by R S Surtees
‘Twopence for your thoughts!’ cried Lucy, trotting up, and touching him gently on the back with her light silver-mounted riding-whip. ‘Twopence for your thoughts!’ repeated she, as Mr. Sponge sauntered leisurely along, regardless of the bitter cold, followed by such of the hounds as chose to accompany him.
‘Ah!’ replied he, brightening up; ‘I was just thinking what a deuced good run we’d had.’
‘Indeed!’ pouted the fair lady.
‘No, my darling; I was thinking what a very pretty girl you are,’ rejoined he, sidling his horse up, and encircling her neat waist with his arm.
A sweet smile dimpled her plump cheeks, and chased the recollection of the former answer away.
It would not be pretty — indeed, we could not pretend to give even the outline of the conversation that followed. It was carried on in such broken and disjointed sentences, eyes and squeezes doing so much more work than words, that even a reporter would have had to draw largely upon his imagination for the substance. Suffice it to say that, though the thermometer was below zero, they never moved out of a foot’s pace; the very hounds growing tired of the trail, and slinking off one by one as the opportunity occurred.
A dazzling sun was going down with a blood-red glare, and the partially softened ground was fast resuming its fretwork of frost, as our hero and heroine were seen sauntering up the western avenue to Nonsuch House, as slowly and quietly as if it had been the hottest evening in summer.
‘Here’s old Coppertops!’ exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck, as, turning round in the billiard-room to chalk his cue, he espied them crawling along. ‘And Lucy!’ added he as he stood watching them.
‘How slowly they come!’ observed Bob Spangles, going to the window.
‘Must have tired their horses,’ suggested Captain Quod.
‘Just the sort of man to tire a horse,’ rejoined Bob Spangles.
‘Hate that Sponge,’ observed Captain Cutitfat.
‘So do I,’ replied Captain Quod.
‘Well, never mind the beggar! It’s you to play!’ exclaimed Bob Spangles to Captain Seedeybuck.
But Lady Scattercash, who was observing our friends from her boudoir window, saw with a woman’s eye that there was something more than a mere case of tired horses; and, tripping downstairs, she arrived at the front door just as the fair Lucy dropped smilingly from her horse into Mr. Sponge’s extended arms. Hurrying up into the boudoir, Lucy gave her ladyship one of Mr. Sponge’s modified kisses, revealing the truth more eloquently than words could convey.
‘Oh,’ Lady Scattercash was ‘so glad!’ ‘so delighted!’ ‘so charmed!’
Mr. Sponge was such a nice man, and so rich. She was sure he was rich — couldn’t hunt if he wasn’t. Would advise Lucy to have a good settlement, in case he broke his neck. And pin-money! pin-money was most useful! no husband ever let his wife have enough money. Must forget all about Harry Dacre and Charley Brown, and the swell in the Blues. Must be prudent for the future. Mr. Sponge would never know anything of the past. Then she reverted to the interesting subject of settlements. ‘What had Mr. Sponge got, and what would he do?’ This Lucy couldn’t tell. ‘What! hadn’t he told her where is estates were?— ‘No.’ ‘Well, was his dad dead?’ This Lucy didn’t know either. They had got no further than the tender prop. ‘Ah! well; would get it all out of him by degrees.’ And with the reiteration of her ‘so glads,’ and the repayment of the kiss Lucy had advanced, her ladyship advised her to get off her habit and make herself comfortable while she ran downstairs to communicate the astonishing intelligence to the party below.
‘What d’ye think?’ exclaimed she, bursting into the billiard-room, where the party were still engaged in a game at pool, all our sportsmen, except Captain Cutitfat, who still sported his new Moses and Son’s scarlet, having divested themselves of their hunting-gear— ‘What d’ye think?’ exclaimed she, darting into the middle of them.
‘That Bob don’t cannon?’ observed Captain Bouncey from below the bandage that encircled his broken head, nodding towards Bob Spangles, who was just going to make a stroke.
‘That Wax is out of limbo?’ suggested Captain Seedeybuck, in the same breath.
‘No. Guess again!’ exclaimed Lady Scattercash, rubbing her hands in high glee.
‘That the Pope’s got a son?’ observed Captain Quod.
‘No. Guess again!’ exclaimed her ladyship, laughing.
‘I give it up,’ replied Captain Bouncey.
‘So do I,’ added Captain Seedeybuck.
‘That Mr. Sponge is going to be married,’ enunciated her ladyship, slowly and emphatically, waving her arms.
‘Ho-o-ray! Only think of that!’ exclaimed Captain Quod. ‘Old ‘hogany-tops goin’ to be spliced!’
‘Did you ever?’ asked Bob Spangles.
‘No, I never,’ replied Captain Bouncey.
‘He should be called Spooney Sponge, not Soapey Sponge,’ observed Captain Seedeybuck.
‘Well, but to whom?’ asked Captain Bouncey.
‘Ah, to whom indeed! That’s the question,’ rejoined her ladyship archly.
‘I know,’ observed Bob Spangles.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Who is it, then?’ demanded her ladyship.
‘Lucy Glitters, to be sure,’ replied Bob, who hadn’t had his stare out of the billiard-room window for nothing.
‘Pity her,’ observed Bouncey, sprawling along the billiard-table to play for a cannon.
‘Why?’ asked Lady Scattercash.
‘Reg’lar scamp,’ replied Bouncey, vexed at missing his stroke.
‘Dare say you know nothing about him,’ snapped her ladyship.
‘Don’t I?’ replied Bouncey complacently; adding, ‘that’s all you know.’
‘He’ll whop her, to a certainty,’ observed Seedeybuck.
‘What makes you think that?’ asked her ladyship.
‘Oh — ha — hem — haw — why, because he whopped his poor horse — whopped him over the ears. Whop his horse, whop his wife; whop his wife, whop his horse. Reg’lar Rule-of-three sum.’
‘Make her a bad husband, I dare say,’ observed Bob Spangles, who was rather smitten with Lucy himself.
‘Never mind; a bad husband’s a deal better than none, Bob,’ replied Lady Scattercash, determined not to be put out of conceit of her man.
‘He, he, he! — haw, haw, haw! — ho, ho, ho! Well done you!’ laughed several.
‘She’ll have to keep him,’ observed Captain Cutitfat, whose turn it now was to play.
‘What makes you think that?’ asked Lady Scattercash, coming again to the charge.
‘He has nothing,’ replied Fat coolly.
‘‘Deed, but he has — a very good property, too,’ replied her ladyship.
‘In Airshire, I should think,’ rejoined Fat.
‘No, in Englandshire,’ retorted her ladyship: ‘and great expectations from an uncle,’ added she.
‘Ah — he looks like a man to be on good terms with his uncle,’ sneered Captain Bouncey.
‘Make no doubt he pays him many a visit,’ observed Seedeybuck.
‘Indeed! that’s all you know,’ snapped Lady Scattercash.
‘It’s not all I know,’ replied Seedeybuck.
‘Well, then, what else do you know?’ asked she.
‘I know he has nothing,’ replied Seedey.
‘How do you know it?’
‘I know,’ said Seedey, with an emphasis, now settling to his stroke.
‘Well, never mind,’ retorted her ladyship; ‘if he has nothing, she has nothing, and nothing can be nicer.’
So saying, she hurried out of the room.
CHAPTER LXVI
MR. SPONGE AT HOME
SPONGE WAS MOST warmly congratulated by Sir Harry and all the assembled captains, who inwardly hoped his marriage would have the effect of ‘snuffing him out,’ as they said, and they had a most glorious jollification on the strength of it. They drank Lucy’s an
d his health nine times over, with nine times nine each time. The consequence was, that the footmen and shutter were in earlier requisition than usual to carry them to their respective apartments. Sponge’s head throbbed a good deal the next morning; nor was the pulsation abated by the recollection of his matrimonial engagement, and his total inability to keep the angel who had ridden herself into his affections. However, like all untried men, he was strong in the confidence of his own ability, and the sight of his smiling charmer chased away all prudential considerations as quickly as they arose. He made no doubt there would something turn up.
Meanwhile, he was in good quarters, and Lady Scattercash having warmly espoused his cause, he assumed a considerable standing in the establishment. Old Beardey having ventured to complain of his interference in the kennel, my lady curtly told him he might ‘make himself scarce if he liked’; a step that Beardey was quite ready to take, having heard of a desirable public-house at Newington Butts, provided Sir Harry paid him his wages. This not being quite convenient, Sir Harry gave him an order on ‘Cabbage and Co.’ for three suits of clothes, and acquiesced in his taking a massive silver soup-tureen, on which, beneath the many quartered Scattercash arms, Mr. Watchorn placed an inscription, stating that it was presented to him by Sir Harry Scattercash, Baronet, and the noblemen and gentlemen of his hunt, in admiration of his talents as a huntsman and his character as a man.
Mr. Sponge then became still more at home. It was very soon ‘my hounds,’ and ‘my horses,’ and ‘my whips’; and he wrote to Jawleyford, and Puffington, and Guano, and Lumpleg, and Washball, and Spraggon, offering to make meets to suit their convenience, and even to mount them if required. His Mogg was quite neglected in favour of Lucy; and it says much for the influence of female charms that, before they had been engaged a fortnight, he, who had been a perfect oracle in cab fares, would have been puzzled to tell the most ordinary fare on the most frequented route. He had forgotten all about them. Nevertheless, Lucy and he went out hunting as often as they could raise hounds, and when they had a good run and killed, he saluted her; and when they didn’t kill, why — he just did the same. He headed and tailed the stringing pack, drafted the skirters and babblers (which he sent to Lord Scamperdale, with his compliments), and presently had the uneven kennel in something like shape.
Nor was this the only way in which he made himself useful, for Nonsuch House being now supported almost entirely by voluntary contributions — that is to say, by the gullibility of tradesmen — his street and shop knowledge was valuable in determining who to ‘do.’ With the Post Office Directory and Mr. Sponge at his elbow, Mr. Bottleends, the butler— ‘delirius tremendous,’ as Bottleends called it, having quite incapacitated Sir Harry — wrote off for champagne from this man, sherry from that, turtle from a third, turbot from a fourth, tea from a fifth, truffles from a sixth, wax-lights from one, sperm from another; and down came the things with such alacrity, such thanks for the past and hopes for the future, as we poor devils of the untitled world are quite unacquainted with. Nay, not content with giving him the goods, many of the poor demented creatures actually paraded their folly at their doors in new deal packing-cases, flourishingly directed ‘to sir harry scattercash, bart., nonsuch house, &c. By Express Train.’ In some cases they even paid the carriage.
And here, in the midst of love, luxury, and fox-hunting, let us for a time leave our enterprising friend, Mr. Sponge, while we take a look at a species of cruelty that some people call ‘sport.’ For this purpose we will begin a fresh chapter.
CHAPTER LXVII
HOW THEY GOT UP THE ‘GRAND ARISTOCRATIC STEEPLE-CHASE’
THERE IS NO saying what advantages railway communication may confer upon a country. But for the Granddiddle Junction, —— shire never would have had a steeple-chase — an ‘Aristocratic,’ at least — for it is observable that the more snobbish a thing is, the more certain they are to call it aristocratic. When it is too bad for anything, they call it ‘Grand.’ Well, as we said before, but for the Granddiddle Junction, —— shire would never have had a ‘Grand Aristocratic Steeple-Chase.’ A few friends or farmers might have got up a quiet thing among themselves, but it would never have seen a regular trade transaction, with its swell mob, sham captains, and all the paraphernalia of odd laying, ‘secret tips,’ and market rigging. Who will deny the benefit that must accrue to any locality by the infusion of all the loose fish of the kingdom?
Formerly the prize-fights were the perquisite of the publicans. They it was who arranged for Shaggy Tom to pound Harry Billy’s nob upon So-and-so’s land, the preference being given to the locality that subscribed the most money to the fight. Since the decline of ‘the ring,’ steeple-chasing, and that still smaller grade of gambling — coursing, have come to their aid. Nine-tenths of the steeple-chasing and coursing-matches are got up by inn-keepers, for the good of their houses. Some of the town publicans, indeed, seem to think that the country was just made for their matches to come off in, and scarcely condescend to ask the leave of the landowners.
We saw an advertisement the other day, where a low publican, in a manufacturing town, assured the subscribers to his coursing-club that he would take care to select open ground, with ‘plenty of stout hares,’ as if all the estates in the neighbourhood were at his command. Another advertised a steeple-chase in the centre of a good hunting country— ‘amateur and gentleman riders’ — with a half-crown ordinary at the end! Fancy the respectability of a steeple-chase, with a half-crown ordinary at the end!
Our ‘Aristocratic’ was got up on the good-of-the-house principle. Whatever benefit the Granddiddle Junction conferred upon the country at large, it had a very prejudicial effect upon the Old Duke of Cumberland Hotel and Posting House, which it left, high and dry, at an angle sufficiently near to be tantalized by the whirr and the whistle of the trains, and yet too far off to be benefited by the parties they brought. This once well-accustomed hostelry was kept by one Mr. Viney, a former butler in the Scattercash family, and who still retained the usual ‘old and faithful servant’ entrée of Nonsuch House, having his beefsteak and bottle of wine in the steward’s room whenever he chose to call. Viney had done good at the Old Duke of Cumberland; and no one, seeing him ‘full fig,’ would recognize, in the solemn grandeur of his stately person, the dirty knife-boy who had filled the place now occupied by the still dirtier Slarkey. But the days of road travelling departed, and Viney, who, beneath the Grecian-columned portico of his country-house-looking hotel, modulated the ovations of his cauliflower head to every description of traveller — from the lordly occupant of the barouche-and-four, down to the humble sitter in a gig — was cut off by one fell swoop from all further traffic. He was extinguished like a gaslight, and the pipe was laid on a fresh line.
Fortunately Mr. Viney was pretty warm; he had done pretty well; and having enjoyed the intimacy of the great ‘Jeames’ of railway times, had got a hint not to engage the hotel beyond the opening of the line. Consequently, he now had the great house for a mere nothing until such times as the owner could convert it into that last refuge for deserted houses — an academy, or a ‘young ladies’ seminary.’ Mr. Viney now, having plenty of leisure, frequently drove his ‘missis’ (once a lady’s maid in a quality family) up to Nonsuch House, as well for the sake of the airing — for the road was pleasant and picturesque — as to see if he could get the ‘little trifle’ Sir Harry owed him for post-horses, bottles of soda-water, and such trifles as country gentlemen run up scores for at their posting-houses — scores that seldom get smaller by standing. In these excursions Mr. Viney made the acquaintance of Mr. Watchorn; and a huntsman being a character with whom even the landlord of an inn — we beg pardon, hotel and posting-house — may associate without degradation, Viney and Watchorn became intimate. Watchorn sympathized with Viney, and never failed to take a glass in passing, either at exercise or out hunting, to deplore that such a nice-looking house, so ‘near the station, too,’ should be ruined as an inn. It was after a more than usual libatio
n that Watchorn, trotting merrily along with the hounds, having accomplished three blank days in succession, asked himself, as he looked upon the surrounding vale from the rising ground of Hammercock Hill, with the cream-coloured station and the rose-coloured hotel peeping through the trees, whether something might not be done to give the latter a lift. At first he thought of a pigeon match — a sweepstake open to all England — fifty members say, at two pound ten each, seven pigeons, seven sparrows, twenty-one yards rise, two ounces of shot, and so on. But then, again, he thought there would be a difficulty in getting guns. A coursing match — how would that do? Answer: ‘No hares.’ The farmers had made such an outcry about the game, that the landowners had shot them all off, and now the farmers were grumbling that they couldn’t get a course.
‘Dash my buttons!’ exclaimed Watchorn; ‘it would be the very thing for a steeple-chase! There’s old Puff’s hounds, and old Scamp’s hounds, and these hounds,’ looking down on the ill-sorted lot around him; ‘and the deuce is in it if we couldn’t give the thing such a start as would bring down the lads of the “village,” and a vast amount of good business might be done. I’m dashed if it isn’t the very country for a steeple-chase!’ continued Watchorn, casting his eye over Cloverly Park, round the enclosure of Langworth Grange, and up the rising ground of Lark Lodge.
The more Watchorn thought of it, the more he was satisfied of its feasibility, and he trotted over, the next day, to the Old Duke of Cumberland, to see his friend on the subject. Viney, like most victuallers, was more given to games of skill — billiards, shuttlecock, skittles, dominoes, and so on — than to the rude out-of-door chances of flood and field, and at first he doubted his ability to grapple with the details; but on Mr. Watchorn’s assurance that he would keep him straight, he gave Mrs. Viney a key, desiring her to go into the inner cellar, and bring out a bottle of the green seal. This was ninety-shilling sherry — very good stuff to take; and, by the time they got into the second bottle, they had got into the middle of the scheme too. Viney was cautious and thoughtful. He had a high opinion of Watchorn’s sagacity, and so long as Watchorn confined himself to weights, and stakes, and forfeits, and so on, he was content to leave himself in the hands of the huntsman; but when Watchorn came to talk of ‘stewards,’ putting this person and that together, Viney’s experience came in aid. Viney knew a good deal. He had not stood twisting a napkin negligently before a plate-loaded sideboard without picking up a good many waifs and strays in the shape of those ins and outs, those likings and dislikings, those hatreds and jealousies, that foolish people let fall so freely before servants, as if for all the world the servants were sideboards themselves; and he had kept up his stock of service-gained knowledge by a liberal, though not a dignity-compromising intercourse — for there is no greater aristocrat than your out-of-livery servant — among the upper servants of all the families in the neighbourhood, so that he knew to a nicety who would pull together, and who wouldn’t, whose name it would not do to mention to this person, and who it would not do to apply to before that.
