. Flather. “Let her keep single, or marry some quiet respectable man in her own rank of life, who’ll appreciate her for her worth; for she’s an angel of a girl,” added she.

  “So everybody says,” replied Mrs. Jorrocks, thinking whether it was the last Sunday or the Sunday before she heard Emma had given the cook a good beating for not letting her eat the apple tart she had made for dinner at luncheon.

  “There will be plenty glad enough to get her,” observed Mrs. Flather, with a toss of her head.

  “Plenty!” replied Mrs. Jorrocks.

  “James Blake, for instance, is dying for her at this moment.”

  “James Blake is a goin’ to marry Eliza Trotter,” observed Mrs. Jorrocks, with a most malicious grin, unable any longer to contain herself.

  Mrs. Flather almost fainted. James was the only real card they had in view. What might have followed remains matter of speculation, for just as Mrs. Jorrocks announced this destructive intelligence, our Cockney Squire, who had been in close confab with Claudius Sacker for some minutes, caused a diversion throughout the room by calling out at the top of his voice to little Trotter, “I say, Trot! ’ow old do you say the Markis o’ Bray is?”

  “How old!” repeated Trotter, who had been pottering to Emma about double primroses, much to her annoyance, for just as she got hold of the beginning of a sentence, so as to guess what her mamma and Mrs. Jorrocks were talking about, he was sure to put’ her out by returning to the subject. “Why, he’s just of age,” replied Mr. Trotter.

  “No, not the man Alarkis; the ball Alarkis; my Alarkis, in fact,” retorted Mr. Jorrocks. —

  “Oh, your Alarquis,” repeated little Trotter; “why, he’s two year old — rising three.”

  “You’re sure of that?” asked Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Why, I can’t swear to it,” replied little Trotter, fearing the justice wanted to entrap him as a witness; “I’ve always heard so. Why do you ask?” added he.

  “Vy, because Sack, here,” punching the doctor in the ribs with his thumb, “has picked up a cock and bull story, I may well call it, about his bein’ three year old, and says Tommy Clotworthy, who had the second-best two-year-old at the show, is a goin’ to claim the premium from me.”

  “Indeed!” ejaculated several.

  “That will be very awkward,” observed Mrs. Trotter.

  “Werry,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, diving into his breeches pocket, and stirring up his silver.—’

  “Not that they’d get a wast,” added he, “if they only took wot I brought ‘ome; for wot with his lordship’s expenses — wot with Pigg’s — wot with my own, and wot with drinkin’ of his lordship’s ‘ealth, I was amost two punds out o’ pocket; at least there was one pund eighteen and nine-pence unaccounted for. There might part on it ha’ rolled out o’ my breeches pocket, to be sure,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “for while I was hup speaking, some idle and disorderly person took my seat out from an under me, and I couped my creels out o’ the back o’ the tent. Haw, haw haw? added he, “thinks I never got sich a capsize i’ my life. Haw, haw, haw? continued he, laughing at the thoughts of it.

  “Well, “but what will you do about the premium?” inquired Trotter, still fearing Mr. Jorrocks might call upon him, from what he had said.

  “Vy, I don’t know about that,” replied Mr. Jorrocks. “I doesn’t care nothin’ about the prize,” added he, “but in course I shalln’t see the reputation of my ball compromised without a tussle. If the Duke o’ Donkeyton’s farm gentleman says he’s only a two-year-old, vy, I’ll let Clot do his worst. I’ll bring the ball into the Court of Exchequer, and let Baron Halderson have a look in his turnip-trap. Haw, haw, haw,” chuckled he; “I’ll get Murphy to defend him!” continued he. “Crickey, but I fancy I see his lordship rollin’ about clearin’ the big-wigs and all the spectators out o’ court, like so many cobwebs.”

  “It’s ‘alf-past eight,” at length observed Mr. Jorrocks, looking at his great noisy watch; “time we were a toddlin’ — night hair’s bad for the chest.”

  “Wouldn’t you take a little wine and water?” inquired Mrs. Flather, at length finding her tongue, after the shock Mrs. Jorrocks had given her.

  “A leetle brandy and water, if you’ve no objection,” replied Mr. Jorrocks.

  “I’m afraid we’re out of brandy,” rejoined Mrs. Flather.

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Jorrocks, “rum’ll do as well.”

  “I’m sorry we haven’t any rum either,” replied Mrs. Flather; “the cat broke the last bottle yesterday.”

  “I thought I smelt it as I came in,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, sniffing about. “Howsomever,” added he, “never mind, we shall be all the better without it in the mornin’;” with which philosophical reflection Mr. Jorrocks gave the signal, and the party were presently on their legs; the ladies scuttling away for their cab-heads and shawls — the gentlemen pocketing their pumps, pulling on their thick shoes, identifying their hats and zephyrs.

  Having transformed themselves into as many “guys,” there was such saluting and squeezing of hands — such good-nightings among the present, and best lovings to the absent — the more they disliked each other, the greater being the empressement.

  At length the guests got into the open air, and after waiting a second or two staring up at the dark starless clouds, they declared it was only the first coming out that made it look so black, and they had no doubt they would manage well enough after they had been out a little.

  The proffered lanthorn being declined, and the receding footsteps sounding in the dark, amid reiterated “goodnights,” and hopes of “safe arrivals at home,” Mrs. Flather and Emma closed the door upon their dear departing friends.

  CHAPTER XL.

  NIGHT, SABLE GODDESS! from her e
bon throne

  In rayless majesty, now stretches forth

  Her leaden sceptre o’er a slumbering world.”

  THE Marchioness don’t look so far amiss considerin’ her misfortin,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks to the first cloaked figure he ran against, who happened to be Mrs. Trotter.

  She’s not one that will die of love,” retorted the rival parent.

  “But she might die of the loss of a coronet,” observed Mr. Jorrocks; “they are far wuss to meet with nor men in ‘ats.”

  She never had any chance of him,” snapped Mrs. Trotter.

  “Humph,” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, recollecting the consultation Mrs. Trotter and he had had together respecting the Marquis and Eliza. “Then you think Emma’s not one o’ the dyin’ sort,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, running foul of a tree.

  “Not she!” exclaimed Mrs. Trotter. —

  “P’raps you’ll take my harm,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, thinking Mrs. Trotter’s bright eyes might guide him safer than his own.

  They then joined arms.

  “I vish old Hursa Major would ‘ave the kindness to show us his mug,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, looking up at the dark’ firmament. “Us farmers call him the plough” added he, “and I think he should return the compliment by lightin’ us ‘ome.”

  “I think so too,” replied Mrs. Trotter; adding, “you don’t think Emma pretty, do you?”

  “Pretty!” repeated Mr. Jorrocks, “pretty well — nothin’ to set the Thames on fire;” adding, “are you much of a star-gazer?”

  “Not at all,” replied Mrs. Trotter, vexed at Mr. Jorrocks’s shirking.

  “I am,” said he; “crazeyologist, bampologist, starologist, wenusologist, all that sort o’ thing sort o’ man,” added he.

  Mrs. Trotter was silent.

  “The Shepherds in the beautiful plains o’ Egypt and Babylon were the first persons wot paid much attention to the stars,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, “partly for want of amusement, not having no theatres, nor masquerades, nor circuses to go to, and partly to enable them to scrimmage about the country at nights.”

  Mrs. Trotter was still silent.

  “I confess I should ha’ liked to ha’ been a shepherd i’ one of them shires,” continued Mr. Jorrocks; “‘specially if I’d ‘ad a fine ‘ooman to darn my stockings, and so on,” added he in an undertone, and a squeeze of Mrs. Trotter’s arm.

  “Mrs. Flather, perhaps,” observed Mrs. Trotter.

  “No, not Mrs. Flather,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, with an emphasis; “some ‘un nearer ‘and.”

  “You old goose,” thought Mrs. Trotter.

  “It’s confounded dark,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, grazing a gate-post with his shoulder. If Saturn has his five moons as they say, I’d wish he’d show a light to-night.”

  “You should have accepted Mrs. Flather’s offer of her lanthorn,” observed Mrs. Trotter.

  “I think we did wrong not,” observed Mr. Jorrocks; adding, “I’d no notion it was so dark.”

  “It’s lucky the road’s pretty good to find,” observed Mrs. Trotter. —

  “Ay, but roads look werry different at nights to what they do by day,” observed Mr. Jorrocks; “summut like women in that respect,” added he; “nothing personal, in course,” continued the gallant Squire.

  “Of course not,” replied Mrs. Trotter. “Perhaps you think Mrs. Flather does,” added she.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever examined Mrs. Flather particklar by candle-light,” observed Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Nay, you saw her to-night,” replied Mrs. Trotter.

  “True; but there was sich a bevy of beauties that I never had time to look her over — narrowly, at least,” added Mr. Jorrocks.

  Mrs. Trotter was silent. She saw our friend would not be trotted out.

  “That Miss Hemily Badger ar’nt a bad lookin’-girl,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, after a pause. “Well set-up-gal, I should say; good figure-’ead too.” —

  “As fine as Emma, do you think?” asked Mrs. Trotter.

  “Finer nor Emma, I should say,” replied Mr. Jorrocks.

  “More expression, more animation,” rejoined Mrs. Trotter.

  “Hemma’s more sedate-lookin’,” observed Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Emma’s a cold-blooded one,” observed Mrs. Trotter.

  “I doesn’t like a cold-blooded ‘ooman,” replied Mr. Jorrocks, squeezing his companion’s arm again.

  “I wonder whom she’ll take up with next?” observed Mrs. Trotter.

  “Isn’t this her first?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks.

  “First!” exclaimed Mrs. Trotter, “not by a good many — not, I dare say, that she ever had an offer, but she’s tried for them hard enough.”

  “Humph!” grunted Mr. Jorrocks, thinking the mothers’ stories didn’t tally.

  “Perhaps she’ll be trying Mr. Blake again,” observed Mrs. Trotter.

  “Perhaps,” replied Mr. Jorrocks.

  “She may save herself the trouble of that, though,” chuckled Mrs. Trotter.

  “He’s not to be catched, isn’t he?” asked Mr. Jorrocks.

  “He is caught,” said Mrs. Trotter, with emphasis.

  “Who by?” inquired Mr. Jorrocks.

  “Who do you think?” returned Mrs. Trotter.

  “Miss Badger, p’raps,” observed Mr. Jorrocks, thinking Eliza would not have him after her Marquis coup.

  “Guess again,” said Mrs. Trotter.

  “Eliza, p’raps,” said Mr. Jorrocks.

  “You have it!” exclaimed Mrs. Trotter.

  “And doesn’t Mrs. Flather know?” asked he.

  “Not yet,” said Mrs. Trotter. “He only offered this afternoon.”

  “Yes, she does,” interposed Mrs. Jorrocks, who, aided by the darkness of the night, had fallen into line with our hero and his fair friend.

  “What, you haven’t blabbed, have you?” exclaimed Mrs. Trotter.

  Mrs. Jorrocks was silent, feeling she had committed herself.

  “Well, now, I must say that is very wrong of you!” exclaimed Mrs. Trotter, “very wrong indeed! I told it you in the strictest confidence, and she was just the last person under the sun that I should like to have had it told to,” added Mrs. Trotter, from the depths of her calash.

  “But she was sure to ‘ear of it,” snuffled Mrs. Jorrocks from hers.

  “Sure to hear of it!” repeated Mrs. Trotter, boiling up; “no doubt she was; but there was no reason why you should deprive me of the pleasure of telling her.”

  “That woman, Mrs. Flather,” said she to Mr. Jorrocks, “has spited me more than words can tell; and just as I was going to have my revenge, I’m done out of it in this way. It’s too lad!” exclaimed she, in a loud tone of voice.

  The parties behind hearing something going on before, now pressed to the front, and at this critical moment, a rope that had been tied across the road just as it led into the turnpike, took the front rank by the heels, who were immediately followed by those behind. Down they all went, two layers of them. Great was the scramble!

  Mr and Mrs. Jorrocks, with Mrs. Trotter between them, made the first layer; then came Claudius Sacker and his wife, with Miss Emily Badger. Little Trotter had a tumble to himself at the side. Mr. Jorrocks lost his wig, Mrs. Jorrocks’s front came down over her nose, and Claudius Sacker’s goldheaded cane went into Miss Emily Badger’s mouth.

  A reward of two pounds was offered, next day, for the discovery of the wig and the offender or offenders who tied the rope across the road, but without success. Popular opinion pointed to Benjamin; but his worship never suspected him.

  The wig was taken from a Scotch terrier, who, having fought with two other dogs for the retention of his prize, it may be supposed not to have been worth much when Mr. Jorrocks got it hack.

  CHAPTER XLI.

  ON US EACH circling year doth make a prey.”

  FROM Borne to Terracina, from Capua to Naples,” observed the Duke of Donkeyton, travelling with his eye-glass down Orgiazzi’s map of Italy, along with young hopefu
l, the Marquis of Bray, with whom he was arranging a route for a tour.

  The Duke and Duchess had had long and anxious confabs relative to their hopeful scion, caused, not a little, perhaps, by Mrs. Flather’s invasion. They thought he would be getting into mischief, and, painful as the separation would be, they had determined to send him abroad for a year, under the superintendence of a steady old file, Professor Yarnington, one of the old straight-cut coat, upright-collared, pig-tailed, silk-stocking, short-black-gaitered breed of tutors; a most orthodox-looking bear-leader.

  The Duke and the Marquis had set off on their travels after luncheon, and had advanced as far into the bowels of Italy as indicated in the opening sentence of this chapter, when, just as his Grace, with a twirl of his eye-glass, was throwing himself back in the luxurious depths of his armchair to twaddle about the wonders of Naples, and his own exploits there as a youngster, the library door opened, and the groom of the chambers approached at a somewhat hurried pace for a well-trained menial, bearing a rich salver with a black-sealed letter upon it.

  His Grace broke the seal, and proceeded to read it Thus it ran: —

  “REFORM CLUB.

  “DEAR DUKE, — Poor Guzzlegoose has succeeded in killing himself at last. He had been living at the Castle, at Richmond, for a fortnight, and died this morning of a most inordinate dinner. I happen to be passing through town, and despatch a special messenger with this by the evening train, as, of course, no time should be lost. — Truly yours,

  “LOOKALIVE.”

  “God bless ns!” said the Duke, throwing up his white-whiskered head; “sad thing! very sad thing!” handing the Marquis the letter; “sorry for him, monstrous sorry for him.”

  “Pay the messenger. No answer,” added he to the servant.

  “Poor man!” said the Marquis, with a laugh, handing back the letter; “he has long been trying to do it.”

  “Great eater! monstrous great eater!” said the Duke.

  “He was that!” rejoined the Marquis.