Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  Having disposed of the past, he then turned his attention to the future. Here were two beautiful girls apparently full of money, between whom there wasn’t the toss-up of a halfpenny for choice. Most exemplary parents, too, who didn’t seem to care a farthing about money.

  He then began speculating on what the girls would have. ‘Great house — great establishment — great estate, doubtless. Why, confound it,’ continued he, casting his heavy eye lazily around, ‘here’s a room as big as a field in a cramped country! Can’t have less than fifty thousand a-piece, I should say, at the least. Jawleyford, to be sure, is young,’ thought he; ‘may live a long time’ (puff). ‘If Mrs. J. were to die (Curse — the cigar’s burnt my lips’), added he, throwing the remnant into the fire, and rolling out of the chair to prepare for turning into bed.

  If any one had told Sponge that there was a rich papa and mamma on the look-out merely for amiable young men to bestow their fair daughters upon, he would have laughed them to scorn, and said, ‘Why, you fool, they are only laughing at you’; or ‘Don’t you see they are playing you off against somebody else?’ But our hero, like other men, was blind where he himself was concerned, and concluded that he was the exception to the general rule.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jawleyford had their consultation too.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr. Jawleyford, seating himself on the high wire fender immediately below a marble bust of himself on the mantelpiece; ‘I think he’ll do.’

  ‘Oh, no doubt,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford, who never saw any difficulty in the way of a match; ‘I should say he is a very nice young man,’ continued she.

  ‘Rather brusque in his manner, perhaps,’ observed Jawleyford, who was quite the ‘lady’ himself. ‘I wonder what he was?’ added he, fingering away at his whiskers.

  ‘He’s rich, I’ve no doubt,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford.

  ‘What makes you think so?’ asked her loving spouse.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford; ‘somehow I feel certain he is — but I can’t tell why — all fox-hunters are.’

  ‘I don’t know that,’ replied Jawleyford, who knew some very poor ones. ‘I should like to know what he has,’ continued Jawleyford musingly, looking up at the deeply corniced ceiling as if he were calculating the chances among the filagree ornaments of the centre.

  ‘A hundred thousand, perhaps,’ suggested Mrs. Jawleyford, who only knew two sums — fifty and a hundred thousand.

  ‘That’s a vast of money,’ replied Jawleyford, with a slight shake of the head.

  ‘Fifty at least, then,’ suggested Mrs. Jawleyford, coming down half-way at once.

  ‘Well, if he has that, he’ll do,’ rejoined Jawleyford, who also had come down considerably in his expectations since the vision of his railway days, at whose bright light he had burnt his fingers.

  ‘He was said to have an immense fortune — I forget how much — at Laverick Wells,’ observed Mrs. Jawleyford.

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Jawleyford, adding, ‘I suppose either of the girls will be glad enough to take him?’

  ‘Trust them for that,’ replied Mrs. Jawleyford, with a knowing smile and nod of the head: ‘trust them for that,’ repeated she. ‘Though Amelia does turn up her nose and pretend to be fine, rely upon it she only wants to be sure that he’s worth having.’

  ‘Emily seems ready enough, at all events,’ observed Jawleyford.

  ‘She’ll never get the chance,’ observed Mrs. Jawleyford. ‘Amelia is a very prudent girl, and won’t commit herself, but she knows how to manage the men.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Jawleyford, with a hearty yawn, ‘I suppose we may as well go to bed.’

  So saying, he took his candle and retired.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE WET DAY

  WHEN THE DIRTY slip-shod housemaid came in the morning with her blacksmith’s-looking tool-box to light Mr. Sponge’s fire, a riotous winter’s day was in the full swing of its gloomy, deluging power. The wind howled, and roared, and whistled, and shrieked, playing a sort of æolian harp amongst the towers, pinnacles, and irregular castleisations of the house; while the old casements rattled and shook, as though some one were trying to knock them in.

  ‘Hang the day!’ muttered Sponge from beneath the bedclothes. ‘What the deuce is a man to do with himself on such a day as this, in the country?’ thinking how much better he would be flattening his nose against the coffee-room window of the Bantam, or strolling through the horse-dealers’ stables in Piccadilly or Oxford Street.

  Presently the over-night chair before the fire, with the picture of Jawleyford in the Bumperkin yeomanry, as seen through the parted curtains of the spacious bed, recalled his over-night speculations, and he began to think that perhaps he was just as well where he was. He then ‘backed’ his ideas to where he had left off, and again began speculating on the chances of his position. ‘Deuced fine girls,’ said he, ‘both of ’em: wonder what he’ll give ’em down?’ — recurring to his over-night speculations, and hitting upon the point at which he had burnt his lips with the end of the cigar — namely, Jawleyford’s youth, and the possibility of his marrying again if Mrs. Jawleyford were to die. ‘It won’t do to raise up difficulties for one’s self, however,’ mused he; so, kicking off the bedclothes, he raised himself instead, and making for a window, began to gaze upon his expectant territory.

  It was a terrible day; the ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily along, and the lowering gloom was only enlivened by the occasional driving rush of the tempest. Earth and sky were pretty much the same grey, damp, disagreeable hue.

  ‘Well,’ said Sponge to himself, having gazed sufficiently on the uninviting landscape, ‘it’s just as well it’s not a hunting day — should have got terribly soused. Must get through the time as well as I can — girls to talk to — house to see. Hope I’ve brought my Mogg,’ added he, turning to his portmanteau, and diving for his Ten Thousand Cab Fares. Having found the invaluable volume, his almost constant study, he then proceeded to array himself in what he considered the most captivating apparel; a new wide-sleeved dock-tail coatee, with outside pockets placed very low, faultless drab trousers, a buff waistcoat, with a cream-coloured once-round silk tie, secured by red cornelian cross-bars set in gold, for a pin. Thus attired, with Mogg in his pocket, he swaggered down to the breakfast-room, which he hit off by means of listening at the doors till he heard the sound of voices within.

  Mrs. Jawleyford and the young ladies were all smiles and smirks, and there were no symptoms of Miss Jawleyford’s hauteur perceptible. They all came forward and shook hands with our friend most cordially. Mr. Jawleyford, too, was all flourish and compliment; now tilting at the weather, now congratulating himself upon having secured Mr. Sponge’s society in the house.

  That leisurely meal of protracted ease, a country-house breakfast, being at length accomplished, and the ladies having taken their departure, Mr. Jawleyford looked out on the terrace, upon which the angry rain was beating the standing water into bubbles, and observing that there was no chance of getting out, asked Mr. Sponge if he could amuse himself in the house.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied he, ‘got a book in my pocket.’

  ‘Ah, I suppose — the New Monthly, perhaps?’ observed Mr. Jawleyford.

  ‘No,’ replied Sponge.

  ‘Dizzey’s Life of Bentinck, then, I dare say,’ suggested Jawleyford; adding, ‘I’m reading it myself.’

  ‘No, nor that either,’ replied Sponge, with a knowing look; ‘a much more useful work, I assure you,’ added he, pulling the little purple-backed volume out of his pocket, and reading the gilt letters on the back: ‘Mogg’s Ten Thousand Cab Fares. Price one shilling!’

  ‘Indeed,’ exclaimed Mr. Jawleyford, ‘well, I should never have guessed that.’

  ‘I dare say not,’ replied Sponge, ‘I dare say not, it’s a book I never travel without. It’s invaluable in town, and you may study it to great advantage in the country. With Mogg in my hand, I can almost fancy myself in both places at once. O
mnibus guide,’ added he, turning over the leaves, and reading, ‘Acton five, from the end of Oxford Street and the Edger Road — see Ealing; Edmonton seven, from Shoreditch Church— “Green Man and Still” Oxford Street — Shepherd’s Bush and Starch Green, Bank, and Whitechapel — Tooting — Totteridge — Wandsworth; in short, every place near town. Then the cab fares are truly invaluable; you have ten thousand of them here,’ said he, tapping the book, ‘and you may calculate as many more for yourself as ever you like. Nothing to do but sit in an arm-chair on a wet day like this, and say, If from the Mile End turnpike to the “Castle” on the Kingsland Road is so much, how much should it be to the “Yorkshire Stingo,” or Pine-Apple-Place, Maida Vale? And you measure by other fares till you get as near the place you want as you can, if it isn’t set down in black and white to your hand in the book.’

  ‘Just so,’ said Jawleyford, ‘just so. It must be a very useful work indeed, very useful work. I’ll get one — I’ll get one. How much did you say it was — a guinea? a guinea?’

  ‘A shilling,’ replied Sponge, adding, ‘you may have mine for a guinea if you like.’

  ‘By Jove, what a day it is!’ observed Jawleyford, turning the conversation, as the wind dashed the hard sleet against the window like a shower of pebbles. ‘Lucky to have a good house over one’s head, such weather; and, by the way, that reminds me, I’ll show you my new gallery and collection of curiosities — pictures, busts, marbles, antiques, and so on; there’ll be fires on, and we shall be just as well there as here.’ So saying, Jawleyford led the way through a dark, intricate, shabby passage, to where a much gilded white door, with a handsome crimson curtain over it announced the entrance to something better. ‘Now,’ said Mr. Jawleyford, bowing as he threw open the door, and motioned, or rather flourished, his guest to enter— ‘now,’ said he, ‘you shall see what you shall see.’

  Mr. Sponge entered accordingly, and found himself at the end of a gallery fifty feet by twenty, and fourteen high, lighted by skylights and small windows round the top. There were fires in handsome Caen-stone chimney-pieced fireplaces on either side, a large timepiece and an organ at the far end, and sundry white basins scattered about, catching the drops from the skylights.

  ‘Hang the rain!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, as he saw it trickling over a river scene of Van Goyen’s (gentlemen in a yacht, and figures in boats), and drip, drip, dripping on to the head of an infant Bacchus below.

  ‘He wants an umbrella, that young gentleman,’ observed Sponge, as Jawleyford proceeded to dry him with his handkerchief.

  ‘Fine thing,’ observed Jawleyford, starting off to a side, and pointing to it; ‘fine thing — Italian marble — by Frère — cost a vast of money — was offered three hundred for it. Are you a judge of these things?’ asked Jawleyford; ‘are you a judge of these things?’

  ‘A little,’ replied Sponge, ‘a little’; thinking he might as well see what his intended father-in-law’s personal property was like.

  ‘There’s a beautiful thing!’ observed Jawleyford, pointing to another group. ‘I picked that up for a mere nothing — twenty guineas — worth two hundred at least. Lipsalve, the great picture-dealer in Gammon Passage, offered me Murillo’s “Adoration of the Virgin and Shepherds,” for which he showed me a receipt for a hundred and eighty-five, for it.’

  ‘Indeed!’ replied Sponge, ‘what is it?’

  ‘It’s a Bacchanal group, after Poussin, sculptured by Marin. I bought it at Lord Breakdown’s sale; it happened to be a wet day — much such a day as this — and things went for nothing. This you’ll know, I presume?’ observed Jawleyford, laying his hand on a life-size bust of Diana, in Italian marble.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ replied Sponge.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Jawleyford; ‘I thought everybody had known this: this is my celebrated “Diana,” by Noindon — one of the finest things in the world. Louis Philippe sent an agent over to this country expressly to buy it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you sell it him?’ asked Sponge.

  ‘Didn’t want the money,’ replied Jawleyford, ‘didn’t want the money. In addition to which, though a king, he was a bit of a screw, and we couldn’t agree upon terms. This,’ observed Jawleyford, ’is a vase of the Cinque Cento period — a very fine thing; and this,’ laying his hand on the crown of a much frizzed, barber’s-window-looking bust, ‘of course you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ replied Sponge.

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, in astonishment.

  ‘No,’ repeated Sponge.

  ‘Look again, my dear fellow; you must know it,’ observed Jawleyford.

  ‘I suppose it’s meant for you,’ at last replied Sponge, seeing his host’s anxiety.

  ‘Meant! my dear fellow; why, don’t you think it like?’

  ‘Why, there’s a resemblance, certainly,’ said Sponge, ‘now that one knows. But I shouldn’t have guessed it was you.’

  ‘Oh, my dear Mr. Sponge!’ exclaimed Jawleyford, in a tone of mortification, ‘Do you really mean to say you don’t think it like?’

  ‘Why, yes, it’s like,’ replied Sponge, seeing which way his host wanted it; ‘it’s like, certainly; the want of expression in the eye makes such a difference between a bust and a picture.’

  ‘True,’ replied Jawleyford, comforted— ‘true,’ repeated he, looking affectionately at it; ‘I should say it was very like — like as anything can be. You are rather too much above it there, you see; sit down here,’ continued he, leading Sponge to an ottoman surrounding a huge model of the column in the Place Vendôme, that stood in the middle of the room— ‘sit down here now, and look, and say if you don’t think it like?’

  ‘THIS, OF COURSE, YOU KNOW?’

  ‘Oh, very like,’ replied Sponge, as soon as he had seated himself. ‘I see it now, directly; the mouth is yours to a T.’

  ‘And the chin. It’s my chin, isn’t it?’ asked Jawleyford.

  ‘Yes; and the nose, and the forehead, and the whiskers, and the hair, and the shape of the head, and everything. Oh! I see it now as plain as a pikestaff,’ observed Sponge.

  ‘I thought you would,’ rejoined Jawleyford comforted— ‘I thought you would; it’s generally considered an excellent likeness — so it should, indeed, for it cost a vast of money — fifty guineas! to say nothing of the lotus-leafed pedestal it’s on. That’s another of me,’ continued Jawleyford, pointing to a bust above the fireplace, on the opposite side of the gallery; ‘done some years since — ten or twelve, at least — not so like as this, but still like. That portrait up there, just above the “Finding of Moses,” by Poussin,’ pointing to a portrait of himself attitudinizing, with his hand on his hip, and frock-coat well thrown back, so as to show his figure and the silk lining to advantage, ‘was done the other day, by a very rising young artist; though he has hardly done me justice, perhaps — particularly in the nose, which he’s made far too thick and heavy; and the right hand, if anything, is rather clumsy; otherwise the colouring is good, and there is a considerable deal of taste in the arrangement of the background, and so on.’

  ‘What book is it you are pointing to?’ asked Sponge.

  ‘It’s not a book,’ replied Mr. Jawleyford, ‘it’s a plan — a plan of this gallery, in fact. I am supposed to be giving the final order for the erection of the very edifice we are now in.’

  ‘And a very handsome building it is,’ observed Sponge, thinking he would make it a shooting-gallery when he got it.

  ‘Yes, it’s a handsome thing in its way,’ assented Jawleyford; ‘better if it had been water-tight, perhaps,’ added he, as a big drop splashed upon the crown of his head.

  ‘The contents must be very valuable,’ observed Sponge.

  ‘Very valuable,’ replied Jawleyford. ‘There’s a thing I gave two hundred and fifty guineas for — that vase. It’s of Parian marble, of the Cinque Cento period, beautifully sculptured in a dance of Bacchanals, arabesques, and chimera figures; it was considered cheap. Those fine monkeys in Dresden china, playing on musical
instruments, were forty; those bronzes of scaramouches on ormolu plinths were seventy; that ormolu clock, of the style of Louis Quinze, by Le Roy, was eighty; those Sèvres vases were a hundred — mounted, you see, in ormolu, with lily candelabra for ten lights. The handles,’ continued he, drawing Sponge’s attention to them, ‘are very handsome — composed of satyrs holding festoons of grapes and flowers, which surround the neck of the vase; on the sides are pastoral subjects, painted in the highest style — nothing can be more beautiful or more chaste.’

  ‘Nothing,’ assented Sponge.

  ‘The pictures I should think are most valuable,’ observed Jawleyford. ‘My friend Lord Sparklebury said to me the last time he was here — he’s now in Italy, increasing his collection— “Jawleyford, old boy,” said he, for we are very intimate — just like brothers, in fact; “Jawleyford, old boy, I wonder whether your collection or mine would fetch most money, if they were Christie-&-Manson’d.” “Oh, your lordship,” said I, “your Guidos, and Ostades, and Poussins, and Velasquez, are not to be surpassed.” “True,” replied his lordship, “they are fine — very fine; but you have the Murillos. I’d like to give you a good round sum,” added he, “to pick out half-a-dozen pictures out of your gallery.” Do you understand pictures?’ continued Jawleyford, turning short on his friend Sponge.

  ‘A little,’ replied Sponge, in a tone that might mean either yes or no — a great deal or nothing at all.

  Jawleyford then took him and worked him through his collection — talked of light and shade, and tone, and depth of colouring, tints, and pencillings; and put Sponge here and there and everywhere to catch the light (or rain, as the case might be); made him convert his hand into an opera-glass, and occasionally put his head between his legs to get an upside-down view — a feat that Sponge’s equestrian experience made him pretty well up to. So they looked, and admired, and criticized, till Spigot’s all-important figure came looming up the gallery and announced that luncheon was ready.